The scene is the library of John Faust, a large handsome room panelled in dark oak and lined with rows of books in open book-shelves. On the right is a carved white stone fireplace, with deep chairs before it. In the far left corner of the room, on a pedestal, stands a stiff bust of George Washington. Near it hangs a wonderful Titian portrait, a thing of another world. The furniture looks as if it were, and probably is, plunder from the palace of some prince of the Renaissance.
A fire is burning in the fireplace; it, and several shaded lights, make a subdued brilliancy in the room. Before the fire sits John Faust. Brander and Oldham, both in evening dress, lounge comfortably in chairs near Faust. All three are smoking, and tall highball glasses stand within their reach.
BRANDER
You are a thorn to me, a thorn in the flesh.
Contagiously you bring to me mistrust
Of all my landmarks, when, as here to-night,
Out of the midst of every pleasant gift
The world can offer you, you raise your voice
In scoffing irony against each face,
Form, action, motive, that together make
Your life, and ours.
FAUST
Dear man, I did not mean
To send my poor jokes burrowing like a mole
Beneath your prized foundations.
BRANDER
Not alone
Your attitude to-night; you always seem
As if withholding from all days and deeds
Moving around you—from our life and yours—
Your full assent.
FAUST
Dear Brander! Is it true
I am as bad as that? Well, though I were,
Why should it trouble you? If you find sport
In this strange game, this fevered interplay,
This hodge-podge crazy-quilt which we are pleased
To call our life—why, like it! And say: Damned
Be all who are not with me!
BRANDER
Are not you?
FAUST
I claim the criminal's privilege, and decline
To answer.
OLDHAM
Faust, might I presume so far
As to suggest that I should like a drink
Before you two start breaking furniture
Over this matter?
FAUST
Certainly; I beg
Your pardon; I neglected you.
(He busies himself with the glasses)
No, no,
We won't wage combat over this. You're right,
Doubtless, as usual, Brander. I have not
Your fortunate placidity of mind,
And I get grumpy.
Come, fill up your glass;
And let us drink to the glories of the world.
Down with the cynic!
BRANDER
Down with him, indeed!
And may he cease to trouble you. The world
Is pretty glorious when a man is young,
As we are, and so many splendid choices
Lie all around him. There have never been
Such opportunities as now are spread
Before us. Men are doing mighty things
To-day. A critic tells me that last night
Wullf at the opera sang "La ci darem"
With an artistic brilliancy of tone
That never has been heard on any stage
Anywhere in the world. You moped at home,
Doubtless; but it was wonderful, on my word.
OLDHAM
Whom did you go with?
BRANDER
Midge.
OLDHAM
Ah, Midge again!
I thought so....
BRANDER
Well, I don't know why I shouldn't.
OLDHAM
Those rosy-toned remarks gave you away.
Perhaps 'twas not "Don Juan" that last night
Was at its best, but Midge. Where did you sit?
BRANDER
Up in the gallery.
OLDHAM
The top one?
BRANDER
Yes.
OLDHAM
Once more, I thought so. You and Midge would look
Nice in a box! Yes, I will pay for one
If you will take it.
BRANDER
Oh, leave me alone!
FAUST
Who is this "Midge" you speak of?
OLDHAM
Midge, dear Faust,
Is short for Margaret; which, you may guess,
Describes a lady of the female sex;
Said person being serviceably employed
As maid-of-all-work for some ancient dame
In Brander's own apartment house. She has,
Beside what other virtues I know not,
A most bewitching ankle and a taste
For opera. And dear Brander's kindly heart
Is so moved by the sight of these combined,
He sometimes sneaks, by lonely alley-ways,
With his fair Midge, and in the gallery
High out of sight of all of us enjoys
Her and the opera.
FAUST
I did not know
You had a lady-love.
BRANDER
It's hardly that!
But she's a mighty jolly little thing.
FAUST
What sort of girl is she?
BRANDER
A mighty nice one!
Full of all kinds of happiness; but shy.
I'd like to see some rounder try to speak
To her on Broadway. She looks like a lady!
FAUST
That is too bad.
BRANDER
Oh, pshaw! Don't lecture me;
I'm not a saint; in fact, few of us are.
FAUST
Unfortunately not. I least of all.
And yet I wonder if.... However, I
Do not presume to lecture you. Remember
One thing, though, as my friend. Your Midge has deeps
Not pleasant under her if you let go.
BRANDER
Oh, I will not let go!... Not yet, at least.
OLDHAM
Faust really means it, strange as it may seem.
Of late he has turned moralist.
FAUST
Not quite:
But just a little tired of pursuits
That end regretfully.
OLDHAM
Well, don't pursue....
BRANDER
(Goes to the window and raises the shade)
See, what a night it is! The stars are out
As if a bucketful of them had spilled
Across the sky. And here we sit like owls,
Blinking and staring at a little fire
When heaven is burning! I'm afraid it's time
For me to leave this owlish parliament;
And I shall probably knock holes in half
The windows of the town as I walk home
Star-gazingly. And here it's after twelve!
I might have guessed it from the fatal fact
That we'd begun to talk philosophy:
No sane man ever does, except in hours
When by all rights he should be sound asleep.
Good night to both of you. And don't stay up
Talking till morning.
OLDHAM
Well, good night.
FAUST
Good night,
Brander, I'm sorry you must go: come in
Quite soon again, and I will try to be
Less disagreeable than I was to-night.
[Brander goes out.
OLDHAM
I'll bet he takes an arc-light for a star!
FAUST
He is warm-hearted; I am fond of him.
But Midge!... However, one can say no more....
OLDHAM
He's a good fellow; but he tires me
Sometimes.
FAUST
Dear boy, I envy him.
OLDHAM
Of course,
And so do I; but I would not exchange
Heads for a kingdom.
FAUST
Are you so fond, then,
Of what's in yours?
OLDHAM
No, but at least I have
A certain faint perception of the gilded
And quite preposterous crudeness of our days—
The sordid sickness of his life, and ours;
And that is something to be thankful for.
FAUST
Gratitude is a graceful gift.
OLDHAM
Come, come!
What snake has bitten you, that to your lips
A poisoned irony so bitter springs
To-night?
FAUST
I am revolving in my brain
This serious question: whether 'tis not best
That one turn humorist. The mind that seeks
Holiness, finds it seldom; who pursues
Beauty perhaps shall in a lengthened life
Find it perfected only once or twice.
But if one's quest were humor—what rich stores,
What tropic jungles of it, lie to hand
At every moment, everywhere one turns—
What luscious meadows for the humorist!
OLDHAM
No—for the satirist! There is no humor
In what you see and I see when we look
On this crude world wherein our lives are spent—
This sordid sphere where we are but spectators—
This crass grim modern spectacle of lives
Torn with consuming lust of one desire—
Gold, gold, forever gold— Or do you find
Humor in that?
FAUST
It might be found, perhaps:
The joke's on someone!
OLDHAM
There's no joke in it!
It is the waste, the pitiful waste of life!
Men—slaves to gather gold—become then slaves
Beneath its gathered weight. For this one hope,
All finer longings perish at their birth.
Men's eyes to-day envy no sage or seer
Or conqueror except his triumphs be
In this base sphere of commerce. The stars go out
In factory smoke; the spirit wanes and pales
In poisoned air of greed. It is an age
Of traders and of tricksters; all the high
And hounded malefactors of great wealth
Differ from the masses, in their wealth, indeed;
But in their malefaction, not at all.
Your grocer and my butcher have at heart
The selfsame aims as he to whom we pay
Tribute for every pound of coal we burn.
Their scope is narrower, but their act the same
As his—against whose millions all the tongues
Of little tricksters in each corner store
Babble and rail and shriek!
FAUST
Almost you do
Persuade me to turn humorist on the spot!
Was ever, since Gargantua, such a vine
Heavy with bursting clusters of the grape
Of humor?
OLDHAM
Of corruption! You may laugh;
But there's in all your laughter hardly more
Mirth than in my upbraidings. Ah, I grow
So weary of this low-horizoned scene,
Our generation; I am always drawn
In thought toward that great noon of human life
When in the streets of Florence walked the powers
And princes of the earth—Politian, Pico,
Angelo, Leonardo, Botticelli—
And a half-hundred more of starry-eyed
Sons of the morning, in whose hearts the god
Struggled unceasing. Ah, those lucent brains,
Those bright imaginations, those keen souls,
Arrowy toward each target where truth's gold
Glimmered, or beauty's! Those were days indeed;
We shall not look upon their like again.
FAUST
I am not sure.
OLDHAM
Then take my word for it!
FAUST
I am not sure; the lamentable fact
To me seems otherwise. For I believe
That this vile age of commerce and corruption
Which you describe in very eloquent terms,
Is still, upon the whole, the best that yet
Has graced our earth. I think not more than you
Am I in love with it; but, looking back,
I fail to see a better, though I peer
Into remote arboreal history.
OLDHAM
When I was six, my teachers taught me that.
Why, one would think that you had never heard
Of Greece or Italy!
FAUST
And what were they?
Your Renaissance, despite its few bright gleams,
Lies like a swamp of darkness, soaked in blood
And agony: such tortures as we scarce
Dream of to-day writhe through it; and the stench
Of slaughtered cities and corrupted thrones—
Yes, even the Papal throne—draw me not back
With longing toward it. Rich that time might be
If one were Michael Angelo; but how
If one were peasant, or meek householder,
When the Free Captains ravaged to and fro,
And peoples were the merest pawns of kings
Enslaved by mistresses? The more I look,
The more evaporates that golden haze
Which cloaks the past; the more I doubt if men
Had ever in their breasts more lofty souls
Than those we know. And I am glad to be
A citizen of this material age.
OLDHAM
Congratulations!—tempered with surprise
At finding you, beneath your lion's skin,
So sweet an optimist—whose faith can find
All's for the best; and the best, this great year
Nineteen Thirteen.
FAUST
Hardly so strong as that.
OLDHAM
Yes, tell me that the golden age has come!
FAUST
I quarrel not with ages—but with man;
Whose life such play and folly seems—for all
Its sweat and agony—that laughter lies
The sole escape from madness. I peruse
The present and the past, only to find
Mountains of human effort piled aloft
Like the Egyptian Pyramids, and toward
No end save folly....
All is foolishness!
In Argolis, a woman, somewhat vain,
Preferred a fop to her own rightful lord
And ran away; and then for ten long years
The might of Hellas on the Trojan plain
Grappled in conflict such as had been mete
To guard Olympus, and Scamander ran
Red with heroic blood-drops. And they got
The woman. And it all was foolishness!...
That was your Golden Age. I hope you like it.
Foolishness!... Once a mariner set forth,
With all the fires of heaven lit in his breast
And godlike courage on his brow, to find
New worlds beyond the unknown wastes of sea.
He sailed; he found; he died in rusty chains:
So that, to-day, the vermin of all climes
May thither flock, and there renew the old
Familiar toil toward utter foolishness....
Why all this labor unto vanity?
Why all this straining toward an empty end?
OLDHAM
Ah, you forget what Beauty was to them!
We are quite lost to that high touch to-day.
Beauty hung over them, a star to draw
Men's aspiration. That divides them quite
From our debased modernity.
FAUST
Dear Oldham!
My dear delightful visionary Oldham!
What an adorer of the past you are!
OLDHAM
Yes, I adore it sacredly, and loathe
To-day's whole content—except you! I loathe it
So much that, if I had the dynamite,
I'd blow it all—and you and me ourselves—
Into a nebula of dust.... Ah, well,
We hardly can decide these things to-night,
Can we? I must be off, little as I like,
To end our midnight talking.
FAUST
Oh, not yet!
OLDHAM
I must; this is not good for me: I fear
To let myself dwell on these restless thoughts
Which with a perilous longing sometimes make
My actual days so bitter that despair
Grips me in horror. And besides, I'm due
To pick my brother up. I have, you see,
The limousine to-night, and that entails
Its obligations. Dear modernity!
Whose Saviour is the limousine!... Good night!
FAUST
Good night. May all the Furies and the Gorgons
Of Greece and Florence leave you in repose
To dream to-night of white-limbed goddesses
And painters like archangels!
OLDHAM
I deserve it!
And yet I fear they will not be so kind....
Sleep is no friend to me these many nights.
I do not know what wrong I can have done
That so offends her she will none of me.
One of these days, she will carry it too far....
[Oldham goes out. Faust turns out all but two of
the lights; then seats himself wearily before the fire.
The room is dark around his lighted figure.
FAUST
The play drags, and the players would begone,
Out of this theatre of tinsel days
And lights and tawdry glamour, out to face
Even the blank of night, the icy stars,
The vast abysses. What the gallery-gods
Could give, they well have given; but deities
Inscrutabler than they annul all gifts
With one gift more—the restless mind that peers
Past fame, friends, learning, fortune, to enquire:
Whither? Whither? Whither? And no answer comes
To the cold player's lips....
I see too much
To make my peace with any ordered rÔle
And play it heartily. To-day's thin coin
Pays not my labors; and to-morrow's hope
Has never been authenticated to me
By a fulfilling hour when I might say:
"Lo, this is what I hoped!" The vision flies
As I advance; while always far ahead
Its glow makes dim the color of my days;
And I loathe life because my hope is fairer,
And know my hope a lie. Thus, Faust, my friend,
You damn yourself ingeniously to hells
Of rich variety....
The eyes of men
Envy me as I pass them in the street—
Me, whom sufficient fortune, moderate fame,
Have made completely happy in their sight.
Well, I am no barbarian: let them have
The bliss of envying.... But I am sick
With the hour's emptiness; and great desire
Fills me for those high beauties which my dreams
Yearn ever toward. I am weary; I would go
Out to some golden sunset-lighted land
Of silence.
I have been athirst of dreams!
And all earth's common goals and gifts have been
But fuel to flame. O strange and piteous heart!
O credulous and visionary heart!
Desirous of the infinite—from defeat
Arising still to grope again for light
And the high word of vision! And in vain!
Till, not having found, its bitterness corrodes
Inward—like one betrayed by his last god....
Strange, that my father was a worthy man!
Perhaps 'tis his blood in me that withholds
Unreasoning my hand from washing clear
This scribbled slate with one quick tide of peace.
Would more of him were in me! that like him
I might spend eagerly a useful life
In medicining miserable men
Who were better dead—employ my force
To aid a world within whose marrow dwells
An evil none can cure, an agony
Beyond our dearest aiding.
Ah, well, well!
Such are the great men of this busy world,
Whose ardor for the game is anodyne
Against its buffets, and intoxicant
To lend it reveller's meaning. Ardor given,
All things are possible....
You, old marble-face,
Who front me from the corner with that grave
Virtuous Father-of-your-Country look,
I pay you my respects; you are a light
Of leading, as I see you now. Your soul
Was never shaken by convulsive doubts
Of life or man or liberty; you built
Unsceptical of bricks, but such as lay
To hand you took, nor did your purpose shake
At prescient thought of how your edifice
Might be turned pest-house some day. Undismayed
By doubt, you rose, and in heroic mould
Led—dauntless, patient, incorruptible—
A riot over taxes. Not a star
In all the vaults of heaven could trouble you
With whisperings of more transcendent goals.
O despicable, admirable man!
How much I envy you—the devil take you!
[The bust of Washington and its pedestal move
slightly; gradually they change and shape themselves
into the figure of a well-dressed man, rather short
and stocky, with a sociable, commonplace face. His
head, however, is very peculiarly modelled; it reminds
one, indescribably and faintly, of the fact that
men sprang from beasts. The high position of the
ears help this impression, as does also the astonishing
animal brilliance of the eyes. Faust, passing
his hand over his forehead, turns away.
FAUST
This is what comes of smoking far too much.
SATAN
Good evening, Mr. Faust.
FAUST
Well, I'll be damned!...
And who, I beg, are you?
SATAN
I ask your pardon
For thus appearing in a way unknown
To strict convention. But I never set
Great store by custom; and though nowadays
I follow the proprieties, still I feel
That one need not be slavish—
FAUST
Who are you?
What are you talking of? How did you get here?
SATAN
I am, sir, Nicholas Satan, at your service.
FAUST
Nicholas Satan! Quite a name. Perhaps
Some relative of the illustrious one?
SATAN
Himself.
FAUST
Stop this cheap foolishness! Who are you?
Or shall I ring for the police?
SATAN
I am
Satan. If I appeared with colored fire
And lightnings round me, you would doubt no more.
But like your narrow and near-sighted age,
You know me not in my own natural shape.
Now let this end! Here is my proof. You once
Summoned me to your aid, and, when I came,
Weakly rejected me. You were a boy
In college, and a woman blackmailed you—
A low, crude matter. I had settled it
Swiftly, if you had let me. We alone,
We three, on Harvard Bridge—night—and beneath,
A practicable river: ah, it was
A child's task! But you faltered.... You recall,
Possibly.
FAUST
I recall.... So you are he.
I did not know you.
SATAN
Let's forget the past.
We meet now under happier auspices.
FAUST
Incredible.
SATAN
No, quite an honest fact
Am I.
FAUST
I hardly can persuade myself
Whether to laugh or pull a solemn face
At seeing you. It is preposterous!
I thought that you were dead—a myth—a wraith.
SATAN
Dead? That is rich!
FAUST
Well ... don't you think yourself
A slight anachronism?
SATAN
My young friend,
I am no laughing matter. With the times
I, too, have changed, and am as up-to-date
As the Ritz-Carlton.
FAUST
But your horns and tail
And pitchfork? Not a vestige do I see
Of your famed look! You have no frightful glance;
I cannot even so far flatter you
As to say special badness makes your face
Great and distinguished. If you're Prince of Hell,
How villanously have the poets lied!
SATAN
They have lied, always, horribly, of me!
I am not half so black as they allege.
You know, exaggeration is to them
What whiskey is to most men. But time bursts
Their bubbles—or at least we come to take
Their work as merely art. Thus their description
As art is not so bad; but if you seek
For truth, it's outright libel.
FAUST
I admit
It has a certain perfectness of evil
Lacking in you.
SATAN
Surely to-day we know
That nothing is so wholly good or bad
As our forefathers thought: not black and white,
But gray, predominates. Well, I am gray,
Possibly. I was never black; and age
Has made me stouter, and with gentle warmth
Ripened my virtues; and, even though I say it,
You will not find me a bad sort to meet
If you will but be fair, and put aside
Your ancient and poetic prejudice.
FAUST
Well spoken! And well met! Come, have a drink.
You are the most diverting visitor
I've had in many a day. Bourbon or Scotch?
SATAN
A very little Scotch. That's plenty, thanks.
It's very seldom those who summon me
Would give, not take. And did you send for me
Only to have a drink?
FAUST
I sent for you?
SATAN
Did you not summon me?
FAUST
Why, no—
SATAN
Ah, well!
It's my mistake; wires get crossed sometimes.
I hope I've not intruded.
FAUST
Not at all.
Delighted to have met you.
SATAN
I regret
That I have bothered you. I have enjoyed,
However, your kind hospitality.
To make amends to you, before I go,
I should be glad to do you any service
Within my power.
FAUST
I thank you; but I think
That there is nothing in your special line
That I have need of.
SATAN
Are you really, then,
A man contented?
FAUST
I would hardly go
As far as that!... I only meant to say
My needs, my troubles, are not of such kind
As you could remedy.
SATAN
Now, there again
You take the poets' word for me—those low
And scurvy fellows who lump all their spleen
And call the mess my portrait! But in fact,
I am more versatile, more broad, more kind
Than they conceive. I venture to believe
That I could aid you.
FAUST
All the fiends in Hell
Lack devilry enough.
SATAN
If you would speak
The symptoms of your trouble, I at least
Could give you friendly counsel for your needs....
Oh, I am deeply learned!
FAUST
And besides,
A most accomplished mocker!... My complaint
Is quite beyond your counsel. Why, I tell you,
I have examined, tried, experienced
The passions and the aims of mortal life
With the grave thoroughness and good intent
That mark a doctor of philosophy
Writing his thesis. And my careful search
Of life has brought me one great verity:
I do not like it! No, I do not like
Anything in it: birth, death, all that lies
Between—I find inadequate, incomplete,
Offensive. So you see me sitting here,
Instead of talking politics in the streets,
Or weeping at the opera, or agog
At a cotillon. For the savor's gone
From these, as parts of an unsavored whole.
I simply have, with reason and sound thought,
Convinced myself that only fools attain
Their hope on earth—in a fools' paradise
That does not interest me.... Now, could you treat
This case, good Mr. Satan?
SATAN
In my day,
I have relieved far sicker men than you,
My dear friend Faust. And yet I would not say
Even for a moment that your case is not
A grave one: not so much the case itself,
As what might spring from it. In such a mood,
Men sometimes have done mad and foolish things
With consequences sad to view. Some minds,
Reaching your state, and finding life a bane,
Decide within themselves that naught can be
Worse than the present world, and then set out
To revolutionize, rend, whirl, uproot
The world's foundations. And the mess they make
Is pitiful to contemplate! Such sweet
And beautiful souls as I have seen go wrong
Along this path: Shelley—he had your eyes;
And Christ—but I'll not talk theology.
Besides, his churches almost have made good
His personal havoc....
FAUST
That is not my line.
SATAN
No, no, you keep your head! Now let me see....
A temporary sedative you require
To bridge the dangerous moment. I suggest
A little course that old Saint Anthony,
Epicure though he was, would grant as rare
And finely chosen: careless days and nights—
Delicious gayeties—the Bacchic bowl—
Exquisite company from whom some two
Or three, with golden or with auburn hair,
A man of taste might choose to solace him
In sunlight or in starlight—while the lure
Of subtle secrets in those yielding breasts
Spice the preceding revelries....
FAUST
Go tell
That tale to college boys, whose lonely dreams
Have shaped Iseult of Ireland, Helen of Troy,
As end of heart's desire—and, lacking these,
Clasp chorus-Aphrodites. But I know
That from the topmost peak of ecstasy
Falls a straight precipice; half-times the foot
Misses the peak—but never mortal step
Has missed the gulf beyond it. And I see
Where, in night's gorgeous dome, to-morrow waits
With cold insistence. Me you cannot lure
With this poor opiate. And I beg of you
Not needlessly to tax your mental powers
By now suggesting the delights of drink:
I know them; and they give me headaches.
SATAN
Ah,
How crude you think me!
FAUST
No, I think you human.
We all are that sometimes.
SATAN
You have not grasped
All that I meant. I know the calfish joys
Of the young freshman, suddenly let loose
With chorus-girls for nursemaids, are not yours.
I mean far subtler things: I mean the play
Of the wise soul that sees the abyss of life—
Sees the grim measure of the mortal doom—
And over that dark gulf in reckless mirth
Dances on rainbows, with delightful arms
And bosoms close to his. That is a mood
That always thrills me with a sense of large
And splendid courage. If I did not think
That it would bore you, I should like to make
My meaning clear by reading a few lines
That I once wrote when I myself was in
Your very mood— Or would you care to hear
My little poem?
FAUST
What! Is even the Devil
A poet nowadays?
SATAN
Indeed he is:
And not a bad one. Once I would have scorned
The poets; but we moderns so surpass
The ancients here that I am proud to write
Some verses now and then. For we have learned
That poetry, like all the other arts,
Is pure technique: the mere ideas are nothing,
The form is everything. That ennobles us
And makes us artists. And as artist, I
Am not contemptible, as you may see
From this slight sample. With your leave, I'll read.
(Satan produces an enormous scrap-book of magazine-clippings,
turns over the pages and at last begins to read)
A Watteau Melody
FAUST
Splendid! Delightful!
SATAN
You are flattering me.
How did you like it, really?
FAUST
Well, as art
I think it splendid; as philosophy,
I hardly praise it. 'Tis a mood that comes
And has its will of us in its own hours—
Yes, irresistibly. But past the hour
Wait graver judges. I decline to be,
As you suggest delightfully, a fly
On the spoiled beer of life. Nor do I lean
Toward your ingenious blending of despair,
Satiety, and child's-play.
SATAN
Those who take
This attitude, however, swiftly grow
The darlings of existence—souls that sip
Of every flower the nectar, and are bound
Unto no laws or standards, but move free,
Viewing all things as relative.... And yet
Your special temperament may not prefer
Nectar. Those lines of sternness round your mouth
Convince me you are right; another cure
Better befits you. And a mighty one
I set before you, which has ever served
As lodestar for all high and glorious minds,
All kings of earth, all potentates of thought,
All great achievers. Power I offer you—
The one chief prize that all men have desired
And shall desire forever.
FAUST
Now you grow
Rather more interesting. What do you mean?
A crown and sceptre and a thousand slaves
To serve me?
SATAN
Do not jest. I offer you
The one sole reservoir where power to-day
Lies stored in sleeping cataracts. At noon
Come with me into Wall Street; take your stand;
Buy, sell, as I direct you; and one hour
Shall make you richer than you ever dreamed
In madness of desire. For three days more
Come there each noon again; at end of these,
If you have done my bidding, you shall be
Master of the finances of the world,
Despot of nations, unto whom the kings
And captains of the earth shall kneel to crave
Crumbs from the table. Then let pen and sword
Forget their quarrel for supremacy;
Since you can buy them both, or starve them both,
Or cast them to the wilderness! Such power
I offer as would make the pulses beat
Even of a skeleton!
FAUST
But not a soul
Grown sceptical of life. Power? Power? For what?
And over what? And toward what? Not a power
Over myself or pain or loneliness
Or ignorance or evil; not a strength
To bid the near-world cease, and in its place
Instate my visions beautiful and pale,
Nearer the heart's desire. No, you would give
Power to direct the miseries of men,
But not to stay them: power to hold the world
As some cold robber-baron from his rocks
Once held his little valley: power to sit
In ultimate seclusion, and look down
On streets and mines and workshops with the sense
That I was fountain of the miseries
Dark in them all. I thank you; but I think
I should derive small sport from such a game.
You see, I am not Satan.
SATAN
Well, you are
A subtle one, a shrewd one! On my word,
I hardly had suspected you so deep.
What time I have been wasting! Mr. Faust,
At last I know you for a prince of men—
A brilliant mind, a high intelligence,
A spirit incorruptible. The trash,
Baubles and claptrap which the foolish herd
Snatch at, you scoff—and rightly. I will not
With one more word of it insult your mind
That admirably penetrates to deeps
Where I, too, love to dwell. I put aside
All trivialities, and frankly say
That I can offer you one ultimate gift
Fit even for you—a subtle paradise
Such as not Hercules mid Western Isles
Found in the Garden of Hesperides.
It is a paradise of secret peace,
A glorious land of amaranthine bloom;
Where happiness, having fled the world, now dwells
In shining gladness. Guarded, deep, sublime
With lights and shadows, lies it: there have hearts
The weariest and the greatest of mankind
Found perfect refuge and abiding-place
For time and for eternity. To few
Its gates are open: it I promise you
If you but trust me!
FAUST
But why should I trust you?
If history speaks true, you have deceived
All who, since Eve, have put their faith in you.
Further, your paradise could hardly have
Joys in it worth the grasping, to my taste.
So pardon me if frankly I admit
I doubt your promise.
SATAN
Ah, you are wholly wrong!
I am quite honest with you, now having learned
Your true capacity.
FAUST
Perhaps, perhaps.
And yet I must decline.
SATAN
You doubt me still.
But I will prove my utter honesty
Beyond contention. In my deepest soul,
I know this paradise will serve your need;
And to make plain to you my fair intent,
I offer you a bargain whose clear terms
Must drive your doubts away. I am prepared
To pledge myself to be your abject slave
And servant for all time if you yourself
Do not acknowledge that my paradise
Delights you wholly!
FAUST
Well! That is an offer!
SATAN
What could be fairer? You yourself shall judge;
And you risk nothing. Ah, your look still doubts!
You have in mind those libellous poets' tales
Of bonds inscribed in blood which I exact
In payment, and destroy men's souls! My friend,
Have I yet asked you for a bond of blood?
And if I ever do, I give you leave
To wring my neck unceremoniously.
FAUST
Well, for the life of me, I cannot read you!
Yet let me ask: why such an eager will
To serve a man into whose rooms you came
By chance to-night? Why give yourself such pains
To furnish him a paradise?
SATAN
There is
No mystery in that. I would ally
You to myself.
FAUST
Thanks, I decline.
SATAN
You fail
To understand me. For I ask not this
As promise of you.
FAUST
What, then, do you mean?
What do you count on? Whence do you expect
Pay for your trouble and your risk—a risk
Not trivial, I warn you?
SATAN
Let me make
The matter clear to you. I know quite well
The risk is nothing, since my paradise
Will utterly delight you. Granting this,
You see my profit: you will stay with me
Willingly there forever, to my ends
An interested assistant. I will serve
Forth on my tables such delicious fare
That you will freely choose to be my guest
Through time and through eternity. I say:
Fie for a bond written in scrawly blood!
A bond of choice is better. Could a saint
Speak fairer to you? I risk everything,
And you risk nothing but a little time;
And time, as you are placed, seems not so dear
That you need hoard it.
FAUST
But your ends are—what?
SATAN
How can it matter now—if seeing them
You shall approve them?
FAUST
Are you serious?
SATAN
My jests have other aspect.
FAUST
I accept.
Your game is to my taste. For thirty years
Have I made search through all the lands of earth,
The realms of learning, and the tangled groves
Of fancy, for some region which my soul
Might with entire approval view; but none
Has been vouchsafed me. If the Devil can
In this surpass the world's established powers,
Then I am his disciple willingly....
But if you fail, friend Satan!—I shall tie
You to a cart's tail and exhibit you
Like a dead whale throughout the country—or
Make you curator of an orphanage!
SATAN
I shall not fail.
OLDHAM (enters)
I beg your pardon, Faust;
I thought you'd be alone. My brother left,
Not waiting for me; and, as I passed by,
I saw your lights, and thought I would look in
Just for a moment. I had things to say
That are perhaps much better left unsaid.
Good-bye, my dear friend. I will not disturb you.
Good night again.
FAUST
Wait, Oldham; do not go.
I have a visitor whose name you know,
But not, perhaps, his person. Let me have
The pleasure of presenting you. This is
The Devil—Mr. Oldham.
OLDHAM
You are mad!
What jest is this?
SATAN
I am indeed the Devil.
Look in my eyes intently.... Shall I tell you
Your thought, two minutes since?... Or what you hold
Clutched now against your side?... Or where you go
When you go hence to-night?...
OLDHAM
No!... I believe you....
Although it is incredible!...
FAUST
You come
Just at the proper moment for good-bye,
For I am going with him on a journey,
And do not know how soon I shall return.
If I return at all.
OLDHAM
A journey? Where?
SATAN
To paradise.
FAUST
He offers paradise
That will suffice my wish, and gives himself
As pledge of his success.
SATAN
Come, we must haste,
For it is very far.
FAUST
To paradise!...
OLDHAM
To paradise.... Take me with you!
FAUST
My friend,
It is not possible. I do foresee
Some perils to whose touch I would subject
None save myself.
OLDHAM
And what care I for them!
Faust—on my word, when I climbed up your stair
This second time, it was to say good-bye
To you forever, being quite resolved
To end my choking loneliness and loathing
With a quick shot to-night. Take me, or I
Shall carry out my purpose. What care I
Whither you go, or what the perils be?
I would go with you into Hell!
SATAN
We go
To paradise. What is this Hell you name?
CURTAIN
