by Leo Ruickbie
The Augustinian monastery at Rebdorf was founded in 1159 largely through the intercession of Friedrich I Barbarossa. A Romanesque church was soon constructed on the site. A nave and two aisles were built in an Italian style that was at that time fashionable in Bavaria. The two towers that still stand today were added in the second quarter of the thirteenth century and altered in the fifteenth century. A cloister added in the second half of the fifteenth century was decorated with stained glass and gave a final resting-place to the good and the great of Eichstätt. As a consequence of changing tastes, the buildings were remodelled in the late Baroque style that one sees today.
Leib had entered the monastery at the age of fifteen in 1486. He quickly rose to prominence, managing the economic interests of the monastery from 1497. From 1499 to 1503 he took a leading role in the reformation of the monastery of Schamhaupten near Altmannstein. In 1505 he was elected Prior of Rebdorf. His good management of the monastery finances enabled him to distribute generous alms, but more importantly, politically speaking, to lend money to the Bishop of Eichstätt and various needy princlings.
He developed a close friendship with Willibald Pirckheimer and wrote to many other famous Humanists of his day, such as Erasmus, Johannes Reuchlin, Christoph Scheurl, Thomas Venatorius and Jacob Wimpfeling. But it was his connection with Daniel Stibar that may explain his meeting Faustus.
Daniel Stibarus or Stibar (1503–1555), was a judge, city councillor and canon in Würzburg and a distant relation of Georg III’s successor as Bishop of Bamberg. In 1536 Joachim Camerarius referred to a friendship between Stibar and Faustus, but beyond that curt reference we have nothing more. Stibar was an influential friend to have, as Leib would have known. A tentative web of connections spins itself between Faustus, the Bishop of Bamberg, Stibar and Leib, but it is impossible to determine who may have introduced whom, if at all.
Leib’s interest in astrology inspired him to start recording meteorological observations and the corresponding positions of the planets in the margins of Stöffler’s Almanach nova from April 1513 onwards. This became his so-called Wettertagebuch, or weather-diary, that he would faithfully keep for 28 years. The planetary conjunction in Pisces in 1524, said to portend an impending catastrophic flood, offered him a prime opportunity. Leib made careful note of the weather that year and found nothing out of the ordinary. This led him to interpret the conjunction as an omen of religious rebellion, the new Reformed religion. In January 1528 he wrote the Gründtliche Anzaygung attacking the Reformation, and because of Pirckheimer’s support for Luther, broke off their friendship.
He was a self-taught man, never having attended university, but was a celebrated linguist and an avid reader of classical literature, digesting works in Latin, Greek, Hebrew and even Aramaic. He was also an avid writer, recording the events of his time in two historical works: Annales maiores and Annales minores. However, it is for his Wettertagebuch that he is chiefly remembered today.
In an age before barometers, thermometers and modern agricultural practices, the weather was an unpredictable and often harsh master. The weather’s changing moods could stop armies in their tracks, bring the merchant to poverty and the peasant to starvation. This made it a magnet for superstition and magic, like the goosebone weather divination of Hartlieb’s Teutonic knight.
Leib stood out because of his scientific approach to the problem. Although a believer in astrology, he wanted to find the evidence that it had an influence and to determine just what that influence was, but his interest in weather extended beyond the stars. Using the voluminous Ephemerides of Regiomontanus, Leib cross-tabulated natural phenomena with planetary movements. He recorded when the first swallows arrived, when the first buds appeared and when he could eat his first dinner without candles. He observed the starlit sky and the changing patterns of sunshine and rain. He discovered that good visibility of the Alps was a sign of imminent rain. He listened to the different tones of the bells of neighbouring villages, the song of frogs, the howling of wolves and noted when bees swarmed at unusual times. He observed the hoarfrost and how quickly it melted on different surfaces. He made observations about violent thunderstorms, droughts, downpours, epidemics, crime, rising food prices, the deaths of his fellow brothers and famous contemporaries, and registered anything out of the ordinary. Amongst all these jottings Faustus appears as if he too were a natural phenomenon or celestial body.
Another Prophet
When Faustus arrived at Rebdorf he found a wealthy and well-connected monastery run by an able and intelligent Humanist theologian. It was not the backwater that it is today, but a centre of Humanism and an economic power-base. Faustus was paying a visit to an important man.
In his scrawling hand, Leib recorded two things about Faustus that we have yet to examine: one of his astrological theories and his occupation or status at the time. Faustus and Leib must have sat of an evening debating the pros and cons of astrology. Leib with his careful note-taking, following the predictions and observing the actual conditions; Faustus with his noble clients and some degree of social success. One of the topics under debate may have been the great fuss stirred up by Luther and his followers. In his anti-Lutheran book Leib had discussed the influence of the stars on the development of this new movement, which was to him utterly heretical, and he may have sought Faustus’s opinion on the matter. However, what was really of interest to Leib was the matter of conjunctions. Leib recorded part of their conversation in his weather-diary:
Georgius Faustus Helmstet on the fifth of June said, that when the sun and Jupiter are together in the same degree of a sign, then are born prophets (namely such as himself).14
While Leib no longer believed that conjunctions had a direct effect upon the weather, like Faustus he still thought that they had an effect upon the affairs of men. Leib and Faustus were not alone in this view; the theory of conjunctions was an important cornerstone of Renaissance astrology. Conjunctions were graded as great, medium and small. The conjunction of the sun and Jupiter was ranked as great and correspondingly signalled momentous events.
As related by Leib, Faustus drew upon the common ground of interpreting conjunctions. Leib’s bracketed aside – ‘namely such as himself’ – adds a biographical element to this information. Leib is telling us that Faustus thought he was astrologically ordained to be a prophet because he was born under just such a conjunction. Melanchthon would try and do the same thing in his sycophantic interpretation of Luther’s horoscope.
Faustus’s stay with Leib must have led to a dispute between them. Leib had come to several conclusions that struck at the heart of astrology. Firstly, on the basis of the observations recorded in his Wettertagebuch, he argued that it was impossible to predict the weather using astrology or any other means. Secondly, he argued that it was against God’s will for man to foresee the future for his worldly benefit. He went further to state that it was improper for a Christian to use the stars to determine his future, drawing on the authority of the Bible and Pico della Mirandola, although he thought that it was both proper and possible to use of the stars to foretell of a heresy like Luther’s. Finally, he concluded that astrologers could not accurately calculate the positions of the planets and so could only make erroneous predictions.
However, this last conclusion also cut against Leib, as Faustus may have pointed out. If astrologers could not accurately calculate the positions of the planets, then the astrological charts he had used in his experiments were inaccurate and the conclusions he had reached on the strength of them were likewise false. Leib both undermined his own conclusions and equivocated on whether one really could tell the future using astrology. He had taken a step along the path of science, but his position was weak and open to attack, and Faustus had ten gulden from the Bishop of Bamberg to attest to the value of his predictions.
The Unlikely Knight
Leib had more to say about Faustus, more indeed than was probably recorded. After noting Faustus’s views on conjunctions and his destiny as a
prophet in the Wettertagebuch, Leib continued:
He claimed that he was the commander or preceptor of a house of the Hospitallers on the border of Carinthia which is called Hallestein.15
Commander or preceptor was the usual title given to the leader of a commandery, but prior, procurator or master might also be used. The commandery itself was a small, usually fortified outpost or waystation with attached church, manned by a garrison of variable size. It was not the high rank that any crank might lay claim to, but a middling, though important, position.
Out of the hundred or so military orders that Christian zeal has spawned, that of the Hospitallers of St John of Jerusalem is generally held to be one of the most important.16 The Order of St John is most immediately thought of in connection with the islands of Malta and Rhodes, but their network spread throughout Christendom. The first official mention of the Order was the Papal Bull of Paschal II in 1113, although the tradition of maintaining hospitals or hospices in Jerusalem dates back to the seventh century. By the thirteenth century the Order owned 19,000 manses or manors across Europe.
The organisational structure that developed from the fourteenth century, following the Order’s successful conquest of Rhodes, saw it divided into tongues or nations, priories, bailiwicks and commanderies. There were eight tongues, each governed by a bailiff or pillar and each reserving to itself one of eight supreme offices or dignitaries: to Provence, that of the Grand Commander; to Auvergne, that of Marshal; to France, Grand Hospitaller; to Aragon, Standard-Bearer; to Castile, Grand Chancellor; to Italy, Admiral; to Germany, Grand Bailiff; to England, Turcoplier. Each tongue was divided into priories, further subdivided into bailiwicks and finally separated into the individual commanderies. Above this structure presided the Grand Chapter with supreme authority resting in the Grand Master – a term introduced in 1489. The Order’s mission was encompassed in its motto Tuitio Fidei et Obsequium Pauperum – to protect the faith and serve the poor.
Knights were recruited from amongst the nobility (proof of which was carefully scrutinised) and before being eligible for a commandery were required to complete three ‘caravans’ or campaigns, equivalent to a modern soldier’s tour of duty. As a knight of a religious order, vows of poverty, chastity and obedience would also be required. In practice these vows seldom carried much weight among the worldly warriors. Once a knight had secured a commandery in Continental Europe (as opposed to any of the besieged islands) he acted almost entirely independently, caring little for the orders of his superiors.
In 1528 the forty-fourth Grand Master of the Order was Philippe Villiers de L’Isle-Adam (1521–1534), an able soldier and leader, but one whose career would be ever marred by the loss of Rhodes. The Order had driven off the Turks before; in 1480 they had repulsed the onslaught of Mahomet II. But in 1522 Suleiman I renewed the attack with an Armada of between 400 and 700 ships and an army of some 140,000 to 200,000 men against a garrison of no more than 6,000 knights and auxiliaries. Suleiman was confident of victory.
For six months the knights heroically withstood this ferocious assault until they were finally defeated by the exhaustion of their supplies and, most shamefully, the failure of the European powers to provide reinforcements. Villiers de L’Isle-Adam and his knights were offered exemplary terms: the remaining 180 knights and 1,500 assorted mercenaries were allowed to withdraw with their lives, under condition never to return, and in recognition of their bravery Suleiman even ferried them safely to Europe in his own ships.
Strange stories became attached to the Knights of St John. It was rumoured that the English alchemist George Ripley made gold for them on Rhodes, producing £100,000 per annum. But there was nothing more extraordinary than this valiant defence against a force that outnumbered them so greatly. When the news of the fall of Rhodes reached Charles V he exclaimed, ‘Nothing in the world has been so well lost as Rhodes!’ For all his admiration of the defenders’ valour, he refused to assist Villiers de L’Isle-Adam in his plans to recapture the island. In 1528 the Order was effectively homeless and had been for six long years, although petitions to Charles V for Malta would eventually bear fruit in 1530.
If Faustus really was a knight of the Order and preceptor of a commandery, then he must have come from a verifiable noble lineage and have completed his three obligatory ‘caravans’. Leib’s reference to ‘helmstet’ may be intended to mean that he was a scion of the noble house von Helmstatt. The German Tongue was known for its strict application of the rules, requiring a formidable sixteen quarters of nobility for admission, but he may also have received some special dispensation. After the fall of Rhodes and the significant losses that the Order incurred, especially amongst the German Tongue, the requirements of membership were loosened.17
This claim to a military title reminds us of Melanchthon’s remark that Faustus had been involved in winning the Empire’s victories in Italy. If Faustus had done what he is reported to have said he did in Italy, then he may have been rewarded with this position or with the ennoblement necessary to secure it. It is also possible that it was this position that got him involved in the Italian campaigns in the first place, perhaps during one of his required caravans.
It also meant, if true, that he was Roman Catholic, at least nominally, or more specifically a member of the ‘Religion of St John’. This is no great revelation – until the Reformation almost everyone in Europe was a Catholic, even if they could not write their name or understand the Latin Mass. However, to be a Catholic in 1528, over ten years after Luther had allegedly nailed his theses to the door of the castle-chapel in Wittenberg, meant taking sides in the great debate of the age. Even within the Order, the Reformation caused dissent and division. The master and knights of the bailiwick of Brandenburg, which had long exerted its near independence from the Grand Priory of Germany, accepted the Reformed religion, although stopped short of breaking off all connections with the Order. Furthermore, demonstrating his Catholic loyalty surely put Faustus in good stead with the anti-Reformationist Leib and may have been contributory to his staying in Rebdorf.
Faustus may also have been lying. As lies go, it was a good one. It was not overly grandiose and it was difficult to verify – the commandery he claimed lay hundreds of kilometres away in dangerous country. But the rewards were considerable: it gave Faustus the status of a nobleman and potential (if risky) access to the Order’s extensive network and the protective shield of their reputation. However, it is a claim that can be checked.
According to the usual interpretation, Faustus told Leib that his commandery was called ‘Hallestein on the border of Carinthia’. In the sixteenth century the Duchy of Carinthia was ruled by the Habsburgs and enjoyed some degree of independence under the umbrella of the German Holy Roman Empire. However, there appears to be no place called Hallestein there. Schottenloher, who deciphered Leib’s hand as ‘Hallestein’, thought the place meant must be Heilenstein, but there is no reference to this place on modern maps.
If the Order of St John had a commandery in Carinthia, it would have been within the Grand Priory of Bohemia under the German Tongue. Records, assuming there were any, of Faustus’s appointment would logically have been made at the Grand Priory’s headquarters in Prague. Enquiries revealed that there were indeed records of a ‘Kommende Haillenstein’ held by the State Archive in Prague. Unfortunately these were only kept, or had survived, from 1564 onwards and there was no information relating to Faustus. The trail has not ended yet, since the central archives of the Order are kept on Malta. The director of the archives there, then Brother Joseph Mizzi, consulted the Libri Bullarum for the years 1526–34 where the official chancery copy of the document appointing Faustus to the position of preceptor of Hallenstein would be found, if it existed. Mizzi wrote ‘I regret to inform you that I did not come across any notice relating to Dr Faustus.’18
However, if ‘Faustus’ was a title and not a family name, then it is unlikely that Mizzi would have found it even if Faustus’s claim was true. Suggestively, the first r
ecorded mention of Faustus (Trithemius, 1507) puts him in Gelnhausen, a town long connected with the Order of St John, and he did claim the title of ‘Master’, which may have been military instead of academic. However, there is simply not enough evidence here to either confirm Faustus’s claim or judge it fraudulent.
I had all but given up when I discovered the photograph of an old ruined manor house in today’s Slovenia. It was identified as ‘Grad Komenda/Heilenstein/Hallenstein’.19 The problem was that this Heilenstein was not within the bounds of the old Duchy of Carinthia. Instead it lies near the city of Celje (called Cilli in the sixteenth century) on the River Savinja in what was in Faustus’s time the Duchy of Styria.
The word Schottenloher deciphered as ‘Carinthia’ is an almost unintelligible scrawl in the original text. However, the crucial point is that Leib wrote ‘on the border of’ and Schottenloher thought he indicated ‘Carinthia’. If the Carinthian interpretation is correct, then a place not in Carinthia itself, but near it could still be referred to as ‘on the border of Carinthia’. The commandery of Hallenstein/Heilenstein in Styria does lie close to the old border with Carinthia. At the time, the Duchy of Styria was Habsburg land within the Kingdom of Bohemia and part of the Holy Roman Empire. The Hospitallers also organised the region under the Grand Priory of Bohemia.
