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 _Salome_, 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 First we must make you young and fresh as paint, Philters and elixirs are out of date.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 Tubingen.

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 t.i.tle 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 SALOME.

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.

SHAVIANS FROM SUPERMAN.

DONNA ANA _has vanished to sup her man at the Savoy; the_ DEVIL _and the_ STATUE _are descending through trap, when a voice is heard crying, 'Stop, stop'; the mechanism is arrested and there appears in the empyrean_ MR.

CHARLES HAZELWOOD SHANNON, _the artist, with halo_.