Atta Troll

by Heinrich Heine

CANTO XXI Shipless Argonauts are we, Foot loose in the mighty hills, But instead of golden fleece We seek Bruin's shaggy hide. Naught but sorry devils twain, Heroes of a modern cut, And no classic bard will ever Make us live within his song! Even though we suffered dire Hardships! What torrential rains Fell upon us at the peak Where was neither tree nor cab! Cloudbursts! Heaven's dykes were down! And in bucketsful it poured— Jason, lost on Colchis bleak, Suffered no such shower-bath! "Six-and-thirty kings I'll give Just for one umbrella now!" So I cried. Umbrella none Was I offered in that flood. Weary unto death and glum, Wet as drownèd rats, we came Back unto the witch's hut In the middle of the night. There beside the glowing hearth Sat Uraka with a comb, Toiling o'er her swollen pug;— Him she quickly flung aside As we entered. First my couch She prepared, then bent to loose From my feet the espardillos,— Footgear comfortless and rude! Helped me to disrobe,—she drew Off my pantaloons which clung To my legs as close and tight As the friendship of a fool. "Oh, a dressing-gown! I'd give Six-and-thirty kings," I cried, "For a dry one!"—as my shirt, Wringing wet, began to steam. Shivering, with chattering teeth, There I stood beside the hearth, Till the fire drowsed me quite, Then upon the straw I sank. Sleepless but with blinking eyes Peered I at the witch who crouched By the fire with her son's Body spread upon her lap. Upright at her side the pug Stood, and in his clumsy paws, Very cleverly and tight, Held aloft a little jar. From this did Uraka take Reddish fat and salved therewith Swift Lascaro's ribs and breast With her thin and trembling hands. And she hummed a lullaby In a high and nasal tone As she rubbed him with the salve 'Midst the crackling of the fire. Sere and bony like a corpse Lay the son upon the lap Of his mother; opened wide Stared his pale and tragic eyes. Is he really dead, this man? Kept alive by mother-love? Nightly by the witch-fat potent Salved into a magic life? Oh, that strange, strange fever-sleep! In which all my limbs grew stiff As if fettered, yet each sense, Overwrought, waked horribly! How that smell of hellish herbs Plagued me! Musing in my woe, Long I thought where had I once Smelled such odours?—but in vain. How the wind within the flue Wrought me terror! Like the sobs Of some parchèd soul it rang— Or some well-remembered voice! But these stuffed birds standing guard On a board above my head, These grim birds tormented me Far beyond all other things! Slowly, gruesomely they moved Their accursèd wings and bent Low to me with monstrous bills, Bills like human noses huge. Where had I such noses seen? Well, mayhap in Hamburg once, Or in Frankfort's ghetto dim; Memory smote me harshly then. But at last did slumber quite Overcome me and in place Of such waking phantoms crept Wholesome and unbroken dreams. And within my dream the hut Quickly to a ball-room changed, High on lofty pillars borne And illumed by chandeliers. There invisible musicians Played from "Robert le Diable" That atrocious dance of nuns As I promenaded there. But at last the portals wide Open and with stately step Slowly in the hall appear Guests most wonderful and strange. Every one a bear or spectre! Striding upright every bear Leads an apparition wrapped In a white and gleaming shroud. Coupled in this wise, each pair Up and down began to waltz Through the hall. O strangest sight! Fit for laughter and for fear! How those plump old animals Panted in the paces set By those filmy shapes of air Whirling gracefully and light! Pitiless, the harried beasts Thus were borne along until Their deep panting overdroned Even the orchestral bass! When betimes the couples crashed In collision, then each bear Gave the pushing spectre straight Hearty kicks upon the rump. Sometimes in the tumult too When the cerements fell away From each white and muffled head,— Lo! a grinning skull appeared! But at last with shattering blare Yelled the horns, the cymbals clashed And the thunder of the drums Brought about the gallopade. But the end of this, alas, Came not to my dreams. For, lo, One most clumsy bear trod full On my corns—I shrieked and woke!

CANTO XXII Phœbus in his solar coach, Whipping up his steeds of flame, Had traversed the middle part Of his journey through the skies, Whilst in sleep I lay a-dream With the goblins and the bears Winding like mad arabesques Through my slack and heated brain. When I wakened it was noon, And I found myself alone, Since my hostess and Lascaro For the chase had left at dawn. There was no one save the pug In the hovel. There he stood By the hearth beside the pot Holding in his paws a spoon. Clever pug! well disciplined! Lest the steaming soup boil over, Swift he stirred it round and round, Skimming off the foam and scum. But—am I bewitchèd too? Or does fever smoulder still In my brain? For scarce can I Trust my ears. The pug-dog speaks! Aye, he speaks in homely strains Of the Swabian dialect, Deeply sunk in thought, he cries, As it were within a dream: "Woe is me—a Swabian bard, Banned in exile must I grieve In a pug-dog's cursèd shape Guardian of a witch's pot. "What a base and hideous crime Is this sorcery! My fate Ah, how tragic! I, a man, In the body of a dog! "Had I but remained at home With my jolly comrades true— No vile sorcerers are they! And their spells no man need fear. "Had I but remained at home At Karl Meyer's—with the sweet Noodles of the Vaterland And good honest metzel-soup! "Of homesickness I shall die! Might I only spy the smoke Rising from old Stuttgart's flues When the precious dumplings seethe." Pity seized me when I heard This sad story, and I sprang From my couch and took a seat By the fireplace and spake: "Noble poet, tell what chance Brought thee to this beldam's hut. Why, oh why, in cruel wise, Wast thou changed into a dog?" But the pug exclaimed in joy: "What! You are no Frenchman then? But a German, and you've heard All my hapless monologue? "Ah, dear countryman, 'twas ill That old Köllè, Councillor, When at eve we sat and argued At the inn o'er pipe and mug, "Should have harped on the idea That by travel only might One attain such culture broad, As by travel he attained! "Now, so I might shed the rude Husk that on my manners lay, Even as Köllè, and attain Polish from the world at large, "To my home I bade farewell, And in quest of culture came To the Pyrenees at last, And Uraka's little hut. "And a reference I brought From Justinus Kerner too! Never did I dream my friend Stood in league with such a witch! "Friendly was Uraka's mood, Till at last with horrid shock, Lo, I found her friendliness Had to fiery passion grown. "Yes, within that withered breast Lust blazed up in monstrous wise, And at once this vicious crone Sought to drag me down to sin. "Yet I prayed: 'Oh, pardon, ma'am! Do not fancy I am one Of those wanton Goethe Bards,— I belong to Swabia's school. "'Sweet Morality's our Muse And the drawers she wears are made Of the stoutest leather—Oh! Do not wrong my virtue, pray! "'Other bards may boast of soul, Others phantasy—and some Of their passion—Swabians have Nothing but their innocence. "'Nothing else do we possess! Do not rob me of my pure, Most religious beggar's cloak,— Naked else my soul must go!' "Thus I spoke, whereat the hag Smiled with hideous irony, Seized a switch of mistletoe, Smote me over brow and cheek. "Chilly spasms seized me then Just as if a goose's skin Crept across my limbs—but oh! This was worse than goose's-skin! "It was nothing more nor less Than a dog-pelt! Since that hour, That accursèd hour, I've lived Changed into a lumpy pug!" Luckless wight! his piteous sobs Now denied him further speech, And so bitterly he wept That he half dissolved in tears. "Hark!" I spoke in pity then, "Tell me how you might be freed From this dog-skin. How may I Give you back to muse and man?" In despair, disconsolate, Then he raised his paws in air, And with sobs and groans at length Thus his mournful plaint he made: "Not before the Judgment Day Shall I shed this horrid form, If no noble virgin come To absolve me of the curse. "None can free me save a maid, Pure, untouched by any man, And she must fulfil a pact Most inexorable—thus: "Such unspotted maiden must In Sylvester's holy night Read the verse of Gustav Pfizer, Read it and not fall asleep! "If her chaste eyes do not close At the reading—then, O bliss! I shall disenchanted be, Breathe as man—unpugged at last!" "In that case, alas," said I, "Never may I undertake Your salvation, for you see, First I am no spotless maid, "And, still more impossible, Secondly, I ne'er could read Any one of Pfizer's poems And not fall asleep at once."

CANTO XXIII From this eerie witch-menage To the valley down we went, And once more our feet took hold On the good and solid Earth. Spectres hence! Hence, gibbering masks! Shapes of air and fever-dreams!— Once again, most sensibly Let us deal with Atta Troll. In the cavern with his young Bruin lies in slumber wrapt, Snoring like an honest soul, Then he stretches, yawns and wakes. And young One-Ear crouches down At his side, his head he rakes Like a poet seeking rhymes, And upon his paws he scans. Close beside the father lie Atta Troll's belovèd girls, Pure, four-footed lilies they, Stretched in dreams upon their backs. Ah, what tender thoughts must glow In the budding souls of these Snow-white virgin bearesses With their soft and dewy eyes? And the youngest of them all Seems most deeply stirred. Her heart, Smitten by Dan Cupid's shaft, Quivers with a blissful throe. Yea, this godling's arrow pierced Through and through her furry pelt When she saw him first—Oh, heavens! 'Tis a mortal man she loves! Man it is—Schnapphahnski named, Who one day in mad retreat Passed her as she wandered through The dim passes of the hills. Woes of heroes move the fair, And within our hero's face, Quite as usual, sorrow lowered, Pallid care and money-need. Spent were all his funds of war! Two-and-twenty silver groats Taken unto Spain by him Espartero seized as spoil. Aye, his very watch was gone! This in Pampeluna's pawnshop Lay in bondage. 'Twas a rich Heirloom all of silver made. Little thought he as he ran On his long legs through the woods, He had won a greater thing Than a fight—a loving heart! Yes, she loves him—him the born Enemy of bears she loves! Hapless maid! If but your sire Knew it—oh! what rage were his! Just like Odoardo old Who in honest burgess-pride Stabbed Emilia Galotti— Even so would Atta Troll Rather slay his darling lass, Slay her with his proper paws, Than that she should ever sink Even into princely arms! Yet in this same moment he Is as softly moved—"no rose Would he pluck before the storm Reft it of its petals fair." Atta Troll in saddest mood Lies within his rocky cave. Like Death's warning o'er him creeps Hunger for infinity. "Children!" then he sobs, the tears Burst from out his mournful eyes,— "Children! soon my earthly days Shall be ended—we must part. "Unto me this very noon Came a dream of import vast, And my soul drank in the sweet Sense of early death-to-be. "Superstitious am I not, Nor fantastic—ah, and yet More things lie 'twixt Earth and Heaven Than philosophy may dream. "Pondering on the world and fate, Yawning I had dropped asleep, And I dreamed that I was lying Stretched beneath a mighty tree. "From the branches of this tree White celestial honey dripped Straight into my open jaws, Filling me with wondrous bliss. "Peering happily aloft Soon I spied within the leaves Seven pretty little bears Gliding up and down the boughs. "Delicate and dainty things, All with pelts of rosy hue, And their heavenly voices rang Like a melody of flutes! "As they sang an icy chill Seized my flesh, although my soul Like a flame went soaring straight Gleaming into highest Heaven." Thus with soft and quivering grunts, Spake our Atta Troll, then grew Silent in his wistful grief. Suddenly his ears he raised, And in strangest wise they twitched! Then from up his couch he sprang Trembling, bellowing with joy: "Children! do you hear that voice! "Are not those the dulcet tones Of your mother? Do I not My dear Mumma's grumbles know?— Mumma! Mumma! precious mate!" Like a madman with these words From the cave rushed Atta Troll Swift to his destruction—oh! To his ruin straight he plunged.