Chapter 8

A blessing drawn from supernatural fountains! In night and dew to lie upon the mountains; All Heaven and Earth in rapture penetrating; Thyself to Godhood haughtily inflating; To grub with yearning force through Earth’s dark marrow, Compress the six days’ work within thy bosom narrow,— To taste, I know not what, in haughty power, Thine own ecstatic life on all things shower, Thine earthly self behind thee cast, And then the lofty instinct, thus—

(_With a gesture_:)

at last,— daren’t say how—to pluck the final flower!

FAUST

Shame on thee!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Yes, thou findest that unpleasant! Thou hast the moral right to cry me “shame!” at present. One dares not that before chaste ears declare, Which chaste hearts, notwithstanding, cannot spare; And, once for all, I grudge thee not the pleasure Of lying to thyself in moderate measure. But such a course thou wilt not long endure; Already art thou o’er-excited, And, if it last, wilt soon be plighted To madness and to horror, sure. Enough of that! Thy love sits lonely yonder, By all things saddened and oppressed; Her thoughts and yearnings seek thee, tenderer, fonder,— mighty love is in her breast. First came thy passion’s flood and poured around her As when from melted snow a streamlet overflows; Thou hast therewith so filled and drowned her, That now _thy_ stream all shallow shows. Methinks, instead of in the forests lording, The noble Sir should find it good, The love of this young silly blood At once to set about rewarding. Her time is miserably long; She haunts her window, watching clouds that stray O’er the old city-wall, and far away. “Were I a little bird!” so runs her song, Day long, and half night long. Now she is lively, mostly sad, Now, wept beyond her tears; Then again quiet she appears,—Always love-mad.

FAUST

Serpent! Serpent!

MEPHISTOPHELES _(aside)_

Ha! do I trap thee!

FAUST

Get thee away with thine offences, Reprobate! Name not that fairest thing, Nor the desire for her sweet body bring Again before my half-distracted senses!

MEPHISTOPHELES

What wouldst thou, then? She thinks that thou art flown; And half and half thou art, I own.

FAUST

Yet am I near, and love keeps watch and ward; Though I were ne’er so far, it cannot falter: I envy even the Body of the Lord The touching of her lips, before the altar.

MEPHISTOPHELES

’Tis very well! _My_ envy oft reposes On your twin-pair, that feed among the roses.

FAUST

Away, thou pimp!

MEPHISTOPHELES

You rail, and it is fun to me. The God, who fashioned youth and maid, Perceived the noblest purpose of His trade, And also made their opportunity. Go on! It is a woe profound! ’Tis for your sweetheart’s room you’re bound, And not for death, indeed.

FAUST

What are, within her arms, the heavenly blisses? Though I be glowing with her kisses, Do I not always share her need? I am the fugitive, all houseless roaming, The monster without air or rest, That like a cataract, down rocks and gorges foaming, Leaps, maddened, into the abyss’s breast! And side-wards she, with young unwakened senses, Within her cabin on the Alpine field Her simple, homely life commences, Her little world therein concealed. And I, God’s hate flung o’er me, Had not enough, to thrust The stubborn rocks before me And strike them into dust! She and her peace I yet must undermine: Thou, Hell, hast claimed this sacrifice as thine! Help, Devil! through the coming pangs to push me; What must be, let it quickly be! Let fall on me her fate, and also crush me,— One ruin whelm both her and me!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Again it seethes, again it glows! Thou fool, go in and comfort her! When such a head as thine no outlet knows, It thinks the end must soon occur. Hail him, who keeps a steadfast mind! Thou, else, dost well the devil-nature wear: Naught so insipid in the world I find As is a devil in despair.

XV

MARGARET’S ROOM

MARGARET

(_at the spinning-wheel, alone_)

My peace is gone, My heart is sore: I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore!

Save I have him near. The grave is here; The world is gall And bitterness all.

My poor weak head Is racked and crazed; My thought is lost, My senses mazed.

My peace is gone, My heart is sore: I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore!

To see him, him only, At the pane I sit; To meet him, him only, The house I quit.

His lofty gait, His noble size, The smile of his mouth, The power of his eyes,

And the magic flow Of his talk, the bliss In the clasp of his hand, And, ah! his kiss!

My peace is gone, My heart is sore: I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore!

My bosom yearns For him alone; Ah, dared I clasp him, And hold, and own!

And kiss his mouth, To heart’s desire, And on his kisses At last expire!

XVI

MARTHA’S GARDEN

MARGARET FAUST

MARGARET

Promise me, Henry!—

FAUST

What I can!

MARGARET

How is’t with thy religion, pray? Thou art a dear, good-hearted man, And yet, I think, dost not incline that way.

FAUST

Leave that, my child! Thou know’st my love is tender; For love, my blood and life would I surrender, And as for Faith and Church, I grant to each his own.

MARGARET

That’s not enough: we must believe thereon.

FAUST

Must we?

MARGARET

Would that I had some influence! Then, too, thou honorest not the Holy Sacraments.

FAUST

I honor them.

MARGARET

Desiring no possession ’Tis long since thou hast been to mass or to confession. Believest thou in God?

FAUST

My darling, who shall dare “I believe in God!” to say? Ask priest or sage the answer to declare, And it will seem a mocking play, A sarcasm on the asker.

MARGARET

Then thou believest not!

FAUST

Hear me not falsely, sweetest countenance! Who dare express Him? And who profess Him, Saying: I believe in Him! Who, feeling, seeing, Deny His being, Saying: I believe Him not! The All-enfolding, The All-upholding, Folds and upholds he not Thee, me, Himself? Arches not there the sky above us? Lies not beneath us, firm, the earth? And rise not, on us shining, Friendly, the everlasting stars? Look I not, eye to eye, on thee, And feel’st not, thronging To head and heart, the force, Still weaving its eternal secret, Invisible, visible, round thy life? Vast as it is, fill with that force thy heart, And when thou in the feeling wholly blessed art, Call it, then, what thou wilt,— Call it Bliss! Heart! Love! God! I have no name to give it! Feeling is all in all: The Name is sound and smoke, Obscuring Heaven’s clear glow.

MARGARET

All that is fine and good, to hear it so: Much the same way the preacher spoke, Only with slightly different phrases.

FAUST

The same thing, in all places, All hearts that beat beneath the heavenly day— Each in its language—say; Then why not I, in mine, as well?

MARGARET

To hear it thus, it may seem passable; And yet, some hitch in’t there must be For thou hast no Christianity.

FAUST

Dear love!

MARGARET

I’ve long been grieved to see That thou art in such company.

FAUST

How so?

MARGARET

The man who with thee goes, thy mate, Within my deepest, inmost soul I hate. In all my life there’s nothing Has given my heart so keen a pang of loathing, As his repulsive face has done.

FAUST

Nay, fear him not, my sweetest one!

MARGARET

I feel his presence like something ill. I’ve else, for all, a kindly will, But, much as my heart to see thee yearneth, The secret horror of him returneth; And I think the man a knave, as I live! If I do him wrong, may God forgive!

FAUST

There must be such queer birds, however.

MARGARET

Live with the like of him, may I never! When once inside the door comes he, He looks around so sneeringly, And half in wrath: One sees that in nothing no interest he hath: ’Tis written on his very forehead That love, to him, is a thing abhorréd. I am so happy on thine arm, So free, so yielding, and so warm, And in his presence stifled seems my heart.

FAUST

Foreboding angel that thou art!

MARGARET

It overcomes me in such degree, That wheresoe’er he meets us, even, I feel as though I’d lost my love for thee. When he is by, I could not pray to Heaven. That burns within me like a flame, And surely, Henry, ’tis with thee the same.

FAUST

There, now, is thine antipathy!

MARGARET

But I must go.

FAUST

Ah, shall there never be A quiet hour, to see us fondly plighted, With breast to breast, and soul to soul united?

MARGARET

Ah, if I only slept alone! I’d draw the bolts to-night, for thy desire; But mother’s sleep so light has grown, And if we were discovered by her, ’Twould be my death upon the spot!

FAUST

Thou angel, fear it not! Here is a phial: in her drink But three drops of it measure, And deepest sleep will on her senses sink.

MARGARET

What would I not, to give thee pleasure? It will not harm her, when one tries it?

FAUST

If ’twould, my love, would I advise it?

MARGARET

Ah, dearest man, if but thy face I see, I know not what compels me to thy will: So much have I already done for thee, That scarcely more is left me to fulfil.

(_Enter_ MEPHISTOPHELES.) [_Exit_.

MEPHISTOPHELES

The monkey! Is she gone?

FAUST

Hast played the spy again?

MEPHISTOPHELES

I’ve heard, most fully, how she drew thee. The Doctor has been catechised, ’tis plain; Great good, I hope, the thing will do thee. The girls have much desire to ascertain If one is prim and good, as ancient rules compel: If there he’s led, they think, he’ll follow them as well.

FAUST

Thou, monster, wilt nor see nor own How this pure soul, of faith so lowly, So loving and ineffable,— The faith alone That her salvation is,—with scruples holy Pines, lest she hold as lost the man she loves so well!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Thou, full of sensual, super-sensual desire, A girl by the nose is leading thee.

FAUST

Abortion, thou, of filth and fire!

MEPHISTOPHELES

And then, how masterly she reads physiognomy! When I am present she’s impressed, she knows not how; She in my mask a hidden sense would read: She feels that surely I’m a genius now,— Perhaps the very Devil, indeed! Well, well,—to-night—?

FAUST

What’s that to thee?

MEPHISTOPHELES

Yet my delight ’twill also be!

XVII

AT THE FOUNTAIN

MARGARET _and_ LISBETH _With pitchers_.

LISBETH

Hast nothing heard of Barbara?

MARGARET

No, not a word. I go so little out.

LISBETH

It’s true, Sibylla said, to-day. She’s played the fool at last, there’s not a doubt. Such taking-on of airs!

MARGARET

How so?

LISBETH

It stinks! She’s feeding two, whene’er she eats and drinks.

MARGARET

Ah!

LISBETH

And so, at last, it serves her rightly. She clung to the fellow so long and tightly! That was a promenading! At village and dance parading! As the first they must everywhere shine, And he treated her always to pies and wine, And she made a to-do with her face so fine; So mean and shameless was her behavior, She took all the presents the fellow gave her. ’Twas kissing and coddling, on and on! So now, at the end, the flower is gone.

MARGARET

The poor, poor thing!

LISBETH

Dost pity her, at that? When one of us at spinning sat, And mother, nights, ne’er let us out the door She sported with her paramour. On the door-bench, in the passage dark, The length of the time they’d never mark. So now her head no more she’ll lift, But do church-penance in her sinner’s shift!

MARGARET

He’ll surely take her for his wife.

LISBETH

He’d be a fool! A brisk young blade Has room, elsewhere, to ply his trade. Besides, he’s gone.

MARGARET

That is not fair!

LISBETH

If him she gets, why let her beware! The boys shall dash her wreath on the floor, And we’ll scatter chaff before her door! [_Exit_.

MARGARET (_returning home_)

How scornfully I once reviled, When some poor maiden was beguiled! More speech than any tongue suffices I craved, to censure others’ vices. Black as it seemed, I blackened still, And blacker yet was in my will; And blessed myself, and boasted high,— And now—a living sin am I! Yet—all that drove my heart thereto, God! was so good, so dear, so true!

XVIII

DONJON

(_In a niche of the wall a shrine, with an image of the Mater Dolorosa. Pots of flowers before it_.)

MARGARET

(_putting fresh flowers in the pots_)

Incline, O Maiden, Thou sorrow-laden, Thy gracious countenance upon my pain!

The sword Thy heart in, With anguish smarting, Thou lookest up to where Thy Son is slain!

Thou seest the Father; Thy sad sighs gather, And bear aloft Thy sorrow and His pain!

Ah, past guessing, Beyond expressing, The pangs that wring my flesh and bone! Why this anxious heart so burneth, Why it trembleth, why it yearneth, Knowest Thou, and Thou alone!

Where’er I go, what sorrow, What woe, what woe and sorrow Within my bosom aches! Alone, and ah! unsleeping, I’m weeping, weeping, weeping, The heart within me breaks.

The pots before my window, Alas! my tears did wet, As in the early morning For thee these flowers I set.

Within my lonely chamber The morning sun shone red: I sat, in utter sorrow, Already on my bed.

Help! rescue me from death and stain! O Maiden! Thou sorrow-laden, Incline Thy countenance upon my pain!

XIX

NIGHT

STREET BEFORE MARGARET’S DOOR

VALENTINE (_a soldier_, MARGARET’S _brother_)

When I have sat at some carouse. Where each to each his brag allows, And many a comrade praised to me His pink of girls right lustily, With brimming glass that spilled the toast, And elbows planted as in boast: I sat in unconcerned repose, And heard the swagger as it rose. And stroking then my beard, I’d say, Smiling, the bumper in my hand: “Each well enough in her own way. But is there one in all the land Like sister Margaret, good as gold,— One that to her can a candle hold?” Cling! clang! “Here’s to her!” went around The board: “He speaks the truth!” cried some; “In her the flower o’ the sex is found!” And all the swaggerers were dumb. And now!—I could tear my hair with vexation. And dash out my brains in desperation! With turned-up nose each scamp may face me, With sneers and stinging taunts disgrace me, And, like a bankrupt debtor sitting, A chance-dropped word may set me sweating! Yet, though I thresh them all together, I cannot call them liars, either.

But what comes sneaking, there, to view? If I mistake not, there are two. If _he’s_ one, let me at him drive! He shall not leave the spot alive.

FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES

FAUST

How from the window of the sacristy Upward th’eternal lamp sends forth a glimmer, That, lessening side-wards, fainter grows and dimmer, Till darkness closes from the sky! The shadows thus within my bosom gather.

MEPHISTOPHELES

I’m like a sentimental tom-cat, rather, That round the tall fire-ladders sweeps, And stealthy, then, along the coping creeps: Quite virtuous, withal, I come, A little thievish and a little frolicsome. I feel in every limb the presage Forerunning the grand Walpurgis-Night: Day after to-morrow brings its message, And one keeps watch then with delight.

FAUST

Meanwhile, may not the treasure risen be, Which there, behind, I glimmering see?

MEPHISTOPHELES

Shalt soon experience the pleasure, To lift the kettle with its treasure. I lately gave therein a squint— Saw splendid lion-dollars in ’t.

FAUST

Not even a jewel, not a ring, To deck therewith my darling girl?

MEPHISTOPHELES

I saw, among the rest, a thing That seemed to be a chain of pearl.

FAUST

That’s well, indeed! For painful is it To bring no gift when her I visit.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Thou shouldst not find it so annoying, Without return to be enjoying. Now, while the sky leads forth its starry throng, Thou’lt hear a masterpiece, no work completer: I’ll sing her, first, a moral song, The surer, afterwards, to cheat her.

(_Sings to the cither_.)

What dost thou here In daybreak clear, Kathrina dear, Before thy lover’s door? Beware! the blade Lets in a maid. That out a maid Departeth nevermore!

The coaxing shun Of such an one! When once ’tis done Good-night to thee, poor thing! Love’s time is brief: Unto no thief Be warm and lief, But with the wedding-ring!

VALENTINE (_comes forward_)

Whom wilt thou lure? God’s-element! Rat-catching piper, thou!—perdition! To the Devil, first, the instrument! To the Devil, then, the curst musician!

MEPHISTOPHELES

The cither’s smashed! For nothing more ’tis fitting.

VALENTINE

There’s yet a skull I must be splitting!

MEPHISTOPHELES (_to_ FAUST)

Sir Doctor, don’t retreat, I pray! Stand by: I’ll lead, if you’ll but tarry: Out with your spit, without delay! You’ve but to lunge, and I will parry.

VALENTINE

Then parry that!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Why not? ’tis light. VALENTINE

That, too!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Of course.

VALENTINE

I think the Devil must fight! How is it, then? my hand’s already lame:

MEPHISTOPHELES (_to_ FAUST)

Thrust home!

VALENTINE (_jails_)

O God!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Now is the lubber tame! But come, away! ’Tis time for us to fly; For there arises now a murderous cry. With the police ’twere easy to compound it, But here the penal court will sift and sound it.

[_Exit with_ FAUST.

MARTHA (_at the window_)

Come out! Come out!

MARGARET (_at the window_)

Quick, bring a light!

MARTHA (_as above_)

They swear and storm, they yell and fight!

PEOPLE

Here lies one dead already—see!

MARTHA (_coming from the house_)

The murderers, whither have they run?

MARGARET (_coming out_)

Who lies here?

PEOPLE

’Tis thy mother’s son!

MARGARET

Almighty God! what misery!

VALENTINE

I’m dying! That is quickly said, And quicker yet ’tis done. Why howl, you women there? Instead, Come here and listen, every one!

(_All gather around him_)

My Margaret, see! still young thou art, But not the least bit shrewd or smart, Thy business thus to slight: So this advice I bid thee heed— Now that thou art a whore indeed, Why, be one then, outright!

MARGARET

My brother! God! such words to me?

VALENTINE

In this game let our Lord God be! What’s done’s already done, alas! What follows it, must come to pass. With one begin’st thou secretly, Then soon will others come to thee, And when a dozen thee have known, Thou’rt also free to all the town. When Shame is born and first appears, She is in secret brought to light, And then they draw the veil of night Over her head and ears; Her life, in fact, they’re loath to spare her. But let her growth and strength display, She walks abroad unveiled by day, Yet is not grown a whit the fairer. The uglier she is to sight, The more she seeks the day’s broad light. The time I verily can discern When all the honest folk will turn From thee, thou jade! and seek protection As from a corpse that breeds infection. Thy guilty heart shall then dismay thee. When they but look thee in the face:— Shalt not in a golden chain array thee, Nor at the altar take thy place! Shalt not, in lace and ribbons flowing, Make merry when the dance is going! But in some corner, woe betide thee! Among the beggars and cripples hide thee; And so, though even God forgive, On earth a damned existence live!

MARTHA

Commend your soul to God for pardon, That you your heart with slander harden!

VALENTINE

Thou pimp most infamous, be still! Could I thy withered body kill, ’Twould bring, for all my sinful pleasure, Forgiveness in the richest measure.

MARGARET

My brother! This is Hell’s own pain!

VALENTINE

I tell thee, from thy tears refrain! When thou from honor didst depart It stabbed me to the very heart. Now through the slumber of the grave I go to God as a soldier brave.

(_Dies_.)

XX

CATHEDRAL

SERVICE, ORGAN _and_ ANTHEM.

(MARGARET _among much people: the_ EVIL SPIRIT _behind_ MARGARET.)

EVIL SPIRIT

HOW otherwise was it, Margaret, When thou, still innocent, Here to the altar cam’st, And from the worn and fingered book Thy prayers didst prattle, Half sport of childhood, Half God within thee! Margaret! Where tends thy thought? Within thy bosom What hidden crime? Pray’st thou for mercy on thy mother’s soul, That fell asleep to long, long torment, and through thee? Upon thy threshold whose the blood? And stirreth not and quickens Something beneath thy heart, Thy life disquieting With most foreboding presence?

MARGARET

Woe! woe! Would I were free from the thoughts That cross me, drawing hither and thither Despite me!

CHORUS

_Diesira, dies illa, Solvet soeclum in favilla_! _(Sound of the organ_.)

EVIL SPIRIT

Wrath takes thee! The trumpet peals! The graves tremble! And thy heart From ashy rest To fiery torments Now again requickened, Throbs to life!

MARGARET

Would I were forth! I feel as if the organ here My breath takes from me, My very heart Dissolved by the anthem!

CHORUS

_Judex ergo cum sedebit, Quidquid latet, ad parebit, Nil inultum remanebit_. MARGARET

I cannot breathe! The massy pillars Imprison me! The vaulted arches Crush me!—Air!

EVIL SPIRIT

Hide thyself! Sin and shame Stay never hidden. Air? Light? Woe to thee!

CHORUS

_Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, Quem patronem rogaturus, Cum vix Justus sit securus_?

EVIL SPIRIT

They turn their faces, The glorified, from thee: The pure, their hands to offer, Shuddering, refuse thee! Woe!

CHORUS

_Quid sum miser tune dicturus_?

MARGARET

Neighbor! your cordial! (_She falls in a swoon_.)

XXI

WALPURGIS-NIGHT

THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS.

_District of Schierke and Elend_.

FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES

MEPHISTOPHELES

DOST thou not wish a broomstick-steed’s assistance? The sturdiest he-goat I would gladly see: The way we take, our goal is yet some distance.

FAUST

So long as in my legs I feel the fresh existence. This knotted staff suffices me. What need to shorten so the way? Along this labyrinth of vales to wander, Then climb the rocky ramparts yonder, Wherefrom the fountain flings eternal spray, Is such delight, my steps would fain delay. The spring-time stirs within the fragrant birches, And even the fir-tree feels it now: Should then our limbs escape its gentle searches?

MEPHISTOPHELES

I notice no such thing, I vow! ’Tis winter still within my body: Upon my path I wish for frost and snow. How sadly rises, incomplete and ruddy, The moon’s lone disk, with its belated glow, And lights so dimly, that, as one advances, At every step one strikes a rock or tree! Let us, then, use a Jack-o’-lantern’s glances: I see one yonder, burning merrily. Ho, there! my friend! I’ll levy thine attendance: Why waste so vainly thy resplendence? Be kind enough to light us up the steep!

WILL-O’-THE-WISP

My reverence, I hope, will me enable To curb my temperament unstable; For zigzag courses we are wont to keep.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Indeed? he’d like mankind to imitate! Now, in the Devil’s name, go straight, Or I’ll blow out his being’s flickering spark!

WILL-O’-THE-WISP

You are the master of the house, I mark, And I shall try to serve you nicely. But then, reflect: the mountain’s magic-mad to-day, And if a will-o’-the-wisp must guide you on the way, You mustn’t take things too precisely.

FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, WILL-O’-THE-WISP

(_in alternating song_)