Esoteric Coffeehouse

Today I want to talk about Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa (1486-1535), the most famous (or infamous) Renaissance magician. He is the author of one of the well-known compendium of Renaissance esotericism, On the Occult Philosophy (or De Occulta Philosophia), which is still admired by people interested in magic today.

Agrippa was a German wanderer, much like his contemporary, Paracelsus. He traveled almost all his life between Germany, France and Italy, and switched professions just as easily as he switched countries. He was a theologian, a lawyer, a physician and a hired soldier. He claimed to have acquired both a law and medicine degree In the meantime, he wrote revolutionary treatises on Renaissance magic, the vanity of knowledge, the status of women in society and Virgin Mary. Most of these he refrained to publish until late in his life.

Agrippa was an unconventional scholar; for instance, in an era when women were seen as inferior and even instruments of the devil, he affirmed that they were in fact superior to men and more spiritual than them. His defense of the female sex caused quite a sensation in the period. In his De Vanitate Scientiarium, On the Vanity of all Sciences, he rejected all forms of knowledge as empty and purposeless. Even today scholars of Agrippa’s works are baffled by his universal rejection of knowledge. He was certainly an unusual iconoclast, an unique character that built and destroyed all at once.

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Not many people liked Paracelsus during his lifetime, and even after his death his somewhat shady reputation followed him into the modern era. He was not a shy Copernicus who only published his discoveries after his death, or a reluctant Galileo who admitted his faults in front of the Inquisition. It was only too lucky for him that the Inquisition was not in full force then. As it was, he lived his life as a perpetual gypsy, until he found his untimely and somewhat mysterious death in Salzburg, now Austria.

Nowadays, when chemistry, biology or medicine look back at him, they find themselves at odds on how to integrate this pivotal figure in their textbooks. It is clear that Paracelsus was instrumental in changing the nature of medicine and ‘chemistry’ (then it was simply alchemy), but he did so in his idiosyncratic ways. Paracelsus was not a scientist, nor could he have been in that age; science as we now call it dates from the late 17th or even the 18th century. His methods and intentions were far too different to those of the later science, and no attempt at ‘recuperating’ Paracelsus for science would actually work. Hence, most scientific textbooks either avoid him or mention him for having destroyed the Galenic-Aristotelian worldview.

This was no mean feat in itself, and only Paracelsus’ ambiguous image probably prevented him from being hailed as a revolutionary of the likes of Copernicus, Galileo or Newton. Surely, the astronomical revolution was spectacular through its change of the paradigm of the earth as the centre of the universe. However, Paracelsus’ efforts of challenging the view of the composition and structure of the universe were also grandiose projects.

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There is hardly a more controversional figure in the history of ideas than Paracelsus, by his real name Theophrastus Bombast of Hohenheim (1493-1541). He was many things to many people: a hero to some, a quack to other, a devil’s doctor, a German nationalist or a drunkard. Perhaps he was all these things, because, by comparison to most other historical figures, he was impossible to frame. In fact, Paracelsus created a world of his own and a mythology that has never ceased to fascinate since his premature death at 47.

Inevitably, any scholarly analysis of Paracelsus is bound to reduce something from his larger-than-life self. Scholars simply do not have the tools to tackle his complexity. The same is the situation of his works. He wrote a wondrous amount, and another wondrous amount was added unto him by his faithful followers. Like a religious figure, he created a veritable ‘tradition’ of writings that were attributed to him. This huge compendium is still awaiting a contemporary analysis, despite efforts in this direction (notably Kurt Goldammer).

Paracelsus was a religious figure of sorts; many people called him ‘Lutherus Medicorum’, the Luther of physicians. He didn’t like it; even though he lived during the turmoil of Luther’s Reform, he remained a faithful, if unorthodox Catholic. Instead, he proposed his own version of the world, a peculiar mixture of natural philosophy, alchemy, magic and Christianity. He was in fact the quintessential representative of the Renaissance; a man convinced of his mission of reforming people’s views of the world and of Christianity. He believed there was no inherent contradiction between the analysis of the natural world (we now call this ‘science’) and religion; in fact, Christianity was the very basis of this analysis.

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Last time I have shown how the modern vampire story may have originated in Godwin’s St Leon and its offshoots. Today I want to further investigate how the novel of St Leon itself may have drawn on the legends primarily associated with the figure of the Count of St. Germain. First I will say a few things about St. Germain himself, then explore the possible link between his figure and the literary St Leon.  Finally I will draw conclusions as to the influence St. Germain’s legend may have had on the birth of the Vampire Count Dracula.

The 1700s were a time full of gentlemen of mysterious, eccentric and ambiguous character. Of the more renowned ones we remember Count Cagliostro, founder of an Egyptian rite in Freemasonry, Casanova, another famous Freemason and Rosicrucian, and the Count of St Germain.

The Count of St Germain is now mostly remembered as a protégé of Louis XV of France in the decades prior to the French Revolution. Yet apart from the memoirs of some nobles of the time, not much else is known about him. The origins or nationality of the Count are obscure, despite endless speculations since his appearance at the Versailles court until today. Many – including some scholars – believe he was a prince from Transylvania called Ragotzy (1, 2). What is certain is that St Germain customarily changed his name, a fact he admitted of himself (3).

As far as memoirs of him recall, Count of St Germain was the epitome of the “Renaissance man”, speaking at least five languages fluently and without any accent, playing several instruments perfectly, knowledgeable in all the sciences, particularly chemistry and medicine, composing music, painting and writing (4). Pieces of his music are still extant in the British Museum, and his reputation as a talented composer is now being re-evaluated (5). He appeared to be very rich, wearing diamonds and carelessly giving them about, without anyone knowing the source of his wealth. He was reputed as a great alchemist, transforming iron into gold in the presence of nobles (6). His gift of prophecy was claimed particularly by the Countess d’Adhemar, a close friend of the ill-fated Marie Antoinette; he was said to prophesize the French Revolution, the French queen’s death, as well as the future fate of France (7).

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