So now the daughter beguiles the naive and
bedazzles
the foolish,
Teases you while you're asleep; when you awaken, she's flown.
Teases you while you're asleep; when you awaken, she's flown.
Goethe - Erotica Romana
?
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Title: Erotica Romana
Author: Johann Wolfgang Goethe
Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7889]
Posting Date: August 4, 2009
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EROTICA ROMANA ***
Produced by Harry Haile and Mike Pullen
EROTICA ROMANA
By Johann Wolfgang Goethe
I
Here's where I've planted my garden and here I shall care for love's blossoms--
As I am taught by my muse, carefully sort them in plots:
Fertile branches, whose product is golden fruit of my lifetime,
Set here in happier years, tended with pleasure today.
You, stand here at my side, good Priapus--albeit from thieves I've
Nothing to fear. Freely pluck, whosoever would eat.
--Hypocrites, those are the ones! If weakened with shame and bad conscience
One of those criminals comes, squinting out over my garden,
Bridling at nature's pure fruit, punish the knave in his hindparts,
Using the stake which so red rises there at your loins.
II
Tell me ye stones and give me O glorious palaces answer.
Speak O ye streets but one word. Genius, art thou alive?
Yes, here within thy sanctified walls there's a soul in each object,
ROMA eternal. For me, only, are all things yet mute.
Who will then tell me in whispers and where must I find just the window
Where one day she'll be glimpsed: creature who'll scorch me with love?
Can't I divine yet the paths through which over and over
To her and from her I'll go, squandering valuable time?
Visiting churches and palaces, all of the ruins and the pillars,
I, a responsible man, profit from making this trip.
With my business accomplished, ah, then shall only one temple,
AMOR's temple alone, take the initiate in.
Rome, thou art a whole world, it is true, and yet without love this
World would not be the world, Rome would cease to be Rome.
III
More than ever I dreamed, I have found it: my happy good fortune!
Cupid sagaciously led past those palazzos so fine.
He of course knows very well (and I have also discovered)
What, beneath tapestries rich, gilded boudoirs conceal.
One may if one wishes call him a blind, wanton boy--but I know you,
Clever Cupid, too well! O, incorruptible god!
We were by no means inveigled to enter facades so majestic;
Somber cortile we passed, balcony high and gallant,
Hastening onward until an humble but exquisite portal
Offered a refuge to both, ardent seeker and guide.
Here he provides me with ev'rything, sees that I get what I call for;
Each day that passes he spreads freshly plucked roses for me.
--Isn't that heaven on earth? Say, beautiful Lady Borghese,
What would you give to me more? --You, Nipotina, what yours?
Banquets and game tables, operas, balls, promenades down the Corso?
These but deprive my sweet boy of his most opportune times.
Finery, haughtiness do not entice me. Does one not lift a
Gown of the finest brocade just as one lifts common wool?
If she's to press in comfort a lover against that soft bosom,
Doesn't he want her to be free from all brooches and chains?
Must not the jewelry, and then the lace and the bustles and whalebone
All of it come off entire, if he's to learn how she feels?
I encounter no troubles like those. Simple dress of rough homespun,
At but a lover's mere touch, tumbles in folds to the floor.
Quickly he carries the girl as she's clad in chemise of coarse linen--
Just as a nursemaid might, playfully up to her bed.
Drapings of satin are absent; the mattress is quite unembroidered.
Large is this room where the bed offers its comfort for two.
Jupiter's welcome to more from his Juno if he can get it;
Let any mortal find rest, softer, wherever he can.
We are content with Cupid's delights, authentic and naked--
And with the exquisite creak /crack of the bed as it rocks.
IV
Ask whomever you will but you'll never find out where I'm lodging,
High society's lords, ladies so groomed and refined.
"Tell me, was Werther authentic? Did all of that happen in real life? "
"Lotte, oh where did she live, Werther's only true love? "
How many times have I cursed those frivolous pages that broadcast
Out among all mankind passions I felt in my youth!
Were he my brother, why then I 'd have murdered poor Werther.
Yet his despondent ghost couldn't have sought worse revenge.
That's the way "Marlborough," the ditty, follows the Englishman's travels
Down to Livorno from France, thence from Livorno to Rome,
All of the way into Naples and then, should he flee on to Madras,
"Marlborough" will surely be there, "Marlborough" sung in the port.
Happily now I've escaped, and my mistress knows Werther and Lotte
Not a whit better than who might be this man in her bed:
That he's a foreigner, footloose and lusty, is all she could tell you,
Who beyond mountains and snow, dwelt in a house made of wood.
V
Do not, beloved, regret that you yielded to me so quickly:
I entertain no base, insolent thoughts about you.
Arrows of Cupid work divers effects. Some do but scratch us:
Slow and insidious these poison our hearts over years.
Yet with a head freshly honed and cunningly fledged, certain others
Pierce to the marrow, inflame rapidly there our blood.
When gods and goddesses in days of heroes made love, then
Lust followed look and desire, with no delay, was indulged.
Surely you don't think the goddess of love lost a moment reflecting
When, in Idean grove, Anchises caught her eye.
Nor did Luna delay about kissing that beautiful dreamer--
Jealous Aurora had else hastily wakened the lad.
At the loud banquet Hero regarded Leander--then promptly
Into dark waters he plunged, ardently swam toward his love.
When Rhea Silvia, princess and virgin, came down to the Tiber
Just to fetch water, a god seized her and that is the way
Mars begat himself sons, a pair of twins whom a she wolf
Suckled. Today a proud Rome claims to be queen of the world.
VI
We are so pious, we lovers. Discreetly we worship all powers,
Hoping for favor from each god and each goddess as well.
We are like you, ye victorious Romans, in this: for we offer
Gods of all peoples and tribes, over the whole world, a home--
May the Egyptian, black and austere out of primeval basalt,
Or from the marble a Greek, form them charming and white--
Yet the eternal ones do not object to particularism
(Incense of most precious sort, strewn for just one of their host).
Therefore we gladly confess to singling a special immortal
And our devotions each day pledging but solely to her.
Mischievous celebrants we at these mysteries gay, and so solemn:
Silence exactly befits rites at which we're adepts.
Rather onto our heels by horrible deeds the Erinyes
We would allure, even Zeus' punishment sooner we'd dare--
Under that rock, or bound to a tumbling wheel we'd endure it--
Than we'd withdraw our hearts from the delights of her cult.
Sweet Opportunity, that is her name. You should meet her.
Often will she turn up, ever in a new form.
Daughter of Proteus might well she be whom he sired upon Thetis.
In metamorphoses they've many a hero deceived.
So now the daughter beguiles the naive and bedazzles the foolish,
Teases you while you're asleep; when you awaken, she's flown.
Eagerly yields herself up to the quick, to the active man only.
He discovers she's tame, playful and tender and sweet.
Once she appeared to me, too: a dark-skinned girl, tumbling
Over her forehead the hair down in waves heavy and dark.
Round about a delicate neck curled short little ringlets;
Up from the crown of her head crinkled the unbraided hair.
When she dashed by me I seized her, mistaking her not. Lovingly
Kiss and embrace she returned, knowing and teaching me how.
O how enraptured I was! Ah, say now no more. It's a bygone.
But, O pigtails of Rome, still I'm entrammled in you.
VII
Happily now on classical soil I feel inspiration.
Voices from present and past speak here evocatively.
Heeding ancient advice, I leaf through the works of the Ancients
With an assiduous hand. Daily the pleasure's renewed.
Throughout the night, in a different way, I'm kept busy by Cupid--
If erudition is halved, rapture is doubled that way.
Do then I not become wise when I trace with my eye her sweet bosom's
Form, and the line of her hips stroke with my hand? I acquire,
As I reflect and compare, my first understanding of marble,
See with an eye that feels, feel with a hand that sees.
While my beloved, I grant it, deprives me of moments of daylight,
She in the nighttime hours gives compensation in full.
And we do more than just kiss; we prosecute reasoned discussions
(Should she succumb to sleep, that gives me time for my thoughts).
In her embrace--it's by no means unusual--I've composed poems
And the hexameter's beat gently tapped out on her back,
Fingertips counting in time with the sweet rhythmic breath of her slumber.
Air from deep in her breast penetrates mine and there burns.
Cupid, while stirring the flame in our lamp, no doubt thinks of those days when
For the triumvirs he similar service performed.
VIII
"Can you be cruel enough to sadden me thus with reproaches?
Germans speak, I suppose, bitterly when they're in love.
Bear it I must when the gossips bring forth accusations: I'm guilty--
Or am I not? But, alas, all of my guilt was with you.
Clothes that you've given bear witness for envious neighbors
That the poor widow no more grieves for her husband alone.
Did you not thoughtlessly visit me in the disguise of a cleric,
Muffled all up in a cloak, hair all rounded behind?
Who was it chose that gray monk if not you? Well then a prelate
Now is my lover--Ah, who is my prelate but you?
Never, incredible as it may sound in this clerical city,
Has any cleric brought me--swear it I will--to his bed.
I was sufficiently poor, sad to say. I was young. The seducers
Noted it well. Falconier ogled me often enough.
One of the pimps for Albani with billets doux very impressive
Called me to Ostia once. Quattro Fontani next time.
Who was it did not appear there? Why, who but the very same girl who
Hated with all of her heart stockings both violet and red.
For: 'In the end you poor girls are the ones who are sure to be cheated. '
So said my father although--Mother was not much impressed.
Father was right. Here I stand in the end being cheated and scolded.
You don't believe your own words. They're your excuse to escape.
Go, then. Unworthy of women are men. We, who carry your children
Next to our hearts, in these hearts loyalty we bear you, too.
As for you men, when you've poured out your potency in our embraces
And your desires dissipate, love with them passes away. "
These things expressed, and taking her child from its chair, my beloved
Presses it close to her heart, kisses it, tears in her eyes.
I'm now so very ashamed of myself for having permitted
Gossip of neighbors to spoil picture so eloquent.
For a short moment a fire may burn darkly while smoke swirls about it.
Water dashed on the coals suddenly smothers their glow.
Rapidly then renewed heat overcomes those lowering vapors,
Sends up a flame that anew bright and more powerful gleams.
IX
How very happy I am here in Rome when I think of the bad days
Far back there in the north, wrapped in a grayish light.
Over my head there the heavens weighed down so dismal and gloomy;
Colorless, formless, that world round this exhausted man lay.
Seeking myself in myself, an unsatisfied spirit, I brooded,
Spying out pathways dark, lost in dreary reflection.
Here in an aether more clear now a luster encircles my forehead.
Phoebus the god evokes forms, clear are his colors by day.
Bright with the stars comes the evening, ringing with songs that are tender,
And the glow of the moon, brighter than northern sun.
What blessedness mortals may know! Am I now dreaming? Or welcomes
Jupiter, Father, as guest--me, to ambrosial halls?
See, I lie here extending my arms toward your knees. I am praying:
Hospitality's god, Jupiter Xenius! Hear:
How I am come to this place I no longer can say--I was
Seized up by Hebe. 'Twas she led to this sacred hill.
Did you command her a hero to seek and deliver before you?
May be she erred. Then forgive. Let her mistake profit me!
Does not Fortuna, your daughter, when strewing her glorious presents,
After the manner of girls, yield to each passing whim?
You, O hospitable god, will by no means now banish a stranger
From your Olympian heights back to the base earth again.
"Poet, come to your senses! "--Forgive me, Jupiter, is not
Rome's Capitoline Hill second Olympus to you?
Suffer me, Jupiter, here and let Hermes guide me at last then
Past Cestius' Tomb gently to Orkus below.
X
When you were small, you say, neither did others consider you f air, nor
Even your mother find praise--and I believe it--
Till you grew bigger, developing quietly over the years. I
Picture you to myself as an unusual child.
Also the blossoms on grapevines are wanting in shape and in color,
Although the fruit when it's ripe pleases both mankind and gods.
XI
Kindling autumnal fire in a rustic, convivial fireplace
(How the sticks crackle and spew flames and glittering sparks! )
Strikes me especially pleasant this evening. Before all my tinder
Dies away into coals, coals then to ashes decline,
She will be back and new faggots as well as big logs will be blazing,
Making a festival where lovers will warm up the night.
Then in the morning, officious, she'll leave the bed of her lover,
Rouse adroitly the flames out from their ashes anew.
Cupid has lent to her above others the gift of cajoling
Up from the ashes desire, just when slumber's begun.
XII
All of those greats: Alexander, Caesar and Henry and Fredrick,
Gladly would share with me half of their hard fought renown,
Could I but grant them my bed for one single night, and its comfort,
But the poor wretches are held stark in cold Orkian grip.
Therefore, ye living, rejoice that love keeps you warm for a while yet,
Until cold Lethe anoints, captures your foot in its flight.
XIII
They are for you, O ye graces, just a few leaves by a poet
Onto your pure altar laid, buds of the rose beside,
Offered in confidence. Artists enjoy ateliers which are furnished
So as to make for a space Pantheon-like in decor:
Jupiter lowers that godly brow while his Juno looks upward;
Phoebus takes forward strides, shaking his curly head;
While phlegmatic Minerva peers down on us, frivolous Hermes
Seems to be looking askance, roguish, though tender as well.
But it's to Bacchus, the sensuous dreamer, Cythera sends glances
Bathed in sweetest desire--even in marble they're damp.
Thinking about his embrace and its pleasures, she seems to be asking
Shouldn't our glorious son here at our side stand erect?
XIV
Can't you hear voices, beloved, out on the Via Flamina?
Reapers are now going home, back from harvesting grain.
They had journeyed to Rome from afar, and here plaited for Ceres
Wreaths which the Romans today scorn to make for themselves.
Festivals no longer celebrate Ceres, the nourishing goddess
Who replaced acorns of old, giving man golden wheat.
Let us commemorate her then ourselves in festival private
(Two constitute a whole tribe, when they are two in love).
Have you by any chance heard how that mystical, strange celebration
Followed victorious troops back from Eleusis to Rome?
Greeks were the ones who began it, and only to Greeks they proclaimed it
Even within Roman walls: "Come to the sanctified night. "
Those who were not of the cult kept their distance; neophytes trembled,
Waiting in garments of white, symbol of all that is pure.
Then the initiates must aimlessly wander about through the eerie
Circles of figures as if pilgriming through their own dreams.
Snakes on the ground were writhing about. Now virgins came bearing
Caskets securely locked, richly wreathed with grain.
Surely the gestures of murmuring priests must contain some deep meaning--
Impatient acolytes wait, anxiously hoping for light.
Not until after many a testing and trial did they discover
What, within sacred ring, secretive image concealed.
What was this mystery other than this: that Demeter, goddess,
Once upon a time had to a hero been kind.
It was to Jason, powerful king of the Cretans, she granted
Of her immortal self hidden sweet parts to explore.
That made the fortune of Crete! The marital bed of the goddess
Soon grew pregnant with grain, heavy her bounteous fields.
As for the rest of the world, it languished away, while Ceres,
Derelict of her true task, dalliance offered in love.
--Now the initiate youths, having followed this tale, all astonished,
Turned and beckoned their loves--love, do you comprehend?
See there the sacred shade beneath that bushy-boughed myrtle?
Our satisfaction will there scarcely endanger a world.
XV
Cupid is always a scoundrel, and if you believe him he'll cheat you.
Here's what the hypocrite said: "Trust me just once more, this time.
I have the best of intentions toward you who have now dedicated--
I recognize it with thanks--life and writings to me.
Lo, I have followed you hither to Rome, and I'd like to do something
Here in this far away land pleasing to such an old friend.
Every traveller I've ever known has complained of poor treatment:
He whom I recommend treatment delicious receives.
You've now regarded with awe all the structures which lie here in ruins,
Cultivated your eye, sensing each hallowed space.
How you've revered the formative will of those ancient artists!
In their own ateliers often I 've visited them.
As for their works, why, I formed those myself--now this time I'm boasting
Not. Oh come now, admit what I am saying is true.
Where are your own creations, your service to me having slackened?
Where is invention's glow now? Where is the color all gone?
Friend, do you hope you can create again? --The school of the Ancients
Yet remains open. Its gates, years have not closed them to you.
So now the daughter beguiles the naive and bedazzles the foolish,
Teases you while you're asleep; when you awaken, she's flown.
Eagerly yields herself up to the quick, to the active man only.
He discovers she's tame, playful and tender and sweet.
Once she appeared to me, too: a dark-skinned girl, tumbling
Over her forehead the hair down in waves heavy and dark.
Round about a delicate neck curled short little ringlets;
Up from the crown of her head crinkled the unbraided hair.
When she dashed by me I seized her, mistaking her not. Lovingly
Kiss and embrace she returned, knowing and teaching me how.
O how enraptured I was! Ah, say now no more. It's a bygone.
But, O pigtails of Rome, still I'm entrammled in you.
VII
Happily now on classical soil I feel inspiration.
Voices from present and past speak here evocatively.
Heeding ancient advice, I leaf through the works of the Ancients
With an assiduous hand. Daily the pleasure's renewed.
Throughout the night, in a different way, I'm kept busy by Cupid--
If erudition is halved, rapture is doubled that way.
Do then I not become wise when I trace with my eye her sweet bosom's
Form, and the line of her hips stroke with my hand? I acquire,
As I reflect and compare, my first understanding of marble,
See with an eye that feels, feel with a hand that sees.
While my beloved, I grant it, deprives me of moments of daylight,
She in the nighttime hours gives compensation in full.
And we do more than just kiss; we prosecute reasoned discussions
(Should she succumb to sleep, that gives me time for my thoughts).
In her embrace--it's by no means unusual--I've composed poems
And the hexameter's beat gently tapped out on her back,
Fingertips counting in time with the sweet rhythmic breath of her slumber.
Air from deep in her breast penetrates mine and there burns.
Cupid, while stirring the flame in our lamp, no doubt thinks of those days when
For the triumvirs he similar service performed.
VIII
"Can you be cruel enough to sadden me thus with reproaches?
Germans speak, I suppose, bitterly when they're in love.
Bear it I must when the gossips bring forth accusations: I'm guilty--
Or am I not? But, alas, all of my guilt was with you.
Clothes that you've given bear witness for envious neighbors
That the poor widow no more grieves for her husband alone.
Did you not thoughtlessly visit me in the disguise of a cleric,
Muffled all up in a cloak, hair all rounded behind?
Who was it chose that gray monk if not you? Well then a prelate
Now is my lover--Ah, who is my prelate but you?
Never, incredible as it may sound in this clerical city,
Has any cleric brought me--swear it I will--to his bed.
I was sufficiently poor, sad to say. I was young. The seducers
Noted it well. Falconier ogled me often enough.
One of the pimps for Albani with billets doux very impressive
Called me to Ostia once. Quattro Fontani next time.
Who was it did not appear there? Why, who but the very same girl who
Hated with all of her heart stockings both violet and red.
For: 'In the end you poor girls are the ones who are sure to be cheated. '
So said my father although--Mother was not much impressed.
Father was right. Here I stand in the end being cheated and scolded.
You don't believe your own words. They're your excuse to escape.
Go, then. Unworthy of women are men. We, who carry your children
Next to our hearts, in these hearts loyalty we bear you, too.
As for you men, when you've poured out your potency in our embraces
And your desires dissipate, love with them passes away. "
These things expressed, and taking her child from its chair, my beloved
Presses it close to her heart, kisses it, tears in her eyes.
I'm now so very ashamed of myself for having permitted
Gossip of neighbors to spoil picture so eloquent.
For a short moment a fire may burn darkly while smoke swirls about it.
Water dashed on the coals suddenly smothers their glow.
Rapidly then renewed heat overcomes those lowering vapors,
Sends up a flame that anew bright and more powerful gleams.
IX
How very happy I am here in Rome when I think of the bad days
Far back there in the north, wrapped in a grayish light.
Over my head there the heavens weighed down so dismal and gloomy;
Colorless, formless, that world round this exhausted man lay.
Seeking myself in myself, an unsatisfied spirit, I brooded,
Spying out pathways dark, lost in dreary reflection.
Here in an aether more clear now a luster encircles my forehead.
Phoebus the god evokes forms, clear are his colors by day.
Bright with the stars comes the evening, ringing with songs that are tender,
And the glow of the moon, brighter than northern sun.
What blessedness mortals may know! Am I now dreaming? Or welcomes
Jupiter, Father, as guest--me, to ambrosial halls?
See, I lie here extending my arms toward your knees. I am praying:
Hospitality's god, Jupiter Xenius! Hear:
How I am come to this place I no longer can say--I was
Seized up by Hebe. 'Twas she led to this sacred hill.
Did you command her a hero to seek and deliver before you?
May be she erred. Then forgive. Let her mistake profit me!
Does not Fortuna, your daughter, when strewing her glorious presents,
After the manner of girls, yield to each passing whim?
You, O hospitable god, will by no means now banish a stranger
From your Olympian heights back to the base earth again.
"Poet, come to your senses! "--Forgive me, Jupiter, is not
Rome's Capitoline Hill second Olympus to you?
Suffer me, Jupiter, here and let Hermes guide me at last then
Past Cestius' Tomb gently to Orkus below.
X
When you were small, you say, neither did others consider you f air, nor
Even your mother find praise--and I believe it--
Till you grew bigger, developing quietly over the years. I
Picture you to myself as an unusual child.
Also the blossoms on grapevines are wanting in shape and in color,
Although the fruit when it's ripe pleases both mankind and gods.
XI
Kindling autumnal fire in a rustic, convivial fireplace
(How the sticks crackle and spew flames and glittering sparks! )
Strikes me especially pleasant this evening. Before all my tinder
Dies away into coals, coals then to ashes decline,
She will be back and new faggots as well as big logs will be blazing,
Making a festival where lovers will warm up the night.
Then in the morning, officious, she'll leave the bed of her lover,
Rouse adroitly the flames out from their ashes anew.
Cupid has lent to her above others the gift of cajoling
Up from the ashes desire, just when slumber's begun.
XII
All of those greats: Alexander, Caesar and Henry and Fredrick,
Gladly would share with me half of their hard fought renown,
Could I but grant them my bed for one single night, and its comfort,
But the poor wretches are held stark in cold Orkian grip.
Therefore, ye living, rejoice that love keeps you warm for a while yet,
Until cold Lethe anoints, captures your foot in its flight.
XIII
They are for you, O ye graces, just a few leaves by a poet
Onto your pure altar laid, buds of the rose beside,
Offered in confidence. Artists enjoy ateliers which are furnished
So as to make for a space Pantheon-like in decor:
Jupiter lowers that godly brow while his Juno looks upward;
Phoebus takes forward strides, shaking his curly head;
While phlegmatic Minerva peers down on us, frivolous Hermes
Seems to be looking askance, roguish, though tender as well.
But it's to Bacchus, the sensuous dreamer, Cythera sends glances
Bathed in sweetest desire--even in marble they're damp.
Thinking about his embrace and its pleasures, she seems to be asking
Shouldn't our glorious son here at our side stand erect?
XIV
Can't you hear voices, beloved, out on the Via Flamina?
Reapers are now going home, back from harvesting grain.
They had journeyed to Rome from afar, and here plaited for Ceres
Wreaths which the Romans today scorn to make for themselves.
Festivals no longer celebrate Ceres, the nourishing goddess
Who replaced acorns of old, giving man golden wheat.
Let us commemorate her then ourselves in festival private
(Two constitute a whole tribe, when they are two in love).
Have you by any chance heard how that mystical, strange celebration
Followed victorious troops back from Eleusis to Rome?
Greeks were the ones who began it, and only to Greeks they proclaimed it
Even within Roman walls: "Come to the sanctified night. "
Those who were not of the cult kept their distance; neophytes trembled,
Waiting in garments of white, symbol of all that is pure.
Then the initiates must aimlessly wander about through the eerie
Circles of figures as if pilgriming through their own dreams.
Snakes on the ground were writhing about. Now virgins came bearing
Caskets securely locked, richly wreathed with grain.
Surely the gestures of murmuring priests must contain some deep meaning--
Impatient acolytes wait, anxiously hoping for light.
Not until after many a testing and trial did they discover
What, within sacred ring, secretive image concealed.
What was this mystery other than this: that Demeter, goddess,
Once upon a time had to a hero been kind.
It was to Jason, powerful king of the Cretans, she granted
Of her immortal self hidden sweet parts to explore.
That made the fortune of Crete! The marital bed of the goddess
Soon grew pregnant with grain, heavy her bounteous fields.
As for the rest of the world, it languished away, while Ceres,
Derelict of her true task, dalliance offered in love.
--Now the initiate youths, having followed this tale, all astonished,
Turned and beckoned their loves--love, do you comprehend?
See there the sacred shade beneath that bushy-boughed myrtle?
Our satisfaction will there scarcely endanger a world.
XV
Cupid is always a scoundrel, and if you believe him he'll cheat you.
Here's what the hypocrite said: "Trust me just once more, this time.
I have the best of intentions toward you who have now dedicated--
I recognize it with thanks--life and writings to me.
Lo, I have followed you hither to Rome, and I'd like to do something
Here in this far away land pleasing to such an old friend.
Every traveller I've ever known has complained of poor treatment:
He whom I recommend treatment delicious receives.
You've now regarded with awe all the structures which lie here in ruins,
Cultivated your eye, sensing each hallowed space.
How you've revered the formative will of those ancient artists!
In their own ateliers often I 've visited them.
As for their works, why, I formed those myself--now this time I'm boasting
Not. Oh come now, admit what I am saying is true.
Where are your own creations, your service to me having slackened?
Where is invention's glow now? Where is the color all gone?
Friend, do you hope you can create again? --The school of the Ancients
Yet remains open. Its gates, years have not closed them to you.
I am eternally young, and as teacher I still love the young ones.
Wisdom that comes with old age pleases me not. Listen here:
Wasn't antiquity young when those fortunate Ancients were living?
Happy then be your life, too: in it antiquity lives.
Where will you find a fit theme for your song? --It is I must provide it.
As for a style truly grand, love can alone give you that. "
All of these claims that sophist asserted. Could I contradict him?
I am wont to obey, when my commander decrees.
Treacherous now he is keeping his word: giving me themes for my poems
While he is stealing my time, potency, presence of mind.
Gazing into her eyes, holding hands, giving kisses, exchanging
Syllables sweet and those words lovers alone understand,
Murmuring our conversations we stutter in sweet oratory.
Hymns of such sort pass away, wanting prosodical tact.
Goddess of morning, Aurora, as friend of my muse I once knew you.
Has the unprincipled god, Cupid, seduced you now too?
So that these mornings you come as his sweetheart, awakening me at
His festive altar again, where I must celebrate him?
Here on my breast flows her hair, an abundance of curls, while her head rests,
Pressing my arm as it's bent, so as to pillow her neck.
What a delicious condition, if only these few tranquil moments
Could in my memory fix firmly that image of joy
When the night rocked us to sleep--but in slumber she's moving away now,
From my side turns, as she goes leaving her hand in my hand.
Love in our hearts makes us one, as the genuine need there stays constant;
Only returning desire knows oscillation or change.
Gently her hand presses mine, now she opens her eyes and is looking
Into my own eyes. No--don't. Let my thoughts rest on your form!
Please close your eyes. They're inebriation, confusion, they rob me
All too soon of the joy quiet reflection affords.
Grand are the forms of this body and nobly positioned each member.
Had Ariadne lain thus, Theseus never had fled.
Only a single kiss for these lips and then, O Theseus, leave her;
Look at her eyes--she's awake! Now you're eternally bound.
XVI
Boy, won't you light me a lamp. "But dear master, there's light in the sky yet.
Don't waste your oil and the wick. Don't close the shutters so soon.
Only the houses are blocking the sun there, it's not yet the mountains.
Until the curfew shall ring, full half an hour must pass. "
Wretched young fellow, be gone and obey me! My loved one is coming.
Lamplight, console me till then, harbinger warm of the night.
XVII
Poets of old in chorus cried out against those two serpents,
Making them horrible names, hated in all of the world:
Python the one, the other the Hydra of Lerna. These monsters
Both have now been destroyed, thanks to the deeds of the gods.
Fire-breathing, venomous once, they no longer now depredate our
Flocks and meadows and woods, fields of golden grain.
How is it then that some spiteful god in his wrath has
Raised from the poisonous slime offspring so monstrous again?
There's an insidious viper creeps into the loveliest gardens,
Lying in wait to attack all who seek pleasure therein.
Noble Hesperian dragon, I call you courageous and forthright.
Boldly defending your own beautiful apples of gold.
As for this worm, why he is not guarding at all, for his presence
Sullies both garden and fruit, till they deserve no defense.
Secretly coiled beneath bushes, where he befouls the sweet wellsprings,
Turning to poisonous drool Cupid's lifegiving dew.
Happy Lucretius knew how in his day to forego love completely,
Fearing not to enjoy pleasure in anyone's arms.
Fortunate Ancient, Propertius, for you a slave fetched the girls down
From the Aventine Hill, from Tarpeia's grove.
Cynthia then, when driving you out of such unchaste embraces,
Found you unfaithful, it's true, but she did find you whole.
Who would today dare attempt to escape from fidelity's ennui?
Love does not hold one back--only concern for one's health.
Even the woman we love may afford us uncertain enjoyment;
Nowhere can feminine lap safely encouch a man's head.
Matrimonial bed's insecure and so's fornication;
Husband, lover and wife pass to each other the hurt.
Think of those ages of gold when Jupiter followed his urges,
Chose Callisto one day, turned to Semel the next.
It was important to him to find thresholds of temples so sacred
Pure when, enamoured, he sought powerful entry to them.
Can you imagine the ragings of Juno if in love's skirmish
Poisonous weapons on her by her own spouse had been turned?
But we neo-pagans may not after all be abandoned entirely:
Yet there is speeding a god mercifully over the earth,
Quick and assiduous. Everyone knows him and ought to adore him,
Herald of Zeus: Hermes, the healing god.
Although his father's temple be fallen, and though of its pillars
Scarcely a pair yet records ancient glory adored,
Nevertheless the son's place of worship still stands, and forever
Will there the ardent requests alternate with the thanks.
Only one favor I beg of you, Graces (I ask it in secret--
Fervent my prayer and deep, out of a passionate breast):
My little garden, my sweet one, protect it and do not let any
Evil come near it nor me. Cupid will hold out his hand:
O, and entrusting myself to the rascal, I beg you please may I
Do so in pleasure with no danger or worry or fear.
XVIII
I cannot think I'd have gone with Julius Caesar to Britain;
To the Popina right here, Florus would tug me with ease.
Fogs of the dreary north remain a more baleful remembrance
Than in the kitchens of Rome tribes of assiduous fleas.
After today, I'll remember you even more kindly, tavernas,
You osterias, as you are called, aptly by those here in Rome.
That was the place I encountered my mistress today with the uncle
Whom she so often deceives, so that she can have me.
Here's where I sat at a table surrounded by good-natured Germans;
Over on that side the girl, finding a seat for herself
Next to her mother where, frequently shifting her bench, she arranged
Nicely for me to perceive profile and curve of her neck;
Speaks just a little more loudly than women in Rome are accustomed;
Significant glance as she pours--misses the glass with the wine
So that it spills on the table, and she with a delicate finger
Over its surface can draw circles in damp arabesque:
Her name entwining in mine, while my eyes most eagerly follow
All that her fingertip writes. She is of course well aware
That I am watching, so finally makes the V of the Roman
Five, with a virgule before. Quickly, as soon as I've seen,
She interlaces the circles, reducing them all to ornatest
Patterns--but still the sweet IV stood as engraved in my eye.
I sat there mutely and biting my passionate lips almost bloody
Half from delight at the ruse, partly from stifled desire:
Such a long time until dark, then another four hours of waiting.
--Sun, who tarries on high, contemplating Rome:
Greater never you've nor shall you in future see greater
Than Rome, O sun, as your priest, Horace, enraptured foretold.
Tarry no longer today. Go seek other realms beneath heaven.
Sooner depart and leave Rome's seven famed hills to me.
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Title: Erotica Romana
Author: Johann Wolfgang Goethe
Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7889]
Posting Date: August 4, 2009
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EROTICA ROMANA ***
Produced by Harry Haile and Mike Pullen
EROTICA ROMANA
By Johann Wolfgang Goethe
I
Here's where I've planted my garden and here I shall care for love's blossoms--
As I am taught by my muse, carefully sort them in plots:
Fertile branches, whose product is golden fruit of my lifetime,
Set here in happier years, tended with pleasure today.
You, stand here at my side, good Priapus--albeit from thieves I've
Nothing to fear. Freely pluck, whosoever would eat.
--Hypocrites, those are the ones! If weakened with shame and bad conscience
One of those criminals comes, squinting out over my garden,
Bridling at nature's pure fruit, punish the knave in his hindparts,
Using the stake which so red rises there at your loins.
II
Tell me ye stones and give me O glorious palaces answer.
Speak O ye streets but one word. Genius, art thou alive?
Yes, here within thy sanctified walls there's a soul in each object,
ROMA eternal. For me, only, are all things yet mute.
Who will then tell me in whispers and where must I find just the window
Where one day she'll be glimpsed: creature who'll scorch me with love?
Can't I divine yet the paths through which over and over
To her and from her I'll go, squandering valuable time?
Visiting churches and palaces, all of the ruins and the pillars,
I, a responsible man, profit from making this trip.
With my business accomplished, ah, then shall only one temple,
AMOR's temple alone, take the initiate in.
Rome, thou art a whole world, it is true, and yet without love this
World would not be the world, Rome would cease to be Rome.
III
More than ever I dreamed, I have found it: my happy good fortune!
Cupid sagaciously led past those palazzos so fine.
He of course knows very well (and I have also discovered)
What, beneath tapestries rich, gilded boudoirs conceal.
One may if one wishes call him a blind, wanton boy--but I know you,
Clever Cupid, too well! O, incorruptible god!
We were by no means inveigled to enter facades so majestic;
Somber cortile we passed, balcony high and gallant,
Hastening onward until an humble but exquisite portal
Offered a refuge to both, ardent seeker and guide.
Here he provides me with ev'rything, sees that I get what I call for;
Each day that passes he spreads freshly plucked roses for me.
--Isn't that heaven on earth? Say, beautiful Lady Borghese,
What would you give to me more? --You, Nipotina, what yours?
Banquets and game tables, operas, balls, promenades down the Corso?
These but deprive my sweet boy of his most opportune times.
Finery, haughtiness do not entice me. Does one not lift a
Gown of the finest brocade just as one lifts common wool?
If she's to press in comfort a lover against that soft bosom,
Doesn't he want her to be free from all brooches and chains?
Must not the jewelry, and then the lace and the bustles and whalebone
All of it come off entire, if he's to learn how she feels?
I encounter no troubles like those. Simple dress of rough homespun,
At but a lover's mere touch, tumbles in folds to the floor.
Quickly he carries the girl as she's clad in chemise of coarse linen--
Just as a nursemaid might, playfully up to her bed.
Drapings of satin are absent; the mattress is quite unembroidered.
Large is this room where the bed offers its comfort for two.
Jupiter's welcome to more from his Juno if he can get it;
Let any mortal find rest, softer, wherever he can.
We are content with Cupid's delights, authentic and naked--
And with the exquisite creak /crack of the bed as it rocks.
IV
Ask whomever you will but you'll never find out where I'm lodging,
High society's lords, ladies so groomed and refined.
"Tell me, was Werther authentic? Did all of that happen in real life? "
"Lotte, oh where did she live, Werther's only true love? "
How many times have I cursed those frivolous pages that broadcast
Out among all mankind passions I felt in my youth!
Were he my brother, why then I 'd have murdered poor Werther.
Yet his despondent ghost couldn't have sought worse revenge.
That's the way "Marlborough," the ditty, follows the Englishman's travels
Down to Livorno from France, thence from Livorno to Rome,
All of the way into Naples and then, should he flee on to Madras,
"Marlborough" will surely be there, "Marlborough" sung in the port.
Happily now I've escaped, and my mistress knows Werther and Lotte
Not a whit better than who might be this man in her bed:
That he's a foreigner, footloose and lusty, is all she could tell you,
Who beyond mountains and snow, dwelt in a house made of wood.
V
Do not, beloved, regret that you yielded to me so quickly:
I entertain no base, insolent thoughts about you.
Arrows of Cupid work divers effects. Some do but scratch us:
Slow and insidious these poison our hearts over years.
Yet with a head freshly honed and cunningly fledged, certain others
Pierce to the marrow, inflame rapidly there our blood.
When gods and goddesses in days of heroes made love, then
Lust followed look and desire, with no delay, was indulged.
Surely you don't think the goddess of love lost a moment reflecting
When, in Idean grove, Anchises caught her eye.
Nor did Luna delay about kissing that beautiful dreamer--
Jealous Aurora had else hastily wakened the lad.
At the loud banquet Hero regarded Leander--then promptly
Into dark waters he plunged, ardently swam toward his love.
When Rhea Silvia, princess and virgin, came down to the Tiber
Just to fetch water, a god seized her and that is the way
Mars begat himself sons, a pair of twins whom a she wolf
Suckled. Today a proud Rome claims to be queen of the world.
VI
We are so pious, we lovers. Discreetly we worship all powers,
Hoping for favor from each god and each goddess as well.
We are like you, ye victorious Romans, in this: for we offer
Gods of all peoples and tribes, over the whole world, a home--
May the Egyptian, black and austere out of primeval basalt,
Or from the marble a Greek, form them charming and white--
Yet the eternal ones do not object to particularism
(Incense of most precious sort, strewn for just one of their host).
Therefore we gladly confess to singling a special immortal
And our devotions each day pledging but solely to her.
Mischievous celebrants we at these mysteries gay, and so solemn:
Silence exactly befits rites at which we're adepts.
Rather onto our heels by horrible deeds the Erinyes
We would allure, even Zeus' punishment sooner we'd dare--
Under that rock, or bound to a tumbling wheel we'd endure it--
Than we'd withdraw our hearts from the delights of her cult.
Sweet Opportunity, that is her name. You should meet her.
Often will she turn up, ever in a new form.
Daughter of Proteus might well she be whom he sired upon Thetis.
In metamorphoses they've many a hero deceived.
So now the daughter beguiles the naive and bedazzles the foolish,
Teases you while you're asleep; when you awaken, she's flown.
Eagerly yields herself up to the quick, to the active man only.
He discovers she's tame, playful and tender and sweet.
Once she appeared to me, too: a dark-skinned girl, tumbling
Over her forehead the hair down in waves heavy and dark.
Round about a delicate neck curled short little ringlets;
Up from the crown of her head crinkled the unbraided hair.
When she dashed by me I seized her, mistaking her not. Lovingly
Kiss and embrace she returned, knowing and teaching me how.
O how enraptured I was! Ah, say now no more. It's a bygone.
But, O pigtails of Rome, still I'm entrammled in you.
VII
Happily now on classical soil I feel inspiration.
Voices from present and past speak here evocatively.
Heeding ancient advice, I leaf through the works of the Ancients
With an assiduous hand. Daily the pleasure's renewed.
Throughout the night, in a different way, I'm kept busy by Cupid--
If erudition is halved, rapture is doubled that way.
Do then I not become wise when I trace with my eye her sweet bosom's
Form, and the line of her hips stroke with my hand? I acquire,
As I reflect and compare, my first understanding of marble,
See with an eye that feels, feel with a hand that sees.
While my beloved, I grant it, deprives me of moments of daylight,
She in the nighttime hours gives compensation in full.
And we do more than just kiss; we prosecute reasoned discussions
(Should she succumb to sleep, that gives me time for my thoughts).
In her embrace--it's by no means unusual--I've composed poems
And the hexameter's beat gently tapped out on her back,
Fingertips counting in time with the sweet rhythmic breath of her slumber.
Air from deep in her breast penetrates mine and there burns.
Cupid, while stirring the flame in our lamp, no doubt thinks of those days when
For the triumvirs he similar service performed.
VIII
"Can you be cruel enough to sadden me thus with reproaches?
Germans speak, I suppose, bitterly when they're in love.
Bear it I must when the gossips bring forth accusations: I'm guilty--
Or am I not? But, alas, all of my guilt was with you.
Clothes that you've given bear witness for envious neighbors
That the poor widow no more grieves for her husband alone.
Did you not thoughtlessly visit me in the disguise of a cleric,
Muffled all up in a cloak, hair all rounded behind?
Who was it chose that gray monk if not you? Well then a prelate
Now is my lover--Ah, who is my prelate but you?
Never, incredible as it may sound in this clerical city,
Has any cleric brought me--swear it I will--to his bed.
I was sufficiently poor, sad to say. I was young. The seducers
Noted it well. Falconier ogled me often enough.
One of the pimps for Albani with billets doux very impressive
Called me to Ostia once. Quattro Fontani next time.
Who was it did not appear there? Why, who but the very same girl who
Hated with all of her heart stockings both violet and red.
For: 'In the end you poor girls are the ones who are sure to be cheated. '
So said my father although--Mother was not much impressed.
Father was right. Here I stand in the end being cheated and scolded.
You don't believe your own words. They're your excuse to escape.
Go, then. Unworthy of women are men. We, who carry your children
Next to our hearts, in these hearts loyalty we bear you, too.
As for you men, when you've poured out your potency in our embraces
And your desires dissipate, love with them passes away. "
These things expressed, and taking her child from its chair, my beloved
Presses it close to her heart, kisses it, tears in her eyes.
I'm now so very ashamed of myself for having permitted
Gossip of neighbors to spoil picture so eloquent.
For a short moment a fire may burn darkly while smoke swirls about it.
Water dashed on the coals suddenly smothers their glow.
Rapidly then renewed heat overcomes those lowering vapors,
Sends up a flame that anew bright and more powerful gleams.
IX
How very happy I am here in Rome when I think of the bad days
Far back there in the north, wrapped in a grayish light.
Over my head there the heavens weighed down so dismal and gloomy;
Colorless, formless, that world round this exhausted man lay.
Seeking myself in myself, an unsatisfied spirit, I brooded,
Spying out pathways dark, lost in dreary reflection.
Here in an aether more clear now a luster encircles my forehead.
Phoebus the god evokes forms, clear are his colors by day.
Bright with the stars comes the evening, ringing with songs that are tender,
And the glow of the moon, brighter than northern sun.
What blessedness mortals may know! Am I now dreaming? Or welcomes
Jupiter, Father, as guest--me, to ambrosial halls?
See, I lie here extending my arms toward your knees. I am praying:
Hospitality's god, Jupiter Xenius! Hear:
How I am come to this place I no longer can say--I was
Seized up by Hebe. 'Twas she led to this sacred hill.
Did you command her a hero to seek and deliver before you?
May be she erred. Then forgive. Let her mistake profit me!
Does not Fortuna, your daughter, when strewing her glorious presents,
After the manner of girls, yield to each passing whim?
You, O hospitable god, will by no means now banish a stranger
From your Olympian heights back to the base earth again.
"Poet, come to your senses! "--Forgive me, Jupiter, is not
Rome's Capitoline Hill second Olympus to you?
Suffer me, Jupiter, here and let Hermes guide me at last then
Past Cestius' Tomb gently to Orkus below.
X
When you were small, you say, neither did others consider you f air, nor
Even your mother find praise--and I believe it--
Till you grew bigger, developing quietly over the years. I
Picture you to myself as an unusual child.
Also the blossoms on grapevines are wanting in shape and in color,
Although the fruit when it's ripe pleases both mankind and gods.
XI
Kindling autumnal fire in a rustic, convivial fireplace
(How the sticks crackle and spew flames and glittering sparks! )
Strikes me especially pleasant this evening. Before all my tinder
Dies away into coals, coals then to ashes decline,
She will be back and new faggots as well as big logs will be blazing,
Making a festival where lovers will warm up the night.
Then in the morning, officious, she'll leave the bed of her lover,
Rouse adroitly the flames out from their ashes anew.
Cupid has lent to her above others the gift of cajoling
Up from the ashes desire, just when slumber's begun.
XII
All of those greats: Alexander, Caesar and Henry and Fredrick,
Gladly would share with me half of their hard fought renown,
Could I but grant them my bed for one single night, and its comfort,
But the poor wretches are held stark in cold Orkian grip.
Therefore, ye living, rejoice that love keeps you warm for a while yet,
Until cold Lethe anoints, captures your foot in its flight.
XIII
They are for you, O ye graces, just a few leaves by a poet
Onto your pure altar laid, buds of the rose beside,
Offered in confidence. Artists enjoy ateliers which are furnished
So as to make for a space Pantheon-like in decor:
Jupiter lowers that godly brow while his Juno looks upward;
Phoebus takes forward strides, shaking his curly head;
While phlegmatic Minerva peers down on us, frivolous Hermes
Seems to be looking askance, roguish, though tender as well.
But it's to Bacchus, the sensuous dreamer, Cythera sends glances
Bathed in sweetest desire--even in marble they're damp.
Thinking about his embrace and its pleasures, she seems to be asking
Shouldn't our glorious son here at our side stand erect?
XIV
Can't you hear voices, beloved, out on the Via Flamina?
Reapers are now going home, back from harvesting grain.
They had journeyed to Rome from afar, and here plaited for Ceres
Wreaths which the Romans today scorn to make for themselves.
Festivals no longer celebrate Ceres, the nourishing goddess
Who replaced acorns of old, giving man golden wheat.
Let us commemorate her then ourselves in festival private
(Two constitute a whole tribe, when they are two in love).
Have you by any chance heard how that mystical, strange celebration
Followed victorious troops back from Eleusis to Rome?
Greeks were the ones who began it, and only to Greeks they proclaimed it
Even within Roman walls: "Come to the sanctified night. "
Those who were not of the cult kept their distance; neophytes trembled,
Waiting in garments of white, symbol of all that is pure.
Then the initiates must aimlessly wander about through the eerie
Circles of figures as if pilgriming through their own dreams.
Snakes on the ground were writhing about. Now virgins came bearing
Caskets securely locked, richly wreathed with grain.
Surely the gestures of murmuring priests must contain some deep meaning--
Impatient acolytes wait, anxiously hoping for light.
Not until after many a testing and trial did they discover
What, within sacred ring, secretive image concealed.
What was this mystery other than this: that Demeter, goddess,
Once upon a time had to a hero been kind.
It was to Jason, powerful king of the Cretans, she granted
Of her immortal self hidden sweet parts to explore.
That made the fortune of Crete! The marital bed of the goddess
Soon grew pregnant with grain, heavy her bounteous fields.
As for the rest of the world, it languished away, while Ceres,
Derelict of her true task, dalliance offered in love.
--Now the initiate youths, having followed this tale, all astonished,
Turned and beckoned their loves--love, do you comprehend?
See there the sacred shade beneath that bushy-boughed myrtle?
Our satisfaction will there scarcely endanger a world.
XV
Cupid is always a scoundrel, and if you believe him he'll cheat you.
Here's what the hypocrite said: "Trust me just once more, this time.
I have the best of intentions toward you who have now dedicated--
I recognize it with thanks--life and writings to me.
Lo, I have followed you hither to Rome, and I'd like to do something
Here in this far away land pleasing to such an old friend.
Every traveller I've ever known has complained of poor treatment:
He whom I recommend treatment delicious receives.
You've now regarded with awe all the structures which lie here in ruins,
Cultivated your eye, sensing each hallowed space.
How you've revered the formative will of those ancient artists!
In their own ateliers often I 've visited them.
As for their works, why, I formed those myself--now this time I'm boasting
Not. Oh come now, admit what I am saying is true.
Where are your own creations, your service to me having slackened?
Where is invention's glow now? Where is the color all gone?
Friend, do you hope you can create again? --The school of the Ancients
Yet remains open. Its gates, years have not closed them to you.
So now the daughter beguiles the naive and bedazzles the foolish,
Teases you while you're asleep; when you awaken, she's flown.
Eagerly yields herself up to the quick, to the active man only.
He discovers she's tame, playful and tender and sweet.
Once she appeared to me, too: a dark-skinned girl, tumbling
Over her forehead the hair down in waves heavy and dark.
Round about a delicate neck curled short little ringlets;
Up from the crown of her head crinkled the unbraided hair.
When she dashed by me I seized her, mistaking her not. Lovingly
Kiss and embrace she returned, knowing and teaching me how.
O how enraptured I was! Ah, say now no more. It's a bygone.
But, O pigtails of Rome, still I'm entrammled in you.
VII
Happily now on classical soil I feel inspiration.
Voices from present and past speak here evocatively.
Heeding ancient advice, I leaf through the works of the Ancients
With an assiduous hand. Daily the pleasure's renewed.
Throughout the night, in a different way, I'm kept busy by Cupid--
If erudition is halved, rapture is doubled that way.
Do then I not become wise when I trace with my eye her sweet bosom's
Form, and the line of her hips stroke with my hand? I acquire,
As I reflect and compare, my first understanding of marble,
See with an eye that feels, feel with a hand that sees.
While my beloved, I grant it, deprives me of moments of daylight,
She in the nighttime hours gives compensation in full.
And we do more than just kiss; we prosecute reasoned discussions
(Should she succumb to sleep, that gives me time for my thoughts).
In her embrace--it's by no means unusual--I've composed poems
And the hexameter's beat gently tapped out on her back,
Fingertips counting in time with the sweet rhythmic breath of her slumber.
Air from deep in her breast penetrates mine and there burns.
Cupid, while stirring the flame in our lamp, no doubt thinks of those days when
For the triumvirs he similar service performed.
VIII
"Can you be cruel enough to sadden me thus with reproaches?
Germans speak, I suppose, bitterly when they're in love.
Bear it I must when the gossips bring forth accusations: I'm guilty--
Or am I not? But, alas, all of my guilt was with you.
Clothes that you've given bear witness for envious neighbors
That the poor widow no more grieves for her husband alone.
Did you not thoughtlessly visit me in the disguise of a cleric,
Muffled all up in a cloak, hair all rounded behind?
Who was it chose that gray monk if not you? Well then a prelate
Now is my lover--Ah, who is my prelate but you?
Never, incredible as it may sound in this clerical city,
Has any cleric brought me--swear it I will--to his bed.
I was sufficiently poor, sad to say. I was young. The seducers
Noted it well. Falconier ogled me often enough.
One of the pimps for Albani with billets doux very impressive
Called me to Ostia once. Quattro Fontani next time.
Who was it did not appear there? Why, who but the very same girl who
Hated with all of her heart stockings both violet and red.
For: 'In the end you poor girls are the ones who are sure to be cheated. '
So said my father although--Mother was not much impressed.
Father was right. Here I stand in the end being cheated and scolded.
You don't believe your own words. They're your excuse to escape.
Go, then. Unworthy of women are men. We, who carry your children
Next to our hearts, in these hearts loyalty we bear you, too.
As for you men, when you've poured out your potency in our embraces
And your desires dissipate, love with them passes away. "
These things expressed, and taking her child from its chair, my beloved
Presses it close to her heart, kisses it, tears in her eyes.
I'm now so very ashamed of myself for having permitted
Gossip of neighbors to spoil picture so eloquent.
For a short moment a fire may burn darkly while smoke swirls about it.
Water dashed on the coals suddenly smothers their glow.
Rapidly then renewed heat overcomes those lowering vapors,
Sends up a flame that anew bright and more powerful gleams.
IX
How very happy I am here in Rome when I think of the bad days
Far back there in the north, wrapped in a grayish light.
Over my head there the heavens weighed down so dismal and gloomy;
Colorless, formless, that world round this exhausted man lay.
Seeking myself in myself, an unsatisfied spirit, I brooded,
Spying out pathways dark, lost in dreary reflection.
Here in an aether more clear now a luster encircles my forehead.
Phoebus the god evokes forms, clear are his colors by day.
Bright with the stars comes the evening, ringing with songs that are tender,
And the glow of the moon, brighter than northern sun.
What blessedness mortals may know! Am I now dreaming? Or welcomes
Jupiter, Father, as guest--me, to ambrosial halls?
See, I lie here extending my arms toward your knees. I am praying:
Hospitality's god, Jupiter Xenius! Hear:
How I am come to this place I no longer can say--I was
Seized up by Hebe. 'Twas she led to this sacred hill.
Did you command her a hero to seek and deliver before you?
May be she erred. Then forgive. Let her mistake profit me!
Does not Fortuna, your daughter, when strewing her glorious presents,
After the manner of girls, yield to each passing whim?
You, O hospitable god, will by no means now banish a stranger
From your Olympian heights back to the base earth again.
"Poet, come to your senses! "--Forgive me, Jupiter, is not
Rome's Capitoline Hill second Olympus to you?
Suffer me, Jupiter, here and let Hermes guide me at last then
Past Cestius' Tomb gently to Orkus below.
X
When you were small, you say, neither did others consider you f air, nor
Even your mother find praise--and I believe it--
Till you grew bigger, developing quietly over the years. I
Picture you to myself as an unusual child.
Also the blossoms on grapevines are wanting in shape and in color,
Although the fruit when it's ripe pleases both mankind and gods.
XI
Kindling autumnal fire in a rustic, convivial fireplace
(How the sticks crackle and spew flames and glittering sparks! )
Strikes me especially pleasant this evening. Before all my tinder
Dies away into coals, coals then to ashes decline,
She will be back and new faggots as well as big logs will be blazing,
Making a festival where lovers will warm up the night.
Then in the morning, officious, she'll leave the bed of her lover,
Rouse adroitly the flames out from their ashes anew.
Cupid has lent to her above others the gift of cajoling
Up from the ashes desire, just when slumber's begun.
XII
All of those greats: Alexander, Caesar and Henry and Fredrick,
Gladly would share with me half of their hard fought renown,
Could I but grant them my bed for one single night, and its comfort,
But the poor wretches are held stark in cold Orkian grip.
Therefore, ye living, rejoice that love keeps you warm for a while yet,
Until cold Lethe anoints, captures your foot in its flight.
XIII
They are for you, O ye graces, just a few leaves by a poet
Onto your pure altar laid, buds of the rose beside,
Offered in confidence. Artists enjoy ateliers which are furnished
So as to make for a space Pantheon-like in decor:
Jupiter lowers that godly brow while his Juno looks upward;
Phoebus takes forward strides, shaking his curly head;
While phlegmatic Minerva peers down on us, frivolous Hermes
Seems to be looking askance, roguish, though tender as well.
But it's to Bacchus, the sensuous dreamer, Cythera sends glances
Bathed in sweetest desire--even in marble they're damp.
Thinking about his embrace and its pleasures, she seems to be asking
Shouldn't our glorious son here at our side stand erect?
XIV
Can't you hear voices, beloved, out on the Via Flamina?
Reapers are now going home, back from harvesting grain.
They had journeyed to Rome from afar, and here plaited for Ceres
Wreaths which the Romans today scorn to make for themselves.
Festivals no longer celebrate Ceres, the nourishing goddess
Who replaced acorns of old, giving man golden wheat.
Let us commemorate her then ourselves in festival private
(Two constitute a whole tribe, when they are two in love).
Have you by any chance heard how that mystical, strange celebration
Followed victorious troops back from Eleusis to Rome?
Greeks were the ones who began it, and only to Greeks they proclaimed it
Even within Roman walls: "Come to the sanctified night. "
Those who were not of the cult kept their distance; neophytes trembled,
Waiting in garments of white, symbol of all that is pure.
Then the initiates must aimlessly wander about through the eerie
Circles of figures as if pilgriming through their own dreams.
Snakes on the ground were writhing about. Now virgins came bearing
Caskets securely locked, richly wreathed with grain.
Surely the gestures of murmuring priests must contain some deep meaning--
Impatient acolytes wait, anxiously hoping for light.
Not until after many a testing and trial did they discover
What, within sacred ring, secretive image concealed.
What was this mystery other than this: that Demeter, goddess,
Once upon a time had to a hero been kind.
It was to Jason, powerful king of the Cretans, she granted
Of her immortal self hidden sweet parts to explore.
That made the fortune of Crete! The marital bed of the goddess
Soon grew pregnant with grain, heavy her bounteous fields.
As for the rest of the world, it languished away, while Ceres,
Derelict of her true task, dalliance offered in love.
--Now the initiate youths, having followed this tale, all astonished,
Turned and beckoned their loves--love, do you comprehend?
See there the sacred shade beneath that bushy-boughed myrtle?
Our satisfaction will there scarcely endanger a world.
XV
Cupid is always a scoundrel, and if you believe him he'll cheat you.
Here's what the hypocrite said: "Trust me just once more, this time.
I have the best of intentions toward you who have now dedicated--
I recognize it with thanks--life and writings to me.
Lo, I have followed you hither to Rome, and I'd like to do something
Here in this far away land pleasing to such an old friend.
Every traveller I've ever known has complained of poor treatment:
He whom I recommend treatment delicious receives.
You've now regarded with awe all the structures which lie here in ruins,
Cultivated your eye, sensing each hallowed space.
How you've revered the formative will of those ancient artists!
In their own ateliers often I 've visited them.
As for their works, why, I formed those myself--now this time I'm boasting
Not. Oh come now, admit what I am saying is true.
Where are your own creations, your service to me having slackened?
Where is invention's glow now? Where is the color all gone?
Friend, do you hope you can create again? --The school of the Ancients
Yet remains open. Its gates, years have not closed them to you.
I am eternally young, and as teacher I still love the young ones.
Wisdom that comes with old age pleases me not. Listen here:
Wasn't antiquity young when those fortunate Ancients were living?
Happy then be your life, too: in it antiquity lives.
Where will you find a fit theme for your song? --It is I must provide it.
As for a style truly grand, love can alone give you that. "
All of these claims that sophist asserted. Could I contradict him?
I am wont to obey, when my commander decrees.
Treacherous now he is keeping his word: giving me themes for my poems
While he is stealing my time, potency, presence of mind.
Gazing into her eyes, holding hands, giving kisses, exchanging
Syllables sweet and those words lovers alone understand,
Murmuring our conversations we stutter in sweet oratory.
Hymns of such sort pass away, wanting prosodical tact.
Goddess of morning, Aurora, as friend of my muse I once knew you.
Has the unprincipled god, Cupid, seduced you now too?
So that these mornings you come as his sweetheart, awakening me at
His festive altar again, where I must celebrate him?
Here on my breast flows her hair, an abundance of curls, while her head rests,
Pressing my arm as it's bent, so as to pillow her neck.
What a delicious condition, if only these few tranquil moments
Could in my memory fix firmly that image of joy
When the night rocked us to sleep--but in slumber she's moving away now,
From my side turns, as she goes leaving her hand in my hand.
Love in our hearts makes us one, as the genuine need there stays constant;
Only returning desire knows oscillation or change.
Gently her hand presses mine, now she opens her eyes and is looking
Into my own eyes. No--don't. Let my thoughts rest on your form!
Please close your eyes. They're inebriation, confusion, they rob me
All too soon of the joy quiet reflection affords.
Grand are the forms of this body and nobly positioned each member.
Had Ariadne lain thus, Theseus never had fled.
Only a single kiss for these lips and then, O Theseus, leave her;
Look at her eyes--she's awake! Now you're eternally bound.
XVI
Boy, won't you light me a lamp. "But dear master, there's light in the sky yet.
Don't waste your oil and the wick. Don't close the shutters so soon.
Only the houses are blocking the sun there, it's not yet the mountains.
Until the curfew shall ring, full half an hour must pass. "
Wretched young fellow, be gone and obey me! My loved one is coming.
Lamplight, console me till then, harbinger warm of the night.
XVII
Poets of old in chorus cried out against those two serpents,
Making them horrible names, hated in all of the world:
Python the one, the other the Hydra of Lerna. These monsters
Both have now been destroyed, thanks to the deeds of the gods.
Fire-breathing, venomous once, they no longer now depredate our
Flocks and meadows and woods, fields of golden grain.
How is it then that some spiteful god in his wrath has
Raised from the poisonous slime offspring so monstrous again?
There's an insidious viper creeps into the loveliest gardens,
Lying in wait to attack all who seek pleasure therein.
Noble Hesperian dragon, I call you courageous and forthright.
Boldly defending your own beautiful apples of gold.
As for this worm, why he is not guarding at all, for his presence
Sullies both garden and fruit, till they deserve no defense.
Secretly coiled beneath bushes, where he befouls the sweet wellsprings,
Turning to poisonous drool Cupid's lifegiving dew.
Happy Lucretius knew how in his day to forego love completely,
Fearing not to enjoy pleasure in anyone's arms.
Fortunate Ancient, Propertius, for you a slave fetched the girls down
From the Aventine Hill, from Tarpeia's grove.
Cynthia then, when driving you out of such unchaste embraces,
Found you unfaithful, it's true, but she did find you whole.
Who would today dare attempt to escape from fidelity's ennui?
Love does not hold one back--only concern for one's health.
Even the woman we love may afford us uncertain enjoyment;
Nowhere can feminine lap safely encouch a man's head.
Matrimonial bed's insecure and so's fornication;
Husband, lover and wife pass to each other the hurt.
Think of those ages of gold when Jupiter followed his urges,
Chose Callisto one day, turned to Semel the next.
It was important to him to find thresholds of temples so sacred
Pure when, enamoured, he sought powerful entry to them.
Can you imagine the ragings of Juno if in love's skirmish
Poisonous weapons on her by her own spouse had been turned?
But we neo-pagans may not after all be abandoned entirely:
Yet there is speeding a god mercifully over the earth,
Quick and assiduous. Everyone knows him and ought to adore him,
Herald of Zeus: Hermes, the healing god.
Although his father's temple be fallen, and though of its pillars
Scarcely a pair yet records ancient glory adored,
Nevertheless the son's place of worship still stands, and forever
Will there the ardent requests alternate with the thanks.
Only one favor I beg of you, Graces (I ask it in secret--
Fervent my prayer and deep, out of a passionate breast):
My little garden, my sweet one, protect it and do not let any
Evil come near it nor me. Cupid will hold out his hand:
O, and entrusting myself to the rascal, I beg you please may I
Do so in pleasure with no danger or worry or fear.
XVIII
I cannot think I'd have gone with Julius Caesar to Britain;
To the Popina right here, Florus would tug me with ease.
Fogs of the dreary north remain a more baleful remembrance
Than in the kitchens of Rome tribes of assiduous fleas.
After today, I'll remember you even more kindly, tavernas,
You osterias, as you are called, aptly by those here in Rome.
That was the place I encountered my mistress today with the uncle
Whom she so often deceives, so that she can have me.
Here's where I sat at a table surrounded by good-natured Germans;
Over on that side the girl, finding a seat for herself
Next to her mother where, frequently shifting her bench, she arranged
Nicely for me to perceive profile and curve of her neck;
Speaks just a little more loudly than women in Rome are accustomed;
Significant glance as she pours--misses the glass with the wine
So that it spills on the table, and she with a delicate finger
Over its surface can draw circles in damp arabesque:
Her name entwining in mine, while my eyes most eagerly follow
All that her fingertip writes. She is of course well aware
That I am watching, so finally makes the V of the Roman
Five, with a virgule before. Quickly, as soon as I've seen,
She interlaces the circles, reducing them all to ornatest
Patterns--but still the sweet IV stood as engraved in my eye.
I sat there mutely and biting my passionate lips almost bloody
Half from delight at the ruse, partly from stifled desire:
Such a long time until dark, then another four hours of waiting.
--Sun, who tarries on high, contemplating Rome:
Greater never you've nor shall you in future see greater
Than Rome, O sun, as your priest, Horace, enraptured foretold.
Tarry no longer today. Go seek other realms beneath heaven.
Sooner depart and leave Rome's seven famed hills to me.
