第 二 章 · BEFORE THE CITY-GATE

ree 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

O yes, up to the stars at last!

Listen, my friend: the ages that are past

Are now a book with seven seals protected:

What you the Spirit of the Ages call

Is nothing but the spirit of you all,

Wherein the Ages are reflected.

So, oftentimes, you miserably mar it!

At the first glance who sees it runs away.

An offal-barrel and a lumber-garret,

Or, at the best, a Punch-and-Judy play,

With maxims most pragmatical and hitting,

As in the mouths of puppets are befitting!

WAGNER

But then, the world—the human heart and brain!

Of these one covets some slight apprehension.

FAUST

Yes, of the kind which men attain!

Who dares the child’s true name in public mention?

The few, who thereof something really learned,

Unwisely frank, with hearts that spurned concealing,

And to the mob laid bare each thought and feeling,

Have evermore been crucified and burned.

I pray you, Friend, ’tis now the dead of night;

Our converse here must be suspended.

WAGNER

I would have shared your watches with delight,

That so our learned talk might be extended.

To-morrow, though, I’ll ask, in Easter leisure,

This and the other question, at your pleasure.

Mo

SCENE 3.