University of Virginia Library

FAUSTUS'S STUDY.
FAUSTUS—MEPHISTOPHELES.
Faustus.
A knock!—Come in—who now comes to torment me?

Mephistopheles.
'Tis I.

Faustus.
Come in.

Mephistopheles.
You must command me thrice.

Faustus.
Come in, then.

Mephistopheles.
That will do—I'm satisfied—
We soon shall be the best friends in the world.
[Enters.
From your mind to scatter wholly
The mists of peevish melancholy,
Hither come I now, and bear
Of a young lord the noble air,
And mask me in his character;
My dress is splendid, you behold,
Blazing with the ruddy gold,
With my stiff silken mantle's pride,
And the long sword hanging by my side,
And o'er my cap the cock's proud feather—
I'm a fine fellow altogether.
And now, my friend, without delay,
Equip yourself in like array,
That, light and free, you thus may see
Life's many pleasures what they be!

Faustus.
Oh! I would feel in such a dress more bitterly
The narrow cramping limits of man's nature!
I am too old to yield myself to pleasure,
Too young to have the appetite departed.
What can earth give me now? “Refrain, refrain!”
This is the everlasting song—the chime
Perpetually jingling in the ears,
And with hoarse accents every hour repeats it.
Each morn, with a dull sense of something dreadful,
I wake, and from my bitter heart could weep
To see another day, which, in its course,
Will not fulfil one wish of mine—not one!
The teasing crowd of small anxieties,
That each day brings, have frittered into dust
All joy, until the very hope of joy
Is something, that the heart has ceased to feel;—
And life's poor masquerade—vapid and wayward,
And worthless as it is—breaks in upon,
And dissipates, the world, which for itself
The lonely man's imagination builds;
—And, when the night is come, with heavy heart
Must I lie down upon my bed, where rest
Is never granted me, where wild dreams come,
Hideous and scaring. The in-dwelling spirit,
Whose temple is my heart, who rules its powers,
Can stir the bosom to its lowest depths,
But has no power to move external nature;
And therefore is existence burdensome,
And death desirable, and life detested.

Mephistopheles.
Yet death's a guest not altogether welcome.

Faustus.
Oh, happy he for whom, in victory's hour
Of splendour, death around his temples binds
The laurel dyed with blood, and happy he
Whom, in his true love's arms, he finds reposing—
Oh, that before that mighty Spirit's power
My individual being was dissolved,
My life absorbed, my soul unchained from earth!

Mephistopheles.
And yet one night I saw a certain man
Forbear to taste a certain dark-brown liquid.

Faustus.
'Tis then, it seems, your gentlemanly practice
To amuse yourself in playing the spy's part.

Mephistopheles.
I know not ALL, but some things I do know.

Faustus.
And if from harrowing thoughts the rich old chaunt
Did win me; and the old remembered words,
And the old music, like a spell recalling
Faded remembrances;—if, in the trance,
All that remained of my boy's heart was captive
To the charmed echo of more happy days—
Know I not—feel I not it was illusion?
—We are but what the senses make of us!—
And this, and all illusion do I curse;
All that beguiles us man or boy—that winds
Over the heart its nets, and chains us here
In thraldom down or voluntary trance;
This magic jugglery, that fools the soul,—
These obscure powers that cloud and flatter it!
Oh, cursed first of all be the high thoughts
That man conceives of his own attributes!
And cursed be the shadowy appearances,
The false delusive images of things.
That slave and mock the senses! cursed be
The hypocrite dreams that soothe us when we think
Of fame—of deathless and enduring names!
Cursed be all that, in self-flattery,
We call our own,—wife, child, or slave, or plough;—
Curse upon Mammon, when with luring gold
He stirs our souls to hardy deeds, or when
He spreads the couch of indolent repose;
A curse upon the sweet grape's balmy juice;
And the passionate joys of love,—man's highest joys!
And cursed be all hope and all belief;
And cursed, more than all, man's tame endurance.

Song of invisible Spirits.
Woe! woe!
Thou hast destroyed it!
This beautiful world:
Mighty his hand who dealt
The blow through Nature felt!
Earth withers: a Demigod cursed it!
A shock from the Spirit that shaped and enjoyed it;
A blight from the bosom that nursed it!
The fragments we sweep Down Night's desolate steep,
O'er the fading glitter we mourn and we weep!—
Proud and powerful
Son of earth,
To second birth,
Call again the pageant splendid—
Oh, restore what thou hast rended—
Be no more the wreck thou art—
Re-commence, with clearer sense,
And build within thy secret heart;
Re-create, with better fate,
Another world on firmer ground,
And far and near, and all around,
With songs of joy and triumphing,
Heaven and the happy earth shall ring.

Mephistopheles.

Faustus.
And what must I give in return?

Mephistopheles.
Oh, time enough to think of that hereafter.

Faustus.
No, no! the devil is selfish—very selfish—
Does nothing for God's sake or from good nature:
Come, out with your conditions, and speak plainly—
There's little luck, I trow, with such a servant.

Mephistopheles.
I bind myself to be thy servant here,
To run and rest not at thy beck and bidding;
And when we meet again in yonder place,
There, in like manner, thou shalt be my servant.

Faustus.
That yonder place gives me but small concern;
When thou hast first shattered this world to atoms,
There may be others then, for aught I care.
All joys, that I can feel, from this earth flow,
And this sun shines upon my miseries!
And were I once divorced from them I care not
What may hereafter happen—of these things
I'll hear no more—I do not seek to know
If man, in future life, still hates and loves;
If in the spheres above, as well as here,
Are differences of suffering and enjoyment,
Debasement and superiority.

Mephistopheles.
With feelings such as these you well may venture.
Make only the engagement, and at once
All will be pleasure—I have rare devices,
And of my craft will show thee many marvels,
Right strange and merry scenes will conjure up:
Sights shalt thou see that man hath never seen.

Faustus.
Thou—what hast thou—poor devil?—The heart of Man—
Man's seeking—struggling spirit,—hopes,—aspirings
Infinite—are they things to be conceived
By natures such as thou art? yet hast thou,
Poor devil, in thy degree, a wherewithal
To wile and win us;—delicates uncloying
Are—are they not?—among these lures of thine?
Yea! hast thou the red gold that restlessly
Like quicksilver glides from the hand?—a game
At which none wins, yet is it play?—a girl
That, with her lavish arms around my breast,
And from her nestling-place on my poor bosom
With willing eyes ogles and wooes another.
—And splendour hast thou?—rank?—wilt give me these?—
The star-bright meteors of Ambition's heaven?
Ay! let me see this pleasant fruit of thine,
That rots before we gather it—the trees
That each day bud and bloom anew.

Mephistopheles.
This order
Is without difficulty executed—
Fine things to fancy—and they shall be yours;
But by and by we'll find the Doctor's taste
Improving,—we'll have our own pleasant places,
And our tit bits, and our snug little parties,
And—what will keep the Doctor's spirit quiet;—
—I promise you, you'll feel what comfort is.

Faustus.
Comfort and quiet!—no, no! none of these
For me;—I ask them not—I seek them not.
If ever I upon the bed of sloth
Lie down and rest, then be the hour, in which
I so lie down and rest, my last of life.
Canst thou by falsehood or by flattery
Make me one moment with myself at peace,
Cheat me into tranquillity? come, then,
And welcome life's last day—be this our wager.

Mephistopheles.
Done.

Faustus.
Done, say I—clench we at once the bargain.
If ever time should flow so calmly on,
Soothing my spirits into such oblivion,
That in the pleasant trance I would arrest,
And hail the happy moment in its course,
Bidding it linger with me—“Oh, how fair
“Art thou, delicious moment!”—“Happy days,
“Why will ye flee?”—“Fair visions! yet a little
“Abide with me, and bless me—fly not yet,”
Or words like these—then throw me into fetters—
Then willingly do I consent to perish;
Then may the death-bell peal its heavy sounds;
Then is thy service at an end—and then
The clock may cease to strike—the hand to move—
For me be time then passed away for ever!

Mephistopheles.
Consider well—for we will not forget.

Faustus.
Remember, or forget it, as you please;
I have resolved—and that not rashly: here,
While I remain, I needs must be a slave—
What matter, therefore, whether thine, or whose?

Mephistopheles.
I will to-day, then, at the Doctor's table
Attend as servant, and discharge the duties.
Just one thing more—as life and death's uncertain,
I'd wish to have a line or two in writing.

Faustus.
And dost thou ask a writing, too, poor pedant?
Know you not Man? Man's nature? or Man's word?
Is it not enough that I have spoken it?
My very life—all that I have and am,
What is it but an echo of my word,
Pledge of the will that gives it utterance?
If words be nothing, what is writing more?
Is the world's course one sea of stormy madness,—
Its thousand streams, in conflict everlasting,
Raving regardlessly? roll they not on?
Must they not roll?—and can it be that I,
In this perpetual movement, shall not move—
Held back, the slave and prisoner of a promise?
Yet in this fancy all believe alike:
If a delusion, all men are deluded—
And is there one that would be undeceived?
Truth and the feeling of integrity
Are of the heart's own essence—should they call
For sufferings, none repents the sacrifice.
Oh, happy he, whom Truth accompanies
In all his walks—from outward cumbrance free—
Pure of all soil—dwelling within the heart,
Light to his steps and guidance: oracle
To lead or to mislead, none doth he seek;
Consults no casuist, but an honest conscience;
Of sacrifices recks not, and repents not.
But a stamped parchment and a formal deed,
With seal and signature, all shrink from this
As something that offends and wounds our nature;
It robs, methinks, the words of all their life,
The letter, and that only binds us now;
Such virtue, and no other can it have,
As seal and stamp, as lead and wax can give—
But why?—why argue for it or against it?—
Is writing more than the unwritten word?
—What, evil one, what is it you require?
Brass? marble? parchment? paper?—do you wish
Graver or chissel? or plain pen and ink?—
Have which you please—any or all of them.

Mephistopheles.
Why this excitement? why this waste of oratory?
These frantic gestures?—any scrap will do;—
Just scratch your name, there, in a drop of blood.

Faustus.
A silly farce—but if it gratifies you—

Mephistopheles.
Blood it must be—blood has peculiar virtues.

Faustus.
Fear not that I will break this covenant:
The only impulse now that sways my powers,
My sole desire in life, is what I've promised!
I've been puffed up with fancies too aspiring,
My rank is not more high than thine; I am
Degraded and despised by the Great Spirit;
Nature is sealed from me; the web of thought
Is shattered; burst into a thousand threads;
I loathe, and sicken at the name of knowledge.
Now in the depths of sensuality
To still these burning passions; to be wrapped
In the impenetrable cloak of magic,
With things miraculous to feast the senses!
Let's fling ourselves into the stream of time,
Into the tumbling waves of accident,
Let pain and pleasure, loathing and enjoyment,
Mingle and alternate, as it may be;
Restlessness is man's best activity.

Mephistopheles.
Nothing whatever is there to restrain you—
If your desires be as you say, to taste
Of every sweet—sip all things—settle nowhere—
Catching each moment while upon the wing
In random motion all that meets the eye,
Rifling from every flower its bloom and fragrance,
If any thing will do that is amusing—
I wish you joy of this new life—come on—
Set to at once—come—come, no bashful loitering.

Faustus.
Hearken. I have not said one word of bliss—
Henceforth do I devote and yield myself,
Heart, soul, and life, to rapturous excitement—
Such dizzy, such intoxicating joy,
As, when we stand upon a precipice,
Makes reel the giddy sense and the brain whirl!
From this day forward am I dedicate
To the indulgence of tempestuous passion—
Love agonising—idolising hatred—
Cheering vexation—all that animates
And is our nature; and the heart, serened
And separated from the toil of knowledge,
Cured of the fever that so long oppressed it,
Shall cease to shut itself against the wounds
Of pain: whate'er is portioned 'mong mankind
In my own intimate self shall I enjoy,
With my soul grasp all thoughts most high or deep,
Heap on my heart all human joys and woes,
Expand myself until mankind become
A part, as 'twere, of my identity,
And they and I at last together perish.

Mephistopheles.
Believe me, who for many thousand years
Have fed on this hard food unwillingly.
Man from the cradle to the grave, in youth
Or age, is still unable to digest
The ancient leaven of grief, that spreads through all.
Oh, well mayest thou give faith to one of us,
Who tells thee that this universal life
Is suited to the Deity alone:
Himself, he dwells in brightness everlasting;
Us he hath driven into eternal darkness;
For day and night your nature is adapted.

Faustus.
This daunts not me!

Mephistopheles.
Said boldly and said well!
To me there seems to be one obstacle;
Ars longa, vita brevis—the old story—
Take a few lessons more—and then determine.
Call to your aid some builder up of verses,
Let his mind wander in the fields of thought,
Imagining high attributes to heap
On you—the lion's magnanimity—
The fleetness of the stag—the fiery blood
That dances in the hearts of Italy—
The constancy and firmness of the North—
Let his invention gift you with the secret,
With lofty thoughts low cunning to combine—
To love with all a young heart's ardent impulses,
Yet following closely some cold plan of reason—
Oh, if I chanced to meet a man, who thus
Could reconcile all contrarieties,
In truth I know no other name that I
Could give him justly, than “Sir Microcosm.”

Faustus.
What am I, then? if it be thus impossible
For man, however he may strive, to win
The crown for which his every feeling pants?

Mephistopheles.
Thou art at last that which thou wert at first—
Fix to thy head ten thousand lying curls,
Or place thy feet on stilts a cubit high,
Still wilt thou end in being what thou art.

Faustus.
I feel that 'tis in vain I would assume
The universal feelings of mankind—
Their soul and being;—I must end at last,
Feeling within myself no added powers,
Not by one hair's breadth higher than before,—
As far as ever from the eternal nature!

Mephistopheles.
You view the thing, good sir, as men view things:
This must be made more clear, or we will lose
Life's pleasures—what, the vengeance—hands and feet,
And head and heart, are thine, confessedly.
But are the things which I command, enjoy,
And use at will, the less to be called mine?
When I behold six horses at my service,
Is not their strength, and speed, and vigour, mine?
I move as rapidly, and feel, in truth,
As if their four-and-twenty limbs were mine.
But come, let's haste into society,—
Away into the world, and yield ourselves
Up to the pleasures which the senses give—
I tell thee, that a calculating wretch—
Your moralist—your deep philosopher—
Is like a beast upon a withered heath,
By a bad spirit hurried round and round,
In the same grassless circle—while, on all sides,
Unseen by him, the bright green pastures shine.

Faustus.
But how begin?

Mephistopheles.
First, must we fly from hence—
What place of martyrdom is this? what life
Is this to lead? or can you call it life,
Wearying yourself and pupils thus for ever?
Afraid, even in a hint, to intimate
Your best acquirements to the boys who crowd
Your lecture-room; even now upon the stairs
I hear the foot of one.

Faustus.
Impossible; I cannot see him now.

Mephistopheles.
[Faustus exit.
(Mephistopheles in Faustus's long gown.)

Student enters.
Student.
I am but just arrived—your name
My chief attraction; and I came
At once,—forgive my strong desire
To see and speak to him, whose fame
Has spread so far—whom all admire.

Mephistopheles.
Fame has been most obliging, then:
You see a man like other men—
Did you seek farther, you might meet
Abler instructors.

Student.
I entreat
Your care and counsel—with a guide
Where could I better be supplied?
I come with heart and spirits free,
And youth—and the professor's fee.
My mother scarce would let me come;
But I love learning more than home—
Have for improvement travelled far—

Mephistopheles.
And in the best place for it are.

Student.
And yet, if I the truth may say,
I would I were again away:
Walls like these, and halls like these,
Will, I fear, in no wise please!
The narrow gloom of this cold room,
Where nothing green is ever seen;
No lawn—no tree—no floweret's bloom—
'Mong benches, books, my heart is sinking,
And my wasted senses shrinking—
I mourn the hour that I came hither;
Ear, and eye, and heart will die,
Thought, and the power of thought, will wither.

Mephistopheles.
This is all custom: as at first
Unwillingly the young child sips
The breast; but soon, with eager thirst,
And pressure of delighted lips,
Clings to the mother's heart, that gives
The living food on which he lives;
Thus thou, each day more deeply blest,
Wilt drink from Wisdom's nursing breast.

Student.
Oh, to my heart shall she be strained
With love!—but how is she obtained?

Mephistopheles.
First, let me beg, that you will mention
What line of life is your intention?

Student.
Oh, I long ardently to know
Whatever man may learn below,
All that we contemplate on earth,
And all that in the heaven hath birth,
To roam through learning's wondrous maze,
And comprehend all nature's ways.

Mephistopheles.
Right; but by prudence still be guided,
Guard most, that thought and mind be not
Much dissipated and divided.

Student.
With soul and strength will I apply,
But now and then could seize with pleasure
A few short hours of idle leisure,
A little thoughtless liberty;
A pleasant summer holyday,
When skies are bright, and fields are gay.

Mephistopheles.
Make good use of your time, for fast
Time flies, and is for ever past;
To make time for yourself begin
By order—method—discipline;
For this I counsel my young friend
A course of logic to attend;
Thus will your mind, well-trained, and high,
In Spanish boots stalk pompously!
With solemn look, and crippled pace,
The beaten road of thought will trace:
Nor here and there, through paths oblique,
In devious wanderings idly strike;
Then in long lessons are you taught,
That, in the processes of thought,
Which hitherto unmarked had gone,
Like eating, and like drinking, on,
One, Two, and Three, the guide must be
In things which were till now so free.
But, as the weaver's work is wrought,
Even so is formed the web of thought;
One movement leads a thousand threads,
Unseen they move, as now above
The shuttle darts, and now darts under;
One beat combines a thousand twines,
And, with one blow, at once will go
A thousand binding ties asunder.
And thus with your philosopher
Who teaches wisely to infer—
The first was so—the second so—
Then must the third and fourth be so—
And if the premises be hollow
That the conclusion will not follow.
Such things charm students every where,
But none is a philosopher—
For he, who seeks to learn, or gives
Descriptions of, a thing that lives,
Begins with “murdering, to dissect,”
The lifeless parts he may inspect—
The limbs are there beneath his knife,
And all—but that which gave them life!
Alas! the spirit hath withdrawn,
That which informed the mass is gone—
They scrutinise it, when it ceases
To be itself, and count its pieces—
Finger and feel them, and call this
Experiment—analysis.
Is what we handle then the whole?
Is there no animating soul?
In nature is there nothing meant?
No law, no language of intent?
Oh! could your chemist, in whose hand
The fragments are, but understand
The terms he uses! “Encheiresis
Naturæ”—for the phrase expresses
With scorn, that it seems strange should be
In words thus accidentally,
How less than nothing can avail
These tricks of dabbling and detail.

Student.
I cannot wholly comprehend your meaning.

Mephistopheles.
No matter—next time you'll get better on—
When you have learned to arrange, and classify,
And body all you hear in syllogisms.

Student.
My brain is stupified—I feel
As if, within my head, a wheel
Was whirling round with ceaseless reel.

Mephistopheles.
Next—most important thing of all—
With zeal to metaphysics fall.
There, see—or think that you see—plain,
What—does not pass within the brain.
Our faculties are too confined
To guide us here—the human mind
Fails—and we are and must be blind.
Thoughts are or are not in the head,—
Use serviceable words instead;
But first be sure the next half year
At every lecture to appear—
Five hours each day for lecturing—
Be there the moment the bells ring.
Be sure beforehand to prepare,
Have read the syllabus with care;
Have every paragraph well conned,
Watch, lest the teacher go beyond
The matter written in his book;
Then as you write his dictates, look
That you take down verbatim all
And every sentence he lets fall,
As if each sentence scripture were,
That comes from the professor's chair.

Student.
This, sir, you need not tell me twice—
I feel how useful the advice;
What one has thus in black and white,
He can take home with him at night.

Mephistopheles.
But what profession is your choice?

Student.
Law shall not ever have my voice.

Mephistopheles.
In this, I own, you show discerning:
I know, and do not like, this learning.
Laws every where are like the taint
Of an inherited complaint,
The curse of an infected race:
Their downward progress you may trace,
From land to land, through blighted nations,
Afflicting distant generations—
Reason made nonsense by their rules,
And honesty the badge of fools;
Unhappy, that it was thy fate
To have been born an age too late.
The laws for thy great grandsire made
Are laws to thee—must be obeyed—
Must be obeyed, and why? Because,
Bad though they be, they are the laws;
But of the rights by nature taught,
And born with man, they take no thought

Student.
You deepen my abhorrence for
That, which I did before abhor—
I wish to learn Theology.

Mephistopheles.
I fear to lead you wrong—and I
Speak here with more of hesitation.
It is a dangerous vocation,
This same Theology: its ways
Are such a tangled serpent maze—
Such poison every where disguised—
And every where as medicine prized—
That which is which, or why 'tis so,
Few can conjecture—none can know.
The best thing that the case affords
Is—stick to some one doctor's words:
Maintain his doctrines out and out,
Admit no qualifying doubt;
But stick to words at any rate,
Their magic bids the temple gate
Of Certainty fly safely ope—
Words, words alone, are your best hope.

Student.
But in each word must be a thought—

Mephistopheles.
There is, or we may so assume,—
Not always found, nor always sought,
While words—mere words, supply its room.
Words answer well, when men enlist 'em,
In building up a favourite system;
With words men dogmatise, deceive;
With words dispute, on words believe;
And be the meaning much or little,
The Word can lose nor jot nor tittle.

Student.
Pardon—I feel my questions tease you
Just for a moment more—one word
On Medicine, so please you.
With but three years for it, it were absurd
For one like me, without a guide,
To enter on a course so wide;
And your experience may suggest,
In such a field, what path is best.

Mephistopheles
(aside).
(Aloud.)

Student.
This seems more feasible—one sees
Something like reason in all this—
Winning the household through the wife.

Mephistopheles.
Theory, friend, is old and grey,
And green the golden tree of life!

Student.
Is this reality?—so like a dream
All seems! May I, upon some future day,
Resume my visit?—learn the grounds and root
Of these your doctrines?

Mephistopheles.
Come when it may suit.

Student.
One favour more—deem not your guest
Intrusive—grant me this request—
Just in my album write a line.

Mephistopheles.
With pleasure.

[Writes, and returns the Book.
Student
(reads).
Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum.

[Shuts it respectfully, and exit.
Mephistopheles.
If the wily proverb guide thee, and my cousin the sly snake,
A weary man thy likeness to the gods will of thee make!

Faustus
enters.
Where go we now?

Mephistopheles.
Oh! wheresoe'er you please;—
See all that's to be seen in common life,
And then, so please you, visit the gay world,
Dancing and revelling scot-free, and careless
Who pays the piper.

Faustus.
What, with my long beard?
How shall I trim it into decent shape?
And I want ease of manners, and the knowledge
Of life—why, the experiment must fail!
I cannot—never could at any time—
Be what society requires: I am
Abashed in company—shall every moment
Be at a loss!

Mephistopheles.
My good friend, have no fear
On this score—be but self-possessed—that is
The only art of life.

Faustus.
How do you mean
To travel?—where are servants? horses? carriage?

Mephistopheles.
We only spread this mantle out, and it
Wafts us through air in this our daring journey.
Bring out with you no loads of heavy baggage:
A little gas, which I will soon have ready,
Will lift us high above the earth;—light laden,
We will move fast, and soon be far away!
Welcome, my friend, to the new life before you—
A pleasant change. I wish you joy of it!