7/6/2007

Harvard Classics

Harvard Classics, Volume XIX

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Faust Part 1 by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

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The Tragical History Of Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe

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Egmont by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

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Hermann and Dorothea by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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Faust Part 1 by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

Introductory Note

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE, the greatest of German men of letters, was born at Frankfort-on-the-Main, August 28, 1749. His father was a man of means and position, and he personally supervised the early education of his son. The young Goethe studied at the universities of Leipsic and Strasburg, and in 1772 entered upon the practice of law at Wetzlar. At the invitation of Karl August, Duke of Saxe-Weimar, he went in 1775 to live in Weimar, where he held a succession of political offices, becoming the Duke's chief adviser. From 1786 to 1788 he traveled in Italy, and from 179' to 1817 directed the ducal theater at Weimar. He took part in the wars against France, 1792-3, and in the following year began his friendship with Schiller, which lasted till the latter's death in 1805. In 1806 he married Christiane Vulpius. From about 1794 he devoted himself chiefly to literature, and after a life of extraordinary productiveness died at Weimar, March 22, 1832. The most important of Goethe's works produced before he went to Weimar were his tragedy "Gotz von Berlichingen" (1773), which first brought him fame, and "The Sorrows of Young Werther," a novel which obtained enormous popularity during the so-called "Sturm und Drang" period. During the years at Weimar before he knew Schiller he began "Wilhelm Meister," wrote the dramas, "Iphigenie," "Egmont," and "Torquato Tasso," and his "Reinecke Fuchs." To the period of his friendship with Schiller belong the continuation of "Wilhelm Meister," the beautiful idyl of "Hermann and Dorothea," and the "Roman Elegies." In the last period, between Schiller's death in 1805 and his own, appeared "Faust," "Elective Affinities," his autobiographical "Dichtung and Wahrheit" ("Poetry and Truth"), his "Italian Journey," much scientific work, and a series of treatises on German Art.

Though the foregoing enumeration contains but a selection front the titles of Goethe's best known writings, it suffices to show the extraordinary fertility and versatility of his genius. Rarely has a man of letters had so full and varied a life, or been capable of so many-sided a development. His political and scientific activities, though dwarfed in the eyes of our generation by his artistic production, yet showed the adaptability of his talent in the most diverse directions, and helped to give him that balance of temper and breadth of vision in which he has been surpassed by no genius of the ancient or modern world.

The greatest and most representative expression of Goethe's powers is without doubt to be found in his drama of "Faust"; but before dealing with Goethe's masterpiece, it is worth while to say something of the history of the story on which it is founded—the most famous instance of the old and widespread legend of the man who sold his soul to the devil. The historical Dr. Faust seems to have been a self-called philosopher who traveled about Germany in the first half of the sixteenth century, making money by the practise of magic, fortune-telling, and pretended cures. He died mysteriously about 1540, and a legend soon sprang up that the devil, by whose aid he wrought his wonders, had finally carried him off. In 1587 a life of him appeared, in which are attributed to him many marvelous exploits and in which he is held up as an awful warning against the excessive desire for secular learning and admiration for antique beauty which characterized the humanist movement of the time. In this aspect the Faust legend is an expression of early popular Protestantism, and of its antagonism to the scientific and classical tendencies of the Renaissance.

While a succession of Faust books were appearing in Germany, the original life was translated into English and dramatized by Marlowe. English players brought Marlowe's work back to Germany, where it was copied by German actors, degenerated into spectacular farce, and finally into a puppet show. Through this puppet show Goethe made acquaintance with the legend.

By the time that Goethe was twenty, the Faust legend had fascinated his imagination; for three years before he went to Weimar he had been working on scattered scenes and bits of dialogue; and though he suspended actual composition on it during three distinct periods, it was always to resume, and he closed his labors upon it only with his life. Thus the period of time between his first experiments and the final touches is more than sixty years. During this period the plans for the structure and the signification of the work inevitably underwent profound modifications, and these have naturally affected the unity of the result; but, on the other hand, this long companionship and persistent recurrence to the task from youth to old age have made it in a unique way the record of Goethe's personality in all its richness and diversity.

The drama was given to the public first as a fragment in 1790; then the completed First Part appeared in 1808; and finally the Second Part was published in 1833, the year after the author's death. Writing in "Dichtung und Wahrheit" of the period about 1770, when he was in Strasburg with. Herder, Goethe says, "The significant puppet-play legend… echoed and buzzed in many tones within me. I too had drifted about in all knowledge, and early enough had been brought to feel the vanity of it. I too had made all sorts of experiments in life, and had always come back more unsatisfied and more tormented. I was now carrying these things, like many others, about with me and delighting myself with them in lonely hours, but without writing anything down." Without going into the details of the experience which underlies these words, we can see the be ginning of that sympathy with the hero of the old story that was the basis of its fascination and that accounted for Goethe's departure from the traditional catastrophe of Faust's damnation.

Of the elements in the finished Faust that are derived from the legend a rough idea may be obtained from the "Doctor Faustus" of Marlowe, printed in the present volume. As early as 1674 a life of Faust had contained the incident of the philosopher's falling in love with a servant-girl; but the developed story of Gretchen is Goethe's own. The other elements added to the plot can be noted by a comparison with Marlowe.

It need hardly be said that Goethe's "Faust" does not derive its greatness from its conformity to the traditional standards of what a tragedy should be. He himself was accustomed to refer to it cynically as a monstrosity, and yet he put himself into it as intensely as Dante put himself into "The Divine Comedy." A partial explanation of this apparent contradiction in the author's attitude is to be found in what has been said of its manner of composition. Goethe began it in his romantic youth, and availed himself recklessly of the supernatural elements in the legend, with the disregard of reason and plausibility characteristic of the romantic mood. When he returned to it in the beginning of the new century his artistic standards had changed, and the supernaturalism could now be tolerated only by being made symbolic. Thus he makes the career of Faust as a whole emblematic of the triumph of the persistent striving for the ideal over the temptation to find complete satisfaction in the sense, and prepares the reader for this interpretation by prefixing the "Prologue in Heaven." The elaboration of this symbolic element is responsible for such scenes as the Walpurgis Night and the Intermezzo, scenes full of power and infinitely suggestive, but destructive of the unity of the play as a tragedy of human life. Yet there remains in this First Part even in its final form much that is realistic in the best sense, the carousal in Auerbach's cellar, the portrait of Martha, the Easter-morning walk, the character and fate of Margaret. It is such elements as these that have appealed to the larger reading public and that have naturally been emphasized by performance on the stage, and by virtue of these alone "Faust" may rank as a great drama; but it is the result of Goethe's broodings on the mystery of human life, shadowed forth in the symbolic parts and elaborated with still greater complexity and still more far-reaching suggestiveness-and, it must be added, with deepening obscurity-in the Second Part, that have given the work its place with "Job," with the "Prometheus Bound," with "The Divine Comedy," and with "Hamlet."

Dedication

YE wavering shapes, again ye do enfold me,

As erst upon my troubled sight ye stole;

Shall I this time attempt to clasp, to hold ye—

Still for the fond illusion yearns my soul—

Ye press around! Come then, your captive hold me,

As upward from the vapoury mist ye roll;

Within my breast youth's throbbing pulse is bounding,

Fann'd by the magic breath your march surrounding.

Shades fondly loved appear, your train attending,

And visions fair of many a blissful day;

First-love and friendship their fond accents blending,

Like to some ancient, half-expiring lay;

Sorrow revives, her wail of anguish sending

Back o'er life's devious labyrinthine way,

And names the dear ones, they whom Fate bereaving

Of life's fair hours, left me behind them grieving.

They hear me not my later cadence singing,

The souls to whom my earlier lays I sang;

Dispersed the throng, their severed flight now winging;

Mute are the voices that responsive rang.

For stranger crowds the Orphean lyre now stringing,

E'en their applause is to my heart a pang;

Of old who listened to my song, glad hearted,

If yet they live, now wander widely parted.

A yearning long unfelt, each impulse swaying,

To yon calm spirit-realm uplifts my soul;

In faltering cadence, as when Zephyr playing,

Fans the Aeolian harp, my numbers roll;

Tear follows tear, my steadfast heart obeying

The tender impulse, loses its control;

What I possess as from afar I see;

Those I have lost become realities to me.

PROLOGUE FOR THE THEATRE

MANAGER. DRAMATIC POET. MERRYMAN.

MANAGER

YE twain, in trouble and distress

True friends whom I so oft have found,

Say, for our scheme on German ground,

What prospect have we of success—

Fain would I please the public, win their thanks;

They live and let live, hence it is but meet.

The posts are now erected, and the planks,

And all look forward to a festal treat.

Their places taken, they, with eyebrows rais'd,

Sit patiently, and fain would be amaz'd.

I know the art to hit the public taste,

Yet ne'er of failure felt so keen a dread;

True, they are not accustomed to the best,

But then appalling the amount they've read…

How make our entertainment striking, new,

And yet significant and pleasing too—

For to be plain, I love to see the throng,

As to our booth the living tide progresses;

As wave on wave successive rolls along,

And through heaven's narrow portal forceful presses;

Still in broad daylight, ere the clock strikes four,

With blows their way towards the box they take;

And, as for bread in famine, at the baker's door,

For tickets are content their necks to break.

Such various minds the bard alone can sway,

My friend, oh work this miracle to-day!

POET

Oh of the motley throng speak not before me,

At whose aspect the Spirit wings its flight!

Conceal the surging concourse, I implore thee,

Whose vortex draws us with resistless might.

No, to some peaceful heavenly nook restore me,

Where only for the bard blooms pure delight,

Where love and friendship yield their choicest blessing,

Our heart's true bliss, with god-like hand caressing.

What in the spirit's depths was there created,

What shyly there the lip shaped forth in sound;

A failure now, with words now fitly mated,

In the wild tumult of the hour is drown'd;

Full oft the poet's thought for years bath waited

Until at length with perfect form 'tis crowned;

What dazzles, for the moment born, must perish;

What genuine is posterity will cherish.

MERRYMAN

This cant about posterity I hate;

About posterity were I to prate,

Who then the living would amuse— For they

Will have diversion, ay, and 'tis their due.

A sprightly fellow's presence at your play,

Methinks should also count for something too;

Whose genial wit the audience still inspires,

Knows from their changeful mood no angry feeling;

A wider circle he desires,

To their heart's depths more surely thus appealing.

To work, then! Give a master-piece, my friend;

Bring Fancy with her choral trains before us,

Sense, reason, feeling, passion, but attend!

Let folly also swell the tragic chorus.

MANAGER

In chief, of incident enough prepare!

A show they want, they come to gape and stare.

Spin for their eyes abundant occupation,

SO that the multitude may wondering gaze,

You by sheer bulk have won your reputation,

By mass alone can you subdue the masses,

Each then selects in time what suits his bent.

Bring much, you something bring for various classes,

And from the house goes every one content.

You give a piece, abroad in pieces send it!

'Tis a ragout-success most needs attend it;

'Tis easy to serve up, as easy to invent.

A finish'd whole what boots it to present!

Full soon the public will in pieces rend it.

POET

How mean such handicraft as this you cannot feel!

How it revolts the genuine artist's mind!

The sorry trash in which these coxcombs deal,

Is here approved on principle, I find.

MANAGER

Such a reproof disturbs me not a whit!

Who on efficient work is bent,

Must choose the fittest instrument.

Consider! 'tis soft wood you have to split;

Think too for whom you write, I pray!

One comes to while an hour away;

One from the festive board, a sated guest;

Others, more dreaded than the rest,

From journal-reading hurry to the play.

As to a masquerade, with absent minds, they press,

Sheer curiosity their footsteps winging;

Ladies display their persons and their dress,

Actors unpaid their service bringing.

What dreams beguile you on your poet's height—

What puts a full house in a merry mood—

More closely view your patrons of the night!

The half are cold, the half are rude.

One, the play over, craves a game of cards;

Another a wild night in wanton joy would spend.

Poor fools the muses' fair regards.

Why court for such a paltry end—

I tell you, give them more, still more, 'tis all I ask,

Thus you will ne'er stray widely from the goal;

Your audience seek to mystify, cajole;-

To satisfy them-that's a harder task.

What ails thee— art enraptured or distressed—

POET

Depart! elsewhere another servant choose

What! shall the bard his godlike power abuse—

Man's loftiest right, kind nature's high bequest,

For your mean purpose basely sport away—

Whence comes his mastery o'er the human breast,

Whence o'er the elements his sway,

But from the harmony that, gushing from his soul,

Draws back into his heart the wondrous whole—

With careless hand when round her spindle, Nature

Winds the interminable thread of life;

When 'mid the clash of Being every creature

Mingles in harsh inextricable strife;

Who deals their course unvaried till it falleth,

In rhythmic flow to music's measur'd tone—

Each solitary note whose genius calleth,

To swell the mighty choir in unison—

Who in the raging storm sees passion low'ring—

Or flush of earnest thought in evening's glow—

Who every blossom in sweet spring-time flowering

Along the loved one's path would strow—

Who, Nature's green familiar leaves entwining,

Wreathe's glory's garland, won on every field—

Makes sure Olympus, heavenly powers combining—

Man's mighty spirit, in the bard reveal'd!

MERRYMAN

Come then, employ your lofty inspiration,

And carry on the poet's avocation,

Just as we carry on a love affair.

Two meet by chance, are pleased, they linger there,

Insensibly are link'd, they scarce know how;

Fortune seems now propitious, adverse now,

Then come alternate rapture and despair;

And 'tis a true romance ere one's aware.

Just such a drama let us now compose.

Plunge boldly into life-its depths disclose!

Each lives it, not to many is it known,

'Twill interest wheresoever seiz'd and shown;

Bright pictures, but obscure their meaning:

A ray of truth through error gleaming,

Thus you the best elixir brew,

To charm mankind, and edify them too.

Then youth's fair blossoms crowd to view your play,

And wait as on an oracle; while they,

The tender souls, who love the melting mood,

Suck from your work their melancholy food;

Now this one, and now that, you deeply stir,

Each sees the working of his heart laid bare.

Their tears, their laughter, you command with ease,

The lofty still they honour, the illusive love.

Your finish'd gentlemen you ne'er can please;

A growing mind alone will grateful prove.

POET

Then give me back youth's golden prime,

When my own spirit too was growing,

When from my heart th' unbidden rhyme

Gush'd forth, a fount for ever flowing;

Then shadowy mist the world conceal'd,

And every bud sweet promise made,

Of wonders yet to be reveal'd,

As through the vales, with blooms inlaid,

Culling a thousand flowers I stray'd.

Naught had I, yet a rich profusion!

The thirst for truth, joy in each fond illusion.

Give me unquell'd those impulses to prove;-

Rapture so deep, its ecstasy was pain,

The power of hate, the energy of love,

Give me, oh give me back my youth again!

MERRYMAN

Youth, my good friend, you certainly require

When foes in battle round are pressing,

When a fair maid, her heart on fire,

Hangs on your neck with fond caressing,

When from afar, the victor's crown,

To reach the hard-won goal inciteth;

When from the whirling dance, to drown

Your sense, the night's carouse inviteth.

But the familiar chords among

Boldly to sweep, with graceful cunning,

While to its goal, the verse along

Its winding path is sweetly running;

This task is yours, old gentlemen, to-day;

Nor are you therefore less in reverence held;

Age does not make us childish, as folk say,

It finds us genuine children e'en in eld.

MANAGER

A truce to words, mere empty sound,

Let deeds at length appear, my friends!

While idle compliments you round,

You might achieve some useful ends.

Why talk of the poetic vein—

Who hesitates will never know it;

If bards ye are, as ye maintain,

Now let your inspiration show it.

To you is known what we require,

Strong drink to sip is our desire;

Come, brew me such without delay!

To-morrow sees undone, what happens not to-day

Still forward press, nor ever tire!

The possible, with steadfast trust,

Resolve should by the forelock grasp;

Then she will ne'er let go her clasp,

And labours on, because she must.

Therefore in bringing out your play,

Nor scenes nor mechanism spare!

Heaven's lamps employ, the greatest and the least,

Be lavish of the stellar lights,

Water, and fire, and rocky heights,

Spare not at all, nor birds, nor beast.

Thus let creation's ample sphere

Forthwith in this our narrow booth appear,

And with considerate speed, through fancy's spell,

Journey from heaven, thence through the world, to bell!

PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN

THE LORD. THE HEAVENLY HOSTS.

Afterwards MEPHISTOPHELES.

Time three Archangels come forward

RAPHAEL

THE Sun, in ancient guise, competing

With brother spheres in rival song,

With thunder-march, his orb completing,

Moves his predestin'd course along;

His aspect to the powers supernal

Gives strength, though fathom him none may;

Transcending thought, the works eternal

Are fair as on the primal day.

GABRIEL

With speed, thought baffling, unabating,

Earth's splendour whirls in circling flight;

Its Eden-brightness alternating

With solemn, awe-inspiring night;

Ocean's broad waves in wild commotion,

Against the rocks' deep base are hurled;

And with the spheres, both rock and ocean

Eternally are swiftly whirled.

MICHAEL

And tempests roar in emulation

From sea to land, from land to sea,

And raging form, without cessation,

A chain of wondrous agency,

Full in the thunder's path careering,

Flaring the swift destructions play;

But, Lord, Thy servants are revering

The mild procession of thy day.

THE THREE

Thine aspect to the powers supernal

Gives strength, though fathom thee none may;

And all thy works, sublime, eternal,

Are fair as on the primal day.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Since thou, O Lord, approachest us once more,

And how it fares with us, to ask art fain,

Since thou hast kindly welcom'd me of yore,

Thou see'st me also now among thy train.

Excuse me, fine harangues I cannot make,

Though all the circle look on me with scorn;

My pathos soon thy laughter would awake,

Hadst thou the laughing mood not long forsworn.

Of suns and worlds I nothing have to say,

I see alone mankind's self-torturing pains.

The little world-god still the self-same stamp retains,

And is as wondrous now as on the primal day.

Better he might have fared, poor wight,

Hadst thou not given him a gleam of heavenly light;

Reason, he names it, and doth so

Use it, than brutes more brutish still to grow.

With deference to your grace, he seems to me

Like any long-legged grasshopper to be,

Which ever flies, and flying springs,

And in the grass its ancient ditty sings.

Would he but always in the grass repose!

In every heap of dung he thrusts his nose.

THE LORD

Hast thou naught else to say— Is blame

In coming here, as ever, thy sole aim—

Does nothing on the earth to thee seem right—

MEPHISTOPHELES

No, Lord! I find things there, as ever, in sad plight.

Men, in their evil days, move my compassion;

Such sorry things to plague is nothing worth.

THE LORD

Know'st thou my servant, Faust—

MEPHISTOPHELES

The doctor—

THE LORD

Right.

MEPHISTOPHELES

He serves thee truly in a wondrous fashion.

Poor fool! His food and drink are not of earth.

An inward impulse hurries him afar,

Himself half conscious of his frenzied mood;

From heaven claimeth he the fairest star,

And from the earth craves every highest good,

And all that's near, and all that's far,

Fails to allay the tumult in his blood.

THE LORD

Though in perplexity he serves me now,

I soon will lead him where more light appears;

When buds the sapling, doth the gardener know

That flowers and fruit will deck the coming years.

MEPHISTOPHELES

What wilt thou wager— Him thou yet shall lose,

If leave to me thou wilt but give,

Gently to lead him as I choose!

THE LORD

So long as he on earth doth live,

So long 'tis not forbidden thee.

Man still must err, while he doth strive.

MEPHISTOPHELES

I thank you; for not willingly

I traffic with the dead, and still aver

That youth's plump blooming cheek I very much prefer.

I'm not at home to corpses; 'tis my way,

Like cats with captive mice to toy and play.

THE LORD

Enough! 'tis granted thee! Divert

This mortal spirit from his primal source;

Him, canst thou seize, thy power exert

And lead him on thy downward course,

Then stand abash'd, when thou perforce must own,

A good man in his darkest aberration,

Of the right path is conscious still.

MEPHISTOPHELES

'Tis done! Full soon thou'lt see my exultation;

As for my bet no fears I entertain.

And if my end I finally should gain,

Excuse my triumphing with all my soul.

Dust he shall eat, ay, and with relish take,

As did my cousin, the renowned snake.

THE LORD

Here too thou'rt free to act without control;

I ne'er have cherished hate for such as thee.

Of all the spirits who deny,

The scoffer is least wearisome to me.

Ever too prone is man activity to shirk,

In unconditioned rest he fain would live;

Hence this companion purposely I give,

Who stirs, excites, and must, as devil, work.

But ye, the genuine sons of heaven, rejoice!

In the full living beauty still rejoice!

May that which works and lives, the ever-growing,

In bonds of love enfold you, mercy-fraught,

And Seeming's changeful forms, around you flowing,

Do ye arrest, in ever-during thought!

(Heaven closes, the Archangels disperse.)

MEPHISTOPHELES (alone)

The ancient one I like sometimes to see,

And not to break with him am always civil;

'Tis courteous in so great a lord as he,

To speak so kindly even to the devil.

THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Characters in the Prologue for the Theatre

THE MANAGER. THE DRAMATIC POET. MERRYMAN.

Characters in the Prologue in Heaven

THE LORD.

RAPHAEL, GABRIEL, MICHAEL, (The Heavenly Host).

MEPHISTOPHELES.

Characters in the Tragedy

FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. WAGNER, a Student.

MARGARET. MARTHA, Margaret's Neighbour.

VALENTINE, Margaret's Brother. OLD PEASANT. A

STUDENT. ELIZABETH, an Acquaintance of Margaret's.

Faoscn, BRANDER, SIEBEL, ALTMAYER,

(Guests in Auerbach's Wine Cellar).

Witches; old and young; Wizards, Will-o'-the-Wisp, Witch Pedlar,

Protophantasmist, Servibilis, Monkeys, Spirits, Journeymen,

Country-folk, Citizens, Beggar, Old Fortune-teller, Shepherd,

Soldier, Students, &c.

In the Intermezzo

OBERON. TITANIA. ARIEL. PUCK, &C, &C.

PART I

NIGHT

A high vaulted narrow Gothic chamber.

FAUST, restless, seated at his desk.

FAUST

I HAVE, alas! Philosophy,

Medicine, Jurisprudence too,

And to my cost Theology,

With ardent labour, studied through.

And here I stand, with all my lore,

Poor fool, no wiser than before.

Magister, doctor styled, indeed,

Already these ten years I lead,

Up, down, across, and to and fro,

My pupils by the nose,-and learn,

That we in truth can nothing know!

That in my heart like fire doth burn.

'Tis true I've more cunning than all your dull tribe,

Magister and doctor, priest, parson, and scribe;

Scruple or doubt comes not to enthrall me,

Neither can devil nor hell now appal me-

Hence also my heart must all pleasure forego!

I may not pretend, aught rightly to know,

I may not pretend, through teaching, to find

A means to improve or convert mankind.

Then I have neither goods nor treasure,

No worldly honour, rank, or pleasure;

No dog in such fashion would longer live!

Therefore myself to magic I give,

In hope, through spirit-voice and might,

Secrets now veiled to bring to light,

That I no more, with aching brow,

Need speak of what I nothing know;

That I the force may recognise

That binds creation's inmost energies;

Her vital powers, her embryo seeds survey,

And fling the trade in empty words away.

O full-orb'd moon, did but thy rays

Their last upon mine anguish gaze!

Beside this desk, at dead of night,

Oft have I watched to hail thy light:

Then, pensive friend! o'er book and scroll,

With soothing power, thy radiance stole!

In thy dear light, ah, might I climb,

Freely, some mountain height sublime,

Round mountain caves with spirits ride,

In thy mild haze o'er meadows glide,

And, purged from knowledge-fumes, renew

My spirit, in thy healing dew!

Woe's me! still prison'd in the gloom

Of this abhorr'd and musty room!

Where heaven's dear light itself doth pass,

But dimly through the painted glass!

Hemmed in by book-heaps, piled around,

Worm-eaten, hid 'neath dust and mould,

Which to the high vault's topmost bound,

A smoke-stained paper doth enfold;

With boxes round thee piled, and glass,

And many a useless instrument,

With old ancestral lumber blent-

This is thy world! a world! alas!

And dost thou ask why heaves thy heart,

With tighten'd pressure in thy breast—

Why the dull ache will not depart,

By which thy life-pulse is oppress'd—

Instead of nature's living sphere,

Created for mankind of old,

Brute skeletons surround thee here,

And dead men's bones in smoke and mould.

Up! Forth into the distant land!

Is not this book of mystery

By Nostradamus' proper hand,

An all-sufficient guide— Thou'lt see

The courses of the stars unroll'd;

When nature doth her thoughts unfold

To thee, thy soul shall rise, and seek

Communion high with her to hold,

As spirit doth with spirit speak!

Vain by dull poring to divine

The meaning of each hallow'd sign.

Spirits! I feel you hov'ring near;

Make answer, if my voice ye hear!

(He opens the book and perceives the sign of the Macrocosmos.)

Ah! at this spectacle through every sense,

What sudden ecstasy of joy is flowing!

I feel new rapture, hallow'd and intense,

Through every nerve and vein with ardour glowing.

Was it a god who character'd this scroll,

The tumult in my spirit healing,

O'er my sad heart with rapture stealing,

And by a mystic impulse, to my soul,

The powers of nature all around revealing.

Am I a God— What light intense!

In these pure symbols do I see,

Nature exert her vital energy.

Now of the wise man's words I learn the sense;

"Unlock'd the spirit-world is lying,

Thy sense is shut, thy heart is dead!

Up scholar, lave, with zeal undying,

Thine earthly breast in the morning-red!"

(He contemplates the sign.)

How all things live and work, and ever blending,

Weave one vast whole from Being's ample range!

How powers celestial, rising and descending,

Their golden buckets ceaseless interchange!

Their flight on rapture-breathing pinions winging,

From heaven to earth their genial influence bringing,

Through the wild sphere their chimes melodious ringing!

A wondrous show! but ah! a show alone!

Where shall I grasp thee, infinite nature, where—

Ye breasts, ye fountains of all life, whereon

Hang heaven and earth, from which the withered heart

For solace yearns, ye still impart

Your sweet and fostering tides-where are ye-where—

Ye gush, and must I languish in despair—

(He turns over the leaves of the book impatiently, and perceives

the sign of the Earth-spirit.)

How all unlike the influence of this sign!

Earth-spirit, thou to me art nigher,

E'en now my strength is rising higher,

E'en now I glow as with new wine;

Courage I feel, abroad the world to dare,

The woe of earth, the bliss of earth to bear,

With storms to wrestle, brave the lightning's glare,

And mid the crashing shipwreck not despair.

Clouds gather over me-

The moon conceals her light-

The lamp is quench'd-

Vapours are rising-

Quiv'ring round my head

Flash the red beams-

Down from the vaulted roof

A shuddering horror floats,

And seizes me!

I feel it, spirit, prayer-compell'd, 'tis thou

Art hovering near!

Unveil thyself!

Ha! How my heart is riven now!

Each sense, with eager palpitation,

Is strain'd to catch some new sensation!

I feel my heart surrender'd unto thee!

Thou must! Thou must! Though life should be the fee!

(He seizes the book, and pronounces mysteriously the sign

of the spirit. A ruddy flame flashes up; the spirit appears in the

flame.)

SPIRIT

Who calls me—

FAUST (turning aside)

Dreadful shape!

SPIRIT

With might, thou hast compelled me to appear,

Long hast been sucking at my sphere,

And now-

FAUST

Woe's me! I cannot bear the sight!

SPIRIT

To see me thou dost breathe thine invocation,

My voice to hear, to gaze upon my brow;

Me doth thy strong entreaty bow-

Lo! I am here I-What cowering agitation

Grasps thee, the demigod! Where's now the soul's deep cry—

Where is the breast, which in its depths a world conceiv'd

And bore and cherished— which, with ecstasy,

To rank itself with us, the spirits, heaved—

Where art thou, Faust— whose voice I heard resound,

Who towards me press'd with energy profound—

Art thou he— Thou,-who by my breath art blighted,

Who, in his spirit's depths affrighted,

Trembles, a crush'd and writhing worm!

FAUST

Shall I yield, thing of flame, to thee—

Faust, and thine equal, I am he!

SPIRIT

In the currents of life, in action's storm,

I float and I wave

With billowy motion!

Birth and the grave

A limitless ocean,

A constant weaving

With change still rife,

A restless heaving,

A glowing life-

Thus time's whirring loom unceasing I ply,

And weave the life-garment of deity.

FAUST

Thou, restless spirit, dost from end to end

O'ersweep the world; how near I feel to thee!

SPIRIT

Thou'rt like the spirit, thou dost comprehend,

Not me! (Vanishes.)

FAUST (deeply moved)

I, God's own image!

And not rank with thee! (A knock.)

Oh death! I know it-'tis my famulus-

My fairest fortune now escapes!

That all these visionary shapes

A soulless groveller should banish thus!

(WAGNER in his dressing gown and night-cap, a lamp

in his hand. FAUST turns round reluctantly.)

WAGNER

Pardon! I heard you here declaim;

A Grecian tragedy you doubtless read—

Improvement in this art is now my aim,

For now-a-days it much avails. Indeed

An actor, oft I've heard it said, as teacher,

May give instruction to a preacher.

FAUST

Ay, if your priest should be an actor too,

As not improbably may come to pass.

WAGNER

When in his study pent the whole year through,

Man views the world, as through an optic glass,

On a chance holiday, and scarcely then,

How by persuasion can he govern men—

FAUST

If feeling prompt not, if it doth not flow

Fresh from the spirit's depths, with strong control

Swaying to rapture every listener's soul,

Idle your toil; the chase you may forego!

Brood o'er your task! Together glue,

Cook from another's feast your own ragout,

Still prosecute your paltry game,

And fan your ash-heaps into flame!

'Thus children's wonder you'll excite,

And apes', if such your appetite;

But that which issues from the heart alone,

Will bend tile hearts of others to your own.

WAGNER

The speaker in delivery will find

Success alone; I still am far behind.

FAUST

A worthy object still pursue!

Be not a hollow tinkling fool!

Sound understanding, judgment true,

Find utterance without art or rule;

And when in earnest you are moved to speak,

Then is it needful cunning words to seek—

Your fine harangues, so polish'd in their kind,

Wherein the shreds of human thought ye twist,

Are unrefreshing as the empty wind,

Whistling through wither'd leaves and autumn mist!

WAGNER

Oh God! How long is art,

Our life how short! With earnest zeal

Still as I ply the critic's task, I feel

A strange oppression both of head and heart.

The very means how hardly are they won,

By which we to the fountains rise!

And haply, ere one half the course is run,

Check'd in his progress, the poor devil dies.

FAUST

Parchment, is that the sacred fount whence roll

Waters, he thirsteth not who once hath quaffed—

Oh, if it gush not from thine inmost soul,

Thou has not won the life-restoring draught.

WAGNER

Your pardon! 'tis delightful to transport

Oneself into the spirit of the past,

To see in times before us how a wise man thought,

And what a glorious height we have achieved at last.

FAUST

Ay truly! even to the loftiest star!

To us, my friend, the ages that are pass'd

A book with seven seals, close-fasten'd, are;

And what the spirit of the times men call,

Is merely their own spirit after all,

Wherein, distorted oft, the times are glass'd.

Then truly, 'tis a sight to grieve the soul!

At the first glance we fly it in dismay;

A very lumber-room, a rubbish-hole;

At best a sort of mock-heroic play,

With saws pragmatical, and maxims sage,

To suit the puppets and their mimic stage.

WAGNER

But then the world and man, his heart and brain!

Touching these things all men would something know.

FAUST

Ay! what 'mong men as knowledge doth obtain!

Who on the child its true name dares bestow—

The few who somewhat of these things have known,

Who their full hearts unguardedly reveal'd,

Nor thoughts, nor feelings, from the mob conceal'd,

Have died on crosses, or in flames been thrown.-

Excuse me, friend, far now the night is spent,

For this time we must say adieu.

WAGNER

Still to watch on I had been well content,

Thus to converse so learnedly with you.

But as to-morrow will be Easter-day,

Some further questions grant, I pray;

With diligence to study still I fondly cling;

Already I know much, but would know everything.

(Exit.)

FAUST (alone)

How him alone all hope abandons never,

To empty trash who clings, with zeal untired,

With greed for treasure gropes, and, joy-inspir'd,

Exults if earth-worms second his endeavour.

And dare a voice of merely human birth,

E'en here, where shapes immortal throng'd, intrude—

Yet ah! thou poorest of the sons of earth,

For once, I e'en to thee feel gratitude.

Despair the power of sense did well-nigh blast,

And thou didst save me ere I sank dismay'd,

So giant-like the vision seem'd, so vast,

I felt myself shrink dwarf'd as I survey'd!

I, God's own image, from this toil of clay

Already freed, with eager joy who hail'd

The mirror of eternal truth unveil'd,

Mid light effulgent and celestial day:-

I, more than cherub, whose unfetter'd soul

With penetrative glance aspir'd to flow

Through nature's veins, and, still creating, know

The life of gods,-how am I punish'd now!

One thunder-word hath hurl'd me from the goal!

Spirit! I dare not lift me to thy sphere.

What though my power compell'd thee to appear,

My art was powerless to detain thee here.

In that great moment, rapture-fraught,

I felt myself so small, so great;

Fiercely didst thrust me from the realm of thought

Back on humanity's uncertain fate!

Who'll teach me now— What ought Ito forego—

Ought I that impulse to obey—

Alas! our every deed, as well as every woe,

Impedes the tenor of life's onward way!

E'en to the noblest by the soul conceiv'd,

Some feelings cling of baser quality;

And when the goods of this world are achiev'd,

Each nobler aim is termed a cheat, a lie.

Our aspirations, our soul's genuine life,

Grow torpid in the din of earthly strife.

Though youthful phantasy, while hope inspires,

Stretch o'er the infinite her wing sublime,

A narrow compass limits her desires,

When wreck'd our fortunes in the gulf of time.

In the deep heart of man care builds her nest,

O'er secret woes she broodeth there,

Sleepless she rocks herself and scareth joy and rest;

Still is she wont some new disguise to wear,

She may as house and court, as wife and child appear,

As dagger, poison, fire and flood;

Imagined evils chill thy blood,

And what thou ne'er shall lose, o'er that dost shed the tear.

I am not like the gods! Feel it I must;

I'm like the earth-worm, writhing in the dust,

Which, as on dust it feeds, its native fare,

Crushed 'neath the passer's tread, lies buried there.

Is it not dust, wherewith this lofty wall,

With hundred shelves, confines me round;

Rubbish, in thousand shapes, may I not call

What in this moth-world doth my being bound—

Here, what doth fail me, shall I find—

Read in a thousand tomes that, everywhere,

Self-torture is the lot of human-kind,

With but one mortal happy, here and there—

Thou hollow skull, that grin, what should it say,

But that thy brain, like mine, of old perplexed,

Still yearning for the truth, hath sought the light of day.

And in the twilight wandered, sorely vexed—

Ye instruments, forsooth, ye mock at me,-

With wheel, and cog, and ring, and cylinder;

To nature's portals ye should be the key;

Cunning your wards, and yet the bolts ye fail to stir.

Inscrutable in broadest light,

To be unveil'd by force she doth refuse,

What she reveals not to thy mental sight,

Thou wilt not wrest me from her with levers and with screws.

Old useless furnitures, yet stand ye here,

Because my sire ye served, now dead and gone.

Old scroll, the smoke of years dost wear,

So long as o'er this desk the sorry lamp hath shone.

Better my little means hath squandered quite away,

Than burden'd by that little here to sweat and groan!

Wouldst thou possess thy heritage, essay,

By use to render it thine own!

What we employ not, but impedes our way,

That which the hour creates, that can it use alone!

But wherefore to yon Spot is riveted my gaze—

Is yonder flasket there a magnet to my sight—

Whence this mild radiance that around me plays,

As when, 'mid forest gloom, reigneth the moon's soft light—

Hail precious phial! Thee, with reverent awe,

Down from thine old receptacle I draw!

Science in thee I hail and human art.

Essence of deadliest powers, refin'd and sure,

Of soothing anodynes abstraction pure,

Now in thy master's need thy grace impart!

I gaze on thee, my pain is lull'd to rest;

I grasp thee, calm'd the tumult in my breast;

The flood-tide of my spirit ebbs away;

Onward I'm summon'd o'er a boundless main,

Calm at my feet expands the glassy plain,

To shores unknown allures a brighter day.

Lo, where a car of fire, on airy pinion,

Comes floating towards me I I'm prepar'd to fly

By a new track through ether's wide dominion,

To distant spheres of pure activity.

This life intense, this godlike ecstasy-

Worm that thou art such rapture canst thou earn—

Only resolve with courage stern and high,

Thy visage from the radiant sun to turn!

Dare with determin'd will to burst the portals

Past which in terror others fain would steal

Now is the time, through deeds, to show that mortals

The calm sublimity of gods can feel;

To shudder not at yonder dark abyss,

Where phantasy creates her own self-torturing brood,

Right onward to the yawning gulf to press,

Around whose narrow jaws rolleth hell's fiery flood;

With glad resolve to take the fatal leap,

Though danger threaten thee, to sink in endless sleep!

Pure crystal goblet! forth I draw thee now,

From out thine antiquated case, where thou

Forgotten hast reposed for many a year!

Oft at my father's revels thou didst shine,

To glad the earnest guests was thine,

As each to other passed the generous cheer.

The gorgeous brede of figures, quaintly wrought,

Which he who quaff'd must first in rhyme expound,

Then drain the goblet at one draught profound,

Hath nights of boyhood to fond memory brought.

I to my neighbour shall not reach thee now,

Nor on thy rich device shall I my cunning show.

Here is a juice, makes drunk without delay;

Its dark brown flood thy crystal round doth fill;

Let this last draught, the product of my skill,

My own free choice, be quaff'd with resolute will,

A solemn festive greeting, to the coming day!

(He places the goblet to his mouth.)

(Tue ringing of bells, and choral voices.)

Chorus of ANGELS

Christ is arisen!

Mortal, all hail to thee,

Thou whom mortality,

Earth's sad reality,

Held as in prison.

FAUST

What hum melodious, what clear silvery chime

Thus draws the goblet from my lips away—

Ye deep-ton'd bells, do ye with voice sublime,

Announce the solemn dawn of Easter-day—

Sweet choir! are ye the hymn of comfort singing,

Which once around the darkness of the grave,

From seraph-voices, in glad triumph ringing,

Of a new covenant assurance gave—

CHORUS OF WOMEN

We, his true-hearted,

With spices and myrrh,

Embalmed the departed,

And swathed him with care;

Here we conveyed Him,

Our Master, so dear;

Alas! Where we laid Him,

The Christ is not here.

CHORUS OF ANGELS

Christ is arisen!

Blessed the loving one,

Who from earth's trial throes,

Healing and strengthening woes,

Soars as from prison.

FAUST

Wherefore, ye tones celestial, sweet and strong,

Come ye a dweller in the dust to seek—

Ring out your chimes believing crowds among,

The message well I hear, my faith alone is weak;

From faith her darling, miracle, hath sprung.

Aloft to yonder spheres I dare not soar,

Whence sound the tidings of great joy;

And yet, with this sweet strain familiar when a boy,

Back it recalleth me to life once more.

Then would celestial love, with holy kiss,

Come o'er me in the Sabbath's stilly hour,

While, fraught with solemn meaning and mysterious

Chim'd the deep-sounding bell, and prayer was bliss;

A yearning impulse, undefin'd yet dear,

Drove me to wander on through wood and field;

With heaving breast and many a burning tear,

I felt with holy joy a world reveal'd.

Gay sports and festive hours proclaim'd with joyous pealing,

This Easter hymn in days of old;

And fond remembrance now doth me, with childlike feeling,

Back from the last, the solemn step, withhold.

O still sound on, thou sweet celestial strain!

The tear-drop flows,-Earth, I am thine again!

CHORUS OF DISCIPLES

He whom we mourned as dead,

Living and glorious,

From the dark grave bath fled,

O'er death victorious;

Almost creative bliss

Waits on his growing powers;

Ah! Him on earth we miss;

Sorrow and grief are ours.

Yearning he left his own,

Mid sore annoy;

Ah! we must needs bemoan.

Master, thy joy!

CHORUS OF ANGELS

Christ is arisen,

Redeem'd from decay.

The bonds which imprison

Your souls, rend away!

Praising the Lord with zeal,

By deeds that love reveal,

Like brethren true and leal

Sharing the daily meal,

To all that sorrow feel

Whisp'ring of heaven's weal,

Still is the master near,

Still is he here!

BEFORE THE GATE

Promenaders of all sorts pass out.

ARTISANS

Why choose ye that direction, pray—

OTHERS

To the hunting-lodge we're on our way.

THE FIRST

We towards the mill are strolling on.

A MECHANIC

A walk to Wasserhof were best.

A SECOND

The road is not a pleasant one.

THE OTHERS

What will you do—

A THIRD

I'll join the rest.

A FOURTH

Let's up to Burghof, there you'll find good cheer,

The prettiest maidens and the best of beer,

And brawls of a prime sort.

A FIFTH

You scapegrace! How;

Your skin still itching for a row—

Thither I will not go, I loathe the place.

SERVANT GIRL

No, no! I to the town my steps retrace.

ANOTHER

Near yonder poplars he is sure to be.

THE FIRST

And if he is, what matters it to me!

With you he'll walk, he'll dance with none but you,

And with your pleasures what have I to do—

THE SECOND

To-day he will not be alone, he said

His friend would be with him, the curly-head.

STUDENT

Why how those buxom girls step on!

Come, brother, we will follow them anon.

Strong beer, a damsel smartly dress'd,

Stinging tobacco,-these I love the best.

BURGHER'S DAUGHTER

Look at those handsome fellows there!

'Tis really shameful, I declare,

The very best society they shun,

After those servant girls forsooth, to run.

SECOND STUDENT (to the first)

Not quite so fast! for in our rear,

Two girls, well-dress'd, are drawing near;

Not far from us the one doth dwell,

And sooth to say, II like her well.

They walk demurely, yet you'll see,

That they will let us join them presently.

THE FIRST

Not I! restraints of all kinds I detest.

Quick! let us catch the wild-game ere it flies,

The hand on Saturday the mop that plies,

Will on the Sunday fondle you the best.

BURGHER

No, this new Burgomaster, I like him not, God knows,

Now, he's in office, daily more arrogant he grows;

And for the town, what doth he do for it—

Are not things worse from day to day—

To more restraints we must submit;

And taxes more than ever pay.

BEGGAR (sings)

Kind gentleman and ladies fair,

So rosy-cheek'd and trimly dress'd,

Be pleas'd to listen to my prayer,

Relieve and pity the distress'd.

Let me not vainly sing my lay!

His heart's most glad whose hand is free.

Now when all men keep holiday,

Should be a harvest-day to me.

ANOTHER BURGHER

On holidays and Sundays naught know I more inviting

Than chatting about war and war's alarms,

When folk in Turkey, up in arms,

Far off, are 'gainst each other fighting.

We at the window stand, our glasses drain,

And watch adown the stream the painted vessels gliding,

Then joyful we at eve come home again,

And peaceful times we bless, peace long-abiding.

THIRD BURGHER

Ay, neighbour! So let matters stand for me!

There they may scatter one another's brains,

And wild confusion round them see-

So here at home in quiet all remains!

OLD WOMAN (to the BURGHERS' DAUGHTERS)

Heyday! How smart! The fresh young blood!

Who would not fall in love with you—

Not quite so proud! 'Tis well and good!

And what you wish, that I could help you to.

BURGHER'S DAUGHTER

Come, Agatha! I care not to be seen

Walking in public with these witches. True,

My future lover, last St. Andrew's E'en,

In flesh and blood she brought before my view.

ANOTHER

And mine she show'd me also in the glass,

A soldier's figure, with companions bold;

I look around, I seek him as I pass,

In vain, his form I nowhere can behold.

SOLDIERS

Fortress with turrets

And walls high in air,

Damsel disdainful,

Haughty and fair,

These be my prey!

Bold is the venture,

Costly the pay!

Hark how the trumpet

Thither doth call us,

Where either pleasure

Or death may befall us.

Hail to the tumult!

Life's in the field!

Damsel and fortress

To us must yield.

Bold is the venture,

Costly the pay!

Gaily the soldier

Marches away.

FAUST and WAGNER

FAUST

Loosed from their fetters are streams and rills

Through the gracious spring-tide's all-quickening glow;

Hope's budding joy in the vale doth blow;

Old Winter back to the savage hills

Withdraweth his force, decrepid now.

Thence only impotent icy grains

Scatters he as he wings his flight,

Striping with sleet the verdant plains;

But the sun endureth no trace of white;

Everywhere growth and movement are rife,

All things investing with hues of life:

Though flowers are lacking, varied of dye,

Their colours the motly throng supply.

Turn thee around, and from this height,

Back to the town direct thy sight.

Forth from the hollow, gloomy gate,

Stream forth the masses, in bright array.

Gladly seek they the sun to-day;

The Lord's Resurrection they celebrate:

For they themselves have risen, with joy,

From tenement sordid, from cheerless room,

From bonds of toil, from care and annoy,

From gable and roof's o'er-hanging gloom,

From crowded alley and narrow street,

And from the churches' awe-breathing night,

All now have come forth into the light.

Look, only look, on nimble feet,

Through garden and field how spread the throng,

How o'er the river's ample sheet,

Many a gay wherry glides along;

And see, deep sinking in the tide,

Pushes the last boat now away.

E'en from yon far hill's path-worn side,

Flash the bright hues of garments gay.

Hark! Sounds of village mirth arise;

This is the people's paradise.

Both great and small send up a cheer;

Here am I man, I feel it here.

WAGNER

Sir Doctor, in a walk with you

There's honour and instruction too;

Yet here alone I care not to resort,

Because I coarseness hate of every sort.

This fiddling, shouting, skittling, I detest;

I hate the tumult of the vulgar throng;

They roar as by the evil one possess'd,

And call it pleasure, call it song.

PEASANTS (under the linden-tree)

Dance and song

The shepherd for the dance was dress'd,

With ribbon, wreath, and coloured vest,

A gallant show displaying.

And round about the linden-trees,

They footed it right merrily. Juchhe! Juchhe!

Juchheisa! Heisa! He!

So fiddle-bow was braying.

Our swain amidst the circle press'd,

He push'd a maiden trimly dress'd,

And jogg'd her with his elbow;

The buxom damsel turn'd her head,

"Now that's a stupid trick!" she said, Juchhe! Juchhe!

Juchhesia! Heisa! He!

Don't be so rude, good fellow!

Swift in the circle they advanced,

They danced to right, to left they danced,

And all the skirts were swinging.

And they grew red, and they grew warm,

Panting, they rested arm in arm, Juchhe! Juchhe!

Juchheisa! Heisa! He!

To hip their elbow bringing.

Don't make so free! How many a maid

Has been betroth'd and then betray'd;

And has repented after!

Yet still he flatter'd her aside,

And from the linden, far and wide, Juchhe! Juchhe!

Juchheisa! Heisa! He!

Rang fiddle-bow and laughter.

OLD PEASANT

Doctor, 'tis really kind of you,

To condescend to come this way,

A highly learned man like you,

To join our mirthful throng to-day.

Our fairest cup I offer you,

Which we with sparkling drink have crown'd,

And pledging you, I pray aloud,

That every drop within its round,

While it your present thirst allays,

May swell the number of your days.

FAUST

I take the cup you kindly reach,

Thanks and prosperity to each!

(The crowd gather round in a circle.)

OLD PEASANT

Ay, truly! 'tis well done, that you

Our festive meeting thus attend;

You, who in evil days of yore,

So often show'd yourself our friend!

Full many a one stands living here,

Who from the fever's deadly blast,

Your father rescu'd, when his skill

The fatal sickness stay'd at last.

A young man then, each house you sought,

Where reign'd the mortal pestilence.

Corpse after corpse was carried forth,

But still unscath'd you issued thence.

Sore then your trials and severe;

The Helper yonder aids the helper here.

ALL

Heaven bless the trusty friend, and long

To help the poor his life prolong!

FAUST

To Him above in homage bend,

Who prompts the helper and Who help doth send.

(He proceeds with WAGNER.)

WAGNER

What feelings, great man, must thy breast inspire,

At homage paid thee by this crowd! Thrice blest

Who from the gifts by him possessed

Such benefit can draw! The sire

Thee to his boy with reverence shows;

They press around, inquire, advance,

Hush'd is the fiddle, check'd the dance.

Where thou dost pass they stand in rows,

And each aloft his bonnet throws,

But little fails and they to thee,

As though the Host came by, would bend the knee.

FAUST

A few steps further, up to yonder stone!

Here rest we from our walk. In times long past,

Absorb'd in thought, here oft I sat alone,

And disciplin'd myself with prayer and fast.

Then rich in hope, with faith sincere,

With sighs, and hands in anguish press'd,

The end of that sore plague, with many a tear,

From heaven's dread Lord, I sought to wrest.

The crowd's applause assumes a scornful tone.

Oh, could'st thou in my inner being read,

How little either sire or son,

Of such renown deserves the meed!

My sire, of good repute, and sombre mood,

O'er nature's powers and every mystic zone,

With honest zeal, but methods of his own,

With toil fantastic loved to brood;

His time in dark alchemic cell,

With brother adepts he would spend,

And there antagonists compel,

Through numberless receipts to blend.

A ruddy lion there, a suitor bold,

In tepid bath was with the lily wed.

Thence both, while open flames around them roll'd,

Were tortur'd to another bridal bed.

Was then the youthful queen descried

With varied colours in the flask

This was our medicine; the patients died,

"Who were restored—" none cared to ask.

With our infernal mixture thus, ere long,

These hills and peaceful vales among,

We rag'd more fiercely than the pest;

Myself the deadly poison did to thousands give;

They pined away, I yet must live,

To hear the reckless murderers blest.

WAGNER

Why let this thought your soul o'ercast—

Can man do more than with nice skill,

With firm and conscientious will,

Practise the art transmitted from the past—

If thou thy sire dost honour in thy youth,

His lore thou gladly wilt receive;

In manhood, dost thou spread the bounds of truth,

Then may thy son a higher goal achieve.

FAUST

How blest, in whom the fond desire

From error's sea to rise, hope still renews!

What a man knows not, that he doth require,

And what he knoweth, that he cannot use.

But let not moody thoughts their shadow throw

O'er the calm beauty of this hour serene!

In the rich sunset see how brightly glow

Yon cottage homes, girt round with verdant green!

Slow sinks the orb, the day is now no more;

Yonder he hastens to diffuse new life.

Oh for a pinion from the earth to soar,

And after, ever after him to strive!

Then should I see the world below,

Bathed in the deathless evening-beams,

The vales reposing, every height a-glow,

The silver brooklets meeting golden streams.

The savage mountain, with its cavern'd side,

Bars not my godlike progress. Lo, the ocean,

Its warm bays heaving with a tranquil motion,

To my rapt vision opes its ample tide!

But now at length the god appears to sink;

A new-born impulse wings my flight,

Onward I press, his quenchless light to drink,

The day before me, and behind the night,

The pathless waves beneath, and over me the skies.

Fair dream, it vanish'd with the parting day!

Alas! that when on spirit-wing we rise,

No wing material lifts our mortal clay.

But 'tis our inborn impulse, deep and strong,

Upwards and onwards still to urge our flight,

When far above us pours its thrilling song

The sky-lark, lost in azure light,

When on extended wing amain

O'er pine-crown'd height the eagle soars,

And over moor and lake, the crane

Still striveth towards its native shores.

WAGNER

To strange conceits oft I myself must own,

But impulse such as this I ne'er have known:

Nor woods, nor fields, can long our thoughts engage,

Their wings I envy not the feather'd kind;

Far otherwise the pleasures of the mind,

Bear us from book to book, from page to page!

Then winter nights grow cheerful; keen delight

Warms every limb; and ah! when we unroll

Some old and precious parchment, at the sight

All heaven itself descends upon the soul.

FAUST

Thy heart by one sole impulse is possess'd;

Unconscious of the other still remain!

Two souls, alas! are lodg'd within my breast,

Which struggle there for undivided reign:

One to the world, with obstinate desire,

And closely-cleaving organs, still adheres;

Above the mist, the other doth aspire,

With sacred vehemence, to purer spheres.

Oh, are there spirits in the air,

Who float 'twixt heaven and earth dominion wielding,

Stoop hither from your golden atmosphere,

Lead me to scenes, new life and fuller yielding!

A magic mantle did I but possess,

Abroad to waft me as on viewless wings,

I'd prize it far beyond the costliest dress,

Nor would I change it for the robe of kings.

WAGNER

Call not the spirits who on mischief wait!

Their troop familiar, streaming through the air,

From every quarter threaten man's estate,

And danger in a thousand forms prepare!

They drive impetuous from the frozen north,

With fangs sharp-piercing, and keen arrowy tongue

From the ungenial east they issue forth,

And prey, with parching breath, upon thy lungs;

If, waft'd on the desert's flaming wing,

They from the south heap fire upon the brain,

Refreshment from the west at first they bring,

Anon to drown thyself and field and plain.

In wait for mischief, they are prompt to hear;

With guileful purpose our behests obey;

Like ministers of grace they oft appear,

And lisp like angels, to betray.

But let us hence! Grey eve doth all things blend,

The air grows chill, the mists descend!

'Tis in the evening first our home we prize-

Why stand you thus, and gaze with wondering eyes—

What in the gloom thus moves you—

FAUST

Yon black hound

See'st thou, through corn and stubble scampering round—

WAGNER

I've mark'd him long, naught strange in him I see!

FAUST

Note him! What takest thou the brute to be—

WAGNER

But for a poodle, whom his instinct serves

His master's track to find once more.

FAUST

Dost mark how round us, with wide spiral curves,

He wheels, each circle closer than before—

And, if I err not, he appears to me

A line of fire upon his track to leave.

WAGNER

Naught but a poodle black of hue I see;

'Tis some illusion doth your sight deceive.

FAUST

Methinks a magic coil our feet around,

He for a future snare doth lightly spread.

WAGNER

FAUST

The circle narrows, he's already near!

WAGNER

A dog dost see, no spectre have we here;

He growls, doubts, lays him on his belly, too,

And wags his tail-as dogs are wont to do.

FAUST

Come hither, Sirrah! join our company!

WAGNER

A very poodle, he appears to be!

Thou standest still, for thee he'll wait;

Thou speak'st to him, he fawns upon thee straight;

Aught thou mayst lose, again he'll bring,

And for thy stick will into water spring.

FAUST

Thou'rt right indeed; no traces now I see

Whatever of a spirit's agency.

'Tis training.-nothing more.

WAGNER

A dog well taught

E'en by the wisest of us may be sought.

Ay, to your favour he's entitled too,

Apt scholar of the students, 'tis his due!

(They enter the gate of the town.)

STUDY

FAUST (entering with the poodle)

Now field and meadow I've forsaken;

O'er them deep night her veil doth draw;

In us the better soul doth waken,

With feelings of foreboding awe,

All lawless promptings, deeds unholy,

Now slumber, and all wild desires;

The love of man doth sway us wholly,

And love to God the soul inspires.

Peace, poodle, peace! Scamper not thus; obey me!

Why at the threshold snuffest thou so—

Behind the stove now quietly lay thee,

My softest cushion to thee I'll throw.

As thou, without, didst please and amuse me

Running and frisking about on the hill,

So tendance now I will not refuse thee;

A welcome guest, if thou'lt be still.

Ah! when the friendly taper gloweth,

Once more within our narrow cell,

Then in the heart itself that knoweth,

A light the darkness doth dispel.

Reason her voice resumes; returneth

Hope's gracious bloom, with promise rife;

For streams of life the spirit yearneth,

Ah! for the very fount of life.

Poodle, snarl not! with the tone that arises.

Hallow'd and peaceful, my soul within,

Accords not thy growl, thy bestial din.

We find it not strange, that man despises

What he conceives not;

That he the good and fair misprizes-

Finding them often beyond his ken;

Will the dog snarl at them like men—

But ah! Despite my will, it stands confessed,

Contentment welleth up no longer in my breast.

Yet wherefore must the stream, alas, so soon be dry,

That we once more athirst should lie—

Full oft this sad experience hath been mine;

Nathless the want admits of compensation;

For things above the earth we learn to pine,

Our spirits yearn for revelation,

Which nowhere burns with purer beauty blent,

Than here in the New Testament.

To ope the ancient text an impulse strong

Impels me, and its sacred lore,

With honest purpose to explore,

And render into my loved German tongue.

(He opens a volume, and applies himself to it.)

'Tis writ, "In the beginning was the Word!"

I pause, perplex'd! Who now will help afford—

I cannot the mere Word so highly prize;

I must translate it otherwise,

If by the spirit guided as I read.

"In the beginning was the Sense!" Take heed,

The import of this primal sentence weigh,

Lest thy too hasty pen be led astray!

Is force creative then of Sense the dower—

"In the beginning was the Power!"

Thus should it stand: yet, while the line I trace.

A something warns me, once more to efface.

The spirit aids! from anxious scruples freed,

I write, "In the beginning was the Deed!"

Am I with thee my room to share,

Poodle, thy barking now forbear,

Forbear thy howling!

Comrade so noisy, ever growling,

I cannot suffer here to dwell.

One or the other, mark me well,

Forthwith must leave the cell.

I'm loath the guest-right to withhold;

The door's ajar, the passage clear;

But what must now mine eyes behold!

Are nature's laws suspended here—

Real is it, or a phantom show—

In length and breadth how doth my poodle grow!

He lifts himself with threat'ning mien,

In likeness of a dog no longer seen!

What spectre have I harbour'd thus!

Huge as a hippopotamus,

With fiery eye, terrific tooth!

Ah I now I know thee, sure enough!

For such a base, half-hellish brood,

The key of Solomon is good.

SPIRITS (without)

Captur'd there within is one!

Stay without and follow none!

Like a fox in iron snare,

Hell's old lynx is quaking there,

But take heed!

Hover round, above, below,

To and fro,

Then from durance is he freed!

Can ye aid him, spirits all,

Leave him not in mortal thrall!

Many a time and oft bath he

Served us, when at liberty.

FAUST

The monster to confront, at first,

The spell of Four must be rehears'd;

Salamander shall kindle,

Writhe nymph of the wave,

In air sylph shall dwindle,

And Kobold shall slave.

Who doth ignore

The primal Four,

Nor knows aright

Their use and might,

O'er spirits will he

Ne'er master be!

Vanish in the fiery glow,

Salamander!

Rushingly together flow.

Undine!

Shimmer in the meteor's gleam,

Sylphide!

Hither bring thine homely aid,

Incubus! Incubus!

Step forth! I do adjure thee thus!

None of the Four

Lurks in the beast:

He grins at me, untroubled as before;

I have not hurt him in the least.

A spell of fear

Thou now shalt hear.

Art thou, comrade fell,

Fugitive from hell—

See then this sign,

Before which incline

The murky troops of Hell!

With bristling hair now doth the creature swell.

Canst thou, reprobate,

Read the uncreate,

Unspeakable, diffused

Throughout the heavenly sphere,

Shamefully abused,

Transpierced with nail and spear!

Behind the stove, tam'd by my spells,

Like an elephant he swells;

Wholly now he fills the room,

He into mist will melt away.

Ascend not to the ceiling! Come,

Thyself at the master's feet now lay!

Thou seest that mine is no idle threat.

With holy fire I will scorch thee yet!

Wait not the might

That lies in the triple-glowing light!

Wait not the might

Of all my arts in fullest measure!

MEPHISTOPHELES

(As the mist sinks, comes forward from behind the stove, in the

dress of a travelling scholar)

Why all this uproar— What's the master's pleasure—

FAUST

This then the kernel of the brute!

A travelling scholar— Why I needs must smile.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Your learned reverence humbly I salute!

You've made me swelter in a pretty style.

FAUST

Thy name—

MEPHISTOPHELES

The question trifling seems from one,

Who it appears the Word doth rate so low;

Who, undeluded by mere outward show,

To Being's depths would penetrate alone.

FAUST

With gentlemen like you indeed

The inward essence from the name we read,

As all too plainly it doth appear,

When Beelzebub, Destroyer, Liar, meets the ear.

Who then art thou—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Part of that power which still

Produceth good, whilst ever scheming ill.

FAUST

What hidden mystery in this riddle lies—

MEPHISTOPHELES

The spirit I, which evermore denies!

And justly; for whate'er to light is brought

Deserves again to be reduced to naught;

Then better 'twere that naught should be.

Thus all the elements which ye

Destruction, Sin, or briefly, Evil, name,

As my peculiar element I claim.

FAUST

Thou nam'st thyself a part, and yet a whole I see.

MEPHISTOPHELES

The modest truth I speak to thee.

Though folly's microcosm, man, it seems,

Himself to be a perfect whole esteems:

Part of the part am I, which at the first was all,

A part of darkness, which gave birth to light,

Proud light, who now his mother would enthrall,

Contesting space and ancient rank with night.

Yet he succeedeth not, for struggle as he will,

To forms material he adhereth still;

From them he streameth, them he maketh fair,

And still the progress of his beams they check;

And so, I trust, when comes the final wreck,

Light will, ere long, the doom of matter share.

FAUST

Thy worthy avocation now I guess!

Wholesale annihilation won't prevail,

So thou'rt beginning on a smaller scale.

MEPHISTOPHELES

And, to say truth, as yet with small success.

Oppos'd to naught, this clumsy world,

The something-it subsisteth still;

Not yet is it to ruin hurl'd,

Despite the efforts of my will.

Tempests and earthquakes, fire and flood, I've tried;

Yet land and ocean still unchang'd abide!

And then of humankind and beasts, brood,-

Neither o'er them can I extend my sway.

What countless myriads have I swept away!

Yet ever circulates the fresh young blood.

the accursed

It is enough to drive me to despair!

As in the earth, in water, and in air,

A thousand germs burst forth spontaneously;

In moisture, drought, heat, cold, they still appear!

Had I not flame selected as my sphere

Nothing apart had been reserved for me.

FAUST

So thou with thy cold devil's fist

Still clench'd in malice impotent

Dost the creative power resist,

The active, the beneficent!

Henceforth some other task essay,

Of Chaos thou the wondrous son!

MEPHISTOPHELES

We will consider what you say,

And talk about it more anon!

For this time have I leave to go—

FAUST

Why thou shouldst ask, I cannot see.

Since thee I now have learned to know,

At thy good pleasure, visit me.

Here is the window, here the door,

The chimney, too, may serve thy need.

MEPHISTOPHELES

I must confess, my stepping o'er

Thy threshold a slight hindrance doth impede;

The wizard-foot doth me retain.

FAUST

The pentagram thy peace doth mar—

To me, thou son of hell, explain,

How earnest thou in, if this thine exit bar—

Could such a spirit aught ensnare—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Observe it well, it is not drawn with care,

One of the angles, that which points without,

Is, as thou seest, not quite closed.

FAUST

Chance hath the matter happily dispos'd!

So thou my captive art— No doubt!

By accident thou thus art caught!

MEPHISTOPHELES

In sprang the dog, indeed, observing naught;

Things now assume another shape,

The devil's in the house and can't escape.

FAUST

Why through the window not withdraw—

MEPHISTOPHELES

For ghosts and f or the devil 'tis a law.

Where they stole in, there they must forth. We're free

The first to choose; as to the second, slaves are we.

FAUST

E'en hell hath its peculiar laws, I see!

I'm glad of that! a pact may then be made,

The which you gentlemen will surely keep—

MEPHISTOPHELES

What e'er therein is promised thou shalt reap,

No tittle shall remain unpaid.

But such arrangements time require;

We'll speak of them when next we meet;

Most earnestly I now entreat,

This once permission to retire.

FAUST

Another moment prithee here remain,

Me with some happy word to pleasure.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Now let me go! ere long I'll come again,

Then thou may'st question at thy leisure.

FAUST

'Twas not toy purpose thee to lime;

The snare hast entered of thine own free will:

Let him who holds the devil, hold him still!

So soon he'll catch him not a second time.

MEPHISTOPHELES

If it so please thee, I'm at thy command;

Only on this condition, understand;

That worthily thy leisure to beguile,

I here may exercise my arts awhile.

FAUST

Thou'rt free to do so! Gladly I'll attend;

But be thine art a pleasant one!

MEPHISTOPHELES

My friend,

This hour enjoyment more intense,

Shall captivate each ravish'd sense,

Than thou could'st compass in the bound

Of the whole year's unvarying round;

And what the dainty spirits sing,

The lovely images they bring,

Are no fantastic sorcery.

Rich odours shall regale your smell,

On choicest sweets your palate dwell,

Your feelings thrill with ecstasy.

No preparation do we need,

Here we together are. Proceed.

SPIRITS

Hence overshadowing gloom,

Vanish from sight!

O'er us thine azure dome,

Bend, beauteous light!

Dark clouds that o'er us spread,

Melt in thin air!

Stars, your soft radiance shed,

Tender and fair.

Girt with celestial might,

Winging their airy flight,

Spirits are thronging.

Follows their forms of light

Infinite longing!

Flutter their vestures bright

O'er field and grove!

Where in their leafy bower

Lovers the livelong hour

Vow deathless love.

Soft bloometh bud and bower!

Bloometh the grove!

Grapes from the spreading vine

Crown the full measure;

Fountains of foaming wine

Gush from the pressure.

Still where the currents wind,

Gems brightly gleam.

Leaving the hills behind

On rolls the stream;

Now into ample seas,

Spreadeth the flood;

Laying the sunny leas,

Mantled with wood.

Rapture the feather'd throng,

Gaily careering,

Sip as they float along;

Sunward they're steering;

On towards the isles of light

Winging their way,

That on the waters bright

Dancingly play.

Hark to the choral strain,

Joyfully ringing!

While on the grassy plain

Dancers are springing;

Climbing the steep hill's side,

Skimming the glassy tide,

Wander they there;

Others on pinions wide

Wing the blue air;

All lifeward tending, upward still wending,

Towards yonder stars that gleam,

Far, far above;

Stars from whose tender beam

Rains blissful love.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Well done, my dainty spirits! now he slumbers!

Ye have entranc'd him fairly with your numbers!

This minstrelsy of yours I must repay,-

Thou art not yet the man to hold the devil fast!-

With fairest shapes your spells around him cast,

And plunge him in a sea of dreams!

But that this charm be rent, the threshold passed,

Tooth of rat the way must clear.

I need not conjure long it seems,

One rustles hitherward, and soon my voice will hear.

The master of the rats and mice,

Of flies and frogs, of bugs and lice,

Commands thy presence; without fear

Come forth and gnaw the threshold here,

Where he with oil has smear'd it.-Thou

Com'st hopping forth already! Now

To work! The point that holds me bound

Is in the outer angle found.

Another bite-so-now 'tis done-

Now, Faustus, till we meet again, dream on.

FAUST (awaking)

Am I once more deluded! must I deem

That thus the throng of spirits disappear—

The devil's presence, was it but a dream—

Hath but a poodle scap'd and left me here—

STUDY

FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES

FAUST

A knock— Come in! Who now would break my rest—

MEPHISTOPHELES

'Tis I!

FAUST

Come in!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Thrice be the words express'd.

FAUST

Then I repeat, Come in!

MEPHISTOPHELES

'Tis well,

I hope that we shall soon agree!

For now your fancies to expel,

Here, as a youth of high degree,

I come in gold-lac'd scarlet vest,

And stiff-silk mantle richly dress'd,

A cock's gay feather for a plume,

A long and pointed rapier, too;

And briefly I would counsel you

To don at once the same costume,

And, free from trammels, speed away,

That what life is you may essay.

FAUST

In every garb I needs must feel oppress'd,

My heart to earth's low cares a prey.

Too old the trifler's part to play,

Too young to live by no desire possess'd.

What can the world to me afford—

Renounce! renounce! is still the word;

This is the everlasting song

In every ear that ceaseless rings,

And which, alas, our whole life long,

Hoarsely each passing moment sings.

But to new horror I awake each morn,

And I could weep hot tears, to see the sun

Dawn on another day, whose round forlorn

Accomplishes no wish of mine-not one.

Which still, with froward captiousness, impains

E'en the presentiment of every joy,

While low realities and paltry cares

The spirit's fond imaginings destroy.

Then must I too, when falls the veil of night,

Stretch'd on my pallet languish in despair,

Appalling dreams my soul affright;

No rest vouchsafed me even there.

The god, who throned within my breast resides,

Deep in my soul can stir the springs;

With sovereign sway my energies he guides,

He cannot move external things;

And so existence is to me a weight.

Death fondly I desire, and life I hate.

MEPHISTOPHELES

And yet, methinks, by most 'twill be confess'd

That Death is never quite a welcome guest.

FAUST

Happy the man around whose brow he binds

The bloodstain'd wreath in conquest's dazzling hour;

Or whom, excited by the dance, he finds

Dissolv'd in bliss, in love's delicious bower!

O that before the lofty spirit's might,

Enraptured, I had rendered up my soul!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Yet did a certain man refrain one night,

Of its brown juice to drain the crystal bowl.

FAUST

To play the spy diverts you then—

MEPHISTOPHELES

I own,

Though not omniscient, much to me is known.

FAUST

If o'er my soul the tone familiar, stealing,

Drew me from harrowing thought's bewild'ring maze,

Touching the ling'ring chords of childlike feeling,

With sweet harmonies of happier days:

So curse I all, around the soul that windeth

Its magic and alluring spell,

And with delusive flattery bindeth

Its victim to this dreary cell!

Curs'd before all things be the high opinion,

Wherewith the spirit girds itself around!

Of shows delusive curs'd be the dominion,

Within whose mocking sphere our sense is bound!

Accurs'd of dreams the treacherous wiles,

The cheat of glory, deathless fame!

Accurs'd what each as property beguiles,

Wife, child, slave, plough, whate'er its name!

Accurs'd be mammon, when with treasure

He doth to daring deeds incite:

Or when to steep the soul in pleasure,

He spreads the couch of soft delight!

Curs'd be the grape's balsamic juice!

Accurs'd love's dream, of joys the first!

Accurs'd be hope! accurs'd be faith!

And more than all, be patience curs'd!

CHORUS OP SPIRITS (invisible)

Woe! woe!

Thou hast destroy'd

The beautiful world

With violent blow;

'Tis shiver'd! 'tis shatter'd!

The fragments abroad by a demigod scatter'd!

Now we sweep

The wrecks into nothingness!

Fondly we weep

The beauty that's gone!

Thou, 'mongst the Sons of earth,

Lofty and mighty one,

Build it once more!

In thine own bosom the lost world restore!

Now with unclouded sense

Enter a new career;

Songs shall salute thine ear,

Ne'er heard before!

MEPHISTOPHELES

My little ones these spirits be.

Hark! with shrewd intelligence,

How they recommend to thee

Action, and the joys of sense!

In the busy world to dwell,

Fain they would allure thee hence:

For within this lonely cell,

Stagnate sap of life and sense.

Forbear to trifle longer with thy grief,

Which, vulture-like, consumes thee in this den.

The worst society is some relief,

Making thee feel thyself a man with men.

Nathless, it is not meant, I trow,

To thrust thee 'mid the vulgar throng.

I to the upper ranks do not belong;

Yet if, by me companion'd, thou

Thy steps through life forthwith wilt take;

Upon the spot myself I'll make

Thy comrade;- Should it suit thy need,

I am thy servant, am thy slave indeed!

FAUST

And how must I thy services repay—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Thereto thou lengthen'd respite hast!

FAUST

No! No!

The devil is an egoist I know:

And, for Heaven's sake, 'tis not his way

Kindness to any one to show.

Let the condition plainly be exprest!

Such a domestic is a dangerous guest.

MEPHISTOPHELES

I'll pledge myself to be thy servant here,

Still at thy back alert and prompt to be;

But when together yonder we appear,

Then shalt thou do the same for me.

FAUST

But small concern I feel for yonder world;

Hast thou this system into ruin hurl'd,

Another may arise the void to fill.

This earth the fountain whence my pleasures flow,

This sun doth daily shine upon my woe,

And if this world I must forego,

Let happen then,-what can and will.

I to this theme will close mine ears,

If men hereafter hate and love,

FAUST

And if there be in yonder spheres

A depth below or height above.

MEPHISTOPHELES

In this mood thou mayst venture it. But make

The compact! I at once will undertake

To charm thee with mine arts. I'll give thee more

Than mortal eye hath e'er beheld before.

FAUST

What, sorry Devil, hast thou to bestow—

Was ever mortal spirit, in its high endeavour,

Fathom'd by Being such as thou—

Yet food thou hast which satisfieth never,

Hast ruddy gold, that still doth flow

Like restless quicksilver away,

A game thou hast, at which none win who play,

A girl who would, with amorous eyen,

E'en from my breast, a neighbour snare,

Lofty ambition's joy divine,

That, meteor-like, dissolves in air.

Show me the fruit that, ere 'tis pluck'd, doth rot,

And trees, whose verdure daily buds anew!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Such a commission scares me not,

I can provide such treasures, it is true;

But, my good friend, a season will come round,

When on what's good we may regale in peace.

FAUST

If e'er upon my couch, stretched at my ease, I'm found,

Then may my life that instant cease!

Me canst thou cheat with glozing wile

Till self-reproach away I cast,-

Me with joy's lure canst thou beguile

Let that day be for me the last!

Be this our wager!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Settled!

FAUST

Sure and fast!

When to the moment I shall say,

"Linger awhile! so fair thou art!"

Then mayst thou fetter me straightway,

Then to the abyss will I depart!

Then may the solemn death-bell sound,

Then from thy service thou art free,

The index then may cease its round,

And time be never more for me!

MEPHISTOPHELES

I shall remember: pause, ere 'tis too late.

FAUST

Thereto a perfect right hast thou.

My strength I do not rashly overrate.

Slave am I here, at any rate,

If thine, or whose, it matters not, I trow.

MEPHISTOPHELES

At thine inaugural feast I will this day

Attend, my duties to commence.-

But one thing!-Accidents may happen, hence

A line or two in writing grant, I pray.

FAUST

A writing, Pedant! dost demand from me—

Man, and man's plighted word, are these unknown to thee—

Is't not enough, that by the word I gave,

My doom for evermore is cast—

Doth not the world in all its currents rave,

And must a promise hold me fast—

Yet fixed is this delusion in our heart;

Who, of his own free will, therefrom would part—

How blest within whose breast truth reigneth pure!

No sacrifice will he repent when made!

A formal deed, with seal and signature,

A spectre this from which all shrink afraid.

The word its life resigneth in the pen,

Leather and wax usurp the mastery then.

Spirits of evil! what dost thou require—

Brass, marble, parchment, paper, dost desire—

Shall I with chisel, pen, or graver write—

Thy choice is free; to me 'tis all the same.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Wherefore thy passion so excite

And thus thine eloquence inflame—

A scrap is for our compact good.

Thou under-signest merely with a drop of blood.

FAUST

If this will satisfy thy mind,

Thy whim I'll gratify, howe'er absurd.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Blood is a juice of very special kind.

FAUST

Be not afraid that I shall break my word!

The scope of all my energy

Is in exact accordance with my vow.

Vainly I have aspired too high;

I'm on a level but with such as thou;

Me the great spirit scorn'd, defied;

Nature from me herself doth hide;

Rent is the web of thought; my mind

Doth knowledge loathe of every kind.

In depths of sensual pleasure drown'd,

Let us our fiery passions still!

Enwrapp'd in magic's veil profound,

Let wondrous charms our senses thrill!

Plunge we in time's tempestuous flow,

Stem we the rolling surge of chance!

There may alternate weal and woe,

Success and failure, as they can,

Mingle and shift in changeful dance!

Excitement is the sphere for man.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Nor goal, nor measure is prescrib'd to you,

If you desire to taste of every thing,

To snatch at joy while on the wing,

May your career amuse and profit too!

Only fall to and don't be over coy!

FAUST

Hearken! The end I aim at is not joy;

I crave excitement, agonizing bliss,

Enamour'd hatred, quickening vexation.

Purg'd from the love of knowledge, my vocation,

The scope of all my powers henceforth be this,

To bare my breast to every pang,-to know

In my heart's core all human weal and woe,

To grasp in thought the lofty and the deep,

Men's various fortunes on my breast to heap,

And thus to theirs dilate my individual mind,

And share at length with them the shipwreck of mankind.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Oh, credit me, who still as ages roll,

Have chew'd this bitter fare from year to year,

No mortal, from the cradle to the bier,

Digests the ancient leaven! Know, this Whole

Doth for the Deity alone subsist!

He in eternal brightness doth exist,

Us unto darkness he hath brought, and here

Where day and night alternate, is your sphere.

FAUST

But 'tis my will

MEPHISTOPHELES

Well spoken, I admit!

But one thing puzzles me, my friend;

Time's short, art long; methinks 'twere fit

That you to friendly counsel should attend.

A poet choose as your ally!

Let him thought's wide dominion sweep,

Each good and noble quality,

Upon your honoured brow to heap;

The lion's magnanimity,

The fleetness of the hind,

The fiery blood of Italy,

The Northern's stedfast mind.

Let him to you the mystery show

To blend high aims and cunning low;

And while youth's passions are aflame

To fall in love by rule and plan!

I fain would meet with such a man;

Would him Sir Microcosmus name.

FAUST

What then am I, if I aspire in vain

The crown of our humanity to gain,

Towards which my every sense doth strain—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Thou'rt after all-just what thou art.

Put on thy head a wig with countless locks,

And to a cubit's height upraise thy socks,

Still thou remainest ever, what thou art.

FAUST

I feel it, I have heap'd upon my brain

The gather'd treasure of man's thought in vain;

And when at length from studious toil I rest,

No power, new-born, springs up within my breast;

A hair's breadth is not added to my height,

I am no nearer to the infinite.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Good sir, these things you view indeed,

Just as by other men they're view'd;

We must more cleverly proceed,

Before life's joys our grasp elude.

The devil! thou hast hands and feet,

And head and heart are also thine;

What I enjoy with relish sweet,

Is it on that account less mine—

If for six stallions I can pay,

Do I not own their strength and speed—

A proper man I dash away,

As their two dozen legs were mine indeed.

Up then, from idle pondering free,

And forth into the world with me!

I tell you what;-your speculative churl

Is like a beast which some ill spirit leads,

On barren wilderness, in ceaseless whirl,

While all around lie fair and verdant meads.

FAUST

But how shall we begin—

MEPHISTOPHELES

We will go hence with speed,

A place of torment this indeed!

A precious life, thyself to bore,

And some few youngsters evermore!

Leave that to neighbour Paunch!-withdraw,

Why wilt thou plague thyself with thrashing straw—

The very best that thou dost know

Thou dar'st not to the striplings show.

One in the passage now doth wait!

FAUST

I'm in no mood to see him now,

MEPHISTOPHELES

Poor lad! He must be tired, I trow;

He must not go disconsolate.

Hand me thy cap and gown; the mask

Is for my purpose quite first rate.

(He changes his dress.)

Now leave it to my wit! I ask

But quarter of an hour; meanwhile equip,

And make all ready for our pleasant trip!

(Exit FAUST.)

MEPHISTOPHELES (in FAUST'S long gown)

Mortal! the loftiest attributes of men,

Reason and Knowledge, only thus contemn,

Still let the Prince of lies, without control,

With shows, and mocking charms delude thy soul,

I have thee unconditionally then!

Fate hath endow'd him with an ardent mind,

Which unrestrain'd still presses on for ever,

And whose precipitate endeavour

Earth's joys o'erleaping, leaveth them behind.

Him will I drag through life's wild waste,

Through scenes of vapid dulness, where at last

Bewilder'd, he shall falter, and stick fast;

And, still to mock his greedy haste,

Viands and drink shall float his craving lips beyond-

Vainly he'll seek refreshment, anguish-tost,

And were he not the devil's by his bond,

Yet must his soul infallibly be lost!

A STUDENT enters

STUDENT

But recently I've quitted home,

Full of devotion am I come

A man to know and hear, whose name

With reverence is known to fame.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Your courtesy much flatters me!

A man like other men you see;

Pray have you yet applied elsewhere—

STUDENT

I would entreat your friendly care!

I've youthful blood and courage high;

Of gold I bring a fair supply;

To let me go my mother was not fain;

But here I longed true knowledge to attain.

MEPHISTOPHELES

You've hit upon the very place.

STUDENT

And yet my steps I would retrace.

These walls, this melancholy room,

O'erpower me with a sense of gloom;

The space is narrow, nothing green,

No friendly tree is to be seen:

And in these halls, with benches filled, distraught,

Sight, hearing fail me, and the power of thought.

MEPHISTOPHELES

It all depends on habit. Thus at first

The infant takes not kindly to the breast,

But before long, its eager thirst

Is fain to slake with hearty zest:

Thus at the breasts of wisdom day by day

With keener relish you'll your thirst allay.

STUDENT

Upon her neck I fain would hang with joy;

To reach it, say, what means must I employ—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Explain, ere further time we lose,

What special faculty you choose—

STUDENT

Profoundly learned I would grow,

What heaven contains would comprehend,

O'er earth's wide realm my gaze extend,

Nature and science I desire to know.

MEPHISTOPHELES

You are upon the proper track, I find;

Take heed, let nothing dissipate your mind.

STUDENT

My heart and soul are in the chase!

Though to be sure I fain would seize,

On pleasant summer holidays,

A little liberty and careless ease.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Use well your time, so rapidly it flies;

Method will teach you time to win;

Hence, my young friend, I would advise,

With college logic to begin!

Then will your mind be so well braced,

In Spanish boots so tightly laced,

That on 'twill circumspectly creep,

Thought's beaten track securely keep,

Nor will it, ignis-fatuus like,

Into the path of error strike.

Then many a day they'll teach you how

The mind's spontaneous acts, till now

As eating and as drinking free,

Require a process;-one! two! three!

In truth the subtle web of thought

Is like the weaver's fabric wrought:

One treadle moves a thousand lines,

Swift dart the shuttles to and fro,

Unseen the threads together flow,

A thousand knots one stroke combines.

Then forward steps your sage to show,

And prove to you, it must be so;

The first being so, and so the second,

The third and fourth deduc'd we see;

And if there were no first and second,

Nor third nor fourth would ever be.

This, scholars of all countries prize,-

Yet 'mong themselves no weavers rise.-

He who would know and treat of aught alive,

Seeks first the living spirit thence to drive:

Then are the lifeless fragments in his hand,

There only fails, alas the spirit-band.

This process, chemists name, in learned thesis,

Mocking themselves, Naturer encheiresis.

STUDENT

Your words I cannot fully comprehend.

MEPHISTOPHELES

In a short time you will improve, my friend,

When of scholastic forms you learn the use;

And how by method all things to reduce.

STUDENT

So doth all this my brain confound,

As if a mill-wheel there were turning round.

MEPHISTOPHELES

And next, before aught else you learn,

You must with zeal to metaphysics turn!

There see that you profoundly comprehend,

What doth the limit of man's brain transcend;

For that which is or is not in the head

A sounding phrase will serve you in good stead.

But before all strive this half year

From one fix'd order ne'er to swerve!

Five lectures daily you must hear;

The hour still punctually observe!

Yourself with studious zeal prepare,

And closely in your manual look,

Hereby may you be quite aware

That all he utters standeth in the book;

Yet write away without cessation,

As at the Holy Ghost's dictation!

STUDENT

This, Sir, a second time you need not say!

Your counsel I appreciate quite;

What we possess in black and white,

We can in peace and comfort bear away.

MEPHISTOPHELES

A faculty I pray you name.

STUDENT

For jurisprudence, Some distaste I own.

MEPHISTOPHELES

To me this branch of science is well known,

And hence I cannot your repugnance blame.

Customs and laws in every place,

Like a disease, an heir-loom dread,

Still trail their curse from race to race,

And furtively abroad they spread.

To nonsense, reason's self they turn;

Beneficence becomes a pest;

Woe unto thee, that thou'rt a grandson born!

As for the law born with us, unexpressed;-

That law, alas, none careth to discern.

STUDENT

You deepen my dislike. The youth

Whom you instruct, is blest in sooth!

To try theology I feel inclined.

MEPHISTOPHELES

I would not lead you willingly astray,

But as regards this science, you will find

So hard it is to shun the erring way,

And so much hidden poison lies therein,

Which scarce can you discern from medicine.

Here too it is the best, to listen but to one,

And by the master's words to swear alone.

To sum up all-To words hold fast!

Then the safe gate securely pass'd,

You'll reach the lane of certainty at last.

STUDENT

But then some meaning must the words convey.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Right! But o'er-anxious thought, you'll find of no avail,

For there precisely where ideas fail,

A word comes opportunely into play

Most admirable weapons words are found,

On words a system we securely ground,

In words we can conveniently believe,

Nor of a single jot can we a word bereave.

STUDENT

Your pardon for my importunity;

Yet once more must I trouble you:

On medicine, I'll thank you to supply

A pregnant utterance or two!

Three years! how brief the appointed tide!

The field, heaven knows, is all too wide!

If but a friendly hint be thrown,

'Tis easier then to feel one's way.

MEPHISTOPHELES (aside)

I'm weary of the dry pedantic tone,

And must again the genuine devil play.

(Aloud)

Of medicine the spirit's caught with ease,

The great and little world you study through,

That things may then their course pursue,

As heaven may please.

In vain abroad you range through science' ample space,

Each man learns only that which learn he can;

Who knows the moment to embrace,

He is your proper man.

In person you are tolerably made,

Nor in assurance will you be deficient:

Self-confidence acquire, be not afraid,

Others will then esteem you a proficient.

Learn chiefly with the sex to deal!

Their thousands ahs and ohs,

These the sage doctor knows,

He only from one point can heal.

Assume a decent tone of courteous ease,

You have them then to humour as you please.

First a diploma must belief infuse,

That you in your profession take the lead:

You then at once those easy freedoms use

For which another many a year must plead;

Learn how to feel with nice address

The dainty wrist;-and how to press,

With ardent furtive glance, the slender waist,

To feel how tightly it is laced.

STUDENT

There is some sense in that! one sees the how and why.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Grey is, young friend, all theory:

And green of life the golden tree.

STUDENT

I swear it seemeth like a dream to me.

May I some future time repeat my visit,

To hear on what your wisdom grounds your views—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Command my humble service when you choose.

STUDENT

Ere I retire, one boon I must solicit:

Here is my album, do not, Sir, deny

This token of your favour!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Willingly!

(He writes and returns the book.)

STUDENT (reads)

ERITIS SICUT DEUS, SCIENTES BONUM ET MALUM

(He reverently closes the book and retires.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

Let but this ancient proverb be your rule,

My cousin follow still, the wily snake,

And with your likeness to the gods, poor fool,

Ere long be sure your poor sick heart will quake!

FAUST (enters)

Whither away—

MEPHISTOPHELES

'Tis thine our course to steer.

The little world, and then the great we'll view.

With what delight, what profit too,

Thou'lt revel through thy gay career!

FAUST

Despite my length of beard I need

The easy manners that insure success;

Th' attempt I fear can ne'er succeed;

To mingle in the world I want address;

I still have an embarrass'd air, and then

I feel myself so small with other men.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Time, my good friend, will all that's needful give;

Be only self-possessed, and thou hast learn'd to live.

FAUST

But how are we to start, I pray—

Steeds, servants, carriage, where are they—

MEPHISTOPHELES

We've but to spread this mantle wide,

'Twill serve whereon through air to ride,

No heavy baggage need you take,

When we our bold excursion make,

A little gas, which I will soon prepare,

Lifts us from earth; aloft through air,

Light laden, we shall swiftly steer;-

I wish you joy of your new life-career.

AUERBACH'S CELLAR IN LEIPZIG

A Drinking Party

FROSCH

No drinking— Naught a laugh to raise—

None of your gloomy looks, I pray!

You, who so bright were wont to blaze,

Are dull as wetted straw to-day.

BRANDER

'Tis all your fault; your part you do not bear,

No beastliness, no folly.

FROSCH

(pours a glass of wine over his head)

There,

You have them both!

BRANDER

You double beast!

FROSCH

'Tis what you ask'd me for, at least!

SIEBEL

Whoever quarrels, turn him out!

With open throat drink, roar, and shout.

Hollo! Hollo! Ho!

ALTMAYER

Zounds, fellow, cease your deaf'ning cheers!

Bring cotton-wool! He splits my ears.

SIEBEL

'Tis when the roof rings back the tone,

Then first the full power of the bass is known.

FROSCH

Right! out with him who takes offence!

A! tara lara da!

ALTMAYER

A! tara lara da!

FROSCH

Our throats are tuned. Come let's commence!

(Sings)

The holy Roman empire now,

How holds it still together—

BRANDER

An ugly song! a song political!

A song offensive! Thank God, every morn

To rule the Roman empire, that you were not born!

I bless my stars at least that mine is not

Either a kaiser's or a chancellor's lot.

Yet 'mong ourselves should one still lord it o'er the rest;

That we elect a pope I now suggest.

Ye know, what quality ensures

A man's success, his rise secures.

Faoscn (sings)

Bear, lady nightingale above,

Ten thousand greetings to my love.

SIESEL

No greetings to a sweetheart!

No love-songs shall there be!

FROSCH

Love-greetings and love-kisses! Thou shalt not hinder me!

(Sings)

Undo the bolt! in silly night,

Undo the bolt! the lover wakes.

Shut to the bolt! when morning breaks,

SIEBEL

Ay, sing, sing on, praise her with all, thy might!!

My turn to laugh will come some day.

Me hath she jilted once, you the same trick she'll play.

Some gnome her lover be! where cross-roads meet,

With her to play the fool; or old he-goat,

From Blocksberg coming in swift gallop, bleat

A good night to her, from his hairy throat!

A proper lad of genuine flesh and blood,

Is for the damsel far too good;

The greeting she shall have from me,

To smash her window-panes will be!

BRANDER (striking on the table)

Silence! Attend! to me give ear!

Confess, sirs, I know how to live:

Some love-sick folk are sitting here!

Hence, 'tis but fit, their hearts to cheer,

That I a good-night strain to them should give.

Hark! of the newest fashion is my song!

Strike boldly in the chorus, clear and strong!

(He sings)

Once in a cellar lived a rat,

He feasted there on butter,

Until his paunch became as fat

As that of Doctor Luther,

The cook laid poison for the guest,

Then was his heart with pangs oppress'd,

As if his frame love wasted.

Chorus (shouting)

As if his frame love wasted.

BRANDER

He ran around, he ran abroad,

Of every puddle drinking.

The house with rage he scratch'd and gnaw'd,

In vain,-he fast was Sinking;

Full many an anguish'd bound he gave,

Nothing the hapless brute could save,

As if his frame love wasted.

CHORUS

As if his frame love wasted.

BRANDER

By torture driven, in open day,

The kitchen he invaded,

Convulsed upon the hearth he lay,

With anguish sorely jaded;

The poisoner laugh'd, Ha! ha! quoth she,

His life is ebbing fast, I see,

As if his frame love wasted.

CHORUS

As if his frame love wasted.

SIEBEL

How the dull boors exulting shout!

Poison for the poor rats to strew

A fine exploit it is no doubt.

BRANDER

They, as it seems, stand well with you!

ALTMAYER

Old bald-pate! with the paunch profound!

The rat's mishap hath tamed his nature;

For he his counterpart bath found

Depicted in the swollen creature.

FAUST AND MEPHISTOPHELES

MEPHISTOPHELES

I now must introduce to you

Before aught else, this jovial crew,

To show how lightly life may glide away;

With the folk here each day's a holiday.

With little wit and much content,

Each on his own small round intent,

Like sportive kitten with its tail;

While no sick-headache they bewail,

And while their host will credit give,

Joyous and free from care they live.

BRANDER

They're off a journey, that is clear,-

From their strange manners; they have scarce been here

An hour.

FROSCH

You're right! Leipzig 's the place for me

'Tis quite a little Paris; people there

Acquire a certain easy finish'd air.

SIEBEL

What take you now these travellers to be—

FROSCH

Let me alone! O'er a full glass you'll see,

As easily I'll worm their secret out,

As draw an infant's tooth. I've not a doubt

That my two gentlemen are nobly born,

They look dissatisfied and full of scorn.

BRANDER

They are but mountebanks, I'll lay a bet!

ALTMAYER

Most like.

FROSCH

Mark me, I'll screw it from them yet!

MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST)

These fellows would not scent the devil out,

E'en though he had them by the very throat!

FAUST

SIEBEL

Thanks for your fair salute.

(Aside, glancing at MEPHISTOPHELES.)

How! goes the fellow on a halting foot—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Is it permitted here with you to sit—

Then though good wine is not forthcoming here,

Good company at least our hearts will cheer.

ALTMAYER

A dainty gentleman, no doubt of it.

FROSCH

You're doubtless recently from Rippach— Pray,

Did you with Master Hans there chance to sup—

MEPHISTOPHELES

To-day we pass'd him, but we did not stop!

When last we met him he had much to say

Touching his cousins, and to each he sent

Full many a greeting and kind compliment.

(With an inclination towards FROSCH.)

ALTMAYER (aside to FROSCH)

You have it there!

SIEBEL

Faith! he's a knowing one!

FROSCH

Have patience! I will show him up anon!

MEPHISTOPHELES

We heard erewhile, unless I'm wrong,

Voices well trained in chorus pealing—

Certes, most choicely here must song

Re-echo from this vaulted ceiling!

FROSCH

That you're an amateur one plainly sees!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Oh no, though strong the love, I cannot boast much skill.

ALTMAYER

Give us a song!

MEPHISTOPHELES

As many as you will.

SIEBEL

But be it a brand new one, if you please!

MEPHISTOPHELES

But recently returned from Spain are we,

The pleasant land of wine and minstrelsy.

(Sings)

A king there was once reigning,

Who had a goodly flea-

FROSCH

Hark! did you rightly catch the words— a flea!

An odd sort of a guest he needs must be.

MEPHISTOPHELES (sings)

A king there was once reigning,

Who had a goodly flea,

Him loved he without feigning,

As his own son were he!

His tailor then he summon'd,

The tailor to him goes:

Now measure me the youngster

For jerkin and for hose!

BRANDER

Take proper heed, the tailor strictly charge,

The nicest measurement to take,

And as he loves his head, to make

The hose quite smooth and not too large!

MEPHISTOPHELES

In satin and in velvet,

Behold the yonker dressed;

Bedizen'd o'er with ribbons,

A cross upon his breast.

Prime minister they made him,

He wore a star of state;

And all his poor relations

Were courtiers, rich and great.

The gentlemen and ladies

At court were sore distressed;

The queen and all her maidens

Were bitten by the pest,

And yet they dared not scratch them,

Or chase the fleas away.

If we are bit, we catch them,

And crack without delay.

CHORUS (shouting)

If we are bit, &c.

FROSCH

Bravo! That's the song for me!

SIEBEL

Such be the fate of every flea!

BRANDER

With Clever finger catch and Kill!

ALTMAYER

Hurrah for wine and freedom still!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Were but your wine a trifle better, friend,

A glass to freedom I would gladly drain.

SIEBEL

You'd better not repeat those words again t

MEPHISTOPHELES

I am afraid the landlord to offend;

Else freely I would treat each worthy guest

From our own cellar to the very best.

SIEBEL

Out with it then! Your doings I'll defend.

FROSCH

Give a good glass, and straight we'll praise you, one and all.

Only let not your samples be too small;

For if my judgment you desire,

Certes, an ample mouthful I require.

ALTMAYER (aside)

I guess they're from the Rhenish land.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Fetch me a gimlet here!

BRANDER

Say, what therewith to bore—

You cannot have the wine-casks at the door—

ALTMAYER

Our landlord's tool-basket behind doth yonder stand.

MEPHISTOPHELES (takes the gimlet)

(To FROSCH)

Now only say! what liquor will you take—

FROSCH

How mean you that— have you of every sort—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Each may his own selection make.

ALTMAYER (to FROSCH)

Ha! Ha! You lick your lips already at the thought.

FROSCH

Good, if I have my choice, the Rhenish I propose;

For still the fairest gifts the fatherland bestows.

MEPHISTOPHELES

(boring a hole in the edge of the table opposite to where FROSCH

is sitting)

Give me a little wax-and make some stoppers-quick!

ALTMAYER

Why, this is nothing but a juggler's trick!

MEPHISTOPHELES (to BRANDER)

And you—

BRANDER

Champagne's the wine for me;

Right brisk, and sparkling let it be!

(MEPHISTOPHELES bores; one of the party has in the meantime

prepared the wax-stoppers and stopped the holes.)

BRANDER

What foreign is one always can't decline,

What's good is often scatter'd far apart.

The French your genuine German hates with all his heart,

Yet has a relish for their wine.

SIEBEL.

(as MEPHISTOPHELES approaches him)

I like not acid wine, I must allow,

Give me a glass of genuine sweet!

MEPHISTOPHELES (bored)

Tokay

Shall, if you wish it, flow without delay.

ALTMAYER

Come! look me in the face! no fooling now!

You are but making fun of us, I trow.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Ah! ah! that would indeed be making free

With such distinguished guests. Come, no delay;

What liquor can I serve you with, I pray—

ALTMAYER

Only be quick, it matters not to me.

(After the holes are bored and stopped.)

MEPHISTOPHELES (with strange gestures)

Grapes the vine-stock bears,

Horns the buck-goat wears!

Wine is sap, the vine is wood,

The wooden board yields wine as good.

With a deeper glance and true

The mysteries of nature view!

Have faith and here's a miracle!

Your stoppers draw and drink your fill!

ALL.

(as they draw the stoppers and the wine chosen by each runs into

his glass)

Oh beauteous spring, which flows so far!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Spill not a single drop, of this beware! (They drink repeatedly.)

ALL (sing)

Happy as cannibals are we,

Or as five hundred swine.

MEPHISTOPHELES

They're in their glory, mark their elevation!

FAUST

Let's hence, nor here our stay prolong.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Attend, of brutishness ere long

You'll see a glorious revelation.

SIEBEL

(drinks carelessly; the wine is spilt upon the ground, and turns to

flame)

Help! fire! help! Hell is burning!

MEPHISTOPHELES

(addressing the flames)

Stop,

Kind element, be still, I say!

(To the Company.)

SIEBEL

What means the knave! For this you'll dearly pay!

Us, it appears, you do not know.

FROSCH

Such tricks a second time he'd better show!

ALTMAYER

Methinks 'twere well we pack'd him quietly away.

SIEBEL

What, sir! with us your hocus-pocus play!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Silence, old wine-cask!

SIEBEL

How! add insult, too!

Vile broomstick!

BRANDER

Hold, or blows shall rain on you!

ALTMAYER

(draws a stopper out of the table; fire springs out against him)

I burn! I burn!

SIEBEL

'Tis sorcery, I vow!

Strike home! The fellow is fair game, I trow!

(They draw their knives and attack MEPHISTOPHELES.)

MEPHISTOPHELES (with solemn gestures)

Visionary scenes appear!

Words delusive cheat the ear! Be ye there, and be ye here!

(They stand amazed and gaze at each other.)

ALTMAYER

Where am I— What a beauteous land!

FROSCH

Vineyards! unless my sight deceives—

SIEBEL

And clust'ring grapes too, close at hand!

BRANDER

And underneath the spreading leaves,

What stems there be! What grapes I see!

(He senses SIEBEL by the nose.

The others reciprocally do the same, and raise their knives.)

MEPHISTOPHELES (as above)

Delusion, from their eyes the bandage take!

Note how the devil loves a jest to break!

(He disappears with FAUST; the fellows draw back from one

another.)

SIEBEL

What was it—

ALTMAYER

How—

FROSCH

Was that your nose—

BRANDER (to SIEBEL)

And look, my hand doth thine enclose!

ALTMAYER

I felt a shock, it went through every limb!

A chair! I'm fainting! All things swim!

FROSCH

Say what has happened, what's it all about—

SIEBEL

Where is the fellow— Could I scent him out,

His body from his soul I'd soon divide!

ALTMAYER

With my own eyes, upon a cask astride,

Forth through the cellar-door I saw him ride-

Heavy as lead my feet are growing.

(Turning to the table.)

I wonder is the wine still flowing!

SIEBEL

'Twas all delusion, cheat and lie.

FROSCH

'Twas wine I drank, most certainly.

BRANDER

But with the grapes how was it, pray—

ALTMAYER

That none may miracles believe, who now will say—

WITCHES' KITCHEN

A large caldron hangs over the fire on a low hearth; various figures

appear in the vapour rising from it. A FEMALE MONKEY sits

beside the caldron to skim it, and watch that it does not boil over.

The MALE MONKEY with the young ones is seated near,

warming himself. The walls and ceiling are adorned with the

strangest articles of witch-furniture.

FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES

FAUST

This senseless, juggling witchcraft I detest!

Dost promise that in this foul nest

Of madness, I shall be restored—

Must I seek counsel from an ancient dame—

And can she, by these rites abhorred,

Take thirty winters from my frame—

Woe's me, if thou naught better canst suggest!

Hope has already fled my breast.

Has neither nature nor a noble mind

A balsam yet devis'd of any kind—

MEPHISTOPHELES

My friend, you now speak sensibly. In truth,

Nature a method giveth to renew thy youth:

But in another book the lesson's writ;-

It forms a curious chapter, I admit.

FAUST

I fain would know it.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Good! A remedy

Without physician, gold, or sorcery:

Away forthwith, and to the fields repair,

Begin to delve, to cultivate the ground,

Thy senses and thyself confine

Within the very narrowest round,

Support thyself upon the simplest fare,

Live like a very brute the brutes among,

Neither esteem it robbery

The acre thou dost reap, thyself to dung;

This is the best method, credit me,

Again at eighty to grow hale and young.

FAUST

I am not used to it, nor can myself degrade

So far, as in my hand to take the spade.

This narrow life would suit me not at all.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Then we the witch must summon after all.

FAUST

Will none but this old beldame do—

Canst not thyself the potion brew—

MEPHISTOPHELES

A pretty play our leisure to beguile!

A thousand bridges I could build meanwhile.

Not science only and consummate art,

Patience must also bear her part.

A quiet spirit worketh whole years long;

Time only makes the subtle ferment strong.

And all things that belong thereto,

Are wondrous and exceeding rare!

The devil taught her, it is true;

But yet the draught the devil can't prepare.

(Perceiving the beasts.)

Look yonder, what a dainty pair!

Here is the maid! the knave is there!

(To the beasts)

It seems your dame is not at home—

THE MONKEYS

Gone to carouse,

Out of the house,

Thro' the chimney and away!

MEPHISTOPHELES

How long is it her wont to roam—

THE MONKEYS

While we can warm our paws she'll stay.

MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST)

What think you of the charming creature—

FAUST

I loathe alike their form and features!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Nay, such discourse, be it confessed,

Is just the thing that pleases me the best.

(To the MONKEYS)

Tell me, ye whelps, accursed crew!

What Stir ye in the broth about—

MONKEYS

Coarse beggar's gruel here we stew.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Of customers you'll have a rout.

THE HE-MONKEY

(approaching and fawning on MEPHISTOPHELES)

Quick! quick! throw the dice,

Make me rich in a trice,

Oh give me the prize!

Alas, for myself!

Had I plenty of pelf,

I then should be wise.

MEPHISTOPHELES

How blest the ape would think himself, if he

Could only put into the lottery!

(In the meantime the young MONKEYS have been playing with a

large globe, which they roll forwards)

THE HE-MONKEY

The world behold;

Unceasingly roll'd,

It riseth and falleth ever;

It ringeth like glass!

How brittle, alas!

'Tis hollow, and resteth never.

How bright the sphere,

Still brighter here!

Now living am I!

Dear son, beware!

Nor venture there!

Thou too must die!

It is of clay;

'Twill crumble away;

There fragments lie.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Of what use is the sieve—

THE HE-MONKEY (taking it dozen)

The sieve would show,

If thou wert a thief or no—

(He runs to the SHE-MONKEY, and makes her look through it.)

Look through the sieve!

Dost know him the thief,

And dar'st thou not call him so—

MEPHISTOPHELES (approaching the fire)

And then this pot—

THE MONKEYS

The half-witted sot!

He knows not the pot!

He knows not the kettle!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Unmannerly beast!

Be civil at least!

THE HE-MONKEY

Take the whisk and sit down in the settle!

(He makes MEPHISTOPHELES sit down.)

FAUST

(who all this time has been standing before a looking-glass,

now approaching, and now retiring from it)

What do I see— what form, whose charms transcend

The loveliness of earth, is mirror'd here!

O Love, to waft me to her sphere,

To me the swiftest of thy pinions lend!

Alas! If I remain not rooted to this place,

If to approach more near I'm fondly lur'd,

Her image fades, in veiling mist obscur'd

Model of beauty both in form and face!

Is't possible— Hath woman charms so rare—

In this recumbent form, supremely fair,

The essence must I see of heavenly grace—

Can aught so exquisite on earth be found—

MEPHISTOPHELES

The six days' labour of a god, my friend,

Who doth himself cry bravo, at the end,

By something clever doubtless should be crown'd.

For this time gaze your fill, and when you please

Just such a prize for you I can provide;

How blest is he to whom kind fate decrees,

To take her to his home, a lovely bride!

(FAUST continues to gaze into the mirror. MEPHISTOPHELES

stretching himself on the settle and playing with the whisk,

continues to speak.)

Here sit I, like a king upon his throne;

My sceptre this;-the crown I want alone.

THE MONKEYS

(who have hitherto been making all sorts of strange gestures, bring

MEPHISTOPHELES a crown, with loud cries)

Oh, be so good,

With Sweat and with blood

The crown to lime!

(They handle the crown awkwardly and break it in two

pieces, with which they skip about.)

'Twas fate's decree!

We speak and see!

We hear and rhyme.

FAUST (before the mirror)

Woe's me! well-nigh distraught I feel!

MEPHISTOPHELES

(pointing to the beasts)

And even my own head almost begins to reel.

THE MONKEYS

If good luck attend,

If fitly things blend,

Our jargon with thought

And with reason is fraught!

FAUST (as above)

A flame is kindled in my breast!

Let us begone! nor linger here!

MEPHISTOPT'IELES

(in the same position)

It now at least must be confessed,

That poets sometimes are sincere.

(The caldron begins to boil over; a great flame arises,

which streams up the chimney. The WITCH comes down the

chimney with horrible cries.)

THE WITCH

Ough! ough! ough! ough!

Accursed brute! accursed SOW!

The caldron dost neglect, for shame!

Accursed brute to scorch the dame!

(Perceiving FAUST and MEPHISTOPHELES)

Whom have we here—

Who's sneaking here—

Whence are ye come—

With what desire—

The plague of fire

Your bones consume!

(She dips the skimming-ladle into the caldron and

throws flames at FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, and

the MONKEYS. The MONKEYS whimper.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

(twirling the whisk which he holds in his hand, and striking among

the glasses and pots)

Dash! Smash!

There lies the glass!

There lies the slime!

'Tis but a jest;

I but keep time,

Thou hellish pest,

To thine own chime!

(While the WITCH steps back in rage aind astonishment.)

Dost know me! Skeleton! Vile scarecrow, thou!

Thy lord and master dost thou know—

What holds me, that I deal not now

Thee and thine apes a stunning blow—

No more respect to my red vest dost pay—

Does my cock's feather no allegiance claim—

Have I my visage masked to-day—

Must I be forced myself to name—

THE WITCH

Master, forgive this rude salute!

But I perceive no cloven foot.

And your two ravens, where are they—

MEPHISTOPHELES

This once I must admit your plea;-

For truly I must own that we

Each other have not seen for many a day.

The culture, too, that shapes the world, at last

Hath e'en the devil in its sphere embraced;

The northern phantom from the scene hath pass'd,

Tail, talons, horns, are nowhere to be traced!

As for the foot, with which I can't dispense,

'Twould injure me in company, and hence,

Like many a youthful cavalier,

False calves I now have worn for many a year.

THE WITCH (dancing)

I am beside myself with joy,

To see once more the gallant Satan here!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Woman, no more that name employ!

THE WITCH

But why— what mischief hath it done—

MEPHISTOPHELES

To fable-books it now doth appertain;

But people from the change have nothing won.

Rid of the evil one, the evil ones remain.

Lord Baron call thou me, so is the matter good;

Of other cavaliers the mien I wear.

Dost make no question of my gentle blood;

See here, this is the scutcheon that I bear!

(He makes an unseemly gesture.)

THE WITCH

(laughing immoderately)

Ha! Ha Just like yourself! You are, I ween,

The same mad wag that you have ever been!

MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST)

My friend, learn this to understand, I pray!

To deal with witches this is still the way.

THE WITCH

Now tell me, gentlemen, what you desire—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Of your known juice a goblet we require.

But for the very oldest let me ask;

Double its strength with years doth grow.

THE WITCH

Most willingly! And here I have a flask,

From which I've sipp'd myself ere now;

What's more, it doth no longer stink;

To you a glass I joyfully will give.

(Aside.)

If unprepar'd, however, this man drink,

He hath not, as you know, an hour to live.

MEPHISTOPHELES

He's my good friend, with whom 'twill prosper well;

I grudge him not the choicest of thy store.

Now draw thy circle, speak thy spell,

And straight a bumper for him pour!

(The WITCH, with extraordinary gestures, describes a circle, and

places strange things within it. The glasses meanwhile begin to

ring, the caldron to sound, and to make music. Lastly, she brings a

great book; places the MONKEYS in the circle to serve her as a

desk, and to hold the torches. She beckons FAUST to approach.)

FAUST (to MEPHISTOPHELES)

Tell me, to what doth all this tend—

Where will these frantic gestures end—

This loathsome cheat, this senseless stuff

I've known and hated long enough.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Mere mummery, a laugh to raise!

Pray don't be so fastidious! She

But as a leech, her hocus-pocus plays,

That well with you her potion may agree.

(He compels FAUST to enter the circle.)

(The WITCH, with great emphasis, begins to declaim the book.)

This must thou ken:

Of one make ten,

Pass two, and then

Make square the three,

So rich thou'lt be.

Drop out the four!

From five and six,

Thus says the witch,

Make seven and eight.

So all is straight!

And nine is one,

And ten is none,

This is the witch's one-time-one!

FAUST

The hag doth as in fever rave.

MEPHISTOPHELES

To these will follow many a stave.

I know it well, so rings the book throughout;

Much time I've lost in puzzling o'er its pages,

For downright paradox, no doubt,

A mystery remains alike to fools and sages.

Ancient the art and modern too, my friend.

'Tis still the fashion as it used to be,

Error instead of truth abroad to send

By means of three and one, and one and three.

'Tis ever taught and babbled in the schools.

Who'd take the trouble to dispute with fools—

When words men hear, in sooth, they usually believe.

That there must needs therein be something to conceive.

THE WITCH (continues)

The lofty power

Of wisdom's dower,

From all the world conceal'd!

Who thinketh not,

To him I wot,

Unsought it is reveal'd.

FAUST

What nonsense doth the hag propound—

My brain it doth well-nigh confound.

A hundred thousand fools or more,

Methinks I hear in chorus roar.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Incomparable Sibyl cease, I pray!

Hand us thy liquor without more delay.

And to the very brim the goblet crown!

My friend he is, and need not be afraid;

Besides, he is a man of many a grade,

Who bath drunk deep already.

(The WITCH, with many ceremonies, pours the liquor into a cup;

as FAUST lifts it to his mouth, a light flame arises.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

Gulp it down!

No hesitation! It will prove

A cordial, and your heart inspire!

What! with the devil hand and glove,

And yet shrink back afraid of fire—

(The WITCH dissolves the circle. FAUST steps Out.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

Now forth at once! thou dar'st not rest.

WITCH

And much, sir, may the liquor profit you!

MEPHISTOPHELES (to the WITCH)

And if to pleasure thee I aught can do,

Pray on Walpurgis mention thy request.

WITCH

Here is a song, sung o'er, sometimes you'll see,

That 'twill a singular effect produce.

MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST)

Come, quick, and let thyself be led by me;

Thou must perspire, in order that the juice

Thy frame may penetrate through every part.

Then noble idleness I thee will teach to prize,

And soon with ecstasy thou'lt recognise

How Cupid stirs and gambols in thy heart.

FAUST

Let me but gaze one moment in the glass!

Too lovely was that female form!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Nay! nay!

A model which all women shall surpass,

In flesh and blood ere long thou shalt survey.

As works the draught, thou presently shalt greet

A Helen in each woman thou dost meet.

A STREET

FAUST (MARGARET passing by)

FAUST

Fair lady, may I thus make free

To offer you my arm and company—

MARGARET

I am no lady, am not fair,

Can without escort home repair.

(She disengages herself and exit.)

FAUST

By heaven! This girl is fair indeed!

No form like hers can I recall.

Virtue she hath, and modest heed,

Is piquant too, and sharp withal.

Her cheek's soft light, her rosy lips,

No length of time will e'er eclipse!

Her downward glance in passing by,

Deep in my heart is stamp'd for aye;

How curt and sharp her answer too,

To ecstasy the feeling grew!

(MEPHISTOPHZLES enters.)

FAUST

This girl must win for me! Dost hear—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Which—

FAUST

She who but now passed.

MEPHISTOPHELES

She from confession coineth here,

From every sin absolved and free;

I crept near the confessor's chair.

All innocence her virgin soul,

For next to nothing went she there;

O'er such as she I've no control!

FAUST

She's past fourteen.

MEPHISTOPHELES

You really talk

Like any gay Lothario,

Who every floweret from its stalk

Would pluck, and deems nor grace, nor truth,

Secure against his arts, forsooth!

This ne'er the less won't always do.

FAUST

Sir Moralizer, prithee, pause;

Nor plague me with your tiresome laws!

To cut the matter short, my friend,

She must this very night be mine,-

And if to help me you decline,

Midnight shall see our compact end.

MEPHISTOPHELES

What may occur just bear in mind!

A fortnight's space, at least, I need,

A fit occasion but to find.

FAUST

With but Seven hours I could succeed;

Nor should I want the devil's wile,

So young a creature to beguile.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Like any Frenchman now you speak,

But do not fret, I pray; why seek

To hurry to enjoyment straight—

The pleasure is not half so great,

As when at first around, above,

With all the fooleries of love,

The puppet you can knead and mould

As in Italian story oft is told.

FAUST

No such incentives do I need.

MEPHISTOPHELES

But now, without offence or jest!

You cannot quickly, I protest,

In winning this sweet child succeed.

By storm we cannot take the fort,

To stratagem we must resort.

FAUST

Conduct me to her place of rest!

Some token of the angel bring!

A kerchief from her snowy breast,

A garter bring me,-any thing!

MEPHISTOPHELES

That I my anxious zeal may prove,

Your pangs to sooth and aid your love,

A single moment will we not delay,

Will lead you to her room this very day.

FAUST

And shall I see her—-Have her—

MEPHISTOPHELES

No!

She to a neighbour's house will go;

But in her atmosphere alone,

The tedious hours meanwhile you may employ,

In blissful dreams of future joy.

FAUST

Can we go now—

MEPHISTOPHELES

'Tis yet too soon.

FAUST

Some present for my love procure!

(Exit.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

Presents so soon! 'tis well! success is sure!

Full many a goodly place I know,

And treasures buried long ago;

I must a bit o'erlook them now.

(Exit.)

EVENING. A SMALL AND NEAT ROOM

MARGARET

(braiding and binding up her hair)

I would give something now to know,

Who yonder gentleman could be!

He had a gallant air, I trow,

And doubtless was of high degree:

That written on his brow was seen-

Nor else would lie so bold have been.

(Exit.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

Come in! tread softly! be discreet!

FAUST (after a pause)

Begone and leave me, I entreat!

MEPHISTOPHELES (looking round)

Not every maiden is so neat.

FAUST (gazing round)

Welcome sweet twilight, calm and blest,

That in this hallow'd precinct reigns!

Fond yearning love, inspire my breast,

Feeding on hope's sweet dew thy blissful pains!

What stillness here environs me!

Content and order brood around.

What fulness in this poverty!

In this small cell what bliss profound!

(He throws himself on the leather arm-chair beside

the bed.)

Receive me thou, who hast in thine embrace,

Welcom'd in joy and grief the ages flown!

How oft the children of a by-gone race

Have cluster'd round this patriarchal throne!

Haply she, also, whom I hold so dear,

For Christmas gift, with grateful joy possess'd,

Hath with the full round cheek of childhood, here,

Her grandsire's wither'd hand devoutly press'd.

Maiden! I feel thy spirit haunt the place,

Breathing of order and abounding grace.

As with a mother's voice it prompteth thee,

The pure white cover o'er the board to spread,

To strew the crisping sand beneath thy tread.

Dear hand! so godlike in its ministry!

The hut becomes a paradise through thee!

And here

(He raises the bed-curtain.)

How thrills my pulse with strange delight!

Here could I linger hours untold;

Thou, Nature, didst in vision bright,

The embryo angel here unfold.

Here lay the child, her bosom warm

With life; while steeped in slumber's dew,

To perfect grace, her godlike form,

With pure and hallow'd weavings grew!

And thou! ah here what seekest thou—

How quails mine inmost being now!

What wouldst thou here— what makes thy heart so sore—

Unhappy Faust! I know thee now no more.

Do I a magic atmosphere inhale—

Erewhile, my passion would not brook delay!

Now in a pure love-dream I melt away.

Are we the sport of every passing gale—

Should she return and enter now,

How wouldst thou rue thy guilty flame!

Proud vaunter-thou wouldst hide thy brow,-

And at her feet sink down with shame.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Quick! quick! below I see her there.

FAUST

Away! I will return no more!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Here is a casket, with a store

Of jewels, which I got elsewhere.

Just lay it in the press; make haste!

I swear to you, 'twill turn her brain;

Therein some trifles I have placed,

Wherewith another to obtain.

But child is child, and play is play.

FAUST

I know not-shall I—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Do you ask—

Perchance you would retain the treasure—

If such your wish, why then, I say,

Henceforth absolve me from my task,

Nor longer waste your hours of leisure.

I trust you're not by avarice led!

I rub my hands, I scratch my head,-

(He places the casket in the press and closes the lock,)

Now quick! Away!

That soon the sweet young creature may

The wish and purpose of your heart obey;

Yet stand you there

As would you to the lecture-room repair,

As if before you stood,

Arrayed in flesh and blood,

Physics and metaphysics weird and grey!-

Away! (Exeunt.)

MARGARET (with a lamp)

Here 'tis so close, so sultry now,

(She opens the window.)

Yet out of doors 'tis not so warm.

I feel so strange, I know not how-

I wish my mother would come home.

Through me there runs a shuddering-

I'm but a foolish timid thing!

(While undressing herself she begins to sing.)

There was a king in Thule,

True even to the grave;

To whom his dying mistress

A golden beaker gave.

At every feast he drained it,

Naught was to him so dear,

And often as he drained it,

Gush'd from his eyes the tear.

When death came, unrepining

His cities o'er he told;

All to his heir resigning,

Except his cup of gold.

With many a knightly vassal

At a royal feast sat he,

In yon proud ball ancestral,

In his castle o'er the sea.

Up stood the jovial monarch,

And quaff'd his last life's glow,

Then hurled the hallow'd goblet

Into the flood below.

He saw it splashing, drinking,

And plunging hi the sea;

His eyes meanwhile were sinking,

And never again drank he.

(She opens the press to put away her clothes, and perceives the

casket.)

How comes this lovely casket here— The press

I locked, of that I'm confident.

'Tis very wonderful! What's in it I can't guess;

Perhaps 'twas brought by some one in distress.

And left in pledge for loan my mother lent.

Here by a ribbon hangs a little key!

I have a mind to open it and see!

Heavens! only look! what have we here!

In all my days ne'er saw I such a sight!

Jewels! which any noble dame might wear,

For some high pageant richly dight!

This chain-how would it look on me!

These splendid gems, whose may they be—

(She puts them on and steps before the glass.)

Were but the ear-rings only mine!

Thus one has quite another air.

What hoots it to be young and fair—

It doubtless may be very flue;

But then, alas, none cares for you,

And praise sounds half like pity too.

Gold all doth lure,

Gold doth secure

All things. Alas, we poor!

PROMENADE

FAUST walking thoughtfully up and down. To him

MEPHISTOPHELES.

MEPHISTOPHELES

By all rejected love! By hellish fire I curse,

Would I knew aught to make my imprecation worse!

FAUST

What aileth thee— what chafes thee now so sore—

A face like that I never saw before!

MEPHISTOPHELES

I'd yield me to the devil instantly,

Did it not happen that myself am he!

FAUST

There must be some disorder in thy wit!

To rave thus like a madman, is it fit—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Think! only think! The gems for Gretchen brought,

Them hath a priest now made his own!-

A glimpse of them the mother caught,

And 'gan with secret fear to groan.

The woman's scent is keen enough;

Doth ever in the prayer-book snuff;

Smells every article to ascertain

Whether the thing is holy or profane,

And scented in the jewels rare,

That there was not much blessing there.

"My child," she cries, "ill-gotten good

Ensnares the soul, consumes the blood;

With them we'll deck our Lady's shrine,

She'll cheer our souls with bread divine!"

At this poor Gretchen 'gan to pout;

'Tis a gift-horse, at least, she thought,

And sure, he godless cannot be,

Who brought them here so cleverly.

Straight for a priest the mother sent,

Who, when he understood the jest,

With what he saw was well content.

"This shows a pious mind!" Quoth he:

"Self-conquest is true victory.

The Church bath a good stomach, she, with zest,

Whole countries hath swallow'd down,

And never yet a surfeit known.

The Church alone, be it confessed,

Daughters, can ill-got wealth digest."

FAUST

It is a general custom, too.

Practised alike by king and jew.

MEPHISTOPHELES

With that, clasp, chain, and ring, he swept

As they were mushrooms; and the casket,

Without one word of thanks, he kept,

As if of nuts it were a basket.

Promised reward in heaven, then forth he hied-

And greatly they were edified.

FAUST

And Gretchen!

MEPHISTOPHELES

In unquiet mood

Knows neither what she would or should;

The trinkets night and day thinks o'er,

On him who brought them, dwells still more.

FAUST

The darling's sorrow grieves me, bring

Another set without delay!

The first, methinks, was no great thing.

MEPHISTOPHELES

All's to my gentleman child's play!

FAUST

Plan all things to achieve my end!

Engage the attention of her friend!

No milk-and-water devil be,

And bring fresh jewels instantly!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Ay, sir! Most gladly I'll obey.

(FAUST exit.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

Your doting love-sick fool, with ease,

Merely his lady-love to please,

Sun, moon, and stars in sport would puff away.

(Exit.)

THE NEIGHBOUR'S HOUSE

MARTHA (alone)

God pardon my dear husband, he

Doth not in truth act well by me!

Forth in the world abroad to roam,

And leave me on the straw at home.

And yet his will I ne'er did thwart,

God knows, I lov'd him from my heart.

(She weeps.)

Perchance he's dead!-oh wretched state!-

Had I but a certificate!

(MARGARET comes)

MARGARET

Dame Martha!

MARTHA

Gretchen—

MARGARET

Only think!

My knees beneath me well-nigh sink!

Within my press I've found to-day,

Another case, of ebony.

And things-magnificent they are,

More costly than the first, by far.

MARTHA

You must not name it to your mother!

It would to shrift, just like the other.

MARGARET

Nay look at them! now only see!

MARTHA (dresses her up)

Thou happy creature!

MARGARET

Woe is me!

Them in the street I cannot wear,

Or in the church, or any where.

MARTHA

Come often over here to me,

The gems put on quite privately;

And then before the mirror walk an hour or so,

Thus we shall have our pleasure too.

Then suitable occasions we must seize,

As at a feast, to show them by degrees:

A chain at first, pearl ear-drops then,-your mother

Won't see them, or we'll coin some tale or other.

MARGARET

But, who, I wonder, could the caskets bring—

I fear there's something wrong about the thing!

(a knock,)

MARTHA (peering through the blind)

'Tis a strange gentleman, I see.

Come in!

(MEPHISTOPHELES enters)

MEPHISTOPHELES

I've ventur'd to intrude to-day.

Ladies, excuse the liberty, I pray.

(He steps back respectfully before MARGARET.)

After dame Martha Schwerdtlein I inquire!

MARTHA

'Tis I. Pray what have you to say to me—

MEPHISTOPHELES (aside to her)

I know you now,-and therefore will retire;

At present you've distinguished company.

Pardon the freedom, Madam, with your leave,

I will make free to call again at eve.

MARTHA (aloud)

Why, child, of all strange notions, he

For some grand lady taketh thee!

MARGARET

I am, in truth, of humble blood-

The gentleman is far too good-

Nor gems nor trinkets are my own.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Oh 'tis not the mere ornaments alone;

Her glance and mien far more betray.

Rejoiced I am that I may stay.

MARTHA

Your business, Sir— I long to know

MEPHISTOPHELES

Would I could happier tidings show!

I trust mine errand you'll not let me rue;

Your husband's dead, and greeteth you.

MARTHA

Is dead— True heart! Oh misery!

My husband dead! Oh, I shall die!

MARGARET

Alas! good Martha! don't despair!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Now listen to the sad affair!

MARGARET

I for this cause should fear to love.

The loss my certain death would prove.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Joy still must sorrow, sorrow joy attend.

MARTHA

Proceed, and tell the story of his end!

MEPHISTOPHELES

At Padua, in St. Anthony's,

In holy ground his body lies;

Quiet and cool his place of rest,

With pious ceremonials blest.

MARTHA

And had you naught besides to bring—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Oh yes! one grave and solemn prayer;

Let them for him three hundred masses sing!

But in my pockets, I have nothing there.

MARTHA

No trinket! no love-token did he send!

What every journeyman safe in his pouch will hoard

There for remembrance fondly stored,

And rather hungers, rather begs than spend!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Madam, in truth, it grieves me sore,

But he his gold not lavishly bath spent.

His failings too he deeply did repent,

Ay! and his evil plight bewail'd still more.

MARGARET

Alas! That men should thus be doomed to woe!

I for his soul will many a requiem pray.

MEPHISTOPHELES

A husband you deserve this very day;

A child so worthy to be loved.

MARGARET

Ah no,

That time bath not yet come for me.

MEPHISTOPHELES

If not a spouse, a gallant let it be.

Among heaven's choicest gifts, I place,

So sweet a darling to embrace.

MARGARET

MEPHISTOPHELES

Usage or not, it happens so.

MARTHA

Go on, I pray!

MEPHISTOPHELES

I stood by his bedside. Something less foul it was than dung;

'Twas straw half rotten; yet, he as a Christian died.

And sorely hath remorse his conscience wrung.

"Wretch that I was," quoth he, with parting breath,

"So to forsake my business and my wife!

Ah! the remembrance is my death,

Could I but have her pardon in this life! "-

MARTHA (weeping)

Dear soul! I've long forgiven him, indeed!

MEPHISTOPHELES

"Though she, God knows, was more to blame than I."

MARTHA

He lied! What, on the brink of death to lie!

MEPHISTOPHELES

If I am skill'd the countenance to read,

He doubtless fabled as he parted hence.-

"No time had I to gape, or take my ease," he said,

"First to get children, and then get them bread;

And bread, too, in the very widest sense;

Nor could I eat in peace even my proper share."

MARTHA

What, all my truth, my love forgotten quite—

My weary drudgery by day and night!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Not so! He thought of you with tender care.

Quoth he: "Heaven knows how fervently I prayed,

For wife and children when from Malta bound;-

The prayer hath heaven with favour crowned;

We took a Turkish vessel which conveyed

Rich store of treasure for the Sultan's court;

It's own reward our gallant action brought;

The captur'd prize was shared among the crew

And of the treasure I received my due."

MARTHA

How— Where— The treasure hath he buried, pray—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Where the four winds have blown it, who can say—

In Naples as he stroll'd, a stranger there,-

A comely maid took pity on my friend;

And gave such tokens of her love and care,

That he retained them to his blessed end.

MARTHA

Scoundrel! to rob his children of their bread!

And all this misery, this bitter need,

Could not his course of recklessness impede!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Well, he bath paid the forfeit, and is dead.

Now were I in your place, my counsel hear;

My weeds I'd wear for one chaste year,

And for another lover meanwhile would look out.

MARTHA

Alas, I might search far and near,

Not quickly should I find another like my first!

There could not be a fonder fool than mine,

Only he loved too well abroad to roam;

Loved foreign women too, and foreign wine.

And loved besides the dice accurs'd.

MEPHISTOPHELES

All had gone swimmingly, no doubt,

Had he but given you at home,

On his side, just as wide a range.

Upon such terms, to you I swear,

Myself with you would gladly rings exchange!

MARTHA

The gentleman is surely pleas'd to jest!

MEPHISTOPIIELES (aside)

Now to be off in time, were best!

She'd make the very devil marry her.

(To MARGARET.)

How fares it with your heart—

MARGARET

How mean you, Sir—

MEPHISTOPHELES (aside)

The sweet young innocent!

(aloud)

Ladies, farewell!

MARGARET

Farewell!

MARTHA

But ere you leave us, quickly tell!

I from a witness fain had heard,

Where, how, and when my husband died and was interr'd.

To forms I've always been attached indeed,

His death I fain would in the journals read.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Ay, madam, what two witnesses declare

Is held as valid everywhere;

A gallant friend I have, not far from here,

Who will for you before the judge appear.

I'll bring him straight.

MARTHA

I pray you do!

MEPHISTOPHELES

And this young lady, we shall find her too—

A noble youth, far travelled, he

Shows to the sex all courtesy.

MARGARET

I in his presence needs must blush for shame.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Not in the presence of a crowned king!

MARTH A

The garden, then, behind my house, we'll name,

There we'll await you both this evening.

A STREET

FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES

FAUST

How is it now— How speeds it— Is't in train—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Bravo! I find you all aflame!

Gretchen full soon your own you'll name.

This eve, at neighbour Martha's, her you'll meet again;

The woman seems expressly made

To drive the pimp and gipsy's trade.

FAUST

Good!

MEPHISTOPHELES

But from us she something would request.

FAUST

A favour claims return as this world goes.

MEPHISTOPHELES

We have on oath but duly to attest,

That her dead husband's limbs, outstretch'd, repose

In holy ground at Padua.

FAUST

Sage indeed!

So I suppose we straight must journey there!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Sancta simplicitas! For that no need!

Without much knowledge we have but to swear.

FAUST

If you have nothing better to suggest,

Against your plan I must at once protest.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Oh, holy man! methinks I have you there!

In all your life say, have you ne'er

False witness borne, until this hour—

Have you of God, the world, and all it doth contain,

Of man, and that which worketh in his heart and brain,

Not definitions given, in words of weight and power,

With front unblushing, and a dauntless breast—

Yet, if into the depth of things you go,

Touching these matters, it must be confess'd,

As much as of Herr Schwerdtlein's death you know!

FAUST

Thou art and dost remain liar and sophist too.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Ay, if one did not take a somewhat deeper view!

To-morrow, in all honour, thou

Poor Gretchen wilt befool, and vow

Thy soul's deep love, in lover's fashion.

FAUST

And from my heart.

MEPHISTOPHELES

All good and fair!

Then deathless constancy thou'lt swear;

Speak of one all o'ermastering passion,-

Will that too issue from the heart—

FAUST

Forbear!

When passion sways me, and I seek to frame

Fit utterance for feeling, deep, intense,

And for my frenzy finding no fit name,

Sweep round the ample world with every sense,

Grasp at the loftiest words to speak my flame,

And call the glow, wherewith I burn,

Quenchless, eternal, yea, eterne-

Is that of sophistry a devilish play—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Yet am I right!

FAUST

Mark this, my friend,

And spare my lungs; who would the right maintain,

And hath a tongue wherewith his point to gain,

Will gain it in the end.

But come, of gossip I am weary quite;

Because I've no resource, thou'rt in the right.

GARDEN

MARGARET on FAUST'S arm. MARTHA with

MEPHISTOPHELES walking up and down

MARGARET

I feel it, you but spare my ignorance,

The gentleman to shame me stoops thus low.

A traveller from complaisance,

Still makes the best of things; I know

Too well, my humble prattle never can

Have power to entertain so wise a man.

FAUST

One glance, one word from thee doth charm me more,

Than the world's wisdom or the sage's lore.

(He kisses her hand.)

MARGARET

Nay! trouble not yourself! A hand so coarse,

So rude as mine, how can you kiss!

What constant work at home must I not do perforce!

My mother too exacting is.

(They pass on.)

MARTHA

Thus, sir, unceasing travel is your lot—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Traffic and duty urge us! With what pain

Are we compelled to leave full many a spot,

Where yet we dare not once remain!

MARTHA

In youth's wild years, with vigour crown'd,

'Tis not amiss thus through the world to sweep;

But ah, the evil days come round!

And to a lonely grave as bachelor to creep,

A pleasant thing has no one found.

MEPHISTOPHELES

The prospect fills me with dismay.

MARTHA

Therefore in time, dear sir, reflect, I pray.

(They pass on.)

MARGARET

Ay, out of sight is out of mind!

Politeness easy is to you;

Friends everywhere, and not a few,

Wiser than I am, you will find.

FAUST

O dearest, trust me, what doth pass for sense

Full oft is self-conceit and blindness!

MARGARET

How—

FAUST

Simplicity and holy innocence,-

When will ye learn your hallow'ed worth to know!

Ah, when will meekness and humility,

Kind and all-bounteous nature's loftiest dower-

MARGARET

Only one little moment think of me!

To think of you I shall have many an hour.

FAUST

You are perhaps much alone—

MARGARET

Yes, small our household is, I own,

Yet must I see to it. No maid we keep,

And I must cook, sew, knit, and Sweep,

Still early on my feet and late;

My mother is in all things, great and small,

So accurate!

Not that for thrift there is such pressing need;

Than others we might make more show indeed;

My father left behind a small estate,

A house and garden near the city-wall.

But fairly quiet now my days, I own;

As soldier is my brother gone;

My little sister's dead; the babe to rear

Occasion'd me some care and fond annoy;

But I would go through all again with joy,

The darling was to me so dear.

FAUST

An angel, sweet, if it resembled thee!

MARGARET

I reared it up, and it grew fond of me.

After my father's death it saw the day;

We gave my mother up for lost, she lay

In such a wretched plight, and then at length

So very slowly she regain'd her strength.

Weak as she was, 'twas vain for her to try

Herself to suckle the poor babe, so I

Reared it on milk and water all alone;

And thus the child became as 'twere roy own;

Within my arms it stretched itself and grew,

And smiling, nestled in my bosom too.

FAUST

Doubtless the purest happiness was thine.

MARGARET

But many weary hours, in sooth, were also mine.

At night its little cradle stood

Close to my bed; so was I wide awake

If it but stirred;

One while I was obliged to give it food,

Or to my arms the darling take;

From bed full oft must rise, whene'er its cry I heard,

And, dancing it, must pace the chamber to and fro;

Stand at the wash-tub early; forthwith go

To market, and then mind the cooking too-

To-morrow like to-day, the whole year through.

Ah, sir, thus living, it must be confess'd

One's spirits are not always of the best;

Yet it a relish gives to food and rest.

(They pass on.)

MARTHA

Poor women! we are badly off, I own;

A bachelor's conversion's hard, indeed!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Madam, with one like you it rests alone,

To tutor me a better course to lead.

MARTHA

Speak frankly, sir, none is there you have met—

Has your heart ne'er attach'd itself as yet—

MEPHISTOPHELES

One's own fire-side and a good wife are gold

And pearls of price, so says the proverb old.

MARTHA

I mean, has passion never stirred your breast—

MEPHISTOPHELES

I've everywhere been well received, I own.

MARTHA

Yet hath your heart no earnest preference known—

MEPHISTOPHELES

With ladies one should ne'er presume to jest.

MARTHA

Ah! you mistake!

MEPHISTOPHELES

I'm sorry I'm so blind!

But this I know-that you are very kind.

(They pass on.)

FAUST

Me, little angel, didst thou recognise,

When in the garden first I came—

MARGARET

Did you not see it— I cast down my eyes.

FAUST

Thou dost forgive my boldness, dost not blame

The liberty I took that day,

When thou from church didst lately wend thy way—

MARGARET

I was confused. So had it never been;

No one of me could any evil say.

Alas, thought I, he doubtless in thy mien,

Something unmaidenly or bold hath seen—

It seemed as if it struck him suddenly,

Here's just a girl with whom one may make free!

Yet I must own that then I scarcely knew

What in your favour here began at once to plead;

Yet I was angry with myself indeed,

That I more angry could not feel with you.

FAUST

Sweet love!

MARGARET

Just wait awhile!

(She gathers a star-flower and plucks off the leaves one after

another.)

FAUST

A nosegay may that be—

MARGARET

No! It is but a game.

FAUST

How—

MARGARET

Go, you'll laugh at me!

(She plucks off the leaves and murmurs to herself.)

FAUST

What murmurest thou—

MARGARET (half aloud)'

He loves me-loves me not.

FAUST

Sweet angel, with thy face of heavenly bliss!

MARGARET (continues)

He loves me-not-he loves me-not-

(Plucking off the last leaf with fond joy.)

He loves me!

FAUST

Yes!

And this flower-language, darling, let it be,

A heavenly oracle! He loveth thee!

Know'st thou the meaning of, He loveth thee—

(He seizes both her hands.)

MARGARET

I tremble so!

FAUST

Nay! Do not tremble, love!

Let this hand-pressure, let this glance reveal

Feelings, all power of speech above;

To give oneself up wholly and to feel

A joy that must eternal prove!

Eternal!-Yes, its end would be despair.

No end!-It cannot end!

(MARGARET presses his hand, extricates herself,

and runs away. He stands a moment in thought, and then follows

her.)

MARTHA (approaching)

Night's closing.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Yes, we'll presently away.

MARTHA

I would entreat you longer yet to stay;

But 'tis a wicked place, just here about;

It is as if the folk had nothing else to do,

Nothing to think of too,

But gaping watch their neighbours, who goes in and out;

And scandal's busy still, do whatsoe'er one may.

And our young couple—

MEPHISTOPHELES

They have flown up there.

The wanton butterflies!

MARTHA

He seems to take to her.

MEPHISTOPHELES

And she to him. 'Tis of the world the way!

A SUMMER-HOUSE

(MARGARET runs in, hides behind the door, holds the tip of her

finger to her lip, and peeps through the crevice.)

MARGARET

He comes!

FAUST

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.)

Who's there—

FAUST (stamping)

MEPHISTOPHELES

A friend!

FAUST

A brute!

MEPHISTOPHELES

MARTHA (comes)

Ay, it is late, good sir.

FAUST

Mayn't I attend you, then—

MARGARET

Oh no-my mother would-adieu, adieu!

FAUST

And must I really then take leave of you— Farewell!

MARTHA

Good-bye!

MARGARET

Ere long to meet again!

(Exeunt FAUST and MEPHISTOPHELES.)

MARGARET

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.)

FOREST AND CAVERN

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:

Gayest 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 neighbour 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.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

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!

FAUST

Would you could better occupy your leisure,

Than in disturbing thus my hours of joy.

MEPHISTOPHELES

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.

FAUST

Ay truly! that is just the proper tone!

He wearies me, and would with thanks be paid

MEPHISTOPHELES

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.

FAUST

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.

MEPHISTOPHELES

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 labouring 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!

FAUST

Fie on you!

MEPHISTOPHELES

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;

Pull in her heart didst pour the sudden gush,

Now has thy brookiet ceased to flow.

Instead of sitting throned midst forests wild,

It would become so great a lord

To comfort the enamour'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.

FAUST

Snake! Serpent vile!

MEPHISTOPHELES (aside)

Good! If I catch thee with my guile!

FAUST

Vile reprobate! go get thee hence;

Forbear the lovely girl to name!

Nor in my half-distracted sense,

Kindle anew the smouldering flame!

MEPHISTOPHELES

What wouldest thou! She thinks you've taken flight;

It seems, she's partly in the right.

FAUST

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.

MEPHISTOPHELES

'Tis well! I oft have envied you indeed,

The twin-pair that among the roses feed.

FAUST

Pander, avaunt!

MEPHISTOPHELES

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.

FAUST

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!

MEPHISTOPHELES

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.

MARGARET'S ROOM

MARGARET

(alone at her spinning wheel)

My peace is gone,

My heart is Sore,

I find it never,

And nevermore!

Where him I have not,

Is the grave; and all

The world to me

Is turned to gall.

My wilder'd brain

Is overwrought;

My feeble senses

Are distraught.

My peace is gone,

My heart is sore,

I find it never,

And nevermore!

For him from the window

I gaze, at home;

For him and him only

Abroad I roam.

His lofty step,

His bearing high,

The smile of his lip,

The power of his eye,

His witching words,

Their tones of bliss,

His hand's fond pressure,

And ah-his kiss!

My peace is gone,

My heart is sore,

I find it never,

And nevermore.

My bosom aches

To feel him near;

Ah, could I clasp

And fold him here!

Kiss him and kiss him

Again would I,

And on his kisses

I fain would die.

MARTHA'S GARDEN

MARGARET and FAUST

MARGARET

Promise me, Henry!

FAUST

What I can!

MARGARET

How thy religion fares, I fain would hear.

Thou art a good kind-hearted man,

Only that way not well-disposed, I fear.

FAUST

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.

MARGARET

That's not enough, we must ourselves believe!

FAUST

Must we—

MARGARET

Ah, could I but thy soul inspire!

Thou honourest not the sacraments, alas!

FAUST

I honour them.

MARGARET

But yet without desire;

'Tis long since thou hast been either to shrift or mass.

Dost thou believe in God—

FAUST

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.

MARGARET

Then thou dost not believe—

FAUST

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.

MARGARET

All this is doubtless good and fair;

Almost the same the parson says,

Only in slightly different phrase.

FAUST

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—

MARGARET

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.

FAUST

My sweet child!

MARGARET

Alas! it long bath sorely troubled me,

To see thee in such odious company.

FAUST

How so—

MARGARET

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.

FAUST

Him fear not, my sweet love!

MARGARET

His presence chills my blood.

Towards 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!

FAUST

Yet such strange fellows in the world must be!

MARGARET

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.

FAUST

Foreboding angel! check thy fear!

MARGARET

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.

FAUST

This is antipathy!

MARGARET

I must away.

FAUST

For one brief hour then may I never rest,

And heart to heart, and soul to soul be pressed—

MARGARET

Ah, if I slept alone! To-night

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.

FAUST

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.

MARGARET

What Do I not for thy dear sake!

To her it will not harmful prove—

FAUST

Should I advise it else, sweet love—

MARGARET

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)

MEPHISTOPHELES

The monkey! Is she gone—

FAUST

Again hast played the spy—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Of all that pass'd I'm well apprized,

I heard the doctor catechised,

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.

FAUST

Thou monster, does 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!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Most sensual, supersensualist— The while

A damsel leads thee by the nose!

FAUST

Of filth and fire abortion vile!

MEPHISTOPHELES

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 to-night-

FAUST

What's that to you—

MEPHISTOPHELES

I've my amusement in it too!

AT THE WELL

MARGARET and BESSY, with pitchers

BESSY

Of Barbara hast nothing heard—

MARGARET

I rarely go from home,-no, not a word

BESSY

'Tis true: Sybilla told me so to-day!

That comes of being proud, methinks;

She played the fool at last,

MARGARET

How so—

BESSY

They say

That two she feedeth when she eats and drinks.

MARGARET

Alas!

BESSY

She's rightly served, in sooth,

How long she hung upon the youth!

What promenades, what jaunts there were,

To dancing booth and village fair!

The first she everywhere must shine,

He always treating her to pastry and to wine.

Of her good looks she was so vain,

So shameless too, that to retain

His presents, she did not disdain;

Sweet words and kisses came anon-

And then the virgin flower was gone.

MARGARET

Poor thing!

BESSY

Forsooth dost pity her—

At night, when at our wheels we sat,

Abroad our mothers ne'er would let us stir.

Then with her lover she must chat,

Or on the bench or in the dusky walk,

Thinking the hours too brief for their Sweet talk;

Her proud head she will have to bow,

And in white sheet do penance now!

MARGARET

But he will surely marry her—

BESSY

Not he!

He won't be such a fool! a gallant lad

Like him, can roam o'er land and sea,

Besides, he's off.

MARGARET

That is not fair!

BESSY

If she should get him, 'twere almost as bad!

Her myrtle wreath the boys would tear;

And then we girls would plague her too,

For we chopp'd straw before her door would strew!

(Exit.)

MARGARET (walking towards home)

How stoutly once I could inveigh,

If a poor maiden went astray;

Not words enough my tongue could find,

'Gainst others' sin to speak my mind!

Black as it seemed, I blacken'd it still more,

And strove to make it blacker than before.

And did myself securely bless-

Now my own trespass doth appear!

Yet ah!-what urg'd me to transgress,

God knows, it was so sweet, so dear!

ZWINGER

Enclosure between the City-wall and the Gate.

(In the niche of the wall a devotional image of the Mater

dolorosa, with flower-pots before it.)

MARGARET

(putting fresh flowers in the pots)

Ah, rich in sorrow, thou,

Stoop thy maternal brow,

And mark with pitying eye my misery!

The sword in thy pierced heart,

Thou dost with bitter smart,

Gaze upwards on thy Son's death agony.

To the dear God on high,

Ascends thy piteous sigh,

Pleading for his and thy sore misery.

Ah, who can know

The torturing woe,

The pangs that rack me to the bone—

How my poor heart, without relief,

Trembles and throbs, its yearning grief

Thou knowest, thou alone!

Ah, wheresoe'er I go,

With woe, with woe, with woe,

My anguish'd breast is aching!

When all alone I creep,

I weep, I weep, I weep,

Alas! my heart is breaking!

The flower-pots at my window

Were wet with tears of mine,

The while I pluck'd these blossoms,

At dawn to deck thy shrine!

When early in my chamber

Shone bright the rising morn,

I sat there on my pallet,

My heart with anguish torn.

Help! from disgrace and death deliver me!

Ah! rich in sorrow, thou,

Stoop thy maternal brow,

And mark with pitying eye my misery!

NIGHT. STREET BEFORE MARGARET'S DOOR

VALENTINE

(a soldier, MARGARET'S brother)

When seated 'mong the jovial crowd,

Where merry comrades boasting loud

Each named with pride his favourite lass,

And in her honour drain'd his glass;

Upon my elbows I would lean,

With easy quiet view the scene,

Nor give my tongue the rein until

Each swaggering blade had talked his fill.

Then smiling I my beard would stroke,

The while, with brimming glass, I spoke;

"Each to his taste!-but to my mind,

Where in the country will you find,

A maid, as my dear Gretchen fair,

Who with my sister can compare—"

Cling! Clang! so rang the jovial sound!

Shouts of assent went circling round;

Pride of her sex is she!-cried some;

Then were the noisy boasters dumb.

And now I-I could tear out my hair,

Or dash my brains out in despair!-

Me every scurvy knave may twit,

With stinging jest and taunting sneer!

Like skulking debtor I must sit,

And sweat each casual word to hear!

And though I smash'd them one and all,-

Yet them I could not liars call.

Who comes this way— who's sneaking here—

If I mistake not, two draw near.

If he be one, have at him;-well I wot

Alive he shall not leave this spot!

FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES

FAUST

How from yon sacristy, athwart the night,

Its beams the ever-burning taper throws,

While ever waning, fades the glimmering light,

As gathering darkness doth around it close!

So night-like gloom doth in my bosom reign.

MEPHISTOPHELES

I'm like a tom-cat in a thievish vein,

That up fire-ladders tall and steep,

And round the walls doth slyly creep;

Virtuous withal, I feel, with, I confess,

A touch of thievish joy and wantonness.

Thus through my limbs already burns

The glorious Walpurgis night!

After to-morrow it returns,

Then why one wakes, one knows aright!

FAUST

Meanwhile, the treasure I see glimmering there,

Will it ascend into the open air—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Ere long thou wilt proceed with pleasure,

To raise the casket with its treasure;

I took a peep, therein are stored,

Of lion-dollars a rich hoard.

FAUST

And not a trinket— not a ring—

Wherewith my lovely girl to deck—

MEPHISTOPHELES

I saw among them some such thing,

A string of pearls to grace her neck.

FAUST

'Tis well! I'm always loath to go,

Without some gift my love to show.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Some pleasures gratis to enjoy,

Should surely cause you no annoy.

While bright with stars the heavens appear,

I'll sing a masterpiece of art:

A moral song shall charm her ear,

More surely to beguile her heart.

(Sings to the guitar.)'

Kathrina say,

Why lingering stay

At dawn of day

Before your lover's door—

Maiden, beware,

Nor enter there,

Lest forth you fare,

A maiden never more.

Maiden take heed!

Reck well my rede!

Is't done, the deed—

Good night, you poor, poor thing!

The spoiler's lies, His arts despise,

Nor yield your prize,

Without the marriage ring!

VALENTINE (steps forward)

Whom are you luring here— I'll give it you!

Accursed rat-catchers, your strains I'll end!

First, to the devil the guitar I'll send!

Then to the devil with the singer too!

MEPHISTOPHELES

The poor guitar! 'tis done for now.

VALENTINE

Your skull shall follow next, I trow!

MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST)

Doctor, stand fast! your strength collect!

Be prompt, and do as I direct.

Out with your whisk, keep close, I pray,

I'll parry I do you thrust away!

VALENTINE

Then parry that!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Why not—

VALENTINE

That too!

MEPHISTOPHELES

With ease!

VALENTINE

The devil fights for you!

Why how is this— my hand's already lamed!

MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST)

Thrust home!

VALENTINE (falls)

Alas!

MEPHISTOPHELES

There! Now the lubber's tamed!

But quick, away! We must at once take wing;

A cry of murder strikes upon the ear;

With the police I know my course to steer,

But with the blood-ban 'tis another thing.

MARTHA (at the window)

Without! without!

MARGARET (at the window)

Quick, bring a light!

MARTHA (as above)

They rail and scuffle, scream and fight!

PEOPLE

One lieth here already dead!

MARTHA (coming out)

Where are the murderers— are they fled—

MARGARET (coming out)

Who lieth here—

PEOPLE

Thy mother's son.

MARGARET

Almighty God! I am undone!

VALENTINE

I'm dying-'tis a soon-told tale,

And sooner done the deed.

Why, women, do ye howl and wail—

To my last words give heed! (All gather round him.)

My Gretchen, see! still young art thou,

Art not discreet enough, I trow,

Thou dost thy matters ill;

Let this in confidence be said:

Since thou the path of shame dost tread,

Tread it with right good will!

MARGARET

My brother! God! what can this mean—

VALENTINE

Abstain,

Nor dare God's holy name profane!

What's done, alas, is done and past!

Matters will take their course at last;

By stealth thou dost begin with one,

Others will follow him anon;

And when a dozen thee have known,

Thou'lt common be to all the town.

When infamy is newly born,

In secret she is brought to light,

And the mysterious veil of night

O'er head and ears is drawn;

The loathsome birth men fain would slay;

But soon, full grown, she waxes bold,

And though not fairer to behold,

With brazen front insults the day:

The more abhorrent to the sight,

The more she courts the day's pure light.

The time already I discern,

When thee all honest folk will spurn,

And shun thy hated form to meet,

As when a corpse infects the street.

Thy heart will sink in blank despair,

When they shall look thee in the face!

A golden chain no more thou'lt wear!

Nor near the altar take in church thy place!

In fair lace collar simply dight

Thou'lt dance no more with spirits light!

In darksome corners thou wilt bide,

Where beggars vile and cripples hide,

And e'en though God thy crime forgive,

On earth, a thing accursed, thou'lt live!

MARTHA

Your parting soul to God commend!

Your dying breath in slander will you spend—

VALENTINE

Could I but reach thy wither'd frame,

Thou wretched beldame, void of shame!

Full measure I might hope to win

Of pardon then for every sin.

MARGARET

VALENTINE

I tell thee, from vain tears abstain!

'Twas thy dishonour pierced my heart,

Thy fall the fatal death-stab gave.

Through the death-sleep I now depart

To God, a soldier true and brave.

(dies.)

CATHEDRAL

Service, Organ, and Anthem

MARGARET amongst a number of people

EVIL-SPIRIT behind MARGARET

EVIL-SPIRIT

How different, Gretchen, was it once with thee,

When thou, still full of innocence,

Here to the altar camest,

And from the small and well-conn'd book

Didst lisp thy prayer,

Half childish sport,

Half God in thy young heart!

Gretchen!

What thoughts are thine—

What deed of shame

Lurks in thy sinful heart—

Is thy prayer utter'd for thy mother's soul,

Who into long, long torment slept through thee—

Whose blood is on thy threshold—

-And stirs there not already 'neath thy heart

Another quick'ning pulse, that even now

Tortures itself and thee

With its foreboding presence—

MARGARET

Woe! Woe!

Oh could I free me from the thoughts

That hither, thither, crowd upon my brain,

Against my will!

CHORUS

Dies irae, dies illa,

Solvet saeclum in favilla.

(The organ sounds.)

EVIL-SPIRIT

Grim horror seizes thee!

The trumpet sounds!

The graves are shaken!

And thy heart

From ashy rest

For torturing flames

Anew created,

Trembles into life!

MARGARET

Would I were hence!

It is as if the organ

Choked my breath,

As if the choir

Melted my inmost heart!

CHORUS

Judex ergo cum sedebit,

Quidquid latet adparebit!

Nil inultunt remanebit.

MARGARET

I feel oppressed!

The pillars of the wall

Imprison me!

The vaulted roof

Weighs down upon me I-air!

EVIL-SPIRIT

Wouldst hide thee— sin and shame

Remain not hidden!

Air! light!

Woe's thee!

CHORUS

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus—

Quem patronum rogaturus!

Cum vix justus sit securus.

EVIL-SPIRIT

The glorified their faces turn

Away from thee!

Shudder the pure to reach

Their hands to thee!

Woe!

CHORUS

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus-

MARGARET

Neighbour! your smelling bottle!

(She swoons away.)

WALPURGIS-NIGHT

THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS. DISTRICT OF SCHIERKE

AND ELEND

FAUST and MEPHISTOPHELES

MEPHISTOPHELES

A broomstick dost thou not at least desire—

The roughest he-goat fain would I bestride,

By this road from our goal we're still far wide.

FAUST

While fresh upon my legs, so long I naught require,

Except this knotty staff. Beside,

What boots it to abridge a pleasant way—

Along the labyrinth of these vales to creep,

Then scale these rocks, whence, in eternal spray,

Adown the cliffs the silvery fountains leap:

Such is the joy that seasons paths like these!

Spring weaves already in the birchen trees;

E'en the late pine-grove feels her quickening powers;

Should she not work within these limbs of ours—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Naught of this genial influence do I know!

Within me all is wintry. Frost and snow

I should prefer my dismal path to bound.

How sadly, yonder, with belated glow

Rises the ruddy moon's imperfect round,

Shedding so faint a light, at every tread

One's sure to stumble 'gainst a rock or tree!

An Ignis Fatuus I must call instead.

Yonder one burning merrily, I see.

Holla! my friend! may I request your light—

Why should you flare away so uselessly—

Be kind enough to show us up the height!

IGNIS FATUUS

Through reverence, I hope I may subdue

The lightness of my nature; true,

Our course is but a zigzag one.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Ho! ho!

So men, forsooth, he thinks to imitate!

Now, in the devil's name, for once go straight!

Or out at once your flickering life I'll blow.

IGNIS FAPUUS

That you are master here it obvious quite;

To do your will, I'll cordially essay;

Only reflect! The hill is magic-mad to-night;

And if to show the path you choose a meteor's light,

You must not wonder should we go astray.

FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, IGNIS FATUUS

(in alternate song)

Through the dream and magic-sphere

As it seems, we now are speeding;

Honour win, us rightly leading,

That betimes we may appear

In yon wide and desert region!

Trees on trees, a stalwart legion,

Swiftly past us are retreating,

And the cliffs with lowly greeting;

Rocks long-snouted, row on row,

How they snort, and how they blow!

Through the stones and heather springing,

Brook and brooklet haste below;

Hark the rustling! Hark the singing!

Hearken to love's plaintive lays;

Voices of those heavenly days-

What we hope, and what we love!

Like a tale of olden time,

Echo's voice prolongs the chime.

To-whit! To-whoo! It sounds more near;

Plover, owl, and jay appear,

All awake, around, above—

Paunchy salamanders too

Peer, long-limbed, the bushes through!

And, like snakes, the roots of trees

Coil themselves from rock and sand,

Stretching many a wondrous band,

Us to frighten, us to seize;

From rude knots with life embued,

Polyp-fangs abroad they spread,

To snare the wanderer! 'Neath our tread,

Mice, in myriads, thousand-hued,

Through the heath and through the moss!

And the fire-flies' glittering throng,

Wildering escort, whirls along,

Here and there, our path across.

Tell me, stand we motionless,

Or still forward do we press—

All things round us whirl and fly;

Rocks and trees make strange grimaces,

Dazzling meteors change their places,

How they puff and multiply!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Now grasp my doublet-we at last

A central peak have reached, which shows,

If round a wondering glance we cast,

How in the mountain Mammon glows.

FAUST

How through the chasms strangely gleams,

A lurid light, like dawn's red glow,

Pervading with its quivering beams,

The gorges of the gulf below!

Here vapours rise, there clouds float by,

Here through the mist the light doth shine;

Now, like a fount, it bursts on high,

Meanders now, a slender line;

Far reaching, with a hundred veins,

Here through the valley see it glide;

Here, where its force the gorge restrains,

At once it scatters, far and wide;

Anear, like showers of golden sand

Strewn broadcast, sputter sparks of light:

And mark yon rocky walls that stand

Ablaze, in all their towering height!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Doth not Sir Mammon for this fete

Grandly illume his palace! Thou

Art lucky to have seen it; now,

The boisterous guests, I feel, are coming straight.

FAUST

How through the air the storm doth whirl!

Upon my neck it strikes with sudden shock.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Cling to these ancient ribs of granite rock,

Else to yon depths profound it you will hurl.

A murky vapour thickens night.

Hark! Through the woods the tempests roar!

The owlets flit in wild affright.

Hark! Splinter'd are the columns that upbore

The leafy palace, green for aye:

The shivered branches whirr and sigh,

Yawn the huge trunks with mighty groan.

The roots upriven, creak and moan!

In fearful and entangled fall,

One crashing ruin whelms them all,

While through the desolate abyss,

Sweeping the, wreck-strewn precipice,

The raging storm-blasts howl and hiss!

Aloft strange voices dost thou hear—

Distant now and now more near—

Hark! the mountain ridge along,

Streameth a raving magic-song!

WITCHES (in chorus)

Now to the Brocken the witches hie,

The stubble is yellow, the corn is green;

Thither the gathering legions fly,

And sitting aloft is Sir Urial seen:

O'er stick and o'er stone they go whirling along,

Witches and he-goats, a motley throng.

VOICES

Alone old Baubo's coming now;

She rides upon a farrow sow.

CHORUS

Honour to her, to whom honour is due!

Forward, Dame Baubo! Honour to you!

A goodly sow and mother thereon,

The whole witch chorus follows anon.

VOICE

Which way didst come—

VOICE

O'er Ilsenstein!

There I peep'd in an owlet's nest.

With her broad eye she gazed in mine!

VOICE

Drive to the devil, thou hellish pest!

Why ride so hard—

VOICE

She has graz'd my side,

Look at the wounds, how deep and how wide!

WITCHES (in chorus)

The way is broad, the way is long;

What mad pursuit! What tumult wild!

Scratches the besom and sticks the prong;

Crush'd is the mother, and stifled the child.

WIZARDS (half chorus)

Like house-encumber'd Snail we creep;

While far ahead the women keep,

For when to the devil's house we speed,

By a thousand steps they take the lead.

THE OTHER HALF

Not so, precisely do we view it;--

They with a thousand steps may do it;

But let them hasten as they can,

With one long bound 'tis clear'd by man.

VOICES (above)

Come with us, come with us from Felsensee.

VOICES (from below)

Aloft to you we would mount with glee!

We wash, and free from all stain are we,

Yet barren evermore must be!

BOTH CHORUSES

The wind is hushed, the stars grow pale,

The pensive moon her light doth veil;

And whirling on, the magic choir

Sputters forth sparks of drizzling fire.

VOICE (from below)

Stay! stay!

VOICE (from above)

What voice of woe

Calls from the cavern'd depths below—

VOICE (from below)

Take me with you! Oh take me too!

Three centuries I climb in vain,

And yet can ne'er the summit gain!

To be with my kindred I am fain.

BOTH CHORUSES

Broom and pitch-fork, goat and prong,

Mounted on these we whirl along;

Who vainly strives to climb to-night,

Is evermore a luckless wight!

DEMI-WITCH (below)

I hobble after, many a day;

Already the others are far away!

No rest at home can I obtain-

Here too my efforts are in vain!

CHORUS OF WITCHES

Salve gives the witches strength to rise;

A rag for a sail does well enough;

A goodly ship is every trough;

To-night who flies not, never flies.

BOTH CHORUSES

And when the topmost peak we round,

Then alight ye on the ground;

The heath's wide regions cover ye

With your mad swarms of witchery!

(They let themselves down.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

They crowd and jostle, whirl and flutter!

They whisper, babble, twirl, and splutter!

They glimmer, sparkle, stink and flare-

A true witch-element!

Beware!

Stick close! else we shall severed be.

Where art thou—

FAUST (in the distance)

Here!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Already, whirl'd so far away!

The master then indeed I needs must play.

Give ground! Squire Voland comes!

Sweet folk, give ground!

Here, doctor, grasp me! With a single bound

Let us escape this ceaseless jar;

Even for me too mad these people are.

Hard by there shineth something with peculiar glare,

Yon brake allureth me; it is not far;

Come, come along with me! we'll slip in there.

FAUST

Spirit of contradiction! Lead! I'll follow straight!

'Twas wisely done, however, to repair

On May-night to the Brocken, and when there

By our own choice ourselves to isolate!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Murk, of those flames the motley glare!

A merry club assembles there.

In a small circle one is not alone,

FAUST

I'd rather be above, though, I must own!

Already fire and eddying smoke I view;

The impetuous millions to the devil ride;

Full many a riddle will be there untied.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Ay! and full many a riddle tied anew.

But let the great world rave and riot!

Here will we house ourselves in quiet.

A custom 'tis of ancient date,

Our lesser worlds within the great world to create!

Young witches there I see, naked and bare,

And old ones, veil'd more prudently.

For my sake only courteous be!

The trouble's small, the sport is rare.

Of instruments I hear the cursed din-

One must get used to it.

Come in! come in!

There's now no help for it. I'll step before

And introducing you as my good friend,

Confer on you one obligation more.

How say you now— 'Tis no such paltry room

Why only look, you scarce can see the end.

A hundred fires in rows disperse the gloom;

They dance, they talk, they cook, make love, and drink:

Where could we find aught better, do you think—

FAUST

To introduce us, do you purpose here

As devil or as wizard to appear—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Though I am wont indeed to strict incognito,

Yet upon gala-days one must one's orders show.

No garter have I to distinguish me,

Nathless the cloven foot doth here give dignity.

Seest thou yonder snail— Crawling this way she hies:

With searching feelers, she, no doubt,

Hath me already scented out;

Here, even if I would, for me there's no disguise.

From fire to fire, we'll saunter at our leisure,

The gallant you, I'll cater for your pleasure.

(To a party seated round some expiring embers.)

Old gentleman, apart, why sit ye moping here—

Ye in the midst should be of all this jovial cheer,

Girt round with noise and youthful riot;

At home one surely has enough of quiet.

GENERAL

In nations put his trust, who may,

Whate'er for them one may have done;

For with the people, as with women, they

Honour your rising stars alone!

MINISTER

Now all too far they wander from the right;

I praise the good old ways, to them I hold,

Then was the genuine age of gold,

When we ourselves were foremost in men's sight.

PARVENU

Ne'er were we 'mong your dullards found,

And what we ought not, that to do were fair;

Yet now are all things turning round and round,

When on firm basis we would them maintain.

AUTHOR

Who, as a rule, a treatise now would care

To read, of even moderate sense—

As for the rising generation, ne'er

Has youth displayed such arrogant pretence.

MEPHISTOPHELES

(suddenly appearing very old)

Since for the last time I the Brocken scale,

That folk are ripe for doomsday, now one sees;

And just because my cask begins to fail,

So the whole world is also on the lees.

HUCKSTER-WITCH

Stop, gentlemen, nor pass me by,

Of wares I have a choice collection:

Pray honour them with your inspection.

Lose not this opportunity

Yet nothing in my booth you'll find

Without its counterpart on earth; there's naught,

Which to the world, and to mankind,

Hath not some direful mischief wrought.

No dagger here, which bath not flow'd with blood,

No chalice, whence, into some healthy frame

Hath not been poured hot poison's wasting flood.

No trinket, but bath wrought some woman's shame,

No weapon but bath cut some sacred tie,

Or from behind bath stabb'd an enemy.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Gossip! For wares like these the time's gone by,

What's done is past! what's past is done!

With novelties your booth supply;

Us novelties attract alone.

FAUST

May this wild scene my senses spare!

This, may in truth be called a fair!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Upward the eddying concourse throng;

Thinking to push, thyself art push'd along.

FAUST

Who's that, pray—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Mark her well! That's Lilith.

FAUST

Who—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Adam's first wife. Of her rich locks beware!

That charm in which she's parallel'd by few;

When in its toils a youth she doth ensnare,

He will not soon escape, I promise you.

FAUST

There sit a pair, the old one with the young;

Already they have bravely danced and sprung!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Here there is no repose to-day.

Another dance begins; we'll join it, come away!

FAUST

(dancing with the young one)

Once a fair vision came to me;

Therein I saw an apple-tree,

Two beauteous apples charmed mine eyes;

I climb'd forthwith to reach the prize.

THE FAIR ONE.

Apples still fondly ye desire,

From paradise it bath been so.

Feelings of joy my breast inspire

That such too in my garden grow.

MEPHISTOPHELES (with the old one)

Once a weird vision came to me;

Therein I saw a rifted tree.

I had a….have ready here,

But as it was it pleased me too.

THE OLD ONE

I beg most humbly to salute

The gallant with the cloven foot!

Let him a… have ready here,

If he a… does not fear.

PROCTOPHANTASMIST

Accursed mob! How dare ye thus to meet—

Have I not shown and demonstrated too,

That ghosts stand not on ordinary feet—

Yet here ye dance, as other mortals do!

THE FAIR ONE (dancing)

Then at our ball, what doth he here—

FAUST (dancing)

Oh! He must everywhere appear.

He must adjudge, when others dance;

If on each step his say's not said,

So is that step as good as never made.

He's most annoyed, so soon as we advance;

If ye would circle in one narrow round,

As he in his old mill, then doubtless he

Your dancing would approve,-especially

If ye forthwith salute him with respect profound!

PROCTOPHANTASMIST

Still here! what arrogance! unheard of quite!

Vanish; we now have fill'd the world with light!

Laws are unheeded by the devil's host;

Wise as we are, yet Tegel hath its ghost!

How long at this conceit I've swept with all my might,

Lost is the labour: 'tis unheard of quite!

THE FAIR ONE

Cease here to teaze us any more, I pray.

PROCTOPHANTASMIST

Spirits, I plainly to your face declare:

No spiritual control myself will bear,

Since my own spirit can exert no sway.

(The dancing continues.)

To-night, I see, I shall in naught succeed;

But I'm prepar'd my travels to pursue,

And hope, before my final step indeed,

To triumph over bards and devils too.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Now in some puddle will he take his station,

Such is his mode of seeking consolation;

Where leeches, feasting on his rump, will drain

Spirits alike and spirit from his brain.

(To FAUST, who has left the dance.)

But why the charming damsel leave, I pray,

Who to you in the dance so sweetly sang—

FAUST

Ah, in the very middle of her lay,

Out of her mouth a small red mouse there sprang.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Suppose there did! One must not be too nice.

'Twas well it was not grey, let that suffice.

Who 'mid his pleasures for a trifle cares—

FAUST

Then saw I-

MEPHISTOPHELES

What—

FAUST

Mephisto, seest thou there

Standing far off, a lone child, pale and fair—

Slow from the spot her drooping form she tears,

And seems with shackled feet to move along;

I own, within me the delusion's strong,

That she the likeness of my Gretchen wears.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Gaze not upon her! 'Tis not good! Forbear!

'Tis lifeless, magical, a shape of air,

An idol. Such to meet with, bodes no good;

That rigid look of hers doth freeze man's blood,

And well-nigh petrifies his heart to stone:-

The story of Medusa thou hast known.

FAUST

Ay, verily! a corpse's eyes are those,

Which there was no fond loving hand to close.

That is the bosom I so fondly press'd,

That my sweet Gretchen's form, so oft caress'd!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Deluded fool! 'Tis magic, I declare!

To each she doth his lov'd

one's image wear.

FAUST

What bliss! what torture! vainly I essay

To turn me from that piteous look away.

How strangely doth a single crimson line

Around that lovely neck its coil entwine,

It shows no broader than a knife's blunt edge!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Quite right. I see it also, and allege

That she beneath her arm her head can bear,

Since Perseus cut it off.-But you I swear

Are craving for illusion still!

Come then, ascend yon little hill!

As on the Prater all is gay,

And if my senses are not gone,

I see a theatre,-what's going on—

SERVIRILIS

They are about to recommence;-the play

Will be the last of seven, and spick-span new-'

'Tis usual here that number to present.

A dilettante did the piece invent,

And dilettanti will enact it too.

Excuse me, gentlemen; to me's assign'd

As dilettante to uplift the curtain.

MEPHISTOPHELES

You on the Blocksberg I'm rejoiced to find,

That 'tis your most appropriate sphere is certain.

WALPURGIS-NIGHT'S DREAM

OR OBERON AND TITANIA'S GOLDEN WEDDING-FEAST

Intermezzo

THEATRE

MANAGER

Vales, where mists still shift and play,

To ancient hills succeeding,-

These our scenes;-so we, to-day,

May rest, brave sons of Mieding.

HERALD

That the marriage golden be,

Must fifty years be ended;

More dear this feast of gold to me,

Contention now suspended.

OBERON

Spirits, if present, grace the scene,

And if with me united,

Then gratulate the king and queen,

Their troth thus newly plighted!

PUCK

Puck draws near and wheels about,

In mazy circles dancing!

Hundreds swell his joyous shout,

Behind him still advancing.

ARIEL

Ariel wakes his dainty air,

His lyre celestial stringing.-

Fools he lureth, and the fair,

With his celestial singing.

OBERON

Wedded ones, would ye agree,

We court your imitation:

Would ye fondly love as we,

We counsel separation.

TITANIA

If husband scold and wife retort,

Then bear them far asunder;

Her to the burning south transport,

And him the North Pole under.

THE WHOLE ORCHESTRA (fortissimo)

Flies and midges all unite

With frog and chirping cricket,

Our orchestra throughout the night,

Resounding in the thicket!

(Solo)

Yonder doth the bagpipe come!

Its sack an airy bubble.

Schnick, schnick, schnack, with nasal hum,

Its notes it doth redouble.

EMBRYO SPIRIT

Spider's foot and midge's wing,

A toad in form and feature;

Together verses it can string,

Though scarce n living creature.

A LITTLE PAIR

Tiny step and lofty bound,

Through dew and exhalation;

Ye trip it deftly on the ground,

But gain no elevation.

INQUISITIVE TRAVELLER

Can I indeed believe my eyes—

Is't not mere masquerading—

What! Oberon in beauteous step

Among the groups parading!

ORTHODOX

No claws, no tail to whisk about,

To fright us at our revel;-

Yet like the gods of Greece, no doubt,

He too's a genuine devil.

NORTHERN ARTIST

These that I'm hitting off to-day

Are sketches unpretending;

Towards Italy without delay,

My steps I think of bending.

PURIST

Alas! ill-fortune leads me here,

Where riot still grows louder;

And 'mong the witches gather'd here

But two alone wear powder!

YOUNG WITCH

Your powder and your petticoat,

Suit hags, there's no gainsaying;

Hence I sit fearless on my goat,

My naked charms displaying.

MATRON

We're too well-bred to squabble here,

Or insult back to render;

But may you wither soon, my dear,

Although so young and tender.

LEADER OF THE BAND

Nose of fly and gnat's proboscis,

Throng not the naked beauty!

Frogs and crickets in the mosses,

Keep time and do your duty!

WEATHERCOCK (towards one side)

What charming company I view

Together here collected!

Gay bachelors, a hopeful crew.

And brides so unaffected!

WEATHERCOCK (towards the other side)

Unless indeed the yawning ground

Should open to receive them,

From this vile crew, with sudden bound,

To Hell I'd jump and leave them.

XENIEN

With small sharp shears, in insect guise

Behold us at your revel!

That we may tender, filial-wise,

Our homage to the devil.

HENNINGS

Look now at yonder eager crew,

How naively they're jesting!

That they have tender hearts and true,

They stoutly keep protesting!

MUSAGET

Oneself amid this witchery

How pleasantly one loses;

For witches easier are to me

To govern than the Muses!

CI-DEVANT GENIUS OF THE AGE

With proper folks when we appear,

No one can then surpass us!

Keep close, wide is the Blocksberg here

As Germany's Parnassus.

INQUISITIVE TRAVELLER

How name ye that stiff formal man,

Who strides with lofty paces—

He tracks the game where'er he can,

"He scents the Jesuits' traces."

CRANE

Where waters troubled are or clear,

To fish I am delighted;

Thus pious gentlemen appear

With devils here united.

WORLDLING

By pious people, it is true,

No medium is rejected;

Conventicles, and not a few,

On Blocksberg are erected.

DANCER

Another chorus now succeeds,

Far off the drums are beating.

Be still! The bitterns 'mong the reeds

Their one note are repeating.

DANCING MASTER

Each twirls about and never stops,

And as he can he fareth.

The crooked leaps, the clumsy hops,

Nor for appearance careth.

FIDDLER

To take each other's life, I trow,

Would cordially delight them!

As Orpheus' lyre the beasts, so now

The bagpipe doth unite them.

DOGMATIST

My views, in spite of doubt and sneer,

I hold with stout persistence,

Inferring from the devils here,

The evil one's existence.

IDEALIST

My every sense rules Phantasy

With sway quite too potential;

Sure I'm demented if the I

Alone is the essential.

REALIST

This entity's a dreadful bore,

And cannot choose but vex me;

The ground beneath me ne'er before

Thus totter'd to perplex me.

SUPERNATURALIST

Well pleased assembled here I view

Of spirits this profusion;

From devils, touching angels too,

I gather some conclusion.

SCEPTIC

The ignis fatuus they track out,

And think they're near the treasure,

Devil alliterates with doubt,

Here I abide with pleasure.

LEADER OF THE BAND

Frog and cricket in the mosses,-

Confound your gasconading!

Nose of fly and gnat's proboscis;-

Most tuneful serenading!

THE KNOWING ONES

Sans-souci, so this host we greet,

Their jovial humour showing;

There's now no walking on our feet,

So on our heads we're going.

THE AWKWARD ONES

In seasons past we snatch'd, 'tis true,

Some tit-bits by our cunning;

Our shoes, alas, are now danced through,

On our bare soles we're running.

WILL-O'-THE-WISPS

From marshy bogs we sprang to light,

Yet here behold us dancing;

The gayest gallants of the night,

In glitt'ring rows advancing.

SHOOTING STAR

With rapid motion from on high,

I shot in starry splendour;

Now prostrate on the grass I lie;-

Who aid will kindly render—

THE MASSIVE ONES

Room! wheel round! They're coming lo!

Down sink the bending grasses.

Though spirits, yet their limbs, we know,

Are huge substantial masses.

PUCK

Don't stamp so heavily, I pray;

Like elephants you're treading!

And 'mong the elves be Puck to-day,

The stoutest at the wedding!

ARIEL

If nature boon, or subtle sprite,

Endow your soul with pinions;-

Then follow to yon rosy height,

Through ether's calm dominions!

ORCHESTRA (pianissimo)

Drifting cloud and misty wreathes

Are fill'd with light elysian;

O'er reed and leaf the zephyr breathes-

So fades the fairy vision!

A GLOOMY DAY. A PLAIN

FAUST and MEPHISTOPHELES

FAUST

In misery! despairing! long wandering pitifully on the face of the

earth and now imprisoned! This gentle hapless creature, immured

in the dungeon as a malefactor and reserved for horrid tortures!

That it should come to this! To this!-Perfidious, worthless spirit,

and this thou hast concealed from me!-Stand! ay, stand! roll in

malicious rage thy fiendish eyes! Stand and brave me with thine

insupportable presence! Imprisoned! In hopeless misery! Delivered

over to the power of evil spirits and the judgment of unpitying

humanity I-And me, the while, thou wert lulling with tasteless

dissipations, concealing from me her growing anguish, and leaving

her to perish without help!

MEPHISTOPHELES

She is not the first.

FAUST

Hound! Execrable monster!-Back with him, oh thou infinite

spirit! back with the reptile into his dog's shape, in which it was his

wont to scamper before me at eventide, to roll before the feet of

the harmless wanderer, and to fasten on his shoulders when he fell!

Change him again into his favourite shape, that he may crouch on

his belly before me in the dust, whilst I spurn him with my foot,

the reprobate!-Not the first!-Woe! Woe! By no human soul is it

conceivable, that more than one human creature has ever sunk into

a depth of wretchedness like this, or that the first in her writhing

death-agony should not have atoned in the sight of all-pardoning

Heaven for the guilt of all the rest! The misery of this one pierces

me to the very marrow, and harrows up my soul; thou art grinning

calmly over the doom of thousands!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Now we are once again at our wit's end, just where the reason of

you mortals snaps! Why dost thou seek our fellowship, if thou

canst not go through with it— Wilt fly, and art not proof against

dizziness— Did we force ourselves on thee, or thou on us—

FAUST

Cease thus to gnash thy ravenous fangs at me! I loathe thee!-Great

and glorious spirit, thou who didst vouchsafe to reveal thyself unto

me, thou who dost know my very heart and soul, why hast thou

linked me with this base associate, who feeds on mischief and

revels in destruction—

MEPHISTOPHELES

Hast done—

FAUST

Save her!-or woe to thee! The direst of curses on thee for

thousands of years!

MEPHISTOPHELES

I cannot loose the bands of the avenger, nor withdraw his

bolts.-Save her!-Who was it plunged her into perdition— I or

thou—

(FAUST looks wildly around.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

Would'st grasp the thunder— Well for you, poor mortals, that 'tis

not yours to wield! To smite to atoms the being however innocent,

who obstructs his path, such is the tyrant's fashion of relieving

himself in difficulties!

FAUST

Convey me thither! She shall be free!

MEPHISTOPHELES

And the danger to which thou dust expose thyself— Know, the guilt

of blood, shed by thy hand, lies yet upon the town. Over the place

where fell the murdered one, avenging spirits hover and watch for

the returning murderer.

FAUST

This too from thee— The death and downfall of a world be on thee,

monster I Conduct me thither, I say, and set

her free!

MEPHISTOPHELES

I will conduct thee. And what I can do,-hear! Have I all power in

heaven and upon earth— I'll cloud the senses of the warder,-do

thou possess thyself of the keys and lead her forth with human

hand! I will keep watch! The magic steeds are waiting, I bear thee

off. Thus much is in my power.

FAUST

Tip and sway!

NIGHT. OPEN COUNTRY

FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES

(Rushing along on black horses)

FAUST

What weave they yonder round the Ravenstone—

MEPHISTOPHELES

I know not what they shape and brew.

FAUST

They're soaring, swooping, betiding, stooping.

MEPHISTOPHELES

A witches' pack.

FAUST

They charm, they strew.

MEPHISTOPHELES

On! On!

DUNGEON

FAUST

(with a bunch of keys and a lamp before a small iron door)

A fear unwonted o'er my spirit falls;

Man's concentrated woe o'erwhelms me here!

She dwells immur'd within these dripping walls;

Her only trespass a delusion dear!

Thou lingerest at the fatal door,

Thou dread'st to see her face once more—

On! While thou dalliest, draws her death-hour near.

(He seizes the lock. Singing within.)

My mother, the harlot,

She took me and slew!

My father, the scoundrel,

Hath eaten me too!

My sweet little sister

Hath all my bones laid,

Where soft breezes whisper

All in the cool shade!

Then became I a wood-bird, and sang on the spray,

Fly away! little bird, fly away! fly away!

FAUST (opening the lock)

Ah! she forebodes not that her lover's near,

The clanking chains, the rustling straw, to hear.

(He enters.)

MARGARET

(hiding her face in the bed of straw)

Woe! woe! they come! oh bitter 'tis to die!

FAUST (softly)

Hush! hush! be still! I come to set thee free!

MARGARET

(throwing herself at his feet)

If thou art human, feel my misery!

FAUST

Thou wilt awake the jailor with thy cry!

(He grasps the chains to unlock them.)

MARGARET (on her knees)

Who, headsman, unto thee this power

O'er me could give—

Thou com'st for me at midnight-hour.

Be merciful, and let me live!

Is morrow's dawn not time enough—

(She stands up.)

I'm still so young, so young-

And must so early die!

Fair was I too, and that was my undoing.

My love is now afar, he then was nigh;

Torn lies the garland, the fair blossoms strew'd.

Nay, seize me not with hand so rude!

Spare me! What harm have I e'er done to thee—

Oh let me not in vain implore!

I ne'er have seen thee in my life before!

FAUST

Can I endure this bitter agony—

MARGARET

I now am at thy mercy quite.

Let me my babe but suckle once again!

I fondled it the live-long night;

They took it from me but to give me pain,

And now, they say that I my child have slain.

Gladness I ne'er again shall know.

Then they sing songs about me,-'tis wicked of the throng-

An ancient ballad endeth so;

Who bade them thus apply the song—

FAUST

(throwing himself on the ground)

A lover at thy feet bends low,

To loose the bonds of wretchedness and woe.

MARGARET

(throws herself beside him)

Oh, let us kneel and move the saints by prayer!

Look! look! yon stairs below,

Under the threshold there,

Hell's flames are all aglow!

Beneath the floor,

With hideous noise,

The devils roar!

FAUST (aloud)

Gretchen! Gretchen!

MARGARET (listening)

That was my lov'd one's voice!

(She springs up, the chains fall off.)

Where is he— I heard him calling me.

Free am I! There's none shall hinder me.

To his neck will I fly,

On his bosom will lie!

Gretchen, he called!-

On yon threshold he stood;

Amidst all the howling of hell's fiery flood,

The scoff and the scorn of its devilish crew,

The tones of his voice, sweet and loving, I knew.

FAUST

'Tis I!

MARGARET

'Tis thou! O say so once again!

(embracing him.)

'Tis he! 'Tis he! where's now the torturing pain—

Where are the fetters— where the dungeon's gloom—

'Tis thou! To save me thou art come!

And I am sav'd!-

Already now the street I see

Where the first time I caught a glimpse of thee.

There too the pleasant garden shade,

Where I and Martha for thy coming stay'd.

FAUST

(endeavouring to lead her away,)

Come! come away!

MARGARET

Oh do not haste!

I love to linger where thou stayest. (caressing him.)

FAUST

Ah haste! For if thou still delayest,

Our lingering we shall both deplore.

MARGARET

How, dearest— canst thou kiss no more!

So short a time away from me, and yet,

To kiss thou couldst so soon forget!

Why on thy neck so anxious do I feel-

When formerly a perfect heaven of bliss

From thy dear looks and words would o'er me steal—

As thou wouldst stifle me thou then didst kiss!-

Kiss me!

Or I'll kiss thee! (She embraces him.)

Woe! woe! Thy lips are cold,- Are dumb!

Thy love where hast thou left—

Who bath me of thy love bereft—

(She turns away from him.)

FAUST

Come! Follow me, my dearest love, be bold!

I'll cherish thee with ardour thousand-fold;

I but entreat thee now to follow me!

MARGARET

(turning towards him)

And art thou he— and art thou really he—

FAUST

'Tis I! O come!

MARGARET

Thou wilt strike off my chain,

And thou wilt take me to thine arms again.

How comes it that thou dost not shrink from me—-

And dost thou know, love, whom thou wouldst set free—

FAUST

Come! come! already night begins to wane.

MARGARET

I sent my mother to her grave,

I drown'd my child beneath the wave.

Was it not given to thee and me-thee too—

'Tis thou thyself! I scarce believe it yet.

Give me thy hand! It is no dream! 'Tis true!

Thine own dear hand!-But how is this— 'Tis wet—

Quick, wipe it off! Meseems that yet

There's blood thereon.

Ah God! what hast thou done—

Put up thy sword, I beg of thee!

FAUST

Oh, dearest, let the past forgotten be!

Death is in every word.

MARGARET

No, thou must linger here in sorrow!

The graves I will describe to thee,

And thou to them must see

To-morrow:

The best place give to my mother,

Close at her side my brother,

Me at some distance lay-

But not too far away!

And the little one place on my right breast.

Nobody else will near me lie!

To nestle beside thee so lovingly,

That was a rapture, gracious and sweet!

A rapture I never again shall prove;

Methinks I would force myself on thee, love,

And thou dost spurn me, and back retreat-

Yet 'tis thyself, thy fond kind looks I see.

FAUST

If thou dost feel 'tis I, then come with me!

MARGARET

What, there— without—

FAUST

Yes, forth in the free air.

MARGARET

Ay, if the grave's without,-

If death lurk there!

Hence to the everlasting resting-place,

And not one step beyond!-

Thou'rt leaving me—

Oh Henry! would that I could go with thee!

FAUST

Thou canst! But will it!

Open stands the door.

MARGARET

I dare not go! I've naught to hope for more.

What boots it to escape— They lurk for me!

'Tis wretched to beg, as I must do,

And with an evil conscience thereto!

'Tis wretched, in foreign lands to stray.

And me they will catch, do what I may.

FAUST

With thee will I abide.

MARGARET

Quick! Quick!

Save thy poor child!

Keep to the path

The brook along,

Over the bridge

To the wood beyond,

To the left, where the plank is,

In the pond.

Seize it at once!

It fain would rise,

It struggles still!

Save it. Oh save!

FAUST

Dear Gretchen, more collected be!

One little step, and thou art free!

MARGARET

Were we but only past the hill!

There sits my mother upon a stone-

My brain, alas, is cold with dread!-

There sits my mother upon a stone,

And to and fro she shakes her head;

She winks not, she nods not, her head it droops sore;

She slept so long, she waked no more;

She slept, that we might taste of bliss:

Ah! those were happy times, I wis!

FAUST

Since here avails nor argument nor prayer,

Thee hence by force I needs must bear.

MARGARET

Loose me! I will not suffer violence!

With murderous hand hold not so fast!

I have done all to please thee in the past!

FAUST

Day dawns! My love! My love!

MARGARET

Yes! day draws near.

The day of judgment too will soon appear!

It should have been my bridal! No one tell,

That thy poor Gretchen thou hast known too well.

Woe to my garland!

Its bloom is o'er!

Though not at the dance-

We shall meet once more.

The crowd doth gather, in silence it rolls;

The squares, the streets,

Scarce hold the throng.

The staff is broken,-the death-bell tolls,-

They bind and seize me!

I'm hurried along,

To the seat of blood already I'm bound!

Quivers each neck as the naked steel

Quivers on mine the blow to deal-

The silence of the grave now broods around!

FAUST

Would I had never been born!

MEPHISTOPHELES (appears without)

Up! or you're lost.

Vain hesitation! Babbling, quaking!

My steeds are shivering,

Morn is breaking.

MARGARET

What from the floor ascendeth like a ghost—

'Tis he! 'Tis he! Him from my presence chase!

What would he in this holy place—

It is for me he cometh!

FAUST

Thou shalt live!

MARGARET

Judgment of God! To thee my soul I give!

MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST)

Come, come! With her I'll else abandon thee!

MARGARET

Father, I'm thine! Do thou deliver me!

Ye angels! Ye angelic hosts! descend,

Encamp around to guard me and defend!-

Henry! I shudder now to look on thee!

MEPHISTOPHELES

She now is judged!

VOICES (from above)

Is saved!

MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST)

Come thou with me!

(Vanishes with FAUST)

VOICE (from within, dying away)

Henry! Henry!

The Tragical History Of Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe

Introductory Note

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, the author of the earliest dramatic version of the Faust legend, was the son of a shoemaker in Canterbury, where he was born in February, 1564, some two months before Shakespeare. After graduating as M.A. from the University of Cambridge in 1587, he seems to have settled in London; and that same year is generally accepted as the latest date for the production of his tragedy of “Tamburlaine,” the play which is regarded as having established blank verse as the standard meter of the English Drama. “Doctor Faustus” probably came next in 1588, followed by “The Jew of Malta” and “Edward II.” Marlowe had a share in the production of several other plays, wrote the first two sestiads of “Hero and Leander,” and made translations from Ovid and Lucan. He met his death in a tavern brawl, June 1, 1593.

Of Marlowe personally little is known. The common accounts of his atheistical beliefs and dissipated life are probably exaggerated, recent researches having given ground for believing that his heterodoxy may have amounted to little more than a form of Unitarianism. Some of the attacks on his character are based on the evidence of witnesses whose reputation will not bear investigation, while the character of some of his friends and their manner of speaking of him are of weight on the other side.

The most striking feature of Marlowe’s dramas is the concentration of interest on an impressive central figure dominated by a single passion, the thirst for the unattainable. In “Tamburlaine” this takes the form of universal power; in “The Jew of Malta,” infinite riches; in “Doctor Faustus” universal knowledge. The aspirations of these dominant personalities are uttered in sonorous blank verse, and in a rhetoric which at times rises to the sublime, at times descends to rant. “Doctor Faustus,” though disfigured by poor comic scenes for which Marlowe is probably not responsible, and though lacking unity of structure, yet presents the career and fate of the hero with great power, and contains in the speech to Helen of Troy and in the dying utterance of Faustus two of the most superb passages of poetry in the English language.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

THE POPE.

THE EMPEROR OF GERMANY.

RAYMOND, king of Hungary.

DUKE OF SAXONY.

BRUNO.

DUKE OF VANHOLT.

MARTINO,›

FREDERICK,› gentlemen.

BENVOLIO,›

FAUSTUS.

VALDES,› friends to FAUSTUS.

CORNELIUS,›

WAGNER, servant to FAUSTUS.

Clown.

ROBIN.

DICK.

Vintner.

Horse-courser.

Carter.

An Old Man.

Scholars, Cardinals, ARCHBISHOP OF RHEIMS, Bishops, Monks,

Friars, Soldiers, and Attendants.

DUCHESS OF VANHOLT.

Hostess.

LUCIFER.

BELZEBUB.

MEPHISTOPHILIS.

Good Angel.

Evil Angel.

The Seven Deadly Sins.

Devils.

Spirits in the shapes of ALEXANDER THE GREAT, of his Paramour,

of DARIUS, and of HELEN.

Chorus.

The Tragical History Of Doctor Faustus

Enter CHORUS.

CHORUS. Not marching in the fields of Thrasymene,

Where Mars did mate the warlike Carthagens;‹1›

Nor sporting in the dalliance of love,

In courts of kings where state is overturn'd;

Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds,

Intends our Muse to vaunt her‹2› heavenly verse:

Only this, gentles,-we must now perform

The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad:

And now to patient judgments we appeal,

And speak for Faustus in his infancy.

Now is he born of parents base of stock,

In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes:

At riper years, to Wittenberg he went,

Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up.

So much he profits in divinity,

That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name,

Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute

In th' heavenly matters of theology;

Till swoln with cunning, of‹3› a self-conceit,

His waxen wings did mount above his reach,

And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow;

For, falling to a devilish exercise,

And glutted now with learning's golden gifts,

He surfeits upon‹4› cursed necromancy;

Nothing so sweet as magic is to him,

Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss:

And this the man that in his study sits.

[Exit.]

FAUSTUS discovered in his study.

FAUSTUS. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin

To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess:

Having commenc'd, be a divine in show,

Yet level at the end of every art,

And live and die in Aristotle's works.

Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ravish'd me!

Bene disserere est finis logices.

Is, to dispute well, logic's chiefest end—

Affords this art no greater miracle—

Then read no more; thou hast attain'd that end:

A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit:

Bid Economy farewell, and Galen come:

Be a physician, Faustus; heap up gold,

And be eterniz'd for some wondrous cure:

Summum bonum medicinoe sanitas,

The end of physic is our body's health.

Why, Faustus, hast thou not attain'd that end—

Are not thy bills hung up as monuments,

Whereby whole cities have escap'd the plague,

And thousand‹5› desperate maladies been cur'd—

Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man.

Couldst thou make men to live eternally,

Or, being dead, raise them‹6› to life again,

Then this profession were to be esteem'd.

Physic, farewell! Where is Justinian—

[Reads.]

Si una eademque res legatur‹7› duobus, alter rem,

alter valorem rei, &c.

A petty‹8› case of paltry legacies!

[Reads.]

Exhoereditare filium non potest pater, nisi, &c.‹9›

Such is the subject of the institute,

And universal body of the law:

This study fits a mercenary drudge,

Who aims at nothing but external trash;

Too servile and illiberal for me.

When all is done, divinity is best:

Jerome's Bible, Faustus; view it well.

[Reads.]

Stipendium peccati mors est.

Ha!

Stipendium, &c.

The reward of sin is death: that's hard.

[Reads.]

Si peccasse negamus, fallimur, et nulla est in nobis veritas;

If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and there

is no truth in us. Why, then, belike we must sin, and so

consequently die:

Ay, we must die an everlasting death.

What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera,

What will be, shall be— Divinity, adieu!

These metaphysics of magicians,

And necromantic books are heavenly;

Lines, circles, scenes, letters, and characters;‹10›

Ay, these are those that Faustus most desires.

O, what a world of profit and delight,

Of power, of honour, and omnipotence,

Is promis'd to the studious artizan!

All things that move between the quiet poles

Shall be at my command: emperors and kings

Are but obeyed in their several provinces;

But his dominion that exceeds in this,

Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man;

A sound magician is a demigod:

Here tire, my brains, to gain‹11› a deity.

Enter WAGNER.

Wagner, commend me to my dearest friends,

The German Valdes and Cornelius;

Request them earnestly to visit me.

WAGNER. I will, sir.

[Exit.]

FAUSTUS. Their conference will be a greater help to me

Than all my labours, plod I ne'er so fast.

Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.

GOOD ANGEL. O, Faustus, lay that damned book aside,

And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul,

And heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head!

Read, read the Scriptures:-that is blasphemy.

EVIL ANGEL. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art

Wherein all Nature's treasure is contain'd:

Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky,

Lord and commander of these‹12› elements.

[Exeunt ANGELS.]

FAUSTUS. How am I glutted with conceit of this!

Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please,

Resolve me of all ambiguities,

Perform what desperate enterprise‹13› I will—

I'll have them fly to India for gold,

Ransack the ocean for orient pearl,

And search all corners of the new-found world

For pleasant fruits and princely delicates;

I'll have them read me strange philosophy,

And tell the secrets of all foreign kings;

I'll have them wall all Germany with brass,

And make swift Rhine circle fair‹14› Wertenberg;

I'll have them fill the public schools with silk,‹15›

Wherewith the students shall be bravely clad;

I'll levy soldiers with the coin they bring,

And chase the Prince of Parma from our land,

And reign sole king of all the provinces;

Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war,

Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp-bridge,

I'll make my servile spirits to invent.

Enter VALDES and CORNELIUS.

Come, German Valdes, and Cornelius,

And make me blest‹16› with your sage conference.

Valdes, sweet Valdes, and Cornelius,

Know that your words have won me at the last

To practice magic and concealed arts.

Philosophy is odious and obscure;

Both law and physic are for petty wits:

'Tis magic, magic that hath ravish'd me.

Then, gentle friends, aid me in this attempt;

And I, that have with subtle syllogisms

Gravell'd the pastors of the German church,

And made the flowering pride of Wittenberg

Swarm‹17› to my problems, as th' infernal spirits

On sweet Musaeus when he came to hell,

Will be as cunning as Agrippa was,

Whose shadow made all Europe honour him.

VALDES. Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our experience,

Shall make all nations to‹18› canonize us.

As Indian Moors obey their Spanish lords,

So shall the spirits of every element

Be always serviceable to us three;

Like lions shall they guard us when we please;

Like Almain rutters with their horsemen's staves,

Or Lapland giants, trotting by our sides;

Sometimes like women, or unwedded maids,

Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows

Than have‹19› the white breasts of the queen of love:

›From Venice shall they‹20› drag huge‹21› argosies,

And from America the golden fleece

That yearly stuffs‹22› old Philip's treasury;

If learned Faustus will be resolute.

FAUSTUS. Valdes, as resolute am I in this

As thou to live: therefore object it not.

CORNELIUS. The miracles that magic will perform

Will make thee vow to study nothing else.

He that is grounded in astrology,

Enrich'd with tongues, well seen in minerals,

Hath all the principles magic doth require:

Then doubt not, Faustus, but to be renowm'd,‹23›

And more frequented for this mystery

Than heretofore the Delphian oracle.

The spirits tell me they can dry the sea,

And fetch the treasure of all foreign wrecks,

Yea, all the wealth that our forefathers hid

Within the massy entrails of the earth:

Then tell me, Faustus, what shall we three want—

FAUSTUS. Nothing, Cornelius. O, this cheers my soul!

Come, shew me some demonstrations magical,

That I may conjure in some bushy grove,

And have these joys in full possession.

VALDES. Then haste thee to some solitary grove,

And bear wise Bacon's and Albertus'‹24› works,

The Hebrew Psalter, and New Testament;

And whatsoever else is requisite

We will inform thee ere our conference cease.

CORNELIUS. Valdes, first let him know the words of art;

And then, all other ceremonies learn'd,

Faustus may try his cunning by himself.

VALDES. First I'll instruct thee in the rudiments,

And then wilt thou be perfecter than I.

FAUSTUS. Then come and dine with me, and, after meat,

We'll canvass every quiddity thereof;

For, ere I sleep, I'll try what I can do:

This night I'll conjure, though I die therefore.

[Exeunt.]

Enter two SCHOLARS.

FIRST SCHOLAR. I wonder what's become of Faustus, that was wont

to make our schools ring with sic probo.

SECOND SCHOLAR. That shall we presently know; here comes his boy.

Enter WAGNER.

FIRST SCHOLAR. How now, sirrah! where's thy master—

WAGNER. God in heaven knows.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Why, dost not thou know, then—

WAGNER. Yes, I know; but that follows not.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Go to, sirrah! leave your jesting, and tell us

where he is.

WAGNER. That follows not by force of argument, which you, being

licentiates, should stand upon: therefore acknowledge your

error, and be attentive.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Then you will not tell us—

WAGNER. You are deceived, for I will tell you: yet, if you were

not dunces, you would never ask me such a question; for is he not

corpus naturale— and is not that mobile— then wherefore should

you ask me such a question— But that I am by nature phlegmatic,

slow to wrath, and prone to lechery (to love, I would say), it

were not for you to come within forty foot of the place of

execution, although I do not doubt but to see you both hanged

the next sessions. Thus having triumphed over you, I will set

my countenance like a precisian, and begin to speak thus:-

Truly, my dear brethren, my master is within at dinner, with

Valdes and Cornelius, as this wine, if it could speak, would

inform your worships: and so, the Lord bless you, preserve you,

and keep you, my dear brethren!

[Exit.]

FIRST SCHOLAR. O Faustus!

Then I fear that which I have long suspected,

That thou art fall'n into that‹25› damned art

For which they two are infamous through the world.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Were he a stranger, not allied to me,

The danger of his soul would make me mourn.

But, come, let us go and inform the Rector:

It may be his grave counsel may reclaim him.‹26›

FIRST SCHOLAR. I fear me nothing will reclaim him now.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet let us see what we can do.

[Exeunt.]

Enter FAUSTUS.‹27›

FAUSTUS. Now that the gloomy shadow of the night,

Longing to view Orion's drizzling look,

Leaps from th' antartic world unto the sky,

And dims the welkin with her‹28› pitchy breath,

Faustus, begin thine incantations,

And try if devils will obey thy hest,

Seeing thou hast pray'd and sacrific'd to them.

Within this circle is Jehovah's name,

Forward and backward anagrammatiz'd,

Th' abbreviated names of holy saints,

Figures of every adjunct to the heavens,

And characters of signs and erring‹29› stars,

By which the spirits are enforc'd to rise:

Then fear not, Faustus, to be resolute,

And try the utmost magic can perform.

[Thunder.]

Sint mihi dii Acherontis propitii! Valeat numen triplex Jehovoe!

Ignei, aerii, aquatani spiritus, salvete! Orientis princeps

Belzebub, inferni ardentis monarcha, et Demogorgon, propitiamus

vos, ut appareat et surgat Mephistophilis Dragon, quod tumeraris:‹30›

per Jehovam, Gehennam, et consecratam aquam quam nunc spargo,

signumque crucis quod nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc

surgat nobis dicatus‹31› Mephistophilis!

Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.

I charge thee to return, and change thy shape;

Thou art too ugly to attend on me:

Go, and return an old Franciscan friar;

That holy shape becomes a devil best.

[Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.]

I see there's virtue in my heavenly words.

Who would not be proficient in this art—

How pliant is this Mephistophilis,

Full of obedience and humility!

Such is the force of magic and my spells.

Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS like a Franciscan friar.

MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, what wouldst thou have me do—

FAUSTUS. I charge thee wait upon me whilst I live,

To do whatever Faustus shall command,

Be it to make the moon drop from her sphere,

Or the ocean to overwhelm the world.

MEPHIST. I am a servant to great Lucifer,

And may not follow thee without his leave:

No more than he commands must we perform.

FAUSTUS. Did not he charge thee to appear to me—

MEPHIST. No, I came hither‹32› of mine own accord.

FAUSTUS. Did not my conjuring speeches‹33› raise thee— speak!

MEPHIST. That was the cause, but yet per accidens;‹34›

For, when we hear one rack the name of God,

Abjure the Scriptures and his Saviour Christ,

We fly, in hope to get his glorious soul;

Nor will we come, unless he use such means

Whereby he is in danger to be damn'd.

Therefore the shortest cut for conjuring

Is stoutly to abjure all godliness,

And pray devoutly to the prince of hell.

FAUSTUS. So Faustus hath

Already done; and holds this principle,

There is no chief but only Belzebub;

To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself.

This word "damnation" terrifies not me,

For I confound hell in Elysium:

My ghost be with the old philosophers!

But, leaving these vain trifles of men's souls,

Tell me what is that Lucifer thy lord—

MEPHIST. Arch-regent and commander of all spirits.

FAUSTUS. Was not that Lucifer an angel once—

MEPHIST. Yes, Faustus, and most dearly lov'd of God.

FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that he is prince of devils—

MEPHIST. O, by aspiring pride and insolence;

For which God threw him from the face of heaven.

FAUSTUS. And what are you that live with Lucifer—

MEPHIST. Unhappy spirits that fell‹35› with Lucifer,

Conspir'd against our God with Lucifer,

And are for ever damn'd with Lucifer.

FAUSTUS. Where are you damn'd—

MEPHIST. In hell.

FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that thou art out of hell—

MEPHIST. Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it:

Think'st thou that I, that saw the face of God,

And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,

Am not tormented with ten thousand hells,

In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss—

O, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands,

Which strike‹36› a terror to my fainting soul!

FAUSTUS. What, is great Mephistophilis so passionate

For being deprived of the joys of heaven—

Learn thou of Faustus manly fortitude,

And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess.

Go bear these tidings to great Lucifer:

Seeing Faustus hath incurr'd eternal death

By desperate thoughts against Jove's deity,

Say, he surrenders up to him his soul,

So he will spare him four and twenty years,

Letting him live in all voluptuousness;

Having thee ever to attend on me,

To give me whatsoever I shall ask,

To tell me whatsoever I demand,

To slay mine enemies, and to aid my friends,

And always be obedient to my will.

Go, and return to mighty Lucifer,

And meet me in my study at midnight,

And then resolve me of thy master's mind.

MEPHIST. I will, Faustus.

[Exit.]

FAUSTUS. Had I as many souls as there be stars,

I'd give them all for Mephistophilis.

By him I'll be great emperor of the world,

And make a bridge thorough‹37› the moving air,

To pass the ocean with a band of men;

I'll join the hills that bind the Afric shore,

And make that country continent to Spain,

And both contributary to my crown:

The Emperor shall not live but by my leave,

Nor any potentate of Germany.

Now that I have obtain'd what I desir'd,

I'll live in speculation of this art,

Till Mephistophilis return again.

[Exit.]

Enter WAGNER and CLOWN.

WAGNER. Come hither, sirrah boy.

CLOWN. Boy! O, disgrace to my person! zounds, boy in your face!

You have seen many boys with beards, I am sure.

WAGNER. Sirrah,‹38› hast thou no comings in—

CLOWN. Yes, and goings out too, you may see, sir.

WAGNER. Alas, poor slave! see how poverty jests in his nakedness!

I know the villain's out of service, and so hungry, that I know

he would give his soul to the devil for a shoulder of mutton,

though it were blood-raw.

CLOWN. Not so neither: I had need to have it well roasted, and

good sauce to it, if I pay so dear, I can tell you.

WAGNER. Sirrah, wilt thou be my man, and wait on me, and I will

make thee go like Qui mihi discipulus—

CLOWN. What, in verse—

WAGNER. No, slave; in beaten silk and staves-acre.

CLOWN. Staves-acre! that's good to kill vermin: then, belike,

if I serve you, I shall be lousy.

WAGNER. Why, so thou shalt be, whether thou dost it or no; for,

sirrah, if thou dost not presently bind thyself to me for seven

years, I'll turn all the lice about thee into familiars, and make

them tear thee in pieces.

CLOWN. Nay, sir, you may save‹39› yourself a labour, for they

are as familiar with me as if they paid for their meat and drink,

I can tell you.

WAGNER. Well, sirrah, leave your jesting, and take these guilders.

[Gives money.]

CLOWN. Yes, marry, sir; and I thank you too.

WAGNER. So, now thou art to be at an hour's warning, whensoever

and wheresoever the devil shall fetch thee.

CLOWN. Here, take your guilders again;‹40› I'll none of 'em.

WAGNER. Not I; thou art pressed: prepare thyself, or‹41› I will

presently raise up two devils to carry thee away.-Banio! Belcher!

CLOWN. Belcher! an Belcher come here, I'll belch him: I am not

afraid of a devil.

Enter two DEVILS.

WAGNER. How now, sir! will you serve me now—

CLOWN. Ay, good Wagner; take away the devil[s], then.

WAGNER. Spirits, away!

[Exeunt DEVILS.]

Now, sirrah, follow me.

CLOWN. I will, sir: but hark you, master; will you teach me this

conjuring occupation—

WAGNER. Ay, sirrah, I'll teach thee to turn thyself to a dog,

or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat, or any thing.

CLOWN. A dog, or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat!

O, brave, Wagner!

WAGNER. Villain, call me Master Wagner, and see that you walk

attentively, and let your right eye be always diametrally fixed

upon my left heel, that thou mayst quasi vestigiis nostris‹42›

insistere.

CLOWN. Well, sir, I warrant you.

[Exeunt.]

FAUSTUS discovered in his study.

FAUSTUS. Now, Faustus,

Must thou needs be damn'd, canst thou not be sav'd.

What boots it, then, to think on God or heaven—

Away with such vain fancies, and despair;

Despair in God, and trust in Belzebub:

Now, go not backward,‹43› Faustus; be resolute:

Why‹44› waver'st thou— O, something soundeth in mine ear,

"Abjure this magic, turn to God again!"

Why, he loves thee not;

The god thou serv'st is thine own appetite,

Wherein is fix'd the love of Belzebub:

To him I'll build an altar and a church,

And offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes.

Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.

EVIL ANGEL. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous‹45› art.

GOOD ANGEL. Sweet Faustus, leave that execrable art.

FAUSTUS. Contrition, prayer, repentance-what of‹46› these—

GOOD ANGEL. O, they are means to bring thee unto heaven!

EVIL ANGEL. Rather illusions, fruits of lunacy,

That make men‹47› foolish that do use them most.

GOOD ANGEL. Sweet Faustus, think of heaven and heavenly things.

EVIL ANGEL. No, Faustus; think of honour and of wealth.

[Exeunt ANGELS.]

FAUSTUS. Wealth!

Why, the signiory of Embden shall be mine.

When Mephistophilis shall stand by me,

What power can hurt me— Faustus, thou art safe:

Cast no more doubts.-Mephistophilis, come,

And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer;-

Is't not midnight—-come Mephistophilis,

And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer;-

Is't not midnight—-come Mephistophilis,

Veni, veni, Mephistophile!‹48›

Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.

Now tell me what saith Lucifer, thy lord—

MEPHIST. That I shall wait on Faustus whilst he lives,

So he will buy my service with his soul.

FAUSTUS. Already Faustus hath hazarded that for thee.

MEPHIST. But now thou must bequeath it solemnly,

And write a deed of gift with thine own blood;

For that security craves Lucifer.

If thou deny it, I must back to hell.

FAUSTUS. Stay, Mephistophilis, and tell me, what good will my

soul do thy lord—

MEPHIST. Enlarge his kingdom.

FAUSTUS. Is that the reason why he tempts us thus—

MEPHIST. Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.

FAUSTUS. Why, have you any pain that torture others—

MEPHIST. As great as have the human souls of men.

But, tell me, Faustus, shall I have thy soul—

And I will be thy slave, and wait on thee,

And give thee more than thou hast wit to ask.

FAUSTUS. Ay, Mephistophilis, I'll give it thee.‹49›

MEPHIST. Then, Faustus, stab thine‹50› arm courageously,

And bind thy soul, that at some certain day

Great Lucifer may claim it as his own;

And‹51› then be thou as great as Lucifer.

FAUSTUS. [Stabbing his arm] Lo, Mephistophilis, for love of thee,

Faustus hath cut his arm, and with his proper blood

Assures his soul to be great Lucifer's,

Chief lord and regent of perpetual night!

View here this blood that trickles from mine arm,

And let it be propitious for my‹52› wish.

MEPHIST. But, Faustus,

Write it in manner of a deed of gift.

FAUSTUS. [Writing] Ay, so I do. But, Mephistophilis,

My blood congeals, and I can write no more.

MEPHIST. I'll fetch thee fire to dissolve it straight.

[Exit.]

FAUSTUS. What might the staying of my blood portend—

Is it‹53› unwilling I should write this bill—

Why streams it not, that I may write afresh—

FAUSTUS GIVES TO THEE HIS SOUL: O, there it stay'd!

Why shouldst thou not— is not thy soul thine own—

Then write again, FAUSTUS GIVES TO THEE HIS SOUL.‹54›

Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with the chafer of fire.

MEPHIST. See, Faustus, here is fire; set it on.

FAUSTUS. So, now the blood begins to clear again;

Now will I make an‹55› end immediately.

[Writes.]

MEPHIST. What will not I do to obtain his soul—

[Aside.]

FAUSTUS. Consummatum est; this bill is ended,

And Faustus hath bequeath'd his soul to Lucifer.

But what is this inscription on mine arm—

Homo, fuge: whither should‹56› I fly—

If unto God,‹57› he'll throw me down to hell.

My senses are deceiv'd; here's nothing writ:-

O, yes, I see it plain; even here is writ,

Homo, fuge: yet shall not Faustus fly.

MEPHIST. I'll fetch him somewhat to delight his mind.

[Aside, and then exit.]

Enter DEVILS, giving crowns and rich apparel to FAUSTUS.

They dance, and then depart.

Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.

FAUSTUS. What means this show— speak, Mephistophilis.

MEPHIST. Nothing, Faustus, but to delight thy mind,

And let thee see what magic can perform.

FAUSTUS. But may I raise such spirits when I please—

MEPHIST. Ay, Faustus, and do greater things than these.

FAUSTUS. Then, Mephistophilis, receive this scroll,‹58›

A deed of gift of body and of soul:

But yet conditionally that thou perform

All covenants and articles between us both!

MEPHIST. Faustus, I swear by hell and Lucifer

To effect all promises between us both!

FAUSTUS. Then hear me read it, Mephistophilis.

[Reads.]

ON THESE CONDITIONS FOLLOWING. FIRST, THAT FAUSTUS MAY BE A

SPIRIT IN FORM AND SUBSTANCE. SECONDLY, THAT MEPHISTOPHILIS

SHALL BE HIS SERVANT, AND BE BY HIM COMMANDED. THIRDLY, THAT

MEPHISTOPHILIS SHALL DO FOR HIM, AND BRING HIM WHATSOEVER HE

DESIRES.‹59› FOURTHLY, THAT HE SHALL BE IN HIS CHAMBER OR HOUSE

INVISIBLE. LASTLY, THAT HE SHALL APPEAR TO THE SAID JOHN FAUSTUS,

AT ALL TIMES, IN WHAT SHAPE AND FORM SOEVER HE PLEASE. I, JOHN

FAUSTUS, OF WITTENBERG, DOCTOR, BY THESE PRESENTS, DO GIVE BOTH

BODY AND SOUL TO LUCIFER PRINCE OF THE EAST, AND HIS MINISTER

MEPHISTOPHILIS; AND FURTHERMORE GRANT UNTO THEM, THAT, FOUR-AND-

TWENTY YEARS BEING EXPIRED, AND THESE ARTICLES ABOVE-WRITTEN

BEING INVIOLATE, FULL POWER TO FETCH OR CARRY THE SAID JOHN FAUSTUS,

BODY AND SOUL, FLESH AND‹60› BLOOD, INTO THEIR HABITATION WHERESOEVER.

BY ME, JOHN FAUSTUS.

MEPHIST. Speak, Faustus, do you deliver this as your deed—

FAUSTUS. Ay, take it, and the devil give thee good of it!

MEPHIST. So, now, Faustus, ask me what thou wilt.

FAUSTUS. First I will question with‹61› thee about hell.

Tell me, where is the‹62› place that men call hell—

MEPHIST. Under the heavens.

FAUSTUS. Ay, so are all things else; but whereabouts—

MEPHIST. Within the bowels of these elements,

Where we are tortur'd and remain for ever:

Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd

In one self-place; but where we are is hell,

And where hell is, there must we ever be:

And, to be short, when all the world dissolves,

And every creature shall be purified,

All places shall be hell that are‹63› not heaven.

FAUSTUS. I think hell's a fable.‹64›

MEPHIST. Ay, think so still, till experience change thy mind.

FAUSTUS. Why, dost thou think that Faustus shall be damn'd—

MEPHIST. Ay, of necessity, for here's the scroll

In which thou hast given thy soul to Lucifer.

FAUSTUS. Ay, and body too; and what of that—

Think'st thou that Faustus is so fond to imagine

That, after this life, there is any pain—

No, these are trifles and mere old wives' tales.

MEPHIST. But I am an instance to prove the contrary,

For I tell thee I am damn'd and now in hell.

FAUSTUS. Nay, an this be hell, I'll willingly be damn'd:

What! sleeping, eating, walking, and disputing!

But, leaving this, let me have a wife,

The fairest maid in Germany;

For I am wanton and lascivious,

And cannot live without a wife.

MEPHIST. Well, Faustus, thou shalt have a wife.

[MEPHISTOPHILIS fetches in a WOMAN-DEVIL.]

FAUSTUS. What sight is this—

MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, wilt thou have a wife—

FAUSTUS. Here's a hot whore, indeed: no, I'll no wife.

MEPHIST. Marriage is but a ceremonial toy,

And, if thou lov'st me, think no more of it.

I'll cull thee out the fairest courtezans,

And bring them every morning to thy bed:

She whom thine‹65› eye shall like, thy‹66› heart shall have,

Were she as chaste as was‹67› Penelope,

As wise as Saba, or as beautiful

As was bright Lucifer before his fall.

Here, take this book, peruse it well:

The iterating of these lines brings gold;

The framing of this circle on the ground

Brings thunder, whirlwinds, storm, and lightning;

Pronounce this thrice devoutly to thyself,

And men in harness‹68› shall appear to thee,

Ready to execute what thou command'st.

FAUSTUS. Thanks, Mephistophilis, for this sweet book:

This will I keep as chary as my life.

[Exeunt.]

Enter FAUSTUS, in his study, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

FAUSTUS. When I behold the heavens,‹69› then I repent,

And curse thee, wicked Mephistophilis,

Because thou hast depriv'd me of those joys.

MEPHIST. 'Twas thine‹70› own seeking, Faustus; thank thyself.

But, think'st thou heaven is‹71› such a glorious thing—

I tell thee, Faustus, it is not half so fair

As thou, or any man that breathes‹72› on earth.

FAUSTUS. How prov'st thou that—

MEPHIST. 'Twas made for man; then he's more excellent.

FAUSTUS. If heaven was made for man, 'twas made for me:

I will renounce this magic and repent.

Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.

GOOD ANGEL. Faustus, repent; yet God will pity thee.

EVIL ANGEL. Thou art a spirit; God cannot pity thee.

FAUSTUS. Who buzzeth in mine ears‹73› I am a spirit—

Be I a devil, yet God may pity me;

Yea, God will pity me, if I repent.

EVIL ANGEL. Ay, but Faustus never shall repent.

[Exeunt ANGELS.]

FAUSTUS. My heart is harden'd, I cannot repent;

Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven:

Swords, poisons, halters, and envenom'd steel

Are laid before me to despatch myself;

And long ere this I‹74› should have done the deed,

Had not sweet pleasure conquer'd deep despair.

Have not I made blind Homer sing to me

Of Alexander's love and Oenon's death—

And hath not he, that built the walls of Thebes

With ravishing sound of his melodious harp,

Made music with my Mephistophilis—

Why should I die, then, or basely despair—

I am resolv'd; Faustus shall not repent.-

Come, Mephistophilis, let us dispute again,

And reason of divine astrology.

Speak, are there many spheres above the moon—

Are all celestial bodies but one globe,

As is the substance of this centric earth—

MEPHIST. As are the elements, such are the heavens,

Even from the moon unto th' empyreal orb,

Mutually folded in each other's spheres,

And jointly move upon one axletree,

Whose termine‹75› is term'd the world's wide pole;

Nor are the names of Saturn, Mars, or Jupiter

Feign'd, but are erring‹76› stars.

FAUSTUS. But have they all one motion, both situ et tempore—

MEPHIST. All move from east to west in four-and-twenty

hours upon the poles of the world; but differ in their motions

upon the poles of the zodiac.

FAUSTUS. These slender questions Wagner can decide:

Hath Mephistophilis no greater skill—

Who knows not the double motion‹77› of the planets—

That the first is finish'd in a natural day;

The second thus; Saturn in thirty years; Jupiter in twelve;

Mars in four; the Sun, Venus, and Mercury in a year; the Moon

in twenty-eight days. These are freshmen's questions. But

tell me, hath every sphere a dominion or intelligentia—

MEPHIST. Ay.

FAUSTUS. How many heavens or spheres are there—

MEPHIST. Nine; the seven planets, the firmament, and the empyreal

heaven.

FAUSTUS. But is there not coelum igneum et crystallinum—

MEPHIST. No, Faustus, they be but fables.

FAUSTUS. Resolve me, then, in this one question; why are not

conjunctions, oppositions, aspects, eclipses, all at one time,

but in some years we have more, in some less—

MEPHIST. Per inoequalem motum respectu totius.

FAUSTUS. Well, I am answered. Now tell me who made the world—

MEPHIST. I will not.

FAUSTUS. Sweet Mephistophilis, tell me.

MEPHIST. Move me not, Faustus.

FAUSTUS. Villain, have I not bound thee to tell me any thing—

MEPHIST. Ay,‹78› that is not against our kingdom; this is.

Thou art damned; think thou of hell.

FAUSTUS. Think, Faustus, upon God that made the world.

MEPHIST. Remember this.

[Exit.]

FAUSTUS. Ay, go, accursed spirit, to ugly hell!

'Tis thou hast damn'd distressed Faustus' soul.

Is't not too late—

Re-enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.

EVIL ANGEL. Too late.

GOOD ANGEL. Never too late, if Faustus will repent.

EVIL ANGEL. If thou repent, devils will tear thee in pieces.

GOOD ANGEL. Repent, and they shall never raze thy skin.

[Exeunt ANGELS.]

FAUSTUS. O Christ, my Saviour, my Saviour

Help to save distressed Faustus' soul!

Enter LUCIFER, BELZEBUB, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

LUCIFER. Christ cannot save thy soul, for he is just:

There's none but I have interest in the same.

FAUSTUS. O, what art thou that look'st so terribly—

LUCIFER. I am Lucifer,

And this is my companion-prince in hell.

FAUSTUS. O Faustus, they are come to fetch thy soul!

BELZEBUB. We are come to tell thee thou dost injure us.

LUCIFER. Thou call'st of Christ, contrary to thy promise.

BELZEBUB. Thou shouldst not think on God.

LUCIFER. Think of the devil.

BELZEBUB. And his dam too.

FAUSTUS. Nor will Faustus henceforth: pardon him for this,

And Faustus vows never to look to heaven.

LUCIFER. So shalt thou shew thyself an obedient servant,

And we will highly gratify thee for it.

BELZEBUB. Faustus, we are come from hell in person to shew thee

some pastime: sit down, and thou shalt behold the Seven Deadly

Sins appear to thee in their own proper shapes and likeness.

FAUSTUS. That sight will be as pleasant unto me,

As Paradise was to Adam the first day

Of his creation.

LUCIFER. Talk not of Paradise or creation; but mark the show.-

Go, Mephistophilis, and‹79› fetch them in.

MEPHISTOPHILIS brings in the SEVEN DEADLY SINS.

BELZEBUB. Now, Faustus, question them of their names and

dispositions.

FAUSTUS. That shall I soon.-What art thou, the‹80› first—

PRIDE. I am Pride. I disdain to have any parents. I am like to

Ovid's flea; I can creep into every corner of a wench; sometimes,

like a perriwig, I sit upon her brow; next, like a necklace, I hang

about her neck; then, like a fan of feathers, I kiss her lips;‹81›

and then, turning myself to a wrought smock, do what I list.

But, fie, what a smell is here! I'll not speak a word more for

a king's ransom, unless the ground be perfumed, and covered with

cloth of arras.

FAUSTUS. Thou art a proud knave, indeed.-What art thou, the second—

COVETOUSNESS. I am Covetousness, begotten of an old churl, in a

leather bag: and, might I now obtain my wish, this house, you,

and all, should turn to gold, that I might lock you safe into

my chest: O my sweet gold!

FAUSTUS. And what art thou, the third—

ENVY. I am Envy, begotten of a chimney-sweeper and an oyster-wife.

I cannot read, and therefore wish all books burned. I am lean

with seeing others eat. O, that there would come a famine over

all the world, that all might die, and I live alone! then thou

shouldst see how fat I'd be. But must thou sit, and I stand—

come down, with a vengeance!

FAUSTUS. Out, envious wretch!-But what art thou, the fourth—

WRATH. I am Wrath. I had neither father nor mother: I leapt

out of a lion's mouth when I was scarce an hour old; and ever

since have run‹82› up and down the world with this‹83› case of

rapiers, wounding myself when I could get none to fight withal.

I was born in hell; and look to it, for some of you shall be my

father.

FAUSTUS. And what art thou, the fifth—

GLUTTONY. I am Gluttony. My parents are all dead, and the devil

a penny they have left me, but a small pension, and that buys me

thirty meals a-day and ten bevers,-a small trifle to suffice

nature. I come‹84› of a royal pedigree: my father was a Gammon

of Bacon, my mother was a Hogshead of Claret-wine; my godfathers

were these, Peter Pickled-herring and Martin Martlemas-beef; but

my godmother, O, she was an ancient gentlewoman; her name was

Margery March-beer. Now, Faustus, thou hast heard all my progeny;

wilt thou bid me to supper—

FAUSTUS. Not I.

GLUTTONY. Then the devil choke thee!

FAUSTUS. Choke thyself, glutton!-What art thou, the sixth—

SLOTH. Heigho! I am Sloth. I was begotten on a sunny bank.

Heigho! I'll not speak a word more for a king's ransom.

FAUSTUS. And what are you, Mistress Minx, the seventh and last—

LECHERY. Who, I,‹85› sir— I am one that loves an inch of raw

mutton better than an ell of fried stock-fish; and the first

letter of my name begins with L.‹86›

LUCIFER. Away to hell, away! On, piper!

[Exeunt the SINS.]

FAUSTUS. O, how this sight doth delight my soul!

LUCIFER. Tut,‹87› Faustus, in hell is all manner of delight.

FAUSTUS. O, might I see hell, and return again safe,

How happy were I then!

LUCIFER. Faustus, thou shalt; at midnight I will send for thee.

Meanwhile peruse this book and view it throughly,

And thou shalt turn thyself into what shape thou wilt.

FAUSTUS. Thanks, mighty Lucifer!

This will I keep as chary as my life.

LUCIFER. Now, Faustus, farewell.

FAUSTUS. Farewell, great Lucifer.

[Exeunt LUCIFER and BELZEBUB.]

Come, Mephistophilis.

[Exeunt.]

Enter ROBIN,‹88› with a book.

ROBIN. What, Dick! look to the horses there, till I come again.

I have gotten one of Doctor Faustus' conjuring-books; and now

we'll have such knavery as't passes.

Enter DICK.

DICK. What, Robin! you must come away and walk the horses.

ROBIN. I walk the horses! I scorn't, faith:‹89› I have other

matters in hand: let the horses walk themselves, an they will.-

[Reads.]

A per se, a; t, h, e, the; o per se, o; Demy orgon gorgon.-

Keep further from me, O thou illiterate and unlearned hostler!

DICK. 'Snails, what hast thou got there— a book! why, thou canst

not tell‹90› ne'er a word on't.

ROBIN. That thou shalt see presently: keep out of the circle,

I say, lest I send you into the ostry with a vengeance.

DICK. That's like, faith! you had best leave your foolery; for,

an my master come, he'll conjure you, faith.

ROBIN. My master conjure me! I'll tell thee what; an my master

come here, I'll clap as fair a‹91› pair of horns on's head as

e'er thou sawest in thy life.

DICK. Thou need'st‹92› not do that, for my mistress hath done it.

ROBIN. Ay, there be of us here that have waded as deep into

matters as other men, if they were disposed to talk.

DICK. A plague take you! I thought you did not sneak up and down

after her for nothing. But, I prithee, tell me in good sadness,

Robin, is that a conjuring-book—

ROBIN. Do but speak what thou'lt have me to do, and I'll do't:

if thou'lt dance naked, put off thy clothes, and I'll conjure

thee about presently; or, if thou'lt go but to the tavern with

me, I'll give thee white wine, red wine, claret-wine, sack,

muscadine, malmsey, and whippincrust, hold, belly, hold;‹93› and

we'll not pay one penny for it.

DICK. 0, brave! Prithee,‹94› let's to it presently, for I am as

dry as a dog.

ROBIN. Come, then, let's away.

[Exeunt.]

Enter CHORUS.

CHORUS. Learned Faustus,

To find the secrets of astronomy

Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament,

Did mount him‹95› up to scale Olympus ' top;

Where, sitting in a chariot burning bright,

Drawn by the strength of yoked dragons' necks,

He views‹96› the clouds, the planets, and the stars,

The tropic zones, and quarters of the sky,

›From the bright circle of the horned moon

Even to the height of Primum Mobile;

And, whirling round with this‹97› circumference,

Within the concave compass of the pole,

›From east to west his dragons swiftly glide,

And in eight days did bring him home again.

Not long he stay'd within his quiet house,

To rest his bones after his weary toil;

But new exploits do hale him out again:

And, mounted then upon a dragon's back,

That with his wings did part the subtle air,

He now is gone to prove cosmography,

That measures coasts and kingdoms of the earth;

And, as I guess, will first arrive at Rome,

To see the Pope and manner of his court,

And take some part of holy Peter's feast,

The which this day is highly solemniz'd.

[Exit.]

Enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

FAUSTUS. Having now, my good Mephistophilis,

Pass'd with delight the stately town of Trier,

Environ'd round‹98› with airy mountain-tops,

With walls of flint, and deep-entrenched lakes,

Not to be won by any conquering prince;

›From Paris next, coasting the realm of France,

We saw the river Maine fall into Rhine,‹99›

Whose banks are set with groves of fruitful vines;

Then up to‹100› Naples, rich Campania,

Whose buildings fair and gorgeous to the eye,

The streets straight forth, and pav'd with finest brick,

Quarter the town in four equivalents:‹101›

There saw we learned Maro's golden tomb;

The way he cut, an English mile in length,

Thorough‹102› a rock of stone, in one night's space;

›From thence to Venice, Padua, and the rest,‹103›

In one of which a sumptuous temple stands,

That threats the stars with her aspiring top,

Whose frame is pav'd with sundry-colour'd stones,

And roof'd aloft with curious work in gold.

Thus hitherto hath Faustus spent his time:

But tell me‹104› now, what resting-place is this—

Hast thou, as erst I did command,

Conducted me within the walls of Rome—

MEPHIST. I have, my Faustus; and, for proof thereof,

This is the goodly palace of the Pope;

And, 'cause we are no common guests,

I choose his privy-chamber for our use.

FAUSTUS. I hope his Holiness will bid us‹105› welcome.

MEPHIST. All's one, for we'll be bold with his venison.

But now, my Faustus, that thou mayst perceive

What Rome contains for to delight thine eyes,

Know that this city stands upon seven hills

That underprop the groundwork of the same:

Just through‹106› the midst runs flowing Tiber 's stream,

With winding banks that cut it in two parts;

Over the which two stately bridges lean,

That make safe passage to each part of Rome:

Upon the bridge call'd Ponte‹107› Angelo

Erected is a castle passing strong,

Where thou shalt see such store of ordnance,

As that the double cannons, forg'd of brass,

Do match‹108› the number of the days contain'd

Within the compass of one complete year;

Beside the gates, and high pyramides,

That Julius Caesar brought from Africa.

FAUSTUS. Now, by the kingdoms of infernal rule,

Of Styx, of Acheron, and the fiery lake

Of ever-burning Phlegethon, I swear

That I do long to see the‹109› monuments

And situation of bright-splendent Rome:

Come, therefore, let's away.

MEPHIST. Nay, stay, my Faustus: I know you'd see the Pope,

And take some part of holy Peter's feast,

The which, in state and‹110› high solemnity,

This day, is held through Rome and Italy,

In honour of the Pope's triumphant victory.

FAUSTUS. Sweet Mephistophilis, thou pleasest me.

Whilst I am here on earth, let me be cloy'd

With all things that delight the heart of man:

My four-and-twenty years of liberty

I'll spend in pleasure and in dalliance,

That Faustus' name, whilst‹111› this bright frame doth stand,

May be admir'd thorough‹112› the furthest land.

MEPHIST. 'Tis well said, Faustus. Come, then, stand by me,

And thou shalt see them come immediately.

FAUSTUS. Nay, stay, my gentle Mephistophilis,

And grant me my‹113› request, and then I go.

Thou know'st, within the compass of eight days

We view'd the face of heaven, of earth, and hell;

So high our dragons soar'd into the air,

That, looking down, the earth appear'd to me

No bigger than my hand in quantity;

There did we view the kingdoms of the world,

And what might please mine eye I there beheld.

Then in this show let me an actor be,

That this proud Pope may Faustus' cunning‹114› see.

MEPHIST. Let it be so, my Faustus. But, first, stay,

And view their triumphs as they pass this way;

And then devise what best contents thy mind,

By cunning in thine art to cross the Pope,

Or dash the pride of this‹115› solemnity;

To make his monks and abbots stand like apes,

And point like antics at‹116› his triple crown;

To beat the beads about the friars' pates,

Or clap huge horns upon the Cardinals' heads;

Or any villany thou canst devise;

And I'll perform it,‹117› Faustus. Hark! they come:

This day shall make thee be admir'd in Rome.

Enter the CARDINALS and BISHOPS, some bearing crosiers, some

the pillars; MONKS and FRIARS, singing their procession;

then the POPE, RAYMOND king of Hungary, the ARCHBISHOP

OF RHEIMS, BRUNO led in chains, and ATTENDANTS.

POPE. Cast down our footstool.

RAYMOND. Saxon Bruno, stoop,

Whilst on thy back his Holiness ascends

Saint Peter's chair and state pontifical.

BRUNO. Proud Lucifer, that state belongs to me;

But thus I fall to Peter, not to thee.

POPE. To me and Peter shalt thou grovelling lie,

And crouch before the Papal dignity.-

Sound trumpets, then; for thus Saint Peter's heir,

›From Bruno's back, ascends Saint Peter's chair.

[A flourish while he ascends.]

Thus, as the gods creep on with feet of wool,

Long ere with iron hands they punish men,

So shall our sleeping vengeance now arise,

And smite with death thy hated enterprise.‹118›-

Lord Cardinals of France and Padua,

Go forthwith to our‹119› holy consistory,

And read, amongst the statutes decretal,

What, by the holy council held at Trent,

The sacred synod hath decreed for him

That doth assume the Papal government

Without election and a true consent:

Away, and bring us word with speed.

CARDINAL OF FRANCE. We go, my lord.

[Exeunt CARDINALS of France and Padua.]

POPE. Lord Raymond.

[They converse in dumb show.]

FAUSTUS. Go, haste thee, gentle Mephistophilis,

Follow the cardinals to the consistory;

And, as they turn their superstitious books,

Strike them with sloth and drowsy idleness,

And make them sleep so sound, that in their shapes

Thyself and I may parley with this‹120› Pope,

This proud confronter of the Emperor;

And, in despite of all his holiness,

Restore this Bruno to his liberty,

And bear him to the states of Germany.

MEPHIST. Faustus, I go.

FAUSTUS. Despatch it soon:

The Pope shall curse, that Faustus came to Rome.

[Exeunt FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.]

BRUNO. Pope Adrian, let me have right‹121› of law:

I was elected by the Emperor.

POPE. We will depose the Emperor for that deed,

And curse the people that submit to him:

Both he and thou shall‹122› stand excommunicate,

And interdict from church's privilege

And all society of holy men.

He grows too proud in his authority,

Lifting his lofty head above the clouds,

And, like a steeple, overpeers the church:

But we'll pull down his haughty insolence;

And, as Pope Alexander, our progenitor,

Trod on the neck of German Frederick,

Adding this golden sentence to our praise,

"That Peter's heirs should tread on Emperors,

And walk upon the dreadful adder's back,

Treading the lion and the dragon down,

And fearless spurn the killing basilisk,"

So will we quell that haughty schismatic,

And, by authority apostolical,

Depose him from his regal government.

BRUNO. Pope Julius swore to princely Sigismond,

For him and the succeeding Popes of Rome,

To hold the Emperors their lawful lords.

POPE. Pope Julius did abuse the church's rights,

And therefore none of his decrees can stand.

Is not all power on earth bestow'd on us—

And therefore, though we would, we cannot err.

Behold this silver belt, whereto is fix'd

Seven golden seals, fast sealed with seven seals,

In token of our seven-fold power from heaven,

To bind or loose, lock fast, condemn or judge,

Resign or seal, or what so pleaseth us:

Then he and thou, and all the world, shall stoop,

Or be assured of our dreadful curse,

To light as heavy as the pains of hell.

Re-enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS, in the shapes of the

CARDINALS of France and Padua.

MEPHIST. Now tell me, Faustus, are we not fitted well—

FAUSTUS. Yes, Mephistophilis; and two such cardinals

Ne'er serv'd a holy Pope as we shall do.

But, whilst they sleep within the consistory,

Let us salute his reverend fatherhood.

RAYMOND. Behold, my lord, the Cardinals are return'd.

POPE. Welcome, grave fathers: answer presently

What hath‹123› our holy council there decreed

Concerning Bruno and the Emperor,

In quittance of their late conspiracy

Against our state and papal dignity—

FAUSTUS. Most sacred patron of the church of Rome,

By full consent of all the synod‹124›

Of priests and prelates, it is thus decreed,-

That Bruno and the German Emperor

Be held as Lollards and bold schismatics,

And proud disturbers of the church's peace;

And if that Bruno, by his own assent,

Without enforcement of the German peers,

Did seek to wear the triple diadem,

And by your death to climb Saint Peter's chair,

The statutes decretal have thus decreed,-

He shall be straight condemn'd of heresy,

And on a pile of faggots burnt to death.

POPE. It is enough. Here, take him to your charge,

And bear him straight to Ponte‹125› Angelo,

And in the strongest tower enclose him fast.

To-morrow, sitting in our consistory,

With all our college of grave cardinals,

We will determine of his life or death.

Here, take his‹126› triple crown along with you,

And leave it in the church's treasury.

Make haste again, my good Lord Cardinals,

And take our blessing apostolical.

MEPHIST. So, so; was never devil thus bless'd before.

FAUSTUS. Away, sweet Mephistophilis, be gone;

The Cardinals will be plagu'd for this anon.

[Exeunt FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS with BRUNO.]

POPE. Go presently and bring a banquet forth,

That we may solemnize Saint Peter's feast,

And with Lord Raymond, King of Hungary,

Drink to our late and happy victory.

A Sennet‹127› while the banquet is brought in; and then enter

FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS in their own shapes.

MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, come, prepare thyself for mirth:

The sleepy Cardinals are hard at hand,

To censure Bruno, that is posted hence,

And on a proud-pac'd steed, as swift as thought,

Flies o'er the Alps to fruitful Germany,

There to salute the woful Emperor.

FAUSTUS. The Pope will curse them for their sloth to-day,

That slept both Bruno and his crown away.

But now, that Faustus may delight his mind,

And by their folly make some merriment,

Sweet Mephistophilis, so charm me here,

That I may walk invisible to all,

And do whate'er I please, unseen of any.

MEPHIST. Faustus, thou shalt: then kneel down presently,

Whilst on thy head I lay my hand,

And charm thee with this magic wand.

First, wear this girdle; then appear

Invisible to all are here:

The planets seven, the gloomy air,

Hell, and the Furies' forked hair,

Pluto's blue fire, and Hecat's tree,

With magic spells so compass thee,

That no eye may thy body see!

So, Faustus, now, for all their holiness,

Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not be discern'd.

FAUSTUS. Thanks, Mephistophilis.-Now, friars, take heed,

Lest Faustus make your shaven crowns to bleed.

MEPHIST. Faustus, no more: see, where the Cardinals come!

Re-enter the CARDINALS of France and Padua with a book.

POPE. Welcome, Lord Cardinals; come, sit down.-

Lord Raymond, take your seat.-Friars, attend,

And see that all things be‹128› in readiness,

As best beseems this solemn festival.

CARDINAL OF FRANCE. First, may it please your sacred Holiness

To view the sentence of the reverend synod

Concerning Bruno and the Emperor—

POPE. What needs this question— did I not tell you,

To-morrow we would sit i' the consistory,

And there determine of his punishment—

You brought us word even now, it was decreed

That Bruno and the cursed Emperor

Were by the holy council both condemn'd

For loathed Lollards and base schismatics:

Then wherefore would you have me view that book—

CARDINAL OF FRANCE. Your grace mistakes; you gave us no such charge.

RAYMOND. Deny it not; we all are witnesses

That Bruno here was late deliver'd you,

With his rich triple crown to be reserv'd

And put into the church's treasury.

BOTH CARDINALS. By holy Paul, we saw them not!

POPE. By Peter, you shall die,

Unless you bring them forth immediately!-

Hale them to‹129› prison, lade their limbs with gyves.-

False prelates, for this hateful treachery

Curs'd be your souls to hellish misery!

[Exeunt ATTENDANTS with the two CARDINALS.]

FAUSTUS. So, they are safe. Now, Faustus, to the feast:

The Pope had never such a frolic guest.

POPE. Lord Archbishop of Rheims, sit down with us.

ARCHBISHOP.‹130› I thank your Holiness.

FAUSTUS. Fall to; the devil choke you,‹131› an you spare!

POPE. Who is that spoke—-Friars, look about.-

Lord Raymond, pray, fall to. I am beholding‹132›

To the Bishop of Milan for this so rare a present.

FAUSTUS. I thank you, sir.

[Snatches the dish.]

POPE. How now! who snatch'd the meat from me—

Villains, why speak you not—-

My good Lord Archbishop, here's a most dainty dish

Was sent me from a cardinal in France.

FAUSTUS. I'll have that too.

[Snatches the dish.]

POPE. What Lollards do attend our holiness,

That we receive such‹133› great indignity—

Fetch me some wine.

FAUSTUS. Ay, pray, do, for Faustus is a-dry.

POPE. Lord Raymond,

I drink unto your grace.

FAUSTUS. I pledge your grace.

[Snatches the cup.]

POPE. My wine gone too!-Ye lubbers, look about,

And find the man that doth this villany,

Or, by our sanctitude, you all shall die!-

I pray, my lords, have patience at this

Troublesome banquet.

ARCHBISHOP. Please it‹134› your Holiness, I think it be some ghost

crept out of Purgatory, and now is come unto your Holiness for his

pardon.

POPE. It may be so.-

Go, then, command our priests to sing a dirge,

To lay the fury of this same troublesome ghost.

[Exit an ATTENDANT.-The POPE crosses himself.]

FAUSTUS. How now! must every bit be spic'd with a cross—-

Nay, then, take that.

[Strikes the POPE.]

POPE. O, I am slain!-Help me, my lords!

O, come and help to bear my body hence!-

Damn'd be his‹135› soul for ever for this deed!

[Exeunt all except FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.]

MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, what will you do now— for I can tell you

you'll be cursed with bell, book, and candle.

FAUSTUS. Bell, book, and candle,-candle, book, and bell,-

Forward and backward, to curse Faustus to hell!

Re-enter the FRIARS, with bell, book, and candle, for the

Dirge.

FIRST FRIAR. Come, brethren, lets about our business with good

devotion.

[They sing.]

CURSED BE HE THAT STOLE HIS HOLINESS' MEAT FROM THE TABLE!

maledicat Dominus!

CURSED BE HE THAT STRUCK‹136› HIS HOLINESS A BLOW ON‹137› THE

FACE! maledicat Dominus!

CURSED BE HE THAT STRUCK FRIAR SANDELO A BLOW ON THE PATE!

maledicat Dominus!

CURSED BE HE THAT DISTURBETH OUR HOLY DIRGE! maledicat

Dominus!

CURSED BE HE THAT TOOK AWAY HIS HOLINESS' WINE! maledicat

Dominus!

[MEPHISTOPHILIS and FAUSTUS beat the FRIARS, and fling

fire-works among them, and exeunt.]

Enter ROBIN and DICK with a cup.

DICK. Sirrah Robin, we were best look that your devil can answer

the stealing of this same‹138› cup, for the Vintner's boy follows

us at the hard heels.‹139›

ROBIN. 'Tis no matter; let him come: an he follow us, I'll so

conjure him as he was never conjured in his life, I warrant him.

Let me see the cup.

DICK. Here 'tis.

[Gives the cup to ROBIN.]

Yonder he comes: now, Robin, now or never shew thy cunning.

Enter VINTNER.‹140›

VINTNER. O, are you here— I am glad I have found you. You are

a couple of fine companions: pray, where's the cup you stole

from the tavern—

ROBIN. How, how! we steal a cup! take heed what you say: we look

not like cup-stealers, I can tell you.

VINTNER. Never deny't, for I know you have it; and I'll search you.

ROBIN. Search me! ay, and spare not.

-Hold the cup, Dick [Aside to DICK, giving him the cup].-

Come, come, search me, search me.

[VINTNER searches him.]

VINTNER. Come on, sirrah, let me search you now.

DICK. Ay, ay, do, do.

-Hold the cup, Robin [Aside to ROBIN, giving him the cup].-

I fear not your searching: we scorn to steal your‹141› cups,

I can tell you.

[VINTNER searches him.]

VINTNER. Never out-face me for the matter; for, sure, the cup

is between you two.

ROBIN. Nay, there you lie; 'tis beyond us both.

VINTNER. A plague take you! I thought 'twas your knavery to take

it away: come, give it me again.

ROBIN. Ay, much!‹142› when, can you tell—-Dick, make me a circle,

and stand close at my back, and stir not for thy life.-Vintner,

you shall have your cup anon.-Say nothing, Dick.-[Reads from

a book] O per se, O; Demogorgon; Belcher, and Mephistophilis!

Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.

MEPHIST. You princely legions of infernal rule,

How am I vexed by these villains' charms!

›From Constantinople have they brought me now,

Only for pleasure of these damned slaves.

[Exit VINTNER.]

ROBIN. By lady,‹143› sir, you have had a shrewd journey of it!

will it please you to‹144› take a shoulder of mutton to supper,

and a tester‹145› in your purse, and go back again—

DICK. Ay, I pray you heartily, sir; for we called you but in jest,

I promise you.

MEPHIST. To purge the rashness of this cursed deed,

First, be thou turned to this ugly shape,

For apish deeds transformed to an ape.

ROBIN. O, brave! an ape! I pray, sir, let me have the carrying

of him about, to shew some tricks.

MEPHIST. And so thou shalt: be thou transformed to a dog, and

carry him upon thy back. Away! be gone!

ROBIN. A dog! that's excellent: let the maids look well to their

porridge-pots, for I'll into the kitchen presently.-Come, Dick,

come.

[Exeunt ROBIN and DICK.]

MEPHIST. Now with the flames of ever-burning fire

I'll wing myself, and forthwith fly amain‹sic›

Unto my Faustus, to the Great Turk's court.

[Exit.]

Enter MARTINO and FREDERICK at several doors.

MARTINO. What, ho, officers, gentlemen!

Hie to the presence to attend the Emperor.-

Good Frederick, see the rooms be voided straight:

His majesty is coming to the hall;

Go back, and see the state‹146› in readiness.

FREDERICK. But where is Bruno, our elected Pope,

That on a Fury's back came post from Rome—

Will not his grace consort the Emperor—

MARTINO. O, yes; and with him comes the German conjurer,

The learned Faustus, fame of Wittenberg,

The wonder of the world for magic art;

And he intends to shew great Carolus

The race of all his stout progenitors,

And bring in presence of his majesty

The royal shapes and perfect‹147› semblances

Of Alexander and his beauteous paramour.

FREDERICK. Where is Benvolio—

MARTINO. Fast asleep, I warrant you;

He took his rouse‹148› with stoops of Rhenish wine

So kindly yesternight to Bruno's health,

That all this day the sluggard keeps his bed.

FREDERICK. See, see, his window's ope! we'll call to him.

MARTINO. What, ho! Benvolio!

Enter BENVOLIO above, at a window, in his nightcap, buttoning.

BENVOLIO. What a devil ail you two—

MARTINO. Speak softly, sir, lest the devil hear you;

For Faustus at the court is late arriv'd,

And at his heels a‹149› thousand Furies wait,

To accomplish whatsoe'er the doctor please.

BENVOLIO. What of this—

MARTINO. Come, leave thy chamber first, and thou shalt see

This conjurer perform such rare exploits,

Before the Pope and royal Emperor,

As never yet was seen in Germany.

BENVOLIO. Has not the Pope enough of conjuring yet—

He was upon the devil's back late enough:

An if he be so far in love with him,

I would he would post with him to Rome again!

FREDERICK. Speak, wilt thou come and see this sport—

BENVOLIO. Not I.

MARTINO. Wilt thou stand in thy window, and see it, then—

BENVOLIO. Ay, an I fall not asleep i' the mean time.

MARTINO. The Emperor is at hand, who comes to see

What wonders by black spells may compass'd be.

BENVOLIO. Well, go you attend the Emperor. I am content, for

this once, to thrust my head out at a‹150› window; for they

say, if a man be drunk over night, the devil cannot hurt him

in the morning: if that be true, I have a charm in my head,

shall control him as well as the conjurer, I warrant you.

[Exeunt FREDERICK and MARTINO.]

A Sennet. Enter CHARLES the German Emperor, BRUNO,

DUKE OF SAXONY, FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, FREDERICK,

MARTINO, and Attendants.

EMPEROR. Wonder of men, renowm'd‹151› magician,

Thrice-learned Faustus, welcome to our court.

This deed of thine, in setting Bruno free

›From his and our professed enemy,

Shall add more excellence unto thine art

Than if by powerful necromantic spells

Thou couldst command the world's obedience:

For ever be belov'd of Carolus!

And if this Bruno, thou hast late redeem'd,

In peace possess the triple diadem,

And sit in Peter's chair, despite of chance,

Thou shalt be famous through‹152› all Italy,

And honour'd of the German Emperor.

FAUSTUS. These‹153› gracious words, most royal Carolus,

Shall make poor Faustus, to his utmost power,

Both love and serve the German Emperor,

And lay his life at holy Bruno's feet:

For proof whereof, if so your grace be pleas'd,

The doctor stands prepar'd by power of art

To cast his magic charms, that shall pierce through‹154›

The ebon gates of ever-burning hell,

And hale the stubborn Furies from their caves,

To compass whatsoe'er your grace commands.

BENVOLIO. Blood, he speaks terribly! but, for all that, I do not

greatly believe him: he looks as like a‹153› conjurer as the Pope

to a costermonger. [Aside.]

EMPEROR. Then, Faustus, as thou late didst promise us,

We would behold that famous conqueror,

Great Alexander, and his paramour,

In their true shapes and state majestical,

That we may wonder at their excellence.

FAUSTUS. Your majesty shall see them presently.-

Mephistophilis, away,

And, with a solemn noise of trumpets' sound,

Present before this‹156› royal Emperor

Great Alexander and his beauteous paramour.

MEPHIST. Faustus, I will.

[Exit.]

BENVOLIO. Well, Master Doctor, an your devils come not away

quickly, you shall have me asleep presently: zounds, I could

eat myself for anger, to think I have been such an ass all this

while, to stand gaping after the devil's governor, and can see

nothing!

FAUSTUS.

I'll make you feel something anon, if my art fail me not.-

My lord, I must forewarn your majesty,

That, when my spirits present the royal shapes

Of Alexander and his paramour,

Your grace demand‹157› no questions of the king,

But in dumb silence let them come and go.

EMPEROR. Be it as Faustus please; we are content.

BENVOLIO. Ay, ay, and I am content too: an thou bring Alexander

and his paramour before the Emperor, I'll be Actaeon, and turn

myself to a stag.

FAUSTUS. And I'll play Diana, and send you the horns presently.

Sennet. Enter, at one door,‹158› the EMPEROR ALEXANDER, at

the other, DARIUS. They meet. DARIUS is thrown down;

ALEXANDER kills him, takes off his crown, and, offering to

go out, his PARAMOUR meets him. He embraceth her, and sets

DARIUS' crown upon her head; and, coming back, both salute

the EMPEROR, who, leaving his state,‹159› offers to embrace

them; which FAUSTUS seeing, suddenly stays him. Then trumpets

cease, and music sounds.

My gracious lord, you do forget yourself;

These‹160› are but shadows, not substantial.

EMPEROR. O, pardon me! my thoughts are so ravish'd

With sight of this renowmed‹161› emperor,

That in mine arms I would have compass'd him.

But, Faustus, since I may not speak to them,

To satisfy my longing thoughts‹162› at full,

Let me this tell thee: I have heard it said

That this fair lady, whilst‹163› she liv'd on earth,

Had on her neck a little wart or mole;

How may I prove that saying to be true—

FAUSTUS. Your majesty may boldly go and see.

EMPEROR. Faustus, I see it plain;

And in this sight thou better pleasest me

Than if I gain'd‹164› another monarchy.

FAUSTUS. Away! be gone! [Exit show.]-See, see, my gracious

lord! what strange beast is yon, that thrusts his head out at

window—‹165›

EMPEROR. O, wondrous sight!-See, Duke of Saxony,

Two spreading horns most strangely fastened

Upon the head of young Benvolio!

SAXONY. What, is he asleep or dead—

FAUSTUS. He sleeps, my lord; but dreams not of his horns.

EMPEROR. This sport is excellent: we'll call and wake him.-

What, ho, Benvolio!

BENVOLIO. A plague upon you! let me sleep a while.

EMPEROR. I blame thee not to sleep much, having such a head of

thine own.

SAXONY. Look up, Benvolio; 'tis the Emperor calls.

BENVOLIO. The Emperor! where—-O, zounds, my head!

EMPEROR. Nay, an thy horns hold, 'tis no matter for thy head,

for that's armed sufficiently.

FAUSTUS. Why, how now, Sir Knight! what, hanged by the horns!

this is‹166› most horrible: fie, fie, pull in your head, for

shame! let not all the world wonder at you.

BENVOLIO. Zounds, doctor, this is‹167› your villany!

FAUSTUS. O, say not so, sir! the doctor has no skill,

No art, no cunning, to present these lords,

Or bring before this royal Emperor

The mighty monarch, warlike Alexander.

If Faustus do it, you are straight resolv'd,

In bold Actaeon's shape, to turn a stag:-

And therefore, my lord, so please your majesty,

I'll raise a kennel of hounds shall hunt him so

As‹168› all his footmanship shall scarce prevail

To keep his carcass from their bloody fangs.-

Ho, Belimoth, Argiron, Asteroth!‹169›

BENVOLIO. Hold, hold!-Zounds, he'll raise up a kennel of devils,

I think, anon.-Good my lord, entreat for me.- 'Sblood, I am never

able to endure these torments.

EMPEROR. Then, good Master Doctor,

Let me entreat you to remove his horns;

He has‹170› done penance now sufficiently.

FAUSTUS. My gracious lord, not so much for injury done to me,

as to delight your majesty with some mirth, hath Faustus justly

requited this injurious knight; which being all I desire, I am

content to remove his horns.‹171›-Mephistophilis, transform him

[MEPHISTOPHILIS removes the horns]:-and hereafter, sir,‹172›

look you speak well of scholars.

BENVOLIO. Speak well of ye! 'sblood, an scholars be such

cuckold-makers, to clap horns of‹173› honest men's heads o' this

order, I'll ne'er trust smooth faces and small ruffs more.-But,

an I be not revenged for this, would I might be turned to a

gaping oyster, and drink nothing but salt water!

[Aside, and then exit above.]

EMPEROR. Come, Faustus: while the Emperor lives,

In recompense of this thy high desert,

Thou shalt command the state of Germany,

And live belov'd of mighty Carolus.

[Exeunt.]

Enter BENVOLIO, MARTINO, FREDERICK, and SOLDIERS.

MARTINO. Nay, sweet Benvolio, let us sway‹174› thy thoughts

›From this attempt against the conjurer.‹175›

BENVOLIO. Away! you love me not, to urge me thus:

Shall I let slip so great an injury,

When every servile groom jests at my wrongs,

And in their rustic gambols proudly say,

"Benvolio's head was grac'd with horns today—"

O, may these eyelids never close again,

Till with my sword I have that‹176› conjurer slain!

If you will aid me in this enterprise,

Then draw your weapons and be resolute;

If not, depart: here will Benvolio die,

But Faustus' death shall quit my‹177› infamy.

FREDERICK. Nay, we will stay with thee, betide what may,

And kill that‹178› doctor, if he come this way.

BENVOLIO. Then, gentle Frederick, hie thee to the grove,

And place our servants and our followers

Close in an‹179› ambush there behind the trees.

By this, I know the conjurer is near:

I saw him kneel, and kiss the Emperor's hand,

And take his leave, laden with rich rewards.

Then, soldiers, boldly‹180› fight: if Faustus die,

Take you the wealth, leave us the victory.

FREDERICK. Come, soldiers, follow me unto the grove:

Who kills him shall have gold and endless love.

[Exit FREDERICK with SOLDIERS.]

BENVOLIO. My head is lighter, than it was, by the horns;

But yet my heart's‹181› more ponderous than my head,

And pants until I see that‹182› conjurer dead.

MARTINO. Where shall we place ourselves, Benvolio—

BENVOLIO. Here will we stay to bide the first assault:

O, were that damned hell-hound but in place,

Thou soon shouldst see me quit my foul disgrace!

Re-enter FREDERICK.

FREDERICK. Close, close! the conjurer is at hand,

And all alone comes walking in his gown;

Be ready, then, and strike the‹183› peasant down.

BENVOLIO. Mine be that honour, then. Now, sword, strike home!

For horns he gave I'll have his head anon.

MARTINO. See, see, he comes!

Enter FAUSTUS with a false head.

BENVOLIO. No words. This blow ends all:

Hell take his soul! his body thus must fall.

[Stabs FAUSTUS.]

FAUSTUS. [falling.] O!

FREDERICK. Groan you, Master Doctor—

BENVOLIO. Break may his heart with groans!-Dear Frederick, see,

Thus will I end his griefs immediately.

MARTINO. Strike with a willing hand.

[BENVOLIO strikes off FAUSTUS' head.]

His head is off.

BENVOLIO. The devil's dead; the Furies now‹184› may laugh.

FREDERICK. Was this that stern aspect, that awful frown,

Made the grim monarch of infernal spirits

Tremble and quake at his commanding charms—

MARTINO. Was this that damned head, whose art‹185› conspir'd

Benvolio's shame before the Emperor—

BENVOLIO. Ay, that's the head, and there‹186› the body lies,

Justly rewarded for his villanies.

FREDERICK. Come, let's devise how we may add more shame

To the black scandal of his hated name.

BENVOLIO. First, on his head, in quittance of my wrongs,

I'll nail huge forked horns, and let them hang

Within the window where he yok'd me first,

That all the world may see my just revenge.

MARTINO. What use shall we put his beard to—

BENVOLIO. We'll sell it to a chimney-sweeper: it will wear out

ten birchen brooms, I warrant you.

FREDERICK. What shall his‹187› eyes do—

BENVOLIO. We'll pull‹188› out his eyes; and they shall serve for

buttons to his lips, to keep his tongue from catching cold.

MARTINO. An excellent policy! and now, sirs, having divided him,

what shall the body do—

[FAUSTUS rises.]

BENVOLIO. Zounds, the devil's alive again!

FREDERICK. Give him his head, for God's sake.

FAUSTUS. Nay, keep it: Faustus will have heads and hands,

Ay, all‹189› your hearts to recompense this deed.

Knew you not, traitors, I was limited

For four-and-twenty years to breathe on earth—

And, had you cut my body with your swords,

Or hew'd this flesh and bones as small as sand,

Yet in a minute had my spirit return'd,

And I had breath'd a man, made free from harm.

But wherefore do I dally my revenge—-

Asteroth, Belimoth, Mephistophilis—

Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS, and other Devils.

Go, horse these traitors on your fiery backs,

And mount aloft with them as high as heaven:

Thence pitch them headlong to the lowest hell.

Yet, stay: the world shall see their misery,

And hell shall after plague their treachery.

Go, Belimoth, and take this caitiff hence,

And hurl him in some lake of mud and dirt.

Take thou this other, drag him through‹190› the woods

Amongst‹191› the pricking thorns and sharpest briers;

Whilst, with my gentle Mephistophilis,

This traitor flies unto some steepy rock,

That, rolling down, may break the villain's bones,

As he intended to dismember me.

Fly hence; despatch my charge immediately.

FREDERICK. Pity us, gentle Faustus! save our lives!

FAUSTUS. Away!

FREDERICK. He must needs go that the devil drives.

[Exeunt MEPHISTOPHILIS and DEVILS with BENVOLIO, MARTINO,

and FREDERICK.]

Enter the ambushed SOLDIERS.‹192›

FIRST SOLDIER. Come, sirs, prepare yourselves in readiness;

Make haste to help these noble gentlemen:

I heard them parley with the conjurer.

SECOND SOLDIER. See, where he comes! despatch and kill the slave.

FAUSTUS. What's here— an ambush to betray my life!

Then, Faustus, try thy skill.-Base peasants, stand!

For, lo, these‹193› trees remove at my command,

And stand as bulwarks 'twixt yourselves and me,

To shield me from your hated treachery!

Yet, to encounter this your weak attempt,

Behold, an army comes incontinent!

[FAUSTUS strikes the door,‹194› and enter a DEVIL playing

on a drum; after him another, bearing an ensign; and divers

with weapons; MEPHISTOPHILIS with fire-works. They set upon

the SOLDIERS, drive them out, and exeunt.]

Enter, at several doors, BENVOLIO, FREDERICK, and MARTINO,

their heads and faces bloody, and besmeared with mud and

dirt; all having horns on their heads.

MARTINO. What, ho, Benvolio!

BENVOLIO. Here.-What, Frederick, ho!

FREDERICK. O, help me, gentle friend!-Where is Martino—

MARTINO. Dear Frederick, here,

Half smother'd in a lake of mud and dirt,

Through which the Furies dragg'd me by the heels.

FREDERICK. Martino, see, Benvolio's horns again!

MARTINO. O, misery!-How now, Benvolio!

BENVOLIO. Defend me, heaven! shall I be haunted still—

MARTINO. Nay, fear not, man; we have no power to kill.

BENVOLIO. My friends transformed thus! O, hellish spite!

Your heads are all set with horns.

FREDERICK. You hit it right;

It is your own you mean; feel on your head.

BENVOLIO. Zounds,‹195› horns again!

MARTINO. Nay, chafe not, man; we all are‹196› sped.

BENVOLIO. What devil attends this damn'd magician,

That, spite of spite, our wrongs are doubled—

FREDERICK. What may we do, that we may hide our shames—

BENVOLIO. If we should follow him to work revenge,

He'd join long asses' ears to these huge horns,

And make us laughing-stocks to all the world.

MARTINO. What shall we, then, do, dear Benvolio—

BENVOLIO. I have a castle joining near these woods;

And thither we'll repair, and live obscure,

Till time shall alter these‹197› our brutish shapes:

Sith black disgrace hath thus eclips'd our fame,

We'll rather die with grief than live with shame.

[Exeunt.]

Enter FAUSTUS, a HORSE-COURSER, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

HORSE-COURSER. I beseech your worship, accept of these forty dollars.

FAUSTUS. Friend, thou canst not buy so good a horse for so small

a price. I have no great need to sell him: but, if thou likest

him for ten dollars more, take him, because I see thou hast a

good mind to him.

HORSE-COURSER. I beseech you, sir, accept of this: I am a very

poor man, and have lost very much of late by horse-flesh, and

this bargain will set me up again.

FAUSTUS. Well, I will not stand with thee: give me the money

[HORSE-COURSER gives FAUSTUS the money]. Now, sirrah, I must

tell you that you may ride him o'er hedge and ditch, and spare

him not; but, do you hear— in any case, ride him not into the

water.

HORSE-COURSER. How, sir! not into the water! why, will he not

drink of all waters—

FAUSTUS. Yes, he will drink of all waters; but ride him not into

the water: o'er hedge and ditch, or where thou wilt, but not into

the water. Go, bid the hostler deliver him unto you, and remember

what I say.

HORSE-COURSER. I warrant you, sir!-O, joyful day! now am I a

made man for ever.

[Exit.]

FAUSTUS. What art thou, Faustus, but a man condemn'd to die—

Thy fatal time draws to a final end;

Despair doth drive distrust into my thoughts:

Confound these passions with a quiet sleep:

Tush, Christ did call the thief upon the Cross;

Then rest thee, Faustus, quiet in conceit.

[He sits to sleep.]

Re-enter the HORSE-COURSER, wet.

HORSE-COURSER. 0, what a cozening doctor was this! I, riding

my horse into the water, thinking some hidden mystery had been

in the horse, I had nothing under me but a little straw, and had

much ado to escape‹198› drowning. Well, I'll go rouse him, and

make him give me my forty dollars again.-Ho, sirrah Doctor, you

cozening scab! Master Doctor, awake, and rise, and give me my

money again, for your horse is turned to a bottle of hay, Master

Doctor! [He pulls off FAUSTUS' leg]. Alas, I am undone! what

shall I do— I have pulled off his leg.

FAUSTUS. O, help, help! the villain hath murdered me.

HORSE-COURSER. Murder or not murder, now he has‹199› but one leg,

I'll outrun him, and cast this leg into some ditch or other.

[Aside, and then runs out.]

FAUSTUS. Stop him, stop him, stop him!-Ha, ha, ha! Faustus hath

his leg again, and the Horse-courser a bundle of hay for his

forty dollars.

Enter WAGNER.

How now, Wagner! what news with thee—

WAGNER. If it please you, the Duke of Vanholt doth earnestly

entreat your company, and hath sent some of his men to attend

you,‹200› with provision fit for your journey.

FAUSTUS. The Duke of Vanholt's an honourable gentleman, and one

to whom I must be no niggard of my cunning. Come, away!

[Exeunt.

Enter ROBIN, DICK, the HORSE-COURSER, and a CARTER.

CARTER. Come, my masters, I'll bring you to the best beer in

Europe.-What, ho, hostess! where be these whores—

Enter HOSTESS.

HOSTESS. How now! what lack you— What, my old guess!‹201› welcome.

ROBIN. Sirrah Dick, dost thou‹202› know why I stand so mute—

DICK. No, Robin: why is't—

ROBIN. I am eighteen-pence on the score. but say nothing; see

if she have forgotten me.

HOSTESS. Who's this that stands so solemnly by himself— What,

my old guest!

ROBIN. O, hostess, how do you— I hope my score stands still.

HOSTESS. Ay, there's no doubt of that; for methinks you make no

haste to wipe it out.

DICK. Why, hostess, I say, fetch us some beer.

HOSTESS. You shall presently.-Look up into the hall there, ho!

[Exit.-Drink is presently brought in.]

DICK. Come, sirs, what shall we do now‹203› till mine hostess comes—

CARTER. Marry, sir,‹204› I'll tell you the bravest tale how a

conjurer served me. You know Doctor Faustus—

HORSE-COURSER. Ay, a plague take him! here's some on's have cause

to know him. Did he conjure thee too—

CARTER. I'll tell you how he served me. As I was going to

Wittenberg, t'other day,‹205› with a load of hay, he met me, and

asked me what he should give me for as much hay as he could eat.

Now, sir, I thinking that a little would serve his turn, bad him

take as much as he would for three farthings: so he presently

gave me my‹206› money and fell to eating; and, as I am a cursen‹207›

man, he never left eating till he had eat up all my load of hay.

ALL. O, monstrous! eat a whole load of hay!

ROBIN. Yes, yes, that may be; for I have heard of one that has eat

a load of logs.

HORSE-COURSER. Now, sirs, you shall hear how villanously he

served me. I went to him yesterday to buy a horse of him, and

he would by no means sell him under forty dollars. So, sir,

because I knew him to be such a horse as would run over hedge

and ditch and never tire, I gave him his money. So, when I had

my horse, Doctor Faustus bad me ride him night and day, and spare

him no time; but, quoth he, in any case, ride him not into the

water. Now, sir, I thinking the horse had had some quality‹208›

that he would not have me know of, what did I but rid‹209› him

into a great river— and when I came just in the midst, my horse

vanished away, and I sate straddling upon a bottle of hay.

ALL. O, brave doctor!

HORSE-COURSER. But you shall hear how bravely I served him for

it. I went me home to his house, and there I found him asleep.

I kept a hallooing and whooping in his ears; but all could not

wake him. I, seeing that, took him by the leg, and never rested

pulling till I had pulled me his leg quite off; and now 'tis at

home in mine hostry.

ROBIN. And has the doctor but one leg, then— that's excellent;

for one of his devils turned me into the likeness of an ape's face.

CARTER. Some more drink, hostess!

ROBIN. Hark you, we'll into another room and drink a while, and

then we'll go seek out the doctor.

[Exeunt.]

Enter the DUKE OF VANHOLT, his DUCHESS, FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS,

and ATTENDANTS.

DUKE. Thanks, Master Doctor, for these pleasant sights; nor know

I how sufficiently to recompense your great deserts in erecting

that enchanted castle in the air,‹210› the sight whereof so

delighted‹211› me as nothing in the world could please me more.

FAUSTUS. I do think myself, my good lord, highly recompensed in

that it pleaseth‹212› your grace to think but well of that which

Faustus hath performed.-But, gracious lady, it may be that you

have taken no pleasure in those sights; therefore, I pray you

tell me, what is the thing you most desire to have; be it in the

world, it shall be yours: I have heard that great-bellied women

do long for things are rare and dainty.

DUCHESS. True, Master Doctor; and, since I find you so kind,

I will make known unto you what my heart desires to have; and,

were it now summer, as it is January, a dead time of the winter,

I would request no better meat than a dish of ripe grapes.

FAUSTUS. This is but a small matter.-Go, Mephistophilis; away!

[Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.]

Madam, I will do more than this for your content.

Re-Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with grapes.

Here now, taste you these: they should be good, for they come‹213›

from a far country, I can tell you.

DUKE. This makes me wonder more than all the rest, that at this

time of the year, when every tree is barren of his fruit, from

whence you had these ripe grapes.‹214›

FAUSTUS. Please it your grace, the year is divided into two

circles over the whole world; so that, when it is winter with

us, in the contrary circle it is likewise summer with them, as

in India, Saba, and such countries that lie far east, where

they have fruit twice a-year; from whence, by means of a swift

spirit that I have, I had these grapes brought, as you see.

DUCHESS. And, trust me, they are the sweetest grapes that e'er

I tasted.

[The CLOWNS bounce‹215› at the gate, within.]

DUKE. What rude disturbers have we at the gate—

Go, pacify their fury, set it ope,

And then demand of them what they would have.

[They knock again, and call out to talk with FAUSTUS.]

SERVANT. Why, how now, masters! what a coil is there!

What is the reason you disturb the Duke—

DICK [within]. We have no reason for it; therefore a fig for him!

SERVANT. Why, saucy varlets, dare you be so bold—

HORSE-COURSER [within]. I hope, sir, we have wit enough to be

more bold than welcome.

SERVANT. It appears so: pray, be bold elsewhere, and trouble

not the Duke.

DUKE. What would they have—

SERVANT. They all cry out to speak with Doctor Faustus.

CARTER [within]. Ay, and we will speak with him.

DUKE. Will you, sir—-Commit the rascals.

DICK [within]. Commit with us! he were as good commit with his

father as commit with us.

FAUSTUS. I do beseech your grace, let them come in;

They are good subject for‹216› a merriment.

DUKE. Do as thou wilt, Faustus; I give thee leave.

FAUSTUS. I thank your grace.

Enter ROBIN, DICK, CARTER, and HORSE-COURSER.

Why, how now, my good friends!

Faith, you are too outrageous: but, come near;

I have procur'd your pardons:‹217› welcome, all.

ROBIN. Nay, sir, we will be welcome for our money, and we will

pay for what we take.-What, ho! give's half a dozen of beer here,

and be hanged!

FAUSTUS. Nay, hark you; can you tell me‹218› where you are—

CARTER. Ay, marry, can I; we are under heaven.

SERVANT. Ay; but, Sir Saucebox, know you in what place—

HORSE-COURSER. Ay, ay, the house is good enough to drink in.

-Zouns, fill us some beer, or we'll break all the barrels in

the house, and dash out all your brains with your bottles!

FAUSTUS. Be not so furious: come, you shall have beer.-

My lord, beseech you give me leave a while;

I'll gage my credit 'twill content your grace.

DUKE. With all my heart, kind doctor; please thyself;

Our servants and our court's at thy command.

FAUSTUS. I humbly thank your grace.-Then fetch some beer.

HORSE-COURSER. Ay, marry, there spake‹219› a doctor, indeed!

and, faith, I'll drink a health to thy wooden leg for that word.

FAUSTUS. My wooden leg! what dost thou mean by that—

CARTER. Ha, ha, ha!-Dost hear him,‹220› Dick— he has forgot his

leg.

HORSE-COURSER. Ay, ay, he does not stand much upon that.

FAUSTUS. No, faith; not much upon a wooden leg.

CARTER. Good Lord, that flesh and blood should be so frail with

your worship! Do not you remember a horse-courser you sold a

horse to—

FAUSTUS. Yes, I remember I sold one a horse.

CARTER. And do you remember you bid he should not ride him‹221›

into the water—

FAUSTUS. Yes, I do very well remember that.

CARTER. And do you remember nothing of your leg—

FAUSTUS. No, in good sooth.

CARTER. Then, I pray you,‹222› remember your courtesy.

FAUSTUS. I‹223› thank you, sir.

CARTER. 'Tis not so much worth. I pray you, tell me one thing.

FAUSTUS. What's that—

CARTER. Be both your legs bed-fellows every night together—

FAUSTUS. Wouldst thou make a Colossus of me, that thou askest me

such questions—

CARTER. No, truly, sir; I would make nothing of you; but I would

fain know that.

Enter HOSTESS with drink.

FAUSTUS. Then, I assure thee certainly, they are.

CARTER. I thank you; I am fully satisfied.

FAUSTUS. But wherefore dost thou ask—

CARTER. For nothing, sir: but methinks you should have a wooden

bed-fellow of one of 'em.

HORSE-COURSER. Why, do you hear, sir— did not I‹224› pull off

one of your legs when you were asleep—

FAUSTUS. But I have it again, now I am awake: look you here, sir.

ALL. O, horrible! had the doctor three legs—

CARTER. Do you remember, sir, how you cozened me, and eat up my

load of--

[FAUSTUS, in the middle of each speech, charms them dumb.]

DICK. Do you remember how you made me wear an ape's--

HORSE-COURSER. You whoreson conjuring scab, do you remember how

you cozened me with a ho--

ROBIN. Ha'‹225› you forgotten me— you think to carry it away with

your hey-pass and re-pass: do you remember the dog's fa--

[Exeunt CLOWNS.]

HOSTESS. Who pays for the ale— hear you, Master Doctor; now you

have sent away my guess,‹226› I pray who shall pay me for my a--

[Exit HOSTESS.]

DUCHESS. My lord,

We are much beholding‹227› to this learned man.

DUKE. So are we, madam; which we will recompense

With all the love and kindness that we may:

His artful sport‹228› drives all sad thoughts away.

[Exeunt.]

Thunder and lightning. Enter DEVILS with covered dishes;

MEPHISTOPHILIS leads them into FAUSTUS'S study; then enter

WAGNER.

WAGNER. I think my master‹229› means to die shortly; he has made

his will, and given me his wealth, his house, his goods,‹230› and

store of golden plate, besides two thousand ducats ready-coined.

I wonder what he means: if death were nigh, he would not frolic

thus. He's now at supper with the scholars, where there's such

belly-cheer as Wagner in his life ne'er‹231› saw the like: and,

see where they come! belike the feast is ended.‹232›

[Exit.]

Enter FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, and two or three SCHOLARS.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Master Doctor Faustus, since our conference

about fair ladies, which was the beautifulest in all the world,

we have determined with ourselves that Helen of Greece was the

admirablest lady that ever lived: therefore, Master Doctor, if

you will do us so much favour as to let us see that peerless

dame of Greece, whom all the world admires for majesty, we should

think ourselves much beholding unto you.

FAUSTUS. Gentlemen,

For that I know your friendship is unfeign'd,

It is not Faustus' custom to deny

The just request of those that wish him well:

You shall behold that peerless dame of Greece,

No otherwise for pomp or majesty

Than when Sir Paris cross'd the seas with her,

And brought the spoils to rich Dardania.

Be silent, then, for danger is in words.

Music sounds. MEPHISTOPHILIS brings in HELEN; she passeth

over the stage.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Was this fair Helen, whose admired worth

Made Greece with ten years' war‹233› afflict poor Troy—

THIRD SCHOLAR. Too simple is my wit‹234› to tell her worth,

Whom all the world admires for majesty.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Now we have seen the pride of Nature's work,

We'll take our leaves: and, for this blessed sight,

Happy and blest be Faustus evermore!

FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell: the same wish I to you.

[Exeunt SCHOLARS.]

Enter an OLD MAN.

OLD MAN. O gentle Faustus, leave this damned art,

This magic, that will charm thy soul to hell,

And quite bereave thee of salvation!

Though thou hast now offended like a man,

Do not persever in it like a devil:

Yet, yet thou hast an amiable soul,

If sin by custom grow not into nature;

Then, Faustus, will repentance come too late;

Then thou art banish'd from the sight of heaven:

No mortal can express the pains of hell.

It may be, this my exhortation

Seems harsh and all unpleasant: let it not;

For, gentle son, I speak it not in wrath,

Or envy of thee,‹235› but in tender love,

And pity of thy future misery;

And so have hope that this my kind rebuke,

Checking thy body, may amend thy soul.

FAUSTUS. Where art thou, Faustus— wretch, what hast thou done—

Hell claims his right, and with a roaring voice

Says, "Faustus, come; thine hour is almost come;"

And Faustus now will come to do thee right.

[MEPHISTOPHILIS gives him a dagger.]

OLD MAN. O, stay, good Faustus, stay thy desperate steps!

I see an angel hover o'er thy head,

And, with a vial full of precious grace,

Offers to pour the same into thy soul:

Then call for mercy, and avoid despair.

FAUSTUS. O friend, I feel

Thy words to comfort my distressed soul!

Leave me a while to ponder on my sins.

OLD MAN. Faustus, I leave thee; but with grief of heart,

Fearing the enemy of thy hapless soul.

[Exit.]

FAUSTUS. Accursed Faustus, wretch, what hast thou done—

I do repent; and yet I do despair:

Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast:

What shall I do to shun the snares of death—

MEPHIST. Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul

For disobedience to my sovereign lord:

Revolt, or I'll in piece-meal tear thy flesh.

FAUSTUS. I do repent I e'er offended him.

Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord

To pardon my unjust presumption,

And with my blood again I will confirm

The former vow I made to Lucifer.

MEPHIST.‹236› Do it, then, Faustus, with unfeigned heart,

Lest greater dangers do attend thy drift.

FAUSTUS. Torment, sweet friend, that base and aged man,

That durst dissuade me from thy Lucifer,

With greatest torments‹237› that our hell affords.

MEPHIST. His faith is great; I cannot touch his soul;

But what I may afflict‹238› his body with

I will attempt, which is but little worth.

FAUSTUS. One thing, good servant, let me crave of thee,

To glut the longing of my heart's desire,-

That I may have unto my paramour

That heavenly Helen which I saw of late,

Whose sweet embraces may extinguish clean‹239›

Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow,

And keep my oath‹240› I made to Lucifer.

MEPHIST. This, or what else my Faustus shall desire,

Shall be perform'd in twinkling of an eye.

Re-enter HELEN, passing over the stage between two CUPIDS.

FAUSTUS. Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships,

And burnt the topless towers of Ilium—-

Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.-

[Kisses her.]

Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies!-

Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.

Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,

And all is dross that is not Helena.

I will be Paris, and for love of thee,

Instead of Troy, shall Wittenberg be sack'd;

And I will combat with weak Menelaus,

And wear thy colours on my plumed crest;

Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel,

And then return to Helen for a kiss.

O, thou art fairer than the evening‹241› air

Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;

Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter

When he appear'd to hapless Semele;

More lovely than the monarch of the sky

In wanton Arethusa's azur'd‹242› arms;

And none but thou shalt‹243› be my paramour!

[Exeunt.]

Thunder. Enter LUCIFER, BELZEBUB, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

LUCIFER. Thus from infernal Dis do we ascend

To view the subjects of our monarchy,

Those souls which sin seals the black sons of hell;

'Mong which, as chief, Faustus, we come to thee,

Bringing with us lasting damnation

To wait upon thy soul: the time is come

Which makes it forfeit.

MEPHIST. And, this gloomy night,

Here, in this room, will wretched Faustus be.

BELZEBUB. And here we'll stay,

To mark him how he doth demean himself.

MEPHIST. How should he but in desperate lunacy—

Fond worldling, now his heart-blood dries with grief;

His conscience kills it; and his‹244› labouring brain

Begets a world of idle fantasies

To over-reach the devil; but all in vain;

His store of pleasures must be sauc'd with pain.

He and his servant Wagner are at hand;

Both come from drawing Faustus' latest will.

See, where they come!

Enter FAUSTUS and WAGNER.

FAUSTUS. Say, Wagner,-thou hast perus‹'›d my will,-

How dost thou like it—

WAGNER. Sir, So wondrous well,

As in all humble duty I do yield

My life and lasting service for your love.

FAUSTUS. Gramercy,‹245› Wagner.

Enter SCHOLARS.

Welcome, Gentlemen.

[Exit WAGNER.]

FIRST SCHOLAR. Now, worthy Faustus, methinks your looks are chang'd.

FAUSTUS. O, gentlemen!

SECOND SCHOLAR. What ails Faustus—

FAUSTUS. Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived with thee,

then had I lived still! but now must die eternally. Look, sirs,

comes he not— comes he not—

FIRST SCHOLAR. O my dear Faustus, what imports this fear—

SECOND SCHOLAR. Is all our pleasure turn'd to melancholy—

THIRD SCHOLAR. He is not well with being over-solitary.

SECOND SCHOLAR. If it be so, we'll have physicians,

And Faustus shall be cur'd.

THIRD SCHOLAR. 'Tis but a surfeit, sir;‹246› fear nothing.

FAUSTUS. A surfeit of deadly‹247› sin, that hath damned both

body and soul.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven, and remember

mercy is infinite.

FAUSTUS. But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned: the serpent

that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus. O gentlemen,

hear me‹248› with patience, and tremble not at my speeches! Though

my heart pant and quiver to remember that I have been a student

here these thirty years, O, would I had never‹249› seen Wittenberg,

never read book! and what wonders I have done, all Germany can

witness, yea, all the world; for which Faustus hath lost both

Germany and the world, yea, heaven itself, heaven, the seat of

God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of joy; and must

remain in hell for ever, hell. O, hell, for ever! Sweet friends,

what shall become of Faustus, being in hell for ever—

SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet, Faustus, call on God.

FAUSTUS. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured! on God, whom Faustus

hath blasphemed! O my God, I would weep! but the devil draws in

my tears. Gush forth blood, instead of tears! yea, life and soul!

O, he stays my tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see, they

hold 'em, they hold 'em— ‹'—' sic›

ALL. Who, Faustus—

FAUSTUS. Why, Lucifer and Mephistophilis. O gentlemen, I gave

them my soul for my cunning!

ALL. O, God forbid!

FAUSTUS. God forbade it, indeed; but Faustus hath done it: for

the vain pleasure of four-and-twenty years hath Faustus lost

eternal joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own blood:

the date is expired; this is the time, and he will fetch me.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Why did not Faustus tell us of this before,

that divines might have prayed for thee—

FAUSTUS. Oft have I thought to have done so; but the devil

threatened to tear me in pieces, if I named God, to fetch me

body and soul, if I once gave ear to divinity: and now 'tis‹250›

too late. Gentlemen, away, lest you perish with me.

SECOND SCHOLAR. O, what may we do to save Faustus—

FAUSTUS. Talk not of me, but save yourselves, and depart.

THIRD SCHOLAR. God will strengthen me; I will stay with Faustus.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let us into the

next room, and pray for him.

FAUSTUS. Ay, pray for me, pray for me; and what noise soever

you hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Pray thou, and we will pray that God may have mercy

upon thee.

FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell: if I live till morning, I'll visit

you; if not, Faustus is gone to hell.

ALL. Faustus, farewell.

[Exeunt SCHOLARS.]

MEPHIST. Ay, Faustus, now thou hast no hope of heaven;

Therefore despair; think only upon hell,

For that must be thy mansion, there to dwell.

FAUSTUS. O thou bewitching fiend, 'twas thy temptation

Hath robb'd me of eternal happiness!

MEPHIST. I do confess it, Faustus, and rejoice:

'Twas I that, when thou wert i'the way to heaven,

Damm'd up thy passage; when thou took'st the book

To view the Scriptures, then I turn'd the leaves,

And led thine eye.‹251›

What, weep'st thou— 'tis too late; despair! Farewell:

Fools that will laugh on earth must weep in hell.

[Exit.]‹252›

Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL at several doors.

GOOD ANGEL. 0 Faustus, if thou hadst given ear to me,

Innumerable joys had follow'd thee!

But thou didst love the world.

EVIL ANGEL. Gave ear to me,

And now must taste hell-pains‹253› perpetually.

GOOD ANGEL. O, what will all thy riches, pleasures, pomps,

Avail thee now—

EVIL ANGEL. Nothing, but vex thee more,

To want in hell, that had on earth such store.

GOOD ANGEL. 0, thou hast lost celestial happiness,

Pleasures unspeakable, bliss without end

Hadst thou affected sweet divinity,

Hell or the devil had had no power on thee:

Hadst thou kept on that way, Faustus, behold,

[Music, while a throne descends.]

In what resplendent glory thou hadst sit‹254›

In yonder throne, like those bright-shining saints,

And triumph'd over hell! That hast thou lost;

And now, poor soul, must thy good angel leave thee:

The jaws of hell are open‹255› to receive thee.

[Exit. The throne ascends.]

EVIL ANGEL. Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare

[Hell is discovered.]

Into that vast perpetual torture-house:

There are the Furies tossing damned souls

On burning forks; there bodies boil‹256› in lead;

There are live quarters broiling on the coals,

That ne'er can die; this ever-burning chair

Is for o'er-tortur'd souls to rest them in;

These that are fed with sops of flaming fire,

Were gluttons, and lov'd only delicates,

And laugh'd to see the poor starve at their gates:

But yet all these are nothing; thou shalt see

Ten thousand tortures that more horrid be.

FAUSTUS. O, I have seen enough to torture me!

EVIL ANGEL. Nay, thou must feel them, taste the smart of all:

He that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall:

And so I leave thee, Faustus, till anon;

Then wilt thou tumble in confusion.

[Exit. Hell disappears.-The clock strikes eleven.]

FAUSTUS. O Faustus,

Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,

And then thou must be damn'd perpetually!

Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,

That time may cease, and midnight never come;

Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make

Perpetual day; or let this hour be but

A year, a month, a week, a natural day,

That Faustus may repent and save his soul!

O lente, lente currite, noctis equi!

The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,

The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd.

O, I'll leap up to heaven!-Who pulls me down—-

See, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!‹257›

One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!-

Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ;

Yet will I call on him: O, spare me, Lucifer!-

Where is it now— 'tis gone:

And, see, a threatening arm, an‹258› angry brow!

Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me,

And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven!

No!

Then will I headlong run into the earth:

Gape, earth! O, no, it will not harbour me!

You stars that reign'd at my nativity,

Whose influence hath‹259› allotted death and hell,

Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist,

Into the entrails of yon‹260› labouring cloud[s],

That, when you‹261› vomit forth into the air,

My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths;

But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven!

[The clock strikes the half-hour.]

O, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon.

O, if‹262› my soul must suffer for my sin,

Impose some end to my incessant pain;

Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,

A hundred thousand, and at last‹263› be sav'd!

No end is limited to damned souls.

Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul—

Or why is this immortal that thou hast—

O, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true,

This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd

Into some brutish beast! all beasts are happy,

For, when they die,

Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements;

But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell.

Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me!

No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer

That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven.

[The clock strikes twelve.]

It strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air,

Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!

O soul, be chang'd into small water-drops,

And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!

Thunder. Enter DEVILS.

O, mercy, heaven! look not so fierce on me!

Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while!

Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer!

I'll burn my books!-O Mephistophilis!

[Exeunt DEVILS with FAUSTUS.]

Enter SCHOLARS.‹264›

FIRST SCHOLAR. Come, gentlemen, let us go visit Faustus,

For such a dreadful night was never seen;

Since first the world's creation did begin,

Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard:

Pray heaven the doctor have escap'd the danger.

SECOND SCHOLAR.

O, help us, heaven!‹265› see, here are Faustus' limbs,

All torn asunder by the hand of death!

THIRD SCHOLAR.

The devils whom Faustus serv'd have‹266› torn him thus;

For, twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought,

I heard him shriek and call aloud for help;

At which self‹267› time the house seem'd all on fire

With dreadful horror of these damned fiends.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end be such

As every Christian heart laments to think on,

Yet, for he was a scholar once admir'd

For wondrous knowledge in our German schools,

We'll give his mangled limbs due burial;

And all the students, cloth'd in mourning black,

Shall wait upon his heavy funeral.

[Exeunt.]

Enter CHORUS.

CHORUS. Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,

And burned is Apollo's laurel-bough,

That sometime grew within this learned man.

Faustus is gone: regard his hellish fall,

Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise,

Only to wonder at unlawful things,

Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits

To practise more than heavenly power permits.

[Exit.]

Terminat hora diem; terminat auctor opus.

‹1› Carthagens] So 4tos 1616, 1624, (and compare 4to 1604,

p. 79).-2to 1631 "Carthagen."

‹p. 79. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"Where Mars did mate the Carthaginians;"›

‹2› her] Old eds. "his."

‹3› of] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "and."

‹4› upon] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624‹,› 1631‹,› "on the."

‹5› thousand] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "diuers."

‹6› them] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "men."

‹7› legatur] Old eds. "legatus."

‹8› petty] I may notice that 4to 1604 has "pretty," which is

perhaps the right reading.

‹9› &c.] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-Not in 4to 1616.

‹10› circles, scenes, letters, and characters] So 4to 1604 (see

note ‡‡, p. 80).-The later 4tos "circles, letters, characters."

‹Note ‡‡, from p. 80. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"scenes] "And sooner may a gulling weather-spie

By drawing forth heavens SCEANES tell certainly," &c.

Donne's FIRST SATYRE,-p. 327, ed. 1633."›

‹11› gain] So 4tos 1624, 1631 (and so 4to 1604).-2to 1616 "get."

‹12› these] See note §, p. 80.

‹Note §, from p. 80. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"these elements] So again, "Within the bowels of THESE

elements," &c., ‹on› p. 87, first col,-"THESE" being

equivalent to THE. (Not unfrequently in our old writers

THESE is little more than redundant.)"›

‹13› enterprise] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "enterprises."

‹14› make swift Rhine circle fair] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631,

"WITH swift Rhine circle ALL."

‹15› silk] Old eds. "skill."

‹16› blest] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "wise."

‹17› Swarm] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "Sworne."

‹18› to] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹19› have] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "has."

‹20› shall they] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "they shall."

‹21› huge] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "whole."

‹22› stuffs] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "stuff'd."

‹23› renowm'd] So 4to 1616 (See note ||, p. 11).-2tos 1624,

1631, "renown'd."

‹Note ||, from p. 11. (The First Part of Tamburlaine the

Great):

"renowmed] i.e. renowned.-So the 8vo.-The 4to "renowned."

-The form "RENOWMED" (Fr. RENOMME) occurs repeatedly

afterwards in this play, according to the 8vo. It is

occasionally found in writers posterior to Marlowe's

time. e.g.

"Of Constantines great towne RENOUM'D in vaine."

Verses to King James, prefixed to Lord Stirling's

MONARCHICKE TRAGEDIES, ed. 1607."›

‹24› Albertus'] Old eds. "Albanus."

‹25› that] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "the."

‹26› him] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹27› Enter Faustus] Old eds. "Thunder. Enter Lucifer and

4 deuils, Faustus to them with this speech,"-wrongly.

‹28› her] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "his."

‹29› erring] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "euening."

‹30› Mephistophilis Dragon, quod tumeraris] See note *, p. 83.

‹Note *, from p. 83. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"surgat Mephistophilis, quod tumeraris] The later 4tos have

"surgat Mephistophilis DRAGON, quod tumeraris."-There is a

corruption here, which seems to defy emendation. For "quod

TUMERARIS," Mr. J. Crossley, of Manchester, would read

(rejecting the word "Dragon") "quod TU MANDARES" (the

construction being "quod tu mandares ut Mephistophilis

appareat et surgat"): but the "tu" does not agree with the

preceding "vos."-The Revd. J. Mitford proposes "surgat

Mephistophilis, per Dragon (or Dagon) quod NUMEN EST AERIS."›

‹31› dicatus] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "dicatis."

‹32› came hither] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "came NOW hether."

‹33› speeches] So 4to 1604.-Not in the later 4tos.

‹34› accidens] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "accident."

‹35› fell] So 4to 1604.-The later 4tos "liue."

‹36› strike] So 4to 1631.-2tos 1616, 1624, "strikes."

‹37› thorough] So 4to 1631.-2tos 1616, 1624, "through."

‹38› Sirrah] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹39› save] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "spare."

‹40› again] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-Not in 4to 1616.

‹41› or] Old eds. "for."

‹42› vestigiis nostris] Old eds. "vestigias nostras."

‹43› backward] So 4to 1616 (and so 4to 1604).-2tos 1624, 1631,

"backe."

‹44› Why] So 4to 1616 (and so 4to 1604).-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹45› that famous] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "that MOST famous."

‹46› of] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "be."

‹47› men] So 4tos 1624, 1631 (and so 4to 1604).-2to 1616 "them."

‹48› Mephistophile] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "Mephostophilis."

‹49› thee] So 4to 1604.-The later 4tos "him."

‹50› thine] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "thy."

‹51› And] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹52› my] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "thy."

‹53› Is it] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "It is."

‹54› soul] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹55› an] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-Not in 4to 1624.

‹56› should] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "shall."

‹57› God] So 4to 1604.-The later 4tos "heauen."

‹58› this scroll] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹59› he desires] Not in the 4tos. See note ‡, p. 86.

‹Note ‡, from p. 86. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"he desires] Not in any of the four 4tos. In the tract just

cited, ‹i.e. THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, ed. 1648.› the

"3d Article" stands thus,-"That Mephostophiles should bring

him any thing, and doe for him whatsoever." Sig. A 4, ed.

1648. A later ed. adds "he desired." Marlowe, no doubt,

followed some edition of the HISTORY in which these words,

or something equivalent to them, had been omitted by mistake.

(2to 1661, which I consider as of no authority, has "he

requireth.")"›

‹60› and] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-Not in 4to 1616.

‹61› with] So 4to 1604.-Not in the later 4tos.

‹62› the] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "that."

‹63› are] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "is."

‹64› hell's a fable] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "hell's a

MEERE fable."

‹65› thine] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "thy."

‹66› thy] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "thine."

‹67› was] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "were."

‹68› harness] i.e. armour.

‹69› This will I keep as chary as my life.

[Exeunt.]

Enter FAUSTUS, in his study, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

FAUSTUS. When I behold the heavens, &c.]

Old eds. (that is, 4tos 1616, 1624, 1631) thus;

"This will I keepe, as chary as my life.

[Exeunt.]

Enter WAGNER solus.

WAGNER. Learned Faustus

To know the secrets of Astronomy

Grauen in the booke of Joues high firmament,

Did mount himselfe to scale Olympus top,

Being seated in a chariot burning bright,

Drawne by the strength of yoaky [2to 1624 "yoaked"] Dragons necks,

He now is gone to proue Cosmography,

And as I gesse will first arriue at Rome,

To see the Pope and manner of his Court;

And take some part of holy Peters feast,

That to [2tos 1624, 1631, "on"] this day is highly solemnized.

Exit WAGNER.

Enter FAUSTUS in his Study, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

FAUSTUS. When I behold the heauens," &c.

The lines which I have here omitted belong to a subsequent part

of the play, where they will be found with considerable additions,

and are rightly assigned to the CHORUS. (As given in the present

place by the 4tos 1616, 1624, 1631, these lines exhibit the text

of the earlier FAUSTUS; see p. 90, sec. col.) It would seem that

something was intended to intervene here between the exit of Faustus

and Mephistophilis, and their re-appearance on the stage: compare,

however, the preceding play, p. 88, first col.

‹p. 90, sec. col. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"FAUSTUS. Great thanks, mighty Lucifer!

This will I keep as chary as my life.

LUCIFER. Farewell, Faustus, and think on the devil.

FAUSTUS. Farewell, great Lucifer.

[Exeunt LUCIFER and BELZEBUB.]

Come, Mephistophilis.

[Exeunt.]

Enter CHORUS.

CHORUS. Learned Faustus,

To know the secrets of astronomy

Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament,

Did mount himself to scale Olympus' top,

Being seated in a chariot burning bright,

Drawn by the strength of yoky dragons' necks.

He now is gone to prove cosmography,

And, as I guess, will first arrive at Rome,

To see the Pope and manner of his court,

And take some part of holy Peter's feast,

That to this day is highly solemniz'd.

[Exit.]

Enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

FAUSTUS. Having now, my good Mephistophilis,

Pass'd with delight the stately town of Trier," etc.›

‹p. 88, first col. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):›

‹This part of the play does not have any relevance to characters

leaving the stage and re-entering.›

‹Perhaps the editor meant p. 93, first column.›

‹p. 93, first col. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"RALPH. O, brave, Robin! shall I have Nan Spit, and to mine

own use— On that condition I'll feed thy devil with horse-

bread as long as he lives, of free cost.

ROBIN. No more, sweet Ralph: let's go and make clean our

boots, which lie foul upon our hands, and then to our conjuring

in the devil's name.

[Exeunt.]

Enter ROBIN and RALPH with a silver goblet.

ROBIN. Come, Ralph: did not I tell thee, we were for ever

made by this Doctor Faustus' book— ecce, signum! here's a

simple purchase for horse-keepers: our horses shall eat

no hay as long as this lasts.

RALPH. But, Robin, here comes the Vintner."›

‹70› thine] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "thy."

‹71› is] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹72› breathes] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "breathe."

‹73› ears] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "eare."

‹74› this I] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "this TIME I."

‹75› termine] I may notice that 4to 1604 (see p. 88, sec. col.)

has "terminine," which at least is better for the metre.

‹p. 88, second column, (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"Whose terminine is term'd the world's wide pole;"›

‹76› erring] So 4to 1604.-The later 4tos "euening."

‹77› motion] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "motions."

‹78› Ay] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹79› and] So 4to 1631.-Not in 4tos 1616, 1624.

‹80› the] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-Not in 4to 1624.

‹81› lips] So 4to 1604.-Not in the later 4tos.

‹82› and ever since have run] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631,

"and HAUE EUER SINCE run."

‹83› this] So 4to 1604.-The later 4tos "these."

‹84› come] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "came."

‹85› I] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "I I."

‹86› L] Old eds. "Lechery." See note †, p. 90.

‹Note †, from p. 90. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"L.] All the 4tos "Lechery."-Here I have made the alteration

recommended by Mr. Collier in his Preface to COLERIDGE'S

SEVEN LECTURES ON SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON, p. cviii."›

‹87› Tut] So 4to 1604.-The later 4tos "But."

‹88› Robin] Old eds. "the Clowne" (and so frequently afterwards):

but he is evidently a distinct person from the "Clown," Wagner's

attendant, who has previously appeared (see p. 111). Most probably

the parts of the Clown and Robin were played by the same actor;

and hence the confusion in the old eds.

‹P. 111. (this play):

"Enter WAGNER and CLOWN.

WAGNER. Come hither, sirrah boy." etc.›

‹89› faith] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631 "i'faith." (And so

afterwards in this scene.)

‹90› not tell] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹91› as fair a] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "a faire."

‹92› need'st] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "needs."

‹93› hold, belly, hold] Compare Florio's DICT., 1611; "IOSA,

GOOD STORE, hold-bellie-hold."

‹94› Prithee] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "I prithee."

‹95› him] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-Not in 4to 1631.

‹96› He views] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "To view."

‹97› with this] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "with HIS." This

passage is sufficiently obscure.

‹98› round] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹99› Rhine] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "Rhines."

‹100› up to] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "vnto."

‹101› Quarter the town in four equivalents] So 4to 1604.-Not

in the later 4tos.

‹102› Thorough] so 4to 1631.-2tos 1616, 1624, "Through."

‹103› rest] So 4to 1604.-The later 4tos "East."

‹104› me] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-Not in 4to 1624.

‹105› us] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "you."

‹106› through] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "thorow."

‹107› Ponte] Old eds. "Ponto."

‹108› match] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "watch."

‹109› the] so 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "those."

‹110› in state and] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "this day with."

‹111› whilst] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "while."

‹112› thorough] So 4to 1631.-2tos 1616, 1624, "through."

‹113› my] Qy. "one"—

‹114› cunning] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "comming." (And so

in the fourth line of the next speech.)

‹115› this] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "his."

‹116› at] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "to."

‹117› it] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹118› And smite with death thy hated enterprise] So 4to 1616.

-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹119› our] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "the."

‹120› this] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "the."

‹121› have right] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "haue SOME right."

‹122› shall] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "shalt."

‹123› hath] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "haue."

‹124› synod] Qy. "HOLY synod"—

‹125› Ponte] Old eds. "Ponto."

‹126› his] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "this."

‹127› Sennet] Old eds. "Senit" and "Sonet". See note ||, p. 91.

‹Note ||, from p. 91. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"Sonnet] Variously written, SENNET, SIGNET, SIGNATE, &c.-A

particular set of notes on the trumpet, or cornet, different

from a flourish. See Nares's GLOSS. in V. SENNET."›

‹128› be] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "are."

‹129› them to] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "them FORTH to."

‹130› Archbishop.] Old eds. "Bish." and "Bishop" (and so afterwards).

‹131› you] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-Not in 4to 1624.

‹132› beholding] So 4to 1616 (see note †, p. 98).-2tos 1624,

1631, "beholden."

‹Note †, from p. 98. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"beholding] i.e. beholden."›

‹133› such] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "this."

‹134› it] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹135› his] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "this."

‹136› struck] Here the old eds. have "stroke" and "strooke:"

but in the next clause they all agree in having "strucke."

‹137› on] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-Not in 4to 1616.

‹138› same] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-Not in 4to 1631.

‹139› at the hard heels] The modern editors, ignorant of the old

phraseology, thought that they corrected this passage in printing

"hard at the heels."

‹140› Vintner] So all the old eds.; and presently Robin addresses

this person as "vintner:" yet Dick has just spoken of him as "the

Vintner's boy." See note ||, p. 93.

‹Note ||, from p. 93. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"Drawer] There is an inconsistency here: the Vintner cannot

properly be addressed as "Drawer." The later 4tos are also

inconsistent in the corresponding passage: Dick says, "THE

VINTNER'S BOY follows us at the hard heels," and immediately

the "VINTNER" enters."›

‹141› your] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-Not in 4to 1624.

‹142› much] Equivalent to-by no means, not at all. This ironical

exclamation is very common in our old dramatists. (Mr. Hunter,

-NEW ILLUST. OF SHAKESPEARE, ii. 56,-explains it very differently.)

‹143› By lady] i.e. By our Lady.

‹144› to] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-Not in 4to 1631.

‹145› tester] i.e. sixpence.

‹146› the state] i.e. the raised chair or throne, with a canopy.

‹147› perfect] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "warlike."

‹148› rouse] i.e. bumper.

‹149› a] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "ten."

‹150› a] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "the."

‹151› renowm'd] Old eds. "renown'd"; but earlier, p. 109, first

col., 4to 1616 has "renowm'd": ‹see note 23› and see note ||, p. 11.

‹Note ||, from p. 11. (The First Part of Tamburlaine the

Great):

"renowmed] i.e. renowned.-So the 8vo.-The 4to "renowned."

-The form "RENOWMED" (Fr. RENOMME) occurs repeatedly

afterwards in this play, according to the 8vo. It is

occasionally found in writers posterior to Marlowe's

time. e.g.

"Of Constantines great towne RENOUM'D in vaine."

Verses to King James, prefixed to Lord Stirling's

MONARCHICKE TRAGEDIES, ed. 1607."›

‹152› through] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "thorow."

‹153› These] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "Those."

‹154› through] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "thorow."

‹155› a] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-Not in 4to 1616.

‹156› this] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "the."

‹157› demand] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "demands."

‹158› door] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-Not in 4to 1616.

‹159› state] See note §, p. 122.‹i.e. note 146›-So 4tos 1616,

1631.-2to 1624 "seat."

‹160› These] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "They."

‹161› renowmed] Old eds. "renowned." See note ‡, p. 123.

‹i.e. note 151›

‹162› thoughts] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "thought."

‹163› whilst] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "while."

‹164› I gain'd] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "I HAD gain'd."

‹165› at window] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "at THE window."

‹166› is] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-Not in 4to 1616.

‹167› this is] So 4to 1624 (and rightly, as the next line

proves).-2tos 1616, 1631, "is this."

‹168› As] So 4to 1616.-2to 1624 "That."-2to 1631 "And."

‹169› Belimoth…Asteroth] Old eds. here "Belimote (and "Belimot")

…Asterote": but see p. 126, first col.

‹P. 126. (this play):

"But wherefore do I dally my revenge—-

Asteroth, Belimoth, Mephistophilis—"›

‹170› has] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "hath."

‹171› horns] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "horne."

‹172› sir] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-Not in 4to 1624.

‹173› of] i.e. on.

‹174› sway] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "stay."

‹175› this attempt against the conjurer] See note, * p. 95.

‹Note *, from p. 95. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"Mephistophilis, transform him straight] According to THE

HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS, the knight was not present during

Faustus's "conference" with the Emperor; nor did he offer

the doctor any insult by doubting his skill in magic. We

are there told that Faustus happening to see the knight

asleep, "leaning out of a window of the great hall," fixed

a huge pair of hart's horns on his head; "and, as the knight

awaked, thinking to pull in his head, he hit his hornes

against the glasse, that the panes thereof flew about his

eares: thinke here how this good gentleman was vexed, for

he could neither get backward nor forward." After the emperor

and the courtiers, to their great amusement, had beheld the

poor knight in this condition, Faustus removed the horns.

When Faustus, having taken leave of the emperor, was a league

and a half from the city, he was attacked in a wood by the

knight and some of his companions: they were in armour, and

mounted on fair palfreys; but the doctor quickly overcame

them by turning all the bushes into horsemen, and "so

charmed them, that every one, knight and other, for the

space of a whole moneth, did weare a paire of goates

hornes on their browes, and every palfry a paire of oxe

hornes on his head; and this was their penance appointed

by Faustus." A second attempt of the knight to revenge

himself on Faustus proved equally unsuccessful. Sigs. G 2,

I 3, ed. 1648."›

‹176› that] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "the."

‹177› my] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "thy."

‹178› that] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "the."

‹179› an] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹180› boldly] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "brauely."

‹181› heart's] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "heart."

‹182› that] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "the."

‹183› the] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "that."

‹184› now] so 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹185› art] Old eds. "heart" (which, after all, may be right).

‹186› there] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "here."

‹187› his] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-Not in 3to‹sic› 1616.

‹188› pull] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "put."

‹189› all] Old eds. "call."

‹190› through] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "thorow."

‹191› Amongst] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "Among."

‹192› Enter the ambushed Soldiers] Here (though it seems that

Faustus does not quit the stage) a change of scene is supposed.

‹193› these] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "the."

‹194› the door] i.e. the stage-door,-the writer here addressing

himself to THE ACTOR only, for the scene lies in a wood.

‹195› Zounds] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616, "Zons."

‹196› all are] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "are all."

‹197› these] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "this."

‹198› escape] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "scape."

‹199› has] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "hath."

‹200› you] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹201› guess] A corruption of guests (very frequent in our early

dramatists) which occurs again at p. 130. first col. So 4to

1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "guests." ‹See note 226.›

‹202› thou] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹203› now] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹204› sir] Qy. "sirs"— but see the next speech of the Carter,

and the next speech but one of the Horse-courser, who, in his

narrative, uses both "sirs" and "sir."

‹205› As I was going to Wittenberg, t'other day, &c.] See THE

HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, Chap. xxxv,-"How Doctor Faustus eat

a load of hay."-The Carter does not appear in the earlier play.

‹206› my] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹207› cursen] i.e. christened.

‹208› some quality] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "some RARE

quality."

‹209› rid] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "ride."

‹210› that enchanted castle in the air] This is not mentioned in

the earlier play: but see THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, Chap xl,

-"How Doctor Faustus through his charmes made a great Castle in

presence of the Duke of Anholt."

‹211› delighted] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "delighteth."

‹212› it pleaseth] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "it HATH PLEASED."

‹213› come] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "came."

‹214› these ripe grapes] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "these

grapes."

‹215› The Clowns bounce, &c] 2to 1616 "The CLOWNE bounce." 2tos

1624, 1631, "The CLOWNE BOUNCETH." (In the next stage-direction

all the 4tos have "THEY knock again," &c.)

‹216› for] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "to."

‹217› pardons] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "pardon."

‹218› me] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹219› spake] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "spoke."

‹220› Dost hear him] So 4to 1616.-2to 1624 "dost THOU heare ME."

2to 1631 "dost THOU heare him."

‹221› him] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-Not in 4to 1616.

‹222› you] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-Not in 4to 1616 (but compare the

Carter's next speech).

‹223› I] So 4to 1616.-Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.

‹224› not I] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "I not."

‹225› Ha'] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "Haue."

‹226› guess] See note §, p. 127. ‹i.e. note 201› So 4to 1616.

-2tos 1624, 1631, "guests."

‹227› beholding] So 4tos 1616, 1624, (see note †, p. 98).-2to

1631 "beholden."

‹Note †, from p. 98. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"beholding] i.e. beholden."›

‹228› sport] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "sports."

‹229› I think my master, &c.] The alterations which this speech

has undergone will hardly admit of its arrangement as verse:

compare the earlier play, p. 98, first col.

‹p. 98, first col. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"Enter WAGNER.

WAGNER. I think my master means to die shortly,

For he hath given to me all his goods:

And yet, methinks, if that death were near,

He would not banquet, and carouse, and swill

Amongst the students, as even now he doth,

Who are at supper with such belly-cheer

As Wagner ne'er beheld in all his life.

See, where they come! belike the feast is ended.

[Exit.]"›

‹230› goods] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-2to 1624 "good."

‹231› ne'er] so 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "neuer."

‹232› ended] so 4tos 1624, 1631, (and so 4to 1604).-2to 1616 "done."

‹233› war] Old eds. "warres."

‹234› wit] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-2to 1631 "will."

‹235› Or envy of thee] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "Or OF enuie

TO thee."

‹236› MEPHIST.] This and the next prefix are omitted in the old

eds.

‹237› torments] So 4tos 1624, 1631 (and so 4to 1604).-2to 1616

"torment."

‹238› I may afflict] So 4to 1616.-2to 1624 "I afflict."-2to

1631 "I CAN afflict."

‹239› clean] So 4to 1604.-The later 4tos "clear."

‹240› oath] So 4to 1604.-The later 4tos "vow."

‹241› evening] So 4to 1604.-The later 4tos "euenings."

‹242› azur'd] So 4to 1624 (a reading which I prefer only because

it is also that of 4to 1604.)-2tos 1616, 1631, "azure."

‹243› shalt] See note *, p. 100.

‹Note *, from p. 100. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"shalt] So all the 4tos; and so I believe Marlowe wrote,

though the grammar requires "shall."›

‹244› his] So 4tos 1616, 1631.-Not in 4to 1624.

‹245› Gramercy] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "Gramercies."

‹246› sir] So 4tos 1616, 1624.-Not in 4to 1631.

‹247› of deadly] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "of A deadly."

‹248› me] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-Not in 4to 1616.

‹249› never] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "nere."

‹250› 'tis] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "IT is."

‹251› And led thine eye] A portion of this line has evidently

dropt out.

‹252› Exit] It seems doubtful whether Lucifer and Belzebub should

also make their exeunt here, or whether they remain to witness

the catastrophe: see p. 132, first col.

‹P. 132, first column. (this play):

"MEPHIST. And, this gloomy night,

Here, in this room, will wretched Faustus be.

BELZEBUB. And here we'll stay,

To mark him how he doth demean himself." etc.›

‹253› hell-pains] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "HELS paines."

‹254› sit] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "set."

‹255› are open] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "IS READIE."

‹256› boil] So 4tos 1624, 1631.-2to 1616 "BROYLE."

‹257› See, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament] So 4tos

1624, 1631.-Not in 4to 1616.

‹258› an] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "and."

‹259› hath] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "haue."

‹260› yon] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "your."

‹261› you, &c.] See note *, p. 101.

‹Note *, from p. 101. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"That, when you, &c.] So all the old eds.; and it is certain

that awkward changes of person are sometimes found in passages

of our early poets: but qy.,-

"That, when THEY vomit forth into the air,

My limbs may issue from THEIR smoky mouths," &c.—"›

‹262› 0, if, &c.] 2to 1604, in the corresponding passage, has

"Oh, GOD, if," &c. (see p. 101, sec. col.), and that reading

seems necessary for the sense.

‹P. 101, sec. col. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604):

"Ah, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon

O God,

If thou wilt not have mercy on my soul,

Yet for Christ's sake, whose blood hath ransom'd me,

Impose some end to my incessant pain;" etc.›

‹263› at last] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "at THE last."

‹264› Enter Scholars] Here, of course, a change of scene is

supposed. (This is not in the earlier play.)

‹265› heaven] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "heauens."

‹266› devils… have] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631,

"DIUELL… HATH."

‹267› self] So 4to 1616.-2tos 1624, 1631, "same."

Egmont by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

Translated by Anna Swanwick

Introductory Note

In 1775, when Goethe was twenty-six, and before he went to Weimar, he began to write "Egmont" After working on it at intervals for twelve years, he finished it at Rome in 1787.

The scene of the drama is laid in the Low Countries at the beginning of the revolt against Spain. In the fifteenth century Philip of Burgundy had usurped dominion over several of the provinces of the Netherlands, and through him they had passed into the power of his descendant, the Emperor Charles V. This powerful ruler abolished the constitutional rights of the provinces, and introduced the Inquisition in order to stamp out Protestantism. Prominent among his officers was the Fleming, Lamoral, Count Egmont, upon whom he lavished honors and opportunities of service-opportunities so well improved that, by his victories over the French at Saint-Quentin (1557) and Gravelines (1558) Egmont made a reputation as one of the most brilliant generals in Europe, and became the idol of his countrymen. When in 1559 a new Regent of the Netherlands was to be created, the people hoped that Philip II, who had succeeded Charles, would choose Egmont; but instead he appointed his half-sister Margaret, Duchess of Parma. Under the new Regent the persecution of the Protestants was rigorously pressed, and in 1565 Egmont, though a Catholic, was sent to Madrid to plead for clemency. He was received by the King with every appearance of cordiality, but shortly after his return home the Duke of Alva was sent to the Netherlands with instructions to put down with an iron hand all resistance to his master's will. How terribly he carried out his orders has been told by Prescott and Motley. Egmont was an early victim, but his martyrdom, with that of Count Horn, and later the assassination of William of Orange, roused the Netherlands to a resistance that ended only with the complete throwing off of the Spanish yoke.

Such in outline is the background chosen by Goethe for his tragedy. With many changes in detail, the dramatist has still preserved a picture of a historical situation of absorbing interest, and has painted a group of admirable portraits. The drama has long been a favorite on the stage, where it enjoys the advantage of Beethoven's musical setting.

EGMONT

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Margaret of Parma, (Daughter of Charles V., and Regent of the

Netherlands)

Count Egmont, (Prince of Gaure)

The Duke of Alva

William of Orange

Ferdinand, (his natural Son)

Machiavel, in the service of the Regent

Richard, (Egmont's Private Secretary)

Silva, Gomez, (in the service of Alva)

Clara, (the Beloved of Egmont)

Her Mother

Brackenburg, (a Citizen's Son), and Vansen, (a Clerk)

Soest, (a Shopkeeper), Jetter, (a Tailor), A Carpenter, A Soapboiler

(Citizens of Brussels)

Buyck, (a Hollander), a Soldier under Egmont

Ruysum, (a Frieslander), an invalid Soldier, and deaf

People, Attendants, Guards, &c.

The Scene is laid in Brussels.

ACT I

Scene I. -Soldiers and Citizens (with cross-bows)

Jetter (steps forward, and bends his cross-bow).

Soest, Buyck, Ruysum

Soest. Come, shoot away, and have done with it! You won't beat me!

Three black rings, you never made such a shot in all your life. And so I'm

master for this year.

Jetter. Master and king to boot; who envies you— You'll have to pay

double reckoning; 'tis only fair you should pay for your dexterity.

Buyck. Jetter, I'll buy your shot, share the prize, and treat the company. I

have already been here so long, and am a debtor for so many civilities. If I

miss, then it shall be as if you had shot.

Soest. I ought to have a voice, for in fact I am the loser. No matter! Come,

Buyck, shoot away.

Buyck (shoots). Now, corporal, look out!-One! Two! Three! Four!

Soest. Four rings! So be it!

All. Hurrah! Long live the King! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Buyck. Thanks, sirs, master even were too much! Thanks for the honour.

Jetter. You have no one to thank but yourself. Ruysum. Let me tell you-

Soest. How now, grey-beard—

Ruysum. Let me tell you!-He shoots like his master, he shoots like

Egmont.

Buyck. Compared with him I am only a bungler. He aims with the rifle as

no one else does. Not only when he's lucky or in the vein; no! he levels,

and the bull's-eye is pierced. I have learned from him. He were indeed a

blockhead, who could serve under him and learn nothing!-But, sirs, let us

not forget! A king maintains his followers; and so, wine here, at the king's

charge!

Jetter. We have agreed among ourselves that each-

Buyck. I am a foreigner, and a king, and care not a jot for your laws and

customs.

Jetter. Why, you are worse than the Spaniard, who has not yet ventured to

meddle with them.

Ruysum. What does he say—

Soest (loud to Ruysum). He wants to treat us; he will not hear of our

clubbing together, the king paying only a double share.

Ruysum. Let him! under protest, however! 'Tis his master's fashion, too, to

be munificent, and to let the money flow in a good cause. (Wine is

brought.)

All. Here's to his Majesty! Hurrah!

Jetter (to Buyck). That means your Majesty, of course, Buyck. My hearty

thanks, if it be so.

Soest. Assuredly! A Netherlander does not find it easy to drink the health

of his Spanish majesty from his heart.

Ruysum. Who—

Soest (aloud). Philip the Second, King of Spain.

Ruysum. Our most gracious king and master! Long life

to him.

Soest. Did you not like his father, Charles the Fifth, better—

Ruysum. God bless him! He was a king indeed! His hand reached over the

whole earth, and he was all in all. Yet, when he met you, he'd greet you

just as one neighbour

greets another,-and if you were frightened, he knew so well how to put

you at your ease-ay, you understand me-he walked out, rode out, just as

it came into his head, with very few followers. We all wept when he

resigned the government here to his son. You understand me-he is

another sort of man, he's more majestic.

Jetter. When he was here, he never appeared in public, except in pomp and

royal state. He speaks little, they say.

Soest. He is no king for us Netherlanders. Our princes must be joyous and

free like ourselves, must live and let live. We will neither be despised nor

oppressed, good-natured fools though we be.

Jetter. The king, methinks, were a gracious sovereign enough, if he had

only better counsellors.

Soest. No, no! He has no affection for us Netherlanders; he has no heart

for the people; he loves us not; how then can we love him— Why is

everybody so fond of Count Egmont— Why are we all so devoted to him—

Why, because one can read in his face that he loves us; because

joyousness, open-heartedness, and good-nature, speak in his eyes; because

he possesses nothing that he does not share with him who needs it, ay, and

with him who needs it not. Long live Count Egmont! Buyck, it is for you

to give the first toast; give us your master's health.

Buyck. With all my heart; here's to Count Egmont! Hurrah!

Ruysum Conqueror of St. Quintin.

Buyck. The hero of Gravelines.

All. Hurrah!

Ruysum. St. Quintin was my last battle. I was hardly able to crawl along,

and could with difficulty carry my heavy rifle. I managed,

notwithstanding, to singe the skin of the French once more, and, as a

parting gift, received a grazing shot in my right leg.

Buyck. Gravelines! Ha, my friends, we had sharp work of it there! The

victory was all our own. Did not those French dogs carry fire and

desolation into the very heart of Flanders— We gave it them, however! The

old hard-listed veterans held out bravely for a while, but we pushed on,

fired away, and laid about us, till they made wry faces, and their lines gave

way. Then Egmont's horse was shot under him; and for a long time we

fought pell-mell, man to man, horse to horse, troop to troop, on the broad,

flat, sea-sand. Suddenly, as if from heaven, down came the cannon shot

from the mouth of the river, bang, bang, right into the midst of the French.

These were English, who, under Admiral Malin, happened to be sailing

past from Dunkirk. They did not help us much, 'tis true; they could only

approach with their smallest vessels, and that not near enough; -besides,

their shot fell sometimes among our troops. It did some good, however! It

broke the French lines, and raised our courage. Away it went. Helter-

skelter! topsy-turvy! all struck dead, or forced into the water; the fellows

were drowned the moment they tasted the water, while we Hollanders

dashed in after them. Being amphibious, we were as much in our element

as frogs, and hacked away at the enemy, and shot them down as if they

had been ducks. The few who struggled through, were struck dead in their

flight by the peasant women, armed with hoes and pitchforks. His Gallic

majesty was compelled at once to hold out his paw and make peace. And

that peace you owe to us, to the great Egmont.

All. Hurrah, for the great Egmont! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Jetter. Had they but appointed him Regent, instead of Margaret of Parma!

Soest. Not so! Truth is truth! I'll not hear Margaret abused. Now it is my

turn. Long live our gracious lady!

All. Long life to her!

Soest. Truly, there are excellent women in that family. Long live the

Regent!

Jetter. Prudent is she, and moderate in all she does; if she would only not

hold so fast and stiffly with the priests. It is partly her fault, too, that we

have the fourteen new mitres in the land. Of what use are they, I should

like to know— Why, that foreigners may be shoved into the good benefices,

where formerly abbots were chosen out of the chapters! And we're to

believe it's for the sake of religion. We know better. Three bishops were

enough for us; things went on decently and reputably. Now each must

busy himself as if he were needed; and this gives rise every moment to

dissensions and ill-will. And the more you agitate the matter, so much the

worse it grows. (They drink.)

Soest. But it was the will of the king; she cannot alter it, one way or

another.

Jetter. Then we may not even sing the new psalms; but ribald songs, as

many as we please. And why— There is heresy in them, they say, and

heaven knows what. I have sung some of them, however; they are new, to

be sure, but I see no harm in them.

Buyck. Ask their leave, forsooth! In our province, we sing just what we

please. That's because Count Egmont is our stadtholder, who does not

trouble himself about such matters. In Ghent, Ypres, and throughout the

whole of Flanders, anybody sings them that chooses. (Aloud to Ruysum.)

There is nothing more harmless than a spiritual song-Is there, father—

Ruysum. What, indeed! It is a godly work, and truly edifying.

Jetter. They say, however, that they are not of the right sort, not of their

sort, and, since it is dangerous, we had better leave them alone. The

officers of the Inquisition are always lurking and spying about; many an

honest fellow has already fallen into their clutches. They had not gone so

far as to meddle with conscience! If they will not allow me to do what I

like, they might at least let me think and sing as I please.

Soest. The Inquisition won't do here. We are not made like the Spaniards,

to let our consciences be tyrannized over. The nobles must look to it, and

clip its wings betimes.

Jetter. It is a great bore. Whenever it comes into their worships' heads to

break into my house, and I am sitting there at my work, humming a French

psalm, thinking nothing about it, neither good nor bad-singing it just

because it is in my throat;-forthwith I'm a heretic, and am clapped into

prison. Or if I am passing through the country, and stand near a crowd

listening to a new preacher, one of those who have come from Germany;

instantly I'm called a rebel, and am in danger of losing my head! Have you

ever heard one of these preachers—

Soest. Brave fellows! Not long ago, I heard one of them preach in a field,

before thousands and thousands of people. A different sort of dish he gave

us from that of our humdrum preachers, who, from the pulpit, choke their

hearers with scraps of Latin. He spoke from his heart; told us how we had

till now been led by the nose, how we had been kept in darkness, and how

we might procure more light;-ay, and he proved it all out of the Bible.

Jetter. There may be something in it. I always said as much, and have

often pondered over the matter. It has long been running in my head.

Buyck. All the people run after them.

Soest. No wonder, since they hear both what is good and what is new.

Jetter. And what is it all about— Surely they might let every one preach

after his own fashion.

Buyck. Come, sirs! While you are talking, you; forget the wine and the

Prince of Orange.

Jetter. We must not forget him. He's a very wall of defence. In thinking of

him, one fancies, that if one could only hide behind him, the devil himself

could not get at one.

Here's to William of Orange! Hurrah!

All. Hurrah! Hurrah!

Soest. Now, grey-heard, let's have your toast.

Ruysum. Here's to old soldiers! To all soldiers! War for ever!

Buyck. Bravo, old fellow. Here's to all soldiers. War for ever!

Jetter. War! War! Do ye know what ye are shouting about— That it should

slip glibly from your tongue is natural enough; but what wretched work it

is for us, I have not words to tell you. To be stunned the whole year round

by the beating of the drum; to hear of nothing except how one troop

marched here, and another there; how they came over this height, and

halted near that mill; how many were left dead on this field, and how

many on that; how they press forward, and how one wins, and another

loses, without being able to comprehend what they are fighting about; how

a town is taken, how the citizens are put to the sword, and how it fares

with the poor women and innocent children. This is a grief and a trouble,

and then one thinks every moment, "Here they come! It will be our turn

next."

Soest. Therefore every citizen must be practised in the use of arms.

Jetter. Fine talking, indeed, for him who has a wife and children. And yet I

would rather hear of soldiers than see them.

Buyck. I might take offence at that.

Jetter. It was not intended for you, countryman. When we got rid of the

Spanish garrison, we breathed freely again.

Soest. Faith! They pressed on you heavily enough.

Jetter. Mind your own business.

Soest. They came to sharp quarters with you.

Jetter. Hold your tongue.

Soest. They drove him out of kitchen, cellar, chamber-and bed. (They

laugh.)

Jetter. You are a blockhead.

Buyck. Peace, sirs! Must the soldier cry peace— Since you will not hear

anything about us, let us have a toast of your own-a citizen's toast.

Jetter. We're all ready for that! Safety and peace!

Soest. Order and freedom!

Buyck. Bravo! That will content us all.

(They ring their glasses together, and joyously repeat the words, but in

such a manner that each utters a different sound, and it becomes a kind of

chant. The old man listens, and at length joins in.)

All. Safety and peace! Order and freedom!

Scene II.--Palace of the Regent

Margaret of Parma (in a hunting dress).

Courtiers, Pages, Servants

Regent. Put off the hunt, I shall not ride to-day. Bid Machiavel attend me.

[Exeunt all but the Regent.

The thought of these terrible events leaves me no repose! Nothing can

amuse, nothing divert my mind. These images, these cares are always

before me. The king will now say that these are the natural fruits of my

kindness, of my clemency; yet my conscience assures me that I have

adopted the wisest, the most prudent course. Ought I sooner to have

kindled, and spread abroad these flames with the breath of wrath— My

hope was to keep them in, to let them smoulder in their own ashes. Yes,

my inward conviction, and my knowledge of the circumstances, justify my

conduct in my own eyes; but in what light will it appear to my brother!

For, can it be denied that the insolence of these foreign teachers waxes

daily more audacious— They have desecrated our sanctuaries, unsettled the

dull minds of the people, and conjured up amongst them a spirit of

delusion. Impure spirits have mingled among the insurgents, horrible

deeds have been perpetrated, which to think of makes one shudder, and of

these a circumstantial account must be transmitted instantly to court.

Prompt and minute must be my communication, lest rumour outrun my

messenger, and the king suspect that some particulars have been purposely

withheld. I can see no means, severe or mild, by which to stem the evil.

Oh, what are we great ones on the waves of humanity— We think to control

them, and are ourselves driven to and fro, hither and thither.

[Enter Machiavel.

Regent. Are the despatches to the king prepared—

Machiavel. In an hour they will be ready for your signature.

Regent. Have you made the report sufficiently circumstantial—

Machiavel. Full and circumstantial, as the king loves to have it. I relate

how the rage of the iconoclasts first broke out at St. Omer. How a furious

multitude, with staves, hatchets, hammers, ladders, and cords,

accompanied by a few armed men, first assailed the chapels, churches, and

convents, drove out the worshippers, forced the barred gates, threw

everything into confusion, tore down the altars, destroyed the statues of

the saints, defaced the pictures, and dashed to atoms, and trampled under

foot, whatever came in their way that was consecrated and holy. How the

crowd increased as it advanced, and how the inhabitants of Ypres opened

their gates at its approach. How, with incredible rapidity, they demolished

the cathedral, and burned the library of the bishop. How a vast multitude,

possessed by the like frenzy, dispersed themselves through Menin,

Comines, Verviers, Lille, nowhere encountered opposition; and how,

through almost the whole of Flanders, in a single moment, the monstrous

conspiracy declared itself, and was accomplished.

Regent. Alas! Your recital rends my heart anew; and the fear that the evil

will wax greater and greater, adds to my grief. Tell me your thoughts,

Machiavel!

Machiavel. Pardon me, your Highness, my thoughts will appear to you but

as idle fancies; and though you always seem well satisfied with my

services, you have seldom felt inclined to follow my advice. How often

have you said in jest: "You see too far, Machiavel! You should be an

historian; he who acts, must provide for the exigence of the hour." And yet

have I not predicted this terrible history— Have I not foreseen it all—

Regent. I too foresee many things, without being able to avert them.

Machiavel. In one word, then:--you will not be able to suppress the new

faith. Let it be recognized, separate its votaries from the true believers,

give them churches of their own, include them within the pale of social

order, subject them to the restraints of law,-do this, and you will at once

tranquillize the insurgents. All other measures will prove abortive, and you

will depopulate the country.

Regent. Have you forgotten with what aversion the mere suggestion of

toleration was rejected by my brother— Know you not, how in every letter

he urgently recommends to me the maintenance of the true faith— That he

will not hear of tranquility and order being restored at the expense of

religion— Even in the provinces, does he not maintain spies, unknown to

us, in order to ascertain who inclines to the new doctrines— Has he not, to

our astonishment, named to us this or that individual residing in our very

neighbourhood, who, without its being known, was obnoxious to the

charge of heresy— Does he not enjoin harshness and severity— and am I to

be lenient— Am I to recommend for his adoption measures of indulgence

and toleration— Should I not thus lose all credit with him, and at once

forfeit his confidence—

Machiavel. I know it. The king commands and puts you in full possession

of his intentions. You are to restore tranquillity and peace by measures

which cannot fail still more to embitter men's minds, and which must

inevitably kindle the flames of war from one extremity of the country to

the other. Consider well what you are doing. The principal merchants are

infected-nobles, citizens, soldiers. What avails persisting in our opinion,

when everything is changing around us— Oh, that some good genius would

suggest to Philip that it better becomes a monarch to govern burghers of

two different creeds, than to excite them to mutual destruction.

Regent. Never let me hear such words again. Full well I know that the

policy of statesmen rarely maintains truth and fidelity; that it excludes

from the heart candour, charity, toleration. In secular affairs, this is, alas!

only too true; but shall we trifle with God as we do with each other— Shall

we be indifferent to our established faith, for the sake of which so many

have sacrificed their lives— Shall we abandon it to these far-fetched,

uncertain, and self-contradicting heresies—

Machiavel. Think not the worse of me for what I have uttered.

Regent. I know you and your fidelity. I know too that a man may be both

honest and sagacious, and yet miss the best and nearest way to the

salvation of his soul. There are others, Machiavel, men whom I esteem,

yet whom I needs must blame.

Machiavel. To whom do you refer—

Regent. I must confess that Egmont caused me to-day deep and heart-felt

annoyance.

Machiavel. How so—

Regent. By his accustomed demeanour, his usual indifference and levity. I

received the fatal tidings as I was leaving church, attended by him and

several others. I did not restrain my anguish, I broke forth into

lamentations, loud and deep, and turning to him, exclaimed, "See what is

going on in your province! Do you suffer it, Count, you, in whom the king

confided so implicitly—"

Machiavel. And what was his reply—

Regent. As if it were a mere trifle, an affair of no moment, he answered:

"Were the Netherlanders but satisfied as to their constitution! The rest

would soon follow."

Machiavel. There was, perhaps, more truth than discretion or piety in his

words. How can we hope to acquire and to maintain the confidence of the

Netherlander, when he sees that we are more interested in appropriating

his possessions, than in promoting his welfare, temporal or spiritual— Does

the number of souls saved by the new bishops exceed that of the fat

benefices they have swallowed— And are they not for the most part

foreigners— As yet, the office of stadtholder has been held by

Netherlanders; but do not the Spaniards betray their great and irresistible

desire to possess themselves of these places— Will not people prefer being

governed by their own countrymen, and according to their ancient

customs, rather than by foreigners, who, from their first entrance into the

land, endeavour to enrich themselves at the general expense, who measure

everything by a foreign standard, and who exercise their authority without

cordiality or sympathy—

Regent. You take part with our opponents—

Machiavel. Assuredly not in my heart. Would that with my understanding

I could be wholly on our side!

Regent. If such your disposition, it were better I should resign the regency

to them; for both Egmont and Orange entertained great hopes of

occupying this position. Then they were adversaries, now they are leagued

against me, and have become friends-inseparable friends.

Machiavel. A dangerous pair.

Regent. To speak candidly, I fear Orange.-I fear for Egmont.-Orange

meditates some dangerous scheme, his thoughts are far-reaching, he is

reserved, appears to accede to everything, never contradicts, and while

maintaining the show of reverence, with clear foresight accomplishes his

own designs.

Machiavel. Egmont, on the contrary, advances with a bold step, as if the

world were all his own.

Regent. He bears his head as proudly as if the hand of majesty were not

suspended over him.

Machiavel. The eyes of all the people are fixed upon him, and he is the

idol of their hearts.

Regent. He has never assumed the least disguise, and carries himself as if

no one had a right to call him to account. He still bears the name of

Egmont. Count Egmont is the title by which he loves to hear himself

addressed, as though he would fain be reminded that his ancestors were

masters of Guelderland. Why does he not assume his proper title,-Prince

of Gaure— What object has he in view— Would he again revive

extinguished claims—

Machiavel. I hold him for a faithful servant of the king.

Regent. Were he so inclined, what important service could he not render to

the government— Whereas, now, without benefiting himself, he has caused

us unspeakable vexation. His banquets and entertainment have done more

to unite the nobles and to knit them together than the most dangerous

secret associations. With his toasts, his guests have drunk in a permanent

intoxication, a giddy frenzy, that never subsides. How often have his

facetious jests stirred up the minds of the populace— and what an

excitement was produced among the mob by the new liveries, and the

extravagant devices of his followers!

Machiavel. I am convinced he had no design.

Regent. Be that as it may, it is bad enough. As I said before, he injures us

without benefiting himself. He treats as a jest matters of serious import;

and, not to appear negligent and remiss, we are forced to treat seriously

what he intended as a jest. Thus one urges on the other; and what we are

endeavouring to avert is actually brought to pass. He is more dangerous

than the acknowledged head of a conspiracy; and I am much mistaken if it

is not all remembered against him at court. I cannot deny that scarcely a

day passes in which he does not wound me-deeply wound me.

Machiavel. He appears to me to act on all occasions, according to the

dictates of his conscience. Regent. His conscience has a convenient

mirror. His demeanour is often offensive. He carries himself as if he felt

he were the master here, and were withheld by courtesy alone from

making us feel his supremacy; as if he would not exactly drive us out of

the country; there'll be no need for that.

Machiavel. I entreat you, put not too harsh a construction upon his frank

and joyous temper, which treats lightly matters of serious moment. You

but injure yourself and him.

Regent. I interpret nothing. I speak only of inevitable consequences, and I

know him. His patent of nobility and the Golden Fleece upon his breast

strengthen his confidence, his audacity. Both can protect him against any

sudden outbreak of royal displeasure. Consider the matter closely, and he

is alone responsible for the whole mischief that has broken out in

Flanders. From the first, he connived at the proceedings of the foreign

teachers, avoided stringent measures, and perhaps rejoiced in secret that

they gave us so much to do. Let me alone; on this occasion, I will give

utterance to that which weighs upon my heart; I will not shoot my arrow in

vain. I know where he is vulnerable. For he is vulnerable.

Machiavel. Have you summoned the council— Will Orange attend—

Regent. I have sent for him to Antwerp. I will lay upon their shoulders the

burden of responsibility; they shall either strenuously co-operate with me

in quelling the evil, or at once declare themselves rebels. Let the letters be

completed without delay, and bring them for my signature. Then hasten to

despatch the trusty Vasca to Madrid, he is faithful and indefatigable; let

him use all diligence, that he may not be anticipated by common report,

that my brother, may receive the intelligence first through him. I will

myself speak with him ere he departs.

Machiavel. Your orders shall be promptly and punctually obeyed.

Scene III.-Citizen's House

Clara, her Mother, Brackenburg

Clara. Will you not hold the yarn for me, Brackenburg—

Brackenburg. I entreat you, excuse me, Clara.

Clara. What ails you— Why refuse me this trifling service—

Brackenburg. When I hold the yarn, I stand as it were spell-bound before

you, and cannot escape your eyes.

Clara. Nonsense! Come and hold!

Mother (knitting in her arm-chair). Give us a song! Brackenburg sings so

good a second. You used to be merry once, and I had always something to

laugh at.

Brackenburg. Once!

Clara. Well, let us sing.

Brackenburg. As you please.

Clara. Merrily, then, and sing away! 'Tis a soldier's song, my favourite.

(She winds yarn, and sings with Brackenburg.)

The drum is resounding,

And shrill the fife plays;

My love, for the battle,

His brave troop arrays;

He lifts his lance high,

And the people he sways.

My blood it is boiling!

My heart throbs pit-pat!

Oh, had I a jacket,

With hose and with hat!

How boldly I'd follow,

And march through the gate;

Through all the wide province

I'd follow him straight.

The foe yield, we capture

Or shoot them! Ah, me!

What heart-thrilling rapture

A soldier to be!

(During the song, Brackenburg has frequently looked at Clara; at length

his voice falters, his eyes fill with tears, he lets the skein fall, and goes to

the window. Clara finishes the song alone, her Mother motions to her, half

displeased, she rises, advances a few steps towards him, turns back, as if

irresolute, and again sits down.)

Mother. What is going on in the street, Brackenburg— I hear soldiers

marching.

Brackenburg. It is the Regent's body-guard.

Clara. At this hour— What can it mean— (She rises and joins Brackenburg

at the window.) That is not the daily guard; it is more numerous! almost

all the troops! Oh, Brackenburg, go! Learn what it means. It must be

something unusual. Go, good Brackenburg, do me this favour.

Brackenburg. I am going! I will return immediately. (He offers his hand to

Clara, and she gives him hers.)

[Exit Brackenburg.

Mother. Thou sendest him away so soon!

Clara. I am curious; and, besides-do not be angry, Mother-his presence

pains me. I never know how I ought to behave towards him. I have done

him a wrong, and it goes to my very heart to see how deeply he feels it.

Well, it can't be helped now!

Mother. He is such a true-hearted fellow!

Clara. I cannot help it, I must treat him kindly. Often without a thought, I

return the gentle, loving pressure of his hand. I reproach myself that I am

deceiving him, that I am nourishing in his heart a vain hope. I am in a sad

plight! God knows, I do not willingly deceive him. I do not wish him to

hope, yet I cannot let him despair!

Mother. That is not as it should be.

Clara. I liked him once, and in my soul I like him still I could have

married him; yet I believe I was never really in love with him.

Mother. Thou wouldst always have been happy with him.

Clara. I should have been provided for, and have led a quiet life.

Mother. And through thy fault it has all been trifled away.

Clara, I am in a strange position. When I think how it has come to pass, I

know it, indeed, and I know it not. But I have only to look upon Egmont,

and I understand it all; ay, and stranger things would seem natural then.

Oh, what a man he is! All the provinces worship him. And in his arms,

should I not be the happiest creature in the world—

Mother. And how will it be in the future—

Clara. I only ask, does he love me—-does he love me—-as if there were

any doubt about it.

Mother. One has nothing but anxiety of heart with one's children. Always

care and sorrow, whatever may be the end of it! It cannot come to good!

Thou hast made thyself wretched! Thou hast made thy Mother wretched

too.

Clara (quietly). Yet thou didst allow it in the beginning.

Mother. Alas! I was too indulgent; I am always too indulgent.

Clara. When Egmont rode by, and I ran to the window, did you chide me

then— Did you not come to the window yourself— When he looked up,

smiled, nodded, and greeted me, was it displeasing to you— Did you not

feel yourself honoured in your daughter—

Mother. Go on with your reproaches.

Clara (with emotion). Then, when he passed more frequently, and we felt

sure that it was on my account that he came this way, did you not remark

it yourself with secret joy— Did you call me away when I stood behind the

window-pane and awaited him—

Mother. Could I imagine that it would go so far—

Clara (with faltering voice, and repressed tears). And then, one evening,

when, enveloped in his mantle, he surprised us as we sat at our lamp, who

busied herself in receiving him, while I remained, lost in astonishment, as

if fastened to my chair—

Mother. Could I imagine that the prudent Clara would so soon be carried

away by this unhappy love— I must now endure that my daughter-

Clara (bursting into tears). Mother! How can you— You take pleasure in

tormenting me!

Mother (weeping). Ay, weep away! Make me yet more wretched by thy

grief. Is it not misery enough that my only daughter is a castaway—

Clara (rising, and speaking coldly). A castaway! The beloved of Egmont a

castaway!-What princess would not envy the poor Clara a place in his

heart— Oh, Mother,-my own Mother, you were not wont to speak thus!

Dear Mother, be kind!-Let the people think, let the neighbours whisper

what they like-this chamber, this lowly house is a paradise, since

Egmont's love dwelt here.

Mother. One cannot help liking him, that is true. He is always so kind,

frank, and open-hearted.

Clara. There is not a drop of false blood in his veins. And then, Mother, he

is indeed the great Egmont; yet, when he comes to me, how tender he is,

how kind! How he tries to conceal from me his rank, his bravery! How

anxious he is about me! so entirely the man, the friend, the lover.

Mother. DO you expect him to-day—

Clara. Have you not seen how often I go to the window— Have you not

noticed how I listen to every noise at the door—-Though I know that he

will not come before night, yet, from the time when I rise in the morning, I

keep expecting him every moment. Were I but a boy, to follow him

always, to the court and everywhere! Could I but carry his colours in the

field!-

Mother. You were always such a lively, restless creature; even as a little

child, now wild, now thoughtful. Will you not dress yourself a little

better—

Clara. Perhaps, Mother, if I want something to do.-Yesterday, some of his

people went by, singing songs in honour. At least his name was in the

songs! The rest I could not understand. My heart leaped up into my

throat,-I would fain have called them back if I had not felt ashamed.

Mother. Take care! Thy impetuous nature will ruin all. Thou wilt betray

thyself before the people; as, not long ago, at thy cousin's, when thou

roundest out the woodcut with the description, and didst exclaim, with a

cry: "Count Egmont!"-I grew as red as fire.

Clara. Could I help crying out— It was the battle of Gravelines, and I found

in the picture the letter C. and then looked for it in the description below.

There it stood, "Count Egmont, with his horse shot under him." I

shuddered, and afterwards I could not help laughing at the woodcut figure

of Egmont, as tall as the neighbouring tower of Gravelines, and the

English ships at the side.-When I remember how I used to conceive of a

battle, and what an idea I had, as a girl, of Count Egmont; when I listened

to descriptions of him, and of all the other earls and princes; -and think

how it is with me now!

[Enter Brackenburg.

Clara. Well, what is going on—

Brackenburg. Nothing certain is known. It is rumoured that an insurrection

has lately broken out in Flanders; the Regent is afraid of its spreading

here. The castle is strongly garrisoned, the burghers are crowding to the

gates, and the streets are thronged with people. I will hasten at once to my

old father. (As if about to go.)

Clara. Shall we see you to-morrow— I must change my dress a little. I am

expecting my cousin, and I look too untidy. Come, Mother, help me a

moment. Take the book,

Brackenburg, and bring me such another story.

Mother. Farewell.

Brackenburg (extending his hand). Your hand.

Clara (refusing hers). When you come next.

[Exeunt Mother and DAUGHTER.

Brackenburg (alone). I had resolved to go away again at once; and yet,

when she takes me at my word, and lets me leave her, I feel as if I could

go mad,-Wretched man! Does the fate of thy fatherland, does the growing

disturbance fail to move thee—-Are countryman and Spaniard the same to

thee— and carest thou not who rules, and who is in the right— I wad a

different sort of fellow as a schoolboy! -Then, when an exercise in

oratory was given; "Brutus' Speech for Liberty," for instance, Fritz was

ever the first, and the rector would say: "If it were only spoken more

deliberately, the words not all huddled together."-Then my blood boiled,

and longed for action.-Now I drag along, bound by the eyes of a maiden.

I cannot leave her! yet she, alas, cannot love me!-ah-no--she-she

cannot have entirely rejected me-not entirely-yet half love is no love!-I

will endure it no longer!-Can it be true what a friend lately whispered in

my ear, that she secretly admits a man into the house by night, when she

always sends me away modestly before evening— No, it cannot be true! It

is a lie! A base, slanderous lie! Clara is as innocent as I am wretched.-She

has rejected me, has thrust me from her heart-and shall I live on thus— I

cannot, I will not endure it. Already my native land is convulsed by

internal strife, and do I perish abjectly amid the tumult— I will not endure

it! When the trumpet sounds, when a shot falls, it thrills through my bone

and marrow! But, alas, it does not rouse me! It does not summon me to

join the onslaught, to rescue, to dare.-Wretched, degrading position!

Better end it at once! Not long ago, I threw myself into the water; I sank -

but nature in her agony was too strong for me; I felt that I could swim, and

saved myself against my will. Could I but forget the time when she loved

me, seemed to love me!-Why has this happiness penetrated my very bone

and marrow— Why have these hopes, while disclosing to me a distant

paradise, consumed all the enjoyment of life—-And that first, that only

kiss!-Here (laying his hand upon the table), here we were alone,-she had

always been kind and friendly towards me,-then she seemed to soften,-

she looked at me,-my brain reeled,-I felt her lips on mine,-and -and

now—-Die, wretch! Why dost thou hesitate— (He draws a phial from his

pocket.) Thou healing poison, it shall not have been in vain that I stole

thee from my brother's medicine chest! From this anxious fear, this

dizziness, this death-agony, thou shalt deliver me at once.

ACT II

SCENE I.-Square in Brussels

Jetter and a Master Carpenter (meeting)

Carpenter. Did I not tell you beforehand— Eight days ago, at the guild, I

said there would be serious disturbances—

Jetter. Is it, then, true that they have plundered the churches in Flanders—

Carpenter. They have utterly destroyed both churches and chapels. They

have left nothing standing but the four bare walls. The lowest rabble! And

this it is that damages our good cause. We ought rather to have laid our

claims before the Regent, formally and decidedly, and then have stood by

them. If we speak now, if we assemble now, it will be said that we are

joining the insurgents.

Jetter. Ay, so every one thinks at first. Why should you thrust your nose

into the mess— The neck is closely connected with it.

Carpenter. I am always uneasy when tumults arise among the mob-among

people who have nothing to lose. They use as a pretext that to which we

also must appeal, and plunge the country in misery.

[Enter Soest.

Soest. Good day, sirs! What news— Is it true that the image-breakers are

coming straight in this direction—

Carpenter. Here they shall touch nothing, at any rate.

Soest. A soldier came into my shop just now to buy tobacco; I questioned

him about the matter. The Regent, though so brave and prudent a lady, has

for once lost her presence of mind. Things must be bad indeed when she

thus takes refuge behind her guards. The castle is strongly garrisoned. It is

even rumoured that she means to fly from the town.

Carpenter. Forth she shall not go! Her presence protects us, and we will

ensure her safety better than her mustachioed gentry. If she only maintains

our rights and privileges, we will stand faithfully by her.

[Enter a Soapboiler.

Soapboiler. An ugly business this! a bad business! Troubles are beginning;

all things are going wrong! Mind you keep quiet, or they'll take you also

for rioters.

Soest. Here come the seven wise men of Greece.

Soapboiler. I know there are many who in secret hold with the Calvinists,

abuse the bishops, and care not for the king. But a loyal subject, a sincere

Catholic!-

(By degrees others join the speakers, and listen.)

[Enter Vansen.

Vansen. God save you, sirs! What news—

Carpenter. Have nothing to do with him, he's a dangerous fellow.

Jetter. Is he not secretary to Dr. Wiets—

Carpenter. He has already had several masters. First he was a clerk, and as

one patron after another turned him off, on account of his roguish tricks,

he now dabbles in the

business of notary and advocate, and is a brandy-drinker to boot. (More

people gather round and stand in groups.)

Vansen. So here you are, putting your heads together.

Well, it is worth talking about.

Soest. I think so too.

Vansen. Now if only one of you had heart and another head enough for the

work, we might break the Spanish fetters at once.

Soest. Sirs! you must not talk thus. We have taken our oath to the king.

Vansen. And the king to us. Mark that!

Jetter. There's sense in that— Tell us your opinion.

Others. Hearken to him; he's a clever fellow. He's sharp enough. I had an

old master once, who possessed a collection of parchments, among which

were charters of ancient constitutions, contracts, and privileges. He set

great store, too, by the rarest books. One of these contained our whole

constitution; how, at first, we Netherlanders had princes of our own, who

governed according to hereditary laws, rights, and usages; how our

ancestors paid due honour to their sovereign so long as he governed them

equitably; and how they were immediately on their guard the moment he

was for overstepping his bounds. The states were down upon him at once;

for every province, however small, had its own chamber and

representatives.

Carpenter. Hold your tongue! We knew that long ago! Every honest

citizen learns as much about the constitution as he needs.

Jetter. Let him speak; one may always learn something.

Soest. He is quite right.

Several Citizens. Go on! Go on! One does not hear this every day.

Vansen. You citizens, forsooth! You live only in the present; and as you

tamely follow the trade inherited from your fathers, so you let the

government do with you just as it pleases. You make no inquiry into the

origin, the history, or the rights of a Regent; and in consequence of this

negligence, the Spaniard has drawn the net over your

ears.

Soest. Who cares for that, if one has only daily bread—

Jetter. The devil! Why did not some one come forward and tell us this in

time—

Vansen. I tell it you now. The King of Spain, whose good fortune it is to

bear sway over these provinces, has no right to govern them otherwise

than the petty princes who formerly possessed them separately. Do you

understand that—

Jetter. Explain it to us.

Vansen. Why, it is as dear as the sun. Must you not be governed according

to your provincial laws— How comes that—

A Citizen. Certainly!

Vansen. Has not the burgher of Brussels a different law from the burgher

of Antwerp— The burgher of Antwerp from the burgher of Ghent— How

comes that—

Another Citizen. By heavens!

Vansen. But if you let matters run on thus, they will soon tell you a

different story. Fie on you! Philip, through a woman, now ventures to do

what neither Charles the Bold, Frederick the Warrior, nor Charles the Fifth

could accomplish.

Soest. Yes, yes! The old princes tried it also.

Vansen. Ay! But our ancestors kept a sharp look-out. If they thought

themselves aggrieved by their sovereign, they would perhaps get his son

and heir into their hands, detain him as a hostage, and surrender him only

on the most favourable conditions. Our fathers were men! They knew their

own interests! They knew how to lay hold on what they wanted, and to get

it established! They were men of the right sort! and hence it is that our

privileges are so dearly defined, our liberties so well secured.

Soest. What are you saying about our liberties—

All. Our liberties! our privileges! Tell us about our privileges.

Vansen. All the provinces have their peculiar advantages, but we of

Brabant are the most splendidly provided for. I have read it all.

Soest. Say on.

Jetter. Let us hear.

A Citizen. Pray do.

Vansen. First, it stands written:-The Duke of Brabant shall be to us a

good and faithful sovereign.

Soest. Good! Stands it so—

Jetter. Faithful— Is that true—

Vansen. As I tell you. He is bound to us as we are to him. Secondly: In the

exercise of his authority he shall neither exert arbitrary power, nor exhibit

caprice, himself, nor shall he, either directly or indirectly, sanction them in

others.

Jetter. Bravo! Bravo! Not exert arbitrary power.

Soest. Nor exhibit caprice.

Another. And not sanction them in others! That is the main point. Not

sanction them, either directly or indirectly.

Vansen. In express words.

Jetter. Get us the book.

A Citizen. Yes, we must see it.

Others. The book! The book!

Another. We will to the Regent with the book.

Another. Sir doctor, you shall be spokesman.

Soapboiler. Oh, the dolts!

Others. Something more out of the book!

Soapboiler. I'll knock his teeth down his throat if he says another word.

People. We'll see who dares to lay hands upon him. Tell us about our

privileges! Have we any more privileges—

Vansen. Many, very good and very wholesome ones too. Thus it stands:

The sovereign shall neither benefit the clergy, nor increase their number,

without the consent of the nobles and of the states. Mark that! Nor shall he

alter the constitution of the country.

Soest. Stands it so—

Vansen. I'll show it you, as it was written down two or three centuries ago.

A Citizen. And we tolerate the new bishops— The nobles must protect us,

we will make a row else!

Others. And we suffer ourselves to be intimidated by the Inquisition—

Vansen. It is your own fault.

People. We have Egmont! We have Orange! They will protect our

interests.

Vansen. Your brothers in Flanders are beginning the good work.

Soapboiler. Dog! (Strikes him.)

(Others oppose the Soapboiler, and exclaim,) Are you also a Spaniard—

Another. What! This honourable man—

Another. This learned man—

(They attack the Soapboiler.)

Carpenter. For heaven's sake, peace!

(Others mingle in the fray.)

Carpenter. Citizens, what means this—

(Boys whistle, throw stones, set on dogs; citizens stand and gape, people

come running up, others walk quietly to and fro, others play all sorts of

pranks, shout and huzza.)

Others. Freedom and privilege! Privilege and freedom!

[Enter Egmont, with followers.

Egmont. Peace! Peace! good people. What is the matter— Peace, I say!

Separate them.

Carpenter. My good lord, you come like an angel from heaven. Hush! See

you nothing— Count Egmont! Honour to Count Egmont!

Egmont. Here, too! What are you about— Burgher against burgher! Does

not even the neighbourhood of our royal mistress oppose a barrier to this

frenzy— Disperse yourselves, and go about your business. 'Tis a bad sign

when you thus keep holiday on working days. How did the disturbance

begin—

(The tumult gradually subsides, and the people gather around Egmont.)

Carpenter. They are fighting about their privileges.

Egmont. Which they will forfeit through their own folly,-and who are

you— You seem honest people.

Carpenter. 'Tis our wish to be so.

Egmont. Your calling—

Carpenter. A Carpenter, and master of the guild.

Egmont. And you—

Soest. A shopkeeper.

Egmont. And you—

Jetter. A tailor.

Egmont. I remember, you were employed upon the liveries of my people.

Your name is Jetter.

Jetter. To think of your grace remembering it!

Egmont. I do not easily forget any one whom I have seen or conversed

with. Do what you can, good people, to keep the peace; you stand in bad

repute enough already. Provoke not the king still farther. The power, after

all, is in his hands. An honest burgher, who maintains himself

industriously, has everywhere as much freedom as he wants.

Carpenter. That now is just our misfortune! With all due deference, your

grace, 'tis the idle portion of the community, your drunkards and

vagabonds, who quarrel for want of something to do, and clamour about

privilege because they are hungry; they impose upon the curious and the

credulous, and, in order to obtain a pot of beer, excite disturbances that

will bring misery upon thousands. That is just what they want. We keep

our houses and chests too well guarded; they would fain drive us away

from them with fire-brands.

Egmont. You shall have all needful assistance; measures have been taken

to stem the evil by force. Make a firm stand against the new doctrines, and

do not imagine that privileges are secured by sedition, Remain at home;

suffer no crowds to assemble in the streets. Sensible people can

accomplish much.

(In the meantime the crowd has for the most part dispersed.)

Carpenter. Thanks, your excellency-thanks for your good opinion! We

will do what in us lies. (Exit Egmont.) A gracious lord! A true

Netherlander! Nothing of the Spaniard about him.

Jetter. If we had only him for a Regent— 'Tis a pleasure to follow him.

Soest. The king won't hear of that. He takes care to appoint his own people

to the place.

Jetter. Did you notice his dress— It was of the newest fashion-after the

Spanish cut.

Carpenter. A handsome gentleman.

Jetter. His head now were a dainty morsel for a heads-man.

Soest. Are you mad— What are you thinking about—

Jetter. It is stupid enough that such an idea should come into one's head!

But so it is. Whenever I see a fine long neck, I cannot help thinking how

well it would suit the block. These cursed executions! One cannot get

them out of one's head. When the lads are swimming, and I chance to see a

naked back, I think forthwith of the dozens I have seen beaten with rods. If

I meet a portly gentleman, I fancy I already see him roasting at the stake.

At night, in my dreams, I am tortured in every limb; one cannot have a

single hour's enjoyment; all merriment and fun have long been forgotten.

These terrible images seem burnt in upon my brain.

SCENE II.-Egmont's residence

His Secretary (at a desk with papers. He rises impatiently)

Secretary. Still he comes not! And I have been waiting already full two

hours, pen in hand, the paper before me; and just to-day I was anxious to

be out so early. The floor burns under my feet. I can with difficulty

restrain my impatience. "Be punctual to the hour:" Such was his parting

injunction; now he comes not. There is so much business to get through, I

shall not have finished before midnight. He overlooks one's faults, it is

true; methinks it would be better though, were he more strict, so he

dismissed one at the appointed time. One could then arrange one's plans. It

is now full two hours since he left the Regent; who knows whom he may

have chanced to meet by the way—

[Enter Egmont.

Egmont. Well, how do matters look—

Secretary. I am ready, and three couriers are waiting.

Egmont. I have detained you too long; you look somewhat out of humour.

Secretary. In obedience to your command I have already been in

attendance for some time. Here are the papers!

Egmont. Donna Elvira will be angry with me, when she learns that I have

detained you.

Secretary. You are pleased to jest.

Egmont. No, no. Be not ashamed. I admire your taste. She is pretty, and I

have no objection that you should have a friend at the castle. What say the

letters—

Secretary. Much, my lord, but withal little that is satisfactory.

Egmont. 'Tis well that we have pleasures at home, we have the less

occasion to seek them from abroad. Is there much that requires attention—

Secretary. Enough, my lord; three couriers are in attendance.

Egmont. Proceed! The most important.

Secretary. All is important.

Egmont. One after the other; only be prompt.

Secretary. Captain Breda sends an account of the occurrences that have

further taken place in Ghent and the surrounding districts. The tumult is

for the most part allayed.

Egmont. He doubtless reports individual acts of folly and temerity—

Secretary. He does, my lord.

Egmont. Spare me the recital.

Secretary. Six of the mob who tore down the image of the Virgin at

Verviers have been arrested. He inquires whether they are to be hanged

like the others.

Egmont. I am weary of hanging; let them be flogged and discharged.

Secretary. There are two women among them; are they to be flogged also—

Egmont. He may admonish them and let them go.

Secretary. Brink, of Breda's company, wants to marry; the captain hopes

you will not allow it. There are so many women among the troops, he

writes, that when on the march, they resemble a gang of gypsies rather

than regular soldiers.

Egmont. We must overlook it in his case. He is a fine young fellow, and

moreover entreated me so earnestly before I came away. This must be the

last time, however; though it grieves me to refuse the poor fellows their

best pastime; they have enough without that to torment them.

Secretary. Two of your people, Seter and Hart, have ill-treated a damsel,

the daughter of an inn-keeper. They got her alone and she could not escape

from them.

Egmont. If she be an honest maiden and they used violence, let them be

flogged three days in succession; and if they have any property, let him

retain as much of it as will portion the girl.

Secretary. One of the foreign preachers has been discovered passing

secretly through Comines. He swore that he was on the point of leaving

for France. According to orders, he ought to be beheaded.

Egmont. Let him be conducted quietly to the frontier, and there

admonished that, the next time, he will not escape so easily.

Secretary. A letter from your steward. He writes that money comes in

slowly, he can with difficulty send you the required sum within the week;

the late disturbances have thrown everything into the greatest confusion,

Egmont. Money must be had! It is for him to look to the means.

Secretary. He says he will do his utmost, and at length proposes to sue and

imprison Raymond, who has been so long in your debt.

Egmont. But he has promised to pay!

Secretary. The last time he fixed a fortnight himself.

Egmont. Well, grant him another fortnight; after that he may proceed

against him.

Secretary. You do well. His non-payment of the money proceeds not from

inability, but from want of inclination. He will trifle no longer when he

sees that you are in earnest. The steward further proposes to withhold, for

half a month, the pensions which you allow to the old soldiers, widows,

and others. In the meantime some expedient may be devised; they must

make their arrangements accordingly.

Egmont. But what arrangements can be made here— These poor people

want the money more than I do. He must not think of it.

Secretary. How then, my lord, is he to raise the required sum—

Egmont. It is his business to think of that. He was told so in a former

letter.

Secretary. And therefore he makes these proposals.

Egmont. They will never do;-he must think of something else. Let him

suggest expedients that are admissible, and, before all, let him procure the

money.

Secretary. I have again before me the letter from Count Oliva. Pardon my

recalling it to your remembrance. Before all others, the aged count

deserves a detailed reply. You proposed writing to him with your own

hand. Doubtless, he loves you as a father.

Egmont. I cannot command the time;-and of all detestable things, writing

is to me the most detestable. You imitate my hand so admirably, do you

write in my name. I am expecting Orange. I cannot do it;-I wish,

however, that something soothing should be written, to allay his fears.

Secretary. Just give me a notion of what you wish to communicate; I will

at once draw up the answer, and lay it before you. It shall be so written

that it might pass for your hand in a court of justice.

Egmont. Give me the letter. (After glancing over it.) Dear, excellent, old

man! Wert thou then so cautious in thy youth— Didst thou never mount a

breach— Didst thou remain in the rear of battle at the suggestion of

prudence—- What affectionate solicitude! He has indeed my safety and

happiness at heart, but considers not, that he who lives but to save his life,

is already dead.-Charge him not to be anxious on my account; I act as

circumstances require, and shall be upon my guard. Let him use his

influence at court in my favour, and be assured of my warmest thanks.

Secretary. Is that all— He expects still more.

Egmont. What can I say— If you choose to write more fully, do so. The

matter turns upon a single point; he would have me live as I cannot live.

That I am joyous, live fast, take matters easily, is my good fortune; nor

would! exchange it for the safety of a sepulchre. My blood rebels against

the Spanish mode of life, nor have I the least inclination to regulate my

movements by the new and cautious measures of the court. Do I live only

to think of life— Am I to forego the enjoyment of the present moment in

order to secure the next— And must that in its turn be consumed in

anxieties and idle fears—

Secretary. I entreat you, my lord, be not so harsh towards the venerable

man. You are wont to be friendly towards every one. Say a kindly word to

allay the anxiety of your noble friend. See how considerate he is, with

what delicacy he warns you.

Egmont. Yet he harps continually on the same string. He knows of old

how I detest these admonitions. They serve only to perplex and are of no

avail. What if I were a somnambulist, and trod the giddy summit of a lofty

house,-were it the part of friendship to call me by my name, to warn me

of my danger, to waken, to kill me— Let each choose his own path, and

provide for his own safety.

Secretary. It may become you to be without a fear, but those who know

and love you-

Egmont (looking over the letter). Then he recalls the old story of our

sayings and doings, one evening, in the wantonness of conviviality and

wine; and what conclusions and inferences were thence drawn and

circulated throughout the whole kingdom! Well, we had a cap and bells

embroidered on the sleeves of our servants' liveries, and afterwards

exchanged this senseless device for a bundle of arrows;-a still more

dangerous symbol for those who are bent upon discovering a meaning

where nothing is meant, These and similar follies were conceived and

brought forth in a moment of merriment. It was at our suggestion that a

noble troop, with beggars' wallets, and a self-chosen nickname, with mock

humility recalled the King's duty to his remembrance. It was at our

suggestion too-well, what does it signify— Is a carnival jest to be

construed into high treason— Are we to be grudged the scanty, variegated

rags, wherewith a youthful spirit and heated imagination would adorn the

poor nakedness of life— Take life too seriously, and what is it worth— If the

morning wake us to no new joys, if in the evening we have no pleasures to

hope for, is it worth the trouble of dressing and undressing— Does the sun

shine on me to-day, that I may reflect on what happened yesterday— That I

may endeavour to foresee and control, what can neither be foreseen nor

controlled,-the destiny of the morrow— Spare me these reflections, we will

leave them to scholars and courtiers. Let them ponder and contrive, creep

hither and thither, and surreptitiously achieve their ends.-If you can make

use of these suggestions, without swelling your letter into a volume, it is

well. Everything appears of exaggerated importance to the good old man.

'Tis thus the friend, who has long held our hand, grasps it more warmly

ere he quits his hold.

Secretary. Pardon me, the pedestrian grows dizzy when he beholds the

charioteer drive past with whirling speed.

Egmont. Child! Child! Forbear! As if goaded by invisible spirits, the sun-

steeds of time bear onward the light car of our destiny; and nothing

remains for us but, with calm self-possession, firmly to grasp the reins,

and now right, now left, to steer the wheels here from the precipice and

there from the rock. Whither he is hasting, who knows— Does any one

consider whence he came—

Secretary. My lord! my lord!

Egmont. I stand high, but I can and must rise yet higher. Courage,

strength, and hope possess my soul. Not yet have I attained the height of

my ambition; that once achieved, I will stand firmly and without fear.

Should I fall, should a thunder-clap, a storm-blast, ay, a false step of my

own, precipitate me into the abyss, so be it! I shall lie there with thousands

of others. I have never disdained, even for a trifling stake, to throw the

bloody die with my gallant comrades; and shall I hesitate now, when all

that is most precious in life is set upon the cast—

Secretary. Oh, my lord! you know not what you say! May Heaven protect

you!

Egmont Collect your papers. Orange is coming. Dispatch what is most

urgent, that the couriers may set forth before the gates are closed. The rest

may wait. Leave the Count's letter till to-morrow. Fail not to visit Elvira,

and greet her from me. Inform yourself concerning the Regent's health.

She cannot be well, though she would fain conceal it.

[Exit Secretary.

[Enter Orange.

Egmont. Welcome, Orange; you appear somewhat disturbed.

Orange. What say you to our conference with the Regent—

Egmont. I found nothing extraordinary in her manner of receiving us. I

have often seen her thus before. She appeared to me to be somewhat

indisposed.

Orange. Marked you not that she was more reserved than usual— She

began by cautiously approving our conduct during the late insurrection;

glanced at the false light in which, nevertheless, it might be viewed; and

finally turned the discourse to her favourite topic-that her gracious

demeanour, her friendship for us Netherlanders, had never been

sufficiently recognized, never appreciated as it deserved; that nothing

came to a prosperous issue; that for her part she was beginning to grow

weary of it; that the king must at last resolve upon other measures. Did

you hear that—

Egmont. Not all; I was thinking at the time of something else. She is a

woman, good Orange, and all women expect that every one shall submit

passively to their gentle yoke; that every Hercules shall lay aside his lion's

skin, assume the distaff, and swell their train; and, because they are

themselves peaceably inclined, imagine forsooth, that the ferment which

seizes a nation, the storm which powerful rivals excite against one

another, may be allayed by one soothing word, and the most discordant

elements be brought to unite in tranquil harmony at their feet. 'Tis thus

with her; and since she cannot accomplish her object, why she has no

resource left but to lose her temper, to menace us with direful prospects

for the future, and to threaten to take her departure.

Orange. Think you not that this time she will fulfil her threat—

Egmont. Never! How often have I seen her actually prepared for the

journey— Whither should she go— Being here a stadtholder, a queen, think

you that she could endure to spend her days in insignificance at her

brother's court, or to repair to Italy, and there drag on her existence among

her old family connections—

Orange. She is held incapable of this determination, because you have

already seen her hesitate and draw back; nevertheless, it lies in her to take

this step; new circumstances may impel her to the long-delayed resolve.

What if she were to depart, and the king to send another—

Egmont. Why, he would come, and he also would have business enough

upon his hands. He would arrive with vast projects and schemes to reduce

all things to order, to subjugate and combine; and to-day he would be

occupied with this trifle, to-morrow with that, and the day following have

to deal with some unexpected hindrance. He would spend one month in

forming plans, another in mortification at their failure, and half a year

would be consumed in cares for a single province. With him also time

would pass, his head grow dizzy, and things hold on their ordinary course,

till instead of sailing into the open sea, according to the plan which he had

previously marked out, he might thank if, amid the tempest, he were able

to keep his vessel off the rocks.

Orange. What if the king were advised to try an experiment—

Egmont. Which should be-—

Orange. To try how the body would get on without the head.

Egmont. How—

Orange. Egmont, our interests have for years weighed upon my heart; I

ever stand as over a chess-board, and regard no move of my adversary as

insignificant; and as men of science carefully investigate the secrets of

nature, so I hold it to be the duty, ay, the very vocation of a prince, to

acquaint himself with the dispositions and intentions of all parties. I have

reason to fear an outbreak. The king has long acted according to certain

principles; he finds that they do not lead to a prosperous issue; what more

probable than that he should seek it some other way—

Egmont. I do not believe it. When a man grows old, has attempted much,

and finds that the world cannot be made to move according to his will, he

must needs grow weary of it at last.

Orange. One thing has yet to be attempted.

Egmont. What—

Orange. To spare the people, and to put an end to the princes.

Egmont. How many have long been haunted by this dread— There is no

cause for such anxiety.

Orange. Once I felt anxious; gradually I became suspicious; suspicion has

at length grown into certainty.

Egmont. Has the king more faithful servants than ourselves—

Orange. We serve him after our own fashion; and, between ourselves, it

must be confessed that we understand pretty well how to make the

interests of the king square with our own.

Egmont. And who does not— He has our duty and submission, in so far as

they are his due.

Orange. But what if he should arrogate still more, and regard as disloyalty

what we esteem the maintenance of our just rights—

Egmont. We shall know in that case how to defend ourselves. Let him

assemble the Knights of the Golden Fleece; we will submit ourselves to

their decision.

Orange. What if the sentence were to precede the trial— punishment, the

sentence—

Egmont. It were an injustice of which Philip is incapable; a folly which I

cannot impute either to him or to his counsellors.

Orange. And how if they were both unjust and foolish—

Egmont. No, Orange, it is impossible. Who would venture to lay hands on

us— The attempt to capture us were a vain and fruitless enterprize. No, they

dare not raise the standard of tyranny so high. The breeze that should waft

these tidings over the land would kindle a mighty conflagration. And what

object would they have in view— The king alone has no power either to

judge or to condemn us and would they attempt our lives by assassination—

They cannot intend it. A terrible league would unite the entire people.

Direful hate and eternal separation from the crown of Spain would, on the

instant, be forcibly declared.

Orange. The flames would then rage over our grave, and the blood of our

enemies flow, a vain oblation. Let us consider, Egmont.

Egmont. But how could they effect this purpose—

Orange. Alva is on the way.

Egmont. I do not believe it.

Orange. I know it.

Egmont. The Regent appeared to know nothing of it.

Orange. And, therefore, the stronger is my conviction. The Regent will

give place to him. I know his blood-thirsty disposition, and he brings an

army with him.

Egmont. To harass the provinces anew— The people will be exasperated to

the last degree.

Orange. Their leaders will be secured.

Egmont. No! No!

Orange. Let us retire, each to his province. There we can strengthen

ourselves; the Duke will not begin with open violence.

Egmont. Must we not greet him when he comes—

Orange. We will delay.

Egmont. What if, on his arrival, he should summon us in the king's name—

Orange. We will answer evasively.

Egmont. And if he is urgent—

Orange. We will excuse ourselves.

Egmont. And if he insist—

Orange. We shall be the less disposed to come.

Egmont. Then war is declared; and we are rebels. Do not suffer prudence

to mislead you,

Orange. I know it is not fear that makes you yield. Consider this step.

Orange. I have considered it.

Egmont. Consider for what you are answerable if you are wrong. For the

most fatal war that ever yet desolated a country. Your refusal is the signal

that at once summons the provinces to arms, that justifies every cruelty for

which Spain has hitherto so anxiously sought a pretext. With a single nod

you will excite to the direst confusion what, with patient effort, we have so

long kept in abeyance. Think of the towns, the nobles, the people; think of

commerce, agriculture, trade! Realize the murder, the desolation! Calmly

the soldier beholds his comrade fall beside him in the battlefield. But

towards you, carried downwards by the stream, shall float the corpses of

citizens, of children, of maidens, till, aghast with horror, you shall no

longer know whose cause you are defending, since you shall see those, for

whose liberty you drew the sword, perishing around you. And what will be

your emotions when conscience whispers, "It was for my own safety that I

drew it "—

Orange. We are not ordinary men, Egmont. If it becomes us to sacrifice

ourselves for thousands, it becomes us no less to spare ourselves for

thousands.

Egmont. He who spares himself becomes an object of suspicion ever to

himself.

Orange. He who is sure of his own motives can, with confidence, advance

or retreat.

Egmont. Your own act will render certain the evil that you dread.

Orange. Wisdom and courage alike prompt us to meet an inevitable evil.

Egmont. When the danger is imminent the faintest hope should be taken

into account.

Orange We have not the smallest footing left; we are on the very brink of

the precipice.

Egmont. Is the king's favour on ground so narrow—

Orange. Not narrow, perhaps, but slippery.

Egmont. By heavens! he is belied. I cannot endure that he should be so

meanly thought of! He is Charles's son, and incapable of meanness.

Orange. Kings of course do nothing mean.

Egmont. He should be better known.

Orange. Our knowledge counsels us not to await the result of a dangerous

experiment.

Egmont. No experiment is dangerous, the result of which we have the

courage to meet.

Orange. You are irritated, Egmont.

Egmont. I must see with my own eyes.

Orange. Oh that for once you saw with mine! My friend, because your

eyes are open, you imagine that you see. I go! Await Alva's arrival, and

God be with you! My refusal to do so may perhaps save you. The dragon

may deem the prey not worth seizing, if he cannot swallow us both.

Perhaps he may delay, in order more surely to execute his purpose; in the

meantime you may see matters in their true light. But then, be prompt!

Lose not a moment! Save,-oh, save yourself! Farewell!-Let nothing

escape your vigilance:-how many troops he brings with him; how he

garrisons the town; what force the Regent retains; how your friends are

prepared. Send me tidings-Egmont-

Egmont. What would you—

Orange (grasping his hand). Be persuaded! Go with me!

Egmont. How! Tears, Orange!

Orange. To weep for a lost friend is not unmanly.

Egmont. You deem me lost—

Orange. You are lost! Consider! Only a brief respite is left you. Farewell.

[Exit.

Egmont (alone). Strange that the thoughts of other men should exert such

an influence over us. These fears would never have entered my mind; and

this man infects me with his solicitude. Away! 'Tis a foreign drop in my

blood! Kind nature, cast it forth! And to erase the furrowed lines from my

brow there yet remains indeed a friendly means.

ACT III

Scene I.-Palace of the Regent

Margaret of Parma

Regent. I might have expected it. Ha! when we live immersed in anxiety

and toil, we imagine that we achieve the utmost that is possible; while he,

who, from a distance, looks on and commands, believes that he requires

only the possible. O ye kings! I had not thought it could have galled me

thus. It is so sweet to reign!-and to abdicate— I know not how my father

could do so; but I will also.

Machiavel appears in the back-ground

Regent. Approach, Machiavel. I am thinking over this letter from my

brother.

Machiavel. May I know what it contains—

Regent. As much tender consideration for me as anxiety for his states. He

extols the firmness, the industry, the fidelity, with which I have hitherto

watched over the interests of his Majesty in these provinces. He condoles

with me that the unbridled people occasion me so much trouble. He is so

thoroughly convinced of the depth of my views, so extraordinarily

satisfied with the prudence of my conduct, that I must almost say the letter

is too politely written for a king-certainly for a brother.

Machiavel. It is not the first time that he has testified to you his just

satisfaction.

Regent. But the first time that it is a mere rhetorical figure.

Machiavel. I do not understand you.

Regent. You soon will.-For after this preamble he is of opinion that

without soldiers, without a small army indeed,--I shall always cut a sorry

figure here! We did wrong, he says, to withdraw our troops from the provinces

at the remonstrance of the inhabitants; a garrison, he thinks, which shall

press upon the neck of the burgher, will prevent him, by its weight, from

making any lofty spring.

Machiavel. It would irritate the public mind to the last degree.

Regent. The king thinks, however, do you hear—-he thinks that a clever

general, one who never listens to reason, will be able to deal promptly

with all parties;-people and nobles, citizens and peasants; he therefore

sends, with a powerful army, the Duke of Alva.

Machiavel. Alva—

Regent. You are surprised.

Machiavel. You say, he sends, he asks doubtless whether he should send.

Regent. The king asks not, he sends.

Machiavel. You will then have an experienced warrior in your service.

Regent. In my service— Speak out, Machiavel.

Machiavel. I would not anticipate you.

Regent. And I would I could dissimulate. It wounds me -wounds me to

the quick. I had rather my brother would speak his mind than attach his

signature to formal epistles drawn up by a Secretary of state.

Machiavel. Can they not comprehend—-

Regent. I know them both within and without. They would fain make a

clean sweep; and since they cannot set about it themselves, they give their

confidence to any one who comes with a besom in his hand. Oh, it seems

to me as if I saw the king and his council worked upon this tapestry.

Machiavel. So distinctly!

Regent. No feature is wanting. There are good men among them. The

honest Roderigo, so experienced and so moderate, who does not aim too

high, yet lets nothing sink too low; the upright Alonzo, the diligent

Freneda, the steadfast Las Vargas, and others who join them when the

good party are in power. But there sits the hollow-eyed Toledan, with

brazen front and deep fire-glance, muttering between his teeth about

womanish softness, ill-timed concession, and that women can ride trained

steeds, well enough, but are themselves bad masters of the horse, and the

like pleasantries, which, in former times, I have been compelled to hear

from political gentlemen.

Machiavel. You have chosen good colours for your picture.

Regent. Confess, Machiavel, among the tints from which I might select,

there is no hue so livid, so jaundice-like, as Alva's complexion, and the

colour he is wont to paint with. He regards every one as a blasphemer or

traitor, for under this head they can all be racked, impaled, quartered, and

burnt at pleasure. The good I have accomplished here appears as nothing

seen from a distance, just because it is good. Then he dwells on every

outbreak that is past, recalls every disturbance that is quieted, and brings

before the king such a picture of mutiny, sedition, and audacity, that we

appear to him to be actually devouring one another, when with us the

transient explosion of a rude people has long been forgotten. Thus he

conceives a cordial hatred for the poor people; he views them with horror,

as beasts and monsters; looks around for fire and sword, and imagines that

by such means human beings are subdued.

Machiavel. You appear to me too vehement; you take the matter too

seriously. Do you not remain Regent—

Regent. I am aware of that. He will bring his instructions. I am old enough

in state affairs to understand how people can be supplanted, without being

actually deprived of office. First, he will produce a commission, couched

in terms somewhat obscure and equivocal; he will stretch his authority, for

the power is in his hands; if I complain, he will hint at secret instructions;

if I desire to see them, he will answer evasively; if I insist, he will produce

a paper of totally different import; and if this fail to satisfy me, he will go

on precisely as if I had never interfered. Meanwhile he will have

accomplished what I dread, and have frustrated my most cherished

schemes.

Machiavel. I wish I could contradict you.

Regent. His harshness and cruelty will again arouse the turbulent spirit,

which, with unspeakable patience, I have succeeded in quelling; I shall see

my work destroyed before my eyes, and have besides to bear the blame of his

wrongdoing.

Machiavel. Await it, your Highness.

Regent. I have sufficient self-command to remain quiet. Let him come; I

will make way for him with the best grace ere he pushes me aside.

Machiavel. So important a step thus suddenly— Regent. 'Tis harder than

you imagine. He who is accustomed to rule, to hold daily in his hand the

destiny of thousands, descends from the throne as into the grave. Better

thus, however, than linger a spectre among the living, and with hollow

aspect endeavour to maintain a place which another has inherited, and

already possesses and enjoys.

SCENE II.-Clara's dwelling

Clara and her Mother

Mother. Such a love as Brackenburg's I have never seen; I thought it was

to be found only in romance books.

Clara (walking up and down the room, humming a song).

With love's thrilling rapture

What joy can compare!

Mother. He suspects thy attachment to Egmont; and yet, if thou wouldst

but treat him a little kindly, I do believe he would marry thee still,

if thou wouldst have him.

Clara (sings).

Blissful

And tearful,

With thought-teeming brain;

Hoping

And fearing

In passionate pain;

Now shouting in triumph,

Now sunk in despair;-

With love's thrilling rapture

What joy can compare!

Mother. Have done with such baby-nonsense!

Clara. Nay, do not abuse it; 'tis a song of marvellous virtue. Many a time

have I lulled a grown child to sleep with it.

Mother. Ay! Thou canst think of nothing but thy love. If it only did not put

everything else out of thy head. Thou shouldst have more regard for

Brackenburg, I tell thee. He may make thee happy yet some day.

Clara. He—

Mother. Oh, yes! A time will come! You children live only in the present,

and give no ear to our experience. Youth and happy love, all has an end;

and there comes a time when one thanks God if one has any corner to

creep into.

Clara (shudders, and after a pause stands up). Mother, let that time come-

like death. To think of it beforehand is horrible! And if it come! If we

must-then-we will bear ourselves as we may. Live without thee, Egmont!

(Weeping.) No! It is impossible.

[Enter Egmont (enveloped in a horseman's cloak, his hat drawn over his

face).

Egmont. Clara!

Clara (utters a cry and starts back). Egmont! (She hastens towards him.)

Egmont! (She embraces and leans upon him.) O thou good, kind, sweet

Egmont! Art thou come— Art thou here indeed!

Egmont. Good evening, Mother—

Mother. God save you, noble sir! My daughter has well-nigh pined to

death, because you have stayed away so long; she talks and sings about

you the live-long day.

Egmont. You will give me some supper—

Mother. You do us too much honour. If we only had anything-

Clara. Certainly! Be quiet, Mother; I have provided everything; there is

something prepared. Do not betray me, Mother.

Mother. There's little enough.

Clara. Never mind! And then I think when he is with me I am never

hungry; so he cannot, I should think, have any great appetite when I am

with him.

Egmont. Do you think so— (Clara stamps with her foot and turns pettishly

away.) What ails you—

Clara. How cold you are to-day! You have not yet offered me a kiss. Why

do you keep your arms enveloped in your mantle, like a new-born babe— It

becomes neither a soldier nor a lover to keep his arms muffled up.

Egmont. Sometimes, dearest, sometimes. When the soldier stands in

ambush and would delude the foe, he collects his thoughts, gathers his

mantle around him, and matures his plan and a lover-

Mother. Will you not take a seat, and make yourself comfortable— I must

to the kitchen, Clara thinks of nothing when you are here. You must put up

with what we have.

Egmont. Your good-will is the best seasoning.

[Exit Mother.

Clara. And what then is my love—

Egmont. Just what thou wilt.

Clara. Liken it to anything, if you have the heart.

Egmont. But first. (He flings aside his mantle, and appears arrayed in a

magnificent dress.)

Clara. Oh heavens!

Egmont. Now my arms are free! (Embraces her.)

Clara. Don't! You will spoil your dress. (She steps back.) How

magnificent! I dare not touch you.

Egmont. Art thou satisfied— I promised to come once arrayed in Spanish

fashion.

Clara. I had ceased to remind you of it; I thought you did not like it-ah,

and the Golden Fleece!

Egmont. Thou seest it now.

Clara. And did the emperor really hang it round thy neck!

Egmont. He did, my child! And this chain and Order invest the wearer

with the noblest privileges. On earth I acknowledge no judge over my

actions, except the grand master of the Order, with the assembled chapter

of knights.

Clara. Oh, thou mightest let the whole world sit in judgment over thee.

The velvet is too splendid! and the braiding! and the embroidery! One

knows not where to begin.

Egmont. There, look thy fill.

Clara. And the Golden Fleece! You told me its history, and said it is the

symbol of everything great and precious, of everything that can be merited

and won by diligence and toil. It is very precious-I may liken it to thy

love;-even so I wear it next my heart;-and then-

Egmont. What wilt thou say—

Clara. And then again it is not like.

Egmont. How so—

Clara. I have not won it by diligence and toil, I have not deserved it.

Egmont. It is otherwise in love. Thou dost deserve it because thou hast not

sought it-and, for the most part, those only obtain love who seek it not.

Clara. Is it from thine own experience that thou hast learned this— Didst

thou make that proud remark in reference to thyself— Thou, whom all the

people love—

Egmont. Would that I had done something for them! That I could do

anything for them! It is their own good pleasure to love me.

Clara. Thou hast doubtless been with the Regent to-day—

Egmont. I have.

Clara. Art thou upon good terms with her—

Egmont So it would appear. We are kind and serviceable to each other.

Clara. And in thy heart—

Egmont. I like her. True, we have each our own views; but that is nothing

to the purpose. She is an excellent woman, knows with whom she has to

deal, and would be penetrating enough were she not quite so suspicious. I

give her plenty of employment, because she is always suspecting some

secret motive in my conduct when, in fact, I have none.

Clara. Really none—

Egmont. Well, with one little exception, perhaps. All wine deposits lees in

the cask in the course of time. Orange furnishes her still better

entertainment, and is a perpetual riddle. He has got the credit of

harbouring some secret design; and she studies his brow to discover his

thoughts, and his steps, to learn in what direction they are bent.

Clara. Does she dissemble—

Egmont. She is Regent-and do you ask—

Clara. Pardon me; I meant to say, is she false—

Egmont. Neither more nor less than everyone who has his own objects to

attain.

Clara. I should never feel at home in the world. But she has a masculine

spirit, and is another sort of woman from us housewives and sempstresses.

She is great, steadfast, resolute.

Egmont. Yes, when matters are not too much involved. For once,

however, she is a little disconcerted.

Clara. How so—

Egmont. She has a moustache, too, on her upper lip, and occasionally an

attack of the gout. A regular Amazon.

Clara. A majestic woman! I should dread to appear before her.

Egmont. Yet thou art not wont to be timid! It would not be fear, only

maidenly bashfulness.

(Clara casts down her eyes, takes his hand, and

leans upon him.)

Egmont. I understand thee, dearest! Thou mayst raise thine eyes. (He

kisses her eyes.)

Clara. Let me be silent! Let me embrace thee! Let me look into thine eyes,

and find there everything-hope and comfort, joy and sorrow! (She

embraces and gazes on him.) Tell me! Oh, tell me! It seems so strange-art

thou indeed Egmont! Count Egmont! The great Egmont, who makes so

much noise in the world, who figures in the newspapers, who is the

support and stay of the provinces—

Egmont. No, Clara, I am not he.

Clara. How—

Egmont. Seest thou, Clara— Let me sit down! (He seats himself, she kneels

on a footstool before him, rests her arms on his knees and looks up in his

face.) That Egmont is a morose, cold, unbending Egmont, obliged to be

upon his guard, to assume now this appearance and now that; harassed,

misapprehended and perplexed, when the crowd esteem him light-hearted

and gay; beloved by a people who do not know their own minds; honoured

and extolled by the intractable multitude; surrounded by friends in whom

he dares not confide; observed by men who are on the watch to supplant

him; toiling and striving, often without an object, generally without a

reward. O let me conceal how it fares with him, let me not speak of his

feelings! But this Egmont, Clara, is calm, unreserved, happy, beloved and

known by the best of hearts, which is also thoroughly known to him, and

which he presses to his own with unbounded confidence and love. (He

embraces her.) This is thy Egmont.

Clara. So let me die! The world has no joy after this!

ACT IV

SCENE I.-A Street

Jetter, Carpenter

Jetter. Hist! neighbour,-a word!

Carpenter. Go your way and be quiet.

Jetter. Only one word. Is there nothing new—

Carpenter. Nothing, except that we are anew forbidden to speak.

Jetter. How—

Carpenter. Step here, close to this house. Take heed! Immediately on his

arrival, the Duke of Alva published a decree, by which two or three, found

conversing together in the streets, are without trial, declared guilty of high

treason.

Jetter. Alas!

Carpenter. To speak of state affairs is prohibited on pain of perpetual

imprisonment.

Jetter. Alas for our liberty!

Carpenter. And no one, on pain of death, shall censure the measures of

government.

Jetter. Alas, for our heads!

Carpenter. And fathers, Mothers, children, kindred, friends, and servants,

are invited, by the promise of large rewards, to disclose what passes in the

privacy of our homes, before an expressly appointed tribunal.

Jetter. Let us go home.

Carpenter. And the obedient are promised that they shall suffer no injury,

either in person or estate.

Jetter. How gracious!--I felt ill at ease the moment the duke entered the

town. Since then, it has seemed to me, as though the heavens were covered

with black crape, which hangs so low, that one must stoop down to avoid

knocking one's head against it.

Carpenter. And how do you like his soldiers— They are a different sort of

crabs from those we have been used to.

Jetter. Faugh! It gives one the cramp at one's heart to see such a troop

march down the street. As straight as tapers, with fixed look, only one

step, however many there may be; and when they stand sentinel, and you

pass one of them, it seems as though he would look you through and

through; and he looks so stiff and morose, that you fancy you see a task-

master at every corner. They offend my sight. Our militia were merry

fellows; they took liberties, stood their legs astride, their hats over their

ears, they lived and let live; these fellows are like machines with a devil

inside them.

Carpenter. Were such an one to cry, "Halt!" and level his musket, think

you one would stand—

Jetter. I should fall dead upon the spot.

Carpenter. Let us go home!

Jetter No good can come of it. Farewell.

[Enter Soest.

Soest. Friends! Neighbours! Carpenter. Hush! Let us go.

Soest. Have you heard—

Jetter. Only too much!

Soest. The Regent is gone.

Jetter. Then Heaven help us.

Carpenter. She was some stay to us.

Soest. Her departure was sudden and secret. She could not agree with the

duke; she has sent word to the nobles that she intends to return. No one

believes it, however.

Carpenter. God pardon the nobles for letting this new yoke be laid upon

our necks. They might have prevented it. Our privileges are gone.

Jetter. For Heaven's sake not a word about privileges. I already scent an

execution; the sun will not come forth; the fogs are rank.

Soest. Orange, too, is gone.

Carpenter. Then are we quite deserted!

Soest, Count Egmont is still here.

Jetter. God be thanked! Strengthen him, all ye saints, to do his utmost; he

is the only one who can help us.

[Enter Vansen.

Vansen. Have I at length found a few brave citizens who have not crept

out of sight—

Jetter. Do us the favour to pass on.

Vansen. You are not civil.

Jetter. This is no time for compliments. Does your back itch again— are

your wounds already healed—

Vansen. Ask a soldier about his wounds— Had I cared for blows, nothing

good would have come of me.

Jetter. Matters may grow more serious.

Vansen. You feel from the gathering storm a pitiful weakness in your

limbs, it seems.

Carpenter. Your limbs will soon be in motion elsewhere, if you do not

keep quiet.

Vansen. Poor mice! The master of the house procures a new cat, and ye

are straight in despair! The difference is very trifling; we shall get on as

we did before, only be quiet.

Carpenter. You are an insolent knave.

Vansen. Gossip! Let the duke alone. The old cat looks as though he had

swallowed devils, instead of mice, and could not now digest them. Let him

alone, I say; he must eat, drink, and sleep, like other men. I am not afraid

if we only watch our opportunity, At first he makes quick work Of it; by-

and-by, however, he too will find that it is pleasanter to live in the larder,

among flitches of bacon, and to rest by night, than to entrap a few solitary

mice in the granary. Go to! I know the stadtholders.

Carpenter. What such a fellow can say with impunity! Had I said such a

thing, I should not hold myself safe a moment.

Vansen. Do not make yourselves uneasy! God in heaven does not trouble

himself about you, poor worms, much less the Regent.

Jetter. Slanderer!

Vansen. I know some for whom it would be better if, instead of their own

high spirits, they had a little tailor's blood in their veins.

Carpenter. What mean you by that—

Vansen. Hum! I mean the count.

Jetter. Egmont! What has he to fear—

Vansen. I'm a poor devil, and could live a whole year round on what he

loses in a single night; yet he would do well to give me his revenue for a

twelvemonth, to have my head upon his shoulders for one quarter of an

hour.

Jetter. You think yourself very clever; yet there is more sense in the hairs

of Egmont's head, than in your brains.

Vansen. Perhaps so! Not more shrewdness, however. These gentry are the

most apt to deceive themselves. He should be more chary of his

confidence.

Jetter. How his tongue wags! Such a gentleman!

Vansen. Just because he is not a tailor.

Jetter. You audacious scoundrel!

Vansen. I only wish he had your courage in his limbs for an hour to make

him uneasy, and plague and torment him, till he were compelled to leave

the town.

Jetter. What nonsense you talk; why he's as safe as a star in heaven.

Vansen. Have you ever seen one snuff itself out— Off it went!

Carpenter. Who would dare to meddle with him—

Vansen. Will you interfere to prevent it— Will you stir up an insurrection if

he is arrested—

Jetter. Ah!

Vansen. Will you risk your ribs for his sake—

Soest. Eh!

Vansen (mimicking them). Eh! Oh! Ah! Run through the alphabet in your

wonderment. So it is, and so it will remain. Heaven help him!

Jetter. Confound your impudence. Can such a noble, upright man have

anything to fear—

Vansen. In this world the rogue has everywhere the advantage. At the bar,

he makes a fool of the judge; on the bench, he takes pleasure in convicting

the accused. I have had to copy out a protocol, where the commissary was

handsomely rewarded by the court, both with praise and money, because

through his cross-examination, an honest devil, against whom they had a

grudge, was made out to be a rogue.

Carpenter. Why, that again is a downright lie. What can they want to get

out of a man if he is innocent—

Vansen. Oh, you blockhead! When nothing can be worked out of a man by

cross-examination, they work it into him. Honesty is rash and withal

somewhat presumptuous; at first they question quietly enough, and the

prisoner, proud of his innocence, as they call it, comes out with much that

a sensible man would keep back! then, from these answers the inquisitor

proceeds to put new questions, and is on the watch for the slightest

contradiction; there he fastens his line; and, let the poor devil lose his self-

possession, say too much here, or too little there, or, Heaven knows from

what whim or other, let him withhold some trifling circumstance, or at any

moment give way to fear-then we're on the right track, and, I assure you,

no beggar-woman seeks for rags among the rubbish with more care than

such a fabricator of rogues, from trifling, crooked, disjointed, misplaced,

misprinted, and concealed facts and information, acknowledged or denied,

endeavours at length to patch up a scarecrow, by means of which he may

at least hang his victim in effigy; and the poor devil may thank Heaven if

he is in a condition to see himself hanged.

Jetter. He has a ready tongue of his own.

Carpenter. This may serve well enough with flies. Wasps laugh at your

cunning web.

Vansen. According to the kind of spider. The tall duke, now, has just the

look of your garden spider; not the large-bellied kind, they are less

dangerous; but your long-footed, meagre-bodied gentleman, that does not

fatten on his diet, and whose threads are slender indeed, but not the less

tenacious.

Jetter. Egmont is knight of the Golden Fleece, who dare lay hands on him—

He can be tried only by his peers, by the assembled knights of his order.

Your own foul tongue and evil conscience betray you into this nonsense.

Vansen. Think you that I wish him ill— I would you were in the right. He is

an excellent gentleman. He once let off, with a sound drubbing, some

good friends of mine, who would else have been hanged. Now take

yourselves off! begone, I advise you! Yonder I see the patrol again

commencing their round. They do not look as if they would be willing to

fraternize with us over a glass. We must wait, and bide our time. I have a

couple of nieces and a gossip of a tapster; if after enjoying themselves in

their company, they are not tamed, they are regular wolves.

Scene II.-The Palace of Eulenberg, Residence of the Duke of Alva

Silva and Gomez (meeting)

Silva. Have you executed the duke's commands—

Gomez. Punctually. All the day-patrols have received orders to assemble

at the appointed time, at the various points that I have indicated.

Meanwhile, they march as usual through the town to maintain order. Each

is ignorant respecting the movements of the rest, and imagines the

command to have reference to himself alone; thus in a moment the cordon

can be formed, and all the avenues to the palace occupied. Know you the

reason of this command—

Silva. I am accustomed blindly to obey; and to whom can one more easily

render obedience than to the duke, since the event always proves the

wisdom of his commands—

Gomez. Well! Well! I am not surprised that you are become as reserved

and monosyllabic as the duke, since you are obliged to be always about his

person; to me, however, who am accustomed to the lighter service of Italy,

it seems strange enough. In loyalty and obedience, I am the same old

soldier as ever; but I am wont to indulge in gossip and discussion; here,

you are all silent, and seem as though you knew not how to enjoy

yourselves. The duke, methinks, is like a brazen tower without gates, the

garrison of which must be furnished with wings. Not long ago I heard him

say at the table of a gay, jovial fellow that he was like a bad spirit-shop,

with a brandy sign displayed; to allure idlers, vagabonds, and thieves.

Silva. And has he not brought us hither in silence—

Gomez. Nothing can be said against that. Of a truth, we, who witnessed

the address with which he led the troops hither out of Italy, have seen

something. How he advanced warily through friends and foes; through the

French, both royalists and heretics; through the Swiss and their

confederates; maintained the strictest discipline, and accomplished with

ease, and without the slightest hindrance, a march that was esteemed so

perilous!-We have seen and learned something.

Silva. Here too! Is not everything as still and quiet as though there had

been no disturbance—

Gomez. Why, as for that, it was tolerably quiet when we arrived.

Silva. The provinces have become much more tranquil; if there is any

movement now, it is only among those who wish to escape; and to them,

methinks, the duke will speedily close every outlet.

Gomez. This service cannot fail to win for him the favour of the king.

Silva. And nothing is more expedient for us than to retain his. Should the

king come hither, the duke doubtless and all whom he recommends will

not go without their reward.

Gomez. Do you really believe then that the king will come—

Silva. So many preparations are being made, that the report appears highly

probable.

Gomez. I am not convinced, however.

Silva. Keep your thoughts to yourself then. For if it should not be the

king's intention to come, it is at least, certain that he wishes the rumour to

be believed.

[Enter Ferdinand.

Ferdinand. Is my father not yet abroad—

Silva. We are waiting to receive his commands.

Ferdinand. The princes will soon be here.

Gomez. Are they expected to-day—

Ferdinand. Orange and Egmont.

Gomez (aside to Silva). A light breaks in upon me.

Silva. Well, then, say nothing about it.

Enter the Duke of Alva (as he advances the rest draw back)

Alva. Gomez.

Gomez (steps forward). My lord.

Alva. You have distributed the guards and given them their instructions—

Gomez. Most accurately. The day-patrols-

Alva. Enough. Attend in the gallery. Silva will announce to you the

moment when you are to draw them together, and to occupy the avenues

leading to the palace. The rest you know.

Gomez. I do, my lord.

[Exit. Alva. Silva.

Silva. Here my lord.

Alva. I shall require you to manifest to-day all the qualities which I have

hitherto prized in you: courage, resolve, unswerving execution.

Silva. I thank you for affording me an opportunity of showing that your

old servant is unchanged.

Alva. The moment the princes enter my cabinet, hasten to arrest Egmont's

private Secretary. You have made all needful preparations for securing the

others who are specified—

Silva. Rely upon us. Their doom, like a well-calculated eclipse, will

overtake them with terrible certainty.

Alva. Have you had them all narrowly watched—

Silva. All. Egmont especially. He is the only one whose demeanour, since

your arrival, remains unchanged. The live-long day he is now on one horse

and now on another; he invites guests as usual, is merry and entertaining at

table, plays at dice, shoots, and at night steals to his mistress. The others,

on the contrary, have made a manifest pause in their mode of life; they

remain at home, and, from the outward aspect of their houses, you would

imagine that there was a sick man within.

Alva. To work then, ere they recover in spite of us.

Silva. I shall bring them without fail. In obedience to your commands we

load them with officious honours; they are alarmed; cautiously, yet

anxiously, they tender us their thanks, feel that flight would be the most

prudent course, yet none venture to adopt it; they hesitate, are unable to

work together, while the bond which unites them prevents their acting

boldly as individuals. They are anxious to withdraw themselves from

suspicion, and thus only render themselves more obnoxious to it. I already

contemplate with joy the successful realization of your scheme.

Alva. I rejoice only over what is accomplished, and not lightly over that;

for there ever remains ground for serious and anxious thought. Fortune is

capricious; the common, the worthless, she oft-times ennobles, while she

dishonours with a contemptible issue the most maturely considered

schemes. Await the arrival of the princes, then order Gomez to occupy the

streets, and hasten yourself to arrest Egmont's secretary, and the others

who are specified. This done, return, and announce to my son that he may

bring me the tidings in the council.

Silva. I trust this evening I shall dare to appear in your presence. (Alva

approaches his son who has hitherto been standing in the gallery.) I dare

not whisper it even to myself; but my mind misgives me. The event will, I

fear, be different from what he anticipates. I see before me spirits, who,

still and thoughtful, weigh in ebon scales the doom of princes and of many

thousands. Slowly the beam moves up and down; deeply the judges appear

to ponder; at length one scale sinks, the other rises, breathed on by the

caprice of destiny, and all is decided.

[Exit.

Alva (advancing with his son). How did you find the town—

Ferdinand. All is again quiet. I rode as for pastime, from street to street.

Your well-distributed patrols hold Fear so tightly yoked, that she does not

venture even to whisper. The town resembles a plain when the lightning's

glare announces the impending storm: no bird, no beast is to be seen, that

is not stealing to a place of shelter.

Alva. Has nothing further occurred—

Ferdinand. Egmont, with a few companions, rode into the market-place;

we exchanged greetings; he was mounted on an unbroken charger, which

excited my admiration, "Let us hasten to break in our steeds," he

exclaimed; "we shall need them ere long!" He said that he should see me

again to-day; he is coming here, at your desire, to deliberate with you.

Alva. He will see you again.

Ferdinand. Among all the knights whom I know here, he pleases me the

best. I think we shall be friends.

Alva. You are always rash and inconsiderate. I recognize in you the levity

of your Mother, which threw her unconditionally into my arms.

Appearances have already allured you precipitately into many dangerous

connections.

Ferdinand. You will find me ever submissive.

Alva. I pardon this inconsiderate kindness, this heedless gaiety, in

consideration of your youthful blood. Only forget not on what mission I

am sent, and what part in it I would assign to you.

Ferdinand. Admonish me, and spare me not, when you deem it needful.

Alva (after a pause). My son!

Ferdinand. My father!

Alva. The princes will be here anon; Orange and Egmont. It is not mistrust

that has withheld me till now from disclosing to you what is about to take

place. They will not depart hence.

Ferdinand. What do you purpose—

Alva. It has been resolved to arrest them.-You are astonished! Learn what

you have to do; the reasons you shall know when all is accomplished.

Time fails now to unfold them. With you alone I wish to deliberate on the

weightiest, the most secret matters; a powerful bond holds us linked

together; you are dear and precious to me; on you I would bestow

everything. Not the habit of obedience alone would I impress upon you; I

desire also to implant within your mind the power to realize, to command,

to execute; to you I would bequeath a vast inheritance, to the king a most

useful servant; I would endow you with the noblest of my possessions,

that you may not be ashamed to appear among your brethren.

Ferdinand. How deeply am I indebted to you for this love, which you

manifest for me alone, while a whole kingdom trembles before you!

Alva. Now hear what is to be done. As soon as the princes have entered,

every avenue to the palace will be guarded. This duty is confided to

Gomez. Silva will hasten to arrest Egmont's secretary, together with those

whom we hold most in suspicion. You, meanwhile, will take the command

of the guards stationed at the gates and in the courts. Before all, take care

to occupy the adjoining apartment with the trustiest soldiers. Wait in the

gallery till Silva returns, then bring me any unimportant paper, as a signal

that his commission is executed. Remain in the ante-chamber till Orange

retires, follow him; I will detain Egmont here as though I had some further

communication to make to him. At the end of the gallery demand Orange's

sword, summon the guards, secure promptly the most dangerous man; I

meanwhile will seize Egmont here.

Ferdinand. I obey, my father-for the first time with a heavy and an

anxious heart.

Alva. I pardon you; this is the first great day of your life.

[Enter Silva.

Silva. A courier from Antwerp. Here is Orange's letter. He does not come.

Alva. Says the messenger so—

Silva. No, my own heart tells me.

Alva. In thee speaks my evil genius. (After reading the letter, he makes a

sign to the two, and they retire to the gallery. Alva remains alone in front

of the stage.) He comes not! Till the last moment he delays declaring

himself. He ventures not to come! So then, the cautious man, contrary to

all expectations, is for once cautious enough to lay aside his wonted

caution. The hour moves on! Let the finger travel but a short space over

the dial, and a great work is done or lost-irrevocably lost; for the

opportunity can never be retrieved, nor can our intention remain

concealed. Long had I maturely weighed everything, foreseen even this

contingency, and firmly resolved in my own mind what, in that case, was

to be done; and now, when I am called upon to act, I can with difficulty

guard my mind from being again distracted by conflicting doubts. Is it

expedient to seize the others if he escape me— Shall I delay, and suffer

Egmont to elude my grasp, together with his friends, and so many others

who now, and perhaps for to-day only, are in my hands— How! Does

destiny control even thee-the uncontrollable— How long matured! How

well prepared! How great, how admirable the plan! How nearly had hope

attained the goal! And now, at the decisive moment, thou art placed

between two evils; as in a lottery, thou dost grasp in the dark future; what

thou hast drawn remains still unrolled, to thee unknown whether it is a

prize or a blank! (He becomes attentive, like one who hears a noise, and

steps to the window.) 'Tis he! Egmont! Did thy steed bear thee hither so

lightly, and started not at the scent of blood, at the spirit with the naked

sword who received thee at the gate— Dismount! Lo, now thou hast one

foot in the grave! And now both! Ay, caress him, and for the last time

stroke his neck for the gallant service he has rendered thee. And for me no

choice is left. The delusion, in which Egmont ventures here to-day, cannot

a second time deliver him into my hands! Hark! (Ferdinand and Silva

enter hastily.) Obey my orders! I swerve not from my purpose. I shall

detain Egmont here as best I may, till you bring me tidings from Silva.

Then remain at hand. Thee, too, fate has robbed of the proud honour of

arresting with thine own hand the king's greatest enemy. (To Silva.) Be

prompt! (To Ferdinand.) Advance to meet him.

(Alva remains some moments alone, pacing the chamber in silence.)

[Enter Egmont.

Egmont. I come to learn the king's commands; to hear what service he

demands from our loyalty, which remains eternally devoted to him.

Alva. He desires, before all, to hear your counsel.

Egmont. Upon what subject— Does Orange come also— I thought to find

him here.

Alva. I regret that he fails us at this important crisis. The king desires your

counsel, your opinion as to the best means of tranquillizing these states.

He trusts indeed that you will zealously co-operate with him in quelling

these disturbances, and in securing to these provinces the benefit of

complete and permanent order.

Egmont. You, my lord, should know better than I, that tranquillity is

already sufficiently restored, and was still more so, till the appearance of

fresh troops again agitated the public mind, and filled it anew with anxiety

and alarm.

Alva. You seem to intimate that it would have been more advisable if the

king had not placed me in a position to interrogate you.

Egmont. Pardon me! It is not for me to determine whether the king acted

advisedly in sending the army hither, whether the might of his royal

presence alone would not have operated more powerfully. The army is

here, the king is not. But we should be most ungrateful were we to forget

what we owe to the Regent. Let it be acknowledged! By her prudence and

valour, by her judicious use of authority and force, of persuasion and

finesse, she pacified the insurgents, and, to the astonishment of the world,

succeeded, in the course of a few months, in bringing a rebellious people

back to their duty.

Alva. I deny it not. The insurrection is quelled; and the people appear to be

already forced back within the bounds of obedience. But does it not

depend upon their caprice alone to overstep these bounds— Who shall

prevent them from again breaking loose— Where is the power capable of

restraining them— Who will be answerable to us for their future loyalty and

submission— Their own goodwill is the sole pledge we have.

Egmont. And is not the good-will of a people the surest, the noblest

pledge— By heaven! when can a monarch hold himself more secure, ay,

both against foreign and domestic foes, than when all can stand for one,

and one for all—

Alva. You would not have us believe, however, that such is the case here

at present—

Egmont. Let the king proclaim a general pardon; he will thus tranquillize

the public mind; and it will be seen how speedily loyalty and affection will

return, when confidence is restored.

Alva. How! And suffer those who have insulted the majesty of the king,

who have violated the sanctuaries of our religion, to go abroad

unchallenged! living witnesses that enormous crimes may be perpetrated

with impunity!

Egmont. And ought not a crime of frenzy, of intoxication, to be excused,

rather than horribly chastised— Especially when there is the sure hope, nay,

more, where there is positive certainty that the evil will never again recur—

Would not sovereigns thus be more secure— Are not those monarchs most

extolled by the world and by posterity, who can pardon, pity, despise an

offence against their dignity— Are they not on that account likened to God

himself, who is far too exalted to be assailed by every idle blasphemy—

Alva. And therefore, should the king contend for the honour of God and of

religion, we for the authority of the king. What the supreme power

disdains to avert, it is our duty to avenge. Were I to counsel, no guilty

person should live to rejoice in his impunity.

Egmont. Think you that you will be able to reach them all— Do we not

daily hear that fear is driving them to and fro, and forcing them out of the

land— The more wealthy will escape to other countries with their property,

their children, and their friends; while the poor will carry their industrious

hands to our neighbours.

Alva. They will, if they cannot be prevented. It is on this account that the

king desires counsel and aid from every prince, zealous co-operation from

every stadtholder; not merely a description of the present posture of

affairs, or conjectures as to what might take place were events suffered to

hold on their course without interruption. To contemplate a mighty evil, to

flatter oneself with hope, to trust to time, to strike a blow, like the clown in

a play, so as to make a noise and appear to do something, when in fact one

would fain do nothing; is not such conduct calculated to awaken a

suspicion that those who act thus contemplate with satisfaction a rebellion,

which they would not indeed excite, but which they are by no means

unwilling to encourage—

Egmont (about to break forth, restrains himself, and after a brief pause,

speaks with composure). Not every design is obvious, and many a man's

design is misconstrued. It is widely rumoured, however, that the object

which the king has in view is not so much to govern the provinces

according to uniform and dearly defined laws, to maintain the majesty of

religion, and to give his people universal peace, as unconditionally to

subjugate them, to rob them of their ancient rights, to appropriate their

possessions, to curtail the fair privileges of the nobles, for whose sake

alone they are ready to serve him with life and limb. Religion, it is said, is

merely a splendid device, behind which every dangerous design may be

contrived with the greater ease; the prostrate crowds adore the sacred

symbols pictured there, while behind lurks the fowler ready to ensnare

them.

Alva. This must I hear from you—

Egmont. I speak not my own sentiments! I but repeat what is loudly

rumoured, and uttered now here and now there by great and by humble, by

wise men and fools. The Netherlanders fear a double yoke, and who will

be surety to them for their liberty—

Alva. Liberty! A fair word when rightly understood. What liberty would

they have— What is the freedom of the most free— To do right! And in that

the monarch will not hinder them. No! No! They imagine themselves

enslaved, when they have not the power to injure themselves and others.

Would it not be better to abdicate at once, rather than rule such a people—

When the country is threatened by foreign invaders, the burghers,

occupied only with their immediate interests, bestow no thought upon the

advancing foe, and when the king requires their aid, they quarrel among

themselves, and thus, as it were, conspire with the enemy. Far better is it

to circumscribe their power, to control and guide them for their good, as

children are controlled and guided. Trust me, a people grows neither old

nor wise, a people remains always in its infancy.

Egmont. How rarely does a king attain wisdom! And is it not fit that the

many should confide their interests to the many rather than to the one—

And not even to the one, but to the few servants of the one, men who have

grown old under the eyes of their master. To grow wise, it seems, is the

exclusive privilege of these favoured individuals.

Alva. Perhaps for the very reason that they are not left to themselves.

Egmont. And therefore they would fain leave no one else to his own

guidance. Let them do what they like, however; I have replied to your

questions, and I repeat, the measures you propose will never succeed!

They cannot succeed! I know my countrymen. They are men worthy to

tread God's earth; each complete in himself, a little king, steadfast, active,

capable, loyal, attached to ancient customs. It may be difficult to win their

confidence, but it is easy to retain it. Firm and unbending! They may be

crushed, but not subdued.

Alva (who during this speech has looked round several times). Would you

venture to repeat what you have uttered, in the king's presence—

Egmont. It were the worse, if in his presence I were restrained by fear!

The better for him and for his people, if he inspired me with confidence, if

he encouraged me to give yet freer utterance to my thoughts.

Alva. What is profitable, I can listen to as well as he.

Egmont. I would say to him-'Tis easy for the shepherd to drive before

him a flock of sheep; the ox draws the plough without opposition; but if

you would ride the noble steed, you must study his thoughts, you must

require nothing unreasonable, nor unreasonably, from him. The burgher

desires to retain his ancient constitution; to be governed by his own

countrymen; and why— Because he knows in that case how he shall be

ruled, because he can rely upon their disinterestedness, upon their

sympathy with his fate.

Alva. And ought not the Regent to be empowered to alter these ancient

usages— Should not this constitute his fairest privilege— What is permanent

in this world— And shall the constitution of a state alone remain

unchanged— Must not every relation alter in the course of time, and on that

very account, an ancient constitution become the source of a thousand

evils, because not adapted to the present condition of the people— These

ancient rights afford, doubtless, convenient loopholes, through which the

crafty and the powerful may creep, and wherein they may lie concealed, to

the injury of the people and of the entire community; and it is on this

account, I fear, that they are held in such high esteem.

Egmont. And these arbitrary changes, these unlimited encroachments of

the supreme power, are they not indications that one will permit himself to

do what is forbidden to thousands— The monarch would alone be free, that

he may have it in his power to gratify his every wish, to realize his every

thought. And though we should confide in him as a good and virtuous

sovereign, will he be answerable to us for his successor— That none who

come after him shall rule without consideration, without forbearance! And

who would deliver us from absolute caprice, should he send hither his

servants, his minions, who, without knowledge of the country and its

requirements, should govern according to their own good pleasure, meet

with no opposition, and know themselves exempt from all responsibility—

Alva (who has meanwhile again looked round). There is nothing more

natural than that a king should choose to retain the power in his own

hands, and that he should select as the instruments of his authority, those

who best understand him, who desire to understand him, and who will

unconditionally execute his will.

Egmont. And just as natural is it, that the burgher should prefer being

governed by one born and reared in the same land, whose notions of right

and wrong are in harmony with his own, and whom he can regard as his

brother.

Alva. And yet the noble, methinks, has shared rather unequally with these

brethren of his.

Egmont. That took place centuries ago, and is now submitted to without

envy. But should new men, whose presence is not needed in the country,

be sent, to enrich themselves a second time, at the cost of the nation;

should the people see themselves exposed to their bold, unscrupulous

rapacity, it would excite a ferment that would not soon be quelled.

Alva. You utter words to which I ought not to listen;-I, too, am a

foreigner.

Egmont. That they are spoken in your presence is a sufficient proof that

they have no reference to you.

Alva. Be that as it may, I would rather not hear them from you. The king

sent me here in the hope that I should obtain the support of the nobles. The

king wills, and will have his will obeyed. After profound deliberation, the

king at length discerns what course will best promote the welfare of the

people; matters cannot be permitted to go on as heretofore; it is the king's

intention to limit their power for their own good; if necessary, to force

upon them their salvation: to sacrifice the more dangerous burghers in

order that the rest may find repose, and enjoy in peace the blessing of a

wise government, This is his resolve; this I am commissioned to announce

to the nobles; and in his name I require from them advice, not as to the

course to be pursued-on that he is resolved-but as to the best means of

carrying his purpose into effect.

Egmont. Your words, alas, justify the fears of the people, the universal

fear! The king has then resolved as no sovereign ought to resolve. In order

to govern his subjects more easily, he would crush, subvert, nay, ruthlessly

destroy, their strength, their spirit, and their self-respect! He would violate

the inmost core of their individuality, doubtless with the view of

promoting their happiness. He would annihilate them, that they may

assume a new, a different form. Oh! if his purpose be good, he is fatally

misguided! It is not the king whom we resist;-we but place ourselves in

the way of the monarch, who, unhappily, is about to take the first rash step

in a wrong direction.

Alva. Such being your sentiments, it were a vain attempt for us to

endeavour to agree. You must indeed think poorly of the king, and

contemptibly of his counsellors, if you imagine that everything has not

already been thought of and maturely weighed. I have no commission a

second time to balance conflicting arguments. From the people I demand

submission;-and from you, their leaders and princes, I demand counsel

and support, as pledges of this unconditional duty.

Egmont. Demand our heads, and your object Is attained; to a noble soul it

must be indifferent whether he stoop his neck to such a yoke, or lay it

upon the block. I have spoken much to little purpose. I have agitated the

air, but accomplished nothing.

[Enter Ferdinand.

Ferdinand. Pardon my intrusion. Here is a letter, the bearer of which

urgently demands an answer.

Alva. Allow me to peruse its contents. (Steps aside.)

Ferdinand (to Egmont). 'Tis a noble steed that your people have brought,

to carry you away.

Egmont. I have seen worse. I have had him some time; I think of parting

with him. If he pleases you we shall probably soon agree as to the price.

Ferdinand. We will think about it.

(Alva motions to his son, who retires to the back-ground.)

Egmont. Farewell! Allow me to retire; for, by heaven, I know not what

more I can say.

Alva. Fortunately for you, chance prevents you from making a fuller

disclosure of your sentiments. You incautiously lay bare the recesses of

your heart, and your own lips furnish evidence against you, more fatal

than could be produced by your bitterest adversary.

Egmont. This reproach disturbs me not. I know my own heart; I know

with what honest zeal I am devoted to the king; I know that my allegiance

is more true than that of many who, in his service, seek only to serve

themselves. I regret that our discussion should terminate so

unsatisfactorily, and trust that in spite of our opposing views, the service

of the king, our master, and the welfare of our country, may speedily unite

us; another conference, the presence of the princes who to-day are absent,

may, perchance, in a more propitious moment, accomplish what at present

appears impossible. In this hope I take my leave.

Alva (who at the same time makes a sign to Ferdinand). Hold, Egmont!-

Your sword!-

(The centre door opens and discloses the gallery, which is occupied with

guards, who remain motionless.)

Egmont (after a pause of astonishment). This was the intention— For this

thou hast summoned me— (Grasping his sword as if to defend himself.)

Am I then weaponless—

Alva. The king commands. Thou art my prisoner. (At the same time

guards enter from both sides.)

Egmont (after a pause). The king—-Orange! Orange! (after a pause,

resigning his sword). Take it! It has been employed far oftener in

defending the cause of my king than in protecting this breast.

(He retires by the centre door, followed by the guard and Alva's son. Alva

remains standing while the curtain falls.)

ACT V

Scene I.-A Street. Twilight

Clara, Brackenburg, Burghers

Brackenburg. Dearest, for Heaven's sake, what wouldst thou do—

Clara. Come with me, Brackenburg! Thou canst not know the people, we

are certain to rescue him; for what can equal their love for him— Each

feels, I could swear it, the burning desire to deliver him, to avert danger

from a life so precious, and to restore freedom to the most free. Come! A

voice only is wanting to call them together. In their souls the memory is

still fresh of all they owe him, and well they know that his mighty arm

alone shields them from destruction. For his sake, for their own sake, they

must peril everything. And what do we peril— At most, our lives, which if

he perish, are not worth preserving.

Brackenburg. Unhappy girl! Thou seest not the power that holds us

fettered as with bands of iron.

Clara. To me it does not appear invincible. Let us not lose time in idle

words. Here comes some of our old, honest, valiant burghers! Hark ye,

friends! Neighbours! Hark! -Say, how fares it with Egmont—

Carpenter. What does the girl want— Tell her to hold her peace.

Clara. Step nearer, that we may speak low, till we are united and more

strong. Not a moment is to be lost! Audacious tyranny, that dared to fetter

him, already lifts the dagger against his life. Oh, my friends! With the

advancing twilight my anxiety grows more intense. I dread this night.

Come! Let us disperse; let us hasten from quarter to quarter, and call out

the burghers. Let every one grasp his ancient weapons. In the market-place

we meet again, and every one will be carried onward by our gathering

stream. The enemy will see themselves surrounded, overwhelmed, and be

compelled to yield. How can a handful of slaves resist us— And he will

return among us, he will see himself rescued, and can for once thank us,

us, who are already so deeply in his debt. He will behold, perchance, ay

doubtless, he will again behold the morn's red dawn in the free heavens.

Carpenter. What ails thee, maiden—

Clara. Can ye misunderstand me— I speak of the Count! I speak of

Egmont.

Jetter. Speak not the name! 'tis deadly.

Clara. Not speak his name— How— Not Egmont's name— Is it not on every

tongue— Where stands it not inscribed— Often have I read it emblazoned

with all its letters among these stars. Not utter it— What mean ye— Friends!

good, kind neighbours, ye are dreaming; collect yourselves. Gaze not upon

me with those fixed and anxious looks! Cast not such timid glances on

every side! I but give utterance to the wish of all. Is not my voice the voice

of your own hearts— Who, in this fearful night, ere he seeks his restless

couch, but on bended knee will, in earnest prayer, seek to wrest his life as

a cherished boon from heaven— Ask each other! Let each ask his own

heart! And who but exclaims with me,-"Egmont's liberty, or death!"

Jetter. God help us! This is a sad business.

Clara. Stay! Stay! Shrink not away at the sound of his name, to meet

whom ye were wont to press forward so joyously!-When rumour

announced his approach, when the cry arose, "Egmont comes! He comes

from Ghent!"-then happy indeed were those citizens who dwelt in the

streets through which he was to pass. And when the neighing of his steed

was heard, did not every one throw aside his work, while a ray of hope

and joy, like a sunbeam from his countenance, stole over the toil-worn

faces that peered from every window. Then, as ye stood in the doorways,

ye would lift up your children in your arms, and pointing to him, exclaim:

"See, that is Egmont, he who towers above the rest! 'Tis from bird that ye

must look for better times than those your poor fathers have known." Let

not your children inquire at some future day, "Where is he— Where are the

better times ye promised us—"-Thus we waste the time in idle words! do

nothing,-betray him.

Soest. Shame on thee, Brackenburg! Let her not run on thus! Prevent the

mischief!

Brackenburg. Dear Clara! Let us go! What will your Mother say—

Perchance-

Clara. Thinkest thou I am a child, or frantic— What avails perchance—-

With no vain hope canst thou hide from me this dreadful certainty… Ye

shall hear me and ye will: for I see it, ye are overwhelmed, ye cannot

hearken to the voice of your own hearts. Through the present peril cast but

one glance into the past,-the recent past. Send your thoughts forward into

the future. Could ye live, would ye live, were he to perish— With him

expires the last breath of freedom. What was he not to you— For whose

sake did he expose himself to the direst perils— His blood flowed, his

wounds were healed for you alone. The mighty spirit, that upheld you all,

a dungeon now confines, while the horrors of secret murder are hovering

around. Perhaps he thinks of you-perhaps he hopes in you,-he who has

been accustomed only to grant favours to others and to fulfil their prayers.

Carpenter. Come, gossip.

Clara. I have neither the arms, nor the vigour of a man; but I have that

which ye all lack-courage and contempt of danger. O that my breath

could kindle your souls! That, pressing you to this bosom, I could arouse

and animate you! Come! I will march in your midst!-As a waving banner,

though weaponless, leads on a gallant army of warriors, so shall my spirit

hover, like a flame, over your ranks, while love and courage shall unite the

dispersed and wavering multitude into a terrible host.

Jetter. Take her away; I pity her, poor thing!

[Exeunt Burgers.

Brackenburg. Clara! Seest thou not where we are—

Clara. Where— Under the dome of heaven, which has so often seemed to

arch itself more gloriously as the noble Egmont passed beneath it. From

these windows I have seen them look forth, four or five heads one above

the other; at these doors the cowards have stood, bowing and scraping, if

he but chanced to look down upon them! Oh, how dear they were to me,

when they honoured him. Had he been a tyrant they might have turned

with indifference from his fall! But they loved him! O ye hands, so

prompt to wave caps in his honour, can ye not grasp a sword—

Brackenburg, and we— -do we chide them— These arms that have so often

embraced him, what do they for him now— Stratagem has accomplished so

much in the world. Thou knowest the ancient castle, every passage, every

secret way.-Nothing is impossible,-suggest some plan-

Brackenburg. That we might go home!

Clara. Well.

Brackenburg. There at the corner I see Alva's guard; let the voice of

reason penetrate to thy heart! Dost thou deem me a coward— Dost thou

doubt that for thy sake I would peril my life— Here we are both mad, I as

well as thou. Dost thou not perceive that thy scheme is impracticable— Oh,

be calm! Thou art beside thyself.

Clara. Beside myself! Horrible. You, Brackenburg, are beside yourself.

When you hailed the hero with loud acclaim, called him your friend, your

hope, your refuge, shouted vivats as he passed;-then I stood in my corner,

half opened the window, concealed myself while I listened, and my heart

beat higher than yours who greeted him so loudly. Now it again beats

higher! In the hour of peril you conceal yourselves, deny him, and feel not,

that if he perish, you are lost.

Brackenburg. Come home.

Clara. Home—

Brackenburg. Recollect thyself! Look around thee! These are the streets in

which thou weft wont to appear only on the Sabbath-day, when thou didst

walk modestly to church; where, over-decorous perhaps, thou wert

displeased if I but joined thee with a kindly greeting. And now thou dost

stand, speak, and act before the eyes of the whole world. Recollect thyself,

love! How can this avail us—

Clara. Home! Yes, I remember. Come, Brackenburg, let us go home!

Knowest thou where my home lies—

[Exeunt.

Scene II.-A Prison

Lighted by a lamp, a couch in the background

Egmont (alone). Old friend! Ever faithful sleep, dost thou too forsake me,

like my other friends— How wert thou wont of yore to descend unsought

upon my free brow, cooling my temples as with a myrtle wreath of love!

Amidst the din of battle, on the waves of life, I rested in thine arms,

breathing lightly as a growing boy. When tempests whistled through the

leaves and boughs, when the summits of the lofty trees swung creaking in

the blast, the inmost core of my heart remained unmoved. What agitates

thee now— What shakes thy firm and steadfast mind— I feel it, 'tis the sound

of the murderous axe, gnawing at thy root. Yet I stand erect, but an inward

shudder runs through my frame. Yes, it prevails, this treacherous power; it

undermines the firm, the lofty stem, and ere the bark withers, thy verdant

crown falls crashing to the earth.

Yet wherefore now, thou who hast so often chased the weightiest cares

like bubbles from thy brow, wherefore canst thou not dissipate this dire

foreboding which incessantly haunts thee in a thousand different shapes—

Since when hast thou trembled at the approach of death, amid whose

varying forms, thou weft wont calmly to dwell, as with the other shapes of

this familiar earth. But 'tis not he, the sudden foe, to encounter whom the

sound bosom emulously pants;--'tis the dungeon, emblem of the grave,

revolting alike to the hero and the coward. How intolerable I used to feel

it, in the stately hall, girt round by gloomy walls, when, seated on my

cushioned chair, in the solemn assembly of the princes, questions, which

scarcely required deliberation, were overlaid with endless discussions,

while the rafters of the ceiling seemed to stifle and oppress me. Then I

would hurry forth as soon as possible, fling myself upon my horse with

deep-drawn breath, and away to the wide champaign, man's natural

element, where, exhaling from the earth, nature's richest treasures are

poured forth around us, while, from the wide heavens, the stars shed down

their blessings through the still air; where, like earth-born giants, we

spring aloft, invigorated by our Mother's touch; where our entire humanity

and our human desires throb in every vein; where the desire to press

forward, to vanquish, to snatch, to use his clenched fist, to possess, to

conquer, glows through the soul of the young hunter; where the warrior,

with rapid stride, assumes his inborn right to dominion over the world;

and, with terrible liberty, sweeps like a desolating hailstorm over the field

and grove, knowing no boundaries traced by the hand of man.

Thou art but a shadow, a dream of the happiness I so long possessed;

where has treacherous fate conducted thee— Did she deny thee to meet the

rapid stroke of never-shunned death, in the open face of day, only to

prepare for thee a foretaste of the grave, in the midst of this loathsome

corruption— How revolting its rank odour exhales from these damp stones!

Life stagnates, and my foot shrinks from the couch as from the grave.

Oh care, care! Thou who dost begin prematurely the work of murder,-

forbear;-Since when has Egmont been alone, so utterly alone in the

world— 'Tis doubt renders thee insensible, not happiness. The justice of the

king, in which through life thou hast confided, the friendship of the

Regent, which, thou mayst confess it, was akin to love,-have these

suddenly vanished, like a meteor of the night, and left thee alone upon thy

gloomy path— Will not Orange, at the head of thy friends, contrive some

daring scheme— Will not the people assemble, and with gathering might,

attempt the rescue of their faithful friend—

Ye walls, which thus gird me round, separate me not from the well-

intentioned zeal of so many kindly souls. And may the courage with which

my glance was wont to inspire them, now return again from their hearts to

mine. Yes! they assemble in thousands! they come! they stand beside me!

their pious wish rises urgently to heaven, and implores a miracle; and if no

angel stoops for my deliverance, I see them grasp eagerly their lance and

sword. The gates are forced, the bolts are riven, the walls fall beneath their

conquering hands, and Egmont advances joyously, to hail the freedom of

the rising morn. How many well-known faces receive me with loud

acclaim! O Clara! wert thou a man, I should see thee here the very first,

and thank thee for that which it is galling to owe even to a king-liberty.

Scene III.-Clara's House

Clara (enters from her chamber with a lamp and a glass of water; she

places the glass upon the table and steps to the window).

Brackenburg, is it you— What noise was that— No one yet— No one! I will

set the lamp in the window, that he may see that I am still awake, that I

still watch for him. He promised me tidings. Tidings— horrible certainty!-

Egmont condemned!-what tribunal has the right to summon him—-And

they dare to condemn him!-Does the king condemn him, or the duke—

And the Regent withdraws herself! Orange hesitates, and all his friends! -

Is this the world, of whose fickleness and treachery I have heard so much,

and as yet experienced nothing— Is this the world—-Who could be so base

as to hear malice against one so dear— Could villainy itself be audacious

enough to overwhelm with sudden destruction the object of a nation's

homage— Yet so it is-it is-O Egmont, I held thee safe before God and

man, safe as in my arms! What was I to thee. Thou hast called me thine,

my whole being was devoted to thee. What am I now— In vain I stretch out

my hand to the toils that environ thee. Thou helpless and I free!-Here is

the key that unlocks my chamber door. My going out and my coming in,

depend upon my own caprice; yet, alas; to aid thee I am powerless!-Oh,

bind me that I may not despair; hurl me into the deepest dungeon, that I

may dash my head against the damp walls, groan for freedom, and dream

how I would rescue him if fetters did not hold me bound.-Now I am free,

and in freedom lies the anguish of impotence.-Conscious of my own

existence, yet unable to stir a limb in his behalf, alas! even this

insignificant portion of thy being, thy Clara, is, like thee, a captive, and,

separated from thee, consumes her expiring energies in the agonies of

death.-I hear a stealthy step,-a cough-Brackenburg,-'tis he!-Kind,

unhappy man, thy destiny remains ever the same; thy love opens to thee

the door at night, alas! to what a doleful meeting.

(Enter Brackenburg.) Thou com'st so pale, so terrified! Brackenburg!

What is it—

Brackenburg. I have sought thee through perils and circuitous paths. The

principal streets are occupied with troops;-through lanes and by-ways

have I stolen to thee!

Clara. Tell me, how is it—

Brackenburg (seating himself). O Clara, let me weep. I loved him not. He

was the rich man who lured to better a pasture the poor man's solitary

lamb. I have never cursed him, God has created me with a true and tender

heart. My life was consumed in anguish, and each day I hoped would end

my misery.

Clara. Let that be forgotten, Brackenburg! Forget thyself. Speak to me of

him! Is it true— Is he condemned—

Brackenburg. He is! I know it.

Clara. And still lives—

Brackenburg. Yes, he still lives.

Clara. How canst thou be sure of that— Tyranny murders the hero in the

night! His blood flows concealed from every eye. The people stunned and

bewildered, lie buried in sleep, dream of deliverance, dream of the

fulfilment of their impotent wishes, while, indignant at our supineness, his

spirit abandons the world. He is no more! Deceive me not; deceive not

thyself!

Brackenburg. No,-he lives! and the Spaniards, alas, are preparing for the

people, on whom they are about to trample, a terrible spectacle, in order to

crush for ever, by a violent blow, each heart that yet pants for freedom.

Clara. Proceed! Calmly pronounce my death-warrant also! Near and more

near I approach that blessed land, and already from those realms of peace,

I feel the breath of consolation say on.

Brackenburg. From casual words, dropped here and there by the guards, I

learned that secretly in the market-place they were preparing some terrible

spectacle. Through by-ways and familiar lanes I stole to my cousin's

house, and from a back window, looked out upon the market-place.

Torches waved to and fro, in the hands of a wide circle of Spanish

soldiers. I sharpened my unaccustomed sight, and out of the darkness there

arose before me a scaffold, black, spacious, and lofty! The sight filled me

with horror. Several persons were employed in covering with black cloth

such portions of the wood-work as yet remained white and visible. The

steps were covered last, also with black;-I saw it all. They seemed

preparing for the celebration of some horrible sacrifice. A white crucifix,

that shone like silver through the night, was raised on one side. As I gazed

the terrible conviction strengthened in my mind. Scattered torches still

gleamed here and there; gradually they flickered and went out. Suddenly

the hideous birth of night returned into its Mother's womb.

Clara. Hush, Brackenburg! Be still! Let this veil rest upon my soul. The

spectres are vanished; and thou, gentle night, lend thy mantle to the

inwardly fermenting earth, she will no longer endure the loathsome

burden, shuddering, she rends open her yawning chasms, and with a crash

swallows the murderous scaffold. And that God, whom in their rage they

have insulted, sends down His angel from on high; at the hallowed touch

of the messenger bolts and bars fly back; he pours around our friend a

mild radiance, and leads him gently through the night to liberty. My path

leads also through the darkness to meet him.

Brackenburg (detaining her). My child, whither wouldst thou go— What

wouldst thou do—

Clara. Softly, my friend, lest some one should awake! Lest we should

awake ourselves! Know'st thou this phial, Brackenburg— I took it from

thee once in jest, when thou, as was thy wont, didst threaten, in thy

impatience, to end thy days.-And now my friend-

Brackenburg. In the name of all the saints!

Clara. Thou canst not hinder me. Death is my portion! Grudge me not the

quiet and easy death which thou hadst prepared for thyself. Give me thine

hand!-At the moment when I unclose that dismal portal through which

there is no return, I may tell thee, with this pressure of the hand, how

sincerely I have loved, how deeply I have pitied thee. My brother died

young; I chose thee to fill his place; thy heart rebelled, thou didst torment

thyself and me, demanding with ever increasing fervour that which fate

had not destined for thee. Forgive me and farewell! Let me call thee

brother! 'Tis a name that embraces many names. Receive, with a true

heart, the last fair token of the departing spirit -take this kiss.

Death unites all, Brackenburg-us too it will unite!

Brackenburg. Let me then die with thee! Share it! oh, share it! There is

enough to extinguish two lives.

Clara. Hold! Thou must live, thou canst live.-Support my Mother, who,

without thee, would be a prey to want. Be to her what I can no longer be,

live together, and weep for me. Weep for our fatherland, and for him who

could alone have upheld it. The present generation must still endure this

bitter woe; vengeance itself could not obliterate it. Poor souls, live on,

through this gap in time, which is time no longer. To-day the world

suddenly stands still, its course is arrested, and my pulse will beat but for a

few minutes longer. Farewell.

Brackenburg. Oh, live with us, as we live only for thy sake! In taking thine

own life, thou wilt take ours also; still live and suffer. We will stand by

thee, nothing shall sever us from thy side, and love, with ever-watchful

solicitude, shall prepare for thee the sweetest consolation in its loving

arms. Be ours! Ours! I dare not say, mine.

Clara. Hush, Brackenburg! Thou feelest not what chord thou touchest.

Where hope appears to thee, I see only despair.

Brackenburg. Share hope with the living! Pause on the brink of the

precipice, cast one glance into the gulf below, and then look back on us.

Clara. I have conquered; call me not back to the struggle.

Brackenburg. Thou art stunned; enveloped in night, thou seekest the abyss.

Every light is not yet extinguished, yet many days!-

Clara. Alas! Alas! Cruelly thou dost rend the veil from before mine eyes.

Yes, the day will dawn! Despite its misty shroud it needs must dawn.

Timidly the burgher razes from his window, night leaves behind an ebon

speck; he looks, and the scaffold looms fearfully in the morning light.

With re-awakened anguish the desecrated image of the Saviour lifts to the

Father its imploring eyes. The sun veils his beams, he will not mark the

hero's death-hour. Slowly the fingers go their round-one hour strikes after

another-hold! Now is the time. The thought of the morning scares me into

the grave.

(She goes to the window as if to look out, and drinks secretly.)

Brackenburg. Clara! Clara!

Clara (goes to the table, and drinks water). Here is the remainder. I invite

thee not to follow me. Do as thou wilt; farewell. Extinguish this lamp

silently and without delay; I am going to rest. Steal quietly away, close the

door after thee. Be still! Wake not my Mother! Go, save thyself, if thou

wouldst not be taken for my murderer. [Exit.

Brackenburg. She leaves me for the last time as she has ever done. What

human soul could conceive how cruelly she lacerates the heart that loves

her— She leaves me to myself, leaves me to choose between life and death,

and both are alike hateful to me. To die alone! Weep, ye tender souls! Fate

has no sadder doom than mine. She shares with me the death-potion, yet

sends me from her side! She draws me after her, yet thrusts me back into

life! Oh, Egmont, how enviable a lot falls to thee! She goes before thee!

The crown of victory from her hand is thine, she brings all heaven to meet

thee!-And shall I follow— Again to stand aloof— To carry this

inextinguishable jealousy even to yon distant realms— Earth is no longer a

tarrying place for me, and hell and heaven offer equal torture. Now

welcome to the wretched the dread hand of annihilation!

[Exit. (The scene remains some time unchanged. Music sounds,

indicating Clara's death; the lamp, which Brackenburg had forgotten to

extinguish, flares up once or twice, and then suddenly expires. The scene

changes to.

Scene IV.-A Prison

Egmont is discovered sleeping on a couch. A rustling of keys is heard; the

door opens; servants enter with torches; Ferdinand and Silva follow,

accompanied by soldiers. Egmont starts from his sleep.

Egmont. Who are ye that thus rudely banish slumber from my eyes— What

mean these vague and insolent glances— Why this fearful procession— With

what dream of horror come ye to delude my half awakened soul—

Silva. The duke sends us to announce your sentence.

Egmont. Do ye also bring the headsman who is to execute it—

Silva. Listen, and you will know the doom that awaits you.

Egmont. It is in keeping with the rest of your infamous proceedings.

Hatched in night and in night achieved, so would this audacious act of

injustice shroud itself from observation!-Step boldly forth, thou who dost

bear the sword concealed beneath thy mantle; here is my head, the freest

ever severed by tyranny from the trunk.

Silva. You err! The righteous judges who have condemned you will not

conceal their sentence from the light of day.

Egmont. Then does their audacity exceed all imagination and belief. Silva

(takes the sentence from an attendant, unfolds it, and reads). "In the King's

name, and invested by his Majesty with authority to judge all his subjects

of whatever rank, not excepting the knights of the Golden Fleece, we

declare--"

Egmont. Can the king transfer that authority—

Silva. "We declare, after a strict and legal investigation, thee, Henry,

Count Egmont, Prince of Gaure, guilty of high treason, and pronounce thy

sentence:-That at early dawn thou be led from this prison to the market-

place, and that there, in sight of the people, and as a warning to all traitors,

thou with the sword be brought from life to death. Given at Brussels."

(Date and year so indistinctly read as to be imperfectly heard by the

audience.) "Ferdinand, Duke of Alva, President of the Tribunal of

Twelve." Thou knowest now thy doom. Brief time remains for thee to

prepare for the impending stroke, to arrange thy affairs, and to take leave

of thy friends.

[Exit Silva with followers. Ferdinand remains with two torch-bearers. The

stage is dimly lighted.

Egmont (stands for a time as if buried in thought, and allows Silva to retire

without looking round. He imagines himself alone, and, on raising his

eyes, beholds Alva's son).

Thou tarriest here— Wouldst thou by thy presence augment my

amazement, my horror— Wouldst thou carry to thy father the welcome

tidings that in unmanly fashion I despair— Go. Tell him that he deceives

neither the world nor me. At first it will be whispered cautiously behind

his back, then spoken more and more loudly, and when at some future day

the ambitious man descends from his proud eminence, a thousand voices

will proclaim-that 'twas not the welfare of the state, not the honour of the

king, not the tranquillity of the provinces, that brought him hither. For his

own selfish ends he, the warrior, has counselled war, that in war the value

of his services might be enhanced. He has excited this monstrous

insurrection that his presence might be deemed necessary in order to quell

it. And I fall a victim to his mean hatred, his contemptible envy. Yes, I

know it, dying and mortally wounded I may utter it; long has the proud

man envied me, long has he meditated and planned my ruin.

Even then, when still young, we played at dice together, and the heaps of

gold, one after the other, passed rapidly from his side to mine; he would

look on with affected composure, while inwardly consumed with rage,

more at my success than at his own loss. Well do I remember the fiery

glance, the treacherous pallor that overspread his features when, at a

public festival, we shot for a wager before assembled thousands. He

challenged me, and both nations stood by; Spaniards and Netherlanders

wagered on either side; I was the victor; his ball missed, mine hit the

mark, and the air was rent by acclamations from my friends. His shot now

hits me. Tell him that I know this, that I know him, that the world despises

every trophy that a paltry spirit erects for itself by base and surreptitious

arts. And thou!

If it be possible for a son to swerve from the manners of his father,

practise shame betimes, while thou art compelled to feel shame for him

whom thou wouldst fain revere with thy whole heart.

Ferdinand. I listen without interrupting thee! Thy reproaches fall like

blows upon a helmet. I feel the shock, but I am armed. They strike, they

wound me not; I am sensible only to the anguish that lacerates my heart.

Alas! Alas! Have I lived to witness such a scene— Am I sent hither to

behold a spectacle like this—

Egmont. Dost thou break out into lamentations— What moves, what

agitates thee thus— Is it a late remorse at having lent thyself to this

infamous conspiracy— Thou art so young, thy exterior is so prepossessing—

Thy demeanour towards me was so friendly, so unreserved! So long as I

beheld thee, I was reconciled with thy father; and crafty, ay, more crafty

than he, thou hast lured me into the toils. Thou art the wretch! The

monster! Who so confides in him, does so at his own peril; but who could

apprehend danger in trusting thee— Go! Go! rob me not of the few

moments that are left me! Go, that I may collect my thoughts, the world

forget, and first of all thyself!

Ferdinand. What can I say— I stand and gaze on thee, yet see thee not; I am

scarcely conscious of my own existence. Shall I seek to excuse myself—

Shall I assure thee that it was not till the last moment that I was made

aware of my father's intentions— That I acted as a constrained, a passive

instrument of his will— What signifies now the opinion thou mayst

entertain of me— Thou art lost; and I, miserable wretch, stand here only to

assure thee of it, only to lament thy doom.

Egmont. What strange voice, what unexpected consolation comes thus to

cheer my passage to the grave— Thou, the son of my first, of almost my

only enemy, thou dost pity me, thou art not associated with my murderers—

Speak! In what light must I regard thee—

Ferdinand. Cruel father! Yes, I recognize thy nature in this command.

Thou didst know my heart, my disposition, which thou hast so often

censured as the inheritance of a tender-hearted Mother. To mould me into

thine own likeness thou hast sent me hither. Thou dost compel me to

behold this man on the verge of the yawning grave, in the grasp of an

arbitrary doom, that I may experience the profoundest anguish; that thus,

rendered callous to every fate, I may henceforth meet every event with a

heart unmoved.

Egmont. I am amazed! Be calm! Act, speak like a man.

Ferdinand. Oh, that I were a woman! That they might say-what moves,

what agitates thee— Tell me of a greater, a more monstrous crime, make

me the spectator of a more direful deed; I will thank thee, I will say: this

was nothing.

Egmont. Thou dost forget thyself. Consider where thou art!

Ferdinand. Let this passion rage, let me give vent to my anguish! I will not

seem composed when my whole inner being is convulsed. Thee must I

behold here— Thee— It is horrible! Thou understandest me not! How

shouldst thou understand me— Egmont! Egmont!

(Falling on his neck.)

Egmont. Explain this mystery.

Ferdinand. It is no mystery.

Egmont. How can the fate of a mere stranger thus deeply move thee—

Ferdinand. Not a stranger! Thou art no stranger to me. Thy name it was

that, even from my boyhood, shone before me like a star in heaven! How

often have I made inquiries concerning thee, and listened to the story of

thy deeds! The youth is the hope of the boy, the man of the youth. Thus

didst thou walk before me, ever before me; I saw thee without envy, and

followed after, step by step; at length I hoped to see thee-I saw thee, and

my heart flew to thy embrace. I had destined thee for myself, and when I

beheld thee, I made choice of thee anew. I hoped now to know thee, to live

with thee, to be thy friend,-thy-'tis over now and I see thee here!

Egmont. My friend, if it can be any comfort to thee, be assured that the

very moment we met my heart was drawn towards thee. Now listen! Let

us exchange a few quiet words. Tell me: is it the stern, the settled purpose

of thy father to take my life—

Ferdinand. It is.

Egmont. This sentence is not a mere empty scarecrow, designed to terrify

me, to punish me through fear and intimidation, to humiliate me, that he

may then raise me again by the royal favour—

Ferdinand. Alas, no! At first I flattered myself with this delusive hope; and

even then my heart was filled with grief and anguish to behold thee thus.

Thy doom is real! Is certain! No, I cannot command myself. Who will

counsel, who will aid me, to meet the inevitable—

Egmont. Hearken then to me! If thy heart is impelled so powerfully in my

favour, if thou dost abhor the tyranny that holds me fettered, then deliver

me! The moments are precious. Thou art the son of the all-powerful, and

thou hast power thyself. Let us fly! I know the roads; the means of

effecting our escape cannot be unknown to thee. These walls, a few short

miles, alone separate me from my friends. Loose these fetters, conduct me

to them; be ours. The king, on some future day, will doubtless thank my

deliverer. Now he is taken by surprise, or perchance he is ignorant of the

whole proceeding. Thy father ventures on this daring step, and majesty,

though horror-struck at the deed, must needs sanction the irrevocable.

Thou dost deliberate— Oh, contrive for me the way to freedom! Speak;

nourish hope in a living soul.

Ferdinand. Cease! Oh, cease! Every word deepens my despair. There is

here no outlet, no counsel, no escape.-'Tis this thought that tortures me,

that seizes my heart, and rends it as with talons. I have myself spread the

net; I know its firm, inextricable knots; I know that every avenue is barred

alike to courage and to stratagem. I feel that I too, like thyself, like all the

rest, am fettered. Think'st thou that I should give way to lamentation if any

means of safety remained untried— I have thrown myself at his feet,

remonstrated, implored. He has sent me hither, in order to blast in this

fatal moment, every remnant of joy and happiness that yet survived within

my heart.

Egmont. And is there no deliverance—

Ferdinand. None!

Egmont (stamping his foot). No deliverance!-Sweet life! Sweet, pleasant

habitude of existence and of activity! from thee must I part! So calmly

part! Not in the tumult

of battle, amid the din of arms, the excitement of the fray, dost thou send

me a hasty farewell; thine is no hurried leave; thou dost not abridge the

moment of separation. Once more let me clasp thy hand, gaze once more

into thine eyes, feel with keen emotion, thy beauty and thy worth, then

resolutely tear myself away, and say;-depart!

Ferdinand. Must I stand by, and look passively on; unable to save thee, or

to give thee aid! What voice avails for lamentation! What heart but must

break under the

pressure of such anguish—

Egmont. Be calm!

Ferdinand. Thou canst be calm, thou canst renounce, led on by necessity,

thou canst advance to the direful struggle, with the courage of a hero.

What can I do— What ought I to do— Thou dost conquer thyself and us;

thou art the victor; I survive both myself and thee. I have lost my light at

the banquet, my banner on the field. The future lies before me, dark,

desolate, perplexed.

Egmont. Young friend, whom by a strange fatality, at the same moment, I

both win and lose, who dost feel for me, who dost suffer for me the

agonies of death,-look on me; -thou wilt not lose me. If my life was a

mirror in which thou didst love to contemplate thyself, so be also my

death. Men are not together only when in each other's presence;-the

distant, the departed, also live for us. I shall live for thee, and for myself I

have lived long enough. I have enjoyed each day; each day, I have

performed, with prompt activity, the duties enjoined by my conscience.

Now my life ends, as it might have ended, long, long, ago, on the sands of

Gravelines. I shall cease to live; but I have lived. My friend, follow in my

steps, lead a cheerful and a joyous life, and dread not the approach of

death.

Ferdinand. Thou shouldst have saved thyself for us, thou couldst have

saved thyself. Thou art the cause of thine own destruction. Often have I

listened when able men discoursed concerning thee; foes and friends, they

would dispute long as to thy worth; but on one point they were agreed,

none ventured to deny, every one confessed, that thou wert treading a

dangerous path. How often have I longed to warn thee! Hadst thou then no

friends—

Egmont. I was warned.

Ferdinand. And when I found all these allegations, point for point, in the

indictment, together with thy answers, containing much that might serve to

palliate thy conduct, but no evidence weighty enough fully to exculpate

thee-

Egmont. No more of this. Man imagines that he directs his life, that he

governs his actions, when in fact his existence is irresistibly controlled by

his destiny. Let us not dwell upon this subject; these reflections I can

dismiss with ease-not so my apprehensions for these provinces; yet they

too will be cared for. Could my blood flow for many, bring peace to my

people, how freely should it flow! Alas! This may not be. Yet it ill

becomes a man idly to speculate, when the power to act is no longer his. If

thou canst restrain or guide the fatal power of thy father; do so. Alas, who

can— -Farewell!

Ferdinand. I cannot leave thee.

Egmont. Let me urgently recommend my followers to thy care! I have

worthy men in my service; let them not be dispersed, let them not become

destitute! How fares it with Richard, my secretary—

Ferdinand. He is gone before thee. They have beheaded him, as thy

accomplice in high treason.

Egmont. Poor soul!-Yet one word, and then farewell, I can no more.

However powerfully the spirit may be stirred, nature at length irresistibly

asserts her rights; and like a child, who, enveloped in a serpent's folds,

enjoys refreshing slumber, so the weary one lays himself down to rest

before the gates of death, and sleeps soundly, as though a toilsome journey

yet lay before him.-One word more,-I know a maiden; thou wilt not

despise her because she was mine. Since I can recommend her to thy care,

I shall die in peace. Thy soul is noble; in such a man, a woman is sure to

find a protector. Lives my old Adolphus— Is he free—

Ferdinand. The active old man, who always attended thee on horseback—

Egmont. The same.

Ferdinand. He lives, he is free.

Egmont. He knows her dwelling; let him guide thy steps thither, and

reward him to his dying day, for having shown thee the way to this jewel.-

-Farewell!

Ferdinand. I cannot leave thee.

Egmont (urging him towards the door). Farewell!

Ferdinand. Oh, let me linger yet a moment!

Egmont. No leave-taking, my friend.

(He accompanies Ferdinand to the door, and then tears himself away;

Ferdinand, overwhelmed with grief, hastily retires.)

Egmont (alone)

Egmont. Cruel man! Thou didst not think to render me this service

through thy son. He has been the means of relieving my mind from the

pressure of care and sorrow, from fear and every anxious feeling. Gently,

yet urgently, nature claims her final tribute. 'Tis past!-'Tis resolved! And

the reflections which, in the suspense of last night, kept me wakeful on my

couch, now with resistless certainty lull my senses to repose.

(He seats himself upon the couch; music)

Sweet sleep! Like the purest happiness, thou comest most willingly,

uninvited, unsought. Thou dost loosen the knots of earnest thoughts, dost

mingle all images of joy and of sorrow, unimpeded the circle of inner

harmony flows on, and wrapped in fond delusion, we sink into oblivion,

and cease to be.

(He sleeps; music accompanies his slumber. Behind his couch the wall

appears to open and discovers a brilliant apparition. Freedom, in a celestial

garb, surrounded by a glory, reposes on a cloud. Her features are those of

Clara and she inclines towards the sleeping hero. Her countenance

betokens compassion, she seems to lament his fate. Quickly she recovers

herself and with an encouraging gesture exhibits the symbols of freedom,

the bundle of arrows, with the staff and cap. She encourages him to be of

good cheer, and while she signifies to him that his death will secure the

freedom of the provinces, she hails him as a conqueror, and extends to him

a laurel crown. As the wreath approaches his head, Egmont moves like

one asleep, and reclines with his face towards her. She holds the wreath

suspended over his head,-martial music is heard in the distance, at the

first sound the vision disappears. The music grows louder and louder.

Egmont awakes. The prison is dimly illuminated by the dawn.-His first

impulse is to lift his hand to his head, he stands up, and gazes round, his

hand still upraised.)

The crown is vanished! Beautiful vision, the light of day has frighted thee!

Yes, their revealed themselves to my sight uniting in one radiant form the

two sweetest joys of my heart. Divine Liberty borrowed the mien of my

beloved one; the lovely maiden arrayed herself in the celestial garb of my

friend. In a solemn moment they appeared united, with aspect more

earnest than tender. With bloodstained feet the vision approached, the

waving folds of her robe also were tinged with blood. It was my blood,

and the blood of many brave hearts. No! It shall not be shed in vain!

Forward! Brave people! The goddess of liberty leads you on! And as the

sea breaks through and destroys the barriers that would oppose its fury, so

do ye overwhelm the bulwark of tyranny, and with your impetuous flood

sweep it away from the land which it usurps. (Drums.)

Hark! Hark! How often has this sound summoned my joyous steps to the

field of battle and of victory! How bravely did I tread, with my gallant

comrades, the dangerous path of fame! And now, from this dungeon I

shall go forth, to meet a glorious death; I die for freedom, for whose cause

I have lived and fought, and for whom I now offer myself up at sorrowing

sacrifice.

(The background is occupied by Spanish soldiers with halberts.)

Yes, lead them on! Close your ranks, ye terrify me not. I am accustomed

to stand amid the serried ranks of war, and environed by the threatening

forms of death, to feel, with double zest, the energy of life. (Drums.)

The foe closes round on every side! Swords are flashing; courage, friends!

Behind are your parents, your wives, your children! (Pointing to the

guard.)

And these are impelled by the word of their leader, not by their own free

will. Protect your homes! And to save those who are most dear to you, be

ready to follow my example, and to fall with joy.

(Drums. As he advances through the guards towards the door in the

background, the curtain falls. The music joins in, and the scene closes with

a symphony of victory.)

Hermann and Dorothea by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Translated by Ellen Frothingham

Introductory Note

There are few modern poems of any country so perfect in their kind as the "Hermann and Dorothea" of Goethe. In clearness of characterization, in unity of tone, in the adjustment of background and foreground, in the conduct of the narrative, it conforms admirably to the strict canons of art; yet it preserves a freshness and spontaneity in its emotional appeal that are rare in works of so classical a perfection in form.

The basis of the poem is a historical incident. In the year 1731 the Archbishop of Salzburg drove out of his diocese a thousand Protestants, who took refuge in South Germany, and among whom was a girl who became the bride of the son of a rich burgher. The occasion of the girl's exile was changed by Goethe to more recent times, and in the poem she is represented as a German from the west bank of the Rhine fleeing from the turmoil caused by the French Revolution. The political element is not a mere background, but is woven into the plot with consummate skill, being used, at one point, for example, in the characterization of Dorothea, who before the time of her appearance in the poem has been deprived of her first betrothed by the guillotine; and, at another, in furnishing a telling contrast between the revolutionary uproar in France and the settled peace of the German village.

The characters of the father and the minister Goethe took over from the original incident, the mother he invented, and the apothecary he made to stand for a group of friends. But all of these persons, as well as the two lovers, are recreated, and this so skillfully that while they are made notably familiar to us as individuals, they are no less significant as permanent types of human nature. The hexameter measure which he employed, and which is retained in the present translation, he handled with such charm that it has since seemed the natural verse for the domestic idyl-witness the obvious imitation of this, as of other features of the poem, in Longfellow's "Evangeline."

Taken as a whole, with its beauty of form, its sentiment, tender yet restrained, and the compelling pathos of its story, "Hermann and Dorothea" appeals to a wider public than perhaps any other product of its author.

Hermann And Dorothea

Calliope

Fate And Sympathy

"Truly, I never have seen the market and street so deserted!

How as if it were swept looks the town, or had perished! Not fifty

Are there, methinks, of all our inhabitants in it remaining,

What will not curiosity do! here is every one running,

Hurrying to gaze on the sad procession of pitiful exiles.

Fully a league it must be to the causeway they have to pass over,

Yet all are hurrying down in the dusty heat of the noonday.

I, in good sooth, would not stir from my place to witness the sorrows

Borne by good, fugitive people, who now, with their rescued possessions,

Driven, alas! from beyond the Rhine, their beautiful country,

Over to us are coming, and through the prosperous corner

Roam of this our luxuriant valley, and traverse its windings.

Well hast thou done, good wife, our son in thus kindly dispatching,

Laden with something to eat and to drink, and with store of old linen,

'Mongst the poor folk to distribute; for giving belongs to the wealthy.

How the youth drives, to be sure! What control he has over the horses!

Makes not our carriage a handsome appearance,-the new one— With comfort,

Four could be seated within, with a place on the box for the coachman.

This time, he drove by himself. How lightly it rolled round the corner!"

Thus, as he sat at his ease in the porch of his house on the market,

Unto his wife was speaking mine host of the Golden Lion.

Thereupon answered and said the prudent, intelligent housewife:

"Father, I am not inclined to be giving away my old linen:

Since it serves many a purpose; and cannot be purchased for money,

When we may want it. To-day, however, I gave, and with pleasure,

Many a piece that was better, indeed, in shirts and in bed-clothes;

For I was told of the aged and children who had to go naked.

But wilt thou pardon me, father— thy wardrobe has also been plundered.

And, in especial, the wrapper that has the East-Indian flowers,

Made of the finest of chintz, and lined with delicate flannel,

Gave I away: it was thin and old, and quite out of the fashion."

Thereupon answered and said, with a smile, the excellent landlord:

"Faith! I am sorry to lose it, my good old calico wrapper,

Real East-Indian stuff: I never shall get such another.

Well, I had given up wearing it: nowadays, custom compels us

Always to go in surtout, and never appear but in jacket;

Always to have on our boots; forbidden are night-cap and slippers."

"See!" interrupted the wife; "even now some are yonder returning,

Who have beheld the procession: it must, then, already be over.

Look at the dust on their shoes! and see how their faces are glowing!

Every one carries his kerchief, and with it is wiping the sweat off.

Not for a sight like that would I run so far and so suffer,

Through such a heat; in sooth, enough shall I have in the telling."

Thereupon answered and said, with emphasis, thus, the good father:

"Rarely does weather like this attend such a harvest as this is.

We shall be bringing our grain in dry, as the hay was before it.

Not the least cloud to be seen, so perfectly clear is the heaven;

And, with delicious coolness, the wind blows in from the eastward.

That is the weather to last! over-ripe are the cornfields already;

We shall begin on the morrow to gather our copious harvest."

Constantly, while he thus spoke, the crowds of men and of women

Grew, who their homeward way were over the market-place wending;

And, with the rest, there also returned, his daughters beside him,

Back to his modernized house on the opposite side of the market,

Foremost merchant of all the town, their opulent neighbor,

Rapidly driving his open barouche,-it was builded in Landau.

Lively now grew the streets, for the city was handsomely peopled.

Many a trade was therein carried on, and large manufactures.

Under their doorway thus the affectionate couple were sitting,

Pleasing themselves with many remarks on the wandering people.

Finally broke in, however, the worthy housewife, exclaiming:

"Yonder our pastor, see! is hitherward coming, and with him

Comes our neighbor the doctor, so they shall every thing tell us;

All they have witnessed abroad, and which 'tis a sorrow to look on."

Cordially then the two men drew nigh, and saluted the couple;

Sat themselves down on the benches of wood that were placed in the doorway,

Shaking the dust from their feet, and fanning themselves with their kerchiefs.

Then was the doctor, as soon as exchanged were the mutual greetings,

First to begin, and said, almost in a tone of vexation:

"Such is mankind, forsooth! and one man is just like another,

Liking to gape and to stare when ill-luck has befallen his neighbor.

Every one hurries to look at the flames, as they soar in destruction;

Runs to behold the poor culprit, to execution conducted:

Now all are sallying forth to gaze on the need of these exiles,

Nor is there one who considers that he, by a similar fortune,

May, in the future, if not indeed next, be likewise o'ertaken.

Levity not to be pardoned, I deem; yet it lies in man's nature."

Thereupon answered and said the noble, intelligent pastor;

Ornament he of the town, still young, in the prime of his manhood.

He was acquainted with life,-with the needs of his hearers acquainted;

Deeply imbued he was with the Holy Scriptures' importance,

As they reveal man's destiny to us, and man's disposition;

Thoroughly versed, besides, in best of secular writings.

"I should be loath," he replied, "to censure an innocent instinct,

Which to mankind by good mother Nature has always been given.

What understanding and reason may sometimes fail to accomplish,

Oft will such fortunate impulse, that bears us resistlessly with it.

Did curiosity draw not man with its potent attraction,

Say, would he ever have learned how harmoniously fitted together

Worldly experiences are— For first what is novel he covets;

Then with unwearying industry follows he after the useful;

Finally longs for the good by which he is raised and ennobled.

While he is young, such lightness of mind is a joyous companion,

Traces of pain-giving evil effacing as soon as 'tis over.

He is indeed to be praised, who, out of this gladness of temper,

Has in his ripening years a sound understanding developed;

Who, in good fortune or ill, with zeal and activity labors:

Such an one bringeth to pass what is good, and repaireth the evil."

Then broke familiarly in the housewife impatient, exclaiming:

"Tell us of what ye have seen; for that I am longing to hear of!"

"Hardly," with emphasis then the village doctor made answer,

"Can I find spirits so soon after all the scenes I have witnessed.

Oh, the manifold miseries! who shall be able to tell them—

E'en before crossing the meadows, and while we were yet at a distance,

Saw we the dust; but still from hill to hill the procession

Passed away out of our sight, and we could distinguish but little,

But when at last we were come to the street that crosses the valley,

Great was the crowd and confusion of persons on foot and of wagons.

There, alas! saw we enough of these poor unfortunates passing,

And could from some of them learn how bitter the sorrowful flight was,

Yet how joyful the feeling of life thus hastily rescued.

Mournful it was to behold the most miscellaneous chattels,-

All those things which are housed in every well-furnished dwelling,

All by the house-keeper's care set up in their suitable places,

Always ready for use; for useful is each and important.-

Now these things to behold, piled up on all manner of wagons,

One on the top of another, as hurriedly they had been rescued.

Over the chest of drawers were the sieve and wool coverlet lying;

Thrown in the kneading-trough lay the bed, and the sheets on the mirror.

Danger, alas! as we learned ourselves in our great conflagration

Twenty years since, will take from a man all power of reflection,

So that he grasps things worthless and leaves what is precious behind him.

Here, too, with unconsidering care they were carrying with them

Pitiful trash, that only encumbered the horses and oxen;

Such as old barrels and boards, the pen for the goose, and the bird-cage.

Women and children, too, went toiling along with their bundles,

Panting 'neath baskets and tubs, full of things of no manner of value:

So unwilling is man to relinquish his meanest possession.

Thus on the dusty road the crowded procession moved forward,

All confused and disordered. The one whose beasts were the weaker,

Wanted more slowly to drive, while faster would hurry another.

Presently went up a scream from the closely squeezed women and children,

And with the yelping of dogs was mingled the lowing of cattle,

Cries of distress from the aged and sick, who aloft on the wagon,

Heavy and thus overpacked, upon beds were sitting and swaying.

Pressed at last from the rut and out to the edge of the highway,

Slipped the creaking wheel; the cart lost its balance, and over

Fell in the ditch. In the swing the people were flung to a distance,

Far off into the field, with horrible screams; by good fortune

Later the boxes were thrown and fell more near to the wagon.

Verily all who had witnessed the fall, expected to see them

Crushed into pieces beneath the weight of trunks and of presses.

So lay the cart all broken to fragments, and helpless the people.

Keeping their onward way, the others drove hastily by them,

Each thinking only of self, and carried away by the current.

Then we ran to the spot, and found the sick and the aged,-

Those who at home and in bed could before their lingering ailments

Scarcely endure,-lying bruised on the ground, complaining and groaning,

Choked by the billowing dust, and scorched by the heat of the noonday."

Thereupon answered and said the kind-hearted landlord, with feeling:

"Would that our Hermann might meet them and give them refreshment and clothing!

Loath should I be to behold them: the looking on suffering pains me.

Touched by the earliest tidings of their so cruel afflictions,

Hastily sent we a mite from out of our super-abundance,

Only that some might be strengthened, and we might ourselves be made easy.

But let us now no longer renew these sorrowful pictures

Knowing how readily fear steals into the heart of us mortals,

And anxiety, worse to me than the actual evil.

Come with me into the room behind, our cool little parlor,

Where no sunbeam e'er shines, and no sultry breath ever enters

Through its thickness of wall. There mother will bring us a flagon

Of our old eighty-three, with which we may banish our fancies.

Here 'tis not cosey to drink: the flies so buzz round the glasses."

Thither adjourned they then, and all rejoiced in the coolness.

Carefully brought forth the mother the clear and glorious vintage,

Cased in a well-polished flask, on a waiter of glittering pewter,

Set round with large green glasses, the drinking cups meet for the Rhine Wine.

So sat the three together about the highly waxed table,

Gleaming and round and brown, that on mighty feet was supported,

Joyously rang at once the glasses of landlord and pastor,

But his motionless held the third, and sat lost in reflection,

Until with words of good-humor the landlord challenged him, saying,-

"Come, sir neighbor, empty your glass, for God in his mercy

Thus far has kept us from evil, and so in the future will keep us.

For who acknowledges not, that since our dread conflagration,

When he so hardly chastised us, he now is continually blessing,

Constantly shielding, as man the apple of his eye watches over,

Holding it precious and dear above all the rest of his members—

Shall he in time to come not defend us and furnish us succor—

Only when danger is nigh do we see how great is his power.

Shall he this blooming town which he once by industrious burghers

Built up afresh from its ashes, and afterwards blessed with abundance,

Now demolish again, and bring all the labor to nothing—"

Cheerfully said in reply the excellent pastor, and kindly:

"Keep thyself firm in the faith, and firm abide in this temper;

For it makes steadfast and wise when fortune is fair, and when evil,

Furnishes sweet consolation and animates hopes the sublimest."

Then made answer the landlord, with thoughts judicious and manly:

"Often the Rhine 's broad stream have I with astonishment greeted,

As I have neared it again, after travelling abroad upon business.

Always majestic it seemed, and my mind and spirit exalted.

But I could never imagine its beautiful banks would so shortly

Be to a rampart transformed, to keep from our borders the Frenchman,

And its wide-spreading bed be a moat all passage to hinder.

See! thus nature protects, the stout-hearted Germans protect us,

And thus protects us the Lord, who then will he weakly despondent—

Weary already the combatants, all indications are peaceful.

Would it might be that when that festival, ardently longed for,

Shall in our church be observed, when the sacred Te Deum is rising,

Swelled by the pealing of organ and bells, and the blaring of trumpets,-

Would it might be that that day should behold my Hermann, sir pastor,

Standing, his choice now made, with his bride before thee at the altar,

Making that festal day, that through every land shall be honored,

My anniversary, too, henceforth of domestic rejoicing!

But I observe with regret, that the youth so efficient and active

Ever in household affairs, when abroad is timid and backward.

Little enjoyment he finds in going about among others;

Nay, he will even avoid young ladies' society wholly;

Shuns the enlivening dance which all young persons delight in."

Thus he spoke and listened; for now was heard in the distance

Clattering of horses' hoofs drawing near, and the roll of the wagon,

Which, with furious haste, came thundering under the gateway.

TERPSICHORE

HERMANN

Now when of comely mien the son came into the chamber,

Turned with a searching look the eyes of the preacher upon him,

And, with the gaze of the student, who easily fathoms expression,

Scrutinized well his face and form and his general bearing.

Then with a smile he spoke, and said in words of affection:

"Truly a different being thou comest! I never have seen thee

Cheerful as now, nor ever beheld I thy glances so beaming.

Joyous thou comest, and happy: 'tis plain that among the poor people

Thou hast been sharing thy gifts, and receiving their blessings upon thee."

Quietly then, and with serious words, the son made him answer:

"If I have acted as ye will commend, I know not; but I followed

That which my heart bade me do, as I shall exactly relate you.

Thou wert, mother, so long in rummaging 'mong thy old pieces,

Picking and choosing, that not until late was thy bundle together;

Then too the wine and the beer took care and time in the packing.

When I came forth through the gateway at last, and out on the high-road,

Backward the crowd of citizens streamed with women and children,

Coming to meet me; for far was already the band of the exiles.

Quicker I kept on my way, and drove with speed to the village,

Where they were meaning to rest, as I heard, and tarry till morning.

Thitherward up the new street as I hasted, a stout-timbered wagon,

Drawn by two oxen, I saw, of that region the largest and strongest;

While, with vigorous steps, a maiden was walking beside them,

And, a long staff in her hand, the two powerful creatures was guiding,

Urging them now, now holding them back; with skill did she drive them.

Soon as the maiden perceived me, she calmly drew near to the horses,

And in these words she addressed me: 'Not thus deplorable always

Has our condition been, as to-day on this journey thou seest.

I am not yet grown used to asking gifts of a stranger,

Which he will often unwillingly give, to be rid of the beggar.

But necessity drives me to speak; for here, on the straw, lies

Newly delivered of child, a rich land-owner's wife, whom I scarcely

Have in her pregnancy, safe brought off with the oxen and wagon.

Naked, now in her arms the new-born infant is lying,

And but little the help our friends will be able to furnish,

If in the neighboring village, indeed, where to-day we would rest us,

Still we shall find them; though much do I fear they already have passed it.

Shouldst thou have linen to spare of any description, provided

Thou of this neighborhood art, to the poor in charity give it.'

"Thus she spoke, and the pale-faced mother raised herself feebly

Up from the straw, and towards me looked. Then said I in answer:

'Surely unto the good, a spirit from heaven oft speaketh,

Making them feel the distress that threatens a suffering brother.

For thou must know that my mother, already presaging thy sorrows,

Gave me a bundle to use it straightway for the need of the naked,'

Then I untied the knots of the string, and the wrapper of father's

Unto her gave, and gave her as well the shirts and the linen.

And she thanked me with joy, and cried: 'The happy believe not

Miracles yet can be wrought: for only in need we acknowledge

God's own hand and finger, that leads the good to show goodness,

What unto us he has done through thee, may he do to thee also!

And I beheld with what pleasure the sick woman handled the linens,

But with especial delight the dressing-gown's delicate flannel.

'Let us make haste,' the maid to her said, 'and come to the village,

Where our people will halt for the night and already are resting.

There these clothes for the children I, one and all, straightway will portion.'

Then she saluted again, her thanks most warmly expressing,

Started the oxen; the wagon went on; but there I still lingered,

Still held the horses in check; for now my heart was divided

Whether to drive with speed to the village, and there the provisions

Share 'mong the rest of the people, or whether I here to the maiden

All should deliver at once, for her discreetly to portion.

And in an instant my heart had decided, and quietly driving

After the maiden, I soon overtook her, and said to her quickly:

'Hearken, good maiden;-my mother packed up not linen-stuffs only

Into the carriage, that I should have clothes to furnish the naked;

Wine and beer she added besides, and supply of provisions:

Plenty of all these things I have in the box of the carriage.

But now I feel myself moved to deliver these offerings also

Into thy hand; for so shall I best fulfil my commission.

Thou wilt divide them with judgment, while I must by chance be directed.'

Thereupon answered the maiden: 'I will with faithfulness portion

These thy gifts, that all shall bring comfort to those who are needy.'

Thus she spoke, and quickly the box of the carriage I opened,

Brought forth thence the substantial hams, and brought out the breadstuffs,

Bottles of wine and beer, and one and all gave to the maiden.

Willingly would I have given her more, but the carriage was empty.

All she packed at the sick woman's feet, and went on her journey.

I, with my horses and carriage, drove rapidly back to the city."

Instantly now, when Hermann had ceased, the talkative neighbor

Took up the word, and cried: "Oh happy, in days like the present,

Days of flight and confusion, who lives by himself in his dwelling,

Having no wife nor child to be clinging about him in terror!

Happy I feel myself now, and would not for much be called father;

Would not have wife and children to-day, for whom to be anxious.

Oft have I thought of this flight before; and have packed up together

All my best things already, the chains and old pieces of money

That were my sainted mother's, of which not one has been sold yet.

Much would be left behind, it is true, not easily gotten.

Even the roots and the herbs, that were with such industry gathered,

I should be sorry to lose, though the worth of the goods is but trifling.

If my purveyor remained, I could go from my dwelling contented.

When my cash I have brought away safe, and have rescued my person,

All is safe: none find it so easy to fly as the single."

"Neighbor," unto his words young Hermann with emphasis answered:

"I can in no wise agree with thee here, and censure thy language.

Is he indeed a man to be prized, who, in good and in evil,

Takes no thought but for self, and gladness and sorrow with others

Knows not how to divide, nor feels his heart so impel him—

Rather than ever to-day would I make up my mind to be married:

Many a worthy maiden is needing a husband's protection,

And the man needs an inspiriting wife when ill is impending."

Thereupon smiling the father replied: "Thus love I to hear thee!

That is a sensible word such as rarely I've known thee to utter."

Straightway, however, the mother broke in with quickness, exclaiming:

"Son, to be sure, thou art right! we parents have set the example;

Seeing that not in our season of joy did we choose one another;

Rather the saddest of hours it was that bound us together.

Monday morning-I mind it well; for the day that preceded

Came that terrible fire by which our city was ravaged-

Twenty years will have gone. The day was a Sunday as this is;

Hot and dry was the season; the water was almost exhausted.

All the people were strolling abroad in their holiday dresses,

'Mong the villages partly, and part in the mills and the taverns.

And at the end of the city the flames began, and went coursing

Quickly along the streets, creating a draught in their passage.

Burned were the barns where the copious harvest already was garnered;

Burned were the streets as far as the market; the house of my father,

Neighbor to this, was destroyed, and this one also fell with it.

Little we managed to save. I sat, that sorrowful night through,

Outside the town on the common, to guard the beds and the boxes.

Sleep overtook me at last, and when I again was awakened,

Feeling the chill of the morning that always descends before sunrise,

There were the smoke and the glare, and the walls and chimneys in ruins.

Then fell a weight on my heart; but more majestic than ever

Came up the sun again, inspiring my bosom with courage.

Then I rose hastily up, with a yearning the place to revisit

Whereon our dwelling had stood, and to see if the hens had been rescued,

Which I especially loved, for I still was a child in my feelings.

Thus as I over the still-smoking timbers of house and of court-yard

Picked my way, and beheld the dwelling so ruined and wasted,

Thou camest up to examine the place, from the other direction.

Under the ruins thy horse in his stall had been buried; the rubbish

Lay on the spot and the glimmering beams; of the horse we saw nothing.

Thoughtful and grieving we stood there thus, each facing the other,

Now that the wall was fallen that once had divided our court-yards.

Thereupon thou by the hand didst take me, and speak to me, saying,-

'Lisa, how earnest thou hither— Go back! thy soles must be burning;

Hot the rubbish is here: it scorches my boots, which are stronger.'

And thou didst lift me up, and carry me out through thy court-yard.

There was the door of the house left standing yet with its archway,

Just as 'tis standing now, the one thing only remaining.

Then thou didst set me down and kiss me; to that I objected;

But thou didst answer and say with kindly significant language:

'See! my house lies in ruins: remain here and help me rebuild it;

So shall my help in return be given to building thy father's.'

Yet did I not comprehend thee until thou sentest thy mother

Unto my father, and quick were the happy espousals accomplished.

E'en to this day I remember with joy those half-consumed timbers,

And I can see once more the sun coming up in such splendor;

For 'twas the day that gave me my husband; and, ere the first season

Passed of that wild desolation, a son to my youth had been given.

Therefore I praise thee, Hermann, that thou, with an honest assurance,

Shouldst, in these sorrowful days, be thinking thyself of a maiden,

And amid ruins and war shouldst thus have the courage to woo her."

Straightway, then, and with warmth, the father replied to her, saying:

"Worthy of praise is the feeling, and truthful also the story,

Mother, that thou hast related; for so indeed everything happened.

Better, however, is better. It is not the business of all men

Thus their life and estate to begin from the very foundation:

Every one needs not to worry himself as we and the rest did.

Oh, how happy is he whose father and mother shall give him,

Furnished and ready, a house which he can adorn with his increase.

Every beginning is hard; but most the beginning a household.

Many are human wants, and every thing daily grows dearer,

So that a man must consider the means of increasing his earnings.

This I hope therefore of thee, my Hermann, that into our dwelling

Thou wilt be bringing ere long a bride who is handsomely dowered;

For it is meet that a gallant young man have an opulent maiden.

Great is the comfort of home whene'er, with the woman elected,

Enter the useful presents, besides, in box and in basket.

Not for this many a year in vain has the mother been busy

Making her daughter's linens of strong and delicate texture;

God-parents have not in vain been giving their vessels of silver,

And the father laid by in his desk the rare pieces of money;

For there a day will come when she, with her gifts and possessions,

Shall that youth rejoice who has chosen her out of all others.

Well do I know how good in a house is a woman's position,

Who her own furniture round her knows, in kitchen and chamber;

Who herself the bed and herself the table has covered.

Only a well-dowered bride should I like to receive to my dwelling.

She who is poor is sure, in the end, to be scorned by her husband;

And will as servant be held, who as servant came in with her bundle.

Men will remain unjust when the season of love is gone over.

Yes, my Hermann, thy father's old age thou greatly canst gladden,

If thou a daughter-in-law will speedily bring to my dwelling,

Out of the neighborhood here,-from the house over yonder, the green one.

Rich is the man, I can tell thee. His manufactures and traffic

Daily are making him richer; for whence draws the merchant not profit—

Three daughters only he has, to divide his fortune among them.

True that the eldest already is taken; but there is the second

Still to be had, as well as the third; and not long so, it may be.

I would never have lingered till now, had I been in thy place;

But had fetched one of the maidens, as once I bore off thy dear mother."

Modestly then did the son to the urgent father answer;

"Truly 'twas my wish too, as well as thine own, to have chosen

One of our neighbor's daughters, for we had been brought up together;

Played, in the early days, about the market-place fountain;

And, from the other boys' rudeness, I often have been their defender.

That, though, is long since past: the girls, as they grew to be older,

Properly stayed in the house, and shunned the more boisterous pastimes.

Well brought up are they, surely! I used sometimes to go over,

Partly to gratify thee, and because of our former acquaintance:

But no pleasure I ever could take in being among them;

For I was always obliged to endure their censures upon me.

Quite too long was my coat, the cloth too coarse, and the color

Quite too common; my hair was not cropped, as it should be, and frizzled.

I was resolved, at last, that I, also, would dress myself finely,

Just as those office-boys do who always are seen there on Sundays,

Wearing in summer their half-silken flaps, that dangled about them;

But I discovered, betimes, they made ever a laughing-stock of me.

And I was vexed when I saw it,-it wounded my pride; but more deeply

Felt I aggrieved that they the good-will should so far misinterpret

That in my heart I bore them,-especially Minna the youngest.

It was on Easter-day that last I went over to see them;

Wearing my best new coat, that is now hanging up in the closet,

And having frizzled my hair, like that of the other young fellows.

Soon as I entered, they tittered; but that not at me, as I fancied.

Minna before the piano was seated; the father was present,

Hearing his daughters sing, and full of delight and good-humor.

Much I could not understand of all that was said in the singing;

But of Pamina I often heard, and oft of Tamino:

And I, besides, could not stay there dumb; so, as soon as she ended,

Something about the words I asked, and about the two persons.

Thereupon all were silent and smiled; but the father made answer:

'Thou knowest no one, my friend, I believe, but Adam and Eve—'

No one restrained himself longer, but loud laughed out then the maidens,

Loud laughed out the boys, the old man held his sides for his laughing.

I, in embarrassment, dropped my hat, and the giggling continued,

On and on and on, for all they kept playing and singing.

Back to the house here I hurried, o'ercome with shame and vexation,

Hung up my coat in the closet, and pulled out the curls with my fingers,

Swearing that never again my foot should cross over that threshold.

And I was perfectly right; for vain are the maidens, and heartless.

E'en to this day, as I hear, I am called by them ever 'Tamino.'"

Thereupon answered the mother, and said: "Thou shouldest not, Hermann,

Be so long vexed with the children: indeed, they are all of them children.

Minna, believe me, is good, and was always disposed to thee kindly.

'Twas not long since she was asking about thee. Let her be thy chosen!"

Thoughtfully answered the son: "I know not. That mortification

Stamped itself in me so deeply, I never could bear to behold her

Seated before the piano or listen again to her singing."

Forth broke the father then, and in words of anger made answer:

"Little of joy will my life have in thee! I said it would be so

When I perceived that thy pleasure was solely in horses and farming:

Work which a servant, indeed, performs for an opulent master,

That thou doest; the father meanwhile must his son be deprived of,

Who should appear as his pride, in the sight of the rest of the townsmen.

Early with empty hopes thy mother was wont to deceive me,

When in the school thy studies, thy reading and writing, would never

As with the others succeed, but thy seat would be always the lowest.

That comes about, forsooth, when a youth has no feeling of honor

Dwelling within his breast, nor the wish to raise himself higher.

Had but my father so cared for me as thou hast been cared for;

If he had sent me to school, and provided me thus with instructors,

I should be other, I trow, than host of the Golden Lion!"

Then the son rose from his seat and noiselessly moved to the doorway,

Slowly, and speaking no word. The father, however; in passion

After him called, "Yes, go, thou obstinate fellow! I know thee!

Go and look after the business henceforth, that I have not to chide thee;

But do thou nowise imagine that ever a peasant-born maiden

Thou for a daughter-in-law shalt bring into my dwelling, the hussy!

Long have I lived in the world, and know how mankind should be dealt with;

Know how to entertain ladies and gentlemen so that contented

They shall depart from my house, and strangers agreeably can flatter.

Yet I'm resolved that some day I one will have for a daughter,

Who shall requite me in kind and sweeten my manifold labors;

Who the piano shall play to me, too; so that there shall with pleasure

All the handsomest people in town and the finest assemble,

As they on Sundays do now in the house of our neighbor." Here Hermann

Softly pressed on the latch, and so went out from the chamber.

THALIA

THE CITIZENS

Thus did the modest son slip away from the angry upbraiding;

But in the tone he had taken at first, the father continued:

"That comes not out of a man which he has not in him; and hardly

Shall the joy ever be mine of seeing my dearest wish granted:

That my son may not as his father be, but a better.

What would become of the house, and what of the city if each one

Were not with pleasure and always intent on maintaining, renewing,

Yea, and improving, too, as time and the foreigner teach us!

Man is not meant, forsooth, to grow from the ground like a mushroom,

Quickly to perish away on the spot of ground that begot him,

Leaving no trace behind of himself and his animate action!

As by the house we straightway can tell the mind of the master,

So, when we walk through a city, we judge of the persons who rule it.

For where the towers and walls are falling to ruin; where offal

Lies in heaps in the gutters, and alleys with offal are littered;

Where from its place has started the stone, and no one resets it;

Where the timbers are rotting away, and the house is awaiting

Vainly its new supports,-that place we may know is ill governed.

Since if not from above work order and cleanliness downward,

Easily grows the citizen used to untidy postponement;

Just as the beggar grows likewise used to his ragged apparel.

Therefore I wished that our Hermann might early set out on some travels;

That he at least might behold the cities of Strasburg and Frankfort,

Friendly Mannheim, too, that is cheerful and evenly builded.

He that has once beheld cities so cleanly and large, never after

Ceases his own native city, though small it may be, to embellish.

Do not the strangers who come here commend the repairs in our gateway,

Notice our whitewashed tower, and the church we have newly rebuilded—

Are not all praising our pavement— the covered canals full of water,

Laid with a wise distribution, which furnish us profit and safety,

So that no sooner does fire break out than 'tis promptly arrested—

Has not all this come to pass since the time of our great conflagration—

Builder I six times was named by the council, and won the approval,

Won moreover the heartfelt thanks of all the good burghers,

Actively carrying out what I planned, and also fulfilling

What had by upright men been designed, and left uncompleted.

Finally grew the same zeal in every one of the council;

All now labor together, and firmly decided already

Stands it to build the new causeway that shall with the highroad connect us.

But I am sorely afraid that will not be the way with our children.

Some think only of pleasure and perishable apparel;

Others will cower at home, and behind the stove will sit brooding.

One of this kind, as I fear, we shall find to the last in our Hermann."

Straightway answered and said the good and intelligent mother:

"Why wilt thou always, father, be doing our son such injustice—

That least of all is the way to bring thy wish to fulfilment.

We have no power to fashion our children as suiteth our fancy;

As they are given by God, we so must have them and love them;

Teach them as best we can, and let each of them follow his nature.

One will have talents of one sort, and different talents another.

Every one uses his own; in his own individual fashion,

Each must be happy and good. I will not have my Hermann found fault with;

For he is worthy, I know, of the goods he shall one day inherit;

Will be an excellent landlord, a pattern to burghers and builders;

Neither in council, as I can foresee, will he be the most backward.

But thou keepest shut up in his breast all the poor fellow's spirit,

Finding such fault with him daily, and censuring as thou but now hast."

And on the instant she quitted the room, and after him hurried,

Hoping she somewhere might find him, and might with her words of affection

Cheer him again, her excellent son, for well he deserved it.

Thereupon when she was gone, the father thus smiling continued:

"What a strange folk, to be sure, are these women; and just like the children;

Both of them bent upon living according as suiteth their pleasure,

While we others must never do aught but flatter and praise them.

Once for all time holds good the ancients' trustworthy proverb:

'Whoever goes not forward comes backward.' So must it be always."

Thereupon answered and said, in a tone of reflection, the doctor:

"That, sir neighbor, I willingly grant; for myself I am always

Casting about for improvement,-things new, so they be not too costly.

But what profits a man, who has not abundance of money,

Being thus active and stirring, and bettering inside and outside—

Only too much is the citizen cramped: the good, though he know it,

Has he no means to acquire because too slender his purse is,

While his needs are too great; and thus is he constantly hampered.

Many the things I had done; but then the cost of such changes

Who does not fear, especially now in this season of danger—

Long since my house was smiling upon me in modish apparel!

Long since great panes of glass were gleaming in all of the windows!

But who can do as the merchant does, who, with his resources,

Knows the methods as well by which the best is arrived at—

Look at that house over yonder,-the new one; behold with what splendor

'Gainst the background of green stand out the white spirals of stucco!

Great are the panes in the windows; and how the glass sparkles and glitters,

Casting quite into the shade the rest of the market-place houses!

Yet just after the fire were our two houses the finest,

This of the Golden Lion, and mine of the sign of the Angel.

So was my garden, too, throughout the whole neighborhood famous:

Every traveller stopped and gazed through the red palisadoes,

Caught by the beggars there carved in stone and the dwarfs of bright colors.

Then whosoever had coffee served in the beautiful grotto,-

Standing there now all covered with dust and Partly in ruins,-

Used to be mightily pleased with the glimmering light of the mussels

Spread out in beautiful order; and even the eye of the critic

Used by the sight of my corals and potter's ore to be dazzled.

So in my parlor, too, they would always admire the painting,

Where in a garden are gaily dressed ladies and gentlemen walking,

And with their taper fingers are plucking and holding the flowers.

But who would look at it now! In sooth, so great my vexation

Scarcely I venture abroad. All now must be other and tasteful,

So they call it; and white are the laths and benches of wood-work;

Everything simple and smooth; no carving longer or gilding

Can be endured, and the woods from abroad are of all the most costly.

Well, I too should be glad could I get for myself something novel;

Glad to keep up with the times, and be changing my furniture often;

Yet must we all be afraid of touching the veriest trifle.

For who among us has means for paying the work-people's wages

Lately I had an idea of giving the Archangel Michael,

Making the sign of my shop, another fresh coating of gilding,

And to the terrible dragon about his feet that is winding;

But I e'en let him stay browned as he is: I dreaded the charges."

EUTERPE

MOTHER AND SON

Thus entertaining themselves, the men sat talking. The mother

Went meanwhile to look for her son in front of the dwelling,

First on the settle of stone, whereon 'twas his wont to be seated.

When she perceived him not there, she went farther to look in the stable,

If he were caring perhaps for his noble horses, the stallions,

Which he as colts had bought, and whose care he intrusted to no one.

And by the servant she there was told: He is gone to the garden.

Then with a nimble step she traversed the long, double courtyards,

Leaving the stables behind, and the well-builded barns, too, behind her;

Entered the garden, that far as the walls of the city extended;

Walked through its length, rejoiced as she went in every thing growing;

Set upright the supports on which were resting the branches

Heavily laden with apples, and burdening boughs of the pear-tree.

Next some caterpillars removed from a stout, swelling cabbage;

For an industrious woman allows no step to be wasted.

Thus was she come at last to the end of the far-reaching garden,

Where stood the arbor embowered in woodbine; nor there did she find him,

More than she had hitherto in all her search through the garden.

But the wicket was standing ajar, which out of the arbor,

Once by particular favor, had been through the walls of the city

Cut by a grandsire of hers, the worshipful burgomaster.

So the now dried-up moat she next crossed over with comfort,

Where, by the side of the road, direct the well-fenced vineyard,

Rose with a steep ascent, its slope exposed to the sunshine.

Up this also she went, and with pleasure as she was ascending

Marked the wealth of the clusters, that scarce by their leafage were hidden.

Shady and covered the way through the lofty middlemost alley,

Which upon steps that were made of unhewn blocks you ascended.

There were the Muscatel, and there were the Chasselas hanging

Side by side, of unusual size and colored with purple,

All set out with the purpose of decking the visitor's table;

While with single vine-stocks the rest of the hillside was covered,

Bearing inferior clusters, from which the delicate wine comes.

Thus up the slope she went, enjoying already the vintage,

And that festive day on which the whole country, rejoicing,

Picks and tramples the grapes, and gathers the must into vessels:

Fireworks, when it is evening, from every direction and corner

Crackle and blaze, and so the fairest of harvests is honored.

But more uneasy she went, her son after twice or thrice calling,

And no answer receiving, except from the talkative echo,

That with many repeats rang back from the towers of the city.

Strange it was for her to seek him; he never had gone to a distance

That he told her not first, to spare his affectionate mother

Every anxious thought, and fear that aught ill had befallen.

Still did she constantly hope that, if further she went, she should find him;

For the two doors of the vineyard, the lower as well as the upper,

Both were alike standing open. So now she entered the cornfield,

That with its broad expanse the ridge of the hill covered over.

Still was the ground that she walked on her own; and the crops she rejoiced in,-

All of them still were hers, and hers was the proud-waving grain, too,

Over the whole broad field in golden strength that was stirring.

Keeping the ridgeway, the footpath, between the fields she went onward,

Having the lofty pear-tree in view, which stood on the summit,

And was the boundary-mark of the fields that belonged to her dwelling.

Who might have planted it, none could know, but visible was it

Far and wide through the country; the fruit of the pear-tree was famous.

'Neath it the reapers were wont to enjoy their meal at the noon-day,

And the shepherds were used to tend their flocks in its shadow.

Benches of unhewn stones and of turf they found set about it.

And she had not been mistaken, for there sat her Hermann, and rested,-

Sat with his head on his hand, and seemed to be viewing the landscape

That to the mountains lay: his back was turned to his mother.

Towards him softly she crept, and lightly touched on the shoulder;

Quick he turned himself round: there were tears in his eyes as he met her.

"Mother, how hast thou surprised me!" he said in confusion; and quickly

Wiped the high-spirited youth his tears away. But the mother,

"What! do I find thee weeping, my son—" exclaimed in amazement.

"Nay, that is not like thyself: I never before have so seen thee!

Tell me, what burdens thy heart— what drives thee here, to be sitting

Under the pear-tree alone— These tears in thine eyes, what has brought them—"

Then, collecting himself, the excellent youth made her answer:

"Truly no heart can that man have in his bosom of iron,

Who is insensible now to the needs of this emigrant people;

He has no brains in his head, who not for his personal safety,

Not for his fatherland's weal, in days like the present is anxious.

Deeply my heart had been touched by the sights and sounds of the morning;

Then I went forth and beheld the broad and glorious landscape

Spreading its fertile slopes in every direction about us,

Saw the golden grain inclining itself to the reapers,

And the promise of well-filled barns from the plentiful harvest.

But, alas, how near is the foe! The Rhine with its waters

Guards us, indeed; but, ah, what now are rivers and mountains

'Gainst that terrible people that onward bears like a tempest!

For they summon their youths from every quarter together,

Call up their old men too, and press with violence forward.

Death cannot frighten the crowd: one multitude follows another.

And shall a German dare to linger behind in his homestead—

Hopes he perhaps to escape the everywhere threatening evil—

Nay, dear mother, I tell thee, to-day has made me regretful

That I was lately exempt, when out of our townsmen were chosen

Those who should serve in the army. An only son I am truly,

Also our business is great, and the charge of our household is weighty.

Yet were it better, I deem, in the front to offer resistance

There on the border, than here to await disaster and bondage.

So has my spirit declared, and deep in my innermost bosom

Courage and longing have now been aroused to live for my country,

Yea, and to die, presenting to others a worthy example.

If but the strength of Germany 's youth were banded together

There on the frontier, resolved that it never would yield to the stranger,

Ah, he should not on our glorious soil be setting his foot-steps,

Neither consuming before our eyes the fruit of our labor,

Ruling our men, and making his prey of our wives and our daughters.

Hark to me, mother: for I in the depths of my heart am determined

Quickly to do, and at once, what appears to me right and in reason;

For he chooses not always the best who longest considers.

Hearken, I shall not again return to the house; but directly

Go from this spot to the city, and there present to the soldiers

This right arm and this heart, to be spent in the fatherland's service.

Then let my father say if there be no feeling of honor

Dwelling within my breast, nor a wish to raise myself higher."

Then with significant words spoke the good and intelligent mother,

While from her eyes the quick-starting tears were silently falling:

"Son, what change has come o'er thee to-day, and over thy temper,

That thou speakest no more, as thou yesterday didst, and hast always,

Open and free, to thy mother, and tellest exactly thy wishes—

Any one else, had he heard thee thus speak, would in sooth have commended,

And this decision of thine would have highly approved as most noble,

Being misled by thy tone and by thy significant language.

Yet have I nothing but censure to speak; for better I know thee.

Thou concealest thy heart, and thy thoughts are not such as thou tellest.

Well do I know that it is not the drum, not the trumpet that calls thee:

Neither in uniform wouldst thou figure in sight of the maidens;

Since, for all thou art honest and brave, it is thy vocation

Here in quiet to care for the farm and provide for the household.

Tell me honestly, therefore, what goads thee to such a decision—"

Earnestly answered the son: "Nay, thou art mistaken, dear mother:

One day is not like another. The youth matures into manhood:

Better in stillness oft ripening to deeds than when in the tumult

Wildering and wild of existence, that many a youth has corrupted.

And, for as still as I am and was always, there yet in my bosom

Has such a heart been shaped as abhors all wrong and injustice;

And I have learned aright between worldly things to distinguish.

Arm and foot, besides, have been mightily strengthened by labor.

All this, I feel, is true: I dare with boldness maintain it.

Yet dost thou blame me with reason, O mother! for thou hast surprised me

Using a language half truthful and half that of dissimulation.

For, let me honestly own,-it is not the near danger that calls me

Forth from my father's house; nor is it the lofty ambition

Helpful to be to my country, and terrible unto the foeman.

They were but words that I spoke: they only were meant for concealing

Those emotions from thee with which my heart is distracted;

And so leave me, O mother! for, since the wishes are fruitless

Which in my bosom I cherish, my life must go fruitlessly over.

For, as I know, he injures himself who is singly devoted,

When for the common cause the whole are not working together."

"Hesitate not," replied thereupon the intelligent mother,

"Every thing to relate me, the smallest as well as the greatest.

Men will always be hasty, their thoughts to extremes ever running:

Easily out of their course the hasty are turned by a hindrance.

Whereas a woman is clever in thinking of means, and will venture

E'en on a roundabout way, adroitly to compass her object.

Let me know every thing, then; say wherefore so greatly excited

'As I ne'er saw thee before, why thy blood is coursing so hotly,

Wherefore, against thy will, tears are filling thine eyes to o'erflowing."

Then he abandoned himself, the poor boy, to his sorrow, and weeping,

Weeping aloud on his kind mother's breast, he brokenly answered:

"Truly my father's words to-day have wounded me sorely,-

Words which I have not deserved; not to-day, nor at any time have I:

For it was early my greatest delight to honor my parents.

No one knew more, so I deemed, or was wiser than those who begot me,

And had with strictness ruled throughout the dark season of childhood.

Many the things, in truth, I with patience endured from my playmates,

When the good-will that I bore them they often requited with malice.

Often I suffered their flings and their blows to pass unresented;

But if they ventured to ridicule father, when he of a Sunday

Home from Church would come, with his solemn and dignified bearing;

If they made fun of his cap-string, or laughed at the flowers of the wrapper

He with such stateliness wore, which was given away but this morning,-

Threateningly doubled my fist in an instant; with furious passion

Fell I upon them, and struck out and hit, assailing them blindly,

Seeing not where. They howled as the blood gushed out from their noses:

Scarcely they made their escape from my passionate kicking and beating.

Then, as I older grew, I had much to endure from my father;

Violent words he oft vented on me, instead of on others,

When, at the board's last session, the council had roused his displeasure,

And I was made to atone for the quarrels and wiles of his colleagues.

Thou has pitied me often thyself; for much did I suffer,

Ever remembering with cordial respect the kindness of parents,

Solely intent on increasing for us their goods and possessions,

Much denying themselves in order to save for their children.

But, alas! saving alone, for the sake of a tardy enjoyment,-

That is not happiness: pile upon pile, and acre on acre,

Make us not happy, no matter how fair our estates may be rounded.

For the father grows old, and with him will grow old the children,

Losing the joy of the day, and bearing the care of tomorrow.

Look thou below, and see how before us in glory are lying,

Fair and abundant, the corn-fields; beneath them, the vineyard and garden;

Yonder the stables and barns; our beautiful line of possessions.

But when I look at the dwelling behind, where up in the gable

We can distinguish the window that marks my room in the attic;

When I look back, and remember how many a night from that window

I for the moon have watched; for the sun, how many a morning!

When the healthful sleep of a few short hours sufficed me,-

Ah, so lonely they seem to me then, the chamber and courtyard,

Garden and glorious field, away o'er the hill that is stretching;

All so desert before me lie: 'tis the wife that is wanting."

Thereupon spoke the good mother, and thus with intelligence answered:

"Son, not greater thy wish to bring thee a bride to thy chamber,

That thou mayst find thy nights a beautiful part of existence,

And that the work of the day may gain independence and freedom,

Than is thy father's wish too, and thy mother's. We always have counselled,-

Yea, we have even insisted,-that thou shouldst select thee a maiden.

But I was ever aware, and now my heart gives me assurance,

That till the hour appointed is come, and the maiden appointed

Shall with the hour appear, the choice will be left for the future,

While more strong than all else will be fear of grasping the wrong one.

If I may say it, my son, I believe thou already hast chosen;

For thy heart has been touched, and been made more than wontedly tender.

Speak it out honestly, then; for my soul has told me beforehand:

That same maiden it is, the exile, whom thou hast elected."

"Thou has said, mother!" the son thereupon with eagerness answered.

"Yes, it is she; and if I to-day as my bride do not bring her

Home to our dwelling, she from me will go, perhaps vanish for ever,

Lost in the war's confusion and sad movings hither and thither.

Mother, for ever in vain would then our abundant possessions

Prosper before me, and seasons to come be in vain to me fruitful.

Yea, I should hold in aversion the wonted house and the garden:

Even my mother's love, alas! would not comfort my sorrow.

Every tie, so I feel in my heart, by love is unloosened

Soon as she fastens her own; and not the maid is it only

Leaves behind father and mother, to follow the man she has chosen.

He too, the youth, no longer knows aught of mother and father,

When he the maiden, his only beloved, sees vanishing from him.

Suffer me, then, to go hence wherever despair shall impel me:

Since by my father himself the decisive words have been spoken;

Since his house can no longer be mine if he shut out the maiden,

Her whom alone as my bride I desire to bring to our dwelling."

Thereupon quickly made answer the good and intelligent mother:

"How like to rocks, forsooth, two men will stand facing each other!

Proud and not to be moved, will neither draw near to his fellow;

Neither will stir his tongue to utter the first word of kindness.

Therefore I tell thee, my son, a hope yet lives in my bosom,

So she be honest and good, thy father will let thee espouse her,

Even though poor, and against a poor girl so decisive his sentence.

Many a thing he is wont to speak out in his violent fashion

Which he yet never performs; and so what he denies will consent to.

Yet he requires a kindly word, and is right to require it: He is the father!

Besides we know that his wrath after dinner,-

When he most hastily speaks, and questions all others' opinions,-

Signifies naught; the full force of his violent will is excited

Then by the wine, which lets him not heed the language of others;

None but himself does he see and feel. But now is come evening,

Talk upon various subjects has passed between him and his neighbors.

Gentle, he is; I am sure now his little excitement is over,

And he can feel how unjust his passion has made him to others.

Come, let us venture at once: success is alone to the valiant!

Further we need the friends, still sitting together there with him,;

And in especial the worthy pastor will give us assistance."

Thus she hastily spoke, and up from the stone then arising,

Drew from his seat her son, who willingly followed. In silence

Both descended the hill, their important purpose revolving.

POLYHYMNIA

THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD

HERE the three men, however, still sat conversing together,

With mine host of the Lion, the village doctor, and pastor;

And their talk was still on the same unvarying subject,

Turning it this way and that, and viewing from every direction.

But with his sober judgment the excellent pastor made answer:

"Here will I not contradict you. I know that man should be always

Striving for that which is better; indeed, as we see, he is reaching

Always after the higher, at least some novelty craving.

But be careful ye go not too far, for with this disposition

Nature has given us pleasure in holding to what is familiar;

Taught us in that to delight to which we have long been accustomed.

Every condition is good that is founded on reason and nature.

Many are man's desires, yet little it is that he needeth;

Seeing the days are short and mortal destiny bounded.

Ne'er would I censure the man whom a restless activity urges,

Bold and industrious, over all pathways of land and of ocean,

Ever untiring to roam; who takes delight in the riches,

Heaping in generous abundance about himself and his children.

Yet not unprized by me is the quiet citizen also,

Making the noiseless round of his own inherited acres,

Tilling the ground as the ever-returning seasons command him.

Not with every year is the soil transfigured about him;

Not in haste does the tree stretch forth, as soon as 'tis planted,

Full-grown arms towards heaven and decked with plenteous blossoms.

No: man has need of patience, and needful to him are also

Calmness and clearness of mind, and a pure and right understanding.

Few are the seeds he intrusts to earth's all-nourishing bosom;

Few are the creatures he knows how to raise and bring to perfection.

Centred are all his thoughts alone on that which is useful.

Happy to whom by nature a mind of such temper is given,

For he supports us all! And hail, to the man whose abode is

Where in a town the country pursuits with the city are blended.

On him lies not the pressure that painfully hampers the farmer,

Nor is he carried away by the greedy ambition of cities;

Where they of scanty possessions too often are given to aping,

Wives and daughters especially, those who are higher and richer.

Blessed be therefore thy son in his life of quiet employment;

Blessed the wife, of like mind with himself, whom he one day shall choose him."

Thus he spoke; and scarce had he ended when entered the mother,

Holding her son by the hand, and so led him up to her husband.

"Father," she said, "how oft when we two have been chatting together,

Have we rejoiced in the thought of Hermann's future espousal,

When he should bring his bride to be the light of our dwelling!

Over and over again the matter we pondered: this maiden

Fixing upon for him first, and then that, with the gossip of parents.

But that day is now come; and Heaven at last has the maiden

Brought to him hither, and shown him; and now his heart has decided.

Said we not always then he should have his own choice in the matter—

Was it not just now thy wish that he might with lively affection

Feel himself drawn to some maiden— The hour is come that we hoped for.

Yes; he has felt and has chosen and come to a manly decision.

That same maiden it is that met him this morning, the stranger:

Say he may have her, or else, as he swears, his life shall be single."

"Give her me, father," so added the son: "my heart has elected

Clear and sure; she will be to you both the noblest of daughters."

But the father was silent. Then hastily rose the good pastor,

Took up the word and said: "The moment alone is decisive;

Fixes the life of man, and his future destiny settles.

After long taking of counsel, yet only the work of a moment

Every decision must be; and the wise alone seizes the right one.

Dangerous always it is comparing the one with the other

When we are making our choice, and so confusing our feelings.

Hermann is pure. From childhood up I have known him, and never

E'en as a boy was he wont to be reaching for this and the other:

What he desired was best for him too, and he held to it firmly.

Be not surprised and alarmed that now has appeared of a sudden,

What thou hast wished for so long. It is true that the present appearance

Bears not the form of the wish, exactly as thou hadst conceived it:

For our wishes oft hide from ourselves the object we wish for;

Gifts come down from above in the shapes appointed by Heaven.

Therefore misjudge not the maiden who now of thy dearly beloved,

Good and intelligent son has been first to touch the affections:

Happy to whom at once his first love's hand shall be given,

And in whose heart no tenderest wish must secretly languish.

Yes: his whole bearing assures me that now his fate is decided.

Genuine love matures in a moment the youth into manhood;

He is not easily moved; and I fear that if this be refused him,

Sadly his years will go by, those years that should be the fairest,"

Straightway then in a thoughtful tone the doctor made answer,

On whose tongue for a long time past the words had been trembling:

"Pray let us here as before pursue the safe middle course only.

Make haste slowly: that was Augustus the emperor's motto.

Willingly I myself place at my well-beloved neighbor's disposal,

Ready to do him what service I can with my poor understanding.

Youth most especially stands in need of some one to guide it.

Let me therefore go forth that I may examine the maiden,

And may question the people among whom she lives and who know her.

Me 'tis not easy to cheat: I know how words should be valued."

Straightway the son broke in, and with wing'ed words made he answer:

"Do so, neighbor, and go and make thine inquiries; but with thee

I should be glad if our minister here were joined in the errand:

Two such excellent men would be irreproachable judges.

O my father! believe me, she's none of those wandering maidens,

Not one of those who stroll through the land in search of adventure,

And who seek to ensnare inexperienced youth in their meshes.

No: the hard fortunes of war, that universal destroyer,

Which is convulsing the earth and has hurled from its deep foundations

Many a structure already, have sent the poor girl into exile.

Are not now men of high birth, the most noble, in misery roaming—

Princes fly in disguise and kings are in banishment living.

So alas! also is she, the best among all of her sisters,

Driven an exile from home; yet, her personal sorrows forgetting,

She is devoted to others; herself without help, she is helpful.

Great is the want and the suffering over the earth that are spreading:

Shall not some happiness, too, be begotten of all this affliction,

And shall not I in the arms of my wife, my trusted companion,

Look back with joy to the war, as do ye to the great conflagration—"

Outspoke the father then in a tone of decision, and answered:

"Strangely thy tongue has been loosened, my son, which many a year past

Seemed to have stuck in thy mouth, and only to move on compulsion!

I must experience to-day, it would seem, what threatens all fathers,

That the son's headstrong will the mother with readiness favors,

Showing too easy indulgence; and every neighbor sides with them

When there is aught to be carried against the father and husband.

But I will not oppose you, thus banded together: how could I—

For I already perceive here tears and defiance beforehand.

Go ye therefore, inquire, in God's name, bring me the daughter.

But if not so, then the boy is to think no more of the maiden."

Thus the father. The son cried out with joyful demeanor,

"Ere it is evening the noblest of daughters shall hither be brought you,

Such as no man with sound sense in his breast can fail to be pleased with.

Happy, I venture to hope, will be also the excellent maiden.

Yes; she will ever be grateful for having had father and mother

Given once more in you, and such as a child most delights in.

Now I will tarry no longer, but straightway harness the horses,

Drive forth our friends at once on the footsteps of my beloved,

Leaving them then to act for themselves, as their wisdom shall dictate,

Guide myself wholly, I promise, according to what they determine,

And, until I may call her my own, ne'er look on the maiden."

Thus he went forth: the others meanwhile remained in discussion,

Rapid and earnest, considering deeply their great undertaking.

Hermann hasted straightway to the stable, where quietly standing

Found he the spirited stallions, the clean oats quickly devouring,

And the well-dried hay that was cut from the richest of meadows.

On them without delay the shining bits he adjusted,

Hastily drew the straps through the buckles of beautiful plating,

Firmly fastened then the long broad reins, and the horses

Led without to the court-yard, whither the willing assistant

Had with ease, by the pole, already drawn forward the carriage.

Next to the whipple-tree they with care by the neatly kept traces

Joined the impetuous strength of the freely travelling horses.

Whip in hand took Hermann his seat and drove under the doorway.

Soon as the friends straightway their commodious places had taken,

Quickly the carriage rolled off, and left the pavement behind it,

Left behind it the walls of the town and the fresh-whitened towers.

Thus drove Hermann on till he came to the well-known causeway.

Rapidly, loitering nowhere, but hastening up hill and down hill.

But as he now before him perceived the spire of the village,

And no longer remote the garden-girt houses were lying,

Then in himself he thought that here he would rein up the horses.

Under the solemn shade of lofty linden-trees lying,

Which for centuries past upon this spot had been rooted,

Spread in front of the village a broad and grass-covered common,

Favorite place of resort for the peasants and neighboring townsfolk.

Here, at the foot of the trees, sunk deep in the ground was a well-spring;

When you descended the steps, stone benches you found at the bottom,

Stationed about the spring, whose pure, living waters were bubbling

Ceaselessly forth, hemmed in by low walls for convenience of drawing.

Hermann resolved that here he would halt, with his horses and carriage,

Under the shade of the trees. He did so, and said to the others;

"Here alight, my friends, and go your ways to discover

Whether the maiden in truth be worthy the hand that I offer.

That, she is so, I believe; naught new or strange will ye tell me.

Had I to act for myself, I should go with speed to the village,

Where a few words from the maiden's own lips should determine my fortune.

Ye will with readiness single her out from all of the others,

For there can scarcely be one that to her may be likened in bearing.

But I will give you, besides, her modest attire for a token:

Mark, then, the stomacher's scarlet, that sets off the arch of her bosom,

Prettily laced, and the bodice of black fitting close to her figure;

Neatly the edge of her kerchief is plaited into a ruffle,

Which with a simple grace her chin's rounded outline encircles;

Freely and lightly rises above it the head's dainty oval;

And her luxuriant hair over silver bodkins is braided;

Down from under her bodice, the full, blue petticoat falling,

Wraps itself, when she is walking, about her neatly shaped ankles.

Yet one thing will I say, and would make it my earnest petition,-

Speak not yourselves with the maiden, nor let your intent be discovered;

Rather inquire of others, and hearken to what they may tell you.

When ye have tidings enough to satisfy father and mother,

Then return to me here, and we will consider what further.

So did I plan it all out in my mind while driving you hither."

Thus he spoke. The friends thereupon went their way to the village,

Where, in the houses and gardens and barns, the people were swarming;

Wagons on wagons stood crowded together along the broad highway.

Men for the harnessed horses and lowing cattle were caring,

While the women were busy in drying their clothes on the hedges,

And in the running brook the children were merrily splashing.

Making their way through the pressure of wagons, of people and cattle,

Went the commissioned spies, and to right and to left looked about them,

If they a figure might see that answered the maiden's description;

But not one of them all appeared the beautiful damsel.

Denser soon grew the press. A contest arose round the wagons

'Mongst the threatening men, wherein blended the cries of the women.

Rapidly then to the spot, and with dignified step, came an elder,

Joined the clamoring group, and straightway the uproar was silenced,

As he commanded peace, and rebuked with a fatherly sternness.

"Has, then, misfortune," he cried, "not yet so bound us together,

That we have finally learned to bear and forbear one another,

Though each one, it may be, do not measure his share of the labor—

He that is happy, forsooth, is contentious! Will sufferings never

Teach you to cease from your brawls of old between brother and brother—

Grudge not one to another a place on the soil of the stranger;

Rather divide what ye have, as yourselves, ye would hope to find mercy."

Thus spoke the man and all became silent: restored to good humor,

Peaceably then the people arranged their cattle and wagons.

But when the clergyman now had heard what was said by the stranger,

And had the steadfast mind of the foreign justice discovered,

He to the man drew near and with words of meaning addressed him:

"True it is, father, that when in prosperity people are living,

Feeding themselves from the earth, which far and wide opens her bosom,

And in the years and months renews the coveted blessings,-

All goes on of itself, and each himself deems the wisest,

Deems the best, and so they continue abiding together,

He of greatest intelligence ranking no higher than others;

All that occurs, as if of itself, going quietly forward.

But let disaster unsettle the usual course of existence,

Tear down the buildings about us, lay waste the crops and the garden,

Banish the husband and wife from their old, familiar-grown dwelling,

Drive them to wander abroad through nights and days of privation,-

Then, ah then! we look round us to see what man is the wisest,

And no longer in vain his glorious words will be spoken.

Tell me, art thou not judge among this fugitive people,

Father, who thus in an instant canst bid their passions be quiet—

Thou dost appear to-day as one of those earliest leaders,

Who through deserts and wanderings guided the emigrant nations.

Yea, I could even believe I were speaking with Joshua or Moses."

Then with serious look the magistrate answered him, saying:

"Truly our times might well be compared with all others in strangeness,

Which are in history mentioned, profane or sacred tradition;

For who has yesterday lived and to-day in times like the present,

He has already lived years, events are so crowded together.

If I look back but a little, it seems that my head must be hoary

Under the burden of years, and yet my strength is still active.

Well may we of this day compare ourselves unto that people

Who, from the burning bush, beheld in the hour of their danger

God the Lord: we also in cloud and in fire have beheld him."

Seeing the priest was inclined to speak yet more with the stranger,

And was desirous of learning his story and that of his people,

Privately into his ear his companion hastily whispered:

"Talk with the magistrate further, and lead him to speak of the maiden.

I, however, will wander in search, and as soon as I find her,

Come and report to thee here." The minister nodded, assenting;

And through the gardens, hedges, and barns, went the spy on his errand.

CLIO

THE AGE

Now when the foreign judge had been by the minister questioned

As to his people's distress, and how long their exile had lasted,

Thus made answer the man: "Of no recent date are our sorrows;

Since of the gathering bitter of years our people have drunken,-

Bitterness all the more dreadful because such fair hope had been blighted.

Who will pretend to deny that his heart swelled high in his bosom,

And that his freer breast with purer pulses was beating;

When we beheld the new sun arise in his earliest splendor,

When of the rights of men we heard, which to all should be common,

Were of a righteous equality told, and inspiriting freedom—

Every one hoped that then he should live his own life, and the fetters,

Binding the various lands, appeared their hold to be loosing,-

Fetters that had in the hand of sloth been held and self-seeking.

Looked not the eyes of all nations, throughout that calamitous season,

Towards the world's capital city, for so it had long been considered,

And of that glorious title was now, more than ever, deserving—

Were not the names of those men who first delivered the message,

Names to compare with the highest that under the heavens are spoken—

Did not, in every man, grow courage and spirit and language—

And, as neighbors, we, first of all, were zealously kindled.

Thereupon followed the war, and armed bodies of Frenchmen

Pressed to us nearer; yet nothing but friendship they seemed to be bringing;

Ay, and they brought it too; for exalted the spirit within them:

They with rejoicing the festive trees of liberty planted,

Promising every man what was his own, and to each his own ruling.

High beat the heart of the youths, and even the aged were joyful;

Gaily the dance began about the newly raised standard.

Thus had they speedily won, these overmastering Frenchmen,

First the spirits of men by the fire and dash of their bearing,

Then the hearts of the women with irresistible graces.

Even the pressure of hungry war seemed to weigh on us lightly,

So before our vision did hope hang over the future,

Luring our eyes abroad into newly opening pathways.

Oh, how joyful the time when with her belov'ed the maiden

Whirls in the dance, the longed-for day of their union awaiting!

But more glorious that day on which to our vision the highest

Heart of man can conceive seemed near and attainable to us.

Loosened was every tongue, and men-the aged, the stripling-

Spoke aloud in words that were full of high feeling and wisdom.

Soon, however, the sky was o'ercast. A corrupt generation

Fought for the right of dominion, unworthy the good to establish;

So that they slew one another, their new-made neighbors and brothers

Held in subjection, and then sent the self-seeking masses against us.

Chiefs committed excesses and wholesale plunder upon us,

While those lower plundered and rioted down to the lowest:

Every one seemed but to care that something be left for the morrow.

Great past endurance the need, and daily grew the oppression:

They were the lords of the day; there was none to hear our complaining.

Then fell trouble and rage upon even the quietest spirit.

One thought only had all, and swore for their wrongs to have vengeance,

And for the bitter loss of their hope thus doubly deluded.

Presently Fortune turned and declared on the side of the German,

And with hurried marches the French retreated before us.

Ah! then as never before did we feel the sad fortunes of warfare:

He that is victor is great and good,-or at least he appears SO,-

And he, as one of his own, will spare the man he has conquered,

Him whose service he daily needs, and whose property uses.

But no law the fugitive knows, save of self-preservation,

And, with a reckless greed, consumes all the possessions about him;

Then are his passions also inflamed: the despair that is in him

Out of his heart breaks forth, and takes shape in criminal action.

Nothing is further held sacred; but all is for plunder. His craving

Turns in fury on woman, and pleasure is changed into horror.

Death he sees everywhere round him, and madly enjoys his last moments,

Taking delight in blood, in the shrieking of anguish exulting.

Thereupon fiercely arose in our men the stern resolution

What had been lost to avenge, and defend whate'er was remaining,

Every man sprang to his arms, by the flight of the foeman encouraged,

And by his blanching cheeks, and his timorous, wavering glances.

Ceaselessly now rang out the clanging peal of the tocsin.

Thought of no danger to come restrained their furious anger.

Quick into weapons of war the husbandman's peaceful utensils

All were converted; dripped with blood the scythe and the ploughshare.

Quarter was shown to none: the enemy fell without mercy.

Fury everywhere raged and the cowardly cunning of weakness.

Ne'er may I men so carried away by injurious passion

See again! the sight of the raging wild beast would be better.

Let not man prattle of freedom, as if himself he could govern!

Soon as the barriers are torn away, then all of the evil

Seems let loose, that by law had been driven deep back into corners."

"Excellent man!" thereupon with emphasis answered the pastor:

"Though thou misjudgest mankind, yet can I not censure thee for it.

Evil enough, I confess, thou hast had to endure from man's passions,

Yet wouldst thou look behind over this calamitous season,

Thou wouldst acknowledge thyself how much good thou also hast witnessed.

How many excellent things that would in the heart have hidden,

Had not danger aroused them, and did not necessity's pressure

Bring forth the angel in man, and make him a god of deliv'rance."

Thereupon answered and said the reverend magistrate, smiling:

"There thou remindest me aptly of how we console the poor fellow,

After his house has been burned, by recounting the gold and the silver

Melted and scattered abroad in the rubbish, that still is remaining.

Little enough, it is true; but even that little is precious.

Then will the poor wretch after it dig and rejoice if he find it.

Thus I likewise with happier thoughts will gratefully turn me

Towards the few beautiful deeds of which I preserve the remembrance.

Yes, I will not deny, I have seen old quarrels forgotten,

Ill to avert from the state; I also have witnessed how friendship,

Love of parent and child, can impossibilities venture;

Seen how the stripling at once matured into man; how the aged

Grew again young; and even the child into youth was developed,

Yea, and the weaker sex too, as we are accustomed to call it,

Showed itself brave and strong and ready for every emergence.

Foremost among them all, one beautiful deed let me mention,

Bravely performed by the hand of a girl, an excellent maiden;

Who, with those younger than she, had been left in charge of a farmhouse,

Since there, also, the men had marched against the invader.

Suddenly fell on the house a fugitive band of marauders,

Eager for booty, who crowded straightway to the room of the women.

There they beheld the beautiful form of the fully grown maiden,

Looked on the charming young girls, who rather might still be called children.

Savage desire possessed them; at once with merciless passion

They that trembling band assailed and the high-hearted maiden.

But she had snatched in an instant the sword of one from its scabbard,

Felled him with might to the ground, and stretched him bleeding before her.

Then with vigorous strokes she bravely delivered the maidens,

Smiting yet four of the robbers; who saved themselves only by flying.

Then she bolted the gates, and, armed, awaited assistance."

Now when this praise the minister heard bestowed on the maiden,

Rose straightway for his friend a feeling of hope in his bosom,

And he had opened his lips to inquire what further befell her,

If on this mournful flight she now with her people were present;

When with a hasty step the village doctor approached them,

Twitched the clergyman's coat, and said in his ear in a whisper:

"I have discovered the maiden at last among several hundreds;

By the description I knew her, so come, let thine own eyes behold her!

Bring too the magistrate with thee, that so we may hear him yet further."

But as they turned to go, the justice was summoned to leave them,

Sent for by some of his people by whom his counsel was needed.

Straightway the preacher, however, the lead of the doctor had followed

Up to a gap in the fence where his finger he meaningly pointed.

"Seest thou the maiden—" he said: "she has made some clothes for the baby

Out of the well-known chintz,-I distinguish it plainly; and further

There are the covers of blue that Hermann gave in his bundle.

Well and quickly, forsooth, she has turned to advantage the presents.

Evident tokens are these, and all else answers well the description.

Mark how the stomacher's scarlet sets off the arch of her bosom,

Prettily laced, and the bodice of black fits close to her figure;

Neatly the edge of her kerchief is plaited into a ruffle,

Which, with a simple grace, her chin's rounded outline encircles;

Freely and lightly rises above it the bead's dainty oval,

And her luxuriant hair over silver bodkins is braided.

Now she is sitting, yet still we behold her majestical stature,

And the blue petticoat's ample plaits, that down from her bosom

Hangs in abundant folds about her neatly shaped ankles,

She without question it is; come, therefore, and let us discover

Whether she honest and virtuous be, a housewifely maiden."

Then, as the seated figure he studied, the pastor made answer:

"Truly, I find it no wonder that she so enchanted the stripling,

Since, to a man's experienced eye, she seems lacking in nothing.

Happy to whom mother Nature a shape harmonious has given!

Such will always commend him, and he can be nowhere a stranger.

All approach with delight, and all are delighted to linger,

If to the outward shape correspond but a courteous spirit.

I can assure thee, in her the youth has found him a maiden,

Who, in the days to come, his life shall gloriously brighten,

Standing with womanly strength in every necessity by him.

Surely the soul must be pure that inhabits a body so perfect,

And of a happy old age such vigorous youth is the promise."

Thereupon answered and said the doctor in language of caution:

"Often appearances cheat; I like not to trust to externals.

For I have oft seen put to the test the truth of the proverb:

Till thou a bushel of salt with a new acquaintance hast eaten,

Be not too ready to trust him; for time alone renders thee certain

How ye shall fare with each other, and how well your friendship shall prosper.

Let us then rather at first make inquiries among the good people

By whom the maiden is known, and who can inform us about her."

"Much I approve of thy caution," the preacher replied as he followed.

"Not for ourselves is the suit, and 'tis delicate wooing for others."

Towards the good magistrate, then, the men directed their footsteps,

Who was again ascending the street in discharge of his duties.

Him the judicious pastor at once addressed and with caution.

"Look! we a maiden have here descried in the neighboring garden,

Under an apple-tree sitting, and making up garments for children

Out of second-hand stuff that somebody doubtless has given;

And we were pleased with her aspect: she seems like a girl to be trusted.

Tell us whatever thou knowest: we ask it with honest intentions."

Soon as the magistrate nearer had come, and looked into the garden,

"Her thou knowest already," he said; "for when I was telling

Of the heroic deed performed by the hand of that maiden,

When she snatched the man's sword, and delivered herself and her charges,

This was the one! she is vigorous born, as thou seest by her stature;

Yet she is good as strong, for her aged kinsman she tended

Until the day of his death, which was finally hastened by sorrow

Over his city's distress, and his own endangered possessions.

Also, with quiet submission, she bore the death of her lover,

Who a high-spirited youth, in the earliest flush of excitement,

Kindled by lofty resolve to fight for a glorious freedom,

Hurried to Paris, where early a terrible death he encountered.

For as at home, so there, his foes were deceit and oppression."

Thus the magistrate spoke. The others saluted and thanked him,

And from his purse a gold-piece the pastor drew forth:-for the silver

He had some hours before already in charity given,

When he in mournful groups had seen the poor fugitives passing;-

And to the magistrate handed it, saying: "Apportion the money

'Mongst thy destitute people, and God vouchsafe it an increase."

But the stranger declined it, and, answering, said: "We have rescued

Many a dollar among us, with clothing and other possessions,

And shall return, as I hope, ere yet our stock is exhausted."

Then the pastor replied, and pressed the money upon him:

"None should be backward in giving in days like the present, and no one

Ought to refuse to accept those gifts which in kindness are offered.

None can tell how long he may hold what in peace he possesses,

None how much longer yet he shall roam through the land of the stranger,

And of his farm be deprived, and deprived of the garden that feeds him."

"Ay, to be sure!" in his bustling way interrupted the doctor:

"If I had only some money about me, ye surely should have it,

Little and big; for certainly many among you must need it.

Yet I'll not go without giving thee something to show what my will is,

Even though sadly behind my good-will must lag the performance."

Thus, as he spoke, by its straps his embroidered pocket of leather,

Where his tobacco was kept, he drew forth,-enough was now in it

Several pipes to fill,-and daintily opened, and portioned.

"Small is the gift," he added. The justice, however, made answer:

"Good tobacco can ne'er to the traveller fail to be welcome."

Then did the village doctor begin to praise his canister.

But the clergyman drew him away, and they quitted the justice.

"Let us make haste," said the thoughtful man: "the youth's waiting in torture;

Come I let him hear, as soon as he may, the jubilant tidings."

So they hastened their steps, and came to where under the lindens

Hermann against the carriage was leaning. The horses were stamping

Wildly the turf; he held them in check, and, buried in musing,

Stood, into vacancy gazing before him; nor saw the two envoys,

Till, as they came, they called out and made to him signals of triumph.

E'en as far off as they then were, the doctor began to address him;

But they were presently nearer come and then the good pastor

Grasped his hand and exclaimed, interrupting the word of his comrade:

"Hail to thee, O young man! thy true eye and heart have well chosen;

Joy be to thee and the wife of thy youth; for of thee she is worthy.

Come then and turn us the wagon, and drive straightway to the village,

There the good maid to woo, and soon bring her home to thy dwelling."

Still, however, the young man stood, without sign of rejoicing

Hearing his messenger's words, though heavenly they were and consoling.

Deeply he sighed as he said: "With hurrying wheels we came hither,

And shall be forced, perchance, to go mortified homeward and slowly.

For disquiet has fallen upon me since here I've been waiting,

Doubt and suspicion and all that can torture the heart of a lover.

Think ye we have but to come, and that then the maiden will follow

Merely because we are rich, while she is poor and an exile—

Poverty, too, makes proud, when it comes unmerited! Active

Seems she to be, and contented, and so of the world is she mistress.

Think ye a maiden like her, with the manners and beauty that she has,

Can into woman have grown, and no worthy man's love have attracted—

Think ye that love until now can have been shut out from her bosom—

Drive not thither too rashly: we might to our mortification

Have to turn softly homewards our horses' heads. For my fear is

That to some youth already this heart has been given; already

This brave hand has been clasped, has pledged faith to some fortunate lover.

Then with my offer, alas! I should stand in confusion before her."

Straightway the pastor had opened his lips to speak consolation,

When his companion broke in, and said in his voluble fashion:

"Years ago, forsooth, unknown had been such a dilemma.

All such affairs were then conducted in regular fashion.

Soon as a bride for their son had been by the parents selected,

First some family friend they into their councils would summon,

Whom they afterwards sent as a suitor to visit the parents

Of the elected bride. Arrayed in his finest apparel,

Soon after dinner on Sunday he sought the respectable burgher,

When some friendly words were exchanged upon general subjects,

He knowing how to direct the discourse as suited his purpose.

After much circumlocution he finally mentioned the daughter,

Praising her highly; and praising the man and the house that had sent him.

Persons of tact perceived his intent, and the politic envoy

Readily saw how their minds were disposed, and explained himself further.

Then were the offer declined, e'en the 'no' brought not mortification;

But did it meet with success, the suitor was ever thereafter

Made the chief guest in the house on every festive occasion.

For, through the rest of their lives, the couple ne'er failed to remember

That 'twas by his experienced hand the first knot had been gathered.

All that, however, is changed, and, with many another good custom,

Quite fallen out of the fashion; for every man woos for himself now.

Therefore let every man hear to his face pronounced the refusal,

If a refusal there be, and stand shamed in the sight of the maiden!"

"Let that be as it may!" made answer the youth, who had scarcely

Unto the words paid heed; but in silence had made his decision.

"I will go thither myself, will myself hear my destiny spoken

Out of the lips of a maiden in whom I a confidence cherish

Greater than heart of man has e'er before cherished in woman.

Say what she will, 'twill be good and wise; of that I am certain.

Should I behold her never again, yet this once will I see her;

Yet this once the clear gaze of those dark eyes will encounter,

If I must press her ne'er to my heart, yet that neck and that bosom

Will I behold once more, that my arm so longs to encircle;

Once more that mouth will see, whose kiss and whose 'yes' would for ever

Render me happy, from which a 'no' will for ever destroy me.

But ye must leave me alone. Do not wait for me here; but return ye

Back to my father and mother again, and give them the knowledge

That their son has not been deceived, that the maiden is worthy.

So then leave me alone! I shall follow the footpath that crosses

Over the hill by the pear-tree, and thence descends through our vineyard,

Taking a shorter way home. And oh, may I bring to our dwelling,

Joyful and quick my beloved! but perhaps I alone may come creeping

Over that path to the house, and ne'er again tread it with gladness."

Thus he spoke, and gave up the reins to the hand of the pastor,

Who understandingly grasped them, the foaming horses controlling,

Speedily mounted the carriage, and sat in the seat of the driver.

But thou didst hesitate, provident neighbor, and say in remonstrance:

"Heart and soul and spirit, my friend, I willingly trust thee;

But as for life and limb, they are not in the safest of keeping,

When the temporal reins are usurped by the hand of the clergy."

But thou didst laugh at his words, intelligent pastor, and answer:

"Sit thee down, and contentedly trust me both body and spirit;

For, in holding the reins, my hand grew long ago skilful,

Long has my eye been trained in making the nicest of turnings;

For we were practised well in driving the carriage in Strasburg,

When I the youthful baron accompanied thither; then daily

Rolled the carriage, guided by me, through the echoing gateway,

Out over dusty roads till we reached the meadows and lindens,

Steering through groups of the town's-folk beguiling the day there with walking."

Thereupon, half-reassured, the neighbor ascended the wagon,

Sat like one who for a prudent leap is holding him ready,

And the stallions sped rapidly homeward, desiring their stable.

Clouds of dust whirled up from under their powerful hoofbeats.

Long the youth stood there yet, and saw the dust in its rising,

Saw the dust as it settled again: he stood there unheeding.

ERATO

DOROTHEA

Like as the traveller, who, when the sun is approaching its setting,

Fixes his eyes on it once again ere quickly it vanish,

Then on the sides of the rocks, and on all the darkening bushes,

Sees its hovering image; whatever direction he look in

That hastes before, and flickers and gleams in radiant colors,-

So before Hermann's eyes moved the beautiful shape of the maiden

Softly, and seeming to follow the path that led into the cornfield.

But he aroused from his wildering dream and turned himself slowly

Towards where the village lay and was wildered again; for again came

Moving to meet him the lofty form of the glorious maiden.

Fixedly gazed he upon her; herself it was and no phantom.

Bearing in either hand a larger jar and a smaller,

Each by the handle, with busy step she came on to the fountain.

Joyfully then he hastened to meet her; the sight of her gave him

Courage and strength; and thus the astonished girl he accosted:

"Do I then find thee, brave-hearted maiden, so soon again busy,

Rendering aid unto others, and happy in bringing them comfort—

Say why thou comest alone to this well which lies at such a distance,

When all the rest are content with the water they find in the village—

This has peculiar virtues, 'tis true; and the taste is delicious.

Thou to that mother wouldst bring it, I trow, whom thy faithfulness rescued."

Straightway with cordial greeting the kindly maiden made answer:

"Here has my walk to the spring already been amply rewarded,

Since I have found the good friend who bestowed so abundantly on us;

For a pleasure not less than the gifts is the sight of the giver.

Come, I pray thee, and see for thyself who has tasted thy bounty;

Come, and the quiet thanks receive of all it has solaced.

But that thou straightway the reason mayst know for which I am hither

Come to draw, where pure and unfailing the water is flowing,

This I must tell thee,-that all the water we have in the village

Has by improvident people been troubled with horses and oxen

Wading direct through the source which brings the inhabitants water.

And furthermore they have also made foul with their washings and rinsings

All the troughs of the village, and all the fountains have sullied;

For but one thought is in all, and that how to satisfy quickest

Self and the need of the moment, regardless of what may come after."

Thus she spoke, and the broad stone steps meanwhile had descended

With her companion beside her, and on the low wall of the fountain

Both sat them down. She bent herself over to draw, and he also

Took in his hand the jar that remained, and bent himself over,

And in the blue of the heavens, they, seeing their image reflected,

Friendly greetings and nods exchanged in the quivering mirror.

"Give me to drink," the youth thereupon in his gladness petitioned,

And she handed the pitcher. Familiarly sat they and rested,

Both leaning over their jars, till she presently asked her companion:

"Tell me, why I find thee here, and without thy horses and wagon,

Far from the place where I met thee at first— how camest thou hither—"

Thoughtful he bent his eyes on the ground, then quietly raised them

Up to her face, and, meeting with frankness the gaze of the maiden,

Felt himself solaced and stilled. But then impossible was it,

That he of love should speak; her eye told not of affection,

Only of clear understanding, requiring intelligent answer.

And he composed himself quickly, and cordially said to the maiden:

Hearken to me, my child, and let me reply to thy question.

'Twas for thy sake that hither I came; why seek to conceal it—

Know I live happy at home with both my affectionate parents,

Faithfully giving my aid their house and estates in directing,

Being an only son, and because our affairs are extensive.

Mine is the charge of the farm; my father bears rule in the household;

While the presiding spirit of all is the diligent mother.

But thine experience doubtless has taught thee how grievously servants,

Now through deceit, and now through their carelessness, harass the mistress,

Forcing her ever to change and replace one fault with another.

Long for that reason my mother has wished for a maid in the household,

Who not with hand alone, but with heart, too, will lend her assistance,

Taking the daughter's place, whom, alas! she was early deprived of.

How when to-day by the wagon I saw thee, so ready and cheerful,

Witnessed the strength of thine arms, and thy limbs of such healthful proportion,

When thy intelligent speech I heard, I was smitten with wonder.

Hastening homeward, I there to my parents and neighbors the stranger

Praised as she well deserved. But I now am come hither to tell thee

What is their wish as mine.-Forgive me my stammering language."

"Hesitate not," she, answering, said, "to tell me what follows.

Thou dost not give me offence; I have listened with gratitude to thee:

Speak it out honestly therefore; the sound of it will not alarm me.

Thou wouldst engage me as servant to wait on thy father and mother,

And to look after the welt-ordered house of which ye are the owners;

And thou thinkest in me to find them a capable servant,

One who is skilled in her work, and not of a rude disposition.

Short thy proposal has been, and short shall be also my answer.

Yes, I will go with thee home, and the call of fate I will follow.

Here my duty is done: I have brought the newly made mother

Back to her kindred again, who are all in her safety rejoicing.

Most of our people already are gathered; the others will follow.

All think a few days more will certainly see them returning

Unto their homes; for such is the exile's constant delusion.

But by no easy hope do I suffer myself to be cheated

During these sorrowful days which promise yet more days of sorrow.

All the bands of the world have been loosed, and what shall unite them,

Saving alone the need, the need supreme, that is on us—

If in a good man's house I can earn my living by service,

Under the eye of an excellent mistress, I gladly will do it;

Since of doubtful repute, must be always a wandering maiden.

Yes, I will go with thee, soon as I first shall have carried the pitchers

Back to my friends, and prayed the good people to give me their blessing.

Come thou must see them thyself, and from their hands must receive me."

Joyfully hearkened the youth to the willing maiden's decision,

Doubtful whether he ought not at once to make honest confession.

Yet it appeared to him best to leave her awhile in her error,

Nor for her love to sue, before leading her home to his dwelling.

Ah! and the golden ring he perceived on the hand of the maiden,

Wherefore he let her speak on, and gave diligent ear to her language.

"Come," she presently said, "Let us back to the village; for maidens

Always are sure to be blamed if they tarry too long at the fountain.

Yet how delightful it is to chat by the murmuring water!"

Then from their seats they rose, and both of them turned to the fountain

One more look behind, and a tender longing possessed them.

Both of the water-jars then in silence she took by the handle,

Carried them up the steps, while behind her followed her lover.

One of the pitchers he begged her to give him to lighten the burden.

"Nay, let it be!" she said: "I carry them better so balanced.

Nor shall the master, who is to command, be doing me service.

Look not so gravely upon me, as thinking my fortune a hard one.

Early a woman should learn to serve, for that is her calling;

Since through service alone she finally comes to the headship,

Comes to the due command that is hers of right in the household.

Early the sister must wait on her brother, and wait on her parents;

Life must be always with her a perpetual coming and going,

Or be a fetching and carrying, making and doing for others.

Happy for her be she wonted to think no way is too grievous,

And if the hours of the night be to her as the hours of the daytime;

If she find never a needle too fine, nor a labor too trifling;

Wholly forgetful of self, and caring to live but in others!

For she will surely, as mother, have need of every virtue,

When, in the time of her illness, the cries of her infant arouse her

Calling for food from her weakness, and cares are to suffering added.

Twenty men bound into one were not able to bear such a burden;

Nor is it meant that they should, yet should they with gratitude view it."

Thus she spoke, and was come, meanwhile, with her silent companion,

Far as the floor of the barn, at the furthermost end of the garden,

Where was the sick woman lying, whom, glad, she had left with her daughters,

Those late rescued maidens: fair pictures of innocence were they.

Both of them entered the barn; and, e'en as they did so, the justice,

Leading a child in each hand, came in from the other direction.

These had been lost, hitherto, from the sight of their sorrowing mother;

But in the midst of the crowd the old man now had descried them.

Joyfully sprang they forward to meet their dear mother's embraces,

And to salute with delight their brother, their unknown companion.

Next upon Dorothea they sprang with affectionate greeting,

Asking for bread and fruit, but more than all else for some water.

So then she handed the water about; and not only the children

Drank, but the sick woman too, and her daughters, and with them the justice.

All were refreshed, and highly commended the glorious water;

Acid it was to the taste, and reviving, and wholesome to drink of.

Then with a serious face the maiden replied to them, saying:

"Friends, for the last time now to your mouth have I lifted my pitcher;

And for the last time by me have your lips been moistened with water.

But henceforth in the heat of the day when the draught shall refresh you,

When in the shade ye enjoy your rest beside a clear fountain,

Think of me then sometimes and of all my affectionate service,

Prompted more by my love than the duty I owed you as kindred.

I shall acknowledge as long as I live the kindness ye've shown me.

'Tis with regret that I leave you; but every one now is a burden,

More than a help to his neighbor, and all must be finally scattered

Far through a foreign land, if return to our homes be denied us.

See, here stands the youth to whom we owe thanks for the presents.

He gave the cloak for the baby, and all these welcome provisions.

Now he is come, and has asked me if I will make one in his dwelling,

That I may serve therein his wealthy and excellent parents.

And I refuse not the offer; for maidens must always be serving;

Burdensome were it for them to rest and be served in the household.

Therefore I follow him gladly. A youth of intelligence seems he,

And so will also the parents be, as becometh the wealthy.

So then farewell, dear friend; and mayst thou rejoice in thy nursling,

Living, and into thy face already so healthfully looking!

When thou shalt press him against thy breast in these gay-colored wrappings,

Oh, then remember the kindly youth who bestowed them upon us,

And who me also henceforth, thy sister, will shelter and nourish.

Thou, too, excellent man!" she said as she turned to the justice;

"Take my thanks that in many a need I have found thee a father."

Then she knelt down on the floor by the side of the newly made mother,

Kissing the weeping woman, and taking her low-whispered blessing.

Thou, meanwhile, worshipful justice, wast speaking to Hermann and saying:

"Justly mayst thou, my friend, be counted among the good masters,

Careful to manage their household affairs with capable servants.

For I have often observed how in sheep, as in horses and oxen,

Men conclude never a bargain without making closest inspection,

While with a servant who all things preserves, if honest and able,

And who will every thing lose and destroy, if he set to work falsely,

Him will a chance or an accident make us admit to our dwelling,

And we are left, when too late, to repent an o'er hasty decision.

Thou understandest the matter it seems; because thou hast chosen,

Thee and thy parents to serve in the house, a maid who is honest.

Hold her with care; for as long as thy household is under her keeping,

Thou shalt not want for a sister, nor yet for a daughter thy parents."

Many were come, meanwhile, near relatives all of the mother,

Bringing her various gifts, and more suitable quarters announcing.

All of them, hearing the maiden's decision, gave Hermann their blessing,

Coupled with glances of meaning, while each made his special reflections.

Hastily one and another would say in the ear of his neighbor:

"If in the master a lover she find, right well were she cared for."

Hermann took her at last by the hand, and said as he did so:

"Let us be going; the day is declining, and distant the city."

Eager and voluble then the women embraced Dorothea;

Hermann drew her away; but other adieus must be spoken:

Lastly the children with cries fell upon her and terrible weeping,

Clung to her garments, and would not their dear second mother should leave them.

But in a tone of command the women said, one and another:

"Hush now, children, she's going to the town, and will presently bring you

Plenty of nice sweet cake that was by your brother bespoken

When by the stork just now he was brought past the shop of the baker.

Soon you will see her come back with sugar-plums splendidly gilded."

Then did the little ones loose their hold, and Hermann, though hardly,

Tore her from further embraces away, and far-waving kerchiefs.

MELPOMENE

HERMANN AND DOROTHEA

Towards the setting sun the two thus went on their journey:

Close he had wrapped himself round with clouds portending a tempest.

Out from the veil, now here and now there, with fiery flashes,

Gleaming over the field shot forth the ominous lightning.

"May not these threatening heavens," said Hermann, "be presently sending

Hailstones upon us and violent rains; for fair is the harvest."

And in the waving luxuriant grain they delighted together:

Almost as high it reached as the lofty shapes that moved through it.

Thereupon spoke the maiden, and said to her guide and companion:

"Friend, unto whom I soon am to owe so kindly a fortune,

Shelter and home, while many an exile's exposed to the tempest,

Tell me concerning thy parents, I pray thee, and teach me to know them,

Them whom with all my heart I desire to serve in the future.

Who understands his master, more easily gives satisfaction,

Having regard to the things which to him seem chief in importance,

And on the doing of which his firm-set mind is determined.

Tell me therefore, I pray, how to win thy father and mother."

And to her question made answer the good and intelligent Hermann:

"Ah, what wisdom thou showest, thou good, thou excellent maiden,

Asking thus first of all concerning the tastes of my parents!

Know that in vain hitherto I have labored in serving my father,

Taking upon me as were it my own, the charge of the household;

Early and late at work in the fields, and o'erseeing the vineyard.

But my mother I fully content, who can value my service;

And thou wilt also appear in her eyes the worthiest of maidens,

If for the house thou carest, as were it thine own thou wast keeping.

Otherwise is it with father, who cares for the outward appearance.

Do not regard me, good maiden, as one who is cold and unfeeling,

That unto thee a stranger I straightway discover my father.

Nay, I assure thee that never before have words such as these are

Freely dropped from my tongue, which is not accustomed to prattle;

But from out of my bosom thou lurest its every secret.

Some of the graces of life my good father covets about him,

Outward signs of affection he wishes, as well as of honor;

And an inferior servant might possibly give satisfaction,

Who could turn these to account, while he might be displeased with a better."

Thereupon said she with joy, the while her hastening footsteps

Over the darkening pathway with easy motion she quickened:

"Truly I hope to them both I shall equally give satisfaction:

For in thy mother's nature I find such an one as mine own is,

And to the outward graces I've been from my childhood accustomed.

Greatly was courtesy valued among our neighbors the Frenchmen,

During their earlier days; it was common to noble and burgher,

As to the peasant, and every one made it the rule of his household.

So, on the side of us Germans, the children were likewise accustomed

Daily to bring to their parents, with kissing of hands and with curtseys,

Morning good-wishes, and all through the day to be prettily mannered.

Every thing thus that I learned, and to which I've been used from my childhood,

All that my heart shall suggest, shall be brought into play for thy father.

But who shall tell me of thee, and how thyself shouldst be treated,

Thou the only son of the house, and henceforth my master—"

Thus she said, and e'en as she spoke they stood under the pear-tree.

Down from the heavens the moon at her full was shedding her splendor.

Night had come on, and wholly obscured was the last gleam of sunlight,

So that contrasting masses lay side by side with each other,

Clear and bright as the day, and black with the shadows of midnight;

Gratefully fell upon Hermann's ear the kindly asked question

Under the shade of the glorious tree, the spot he so treasured,

Which but this morning had witnessed the tears he had shed for the exile.

And while they sat themselves down to rest them here for a little,

Thus spoke the amorous youth, as he grasped the hand of the maiden:

"Suffer thy heart to make answer, and follow it freely in all things."

Yet naught further he ventured to say although so propitious

Seemed the hour: he feared he should only haste on a refusal.

Ah, and he felt besides the ring on her finger, sad token!

Therefore they sat there, silent and still, beside one another.

First was the maiden to speak: "How sweet is this glorious moonlight!"

Said she at length: "It is as the light of the day in its brightness.

There in the city I plainly can see the houses and courtyards,

And in the gable-methinks I can number its panes-is a window."

"What thou seest," the modest youth thereupon made her answer,-

"What thou seest is our dwelling, to which I am leading thee downward,

And that window yonder belongs to my room in the attic,

Which will be thine perhaps, for various changes are making.

All these fields, too, are ours; they are ripe for the harvest to-morrow.

Here in the shade we will rest, and partake of our noontide refreshment.

But it is time we began our descent through the vineyard and garden;

For dost thou mark how yon threatening storm-cloud comes nearer and nearer,

Charged with lightning, and ready our fair full moon to extinguish—"

So they arose from their seats, and over the cornfields descended,

Through the luxuriant grain, enjoying the brightness of evening,

Until they came to the vineyard, and so entered into its shadow.

Then he guided her down o'er the numerous blocks that were lying,

Rough and unhewn on the pathway, and served as the steps of the alley.

Slowly the maiden descended, and leaning her hands on his shoulder,

While with uncertain beams, the moon through the leaves overlooked them,

Ere she was veiled by the cloud, and so left the couple in darkness.

Carefully Hermann's strength supported the maid that hung o'er him;

But, not knowing the path and the rough-hewn steps that led down it,

Missed she her footing, her ankle turned, and she surely had fallen,

Had not the dexterous youth his arm outstretched in an instant,

And his beloved upheld. She gently sank on his shoulder;

Breast was pressed against breast, and cheek against cheek. Thus he stood there

Fixed as a marble statue, the force of will keeping him steadfast,

Drew her not to him more closely, but braced himself under her pressure.

Thus he the glorious burden felt, the warmth of her bosom,

And the perfume of her breath, that over his lips was exhaling;

Bore with the heart of a man the majestic form of the woman.

But she with playfulness said, concealing the pain that she suffered:

"That is a sign of misfortune, so timorous persons would tell us,

When on approaching a house we stumble not far from the threshold;

And for myself, I confess, I could wish for a happier omen.

Let us here linger awhile that thy parents may not have to blame thee,

Seeing a limping maid, and thou seem an incompetent landlord."

URANIA

PROSPECT

Muses, O ye who the course of true love so willingly favor,

Ye who thus far on his way the excellent youth have conducted,

Even before the betrothal have pressed to his bosom the maiden;

Further your aid vouchsafe this charming pair in uniting,

Straightway dispersing the clouds which over their happiness lower!

Yet first of all declare what is passing meanwhile at the Lion.

Now for the third time again the mother impatient had entered

Where were assembled the men, whom anxious but now she had quitted;

Spoke of the gathering storm, and the moonlight's rapid obscuring;

Then of her son's late tarrying abroad and the dangers of nightfall;

Sharply upbraided her friends that without having speech of the maiden,

And without urging his suit, they had parted from Hermann so early.

"Make it not worse than it is," the father replied with displeasure.

"For, as thou seest, we tarry ourselves and are waiting the issue."

Calmly, however, from where he was sitting the neighbor made answer:

"Never in hours of disquiet like this do I fail to be grateful

Unto my late, blessed father, who every root of impatience

Tore from my heart when a child, and left no fibre remaining;

So that I learned on the instant to wait as do none of your sages."

"Tell us," the pastor returned, "what legerdemain he made use of."

"That will I gladly relate, for all may draw from it a lesson;"

So made the neighbor reply. "When a boy I once stood of a Sunday

Full of impatience, and looking with eagerness out for the carriage

Which was to carry us forth to the spring that lies under the lindens.

Still the coach came not. I ran, like a weasel, now hither, now thither,

Up stairs and down, and forward and back, 'twixt the door and the window;

Even my fingers itched to be moving; I scratched on the tables,

Went about pounding and stamping, and hardly could keep me from weeping.

All was observed by the calm-tempered man; but at last when my folly

Came to be carried too far, by the arm he quietly took me,

Led me away to the window, and spoke in this serious language:

'Seest thou yonder the carpenter's shop that is closed for the Sunday—

He will re-open to-morrow, when plane and saw will be started,

And will keep on through the hours of labor from morning till evening.

But consider you this,-a day will be presently coming

When that man shall himself be astir and all of his workmen,

Making a coffin for thee to be quickly and skilfully finished.

Then that house of boards they will busily bring over hither,

Which must at last receive alike the impatient and patient,

And which is destined soon with close-pressing roof to be covered.'

Straightway I saw the whole thing in my mind as if it were doing;

Saw the boards fitting together, and saw the black color preparing,

Sat me down patiently then, and in quiet awaited the carriage.

Now when others I see, in seasons of anxious expectance,

Running distracted about, I cannot but think of the coffin."

Smiling, the pastor replied: "The affecting picture of death stands

Not as a dread to the wise, and not as an end to the pious.

Those it presses again into life, and teaches to use it;

These by affliction it strengthens in hope to future salvation.

Death becomes life unto both. Thy father was greatly mistaken

When to a sensitive boy he death in death thus depicted.

Let us the value of nobly ripe age, point out to the young man,

And to the aged the youth, that in the eternal progression

Both may rejoice, and life may in life thus find its completion."

But the door was now opened, and showed the majestical couple.

Filled with amaze were the friends, and amazed the affectionate parents,

Seeing the form of the maid so well matched with that of her lover.

Yea, the door seemed too low to allow the tall figures to enter,

As they together now appeared coming over the threshold.

Hermann, with hurried words, presented her thus to his parents:

"Here is a maiden," he said; "such a one as ye wish in the household.

Kindly receive her, dear father: she merits it well; and thou, mother,

Question her straightway on all that belongs to a housekeeper's duty,

That ye may see how well she deserves to ye both to be nearer."

Quickly he then drew aside the excellent clergyman, saying:

"Help me, O worthy sir, and speedily out of this trouble;

Loosen, I pray thee, this knot, at whose untying I tremble.

Know that 'tis not as a lover that I have brought hither the maiden;

But she believes that as servant she comes to the house, and I tremble

Lest in displeasure she fly as soon as there's mention of marriage.

But be it straightway decided; for she no longer in error

Thus shall be left, and I this suspense no longer can suffer.

Hasten and show us in this a proof of the wisdom we honor."

Towards the company then the clergyman instantly turned him;

But already, alas! had the soul of the maiden been troubled,

Hearing the father's speech; for he, in his sociable fashion,

Had in these playful words, with the kindest intention addressed her:

"Ay, this is well, my child! with delight I perceive that my Hermann

Has the good taste of his father, who often showed his in his young days,

Leading out always the fairest to dance, and bringing the fairest

Finally home as his wife; our dear little mother here that was.

For by the bride that a man shall elect we can judge what himself is,

Tell what the spirit is in him, and whether he feel his own value.

Nor didst thou need for thyself, I'll engage, much time for decision;

For, in good sooth, methinks, he's no difficult person to follow."

Hermann had heard but in part; his limbs were inwardly trembling,

And of a sudden a stillness had fallen on all of the circle.

But by these words of derision, for such she could not but deem them,

Wounded, and stung to the depths of her soul, the excellent maiden,

Stood, while the fugitive blood o'er her cheeks and e'en to her bosom,

Poured its flush. But she governed herself, and her courage collecting,

Answered the old man thus, her pain not wholly concealing:

"Truly for such a reception thy son had in no wise prepared me,

When he the ways of his father described, the excellent burgher.

Thou art a man of culture, I know, before whom I am standing;

Dealest with every one wisely, according as suits his position;

But thou hast scanty compassion, it seems, on one such as I am,

Who, a poor girl, am now crossing thy threshold with purpose to serve thee;

Else, with such bitter derision, thou wouldst not have made me remember

How far removed my fortune from that of thyself and thy son is.

True, I come poor to thy house, and bring with me naught but my bundle

Here where is every abundance to gladden the prosperous inmates.

Yet I know well myself; I feel the relations between us,

Say, is it noble, with so much of mockery straightway to greet me,

That I am sent from the house while my foot is scarce yet on the threshold—"

Anxiously Hermann turned and signed to his ally the pastor

That he should rush to the rescue and straightway dispel the delusion.

Then stepped the wise man hastily forward and looked on the maiden's

Tearful eyes, her silent pain and repressed indignation,

And in his heart was impelled not at once to clear up the confusion,

Rather to put to the test the girl's disquieted spirit.

Therefore he unto her said in language intended to try her:

"Surely, thou foreign-born maiden, thou didst not maturely consider,

When thou too rashly decidedst to enter the service of strangers,

All that is meant by the placing thyself 'neath the rule of a master;

For by our hand to a bargain the fate of the year is determined,

And but a single 'yea' compels to much patient endurance.

Not the worst part of the service the wearisome steps to be taken,

Neither the bitter sweat of a labor that presses unceasing;

Since the industrious freeman must toil as well as the servant.

But 'tis to bear with the master's caprice when he censures unjustly,

Or when, at variance with self, he orders now this, now the other;

Bear with the petulance, too, of the mistress, easily angered,

And with the rude, overbearing ways of unmannerly children.

All this is hard to endure, and yet to go on with thy duties

Quickly, without delay, nor thyself grow sullen and stubborn.

Yet thou appearest ill fitted for this, since already so deeply

Stung by the father's jests: whereas there is nothing more common

Than for a girl to be teased on account of a youth she may fancy."

Thus he spoke. The maiden had felt the full force of his language,

And she restrained her no more; but with passionate outburst her feelings

Made themselves way; a sob broke forth from her now heaving bosom,

And, while the scalding tears poured down, she straightway made answer:

"Ah, that rational man who thinks to advise us in sorrow,

Knows not how little of power his cold words have in relieving

Ever a heart from that woe which a sovereign fate has inflicted.

Ye are prosperous and glad; how then should a pleasantry wound you—

Yet but the lightest touch is a source of pain to the sick man.

Nay, concealment itself, if successful, had profited nothing.

Better show now what had later increased to a bitterer anguish,

And to an inward consuming despair might perhaps have reduced me.

Let me go back! for here in this house I can tarry no longer.

I will away, and wander in search of my hapless companions,

Whom I forsook in their need; for myself alone choosing the better.

This is my firm resolve, and I therefore may make a confession

Which might for years perhaps have else lain hid in my bosom.

Deeply indeed was I hurt by the father's words of derision;

Not that I'm sensitive, proud beyond what is fitting a servant;

But that my heart in truth had felt itself stirred with affection

Towards the youth who to-day had appeared to my eyes as a savior.

When he first left me there on the road, he still remained present,

Haunting my every thought; I fancied the fortunate maiden

Whom as a bride, perhaps, his heart had already elected.

When at the fountain I met him again, the sight of him wakened

Pleasure as great as if there had met me an angel from heaven;

And with what gladness I followed, when asked to come as his servant.

True, that I flattered myself in my heart,-I will not deny it,-

While we were hitherward coming, I might peradventure deserve him,

Should I become at last the important stay of the household.

Now I, alas! for the first time see what risk I was running,

When I would make my home so near to the secretly loved one;

Now for the first time feel how far removed a poor maiden

Is from an opulent youth, no matter how great her deserving.

All this I now confess, that my heart ye may not misinterpret,

In that 'twas hurt by a chance to which I owe my awaking.

Hiding my secret desires, this dread had been ever before me,

That at some early day he would bring him a bride to his dwelling;

And ah, how could I then my inward anguish have suffered!

Happily I have been warned, and happily now has my bosom

Been of its secret relieved, while yet there is cure for the evil.

But no more; I have spoken; and now shall nothing detain me

Longer here in a house where I stay but in shame and confusion,

Freely confessing my love and that foolish hope that I cherished.

Not the night which abroad is covered with lowering storm clouds;

Not the roll of the thunder-I hear its peal-shall deter me;

Not the pelt of the rain which without is beating in fury;

Neither the blustering tempest; for all these things have I suffered

During our sorrowful flight, and while the near foe was pursuing.

Now I again go forth, as I have so long been accustomed,

Carried away by the whirl of the times, and from every thing parted.

Fare ye well! I tarry no longer; all now is over."

Thus she spoke and back to the door she hastily turned her,

Still bearing under her arm, as she with her had brought it, her bundle.

But with both of her arms the mother seized hold of the maiden,

Clasping her round the waist, and exclaiming, amazed and bewildered:

"Tell me, what means all this— and these idle tears, say, what mean they—

I will not let thee depart: thou art the betrothed of my Hermann."

But still the father stood, observing the scene with displeasure,

Looked on the weeping girl, and said in a tone of vexation:

"This then must be the return that I get for all my indulgence,

That at the close of the day this most irksome of all things should happen!

For there is naught I can tolerate less than womanish weeping,

Violent outcries, which only involve in disorder and passion,

What with a little of sense had been more smoothly adjusted.

Settle the thing for yourselves: I'm going to bed; I've no patience

Longer to be a spectator of these your marvellous doings."

Quickly he turned as he spoke, and hastened to go to the chamber

Where he was wonted to rest, and his marriage bed was kept standing,

But he was held by his son, who said in a tone of entreaty:

"Father, hasten not from us, and be thou not wroth with the maiden.

I, only I, am to blame as the cause of all this confusion,

Which by his dissimulation our friend unexpectedly heightened.

Speak, O worthy sir; for to thee my cause I intrusted.

Heap not up sorrow and anger, but rather let all this be ended;

For I could hold thee never again in such high estimation,

If thou shouldst show but delight in pain, not superior wisdom."

Thereupon answered and said the excellent clergyman, smiling:

"Tell me, what other device could have drawn this charming confession

Out of the good maiden's lips, and thus have revealed her affection—

Has not thy trouble been straightway transformed into gladness and rapture—

Therefore speak up for thyself; what need of the tongue of another—"

Thereupon Hermann came forward, and spoke in these words of affection:

"Do not repent of thy tears, nor repent of these passing distresses;

For they complete my joy, and-may I not hope it-thine also—

Not to engage the stranger, the excellent maid, as a servant,

Unto the fountain I came; but to sue for thy love I came thither.

Only, alas! my timorous look could thy heart's inclination

Nowise perceive; I read in thine eyes of nothing but kindness,

As from the fountain's tranquil mirror thou gavest me greeting.

Might I but bring thee home, the half of my joy was accomplished.

But thou completest it unto me now; oh, blest be thou for it!"

Then with a deep emotion the maiden gazed on the stripling;

Neither forbade she embrace and kiss, the summit of rapture,

When to a loving pair they come as the longed-for assurance,

Pledge of a lifetime of bliss, that appears to them now never-ending.

Unto the others, meanwhile, the pastor had made explanation.

But with feeling and grace the maid now advanced to the father,

Bent her before him, and kissing the hand he would fain have withholden,

Said: "Thou wilt surely be just and forgive one so startled as I was,

First for my tears of distress, and now for the tears of my gladness.

That emotion forgive me, and oh! forgive me this also.

For I can scarce comprehend the happiness newly vouchsafed me.

Yes, let that first vexation of which I, bewildered, was guilty

Be too the last. Whatever the maid of affectionate service

Faithfully promised, shall be to thee now performed by the daughter."

Straightway then, concealing his tears, the father embraced her,

Cordially, too, the mother came forward and kissed her with fervor,

Pressing her hands in her own: the weeping women were silent.

Thereupon quickly he seized, the good and intelligent pastor,

First the father's hand, and the wedding-ring drew from his finger,-

Not so easily either: the finger was plump and detained it,-

Next took the mother's ring also, and with them betrothed he the children,

Saying: "These golden circlets once more their office performing

Firmly a tie shall unite, which in all things shall equal the old one,

Deeply is this young man imbued with love of the maiden,

And, as the maiden confesses, her heart is gone out to him also.

Here do I therefore betroth you and bless for the years that are coming,

With the consent of the parents, and having this friend as a witness."

Then the neighbor saluted at once, and expressed his good wishes;

But when the clergyman now the golden circlet was drawing

Over the maiden's hand, he observed with amazement the other,

Which had already by Hermann been anxiously marked at the fountain.

And with a kindly raillery thus thereupon he addressed her:

"So, then thy second betrothal is this— let us hope the first bridegroom

May not appear at the altar, and so prohibit the marriage."

But she, answering, said: "Oh, let me to this recollection

Yet one moment devote; for so much is due the good giver,

Him who bestowed it at parting, and never came back to his kindred.

All that should come he foresaw, when in haste the passion for freedom,

When a desire in the newly changed order of things to be working,

Urged him onward to Paris, where chains and death he encountered.

'Fare thee well,' were his words; 'I go, for all is in motion

Now for a time on the earth, and every thing seems to be parting.

E'en in the firmest states fundamental laws are dissolving;

Property falls away from the hand of the ancient possessor;

Friend is parted from friend; and so parts lover from lover.

Here I leave thee, and where I shall find thee again, or if ever,

Who can tell— Perhaps these words are our last ones together.

Man's but a stranger here on the earth, we are told and with reason;

And we are each of us now become more of strangers than ever.

Ours no more is the soil, and our treasures are all of them changing:

Silver and gold are melting away from their time-honored patterns.

All is in motion as though the already-shaped world into chaos

Meant to resolve itself backward into night, and to shape itself over.

Mine thou wilt keep thine heart, and should we be ever united

Over the ruins of earth, it will be as newly made creatures,

Beings transformed and free, no longer dependent on fortune;

For can aught fetter the man who has lived through days such as these are!

But if it is not to be, that, these dangers happily over,

Ever again we be granted the bliss of mutual embraces,

Oh, then before thy thoughts so keep my hovering image

That with unshaken mind thou be ready for good or for evil!

Should new ties allure thee again, and a new habitation,

Enter with gratitude into the joys that fate shall prepare thee;

Love those purely who love thee; be grateful to them who show kindness.

But thine uncertain foot should yet be planted but lightly,

For there is lurking the twofold pain of a new separation.

Blessings attend thy life; but value existence no higher

Than thine other possessions, and all possessions are cheating!'

Thus spoke the noble youth, and never again I beheld him.

Meanwhile I lost my all, and a thousand times thought of his warning.

Here, too, I think of his words, when love is sweetly preparing

Happiness for me anew, and glorious hopes are reviving,

Oh forgive me, excellent friend, that e'en while I hold thee

Close to my side I tremble! So unto the late-landed sailor

Seem the most solid foundations of firmest earth to be rocking."

Thus she spoke, and placed the two rings on her finger together.

But her lover replied with a noble and manly emotion:

"So much the firmer then, amid these universal convulsions,

Be, Dorothea, our union! We two will hold fast and continue,

Firmly maintaining ourselves, and the right to our ample possessions.

For that man, who, when times are uncertain, is faltering in spirit,

Only increases the evil, and further and further transmits it;

While he refashions the world, who keeps himself steadfastly minded.

Poorly becomes it the German to give to these fearful excitements

Aught of continuance, or to be this way and that way inclining.

This is our own! let that be our word, and let us maintain it!

For to those resolute peoples respect will be ever accorded,

Who for God and the laws, for parents, women and children,

Fought and died, as together they stood with their front to the foeman.

Thou art mine own; and now what is mine, is mine more than ever.

Not with anxiety will I preserve it, and trembling enjoyment;

Rather with courage and strength. To-day should the enemy threaten,

Or in the future, equip me thyself and hand me my weapons.

Let me but know that under thy care are my house and dear parents,

Oh! I can then with assurance expose my breast to the foeman.

And were but every man minded like me, there would be an upspring

Might against might, and peace should revisit us all with its gladness."

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Date:

7/6/2007