by Leo Ruickbie
Amongst all those calling for violent death, there were natural ones as well. Trithemius’s supporter Conrad Celtis died in Vienna on 4 February 1508. As a Humanist himself, Faustus no doubt mourned the loss, but another death closer to home had a potentially more immediate impact on his life. On 28 February 1508, Philipp ‘The Upright’ died, passing on his titles and possessions to his thirty-year-old son and heir Ludwig V ‘The Pacific’ (1478–1544). Virdung’s situation as court astrologer would immediately have been put into question, just as every courtier feared for their place during the transition from one lord to another. The knock-on effect would have complicated Faustus’s own position, assuming he had visited Virdung and was still with him in Heidelberg.
If the immediate impact of Philipp’s death had been to throw the court and those at its edges into turmoil, then later clues suggest that Virdung, at least, managed to retain his place. A book subsequently dedicated to Ludwig by Virdung in 1514 implies that he continued in his role and mention is made in his posthumously published work of 1542 that he served the Electors into the year 1538. Whether Faustus was still welcome, assuming that he ever was, we cannot say.
Great and Powerful Magic
According to the spurious tradition that grew up after Faustus, he was supposed to have just published a book at Paris entitled ‘Doctor Faust’s Great and Powerful Harrowing of Hell’. The same text was apparently published at Prague the following year, 1509, reputedly produced by a Jesuit College. The ambitious publisher of the ‘Prague’ text might also be credited with some remarkable ability in fortune-telling: the Society of Jesus (Jesuits) was not founded until 1534 and only officially recognised in 1540. Furthermore, the use of the name ‘Faust’ is not consistent with early-sixteenth century references to him as Faustus. This Harrowing of Hell probably dates from the seventeenth century.10
The principal object of the book is the conjuration of the spirit Aziel – there is no mention of Mephistopheles – to procure the prodigious, yet strangely precise sum of 299,000 ducats of gold. After warning that Aziel will attempt to secure the operator’s soul by compact – unprecedented in the Faustian grimoire – the author unveils the procedure.
The conjuration is long and complicated, manifold permutations of holy names are voiced until the air vibrates with the sound of magic. Finally, Lucifer is threatened, especially with greater torments in the Bottomless Pit, unless he releases Aziel unto the magician. The magician is warned to command the spirit to appear in the shape of a boy of twelve, a presumably less threatening aspect than his usual form, but a guise likely to get any magician into trouble with the authorities, especially in Kreuznach. As the echoes of the magician’s voice die, the spirit appears.
The magician is instructed to inform the spirit that his desire is the grace and glory of God before giving the command to deliver the required sum in gold with the additional caveat, carefully added by a suspicious mind, that the gold cannot be transformed into anything else. For such a large cash withdrawal from hell’s coffers, the magician must expect Aziel to refuse his request unless something is given in return. The magician must stand firm, for it is now that the spirit will try and wrest his soul from him. He must turn to more magical threats and subdue the spirit. As soon as the gold materialises, Aziel must be ordered to return whence he came without any riot, vile stink or violence to the circle or those within it. Now in possession of his riches, the magician is exorted to charitably give away part of his ill-gotten gains to offset any righteous wrath and the implicit curse of conjured gold.
Whether or not Faustus actually wrote this book – and we are generally led to the conclusion that he did not – it was valued as if he had and for some time enjoyed a sulphurous vogue amongst later German magicians and would-be sorcerers. In the eighteenth century there are at least two recorded examples of its use. A diary published in 1708 by a Leipzig tradesman detailed the use of the Harrowing by one of his servants, known only as John George E. The other account appeared in 1716 and is an altogether sadder tale of greed and human folly. During a magical operation to find buried treasure near Jena, three people died in suspicious circumstances. Its dangerous reputation enhanced by such desperate tales, the Harrowing was still trading at a high value up until the end of the eighteenth century.
It is puzzling that there is no actual ‘harrowing’ in the Harrowing texts – the spirits are simply called and commanded in the usual manner. The idea of a ‘harrowing of hell’ derives from Christian mythology. Jesus was believed to have battled with and defeated the Devil immediately after his death in what is traditionally known as the Harrowing of Hell. This idea first appeared as Descensus Christi ad Inferos in The Gospel of Nicodemus, which is often thought to be a product of the third century (but more probably of the fourth) and a text of particular popularity in the Middle Ages. The Harrowing scene became an important part of the medieval mystery plays and so would have been a well-known reference, especially as Agrippa himself mentioned it in his Occult Philosophy.
Faustus’s ‘harrowing of hell’ echoes his earlier documented claim to be able to reproduce the miracles of Jesus. There is also an additional concordance between reference in this myth to Jesus’s raising of Lazarus and his triumph over death, and Faustus’s own claims to be a great necromancer. Whilst this may provide a convincing derivation, there is little reason to suppose that these points of convergence make the document any more authentic, but they do bring it closer to the specific claims made by the historical Faustus. To harrow hell necessitates some familiarity with it. To be a necromancer would require that one should attempt to bring the occasional spirit out of it.
The Harrowing of Venice
After following the leads in Trithemius’s letter we find that there are no clues to his whereabouts now. He was neither at Paris nor Prague overseeing the publication of his books because, despite their claims, they would not be published until long after his death. Had he been drawn into the ferment of war with his former patron Franz von Sickingen? Like any wise man, he may have stayed at home and let the mercenary Landsknechte11 and princes swagger off to bloody the field of honour, but war was a source of wealth and fame. An adventurer like Faustus could have been drawn into it and later claims suggest that he was at some point. The interval between the historical references to him certainly coincides with the fighting in Italy at this time. Like Paracelsus he might have found a position as a surgeon, or, like Agrippa, enrolled as a soldier.
Flight of the Necromancer
How could Faustus have avoided the city? One of the precious jewels of Europe, a centre for trade and industry fought over by all the great powers, Venice was a legend even in the sixteenth century and like a magnet drew other legends, even legends about Faustus, into its sphere. In 1592 P.F. took great delight in describing the wonders of that city during Faustus’s supposed world tour: the streets of water and the remarkably cheap supplies to be had, the ‘fairness’ of Saint Mark’s Square and the wonders of the Basilica. For Faustus, who had named himself after Marcus Antonius Sabellicus, the man who had once been the prefect of the Library of San Marco in Venice, there were obvious reasons for wanting to visit the city. It was a Humanist pilgrimage. Conrad Celtis, for one, had undertaken it in 1486 when Sabellicus was still alive. Perhaps Faustus had not yet heard of his death, or went to pay his respects nevertheless.
Whilst the Faustbook has Faustus merely gawking at the tourist attractions, others believed that he was there for his own nefarious purposes. Luther’s leading disciple, Melanchthon, had something to say about Faustus in Venice. There is no date given for the alleged event, but Melanchthon told the story during his commentaries on the Scriptures delivered between 1549 and 1560:
There [in the presence of Nero] Simon Magus tried to fly to heaven, but Peter prayed that he might fall. I believe that the Apostles had great struggles although not all are recorded. Faustus also tried this at Venice. But he was sorely dashed to the ground.12
Quoting from Melanchthon�
��s lectures in 1563, his former student Johannes Manlius recorded much the same, but significantly brought in the Devil as an explanation:
When he [Faustus] wished to provide a spectacle at Venice he said he would fly to heaven. So the Devil raised him up and then cast him down so that he was dashed to the ground and almost killed. However he did not die.13
Melanchthon’s story was retold many times in the late sixteenth century. The earliest manuscript version of the Faustbook also took Faustus to Venice as part of his magical world tour, but made no mention of a disastrous flying attempt. When Marlowe visited the theme of Faustus he too made mention of the whirlwind tour that included Venice, but again was silent on the flying incident – showing the influence of his sources. That Melanchthon’s story is absent from the Faustbook is remarkable. Either later tellers of the tale felt that Melanchthon was wrong, or, more likely, excised the incident because it did not find a natural place in the story of the pact-maker, nor could it, like some other incidents that stand outside the plot, be made to serve an anti-papist agenda. We cannot disregard the possibility that they were simply unaware of it.
It is not impossible that Faustus could have claimed to have flown in such a manner. There are enough examples to be drawn from the magical texts to show that flying was a commonly sought magical feat. Certainly, flying would be a recurrent theme in the legends of Faustus and we find him using a demonic horse, a cloak and a holly wand for such purposes. Leafing through the grimoires, an operation for flying can be found in the Key of Solomon and we read of the demon Gäap in The Lemegeton, who ‘can carry and re-carry men very speedily from one Kingdom to another’.14
It seems that it was quite usual for necromancers to be thought to fly through the air. In their Malleus Maleficarum Kramer and Sprenger rhetorically asked ‘what of those Magicians whom we generally call Necromancers, who are often carried through the air by devils for long distances?’15 Kramer and Sprenger even claimed to have known such supernatural aviators.
They told the story of a former scholar turned priest in the diocese of Freising in Bavaria who made the claim that he had been conveyed through the air by a demon ‘and taken to the most remote parts’. Another priest living in Oberdorf, near Landshut, also in Bavaria, – ‘who was at that time a friend of that one of us, who saw with his own eyes such a transportation’ – was transported or described as having seen a man transported through the air with arms outstretched and shouting, apparently out of sheer enjoyment.16
That garrulous old monk, Caesarius of Heisterbach (c.1170–c.1250), had his tale of demonic flight and such a story attaches itself to the name of ‘Great John’, Archbishop of Novgorod, who captured a demon in a bowl of water and compelled it to take the form of a horse and carry him to Jerusalem. Even Faustus’s contemporary, the sainted Teresa of Ávila (1515–1582), claimed to have levitated, although no one said it had been a demon who held her up. But when Joseph Desa of Cupertino (1603–1663) – also to be made a saint – made wild claims about flying through the air, he was discretely removed to an isolated monastery.
The vexing question left unanswered by Melanchthon is why should Faustus travel all the way to Venice to conduct an ill-advised demonstration of magical aerobatics? Melanchthon’s information may have come from a meeting with Faustus himself, but we should not rule out the possibility that it was just some flight of fancy or at best a mere device. Melanchthon’s purpose seems to have been to link the antique example of Simon Magus with a contemporary incident, something his students could more readily grasp, and also to surreptitiously compare the Reformers with the Apostles. He explains Simon Magus as a kind of ‘Faustus’ and links Faustus with the ‘crimes’ of Simon Magus and his ‘just’ punishment. He makes reference to unrecorded ‘struggles’ of the Apostles and then goes on to show that even in their own times the Christian mission, and hence the Reform movement, is challenged by magicians. Unlike the comparison with Simon Magus, the singularity of ‘Venice’ almost adds credence to the story because, quite simply, it cannot be made to serve any other purpose.
Where Simon Magus was engaged in a magical duel with Peter upon which the very future of Christianity rested, Faustus, in this story, was simply cavorting in the air for fun. Where Simon Magus’s attempt took place before the Emperor Nero in Rome, Faustus apparently made his attempt for no one in particular in a completely different Italian city. Melanchthon’s story is banal and, like the supposed flight of Faustus, it too falls down flat. If Faustus ever was in Venice and in light of some of his later claims to have been involved in the Italian wars, then Faustus may indeed have been marching south with the heavily armed Landsknechte to court the ‘Queen of the Adriatic’.
As the winter snows retreated from the Alpine passes, the armies of the League of Cambrai – the Papal States, the Holy Roman Empire, France and Spain – began their advance on Venice. Venice had launched desperate diplomatic missions to try and placate the forces assembled against her and play on her enemies’ old animosities, but her entreaties and subterfuges fell on deaf ears. The sound of money rattling in Venetian coffers was too loud. Louis XII and a 30,000 strong army marched out of Milan and entered Venetian territory on 15 April 1509. It took Maximilian until August before he could mobilise his army of 35,000 and it was not until mid-September that he reached the walls of Padua and a desperately outnumbered Venetian resistance.
Artillery bombardment opened the siege on 15 September 1509. For the next two weeks the League’s combined cannon of some 100 to 200 pieces would pound the city and successfully breech the walls, but each time Maximilian I’s soldiers attempted to press the advantage, they were beaten back by the determined defenders. At Padua the guns fired, by contemporary estimates, between 5,500 and 10,000 cannonballs at the city. Cannonballs and powder were expensive and by 30 September Maximilian had run out of funds. Unable to pay his Landsknechte he was forced to lift the siege. He left a token detachment in Italy under the Duke of Anhalt and withdrew, with his tail between his legs, to the Tyrol.
Meanwhile diplomatic negotiations with Pope Julius II had borne fruit. Expensive, humiliating fruit for Venice, but such a choice crop for Julius – who was also now beginning to eye the French with suspicion – that before the year was out he recalled his army and left the League. Julius was no stranger to the inducements of filthy lucre; after all, he had acquired his high office through bribery and even for such turbulent times was widely loathed for his reputed lustfulness, drunkenness, violent anger, deceitfulness and nepotism.
Folly and Philosophy
In the inns and taverns, and between strangers on the road that year, the talk must have been of news of the Italian wars. Wherever Faustus was he could not have avoided it. In Humanist circles the talk turned to different wars: the mounting tide of intolerance towards the Jews and those who appeared to support them, the scholars of Hebrew like Reuchlin.
Emperor Maximilian had proven himself a weak general, but his mind had been on other things. A letter had been sent to the court by a former butcher or moneylender called Johannes von Pfefferkorn demanding the confiscation and destruction of all Jewish books. Despite the complaints of the Archbishop of Mainz concerning his lack of learning and inexperience, Maximilian’s devout sister, Kunigunde of Austria, took up his cause. Maximilian was swayed and authorised Pfefferkorn to confiscate all Jewish books that abused Christianity or infringed the law of the Old Testament.
Inspired by the stupidity he saw around him, Erasmus wrote his best-known work, Moriae Encomium (‘The Praise of Folly’), that year.17 It could have been written just for Maximilian. Kings and princes bear such heavy burdens, Erasmus observed, that if they truly thought about them they would not be able to sleep, but instead, with the goddess Folly’s willing help, they sell titles and fritter away their lives on useless pursuits.
Pfefferkorn was not the only agitator on the domestic front. In 1510 the so-called Revolutionary of the Upper Rhine expressed many common grievances concerning current conditions
in the widely distributed Book of a Hundred Chapters. The Revolutionary predicted that the ‘Emperor of the Last Days’, Friedrich I Barbarossa (1194–1250), would rise from his grave to reinstate the primitive German religion, transfer the capital of Christendom from Rome to Trier, end private property and remove all distinction between rich and poor. It was a sorry indictment of the times when Thomas Murner preached in Frankfurt in 1512 that if Jesus were to return this day he would be betrayed again and Judas congratulated on his profit.
As well as decrying the folly of princes, Erasmus also extended his considerable wit to tackling a problem that was always troubling the Renaissance mind, that of witchcraft. There can be no denying the popularity of Moriae Encomium, but the sophistication of his argument flew over the head of more than one reader whose eyes were more easily drawn to the sensationalist scare-mongering of other writers. Ulrich Tengler (1435/45–1511) was successfully alarming the reading public with graphic illustrations of the supernatural forces of evil ranged against them in Layen-Spiegel (1510) and Der neu Layenspiegel (1511). He denounced fortune-telling, magic and the black art, linking them, together with witchcraft, to heresy. A full-page woodcut showed witches engaged in their various heretical pursuits. We see them riding on goats, cooking up a hail-storm out of a cauldron, stealing milk, conjuring demons with a magic circle and grimoire, and amorously entangled with demons.
Meanwhile, the Inquisitor of Cologne, Jacob van Hoogstraten (c.1460–1527), published his own treatment of the perils of sorcery and dedicated it to Philipp, Archbishop of Cologne. Even the likes of van Hoogstraten and all that clerical class were not themselves immune. In Basel the following year, Urs Graf (1485–1529) executed his Crippled Devil (1511) engraving showing a cowled monkish figure with rosary and crucifix, perhaps on some pilgrimage, being accosted by a leering demon hobbling on a wooden peg-leg. Many interpretations have been proffered of this slightly comic and entirely disturbing image, including strange initiation rites, but the engraving is most obviously an indictment of the clergy’s especial vulnerability to satanism. It was a saying coined in the sixteenth century that wherever God built a church the Devil had a chapel.
