The Project Gutenberg EBook of Faust, by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: Faust Author: Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe Release Date: January 4, 2005 [EBook #14591] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAUST *** Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Chuck Greif and the PG Online Distributed Proofreading Team

FAUST

by



Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY



Harry Clarke

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH, IN THE ORIGINAL METRES, BY



Bayard Taylor

An Illustrated Edition



THE WORLD PUBLISHING COMPANY



CLEVELAND, OHIO NEW YORK, N.Y.



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA



CONTENTS





PREFACE

AN GOETHE

DEDICATION

PRELUDE AT THE THEATRE

PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN



FAUST

SCENE I. NIGHT (Faust's Monologue)

II. BEFORE THE CITY-GATE

III. THE STUDY (The Exorcism)

IV. THE STUDY (The Compact)

V. AUERBACH'S CELLAR

VI. WITCHES' KITCHEN

VII. A STREET

VIII. EVENING

IX. PROMENADE

X. THE NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE

XI. STREET

XII. GARDEN

XIII. A GARDEN-ARBOR

XIV. FOREST AND CAVERN

XV. MARGARET'S ROOM

XVI. MARTHA'S GARDEN

XVII. AT THE FOUNTAIN

XVIII. DONJON (Margaret's Prayer)

XIX. NIGHT (Valentine's Death)

XX. CATHEDRAL

XXI. WALPURGIS-NIGHT

XXII. OBERON AND TITANIA'S GOLDEN WEDDING

XXIII. DREARY DAY

XXIV. NIGHT

XXV. DUNGEON



Preface

It is twenty years since I first determined to attempt the translation of Faust, in the original metres. At that time, although more than a score of English translations of the First Part, and three or four of the Second Part, were in existence, the experiment had not yet been made. The prose version of Hayward seemed to have been accepted as the standard, in default of anything more satisfactory: the English critics, generally sustaining the translator in his views concerning the secondary importance of form in Poetry, practically discouraged any further attempt; and no one, familiar with rhythmical expression through the needs of his own nature, had devoted the necessary love and patience to an adequate reproduction of the great work of Goethe's life.

Mr. Brooks was the first to undertake the task, and the publication of his translation of the First Part (in 1856) induced me, for a time, to give up my own design. No previous English version exhibited such abnegation of the translator's own tastes and habits of thought, such reverent desire to present the original in its purest form. The care and conscience with which the work had been performed were so apparent, that I now state with reluctance what then seemed to me to be its only deficiencies,—a lack of the lyrical fire and fluency of the original in some passages, and an occasional lowering of the tone through the use of words which are literal, but not equivalent. The plan of translation adopted by Mr. Brooks was so entirely my own, that when further residence in Germany and a more careful study of both parts of Faust had satisfied me that the field was still open,—that the means furnished by the poetical affinity of the two languages had not yet been exhausted,—nothing remained for me but to follow him in all essential particulars. His example confirmed me in the belief that there were few difficulties in the way of a nearly literal yet thoroughly rhythmical version of Faust, which might not be overcome by loving labor. A comparison of seventeen English translations, in the arbitrary metres adopted by the translators, sufficiently showed the danger of allowing license in this respect: the white light of Goethe's thought was thereby passed through the tinted glass of other minds, and assumed the coloring of each. Moreover, the plea of selecting different metres in the hope of producing a similar effect is unreasonable, where the identical metres are possible.

The value of form, in a poetical work, is the first question to be considered. No poet ever understood this question more thoroughly than Goethe himself, or expressed a more positive opinion in regard to it. The alternative modes of translation which he presents (reported by Riemer, quoted by Mrs. Austin, in her "Characteristics of Goethe," and accepted by Mr. Hayward),[A] are quite independent of his views concerning the value of form, which we find given elsewhere, in the clearest and most emphatic manner.[B] Poetry is not simply a fashion of expression: it is the form of expression absolutely required by a certain class of ideas. Poetry, indeed, may be distinguished from Prose by the single circumstance, that it is the utterance of whatever in man cannot be perfectly uttered in any other than a rhythmical form: it is useless to say that the naked meaning is independent of the form: on the contrary, the form contributes essentially to the fullness of the meaning. In Poetry which endures through its own inherent vitality, there is no forced union of these two elements. They are as intimately blended, and with the same mysterious beauty, as the sexes in the ancient Hermaphroditus. To attempt to represent Poetry in Prose, is very much like attempting to translate music into speech.[C]

The various theories of translation from the Greek and Latin poets have been admirably stated by Dryden in his Preface to the "Translations from Ovid's Epistles," and I do not wish to continue the endless discussion,—especially as our literature needs examples, not opinions. A recent expression, however, carries with it so much authority, that I feel bound to present some considerations which the accomplished scholar seems to have overlooked. Mr. Lewes[D] justly says: "The effect of poetry is a compound of music and suggestion; this music and this suggestion are intermingled in words, which to alter is to alter the effect. For words in poetry are not, as in prose, simple representatives of objects and ideas: they are parts of an organic whole,—they are tones in the harmony." He thereupon illustrates the effect of translation by changing certain well-known English stanzas into others, equivalent in meaning, but lacking their felicity of words, their grace and melody. I cannot accept this illustration as valid, because Mr. Lewes purposely omits the very quality which an honest translator should exhaust his skill in endeavoring to reproduce. He turns away from the one best word or phrase in the English lines he quotes, whereas the translator seeks precisely that one best word or phrase (having all the resources of his language at command), to represent what is said in another language. More than this, his task is not simply mechanical: he must feel, and be guided by, a secondary inspiration. Surrendering himself to the full possession of the spirit which shall speak through him, he receives, also, a portion of the same creative power. Mr. Lewes reaches this conclusion: "If, therefore, we reflect what a poem Faust is, and that it contains almost every variety of style and metre, it will be tolerably evident that no one unacquainted with the original can form an adequate idea of it from translation,"[E] which is certainly correct of any translation wherein something of the rhythmical variety and beauty of the original is not retained. That very much of the rhythmical character may be retained in English, was long ago shown by Mr. Carlyle,[F] in the passages which he translated, both literally and rhythmically, from the Helena (Part Second). In fact, we have so many instances of the possibility of reciprocally transferring the finest qualities of English and German poetry, that there is no sufficient excuse for an unmetrical translation of Faust. I refer especially to such subtile and melodious lyrics as "The Castle by the Sea," of Uhland, and the "Silent Land" of Salis, translated by Mr. Longfellow; Goethe's "Minstrel" and "Coptic Song," by Dr. Hedge; Heine's "Two Grenadiers," by Dr. Furness and many of Heine's songs by Mr Leland; and also to the German translations of English lyrics, by Freiligrath and Strodtmann.[G]

I have a more serious objection, however, to urge against Mr. Hayward's prose translation. Where all the restraints of verse are flung aside, we should expect, at least, as accurate a reproduction of the sense, spirit, and tone of the original, as the genius of our language will permit. So far from having given us such a reproduction, Mr. Hayward not only occasionally mistakes the exact meaning of the German text,[H] but, wherever two phrases may be used to express the meaning with equal fidelity, he very frequently selects that which has the less grace, strength, or beauty.[I]

For there are few things which may not be said, in English, in a twofold manner,—one poetic, and the other prosaic. In German, equally, a word which in ordinary use has a bare prosaic character may receive a fairer and finer quality from its place in verse. The prose translator should certainly be able to feel the manifestation of this law in both languages, and should so choose his words as to meet their reciprocal requirements. A man, however, who is not keenly sensible to the power and beauty and value of rhythm, is likely to overlook these delicate yet most necessary distinctions. The author's thought is stripped of a last grace in passing through his mind, and frequently presents very much the same resemblance to the original as an unhewn shaft to the fluted column. Mr. Hayward unconsciously illustrates his lack of a refined appreciation of verse, "in giving," as he says, "a sort of rhythmical arrangement to the lyrical parts," his object being "to convey some notion of the variety of versification which forms one great charm of the poem." A literal translation is always possible in the unrhymed passages; but even here Mr. Hayward's ear did not dictate to him the necessity of preserving the original rhythm.

While, therefore, I heartily recognize his lofty appreciation of Faust,—while I honor him for the patient and conscientious labor he has bestowed upon his translation,—I cannot but feel that he has himself illustrated the unsoundness of his argument. Nevertheless, the circumstance that his prose translation of Faust has received so much acceptance proves those qualities of the original work which cannot be destroyed by a test so violent. From the cold bare outline thus produced, the reader unacquainted with the German language would scarcely guess what glow of color, what richness of changeful life, what fluent grace and energy of movement have been lost in the process. We must, of course, gratefully receive such an outline, where a nearer approach to the form of the original is impossible, but, until the latter has been demonstrated, we are wrong to remain content with the cheaper substitute.

It seems to me that in all discussions upon this subject the capacities of the English language have received but scanty justice. The intellectual tendencies of our race have always been somewhat conservative, and its standards of literary taste or belief, once set up, are not varied without a struggle. The English ear is suspicious of new metres and unaccustomed forms of expression: there are critical detectives on the track of every author, and a violation of the accepted canons is followed by a summons to judgment. Thus the tendency is to contract rather than to expand the acknowledged excellences of the language.[J]

The difficulties in the way of a nearly literal translation of Faust in the original metres have been exaggerated, because certain affinities between the two languages have not been properly considered. With all the splendor of versification in the work, it contains but few metres of which the English tongue is not equally capable. Hood has familiarized us with dactylic (triple) rhymes, and they are remarkably abundant and skillful in Mr. Lowell's "Fable for the Critics": even the unrhymed iambic hexameter of the Helena occurs now and then in Milton's Samson Agonistes. It is true that the metrical foot into which the German language most naturally falls is the trochaic, while in English it is the iambic: it is true that German is rich, involved, and tolerant of new combinations, while English is simple, direct, and rather shy of compounds; but precisely these differences are so modified in the German of Faust that there is a mutual approach of the two languages. In Faust, the iambic measure predominates; the style is compact; the many licenses which the author allows himself are all directed towards a shorter mode of construction. On the other hand, English metre compels the use of inversions, admits many verbal liberties prohibited to prose, and so inclines towards various flexible features of its sister-tongue that many lines of Faust may be repeated in English without the slightest change of meaning, measure, or rhyme. There are words, it is true, with so delicate a bloom upon them that it can in no wise be preserved; but even such words will always lose less when they carry with them their rhythmical atmosphere. The flow of Goethe's verse is sometimes so similar to that of the corresponding English metre, that not only its harmonies and caesural pauses, but even its punctuation, may be easily retained.

I am satisfied that the difference between a translation of Faust in prose or metre is chiefly one of labor,—and of that labor which is successful in proportion as it is joyously performed. My own task has been cheered by the discovery, that the more closely I reproduced the language of the original, the more of its rhythmical character was transferred at the same time. If, now and then, there was an inevitable alternative of meaning or music, I gave the preference to the former. By the term "original metres" I do not mean a rigid, unyielding adherence to every foot, line, and rhyme of the German original, although this has very nearly been accomplished. Since the greater part of the work is written in an irregular measure, the lines varying from three to six feet, and the rhymes arranged according to the author's will, I do not consider that an occasional change in the number of feet, or order of rhyme, is any violation of the metrical plan. The single slight liberty I have taken with the lyrical passages is in Margaret's song,—"The King of Thule,"—in which, by omitting the alternate feminine rhymes, yet retaining the metre, I was enabled to make the translation strictly literal. If, in two or three instances, I have left a line unrhymed, I have balanced the omission by giving rhymes to other lines which stand unrhymed in the original text. For the same reason, I make no apology for the imperfect rhymes, which are frequently a translation as well as a necessity. With all its supreme qualities, Faust is far from being a technically perfect work.[K]

The feminine and dactylic rhymes, which have been for the most part omitted by all metrical translators except Mr. Brooks, are indispensable. The characteristic tone of many passages would be nearly lost, without them. They give spirit and grace to the dialogue, point to the aphoristic portions (especially in the Second Part), and an ever-changing music to the lyrical passages. The English language, though not so rich as the German in such rhymes, is less deficient than is generally supposed. The difficulty to be overcome is one of construction rather than of the vocabulary. The present participle can only be used to a limited extent, on account of its weak termination, and the want of an accusative form to the noun also restricts the arrangement of words in English verse. I cannot hope to have been always successful; but I have at least labored long and patiently, bearing constantly in mind not only the meaning of the original and the mechanical structure of the lines, but also that subtile and haunting music which seems to govern rhythm instead of being governed by it.

B.T.

AN GOETHE





I



Erhabener Geist, im Geisterreich verloren!

Wo immer Deine lichte Wohnung sey,

Zum höh'ren Schaffen bist Du neugeboren,

Und singest dort die voll're Litanei.

Von jenem Streben das Du auserkoren,

Vom reinsten Aether, drin Du athmest frei,

O neige Dich zu gnädigem Erwiedern

Des letzten Wiederhalls von Deinen Liedern!





II



Den alten Musen die bestäubten Kronen

Nahmst Du, zu neuem Glanz, mit kühner Hand:

Du löst die Räthsel ältester Aeonen

Durch jüngeren Glauben, helleren Verstand,

Und machst, wo rege Menschengeister wohnen,

Die ganze Erde Dir zum Vaterland;

Und Deine Jünger sehn in Dir, verwundert,

Verkörpert schon das werdende Jahrhundert.





III



Was Du gesungen, Aller Lust und Klagen,

Des Lebens Wiedersprüche, neu vermählt,—

Die Harfe tausendstimmig frisch geschlagen,

Die Shakspeare einst, die einst Homer gewählt,—

Darf ich in fremde Klänge übertragen

Das Alles, wo so Mancher schon gefehlt?

Lass Deinen Geist in meiner Stimme klingen,

Und was Du sangst, lass mich es Dir nachsingen!



B.T.

DEDICATION

Again ye come, ye hovering Forms! I find ye,

As early to my clouded sight ye shone!

Shall I attempt, this once, to seize and bind ye?

Still o'er my heart is that illusion thrown?

Ye crowd more near! Then, be the reign assigned ye,

And sway me from your misty, shadowy zone!

My bosom thrills, with youthful passion shaken,

From magic airs that round your march awaken.



Of joyous days ye bring the blissful vision;

The dear, familiar phantoms rise again,

And, like an old and half-extinct tradition,

First Love returns, with Friendship in his train.

Renewed is Pain: with mournful repetition

Life tracks his devious, labyrinthine chain,

And names the Good, whose cheating fortune tore them

From happy hours, and left me to deplore them.



They hear no longer these succeeding measures,

The souls, to whom my earliest songs I sang:



Dispersed the friendly troop, with all its pleasures,

And still, alas! the echoes first that rang!

I bring the unknown multitude my treasures;

Their very plaudits give my heart a pang,

And those beside, whose joy my Song so flattered,

If still they live, wide through the world are scattered.



And grasps me now a long-unwonted yearning

For that serene and solemn Spirit-Land:

My song, to faint Aeolian murmurs turning,

Sways like a harp-string by the breezes fanned.

I thrill and tremble; tear on tear is burning,

And the stern heart is tenderly unmanned.

What I possess, I see far distant lying,

And what I lost, grows real and undying.



PRELUDE AT THE THEATRE

MANAGER ==== DRAMATIC POET ==== MERRY-ANDREW





MANAGER



You two, who oft a helping hand

Have lent, in need and tribulation.

Come, let me know your expectation

Of this, our enterprise, in German land!

I wish the crowd to feel itself well treated,

Especially since it lives and lets me live;

The posts are set, the booth of boards completed.

And each awaits the banquet I shall give.

Already there, with curious eyebrows raised,

They sit sedate, and hope to be amazed.

I know how one the People's taste may flatter,

Yet here a huge embarrassment I feel:

What they're accustomed to, is no great matter,

But then, alas! they've read an awful deal.

How shall we plan, that all be fresh and new,—

Important matter, yet attractive too?

For 'tis my pleasure-to behold them surging,

When to our booth the current sets apace,

And with tremendous, oft-repeated urging,

Squeeze onward through the narrow gate of grace:

By daylight even, they push and cram in

To reach the seller's box, a fighting host,

And as for bread, around a baker's door, in famine,

To get a ticket break their necks almost.

This miracle alone can work the Poet

On men so various: now, my friend, pray show it.





POET





Speak not to me of yonder motley masses,

Whom but to see, puts out the fire of Song!

Hide from my view the surging crowd that passes,

And in its whirlpool forces us along!

No, lead me where some heavenly silence glasses

The purer joys that round the Poet throng,—

Where Love and Friendship still divinely fashion

The bonds that bless, the wreaths that crown his passion!

Ah, every utterance from the depths of feeling

The timid lips have stammeringly expressed,—

Now failing, now, perchance, success revealing,—

Gulps the wild Moment in its greedy breast;

Or oft, reluctant years its warrant sealing,

Its perfect stature stands at last confessed!

What dazzles, for the Moment spends its spirit:

What's genuine, shall Posterity inherit.





MERRY-ANDREW





Posterity! Don't name the word to me!

If I should choose to preach Posterity,

Where would you get contemporary fun?

That men will have it, there's no blinking:

A fine young fellow's presence, to my thinking,

Is something worth, to every one.

Who genially his nature can outpour,

Takes from the People's moods no irritation;

The wider circle he acquires, the more

Securely works his inspiration.

Then pluck up heart, and give us sterling coin!

Let Fancy be with her attendants fitted,—

Sense, Reason, Sentiment, and Passion join,—

But have a care, lest Folly be omitted!



MANAGER



Chiefly, enough of incident prepare!

They come to look, and they prefer to stare.

Reel off a host of threads before their faces,

So that they gape in stupid wonder: then

By sheer diffuseness you have won their graces,

And are, at once, most popular of men.

Only by mass you touch the mass; for any

Will finally, himself, his bit select:

Who offers much, brings something unto many,

And each goes home content with the effect,

If you've a piece, why, just in pieces give it:

A hash, a stew, will bring success, believe it!

'Tis easily displayed, and easy to invent.

What use, a Whole compactly to present?

Your hearers pick and pluck, as soon as they receive it!



POET



You do not feel, how such a trade debases;

How ill it suits the Artist, proud and true!

The botching work each fine pretender traces

Is, I perceive, a principle with you.



MANAGER



Such a reproach not in the least offends;

A man who some result intends

Must use the tools that best are fitting.

Reflect, soft wood is given to you for splitting,

And then, observe for whom you write!

If one comes bored, exhausted quite,

Another, satiate, leaves the banquet's tapers,

And, worst of all, full many a wight

Is fresh from reading of the daily papers.

Idly to us they come, as to a masquerade,

Mere curiosity their spirits warming:

The ladies with themselves, and with their finery, aid,

Without a salary their parts performing.

What dreams are yours in high poetic places?

You're pleased, forsooth, full houses to behold?

Draw near, and view your patrons' faces!

The half are coarse, the half are cold.

One, when the play is out, goes home to cards;

A wild night on a wench's breast another chooses:

Why should you rack, poor, foolish bards,

For ends like these, the gracious Muses?

I tell you, give but more—more, ever more, they ask:

Thus shall you hit the mark of gain and glory.

Seek to confound your auditory!

To satisfy them is a task.—

What ails you now? Is't suffering, or pleasure?



POET



Go, find yourself a more obedient slave!

What! shall the Poet that which Nature gave,

The highest right, supreme Humanity,

Forfeit so wantonly, to swell your treasure?

Whence o'er the heart his empire free?

The elements of Life how conquers he?

Is't not his heart's accord, urged outward far and dim,

To wind the world in unison with him?

When on the spindle, spun to endless distance,

By Nature's listless hand the thread is twirled,

And the discordant tones of all existence

In sullen jangle are together hurled,

Who, then, the changeless orders of creation

Divides, and kindles into rhythmic dance?

Who brings the One to join the general ordination,

Where it may throb in grandest consonance?

Who bids the storm to passion stir the bosom?

In brooding souls the sunset burn above?

Who scatters every fairest April blossom

Along the shining path of Love?

Who braids the noteless leaves to crowns, requiting

Desert with fame, in Action's every field?

Who makes Olympus sure, the Gods uniting?

The might of Man, as in the Bard revealed.



MERRY-ANDREW



So, these fine forces, in conjunction,

Propel the high poetic function,

As in a love-adventure they might play!

You meet by accident; you feel, you stay,

And by degrees your heart is tangled;

Bliss grows apace, and then its course is jangled;

You're ravished quite, then comes a touch of woe,

And there's a neat romance, completed ere you know!

Let us, then, such a drama give!

Grasp the exhaustless life that all men live!

Each shares therein, though few may comprehend:

Where'er you touch, there's interest without end.

In motley pictures little light,

Much error, and of truth a glimmering mite,

Thus the best beverage is supplied,

Whence all the world is cheered and edified.

Then, at your play, behold the fairest flower

Of youth collect, to hear the revelation!

Each tender soul, with sentimental power,

Sucks melancholy food from your creation;

And now in this, now that, the leaven works.

For each beholds what in his bosom lurks.

They still are moved at once to weeping or to laughter,

Still wonder at your flights, enjoy the show they see:

A mind, once formed, is never suited after;

One yet in growth will ever grateful be.



POET



Then give me back that time of pleasures,

While yet in joyous growth I sang,—

When, like a fount, the crowding measures

Uninterrupted gushed and sprang!

Then bright mist veiled the world before me,

In opening buds a marvel woke,

As I the thousand blossoms broke,

Which every valley richly bore me!

I nothing had, and yet enough for youth—

Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth.

Give, unrestrained, the old emotion,

The bliss that touched the verge of pain,

The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion,—

O, give me back my youth again!



MERRY ANDREW



Youth, good my friend, you certainly require

When foes in combat sorely press you;

When lovely maids, in fond desire,

Hang on your bosom and caress you;

When from the hard-won goal the wreath

Beckons afar, the race awaiting;

When, after dancing out your breath,

You pass the night in dissipating:—

But that familiar harp with soul

To play,—with grace and bold expression,

And towards a self-erected goal

To walk with many a sweet digression,—

This, aged Sirs, belongs to you,

And we no less revere you for that reason:

Age childish makes, they say, but 'tis not true;

We're only genuine children still, in Age's season!





MANAGER



The words you've bandied are sufficient;

'Tis deeds that I prefer to see:

In compliments you're both proficient,

But might, the while, more useful be.

What need to talk of Inspiration?

'Tis no companion of Delay.

If Poetry be your vocation,

Let Poetry your will obey!

Full well you know what here is wanting;

The crowd for strongest drink is panting,

And such, forthwith, I'd have you brew.

What's left undone to-day, To-morrow will not do.

Waste not a day in vain digression:

With resolute, courageous trust

Seize every possible impression,

And make it firmly your possession;

You'll then work on, because you must.

Upon our German stage, you know it,

Each tries his hand at what he will;

So, take of traps and scenes your fill,

And all you find, be sure to show it!

Use both the great and lesser heavenly light,—

Squander the stars in any number,

Beasts, birds, trees, rocks, and all such lumber,

Fire, water, darkness, Day and Night!

Thus, in our booth's contracted sphere,

The circle of Creation will appear,

And move, as we deliberately impel,

From Heaven, across the World, to Hell!









PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN

him:

The Doctor Faust?



My servant, he!



FIRST PART OF THE TRAGEDY

I

Terrible to see!





Woe! I endure not thee!

In the tides of Life, in Action's storm,

A fluctuant wave,

A shuttle free,

Birth and the Grave,

An eternal sea,

A weaving, flowing

Life, all-glowing,

[Exit.

With spices and precious

Balm, we arrayed him;

Faithful and gracious,

We tenderly laid him:

Linen to bind him

Cleanlily wound we:

Ah! when we would find him,

Christ no more found we!

Christ is ascended!

Bliss hath invested him,—

Woes that molested him,

Trials that tested him,

Gloriously ended!

Has He, victoriously,

Burst from the vaulted

Grave, and all-gloriously

Now sits exalted?

Is He, in glow of birth,

Rapture creative near?

Ah! to the woe of earth

Still are we native here.

We, his aspiring

Followers, Him we miss;

Weeping, desiring,

Master, Thy bliss!



CHORUS OF ANGELS

Christ is arisen,

Out of Corruption's womb:

Burst ye the prison,

Break from your gloom!

Praising and pleading him,

Lovingly needing him,

Brotherly feeding him,

Preaching and speeding him,

Blessing, succeeding Him,

Thus is the Master near,—

Thus is He here!



II

BEFORE THE CITY-GATE

(Pedestrians of all kinds come forth.)

SEVERAL APPRENTICES

Why do you go that way?

OTHERS

We're for the Hunters' lodge, to-day.

THE FIRST

We'll saunter to the Mill, in yonder hollow.

AN APPRENTICE

Go to the River Tavern, I should say.

SECOND APPRENTICE

But then, it's not a pleasant way.

THE OTHERS

And what will you?

A THIRD

As goes the crowd, I follow.

A FOURTH

Come up to Burgdorf? There you'll find good cheer,

The finest lasses and the best of beer,

And jolly rows and squabbles, trust me!

A FIFTH

You swaggering fellow, is your hide

A third time itching to be tried?

I won't go there, your jolly rows disgust me!

SERVANT-GIRL

No,—no! I'll turn and go to town again.

ANOTHER

We'll surely find him by those poplars yonder.

THE FIRST

That's no great luck for me, 'tis plain.

You'll have him, when and where you wander:

His partner in the dance you'll be,—

But what is all your fun to me?

THE OTHER

He's surely not alone to-day:

He'll be with Curly-head, I heard him say.

A STUDENT

Deuce! how they step, the buxom wenches!

Come, Brother! we must see them to the benches.

A strong, old beer, a pipe that stings and bites,

A girl in Sunday clothes,—these three are my delights.

CITIZEN'S DAUGHTER

Just see those handsome fellows, there!

It's really shameful, I declare;—

To follow servant-girls, when they

Might have the most genteel society to-day!

SECOND STUDENT (to the First)

Not quite so fast! Two others come behind,—

Those, dressed so prettily and neatly.

My neighbor's one of them, I find,

A girl that takes my heart, completely.

They go their way with looks demure,

But they'll accept us, after all, I'm sure.

THE FIRST

No, Brother! not for me their formal ways.

Quick! lest our game escape us in the press:

The hand that wields the broom on Saturdays

Will best, on Sundays, fondle and caress.

CITIZEN

He suits me not at all, our new-made Burgomaster!

Since he's installed, his arrogance grows faster.

How has he helped the town, I say?

Things worsen,—what improvement names he?

Obedience, more than ever, claims he,

And more than ever we must pay!

BEGGAR (sings)

Good gentlemen and lovely ladies,

So red of cheek and fine of dress,

Behold, how needful here your aid is,

And see and lighten my distress!

Let me not vainly sing my ditty;

He's only glad who gives away:

A holiday, that shows your pity,

Shall be for me a harvest-day!

ANOTHER CITIZEN

On Sundays, holidays, there's naught I take delight in,

Like gossiping of war, and war's array,

When down in Turkey, far away,

The foreign people are a-fighting.

One at the window sits, with glass and friends,

And sees all sorts of ships go down the river gliding:

And blesses then, as home he wends

At night, our times of peace abiding.

THIRD CITIZEN

Yes, Neighbor! that's my notion, too:

Why, let them break their heads, let loose their passions,

And mix things madly through and through,

So, here, we keep our good old fashions!

OLD WOMAN (to the Citizen's Daughter)

Dear me, how fine! So handsome, and so young!

Who wouldn't lose his heart, that met you?

Don't be so proud! I'll hold my tongue,

And what you'd like I'll undertake to get you.

CITIZEN'S DAUGHTER

Come, Agatha! I shun the witch's sight

Before folks, lest there be misgiving:

'Tis true, she showed me, on Saint Andrew's Night,

My future sweetheart, just as he were living.

THE OTHER

She showed me mine, in crystal clear,

With several wild young blades, a soldier-lover:

I seek him everywhere, I pry and peer,

And yet, somehow, his face I can't discover.

SOLDIERS

Castles, with lofty

Ramparts and towers,

Maidens disdainful

In Beauty's array,

Both shall be ours!

Bold is the venture,

Splendid the pay!

Lads, let the trumpets

For us be suing,—

Calling to pleasure,

Calling to ruin.

Stormy our life is;

Such is its boon!

Maidens and castles

Capitulate soon.

Bold is the venture,

Splendid the pay!

And the soldiers go marching,

Marching away!



FAUST AND WAGNER

FAUST

Released from ice are brook and river

By the quickening glance of the gracious Spring;

The colors of hope to the valley cling,

And weak old Winter himself must shiver,

Withdrawn to the mountains, a crownless king:

Whence, ever retreating, he sends again

Impotent showers of sleet that darkle

In belts across the green o' the plain.

But the sun will permit no white to sparkle;

Everywhere form in development moveth;

He will brighten the world with the tints he loveth,

And, lacking blossoms, blue, yellow, and red,

He takes these gaudy people instead.

Turn thee about, and from this height

Back on the town direct thy sight.

Out of the hollow, gloomy gate,

The motley throngs come forth elate:

Each will the joy of the sunshine hoard,

To honor the Day of the Risen Lord!

They feel, themselves, their resurrection:

From the low, dark rooms, scarce habitable;

From the bonds of Work, from Trade's restriction;

From the pressing weight of roof and gable;

From the narrow, crushing streets and alleys;

From the churches' solemn and reverend night,

All come forth to the cheerful light.

How lively, see! the multitude sallies,

Scattering through gardens and fields remote,

While over the river, that broadly dallies,

Dances so many a festive boat;

And overladen, nigh to sinking,

The last full wherry takes the stream.

Yonder afar, from the hill-paths blinking,

Their clothes are colors that softly gleam.

I hear the noise of the village, even;

Here is the People's proper Heaven;

Here high and low contented see!

Here I am Man,—dare man to be!

WAGNER

To stroll with you, Sir Doctor, flatters;

'Tis honor, profit, unto me.

But I, alone, would shun these shallow matters,

Since all that's coarse provokes my enmity.

This fiddling, shouting, ten-pin rolling

I hate,—these noises of the throng:

They rave, as Satan were their sports controlling.

And call it mirth, and call it song!

(Dance and Song.)

All for the dance the shepherd dressed,

In ribbons, wreath, and gayest vest

Himself with care arraying:

Around the linden lass and lad

Already footed it like mad:

Hurrah! hurrah!

Hurrah—tarara-la!

The fiddle-bow was playing.



He broke the ranks, no whit afraid,

And with his elbow punched a maid,

Who stood, the dance surveying:

The buxom wench, she turned and said:

"Now, you I call a stupid-head!"

Hurrah! hurrah!

Hurrah—tarara-la!

"Be decent while you're staying!"



Then round the circle went their flight,

They danced to left, they danced to right:

Their kirtles all were playing.

They first grew red, and then grew warm,

And rested, panting, arm in arm,—

Hurrah! hurrah!

Hurrah—tarara-la!

And hips and elbows straying.



Now, don't be so familiar here!

How many a one has fooled his dear,

Waylaying and betraying!



And yet, he coaxed her soon aside,

And round the linden sounded wide.

Hurrah! hurrah!

Hurrah—tarara-la!

And the fiddle-bow was playing.



OLD PEASANT

Sir Doctor, it is good of you,

That thus you condescend, to-day,

Among this crowd of merry folk,

A highly-learned man, to stray.

Then also take the finest can,

We fill with fresh wine, for your sake:

I offer it, and humbly wish

That not alone your thirst is slake,—

That, as the drops below its brink,

So many days of life you drink!

FAUST

I take the cup you kindly reach,

With thanks and health to all and each.

(The People gather in a circle about him.)

OLD PEASANT

In truth, 'tis well and fitly timed,

That now our day of joy you share,

Who heretofore, in evil days,

Gave us so much of helping care.

Still many a man stands living here,

Saved by your father's skillful hand,

That snatched him from the fever's rage

And stayed the plague in all the land.

Then also you, though but a youth,

Went into every house of pain:

Many the corpses carried forth,

But you in health came out again.

FAUST

No test or trial you evaded:

A Helping God the helper aided.

ALL

Health to the man, so skilled and tried.

That for our help he long may abide!

FAUST

To Him above bow down, my friends,

Who teaches help, and succor sends!

(He goes on with WAGNER.)

WAGNER

With what a feeling, thou great man, must thou

Receive the people's honest veneration!

How lucky he, whose gifts his station

With such advantages endow!

Thou'rt shown to all the younger generation:

Each asks, and presses near to gaze;

The fiddle stops, the dance delays.

Thou goest, they stand in rows to see,

And all the caps are lifted high;

A little more, and they would bend the knee

As if the Holy Host came by.

FAUST

A few more steps ascend, as far as yonder stone!—

Here from our wandering will we rest contented.

Here, lost in thought, I've lingered oft alone,

When foolish fasts and prayers my life tormented.

Here, rich in hope and firm in faith,

With tears, wrung hands and sighs, I've striven,

The end of that far-spreading death

Entreating from the Lord of Heaven!

Now like contempt the crowd's applauses seem:

Couldst thou but read, within mine inmost spirit,

How little now I deem,

That sire or son such praises merit!

My father's was a sombre, brooding brain,

Which through the holy spheres of Nature groped and wandered,

And honestly, in his own fashion, pondered

With labor whimsical, and pain:

Who, in his dusky work-shop bending,

With proved adepts in company,

Made, from his recipes unending,

Opposing substances agree.

There was a Lion red, a wooer daring,

Within the Lily's tepid bath espoused,

And both, tormented then by flame unsparing,

By turns in either bridal chamber housed.

If then appeared, with colors splendid,

The young Queen in her crystal shell,

This was the medicine—the patients' woes soon ended,

And none demanded: who got well?

Thus we, our hellish boluses compounding,

Among these vales and hills surrounding,

Worse than the pestilence, have passed.

Thousands were done to death from poison of my giving;

And I must hear, by all the living,

The shameless murderers praised at last!

WAGNER

Why, therefore, yield to such depression?

A good man does his honest share

In exercising, with the strictest care,

The art bequeathed to his possession!

Dost thou thy father honor, as a youth?

Then may his teaching cheerfully impel thee:

Dost thou, as man, increase the stores of truth?

Then may thine own son afterwards excel thee.

FAUST

O happy he, who still renews

The hope, from Error's deeps to rise forever!

That which one does not know, one needs to use;

And what one knows, one uses never.

But let us not, by such despondence, so

The fortune of this hour embitter!

Mark how, beneath the evening sunlight's glow,

The green-embosomed houses glitter!

The glow retreats, done is the day of toil;

It yonder hastes, new fields of life exploring;

Ah, that no wing can lift me from the soil,

Upon its track to follow, follow soaring!

Then would I see eternal Evening gild

The silent world beneath me glowing,

On fire each mountain-peak, with peace each valley filled,

The silver brook to golden rivers flowing.

The mountain-chain, with all its gorges deep,

Would then no more impede my godlike motion;

And now before mine eyes expands the ocean

With all its bays, in shining sleep!

Yet, finally, the weary god is sinking;

The new-born impulse fires my mind,—

I hasten on, his beams eternal drinking,

The Day before me and the Night behind,

Above me heaven unfurled, the floor of waves beneath me,—

A glorious dream! though now the glories fade.

Alas! the wings that lift the mind no aid

Of wings to lift the body can bequeath me.

Yet in each soul is born the pleasure

Of yearning onward, upward and away,

When o'er our heads, lost in the vaulted azure,

The lark sends down his flickering lay,—

When over crags and piny highlands

The poising eagle slowly soars,

And over plains and lakes and islands

The crane sails by to other shores.

WAGNER

I've had, myself, at times, some odd caprices,

But never yet such impulse felt, as this is.

One soon fatigues, on woods and fields to look,

Nor would I beg the bird his wing to spare us:

How otherwise the mental raptures bear us

From page to page, from book to book!

Then winter nights take loveliness untold,

As warmer life in every limb had crowned you;

And when your hands unroll some parchment rare and old,

All Heaven descends, and opens bright around you!

FAUST

One impulse art thou conscious of, at best;

O, never seek to know the other!

Two souls, alas! reside within my breast,

And each withdraws from, and repels, its brother.

One with tenacious organs holds in love

And clinging lust the world in its embraces;

The other strongly sweeps, this dust above,

Into the high ancestral spaces.

If there be airy spirits near,

'Twixt Heaven and Earth on potent errands fleeing,

Let them drop down the golden atmosphere,

And bear me forth to new and varied being!

Yea, if a magic mantle once were mine,

To waft me o'er the world at pleasure,

I would not for the costliest stores of treasure—

Not for a monarch's robe—the gift resign.

WAGNER

Invoke not thus the well-known throng,

Which through the firmament diffused is faring,

And danger thousand-fold, our race to wrong.

In every quarter is preparing.

Swift from the North the spirit-fangs so sharp

Sweep down, and with their barbéd points assail you;

Then from the East they come, to dry and warp

Your lungs, till breath and being fail you:

If from the Desert sendeth them the South,

With fire on fire your throbbing forehead crowning,

The West leads on a host, to cure the drouth

Only when meadow, field, and you are drowning.

They gladly hearken, prompt for injury,—

Gladly obey, because they gladly cheat us;

From Heaven they represent themselves to be,

And lisp like angels, when with lies they meet us.

But, let us go! 'Tis gray and dusky all:

The air is cold, the vapors fall.

At night, one learns his house to prize:—

Why stand you thus, with such astonished eyes?

What, in the twilight, can your mind so trouble?

FAUST

Seest thou the black dog coursing there, through corn and

stubble?

WAGNER

Long since: yet deemed him not important in the least.

FAUST

Inspect him close: for what tak'st thou the beast?

WAGNER

Why, for a poodle who has lost his master,

And scents about, his track to find.

FAUST

Seest thou the spiral circles, narrowing faster,

Which he, approaching, round us seems to wind?

A streaming trail of fire, if I see rightly,

Follows his path of mystery.

WAGNER

It may be that your eyes deceive you slightly;

Naught but a plain black poodle do I see.

FAUST

It seems to me that with enchanted cunning

He snares our feet, some future chain to bind.

WAGNER

I see him timidly, in doubt, around us running,

Since, in his master's stead, two strangers doth he find.

FAUST

The circle narrows: he is near!

WAGNER

A dog thou seest, and not a phantom, here!

Behold him stop—upon his belly crawl—His

tail set wagging: canine habits, all!

FAUST

Come, follow us! Come here, at least!

WAGNER

'Tis the absurdest, drollest beast.

Stand still, and you will see him wait;

Address him, and he gambols straight;

If something's lost, he'll quickly bring it,—

Your cane, if in the stream you fling it.

FAUST

No doubt you're right: no trace of mind, I own,

Is in the beast: I see but drill, alone.

WAGNER

The dog, when he's well educated,

Is by the wisest tolerated.

Yes, he deserves your favor thoroughly,—

The clever scholar of the students, he!

(They pass in the city-gate.)

III

THE STUDY

FAUST

(Entering, with the poodle.)

Behind me, field and meadow sleeping,

I leave in deep, prophetic night,

Within whose dread and holy keeping

The better soul awakes to light.

The wild desires no longer win us,

The deeds of passion cease to chain;

The love of Man revives within us,

The love of God revives again.



Be still, thou poodle; make not such racket and riot!

Why at the threshold wilt snuffing be?

Behind the stove repose thee in quiet!

My softest cushion I give to thee.

As thou, up yonder, with running and leaping

Amused us hast, on the mountain's crest,



So now I take thee into my keeping,

A welcome, but also a silent, guest.

Ah, when, within our narrow chamber

The lamp with friendly lustre glows,

Flames in the breast each faded ember,

And in the heart, itself that knows.

Then Hope again lends sweet assistance,

And Reason then resumes her speech:

One yearns, the rivers of existence,

The very founts of Life, to reach.



Snarl not, poodle! To the sound that rises,

The sacred tones that my soul embrace,

This bestial noise is out of place.

We are used to see, that Man despises

What he never comprehends,

And the Good and the Beautiful vilipends,

Finding them often hard to measure:

Will the dog, like man, snarl his displeasure?

But ah! I feel, though will thereto be stronger,

Contentment flows from out my breast no longer.

Why must the stream so soon run dry and fail us,

And burning thirst again assail us?

Therein I've borne so much probation!

And yet, this want may be supplied us;

We call the Supernatural to guide us;

We pine and thirst for Revelation,

Which nowhere worthier is, more nobly sent,

Than here, in our New Testament.

I feel impelled, its meaning to determine,—

With honest purpose, once for all,

The hallowed Original

To change to my beloved German.



(He opens a volume, and commences.)

'Tis written: "In the Beginning was the Word."

Here am I balked: who, now can help afford?

The Word?—impossible so high to rate it;

And otherwise must I translate it.

If by the Spirit I am truly taught.

Then thus: "In the Beginning was the Thought"

This first line let me weigh completely,

Lest my impatient pen proceed too fleetly.

Is it the Thought which works, creates, indeed?

"In the Beginning was the Power," I read.

Yet, as I write, a warning is suggested,

That I the sense may not have fairly tested.

The Spirit aids me: now I see the light!

"In the Beginning was the Act," I write.



If I must share my chamber with thee,

Poodle, stop that howling, prithee!

Cease to bark and bellow!

Such a noisy, disturbing fellow

I'll no longer suffer near me.

One of us, dost hear me!

Must leave, I fear me.

No longer guest-right I bestow;

The door is open, art free to go.

But what do I see in the creature?

Is that in the course of nature?

Is't actual fact? or Fancy's shows?

How long and broad my poodle grows!

He rises mightily:

A canine form that cannot be!

What a spectre I've harbored thus!

He resembles a hippopotamus,

With fiery eyes, teeth terrible to see:

O, now am I sure of thee!

For all of thy half-hellish brood

The Key of Solomon is good.





SPIRITS (in the corridor)

Some one, within, is caught!

Stay without, follow him not!

Like the fox in a snare,

Quakes the old hell-lynx there.

Take heed—look about!

Back and forth hover,

Under and over,

And he'll work himself out.

If your aid avail him,

Let it not fail him;

For he, without measure,

Has wrought for our pleasure.



FAUST

First, to encounter the beast,

The Words of the Four be addressed:

Salamander, shine glorious!

Wave, Undine, as bidden!

Sylph, be thou hidden!

Gnome, be laborious!



Who knows not their sense

(These elements),—

Their properties

And power not sees,—

No mastery he inherits

Over the Spirits.

Vanish in flaming ether,

Salamander!

Flow foamingly together,

Undine!

Shine in meteor-sheen,

Sylph!

Bring help to hearth and shelf.

Incubus! Incubus!

Step forward, and finish thus!



Of the Four, no feature

Lurks in the creature.

Quiet he lies, and grins disdain:

Not yet, it seems, have I given him pain.

Now, to undisguise thee,

Hear me exorcise thee!

Art thou, my gay one,

Hell's fugitive stray-one?

The sign witness now,

Before which they bow,

The cohorts of Hell!

With hair all bristling, it begins to swell.

Base Being, hearest thou?

Knowest and fearest thou

The One, unoriginate,

Named inexpressibly,

Through all Heaven impermeate,

Pierced irredressibly!



Behind the stove still banned,

See it, an elephant, expand!

It fills the space entire,

Mist-like melting, ever faster.

'Tis enough: ascend no higher,—

Lay thyself at the feet of the Master!

Thou seest, not vain the threats I bring thee:

With holy fire I'll scorch and sting thee!

Wait not to know

The threefold dazzling glow!

Wait not to know

The strongest art within my hands!

MEPHISTOPHELES

(while the vapor is dissipating, steps forth from behind the

stove, in the costume of a Travelling Scholar.)

Why such a noise? What are my lord's commands?

FAUST

This was the poodle's real core,

A travelling scholar, then? The casus is diverting.

MEPHISTOPHELES

The learned gentleman I bow before:

You've made me roundly sweat, that's certain!

FAUST

What is thy name?

MEPHISTOPHELES

A question small, it seems,

For one whose mind the Word so much despises;

Who, scorning all external gleams,

The depths of being only prizes.

FAUST

With all you gentlemen, the name's a test,

Whereby the nature usually is expressed.

Clearly the latter it implies

In names like Beelzebub, Destroyer, Father of Lies.

Who art thou, then?

MEPHISTOPHELES

Part of that Power, not understood,

Which always wills the Bad, and always works the Good.

FAUST

What hidden sense in this enigma lies?

MEPHISTOPHELES

I am the Spirit that Denies!

And justly so: for all things, from the Void

Called forth, deserve to be destroyed:

'Twere better, then, were naught created.

Thus, all which you as Sin have rated,—

Destruction,—aught with Evil blent,—

That is my proper element.

FAUST

Thou nam'st thyself a part, yet show'st complete to me?

MEPHISTOPHELES

The modest truth I speak to thee.

If Man, that microcosmic fool, can see

Himself a whole so frequently,

Part of the Part am I, once All, in primal Night,—

Part of the Darkness which brought forth the Light,

The haughty Light, which now disputes the space,

And claims of Mother Night her ancient place.

And yet, the struggle fails; since Light, howe'er it weaves,

Still, fettered, unto bodies cleaves:

It flows from bodies, bodies beautifies;

By bodies is its course impeded;

And so, but little time is needed,

I hope, ere, as the bodies die, it dies!

FAUST

I see the plan thou art pursuing:

Thou canst not compass general ruin,

And hast on smaller scale begun.

MEPHISTOPHELES

And truly 'tis not much, when all is done.

That which to Naught is in resistance set,—

The Something of this clumsy world,—has yet,

With all that I have undertaken,

Not been by me disturbed or shaken:

From earthquake, tempest, wave, volcano's brand,

Back into quiet settle sea and land!

And that damned stuff, the bestial, human brood,—

What use, in having that to play with?

How many have I made away with!

And ever circulates a newer, fresher blood.

It makes me furious, such things beholding:

From Water, Earth, and Air unfolding,

A thousand germs break forth and grow,

In dry, and wet, and warm, and chilly;

And had I not the Flame reserved, why, really,

There's nothing special of my own to show!

FAUST

So, to the actively eternal

Creative force, in cold disdain

You now oppose the fist infernal,

Whose wicked clench is all in vain!

Some other labor seek thou rather,

Queer Son of Chaos, to begin!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Well, we'll consider: thou canst gather

My views, when next I venture in.

Might I, perhaps, depart at present?

FAUST

Why thou shouldst ask, I don't perceive.

Though our acquaintance is so recent,

For further visits thou hast leave.

The window's here, the door is yonder;

A chimney, also, you behold.

MEPHISTOPHELES

I must confess that forth I may not wander,

My steps by one slight obstacle controlled,—

The wizard's-foot, that on your threshold made is.

FAUST

The pentagram prohibits thee?

Why, tell me now, thou Son of Hades,

If that prevents, how cam'st thou in to me?

Could such a spirit be so cheated?

MEPHISTOPHELES

Inspect the thing: the drawing's not completed.

The outer angle, you may see,

Is open left—the lines don't fit it.

FAUST

Well,—Chance, this time, has fairly hit it!

And thus, thou'rt prisoner to me?

It seems the business has succeeded.

MEPHISTOPHELES

The poodle naught remarked, as after thee he speeded;

But other aspects now obtain:

The Devil can't get out again.

FAUST

Try, then, the open window-pane!

MEPHISTOPHELES

For Devils and for spectres this is law:

Where they have entered in, there also they withdraw.

The first is free to us; we're governed by the second.

FAUST

In Hell itself, then, laws are reckoned?

That's well! So might a compact be

Made with you gentlemen—and binding,—surely?

MEPHISTOPHELES

All that is promised shall delight thee purely;

No skinflint bargain shalt thou see.

But this is not of swift conclusion;

We'll talk about the matter soon.

And now, I do entreat this boon—

Leave to withdraw from my intrusion.

FAUST

One moment more I ask thee to remain,

Some pleasant news, at least, to tell me.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Release me, now! I soon shall come again;

Then thou, at will, mayst question and compel me.

FAUST

I have not snares around thee cast;

Thyself hast led thyself into the meshes.

Who traps the Devil, hold him fast!

Not soon a second time he'll catch a prey so precious.

MEPHISTOPHELES

An't please thee, also I'm content to stay,

And serve thee in a social station;

But stipulating, that I may

With arts of mine afford thee recreation.

FAUST

Thereto I willingly agree,

If the diversion pleasant be.

MEPHISTOPHELES

My friend, thou'lt win, past all pretences,

More in this hour to soothe thy senses,

Than in the year's monotony.

That which the dainty spirits sing thee,

The lovely pictures they shall bring thee,

Are more than magic's empty show.

Thy scent will be to bliss invited;

Thy palate then with taste delighted,

Thy nerves of touch ecstatic glow!

All unprepared, the charm I spin:

We're here together, so begin!

SPIRITS

Vanish, ye darking

Arches above him!

Loveliest weather,

Born of blue ether,

Break from the sky!

O that the darkling

Clouds had departed!

Starlight is sparkling,

Tranquiller-hearted

Suns are on high.

Heaven's own children

In beauty bewildering,

Waveringly bending,

Pass as they hover;

Longing unending

Follows them over.

They, with their glowing

Garments, out-flowing,

Cover, in going,

Landscape and bower,

Where, in seclusion,

Lovers are plighted,

Lost in illusion.

Bower on bower!

Tendrils unblighted!

Lo! in a shower

Grapes that o'ercluster

Gush into must, or

Flow into rivers

Of foaming and flashing

Wine, that is dashing

Gems, as it boundeth

Down the high places,

And spreading, surroundeth

With crystalline spaces,

In happy embraces,

Blossoming forelands,

Emerald shore-lands!

And the winged races

Drink, and fly onward—

Fly ever sunward

To the enticing

Islands, that flatter,

Dipping and rising

Light on the water!

Hark, the inspiring

Sound of their quiring!

See, the entrancing

Whirl of their dancing!

All in the air are

Freer and fairer.

Some of them scaling

Boldly the highlands,

Others are sailing,

Circling the islands;

Others are flying;

Life-ward all hieing,—

All for the distant

Star of existent

Rapture and Love!



MEPHISTOPHELES

He sleeps! Enough, ye fays! your airy number

Have sung him truly into slumber:

For this performance I your debtor prove.—

Not yet art thou the man, to catch the Fiend and hold him!—

With fairest images of dreams infold him,

Plunge him in seas of sweet untruth!

Yet, for the threshold's magic which controlled him,

The Devil needs a rat's quick tooth.

I use no lengthened invocation:

Here rustles one that soon will work my liberation.

The lord of rats and eke of mice,

Of flies and bed-bugs, frogs and lice,

Summons thee hither to the door-sill,

To gnaw it where, with just a morsel

Of oil, he paints the spot for thee:—

There com'st thou, hopping on to me!

To work, at once! The point which made me craven

Is forward, on the ledge, engraven.

Another bite makes free the door:

So, dream thy dreams, O Faust, until we meet once more!

FAUST (awaking)

Am I again so foully cheated?

Remains there naught of lofty spirit-sway,

But that a dream the Devil counterfeited,

And that a poodle ran away?

IV

THE STUDY

FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES

FAUST

A knock? Come in! Again my quiet broken?

MEPHISTOPHELES

'Tis I!

FAUST

Come in!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Thrice must the words be spoken.

FAUST

Come in, then!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Thus thou pleasest me.

FAUST

This life of earth, whatever my attire,

Would pain me in its wonted fashion.

Too old am I to play with passion;

Too young, to be without desire.

What from the world have I to gain?

Thou shalt abstain—renounce—refrain!

Such is the everlasting song

That in the ears of all men rings,—

That unrelieved, our whole life long,

Each hour, in passing, hoarsely sings.

In very terror I at morn awake,

Upon the verge of bitter weeping,

To see the day of disappointment break,

To no one hope of mine—not one—its promise keeping:—

That even each joy's presentiment

With wilful cavil would diminish,

With grinning masks of life prevent

My mind its fairest work to finish!

Then, too, when night descends, how anxiously

Upon my couch of sleep I lay me:

There, also, comes no rest to me,

But some wild dream is sent to fray me.

The God that in my breast is owned

Can deeply stir the inner sources;

The God, above my powers enthroned,

He cannot change external forces.

So, by the burden of my days oppressed,

Death is desired, and Life a thing unblest!

MEPHISTOPHELES

And yet is never Death a wholly welcome guest.

FAUST

O fortunate, for whom, when victory glances,

The bloody laurels on the brow he bindeth!

Whom, after rapid, maddening dances,

In clasping maiden-arms he findeth!

O would that I, before that spirit-power,

Ravished and rapt from life, had sunken!

MEPHISTOPHELES

And yet, by some one, in that nightly hour,

A certain liquid was not drunken.

FAUST

Eavesdropping, ha! thy pleasure seems to be.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Omniscient am I not; yet much is known to me.

FAUST

Though some familiar tone, retrieving

My thoughts from torment, led me on,

And sweet, clear echoes came, deceiving

A faith bequeathed from Childhood's dawn,

Yet now I curse whate'er entices

And snares the soul with visions vain;

With dazzling cheats and dear devices

Confines it in this cave of pain!

Cursed be, at once, the high ambition

Wherewith the mind itself deludes!

Cursed be the glare of apparition

That on the finer sense intrudes!

Cursed be the lying dream's impression

Of name, and fame, and laurelled brow!

Cursed, all that flatters as possession,

As wife and child, as knave and plow!

Cursed Mammon be, when he with treasures

To restless action spurs our fate!

Cursed when, for soft, indulgent leisures,

He lays for us the pillows straight!

Cursed be the vine's transcendent nectar,—

The highest favor Love lets fall!

Cursed, also, Hope!—cursed Faith, the spectre!

And cursed be Patience most of all!

CHORUS OF SPIRITS (invisible)

Woe! woe!

Thou hast it destroyed,

The beautiful world,

With powerful fist:

In ruin 'tis hurled,

By the blow of a demigod shattered!

The scattered

Fragments into the Void we carry,

Deploring

The beauty perished beyond restoring.

Mightier

For the children of men,

Brightlier

Build it again,

In thine own bosom build it anew!

Bid the new career

Commence,

With clearer sense,

And the new songs of cheer

Be sung thereto!



MEPHISTOPHELES



These are the small dependants

Who give me attendance.

Hear them, to deeds and passion

Counsel in shrewd old-fashion!

Into the world of strife,

Out of this lonely life

That of senses and sap has betrayed thee,

They would persuade thee.

This nursing of the pain forego thee,

That, like a vulture, feeds upon thy breast!

The worst society thou find'st will show thee

Thou art a man among the rest.

But 'tis not meant to thrust

Thee into the mob thou hatest!

I am not one of the greatest,

Yet, wilt thou to me entrust

Thy steps through life, I'll guide thee,—

Will willingly walk beside thee,—

Will serve thee at once and forever

With best endeavor,

And, if thou art satisfied,

Will as servant, slave, with thee abide.



FAUST



And what shall be my counter-service therefor?



MEPHISTOPHELES



The time is long: thou need'st not now insist.



FAUST



No—no! The Devil is an egotist,

And is not apt, without a why or wherefore,

"For God's sake," others to assist.

Speak thy conditions plain and clear!

With such a servant danger comes, I fear.



MEPHISTOPHELES



Here, an unwearied slave, I'll wear thy tether,

And to thine every nod obedient be:

When There again we come together,

Then shalt thou do the same for me.



FAUST



The There my scruples naught increases.

When thou hast dashed this world to pieces,

The other, then, its place may fill.

Here, on this earth, my pleasures have their sources;

Yon sun beholds my sorrows in his courses;

And when from these my life itself divorces,

Let happen all that can or will!

I'll hear no more: 'tis vain to ponder

If there we cherish love or hate,

Or, in the spheres we dream of yonder,

A High and Low our souls await.



MEPHISTOPHELES



In this sense, even, canst thou venture.

Come, bind thyself by prompt indenture,

And thou mine arts with joy shalt see:

What no man ever saw, I'll give to thee.



FAUST



Canst thou, poor Devil, give me whatsoever?

When was a human soul, in its supreme endeavor,

E'er understood by such as thou?

Yet, hast thou food which never satiates, now,—

The restless, ruddy gold hast thou,

That runs, quicksilver-like, one's fingers through,—

A game whose winnings no man ever knew,—

A maid that, even from my breast,

Beckons my neighbor with her wanton glances,

And Honor's godlike zest,

The meteor that a moment dances,—

Show me the fruits that, ere they're gathered, rot,

And trees that daily with new leafage clothe them!



MEPHISTOPHELES



Such a demand alarms me not:

Such treasures have I, and can show them.

But still the time may reach us, good my friend.

When peace we crave and more luxurious diet.



FAUST



When on an idler's bed I stretch myself in quiet.

There let, at once, my record end!

Canst thou with lying flattery rule me,

Until, self-pleased, myself I see,—

Canst thou with rich enjoyment fool me,

Let that day be the last for me!

The bet I offer.



MEPHISTOPHELES

Done!



FAUST

And heartily!

When thus I hail the Moment flying:

"Ah, still delay—thou art so fair!"

Then bind me in thy bonds undying,

My final ruin then declare!

Then let the death-bell chime the token.

Then art thou from thy service free!

The clock may stop, the hand be broken,

Then Time be finished unto me!



MEPHISTOPHELES



Consider well: my memory good is rated.



FAUST



Thou hast a perfect right thereto.

My powers I have not rashly estimated:

A slave am I, whate'er I do—

If thine, or whose? 'tis needless to debate it.



MEPHISTOPHELES



Then at the Doctors'-banquet I, to-day,

Will as a servant wait behind thee.

But one thing more! Beyond all risk to bind thee,

Give me a line or two, I pray.



FAUST



Demand'st thou, Pedant, too, a document?

Hast never known a man, nor proved his word's intent?

Is't not enough, that what I speak to-day

Shall stand, with all my future days agreeing?

In all its tides sweeps not the world away,

And shall a promise bind my being?

Yet this delusion in our hearts we bear:

Who would himself therefrom deliver?

Blest he, whose bosom Truth makes pure and fair!

No sacrifice shall he repent of ever.

Nathless a parchment, writ and stamped with care,

A spectre is, which all to shun endeavor.

The word, alas! dies even in the pen,

And wax and leather keep the lordship then.

What wilt from me, Base Spirit, say?—

Brass, marble, parchment, paper, clay?

The terms with graver, quill, or chisel, stated?

I freely leave the choice to thee.



MEPHISTOPHELES



Why heat thyself, thus instantly,

With eloquence exaggerated?

Each leaf for such a pact is good;

And to subscribe thy name thou'lt take a drop of blood.



FAUST



If thou therewith art fully satisfied,

So let us by the farce abide.



MEPHISTOPHELES



Blood is a juice of rarest quality.



FAUST



Fear not that I this pact shall seek to sever?

The promise that I make to thee

Is just the sum of my endeavor.

I have myself inflated all too high;

My proper place is thy estate:

The Mighty Spirit deigns me no reply,

And Nature shuts on me her gate.

The thread of Thought at last is broken,

And knowledge brings disgust unspoken.

Let us the sensual deeps explore,

To quench the fervors of glowing passion!

Let every marvel take form and fashion

Through the impervious veil it wore!

Plunge we in Time's tumultuous dance,

In the rush and roll of Circumstance!

Then may delight and distress,

And worry and success,

Alternately follow, as best they can:

Restless activity proves the man!



MEPHISTOPHELES



For you no bound, no term is set.

Whether you everywhere be trying,

Or snatch a rapid bliss in flying,

May it agree with you, what you get!

Only fall to, and show no timid balking.



FAUST



But thou hast heard, 'tis not of joy we're talking.

I take the wildering whirl, enjoyment's keenest pain,

Enamored hate, exhilarant disdain.

My bosom, of its thirst for knowledge sated,

Shall not, henceforth, from any pang be wrested,

And all of life for all mankind created

Shall be within mine inmost being tested:

The highest, lowest forms my soul shall borrow,

Shall heap upon itself their bliss and sorrow,

And thus, my own sole self to all their selves expanded,

I too, at last, shall with them all be stranded!



MEPHISTOPHELES



Believe me, who for many a thousand year

The same tough meat have chewed and tested,

That from the cradle to the bier

No man the ancient leaven has digested!

Trust one of us, this Whole supernal

Is made but for a God's delight!

He dwells in splendor single and eternal,

But us he thrusts in darkness, out of sight,

And you he dowers with Day and Night.



FAUST



Nay, but I will!



MEPHISTOPHELES



A good reply!

One only fear still needs repeating:

The art is long, the time is fleeting.

Then let thyself be taught, say I!

Go, league thyself with a poet,

Give the rein to his imagination,

Then wear the crown, and show it,

Of the qualities of his creation,—

The courage of the lion's breed,

The wild stag's speed,

The Italian's fiery blood,

The North's firm fortitude!

Let him find for thee the secret tether

That binds the Noble and Mean together.

And teach thy pulses of youth and pleasure

To love by rule, and hate by measure!

I'd like, myself, such a one to see:

Sir Microcosm his name should be.



FAUST



What am I, then, if 'tis denied my part

The crown of all humanity to win me,

Whereto yearns every sense within me?



MEPHISTOPHELES



Why, on the whole, thou'rt—what thou art.

Set wigs of million curls upon thy head, to raise thee,

Wear shoes an ell in height,—the truth betrays thee,

And thou remainest—what thou art.



FAUST



I feel, indeed, that I have made the treasure

Of human thought and knowledge mine, in vain;

And if I now sit down in restful leisure,

No fount of newer strength is in my brain:

I am no hair's-breadth more in height,

Nor nearer, to the Infinite,



MEPHISTOPHELES



Good Sir, you see the facts precisely

As they are seen by each and all.

We must arrange them now, more wisely,

Before the joys of life shall pall.

Why, Zounds! Both hands and feet are, truly—

And head and virile forces—thine:

Yet all that I indulge in newly,

Is't thence less wholly mine?

If I've six stallions in my stall,

Are not their forces also lent me?

I speed along, completest man of all,

As though my legs were four-and-twenty.

Take hold, then! let reflection rest,

And plunge into the world with zest!

I say to thee, a speculative wight

Is like a beast on moorlands lean,

That round and round some fiend misleads to evil plight,

While all about lie pastures fresh and green.



FAUST



Then how shall we begin?



MEPHISTOPHELES





We'll try a wider sphere.



[Exit FAUST.





(Aloud)



Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum.



As best it pleases thee.



V

Twice a swine!



Ah, tara, lara da!



Ah, tara, lara, da!



(Sings.)



The dear old holy Roman realm,

How does it hold together?



(sings)





Soar up, soar up, Dame Nightingale!

Ten thousand times my sweetheart hail!

SIEBEL

No, greet my sweetheart not! I tell you, I'll resent it.

FROSCH

My sweetheart greet and kiss! I dare you to prevent it!

(Sings.)



Draw the latch! the darkness makes:

Draw the latch! the lover wakes.

Shut the latch! the morning breaks

SIEBEL

Yes, sing away, sing on, and praise, and brag of her!

I'll wait my proper time for laughter:

Me by the nose she led, and now she'll lead you after.

Her paramour should be an ugly gnome,

Where four roads cross, in wanton play to meet her:

An old he-goat, from Blocksberg coming home,

Should his good-night in lustful gallop bleat her!

A fellow made of genuine flesh and blood

Is for the wench a deal too good.

Greet her? Not I: unless, when meeting,

To smash her windows be a greeting!

BRANDER (pounding on the table)

Attention! Hearken now to me!

Confess, Sirs, I know how to live.

Enamored persons here have we,

And I, as suits their quality,

Must something fresh for their advantage give.

Take heed! 'Tis of the latest cut, my strain,

And all strike in at each refrain!

(He sings.)



There was a rat in the cellar-nest,

Whom fat and butter made smoother:

He had a paunch beneath his vest

Like that of Doctor Luther.

The cook laid poison cunningly,

And then as sore oppressed was he

As if he had love in his bosom.



CHORUS (shouting)



As if he had love in his bosom!



BRANDER



He ran around, he ran about,

His thirst in puddles laving;

He gnawed and scratched the house throughout.

But nothing cured his raving.

He whirled and jumped, with torment mad,

And soon enough the poor beast had,

As if he had love in his bosom.



CHORUS



As if he had love in his bosom!



BRANDER



And driven at last, in open day,

He ran into the kitchen,

Fell on the hearth, and squirming lay,

In the last convulsion twitching.

Then laughed the murderess in her glee:

"Ha! ha! he's at his last gasp," said she,

"As if he had love in his bosom!"



CHORUS

As if he had love in his bosom!



SIEBEL

How the dull fools enjoy the matter!

To me it is a proper art

Poison for such poor rats to scatter.

BRANDER

Perhaps you'll warmly take their part?

ALTMAYER

The bald-pate pot-belly I have noted:

Misfortune tames him by degrees;

For in the rat by poison bloated

His own most natural form he sees.

FAUST AND MEPHISTOPHELES

MEPHISTOPHELES

Before all else, I bring thee hither

Where boon companions meet together,

To let thee see how smooth life runs away.

Here, for the folk, each day's a holiday:

With little wit, and ease to suit them,

They whirl in narrow, circling trails,

Like kittens playing with their tails?

And if no headache persecute them,

So long the host may credit give,

They merrily and careless live.

BRANDER

The fact is easy to unravel,

Their air's so odd, they've just returned from travel:

A single hour they've not been here.

FROSCH

You've verily hit the truth! Leipzig to me is dear:

Paris in miniature, how it refines its people!

SIEBEL

Who are the strangers, should you guess?

FROSCH

Let me alone! I'll set them first to drinking,

And then, as one a child's tooth draws, with cleverness,

I'll worm their secret out, I'm thinking.

They're of a noble house, that's very clear:

Haughty and discontented they appear.

BRANDER

They're mountebanks, upon a revel.

ALTMAYER

Perhaps.

FROSCH

Look out, I'll smoke them now!

MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST)

Not if he had them by the neck, I vow,

Would e'er these people scent the Devil!

FAUST Fair greeting, gentlemen!

SIEBEL

Our thanks: we give the same.



(Murmurs, inspecting MEPHISTOPHELES from the side.)



MEPHISTOPHELES

Is it permitted that we share your leisure?

In place of cheering drink, which one seeks vainly here,

Your company shall give us pleasure.

ALTMAYER

A most fastidious person you appear.

FROSCH

No doubt 'twas late when you from Rippach started?

And supping there with Hans occasioned your delay?

MEPHISTOPHELES

We passed, without a call, to-day.

At our last interview, before we parted

Much of his cousins did he speak, entreating

That we should give to each his kindly greeting.

(He bows to FROSCH.)

ALTMAYER (aside)

You have it now! he understands.

SIEBEL

A knave sharp-set!

FROSCH

Just wait awhile: I'll have him yet.

MEPHISTOPHELES

If I am right, we heard the sound

Of well-trained voices, singing chorus;

And truly, song must here rebound

Superbly from the arches o'er us.

FROSCH

Are you, perhaps, a virtuoso?

MEPHISTOPHELES

O no! my wish is great, my power is only so-so.

ALTMAYER

Give us a song!

MEPHISTOPHELES

If you desire, a number.

SIEBEL

So that it be a bran-new strain!

MEPHISTOPHELES

We've just retraced our way from. Spain,

The lovely land of wine, and song, and slumber.

(Sings.)

There was a king once reigning,

Who had a big black flea—

FROSCH

Hear, hear! A flea! D'ye rightly take the jest?

I call a flea a tidy guest.

MEPHISTOPHELES (sings)

There was a king once reigning,

Who had a big black flea,

And loved him past explaining,

As his own son were he.

He called his man of stitches;

The tailor came straightway:

Here, measure the lad for breeches.

And measure his coat, I say!



BRANDER

But mind, allow the tailor no caprices:

Enjoin upon him, as his head is dear,

To most exactly measure, sew and shear,

So that the breeches have no creases!

MEPHISTOPHELES

In silk and velvet gleaming

He now was wholly drest—

Had a coat with ribbons streaming,

A cross upon his breast.

He had the first of stations,

A minister's star and name;

And also all his relations

Great lords at court became.



And the lords and ladies of honor

Were plagued, awake and in bed;

The queen she got them upon her,

The maids were bitten and bled.

And they did not dare to brush them,

Or scratch them, day or night:

We crack them and we crush them,

At once, whene'er they bite.



CHORUS (shouting)



We crack them and we crush them,

At once, whene'er they bite!



FROSCH Bravo! bravo! that was fine.

SIEBEL

Every flea may it so befall!

BRANDER

Point your fingers and nip them all!

ALTMAYER

Hurrah for Freedom! Hurrah for wine!

MEPHISTOPHELES

I fain would drink with you, my glass to Freedom clinking,

If 'twere a better wine that here I see you drinking.

SIEBEL

Don't let us hear that speech again!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Did I not fear the landlord might complain,

I'd treat these worthy guests, with pleasure,

To some from out our cellar's treasure.

SIEBEL

Just treat, and let the landlord me arraign!

FROSCH

And if the wine be good, our praises shall be ample.

But do not give too very small a sample;

For, if its quality I decide,

With a good mouthful I must be supplied.

ALTMAYER (aside)

They're from the Rhine! I guessed as much, before.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Bring me a gimlet here!

BRANDER

What shall therewith be done?



ALTMAYER

Yonder, within the landlord's box of tools, there's one!

MEPHISTOPHELES (takes the gimlet)

(To FROSCH.)

Now, give me of your taste some intimation.

FROSCH

How do you mean? Have you so many kinds?

MEPHISTOPHELES

The choice is free: make up your minds.

ALTMAYER (to FROSCH)

Aha! you lick your chops, from sheer anticipation.

FROSCH

Good! if I have the choice, so let the wine be Rhenish!

Our Fatherland can best the sparkling cup replenish.

MEPHISTOPHELES

(boring a hole in the edge of the table, at the place where

FROSCH sits)

Get me a little wax, to make the stoppers, quick!

ALTMAYER

Ah! I perceive a juggler's trick.

MEPHISTOPHELES (to BRANDER)

And you?

BRANDER

Champagne shall be my wine,

And let it sparkle fresh and fine!

MEPHISTOPHELES

(bores: in the meantime one has made the wax stoppers, and

plugged the holes with them.)

BRANDER

What's foreign one can't always keep quite clear of,

For good things, oft, are not so near;

A German can't endure the French to see or hear of,

Yet drinks their wines with hearty cheer.

SIEBEL

(as MEPHISTOPHELES approaches his seat)

For me, I grant, sour wine is out of place;

Fill up my glass with sweetest, will you?

MEPHISTOPHELES (boring)

Tokay shall flow at once, to fill you!

ALTMAYER

No—look me, Sirs, straight in the face!

I see you have your fun at our expense.

MEPHISTOPHELES

O no! with gentlemen of such pretence,

That were to venture far, indeed.

Speak out, and make your choice with speed! With what a vintage can I serve you?

ALTMAYER

With any—only satisfy our need.

(After the holes have been bored and plugged)

MEPHISTOPHELES (with singular gestures)

Grapes the vine-stem bears,

Horns the he-goat wears!

The grapes are juicy, the vines are wood,

The wooden table gives wine as good!

Into the depths of Nature peer,—

Only believe there's a miracle here!



Now draw the stoppers, and drink your fill!

ALL

(as they draw out the stoppers, and the wine which has been

desired flows into the glass of each)

O beautiful fountain, that flows at will!

MEPHISTOPHELES

But have a care that you nothing spill!

(They drink repeatedly.)

ALL (sing)

As 'twere five hundred hogs, we feel

So cannibalic jolly!



MEPHISTOPHELES

See, now, the race is happy—it is free!

FAUST

To leave them is my inclination.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Take notice, first! their bestiality

Will make a brilliant demonstration.

SIEBEL

(drinks carelessly: the wine spills upon the earth, and turns to

flame)

Help! Fire! Help! Hell-fire is sent!

MEPHISTOPHELES (charming away the flame)

Be quiet, friendly element!

(To the revellers)

A bit of purgatory 'twas for this time, merely.

SIEBEL

What mean you? Wait!—you'll pay for't dearly!

You'll know us, to your detriment.

FROSCH

Don't try that game a second time upon us!

ALTMAYER

I think we'd better send him packing quietly.

SIEBEL

What, Sir! you dare to make so free,

And play your hocus-pocus on us!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Be still, old wine-tub.

SIEBEL

Broomstick, you!

You face it out, impertinent and heady?

BRANDER

Just wait! a shower of blows is ready.

ALTMAYER

(draws a stopper out of the table: fire flies in his face.)

I burn! I burn!

SIEBEL

'Tis magic! Strike—

The knave is outlawed! Cut him as you like!

(They draw their knives, and rush upon MEPHISTOPHELES.)

MEPHISTOPHELES (with solemn gestures)

False word and form of air,

Change place, and sense ensnare!

Be here—and there!



(They stand amazed and look at each other.)

ALTMAYER

Where am I? What a lovely land!

FROSCH

Vines? Can I trust my eyes?

SIEBEL

And purple grapes at hand!

BRANDER

Here, over this green arbor bending,

See what a vine! what grapes depending!

(He takes SIEBEL by the nose: the others do the same reciprocally,

and raise their knives.)

MEPHISTOPHELES (as above)

Loose, Error, from their eyes the band,

And how the Devil jests, be now enlightened!

(He disappears with FAUST: the revellers start and separate.)

SIEBEL

What happened?

ALTMAYER

How?

FROSCH

Was that your nose I tightened?

BRANDER (to SIEBEL)

And yours that still I have in hand?

ALTMAYER

It was a blow that went through every limb!

Give me a chair! I sink! my senses swim.

FROSCH

But what has happened, tell me now?

SIEBEL

Where is he? If I catch the scoundrel hiding,

He shall not leave alive, I vow.

ALTMAYER

I saw him with these eyes upon a wine-cask riding

Out of the cellar-door, just now.

Still in my feet the fright like lead is weighing.



(He turns towards the table.)



SIEBEL

'Twas all deceit, and lying, false design!

FROSCH

And yet it seemed as I were drinking wine.

BRANDER

But with the grapes how was it, pray?

ALTMAYER

Shall one believe no miracles, just say!

VI

WITCHES' KITCHEN

(Upon a low hearth stands a great caldron, under which a fire

is burning. Various figures appear in the vapors which

rise from the caldron. An ape sits beside it, skims it, and

watches lest it boil over. The he-ape, with the young

ones, sits near and warms himself. Ceiling and walls are

covered with the most fantastic witch-implements.)

FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES

FAUST

These crazy signs of witches' craft repel me!

I shall recover, dost thou tell me,

Through this insane, chaotic play?

From an old hag shall I demand assistance?

And will her foul mess take away

Full thirty years from my existence?

Woe's me, canst thou naught better find!

Another baffled hope must be lamented:

Has Nature, then, and has a noble mind

Not any potent balsam yet invented?

MEPHISTOPHELES

Once more, my friend, thou talkest sensibly.

There is, to make thee young, a simpler mode and apter;

But in another book 'tis writ for thee,

And is a most eccentric chapter.

FAUST

Yet will I know it.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Good! the method is revealed

Without or gold or magic or physician.

Betake thyself to yonder field,

There hoe and dig, as thy condition;

Restrain thyself, thy sense and will

Within a narrow sphere to flourish;

With unmixed food thy body nourish;

Live with the ox as ox, and think it not a theft

That thou manur'st the acre which thou reapest;—

That, trust me, is the best mode left,

Whereby for eighty years thy youth thou keepest!

FAUST

I am not used to that; I cannot stoop to try it—

To take the spade in hand, and ply it.

The narrow being suits me not at all.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Then to thine aid the witch must call.

FAUST

Wherefore the hag, and her alone?

Canst thou thyself not brew the potion?

MEPHISTOPHELES

That were a charming sport, I own:

I'd build a thousand bridges meanwhile, I've a notion.

Not Art and Science serve, alone;

Patience must in the work be shown.

Long is the calm brain active in creation;

Time, only, strengthens the fine fermentation.

And all, belonging thereunto,

Is rare and strange, howe'er you take it:

The Devil taught the thing, 'tis true,

And yet the Devil cannot make it.

(Perceiving the Animals)

See, what a delicate race they be!

That is the maid! the man is he!

(To the Animals)

It seems the mistress has gone away?

THE ANIMALS

Carousing, to-day!

Off and about,

By the chimney out!

MEPHISTOPHELES

What time takes she for dissipating?

THE ANIMALS

While we to warm our paws are waiting.

MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST)

How findest thou the tender creatures?

FAUST

Absurder than I ever yet did see.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Why, just such talk as this, for me,

Is that which has the most attractive features!

(To the Animals)

But tell me now, ye cursed puppets,

Why do ye stir the porridge so?

THE ANIMALS

We're cooking watery soup for beggars.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Then a great public you can show.

THE HE-APE

(comes up and fawns on MEPHISTOPHELES)

O cast thou the dice!

Make me rich in a trice,

Let me win in good season!

Things are badly controlled,

And had I but gold,

So had I my reason.



MEPHISTOPHELES

How would the ape be sure his luck enhances.

Could he but try the lottery's chances!

(In the meantime the young apes have been playing with a

large ball, which they now roll forward.)

THE HE-APE

The world's the ball:

Doth rise and fall,

And roll incessant:

Like glass doth ring,

A hollow thing,—

How soon will't spring,

And drop, quiescent?

Here bright it gleams,

Here brighter seems:

I live at present!

Dear son, I say,

Keep thou away!

Thy doom is spoken!

'Tis made of clay,

And will be broken.



MEPHISTOPHELES

What means the sieve?

THE HE-APE (taking it down)

Wert thou the thief,

I'd know him and shame him.



(He runs to the SHE-APE, and lets her look through it.)



Look through the sieve!

Know'st thou the thief,

And darest not name him?



MEPHISTOPHELES (approaching the fire)

And what's this pot?

HE-APE AND SHE-APE

The fool knows it not!

He knows not the pot,

He knows not the kettle!



MEPHISTOPHELES

Impertinent beast!

THE HE-APE

Take the brush here, at least,

And sit down on the settle!

(He invites MEPHISTOPHELES to sit down.)

FAUST

(who during all this time has been standing before a mirror,

now approaching and now retreating from it)

What do I see? What heavenly form revealed

Shows through the glass from Magic's fair dominions!

O lend me, Love, the swiftest of thy pinions,

And bear me to her beauteous field!

Ah, if I leave this spot with fond designing,

If I attempt to venture near,

Dim, as through gathering mist, her charms appear!—

A woman's form, in beauty shining!

Can woman, then, so lovely be?

And must I find her body, there reclining,

Of all the heavens the bright epitome?

Can Earth with such a thing be mated?

MEPHISTOPHELES

Why, surely, if a God first plagues Himself six days,

Then, self-contented, Bravo! says,

Must something clever be created.

This time, thine eyes be satiate!

I'll yet detect thy sweetheart and ensnare her,

And blest is he, who has the lucky fate,

Some day, as bridegroom, home to bear her.

(FAUST gazes continually in the mirror. MEPHISTOPHELES,

stretching himself out on the settle, and playing with the

brush, continues to speak.)

So sit I, like the King upon his throne:

I hold the sceptre, here,—and lack the crown alone.

THE ANIMALS

(who up to this time have been making all kinds of fantastic

movements together bring a crown to MEPHISTOPHELES

with great noise.)

O be thou so good

With sweat and with blood

The crown to belime!



(They handle the crown awkwardly and break it into two

pieces, with which they spring around.)

'Tis done, let it be!

We speak and we see,

We hear and we rhyme!



FAUST (before the mirror)

Woe's me! I fear to lose my wits.

MEPHISTOPHELES (pointing to the Animals)

My own head, now, is really nigh to sinking.

THE ANIMALS

If lucky our hits,

And everything fits,

'Tis thoughts, and we're thinking!



FAUST (as above)

My bosom burns with that sweet vision;

Let us, with speed, away from here!

MEPHISTOPHELES (in the same attitude)

One must, at least, make this admission—

They're poets, genuine and sincere.

(The caldron, which the SHE-APE has up to this time neglected

to watch, begins to boil over: there ensues a great flame,

which blazes out the chimney. The WITCH comes careering

down through the flame, with terrible cries.)

THE WITCH

Ow! ow! ow! ow!

The damnéd beast—the curséd sow!

To leave the kettle, and singe the Frau!

Accurséd fere!



(Perceiving FAUST and MEPHISTOPHELES.)

What is that here?

Who are you here?

What want you thus?

Who sneaks to us?

The fire-pain

Burn bone and brain!



(She plunges the skimming-ladle into the caldron, and scatters

flames towards FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, and the Animals.

The Animals whimper.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

(reversing the brush, which he has been holding in his hand,

and striding among the jars and glasses)

In two! in two!

There lies the brew!

There lies the glass!

The joke will pass,

As time, foul ass!

To the singing of thy crew.



(As the WITCH starts back, full of wrath and horror)

Ha! know'st thou me? Abomination, thou!

Know'st thou, at last, thy Lord and Master?

What hinders me from smiting now

Thee and thy monkey-sprites with fell disaster?

Hast for the scarlet coat no reverence?

Dost recognize no more the tall cock's-feather?

Have I concealed this countenance?—

Must tell my name, old face of leather?

THE WITCH

O pardon, Sir, the rough salute!

Yet I perceive no cloven foot;

And both your ravens, where are they now?

MEPHISTOPHELES

This time, I'll let thee 'scape the debt;

For since we two together met,

'Tis verily full many a day now.

Culture, which smooth the whole world licks,

Also unto the Devil sticks.

The days of that old Northern phantom now are over:

Where canst thou horns and tail and claws discover?

And, as regards the foot, which I can't spare, in truth,

'Twould only make the people shun me;

Therefore I've worn, like many a spindly youth,

False calves these many years upon me.

THE WITCH (dancing)

Reason and sense forsake my brain,

Since I behold Squire Satan here again!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Woman, from such a name refrain!

THE WITCH

Why so? What has it done to thee?

MEPHISTOPHELES

It's long been written in the Book of Fable;

Yet, therefore, no whit better men we see:

The Evil One has left, the evil ones are stable.

Sir Baron call me thou, then is the matter good;

A cavalier am I, like others in my bearing.

Thou hast no doubt about my noble blood:

See, here's the coat-of-arms that I am wearing!

(He makes an indecent gesture.)

THE WITCH (laughs immoderately)

Ha! ha! That's just your way, I know:

A rogue you are, and you were always so.

MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST)

My friend, take proper heed, I pray!

To manage witches, this is just the way.

THE WITCH

Wherein, Sirs, can I be of use?

MEPHISTOPHELES

Give us a goblet of the well-known juice!

But, I must beg you, of the oldest brewage;

The years a double strength produce.

THE WITCH

With all my heart! Now, here's a bottle,

Wherefrom, sometimes, I wet my throttle,

Which, also, not the slightest, stinks;

And willingly a glass I'll fill him.

(Whispering)

Yet, if this man without due preparation drinks,

As well thou know'st, within an hour 'twill kill him.

MEPHISTOPHELES

He is a friend of mine, with whom it will agree,

And he deserves thy kitchen's best potation:

Come, draw thy circle, speak thine adjuration,

And fill thy goblet full and free!

THE WITCH

(with fantastic gestures draws a circle and places mysterious

articles therein; meanwhile the glasses begin to ring, the

caldron to sound, and make a musical accompaniment.

Finally she brings a great book, and stations in the circle

the Apes, who are obliged to serve as reading-desk, and to

hold the torches. She then beckons FAUST to approach.)

FAUST (to MEPHISTOPHELES)

Now, what shall come of this? the creatures antic,

The crazy stuff, the gestures frantic,—

All the repulsive cheats I view,—

Are known to me, and hated, too.

MEPHISTOPHELES

O, nonsense! That's a thing for laughter;

Don't be so terribly severe!

She juggles you as doctor now, that, after,

The beverage may work the proper cheer.

(He persuades FAUST to step into the circle.)

THE WITCH

(begins to declaim, with much emphasis, from the book)

See, thus it's done!

Make ten of one,

And two let be,

Make even three,

And rich thou 'It be.

Cast o'er the four!

From five and six

(The witch's tricks)

Make seven and eight,

'Tis finished straight!

And nine is one,

And ten is none.

This is the witch's once-one's-one!



FAUST

She talks like one who raves in fever.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Thou'lt hear much more before we leave her.

'Tis all the same: the book I can repeat,

Such time I've squandered o'er the history:

A contradiction thus complete

Is always for the wise, no less than fools, a mystery.

The art is old and new, for verily

All ages have been taught the matter,—

By Three and One, and One and Three,

Error instead of Truth to scatter.

They prate and teach, and no one interferes;

All from the fellowship of fools are shrinking.

Man usually believes, if only words he hears,

That also with them goes material for thinking!

THE WITCH (continues)

The lofty skill

Of Science, still

From all men deeply hidden!

Who takes no thought,

To him 'tis brought,

'Tis given unsought, unbidden!



FAUST

What nonsense she declaims before us!

My head is nigh to split, I fear:

It seems to me as if I hear

A hundred thousand fools in chorus.

MEPHISTOPHELES

O Sibyl excellent, enough of adjuration!

But hither bring us thy potation,

And quickly fill the beaker to the brim!

This drink will bring my friend no injuries:

He is a man of manifold degrees,

And many draughts are known to him.

(The WITCH, with many ceremonies, pours the drink into a

cup; as FAUST sets it to his lips, a light flame arises.)

Down with it quickly! Drain it off!

'Twill warm thy heart with new desire:

Art with the Devil hand and glove,

And wilt thou be afraid of fire?

(The WITCH breaks the circle: FAUST steps forth.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

And now, away! Thou dar'st not rest.

THE WITCH

And much good may the liquor do thee!

MEPHISTOPHELES (to the WITCH)

Thy wish be on Walpurgis Night expressed;

What boon I have, shall then be given unto thee.

THE WITCH

Here is a song, which, if you sometimes sing,

You'll find it of peculiar operation.

MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST)

Come, walk at once! A rapid occupation

Must start the needful perspiration,

And through thy frame the liquor's potence fling.

The noble indolence I'll teach thee then to treasure,

And soon thou'lt be aware, with keenest thrills of pleasure,

How Cupid stirs and leaps, on light and restless wing.

FAUST

One rapid glance within the mirror give me,

How beautiful that woman-form!

MEPHISTOPHELES

No, no! The paragon of all, believe me,

Thou soon shalt see, alive and warm.

(Aside)

Thou'lt find, this drink thy blood compelling,

Each woman beautiful as Helen!

VII

STREET

FAUST MARGARET (passing by)

FAUST

Fair lady, let it not offend you,

That arm and escort I would lend you!

MARGARET

I'm neither lady, neither fair,

And home I can go without your care.

[She releases herself, and exit.

FAUST

By Heaven, the girl is wondrous fair!

Of all I've seen, beyond compare;

So sweetly virtuous and pure,

And yet a little pert, be sure!

The lip so red, the cheek's clear dawn,

I'll not forget while the world rolls on!

How she cast down her timid eyes,

Deep in my heart imprinted lies:

How short and sharp of speech was she,

Why, 'twas a real ecstasy!

(MEPHISTOPHELES enters)

FAUST

Hear, of that girl I'd have possession!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Which, then?

FAUST

The one who just went by.

MEPHISTOPHELES

She, there? She's coming from confession,

Of every sin absolved; for I,

Behind her chair, was listening nigh.

So innocent is she, indeed,

That to confess she had no need.

I have no power o'er souls so green.

FAUST

And yet, she's older than fourteen.

MEPHISTOPHELES

How now! You're talking like Jack Rake,

Who every flower for himself would take,

And fancies there are no favors more,

Nor honors, save for him in store;

Yet always doesn't the thing succeed.

FAUST

Most Worthy Pedagogue, take heed!

Let not a word of moral law be spoken!

I claim, I tell thee, all my right;

And if that image of delight

Rest not within mine arms to-night,

At midnight is our compact broken.

MEPHISTOPHELES

But think, the chances of the case!

I need, at least, a fortnight's space,

To find an opportune occasion.

FAUST

Had I but seven hours for all,

I should not on the Devil call,

But win her by my own persuasion.

MEPHISTOPHELES

You almost like a Frenchman prate;

Yet, pray, don't take it as annoyance!

Why, all at once, exhaust the joyance?

Your bliss is by no means so great

As if you'd use, to get control,

All sorts of tender rigmarole,

And knead and shape her to your thought,

As in Italian tales 'tis taught.

FAUST

Without that, I have appetite.

MEPHISTOPHELES

But now, leave jesting out of sight!

I tell you, once for all, that speed

With this fair girl will not succeed;

By storm she cannot captured be;

We must make use of strategy.

FAUST

Get me something the angel keeps!

Lead me thither where she sleeps!

Get me a kerchief from her breast,—

A garter that her knee has pressed!

MEPHISTOPHELES

That you may see how much I'd fain

Further and satisfy your pain,

We will no longer lose a minute;

I'll find her room to-day, and take you in it.

FAUST

And shall I see—possess her?

MEPHISTOPHELES

No!



FAUST

Can we go thither?

MEPHISTOPHELES

'Tis too early yet.

FAUST

A gift for her I bid thee get!



[Exit.





MEPHISTOPHELES

Presents at once? That's good: he's certain to get at her!

Full many a pleasant place I know,

And treasures, buried long ago:

I must, perforce, look up the matter. [Exit.

VIII

EVENING A SMALL, NEATLY KEPT CHAMBER

MARGARET

(plaiting and binding up the braids of her hair)

I'd something give, could I but say

Who was that gentleman, to-day.

Surely a gallant man was he,

And of a noble family;

And much could I in his face behold,—

And he wouldn't, else, have been so bold!

[Exit

MEPHISTOPHELES FAUST

MEPHISTOPHELES

Come in, but gently: follow me!

FAUST (after a moment's silence)

Leave me alone, I beg of thee!

MEPHISTOPHELES (prying about)

Not every girl keeps things so neat.

FAUST (looking around)

O welcome, twilight soft and sweet,

That breathes throughout this hallowed shrine!

Sweet pain of love, bind thou with fetters fleet

The heart that on the dew of hope must pine!

How all around a sense impresses

Of quiet, order, and content!

This poverty what bounty blesses!

What bliss within this narrow den is pent!

(He throws himself into a leathern arm-chair near the bed.)

Receive me, thou, that in thine open arms

Departed joy and pain wert wont to gather!

How oft the children, with their ruddy charms,

Hung here, around this throne, where sat the father!

Perchance my love, amid the childish band,

Grateful for gifts the Holy Christmas gave her,

Here meekly kissed the grandsire's withered hand.

I feel, O maid! thy very soul

Of order and content around me whisper,—

Which leads thee with its motherly control,

The cloth upon thy board bids smoothly thee unroll,

The sand beneath thy feet makes whiter, crisper.

O dearest hand, to thee 'tis given

To change this hut into a lower heaven!

And here!

(He lifts one of the bed-curtains.)

What sweetest thrill is in my blood!

Here could I spend whole hours, delaying:

Here Nature shaped, as if in sportive playing,

The angel blossom from the bud.

Here lay the child, with Life's warm essence

The tender bosom filled and fair,

And here was wrought, through holier, purer presence,

The form diviner beings wear!

And I? What drew me here with power?

How deeply am I moved, this hour!

What seek I? Why so full my heart, and sore?

Miserable Faust! I know thee now no more.

Is there a magic vapor here?

I came, with lust of instant pleasure,

And lie dissolved in dreams of love's sweet leisure!

Are we the sport of every changeful atmosphere?

And if, this moment, came she in to me,

How would I for the fault atonement render!

How small the giant lout would be,

Prone at her feet, relaxed and tender!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Be quick! I see her there, returning.

FAUST

Go! go! I never will retreat.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Here is a casket, not unmeet,

Which elsewhere I have just been earning.

Here, set it in the press