Now shuffling slippers one can hear,
A klinking key-ring drawing near,
And see through a slot in the gate so stout,
Saint Peter's visage peering out.

He says: "We get the vagabonds,
The gypsies, Poles and raggedy-Johns,
The idlers and the Hottentots,
They come alone, and they come in lots,
And want to enter paradise
And all be angels, blest and nice.
Begone! Begone! For gallows-faces
Of your ilk, there are no places
Here, not in these heavenly halls,
For those whose lot to Satan falls.
Away from here! And scoot pell-mell
To the blackest seat of eternal Hell - "

So growls the greybeard, yet he can't
Continue with his rumbling rant,
He takes a more consoling theme:
"O you poor soul, you do not seem
To be a scoundrel of that kind,
And just today I'm of a mind
To mercifully your wish allow,
Because it is my birthday now -
So name for me the city and state
You come from, and then please relate
If you were married? - Conjugal toil
May oft atone for sins most vile;
To stew in Hell is no married man's fate,
We don't keep him waiting at Heaven's gate."

The soul responds: "I'm from Berlin,
And Prussia is the land it's in.
There trickles the Spree, and in her beds
They love to soak, the young cadets;
In rain, it floods so pleasantly -
Berlin's a lovely place to be!
I was a private tutor there,
Philosophy was my main fare -
I married to a canoness,
Yet she could make an awful fuss,
Especially when we had no bread,
That's why I perished and now I'm dead."

Saint Peter cried: "Oy vey, oy vey!
Philosophy is a bad metier.
And truly, I could never see
Why people learn philosophy -
A boring, profitless pursuit,
And it's a godless one to boot;
One lives in hunger and in doubt
'Til finally the devil calls you out.

Your wailing Xanthippe oft would droop
Above the meager water-soup,
And never had a drop of fat
That she could smile in solace at -
But now, poor soul, just be at ease!
Although I'm under strict decrees,
That if a man should ever be
Caught dabbling in philosophy,
Those godless Germans, above all,
I'll curse and scourge them from this hall -
But it's my birthday, like I said,
I won't drive you away. Instead,
Today, I'll open up the gate
Of Heaven, so don't hesitate,
Come quick, inside -
You're safe and sound!
From dawn to dusk, the day around,
You can go strolling anywhere
In Heaven, rambling here and there
In gemstone-studded alleyways.
But know, that here nobody strays
Into philosophy; you see,
You'd compromise me terribly -
If you hear angels sing, employ
A cock-eyed face of transfigured joy,
And should but one archangel sing,
Be rapturously quivering,
And tell him, that great Malibran
Could never sing the way he can -
Applaud whenever you hear the hymn
Of the cherubim and seraphim,
Compare them all with Signor Rubini,
With Mario and Tamburini -
Give them titles, befitting their station,
And don't be stingy with adoration.

With singers, in Heaven as on earth,
Just flatter them for all you're worth -
The Great Conductor here above,
Yes, even he does dearly love
To hear some singer Praise the Lord,
He's glad when, with a mighty chord,
A psalm of praise and glory booms
Through smothering clouds of incense-fumes.

Now, don't forget. When all this adoring
And splendor of Heaven starts to get boring,
Just come to me. We'll play some cards,
I know the games, the whole nine yards,
From Lancer, up to King Pharaoh.
We'll drink, as well -- how apropos!
And if the Lord should somehow come
Along, and ask you: Where're you from?
Don't tell Him that you're from Berlin,
Say Munich, or Vienna, then."

 Posted by permission of the translator ~ © 2005