Faust: First Part Read online

  Him a mere glimmer of the light of heaven;

  He calls it Reason, and it only has increased

  His power to be beastlier than a beast.

  He is—if I may say so, sir—

  A little like the long-legged grasshopper,

  Which hops and flies, and sings its silly songs

  And flies, and drops straight back to grass where it belongs. 290

  Indeed, if only he would stick to grass!

  He pokes his nose in all the filth he finds, alas.

  THE LORD. And that is all you have to say?

  Must you complain each time you come my way?

  Is nothing right on your terrestrial scene?

  MEPHISTOPHELES. No, sir! The earth’s as bad as it has always been.

  I really feel quite sorry for mankind;

  Tormenting them myself’s no fun, I find.

  THE LORD. Do you know Faust?

  MEPHISTOPHELES. The doctor? Do you mean—

  THE LORD. My servant.

  MEPHISTOPHELES. Ah, he serves you well, indeed! 300

  He scorns earth’s fare and drinks celestial mead.

  Poor fool, his ferment drives him far!

  He half knows his own madness, I’ll be bound.

  He’d pillage heaven for its brightest star,

  And earth for every last delight that’s to be found;

  Not all that’s near nor all that’s far

  Can satisfy a heart so restless and profound.

  THE LORD. He serves me, but still serves me in confusion;

  I will soon lead him into clarity.

  A gardener knows, one day this young green tree 310

  Will blossom and bear fruit in rich profusion.

  MEPHISTOPHELES. If I may be his guide, you’ll lose him yet;

  I’ll subtly lead him my way, if you’ll let

  Me do so; shall we have a bet?

  THE LORD. He lives on earth, and while he is alive

  You have my leave for the attempt;

  Man errs, till he has ceased to strive.

  MEPHISTOPHELES. I thank your Grace; for dead men never tempt

  Me greatly, I confess. In this connection

  I like to see a full and fresh complexion; 320

  A corpse is an unwelcome visitor.

  The cat-and-mouse game is what I prefer.

  THE LORD. Well, go and try what you can do!

  Entice that spirit from its primal source,

  And lead him, if he’s not too hard for you

  To grasp, on your own downward course—

  And then, when you have failed, with shame confess:

  A good man, in his dark, bewildered stress,

  Well knows the path from which he should not stray.

  MEPHISTOPHELES. No doubt; it’s a short journey 330

  anyway.

  I’ll win my wager without much delay.

  And when I do, then, if I may,

  I’ll come back here and boast of my success.

  I’ll make him greedy for the dust, the way

  The serpent was,* my famous ancestress!

  THE LORD. Indeed, you may feel free to come and call.

  You are a type I never learnt to hate;

  Among the spirits who negate,

  The ironic scold* offends me least of all.

  Man is too apt to sink into mere satisfaction, 340

  A total standstill is his constant wish:

  Therefore your company, busily devilish,*

  Serves well to stimulate him into action.

  But you, the authentic sons of God, enfold

  With praise the abundant beauty of the world;

  Love, as you do, the eternal Process, which

  Is ever living and forever rich;

  Its vanishing phenomena will last,

  By your angelic thoughts made firm and fast.

  [The heavens close, the ARCHANGELS disperse.]

  MEPHISTOPHELES. I like to see him sometimes, and take 350

  care

  Not to fall out with him. It’s civil

  Of the old fellow, such a grand seigneur,

  To have these man-to-man talks with the Devil!

  THE FIRST PART OF THE TRAGEDY

  4. NIGHT*

  [A high-vaulted, narrow Gothic room.]

  FAUST [sitting restlessly at his desk]. [UR

  Well, that’s Philosophy I’ve read,*

  And Law and Medicine, and I fear

  Theology too, from A to Z;

  Hard studies all, that have cost me dear.

  And so I sit, poor silly man,

  No wiser now than when I began.

  They call me Professor and Doctor, forsooth, 360

  For misleading many an innocent youth

  These last ten years now, I suppose,*

  Pulling them to and fro by the nose;

  And I see all our search for knowledge is vain,

  And this burns my heart with bitter pain.

  I’ve more sense, to be sure, than the learned fools,

  The masters and pastors, the scribes from the schools;

  No scruples to plague me, no irksome doubt,

  No hell-fire or devil to worry about—

  Yet I take no pleasure in anything now; 370

  For I know I know nothing, I wonder how

  I can still keep up the pretence of teaching

  Or bettering mankind with my empty preaching.

  Can I even boast any worldly success?

  What fame or riches do I possess?

  No dog would put up with such an existence!

  And so I am seeking magic’s assistance,

  Calling on spirits and their might

  To show me many a secret sight,

  To relieve me of the wretched task 380

  Of telling things I ought rather to ask,

  To grant me a vision of Nature’s forces

  That bind the world, all its seeds and sources

  And innermost life—all this I shall see,

  And stop peddling in words that mean nothing to me.

  Oh sad full moon, my friend, why must

  You see me suffer? Look your last!

  Here at this desk so many a night

  I’ve watched and waited for your light

  To visit me again and shine 390

  Over this paper world of mine.

  Oh, take me to the hilltops, there

  To wander in the sweet moonlit air,

  By mountain caves, through fields to roam,

  Hovering with spirits in your gloam,

  Cleansed of book-learning’s fog and stew

  And healed by bathing in your dew!

  God, how these walls still cramp my soul,

  This cursèd, stifling prison-hole

  Where even heaven’s dear light must pass 400

  Dimly through panes of painted glass!

  Hemmed in by books to left and right

  Which worms have gnawed, which dust-layers choke,

  And round them all, to ceiling-height,

  This paper stained by candle-smoke,

  These glasses, boxes, instruments,

  All stuffed and cluttered anyhow,

  Ancestral junk—look at it now,

  Your world, this world your brain invents!

  And can you still ask why your heart 410

  Is pent and pining in your breast,

  Why you obscurely ache and smart,

  Robbed of all energy and zest?

  For here you sit, surrounded not

  By living Nature, not as when

  God made us, but by reek and rot

  And mouldering bones of beasts and men.

  Come, flee into the open land!

  And this great book of magic lore,

  By Nostradamus’* very hand, 420

  Shall be my guide, I’ll need no more;

  By it I’ll see the stars in course,

  And as great Nature rules my mind

  Discover the inner psychic force,

  T
he spirit speaking to its kind!

  This arid speculation’s vain,

  The sacred diagrams are clear:

  Spirits, you hover close—be plain

  And answer me, if you can hear!

  [He throws open the book and sees the Sign of the Macrocosm.*]

  Ha! as I look, what sudden ecstasy 430

  Floods all my senses, how I feel it flowing

  Through every vein, through every nerve in me,

  Life’s sacred joy and youth’s renewal glowing!

  Did not some god write these mysterious

  Signs, by whose might my soul is filled

  With peace again, my poor heart healed,

  And by whose secret impetus

  The powers of Nature all about me are revealed?

  Am I a god? Light fills my mind;

  In these pure lines and forms appear 440

  All Nature’s workings, to my inner sense made clear.

  That sage’s words at last I understand:

  ‘The spirit-world is open wide,

  Only your heart has closed and died;

  Come, earth-disciple, boldly lave

  Your bosom in the dawn’s red wave!’

  [He gazes at the sign.]

  How it all lives and moves and weaves

  Into a whole! Each part gives and receives,

  Angelic powers ascend and redescend

  And each to each their golden vessels lend; 450

  Fragrant with blessing, as on wings

  From heaven through the earth and through all things

  Their movement thrusts, and all in harmony it sings!

  How great a spectacle! But that, I fear,

  Is all it is. Oh, endless Nature, where

  Shall I embrace you? Where, you breasts that flow

  With life’s whole life? All earth and heaven hangs

  On you, who slake the thirsty pangs

  Of every heart—and must I languish vainly so?

  [He turns impatiently to another page of the book and sees the Sign of the Earth Spirit.*]

  How differently this sign affects me! You, 460

  Spirit of Earth, are closer to me,

  Fresh strength already pulses through me,

  I glow already from wine so new!

  Now, to go out into the world and bear

  The earth’s whole pain and joy, all this I dare;

  To fight with tempests anywhere,

  And in the grinding shipwreck stand and not despair!

  Clouds gather over me—

  The full moon hides its face—

  My lamp burns low! 470

  Mist rises—red fire flashes round

  My head, and from the vaulted roof

  A chill breathes down and strikes

  A shudder into me!

  Spirit I long to summon, now I feel

  You hovering round me, oh reveal

  Yourself! Ha, this pain tears my heart!

  A new sensation

  Stirs all my senses into perturbation!

  I am committed: you shall come, you must 480

  Appear to me, though you may strike me into dust!

  [He seizes the book and secretly pronounces the spirit’s sign. A red flame flashes, the spirit appears in the flame.]

  THE SPIRIT. Who is calling me?

  FAUST [turning away]. Ah, you are too terrible!

  THE SPIRIT. You have drawn me to you with mighty power,

  Sucked at my sphere for many an hour,

  And now—

  FAUST. Alas, this sight’s unbearable!

  THE SPIRIT. You groan and sigh to have me appear,

  To hear my voice, to behold my face:

  Your soul’s great plea compels me to this place

  And I have come! What pitiable fear

  Seizes you, Faust the superman! Where is the call 490

  Of your creative heart, that carried all

  The world and gave it birth, that shook with ecstasy,

  Swelling, upsurging to the heights where we,

  The spirits, live? Where are you, you whose song

  I heard besieging me so loud and strong?

  Can this be you? Now that my breath blows round you,

  In the depths of terror I have found you,

  Shrinking and writhing like a worm!

  FAUST. Am I to quail before you, shape of flame?

  It is I, Faust! you and I are the same! 500

  THE SPIRIT. In life like a flood, in deeds like a storm

  I surge to and fro,

  Up and down I flow!

  Birth and the grave

  An eternal wave,

  Turning, returning,

  A life ever burning:

  At Time’s whirring loom I work and play

  God’s living garment I weave and display.

  FAUST. Oh busy spirit! from end to end 510

  Of the world you roam: how close you are to me!

  THE SPIRIT. You match the spirit you can comprehend:

  I am not he. [It vanishes.]

  FAUST [collapsing]. Not you!

  Who is he then?

  I, made in God’s image

  And not even like you!

  [There is a knock at the door.]

  Oh, devil take him, it’s that dry-as-dust

  Toady, my famulus!* Why must

  He interrupt me and destroy 520

  This supreme hour of visionary joy?

  [Enter WAGNER in a nightgown and nightcap, carrying a lamp. Faust turns to him impatiently.]

  WAGNER. Excuse me, sir! I heard your declamation:

  You were reading a Greek tragedy, no doubt?

  That art is one of powerful persuasion

  These days; I’d like to learn what it’s about.

  I’ve often heard it said an actor might

  Give lessons to a parson.

  FAUST. You are right,

  If the parson himself’s an actor too;

  As sometimes is the case.

  WAGNER. Oh dear, what can one do,

  Sitting day after day among one’s books! 530

  The world’s so distant, and one never looks

  Even through a spyglass at it; so how can

  One learn to bring about the betterment of man?

  FAUST. Give up pursuing eloquence, unless

  You can speak as you feel! One’s very heart

  Must pour it out, with primal power address

  One’s hearers and compel them with an art

  Deeper than words. Clip and compile, and brew

  From the leavings of others your ragout

  Of rhetoric, pump from your embers 540

  A few poor sparks that nobody remembers!

  Children will gape and fools admire,

  If that’s the audience to which you aspire.

  But what can blend all hearts into a whole?

  Only the language of the soul.

  WAGNER. But one must know how to deliver a tirade.

  I fear my training still is uncompleted.

  FAUST. Why don’t you learn to ply an honest trade?

  Why be a fool with tinkling bells?

  Stick to right thinking and sound sense, it tells 550

  Its own tale, little artifice is needed;

  If you have something serious to say,

  Drop the pursuit of words! This play

  Of dazzling oratory, this paper decoration

  You fiddle with and offer to the world—

  Why, the dry leaves in autumn, whirled

  About by foggy winds, carry more inspiration!

  WAGNER. Alas, our life is short,

  And art is long, they say!

  My scholarly pursuits, how sore they weigh 560

  Upon my heart and mind! One ought

  To learn the means of mounting to the sources,

  Yet even this task almost passes my resources;

  For we poor devils, by the time we’ve got

  Less than halfway, we die, as like as not.

  FAUST. A m
anuscript—is that the sacred spring

  That stills one’s thirst for evermore?

  Refreshment! it’s your own soul that must pour

  It through you, if it’s to be anything.

  WAGNER. Excuse me, but it’s very pleasant 570

  Studying epochs other than the present,

  Entering their spirit, reading what they say,

  And seeing how much wiser we have grown today.

  FAUST. Oh yes indeed, a wisdom most sublime!—

  My friend, the spirit of an earlier time,

  To us it is a seven-sealed mystery;

  And what you learned gentleman would call

  Its spirit, is its image, that is all,

  Reflected in your own mind’s history.

  And what a sight it often is! Enough 580

  To run a mile from at first glance. A vast

  Old rubbish-dump, an attic of the past,

  At best a royal tragedy—bombastic stuff

  Full of old saws, most edifying for us,

  The strutting speeches of a puppet-chorus!

  WAGNER. But the great world! the heart and mind of man!

  We all seek what enlightenment we can.

  FAUST. Ah yes, we say ‘enlightenment’, forsooth!

  Which of us dares to call things by their names?

  Those few who had some knowledge of the truth, 590

  Whose full heart’s rashness drove them to disclose

  Their passion and their vision to the mob, all those

  Died nailed to crosses or consigned to flames.

  You must excuse me, friend, the night’s half through.

  We shall speak further on the next occasion.

  WAGNER. I’d stay awake all night, and gladly too,

  Enjoying such a learned conversation.

  Tomorrow morning, being Easter Day, [F.I.

  I’ll ask you some more questions, if I may.

  I’ve studied now for years with zeal and zest; 600

  Already I know much, I must know all the rest. [Exit.]

  FAUST. Why does he not despair? A mind so void [UR

  And blinkered, so benighted and earthbound!

  Greedy for gold, he scratches in the ground,

  And when he finds some worms he’s overjoyed.

  Why, when those spirit-voices filled the air* [F.I.

  About me, must the speech of such a man

  Intrude? And yet for once I can

  Thank you, poor mortal wretch: for when despair

  Was close to me and madness had assailed

  My mind, when like a dwarf I seemed to shrink

  Before that giant vision, and I quailed,

  Dwindling to nothingness—you snatched me from the brink.

  I, God’s own image! Ah, how close it shone,

  The mirror of eternal verity!

  I fed upon its light and clarity

  Within myself, all mortal limits gone,