I & the Book of Faust

My name is David Rabenhertz, and I have never entered upon a worse bargain than befriending Calixte Blanchet. I say this not because he is unpleasant to be around or that he is mean-spirited in any way; on the contrary: he is the sweetest, most earnest man you could ever meet. But I think it’s reasonable to assume that anyone who brings about an unholy horror straight from the realm of the devil is bound to cause a stumbling block in any relationship. Naturally, it was an accident on Calixte’s part, but as any guilt-ridden child in a wet nightgown knows, you can’t undo an accident.

Now you may be wondering how I got roped into a friendship with such an unusual character. It all began when my father expelled me from our home in Kaiserslautern to live with my uncle and aunt in Paris until I ‘gained my senses.’ My father and I had been arguing for quite some time about my future. I wanted to study physics at university, but Papa wanted me to continue my work at the family bank. As a very practical man, Papa saw no purpose in furthering my education for something as ‘unnecessary’ as physics. Could physics keep record of accounts or write receipts? Could physics calculate the interest on a loan? Could physics handle investments? I could not defend myself against these questions, nor could I make him understand how much studying the natural world meant to me, but I remained unwavering in my convictions. Unfortunately, so did he. My sister, Wilhelmina (or as I call her, Helma), did all she could to placate us, but we were both far too stubborn.

Papa resolved that my mind had grown weak and flighty from too much imagination and that some time gaining business experience away from the distractions of my hometown would fix my thinking. He thought of sending me to work at a bank in Berlin, but the idea terrified me, as I knew no one in Berlin and would be all alone in a strange place. He finally settled on sending me to Paris to live with his sister and brother-in-law and work in a Parisian bank. He planned to send me away for six months, but I protested so much, he made it a year. Helma begged him not to send me away, and even threatened to leave home herself, but Papa would not be moved.

I finally gave in to my father and, defeated, I packed my belongings, kissed Helma goodbye, and began the stagecoach journey to Paris with the fares my father had so generously provided for me. I’m hesitant to admit that I cried more often than I wanted to on that journey. For the first time in my life, I was alone. Since the womb, I had Helma as a companion, and this was the first time in my life I was ever truly separated from her. As sorry as it sounds, she was the first and only friend I ever had. I had spent most of my childhood around the bank, hunched in corners to read Newton, Pascal, Kepler, and Galileo in solitude, so I didn’t play with many boys my age. I admit there were some boys who shared their time with me—Marzell Gehrig, Johann Warner, and a few others whose names I can’t recall—but they were merely passing playmates. Now, I found myself truly alone.

The journey was only two days long, but it was miserable. My bottom was sore and my legs ached from sitting so long in a jostling carriage. At every rest stop, either for a change of horses for the coach or a change of coach for me, I would get out and stretch my limbs. I spent one night at a hotel. It was not an unpleasant stay, but I had found no familiar company and kept to myself.

When I arrived in Paris, I felt overwhelmed by the large and seemingly ever-changing city. I had visited Paris several times in my childhood, but it didn’t look familiar to me now. There appeared to be new streets and buildings I didn’t recognize. I had my uncle’s address, but heaven knew I hadn’t a clue how to find it. Fortunately, the driver of my coach that day knew the city far better than I and brought me to the door of my uncle’s antique shop.

It was evening, and I figured the shop was closed, partly because the door was locked and partly because there was a sign in the window that said the shop was closed. Having set down my baggage on the doorstep, I knocked at the door, half hoping there would be no answer. I could find a hotel for the night then make the journey back home in the morning. Papa surely wouldn’t send me away again if this journey proved to be a failure. He had only one brother-in-law after all.

To my dismay, the door creaked open, and a tall, slender figure stood in the doorway. Candlelight from behind cast shadows over him, making his features appear drawn and distorted—hollowed out eyes, gaunt cheeks, a gaping, black mouth. His eyes and teeth gleamed in the dim light as a wide smile spread across his pale face.

“I have been waiting for you,” he said with unconcealed pleasure.

“Good evening, Uncle Alexandre,” I said somewhat sheepishly. “I hope I haven’t come too late?” My remark came out sounding more like a question than a statement. I suppose that did no harm, as I probably meant it that way.

“Of course not,” my uncle replied. “Please, come inside. We just finished dinner, so there is still food out on the table if you please.”

I did please, so I brought my baggage inside the crowded shop. The shop was just one floor of many, and by many I mean two. If the ground floor was for working, then the first floor was for living. The dining room and bedrooms were upstairs, as was a guest room that had been prepared for me. Now if the first floor was for living, the staircase was for panicking. Connecting the shop to the living spaces was a flight of old, creaky stairs that led up to the first floor, with railing that moaned and leaned suspiciously when relied too heavily upon. While there were no holes or gaps in the stairs, each stair sagged at the middle and groaned under any amount of pressure. It was a wonder that anyone dared to climb them, let alone inhabit the rooms at the top. But if I wanted to eat, I would have to go up the stairs.

When I was a little boy, I was terrified of ascending the stairs. I would burst into tears every time I had to. But nearly a decade later, in the year of our Lord eighteen-hundred and seventy-seven, being wiser and more mature, I was still terrified of ascending the stairs. The difference between my younger and older selves was that it was no longer socially permissible for me to scream and cry all the way up the staircase.

Uncle Alexandre was heavier than I (although he didn’t much look it), and those stairs looked like they would buckle if a mouse jumped too hard. How Uncle never crossed himself and prayed to God his soul to keep every time he stepped foot on that wooden deathtrap, I’ll never know; but he swore by the stability of each stair and could practically skip up the decrepit timber without so much as a palpitation.

Perhaps my pervasive fear of the stairs was unreasonable, but I couldn’t shake the memories of the horrible nightmares I had as a boy, nightmares of falling to my death. As I eyed the staircase, I could hear my heart pounding in my chest. There were two ways I could go up the stairs: slowly and carefully so as not to entice the ancient wood to buckle or as quickly as possible to shorten the time I had to spend numbering my days. The former, however, would inevitably prolong the agony of being on the staircase, while the latter would probably kill me if I stepped a little too hard on the wrong stair. I couldn’t say which was worse.

Uncle Alexandre saw my hesitance and laughed. “Remember how hard you used to cry as a boy?” he asked.

I hadn’t realized my childhood distress was so humorous. Perhaps I should cry again, just to lighten the mood. “Yes,” I said tightly.

Uncle let out a wistful sigh. “Where has the time gone?”

I knew he meant this in general, but I was too spiteful in that moment to attribute the remark to anything apart from my boyhood agony. Regardless of my spite, I said nothing, and Uncle offered to carry my bag upstairs for me. Unfortunately, he wanted me to follow him. He didn’t say so outright, but he was talking to me as he went up the stairs, and I thought it would be rude to simply stand at the bottom of the staircase like an idiot, so I followed him. To my relief, I did not die.

Aunt Rosalie was just getting around to clearing the table when I stepped into the room. She let out a delighted cry as she caught sight of me. She put down the dishes in her hands and hugged me tightly. My stomach growled.

“Oh!” said my aunt. “Go eat, David, we have plenty of food!”

I didn’t need to be told twice. Aunt Rosalie retrieved a plate for me, and I ate my fill. Full and tired, I retired to my new room.

I awoke early the next morning to the sight of my uncle’s gangly figure looming over me like a shadowy nightmare as his spindle-thin finger prodded my side. I yelped and wriggled away. Uncle Alexandre placed an envelope on my bed.

“The bank opens at 9:00 a.m.,” he said placidly. “In here”—he gestured to the envelope—“are fares if you want to go by coach and written directions if you want to go by foot.”

I stared up at him in silence, trying to recover from my fright and process his words. It took me a moment, but I remembered why I was in Paris and what was expected of me. I groaned and tried to cover my head with my blanket. Uncle Alexandre pulled the blanket away from me. I reached for it and nearly fell out of bed.

“Breakfast is on the table if you want it,” said Uncle. “I suggest you get ready early if you wish to go by foot.”

Regardless of my preference for a coach, Uncle practically pulled me out of bed and had me wash my face, put on one of my finer suits, and comb my hair. As I made ready, he stood outside the dining room like a disquieted specter and wouldn’t let me pass until I was groomed to his satisfaction. I ate my breakfast in bitter silence, much to Aunt Rosalie’s concern, then returned wordlessly to my room to find the letter Papa had given me before I had left for Paris. Papa had written for me a letter of introduction to aid in my securing a position at the bank—a letter which I would have preferred to have lost during the journey but which was exactly where I had placed it in my suitcase.

With the letter tucked away in my pocket, I made my way quickly but carefully down the stairs, passed through the shop, and walked out the door. Fares in tow, I hired a fiacre to take me to the bank. As the coach rolled along the street, I listened to the clopping hooves of the horse, the rolling of the wheels, and the noise of the people and animals—walking, riding, driving, living. My mind began to wander. What if cabs, coaches, and carts ran on steam engines? That would save the horses some work, the streets some fecal defilement, and the people some time, as the vehicles would be much faster than horsepower alone. However, the smoke would likely become unbearable if too many people ran their steam-powered carriages at once. Yet in a city such as this, would anyone care if one more pollutant sullied the filthy air?

I was jarred from my reverie as my coach pulled up in front of a large, brick building, which loomed over me like a greedy monster, hungry for the youthful years of my life. I paid the fiacre driver and stood motionless as he drove away. I couldn’t bring myself to walk up the steps and pull open the door. This was no life to live. Not for me.

I paced around outside for a few minutes, awkward and self-conscious. A bank worker passed by me to get inside, eyeing me with not a little scrutiny. Uttering a sigh of frustration and embarrassment, I pulled Papa’s letter from my pocket, eyed it for a deciding moment, then tore it right down the middle. The act made my skin tingle with excitement and horror. I had acted against my father’s wishes—I knew it must be wrong, and he would certainly punish me for it—but I was free—frightened and aimless and free.