That which at nothing the
gauntlet
has hurled,
This, what's its name?
This, what's its name?
Faust, a Tragedy by Goethe
Beneath thy riddle-word what meaning lies?
_Mephistopheles_. I am the spirit that denies!
And justly so; for all that time creates,
He does well who annihilates!
Better, it ne'er had had beginning;
And so, then, all that you call sinning,
Destruction,--all you pronounce ill-meant,--
Is my original element.
_Faust_. Thou call'st thyself a part, yet lookst complete to me.
_Mephistopheles_. I speak the modest truth to thee.
A world of folly in one little soul,
_Man_ loves to think himself a whole;
Part of the part am I, which once was all, the Gloom
That brought forth Light itself from out her mighty womb,
The upstart proud, that now with mother Night
Disputes her ancient rank and space and right,
Yet never shall prevail, since, do whate'er he will,
He cleaves, a slave, to bodies still;
From bodies flows, makes bodies fair to sight;
A body in his course can check him,
His doom, I therefore hope, will soon o'ertake him,
With bodies merged in nothingness and night.
_Faust_. Ah, now I see thy high vocation!
In gross thou canst not harm creation,
And so in small hast now begun.
_Mephistopheles_. And, truth to tell, e'en here, not much have done.
That which at nothing the gauntlet has hurled,
This, what's its name? this clumsy world,
So far as I have undertaken,
I have to own, remains unshaken
By wave, storm, earthquake, fiery brand.
Calm, after all, remain both sea and land.
And the damn'd living fluff, of man and beast the brood,
It laughs to scorn my utmost power.
I've buried myriads by the hour,
And still there circulates each hour a new, fresh blood.
It were enough to drive one to distraction!
Earth, water, air, in constant action,
Through moist and dry, through warm and cold,
Going forth in endless germination!
Had I not claimed of fire a reservation,
Not one thing I alone should hold.
_Faust_. Thus, with the ever-working power
Of good dost thou in strife persist,
And in vain malice, to this hour,
Clenchest thy cold and devilish fist!
Go try some other occupation,
Singular son of Chaos, thou!
_Mephistopheles_. We'll give the thing consideration,
When next we meet again! But now
Might I for once, with leave retire?
_Faust_. Why thou shouldst ask I do not see.
_Mephistopheles_. I am the spirit that denies!
And justly so; for all that time creates,
He does well who annihilates!
Better, it ne'er had had beginning;
And so, then, all that you call sinning,
Destruction,--all you pronounce ill-meant,--
Is my original element.
_Faust_. Thou call'st thyself a part, yet lookst complete to me.
_Mephistopheles_. I speak the modest truth to thee.
A world of folly in one little soul,
_Man_ loves to think himself a whole;
Part of the part am I, which once was all, the Gloom
That brought forth Light itself from out her mighty womb,
The upstart proud, that now with mother Night
Disputes her ancient rank and space and right,
Yet never shall prevail, since, do whate'er he will,
He cleaves, a slave, to bodies still;
From bodies flows, makes bodies fair to sight;
A body in his course can check him,
His doom, I therefore hope, will soon o'ertake him,
With bodies merged in nothingness and night.
_Faust_. Ah, now I see thy high vocation!
In gross thou canst not harm creation,
And so in small hast now begun.
_Mephistopheles_. And, truth to tell, e'en here, not much have done.
That which at nothing the gauntlet has hurled,
This, what's its name? this clumsy world,
So far as I have undertaken,
I have to own, remains unshaken
By wave, storm, earthquake, fiery brand.
Calm, after all, remain both sea and land.
And the damn'd living fluff, of man and beast the brood,
It laughs to scorn my utmost power.
I've buried myriads by the hour,
And still there circulates each hour a new, fresh blood.
It were enough to drive one to distraction!
Earth, water, air, in constant action,
Through moist and dry, through warm and cold,
Going forth in endless germination!
Had I not claimed of fire a reservation,
Not one thing I alone should hold.
_Faust_. Thus, with the ever-working power
Of good dost thou in strife persist,
And in vain malice, to this hour,
Clenchest thy cold and devilish fist!
Go try some other occupation,
Singular son of Chaos, thou!
_Mephistopheles_. We'll give the thing consideration,
When next we meet again! But now
Might I for once, with leave retire?
_Faust_. Why thou shouldst ask I do not see.
