Act 5 — Atta Troll A Summer Night's Dream

In the valley lies attractive Cauterets. The shining houses Gay with balconies, and on them Stand fair ladies loudly laughing. Laughing as they look beneath them On the brightly swarming market, Where are dancing bear and she-bear To the droning of the bagpipes. Atta Troll and his good lady, Whom the people call black Mumma, Are the dancers; the Biscayans Shout aloud in admiration. Atta Troll, who once paraded Like a mighty lord of deserts, Free upon the mountain summit, Dances in the vale to rabble! Both the music and the laughter Quickly cease, and shrieking loudly, From the market fly the people, And the ladies they are fainting. Yes, the slavish chain that bound him Suddenly hath rent asunder Atta Troll. And, wildly springing, Up the rocks he nimbly clambers. In the empty market standing, All alone are left black Mumma And the keeper. Wild with fury On the ground his hat he dashes. On the wretched poor black Mumma Falls this much-enraged one's fury Doubly down at last; he beats her, Then he calls her Queen Christina.

In the vale of Ronceval Not far off from Roland's cleft, And by savage fir-trees hidden, Lies the cave of Atta Troll. In the bosom of his family, There he rests from all his hardships. Tender meeting! All his young ones Found he in the well-loved cavern: Well-licked, lady-like young bears, Blonde their hair, like parson's daughters; Brown the boys, the youngest only With the single ear is black. Gladly now relates the old one What he's in the world experienced, Of the overwhelming plaudits Reaped by his great skill in dancing. Overcome by self-laudation, Now he calls on deeds to witness That he is no wretched boaster, That he's really great at dancing.

In the caverns with his offspring, Sick at heart, upon his back lies Atta Troll; in meditation Licks his paws, and, licking, growls: "Mumma, Mumma, pearl of blackness, Whom I fished from out life's ocean, Is it thus that in life's ocean I am forced again to lose thee! "Might I only once more sniffle That sweet odour, the peculiar, Of my black, my darling Mumma, Fragrant as the scent of roses! "But, alas! my Mumma pineth In the fetters of those rascals, Who, the name of Men assuming, Call themselves Creation's lords. "Mankind, are ye any better Than we others, just because ye Boiled and baked devour your victuals? In a raw state we eat ours. "Children," grumbles Atta Troll, "Children, we must seize the future! If each bear but thought as I do, We should soon subdue the tyrants. "Let the boar but form alliance With the horse, the elephant Coil his trunk with love fraternal Round the valiant bullock's horn; "Bear and wolf of every colour, Goat and monkey; even hares, too, Let them work awhile together, And the victory cannot fail us. "Equal rights for all God's creatures, Be our fundamental maxim; Absolutely no distinction In belief, or skin, or smell. "Strict equality! Ev'ry jackass Competent for highest office; On the other hand, the lion Trotting with the corn to grind."

Many an honest, virtuous burgher Lives on earth in evil odour, Whilst your princely people reek of Lavender and ambergris. Therefore do not make wry faces, Gentle reader, if the cave of Atta Troll should not remind you Of the spices of Arabia. Tarry with me in the steamy Confines in the dismal odour, Where the hero to his youngest Speaks as if from out a cloud: "Ever shun men's ways of thinking! Not a creature that is decent Can be found among these creatures. Even Germans, once much better, "In primeval times our cousins, These alike are now degen'rate: Traitors to their creed and godless, Now they preach e'en atheism! "Only be no atheist, Like a non-bear who respects not His great Maker—Yes, a Maker Hath this universe created. "Yonder in the starred pavilion, On the golden throne of power, World-controlling and majestic, Sits a giant Polar bear. "At his feet are sitting gentle Sainted bears, who in their life-time Uncomplaining suffered; in their Paws the palm of martyrdom. "Shall I ever, drunk with heaven, Yonder in the starred pavilion, With the Glory, with the palm-branch, Dance before the throne of God?"

Figures twain, morose and baleful, And on all-fours slowly creeping, Break themselves a gloomy passage Through the underwood at midnight. That is Atta Troll, the father, And his son, young Master One-Ear. "This old stone"—growls Atta Troll— "Is the altar, where the Druids "In the days of superstition Human sacrifices butchered. Oh, the overwhelming horror! Shedding blood to honour God! "Now indeed far more enlightened Are these men—they only murder Now from selfishness and grasping. Each one plunders for himself! "Nature never yet created Owners, no—for void of pockets, Not a pocket in our fur coats, We were born, the whole of us. "Only man, that smooth-skinned being, Could in borrowed wool, so artful, Dress himself, or could, so artful, Thus provide himself with pockets. "Be the mortal foe of all such Fierce oppressors, reconcileless, To the end of thy existence— Swear it, swear it here, my son!" And the youngest swore as once did Hannibal. The moon illumined With her yellow light the Blood-stone, And the pair of misanthropes.

I was early one fine morning With Lascaro setting forward On the bear-hunt. And at mid-day We arrived at Pont-d'Espagne. Evening shades were dark'ning round us When we reached the wretched hostel, Where the Ollea-Podrida Steamed up from the dirty soup-dish. Corresponding to the kitchen Was the bed. It swarmed with insects, Just as if it had been peppered!— Bugs are man's most mortal foe. What a raving with these poets, E'en the tame ones! Why, they never Cease to sing and say, that Nature Is the Maker's mighty temple. Well, so be it, charming people! But confess that in this temple All the stairs are slightly awkward. Miserably bad the stairs! Close beside me strides Lascaro, Pale and long, just like a taper; Never speaking, never smiling, He, the dead son of a witch. Yes, 'tis said, he is a dead one, Long defunct, although his mother, Old Uraka, by enchantments Keeps him living to appearance. In the little fishing cottage, On the Lac-de-Gobe we met with Shelter and some trout for dinner; And they tasted quite delicious. If the stuff I drank was really Wine, at this same Lac-de-Gobe, I know not. I think in Brunswick They would simply call it swipes.

From the sunny golden background Smile the violet mountain peaks, On the ridge there clings a village, Like a boldly ventured birds'-nest. Having climbed there, 'twas apparent That the old ones wing had taken, And behind were tarrying only All the young brood, not yet fledged. Nearly all that day I lingered With the children, and we chatted Quite familiar. They were curious Who I was, what I was doing? "Germany, dear friends"—so said I— "Is the land where I was born; Bears live there in any number, And I took to hunting bears. "There I drew the skin for many Over very bearish ears; And between them I was sometimes Roughly by their bear claws handled. "But with merely unlicked blockheads Every day to be contending In my well-loved home, at last I Found to be too much for me. "So at last have journeyed hither, Seeking out some better sport; I intend to try my prowess On the mighty Atta Troll."

Like a narrow street the valley, And its name is Spectre Hollow; Rugged crags rise up abruptly Either side of giddy heights. On a dizzy, steep projection, Peeping downwards, like a watch-tower, Stands Uraka's daring cottage; Thither I Lascaro followed. With his mother he took counsel, Using secret signs as language, How might Atta Troll be tempted, How he might be put to death. For right well had we his traces Followed up. And now no longer Dare escape be thought of. Numbered Are thy days, O Atta Troll! What Uraka as her lawful Business followed, that was honest; For she dealt in mountain simples And she also sold stuffed birds. Full of all these natural wonders Was the hut. The smell was dreadful Of the henbane, cuckoo-flowers, Dandelion and deadmen's fingers. Vultures, too, a large collection, Carefully arranged on all sides, With the wings at full extended And the most enormous beaks. Was't the odour of the foolish Plants which stupefied my senses? Strange sensations crept about me At the sight of all these birds.

Argonauts without a ship, Who on foot the mountain traverse, And instead of golden fleeces Only look to win a bear-skin Ah, we are but sorry devils! Heroes of a modern pattern, And there's not a classic poet Would in song immortalise us! And for all that we have suffered Mighty hardships! What a shower Overtook us on the summit, And no tree and no fiacre! Tired to death, and out of humour, Like two well-drenched poodles, once more, Very late at night, we clambered To the witch's hut above. Shivering, and with teeth a-chatter, Near the hearth I stood awhile; Then, as though the warmth o'ercame me, Sank at last upon the straw. How the roaring of the chimney Terrified me. Like the moaning Of poor, wretched, dried-up souls— Quite familiar seemed the voices. Sleep completely overcame me In the end, and then in place of Waking phantasm, rose before me Quite a wholesome, firm-set dream. And I dreamed the little cottage Suddenly became a ballroom. Carried up aloft on pillars And by chandeliers illumined. Then invisible musicians Struck up from "Robert le Diable" That ungodly dance of nuns; I was walking all alone there. But at last the portals open Of themselves, and then come marching, Measured footsteps, slow and solemn, Most extraordinary guests. Nothing now but bears and spectres, Walking upright, every he-bear On the arm a ghost conducted, Muffled in a long white shroud. Sometimes in the dance's bustle, Tore a bear the burial garment Off the head of his companion; Lo! a death's-head came to view. But at last sounds forth a joyous Crashing of the horns and cymbals; And the kettle-drums they thunder, And there came the galopade. This I did not dream the end of— For a most ill-mannered bruin Trod upon my favourite corn, So that, shrieking out, I woke.

In the cavern, with his offspring, Atta Troll lies, and he slumbers With the snoring of the righteous; But at last he wakes up yawning. "Children!"—sighs he, whilst are trickling Tears from those large eyes unbidden— "Children! Finished is my earthly Pilgrimage, and we must part. "Just at mid-day whilst I slumbered Came a dream, which has its meaning. Then my spirit sweetly tasted Omens of my coming death. "On the world and fate reflecting, Yawning I had fallen asleep, When I dreamed that I was lying Underneath a lofty tree. "From the tree's o'erspreading branches Dribbled down transparent honey. Joyous blinking, up above me Seven little bears I noticed. "Tender, graceful little creatures, Rosy coloured were their fur coats, As they clambered; from their shoulders Just like silk two wings were sprouting. "And with soft and supernatural Flute-like voices they were singing! While thus singing, icy coldness Crept throughout my skin, and flame-like "From my skin my soul departed; Soared in brightness up to heaven." Thus in tender words and falt'ring Grunted Atta Troll. His ears then Pricked themselves and strangely worked, And from his repose he started, Trembling, and with rapture bellowing, "Children, do ye hear those sounds? "Is it not the voice melodious Of your mother? Oh, I know it, 'Tis the growling of my Mumma! Mumma! Yes, my own black Mumma!" Atta Troll, whilst these words utt'ring, Like a madman headlong bounded From the cavern to destruction! Ah! he rushed upon his doom! In the vale of Ronceval, On the very spot where whilom Charlemagne's peerless nephew Gasped away his fleeting spirit, There fell also Atta Troll, Fell through treason, like the other, Whom the traitor, knighthood's Judas, Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.

Four gigantic men in triumph Brought along the slaughtered Bear. Upright sat he in an armchair, Like a patient at the hot-wells. That same day soon after skinning Atta Troll, they up to auction Put the skin. For just a hundred Francs a furrier purchased it. Elegantly then he trimmed it, And he edged it round with scarlet, And again he sold it quickly Just for double what it cost. So, at last, third hand possessed it— Julietta, and at Paris It reposes in her chamber, Serving as a bed-side carpet. What of Mumma? Ah, the Mumma Is a poor weak woman! Frailty Is her name! Alas, the women Are as so much porcelain frail. When the hand of Fate had parted Mumma from her noble husband, Neither did she die of sorrow, Nor succumb to melancholy. And at last a fixed appointment, And for life a safe provision, Far away she found at Paris In the famed Jardin des Plantes. Sunday last as I was walking In the gardens with Julietta, By the railing round the bear-pit— Gracious Heavens! What saw we there! 'Twas a powerful desert bear From Siberia, snow-white coated, Playing there an over-tender, Amorous game with some black she-bear. And, by Jupiter! 'twas Mumma! 'Twas the wife of Atta Troll! I remember her distinctly By the moist eye's tender glances.

Where in heaven, Master Louis, Have you all this crazy nonsense Scraped together? Such the question Of the Cardinal of Este, After having read the poem Of Rolando's frenzied doings, Which Ariosto with submission To his Eminence dedicated. Yes, Varnhagen, worthy friend, Yes, I see the same words nearly On thy lips this moment hanging With the same sarcastic smile. "Sounds this not like youthful visions, Which I once dreamt with Chamisso And Brentano and Fouqué, On those deep-blue moonlight evenings?" Yes, my friend, it is the echo Of those long-forgotten dream-days; Only that a modern trilling Mingles with the ancient cadence. Other seasons, other songsters! Other songsters, other ditties! What a cackling, as of geese, which Once preserved the Capitol! Other seasons, other songsters! Other songsters, other ditties! I might take a pleasure also In them had I other ears!