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ATTA TROLL
_From the German of
Heinrich Heine_
by
_Herman Scheffauer_
with an introduction
by
_Dr Oscar Levy_
and some Pen-and-Ink
sketches by
_Willy Pogány_
Sidgwick & Jackson London 1913
[Illustration: Frontispiece]
[Illustration:
ATTA TROLL
From the German of
_Heinrich Heine_
by
_Herman Scheffauer_
with some Pen-and-Ink
sketches by
_Willy Pogány _
Sidgwick & Jackson London 1913]
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
page
INTRODUCTION
An Interpretation of Heinrich
Heine's "Atta Troll," by Dr.
Oscar Levy 3
PREFACE
By Heine 25
ATTA TROLL 35
NOTES
By Dr. Oscar Levy 165
ILLUSTRATIONS
page
FRONTISPIECE ii
TITLE-PAGE iii
ATTA TROLL iv
INTRODUCTION (Half-Title) 1
ATTA TROLL (Half-Title) 33
_The headings and tail-pieces to the Cantos are by Horace Taylor_
[Illustration: INTRODUCTION]
AN INTERPRETATION OF HEINRICH HEINE'S "ATTA TROLL"
_HE who has visited the idyllic isle of Corfu must have seen, gleaming
white amidst its surroundings of dark green under a sky of the deepest
blue, the Greek villa which was erected there by Elizabeth, Empress of
Austria. It is called the Achilleion. In its garden there is a small
classic temple in which the Empress caused to be placed a marble statue
of her most beloved of poets, Heinrich Heine. The statue represented the
poet seated, his head bowed in profound melancholy, his cheeks thin and
drawn and bearded, as in his last illness._
_Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, felt a sentimental affinity with the
poet; his unhappiness, his_ Weltschmerz, _touched a responsive chord in
her own unhappy heart. Intellectual sympathy with Heine's thought or
tendencies there could have been little, for no woman has ever quite
understood Heinrich Heine, who is still a riddle to most of the men of
this age._
_After the assassination of the hapless Empress, the beautiful villa was
bought by the German Emperor. He at once ordered Heine's statue to be
removed--whither no one knows. Royal (as well as popular) spite has
before this been vented on dead or inanimate things--one need only ask
Englishmen to remember what happened to the body of Oliver Cromwell. The
Kaiser's action, by the way, did not pass unchallenged. Not only in
Germany but in several other countries indignant voices were raised at
the time, protesting against an act so insulting to the memory of the
great singer, upholding the fame of Heine as a poet and denouncing the
new master of the Achilleion for his narrow and prejudiced views on art
and literature._
_There was, however, a sound reason for the Imperial interference.
Heinrich Heine was in his day an outspoken enemy of Prussia, a severe
critic of the House of Hohenzollern and of other Royal houses of
Germany. He was one who held in scorn the principles of State and
government that are honoured in Germany, and elsewhere, to this very
day. He was one of those poets--of whom the nineteenth century produced
only a few, but those amongst the greatest--who had begun to distrust
the capacity of the reigning aristocracy, who knew what to expect from
the rising bourgeoisie, and who were nevertheless not romantic enough to
believe in the people and the wonderful possibilities hidden in them.
These poets--one and all--have taken up a very negative attitude towards
their contemporaries and have given voice to their anger and
disappointment over the pettiness of the society and government of their
time in words full of satire and contempt._
_Of course, the echo on the part of their audiences has not been
wanting. All these poets have experienced a fate surprisingly similar,
and their relationship to their respective countries reminds one of
those unhappy matrimonial alliances which--for social or religious
reasons--no divorce can ever dissolve. And, worse than that, no
separation either, for a poet is--through his mother tongue--so
intimately wedded to his country that not even a separation can effect
any sort of relief in such a desperate case. All of them have tried
separation, all of them have lived in estrangement from their
country--we might almost say that only the local and lesser poets of the
last century have stayed at home--and yet in spite of this separation
the mutual recriminations of these passionate poetical husbands and
their obstinate national wives have never ceased. Again and again we
hear the male partner making proposals to win his spouse to better and
nobler ways, again and again he tries to "educate her up to himself" and
endeavours to direct her anew, pointing out to her the danger of her
unruly and stupid behaviour; again and again his loving approaches are
thwarted by the well-known waywardness of the feminine character, and so
all his friendly admonitions habitually turn into torrents of abuse and
vilification. There have been many unhappy unions in the world, but the
compulsory_ mésalliances _of such great nineteenth-century writers as
Heine, Byron, Stendhal, Gobineau, and Nietzsche with Mesdames
Britannia, Gallia, and Germania, those otherwise highly respectable
ladies, easily surpass in grotesqueness anything that has come to us
through divorce court proceedings in England and America. That, as every
one will agree, is saying a good deal._
_The German Emperor, as I have said, had some justification for his
action, some motives that do credit, if not to his intellect, at least
to what in our days best takes the place of intellect; that is to say
his character and his principles of government. The German Emperor
appears at least to realize how offensive and, from his point of view,
dangerous, the spirit of Heinrich Heine is to this very day, how deeply
his satire cuts into questions of religion and State, how impatient he
is of everything which the German Emperor esteems and venerates in his
innermost heart. But the German people, on the whole, and certainly all
foreigners, have long ago forgiven the poet, not because they have
understood the dead bard better than the Emperor, but because they
understood him less well. It is always easier to forgive an offender if
you do not understand him too well, it is likewise easier to forgive
him if your memory be short. And the peoples likewise resemble our
womenfolk in this respect, that as soon as they are widowed of their
poets, they easily forget all the unpleasantness that had ever existed
between them and their dead husbands. It is then and only then that they
discover the good qualities of their dead consorts and go about telling
everybody "what a wonderful man he was." Their behaviour reminds me of a
picture I once saw in a French comic paper. It represented a widow who,
in order to hear her deceased husband's voice, had a gramophone put at
his empty place at the breakfast table. And every morning she sat
opposite that gramophone weeping quietly into her handkerchief, gazing
mournfully at the instrument--decorated with her dead hubby's tasselled
cap--and listening to the voice of the dear departed. But the only words
which came out of the gramophone every morning were:_ Mais fiche-moi
donc la paix--tu m'empêches de lire mon journal! _(For goodness' sake,
leave me alone and let me read my paper.) This, however, did not appear
to disturb the sentimental widow at all, as little indeed as a good
sentimental people resents being abused by its dead poet._
_And how our poet did abuse them during his life! And not only during
his life, for Heine would not have been a great poet if his loves and
hatreds, his censure and his praise had not outlasted his life, nay, had
not come to real life only after his death. Thus the shafts of wit and
satire which Heine levelled at his age and his country will seem
singularly modern to the reader of to-day. It is this peculiar modern
significance and application that has been one of the two reasons for
presenting to the English public the first popular edition of Heine's
lyrico-satiric masterpiece "Atta Troll." The other reason is the fine
quality of the translation, made by one who is himself well known as a
poet, my friend Herman Scheffauer. I venture to say that it renders in a
remarkable degree the elusive brilliance, wit, and tenderness of the
German original._
_The poem begins in a sprightly fashion full of airy mockery and
romantic lyricism. The reader is beguiled as with music and led on as in
a dance. Heine himself called it_ das letzte freie Waldlied der Romantik
_("The last free woodland-song of Romanticism"); and so we hear the
alluring sound of flutes and harps, we listen to the bells ringing from
lonely chapels in the forest, and many beautiful flowers nod to us, the
mysterious blue flower amongst them. Then our eyes rejoice at the sight
of fair maidens, whose nude and slender bodies gleam from under their
floods of golden hair, who ride on white horses and throw us provocative
glances, that warm and quicken our innermost hearts. But just as we are
on the point of responding to their fond entreaties we are startled by
the cracking of the wild hunter's whip, and we hear the loud hallo and
huzza of his band, and see them galloping across our path in the eerie
mysterious moonlight. Yes, in "Atta Troll" there is plenty of that
moonshine, of that tender sentimentality, which used to be the principal
stock-in-trade of the German Romanticist._
_But this moonshine and all the other paraphernalia of the Romantic
School Heine handled with all the greater skill, inasmuch as he was no
longer a real Romanticist when he wrote "Atta Troll." He had left the
Romantic School long ago, not without (as he himself tells us) "having
given a good thrashing to his schoolmaster." He was now a Greek, a
follower of Spinoza and Goethe. He was a_ Romantique défroqué--_one who
had risen above his neurotic fellow-poets and their hazy ideas and wild
endeavours. But for this very reason he is able to use their mode of
expression with so much the greater skill, and, knowing all their
shortcomings, he could give to his Dreamland a semblance of reality
which they could never achieve. Only after having left a town are we in
a position to judge the height of its church steeple, only as exiles do
we begin to see the right relation in which our country stands to the
rest of the world, and only a poet who had bidden farewell to his party
and school, who had freed himself from Romanticism, could give us the
last, the truest, the most beautiful poem of Romanticism._
_It is possible, even probable, that "Atta Troll" will appeal to a
majority of readers, not through its satire, but through its wonderful
lyrical and romantic qualities--our age being inclined to look askance
at satire, at least at true satire, at satire that, as the current
phrase goes, "means business." Weak satire, aimless satire, humour,
caricature--that is to say satire which uses blank cartridges--this age
of ours will readily endure, nay heartily welcome; but of true satire,
of satire that goes in for powder and shot, that does not only crack,
but kill, it is mortally, and, if one comes to think of it rightly,
afraid. But let even those who object to powder and shot approach "Atta
Troll" without fear or misgiving. They will not be disappointed. They
will find in this work proof of the old truth that a satirist is always
and originally a man of high ideals and imagination. They will gain an
insight into his much slandered soul, which is always that of a great
poet. They will readily understand that this poet only became a satirist
through the vivacity of his imagination, through the strength of his
poetic vision, through his optimistic belief in humanity and its
possibilities; and that it was precisely this great faith which forced
him to become a satirist, because he could not endure to see all his
pure ideals and the possibilities of perfection soiled and trampled upon
by thoughtless mechanics, aimless mockers and babbling reformers. The
humorist may be--and very often is--a sceptic, a pessimist, a nihilist;
the satirist is invariably a believer, an optimist, an idealist. For let
this dangerous man only come face to face, not with his enemies, but
with his ideals, and you will see--as in "Atta Troll"--what a generous
friend, what an ardent lover, what a great poet he is. Thus no one will
be in the least disturbed by Heine's satire: on the contrary, those who
object to it on principle will hardly be aware of it, so delighted will
they be with the wonderful imagination, the glowing descriptions, and
the passionate lyrics in which the poetry of "Atta Troll" abounds. The
poem may be and will be read by them as "Gulliver's Travels" is read
to-day by young and old, by poet and politician alike, not for its
original satire, but for its picturesque, dramatic, and enthralling
tale._
_But let those who still believe that writing is fighting, and not
sham-fighting only, those who hold that a poet is a soldier of the pen
and therefore the most dangerous of all soldiers, those who feel that
our age needs a hailstorm of satire, let these, I say, look closer at
the wonderfully ideal figures that pass before them in the pale
mysterious light. Let them listen more intently to the flutes and harps
and they will discover quite a different melody beneath--a melody by no
means bewitching or soothing, nor inviting us to dreams, sweet
forgetfulness, soft couches, and tender embraces, but a shrill and
mocking tune that is at times insolently discordant and that strikes us
as decidedly modern, realistic, and threatening. As the poet himself
expressed it in his dedication to Varnhagen von Ense:_
"_Aye, my friend, such strains arise_
_From the dream-time that is dead_
Though some modern trills may oft
Caper through the ancient theme.
"Spite of waywardness thou'lt find
Here and there a note of pain...."
_Let their ears seek to catch these painful notes. Let their eyes
accustom themselves to the deceitful light of the moon; let them
endeavour to pierce through the romanticism on the surface to the
underlying meaning of the poem.... A little patience and we shall see
clearly...._
_Atta Troll, the dancing bear, is the representative of the people. He
has--by means of the French Revolution, of course--broken his fetters
and escaped to the freedom of the mountains. Here he indulges in that
familiar ranting of a_ sansculotte, _his heart and mouth brimming over
with what Heine calls_ frecher Gleichheitsschwindel _("the barefaced
swindle of equality"). His hatred is above all directed against the
masters from whose bondage he has just escaped, that is to say against
all mankind as a race. As a "true and noble bear" he simply detests
these human beings with their superior airs and impudent smiles, those
arrogant wretches, who fancy themselves something lofty, because they
eat cooked meat and know a few tricks and sciences. Animals, if properly
trained, if only equality of opportunity were given to them, could
learn these tricks just as well--there is therefore no earthly reason
why_
_"these men,_
_Cursèd arch-aristocrats,_
_Should with haughty insolence_
_Look upon the world of beasts."_
_The beasts, so Atta Troll declares, ought not to allow themselves to be
treated in this wise. They ought to combine amongst themselves, for it
is only by means of proper union that the requisite degree of strength
can ever be attained. After the establishment of this powerful union
they should try to enforce their programme and demand the abolition of
private property and of human privileges:_
_"And its first great law shall be_
_For God's creatures one and all_
_Equal rights--no matter what_
_Be their faith, or hide, or smell,_
_"Strict equality! Each ass_
_May become Prime Minister,_
_On the other hand the lion_
_Shall bear corn unto the mill."_
_This outrageous diatribe of the freed slave cuts deeply into the poet's
heart. He, the poet, does not believe in equal, but in the "holy inborn"
rights of men, the rights of valid birth, the rights of the man of
[Greek: harethê]. He, the poet, the admirer of Napoleon, believes
in the latter's_ la carrière ouverte aux talents, _but not in
opportunity given to every dunce or dancing bear. He holds Atta Troll's
opinion to be "high treason against the majesty of humanity," and since
he can endure this no longer, he sets out one fine morning to hunt the
insolent bear in his mountain fastnesses._
_A strange being, however, accompanies him. This is a man of the name of
Lascaro, a somewhat abnormal fellow, who is very thin, very pale, and
apparently in very poor health. He is consequently not exactly a
pleasant comrade for the chase: he does not seem to enjoy the sport at
all, and his one endeavour is to get through with his task without
losing more of his strength and health. Even now he is more of an
automaton than a human being, more dead than alive, and yet--greatest of
all miseries!--he is not allowed to die. For he has a mother, the witch
Uraka, who keeps him artificially alive by anointing him every night
with magic salve and giving him such diabolic advice as will be useful
to him during the day. By means of the sham health she gives to her son,
the magic bullets she casts for him, the tricks and wiles she teaches
him, Lascaro is enabled to find the track of Atta Troll, to lure him out
of his lair and to lay him low with a treacherous shot._
_Who is this silent Lascaro and his mysterious mother, whom the poet
seems to hold in as slight regard as the noisy Atta Troll? Who is this
Lascaro, whose methods he deprecates, whose health he doubts, whose cold
ways and icy smiles make him shudder? Who is this chilliest of all
monsters? The chilliest of all monsters--we may find the answer in
"Zarathustra"--is the State: and our Lascaro is nothing else than the
spirit of reactionary government, kept artificially alive by his old
witch-mother, the spirit of Feudalism. The nightly anointing of Lascaro
is a parody on the revival of mediæval customs, by means of which the
frightened aristocracy of Europe in the middle of the last century tried
to stem the tide of the French Revolution--the anointed of the Lord
becoming in Heine's poem the anointed of the witch. But in spite of his
nightly massage, our Lascaro does not gain much strength or spirit: no
mediæval salves, no feudal pills, no witch's spell, will ever cure him.
Not even a wizard's experiments (we may add, with that greater insight
bestowed upon us by history) could do him any good, not even the astute
magic tricks that were lavished upon the patient in Heine's time by that
arch wizard, the Austrian Minister Metternich. For we must not forget
the time in which "Atta Troll" was written, the time of the omnipotent
Metternich! Let us recall to our memories this cool, clever, callous
statesman, who founded and set the Holy Alliance against the Revolution,
who calmly shot down the German Atta Troll, who skilfully strangled and
stifled that promising poetical school, "Young Germany," to which Heine
belonged. Let us recall this man, who likewise artificially revived the
old religion and the old feudalism, who repolished and regilded the
scutcheons of the decadent aristocracy, and who, despite all his energy,
had at heart no belief in his work, no joy in his task, no faith in the
anointed dummies he brought to life again in Europe--and those puzzling
personalities of Uraka and Lascaro will be elucidated to us by a real
historical example._
_Metternich is now part of history. But, alas! we cannot likewise banish
into that limbo of the past those two superfluous individuals, the
revolutionary Atta Troll and the reactionary Lascaro. Alas! we cannot
join the joyful, but inwardly so hopeless, band of those who sing the
pæan of eternal progress, who pretend to believe that the times are
always "changing for the better." Let these good people open their eyes,
and they will see that Atta Troll was not shot down in the valley of
Roncesvalles, but that he is still alive, very much alive, and making a
dreadful noise, and that not in the Pyrenees, but just outside our
doors, where he still keeps haranguing about equality and liberty and
occasionally breaks his fetters and escapes from his masters. And when
this occurs, then that icy monster Lascaro is likewise seen, with his
hard, pallid face and his joyless mouth, and his disgust with his own
task and his doubts and disbeliefs in himself. He still carries his gun
and he still possesses some of that craftiness which his mother the
witch has taught him, and he still knows how to entrap that poor, stupid
Atta Troll, and to shoot him down when the spirit of "order and
government," the spirit of a soulless capitalism, requires it._
_No, there is very little feeling in the man as yet, and he seems as
difficult to move as ever. There is apparently only one thing that can
rouse him into action, and that is when a poet appears, one who knows
the truth and who dares to speak the truth not only about Atta Troll,
the people, but also about its Lascaros, its leaders, its emperors, and
kings. Then and then only his hard features change, and his affected
self-possession leaves him, then and then only his mask of calmness is
thrown off, and he waxes very angry with the poet, and has his name
banished from his court and his statues turned out of his cities and
villas--nay, he would even level his gun to slay the truth-telling poet
as he slew Atta Troll._
_From which we may see that the modern Lascaro has become a sort of Don
Quixote--for, truly is it not the height of folly for a mortal emperor
to shoot at an immortal poet?_
OSCAR LEVY
London, 1913
PREFACE BY HEINE
_"ATTA TROLL" was composed in the late autumn of 1841, and appeared as a
fragment in_ The Elegant World, _of which my friend Laube had at that
time resumed the editorship. The shape and contents of the poem were
forced to conform to the narrow necessities of that periodical. I wrote
at first only those cantos which might be printed and even these
suffered many variations. It was my intention to issue the work later in
its full completeness, but this commendable resolve remained
unfulfilled--like all the mighty works of the Germans--such as the
cathedral of Cologne, the God of Schelling, the Prussian Constitution,
and the like. This also happened to "Atta Troll"--he was never finished.
In such imperfect form, indifferently bolstered up and rounded only from
without, do I now set him before the public, obedient to an impulse
which certainly does not proceed from within._
_"Atta Troll," as I have said, originated in the late autumn of 1841, at
the time when the great mob which my enemies of various complexions,
had drummed together against me, had not quite ceased its noise. It was
a very large mob and indeed I would never have believed that Germany
could produce so many rotten apples as then flew about my head! Our
Fatherland is a blessed country! Citrons and oranges certainly do not
grow here, and the laurel ekes out but a miserable existence, but rotten
apples thrive in the happiest abundance, and never a great poet of ours
but could write feelingly of them! On the occasion of that hue and cry
in which I was to lose both my head and my laurels it happened that I
lost neither. All the absurd accusations which were used to incite the
mob against me have since then been miserably annihilated, even without
my condescending to refute them. Time justified me, and the various
German States have even, as I must most gratefully acknowledge, done me
good service in this respect. The warrants of arrest which at every
German station past the frontier await the return of this poet, are
thoroughly renovated every year during the holy Christmastide, when the
little candles glow merrily on the Christmas trees. It is this
insecurity of the roads which has almost destroyed my pleasure in
travelling through the German meads. I am therefore celebrating my
Christmas in an alien land, and it will be as an exile in a foreign
country that I shall end my days._
_But those valiant champions of Light and Truth who accuse me of
fickleness and servility, are able to go about quite securely in the
Fatherland--as well-stalled servants of the State, as dignitaries of a
Guild, or as regular guests of a club where of evenings they may regale
themselves with the vinous juices of Father Rhine and with
"sea-surrounded Schleswig-Holstein" oysters._
_It was my express intention to indicate in the foregoing at what period
"Atta Troll" was written. At that time the so-called art of political
poetry was in full flower. The opposition, as Ruge says, sold its
leather and became poetry. The Muses were given strict orders that they
were thenceforth no longer to gad about in a wanton, easy-going fashion,
but would be compelled to enter into national service, possibly as_
vivandières _of liberty or as washerwomen of Christian-Germanic
nationalism. Especially were the bowers of the German bards afflicted by
that vague and sterile pathos, that useless fever of enthusiasm which,
with absolute disregard for death, plunges itself into an ocean of
generalities. This always reminds me of the American sailor who was so
madly enthusiastic over General Jackson that he sprang from the
mast-head into the sea, crying out: "I die for General Jackson!" Yes,
even though we Germans as yet possessed no fleet, still we had plenty of
sailors who were willing to die for General Jackson, in prose or verse.
In those days talent was a rather questionable gift, for it brought one
under suspicion of being a loose character. After thousands of years of
grubbing deliberation, Impotence, sick and limping Impotence, at last
discovered its greatest weapon against the over-encouragement of
genius--it discovered, in fact, the antithesis between Talent and
Character. It was almost personally flattering to the great masses when
they heard it said that good, average people were certainly poor
musicians as a rule, but that, on the other hand, fine musicians were
not usually good people--that goodness was the important thing in this
world and not music. Empty-Head now beat resolutely upon his full Heart,
and Sentiment was trumps. I recall an author of that day who accounted
his inability to write as a peculiar merit in himself, and who, because
of his wooden style, was given a silver cup of honour._
_By the eternal gods! at that time it became necessary to defend the
inalienable rights of the spirit, above all in poetry. Inasmuch as I
have made this defence the chief business of my life, I have kept it
constantly before me in this poem whose tone and theme are both a
protest against the plebiscite of the tribunes of the times. And verily,
even the first fragments of "Atta Troll" which saw the light, aroused
the wrath of my heroic worthies, my dear Romans, who accused me not only
of a literary but also of a social reaction, and even of mocking the
loftiest human ideals. As to the esthetic worth of my poem--of that I
thought but little, as I still do to-day--I wrote it solely for my own
joy and pleasure, in the fanciful dreamy manner of that romantic school
in which I whiled away my happiest years of youth, and then wound up by
thrashing the schoolmaster. Possibly in this regard my poem is to be
condemned. But thou liest, Brutus, thou too, Cassius, and even thou,
Asinius, when ye declare that my mockery is levelled against those
ideals which constitute the noble achievements of man, for which I too
have wrought and suffered so much. No, it is just because the poet
constantly sees these ideas before him in all their clarity and
greatness that he is forced into irresistible laughter when he beholds
how raw, awkward, and clumsy these ideas may appear when interpreted by
a narrow circle of contemporary spirits. Then perforce must he jest
about their thick temporal hides--bear hides. There are mirrors which
are ground in so irregular a way that even an Apollo would behold
himself as a caricature in them, and invite laughter. But we do not
laugh at the god but merely at his distorted image._
_Another word. Need I lay any special emphasis upon the fact that the
parodying of one of Freiligrath's poems, which here and there somewhat
saucily titters from the lines of "Atta Troll," in no wise constitutes a
disparagement of that poet? I value him highly, especially at present,
and account him one of the most important poets who have arisen in
Germany since the Revolution of 1830. His first collection of poems came
to my notice rather late, namely just at the time when I was composing
"Atta Troll." The fact that the Moorish Prince affected me so comically
was no doubt due to my particular mood at that time. Moreover, this work
of his is usually vaunted as his best. To such readers as may not be
acquainted with this production--and I doubt not such may be found in
China and Japan, and even along the banks of the Niger and Senegal--I
would call attention to the fact that the Blackamoor King, who at the
beginning of the poem steps from his white tent like an eclipsed moon,
is beloved by a black beauty over whose dusky features nod white ostrich
plumes. But, eager for war, he leaves her, and enters into the battles
of the blacks, "where rattles the drum decorated with skulls," but,
alas! here he finds his black Waterloo, and is sold by the victors unto
the whites. They take the noble African to Europe and here we find him
in a company of itinerant circus folk who intrust him with the care of
the Turkish drum at their performances. There he stands, dark and
solemn, at the entrance to the ring, and drums. But as he drums he
thinks of his erstwhile greatness, remembers, too, that he was once an
absolute monarch on the far, far banks of the Niger, that he hunted
lions and tigers:_
_"His eye grew moist; with hollow thunder_
_He beat the drum, till it sprang in sunder."_
HEINRICH HEINE
Written at Paris, 1846
[Illustration: ATTA TROLL]
_Out of the gleaming, shimmering tents of white_
_Steps the Prince of the Moors in his armour bright--_
_So out of the slumbering clouds of night,_
_The moon in its dark eclipse takes flight._
"The Prince of Blackamoors,"
by Ferdinand Freiligrath.
[Illustration]
CANTO I
Ringed about by mountains dark,
Rising peak on sullen peak,
And by furious waterfalls
Lulled to slumber, like a dream
White within the valley lies
Cauterets. Each villa neat
Sports a balcony whereon
Lovely ladies stand and laugh.
Heartily they laugh and look
Down upon the crowded square
Where unto a bag-pipe's drone
He- and she-bear strut and dance.
Atta Troll is dancing there
With his Mumma, dusky mate,
While in wonderment the Basques
Shout aloud and clap their hands.
Stiff with pride and gravity
Dances noble Atta Troll,
Though his shaggy partner knows
Neither dignity nor shame.
I am even fain to think
She is verging on the can-can,
For her shameless wagging hints
Of the gay _Grande Chaumière_
Even he, the showman brave,
Holding her with loosened chain,
Marks the immorality
Of her most immodest dance.
So at times he lays the lash
Straight across her inky back,
Till the mountains wake and shout
Echoes to her frenzied howls.
On the showman's pointed hat
Six Madonnas made of lead
Shield him from the foeman's balls
Or invasions of the louse.
And a gaudy altar-cloth
From his shoulders hanging down,
Makes a proper sort of cloak,
Hiding pistol and a knife.
In his youth a monk was he,
Then became a robber chief;
Later, in Don Carlos' ranks,
He combined the other two.
When Don Carlos, forced to flee,
Bade his Table Round farewell,
All his Paladins resolved
Straight to learn an honest trade.
Herr Schnapphahnski turned a scribe,
And our staunch Crusader here
Just a showman, with his bears
Trudging up and down the land.
And in every market-place
For the people's pence they dance--
In the square at Cauterets
Atta Troll is dancing now!
Atta Troll, the Forest King,
He who ruled on mountain-heights,
Now to please the village mob,
Dances in his doleful chains.
Worse and worse! for money vile
He must dance who, clad in might,
Once in majesty of terror
Held the world a sorry thing!
When the memories of his youth
And his lost dominions green,
Smite the soul of Atta Troll,
Mournful sobs escape his breast.
And he scowls as scowled the black
Monarch famed of Freiligrath;
In his rage he dances badly,
As the darkey badly drummed.
Yet compassion none he wins,--
Only laughter! Juliet
From her balcony is laughing
At his wild, despairing bounds.
Juliet, you see, is French,
And was born without a soul--
Lives for mere externals--but
Her externals are so fair!
Like a net of tender gleams
Are the glances of her eye,
And our hearts like little fishes,
Fall and struggle in that net.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]