It was natural that during the literary revival in Germany in the 18th century, when German writers were eagerly on the look-out for subjects to form the material of a truly national literature, the Faust legend should have attracted their attention. Lessing was the first to point out its great possibilities;[3] and he himself wrote a Faust drama, of which unfortunately only a fragment remains, the MS. of the completed work having been lost in the author’s lifetime. None the less, to Lessing, not to Goethe, is due the new point of view from which the story was approached by most of those who, after about the year 1770, attempted to tell it. The traditional Faust legend represented the sternly orthodox attitude of the Protestant reformers. Even the mitigating elements which the middle ages had permitted had been banished by the stern logic of the theologians of the New Religion. Theophilus had been saved in the end by the intervention of the Blessed Virgin; Pope Silvester, according to one version of the legend, had likewise been snatched from the jaws of hell at the last moment. Faust was irrevocably damned, since the attractions of the studium theologicum proved insufficient to counteract the fascinations of the classic Helen. But if he was to become, in the 18th century, the type of the human intellect face to face with the deep problems of human life, it was intolerable that his struggles should issue in eternal reprobation. Error and heresy had ceased to be regarded as crimes; and stereotyped orthodoxy, to the age of the Encyclopaedists, represented nothing more than the atrophy of the human intellect. Es irrt der Mensch so lang er strebt, which sums up in one pregnant line the spirit of Goethe’s Faust, sums up also the spirit of the age which killed with ridicule the last efforts of persecuting piety, and saw the birth of modern science. Lessing, in short, proclaimed that the final end of Faust must be, not his damnation, but his salvation. This revolutionary conception is the measure of Goethe’s debt to Lessing. The essential change which Goethe himself introduced into the story is in the nature of the pact between Faust and Mephistopheles, and in the character of Mephistopheles himself. The Mephistopheles of Marlowe, as of the old Faust-books, for all his brave buffoonery, is a melancholy devil, with a soul above the unsavoury hell in which he is forced to pass a hopeless existence. “Tell me,” says Faust, in the puppet-play, to Mephistopheles, “what would you do if you could attain to everlasting salvation?” And the devil answers, “Hear and despair! Were I able to attain everlasting salvation, I would mount to heaven on a ladder, though every rung were a razor edge!” Goethe’s Mephistopheles would have made no such reply. There is nothing of the fallen angel about him; he is perfectly content with his past, his present and his future; and he appears before the throne of God with the same easy insolence as he exhibits in Dame Martha’s back-garden. He is, in fact, according to his own definition, the Spirit of Denial, the impersonation of that utter scepticism which can see no distinction between high and low, between good and bad, and is therefore without aspiration because it knows no “divine discontent.” And the compact which Faust makes with this spirit is from the first doomed to be void. Faustus had bartered away his soul for a definite period of pleasure and power. The conception that underlies the compact of Faust with Mephistopheles is far more subtle. He had sought happiness vainly in the higher intellectual and spiritual pursuits; he is content to seek it on a lower plane since Mephistopheles gives him the chance; but he is confident that nothing that “such a poor devil” can offer him could give him that moment of supreme satisfaction for which he craves. He goes through the traditional mummery of signing the bond with scornful submission; for he knows that his damnation will not be the outcome of any formal compact, but will follow inevitably, and only then, when his soul has grown to be satisfied with what Mephistopheles can purvey him.
| “Canst thou with lying flattery rule me Until self-pleased myself I see, Canst thou with pleasure mock and fool me, Let that hour be the last for me! When thus I hail the moment flying: ‘Ah, still delay, thou art so fair!’ Then bind me in thy chains undying, My final ruin then declare!”[4] |
It is because Mephistopheles fails to give him this self-satisfaction or to absorb his being in the pleasures he provides, that the compact comes to nothing. When, at last, Faust cries to the passing moment to remain, it is because he has forgotten self in enthusiasm for a great and beneficent work, in a state of mind the very antithesis of all that Mephistopheles represents. In the old Faust-books, Faust had been given plenty of opportunity for repentance, but the inducements had been no higher than the exhibition of a throne in heaven on the one hand and the tortures of hell on the other. Goethe’s Faust, for all its Christian setting, departs widely from this orthodox standpoint. Faust shows no signs of “repentance”; he simply emerges by the innate force of his character from a lower into a higher state. The triumph, foretold by “the Lord” in the opening scene, was inevitable from the first, since, though
| “‘Man errs so long as he is striving, A good man through obscurest aspiration Is ever conscious of the one true way.’” |
A man, in short, must be judged not by the sins and follies which may be but accidents of his career, but by the character which is its essential outcome.
This idea, which inspired also the kindred theme of Browning’s Paracelsus, is the main development introduced by Goethe into the Faust legend. The episode of Gretchen, for all its tragic interest, does not belong to the legend at all; and it is difficult to deny the pertinency of Charles Lamb’s criticism, “What has Margaret to do with Faust?” Yet in spite of all that may be said of the irrelevancies, and of the discussions of themes of merely ephemeral interest, with which Goethe overloaded especially the second part of the poem, his Faust remains for the modern world the final form of the legend out of which it grew, the magnificent expression of the broad humanism which, even in spheres accounted orthodox, has tended to replace the peculiar studium theologicum which inspired the early Faust-books.
See Karl Engel, Zusammenstellung der Faust-Schriften vom 16. Jahrhundert bis Mitte 1884—a second edition of the Bibliotheca Faustiana (1874)—(Oldenburg, 1885), a complete bibliography of all published matter concerned, even somewhat remotely, with Faust; Goethe’s Faust, with introduction and notes by K.J. Schröer (2nd ed., Heilbronn, 1886); Carl Kiesewetter, Faust in der Geschichte und Tradition (Leipzig, 1893). The last book, besides being a critical study of the material for the historical and legendary story of Faust, aims at estimating the relation of the Faust-legend to the whole subject of occultism, ancient and modern. It is a mine of information on necromancy and its kindred subjects, as well as on eminent theurgists, wizards, crystal-gazers and the like of all ages.
(W. A. P.)
[1] The opinion, long maintained by some, that he was identical with Johann Fust, the printer, is now universally rejected.