In 1745, London welcomed one of history’s most captivating visitors: a man believed to be over two millennia old.
Opinions varied about him; some speculated he was aligned with the Devil, while others revered him as a supreme Himalayan yogi. What we can gather from historical documentation is that Count St Germain allegedly graced Europe from 1651 until 1896, a span of 245 years.
Historians struggled to rationalize the astonishing longevity of this individual, leading them either to exclude him from historical records or to suggest multiple impostors over different eras were the source of the legend. Yet, when considering the facts concerning the count as documented, they reveal a perplexing portrait of an extraordinary man. Thus, the narrative unfolds. When English soldiers returned from the Holy Land after the disastrous conclusion of the third Crusade in the twelfth century, they regaled their compatriots with marvelous tales of the enigmatic East.
A particular tale frequently recounted by the crusaders concerned a figure referred to in the East as the Wandering Jew. The legend went as follows: In the Judgment Hall of Pontius Pilate, there was a Jewish doorkeeper named Cartaphilus, who had been present at the trial of Jesus of Nazareth. As Christ bore his cross through the streets towards Calvary, he paused momentarily to rest, at which point Cartaphilus emerged from the throng and urged Jesus to hasten.
Jesus gazed at Cartaphilus and declared, “I will go now, but thou shall wait until I return.”
The Roman soldiers escorting Christ forcibly pushed Cartaphilus back into the crowd, allowing Jesus to proceed on his path.
What did Jesus mean? pondered Cartaphilus, and years later, the 
doorkeeper slowly came to grasp that as his friends succumbed to old age, he remained unchanged. Cartaphilus recalled Christ’s words and trembled. He would roam the Earth unaging until the Second Coming of Christ.
Religious authorities of the era dismissed this narrative as an apocryphal tale, and the Wandering Jew legend was later interpreted by Christians as an allegory representing the wandering and suffering of the Jewish people due to their rejection of Jesus as the awaited Messiah. Over time, the story mingled with European folklore, joining the other mythical narratives of the Middle Ages.
Later, during the 13th century, travelers returning to England from the continent shared accounts of encountering a peculiar blasphemer who claimed to have witnessed Christ’s time on Earth. These intriguing reports gained credence in 1228 when an Armenian archbishop visited St. Albans and astonished his listeners with tales of dining with a remarkable man who admitted to being Cartaphilus, the one who dared to mock Christ.
Reports of encounters with Cartaphilus continued through the centuries, with each sighting moving closer to Western Europe. Then, in 1740, a mysterious figure shrouded in black appeared in Paris.
The flamboyantly dressed, fashion-conscious Parisians were quick to notice the eerie newcomer, captivated by the extravagant array of diamond rings adorning each of his fingers. The man in black also boasted diamond-studded shoe buckles, a display of prosperity that unmistakably hinted at aristocracy, yet none in Paris could pinpoint his identity. His strikingly handsome features seemed to hint at a Jewish lineage, causing some of the superstitious locals to speculate…believed he was Cartaphilus, the Wandering Jew.
Later identified as the Count of St. Germain, the mysterious figure was soon embraced by the nobility within the chic circles of Parisian society.
Among a distinguished group of aristocrats, scientists, philosophers, writers, and freemasons, the Count showcased a remarkable array of talents. He excelled as a pianist and was a gifted singer and violinist. Additionally, he was a polyglot, fluent in Spanish, Greek, Italian, Russian, Portuguese, Chinese, Arabic, Sanskrit, English, and, of course, French. The Count of St. Germain was not just an entertainer; he also had skills as an artist, an historian, and a brilliant alchemist. He claimed extensive travels, sharing stories of his experiences at the Shah of Persia’s court, where he had acquired the secret art of enhancing and enlarging gemstones. Furthermore, the Count alluded to learning other mystical knowledge related to the occult.
What truly astonished his captivated audience, however, was his implication of being over a millennium old. This revelation came about during a conversation on religious themes one evening. When asked to express his thoughts on the matter, he evocatively portrayed Christ as if they had been acquaintances and recounted the miraculous transformation of water into wine at the marriage feast of Cana like a casual party trick. Following this strange narrative, the Count became emotional, and in a voice that was unusually somber and shaky, he remarked, “I had always known that Christ would meet a bad end.”
Additionally, the Count of St. Germain spoke of notable historical figures such as Cleopatra and Henry VIII as if he had personal relationships with them. Whenever skeptical historians attempted to challenge him with obscure historical facts, the Count consistently responded with unexpected accuracy, leaving them perplexed.
The Count’s assertion about his unusual age gained further credence when the elderly Countess von Georgy encountered him. She instantly recognized the enigmatic nobleman as someone she had met five decades earlier in Venice during her time as the ambassadress. Astonished at how the Count appeared to be the same age—roughly forty-five—she expressed confusion and inquired if his father had been in Venice at that time. The Count negated this, revealing it was he who had been there, surprising the Countess by reminiscing about her youthful beauty and how he had played her favorite piece on the violin. In disbelief, she exclaimed, “Why, you must be almost one hundred years old.”
“That is not impossible.” he responded.
“You are a most extraordinary man!” declared the Countess, “A devil!”
The comparison to a devil struck a nerve with the Count; raising his voice, he replied, “For pity’s sake! No such names!”
He turned away from the astonished Countess and left the room in a huff.
Intrigued by the tales surrounding the enigmatic Count St. Germain, King Louis XV of France sought him out and extended an invitation to the royal court. The Count accepted, successfully charming the king, his courtiers, and Madame de Pompadour, the king’s mistress.
At the grand banquets hosted in the court, the Count would abstain from both food and wine, occasionally opting for mineral water instead. Moreover, whenever he chose to dine, it was always done privately, and precisely what he consumed remained a mystery, even to the observing courtiers.claimed to be a vegetarian.
Count St Germain made his way to London in 1743, finding lodging at a house on St Martin’s Street. He spent two years in the city, during which he established a laboratory and conducted enigmatic experiments believed to be alchemical in nature. While his work was tightly kept under wraps, it reportedly included efforts to create artificial diamonds. Throughout his time in London, Count St Germain regularly frequented the Kit-Kat club, interacting with notable members of the nobility. This esteemed club witnessed the Count astonishing attendees by discussing two inventions he was developing: the steam train and the steamboat. This was two decades before James Watt created his first prototype of the steam engine, and 84 years prior to George Stephenson’s Rocket steam train in 1829.
In 1745, amidst the Jacobite Rebellion in Britain, Count St Germain was apprehended at a coffee house located in Paternoster Row on charges of espionage. The incident was noted by Horace Walpole, son of Sir Robert Walpole—Britain’s first Prime Minister—in a correspondence with his long-time correspondent, Sir Horace Mann. Walpole remarked:
«The other day they seized an odd man who goes by the name of the Count St Germain. He has been here these two years, and will not tell who he is or whence, but professes that he does not go by his right name. He sings and plays on the violin wonderfully, is mad and not very sensible.»
During a period when English xenophobia surged due to the presence of many foreigners, particularly Frenchmen sympathetic to the Jacobite cause, one would have expected the Count to be imprisoned. Remarkably, however, he was released. The reasons behind this remain enigmatic. A strange report circulating at the time suggested that the Count employed hypnotic suggestion to convince his captors of his innocence. This possibility is supported by Anton Mesmer’s comments, who claimed years earlier that the Count had a ‘vast understanding of the workings of the human mind’ and had directly taught him hypnosis.
Sir Robert Clive encountered the Count in India in 1756, and it was noted in 1760 that King Louis XV dispatched Monsieur St Germain to The Hague to assist in negotiating a peace treaty between Prussia and Austria. The following year, the Count participated in the deposition of Peter III of Russia, playing an influential role in the ascent of Catherine the Great to the throne.
In 1769, Count St Germain established a mass-production factory in Venice where he created a synthetic silk. During this time, he also crafted several exquisite sculptures following the tradition of classical Greek art. The subsequent year saw him once again meddling in international politics; this time, he donned the uniform of a Russian General alongside Prince Alexei Orloff in Leghorn!
The unexpected appearance of the enigmatic figure in Paris occurred after the death of Louis XV in 1774. He cautioned King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette about the looming peril of the French Revolution, which he labeled a ‘gigantic conspiracy’ poised to destabilize the existing order. Sadly, the warning went ignored, and in her diary’s final entries, Marie Antoinette expressed regret for not heeding the Count’s advice.
In February 1784, Prince Charles of Hesse-Cassel from Germany declared that the Count had passed away and would be interred at the local church in Eckenforde. The funeral service drew a crowd of prominent occultists, including Count Cagliostro, Anton Mesmer, and philosopher Louis St Martin. As the coffin was lowered into the grave, many mourners shed tears.It was at a moment that appeared so implausible; the demise of the immortal count. However, this was far from the conclusion of the tale.
One year later, in 1785, a congress of Freemasons took place in Paris. Among the Rosicrucians, Kabbalists, and Illuminati was the allegedly deceased Count St Germain.
Thirty-six years subsequent to his funeral, numerous individuals spotted the Count in Paris, including the diarist Mademoiselle d’Adhemar and the educator Madame de Genlis. Both women reported that the Count still appeared to be a forty-five-year-old.
In 1870, Emperor Napoleon III became quite intrigued by the accounts of ‘The Undying Count’ and commanded the establishment of a special commission at the Hotel de Ville to investigate the noble figure. Yet, the commission’s findings never reached a definitive conclusion, as in 1871 an enigmatic fire of unknown cause ravaged the Hotel de Ville, obliterating all documents associated with the self-styled count.
The Count St Germain made a brief appearance in Milan in 1877 during a meeting of the Grand Lodge of Freemasons.
In 1896, the theosophist Annie Besant claimed to have encountered the Count, while around the same period, Russian theosophist Madame Blavatsky asserted that the Count had been in communication with her, declaring that he belonged to a race of immortals residing in a subterranean land named Shambhala, situated north of the Himalayas. In 1897, French singer Emma Calve also asserted that the Count St Germain had visited her, describing him as a ‘great chiromancer’ who had revealed numerous truths to her.
The narrative of the immortal count waned in popularity at the outset of the Twentieth century – only to resurface in August 1914, during the early days of World War One. Two Bavarian soldiers apprehended a Jewish-looking Frenchman in Alsace. Throughout an all-night interrogation, the prisoner obstinately refused to disclose his name. Then, in the early morning hours, the unidentified Frenchman grew increasingly irritable, ranting about the war’s futility. He told his captors, “Throw down your guns! The war will conclude in 1918 with defeat for the German nation and her allies!”
One of the soldiers, Andreas Rill, laughed at the prisoner’s remarks. He perceived the man as merely expressing the hopes of every Frenchman, yet he found himself intrigued by the prisoner’s other prophecies…
“Everyone will be a millionaire after the war! There will be so much money in circulation, people will toss it from windows and no one will bother to retrieve it. You’ll need to carry it around in wheelbarrows to purchase a loaf!” the Frenchman forecasted. Was he alluding to the rampant inflation of post-WWI Germany?
The soldiers derided the prediction. They allowed the prophet to continue his rants, where he provided them with further lessons in future history: “After the confetti money will come the Antichrist. A tyrant hailing from the lower classes who will don an ancient symbol. He will lead Germany into another global conflict in 1939, but will be vanquished six years later after committing unspeakable atrocities.”
Soon after, the Frenchman began to lose coherence, singing and then sobbing. Believing him to be mad, the soldiers chose to set him free, and he faded back into obscurity. His identity remains a mystery. Could he have been the Count St Germain?
In contemporary times, most historians view Count St Germain as merely a silver-tongued charlatan. Yet, numerous questions linger unanswered. What was the origin of the Count’s wealth? How can his longevity be explained? Moreover, where did he come from? If he had indeed been an impostor, someone would have surely recognized him.
The only remaining manuscript authored by the Count, titled “La Tres Sainte Trinosophie”, is housed in the library at Troyes, France. To this day, it has resisted all attempts at full decipherment, but one translated section of the text reads:
“We moved through space at a speed that can only be compared with nothing but itself. Within a fraction of a second, the plains below us were out of sight and the Earth had become a faint nebula.”
What might this indicate? Is it possible that Count St Germain was some type of traveler navigating the realms of space and time? A renegade timelord from the future, intent on meddling with history? If that were the case, he may very well have conversed with Christ and the kings of days long past.
by David Livingstone
