Faust (trans. Bayard Taylor)/Part-1-endnotes

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IN a work which has been the subject of such extensive and continual comment, the passages which seem to require elucidation have, for the most part, been already determined. At every point where the reader is supposed to be doubtful in regard to the true path, not one, but a score of tracks has been prepared for him, From the exhaustive and somewhat wearisome work of Düntzer to the latest critical essay which has issued from the German press, the references in the text to contemporary events or fashions of thought have been detected; the words of old or new coinage have been tested and classified; and the obscure passages have received such a variety of interpretation, that they finally grow clear again by the force of contrast.

My first intention was, to give the substance of German criticism concerning both parts of Faust; but the further I advanced, the more unprofitable appeared such a plan. The work itself grew in clearness and coherence in proportion as I withdrew from the cloudy atmosphere of its interpreters. I have examined every commentary of importance, from Schubarth (1820) and Hinrichs (1825) to Kreyssig (1866), with this advantage, at least,—that each and all have led me back to find in the author of Faust his own best commentator. After making acquaintance, sometimes at the ​cost of much patience, with the theories of many sincere though self-asserting minds, and ascertaining what marvellous webs of meaning may be spun by the critic around a point of thought, simple enough in its poetical sense, I have always returned to Goethe’s other works, to his correspondence (especially with Schiller and Zelter) and his conversations, sure of gaining new light and refreshment.^[1]

I should only confuse the reader by attempting to set forth all the forms of intellectual, ethical, or theological significance which have been attached to the characters of Faust. The intention of the work, reduced to its simplest element, is easily grasped; but if every true poet builds larger than he knows, this drama, completed by the slow accretion of sixty years of thought, may be assumed to have a vaster background of design, change, and reference than almost anything else in Literature. Like an old Gothic pile, its outline is sometimes obscured in a labyrinth of details. While, in the Notes which succeed, it will now and then be necessary for me to give the conflicting interpretations, I shall endeavor to wander from the text as little as possible, and, even when dealing with enigmas, to keep open a way past, if not through them. The embarrassing abundance of the material is somewhat diminished for me by the omission of all technical or philological criticism, and my chief task will be to distinguish between those helps which all ​readers require and the points which are interesting only to special students of the work.

In many instances, I have simply illustrated the text by parallel passages. Where I have discovered these, in Goethe’s works or correspondence, they have often been of service in suggesting (in the absence of any direct evidence) the probable time when certain scenes were written, and thereby the interests or influences which may have then swayed the author’s mind. The variation in tone between different parts of the work, though sometimes very delicate, is always perceptible; and the reader to whom the original is an unknown tongue needs all the side-lights which can be thrown upon its translated forms.

The “Paralipomena” (Supplementary Fragments) to Faust have not heretofore been given by any English translator. Yet in a work of such importance we may also learn from what the author has omitted, not less than from what he has accepted. The variations made in his original design assist us to a clearer comprehension of the design itself. I consider, therefore, that the passages of the “Paralipomena” have, properly, the character of explanatory notes; and for this reason I have inserted each, as nearly as possible, in its appropriate place, instead of giving them in a body, as in the standard German edition of Goethe.

Perhaps the most satisfactory commentary on Faust would be a biography of Goethe, written with special reference to this one work. In the Chronology of Faust (Appendix II.) I have given such particulars as are necessary to the illustration of its interrupted yet life-long growth. It has not been found possible to combine the Notes and the Chronology without confusing the material; yet the two should be taken as parallel explanations, which the reader needs to follow at the same time. In conclusion, let me beg him not to be discouraged, if, on the first reading, the meaning of some passages, and their significance as portions of an “incommensurable” plan,—as Goethe himself characterized it,—should not be entirely clear. When he has become ​familiar with the history of the work, and is able to overlook it as a whole, the fitness—or the unfitness—of the multitude of parts becomes gradually evident; the compressed meanings expand into breadth and distinctness; and even those enigmas which seem to defy an ultimate analysis will charm him by dissolving into new ones, or by showing him forms of thought which fade and change as he seeks to retain them.

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The Dedication was certainly not written earlier than the year 1797, when Goethe, encouraged by Schiller’s hearty interest in the work, determined to complete the “Fragment” of the First Part of Faust, published in 1790. Twenty-four years had therefore elapsed since the first scenes of the work were written: the poet was forty-eight years old, and the conceptions which had haunted him in his twenty-first year seemed already to belong to a dim and remote Past. The shadowy forms of the drama, which he again attempts to seize and hold, bring with them the phantoms of the friends to whom his earliest songs were sung. Of these friends, his sister Cornelia, Merck, Lenz, Basedow, and Gotter were dead; Klopstock, Lavater, and the Stolbergs were estranged; and Jacobi, Klinger, Kestner, and others were separated from him by the circumstances of their lives. Gotter died in March, 1797, and, as it is evident from Goethe’s letters to Schiller that he worked upon Faust only in the months of May and June, in that year, the Dedication was probably then written.

Nothing of Goethe has been more frequently translated than these four stanzas,—and nothing, I may add, is more difficult to the translator.

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I am unable to ascertain precisely when this was written: from Goethe’s correspondence, some inferences, which point to the year 1798, may be drawn. It is unnecessary to follow the critics in their philosophical analyses of this prelude, which is sufficiently explained by calling it a “poetic preface” to the work. Göschen’s edition of Goethe’s works, in 1790, had not been a successful venture: the “Fragment” of Faust, although fully appreciated by the few, seemed to have made no impression upon the public, while it had been assailed and ridiculed by the author’s many literary enemies. Goethe always published his poetical works without a preface; but in the “Prelude on the Stage” he makes use of the characters to contrast the Poet’s purest activity with the tastes and desires of the Public, two classes of which are represented by the Manager and Merry-Andrew. The dialogue indicates, in advance, the various elements—imagination, fancy, shrewd experience, folly, and “dramatic nonsense”—which will be woven into the work. At the same time, it indirectly admits and accounts for the author’s unpopularity, and the lack of recognition which he still anticipates.

The “booth of boards” purposely refers to the rude, transportable puppet theatres in which Goethe first saw Faust represented. There is already a foreshadowing of some of the qualities of Faust and Mephistopheles in the Poet and Manager.

Goethe writes, in 1802 (“Weimarisches Hoftheater”): “One can show the public no greater respect than in forbearing to treat it as a mob. The mob hurry unprepared to the theatre, demand that which may be immediately enjoyed, desire to stare, be amazed, laugh, weep, and therefore compel the managers, who are dependent on them, to descend more or less to their level.”

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“One should give his works the greatest possible variety and excellence, so that each reader may be able to select something for himself, and thus, in his own way, become a participant.”—Goethe to Schiller (1798).

It is the Poets whom the Merry-Andrew thus addresses. His assertion of the perpetual youth of Genius is not ironical, but (as appears from the Manager’s remarks) is intended as a compliment.

“To carry on the feelings of childhood into the powers of manhood, to combine the child’s sense of wonder and nov- eity with the appearances which every day, for perhaps forty years, had rendered familiar,—

this is the character and privilege of genius, and one of the marks which distinguish genius from talent.”—Coleridge.

Goethe says to Eckermann (in 1827): “People come and ask, what idea I have embodied in my Faust? As if I knew, myself, and could express it! ‘From Heaven, across the World, to Hell’—that might answer, if need were; but it is not an idea, only the course of the action.”

The reference in this line, curiously enough, is to the course of action in the old Faust-Legend, not to the close of the Second Part, the scene of which is laid in Heaven, instead of Hell. Yet at the time when the line was written the project of the Second Part—in outline, at least—was completed. Did Goethe simply intend to keep his secret from the reader?

Some of Goethe’s commentators suppose that this Prologue was added by him, from the circumstance that the ​design of Faust was not understood, in the “Fragment” first published. It appears to have been written in June, 1797, before the “Prelude on the Stage,” and chiefly for the purpose of setting forth the moral and intellectual problem which underlies the drama. Although possibly suggested by the Prologue in Hell of two of the puppet-plays, its character is evidently drawn from the interviews of Satan with the Lord, in the first and second chapters of Job, Upon this point, Goethe (in 1825) said to Eckermann: “My Mephistopheles sings a song of Shakespeare; and why should he not? Why should I give myself the trouble to compose a new song, when Shakespeare’s was just the right one, saying exactly what was necessary? If, therefore, the scheme of my Faust has some resemblance to that of Job, that is also quite right, and I should be praised rather than censured on account of it.”

The earnest reader will require no explanation of the problem propounded in the Prologue. Goethe states it without obscurity, and solves it in no uncertain terms at the close of the Second Part. The mocking irreverence of Mephistopheles, in the presence of the Lord, although it belongs to the character which he plays throughout, seems to have given some difficulty to the early English translators. Lord Leveson Gower terminates the Prologue with the Chant of the Archangels; Mr. Blackie omits it entirely, but adds it in an emasculated form, as an Appendix; while Dr. Anster satisfies his spirit of reverence by printing Der Herr where the English text requires, “The Lord.” Coleridge’s charge of “blasphemy” evidently refers to this Prologue; but at the time when he made the charge, Coleridge was hardly capable of appreciating the spirit in which Faust was written.

It is very clear, from hints which Goethe let fall, that he at one time contemplated the introduction into Faust of the doctrine ascribed to Origen,—that it was possible for Satan to repent and be restored to his former place as an angel of light. Falk reports Goethe as saying: “Yet even the clever Madame de Staël was greatly scandalized that I kept the ​devil in such good-humor. In the presence of God the Father, she insisted upon it, he ought to be more grim and spiteful. What will she say if she sees him promoted a step higher,—nay, perhaps, meets him in heaven?” On another occasion, he exclaimed (if we may trust Falk): “At bottom, the most of us do not know how either to love or to hate. They ‘don’t like’ me! An insipid phrase!—I don’t like them either. Especially when, after my death, my Walpurgis-Sack comes to be opened, and all the tormenting Stygian spirits, imprisoned until then, shall be let loose to plague all even as they plagued me; or if, in the continuation of Faust, they should happen to come upon a passage where the Devil himself receives Grace and Mercy from God,—that, I should say, they would not soon forgive!”

The three Archangels advance in the order of their dignity, as it is given in the “Celestial Hierarchy” of Dionysius Areopagita; who was also Dante’s authority on this point (Paradiso, Canto XXVIII). Raphael, the inferior, commences, and Michael, the chief, closes the chant.

Shelley speaks of this “astonishing chorus,” and very truly says: “It is impossible to represent in another language the melody of the versification: even the volatile strength and delicacy of the ideas escape in the crucible of translation, and the reader is surprised to find a caput mortuum.”

I shall not, however, imitate Shelley in adding a literal translation. Here, more than in almost any other poem, the words acquire a new and indescribable power from their rhythmical collocation. The vast, wonderful atmosphere of space which envelops the lines could not be retained in prose, however admirably literal. The movement of the criginal is as important as its meaning. Shelley's translation of the stanzas, however, is preferable to Hayward's, which contains five inaccuracies.

The magnificent word Donnergang—“thunder-march” ​(first stanza, fourth line)—had already occurred in a fine line of one of Schiller’s earliest poems,—“Elysium”:—

Mephistopheles here refers to the Chant of the Archangels. His mocking spirit is at once manifested in these lines, and in his ironical repetition of “the earliest day.”

The original of this is the single, well-known line: Es irrt der Mensch, so lang er strebt. It has seemed to me impossible to give the full meaning of these words—that error is a natural accompaniment of the struggles and aspirations of Man—in a single line. Here, as in a few other places, I do not feel bound to confine myself to the exact measure and limit of the original. The reader may be interested in comparing some other versions:—

Hayward.—Man is liable to error, while his struggle lasts.

Anster.—Man’s hour on Earth is weakness, error, strife.

Brooks.—Man errs and staggers from his birth.

Swanwick.—Man, while he striveth, is prone to err.

Blackie.—Man must still err, so long he strives.

Martin.—Man, while his struggle lasts, is prone to stray.

Beresford.—Man errs as long as lasts his strife.

Birch.—Man’s prone to err in acquisition. (!)

Blaze.—L’homme s’égare, tant qu’il cherche son but.

In these lines the direction of the plot is indicated. They suggest, in advance, its moral dénouement, at the close of the Second Part. Goethe, on one occasion, compared the “Prologue in Heaven” to the overture of Mozart’s Don Giovanni, in which a certain musical phrase occurs which is ​not repeated until the finale; and his comparison had reference to the idea expressed in these lines.

Here the Lord, turning away from Mephistopheles, suddenly addresses the Archangels and the Heavenly Hosts. The expression Das Werdende, in the third following line, which I have translated “Creative Power,” means, literally, “that which is developing into being.” Shelley, who was not, and did not pretend to be, a good German scholar, entirely misses the meaning of the closing quatrain, notwithstanding he avoids the rhymed translation. His lines,

have nothing of the suggestive force and fulness of the original.

Hayward quotes, apparently from a private letter, Carlyle’s interpretation of the passage: “There is, clearly, no translating of these lines, especially on the spur of the moment; yet it seems to me that the meaning of them is pretty distinct. The Lord has just remarked, that man (poor fellow) needs a devil, as travelling companion, to spur him on by means of Denial; whereupon, turning round (to the angels and other perfect characters), he adds, ‘But ye, the genuine sons of Heaven, joy ye in the living fulness of the beautiful (not of the logical, practical, contradictory, wherein man toils imprisoned): let Being (or Existence), which is everywhere a glorious birth, into higher being, as it forever works and lives, encircle you with the soft ties of love; and whatsoever wavers in the doubtful empire of appearance’ (as all earthly things do), ‘that do ye, by enduring thought, make firm.’ Thus would Das Werdende, the thing that is a-being, mean no less than the universe (the visible universe) itself; and I paraphrase it by ‘Existence, which is everywhere a birth, into higher Existence,’ and make a comfortable enough kind of sense out of that quatrain.”

​The intention of the passage, we might suppose, is sufficiently clear. It was Goethe’s habit, as an author, to quietly ignore the conventional theology of his day: yet Mr. Heraud insists that “The Lord” of the Prologue is the Second Person of the Trinity, and that the four lines commencing with Das Werdende are simply another form of invoking “the fellowship of the Holy Ghost!” The unusual construction of these lines—the first half implying a benediction, and the second half a command—has been retained in the translation.

This scene, from its commencement to the close of Wagner’s interview with Faust, was probably written as early as 1773. In style, as well as in substance, it suggests the puppet-play rather than the published Faust legend. In Wahrheit und Dichtung, Goethe says, in describing his intercourse with Herder, in Strasburg (1770): “The puppet-play echoed and vibrated in many tones through my mind. I, also, had gone from one branch of knowledge to another, and was early enough convinced of the vanity of all. I had tried life in many forms, and the experience had left me only the more unsatisfied and worried. I now carried these thoughts about with me, and indulged myself in them, in lonely hours, but without committing anything to writing. Most of all, I concealed from Herder my mystic-cabalistic chemistry, and everything connected with it.”

The text of various puppet-plays, which has been recovered by Simrock, Von der Hagen, and other zealous German scholars, enables us to detect the source of Goethe’s conception,—the original corner-stone whereupon he builded. In the play, as given in Ulm and Strasburg, there is a brief Prologue in Hell, in which Pluto orders the temptation of Faust. Notwithstanding the variation of the action in the different plays, the opening scene possesses very much the same character in all of them. As performed by Schütz, about the beginning of this century, Faust is represented as seated at a table, upon which lies an open book. His ​soliloquy commences thus: “With all my learning, I, Johannes Faust, have accomplished just so much, that I must blush with self-shame. I am ridiculed everywhere, no one reads my books, all despise me. How fain am I to become more perfect! Therefore I am rigidly resolved to instruct myself in necromancy.”

In Geisselbrecht’s puppet-play, Faust also sits at a table and turns over the leaves of a book. He says: “I seek for learning in this book and cannot find it. Though I study all books from end to end, I cannot discover the touchstone of wisdom. O, how unfortunate art thou, Faust! I have all along thought that my luck must change, but in vain. . . . . O Fatherland! thus thou rewardest my industry, my labor, the sleepless nights I have spent in fathoming the mysteries of Theology! But, no! By Heaven, I will no longer delay, I will take upon myself all labor, so that I may penetrate into that which is concealed, and fathom the mysteries of nature!”

In the Augsburg puppet-play, Faust exclaims: “I, too, have long investigated, have gone through all arts and sciences. I became a Theologian, consulted authorities, weighed all, tested all,—polemics, exegesis, dogmatism. All was babble: nothing breathed of Divinity! I became a Jurist, endeavored to become acquainted with Justice, and learned how to distort justice. I found an idol, shaped by the hands of self-interest and self-conceit, a bastard of Justice, not herself. I became a Physician, intending to learn the human structure, and the methods of supporting it when it gives way; but I found not what I sought,—I only found the art of methodically murdering men. I became a Philosopher, desiring to know the soul of man, to catch Truth by the wings and Wisdom by the forelock; and I found shadows, vapors, follies, bound into a system!”

The reader is referred to the “Faust-Legend” (Appendix I.) for further information concerning these plays. I have given the above quotations, to indicate Goethe’s starting-point—which is also his point of divergence—from the popular story.

​I have also added the opening scene of Marlowe’s “Faustus” (Appendix III.) for the sake of convenient comparison.

“Moreover, there are forces which increase one’s productiveness in rest and sleep; but they are also found in move. ment. There are such forces in water, and especially in the atmosphere. In the fresh air of the open fields is where we properly belong; it is as if the Spirit of God is there immediately breathed upon man, and a divine power exercises its influence over him.”—Goethe to Eckermann (1828).

The astrologer Nostradamus (whose real name was Michel de Nôtre-Dame) was born at St. Remy, in Provence, in the year 1503. At first celebrated as a physician, he finally devoted himself to astrology, and published, in 1555, a collection of prophecies in rhymed quatrains, entitled Les Prophecies de Michel Nostradamus, which created an immediate sensation, and found many believers; especially as the death of Henry II. of France seemed to verify one of his mystical predictions. He was appointed physician to Charles IX. and continued the publication of his prophecies, asserting, however, that the study of the planetary aspects was not alone sufficient, but that the gift of second-sight, which God grants only to a few chosen persons, is also necessary. He died in the year 1566; and even as late as the year 1781 his prophecies were included in the Roman Index Expurgatorius, for the reason that they declare the downfall of the Papacy.

The term “Macrocosm” was used by Pico di Mirandola, Paracelsus, and other mystical writers, to denote the universe. They imagined a mysterious correspondence between the Macrocosm (the world in large) and the Microcosm (the world in little), or Man; and most of the astrological theories were based on the influence of the former upon the latter. ​From some of Goethe’s notes, still in existence, we learn that during the time when the conception of Faust first occupied his mind (1770–73), he read Welling’s Opus Mago-Cabbalisticum, Paracelsus, Valentinus, the Aurea Catena Homeri, and even the Latin poet Manilius.

Mr. Blackie, in his Notes, quotes a description of the Macrocosm from a Latin work of Robert Fludd, published at Oppenheim in 1619; but the theory had already been given in the Heptaplus of Pico di Mirandola (about 1490). The universe, according to him, consists of three worlds, the earthly, the heavenly, and the super-heavenly. The first includes our planet and its enveloping space, as far as the orbit of the moon; the second, the sun and stars; the third, the governing Divine influences. The same phenomena belong to each, but have different grades of manifestation. Thus the physical element of fire exists in the earthly sphere, the warmth of the sun in the heavenly, and aseraphic, spiritual fire in the empyrean; the first burns, the second quickens, the third loves. “In addition to these three worlds (the Macrocosm),” says Pico, “there is a fourth (the Microcosm), containing all embraced within them. This is Man, in whom are included a body formed of the elements, a heavenly spirit, reason, an angelic soul, and a resemblance to God.”

The work of Cornelius Agrippa, De Occulta Philosophia, which was also known to Goethe, contains many references to these three divisions of the Macrocosm, and their reciprocal influences. The latter are described in the passage commencing: “How each the Whole its substance gives!”

Hayward quotes, as explanatory of these lines, the following sentence from Herder’s Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit: “When, therefore, I open the great book of Heaven, and see before me this measureless palace, which alone, and everywhere, the Godhead only has power to fill, I conclude, as undistractedly as I can, from the whole to the particular, and from the particular to the whole.”

The four lines which Faust apparently quotes (“What says the sage, now first I recognize”) are not from ​Nostradamus. They may possibly have been suggested by something in Jacob Boehme’s first work, “Aurora, or the Rising Dawn,” but it is not at all necessary that they should be an actual quotation.

“The Archæus of the Orphic doctrine, the spirit of the elementary world, of the powerful, multiformed earthly universe, to which Faust feels himself nearer.”—Düntzer.

“The mighty and multiform universality of the Earth itself.”—Falk.

“But few succeed in calling up, that is to say, grasping in inspired contemplation,—the Earth-Spirit, the spirit of History, of the movement of the human race; and still fewer is the number of those who can endure the ‘form of flame,’—whose individuality is strong enough not to be swallowed up in it.”—Kreyssig.

This chant of the Earth-Spirit recalls the “Creative Power which eternally works and lives” in the Prologue in Heaven. The closing line may have been suggested by a passage in the work, De Sensu Rerum, of the Dominican monk, Campa- nella: “Mundus ergo totus est sensus, vita, anima, corpus statua Dei altissimi.” The “living garment of the Deity,” however, is a much finer expression. The Spirit’s chant probably lingered in Shelley’s memory, when he wrote:—

The Latin word famulus (servant) was applied, in the Middle Ages, to the shield-bearers of the knights, and also to persons owing the obligation of service to the feudal lords. The Famulus of Faust, however, is at the same time a student, an amanuensis, an assistant in his laboratory, and a servitor, in the academic sense. The term is still applied, ​in the German Universities, to those poor students who fill various minor offices for the sake of eking out their means by the small salaries attached to them.

The name—and perhaps also the primal suggestion of the character—of Faust’s Famulus is taken from the old legend, in which Christopher Wagner (see Appendix I.), after Faust’s tragic end, succeeds to his knowledge and enters on a similar, if not so brilliant a career.

It is an interesting coincidence that one of Goethe’s early associates, during his residence in Strasburg and Frankfort, was Heinrich Leopold Wagner (who died in 1779), and who was also an author. Goethe not only read to him the early scenes of Faust, but imparted to him, in confidence, the fate of Margaret, as he meant to develop it; and Wagner was faithless enough to make use of the material for a tragedy of his own—The Infanticide—which was published in 1776. Schiller’s poem, with the same title (apparently suggested by Wagner’s play), and Bürger’s ballad of “The Pastor of Taubenheim’s Daughter,” in which the subject is very similar, were both written in the year 1781.

According to Hinrichs, Faust represents Philosophy, and Wagner Empiricism. Düntzer calls the latter “the representative of dead pedantry, of knowledge mechanically acquired”; while other critics consider that he symbolizes the Philistine element in German life,—the hopelessly material, prosaic, and commonplace. Deycks says of Wagner: “His thoroughly prosaic nature forms the sharpest contrast to Faust, and it is impossible for him to enter into any relation with Mephistopheles, because he restricts himself to beaten tracks, and is repelled by all tricksy wantonness, even by all fresh, natural indulgence. He is the driest caricature of pure rational, formal knowledge, without living thought or poetry, and especially without religion.”

It was probably enough for Goethe that Wagner furnishes a dramatic contrast of character,—a foil to the boundless ideal cravings of Faust. He betrays his nature in the very ​first words he utters, and is so admirably consistent throughout, that the reader is never at a loss how to interpret him.

This line, which reads, literally, “In which ye twist (or curl) paper-shreds for mankind,” has been curiously misunderstood by most translators. The article der before Menschheit was supposed by Hayward to be in the genitive instead of the dative case, and he gives the phrase thus: “in which ye crisp the shreds of humanity”! Blackie even says “the shavings of mankind,” and most of the other English versions repeat the mistake, in one or another form. In the French of Blaze and Stapfer, however, the reading is correct. Goethe employs the word Schnitzel (shreds or clippings) as a contemptuous figure of speech for the manner in which thought is presented to mankind in the discourses described by Faust. Therefore by using the expression “shredded thought” in English, the exact sense of the original is preserved.

Goethe was very fond of using the “ars longa, vita brevis” of Hippocrates. It occurs again in Scene IV., where he puts it into the mouth of Mephistopheles. The American reader is already familiar with the phrase, from Mr. Longfellow’s beautiful application of it, in his “Psalm of Life.”

The German phrase, Haupt-und Staats-action, was applied, about the end of the seventeenth century, to the popular puppet-plays which represented famous passages of history. It seems to have been, originally, a form of announcement invented by some proprietor of a wandering puppet-theatre, and may therefore be equivalently translated, as a “First-Class Political Performance!” The phrase was afterwards applied to plays acted upon the stage, and Goethe even makes use of it to designate Shakespeare’s historical dramas. in the puppet-plays the heroic figures (Alexander, Pompey, ​Charlemagne, etc.) were in the habit of uttering the most grandiloquent, oracular sentences; they were as didactic in speech as they were reckless and melodramatic in action.

The word pragmatical, which I have adopted as it stands in the original, has a somewhat different signification in German. It indicates—here, at least—a pedantic assumption and ostentation, in addition to the sense of meddlesome interference which it possesses in English.

“There were need,” said I, “of a second Redeemer coming, to deliver us from the austerity, the discomfort and the tremendous pressure of the circumstances under which we live.”

“If he should come,” Goethe answered, “the people would crucify him a second time.”—Goethe to Eckermann, 1829.

In “Faust: a Fragment,” published in 1790, Wagner’s conversation terminates with this line. The first four lines of Faust’s following soliloquy are then added, and the scene suddenly ends. Then we abruptly break upon the conversation between Faust and Mephistopheles, in Scene IV., at the line,

The remainder of the Monologue, the scene before the city-gate, the first scene in Faust’s study, and all of the second as far as the line just quoted, were first published in the completed edition of 1808. It is very certain, however, that portions of these omitted scenes were written before 1790, and were then withheld on account of their incompleteness.

Faust here refers to the reply of the Earth-Spirit:—

The overwhelming impression produced upon him by this ​phrase is only suspended during Wagner’s visit, and now works with renewed force upon his morbid mood, until it swells to a natural climax.

In the conversations of Goethe, recorded by Eckermann, Riemer, and Falk, he more than once, in referring to his early impressions of life, repeats the pessimistic idea contained in these lines. This was one of the causes which stirred in him the resolution to achieve, as far as possible, his own independent development. The subjective character of the early scenes of Faust is so clearly indicated that we should have recognized it without Goethe’s admission. In 1826, he said to Eckermann: “In Werther and Faust, I was obliged to delve in my own breast; for the source of that which I communicated lay near at hand.”

The two adjectives in this line are leicht (easy, buoyant) and schwer (heavy). Hartung thinks that the former is a misprint for licht (shining, bright); but he is evidently mistaken, since the adjectives are chosen to express opposite qualities, and the phrase lichten Tag occurs in the sixth line following. I have chosen English words which are not precisely literal, but, by their antithetic character, convey a similar meaning.

It was a favorite maxim of Goethe that no man can really possess that which he has not personally acquired. He considered his own inherited wealth and the many opportunities of his life as means, the value of which must be measured by the results attained by their use. On one occasion he said: “Every bon mot which I have uttered, has cost me a purse of money; half a million of my private property has run through my hands, to enable me to learn what I know—not only the entire estate of my father, but also my salary and my considerable literary income for more than fifty ​years.” At the close of the Second Part, he makes the aged Faust say:—

Here, again, Goethe recalls a phase of his own psychologi- cal experience, which he describes at some length in Wahrheit und Dichtung (Book XIII.). Even before Jerusalem’s suicide at Wetzlar had furnished him with the leading idea of Werther, he had been drawn, by what he calls the gloomy element in English literature,—especially by Hamlet, Young’s Night Thoughts, and the melancholy rhapsodies of Ossian,—to study the phenomena of self-murder and apply them, in imagination, to himself. Among all the instances with which he was acquainted, none seemed to him nobler than that of the Emperor Otho, who, after a cheerful banquet with his friends, thrust a dagger into his heart. “This was the only deed,” he says (and in what follows, I suspect, there is as much Dichtung as Wahrheit), “which seemed to me worthy of imitation, and I was convinced that one who could not act like Otho had no right to go voluntarily out of the world. Through this conviction I rescued myself both from the intention and the morbid fancy of suicide, which haunted an idle youth in those fair times of peace. I possessed a tolerable collection of weapons, wherein there was a valuable, keen-edged dagger. This I placed constantly beside my bed, and, before putting out the light, endeavored to try whether it was possible to pierce my breast, an inch or two deep, with the sharp point. Since, however, the experiment never succeeded, I finally laughed at myself, discarded all hypochondric distortions of fancy, and determined to live.”

In this first chorus I have been forced, by the prime necessity of preserving the meaning, to leave the second line ​unrhymed. The word schleichenden, in the fourth line, which I have endeavored to express by “clinging” (Hayward has creeping,” Blackie “through his veins creeping,” and Dr. Hedge “trailing”), is nearly equivalent to the English phrase “dogging one’s steps.” The first of the three Angelic Choruses rejoices over Christ’s release from Mortality, the second exalts him as the “Loving One,” and the third celebrates his restoration to the Divine creative activity.

Goethe heard a similar chant sung by the common people in Rome, in the year 1788; but his immediate model was undoubtedly the German Easter-hymn of the Middle Ages, many variations of which are given in Wackernagel’s work, One of these, dating from the thirteenth century, thus commences:—

The universal Easter greeting, at this day, among the Greeks, is Christos aneste! and the answer: alethos aneste! The same custom prevails throughout Russia, and in some parts of Catholic Germany.

In 1772, Goethe, writing to Kestner on Christmas Day, says: “The watchman on the tower trumpeted his hymn and awakened me: Praised be thou, Jesus Christ! I dearly love this time of the year, and the hymns that are sung.”

Again Goethe recalls his own early memories. These lines describe the religious exaltation excited in his boyish nature by Fraulein von Klettenburg, whom he has introduced into Wilhelm Meister (Book VI.), in the “Confessions of a Fair Spirit.” The above line suggests a passage of this episode: “Once I prayed, out of the depth of my heart: ​‘now, Almighty One, give me faith!’ I was then in the condition in which one must be, but seldom is, when one’s prayers may be accepted by God. Who could paint what I then felt! A powerful impulse drew my soul to the Cross, on which Jesus perished. Thus my soul was near to Him who became Man and died on the Cross, and in that moment I knew what faith is. ‘This is faith!’ I cried, and sprang up, almost as in terror. For such emotions as these, all words fail us.”

These two lines, in the original, are a marvel of compressed expression. The closest litera] translation is: ‘Is He, in the bliss of developing into (higher) being, near to the joy of creating,”—that is, the bliss of being born into the higher life to which He has ascended is scarcely less than the joy of the Divine creative activity. The Disciples, left behind and still sharing the woes of Earth, bewail the beatitude which parts Him from them.

The final Chorus of the Angels, which follows, is a stumbling-block to the translator, on account of its fivefold dactylic rhyme. The lines are, literally:—

In order to retain the rhyme, I have been obliged to express a little more prominently the idea of “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of one of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me,”—which is implied in the original. Dr. Hedge, I believe, is the only one who has hitherto endeavored to reproduce the difficult structure of this Chorus. He

thus translates the five rhymes:— ​

Goethe’s landscapes, like those of an artist, were always drawn from real studies;^[2] and some of his commentators, therefore, have tried to discover the original of this scene. Strasburg, Frankfurt, and even Weimar, have been suggested; but the first of these places, on the level plain of the Rhine, does not fit the description; while, judging from internal evidence, the opening of the scene must have been written before Goethe’s migration to Weimar. Such features as the river and vessels, the ferry, the suburban places of resort, and the view of the town from a neighboring height, indicate Frankfurt; and the gay, motley life of the multitude is another point of resemblance.

St. Andrew’s Night is the 29th of November. It is celebrated, in some parts of Germany, by forms of divination very similar to those which are practised in Scotland on Hallow E’en (October 31st). The maidens, as in Keats’s Eve of St. Agnes, believe that by calling upon St. Andrew, naked, before getting into bed, the future sweetheart will appear to them in a dream. Another plan is, to pour melted lead through the wards of a key wherein there is the form of a cross, into a basin of water fetched between eleven o’clock and midnight: the cooling lead will then take the form of tools which indicate the trade of the destined lover.

A magic crystal, sometimes in the form of a sphere, but ​frequently, no doubt, as a lens, was employed for the purpose of divination. The methods, in fact, were varied to suit the superstition which employed them. In Pictor’s “Varieties of Ceremonial Magic” (given in Scheible’s Kloster), twenty-seven forms of divination are described at length, but Crystallomancy is not among them. The ancients employed between forty and fifty different methods.

If this passage was not added, or at least re-written, be- tween 1797 and 1808,—as is possible,—it is interesting as one of the first evidences of Goethe’s interest in Color, an interest which finally developed into a passion, and quite deceived him in regard to the importance of his observations. His Farbenlehre (Science of Colors) was commenced in 1790 and completed in 1805, the year of Schiller’s death, although it was not published for four or five years afterwards. Either, therefore, the allusions to color in this early scene harmonized with the author’s later views, or they were afterwards changed for the sake of harmony.

There is a reference to this song of the shepherds in Wilhelm Meister (Apprenticeship), where Philine says: “‘Old man, dost thou know the melody: “All for the dance the shepherd dressed”’?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, ‘if you will sing and represent the song, I shall not fail in my part.’ Philine arose and stood in readiness. The old man struck up the melody, and she sang a song which we cannot communicate to our readers, because they perhaps might find it absurd or even improper.” This portion of Wilhelm Meister was published in 1795, which is another evidence of the early origin of the scene. The graceful measure of the song, which nevertheless expresses the roughest realism of German peasant-life, can only be approximately given in another language,

This episode, also, is suggested by Goetne’s earliest memories of the various popular festivals in Frankfurt. In ​Wahrheit und Dichtung (Book I.), he says: “On the right bank of the Main, below the city, there is a sulphur spring, neatly enclosed, and surrounded with immemorial linden-trees Not far from it stands the ‘Good People’s Hall,’ formerly an hospital, built on account of this spring. The cattle of the neighborhood were brought together upon the adjoining commons, on a certain day of the year, and the herdsmen, with their maidens, had a rural festival, with dances and songs, with merriment and rough pranks. . . . The nurses and maids, who are always ready to treat themselves to a walk, never failed, from our earliest years, to take us with them to such places, so that these country diversions are among the very first impressions which I now recall.”

It is very rarely that the first and third lines of a quatrain are unrhymed in German. I have no doubt that Goethe intended to represent, by a less musical verse, the more prosaic nature and speech of the common people. The words he employs in the two addresses of the Old Peasant are the simplest and plainest; the tone of the verse is entirely that of prose.

Düntzer conjectures that Goethe derived the idea of this helpful activity of Faust, upon which rests the episode with the peasants, from the history of Nostradamus. In the year 1525, when the latter was twenty-two years old, Provence was devastated bya pestilence. The young physician went boldly from house to house, through the villages, and saved the lives of many of the sick, himself escaping all infection.

The jargon of the mediæval alchemists, from Raymond Lully to Paracelsus, is used in this description. The system taught that all substances, especially metals, had either masculine or feminine qualities, as well as inherent affinities and antipathies. Campanella’s doctrine, that all the elements of ​matter were endowed with sense and feeling, was very generally adopted by his successors in the art. Goethe drew his description of the preparation of the panacea partly from Paracelsus, and partly from Welling’s Opus Mago-Cabbalisticum.

The “Lion red” is cinnabar, called a “wooer daring” on account of the action of quicksilver in rushing to an intimate union (an amalgam) with all other metals. The Lily is a preparation of antimony, which bore the name of Lilium Paracelsi. Red, moreover, is the masculine, and white the feminine color. The alembic containing these substances was first placed in a “tepid bath”—a vessel of warm water—and gradually heated; then “tormented by flame unsparing” (“open flame,” in the original), the two were driven from one “bridal chamber” to another,—that is, their wedded fumes were forced, by the heat, from the alembic into a glass retort. If then, the “young Queen,” the sublimated compound of the two substances, appeared with a brilliant color—ruby or royal purple being most highly esteemed—in the retort, “this was the medicine.” The product reminds us of calomel, which is usually formed by the sublimated union of mercury and chlorine.

In his conversations, Goethe more than once speaks of his youthful belief in spirits, even relating circumstances when he fancied their presence was manifested to him; and Riemer considers that this passage is simply an expression of such belief. Düntzer, on the other hand, insisted that Faust refers to the sylphs, or spirits of the air, as they were recognized in the theories of the alchemists, I think it much more probable that the following passage, from the Faust-legend in its oldest form (Frankfurt, 1587), lingered in Goethe’s memory. Faust says to Mephistopheles: “My servant, declare what spirit thou art!” The spirit answered and said: “I am a spirit, and a flying spirit, potently ruling under the heavens!” In the four lines of the text, followed by the wish for a magic mantle (such as Mephistopheles ​afterwards furnishes), Faust unconsciously invokes the spirit which is already lying in wait for him, and which, thus invited, appears immediately in the form of a black dog. Wagner, however, who comprehends nothing but the dry lore with which he is crammed, sees in Faust’s words only a reference to the weather-spirits, and thereupon pompously airs his own knowledge of the latter.

The expression, in the preceding couplet, that one part of Faust’s dual spirit sweeps upwards “into the high ancestral spaces,” suggests, equally, a passage in the Augsburg puppet-play. He is there made to exclaim: “Invisible Spirits, receive me! I soar to your dominion. Yes, I will lift myself out of this wretched atmosphere, which is only for common men!”

The belief in evil spirits inhabiting the nether regions of the atmosphere is very ancient. Paul calls Satan “the prince of the power of the air” (Ephesians ii. 2), and thus gives Christian currency to a much older superstition. In the poem Zodiacus Vite, of Marcellus Palingenius (written about the year 1527), the different atmospheric demons are minutely described. Their names are Typhurgus (Mist-bringer), Aplestus (the Insatiable), Philokreus (Lover of Flesh), and Miastor (the Befouler). Wagner’s classification indicates the effects of the four winds upon the weather and the human frame. In Germany, the east wind is dry and keen, and the west wind brings rain.

Hayward, in his Notes, quotes the following additional authorities:—

“The spirits of the aire will mix themselves with thunder and lightning, and so infest the clyme where they raise any tempest, that soudainely great mortality shall ensue to the inhabitants.”—Pierce Pennilesse his Supplication, 1592.

“The air is not so full of flies in summer, as it is at all times of invisible devils: this Paracelsus stiffly maintains.” —Burton, Anat., Part I.

​

The appearance of Mephistopheles in the form of a dog is a part of the old legend. Manlius, in the report of his conversation with Melancthon, quotes the latter as having said: “He (Faust) had a dog with him, which was the Devil.” The theologian, Johann Gast, in his Sermones Conviviales, describes a dinner given by Faust at Basle, at which he was present, and remarks: “He had also a dog and a horse with him, both of which I believe were devils, for they were able to do everything. Some persons told me that the dog frequently took the shape of a servant and brought him food.” In some of the early forms of the legend the name of the dog is given as Prestigiar: he is described in Widmann as large, shaggy, and black, but in other versions he is of a dark red color. The Wagner-legends all agree in giving the latter, as attendant, an evil spirit in the form of a monkey, whom he called Auerhahn (moor-cock).

Burns, in Tam O'Shanter, says:—

“I need hardly point out to the reader how artfully the poet has managed by making Faust, in his perplexed state of mind, hit upon the most difficult passage in the whole Bible. The dissatisfaction which would thence arise would bring his mind into a fit state for listening to the suggestions of the tempter; and thus would this precipitate spirit of discontent wrest the words of truth to his own destruction. As to the interpretations he has given us of the ΑΟΤΟΣ, they are as consistent and intelligible as the speculations of human reason, upon one of the most obscure subjects to which it can be directed, can be supposed to be.”—Blackie, Notes to his Translation of Faust (London, 1834).

This passage is not, as Blackie supposes, a fortunate ​inspiration of Goethe. It is directly suggested by the legend. In Widmann’s “Veritable History of Dr. Faust” (Hamburg, 1599) I find, in the fifteenth chapter, that Mephistopheles thus answers Faust’s proposition to discuss with him certain questions of theology: “In so far as it concerns the Bible, which thou again art of a mind to read, there shall be no more permitted to thee than, namely: the first, second, and fifth books of Moses; all the others, except Job, shalt thou let be; and likewise in the New Testament thou mayst read the three Disciples that write of the deeds of Christ, that is to say, the tax-gatherer, the painter and the doctor (meaning Mattheum, Marcum and Lucam); but John shalt thou avoid, and I forbid also the chatterer Paul, and such others as wrote Epistles.”

This prohibition of the Fourth Gospel led Goethe, at once, to the opening verse, the attempt to translate which becomes not only a source of new perplexity to Faust, but also serves to hasten the poodle’s transformation, The fragments of Faust’s soliloquy, showing that his soul is turned towards “the love of God,” disturb the evil spirit incorporated with the beast; but the words of John, to which the spirit has a special antipathy, compel him to betray his presence.

The growth and terrible appearance of the poodle suggest a passage in Neumann’s “Curious Observations concerning the so-called Dr. Faust” (1702). He says, on the authority of Wier, the pupil of Cornelius Agrippa: “A schoolmaster of Gosslar had learned from Faust, the magician, the formula by which certain verses may be used to imprison the Devil in a glass. In order that he might not risk being interrupted, he went one day into a forest; and while he was in the midst of his invocations, the Devil came unto him in a horrible form, with fiery eyes, a nose curved like a cow's horn, with wild and fearful boar’s-tusks, a rough cat’s back, and every way frightful.”

One of the illustrations in Widmann’s book represents Mephistopheles appearing to Faust in front of the stove in the latter’s study, and conversing with him over the top of a ​fire-screen. The text says that Faust first became aware of the spirit as a shadow moving around the stove.

Solomon’s fame as a magician is mentioned by Josephus, and also by Origen, who was acquainted with a work on the manner of citing spirits to appear, ascribed to the Hebrew king. There seems to be no doubt that Solomon was a chief authority with the Jewish exorcists, from whom his name and some of his supposed formulæ of invocation were transmitted, until we find them in the Cabbala of the Middle Ages. The Clavicula Salomonis is mentioned by Welling, Paracelsus, and other writers, and some copies have been preserved. It is claimed that the genuine original contained only instructions by which good spirits might be invoked to assist in good works, but the variations give also the method of summoning evil spirits. In Faust’s Dreifacher Höllenzwang (copied in Scheible’s Kloster), the Clavicula Salomonis is given as it was communicated to Pope Sylvester by Constantine, and translated in the Vatican, under Pope Julius II. It is called ”The Necromantic Key of Solomon, or the Key to the Magic Wisdom of Solomon, and to compel the Spirits to every Manner of Service,” and commences: ”At first, pray (or sing) the following canticum hebraicum—Aba, zarka, maccaf, sofar, holech, (segolta), pazergadol,” etc. Then follow a number of similar invocations, together with the “Seal of the highest wisdom of Solomon,”—a very complicated figure of hexagonal form,—which must be held in the hand. Faust, as the reader will remark, employs an entirely different method of exorcism.

The universal belief in elementary spirits, during the Middle Ages, was a natural inheritance from the ancient faith. So much of their former half-divinity clung to them that they were assigned an intermediate place between men and genuine spirits. They were supposed to have positive and unchangeable forms, of a finer, more ethereal flesh and ​blood. and to be soulless, although the children born of their intercourse with human beings received human souls. They were classified, according to the element in which they lived, as Salamanders (in Fire), Undines (in Water,) Sylphs (in Air), and Gnomes (in Earth). Of these, the two latter classes were supposed to be most familiar and friendly.

Pope (Rape of the Lock), in his Dedicatory Letter to Mrs. Arabella Fermor, says, referring to the Rosicrucians: “The best account I know of them is in a French book called Le Comte de Gabalis, which, both in its title and size, is so like a novel, that many of the fair sex have read it for one by mistake. According to these gentlemen, the four elements are inhabited by spirits, which they call sylphs, gnomes, nymphs, and salamanders. The gnomes, or demons of the earth, delight in mischief; but the sylphs, whose habitation is in the air, are the best-conditioned creatures imaginable.”

In the first canto of the Rape of the Lock, the passage occurs:—

In the Comte de Gadalis, to which Pope refers, the four classes of the elementary spirits are very minutely described. It is there stated that they became invisible to the human race through the sin of Adam, that they are more perfect than men, “proud in appearance, but docile in reality, great lovers of science, officious towards sages, intolerant towards fools.”

Faust, it will be noticed, uses ”the Words of the Four,” but without effect. He then repeats the adjuration, in an other and stronger form. Here, however, the word Kobold ​(Gnome) is omitted, and Incubus, the dwarfish, tricksy, household spirit, is substituted. In German fairy-lore, there is a relationship between the two, but they are not identical. There seems to be no reason for the change; and, as Goethe attached no great importance to the passage, the rhyme, alone, may have suggested it.

The original is: ‘Thou shalt hear me more strongly ex- orcise!”” Suspecting that an infernal spirit dwells in the beast, Faust makes “the sign” of the cross, and the effect is immediately manifest. Düntzer says, “He presents to him the name of Jesus,”—which is certainly a misconception. Blackie quotes a passage from Cornelius Agrippa, declaring that evil spirits are affrighted by the sign of the cross,

Goethe, also, may have remembered the verse in the Epistle of James (ii. 19): “Thou believest that there is one God; thou doest well: the devils also believe, and tremble.”

Here Christ is described, but not named. The four lines are, literally:

The strong spell is now working upon the spirit; and the further threat of “the threefold, dazzling glow”—the emblem of the Divine Trinity—or its ancient mystic symbol, the rayed triangle, suffices to complete the exorcism.

Faust, in the old Höllenzwang, says: “Again I command thee, Spirit, by the words of might: Jesus Christ is become flesh—therewith I compel thee, and bind thee, and exorcise thee here, through Lucifer and Beelzebub and all the leaders of the hellish host, whatever may be your names.”

​

The original form of this name was Mephostophiles. There has been much discussion in regard to its meaning; but Düntzer’s conjecture is probably correct,—that it was imperfectly formed by some one who knew little Greek, and was intended to signify not loving the light. The expressions which Mephistopheles uses, in explaining his nature to Faust, would seem to indicate that this was also Goethe’s understanding of the name.

Although, in most of the popular Faust-stories, Mephistopheles is often referred to as “the Devil,” it was well understood that he was only a devil. In “Faust’s Miraculous Art and Book of Marvels, or the Black Raven” (1469), the powers and potentates of the Infernal Kingdom are thus given: King, Lucifer; Viceroy, Belial; Gubernatores, Satan, Beelzebub, Astaroth, Pluto; Chief Princes, Aziel, Mephistophilis, Marbuel, Ariel, Aniguel, Anisel, and Barfael.

Goethe took only the name and a few circumstances connected with the first appearance of Mephistopheles from the legend; the character, from first to last, is his own creation. Although he sometimes slyly used it (though less frequently than Faust) as a mask through which to speak with his own voice, he evidently drew the germ of some characteristics from his early associate, Merck. His own strong instinct led him to avoid the danger of personifying abstract ideas, by seeking in life for all material which could give a dramatic reality to his characters; and he did not scruple to take that which was nearest and most intimate.

“Merck and I,” said Goethe to Eckermann, in 1831, “always went together, like Faust and Mephistopheles. . . . . All his pranks and tricks sprang from the basis of a higher culture; but, as he was not a productive nature,—on the contrary, he possessed a strongly marked negative tendency,—he was far more ready to blame than praise, and involuntarily sought out everything which might enable him to indulge his habit.”

In Wahrheit und Dichtung (Book XII.) Goethe gives a ​careful and doubtless a correct picture of Merck’s character and temperament. “This singular man,” he says, “who exercised the greatest influence upon my life, was a native of Darmstadt.^[3] When I first knew him, he was Military Paymaster there. Born with spirit and intelligence, he had acquired much admirable knowledge, especially of modern literature, and had busied himself in all directions and with all the phenomena of Man and History. He had the faculty of sharp and pointed judgment, and was esteemed both as an honest, energetic man of business, and a rapid arithmetician. Thoroughly self-possessed, he appeared everywhere as a most agreeable companion for those to whom he had not made himself dreaded by his keen, satirical speech. He was long and lean of form; his prominent, pointed nose was a conspicuous feature; keen blue, perhaps gray eyes, observantly moving to and fro, gave something of the tiger to his look. . . . .

“In his character there was a remarkable contradiction. Naturally an upright, noble, worthy man, he was imbittered against the world, and allowed such full sway to this moody peculiarity that he felt an invincible inclination to show himself wilfully as a waggish knave,—nay, even a rogue. Calm, reasonable, good, one moment, the next he would take a whim, like a snail thrusting out its horns, to do something which offended, aggrieved, or even positively injured another. Yet, as one is attracted to associate with something dangerous, when one imagines himself to be secure against its attack, my own inclination was all the greater to live in his company and enjoy his good qualities, since I felt the most confident presentiment that he would not turn his evil side ​towards me. As, on the one hand, he disturbed society by this morally restless spirit, this continual necessity to deal with men spitefully and maliciously, so, on the other hand, a different unrest, which he also carefully nourished within himself, undermined his own contentment.”

In Widmann’s Faust-book, Mephistopheles appears in the character of a monk. In the Geisselbrecht puppet-play Faust commands him to put off his first terrible form, and says: “Thou mayst come as jurist, as doctor, or as hunter, but it were better that thou appearest as a student.” In the Ulm version, when Mephistopheles asks: “In what form shall I appear?” Faust answers: “Like as a man.” In the Strasburg play, Faust asks, after having chosen Mephistopheles: “But why appearest thou to me under this mask? I wished for a devil, and not one of my own race.” Mephistopheles answers: “Faust, perhaps we are then wholly devils, when we resemble you; at least, no other mask suits us better.” He thereafter next makes his appearance as a postilion.

Goethe’s choice of the character of a travelling scholar—or, I should perhaps say, a vagabond scholar—was prob- ably dictated by the succeeding scene (IV.), which was first written. Another projected scene, given in the Paralipomena (and added in a later note), furnishes additional reasons. The travelling scholars of the Middle Ages were a pretentious, adventurous class—the pedantic Bohemians of those days—who wandered over Europe, maintaining theses, entering into private or public discussions with equal flippancy, and sponging upon the universities and monasteries. The appearance of Mephistopheles in such a form is an ironical reflection upon Faust’s devotion to learning; yet the latter is unconscious of this, and his first surprise gives way to a contemptuous laugh.

In the original, the first of these names is given as Fliegengott, Fly-god. For the sake of metre, I have substituted our familiar Hebrew equivalent, Beelzebub—or, more ​correctly, Baalsebub, ”Destroyer” and Liar, or “Father of Lies,” are also familiar to us as Abaddon and Satan. Faust must be supposed to accept the orders of the infernal hierarchy, as given in the cabalistic writings, whence his endeavor to identify the particular fiend whom he has invoked.

In declaring himself, first, to be part of that power “which always wills the Bad, and always works the Good,” Mephistopheles is unexpectedly frank. His expression coincides exactly with the declaration of The Lord (see page 15), as to the service he is obliged to perform.

In the passage which follows, he is equally honest, and the above line clearly describes the part which he plays, from beginning to end. He is the Spirit of Negation, and his being exists through opposition to the positive Truth, and Order, and Beauty, which proceed from the never-ending creative energy of the Deity. The masks which we find him assuming in the Second Part of Faust are all explained by this necessity of Negation. His irreverence and irony are not only a part of his nature, but they are further increased by the impotence of his efforts—which he freely admits in the following passages—to disturb the Divine system.

Mephistopheles draws his theory of the primeval darkness from the Theogony of Hesiod. His reference to “bodies” shows that he understands the physical and spiritual identity of light and life. Since we have seen that, in Widmann’s Faust-book, he prohibits to Faust the reading of the Gospel of John, we may surmise a connection between his hostility to light and these verses from the first chapter of that Gospel:—

“In him was life; and the life was the light of men.

“And the light shineth in darkness ; and the darkness comprehended it not.”

“Let men continue to worship Him who gives the ox his ​pasture, and to man food and drink, according to his need. But I worship Him, who has filled the world with such a productive energy, that, if only the millionth part became embodied in living existences, the globe would so swarm with them that War, Pestilence, Flood and Fire would be powerless to diminish them, That is my God!”—Goethe to Eckermann, 1831.

In the original, Drudenfuss. Drud, from one root with Druid, was the old German word for “wizard.” The wizard’s-foot, or pentagram, was supposed to possess an especial potency against evil spirits. It is simply a five-rayed star, thus:—

Its efficacy undoubtedly sprang from the circumstance that it resolves itself into three triangles, and is thus a triple symbol of the Trinity. Paracelsus ascribes a similar, though a lesser, degree of virtue to the hexagram. Another peculiarity of the pentagram is, that it may be drawn complete from one point, without lifting the pencil, and therefore belongs to those involuntary hieroglyphics which we sometimes make, in moments of abstraction. Thus Tennyson, in The Brook:—

This remarkable chant is known in Germany (Goethe himself being, I believe, the first to so designate it) as the Einschläferungslied, or Lullaby. It is one of the few things ​in the work which have proved to be a little too much for the commentators, and they have generally let it alone. By dropping all philosophical theories, however, and applying to it only the conditions of Poetic Art, we shall find it easily comprehensible. Faust is hardly aware (although Mephistopheles is) that a part of his almost despairing impatience springs from the lack of all enjoyment of physical life ; and the first business of these attendant spirits is to unfold before his enchanted eyes a series of dim, dissolving views—sweet, formless, fantastic, and thus all the more dangerously alluring—of sensuous delight. The pictures are blurred. as in a semi-dream: they present nothing positive, upon which Faust’s mind could fix, or by which it might be startled: but they leave an impression behind, which gradually works itself into form. The echo of the wild, weird, interlinked melody remains in his soul, and he is not supposed to be conscious of its operation, even when, in the following scene, he exclaims to Mephistopheles:—

The rhythmical translation of this song — which, without the original rhythm and rhyme, would lose nearly all its value—is a head and heart breaking task. I can only say that, after returning to it again and again, during a period of six years, I can offer nothing better.

The word Junker, which Mephistopheles uses, corresponds exactly with “squire,” as a term of chivalry. In the text of the puppet-play, when he makes his appearance the second time, he is described as wohlgekleidet—respectably dressed. His costume on the puppet-stage was a red tunic, under a long mantle of black silk, and a cock’s-feather in his hat. Goethe purposely retains this costume, because it is sufficiently appropriate to his conception of the character, which he expressly declares is too negative to be daimonic. One of the very few hints of his intention which he allowed ​to escape him occurs in his conversation with an English gentleman in 1825, as reported by Eckermann. “Really,” said he, “I should not have advised you to read Faust. It’s fantastic stuff, and transcends all ordinary sentiment. But, since you have begun of your own accord, without asking se, you may get through it the best way you can. Faust is so singular an individual that only a few persons can reproduce his spiritual conditions in their own minds. Then the character of Mephistopheles, through his irony, and as the living result of a vast observation of the world, is also something very difficult to comprehend.”

Compare, also, the remarks of Mephistopheles to the witch, in Scene VI.:—

The first fragment of the Paralipomena possibly belongs here, although there is also a place for it towards the close of the scene. In the following lines, omitted alike in the editions of 1790 and 1808, Mephistopheles continues to advise a change of costume:—

I have not been able to find any evidence concerning the date of these rejected passages of Faust. Most of the German critics agree that the first part of the scene, withheld in the first edition, was afterwards materially altered by Goethe; some of them even venture to point out the portions remaining from 1775, and those added in 1798, or later. Since, however, the slight difference of style perceptible in the text must disappear in the translation, it is not necessary to repeat their views.

​

“When I say, My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint;

“Then thou scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me through visions:

“So that my soul chooseth strangling, and death rather than my life.”—Job vii. 13, 14, 15.

Faust’s curse, which includes even the sentiment of childish faith that overcame him on the Easter morning, places him, unconsciously, in the power of Mephistopheles. The Chorus of Spirits indicates, in a few powerful lines, his rupture with the order of life. The first words of Mephistopheles which follow, would lead the reader to suppose that the spirits were infernal, and thus a singular discrepancy between their character and their expressions is implied. Düntzer says: “Their cry of woe and their lament over the beauty of the world, which Faust has shattered, together with his designation as demigod, can only be accepted as a scoffing irony of the spirits, which, equally with Mephistopheles, well know that they can give him no real compensation for the fortune which he has criminally rejected.” Deycks’s comment is less logical: “He (Faust) can only recover through his own act ; in his resolute breast, by clear intelligence, he can create a soil wherefrom new songs will shoot. The spirits allure to a life of deeds and poetry, to the broad, great world. And Mephistopheles offers himself as a guide.”

In Leutbecher’s work, however, I find a hint of what I believe to be the true intention of this Chorus. He says: “The pure spirits who direct the harmonies of existence lament over his (Faust’s) step, and encourage him to commence another and fairer career. But Mephistopheles calls these voices precociously shrewd, and proposes the conditions of his compact, promising delights which, in advance, appear worthless to Faust.” The lament is certainly not ironical; on the contrary, the course of the drama, as it is ​afterwards developed, is here shadowed forth by the spirits, and Mephistopheles no more comprehends them than Faust. He is deceived, as in the Fifth Act of the Second Part.

In the Augsburg puppet-play, Faust is attended by a good Genius, who, when he has signed the compact with Mephistopheles, exclaims: “Woe to thy miserable soul!” and disappears.

“Oh why must we, in order to speak of such things, use images which only represent external conditions! Where is there anything high or low, obscure or enlightened, in His sight? We, only, have an Above and Below, a Day and a Night. And just therein did He (Christ) resemble us, because we should otherwise have no share in Him.”—Wilhelm Meister (Confessions of a Fair Spirit).

Goethe also places one of these phrases—

in the mouth of Mephistopheles, after the compact.

This passage has given rise to a great deal of discussion. The offer of Mephistopheles,—

which provokes Faust’s exclamation, is suggested by the puppet-play. In the Strassburg version, Mephistopheles says: “I will fill for thee the goblet of delight, full and foaming, as it never yet has been filled to any mortal.”

Faust’s reply seems to have puzzled many of the commen- tators, some of whom—as Deycks, Hartung, Rosencranz and Leutbecher—pass it over with slight notice, while others endeavor to analyze the meaning. The following quotations embrace the principal varieties of interpretation:—

1. “I know thy rotten gifts, says Faust. Which of thy fine goods of the earth wilt thou offer me? How could the like of thee ever be capable of measuring the unquiet of ​man’s breast? Hast thou food to serve up which never satisfies? Or canst thou only show trees which daily bloom anew and bud again? I loathe this foliage of yesterday, this tale which, ever the same, is told in the morning, and in the evening dies away again—‘show me the fruit that rots before it is gathered, and trees that daily renew their green!’” —Falk.

2. “The promise of Mephistopheles appears to Faust but mockery. What can a devil give a man to satisfy him, when he is not capable of giving it to himself? The gifts of a devil, he says, are but delusions, and melt away in the same manner as his quicksilver-like gold; thus he can only bestow fruits which would not rot before the plucking, but no ever-budding tree sprouts forth beneath his skill and fostering.”—Schudbarth.

3. “The meaning plainly is:—I know well thou, poor devil, hast riches and other fleeting pleasures, that excite our longing only that they may elude our grasp, that dazzle only to deceive, and whose substantial worth is always in the inverse ratio of their outward promise. Wouldst thou allure me, thou must hold out fruits that rot, not after, but before they are broken, and thus cannot, like the fruits of mere sensuality, deceive us by an external glow when tempting us on the tree, but rotting whenever the hand of enjoyment is stretched forth to pluck them. Show me no frail blossom of a fleeting spring, but ‘trees which day by day their green repair.’”—Blackie.

4. “The most probable supposition is, that Faust’s meaning is pretty near the same as in the subsequent speech, in which he expresses a wish to enjoy all that is parcelled out among mankind, pain and pleasure, success and disappointment, indifferently. Taking this wish into consideration, we may well suppose him saying: ‘You can give nothing of any real value in the eyes of a man like me; but if you have the common perishable enjoyments of humanity to bestow, let me have them.’”—Hayward.

5. “Faust admits that the devil has all the different kinds of Sodom-apples which he has enumerated, gold that melts ​away in the hand, glory that vanishes like a meteor, and pleasure that perishes in the possession. But all these torments are too insipid for Faust’s morbid and mad hankering after the luxury of spiritual pain. Show me, he says, the fruit that rots before one can pluck it, and (a still stronger expression of his diseased craving for agony) trees that fade so quickly as to be every day just putting forth new green, only to tantalize one with perpetual promise and perpetual disappointment,”—Brooks.

A careful study of the structure of the passage does not permit me to accept any of these interpretations. Omitting the first three lines, the remainder is a single sentence, violently interrupted by a dash (—) at the end of the eighth line, The two lines which follow are contemptuous and scornful metaphors, summing up the catalogue of the deceitful gifts which Faust admits Mephistopheles can offer. They simply repeat, in another form, what he has declared in the preceding lines. He commences the enumeration of the pleasures whose worthlessness he knows,—gold, love, honor,—then, breaking off impatiently, exclaims, referring to those pleasures:—

These images express the cheating, disappointing, inadequate character of all the usual desires of men, to “a human soul, in its supreme endeavor.” The tone of the passage is keenly scornful and incredulous. Faust seriously desires nothing from Mephistopheles, not even the morbid luxury of self-torment; and in the bet which he offers, immediately afterwards, his reference to “an idler’s bed” seems to have been suggested by the words of Mephistophles, rather than by the craving of his own nature for repose.

Here Faust becomes earnest and definite. The one moment of supreme contentment is for him a symbol of endless ​capacity for happiness. The wager with Mephistopheles rests upon this couplet, which the reader must bear in his memory until he meets with it again, at the close of the Second Part.

There is no condition of this nature in the Faust-legends, The compact there is, that Faust shall have whatever he desires for the term of twenty-four years, when he passes, body and soul, into the power of Mephistopheles. The only slight resemblance to this passage, in any of the various versions, may be found in the Strassburg play, where Mephistopheles says: “Faust, have I not said to thee, thou canst thyself break the hour-glass of thy time? Thou hast done it in this moment.”

Mephistopheles refers to the inauguration feast, given on taking a degree.

“We are justly told,” Goethe continued, “that the cultivation in common of human capacities is desirable, and also the most important of aims. But man was not born for that; properly each one must develop himself as a particular individual, but also endeavor to attain an apprehension of what all are, collectively.”—Eckermann, 1825.

This scene commences with the above line, in the edition of 1790, and continues to the end in its present form, without the change of a word.

Goethe frequently makes use of a dash to denote both a change in the address and a movement of the speaker. The passage discussed in Note 62 is already an instance of this peculiarity. Here, Mephistopheles looks after Faust’s retreating figure, and addresses him as if he were still present. At the end of the above line, he turns away and continues his soliloquy, speaking of Faust in the third person.

​

With the introduction of the Student (whom we shall meet again, in the Second Part, as Baccalaureus), Mephistopheles not only assumes the mantle of Faust, but Goethe also assumes the mask of Mephistopheles. The episode, which is wholly his own invention, was written during his intercourse with Merck, and while his experience of academic teaching was still fresh and far from edifying. He gives the following account (in Wahrheit und Dichtung) of his study of logic, at the University of Leipzig: “I was at first diligent and faithful in attending the lectures, but I remained as much in the dark about philosophy as before. In logic, I found it altogether unaccountable why those operations of the mind, which I had from my earliest years performed with the greatest ease, should first be anatomized, individualized, and torn from their natural union, before one could know how to use them. Of the subject-matter of God, the world and the soul, I thought I knew just as much as my master, and he seemed to me, on not a few points to be sadly nonplussed.”

The “Spanish boots,” of which Mephistopheles speaks, were instruments of torture used in the Middle Ages. They were cases of wood, into which wedges were driven until the calves of the victim’s legs were compressed into the smallest possible space.

From logic, Mephistopheles passes to the method of scientific investigation, wherein Goethe seems to have remembered the couplet of Pope:—

In a conversation with Falk (translated by Mrs. Austin) he expresses corresponding views: “Our scientific men are rather too fond of details. They count out to us the whole consistency of earth in separate lots, and are so happy as to have a separate name for every lot. That is argillaceous earth; that is quartz; that is this, and this is that. But what am I the better if I am ever so perfect in all these ​names? When I hear them, I always think of the old lines in Faust,—

“What am I the better for these lots? what for their names? I want to know what it is that impels every several portion of the universe to seek out some other portion,— either to rule or to obey it,—and qualifies some for the one part and some for the other, according to a law innate in them all, and operating like a voluntary choice. But this is precisely the point upon which the most perfect and universal silence prevails.”

In a letter to Wackenroder, Professor of Chemistry at Jena, written in January, 1832, Goethe says: Notwithstanding we willingly allow to Nature her secret Encheiresis, whereby she creates and sustains life, and, although no mystics, we must finally admit the existence of an inscrutable something,—yet man cannot, if his aim be earnest, restrain himself from the attempt to drive the Inscrutable into such close quarters that he is at least satisfied and willing to confess himself defeated.”

The phrase encheiresin naturæ signifies, properly, “a treatment of Nature.” Here, however, Goethe seems rather to indicate the mysterious, elusive force by which Nature operates.

The practice of taking notes of the discourses which they hear, is universal among the German students. Many of the Professors encourage it by adopting a very slow, measured style of delivery. The advice of Mephistopheles is the keenest irony upon these formal methods of imparting knowledge.

VOL, I. 12 ​

In the Witches’ Kitchen (Scene VI.) Mephistopheles says:—

Elsewhere, however, Goethe says: “Unfortunately, words are usually mere expedients for man; he mostly thinks and knows a thing better than he expresses it.” In the above passage, Mephistopheles probably refers to “the letter that killeth,” and exalts it, in consonance with his character.

The programme of both parts of Faust is given in this line. No reference to the cabalistic Microcosm and Macrocosm is intended: “the little world” is here Faust’s individual experience of human desires and passions ; he issues from his seclusion to share in the ordinary history of men. This plan is developed, so far as necessary, in the First Part. “The great world” is life on a broader stage of action: intellectual forces are substituted for sentiments and passions: the narrow interests of the individual are merged in those of the race; and Government, War, activity on a grand scale and for universal, permanent ends, succeed, in order that Faust’s knowledge of the life of man shall be rounded into completeness. The Second Part of the work is devoted to this latter experience.

The following passage is the second of the Paralipomena, and was undoubtedly designed as an answer to the above lines. It seems to have been written at a later period, and we may conjecture that Goethe omitted the lines because they are not in accord with the manner of Mephistopheles

throughout the scene:— ​

The “Disputation,” which Goethe projected, for the further and clearer presentation of the characters of Faust, Wagner, and Mephistopheles, was probably intended to follow this scene. From the rough draught of his plan, retained in the Paralipomena, the reader may guess, not only the manner in which the rejected scene would have been developed, but also the considerations which compelled its rejection. I shall, therefore, give Goethe’s brief and not always (to any but himself) intelligible prose outline, inserting the half-dozen rhythmical fragments in what appear to be their appropriate places.

First Semichorus, Second Semichorus, Tutti of the Students, expressing the situation. The crowd, the surging to and fro, the pressing in and out.

Wagner, as opponent. He makes a compliment Separate voices, The Rector to the beadle. The beadles command order.

The Travelling Scholar (Mephistopheles) enters. Abuses the assembly. Chorus of students, half, entire. Abuses the respondent. The latter declines.

Faust accepts the challenge. Condemns his swaggering. Demands that he shall particularize.

Mephistopheles complies, but immediately begins a praise of vagabondage and the experience which it gives.

Semichorus.

Faust. Unfavorable picture of the vagabond.

Semichorus.

Mephistopheles. Forms of knowledge, lacking to the wisdom of the schools.

Faust. Γνῶθι σεαυτόν, in the finer sense. Challenges the opponent to propose questions from experience, all of which Faust will answer.

Mephistopheles. Glaciers. Bolognese Fire. Fata Morgana. Beast. Man.

Faust. Opposing question: where is the creative mirror?

Mephistopheles. Compliment. The answer another time,

Faust. Conclusion. Dismissal.

Chorus, as Majority and Minority of the hearers.

Wagner’s fear, that the spirits may utter what Man supposes is whispered to himself. ​It is also possible that this Disputation may have been designed as a substitute for the conversation between Mephistopheles and the Student, in which case it must have been projected at Rome, in the spring of 1788. On the 1st of March, that year, Goethe writes: “It has been an abundant week, and in memory it seems like a month. First, I arranged the plan of Faust,” etc. Göschen’s edition of his works, in 1790, was meant to be complete, up to that year, and the publication of Faust, as a “Fragment,” in the seventh volume, may have been due to that circumstance alone.

The locality of this scene possesses a double interest, through its connection with the early Faust-legend and with the academic years of the young Goethe. If the stranger who visits Leipzig will seek the large, ancient house, No. 1, Grimmaische Strasse, near the Market-Place, the sign “Auerbachs Keller,” nearly on a level with the sidewalk, will guide him down into the two vaulted chambers which have echoed to the wit and song and revelry of four centuries of jolly companions. He may still take Faust’s and Goethe’s place, at the head of the table in the farther room, order his wine from the seventieth or eightieth successor of the original landlord, and, while awaiting the preparation of some old-fashioned dish, study the two curious paintings, which have filled semicircular spaces under the arches perhaps since the year 1525.

Legends of Faust are as plentiful in Germany as those of kobolds or subterranean emperors; but these pictures, I believe, are the only local records left to our day. Widmann’s “Veritable History” (1599) mentions the year 1525 as the time when Faust began publicly to practise his magic arts, and the same date upon the pictures may signify either the year when they were painted, or when the event occurred which they illustrate. On this point there is a difference of opinion among the antiquarians, since Faust’s fate is mentioned in the inscriptions. Auerbach’s house was rebuilt in ​1530, but the massive, vaulted cellars were evidently left from the earlier building. The pictures, which were painted by no mean artist, have not only grown very dingy, but they were partly repainted in the years 1636, 1707, and 1759. Under the present inscriptions, which have also been renewed, there are marks of an older one, probably identical, although this cannot now be established as a fact.

The first picture (about ten feet in length by four in height) represents Faust, with a full beard, a ruff around his neck, mantle and fur cap, seated at the head of a table, with a chased goblet in his hand. Next to him is a student who, with lifted arm, is pouring wine from a glass, apparently as a libation. Seven others are seated at the table, two of them about to drink, while five are playing upon musical instruments,—a portable clavichord, a lyre, flute, violin, and bass-viol. At the left end of the picture there is a barrel of wine, with a Ganymede in trunk-hose waiting beside it. A small black dog, in the foreground, appears to be watching Faust. Under this picture is the inscription:—

Some of the German scholars read the distich thus:—

(Live, drink, carouse, remembering Faust and his punishment: it came slowly, but was in ample measure.)

The other picture shows Faust, astride of the wine-cask, which is flying through the door. His face is turned towards the company, and he lifts one hand as a parting salutation. The landlord, servants, and students gaze at him and at each other with gestures expressive of fear and astonishment. The six lines of German doggerel at the bottom of the picture also indicate a later date, since they refer to Faust’s punishment. Blackie’s translation of this inscription is very: good:—

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