PRELUDE ON THE STAGE
Enter MANAGER, POET-PLAYWRIGHT, and PLAYER OF COMIC ROLES.
MANAGER. You two who have so often been of help
to me in trial and tribulation, |
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tell me, now that we’re here in Germany,
how well you think our enterprise will fare,
I’d greatly like to satisfy the public—
not least because they’re easy-going.
The posts are set, the boards are laid, |
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and everyone expects a splendid show.
Already in their places, quiet and expectant,
they’re hoping to be pleasantly surprised.
I know what counts for popularity,
and yet I’ve never been quite so uneasy— |
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of course they are not used to anything first-rate,
but still they’ve done an awful lot of reading.
How shall we offer only what is fresh and new
yet won’t offend because it’s just absurd?
As well you know, I like to see the public |
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when they are surging towards our tent
and, with a litany of groans and grumbling,
squeeze through the narrow gate of grace;
when in broad daylight, not yet four o’clock,
they shove and fight to reach our cash-box |
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and, as at the bakery-door for bread in time of famine,
they nearly break their necks to get a ticket.
With people of such different kinds, poets alone
perform this miracle—your task, my friend, today!
POET. Spare me your public and its varied kinds— |
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to glimpse it is enough to put our thoughts to rout!
Don’t let me see the surging crowd that can,
against our wills, draw us into its whirl.
Take me instead to some celestial refuge
where nothing blights the poet’s quiet joy |
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and where with godlike bounty love and friendship
create and nurture the blessings of our hearts.
Alas! what had its source in depths of feeling
and timid lips could only stammer,
defective here, but here perhaps successful, |
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is brutally engulfed by the tempestuous moment.
Often it is expressed in perfect form
only after many years of effort.
What glitters, lives but for the moment;
what has real worth, survives for all posterity. |
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PLAYER. Don’t talk about posterity to me!
Suppose I chose to preach posterity,
who’d entertain the present generation?
Amusement’s what they want, and what they’ll get.
A fine young fellow here and now is not, |
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in my opinion, altogether worthless.
If you know how to say your say and be relaxed,
you aren’t embittered by the public’s whims—
one even wants a good-sized audience,
to be more sure of getting a response. |
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So don’t be shy or hide your excellence:
let us hear Phantasy with all her choirs,
hear Reason, Good Sense, Sentiment, and Passion,
and take good care that Folly too is heard.
MANAGER. The main thing, though, is having lots of action! |
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Spectators come expecting something they can see.
If you unreel enough before the public’s eyes
to make them marvel open-mouthed,
a quantitative triumph is already won,
and you’re the man they idolize. |
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Only by mass can you subdue the masses—
there’s then enough for all to have their pick.
Offer a lot, and lots get what they want,
and no one leaves the theater uncontented.
Don’t wait because your piece is still in pieces! |
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Whatever you’ve concocted is sure to be a hit,
and simple recipes are simple to serve up.
Nor does it help to offer anything complete—
your audience will only tear it all apart.
POET. You don’t appreciate how low such hackwork is, |
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or how unworthy of a genuine artist.
I see that you derive your principles
from the fine efforts of incompetents.
MANAGER. Your accusation doesn’t hurt my feelings:
a man who wants to be effective |
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must know the worth of proper tools.
Remember that the wood you have to split is soft,
and don’t lose sight of whom you’re writing for!
If one is driven here by boredom,
another’s come from gorging at the table; |
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and worst of all, for many we are but
a change from reading magazines.
It’s curiosity that makes them rush our way,
as mindless as if to a masquerade;
the ladies displaying themselves and their finery |
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take supporting parts at no expense to us.
What do you poets dream of on Parnassus?
Why should a full house make you happy?
Take a close look at the patrons you have,
half are indifferent, the rest are boors! |
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After the play, he counts on playing cards,
and he on a wild night in some girl’s arms—
why, in a cause like this, must you poor fools
so sorely try the Muses’ kindness?
If you just give them more and more, and then still more, |
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I guarantee you’ll never miss the mark.
Just try to keep your audience distracted;
to please them is no easy task. …
But what’s this paroxysm—ecstasy or pain?
POET. Go find yourself another hireling |
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if you expect that merely for your sake the poet
shall wantonly forfeit the fundamental right
with which he and all men are endowed by Nature!
What is the force that lets him move all hearts
and even make the elements obey him? |
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The consonance between what surges from his heart
and what that heart in turn takes from the world!
When Nature, unconcerned, twirls her endless thread
and fixes it upon the spindle,
when all creation’s inharmonious myriads |
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vex us with a potpourri of sound,
who then divides the strand monotonously unreeling
and gives it life and rhythmic motion,
who summons single voices to the general choir
where music swells in glorious accord? |
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Who endows the storm with raging passions
or lets the sunset glow in somber mood?
Who bestrews the paths of those we love
with all the fairest blooms of spring?
Who plaits from humble leaves of green |
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garlands that honor merit however achieved?
Who preserves Olympus and keeps the gods assembled?—
The Poet who incarnates this human power!
PLAYER. In that case, put your fine abilities to use
and manage your literary business |
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the way a love affair’s conducted.
Two meet by chance, are smitten, don’t go on,
and bit by bit they get involved;
there’s growing happiness, with trials to test it;
joy knows no bounds, and then there’s misery, |
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and so before you know it you have got a novel.
Let the play we give be just like that!
From the whole store of human life just grab some bit—
we all live life, and yet to most it’s something strange,
so that it is of interest, whatever you may pick. |
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Lively scenes that aren’t too lucid—
much confusion, a glimmer of truth—
best let you brew the drink that satisfies
and yet refreshes one and all.
If that’s provided, then your play will draw |
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the young élite, alert for any revelation,
and from your work more tender souls
will suck the nourishment of melancholy,
and in the various emotions you arouse
all then will recognize what they themselves have felt. |
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They’re still as prone to weeping as to laughter,
still like fine turns of speech, delight in make-believe—
there is no pleasing those who are adult and know it,
but those who’re young won’t fail to show appreciation.
POET. Then give me, too, those days again |
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when I was young and life still lay ahead,
when one new song after the other
welled forth in an unceasing stream,
when through a veil of fog I saw the world,
and every bud still promised miracles, |
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when I gathered the myriad flowers
profusely filling every vale.
I had no worldly goods, yet had enough:
desire for truth and joy in make-believe. |
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Give me again my untamed passions:
the power to hate, the strength to love—
give me back my youth again!
PLAYER. Perhaps, my friend, you may need youth
when you’re beset by enemies in battle, |
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when all-too-charming girls insist
on throwing their arms about your neck,
when in a race the victor’s wreath
beckons afar from the hard-sought goal,
or when the frenzied whirl of dancing |
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ends in a night of revelry and wassail.
It’s up to you old gentlemen, however,
to play with sure and pleasing touch
whatever instrument you’ve mastered
and to meander gracefully |
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toward the goals you’ve set yourselves— |
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RAPHAEL. In ancient rivalry with fellow spheres
the sun still sings its glorious song, |
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and it completes with tread of thunder
the journey it has been assigned.
Angels gain comfort from the sight,
though none can fully grasp its meaning;
all that was wrought, too great for comprehension, |
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still has the splendor of its primal day.
GABRIEL. The earth as well revolves in splendor
with speed beyond all comprehending;
brightness like that of paradise
alternates with deep and awesome night; |
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the sea’s vast floods surge up and break
in foam against the rocks’ deep base,
and rock and sea are hurled along
in the eternal motion of the spheres.
MICHAEL. Contending storms sweep onward too |
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from sea to land, from land to sea,
and in their rage create a causal chain
whose power is far-reaching and profound.
Lo! a flash of devastation
lightens the path of coming thunder. |
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But still Your messengers, o Lord,
revere the quiet movement of Your light.
THE THREE. Angels gain comfort from the sight,
though none can fully grasp Your Being,
and all the grandeur You have wrought |
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still has the splendor of its primal day.
Enter MEPHISTOPHELES.
MEPHISTOPHELES. Since, Lord, You once again are come
to ask us how we’re getting on,
and before have often welcomed me,
You see among Your servants me as well. |
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I’m sorry I can’t offer high-flown language,
not even though all here assembled may deride me;
pathos from me, in any case, would make You laugh
if You had not stopped laughing long ago.
I’ve no remarks to make about the sun or planets, |
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I merely see how mankind toils and moils.
Earth’s little gods still do not change a bit, |
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are just as odd as on their primal day. |
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Their lives would be a little easier |
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if You’d not let them glimpse the light of heaven— |
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they call it Reason and employ it only |
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to be more bestial than any beast. |
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Saving Your Grace’s presence, to my mind |
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they’re like those crickets with long legs |
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who won’t stop flying though they only hop, and promptly |
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sing the same old song down in the grass again. |
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And if they’d only keep on lying in the grass— |
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they stick their noses into every dirty mess! |
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LORD. Do you have nothing else to tell me? |
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Do you ever come except to criticize? |
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Is nothing ever right for you on earth? |
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MEPHISTOPHELES. No, Lord! I find things there, as always, downright bad. |
I am so sorry for mankind’s unending miseries |
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that even I am loath to plague the wretches. |
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LORD. Do you know Faust? |
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MEPHISTOPHELES.The doctor? |
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LORD.And my servant! |
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MEPHISTOPHELES. Indeed? He serves You in a curious way. |
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The fool is not content with earthly food or drink. |
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Some ferment makes him want what is exotic, |
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yet he’s half conscious of his folly; |
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from heaven he claims as his the brightest stars, |
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and from the earth all of its highest joys, |
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but nothing near and nothing far away |
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can satisfy a heart so deeply agitated. |
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LORD. Though now he only serves me blindly and ineptly, |
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I soon shall lead him into clarity— |
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the gardener knows, when the sapling turns green, |
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that blossoms and fruit will brighten future years. |
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MEPHISTOPHELES. What’ll You bet? You’ll lose him yet |
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if You grant me permission |
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to guide him gently along my road. |
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LORD. So long as he is still alive on earth, |
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nothing shall prohibit your so doing— |
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men err as long as they keep striving. |
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MEPHISTOPHELES. You have my thanks—as for the dead, |
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I never did much care to bother with them. |
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Full healthy cheeks are what I best prefer. |
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I’m not at home to any corpse, |
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and like the cat prefer my mouse alive. |
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LORD. So be it! Do as you are minded! |
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Divert this spirit from its primal source, |
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and drag him, if you can keep hold of him,
along your downward path,
and stand abashed when you must needs admit:
a good man, in his groping intuition,
is well aware of what’s his proper course. |
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MEPHISTOPHELES. Agreed! The business won’t take long.
As for my bet, I’m not the least bit worried.
When I achieve my purpose,
let me beat my breast triumphantly.
Dust shall he eat, and greedily, |
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like my celebrated serpent-cousin.
LORD. When that occurs, again come uninvited.
I have no hate for creatures of your kind.
Of all the spirits of negation
rogues like you bother me the least. |
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Human activity slackens all too easily,
and people soon are prone to rest on any terms;
that’s why I like to give them the companion
who functions as a prod and does a job as devil.
But may, true sons of heaven, you delight |
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in beauty’s living richness!
May the power of growth that works and lives forever
encompass you in love’s propitious bonds,
and may you give the permanence of thought
to that which hovers in elusive forms.
Heaven closes; exeunt ARCHANGELS, severally. |
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MEPHISTOPHELES. (Solus) I like to see the Old Man now and then,
and take good care to keep on speaking terms.
It is quite decent of a mighty lord to chat |
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and be so human with the very devil. |
[Exit. |
