The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01 · Chapter 51A Summer-House
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[MARGARET runs in, hides behind the door, holds the tip of her finger to her lip, and peeps through the crevice.]
He comes!
Ah, little rogue, so thou Think'st to provoke me! I have caught thee now!
[He kisses her.]
MARGARET (embracing him, and returning the kiss)
Dearest of men! I love thee from my heart!
[MEPHISTOPHELES knocks.]
FAUST (stamping)
Who's there?
A friend!
A brute!
'Tis time to part.
MARTHA (comes)
Ay, it is late, good sir.
Mayn't I attend you, then?
Oh no—my mother would—adieu, adieu!
And must I really then take leave of you? Farewell!
Good-bye!
Ere long to meet again!
[Exeunt FAUST and MEPHISTOPHELES.]
Good heavens! how all things far and near Must fill his mind—a man like this! Abash'd before him I appear, And say to all things only, yes. Poor simple child, I cannot see What 'tis that he can find in me.
[Exit.]
FAUST (alone)
Spirit sublime! Thou gav'st me, gav'st me all For which I prayed! Not vainly hast thou turn'd To me thy countenance in flaming fire: Gavest me glorious nature for my realm, And also power to feel her and enjoy; Not merely with a cold and wondering glance, Thou dost permit me in her depths profound, As in the bosom of a friend to gaze. Before me thou dost lead her living tribes, And dost in silent grove, in air and stream Teach me to know my kindred. And when roars The howling storm-blast through the groaning wood, Wrenching the giant pine, which in its fall Crashing sweeps down its neighbor trunks and boughs, While hollow thunder from the hill resounds: Then thou dost lead me to some shelter'd cave, Dost there reveal me to myself, and show Of my own bosom the mysterious depths. And when with soothing beam, the moon's pale orb Full in my view climbs up the pathless sky, From crag and dewy grove, the silvery forms Of by-gone ages hover, and assuage The joy austere of contemplative thought.
Oh, that naught perfect is assign'd to man, I feel, alas! With this exalted joy, Which lifts me near, and nearer to the gods, Thou gav'st me this companion, unto whom I needs must cling, though cold and insolent, He still degrades me to myself, and turns Thy glorious gifts to nothing, with a breath. He in my bosom with malicious zeal For that fair image fans a raging fire; From craving to enjoyment thus I reel, And in enjoyment languish for desire.
[MEPHISTOPHELES enters.]
Of this lone life have you not had your fill? How for so long can it have charms for you? 'Tis well enough to try it if you will; But then away again to something new!
Would you could better occupy your leisure, Than in disturbing thus my hours of joy.
Well! Well! I'll leave you to yourself with pleasure, A serious tone you hardly dare employ. To part from one so crazy, harsh, and cross, Were not in truth a grievous loss. The live-long day, for you I toil and fret; Ne'er from his worship's face a hint I get, What pleases him, or what to let alone.
Ay truly! that is just the proper tone! He wearies me, and would with thanks be paid!
Poor Son of Earth, without my aid, How would thy weary days have flown? Thee of thy foolish whims I've cured, Thy vain imaginations banished. And but for me, be well assured, Thou from this sphere must soon have vanished. In rocky hollows and in caverns drear, Why like an owl sit moping here? Wherefore from dripping stones and moss with ooze embued, Dost suck, like any toad, thy food? A rare, sweet pastime. Verily! The doctor cleaveth still to thee.
Dost comprehend what bliss without alloy From this wild wand'ring in the desert springs?— Couldst thou but guess the new life-power it brings, Thou wouldst be fiend enough to envy me my joy.
What super-earthly ecstasy! at night, To lie in darkness on the dewy height, Embracing heaven and earth in rapture high, The soul dilating to a deity; With prescient yearnings pierce the core of earth, Feel in your laboring breast the six-days' birth, Enjoy, in proud delight what no one knows, While your love-rapture o'er creation flows— The earthly lost in beatific vision, And then the lofty intuition—
(with a gesture)
I need not tell you how—to close!
Fie on you!
This displeases you? "For shame!" You are forsooth entitled to exclaim; We to chaste ears it seems must not pronounce What, nathless, the chaste heart cannot renounce. Well, to be brief, the joy as fit occasions rise, I grudge you not, of specious lies. But long this mood thou'lt not retain. Already thou'rt again outworn, And should this last, thou wilt be torn By frenzy or remorse and pain. Enough of this! Thy true love dwells apart, And all to her seems flat and tame; Alone thine image fills her heart, She loves thee with an all-devouring flame. First came thy passion with o'erpowering rush, Like mountain torrent, swollen by the melted snow; Full in her heart didst pour the sudden gush, Now has thy brooklet ceased to flow. Instead of sitting throned midst forests wild, It would become so great a lord To comfort the enamor'd child, And the young monkey for her love reward. To her the hours seem miserably long; She from the window sees the clouds float by As o'er the lofty city-walls they fly. "If I a birdie were!" so runs her song, Half through the night and all day long. Cheerful sometimes, more oft at heart full sore; Fairly outwept seem now her tears, Anon she tranquil is, or so appears, And love-sick evermore.
Snake! Serpent vile!
MEPHISTOPHELES (aside)
Good! If I catch thee with my guile!
Vile reprobate! go get thee hence; Forbear the lovely girl to name! Nor in my half-distracted sense Kindle anew the smouldering flame!
What wouldest thou! She thinks you've taken flight; It seems, she's partly in the right.
I'm near her still—and should I distant rove, Her I can ne'er forget, ne'er lose her love; And all things touch'd by those sweet lips of hers, Even the very Host, my envy stirs.
'Tis well! I oft have envied you indeed, The twin-pair that among the roses feed.
Pander, avaunt!
Go to! I laugh, the while you rail; The power which fashion'd youth and maid Well understood the noble trade; So neither shall occasion fail. But hence!—A mighty grief I trow! Unto thy lov'd one's chamber thou And not to death shouldst go.
What is to me heaven's joy within her arms? What though my life her bosom warms!— Do I not ever feel her woe? The outcast am I not, unhoused, unblest, Inhuman monster, without aim or rest, Who, like the greedy surge, from rock to rock, Sweeps down the dread abyss with desperate shock? While she, within her lowly cot, which graced The Alpine slope, beside the waters wild, Her homely cares in that small world embraced, Secluded lived, a simple artless child. Was't not enough, in thy delirious whirl To blast the stedfast rocks! Her, and her peace as well, Must I, God-hated one, to ruin hurl! Dost claim this holocaust, remorseless Hell! Fiend, help me to cut short the hours of dread! Let what must happen, happen speedily! Her direful doom fall crushing on my head, And into ruin let her plunge with me!
Why how again it seethes and glows! Away, thou fool! Her torment ease! When such a head no issue sees, It pictures straight the final close. Long life to him who boldly dares! A devil's pluck thou'rt wont to show; As for a devil who despairs— Nothing I find so mawkish here below.