CHAPTER ONE
Hermes in the Western Imagination
Introduction: The Greek Hermes
Just as the daylight penetrates at dawn through every crack and crevice, says the author of the Homeric Hymn, so Hermes slipped silently in through the keyhole of the cavern which gave him birth. How plastic, mobile, and ambiguous is the nature of this god, whose feminine companions are Hermione, Harmonia, and above all Iris, who precedes him with breezy feet and wings of gold! In Greek mythology, Hermes appears as an engaging and complex figure, in forms both mobile and definitive, so that one must first know these myths in order to follow his tracks through the long path of the Western imagination, from the Middle Ages to the present. They are the essential reference, like the omnipresent background of a picture: so familiar, or at least so accessible to us that there is no need here to retell the stories in which Greek Hermes, or Latin Mercury, plays the protagonist, the hero, or a walk-on role. We will just recall some of his characteristics that have been constantly repeated and emphasized from Antiquity to modern times.
Two of these traits stand out from the tangled undergrowth: first, his guiding function, linked to his extreme mobility; second, his mastery of speech and interpretation, warrant of a certain type of knowledge. Virgil, well aware of Mercury's plasticity, describes how the lively messenger of the gods controls wind and clouds with his magic wand, flying through them like a bird. But this traveler does not follow strict or planned itineraries: as Karl Kerényi suggests, he is more of a “journeyer” than a “traveler.” Just as the geographical goal of a honeymoon is of little importance, so Mercury wanders about and communicates for the sheer pleasure of it. His route is not the shortest distance between two points: it is a world in itself, made of serpentine paths where chance and the unforeseen may happen. Hermaion means “fallen fruit” or “windfall.” To profit from windfalls does not exclude the possibility of giving destiny a slight nudge, through tricks and subterfuges. Thus one sometimes finds Hermes unearthing hidden treasures; and it is only a short step from there to making off with them! “Hermes [Hermaion] in common!” said the Greeks on making a lucky find, just as one says in English “Equal shares all round!” In the same spirit, eclecticism is justified-and plagiarism, too; but “stealing” is not a good rendering of the Greek kleptein, which suggests rather the idea of a ruse, in the sense of a “secret action.” (Compare the German word Täuschung, and the charming verb verschalken.J And is not hermeneutics all about bringing hidden treasures to light?
Hermes, unlike Prometheus, steals things only in order to put them back into circulation. Thus one could speak of his function as psychopomp as encompassing the “circulation” of souls. This function is dual, for Hermes is not content merely to lead souls to the kingdom of the dead: he also goes there to find them and bring them back to the land of the living (cf. Aeneid IV, 242, and many examples from the Middle Ages up to modern times). Through all his varied representations in folklore, art, and literature, the Western imagination has always stressed this relational aspect of Hermes, which is the common denominator of attributes that range from the transition of souls to thievery, also touching on commerce, magic, poetry, and learning.
Athenaeus and others ascribe to Hermes the glory of discovering the arts and sciences, while the Homeric Hymn (verses 25ff. J makes him the inventor of the seven-stringed lyre. He is the master of knowledge, or rather of a means of attaining to a knowledge that may be gnostic, eclectic, or transdisciplinary—or all of these at once. Perhaps he is largely indebted to Plato for this. Not long after the Plutus of Aristophanes, where Hermes appears in a comic role, Plato's Cratylus derives his name from the Greek word for an interpreter: “I should imagine that the name Hermes has to do with speech, and signifies that he is the interpreter, or messenger, or thief, or liar, or bargainer; all that sort of thing has a great deal to do with language” (Cratylus 408A, Jowett translation).
This is the only aspect retained by the New Testament, in Acts 14, where the inhabitants of Lystra take Paul for Hermes because they find him a master of words. Thus poets and philosophers also revere him. Virgil's contemporary Horace places himself under the special protection of Mercury. Lucian, in Fugitivi (XXII), shows Hermes accompanying Heracles and Philosophy in their pursuit of the Cynics, because Apollo says that it is Hermes who can best distinguish the true philosophers from the false ones. His is the role of the sage—even a facetious and playful one—rather than the hero: the trait emphasized by the Iliad. The world of that epic is definitely not that of Hermes, who does not even appear there to guide a soul, and keeps himself aloof from all heroic action. He opposes Leto, but dodges aside and will not face her. Zeus sends him to Priam, who wishes to get the body of his son back from Achilles; he is less a messenger than a guide, and it is he who prepares the escape by putting the guards to sleep. Wotan, who was already recognized by the Romans as comparable to Mercury (Tacitus, Germ. IX), also has characteristics of this kind. Furthermore, when this Germanic god finds himself in certain comical predicaments, we sense that Harlequin is not far away: the clown whose stick or wooden sword is nothing but a puny caduceus.
The Thrice-Greatest
Hermes-Mercury's plasticity allowed him to take on a special form at the beginning of our era, bringing out his most serious and least playful aspect. This was his manifestation as Hermes Trismegistus, which remains alive to this day. Two factors seem to have been involved in it. On the one hand, there was the allegorical interpretation of mythology that began with Homeric exegesis in the fourth century BCE, and tended increasingly towards euhemerism. (Euhemerus, third century BCE, saw the gods as actual human beings who were divinized after death.) This led to a belief in Hermes as a historic person who had been divinized: a tendency reinforced by Christian thought, which was resolutely euhemerist from the second century onwards. The second factor was the attraction of Graeco-Roman paganism towards ancient Egypt: part of the need that the Greeks felt for exalting Barbarian philosophy to the detriment of their own. This attraction was reinforced by the existence of a Greek culture in Alexandria, firmly installed on Egyptian soil in the land of pyramids and hieroglyphs. Around the beginning of our era, the Greeks justifiably saw in Thoth the first figuration of Hermes, or even the same personage under a different name. Aided by the euhemerist tendency, Thoth-Mercury was credited with a great number of books—uite real ones—under the general title of Hermetica. Almost all of them were written in Greek, in the Nile Delta region, from just before the Christian Era until the third century; they treat astrology, alchemy, and theosophy. The most famous ones, from the second and third centuries CE, are grouped under the general title of the Corpus Hermeticum, in which the Asclepius and the Fragments collected by Stobaeus have been included. But a more fantastic tradition attributed thousands of other works to Hermes Trismegistus.
The twenty-third Fragment of Stobaeus describes the court of the Lord, the builder of the universe, as it existed before the presence of mortals. Hermes appears there as “soul” (psyche), possessing a bond of sympathy with the mysteries of Heaven; he is sent by God into our lower world in order to teach true knowledge. The Lord commands Hermes to participate in the creation of mankind as steward and administrator. Thus one can see him as the principal actor, after the supreme deity, in the anthropogonic drama. He is a soul that has descended here as the first divine emanation, preceding the second emanation represented by Isis and Osiris, who are also sent to this lower world for the instruction of humanity. Here Hermes is not styled Trismegistus (“Thrice-Greatest”), but the other texts of the Corpus Hermeticum more than suggest that it is he. This is one of the numerous examples of shifting or transition between the figure of the sage Trismegistus, who is a mortal, and the god of Olympus. At this epoch, we have not only a euhemeristic process, but also a reverse euhemerism: Hermes Trismegistus is both the precipitation of Mercury into human history and the sublimation of history to Olympus. These fluctuations, or rather this twofold motion, favors a fluid genealogy and the presence of several Hermeses.
The most classic genealogy, contrived in the Hellenistic era during the third or second century BCE, starts the Hermes series with Thoth, who carved his knowledge on stelae and concealed it. His son was Agathodemon, who himself be gat the second Hermes, called Trismegistus, whose son was Tat. Apollonius Rhodius (Argonautica I, 640f.) tells us that Hermes, through his son Aithalides, was a direct ancestor of Pythagoras. But nothing is more uncertain than divine genealogies. According to the traditions presented by Plutarch, Isis was the daughter of Hermes; while Cicero (De Natura Deorum III, 22) counts no fewer than five Mercurys: the son of Heaven and Day; the son of Valens and the nymph Phoronis; the son of the Third Jupiter and Maia; the son of Nil us, whom the Egyptians will not name; and lastly “Theyt,” who slew Argus, says Cicero, and taught the Egyptians laws and writing.
As for Saint Augustine, in the City of God he makes Trismegistus the great-grandson of a contemporary of Moses, and euhemerizes by regarding extraordinary human actions as the origin of Hermes and the other Greek gods. Isidore of Seville (sixth to seventh century), also a euhemerist, devotes many passages of his Etymologiarum sive libri XX to Hermes (e.g., VIII, XI, lff. XI. 45-49), seeing him as a pagan fiction based on the historical existence of a person who invented the lyre, the flute, conjuring and tricks (“Praestigium vera Mercurius primus dicitur invenisse”—“Mercury is said to have been the first inventor of illusions”).
Although derivative from Isidore's Etymologia, the Chronicle of the Six Ages of the World of Adon of Vienne bears witness, like many other works, to the significant ambiguity of Hermes, as Mercury and/or Trismegistus. Adon writes: “It is said that in those times there lived Prometheus, who is supposed to have fashioned men out of mud. At the same time, his brother Atlas was considered a great astrologer. Atlas's grandson Mercury was a wise man, skilled in many arts, for which reason, after his death, the aberrations of his contemporaries placed him among the gods” (Migne, Patrologiae Cursus, series Latina CXXIII, col.35). Similarly, the Book of Treasure of Brunetto Latini numbers Mercury with Moses, Solon, Lycurgus, Numa Pompilius, and the Greek king Phoroneus, as the first law-givers to whom humanity is greatly indebted. Hermes-Mercury, in dual form, thus takes his place among the tutelary gods of civilization. Strabo says that he gave the Egyptians their laws and taught philosophy and astronomy to the priests of Thebes; Marcus Manilius goes so far as to see in him the founder of the Egyptian religion. For Jacopo of Bergamo, Minerva was the first woman to know the art of working wool, and Chiron the inventor of medicine; Hermes Trismegistus was the first astronomer, and Mercury the first musician, while Atlas taught astrology to the Greeks. There are similar attributions in Polydore Virgil: from Hermes, we learned the divisions of time, while Mercury taught the Egyptians the alphabet and knowledge of the stars.
The Arabic Idris and the Alchemical Mercury
The name of Hermes, whether or not qualified as Trismegistus, henceforth served as guarantee or signature for a host of esoteric books on magic, astrology, medicine, etc., throughout the Middle Ages, and this despite the fact that, with the exception of the Asclepius, the Corpus Hermeticum was unknown. At the same time, an inspired imagery unfolded in both Latin and Arabic literature in a succession of “visionary recitals” (as Henry Corbin calls them), constellated around this key figure. The ancient belief that Hermes was the founder of a city was much repeated, notably in the Picatrix, an Arabic text probably written in the tenth century, then translated into Latin. We learn there that Hermes was the first to construct statues, with which he was able to control the course of the Nile in relation to the movements of the moon; also a city, whose richly symbolic description has not yet yielded up all its secrets.
This literature, especially the Arabic part, is full of scenarios presenting a personage who discovers in a tomb of Hermes, beneath a stele, revelations of theosophy, astrology, and alchemy. Most of the texts employ the same topos: the First Hermes, who lived before the Deluge, foresaw the coming disaster; before the world was destroyed, he built the pyramids to enshrine the secrets of the sciences. This is the story as told in the Book of Crates, an Arabic text dating at the earliest from the sixth century. These texts, often very beautiful, also bear witness to the important role played by Egyptian local color and Greek influence in the Arab imagination after the coming of Islam to Egypt, that is, from 640 onwards. The short but very famous text of the Emerald Tablet ascribed to Hermes Trismegistus belongs to this literature; it is part of a group of writings in which Apollonius of Tyana rivals Hermes in importance. These two names are sometimes associated, for instance in the extraordinary Book of the Secrets of Creation, written at the latest in 750 and at the earliest in the sixth century.
In the Latin countries, one should mention the romance of Perceval where the hermit named Trevizrent—that is, “threefold knowledge”—reveals the history of the Graal. Modern research has suggested a possible origin of the word “Graal” in the Greek krater (bowl), referring to the Bowl of Hermes of which the Corpus Hermeticum makes mention. Among the Saracen gods there is, moreover, a “Tervagant” who has been identified as our “Hermes ter maxim us,” and who appears notably in the Mystery of Barlaam and Josaphat (sixth century).
Hermes has a most significant place in the Islamic tradition. Admittedly, his name does not appear in the Quran; but the hagiographers and historians of the first centuries of the Hegira quickly identified him with Idris, the nabi mentioned twice in the sacred book (19.57; 21.85). This is the Idris whom God “exalted to a lofty station,” and whom the Arabs also recognize as Enoch (cf. Genesis 5.18-24). Idris/Hermes is called “Thrice Wise,” because he was threefold. The first of the name, comparable to Thoth, was a “civilizing hero,” an initiator into the mysteries of the divine science and wisdom that animate the world: he carved the principles of this sacred science in hieroglyphs. (Even the Arabic term for “pyramid,” haram, is connected with the name of Hermes, Hirmis.) The second Hermes, who lived in Babylon after the Deluge, was the initiator of Pythagoras. The third one was the first teacher of alchemy. Thus the figure of Hermes links Muslim consciousness with the pagan past; but it is no more graspable than that of our Western Trismegistus. “A faceless prophet,” writes the Islamicist Pierre Lory, from whom I have borrowed the elements of this synthesis, Hermes possesses no concrete or salient characteristics, differing in this regard from most of the major figures of the Bible and the Quran.
It is no different in the Corpus Hermeticum, which presents Hermes sometimes as a god, sometimes as a sage, and at other times as a disciple of the Nous or Divine Intellect. According to the Arab tradition, his life is simultaneously physical and transtemporal, after the example of Elijah's, and even in his body he manifests a state of eternity. Pierre Lory recalls that Idris/Hermes is said to have Written poems, particularly odes, in Arabic, Hebrew, and Syriac; thus he rises “above sectarian divisions, transcends religious mysteries and chronological time,” and speaks “the languages of heaven, of earth, and of man in the integral state, namely Arabic.” The Emerald Tablet is known to have been transmitted in that language. Lastly, this personage belongs to a delightful tradition, a magnificent example of the myth of the “redeemed Redeemer”: A certain angel, having incurred the divine wrath, had had one of his wings cut off and found himself exiled on a desert island. He went to beg Hermes/Idris to intercede with God on his behalf. After Hermes/Idris had succeeded in this mission, the angel gave him the power to enter Heaven while still living in the Seventh Sphere.
It is scarcely surprising that Hermes, whether or not qualified as Trismegistus, was considered as the founder of alchemy as early as Alexandrian times. Greek, which is to say Alexandrian, alchemy certainly disappeared towards the sixth century, but from the seventh and eighth centuries onwards the Arabs took up the thread. It was their translations of these Greek Hermetic texts that were the main inspiration of the Latin-speaking authors of the twelfth century and after, the period of alchemy's blossoming in Europe. Very many writers on the Great Work, whether Arabic or Latin, even up to the twentieth century, use the name of Hermes or Mercury not only as that of a personage, but, especially in the case of Mercury, to designate a substance or property of things, in expressions like “Mercurial spirit.” Mercurius is both the “first matter” and the “last matter,” and even the alchemical process itself. As an entity, he is “mediator” and “savior”—C. G. Jung would call him the Mercury of the Unconscious. As the substance of the Arcanum, he is mercury, water, fire, the celestial light of revelation; he is soul, life-principle, air, hermaphrodite, both puer and senex. He is the tertium datum.
The Mercury of alchemical literature belongs to an uninterrupted tradition of attributing metaphysical significances to the gods and goddesses of Parnassus. Thus at the end of the pagan era in the first century CE, the Greek Cornutus, in his Commentary on the Nature of the Gods, explains the phallic attributes of Mercurius Quadratus as signifying the plenitude and fertility of reason. The Neoplatonists went further, applying this method to all religious traditions, even foreign ones, and considering the whole universe as a great myth from which our intelligence is responsible for extracting the spiritual meaning. Such was the method, for example, of the Emperor Julian's friend Sallustius, in his book On the Gods and the World.
The Metamorphoses of Hermes in the High Middle Ages
The wealth of archetypes which make up the figure of Hermes prevented him from being limited to the Trismegistus type alone. The Parnassian Mercury was well installed in the Christian imagination, not without undergoing some of the curious transformations to which his versatility inclines him. On one hand he was condemned, ridiculed, and turned into a devil; on the other, he was recognized as a benefactor, an exemplar of humane values and Christian virtues, even an image of Christ, while also being the repository of an esoteric philosophy.
Leaving aside the last element, we can see certain consistent traits emerging from the Medieval imagery. First there is the allegorical meaning of Mercury as sermo (speech) or ratio (reason), frequently alluded to by the compilers and lexicographers up to the Renaissance. This allowed Mercury to enter Christendom through the back door, as the god of eloquence. There is nothing surprising in this if one remembers that primitive and even Medieval Christianity was willing to see in Greek mythology a propaedeutic to the true, revealed religion, and to search these tales of Antiquity in the hope of uncovering prophecies pointing to the Gospel. From the very first centuries, Hermes-logos was compared to Christus-logos (e.g., by Justinian, Apologia I, 22, and several passages in Clement of Alexandria) possibly influenced by Origen (Contra Celsum IV). Hermes was seen as a god of flocks, a Good Shepherd, as one can see from primitive Christian representations where he appears in the form of Hermes Kriophoros, i.e., carrying a ram or ewe. This trait is inseparable from his function of psychopomp or conductor of souls, an obvious attribute of Christ: hence the fairly widespread tendency to represent this mercurial psychopomp as an angelus bonus, one of whose avatars, especially in the folklore of Eastern Christendom, is none other than the Archangel Michael—or Gabriel.
Mercury as archangel sometimes appears in the iconography with the head of a dog, thanks to a tradition that goes back to the Egyptian Anubis (cf. Hermanubis!); one finds several echoes of this in the Latin world, notably in Isidore of Seville. Three centuries later, the De rerum naturis of Rhabanus Maurus (ninth century) shows a dog-headed Mercury among a dozen other divinities. He holds a rod; a bird seems to be wedged between his legs (the artist's fault, not realizing that there should be talaria or heel-wings); a serpent lies at his feet (a deformation of the caduceus). On the copy of an Arabic work of Kazwînî the talaria are attached to his belt, and the wings on his hat have turned into a cock's crest. On another illustration of the Albrician type, the wings have hypertrophied to the point of covering his legs and head, forming a sort of heraldic cape. Again, in one of the drawings published by Jean Seznec, the caduceus is replaced by a two-light candelabrum.
Such fantastic metamorphoses were due to erroneous readings or interpretations. Perhaps they encouraged the Church to demonize Hermes-Mercury, or rather to diabolize him, in frequent representations as a malefic character. So the reflection of Christus-logos is sometimes a soldier in the legions of Hell! As early as the fourth century, Sulpicius Severus reports that two demons approached Saint Martin: “one was supposedly Jupiter, the other Mercury.” The latter was the more dangerous one, for “Mercurium maxime patiebatur infestum”—“he was most afflicted by troublesome Mercury.” And the author adds that Satan himself likes to take on the form of Mercury (Dialogus 1-II-II, VI, 4; XIII, 6; IX, 1). The same idea occurs in Martin of Bracarus (sixth century). But was it not Plato himself who set the example? Think of the passages in the Republic on the immoralities of the gods. This criticism was taken up by Lactantius and echoed in various ways, for instance in the sixth-century Barlaam and Josaphat, already mentioned, where Hermes appears as thief, liar, and libertinei and in the thirteenth-century Golden Legend of Jacques de Voragine, which repeats the accusation of Sulpicius Severus.
Yet there is none of this in one of the favorite works of the High Middle Ages, the De nuptiis Mercurii et Philologiae (The Marriage of Philology and Mercury) of Martianus Capella (fifth century); which enjoyed a great reputation as late as the seventeenth century. This text—which like most literary works of the Middle Ages up to Rabelais are quoted here fro;n Ludwig Schrader's study—contributed to the fixation, in more or less definitive form, of most of the allegorical features that would henceforth mark the European Mercury. In this tale of his wedding, Mercury stands for eloquencei Philology, for love, wisdom, and reasoni the seven Liberal Arts act as bridesmaids. Divorced, the two of them are condemned to sterility: Mercury has no more to say, while Philology has no way to express herself. Presiding over the assembly of the gods at the marriage, Jupiter says of Mercury:
nam nostra ille fides, sermo, benignitas
ac verus genius. fida recursio
interpretesque menae mentis, o noûs socer.
he is our lyre, our speech, our kindness
and true genius, our trusty returning
and interpreter of our mind, O kinsman Nous.
United for a long literary posterity, the couple of Mercury and Philology passed into the poetry of the Goliards, a little known genre but one whose influence was widespread and long-lived. And clearly, it was with the allegories of the De nuptiis that the men of the Renaissance liked to play. In the same period, Fulgentius compiled the attributes of Mercury, one of which relates to trade; “mercium cura” (taking care of trades!), but he also interpreted the noun as “medius currens” (running in the middle).
Unlike his diabolization, but equally unlike the tradition established by Martian us Capella, Mercury even succeeded in becoming a bishop. So one discovers on looking through the illustrations of the treatise on astronomy and astrology of Michael Scot, written in Sicily between 1243 and 1250 under Emperor Frederick II. His attribute here is not a caduceus, but a book. In this context, Fritz Saxl has shown that there was a Babylonian influence, by way of Islam: the pious and learned Mercury of Michael Scot corresponds to Nebo, the writer-god associated with the planet Mercury. Equipped with a book, and sometimes even a halo, the “Mercury” of the Babylonian images was a cleric or dervish, who on coming to the West was naturally made a bishop. In the same way, Jupiter was represented as a judge, on a basis of his ancestry in the god Marduk, who decrees fate.
These accoutrements are due to quite a common Medieval tendency of clothing the gods of paganism in contemporary dress—and also of imagining the reverse: so that, as Jean Seznec says, the Virgin of Reims looks like a priestess of Vesta! In the choir of the Eremitani of Padua and the capitals of the Dages's Palacein Venice, Mercury takes on the aspect of a professor. And if in Alexander Neckham (died 1217), the planetary gods correspond to the Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit, and Mercury figures as the dispenser of the donum pietatis (gift of piety), this may be one reason among others for his transformation into a bishop. There is a celebrated book, the Liber imaginum deorum, possibly by Neckham although it circulated under the name of Albricus, together with a De deorum imaginibus libellus, illustrated with pen drawings. Both the Liber and the Libellus were widely read and frequently copied up to the seventeenth century: they bear witness to a very ancient practice of identifying the gods with the stars, which goes back at least to the Greek poem Phenomena of Aratus (fourth century BCE), translated by Cicero (De natura deorum II, 15). This poem inspired numerous illustrated manuscripts, known as Aratea, from the Carolingian era onwards, which contributed to the identification of gods with stars, hence of Hermes to the planet Mercury. But it was above all the two texts attributed to Albricus, the Liber and the Libellus, that enabled the Olympians to reconquer their ancient sovereignty.
At the Dawn of the Renaissance
Who was it that guided Dante through Inferno and Purgatory to Paradise? Was not Virgil here a figure of Mercury? Later we will face the problem posed by such equivalences, which is the question of knowing if a name is sufficient to identify a myth. For the present, we will continue to follow the tracks that Hermes-Mercury has marked with his name. Dante himself makes the planets correspond to the Seven Liberal Arts: Dialectic belongs to the sphere of Mercury, Grammar to that of the Moon, etc. But if the fourteenth century opened with the Divine Comedy, it also saw the birth of Boccaccio's and Petrarch's works. Italy, moreover, would remain the favorite land of this god until the Renaissance, when he was exalted into a figure of the first magnitude.
Boccaccio sees Hermes as the interpreter of secrets and the dissolver of the clouds of the mind (“ventos agere Mercurii est”—“it is Mercury's part to control the winds”). His book De genealogia deorum, which would henceforth serve as the obligatory reference work, is perhaps the best example of the borderline between Medieval and Renaissance mythology. Faithful to the spirit of his time, Boccaccio defends the idea that a poem or story always contains hidden meanings, sub cortice (“beneath the shell”)—a tendency already noticeable in Rhabanus Maurus. He has a particular interest in the identification of each planet with a god or goddess: Boccaccio explains that the planet Mercury is characterized by its flexible nature, exhaustively describing its attributes which are naturally also those of the god. Boccaccio has five Mercurys: the Planet, the Physician, the Orator, the Trader, and the Thief.
Petrarch, on the other hand, initiates a tendency to detach Hermes from an allegorical and interpretative context. But he made great use of Albricus in writing his Latin poem Africa. A little earlier there is the Ovid moralized (circa 1328 or 1340) of Pierre Bersuire, a work accompanied by several commentaries by different authors. Here Mercury appears as the patron of eloquence and of good preachers, but also of “false indoctrinators.”
The works of Dante, Boccaccio, and Petrarch qualify as learned literature. But the popular representations of the gods also enjoyed increasing success in the fourteenth century. Up to the twelfth century, astrological knowledge among Western clerics was virtually limited to Macrobius's Commentarium in Sommium Scipionis (Commentary on the Dream of Scipio, circa 400 CE), the writings of Firmicus Maternus, and the Latin commentaries on the Timaeus. Then began the translation into Latin of numerous Arabic texts, and almost immediately, astrology began to enjoy unprecedented popularity. These translations, mostly made by Jews, supported an increasing level of interest which can be measured by the proliferation of calendars, almanacs, and Prognostica. In this burgeoning of astrological imagery, Mercury naturally held an important place. There are in particular two unprecedented types of image: first, the melothesia, which show the astrological signs, mainly those of the zodiac, distributed on the human body; second, planetary images representing the divinities attributed to each of the seven planets, whence the host of images of Mercury. These planetary allegories usually show the divinity in a chariot, above a group of figures known as his or her “children,” hence the name “Children of the Planets” that is given to this widespread iconographical genre, of which many complete documents have survived to the present. In these drawings, the “children of Mercury” are persons who supposedly represent the human characteristics of this god; they are shown in series or in groups, presided over by Mercury, who rules them from his chariot at the top of the picture. His children have the attributes of musicians, conjurers, scribes, merchants, etc.: in other words, of all those traditionally placed under mercurial rulership. We find Children of the Planets not only in illustrated manuscripts, but also, in Italy, in sacred and secular monumental groups, especially frescoes.
These children proliferated further in the fifteenth century, when one finds the famous Tarot of Mantegna (circa 1460). A truly initiatic work, this set of tarocchi is structured as a ladder of meditations, embodying the spiritual speculations of Johannes Climacus, Dante, and Saint Thomas Aquinas. The Mercury (card no. XXII) is famous, with his triangular hat, buskins (soft boots), flute, and caduceus whose two serpents are replaced by two winged creatures resembling dragons; beneath his feet lies the decapitated head of Argus. This Mercury results from a combination of the Hermes of Antiquity and the Medieval one transmitted by Albricus. But the drawing as a whole was inspired, as Fritz Saxl has shown, by a Greek bas-relief discovered a few years earlier by Cyriacus of Ancona, who had adopted Hermes as his personal divinity. Many copies of this bas-relief had passed from hand to hand, and various adaptations had spread in Italian art, before the tarocchi adopted it. The latter served, in turn, to illustrate the manuscript of a poem of Ludovico Lazarelli, De gentilium deorum imaginibus (1471). Jean Seznec has recognized the Mercury of Mantegna's Tarot “in the Cassani, in the Virgil of the Riccardiana, in a medal of Nicola Fiorentino for Lorenzo Tornabuoni; in a wood-engraving illustrating the Metamorphoses,” and in the interesting Mercury of the Arsenal Library in Paris, where he is flanked by the sleeping Argus and by a bull with its side open like a window, from which Io peers out. Finally, he takes his place with Apollo, Pallas, and Peace among the four beautiful statues by Jacopo Sansovino in Venice, wearing a tunic, a triangular hat, and buskins, and holding his foot on the head of Argus, exactly like the Mercury of the Tarocchi.
None of these motifs is false to the traditional representation, any more than is the Mercury of Mantegna. In the second half of the fifteenth century, the gods were being reintegrated into their primitive form, which, as one can see, was often modified in fantastic fashion. The Renaissance was, after all, more a period of synthesis than of resurrection. An enriching contribution also began to come from the Germanic side. Aby Warburg has shown how the Hermes of Cyriacus of Ancona was adapted by Albrecht Durer, then by Hans Burgkmair; then popularized, thanks to a calendar of Lubeck, and finally used as a decorative motif on the facades of German and Austrian houses. Thus we can see the N orth reintegrating the gods in their traditional forms and attributes, at the same time as frescoes such as those of Francesco Cossa in the Schifanoia Palace of Ferrara (circa 1470) continued to extend a friendly welcome to the planetary gods and their “children.”
Let us pause awhile to consider the Primavera of Botticelli (circa 1480). It evokes the Hermes who is the traditional leader of the Graces, but also recalls Virgil's description of the lively messenger of the gods, who with his magic wand commands the winds and clouds, flying through them like a bird. At the same time, he looks like a pensive divinity, with a touch of melancholy about him (in the Ficinian sense): a god of eloquence, but also a god of silence and meditation. This is why the Humanists saw in him the patron of the penetrating intellect of grammarians and metaphysicians, who, as Marsilio Ficino says, recall the mind to celestial things by the power of reason (Opera, p.l559). As Boccaccio wrote “ventos agere Mercurii est,” so Botticelli paints him dissipating the clouds of the mind and playing with them (cf. Aeneid IV, 223) like a Platonic hierophant, stirring the wispy vapors so that the Truth may filter down from heaven, penetrating to us without blinding us. If he is looking pensively towards this heaven, we suspect that it is not with the object of losing himself there forever, but with the Ficinian intention of return, of reentering the world with the impetuosity of Zephyrus !who appears on the right of the paintilg). For Mercury and Zephyrus, as Edgar Wind recognized, are but the two phases of a single process: that which descends to earth as the breath of passion, returns again to heaven in the spirit of contemplation. The picture thus embodies the three phases of the Hermetic process: emanatio, conversio, remeatio; emanation or procession in the descent of Zephyr towards Flora, conversion in the dance of the Graces, and reascension in the figure of Mercury.
Mercury is cited by name in the mystery plays, such as the Conversion of Saint Denys, or Greban's Mystery of the Passion. He plays a remarkable and dishonorable role in the Geu des trois Mages, where his name is given to King Herod's counselor: perhaps a reminiscence of that other function which he exercised with Osiris, according to Saint Augustine, and surely a persistence of the Medieval heritage which had given his name to the devil. In the well-known legend of the Emperor Julian, he unequivocally represents a demon. This tells that Julian's mother-in-law found a statue of Mercury in the Tiber; Julian sold his soul to this entity, and thanks to his diabolical servant became first apostate, then emperor. Incidentally, and in contrast, the second part of the legend brings on a “Saint Mercury” who is none other than the counterpart of Saint Sergius of the Armenian Church, as well as an avatar of Hermes the psychopomp.
Hermes and the New Spirit of Humanism
In the sixteenth century, the image of Hermes made its way through the Italian encyclopedias, which forthwith became classic and obligatory reference books. The essential ones, more or less inspired by Boccaccio's De genealogia deorum, are the dictionaries of ancient mythology by the Germans Georg Pictor (Theologia Mythologica, 1532), Albricius (Allegoricae poeticae, 1520), Natale Conti (Mythologia sive explicationum fabularum libri decem, Venice, 1551), Lilio Gyraldi (De deis gentium varia et multiplex historia, Basel, 1548), and Vicenzo Cartari (Le imagini colla posizione degli Dei degli antichi, Venice, 1556). The almost surrealistic illustrations of Cartari1s book revive the fantastic and syncretic vein that had almost been lost in the preceding century: his images of Hermes are both extraordinary and varied. More classical are the emblems of Achilles Bacchi (Questiones symbolicae, Bologna, 1555), among which appears a Hermes holding in one hand a seven-branched candelabrum, with his other index finger to his lips in the gesture of Harpocrates: a strange oxymoron, applied to the god of eloquence! In the Emblematum liber of Alciati (1531), Hermes personifies wisdom; and Junius, the famous emblematist, studies all his attributes (Insignia Mercurii quid!). Fine examples of Mercury are also to be seen in the Inscriptiones sacrosanctae vetustatis (1534) of Petrus A pian us. Almost all the mythographers of this time based their work primarily on the last representatives of paganism in Egypt and the Near East, at the same time as archeological documents were coming to light in many places and in unprecedented numbers.
What finds there were! A year after the first Latin translation of the Homeric Hymn to Hermes, Polydore Virgil's De rerum inventoribus came off the press, containing a great number of ancient traditions concerning this god. In 1499, it was the turn of the Marriage of Mercury and Philology to be published for the first time, and by 1599 there were eight editions of it. There was of course the translation of the Corpus Hermeticum by Marsilio Ficino. Hermes-Mercury has probably never been more talked of than in the sixteenth century. Erasmus, in his Adages, gives us an inkling of this: commenting on the expression “Mercurius venit” (as one now says “an angel passed”), he alludes to the silence of reflection, which contributes to Mercury's identification with the archangel Michael. The Adages have inspired quite a few emblems. In his Praise of Folly (1509), he calls Mercury the inventor of tricks or of conjuring (“Quos nos ludos exhibet furtis ac praestigiis Hermes?”—“What entertainments does Hermes show us, with his tricks and sleight-of-hand?”), rather as Isidore of Seville did long before. But it is as ratio and sermo (“reason” and “speech”) that Mercury enters many of these dictionaries, with the neat formula quasi medius currens (“as if running in the middle”) serving to explain him etymologically. This is found in Johannes Balbus (Catholicon, 1490), Ambrosius Calepinus (Dictionarium, 1510), Georg Pis tori us (Theologia mythologica, 1532), Caelius Rhodoginus (Lectionum antiquarum libri XII, 1517), Guillaume Bude, and Gyraldi as cited above. For Budé, Hermes represents the very principle of Humanism, and as mediator he is paralleled with Jesus Christ. In Giovani Pantano's Charon (1491) and in his Urania (in Opera, 1505), Mercury gives his opinions concerning ecclesiastical and theological matters; he evinces a great erudition and speaks about his own reception in the literature of the Renaissance! For Bonaventure des Periers (Cymbalum Mundi, 1537), Hermes is now a guide of the dead, now a thief, now an alchemist—or an expert in rhetoric.
In Baldus (1517), a Latin epic by Teofilo Folengo (quoted by Ludwig Schrader), Baldus is a Mars-figure who finds himself imprisoned in Mantua for five cantos, then rescued, as in the Iliad, by the ruse of the Hermes-figure Cingar. The latter then recites a long anaphoric hymn to Hermes, in which almost all the god's attributes appear:
Te patrone meus, pochinas cerno fiatas.
Mercure, qui doctor primarus in arte robandi es;
Namque times ne dum per coeli rura caminas,
Te rapidis jungate furibundus Apollo cavallis,
Et sburlans faciat tibi forsan rumpere collum.
Tu sopra lunarem arcem tua regna locasti,
Per quae tercentum pegorae faciendo bebeum
Pascuntur, grassique boves, asinique ragiantes,
Atque casalenghi porci, gibbique camelli;
Nam tu per mundum vadis faciendo botinos,
Quos introducis coeli sub tecta secundi.
Alatum portat semper tua testa capellum;
Alatum portat semper tua dextra bachettam;
Ac imbassatas patris Jovis undique portas.
Tu mercantiam faciens vadisque redisque.
Tu ventura canis, tibi multum musica gradat,
Tu pacem, si vis, furibunda in gente reponis,
Tu litem, si vis, compana in gente ministras;
Tam bene dulcisonis tua can tat phistula metris,
Quod male delectans ad somnum provocat artus:
Argo centoculus fuit olim mortuus hac re.
Sic, patrone meus, tibi me recomando ladrettum,
Ne triplicem supra forcam me lazzus acojet.
You, my patron, I feel as gentle breezes,
Mercury, who art the first doctor in the art of stealing
But beware, lest while you are traveling the lanes of heaven,
Apollo should meet you with his raging horses,
And bowling you over, might make you break your neck!
You have set your realm above the lunar citadel,
Through which three hundred baa-ing sheep graze,
Also fat cattle, strong [?] asses,
Home-loving swine, and humped camels.
But you go through the world causing meteors,
Which you bring beneath the roof of the second heaven.
Your head always wears a winged hat;
Your leg always wears a winged projection;
Your right hand always carries the fateful wand;
And everywhere you bear the embassies of your father Jupiter.
You come and go as a trader,
You sing of things to come, and music pleases you greatly.
If you wish, you restore peace to those who rage.
If you wish, you cause strife among people.
Your flute plays so well in fine-sounding rhythms,
That you mischievously bring sleep to their limbs.
Hundred-eyed Argus was once killed in this way.
Thus, my patron, I offer myself to you as a thief,
Lest I should be impaled on a three-pronged fork.
In Lozana Andaluza (1528) by the Spaniard Francisco Delicade, Hermes appears to the heroine in a dream, to save her from Pluto and Mars. In the same language, the Dialogo de Mercurio y Caron (1529) of Alfonso de Valdès describes him as the clear-sighted god, the critical observer par excellence, who is well informed in theology and likes to discuss the events of the year! There is a very different profile in Bonaventure des Periers (Cymbalum mundi, 1538): in the first three dialogues, he is the object of a satire, a negative Christ-figure—perhaps due to the influence of Rabelais. Does Hermes not also love his liquor, like Panurge, and likewise claim to possess the Philosophers’ Stone? And if two tercets of a sonnet of Du Bellay, dedicated to Ronsard, discreetly betray his presence, it is in the works of the latter that one finds the best and most explicit evocation in the sixteenth century of the god of the caduceus: Ronsard's hymn De Mercure (Book II, No. 10), inspired by the Homeric hymn, and dedicated to Claude Binet. In verses of the highest quality it recalls the essentials of the Mercurian legend, after the Greeks, and also the psychological traits and activities of the “children” of this planet, not forgetting alchemy. This great variety of attributes does not lead Ronsard to forget the essence of his character:
C'est toi, Prince, qui rends nos esprits très habiles
A trouver une yssue aux chases difficiles,
Ambassadeur, agent, qui ne crains les dangers,
Soit de terre ou de mer, ou de Rois estrangers.
Toujours en action, sans repos ny sans treves.
Pourveu que ton labeur enterpris tu acheves.
It is you, Prince, who empowers our minds
To find a way out of every difficulty.
Ambassador, agent, fearing neither danger
By land or sea, nor any foreign king;
Always busy, without rest or respite,
Whatever you undertake, you achieve it.
We find him in the form of a messenger in Maistre Pierre Faifeu (1532) by Charles Boudigné, which opens with an “Epistle of Master Pierre Faifeu, sent to the Angevin Gentlemen by Mercury, Herald and spokesman of the Gods.” Perhaps Boudigné got his inspiration from another French book, the Illustrations de Gaule (1512) by Jean Lemaire, whose three parts all open with a prologue placed in the mouth of Hermes. In Jean Lemaire's work he appears as the “erstwhile famous God of eloquence, ingenuity and fine invention, herald and spokesman of the gods,” and the role he plays there follows the traditional allegory: “Mercury signifies the word, by means of which every doctrine is addressed and conveyed to our understanding [entendement].” This last word should be read to mean “clarity,” for Hermes rules “all noble and clear understandings of both sexes, which are the Mercurian bond, and who love good reading.” One recalls the pleasure of Rabelais, not long after, at the revival of “good literature.” Jean Lemaire reinterprets the traditional Mercurian allegory by giving it a sense that was new in the sixteenth century, taken from Lucian's Charon: Hermes opens the eyes of his companion Charon, allowing him a great vista over the theater of the world. Already in Boccaccio, claritas figured among his attributes, but also flexibility. Jean Lemaire also echoes Boccaccio when he speaks of the “noble God Mercury whose planet is neutral and indifferent: good to the benevolent, evil to the malevolent, master of the imaginative virtue, fantastic and agitating.” Nearly all this recurs in the Discorso sopra li dei de Gentili (1602) by Giacomo Zucchi. In his works (see for example De umbris idearum, 1582), Giordano Bruno often identifies himself with Mercury, the messenger sent by the Gods in order to reinstate truth, a truth corrupted by the malevolent actions of the bad Mercurys, i.e. the bad (“nocentes”) angels mention in the “lamentation” of Asclepius. And we should not forget the Mercury of Louis Dorléans (Le Mercure de Justice, 1592): here he is presented—rather unconvincingly—as a god of Justice.
Geoffroy Tory and Francois Rabelais
Geoffroy Tory, also drawing on Boccaccio for his inspiration, gives ample place to Mercury in a strange work, Champ Fleury (1529), devoted to a sort of Kabbalah of the Latin alphabet. After recalling the myth of Io, transformed into a cow by Juno and mistreated by the herdsman Argus, then saved by Mercury who puts Argus to sleep and kills him, Tory proposes the following interpretation:
Mercury playing on his pipe and cutting off the head of Argus should be interpreted here as the diligent man who seeks out the purest of good literature and true science, and employs himself in teaching it to others, both by speech and writing, and repelling and destroying the inveterate barbarism of the unlearned, as we see done today by three noble persons: Erasmus the Hollander; Jacques, Lord of Estaples in Picardy; and Bude the jewel of noble and studious Pharisees, who work night and day at writing for the benefit of the public and the bestowal of perfect Science.
Here Mercury, the messenger of light (Jupiter) comes to rescue Io (literature) from the prison of Argus (intellectual night), the servant of Juno (riches). It is he who breaks the fences, unblocks the circuits, and restores to circulation the knowledge hoarded by the guardians of the established intellectual order (Argus). In other words, he represents the new spirit of Humanism, as Tory conceived it.
Rabelais knew Hermes well. In his poem dedicated to Jean Bouchet, he calls him the holy patron of Bouchet, since the latter likes to call himself the “traveler of perilous paths.” Rabelais knew that Pan was descended from Hermes and Penelope, and had heard tell of the oracle of Hermes at Pharae. He mentions the Fountain of Mercury in Rome and the mercurial plant described by Pliny. He alludes to the Gallic Mercury, to a statue of the god in solid quicksilver, and several times mentions the relevant planet. Ludwig Schrader has furnished an excellent study of this subject, his interest being particularly in Panurge. Schrader shows how this figure was inspired by Cingar de Folenzo, and by other sources so numerous that one would have to give up hope of finding them all. But the essential thing, at least, is that Panurge can be identified with Hermes. When he is telling of his flight from Turkey, Pan urge says: “the sponger fell asleep by divine will, or at least by the will of some good Mercury who put to sleep hundred-eyed Argus.” Before questioning Raminagrobis, he offers him a cock; he presents Triboullet with a bag made from a tortoise shell. His relations with dogs recall an aspect of Hermes as shepherd; and Panurge, too, carries a ram, that of Dindenault.
Before his visit to the Sibyll of Panzoust; Epistemon realizes with horror that he has forgotten to equip himself with a golden branch. “I have seen to that,” replies Pan urge. “Here in my game-bag I have a golden rod, together with a fair and merry carolus [gold coin]” He also carries a purse, after the example of Hermes Empolaios. Like Ronsard's character, he is a seller of theriac. He knows how to open any door or chest as easily as Ovid's Mercury (caelestique res virga patefacit—“he opens things with his heavenly rod”—Metamorphoses II, 819). Pan urge also seems as well gifted in languages as his model. Nor does he seek after glory. He has the same gift of prediction as his divine patron, and employs it by praestigium in drear or poetry. Panurge's cure of Epistemon is more than a skillful piece of surgery: it is the parody of a conjuration. One can see from this that he has the gift of bringing souls back from Hades to the land of the living (in this case, by means of a pomade of resurrection). But he can also push them thither: in the wand with which he keeps Dindenault and his cronies from rescuing themselves, we recognize the stick with which Hermes urges on the souls of the dead (cf. Lucian, Cataplus); and with Carpalim and Eusthenes, he lightly gives the coup-de-grâce to the enemies lying on the battlefield.
This does not exhaust the resemblances. Tertullian, Eratosthenes, and others have attributed to Hermes a pronounced taste for clothes which is shared by Panurge, especially in his Parisian pranks. Like the Hermes of the Homeric ode, he is keen on eating and drinking. In his Cataplus, Lucian revealed that Hermes does not like to stay in the underground world because there is too little to eat there (cf. also Aristophanes, Pax and Plutus). Panurge is not only a hearty drinker, but his profligacy extends to sexual matters. As we know from Herodotus and Pausanias, Hermes is represented in ithyphallic form (he is even father to Priapus, according to Hyginus). Pan urge has secret affairs (Hermes was born from a secret union of Maia and Zeus); he likes to pursue nymphets (like that other little Hermes, Harpo Marx!), and gives the impression of never being the victim of impotence—a malady which, according to Petronius, is cured by Hermes. Likewise, Hermes is the god of one of Panurge's favorite subjects: cuckoldry (cf. Lucian, Fugitivi). Rabelais's hero readily identifies himself with his codpiece, which he calls trismégiste (“thrice greatest”)—an article which also serves in the cure of Epistemon (Panurge “took the head and held it warmly to his codpiece, so that it would not catch a draft”). But trismegiste is also the epithet he gives to his bottle (“You must also have the word of the Thrice-Greatest Bottle”). And Panurge, like the Mercury of Martianus Capella, also has trouble in marrying: here Pantagruel takes the role of Apollo, and Raminagrobis that of Zeus.
Lastly, through his medical knowledge Pan urge is not only connected to the tradition of Hermetic magic: he also has something of the humanist Hermes, the savant of his time. This does not prevent him from being at the same time a sort of alchemist, for he claims to possess the Philosophers’ Stone: “I have a philosophical stone which sucks money out of purses as the magnet attracts iron.” And in his speech in praise of debtors, he speaks of the “joy of the alchemists when, after long labors, great care and expense, they see the metals transmuted in their furnaces.” Transmutation, the goal of the Art of Hermes, is cheerfully parodied in Book IV: “Haven't I explained to you enough the transmutation of the elements and the simple symbol between roast and boil, between boil and roast?”
The Return of Trismegistus at the Renaissance
The interest in Hermes-Mercury in the sixteenth century went along with a rediscovery of Hermes Trismegistus, who now enjoyed a considerable vogue in Europe, even exceeding that of the Middle Ages. Suddenly he came to the front of the philosophical stage, at a moment when—partly thanks to him—those currents began to come together that would later be called collectively “esotericism.” Two major events enabled esotericism to take on a specific form. One of these was the discovery of the Jewish Kabbalah, especially after the Diaspora of 1492. The other was the rediscovery of the Corpus Hermeticum, brought to Florence in about 1460 by a monk traveling from Macedonia (it had been unknown in the Middle Ages, except for the Asclepius). After Marsilio Ficino's Latin translation of the Corpus (1471) came innumerable editions in the course of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, as well as commentaries both erudite and enthusiastic by Lefevre d'Etaples, Ludovico Lazarelli, Symphorien Champier, Cornelius Agrippa, Gabriel du Preau, Francois Foix de Candale, Hannibal Rossel, Francesco Patrizi, and more.
At the same time there was a frequent tendency to “apollonize” Hermes Trismegistus, as if to relegate to the background, even to obliterate, the magical and theurgical aspect of these Alexandrian texts. Trismegistus's success in the Renaissance certainly profited from the craze for Mercury, with the result that in the sixteenth century, Hermes entered forcibly into the cultural imagination under both forms, to the point of serving as a sort of catch-all. Finally, we note one of the most remarkable traits of this presence of Trismegistus—which is to say, of Hermetism,* in the precise sense of the term: editions, studies, and commentaries of the Corpus Hermeticum—as his irenical aspect. Wherever Hermes passes, religious tolerance prevails.
Thanks to the rich variety of his attributes, and his intermediate position between religious and literary myth, Trismegistus had all the prerequisites for becoming the axial figure of a philosophical history of the human race. We have seen that ancient authors like Strabo, Marcus Manilius, etc., had already presented him as such. Roger Bacon accorded him an important place in this history, albeit a negative one. More than in the Middle Ages, the need was felt in the Renaissance for conceptualizing the idea of “Tradition” (in the esoteric sense, in which it has been understood since the nineteenth century). At that time it was called the philosophia perennis (perennial philosophy), a term defined by Agostino Steuco in 1540, in his book De perenni Philosophia. The name of Trismegistus is linked inseparably with this. Pico della Mirandola and Marsilio Ficino prepared the way for Steuco by calling Hermes the “first theologian,” and speaking of a prisca theologia (earliest theology), which began with Mercury and culminated with Plato. The typical roster, or “philosophical” genealogy, took shape as follows: Enoch, Abraham, Noah, Zoroaster, Moses, Hermes Trismegistus, the Brahmins, the Druids, David, Orpheus, Pythagoras, Plato, the Sibyls.
A curious aspect of this Western “Tradition” is that it continually confuses the mythological with the real. The extreme importance given to the idea of prisca philosophica sowed a certain danger from the start, making the authority of a text or doctrine depend on the guarantee of its great age. The inevitable consequence followed in 1614, when Isaac Casaubon discovered that the Trismegistic texts dated from no earlier than the second and third centuries of the Common Era.
These writings nonetheless enjoyed a long career up to our own day, if a more discreet one; but there was now a tendency to seek elsewhere than in the Hermetic texts for the mythic reference-point that supposedly guaranteed authenticity. This went to the extreme of completely inventing histories and rituals, which may have been reponsible for the appearance of the Rosicrucians at the beginning of the seventeenth century, and of speculative Freemasonry a century later. As for Paracelsus and his followers, and the great Christian theosophy of Germany which manifested with Jacob Boehme, they owe little to neo-Alexandrian Hermeticism, and give only a modest place to Trismegistus.
In 1488, only ten years after the publication of the Corpus Hermeticum in Ficino's Latin translation and a dozen years after Botticelli's Primavera, an artist inlaid the pavement of Siena Cathedral with a marvelous panel, still visible: it shows Hermes Trismegistus himself in the form of a tall and venerable bearded man, dressed in a robe and cloak, wearing a brimmed miter, and surrounded by various persons, with the inscription “Hermes Mercurius Trismegistus Contemporaneus Moysii.” Not long after, Pope Alexander VI, the protector of Pico della Mirandola, commanded Pinturicchio to paint a great fresco in the Borgia Apartments of the Vatican, abounding with Hermetic symbols and zodiacal signs: one can see Hermes Trismegistus, for once young and beardless, in the company of Isis and Moses.
Faces of Hermes in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries
Iconographical representations of Hermes Trismegistus are, however, more rare in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries than would be expected—at least, this author is aware of no more than ten (see Chapter 5). Here we will mention only the existence of a Trismegistus by Manos Finiguerra or, rather, by his disciple Bacchio Baldini (circa 1460) in the Florentine Picture Chronicle of the British Museum. Mercury, too, appears in this Florentine series, as well as in countless pictures, drawings, and statuary, wherever artists draw on antiquity for their inspiration and subject matter. We cannot possibly cite all the striking and significant works. In sculpture, they range from the delicate and airy Mercury of Giovanni de Bologna in the Galleria of Florence, to the beautiful version of Adriaen de Vries in the National Gallery of Art, Washington. In painting, there is the Hermes of the Mannerist school: in Hendrik Goltzius, Bartholomaus Spranger, Joachim Wtewael, and Corelius Van Haarlem, in whose Jupiter punishing Lara, 1597, Mercury helps Jupiter to tear out the tongue of Lara. There is Dirck Van Barburen's rubicund Hermes (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, circa, 1595) who, helping Vulcan to chain Prometheus, gets himself in between the two characters! Then there is Baldung Grien's hel-meted and bearded Mercury, and all the multiple variations on the theme of Mercury killing Argus in order to liberate Io, e.g., that of Johann F.-M. Rottenmayr, circa 1690 (Museum of Art, Chicago)—not to mention his perennial appearance in emblems inspired by mythology.
Mercury belongs not only to painting and emblems, but also to the political and literary imagery that follows the course of historic and regional circumstances. This served especially to remythologize, or to remythify, the role bestowed on the sovereign. Thus in England there is the theme of the magician-king or -queen. From Spenser and Elizabeth I until Pope and Queen Anne, the planetary god Mercury was identified with the monarch, often serving to represent his or her magic power. In Spenser's Fairie Queene (1590), Gloriana (that is, Elizabeth) revives in the very bosom of Protestantism the Medieval notion of a World-Emperor who will restore the Golden Age by repairing the ravages caused by Adam's Fall. Queen Elizabeth herself did not hesitate to tum for advice to the magus John Dee (author of Monas Hieroglyphica, 1564), just as King Arthur took counsel with Merlin. It is to the credit of Douglas Brooks-Davies that he has drawn attention recently to the consequences of the identification, in England, of monarchy and magic, using precisely the images of Mercury and Trismegistus. This identification justified the pretention of realizing an ideal realm or Empire, differing little from the Arthurian model. Here again, different “traditions” came together in an interesting syncretism. On the one hand, following many of his countrymen, Spenser saw England as a kind of Egypt. On the other, the anti-Roman Hermeticism of Giordano Bruno (particularly of his book Spaccio de la bestia triomfante [The Expulsion of the Triumphant Beast, 1585]) acted as a ferment in this country, where the tradition of the Druids (supposed to be the descendants of Noah by his son Cham) was still kept alive by those in power, and tied to the notion of the king's sacerdotal and magical role. As we have mentioned, the Druids were often included, at this period, in the tradition of the prisci theologi, despite the absence of any writings surviving from them—or perhaps because of that. This is why the English monarch, as a more or less complete incarnation of these disparate elements, tends like Mercury to represent a tension between Heaven and Earth, the scepter being regarded as a caduceus, or vice versa. For this reason, too, the Wisdom of Trismegistus is attributed to him or her. In the seventeenth century, and following the work of Spenser, there are numerous works that carry this imagery, such as Ben Johnson's Mercury vindicated (1616), a panegyric of the Mercurial and magical monarch that was performed at Court; and Il Penseroso (1645) of Milton, which transmits the idea of a terrestrial and reformed monarchy, evoked by a poet whose role in this instance is that of the visionary intermediary, like an inspired Merlin beside his King Arthur.
These instances, tied to politics and literature and specific to Britain, tend to fuse one Hermes-type in the other. In the visual arts of this period, Mercury is all too often drowned in academicism, relegated to a mere figure among others in the classical evironment. The further one goes from the Renaissance, the more he appears thus. The earlier epoch was expert in the art of giving the gods their attributes and enlivening them with the breath of exuberant life; later, with the help of the conventional style, one loses the authentic flavor, the specific presence, of the Mercurian myth in art.
True, this persisted in esotericism, whether in the form of alchemy, the Neoplatonism of Cambridge (Henry More, Ralph Cudworth), the cosmosophy of Robert Fludd, or the Egyptian Hermeticism made popular by the learned Jesuit Athanasius Kircher (Oedipus Aegyptiacus, 1652). Kircher readily associated Kabbalah with Hermeticism, seeing in Hermes, as Ficino had done, the inventor of the hieroglyphs, or of the truths inscribed on the stone obelisks. But no matter how obsessive was the Egyptomania of the literary, artistic, and philosophic imagination of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Hermes played scarcely no role in it beyond that of an obligatory actor.
This does not, of course, apply to the very specific case of Hermes Trismegistus's appearance in translations and re-editions of the Corpus Hermeticum, especially in German-speaking countries. His presence in the latter was persistent from the second half of the seventeenth century onwards, whether one considers Hermetism properly so-called, which is linked in those countries to the late appearance of Humanism, or whether it is a question of alchemy. In a curious work symptomatic of the Hermetic revival in Germany (Conjectaneorum de germanicae gentis originae, Tübingen, 1684), W. Chr. Kriegsmann attempts to prove, with weighty philological arguments, that Hermes was the founder of the German peoples, associating the Egyptian Thoth with “Theut” and hence “Teutonic.” This was a form of revived euhemerism, in which a mythological character appeared not as one of the benefactors of humanity, but as the patron of a race. Not long after, in 1700, the Jesuit Joachim Bouvet, a sinologue, mathematician and musician, was writing enthusiastically to Leibniz about this presence of Hermes: “The I Ching,” he says, “is like a symbol invented by some extraordinary genius of Antiquity, such as Mercury Trismegistus, to render visible the most abstract principles of all the sciences.” We encounter him again in the Voyages of Cyrus (1727) of Michael de Ramsay, where he meets Cyrus, among other digressions serving to show that the mythologies of the Egyptians and the Persians were founded on the same principles: “they were merely different names for expressing the same ideas.” Eighteenth-century erudition, even more systematic than that of the Renaissance, contributed to the enthusiasm for Hermess and for Hermetism: examples are the monumental Bibliotheca Graeca (1705-1728) of Johann Albrecht Fabricius, and the Historia Philosophiae (4 vols., 1743) of Jacob Brucker.
It was, in fact, in seventeenth-century Germany that the greatest number of alchemical works were printed with illustrations and figures. Mercury is the best represented of all the gods in this flourishing iconography of Baroque emblems, where the most frequent and natural figure is specifically that of Hermes, far from any academicism (though not without hidden meanings). Here he is at home: he reigns as the master of reconciling polarities, joining opposites, and guiding our active imagination, in numerous examples from Michael Maier's Atalanta Fugiens (1617) to Adolph C. Beute's Philosophische Schaubiihne (1706). Far into the eighteenth century, the Germans continued to depict him in the illustrations of alchemical books: one sees him decked out in Rococo style and decor, for example in the drawings of the Deutsches Theatrum Chimicum (1728) of Friedrich Roth-Scholtz, and the Neue Alchymistische Bibliothek (1772) of F. J. W. Schröder: also in Jean-Henri Cohaussen's Lumen novum phosphorus accensum (1717), Joh. T. Boethius’ Famae alchemicae (1717), P.-M. von Respur's Besondere Versuche vom Mineral-Geist (1772), etc.
In France, where alchemical iconography was less flourishing, Mercury still formed the object of interpretations directly inspired by the “Art of Hermes.” We mention here only the most famous French representative of the alchemical interpretation of the “fables” of Antiquity: the Benedictine Antoine-Joseph Pernéty, whose Fables égyptiennes et grecques dévoilées (1758, reissued 1786) enjoys considerable success to this day, to judge from several recent reprints. This learned Benedictine borrowed in part from Michael Maier's commentaries, but amplified and systematized them, following a tradition as old as Olympiodorus which had never quite disappeared: that of interpreting mythology as a coded language containing all the principles of the Great Work. For Dam Pernety, Mercury's mother Cybele (or Maia) is the “nurse” mentioned in the Emerald Tablet, where the text runs nutrix ejus terra (“its nurse is the earth”), Cybele having this meaning in Greek. The messages of the gods which Mercury “carries day and night are his circulation in the vessel during the entire course of the Work.” Likewise, “the tuning of instruments which Mercury invented indicates the proportions, weights, and measures” of the materials of the Magistery and the degrees of fire. The psychopompic function attributed to him “signifies nothing other than the dissolution and coagulation, fixation and volatilization of the material of the Work.” After the putrefaction, the material of the Philosophers takes on all sorts of colors, which disappear at the moment when it coagulates and fixates: “This is Mercury, who killed Argus with a blow from a stone”!
Outside the hothouses of practical alchemy, there appeared in Paris in 1719 the first volume of L'Antiquité expliquée, et représentée en figures, by Dam Bernard de Montfaucon, a set of great folio volumes which devote a chapter to each of the divinities, with luxurious illustrations showing objects from Antiquity belonging to museums or private collections. This first volume, which accords ample space to Hermes, was enriched in 1724 by the first part of the Supplement, in which he is found in many other ancient guises. Never before, perhaps, had there been such a collection of depictions of Mercury. To leaf through these pages is to learn of the facility with which he blends with other characters to form a single figure, such as Hermathena (Hermes with the head of Minerva), Hermeros, Hermanubis, Hermapocrates, etc. Montfaucon's compilation serves as a reference work even today; but it seems that no book yet exists that assembles the images of Hermes as seen by modern times.
It was also in France that Court de Gébelin devoted a long chapter of his Monde Primitif (1773/84) to Hermes. In a frontispiece, Hermes as geometrician consults an assemblage of mathematical symbols beneath a starry sky, accompanied by Minerva. Court de Gebelin's is one of the most serious and likable studies that came out of the French “quest for mysteries” in the eighteenth century. But in 1774, shortly after the publication of Court's first volume, it is in German that the great Johann Gottfried Herder devoted long passages of his first famous book (Ueber die älteste Urkunde des Menschengeschlechts, i.e.: On the Most Ancient Document of Mankind) to Hermes Trismegistus and/or Thot, whom he considered as the symbolic founder and inventor of numbers, letters, etc. In addition to that, in 1801 Herder published a poetically inspired dialogue between “Hermes and Pymander” in his journal Adrastea, which owes little to the Corpus Hermeticum in terms of content, but much more so in terms of style.
French illuminism, European Romanticism, and the esotericism of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries correspond to various visitations of Hermes, but more through orientation of thought and a certain sensibility than through specific evocation, or invocation, of him. True, these occurred here and there, with the traditional and explicit attributes of Mercury, or precise allusions to Trismegistus, from the Abbé Terrasson's Séthos 11731), through André Chénier, to Ballanche's Essais de palingénésie sociale (1827 I 29). It was much more the myth of Orpheus, however, that served for explicit references, and as such haunted the Romantic imagination. As Brian Juden has shown, Orpheus was the god beloved of the Romantics. Later, in the Symbolist era, there was the syncretism of Edouard Schure, who delivered a vibrant homage to Hermes—a blending of Mercurius and Trismegistus—in Les Grands Inities (The Great Initiates, 1889), almost swamping him in cliches and technicolor prose. Shortly before, Anna Kingsford had published her “Hymn to Hermes”—here, just the God with the Caduceus—a rather good poem in prose, in her book The Perfect Way (1881). At the same time, the “Thrice Greatest” made his way into the work of a great poet: Hermes Trismegistos (1881), one of H. W. Longfellow's most beautiful poems in verse, is a fine piece of Egyptomania; in that nostalgic evotation he is pictured within a highly Egyptianizing setting. It required Carl Gustav Jung to discover a new fruitful perspective on Hermes, this time more from the anthropological point of view. In his essay “The Spirit Mercurius,” Jung summarizes the multiple aspects of the alchemical Mercury as follows:
1) Mercuri us consists of all conceivable opposites. He is thus quite obviously a duality, but is named a unity in spite of the fact that his innumerable inner contradictions can dramatically fly apart into an equal number of disparate and apparently independent figures.
2) He is both material and spiritual.
3) He is the process by which the lower and material is transformed into the higher and spiritual, and vice versa.
4) He is the devil, a redeeming psychopomp, an evasive trickster, and God's reflection in physical nature.
5) He is also the reflection of a mystical experience of the artifex that coincides with the opus alchymicum.
6) As such, he represents on the one hand the self and on the other hand the individuation process and, because of the limitless number of his names, also the collective unconscious. (Hence the designation of Mercurius as mare nostrum.)
Among the Jungians, Rafael Lopez-Pedraza and William G. Doty have produced admirable studies (see Bibliography) among other valuable works of the same type treating the gods and goddesses as existing within ourselves and within human society.
Hermesian Perspectives
The fragmentation of Hermes from the Enlightenment to the so-called Decadence, and the almost obsessional presence of Orpheus throughout the long career of Romanticism—an Orpheus who turns out to resemble Hermes like a brother—brings one up against the invariable problem of any serious reflections on myth. In order to detect the presence of a myth, is it sufficient to follow up the proper name belonging to it? In other words, is a myth identifiable by a particular name? At least twice, in Dante's Virgil and Rabelais’ Pan urge, we have come across Hermes under a pseudonym. We can recognize him equally well in other literary works, and by no means minor ones, such as Thomas Mann's Zauberberg (Magic Mountain, 1924). Gilbert Durand, on the other hand, answered this question in the negative, in a valuable and meticulous work of 1985 (see Bibliography), where he evokes the “permanencies and derivations of the myths of Mercury.” Saying that a caduceus alone does not make a Mercury, Durand gives the following elements as the essential signals: (a) the power of the very small (it is true that Mercury is sometimes tiny, as in several of Montfaucon's illustrations and alchemical figures; when his phallus is large, it signifies spiritual fecundity); (b) the function of intermediary; (c) the function of conductor of souls.
In this way, Gilbert Durand was able to define a series of “explosions” of Mercury, i.e., moments at which the myth intensifies. The first ones stretch over long periods: half a millenium, or eight hundred years, in Egypt (Thoth); then Greek Antiquity, and Roman Antiquity. But in Rome, Mercury was not really a Latin god: Caesar regarded him as more a Gaulish or Celtic one, as many Celtic temples and place-names attest. He is basically Semitic: Phoenician, Carthaginian, Hebrew, Arab—in other words, linked to peoples inclined to commerce and mobility.
More illustrative of the process of “explosion” are the next four moments, as given by Gilbert Durand: (A) the “Gothic Renaissance” of the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, when alchemy flourished with personages such as Arnold of Villanova and Albertus Magnus. Mercury then appeared as the great agent of transmutation, the “intermediary” of the Work, often associated with the moon (silver being the lunar state, and quicksilver the planetary rapidity of that body). This was the age of Saint Bonaventura and of Joachim of Fiore (the ripening of the Age of the Holy Spirit!); but it would all collapse in the fourteenth century, with economic chaos, the Black Death, and the Great Schism. (B) The Humanist epoch, in which Mercury as intellectual seems to preside over printing and information. Here he is “mercurial” rather than mercurian. But this world collapsed, at the same time as Hermeticism, in the face of the Enlightenment. (C) The end of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth century, when Mercury is ambiguous, veiling as much as he reveals, as in the craze for hieroglyphs and secret societies. Besides, the whole style of the epoch has Mercury's ambiguity: the language of the Enlightenment serves the Illuminists themselves for speaking of obscure matters, until at the end of the nineteenth century scholars such as Marcellin Berthelot (author of Les Origines del'Alchimie, 1885) turn Hermes-Mercury to Promethean purposes by considering alchemy merely as the ancestor of chemistry! The epoch of positivism and materialistic science obviously stands under the patronage of Prometheus. (D) Reacting against this, the epistemological revolution of our time (especially the second half of the twentieth century) calls on intermediaries, extending the relational concept to every field of science and the mind (relativity, pluralism, polarities, polysemiology, information exchange, etc.), and explores the various possible paths of the inner quest as no era ever before. This kind of revival of Hermes favors a form of “angelism,” in the sense that Hermes is called a messenger (angelos): a Byzantinism, but a creative one, suited to times when institutions are crumbling, and the Barbarians are at the gate of the West.
The reader will perhaps agree that such a view of history stimulates reflection. There is no doubt that it was Hermes who presided over those periods so perceptively singled out by Gilbert Durand. But at the same time, one feels the ambiguity of the very notion of “myth” as applied to a mythological and literary character, whether it is Prometheus or Hermes, Faust or Don Juan. This tracing of Hermes through history, trying to single out the cultural traits which he anonymously inspired, or the signifiers of certain constants of the imagination, comes down in practice to a summary history of esotericism itself—not that the pertinence of that is in question here. This is esotericism as understood from a perspective broad enough to include the Philosophy of Nature, in the Romantic sense, and the synthesizing eclecticism of Pico or Ficino, as well as traditional theosophy and alchemy. The enterprise is a perfectly legitimate one, in so far as esotericism, thus encompassed, is altogether under the sign of Hermes, and considering that this quicksilver god transcends its boundaries (Durand also speaks of the seafaring and commerce of the sixteenth century). But in the process, one runs the risk of a certain number of images disappearing from the canvas, some of them cherished ones, simply because they do not fit the three signalling traits that Durand proposes. It was not “specific” of Hermes to disguise himself as a bishopi to be the founder of Germanyi or to double as god (Mercury) and mortal (the Trismegistus of the euhemerists). The two methods are not exclusive: differing in methodology, they complement and enrich one another. One should, and can, discover the name of Hermes-Mercury through every epoch, while at the same time searching for his active presence in places where his name and explicit attributes are wanting.
Court de Gébelin, on the basis of a Celtic etymology, suggested that one read in “Mercury” the words “sign” (mere) and “man” (cur). Thus he would be the signbearer, the marker, the lighter of beaconsi the one who helps us interpret history and our own lives by giving us symbolic landmarks. His signs are never abstract or rigidi their mediating function reflects the nature of medicurrius or medius currens (as Saint Augustine and Servius said)—of that which “runs between,” or “in the middle.” “Ever a transitional figure,” writes William G. Doty, “Hermes divinizes transition. He calls eternally into question any simplistic gendering, any reductionist separation between this world and another, any other. Hermetically one opens out endlessly, never losing down nor attaining the point of stasis, but always evincing anticipations of futures all the stories of the past have only begun to intimate.” These paths and ways, unknown to vagabonds and ideologues, knit together the opposites in ever novel configurations. And if, on the way, Hermes sometimes steals the substance of what his rod touches, it is only to regenerate it through circulation. Thanks to him, the paradoxical Chariot of the Seventh Arcanum of the Tarot can get under way.
Select Bibliography for Chapter 1
Actes del Colloqui Internacional {1985) sabre els valors heuristics de la Figura mÍtica d'Hermes. Collected work edited by Alain Verjat, in the series MYӨ0Σ of the Grup de Recerca sobre l'Imaginari i Mitocritica (Barcelona: Universitat de Bercelona, Facultat de Filologia, 1986). Contents: Permanences et dérivations du mythe de Mercure (Gilbert Durand); Hermes: entre la mítica y la mística (Andres Irtiz-Oses); Hermes, Theuth i Palamedes protoi heuretai (Josep Antoni Clua); Hermes i la topografia mítica (a pròpoit d'un versos d'Horaci i Virgili) (Josep Closa); Une lecture hermétique des Mémoires d'Hadrien de Marguerite Yourcemnar (Angeles Caamaño); Lecture hermetique des Memoires d'Hadrien de M. Yourcenar (Rosa Castanyer); Lectures herméneutique de Giono (Alicia Piquer); Hermés va à l'école (Margarida Cambra); Hermes en el laberint d’ Ariadna (Isabel Pijoan); Lecture de Moravagine de Blaise Cendrars (Marie-France Borot); L'Hèrmes de Graal (Paul-Georges Sansonetti); Cuando Hermes es otro (Javier del Prado); Hermès et le poète (Alain Verjat); Valeurs inquiétantes de la figure de l'étranger (Ana Gonzalez); Rêverie arc-en-ciel sur une hermétique féministe (Didier Coste); L;Echarpe d'Iris (Simone Vierne); Hermèes au cinema: Notorius d'A. Hitchcock mythocritiqué (Joan Lorente); Taula rodona: L'Imaginaire du temps présent (G. Durand, S. Vierne, P.-G. Sansonetti).
Françoise Bonardel, L'Hermetisme (Paris: P.U.F., 1985; collection “Que Sais-je?”).
Barbara Bowen, “Mercury at the Crossroads in Renaissance Emblems,” in Journal of the Warburg and Courtald Institutes 48 (1985), pp.222-229.
Douglas Brooks-Davies, The Mercurian Monarch: Magical Politics from Spenser to Pope (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1983).
William G. Doty, Myths of Masculinity (New York: Crossroad, 1993).
Gilbert Durand, Science de l'Homme et Tradition (“Le nouvel Esprit anthropologique”) (Paris: Berg International, 1980; collection “L'Isle Verte”; 1st ed., Paris: Sirac, 1975).
____, Figures mythiques et Visages de l'Oeuvre (Paris: Berg International, 1979; collection “L'Isle Verte”).
____, “Permanence et derivations du mythe de Mercure,” in Actes del Colloqui internacional (1985)… [see above], pp.5-27.
Antoine Faivre, Accès del'ésotérisme occidental (Paris: Gallimard, 1986; collection “Bibliothèque des Sciences Humaines”). English translation: Access to Western Esotericism (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994).
André-Jean Festugière, La Révélation d'Hermès Trismégiste (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1981, 4 vols.; 1st ed., 1949-1954).
Brian Juden, Traditions orphiques et tendances mystiques dans le Romantisme français (1800-1855) (Paris: Klincksieck, 1971).
Carl Gustav Jung, “The Spirit Mercurius,” in Alchemical Studies (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967). The passage quoted is paragraph 284.
Lawrence Kahn, Hermès passe, ou les ambiguïtés de la communication (Paris: Maspero, 1978)
Karl Kerényi, Hermes Guide of Souls (The Mythologem of the Masculine Source of Life), trans. Murray Stein (Zurich: Spring Publications, 1976); 1st ed. Hermes der Seelenfihrer; Albae Vigiliae I (Zurich: Rhein Verlag, 1944).
Rafael Lopez-Pedraza, Hermes and his Children (Dallas: Spring Publications, 1977).
Pierre Lory, “Hermès/Idris: Prophète et Sage dans la tradition islamiq:e,” in Présence d'Hermès Trismégiste [see below], pp. l00-109.
Mercure à la Renaissance. Collective work presented by M. M. de La Garanderie. Proceedings of the Conference of Lille, 1984. (Paris: H. Champion, 1988). Contents: Mercure dans la mythographie de la Renaissance (Guy Demerson); Hermes theologien et philosophe (Jean Francois Maillard); Le nom de Mercure, signe du discours humaniste (Gilbert Durand); Mercure dans la tradition ficinienne (Cesare Vasoli); Diversite des fontions de Mercure: 1'example de Pontanus (Ludwig Schrader); L'emblématisation de Mercure à la Renaissance (Martine Vasselin); ‘La parole est pennigère': Sur un texte de Geoffroy Tory (Claud-Gilbert Dubois); La mythologie antique dans 1'oeuvre de Bonaventure De Périers (Wolfgang Boerner); Mercure alchimiste dans la tradition mytho-hermétique (Jean-Fran÷oise Maillard); Mercure et les astronomes…à la Renaissance (Isabelle Pantin); Un Mercure baroque? Le Mercure de Justice de Louis Dorléans (Daniel Ménager).
Présence d'Hermès Trismégiste, an anthology edited by Antoine Faivre (Paris: Albin Michel, collection “Cahiers de l'Hermétisme,” 1988).
Ludwig Schrader, Panurge und Hermes. Zum Ursprung eines Charakters bei Rabelais (Bonn: Romanisches Seminar der Universität Bonn, 1958).
Jean Seznec, La Survivance des Dieux antiques (Paris: Flammarion, 1980; collection “Idées et Recherches”); revised and corrected from The Survival of the Pagan Gods (London, 1940).
Mirko Sladek, Fragmente der hermetischen Naturphilosophie in der Naturphilosophie der Neuzeit (Bern: Peter Lang, Publications universitaires européennes, 1984). French version: L ‘Etoile d'Hermès: Fragments de Philosophie Hermétique (Paris: Albin Michel, series “Bibliothèque de l'Hermétisme,” 1993).
Ernst Lee Tuveson, The Avatars of Thrice-Great Hermes: An Approach to Romanticism (Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press, 1982).
Edgar Wind, Pagan Mysteries in the Renaissance (London, 1958. Revised and corrected edition, London: Peregrine Books, 1967).
Frances A. Yates, Giordano Bruno and the Hermetic Tradition (London: Routledge &. Kegan Paul, 1964).
* The use of “Hermetism” prevails now for designating the Alexandrian Hermetic texts (the Hermetica), as well as the works in their wake until the present time, while “Hermeticism” serves to designate much more generally a variety of esoteric “sciences,” like alchemy. “Hermeticist” refers to both notions, particular and general (here, above, it connotes the general one); the context alone indicates which one is meant. In the particular narrow sense, “Hermetist” is sometimes used.