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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
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CONTENTS
PREFACE
AN GOETHE
DEDICATION
PRELUDE AT THE THEATRE
PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN
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
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FAUST
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[Illustration: 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]
[A] “‘There are two maxims of translation,’ says he: ‘the one requires
that the author, of a foreign nation, be brought to us in such a manner
that we may regard him as our own; the other, on the contrary, demands
of us that we transport ourselves over to him, and adopt his situation,
his mode of speaking, and his peculiarities. The advantages of both are
sufficiently known to all instructed persons, from masterly examples.’”
Is it necessary, however, that there should always be this alternative?
Where the languages are kindred, and equally capable of all varieties of
metrical expression, may not both these “maxims” be observed in the same
translation? Goethe, it is true, was of the opinion that _Faust_ ought
to be given, in French, in the manner of Clement Marot; but this was
undoubtedly because he felt the inadequacy of modern French to express
the naive, simple realism of many passages. The same objection does not
apply to English. There are a few archaic expressions in _Faust_, but no
more than are still allowed—nay, frequently encouraged—in the English
of our day.
[B] “You are right,” said Goethe; “there are great and mysterious
agencies included in the various forms of Poetry. If the substance of my
‘Roman Elegies’ were to be expressed in the tone and measure of Byron’s
‘Don Juan,’ it would really have an atrocious effect.”—_Eckermann_.
“The rhythm,” said Goethe, “is an unconscious result of the poetic mood.
If one should stop to consider it mechanically, when about to write a
poem, one would become bewildered and accomplish nothing of real
poetical value.”—_Ibid_.
“_All that is poetic in character should be rythmically treated_! Such
is my conviction; and if even a sort of poetic prose should be gradually
introduced, it would only show that the distinction between prose and
poetry had been completely lost sight of.”—_Goethe to Schiller_, 1797.
Tycho Mommsen, in his excellent essay, _Die Kunst des Deutschen
Uebersetzers aus neueren Sprachen_, goes so far as to say: “The metrical
or rhymed modelling of a poetical work is so essentially the germ of its
being, that, rather than by giving it up, we might hope to construct a
similar work of art before the eyes of our countrymen, by giving up or
changing the substance. The immeasurable result which has followed works
wherein the form has been retained—such as the Homer of Voss, and the
Shakespeare of Tieck and Schlegel—is an incontrovertible evidence of
the vitality of the endeavor.”
[C] “Goethe’s poems exercise a great sway over me, not only by their
meaning, but also by their rhythm. It is a language which stimulates me
to composition.”—_Beethoven_.
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]
[D] Life of Goethe (Book VI.).
[E] Mr. Lewes gives the following advice: “The English reader would
perhaps best succeed who should first read Dr. Anster’s brilliant
paraphrase, and then carefully go through Hayward’s prose translation.”
This is singularly at variance with the view he has just expressed. Dr.
Anster’s version is an almost incredible dilution of the original,
written in _other_ metres; while Hayward’s entirely omits the element of
poetry.
[F] Foreign Review, 1828.
[G] When Freiligrath can thus give us Walter Scott:—
“Kommt, wie der Wind kommt, Wenn Wälder erzittern Kommt, wie die
Brandung Wenn Flotten zersplittern! Schnell heran, schnell herab,
Schneller kommt Al’e!—Häuptling und Bub’ und Knapp, Herr und Vasalle!”
or Strodtmann thus reproduce Tennyson:—
“Es fällt der Strahl auf Burg und Thal, Und schneeige Gipfel, reich an
Sagen; Viel’ Lichter wehn auf blauen Seen, Bergab die Wasserstürze
jagen! Blas, Hüfthorn, blas, in Wiederhall erschallend: Blas,
Horn—antwortet, Echos, hallend, hallend, hallend!”
—it must be a dull ear which would be satisfied with the omission of
rhythm and rhyme.
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]
[H] On his second page, the line _Mein Lied ertönt der unbekannten
Menge_, “My song sounds to the unknown multitude,” is translated: “My
_sorrow_ voices itself to the strange throng.” Other English
translators, I notice, have followed Mr. Hayward in mistaking _Lied_ for
_Leid_.
I:
I take but one out of numerous instances, for the sake of
illustration. The close of the Soldier’s Song (Part I. Scene II.) is:—
“Kühn is das Mühen,
Herrlich der Lohn!
Und die Soldaten
Ziehen davon.”
Literally:
Bold is the endeavor,
Splendid the pay!
And the soldiers
March away.
This Mr. Hayward translates:—
Bold the adventure,
Noble the reward—
And the soldiers
Are off.
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]
[J] I cannot resist the temptation of quoting the following passage from
Jacob Grimm: “No one of all the modern languages has acquired a greater
force and strength than the English, through the derangement and
relinquishment of its ancient laws of sound. The unteachable
(nevertheless _learnable_) profusion of its middle-tones has conferred
upon it an intrinsic power of expression, such as no other human tongue
ever possessed. Its entire, thoroughly intellectual and wonderfully
successful foundation and perfected development issued from a marvelous
union of the two noblest tongues of Europe, the Germanic and the
Romanic. Their mutual relation in the English language is well known,
since the former furnished chiefly the material basis, while the latter
added the intellectual conceptions. The English language, by and through
which the greatest and most eminent poet of modern times—as contrasted
with ancient classical poetry—(of course I can refer only to
Shakespeare) was begotten and nourished, has a just claim to be called a
language of the world; and it appears to be destined, like the English
race, to a higher and broader sway in all quarters of the earth. For in
richness, in compact adjustment of parts, and in pure intelligence, none
of the living languages can be compared with it,—not even our German,
which is divided even as we are divided, and which must cast off many
imperfections before it can boldly enter on its career.”—_Ueber den
Ursprung der Sprache_.
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]
[K] “At present, everything runs in technical grooves, and the critical
gentlemen begin to wrangle whether in a rhyme an _s_ should correspond
with an _s_ and not with _sz_. If I were young and reckless enough, I
would purposely offend all such technical caprices: I would use
alliteration, assonance, false rhyme, just according to my own will or
convenience—but, at the same time, I would attend to the main thing,
and endeavor to say so many good things that every one would be
attracted to read and remember them.”—_Goethe_, in 1831.
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.
[Illustration]
AN GOETHE
_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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: =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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: =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!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN
THE LORD THE HEAVENLY HOST _Afterwards_
MEPHISTOPHELES
(_The_ THREE ARCHANGELS _come forward_.)
RAPHAEL
The sun-orb sings, in emulation,
’Mid brother-spheres, his ancient round:
His path predestined through Creation
He ends with step of thunder-sound.
The angels from his visage splendid
Draw power, whose measure none can say;
The lofty works, uncomprehended,
Are bright as on the earliest day.
GABRIEL
And swift, and swift beyond conceiving,
The splendor of the world goes round,
Day’s Eden-brightness still relieving
The awful Night’s intense profound:
The ocean-tides in foam are breaking,
Against the rocks’ deep bases hurled,
And both, the spheric race partaking,
Eternal, swift, are onward whirled!
MICHAEL
And rival storms abroad are surging
From sea to land, from land to sea.
A chain of deepest action forging
Round all, in wrathful energy.
There flames a desolation, blazing
Before the Thunder’s crashing way:
Yet, Lord, Thy messengers are praising
The gentle movement of Thy Day.
THE THREE
Though still by them uncomprehended,
From these the angels draw their power,
And all Thy works, sublime and splendid,
Are bright as in Creation’s hour.
MEPHISTOPHELES
Since Thou, O Lord, deign’st to approach again
And ask us how we do, in manner kindest,
And heretofore to meet myself wert fain,
Among Thy menials, now, my face Thou findest.
Pardon, this troop I cannot follow after
With lofty speech, though by them scorned and spurned:
My pathos certainly would move Thy laughter,
If Thou hadst not all merriment unlearned.
Of suns and worlds I’ve nothing to be quoted;
How men torment themselves, is all I’ve noted.
The little god o’ the world sticks to the same old way,
And is as whimsical as on Creation’s day.
Life somewhat better might content him,
But for the gleam of heavenly light which Thou hast lent him:
He calls it Reason—thence his power’s increased,
To be far beastlier than any beast.
Saving Thy Gracious Presence, he to me
A long-legged grasshopper appears to be,
That springing flies, and flying springs,
And in the grass the same old ditty sings.
Would he still lay among the grass he grows in!
Each bit of dung he seeks, to stick his nose in.
THE LORD
Hast thou, then, nothing more to mention?
Com’st ever, thus, with ill intention?
Find’st nothing right on earth, eternally?
MEPHISTOPHELES
No, Lord! I find things, there, still bad as they can be.
Man’s misery even to pity moves my nature;
I’ve scarce the heart to plague the wretched creature.
THE LORD
Know’st Faust?
MEPHISTOPHELES
The Doctor Faust?
THE LORD
My servant, he!
MEPHISTOPHELES
Forsooth! He serves you after strange devices:
No earthly meat or drink the fool suffices:
His spirit’s ferment far aspireth;
Half conscious of his frenzied, crazed unrest,
The fairest stars from Heaven he requireth,
From Earth the highest raptures and the best,
And all the Near and Far that he desireth
Fails to subdue the tumult of his breast.
THE LORD
Though still confused his service unto Me,
I soon shall lead him to a clearer morning.
Sees not the gardener, even while buds his tree,
Both flower and fruit the future years adorning?
MEPHISTOPHELES
What will you bet? There’s still a chance to gain him,
If unto me full leave you give,
Gently upon _my_ road to train him!
THE LORD
As long as he on earth shall live,
So long I make no prohibition.
While Man’s desires and aspirations stir,
He cannot choose but err.
MEPHISTOPHELES
My thanks! I find the dead no acquisition,
And never cared to have them in my keeping.
I much prefer the cheeks where ruddy blood is leaping,
And when a corpse approaches, close my house:
It goes with me, as with the cat the mouse.
THE LORD
Enough! What thou hast asked is granted.
Turn off this spirit from his fountain-head;
To trap him, let thy snares be planted,
And him, with thee, be downward led;
Then stand abashed, when thou art forced to say:
A good man, through obscurest aspiration,
Has still an instinct of the one true way.
MEPHISTOPHELES
Agreed! But ’tis a short probation.
About my bet I feel no trepidation.
If I fulfill my expectation,
You’ll let me triumph with a swelling breast:
Dust shall he eat, and with a zest,
As did a certain snake, my near relation.
THE LORD
Therein thou’rt free, according to thy merits;
The like of thee have never moved My hate.
Of all the bold, denying Spirits,
The waggish knave least trouble doth create.
Man’s active nature, flagging, seeks too soon the level;
Unqualified repose he learns to crave;
Whence, willingly, the comrade him I gave,
Who works, excites, and must create, as Devil.
But ye, God’s sons in love and duty,
Enjoy the rich, the ever-living Beauty!
Creative Power, that works eternal schemes,
Clasp you in bonds of love, relaxing never,
And what in wavering apparition gleams
Fix in its place with thoughts that stand forever!
(_Heaven closes: the_ ARCHANGELS _separate_.)
MEPHISTOPHELES (_solus_)
I like, at times, to hear The Ancient’s word,
And have a care to be most civil:
It’s really kind of such a noble Lord
So humanly to gossip with the Devil!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
FIRST PART OF THE TRAGEDY
I
NIGHT
(_A lofty-arched, narrow, Gothic chamber_. FAUST, _in a chair at his
desk, restless_.)
FAUST
I’ve studied now Philosophy
And Jurisprudence, Medicine,—
And even, alas! Theology,—
From end to end, with labor keen;
And here, poor fool! with all my lore
I stand, no wiser than before:
I’m Magister—yea, Doctor—hight,
And straight or cross-wise, wrong or right,
These ten years long, with many woes,
I’ve led my scholars by the nose,—
And see, that nothing can be known!
_That_ knowledge cuts me to the bone.
I’m cleverer, true, than those fops of teachers,
Doctors and Magisters, Scribes and Preachers;
Neither scruples nor doubts come now to smite me,
Nor Hell nor Devil can longer affright me.
For this, all pleasure am I foregoing;
I do not pretend to aught worth knowing,
I do not pretend I could be a teacher
To help or convert a fellow-creature.
Then, too, I’ve neither lands nor gold,
Nor the world’s least pomp or honor hold—
No dog would endure such a curst existence!
Wherefore, from Magic I seek assistance,
That many a secret perchance I reach
Through spirit-power and spirit-speech,
And thus the bitter task forego
Of saying the things I do not know,—
That I may detect the inmost force
Which binds the world, and guides its course;
Its germs, productive powers explore,
And rummage in empty words no more!
O full and splendid Moon, whom I
Have, from this desk, seen climb the sky
So many a midnight,—would thy glow
For the last time beheld my woe!
Ever thine eye, most mournful friend,
O’er books and papers saw me bend;
But would that I, on mountains grand,
Amid thy blessed light could stand,
With spirits through mountain-caverns hover,
Float in thy twilight the meadows over,
And, freed from the fumes of lore that swathe me,
To health in thy dewy fountains bathe me!
Ah, me! this dungeon still I see.
This drear, accursed masonry,
Where even the welcome daylight strains
But duskly through the painted panes.
Hemmed in by many a toppling heap
Of books worm-eaten, gray with dust,
Which to the vaulted ceiling creep,
Against the smoky paper thrust,—
With glasses, boxes, round me stacked,
And instruments together hurled,
Ancestral lumber, stuffed and packed—
Such is my world: and what a world!
And do I ask, wherefore my heart
Falters, oppressed with unknown needs?
Why some inexplicable smart
All movement of my life impedes?
Alas! in living Nature’s stead,
Where God His human creature set,
In smoke and mould the fleshless dead
And bones of beasts surround me yet!
Fly! Up, and seek the broad, free land!
And this one Book of Mystery
From Nostradamus’ very hand,
Is’t not sufficient company?
When I the starry courses know,
And Nature’s wise instruction seek,
With light of power my soul shall glow,
As when to spirits spirits speak.
Tis vain, this empty brooding here,
Though guessed the holy symbols be:
Ye, Spirits, come—ye hover near—
Oh, if you hear me, answer me!
(_He opens the Book, and perceives the sign of the Macrocosm_.)
Ha! what a sudden rapture leaps from this
I view, through all my senses swiftly flowing!
I feel a youthful, holy, vital bliss
In every vein and fibre newly glowing.
Was it a God, who traced this sign,
With calm across my tumult stealing,
My troubled heart to joy unsealing,
With impulse, mystic and divine,
The powers of Nature here, around my path, revealing?
Am I a God?—so clear mine eyes!
In these pure features I behold
Creative Nature to my soul unfold.
What says the sage, now first I recognize:
“The spirit-world no closures fasten;
Thy sense is shut, thy heart is dead:
Disciple, up! untiring, hasten
To bathe thy breast in morning-red!”
(_He contemplates the sign_.)
How each the Whole its substance gives,
Each in the other works and lives!
Like heavenly forces rising and descending,
Their golden urns reciprocally lending,
With wings that winnow blessing
From Heaven through Earth I see them pressing,
Filling the All with harmony unceasing!
How grand a show! but, ah! a show alone.
Thee, boundless Nature, how make thee my own?
Where you, ye beasts? Founts of all Being, shining,
Whereon hang Heaven’s and Earth’s desire,
Whereto our withered hearts aspire,—
Ye flow, ye feed: and am I vainly pining?
(_He turns the leaves impatiently, and perceives the sign of the
Earth-Spirit_.)
How otherwise upon me works this sign!
Thou, Spirit of the Earth, art nearer:
Even now my powers are loftier, clearer;
I glow, as drunk with new-made wine:
New strength and heart to meet the world incite me,
The woe of earth, the bliss of earth, invite me,
And though the shock of storms may smite me,
No crash of shipwreck shall have power to fright me!
Clouds gather over me—
The moon conceals her light—
The lamp’s extinguished!—
Mists rise,—red, angry rays are darting
Around my head!—There falls
A horror from the vaulted roof,
And seizes me!
I feel thy presence, Spirit I invoke!
Reveal thyself!
Ha! in my heart what rending stroke!
With new impulsion
My senses heave in this convulsion!
I feel thee draw my heart, absorb, exhaust me:
Thou must! thou must! and though my life it cost me!
(_He seizes the book, and mysteriously pronounces the sign of
the Spirit. A ruddy flame flashes: the Spirit appears in
the flame_.)
SPIRIT
Who calls me?
FAUST (_with averted head_)
Terrible to see!
SPIRIT
Me hast thou long with might attracted,
Long from my sphere thy food exacted,
And now—
FAUST
Woe! I endure not thee!
SPIRIT
To view me is thine aspiration,
My voice to hear, my countenance to see;
Thy powerful yearning moveth me,
Here am I!—what mean perturbation
Thee, superhuman, shakes? Thy soul’s high calling, where?
Where is the breast, which from itself a world did bear,
And shaped and cherished—which with joy expanded,
To be our peer, with us, the Spirits, banded?
Where art thou, Faust, whose voice has pierced to me,
Who towards me pressed with all thine energy?
_He_ art thou, who, my presence breathing, seeing,
Trembles through all the depths of being,
A writhing worm, a terror-stricken form?
FAUST
Thee, form of flame, shall I then fear?
Yes, I am Faust: I am thy peer!
SPIRIT
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,
Thus at Time’s humming loom ’tis my hand prepares
The garment of Life which the Deity wears!
FAUST
Thou, who around the wide world wendest,
Thou busy Spirit, how near I feel to thee!
SPIRIT
Thou’rt like the Spirit which thou comprehendest,
Not me!
(_Disappears_.)
FAUST (_overwhelmed_)
Not thee!
Whom then?
I, image of the Godhead!
Not even like thee!
(_A knock_).
O Death!—I know it—’tis my Famulus!
My fairest luck finds no fruition:
In all the fullness of my vision
The soulless sneak disturbs me thus!
(_Enter_ WAGNER_, in dressing-gown and night-cap, a lamp in
his hand. _FAUST_ turns impatiently_.)
WAGNER
Pardon, I heard your declamation;
’Twas sure an old Greek tragedy you read?
In such an art I crave some preparation,
Since now it stands one in good stead.
I’ve often heard it said, a preacher
Might learn, with a comedian for a teacher.
FAUST
Yes, when the priest comedian is by nature,
As haply now and then the case may be.
WAGNER
Ah, when one studies thus, a prisoned creature,
That scarce the world on holidays can see,—
Scarce through a glass, by rare occasion,
How shall one lead it by persuasion?
FAUST
You’ll ne’er attain it, save you know the feeling,
Save from the soul it rises clear,
Serene in primal strength, compelling
The hearts and minds of all who hear.
You sit forever gluing, patching;
You cook the scraps from others’ fare;
And from your heap of ashes hatching
A starveling flame, ye blow it bare!
Take children’s, monkeys’ gaze admiring,
If such your taste, and be content;
But ne’er from heart to heart you’ll speak inspiring,
Save your own heart is eloquent!
WAGNER
Yet through delivery orators succeed;
I feel that I am far behind, indeed.
FAUST
Seek thou the honest recompense!
Beware, a tinkling fool to be!
With little art, clear wit and sense
Suggest their own delivery;
And if thou’rt moved to speak in earnest,
What need, that after words thou yearnest?
Yes, your discourses, with their glittering show,
Where ye for men twist shredded thought like paper,
Are unrefreshing as the winds that blow
The rustling leaves through chill autumnal vapor!
WAGNER
Ah, God! but Art is long,
And Life, alas! is fleeting.
And oft, with zeal my critic-duties meeting,
In head and breast there’s something wrong.
How hard it is to compass the assistance
Whereby one rises to the source!
And, haply, ere one travels half the course
Must the poor devil quit existence.
FAUST
Is parchment, then, the holy fount before thee,
A draught wherefrom thy thirst forever slakes?
No true refreshment can restore thee,
Save what from thine own soul spontaneous breaks.
WAGNER
Pardon! a great delight is granted
When, in the spirit of the ages planted,
We mark how, ere our times, a sage has thought,
And then, how far his work, and grandly, we have brought.
FAUST