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