. And right above the oak tree the first star shone. Faust in the opera had bartered his soul for some fresh years of youth. Morbid notion! No such bargain was possible, that was real tragedy! No making oneself new again for love or life or anything. Nothing left to do but enjoy beauty from afar off while you could, and leave it something in your will. But how much? And, as if he could not make that calculation looking out into the mild freedom of the country night, he turned back and went up to the chimneypiece. There were his pet bronzes⁠—a Cleopatra with the asp at her breast; a Socrates; a greyhound playing with her puppy; a strong man reining in some horses. “They last!” he thought, and a pang went through his heart. They had a thousand years of life before them!