t.'

Here I do not find it easy to follow Faust's line of argument. Fair
exchange is certainly said to be no robbery--but this theory of 'making
everything good with money' is one which the average foreigner is apt to
attribute especially to the average Britisher, and it does not raise
Faust in one's estimation. I suppose he thinks he is doing the poor old
couple a blessing in disguise by ejecting them out of their wretched
hovel and presenting them with a sum of money of perhaps ten times its
value.

Possibly Goethe means it to be a specimen of the kind of mistake that
well-meaning theoretical philanthropists are apt to commit with their
Juggernaut of Human Progress. Faust is filled with great philanthropic
ideas--but perhaps he is a little apt to ignore the individual. Anyhow
his better self 'meant not robbery and murder' and is perhaps quite
justified in cursing its demonic companion and giving him the whole of
the guilt.

The scene changes. It is midnight. Faust, sleepless and restless, is
pacing the hall in his castle. Outside, on the castle terrace, appear
four phantom shapes clothed as women in dusky robes. They are Want,
Guilt, Care, and Need. The four grey sisters make halt before the
castle. In hollow, awe-inspiring tones they recite in turn their
dirge-like strains: they chant of gathering clouds and darkness, and of
their brother--Death. They approach the door of the castle hall. It is
shut. Within lives a rich man, and none of them may enter, not even
Guilt--none save only Care. She slips through the keyhole. Faust feels
her unseen presence.

'Is any one here?' he asks.

'The question demandeth _Yes_!'

'And thou ... who art thou?'

''Tis enough that I am here.'

'Avaunt!'

'I am where I should be.'

Faust defies the phantom. She, standing there invisible, recites in
tones like the knell of a passing-bell the fate of a man haunted by
Care: how he gradually loses sight of his high ideals and wanders
blindly amid the maze of worldly illusions--how he loses faith and
joy--how he starves amidst plenty--has no certain aim in life--burdening
himself and others, breathing air that chokes him, living a phantom
life--a dead thing, a death-in-life--supporting himself on a hope that
is no hope, but despair--never content, never resigned, never knowing
what he should do, or what he himself wishes.

'Accursed spectres!' exclaims Faust. 'Thus ye ever treat the human race.
From demons, I know, it is scarce