Atta Troll

by Heinrich Heine

CANTO VIII Many a virtuous citizen Smells unpleasantly the while Ducal knaves are lavendered Or a-reek with ambergris. There are many virgin souls Redolent of greenest soap; Vice will often lave herself In rose attar top to toe. Therefore, gentle reader, pray, Do not lift your nose in air Should Troll's cavern fail to rouse Memories of Arabia's spice. Bide with me within this reek, 'Mid these turbid odours foul, Whence unto his son our hero Speaks, as from a misty cloud: "Child, my child, the last begot Of my loins, thy single ear Snuggle close against the snout Of thy father, and give heed! "Oh, beware man's mode of thought; It destroys both flesh and soul, For amongst all mankind never Shalt thou find one worthy man. "E'en the Germans, once the best, Even Tuiskion's sons, Our dear cousins primitive, Even they have grown effete. "Godless, faithless have they grown; Atheism now they preach. Child, my child, oh, guard thee 'gainst Feuerbach and Bauer too! "Never be an atheist! Monster void of reverence! For a great Creator reared All the mighty Universe! "And the sun and moon on high, And the stars—the stars with tails Even as the tailless ones— Are reflections of His power. "In the depths of sea and land Ring the echoes of His fame, And each creature yields Him praise For His glory and His might. "E'en the tiny silver louse Which within some pilgrim's beard Shares his earthly pilgrimage, Sings to Him a song of praise! "High upon his golden throne In yon splendid tent of stars, Clad in cosmic majesty, Sits a titan polar bear. "Spotless, gleaming white as snow Is his fur; his head is decked With a crown of diamonds Blazing through the central vault. "In his face bide harmony And the silent deeds of thought, And obedient to his sceptre All the planets chime and sing. "At his feet sit holy bears, Saints who suffered on the Earth, Meekly. In their paws they hold Splendid palms of martyrdom. "Ever and anon they leap To their feet as though aroused By the Holy Ghost, and lo! In a festal dance they join! "'Tis a dance where saintly gifts Cover up defects of style,— Dance in which the very soul Seeks to leap from out its skin! "I, unworthy Troll, shall I Ever such salvation share? Shall I ever from this drear Vale of tears ascend to joy? "Shall I, drunk with Heaven's draught, In that tent of stars above, Dance before the Master's throne With a halo and a palm?"

CANTO IX As the noble negro king Of our Freiligrath protrudes From his dusky mouth his long Scarlet tongue in scorn and rage,— Even so the moon now peers Out of darkling clouds. The sad, Sleepless waterfalls forever Roar into the brooding night. Atta Troll upon the crest Of his well-beloved cliff Stands alone, and now he howls Down the wind and the abyss: "Yea, a bear am I—even he, Even he whom you have named Bruin, growler, shag-coat too, And such other titles vile. "Yea, a bear am I—that same Boorish animal you know; That gross, trampling brute am I Of your sly and crafty smiles! "Of your wit am I the mark; I'm the bugbear—him with whom Every wicked child you frighten In the silence of the night. "Yea, I am that clumsy butt Of your nursery tales—aloud Will I shout that name forever Through the scurvy world of men. "Oyez! Oyez! I'm a bear Unashamed of my descent, Just as proud as if my forbear Had been Moses Mendelsohn."

CANTO X Lo, two figures, wild and sullen, Gliding, sliding on all fours, Break a path at dead of night Through a wood of gloomy pines. It is Atta Troll the Sire, One-Ear too, his youngest son, And they halt within a clearing By a stone of bloody rites. "This same stone," growled Atta Troll, "Is a shrine where Druids once Slaughtered wretched human wights In dark Superstition's days. "Oh! what frightful horrors these! When I think of them, my fur Lifts along my back! To praise God they drenched the soil in blood! "Certes, men have now become More enlightened. Now no more Do they slaughter in their zeal For celestial interests. "'Tis no longer holy rage, Ecstasy nor madness sheer, But self-love alone that urges Them to slaughter and to crime. "Now for worldly goods they strive, Day by day and year by year. It is one eternal war; Each goes robbing for himself. "When the common goods of all Fall into the hands of one, Straight of Rights of Property He will prate and Ownership. "Property! Just Ownership? Property is theft! O lies! Craft and folly!—such a mixture Man alone would dare invent. "Never yet did Nature make Properties, for pocketless We are born into the world— Who hath pockets in his pelt? "None of us was ever born With such little sacks devised In our outer hides and skins To enable us to steal! "Only man, that creature smooth Who in alien wool is garbed Artfully, in artful wise Made himself such pockets too. "Pockets! as unnatural As is property itself, Or that law of have-and-hold. Men are only pocket-thieves! "Flamingly I hate them! Thee All my hatred I bequeath. Oh, my son, upon this shrine Shalt thou swear eternal hate! "Be the mortal foeman thou Of th' oppressor, unforgiving To thy very end of days! Swear it—swear it here, my son!" And the youngster swore as once Hannibal. The moonbeams bleak Yellowed on the bloodstone hoary And that brace of misanthropes. Later shall our harp record How the young bear kept his faith And his plighted oath,—for him Shall our epic strings be strung. With regard to Atta Troll, Let us leave him for a space, So we may the surer smite Him with our unerring ball. Traitor to Humanity! Thou art judged, the sentence writ. Of lèse-majesté thou'rt guilty, And to-morrow sees the chase.

CANTO XI Like to sleepy dancing-girls Lift the mountains white and cold, Standing in their skirts of mist Flaunted by the winds of morn. Yet full soon their breasts shall glow To the sun-god's burning kiss, He shall tear the clinging veils And illume their beauty nude. In the early dawn had I With Lascaro sallied forth On a bear-hunt and the noon Saw us at the Pont d'Espagne. Thus is named the bridge that leads From the land of France to Spain, To barbarians of the West, Centuries behind the times. Full ten centuries they lie From all modern thought removed, And my own barbarians Of the East—not more than two. Lingering and loth I left The all-hallowed soil of France, Left great Freedom's motherland And the women that I love. Midmost of the Pont d'Espagne Sat a Spaniard. Misery Lurked within his tattered cape; Misery lurked within his eyes. With his bony fingers he Plucked an ancient mandolin Full of discord shrill which echoed Mockingly from out the gulch. Then betimes he leaned aslant O'er the depths and laughed aloud, Tinkled then in maddest wise As he sang his little song: "In my very heart of heart There's a tiny golden table, And about this golden table Four small golden chairs are set. "Seated on these golden chairs, Little dames with darts of gold In their hair are playing cards— Clara wins at every game. "Yes, she wins and smiles in glee. Clara, oh, within my heart, Thou can'st never fail to win, For thou holdest all the trumps!" On I wandered and I spoke Thus unto myself. How strange! Lunacy itself sits there Singing on the road to Spain. Is this madman not a sign Of how nations trade in thought? Or is he his native land's Wild and crazy title-page? Twilight sank before we came To a wretched old posada Where podrida—favourite dish! Steamed within a dirty pot. There garbanzos did I eat Huge and hard as musket-balls, Which not e'en a native Teuton, Bred on dumplings, could digest. And my bed was of a piece, With the cooking. Insects vile Dotted it. Oh, surely these Are the grimmest foes of man! Far more fearful than the wrath Of a thousand elephants, Is one small and angry bug Crawling o'er thy lowly couch. Helpless thou against its bite— That is bad enough!—but worse Evil comes if it be crushed And its horrid smell released. All Life's terrors we may taste In the war with vermin waged, Vermin well-equipped with stinks, And in duels with a bug.