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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Faust, by Goethe |
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Title: Faust |
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Author: Goethe |
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Release Date: December 25, 2004 [EBook #14460] |
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Language: English |
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Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 |
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAUST *** |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Bidwell and the PG Online |
Distributed Proofreading Team |
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FAUST |
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A TRAGEDY |
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TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN |
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OF |
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GOETHE |
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WITH NOTES |
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BY |
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CHARLES T BROOKS |
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SEVENTH EDITION. |
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BOSTON |
TICKNOR AND FIELDS |
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MDCCCLXVIII. |
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, |
by CHARLES T. BROOKS, |
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court |
of the District of Rhode Island. |
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UNIVERSITY PRESS: |
WELCH, BIGELOW, AND COMPANY, |
CAMBRIDGE. |
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TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. |
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Perhaps some apology ought to be given to English scholars, that is, those |
who do not know German, (to those, at least, who do not know what sort of |
a thing Faust is in the original,) for offering another translation to the |
public, of a poem which has been already translated, not only in a literal |
prose form, but also, twenty or thirty times, in metre, and sometimes with |
great spirit, beauty, and power. |
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The author of the present version, then, has no knowledge that a rendering |
of this wonderful poem into the exact and ever-changing metre of the |
original has, until now, been so much as attempted. To name only one |
defect, the very best versions which he has seen neglect to follow the |
exquisite artist in the evidently planned and orderly intermixing of |
_male_ and _female_ rhymes, _i.e._ rhymes which fall on the last syllable |
and those which fall on the last but one. Now, every careful student of |
the versification of Faust must feel and see that Goethe did not |
intersperse the one kind of rhyme with the other, at random, as those |
translators do; who, also, give the female rhyme (on which the vivacity of |
dialogue and description often so much depends,) in so small a proportion. |
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A similar criticism might be made of their liberty in neglecting Goethe's |
method of alternating different measures with each other. |
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It seems as if, in respect to metre, at least, they had asked themselves, |
how would Goethe have written or shaped this in English, had that been his |
native language, instead of seeking _con amore_ (and _con fidelità _) as |
they should have done, to reproduce, both in spirit and in form, the |
movement, so free and yet orderly, of the singularly endowed and |
accomplished poet whom they undertook to represent. |
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As to the objections which Hayward and some of his reviewers have |
instituted in advance against the possibility of a good and faithful |
metrical translation of a poem like Faust, they seem to the present |
translator full of paradox and sophistry. For instance, take this |
assertion of one of the reviewers: "The sacred and mysterious union of |
thought with verse, twin-born and immortally wedded from the moment of |
their common birth, can never be understood by those who desire verse |
translations of good poetry." If the last part of this statement had read |
"by those who can be contented with _prose_ translations of good poetry," |
the position would have been nearer the truth. This much we might well |
admit, that, if the alternative were either to have a poem like Faust in a |
metre different and glaringly different from the original, or to have it |
in simple and strong prose, then the latter alternative would be the one |
every tasteful and feeling scholar would prefer; but surely to every one |
who can read the original or wants to know how this great song _sung |
itself_ (as Carlyle says) out of Goethe's soul, a mere prose rendering |
must be, comparatively, a _corpus mortuum._ |
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The translator most heartily dissents from Hayward's assertion that a |
translator of Faust "must sacrifice either metre or meaning." At least he |
flatters himself that he has made, in the main, (not a compromise between |
meaning and melody, though in certain instances he may have fallen into |
that, but) a combination of the meaning with the melody, which latter is |
so important, so vital a part of the lyric poem's meaning, in any worthy |
sense. "No poetic translation," says Hayward's reviewer, already quoted, |
"can give the rhythm and rhyme of the original; it can only substitute the |
rhythm and rhyme of the translator." One might just as well say "no |
_prose_ translation can give the _sense and spirit_ of the original; it |
can only substitute the _sense and spirit of the words and phrases of the |
translator's language_;" and then, these two assertions balancing each |
other, there will remain in the metrical translator's favor, that he may |
come as near to giving both the letter and the spirit, as the effects of |
the Babel dispersion will allow. |
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As to the original creation, which he has attempted here to reproduce, the |
translator might say something, but prefers leaving his readers to the |
poet himself, as revealed in the poem, and to the various commentaries of |
which we have some accounts, at least, in English. A French translator of |
the poem speaks in his introduction as follows: "This Faust, conceived by |
him in his youth, completed in ripe age, the idea of which he carried with |
him through all the commotions of his life, as Camoens bore his poem with |
him through the waves, this Faust contains him entire. The thirst for |
knowledge and the martyrdom of doubt, had they not tormented his early |
years? Whence came to him the thought of taking refuge in a supernatural |
realm, of appealing to invisible powers, which plunged him, for a |
considerable time, into the dreams of Illuminati and made him even invent |
a religion? This irony of Mephistopheles, who carries on so audacious a |
game with the weakness and the desires of man, is it not the mocking, |
scornful side of the poet's spirit, a leaning to sullenness, which can be |
traced even into the earliest years of his life, a bitter leaven thrown |
into a strong soul forever by early satiety? The character of Faust |
especially, the man whose burning, untiring heart can neither enjoy |
fortune nor do without it, who gives himself unconditionally and watches |
himself with mistrust, who unites the enthusiasm of passion and the |
dejectedness of despair, is not this an eloquent opening up of the most |
secret and tumultuous part of the poet's soul? And now, to complete the |
image of his inner life, he has added the transcendingly sweet person of |
Margaret, an exalted reminiscence of a young girl, by whom, at the age of |
fourteen, he thought himself beloved, whose image ever floated round him, |
and has contributed some traits to each of his heroines. This heavenly |
surrender of a simple, good, and tender heart contrasts wonderfully with |
the sensual and gloomy passion of the lover, who, in the midst of his |
love-dreams, is persecuted by the phantoms of his imagination and by the |
nightmares of thought, with those sorrows of a soul, which is crushed, but |
not extinguished, which is tormented by the invincible want of happiness |
and the bitter feeling, how hard a thing it is to receive or to bestow." |
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DEDICATION.[1] |
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Once more ye waver dreamily before me, |
Forms that so early cheered my troubled eyes! |
To hold you fast doth still my heart implore me? |
Still bid me clutch the charm that lures and flies? |
Ye crowd around! come, then, hold empire o'er me, |
As from the mist and haze of thought ye rise; |
The magic atmosphere, your train enwreathing, |
Through my thrilled bosom youthful bliss is breathing. |
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Ye bring with you the forms of hours Elysian, |
And shades of dear ones rise to meet my gaze; |
First Love and Friendship steal upon my vision |
Like an old tale of legendary days; |
Sorrow renewed, in mournful repetition, |
Runs through life's devious, labyrinthine ways; |
And, sighing, names the good (by Fortune cheated |
Of blissful hours!) who have before me fleeted. |
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These later songs of mine, alas! will never |
Sound in their ears to whom the first were sung! |
Scattered like dust, the friendly throng forever! |
Mute the first echo that so grateful rung! |
To the strange crowd I sing, whose very favor |
Like chilling sadness on my heart is flung; |
And all that kindled at those earlier numbers |
Roams the wide earth or in its bosom slumbers. |
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And now I feel a long-unwonted yearning |
For that calm, pensive spirit-realm, to-day; |
Like an Aeolian lyre, (the breeze returning,) |
Floats in uncertain tones my lisping lay; |
Strange awe comes o'er me, tear on tear falls burning, |
The rigid heart to milder mood gives way! |
What I possess I see afar off lying, |
And what I lost is real and undying. |
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PRELUDE |
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IN THE THEATRE. |
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_Manager. Dramatic Poet. Merry Person._ |
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_Manager_. You who in trouble and distress |
Have both held fast your old allegiance, |
What think ye? here in German regions |
Our enterprise may hope success? |
To please the crowd my purpose has been steady, |
Because they live and let one live at least. |
The posts are set, the boards are laid already, |
And every one is looking for a feast. |
They sit, with lifted brows, composed looks wearing, |
Expecting something that shall set them staring. |
I know the public palate, that's confest; |
Yet never pined so for a sound suggestion; |
True, they are not accustomed to the best, |
But they have read a dreadful deal, past question. |
How shall we work to make all fresh and new, |
Acceptable and profitable, too? |
For sure I love to see the torrent boiling, |
When towards our booth they crowd to find a place, |
Now rolling on a space and then recoiling, |
Then squeezing through the narrow door of grace: |
Long before dark each one his hard-fought station |
In sight of the box-office window takes, |
And as, round bakers' doors men crowd to escape starvation, |
For tickets here they almost break their necks. |
This wonder, on so mixed a mass, the Poet |
Alone can work; to-day, my friend, O, show it! |
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_Poet_. Oh speak not to me of that motley ocean, |
Whose roar and greed the shuddering spirit chill! |
Hide from my sight that billowy commotion |
That draws us down the whirlpool 'gainst our will. |
No, lead me to that nook of calm devotion, |
Where blooms pure joy upon the Muses' hill; |
Where love and friendship aye create and cherish, |
With hand divine, heart-joys that never perish. |
Ah! what, from feeling's deepest fountain springing, |
Scarce from the stammering lips had faintly passed, |
Now, hopeful, venturing forth, now shyly clinging, |
To the wild moment's cry a prey is cast. |
Oft when for years the brain had heard it ringing |
It comes in full and rounded shape at last. |
What shines, is born but for the moment's pleasure; |
The genuine leaves posterity a treasure. |
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_Merry Person_. Posterity! I'm sick of hearing of it; |
Supposing I the future age would profit, |
Who then would furnish ours with fun? |
For it must have it, ripe and mellow; |
The presence of a fine young fellow, |
Is cheering, too, methinks, to any one. |
Whoso can pleasantly communicate, |
Will not make war with popular caprices, |
For, as the circle waxes great, |
The power his word shall wield increases. |
Come, then, and let us now a model see, |
Let Phantasy with all her various choir, |
Sense, reason, passion, sensibility, |
But, mark me, folly too! the scene inspire. |
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_Manager_. But the great point is action! Every one |
Comes as spectator, and the show's the fun. |
Let but the plot be spun off fast and thickly, |
So that the crowd shall gape in broad surprise, |
Then have you made a wide impression quickly, |
You are the man they'll idolize. |
The mass can only be impressed by masses; |
Then each at last picks out his proper part. |
Give much, and then to each one something passes, |
And each one leaves the house with happy heart. |
Have you a piece, give it at once in pieces! |
Such a ragout your fame increases; |
It costs as little pains to play as to invent. |
But what is gained, if you a whole present? |
Your public picks it presently to pieces. |
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_Poet_. You do not feel how mean a trade like that must be! |
In the true Artist's eyes how false and hollow! |
Our genteel botchers, well I see, |
Have given the maxims that you follow. |
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_Manager_. Such charges pass me like the idle wind; |
A man who has right work in mind |
Must choose the instruments most fitting. |
Consider what soft wood you have for splitting, |
And keep in view for whom you write! |
If this one from _ennui_ seeks flight, |
That other comes full from the groaning table, |
Or, the worst case of all to cite, |
From reading journals is for thought unable. |
Vacant and giddy, all agog for wonder, |
As to a masquerade they wing their way; |
The ladies give themselves and all their precious plunder |
And without wages help us play. |
On your poetic heights what dream comes o'er you? |
What glads a crowded house? Behold |
Your patrons in array before you! |
One half are raw, the other cold. |
One, after this play, hopes to play at cards, |
One a wild night to spend beside his doxy chooses, |
Poor fools, why court ye the regards, |
For such a set, of the chaste muses? |
I tell you, give them more and ever more and more, |
And then your mark you'll hardly stray from ever; |
To mystify be your endeavor, |
To satisfy is labor sore.... |
What ails you? Are you pleased or pained? What notion---- |
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_Poet_. Go to, and find thyself another slave! |
What! and the lofty birthright Nature gave, |
The noblest talent Heaven to man has lent, |
Thou bid'st the Poet fling to folly's ocean! |
How does he stir each deep emotion? |
How does he conquer every element? |
But by the tide of song that from his bosom springs, |
And draws into his heart all living things? |
When Nature's hand, in endless iteration, |
The thread across the whizzing spindle flings, |
When the complex, monotonous creation |
Jangles with all its million strings: |
Who, then, the long, dull series animating, |
Breaks into rhythmic march the soulless round? |
And, to the law of All each member consecrating, |
Bids one majestic harmony resound? |
Who bids the tempest rage with passion's power? |
The earnest soul with evening-redness glow? |
Who scatters vernal bud and summer flower |
Along the path where loved ones go? |
Who weaves each green leaf in the wind that trembles |
To form the wreath that merit's brow shall crown? |
Who makes Olympus fast? the gods assembles? |
The power of manhood in the Poet shown. |
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_Merry Person_. Come, then, put forth these noble powers, |
And, Poet, let thy path of flowers |
Follow a love-adventure's winding ways. |
One comes and sees by chance, one burns, one stays, |
And feels the gradual, sweet entangling! |
The pleasure grows, then comes a sudden jangling, |
Then rapture, then distress an arrow plants, |
And ere one dreams of it, lo! _there_ is a romance. |
Give us a drama in this fashion! |
Plunge into human life's full sea of passion! |
Each lives it, few its meaning ever guessed, |
Touch where you will, 'tis full of interest. |
Bright shadows fleeting o'er a mirror, |
A spark of truth and clouds of error, |
By means like these a drink is brewed |
To cheer and edify the multitude. |
The fairest flower of the youth sit listening |
Before your play, and wait the revelation; |
Each melancholy heart, with soft eyes glistening, |
Draws sad, sweet nourishment from your creation; |
This passion now, now that is stirred, by turns, |
And each one sees what in his bosom burns. |
Open alike, as yet, to weeping and to laughter, |
They still admire the flights, they still enjoy the show; |
Him who is formed, can nothing suit thereafter; |
The yet unformed with thanks will ever glow. |
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_Poet_. Ay, give me back the joyous hours, |
When I myself was ripening, too, |
When song, the fount, flung up its showers |
Of beauty ever fresh and new. |
When a soft haze the world was veiling, |
Each bud a miracle bespoke, |
And from their stems a thousand flowers I broke, |
Their fragrance through the vales exhaling. |
I nothing and yet all possessed, |
Yearning for truth and in illusion blest. |
Give me the freedom of that hour, |
The tear of joy, the pleasing pain, |
Of hate and love the thrilling power, |
Oh, give me back my youth again! |
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_Merry Person_. Youth, my good friend, thou needest certainly |
When ambushed foes are on thee springing, |
When loveliest maidens witchingly |
Their white arms round thy neck are flinging, |
When the far garland meets thy glance, |
High on the race-ground's goal suspended, |
When after many a mazy dance |
In drink and song the night is ended. |
But with a free and graceful soul |
To strike the old familiar lyre, |
And to a self-appointed goal |
Sweep lightly o'er the trembling wire, |
There lies, old gentlemen, to-day |
Your task; fear not, no vulgar error blinds us. |
Age does not make us childish, as they say, |
But we are still true children when it finds us. |
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_Manager_. Come, words enough you two have bandied, |
Now let us see some deeds at last; |
While you toss compliments full-handed, |
The time for useful work flies fast. |
Why talk of being in the humor? |
Who hesitates will never be. |
If you are poets (so says rumor) |
Now then command your poetry. |
You know full well our need and pleasure, |
We want strong drink in brimming measure; |
Brew at it now without delay! |
To-morrow will not do what is not done to-day. |
Let not a day be lost in dallying, |
But seize the possibility |
Right by the forelock, courage rallying, |
And forth with fearless spirit sallying,-- |
Once in the yoke and you are free. |
Upon our German boards, you know it, |
What any one would try, he may; |
Then stint me not, I beg, to-day, |
In scenery or machinery, Poet. |
With great and lesser heavenly lights make free, |
Spend starlight just as you desire; |
No want of water, rocks or fire |
Or birds or beasts to you shall be. |
So, in this narrow wooden house's bound, |
Stride through the whole creation's round, |
And with considerate swiftness wander |
From heaven, through this world, to the world down yonder. |
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PROLOGUE |
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IN HEAVEN. |
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[THE LORD. THE HEAVENLY HOSTS _afterward_ MEPHISTOPHELES. |
_The three archangels_, RAPHAEL, GABRIEL, _and_ MICHAEL, _come forward_.] |
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_Raphael_. The sun, in ancient wise, is sounding, |
With brother-spheres, in rival song; |
And, his appointed journey rounding, |
With thunderous movement rolls along. |
His look, new strength to angels lending, |
No creature fathom can for aye; |
The lofty works, past comprehending, |
Stand lordly, as on time's first day. |
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_Gabriel_. And swift, with wondrous swiftness fleeting, |
The pomp of earth turns round and round, |
The glow of Eden alternating |
With shuddering midnight's gloom profound; |
Up o'er the rocks the foaming ocean |
Heaves from its old, primeval bed, |
And rocks and seas, with endless motion, |
On in the spheral sweep are sped. |
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_Michael_. And tempests roar, glad warfare waging, |
From sea to land, from land to sea, |
And bind round all, amidst their raging, |
A chain of giant energy. |
There, lurid desolation, blazing, |
Foreruns the volleyed thunder's way: |
Yet, Lord, thy messengers[2] are praising |
The mild procession of thy day. |
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_All Three_. The sight new strength to angels lendeth, |
For none thy being fathom may, |
The works, no angel comprehendeth, |
Stand lordly as on time's first day. |
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_Mephistopheles_. Since, Lord, thou drawest near us once again, |
And how we do, dost graciously inquire, |
And to be pleased to see me once didst deign, |
I too among thy household venture nigher. |
Pardon, high words I cannot labor after, |
Though the whole court should look on me with scorn; |
My pathos certainly would stir thy laughter, |
Hadst thou not laughter long since quite forsworn. |
Of sun and worlds I've nought to tell worth mention, |
How men torment themselves takes my attention. |
The little God o' the world jogs on the same old way |
And is as singular as on the world's first day. |
A pity 'tis thou shouldst have given |
The fool, to make him worse, a gleam of light from heaven; |
He calls it reason, using it |
To be more beast than ever beast was yet. |
He seems to me, (your grace the word will pardon,) |
Like a long-legg'd grasshopper in the garden, |
Forever on the wing, and hops and sings |
The same old song, as in the grass he springs; |
Would he but stay there! no; he needs must muddle |
His prying nose in every puddle. |
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_The Lord_. Hast nothing for our edification? |
Still thy old work of accusation? |
Will things on earth be never right for thee? |
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_Mephistopheles_. No, Lord! I find them still as bad as bad can be. |
Poor souls! their miseries seem so much to please 'em, |
I scarce can find it in my heart to tease 'em. |
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_The Lord_. Knowest thou Faust? |
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_Mephistopheles_. The Doctor? |
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_The Lord_. Ay, my servant! |
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_Mephistopheles_. He! |
Forsooth! he serves you in a famous fashion; |
No earthly meat or drink can feed his passion; |
Its grasping greed no space can measure; |
Half-conscious and half-crazed, he finds no rest; |
The fairest stars of heaven must swell his treasure. |
Each highest joy of earth must yield its zest, |
Not all the world--the boundless azure-- |
Can fill the void within his craving breast. |
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_The Lord_. He serves me somewhat darkly, now, I grant, |
Yet will he soon attain the light of reason. |
Sees not the gardener, in the green young plant, |
That bloom and fruit shall deck its coming season? |
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_Mephistopheles_. What will you bet? You'll surely lose your wager! |
If you will give me leave henceforth, |
To lead him softly on, like an old stager. |
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_The Lord_. So long as he shall live on earth, |
Do with him all that you desire. |
Man errs and staggers from his birth. |
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_Mephistopheles_. Thank you; I never did aspire |
To have with dead folk much transaction. |
In full fresh cheeks I take the greatest satisfaction. |
A corpse will never find me in the house; |
I love to play as puss does with the mouse. |
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_The Lord_. All right, I give thee full permission! |
Draw down this spirit from its source, |
And, canst thou catch him, to perdition |
Carry him with thee in thy course, |
But stand abashed, if thou must needs confess, |
That a good man, though passion blur his vision, |
Has of the right way still a consciousness. |
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_Mephistopheles_. Good! but I'll make it a short story. |
About my wager I'm by no means sorry. |
And if I gain my end with glory |
Allow me to exult from a full breast. |
Dust shall he eat and that with zest, |
Like my old aunt, the snake, whose fame is hoary. |
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_The Lord_. Well, go and come, and make thy trial; |
The like of thee I never yet did hate. |
Of all the spirits of denial |
The scamp is he I best can tolerate. |
Man is too prone, at best, to seek the way that's easy, |
He soon grows fond of unconditioned rest; |
And therefore such a comrade suits him best, |
Who spurs and works, true devil, always busy. |
But you, true sons of God, in growing measure, |
Enjoy rich beauty's living stores of pleasure! |
The Word[3] divine that lives and works for aye, |
Fold you in boundless love's embrace alluring, |
And what in floating vision glides away, |
That seize ye and make fast with thoughts enduring. |
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[_Heaven closes, the archangels disperse._] |
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_Mephistopheles. [Alone.]_ I like at times to exchange with him a word, |
And take care not to break with him. 'Tis civil |
In the old fellow[4] and so great a Lord |
To talk so kindly with the very devil. |
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FAUST. |
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_Night. In a narrow high-arched Gothic room_, |
FAUST _sitting uneasy at his desk_. |
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_Faust_. Have now, alas! quite studied through |
Philosophy and Medicine, |
And Law, and ah! Theology, too, |
With hot desire the truth to win! |
And here, at last, I stand, poor fool! |
As wise as when I entered school; |
Am called Magister, Doctor, indeed,-- |
Ten livelong years cease not to lead |
Backward and forward, to and fro, |
My scholars by the nose--and lo! |
Just nothing, I see, is the sum of our learning, |
To the very core of my heart 'tis burning. |
'Tis true I'm more clever than all the foplings, |
Doctors, Magisters, Authors, and Popelings; |
Am plagued by no scruple, nor doubt, nor cavil, |
Nor lingering fear of hell or devil-- |
What then? all pleasure is fled forever; |
To know one thing I vainly endeavor, |
There's nothing wherein one fellow-creature |
Could be mended or bettered with me for a teacher. |
And then, too, nor goods nor gold have I, |
Nor fame nor worldly dignity,-- |
A condition no dog could longer live in! |
And so to magic my soul I've given, |
If, haply, by spirits' mouth and might, |
Some mysteries may not be brought to light; |
That to teach, no longer may be my lot, |
With bitter sweat, what I need to be taught; |
That I may know what the world contains |
In its innermost heart and finer veins, |
See all its energies and seeds |
And deal no more in words but in deeds. |
O full, round Moon, didst thou but thine |
For the last time on this woe of mine! |
Thou whom so many a midnight I |
Have watched, at this desk, come up the sky: |
O'er books and papers, a dreary pile, |
Then, mournful friend! uprose thy smile! |
Oh that I might on the mountain-height, |
Walk in the noon of thy blessed light, |
Round mountain-caverns with spirits hover, |
Float in thy gleamings the meadows over, |
And freed from the fumes of a lore-crammed brain, |
Bathe in thy dew and be well again! |
Woe! and these walls still prison me? |
Dull, dismal hole! my curse on thee! |
Where heaven's own light, with its blessed beams, |
Through painted panes all sickly gleams! |
Hemmed in by these old book-piles tall, |
Which, gnawed by worms and deep in must, |
Rise to the roof against a wall |
Of smoke-stained paper, thick with dust; |
'Mid glasses, boxes, where eye can see, |
Filled with old, obsolete instruments, |
Stuffed with old heirlooms of implements-- |
That is thy world! There's a world for thee! |
And still dost ask what stifles so |
The fluttering heart within thy breast? |
By what inexplicable woe |
The springs of life are all oppressed? |
Instead of living nature, where |
God made and planted men, his sons, |
Through smoke and mould, around thee stare |
Grim skeletons and dead men's bones. |
Up! Fly! Far out into the land! |
And this mysterious volume, see! |
By Nostradamus's[5] own hand, |
Is it not guide enough for thee? |
Then shalt thou thread the starry skies, |
And, taught by nature in her walks, |
The spirit's might shall o'er thee rise, |
As ghost to ghost familiar talks. |
Vain hope that mere dry sense should here |
Explain the holy signs to thee. |
I feel you, spirits, hovering near; |
Oh, if you hear me, answer me! |
[_He opens the book and beholds the sign of the Macrocosm.[_6]] |
Ha! as I gaze, what ecstasy is this, |
In one full tide through all my senses flowing! |
I feel a new-born life, a holy bliss |
Through nerves and veins mysteriously glowing. |
Was it a God who wrote each sign? |
Which, all my inner tumult stilling, |
And this poor heart with rapture filling, |
Reveals to me, by force divine, |
Great Nature's energies around and through me thrilling? |
Am I a God? It grows so bright to me! |
Each character on which my eye reposes |
Nature in act before my soul discloses. |
The sage's word was truth, at last I see: |
"The spirit-world, unbarred, is waiting; |
Thy sense is locked, thy heart is dead! |
Up, scholar, bathe, unhesitating, |
The earthly breast in morning-red!" |
[_He contemplates the sign._] |
How all one whole harmonious weaves, |
Each in the other works and lives! |
See heavenly powers ascending and descending, |
The golden buckets, one long line, extending! |
See them with bliss-exhaling pinions winging |
Their way from heaven through earth--their singing |
Harmonious through the universe is ringing! |
Majestic show! but ah! a show alone! |
Nature! where find I thee, immense, unknown? |
Where you, ye breasts? Ye founts all life sustaining, |
On which hang heaven and earth, and where |
Men's withered hearts their waste repair-- |
Ye gush, ye nurse, and I must sit complaining? |
[_He opens reluctantly the book and sees the sign of the earth-spirit._] |
How differently works on me this sign! |
Thou, spirit of the earth, art to me nearer; |
I feel my powers already higher, clearer, |
I glow already as with new-pressed wine, |
I feel the mood to brave life's ceaseless clashing, |
To bear its frowning woes, its raptures flashing, |
To mingle in the tempest's dashing, |
And not to tremble in the shipwreck's crashing; |
Clouds gather o'er my head-- |
Them moon conceals her light-- |
The lamp goes out! |
It smokes!--Red rays are darting, quivering |
Around my head--comes down |
A horror from the vaulted roof |
And seizes me! |
Spirit that I invoked, thou near me art, |
Unveil thyself! |
Ha! what a tearing in my heart! |
Upheaved like an ocean |
My senses toss with strange emotion! |
I feel my heart to thee entirely given! |
Thou must! and though the price were life--were heaven! |
[_He seizes the book and pronounces mysteriously the sign of the spirit. |
A ruddy flame darts out, the spirit appears in the flame._] |
|
_Spirit_. Who calls upon me? |
|
_Faust. [Turning away.]_ Horrid sight! |
|
_Spirit_. Long have I felt the mighty action, |
Upon my sphere, of thy attraction, |
And now-- |
|
_Faust_. Away, intolerable sprite! |
|
_Spirit_. Thou breath'st a panting supplication |
To hear my voice, my face to see; |
Thy mighty prayer prevails on me, |
I come!--what miserable agitation |
Seizes this demigod! Where is the cry of thought? |
Where is the breast? that in itself a world begot, |
And bore and cherished, that with joy did tremble |
And fondly dream us spirits to resemble. |
Where art thou, Faust? whose voice rang through my ear, |
Whose mighty yearning drew me from my sphere? |
Is this thing thou? that, blasted by my breath, |
Through all life's windings shuddereth, |
A shrinking, cringing, writhing worm! |
|
_Faust_. Thee, flame-born creature, shall I fear? |
'Tis I, 'tis Faust, behold thy peer! |
|
_Spirit_. In life's tide currents, in action's storm, |
Up and down, like a wave, |
Like the wind I sweep! |
Cradle and grave-- |
A limitless deep--- |
An endless weaving |
To and fro, |
A restless heaving |
Of life and glow,-- |
So shape I, on Destiny's thundering loom, |
The Godhead's live garment, eternal in bloom. |
|
_Faust_. Spirit that sweep'st the world from end to end, |
How near, this hour, I feel myself to thee! |
|
_Spirit_. Thou'rt like the spirit thou canst comprehend, |
Not me! [_Vanishes._] |
|
_Faust_. [_Collapsing_.] Not thee? |
Whom then? |
I, image of the Godhead, |
And no peer for thee! |
[_A knocking_.] |
O Death! I know it!--'tis my Famulus-- |
Good-bye, ye dreams of bliss Elysian! |
Shame! that so many a glowing vision |
This dried-up sneak must scatter thus! |
|
[WAGNER, _in sleeping-gown and night-cap, a lamp in his hand._ |
FAUST _turns round with an annoyed look_.] |
|
_Wagner_. Excuse me! you're engaged in declamation; |
'Twas a Greek tragedy no doubt you read? |
I in this art should like initiation, |
For nowadays it stands one well instead. |
I've often heard them boast, a preacher |
Might profit with a player for his teacher. |
|
_Faust_. Yes, when the preacher is a player, granted: |
As often happens in our modern ways. |
|
_Wagner_. Ah! when one with such love of study's haunted, |
And scarcely sees the world on holidays, |
And takes a spy-glass, as it were, to read it, |
How can one by persuasion hope to lead it? |
|
_Faust_. What you don't feel, you'll never catch by hunting, |
It must gush out spontaneous from the soul, |
And with a fresh delight enchanting |
The hearts of all that hear control. |
Sit there forever! Thaw your glue-pot,-- |
Blow up your ash-heap to a flame, and brew, |
With a dull fire, in your stew-pot, |
Of other men's leavings a ragout! |
Children and apes will gaze delighted, |
If their critiques can pleasure impart; |
But never a heart will be ignited, |
Comes not the spark from the speaker's heart. |
|
_Wagner_. Delivery makes the orator's success; |
There I'm still far behindhand, I confess. |
|
_Faust_. Seek honest gains, without pretence! |
Be not a cymbal-tinkling fool! |
Sound understanding and good sense |
Speak out with little art or rule; |
And when you've something earnest to utter, |
Why hunt for words in such a flutter? |
Yes, your discourses, that are so refined' |
In which humanity's poor shreds you frizzle, |
Are unrefreshing as the mist and wind |
That through the withered leaves of autumn whistle! |
|
_Wagner_. Ah God! well, art is long! |
And life is short and fleeting. |
What headaches have I felt and what heart-beating, |
When critical desire was strong. |
How hard it is the ways and means to master |
By which one gains each fountain-head! |
|
And ere one yet has half the journey sped, |
The poor fool dies--O sad disaster! |
|
_Faust_. Is parchment, then, the holy well-spring, thinkest, |
A draught from which thy thirst forever slakes? |
No quickening element thou drinkest, |
Till up from thine own soul the fountain breaks. |
|
_Wagner_. Excuse me! in these olden pages |
We catch the spirit of the by-gone ages, |
We see what wisest men before our day have thought, |
And to what glorious heights we their bequests have brought. |
|
_Faust_. O yes, we've reached the stars at last! |
My friend, it is to us,--the buried past,-- |
A book with seven seals protected; |
Your spirit of the times is, then, |
At bottom, your own spirit, gentlemen, |
In which the times are seen reflected. |
And often such a mess that none can bear it; |
At the first sight of it they run away. |
A dust-bin and a lumber-garret, |
At most a mock-heroic play[8] |
With fine, pragmatic maxims teeming, |
The mouths of puppets well-beseeming! |
|
_Wagner_. But then the world! the heart and mind of man! |
To know of these who would not pay attention? |
|
_Faust_. To know them, yes, as weaklings can! |
Who dares the child's true name outright to mention? |
The few who any thing thereof have learned, |
Who out of their heart's fulness needs must gabble, |
And show their thoughts and feelings to the rabble, |
Have evermore been crucified and burned. |
I pray you, friend, 'tis wearing into night, |
Let us adjourn here, for the present. |
|
_Wagner_. I had been glad to stay till morning light, |
This learned talk with you has been so pleasant, |
But the first day of Easter comes to-morrow. |
And then an hour or two I'll borrow. |
With zeal have I applied myself to learning, |
True, I know much, yet to know all am burning. |
[_Exit_.] |
|
_Faust_. [_Alone_.] See how in _his_ head only, hope still lingers, |
Who evermore to empty rubbish clings, |
With greedy hand grubs after precious things, |
And leaps for joy when some poor worm he fingers! |
That such a human voice should dare intrude, |
Where all was full of ghostly tones and features! |
Yet ah! this once, my gratitude |
Is due to thee, most wretched of earth's creatures. |
Thou snatchedst me from the despairing state |
In which my senses, well nigh crazed, were sunken. |
The apparition was so giant-great, |
That to a very dwarf my soul had shrunken. |
I, godlike, who in fancy saw but now |
Eternal truth's fair glass in wondrous nearness, |
Rejoiced in heavenly radiance and clearness, |
Leaving the earthly man below; |
I, more than cherub, whose free force |
Dreamed, through the veins of nature penetrating, |
To taste the life of Gods, like them creating, |
Behold me this presumption expiating! |
A word of thunder sweeps me from my course. |
Myself with thee no longer dare I measure; |
Had I the power to draw thee down at pleasure; |
To hold thee here I still had not the force. |
Oh, in that blest, ecstatic hour, |
I felt myself so small, so great; |
Thou drovest me with cruel power |
Back upon man's uncertain fate |
What shall I do? what slum, thus lonely? |
That impulse must I, then, obey? |
Alas! our very deeds, and not our sufferings only, |
How do they hem and choke life's way! |
To all the mind conceives of great and glorious |
A strange and baser mixture still adheres; |
Striving for earthly good are we victorious? |
A dream and cheat the better part appears. |
The feelings that could once such noble life inspire |
Are quenched and trampled out in passion's mire. |
Where Fantasy, erewhile, with daring flight |
Out to the infinite her wings expanded, |
A little space can now suffice her quite, |
When hope on hope time's gulf has wrecked and stranded. |
Care builds her nest far down the heart's recesses, |
There broods o'er dark, untold distresses, |
Restless she sits, and scares thy joy and peace away; |
She puts on some new mask with each new day, |
Herself as house and home, as wife and child presenting, |
As fire and water, bane and blade; |
What never hits makes thee afraid, |
And what is never lost she keeps thee still lamenting. |
Not like the Gods am I! Too deep that truth is thrust! |
But like the worm, that wriggles through the dust; |
Who, as along the dust for food he feels, |
Is crushed and buried by the traveller's heels. |
Is it not dust that makes this lofty wall |
Groan with its hundred shelves and cases; |
The rubbish and the thousand trifles all |
That crowd these dark, moth-peopled places? |
Here shall my craving heart find rest? |
Must I perchance a thousand books turn over, |
To find that men are everywhere distrest, |
And here and there one happy one discover? |
Why grin'st thou down upon me, hollow skull? |
But that thy brain, like mine, once trembling, hoping, |
Sought the light day, yet ever sorrowful, |
Burned for the truth in vain, in twilight groping? |
Ye, instruments, of course, are mocking me; |
Its wheels, cogs, bands, and barrels each one praises. |
I waited at the door; you were the key; |
Your ward is nicely turned, and yet no bolt it raises. |
Unlifted in the broadest day, |
Doth Nature's veil from prying eyes defend her, |
And what (he chooses not before thee to display, |
Not all thy screws and levers can force her to surrender. |
Old trumpery! not that I e'er used thee, but |
Because my father used thee, hang'st thou o'er me, |
Old scroll! thou hast been stained with smoke and smut |
Since, on this desk, the lamp first dimly gleamed before me. |
Better have squandered, far, I now can clearly see, |
My little all, than melt beneath it, in this Tophet! |
That which thy fathers have bequeathed to thee, |
Earn and become possessor of it! |
What profits not a weary load will be; |
What it brings forth alone can yield the moment profit. |
Why do I gaze as if a spell had bound me |
Up yonder? Is that flask a magnet to the eyes? |
What lovely light, so sudden, blooms around me? |
As when in nightly woods we hail the full-moon-rise. |
I greet thee, rarest phial, precious potion! |
As now I take thee down with deep devotion, |
In thee I venerate man's wit and art. |
Quintessence of all soporific flowers, |
Extract of all the finest deadly powers, |
Thy favor to thy master now impart! |
I look on thee, the sight my pain appeases, |
I handle thee, the strife of longing ceases, |
The flood-tide of the spirit ebbs away. |
Far out to sea I'm drawn, sweet voices listening, |
The glassy waters at my feet are glistening, |
To new shores beckons me a new-born day. |
A fiery chariot floats, on airy pinions, |
To where I sit! Willing, it beareth me, |
On a new path, through ether's blue dominions, |
To untried spheres of pure activity. |
This lofty life, this bliss elysian, |
Worm that thou waft erewhile, deservest thou? |
Ay, on this earthly sun, this charming vision, |
Turn thy back resolutely now! |
Boldly draw near and rend the gates asunder, |
By which each cowering mortal gladly steals. |
Now is the time to show by deeds of wonder |
That manly greatness not to godlike glory yields; |
Before that gloomy pit to stand, unfearing, |
Where Fantasy self-damned in its own torment lies, |
Still onward to that pass-way steering, |
Around whose narrow mouth hell-flames forever rise; |
Calmly to dare the step, serene, unshrinking, |
Though into nothingness the hour should see thee sinking. |
Now, then, come down from thy old case, I bid thee, |
Where thou, forgotten, many a year hast hid thee, |
Into thy master's hand, pure, crystal glass! |
The joy-feasts of the fathers thou hast brightened, |
The hearts of gravest guests were lightened, |
When, pledged, from hand to hand they saw thee pass. |
Thy sides, with many a curious type bedight, |
Which each, as with one draught he quaffed the liquor |
Must read in rhyme from off the wondrous beaker, |
Remind me, ah! of many a youthful night. |
I shall not hand thee now to any neighbor, |
Not now to show my wit upon thy carvings labor; |
Here is a juice of quick-intoxicating might. |
The rich brown flood adown thy sides is streaming, |
With my own choice ingredients teeming; |
Be this last draught, as morning now is gleaming, |
Drained as a lofty pledge to greet the festal light! |
[_He puts the goblet to his lips_. |
|
_Ringing of bells and choral song_. |
|
_Chorus of Angels_. Christ hath arisen! |
Joy to humanity! |
No more shall vanity, |
Death and inanity |
Hold thee in prison! |
|
_Faust_. What hum of music, what a radiant tone, |
Thrills through me, from my lips the goblet stealing! |
Ye murmuring bells, already make ye known |
The Easter morn's first hour, with solemn pealing? |
Sing you, ye choirs, e'en now, the glad, consoling song, |
That once, from angel-lips, through gloom sepulchral rung, |
A new immortal covenant sealing? |
|
_Chorus of Women_. Spices we carried, |
Laid them upon his breast; |
Tenderly buried |
Him whom we loved the best; |
|
Cleanly to bind him |
Took we the fondest care, |
Ah! and we find him |
Now no more there. |
|
_Chorus of Angels_. Christ hath ascended! |
Reign in benignity! |
Pain and indignity, |
Scorn and malignity, |
_Their_ work have ended. |
|
_Faust_. Why seek ye me in dust, forlorn, |
Ye heavenly tones, with soft enchanting? |
Go, greet pure-hearted men this holy morn! |
Your message well I hear, but faith to me is wanting; |
Wonder, its dearest child, of Faith is born. |
To yonder spheres I dare no more aspire, |
Whence the sweet tidings downward float; |
And yet, from childhood heard, the old, familiar note |
Calls back e'en now to life my warm desire. |
Ah! once how sweetly fell on me the kiss |
Of heavenly love in the still Sabbath stealing! |
Prophetically rang the bells with solemn pealing; |
A prayer was then the ecstasy of bliss; |
A blessed and mysterious yearning |
Drew me to roam through meadows, woods, and skies; |
And, midst a thousand tear-drops burning, |
I felt a world within me rise |
That strain, oh, how it speaks youth's gleesome plays and feelings, |
Joys of spring-festivals long past; |
Remembrance holds me now, with childhood's fond appealings, |
Back from the fatal step, the last. |
Sound on, ye heavenly strains, that bliss restore me! |
Tears gush, once more the spell of earth is o'er me |
|
_Chorus of Disciples_. Has the grave's lowly one |
Risen victorious? |
Sits he, God's Holy One, |
High-throned and glorious? |
He, in this blest new birth, |
Rapture creative knows;[9] |
Ah! on the breast of earth |
Taste we still nature's woes. |
Left here to languish |
Lone in a world like this, |
Fills us with anguish |
Master, thy bliss! |
|
_Chorus of Angels_. Christ has arisen |
Out of corruption's gloom. |
Break from your prison, |
Burst every tomb! |
Livingly owning him, |
Lovingly throning him, |
Feasting fraternally, |
Praying diurnally, |
Bearing his messages, |
Sharing his promises, |
Find ye your master near, |
Find ye him here![10] |
|
|
|
|
BEFORE THE GATE. |
|
_Pedestrians of all descriptions stroll forth_. |
|
_Mechanics' Apprentices_. Where are you going to carouse? |
|
_Others_. We're all going out to the Hunter's House. |
|
_The First_. We're going, ourselves, out to the Mill-House, brothers. |
|
_An Apprentice_. The Fountain-House I rather recommend. |
|
_Second_. 'Tis not a pleasant road, my friend. |
|
_The second group_. What will you do, then? |
|
_A Third_. I go with the others. |
|
_Fourth_. Come up to Burgdorf, there you're sure to find good cheer, |
The handsomest of girls and best of beer, |
And rows, too, of the very first water. |
|
_Fifth_. You monstrous madcap, does your skin |
Itch for the third time to try that inn? |
I've had enough for _my_ taste in that quarter. |
|
_Servant-girl_. No! I'm going back again to town for one. |
|
_Others_. Under those poplars we are sure to meet him. |
|
_First Girl_. But that for me is no great fun; |
For you are always sure to get him, |
He never dances with any but you. |
Great good to me your luck will do! |
|
_Others_. He's not alone, I heard him say, |
The curly-head would be with him to-day. |
|
_Scholar_. Stars! how the buxom wenches stride there! |
Quick, brother! we must fasten alongside there. |
Strong beer, good smart tobacco, and the waist |
Of a right handsome gall, well rigg'd, now that's my taste. |
|
_Citizen's Daughter_. Do see those fine, young fellows yonder! |
'Tis, I declare, a great disgrace; |
When they might have the very best, I wonder, |
After these galls they needs must race! |
|
_Second scholar_ [_to the first_]. |
Stop! not so fast! there come two more behind, |
My eyes! but ain't they dressed up neatly? |
One is my neighbor, or I'm blind; |
I love the girl, she looks so sweetly. |
Alone all quietly they go, |
You'll find they'll take us, by and bye, in tow. |
|
_First_. No, brother! I don't like these starched up ways. |
Make haste! before the game slips through our fingers. |
The hand that swings the broom o' Saturdays |
On Sundays round thy neck most sweetly lingers. |
|
_Citizen_. No, I don't like at all this new-made burgomaster! |
His insolence grows daily ever faster. |
No good from him the town will get! |
Will things grow better with him? Never! |
We're under more constraint than ever, |
And pay more tax than ever yet. |
|
_Beggar_. [_Sings_.] Good gentlemen, and you, fair ladies, |
With such red cheeks and handsome dress, |
Think what my melancholy trade is, |
And see and pity my distress! |
Help the poor harper, sisters, brothers! |
Who loves to give, alone is gay. |
This day, a holiday to others, |
Make it for me a harvest day. |
|
_Another citizen_. |
Sundays and holidays, I like, of all things, a good prattle |
Of war and fighting, and the whole array, |
When back in Turkey, far away, |
The peoples give each other battle. |
One stands before the window, drinks his glass, |
And sees the ships with flags glide slowly down the river; |
Comes home at night, when out of sight they pass, |
And sings with joy, "Oh, peace forever!" |
|
_Third citizen_. So I say, neighbor! let them have their way, |
Crack skulls and in their crazy riot |
Turn all things upside down they may, |
But leave us here in peace and quiet. |
|
_Old Woman_ [_to the citizen's daughter_]. |
Heyday, brave prinking this! the fine young blood! |
Who is not smitten that has met you?-- |
But not so proud! All very good! |
And what you want I'll promise soon to get you. |
|
_Citizen's Daughter_. Come, Agatha! I dread in public sight |
To prattle with such hags; don't stay, O, Luddy! |
'Tis true she showed me, on St. Andrew's night, |
My future sweetheart in the body. |
|
_The other_. She showed me mine, too, in a glass, |
Right soldierlike, with daring comrades round him. |
I look all round, I study all that pass, |
But to this hour I have not found him. |
|
_Soldiers_. Castles with lowering |
Bulwarks and towers, |
Maidens with towering |
Passions and powers, |
Both shall be ours! |
Daring the venture, |
Glorious the pay! |
|
When the brass trumpet |
Summons us loudly, |
Joy-ward or death-ward, |
On we march proudly. |
That is a storming! |
|
Life in its splendor! |
Castles and maidens |
Both must surrender. |
Daring the venture, |
Glorious the pay. |
There go the soldiers |
Marching away! |
|
|
FAUST _and_ WAGNER. |
|
_Faust_. Spring's warm look has unfettered the fountains, |
Brooks go tinkling with silvery feet; |
Hope's bright blossoms the valley greet; |
Weakly and sickly up the rough mountains |
Pale old Winter has made his retreat. |
Thence he launches, in sheer despite, |
Sleet and hail in impotent showers, |
O'er the green lawn as he takes his flight; |
But the sun will suffer no white, |
Everywhere waking the formative powers, |
Living colors he yearns to spread; |
Yet, as he finds it too early for flowers, |
Gayly dressed people he takes instead. |
Look from this height whereon we find us |
Back to the town we have left behind us, |
Where from the dark and narrow door |
Forth a motley multitude pour. |
They sun themselves gladly and all are gay, |
They celebrate Christ's resurrection to-day. |
For have not they themselves arisen? |
From smoky huts and hovels and stables, |
From labor's bonds and traffic's prison, |
From the confinement of roofs and gables, |
From many a cramping street and alley, |
From churches full of the old world's night, |
All have come out to the day's broad light. |
See, only see! how the masses sally |
Streaming and swarming through gardens and fields |
How the broad stream that bathes the valley |
Is everywhere cut with pleasure boats' keels, |
And that last skiff, so heavily laden, |
Almost to sinking, puts off in the stream; |
Ribbons and jewels of youngster and maiden |
From the far paths of the mountain gleam. |
How it hums o'er the fields and clangs from the steeple! |
This is the real heaven of the people, |
Both great and little are merry and gay, |
I am a man, too, I can be, to-day. |
|
_Wagner_. With you, Sir Doctor, to go out walking |
Is at all times honor and gain enough; |
But to trust myself here alone would be shocking, |
For I am a foe to all that is rough. |
Fiddling and bowling and screams and laughter |
To me are the hatefullest noises on earth; |
They yell as if Satan himself were after, |
And call it music and call it mirth. |
|
[_Peasants (under the linden). Dance and song._] |
|
The shepherd prinked him for the dance, |
With jacket gay and spangle's glance, |
And all his finest quiddle. |
And round the linden lass and lad |
They wheeled and whirled and danced like mad. |
Huzza! huzza! |
Huzza! Ha, ha, ha! |
And tweedle-dee went the fiddle. |
|
And in he bounded through the whirl, |
And with his elbow punched a girl, |
Heigh diddle, diddle! |
The buxom wench she turned round quick, |
"Now that I call a scurvy trick!" |
Huzza! huzza! |
Huzza! ha, ha, ha! |
Tweedle-dee, tweedle-dee went the fiddle. |
|
And petticoats and coat-tails flew |
As up and down they went, and through, |
Across and down the middle. |
They all grew red, they all grew warm, |
And rested, panting, arm in arm, |
Huzza! huzza! |
Ta-ra-la! |
Tweedle-dee went the fiddle! |
|
"And don't be so familiar there! |
How many a one, with speeches fair, |
His trusting maid will diddle!" |
But still he flattered her aside-- |
And from the linden sounded wide: |
Huzza! huzza! |
Huzza! huzza! ha! ha! ha! |
And tweedle-dee the fiddle. |
|
_Old Peasant._ Sir Doctor, this is kind of you, |
That with us here you deign to talk, |
And through the crowd of folk to-day |
A man so highly larned, walk. |
So take the fairest pitcher here, |
Which we with freshest drink have filled, |
I pledge it to you, praying aloud |
That, while your thirst thereby is stilled, |
So many days as the drops it contains |
May fill out the life that to you remains. |
|
_Faust._ I take the quickening draught and call |
For heaven's best blessing on one and all. |
|
[_The people form a circle round him._] |
|
_Old Peasant._ Your presence with us, this glad day, |
We take it very kind, indeed! |
In truth we've found you long ere this |
In evil days a friend in need! |
Full many a one stands living here, |
Whom, at death's door already laid, |
Your father snatched from fever's rage, |
When, by his skill, the plague he stayed. |
You, a young man, we daily saw |
Go with him to the pest-house then, |
And many a corpse was carried forth, |
But you came out alive again. |
With a charmed life you passed before us, |
Helped by the Helper watching o'er us. |
|
_All._ The well-tried man, and may he live, |
Long years a helping hand to give! |
|
_Faust._ Bow down to Him on high who sends |
His heavenly help and helping friends! |
[_He goes on with_ WAGNER.] |
|
_Wagner._ What feelings, O great man, thy heart must swell |
Thus to receive a people's veneration! |
O worthy all congratulation, |
Whose gifts to such advantage tell. |
The father to his son shows thee with exultation, |
All run and crowd and ask, the circle closer draws, |
The fiddle stops, the dancers pause, |
Thou goest--the lines fall back for thee. |
They fling their gay-decked caps on high; |
A little more and they would bow the knee |
As if the blessed Host came by. |
|
_Faust._ A few steps further on, until we reach that stone; |
There will we rest us from our wandering. |
How oft in prayer and penance there alone, |
Fasting, I sate, on holy mysteries pondering. |
There, rich in hope, in faith still firm, |
I've wept, sighed, wrung my hands and striven |
This plague's removal to extort (poor worm!) |
From the almighty Lord of Heaven. |
The crowd's applause has now a scornful tone; |
O couldst thou hear my conscience tell its story, |
How little either sire or son |
Has done to merit such a glory! |
My father was a worthy man, confused |
And darkened with his narrow lucubrations, |
Who with a whimsical, though well-meant patience, |
On Nature's holy circles mused. |
Shut up in his black laboratory, |
Experimenting without end, |
'Midst his adepts, till he grew hoary, |
He sought the opposing powers to blend. |
Thus, a red lion,[11] a bold suitor, married |
The silver lily, in the lukewarm bath, |
And, from one bride-bed to another harried, |
The two were seen to fly before the flaming wrath. |
If then, with colors gay and splendid, |
The glass the youthful queen revealed, |
Here was the physic, death the patients' sufferings ended, |
And no one asked, who then was healed? |
Thus, with electuaries so satanic, |
Worse than the plague with all its panic, |
We rioted through hill and vale; |
Myself, with my own hands, the drug to thousands giving, |
They passed away, and I am living |
To hear men's thanks the murderers hail! |
|
_Wagner._ Forbear! far other name that service merits! |
Can a brave man do more or less |
Than with nice conscientiousness |
To exercise the calling he inherits? |
If thou, as youth, thy father honorest, |
To learn from him thou wilt desire; |
If thou, as man, men with new light hast blest, |
Then may thy son to loftier heights aspire. |
|
_Faust._ O blest! who hopes to find repose, |
Up from this mighty sea of error diving! |
Man cannot use what he already knows, |
To use the unknown ever striving. |
But let not such dark thoughts a shadow throw |
O'er the bright joy this hour inspires! |
See how the setting sun, with ruddy glow, |
The green-embosomed hamlet fires! |
He sinks and fades, the day is lived and gone, |
He hastens forth new scenes of life to waken. |
O for a wing to lift and bear me on, |
And on, to where his last rays beckon! |
Then should I see the world's calm breast |
In everlasting sunset glowing, |
The summits all on fire, each valley steeped in rest, |
The silver brook to golden rivers flowing. |
No savage mountain climbing to the skies |
Should stay the godlike course with wild abysses; |
And now the sea, with sheltering, warm recesses |
Spreads out before the astonished eyes. |
At last it seems as if the God were sinking; |
But a new impulse fires the mind, |
Onward I speed, his endless glory drinking, |
The day before me and the night behind, |
The heavens above my head and under me the ocean. |
A lovely dream,--meanwhile he's gone from sight. |
Ah! sure, no earthly wing, in swiftest flight, |
May with the spirit's wings hold equal motion. |
Yet has each soul an inborn feeling |
Impelling it to mount and soar away, |
When, lost in heaven's blue depths, the lark is pealing |
High overhead her airy lay; |
When o'er the mountain pine's black shadow, |
With outspread wing the eagle sweeps, |
And, steering on o'er lake and meadow, |
The crane his homeward journey keeps. |
|
_Wagner._ I've had myself full many a wayward hour, |
But never yet felt such a passion's power. |
One soon grows tired of field and wood and brook, |
I envy not the fowl of heaven his pinions. |
Far nobler joy to soar through thought's dominions |
From page to page, from book to book! |
Ah! winter nights, so dear to mind and soul! |
Warm, blissful life through all the limbs is thrilling, |
And when thy hands unfold a genuine ancient scroll, |
It seems as if all heaven the room were filling. |
|
_Faust_. One passion only has thy heart possessed; |
The other, friend, O, learn it never! |
Two souls, alas! are lodged in my wild breast, |
Which evermore opposing ways endeavor, |
The one lives only on the joys of time, |
Still to the world with clamp-like organs clinging; |
The other leaves this earthly dust and slime, |
To fields of sainted sires up-springing. |
O, are there spirits in the air, |
That empire hold 'twixt earth's and heaven's dominions, |
Down from your realm of golden haze repair, |
Waft me to new, rich life, upon your rosy pinions! |
Ay! were a magic mantle only mine, |
To soar o'er earth's wide wildernesses, |
I would not sell it for the costliest dresses, |
Not for a royal robe the gift resign. |
|
_Wagner_. O, call them not, the well known powers of air, |
That swarm through all the middle kingdom, weaving |
Their fairy webs, with many a fatal snare |
The feeble race of men deceiving. |
First, the sharp spirit-tooth, from out the North, |
And arrowy tongues and fangs come thickly flying; |
Then from the East they greedily dart forth, |
Sucking thy lungs, thy life-juice drying; |
If from the South they come with fever thirst, |
Upon thy head noon's fiery splendors heaping; |
The Westwind brings a swarm, refreshing first, |
Then all thy world with thee in stupor steeping. |
They listen gladly, aye on mischief bent, |
Gladly draw near, each weak point to espy, |
They make believe that they from heaven are sent, |
Whispering like angels, while they lie. |
But let us go! The earth looks gray, my friend, |
The air grows cool, the mists ascend! |
At night we learn our homes to prize.-- |
Why dost thou stop and stare with all thy eyes? |
What can so chain thy sight there, in the gloaming? |
|
_Faust_. Seest thou that black dog through stalks and stubble roaming? |
|
_Wagner_. I saw him some time since, he seemed not strange to me. |
|
_Faust_. Look sharply! What dost take the beast to be? |
|
_Wagner_. For some poor poodle who has lost his master, |
And, dog-like, scents him o'er the ground. |
|
_Faust_. Markst thou how, ever nearer, ever faster, |
Towards us his spiral track wheels round and round? |
And if my senses suffer no confusion, |
Behind him trails a fiery glare. |
|
_Wagner_. 'Tis probably an optical illusion; |
I still see only a black poodle there. |
|
_Faust_. He seems to me as he were tracing slyly |
His magic rings our feet at last to snare. |
|
_Wagner_. To me he seems to dart around our steps so shyly, |
As if he said: is one of them my master there? |
|
_Faust_. The circle narrows, he is near! |
|
_Wagner_. Thou seest! a dog we have, no spectre, here! |
He growls and stops, crawls on his belly, too, |
And wags his tail,--as all dogs do. |
|
_Faust_. Come here, sir! come, our comrade be! |
|
_Wagner_. He has a poodle's drollery. |
Stand still, and he, too, waits to see; |
Speak to him, and he jumps on thee; |
Lose something, drop thy cane or sling it |
Into the stream, he'll run and bring it. |
|
_Faust_. I think you're right; I trace no spirit here, |
'Tis all the fruit of training, that is clear. |
|
_Wagner_. A well-trained dog is a great treasure, |
Wise men in such will oft take pleasure. |
And he deserves your favor and a collar, |
He, of the students the accomplished scholar. |
|
[_They go in through the town gate._] |
|
|
|
|
STUDY-CHAMBER. |
|
_Enter_ FAUST _with the_ POODLE. |
|
|
I leave behind me field and meadow |
Veiled in the dusk of holy night, |
Whose ominous and awful shadow |
Awakes the better soul to light. |
To sleep are lulled the wild desires, |
The hand of passion lies at rest; |
The love of man the bosom fires, |
The love of God stirs up the breast. |
|
Be quiet, poodle! what worrisome fiend hath possest thee, |
Nosing and snuffling so round the door? |
Go behind the stove there and rest thee, |
There's my best pillow--what wouldst thou more? |
As, out on the mountain-paths, frisking and leaping, |
Thou, to amuse us, hast done thy best, |
So now in return lie still in my keeping, |
A quiet, contented, and welcome guest. |
|
When, in our narrow chamber, nightly, |
The friendly lamp begins to burn, |
Then in the bosom thought beams brightly, |
Homeward the heart will then return. |
Reason once more bids passion ponder, |
Hope blooms again and smiles on man; |
Back to life's rills he yearns to wander, |
Ah! to the source where life began. |
|
Stop growling, poodle! In the music Elysian |
That laps my soul at this holy hour, |
These bestial noises have jarring power. |
We know that men will treat with derision |
Whatever they cannot understand, |
At goodness and truth and beauty's vision |
Will shut their eyes and murmur and howl at it; |
And must the dog, too, snarl and growl at it? |
|
But ah, with the best will, I feel already, |
No peace will well up in me, clear and steady. |
But why must hope so soon deceive us, |
And the dried-up stream in fever leave us? |
For in this I have had a full probation. |
And yet for this want a supply is provided, |
To a higher than earth the soul is guided, |
We are ready and yearn for revelation: |
And where are its light and warmth so blent |
As here in the New Testament? |
I feel, this moment, a mighty yearning |
To expound for once the ground text of all, |
The venerable original |
Into my own loved German honestly turning. |
[_He opens the volume, and applies himself to the task_.] |
"In the beginning was the _Word_." I read. |
But here I stick! Who helps me to proceed? |
The _Word_--so high I cannot--dare not, rate it, |
I must, then, otherwise translate it, |
If by the spirit I am rightly taught. |
It reads: "In the beginning was the _thought_." |
But study well this first line's lesson, |
Nor let thy pen to error overhasten! |
Is it the _thought_ does all from time's first hour? |
"In the beginning," read then, "was the _power_." |
Yet even while I write it down, my finger |
Is checked, a voice forbids me there to linger. |
The spirit helps! At once I dare to read |
And write: "In the beginning was the _deed_." |
|
If I with thee must share my chamber, |
Poodle, now, remember, |
No more howling, |
No more growling! |
I had as lief a bull should bellow, |
As have for a chum such a noisy fellow. |
Stop that yell, now, |
One of us must quit this cell now! |
'Tis hard to retract hospitality, |
But the door is open, thy way is free. |
But what ails the creature? |
Is this in the course of nature? |
Is it real? or one of Fancy's shows? |
|
How long and broad my poodle grows! |
He rises from the ground; |
That is no longer the form of a hound! |
Heaven avert the curse from us! |
He looks like a hippopotamus, |
With his fiery eyes and the terrible white |
Of his grinning teeth! oh what a fright |
Have I brought with me into the house! Ah now, |
No mystery art thou! |
Methinks for such half hellish brood |
The key of Solomon were good. |
|
_Spirits_ [_in the passage_]. Softly! a fellow is caught there! |
Keep back, all of you, follow him not there! |
Like the fox in the trap, |
Mourns the old hell-lynx his mishap. |
But give ye good heed! |
This way hover, that way hover, |
Over and over, |
And he shall right soon be freed. |
Help can you give him, |
O do not leave him! |
Many good turns he's done us, |
Many a fortune won us. |
|
_Faust_. First, to encounter the creature |
By the spell of the Four, says the teacher: |
Salamander shall glisten,[12] |
Undina lapse lightly, |
Sylph vanish brightly, |
Kobold quick listen. |
|
He to whom Nature |
Shows not, as teacher, |
Every force |
And secret source, |
Over the spirits |
No power inherits. |
|
Vanish in glowing |
Flame, Salamander! |
Inward, spirally flowing, |
Gurgle, Undine! |
Gleam in meteoric splendor, |
Airy Queen! |
Thy homely help render, |
Incubus! Incubus! |
Forth and end the charm for us! |
|
No kingdom of Nature |
Resides in the creature. |
He lies there grinning--'tis clear, my charm |
Has done the monster no mite of harm. |
I'll try, for thy curing, |
Stronger adjuring. |
|
Art thou a jail-bird, |
A runaway hell-bird? |
This sign,[13] then--adore it! |
They tremble before it |
All through the dark dwelling. |
|
His hair is bristling--his body swelling. |
|
Reprobate creature! |
Canst read his nature? |
The Uncreated, |
Ineffably Holy, |
With Deity mated, |
Sin's victim lowly? |
|
Driven behind the stove by my spells, |
Like an elephant he swells; |
He fills the whole room, so huge he's grown, |
He waxes shadowy faster and faster. |
Rise not up to the ceiling--down! |
Lay thyself at the feet of thy master! |
Thou seest, there's reason to dread my ire. |
I'll scorch thee with the holy fire! |
Wait not for the sight |
Of the thrice-glowing light! |
Wait not to feel the might |
Of the potentest spell in all my treasure! |
|
|
MEPHISTOPHELES. |
[_As the mist sinks, steps forth from behind the stove, |
dressed as a travelling scholasticus_.] |
Why all this noise? What is your worship's pleasure? |
|
_Faust_. This was the poodle's essence then! |
A travelling clark? Ha! ha! The casus is too funny. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I bow to the most learned among men! |
'Faith you did sweat me without ceremony. |
|
_Faust_. What is thy name? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. The question seems too small |
For one who holds the _word_ so very cheaply, |
Who, far removed from shadows all, |
For substances alone seeks deeply. |
|
_Faust_. With gentlemen like him in my presence, |
The name is apt to express the essence, |
Especially if, when you inquire, |
You find it God of flies,[14] Destroyer, Slanderer, Liar. |
Well now, who art thou then? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. A portion of that power, |
Which wills the bad and works the good at every hour. |
|
_Faust_. Beneath thy riddle-word what meaning lies? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I am the spirit that denies! |
And justly so; for all that time creates, |
He does well who annihilates! |
Better, it ne'er had had beginning; |
And so, then, all that you call sinning, |
Destruction,--all you pronounce ill-meant,-- |
Is my original element. |
|
_Faust_. Thou call'st thyself a part, yet lookst complete to me. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I speak the modest truth to thee. |
A world of folly in one little soul, |
_Man_ loves to think himself a whole; |
Part of the part am I, which once was all, the Gloom |
That brought forth Light itself from out her mighty womb, |
The upstart proud, that now with mother Night |
Disputes her ancient rank and space and right, |
Yet never shall prevail, since, do whate'er he will, |
He cleaves, a slave, to bodies still; |
From bodies flows, makes bodies fair to sight; |
A body in his course can check him, |
His doom, I therefore hope, will soon o'ertake him, |
With bodies merged in nothingness and night. |
|
_Faust_. Ah, now I see thy high vocation! |
In gross thou canst not harm creation, |
And so in small hast now begun. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. And, truth to tell, e'en here, not much have done. |
That which at nothing the gauntlet has hurled, |
This, what's its name? this clumsy world, |
So far as I have undertaken, |
I have to own, remains unshaken |
By wave, storm, earthquake, fiery brand. |
Calm, after all, remain both sea and land. |
And the damn'd living fluff, of man and beast the brood, |
It laughs to scorn my utmost power. |
I've buried myriads by the hour, |
And still there circulates each hour a new, fresh blood. |
It were enough to drive one to distraction! |
Earth, water, air, in constant action, |
Through moist and dry, through warm and cold, |
Going forth in endless germination! |
Had I not claimed of fire a reservation, |
Not one thing I alone should hold. |
|
_Faust_. Thus, with the ever-working power |
Of good dost thou in strife persist, |
And in vain malice, to this hour, |
Clenchest thy cold and devilish fist! |
Go try some other occupation, |
Singular son of Chaos, thou! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. We'll give the thing consideration, |
When next we meet again! But now |
Might I for once, with leave retire? |
|
_Faust_. Why thou shouldst ask I do not see. |
Now that I know thee, when desire |
Shall prompt thee, freely visit me. |
Window and door give free admission. |
At least there's left the chimney flue. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Let me confess there's one small prohibition |
|
Lies on thy threshold, 'gainst my walking through, |
The wizard-foot--[15] |
|
_Faust_. Does that delay thee? |
The Pentagram disturbs thee? Now, |
Come tell me, son of hell, I pray thee, |
If that spell-binds thee, then how enteredst thou? |
_Thou_ shouldst proceed more circumspectly! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Mark well! the figure is not drawn correctly; |
One of the angles, 'tis the outer one, |
Is somewhat open, dost perceive it? |
|
_Faust_. That was a lucky hit, believe it! |
And I have caught thee then? Well done! |
'Twas wholly chance--I'm quite astounded! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. The _poodle_ took no heed, |
as through the door he bounded; |
The case looks differently now; |
The _devil_ can leave the house no-how. |
|
_Faust_. The window offers free emission. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Devils and ghosts are bound by this condition: |
|
The way they entered in, they must come out. Allow |
In the first clause we're free, yet not so in the second. |
|
_Faust_. In hell itself, then, laws are reckoned? |
Now that I like; so then, one may, in fact, |
Conclude a binding compact with you gentry? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Whatever promise on our books finds entry, |
We strictly carry into act. |
But hereby hangs a grave condition, |
Of this we'll talk when next we meet; |
But for the present I entreat |
Most urgently your kind dismission. |
|
_Faust_. Do stay but just one moment longer, then, |
Tell me good news and I'll release thee. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Let me go now! I'll soon come back again, |
Then may'st thou ask whate'er shall please thee. |
|
_Faust_. I laid no snare for thee, old chap! |
Thou shouldst have watched and saved thy bacon. |
Who has the devil in his trap |
Must hold him fast, next time he'll not so soon be taken. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Well, if it please thee, I'm content to stay |
For company, on one condition, |
That I, for thy amusement, may |
To exercise my arts have free permission. |
|
_Faust_. I gladly grant it, if they be |
Not disagreeable to me. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Thy senses, friend, in this one hour |
Shall grasp the world with clearer power |
Than in a year's monotony. |
The songs the tender spirits sing thee, |
The lovely images they bring thee |
Are not an idle magic play. |
Thou shalt enjoy the daintiest savor, |
Then feast thy taste on richest flavor, |
Then thy charmed heart shall melt away. |
Come, all are here, and all have been |
Well trained and practised, now begin! |
|
_Spirits_. Vanish, ye gloomy |
Vaulted abysses! |
Tenderer, clearer, |
Friendlier, nearer, |
Ether, look through! |
O that the darkling |
Cloud-piles were riven! |
Starlight is sparkling, |
Purer is heaven, |
Holier sunshine |
Softens the blue. |
Graces, adorning |
Sons of the morning-- |
Shadowy wavings-- |
Float along over; |
Yearnings and cravings |
After them hover. |
Garments ethereal, |
Tresses aerial, |
Float o'er the flowers, |
Float o'er the bowers, |
Where, with deep feeling, |
Thoughtful and tender, |
Lovers, embracing, |
Life-vows are sealing. |
Bowers on bowers! |
Graceful and slender |
Vines interlacing! |
Purple and blushing, |
Under the crushing |
Wine-presses gushing, |
Grape-blood, o'erflowing, |
Down over gleaming |
Precious stones streaming, |
Leaves the bright glowing |
Tops of the mountains, |
Leaves the red fountains, |
Widening and rushing, |
Till it encloses |
Green hills all flushing, |
Laden with roses. |
Happy ones, swarming, |
Ply their swift pinions, |
Glide through the charming |
Airy dominions, |
Sunward still fleering, |
Onward, where peering |
Far o'er the ocean, |
Islets are dancing |
With an entrancing, |
Magical motion; |
Hear them, in chorus, |
Singing high o'er us; |
Over the meadows |
Flit the bright shadows; |
Glad eyes are glancing, |
Tiny feet dancing. |
Up the high ridges |
Some of them clamber, |
Others are skimming |
Sky-lakes of amber, |
Others are swimming |
Over the ocean;-- |
All are in motion, |
Life-ward all yearning, |
Longingly turning |
To the far-burning |
Star-light of bliss. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. He sleeps! Ye airy, tender youths, your numbers |
Have sung him into sweetest slumbers! |
You put me greatly in your debt by this. |
Thou art not yet the man that shall hold fast the devil! |
Still cheat his senses with your magic revel, |
Drown him in dreams of endless youth; |
But this charm-mountain on the sill to level, |
I need, O rat, thy pointed tooth! |
Nor need I conjure long, they're near me, |
E'en now comes scampering one, who presently will hear me. |
|
The sovereign lord of rats and mice, |
Of flies and frogs and bugs and lice, |
Commands thee to come forth this hour, |
And gnaw this threshold with great power, |
As he with oil the same shall smear-- |
Ha! with a skip e'en now thou'rt here! |
But brisk to work! The point by which I'm cowered, |
Is on the ledge, the farthest forward. |
Yet one more bite, the deed is done.-- |
Now, Faust, until we meet again, dream on! |
|
_Faust_. [_Waking_.] Again has witchcraft triumphed o'er me? |
Was it a ghostly show, so soon withdrawn? |
I dream, the devil stands himself before me--wake, to find a poodle gone! |
|
|
|
|
STUDY-CHAMBER. |
|
FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. |
|
|
_Faust_. A knock? Walk in! Who comes again to tease me? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. 'Tis I. |
|
_Faust_. Come in! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Must say it thrice, to please me. |
|
_Faust_. Come in then! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. That I like to hear. |
We shall, I hope, bear with each other; |
For to dispel thy crotchets, brother, |
As a young lord, I now appear, |
In scarlet dress, trimmed with gold lacing, |
A stiff silk cloak with stylish facing, |
A tall cock's feather in my hat, |
A long, sharp rapier to defend me, |
And I advise thee, short and flat, |
In the same costume to attend me; |
If thou wouldst, unembarrassed, see |
What sort of thing this life may be. |
|
_Faust_. In every dress I well may feel the sore |
Of this low earth-life's melancholy. |
I am too old to live for folly, |
Too young, to wish for nothing more. |
Am I content with all creation? |
Renounce! renounce! Renunciation-- |
Such is the everlasting song |
That in the ears of all men rings, |
Which every hour, our whole life long, |
With brazen accents hoarsely sings. |
With terror I behold each morning's light, |
With bitter tears my eyes are filling, |
To see the day that shall not in its flight |
Fulfil for me one wish, not one, but killing |
Every presentiment of zest |
With wayward skepticism, chases |
The fair creations from my breast |
With all life's thousand cold grimaces. |
And when at night I stretch me on my bed |
And darkness spreads its shadow o'er me; |
No rest comes then anigh my weary head, |
Wild dreams and spectres dance before me. |
The God who dwells within my soul |
Can heave its depths at any hour; |
Who holds o'er all my faculties control |
Has o'er the outer world no power; |
Existence lies a load upon my breast, |
Life is a curse and death a long'd-for rest. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. And yet death never proves a wholly welcome guest. |
|
_Faust_. O blest! for whom, when victory's joy fire blazes, |
Death round his brow the bloody laurel windeth, |
Whom, weary with the dance's mazes, |
He on a maiden's bosom findeth. |
O that, beneath the exalted spirit's power, |
I had expired, in rapture sinking! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. And yet I knew one, in a midnight hour, |
Who a brown liquid shrank from drinking. |
|
_Faust_. Eaves-dropping seems a favorite game with thee. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Omniscient am I not; yet much is known to me. |
|
_Faust_. Since that sweet tone, with fond appealing, |
Drew me from witchcraft's horrid maze, |
And woke the lingering childlike feeling |
With harmonies of happier days; |
My curse on all the mock-creations |
That weave their spell around the soul, |
And bind it with their incantations |
And orgies to this wretched hole! |
Accursed be the high opinion |
Hugged by the self-exalting mind! |
Accursed all the dream-dominion |
That makes the dazzled senses blind! |
Curs'd be each vision that befools us, |
Of fame, outlasting earthly life! |
Curs'd all that, as possession, rules us, |
As house and barn, as child and wife! |
Accurs'd be mammon, when with treasure |
He fires our hearts for deeds of might, |
When, for a dream of idle pleasure, |
He makes our pillow smooth and light! |
Curs'd be the grape-vine's balsam-juices! |
On love's high grace my curses fall! |
On faith! On hope that man seduces, |
On patience last, not least, of all! |
|
_Choir of spirits_. [_Invisible_.] Woe! Woe! |
Thou hast ground it to dust, |
The beautiful world, |
With mighty fist; |
To ruins 'tis hurled; |
A demi-god's blow hath done it! |
A moment we look upon it, |
Then carry (sad duty!) |
The fragments over into nothingness, |
With tears unavailing |
Bewailing |
All the departed beauty. |
Lordlier |
Than all sons of men, |
Proudlier |
Build it again, |
Build it up in thy breast anew! |
A fresh career pursue, |
Before thee |
A clearer view, |
And, from the Empyréan, |
A new-born Paean |
Shall greet thee, too! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Be pleased to admire |
My juvenile choir! |
Hear how they counsel in manly measure |
Action and pleasure! |
Out into life, |
Its joy and strife, |
Away from this lonely hole, |
Where senses and soul |
Rot in stagnation, |
Calls thee their high invitation. |
|
Give over toying with thy sorrow |
Which like a vulture feeds upon thy heart; |
Thou shalt, in the worst company, to-morrow |
Feel that with men a man thou art. |
Yet I do not exactly intend |
Among the canaille to plant thee. |
I'm none of your magnates, I grant thee; |
Yet if thou art willing, my friend, |
Through life to jog on beside me, |
Thy pleasure in all things shall guide me, |
To thee will I bind me, |
A friend thou shalt find me, |
And, e'en to the grave, |
Shalt make me thy servant, make me thy slave! |
|
_Faust_. And in return what service shall I render? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. There's ample grace--no hurry, not the least. |
|
_Faust_. No, no, the devil is an egotist, |
And does not easily "for God's sake" tender |
That which a neighbor may assist. |
Speak plainly the conditions, come! |
'Tis dangerous taking such a servant home. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I to thy service _here_ agree to bind me, |
To run and never rest at call of thee; |
When _over yonder_ thou shalt find me, |
Then thou shalt do as much for me. |
|
_Faust_. I care not much what's over yonder: |
When thou hast knocked this world asunder, |
Come if it will the other may! |
Up from this earth my pleasures all are streaming, |
Down on my woes this earthly sun is beaming; |
Let me but end this fit of dreaming, |
Then come what will, I've nought to say. |
I'll hear no more of barren wonder |
If in that world they hate and love, |
And whether in that future yonder |
There's a Below and an Above. |
|
_Mephistopheles._ In such a mood thou well mayst venture. |
Bind thyself to me, and by this indenture |
Thou shalt enjoy with relish keen |
Fruits of my arts that man had never seen. |
|
_Faust_. And what hast thou to give, poor devil? |
Was e'er a human mind, upon its lofty level, |
Conceived of by the like of thee? |
Yet hast thou food that brings satiety, |
Not satisfaction; gold that reftlessly, |
Like quicksilver, melts down within |
The hands; a game in which men never win; |
A maid that, hanging on my breast, |
Ogles a neighbor with her wanton glances; |
Of fame the glorious godlike zest, |
That like a short-lived meteor dances-- |
Show me the fruit that, ere it's plucked, will rot, |
And trees from which new green is daily peeping! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Such a requirement scares me not; |
Such treasures have I in my keeping. |
Yet shall there also come a time, good friend, |
When we may feast on good things at our leisure. |
|
_Faust_. If e'er I lie content upon a lounge of pleasure-- |
Then let there be of me an end! |
When thou with flattery canst cajole me, |
Till I self-satisfied shall be, |
When thou with pleasure canst befool me, |
Be that the last of days for me! |
I lay the wager! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Done! |
|
_Faust_. And heartily! |
Whenever to the passing hour |
I cry: O stay! thou art so fair! |
To chain me down I give thee power |
To the black bottom of despair! |
Then let my knell no longer linger, |
Then from my service thou art free, |
Fall from the clock the index-finger, |
Be time all over, then, for me! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Think well, for we shall hold you to the letter. |
|
_Faust_. Full right to that just now I gave; |
I spoke not as an idle braggart better. |
Henceforward I remain a slave, |
What care I who puts on the setter? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I shall this very day, at Doctor's-feast,[16] |
My bounden service duly pay thee. |
But one thing!--For insurance' sake, I pray thee, |
Grant me a line or two, at least. |
|
_Faust_. Pedant! will writing gain thy faith, alone? |
In all thy life, no man, nor man's word hast thou known? |
Is't not enough that I the fatal word |
That passes on my future days have spoken? |
The world-stream raves and rushes (hast not heard?) |
And shall a promise hold, unbroken? |
Yet this delusion haunts the human breast, |
Who from his soul its roots would sever? |
Thrice happy in whose heart pure truth finds rest. |
No sacrifice shall he repent of ever! |
But from a formal, written, sealed attest, |
As from a spectre, all men shrink forever. |
The word and spirit die together, |
Killed by the sight of wax and leather. |
What wilt thou, evil sprite, from me? |
Brass, marble, parchment, paper, shall it be? |
Shall I subscribe with pencil, pen or graver? |
Among them all thy choice is free. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. This rhetoric of thine to me |
Hath a somewhat bombastic savor. |
Any small scrap of paper's good. |
Thy signature will need a single drop of blood.[17] |
|
_Faust_. If this will satisfy thy mood, |
I will consent thy whim to favor. |
|
_Mephistopheles._ Quite a peculiar juice is blood. |
|
_Faust_. Fear not that I shall break this bond; O, never! |
My promise, rightly understood, |
Fulfils my nature's whole endeavor. |
I've puffed myself too high, I see; |
To _thy_ rank only I belong. |
The Lord of Spirits scorneth me, |
Nature, shut up, resents the wrong. |
The thread of thought is snapt asunder, |
All science to me is a stupid blunder. |
Let us in sensuality's deep |
Quench the passions within us blazing! |
And, the veil of sorcery raising, |
Wake each miracle from its long sleep! |
Plunge we into the billowy dance, |
The rush and roll of time and chance! |
Then may pleasure and distress, |
Disappointment and success, |
Follow each other as fast as they will; |
Man's restless activity flourishes still. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. No bound or goal is set to you; |
Where'er you like to wander sipping, |
And catch a tit-bit in your skipping, |
Eschew all coyness, just fall to, |
And may you find a good digestion! |
|
_Faust_. Now, once for all, pleasure is not the question. |
I'm sworn to passion's whirl, the agony of bliss, |
The lover's hate, the sweets of bitterness. |
My heart, no more by pride of science driven, |
Shall open wide to let each sorrow enter, |
And all the good that to man's race is given, |
I will enjoy it to my being's centre, |
Through life's whole range, upward and downward sweeping, |
Their weal and woe upon my bosom heaping, |
Thus in my single self their selves all comprehending |
And with them in a common shipwreck ending. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. O trust me, who since first I fell from heaven, |
Have chewed this tough meat many a thousand year, |
No man digests the ancient leaven, |
No mortal, from the cradle to the bier. |
Trust one of _us_--the _whole_ creation |
To God alone belongs by right; |
_He_ has in endless day his habitation, |
_Us_ He hath made for utter night, |
_You_ for alternate dark and light. |
|
_Faust_. But then I _will!_ |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Now that's worth hearing! |
But one thing haunts me, the old song, |
That time is short and art is long. |
You need some slight advice, I'm fearing. |
Take to you one of the poet-feather, |
Let the gentleman's thought, far-sweeping, |
Bring all the noblest traits together, |
On your one crown their honors heaping, |
The lion's mood |
The stag's rapidity, |
The fiery blood of Italy, |
The Northman's hardihood. |
Bid him teach thee the art of combining |
Greatness of soul with fly designing, |
And how, with warm and youthful passion, |
To fall in love by plan and fashion. |
Should like, myself, to come across 'm, |
Would name him Mr. Microcosm. |
|
_Faust_. What am I then? if that for which my heart |
Yearns with invincible endeavor, |
The crown of man, must hang unreached forever? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Thou art at last--just what thou art. |
Pile perukes on thy head whose curls cannot be counted, |
On yard-high buskins let thy feet be mounted, |
Still thou art only what thou art. |
|
_Faust_. Yes, I have vainly, let me not deny it, |
Of human learning ransacked all the stores, |
And when, at last, I set me down in quiet, |
There gushes up within no new-born force; |
I am not by a hair's-breadth higher, |
Am to the Infinite no nigher. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. My worthy sir, you see the matter |
As people generally see; |
But we must learn to take things better, |
Before life pleasures wholly flee. |
The deuce! thy head and all that's in it, |
Hands, feet and ------ are thine; |
What I enjoy with zest each minute, |
Is surely not the less mine? |
If I've six horses in my span, |
Is it not mine, their every power? |
I fly along as an undoubted man, |
On four and twenty legs the road I scour. |
Cheer up, then! let all thinking be, |
And out into the world with me! |
I tell thee, friend, a speculating churl |
Is like a beast, some evil spirit chases |
Along a barren heath in one perpetual whirl, |
While round about lie fair, green pasturing places. |
|
_Faust_. But how shall we begin? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. We sally forth e'en now. |
What martyrdom endurest thou! |
What kind of life is this to be living, |
Ennui to thyself and youngsters giving? |
Let Neighbor Belly that way go! |
To stay here threshing straw why car'st thou? |
The best that thou canst think and know |
To tell the boys not for the whole world dar'st thou. |
E'en now I hear one in the entry. |
|
_Faust_. I have no heart the youth to see. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. The poor boy waits there like a sentry, |
He shall not want a word from me. |
Come, give me, now, thy robe and bonnet; |
This mask will suit me charmingly. |
[_He puts them on_.] |
Now for my wit--rely upon it! |
'Twill take but fifteen minutes, I am sure. |
Meanwhile prepare thyself to make the pleasant tour! |
|
[_Exit_ FAUST.] |
|
_Mephistopheles [in_ FAUST'S _long gown_]. |
Only despise all human wit and lore, |
The highest flights that thought can soar-- |
Let but the lying spirit blind thee, |
And with his spells of witchcraft bind thee, |
Into my snare the victim creeps.-- |
To him has destiny a spirit given, |
That unrestrainedly still onward sweeps, |
To scale the skies long since hath striven, |
And all earth's pleasures overleaps. |
He shall through life's wild scenes be driven, |
And through its flat unmeaningness, |
I'll make him writhe and stare and stiffen, |
And midst all sensual excess, |
His fevered lips, with thirst all parched and riven, |
Insatiably shall haunt refreshment's brink; |
And had he not, himself, his soul to Satan given, |
Still must he to perdition sink! |
|
[_Enter_ A SCHOLAR.] |
|
_Scholar_. I have but lately left my home, |
And with profound submission come, |
To hold with one some conversation |
Whom all men name with veneration. |
|
_Mephistopheles._ Your courtesy greatly flatters me |
A man like many another you see. |
Have you made any applications elsewhere? |
|
_Scholar_. Let me, I pray, your teachings share! |
With all good dispositions I come, |
A fresh young blood and money some; |
My mother would hardly hear of my going; |
But I long to learn here something worth knowing. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. You've come to the very place for it, then. |
|
_Scholar_. Sincerely, could wish I were off again: |
My soul already has grown quite weary |
Of walls and halls, so dark and dreary, |
The narrowness oppresses me. |
One sees no green thing, not a tree. |
On the lecture-seats, I know not what ails me, |
Sight, hearing, thinking, every thing fails me. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. 'Tis all in use, we daily see. |
The child takes not the mother's breast |
In the first instance willingly, |
But soon it feeds itself with zest. |
So you at wisdom's breast your pleasure |
Will daily find in growing measure. |
|
_Scholar_. I'll hang upon her neck, a raptured wooer, |
But only tell me, who shall lead me to her? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Ere you go further, give your views |
As to which faculty you choose? |
|
_Scholar_. To be right learn'd I've long desired, |
And of the natural world aspired |
To have a perfect comprehension |
In this and in the heavenly sphere. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I see you're on the right track here; |
But you'll have to give undivided attention. |
|
_Scholar_. My heart and soul in the work'll be found; |
Only, of course, it would give me pleasure, |
When summer holidays come round, |
To have for amusement a little leisure. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Use well the precious time, it flips away so, |
Yet method gains you time, if I may say so. |
I counsel you therefore, my worthy friend, |
The logical leisures first to attend. |
Then is your mind well trained and cased |
In Spanish boots,[18] all snugly laced, |
So that henceforth it can creep ahead |
On the road of thought with a cautious tread. |
And not at random shoot and strike, |
Zig-zagging Jack-o'-lanthorn-like. |
Then will you many a day be taught |
That what you once to do had thought |
Like eating and drinking, extempore, |
Requires the rule of one, two, three. |
It is, to be sure, with the fabric of thought, |
As with the _chef d'Å“uvre_ by weavers wrought, |
Where a thousand threads one treadle plies, |
Backward and forward the shuttles keep going, |
Invisibly the threads keep flowing, |
One stroke a thousand fastenings ties: |
Comes the philosopher and cries: |
I'll show you, it could not be otherwise: |
The first being so, the second so, |
The third and fourth must of course be so; |
And were not the first and second, you see, |
The third and fourth could never be. |
The scholars everywhere call this clever, |
But none have yet become weavers ever. |
Whoever will know a live thing and expound it, |
First kills out the spirit it had when he found it, |
And then the parts are all in his hand, |
Minus only the spiritual band! |
Encheiresin naturæ's[19] the chemical name, |
By which dunces themselves unwittingly shame. |
|
_Scholar_. Cannot entirely comprehend you. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Better success will shortly attend you, |
When you learn to analyze all creation |
And give it a proper classification. |
|
_Scholar_. I feel as confused by all you've said, |
As if 'twere a mill-wheel going round in my head! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. The next thing most important to mention, |
Metaphysics will claim your attention! |
There see that you can clearly explain |
What fits not into the human brain: |
For that which will not go into the head, |
A pompous word will stand you in stead. |
But, this half-year, at least, observe |
From regularity never to swerve. |
You'll have five lectures every day; |
Be in at the stroke of the bell I pray! |
And well prepared in every part; |
Study each paragraph by heart, |
So that you scarce may need to look |
To see that he says no more than's in the book; |
And when he dictates, be at your post, |
As if you wrote for the Holy Ghost! |
|
_Scholar_. That caution is unnecessary! |
I know it profits one to write, |
For what one has in black and white, |
He to his home can safely carry. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. But choose some faculty, I pray! |
|
_Scholar_. I feel a strong dislike to try the legal college. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I cannot blame you much, I must acknowledge. |
I know how this profession stands to-day. |
Statutes and laws through all the ages |
Like a transmitted malady you trace; |
In every generation still it rages |
And softly creeps from place to place. |
Reason is nonsense, right an impudent suggestion; |
Alas for thee, that thou a grandson art! |
Of inborn law in which each man has part, |
Of that, unfortunately, there's no question. |
|
_Scholar_. My loathing grows beneath your speech. |
O happy he whom you shall teach! |
To try theology I'm almost minded. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I must not let you by zeal be blinded. |
This is a science through whose field |
Nine out of ten in the wrong road will blunder, |
And in it so much poison lies concealed, |
That mould you this mistake for physic, no great wonder. |
Here also it were best, if only one you heard |
And swore to that one master's word. |
Upon the whole--words only heed you! |
These through the temple door will lead you |
Safe to the shrine of certainty. |
|
_Scholar_. Yet in the word a thought must surely be. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. All right! But one must not perplex himself about it; |
For just where one must go without it, |
The word comes in, a friend in need, to thee. |
With words can one dispute most featly, |
With words build up a system neatly, |
In words thy faith may stand unshaken, |
From words there can be no iota taken. |
|
_Scholar_. Forgive my keeping you with many questions, |
Yet must I trouble you once more, |
Will you not give me, on the score |
Of medicine, some brief suggestions? |
Three years are a short time, O God! |
And then the field is quite too broad. |
If one had only before his nose |
Something else as a hint to follow!-- |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_aside_]. I'm heartily tired of this dry prose, |
Must play the devil again out hollow. |
[_Aloud_.] |
The healing art is quickly comprehended; |
Through great and little world you look abroad, |
And let it wag, when all is ended, |
As pleases God. |
Vain is it that your science sweeps the skies, |
Each, after all, learns only what he can; |
Who grasps the moment as it flies |
He is the real man. |
Your person somewhat takes the eye, |
Boldness you'll find an easy science, |
And if you on yourself rely, |
Others on you will place reliance. |
In the women's good graces seek first to be seated; |
Their oh's and ah's, well known of old, |
So thousand-fold, |
Are all from a single point to be treated; |
Be decently modest and then with ease |
You may get the blind side of them when you please. |
A title, first, their confidence must waken, |
That _your_ art many another art transcends, |
Then may you, lucky man, on all those trifles reckon |
For which another years of groping spends: |
Know how to press the little pulse that dances, |
And fearlessly, with sly and fiery glances, |
Clasp the dear creatures round the waist |
To see how tightly they are laced. |
|
_Scholar_. This promises! One loves the How and Where to see! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Gray, worthy friend, is all your theory |
And green the golden tree of life. |
|
_Scholar_. I seem, |
I swear to you, like one who walks in dream. |
Might I another time, without encroaching, |
Hear you the deepest things of wisdom broaching? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. So far as I have power, you may. |
|
_Scholar_. I cannot tear myself away, |
Till I to you my album have presented. |
Grant me one line and I'm contented! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. With pleasure. |
[_Writes and returns it_.] |
|
_Scholar [reads]._ Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum. |
[_Shuts it reverently, and bows himself out_.] |
|
_Mephistopheles_. |
Let but the brave old saw and my aunt, the serpent, guide thee, |
And, with thy likeness to God, shall woe one day betide thee! |
|
_Faust [enters_]. Which way now shall we go? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Which way it pleases thee. |
The little world and then the great we see. |
O with what gain, as well as pleasure, |
Wilt thou the rollicking cursus measure! |
|
_Faust_. I fear the easy life and free |
With my long beard will scarce agree. |
'Tis vain for me to think of succeeding, |
I never could learn what is called good-breeding. |
In the presence of others I feel so small; |
I never can be at my ease at all. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Dear friend, vain trouble to yourself you're giving; |
Whence once you trust yourself, you know the art of living. |
|
_Faust_. But how are we to start, I pray? |
Where are thy servants, coach and horses? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. We spread the mantle, and away |
It bears us on our airy courses. |
But, on this bold excursion, thou |
Must take no great portmanteau now. |
A little oxygen, which I will soon make ready, |
From earth uplifts us, quick and steady. |
And if we're light, we'll soon surmount the sphere; |
I give thee hearty joy in this thy new career. |
|
|
|
|
AUERBACH'S CELLAR IN LEIPSIC.[20] |
|
_Carousal of Jolly Companions_. |
|
|
_Frosch_.[21] Will nobody drink? Stop those grimaces! |
I'll teach you how to be cutting your faces! |
Laugh out! You're like wet straw to-day, |
And blaze, at other times, like dry hay. |
|
_Brander_. 'Tis all your fault; no food for fun you bring, |
Not a nonsensical nor nasty thing. |
|
_Frosch [dashes a glass of wine over his bead_]. There you have both! |
|
_Brander_. You hog twice o'er! |
|
_Frosch_. You wanted it, what would you more? |
|
_Siebel_ Out of the door with them that brawl! |
Strike up a round; swill, shout there, one and all! |
Wake up! Hurra! |
|
_Altmayer_. Woe's me, I'm lost! Bring cotton! |
The rascal splits my ear-drum. |
|
_Siebel_. Only shout on! |
When all the arches ring and yell, |
Then does the base make felt its true ground-swell. |
|
_Frosch_. That's right, just throw him out, who undertakes to fret! |
A! tara! lara da! |
|
_Altmayer_. A! tara! lara da! |
|
_Frosch_. Our whistles all are wet. |
[_Sings_.] |
The dear old holy Romish realm, |
What holds it still together? |
|
_Brander_. A sorry song! Fie! a political song! |
A tiresome song! Thank God each morning therefor, |
That you have not the Romish realm to care for! |
At least I count it a great gain that He |
Kaiser nor chancellor has made of me. |
E'en we can't do without a head, however; |
To choose a pope let us endeavour. |
You know what qualification throws |
The casting vote and the true man shows. |
|
_Frosch [sings_]. |
Lady Nightingale, upward soar, |
Greet me my darling ten thousand times o'er. |
|
_Siebel_. No greetings to that girl! Who does so, I resent it! |
|
_Frosch_. A greeting and a kiss! And you will not prevent it! |
[_Sings.]_ |
Draw the bolts! the night is clear. |
Draw the bolts! Love watches near. |
Close the bolts! the dawn is here. |
|
_Siebel_. Ay, sing away and praise and glorify your dear! |
Soon I shall have my time for laughter. |
The jade has jilted me, and will you too hereafter; |
May Kobold, for a lover, be her luck! |
At night may he upon the cross-way meet her; |
Or, coming from the Blocksberg, some old buck |
May, as he gallops by, a good-night bleat her! |
A fellow fine of real flesh and blood |
Is for the wench a deal too good. |
She'll get from me but one love-token, |
That is to have her window broken! |
|
_Brander [striking on the table_]. Attend! attend! To me give ear! |
I know what's life, ye gents, confess it: |
We've lovesick people sitting near, |
And it is proper they should hear |
A good-night strain as well as I can dress it. |
Give heed! And hear a bran-new song! |
Join in the chorus loud and strong! |
[_He sings_.] |
A rat in the cellar had built his nest, |
He daily grew sleeker and smoother, |
He lined his paunch from larder and chest, |
And was portly as Doctor Luther. |
The cook had set him poison one day; |
From that time forward he pined away |
As if he had love in his body. |
|
_Chorus [flouting_]. As if he had love in his body. |
|
_Brander_. He raced about with a terrible touse, |
From all the puddles went swilling, |
He gnawed and he scratched all over the house, |
His pain there was no stilling; |
He made full many a jump of distress, |
And soon the poor beast got enough, I guess, |
As if he had love in his body. |
|
_Chorus_. As if he had love in his body. |
|
_Brander_. With pain he ran, in open day, |
Right up into the kitchen; |
He fell on the hearth and there he lay |
Gasping and moaning and twitchin'. |
Then laughed the poisoner: "He! he! he! |
He's piping on the last hole," said she, |
"As if he had love in his body." |
|
_Chorus_. As if he had love in his body. |
|
_Siebel_. Just hear now how the ninnies giggle! |
That's what I call a genuine art, |
To make poor rats with poison wriggle! |
|
_Brander_. You take their case so much to heart? |
|
_Altmayer_. The bald pate and the butter-belly! |
The sad tale makes him mild and tame; |
He sees in the swollen rat, poor fellow! |
His own true likeness set in a frame. |
|
|
FAUST _and_ MEPHISTOPHELES. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Now, first of all, 'tis necessary |
To show you people making merry, |
That you may see how lightly life can run. |
Each day to this small folk's a feast of fun; |
Not over-witty, self-contented, |
Still round and round in circle-dance they whirl, |
As with their tails young kittens twirl. |
If with no headache they're tormented, |
Nor dunned by landlord for his pay, |
They're careless, unconcerned, and gay. |
|
_Brander_. They're fresh from travel, one might know it, |
Their air and manner plainly show it; |
They came here not an hour ago. |
|
_Frosch_. Thou verily art right! My Leipsic well I know! |
Paris in small it is, and cultivates its people. |
|
_Siebel_. What do the strangers seem to thee? |
|
_Frosch_. Just let me go! When wine our friendship mellows, |
Easy as drawing a child's tooth 'twill be |
To worm their secrets out of these two fellows. |
They're of a noble house, I dare to swear, |
They have a proud and discontented air. |
|
_Brander_. They're mountebanks, I'll bet a dollar! |
|
_Altmayer_. Perhaps. |
|
_Frosch_. I'll smoke them, mark you that! |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_to Faust_]. These people never smell the old rat, |
E'en when he has them by the collar. |
|
_Faust_. Fair greeting to you, sirs! |
|
_Siebel_. The same, and thanks to boot. |
[_In a low tone, faking a side look at MEPHISTOPHELES_.] |
Why has the churl one halting foot? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. With your permission, shall we make one party? |
Instead of a good drink, which get here no one can, |
Good company must make us hearty. |
|
_Altmayer_. You seem a very fastidious man. |
|
_Frosch_. I think you spent some time at Rippach[22] lately? |
You supped with Mister Hans not long since, I dare say? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. We passed him on the road today! |
Fine man! it grieved us parting with him, greatly. |
He'd much to say to us about his cousins, |
And sent to each, through us, his compliments by dozens. |
[_He bows to_ FROSCH.] |
|
_Altmayer_ [_softly_]. You've got it there! he takes! |
|
_Siebel_. The chap don't want for wit! |
|
_Frosch_. I'll have him next time, wait a bit! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. If I mistook not, didn't we hear |
Some well-trained voices chorus singing? |
'Faith, music must sound finely here. |
From all these echoing arches ringing! |
|
_Frosch_. You are perhaps a connoisseur? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. O no! my powers are small, I'm but an amateur. |
|
_Altmayer_. Give us a song! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. As many's you desire. |
|
_Siebel_. But let it be a bran-new strain! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. No fear of that! We've just come back from Spain, |
The lovely land of wine and song and lyre. |
[_Sings_.] |
There was a king, right stately, |
Who had a great, big flea,-- |
|
_Frosch_. Hear him! A flea! D'ye take there, boys? A flea! |
I call that genteel company. |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_resumes_]. There was a king, right stately, |
Who had a great, big flea, |
And loved him very greatly, |
As if his own son were he. |
He called the knight of stitches; |
The tailor came straightway: |
Ho! measure the youngster for breeches, |
And make him a coat to-day! |
|
_Brander_. But don't forget to charge the knight of stitches, |
The measure carefully to take, |
And, as he loves his precious neck, |
To leave no wrinkles in the breeches. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. In silk and velvet splendid |
The creature now was drest, |
To his coat were ribbons appended, |
A cross was on his breast. |
He had a great star on his collar, |
Was a minister, in short; |
And his relatives, greater and smaller, |
Became great people at court. |
|
The lords and ladies of honor |
Fared worse than if they were hung, |
The queen, she got them upon her, |
And all were bitten and stung, |
And did not dare to attack them, |
Nor scratch, but let them stick. |
We choke them and we crack them |
The moment we feel one prick. |
|
_Chorus_ [_loud_]. We choke 'em and we crack 'em |
The moment we feel one prick. |
|
_Frosch_. Bravo! Bravo! That was fine! |
|
_Siebel_. So shall each flea his life resign! |
|
_Brander_. Point your fingers and nip them fine! |
|
_Altmayer_. Hurra for Liberty! Hurra for Wine! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I'd pledge the goddess, too, to show how high I set her, |
Right gladly, if your wines were just a trifle better. |
|
_Siebel_. Don't say that thing again, you fretter! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Did I not fear the landlord to affront; |
I'd show these worthy guests this minute |
What kind of stuff our stock has in it. |
|
_Siebel_. Just bring it on! I'll bear the brunt. |
|
_Frosch_. Give us a brimming glass, our praise shall then be ample, |
But don't dole out too small a sample; |
For if I'm to judge and criticize, |
I need a good mouthful to make me wise. |
|
_Altmayer_ [_softly_]. They're from the Rhine, as near as I can make it. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Bring us a gimlet here! |
|
_Brander_. What shall be done with that? |
You've not the casks before the door, I take it? |
|
_Altmayer_. The landlord's tool-chest there is easily got at. |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_takes the gimlet_] (_to Frosch_). |
What will you have? It costs but speaking. |
|
_Frosch_. How do you mean? Have you so many kinds? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Enough to suit all sorts of minds. |
|
_Altmayer_. Aha! old sot, your lips already licking! |
|
_Frosch_. Well, then! if I must choose, let Rhine-wine fill my beaker, |
Our fatherland supplies the noblest liquor. |
|
MEPHISTOPHELES |
[_boring a hole in the rim of the table near the place |
where_ FROSCH _sits_]. |
Get us a little wax right off to make the stoppers! |
|
_Altmayer_. Ah, these are jugglers' tricks, and whappers! |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_to Brander_]. And you? |
|
_Brander_. Champaigne's the wine for me, |
But then right sparkling it must be! |
|
[MEPHISTOPHELES _bores; meanwhile one of them has made |
the wax-stoppers and stopped the holes_.] |
|
_Brander_. Hankerings for foreign things will sometimes haunt you, |
The good so far one often finds; |
Your real German man can't bear the French, I grant you, |
And yet will gladly drink their wines. |
|
_Siebel_ [_while Mephistopheles approaches his seat_]. |
I don't like sour, it sets my mouth awry, |
Let mine have real sweetness in it! |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_bores_]. Well, you shall have Tokay this minute. |
|
_Altmayer_. No, sirs, just look me in the eye! |
I see through this, 'tis what the chaps call smoking. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Come now! That would be serious joking, |
To make so free with worthy men. |
But quickly now! Speak out again! |
With what description can I serve you? |
|
_Altmayer_. Wait not to ask; with any, then. |
|
[_After all the holes are bored and stopped_.] |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_with singular gestures_]. |
From the vine-stock grapes we pluck; |
Horns grow on the buck; |
Wine is juicy, the wooden table, |
Like wooden vines, to give wine is able. |
An eye for nature's depths receive! |
Here is a miracle, only believe! |
Now draw the plugs and drink your fill! |
|
ALL |
[_drawing the stoppers, and catching each in his glass |
the wine he had desired_]. |
Sweet spring, that yields us what we will! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Only be careful not a drop to spill! |
[_They drink repeatedly_.] |
|
_All_ [_sing_]. We're happy all as cannibals, |
Five hundred hogs together. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Look at them now, they're happy as can be! |
|
_Faust_. To go would suit my inclination. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. But first give heed, their bestiality |
Will make a glorious demonstration. |
|
SIEBEL |
[_drinks carelessly; the wine is spilt upon the ground |
and turns to flame_]. |
Help! fire! Ho! Help! The flames of hell! |
|
_Mephistopheles [_conjuring the flame_]. |
Peace, friendly element, be still! |
[_To the Toper_.] |
This time 'twas but a drop of fire from purgatory. |
|
_Siebel_. What does this mean? Wait there, or you'll be sorry! |
It seems you do not know us well. |
|
_Frosch_. Not twice, in this way, will it do to joke us! |
|
_Altmayer_. I vote, we give him leave himself here _scarce_ to make. |
|
_Siebel_. What, sir! How dare you undertake |
To carry on here your old hocus-pocus? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Be still, old wine-cask! |
|
_Siebel_. Broomstick, you! |
Insult to injury add? Confound you! |
|
_Brander_. Stop there! Or blows shall rain down round you! |
|
ALTMAYER |
[_draws a stopper out of the table; fire flies at him_]. |
I burn! I burn! |
|
_Siebel_. Foul sorcery! Shame! |
Lay on! the rascal is fair game! |
|
[_They draw their knives and rush at_ MEPHISTOPHELES.] |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_with a serious mien_]. |
Word and shape of air! |
Change place, new meaning wear! |
Be here--and there! |
|
[_They stand astounded and look at each other_.] |
|
_Altmayer_. Where am I? What a charming land! |
|
_Frosch_. Vine hills! My eyes! Is't true? |
|
_Siebel_. And grapes, too, close at hand! |
|
_Brander_. Beneath this green see what a stem is growing! |
See what a bunch of grapes is glowing! |
[_He seizes_ SIEBEL _by the nose. The rest do the same to each |
other and raise their knives._] |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_as above_]. Loose, Error, from their eyes the band! |
How Satan plays his tricks, you need not now be told of. |
[_He vanishes with_ FAUST, _the companions start back from each |
other_.] |
|
_Siebel_. What ails me? |
|
_Altmayer_. How? |
|
_Frosch_. Was that thy nose, friend, I had hold of? |
|
_Brander_ [_to Siebel_]. And I have thine, too, in my hand! |
|
_Altmayer_. O what a shock! through all my limbs 'tis crawling! |
Get me a chair, be quick, I'm falling! |
|
_Frosch_. No, say what was the real case? |
|
_Siebel_. O show me where the churl is hiding! |
Alive he shall not leave the place! |
|
_Altmayer_. Out through the cellar-door I saw him riding-- |
Upon a cask--he went full chase.-- |
Heavy as lead my feet are growing. |
|
[_Turning towards the table_.] |
|
My! If the wine should yet be flowing. |
|
_Siebel_. 'Twas all deception and moonshine. |
|
_Frosch_. Yet I was sure I did drink wine. |
|
_Brander_. But how about the bunches, brother? |
|
_Altmayer_. After such miracles, I'll doubt no other! |
|
|
|
|
WITCHES' KITCHEN. |
|
[_On a low hearth stands a great kettle over the fire. In the smoke, |
which rises from it, are seen various forms. A female monkey[28] sits by |
the kettle and skims it, and takes care that it does not run over. The |
male monkey with the young ones sits close by, warming himself. Walls and |
ceiling are adorned 'with the most singular witch-household stuff_.] |
|
|
FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. |
|
_Faust_. Would that this vile witch-business were well over! |
Dost promise me I shall recover |
In this hodge-podge of craziness? |
From an old hag do I advice require? |
And will this filthy cooked-up mess |
My youth by thirty years bring nigher? |
Woe's me, if that's the best you know! |
Already hope is from my bosom banished. |
Has not a noble mind found long ago |
Some balsam to restore a youth that's vanished? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. My friend, again thou speakest a wise thought! |
I know a natural way to make thee young,--none apter! |
But in another book it must be sought, |
And is a quite peculiar chapter. |
|
_Faust_. I beg to know it. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Well! here's one that needs no pay, |
No help of physic, nor enchanting. |
Out to the fields without delay, |
And take to hacking, digging, planting; |
Run the same round from day to day, |
A treadmill-life, contented, leading, |
With simple fare both mind and body feeding, |
Live with the beast as beast, nor count it robbery |
Shouldst thou manure, thyself, the field thou reapest; |
Follow this course and, trust to me, |
For eighty years thy youth thou keepest! |
|
_Faust_. I am not used to that, I ne'er could bring me to it, |
To wield the spade, I could not do it. |
The narrow life befits me not at all. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. So must we on the witch, then, call. |
|
_Faust_. But why just that old hag? Canst thou |
Not brew thyself the needful liquor? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. That were a pretty pastime now |
I'd build about a thousand bridges quicker. |
Science and art alone won't do, |
The work will call for patience, too; |
Costs a still spirit years of occupation: |
Time, only, strengthens the fine fermentation. |
To tell each thing that forms a part |
Would sound to thee like wildest fable! |
The devil indeed has taught the art; |
To make it not the devil is able. |
[_Espying the animals_.] |
See, what a genteel breed we here parade! |
This is the house-boy! that's the maid! |
[_To the animals_.] |
Where's the old lady gone a mousing? |
|
_The animals_. Carousing; |
Out she went |
By the chimney-vent! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. How long does she spend in gadding and storming? |
|
_The animals_. While we are giving our paws a warming. |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_to Faust_]. How do you find the dainty creatures? |
|
_Faust_. Disgusting as I ever chanced to see! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. No! a discourse like this to me, |
I own, is one of life's most pleasant features; |
[_To the animals_.] |
Say, cursed dolls, that sweat, there, toiling! |
What are you twirling with the spoon? |
|
_Animals_. A common beggar-soup we're boiling. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. You'll have a run of custom soon. |
|
THE HE-MONKEY |
[_Comes along and fawns on_ MEPHISTOPHELES]. |
O fling up the dice, |
Make me rich in a trice, |
Turn fortune's wheel over! |
My lot is right bad, |
If money I had, |
My wits would recover. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. The monkey'd be as merry as a cricket, |
Would somebody give him a lottery-ticket! |
|
[_Meanwhile the young monkeys have been playing with a great |
ball, which they roll backward and forward_.] |
|
_The monkey_. 'The world's the ball; |
See't rise and fall, |
Its roll you follow; |
Like glass it rings: |
Both, brittle things! |
Within 'tis hollow. |
There it shines clear, |
And brighter here,-- |
I live--by 'Pollo!-- |
Dear son, I pray, |
Keep hands away! |
_Thou_ shalt fall so! |
'Tis made of clay, |
Pots are, also. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. What means the sieve? |
|
_The monkey [takes it down_]. Wert thou a thief, |
'Twould show the thief and shame him. |
[_Runs to his mate and makes her look through_.] |
Look through the sieve! |
Discern'st thou the thief, |
And darest not name him? |
|
_Mephistopheles [approaching the fire_]. And what's this pot? |
|
_The monkeys_. The dunce! I'll be shot! |
He knows not the pot, |
He knows not the kettle! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Impertinence! Hush! |
|
_The monkey_. Here, take you the brush, |
And sit on the settle! |
[_He forces_ MEPHISTOPHELES _to sit down_.] |
|
FAUST |
[_who all this time has been standing before a looking-glass, |
now approaching and now receding from it_]. |
|
What do I see? What heavenly face |
Doth, in this magic glass, enchant me! |
O love, in mercy, now, thy swiftest pinions grant me! |
And bear me to her field of space! |
Ah, if I seek to approach what doth so haunt me, |
If from this spot I dare to stir, |
Dimly as through a mist I gaze on her!-- |
The loveliest vision of a woman! |
Such lovely woman can there be? |
Must I in these reposing limbs naught human. |
But of all heavens the finest essence see? |
Was such a thing on earth seen ever? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Why, when you see a God six days in hard work spend, |
And then cry bravo at the end, |
Of course you look for something clever. |
Look now thy fill; I have for thee |
Just such a jewel, and will lead thee to her; |
And happy, whose good fortune it shall be, |
To bear her home, a prospered wooer! |
|
[FAUST _keeps on looking into the mirror_. MEPHISTOPHELES |
_stretching himself out on the settle and playing with the brush, |
continues speaking_.] |
Here sit I like a king upon his throne, |
The sceptre in my hand,--I want the crown alone. |
|
THE ANIMALS |
[_who up to this time have been going through all sorts of queer antics |
with each other, bring_ MEPHISTOPHELES _a crown with a loud cry_]. |
O do be so good,-- |
With sweat and with blood, |
To take it and lime it; |
[_They go about clumsily with the crown and break it into two pieces, |
with which they jump round_.] |
'Tis done now! We're free! |
We speak and we see, |
We hear and we rhyme it; |
|
_Faust [facing the mirror_]. Woe's me! I've almost lost my wits. |
|
_Mephistopheles [pointing to the animals_]. |
My head, too, I confess, is very near to spinning. |
|
_The animals_. And then if it hits |
And every thing fits, |
We've thoughts for our winning. |
|
_Faust [as before_]. Up to my heart the flame is flying! |
Let us begone--there's danger near! |
|
_Mephistopheles [in the former position_]. |
Well, this, at least, there's no denying, |
That we have undissembled poets here. |
|
[The kettle, which the she-monkey has hitherto left unmatched, begins to |
run over; a great flame breaks out, which roars up the chimney. The_ WITCH |
_comes riding down through the flame with a terrible outcry_.] |
|
_Witch_. Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! |
The damned beast! The cursed sow! |
Neglected the kettle, scorched the Frau! |
The cursed crew! |
[_Seeing_ FAUST _and_ MEPHISTOPHELES.] |
And who are you? |
And what d'ye do? |
And what d'ye want? |
And who sneaked in? |
The fire-plague grim |
Shall light on him |
In every limb! |
|
[_She makes a dive at the kettle with the skimmer and spatters flames |
at _FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES_, and the creatures. These last whimper_.] |
|
MEPHISTOPHELES |
[_inverting the brush which he holds in his hand, and striking |
among the glasses and pots_]. |
|
In two! In two! |
There lies the brew! |
There lies the glass! |
This joke must pass; |
For time-beat, ass! |
To thy melody, 'twill do. |
[_While the_ WITCH _starts back full of wrath and horror.] |
Skeleton! Scarcecrow! Spectre! Know'st thou me, |
Thy lord and master? What prevents my dashing |
Right in among thy cursed company, |
Thyself and all thy monkey spirits smashing? |
Has the red waistcoat thy respect no more? |
Has the cock's-feather, too, escaped attention? |
Hast never seen this face before? |
My name, perchance, wouldst have me mention? |
|
_The witch_. Pardon the rudeness, sir, in me! |
But sure no cloven foot I see. |
Nor find I your two ravens either. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I'll let thee off for this once so; |
For a long while has passed, full well I know, |
Since the last time we met together. |
The culture, too, which licks the world to shape, |
The devil himself cannot escape; |
The phantom of the North men's thoughts have left behind them, |
Horns, tail, and claws, where now d'ye find them? |
And for the foot, with which dispense I nowise can, |
'Twould with good circles hurt my standing; |
And so I've worn, some years, like many a fine young man, |
False calves to make me more commanding. |
|
_The witch [dancing_]. O I shall lose my wits, I fear, |
Do I, again, see Squire Satan here! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Woman, the name offends my ear! |
|
_The witch_. Why so? What has it done to you? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. It has long since to fable-books been banished; |
But men are none the better for it; true, |
The wicked _one_, but not the wicked _ones_, has vanished. |
Herr Baron callst thou me, then all is right and good; |
I am a cavalier, like others. Doubt me? |
Doubt for a moment of my noble blood? |
See here the family arms I bear about me! |
[_He makes an indecent gesture.] |
|
The witch [laughs immoderately_]. Ha! ha! full well I know you, sir! |
You are the same old rogue you always were! |
|
_Mephistopheles [to Faust_]. I pray you, carefully attend, |
This is the way to deal with witches, friend. |
|
_The witch_. Now, gentles, what shall I produce? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. A right good glassful of the well-known juice! |
And pray you, let it be the oldest; |
Age makes it doubly strong for use. |
|
_The witch_. Right gladly! Here I have a bottle, |
From which, at times, I wet my throttle; |
Which now, not in the slightest, stinks; |
A glass to you I don't mind giving; |
[_Softly_.] |
But if this man, without preparing, drinks, |
He has not, well you know, another hour for living. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. |
'Tis a good friend of mine, whom it shall straight cheer up; |
Thy kitchen's best to give him don't delay thee. |
Thy ring--thy spell, now, quick, I pray thee, |
And give him then a good full cup. |
|
[_The_ WITCH, _with strange gestures, draws a circle, and places singular |
things in it; mean-while the glasses begin to ring, the kettle to sound |
and make music. Finally, she brings a great book and places the monkeys in |
the circle, whom she uses as a reading-desk and to hold the torches. She |
beckons_ FAUST _to come to her_.] |
|
_Faust [to Mephistopheles_]. |
Hold! what will come of this? These creatures, |
These frantic gestures and distorted features, |
And all the crazy, juggling fluff, |
I've known and loathed it long enough! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Pugh! that is only done to smoke us; |
Don't be so serious, my man! |
She must, as Doctor, play her hocus-pocus |
To make the dose work better, that's the plan. |
[_He constrains_ FAUST _to step into the circle_.] |
|
THE WITCH |
[_beginning with great emphasis to declaim out of the book_] |
|
Remember then! |
Of One make Ten, |
The Two let be, |
Make even Three, |
There's wealth for thee. |
The Four pass o'er! |
Of Five and Six, |
(The witch so speaks,) |
Make Seven and Eight, |
The thing is straight: |
And Nine is One |
And Ten is none-- |
This is the witch's one-time-one![24] |
|
_Faust_. The old hag talks like one delirious. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. There's much more still, no less mysterious, |
I know it well, the whole book sounds just so! |
I've lost full many a year in poring o'er it, |
For perfect contradiction, you must know, |
A mystery stands, and fools and wise men bow before it, |
The art is old and new, my son. |
Men, in all times, by craft and terror, |
With One and Three, and Three and One, |
For truth have propagated error. |
They've gone on gabbling so a thousand years; |
Who on the fools would waste a minute? |
Man generally thinks, if words he only hears, |
Articulated noise must have some meaning in it. |
|
_The witch [goes on_]. Deep wisdom's power |
Has, to this hour, |
From all the world been hidden! |
Whoso thinks not, |
To him 'tis brought, |
To him it comes unbidden. |
|
_Faust_. What nonsense is she talking here? |
My heart is on the point of cracking. |
In one great choir I seem to hear |
A hundred thousand ninnies clacking. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Enough, enough, rare Sibyl, sing us |
These runes no more, thy beverage bring us, |
And quickly fill the goblet to the brim; |
This drink may by my friend be safely taken: |
Full many grades the man can reckon, |
Many good swigs have entered him. |
|
[_The_ WITCH, _with many ceremonies, pours the drink into a cup; |
as she puts it to_ FAUST'S _lips, there rises a light flame_.] |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Down with it! Gulp it down! 'Twill prove |
All that thy heart's wild wants desire. |
Thou, with the devil, hand and glove,[25] |
And yet wilt be afraid of fire? |
|
[_The_ WITCH _breaks the circle_; FAUST _steps out_.] |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Now briskly forth! No rest for thee! |
|
_The witch_. Much comfort may the drink afford you! |
|
_Mephistopheles [to the witch_]. And any favor you may ask of me, |
I'll gladly on Walpurgis' night accord you. |
|
_The witch_. Here is a song, which if you sometimes sing, |
'Twill stir up in your heart a special fire. |
|
_Mephistopheles [to Faust_]. Only make haste; and even shouldst thou tire, |
Still follow me; one must perspire, |
That it may set his nerves all quivering. |
I'll teach thee by and bye to prize a noble leisure, |
And soon, too, shalt thou feel with hearty pleasure, |
How busy Cupid stirs, and shakes his nimble wing. |
|
_Faust_. But first one look in yonder glass, I pray thee! |
Such beauty I no more may find! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Nay! in the flesh thine eyes shall soon display thee |
The model of all woman-kind. |
[_Softly_.] |
Soon will, when once this drink shall heat thee, |
In every girl a Helen meet thee! |
|
|
|
|
A STREET. |
|
FAUST. MARGARET [_passing over_]. |
|
_Faust_. My fair young lady, will it offend her |
If I offer my arm and escort to lend her? |
|
_Margaret_. Am neither lady, nor yet am fair! |
Can find my way home without any one's care. |
[_Disengages herself and exit_.] |
|
_Faust_. By heavens, but then the child _is_ fair! |
I've never seen the like, I swear. |
So modest is she and so pure, |
And somewhat saucy, too, to be sure. |
The light of the cheek, the lip's red bloom, |
I shall never forget to the day of doom! |
How me cast down her lovely eyes, |
Deep in my soul imprinted lies; |
How she spoke up, so curt and tart, |
Ah, that went right to my ravished heart! |
[_Enter_ MEPHISTOPHELES.] |
|
_Faust_. Hark, thou shalt find me a way to address her! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Which one? |
|
_Faust_. She just went by. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. What! She? |
She came just now from her father confessor, |
Who from all sins pronounced her free; |
I stole behind her noiselessly, |
'Tis an innocent thing, who, for nothing at all, |
Must go to the confessional; |
O'er such as she no power I hold! |
|
_Faust_. But then she's over fourteen years old. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Thou speak'st exactly like Jack Rake, |
Who every fair flower his own would make. |
And thinks there can be no favor nor fame, |
But one may straightway pluck the same. |
But 'twill not always do, we see. |
|
_Faust_. My worthy Master Gravity, |
Let not a word of the Law be spoken! |
One thing be clearly understood,-- |
Unless I clasp the sweet, young blood |
This night in my arms--then, well and good: |
When midnight strikes, our bond is broken. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Reflect on all that lies in the way! |
I need a fortnight, at least, to a day, |
For finding so much as a way to reach her. |
|
_Faust_. Had I seven hours, to call my own, |
Without the devil's aid, alone |
I'd snare with ease so young a creature. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. You talk quite Frenchman-like to-day; |
But don't be vexed beyond all measure. |
What boots it thus to snatch at pleasure? |
'Tis not so great, by a long way, |
As if you first, with tender twaddle, |
And every sort of fiddle-faddle, |
Your little doll should mould and knead, |
As one in French romances may read. |
|
_Faust_. My appetite needs no such spur. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Now, then, without a jest or slur, |
I tell you, once for all, such speed |
With the fair creature won't succeed. |
Nothing will here by storm be taken; |
We must perforce on intrigue reckon. |
|
_Faust_. Get me some trinket the angel has blest! |
Lead me to her chamber of rest! |
Get me a 'kerchief from her neck, |
A garter get me for love's sweet sake! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. To prove to you my willingness |
To aid and serve you in this distress; |
You shall visit her chamber, by me attended, |
Before the passing day is ended. |
|
_Faust_. And see her, too? and have her? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Nay! |
She will to a neighbor's have gone away. |
Meanwhile alone by yourself you may, |
There in her atmosphere, feast at leisure |
And revel in dreams of future pleasure. |
|
_Faust_. Shall we start at once? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. 'Tis too early yet. |
|
_Faust_. Some present to take her for me you must get. |
|
[_Exit_.] |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Presents already! Brave! He's on the right foundation! |
Full many a noble place I know, |
And treasure buried long ago; |
Must make a bit of exploration. |
|
[_Exit_.] |
|
|
|
|
EVENING. |
|
_A little cleanly Chamber_. |
|
MARGARET [_braiding and tying up her hair_.] |
I'd give a penny just to say |
What gentleman that was to-day! |
How very gallant he seemed to be, |
He's of a noble family; |
That I could read from his brow and bearing-- |
And he would not have otherwise been so daring. |
[_Exit_.] |
|
FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Come in, step softly, do not fear! |
|
_Faust [after a pause_]. Leave me alone, I prithee, here! |
|
_Mephistopheles [peering round_]. Not every maiden keeps so neat. |
[_Exit_.] |
|
_Faust [gazing round_]. Welcome this hallowed still retreat! |
Where twilight weaves its magic glow. |
Seize on my heart, love-longing, sad and sweet, |
That on the dew of hope dost feed thy woe! |
How breathes around the sense of stillness, |
Of quiet, order, and content! |
In all this poverty what fulness! |
What blessedness within this prison pent! |
[_He throws himself into a leathern chair by the bed_.] |
Take me, too! as thou hast, in years long flown, |
In joy and grief, so many a generation! |
Ah me! how oft, on this ancestral throne, |
Have troops of children climbed with exultation! |
Perhaps, when Christmas brought the Holy Guest, |
My love has here, in grateful veneration |
The grandsire's withered hand with child-lips prest. |
I feel, O maiden, circling me, |
Thy spirit of grace and fulness hover, |
Which daily like a mother teaches thee |
The table-cloth to spread in snowy purity, |
And even, with crinkled sand the floor to cover. |
Dear, godlike hand! a touch of thine |
Makes this low house a heavenly kingdom slime! |
And here! |
[_He lifts a bed-curtain_.] |
What blissful awe my heart thrills through! |
Here for long hours could I linger. |
Here, Nature! in light dreams, thy airy finger |
The inborn angel's features drew! |
Here lay the child, when life's fresh heavings |
Its tender bosom first made warm, |
And here with pure, mysterious weavings |
The spirit wrought its godlike form! |
And thou! What brought thee here? what power |
Stirs in my deepest soul this hour? |
What wouldst thou here? What makes thy heart so sore? |
Unhappy Faust! I know thee thus no more. |
Breathe I a magic atmosphere? |
The will to enjoy how strong I felt it,-- |
And in a dream of love am now all melted! |
Are we the sport of every puff of air? |
And if she suddenly should enter now, |
How would she thy presumptuous folly humble! |
Big John-o'dreams! ah, how wouldst thou |
Sink at her feet, collapse and crumble! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Quick, now! She comes! I'm looking at her. |
|
_Faust_. Away! Away! O cruel fate! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Here is a box of moderate weight; |
I got it somewhere else--no matter! |
Just shut it up, here, in the press, |
I swear to you, 'twill turn her senses; |
I meant the trifles, I confess, |
To scale another fair one's fences. |
True, child is child and play is play. |
|
_Faust_. Shall I? I know not. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Why delay? |
You mean perhaps to keep the bauble? |
If so, I counsel you to spare |
From idle passion hours so fair, |
And me, henceforth, all further trouble. |
I hope you are not avaricious! |
I rub my hands, I scratch my head-- |
[_He places the casket in the press and locks it up again_.] |
(Quick! Time we sped!)-- |
That the dear creature may be led |
And moulded by your will and wishes; |
And you stand here as glum, |
As one at the door of the auditorium, |
As if before your eyes you saw |
In bodily shape, with breathless awe, |
Metaphysics and physics, grim and gray! |
Away! |
[_Exit_.] |
|
_Margaret [with a lamp_]. It seems so close, so sultry here. |
[_She opens the window_.] |
Yet it isn't so very warm out there, |
I feel--I know not how--oh dear! |
I wish my mother 'ld come home, I declare! |
I feel a shudder all over me crawl-- |
I'm a silly, timid thing, that's all! |
[_She begins to sing, while undressing_.] |
There was a king in Thulè, |
To whom, when near her grave, |
The mistress he loved so truly |
A golden goblet gave. |
|
He cherished it as a lover, |
He drained it, every bout; |
His eyes with tears ran over, |
As oft as he drank thereout. |
|
And when he found himself dying, |
His towns and cities he told; |
Naught else to his heir denying |
Save only the goblet of gold. |
|
His knights he straightway gathers |
And in the midst sate he, |
In the banquet hall of the fathers |
In the castle over the sea. |
|
There stood th' old knight of liquor, |
And drank the last life-glow, |
Then flung the holy beaker |
Into the flood below. |
|
He saw it plunging, drinking |
And sinking in the roar, |
His eyes in death were sinking, |
He never drank one drop more. |
[_She opens the press, to put away her clothes, |
and discovers the casket_.] |
|
How in the world came this fine casket here? |
I locked the press, I'm very clear. |
I wonder what's inside! Dear me! it's very queer! |
Perhaps 'twas brought here as a pawn, |
In place of something mother lent. |
Here is a little key hung on, |
A single peep I shan't repent! |
What's here? Good gracious! only see! |
I never saw the like in my born days! |
On some chief festival such finery |
Might on some noble lady blaze. |
How would this chain become my neck! |
Whose may this splendor be, so lonely? |
[_She arrays herself in it, and steps before the glass_.] |
Could I but claim the ear-rings only! |
A different figure one would make. |
What's beauty worth to thee, young blood! |
May all be very well and good; |
What then? 'Tis half for pity's sake |
They praise your pretty features. |
Each burns for gold, |
All turns on gold,-- |
Alas for us! poor creatures! |
|
|
|
|
PROMENADE. |
|
|
FAUST [_going up and down in thought_.] MEPHISTOPHELES _to him_. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. By all that ever was jilted! By all the infernal fires! |
I wish I knew something worse, to curse as my heart desires! |
|
_Faust_. What griping pain has hold of thee? |
Such grins ne'er saw I in the worst stage-ranter! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Oh, to the devil I'd give myself instanter, |
If I were not already he! |
|
_Faust_. Some pin's loose in your head, old fellow! |
That fits you, like a madman thus to bellow! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Just think, the pretty toy we got for Peg, |
A priest has hooked, the cursed plague I-- |
The thing came under the eye of the mother, |
And caused her a dreadful internal pother: |
The woman's scent is fine and strong; |
Snuffles over her prayer-book all day long, |
And knows, by the smell of an article, plain, |
Whether the thing is holy or profane; |
And as to the box she was soon aware |
There could not be much blessing there. |
"My child," she cried, "unrighteous gains |
Ensnare the soul, dry up the veins. |
We'll consecrate it to God's mother, |
She'll give us some heavenly manna or other!" |
Little Margaret made a wry face; "I see |
'Tis, after all, a gift horse," said she; |
"And sure, no godless one is he |
Who brought it here so handsomely." |
The mother sent for a priest (they're cunning); |
Who scarce had found what game was running, |
When he rolled his greedy eyes like a lizard, |
And, "all is rightly disposed," said he, |
"Who conquers wins, for a certainty. |
The church has of old a famous gizzard, |
She calls it little whole lands to devour, |
Yet never a surfeit got to this hour; |
The church alone, dear ladies; _sans_ question, |
Can give unrighteous gains digestion." |
|
_Faust_. That is a general pratice, too, |
Common alike with king and Jew. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Then pocketed bracelets and chains and rings |
As if they were mushrooms or some such things, |
With no more thanks, (the greedy-guts!) |
Than if it had been a basket of nuts, |
Promised them all sorts of heavenly pay-- |
And greatly edified were they. |
|
_Faust_. And Margery? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Sits there in distress, |
And what to do she cannot guess, |
The jewels her daily and nightly thought, |
And he still more by whom they were brought. |
|
_Faust._ My heart is troubled for my pet. |
Get her at once another set! |
The first were no great things in their way. |
|
_Mephistopheles._ O yes, my gentleman finds all child's play! |
|
_Faust._ And what I wish, that mind and do! |
Stick closely to her neighbor, too. |
Don't be a devil soft as pap, |
And fetch me some new jewels, old chap! |
|
_Mephistopheles._ Yes, gracious Sir, I will with pleasure. |
[_Exit_ FAUST.] |
Such love-sick fools will puff away |
Sun, moon, and stars, and all in the azure, |
To please a maiden's whimsies, any day. |
[_Exit._] |
|
|
|
|
THE NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE. |
|
|
MARTHA [_alone]._ |
My dear good man--whom God forgive! |
He has not treated me well, as I live! |
Right off into the world he's gone |
And left me on the straw alone. |
I never did vex him, I say it sincerely, |
I always loved him, God knows how dearly. |
[_She weeps_.] |
Perhaps he's dead!--O cruel fate!-- |
If I only had a certificate! |
|
_Enter_ MARGARET. |
Dame Martha! |
|
_Martha_. What now, Margery? |
|
_Margaret_. I scarce can keep my knees from sinking! |
Within my press, again, not thinking, |
I find a box of ebony, |
With things--can't tell how grand they are,-- |
More splendid than the first by far. |
|
_Martha_. You must not tell it to your mother, |
She'd serve it as she did the other. |
|
_Margaret_. Ah, only look! Behold and see! |
|
_Martha [puts them on her_]. Fortunate thing! I envy thee! |
|
_Margaret._ Alas, in the street or at church I never |
Could be seen on any account whatever. |
|
_Martha._ Come here as often as you've leisure, |
And prink yourself quite privately; |
Before the looking-glass walk up and down at pleasure, |
Fine times for both us 'twill be; |
Then, on occasions, say at some great feast, |
Can show them to the world, one at a time, at least. |
A chain, and then an ear-pearl comes to view; |
Your mother may not see, we'll make some pretext, too. |
|
_Margaret._ Who could have brought both caskets in succession? |
There's something here for just suspicion! |
[_A knock._ ] |
Ah, God! If that's my mother--then! |
|
_Martha_ [_peeping through the blind_]. |
'Tis a strange gentleman--come in! |
|
[_Enter_ MEPHISTOPHELES.] |
Must, ladies, on your kindness reckon |
To excuse the freedom I have taken; |
[_Steps back with profound respect at seeing_ MARGARET.] |
I would for Dame Martha Schwerdtlein inquire! |
|
_Martha._ I'm she, what, sir, is your desire? |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_aside to her_]. I know your face, for now 'twill do; |
A distinguished lady is visiting you. |
For a call so abrupt be pardon meted, |
This afternoon it shall be repeated. |
|
_Martha [aloud]._ For all the world, think, child! my sakes! |
The gentleman you for a lady takes. |
|
_Margaret_. Ah, God! I am a poor young blood; |
The gentleman is quite too good; |
The jewels and trinkets are none of my own. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Ah, 'tis not the jewels and trinkets alone; |
Her look is so piercing, so _distinguè_! |
How glad I am to be suffered to stay. |
|
_Martha_. What bring you, sir? I long to hear-- |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Would I'd a happier tale for your ear! |
I hope you'll forgive me this one for repeating: |
Your husband is dead and sends you a greeting. |
|
_Martha_. Is dead? the faithful heart! Woe! Woe! |
My husband dead! I, too, shall go! |
|
_Margaret_. Ah, dearest Dame, despair not thou! |
|
_Mephistopheles_ Then, hear the mournful story now! |
|
_Margaret_. Ah, keep me free from love forever, |
I should never survive such a loss, no, never! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Joy and woe, woe and joy, must have each other. |
|
_Martha_. Describe his closing hours to me! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. In Padua lies our departed brother, |
In the churchyard of St. Anthony, |
In a cool and quiet bed lies sleeping, |
In a sacred spot's eternal keeping. |
|
_Martha_. And this was all you had to bring me? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. All but one weighty, grave request! |
"Bid her, when I am dead, three hundred masses sing me!" |
With this I have made a clean pocket and breast. |
|
_Martha_. What! not a medal, pin nor stone? |
Such as, for memory's sake, no journeyman will lack, |
Saved in the bottom of his sack, |
And sooner would hunger, be a pauper-- |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Madam, your case is hard, I own! |
But blame him not, he squandered ne'er a copper. |
He too bewailed his faults with penance sore, |
Ay, and his wretched luck bemoaned a great deal more. |
|
_Margaret_. Alas! that mortals so unhappy prove! |
I surely will for him pray many a requiem duly. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. You're worthy of a spouse this moment; truly |
You are a child a man might love. |
|
_Margaret_. It's not yet time for that, ah no! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. If not a husband, say, meanwhile a beau. |
It is a choice and heavenly blessing, |
Such a dear thing to one's bosom pressing. |
|
_Margaret_. With us the custom is not so. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Custom or not! It happens, though. |
|
_Martha_. Tell on! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I slood beside his bed, as he lay dying, |
Better than dung it was somewhat,-- |
Half-rotten straw; but then, he died as Christian ought, |
And found an unpaid score, on Heaven's account-book lying. |
"How must I hate myself," he cried, "inhuman! |
So to forsake my business and my woman! |
Oh! the remembrance murders me! |
Would she might still forgive me this side heaven!" |
|
_Martha_ [_weeping_]. The dear good man! he has been long forgiven. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. "But God knows, I was less to blame than she." |
|
_Martha_. A lie! And at death's door! abominable! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. If I to judge of men half-way am able, |
He surely fibbed while passing hence. |
"Ways to kill time, (he said)--be sure, I did not need them; |
First to get children--and then bread to feed them, |
And bread, too, in the widest sense, |
And even to eat my bit in peace could not be thought on." |
|
_Martha_. Has he all faithfulness, all love, so far forgotten, |
The drudgery by day and night! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Not so, he thought of you with all his might. |
He said: "When I from Malta went away, |
For wife and children my warm prayers ascended; |
And Heaven so far our cause befriended, |
Our ship a Turkish cruiser took one day, |
Which for the mighty Sultan bore a treasure. |
Then valor got its well-earned pay, |
And I too, who received but my just measure, |
A goodly portion bore away." |
|
_Martha_. How? Where? And he has left it somewhere buried? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Who knows which way by the four winds 'twas carried? |
He chanced to take a pretty damsel's eye, |
As, a strange sailor, he through Naples jaunted; |
All that she did for him so tenderly, |
E'en to his blessed end the poor man haunted. |
|
_Martha_. The scamp! his children thus to plunder! |
And could not all his troubles sore |
Arrest his vile career, I wonder? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. But mark! his death wipes off the score. |
Were I in your place now, good lady; |
One year I'd mourn him piously |
And look about, meanwhiles, for a new flame already. |
|
_Martha_. Ah, God! another such as he |
I may not find with ease on this side heaven! |
Few such kind fools as this dear spouse of mine. |
Only to roving he was too much given, |
And foreign women and foreign wine, |
And that accursed game of dice. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Mere trifles these; you need not heed 'em, |
If he, on his part, not o'er-nice, |
Winked at, in you, an occasional freedom. |
I swear, on that condition, too, |
I would, myself, 'change rings with you! |
|
_Martha_. The gentleman is pleased to jest now! |
|
_Mephistopheles [aside_]. I see it's now high time I stirred! |
She'd take the very devil at his word. |
[_To_ MARGERY.] |
How is it with your heart, my best, now? |
|
_Margaret_. What means the gentleman? |
|
_Mephistopheles. [aside_]. Thou innocent young heart! |
[_Aloud_.] |
Ladies, farewell! |
|
_Margaret_. Farewell! |
|
_Martha_. But quick, before we part!-- |
I'd like some witness, vouching truly |
Where, how and when my love died and was buried duly. |
I've always paid to order great attention, |
Would of his death read some newspaper mention. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Ay, my dear lady, in the mouths of two |
Good witnesses each word is true; |
I've a friend, a fine fellow, who, when you desire, |
Will render on oath what you require. |
I'll bring him here. |
|
_Martha_. O pray, sir, do! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. And this young lady 'll be there too? |
Fine boy! has travelled everywhere, |
And all politeness to the fair. |
|
_Margaret_. Before him shame my face must cover. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Before no king the wide world over! |
|
_Martha_. Behind the house, in my garden, at leisure, |
We'll wait this eve the gentlemen's pleasure. |
|
|
|
|
STREET. |
|
FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. |
|
_Faust_. How now? What progress? Will 't come right? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Ha, bravo? So you're all on fire? |
Full soon you'll see whom you desire. |
In neighbor Martha's grounds we are to meet tonight. |
That woman's one of nature's picking |
For pandering and gipsy-tricking! |
|
_Faust_. So far, so good! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. But one thing we must do. |
|
_Faust_. Well, one good turn deserves another, true. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. We simply make a solemn deposition |
That her lord's bones are laid in good condition |
In holy ground at Padua, hid from view. |
|
_Faust_. That's wise! But then we first must make the journey thither? |
|
_Mephistopheles. Sancta simplicitas_! no need of such to-do; |
Just swear, and ask not why or whether. |
|
_Faust_. If that's the best you have, the plan's not worth a feather. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. O holy man! now that's just you! |
In all thy life hast never, to this hour, |
To give false witness taken pains? |
Have you of God, the world, and all that it contains, |
Of man, and all that stirs within his heart and brains, |
Not given definitions with great power, |
Unscrupulous breast, unblushing brow? |
And if you search the matter clearly, |
Knew you as much thereof, to speak sincerely, |
As of Herr Schwerdtlein's death? Confess it now! |
|
_Faust_. Thou always wast a sophist and a liar. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Ay, if one did not look a little nigher. |
For will you not, in honor, to-morrow |
Befool poor Margery to her sorrow, |
And all the oaths of true love borrow? |
|
_Faust_. And from the heart, too. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Well and fair! |
Then there'll be talk of truth unending, |
Of love o'ermastering, all transcending-- |
Will every word be heart-born there? |
|
_Faust_. Enough! It will!--If, for the passion |
That fills and thrills my being's frame, |
I find no name, no fit expression, |
Then, through the world, with all my senses, ranging, |
Seek what most strongly speaks the unchanging. |
And call this glow, within me burning, |
Infinite--endless--endless yearning, |
Is that a devilish lying game? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I'm right, nathless! |
|
_Faust_. Now, hark to me-- |
This once, I pray, and spare my lungs, old fellow-- |
Whoever _will_ be right, and has a tongue to bellow, |
Is sure to be. |
But come, enough of swaggering, let's be quit, |
For thou art right, because I must submit. |
|
|
|
|
GARDEN. |
|
MARGARET _on_ FAUST'S _arm_. MARTHA _with_ MEPHISTOPHELES. |
[_Promenading up and down_.] |
|
_Margaret_. The gentleman but makes me more confused |
|
With all his condescending goodness. |
Men who have travelled wide are used |
To bear with much from dread of rudeness; |
I know too well, a man of so much mind |
In my poor talk can little pleasure find. |
|
_Faust_. One look from thee, one word, delights me more |
Than this world's wisdom o'er and o'er. |
[_Kisses her hand_.] |
|
_Margaret_. Don't take that trouble, sir! How could you bear to kiss it? |
A hand so ugly, coarse, and rough! |
How much I've had to do! must I confess it-- |
Mother is more than close enough. |
[_They pass on_.] |
|
_Martha_. And you, sir, are you always travelling so? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Alas, that business forces us to do it! |
With what regret from many a place we go, |
Though tenderest bonds may bind us to it! |
|
_Martha_. 'Twill do in youth's tumultuous maze |
To wander round the world, a careless rover; |
But soon will come the evil days, |
And then, a lone dry stick, on the grave's brink to hover, |
For that nobody ever prays. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. The distant prospect shakes my reason. |
|
_Martha_. Then, worthy sir, bethink yourself in season. |
[_They pass on_.] |
|
_Margaret_. Yes, out of sight and out of mind! |
Politeness you find no hard matter; |
But you have friends in plenty, better |
Than I, more sensible, more refined. |
|
_Faust_. Dear girl, what one calls sensible on earth, |
Is often vanity and nonsense. |
|
_Margaret_. How? |
|
_Faust_. Ah, that the pure and simple never know |
Aught of themselves and all their holy worth! |
That meekness, lowliness, the highest measure |
Of gifts by nature lavished, full and free-- |
|
_Margaret_. One little moment, only, think of me, |
I shall to think of you have ample time and leisure. |
|
_Faust_. You're, may be, much alone? |
|
_Margaret_. Our household is but small, I own, |
And yet needs care, if truth were known. |
We have no maid; so I attend to cooking, sweeping, |
Knit, sew, do every thing, in fact; |
And mother, in all branches of housekeeping, |
Is so exact! |
Not that she need be tied so very closely down; |
We might stand higher than some others, rather; |
A nice estate was left us by my father, |
A house and garden not far out of town. |
Yet, after all, my life runs pretty quiet; |
My brother is a soldier, |
My little sister's dead; |
With the dear child indeed a wearing life I led; |
And yet with all its plagues again would gladly try it, |
The child was such a pet. |
|
_Faust_. An angel, if like thee! |
|
_Margaret_. I reared her and she heartily loved me. |
She and my father never saw each other, |
He died before her birth, and mother |
Was given up, so low she lay, |
But me, by slow degrees, recovered, day by day. |
Of course she now, long time so feeble, |
To nurse the poor little worm was unable, |
And so I reared it all alone, |
With milk and water; 'twas my own. |
Upon my bosom all day long |
It smiled and sprawled and so grew strong. |
|
_Faust_. Ah! thou hast truly known joy's fairest flower. |
|
_Margaret_. But no less truly many a heavy hour. |
The wee thing's cradle stood at night |
Close to my bed; did the least thing awake her, |
My sleep took flight; |
'Twas now to nurse her, now in bed to take her, |
Then, if she was not still, to rise, |
Walk up and down the room, and dance away her cries, |
And at the wash-tub stand, when morning streaked the skies; |
Then came the marketing and kitchen-tending, |
Day in, day out, work never-ending. |
One cannot always, sir, good temper keep; |
But then it sweetens food and sweetens sleep. |
[_They pass on_.] |
|
_Martha_. But the poor women suffer, you must own: |
A bachelor is hard of reformation. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Madam, it rests with such as you, alone, |
To help me mend my situation. |
|
_Martha_. Speak plainly, sir, has none your fancy taken? |
Has none made out a tender flame to waken? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. The proverb says: A man's own hearth, |
And a brave wife, all gold and pearls are worth. |
|
_Martha_. I mean, has ne'er your heart been smitten slightly? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I have, on every hand, been entertained politely. |
|
_Martha_. Have you not felt, I mean, a serious intention? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. |
Jesting with women, that's a thing one ne'er should mention. |
|
_Martha_. Ah, you misunderstand! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. It grieves me that I should! |
But this I understand--that you are good. |
[_They pass on_.] |
|
_Faust_. So then, my little angel recognized me, |
As I came through the garden gate? |
|
_Margaret_. Did not my downcast eyes show you surprised me? |
|
_Faust_. And thou forgav'st that liberty, of late? |
That impudence of mine, so daring, |
As thou wast home from church repairing? |
|
_Margaret_. I was confused, the like was new to me; |
No one could say a word to my dishonor. |
Ah, thought I, has he, haply, in thy manner |
Seen any boldness--impropriety? |
It seemed as if the feeling seized him, |
That he might treat this girl just as it pleased him. |
Let me confess! I knew not from what cause, |
Some flight relentings here began to threaten danger; |
I know, right angry with myself I was, |
That I could not be angrier with the stranger. |
|
_Faust_. Sweet darling! |
|
_Margaret_. Let me once! |
|
[_She plucks a china-aster and picks off the leaves one after another_.] |
|
_Faust_. What's that for? A bouquet? |
|
_Margaret_. No, just for sport. |
|
_Faust_. How? |
|
_Margaret_. Go! you'll laugh at me; away! |
[_She picks and murmurs to herself_.] |
|
_Faust_. What murmurest thou? |
|
_Margaret [half aloud_]. He loves me--loves me not. |
|
_Faust_. Sweet face! from heaven that look was caught! |
|
_Margaret [goes on_]. Loves me--not--loves me--not-- |
[_picking off the last leaf with tender joy_] |
He loves me! |
|
_Faust_. Yes, my child! And be this floral word |
An oracle to thee. He loves thee! |
Knowest thou all it mean? He loves thee! |
[_Clasping both her hands_.] |
|
_Margaret_. What thrill is this! |
|
_Faust_. O, shudder not! This look of mine. |
This pressure of the hand shall tell thee |
What cannot be expressed: |
Give thyself up at once and feel a rapture, |
An ecstasy never to end! |
Never!--It's end were nothing but blank despair. |
No, unending! unending! |
|
[MARGARET _presses his hands, extricates herself, and runs away. |
He stands a moment in thought, then follows her_]. |
|
_Martha [coming_]. The night falls fast. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Ay, and we must away. |
|
_Martha_. If it were not for one vexation, |
I would insist upon your longer stay. |
Nobody seems to have no occupation, |
No care nor labor, |
Except to play the spy upon his neighbor; |
And one becomes town-talk, do whatsoe'er they may. |
But where's our pair of doves? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Flown up the alley yonder. |
Light summer-birds! |
|
_Martha_. He seems attached to her. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. No wonder. |
And she to him. So goes the world, they say. |
|
|
|
|
A SUMMER-HOUSE. |
|
MARGARET [_darts in, hides behind the door, presses the tip of |
her finger to her lips, and peeps through the crack_]. |
|
_Margaret_. He comes! |
|
_Enter_ FAUST. |
|
_Faust_. Ah rogue, how sly thou art! |
I've caught thee! |
[_Kisses her_.] |
|
_Margaret [embracing him and returning the kiss_]. |
Dear good man! I love thee from my heart! |
|
[MEPHISTOPHELES _knocks_.] |
|
_Faust [stamping_]. Who's there? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. A friend! |
|
_Faust_. A beast! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Time flies, I don't offend you? |
|
_Martha [entering_]. Yes, sir, 'tis growing late. |
|
_Faust_. May I not now attend you? |
|
_Margaret_. Mother would--Fare thee well! |
|
_Faust_. And must I leave thee then? Farewell! |
|
_Martha_. Adé! |
|
_Margaret_. Till, soon, we meet again! |
|
[_Exeunt_ FAUST _and_ MEPHISTOPHELES.] |
|
_Margaret_. Good heavens! what such a man's one brain |
Can in itself alone contain! |
I blush my rudeness to confess, |
And answer all he says with yes. |
Am a poor, ignorant child, don't see |
What he can possibly find in me. |
|
[_Exit_.] |
|
|
|
|
WOODS AND CAVERN. |
|
_Faust_ [_alone_]. Spirit sublime, thou gav'st me, gav'st me all |
For which I prayed. Thou didst not lift in vain |
Thy face upon me in a flame of fire. |
Gav'st me majestic nature for a realm, |
The power to feel, enjoy her. Not alone |
A freezing, formal visit didst thou grant; |
Deep down into her breast invitedst me |
To look, as if she were a bosom-friend. |
The series of animated things |
Thou bidst pass by me, teaching me to know |
My brothers in the waters, woods, and air. |
And when the storm-swept forest creaks and groans, |
The giant pine-tree crashes, rending off |
The neighboring boughs and limbs, and with deep roar |
The thundering mountain echoes to its fall, |
To a safe cavern then thou leadest me, |
Showst me myself; and my own bosom's deep |
Mysterious wonders open on my view. |
And when before my sight the moon comes up |
With soft effulgence; from the walls of rock, |
From the damp thicket, slowly float around |
The silvery shadows of a world gone by, |
And temper meditation's sterner joy. |
O! nothing perfect is vouchsafed to man: |
I feel it now! Attendant on this bliss, |
Which brings me ever nearer to the Gods, |
Thou gav'st me the companion, whom I now |
No more can spare, though cold and insolent; |
He makes me hate, despise myself, and turns |
Thy gifts to nothing with a word--a breath. |
He kindles up a wild-fire in my breast, |
Of restless longing for that lovely form. |
Thus from desire I hurry to enjoyment, |
And in enjoyment languish for desire. |
|
_Enter_ MEPHISTOPHELES. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Will not this life have tired you by and bye? |
I wonder it so long delights you? |
'Tis well enough for once the thing to try; |
Then off to where a new invites you! |
|
_Faust_. Would thou hadst something else to do, |
That thus to spoil my joy thou burnest. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Well! well! I'll leave thee, gladly too!-- |
Thou dar'st not tell me that in earnest! |
'Twere no great loss, a fellow such as you, |
So crazy, snappish, and uncivil. |
One has, all day, his hands full, and more too; |
To worm out from him what he'd have one do, |
Or not do, puzzles e'en the very devil. |
|
_Faust_. Now, that I like! That's just the tone! |
Wants thanks for boring me till I'm half dead! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Poor son of earth, if left alone, |
What sort of life wouldst thou have led? |
How oft, by methods all my own, |
I've chased the cobweb fancies from thy head! |
And but for me, to parts unknown |
Thou from this earth hadst long since fled. |
What dost thou here through cave and crevice groping? |
Why like a hornèd owl sit moping? |
And why from dripping stone, damp moss, and rotten wood |
Here, like a toad, suck in thy food? |
Delicious pastime! Ah, I see, |
Somewhat of Doctor sticks to thee. |
|
_Faust_. What new life-power it gives me, canst thou guess-- |
This conversation with the wilderness? |
Ay, couldst thou dream how sweet the employment, |
Thou wouldst be devil enough to grudge me my enjoyment. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Ay, joy from super-earthly fountains! |
By night and day to lie upon the mountains, |
To clasp in ecstasy both earth and heaven, |
Swelled to a deity by fancy's leaven, |
Pierce, like a nervous thrill, earth's very marrow, |
Feel the whole six days' work for thee too narrow, |
To enjoy, I know not what, in blest elation, |
Then with thy lavish love o'erflow the whole creation. |
Below thy sight the mortal cast, |
And to the glorious vision give at last-- |
[_with a gesture_] |
I must not say what termination! |
|
_Faust_. Shame on thee! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. This displeases thee; well, surely, |
Thou hast a right to say "for shame" demurely. |
One must not mention that to chaste ears--never, |
Which chaste hearts cannot do without, however. |
And, in one word, I grudge you not the pleasure |
Of lying to yourself in moderate measure; |
But 'twill not hold out long, I know; |
Already thou art fast recoiling, |
And soon, at this rate, wilt be boiling |
With madness or despair and woe. |
Enough of this! Thy sweetheart sits there lonely, |
And all to her is close and drear. |
Her thoughts are on thy image only, |
She holds thee, past all utterance, dear. |
At first thy passion came bounding and rushing |
Like a brooklet o'erflowing with melted snow and rain; |
Into her heart thou hast poured it gushing: |
And now thy brooklet's dry again. |
Methinks, thy woodland throne resigning, |
'Twould better suit so great a lord |
The poor young monkey to reward |
For all the love with which she's pining. |
She finds the time dismally long; |
Stands at the window, sees the clouds on high |
Over the old town-wall go by. |
"Were I a little bird!"[26] so runneth her song |
All the day, half the night long. |
At times she'll be laughing, seldom smile, |
At times wept-out she'll seem, |
Then again tranquil, you'd deem,-- |
Lovesick all the while. |
|
_Faust_. Viper! Viper! |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_aside_]. Ay! and the prey grows riper! |
|
_Faust_. Reprobate! take thee far behind me! |
No more that lovely woman name! |
Bid not desire for her sweet person flame |
Through each half-maddened sense, again to blind me! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. What then's to do? She fancies thou hast flown, |
And more than half she's right, I own. |
|
_Faust_. I'm near her, and, though far away, my word, |
I'd not forget her, lose her; never fear it! |
I envy e'en the body of the Lord, |
Oft as those precious lips of hers draw near it. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. No doubt; and oft my envious thought reposes |
On the twin-pair that feed among the roses. |
|
_Faust_. Out, pimp! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Well done! Your jeers I find fair game for laughter. |
The God, who made both lad and lass, |
Unwilling for a bungling hand to pass, |
Made opportunity right after. |
But come! fine cause for lamentation! |
Her chamber is your destination, |
And not the grave, I guess. |
|
_Faust_. What are the joys of heaven while her fond arms enfold me? |
O let her kindling bosom hold me! |
Feel I not always her distress? |
The houseless am I not? the unbefriended? |
The monster without aim or rest? |
That, like a cataract, from rock to rock descended |
To the abyss, with maddening greed possest: |
She, on its brink, with childlike thoughts and lowly,-- |
Perched on the little Alpine field her cot,-- |
This narrow world, so still and holy |
Ensphering, like a heaven, her lot. |
And I, God's hatred daring, |
Could not be content |
The rocks all headlong bearing, |
By me to ruins rent,-- |
Her, yea her peace, must I o'erwhelm and bury! |
This victim, hell, to thee was necessary! |
Help me, thou fiend, the pang soon ending! |
What must be, let it quickly be! |
And let her fate upon my head descending, |
Crush, at one blow, both her and me. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Ha! how it seethes again and glows! |
Go in and comfort her, thou dunce! |
Where such a dolt no outlet sees or knows, |
He thinks he's reached the end at once. |
None but the brave deserve the fair! |
Thou _hast_ had devil enough to make a decent show of. |
For all the world a devil in despair |
Is just the insipidest thing I know of. |
|
|
|
|
MARGERY'S ROOM. |
|
MARGERY [_at the spinning-wheel alone_]. |
My heart is heavy, |
My peace is o'er; |
I never--ah! never-- |
Shall find it more. |
While him I crave, |
Each place is the grave, |
The world is all |
Turned into gall. |
My wretched brain |
Has lost its wits, |
My wretched sense |
Is all in bits. |
My heart is heavy, |
My peace is o'er; |
I never--ah! never-- |
Shall find it more. |
Him only to greet, I |
The street look down, |
Him only to meet, I |
Roam through town. |
His lofty step, |
His noble height, |
His smile of sweetness, |
His eye of might, |
His words of magic, |
Breathing bliss, |
His hand's warm pressure |
And ah! his kiss. |
My heart is heavy, |
My peace is o'er, |
I never--ah! never-- |
Shall find it more. |
My bosom yearns |
To behold him again. |
Ah, could I find him |
That best of men! |
I'd tell him then |
How I did miss him, |
And kiss him |
As much as I could, |
Die on his kisses |
I surely should! |
|
|
|
|
MARTHA'S GARDEN. |
|
MARGARET. FAUST. |
|
_Margaret_. Promise me, Henry. |
|
_Faust_. What I can. |
|
_Margaret_. How is it now with thy religion, say? |
I know thou art a dear good man, |
But fear thy thoughts do not run much that way. |
|
_Faust_. Leave that, my child! Enough, thou hast my heart; |
For those I love with life I'd freely part; |
I would not harm a soul, nor of its faith bereave it. |
|
_Margaret_. That's wrong, there's one true faith--one must believe it? |
|
_Faust_. Must one? |
|
_Margaret_. Ah, could I influence thee, dearest! |
The holy sacraments thou scarce reverest. |
|
_Faust_. I honor them. |
|
_Margaret_. But yet without desire. |
Of mass and confession both thou'st long begun to tire. |
Believest thou in God? |
|
_Faust_. My. darling, who engages |
To say, I do believe in God? |
The question put to priests or sages: |
Their answer seems as if it sought |
To mock the asker. |
|
_Margaret_. Then believ'st thou not? |
|
_Faust_. Sweet face, do not misunderstand my thought! |
Who dares express him? |
And who confess him, |
Saying, I do believe? |
A man's heart bearing, |
What man has the daring |
To say: I acknowledge him not? |
The All-enfolder, |
The All-upholder, |
Enfolds, upholds He not |
Thee, me, Himself? |
Upsprings not Heaven's blue arch high o'er thee? |
Underneath thee does not earth stand fast? |
See'st thou not, nightly climbing, |
Tenderly glancing eternal stars? |
Am I not gazing eye to eye on thee? |
Through brain and bosom |
Throngs not all life to thee, |
Weaving in everlasting mystery |
Obscurely, clearly, on all sides of thee? |
Fill with it, to its utmost stretch, thy breast, |
And in the consciousness when thou art wholly blest, |
Then call it what thou wilt, |
Joy! Heart! Love! God! |
I have no name to give it! |
All comes at last to feeling; |
Name is but sound and smoke, |
Beclouding Heaven's warm glow. |
|
_Margaret_. That is all fine and good, I know; |
And just as the priest has often spoke, |
Only with somewhat different phrases. |
|
_Faust_. All hearts, too, in all places, |
Wherever Heaven pours down the day's broad blessing, |
Each in its way the truth is confessing; |
And why not I in mine, too? |
|
_Margaret_. Well, all have a way that they incline to, |
But still there is something wrong with thee; |
Thou hast no Christianity. |
|
_Faust_. Dear child! |
|
_Margaret_. It long has troubled me |
That thou shouldst keep such company. |
|
_Faust_. How so? |
|
_Margaret_. The man whom thou for crony hast, |
Is one whom I with all my soul detest. |
Nothing in all my life has ever |
Stirred up in my heart such a deep disfavor |
As the ugly face that man has got. |
|
_Faust_. Sweet plaything; fear him not! |
|
_Margaret_. His presence stirs my blood, I own. |
I can love almost all men I've ever known; |
But much as thy presence with pleasure thrills me, |
That man with a secret horror fills me. |
And then for a knave I've suspected him long! |
God pardon me, if I do him wrong! |
|
_Faust_. To make up a world such odd sticks are needed. |
|
_Margaret_. Shouldn't like to live in the house where he did! |
Whenever I see him coming in, |
He always wears such a mocking grin. |
Half cold, half grim; |
One sees, that naught has interest for him; |
'Tis writ on his brow and can't be mistaken, |
No soul in him can love awaken. |
I feel in thy arms so happy, so free, |
I yield myself up so blissfully, |
He comes, and all in me is closed and frozen now. |
|
_Faust_. Ah, thou mistrustful angel, thou! |
|
_Margaret_. This weighs on me so sore, |
That when we meet, and he is by me, |
I feel, as if I loved thee now no more. |
Nor could I ever pray, if he were nigh me, |
That eats the very heart in me; |
Henry, it must be so with thee. |
|
_Faust_. 'Tis an antipathy of thine! |
|
_Margaret_. Farewell! |
|
_Faust_. Ah, can I ne'er recline |
One little hour upon thy bosom, pressing |
My heart to thine and all my soul confessing? |
|
_Margaret_. Ah, if my chamber were alone, |
This night the bolt should give thee free admission; |
But mother wakes at every tone, |
And if she had the least suspicion, |
Heavens! I should die upon the spot! |
|
_Faust_. Thou angel, need of that there's not. |
Here is a flask! Three drops alone |
Mix with her drink, and nature |
Into a deep and pleasant sleep is thrown. |
|
_Margaret_. Refuse thee, what can I, poor creature? |
I hope, of course, it will not harm her! |
|
_Faust_. Would I advise it then, my charmer? |
|
_Margaret_. Best man, when thou dost look at me, |
I know not what, moves me to do thy will; |
I have already done so much for thee, |
Scarce any thing seems left me to fulfil. |
[_Exit_.] |
|
Enter_ MEPHISTOPHELES. |
|
_Mephtftopheles_. The monkey! is she gone? |
|
_Faust_. Hast played the spy again? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I overheard it all quite fully. |
The Doctor has been well catechized then? |
Hope it will sit well on him truly. |
The maidens won't rest till they know if the men |
Believe as good old custom bids them do. |
They think: if there he yields, he'll follow our will too. |
|
_Faust_. Monster, thou wilt not, canst not see, |
How this true soul that loves so dearly, |
Yet hugs, at every cost, |
The faith which she |
Counts Heaven itself, is horror-struck sincerely |
To think of giving up her dearest man for lost. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Thou supersensual, sensual wooer, |
A girl by the nose is leading thee. |
|
_Faust_. Abortion vile of fire and sewer! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. In physiognomy, too, her skill is masterly. |
When I am near she feels she knows not how, |
My little mask some secret meaning shows; |
She thinks, I'm certainly a genius, now, |
Perhaps the very devil--who knows? |
To-night then?-- |
|
_Faust_. Well, what's that to you? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I find my pleasure in it, too! |
|
|
|
|
AT THE WELL. |
|
MARGERY _and_ LIZZY _with Pitchers._ |
|
_Lizzy_. Hast heard no news of Barbara to-day? |
|
_Margery_. No, not a word. I've not been out much lately. |
|
_Lizzy_. It came to me through Sybill very straightly. |
She's made a fool of herself at last, they say. |
That comes of taking airs! |
|
_Margery_. What meanst thou? |
|
_Lizzy_. Pah! |
She daily eats and drinks for two now. |
|
_Margery_. Ah! |
|
_Lizzy_. It serves the jade right for being so callow. |
How long she's been hanging upon the fellow! |
Such a promenading! |
To fair and dance parading! |
Everywhere as first she must shine, |
He was treating her always with tarts and wine; |
She began to think herself something fine, |
And let her vanity so degrade her |
That she even accepted the presents he made her. |
There was hugging and smacking, and so it went on-- |
And lo! and behold! the flower is gone! |
|
_Margery_. Poor thing! |
|
_Lizzy_. Canst any pity for her feel! |
When such as we spun at the wheel, |
Our mothers kept us in-doors after dark; |
While she stood cozy with her spark, |
Or sate on the door-bench, or sauntered round, |
And never an hour too long they found. |
But now her pride may let itself down, |
To do penance at church in the sinner's gown! |
|
_Margery_. He'll certainly take her for his wife. |
|
_Lizzy_. He'd be a fool! A spruce young blade |
Has room enough to ply his trade. |
Besides, he's gone. |
|
_Margery_. Now, that's not fair! |
|
_Lizzy_. If she gets him, her lot'll be hard to bear. |
The boys will tear up her wreath, and what's more, |
We'll strew chopped straw before her door. |
|
[_Exit._] |
|
_Margery [going home]_. Time was when I, too, instead of bewailing, |
Could boldly jeer at a poor girl's failing! |
When my scorn could scarcely find expression |
At hearing of another's transgression! |
How black it seemed! though black as could be, |
It never was black enough for me. |
I blessed my soul, and felt so high, |
And now, myself, in sin I lie! |
Yet--all that led me to it, sure, |
O God! it was so dear, so pure! |
|
|
|
|
DONJON.[27] |
|
[_In a niche a devotional image of the Mater Dolorosa, |
before it pots of flowers._] |
|
MARGERY [_puts fresh flowers into the pots_]. |
Ah, hear me, |
Draw kindly near me, |
Mother of sorrows, heal my woe! |
|
Sword-pierced, and stricken |
With pangs that sicken, |
Thou seest thy son's last life-blood flow! |
|
Thy look--thy sighing--- |
To God are crying, |
Charged with a son's and mother's woe! |
|
Sad mother! |
What other |
Knows the pangs that eat me to the bone? |
What within my poor heart burneth, |
How it trembleth, how it yearneth, |
Thou canst feel and thou alone! |
|
Go where I will, I never |
Find peace or hope--forever |
Woe, woe and misery! |
|
Alone, when all are sleeping, |
I'm weeping, weeping, weeping, |
My heart is crushed in me. |
|
The pots before my window, |
In the early morning-hours, |
Alas, my tears bedewed them, |
As I plucked for thee these flowers, |
|
When the bright sun good morrow |
In at my window said, |
Already, in my anguish, |
I sate there in my bed. |
|
From shame and death redeem me, oh! |
Draw near me, |
And, pitying, hear me, |
Mother of sorrows, heal my woe! |
|
|
|
|
NIGHT. |
|
_Street before_ MARGERY'S _Door._ |
|
|
VALENTINE [_soldier,_ MARGERY'S _brother_]. |
|
When at the mess I used to sit, |
Where many a one will show his wit, |
And heard my comrades one and all |
The flower of the sex extol, |
Drowning their praise with bumpers high, |
Leaning upon my elbows, I |
Would hear the braggadocios through, |
And then, when it came my turn, too, |
Would stroke my beard and, smiling, say, |
A brimming bumper in my hand: |
All very decent in their way! |
But is there one, in all the land, |
With my sweet Margy to compare, |
A candle to hold to my sister fair? |
Bravo! Kling! Klang! it echoed round! |
One party cried: 'tis truth he speaks, |
She is the jewel of the sex! |
And the braggarts all in silence were bound. |
And now!--one could pull out his hair with vexation, |
And run up the walls for mortification!-- |
Every two-legged creature that goes in breeches |
Can mock me with sneers and stinging speeches! |
And I like a guilty debtor sitting, |
For fear of each casual word am sweating! |
And though I could smash them in my ire, |
I dare not call a soul of them liar. |
|
What's that comes yonder, sneaking along? |
There are two of them there, if I see not wrong. |
Is't he, I'll give him a dose that'll cure him, |
He'll not leave the spot alive, I assure him! |
|
|
FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. |
|
_Faust_. How from yon window of the sacristy |
The ever-burning lamp sends up its glimmer, |
And round the edge grows ever dimmer, |
Till in the gloom its flickerings die! |
So in my bosom all is nightlike. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. A starving tom-cat I feel quite like, |
That o'er the fire ladders crawls |
Then softly creeps, ground the walls. |
My aim's quite virtuous ne'ertheless, |
A bit of thievish lust, a bit of wantonness. |
I feel it all my members haunting-- |
The glorious Walpurgis night. |
One day--then comes the feast enchanting |
That shall all pinings well requite. |
|
_Faust_. Meanwhile can that the casket be, I wonder, |
I see behind rise glittering yonder.[28] |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Yes, and thou soon shalt have the pleasure |
Of lifting out the precious treasure. |
I lately 'neath the lid did squint, |
Has piles of lion-dollars[29] in't. |
|
_Faust_. But not a jewel? Not a ring? |
To deck my mistress not a trinket? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I caught a glimpse of some such thing, |
Sort of pearl bracelet I should think it. |
|
_Faust_. That's well! I always like to bear |
Some present when I visit my fair. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. You should not murmur if your fate is, |
To have a bit of pleasure gratis. |
Now, as the stars fill heaven with their bright throng, |
List a fine piece, artistic purely: |
I sing her here a moral song, |
To make a fool of her more surely. |
[_Sings to the guitar_.][30] |
What dost thou here, |
Katrina dear, |
At daybreak drear, |
Before thy lover's chamber? |
Give o'er, give o'er! |
The maid his door |
Lets in, no more |
Goes out a maid--remember! |
|
Take heed! take heed! |
Once done, the deed |
Ye'll rue with speed-- |
And then--good night--poor thing--a! |
Though ne'er so fair |
His speech, beware, |
Until you bear |
His ring upon your finger. |
|
_Valentine_ [_comes forward_]. |
Whom lur'ft thou here? what prey dost scent? |
Rat-catching[81] offspring of perdition! |
To hell goes first the instrument! |
To hell then follows the musician! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. He 's broken the guitar! to music, then, good-bye, now. |
|
_Valentine_. A game of cracking skulls we'll try now! |
|
_Mephistopbeles_ [_to Faust_]. Never you flinch, Sir Doctor! Brisk! |
Mind every word I say---be wary! |
Stand close by me, out with your whisk! |
Thrust home upon the churl! I'll parry. |
|
_Valentine_. Then parry that! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Be sure. Why not? |
|
_Valentine_. And that! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. With ease! |
|
_Valentine_. The devil's aid he's got! |
But what is this? My hand's already lame. |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_to Faust_]. Thrust home! |
|
_Valentine_ [_falls_]. O woe! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Now is the lubber tame! |
But come! We must be off. I hear a clatter; |
And cries of murder, too, that fast increase. |
I'm an old hand to manage the police, |
But then the penal court's another matter. |
|
_Martha_. Come out! Come out! |
|
_Margery_ [_at the window_]. Bring on a light! |
|
_Martha_ [_as above_]. They swear and scuffle, scream and fight. |
|
_People_. There's one, has got's death-blow! |
|
_Martha_ [_coming out_]. Where are the murderers, have they flown? |
|
_Margery_ [_coming out_]. Who's lying here? |
|
_People_. Thy mother's son. |
|
_Margery_. Almighty God! What woe! |
|
_Valentine_. I'm dying! that is quickly said, |
And even quicklier done. |
Women! Why howl, as if half-dead? |
Come, hear me, every one! |
[_All gather round him_.] |
My Margery, look! Young art thou still, |
But managest thy matters ill, |
Hast not learned out yet quite. |
I say in confidence--think it o'er: |
Thou art just once for all a whore; |
Why, be one, then, outright. |
|
_Margery_. My brother! God! What words to me! |
|
_Valentine_. In this game let our Lord God be! |
That which is done, alas! is done. |
And every thing its course will run. |
With one you secretly begin, |
Presently more of them come in, |
And when a dozen share in thee, |
Thou art the whole town's property. |
|
When shame is born to this world of sorrow, |
The birth is carefully hid from sight, |
And the mysterious veil of night |
To cover her head they borrow; |
Yes, they would gladly stifle the wearer; |
But as she grows and holds herself high, |
She walks uncovered in day's broad eye, |
Though she has not become a whit fairer. |
The uglier her face to sight, |
The more she courts the noonday light. |
|
Already I the time can see |
When all good souls shall shrink from thee, |
Thou prostitute, when thou go'st by them, |
As if a tainted corpse were nigh them. |
Thy heart within thy breast shall quake then, |
When they look thee in the face. |
Shalt wear no gold chain more on thy neck then! |
Shalt stand no more in the holy place! |
No pleasure in point-lace collars take then, |
Nor for the dance thy person deck then! |
But into some dark corner gliding, |
'Mong beggars and cripples wilt be hiding; |
And even should God thy sin forgive, |
Wilt be curs'd on earth while thou shalt live! |
|
_Martha_. Your soul to the mercy of God surrender! |
Will you add to your load the sin of slander? |
|
_Valentine_. Could I get at thy dried-up frame, |
Vile bawd, so lost to all sense of shame! |
Then might I hope, e'en this side Heaven, |
Richly to find my sins forgiven. |
|
_Margery_. My brother! This is hell to me! |
|
_Valentine_. I tell thee, let these weak tears be! |
When thy last hold of honor broke, |
Thou gav'st my heart the heaviest stroke. |
I'm going home now through the grave |
To God, a soldier and a brave. |
[_Dies_.] |
|
|
|
|
CATHEDRAL. |
|
_Service, Organ, and Singing._ |
|
|
[MARGERY _amidst a crowd of people._ EVIL SPIRIT _behind_ MARGERY.] |
|
_Evil Spirit_. How different was it with thee, Margy, |
When, innocent and artless, |
Thou cam'st here to the altar, |
From the well-thumbed little prayer-book, |
Petitions lisping, |
Half full of child's play, |
Half full of Heaven! |
Margy! |
Where are thy thoughts? |
What crime is buried |
Deep within thy heart? |
Prayest thou haply for thy mother, who |
Slept over into long, long pain, on thy account? |
Whose blood upon thy threshold lies? |
--And stirs there not, already |
Beneath thy heart a life |
Tormenting itself and thee |
With bodings of its coming hour? |
|
_Margery_. Woe! Woe! |
Could I rid me of the thoughts, |
Still through my brain backward and forward flitting, |
Against my will! |
|
_Chorus_. Dies irae, dies illa |
Solvet saeclum in favillâ. |
|
[_Organ plays_.] |
|
_Evil Spirit_. Wrath smites thee! |
Hark! the trumpet sounds! |
The graves are trembling! |
And thy heart, |
Made o'er again |
For fiery torments, |
Waking from its ashes |
Starts up! |
|
_Margery_. Would I were hence! |
I feel as if the organ's peal |
My breath were stifling, |
The choral chant |
My heart were melting. |
|
_Chorus_. Judex ergo cum sedebit, |
Quidquid latet apparebit. |
Nil inultum remanebit. |
|
_Margery_. How cramped it feels! |
The walls and pillars |
Imprison me! |
And the arches |
Crush me!--Air! |
|
_Evil Spirit_. What! hide thee! sin and shame |
Will not be hidden! |
Air? Light? |
Woe's thee! |
|
_Chorus_. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? |
Quem patronum rogaturus? |
Cum vix justus sit securus. |
|
_Evil Spirit_. They turn their faces, |
The glorified, from thee. |
To take thy hand, the pure ones |
Shudder with horror. |
Woe! |
|
_Chorus_. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? |
|
_Margery_. Neighbor! your phial!-- |
[_She swoons._] |
|
|
|
|
WALPURGIS NIGHT.[32] |
|
_Harz Mountains._ |
|
_District of Schirke and Elend._ |
|
|
FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Wouldst thou not like a broomstick, now, to ride on? |
At this rate we are, still, a long way off; |
I'd rather have a good tough goat, by half, |
Than the best legs a man e'er set his pride on. |
|
_Faust_. So long as I've a pair of good fresh legs to stride on, |
Enough for me this knotty staff. |
What use of shortening the way! |
Following the valley's labyrinthine winding, |
Then up this rock a pathway finding, |
From which the spring leaps down in bubbling play, |
That is what spices such a walk, I say! |
Spring through the birch-tree's veins is flowing, |
The very pine is feeling it; |
Should not its influence set our limbs a-glowing? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I do not feel it, not a bit! |
My wintry blood runs very slowly; |
I wish my path were filled with frost and snow. |
The moon's imperfect disk, how melancholy |
It rises there with red, belated glow, |
And shines so badly, turn where'er one can turn, |
At every step he hits a rock or tree! |
With leave I'll beg a Jack-o'lantern! |
I see one yonder burning merrily. |
Heigh, there! my friend! May I thy aid desire? |
Why waste at such a rate thy fire? |
Come, light us up yon path, good fellow, pray! |
|
_Jack-o'lantern_. Out of respect, I hope I shall be able |
To rein a nature quite unstable; |
We usually take a zigzag way. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Heigh! heigh! He thinks man's crooked course to travel. |
Go straight ahead, or, by the devil, |
I'll blow your flickering life out with a puff. |
|
_Jack-o'lantern_. You're master of the house, that's plain enough, |
So I'll comply with your desire. |
But see! The mountain's magic-mad to-night, |
And if your guide's to be a Jack-o'lantern's light, |
Strict rectitude you'll scarce require. |
|
FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, JACK-O'LANTERN, _in alternate song_. |
|
Spheres of magic, dream, and vision, |
Now, it seems, are opening o'er us. |
For thy credit, use precision! |
Let the way be plain before us |
Through the lengthening desert regions. |
|
See how trees on trees, in legions, |
Hurrying by us, change their places, |
And the bowing crags make faces, |
And the rocks, long noses showing, |
Hear them snoring, hear them blowing![33] |
|
Down through stones, through mosses flowing, |
See the brook and brooklet springing. |
Hear I rustling? hear I singing? |
Love-plaints, sweet and melancholy, |
Voices of those days so holy? |
All our loving, longing, yearning? |
Echo, like a strain returning |
From the olden times, is ringing. |
|
Uhu! Schuhu! Tu-whit! Tu-whit! |
Are the jay, and owl, and pewit |
All awake and loudly calling? |
What goes through the bushes yonder? |
Can it be the Salamander-- |
Belly thick and legs a-sprawling? |
Roots and fibres, snake-like, crawling, |
Out from rocky, sandy places, |
Wheresoe'er we turn our faces, |
Stretch enormous fingers round us, |
Here to catch us, there confound us; |
Thick, black knars to life are starting, |
Polypusses'-feelers darting |
At the traveller. Field-mice, swarming, |
Thousand-colored armies forming, |
Scamper on through moss and heather! |
And the glow-worms, in the darkling, |
With their crowded escort sparkling, |
Would confound us altogether. |
|
But to guess I'm vainly trying-- |
Are we stopping? are we hieing? |
Round and round us all seems flying, |
Rocks and trees, that make grimaces, |
And the mist-lights of the places |
Ever swelling, multiplying. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Here's my coat-tail--tightly thumb it! |
We have reached a middle summit, |
Whence one stares to see how shines |
Mammon in the mountain-mines. |
|
_Faust_. How strangely through the dim recesses |
A dreary dawning seems to glow! |
And even down the deep abysses |
Its melancholy quiverings throw! |
Here smoke is boiling, mist exhaling; |
Here from a vapory veil it gleams, |
Then, a fine thread of light, goes trailing, |
Then gushes up in fiery streams. |
The valley, here, you see it follow, |
One mighty flood, with hundred rills, |
And here, pent up in some deep hollow, |
It breaks on all sides down the hills. |
Here, spark-showers, darting up before us, |
Like golden sand-clouds rise and fall. |
But yonder see how blazes o'er us, |
All up and down, the rocky wall! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Has not Sir Mammon gloriously lighted |
His palace for this festive night? |
Count thyself lucky for the sight: |
I catch e'en now a glimpse of noisy guests invited. |
|
_Faust_. How the mad tempest[34] sweeps the air! |
On cheek and neck the wind-gusts how they flout me. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Must seize the rock's old ribs and hold on stoutly! |
Else will they hurl thee down the dark abysses there. |
A mist-rain thickens the gloom. |
Hark, how the forests crash and boom! |
Out fly the owls in dread and wonder; |
Splitting their columns asunder, |
Hear it, the evergreen palaces shaking! |
Boughs are twisting and breaking! |
Of stems what a grinding and moaning! |
Of roots what a creaking and groaning! |
In frightful confusion, headlong tumbling, |
They fall, with a sound of thunder rumbling, |
And, through the wreck-piled ravines and abysses, |
The tempest howls and hisses. |
Hearst thou voices high up o'er us? |
Close around us--far before us? |
Through the mountain, all along, |
Swells a torrent of magic song. |
|
_Witches_ [_in chorus_]. The witches go to the Brocken's top, |
The stubble is yellow, and green the crop. |
They gather there at the well-known call, |
Sir Urian[85] sits at the head of all. |
Then on we go o'er stone and stock: |
The witch, she--and--the buck. |
|
_Voice_. Old Baubo comes along, I vow! |
She rides upon a farrow-sow. |
|
_Chorus_. Then honor to whom honor's due! |
Ma'am Baubo ahead! and lead the crew! |
A good fat sow, and ma'am on her back, |
Then follow the witches all in a pack. |
|
_Voice_. Which way didst thou come? |
|
_Voice_. By the Ilsenstein! |
Peeped into an owl's nest, mother of mine! |
What a pair of eyes! |
|
_Voice_. To hell with your flurry! |
Why ride in such hurry! |
|
_Voice_. The hag be confounded! |
My skin flie has wounded! |
|
_Witches_ [_chorus]._ The way is broad, the way is long, |
What means this noisy, crazy throng? |
The broom it scratches, the fork it flicks, |
The child is stifled, the mother breaks. |
|
_Wizards_ [_semi-chorus_]. Like housed-up snails we're creeping on, |
The women all ahead are gone. |
When to the Bad One's house we go, |
She gains a thousand steps, you know. |
|
_The other half_. We take it not precisely so; |
What she in thousand steps can go, |
Make all the haste she ever can, |
'Tis done in just one leap by man. |
|
_Voice_ [_above_]. Come on, come on, from Felsensee! |
|
_Voices_ [_from below_]. We'd gladly join your airy way. |
For wash and clean us as much as we will, |
We always prove unfruitful still. |
|
_Both chorusses_. The wind is hushed, the star shoots by, |
The moon she hides her sickly eye. |
The whirling, whizzing magic-choir |
Darts forth ten thousand sparks of fire. |
|
_Voice_ [_from below_]. Ho, there! whoa, there! |
|
_Voice_ [_from above_]. Who calls from the rocky cleft below there? |
|
_Voice_ [_below_]. Take me too! take me too! |
Three hundred years I've climbed to you, |
Seeking in vain my mates to come at, |
For I can never reach the summit. |
|
_Both chorusses_. Can ride the besom, the stick can ride, |
Can stride the pitchfork, the goat can stride; |
Who neither will ride to-night, nor can, |
Must be forever a ruined man. |
|
_Half-witch_ [_below_]. I hobble on--I'm out of wind-- |
And still they leave me far behind! |
To find peace here in vain I come, |
I get no more than I left at home. |
|
_Chorus of witches_. The witch's salve can never fail, |
A rag will answer for a sail, |
Any trough will do for a ship, that's tight; |
He'll never fly who flies not to-night. |
|
_Both chorusses_. And when the highest peak we round, |
Then lightly graze along the ground, |
And cover the heath, where eye can see, |
With the flower of witch-errantry. |
[_They alight_.] |
|
_Mephistopheles._ What squeezing and pushing, what rustling and hustling! |
What hissing and twirling, what chattering and bustling! |
How it shines and sparkles and burns and stinks! |
A true witch-element, methinks! |
Keep close! or we are parted in two winks. |
Where art thou? |
|
_Faust_ [_in the distance_]. Here! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. What! carried off already? |
Then I must use my house-right.--Steady! |
Room! Squire Voland[36] comes. Sweet people, Clear the ground! |
Here, Doctor, grasp my arm! and, at a single bound; |
Let us escape, while yet 'tis easy; |
E'en for the like of me they're far too crazy. |
See! yonder, something shines with quite peculiar glare, |
And draws me to those bushes mazy. |
Come! come! and let us slip in there. |
|
_Faust_. All-contradicting sprite! To follow thee I'm fated. |
But I must say, thy plan was very bright! |
We seek the Brocken here, on the Walpurgis night, |
Then hold ourselves, when here, completely isolated! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. What motley flames light up the heather! |
A merry club is met together, |
In a small group one's not alone. |
|
_Faust_. I'd rather be up there, I own! |
See! curling smoke and flames right blue! |
To see the Evil One they travel; |
There many a riddle to unravel. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. And tie up many another, too. |
Let the great world there rave and riot, |
We here will house ourselves in quiet. |
The saying has been long well known: |
In the great world one makes a small one of his own. |
I see young witches there quite naked all, |
And old ones who, more prudent, cover. |
For my sake some flight things look over; |
The fun is great, the trouble small. |
I hear them tuning instruments! Curs'd jangle! |
Well! one must learn with such things not to wrangle. |
Come on! Come on! For so it needs must be, |
Thou shalt at once be introduced by me. |
And I new thanks from thee be earning. |
That is no scanty space; what sayst thou, friend? |
Just take a look! thou scarce canst see the end. |
There, in a row, a hundred fires are burning; |
They dance, chat, cook, drink, love; where can be found |
Any thing better, now, the wide world round? |
|
_Faust_. Wilt thou, as things are now in this condition, |
Present thyself for devil, or magician? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I've been much used, indeed, to going incognito; |
|
But then, on gala-day, one will his order show. |
No garter makes my rank appear, |
But then the cloven foot stands high in honor here. |
Seest thou the snail? Look there! where she comes creeping yonder! |
Had she already smelt the rat, |
I should not very greatly wonder. |
Disguise is useless now, depend on that. |
Come, then! we will from fire to fire wander, |
Thou shalt the wooer be and I the pander. |
[_To a party who sit round expiring embers_.] |
Old gentlemen, you scarce can hear the fiddle! |
You'd gain more praise from me, ensconced there in the middle, |
'Mongst that young rousing, tousing set. |
One can, at home, enough retirement get. |
|
_General_. Trust not the people's fickle favor! |
However much thou mayst for them have done. |
Nations, as well as women, ever, |
Worship the rising, not the setting sun. |
|
_Minister_. From the right path we've drifted far away, |
The good old past my heart engages; |
Those were the real golden ages, |
When such as we held all the sway. |
|
_Parvenu_. We were no simpletons, I trow, |
And often did the thing we should not; |
But all is turning topsy-turvy now, |
And if we tried to stem the wave, we could not. |
|
_Author_. Who on the whole will read a work today, |
Of moderate sense, with any pleasure? |
And as regards the dear young people, they |
Pert and precocious are beyond all measure. |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_who all at once appears very old_]. |
The race is ripened for the judgment day: |
So I, for the last time, climb the witch-mountain, thinking, |
And, as my cask runs thick, I say, |
The world, too, on its lees is sinking. |
|
_Witch-broker_. Good gentlemen, don't hurry by! |
The opportunity's a rare one! |
My stock is an uncommon fair one, |
Please give it an attentive eye. |
There's nothing in my shop, whatever, |
But on the earth its mate is found; |
That has not proved itself right clever |
To deal mankind some fatal wound. |
No dagger here, but blood has some time stained it; |
No cup, that has not held some hot and poisonous juice, |
And stung to death the throat that drained it; |
No trinket, but did once a maid seduce; |
No sword, but hath some tie of sacred honor riven, |
Or haply from behind through foeman's neck been driven. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. You're quite behind the times, I tell you, Aunty! |
By-gones be by-gones! done is done! |
Get us up something new and jaunty! |
For new things now the people run. |
|
_Faust_. To keep my wits I must endeavor! |
Call this a fair! I swear, I never--! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Upward the billowy mass is moving; |
You're shoved along and think, meanwhile, you're shoving. |
|
_Faust_. What woman's that? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Mark her attentively. |
That's Lilith.[37] |
|
_Faust_. Who? |
|
_Mephistopbeles_. Adam's first wife is she. |
Beware of her one charm, those lovely tresses, |
In which she shines preeminently fair. |
When those soft meshes once a young man snare, |
How hard 'twill be to escape he little guesses. |
|
_Faust_. There sit an old one and a young together; |
They've skipped it well along the heather! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. No rest from that till night is through. |
Another dance is up; come on! let us fall to. |
|
_Faust_ [_dancing with the young one_]. A lovely dream once came to me; |
In it I saw an apple-tree; |
Two beauteous apples beckoned there, |
I climbed to pluck the fruit so fair. |
|
_The Fair one_. Apples you greatly seem to prize, |
And did so even in Paradise. |
I feel myself delighted much |
That in my garden I have such. |
|
_Mephistopheles_ [_with the old hag_]. A dismal dream once came to me; |
In it I saw a cloven tree, |
It had a ------ but still, |
I looked on it with right good-will. |
|
_The Hog_. With best respect I here salute |
The noble knight of the cloven foot! |
Let him hold a ------ near, |
If a ------ he does not fear. |
|
_Proctophantasmist_.[38] What's this ye undertake? Confounded crew! |
Have we not giv'n you demonstration? |
No spirit stands on legs in all creation, |
And here you dance just as we mortals do! |
|
_The Fair one_ [_dancing_]. What does that fellow at our ball? |
|
_Faust_ [_dancing_]. Eh! he must have a hand in all. |
What others dance that he appraises. |
Unless each step he criticizes, |
The step as good as no step he will call. |
But when we move ahead, that plagues him more than all. |
If in a circle you would still keep turning, |
As he himself in his old mill goes round, |
He would be sure to call that sound! |
And most so, if you went by his superior learning. |
|
_Proctophantasmist_. What, and you still are here! Unheard off obstinates! |
Begone! We've cleared it up! You shallow pates! |
The devilish pack from rules deliverance boasts. |
We've grown so wise, and Tegel[39] still sees ghosts. |
How long I've toiled to sweep these cobwebs from the brain, |
And yet--unheard of folly! all in vain. |
|
_The Fair one_. And yet on us the stupid bore still tries it! |
|
_Proctophantasmist_. I tell you spirits, to the face, |
I give to spirit-tyranny no place, |
My spirit cannot exercise it. |
[_They dance on_.] |
I can't succeed to-day, I know it; |
Still, there's the journey, which I like to make, |
And hope, before the final step I take, |
To rid the world of devil and of poet. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. You'll see him shortly sit into a puddle, |
In that way his heart is reassured; |
When on his rump the leeches well shall fuddle, |
Of spirits and of spirit he'll be cured. |
[_To_ FAUST, _who has left the dance_.] |
Why let the lovely girl slip through thy fingers, |
Who to thy dance so sweetly sang? |
|
_Faust_. Ah, right amidst her singing, sprang |
A wee red mouse from her mouth and made me cower. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. That's nothing wrong! You're in a dainty way; |
Enough, the mouse at least wan't gray. |
Who minds such thing in happy amorous hour? |
|
_Faust_. Then saw I-- |
|
_Mephistopheles_. What? |
|
_Faust_. Mephisto, seest thou not |
Yon pale, fair child afar, who stands so sad and lonely, |
And moves so slowly from the spot, |
Her feet seem locked, and she drags them only. |
I must confess, she seems to me |
To look like my own good Margery. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Leave that alone! The sight no health can bring. |
it is a magic shape, an idol, no live thing. |
To meet it never can be good! |
Its haggard look congeals a mortal's blood, |
And almost turns him into stone; |
The story of Medusa thou hast known. |
|
_Faust_. Yes, 'tis a dead one's eyes that stare upon me, |
Eyes that no loving hand e'er closed; |
That is the angel form of her who won me, |
Tis the dear breast on which I once reposed. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. 'Tis sorcery all, thou fool, misled by passion's dreams! |
For she to every one his own love seems. |
|
_Faust_. What bliss! what woe! Methinks I never |
My sight from that sweet form can sever. |
Seeft thou, not thicker than a knife-blade's back, |
A small red ribbon, fitting sweetly |
The lovely neck it clasps so neatly? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I see the streak around her neck. |
Her head beneath her arm, you'll next behold her; |
Perseus has lopped it from her shoulder,-- |
But let thy crazy passion rest! |
Come, climb with me yon hillock's breast, |
Was e'er the Prater[40] merrier then? |
And if no sorcerer's charm is o'er me, |
That is a theatre before me. |
What's doing there? |
|
_Servibilis_. They'll straight begin again. |
A bran-new piece, the very last of seven; |
To have so much, the fashion here thinks fit. |
By Dilettantes it is given; |
'Twas by a Dilettante writ. |
Excuse me, sirs, I go to greet you; |
I am the curtain-raising Dilettant. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. When I upon the Blocksberg meet you, |
That I approve; for there's your place, I grant. |
|
|
|
|
WALPURGIS-NIGHT'S DREAM, OR OBERON AND TITANIA'S GOLDEN NUPTIALS. |
|
_Intermezzo_. |
|
|
_Theatre manager_. Here, for once, we rest, to-day, |
Heirs of Mieding's[41] glory. |
All the scenery we display-- |
Damp vale and mountain hoary! |
|
_Herald_. To make the wedding a golden one, |
Must fifty years expire; |
But when once the strife is done, |
I prize the _gold_ the higher. |
|
_Oberon_. Spirits, if my good ye mean, |
Now let all wrongs be righted; |
For to-day your king and queen |
Are once again united. |
|
_Puck_. Once let Puck coming whirling round, |
And set his foot to whisking, |
Hundreds with him throng the ground, |
Frolicking and frisking. |
|
_Ariel_. Ariel awakes the song |
With many a heavenly measure; |
Fools not few he draws along, |
But fair ones hear with pleasure. |
|
_Oberon_. Spouses who your feuds would smother, |
Take from us a moral! |
Two who wish to love each other, |
Need only first to quarrel. |
|
_Titania_. If she pouts and he looks grim, |
Take them both together, |
To the north pole carry him, |
And off with her to t'other. |
|
_Orchestra Tutti_. |
|
_Fortissimo_. Fly-snouts and gnats'-noses, these, |
And kin in all conditions, |
Grass-hid crickets, frogs in trees, |
We take for our musicians! |
|
_Solo_. See, the Bagpipe comes! fall back! |
Soap-bubble's name he owneth. |
How the _Schnecke-schnicke-schnack_ |
Through his snub-nose droneth! |
_Spirit that is just shaping itself_. Spider-foot, toad's-belly, too, |
Give the child, and winglet! |
'Tis no animalcule, true, |
But a poetic thinglet. |
|
_A pair of lovers_. Little step and lofty bound |
Through honey-dew and flowers; |
Well thou trippest o'er the ground, |
But soarst not o'er the bowers. |
|
_Curious traveller_. This must be masquerade! |
How odd! |
My very eyes believe I? |
Oberon, the beauteous God |
Here, to-night perceive I! |
|
_Orthodox_. Neither claws, nor tail I see! |
And yet, without a cavil, |
Just as "the Gods of Greece"[42] were, he |
Must also be a devil. |
|
_Northern artist_. What here I catch is, to be sure, |
But sketchy recreation; |
And yet for my Italian tour |
'Tis timely preparation. |
|
_Purist_. Bad luck has brought me here, I see! |
The rioting grows louder. |
And of the whole witch company, |
There are but two, wear powder. |
|
_Young witch_. Powder becomes, like petticoat, |
Your little, gray old woman: |
Naked I sit upon my goat, |
And show the untrimmed human. |
|
_Matron_. To stand here jawing[43] with you, we |
Too much good-breeding cherish; |
But young and tender though you be, |
I hope you'll rot and perish. |
|
_Leader of the music_. Fly-snouts and gnat-noses, please, |
Swarm not so round the naked! |
Grass-hid crickets, frogs in trees, |
Keep time and don't forsake it! |
|
_Weathercock_ [_towards one side_]. Find better company, who can! |
Here, brides attended duly! |
There, bachelors, ranged man by man, |
Most hopeful people truly! |
|
_Weathercock [towards the other side_]. |
And if the ground don't open straight, |
The crazy crew to swallow, |
You'll see me, at a furious rate, |
Jump down to hell's black hollow. |
|
_Xenia[_44] We are here as insects, ah! |
Small, sharp nippers wielding, |
Satan, as our _cher papa_, |
Worthy honor yielding. |
|
_Hennings_. See how naïvely, there, the throng |
Among themselves are jesting, |
You'll hear them, I've no doubt, ere long, |
Their good kind hearts protesting. |
|
_Musagetes_. Apollo in this witches' group |
Himself right gladly loses; |
For truly I could lead this troop |
Much easier than the muses. |
|
_Ci-devant genius of the age_. Right company will raise man up. |
Come, grasp my skirt, Lord bless us! |
The Blocksberg has a good broad top, |
Like Germany's Parnassus. |
|
_Curious traveller_. Tell me who is that stiff man? |
With what stiff step he travels! |
He noses out whate'er he can. |
"He scents the Jesuit devils." |
|
_Crane_. In clear, and muddy water, too, |
The long-billed gentleman fishes; |
Our pious gentlemen we view |
Fingering in devils' dishes. |
|
_Child of this world_. Yes, with the pious ones, 'tis clear, |
"All's grist that comes to their mill;" |
They build their tabernacles here, |
On Blocksberg, as on Carmel. |
|
_Dancer_. Hark! a new choir salutes my ear! |
I hear a distant drumming. |
"Be not disturbed! 'mong reeds you hear |
The one-toned bitterns bumming." |
|
_Dancing-master._ How each his legs kicks up and flings, |
Pulls foot as best he's able! |
The clumsy hops, the crooked springs, |
'Tis quite disreputable! |
|
_Fiddler_. The scurvy pack, they hate, 'tis clear, |
Like cats and dogs, each other. |
Like Orpheus' lute, the bagpipe here |
Binds beast to beast as brother. |
|
_Dogmatist_. You'll not scream down my reason, though, |
By criticism's cavils. |
The devil's something, that I know, |
Else how could there be devils? |
|
_Idealist_. Ah, phantasy, for once thy sway |
Is guilty of high treason. |
If all I see is I, to-day, |
'Tis plain I've lost my reason. |
|
_Realist_. To me, of all life's woes and plagues, |
Substance is most provoking, |
For the first time I feel my legs |
Beneath me almost rocking. |
|
_Supernaturalist_. I'm overjoyed at being here, |
And even among these rude ones; |
For if bad spirits are, 'tis clear, |
There also must be good ones. |
|
_Skeptic_. Where'er they spy the flame they roam, |
And think rich stores to rifle, |
Here such as I are quite at home, |
For _Zweifel_ rhymes with _Teufel_.[45] |
|
_Leader of the music_. Grass-hid cricket, frogs in trees, |
You cursed dilettanti! |
Fly-snouts and gnats'-noses, peace! |
Musicians you, right jaunty! |
|
_The Clever ones_. Sans-souci we call this band |
Of merry ones that skip it; |
Unable on our feet to stand, |
Upon our heads we trip it. |
|
_The Bunglers_. Time was, we caught our tit-bits, too, |
God help us now! that's done with! |
We've danced our leathers entirely through, |
And have only bare soles to run with. |
|
_Jack-o'lanterns_. From the dirty bog we come, |
Whence we've just arisen: |
Soon in the dance here, quite at home, |
As gay young _sparks_ we'll glisten. |
|
_Shooting star_. Trailing from the sky I shot, |
Not a star there missed me: |
Crooked up in this grassy spot, |
Who to my legs will assist me? |
|
_The solid men_. Room there! room there! clear the ground! |
Grass-blades well may fall so; |
Spirits are we, but 'tis found |
They have plump limbs also. |
|
_Puck_. Heavy men! do not, I say, |
Like elephants' calves go stumping: |
Let the plumpest one to-day |
Be Puck, the ever-jumping. |
|
_Ariel_. If the spirit gave, indeed, |
If nature gave you, pinions, |
Follow up my airy lead |
To the rose-dominions! |
|
_Orchestra_ [_pianissimo_]. Gauzy mist and fleecy cloud |
Sun and wind have banished. |
Foliage rustles, reeds pipe loud, |
All the show has vanished. |
|
|
|
|
DREARY DAY.[46] |
|
_Field_. |
|
|
FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. |
|
_Faust_. In wretchedness! In despair! Long hunted up and down the earth, a |
miserable fugitive, and caught at last! Locked up as a malefactor in |
prison, to converse with horrible torments--the sweet, unhappy creature! |
Even to this pass! even to this!--Treacherous, worthless spirit, and this |
thou hast hidden from me!--Stand up here--stand up! Roll thy devilish eyes |
round grimly in thy head! Stand and defy me with thy intolerable presence! |
Imprisoned! In irretrievable misery! Given over to evil spirits and to the |
judgment of unfeeling humanity, and me meanwhile thou lullest in insipid |
dissipations, concealest from me her growing anguish, and leavest her |
without help to perish! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. She is not the first! |
|
_Faust_. Dog! abominable monster! Change him, thou Infinite Spirit! change |
the worm back into his canine form, as he was often pleased in the night |
to trot before me, to roll before the feet of the harmless wanderer, and, |
when he fell, to hang on his shoulders. Change him again into his favorite |
shape, that he may crawl before me on his belly in the sand, and that I |
may tread him under foot, the reprobate!--Not the first! Misery! Misery! |
inconceivable by any human soul! that more than one creature ever sank |
into the depth of this wretchedness, that the first in its writhing |
death-agony did not atone for the guilt of all the rest before the eyes of |
the eternally Forgiving! My very marrow and life are consumed by the |
misery of this single one; thou grinnest away composedly at the fate of |
thousands! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Here we are again at our wits' ends already, where the |
thread of sense, with you mortals, snaps short. Why make a partnership |
with us, if thou canst not carry it through? Wilt fly, and art not proof |
against dizziness? Did we thrust ourselves on thee, or thou on us? |
|
_Faust_. Gnash not so thy greedy teeth against me! It disgusts me!--Great |
and glorious spirit, thou that deignedst to appear to me, who knowest my |
heart and soul, why yoke me to this shame-fellow, who feeds on mischief |
and feasts on ruin? |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Hast thou done? |
|
_Faust_. Rescue her! O woe be unto thee! The most horrible curse on thee |
for thousands of years! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I cannot loose the bonds of the avenger, nor open his |
bolts.--Rescue her!--Who was it that plunged her into ruin? I or thou? |
[FAUST _looks wildly round_.] |
Grasp'st thou after the thunder? Well that it was not given to you |
miserable mortals! To crush an innocent respondent, that is a sort of |
tyrant's-way of getting room to breathe in embarrassment. |
|
_Faust_. Lead me to her! She shall be free! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. And the danger which thou incurrest? Know that the guilt |
of blood at thy hand still lies upon the town. Over the place of the |
slain, avenging spirits hover and lurk for the returning murderer. |
|
_Faust_. That, too, from thee? Murder and death of a world upon thee, |
monster! Lead me thither, I say, and free her! |
|
_Mephistopheles_. I will lead thee, and hear what I can do! Have I all |
power in heaven and on earth? I will becloud the turnkey's senses; possess |
thyself of the keys, and bear her out with human hand. I will watch! The |
magic horses shall be ready, and I will bear you away. So much I can do. |
|
_Faust_. Up and away! |
|
|
|
|
NIGHT. OPEN FIELD. |
|
FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. |
_Scudding along on black horses_. |
|
_Faust_. What's doing, off there, round the gallows-tree?[47] |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Know not what they are doing and brewing. |
|
_Faust_. Up they go--down they go--wheel about, reel about. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. A witches'-crew. |
|
_Faust_. They're strewing and vowing. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. Pass on! Pass on! |
|
|
|
|
PRISON. |
|
FAUST [_with a bunch of keys and a lamp, before an iron door_] |
A long unwonted chill comes o'er me, |
I feel the whole great load of human woe. |
Within this clammy wall that frowns before me |
Lies one whom blinded love, not guilt, brought low! |
Thou lingerest, in hope to grow bolder! |
Thou fearest again to behold her! |
On! Thy shrinking slowly hastens the blow! |
[_He grasps the key. Singing from within_.] |
My mother, the harlot, |
That strung me up! |
My father, the varlet, |
That ate me up! |
My sister small, |
She gathered up all |
The bones that day, |
And in a cool place did lay; |
Then I woke, a sweet bird, at a magic call; |
Fly away, fly away! |
|
_Faust [unlocking_]. She little dreams, her lover is so near, |
The clanking chains, the rustling straw can hear; |
[_He enters_.] |
|
_Margaret [burying herself in the bed_]. Woe! woe! |
They come. O death of bitterness! |
|
_Faust_ [_softly_]. Hush! hush! I come to free thee; thou art dreaming. |
|
_Margaret_ [_prostrating herself before him_]. |
Art thou a man, then feel for my distress. |
|
_Faust_. Thou'lt wake the guards with thy loud screaming! |
[_He seizes the chains to tin lock them._] |
|
_Margaret_ [_on her knees_]. Headsman, who's given thee this right |
O'er me, this power! |
Thou com'st for me at dead of night; |
In pity spare me, one short hour! |
Wilt't not be time when Matin bell has rung? |
[_She stands up._] |
Ah, I am yet so young, so young! |
And death pursuing! |
Fair was I too, and that was my undoing. |
My love was near, far is he now! |
Tom is the wreath, the scattered flowers lie low. |
Take not such violent hold of me! |
Spare me! what harm have I done to thee? |
Let me not in vain implore thee. |
Thou ne'er till now sawft her who lies before thee! |
|
_Faust_. O sorrow worse than death is o'er me! |
|
_Margaret_. Now I am wholly in thy power. |
But first I'd nurse my child--do not prevent me. |
I hugged it through the black night hour; |
They took it from me to torment me, |
And now they say I killed the pretty flower. |
I shall never be happy again, I know. |
They sing vile songs at me! 'Tis bad in them to do it! |
There's an old tale that ends just so, |
Who gave that meaning to it? |
|
_Faust [prostrates himself_]. A lover at thy feet is bending, |
Thy bonds of misery would be rending. |
|
_Margaret [flings herself beside him_]. |
O let us kneel, the saints for aid invoking! |
See! 'neath the threshold smoking, |
Fire-breathing, |
Hell is seething! |
There prowling, |
And grim under cover, |
Satan is howling! |
|
_Faust [aloud_]. Margery! Margery! |
|
_Margaret [listening_]. That was the voice of my lover! |
[_She springs up. The chains fall off_.] |
|
Where is he? Where? He calls. I hear him. |
I'm free! Who hinders? I will be near him. |
I'll fly to his neck! I'll hold him! |
To my bosom I'll enfold him! |
He stood on the threshold--called Margery plainly! |
Hell's howling and clattering to drown it sought vainly,-- |
Through the devilish, grim scoffs, that might turn one to stone, |
I caught the sweet, loving, enrapturing tone. |
|
_Faust_. 'Tis I! |
|
_Margaret_. 'Tis thou! O say it once again. |
[_Clasping again._] |
'Tis he! 'tis he! Where now is all my pain? |
And where the dungeon's anguish? Joy-giver! |
'Tis thou! And come to deliver! |
I am delivered! |
Again before me lies the street, |
Where for the first time thou and I did meet. |
And the garden-bower, |
Where we spent that evening hour. |
|
_Faust_ [_trying to draw her away_]. Come! Come with me! |
|
_Margaret_. O tarry! |
I tarry so gladly where thou tarriest. |
[_Caressing him._] |
|
_Faust_. Hurry! |
Unless thou hurriest, |
Bitterly we both must rue it. |
|
_Margaret_. Kiss me! Canst no more do it? |
So short an absence, love, as this, |
And forgot how to kiss? |
What saddens me so as I hang about thy neck? |
When once, in thy words, thy looks, such a heaven of blisses |
Came o'er me, I thought my heart would break, |
And it seemed as if thou wouldst smother me with kisses. |
Kiss thou me! |
Else I kiss thee! |
[_She embraces him._] |
Woe! woe! thy lips are cold, |
Stone-dumb. |
Where's thy love left? |
Oh! I'm bereft! |
Who robbed me? |
[_She turns from him_] |
|
_Faust_. O come! |
Take courage, my darling! Let us go; |
I clasp-thee with unutterable glow; |
But follow me! For this alone I plead! |
|
_Margaret [turning to him_]. Is it, then, thou? |
And is it thou indeed? |
|
_Faust_. 'Tis I! Come, follow me! |
|
_Margaret_. Thou break'st my chain, |
And tak'st me to thy breast again! |
How comes it, then, that thou art not afraid of me? |
And dost thou know, my friend, who 'tis thou settest free? |
|
_Faust_. Come! come! The night is on the wane. |
|
_Margaret_. Woe! woe! My mother I've slain! |
Have drowned the babe of mine! |
Was it not sent to be mine and thine? |
Thine, too--'tis thou! Scarce true doth it seem. |
Give me thy hand! 'Tis not a dream! |
Thy blessed hand!--But ah! there's dampness here! |
Go, wipe it off! I fear |
There's blood thereon. |
Ah God! what hast thou done! |
Put up thy sword again; |
I pray thee, do! |
|
_Faust_. The past is past--there leave it then, |
Thou kill'st me too! |
|
_Margaret_. No, thou must longer tarry! |
I'll tell thee how each thou shalt bury; |
The places of sorrow |
Make ready to-morrow; |
Must give the best place to my mother, |
The very next to my brother, |
Me a little aside, |
But make not the space too wide! |
And on my right breast let the little one lie. |
No one else will be sleeping by me. |
Once, to feel _thy_ heart beat nigh me, |
Oh, 'twas a precious, a tender joy! |
But I shall have it no more--no, never; |
I seem to be forcing myself on thee ever, |
And thou repelling me freezingly; |
And 'tis thou, the same good soul, I see. |
|
_Faust_. If thou feelest 'tis I, then come with me |
|
_Margaret_. Out yonder? |
|
_Faust_. Into the open air. |
|
_Margaret_. If the grave is there, |
If death is lurking; then come! |
From here to the endless resting-place, |
And not another pace--Thou |
go'st e'en now? O, Henry, might I too. |
|
_Faust_. Thou canst! 'Tis but to will! The door stands open. |
|
_Margaret_. I dare not go; for me there's no more hoping. |
What use to fly? They lie in wait for me. |
So wretched the lot to go round begging, |
With an evil conscience thy spirit plaguing! |
So wretched the lot, an exile roaming--And |
then on my heels they are ever coming! |
|
_Faust_. I shall be with thee. |
|
_Margaret_. Make haste! make haste! |
No time to waste! |
Save thy poor child! |
Quick! follow the edge |
Of the rushing rill, |
Over the bridge |
And by the mill, |
Then into the woods beyond |
On the left where lies the plank |
Over the pond. |
Seize hold of it quick! |
To rise 'tis trying, |
It struggles still! |
Rescue! rescue! |
|
_Faust_. Bethink thyself, pray! |
A single step and thou art free! |
|
_Margaret_. Would we were by the mountain. See! |
There sits my mother on a stone, |
The sight on my brain is preying! |
There sits my mother on a stone, |
And her head is constantly swaying; |
She beckons not, nods not, her head falls o'er, |
So long she's been sleeping, she'll wake no more. |
She slept that we might take pleasure. |
O that was bliss without measure! |
|
_Faust_. Since neither reason nor prayer thou hearest; |
I must venture by force to take thee, dearest. |
|
_Margaret_. Let go! No violence will I bear! |
Take not such a murderous hold of me! |
I once did all I could to gratify thee. |
|
_Faust_. The day is breaking! Dearest! dearest! |
|
_Margaret_. Day! Ay, it is day! the last great day breaks in! |
My wedding-day it should have been! |
Tell no one thou hast been with Margery! |
Alas for my garland! The hour's advancing! |
Retreat is in vain! |
We meet again, |
But not at the dancing. |
The multitude presses, no word is spoke. |
Square, streets, all places-- |
sea of faces-- |
The bell is tolling, the staff is broke. |
How they seize me and bind me! |
They hurry me off to the bloody block.[48] |
The blade that quivers behind me, |
Quivers at every neck with convulsive shock; |
Dumb lies the world as the grave! |
|
_Faust_. O had I ne'er been born! |
|
_Mephistopheles [appears without_]. Up! or thou'rt lost! The morn |
Flushes the sky. |
Idle delaying! Praying and playing! |
My horses are neighing, |
They shudder and snort for the bound. |
|
_Margaret_. What's that, comes up from the ground? |
He! He! Avaunt! that face! |
What will he in the sacred place? |
He seeks me! |
|
_Faust_. Thou shalt live! |
|
_Margaret_. Great God in heaven! |
Unto thy judgment my soul have I given! |
|
_Mephistopheles [to Faust_]. |
Come! come! or in the lurch I leave both her and thee! |
|
_Margaret_. Thine am I, Father! Rescue me! |
Ye angels, holy bands, attend me! |
And camp around me to defend me I |
Henry! I dread to look on thee. |
|
_Mephistopheles_. She's judged! |
|
_Voice [from above_]. She's saved! |
|
_Mephistopheles [to Faust_]. Come thou to me! |
[_Vanishes with_ FAUST.] |
|
_Voice [from within, dying away_]. Henry! Henry! |
|
|
|
|
NOTES. |
|
|
[Footnote 1: Dedication. The idea of Faust had early entered into Goethe's |
mind. He probably began the work when he was about twenty years old. It |
was first published, as a fragment, in 1790, and did not appear in its |
present form till 1808, when its author's age was nearly sixty. By the |
"forms" are meant, of course, the shadowy personages and scenes of the |
drama.] |
|
[Footnote 2: --"Thy messengers"-- |
"He maketh the winds his-messengers, |
The flaming lightnings his ministers." |
_Noyes's Psalms_, c. iv. 4.] |
|
[Footnote 3: "The Word Divine." In translating the German "Werdende" |
(literally, the _becoming, developing_, or _growing_) by the term _word_, |
I mean the _word_ in the largest sense: "In the beginning was the Word, |
&c." Perhaps "nature" would be a pretty good rendering, but "word," being |
derived from "werden," and expressing philosophically and scripturally the |
going forth or manifestation of mind, seemed to me as appropriate a |
translation as any.] |
|
[Footnote 4: "The old fellow." The commentators do not seem quite agreed |
whether "den Alten" (the old one) is an entirely reverential phrase here, |
like the "ancient of days," or savors a little of profane pleasantry, like |
the title "old man" given by boys to their schoolmaster or of "the old |
gentleman" to their fathers. Considering who the speaker is, I have |
naturally inclined to the latter alternative.] |
|
[Footnote 5: "Nostradamus" (properly named Michel Notre Dame) lived |
through the first half of the sixteenth century. He was born in the south |
of France and was of Jewish extraction. As physician and astrologer, he |
was held in high honor by the French nobility and kings.] |
|
[Footnote 6: The "Macrocosm" is the great world of outward things, in |
contrast with its epitome, the little world in man, called the microcosm |
(or world in miniature).] |
|
[Footnote 7: "Famulus" seems to mean a cross between a servant and a |
scholar. The Dominie Sampson called Wagner, is appended to Faust for the |
time somewhat as Sancho is to Don Quixote. The Doctor Faust of the legend |
has a servant by that name, who seems to have been more of a _Sancho_, in |
the sense given to the word by the old New England mothers when upbraiding |
bad boys (you Sanch'!). Curiously enough, Goethe had in early life a |
(treacherous) friend named Wagner, who plagiarized part of Faust and made |
a tragedy of it.] |
|
[Footnote 8: "Mock-heroic play." We have Schlegel's authority for thus |
rendering the phrase "Haupt- und Staats-Action," (literally, "head and |
State-action,") who says that this title was given to dramas designed for |
puppets, when they treated of heroic and historical subjects.] |
|
[Footnote 9: The literal sense of this couplet in the original is:-- |
"Is he, in the bliss of becoming, |
To creative joy near--" |
"Werde-lust" presents the same difficulty that we found in note 3. This |
same word, "Werden," is also used by the poet in the introductory theatre |
scene (page 7), where he longs for the time when he himself was |
_ripening_, growing, becoming, or _forming_, (as Hayward renders it.) I |
agree with Hayward, "the meaning probably is, that our Saviour enjoys, in |
coming to life again," (I should say, in being born into the upper life,) |
"a happiness nearly equal to that of the Creator in creating."] |
|
[Footnote 10: The Angel-chorusses in this scene present the only instances |
in which the translator, for the sake of retaining the ring and swing of |
the melody, has felt himself obliged to give a transfusion of the spirit |
of the thought, instead of its exact form. |
|
The literal meaning of the first chorus is:-- |
|
Christ is arisen! |
Joy to the Mortal, |
Whom the ruinous, |
Creeping, hereditary |
Infirmities wound round. |
|
Dr. Hedge has come nearer than any one to reconciling meaning and melody |
thus:-- |
|
"Christ has arisen! |
Joy to our buried Head! |
Whom the unmerited, |
Trailing, inherited |
Woes did imprison." |
|
The present translator, without losing sight of the fact that "the Mortal" |
means Christ, has taken the liberty (constrained by rhyme,--which is |
sometimes more than the _rudder_ of verse,) of making the congratulation |
include Humanity, as incarnated in Christ, "the second Adam." |
|
In the closing Chorus of Angels, the translator found that he could best |
preserve the spirit of the five-fold rhyme:-- |
|
"Thätig ihn preisenden, |
Liebe beweisenden, |
Brüderlich speisenden, |
Predigend reisenden, |
Wonne verheissenden," |
|
by running it into three couplets.] |
|
[Footnote 11: The prose account of the alchymical process is as follows:-- |
|
"There was red mercury, a powerfully acting body, united with the tincture |
of antimony, at a gentle heat of the water-bath. Then, being exposed to |
the heat of open fire in an aludel, (or alembic,) a sublimate filled its |
heads in succession, which, if it appeared with various hues, was the |
desired medicine."] |
|
[Footnote 12: "Salamander, &c." The four represent the spirits of the |
four elements, fire, water, air, and earth, which Faust successively |
conjures, so that, if the monster belongs in any respect to this mundane |
sphere, he may be exorcized. But it turns out that he is beyond and |
beneath all.] |
|
[Footnote 13: Here, of course, Faust makes the sign of the cross, or holds |
out a crucifix.] |
|
[Footnote 14: "Fly-God," _i.e._ Beelzebub.] |
|
[Footnote 15: The "Drudenfuss," or pentagram, was a pentagonal figure |
composed of three triangles, thus: |
[Illustration] |
|
[Footnote 16: Doctor's Feast. The inaugural feast given at taking a |
degree.] |
|
[Footnote 17: "Blood." When at the first invention of printing, the art |
was ascribed to the devil, the illuminated red ink parts were said by the |
people to be done in blood.] |
|
[Footnote 18: "The Spanish boot" was an instrument of torture, like the |
Scottish boot mentioned in Old Mortality.] |
|
[Footnote 19: "Encheiresin Naturæ." Literally, a handling of nature.] |
|
[Footnote 20: Still a famous place of public resort and entertainment. On |
the wall are two old paintings of Faust's carousal and his ride out of the |
door on a cask. One is accompanied by the following inscription, being two |
lines (Hexameter and Pentameter) broken into halves:-- |
|
"Vive, bibe, obgregare, memor |
Fausti hujus et hujus |
Pœnæ. Aderat clauda haec, |
Ast erat ampla gradû. 1525." |
|
"Live, drink, be merry, remembering |
This Faust and his |
Punishment. It came slowly |
But was in ample measure."] |
|
[Footnote 21:_Frosch, Brander_, &c. These names seem to be chosen with an |
eye to adaptation, Frosch meaning frog, and Brander fireship. "Frog" |
happens also to be the nickname the students give to a pupil of the |
gymnasium, or school preparatory to the university.] |
|
[Footnote 22: Rippach is a village near Leipsic, and Mr. Hans was a |
fictitious personage about whom the students used to quiz greenhorns.] |
|
[Footnote 23: The original means literally _sea-cat_. Retzsch says, it is |
the little ring-tailed monkey.] |
|
[Footnote 24: One-time-one, _i.e._ multiplication-table.] |
|
[Footnote 25: "Hand and glove." The translator's coincidence with Miss |
Swanwick here was entirely accidental. The German is "thou and thou," |
alluding to the fact that intimate friends among the Germans, like the |
sect of Friends, call each other _thou_.] |
|
[Footnote 26: The following is a literal translation of the song referred |
to:-- |
|
Were I a little bird, |
Had I two wings of mine, |
I'd fly to my dear; |
But that can never be, |
So I stay here. |
|
Though I am far from thee, |
Sleeping I'm near to thee, |
Talk with my dear; |
When I awake again, |
I am alone. |
|
Scarce is there an hour in the night, |
When sleep does not take its flight, |
And I think of thee, |
How many thousand times |
Thou gav'st thy heart to me.] |
|
[Footnote 27: Donjon. The original is _Zwinger_, which Hayward says is |
untranslatable. It probably means an old tower, such as is often found in |
the free cities, where, in a dark passage-way, a lamp is sometimes placed, |
and a devotional image near it.] |
|
[Footnote 28: It was a superstitious belief that the presence of buried |
treasure was indicated by a blue flame.] |
|
[Footnote 29: Lion-dollars--a Bohemian coin, first minted three centuries |
ago, by Count Schlick, from the mines of Joachim's-Thal. The one side |
bears a lion, the other a full length image of St. John.] |
|
[Footnote 30: An imitation of Ophelia's song: _Hamlet_, act 14, scene 5.] |
|
[Footnote 31: The Rat-catcher was supposed to have the art of drawing rats |
after him by his whistle, like a sort of Orpheus.] |
|
[Footnote 32: Walpurgis Night. May-night. Walpurgis is the female saint |
who converted the Saxons to Christianity.--The Brocken or Blocksberg is |
the highest peak of the Harz mountains, which comprise about 1350 square |
miles.--Schirke and Elend are two villages in the neighborhood.] |
|
[Footnote 33: Shelley's translation of this couplet is very fine: |
("_O si sic omnia!_") |
|
"The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho! |
How they snort and how they blow!"] |
|
[Footnote 34: The original is _Windsbraut_, (wind's-bride,) the word used |
in Luther's Bible to translate Paul's _Euroclydon_.] |
|
[Footnote 35: One of the names of the devil in Germany.] |
|
[Footnote 36: One of the names of Beelzebub.] |
|
[Footnote 37: "The Talmudists say that Adam had a wife called Lilis before |
he married Eve, and of her he begat nothing but devils." |
_Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy_. |
|
A learned writer says that _Lullaby_ is derived from "Lilla, abi!" "Begone |
Lilleth!" she having been supposed to lie in wait for children to kill |
them.] |
|
[Footnote 38: This name, derived from two Greek words meaning _rump_ and |
_fancy_, was meant for Nicolai of Berlin, a great hater of Goethe's |
writings, and is explained by the fact that the man had for a long time a |
violent affection of the nerves, and by the application he made of leeches |
as a remedy, (alluded to by Mephistopheles.)] |
|
[Footnote 39: Tegel (mistranslated _pond_ by Shelley) is a small place a |
few miles from Berlin, whose inhabitants were, in 1799, hoaxed by a ghost |
story, of which the scene was laid in the former place.] |
|
[Footnote 40: The park in Vienna.] |
|
[Footnote 41: He was scene-painter to the Weimar theatre.] |
|
[Footnote 42: A poem of Schiller's, which gave great offence to the |
religious people of his day.] |
|
[Footnote 43: A literal translation of _Maulen_, but a slang-term in |
Yankee land.] |
|
[Footnote 44: Epigrams, published from time to time by Goethe and Schiller |
jointly. Hennings (whose name heads the next quatrain) was editor of the |
_Musaget_, (a title of Apollo, "leader of the muses,") and also of the |
_Genius of the Age_. The other satirical allusions to classes of |
notabilities will, without difficulty, be guessed out by the readers.] |
|
[Footnote 45: "_Doubt_ is the only rhyme for devil," in German.] |
|
[Footnote 46: The French translator, Stapfer, assigns as the probable |
reason why this scene alone, of the whole drama, should have been left in |
prose, "that it might not be said that Faust wanted any one of the |
possible forms of style."] |
|
[Footnote 47: Literally the _raven-stone_.] |
|
[Footnote 48: The _blood-seat_, in allusion to the old German custom of |
tying a woman, who was to be beheaded, into a wooden chair.] |
|
* * * * * |
|
P. S. There is a passage on page 84, the speech of Faust, ending with the |
lines:-- |
|
Show me the fruit that, ere it's plucked, will rot, |
And trees from which new green is daily peeping, |
|
which seems to have puzzled or misled so much, not only English |
translators, but even German critics, that the present translator has |
concluded, for once, to depart from his usual course, and play the |
commentator, by giving his idea of Goethe's meaning, which is this: Faust |
admits that the devil has all the different kinds of Sodom-apples which he |
has just enumerated, gold that melts away in the hand, glory that vanishes |
like a meteor, and pleasure that perishes in the possession. But all these |
torments are too insipid for Faust's morbid and mad hankering after the |
luxury of spiritual pain. Show me, he says, the fruit that rots _before_ |
one can pluck it, and [a still stronger expression of his diseased craving |
for agony] trees that fade so quickly as to be every day just putting |
forth new green, only to tantalize one with perpetual promise and |
perpetual disappointment. |
|
|
|
|
|
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