In the paradise we left?
We’re content here none the less;
East and west, where’s best to be?
Let us bless our luck, and bless
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Mother Earth’s fertility.
FINGERLINGS. To these small folk the Earth
In one night gave birth;
Now the smallest appear,
Our kind too is here.
THE PYGMY ELDERS. Take up positions,
In this new country,
And be in readiness,
Strong by your speediness!
Set up your foundry
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To make munitions,
To turn out weapons
When the war happens.
Ants, we’ve a task for you:
Metals we ask of you.
Swarm and get busy!
And you tom-fingerlings,
You thousand tiny things,
Bring us whatever
Wood you can gather!
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Heap it together:
Our metal-smiths require
Its secret fire.
THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF. Now in good order,
Set out with arrows
And shoot those herons
Down by the water,
All at one swoop!
Thousands of nests there;
Puffing their breasts there,
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All cock-a-hoop.
Fetch from that feathered breed
The helmet plumes we need!
THE ANTS AND FINGERLINGS. Now who will Save US?
Iron for giants
We make, and they make
Chains to enslave us.
Too soon to break them: we
Must show compliance.
THE CRANES OF IBYCUS. Shrieks of murder, dying cries,
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Wings’ fear-stricken susurration,
Moans and wails of lamentation:
Through the air to us they rise.
See, with blood the lake is red!
All the herons now lie dead,
Of their noble crests despoiled
By a greed perverse and wild,
And the plume already waves
On those bow-legged pot-paunched knaves.
You companions of our host,
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Wedgewise wanderers of the coast,
For revenge on you we call;
These were kindred of us all.
To the bane of that thrice-hated
Race let all be dedicated!
[They scatter in flight with raucous cries.]
MEPHISTOPHELES [on the plain].
Up north, the witches would respect one’s rights:
I just can’t deal with these damned foreign sprites.
The Blocksberg—that’s a snug spot, I must say;
One feels at home there, wander as one may.
Old Use on her Rocle still waits up for us,
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And so does Heights on his Häghts; the Snorers
Are snorting towards Elend as before;*
It’s all been there a thousand years or more.
But here, where does one stand? That’s the real trouble:
One can’t tell when the ground will burst a bubble
Under one’s feet. I’m calmly wandering
Down a wide valley—suddenly this thing
Pops up behind me; mountain one can’t say,
But high enough. My Sphinxes, where are they?
Hidden behind it… Here some fires still gleam
And flicker round; what wonders are downstream?
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That chorus—it still flirts invitingly,
Roguishly dancing, hovering, luring me
And yielding. Come! Lovers of tasty fare
Must take their chance to nibble anywhere.
THE LAMIAE [drawing MEPHISTOPHELES after them].
Now hurry! hurry!
Faster and faster!
Then pause a moment,
Chatter and comment.
It’s so amusing
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To be seducing
This old whore-master
Who would seduce us!
He will be sorry.
He has a dud foot;
Look at his club-foot
Hobbling and limping,
Clumping and stumping,
As he pursues us!
MEPHISTOPHELES [stopping in his tracks].
Oh, damned fate! Tricked and fooled again!
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Since Adam’s time, poor silly men!
Older, but wiser not a whit;
Even I often fell for it.
One knows they’re a completely worthless crew;
All laced up, and their faces painted too;
Unwholesome hags, no match for our advances—
In every limb they crumble at a touch;
One knows all this, eyes and hands tell as much,
And yet when these sluts play the tune, one dances!
THE LAMIAE [stopping].
Stop! He deliberates, he’s in doubt.
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Keep in his path, don’t let him out!
MEPHISTOPHELES [advancingagain].
But let’s not be too sceptical;
It’s foolish. Come, another try!
For if there were no witches, why
The devil be the Devil at all?
THE LAMIAE [exerting their charm]. Circle round this hero thus!
And his heart, we may be sure,
Will be touched by one of us.
MEPHISTOPHELES. Though the lighting is obscure,
You attract my wandering eyes;
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Pretty girls I don’t despise.
AN EMPUSA [thrusting herself in among them].
Don’t despise me either, please!
I’m as pretty as all these!
THE LAMIAE. Now she intrudes again; this bitch,
She always comes to queer our pitch.
THE EMPUSA [to MEPHISTOPHELES]. Your cousin, sir, begs leave to greet you!
Empusa Ass-hoof, pleased to meet you.
Your hoof’s just from a horse, I know;
We’re close relations even so.
MEPHISTOPHELES. I thought they’d all be strangers here;
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But they’re my family, I fear.
How old a book I’m browsing in!
German or Greek, they’re kith and kin.
THE EMPUSA. I can act quickly, too, and change
My shape at will: I’ve a whole range
Of shapes. But in your honour now
The ass’s head seemed right somehow.
MEPHISTOPHELES. These people set great store, I see,
By kindred and affinity.
But come what may, it must be said
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That I disclaim the ass’s head.
THE LAMIAE. Leave her alone, the hag! She scares
Beauty and charm away; who dares
Look beautiful and charming when
She shows her ugly face again!
MEPHISTOPHELES. These cousins too I must suspect:
They’re svelte and slim, but I detect
Behind those cheeks as red as roses
An imminent metamorphosis.
THE LAMIAE. Why don’t you try us? We are many.
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Just chance your luck; if you have any,
You may expect to snatch the prize.
This lustful litany—why, you
Poor fellow, that’s no way to woo!
You’ll need some cutting down to size.—
But now he’s mixing with us all:
So gradually let your masks fall—
Be your bare selves before his eyes!
MEPHISTOPHELES. The prettiest now—this one I’ll pick…
[As he embraces her]
Ugh! She’s a dried-up piece of stick!
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<
br /> [Seizing another]
Or this… What a disgusting face!
THE LAMIAE. And serve you right too! Know your place!
MEPHISTOPHELES. Ill catch that little lizard there…
But she slips through my hands! Her hair,
A pigtail slimy as a snake!
But here’s a tall one I can take …
It’s nothing but a thyrsus-staff;
Her head’s a pine cone. What a laugh!
What next?… That fat one with the paps,
I’ll get a squeeze from her perhaps;
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Come, one last try!—Ah, squashy, plump!
An Oriental prince for this soft rump
Would pay hard gold… But it explodes!
A fox-fart puffball, by the hellish gods!
THE LAMIAE.
Disperse now, flutter to and fro,
Swiftly and darkly round him, so,
This witch-man! Punish him, and rightly!
Uncanny circles, silent wings,
Bat-like, with half-seen hoverings!—
The rash intruder gets off lightly.
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MEPHISTOPHELES [shaking himself].
I’ve not learnt much from this experience,
It seems. The south, the north—neither makes sense;
Down here, back there, the ghosts are mad,
The common folk a bore, the poets bad.
Here too a masquerade, a dance
To give the senses one more chance.
I snatched at charming masks: they hid
Realities that really did
Make my flesh creep… Illusions are such fun,
If only they would stay with one.
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[Losing his way among the boulders.]
But now where am I? Here’s more trouble;
There was a path, and now it’s rubble.
I came this way on level ground,
Now these damned rocks are strewn all round.
This clambering up and down’s no good.
Where are my Sphinxes? Who ever would
Have thought of such a crazy scene?
In just one night a mountain’s been
Produced. Well done, that broomstick crew!
The Blocksberg’s in their luggage too.
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AN OREAD [from the natural cliff*]. My mountain’s old: come up to me!
Since earliest antiquity
I stand: respect my steep rock-bridges,
The extremities of Pindus’ ridges.
This was my shape when Pompey fled
Over my unmoved watershed;
Whereas that lump, that phantom show
Will vanish at the next cock-crow.
I’ve seen such magic many times: it rears
Its head, and just as quickly disappears.
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MEPHISTOPHELES. All honour to your summit, crowned
With noble oak-trees; they surround
An inner darkness standing dense
Against the moon’s bright radiance.—
And yet, close by the thicket gleams
And moves a modest light, it seems.
Well met by chance, I do confess!
It’s our Homunculus, no less!
Where are you off to, little man?
THE HOMUNCULUS. I’m hovering about as best I can,
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And what I want’s to be born properly:
I just can’t wait to break my glass, you see.
However, I’d not care to get
Into the bodies that I’ve so far met.
But between you and me, I’m looking
For two philosophers: I heard them talking
And they kept saying ‘Nature, nature’! They
Shall be the guides I cling to on my way;
They surely know the secrets of the earth,
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And in the end, no doubt, I’ll learn
From them which way I should be wise to turn.
MEPHISTOPHELES. YOU must find your own way to your own birth.
Where phantoms gather, the philosopher
Is welcome; he’ll create a dozen more
Phantoms at once, he can display
His art and his good will that way.
Only by error will you learn plain seeing.
Find your own way of coming into being!
THE HOMUNCULUS. Good advice never comes amiss, who knows?
MEPHISTOPHELES. Off with you then, and let’s see how it goes.
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[They separate.]
ANAXAGORAS [to THALES].
I see you’re of the same opinion still:
What more’s required to bend your stubborn will?
THALES. The waves will bend at every wind’s insistence;
From the unyielding rock they keep their distance.
ANAXAGORAS. I say this rock by fire was created.
THALES. In moisture all that lives originated.
THE HOMUNCULUS [appearing between them].
Allow me to accompany your debate!
I too am trying to originate.
ANAXAGORAS. In one night, Thales, you I think would fail
To make from slime a mountain on this scale.
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THALES. The peaceful flow of Nature’s living powers
Needs no constraint of nights or days or hours.
She moulds and rules all forms, and even on
The greatest scale no violence is done.
ANAXAGORAS. It was done here! Monstrous Plutonian heat,
Aeolian explosive gas, replete
With rage, burst through the earth’s old flat crust, and so
At once compelled this great new hill to grow.
THALES. Well, so you say; what then? The mountain came,
And when all’s said and done, that’s no great shame.
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We waste time thus disputing, and mislead
The patient flock who pay our words some heed.
ANAXAGORAS. Those rocky clefts are habitation
Already for a pullulation
Of pygmies, ants and fingerlings—
Myrmidon races, busy little things!
[To the HOMUNCULUS.]
You lack ambition; your career
Is hermit-like. If you can here
Adapt yourself to sovereignty,
I will have you crowned king immediately.
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THE HOMUNCULUS. Does my Thales advise it?
THALES. No; with small
People one does small deeds, but with the great
The small can rise to greatness. Contemplate
Up there the menacing black cloud
Of cranes: they threaten the excited crowd
And would be equal danger to a king.
With beaks and talons sharp as knives
They set the pygmies running for their lives;
The fatal storm is flickering
Already. As the herons stood
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About that quiet mere, their blood
Was murderously shed: that arrow-rain
Waters fierce vengeance for the slain.
Rage of the herons’ kith and kin
Is roused against the pygmies’ sin.
What shield or spear can now avail,
What dwarfish helm with heron plume?
The ants and thumblings hide and quail;
The army flees but cannot flee its doom.
ANAXAGORAS [after a pause, solemnly].*
The chthonic gods have favoured me till now:
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In this case to a higher power I bow.
Goddess, unageing on thy heavenly throne,
Thou of three names, three shapes in one:
Now in my people’s woe I call on thee,
Diana, Luna, Hecate!
Lifter of hearts, deepest in wisdom, tranquillest
In shining, in strong passion innermost:
Ope
n the dreadful gulf of thy dark shade,
And without magic let thy ancient power be displayed!
[A pause.]
Is my prayer heard too soon?
7910
By my imploring
To heaven soaring,
Is Nature’s order overthrown?
And bigger, ever bigger, nearer looming,
The goddess’s encircling throne is coming,
A monster to the eye, a sight of dread,
Its fire darkening to red!…
No nearer! Mighty menace, great round thing,
By you the land, the sea, we all are perishing!
So it is true: Thessalian witches once
7920
Sang magic spells in wicked confidence
That dragged you down from your celestial course,
And used you with destructive force!
But now the lustrous disc is darkling,
Suddenly cracking, flashing, sparkling!
I hear it spit, I hear it hiss!
What thundering, what monstrous gale is this?—
Prostrate I lie—forgive me, powers divine!
I called it down, the spell was mine!
[He prostrates himself.]
THALES. What curious things this man has seen and heard!
7930
I’m not quite sure what has occurred;
I noticed nothing, anyway.
These are mad times, one’s bound to say.
As for the moon, it’s still on high,
Floating as usual through the sky.
THE HOMUNCULUS. The pygmies’ mountain, look! I’d swear
It was round-topped, now there’s a peak up there.
I did feel a great crash or shock—
The moon had dropped that lump of rock.
It squashed to death both friend and foe,
7940
No by-your-leave for doing so.
But in one night, I must concede,
It took creative art indeed
To build this mountain quite spontaneously
From underground and from the heavens simultaneously!
THALES. Do not concern yourself; it was all fantasy.
We’re well rid of that squalid tribe. What a good thing
They didn’t choose you as their king.
Now for the festival, the great sea-treat!
Many a strange and honoured guest well meet. [Exeunt.]
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MEPHISTOPHELES [climbing on the opposite side]. So here I am, dragging myself up these
Steep ledges, past stiff roots of old oak-trees!
Back home in my Harz-land, the resinous smell*
Resembles pitch, which I like well,
As I do brimstone… In this old Greek place
There’s not a whiff of either, not a trace.
Do they have hell-fire here? If so,
What fuel do they use, I’d like to know?
A DRYAD. Back in your native land, your native wit
No doubt sufficed; here, you seem short of it.
7960
Give up your homesick notions, they’re home-made;
And reverence these oak-trees’ sacred shade.
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