Atta Troll

by Heinrich Heine

CANTO XII How they rave, the blessèd bards— Even the tamest! how they sing,— How they do protest that Nature Is a mighty fane of God! One great fane whose splendours all Of the Maker's glory tell; Sun and moon and stars they vow Hang as lamps within the dome. Yet concede, most worthy folk, That this mighty temple hath Most uncomfortable stairs, Stairs most villainously bad! All this climbing up and down, Escalading, jumping o'er Boulders—how it tires me Both in spirit and in legs! By my side Lascaro strode, Like a taper long and pale— Never speaks he, never laughs— He the witch's lifeless son. For they say Lascaro died Many years ago—his mother's,— Old Uraka's,—magic draughts Gave to him a seeming life. These confounded temple steps! How it chanced that I escaped With whole vertebræ will puzzle Me until my dying day. How the torrents foamed and roared! Through the pines how lashed the wind Till they groaned! Then suddenly Burst the clouds! O weather vile! In a fisherman's poor hut Close by Lac de Gaube we gained Shelter and a mess of trout— Dish divine and glorious! In his padded arm-chair there Sat the ancient ferryman, Ill and grey. His nieces sweet Like two angels tended him. Plumpest angels, Flemish quite, As if out of Rubens' frame They had leaped, with golden locks, Sparkling eyes of limpid blue, Dimples in each ruddy cheek Where bright mischief peered and hid, And with limbs robust and lithe, Waking both desire and fear. Sweet and bonny creatures they Who disputed prettily Which might prove the sweetest draught To their ancient, ailing charge. If one proffers him a brew Made of linden-flower tea, Then the other tempts him with Possets made of elder-blooms. "I will swallow none of this!" Cried the greyhead, sorely tried, "Bring me wine so that my guest May have worthy drink with me!" If this stuff was really wine Which I drank at Lac de Gaube— Who can tell? My countrymen Would have dubbed it sweetish beer. Vilely smelled the wine-skin too, Fashioned from a black goat's hide. But the old man drank and drank And grew jubilant and gay. Of banditti tales he told And of smugglers, merry men Who still ply their goodly trades Freely in the Pyrenees. Many ancient stories, too, He recited, as of wars 'Twixt the giants and the bears In the grey primeval days. For it seems the bears and ogres Waged a war for mastery Of these ranges and these vales Long ere man came wandering in. Startled then at sight of men All the giants fled the land;— Only tiny brains were housed In their huge, unwieldy heads! It is also said these dolts, When they reached the ocean-shore Where the azure skies lay glassed In the watery plains below, Fondly fancied that the sea Must be Heaven. In they plunged All in reckless confidence, And in watery graves were gulfed. Now the bears are slain by man, And each year their number grows Smaller, smaller, till at last None shall roam within the hills. "And," the old man cackled, "thus On this Earth must one yield room To the other—after man We shall have a reign of dwarfs. "Tiny and most clever wights Toiling in the bowels of Earth, Busy little folk that gather Riches from Earth's golden veins. "I have seen their rounded heads Peering out of rabbit-holes In the moonlight—and I shook As I thought of coming days. "Yes, I dread the golden power Of these mites. Our sons, I fear, Will like stupid giants plunge Straight into some watery heaven."

CANTO XIII In the cauldron of the cliffs Lies the deep and inky lake. And from heaven the solemn stars Peer upon us. Night and stillness. Night and stillness. Beat of oars. Like a rippling mystery Swims our boat. The nieces twain Serve in place of ferrymen. Swift and blithe they row. Their arms Sometimes shine from out the night, And on their white skins the stars Gleam and on large eyes of blue. At my side Lascaro sits Pale and mute as is his wont, And I shudder at the thought: Is Lascaro really dead? Or perchance 'tis I am dead? I, perchance, am drifting down With these spectral passengers To the icy realm of shades? Can this lake be Styx's dark, Sullen flood? Hath Proserpine, In the absence of her Charon Sent her maids to fetch me down? Nay, not yet my days are done! Unextinguished in my soul Still the living flame of life, Leaps and blazes, glows and sings. And these girls who swing their oars Merrily, and splash me too, Laugh and grin with mischief rare As the drops upon me flash. Ah, these wenches fresh and strong, Surely they could never be Ghostly hell-cats, nor the maids Of the dark queen Proserpine. So that I might be assured Of the girls' reality, And unto myself might prove My own honest flesh and blood,— On their rosy dimples I Swiftly pressed my eager lips, And to this conclusion came: Lo, I kiss; therefore I live! When we reached the shore, again Did I kiss these bonny maids,— Kisses were the only coin Which in payment they would take.

CANTO XIV Joyous in the golden air Lift the purple mountain heights Where a daring hamlet clings Like a nest against the steep. Wearily I climbed and climbed. When at last I stood aloft, Then I found the old birds flown And the fledglings left behind. Pretty lads and lassies small With their little heads half hid In their white and scarlet caps, Played at bridals in the mart. Neither stay nor halt they brooked, And the little love-lorn Prince Of the Mice knelt down at once To the Cat-King's daughter fair. Hapless Prince! At last he's wed To the Princess. How she scolds! Bites him and devours him— Hapless mouse!—thus ends the play. That entire day I spent With the children, and we talked Cosily. They longed to know Who I was? and what my trade? "Germany, my dears," I spoke, "Is my native country's name— Bears are all too common there, So I took to hunting bears! "Many a bear-pelt have I pulled Over many a bearish head, Though, 'tis true, I sometimes got Damage from their bearish paws. "But at last I felt disgust Of this strife with ill-licked boors In my blessèd land—I grew Weary of these daily moils. "So in quest of nobler game, I at last have come to you; I shall try my little strength 'Gainst the mighty Atta Troll. "Worthy of me is this noble Foe. In Germany, alas! Many a battle did I win, Most ashamed of victory." When I left, the little folk Danced about me in a ring, And in sweetest wise they sang: "Girofflino! Girofflett'!" And the youngest of them all Stepped before me quick and pert, And four times she curtsied low As she sang in silver tones: "Curtsies two I give the King, Should I meet him. And the Queen, Should I meet her, then I give Curtsies three unto the Queen. "But should I the devil meet With his fiery eyes and horns, I will make him curtsies four— Girofflino! Girofflett'!" "Girofflino! Girofflett'!" Shouts once more the mocking band, And around me swings the gay Ring-o'-roses with its song. As I scrambled down the slopes, After me in echoes sweet, Came these words in bird-like strains: "Girofflino! Girofflett'!"