Authors: Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
Faust (6 page)
| | Who calls? |
FAUST
(
averts his face
).
| | Terrifying vision! 4 |
| | I felt a mighty pull from you, |
| | you have long been sucking at my sphere, |
| | and now— |
| | No! I can’t endure you! |
| | You have sought me breathlessly, |
| | longed for my voice and countenance; |
| | your strong pleadings have my sympathy. |
| | Now I am here!—What pitiable terror |
| 490 | seizes you, you superman? Where is the outcry of your soul, |
| | where the breast that built its inward world |
| | and bore and fostered it and swelled with joyful tremor, |
| | intent on rising to the level of the spirits? |
| | Where are you, Faust, whose voice rang out, |
| | who forced himself on me with all his might? |
| | Are you he who at my very exhalation |
| | shivers to his depths, |
| | a frightened, cringing worm? |
| | Should I flinch before you, flaming apparition? |
| 500 | I stand my ground as Faust, your equal! |
| | In the tides of life and action |
| | I rise and descend |
| | and fling the shuttle back and forth. |
| | The cradle and the grave, |
| | a perennial sea, |
| | a flickering fabric, |
| | a glowing life, |
| | I toil at the whirring loom of time |
| | and weave the godhead’s living vesture. |
| 510 | You roam the ample world, my bustling spirit; |
| | how close I feel to you! |
| | You’re like the spirit that you grasp. |
| | You’re not like me. |
| | ( The SPIRIT vanishes .) |
FAUST
(
overwhelmed
).
| | Not your equal? |
| | Then whom do I resemble? |
| | I, the image of the godhead! |
| | And not your equal? |
| | ( A knock at the door .) |
| | Oh, death, I know that knock—my famulus— |
| | So ends my fairest hour! |
| 520 | Why must this shriveled crawler |
| | destroy the fullness of my vision? |
| | ( Enter WAGNER , in dressing gown and nightcap, lamp in hand . FAUST , annoyed, turns to him .) |
| | Excuse me, but I heard your declamation; |
| | was it a passage from Greek tragedy? |
| | I should like to profit from such elocution, |
| | for nowadays it’s a great help. |
| | I’ve often heard it said that an actor |
| | could give lessons to a preacher. |
| | Yes, whenever the preacher is also an actor, |
| | which may happen now and then. |
| 530 | Ah! when we’re cooped in our chambers |
| | and scarcely see the world on holidays— |
| | from far away as through a telescope— |
| | how can we guide it by persuasion? |
| | You will never conquer it unless you feel it, |
| | unless a surging from your soul, |
| | a primal, joyful energy |
| | compels the heart of all your listeners. |
| | Go sit down and paste your words together, |
| | concoct a stew from morsels left by others |
| 540 | and try to get some feeble flames |
| | from your puny heap of ashes! |
| | And if your palate craves for this, |
| | you may have apes and infants stand in awe, |
| | but you’ll never move another’s heart |
| | unless your own pours forth its energy. |
| | Yet elocution is the speaker’s greatest tool; |
| | it’s clear to me, I’m far behind. 5 |
| | Go seek advancement honorably. |
| | Don’t be a jingling fool! |
| 550 | Clear thinking and some honesty |
| | need little art for their delivery. |
| | And once you speak in earnest, |
| | must you still hunt for words? |
| | The tinseled glittering phrases |
| | with which one crimps the shredded bits of thought |
| | are lifeless like a misty exhalation |
| | that blows through withered autumn leaves. |
| | Oh, my, but art is long |
| | and our life is fleeting. 6 |
| 560 | My head begins to swim |
| | with the strain of critical endeavor. |
| | How difficult it is to gain the means |
| | that will lead one to the sources. |
| | We poor devils labor long and hard |
| | and die before we travel half the distance. |
| | Is parchment then the sacred fount |
| | from which a draft will quench our thirst forever? |
| | You must draw it from your inward soul |
| | or else you’ll not be satisfied. |
| 570 | Excuse me, but it gives the greatest satisfaction |
| | to view the spirit of another age, |
| | to see how wise men thought before our days, |
| | and to rejoice how far we’ve come at last. |
| | Oh yes, a journey to the stars! |
| | My friend, the days of history |
| | make up a book with seven seals. |
| | What you call the spirit of an age |
| | is in reality the spirit of those men |
| | in which their time’s reflected. |
| 580 | And what you see is mostly misery, |
| | the sight of which will make you run away. |
| | Pails of garbage and heaps of trash, |
| | at best a staged enactment of high history |
| | with excellent pragmatic maxims |
| | suitable for puppets. |
| | But what of the world? The human heart and intellect? |
| | One tries so hard to gain some knowledge! |
| | Oh yes! They like to call it knowledge. |
| | Who can give the child its rightful name? |
| 590 | Those few who gained a share of understanding, |
| | who foolishly unlocked their hearts, |
| | their pent-up feelings, and their visions to the rabble, |
| | have always ended on the cross and pyre. |
| | Forgive me, friend, the night is well advanced, |
| | we must suspend our conversation. |
| | I should have liked to stay much longer |
| | to exchange such learned words with you. |
| | But I hope that on tomorrow’s Easter holiday |
| | I may ask some further questions. |
| 600 | I always strive for erudition; |
| | I know a lot, it’s true, but I must know it all. |
| | ( Exit .) |
FAUST
(
alone
).
| | How can such hope still dwell with him, |
| | whose mind tenaciously adheres to rubbish, |
| | who digs with eager hands for treasure |
| | and is delighted when he finds a worm! |
| | Should such a human voice intrude |
| | when spirits held me in their spell? |
| | Alas, this once you have my gratitude, |
| | you smallest of all sons of the earth. |
| 610 | You snatched me from despondency |
| | which threatened ruin to my senses. |
| | Ah! the titanic spirit’s visitation |
| | made me gaze upon my dwarfish self. |
| | I, the godhead’s image, who thought myself |
| | close to the mirror of eternal truth, |
| | and stripped of my mortality, |
| | saw Heaven’s light and clarity reflect on me. |
| | I, more than Cherub, with unbounded power |
| | presumed to course through Nature’s arteries, |
| 620 | to create and live the life of a divinity— |
| | now I must do penance without measure; |
| | one thunder-word has swept me off to nothingness. |
| | I can’t withstand comparison with you! |
| | If I possessed the strength to draw you near, |
| | I wanted strength to hold you close to me. |
| | In that blessed, fleeting moment |
| | I felt myself so small, so great— |
| | you thrust me from you cruelly |
| | into man’s uncertain destiny. |
| 630 | Who will teach me? What must I shun? |
| | Shall I obey my inward yearning? |
| | Alas, our deeds as much as our sorrows |
| | cramp the course of our waking days. |
| | However glorious the mind’s conception, |
| | alien matter will in time intrude. |
| | Whenever we achieve some good on our earth, |
| | the better things are labeled frauds and fantasies. |
| | The ecstasies that launched us on this life |
| | congeal in the muddled business of living. |
| 640 | Once Imagination on her daring flight |
| | reached boldly for eternity, but now |
| | she deems a narrow chamber quite sufficient, |
| | as every joy is foundering in the whirls of time. |
| | Care nesting deep within the heart |
| | will quickly wreak her secret pangs. |
| | She sways and claws and dims our peace and joy |
| | and never fails to don new masks, |
| | as a homestead or as wife and child, |
| | or else she shows herself as water, fire, poison, knife. |
| 650 | You dread the blows that do not strike |
| | and you lament the things you never lose. |
| | I am not like the gods—I feel it deeply now. |
| | I am the worm that burrows in the dust |
| | and, seeking sustenance in the dust, |
| | is crushed and buried by a wanderer’s heel. |
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