The story of Faust will never lose its relevance for the artist's self-importance, ego and desire for recognition make his soul an easy catch for devil. Only this time the story is set in London at the end of the 19th century, has a humorous touch and has an element of time travel.
'I asked him if he often read here.
"Yes; things of this kind I read here," he answered, indicating the title of his book−−"The Poems of Shelley."
"Anything that you really"−−and I was going to say "admire?" But I cautiously left my sentence unfinished, and was glad that I had done so, for he said with unwonted emphasis, "Anything second−rate.'
(...)
'I asked rather nervously if he didn't think Keats had more or less held his own against the drawbacks of time and place. He admitted that there were "passages in Keats," but did not specify them. Of "the older men," as he called them, he seemed to like only Milton. "Milton," he said, "wasn't sentimental." Also, "Milton had a dark insight."
And again, "I can always read Milton in the reading−room."
"The reading−room?"
"Of the British Museum. I go there every day."
"You do? I've only been there once. I'm afraid I found it rather a depressing place. It−−it seemed to sap one's vitality."
"It does. That's why I go there. The lower one's vitality, the more sensitive one is to great art. I live near the museum. I have rooms in Dyott Street."
"And you go round to the reading−room to read Milton?"
"Usually Milton." He looked at me. "It was Milton," he certificatively added, "who converted me to diabolism."
"Diabolism? Oh, yes? Really?" said I, with that vague discomfort and that intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own religion. "You−−worship the devil?"
Soames shook his head.
"It's not exactly worship," he qualified, sipping his absinthe. "It's more a matter of trusting and encouraging."
"I see, yes. I had rather gathered from the preface to 'Negations' that you were a−−a Catholic."
"Je l'etais a cette epoque. In fact, I still am. I am a Catholic diabolist.'
(...)
'I asked him what he thought of Baudelaire. He uttered the snort that was his laugh, and, "Baudelaire," he said, "was a bourgeois malgre lui." France had had only one poet−−Villon; "and two thirds of Villon were sheer journalism." Verlaine was "an epicier malgre lui." Altogether, rather to my surprise, he rated French literature lower than English. There were "passages" in Villiers de l'Isle−Adam. But, "I," he summed up, "owe nothing to France." He nodded at me. "You'll see," he predicted.
I did not, when the time came, quite see that. I thought the author of "Fungoids" did, unconsciously of course, owe something to the young Parisian decadents or to the young English ones who owed something to THEM.'