Rocket Cats

The curious case of the "rocket cats"-- drawings of cats and birds with what look like jet packs strapped to their backs, recently discovered in a digitized sixteenth-century manuscript -- is perhaps not so curious. According to Mitch Fraas, a scholar at the University of Pennsylvania, the "jet packs" were actually sacks of flammable material intended to turn the animals into incendiary devices. Released into a besieged city, the animals would wreak havoc by spreading the flames. Fraas claims the idea circulated widely in military manuals of the time and illustrations of these attack animals appear in numerous sixteenth and seventeenth-century manuscripts. More here.

Excerpt: The Nose of a King

From my work-in-progress:

We had almost reached the end of the gallery when the king pulled to a stop so suddenly I almost bumped into him. “And here we are. Mademoiselle, your elephant.”

I followed the sweep of his arm. Above my head in the second to the last bay loomed a most fantastical creature. It towered over the human figures in the painting, filling almost half the frame with its bulk. Its round body perched on four straight legs, thick as marble columns. From its head, which seemed too small for a creature of that size, drooped a long, rope-like nose that brushed the ground—the trunk, my father used to call it in his fantastical stories. Two sharp horns, longer than a man’s arm, pierced the face at the base of this trunk; large ears, limp as linen sheets, hung on either side of the face like a wimple. The one visible eye, a mere slit in the gray-white skin, seemed fixed on some inner vista, as if the creature, accustomed to the astounded gazes of onlookers, tolerated the assault with a detachment born of long experience. A gold-tooled caparison, decorated with fleurs-de-lis and a monogrammed “F”, covered the elephant’s back; strapped to its broad brow, a medal portraying the likeness of a salamander sprouted three plumes that curled about the giant’s head like a crown. Symbols representing the elements lay at the creature’s feet: the world subject to its imposing authority.

“The elephant, figure of wisdom and royalty. I’d like to believe the likeness rests in the sagacity of our gazes, but I suspect it has more to do with the length of our noses.” The king formed his thumb and forefinger into an L and fit it to the center of his face.

“Magnificent,” I breathed, hardly believing such an animal existed.

The king burst out laughing. “My nose or the elephant? Your candor refreshes like a cooling draught, mademoiselle.” The pealing of the chapel bell interrupted him, and he frowned as he counted the hour. “I’d intended to watch you work, but I’ve spent far too much time talking as it is. I have greatly enjoyed your company, and must chide your father for hiding you away.”

I dropped a low curtsey, my tongue tripping over itself as I attempted to thank him for the singular favor of this visit.

“Only the first of many,” he promised, extending a hand to help me rise, “provided you tame the elephant. Leave the sketch on the table on your way out.” With a wink, he turned and headed for the far door. The splendor of the gallery seemed to fade with each of his steps as he passed back through it.

(Copyright 2010)

[Photograph: Rosso Fiorentino, The Elephant (1536-39). Fresco and stucco. Fontainebleau: Galerie François I. A short description of the painting may be read at the château's website.]

Elephants, Lions and Leopards

We took the kids to the zoo over Christmas break, and as I watched the poor elephant shiver in the fitful January sunshine, I got to thinking how amazing--but certainly not unheard of--it must have been to see such exotic beasts in the sixteenth century. 

With explorers returning from New World explorations and diplomatic and trade channels open to the Middle East and beyond, exotic animals found new homes in Europe. In 1514, King Manuel of Spain gave Pope Leo X a white elephant named Hanno; the beloved animal lived for two years at the papal court and died with the pope at his side. François himself gathered quite a menagerie at the chateau d' Amboise and later at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. According to Eric Baratay and Elisabeth Hardouin-Fugier in their fascinating book Zoo: A History of Zoological Gardens in the West (2002), François received "a convoy of beasts and birds on behalf of the 'roy' of Tunis in 1532; lions and tigers brought by the Turkish embassy in 1534; a sheep from the Indies, proferred by a Norman lord in 1538; and two seals sent by Mary of Hungary, Regent of the Netherlands, in 1539" (page 22). 

Many of the animals traveled with the court on its perambulations about the kingdom, not without much aggravation for their handlers. In August 1537, the troublesome lion had to be left behind at an inn, along with a payment of 67 livres to compensate the innkeeper for the nasty bite on his leg (R. Knecht, Renaissance Warrior and Patron 132).

François, like many nobles of the time, kept a pet monkey that accompanied him to meetings and meals. The monkey sits on the table at the king's elbow in an anonymous miniature showing the king listening to a scholar reading (featured on the cover of Knecht's book). François is also is purported to have had, on occasion, the lion or a snow leopard lie at the foot of his bed. Quite a way to impress the ladies!

Elephants and other exotic animals feature prominently in Dorothy Dunnett's novel Queen's Play, set at Henri II's court. For further anecdotes about exotic animals in Renaissance Europe, read this recent post at The Raucous Royals.