No More Learning

I always like to bear
Some present when I visit my fair.

_Mephistopheles_. You should not murmur if your fate is,
To have a bit of pleasure gratis.
Now, as the stars fill heaven with their bright throng,
List a fine piece, artistic purely:
I sing her here a moral song,
To make a fool of her more surely.
[_Sings to the guitar_. ][30]
What dost thou here,
Katrina dear,
At daybreak drear,
Before thy lover's chamber?
Give o'er, give o'er!
The maid his door
Lets in, no more
Goes out a maid--remember!

Take heed! take heed!
Once done, the deed
Ye'll rue with speed--
And then--good night--poor thing--a!
Though ne'er so fair
His speech, beware,
Until you bear
His ring upon your finger.

_Valentine_ [_comes forward_].
Whom lur'ft thou here? what prey dost scent?
Rat-catching[81] offspring of perdition!
To hell goes first the instrument!
To hell then follows the musician!

_Mephistopheles_. He 's broken the guitar! to music, then, good-bye, now.

_Valentine_. A game of cracking skulls we'll try now!

_Mephistopbeles_ [_to Faust_]. Never you flinch, Sir Doctor! Brisk!
Mind every word I say---be wary!
Stand close by me, out with your whisk!
Thrust home upon the churl! I'll parry.

_Valentine_. Then parry that!

_Mephistopheles_. Be sure. Why not?

_Valentine_. And that!

_Mephistopheles_. With ease!

_Valentine_. The devil's aid he's got!
But what is this? My hand's already lame.

_Mephistopheles_ [_to Faust_]. Thrust home!

_Valentine_ [_falls_]. O woe!

_Mephistopheles_. Now is the lubber tame!
But come! We must be off. I hear a clatter;
And cries of murder, too, that fast increase.
I'm an old hand to manage the police,
But then the penal court's another matter.

_Martha_. Come out! Come out!

_Margery_ [_at the window_]. Bring on a light!

_Martha_ [_as above_]. They swear and scuffle, scream and fight.

_People_. There's one, has got's death-blow!

_Martha_ [_coming out_]. Where are the murderers, have they flown?

_Margery_ [_coming out_]. Who's lying here?

_People_. Thy mother's son.

_Margery_. Almighty God! What woe!

_Valentine_. I'm dying! that is quickly said,
And even quicklier done.
Women! Why howl, as if half-dead?
Come, hear me, every one!
[_All gather round him_. ]
My Margery, look! Young art thou still,
But managest thy matters ill,
Hast not learned out yet quite.
I say in confidence--think it o'er:
Thou art just once for all a whore;
Why, be one, then, outright.

_Margery_. My brother! God! What words to me!

_Valentine_. In this game let our Lord God be!
That which is done, alas! is done.
And every thing its course will run.
With one you secretly begin,
Presently more of them come in,
And when a dozen share in thee,
Thou art the whole town's property.

When shame is born to this world of sorrow,
The birth is carefully hid from sight,
And the mysterious veil of night
To cover her head they borrow;
Yes, they would gladly stifle the wearer;
But as she grows and holds herself high,
She walks uncovered in day's broad eye,
Though she has not become a whit fairer.
The uglier her face to sight,
The more she courts the noonday light.

Already I the time can see
When all good souls shall shrink from thee,
Thou prostitute, when thou go'st by them,
As if a tainted corpse were nigh them.
Thy heart within thy breast shall quake then,
When they look thee in the face.
Shalt wear no gold chain more on thy neck then!
Shalt stand no more in the holy place!
No pleasure in point-lace collars take then,
Nor for the dance thy person deck then!
But into some dark corner gliding,
'Mong beggars and cripples wilt be hiding;
And even should God thy sin forgive,
Wilt be curs'd on earth while thou shalt live!

_Martha_. Your soul to the mercy of God surrender!
Will you add to your load the sin of slander?

_Valentine_. Could I get at thy dried-up frame,
Vile bawd, so lost to all sense of shame!
Then might I hope, e'en this side Heaven,
Richly to find my sins forgiven.

_Margery_. My brother! This is hell to me!

_Valentine_. I tell thee, let these weak tears be!
When thy last hold of honor broke,
Thou gav'st my heart the heaviest stroke.
I'm going home now through the grave
To God, a soldier and a brave.
[_Dies_. ]




CATHEDRAL.

_Service, Organ, and Singing. _


[MARGERY _amidst a crowd of people. _ EVIL SPIRIT _behind_ MARGERY. ]

_Evil Spirit_. How different was it with thee, Margy,
When, innocent and artless,
Thou cam'st here to the altar,
From the well-thumbed little prayer-book,
Petitions lisping,
Half full of child's play,
Half full of Heaven!
Margy!
Where are thy thoughts?
What crime is buried
Deep within thy heart?
Prayest thou haply for thy mother, who
Slept over into long, long pain, on thy account?
Whose blood upon thy threshold lies?
--And stirs there not, already
Beneath thy heart a life
Tormenting itself and thee
With bodings of its coming hour?

_Margery_. Woe! Woe!
Could I rid me of the thoughts,
Still through my brain backward and forward flitting,
Against my will!

_Chorus_. Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla.

[_Organ plays_. ]

_Evil Spirit_. Wrath smites thee!
Hark! the trumpet sounds!
The graves are trembling!
And thy heart,
Made o'er again
For fiery torments,
Waking from its ashes
Starts up!

_Margery_. Would I were hence!
I feel as if the organ's peal
My breath were stifling,
The choral chant
My heart were melting.

_Chorus_. Judex ergo cum sedebit,
Quidquid latet apparebit.
Nil inultum remanebit.

_Margery_. How cramped it feels!
The walls and pillars
Imprison me!
And the arches
Crush me! --Air!

_Evil Spirit_. What! hide thee! sin and shame
Will not be hidden!
Air? Light?
Woe's thee!

_Chorus_. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus?
Cum vix justus sit securus.

_Evil Spirit_. They turn their faces,
The glorified, from thee.
To take thy hand, the pure ones
Shudder with horror.
Woe!

_Chorus_. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?

_Margery_. Neighbor! your phial! --
[_She swoons. _]




WALPURGIS NIGHT. [32]

_Harz Mountains. _

_District of Schirke and Elend. _


FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES.

_Mephistopheles_. Wouldst thou not like a broomstick, now, to ride on?
At this rate we are, still, a long way off;
I'd rather have a good tough goat, by half,
Than the best legs a man e'er set his pride on.

_Faust_. So long as I've a pair of good fresh legs to stride on,
Enough for me this knotty staff.
What use of shortening the way!
Following the valley's labyrinthine winding,
Then up this rock a pathway finding,
From which the spring leaps down in bubbling play,
That is what spices such a walk, I say!
Spring through the birch-tree's veins is flowing,
The very pine is feeling it;
Should not its influence set our limbs a-glowing?

_Mephistopheles_. I do not feel it, not a bit!
My wintry blood runs very slowly;
I wish my path were filled with frost and snow.
The moon's imperfect disk, how melancholy
It rises there with red, belated glow,
And shines so badly, turn where'er one can turn,
At every step he hits a rock or tree!
With leave I'll beg a Jack-o'lantern!
I see one yonder burning merrily.
Heigh, there! my friend! May I thy aid desire?
Why waste at such a rate thy fire?
Come, light us up yon path, good fellow, pray!

_Jack-o'lantern_. Out of respect, I hope I shall be able
To rein a nature quite unstable;
We usually take a zigzag way.

_Mephistopheles_. Heigh! heigh! He thinks man's crooked course to travel.
Go straight ahead, or, by the devil,
I'll blow your flickering life out with a puff.

_Jack-o'lantern_. You're master of the house, that's plain enough,
So I'll comply with your desire.
But see! The mountain's magic-mad to-night,
And if your guide's to be a Jack-o'lantern's light,
Strict rectitude you'll scarce require.

FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, JACK-O'LANTERN, _in alternate song_.

Spheres of magic, dream, and vision,
Now, it seems, are opening o'er us.
For thy credit, use precision!
Let the way be plain before us
Through the lengthening desert regions.

See how trees on trees, in legions,
Hurrying by us, change their places,
And the bowing crags make faces,
And the rocks, long noses showing,
Hear them snoring, hear them blowing! [33]

Down through stones, through mosses flowing,
See the brook and brooklet springing.
Hear I rustling? hear I singing?
Love-plaints, sweet and melancholy,
Voices of those days so holy?
All our loving, longing, yearning?
Echo, like a strain returning
From the olden times, is ringing.

Uhu! Schuhu! Tu-whit! Tu-whit!
Are the jay, and owl, and pewit
All awake and loudly calling?
What goes through the bushes yonder?
Can it be the Salamander--
Belly thick and legs a-sprawling?
Roots and fibres, snake-like, crawling,
Out from rocky, sandy places,
Wheresoe'er we turn our faces,
Stretch enormous fingers round us,
Here to catch us, there confound us;
Thick, black knars to life are starting,
Polypusses'-feelers darting
At the traveller. Field-mice, swarming,
Thousand-colored armies forming,
Scamper on through moss and heather!
And the glow-worms, in the darkling,
With their crowded escort sparkling,
Would confound us altogether.

But to guess I'm vainly trying--
Are we stopping? are we hieing?
Round and round us all seems flying,
Rocks and trees, that make grimaces,
And the mist-lights of the places
Ever swelling, multiplying.

_Mephistopheles_. Here's my coat-tail--tightly thumb it!
We have reached a middle summit,
Whence one stares to see how shines
Mammon in the mountain-mines.

_Faust_. How strangely through the dim recesses
A dreary dawning seems to glow!
And even down the deep abysses
Its melancholy quiverings throw!
Here smoke is boiling, mist exhaling;
Here from a vapory veil it gleams,
Then, a fine thread of light, goes trailing,
Then gushes up in fiery streams.
The valley, here, you see it follow,
One mighty flood, with hundred rills,
And here, pent up in some deep hollow,
It breaks on all sides down the hills.
Here, spark-showers, darting up before us,
Like golden sand-clouds rise and fall.
But yonder see how blazes o'er us,
All up and down, the rocky wall!

_Mephistopheles_. Has not Sir Mammon gloriously lighted
His palace for this festive night?
Count thyself lucky for the sight:
I catch e'en now a glimpse of noisy guests invited.

_Faust_. How the mad tempest[34] sweeps the air!
On cheek and neck the wind-gusts how they flout me.

_Mephistopheles_. Must seize the rock's old ribs and hold on stoutly!
Else will they hurl thee down the dark abysses there.
A mist-rain thickens the gloom.
Hark, how the forests crash and boom!
Out fly the owls in dread and wonder;
Splitting their columns asunder,
Hear it, the evergreen palaces shaking!
Boughs are twisting and breaking!
Of stems what a grinding and moaning!
Of roots what a creaking and groaning!
In frightful confusion, headlong tumbling,
They fall, with a sound of thunder rumbling,
And, through the wreck-piled ravines and abysses,
The tempest howls and hisses.
Hearst thou voices high up o'er us?
Close around us--far before us?
Through the mountain, all along,
Swells a torrent of magic song.

_Witches_ [_in chorus_]. The witches go to the Brocken's top,
The stubble is yellow, and green the crop.
They gather there at the well-known call,
Sir Urian[85] sits at the head of all.
Then on we go o'er stone and stock:
The witch, she--and--the buck.

_Voice_. Old Baubo comes along, I vow!
She rides upon a farrow-sow.

_Chorus_. Then honor to whom honor's due!
Ma'am Baubo ahead! and lead the crew!
A good fat sow, and ma'am on her back,
Then follow the witches all in a pack.

_Voice_. Which way didst thou come?

_Voice_. By the Ilsenstein!
Peeped into an owl's nest, mother of mine!
What a pair of eyes!

_Voice_. To hell with your flurry!
Why ride in such hurry!

_Voice_. The hag be confounded!
My skin flie has wounded!

_Witches_ [_chorus]. _ The way is broad, the way is long,
What means this noisy, crazy throng?
The broom it scratches, the fork it flicks,
The child is stifled, the mother breaks.

_Wizards_ [_semi-chorus_]. Like housed-up snails we're creeping on,
The women all ahead are gone.
When to the Bad One's house we go,
She gains a thousand steps, you know.

_The other half_. We take it not precisely so;
What she in thousand steps can go,
Make all the haste she ever can,
'Tis done in just one leap by man.

_Voice_ [_above_]. Come on, come on, from Felsensee!

_Voices_ [_from below_]. We'd gladly join your airy way.
For wash and clean us as much as we will,
We always prove unfruitful still.

_Both chorusses_. The wind is hushed, the star shoots by,
The moon she hides her sickly eye.
The whirling, whizzing magic-choir
Darts forth ten thousand sparks of fire.

_Voice_ [_from below_]. Ho, there! whoa, there!

_Voice_ [_from above_]. Who calls from the rocky cleft below there?

_Voice_ [_below_]. Take me too! take me too!
Three hundred years I've climbed to you,
Seeking in vain my mates to come at,
For I can never reach the summit.

_Both chorusses_. Can ride the besom, the stick can ride,
Can stride the pitchfork, the goat can stride;
Who neither will ride to-night, nor can,
Must be forever a ruined man.

_Half-witch_ [_below_]. I hobble on--I'm out of wind--
And still they leave me far behind!
To find peace here in vain I come,
I get no more than I left at home.

_Chorus of witches_. The witch's salve can never fail,
A rag will answer for a sail,
Any trough will do for a ship, that's tight;
He'll never fly who flies not to-night.

_Both chorusses_. And when the highest peak we round,
Then lightly graze along the ground,
And cover the heath, where eye can see,
With the flower of witch-errantry.
[_They alight_. ]

_Mephistopheles. _ What squeezing and pushing, what rustling and hustling!
What hissing and twirling, what chattering and bustling!
How it shines and sparkles and burns and stinks!
A true witch-element, methinks!
Keep close! or we are parted in two winks.
Where art thou?

_Faust_ [_in the distance_]. Here!

_Mephistopheles_. What! carried off already?
Then I must use my house-right. --Steady!
Room! Squire Voland[36] comes. Sweet people, Clear the ground!
Here, Doctor, grasp my arm! and, at a single bound;
Let us escape, while yet 'tis easy;
E'en for the like of me they're far too crazy.
See! yonder, something shines with quite peculiar glare,
And draws me to those bushes mazy.
Come! come! and let us slip in there.

_Faust_. All-contradicting sprite! To follow thee I'm fated.
But I must say, thy plan was very bright!
We seek the Brocken here, on the Walpurgis night,
Then hold ourselves, when here, completely isolated!

_Mephistopheles_. What motley flames light up the heather!
A merry club is met together,
In a small group one's not alone.

_Faust_. I'd rather be up there, I own!
See! curling smoke and flames right blue!
To see the Evil One they travel;
There many a riddle to unravel.

_Mephistopheles_. And tie up many another, too.
Let the great world there rave and riot,
We here will house ourselves in quiet.
The saying has been long well known:
In the great world one makes a small one of his own.
I see young witches there quite naked all,
And old ones who, more prudent, cover.
For my sake some flight things look over;
The fun is great, the trouble small.
I hear them tuning instruments! Curs'd jangle!
Well! one must learn with such things not to wrangle.
Come on! Come on! For so it needs must be,
Thou shalt at once be introduced by me.
And I new thanks from thee be earning.
That is no scanty space; what sayst thou, friend?
Just take a look! thou scarce canst see the end.
There, in a row, a hundred fires are burning;
They dance, chat, cook, drink, love; where can be found
Any thing better, now, the wide world round?

_Faust_. Wilt thou, as things are now in this condition,
Present thyself for devil, or magician?

_Mephistopheles_. I've been much used, indeed, to going incognito;

But then, on gala-day, one will his order show.
No garter makes my rank appear,
But then the cloven foot stands high in honor here.
Seest thou the snail? Look there! where she comes creeping yonder!
Had she already smelt the rat,
I should not very greatly wonder.
Disguise is useless now, depend on that.
Come, then! we will from fire to fire wander,
Thou shalt the wooer be and I the pander.
[_To a party who sit round expiring embers_. ]
Old gentlemen, you scarce can hear the fiddle!
You'd gain more praise from me, ensconced there in the middle,
'Mongst that young rousing, tousing set.
One can, at home, enough retirement get.

_General_. Trust not the people's fickle favor!
However much thou mayst for them have done.
Nations, as well as women, ever,
Worship the rising, not the setting sun.

_Minister_. From the right path we've drifted far away,
The good old past my heart engages;
Those were the real golden ages,
When such as we held all the sway.

_Parvenu_. We were no simpletons, I trow,
And often did the thing we should not;
But all is turning topsy-turvy now,
And if we tried to stem the wave, we could not.

_Author_. Who on the whole will read a work today,
Of moderate sense, with any pleasure?
And as regards the dear young people, they
Pert and precocious are beyond all measure.

_Mephistopheles_ [_who all at once appears very old_].