4 People So Good At Their Jobs They Were Accused Of Selling Their Souls
by Ian Fortey
The tale of the musician who sold their soul for bitchin' guitar chops is generally associated with blues luminary Robert Johnson, and also probably any big-haired rock star your mom or your pastor didn't like when you were a kid. But as it turns out, a lot of people have been accused of entering into legally binding agreements with Satan over the years, and they’ve done it for a lot more than just musical prowess.
Before Mr. Johnson took his guitar to the crossroads, there was the 15th century folk legend about alchemist Johann Georg Faust (it’s where the term “Faustian bargain” comes from), which in turn was based on that of a 6th century bishop named St. Theophilus the Penitent, whose story manages to see him both dicking around with the devil and repenting well enough to become a saint. We're not sure how somebody does that.
To be fair, neither did anybody else, or how any of the people in this article managed to do any of the things they did, which is why everyone just assumed the Prince of Darkness was involved somehow.
Pope Sylvester II: Science Is The Devil
Modern popes generally like to focus their time riding around in their Popemobiles and doing spiritual stuff, but back in the day, the world of poping was a bit more complicated and crazy. We’re talking over-the-top levels of corruption, assassination attempts, and even others who were apparently just really stand-up guys who'd get accused of being the devil’s pawn. It was a thing.
Case in point: Pope Sylvester II, whose papacy lasted from 999 to 1003 CE, was an intelligent and educated man and a respected scholar and teacher in his pre-papal days. He wasn’t afraid to shake things up a bit after he acquired the funny hat, either, devoting most of his life to education and science. For instance, those numbers you love so much today, like 7 and 8 and 9? Giving each integer its own number is a Hindu-Arab concept that Sylvester introduced to Christianity in an effort to stop us from using "I," "V," "X," and so forth to count stuff, because everybody knows those are letters for words, you guys.
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And shapes are for … something else, probably.
He also built organs, dabbled in geometry, physics, and astronomy, and even created an advanced abacus which very much revolutionized counting in Europe. But unfortunately, the term “nerd” didn’t exist in his era, so instead of giving him a wedgie, his detractors just assumed that his big brain came from the devil. After he died in 1003, contemporaries whipped up stories of Harry Potter-level wizardry and general devilry, with one particularly hilarious story alleging that Sylvester owned an “artificial head” that answered whatever questions he had.
It wasn't until the 17th century when someone got around to actually reading some of Pope Sylvester II’s papers, and after reasonably ascertaining that Pope Sly was not, in fact, hot tub buddies with Satan, recommended that the man’s legacy should probably be revised a bit. And that’s how one of the smartest Popes of all time was rescued from history’s “minion of the underworld” pile and given his proper place in history.
Niccolò Paganini: The Devil’s Violinist
Niccolò Paganini emerged unto the unwary world in 1782. The Italian was basically born with a violin in his hand, and quickly outpaced his daddy’s playing lessons. He spent his childhood tearing through a set of high-class tutors, and was already giving public performances at the tender age of 11. Eventually, people stopped teaching him technique altogether because what the hell can mere mortals teach Violin Superman?
After taking on both an insane work schedule and a flair for the dramatic, Paganini soon started making his way toward the cozy twin positions of court violinist and a sort of proto-rock star. But he also developed a reputation as “The Devil’s Violinist,” to the point that people claimed they actually saw Satan himself giving Paganini pointers during a particularly complex piece of violin wizardry. Others even thought that Paganini’s mother had sold his soul to the devil for him in order to obtain this advanced level of tutoring, but we're not sure souls can be brokered through a third party like that, so the truth is really anybody's guess.
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An arm wrestling tournament?
More insidious rumors included one that he had murdered a woman, strung his violin with her intestines, imprisoned her soul within the instrument, and that her screams could be heard when he played. Of course, Paganini was happy playing up the myth, and it didn’t hurt that he was a tall, gaunt man who dressed in black, rocked Wolverine sideburns and was deeply in love with booze, women, and gambling. He played the part well, is what we’re saying.
It’s also been said that he had curiously long fingers, as well as unusual flexibility and dexterity in his hands. Some have suggested that instead of having the devil in his corner, the musician may have had Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, which leads to increased flexibility, as well as Marfan Syndrome, a condition that would explain his unusually long appendages. Now we're not doctors or scientists or anything, but it's definitely amazing what 200 years will do to a hypothesis, because “known medical condition” is miles away from “your mom sold your soul out from under you.”
Illness plagued Paganini later in life, and he managed to survive both syphilis and tuberculosis before eventually succumbing to cancer. All the while, rumors continued that the devil played alongside him, and even that lightning had once struck his bow while he was playing. But now that we're telling this story, it kind of sounds like a sequel to The Pick of Destiny starring Lindsey Sterling with Rob Zombie directing.
Bernard Fokke: Captain Of The Actual Flying Dutchman
If you hear the name the Flying Dutchman, you probably think of the Johnny Depp movies, or maybe SpongeBob SquarePants, or even your uncle Lars from Amsterdam who has a nasty habit of getting ejected from bars through windows. But the actual legend of the Flying Dutchman, a ghost ship cursed to sail for all eternity, dates back hundreds of years. And in one iteration of the story that goes back at least that far, the captain of that cursed ship isn't SquidFace McGee or Floaty Groucherson, but a legendarily talented sailor named Bernard Fokke.
Captain Fokke was famous for his sailing prowess in the 17th century, being able to make great time between Holland and Java and reportedly even reaching the West Indies from Norway in just 90 days, which was enough to make people think that Fokke was receiving underworldly help because it wasn't possible that everyone else was just that good at procrastinating. It was possible, mind you, or at least more so than Beelzebub throwing a little extra wind in your sails.
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“Really, that’s all you want for your soul? Faster sailing times?”
Like many sailors of his day, there came a time when Fokke went to sea and never came back again. In his particular case, his ship, the Libera Nos, supposedly sank in a storm before he was able to fulfill his lifelong ambition of sailing around the perilous Cape of Good Hope. Assuming that the devil would finally come for what was owed, when sailors saw what they believed to be ghost ships, they decided it was Fokke sailing the seas in eternal punishment. But seeing as every account makes it seem that the good captain totally just loved sailing all the time, we can’t help but think there are worse punishments out there.
Heinrich Agrippa: Renaissance Man
If you're a teacher, philosopher, doctor, and a scholar, what else might you add to your resume to further solidify your prominence as a badass? If you said ”devil worshipper,” then you're thinking exactly like Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, or at least like his 18th century critics.
Because Agrippa had accomplished so very much in his life, there were people who just didn't believe he was able to pull it off on his own without infernal assistance. To be fair, he might have brought some of it on himself, given he was a known student of the occult and wrote a bit on the subject, because as we all know, mixing occultism and genius together is pretty much the perfect recipe for the devil's golf caddy.
In reality, part of the problem likely had to do with Agrippa’s chief superpower: testing the status quo as much as he humanly could. He lectured on the teachings of Jewish writers at a time when the law of the land was… less than agreeable when it came to Jewish creations. He defended a woman against charges of witchcraft in his capacity as a lawyer. He clashed with an inquisitor so badly that he was banished from all of Germany. He was slapped with some jail time in France for talking smack about the Queen Mother. And that’s all before he pissed off the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V by dissing occultism and science, which of course got him tossed in jail again.
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We imagine there was plenty of outdoors time, at least.
You see the pattern here: stand up to the man, and you’re on Team Unholy Abomination.
Weirdly, a lot of criticism toward Agrippa seems to have been siphoned through the fact that he was a dog person. Apparently, the man had a large, black canine friend named Monsieur that he allowed to sleep on his bed and eat beside him. To those of a mindset to believe such things, this was further confirmation of Agrippa’s dark ways because obviously this huge dog was his demonic familiar, which seems to follow the original black dog is a demon trope that found its way into other “sold their soul” stories like that wizard alchemist Faust.
We know it sounds crazy to think that dog ownership could equate to some sort of participation in the dark arts, but keep in mind people used to think Satan would take time out of his busy world-ruining and soul-corrupting schedule to give his loyal followers violin pointers.
