The Project Gutenberg EBook of Faust, by Goethe

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Title: Faust

Author: Goethe

Release Date: December 25, 2004 [EBook #14460]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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FAUST


A TRAGEDY

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN

OF

GOETHE


WITH NOTES

BY

CHARLES T BROOKS


SEVENTH EDITION.

BOSTON
TICKNOR AND FIELDS

MDCCCLXVIII.



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856,
by CHARLES T. BROOKS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court
of the District of Rhode Island.

UNIVERSITY PRESS:
WELCH, BIGELOW, AND COMPANY,
CAMBRIDGE.




TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.


Perhaps some apology ought to be given to English scholars, that is, those
who do not know German, (to those, at least, who do not know what sort of
a thing Faust is in the original,) for offering another translation to the
public, of a poem which has been already translated, not only in a literal
prose form, but also, twenty or thirty times, in metre, and sometimes with
great spirit, beauty, and power.

The author of the present version, then, has no knowledge that a rendering
of this wonderful poem into the exact and ever-changing metre of the
original has, until now, been so much as attempted. To name only one
defect, the very best versions which he has seen neglect to follow the
exquisite artist in the evidently planned and orderly intermixing of
_male_ and _female_ rhymes, _i.e._ rhymes which fall on the last syllable
and those which fall on the last but one. Now, every careful student of
the versification of Faust must feel and see that Goethe did not
intersperse the one kind of rhyme with the other, at random, as those
translators do; who, also, give the female rhyme (on which the vivacity of
dialogue and description often so much depends,) in so small a proportion.

A similar criticism might be made of their liberty in neglecting Goethe's
method of alternating different measures with each other.

It seems as if, in respect to metre, at least, they had asked themselves,
how would Goethe have written or shaped this in English, had that been his
native language, instead of seeking _con amore_ (and _con fidelità_) as
they should have done, to reproduce, both in spirit and in form, the
movement, so free and yet orderly, of the singularly endowed and
accomplished poet whom they undertook to represent.

As to the objections which Hayward and some of his reviewers have
instituted in advance against the possibility of a good and faithful
metrical translation of a poem like Faust, they seem to the present
translator full of paradox and sophistry. For instance, take this
assertion of one of the reviewers: "The sacred and mysterious union of
thought with verse, twin-born and immortally wedded from the moment of
their common birth, can never be understood by those who desire verse
translations of good poetry." If the last part of this statement had read
"by those who can be contented with _prose_ translations of good poetry,"
the position would have been nearer the truth. This much we might well
admit, that, if the alternative were either to have a poem like Faust in a
metre different and glaringly different from the original, or to have it
in simple and strong prose, then the latter alternative would be the one
every tasteful and feeling scholar would prefer; but surely to every one
who can read the original or wants to know how this great song _sung
itself_ (as Carlyle says) out of Goethe's soul, a mere prose rendering
must be, comparatively, a _corpus mortuum._

The translator most heartily dissents from Hayward's assertion that a
translator of Faust "must sacrifice either metre or meaning." At least he
flatters himself that he has made, in the main, (not a compromise between
meaning and melody, though in certain instances he may have fallen into
that, but) a combination of the meaning with the melody, which latter is
so important, so vital a part of the lyric poem's meaning, in any worthy
sense. "No poetic translation," says Hayward's reviewer, already quoted,
"can give the rhythm and rhyme of the original; it can only substitute the
rhythm and rhyme of the translator." One might just as well say "no
_prose_ translation can give the _sense and spirit_ of the original; it
can only substitute the _sense and spirit of the words and phrases of the
translator's language_;" and then, these two assertions balancing each
other, there will remain in the metrical translator's favor, that he may
come as near to giving both the letter and the spirit, as the effects of
the Babel dispersion will allow.

As to the original creation, which he has attempted here to reproduce, the
translator might say something, but prefers leaving his readers to the
poet himself, as revealed in the poem, and to the various commentaries of
which we have some accounts, at least, in English. A French translator of
the poem speaks in his introduction as follows: "This Faust, conceived by
him in his youth, completed in ripe age, the idea of which he carried with
him through all the commotions of his life, as Camoens bore his poem with
him through the waves, this Faust contains him entire. The thirst for
knowledge and the martyrdom of doubt, had they not tormented his early
years? Whence came to him the thought of taking refuge in a supernatural
realm, of appealing to invisible powers, which plunged him, for a
considerable time, into the dreams of Illuminati and made him even invent
a religion?  This irony of Mephistopheles, who carries on so audacious a
game with the weakness and the desires of man, is it not the mocking,
scornful side of the poet's spirit, a leaning to sullenness, which can be
traced even into the earliest years of his life, a bitter leaven thrown
into a strong soul forever by early satiety? The character of Faust
especially, the man whose burning, untiring heart can neither enjoy
fortune nor do without it, who gives himself unconditionally and watches
himself with mistrust, who unites the enthusiasm of passion and the
dejectedness of despair, is not this an eloquent opening up of the most
secret and tumultuous part of the poet's soul? And now, to complete the
image of his inner life, he has added the transcendingly sweet person of
Margaret, an exalted reminiscence of a young girl, by whom, at the age of
fourteen, he thought himself beloved, whose image ever floated round him,
and has contributed some traits to each of his heroines. This heavenly
surrender of a simple, good, and tender heart contrasts wonderfully with
the sensual and gloomy passion of the lover, who, in the midst of his
love-dreams, is persecuted by the phantoms of his imagination and by the
nightmares of thought, with those sorrows of a soul, which is crushed, but
not extinguished, which is tormented by the invincible want of happiness
and the bitter feeling, how hard a thing it is to receive or to bestow."




DEDICATION.[1]

Once more ye waver dreamily before me,
Forms that so early cheered my troubled eyes!
To hold you fast doth still my heart implore me?
Still bid me clutch the charm that lures and flies?
Ye crowd around! come, then, hold empire o'er me,
As from the mist and haze of thought ye rise;
The magic atmosphere, your train enwreathing,
Through my thrilled bosom youthful bliss is breathing.

Ye bring with you the forms of hours Elysian,
And shades of dear ones rise to meet my gaze;
First Love and Friendship steal upon my vision
Like an old tale of legendary days;
Sorrow renewed, in mournful repetition,
Runs through life's devious, labyrinthine ways;
And, sighing, names the good (by Fortune cheated
Of blissful hours!) who have before me fleeted.

These later songs of mine, alas! will never
Sound in their ears to whom the first were sung!
Scattered like dust, the friendly throng forever!
Mute the first echo that so grateful rung!
To the strange crowd I sing, whose very favor
Like chilling sadness on my heart is flung;
And all that kindled at those earlier numbers
Roams the wide earth or in its bosom slumbers.

And now I feel a long-unwonted yearning
For that calm, pensive spirit-realm, to-day;
Like an Aeolian lyre, (the breeze returning,)
Floats in uncertain tones my lisping lay;
Strange awe comes o'er me, tear on tear falls burning,
The rigid heart to milder mood gives way!
What I possess I see afar off lying,
And what I lost is real and undying.




PRELUDE

IN THE THEATRE.


  _Manager. Dramatic Poet. Merry Person._

_Manager_. You who in trouble and distress
Have both held fast your old allegiance,
What think ye? here in German regions
Our enterprise may hope success?
To please the crowd my purpose has been steady,
Because they live and let one live at least.
The posts are set, the boards are laid already,
And every one is looking for a feast.
They sit, with lifted brows, composed looks wearing,
Expecting something that shall set them staring.
I know the public palate, that's confest;
Yet never pined so for a sound suggestion;
True, they are not accustomed to the best,
But they have read a dreadful deal, past question.
How shall we work to make all fresh and new,
Acceptable and profitable, too?
For sure I love to see the torrent boiling,
When towards our booth they crowd to find a place,
Now rolling on a space and then recoiling,
Then squeezing through the narrow door of grace:
Long before dark each one his hard-fought station
In sight of the box-office window takes,
And as, round bakers' doors men crowd to escape starvation,
For tickets here they almost break their necks.
This wonder, on so mixed a mass, the Poet
Alone can work; to-day, my friend, O, show it!

_Poet_. Oh speak not to me of that motley ocean,
Whose roar and greed the shuddering spirit chill!
Hide from my sight that billowy commotion
That draws us down the whirlpool 'gainst our will.
No, lead me to that nook of calm devotion,
Where blooms pure joy upon the Muses' hill;
Where love and friendship aye create and cherish,
With hand divine, heart-joys that never perish.
Ah! what, from feeling's deepest fountain springing,
Scarce from the stammering lips had faintly passed,
Now, hopeful, venturing forth, now shyly clinging,
To the wild moment's cry a prey is cast.
Oft when for years the brain had heard it ringing
It comes in full and rounded shape at last.
What shines, is born but for the moment's pleasure;
The genuine leaves posterity a treasure.

_Merry Person_. Posterity! I'm sick of hearing of it;
Supposing I the future age would profit,
Who then would furnish ours with fun?
For it must have it, ripe and mellow;
The presence of a fine young fellow,
Is cheering, too, methinks, to any one.
Whoso can pleasantly communicate,
Will not make war with popular caprices,
For, as the circle waxes great,
The power his word shall wield increases.
Come, then, and let us now a model see,
Let Phantasy with all her various choir,
Sense, reason, passion, sensibility,
But, mark me, folly too! the scene inspire.

_Manager_. But the great point is action! Every one
Comes as spectator, and the show's the fun.
Let but the plot be spun off fast and thickly,
So that the crowd shall gape in broad surprise,
Then have you made a wide impression quickly,
You are the man they'll idolize.
The mass can only be impressed by masses;
Then each at last picks out his proper part.
Give much, and then to each one something passes,
And each one leaves the house with happy heart.
Have you a piece, give it at once in pieces!
Such a ragout your fame increases;
It costs as little pains to play as to invent.
But what is gained, if you a whole present?
Your public picks it presently to pieces.

_Poet_. You do not feel how mean a trade like that must be!
In the true Artist's eyes how false and hollow!
Our genteel botchers, well I see,
Have given the maxims that you follow.

_Manager_. Such charges pass me like the idle wind;
A man who has right work in mind
Must choose the instruments most fitting.
Consider what soft wood you have for splitting,
And keep in view for whom you write!
If this one from _ennui_ seeks flight,
That other comes full from the groaning table,
Or, the worst case of all to cite,
From reading journals is for thought unable.
Vacant and giddy, all agog for wonder,
As to a masquerade they wing their way;
The ladies give themselves and all their precious plunder
And without wages help us play.
On your poetic heights what dream comes o'er you?
What glads a crowded house? Behold
Your patrons in array before you!
One half are raw, the other cold.
One, after this play, hopes to play at cards,
One a wild night to spend beside his doxy chooses,
Poor fools, why court ye the regards,
For such a set, of the chaste muses?
I tell you, give them more and ever more and more,
And then your mark you'll hardly stray from ever;
To mystify be your endeavor,
To satisfy is labor sore....
What ails you? Are you pleased or pained? What notion----

_Poet_. Go to, and find thyself another slave!
What! and the lofty birthright Nature gave,
The noblest talent Heaven to man has lent,
Thou bid'st the Poet fling to folly's ocean!
How does he stir each deep emotion?
How does he conquer every element?
But by the tide of song that from his bosom springs,
And draws into his heart all living things?
When Nature's hand, in endless iteration,
The thread across the whizzing spindle flings,
When the complex, monotonous creation
Jangles with all its million strings:
Who, then, the long, dull series animating,
Breaks into rhythmic march the soulless round?
And, to the law of All each member consecrating,
Bids one majestic harmony resound?
Who bids the tempest rage with passion's power?
The earnest soul with evening-redness glow?
Who scatters vernal bud and summer flower