Faust, Part One

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

They come to look, and they prefer to stare. Reel off a host of threads before their faces, So that they gape in stupid wonder: then By sheer diffuseness you have won their graces,

Then give me back that time of pleasures, While yet in joyous growth I sang,— When, like a fount, the crowding measures Uninterrupted gushed and sprang! Then bright mist veiled the world before me, In opening buds a marvel woke, As I the thousand blossoms broke, Which every valley richly bore me! I nothing had, and yet enough for youth— Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth. Give, unrestrained, the old emotion, The bliss that touched the verge of pain, The strength of Hate, Love’s deep devotion,— O, give me back my youth again!

What’s left undone to-day, To-morrow will not do.

Thus, in our booth’s contracted sphere, The circle of Creation will appear, And move, as we deliberately impel, From Heaven, across the World, to Hell!

Of suns and worlds I’ve nothing to be quoted; How men torment themselves, is all I’ve noted.

Life somewhat better might content him, But for the gleam of heavenly light which Thou hast lent him: He calls it Reason—thence his power’s increased, To be far beastlier than any beast.

Would he still lay among the grass he grows in! Each bit of dung he seeks, to stick his nose in.

No, Lord! I find things, there, still bad as they can be. Man’s misery even to pity moves my nature; I’ve scarce the heart to plague the wretched

creature.

What will you bet? There’s still a chance to gain him,

If unto me full leave you give, Gently upon my road to train him!

Then stand abashed, when thou art forced to say: A good man, through obscurest aspiration, Has still an instinct of the one true way.

I’ve studied now Philosophy And Jurisprudence, Medicine,— And even, alas! Theology,— From end to end, with labor keen; And here, poor fool! with all my lore I stand, no wiser than before:

And see, that nothing can be known! That knowledge cuts me to the bone. I’m cleverer, true, than those fops of teachers, Doctors and Magisters, Scribes and Preachers;

And thus the bitter task forego Of saying the things I do not know,— That I may detect the inmost force Which binds the world, and guides its course;

I’ve often heard it said, a preacher Might learn, with a comedian for a teacher.

No true refreshment can restore thee, Save what from thine own soul spontaneous breaks.

Most zealously I seek for erudition: Much do I know—but to know all is my ambition.

Why, here in dust, entice me with your spell, Ye gentle, powerful sounds of Heaven? Peal rather there, where tender natures dwell. Your messages I hear, but faith has not been given;

And prayer dissolved me in a fervent bliss. A sweet, uncomprehended yearning Drove forth my feet through woods and meadows free, And while a thousand tears were burning, I felt a world arise for me.

Sound on, ye hymns of Heaven, so sweet and mild! My tears gush forth: the Earth takes back her child!

By the quickening glance of the gracious Spring; The colors of hope to the valley cling, And weak old Winter himself must shiver, Withdrawn to the mountains, a crownless king:

No test or trial you evaded: A Helping God the helper aided.

Two souls, alas! reside within my breast, And each withdraws from, and repels, its brother. One with tenacious organs holds in love And clinging lust the world in its embraces; The other strongly sweeps, this dust above, Into the high ancestral spaces.

We pine and thirst for Revelation, Which nowhere worthier is, more nobly sent, Than here, in our New Testament. I feel impelled, its meaning to determine,—

’Tis written: “In the Beginning was the Word.” Here am I balked: who, now can help afford? The Word?—impossible so high to rate it; And otherwise must I translate it. If by the Spirit I am truly taught. Then thus: “In the Beginning was the Thought”

Is it the Thought which works, creates, indeed? “In the Beginning was the Power,” I read. Yet, as I write, a warning is suggested, That I the sense may not have fairly tested. The Spirit aids me: now I see the light! “In the Beginning was the Act,” I write.

But that a dream the Devil counterfeited, And that a poodle ran away?

To don the self-same gay apparel, That, from this den released, and free, Life be at last revealed to thee!

Would pain me in its wonted fashion. Too old am I to play with passion; Too young, to be without desire. What from the world have I to gain? Thou shalt abstain—renounce—refrain! Such is the everlasting song That in the ears of all men rings,— That unrelieved, our whole life long,

So, by the burden of my days oppressed, Death is desired, and Life a thing unblest!

Yet now I curse whate’er entices And snares the soul with visions vain; With dazzling cheats and dear devices Confines it in this cave of pain! Cursed be, at once, the high ambition Wherewith the mind itself deludes! Cursed be the glare of apparition That on the finer sense intrudes! Cursed be the lying dream’s impression Of name, and fame, and laurelled brow!

Cursed, also, Hope!—cursed Faith, the spectre! And cursed be Patience most of all!

I am not one of the greatest, Yet, wilt thou to me entrust Thy steps through life, I’ll guide thee,— Will willingly walk beside thee,— Will serve thee at once and forever With best endeavor, And, if thou art satisfied, Will as servant, slave, with thee abide.

The promise that I make to thee Is just the sum of my endeavor. I have myself inflated all too high; My proper place is thy estate: The Mighty Spirit deigns me no reply, And Nature shuts on me her gate. The thread of Thought at last is broken, And knowledge brings disgust unspoken. Let us the sensual deeps explore, To quench the fervors of glowing passion!

Believe me, who for many a thousand year The same tough meat have chewed and tested, That from the cradle to the bier No man the ancient leaven has digested! Trust one of us, this Whole supernal Is made but for a God’s delight! He dwells in splendor single and eternal, But us he thrusts in darkness, out of sight, And you he dowers with Day and Night.

Let him find for thee the secret tether That binds the Noble and Mean together. And teach thy pulses of youth and pleasure To love by rule, and hate by measure! I’d like, myself, such a one to see: Sir Microcosm his name should be.

Why, on the whole, thou’rt—what thou art. Set wigs of million curls upon thy head, to raise thee, Wear shoes an ell in height,—the truth betrays thee, And thou remainest—what thou art.

I feel, indeed, that I have made the treasure Of human thought and knowledge mine, in vain;

And if I now sit down in restful leisure, No fount of newer strength is in my brain: I am no hair’s-breadth more in height, Nor nearer, to the Infinite,

And head and virile forces—thine: Yet all that I indulge in newly, Is’t thence less wholly mine? If I’ve six stallions in my stall, Are not their forces also lent me? I speed along, completest man of all, As though my legs were four-and-twenty. Take hold, then! let reflection rest,

First, the collegium logicum. There will your mind be drilled and braced, As if in Spanish boots ’twere laced, And thus, to graver paces brought, ‘Twill plod along the path of thought,

Instead of shooting here and there, A will-o’-the-wisp in murky air. Days will be spent to bid you know, What once you did at a single blow, Like eating and drinking, free and strong,— That one, two, three! thereto belong. Truly the fabric of mental fleece Resembles a weaver’s masterpiece, Where a thousand threads one treadle throws, Where fly the shuttles hither and thither. Unseen the threads are knit together. And an infinite combination grows. Then, the philosopher steps in And shows, no otherwise it could have been: The first was so, the second so, Therefore the third and fourth are so; Were not the first and second, then The third and fourth had never been. The scholars are everywhere believers, But never succeed in being weavers. He who would study organic existence, First drives out the soul with rigid persistence; Then the parts in his hand he may hold and class, But the spiritual link is lost, alas!

Your mind will shortly be set aright, When you have learned, all things reducing, To classify them for your using.

I feel as stupid, from all you’ve said, As if a mill-wheel whirled in my head!

The attempt, indeed, were a futile strife; I never could learn the ways of life. I feel so small before others, and thence Should always find embarrassments.

My friend, thou soon shalt lose all such misgiving: Be thou but self-possessed, thou hast the art of living!

She, there? She’s coming from confession, Of every sin absolved; for I, Behind her chair, was listening nigh. So innocent is she, indeed, That to confess she had no need. I have no power o’er souls so green.

How deeply am I moved, this hour! What seek I? Why so full my heart, and sore? Miserable Faust! I know thee now no more. Is there a magic vapor here? I came, with lust of instant pleasure, And lie dissolved in dreams of love’s sweet leisure!

By all love ever rejected! By hell-fire hot and unsparing! I wish I knew something worse, that I might use it for swearing!