‘The version of Faust which Mr. Stephen Phillips is contemplating will, it is interesting to learn from the author, be a “compact drama,” of which the spectacular embellishment will form no part. In Mr. Phillips’s view the story is in itself so strong and so rich in all the elements that make for dramatic effectiveness that to treat the subject as one for elaborate scenic display would be to diminish the direct appeal of a great tragedy. “First let me say,” said Mr. Stephen Phillips, “how gladly I approach a task which will bring me again into association with Mr. George Alexander, whose admirable treatment of Paolo and Francesco, you will no doubt remember. In the version of Faust which I am going to prepare there will be nothing spectacular, nothing to overshadow or intrude upon an immortal theme. As to how I shall treat the story, and as to the form in which it will be written, I am not yet sure—it may be a play in blank verse, or in prose with lyrics . . .” Mr. Phillips added that he had also in view a play on the subject of Harold.”—The Tribune.

Scene: The British Museum.

Sidney Colvin. Ah! my dear Stephen, when they told me Phillips
Was waiting in my study, I imagined
That it was Claude, whom I have been expecting.
I have arranged that you shall have this room
All to yourself and friends. Now I must leave you.
I have to go and speak to Campbell Dodgson
About some prints we’ve recently acquired.

Stephen Phillips. How can I ever thank you? Love to Binyon!

[Colvin goes out.

Enter Mr. George Alexander, Goethe, Marlowe, Gounod.

Alexander (from force of habit). I always told you he was reasonable.

Goethe. Well, I consent. Mein Gott! how colossal
You English are! ’Tis nigh impossible
For poets to refuse you anything,
And German thought beneath some English shade—
Unter den Linden, as we say at home—
Sounds really quite as well on British soil.
Our good friend Marlowe hardly seems so pleased.

Marlowe. Oh, Goethe! cease these frivolous remarks.
Think you that I, who knew Elizabeth,
And tasted all the joys of literature
And played the dawn to Shakespeare’s larger day,
And heralded a mighty line of verse
With half-a-dozen mighty lines my own,
Am feeling well?

Gounod (brightening). Ah! Monsieur Wells,
Auteur d’une histoire fine et romanesque
Traduit par Davray; il a des idÉes
C’est une chose rare lÀ-bas . . .

Stephen Phillips. He does not speak of Huysmans; ’tis myself.
I thank you, gentlemen, with all my heart;
I thank you, gentlemen, with all my soul;
I thank you, sirs, with all my soul and strength.
So for your leave much thanks. You know my weakness:
I love to be at peace with all the past.
The present and the future I can manage;
The stirrup of posterity may dangle
Against the heaving flanks of Pegasus.
I feel my spurs against the saucy mare
And Alexander turned Bucephalus.

Marlowe. Neigh! Neigh! though you have told us what you are,
And we have witnessed Nero several times,
You do not tell us of this wretched Faustus,
Who must be damned in any case, I fear.

S. P. Of course, I treat you as material
On which to work; but then I simplify
And purify the story for our stage.
The English stage is nothing if not pure.
For instance, we will not allow SalomÉ.
So in Act II. of Faust I represent
The marriage feast of beauteous Margaret;
Act I. I get from Goethe, III. from Marlowe,
And Gounod’s music fills the gaps in mine.
Margaret, of course, will never come to grief.
She only gets a separation order.
By the advice of Plowden magistrate,
She undertakes to wean Euphorion,
Who in his bounding habit symbolises
The future glories of the English empire.
As the production must not cost too much,
Harker, Hawes Craven, Hann are relegated
To a back place. It is a compact drama,
Of which spectacular embellishment
Will form no part. The story is so strong,
So rich in all the elements that make
A drama suitable for Alexander,
That scenery, if necessary to Tree,
Shall not intrude on this immortal theme.

Goethe. Pyramidal! My friend, but you are splendid.
Now, have you shown the manuscript to Colvin?

Marlowe. He is a scholar, and a ripe and good one,
And far too tolerant of modern poets.

Alexander. One of your lines strike my familiar spirit.
Surely, that does not come from Stephen Phillips.

Marlowe. No matter; I may quote from whom I will.
Shakespeare himself was not immaculate,
And borrowed freely from a barren past.

Goethe. What thinks Herr Sidney Colvin of your work?

S. P. That he will tell you when he sees it played.

Act I.

Scene: Faust’s Studio.

Servant. Well, if you have no further use for me,
I will go make our preparation.

Faust. If anybody calls, say I am out;
I must have time to see how I will act.
As to the form in which I shall be written,
I must decide whether in prose or verse.
My thoughts I’ll bend. Give me at once the Times:
Walkley I always find inspiriting—
And really I learn much about the drama
(Even the German drama) from his pen,
More curious than that of Paracelsus.
(Reads) ‘Sic vos non vobis, Bernard Shaw might say,
Dieu et mon droit. Ich dien. Et taceat
Femina in ecclesia. Ellen Terry,
La plus belle femme de toutes les femmes
Du monde.’ Archer, I have observed,
Writes no more for the World, but for himself.
Then I forgot; he’s writing for the Leader,
That highly independent Liberal paper.

[Faust muses. Bell heard.

The Elixir of Life, is it a play
Which runs a thousand nights? Is it a dream
Precipitated into some alembic
Or glass retort by Ex-ray Lankester?

Enter Servant.

Servant. A gentleman has called.

Faust. Say I am out.

Servant. He will take no denial.

Faust. Show him in.
Most probably ’tis Herbert Beerbohm Tree,
Who long has planned a play of Doctor Faustus.

Enter Mephistopheles.

Mephistopheles. Ah! my dear Doctor, here we are again!
Micawber-like, I never will desert you.
How do you feel? Your house I see myself
In perfect order. Ah! how much has past
Since those Lyceum days when you and I
Climbed up the Brocken on Walpurgis night.
That times have changed I realise myself;
No longer through the chimney I descend;
I enter like a super from the side.
Widowers’ Houses dramas have become;
Morals and sentiment and Clement Scott
No more seem adjuncts of the English stage.

Faust. Oh, Mephistopheles, you come in time
To save the English drama from a deadlock!
Like Mahmud’s coffin hung ’twixt Heaven and Earth,
It falters up to verse and down to prose.
Tell us, then, how to act, how consummate
The aspirations of our Stephen Phillips!

Mephisto. Ah, Alexander Faustus! young as ever,
Still unabashed by Paolo and Francesca,
You long for plays with literary motives,
Plots oft attempted both in prose and rhyme.

Faust. As ever, you are timid and old-fashioned.

Mephisto. Hark you! One thing I know above all others,
The English drama of the century past.
Though English critics have consigned to me
The plays of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, and Shaw,
And Wilde’s SalomÉ, none has ever reached me.
Back to their native land they must have gone,
Or else you have them here in Germany.
Only to me come down real British plays,
The mid-Victorian twaddle, the false gems
Which on the stretched forefinger of oblivion
Glitter a moment, and then perish paste.

Faust (drily). Well, if I learn of any critic’s death
Leaving a vacant place upon the Press,
You’ll hear from me; meanwhile, Mephisto mine,
As we must needs play out our little play,
Whom would you cast for Margaret, alias Gretchen?
Kindly sketch out an inexpensive Faust,
Modelled on the Vedrenne and Barker style
Once much in favour at the English Court.

Mephisto. The stage is now an auditorium,
And all the audiences are amateurs,
First-nighters at the bottom of their heart.
What do they care for drama in the least?
All that they need are complimentary stalls,
To know the leading actor, to be round
At dress rehearsals, or behind the scenes,
To hear the row the actor-manager
Had with the author or the leading lady,
Then to recount the story at the Garrick,
Where, lingering lovingly on kippered lies,
They babble over chestnuts and their punch
And stale round-table jests of years ago.

Faust. So Mephistopheles is growing old!
Kindly omit your stage philosophy,
And tell me all your plans about the play.

Mephisto. First we must make you young and fresh as paint,
Philters and elixirs are out of date.
A week in London—that is what you want;
London Society is our objective.
There you will find a not unlikely Gretchen,
For actresses are all the rage just now;
Countesses quarrel over Edna May,
And Mrs. Patrick Campbell is received
In the best houses. I shall introduce you
As a philosopher from TÜbingen.
A sort of Nordau, no? Then Doctor Reich—
Advocates polyandry, children suffrage—
One man, one pianola; the usual thing
That will secure success: here is a card
For Thursday next—Lady Walpurge ‘At Home’
From nine till twelve—a really charming hostess.
Her ladyship is intellectual,
The husband rich, dishonest, a collector
Of objets d’art, especially old masters.
He got his title for his promises
To England in the war; financed the raid,
A patriot millionaire within whose veins
Imperial pints of German-Jewish blood
Must make the English think imperially,
And rather bear with all the ills they have
Than fly to others that they know not of.

Faust. Excellent plan! Except at Covent Garden,
I’ve hardly been in England since the ’eighties.

Act II.

Scene: Brocken House, Park Lane.

The top of the Grand Staircase. Lord and Lady Walpurge receiving their guests. The greatest taste is shown in the decorations, which are lent for the occasion of the play free of charge, owing to the deserved popularity of Mr. George Alexander. Furniture supplied by Waring, selected by Mr. Percy Macquoid; Old Masters by Agnew & Son, P. & D. Colnaghi, Dowdeswell & Dowdeswell; Wigs by Clarkson. A large, full-length Reynolds, seen above the well of staircase; r. a Gainsborough, l. a Hoppner. The party is not very smart, rather intellectual and plutocratic; well-known musicians and artists in group r., and second-rate literary people l. An Irish peer and a member of the White Rose League are the only ‘Society’ present. There are no actors or actresses. Faust, who has aged considerably since the Prologue, is an obvious failure, and is seen talking to a lady journalist. Mephistopheles, disguised as a Protectionist Member of Parliament, is in earnest conversation with Lord Walpurge. Footman announcing the guests: The Bishop of Hereford, Mr. Maldonado, Mr. Andrew Undershaft, Mr. Harold Hodge, Mrs. Gorringe, Mr. and Mrs. Aubrey Tanqueray, &c.

Lady Walpurge (archly). Ah, Mr. Tanqueray, you never forwarded me my photographs; it is nearly three weeks ago since I sent you a cheque for them.

Tanqueray. Labby has been poisoning your mind against me. You shall have a proof to-morrow!

Footman. Mr. Gillow Waring.

Lady Walpurge. I was so afraid you were not coming. My husband thought you would give us the slip.

Waring. How charming your decorations are! You must give me some ideas for my new yacht, you have such perfect taste.

Maldonado. Walpurge! what will you take for that Reynolds? Or will you swap it for my Velasquez?

Walpurge. My dear Maldo, I always do my deals through—

Footman. Mr. Walter Dowdeswell.

Walpurge. Through Dowdeswell and Dowdeswell; and you, my dear Maldo, if you want to get rid of your Velasquez, ought to join the National Art Collections Fund, or go and see—

Footman. Mr. Lockett Agnew. ’Er ’Ighness the Princess Swami.

Enter the Princess SalomÉ.

Lady Journalist. Fancy having that woman here. She is not recognised in any decent society, she is nothing but an adventuress; talks such bad French, too. Have you ever seen her, Doctor Faustus?

Faust. Yes, I have met her very often in Germany. Though the Emperor would not receive her at first, she is much admired in Europe.

Lady Journalist (hedging). I wonder where she gets her frocks? They must be worth a good deal.

Faust. From Ricketts and Shannon, if you want to know.

Lady Journalist. Dear Doctor, you know everything! Let me see: Ricketts and Shannon is that new place in Regent Street, rather like Lewis and Allenby’s, I suppose?

Faust. Yes, only different.

Irish Peer (to Faust). Do you think Lady Walpurge will ever get into Society?

Faust. Not if she gives her guests such wretched coffee.

Lady Journalist. It’s nothing to her tea. I’ve never had such bad tea. Besides, she cannot get actors or actresses to come to her house.

Lady Walpurge (overhearing). I expect Sir Herbert and Lady Beerbohm Tree here to-night, and perhaps Viola. (Sensation.)

[Enter, hurriedly, Mr. C. T. H. Helmsley.] Mr. Alexander, a moment with you! A most important telegram has just arrived.

Faust (reading). ‘Handed in at Greba Castle, 10.15. Reply paid. Do not close with Stephen Phillips until you have seen my play of Gretchen, same subject, five acts and twelve tableaux.—Hall Caine.’ Where is Mr. Stephen Phillips? [Stephen Phillips advances.] My dear Phillips, I think we will put up Harold Hodge instead. ‘The Last of the Anglo-Saxon Editors,’ by the last Anglo-Saxon poet.

Curtain.

(1906.)

To W. Barclay Squire, Esq.