The patient reader will soon see why I have thought it necessary to record here these words of Mephistophilis.
From Brühl we went on by road to Euskirchen, but both Doctor Faustus and I were considerably tired, so that we passed this stage of the journey almost in silence, and in vain did Mephistophilis seek to make us gay, either with his quips, or by making our driver, who was gloomy in appearance, reminding one of a robber or of some denizen of Hell, join with him in singing songs. It was already twilight when we arrived at Euskirchen, each dreaming only of his comfortable bed, but here an adventure awaited us, the hero of which was once more to be that same untiring practical joker, Mephistophilis.
The matter was, that there happened to be many travellers in the town, and it was only after long disputes that we were able to obtain from the hostelry under the sign “Im Schlüssel” leave to spend the night in the general room, after all the visitors had left. We had to be grateful even for that, and in the large room on the upper floor, packed like the hold of a merchantman, we arranged ourselves, for lack of free space, to sup in a corner, at some planks placed on two empty barrels. Amongst the carousing guests, the majority of whom were already completely drunk, flitted the owner of the hostelry and his servant along every diagonal, their senses gone with exhaustion, unable to feel their feet under them. After we had tried for a long time to get something served for supper, Mephistophilis at last caught the servant by the throat, and, pulling a terrible grimace, shouted into his face that he should at once bring us wine and mutton.
Some time later the lad reappeared before us, with his hair stuck to his forehead with weariness, in appearance a perfect imbecile, and shoved towards us a quart of wine and three glasses.
At once we asked him where was the mutton, but, angered, it must have been, by the general reproaches, he answered us rudely:
“Be patient, better than you have to wait!”
On hearing this rebuke to us, some of the guests roared with drunken laughter, and someone at a far table even shouted: “That’s the way to treat the fops!” though none of us was parading smart clothes. To be irritated by the words of an idiot karsthans was certainly not clever, but, on an involuntary impulse, as one involuntarily raises one’s hand at a threat, I shouted something at the brute. I was, however, forestalled by Mephistophilis, who, posturing like a travelling buffoon, seized the lad’s shoulder with his hand and shouted at him in an exaggeratedly loud voice:
“Ah, blackguard! Think you that we shall drink without a snack to go with it! A good glass of wine requires a good morsel! And if you will not serve mutton to my wine, then I shall eat you!”
Those who heard this speech began to roar still more heartily, while Mephistophilis, quickly emptying his full glass of wine, then opened his mouth to an unnatural width, till it became like the mouth of a serpent, making as if he really were about to devour the poor lad. And, however strange and incredible it may appear, yet I must testify that at that very moment the servant disappeared from before our eyes, as if he had never been there at all, while Mephistophilis, shutting his mouth, as if after a hearty gulp, sat down again at the table and asked for another glass of wine to be poured out for him.
All those present were aghast at such a miracle: some remained, literally, with mouths agape, and for some time the drunken noise of the hall was replaced by a quiet such as one hears only at sea in an hour of completest calm, when the water is like a green mirror.
Amidst this silence Doctor Faustus said to his henchman under his breath:
“Is it really possible that it amuses you to play the part of a magus before all these dullards?”
Mephistophilis replied, also in a whisper:
“Dear Doctor! We all play some part or other, I—the magus, you—the scientist, whom nothing amuses and nothing attracts. Every man, according to Moses, is but an image of God. And I should like to know, what indeed in general can be perceived, except images?”
In the meantime the owner of the hostelry had run to us, bewildered and frightened, hat in hand, and, flinging himself on his knees, as if before ruling princes, he began to plead, speaking thus:
“Kind and merciful Masters! Do not allow yourself to be angered by my poor zany: he has suffered from melancholy since childhood. We shall serve you of our best, and I shall give up my own room to you for the night. But only return to me my kellner, for to-day there is more than I can do. Another time I should not have troubled your lordships with my stupid request, but, see for yourselves: alone I cannot manage! …”
Mephistophilis laughed, with a laugh that was raucous and in no way merry, and said:
“Well, friend, as it was the first time, I shall pardon him! Go down, there under the stairs you will find your servant.”
The host and all the revellers, and I in their number, ran down, and, in truth, there under the staircase, where logs were stored, sat the poor lad, trembling like a new born calf, as if he had a cruel fever. The host dragged him into the light, and we all, interrupting one another, began to question him as to what exactly had happened to him, but we could not get a word out of him, for fear had probably struck away his power of memory. Returning upstairs, I refrained this time from questioning Mephistophilis, knowing already his habit of answering with meaningless jests.
As to the host, he kept his promise, and in truth placed at our disposal for the night his room with a huge wooden double bed, himself and his wife migrating to some garret. On this very marital couch we spent the hours till dawn, side by side, the two of us—Doctor Faustus and I, Mephistophilis preferring to pass the night somewhere else. Before going off to sleep, I said to the doctor, as if with no ulterior thought:
“I suppose the ingenuity of your friend frees you from many of the misfortunes of travel.”
Doctor Faustus replied to me:
“I would I might experience, both in travel and in life, an infinite number of misfortunes, both large and small, for then I might know joys also.”
These words were spoken much more seriously than my question demanded, and immediately afterwards the doctor, closing his eyes, made belief that he had fallen asleep, and soon afterwards weariness also broke the entangled thread of my reflections on the day’s adventures.
The next day, early in the morning, to the accompaniment of low bows from the host, we set off further along our road, heading for Münstereifel, a pretty place on the banks of the Erft, with an old church; there we took our rest without, this time, any special incidents. From thence we turned somewhat towards the east, holding our road towards the Ahr Mountains, across the lands of the Archbishop of Trier, where at each step we sensed the fullness of life fostered by the wise government of the late Archbishop, Richard von Greiffenklau. That day I tried once more persistently to draw out Doctor Faustus into discussions and monologues, for it was necessary for me continuously to preoccupy my attention, that I might smother in my soul the burden of my craving for Renata and the lost days of happiness, which, despite all the vagaries of travel, rose in my spirit ever and again, as the heated water at its appointed hour rises in Iceland springs.
At the decline of the day, having passed through Freisheim, we began to bethink ourselves where we should spend the night, when a sudden happening transformed all our anticipations, and led me, by a path unforeseen and tortuous, to the fatal outcome of that sorrowful history that I have related in these pages. This happening has its place, like a link, in that sequence of chance happenings, which, by the very calculated nature of its regularity, forces me to consider life not as the plaything of blind cosmic forces, but as the creation of a skilled artist, hewn according to some definite and miraculously perfect plan.
For some time, already, our curiosity had been attracted by a handsome castle standing on the high bank of the Wischel, through the valley of which we were passing, and dominating the whole horizon with its square towers of ancient build. When, after a bend of the river, we came near to it, we noticed that a horseman was rapidly approachin
g us, waving his hat, and obviously making signs to us. Mephistophilis now ordered the horses to stop, while the messenger, attired like a herald at a tournament, rode up and said, bowing politely:
“My master, Count Adalbert von Wellen, the owner of this castle, bade me enquire: whether you are not the famous doctor of theology, philosophy, medicine and law, Iohann Faustus of Wittenberg, journeying through our lands on his way to the City of Trier?”
The doctor admitted that it was he, and the messenger then proceeded:
“My master very humbly begs you and your companions to visit our castle and make use of our hospitality for the night, or longer, if it please you.”
Hearing these words, Mephistophilis exclaimed:
“Dear Doctor! Remark, what all popular fame we have already achieved! As far as I am concerned, I am not averse to the countly invitation. I had rather luxuriate on an aristocratic couch, than toss about with the bugs in a country inn, or spend the night on the host’s double-bed in Florentine fashion.”
This last remark is explained by the fact that the Florentines have the reputation of being confirmed sodomites.
As the doctor and I had no reason to refuse the asylum so kindly offered us, we hastened to answer the messenger in the affirmative and then turned our horses towards the castle.
We first passed across a draw-bridge, thrown over a moat filled with water, through the first court, where we gave our horses and our coach into the charge of the servants, then passed on foot through the second gate into the main courtyard of the castle, transformed by the care of the owner into a small garden in the Italian style. Here, in front of a staircase leading into the interior of the castle, we were met by Count Wellen himself, surrounded by a small suite; he was a man young and pleasing, with one of those open faces trimmed by a small beard that the Venetian master, Tiziano Veccelli, loves to paint. The Count greeted Doctor Faustus with a ceremonial speech, in which mention was made of Hermes Trismegistus and Albertus Magnus, the gods of Olympus and the prophets of the Bible, and the exaggerated pomposity of which I only later understood. The doctor answered him shortly and with dignity, and then, at a sign from the Count, pages invited us to follow them into the guest rooms, where we could put ourselves and our clothes in order after the day’s journey.
Even in only passing through the rooms, I was yet able to notice that the castle of the Wellens presented a noble exception to those knightly nests that more and more often become transformed into veritable robbers’ dens. As is well known, in these our severe sober times, when in war is required not so much personal valour, as discipline among the soldiery and quantity in the supply of cannons, flint-guns and muskets, and when in life the main rôle is played not by descent from noble ancestors but by the power of coin, so that bankers dispute influence with kings, knighthood has fallen into decay, and the former paladins, say what Ulrich von Hutten may in their defence, have come to represent the most backward element in present day society. None the less, in the castle of von Wellen, at every step were to be seen traces of good taste and enlightenment, and, what is more important, of a refined mode of life, and it was easy at once to perceive that its master desired to march in step with the age, of which that same Hutten exclaimed: “What a joy it is to be alive in such a time!” Elegant Italian furniture in some of the rooms, pictures that one could attribute to the school of the renowned colourist, Mathias Grunewald, statues that might have been cast by Peter Fischer himself, and many other details, all seemed like a fresh pattern on the sumptuous tissue of the background of antique furniture from the time of the campaigns in Palestine, heavy but not devoid of grandeur. Lastly, in the rooms appointed to us, we found the most elegant of toilet accessories, scents, ointments, combs, brushes, nail files, as if we had been women of pleasure, or Roman courtesans.
Washing in aromatic water, and changing, with the help of a servant, my travelling coat for one of blue silk provided by the Count, I felt myself, not without unworthy vanity, flattered at being received in such a place as a guest of honour, forgetting that I had been invited only as the chance companion of Doctor Faustus. This empty vanity had not yet left me, when we were conducted downstairs into the banqueting room, where was set out a spacious table, laden with all manner of dishes and wines as the booth of a street vendor is laden with goods, and where was assembled the whole company of the castle, with the Count and his consort. In that spacious hall, which had certainly served in days gone by as the chamber wherein the seigneur received his vassals, the walls of which were decorated with paintings on the theme of the Trojan war, and which was brilliantly illuminated with torches and wax candles, as I stood in the midst of a small company of elegant cavaliers rustling with silk and satin, in hats trimmed with ostrich plumes, and surrounded by ladies sparkling with golden ornaments, with lace and remarkably rosy complexions—for a moment I felt myself—how petty is man!—almost happy.
But very soon there awaited me a merited disappointment. First, I was soon able to satisfy myself that no one was likely to notice me personally, while for my own part, more accustomed as I was to campaigning or gentle conference eye to eye, I had no idea how of my own accord to wedge myself into the general animation. Second, I could not but distinguish that in all the signs of respect that the Count and his courtiers showered on Doctor Faustus, in their treatment of him and of all three of us, there was a concealed particle of derision. The thought arose in my soul that we had been invited by the Count only as some rare jesters, with whom one might sport in the tedious spring weeks—and this tiny twig of suspicion was fated to grow into a whole tree.
When we took our places at the table, I contrived to seat myself at the very end, where sat the chaplain of the castle and a very silent gentleman in a velvet doublet, both of whom were more concerned with their cups than with me—and this gave me the opportunity to make my observations untrammelled. I saw that the attention of the whole company was centred on Doctor Faustus, who was placed near the Countess; to him the Count uninterruptedly addressed himself, offering him dishes, spreading before him compliments to his learning, or putting to him various, apparently very serious questions; when Faustus began to speak the Count made signs calling everyone to silence, as if preparing them each time to hear revelations of wisdom. But this universal attention itself, and the rhetorical praises of the Count, and especially the quasi-scientific problems put to the doctor, all were strongly reminiscent of parody and satire, and I even noticed twice or thrice the imperfectly muffled laughter of some of those present, which showed me that the whole company partook of the plot. When I became convinced that my discovery was correct, I felt so ashamed for myself, and so hurt for the doctor, that I was even ready to get up at once, and, delivering myself of some cutting words, depart from the castle, but I was restrained by the thought that it was not for me to take the step first, but for my companions.
However, Doctor Faustus, it seemed, had guessed his position even before I did, for he who not so long ago had willingly opened the treasury of his mind to me, a chance companion, now became as chary of his words as a hero of Maccius Plautus. All the ardent flattery of the Count was extinguished by his cold politeness, and for the major part he shirked answers to the sly questions that were every minute addressed to him, as to an oracle, by those present. Mephistophilis, on the contrary, not to be taken aback by anything, eagerly seized all these questions on the wing, like balls, and threw back arrows in answer, that sometimes struck the very eyes of the hypocritical questioners.
Thus, with a very serious mien, the young cousin of the Count, knight Robert, addressed this speech to Faustus:
“I would like to question you, most learned doctor, as to the means of rendering oneself invisible. Some maintain that it is enough for this purpose to wear under the armpit of the right arm an amulet containing the hearts of a bat, a black hen, and a frog. But the majority of those who have experimented with this method declare that it does not well succeed. Others recommend a far more complicated metho
d. One must take on a Wednesday, before the sun rises, the head of a dead man, and placing a black bean on each of its eyes, ears and nostrils, make upon it the sign of a triangle and bury it in the ground, visiting and watering the grave on each of the next eight days; on the eighth day a demon will arise before you and will ask of you, what you are doing; you must answer: ‘I water my flower’; the demon will then ask you for your watering-can, holding out his hand to you; if on his hand is the same sign that you traced on the dead man’s head, then you give up the watering-can and the demon himself will water the planted head; on the ninth day a beanstalk will grow, and it is sufficient to put only one bean from this into one’s mouth to become invisible. But this method is too complex. A third group, finally, asserts that there has been only one means of becoming invisible; that is, the ring of Gyges of which Plato and Cicero tell, but this has been lost irretrievably.”
Hardly had the knight finished speaking when Mephistophilis exclaimed:
“To me, gracious knight, is known a more simple method of becoming invisible!”
Naturally at these words every glance turned to Mephistophilis, as if he had been Æneas, about to relate to the Carthaginians of the fall of Ilium, but amidst general silence he said:
“In order to become invisible it is sufficient to hide behind an object that is not transparent, a wall for example.”
This quip of Mephistophilis caused general disappointment. However, a little while later, the seneschal of the castle turned to the doctor with the following question:
“You, highly esteemed doctor, have travelled far. Do then explain to us, is it indeed a truth that the ashes of that she-ass on which Jesus Christ made his journey to Jerusalem rest in the town of Verona? And that the other she-ass, on which once rode the prophet Balaam, is still living, and is preserved in a secret place in Palestine to bring back from Heaven the prophet Elijah on the day of the Second Advent?”
The Fiery Angel Page 26