Faust: Parts One and Two

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Robert David MacDonald

• Éditeur: Oberon Books
• Année: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781849437431
• Édition: 1
• Sujet: Literature
• Sous-sujet: British Drama

The power and magic of the Faust story, the man who, in a pact with the Devil, trades his soul in return for a period of total knowledge and absolute power, is one of the most potent of all European myths. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832) worked on this poetic drama in bursts from his twenties until the end of his life. He reshaped the perpetually fascinating legend, probing the nature and process of human striving and questioning the assumed divisins between the forces of good and evil. His Faust has become a landmark in world literature. Robert David MacDonald's translation of Faust, used in acclaimed productions in Scotland (Glasgow Citizens') and England (Lyric Hammersmith), offers access to the play in the English language for readers and playgoers alike and opens up the extraordinary range and pace of Goethe's language, rhythms, imagery and ideas, without sacrificing any of the play's humour. The Open University has adopted the translation as a set book for the course entitled 'From Enlightenment to Romanticism'.

PART ONE

1: Night – Faust’s study^*

A high-vaulted, Gothic room. FAUST discovered, restless, at his desk.

FAUST: Here I am, then. Philosophy behind me, Law and Medicine too, and – to my cost – Theology... all studied, grimly sweated through; and here I sit, as big a fool as when I first attended school. True, I surpass the dull incompetents, doctors, pastors and masters, and the rest, for whom there is no bliss but ignorance, but this pre-eminence I now detest. All my laborious studies only show that Nothing is the most we ever know. Scruples I’ve laid aside, doubts as well; I have no fear of the Devil or Hell – and this is what robs me of all delight. I cannot boast that what I know is right; I cannot boast my teaching will ever find a way to improve or to convert Mankind. Meanwhile I live in poverty; no dog would choose to live like me. And so the rites of Magic I rehearse, to probe the secrets of the Universe; to learn its mysteries and recognise the force that binds all Nature’s energies; to see Creation’s principles at work, and waste no more time on the trade of talk.

O Moon, would you could look your last upon my pain, as in the past you’ve watched me, quietly, at my books and papers, with sad, friendly looks. O, could I, on the mountain’s height, wander in your kindly light, through mountain caves with spirits sail, cross and recross the twilit vale; freed from the fumes of science, renew my spirit in your healing dew.

Imprisoned in my library, with stacks of papers, ceiling-high, worm-eaten junk, pell-mell together hurled, with scientific instruments, a valueless inheritance. This is my world! Here’s what is called a world!

Instead of living in the world where God created men to be, you live, hemmed in by smoke and mould, with skeletons for company.

Away with it, then! Leave it all behind! A better, secret mentor springs to mind. From this I know there is a world elsewhere; what other guide do I need to take me there? Spirit speaks unto spirit, and divines the meaning of mysterious designs. Spirits, I feel you, hovering near me; answer me, now, if you can hear me! (Opening the book, he finds the sign of the Macrocosm.) Ah! sudden joy leaps through me at this sight, flooding my being, filling every sense; a new and holy feeling of delight runs through each vein, each nerve, glowing, intense. Was it a God who patterned out this sign, by which my spirit’s inward strife is stilled, by which my wretched heart with joy is filled, by which, with mystic power, the grand design of omnipresent Nature is revealed? Am I a god? Light dawns on me: in these clear symbols I perceive the whole of Nature’s mighty engine, open to my soul, and grasp the meaning of the prophecy: ‘The spirit world’s no occult sphere; your heart is dead, your sense withdrawn. Seeker of knowledge, rise, bathe without fear your human breast in the red of dawn!’ (He gazes at the sign.) A great show, but no more than that – a show! Infinite Nature, where can I grasp you? How? Where are your breasts, those fountains that maintain all life throughout the Universe, at which the parched soul slakes its thirst? You flow and gush: why do I thirst in vain? (He turns the pages of the book impatiently, and comes on the sign of the Earth-Spirit.) How different the effects of this new sign! Spirit of Earth, we are closer akin; I feel my powers grow strong within, as if intoxicated with new wine.

I feel the strength to be my fate’s defender, to bear both earthly woe, and earthly splendour, to grapple with storms, a worthy contender, and in the grinding shipwreck, not surrender. The clouds close in above me... the moon is hidden... the lamp burns low... vapours rise...red beams flicker about my head, and from the roof a shuddering horror floats down and seizes me. I feel you, Spirit I have called, you hover near. It’s tearing at my heart. Appear! At each new pang I feel my senses reel... I feel my heart surrender, gripped as if in a vice... Oh, come! Oh, come, you must, though death should be the price! (He seizes the book, and pronounces the secret sign of the Earth-Spirit. A red flame flares up, and in the flame, the EARTH-SPIRIT appears.)

EARTH-SPIRIT: Who calls me?

FAUST: Horror!

EARTH-SPIRIT: You compel me here. You wrestled long to penetrate my sphere, and now...

FAUST: Oh, God – this sight I cannot bear!

EARTH-SPIRIT: It was I whom your mighty incantation invoked: and here I am. What agitation seizes you, Faust? Are you the Superman who challenged me to come here, who began so bravely, but who, as you felt my breath, fell down before me, frightened half to death, a trembling, writhing, timorous worm?

FAUST: Am I to yield to you, you thing of flame? Faust is your equal, Spirit: fear my name!

EARTH-SPIRIT: In the torrents of life, in action’s storm, I weave and wave in endless motion cradle and grave a timeless ocean ceaselessly weaving the tissue of living constantly changing blending, arranging the humming loom of Time I ply and weave the web of Divinity.

FAUST: Restless spirit! Ranging from end to end of the turning world, how close I feel to Thee!

EARTH-SPIRIT: You’re kin to the spirit that you comprehend: not me. (The EARTH-SPIRIT vanishes.)

FAUST: (Shaken.) Not you? Then who? Made in the image of God, and am I not to be ranked with you? (A knock.) Damnation! Who is it?

WAGNER: Wagner.

FAUST: My student. (WAGNER enters in nightgown and nightcap, carrying a lamp. FAUST turns to him impatiently.)

WAGNER: Forgive me, Sir, if I am being imprudent, but might I ask if that was Greek that I heard you declaiming? From some tragedy? I’d like to profit from reciting plays: it’s taken very seriously nowadays. It’s often said the theatre’s a good teacher, and that the actor can instruct the preacher.

FAUST: Yes; when the preacher also is an actor, as often is his Lowest Common Factor. The only trouble with your preaching actors is, they so often preach what they don’t practice.

WAGNER: But, living in self-inflicted isolation, seeing the world as if through a telescope, or only on a holiday, can we hope to influence, or rule men by persuasion? The speaker’s style alone can win the heart, and I am less than expert in that art.

FAUST: Good sense and single-mindedness, above all else, ensure a man’s success.

WAGNER: Dear God, how short is Life, how long is Art! We climb a hard road to the fountainhead, and by the time we’ve learned the smallest part of what we want, as like as not, we’re dead. I read a deal of History, to transport myself into the Spirit of the Past, to find out what great men have said and thought, and see the glorious heights we’ve reached at last.

FAUST: ‘The Spirit of the Past’? An old-clothes closet, a rubbish heap where ‘great men’ can deposit the trash they make of their own generations.

WAGNER: But surely, Sir, Mankind’s imagination’s what we want to understand – his mind?

FAUST: To understand? And how is that defined? Some did not veil their thoughts from men, but tried to show their hearts – and they were crucified. But now, my friend, it’s time we were adjourning.

WAGNER: I could have stayed for hours to hear such learning. I hope I haven’t kept you up all night, though cultured conversation’s a delight. But since tomorrow will be Easter Day, I’ll put some further questions, if I may. I’ve learnt much by devoted studying but cannot rest till I know everything. (He goes out.)

FAUST: The only ones who never give up hope are those whose minds are fixed on trivial things: they dig for treasure, but are glad to grope for earthworms to reward their blunderings. And yet, for once, he has my gratitude. Despair and madness were about to blast the power of sense – the vision was too vast. I shrank, a dwarf, before that monstrous attitude. For, though I could compel it to appear, I had no power to detain it here. But in that moment, drenched with ecstasy, I felt my pigmy self grow great; it thrust me down, and cruelly sentenced me once more to Man’s uncertain fate.

Am I God’s image? Shall I rank with gods? No – I am only kin to worms, and clods of common clay, the pounded dust which packs the shelves that wall in academic hacks. Is it here I’ll discover what I lack? Read through a thousand books, and all to find Humanity puts itself upon the rack, and Happiness is rare among Mankind? What are you grinning at, you hollow skull? Because your brain, like mine, once sought the spark of Truth, but fell a victim to mere dull confusion, and was swallowed in the dark? My complex instruments stand mocking me: to Nature’s secrets they were to be the key. But if she will not teach her mystery, there’s little merit in Technology. My father’s junk, unused, inherited – what we can’t use does nothing but impede. Nothing is owned unearned, unmerited: necessity creates the only things we need.

What thing is that, though, which impels my gaze? Why is that phial a magnet to my sight? A radiance plays around me, like the rays of moonlight, in the forest, in the night.

In you I honour human art and skill, quintessence of all soothing anodynes, which every rare and deadly power combines, now, for your master, all your strength distil!

Another day! A chariot of fire comes near. New roads lie open to me. I shall pierce the veil that hides what we desire, break through to realms of abstract energy. But, earthbound still, a worm, how may I earn this higher life, this heavenly rebirth? Only if I can resolutely turn my back on the sun that kindles life on earth: summon my daring to pass through the gate which most men shun in every way they can. Now I must show, in action, that a man may be as free as gods, and be as great; not shudder at the dreadful pit, that harrows our fancy, self-condemned to its own dark fear, but struggle to force a passage through the narrow straits, at whose mouth the flames of Hell appear; and take this step with calm determination, though it should bring with it annihilation.

This draught intoxicates as it is drawn. The dark narcotic flood streams out to fill the cup: juice I have chosen and distilled to be my last drink, drunk with firm soul and will, in solemn salutation to the coming dawn! (He raises the cup to his lips. Clangour of bells, and chanting.) Music of God, so powerful and so sweet, why do you seek me out here in the dust? Go entertain the faithful, if you must, I hear the message, but my faith is weak. A miracle is religion’s dearest child: the Easter hymn brings childhood flooding back to me. I must retra...