Chapter 11

May has come now. To the thinker, Who the causes of phenomena Searches, 'tis a natural sequence: In the centre of creation Are two aged white cats standing, Who the world turn on its axis; And their labour there produces The recurring change of seasons.

But why is it in the May month That my eyes are ever ogling, That my heart is so impassioned? And why is it that I daily Must be leering sixteen hours From the terrace, as if nailed there, At the fair cat Apollonia, At the black-haired Jewess Rachel?

VIII.

A strong bulwark 'gainst enticements I have built on good foundations; But to the most virtuous even Sometimes come unsought temptations.

And more ardent than in youth's time, The old dream comes o'er me stealing; I on memory's pinions soar up, Filled with burning amorous feeling.

Oh fair Naples, land of beauty, With thy nectar-cup thou cheerest! To Sorrento I'd be flying. To a roof to me the dearest.

Old Vesuvius and the white sails On the bay are greeting bringing, And the olive-woods are gladdened By the spring-birds' joyous singing.

To the Loggia slinks Carmela, Strokes my beard with soft caresses; Of all cats by far the fairest, Lovingly my paw she presses.

And she looks on me with longing, But now hark! there is a howling; Is the surf thus loudly roaring? Or is old Vesuvius growling?

'Tis not old Vesuvius growling, For he holds now his vacation. In the yard, destruction vowing, Barks the worst dog in creation--

Barks the worst dog in creation-- Barks Francesco, loudly yelling; And my lovely dream's enchantment He thus rudely is dispelling.

IX.

Hiddigeigei strictly shunneth What his conscience might be hurting; But he oft connives benignly At his fellow-cats' gay flirting.

Hiddigeigei with great ardour Makes the mice-hunt his chief duty; And he frets not if another With sweet music worships beauty.

Quoth the wise cat Hiddigeigei: Ere it rots, the fruit be plucking; So, if years should come of famine, Memory's paws remain for sucking.

X.

Even a God-fearing conduct, Cannot keep us from declining; With despair I see already In my fur some gray hairs shining.

Yes, unpitying Time destroyeth All for which we've boldly striven; For against the sharp-toothed tyrant Nature has no weapons given.

Unadmired and forgotten We fall victims to this power. Wish I could, with fury raging, Eat both clock-hands of the tower.

XI.

Long past is the time, ere man in his might O'er the earth his dominion was spreading; When the mammoth roamed in his ancient right Through the forests which crashed 'neath his treading.

In vain may'st thou search now far and near For the Lion, the desert's great ruler; But we must remember, that we live here In a climate decidedly cooler.

In life and in fiction is given no praise To the great and the highly gifted; And ever weaker is growing the race Till genius to nothing is sifted.

When cats disappear the mice raise their voice, Till they like the others skedaddle; At last in mad frolic we hear _them_ rejoice-- The infusoria rabble.

XII.

Hiddigeigei sees with sorrow To a close his days are drawing; Death may come at any moment, So deep grief his heart is gnawing.

O how gladly I the riches Of my wisdom would be preaching, That in joy as well as sorrow Cats might profit from my teaching.

Ah! the road of life is rugged; On it rough sharp stones are lying. Stumbling o'er this path so dreary, Sprained and bruised we limp on crying.

Life oft useless wounds is giving. For 'tis full of brawls and knavery; Vainly many cats have fallen Victims to an empty bravery.

But for what this constant fretting? The young cats are laughing ever, No advice from me accepting-- Only suffering makes them clever.

Let us see what they'll accomplish; History's teachings are derided: His sage maxims ne'er to publish, Hiddigeigei has decided.

XIII.

Growing weaker, breathing harder, Soon I'll feel Death's shadow o'er me: Make my grave there in the store-house, In my former field of glory.

Valiantly all round me slaying Fought I like a raging lion: In his armour clad then bury Of his race the last brave scion.

Yes the last, because the offspring Win their parents equal never! They are good but wooden people, Not so witty nor as clever.

Wooden are they, thinking solely Of the moment, hollow hearted; Only few still hold as sacred The bequests of the departed.

But sometime, when years have passed by, In my grave I've long been sleeping, Then will come the angry cat's howl Nightly down upon you sweeping.

Hiddigeigei's solemn warning Will you from your slumber waken: Ever fear the coils of dulness! Save yourselves, ye God-forsaken!

SONGS OF THE SILENT MAN.

FROM THE CAVE OF THE GNOMES.

I.

Quiet heart! O ponder lonely, Valiant, by no fears assailed; Only in calm meditation Lofty secrets are unveiled.

While the storms of life are raging, While mean souls for trifles fight. Thou on wings of song art soaring O'er the mob in purer light.

Leave the dusty road to others, And thy soul unsullied keep, A clear mirror, like the ocean, Where the sun has sunk to sleep.

O'er the world's loud bustle rising, Soars the eagle lone on high; Cranes and storks, they flock together, But close to the earth do fly.

Quiet heart! O ponder lonely, Valiant, by no fears assailed; Only in calm meditation Lofty secrets are unveiled.

II.

Leave all commonplace forever, Digging deeply, upward soaring; For rich Nibelungen-treasures Lie all ready for exploring.

From the mountains we see shining Distant seas and shores of beauty; While beneath we hear the booming Of the gnomes hard at their duty.

Manna-like is spread around us Spiritual food abundant; And before our vision rises The old truth with light redundant--

As coarse threads and fine together In _one_ net are intertwisting, So the same laws are forever For the small and great existing.

But a point comes,--sad confession?-- Where to pause, our thoughts restraining; At the limit of perception Is mysterious silence reigning.

III.

Past me wander beings pallid, Fill the air with words of anguish: All our doings are invalid, Sick and old, we slowly languish.

Have you ne'er the wondrous story Found in ancient books related, Of the spring, wherein the hoary Plunged, then rose rejuvenated?

And this fountain is no fiction, Within reach of all 'tis flowing; But you've lost the true direction, Farther from its traces going.

In the forests' verdant bowers, Where deep calm the soul entrances, Where on graceful ferns and flowers Elves sweep through their nightly dances:

There by stones and moss well hidden, Rush the waters from the mountain; From Earth's bosom springs unbidden, Ever fresh, this magic fountain.

There with peace the soul is ravished; There the mind regains its powers; And the wealth of Spring is lavished O'er old wounds in blossom-showers.

IV.

Wilt thou know the world more clearly, See then what before thee lies; How from matter and from forces The whole fabric doth arise.

Of the fixed forms of creation Thou the moving cause must see; In the changes of phenomena Find what lasts eternally.

In presumptuous opinions Fresh pure seeds ne'er germinate; By deep meditation only Human minds explore, create.

V.

With the eagle's piercing sight endowed, And the heart with hope o'erflowing, I found myself with a mounted crowd To thought's fierce battle going.

The banners high, the lance in rest, The enemy's ranks were broken. On their broad backs, O what a jest, To mark a nice blue token!

We came at last to the end of our course, O'er our failure in knowledge repining; Then slowly I turned my gallant horse, Myself to silence resigning;

Too proud to believe--my thoughts all free,-- To the cave as a refuge flying. The world is far too shallow for me, The core is deeper lying.

I for my weapons no longer care, In the corner there they lie rusting. No priggish fool to provoke me shall dare, To my valour alone I am trusting.

These owls and bats a look alone Suffices to abolish; Still serveth well an ass's bone, The Philistines to demolish.

VI.

Be proud, and thy lot nobly bear, From tears and sighs desisting; Like thee will many others fare, While thinkers are existing.

There are many problems left unsolved By former speculations; But when thou art to dust resolved, Come other generations.

The wrinkles on thy lofty brow Let them go on increasing, They are the scars which show us how Thought's struggle was unceasing.

And if no laurel-crown to thee To deck thy brow be given; Still be thou proud; thy soul so free For thought alone has striven.

SOME OF MARGARETTA'S SONGS.

I.

How proud he is and stately! How noble is his air! A trumpeter he's only, Yet I for him do care.

And owned he castles seven, He could not look more fair. O would to him were given Another name to bear!

Ah, were he but a noble, A knight of the Golden Fleece! Love, thou art full of trouble, Love, thou art full of peace.

II.

Two days now have passed already, Since I gave him that first kiss; Ever since that fatal hour All with me has gone amiss.

My dear little room, so pretty, Where so nice a life I led, Is now in such dire confusion. That it almost turns my head.

My sweet roses and carnations, Withered now, for care ye pine! Oh, I think, instead of water, I have deluged you with wine.

My dear lovely snow-white pigeon Has no water and no bread; And the goldfinch in his cage there Looks as if he were half dead.

I am putting blue and red yarn In my white net as I knit; And I work in my embroidery White wool where it doth not fit.

Where are Parcival and Theuerdank? If I only, only knew! I believe that I those poets In the kitchen-pantry threw.

And the kitchen plates are standing On the book-case--what a shame! Ah, for all these many blunders I my love, my love must blame!

III.

Away he is gone in the wide wide world; No word of farewell has he spoken. Thou fresh young player in wood and mead, Thou sun whose light is my daily need, When wilt thou send me a token?

I hardly had time in his eyes to gaze, When the dream already had vanished; Oh Love, why dost thou two lovers unite, With thy burning torch their hearts ignite, When their bliss so soon must be banished?

And where does he go? The world is so large, So full of deep snares for a rover. He even may go to Italia, where The women, I hear, are so false and so fair! May Heaven protect my dear lover.

FIVE YEARS LATER.

WERNER'S SONGS FROM ITALY.

I.

Too well were all things going, Therefore it could not last; My cheeks my grief are showing, Misfortune came too fast.

The violet and clover, The flowers all are gone. 'Mid frost and snow, a rover I wander sad alone.

Good luck will never favour The man who nothing dares; But he who does not waver The smile of fortune shares.

II.

A lonely rock juts upward Just by the craggy strand; The angry foaming waters Have torn it from the land.

Now in green waves half sunken Defiantly it lies; The snow-white gulls are flying Around it with shrill cries.

There on the heaving billows Is dancing a light boat; The sounds of plaintive singing Up to the lone rock float:

"O that I to my country, And to my love were borne; O home in dear old Rhine-land, For thee my heart is torn!"

III.

Bewitched I am by the summer night, In silent thought I am riding; Bright glow-worms through the thicket fly Like happy dreams, which in times gone by My longing heart were delighting.

Bewitched I am by the summer night. In silent thought I am riding; The golden stars shine so far and bright, In the water's fair bosom is mirrored their light, As, in Time's deep sea, love abiding.

Bewitched I am by the summer night, In silent thought I am riding; The nightingale sings from the myrtle tree, He warbles so meltingly, tenderly, As if Fate his heart had been blighting.

Bewitched I am by the summer night, In silent thought I am riding; The sea rises high, the waves do frown; Wherefore these useless tears which down The rider's wan cheeks are gliding?

IV.

'Neath the waves the sun is going, With bright hues the sky is glowing, Twilight o'er the earth is stealing, Far-off evening bells are pealing: Thee I think of, Margaretta.

On the rocky crag I'm lying, Stranger in a strange land sighing; Round my feet the waves are dancing, Through my soul float dreams entrancing: Thee I think of, Margaretta.

V.

Oh Roman girl, why lookest thou At me with burning glances? Thine eye, though beautiful it be, The stranger ne'er entrances.

Beyond the Alps there is a grave, The Rhine watch o'er it keepeth; And three wild roses bloom thereon; Therein my love-dream sleepeth.

Oh Roman girl, why lookest thou At me with burning glances? Thine eye, though beautiful it be, The stranger ne'er entrances.

VI.

Outside the gates when walking, I see of life no trace; There is the wide-spread graveyard Of the ancient Roman race.

They rest from love and hatred, From pleasure, strife, and guilt; There in the Appian Way are Their tombs of marble built

A tower greets me, gilded By the setting sun's last rays-- Cæcilia Metella, At thy proud tomb I gaze.

My eyes are turning northward, As 'mid this pile I stand; My thoughts are swiftly flying Far from this southern land,

On to another tower, With stones of smaller size; By the shady vine-clad window I see my love's sweet eyes.

VII.

The world lies now encircled By the frosty winter night. No use that by the hearth-stone I think of love's sad flight.

The logs will soon be burnt out, To ashes all will fall; The embers will cease glowing, That is the end of all.

It is the same old story, I think of nothing more But silence and forgetting-- Forget what I adore?

VIII.

The crowd it frolics, shouts and sings, Disturbs Rome's usual quiet; Mad folly high her banner swings, And thronging masks run riot.

Now up and down the Corso pace Gay coaches 'mid wild showers; The Carnival's great sport takes place, The fight with chalk and flowers.

Confetti and fair roses fly, Bouquets are thickly raining. That hit--good luck! how glows her eye! Thou art the victory gaining.

And thou, my heart, mirth also show, Forget what thou hast suffered; Let bygone times and bygone woe With flowers sweet be covered.

IX.

By the clear green Lake of Nemi An old maple-tree doth grow; Through its lofty leafy summit The breezes sadly blow.

By the clear green Lake of Nemi A young musician lies, He hums a song, while many Tears glisten in his eyes.

On the clear green Lake of Nemi The waves so gently flow; The maple and musician Their own minds do not know.

By the clear green Lake of Nemi Is the best inn of the land; Praiseworthy macaroni, And wine of famous brand.

The maple and musician Are crazy both, I think; Else they would go there yonder, Grow sane by honest drink.

X.

My heart is filled with rancour, The storm howls all around; Thou art the man I want now, Thou false Italian hound.

Thy dagger's thrust I parried; Now, worthy friend, beware How from a German sword's stroke Thy Italian skull will fare.

The sun's last rays had vanished Far from the Vatican; It rose to shine next morning Upon a lifeless man.

XI.

Oh Ponte Molle, thou bridge of renown, Near thee many draughts have I swallowed down, From bottles in wicker-work braided. Oh Ponte Molle, what is the cause That I between my glasses now pause, Can hardly to drink be persuaded?

Oh Ponte Molle, 'tis strange in truth, That the lovely days of my vanished youth And love's old dream are recurring. Through the land the hot sirocco blows, And within my heart the old flame glows, Sweet music within me is stirring.

Oh Tiber-stream, oh St. Peter's dome, Oh thou all-powerful ancient Rome, Naught care I for all thou containest. Where'er in my restless wanderings I rove, My gentle and lovely Schwarzwald-love, The fairest on earth thou remainest!

Oh Ponte Molle, how lovely was she! And if I thousands of girls should see, To love but the one I am willing. And if ever thy solid pile should bear The weight of her footsteps, I will swear, Even thy cold frame would be thrilling.

But useless the longing and useless the woe, The sun is too ardent so far to go, And flying is not yet invented. Padrone, another bottle of wine! This Orvieto so pearly and fine Makes even a sad heart contented.

Oh Ponte Molle, thou bridge of renown, Hast thou on my head called witchcraft down For my love-sick and dreamy talking? A cloud of dust whirls up to the sky, A herd of oxen now passing by Blocks up the way I am walking.

XII.

(_Monte testaccio._)

I do not know what the end will be; O'er the low ground spreads the gloaming, The ominous bat already I see As she starts on her nightly roaming. On Ponte Molle all is still, I think the good old hostess will Very soon the inn be closing.

A little owl I hear there screech In the cypress grove 'tis hiding; Campagna fogs up there now reach, Over gate and city gliding. They roll and float like ghostly troops Round Cestius' Pyramid in groups; What are the dead there wanting?

Now bursts a light around the hill, The leaden gray clouds are fast going; The full moon's face rises slow and still, With envy's yellow hue glowing. She shines so pale, she shines so cold, Right into the goblet which I hold; That cannot be a good omen.

He who from his sweetheart is torn away, Will love her more dearly than ever; And who doth long in the night-air stay, Will catch most surely a fever. And now the hostess the light puts out, Felice notte! I back to her shout; The bill I'll settle to-morrow.

XIII.

Awaking from my slumber I hear the skylark sing; The rosy morning greets me, The fresh young day of Spring.

In the garden waves the palm-tree Mysteriously its crown, And on the distant sea-shore The surf rolls up and down;

And azure-blue the heavens, The golden sun so bright; My heart, what more is wanting? Chime in with all thy might!

And now pour out thy praises To God, who oft gave proof, He never would forsake thee-- 'Tis thou who kept aloof.

XIV.

To serve, to serve! an evil ring, Has this word so harsh and frigid; My love is gone, my life's sweet Spring; My heart, become not rigid.

My trumpet looks so sad to-day, With crape around it winding; In a cage they put the player gay, Lay on him fetters binding.

Deep grief and pain infest his way, His heart with arrows stinging; For his daily bread he has to play, He can no more be singing.

Who on the Rhine sang to his lyre. Of all save joy unheeding, Is now--sad fate--the Pope's great choir In the Sistine Chapel leading.

FIFTEENTH PART.

THE MEETING IN ROME.

Scorching lay the heat of summer Over Rome, th' Eternal City; Sluggishly his yellow waters Rolls the Tiber, rolls them seaward, Through the sultry air; however, Not so much from choice, but rather From a sense of duty, knowing That it is a river's business. Deep down at the river's bottom, Sat old Tiber, and he muttered:

"Oh how slowly time is dragging! I am weary! Would the end were Of this dull monotonous motion! Will no storm ere raise a flood-tide, To engulf this little country, And drag all the brooks and rivers, Also me--the river veteran-- And embrace us all together In the ocean's mighty bosom? E'en to wash the walls forever Of old Rome I find most tedious. And what matter that this region And myself are held as classic? Vanished, turned to dust and ashes, Are those genial Roman poets, Who, their brows adorned with laurel, And their hearts imbued with rhythm, Formerly have sung my praises. Then came others, long since vanished, Others followed in their stead, like Pictures in a magic lantern. Well! to me 'tis all the same, if Only they would not disturb me. Oh what have these busy mortals Thrown into my quiet waters, Quite regardless of my comfort! Where my nymphs with sacred rushes Had arranged for me a pillow, For my usual siesta, There now lie great heaps of rubbish, Roman helmets, Gaulish weapons, Old utensils of Etruria, And the lovely marble statues Which once from the tomb of Hadrian Down upon thick-headed Goths fell; And the bones all mixed together Of defenders and aggressors; Just as if my river-bed were An historic lumber chamber. Oh how sick I am and weary! Worn-out world, when wilt thou die?"