Rudolf had been always proud and stiff when dealing with people, and after his terrible crisis, lasting nearly two years (1598—1600), he increasingly withdrew from public view, immuring himself at Hrad
any Castle except when he periodically fled outbreaks of the plague. He was a strangely changed man, and his Hapsburg brothers, foreign ambassadors, and his councillors seriously discussed whether he might be possessed by evil spirits or by the devil himself; when he was told that the Infanta Isabella of Spain (whom he had selected to become his wife), after more than twenty years of frustrating negotiations, had decided to marry one of his brothers, he exploded in a tantrum of lèse-majesté, and in desperate fits turned against himself and others. He was said to have tried to commit suicide with curtain cords or splinters of glass, and in a mad moment he chased from the court both Wolf Rumpf and Paulus Sixt of Troutson, both of them long his loyal chief administrators. Access to him and correspondence was controlled for many years by a motley gang of butlers and lackeys, including the Calvinist Hieronymus Makofský; the infamous Philipp Lang, who fell from grace in 1608 and was interrogated under torture
and tried on criminal charges; and later a minor painter named Daniel Fröschel.
In his time of rage and self-laceration, Rudolf was fortunate to enjoy the support of his confessor, Johannes Pistorius, who may have had particular sympathies for Rudolf’s search for ultimate spirituality beyond all historical religions, for Pistorius himself had a rich history of conversions—from Luther to Calvin and then to the Holy Church—and it was Pistorius who calmed the fears of the Vatican, telling Rome that Rudolf was not obsessed but laboring under the burdens of a heavy melancholia; as Rudolf’s master psychiatrist, he turned Rudolf’s self-centered mind back to the arts and to his dazzling collections. Another close friend of Rudolf during these doleful years was Heinrich Julius, duke of Braunschweig, whom the emperor looked on almost as a son. The duke came to Prague on a diplomatic mission and, having amassed what was to become the largest library in Europe and being interested in rare books, the arts, and the occult (at home, he sternly persecuted women accused of witchery), stayed near Rudolf, settled in a home not far from Hrad
any, and ministered to him both politically and diplomatically, even when it became clear that nobody could prevent Rudolf from destroying himself. I wonder whether many Prague literati knew that the duke was a playwright of note, composing plays in both Latin and German, and was the first to invite to his court English comedians to perform Shakespeare in Germany. The earliest German audiences of Shakespeare at least enjoyed the colorful melodrama, even if much of the language escaped their understanding.
In his disturbed mind, Rudolf came to care more about his extensive collections than about people; recent scholarship has shown that these collections were not merely a hodgepodge of curiosities but also expressions of a philosophical idea about the universe in which all things and corresponding human affairs had their proper place. The first inventory, as early as 1611, suggested that Rudolf’s mind, mortally tired of the chaotic world, found refuge in this private cosmos of precious objects, neatly ordered in categories of
naturalia, artificialia,
and
scientifica.
Rudolf’s grandfather, father, and uncle had had collections of precious paintings and objets d’art that represented their dignity and power, but Rudolf went much further, and it became impossible to separate his delight from outright obsession. There was a strongly conservative strain in his taste. He much admired Albrecht Dürer, as had his forebear Maximilian. Dürer’s great painting “Celebration of the Rosary,” or “Rosenkranzfest,” had to be carried from a Venice church to Prague by four strong men traveling
on foot over the Alps to make sure that the canvas was held in an upright position untouched by the snow; and Rudolf fully shared in the fashionable aristocratic appreciation of Titian, the older Brueghel, Parmigianino, Hieronymus Bosch, and Caravaggio, relentlessly using state funds to buy the paintings of these masters for his private collections. To begin with, the paintings filled seven halls at Hrad
any, but he wanted more and other
artificialia,
and his agents traveled all over Europe and the Near East to discover and buy for him (making considerable commissions).
Apart from paintings, sculptures, and precious stones, Rudolf particularly collected clocks,
perpetua mobile
, rare books, ancient manuscripts, ancient coins, exquisite plants cultivated in botanical gardens, and exotic animals kept in a menagerie close to the castle. He also amassed most unusual bric-a-brac, including P
emysl’s peasant cap, two iron nails from Noah’s Ark, a jaw of one of the sirens from Homer’s
Odyssey
, the horn of a unicorn, and wondrous figures formed by mandrake roots. A few thieving servants were caught red-handed when their master was ill, but the great plundering began a few years after his demise when Bohemian rebels sold his jewels to Nuremberg merchants in order to finance their armed revolt against Vienna. During the Thirty Years’ War, both Catholics and Protestants were fairly equal in looting without shame. After the Battle of the White Mountain, Maximilian of Bavaria left Prague with 1,500 wagons of precious trophies—his contribution to Munich’s famous art collections—and when the Saxons came to Prague for a few weeks in 1631, they carried fifty wagons back to Dresden. For a few days before the Westphalian peace treaties were signed in 1648, the Swedish chancellor gave secret orders to an army group quickly to occupy Hrad
any Castle and to confiscate what remained of the imperial collections; Queen Christina duly received an itemized inventory of the loot, dated August 31, 1648. Next came Frederick the Great’s Prussians in 1757 and, ultimately, Emperor Joseph II, the enlightened philosopher on the Hapsburg throne, who wanted to transform Hrad
any into a useful artillery barracks, and appointed a commission to evaluate and sell what was left. Two centuries after Rudolf’s death, Prague’s junk shops were still full of the lesser stuff.
Rudolf’s collections were administered for more than thirty years by the Stradas—Jacopo, the father, and Ottavio, the son. The Stradas probably came from the Mantuan gentry; Jacopo studied the ancients at the University of Pavia and early discovered the highly profitable market for Italian art and artifacts north of the Alps, where princes, emperors, and early capitalists wanted to establish representative collections; he was the Bernard Berenson of the Renaissance. Being an expert on numismatics,
ancient sculpture, and architecture, he first served the Fuggers at Augsburg, among the earliest financiers of the modern world, and then by way of good connections found his way to the Vienna court, where he was employed as architectural adviser and “court antiquary” (appointed in 1556) to Maximilian II. He wrote imposing books on numismatics, expanded scholarly knowledge of Roman history, and was among those few Italian professionals at the Vienna court whom Rudolf continued to employ. By 1577, Jacopo had settled in Prague together with his German wife, Ottilie Schenk von Rossberg (of a Frankish family of robber barons, we are told), and was asked by Rudolf to consolidate and supervise the collections; when he died in 1588, his second son, Ottavio, who had published impressive collections of symbols and emblems, took on his father’s job and, by 1600, shared his duties with an Italian colleague, Daniel Miseroni, in charge of precious stones and jewels. Later he relinquished the job altogether, went on to become a highly respected courtier, and loaned money, at steep interest, to proper people high in the imperial hierarchy.
A Venetian competitor accused Jacopo Strada of “unbearable arrogance,” and his portrait painted by old Titian shows a well-dressed social climber with all the appurtenances of his courtly station. In the revealing gestures of Jacopo’s hands, offering a little silver statue of Venus to a noble customer, Titian may have suggested something about his life. It might have been mere rumor that Jacopo offered Rudolf the favors of his wife, Ottilie, but it is difficult to believe that he did not know what he was doing when he invited the emperor to his luxurious quarters and presented to him his young daughter Catharina—charming, well educated in Vienna, intelligent—on a silver platter, at least if we accept the assumptions of older research (D. J. Jansen has more recently suggested that it was, rather, Jacopo’s illegitimate daughter Anna Maria who was introduced to the emperor). Rudolf was well known for his sexual appetites, to say the least, and for quickly changing desires. “He prefers free love to marriage,” an unfriendly novelist remarked when speaking of his “troops of concubines” and “virgins who greatly valued their chance to be deprived of that title.” The father may have been surprised by Catharina’s (or Anna Maria’s) loyalty to the aging emperor, who had other favorites, but she was probably the mother of his three sons and three daughters—he legitimized them as far as was legally possible, but they were an unhappy group nevertheless. Carolina d‘Austria, the oldest daughter, managed to make a respectable marriage, but her two sisters disappeared into nunneries in Vienna and Madrid; of the younger sons, one died early and another perished in the wars. Julius Caesar, Don Juan
d’Austria, the oldest, who was clinically mad (the heritage of his Spanish great-grandmother), was exiled to Krumlov Castle in southern Bohemia, where he killed a young girl named Maruška, disfiguring her corpse with his hunting knife. He lives on in the best of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Prague stories, about the first stirrings of desire of a young Czech girl from the provinces. In her feverish dreams she fears Don Juan d’Austria, who, like a wild animal, follows her up the stairs of a high castle tower, and, when he tears her blue silk dress to pieces; she jumps to her death from high up. Catharina (or Anna Maria) Strada was not untouched by scandal in her own life (evil tongues accused her of conspiring with a butler to steal from the collections), and it is truly deplorable that, whoever she really was, she did not find a poet or a historian to speak of her thirty years of loyalty, suffering, and silence.