by Leo Ruickbie
Wierus was not complimentary about Faustus, but then we are hardly surprised by that, so few have been sympathetic to this maligned figure. Wierus began this particular story about Faustus by saying
There was nothing he could not do with his inane boasting and his promises. I will give one example of his art on the condition that the reader will first promise not to imitate him.27
Faustus had been taken prisoner at ‘Batenburg on the Maas, near the border of Geldern’, that is, Guelders or Gelderland.28 Why that should have been so we are not told, nor is Wierus in the least curious. It is as if he expected Faustus to be routinely arrested. Apparently a certain Baron Herman was away at the time, evidently the master of this place. This must have been the Guelders nobleman Herman van Bronckhorst and Batenburg who flourished around this time. He plays little part in the tale, which centres instead upon his chaplain, Dr Johannes Dorstenius.
In custody under some unknown charge and facing who knows what judgement – the accusations of sodomy and necromancy usually flung at Faustus could both spell his death – Faustus attempted to gain the upper hand. He promised Dorstenius ‘knowledge of many things and various arts’ and Dorstenius being ‘good but not shrewd’ agreed to become his pupil. Dorstenius ‘kept drawing him wine, by which Faustus was very much exhilarated, until the vessel was empty.’ Dorstenius announced that he was going to the nearby town of Grave to have his beard shaved whereupon Faustus ‘promised him another unusual art by which his beard might be removed without the use of a razor, if he would provide more wine.’ Dorstenius agreed and Faustus told him to rub his beard with arsenic, although omitting details of the correct preparation of such a potentially dangerous depiliative. The chaplain happily smeared the poison all over his beard and sat back to await the results, but to his horror and great pain ‘there followed such an inflammation that not only the hair but also the skin and the flesh were burned off.’ Wierus tells us that ‘the chaplain himself told me of this piece of villainy more than once with much indignation.’29
We learn no more. For Wierus the whole point of the story is to show how malicious Faustus was and Faustus scholars have in the past swallowed it whole and regurgitated it.30 As we saw in the introduction, Wierus is a late and biased source who cannot be taken uncritically. If we trust Wierus that he did indeed hear this story from the chaplain Dorstenius, then the attribution adds authenticity to the telling, but it could just as easily be a ploy on Wierus’s part. The story itself is a mere fragment, undated and thrown in to reveal his subject’s bad character. That Faustus turns on his jailor rings true: what prisoner would gladly suffer incarceration awaiting summary justice if he thought he could incapacitate at least one of his guards and possibly engineer his escape? Instead of showing up Faustus as a scoundrel, this incident reveals ingenuity when hard pressed. Wierus is not concerned to say what became of Faustus in Batenburg. It is only clear that he did not remain there. With Dorstenius clawing at his burning face, it would have been a simple thing to lift the keys from his belt, assuming there is any truth in the tale at all.
A contributory reason for Faustus’s refused admission to Nuremberg and perhaps even an explanation for his enforced stay in Batenberg, was the change in criminal law introduced by the Emperor. In 1532 Charles V promulgated a new criminal code for the Empire called the Carolina, taking care to make provision for the crime of witchcraft. For causing harm or making trouble the penalty was death by fire, and even when no harm or trouble had been caused, some punishment, left to the judge’s discretion, should be meted out.
Faustus could well have been languishing at some judicial authority’s pleasure while it was decided what to do with this self-confessed necromancer who, Dorstenius aside, had not yet harmed anyone with his magic. However, there are other dimensions to this situation.
Guelders is a relatively unprepossessing region today, but it was a different matter in the sixteenth century. It had been a thorn in the Empire’s side for some time. The ‘Achilles of Guelders’ to some, the ‘bane of the Netherlands’ to others, Charles of Egmont (1467–1538), Duke of Guelders and Count of Zutphen, was no friend to Charles V. Egmont had, with French military aid, successfully led a revolt in Guelders in 1492 to wrest the territory from Habsburg control. He had allied himself with France during the Four Years War, and with Robert de la Marck had wrought havoc in the Low Countries. He was a general sponsor of turmoil in the area, encouraging his pirate chief, Long Peter, the self-styled ‘King of the Zuider Zee’, to terrorise the coastal waters. In the early 1530s he had recently signed the Treaty of Gorichen (1528) with Charles V, but relations remained tense and erupted into a prolonged war of succession from 1534 to 1538. Given this situation, there are distinctly political reasons why a German in Guelders might be arrested. Whether incarcerated or not, Faustus was free to wend his way possibly to Würzburg and the company of nobles.
The Fortunes of von Hutten (1534)
In early 1540, Philipp von Hutten wrote to his older brother Moritz from Venezuela, telling him the latest news of his expedition:
Here you have a little about all the provinces, so that you may see that we here in Venezuela are not the only ones who have been unlucky up to now; all these aforementioned Armada that left Sevilla before and after us perished within three months, insomuch, I must admit that the Philosophus Faustus hit the mark, for we struck an evil year.31
Von Hutten knew the odds were against him and Faustus’s predictions must have weighed heavy on his heart. But the rewards were high. Shimmering before the young adventurer’s eyes was the fabulous wealth of El Dorado.
The legend of El Dorado, Spanish for ‘the gilded one’, arose in the first half of the sixteenth century to lure men across the vast ocean to the steaming, pestiferous jungles of a place that was as much like the moon to them as it was another place on earth. The name was first given to the king or high priest of a South American tribe who was said to cover himself with gold dust at a yearly religious festival held near Santa Fe de Bogota. In the retellings, El Dorado became a whole city of gold (also called Manoa or Omoa), and finally an entire country in which gold and precious stones were to be found in fabulous abundance.
A few years before von Hutten’s expedition in 1531, a man called Martinez, lieutenant to Diego de Ordaz, claimed to have been rescued from shipwreck, taken inland and entertained at Omoa by El Dorado himself. To the people of the time such reports as this made El Dorado a reality. In 1534 the name ‘El Dorado’ glowed on the horizon as real as the setting sun, just as golden and just as enticing. What young man in his early twenties could resist the adventure?
Philipp had grown up close to the sources of power. He had spent his formative years at the court of Charles V under the tutelage of Duke Heinrich von Nassau (1483–1538), for whom he later carried out numerous missions. In 1534 his adventurous spirit was captivated by the Venezuelan expedition being proposed by the wealthy merchant-banking family of Welser. The Welsers had been granted the right to colonise and exploit Venezuela in 1526 as repayment of the debts Charles V had run up during his election campaign. On 22 August 1534 von Hutten had an audience with Charles V to discuss the expedition. On 19 October he sailed from Spain for the New World with Georg Hohermuth von Speyer (1500–1540) and Nikolaus Federmann (1506–1542). Stormy weather drove them back to port four times before they finally departed on 8 December.
They would have left with all due pomp and ceremony; princes of the Empire embarking upon a great adventure. A miniature from Jerome Coeler’s (or Köler) account of his travels in 1533–1534 shows four brightly-attired fighting-men, one blowing upon a trumpet, another carrying an enormous banner, during a procession at Sanlucar in Andalucia before the expedition to Venezuela. Another scene shows a galleon setting out with the wind full in her sails and cannon bristling along her sides; the port is a mere speck in the distance and sea monsters swim alongside her.32
In February of 1535 Philipp’s ship La Santa Trinidad arrived in the Mundus Novus (�
�New World’), sailing into the harbour of Coro and the country known to the colonists as Klein-Venedig (‘Little Venice’; in Spanish, ‘Venezuela’). It seemed a lush and verdant land, abundantly decorated with the yellow flowering Araguaney, which would later become the country’s national tree, and the Prima Vera or Gold Tree whose masses of golden-yellow flowers seemed like a promise of the precious metal under its roots. But death hung heavy on the sweet-scented air. The previous governor, Ambrosius Ehinger (also Dalfinger, c.1500–1533), had died two years earlier from a poisoned arrow and von Speyer now found himself taking his place.
Von Hutten was under no illusions that this would be anything other than a life or death struggle. Federmann had been here before and even written a book detailing the hardships. The dangers brushed aside with Renaissance bravado, they set off on a long and hazardous expedition into the interior in search of gold.
The young adventurer had not just sought his Emperor’s blessing before the fateful expedition, but had also enquired of certain astrologers whether the stars were propitious for his planned mission. Von Hutten was by no means unusual in turning to astrology for a guide to the future. Before him the great explorer Magellan consulted an astrologer on the location of the Spice Islands and Columbus would later attribute all his achievements, not only to geometry, navigation and arithmetic, but also to astrology.
Camerarius now elbowed his way in. He was acquainted with both Philipp and Moritz von Hutten. With Moritz he shared an interest in Humanism and astrology, and had encouraged Moritz in the publication of his cousin Ulrich von Hutten’s manuscripts. In 1529, whilst passing through Nuremberg, Philipp had called in to see Camerarius and give him news of his brother Moritz’s health. In 1535 he published Erratum, ostensibly a reply to Erasmus’s criticisms of his work that also revealed his interest in the von Huttens with a poem dedicated to Moritz. The opening lines of this poem concerned the future of Philipp’s expedition.
The poem eulogised Philipp, stressing the glory that his expedition would win for his family, the Emperor and the Empire. Camerarius was vague about the exact details of his prediction, but did give the impression that he had made some sort of prognostication for Philipp before he set off and that from such comments as appear in the Erratum we may conclude that it was a favourable one.
In 1536 Camerarius wrote to Daniel Stibar, confidently predicting the outcome of Philipp’s expedition. Philipp was ‘a youth destined for fame’ he said, adding ‘I desire and prophesy an entirely propitious outcome.’33
Faustus predicted an entirely different result. Although Philipp did not say whether judicial astrology was involved, Faustus’s career to date would suggest that it was. Philipp had valued Faustus’s advice – he called him ‘the Philosopher’ – so Faustus was no mere mountebank as Camerarius would have us believe. Philipp did not say where or exactly when he met Faustus, if he ever did. Several references to Würzburg in his letter to Moritz suggest the possibility that this was the place. In the letter he asked his brother to extend his greetings to Stibar and his other friends at the Würzburg court. In addition, Philipp was born at Schloss Birkenfeld, not too far from Würzburg – it is possible that he returned home one last time before leaving for Spain and the New World. Philipp’s and Faustus’s mutual friendship with Stibar may have been the factor that drew them together, again making Würzburg a likely location for any meeting.
To Philipp’s cost, events would prove which of Faustus and Camerarius was the better diviner. By December of 1540 von Speyer was dead and von Hutten had become captain-general of Venezuela. Soon after he mounted a new expedition into the interior. Returning after five years of wandering he found that a Spaniard, Juan de Caravazil (also known as Caravajil or Carabayal) had been appointed governor in his absence. By 1545 the Welsers had failed to abide by the terms of the arrangement with Charles V and the Emperor had revoked their rights, claiming the territory for himself. In April 1546 von Hutten and fellow explorer Bartholomäus Welser VI the Younger were arrested and executed on Caravazil’s orders.
In the chapel of Mariasondheim near Würzburg there is a monument carved with an elaborate relief showing two figures kneeling before the cross. They are Moritz and Philipp. Behind them, the artist Loy Hering has laid out upon the cold alabaster the tragedy of Philipp’s Venezuelan adventure. The epitaph is believed to have been composed by Camerarius. Despite his inaccurate prognostication, he still managed to have the last word.
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Baptism of Blood (1534–1535)
The Empire seemed as though it were being compressed in a vice, its internal flaws and tensions threatening to explode it at any moment. The French and the Ottomans were exerting tremendous external pressure, whilst religious upheaval in the German states seemed like the prelude to open war. Luther had completed his translation of the Old Testament into colloquial German and now issued a complete Bible. Germany was swarming with French agents and French support promised to the Lutheran princes made them bold in their opposition to the Emperor.
The dissolution of the Swabian League offered another opportunity for Ulrich von Württemberg to reclaim his Duchy, and with the support of Philipp I, Landgrave of Hesse, and other Protestant princes he invaded Württemberg in April 1534. In May he won a decisive victory at Lauffen and a few weeks later was grudgingly restored to his title of duke with Württemberg ostensibly under Austrian suzerainty. With the Duchy in his hands once more he vigorously pursued a policy of Reformation, violently seizing all the ecclesiastical possessions that he could to swell his impecunious exchequer. One of the casualties of this aggressive Klosterordnung (‘monastery order’) was Faustus’s former haven of Maulbronn. The monks and abbot were forced to flee, finding refuge in the Cistercian priory of Pairis in Alsace. Ulrich’s insatiable greed caused him to extort an excessive tax that undermined his renewed popularity, again sowing seeds of dissension. The world Faustus had known in his youth had changed forever.
The End Times
The Lutherans were not the most threatening of the new religious groups. Luther called them Schwärmer (‘enthusiasts’, or ‘fanatics’). Even Zwingli, whom Luther thought too extreme, had denounced them as Wiedertäufer, Täufer, or Catabaptistae (‘drowners’). Even the name we know them by today was one bestowed by their enemies. From the Greek ana, ‘again’, and baptizo, ‘baptize’, we know them now as the Anabaptists, although they called themselves simply Christians, believers, or the brethren. Marx may have thought that religion was the opiate of the masses, but to the Anabaptists it was their crack cocaine.
Many had come before them. Waldensians, Petrobrusians, Henricians, Albigensians, the Brethren of the Common Life, the Hussites, and the fifteenth-century Bohemian reformer Peter Chelcicky, all held many of the beliefs later found in the Anabaptist movement. It was an old problem. The idea of rebaptism is documented at least since the second century, whilst many Anabaptists themselves point to the first-century example of the Apostle Paul (Acts, 19). In the second and third centuries, Montanus, and his followers the Montanists, and Tertullian denied infant baptism, practiced adult baptism and re-baptised those baptised by ‘heretics’. The Donatists in the fourth century re-baptised those who had been baptised by bishops who were deemed ‘traditors’ (those who had recanted their faith or who had handed over the Scriptures to pagan authorities), or who were from churches stained by fellowship with ‘traditors’. Re-baptism was criminalised under the Justinian Code (529 CE) and punishable by death because of its political implications.
To Luther’s consternation the Zwickau Prophets had spread the message in Wittenberg in 1521. However, it was the Swiss Reformer Conrad Grebel who, in 1523, formulated the tenets of what became known as Anabaptism. Grebel preached that it was impossible to be born into belief or have it conferred upon you. Belief was a voluntary act that could only be demonstrated by responsible adults through the ceremony of baptism. Infant baptism was therefore meaningless. Neither Grebel nor his followers used the term re-baptism or anab
aptism because they denied that pouring water over a child’s head constituted any sort of Christian baptism at all. Added to this were a primitive communism and a millenarianism that directly challenged the political system and social stability.
Over the next few years the sect grew and spread across the Empire. By 1529 Charles V ordered its extermination by any means possible. Consequently the movement was driven underground. Its followers met covertly, recognised each other by secret signs and became even more of a threat to the authorities. The Anabaptists were convinced that the end was coming – and for the Anabaptists of one town in northern Germany they were right. Faustus, too, would be drawn into the tragedy and madness that was the Siege of Münster.
A New Jerusalem
Münster was a town of lofty gabled houses and arcades, whose skyline bristled with monuments to its holiness. Its 9,000 or so citizens slept safely behind stout fortifications that were only dismantled in the eighteenth century. Its documented history begins in the ninth century when Charlemagne installed his newly-appointed Bishop of the Saxons, Ludger, in a monastery here about the year 800, but it was an isolated and uneconomical location. Too far from a navigable river or important trade route, the settlement that was then called Mimegardevoord or Mimegerneford grew with painstaking slowness. Sometime in the eleventh century the name of Münster (from the Latin for monastery) came to replace the earlier name. In the twelfth century the town received a charter and during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries developed into one of the most prominent members of the Hanseatic League. Its growing wealth had fattened the Church and Münster became covered with its buildings. A cathedral, 10 churches, 7 convents, 4 monasteries and 4 charitable foundations jostled for space in its crowded streets.
