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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sions 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: Sh.e.l.ley--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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 surpa.s.s 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 enn.o.bles 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 sc.r.a.p-book of magazine-clippings, turns over the pages and at last begins to read_)