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قراءة كتاب Atta Troll

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Atta Troll

Atta Troll

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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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

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.

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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.

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