The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01 · Chapter 53Martha's Garden
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MARGARET and FAUST
Promise me, Henry!
What I can!
How thy religion fares, I fain would hear. Thou art a good kind-hearted man, Only that way not well-disposed, I fear.
Forbear, my child! Thou feelest thee I love; My heart, my blood I'd give, my love to prove, And none would of their faith or church bereave.
That's not enough, we must ourselves believe!
Must we?
Ah, could I but thy soul inspire! Thou honorest not the sacraments, alas!
I honor them.
But yet without desire; 'Tis long since thou hast been either to shrift or mass. Dost thou believe in God?
My darling, who dares say? Yes, I in God believe. Question or priest or sage, and they Seem, in the answer you receive, To mock the questioner.
Then thou dost not believe?
Sweet one! my meaning do not misconceive! Him who dare name, And who proclaim— Him I believe? Who that can feel, His heart can steel, To say: I believe him not? The All-embracer, All-sustainer, Holds and sustains he not Thee, me, himself? Lifts not the Heaven its dome above? Doth not the firm-set earth beneath us lie? And, beaming tenderly with looks of love, Climb not the everlasting stars on high? Do we not gaze into each other's eyes? Nature's impenetrable agencies, Are they not thronging on thy heart and brain, Viewless, or visible to mortal ken, Around thee weaving their mysterious chain? Fill thence thy heart, how large soe'er it be; And in the feeling when thou utterly art blest, Then call it, what thou wilt— Call it Bliss! Heart! Love! God! I have no name for it! 'Tis feeling all; Name is but sound and smoke Shrouding the glow of heaven.
All this is doubtless good and fair; Almost the same the parson says, Only in slightly different phrase.
Beneath Heaven's sunshine, everywhere, This is the utterance of the human heart; Each in his language doth the like impart; Then why not I in mine?
What thus I hear Sounds plausible, yet I'm not reconciled; There's something wrong about it; much I fear That thou art not a Christian.
My sweet child!
Alas! it long hath sorely troubled me, To see thee in such odious company.
How so?
The man who comes with thee, I hate, Yea, in my spirit's inmost depths abhor; As his loath'd visage, in my life before, Naught to my heart e'er gave a pang so great.
Him fear not, my sweet love!
His presence chills my blood. Toward all beside I have a kindly mood; Yet, though I yearn to gaze on thee, I feel At sight of him strange horror o'er me steal; That he's a villain my conviction's strong. May Heaven forgive me, if I do him wrong!
Yet such strange fellows in the world must be!
I would not live with such an one as he. If for a moment he but enter here, He looks around him with a mocking sneer, And malice ill-conceal'd; That he with naught on earth can sympathize is clear; Upon his brow 'tis legibly revealed That to his heart no living soul is dear. So blest I feel, within thine arms, So warm and happy—free from all alarms; And still my heart doth close when he comes near.
Foreboding angel! check thy fear!
It so o'ermasters me that when, Or wheresoe'er, his step I hear, I almost think, no more I love thee then. Besides, when he is near, I ne'er could pray. This eats into my heart; with thee The same, my Henry, it must be.
This is antipathy!
I must away.
For one brief hour then may I never rest, And heart to heart, and soul to soul be pressed?
Ah, if I slept alone! Tonight The bolt I fain would leave undrawn for thee; But then my mother's sleep is light, Were we surprised by her, ah me! Upon the spot I should be dead.
Dear angel! there's no cause for dread. Here is a little phial—if she take Mixed in her drink three drops, 'twill steep Her nature in a deep and soothing sleep.
What do I not for thy dear sake! To her it will not harmful prove?
Should I advise it else, sweet love?
I know not, dearest, when thy face I see, What doth my spirit to thy will constrain; Already I have done so much for thee, That scarcely more to do doth now remain. [Exit.]
(MEPHISTOPHELES enters)
The monkey! Is she gone?
Again hast played the spy?
Of all that pass'd I'm well apprized, I heard the doctor catechized, And trust he'll profit much thereby! Fain would the girls inquire indeed Touching their lover's faith and creed, And whether pious in the good old way; They think, if pliant there, us too he will obey.
Thou monster, dost not see that this Pure soul, possessed by ardent love, Full of the living faith, To her of bliss The only pledge, must holy anguish prove, Holding the man she loves fore-doomed to endless death!
Most sensual, supersensualist! The while A damsel leads thee by the nose!
Of filth and fire abortion vile!
In physiognomy strange skill she shows; She in my presence feels she knows not how; My mask it seems a hidden sense reveals; That I'm a genius she must needs allow, That I'm the very devil perhaps she feels. So then tonight—
What's that to you?
I've my amusement in it too!