 | Goethe's Faust : First Part |  |
1
PRELUDE IN THE THEATRE.
Manager, Dramatic Poet, Clown.Manager.
Ye twain, who here so oft by me
In trouble and need did stoutly stand,
Say what, in this our German Land,
From our new venture ye hope to see?
I have wished so much to please the crowd we seat,
Since it lives, and lets us live, after all.
The posts and planks are fixed—here is our hall,
And everyone anticipates a treat.
They sit there now with raised brows, patiently,
And some amazing thing they long to see.
The Public I can humour; but protest
I ne'er came here with such a puzzled head;
True, they are not accustomed to the best;
But what a frightful lot of things they've read!
How shall we manage that all be fresh and new
And full of meaning, and yet please them too?
In sooth I long to see the crowd with pain
Throng in full stream into our booth to-day,
And with renewed and strenuous effort gain
The narrow door of grace, and push their way
By clear day, ere the clock strike four,
Push, fighting to the Cashier's wicket
Like starving folk for bread to the baker's door,
And well-nigh break their necks to get a ticket.
The Poet alone can work this miracle,
On diverse minds; my friend, work now that spell.
2
Oh! speak not to me of that motley crowd,
At the first glance my spirit takes to flight!
Hide from mine eyes its billows surging loud,
That, 'gainst my will, tug me with whirlpool's might.
No, bear me to some calm nook of the sky
Where alone for the Poet pure joy can bloom,
With love and friendship, our hearts' blessed power,
By God's own hand created, nourished each hour.
Ah! what sprang once deep in the breast like seed,
What the lips coyly murmured, now may be
A failure, that may haply yet succeed,
One tyrannous moment swallows ruthlessly.
Oft when through years it penetrates, indeed,
In perfect form appearing, it struggles free.
Bright pinchbeck is but for the moment born
Pure metal fades not in the future's morn.
Clown.
Nothing about the future let me hear!
Suppose about the future I should prate
Who would make sport this present year?
They want it, and must have it, I tell ye.
The presence of a jolly fellow
I think's worth something at any rate.
He who with others well can play his part,
The people's humours cannot sour;
He wants but a good crowd to show his art,
And stir them up to own his power.
Then quit you well, and a good sample show,
Let phantasy be heard with all her choirs,
Reason, sense, passion, sentiment also;
But mark me! eke the mirth your Clown inspires.
Manager.
Let enough happen, then, howe'er it be!
They come to gaze, like best the things they see.
If many scenes before their eyes go by,
So that in wondering concourse gape they can,
Soon you've gained over the majority,
3
The mass but through the mass you can subdue,
Each for himself picks something out at last;
Who brings much, brings to many something too,
Each leaves the house well-pleased with his repast.
You give a piece, give it to them in pieces!
Such a ragoût your fame increases;
Easily 'tis produced, thought out as easily.
What boots it you brought forth a whole? You see
The Public soon picks your great work to pieces.
Poet.
You do not feel how bad such handiwork must be!
How ill it suits an artist pure and true;
This pretty coxcombs' bunglery
Seems quite a principle with you.
Manager.
Such a reproach leaves me unscathed; I say
A man who works in the right way
Must use tools for the work best fit.
Think, you have sappy wood to split,
See then distinctly for whom you write!
If your fine work should bore them quite,
Each from your feast comes surfeited away,
And, worst of all for your fine flight,
Some have been reading journals half the day.
They come with absent minds, as to a masque they'd go,
Each step winged with mere curiosity;
The ladies come, themselves and their fine clothes to show,
And play for us without a fee.
What do you dream of on your poet's height?
What makes a full house take things pleasantly?
Look at your patrons well to-night!
Half of them cold, half rude, you see.
One hopes for a game of cards after the play,
A wild night on a wench's breast one chooses.
Why, ye poor fools, plague night and day,
For such an end, the gentle Muses?
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And then your shafts the mark will never miss.
Seek to intrigue your audience. I wis
To please them is a problem sore.
What moves you now, delight, or agony?
Poet.
Hence with thee, seek another slave to-night!
The Poet must, forsooth, the noblest right,
Man's right, ungrudging Nature gave—content,
For thy sake, wickedly squander away!
How is it all hearts he moves can sway?
Wherewith rules he each element?
Is it not the harmony that, gushing from his breast,
Draws back into his heart the echoing world's unrest?
When Nature spins the unending thread of Fate
And on the distaff evenly doth wind,
While the discordant throng of things create
Chant, all at odds, their grewsome lay,
Who gives new rhymes to dull monotony,
Animates all to move in concord sweet?
Who calls each voice to join in sacred glee,
When in the bliss of noble chords they meet?
Who makes the storm to passion rage and swell?
Evening's red gleam in reverent senses glow?
Who sows all fair Spring flowers, plants bud and bell
On quiet paths where lovers go?
Who twines the modest leaves on myrtle-rods
Into a wreath of honour for Worth unknown?
Who fends Olympus, reconciles the gods?
Man's power, in the Poet revealed alone.
Clown.
Use, then, your finest strokes of art,
And ply well your poetic trade,
As on a love-adventure you would start!
One comes by chance, feels, stays, your game is played,
Soon he's entangled, heart and feet,
His pleasure grows, your victory's complete,
He is enraptured, then comes pain, perchance,
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Let us give now just such a play!
Grip fast the fullest life of man, I say!
Everyonyone lives, each knows life little at best,
And, where you seize it, all you interest.
In varied pictures, dim in sooth,
Much error, and a spark of truth,
You brew best the refreshing cup,
That quickens all the world, and builds it up.
Then your play draws Youth, with its budding powers,
To wait some revelation eagerly,
Each gentle spirit from your tragedy
Sucks melancholy food, as bees from flowers.
Then is one here, one there, moved by your art,
Each sees but what he bears in his own heart.
Then they are soon ready to laugh or weep,
Enjoy illusion, take fine flights seriously;
Who is full-fledged may hold your efforts cheap,
Those yet in growth will ever grateful be.
Poet.
Then give me back those happy times,
When I myself was growing still,
When a deep spring of rippling rhymes
Gushed in a never-failing rill.
Then cloud concealed the world from me,
Each bud promised a miracle
I plucked a thousand flowers in glee,
That richly filled each vale and dell.
Nothing I had, yet wealth in sooth,
Loving delusion, yet impelled tow'rd truth.
Give me those tameless impulses,
That happiness, so full of pain,
The power of hate, love's might—give these,
Ah! give me back my youth again!
Clown.
Youth, my good friend, at all events you need,
When foes around you throng to battle,
Or when about your neck, indeed,
6
When far the prize of the swift race
There from the hard-won goal is blinking,
When, after dancing at a whirlwind's pace,
You spend the night feasting and drinking.
But now to strike familiar strings,
With courage, charm, to show your skill,
To wander on your spirit's wings
Tow'rd what self-chosen goal you will,
This duty, old Dons, is yours to-day,
For which we honour you no less.
Age does not make us childish, as they say,
Yet finds us still true children, I confess.
Manager.
With bandying words be now content,
Let me see deeds as well at last!
Time spent in bartering compliment
In useful business might have passed.
What boots this talk of moods to me?
Unmarked by sluggards they drift away.
You deem yourself a Poet, pray
Command for us your poesy.
You know well what we want, I think,
We wish to taste some potent drink;
Then brew it for us without delay!
To-morrow ne'er you'll do what is not done to-day.
No day should idly past you trip:
Let Resolution's hand robust
The Possible's forelock boldly grip,
His grasp will never let it slip,
He'll work away—because he must.
Upon our German stage, you see,
Each strives to do what do he may,
Then do not spare to use to-day
Fine landscapes and machinery!
Use heaven's lights freely, great and small,
Stars you must squander lavishly;
With water, fire, and rocky wall,
7
And so, within our narrow house-of planks,
You'll stride through all Creation's endless ranks,
And ramble swiftly, yet discreet as well,
From Heaven, through the World, to Hell.
| Goethe's Faust : First Part | |