University of Virginia Library

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.