Classic Poem

CAPUTXXII

Phaebus in his sunny chariot
Lashed along his flaming horses,
And his journey through the heavens
Had already half accomplished,

While I lay in slumber, dreaming
Of the bears and of the spirits
Strangely intertwined and woven,
Like some arabesque fantastic.

It was noon when I awakened,
And I found myself alone,
For my hostess and Lascaro
On the chase betimes had started.

None was with me in the hovel
Save the pug, who, standing upright
On the hearth before the kettle,
Held a spoon with both his paws.

They had admirably trained him,
When the soup was boiling over,
With the spoon at once to stir it,
And to skim away the bubbles.

But am I myself bewitched then?
Or can fever still be burning
In my brain? My ears must surely
Play me false. The pug is speaking.

Yes, he speaks; indeed the language
Is the simple, homely Swabian;
As if lost in thought, he muses
With a dreamy air, as follows:

" Oh, unhappy Swabian poet,
Who, afar in exile weary,
As a cursid pug must languish,
Set to watch a witch's kettle!

" What a shameful crime and cruel
Is this sorcery! How tragic
Is my fate: these human feelings
In the body of a dog!

" In my home had I but tarried
With my tried and trusty schoolmates!
They are certainly no wizards,
Not a soul have they enchanted.

" Had I only tarried yonder
With Karl Mayer, in my Swabia
With the wallflowers of my country,
And its simple, honest broth!

" I could die to-day of longing
For my home — to see the chimneys
And the smoke, where they are cooking
Vermicelli in my Stukkert! "

With emotion deep I heard him;
From my bed in haste upspringing,
On the hearth I sank beside him,
And addressed him with compassion.

" Noble singer, what has brought thee
To this wretched witch's hovel?
Whence this gruesome transformation
To the semblance of a dog? "

Overjoyed the poet answered,
" Is it true? " Thou art no Frenchman,
But a German, and the meaning
Of my monologue hast followed?

" Ah, my brother, what a pity
That, when over pipes and beer
In the inn we sat discoursing,
Kolle, councillor-of-legation,

" On the point was so insistent,
That one only gained through travel
The refinement and the culture
He himself had won abroad.

" That my legs, with use grown suppler,
Might be cured of their uncouthness:
That my manners might, like Kolle's,
Take a finer worldly polish,

" I forsook my home and started
To enlarge my mind by travel, —
To the Pyrenees directed,
Reached the hovel of Uraka,

" With a note of introduction
From my friend, Justinus Kerner,
Never dreaming that my comrade
Was in wicked league with witches.

" I was welcomed by Uraka,
But her friendship, to my horror,
Soon degenerated vilely
Into hot, unholy passion.

" Yes, impure desire still flickered
In the loathly withered bosom
Of the foul, abandoned creature:
She attempted to seduce me.

" But I prayed, " Excuse me, Madam;
I belong not to the flighty,
Frisky followers of Goethe,
But to Swabia's school of poets.

" " Virgin Modesty our muse is,
And her drawers are made of leather —
Thickest leather — Do not tamper
With my virtue, I entreat thee!

" " Other poets have their genius,
Have their fancy, or their passion;
We, the poet sons of Swabia,
Take our stand upon our virtue.

" " 'Tis indeed our sole possession.
Rob me not, then, of this cover
For my nakedness — this moral
And religious beggar's mantle!"

" So I spake; but grim, ironic,
Smiled the woman, and, thus smiling,
Took some mistletoe and touched me
With a twig upon the head.

" Then I felt a cold discomfort
All at once, as if a goose-skin
Had been drawn across my body;
But alas! it was no goose-skin,

" It was worse — for, with a dog-skin,
She had covered and unmanned me —
From that dire and dreadful moment
I have been the pug you see me. "

Not another word, poor fellow!
Could he utter for his sobbing;
So disconsolate his weeping,
That in tears he almost melted.

I said sorrowfully, " Listen.
Peradventure I might free thee
From the dog-skin, and restore thee
To humanity and art. "

But he raised his paws to heaven,
Inconsolable, despairing,
And made answer, sighing deeply,
Groaning bitterly made answer,

" Till the Day of Doom, imprisoned
In this pug-skin I must languish.
Only virginal devotion
Can unloose the spell that binds me.

" Yes, a spotless virgin only,
Whom no man has ever sullied,
Can deliver me, if faithful
To the following condition:

" On the night of Saint Sylvester
Must this virgin without blemish
Read the works of Gustav Pfeizer,
Without dozing off to sleep.

" Could she stay awake while reading,
Keep her modest eyes from slumber,
The enchantment would be broken:
I should breathe, a man, undogged. "

" Ah, if that be so, " I answered,
" 'Tis indeed beyond my power
To deliver thee; for, firstly,
I am no unspotted virgin.

" And still less could I accomplish,
In the second place, the reading
Of the works of Gustav Pfeizer,
Without falling fast asleep. "