An Anthology of Czechoslovak Literature/Faust and Don Juan

by Josef Svatopluk Machar

Faust and Don Juan

AN elderly gentleman was proceeding along the street with a deliberate and dignified gait. His yellowish countenance was bordered with a dark clipped beard, which here and there showed signs of becoming white; in his gentle eyes lingered a delicate and melancholy gleam; his forehead, as far as it was not hidden by his hat, revealed a network of deep wrinkles; his handsome nose was slightly widened at the nostrils and the tip of it was tinged with a delicate carmine, the result of indulging in snuff.

He had a black morning-coat, from the pocket of which the tip of a blue handkerchief peeped out; his boots were double-soled, and in his hand he carried a large walking-stick with a curved handle. His melancholy eyes gazed with a gentle glance of resignation upon the people and the street. He replied to the salutations of the passers-by with a pleasant smile, each time describing a parabola in the air with his white straw hat, the band of which was of black silk; and this process revealed a large shiny bald patch on his head. He expressed his thanks in a soft and agreeable voice with a Charmed to see you, sir,” or a “Good day, sir.”

Another gentleman, also quite elderly, was advancing towards him from a distance of about fifty yards. His attire was faultless. His coat was open, and in his buttonhole he wore some lilies-of-the-valley. On his waistcoat swung a glittering gold chain. In his gaily coloured necktie he had a pin with a small bronze horse and jockey. His feet were enclosed in a pair of pointed, brightly polished shoes. His small, aristocratic hands were covered by dark yellow gloves, and in his right hand he carried a walking-stick of the same colour as the gloves, with a silver mount upon which a silver monogram was engraved.

His face was interesting. His rather tired dark eyes with long lashes and thick brows gazed from beneath the brim of a straw hat. His nose was almost Greek, and slender in the middle. His cheeks were covered with a dark beard turning grey, which, in the French style, was trimmed to a point at the chin. This gentleman had a proud bearing and a firm gait, while in his mouth he held a dainty cigarette, the blue smoke of which he puffed with enjoyment through his nostrils, humming a popular song the while.

These two now met. They exchanged glances, opened their arms, and held each other in a firm embrace.

“Noble Don!” exclaimed the first with emotion.

“Doctor Faust!” cried the dandy, kissing him.

They stood for a while in silence, gazing at each other with joy.

After all those years Don Juan had met Doctor Faust!

“By Heaven, Doctor,” remarked Don Juan after a moment, “where did you spring from? How are things with you? What mostly surprises me is that you’re still alive. But, pardon me, don’t say a word, let’s go into that wineshop and celebrate our meeting and tell each other all the news over a glass of red liquor.”

Faust gave a melancholy shake of his head. “I don’t drink wine at all,” he said solemnly.

“Then a glass of Pilsener,” said Don Juan pressingly. Faust consulted a large silver watch. “Very well,” he said, “I’ve a bare hour to spare, and then, I must resume my professional duties.”

“Why, good gracious, Doctor,” exclaimed Don Juan in astonishment, “what are you now?”

“Teacher of chemistry and physics at the technical school here,” replied Faust softly. “I passed my examinations in philosophy too, hoping to become a university lecturer, but my philosophy was too pessimistic and would have been, so they said, fatal to young men. Still,” he added, I’m satisfied even so. But I must be back at school in an hour without fail.”

In the meanwhile they had entered the tavern.

“And now, my dear Doctor,” remarked Don Juan, raising his glass with its large white crest, “let’s drink and then talk.”

They clinked glasses and pledged each other’s good health.

“Really, I don’t know where to begin,” said Faust with a sigh, as he wiped the froth from his beard. “My life, as it is known to the world, is a tissue of lies.”

“Just like mine,” declared Don Juan eagerly.

“Once I was young,” began Faust solemnly, “and I was in love. . . .”

“Ah, Marguerite,” said Don Juan, interrupting him.

“Yes, Marguerite,” continued Faust, “how I loved her! How beautiful she was! She used to sit by her sewing-machine, a Singer’s high-grade, and there was a favourite ditty of hers which began like this:

My joy is lost,
My heart is sad. . .

Oh, my friend, she was an angel! So gentle, so good-natured, an excellent housekeeper. She had angelic blue eyes, fair hair,—the model of a beautiful, well-bred German girl. My love for her was pure and ideal. Believe me, Don, I would have married her.’”

“Ideal, Doctor?” enquired Don Juan with a threatening gesture of his forefinger, “I have read a somewhat different version of the story.”

“Don Juan,” replied Faust earnestly, “let me tell you that my story in the written version is a pack of impudent lies. Indeed, I was going to bring an action against Minister Goethe who wrote the thing, but some of my friends dissuaded me. He was an old gentleman who had deserved well of literature and his nation. . . . But to return. I could not marry Marguerite,—at that time I had not passed my examinations. She went and married an apothecary, and with a broken heart I left my native land. That business about the devil is a stupid fabrication, and also the tale of Marguerite in that song. . . .”

“Excuse me, Doctor, do you smoke?” asked Don Juan, offering him his cigarette-case.

Faust shook his head, produced a silver snuff-box, and took a pinch.

“Oh, I see,” said Don Juan with a smile. “Well, and what then?”

“So here I am as a teacher, and altogether a serious-minded person, who guides the young in the way they should go, and I write.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Don Juan in astonishment. What?”

“I have issued a work in popular language entitled On the Cause of Thunderstorms, replied Faust modestly. “My pupils are fond of me, and I am happy. Only sometimes I can’t help abusing the poets. Poetry is one of mankind’s unfortunate maladies which has caused no end of harm.”

“And women?” asked Don Juan, inquisitively. “Tempi passati,” replied Faust, waving his hand. “Still,” he added confidentially, “I am again in love . . . and this time I think. . . . But what about yourself, my dear Don? How is life treating you? What are you doing now?”

“The times are bad,” answered Don Juan, “women are wiser than I am; it’s hard to make a living. Of course, I’ve had my successes, but they’ve been very much elaborated by the poets. The real thing is different. I’m really ashamed to mention it. Every year a few paternity cases, a few actions for defamation of character, and lately a prosecution for debt. . . . An unpleasant life, Doctor. . . . Where is a man to keep getting the money from? Oh, it’s disgusting. . . .”

Faust looked at his watch. “Well, I must go. Shall we be meeting again?”

“I hardly think so, I’m leaving here for good.”

“To-day?”

“Yes, to-day.”

They emptied their glasses and left. In the street they stopped.

“I must go this way,” said Faust, pointing to the right.

“The left’s my direction,” explained Don Juan.

“Good-bye, then!”

“Good-bye, and good luck!”

With an embrace and a cold kiss they parted. Faust stepped out with the deliberation of a serious-minded man. Don Juan set off with his mincing gait. After a while they both stopped and looked back.

“A dull fellow,” said Don Juan to himself, as he waved his hand to Faust.

“A dull fellow,” said Faust, waving back to Don Juan. And raising their hats, they turned round again and went on their way.

Old Prose (1903)