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XXII Ah, to uphold one's respectable name is not easy. The Lady Fame has an ancient foe: Cupid, my master and lord. Oh, by the way, have you heard of the cause of their mutual hatred? It's an old story, I think—Let me just tell it again. Powerful ever the goddess, but nevertheless to her fellows Overbearing and rude, quite unendurable. She Had by the gods since time out of mind at their banquets been dreaded, Yelling with brassiest voice orders to great and to small. Once, in her arrogance even maintained that she had subjected To her own will, as her slave, Jove's most illustrious son. "One of these days, O father of deities," cried she in triumph, "I shall be bringing you my—Hercules, as if new born. Don't think that Hercules be still that boy whom Alcmene once bore you; His adulation of me makes him now god upon earth. When toward Olympus he gazes, I've no doubt you hope that he's looking Piously toward your knees. Hardly. He's looking for me. Worthiest man! O the vision of winning my favor makes easy Hitherto unexplored paths, under that powerful foot. I do my part, for I meet him halfway and proclaim his adventures Praising his name in advance, even before he's begun. One day you'll wed me to Hercules. Hero who Amazons conquered That day will overwhelm me. Happily I'll call him: spouse." All of the gods kept their counsel, and none would reply to the braggart, Lest in a pique she devise vengeance against one of them. Cupid, escaping attention, slipped off to enslave, however, her hero: Artlessly conquering by—force of a beautiful girl, Afterward decked out his couple in mute masquerade: lionskin Over her shoulders, the club leaned (by much toil) at her side; Wiry stiff hair of the hero larded with blossoms, a distaff Laid in his fist, to conform strength to the dalliance of love. Scene now completed and ready to tease, he goes scampering, shouting For all Olympus to hear: "Come, see these glorious deeds! Heaven and Earth and the Sun on his indefatigable journey Over that infinite path never did witness the like!" Everyone hastened, gulled by the dissolute boy, who feigning Earnest, had summoned them all (Fame by no means lagged behind). Which of the gods will now smile in sweet condescension on Cupid? —Juno! delighted, of course, seeing a man humbled so. Fame, on the other hand, stood there ashamed, embarrassed, despairing. First she just laughed, saying: "Gods, be not deceived. It's a masque. I know my hero too well to be fooled by disguises of actors." Soon, though, in pain she perceived: Hercules, none but he. (Vulcan had not been one thousandth so vexed to discover his playmate Under his meshes ensnared, caught with his own lusty friend, Lying just as the wiles of the net at the most crucial moment Deftly embraced their embrace, trapping their instant of joy. How those boys, Bacchus and Mercury, guffawed, and freely admitted: Sweet must be the repose, lying on bosom so fine Of this magnificent woman. They turned to Vulcan entreating: "Do not release them just yet. Let us inspect them once more." And the old cuckold was cuckold enough to comply with their wishes.) As for poor Fame, in all haste, burning with wrath she must flee. Since then no armistice has been proclaimed to the feuding between them. Let her but favor a man, hot in pursuit is the boy. He whom Fame honors most can least defend against Cupid, And her most dang'rous attacks strike the most morally proud. Whoever tries to escape him is dragged down from bad deeds to worse ones. Yes, he will offer you girls—if like a fool you despise These, only then do you feel from his bow the arrows most vicious: Heat of man's love for man, ardent desires toward beasts. For those ashamed of him Cupid reserves the bitterest passions, Mingling for hypocrites their pleasure in vice and remorse. But, at the same time, the goddess seeks him, she's watching and list'ning. Should find him with you, ill disposed will she be: Frighten you, frowning austerely, contemptuously, violently casting Into the worst of repute houses he's known to frequent. Ah, it's the same with me, too. I haven't escaped her, the goddess. Jealously she seeks me out, sweet secret love to expose. I will submit to the ancient law and in silence revere her, For, when great lords fall out, I like the Greeks must atone.
XXIII However comely be strength, or free and undaunted comportment, Secrecy is for a man most important of all. Mighty subduer of cities, Discretion, O princess of nations, Goddess whom I adore, safely you've led me thus far. Now, though, what fate shall befall me? My frivolous muse has now opened —Cupid, the scamp—opens lips hitherto sealed so well. Difficult is it, alas, to conceal the shame of a monarch; Hide it can neither his crown, nor a tight Phrygian cap: Midas has asses ears! the first servant discovers—O horror! Shame of this secret so weighs, Midas unburdens his heart. Into the earth for safekeeping the servant must bury the story, Easing in this way the king: earth must conceal the tale. Reeds in a trice are sprouting and rustling in murmuring breezes: "Midas, o Midas the King—bears the ears of an ass!" Mine is a secret more pleasant, but even more difficult keeping: Out of abundance of heart eagerly speaketh my mouth. None of my ladyfriends dare I confide in, for they would but chide me; Nor any gentleman friend, lest he be rival to me. Rapture proclaim to the grove, to the echoing cliffs perorate it? One can do that if one's young, or if one's lonely enough. I to hexameters tell, in pentameters I will confide it: During the day she was joy, happiness all the night long. Courted by so many suitors, avoided the snares that were set her Now by one bolder than I, now by another in guile, Cleverly, daintily, always slipped past them, and sure of the byways, Comes to her lover's embrace, where he so eagerly waits. Luna! Don't rise yet. She's coming, and must not be seen by the neighbor! Breezes, rustle the leaves: muffle the sound of her feet. And as for you, little poems, o grow and flower, your blossoms Cradling themselves in the air, tepid and soft with love's breath. Wafting, betray to Quirites, as Midas' reeds did with cheap gossip, One happy couple in love, and their sweet secret, at last.
XXIV I in the back of the garden, the last of the gods, in a corner, Ineptly formed, must I stand. Evil the inroads of time. Cucumber vines grow entwining about this primeval lingam, Cracking it almost in two under the weight of the fruit. Faggots are heaped all about me against the cold of the winter, Which I so hate for the crows settling then down on my head, Which they befoul very shamefully. Summer's no better: the servants Empty their bowels and show insolent, naked behinds. Filth, above and below! I was clearly in danger of turning Into filth myself, toadstool, rotten wood! Now, by your efforts, O noblest of artists, I shall recover With fellow gods my just place. And it's no more than my due. Jupiter's throne, so dishonestly won, it was I who secured it: Color and ivory, marble and bronze, not to mention the poems. Now, all intelligent men look upon me in kindness. They like to Form their own image of me, just as the poet has done. Nor do the girls take offense when they see me—by no means the matrons. None finds me ugly today, though I am monstrously strong. Half a foot long, as reward, your glorious rod (dear poet) Proudly shall strut from your loins, when but your dearest commands, Nor shall your member grow weary until you've enjoyed the full dozen Artful positions the great poet Philainis describes.
ABOUT THE ELEGIES
XXII Ah, to uphold one's respectable name is not easy. The Lady Fame has an ancient foe: Cupid, my master and lord. Oh, by the way, have you heard of the cause of their mutual hatred? It's an old story, I think—Let me just tell it again. Powerful ever the goddess, but nevertheless to her fellows Overbearing and rude, quite unendurable. She Had by the gods since time out of mind at their banquets been dreaded, Yelling with brassiest voice orders to great and to small. Once, in her arrogance even maintained that she had subjected To her own will, as her slave, Jove's most illustrious son. "One of these days, O father of deities," cried she in triumph, "I shall be bringing you my—Hercules, as if new born. Don't think that Hercules be still that boy whom Alcmene once bore you; His adulation of me makes him now god upon earth. When toward Olympus he gazes, I've no doubt you hope that he's looking Piously toward your knees. Hardly. He's looking for me. Worthiest man! O the vision of winning my favor makes easy Hitherto unexplored paths, under that powerful foot. I do my part, for I meet him halfway and proclaim his adventures Praising his name in advance, even before he's begun. One day you'll wed me to Hercules. Hero who Amazons conquered That day will overwhelm me. Happily I'll call him: spouse." All of the gods kept their counsel, and none would reply to the braggart, Lest in a pique she devise vengeance against one of them. Cupid, escaping attention, slipped off to enslave, however, her hero: Artlessly conquering by—force of a beautiful girl, Afterward decked out his couple in mute masquerade: lionskin Over her shoulders, the club leaned (by much toil) at her side; Wiry stiff hair of the hero larded with blossoms, a distaff Laid in his fist, to conform strength to the dalliance of love. Scene now completed and ready to tease, he goes scampering, shouting For all Olympus to hear: "Come, see these glorious deeds! Heaven and Earth and the Sun on his indefatigable journey Over that infinite path never did witness the like!" Everyone hastened, gulled by the dissolute boy, who feigning Earnest, had summoned them all (Fame by no means lagged behind). Which of the gods will now smile in sweet condescension on Cupid? —Juno! delighted, of course, seeing a man humbled so. Fame, on the other hand, stood there ashamed, embarrassed, despairing. First she just laughed, saying: "Gods, be not deceived. It's a masque. I know my hero too well to be fooled by disguises of actors." Soon, though, in pain she perceived: Hercules, none but he. (Vulcan had not been one thousandth so vexed to discover his playmate Under his meshes ensnared, caught with his own lusty friend, Lying just as the wiles of the net at the most crucial moment Deftly embraced their embrace, trapping their instant of joy. How those boys, Bacchus and Mercury, guffawed, and freely admitted: Sweet must be the repose, lying on bosom so fine Of this magnificent woman. They turned to Vulcan entreating: "Do not release them just yet. Let us inspect them once more." And the old cuckold was cuckold enough to comply with their wishes.) As for poor Fame, in all haste, burning with wrath she must flee. Since then no armistice has been proclaimed to the feuding between them. Let her but favor a man, hot in pursuit is the boy. He whom Fame honors most can least defend against Cupid, And her most dang'rous attacks strike the most morally proud. Whoever tries to escape him is dragged down from bad deeds to worse ones. Yes, he will offer you girls—if like a fool you despise These, only then do you feel from his bow the arrows most vicious: Heat of man's love for man, ardent desires toward beasts. For those ashamed of him Cupid reserves the bitterest passions, Mingling for hypocrites their pleasure in vice and remorse. But, at the same time, the goddess seeks him, she's watching and list'ning. Should find him with you, ill disposed will she be: Frighten you, frowning austerely, contemptuously, violently casting Into the worst of repute houses he's known to frequent. Ah, it's the same with me, too. I haven't escaped her, the goddess. Jealously she seeks me out, sweet secret love to expose. I will submit to the ancient law and in silence revere her, For, when great lords fall out, I like the Greeks must atone.
XXIII However comely be strength, or free and undaunted comportment, Secrecy is for a man most important of all. Mighty subduer of cities, Discretion, O princess of nations, Goddess whom I adore, safely you've led me thus far. Now, though, what fate shall befall me? My frivolous muse has now opened —Cupid, the scamp—opens lips hitherto sealed so well. Difficult is it, alas, to conceal the shame of a monarch; Hide it can neither his crown, nor a tight Phrygian cap: Midas has asses ears! the first servant discovers—O horror! Shame of this secret so weighs, Midas unburdens his heart. Into the earth for safekeeping the servant must bury the story, Easing in this way the king: earth must conceal the tale. Reeds in a trice are sprouting and rustling in murmuring breezes: "Midas, o Midas the King—bears the ears of an ass!" Mine is a secret more pleasant, but even more difficult keeping: Out of abundance of heart eagerly speaketh my mouth. None of my ladyfriends dare I confide in, for they would but chide me; Nor any gentleman friend, lest he be rival to me. Rapture proclaim to the grove, to the echoing cliffs perorate it? One can do that if one's young, or if one's lonely enough. I to hexameters tell, in pentameters I will confide it: During the day she was joy, happiness all the night long. Courted by so many suitors, avoided the snares that were set her Now by one bolder than I, now by another in guile, Cleverly, daintily, always slipped past them, and sure of the byways, Comes to her lover's embrace, where he so eagerly waits. Luna! Don't rise yet. She's coming, and must not be seen by the neighbor! Breezes, rustle the leaves: muffle the sound of her feet. And as for you, little poems, o grow and flower, your blossoms Cradling themselves in the air, tepid and soft with love's breath. Wafting, betray to Quirites, as Midas' reeds did with cheap gossip, One happy couple in love, and their sweet secret, at last.
XXIV I in the back of the garden, the last of the gods, in a corner, Ineptly formed, must I stand. Evil the inroads of time. Cucumber vines grow entwining about this primeval lingam, Cracking it almost in two under the weight of the fruit. Faggots are heaped all about me against the cold of the winter, Which I so hate for the crows settling then down on my head, Which they befoul very shamefully. Summer's no better: the servants Empty their bowels and show insolent, naked behinds. Filth, above and below! I was clearly in danger of turning Into filth myself, toadstool, rotten wood! Now, by your efforts, O noblest of artists, I shall recover With fellow gods my just place. And it's no more than my due. Jupiter's throne, so dishonestly won, it was I who secured it: Color and ivory, marble and bronze, not to mention the poems. Now, all intelligent men look upon me in kindness. They like to Form their own image of me, just as the poet has done. Nor do the girls take offense when they see me—by no means the matrons. None finds me ugly today, though I am monstrously strong. Half a foot long, as reward, your glorious rod (dear poet) Proudly shall strut from your loins, when but your dearest commands, Nor shall your member grow weary until you've enjoyed the full dozen Artful positions the great poet Philainis describes.
ABOUT THE ELEGIES
Goethe cultivated a special, italianate hand for this portfolio of twenty-four "elegies," so called because he was emulating the elegiasts of Imperial Rome, Tibullus, Propertius, Catullus. The Elegies have never before been published as here, together in the cyclical form of their original conception. Experts even denied that the two priapeia (I & XXIV) were by Goethe at all, although they are in the same hand as the rest. To be sure, these two are not numbered, so that I was long undecided as to just what their proper position might be. At one time I imagined they must belong at the middle of the cycle where at the end of Elegy XIII Priapus' mother summons her son. Obviously Goethe, just returned north from his
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