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| That nothing perfect ever can accrue to Man
|
| I know deeply now. With all my bliss
|
| which brought me close and closer to the gods,
|
| you gave me the companion which I even now
|
| can no longer do without; though cold and insolent,
|
| he humbles me before myself, and by a single breath
|
| he transforms your gifts to nothingness,
|
| and busily he fans within my bosom
|
| a seething fire for that radiant image.
|
| I stagger from desire to enjoyment,
|
3250
| and in its throes I starve for more desire.
|
| ( MEPHISTOPHELES enters .)
|
| How would you, miserable son of earth,
|
| have lived your life without my help?
|
| I think I cured you for some time to come
|
| from the claptrap of your fantasy.
|
3270
| Except for me you would have made your exit
|
| from this globe some time ago. 33
|
| What is the point of cowering like an owl
|
| in fissured rocks and dismal mountain caves?
|
| Why, toadlike, do you swill your nourishment
|
| from soggy moss and dripping stones?
|
| A darling way to pass the time!
|
| The doctor’s in your belly still!
|
| What supernatural delight!
|
| To lie in nightly dew on mountain heights,
|
| to encompass earth and heaven in a rapture
|
| and inflate one’s being to a godlike state,
|
| to burrow to the core, inflamed by premonition,
|
| to feel six days of God’s creation in your bosom,
|
| enjoy in pride and strength I know not what,
|
| and flooding all in loving ecstasy,
|
3290
| the son of earth is canceled out—
|
| then comes the lofty intuition—
|
| ( Makes an obscene gesture .)
|
| to end in … Well, I’ll keep it to myself.
|
| I see that this is hardly to your liking.
|
| You may say “pig” in all propriety.
|
| One must not say to chaste and modest ears
|
| what chaste hearts can never do without.
|
| Once for all, you are most welcome to the fun
|
| of self-delusion now and then;
|
| you cannot keep it up for very long;
|
3300
| you’re driven on before you know,
|
| and should it last, you’re ground to bits
|
| by madness, torment, or sheer horror.
|
| Enough of this, your sweetheart sits at home,
|
| and to her the world seems close and dreary.
|
| You live forever in her mind.
|
| An overwhelming love for you has seized her soul.
|
| At first your passion rose and overflowed
|
| as when a brook will swell from melting snow;
|
| you poured it all into her bosom—
|
3310
| and now the brook runs dry again.
|
| I think, instead of playing king in forest groves,
|
| the gentleman might well see fit
|
| to give the squirming little creature
|
| a gift in gratitude for loving him.
|
| The time hangs heavy on her hands;
|
| she stands and sees the clouds pass by her window
|
| as they drift above the city walls.
|
| “If I were just a little bird”—so goes her song
|
| throughout the day and half the night.
|
3320
| Now she’s cheerful, but mostly she is sad,
|
| now her tears are streaming down,
|
| and then she’s calm again, it seems,
|
| and always, always loving you.
|
| When in her arms, I need no joys of Heaven.
|
| The warmth I seek is burning in her breast.
|
| Do I not every moment feel her woe?
|
| Am I not the fugitive, the homeless roamer,
|
| an aimless, rootless, monstrous creature,
|
3350
| roaring like a cataract from crag to crag,
|
| madly racing for the final precipice?
|
| And she along the banks with childlike, simple sense,
|
| there in her cabin on an alpine meadow,
|
| with all the homey enterprises
|
| encompassed by her tiny world.
|
| And I whom God abhors,
|
| I was not satisfied
|
| to seize the rocks,
|
| and crush them into pieces.
|
3360
| It was her life, her peace I had to ruin.
|
| You, Satan, claimed this sacrifice!
|
| Help, Satan, help abridge the time of fear!
|
| What has to happen, let it happen now!
|
| Let her fate come crashing down on mine,
|
| let us both embrace perdition!
|
| How you burn and seethe again!
|
| Go in and comfort her, you fool.
|
| When you pinheads find no place to go,
|
| you think at once, “It is the end!”
|
3370
| Long live he who stands his ground courageously!
|
| Till now I’d thought you pretty well en-deviled.
|
| I can think of nothing tawdrier in the world
|
| than a devil who despairs.
|