Читать книгу The Trumpeter of Säkkingen: A Song from the Upper Rhine - Joseph Victor von Scheffel - Страница 3

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"Who is yonder light-haired stranger

Who there like a cat is roaming

O'er the roof of Don Pagano?"--

Thus asked many honest burghers,

Dwellers on the Isle of Capri,

When they from the market turning

Looked up at the palm-tree and the

Low-arched roof of moorish fashion.

And the worthy Don Pagano

Said: "That is a strange queer fellow,

And most strange his occupation.

Came here with but little luggage,

Lives here quite alone but happy,

Clambers up the steepest mountains,

Over cliffs, through surf is strolling,

Loves to steal along the sea-shore.

Also lately 'mid the ruins

Of the villa of Tiberius

With the hermits there caroused.

What's his business?--He's a German,

And who knows what they are doing?

But I saw upon his table

Heaps of paper written over,

Leaving very wasteful margins;

I believe he is half crazy,

I believe he's making verses."

Thus he spoke.--And I myself was

This queer stranger. Solitary

I had on this rocky island

Sung this song of my dear Schwarzwald.

I went as a wand'ring scholar

To far countries, to Italia;

With much art became acquainted,

Also with bad vetturinos,

And with many burning flea-bites;

But the sweet fruit of the lotus,

Which doth banish love of country

And the longing to return there,

I have never found here growing.

'Twas in Rome. Hard lay the winter

On th' eternal sev'n-hilled city:

Hard? for even Marcus Brutus

Would have caught a bad catarrh then;

And the rain seemed never-ending.

Like a dream then rose the vision

Of the Schwarzwald, and the story

Of the young musician Werner

And the lovely Margaretta.

In my youth I have stood often

By their graves close to the Rhine shore;

Many things which lie there buried

Are, however, long forgotten.

But like one to whom a sudden

Ringing in his ears betokens

That at home of him they're thinking,

So I heard young Werner's trumpet

Through the Roman Winter, through the

Carnival's gay flower-show--

Heard it from afar, then nearer,

Like the crystal which of vap'rous

Fine materials is condensing

And increases radiating;

So the figures of this song grew--

Even followed me to Naples.

In the halls of the Museum

Who should meet me but the Baron

Shaking his big cane and smiling,

And before Pompeii's gate sat

The black tom-cat Hiddigeigei.

Purring, quoth he: "Leave all study;

What is all this ancient rubbish,

E'en that dog there in mosaic

In the tragic Poet's dwelling,

In comparison with me--the

Epic type of all cat-nature?"

This I could no longer stand, so

Now began this ghost to banish.

From the brother of the lovely

Luisella, from the crooked

Cunning druggist of Sorrento

Quantities of ink I ordered,

And sailed o'er the bay to Capri.

Here began my exorcisms.

Many pale-gold coloured sea-fish,

Many lobsters, many oysters,

I ate up without compassion;

Drank the red wine like Tiberius,

Without mercy poetising;

On the roof went up and down till

All resounded metrically,

And the charm was then accomplished:

Chained up in four-measured trochees

Lay those figures which so long now

From my couch sweet sleep had banished.

'Twas high time, too; Spring already

Now gave signal of his coming--

Buds were sprouting on the fig-trees;

Shots were cracking, for with guns and

Nets they were the quails pursuing,

Who towards home their flight were taking;

And the minstrel was in peril

Then of seeing feathered colleagues

Set upon the table roasted.

This dread o'er him, pen and inkstand

Flew against the wall together.

Ready now and newly soled were

My strong boots which old Vesuvius

Had much damaged with his sulphur.

Farther now I journey onward.

Up, my good old Marinaro!

Off from land! the waves with pleasure

Bear light hearts and weightless freightage.

But the song, which with such happy

Spring-born feelings from my heart welled,

Bears my greetings to my country

And to you, my honoured parents.

Many faults are in it, truly:

Tragic pathos may be wanting,

And a racy tendance; also,

As in Amaranth, the fragrant

Incense of a pious soul, its

Sober but pretentious colouring.

Take him, as he is, this ruddy.

Rough, uncouth son of the mountains,

With a pine branch on his straw hat.

What he's wanting in, pray, cover

With the veil of kind indulgence.

Take him not as thanks, for always

In your Book of Love I'm debtor,

But as greeting and as witness,

That a man whom worldly fortune

Has not placed 'mid smiling verdure,

Yet can, happy as a lark pour

Out his song on leafless branches.

Capri, May 1st, 1853.