Chapter XXIV: Canto XXII

Phoebus in his solar coach,
Whipping up his steeds of flame,
Had traversed the middle part
Of his journey through the skies,

Whilst in sleep I lay a-dream
With the goblins and the bears
Winding like mad arabesques
Through my slack and heated brain.

When I wakened it was noon,
And I found myself alone,
Since my hostess and Lascaro
For the chase had left at dawn.

There was no one save the pug
In the hovel. There he stood
By the hearth beside the pot
Holding in his paws a spoon.

Clever pug! well disciplined!
Lest the steaming soup boil over,
Swift he stirred it round and round,
Skimming off the foam and scum.

But--am I bewitchèd too?
Or does fever smoulder still
In my brain? For scarce can I
Trust my ears. The pug-dog speaks!

Aye, he speaks in homely strains
Of the Swabian dialect,
Deeply sunk in thought, he cries,
As it were within a dream:

"Woe is me--a Swabian bard,
Banned in exile must I grieve
In a pug-dog's cursèd shape
Guardian of a witch's pot.

"What a base and hideous crime
Is this sorcery! My fate
Ah, how tragic! I, a man,
In the body of a dog!

"Had I but remained at home
With my jolly comrades true--
No vile sorcerers are they!
And their spells no man need fear.

"Had I but remained at home
At Karl Meyer's--with the sweet
Noodles of the Vaterland
And good honest metzel-soup!

"Of homesickness I shall die!
Might I only spy the smoke
Rising from old Stuttgart's flues
When the precious dumplings seethe."

Pity seized me when I heard
This sad story, and I sprang
From my couch and took a seat
By the fireplace and spake:

"Noble poet, tell what chance
Brought thee to this beldam's hut.
Why, oh why, in cruel wise,
Wast thou changed into a dog?"

But the pug exclaimed in joy:
"What! You are no Frenchman then?
But a German, and you've heard
All my hapless monologue?

"Ah, dear countryman, 'twas ill
That old Köllè, Councillor,
When at eve we sat and argued
At the inn o'er pipe and mug,

"Should have harped on the idea
That by travel only might
One attain such culture broad,
As by travel he attained!

"Now, so I might shed the rude
Husk that on my manners lay,
Even as Köllè, and attain
Polish from the world at large,

"To my home I bade farewell,
And in quest of culture came
To the Pyrenees at last,
And Uraka's little hut.

"And a reference I brought
From Justinus Kerner too!
Never did I dream my friend
Stood in league with such a witch!

"Friendly was Uraka's mood,
Till at last with horrid shock,
Lo, I found her friendliness
Had to fiery passion grown.

"Yes, within that withered breast
Lust blazed up in monstrous wise,
And at once this vicious crone
Sought to drag me down to sin.

"Yet I prayed: 'Oh, pardon, ma'am!
Do not fancy I am one
Of those wanton Goethe Bards,--
I belong to Swabia's school.

"'Sweet Morality's our Muse
And the drawers she wears are made
Of the stoutest leather--Oh!
Do not wrong my virtue, pray!

"'Other bards may boast of soul,
Others phantasy--and some
Of their passion--Swabians have
Nothing but their innocence.

"'Nothing else do we possess!
Do not rob me of my pure,
Most religious beggar's cloak,--
Naked else my soul must go!'

"Thus I spoke, whereat the hag
Smiled with hideous irony,
Seized a switch of mistletoe,
Smote me over brow and cheek.

"Chilly spasms seized me then
Just as if a goose's skin
Crept across my limbs--but oh!
This was worse than goose's-skin!

"It was nothing more nor less
Than a dog-pelt! Since that hour,
That accursèd hour, I've lived
Changed into a lumpy pug!"

Luckless wight! his piteous sobs
Now denied him further speech,
And so bitterly he wept
That he half dissolved in tears.

"Hark!" I spoke in pity then,
"Tell me how you might be freed
From this dog-skin. How may I
Give you back to muse and man?"

In despair, disconsolate,
Then he raised his paws in air,
And with sobs and groans at length
Thus his mournful plaint he made:

"Not before the Judgment Day
Shall I shed this horrid form,
If no noble virgin come
To absolve me of the curse.

"None can free me save a maid,
Pure, untouched by any man,
And she must fulfil a pact
Most inexorable--thus:

"Such unspotted maiden must
In Sylvester's holy night
Read the verse of Gustav Pfizer,
Read it and not fall asleep!

"If her chaste eyes do not close
At the reading--then, O bliss!
I shall disenchanted be,
Breathe as man--unpugged at last!"

"In that case, alas," said I,
"Never may I undertake
Your salvation, for you see,
First I am no spotless maid,

"And, still more impossible,
Secondly, I ne'er could read
Any one of Pfizer's poems
And not fall asleep at once."