An Elegant Solution(51)

“The book itself, yes, but I meant the reading of it now. I pray we won’t see anything he describes with our own eyes.”

“There’ve been no other reports of plague,” I said.

“I think there will be none.” This was the second time that day I’d been assured of that.

“Master,” I said. “You said you came to Basel from Strasbourg?”

“Yes. Five years ago.”

“Then did you know of Magistrate Caiaphas?”

“To have lived in Strasbourg is to know of Magistrate Caiaphas.”

“Did he know of you?”

“Yes. He knew me. He knew of me.”

“Master Gottlieb knew him, and asked him why he came to Basel.”

“It is best to not know that. Leonhard, your questions are difficult.”

“I was greatly saddened by Master Huldrych’s death,” I said.

“And what does that have to do with Magistrate Caiaphas?”

“I don’t know.”

“The Inquiry is over, and also the time for questions. We’ll move to other things.”

Of course, I asked, “What is the result of the Inquiry?”

“The result is no result. The city was indulging Magistrate Caiaphas with the Inquiry, and Magistrate Caiaphas is no longer here.” Master Desiderius smiled at that, as likely most of Basel did. “And what, hasn’t Gottlieb said anything to his own clerk?”

“I’m dismissed as clerk, and anyway he’s dismissed as Inquisitor. But he said there was a result to be told, and he never told it.”

“He’ll tell the Council, and Magistrate Faulkner.”

“And he said there was a danger to Basel,” I said.

“He did, didn’t he?” Master Desiderius said. “But we don’t know what. Could it have been about the plague? No one knew that Huldrych was ill. Perhaps Gottlieb had a fear that someone might be? Did anyone say anything about plague?”

I chose my words carefully. “Gottlieb never said anything about plague. Not to me.”

“I was hoping, Leonhard, that you might have known more.”

“I wish I did, Master.”

“Anyway,” he said, “thank you for the return of the book. And I have another for you. It’s even in German.” It was odd that we didn’t spend time choosing one together; it usually took us a long time. Instead he handed me a book that seemed very new, and slender.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I remember you said you had this for me.”

The first page showed that it was new, printed that very year, in Frankfurt by a printer named Meynenden. But the title was something of a discomfort to me, as I knew it well. This book was a new telling of an old tale, a Faustbook.



Faustbooks had been common in Europe for centuries. The story was usually short: The book in my hand had only some forty pages. The history of this story was long, from the ages of alchemy. It was, of course, about the life of Dr. Faust of Heidelberg. He was learned, terribly learned, but wanting always more knowledge, more and more. He wanted knowledge of anything, but mostly of mysteries and secrets and powers. He was greeted by Mephistopheles, a fallen angel, who offered him a bargain: all knowledge, and life as long as he wanted; but when he tired of living, he must give up his soul. There were different endings but the sum of them was he did tire finally, that his knowledge was too great to endure, and he would rather surrender to damnation than keep living.

If there was no true Dr. Faust, there have been others who might have inspired the tale.

There was a man named Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus of Hohenheim, who took the scholarly name Paracelsus, to mean he was the equal of the great chemist Celsus of ancient times. I thought it might have been Paracelsus who was the true Faustus. He held the Chair of Medicine in Basel at the same time that Holbein was painting the Council room. He was an alchemist, when that profession was only suspect, and not sinister. So, Basel was part of the soil that the story had grown from. Its roots may still have been in the soil.

I was interested to read this new version, though I’d never enjoyed the tale. “Thank you,” I said.

“It’s only imagination,” he answered. “Such things don’t really happen. But it’s cautionary, too. A good caution to have.” I think he was emphasizing that. “Think it through well, Leonhard. It isn’t Mathematics but there’s still hard truth in it to keep in your mind. It might even be that the questions you have of the Inquiry are answered in it.”

“How could that be?” I asked.

He shook his head. “And I have a copy of Paracelsus for you, also. But not today; that is enough.”