Иоганн Вольфганг фон Гёте
Erotica Romana
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 æther 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 wreathéd 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 hallowéd 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.
