The strange tale of the Warsaw basilisk

A basilisk–a lethally poisonous monster hatched from a cock’s egg–illustrated in a mediaeval bestiary. Note the weasel gnawing at its breast; only they were impervious to basilisk venom.

A basilisk–a lethally poisonous monster hatched from a cock’s egg–illustrated in a mediaeval bestiary. Note the weasel gnawing at its breast; only they were impervious to basilisk venom.

Few creatures have struck more terror into more hearts for longer than the basilisk: a crested snake, hatched from a cock’s egg, that was widely believed to wither landscapes with its breath and kill with a glare. The example to the right comes from a German bestiary, but the earliest description that we have was given by Pliny the Elder, who described the basilisk in his pioneering Natural History (79AD) – the 37 volumes of which he completed shortly before being suffocated by the sulphurous fumes of Vesuvius while investigating the eruption that consumed Pompeii. According to the Roman savant, it was a small animal, “not more than 12 fingers in length,” but astoundingly deadly nonetheless. “He does not impel his body, like other serpents, by a multiplied flexion,” Pliny wrote, “but advances loftily and upright” – a description that accords with the popular notion that the basilisk is the king of serpents – and “kills the shrubs, not only by contact, but by breathing on them, and splits rocks, such power of evil is there in him.” The basilisk was native to Libya, it was said, and the Romans believed that the Sahara had been fertile land until an infestation of basilisks turned it into a desert.

The Roman poet Lucan was one of the first authors to describe the basilisk. His work stressed the horrors of the monster’s lethal venom.

The Roman poet Lucan stressed the horrors of the monster’s lethal venom.

Pliny is not the only ancient author to mention the basilisk. The Roman poet Lucan, writing only a few years later, described another characteristic commonly ascribed to the monster – the idea that it was so venomous that if a man on horseback stabbed one with a spear, the poison would flow up through the weapon and kill not only the rider but the horse as well. The only creature that the basilisk feared was the weasel, which ate rue to render it impervious to its venom, and would chase and kill the serpent in its lair.

The basilisk was popular in medieval bestiaries, and it was in this period that a great deal of additional myth grew up around it. It became less a serpent than a mix of snake and rooster; it was almost literally hellish. According to Jan Bondeson, who wrote extensively on the subject in an essay published in his The Feejee Mermaid and Other Essays in Natural and Unnatural History (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999) pp.161-92, the monster was

the subject of a lengthy discourse in the early-thirteenth-century bestiary of Pierre de Beauvais. An aged cock, which had lost its virility, would sometimes lay a small, abnormal egg. If this egg is laid in a dunghill and hatched by a toad, a misshapen creature, with the upper body of a rooster, bat-like wings, and the tail of a snake will come forth. Once hatched, the young basilisk creeps down to a cellar or a deep well to wait for some unsuspecting man to come by, and be overcome by its noxious vapours.

The king of snakes also crops up occasionally in the chronicles of the period, and it is in these accounts that we are mostly interested here. Among the principal cases we might note the following:

• In the ninth century, during the pontificate of Leo IV (847-55), a basilisk concealed itself under an arch near the temple of Lucia in Rome. The creature’s odour caused a devastating plague, but the Pope slew the creature with his prayers. Julius Scaliger (1484-1558), Exercitations.

• In 1202, in Vienna, a mysterious outbreak of fainting fits was traced to a basilisk that had hidden in a well. The creature, which fortunately for the hunters was already dead when they found it, was recovered and a sandstone statue erected to commemorate the hunt. Bondeson, 172.

•  According to the Dutch scholar Levinus Lemnius (1505-68), “in the city of Zierikzee – on Schouwen Duiveland island in Zeeland – and in the territory of this island, two aged roosters… incubated their eggs… flogging them they were driven away with difficulty from that job, and so, since the citizens conceived the conviction that from an egg of this kind a basilisk would emerge, they crushed the eggs and strangled the roosters.”

• In Basle, in 1474, another old cock was discovered laying an egg; the bird was captured, tried, convicted of an unnatural act, and burned alive before a crowd of several thousand people. Just before its execution, the mob prevailed upon the executioner to cut the rooster open, and three more eggs, in various stages of development, were discovered in its abdomen. EP Evans, The Criminal Prosecution and Capital Punishment of Animals (London: William Heinemann, 1906) p.269.

This extract from Hutchinson's The History of Cumberland (I, 212) is the earliest known account of the Renwick cockatrice.

This extract from Hutchinson’s The History of the County of Cumberland (I, 212) is the earliest known account of the Renwick cockatrice.

• At Renwick, a village in Cumbria, in the north-west of England, tradition held that the owners of one estate paid no tithes to the local church because their ancestor had, in 1610, “slain a noxious cockatrice” – another name for the basilisk. The story was first noted in John Hutchinson’s History of the County of Cumberland (I, 212) in 1794; Hutchinson added that the then owner of the property held an ancient record of the event, which he refused to show to anybody else.

• At the royal castle at Copenhagen, in 1651, a servant sent to collect eggs from the hen coops observed an old cockerel in the act of laying. On the orders of the Danish king, Frederick III, its egg was retrieved and closely watched for several days, but no basilisk emerged; the egg eventually found its way into the royal Cabinet of Curiosities. Bondeson pp.175-6.

By far the best known of all such accounts, however, is the strange tale of the Warsaw basilisk of 1587, which one quite often sees cited as the only instance of an historically-verifiable encounter with a monster of this sort. Bondeson (pp.173-4) gives one of the fullest accounts of this interesting and celebrated incident:

Georg Kirchmaier was a professor at Martin Luther's old university, Wittenburg. His 1691 pamphlet provided vital clues to the true history of the Warsaw basilisk.

Georg Kirchmayer was a professor at Martin Luther’s old university, Wittenburg. His 1691 pamphlet provided vital clues to the true history of the Warsaw basilisk.

The 5-year-old daughter of a knifesmith named Machaeropaeus had disappeared in a mysterious way, together with another little girl. The wife of Machaeropaeus went looking for them, along with the nursemaid. When the nursemaid looked into the underground cellar of a house that had fallen into ruins 30 years earlier, she observed the children lying motionless down there, without responding to the shouting of the two women. When the maid was too hoarse to shout anymore, she courageously went down the stairs to find out what had happened to the children. Before the eyes of her mistress, she sank to the floor beside them, and did not move. The wife of Machaeropaeus wisely did not follow her into the cellar, but ran back to spread the word about this strange and mysterious business. The rumour spread like wildfire throughout Warsaw. Many people thought the air felt unusually thick to breathe and suspected that a basilisk was hiding in the cellar. Confronted with this deadly threat to the city of Warsaw, the senate was called into an emergency meeting. An old man named Benedictus, a former chief physician to the king, was consulted, since he was known to possess much knowledge about various arcane subjects. The bodies were pulled out of the cellar with long poles that had iron hooks at the end, and Benedictus examined them closely. They presented a horrid appearance, being swollen like drums and with much-discoloured skin; the eyes “protruded from the sockets like the halves of hen’s eggs.” Benedictus, who had seen many things during his fifty years as a physician, at once pronounced the state of the corpses an infallible sign that they had been poisoned by a basilisk. When asked by the desperate senators how such a formidable beast could be destroyed, the knowledgeable old physician recommended that a man descend into the cellar to seize the basilisk with a rake and bring it out into the light. To protect his own life, this man had to wear a dress of leather, furnished with a covering of mirrors, facing in all directions.

Benedicus did not, however, volunteer to try out this plan himself. He did not feel quite prepared to do so, he said, owing to age and infirmity. The senate called on the burghers, the military, and police but found no man of sufficient courage to seek out and destroy the basilisk within its lair. A Silesian convict named Johann Faurer, who had been sentenced to death for robbery, was at length persuaded to make the attempt, on the grounds that he be given a complete pardon if he survived his encounter with the loathsome beast. Faurer was dressed in creaking black leather covered with a mass of tinkling mirrors, and his eyes were protected with large eyeglasses. Armed with a sturdy rake in his right hand and a blazing torch in his left, he must have presented a singular aspect when venturing forth into the cellar. He was cheered on by at least two thousand people who had gathered to seethe basilisk being beaten to death. After searching the cellar for more than an hour, Faurer finally saw the basilisk, lurking in a niche of the wall. Old Benedictus shouted instructions to him: he was to seize it with his rake and carry it out into the broad daylight. The brave Johann Faurer accomplished this, and the populace ran away like rabbits when he appeared in his strange outfit, gripping the neck of the writhing basilisk with the rake. Dr Benedictus was the only one who dared examine the strange animal further, since he believed that the sun’s rays rendered its poison less effective. He declared that it really was a basilisk; it had the head of a cock, the eyes of a toad, a crest like a crown, a warty and scaly skin “covered all over with the hue of venomous animals,” and a curved tail, bent over behind its body. The strange and inexplicable tale of the basilisk of Warsaw ends here: none of the writers chronicling this strange occurrence detailed the ultimate fate of the deformed animal caught in the cellar. It would seem unlikely, however, that it was invited to the city hall for a meal of cakes and ale; the versatile Dr Benedictus probably knew of some infallible way to dispose of the monster.

Strange and unbelievable stuff, one thinks – not least because, even setting aside the Warsaw basilisk itself, there are quite a few odd things about this account. For one thing, Renaissance-era knifesellers were invariably impoverished artisans – and what sort of artisan could afford a nursemaid? Come to think of it, moreover, whoever heard of a knifeseller with a name like Machaeropaeus? It’s certainly no Polish name, though it is certainly appropriate: it’s derived from the Latin “machaerus”, and thence from the Greek “μάχαιρα”, and it means a person with a sword.

Now, the only sort of person likely to be mooching around central Europe with a Latin monicker in the late 16th century was a humanist – one of the new breed of university-educated, classically influenced scholars who flourished in the period, rejected the stifling influence of the church, and sought to model themselves on the intellectual giants of ancient Greece and Rome. Humanists played a vital part in the Renaissance and the academic reawakening that followed it; they communicated in the scholars’ lingua franca, Latin, and proudly adopted Latin names. So whoever the mysterious Polish knifeseller lurking on the margins of this story may have been, we can be reasonably confident that he himself was not a humanist, and not named Machaeropaeus. It follows that his tale has been refracted through a humanist lens, and most likely put into print by a humanist.

Johann Pincier, the author who first put an account of the Warsaw basilisk in print at the turn of the seventeenth century. From a line engraving of 1688. Read more: Give the gift of Smithsonian magazine for only $12! Follow us: @SmithsonianMag on Twitter

Johann Pincier, the author who first put an account of the Warsaw basilisk in print at the turn of the seventeenth century. From a line engraving of 1688.

Bondeson, a reliable and careful writer, unusually gives no source for his account of the Warsaw basilisk, and my own research traced the story only back as far as the mid-1880s, when it appeared in the first volume of Edmund Goldsmid’s compilation Un-natural History [Goldsmid, Un-Natural History, or Myths of Ancient Science: Being a Collection of Curious Tracts on the Basilisk, Unicorn, Phoenix, Behemoth or Leviathan, Dragon, Giant Spider, Tarantula, Chameleons, Satyrs, Homines Caudait, &c… Now First Translated from the Latin and Edited… Edinburgh, 4 vols.: privately printed, 1886. I, 23]. This is a rare work, and I’m certainly not qualified to judge its scholarship, though there’s no obvious reason to doubt that Goldsmid (a Fellow of both the Royal Historical Society and the Scottish Society of Antiquaries) should be regarded as a reliable source. According to the Un-Natural History, anyway, the Warsaw basilisk was chronicled by one George Caspard Kirchmayer – actually Georg Kaspar Kirchmayer (1635-1700), who was ‘Professor of Eloquence’ (Rhetoric) at the University of Wittenberg – in his pamphlet On the Basilisk (1691). Goldsmid translates this work and so gives us a few additional details – the implements used to recover their bodies were “fire-hooks”, and Benedictus, in addition to being the King’s physician, was his Chamberlain as well. As for Faurer, the convict, “his whole body was covered with leather, his eyelids fastened down on the pupils [and his suit was] a mass of mirrors from head to foot” – which certainly makes one wonder how he would have been able to spot the basilisk he was hunting in its cellar lair.

Kirchmayer, in turn, gives another source for his information on the Warsaw case. He says he took his information from an older work by “D. Mosanus, Cassellanus and John Pincier” called “Guesses, bk.iii, 23″. The Latin names are a bit of a giveaway here; the mysterious Guesses turns out to be, as predicted, a humanist text, but it is not – a fair bit of trial and error and some extensive searching of European library catalogues reveals – a volume titled Conectio (‘Guesses’). The account appears, rather, in book three of Riddles, by Johann Pincier (or, to give it its full and proper title, Ænigmata, liber tertius, cum solutionibus in quibus res memorata dignae continentur, published by one Christopher Corvini in Herborn, a German town north of Frankfurt, in 1605.)

Moritz the Learned, Landgrave of Hesse-Kassel. It was his patronage of humanist intellectuals that enabled the publication of the legend of the Warsaw Basilisk.

Moritz the Learned, Landgrave of Hesse-Kassel. It was his patronage of humanist intellectuals that enabled the publication of the legend of the Warsaw Basilisk.

The authors named by Kirchmayer can also be identified. There were two Johann Pinciers, father and son, the elder of whom was pastor of the town of Wetter, in Hesse-Kassel, and the younger professor of medicine at Herborn – then also part of the domains of the Landgrave of Hesse-Kassel – and later in neighbouring Marburg. Since Ænigmata was published in Herborn, it seems it was the younger of the two Pinciers who was actually the author of the book and hence of the original account of the Warsaw story, which – a copy of his work in the Dutch National Library in The Hague reveals – appeared on pp.306-07 of the book [below]. Pincier’s close connection with Hesse-Kassel, meanwhile, is confirmed by his dedication of the whole volume to Moritz the Learned (1572-1632), the famously scholarly reigning Landgrave of the principality at the time Ænigmata was published.

The identity of Kirchmayer’s “D. Mosanus” is more of a puzzle. He certainly wasn’t the co-author of Ænigmata, and exactly how his name came to be connected to the tale of the Warsaw basilisk is something of a mystery, but – taking Hesse-Kassel as a clue – it’s possible to identify him as Jakob Mosanus (1564-1616), another German doctor-scholar of the period – the “D.” standing not for a Christian name but for Dominus, or Gentleman – who was personal physician to Moritz the Learned himself. This Mosanus was born in Kassel, and this explains the appearance of the word “Cassellanus” in Kirchmayer’s book – it’s not a reference to a third author, as I at first supposed, but simply an identifier for Mosanus. And, whether or not the good doctor wrote on the basilisk, it’s well worth noting that he was – rather intriguingly – both a noted alchemist and a suspected Rosicrucian.

The latter connection suggests that Mosanus would certainly have been interested in basilisks; basilisk powder, a substance supposedly made from the ground carcass of the king of snakes, was greatly coveted by alchemists, who believed it was possible to make ‘Spanish gold’ by treating copper with a mix of human blood, vinegar and the stuff (Ursula Klein & EC Spary, Materials and Expertise in Early Modern Europe. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2009, p.45). I conclude, therefore, that the two men identified by Kirchmayer as his authorities for the Warsaw tale both enjoyed the patronage of Moritz the Learned, may perhaps have been collaborators, and were certainly close enough in time and place to the Warsaw of King Stefan I to have sourced their story solidly. In the close-knit humanist community of the late sixteenth century it’s entirely possible that one or both of them actually knew Benedictus – another Latin name, you’ll note – the remarkably learned Polish physician who is central to the tale.

Does this mean that there is anything at all to the story? Perhaps yes, perhaps no – but I would certainly be interested to know a good deal more.

[Update (11 September 2010):] My grateful thanks to my old friend Dr Henk Looijesteijn, of Amsterdam, for his original research. Henk not only supplied identification of Ænigmata, but also sent me a copy of the section devoted to the basilisk.

The Dutch National Library’s copy of Pincier’s Ænigmata (1605), opened at the pages that discuss the appearance of the Warsaw basilisk 18 years earlier. Photo courtesy of Henk Looijesteijn.

The Dutch National Library’s copy of Pincier’s Ænigmata (1605), opened at the pages that discuss the appearance of the Warsaw basilisk 18 years earlier. Photo courtesy of Henk Looijesteijn.

He adds that, so far as he was able to tell from the tightly-bound copy of the book in the National Library, Pincier’s account of the Warsaw basilisk was considerably less detailed than that given by Kirchmayer. ‘Maybe,’ Henk continues, Kirchmayer

also relied on something written by Mosanus, but I have not come across a title by Mosanus which looks as though it might contain the story of the basilisk.

It may well be that Mosanus functioned as Pincier’s authority, but never actually wrote anything down. He may have been an eyewitness, or come to know of the story in some other way, but he was certainly still alive when Pincier published his book.

I have also consulted my own modest library concerning the basilisk, and note that Leander Petzoldt’s Kleines Lexicon der Dämonen und Elementargeister (Munich 1990) discussed the creature on pp.29-31. The only historic incident that Petzoldt mentions is the Basle case from 1474, but he adds some detail. The old cock was aged 11 years, and was decapitated and burned, with his egg, on 4 August 1474. A possible explanation for this case is found in Jacqueline Simpson’s British Dragons (Wordsworth, 2001) pp.45-7. Simpson mentions an interesting theory about so-called egg-laying cock, suggesting they were in reality hens suffering from a hormone imbalance, which it seems is not uncommon and causes them to develop male features, such as growing a comb, taking to crowing, fighting off cocks, and trying to tread on other hens. She still lays eggs, but these are, of course, infertile. An intriguing theory, I think, which may explain the Basle, Zierikzee and Copenhagen cases. It does not explain the Warsaw case, of course.]

[Afterword: There is another Polish account of a basilisk in Warsaw. See here for further details. Meanwhile, here – for those who fancy giving it a try – are the instructions for producing basilisk powder. Source: Klein & Spary p.45.]

An extract from Klein and Sperry’s Materials and Expertise in Early Modern Europe describing the convoluted process of manufacturing “basilisk powder”. Double click to read in a higher definition–and be sure to inform us if you try it and the method works.

An extract from Klein and Sperry’s Materials and Expertise in Early Modern Europe describing the convoluted process of manufacturing “basilisk powder”. Double click to read in a higher definition–and be sure to inform us if you try it and the method works.

12 thoughts on “The strange tale of the Warsaw basilisk

  1. A couple of links to help establish how much Kirchmayer elaborated on the story:

    – The text here (by Martin Zeiller), printed in 1663, mentions Kirchmayer. I don’t read German, so not sure if it’s an earlier dating for the pamphlet you mention, or something else.
    This looks like it might have more/different information (published 1676),
    – Also, I’ve no idea whether this will add anything beyond the Kirchmayer, but – if I’ve got the link right – here’s an 18th century source.

    • Also, this copy of the Pincier suggests Mosanus’ role was that of telling Pincier the story (hence his credit, I suppose). I think there’s more detail to the story here, too – not sure if you were summarizing, or if this is a fuller edition

  2. Glad to see there is some more information. The last link by Sarah seems to be to a different version of Aenigmatum. I did not have time to read your article through wholly, busy with deadlines as ever (can’t wait until 1 September), but of course there is one major omission – the absence of sources closer to the actual event, in Poland. One would expect some more information there. I did a brief check of the library catalogues here, but could not find anything on Polish sources so far. There is a German exhibition catalogue on the basilisk in Europe, which I requested at the university library. Maybe that will yield something extra.

  3. A very unpleasant sounding beast indeed. Considering the kinship of reptiles and birds such an apparent mix doesn’t surprise me, nor the superstition. What vestigial mutant could it have been? Pliny was not a renowned expert on nature was he?

  4. Extremely well researched study. I would not rule out the possibility of death from a pocket of heavy carbon dioxide, which can even appear in above ground holes as thick fog that kills surprisingly fast.

    • Might I also suggest hydrogen sulfide gas as a more likely culprit? Perhaps generated by less than adequate sanitation in the era it would be heavier than air and would have caused damage to the victims bodies, as described, upon reacting with bodily fluids. Additionally it would have a very pungent rotten egg odor until it overcame the olfactory senses.
      Even today we lose people to this deadly gas in confined space conditions.

  5. seethe = see the
    aenigmata/aenigmatum = (please check this book title)

    Do I nitpick to tear this article down? Au contraire: this amazing detective story deserves the best possible presentation, based on the copious, scrupulous and diligent research that could only have produced it.

    “as I, in my ignorance, …” = while denotatively this word may be correct, it’s inopportune because this story is one continuous example of the virtues of paying very close attention – the very opposite of ignorance …

    TL;DR … Mike Dash RULES!

  6. Machaeropaeus doesn’t mean “a person with a sword”. In Greek, Machaeropaeus means, literally, “knifemaker”. Μαχαίρι (knife) + ποιός (maker) = μαχαιροποιός.

    So, it’s actually a bit funny to write “a knifesmith named Machaeropaeus”, because it’s like saying “a knifesmith named Knifemaker”.

    Good luck with your search.

  7. Mike like you I’m struck by a mere knifesmith having such a fancy name as Machaeropaeus but a standard practise among many say Sufi masters is to take on a mundane sounding career-based name which implies something of their true function to the astute.

    In this case a knifesmith is someone capable among other activities of restoring an edge to a blade which’d be understood in certain circles as a reference to bringing about enlightenment which isn’t actually something added onto a person but the restoration of their original pristine mind (their ‘edge’) before the basilisk/chaemera of conceptuality moved in and set it afestering with thoughts.

    Machaeropaeus as you say’s derived from a root related to the idea of sword but many a Hebrew/Muslim C/Qabalist’d recognise the allusion to Machaerus the installation where John the Baptist had his head removed (by a sword!) [understanding this as an esoteric way of refering to abandoning the primacy of conceptuality] and also spot the similarity to Makarios a Greek word (signifying Happiness/Enlightenment) used as a substitute for the similar meaninged Hebrew Ashre which in turn’s used with Asherah as a substitute for the Shekhinah [Jesus’ Holy Ghost] (from a root signifying settling inhabiting dwelling) often envisaged in the Old Testament as a glowing cloud [the Glory of God’s Presence] moving down and into a location to consecrate it but which while it’s going about this makes it impossible even for the likes of Moses to enter the premises.

    Note for instance everyone who enters the cellar immediately dies and the townspeople reporting the air seeming unusually thick.

    I could go on pointing out this story belongs to the era of Rembrandt’s Polish Rider painting and the publication concerning ‘the Pole’ the Cabalist the Comte de Gabalis or that like the Silesian we’re all condemned (to die) or that his name [Johann (the Baptist!)] Faurer’s another ‘career’ name implying certain things about his function and his suit renders him just like (J)Oannes the form of a man beneath a skin covered in fishscale-like mirrors (not to mention his torch and rake make him an initiate straight out the agricultural symbolism of the Mysteries of Demeter [another divine female preparer of sacred ground]).

    I’d merely add it’s my understanding these sorts of stories had many functions.

    On the one hand they were a kind of report of an actual significant development or event for those capable of comprehending the code and understanding what this required of them in order to bring about the next stages in the Great or Divine Plan but they were also used to sow seeds of consciousness development in those with suitable aptitude as well as a kind of market research/diagnostic tool in that any subsequent mutations in the narrative would reveal the overall effect the event and the story itself was having on different populations.

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