In Hell, business is slow. Charon, the ferryman who must row the damned souls across the Styx, complains to the Devil: He's bored. No great souls in ages, just small fry, hardly worth rowing the boat for. The Devil listens and nods. Then he summons his Furies and sends them to the upper world. Their mission: to lead the famous Doctor Faustus astray from the divine path. For that would finally be a worthy catch for Hell.
This is how the play begins that we see at the Marionette Theater in Bamberg. The stage is about two hundred years old. Here everything is still handmade – sets and marionettes, each figure crafted with loving detail. It's one of the early Faust versions, older and darker than Goethe's scholarly drama. Here there is no redemption, no mercy. Here the Devil really does take his catch to Hell in the end.
The Furies get to work. Later the Seven Deadly Sins themselves come on stage, one after another, each in their grotesque form: Pride, Greed, Lust, Gluttony, Sloth, Wrath, Envy. It's staged in a childlike way, sometimes even comical – and precisely because of that, so apt. The temptations are made visible for what they are: external forces that deliberately work on us, that want to distract us from what matters.
I watch and involuntarily think of my own shadow sides. The irritation when things don't go as I imagined. When someone is late, when agreements aren't kept. How quickly patience then fades and I internally withdraw.
Faustus is a great scholar. His reputation reaches far, he is admired, respected. His knowledge is comprehensive, his library filled with the most precious works. Students flock to his lectures, colleagues seek his counsel. And yet he feels inwardly empty.
It's not the emptiness of the ignorant, but of the knowing person who realizes: All this isn't enough. The admiration fills nothing. Fame doesn't satisfy. There is a longing for more – not for more knowledge, but for something he cannot name. For life, perhaps. For fulfillment. For the feeling of truly being alive.
The Devil sends Mephistopheles, his best servant, to capture Faustus. He comes with enticing promises: twenty-four years of earthly pleasures, fame, wealth, power, pleasure – everything the heart desires. But then Faustus's guardian angel also speaks up, warns him urgently, tries to dissuade him. Two voices, two paths.
Faustus wavers. But the temptation is stronger. The beautiful promises drown out the warning. He signs the pact in blood.
The years pass. Faustus enjoys what was promised to him. But the emptiness remains. Worse still: It grows. And as the twenty-four years near their end, he realizes with horror what he has done. He still tries to repent, pleads for mercy, regrets desperately. But the pact is sealed. There's no turning back. On the last night, the Devil takes him to Hell.
I sit in the audience and think: His tragedy wasn't the one great pact. His tragedy was that he realized too late – the many small decisions had already made him a prisoner. The blood oath was only the seal of what had already been completed inwardly.
Isn't it the small moments that shape us? To be interested in the other person in conversation or just to wait until we can speak ourselves. To stand by someone who is in difficulty, or to turn away. To remain honest when it becomes uncomfortable, or to choose the more convenient path.
These are not dramatic decisions. No Furies, no brimstone. Just everyday moments. And yet they add up. They shape who we become.
On the old stage, the marionettes move on their strings. Wooden figures without choice. But we have free will.
No one gives me the answer. Not even a marionette theater. But to ask the question – I can do that. Every day anew.
B.
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