Faust [part 1]. Translated Into English in the Original Metres · Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
FAUST
Hear me not falsely, sweetest countenance! Who dare express Him? And who profess Him, Saying: I believe in Him! Who, feeling, seeing, Deny His being, Saying: I believe Him not! The All-enfolding, The All-upholding, Folds and upholds he not Thee, me, Himself? Arches not there the sky above us? Lies not beneath us, firm, the earth? And rise not, on us shining, Friendly, the everlasting stars? Look I not, eye to eye, on thee, And feel’st not, thronging To head and heart, the force, Still weaving its eternal secret, Invisible, visible, round thy life? Vast as it is, fill with that force thy heart, And when thou in the feeling wholly blessed art, Call it, then, what thou wilt,— Call it Bliss! Heart! Love! God! I have no name to give it! Feeling is all in all: The Name is sound and smoke, Obscuring Heaven’s clear glow. All that is fine and good, to hear it so: Much the same way the preacher spoke, Only with slightly different phrases. The same thing, in all places, All hearts that beat beneath the heavenly day— Each in its language—say; Then why not I, in mine, as well? To hear it thus, it may seem passable; And yet, some hitch in’t there must be For thou hast no Christianity. Dear love! I’ve long been grieved to see That thou art in such company.
How so? The man who with thee goes, thy mate, Within my deepest, inmost soul I hate. In all my life there’s nothing Has given my heart so keen a pang of loathing, As his repulsive face has done. Nay, fear him not, my sweetest one! I feel his presence like something ill. I’ve else, for all, a kindly will, But, much as my heart to see thee yearneth, The secret horror of him returneth; And I think the man a knave, as I live! If I do him wrong, may God forgive! There must be such queer birds, however. Live with the like of him, may I never! When once inside the door comes he, He looks around so sneeringly, And half in wrath: One sees that in nothing no interest he hath: ’Tis written on his very forehead That love, to him, is a thing abhorréd. I am so happy on thine arm, So free, so yielding, and so warm, And in his presence stifled seems my heart. Foreboding angel that thou art! It overcomes me in such degree, That wheresoe’er he meets us, even, I feel as though I’d lost my love for thee. When he is by, I could not pray to Heaven. That burns within me like a flame, And surely, Henry, ’tis with thee the same.
There, now, is thine antipathy! But I must go. Ah, shall there never be A quiet hour, to see us fondly plighted, With breast to breast, and soul to soul united? Ah, if I only slept alone! I’d draw the bolts to-night, for thy desire; But mother’s sleep so light has grown, And if we were discovered by her, ’Twould be my death upon the spot! Thou angel, fear it not! Here is a phial: in her drink But three drops of it measure, And deepest sleep will on her senses sink. What would I not, to give thee pleasure? It will not harm her, when one tries it? If ’twould, my love, would I advise it? Ah, dearest man, if but thy face I see, I know not what compels me to thy will: So much have I already done for thee, That scarcely more is left me to fulfil. (_Enter_ MEPHISTOPHELES.) [_Exit_. The monkey! Is she gone? Hast played the spy again? I’ve heard, most fully, how she drew thee. The Doctor has been catechised, ’tis plain; Great good, I hope, the thing will do thee. The girls have much desire to ascertain If one is prim and good, as ancient rules compel: If there he’s led, they think, he’ll follow them as well. Thou, monster, wilt nor see nor own How this pure soul, of faith so lowly, So loving and ineffable,— The faith alone That her salvation is,—with scruples holy Pines, lest she hold as lost the man she loves so well!
Thou, full of sensual, super-sensual desire, A girl by the nose is leading thee. Abortion, thou, of filth and fire! And then, how masterly she reads physiognomy! When I am present she’s impressed, she knows not how; She in my mask a hidden sense would read: She feels that surely I’m a genius now,— Perhaps the very Devil, indeed! Well, well,—to-night—? What’s that to thee? Yet my delight ’twill also be! MARGARET _and_ LISBETH _With pitchers_. Hast nothing heard of Barbara? No, not a word. I go so little out. It’s true, Sibylla said, to-day. She’s played the fool at last, there’s not a doubt. Such taking-on of airs! How so? It stinks! She’s feeding two, whene’er she eats and drinks. Ah! And so, at last, it serves her rightly. She clung to the fellow so long and tightly! That was a promenading! At village and dance parading! As the first they must everywhere shine, And he treated her always to pies and wine, And she made a to-do with her face so fine; So mean and shameless was her behavior, She took all the presents the fellow gave her. ’Twas kissing and coddling, on and on! So now, at the end, the flower is gone. The poor, poor thing! Dost pity her, at that? When one of us at spinning sat, And mother, nights, ne’er let us out the door She sported with her paramour. On the door-bench, in the passage dark, The length of the time they’d never mark. So now her head no more she’ll lift, But do church-penance in her sinner’s shift!
He’ll surely take her for his wife. He’d be a fool! A brisk young blade Has room, elsewhere, to ply his trade. Besides, he’s gone. That is not fair! If him she gets, why let her beware! The boys shall dash her wreath on the floor, And we’ll scatter chaff before her door! [_Exit_. MARGARET (_returning home_) How scornfully I once reviled, When some poor maiden was beguiled! More speech than any tongue suffices I craved, to censure others’ vices. Black as it seemed, I blackened still, And blacker yet was in my will; And blessed myself, and boasted high,— And now—a living sin am I! Yet—all that drove my heart thereto, God! was so good, so dear, so true! (_In a niche of the wall a shrine, with an image of the Mater Dolorosa. Pots of flowers before it_.)
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.