This challenge constitutes the ‘wager’: Faust literally bets his life that Mephistopheles can never make him complacent and inactive (1692–8). Up to this point what he says is relatively straightforward. But he now adds a further rhetorical development of his theme, passionately vowing (1699–706) to forfeit his life at once if ever, deluded into mere enjoyment, he so far forgets his embittered disillusionment as to bless a passing moment, entreating it not to pass because it is so beautiful. The poetic substance of these two celebrated lines (1699 f., ‘Werd ich zum Augenblicke sagen: Verweile dock, du bist so schön!’) is such, and so characteristic are they of the mature Goethe in whose work the theme of the ‘eternal moment’ so often recurs, that it is impossible to read them as seriously expressing the formula for his problematic hero’s ‘damnation’. Faust longs, like Blake, to kiss the moment as it flies, and so live in Eternity’s sunrise. This experience, and that of ‘lying down in sloth and base inaction’ (1692), sinking into the sty of contentment, are two very different things, though Faust’s speech appears to identify them. The divine Observer, we may assume, sees this identification, like the earlier grand curse on ‘the beautiful world’, as yet another example of Faust’s confusion. The idealist’s divine discontent is not to be assimilated to a perverse restless rejection of the beauty of the world: the latter is merely a parody of it. The truly Goethean, truly human and divine Moment would be a paradoxical synthesis of contemplation and action, a union of complete satisfaction with continued longing, an intersection of the timeless with time. The Lord, in whom (as Goethe put it in a late poem) ‘all striving and struggling is eternal rest’, knows that Faust in his heart of hearts really desires such a Moment, and that his pretence that he does not is really a challenge to Mephistopheles to provide it for him; or again, that since it has of course only one Provider, Faust is here in a further irony confusing the Devil with God. In other words, Faust’s defiant prediction that he will never experience the ultimately satisfying Moment, and Mephistopheles’ ironic undertaking to see to it that he does, are only rhetorical: at a deeper level Faust is longing for something which Mephistopheles, if he could conceive it, would be determined he should never have. Once this is appreciated, then something more like the traditional Devil scenario re-establishes itself: the Devil as tormentor and frustrator, who will withhold from his client the very thing he appeared to offer him. We revert, in fact, to the scenario of Mephistopheles’ concluding soliloquy (1851–67; see above, p. xxiv, and Note 37). In this soliloquy, the most crucial passage in that part of Sc. 7 (beginning at 1770) which was written and published at the Fragment stage, Mephistopheles looked forward to tantalizing and frustrating Faust, and there has been much discussion of the apparent discrepancy between this diabolic programme and the one now seemingly implied by the final Pact negotiation: namely, that if he is to win his bet with Faust he must try to satisfy him (1692–706). We might be content to leave the difference unresolved, merely pointing out that Goethe modified his plan after an interval of ten years or so, but was evidently unwilling to make consequential emendations in the text he had already published. In fact, however, we may say that in the later-written version too Mephistopheles’ function is still, at a deeper level, that of frustrating Faust by denying him his profoundest wish. In any case, it also still remains the ultimate aim of Mephistopheles to destroy Faust, to destroy his idealism by exploiting his restless craving for experience: and we may now see him as pursuing this purpose pragmatically by whatever means come to hand, whether by frustrating his desires or by seeming to gratify them. The discrepancy thus disappears—if not altogether, then at least into a more marginal area of our attention. The composite genesis of the scene remains a historical fact which cannot be overlooked, but we may now at least credit Goethe with having in a subtle, perhaps over-subtle way, constructed a later and larger conception round an earlier and narrower one.
Another addition or interpolation made at the 1797–1801 stage was the curious Walpurgis Night sequence (Sc. 24, 25; cf. Notes 95, 111 and 121). After killing Gretchen’s brother in Sc. 22, Faust has had to flee from the town where she lives, and some time has to pass while she bears their child, drowns it, and is arrested and condemned for infanticide. Dramatically it was reasonable enough that Goethe should feel it necessary to give Faust something to do during this interval, and his reference in the Urfaust prose scene to ‘vulgar diversions’ (Sc. 26, <10>) already hinted at this. It must be said, however, that Faust’s sensual orgy (if that is what the Blocksberg scene is intended to be) is in practice more than a little tame. Here again a change of plan is involved. Goethe at first intended a thorough-going witches’ sabbath, culminating in obscene and grotesque satanistic ceremonies at the top of the mountain, but regrettably he abandoned this idea, for which only a few manuscript jottings survive (cf. Note 121). Instead, as in the witch scene of the Fragment (Sc. 9), he seems to have decided that the whole satanistic scenario was not to be taken seriously but used for the insertion of miscellaneous satirical material, most of it intelligible only to an inner circle of his contemporaries. The result is that although Sc. 24 (the Walpurgis Night itself) contains some poetically remarkable passages, notably Faust’s vision of the doomed Gretchen (4183–205) which should lead to a dramatic climax, it then simply breaks off into incongruous trivialities. To make matters worse, Goethe at this point permitted himself an extraordinary act of literary irresponsibility, by inserting the irrelevant collection of epigrams which he whimsically called A Walpurgis Night’s Dream (Sc. 25, 4223–398; cf. Note 111). In any serious production of Faust as a play, this embarrassing piece of literary paraphernalia (which was certainly first intended for another purpose, as the Prelude on the Stage may have been) can only be quietly excised, along with about a quarter of the preceding Sc. 24.
A very much better feature of the final revision of Part One was of course the completion of the Gretchen tragedy by the restoration of the final Urfaust scenes which had been omitted from the Fragment. Valentine’s Urfaust soliloquy in Sc. 22 had already been an effective and moving passage as it stood; Goethe now completed this scene in an entirely suitable style, adding Valentine’s duel with Faust and his terrible dying speech in which he curses his sister as a whore. This is now followed (cf. Note 91) by the Cathedral scene and then, after the anticlimactic Walpurgis extravaganza, by the conclusion of the Gretchen tragedy with three more hitherto unpublished scenes of great dramatic power (cf. Note 122). It is sad to reflect that Schiller, but for whom Part One would probably never have been completed, not only did not live to see its publication but was apparently never even shown the text of these last Urfaust scenes (or for that matter the Prologue in Heaven or the new Faust-Mephistopheles dialogues). On 5 May 1798 Goethe wrote to him that he had been transcribing his old manuscript (the original Urfaust autograph) and had found that ‘certain tragic scenes are written in prose, they have a naturalness and force which in comparison with the rest makes them quite unbearable’. In a revealing formulation of the classical, anti-naturalistic aesthetic which he and Schiller now shared, he continues: ‘I am therefore now trying to put them into verse, so that the idea is seen as if through a veil, but the immediate impact of the dreadful subject-matter is softened.’ One of the prose scenes to which he here refers was Sc. 26, that of Faust’s violent recriminations with Mephistopheles over Gretchen’s impending fate, the scene to which Goethe now gave the title A Gloomy Day. Open Country. In this case, however, he decided on further consideration not only to drop the idea of versifying it but also to leave the wording of this characteristic Storm and Stress passage almost exactly as it was, despite the traces of abandoned conceptions which it contains (cf. Notes 124 and 125). It therefore now stands as the only prose scene in either part of Faust, a powerful and brilliant anomaly. The brief but haunting Sc. 27 which follows it could be considered to be in verse anyway and was therefore also left unchanged. The versification of the final Prison scene (Sc. 28) was, however, carried out, and whether o
r not we agree with Goethe’s theory that it softens the impact of the poignant and harrowing material, this revision was probably an improvement, if any improvement was possible. One addition, not dictated by any requirements of metre, was made at the very end: in the Urfaust version Mephistopheles’ exclamation Sic ist gerichtet! (literally ‘judgement has been passed on her’) were the last words spoken of Gretchen. In the final version (4597–612) Goethe has made ‘a voice from above’ echo them with the cry 1st gerettet! (‘she is saved’). This represents no radical change, since the redemption of Gretchen was already clearly enough implied in the Urfaust version by her submission, then as now, to her earthly fate as God’s judgement and by her renunciation of Faust. But Goethe evidently now wished to underline this point by adding the mitigating divine words, the effect of which is certainly dramatic. The tragedy of Gretchen’s immediately following execution (described by anticipation in 4587–95) nevertheless remains as the implied conclusion of both versions.
‘The First Part of the Tragedy’, as published in 1808, ends at this point; and apart from a few notes, fragments, and sketches Goethe did not begin writing the ‘Second Part’ until nearly twenty years later, when he was in his late seventies. Of the many visitors who in the latter part of his life came from Germany and abroad to call on him, some would try to get him to satisfy their curiosity by divulging any plans he might have for the sequel which the designation ‘Part One’ seemed to hold in prospect. In particular, having evidently not read or not understood the Prologue in Heaven, they would ask about the hero’s ultimate fate: ‘Tell us, your Excellency, will the Devil carry off Faust?’ On one occasion Goethe is reported to have replied impatiently: ‘No, on the contrary, Faust will carry off the Devil.’ His readers were perhaps understandably confused by the presence in the title of the word ‘tragedy’. This description was appropriate enough for what was predominantly the story of Gretchen, but it is a little difficult to account for its use, otherwise than as an ironic formality, in the title of what eventually appeared as Faust. The Second Part of the Tragedy in 1832. This extraordinary continuation in five long Acts, which it is here perhaps appropriate to summarize briefly, opens with Faust waking from a sleep of forgetfulness in the bosom of Nature, which has erased all memory of Gretchen from his mind. Much of the material that now follows is not so much drama as elaborate dramatic allegory which appears to be only loosely connected with the Faust theme. In largely comic scenes at the Imperial court, the spendthrift Emperor is first provided with ‘magical’ wealth by the printing of paper money, and then shown magical phantasms of Helen of Troy and her lover Paris. Faust is stricken with a passion for Helen, and Mephistopheles (on whom the new perspective of classical antiquity which predominates in Part Two now casts an ironic light) objects that he cannot assist in this matter since Helen is, so to speak, not his period. Faust is referred to subterranean mother-goddesses and an alchemical homunculus from whom we learn that he must seek Helen in ancient Greece. After he has encountered various other bizarre mentors in the course of an elaborate allegorical pageant (the Classical Walpurgis Night of Act III) Helen appears in ancient Sparta before the palace of her husband Menelaos, talking in the style of Euripidean drama to a chorus of women and to Mephistopheles, who is now disguised as a hideous old female servant and who persuades Helen to seek Faust’s protection. In the central third Act Faust appears as a medieval crusading knight; his union with Helen seems intended as an allegory of the cultural union between ancient and modern, Greek and German, in the synthesis of Weimar Classicism. Their son Euphorion, expressly identified by Goethe as an allegory of Byron, falls to his death in an attempt to fly; the idyll ends with Helen’s disappearance as she returns to the underworld, and with an impressive celebration of the eternally productive forces of Nature which outlast all cultures. In Act IV Faust floats back to Germany on a cloud and on the way observes the sea, the wasteful energies of which he desires to conquer and control. Mephistopheles wins a battle for the Emperor by magical devices (an old chapbook motif) and in reward Faust is granted all the coastal lands that lie below the waterline. A grandiose reclamation programme begins, and is the theme of the final Act. In the last years of his life Goethe is reported to have expressed interest in future large-scale projects of this kind such as the building of canals through Panama and Suez. Faust’s enterprise is of course charged with symbolic significance. On the one hand, having re-created (even if only temporarily) the perfect shape of Helen, he now seems to seek another medium in which to bring form out of chaos. More generally it is the confrontation between Man and Nature, the continuing struggle of civilization against the elemental forces which both the sea and Mephistopheles represent. Faust, now a hundred years old and with his activity still unflagging, dies in a vision of his project’s accomplishment; and at this point Goethe feels it to be artistically necessary to revert (for the first time since line 1706 of Part One) to the unresolved and virtually forgotten motif of the Pact and Wager. By a jeu de mots (Faust enjoys his moment of supreme bliss in anticipation of a future achievement, and pronounces the ‘fatal’ words in this sense) Mephistopheles is put literally in the right, though essentially in the wrong. Faust falls dead, and with elaborate comedy Mephistopheles sets about the business of claiming his supposed victim’s ‘soul’ (the medieval conceptions of which Goethe here takes occasion to satirize) and summons up diabolic underlings to assist him. But part of the celestial host now suddenly appears, scattering roses of love which burn the devils and put them to flight. Mephistopheles’ own attention is distracted by a grotesque fit of homosexual lust inspired by the young angels: his skin erupts in boils and he recovers himself only to find that Faust’s ‘immortal part’ (as the stage-direction puts it) has been carried off out of his reach. Cursing his discomfiture, he grudgingly acknowledges the power of Eros over even so hardbitten a cynic as himself. A concluding scene, set in a mysterious region between earth and heaven, shows the mute and inert Faust being carried upwards to where he can undergo further transformation and development. In this final passage, which has a mystical and syncretic character, Goethe uses largely Catholic symbolism and legend. Holy hermits and Church fathers pray and meditate, saints and choruses of penitent women mingle their voices with those of the angels, and as a climax the Mother of God appears in glory. Again all mention of Christ, and almost all suggestion of a personal judgement on the hero, is carefully avoided. Much of the material is reminiscent of Dante—though only of the Paradiso. Faust’s long-forgotten beloved appears, as ‘una poenitentium, formerly called Gretchen’, and intercedes for her ‘returning’ lover who is, as she puts it, ‘no longer clouded (getrübt)’. The Mater Gloriosa invites her to ‘rise to higher spheres’ to which Faust, ‘if he senses your presence’, will follow her. The motif of a woman’s redemptive goodness and love is paralleled elsewhere in Goethe (Iphigenia, The Elective Affinities) and of course in other writers before and since. Here, as a mystique of femininity, it is Goethe’s touchingly personal version of the theme of divine grace, expressed in the often-quoted last two lines of the enigmatic Chorus Mysticus which closes this scene and the entire work:
All that must disappear
Is but a parable;
What lay beyond us,* here
All is made visible;*
Here deeds have understood
Words they were darkened by;
Eternal Womanhood
Draws us on high.
Such an ending may not be strictly Christian, but it expresses that deep-rooted trust in the maternal goodness and timeless meaningfulness of the world which was Goethe’s form of all-sustaining love and faith.
The question of the overall dramatic unity of Faust in both its Parts, or even of Part One considered (if it is legitimate to do so) on its own, is vexed and controversial. If, for example, we reflect on the relationship between the Gretchen drama and the rest of Part One, a problem arises which can be explained, though not solved, in terms of the history of the play’s gen
esis. The ‘Wager’ passage in Sc. 7, written about twenty-five years after the Gretchen material but preceding it in the final text, sets up, as we have seen, a scenario according to which Mephistopheles may claim Faust’s life if Faust ever experiences a moment so beautiful that he wishes it to be prolonged. Theoretically, if Goethe had wanted Part One to be at all costs a dramaturgically consistent whole, he would before republishing the Gretchen scenes in 1808 have had to revise them in the light of this Wager, so that in the course of his passionate love-affair Faust would never be seen, or supposed, to experience a perfect moment of this kind. It would be the merest pedantry to insist that the fateful Moment does not count as such unless Faust actually also pronounces the fateful words. Tacitly and in effect, therefore, Faust must be presumed to have forfeited his life to Mephistopheles several times over when he was with Gretchen (perhaps in Sc. 16, perhaps on his first night with her and subsequently). To have revised the Gretchen drama in this way, however, would have been a radical and absurd operation, which Goethe quite rightly did not attempt. As we have seen in other contexts, the shaping of Faust into a logical whole was not his highest priority, and was certainly never allowed to override his respect for the compelling beauty of his already published youthful work. He therefore made no attempt to integrate the Gretchen tragedy with the Wager, but left it to all intents and purposes as he had originally written it, subject to certain revisions and additions which we have noted and which were made for quite different reasons. The effect is that since the whole Faust-Mephistopheles negotiation, culminating in the strongly emphasized Wager scene, precedes the whole Gretchen story in the finished 1808 version, any attentive and unprejudiced reader or spectator of the latter may well be puzzled, or even get the impression that Part One is a play falling into two halves (the second beginning with Sc. 10 or perhaps Sc. 8) which have little or nothing to do with each other. The difficulty is only partly met if we argue, hindsightedly and in unitarian fashion, that Faust’s affair with Gretchen does not in a broader sense constitute loss of the Wager, if only because his passion for her appears to abate, and in any case because in the total perspective of Parts One and Two it may be seen as only one tragic episode among others in his career, and one that has not finally satisfied him. To assume (as indeed the ending of Part Two might suggest) that the Wager is not meant to be taken altogether seriously or literally, is perhaps our only recourse. But once again Faust here presents us, for historical reasons, with a structural problem which may or may not be a serious artistic flaw.