Still, Care can only press through the key-hole of the chamber of the rich man, and places herself with fearful suddenness at his side. The Negative of Thought is to be excluded by no walls. But Faust immediately collects himself again; with impressive clearness he declares his opinion of life, of the value of the earthly Present; Care he hates, and does not recognize it as an independent existence. She will nevertheless make herself known to him at the end of his life, and passes over his face and makes him blind. Still, Faust expresses no solicitude, though deprived of his eyes by Care; no alteration is noticed in him, he is bent only upon his aims; the energy of his tension remains uniform: Spirit, Thought, is the true eye; though the external one is blinded, the internal one remains open and wakeful. The transition from this point to the conclusion is properly this: that from the activity of the finite Understanding, only a Finite can result. All industry, for whose development Mephistopheles is so serviceable, as he once was in war, cannot still the hunger of Spirit for Spirit. Industry creates only an aggregate of prosperity, no true happiness. Our century is truly great in industrial activity. But it should only be the means, the point of entrance for real freedom, which is within itself the Infinite. And Faust has to come to this, even on the brink of the grave. Mephistopheles, after this affair with Care, causes the grave of the old man to be dug by the shaking Lemures. Faust supposes, as he hears the noise of the spades, that his workmen are busily employed. Eagerly he talks over his plans with Mephistopheles, and at last he glows at the good fortune of standing upon free ground with a free people. Daily he feels that man must conquer Freedom and Life anew, and the presentiment that the traces of his uninterrupted striving would not perish in the Ages, is the highest moment of his whole existence. This confession of satisfaction kills him, and he falls to the earth dead. After trying everything, after turning from himself to the future of the race, after working unceasingly, he has ripened to the acknowledgement that the Individual only in the Whole, that Man only in the freedom of humanity can have repose. Mephistopheles believes that he has won his bet, causes the jaws of Hell to appear, and commands the Devils to look to the soul of Faust. But Angels come, strewing roses from above; the roses, the flowers of Love, cause pain where they fall; the Devils and Mephistopheles himself complain uproariously. He lashes himself with the falling roses, which cling to his neck like pitch and brimstone, and burn deeper than Hell-fire. First, he berates the Angels as hypocritical puppets, yet, more closely observed, he finds that they are most lovely youths. Only the long cloaks fit them too modestly, for, from behind particularly, the rascals had a very desirable look. While he is seeking