The Project Gutenberg eBook ofMr. FaustThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Mr. FaustAuthor: Arthur Davison FickeRelease date: February 25, 2008 [eBook #24556]Most recently updated: January 3, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Irma Spehar and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MR. FAUST ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Mr. FaustAuthor: Arthur Davison FickeRelease date: February 25, 2008 [eBook #24556]Most recently updated: January 3, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Irma Spehar and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/American Libraries.)
Title: Mr. Faust
Author: Arthur Davison Ficke
Author: Arthur Davison Ficke
Release date: February 25, 2008 [eBook #24556]Most recently updated: January 3, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Irma Spehar and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MR. FAUST ***
BY
ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE
NEW YORKMITCHELL KENNERLEYMCMXIII
COPYRIGHT 1913 BYMITCHELL KENNERLEY
THE·PLIMPTON·PRESSNORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A
The author gratefully acknowledges his debt for permissionto reprint one of the lyrics herein, which appeared originally in "Poetry."
Through all the work of Arthur Davison Ficke runs a note of bigness that compels attention even when one feels that he is still groping both for form and thought. In "Mr. Faust" this note has assumed commanding proportions, while at the same time the uncertainty manifest in some of the earlier work has almost wholly disappeared. Intellectually as well as artistically, this play shows a surprising maturity. It impresses me, for one, as the expression of a well-rounded and very profound philosophy of life—and this philosophy stands in logical and sympathetic relationship to what the western world to-day regards as its most advanced thought. The evolutionary conception of life is the foundation of that philosophy, which, however, has little or nothing in common with the materialistic and dogmatic evolutionism of the last century. The work sprung from that philosophy is full of the new sense of mystery, which makes the men of to-day realize that the one attitude leading nowhere is that of denial. Faith and doubt walk hand in hand, each one being to the other check and goad alike. And with this new freedom to believe as well as to question, man becomes once more the centre of his known universe. But there he stands, humbly proud, not as the arrogant master of a "dead" world, but merely asthe foremost servant of a life-principle which asserts itself in the grain of sand as in the brain of man.
Yet "Mr. Faust" is by no means a philosophical or moral tract. It is, first of all and throughout, a living, breathing work of art, instinct with beauty and faithful in its every line to the principle laid down by its author in the preface to one of his earlier volumes: "Poetical imagination must fail altogether if it descends from its natural sphere and assumes work which is properly that of economic or political experience. Nor can it usefully urge its own peculiar intuitions as things of practical validity."
Mr. Ficke was born in 1883 at Davenport, Iowa, and there he is still living, although I understand that he has since then been wandering in so many other regions, physical and spiritual, that he can hardly call it his home. He graduated from Harvard in 1904 and spent the next travelling in all sorts of strange and poetic places—Japan, India, the Greek mountains, the Aegean Islands. Returning to the United States, he studied law and was admitted to the Bar in 1908. While studying, he taught English for a year at the University of Iowa, lecturing on the history of the Arthurian Legends.
He was a mere boy when he began to write, turning from the first to the metrical form of expression and remaining faithful to it in most of his subsequent efforts. His poems and essays have been printed in almost all the leading magazines. So far he has published five volumes of verse: "From the Isles," a series of lyrics of the Aegean Sea; "The Happy Princess," a romantic narrative poem; "The Earth Passion," a series of poems which may be characterizedas the effort of a star-gazer to find satisfaction in the things of the earth; "The Breaking of Bonds," a Shelleyan drama of social unrest, where he has tried to formulate a hope for our final emergence from the maelstrom of class-conflict; and "Twelve Japanese Painters," a group of poems expressive of the peculiar and alluring charm of the great Japanese painters and their world of remote beauty.
Edwin Björkman.
Pale Goethe, Marlowe, Lessing—calm your fears!None plots to steal your laurel wreaths away.Approach; take tickets: you shall witness hereThe unromantic Faustus of to-day—A Faustus whom no mystic choirs sustain,No wizard fiends blind with prodigious spell.The mortal earth shall serve him as domainWhether he mount to Heaven or sink to Hell.Yet, mount or sink, your lights around him shine.And there shall flow, bubbling with woe or mirth,From these new bottles your familiar wine,As ancient as man's rule upon the earth.
Pale Goethe, Marlowe, Lessing—calm your fears!None plots to steal your laurel wreaths away.Approach; take tickets: you shall witness hereThe unromantic Faustus of to-day—
A Faustus whom no mystic choirs sustain,No wizard fiends blind with prodigious spell.The mortal earth shall serve him as domainWhether he mount to Heaven or sink to Hell.
Yet, mount or sink, your lights around him shine.And there shall flow, bubbling with woe or mirth,From these new bottles your familiar wine,As ancient as man's rule upon the earth.
The scene is the library of John Faust, a large handsome room panelled in dark oak and lined with rows of books in open book-shelves. On the right is a carved white stone fireplace, with deep chairs before it. In the far left corner of the room, on a pedestal, stands a stiff bust of George Washington. Near it hangs a wonderful Titian portrait, a thing of another world. The furniture looks as if it were, and probably is, plunder from the palace of some prince of the Renaissance.
A fire is burning in the fireplace; it, and several shaded lights, make a subdued brilliancy in the room. Before the fire sits John Faust. Brander and Oldham, both in evening dress, lounge comfortably in chairs near Faust. All three are smoking, and tall highball glasses stand within their reach.
BRANDER
You are a thorn to me, a thorn in the flesh.Contagiously you bring to me mistrustOf all my landmarks, when, as here to-night,Out of the midst of every pleasant giftThe world can offer you, you raise your voiceIn scoffing irony against each face,Form, action, motive, that together makeYour life, and ours.
FAUST
Dear man, I did not meanTo send my poor jokes burrowing like a moleBeneath your prized foundations.
BRANDER
Not aloneYour attitude to-night; you always seemAs if withholding from all days and deedsMoving around you—from our life and yours—Your full assent.
FAUST
Dear Brander! Is it trueI am as bad as that? Well, though I were,Why should it trouble you? If you find sportIn this strange game, this fevered interplay,This hodge-podge crazy-quilt which we are pleasedTo call our life—why, like it! And say: DamnedBe all who are not with me!
BRANDER
Are not you?
FAUST
I claim the criminal's privilege, and declineTo answer.
OLDHAM
Faust, might I presume so farAs to suggest that I should like a drinkBefore you two start breaking furnitureOver this matter?
FAUST
Certainly; I begYour pardon; I neglected you.(He busies himself with the glasses)No, no,We won't wage combat over this. You're right,Doubtless, as usual, Brander. I have notYour fortunate placidity of mind,And I get grumpy.
Come, fill up your glass;And let us drink to the glories of the world.Down with the cynic!
BRANDER
Down with him, indeed!And may he cease to trouble you. The worldIs pretty glorious when a man is young,As we are, and so many splendid choicesLie all around him. There have never beenSuch opportunities as now are spreadBefore us. Men are doing mighty thingsTo-day. A critic tells me that last nightWullf at the opera sang "La ci darem"With an artistic brilliancy of toneThat never has been heard on any stageAnywhere in the world. You moped at home,Doubtless; but it was wonderful, on my word.
OLDHAM
Whom did you go with?
BRANDER
Midge.
OLDHAM
Ah, Midge again!I thought so....
BRANDER
Well, I don't know why I shouldn't.
OLDHAM
Those rosy-toned remarks gave you away.Perhaps 'twas not "Don Juan" that last nightWas at its best, but Midge. Where did you sit?
BRANDER
Up in the gallery.
OLDHAM
The top one?
BRANDER
Yes.
OLDHAM
Once more, I thought so. You and Midge would lookNice in a box! Yes, I will pay for oneIf you will take it.
BRANDER
Oh, leave me alone!
FAUST
Who is this "Midge" you speak of?
OLDHAM
Midge, dear Faust,Is short for Margaret; which, you may guess,Describes a lady of the female sex;Said person being serviceably employedAs maid-of-all-work for some ancient dameIn Brander's own apartment house. She has,Beside what other virtues I know not,A most bewitching ankle and a tasteFor opera. And dear Brander's kindly heartIs so moved by the sight of these combined,He sometimes sneaks, by lonely alley-ways,With his fair Midge, and in the galleryHigh out of sight of all of us enjoysHer and the opera.
FAUST
I did not knowYou had a lady-love.
BRANDER
It's hardly that!But she's a mighty jolly little thing.
FAUST
What sort of girl is she?
BRANDER
A mighty nice one!Full of all kinds of happiness; but shy.I'd like to see some rounder try to speakTo her on Broadway. She looks like a lady!
FAUST
That is too bad.
BRANDER
Oh, pshaw! Don't lecture me;I'm not a saint; in fact, few of us are.
FAUST
Unfortunately not. I least of all.And yet I wonder if.... However, IDo not presume to lecture you. RememberOne thing, though, as my friend. Your Midge has deepsNot pleasant under her if you let go.
BRANDER
Oh, I will not let go!... Not yet, at least.
OLDHAM
Faust really means it, strange as it may seem.Of late he has turned moralist.
FAUST
Not quite:But just a little tired of pursuitsThat end regretfully.
OLDHAM
Well, don't pursue....
BRANDER
(Goes to the window and raises the shade)See, what a night it is! The stars are outAs if a bucketful of them had spilledAcross the sky. And here we sit like owls,Blinking and staring at a little fireWhen heaven is burning! I'm afraid it's timeFor me to leave this owlish parliament;And I shall probably knock holes in halfThe windows of the town as I walk homeStar-gazingly. And here it's after twelve!I might have guessed it from the fatal factThat we'd begun to talk philosophy:No sane man ever does, except in hoursWhen by all rights he should be sound asleep.Good night to both of you. And don't stay upTalking till morning.
OLDHAM
Well, good night.
FAUST
Good night,Brander, I'm sorry you must go: come inQuite soon again, and I will try to beLess disagreeable than I was to-night.[Brander goes out.
OLDHAM
I'll bet he takes an arc-light for a star!
FAUST
He is warm-hearted; I am fond of him.But Midge!... However, one can say no more....
OLDHAM
He's a good fellow; but he tires meSometimes.
FAUST
Dear boy, I envy him.
OLDHAM
Of course,And so do I; but I would not exchangeHeads for a kingdom.
FAUST
Are you so fond, then,Of what's in yours?
OLDHAM
No, but at least I haveA certain faint perception of the gildedAnd quite preposterous crudeness of our days—The sordid sickness of his life, and ours;And that is something to be thankful for.
FAUST
Gratitude is a graceful gift.
OLDHAM
Come, come!What snake has bitten you, that to your lipsA poisoned irony so bitter springsTo-night?
FAUST
I am revolving in my brainThis serious question: whether 'tis not bestThat one turn humorist. The mind that seeksHoliness, finds it seldom; who pursuesBeauty perhaps shall in a lengthened lifeFind it perfected only once or twice.But if one's quest were humor—what rich stores,What tropic jungles of it, lie to handAt every moment, everywhere one turns—What luscious meadows for the humorist!
OLDHAM
No—for the satirist! There is no humorIn what you see and I see when we lookOn this crude world wherein our lives are spent—This sordid sphere where we are but spectators—This crass grim modern spectacle of livesTorn with consuming lust of one desire—Gold, gold, forever gold— Or do you findHumor in that?
FAUST
It might be found, perhaps:The joke's on someone!
OLDHAM
There's no joke in it!It is the waste, the pitiful waste of life!Men—slaves to gather gold—become then slavesBeneath its gathered weight. For this one hope,All finer longings perish at their birth.Men's eyes to-day envy no sage or seerOr conqueror except his triumphs beIn this base sphere of commerce. The stars go outIn factory smoke; the spirit wanes and palesIn poisoned air of greed. It is an ageOf traders and of tricksters; all the highAnd hounded malefactors of great wealthDiffer from the masses, in their wealth, indeed;But in their malefaction, not at all.Your grocer and my butcher have at heartThe selfsame aims as he to whom we payTribute for every pound of coal we burn.Their scope is narrower, but their act the sameAs his—against whose millions all the tonguesOf little tricksters in each corner storeBabble and rail and shriek!
FAUST
Almost you doPersuade me to turn humorist on the spot!Was ever, since Gargantua, such a vineHeavy with bursting clusters of the grapeOf humor?
OLDHAM
Of corruption! You may laugh;But there's in all your laughter hardly moreMirth than in my upbraidings. Ah, I growSo weary of this low-horizoned scene,Our generation; I am always drawnIn thought toward that great noon of human lifeWhen in the streets of Florence walked the powersAnd princes of the earth—Politian, Pico,Angelo, Leonardo, Botticelli—And a half-hundred more of starry-eyedSons of the morning, in whose hearts the godStruggled unceasing. Ah, those lucent brains,Those bright imaginations, those keen souls,Arrowy toward each target where truth's goldGlimmered, or beauty's! Those were days indeed;We shall not look upon their like again.
FAUST
I am not sure.
OLDHAM
Then take my word for it!
FAUST
I am not sure; the lamentable factTo me seems otherwise. For I believeThat this vile age of commerce and corruptionWhich you describe in very eloquent terms,Is still, upon the whole, the best that yetHas graced our earth. I think not more than youAm I in love with it; but, looking back,I fail to see a better, though I peerInto remote arboreal history.
OLDHAM
When I was six, my teachers taught me that.Why, one would think that you had never heardOf Greece or Italy!
FAUST
And what were they?Your Renaissance, despite its few bright gleams,Lies like a swamp of darkness, soaked in bloodAnd agony: such tortures as we scarceDream of to-day writhe through it; and the stenchOf slaughtered cities and corrupted thrones—Yes, even the Papal throne—draw me not backWith longing toward it. Rich that time might beIf one were Michael Angelo; but howIf one were peasant, or meek householder,When the Free Captains ravaged to and fro,And peoples were the merest pawns of kingsEnslaved by mistresses? The more I look,The more evaporates that golden hazeWhich cloaks the past; the more I doubt if menHad ever in their breasts more lofty soulsThan those we know. And I am glad to beA citizen of this material age.
OLDHAM
Congratulations!—tempered with surpriseAt finding you, beneath your lion's skin,So sweet an optimist—whose faith can findAll's for the best; and the best, this great yearNineteen Thirteen.
FAUST
Hardly so strong as that.
OLDHAM
Yes, tell me that the golden age has come!
FAUST
I quarrel not with ages—but with man;Whose life such play and folly seems—for allIts sweat and agony—that laughter liesThe sole escape from madness. I peruseThe present and the past, only to findMountains of human effort piled aloftLike the Egyptian Pyramids, and towardNo end save folly....
All is foolishness!In Argolis, a woman, somewhat vain,Preferred a fop to her own rightful lordAnd ran away; and then for ten long yearsThe might of Hellas on the Trojan plainGrappled in conflict such as had been meteTo guard Olympus, and Scamander ranRed with heroic blood-drops. And they gotThe woman. And it all was foolishness!...That was your Golden Age. I hope you like it.
Foolishness!... Once a mariner set forth,With all the fires of heaven lit in his breastAnd godlike courage on his brow, to findNew worlds beyond the unknown wastes of sea.He sailed; he found; he died in rusty chains:So that, to-day, the vermin of all climesMay thither flock, and there renew the oldFamiliar toil toward utter foolishness....
Why all this labor unto vanity?Why all this straining toward an empty end?
OLDHAM
Ah, you forget what Beauty was to them!We are quite lost to that high touch to-day.Beauty hung over them, a star to drawMen's aspiration. That divides them quiteFrom our debased modernity.
FAUST
Dear Oldham!My dear delightful visionary Oldham!What an adorer of the past you are!
OLDHAM
Yes, I adore it sacredly, and loatheTo-day's whole content—except you! I loathe itSo much that, if I had the dynamite,I'd blow it all—and you and me ourselves—Into a nebula of dust.... Ah, well,We hardly can decide these things to-night,Can we? I must be off, little as I like,To end our midnight talking.
FAUST
Oh, not yet!
OLDHAM
I must; this is not good for me: I fearTo let myself dwell on these restless thoughtsWhich with a perilous longing sometimes makeMy actual days so bitter that despairGrips me in horror. And besides, I'm dueTo pick my brother up. I have, you see,The limousine to-night, and that entailsIts obligations. Dear modernity!Whose Saviour is the limousine!... Good night!
FAUST
Good night. May all the Furies and the GorgonsOf Greece and Florence leave you in reposeTo dream to-night of white-limbed goddessesAnd painters like archangels!
OLDHAM
I deserve it!And yet I fear they will not be so kind....Sleep is no friend to me these many nights.I do not know what wrong I can have doneThat so offends her she will none of me.One of these days, she will carry it too far....[Oldham goes out. Faust turns out all but two ofthe lights; then seats himself wearily before the fire.The room is dark around his lighted figure.
FAUST
The play drags, and the players would begone,Out of this theatre of tinsel daysAnd lights and tawdry glamour, out to faceEven the blank of night, the icy stars,The vast abysses. What the gallery-godsCould give, they well have given; but deitiesInscrutabler than they annul all giftsWith one gift more—the restless mind that peersPast fame, friends, learning, fortune, to enquire:Whither? Whither? Whither? And no answer comesTo the cold player's lips....
I see too muchTo make my peace with any ordered rôleAnd play it heartily. To-day's thin coinPays not my labors; and to-morrow's hopeHas never been authenticated to meBy a fulfilling hour when I might say:"Lo, this is what I hoped!" The vision fliesAs I advance; while always far aheadIts glow makes dim the color of my days;And I loathe life because my hope is fairer,And know my hope a lie. Thus, Faust, my friend,You damn yourself ingeniously to hellsOf rich variety....
The eyes of menEnvy me as I pass them in the street—Me, whom sufficient fortune, moderate fame,Have made completely happy in their sight.Well, I am no barbarian: let them haveThe bliss of envying.... But I am sickWith the hour's emptiness; and great desireFills me for those high beauties which my dreamsYearn ever toward. I am weary; I would goOut to some golden sunset-lighted landOf silence.
I have been athirst of dreams!And all earth's common goals and gifts have beenBut fuel to flame. O strange and piteous heart!O credulous and visionary heart!Desirous of the infinite—from defeatArising still to grope again for lightAnd the high word of vision! And in vain!Till, not having found, its bitterness corrodesInward—like one betrayed by his last god....
Strange, that my father was a worthy man!Perhaps 'tis his blood in me that withholdsUnreasoning my hand from washing clearThis scribbled slate with one quick tide of peace.Would more of him were in me! that like himI might spend eagerly a useful lifeIn medicining miserable menWho were better dead—employ my forceTo aid a world within whose marrow dwellsAn evil none can cure, an agonyBeyond our dearest aiding.
Ah, well, well!Such are the great men of this busy world,Whose ardor for the game is anodyneAgainst its buffets, and intoxicantTo lend it reveller's meaning. Ardor given,All things are possible....
You, old marble-face,Who front me from the corner with that graveVirtuous Father-of-your-Country look,I pay you my respects; you are a lightOf leading, as I see you now. Your soulWas never shaken by convulsive doubtsOf life or man or liberty; you builtUnsceptical of bricks, but such as layTo hand you took, nor did your purpose shakeAt prescient thought of how your edificeMight be turned pest-house some day. UndismayedBy doubt, you rose, and in heroic mouldLed—dauntless, patient, incorruptible—A riot over taxes. Not a starIn all the vaults of heaven could trouble youWith whisperings of more transcendent goals.O despicable, admirable man!How much I envy you—the devil take you![The bust of Washington and its pedestal moveslightly; gradually they change and shape themselvesinto the figure of a well-dressed man, rather shortand stocky, with a sociable, commonplace face. Hishead, however, is very peculiarly modelled; it remindsone, indescribably and faintly, of the fact thatmen sprang from beasts. The high position of theears help this impression, as does also the astonishinganimal brilliance of the eyes. Faust, passinghis hand over his forehead, turns away.
FAUST
This is what comes of smoking far too much.
SATAN
Good evening, Mr. Faust.
FAUST
Well, I'll be damned!...And who, I beg, are you?
SATAN
I ask your pardonFor thus appearing in a way unknownTo strict convention. But I never setGreat store by custom; and though nowadaysI follow the proprieties, still I feelThat one need not be slavish—
FAUST
Who are you?What are you talking of? How did you get here?
SATAN
I am, sir, Nicholas Satan, at your service.
FAUST
Nicholas Satan! Quite a name. PerhapsSome relative of the illustrious one?
SATAN
Himself.
FAUST
Stop this cheap foolishness! Who are you?Or shall I ring for the police?
SATAN
I amSatan. If I appeared with colored fireAnd lightnings round me, you would doubt no more.But like your narrow and near-sighted age,You know me not in my own natural shape.Now let this end! Here is my proof. You onceSummoned me to your aid, and, when I came,Weakly rejected me. You were a boyIn college, and a woman blackmailed you—A low, crude matter. I had settled itSwiftly, if you had let me. We alone,We three, on Harvard Bridge—night—and beneath,A practicable river: ah, it wasA child's task! But you faltered.... You recall,Possibly.
FAUST
I recall.... So you are he.I did not know you.
SATAN
Let's forget the past.We meet now under happier auspices.
FAUST
Incredible.
SATAN
No, quite an honest factAm I.
FAUST
I hardly can persuade myselfWhether to laugh or pull a solemn faceAt seeing you. It is preposterous!I thought that you were dead—a myth—a wraith.
SATAN
Dead? That is rich!
FAUST
Well ... don't you think yourselfA slight anachronism?
SATAN
My young friend,I am no laughing matter. With the timesI, too, have changed, and am as up-to-dateAs the Ritz-Carlton.
FAUST
But your horns and tailAnd pitchfork? Not a vestige do I seeOf your famed look! You have no frightful glance;I cannot even so far flatter youAs to say special badness makes your faceGreat and distinguished. If you're Prince of Hell,How villanously have the poets lied!
SATAN
They have lied, always, horribly, of me!I am not half so black as they allege.You know, exaggeration is to themWhat whiskey is to most men. But time burstsTheir bubbles—or at least we come to takeTheir work as merely art. Thus their descriptionAs art is not so bad; but if you seekFor truth, it's outright libel.
FAUST
I admitIt has a certain perfectness of evilLacking in you.
SATAN
Surely to-day we knowThat nothing is so wholly good or badAs our forefathers thought: not black and white,But gray, predominates. Well, I am gray,Possibly. I was never black; and ageHas made me stouter, and with gentle warmthRipened my virtues; and, even though I say it,You will not find me a bad sort to meetIf you will but be fair, and put asideYour ancient and poetic prejudice.
FAUST
Well spoken! And well met! Come, have a drink.You are the most diverting visitorI've had in many a day. Bourbon or Scotch?
SATAN
A very little Scotch. That's plenty, thanks.It's very seldom those who summon meWould give, not take. And did you send for meOnly to have a drink?
FAUST
I sent for you?
SATAN
Did you not summon me?
FAUST
Why, no—
SATAN
Ah, well!It's my mistake; wires get crossed sometimes.I hope I've not intruded.
FAUST
Not at all.Delighted to have met you.
SATAN
I regretThat I have bothered you. I have enjoyed,However, your kind hospitality.To make amends to you, before I go,I should be glad to do you any serviceWithin my power.
FAUST
I thank you; but I thinkThat there is nothing in your special lineThat I have need of.
SATAN
Are you really, then,A man contented?
FAUST
I would hardly goAs far as that!... I only meant to sayMy needs, my troubles, are not of such kindAs you could remedy.
SATAN
Now, there againYou take the poets' word for me—those lowAnd scurvy fellows who lump all their spleenAnd call the mess my portrait! But in fact,I am more versatile, more broad, more kindThan they conceive. I venture to believeThat I could aid you.
FAUST
All the fiends in HellLack devilry enough.
SATAN
If you would speakThe symptoms of your trouble, I at leastCould give you friendly counsel for your needs....Oh, I am deeply learned!
FAUST
And besides,A most accomplished mocker!... My complaintIs quite beyond your counsel. Why, I tell you,I have examined, tried, experiencedThe passions and the aims of mortal lifeWith the grave thoroughness and good intentThat mark a doctor of philosophyWriting his thesis. And my careful searchOf life has brought me one great verity:I do not like it!No, I do not likeAnything in it: birth, death, all that liesBetween—I find inadequate, incomplete,Offensive. So you see me sitting here,Instead of talking politics in the streets,Or weeping at the opera, or agogAt a cotillon. For the savor's goneFrom these, as parts of an unsavored whole.I simply have, with reason and sound thought,Convinced myself that only fools attainTheir hope on earth—in a fools' paradiseThat does not interest me.... Now, could you treatThis case, good Mr. Satan?
SATAN
In my day,I have relieved far sicker men than you,My dear friend Faust. And yet I would not sayEven for a moment that your case is notA grave one: not so much the case itself,As what might spring from it. In such a mood,Men sometimes have done mad and foolish thingsWith consequences sad to view. Some minds,Reaching your state, and finding life a bane,Decide within themselves that naught can beWorse than the present world, and then set outTo revolutionize, rend, whirl, uprootThe world's foundations. And the mess they makeIs pitiful to contemplate! Such sweetAnd beautiful souls as I have seen go wrongAlong this path: Shelley—he had your eyes;And Christ—but I'll not talk theology.Besides, his churches almost have made goodHis personal havoc....
FAUST
That is not my line.
SATAN
No, no, you keep your head! Now let me see....A temporary sedative you requireTo bridge the dangerous moment. I suggestA little course that old Saint Anthony,Epicure though he was, would grant as rareAnd finely chosen: careless days and nights—Delicious gayeties—the Bacchic bowl—Exquisite company from whom some twoOr three, with golden or with auburn hair,A man of taste might choose to solace himIn sunlight or in starlight—while the lureOf subtle secrets in those yielding breastsSpice the preceding revelries....
FAUST
Go tellThat tale to college boys, whose lonely dreamsHave shaped Iseult of Ireland, Helen of Troy,As end of heart's desire—and, lacking these,Clasp chorus-Aphrodites. But I knowThat from the topmost peak of ecstasyFalls a straight precipice; half-times the footMisses the peak—but never mortal stepHas missed the gulf beyond it. And I seeWhere, in night's gorgeous dome, to-morrow waitsWith cold insistence. Me you cannot lureWith this poor opiate. And I beg of youNot needlessly to tax your mental powersBy now suggesting the delights of drink:I know them; and they give me headaches.
SATAN
Ah,How crude you think me!
FAUST
No, I think you human.We all are that sometimes.
SATAN
You have not graspedAll that I meant. I know the calfish joysOf the young freshman, suddenly let looseWith chorus-girls for nursemaids, are not yours.I mean far subtler things: I mean the playOf the wise soul that sees the abyss of life—Sees the grim measure of the mortal doom—And over that dark gulf in reckless mirthDances on rainbows, with delightful armsAnd bosoms close to his. That is a moodThat always thrills me with a sense of largeAnd splendid courage. If I did not thinkThat it would bore you, I should like to makeMy meaning clear by reading a few linesThat I once wrote when I myself was inYour very mood— Or would you care to hearMy little poem?
FAUST
What! Is even the DevilA poet nowadays?
SATAN
Indeed he is:And not a bad one. Once I would have scornedThe poets; but we moderns so surpassThe ancients here that I am proud to writeSome verses now and then. For we have learnedThat poetry, like all the other arts,Is pure technique: the mere ideas are nothing,The form is everything. That ennobles usAnd makes us artists. And as artist, IAm not contemptible, as you may seeFrom this slight sample. With your leave, I'll read.(Satan produces an enormous scrap-book of magazine-clippings,turns over the pages and at last begins to read)
A Watteau Melody