Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 71 Before the Gate (1st half) Goethe Faust scene 2

BEFORE THE GATE (first half) from Faust part One by Goethe (translated by Mark Scrivener)

Here we meet various people representing "everyday" humanity. Faust and Wagner enter and Faust, seemingly recovered from the previous night) speaks of the effects of Spring. Spring is of course associated with the idea of the resurrection of life.

People of all sorts: The scene opens with all sorts of people out for the day on the Easter holiday. There is an air of festivity and also some satire on the various types.

On Andrew's Eve:. According to popular tradition, on the eve of this saint (November 29) young girls by incanting magical verses could see their future husbands in their dreams.

Easter Processions I and II Paul Konewka Faust Silhouettes 1871

BEFORE THE GATE

PEOPLE OF ALL SORTS OUT FOR A WALK

SEVERAL APPRENTICES

Why do you go that way?

OTHERS

We're off to the "Hunter's Lodge" today

THE FIRST

But we would rather wander to the mill.

AN APPRENTICE

The "River Inn's" the place, take my advice.

A SECOND

The path to it is not so nice.

THE OTHERS

What'll you do then?

A THIRD Go where the others will.

A FOURTH

Come up to "Burgdorf." You may be sure that you
Will find the finest girls, the best beer too,
And quarrels that are quite first rate.

A FIFTH

You overblown buffoon: now does your hide
Itch, for a third time, to be tried?
It just gives me the creeps. Forget that place.

SERVING GIRL

No! I'm returning to the town below.

ANOTHER

We'll find him by the poplars, I am sure.

THE FIRST

That's nothing great to me; you know
He'll stick by your side, only yours:
Dance on the green with you alone.
What do I care for joys you own?

STUDENT

Jove, how those strapping wenches go!
Come brother, we must take them into tow;
A good strong beer, a tobacco with a bite,
A nicely dressed-up serving girl- that's what I like.

CITIZEN'S DAUGHTER

Just look at those good-looking boys!
It's really a disgrace, it seems to me,
When they could have the very best of company,
They just run after girls like those.

SECOND STUDENT (TO THE FIRST)

But not so fast! Behind us are a pair
That are got up quite neat and nice.
And one's my neighbour and I swear
I've fallen for her form and face.
They walk at their demure pace
But in the end they'll go with us.

THE FIRST

No, brother! I don't like restraining ways.
Be quick, we'll lose our quarry if we stall.
The hand that leads the broom on Saturdays,
On Sundays will caress you best of all.

CITIZEN

I am not pleased by this new mayor in any way.
Now he is in, he grows just bolder by the day.
What's he do for the town, I say?
Each day it's growing worse. What's more,
You're meant now, more than ever, to obey,
And ever pay more than you did before.

BEGGAR (SINGING)

My noble sirs and ladies blessed
With cheeks of red and finest dress,
Be pleased to look upon me here,
And see and soften my distress.
Don't let my hurdy-gurdy gear
Grind on in vain. You'll only see
True joy by giving, wise ones say.
This day, for all a holiday,
Make it a harvest day for me!

ANOTHER CITIZEN

On holidays and Sundays, I know of nothing better
Than some small talk of wars and rumoured wars,
When way down yonder on Turkish shores,
The nations hammer one another.
You take a window, drink a little glass,
And see the motley ships glide down the river ways;
Then turn for home, when day is past,
And bless the peace and peaceful days.

THIRD CITIZEN

Yes, neighbour, yes! That's what I say as well.
Just let them crack each other on the skull,
And mix up everything they're known;
As long as all stays just the same at home.

OLD WOMAN (TO THE CITIZEN'S DAUGHTER)

My! how well-dressed; such fine, young things. Why at the sight,
Who wouldn't be infatuated?
Don't be so proud. It's quite all right.
And what you want, I know just how to make it.

CITIZEN'S DAUGHTER

Come Agatha, I'm do not want to be
Seen going with such witches openly...
Though on St. Andrew's night she let me see
My future sweetheart bodily-

ANOTHER

She showed me mine within a crystal sphere:
A soldier with some daring fellows there.
I look around, I seek him everywhere.
And yet- he just will not appear.

SOLDIERS

Cities that harbour
High battlements,
Girls of a proud,
Scorn-giving pretence,
These would I win!
Bold is the labour,
Bright the reward.

We let the trumpets
Do all the courting,
Whether to joy or
Ruinous strife.
That is a storming!
That is a life!
Women and cities
Have to give in!
Bold is the labour,
Bright the reward.
And all the soldiers
Go marching forward.

ENTER FAUST AND WAGNER

FAUST

The streams and brooks break free from hard ice-crust,
Through springtime's gracious, stimulating glance.
Within the valley, green grows hope's happiness.
Old winter, in his weakness, must
Retreat to rugged mountain peaks.
From there, as he flees, he's only throwing
Some powerless showers of pellet-like ice
In streaks now over fields' green-growing.
Ah, but the sun will suffer no white:
Over all rules a building and striving, the sun
Seeks to enliven all with colour-shine.
In this quarter flowers aren't yet spread,
It takes the bright-clothed crowd instead.
Just turn around, from this high heath,
Look back now on the town beneath.
From the dark and hollow gate
Multi-coloured throngs escape.
Everyone's eager to sun himself now.
They celebrate the resurrection's power.
For they themselves arise new-made
From lowly homes with stuffy rooms,
From bonds of handiwork and trade,
From pressing roofs and gabled gloom,
From the streets' squeezing narrowness,
From the churches' venerable night,
They're all brought out into the light.
Just see! How nimbly crowds fragment and press
Through gardens and through fields. Look how,
On all the breadths and lengths of river-flow
So many merry skiffs are stirring now,
And overloaded till near sinking,
See that last barge as off it goes.
The very mountain's far paths are blinking
With flash of folk in colourful bright clothes.
Already village crowds I hear,
The people's own true heaven's near;
Contented, great and small shout joyously.
I'm human here, here such may be.

WAGNER

Though, Doctor sir, to stroll with you
Is benefit and honour too;
I would not stray out here alone, for I'm
A foe to vulgar wastes of time.
This fiddling, shrieking, skittle throng
Just seems a hateful row. They romp about
As if in an evil spirit drove them out,
And call it joy, and call it song.

PEASANTS (UNDER THE LINDEN TREE)

The shepherd for the dance had dressed
In ribbons, wreath, gay-coloured vest,
Put on a neat, smart show.
And round the linden, lass and lad
Already danced along like mad.
Hurray! Hurray!
Hurrah-ah-rah! Ho-hey!
So went the fiddle bow.

Now hastily he pushed on through,
And jabbed one of the girls there too,
A sharp swift elbow blow.
The lively wench then turned about
And said, "Now you're a stupid lout!"
Hurray! Hurray!
Hurrah-ah-rah! Ho-hey!
"Don't be so rude and low."

Still swiftly went their circling flight,
Now dancing left, now dancing right,
All skirts were flying so!
They grew quite red, they grew quite warm,
And panting rested arm in arm,
Hurray! Hurray!
Hurrah-ah-rah Ho-hey!
And hip on elbow so.

"Don't be familiar with me!
How many have their brides-to-be
Deceived and cheated so!"
And yet he coaxed her to one side
And from the linden rang out wide:
Hurray! Hurray!
Hurrah-ah-rah! Ho-hey!
The shouts and fiddle bow.

OLD PEASANT

Good doctor, it is fine of you
That you don't scorn us here today
And down among this press of humble people,
Though you're so highly learned, go your way.
So also take the finest mug
We filled with fresh, good drink. And first
As I bring it, I loudly wish
That it not only stills your thirst,
But that each drop that it contains
May be one day that your life gains.

FAUST

Accepting your refreshing brew,
I wish all health and thank them too.

THE PEOPLE GATHER AROUND IN A CIRCLE

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 70 Wang Wei in Winterscape

WANG WEI IN WINTERSCAPE

     Wang Wei was a famous 8th century Chinese poet, painter and follower of Chan Buddhism (better known by its Japanese version Zen Buddhism). None of his painting survive but there are paintings by others in imitation of his style. Fortunately, many of his poems survived. 

 

      Wang Wei was famous for both his poetry and his paintings, about which Su Shi coined a phrase: "The quality of Wang Wei’s poems can be summed as, the poems hold a painting within them. In observing his paintings you can see that, within the painting there is poetry." He is especially known for his compositions in the Mountains and Streams (Shanshui) poetry genre... from Wikipedia. 

 

        One winter day on the North Coast of NSW the scene reminded me of his poetry that I had been reading in English translation. 

 

Wang Shimin: "After Wang Wei's 'Snow Over Rivers and Mountains'". Qing Dynasty.

WANG WEI IN WINTERSCAPE

Drizzle from this winter sky

Mutes the greens and browns of pastures.

Clouds conceal far mountain tops.

Mist slides down the sides of hills.

Far the filtered light of day

Brushes sight with textures like

Scrolls of ancient, ink-washed silk.

I'm reminded of Wang Wei

Longing for some further, finer

Life and living, seeing some

Image of its image in

Distant kingdoms of white cloud-

Writing poems like painting silk,

Brushing silk like poetry.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 69 The Oak and the Reed

THE OAK AND THE REED

As mentioned in another post the idea of Aesop's fables being children's literature is a relatively modern one. Furthermore they were presented in verse just as often as in prose especially in classical times. Hence, the idea of presenting them as poems has a long and honourable history behind it.

This version of a fable is in iambic tetrameters (di-DUM, di--DUM, di-DUM, di-DUM- for example, once GREW uPON a RIVer BANK This meter is common in ballads as well but rhymed and in stanzas. The fable itself reflects the wisdom of not always rigidly resisting - something expressed in Taoist and martial arts- Yield and overcome, bend and be straight.

The Oak and the Reed by Achille Michallon (from Wikipedia)

THE OAK AND THE REED

A huge, proud, evergreen oak tree

once grew upon a river bank.

For over a hundred years it reared

its mighty branches towards the sky.

Its roots reached down into the firm,

damp darkness of the soil beneath.

They tunnelled and they clung in it

and built a wide and solid base

to hold the trunk of this great tree.

Its thousands of oval leaves all shimmered

in summer sun and drank the light;

when gray clouds grew to hide the sun

and watered all the world, they gathered

fresh raindrops from the stormy sky.

This tall, broad tree had stood against

the buffeting blasts of every wind

that roams the regions of the air.

But one hot afternoon in summer

a powerful storm arose. The sun

soon disappeared behind dark clouds.

Deep thunder drummed, the rain streaked down,

White lightning slashed across the sky.

And as this wild storm grew and grew

a mighty gale blew up and tore

across the wet and trembling world.

At first the great tree stood against

the fury of the howling wind.

It swayed, it shuddered, and it shook,

and some proud,ancient branches broke

and scattered on the ground below.

But in the end the mighty oak

could hold no longer against the gale.

With one brief, powerful crashing sound

the whole tree heeled, then toppled down

and fell into the flooding river.

The great, uprooted broken tree

was borne away by raging waters.

It floated on the roaring river

and drifted downward towards the sea.

The tree went on and on, still riding

the troubled waters of the flood.

till gradually the river broadened

and its swift, swollen flow slowed down.

The oak was large and heavy, so

at last it drifted towards the shallows:

the water near the river bank.

It came to rest amongst the reeds.

The proud tree grew aware of reeds,

all standing round him in the shallows.

He was amazed and wondered how

these slender, weak plants had withstood

the mighty power of the storm.

"But how on earth did you succeed

in standing up against the storm?"

he asked the graceful, swaying reeds.
"I have survived so many storms

but that last one was just too strong."

One of the reeds nearby replied,

"That's just where your approach went wrong,"

it whispered, bending in the breeze,

"For all those years you held your great

and stubborn strength against the gales.

You were too proud to yield and give.

Now we, upon the other hand,
we bend with even the slightest breeze,

we give with even the softest wind,

we yield and yet remain in place.

We bow right to the water's face

when wild winds blow. The wilder the wind

the lower we will bow and let

its mighty force pass over us.

And so it is by yielding we

preserve entirety of form

through times of sudden and fierce storm."

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 68 The Rest of Night Study Scene from Faust by Goethe (trans M Scrivener)

THE REST OF THE NIGHT STUDY SCENE FROM FAUST

After the departure of Wagner Faust, shocked by his sense of insignificance when facing the Earth Spirit, sinks into despair. Goethe delineates the sort of feeling and thinking that leads to depression poetically but with a fair degree of physiological truth. Faust is finally rescued from contemplating taking poison by the bells of Easter ringing out. It is not their religious meaning for him but their association with childhood memories that save him from his dire and delusional mood. In addition some metaphysical and knowledge (epistemological) issues are touched on.

FAUST (ALONE)

How not to lose all hope he ever turns
Towards trash and triviality;
With greedy hands he grubs for gems, yet he
Is thrilled to find earth's wriggling worms.

Dare such a human voice resound here too,
Where fullness of the spirits was at play?
And yet this time I give my thanks to you,
You poorest of the sons of dust and clay.
You tore me back from my dark, desperate state,
That would have smashed my senses with its force.
Oh, that vision was all-vast, so great
It rightly made me see myself as dwarfed.

I, image of the Godhead, already I
Drew near the mirror of eternal truth,
And savoured heaven's light like clearest sky,
And shed my merely earth-born sheath.
I, more than Cherub, whose free force unfurled
To flow through veins of Nature's world,
Create and taste the life of gods, or so
With inklings I presumed to know...
How now indeed I have to pay!
One thunder word has swept me right away.

I cannot dare compare with you; and though
I did possess the power to draw you near.
I had no power to hold you with me here.
In that one moment's bliss-filled glow,
I felt myself so small, so great;
Then cruelly you thrust me down,
Back to the human's vague, uncertain fate.
Who'll teach me now? What shall I shun?
Alas, our deeds themselves, as much as sorrow's force,
May halt and hinder our life's course.

What's finest, what the spirit can conceive,
Draws strange and stranger stuff into its weave;
When we attain to this world's good, we deem
What's better fraud or mere delusion's dream.
And higher, glorious feelings, those that gave us life,
Grow torpid in the crush of earthly strife.

Though daydreams once with daring flight were free
To spread with hope towards some eternal realm,
A little space now seems enough for me,
When every fortune fails within the swirl of time.
Deep in the heart's a nest where Care has lain
And there can work with secret pain.
It stirs uneasily, disturbing joy and rest;
It ever dons new masks, confusing life,
It might appear as house and yard, as child and wife,
Flame, water, poison, dagger's steel.
You quake at blows you never feel,
And you must ever weep for what you've never lost.

I'm not godlike! So deep is the feeling that I must
Admit I'm like the worms that tunnel dust;
That while they live and feed in dusty joy,
The wanderer's footsteps bury and destroy.

Is it not dust that from this wall height here
With its hundred shelves now narrows in on me,
The junk, the thousand knick-knacks that I see,
That push on me in this moth sphere?
Shall I find here that which I lack?
Perhaps I'll read a thousand books to glean
That people everywhere are on the rack,
That here and there a happy one has been?
You hollow skull, why are you grinning so,
Except your brain, like mine, sought carefree day
But was confused in heavy dusk's last glow,
And wanting truth, most sadly lost the way?
These instruments, they're surely mocking me,
With wheel and cog and cylinder and catch.
I stood before the gate, you were my key,
But though your wards are complex, they can't lift the latch.
For in bright day still filled with mystery
Is Nature - and you cannot steal her veils.
What she won't show your spirit will not be
Rough-wrenched from her with levers or with nails.
These things I didn't need, old gear,
You're here because my father used this mess.
You ancient scroll, you've been smoke-browning here,
As long as this dim lamp has smouldered at this desk.
Far better I had wasted my small wares
Than sweat beneath the burden of this littleness!
What you inherit from forefather's care
You need to earn in order to possess.
What's not used is a heavy weight to bear.
Just what the moment makes, that's all that's any use.

Why does that spot fix fast my sight,
That flask, a magnet to my eyes' delight?
Why am I flooded with a lovely light,
Like glide of moon-glow in a forest's night?

I greet you now, unique and precious phial,
With reverence I fetch you down awhile.
In you I praise true human wit and art.
You essence of all fair, sleep-bringing juices,
You extract of all fine and deadly forces,
Extend your favour to your master's heart.
I see you and my pain is softened,
I grasp you and my striving's lessened,
The spirit's flood tide slowly ebbs away,
I'm led towards far, wide ocean deeps; I greet
The mirroring flood that shimmers at my feet,
Towards new-seen shores I'm lured by new day.

A fiery chariot sweeps down to me
Upon light wings! I feel I am prepared
To push on through the ether's pathways there
To refined, new spheres of high activity.
This higher life, delight of gods, such bliss,
First but a worm, are you deserving this?
Yes, brave-resolving, turn your back upon
The living light of earth's all-gracious sun,
And fearless, force on through that portal's gate
That everyone would like to sneak on by.
This is the time through deeds to demonstrate
That human honour does not yield to gods on high,
And will not quake before that darkened cave,
Where fancy's damned within its own tormenting,
When striving towards that passage, not relenting,
Though round its narrow mouth all hell's ablaze;
And takes this step with good cheer, even if
It were to risk a flowing into nothingness.

Now come on down, you pure crystal bowl,
From your old, dusty case that's kept you whole.
For many years I have not thought of you.
You shone out at my father's joyous feasts,
And cheered the serious-minded guests
When you were passed around amongst that crew.
It was the drinker's task to clarify
Your many artful, splendid scenes in rhymes
And empty you in one good try;
It brings to mind so many nights of youthful times.
I shall not pass you to a neighbour now,
I won't display my wit upon your art's fine power.
Here is a drink most swift-intoxicating;
A brown juice fills it to the brim. I will,
With all my soul, now take my final fill,
As festive, lofty greeting to the morning's breaking.

HE SETS THE BOWL TO HIS MOUTH. BELLS CHIMING AND CHORAL SINGING.

CHORUS OF ANGELS

Christ has ascended!
Mortals all happiness
On whom invidious,
Passed-down, insidious,
Binding faults tended.

FAUST

What deep, deep hum, what bright tone, draws and claims
The glass here from my lips with such a power?
Already do these muted chimes proclaim
The Easter festival's first celebratory hour?
Do you now sing, you choirs, the song of comfort's might,
Once sung with angel's lips around the grave's cold night,
To pledge a covenant so newly now?

CHORUS OF WOMEN

With spices we brought
We tended Him so,
We faithful ones thought
How to lay Him below;
Linens to bind
Around Him with care;
Ah! and we find
Christ no more here.

CHORUS OF ANGELS

Christ has ascended!
Blessed the One loving us,
Who the most-troubling but

Healing and strenuous
Test took unbended.

FAUST

Why do you seek, you mighty and mild,
Celestial tones, seek me in dust?
Ring out where softer men might be beguiled.
I hear your message: all I lack is faith and trust.
And miracle is faith's own dearest child.
I dare not strive up towards those spheres,
That ring out with such gracious tidings here,
And yet accustomed to this sound from my youth on,
Even now it calls me back into life's realm.
In early life the loving kiss of heaven
Would touch me in the holy Sabbath stillness;
So full of promise were the bell tones in their fullness,
And with a fervent joy my prayer was given.
Then inconceivably sweet yearning
Drove me through forest and through field;
Amid my tears, by thousands burning,
I felt a world in me unfurled.
This song proclaimed, announced youth's lively games,
Spring festival's free joy. I'm kept,
Remembering that childlike feeling here again,
From taking that last earnest step.
Ring on, sweet heaven's song, now as before,
My tears rise up, the earth holds me once more!

CHORUS OF DISCIPLES

If the grave-given One's
Raised up already,
If the high, living One's
Risen in glory,
If, in becoming's gladness,
He's near creating's bliss;
Ah! on the earth's dark breast ,
We are still bound to sadness.
Leaving His own
Languishing for Him;
Ah! we bemoan,
Master, Your fortune!

CHORUS OF ANGELS

Christ has ascended
From the lap of corruption;
Cast off your bands and
Joy in your freedom!
Praise Him with deeds most fair,
Showing your love and care,
Feeding all others there,
Teaching out everywhere,
Promising bliss to share,
Your own true Master's near,
For you He's here!

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 67 At the Exhibition (Hiroshima)

AT THE EXHIBITION (HIROSHIMA)

August the sixth is the 70th year since nuclear bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Although this poem (written many years ago) was in response to an article about an exhibition of the plane used, it is not intended as a criticism (or praise) of US policy at the time. Rather it is intended as a reflection on what we have in this technology. 

 

Seizo Yamada's ground level photo taken approximately 7 km (4.3 mi) northeast of Hiroshima-  "Hirgrnd1" by Source. Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Hirgrnd1.jpg#/media/File:Hirgrnd1.jpg -uploaded by Stonehead.

AT THE EXHIBITION (HIROSHIMA)

Following objections from American war veterans,

the Smithsonian Institute toned down the results

of the atomic bombing of Japan in its display

of the Enola Gay: the bomber that dropped the first nuclear weapon.

At the exhibition

it has been decided

not to overemphasize

consequences:

vaporising, burning,

lingering long deaths in pain.

It is an ordinary plane.

The sixth of August, nineteen forty five.

Let us not overemphasize

the deadly gift

given unto us,

now and forever more.

They were a murderous enemy.

Look at this plane: Enola Gay.

In the seaport city it was to be

an ordinary day.......

housewives haggling over prices,

neighbours' small talk, babies' bawling,

children just beginning school.

Hiroshima, Nagasaki. Let us not remember

these were but the baby bombs.

Oh, let us not remember

the burning and the pain.

It was another day beginning.

Then all the sky was turned to flame.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 66 Earth Tree

EARTH TREE

I suspect that the greatest threat to civilisation is what we are busy doing to our own home: the biosphere and climate of Earth. Even without the disasters that are, I believe, already occurring through climate change, if we simply continue to expand and destroy nature that supports us where will it end? The subtle swapping of verb tenses in this poem is deliberate.

                     EARTH TREE

If earth were once a great, green tree
then breathing out the breath of life
through  thousands of  its sap-veined leaves,
all shimmering in sun,
with all the singing souls like birds,
would we regret false words
and ruination from our hands...

when all that's left
is silence and 
a black, charred stump?
Will we regret
the greed and blind neglect?
How shall we stand?

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 65 Faust Talks to Wagner

FAUST TALKS TO HIS PUPIL, WAGNER (from Faust Scene one)

English verse version by Mark Scrivener © Mark Scrivener

Faust is interrupted by his scholastic and rather pedantic pupil, Wagner. They discuss the art of speech. Wagner is in favour of "method" but Faust maintains that true art must also come from the heart. The translation or rendering into English verse of such passages is tricky in that I feel it is necessary to carry through a clear diction while still keeping as much as possible of the poetic effect of the original. 


 

WAGNER IN NIGHTGOWN AND NIGHTCAP ENTERS, A LAMP IN HIS HAND. FAUST TURNS UNWILLINGLY

WAGNER

Please pardon me, I heard you speak a part;
You know by rote some tragic, old Greek play?
I'd like to profit from this art,
For it achieves so much today.
I've often heard it claimed a preacher
Should take an actor as his teacher.

FAUST

Yes, when the preacher is a ham,
And truly, sometimes it turns out that way.

WAGNER

Oh, banished in this museum as I am,
I see the world but on a holiday,
As through a spyglass, far apart...
How can I learn persuasion's art?

FAUST

If you don't feel it first, no hunt will bring
What doesn't flow from your soul's spring,
And with pleasure's primal force imparts
Its power to all your hearers' hearts.
Keep sitting! Glue it all together;
Cook stew from scraps left by another,
And blow a scanty flame that flashes
From out of your own heap of ashes.
You will amaze the child and ape,
If it's your taste to play that part.
Warm rays from heart to hearts won't radiate
If no glow comes from your own heart.

WAGNER

Yet winning speech is all delivery;
And still I feel that's all quite far from me.

FAUST

Seek only honest recompense.
Don't be like some bell-tinkling fool.
For understanding and good sense
Require little art to rule.
With earnest speaking isn't it absurd
To spend time hunting for a word?
Yes, for your speeches that glitter so,
Yet give us but curled snippets, bits to please,
Are like those stale and misty winds that blow
In autumn, rustling through the withered leaves.

WAGNER

Though art is long, oh, God,
Our life is short indeed!
Through striving, keen and critical, I find
I'm often troubled in my heart and mind.
How hard it is to have the means to lead
One to the final fountainhead.
Before, poor devil, you're halfway there
Your body's in the cold earth's care.

FAUST

Is parchment then the sacred, living spring
One sip of which will still your thirst forever?
You will not be refreshed by anything
That does not rise from your own soul's endeavour.

WAGNER

Please pardon! But it gives great satisfaction
To see the spirits of the past in action;
To comprehend how wise ones thought before our age;
How brilliantly we brought all to a further stage.

FAUST

Yes, right up to the stars on high.
You know, my friend, for us the times gone by
Are like a book with seven seals.
What you would call the spirit of the past
Is just the spirit of the ones who'd cast
Time's mirror bent by what each feels.
It often makes a shameful mess!
One glimpse of it will make you run away:
A lumber room, a rubbish bin, no less...
At best it's but a high, flag-waving play,
With excellent, pragmatic platitudes:
Most suitable for puppet interludes.

WAGNER

What of the world? The human heart and mind?
To know of these is everybody's aim.

FAUST

With what's called knowing! But who's inclined
To call the child by its right name?
Of the few who knew of something on that side,
Those fool enough, not guarding their full hearts, revealing,
To the rabble, their visions and their feeling,
They always have been burnt and crucified.
But please, my friend, it's grown late in the night,
And we must say, for now, adieu.

WAGNER

I'd like to stay forever that I might
Keep talking of such learned things with you.
Tomorrow's first of Easter holiday;
Then I shall ask more, if I may.
I've studied with great zeal the vast and small,
I know much, but I want to know it all.

HE EXITS