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 First we must make you young and fresh as paint, Philters and elixirs are out of date.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