บทที่ บทที่ 1 · NIGHT (_Faust’s Monologue_)

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]

FIRST PART OF THE TRAGEDY

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, f

SCENE 2.