Faust

DEDICATION

You hovering forms, once more you're coming near,
You who long since passed by my clouded vision.
Should I attempt this time to hold you here?
And is my heart still drawn to that illusion?
You crowd on me! Then be a ruling intercession;
You rise up all round me from mist and haze;
I'm stirred within, as back in youthful days
By the magic breath, surrounding your procession.

You bring with you the scenes of joyful times,
And many long-loved shades rise in my view;
And like an old, half-fading tale, I find
First love and friendship both rise up with you.
My pain grows new, reiterating grief
On the labyrinthine, erring course of life,
And names the good, whom cheated of fair hours
By fortune, have all vanished from me now.

They do not hear the songs that follow on,
Those souls to whom I sang my first. Today
The friendly troop is long dispersed and gone;
First echoing response has died away.
My song now rings out for an unknown throng,
Their very cheers just bring my heart dismay;
Of those my song once pleased, all those not dead
Are distant, scattered through the world instead.

I'm seized by long-unwonted yearning here,
For that serene and earnest spirit-land;
My moving song floats murmuring, like clear
Aeolian harp strings touched by the wind's light hand.
I tremble, tear is following on tear,
My stern, strict heart grows soft. From where I stand,
What I possess seems far away from me,
And what has vanished becomes reality.

PRELUDE IN THE THEATRE

Director, Theatre Poet, Comic Actor

DIRECTOR

You both who often stood by me
In trials of need and trouble's sting,
What hope have you our venturing
Will go down well in Germany?
I really wish to please the multitude,
Especially since they live, live and let live;
The posts are in, the seats are struck up too,
And each awaits a feast from what we give.
They sit already, with their eyebrows raised,
Relaxed there now, they'd like to be amazed.
I know what reconciles the people, yet
I've never been in such a tricky spot;
I know they're not accustomed to the best;
Although it's true they've read a frightful lot.
How shall we do it so all's fresh and new,
Significant and yet so pleasing too?
For frankly I like seeing crowds stream in,
Surge toward our booth, and press into the place,
With powerful, repeated labouring,
On past the narrow portal way of grace.
In bright day, even earlier than four,
Up to the ticket box they fight and kick,
And as for bread, in famine, at the backer's door,
To get a ticket nearly break a neck.
Only the poet works this wonder way
On many different folk; friend, do it today!

POET

Don't speak of that most motley mass to me,
For at the very sight our spirits fly.
Keep surging crowds concealed; that contrary
Of our will leads us to the whirlpool's eye.
No, lead me to a corner of calm heaven,
The only place a poet's joy will blossom,
Where love and friendship nurture and create,
With godlike hand, the blessings on the heart.
What's issued from our breast's own deeper powers,
And shyly stammered on our lips in quiet,
A failure or perhaps success of ours;
Is swallowed up by one wild moment's might.
It often goes for years before it flowers,
Appearing in its finished form. The light
Of glitter's born but for the moment's stages,
What genuine's preserved for coming ages.

COMIC ACTOR

Don't give that coming ages stuff to me.
Look, if I talked about posterity,
Who'd give the present world its fun?
It wants it and it'll get it too.
The presence of a good, stout lad, look you,
Is something too, when all is done.
He who knows how to give with cosy ease
Won't be embittered by the people's whims;
He wants a great, big circle please,
So he is surer of their grins;
Be it but good, your best in perfect fashion,
Let's have imagination with all its chorus,
The understanding, reason, feeling, passion-
But mind! don't leave out folly for us!

DIRECTOR

Have plenty happening especially.
One comes to look, and one loves most to see.
Spin out so many things before their eyes
That all the audience can gape amazed;
You'll win a wide appeal, that treasured prize,
And you'll be loved and highly praised.
One only masters mass by mass. They pick
Whatever suits each one, eventually.
Bring much, bring many something, that's the trick;
Then fully satisfied, they're on their way.
You give a piece, let it in pieces be.
You'll prosper with a potpourri.
It's easy to think up and easy to present.
What use would be the whole that you'd invent?
It's picked to pieces by the public anyway.

POET

You do not feel how awful such a trade can be!
How little pure artists are pleased by such!
I note, fine Mister Blotchery,
Already that's your standard touch.

DIRECTOR

Well, such reproaches do not injure me:
Men thinking to work effectively
Must hold the best tools for the task.
Recall you're splitting soft wood. Look, I ask,
Just see for whom is it you write?
Sheer boredom drives one out tonight,
One's full from overflowing food that day,
And what's the worst yet, many might
Have come from reading what the papers say.
Preoccupied, as to a masquerade, they press,
Each winged by merest curiosity;
The ladies show themselves and all their get-up, thus
Performing for us here for free.
What do you dream on your poetic height?
Why do full houses gladden you?
Peer closely at your patrons here tonight.
Half cold, half crude. When our play's through,
One hopes for card play and yet another chooses
A wild night on a wench's breast. So please explain:
Why do you plague the gracious muses,
You poor, mad fools, for such an aim?
I tell you give us more and always, always more,
And you will never miss the bull's eye then,
Just try to mystify all men,
To satisfy them's hard, that's sure-
What's got you now? Creative ecstasy or pain?

POET

Push off and find yourself another slave!
For should a poet see what nature gave,
His highest right, the human right, be bent
To sinful trifling-away on your behalf?
How does he sway all of these hearts?
How does he conquer every element?
Is it not the harmony welling from his breast that draws
The world back to its heart's own core?
And if the thread of Nature, ever-long,
Is forced on the impassive-turning spindle,
If crowds, discordant, of all beings ring
Through one another, a tiresome jangle,
Who parts the stream of uniform creation,
So livingly, in rhythmic flow? Who's he
Who calls each thing to universal consecration
And makes it pulse in splendid harmony?
Who lets the storm rage in a passion's power?
Who fills the evening glow with earnest thoughts?
And who will strew each beautiful, spring flower
Upon the path his loved one walks?
Who plaits the plain, green leaves into a wreath,
A crown, for merit of all sorts to show it?
Who binds and guards Olympus from beneath?
The power of man revealed within the poet.

COMIC ACTOR

Then use these fine, fair powers to aid
And carry out your poet's trade
Just like a love affair is carried out.
By chance you're near; you're moved; you hang about;
And bit by bit love weaves its tangle.
Though happiness first grows, soon quarrels strangle
Your early bliss and then love's pains advance.
And so, before you know it, it's a real romance.
Let's have our play this way as well!
Just dip into full, human life, that's all.
Though lived by all, it's only known by few;
Wherever you grab hold, it interests you.
Kaleidoscopic scenes with little clarity,
Much error, a spark of truth and reality-
Yes, that's the way the best drink's brewed,
That makes the whole world feel refreshed, renewed.
For then the fairest flower of the youth
Come see the play and hear the revelation.
Then every tender soul imbibes, in truth,
Melancholy nourishment from your creation;
For as now this, now that emotion's stirred,
Each sees his inner feelings in your words.
The young as still prepared to laugh and weep all night,
They still like verve, enjoy illusion on the stage;
For those who've finished growing, nothing's right;
The grateful ones are still of growing age.

POET

Then give to me the times once more
When I myself was still becoming,
When crowding songs, new-born, would pour
As from an ever-flowing spring.
A mist still veiled the world from me.
A bud still promised miracle.
I plucked the thousand flowers which filled
All valleys with such rich profusion.
I'd nothing, yet enough for me:
The urge for truth, the joy of illusion.
Give me those drives yet unrestrained,
The deep and anguished happiness,
The force of hate, love's power and bliss,
Oh, give me back my youth again!

COMIC ACTOR

But youth, my good friend, is perhaps what's needed most
When foes beset you in a fight,
When on your neck a loving host
Of women hang in sheer delight;
When in fast race, afar you glance
The hard-earned goal, the wreath's in view;
When after wild and whirling dance
You feast and drink whole nights. But you
We need to pluck familiar tone
Upon the strings with fiery grace,
With beautiful digressions roam,
Concluding at your chosen place.
And that's your role, old sirs, today,
For we don't venerate you any less,
For age won't make us childish, as some say,
It finds what is still truly child in us.

DIRECTOR

Enough exchange of chat and banter;
Let's finally see deeds. Each one
Turns compliments upon the other,
When something useful could be done.
What use is talk of moods? Refrain,
And you'll never find the mood inspired.
Now if you're poets, as you claim,
Command the poetry desired.
Don't hesitate to start my brew.
What's not done now's not done tomorrow too.
We mustn't miss a single day,
The resolute will bravely grasp
"What-can-be" by the forelock right away;
Then they'll not let it slip; but they
Will do more work because they must.

You know that on our German stage
Each one tries what he likes, feel free.
And so, for me today don't save
On stage effects and scenery.
So use the great and little heaven's light,
Squander the stars; there's no lack at all
Of water, fire, rocky walls
And birds and beasts for your delight.
So pace out on the narrow house of board
All that creation can afford
And with deliberate speed, range well
From heaven through the world to hell.

PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN

THE LORD. THE HEAVENLY HOST. LATER
MEPHISTOPHELES.
THREE ARCHANGELS COME FORWARD

RAPHAEL

In ways of old the sun sounds forth,
In brother spheres' contesting song,
Completing his prewritten course
With thunder as he moves along.
His aspect gives the angels might,
Though none may fathom his foundation:
Works, great beyond thought's grasp, are bright
As on the first day of creation.

GABRIEL

And swiftly, swift beyond thought's grasping,
Earth's splendour spins and changes bright
Of paradise's shine, with each turn's passing,
To deep and shudder-filled, dark night.
And in broad streams up-foams the ocean
Upon the rocks' deep-founded base;
And rock and sea sweep on in motion:
In planets' swift, eternal race.

MICHAEL

And rival tempests rage and sound
From land to sea, from sea to land;
In fury form a chain, a band
Of deepest working all around.
There flashing desolations sear
The path before the thunder play;
Yet Lord, Your messengers revere
The gentle changes of Your day.

ALL THREE

This aspect gives the angels might,
While none may fathom Your foundation.
And all of Your high works are bright
As on the first day of creation.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Since You, O Lord, once again draw near
To ask how things are going with my sort;
And since You used to like to see me, here
Am I as well, amongst Your household court.
Please pardon me, but I can't use this lofty style,
Even if all this circle mock and scoff;
My pathos surely would just make You laugh,
Had You not sworn off laughing this long while.
I know of nothing to say of sun and worlds,
I only see men plague themselves,
The world's small god still bears the same stamp- that's to say,
As strange and odd as on creation's earliest day.
He'd lead a somewhat better life
If You'd withheld resemblance of the heaven's light;
He calls it "reason"; merely using this
To be more bestial than any beast.
It seems, please pardon if it's impolite,
That his is that long-legged locust's plight,
That tries to fly yet springs along
And in the grasses sings the same, old song.
Yet would he only lie within the grasses!
He pokes his nose in any muck he passes!

THE LORD

You've nothing further but this strain?
You come but ever to complain?
Is nothing on earth ever right by you?

MEPHISTOPHELES

No, Lord! I find it there, as ever, bad right through.
I feel so saddened by the wretched lives of men,
That even I am loath to torment them.

THE LORD

Do you know Faust?

MEPHISTOPHELES

The doctor?

THE LORD

My servant.

MEPHISTOPHELES

In truth, his way of serving's strange enough!
The madcap's food and drink's not earthly stuff.
His ferment urges him afar.
He's half-aware of his own craziness;
From heaven he demands the highest stars
And from the earth all highest happiness;
Yet nothing, from both near and far,
Can calm his deeply troubled breast.

THE LORD

If he but serves Me now confusedly,
Soon I shall lead him into clarity.
The gardener knows, though saplings green appear,
That flower and fruit will grace some future year.
MEPHISTOPHELES

What will you bet? You'll still lose him, I say,
As long as I may have Your leave
To lead him gently down my way.

THE LORD

As long as he's on earth alive,
You're not forbidden to go ahead.
The human errs as long as it strives.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Thanks there. For never towards the dead
Have I a bias, so to speak.
For most of all I love the full, fresh cheek.
If corpses call, I'm not at home that day:
A cat upon a mouse, that's how I play.

THE LORD

Then fine. Be it permitted now.
So draw his spirit from its primal source;
And lead, if you can grip him with your power,
Away upon your downward course;
Then stand ashamed when you must still allow
A good man, with a dim, impulsive force,
Is well aware of the right course.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Right. Good. And little time I'll take.
No fear I'll lose this bet. And for my sake
If I attain my aim, my stake,
You'll let my heart fill with triumphant might.
Dust he'll devour and with delight,
Just like my cousin, the famous snake.

THE LORD

There too you may appear as free;
Your type has never had My hate.
Of all the spirits that deny, for Me
The roguish knave is least of weight.
Man's doing all too easily can dream;
He soon loves unconditional rest. Therefore
I'm pleased to companion him with one who's sure
To work and irritate and create as fiend.

But you, true sons of God, delight
In rich and living beauty's sight.
May Coming-To-Being, that ever works and lives,
Encompass you with gracious bounds of Love;
And what's afloat in shimmering sheen-creation
Hold fast with lasting contemplation.

THE HEAVENS CLOSE, THE ARCHANGELS SEPARATE

MEPHISTOPHELES (ALONE)

I like to see the Old One from time to time;
And take pains not to break with Him. From the level
Of such a Great Lord, it is rather fine
To speak so humanly with the very devil.

NIGHT

A HIGH-VAULTED, NARROW GOTHIC CHAMBER. A
RESTLESS FAUST IS SEATED IN HIS ARMCHAIR AT HIS
DESK

FAUST

Hard have I studied, ah!, philosophy,
And law and medicine as well,
And, sad to say, theology,
Right through with such a fiery zeal.
Yet now I stand, a poor fool, no more,
No keener than I was before.
Known as Master, even Doctor now,
Up and down, across, around,
For a decade I have drawn
My pupils by the nose- and now I've found,
And now I see, we can know nothing true!
That nearly burns my heart right through.
It's true, I'm smarter than the nitwit screechers,
Doctors and Masters, clerks and preachers.
I'm plagued by neither doubt nor scruple,
And I fear neither hell nor devil-
And so all joy's deserted me, just so;
I don't pretend I know what's right to know,
Nor imagine that I could teach what could
Better mankind, convert it to good.
As well I've neither goods nor gold,
Nor honour, nor the glory of the world;
No dog would endure this life any more!
So I have given time to magic's lore,
To see, through spirit strength and speech,
If many secrets come in reach.
With bitter sweat then I won't go
To talk of things I do not know.
Then I'll know what, at this world's heart,
Is binding in its inmost part,
And see the seminal, the creative core,
And rummage round in words no more.

O that you looked, full-shining moon,
For the last time on my pain and gloom.
For I, so many midnights here,
Have held watch at this desk and chair;
Then over a book and paper sea,
Forlorn, old friend, you shone on me.
Could I but go, in your loved light,
To wander on a mountain height,
To hover with spirits round mountain caves,
Float over fields in your twilight hue,
Be freed from fumes of knowledge, bathe
Myself to health there in your dew!

Am I still stuck within this prison cell?
This damnable, hemmed-in hole in the wall,
Where even heaven's lovely light
Breaks troubled through the painted panes' dim height.
Boxed in by book piles here, all spread
With dust, where gnawing worms have been;
Books reach the vaults up overhead,
With smoke-stained papers stuck between.
Stacked around are glass, and box, and case,
And instruments full-crammed in too;
The junk of generations blocks my view-
This is your world! call this a world, this place!

Do you still ask why should your heart
Feel fearful, bound within your breast?
Why pain, pain unexplained, up-starts
To check all stirrings of life and zest?
Instead of living Nature's bound,
Where God made man to be, my home
Has only fumes and mould around
Beast skeletons and dead men's bones.

Up! Flee! out to the far, wide land.
This book of mystery, by my side,
In Nostrodamus' own hand,
Will it not be sufficient guide?
Then you'll discern star paths and grasp,
When Nature takes the teacher's task,
And soul-force rises in you, how
One spirit speaks to another's power.
In vain does dry perception try
To make the sacred symbols clear:
You silent spirits, you're hovering by;
Now answer me, if you can hear.

HE OPENS THE BOOK AND GLIMPSES THE SIGN OF THE
MACROCOSM

Oh, at this sight what sudden rapture flows
At once through all my senses. Now a flame
Of youthful, sacred bliss of life new-glows
And runs red-hot through every nerve and vein.
Was it a god who drew this diagram I see,
Which stills my inner tumult, fills
My poor heart with felicity,
And, with mysterious force, reveals
The Power of Nature all around me here?
Am I a god? All grows so clear.
Within these pure lines the whole
Of Nature's working lies before my soul.
Now first I know what sages say:
"The spirit world's not barred away,
Your sense is shut, your heart is dead;
Arise disciple, do not dismay,
Go bathe your breast in dawn's fine red."

HE CONTEMPLATES THE SIGN

How all weave in the whole to live
And through the others work and give.
How heaven's powers pass up and down
And hand the golden buckets on.
With blessing-scented winging,
They press from heaven through earth's realm,
All through the All harmoniously ringing!

What pageantry! Yet only that! Oh, true
And endless Nature, where shall I grasp you?
Where are your breasts? O, wells of all life's flame,
You gush, you nourish. Is my pining vain?

HE TURNS THE BOOK IMPATIENTLY AND PERCEIVES THE
SIGN OF THE EARTH SPIRIT

How different is the working of this sign!
Earth spirit, you're nearer to me now,
I feel my power increase. O, how
I glow as if I drank new wine;
I feel the courage to venture out,
Endure earth's joy and sorrow, be without
A fear, though storm were all about,
Amidst a shipwreck's savage crash and shout.
Clouds gather over me-
The moon conceals its light-
The lamp's extinguished!
Now mists arise- and red rays spark
Around my head- a shudder
Comes floating from the vaulted ceiling
And seizes me!
I feel you hover round, invoked spirit form.
Reveal yourself!
Ah, how my heart is torn.
New feelings make
All of my senses quake.
I feel my heart surrendering to you.
Though it cost my life, you must, you must appear!

HE SEIZES THE BOOK AND MYSTERIOUSLY PRONOUNCES
THE SIGN OF THE SPIRIT. A RED FLAME FLASHES UP, THE
SPIRIT WITHIN IT.

SPIRIT

Who calls me?

FAUST (TURNING AWAY)

Terrifying view!

SPIRIT

Now powerfully you've drawn me here,
You've long been nourished in my sphere,
And now. . .

FAUST

Oh woe, I can't stand up to you!

SPIRIT

And breathlessly you begged to see me here,
To hear my voice, to see my face;
Your powerful plea has won my grace,
Here I am- and what puerile fear
Engulfs the superman! Where is your soul-sent call?
Where is the breast that bore and nursed a world
Within itself, that, with a trembling delight,
Puffed up as though to equal spirits' might?
And are you Faust, whose voice rang out to me,
He, who enveloped in my breath is fleeing,
Ashake in all the depths of being,
A scared, retreating, writhing worm?

FAUST

Shall I give way to you, you form of flame?
I am, am Faust, like you, the same.

SPIRIT

In the floods of life, in all deed's vast storm,
Up and down my wave
Weaves its to-and-fro motion.
With birth and grave,
An eternal ocean,
A changing weaving,
A glowing living,
I create in the rushing, loud loom of all time,
Make the mantle that livingly clothes the divine.

FAUST

You, who roam the world from end to end,
You active spirit, how near I feel to you!

SPIRIT

You're like the spirit you comprehend,
Not me!

VANISHES

FAUST (OVERWHELMED)

Not you?
Then who?
I, image of the Godhead,
Not the same as you!

A KNOCK

O death! I know it- it's my famulus-
The fairest fortune's brought
To nothing. Oh, that this vision's fullness ought
To be disturbed by that dry prowler's dust.

WAGNER IN NIGHTGOWN AND NIGHTCAP ENTERS, A
LAMP IN HIS HAND
FAUST TURNS UNWILLINGLY

WAGNER

Excuse me, I heard you declaim a part:
You know a Grecian tragic play?
I feel I'd somewhat profit from this art,
For it achieves so much today.
I've often heard it said a preacher
Could learn much with an actor as his teacher.

FAUST

Yes; if the preacher is a ham,
And truly, sometimes it turns out that way.

WAGNER

Ah! banished in this museum, as I am,
I see the world but on a holiday,
As through a spyglass: far from me-
How can I learn to speak persuasively?

FAUST

Feel it, or you won't catch reality;
If speech can't flow out from your soul,
With all the ease of a primal might,
To take all hearers in your control.
Keep sitting! Glue together names,
Brew a stew from another's feast;
And blow some miserable flames
From out of your ash heap. At least
You will amaze the child and ape,
Be it to your taste to take that part-
A bridge from heart to hearts you'll not create
If words don't come from your own heart.

WAGNER

Successful speech is all delivery;
And yet, I feel, that's still quite far from me.

FAUST

Seek only honest recompense.
Don't be like some bell-tinkling fool,
For understanding and good sense
Require little art to rule.
If you speak earnestly isn't it absurd
To spend time hunting for a word?
Yes, for your speeches that glitter so,
That give to men curled snippets, bits which please,
Are unrefreshing, mist-born winds which blow
And rustle, in the autumn, through dry leaves.

WAGNER

Oh God! though art is long
This life of ours is short.
And often in my heart and head, through strong
And critical striving, I feel fear-fraught.
How hard it is to gain the means today
To reach that wellspring up on high.
Before he's halfway on the way
A poor devil finds it's time to die.

FAUST

Is parchment then, the sacred, living spring,
One drink of which will still your thirst forever?
You'll win no comfort from a thing
Which does not well from your own soul's endeavour.

WAGNER

Pardon! But it gives great satisfaction
To see the spirits of the past in action;
To comprehend how wise men thought before our age;
How brilliantly we brought all to a further stage.

FAUST

Yes, right up to the stars on high.
You know, my friend, for us the times gone by
Are like a book with seven seals.
What's cast as the spirit of past ages
Is really the spirit of those men whose pages
Reflect just what our own age feels.
It's often truly a crying shame.
One glimpse of it will make you run away.
A rubbish bin, a lumber room, a drain-
At best it's but a blood and thunder play,
With excellent, pragmatic platitudes:
Most suitable for puppet interludes.

WAGNER

What of the world? Of mankind's heart and mind?
To know of these is everybody's aim.

FAUST

With what's called knowing! But who's inclined
To call the child by its right name?
Those few, who knew of something on that side,
Those fool enough, not guarding their full hearts, revealing,
To the rabble, their insight and their feeling,
They always have been burnt and crucified.
But please, my friend, it is late in the night,
And we must say, for now, adieu.

WAGNER

I'd like to stay forever that I might
Keep talking of such learned things with you.
Tomorrow's first of Easter holiday.
Then I shall ask more, if I may.
I've studied zealously, both great and small;
I know much, but I want to know it all.

HE EXITS

FAUST (ALONE)

How not to lose mind's hope he ever turns
Back towards all shallow triviality.
With greedy hands he grubs for gems, yet he
Is happy when he finds earth-loving worms.

Dare such a human voice resound here too,
Where fullness of the spirits was surrounding me?
And yet this time for this my thanks to you,
You poorest son of clay's mortality.
You tore me back from my distracted state,
Which would have soon destroyed my reason.
Oh! that vision was so vast, so great,
I felt myself quite dwarfed by its derision.

Made in God's image, I thought myself to be
Close to eternal truth's reflected sight,
Imbibing heaven's clarity and light,
And stripped of mere mortality.
I, more than Cherub, I, whose force flows free
Through veins of Nature; whose creative will
Tastes of god-life; or so, presentiment-full,
I had presumed- how now I have to pay!
One thunder word has swept me right away.

I cannot dare compare with you; and though
I had the power to draw you near,
I had no power to hold you here.
In that one moment's bliss-filled glow,
I felt myself so small, so great;
Then cruelly you thrust me low,
Back to man's vague, uncertain fate.
Who'll teach me now? What shall I shun?
Alas, our deeds themselves, as much as every sorrow,
Impede our path through life, now and tomorrow.

The brightest, also what the spirit thought,
Draws ever strange and stranger stuff together;
When we succeed with this world's good, what's better
Is deemed delusion and mere fraud.
The finer, glorious feelings, those that gave us life,
Grow torpid in the crush of earthly strife.

Though once Imagination, with daring flights,
All filled with hope, spread out towards the eternal,
A small space is enough now when delights,
One after another, founder in time's whirlpool.
Deep in the heart's a nest where Care has lain
And there can work with secret pain.
It stirs uneasily, disturbing joy and rest.
It ever dons new masks as it sees best;
It might seem wife and child, or house and homely cost,
Flame, water, poison, dagger's steel.
You quake at blows you never feel,
And you must ever weep for what you've never lost.

I'm not godlike! So deep's the feeling that I must
Admit I'm like the worms that tunnel dust;
That while they live and feed in dusty joy,
The wanderer's footsteps bury and destroy.

Is it not dust that's hemming me in here,
From this high wall, its hundred pigeon-holes;
The trash, the trinkets by the thousand-fold,
Oppressive in this mothy sphere?
Shall I find here that which I lack?
Perhaps I'll read a thousand books to glean
Men overall stretch on the self-made rack,
That here and there a happy one has been?
You hollow skull, why do you grin at me,
Except your brain was once confused like mine,
Sought carefree day and in the heavy dusk's decline,
With lust for truth, got lost most grievously?
These instruments, they surely mock at me,
With wheel and cog and cylinder and catch.
I stood before the gate, you were my key,
But though your wards are complex, they can't lift the latch.
For even in bright day, still filled
With mystery is Nature- she has willed
To not be robbed of her rare veil. What she
Won't show your spirit will not be
Wrenched from her with such instruments.
And all these things, old implements
I've never used, all this old gear,
You're only here because my father used this mess.
You ancient scroll, you've been smoke-browning here,
As long as this dim lamp has smouldered at this desk.
Far better had I wasted my small wares
Than sweat beneath the burden of this littleness!
What you inherit from forefathers' care
You need to earn in order to possess.
What's not used is a heavy weight to bear.
Just what the moment makes, that's all that's any use.

Why does that place fix fast my sight?
That flask, is it a magnet for my eyes' delight?
Why am I flooded with a lovely light,
Like gliding moonshine round us in a forest's night?

I greet you now, unique and graceful phial;
With reverence I fetch you down awhile.
I praise man's art and wit in you. O you
Embodiment of gracious slumber juices,
Where extracts of all deadly forces brew,
Come show your favour for your master's uses!
I see you and my pain is softened,
I grasp you and my striving's lessened,
The spirit's flood tide slowly ebbs away,
Through this I'm led out towards high seas, I greet
The mirroring flood that shimmers at my feet,
I'm lured towards new shores by new-born day.

A fire chariot floats down towards me,
Light-winged! I feel prepared to push on through
The ether on new paths- to rise up to
New spheres of pure activity.
This level of high life; divine, new bliss-
Do you, first just a worm, deserve all this?
Yet, resolutely turn your back upon
The living light of earth's all-gracious sun!
And boldly force the dreaded portal's gate
That everyone would sneak on by. For now
It is the time through deeds to demonstrate
Man's dignity does not yield to bright god heights' power,
And will not quake before that darkened cave,
Where fancy damns itself to its own tormenting,
As one strives towards that passage, not relenting,
Though round its narrow mouth all hell's ablaze;
And choose this step with good cheer, even if
It were to risk a flowing into nothingness.

Oh come on down, oh, pure crystal glass,
Out of your ancient, dusty case at last.
For ages now I haven't thought of you.
You gleamed at my forefather's joyous feasts
And cheered the serious-minded guests
When one would toast the other with your brew.
From your many pictures in rich, artful splendour,
Rhymed explanation was the drinker's task,
Or draining in one drink the hollow flask;
They bring back nights of youth now in such number;
I shall not pass you to a neighbour now,
I won't display my wit upon your art's fine power.
Here is a drink most swift-intoxicating;
A brown juice fills it to the brim. Yet still
I'm ready, with all my soul I will
Now take this last, my final fill,
As festive, lofty greeting to the morning's breaking.

HE SETS THE GLASS TO HIS LIPS. BELLS CHIMING AND
CHORAL SINGING

CHORUS OF ANGELS

Christ has ascended!
Mortals all happiness
On whom invidious,
Passed-down, insidious,
Binding faults tended.

FAUST

What deep, deep hum, what bright tone, draws and claims
The glass here from my lips with such a power?
Already do these muted chimes proclaim
The Easter festival's first solemn hour?
Do you already sing, you choirs, the song of comfort's might,
Once ringing from angel's lips around the grave's cold night,
To pledge a new-born covenant's power?

CHORUS OF WOMEN

With spices we brought
We tended Him so,
We faithful ones thought
How to lay Him below;
Linens to bind
Around Him with care;
Ah! and we find
Christ no more here.

CHORUS OF ANGELS

Christ has ascended!
Blessed the One loving us,
Who the most-troubling but
Healing and strenuous
Test took unbended.

FAUST

Why do you seek, you mighty and mild,
Celestial tones, seek me in dust?
Ring out where softer men might be beguiled.
I hear your message: all I lack is faith and trust.
And miracle is faith's own dearest child.
I dare not strive up towards those spheres,
Which ring out with gracious tidings here,
And yet accustomed to this sound from my youth on,
Even now it calls me back into life's realm.
In early life the loving kiss of heaven
Would touch me in the holy Sabbath stillness;
So full of promise were the bell tones in their fullness,
And with a fervent joy my prayer was given.
Then inconceivably sweet yearning
Drove me through forest and through field;
Amid my tears, by thousands burning,
I felt in me a world unfurled.
This song proclaimed, announced youth's lively games,
Spring festival's free joy. I'm kept,
Remembering that childlike feeling here again,
From taking that last earnest step.
Ring on, sweet heaven's song, now as before,
My tears rise up, the earth holds me once more!

CHORUS OF DISCIPLES

If the grave-given One's
Raised up already,
If the high, living One's
Risen in glory,
If, in becoming's gladness,
He's near creating's joy;
Ah! on earth's breast we suffer,
We are still bound to sadness.
Leaving His own
Languishing for Him;
Ah! we bemoan,
Master, Your fortune!

CHORUS OF ANGELS

Christ has ascended
From the lap of corruption;
Cast off your bands and
Joy in your freedom!
Praise Him with deeds most fair,
Showing your love and care,
Feeding your brothers there,
Teaching out everywhere,
Promising bliss to share,
Your own true Master's near,
For you He's here!
BEFORE THE GATE

PEOPLE OF ALL SORTS OUT FOR A WALK

SEVERAL APPRENTICES

Why do you go that way?

OTHERS

We're off to the "Hunter's Lodge" today.

THE FIRST

But we would rather wander to the mill.

AN APPRENTICE

The "River Inn's" the place, take my advice.

A SECOND

The path to it is not so nice.

THE OTHERS

What'll you do then?

A THIRD

Go where the others will.

A FOURTH

Come up to "Burgdorf." You may be sure that you
Will find the finest girls, the best beer too,
And brawls of the best sort to spare.

A FIFTH

You overblown buffoon: does your hide
Itch, for a third time to be tried?
That place gives me the creeps. I won't go there.

SERVING GIRL

No! I'm returning to the town below.

ANOTHER

We'll find him by the poplars, I am sure.

THE FIRST

That's nothing great to me; you know
He'll stick by your side, only yours:
Dance on the green with you alone.
What do I care for joys you own?

STUDENT

Jove, how those strapping wenches go!
Come brother, we must take them into tow;
A good strong beer, a tobacco with a bite,
A nicely dressed-up serving girl- that's what I like.

CITIZEN'S DAUGHTER

Just look at those good-looking boys!
It's really a disgrace, it seems to me,
When they could have the very best of company,
That they run after girls like those.

SECOND STUDENT (TO THE FIRST)

But not so fast! Behind us there come two.
They're nicely got up, I can tell.
One's my neighbour. I'll tell you
I'm really taken by that girl.
They stroll with a demure step,
Yet in the end they'd go with us, I'll bet.

THE FIRST

No, brother! I don't like restraining ways.
Be quick, we'll lose our quarry if we stall.
The hand that leads the broom on Saturdays,
On Sundays will caress you best of all.

CITIZEN

He does not please, this new mayor, in any way.
Now he is in, he just grows bolder by the day.
What's he do for the town? What's more,
Is it not growing worse each day?
One's meant now, more than ever, to obey,
And pay more than one ever did before.

BEGGAR (SINGING)

My noble sirs and ladies fair,
With cheeks of red and finest dress,
Just deign to look upon me here,
And see and soften my distress.
Don't let my hurdy-gurdy gear
Grind vainly here. Yes, only he
Is happy who may give. This day,
Which all will make a holiday,
Make it a harvest day for me!

ANOTHER CITIZEN

On holidays and Sundays, I know of nothing better
Than some small talk of wars and rumoured wars,
When way down yonder on Turkish shores,
The nations hammer one another.
You take a window, drink a little glass,
And see the motley ships glide down the river ways;
Then turn for home, when day is past,
And bless the peace and peaceful days.

THIRD CITIZEN

Yes, neighbour, yes! That's what I say as well.
Just let them crack each other on the skull,
And mix up everything they're known;
As long as all stays just the same at home.

OLD WOMAN (TO THE CITIZEN'S DAUGHTER)

My! how well-dressed. Such fine, young things. Why at the sight,
Who wouldn't be infatuated?
But not so proud. It's quite all right.
And what you want, I well know how to make it.

CITIZEN'S DAUGHTER

Come Agatha, I'm anxious not to be
Seen going with such witches openly.
It's true, on St. Andrew's night she let me see
My future lover bodily-

ANOTHER

She showed me mine in a crystal sphere;
So soldier-like with several bold fellows there.
I look around, I seek him everywhere.
Only- he just won't appear.

SOLDIERS

Cities that harbour
High battlements,
Girls of a proud,
Scorn-giving pretence,
These would I win!
Bold is the labour,
Bright the reward.

We let the trumpets
Do all the courting,
Whether to joy or
Ruinous strife.
That is a storming!
That is a life!
Women and cities
Have to give in!
Bold is the labour,
Bright the reward.
And all the soldiers
March on, march forward.

ENTER FAUST AND WAGNER

FAUST

The streams and brooks break free from hard ice-crust,
Through springtime's gracious, stimulating glance.
Within the valley, green grows hope's happiness.
Old winter, in his weakness, must
Retreat to rugged mountain peaks.
From there, as he flees, he's only throwing
Some powerless showers of pellet-like ice
In streaks now over fields' green-growing.
Ah, but the sun will suffer no white:
Over all rules a building and striving, the sun
Seeks to enliven everything with colour.
In this quarter flowers aren't yet spread,
It takes the bright-clothed crowd instead.
Just turn around, from this high heath,
Look back now on the town beneath.
From the dark and hollow gate
Multi-coloured throngs escape.
Everyone's eager to sun himself now.
They celebrate the resurrection's power.
For they themselves arise new-made
From lowly homes with stuffy rooms,
From bonds of handiwork and trade,
From pressing roofs and gabled gloom,
From the streets' squeezing narrowness,
From the churches' venerable night,
They're all brought out into the light.
Just see! How nimbly crowds fragment and press
Through gardens and through fields. Look how,
On the breadths and lengths of river-rest,
So many merry skiffs are stirring now,
And overloaded till near sinking,
See that last barge as off it goes.
The very mountain's far paths are blinking
Flashes of folk in colourful clothes.
Already village crowds I hear,
The people's own true heaven's near;
Contented, great and small shout joyously.
I'm human here, here such may be.

WAGNER

Though, doctor sir, to stroll with you'd
Both benefit and honour me;
I would not stray out here in solitude;
For I'm a foe to all vulgarity.
This fiddling, shrieking, skittle-roll
To me's a most, most hateful sound.
They rave, as if in the evil one's control,
And call it joy, call it song-bound.

PEASANTS (UNDER THE LINDEN TREE)

The shepherd for the dance had dressed
In ribbons, wreath, gay-coloured vest,
Put on a neat, smart show.
And round the linden, lass and lad
Already danced along like mad.
Hurray! Hurray!
Hurrah-ah-rah! Ho-hey!
So went the fiddle bow.

Now hastily he pushed on through,
And jabbed one of the girls there too,
With his sharp elbow so.
The lively wench then turned about
And said, "Now you're a stupid lout!"
Hurray! Hurray!
Hurrah-ah-rah! Ho-hey!
"Don't be so rude and low."

Still swiftly went their circling flight,
Now dancing left, now dancing right,
All skirts were flying so!
They grew quite red, they grew quite warm,
And panting rested arm in arm,
Hurray! Hurray!
Hurrah-ah-rah Ho-hey!
And hip on elbow so.

"Don't be familiar with me!
How many have their brides-to-be
Deceived and cheated so!"
And yet he coaxed her to one side
And from the linden rang out wide:
Hurray! Hurray!
Hurrah-ah-rah! Ho-hey!
The shouts and fiddle bow.

OLD PEASANT

Good doctor, it is fine of you
That you don't scorn us here today
And down among this press of humble people,
Though you're so highly learned, go your way.
So also take the finest mug
We filled with fresh, good drink. And first
As I bring it, I loudly wish
That it not only stills your thirst,
But that each drop that it contains
May be one day that your life gains.

FAUST

Accepting your refreshing brew,
I wish all health and thank them too.

THE PEOPLE GATHER AROUND IN A CIRCLE

OLD PEASANT

In truth, it's very well it happens
That you appear this joyous day;
For earlier in evil times,
You worked for good in will and way.
How many who stand living here,
Your father snatched out just in time
From burning fever as he brought
The epidemic into line.
You too that time, a young man still,
Went in each house where plague was found;
How many corpses one carried out,
But you came out still strong and sound.
Withstanding much hard testing too;
The helper on high helped helpers through.

ALL

Health to the man who's truly tried,
Long may his help be by our side!

FAUST

Stand bowed to Him on high who sends
All help, and teaches help, my friends.

HE GOES ON WITH WAGNER

WAGNER

Now what a great feeling you, great man, must gather
From this throng's reverence! Yes, he has much
True happiness who can draw such
Advantage from his gifts. The father
Points you out to his boy. Folk touch
And ask and press and hurry round;
The dancers pause, no fiddles sound.
They stand in rows when you go near,
They throw their caps up toward the sky;
A little more and they would bow down here
As if the sacred host went by.

FAUST

Now it is but a few more steps up to that stone,
We'll rest here from our stroll. This, this is where,
Quite filled with thought, I'd often sit alone
And rack myself with fasting and with prayer.
Here rich in hope, in faith firm-set,
By wringing hands, by tears and sighing.
I thought I'd force the Lord, and get
An end to all that plague, that dying.
The crowd's applause just sounds like mockery.
Oh, would you read within my inmost part
How little father and son
Deserve such glory for their art.
My father was- was a dark man of honour,
That over nature and her sacred circles mused,
In honesty, yet after his own views,
In an eccentric, labouring manner.
In other adept's company,
And after endless recipes,
Within the locked black kitchen, he
Would mix opposing contraries.
There, in a tepid bath, a "Red Lion",
A daring wooer, was married to the "Lily",
The two were pained upon an open flame
And went from one "Bride Chamber" to another,
In bright hues there appeared inside
The glass, the "Young Queen". Truth to tell,
Here was the medicine, the patients died,
And no-one asked, "Now who got well?"
So with this hellish and concoted brew,
Throughout these hills and valleys too,
Far worse than plague we raged.
And I myself to thousands gave this poisoned cure;
They withered away, but I must endure
To hear the shameless killers praised.

WAGNER

How could that cause you such distress!
Is it not enough for honest men
That arts we pass on down to them
They practice with strict conscientousness?
You honour your own father, as a youth,
So you absorb his teachings whole.
When grown you add to knowledge- then, in truth,
Your son may climb up to a higher goal.

FAUST

Oh, happy's he who still can hope
To leave this sea of error round us all.
For what's not known, that's what you need to cope,
And what is known, your need for that is small,
Still let's not let this hour of beauty grow
Quite stunted by such troubled talking, but
Consider how the dusk-burnt sun's last glow
Is glimmering upon each green-edged hut.
The day's outlived, the yielding sunbeams shift,
They fly to further new life far away.
Oh, that from out my body wings could lift;
I'd flee, forever following the day!
I'd see, within eternal evening's beam,
All at my feet, the quiet world below,
Each valley hushed, each height a fire gleam,
Where silver streams to golden rivers flow.
Wild mountains with their gorges, none denies
My godlike race, already now the sea,
With its warmed bays, is opening under me,
Spread out before astonished eyes.
Yet off at last the goddess seems to sink;
But new, new impulse wakes, I'd find
I'd hurry foward, eternal light my drink,
The day before me and the night behind,
The heavens over me and under me the waves.
A glorious dream, even as it escapes us quite.
Ah! for the spirit's wings have grown so light,
That we've no bodied wing that so behaves.
For still in each one born there's traces
Of feelings lifting upward, up and on.
When he hears, vanishing in far, blue spaces,
The trilling tremble of a skylark's song,
When over steep, spruce-covered height,
Outspread, the eagles hover round.
When over flats and seas, in flight,
The crane strives onward, homeward bound.

WAGNER

I have myself often hours of fancy too,
Though I've not felt yet such an urge as you.
For one soon sees one's fill of forest. field and brook;
I've never envied pinions birds employ.
Quite differently we're borne by spirit joy
From page to page, from book to book.
Then winter nights grow gracious, charmed and fair,
A blissful life warms every limb right through,
And oh! if you unroll a precious parchment there,
Then all of heaven will come down to you.

FAUST

You do yourself but know one urge's quest;
Oh, never learn to know the other!
Alas, two souls are dwelling in my breast,
Each wants to part itself from its own brother.
The one, with clinging organs, coarse love lust,
Holds to the world, the other's sovereignty
Uplifts it powerfully from dust
Towards regions of high ancestry.
If there be spirits of the air,
Between the earth and heaven ruling, weaving,
Descend from golden haze of atmosphere,
And lead me off to new and varied living!
If only I'd a magic cloak whose wing
Would carry me to new and varied lands.
For richest robes it would not leave my hands,
I wouldn't trade it for the mantle of a king.

WAGNER

Don't call the well-know swarms that stream and flee,
In misty circles spreading overhead,
From every quarter for humanity
Preparing peril, thousand-faceted.
From out the north they bare sharp spirit teeth,
Attacking us with arrow-pointed tongues.
Then from the east they parch the world beneath
And eat into your unprotected lungs.
If on the south wind, from the desert sent,
They heap on glow on glow upon your brains;
The west brings hosts, at first refreshing, bent
On drowning you and all the fields and plains.
They like eavesdropping, for they joy in harm,
They like obeying, for they like deceiving;
They act as if just sent from heaven's calm,
And lisp their lies like angels' breathing.
The world's already wrapped in grey. Let's go!
The air grows cool, the mist sinks low.
Now home's most treasured when dusk's about-
Why stand so, so astonished, gazing out?
What in this dusk makes you so troubled?

FAUST

You see the black dog brushing through the crops and stubble?

WAGNER

Long since. It didn't seem important in the least.

FAUST

Observe it well. What would you call that beast?

WAGNER

A poodle; judging from its path I'd say
It's searching for its master's track.

FAUST

Note how it hunts, how its wide, spiral way
Is ever closing in on us. Its back,
If I see truly, leaves a swirl of flames
Behind it as it goes along.

WAGNER

I see a black-haired poodle, nothing strange.
Perhaps a trick of sight makes it seem wrong.

FAUST

It draws soft magic coils, it seems to me,
Around our feet to form a future fetter.

WAGNER

I see it prance around us, with uncertainty,
Because it sees two strangers rather than its master.

FAUST

The circles narrow, it's already near.

WAGNER
You see, a dog and not a ghost comes here.
It pauses, growls, lies on its belly too,
And wags its tail: all things dogs do.

FAUST

Now be our friend! Come here to us.

WAGNER

It's just a poodle-foolish beast.
If you stand still, it waits by too.
You speak to it, it tries to climb on you.
It brings back things you drop. It's quick
To leap into stream to fetch your stick.

FAUST

You are quite right. I cannot find a trace
Of any spirit- training takes its place.

WAGNER

And when a dog is truly trained,
Even a wise man's heart is gained.
Indeed, this one deserves your favour, he
Is the students' excellent scholar, you see.