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Updated: May 17, 2025
His moods of brutality and of sympathy came like the shifting shadows of a gusty day. His perfectly material philosophy frightened her and allured her. He was Mephistopheles, one hand on the medicine chest of life, the other pointing satirically towards the towered city.
Just as Mephistopheles pointed out to Faust in that terrific assemblage at the Brocken, faces full of frightful augury, so the author was conscious in the midst of the ball of a demon who would strike him on the shoulder with a familiar air and say to him: "Do you notice that enchanting smile? It is a grin of hatred."
The cherub Mephistopheles smiled at this joke and did not seem to care just then that his every extra word kept the procession back an extra instant. "We're not wanting models at present. But if you've had any experience as a saleslady you look all right well, see here, I'll try and give you a chance. It's up to you to make good, though. What money do you want? Write it down."
Jeanne listened, striving to pay close attention to his words, to prepare a prudent and pertinent answer, and ever conscious of the discomfort the presence of this little Mephistopheles of an Albacina caused her. The Minister's discourse did not prove to be what she had expected; more favourable perhaps, but more embarrassing.
Satan has nothing vulgar in him: he is capable of melancholy feelings, he can be pathetic and eloquent. Mephistopheles laughs at the stupidity of the world, and at his own.
She had fancied that he would be old, a man of such importance in a great establishment, a person who had the nickname of Father. But her anxious gaze, as she carefully kept her distance, told that he was not even middle-aged. He was, it seemed, a curious mixture of cherub and Mephistopheles in type: round faced, blue eyed, with smooth cheeks that looked pink even in the cruel electric light.
"We won't all go together," said mephistopheles. "You two meet me at Jonathan's ken in an hour." As brutus and the newcomer walked along an idea came to brutus. "Here is a fellow that passes for a sharp. What if I sell him my pamphlets and get a laugh at his expense. Mate," said he, "here is a flash book all sealed up. What will you give me for it?" "Well!
I asked, with a slight sneer. He bit his lip and looked annoyed. But he answered, quietly: "I see you must have your joke, conte; but remember that if you place the countess in the position of Marguerite, you, as the giver of the jewels, naturally play the part of Mephistopheles." "And you will be Faust, of course!" I said, gayly.
"Don't you see the move? he won't give it us, conscience forbids; but, if we are such rogues as take it, no questions asked." "The tarnation hypocrite," roared brutus, with disgust hypocrisy was the one vice he was innocent of out of jail. mephistopheles stole Crawley's money, left for that purpose, and went and bought a four-gallon cask of turpentine.
For indeed it is an emotion hardly short of terror that seizes us, as we listen to the stringent unflinching paradox of this heterogeneous figure. Rameau is the squalid and tattered Satan of the eighteenth century. He is a Mephistopheles out at elbows, a Lucifer in low water; yet always diabolic, with the bright flash of the pit in his eye.
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