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Read Ebook: Faust — Part 1 by Goethe Johann Wolfgang Von
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Ebook has 1994 lines and 31103 words, and 40 pages
FOR THE THEATRE
MANAGER. DRAMATIC POET. MERRYMAN.
MANAGER
YE twain, in trouble and distress True friends whom I so oft have found, Say, for our scheme on German ground, What prospect have we of success? Fain would I please the public, win their thanks; They live and let live, hence it is but meet. The posts are now erected, and the planks, And all look forward to a festal treat. Their places taken, they, with eyebrows rais'd, Sit patiently, and fain would be amaz'd. I know the art to hit the public taste, Yet ne'er of failure felt so keen a dread; True, they are not accustomed to the best, But then appalling the amount they've read.. How make our entertainment striking, new, And yet significant and pleasing too? For to be plain, I love to see the throng, As to our booth the living tide progresses; As wave on wave successive rolls along, And through heaven's narrow portal forceful presses; Still in broad daylight, ere the clock strikes four, With blows their way towards the box they take; And, as for bread in famine, at the baker's door, For tickets are content their necks to break. Such various minds the bard alone can sway, My friend, oh work this miracle to-day!
POET
Oh of the motley throng speak not before me, At whose aspect the Spirit wings its flight!
Conceal the surging concourse, I implore thee, Whose vortex draws us with resistless might. No, to some peaceful heavenly nook restore me, Where only for the bard blooms pure delight, Where love and friendship yield their choicest blessing, Our heart's true bliss, with god-like hand caressing.
What in the spirit's depths was there created, What shyly there the lip shaped forth in sound; A failure now, with words now fitly mated, In the wild tumult of the hour is drown'd; Full oft the poet's thought for years bath waited Until at length with perfect form 'tis crowned; What dazzles, for the moment born, must perish; What genuine is posterity will cherish.
MERRYMAN
This cant about posterity I hate; About posterity were I to prate, Who then the living would amuse? For they Will have diversion, ay, and 'tis their due. A sprightly fellow's presence at your play, Methinks should also count for something too; Whose genial wit the audience still inspires, Knows from their changeful mood no angry feeling; A wider circle he desires, To their heart's depths more surely thus appealing. To work, then! Give a master-piece, my friend; Bring Fancy with her choral trains before us, Sense, reason, feeling, passion, but attend! Let folly also swell the tragic chorus.
MANAGER
In chief, of incident enough prepare! A show they want, they come to gape and stare. Spin for their eyes abundant occupation, SO that the multitude may wondering gaze, You by sheer bulk have won your reputation,
POET
How mean such handicraft as this you cannot feel! How it revolts the genuine artist's mind! The sorry trash in which these coxcombs deal, Is here approved on principle, I find.
MANAGER
Such a reproof disturbs me not a whit! Who on efficient work is bent, Must choose the fittest instrument. Consider! 'tis soft wood you have to split; Think too for whom you write, I pray! One comes to while an hour away; One from the festive board, a sated guest; Others, more dreaded than the rest, From journal-reading hurry to the play. As to a masquerade, with absent minds, they press, Sheer curiosity their footsteps winging; Ladies display their persons and their dress, Actors unpaid their service bringing. What dreams beguile you on your poet's height? What puts a full house in a merry mood? More closely view your patrons of the night! The half are cold, the half are rude. One, the play over, craves a game of cards; Another a wild night in wanton joy would spend. Poor fools the muses' fair regards. Why court for such a paltry end? I tell you, give them more, still more, 'tis all I ask, Thus you will ne'er stray widely from the goal; Your audience seek to mystify, cajole;-- To satisfy them--that's a harder task. What ails thee? art enraptured or distressed?
POET
Depart! elsewhere another servant choose What! shall the bard his godlike power abuse? Man's loftiest right, kind nature's high bequest, For your mean purpose basely sport away? Whence comes his mastery o'er the human breast, Whence o'er the elements his sway, But from the harmony that, gushing from his soul, Draws back into his heart the wondrous whole? With careless hand when round her spindle, Nature Winds the interminable thread of life; When 'mid the clash of Being every creature Mingles in harsh inextricable strife; Who deals their course unvaried till it falleth, In rhythmic flow to music's measur'd tone? Each solitary note whose genius calleth, To swell the mighty choir in unison? Who in the raging storm sees passion low'ring? Or flush of earnest thought in evening's glow? Who every blossom in sweet spring-time flowering Along the loved one's path would strow? Who, Nature's green familiar leaves entwining, Wreathe's glory's garland, won on every field? Makes sure Olympus, heavenly powers combining? Man's mighty spirit, in the bard reveal'd!
MERRYMAN
Come then, employ your lofty inspiration, And carry on the poet's avocation, Just as we carry on a love affair. Two meet by chance, are pleased, they linger there, Insensibly are link'd, they scarce know how; Fortune seems now propitious, adverse now, Then come alternate rapture and despair; And 'tis a true romance ere one's aware. Just such a drama let us now compose. Plunge boldly into life--its depths disclose! Each lives it, not to many is it known, 'Twill interest wheresoever seiz'd and shown; Bright pictures, but obscure their meaning: A ray of truth through error gleaming, Thus you the best elixir brew, To charm mankind, and edify them too. Then youth's fair blossoms crowd to view your play, And wait as on an oracle; while they, The tender souls, who love the melting mood, Suck from your work their melancholy food; Now this one, and now that, you deeply stir, Each sees the working of his heart laid bare. Their tears, their laughter, you command with ease, The lofty still they honour, the illusive love. Your finish'd gentlemen you ne'er can please; A growing mind alone will grateful prove.
POET
Then give me back youth's golden prime, When my own spirit too was growing, When from my heart th' unbidden rhyme Gush'd forth, a fount for ever flowing; Then shadowy mist the world conceal'd, And every bud sweet promise made, Of wonders yet to be reveal'd, As through the vales, with blooms inlaid, Culling a thousand flowers I stray'd. Naught had I, yet a rich profusion! The thirst for truth, joy in each fond illusion. Give me unquell'd those impulses to prove;-- Rapture so deep, its ecstasy was pain, The power of hate, the energy of love, Give me, oh give me back my youth again!
MERRYMAN
Youth, my good friend, you certainly require When foes in battle round are pressing, When a fair maid, her heart on fire, Hangs on your neck with fond caressing, When from afar, the victor's crown, To reach the hard-won goal inciteth; When from the whirling dance, to drown Your sense, the night's carouse inviteth. But the familiar chords among Boldly to sweep, with graceful cunning, While to its goal, the verse along Its winding path is sweetly running; This task is yours, old gentlemen, to-day; Nor are you therefore less in reverence held; Age does not make us childish, as folk say, It finds us genuine children e'en in eld.
MANAGER
A truce to words, mere empty sound, Let deeds at length appear, my friends! While idle compliments you round, You might achieve some useful ends. Why talk of the poetic vein? Who hesitates will never know it; If bards ye are, as ye maintain, Now let your inspiration show it. To you is known what we require, Strong drink to sip is our desire; Come, brew me such without delay! To-morrow sees undone, what happens not to-day Still forward press, nor ever tire! The possible, with steadfast trust, Resolve should by the forelock grasp; Then she will ne'er let go her clasp, And labours on, because she must. Therefore in bringing out your play, Nor scenes nor mechanism spare! Heaven's lamps employ, the greatest and the least, Be lavish of the stellar lights, Water, and fire, and rocky heights, Spare not at all, nor birds, nor beast. Thus let creation's ample sphere Forthwith in this our narrow booth appear, And with considerate speed, through fancy's spell, Journey from heaven, thence through the world, to hell!
IN HEAVEN
THE LORD. THE HEAVENLY HOSTS. Afterwards MEPHISTOPHELES.
Time three Archangels come forward
RAPHAEL
THE Sun, in ancient guise, competing With brother spheres in rival song, With thunder-march, his orb completing, Moves his predestin'd course along; His aspect to the powers supernal Gives strength, though fathom him none may; Transcending thought, the works eternal Are fair as on the primal day.
GABRIEL
With speed, thought baffling, unabating, Earth's splendour whirls in circling flight; Its Eden-brightness alternating With solemn, awe-inspiring night; Ocean's broad waves in wild commotion, Against the rocks' deep base are hurled; And with the spheres, both rock and ocean Eternally are swiftly whirled.
MICHAEL
And tempests roar in emulation From sea to land, from land to sea, And raging form, without cessation, A chain of wondrous agency, Full in the thunder's path careering,
Flaring the swift destructions play; But, Lord, Thy servants are revering The mild procession of thy day.
THE THREE
Thine aspect to the powers supernal Gives strength, though fathom thee none may; And all thy works, sublime, eternal, Are fair as on the primal day.
MEPHISTOPHELES
Since thou, O Lord, approachest us once more, And how it fares with us, to ask art fain, Since thou hast kindly welcom'd me of yore, Thou see'st me also now among thy train. Excuse me, fine harangues I cannot make, Though all the circle look on me with scorn; My pathos soon thy laughter would awake, Hadst thou the laughing mood not long forsworn. Of suns and worlds I nothing have to say, I see alone mankind's self-torturing pains. The little world-god still the self-same stamp retains, And is as wondrous now as on the primal day. Better he might have fared, poor wight, Hadst thou not given him a gleam of heavenly light; Reason, he names it, and doth so Use it, than brutes more brutish still to grow. With deference to your grace, he seems to me Like any long-legged grasshopper to be, Which ever flies, and flying springs, And in the grass its ancient ditty sings. Would he but always in the grass repose! In every heap of dung he thrusts his nose.
THE LORD
Hast thou naught else to say? Is blame In coming here, as ever, thy sole aim? Does nothing on the earth to thee seem right?
MEPHISTOPHELES
No, Lord! I find things there, as ever, in sad plight. Men, in their evil days, move my compassion; Such sorry things to plague is nothing worth.
THE LORD
Know'st thou my servant, Faust?
MEPHISTOPHELES
The doctor?
THE LORD
Right.
MEPHISTOPHELES
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