University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Martha's Garden. Margaret on Faust's arm, Martha with Mephistopheles walking up and down.
MARGARET.
I feel it well, 'tis from pure condescension
You pay to one like me so much attention.
With travellers 'tis a thing of course,
To be contented with the best they find;
For sure a man of cultivated mind
Can have small pleasure in my poor discourse.

FAUST.
One look from thee, one word, delights me more
Than all the world's vain boasted lore.

(He kisses her hand.)
MARGARET.
O trouble not yourself! how could you kiss it so?
It is so coarse, it is so rough!
My mother makes me work and fag enough;
With her must all things neat and trimly show.

(They pass on.)
MARTHA.
And you, Sir, do you still intend to roam?

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Alas! that trade and duty make it so!
With what sad hearts from many a place we go,
Where we had almost learned to be at home!

MARTHA.
When one is young it seems a harmless gambol,
Thus round and round through the wide world to ramble;
But soon the evil day comes on,
And as a stiff old bachelor to die
Has never yet done good to any one.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
The distant danger trembling I descry.

MARTHA.
Then, Sir, take my advice, and ere it be too late,
Seek to avoid such miserable fate.

(They pass on.)
MARGARET.
Yes, from your speech, and from your eye,
Native politeness seems to flow;
But you have other friends enow,
They are more sensible than I.

FAUST.
Their sense, sweet love, is often nothing more
Than vain conceit of vain short-sighted lore.

MARGARET.
How mean you that?

FAUST.
Oh that simplicity and innocence
Its own unvalued worth so seldom knows!
That lowliness of heart, the highest boon
That loving Nature's bounteous hand bestows!

MARGARET.
Canst thou afford a single thought on me,
I shall have time enough to think on thee.

FAUST.
You are then much alone?

MARGARET.
Our household is but small, I own,
And yet must be attended to.
We keep no maid; I have the whole to do,
Must wash and brush, and sew and knit,
And cook, and early run and late;
And then my mother is, in every whit,
So accurate!
Not that she feels herself at all confined.
We might do more than many others do!
My father left a goodly sum behind,
With a neat house, and garden too,
Before the gate.
Yet have we liv'd retired enough of late;
My brother chose the soldier's trade,
My little sister dear is dead;
Poor thing! it caus'd me many an hour of pain,
But gladly would I suffer all again,
So much I lov'd the child.

FAUST.
An angel, if like thee!

MARGARET.
I nursed it, and it loved me heartily.
My father died before it saw the light,
My mother was despaired of quite,
So miserably weak she lay.
Yet she recover'd slowly, day by day;
And as she had not strength herself
To suckle the poor helpless elf,
She gave the charge to me, and I
With milk and water nursed it carefully.
Thus in my arm, and on my lap, it grew,
And smil'd and play'd, and called me mother too.

FAUST.
This must have yielded thee the purest bliss.

MARGARET.
But many a day and night of heaviness.
The infant's cradle stood beside my bed,
And when it cried, or the least motion made,
I must awake;
Sometimes to give it drink, sometimes to take
It with me to my bed, and fondle it:
And when all this its fretting might not stay,
I rose, and danced about, and dandled it,
And washed it at the well, by break of day.
I made the markets too, and kept house for my mother,
One weary day just like another;
Thus drudging on the heart may sometimes sink,
But one can relish better meat and drink.

(They pass on.)
MARTHA.
We women surely are much to be pitied;
A hardened bachelor will seldom mend.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
A few apostles such as you are needed,
From evil ways their thoughtless steps to bend.

MARTHA.
Speak plainly, Sir, have you found nothing yet?
Are you quite disentangled from the net?

MEPHISTOPHELES.
A house and hearth, we have been often told,
With a good wife, is worth its weight in gold.

MARTHA.
I mean, Sir, have you never felt the want?

MEPHISTOPHELES.
A good reception I have always found.

MARTHA.
I mean to say, did your heart never pant?

MEPHISTOPHELES.
For ladies my respect is too profound,
To jest on such a serious theme as this.

MARTHA.
I see we still are at cross purposes.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Alas, that I should be so blind!
But one thing is not cross—for you are very kind!

(They pass on.)
FAUST.
You knew me, then, you little angel, straight,
When you beheld me at the garden-gate?

MARGARET.
Mark'd you it not?—You saw my downward look.

FAUST.
And you forgive the liberty I took,
When, with a boldness more than meet,
I ventur'd to address you on the street?

MARGARET.
I was surprised, I knew not what to say;
No one could speak an evil word of me.
Did he, perchance, in my comportment see
Aught careless or improper, on that day,
That he should take me for a worthless girl,
Whom round his little finger he might twirl?
Not yet the favourable thoughts I knew,
That even then were rising here for you;
One thing I know, myself I sharply chid,
That I could treat you then no harsher than I did.

FAUST.
Sweet love!

MARGARET.
Let go!

(She plucks a star-flower, and pulls the petals off one after another.)
FAUST.
What's that? a nosegay? shew it me.

MARGARET.
'Tis but a game.

FAUST.
How so?

MARGARET.
Go! you would laugh at me.

(She continues pulling the petals, and murmuring to herself.)
FAUST.
What are you murmuring now?

MARGARET.
(half loud.)
He loves me, yes,—he loves me, no.

FAUST.
Thou sweet angelic face!

MARGARET.
(murmuring as before.)
He loves, yes,—he loves me, no.
(pulling out the last petal with manifest satisfaction.)
He loves me, yes!

FAUST.
Yes, my child! let this language of the flowers
Be as the judgment of the Gods to thee;
He loves thee! know'st thou what it means?—He loves thee!

(He seizes her by both hands.)
MARGARET.
I scarce can speak for joy!

FAUST.
Fear thee not, love! let mine eye's-look proclaim,
This pressure of my hand, proclaim to thee
What words can never tell:
To yield us to an ecstasy of joy,
And feel that this joy must eternal be!
Eternal! yes! its end would be despair!
It hath no end!—it cannot have an end!

(Margaret presses his hands, makes herself free, and runs away. He stands still for a moment thoughtfully, then follows her.)
MARTHA.
(coming up.)
'Tis getting late.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Yes, and we must away.

MARTHA.
I fain would have you stay;
But 'tis an evil neighbourhood,
Where idle gossips find their only good,
Their pleasure and their business too,
In spying out all that their neighbours do.
And thus, the whole town in a moment knows
The veriest trifle. But where is our young pair?

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Like wanton birds of summer, through the air
I saw them dart away.

MARTHA.
He seems well pleased with her.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
And she with him. 'Tis thus the world goes.

SCENE II.

A Summer-house in the Garden.
(Margaret comes springing in, and hides herself behind the door of the summer-house. She places the point of her finger on her lips, and looks through a rent.)
MARGARET.
He comes!

FAUST.
(coming up.)
Thou cunning soul, thus trick'st me thou?
I have thee now!

(He kisses her.)
MARGARET.
(clasping him and returning the kiss.)
Thou best of men, with my whole heart I love thee!

(Mephistopheles heard knocking.)
FAUST.
(stamping.)
Who's there?

MEPHISTOPHELES.
A friend!

FAUST.
A beast!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
'Tis time now to remove thee.

MARTHA.
(coming up.)
Yes, Sir, 'tis getting late.

FAUST.
May I not take you home?

MARGARET.
My mother would—farewell!

FAUST.
And must I leave you then?
Farewell!

MARTHA.
Adieu!

MARGARET.
Right soon to meet again!

(Exeunt Faust and Mephistopheles.)
MARGARET.
(alone.)
Dear God! what such a man as this
Can think on any theme you may!
I stand ashamed, and answer yes
To every word that he may say.
I wonder what a man, so learned as he,
Can find in a poor simple girl like me.

(Exit.)

SCENE III.

Wood and Cavern.
FAUST.
(alone.)
Spirit Supreme! thou gav'st me—gav'st me all,
For which I asked thee. Not in vain hast thou
Turned toward me thy countenance in fire.
Thou gavest me wide Nature for my kingdom,
And power to feel it, to enjoy it. Not
Cold-wond'ring visit gav'st thou me alone,
But ev'n into her bosom's depth to look,
As it might be the bosom of a friend.
The row of living things thou mad'st to pass
Before mine eyes, my brethren mad'st me know
In silent bush, in water, and in air.
And when the storm loud blustereth, and raves
Through the dark forest, and the giant pine,
Down-tumbling, tears with it the neighbour-branches
And neighbour-stems flat-strewn upon the ground,
And to their fall the hollow mountain thunders;
Then dost thou guide me to the cave, where safe
I learn to know myself, and from my breast
Deep and mysterious wonders are unfolded.
Then mounteth the full moon unto my view
With softening brightness; hovering before me,
From rocky wall, from humid brake, arise
The silver shapes of times by-gone, and soothe
The painful pleasure of deep-brooding thought.
Alas! that man enjoys no perfect bliss,
I feel it now. Thou gav'st me with this joy,
Which brings me near and nearer to the gods,
A fellow, whom I cannot do without;
Though, cold and heartless, he debases me
Before myself, and, with a single breath,
Blows all the bounties of thy love to nought.
He fans within my breast a raging fire
For that fair image, busy to do ill.
Thus reel I from desire on to enjoyment,
And in enjoyment languish for desire.

Enter Mephistopheles.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
What! not yet tired of meditation?
Methinks this is a sorry recreation.
To try it once or twice might do;
But then, again to something new.

FAUST.
You might employ your time some better way
Than thus to plague me on a happy day.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Well, well! I do not grudge you quiet,
You need my aid, and you cannot deny it.
There is not much to lose, I trow,
With one so stiff, so harsh, so mad as thou.
Toil! moil! from morn to ev'n so on it goes!
And what one should, and what one should not do,
One cannot always read it on your nose.

FAUST.
This is a tone for you most fit!
Annoy me first, and then ask thanks for it.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Poor son of Earth! without my tim'd assistance,
How had'st thou ever dragged on thy existence?
From freakish Fancy's fever'd effervescence
I have work'd long ago your convalescence,
And, but for me, you would have marched away,
In your best youth, from the blest light of day.
What have you here, in caves and clefts, to do,
Like an old owl, screeching to-whit, to-whoo?
Or, like a torpid toad, that sits alone
Sipping the oozing moss and dripping stone?
A precious condition to be in!
I see the Doctor sticks yet in your skin.

FAUST.
Couldst thou but know what re-born vigour springs
From this lone wandering in the wilderness,
Couldst thou conceive what heavenly joy it brings,
Then wert thou fiend enough to envy me my bliss.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
A supermundane bliss!
In night and dew to lie upon the height,
And clasp the heaven and earth in wild delight,
To swell up to the godhead's size,
And pierce, with more than mortal eyes,
Down to the marrow of the earth!
Within your single breast to feel the birth
Of the Six-days' Creation, and to glow
With proud anticipation of—I know
Not what—in love and joy to overflow,
Casting the paltry son of earth behind,
And then, the heaven-sprung intuition
(with a gesture.)
To end—I shall not say in what—fruition.

FAUST.
Shame on thee!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Yes! that's not quiet to your mind.
You have a privilege to cry out shame,
When things are mentioned by their proper name.
Before chaste ears one may not dare to spout,
What chastest hearts yet cannot do without.
I do not envy you the pleasure
Of palming lies upon yourself at leisure;
But long it cannot last, I warrant thee.
You are returned to your old whims, I see,
And, at this rate, you soon will wear
Your strength away, in madness and despair.
Of this enough! thy love sits waiting thee,
Without thee all seems troubled and confin'd.
By day, by night, she has thee in her mind;
I trow she loves thee mightily.
Thy raging passion 'gan to flow,
Like a torrent in Spring from melted snow;
Into her heart thy tide gush'd high,
Now is thy shallow streamlet dry.
Instead of reigning monarch of the trees,
Methinks the mighty gentleman might please,
With some sweet words of comfort, to console
This simple-hearted, love-tormented, soul.
Poor thing, she is half dead of ennui,
And at the window stands whole hours, to see
The clouds pass by the old town-wall along.
Were I a little bird! so goes her song
The live-long day, and half the night to boot.
Sometimes she will be merry, mostly sad,
Now, like a child, weeping her sorrows out,
Now calm again, in outward semblance glad;
Always in love.

FAUST.
Thou snake! thou snake!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
(to himself.)
So be it! that my guile thy stubborn will may break!

FAUST.
Hence and begone, thou Reprobate!
Name not the lovely maid again!
Bring the desire for her most sweet possession
No more before my poor bewildered brain!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
What then? she deems that you are gone for ever;
And half and half methinks you are.

FAUST.
No! I am nigh, and were I ne'er so far,
I could forget her, I could lose her never;
I envy ev'n the body of the Lord,
When her lips touch it at the holy board.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Yes! I have often envied thee myself
For the twin pair that pastures among roses.

FAUST.
Avaunt, thou pimp!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Rail you, and laugh will I.
The God who made the male and female stuff,
Himself, the noblest trade, knew well enough,
How to shape out an opportunity.
But come, why peak and pine you here?
I lead you to the chamber of your dear,
Not to the gallows.

FAUST.
Ah! what were Heaven's supremest blessedness
Within her arms, upon her breast, to me!
Must I not still be wrung with sympathy,
That I must plunge her into such distress?
I, the poor fugitive! without a home!
The stranger to my kind! from place to place,
Aimless and restless, ever doomed to roam!
Who, like a waterfall, from rock to rock came roaring,
With greedy rage into the abyss pouring;
While she, a reckless infant, rears
Sidewards her hut upon the Alpine field,
And all her hopes, and all her fears,
Within this little world concealed.
And I—the God-detested—not alone
Must bear the rocks with my wild torrent down,
And shatter them to dust, but undermine
Her and her peace in common wreck with mine!
And such an offering, Hell, must it be thine?
Help, Devil, to cut short the hour of ill!
What happen must, may happen when it will!
May her sad fate my crashing fall attend,
And she with me be ruined in the end!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Lo! how it boils and glows again!
Go in, and comfort her, thou fool!
Where a dilemma thwarts your hasty brain,
You straight begin to mewl and pule,
As if all further striving were in vain.
What has a man to do with doubts and fears?
In other points you are not ill spiced with the Devil.
Nothing more silly lives on earth's wide level
Than is a devil who despairs.

SCENE IV.

Margaret's Room.
Margaret alone, at a Spinning-wheel.
MARGARET.

SCENE V.

Martha's Garden.
Margaret and Faust.
MARGARET.
Promise me, Henry!

FAUST.
What I can.

MARGARET.
Now come! of your religion let me hear;
I know thou art a most kind-hearted man,
But as to thy belief I rather fear—

FAUST.
Leave that, my child! thou know'st how much I love thee;
I'd give my last life's blood to serve thy need,
No man on earth can charge me with the wish
To rob him of his church, or of his creed.

MARGARET.
That's not enough; you must believe it too!

FAUST.
Must I?

MARGARET.
Alas! that I might work some change on you!
Not even the holy mass do you revere.

FAUST.
I do revere it.

MARGARET.
Yes, but without desire.
At mass and at confession, too, I fear,
Thou hast not shewn thyself this many a year.
Dost thou believe on God?

FAUST.
My love, who dares aspire
To say he doth believe on God?
May'st ask thy priests and sages all,
Their answer seems like mockery to fall
Upon the asker's ear.

MARGARET.
Then thou dost not believe?

FAUST.
Misunderstand me not, thou sweetest face!
Who dares pronounce his name?
And who confess—
I do believe in Him?
What heart hath felt him?
And who dares presume
To say—I do believe Him not?
The All-embracer,
The All-upholder,
Grasps and upholds He not
Thee, me, Himself?
Doth not the Heaven vault itself above thee?
Stands not the Earth's foundations firm beneath thee?
And climb not, friendly looking down,
Up Heaven's slope th'eternal stars?
Gaze not our eyes into each other?
And feel'st thou not an innate force propelling
Thy tide of life to head and heart,
A power that, in eternal mystery dwelling,
Moves visibly invisible beside thee?
Go fill thy heart therewith, in all its greatness,
And when thy soul exulteth in this feeling,
Then call it what thou wilt,
Heart! Happiness! Love! God!
I have no name by which I might denote it!
Feeling is all in all:
Name is but smoke and sound,
Enshrouding heaven's glow.

MARGARET.
All that appears most pious and profound;
Much of the same our parson says,
Only he clothes it in a different phrase.

FAUST.
All places speak it forth,
All hearts, from furthest South to furthest North,
Proclaim the tale divine,
Each in its proper speech;
Wherefore not I in mine?

MARGARET.
When thus you speak it does not seem so bad,
And yet is your condition still most sad:
Unless you are a Christian all is vain.

FAUST.
Sweet love!

MARGARET.
Henry, it gives me pain,
And long hath given me, that I should see
The man I love so in such company.

FAUST.
How so?

MARGARET.
The man, whom thou hast made thy mate,
Deep in my inmost soul I hate;
Nothing in all my life hath made me smart
So much as his disgusting leer.
His face stabs like a dagger through my heart!

FAUST.
Sweet doll! thou hast no cause to fear.

MARGARET.
It makes my blood to freeze when he comes near.
I have a kindly feeling for most men,
But as to see thy face I long,
So shrink I back from him with instinct pain.
I hold him for a thorough knave to boot!
May God forgive me if I do him wrong!

FAUST.
Such owls one cannot always do without.

MARGARET.
With men like him I would have nought to do!
As often as he shews him here,
He looks in at the door with such a scornful leer,
Half angry too;
'Tis plain he feels no sympathy at all
With any thing that breathes, and one can see
It written on his forehead legibly,
He never yet hath lov'd a single soul.
Within thy arm I feel so free,
So warm, so yielded up to thee,
But his approach ties up my inmost soul.

FAUST.
O thou prophetic angel!

MARGARET.
This overpowers me so,
That, when his icy foot doth cross the door,
I feel as if I could not love thee more.
When he is here, too, I could never pray,
And this consumes my very heart away:
Speak, Henry, is it not the same with thee?

FAUST.
Nay, thou indulgest an antipathy!

MARGARET.
I must be gone.

FAUST.
Oh! may it never be
That I may spend one quiet hour with thee,
One single little hour, and breast on breast,
And soul on soul, with panting love, be press'd?

MARGARET.
Alas! did I but sleep alone!
I'd leave the door unbarr'd this very night;
But my good mother sleeps so soundly not,
And overheard she our delight,
Then were I dead upon the spot.

FAUST.
Sweet angel, that need little trouble you.
There is a juice, whose soothing power can steep
Her senses in a slumber soft and deep;
Three drops mixed with her evening draught will do.

MARGARET.
I would adventure this and more for you.
Of course, there's nothing hurtful in the phial?

FAUST.
If so, would I advise the trial?

MARGARET.
Thou best of men, thy very look can sway me,
With strange resistless impulse to obey thee;
So much already have I done for thee
That to refuse thee now would be in vain.

(Exit.
Enter Mephistopheles.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Well, is the monkey gone?

FAUST.
Hast play'd the spy again?

MEPHISTOPHELES.
I have been duly advertised,
How Doctor Faust was catechised:
I hope that it will profit you.
The girls are wont—they have their reasons too—
To see that one, in every point, believes
The faith, that from his fathers he receives.
They think, if little mettle here he shews,
We too may lead him by the nose.

FAUST.
Thou monster, dost not know how this fond soul,
To whom her faith is all,
And who believes
That none but such a faith salvation gives,
With many an anxious holy fear is toss'd,
Lest he, whom best she loves, should be for ever lost?

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Thou super sensual sensual fool,
A silly girl takes thee to school.

FAUST.
Thou dirt and fire-born monster, thou!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
And then her skill in physiognomy,
I must confess, it did astonish me!
When I come near, she feels she knows not how,
And, through my mask, can read it on my brow,
That I must be, if not the very devil,
A genius far above the common level.
And now to-night—

FAUST.
What's that to thee?

MEPHISTOPHELES.
I have my joy too in my master's glee.

SCENE VI.

At the Well.
Margaret and Eliza, with water-pitchers.
ELIZA.
Have you heard nought of Barbara?

MARGARET.
Nothing at all. I seldom stray
From home, to hear what people say.

ELIZA.
You may believe me every whit;
Sibylla told it me to-day.
She too has been befooled: that comes of it
When people give themselves such airs!

MARGARET.
How so?

ELIZA.
'Tis rank!
She eats and drinks not for herself alone.

MARGARET.
Poor girl!

ELIZA.
Well, well! she has herself to thank.
How long did she not hang upon
The fellow!—Yes! that was a parading,
A dancing and a promenading!
Must always be before the rest!
And to wines and pasties be press'd;
Began then to be proud of her beauty,
And was so reckless of her duty
As to take presents from him too.
That was a cooing and a caressing!
No wonder if the flow'r too be a-missing!

MARGARET.
I pity her.

ELIZA.
Methinks you have not much to do.
When we were not allowed to venture o'er
The threshold, night and day kept close at spinning,
There stood she, with her paramour,
Upon the bench, before the door,
Or in the lane, and hour for hour
Scarce knew the end from the beginning.
'Tis time she should submit to rule
And penance do on the repentance-stool!

MARGARET.
But he will take her for his wife.

ELIZA.
He marry her! not for his life!
An active youth like him can find,
Where'er he pleases, quarters to his mind.
Besides he's gone!

MARGARET.
That was not fair.

ELIZA.
And comes he back, she'll not enjoy him more.
Her marriage wreath the boys will tear,
And we will strew chopped straw before the door.

(Exit.)
MARGARET.
(going homewards.)
How could I once so boldly chide
When a poor maiden stept aside!
And scarce found words enough to name
The measure of another's shame!
It seemed so black, yet blackened I it more,
And when it blackest was, I'd have it blacker still,
And blessed my fate, and with proud thoughts did swell,
And now myself am what I chid before!—
Yet was each step that lured my slippery feet
So good, so lovely, so enticing sweet!

SCENE VII.

An enclosed Area.
(In a niche of the wall an image of the Mater dolorosa, with flower-jugs before it.)
MARGARET.
(placing fresh flowers in the jugs.)

SCENE VIII.

Night.
Street before Margaret's door.
Enter Valentine.

(Retires.)
Enter Faust and Mephistopheles.
FAUST.
As, from the window of the vestry there,
The light of the eternal lamp doth glare,
And sidewards gleameth, dimmer still and dimmer,
Till darkness closes round its fitful glimmer!
So murky is it in my soul.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
And I feel faintish, like a kitten
Upon a weary winter day,
Beside the smoky fire-place sitting,
And shrinking from the cold away.
Yet am I in most virtuous trim,
For a small trick at stealing, or at lechery;
So jumps already through my every limb
Walpurgis-Night, with all its glorious witchery.
The day after to-morrow comes again
The feast, with fun and frolic in its train.

FAUST.
Is it not time that you were raising
The treasure there in the distance blazing?

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Soon shall you sate your eyes with gazing,
And lift up from the urn yourself
A little mine of precious pelf.
I gave it a side-glance before—
Saw lion-dollars by the score.

FAUST.
Is there no gaud?—no jewel at all?
To deck my sweet little mistress withal.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
O yes! I saw some trinkets for the girls,—
A sort of necklace strung with pearls.

FAUST.
'Tis well that we have this to give her,
For empty-handed go I never.

MEPHISTOPHELES.
(Sings to the guitar.)

VALENTIN.
(advancing.)
Ho, Serenaders! by the Element!
You whoreson rascals! you rat-catchers, you!
First, to the devil with the instrument,
And, after it, the harper too!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
My good guitar is broken past redemption!

VALENTIN.
And your skull, too, anon; come, boy, attention!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Quick, Doctor! here's no time to tarry!
Keep close, as I shall lead the way.
Out with your goosewing! out, I say!
Make you the thrusts, and let me parry.

VALENTIN.
Then parry that!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Why not?

VALENTIN.
And that!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Of course!

VALENTIN.
I believe the devil is here, or something worse.
Good God! what's this?—my arm is lamed!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
(to FAUST.)
Have at him there!

VALENTIN.
(falls.)
O woe!

MEPHISTOPHELES.
Now is the lubber tam'd!
But let's begone! why stand you gaping there?
They'll raise a hue and cry here in a trice.
I can shift pretty well with the police,
But blood spilt is a dangerous affair.

MARTHA.
(at the window.)
Ho! murder, ho!

MARGARET.
(at the window.)
A light! a light!

MARTHA.
(as above.)
They bawl, they brawl, they strike, they fight.

THE PEOPLE.
And here lies one already dead!

MARTHA.
(appearing below.)
Where are the murderers? are they fled?

GRETCHEN.
(below.)
Who's this lies here?

THE PEOPLE.
Thy mother's son.

MARGARET.
Almighty God! my brother dead!

VALENTIN.
I die! I die!—'tis quickly said,
And yet more quickly done.
Why stand you, women, and weep and wail?
Draw near, and listen to my tale!
(They all come round him.)
My Margaret, mark me, you are young,
And in sense not overstrong,
You manage matters ill.
I tell thee in thine ear, that thou
Art, once for all, a strumpet,—Now
Mayst go and take thy fill.

MARGARET.
My brother! God! what do you mean?

VALENTIN.

MARTHA.
Commend thy parting soul to heaven!
Would'st thou add blasphemy to sin?

VALENTIN.
Could I but reach thy withered skin,
Thou hag, thou vile and shameless bawd!
For such a deed might well be had
Forgiveness rich of every sin.

MARGARET.
Brother, thou mak'st me feel a hell of pain!

VALENTIN.
I tell thee, all thy tears are vain!
Thou pierced'st me, ev'n to the heart,
When with thy honour thou didst part.
I go through death, with fearless mood,
To meet my God, as a soldier should.

(Dies.)

SCENE IX.

A Cathedral.
Mass, Organ, and Song.
Margaret amid a crowd of people, Evil-Spirit behind her.
EVIL-SPIRIT.
How different, Margaret, was thy case,
When, guiltless yet of trespass, thou didst kneel
Before the altar,
And, from the well-worn book,
Didst lisp thy prayers,
Half childish play,
Half God in thy heart!
Margaret!
Where is thy head?
Within thy heart
What dire misdeed!
Prayest thou for thy mother's soul, whom thou
Didst make to sleep a sleep of long, long woe?
Whose blood is on thy threshold?
—And, underneath thy heart,
Moves not the swelling germ of life already,
And, with its boding presence,
Thee tortures, and itself?

MARGARET.
Woe, woe!
That I might shake away the thoughts,
That hither flit and thither,
Against me!

QUIRE.
Dies iræ, dies illa,
Solvet saeclum in favilla.

(The organ sounds.)
EVIL-SPIRIT.
Terror doth seize thee!
The trumpet sounds!
The graves do quake!
And thy heart,
From its rest of ashes,
To fiery pain
Created again,
Quivers to life!

MARGARET.
Would I were hence!
I feel as if the organ stopped
My breath of life,
And, at the song,
My inmost heart
Melted away.

QUIRE.
Judex ergo cum sedebit,
Quidquid latet adparebit,
Nil inultum remanebit.

MARGARET.
I feel so straiten'd!
The pillar-shafts
Enclasp me round!
The vault above
Closes upon me!—Air!

EVIL-SPIRIT.
Conceal thee!—Sin and shame
Are not concealed.
Air! Light!
Woe on thee! woe!

QUIRE.
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus?
Cum vix justus sit securus.

EVIL-SPIRIT.
Their looks from thee bend
The blessed away,
And the pure shudder
To reach thee the hand.
Woe!

MARGARET.
Neighbour, your smelling-bottle!

(She falls down in a swoon.)