by Leo Ruickbie
This is a purely dramatic development. A demonic underling, even if a ‘Great Prince’, is much less impressive for the theatre audience or reading public than the Devil in person. Yet it is a mistake. A grimoire like Codex 849 had its operation for invoking Satan and it was not unique. Another fifteenth-century German manuscript now in Prague gives a further example and a relatively short and direct one at that.8 If Faustus had wanted to summon the Devil there were invocations enough to choose from. Instead, according to the tradition, he chose Mephistopheles and there must have been special reasons for doing so.
Talk of the Devil
‘Talk of the Devil and he’ll appear’, as we read in Erasmus’s Colloquies, which is a fine way of demonstrating the importance ascribed to the power of names. Names were magical. Names could make things happen. Names could whip all the devils out of hell. To know the true name, the secret name was to know how to command a thing. Yet the magician faced a problem. It was not only Mephistopheles’s form that was subject to some changeability, but his name as well.
The demon we have come to know as ‘Mephistopheles’ first made his entrance in the Faustbook as ‘Mephostophiles’. This earlier form of the name was used in the Wolfenbüttel Manuscript of c.1580 and first appeared in English in P.F.’s 1592 translation of Spies, and continued to be in use up until 1755. In Marlowe’s Dr Faustus he is Mephastophilis in the 1604 edition and Mephostophilis in 1616. In the magical texts attributed to Faustus we find Mephistophiel, Mephistophiles, Mephistophilus and Mephistophielis. Other forms include Memostophiles, Megastophiles and Methostophiles – indeed, from the puppet-plays and legends written between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, no fewer than nineteen versions of the name have been recorded.9
Despite all the variations, none of which seem so very great (especially given the cavalier attitude to spelling of former times), the name was then and continues to be one to conjure with, but who or what is Mephistopheles? Is it possible that the name itself, seemingly so mysterious, can tell us anything? Goethe, irrevocably associated with the story of ‘Faust’, wrote to Carl Zelter in 1829 and confessed that he did not have a clue what the name Mephistopheles meant or where it came from. However, there are some clues in his distinctive name and it is surely of some importance, even if we do not believe that knowing the true form will call the spirit from his abysmal lair.
There are some curious theories as to whence this piece of linguistic flotsam originated. I have recently read that the name comes to us through Greek from ancient Mesopotamia. The first person to tackle the problem said much the same. Widmann argued in 1599 that the name was of what he called Persian origin. That trail, however, appears to be false.
A feature common to many of the names given to the so-called demons is that they derive from pagan pantheons, especially those in opposition to that of the ancient Hebrews. Thus we find the Philistine god Baal Zebul, ‘lord of the house’, being derided by the Jews as Beelzebul, ‘lord of filth’, with the intentional pun of Beelzebub, ‘lord of the flies’, in reference to the ancient Canaanite god ‘Fly’. Berith, whom we met earlier in a conjuration from Codex 849, was another god of the near east: Baal Berith, ‘lord of contracts’. Likewise the demon Asmodeus in the Apocryphal book of Tobit is a corruption of the Persian god Aeshma Daeva.
We would look in vain for a god called Mephostophiles or Mephistopheles, but in Roman mythology there was a goddess Mephitis. She had the unpleasant task of preventing ‘pestilential exhalations’ from the sewers and elsewhere. Her name lives on in our words mephitis, meaning ‘a poisonous stench’, mephitic, which describes anything that smells like one, and in the scientific name for the skunk, Mephitis mephitis. The suggestion of mephitis is interesting since demonic spirits were thought to manifest with noisome stenches, although no particular smell, bad or otherwise, is popularly recorded in connection with Mephistopheles. If we add the Greek philos, ‘friend/lover’, to Mephitis we arrive at something like ‘a friend/lover of poisonous stenches’, although W. Weber, writing in 1836, thought that the name meant someone who arose from hell and exuded an unpleasant smell. However we interpret it, the derivation is a plausible but inexact fit: Mephitis is not Mephosto-.
There are a thousand or more spirit names to choose from in magical literature, so why should anyone invent yet another one? Magic proceeds through the use of traditional formulae and ancient names. It revels in forgotten languages. Its claims for authenticity rest upon the desire for the original words for things – the language Adam spoke when he named the plants and animals – because that original language is seen as being fused with those things themselves. The word ceases to be a sign and becomes, in effect, the world. Magic does not generally invent exotic names for decorative effect, even if to the untrained eye that appears to be the case.
‘Mephostophiles’ (and all its variations) is not one of those ancient spirit names. It is especially noticeable by its absence from Wierus’s much quoted detailing of the hellish hierarchy, the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum of 1577. It first appears in the sixteenth century, only in connection with Faustus and only in the legends and derivative material. The first mention outside the Faustbook literature was made by Jacob Ayrer as late as 1597. We are led to the conclusion that it is not a true spirit name, not one of that ancient host of unborn beings, but simply a novelist’s invention. However, it can still have meaning; perhaps because it has been purposely invented it has even more meaning.
Evil Name is Evil Fame
The man who coined the name must have had some reasoning behind it, however obscure, and must have intended to convey something to his audience when he hit upon Mephostophiles. Since we find the word first used in a German language text, a German origin would seem to be the most obvious. However, painstaking research unpicking the name syllable by syllable reveals, disappointingly, that its origin must lie elsewhere. If German is a dead-end, what other language might hold the secret?
The -philes ending suggests a Greek origin and Greek was a fashionable language amongst the Humanists of the period. The study of Greek Antiquity and the Greek language had taken off after the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans in 1453 when Greek-speaking Christians fled to Europe. This did not go unnoticed. In 1676 Johannes Conradus Durrius argued that Mephostophiles was a corruption of Megastophilos, meaning, so he claimed, ‘great and superior to everyone’. Not long after, someone called Stunz argued that Magistopheles was the original form of the name, meaning ‘highly useful’ and referring to the god Hermes, so beloved amongst occultists. However, both of these attempts to solve the mystery try to do so by forcing it into some other shape that no longer bears much resemblance to the original. They are too far-fetched to be convincing.10
It would take another three hundred years for anyone to come up with an alternative. In the nineteenth century Karl Kiesewetter pulled out his Greek grammar and suggested that Mephostophiles was formed from me, a negative prefix, phos (light) and philos (love), meaning ‘not-light-loving’. However, he still had to left over. In order to account for this he argued that it was a ‘half-learned’ fill-in, or that it could have been part of a misspelling of phosto for photos (light). Some have dismissed this interpretation as artificial, but it has become the most authoritative.11 The problem is that we must make assumptions about the inventor of the name that cannot be proven.
Hypothesis follows hypothesis, each relying on either faulty Greek grammar or too much learning. It is bad Greek to those who have some knowledge of it and ‘all Greek’ to those who have none. The puzzle is why should an author have taken the trouble in the 1580s to invent a name, the meaning of which only becomes clear after reading an explanatory footnote written centuries later by a classical scholar? If the name was not Greek what other language could it be in? It would also have to be a language that the audience would have had some chance of knowing or at least being aware of; indeed, it would have had to be a language that the inventor, presumably a German living in the sixteenth century, wo
uld have had some chance of knowing or being aware of. Latin and Greek were the first loves of Renaissance Humanism, but another ancient language was also beginning to receive scholarly attention.
Hebrew was the language of the Bible, it was older than Greek, its script less familiar and written backwards, or so it seemed, and hence promised more direct access to that secret wisdom and magic power that Faustus and every other magician before and since has sought. Hebrew was also in fashion. Leading Humanists like Reuchlin had pioneered its study, but it was Luther’s translation of the Bible into the German vernacular (the New Testament in 1521 and the Old Testament in 1534) that made it accessible to a much wider audience than before, placing many Hebrew personal and place names directly in their hands. These factors suggest that the author of the Faustbook had good reason to trust that his allusions to Hebrew and to Scripture would be understood and appreciated by his readers.
Given that the Bible would have been the principal source of reference and entertainment for many, through private readings and public sermons, what can we find out by pouring over the pages? Some have looked to Moses, unsuccessfully, for clues to the meaning, but there are more obvious examples to explore.12 The Hebrew for Memphis, capital of Lower Egypt, is Moph or Noph. Memphis, as with all things Egyptian, was the place of magic. There is a city called Mephaath, meaning ‘appearance, or force of waters’, but this suggests nothing remotely diabolical. However, all of these leave a large part of the name wanting explanation.
Looking at Hebrew editions of the Bible other candidates present themselves. We find mefiz and tofel, which, when fused together, might well be an appropriate etymology for Mephistopheles. The suggestion, when first made in the early twentieth century, was not well received. The debate centred round whether mefiz meant ‘ruining’ or ‘spreading’, and whether tofel was actually tiflut refracted through the pronunciation of the Ashkenasi Jews as tiflus and meaning ‘nonsense’ or ‘foolishness’. The result is largely the same. The problem is that it is unlikely that the author of the Faustbook would have understood more than a few words in biblical Hebrew, let alone an altogether more obscure one in Mishnaic. Furthermore, this derivation is based on Mephistopheles and not the earlier Mephostophiles.13
The dense throng of bizarre names in the Old Testament throws up still more possibilities. In 2 Samuel 15:12 we find a man at King David’s court called Achitophel. Achitophel means ‘brother of insipidity or impiety’, but despite this unfortunate name he was a man greatly renowned for his wisdom among the Jews before an ignominious ending as a Judas figure. In 2 Samuel 15:31 Luther translated a suggestive line as ‘Oh Lord, befool Achitophel’s advice’ and just as Achitophel tried to befool David, it has been argued, so Mephistopheles tried to befool Faustus. There seemed to be some sort of sympathy of action between them. Could Achitophel be the source of the ending to ‘Mephistopheles’?14
Staying with Samuel we also find Mephibosheth or Mephiboshet, meaning ‘exterminator of shame’ or ‘out of my mouth proceeds reproach’. The crippled grandson of Saul, Mephiboshet was an unfortunate and uninspiring figure who was outwitted by his servant – but he could be the other half of our puzzle. Chop Mephiboshet and Achitophel in half and splice them together, and we get Mephi-tophel.15
That we can cut-and-paste the two names together is not justification alone. Despite all these attempts we simply cannot escape the fact that the hybrid name Mephi-tophel is still some way from being Mephistopheles, far less the earlier Mephostophiles. If the author of the Faustbook wanted to conjure up associations with Mephiboshet and Achitophel, then why did he not stick with Mephitophel? Neither mefiz-tiflus nor Mephi-tophel supplies enough of Mephostophiles to be convincing. So far as our demon is concerned, Hebrew is a false trail.
Given the number of different versions of the name ‘Mephistopheles’ that have been in use at different times, it is also possible that different authors have understood it to mean different things. By itself it seems to mean nothing, but contains a rich variety of nuances that may have been differently stressed as one author preferred Greek and another Hebrew (or indeed as one knew nothing of either). In the end there appears to be no real solution, but out of all those offered so far there is one explanation a little more convincing than the others.
When they were not corruptions of other people’s gods, demons since Mesopotamian times have generally been named after whatever pestilence or evil they were thought to especially embody. We must ask, then, what pestilence or evil does Mephistopheles embody? For the writer of the Faustbook, who dressed him as a monk, he must embody everything that the Protestants despised about Catholicism, and that was a long list. The original Mephostophiles is, on this Mesopotamian principle, much more likely to be derived, however badly, from me photos philos, meaning a light-hating demon, the light being the ‘light of the Gospels’ – which could at least mean something that a Protestant might apply to a Catholic.
Everyone who has tried to crack the Mephistopheles enigma has been too clever (and thus implied considerable sophistication on the part of creator and audience) or too arrogant in assuming stupidity or ignorance (or both) on the part of the original inventor. People have strained too hard to find an exact meaning and their efforts have all ended inconclusively, however suggestive and intriguing they may have been. This is perhaps the real secret. The name sounds Greek and so conjures up associated ideas, but remains impenetrable, luring us like a will-o’-the-wisp into trying to decipher it and losing us amongst the fetid swamps of overheated imaginations.
9
Deal with the Devil (1514)
If Faustus must have his Mephistopheles, then Mephistopheles must have his pact: ‘he will buy my services with his soul’ states Marlowe’s spirit; ‘Give me a line or two, I pray’ solicits Goethe’s gentlemanly demon.1 The pact has become a central element in the legend of Faustus. It has entered into our language as a ‘Faustian bargain’. After reading Marlowe and Goethe we are convinced that the pact was the source of all Faustus’s power as well as the legalese of his destruction. And yet we all know Marlowe and Goethe to be dramatists, spinning tales for our delight and occasional edification. So which is it? Fact or fiction? Where did it come from, this idea of the pact, and what truth is in it?
One version of the legend published by Battus in 1592 tells that Faustus signed his pact in Wittenberg on 23 October 1514. Surprisingly, the date is a plausible one. The legend also tells us that the pact was fixed at the term of twenty-four years, which would mean – if it were true – that Faustus would have had to have signed the document in 1514, if indeed he did, because he died around 1538. Damningly, there is no mention of a pact in the contemporary references to him. The idea is first found in the Wolfenbüttel Manuscript of around 1580 and Augustin Lercheimer’s Christlich bedencken printed at Heidelberg in 1585, although there is possibly an earlier hint in one of Roshirt’s anecdotes (c.1570–1575).
According to the legend, as we read in P.F.’s version, the actual details of the pact were thrashed out in the comfort of Faustus’s chamber rather than in the windy and badly lit woods where he invoked Mephistopheles. Faustus began by laying down three articles that Mephistopheles should observe: that he would be obedient; that he should bring anything that Faustus desired; and that he should always tell the truth.
The first is simply the expectation of any master of his servant. The second is a catch-all clause for granting Faustus his every wish, taking him beyond the money-specific invocation of the spirit Aziel in his spurious grimoire the Harrowing of Hell (supposedly Paris, 1508). The third reveals that general fear of duplicity implicit in all transactions with the supernatural and the more specific belief when dealing with infernal powers that they are, after their Father of Lies, all inveterate deceivers. As pacts go it seemed watertight, the only problem was that Mephistopheles refused to sign.
The reason being, explained Mephistopheles, that he did not have executive powers and first had to check with his master down below. Faus
tus was not satisfied and demanded a more detailed account of why this should be. It might have ended there with an argument, but Faustus made Mephistopheles swear to come back the next evening and true to his word he returned to resume their negotiations. Faustus had expanded his original articles to five.
With an eye on the next life, Faustus had decided that it would be better to be a spirit like Mephistopheles than any other sort of inhabitant of hell. Images of the damned being pitch forked onto gridirons for an eternity of roasting no doubt heavily influenced article one. The other new addition to the list was that Mephistopheles should attend him, invisible to all but himself – he had obviously thought through the consequences of always having such a strange attendant at his side. Mephistopheles relented on condition that Faustus agreed to a number of articles of his own. Faustus not only had to sign over body and soul in his own blood, but must agree to deny the Christian faith and make himself an enemy towards its believers, and should not let anyone talk him out of it.
Faustus had been expecting to hand over body and soul, Mephistopheles had already given away that much. The blood pact adds extra magical weight to his word alone. The remaining conditions ensured that he cut himself off from all aid and influence from the ‘opposition’. We are reminded of Dr Klinge in Erfurt and that in a world full of enthusiastic religionists, a magician was sure to be hectored and cajoled into changing his mind. A specific term was also agreed ‘to give him certain years to live in health and pleasure, and when such years were expired, that then Faustus should be fetched away.’ Dreaming of all that he might have and do, ‘his mind was so inflamed, that he forgot his soul’, and he readily agreed to everything that Mephistopheles demanded in return. The Faustbook puts his rationalisation of this act rather nicely: ‘he thought the Devil was not so black as they use to paint him, nor hell so hot as the people say.’2