Alchemy, the Court of Rudolf II, and
Magical and Scientific Understandings of Stone
Ivo Purš
Painting on stone became a typical element of late Renaissance
and Mannerist visual art, which tended to push beyond existing
limits not only in the choice of subjects and composition, but
also in the very execution. The new techniques of painting on
previously unusual materials, such as stones or copper plates,
were connected to an interest in all that was uncommon — an
interest that suffused an era in which Europeans were open
to the discovery of “new worlds.” 1
The boom in artistic invention was also closely related
to an upturn, earlier in the Renaissance, in the social and
cultural status of the artist. Previously considered a mere
craftsperson, the artist had become an important creative
figure with incomparably larger significance.2 Respected artists
could therefore now engage in personal relationships with
monarchs and rulers. This transformation of the relationship
between artist and client originated in Italy, spreading to other
culturally advanced regions to the north and reaching one
of its peaks at the court of Emperor Rudolf II (1552–1612) in
Prague. Rudolf liked to engage in discussions with his artists,
becoming a cocreator by suggesting topics for artworks.3 These
artists achieved wide-ranging educations, often reaching
beyond art to encompass technology and natural sciences.4
To a certain extent such interests were shared by artists in
the Middle Ages, stemming as they did from the necessity of
mastering techniques such as preparing pigments and other
materials needed for painting, but the 15th-century advances in
culture and education, which spread rapidly among laypeople
thanks to the printing press, were decisive.5 By the 16th century,
it was no longer just a matter of artists’ elevation to the cultural
level of writers, scientists, and doctors, but also about moves in
the opposite direction, as humanists such as Petrus Ramus and
84
Juan Luis Vives turned to the previously underestimated artes
mechanicae.6 Artists became an integral part of the intellectual
milieu at the courts of Renaissance arts patrons, meeting not
only other artists, poets, and humanists, but also astronomers,
astrologers, doctors, botanists, and alchemists. In this way
artists made a significant contribution to the high cultural
standards captured so magnificently by Baldassare Castiglione
in the case of the court of Urbino with his Il Cortegiano (The
Book of the Courtier, Venice, 1528).
Emperor Rudolf II and the artistic and scientific
­ambiance of his court
In the Holy Roman Empire of the second half of the 16th
century, many royal courts were oriented around the support
of artes et scientiae. Those of Augustus, elector of Saxony,
in Dresden; Ferdinand II, archduke of Austria, in Ambras;
William V,  duke of Bavaria, in Munich; Frederick I, duke
of Württemberg, in Stuttgart; Julius, duke of Brunswick-
Lüneberg, in Wolfenbüttel; Wolfgang, count of Hohenlohe-
Weikersheim, in Weikersheim; and Maurice, landgrave of
Hesse-Kassel, in Kassel, are some examples.7 But the most
important was the Prague court of the Holy Roman Emperor
Rudolf II himself. Rudolf made considerable efforts to recruit
leading artists and scientists, in which he was substantially
assisted by secretaries and advisors. He used these latter as
communication channels with many distinguished figures
of European politics, culture, and science. Among his most
influential advisors were Johannes Barvitius, Johannes
Matthäus Wacker von Wackenfels, and Rudolf Coraduz, while
his circle of artists included, for example, the painters Giuseppe
85
 Alchemy, the Court of Rudolf II, and
Magical and Scientific Understandings of Stone
Ivo Purš
Painting on stone became a typical element of late Renaissance
and Mannerist visual art, which tended to push beyond existing
limits not only in the choice of subjects and composition, but
also in the very execution. The new techniques of painting on
previously unusual materials, such as stones or copper plates,
were connected to an interest in all that was uncommon — an
interest that suffused an era in which Europeans were open
to the discovery of “new worlds.” 1
The boom in artistic invention was also closely related
to an upturn, earlier in the Renaissance, in the social and
cultural status of the artist. Previously considered a mere
craftsperson, the artist had become an important creative
figure with incomparably larger significance.2 Respected artists
could therefore now engage in personal relationships with
monarchs and rulers. This transformation of the relationship
between artist and client originated in Italy, spreading to other
culturally advanced regions to the north and reaching one
of its peaks at the court of Emperor Rudolf II (1552–1612) in
Prague. Rudolf liked to engage in discussions with his artists,
becoming a cocreator by suggesting topics for artworks.3 These
artists achieved wide-ranging educations, often reaching
beyond art to encompass technology and natural sciences.4
To a certain extent such interests were shared by artists in
the Middle Ages, stemming as they did from the necessity of
mastering techniques such as preparing pigments and other
materials needed for painting, but the 15th-century advances in
culture and education, which spread rapidly among laypeople
thanks to the printing press, were decisive.5 By the 16th century,
it was no longer just a matter of artists’ elevation to the cultural
level of writers, scientists, and doctors, but also about moves in
the opposite direction, as humanists such as Petrus Ramus and
84
Juan Luis Vives turned to the previously underestimated artes
mechanicae.6 Artists became an integral part of the intellectual
milieu at the courts of Renaissance arts patrons, meeting not
only other artists, poets, and humanists, but also astronomers,
astrologers, doctors, botanists, and alchemists. In this way
artists made a significant contribution to the high cultural
standards captured so magnificently by Baldassare Castiglione
in the case of the court of Urbino with his Il Cortegiano (The
Book of the Courtier, Venice, 1528).
Emperor Rudolf II and the artistic and scientific
­ambiance of his court
In the Holy Roman Empire of the second half of the 16th
century, many royal courts were oriented around the support
of artes et scientiae. Those of Augustus, elector of Saxony,
in Dresden; Ferdinand II, archduke of Austria, in Ambras;
William V,  duke of Bavaria, in Munich; Frederick I, duke
of Württemberg, in Stuttgart; Julius, duke of Brunswick-
Lüneberg, in Wolfenbüttel; Wolfgang, count of Hohenlohe-
Weikersheim, in Weikersheim; and Maurice, landgrave of
Hesse-Kassel, in Kassel, are some examples.7 But the most
important was the Prague court of the Holy Roman Emperor
Rudolf II himself. Rudolf made considerable efforts to recruit
leading artists and scientists, in which he was substantially
assisted by secretaries and advisors. He used these latter as
communication channels with many distinguished figures
of European politics, culture, and science. Among his most
influential advisors were Johannes Barvitius, Johannes
Matthäus Wacker von Wackenfels, and Rudolf Coraduz, while
his circle of artists included, for example, the painters Giuseppe
85
Arcimboldo, Bartholomaeus Spranger, Hans von Aachen, and
Joseph Heintz, engraver Aegidius Sadeler II, and sculptor
Adrien de Vries.8 Many of them had received artistic training
in Italy, and the works of Spranger, von Aachen, and Heintz in
particular can be seen as variants of the sophisticated, erotically
charged, myth-inspired Italian Mannerism of the late 16th
century.9 One of the most educated artists of this milieu was
Joris Hoefnagel, who produced book illustrations much valued
for their symbolism and relevance in the sphere of natural
sciences.10 Artistic craftspeople, such as the precious stone
cutters Giovanni and Cosimo Castrucci and Ottavio Miseroni,
and the goldsmiths Paulus van Vianen and Hans Vermeyen,
were also crucial to the artistic output of Rudolf ’s court.11
A direct path led from these makers of beautiful works
in stone and precious metals to producers of scientific
instruments, such as Jost Bürgi, Christoph Schissler, and
Erasmus Habermel, and to the scientific patronage for which
the Prague court was also renowned.12 The most significant
contribution was undoubtedly that of astronomers Tycho
Brahe and Johannes Kepler. Thanks to their meeting and
cooperation in Prague, a scientific team consisting of the best
contemporary observer and the ablest theorist was created
for the first time in the history of astronomy; after Brahe’s
untimely death this resulted in Kepler’s epoch-making laws
that defined the movements of the planets.13
A significant portion of the emperor’s patronage in the
field of natural sciences focused on alchemy, which at the
time was related to disciplines such as medicine, mining, and
assaying.14 Its iconography also tied in with the visual arts,
invoked religious ideas, and made up part of the image of
imperial support for the sciences. Whereas in the high Middle
Ages, alchemy enthusiasts were generally found among the
clergy and religious orders, in the early modern era many
were physicians with a humanist education, influenced by
the groundbreaking work of Theophrastus von Hohenheim,
also known as Paracelsus.15 Rudolf ’s support of alchemy has
often been disparaged due to general skepticism towards
the practice, but historians of science and other disciplines
have changed their views in recent decades. It has become
evident that alchemy was the quintessential experimental
science throughout the Middle Ages and much of the early
modern period. Its efforts were concentrated on discovering
the philosophers’ stone, a mighty tool that would enable us
to improve matter — for example by turning base metal into
gold — and that would have a universal healing effect upon the
human body. According to one theory of the origins of metals,
a theory accepted not only by alchemists in the 16th century
but also by mining experts, metals in the depths of the earth
gradually evolved from imperfect to perfect forms, that is,
to precious metals, and the alchemist’s work accelerated the
86
evolutionary process of nature.16 Alchemists tried to understand
the rules governing nature and the universe, an understanding
they saw as requiring a level of spiritual enlightenment
given only by God.17 As early as the Middle Ages, thanks to
the influence of Arab scholars, alchemy was understood as
analogous to the redemption of the world, as expressed by the
famous Lapis-Christ parallel.18 Some contemporary advocates,
such as the German doctor and theosophist Heinrich
Khunrath, author of the treatise Amphitheatrum sapientiae
aeternae (Amphitheatre of Eternal Wisdom, Hamburg, 1595, first
edition; Hanau, 1609, second edition), set themselves a truly
Promethean goal, for they saw alchemy as the pursuit of nature’s
salvation, equivalent to the Christian redemption of man.19
Alchemy has always attracted swindlers, of course, but this
is not a reflection of its essence, only of an eternal human
greed for precious metals. Genuine alchemists criticized and
distanced themselves from these “gold makers.” At Rudolf II’s
court an English alchemist named Edward Kelly ended up
in prison due to unfulfilled promises, but despite the fuss
he was not an important figure. Also present, on the other
hand, were highly important and influential figures. There
was the Polish alchemist Michael Sendivogius, whose De
lapide philosophorum tractatus duodecim (Twelve treatises on the
philosophers’ stone, Prague, 1604) was so well regarded that Isaac
Newton studied it 100 years later.20 Two doctors there were also
successful authors: Oswall Croll, known for his treatise on
medicinal alchemy, Basilica chymica (Royal chemistry, Frankfurt
am Main, 1609), and the emperor’s personal physician Martin
Ruland the Younger, whose Lexicon Alchemiae (Lexicon of Alchemy,
Frankfurt am Main, 1612) was highly valued. As in astronomy,
in alchemy Rudolf was interested in empirical knowledge, in
understanding the physical world and thus the laws of nature.
The emperor’s strength as a patron was his extraordinary
erudition; he could approach both visual arts and the natural
sciences as a connoisseur.21 Rudolf granted artists access to
the imperial collections, and was equally obliging towards
scientists.22 In an environment so open to free inquiry, the
ideas of natural magic (the exploration of invisible natural
forces) came together with those of pansophism (the attempt
to bring together and organize all human knowledge).23
It promoted also multidisciplinarity, the ability to work in
more than one field — as ideally embodied by Tycho Brahe,
who devoted himself with the same zeal to astronomy and
alchemy.24 There were few places in Europe where artes and
scientiae were so closely connected.
Stones in the imperial Kunstkammer
As well as being a patron of arts and sciences, Rudolf II
created a famous Kunstkammer, or cabinet of curiosities, that
was unrivalled in Europe at the time. He had a new wing of
Prague Castle built to house it, accessible from his private
chambers. Unlike other contemporary Kunstkammers, it was
supplemented by separate rooms for painting and sculpture
collections.25 The aim was to create an image of the world in
accordance with the contemporary analogy of microcosm and
macrocosm, a philosophical concept which held, according to
fourth-century neoplatonic philosopher Macrobius, that “the
universe [is] a huge man and man a miniature universe.” 26
In the framework of this analogy, the world was often
compared not only to man but to other objects or products of
knowledge and creativity that aspired to encyclopedic range.
The Kunstkammer as a form fulfilled this on the principle of
pars pro toto (a part for the whole), corresponding to the way
it had been characterized by Samuel Quiccheberg in his 1565
treatise on museums: as theatrum sapientiae, and therefore as a
source of knowledge and wisdom.27 In his work, Quiccheberg
drew on Giulio Camillo’s theater of memory, a complex system
of exploring the world through symbols that hid the eternal
aspect of all things. Since Rudolf II was interested in similar
subjects, he may have linked these ideas to the notion of the
Kunstkammer as a magical microcosm serving to control
the macrocosm.28
The most complete record of Rudolf ’s Kunstkammer, now
dispersed to the far corners of Europe, is an inventory made
by the imperial painter of miniatures, Daniel Fröschl, between
1607 and 1611.29 This document suggests that the space was
divided into the categories of naturalia (products of nature),
artificialia (products of the human spirit and creativity), and
scientifica (products of human reason).30 The testimonies of
those few who were allowed to visit — for the Kunstkammer
was the emperor’s guarded privatissimum — state that the
arrangement of objects in the four rooms did not follow the
ideal divisions given in the inventory, but corresponded rather
to the emperor’s personal ideas.
Several objects transcended single categories, creating a
remarkable symbiosis. Artworks were often contrived from
products of nature, such as vessels made of sea coconut,
rhinoceros horn, or nautilus shell.31 Particularly hard materials
were crafted into vessels of soft, flowing shapes, as if made of
wax — it was not just a matter of transforming the shape, but
of working with the character of the original material.32 Some
unaltered naturalia were considered works of art on their own
account, and could be valued more highly than products of
human creativity.33 This was undoubtedly linked to the interest
in mirabilia, but appreciating nature as having a peculiar value
stemmed from a long tradition of faith in the magical and
healing properties of its products.34 A long series of ancient
and medieval lapidaries describe the alleged effects of precious
and semiprecious stones, for example.35
Precious and semiprecious stones, ore samples, and other
objects of mineralogy made up a significant part of Rudolf ’s
Kunstkammer, either in their original forms or transformed
by artistry. It was not a mineralogical collection in the modern
meaning of the word, of course; the objects were divided
according to contemporary usage, which mixed criteria of
materiality, function, origin, and rarity. William Crown, who
visited the Kunstkammer in 1636, 24 years after the emperor’s
death, reported 20 cabinets placed along the walls of the
first room grouping objects as follows: 1) corals, 2) porcelain,
3) pearls, 4) bronze plates with engravings, 5–6) mathematical
tools, 7) amber vessels, 8) agate vessels, gold and crystal,
9) minerals, 10) stone mosaics, 11) ivory vessels and the long
horn of a unicorn, 12) relief works, 13) bronze images, 14) silver
reliefs, 15) works carved from Bohemian mountain crystal
and small cabinets decorated with Bohemian glass pearls,
16) astronomical tools, 17–18) items related to India, 19) items
related to Turkey, and 20) a female figure covered with taffeta.36
I present the list in full because it nicely evokes the diversity
of categories for Kunstkammer items in that period.
A very special category consisted of the so-called ludi
naturae: natural objects in which the early modern observer
found significant signs, or, to use the precise terminology,
signatures, deemed to carry important information about
the given substance or object, its properties and purpose.37
These included various plant-like structures in stone, called
dendrites, and images of animals or humans.38 These mirabilia,
previously described by Pliny the Elder and medieval authors,
were often interpreted as a proof of God’s activity in nature.39
Rudolf II had an extraordinary specimen of such “natural
wonder” in his Kunstkammer — a large agate bowl into the
veining of which the word “Christ” was said to be inscribed.40
Inevitably a stone formed in such a way invited completion by
the hand of a painter or semiprecious stone cutter.
Among these natural mirabilia were also the so-called
handsteine (lapides manuales in Latin), which not only fascinated
with their beauty and mystery, but also conferred practical
benefits for alchemical research.41 Pieces of ore featuring visible
samples of precious metals, for example, were completed in
various ways by goldsmiths to depict Crucifixions or mining
scenes. They were considered significant demonstrations
of the mysterious metal-producing forces in the depths
of the earth, processes that alchemists tried to imitate in
their laboratories. These visually unusual and attractive ore
samples were valued more than the goldsmith’s decorative
additions, and it is likely that some were physically utilized
in alchemical work. This would have fit within alchemical
logic, as alchemists’ starting substances were described
with metaphorical reference to both their appearance and
properties. In 1597, the alchemist Sendivogius received several
87
Arcimboldo, Bartholomaeus Spranger, Hans von Aachen, and
Joseph Heintz, engraver Aegidius Sadeler II, and sculptor
Adrien de Vries.8 Many of them had received artistic training
in Italy, and the works of Spranger, von Aachen, and Heintz in
particular can be seen as variants of the sophisticated, erotically
charged, myth-inspired Italian Mannerism of the late 16th
century.9 One of the most educated artists of this milieu was
Joris Hoefnagel, who produced book illustrations much valued
for their symbolism and relevance in the sphere of natural
sciences.10 Artistic craftspeople, such as the precious stone
cutters Giovanni and Cosimo Castrucci and Ottavio Miseroni,
and the goldsmiths Paulus van Vianen and Hans Vermeyen,
were also crucial to the artistic output of Rudolf ’s court.11
A direct path led from these makers of beautiful works
in stone and precious metals to producers of scientific
instruments, such as Jost Bürgi, Christoph Schissler, and
Erasmus Habermel, and to the scientific patronage for which
the Prague court was also renowned.12 The most significant
contribution was undoubtedly that of astronomers Tycho
Brahe and Johannes Kepler. Thanks to their meeting and
cooperation in Prague, a scientific team consisting of the best
contemporary observer and the ablest theorist was created
for the first time in the history of astronomy; after Brahe’s
untimely death this resulted in Kepler’s epoch-making laws
that defined the movements of the planets.13
A significant portion of the emperor’s patronage in the
field of natural sciences focused on alchemy, which at the
time was related to disciplines such as medicine, mining, and
assaying.14 Its iconography also tied in with the visual arts,
invoked religious ideas, and made up part of the image of
imperial support for the sciences. Whereas in the high Middle
Ages, alchemy enthusiasts were generally found among the
clergy and religious orders, in the early modern era many
were physicians with a humanist education, influenced by
the groundbreaking work of Theophrastus von Hohenheim,
also known as Paracelsus.15 Rudolf ’s support of alchemy has
often been disparaged due to general skepticism towards
the practice, but historians of science and other disciplines
have changed their views in recent decades. It has become
evident that alchemy was the quintessential experimental
science throughout the Middle Ages and much of the early
modern period. Its efforts were concentrated on discovering
the philosophers’ stone, a mighty tool that would enable us
to improve matter — for example by turning base metal into
gold — and that would have a universal healing effect upon the
human body. According to one theory of the origins of metals,
a theory accepted not only by alchemists in the 16th century
but also by mining experts, metals in the depths of the earth
gradually evolved from imperfect to perfect forms, that is,
to precious metals, and the alchemist’s work accelerated the
86
evolutionary process of nature.16 Alchemists tried to understand
the rules governing nature and the universe, an understanding
they saw as requiring a level of spiritual enlightenment
given only by God.17 As early as the Middle Ages, thanks to
the influence of Arab scholars, alchemy was understood as
analogous to the redemption of the world, as expressed by the
famous Lapis-Christ parallel.18 Some contemporary advocates,
such as the German doctor and theosophist Heinrich
Khunrath, author of the treatise Amphitheatrum sapientiae
aeternae (Amphitheatre of Eternal Wisdom, Hamburg, 1595, first
edition; Hanau, 1609, second edition), set themselves a truly
Promethean goal, for they saw alchemy as the pursuit of nature’s
salvation, equivalent to the Christian redemption of man.19
Alchemy has always attracted swindlers, of course, but this
is not a reflection of its essence, only of an eternal human
greed for precious metals. Genuine alchemists criticized and
distanced themselves from these “gold makers.” At Rudolf II’s
court an English alchemist named Edward Kelly ended up
in prison due to unfulfilled promises, but despite the fuss
he was not an important figure. Also present, on the other
hand, were highly important and influential figures. There
was the Polish alchemist Michael Sendivogius, whose De
lapide philosophorum tractatus duodecim (Twelve treatises on the
philosophers’ stone, Prague, 1604) was so well regarded that Isaac
Newton studied it 100 years later.20 Two doctors there were also
successful authors: Oswall Croll, known for his treatise on
medicinal alchemy, Basilica chymica (Royal chemistry, Frankfurt
am Main, 1609), and the emperor’s personal physician Martin
Ruland the Younger, whose Lexicon Alchemiae (Lexicon of Alchemy,
Frankfurt am Main, 1612) was highly valued. As in astronomy,
in alchemy Rudolf was interested in empirical knowledge, in
understanding the physical world and thus the laws of nature.
The emperor’s strength as a patron was his extraordinary
erudition; he could approach both visual arts and the natural
sciences as a connoisseur.21 Rudolf granted artists access to
the imperial collections, and was equally obliging towards
scientists.22 In an environment so open to free inquiry, the
ideas of natural magic (the exploration of invisible natural
forces) came together with those of pansophism (the attempt
to bring together and organize all human knowledge).23
It promoted also multidisciplinarity, the ability to work in
more than one field — as ideally embodied by Tycho Brahe,
who devoted himself with the same zeal to astronomy and
alchemy.24 There were few places in Europe where artes and
scientiae were so closely connected.
Stones in the imperial Kunstkammer
As well as being a patron of arts and sciences, Rudolf II
created a famous Kunstkammer, or cabinet of curiosities, that
was unrivalled in Europe at the time. He had a new wing of
Prague Castle built to house it, accessible from his private
chambers. Unlike other contemporary Kunstkammers, it was
supplemented by separate rooms for painting and sculpture
collections.25 The aim was to create an image of the world in
accordance with the contemporary analogy of microcosm and
macrocosm, a philosophical concept which held, according to
fourth-century neoplatonic philosopher Macrobius, that “the
universe [is] a huge man and man a miniature universe.” 26
In the framework of this analogy, the world was often
compared not only to man but to other objects or products of
knowledge and creativity that aspired to encyclopedic range.
The Kunstkammer as a form fulfilled this on the principle of
pars pro toto (a part for the whole), corresponding to the way
it had been characterized by Samuel Quiccheberg in his 1565
treatise on museums: as theatrum sapientiae, and therefore as a
source of knowledge and wisdom.27 In his work, Quiccheberg
drew on Giulio Camillo’s theater of memory, a complex system
of exploring the world through symbols that hid the eternal
aspect of all things. Since Rudolf II was interested in similar
subjects, he may have linked these ideas to the notion of the
Kunstkammer as a magical microcosm serving to control
the macrocosm.28
The most complete record of Rudolf ’s Kunstkammer, now
dispersed to the far corners of Europe, is an inventory made
by the imperial painter of miniatures, Daniel Fröschl, between
1607 and 1611.29 This document suggests that the space was
divided into the categories of naturalia (products of nature),
artificialia (products of the human spirit and creativity), and
scientifica (products of human reason).30 The testimonies of
those few who were allowed to visit — for the Kunstkammer
was the emperor’s guarded privatissimum — state that the
arrangement of objects in the four rooms did not follow the
ideal divisions given in the inventory, but corresponded rather
to the emperor’s personal ideas.
Several objects transcended single categories, creating a
remarkable symbiosis. Artworks were often contrived from
products of nature, such as vessels made of sea coconut,
rhinoceros horn, or nautilus shell.31 Particularly hard materials
were crafted into vessels of soft, flowing shapes, as if made of
wax — it was not just a matter of transforming the shape, but
of working with the character of the original material.32 Some
unaltered naturalia were considered works of art on their own
account, and could be valued more highly than products of
human creativity.33 This was undoubtedly linked to the interest
in mirabilia, but appreciating nature as having a peculiar value
stemmed from a long tradition of faith in the magical and
healing properties of its products.34 A long series of ancient
and medieval lapidaries describe the alleged effects of precious
and semiprecious stones, for example.35
Precious and semiprecious stones, ore samples, and other
objects of mineralogy made up a significant part of Rudolf ’s
Kunstkammer, either in their original forms or transformed
by artistry. It was not a mineralogical collection in the modern
meaning of the word, of course; the objects were divided
according to contemporary usage, which mixed criteria of
materiality, function, origin, and rarity. William Crown, who
visited the Kunstkammer in 1636, 24 years after the emperor’s
death, reported 20 cabinets placed along the walls of the
first room grouping objects as follows: 1) corals, 2) porcelain,
3) pearls, 4) bronze plates with engravings, 5–6) mathematical
tools, 7) amber vessels, 8) agate vessels, gold and crystal,
9) minerals, 10) stone mosaics, 11) ivory vessels and the long
horn of a unicorn, 12) relief works, 13) bronze images, 14) silver
reliefs, 15) works carved from Bohemian mountain crystal
and small cabinets decorated with Bohemian glass pearls,
16) astronomical tools, 17–18) items related to India, 19) items
related to Turkey, and 20) a female figure covered with taffeta.36
I present the list in full because it nicely evokes the diversity
of categories for Kunstkammer items in that period.
A very special category consisted of the so-called ludi
naturae: natural objects in which the early modern observer
found significant signs, or, to use the precise terminology,
signatures, deemed to carry important information about
the given substance or object, its properties and purpose.37
These included various plant-like structures in stone, called
dendrites, and images of animals or humans.38 These mirabilia,
previously described by Pliny the Elder and medieval authors,
were often interpreted as a proof of God’s activity in nature.39
Rudolf II had an extraordinary specimen of such “natural
wonder” in his Kunstkammer — a large agate bowl into the
veining of which the word “Christ” was said to be inscribed.40
Inevitably a stone formed in such a way invited completion by
the hand of a painter or semiprecious stone cutter.
Among these natural mirabilia were also the so-called
handsteine (lapides manuales in Latin), which not only fascinated
with their beauty and mystery, but also conferred practical
benefits for alchemical research.41 Pieces of ore featuring visible
samples of precious metals, for example, were completed in
various ways by goldsmiths to depict Crucifixions or mining
scenes. They were considered significant demonstrations
of the mysterious metal-producing forces in the depths
of the earth, processes that alchemists tried to imitate in
their laboratories. These visually unusual and attractive ore
samples were valued more than the goldsmith’s decorative
additions, and it is likely that some were physically utilized
in alchemical work. This would have fit within alchemical
logic, as alchemists’ starting substances were described
with metaphorical reference to both their appearance and
properties. In 1597, the alchemist Sendivogius received several
87
 with such precision that none could sufficiently admire the
art of nature and the thoroughness and craftsmanship of
the artist. He had managed to connect the jaspers in such
a manner that the edges were either invisible or served the
purpose of the artifact by creating outlines of trees, buildings
or mountains. It had taken many years to create such a perfect
work. It was so precious that it was valued at many thousand
gold coins and admired accordingly. Since it bore witness
to the art of nature and the skill of the artist, it could be
considered a wonder of the world not unjustly compared to
the temple of Diana at Ephesus.49

Visual art and alchemy during Rudolf ’s reign

Fig. 51
Hans von Aachen, German, 1552–1615; Creation of Eve;
oil on alabaster; 9 13⁄16 × 8 7⁄16 in. (25 × 21.5 cm); Kunsthistorisches Museum,
Schloss Ambras, Innsbruck
handsteine from Rudolf in exchange for information about a
secret laboratory procedure.42 In another instance, remnants of
Fig. 52
Hans von Aachen, German, 1552–1615; The Expulsion from the
Garden of Eden; oil on alabaster; 9 13⁄16 × 8 7⁄16 in. (25 × 21.5 cm);
Kunsthistorisches Museum, Schloss Ambras, Innsbruck
learn that the emperor engaged in alchemical attempts to
improve gemstones, such as ridding diamonds of blemishes
It is only a small step from the stone mosaics created for
Rudolf ’s Kunstkammer to the images painted on stone that
also enriched this exclusive “microcosm.” Like the commessi di
pietre dure, these combined the creations of Natura artifex with
the manmade. In this context paintings were not made on
stone for the sake of durability, as they were in 16th-century
Italy, when Sebastiano del Piombo made headway with the
technique.50 Rudolfian artists painted on stones whose distinct
natural structures sparked the imagination, interpreting and
transforming them into distinctive works of art. This was a
type of interpretation that Leonardo da Vinci had called for,
advising painters be inspired by stains on walls. Alabaster,
marble, jasper, agate, and lapis lazuli were especially suitable
for the purpose.
It is this relationship between “nature’s creativity” and Fig. 53

a small figurine of a miner, likely the decorative addition to a
handstein later used for laboratory work, were found during an
archeological exploration of an erstwhile alchemy laboratory
in Oberstockstall in Lower Austria.43
Valuable information about Rudolf ’s mineralogical
collection can be found in a book by his personal doctor,
Anselmus Boëthius de Boodt, titled Gemmarum et lapidum
historia (History of Gems and Stones, Hanau, 1609).44 Under
Rudolf ’s patronage, the author made a study of the minerals
in the Kunstkammer. As well as a comprehensive compendium
of existing mineralogical ideas, he offers much data on the
miraculous properties of precious stones and legends about
their origins and use, gleaned not only from Pliny’s Historia
Naturalis (Natural History, first century ad), but also from
Giambattista della Porta’s well-known work Magiae naturalis
libri viginti (Twenty Books of Natural Magic, Naples, 1554). In
the dedication, de Boodt praises his patron for possessing
a knowledge of precious stones far superior to that of other
rulers, and states that he collected them in order to contemplate
God’s greatness and the unspeakable power that concentrates
the beauty of the universe in such minute objects. We also
or cloudiness, which he allegedly achieved using “fire and a
certain mercurial water distilled from antimony.” 45
What is more significant for us in de Boodt’s book, though,
is the accolade he accords to a table inlaid with semiprecious
stones, described in the dedication as octavum mundi miraculum.
Created for Rudolf by the Florentine artists Cosimo and
Giovanni Castrucci, who moved to Prague in the 1590s upon
the emperor’s invitation, it was a type of mosaic known as
commessi di pietre dure.46 Without much exaggeration, we can
call such mosaics paintings in stones. They were inspired by
nature’s ability to conjure up images in jasper.47 The material
used was stored not only in the Kunstkammer but also on the
castle’s ground floor, which housed, as later inventories show,
hundreds of unworked stones.48 According to de Boodt, these
stone mosaics were:
Held in such esteem by his imperial majesty that he ordered
that several jaspers of different colors be alternately and
regularly put together to form the table top. It was decorated
with various precious stones representing the shapes and
images of such features as rivers, trees, mountains, and clouds
artistic activity which makes painting on stone so similar to
alchemy — the artists started their work where nature’s work
had stopped. This was exactly how alchemists proceeded with
their task of completing or finishing the work of nature in the
mineral realm. The analogy penetrates even further: Artist
and alchemist were supposed to surpass nature through their
work, since nature alone could not produce masterpieces like
the giants of the Renaissance, nor a philosophers’ stone. Artist
and alchemist must work in harmony with nature; it is a form
of cooperation in which each party has a precisely determined
place. Such parallels, it must be said, had no impact on the
rivalry between alchemy and visual art.51
Another similarity leads us from the principles of creation
to its manifestations. Like a painter conjuring up the sky or
rough seas around the veining in a slab of polished stone,
during work on the philosophers’ stone the alchemist’s vessel
filled with impressive and distinctive visual phenomena.
A crystalline starlike shape (regulus antimonii stellati ) could
appear on the surface of smelted and slowly cooled antimony
during a particular stage of this “Great Work,” and at other times
a metallic tree sprouted from the substance in a glass vessel or
Salomon Trismosin; Black Sun, from Splendor Solis, 1582;
Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin
prescribed colors emerged.52 Alchemists described their work
and its stages using these visual structures or images. These
phenomena were among the basics of alchemical symbolism,
because they made it possible to develop the infinite array of
analogical comparisons through which alchemists encrypted
their treatises.
I have compared painting on stone and alchemical activity
through their working materials and principles, but Rudolfian
visual art encourages an extension of this comparison
to themes. Given the emperor’s interests, it makes sense
to examine the paintings he commissioned for traces of
alchemic symbolism, or symbols of the individual stages of
the alchemical “Great Work.” Yet such traces could be — or had
to be — subtle and obscure, because only experts in the field
were supposed to detect them. This was also true of other
hidden meanings in these works.53 They were designed for
the emperor’s contemplation, and made in the context of his

88 89
 with such precision that none could sufficiently admire the
art of nature and the thoroughness and craftsmanship of
the artist. He had managed to connect the jaspers in such
a manner that the edges were either invisible or served the
purpose of the artifact by creating outlines of trees, buildings
or mountains. It had taken many years to create such a perfect
work. It was so precious that it was valued at many thousand
gold coins and admired accordingly. Since it bore witness
to the art of nature and the skill of the artist, it could be
considered a wonder of the world not unjustly compared to
the temple of Diana at Ephesus.49

Visual art and alchemy during Rudolf ’s reign

Fig. 51
Hans von Aachen, German, 1552–1615; Creation of Eve;
oil on alabaster; 9 13⁄16 × 8 7⁄16 in. (25 × 21.5 cm); Kunsthistorisches Museum,
Schloss Ambras, Innsbruck
handsteine from Rudolf in exchange for information about a
secret laboratory procedure.42 In another instance, remnants of
Fig. 52
Hans von Aachen, German, 1552–1615; The Expulsion from the
Garden of Eden; oil on alabaster; 9 13⁄16 × 8 7⁄16 in. (25 × 21.5 cm);
Kunsthistorisches Museum, Schloss Ambras, Innsbruck
learn that the emperor engaged in alchemical attempts to
improve gemstones, such as ridding diamonds of blemishes
It is only a small step from the stone mosaics created for
Rudolf ’s Kunstkammer to the images painted on stone that
also enriched this exclusive “microcosm.” Like the commessi di
pietre dure, these combined the creations of Natura artifex with
the manmade. In this context paintings were not made on
stone for the sake of durability, as they were in 16th-century
Italy, when Sebastiano del Piombo made headway with the
technique.50 Rudolfian artists painted on stones whose distinct
natural structures sparked the imagination, interpreting and
transforming them into distinctive works of art. This was a
type of interpretation that Leonardo da Vinci had called for,
advising painters be inspired by stains on walls. Alabaster,
marble, jasper, agate, and lapis lazuli were especially suitable
for the purpose.
It is this relationship between “nature’s creativity” and Fig. 53

a small figurine of a miner, likely the decorative addition to a
handstein later used for laboratory work, were found during an
archeological exploration of an erstwhile alchemy laboratory
in Oberstockstall in Lower Austria.43
Valuable information about Rudolf ’s mineralogical
collection can be found in a book by his personal doctor,
Anselmus Boëthius de Boodt, titled Gemmarum et lapidum
historia (History of Gems and Stones, Hanau, 1609).44 Under
Rudolf ’s patronage, the author made a study of the minerals
in the Kunstkammer. As well as a comprehensive compendium
of existing mineralogical ideas, he offers much data on the
miraculous properties of precious stones and legends about
their origins and use, gleaned not only from Pliny’s Historia
Naturalis (Natural History, first century ad), but also from
Giambattista della Porta’s well-known work Magiae naturalis
libri viginti (Twenty Books of Natural Magic, Naples, 1554). In
the dedication, de Boodt praises his patron for possessing
a knowledge of precious stones far superior to that of other
rulers, and states that he collected them in order to contemplate
God’s greatness and the unspeakable power that concentrates
the beauty of the universe in such minute objects. We also
or cloudiness, which he allegedly achieved using “fire and a
certain mercurial water distilled from antimony.” 45
What is more significant for us in de Boodt’s book, though,
is the accolade he accords to a table inlaid with semiprecious
stones, described in the dedication as octavum mundi miraculum.
Created for Rudolf by the Florentine artists Cosimo and
Giovanni Castrucci, who moved to Prague in the 1590s upon
the emperor’s invitation, it was a type of mosaic known as
commessi di pietre dure.46 Without much exaggeration, we can
call such mosaics paintings in stones. They were inspired by
nature’s ability to conjure up images in jasper.47 The material
used was stored not only in the Kunstkammer but also on the
castle’s ground floor, which housed, as later inventories show,
hundreds of unworked stones.48 According to de Boodt, these
stone mosaics were:
Held in such esteem by his imperial majesty that he ordered
that several jaspers of different colors be alternately and
regularly put together to form the table top. It was decorated
with various precious stones representing the shapes and
images of such features as rivers, trees, mountains, and clouds
artistic activity which makes painting on stone so similar to
alchemy — the artists started their work where nature’s work
had stopped. This was exactly how alchemists proceeded with
their task of completing or finishing the work of nature in the
mineral realm. The analogy penetrates even further: Artist
and alchemist were supposed to surpass nature through their
work, since nature alone could not produce masterpieces like
the giants of the Renaissance, nor a philosophers’ stone. Artist
and alchemist must work in harmony with nature; it is a form
of cooperation in which each party has a precisely determined
place. Such parallels, it must be said, had no impact on the
rivalry between alchemy and visual art.51
Another similarity leads us from the principles of creation
to its manifestations. Like a painter conjuring up the sky or
rough seas around the veining in a slab of polished stone,
during work on the philosophers’ stone the alchemist’s vessel
filled with impressive and distinctive visual phenomena.
A crystalline starlike shape (regulus antimonii stellati ) could
appear on the surface of smelted and slowly cooled antimony
during a particular stage of this “Great Work,” and at other times
a metallic tree sprouted from the substance in a glass vessel or
Salomon Trismosin; Black Sun, from Splendor Solis, 1582;
Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin
prescribed colors emerged.52 Alchemists described their work
and its stages using these visual structures or images. These
phenomena were among the basics of alchemical symbolism,
because they made it possible to develop the infinite array of
analogical comparisons through which alchemists encrypted
their treatises.
I have compared painting on stone and alchemical activity
through their working materials and principles, but Rudolfian
visual art encourages an extension of this comparison
to themes. Given the emperor’s interests, it makes sense
to examine the paintings he commissioned for traces of
alchemic symbolism, or symbols of the individual stages of
the alchemical “Great Work.” Yet such traces could be — or had
to be — subtle and obscure, because only experts in the field
were supposed to detect them. This was also true of other
hidden meanings in these works.53 They were designed for
the emperor’s contemplation, and made in the context of his

88 89

Fig. 54
Jacobi, Frankfurt; Coniunctio sive Coitus,
published by Cyriaci
from Rosarium philosophorum, 1550; ETH‑Bibliothek Zürich, Rar 8230
intimate relationship with the artists, although they could
also present his political plans and ideas, or celebrate his
supposed or real successes. The more contemplative works
include some paintings by Bartholomaeus Spranger, the
creation of which Rudolf II observed directly in the artist’s
atelier at Prague Castle and discussed with him.54 Their themes
were usually the connection or separation of mythological
characters personifying opposites, which was the alpha and
omega of alchemical work. Of more publically oriented works,
one example is Hans von Aachen’s Allegory of the Conquest of
Györ (c. 1603–5, Szépmu�vészeti Múzeum, Budapest), part of a
series of allegorical paintings depicting the Long Turkish
War, which celebrated a victory of the imperial army over the
Turks in 1598.55
Von Aachen made several extraordinarily elaborate
paintings on alabaster. These mostly have mythological themes
(cats. 1 and 2), but the best demonstration of how alchemical
symbolism permeated Rudolfian visual art consists of his two
small alabaster plates with Christian themes: The Creation of
Eve and The Expulsion from the Garden of Eden (figs. 51 and 52).56
90
Fig. 55
published by CyriaciJacobi, Frankfurt; Conceptio seu putrefactio,
from Rosarium philosophorum, 1550; ETH‑Bibliothek Zürich, Rar 8230
Both are cut from one piece of alabaster, and their structures
are therefore related. This inspired the artist to paint two
scenes from Genesis (Gen. 2: 21; Gen. 3: 1–24) and connect them
through sophisticated use of the light parts of the alabaster. He
painted astral phenomena onto these parts, thus enriching the
paintings with a layer of meaning hidden under their obvious,
easy-to-understand biblical theme. In The Creation of Eve, God
is making Eve out of Adam’s left hip, while in the top right-
hand part of the picture, the Sun directs its rays toward the
Moon. Both celestial bodies are bounded by a golden line in
an oval space filled up with a great number of stars. In The
Expulsion from the Garden of Eden, the light area containing the
two celestial bodies is significantly smaller and we can see an
annular solar eclipse without any surrounding stars.57 At the
time, any alchemical expert would have known that Adam and
Eve, as well as the sun and moon, were fixed symbols of the two
basic alchemical principles (rather than substances or elements
in the modern meaning of the words) with which the discipline
worked: the passive, female mercury, and the active, male
sulfur.58 It was necessary to work with these two principles,
each consisting of a special compound or “composition,” so
that they would repeatedly conjoin and separate. The stage
of conjunction was often symbolized by a hermaphrodite
representing the union of the male and female bodies in Greek
mythology. In The Creation of Eve, the two principles are going
through separation and the astral phenomena also show the
sun standing in opposition to the moon and giving its light
to it. The second painting symbolizes the reconjunction of
the two principles, this time through the awakening of their
sexuality, which is the consequence of the first human couple’s
original sin and is symbolically referred to by a white rabbit
at Eve’s feet, for she will “in sorrow . . . bring forth children”
(Gen. 3: 16). This corresponds with the solar eclipse, which
in the astrological sense is a conjunction of the two celestial
bodies as the moon covers the sun. Here, as in the case of
original sin, the female mercurial principle — symbolized by
the moon — takes control.
This explanation must certainly arouse doubts in the reader:
What? One might ask. Rather than undergoing refinement
during the alchemical process, matter experiences a symbolic
“fall,” the degradation of our biblical ancestors? But it is indeed
so, alchemy is based on dialectics par excellence. Following the
reconjunction of the two principles, the matter must go through
the state of putrefaction, often symbolized by “the black sun”
(fig. 53 and p. 84).59 In the treatise Rosarium philosophorum (The
Rosary of the Philosophers, Frankfurt, 1550), we see this procedure
in two depictions called Sol et Luna: Coniunctio sive Coitus and
Conceptio seu putrefactio (figs. 54 and 55). Only after this stage of
death is the matter revived, purged and redeemed. In alchemy,
this concluding redemption was symbolized by Christ, the
“second Adam,” analogous to the philosophers’ stone in the
above-mentioned Lapis-Christ parallel.
It is highly probable that this analogy is depicted, in­­
geniously, in von Aachen’s work on black marble Dead Christ
Mourned by Two Angels (1594, Kremsmünster Abbey, Austria;
fig. 56).60 Christ is laid on three stone steps covered with cloth,
with a stone under his head. Behind him two candles burn,
and two angels lament in the darkness before him. The stony
quality of the whole space is given great emphasis, as if the
painter wanted to make Christ’s body part of it. Given that the
picture shows the place and the state from which Christ was
to be resurrected and ascend to heaven, this all-permeating
stony heaviness enhanced by the underlying material creates
an exceptional tension. As in the workings of alchemy, it is
a moment when everything is dead, black, and lifeless in
the vessel, and yet it is this state that is key to obtaining a
miraculous stone whose power has no equal in this world.
The suggestion of a hidden alchemical layer in the work is
confirmed by a sign placed in an engraving by Raphael Sadeler
that reproduces von Aachen’s painting: “Hanc cernens petram
Fig. 56
Hans von Aachen, German, 1552–1615; Dead Christ Mourned by Two Angels, 1594;
black marble; Benedictine Abbey Kremsmünster, Austria
lachrymans memorare salute.” 61 This is a reference to the
epistle of St. Peter, which compares Christ to a living stone
cast away by builders but later made the cornerstone.62 A living
stone symbolized both the goal of alchemy and the objective
of the life of the alchemist as a true Christian. In his 1567 text,
the Paracelsian doctor and alchemist Gerhard Dorn has the
philosophers’ stone itself utter the words with which we may
conclude our commentary on the image of the dead Christ:
“I am the way of the truth, walk through me, because there is no
other way toward life. . . . Transmute yourselves, . . . transmute
yourselves from dead stones into living philosophers’ stones.
I am the true remedy that corrects and transforms that which
no longer exists into that which was before the destruction and
into something better, and that which is not into that which
is supposed to be.” 63
1 Literature on Mannerism is very extensive today. It is not the objective
of this essay to deal with the relationship between Mannerism and
the preceding art of the Renaissance, which has been discussed from
many angles. Whether or not it is seen as a phase of decline, however,
the openness of Mannerist art to experiments is undeniable.
2 Ames-Lewis, 2013, 17–87; Roeck, 2013, 30–55.
3 Kaufmann, 1988, 17–18; R. J. W. Evans, 1997, 164–65.
4 Kaufmann, 1993, 148–50.
5 See Cennini, 1933, 23–27, 32–34; W. R. Newman, 2004, 118–19; Elkins,
1999, 9–39.
6 Silver and Smith, 2002, 41.
7 Borggrefe, Lüpkes, and Ottomeyer, 1997; Luckhard, 1998; Vignau-­
Wilberg, 2005; Bukovinská and Konečný, 2009; Haag and Sandbichler,
2017; Bukovinská and Konečný, 2018; Syndram and Scherner, 2004;
Moran, 1991; Weyer, 1992; Hofacker, 1993; Nummedal, 2001.
8 Kaufmann, 1988; Fučíková, 1988; Trunz, 1992, 58–75; R. J. W. Evans,
1997, 162–95; Fučíková et al., 1997, 388–468.
91

Fig. 54
Jacobi, Frankfurt; Coniunctio sive Coitus,
published by Cyriaci
from Rosarium philosophorum, 1550; ETH‑Bibliothek Zürich, Rar 8230
intimate relationship with the artists, although they could
also present his political plans and ideas, or celebrate his
supposed or real successes. The more contemplative works
include some paintings by Bartholomaeus Spranger, the
creation of which Rudolf II observed directly in the artist’s
atelier at Prague Castle and discussed with him.54 Their themes
were usually the connection or separation of mythological
characters personifying opposites, which was the alpha and
omega of alchemical work. Of more publically oriented works,
one example is Hans von Aachen’s Allegory of the Conquest of
Györ (c. 1603–5, Szépmu�vészeti Múzeum, Budapest), part of a
series of allegorical paintings depicting the Long Turkish
War, which celebrated a victory of the imperial army over the
Turks in 1598.55
Von Aachen made several extraordinarily elaborate
paintings on alabaster. These mostly have mythological themes
(cats. 1 and 2), but the best demonstration of how alchemical
symbolism permeated Rudolfian visual art consists of his two
small alabaster plates with Christian themes: The Creation of
Eve and The Expulsion from the Garden of Eden (figs. 51 and 52).56
90
Fig. 55
published by CyriaciJacobi, Frankfurt; Conceptio seu putrefactio,
from Rosarium philosophorum, 1550; ETH‑Bibliothek Zürich, Rar 8230
Both are cut from one piece of alabaster, and their structures
are therefore related. This inspired the artist to paint two
scenes from Genesis (Gen. 2: 21; Gen. 3: 1–24) and connect them
through sophisticated use of the light parts of the alabaster. He
painted astral phenomena onto these parts, thus enriching the
paintings with a layer of meaning hidden under their obvious,
easy-to-understand biblical theme. In The Creation of Eve, God
is making Eve out of Adam’s left hip, while in the top right-
hand part of the picture, the Sun directs its rays toward the
Moon. Both celestial bodies are bounded by a golden line in
an oval space filled up with a great number of stars. In The
Expulsion from the Garden of Eden, the light area containing the
two celestial bodies is significantly smaller and we can see an
annular solar eclipse without any surrounding stars.57 At the
time, any alchemical expert would have known that Adam and
Eve, as well as the sun and moon, were fixed symbols of the two
basic alchemical principles (rather than substances or elements
in the modern meaning of the words) with which the discipline
worked: the passive, female mercury, and the active, male
sulfur.58 It was necessary to work with these two principles,
each consisting of a special compound or “composition,” so
that they would repeatedly conjoin and separate. The stage
of conjunction was often symbolized by a hermaphrodite
representing the union of the male and female bodies in Greek
mythology. In The Creation of Eve, the two principles are going
through separation and the astral phenomena also show the
sun standing in opposition to the moon and giving its light
to it. The second painting symbolizes the reconjunction of
the two principles, this time through the awakening of their
sexuality, which is the consequence of the first human couple’s
original sin and is symbolically referred to by a white rabbit
at Eve’s feet, for she will “in sorrow . . . bring forth children”
(Gen. 3: 16). This corresponds with the solar eclipse, which
in the astrological sense is a conjunction of the two celestial
bodies as the moon covers the sun. Here, as in the case of
original sin, the female mercurial principle — symbolized by
the moon — takes control.
This explanation must certainly arouse doubts in the reader:
What? One might ask. Rather than undergoing refinement
during the alchemical process, matter experiences a symbolic
“fall,” the degradation of our biblical ancestors? But it is indeed
so, alchemy is based on dialectics par excellence. Following the
reconjunction of the two principles, the matter must go through
the state of putrefaction, often symbolized by “the black sun”
(fig. 53 and p. 84).59 In the treatise Rosarium philosophorum (The
Rosary of the Philosophers, Frankfurt, 1550), we see this procedure
in two depictions called Sol et Luna: Coniunctio sive Coitus and
Conceptio seu putrefactio (figs. 54 and 55). Only after this stage of
death is the matter revived, purged and redeemed. In alchemy,
this concluding redemption was symbolized by Christ, the
“second Adam,” analogous to the philosophers’ stone in the
above-mentioned Lapis-Christ parallel.
It is highly probable that this analogy is depicted, in­­
geniously, in von Aachen’s work on black marble Dead Christ
Mourned by Two Angels (1594, Kremsmünster Abbey, Austria;
fig. 56).60 Christ is laid on three stone steps covered with cloth,
with a stone under his head. Behind him two candles burn,
and two angels lament in the darkness before him. The stony
quality of the whole space is given great emphasis, as if the
painter wanted to make Christ’s body part of it. Given that the
picture shows the place and the state from which Christ was
to be resurrected and ascend to heaven, this all-permeating
stony heaviness enhanced by the underlying material creates
an exceptional tension. As in the workings of alchemy, it is
a moment when everything is dead, black, and lifeless in
the vessel, and yet it is this state that is key to obtaining a
miraculous stone whose power has no equal in this world.
The suggestion of a hidden alchemical layer in the work is
confirmed by a sign placed in an engraving by Raphael Sadeler
that reproduces von Aachen’s painting: “Hanc cernens petram
Fig. 56
Hans von Aachen, German, 1552–1615; Dead Christ Mourned by Two Angels, 1594;
black marble; Benedictine Abbey Kremsmünster, Austria
lachrymans memorare salute.” 61 This is a reference to the
epistle of St. Peter, which compares Christ to a living stone
cast away by builders but later made the cornerstone.62 A living
stone symbolized both the goal of alchemy and the objective
of the life of the alchemist as a true Christian. In his 1567 text,
the Paracelsian doctor and alchemist Gerhard Dorn has the
philosophers’ stone itself utter the words with which we may
conclude our commentary on the image of the dead Christ:
“I am the way of the truth, walk through me, because there is no
other way toward life. . . . Transmute yourselves, . . . transmute
yourselves from dead stones into living philosophers’ stones.
I am the true remedy that corrects and transforms that which
no longer exists into that which was before the destruction and
into something better, and that which is not into that which
is supposed to be.” 63
1 Literature on Mannerism is very extensive today. It is not the objective
of this essay to deal with the relationship between Mannerism and
the preceding art of the Renaissance, which has been discussed from
many angles. Whether or not it is seen as a phase of decline, however,
the openness of Mannerist art to experiments is undeniable.
2 Ames-Lewis, 2013, 17–87; Roeck, 2013, 30–55.
3 Kaufmann, 1988, 17–18; R. J. W. Evans, 1997, 164–65.
4 Kaufmann, 1993, 148–50.
5 See Cennini, 1933, 23–27, 32–34; W. R. Newman, 2004, 118–19; Elkins,
1999, 9–39.
6 Silver and Smith, 2002, 41.
7 Borggrefe, Lüpkes, and Ottomeyer, 1997; Luckhard, 1998; Vignau-­
Wilberg, 2005; Bukovinská and Konečný, 2009; Haag and Sandbichler,
2017; Bukovinská and Konečný, 2018; Syndram and Scherner, 2004;
Moran, 1991; Weyer, 1992; Hofacker, 1993; Nummedal, 2001.
8 Kaufmann, 1988; Fučíková, 1988; Trunz, 1992, 58–75; R. J. W. Evans,
1997, 162–95; Fučíková et al., 1997, 388–468.
91
 9 Petrasová and Švácha, 2017, 426. and earth are exactly aligned, but the apparent size of the moon is
10 Vignau-Wilberg, 1969; Vignau-Wilberg, 2018. smaller than that of the sun. That is why the sun appears as a very
11 Schultze, 1988, vol. 2, 206–67; Fučíková et al., 1997, 469–541; Petrasová bright ring. Von Aachen could have viewed eclipses of the sun in
and Švácha, 2017, 432. Prague in 1598, 1600, 1603, and particularly in 1605, and may have
12 Zinner, 1967, 329–46, 681; Eckhard, 1976–1977; Horský, 1988; R. J. W. obtained information from Kepler, who dealt with the phenomenon
Evans, 1997, 188–90; Fučíková et al., 1997, 618–29. in his treatise De solis deliquio, quod hoc anno mense Octobri contigit.
13 Horský, 1988; Christianson, 2000; Christianson et al., 2002; Ferguson, Seifertová, 2008, 171.
2002; Hadravová, Mahoney, and Hadrava, 2010. 58 On the origins of this theory in Arabic alchemy, see Schütt, 2000,
14 Purš and Karpenko, 2016; Karpenko and Purš, 2014. 165–68.
15 Pagel, 1982; Webster, 2008. 59 Völlnagel, 2004, 78–79; Völlnagel, 2012, 80–102; Skinner, Prinke,
16 Norris, 2006; Norris, 2009. Hedesan, and Godwin, 2019, 152–53.
17 Karpenko, 1998; Principe, 2013, 192–200. 60 Jacoby, 2000, 116–18, no. 24; Seifertová, 2008, 76–77; Wegmann, 2018,
18 Hoheisel, 1986; Schütt, 2000, 370–78; Principe, 2013, 67–69, 80–81, 220–22.
200–1. 61 Aachen, 1996, no. 38.
19 Forshaw, 2007; Forshaw, 2011; Purš, 2015. 62 1 Peter 2: 4–6.
20 W. R. Newman, 2019, 66–70. 63 “Ego sum via veritatis, transite per me: quia non est alius ad vitam
21 Findlen, 1997, 216; Eamon, 2016. transitus . . . . Transmutemini . . . transmutemini de lapidibus
22 Petrasová and Švácha, 2017, 414 mortuis in vivos lapides philosophicos. Ego sum vera medicina
23 On natural magic, see: Gouk, 1997, 232–233; R. J. W. Evans, 1997, 235–36. corrigens et transmutans id quod non est amplius in it quod fuit
On pansophism, see: Trunz, 1992, 10–11. ante corruptionem, ac in melius, et id quod non est, in id quod esse
24 Ferguson, 2002, 41–42; Karpenko and Purš, 2016. debet.” Dorn, 1567, 161–63; Kahn, 2004, 87–88.
25 Kaufmann, 1978; Fučíková, 1985; Fučíková, 1986; Kaufmann, 1993,
174–84; Bukovinská, 1997, 199–208.
26 Macrobius, 1952, 224.
27 Rauch, 2006, 11; Höllander, 2015, 44.
28 See Kaufmann, 1978, 25; Kaufmann, 1993, 181–82; Béhar, 1996, 163–200.
29 Bauer and Haupt, 1976.
30 Petrasová and Švácha, 2017, 422.
31 Schultze, 1988, vol. 2, 206–38; Petrasová and Švácha, 2017, 432–34.
32 Bukovinská, 2015, 245; Petrasová and Švácha, 2017, 423.
33 Höllander, 2015, 45.
34 Rauch, 2006, 11–12.
35 Thorndike, 1923; Riddle, 1970; Glick et al., 2005.
36 Rudolf, 2015, 153–54.
37 Foucault, 1966, 40–49; Kikuchihara and Hirai, 2015.
38 Holländer, 2015, 46–47.
39 Pliny the Elder, Historia Naturalis, XXXVI, IV, cited in Seifertová, 2007,
101.
40 Findlen, 1997, 211–12.
41 Bartels and Slotta, 1990, 562–66.
42 Soukup, 2016, 206–7.
43 Soukup and Mayer, 1997, 249.
44 Hiller, 1942; Halleux, 1979.
45 de Boodt, 1609, 60.
46 Bukovinská, 1997, 161–70.
47 Rauch, 2006, 157.
48 Fučíková, 2001, 68; Bukovinská, 2015, 244.
49 de Boodt, 1609, 129.
50 Seifertová, 2007, 17.
51 W. R. Newman, 2004, 115–63.
52 On regulus antimonii stellate, see: W. R. Newman, 2019, 24–25. On
sprouting metallic trees, see: Principe, 2013, 165–66. On prescribed
colors, see: Schütt, 2000, 117–26.
53 Kaufmann, 1993, 182–83.
54 Metzler, 2006; Metzler, 2014.
55 Ludwig, 1978, 58–64; Jacoby, 2000, cat. 60,6.
56 Kaufmann, 1988, 64, nos. 1.45, 1.46; Jacoby, 2000, 78–80, nos. 1–2;
Seifertová, 2008, 127–30.
57 It is possible to observe an annular eclipse when the sun, moon,

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