Part 1

Faust: The First Part of the Tragedy

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Contents

Dedication Prelude in the Theater Prologue in Heaven

Night Before the Gate Study Study Auerbach's Cellar in Leipzig Witch's Kitchen Street (I) Evening A Walk The Neighbor's House Street (II) Garden A Garden Arbour Forest and Cavern Gretchen's Room Marthe's Garden At the Fountain The Ramparts Night. Street before Gretchen's Door Cathedral Walpurgis Night Walpurgis Night's Dream Gloomy Day. Field Night, Open Country Dungeon

Dedication

You come again, you wavering forms, That once appeared to my dim gaze of old. Shall I attempt to hold you fast this time? Do I still feel my heart inclined to that illusion? You press on me! then well, let me obey, As you rise around me out of mist and haze; My bosom feels youthfully shaken By the magic breath that hovers round your train.

You bring with you the images of happy days, And many a dear shadow rises too; Like an old, half-faded legend First love and friendship come forth as well; The pain grows new, the lament is repeated Of life's labyrinthine, erring course, And names the good ones, who, deceived of fair hours By fortune, have vanished before me.

They hear not the following songs, The souls for whom I sang the first; Scattered is the friendly throng, Silenced, alas! the first response. My song sounds for the unknown multitude, Their very applause makes my heart afraid, And what once rejoiced in my song, If still it lives, wanders scattered through the world.

And there seizes me a long-unwonted yearning For that silent, solemn spirit-realm, It hovers now in undefined tones, My lisping song, like Aeolus's harp, A shudder takes me, tear follows tear, The stern heart feels mild and soft; What I possess I see as in the distance, And what vanished becomes reality to me.

Prelude in the Theater

Director. Theater-Poet. Merry Person:

DIRECTOR. You two, who so often stood by me In need and sorrow, tell me what You hope, in German lands, of our enterprise? I would fain please the crowd, Especially since it lives and lets live. The posts are set, the boards are laid, And everyone expects a feast. They sit there already with lofty brows, Composed, and would fain be amazed. I know how to reconcile the spirit of the people; Yet never was I in such perplexity. True, they are not used to the best, But they have read an awful lot. How shall we do, that all be fresh and new And pleasing too, with meaning fraught? For indeed I love to see the crowd When the stream presses toward our booth, And with mightily repeated heavings Squeezes through the narrow gate of grace; In broad daylight, even before four, Fights with pushes up to the box, And, as in famine at bakers' doors for bread, Almost breaks its neck for a ticket. This wonder, on such different folk, The poet works alone; my friend, oh do it today!

POET. Oh speak not to me of that motley crowd, At whose sight the spirit flies from us. Conceal from me the surging throng That draws us, against our will, into the whirl. No, lead me to the quiet heavenly meadow Where pure joy blooms for the poet alone; Where love and friendship, our heart's blessing, Are created and tended by the hand of gods.

Ah! what in deep breast then sprang forth from us, What the lip timidly babbled, Misshapen now and perhaps successful now, Is swallowed by the wild moment's force. Often, when it has pierced through years at last, It appears in perfected shape. What glitters is born for the instant, The genuine remains unlost to posterity.

MERRY PERSON. If only I were not to hear of posterity. Suppose I wished to speak of posterity, Who then would give the present age its fun? That it wants, and shall have. The presence of a decent lad Is, I should think, always already something. Who knows to communicate with comfort Will not be embittered by the people's mood; He wishes himself a great circle, To shake them more surely. So be decent and show yourselves exemplary, Let fantasy, with all her choirs, Reason, understanding, feeling, passion, Yet, mark well! not without folly, be heard.

DIRECTOR. Above all, let enough take place! One comes to look, one likes best to see. If much is spun out before the eyes, So that the crowd can gape in wonder, Then you have won at once in breadth, You are a much-beloved man. The mass you can only compel by mass, Each finally seeks out something for himself. Who brings much, brings something to many; And each goes satisfied from the house. If you give a play, then give it at once in pieces! Such a ragout must succeed with you; It is easily served, as easily devised. What helps it if you offer a whole? The public will pick it to pieces anyway.

POET. You feel not how base such a trade is! How little that befits the true artist! The neat gentlemen's botching Is, I perceive, already your maxim.

DIRECTOR. Such a reproach leaves me unhurt. A man who means to work rightly Must keep the best tools. Consider, you have soft wood to split, And only look, for whom you write! If boredom drives these, That one comes sated from the over-laden meal, And, what remains the very worst, Many come from reading the journals. They hasten, distracted, to us, as to the masked balls, And curiosity alone speeds every step; The ladies display themselves and their finery And play without pay. What dream you on your poet's height? What makes a full house glad you? Look at the patrons near! Half are cold, half are crude. This one, after the play, hopes a game of cards, That one a wild night on a harlot's bosom. Why plague you poor fools much, To such an end, the lovely muses? I tell you, give only more and ever, ever more, So you can never stray from the goal; Only seek to confuse the people, To satisfy them is hard— What ails you? rapture or pain?

POET. Go and seek another servant! The poet should surely possess the highest right, The human right, which nature grants him, For your sake wantonly squander! Whereby moves he all hearts? Whereby conquers he every element? Is it not the harmony that breaks from the breast And winds the world back into his heart? When nature forces the eternal length of the thread, Indifferently turning, on the spindle, When all beings' unharmonious multitude Clinks disagreeably all together; Who divides the ever-flowing, equal row Into living parts, that it moves rhythmically? Who calls the single to universal consecration, Where it beats in glorious chords? Who lets the storm rage into passions? The sunset glow in earnest sense? Who pours all beautiful spring blossoms On the path of the beloved? Who weaves the insignificant green leaves Into the wreath of honor for every merit? Who secures Olympus? unites gods? Man's power, revealed in the poet.

MERRY PERSON. Then use them, the beautiful powers, And ply the poetical business As one plys a love-adventure. By chance one draws near, one feels, one stays And gradually one is entangled; Happiness grows, then is contested, One is enraptured, now comes pain along, And ere one is aware, it is just a novel. Let us give such a play too! Only reach into full human life! Each lives it, to few is it known, And where you seize it, there it is interesting. In motley pictures little clarity, Much error and a spark of truth, So is brewed the best draught That refreshes and builds up all the world. Then gathers the fairest bloom of youth Before your play and listens to the revelation, Then sucks each tender mind From your work melancholy nourishment, Then soon this, soon that is stirred, Each sees what he bears in his heart. Still they are alike ready to weep and laugh, Still they honor the flight, rejoice in the show; Who is finished, to him nothing is done right; A becoming one will always be grateful.

POET. So give me back the times also When I myself was still becoming, When a spring of crowded songs Uninterruptedly bore new birth, When mist veiled the world to me, The bud still promised wonder, When I broke the thousand flowers That richly filled all valleys. I had nothing and yet enough. The drive for truth and the joy in illusion. Give unbound those urges, The deep, pain-filled happiness, Hatred's force, love's power, Give me back my youth!

MERRY PERSON. Of youth, good friend, you need at most When enemies press you in battles, When with violence round your neck The dearest maidens hang, When far the swift race's wreath Beckons from the hardly reached goal, When after the violent whirling dance One drinks away the nights feasting. But into the familiar string-play To strike with courage and grace, Toward a self-set goal To wander with lovely erring, That, old sirs, is your duty, And we honor you no less for it. Age does not make childish, as is said, It finds us only still as true children.

DIRECTOR. Enough of words have been exchanged, Let me at last see deeds! While you turn compliments, Something useful may happen. What helps it to talk much of mood? To the hesitating it never appears. Once you give yourselves out as poets, Then command poetry. You know what we require, We want to quaff strong drinks; Now brew me at once thereof! What is not done today is not done tomorrow, And no day shall one miss, The possible shall resolution Boldly seize at once by the forelock, It will not let it go then And works on, because it must.

You know, on our German stages Each tries what he may; So spare me not on this day Scenery nor machines. Use the great, and small heavenly light, The stars you may squander; Of water, fire, rocky walls, Of beasts and birds there is no lack. So step, in the narrow board-house, The whole circle of creation out, And wander with deliberate speed From heaven through the world to hell.

Prologue in Heaven

The Lord. The Heavenly Hosts. Afterwards Mephistopheles. The three archangels step forward.

RAPHAEL. The sun intones, in ancient wise, In brother-spheres' rival song, And its prescribed course Completes with thundering pace. Its sight gives the angels strength, Though none may fathom it; The incomprehensibly high works Are glorious as on the first day.

GABRIEL. And swift and incomprehensibly swift Turns the earth's splendor around; It alternates paradise-brightness With deep, awful night. The sea foams in broad streams On the deep ground of the rocks, And rock and sea are torn along In eternally swift sphere-course.

MICHAEL. And storms roar in rivalry From sea to land, from land to sea, And madly form a chain Of deepest effect all around. Then flames a lightning devastation Before the path of the thunderclap. Yet your messengers, Lord, honor The gentle wandering of your day.

ALL THREE. The sight gives the angels strength, Since none may fathom you, And all your high works Are glorious as on the first day.

MEPHISTOPHELES. Since you, O Lord, once more draw near And ask how all fares with us, And you used formerly to like seeing me, So you see me too among the train. Pardon, I cannot make lofty speeches, And if the whole circle mocks me; My pathos would surely make you laugh, Had you not weaned yourself from laughing. Of sun and worlds I know not to speak, I see only how men plague themselves. The little god of the world remains ever of the same stamp, And is as queer as on the first day. He would live a little better, Had you not given him the semblance of heavenly light; He calls it reason and uses it alone, To be more beastly than any beast. He seems to me, with your graces' leave, Like one of the long-legged cicadas, That ever flies and springing flies And straight in the grass sings its old little song; And would he only lay still in the grass! In every mess he buries his nose.

THE LORD. Have you nothing further to say to me? Do you come only ever to complain? Is nothing on earth ever right to you?

MEPHISTOPHELES. No, Lord! I find it there, as always, heartily bad. The men move me in their days of woe, I would not even plague the poor myself.

THE LORD. Do you know Faust?

MEPHISTOPHELES. The doctor?

THE LORD. My servant!

MEPHISTOPHELES. Indeed! he serves you in a special way. Not earthly is the fool's drink nor food. Fermentation drives him into the distance, He is half aware of his own madness; From heaven he demands the fairest stars And from earth every highest pleasure, And all near and all far Satisfies not the deeply moved breast.

THE LORD. Though he serves me but confusedly, Soon will I lead him into clarity. The gardener knows, when the little tree greens, That flower and fruit shall grace the coming years.

MEPHISTOPHELES. What will you wager? him shall you yet lose! If you give me the permission, To lead him gently my way.

THE LORD. As long as he lives on earth, So long be it not forbidden you; Man errs, so long as he strives.

MEPHISTOPHELES. Therein I thank you; for with the dead Have I never willingly entangled myself. Most of all I love the full, fresh cheeks. For a corpse I am not at home; It goes with me as with the cat and the mouse.

THE LORD. Now well, be it left to you! Draw this spirit from his primal source, And lead him, if you can seize him, Down with you on your way, And stand ashamed, when you must confess: A good man, in his dark striving, Is aware of the right way well.

MEPHISTOPHELES. Very well! only it will not last long. For my wager I am not at all anxious. If I attain my end, You will allow me triumph from full breast. Dust shall he eat, and with lust, Like my cousin, the famous serpent.

THE LORD. You may also appear freely there; I have never hated your kind. Of all spirits who deny, The knave is least a burden to me. Man's activity can all too easily slacken, He soon loves unconditional rest; Therefore I gladly give him the companion, Who provokes and works and must create as devil. But you, true sons of gods, Rejoice in the livingly rich beauty! The becoming, that works and lives eternally, Embrace you with love's gentle bounds, And what in wavering appearance floats, Fix with enduring thoughts! (The heaven closes, the archangels disperse.)

MEPHISTOPHELES (alone). From time to time I see the old one gladly, And take care not to break with him. It is quite nice of a great lord, To speak so humanly even with the devil himself.

FAUST: The First Part of the Tragedy

Night

In a high-vaulted, narrow Gothic chamber Faust, restless in his armchair at the desk.

FAUST. I have now, alas! philosophy, Jurisprudence and medicine, And, sadly, theology too Studied through, with fervent toil. Here I stand, poor fool that I am! And am as wise as before; Am called Magister, yes Doctor even, And for nearly ten years now Up, down and cross and crooked Have led my students by the nose— And see, that we can know nothing! That well-nigh burns my heart away. True, I am cleverer than all the fops, Doctors, magisters, scribes and parsons; No scruples nor doubts plague me, Fear neither hell nor devil— For that all joy is taken from me too, I imagine not that I know what's right, Imagine not that I could teach aught, To better and convert men. Also have I neither goods nor gold, Nor honor and glory of the world; No dog would wish to live thus longer! Therefore have I given myself to magic, If through spirit's power and mouth Not many a secret might be revealed; That I need no more with sour sweat Say what I do not know; That I perceive what holds the world In its inmost union, See all working-force and seed, And no more rummage in words.

Oh if you saw, full of moonlight, For the last time upon my pain, Which I have watched through many a midnight At this desk awake. Then over books and paper, Sorrowful friend, you appeared to me! Ah! could I but on mountain heights Go in your dear light, Hover with spirits round mountain-caves, Weave in your twilight on the meadows, Of all knowledge's fumes unladen, Bathe healthy in your dew!

Woe! am I still stuck in this dungeon? Accursed stuffy hole of wall, Where even the dear heavenly light Breaks dimly through painted panes! Confined with this heap of books, Which worms gnaw, dust covers, Up to the high vault Surrounded by smoke-stained paper; With glasses, boxes set all around, Crammed with instruments, Ancestors' household stuff stuffed in— That is your world! that is called a world!

And ask you still, why your heart Clings anxiously in your breast? Why an unexplained pain Stops all your life's pulsation? Instead of living nature, Where God created man into, Surrounds in smoke and mold only You with beast-skeletons and dead bones.

Flee! up! out into the wide land! And this mysterious book, By Nostradamus' own hand, Is it not guidance enough for you? You will then know the stars' course, And when nature instructs you, Then the soul's power opens to you, As one spirit speaks to another. In vain, that dry brooding here Explains the holy signs to you. You hover, you spirits, near me; Answer me, if you hear me! (He opens the book and beholds the sign of the macrocosm.)

Ha! what bliss flows in this glance At once through all my senses! I feel young, holy life's happiness New-glowing run through nerve and vein. Was it a god who wrote these signs, That still my inner raging, Fill the poor heart with joy, And with mysterious drive Reveal the forces of nature round about me? Am I a god? it grows so light to me! I see in these pure traits Active nature lie before my soul. Now first I know what the wise man says: “The spirit-world is not closed; Your sense is shut, your heart is dead! Up, bathe, unwearied scholar, The earthly breast in morning-red!” (He contemplates the sign.)

How all weaves itself into the whole, One works and lives in the other! How heavenly forces rise and sink And pass the golden buckets! With blessing-fragrant wings Pierce from heaven through the earth, Harmoniously all the all resounding!

What a spectacle! but alas! a spectacle only! Where shall I grasp you, infinite nature? You breasts, where? you sources of all life, On which heaven and earth hang, To which the withered breast presses— You well, you nourish, and I thirst thus in vain? (He turns the book angrily and beholds the sign of the Earth-Spirit.)

How differently this sign works on me! You, spirit of the earth, are nearer to me; Already I feel my powers higher, Already glow I as with new wine. I feel courage to venture into the world, To bear earth's woe, earth's bliss, To battle with storms And not to quail in the shipwreck's crunch. It clouds above me— The moon hides its light— The lamp fades! It steams! red beams flash Around my head—It wafts A shudder from the vault down And seizes me! I feel it, you hover round me, entreated spirit Reveal yourself! Ha! how it tears in my heart! To new feelings All my senses stir! I feel my whole heart given to you! You must! you must! though it cost my life! (He seizes the book and speaks the spirit's sign mysteriously. A reddish flame flickers, the spirit appears in the flame.)

SPIRIT. Who calls me?

FAUST (turned away). Dreadful sight!

SPIRIT. You have powerfully drawn me, Long sucked at my sphere, And now—

FAUST. Woe! I cannot bear you!

SPIRIT. You implore, gasping, to see me, To hear my voice, to behold my face; My powerful soul-pleading bends you, Here I am!—What pitiful horror Seizes you, superman! Where is the soul's call? Where is the breast that created a world within itself And bore and nurtured it, that swelled with joy To rise, like us, the spirits, equal? Where are you, Faust, whose voice rang to me, Who pressed upon me with all his forces? Are you he, who, by my breath surrounded, In all life's situations trembles, A fearfully curled worm?

FAUST. Shall I yield to you, flame-shape? I am he, am Faust, am your equal!

SPIRIT. In life's floods, in action's storm, I surge up and down, Weave to and fro! Birth and grave, An eternal sea, A changing breath, A glowing life, Thus I work at the rushing loom of time And weave the living garment of the deity.

FAUST. You who roam the wide world, Busy spirit, how near I feel to you!

SPIRIT. You resemble the spirit you comprehend, Not me! (Vanishes.)

FAUST (collapsing). Not you? Whom then? I image of the deity! And not even you! (A knock.)

O death! I know it—that is my famulus— My fairest happiness is brought to nought! That this fullness of visions The dry sneak must disturb! (Wagner in dressing-gown and nightcap, a lamp in his hand. Faust turns away displeased.)

WAGNER. Pardon! I heard you declaim; You were surely reading a Greek tragedy? In this art I would profit somewhat, For nowadays it has much effect. I have often heard it praised, A comedian could teach a parson.

FAUST. Yes, when the parson is a comedian; As that may well happen at times.

WAGNER. Ah! when one is banished so in his museum, And sees the world scarce on a holiday, Scarcely through a spyglass, only from afar, How shall one lead it by persuasion?

FAUST. If you do not feel it, you will not capture it, If it does not break from the soul And with primal forceful delight Compel the hearts of all hearers. Sit you only ever! glue together, Brew a ragout of others' feast And blow the pitiful flames Out of your little heap of ashes! Admiration from children and apes, If your palate craves that; But you will never make heart to heart, If it does not go from your heart.

WAGNER. Yet delivery makes the speaker's fortune; I feel it well, I am still far behind.

FAUST. Seek honest gain! Be no tinkling-fool! Sense and right meaning With little art present themselves! And if it is earnest with you, what to say, Is it needful to chase after words? Yes, your speeches, which are so glittering, In which you curl humanity's snippets, Are as unrefreshing as the mist-wind, That autumnally sighs through the dry leaves!

WAGNER. Ah God! art is long; And short is our life. Mine becomes, at my critical endeavor, Often anxious for head and breast. How hard are not the means to acquire, Through which one climbs to the sources! And ere one reaches but the half-way, Must a poor devil die.

FAUST. The parchment, is that the holy well, From which a draught stills thirst eternally? Refreshment you have not won, If it does not spring from your own soul.

WAGNER. Pardon! it is a great delight, To transport oneself into the spirit of the ages; To see how a wise man thought before us, And how we have finally brought it so gloriously far.

FAUST. Oh yes, far as the stars! My friend, the times of the past Are to us a book with seven seals. What you call the spirit of the ages, That is in ground the gentlemen's own spirit, In which the ages are mirrored. There it is truly often a misery! One runs from you at first sight. A dust-bin and a lumber-room And at most a principal and state action With excellent pragmatic maxims, As might befit puppets in the mouth!

WAGNER. But the world! man's heart and spirit! Might everyone yet recognize something thereof.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”