Space, Place and Motion: Locating Confraternities in the Late Medieval and Early Modern City 9004292977, 9789004292970

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Space, Place, and Motion

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_001

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Art and Material Culture in Medieval and Renaissance Europe Edited by Sarah Blick Laura D. Gelfand

VOLUME 8

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/amce



Space, Place, and Motion Locating Confraternities in the Late Medieval and Early Modern City Edited by

Diana Bullen Presciutti

LEIDEN | BOSTON

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Cover illustration: St. John the Evangelist and the Confratelli of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista, 1349, façade relief, Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista, Venice. PHOTO: IVANO PRESCIUTTI. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Presciutti, Diana Bullen, editor. Title: Space, place, and motion : locating confraternities in the late medieval and early modern city / edited by Diana Bullen Presciutti. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2017. | Series: Art and material culture in medieval and Renaissance Europe, ISSN 2212-4187 ; VOLUME 8 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2016057023 (print) | LCCN 2017008637 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004292970 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9789004339521 (E-book) Subjects: LCSH: Confraternities--History. Classification: LCC BX808 .S63 2017 (print) | LCC BX808 (ebook) | DDC 267/.24209--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016057023

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 2212-4187 isbn 978-90-04-29297-0 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-33952-1 (e-book) Copyright 2017 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Contents

Contents Acknowledgements vii List of Figures viii List of Abbreviations xv Notes on Contributors xvi Introduction: Confraternal Spaces 1 Diana Bullen Presciutti

Part 1 Spaces of Piety and Charity 1 2 3 4 5

Table Guilds and Urban Space: Charitable, Devotional, and Ritual Practices in Late Medieval Tallinn 21 Anu Mänd Identifying Contextual Factors: Religious Confraternities in Norwich and Leiden, c. 1300–1550 47 Arie van Steensel From Isolation to Inclusion: Confraternities in Colonial Mexico City 68 Laura Dierksmeier Religious Confraternities and Spiritual Charity in Early Modern Aalst 88 Ellen Decraene Devotion and the Promotion of Public Morality: Confraternities and Sodalities in Early Modern Ireland 106 Cormac Begadon

Part 2 Spaces of Ritual and Theatre 6

On the Road to Emmaus: Tivoli’s “Inchinata” Procession and the Evolving Allegorical Landscape of the Late Medieval City 127 Rebekah Perry

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Chapter 1

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Discipline Transformed: The Processions of a Pavian Flagellant Confraternity, 1330–1460 155 Andrew Chen Embracing Peter and Paul: The Arciconfraternita della SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti and the Cappella della Separazione in Rome 178 Barbara Wisch Staging the Passion in the Ritual City: Stational Crosses and Confraternal Spectacle in Late Renaissance Milan 217 Pamela A.V. Stewart Carrying the Cross in Early Modern Venice 244 Meryl Bailey

Part 3 Spaces of Identity and Rivalry 11 12 13

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The Performance of Devotion: Ritual and Patronage at the Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso in Rome 273 Kira Maye Albinsky The Brotherhood of the “Trépassés”: Ruling the Artistic Life in Rouen during the Counter-Reformation 298 Caroline Blondeau-Morizot An Altarpiece, a Bookseller, and a Confraternity: Giovanbattista Mossi’s Flagellation of Christ and the Compagnia di San Giovanni Battista detta dello Scalzo, Florence 321 Douglas N. Dow Oratories of the Compagnie of Palermo: Sacred Spaces of Rivalry 344 Danielle Carrabino The Art of Salvation: Don Miguel Mañara and Seville’s Hermandad de la Santa Caridad 372 Ellen Alexandra Dooley

Bibliography 391 Index 442

Acknowledgements Acknowledgments

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Acknowledgements This book has its origins in a series of panels I organized under the aegis of the Society for Confraternity Studies at the 2014 Renaissance Society of America Annual Meeting in New York City. I would like to acknowledge all of the participants and the attendees of those sessions, as the research presented (and the lively discussions that followed) testified most persuasively to the continuing relevance and vibrancy of confraternity studies. I am very grateful to Brill series editors Sarah Blick and Laura Gelfand, the original instigators of this project, for their unflagging support and assistance throughout the process. I thank Erika Suffern for her excellent copyediting and Marcella Mulder and Pieter van Roon from Brill for handling my numerous queries with efficiency and patience. I would also like to acknowledge Nicholas Terpstra and Konrad Eisenbichler, both for their sage advice regarding this project and also for their tireless work in support of confraternity studies. Finally, the School of Philos­ophy and Art History at the University of Essex provided essential funding for the production of the book, for which I am most appreciative. On a personal note, I would like to thank all of the colleagues, friends, and family members who supported me, in various ways, throughout the trials and tribulations of editing a book for the first time: Ahmet Atay, Isabel and Halsey Bullen, Angela Ho, Michele Leiby, Kara Morrow, Timothy McCall, Olivia Navarro-Farr, Jimmy Noriega, Kirsten Olds, Terry and Tom Prendergast, Natasha Ruiz-Gómez, and Heather Vinson. As always, my biggest debt of gratitude is to my husband, Ivano.

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List of Figures

List Of Figures

List of Figures 0.1 0.2 1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.6 2.1 2.2 2.3 3.1 3.2 3.3 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5

Gentile Bellini, Procession in St. Mark’s Square, 1496. Tempera and oil on canvas. Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice 2 Gentile Bellini, Procession in St. Mark’s Square (detail), 1496. Tempera and oil on canvas. Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice 3 Plan of Tallinn in c. 1500 25 Great Guildhall, built in 1407–10 27 Statutes of the Table Guild from 1363; a transcript from 1457. Tallinn City Archives 30 Former hospital church of the Holy Spirit, fourteenth century 32 Ground plan of the church of the Holy Spirit 34 Token of a house-poor person from 1539. Lead, diameter 28 mm. Estonian History Museum 36 Table showing the number of occupational and religious associations recorded in late medieval Leiden and Norwich 50 Map of late medieval Norwich 54 Map of late medieval Leiden 55 Book of the Cofradía del Santo Angel de la Guarda, Puebla, Mexico, 1689 72 Account book of the Confraternity of Charity, Mexico City, 1538 79 Table of confraternity funds paid to release prisoners incarcerated for petty debt, Mexico City, 1538 80 Graph showing the evolution of relative share of the different types of expenditure (1680–1780) 100 Graph showing the evolution of yearly average sum of expenditures of the Holy Altar confraternity (in guilders) 101 Graph showing the evolution of yearly average sum of expenditures of the Holy Trinity confraternity (in guilders) 102 Graph showing the evolution of yearly average sum of expenditures of the St. Barbara confraternity (in guilders) 102 Graph showing the evolution of yearly average sum of expenditures of the Holy Rosary confraternity (in guilders) 103 Savior triptych, Cathedral of San Lorenzo, Tivoli 128 Dormition of the Virgin, bottom left wing of Savior triptych, Cathedral of San Lorenzo, Tivoli 128 Map of Tivoli’s historic center 129 Confraternity of the Savior carrying Savior triptych in Inchinata procession, Tivoli, 2009 129 “Acropolis” with round Roman temple (center), Tivoli 130

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6.6 Ritual stop on Ponte Gregoriano during Inchinata procession, Tivoli, 2016 130 6.7 Ritual stop at hospital of San Giovanni during Inchinata procession, Tivoli, 2011 132 6.8 Washing of Savior triptych at hospital of San Giovanni during Inchinata procession, Tivoli, 2013 132 6.9 Madonna delle Grazie, church of Santa Maria Maggiore, Tivoli 133 6.10 Bowing ritual between Savior triptych and Madonna delle Grazie at Santa Maria Maggiore at climax of Inchinata procession, Tivoli 133 6.11 Map of Tivoli’s historic center 143 6.12 Santi Buglioni, terracotta frieze of the Ospedale del Ceppo, Pistoia, with scene of rector Leonardo Buonafede washing feet of Christ depicted as a pilgrim, c. 1525 147 6.13 Female member of Confraternity of Santo Spirito in Saxia washing feet of a pauper, Liber regulae Sancti Spiritus, Archivio di Stato di Roma, ms. 9193, fol. 128r 149 6.14 Luigi Gaudenzi, pastel illustrating ‘bacio al dolore’ at hospital of San Giovanni during Inchinata procession, Tivoli, 1920s 151 7.1 Lorenzo Fasolo, Virgin of Mercy with Two Angels and the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo, 1490s(?). Panel, 75 × 150 cm. Palazzo Vescovile, Pavia 157 7.2 Processional path for the April procession of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo 162 7.3 Processional path for the May procession of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo 162 7.4 Processional path for the June procession of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo 163 7.5 Processional path for the July procession of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo 163 7.6 Processional path for the August procession of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo 164 7.7 Processional path for the September procession of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo 164 7.8 Jacobello di Bonomo (attr.), St. Augustine Enthroned with Two Augustinians, 1370s–1380s. Panel, 81 × 63 cm. Pinacoteca Malaspina, Pavia 167 7.9 Lorenzo Fasolo, Virgin of Mercy with Two Angels and the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo (detail), 1490s(?). Panel, 75 × 150 cm. Palazzo Vescovile, Pavia 171 7.10 Lombard illuminator, Virgin of Mercy, from a book of statutes for a Pavian flagellant confraternity, c. 1334–50. Pavia, Biblioteca Universitaria, MS Ticinesi 385, fol. 19v 175

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7.11 Lombard illuminator, initial P with Man of Sorrows and Kneeling Flagellant in bottom margin, from a book of statutes for a Pavian flagellant confraternity, c. 1334–50. Pavia, Biblioteca Universitaria, MS Ticinesi 385, fol. 10v 176 8.1 Giuseppe Primoli, Chapel of the SS. Crocifisso on Via Ostiense, flooded (March 1892). Rome, Fondazione Primoli, 8655/A 181 8.2 Giovani Maggi and Paul Maupin, Church, hospital, and oratory complex of SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti, detail of Map of Rome, 1625, woodcut 182 8.3 Pietro del Massaio, Roma (detail), from Ptolemy, Geography, 1472, pen and ink with wash, Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Urb. lat. 277, fol. 131r 188 8.4 Leonardo Bufalini, “CRVCIFIXVS,” detail of Map of Rome, Rome: Antonio Blado, 1551 (Antonio Trevisi, 1560) 189 8.5 Stefano Duperac (attr.), Le sette chiese di Roma, Rome: Antonio Lafreri, 1575, etching with engraving. London, British Museum 1874,0613.582 AN495206001 193 8.6 Casa No. CXXXVIII, Piante delle case della Ven. Archiconfraternita della SSma Trinità … Libro Secondo, 1680, fol. 200v, pen and ink with wash. ASR, OSTP, 459, fol. 200v 196 8.7 “Cappella nella strada for della Porta di s.to Paolo,” Piante Antico di Case e Siti, 1597, fol. 38r (detail), pen and ink with wash, ASR, OSTP, 461, fol. 38r 197 8.8 Stefano Duperac, Via Ostiensis, detail of Map of Rome, Rome: Antonio Lafreri, 1577, etching with engraving, with superimposed graphics by Barbara Wisch 197 8.9 Inscription, originally on the façade of the Cappella del SS. Crocifisso (Cappella della Separazione / Chapel of the Separation) on Via Ostiense, 1568, marble, 34 3/8 × 16 in., SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti, retro-sacristy 198 8.10 Egidio Fortini, Cappella di S. Paolo sulla Via Ostiense nell’ Aprile del 1869, pencil, pen, and black and brown ink, ASR, OSTP, 545, II. D. “Descrizione della Cappella del SS.mo Crocifisso posta sulla Via Ostiense fuori di Porta S. Paolo fatta nell’ Aprile del 1859” 199 8.11 Paliotto (detail), originally in the altar of the Cappella del SS. Crocifisso (Cappella della Separazione / Chapel of the Separation) on Via Ostiense, 1568, marble, 73 1/8 × 16 in., SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti, retro-sacristy 200 8.12 The Final Embrace of Sts. Peter and Paul, from the Cappella del SS. Crocifisso (Cappella della Separazione / Chapel of the Separation), marble, uncertain date, 24 5/8 in. wide × 25 in. high, Museo della Via Ostiense–Porta San Paolo 201 8.13 Cäcilie Brandt (designer) and August Kneisel (lithographer), Ansicht der Capelle von St. Peter und Paul auf dem Weg nach Ostia, from Friederike Brun, Römisches Leben (Leipzig: F.A. Brockhaus, 1833), vol. 2, frontispiece, lithograph 202

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8.14 Diagram of the painted decoration of the Cappella del SS. Crocifisso (Cappella della Separazione / Chapel of the Separation). Graphic design: Martine C. Barnaby 205 8.15 Giovanni Guerra, The Holy Trinity Surrounded by Angels with Instruments of the Passion Adored by Pilgrims and Confratelli of SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti with Filippo Neri, late 1590s, pen and brown ink with wash over traces of black chalk on paper, 14 3/16 × 9 13/16 in. 210 8.16 Title page of Statuti della Venerabile Archiconfraternita della Santissima Trinità de’ Pel[l]egrini, & Convalescenti, nuovamente riformati, e stampati (Rome: Per gli Heredi d’Antonio Blado Stampatori Camerali, 1578), ASR, OSTP, 521 212 8.17 Giovanni Battista Ricci da Novara, The Final Embrace of Peter and Paul, Cappella di San Pietro e San Paolo (or delle Colonne), Santa Maria in Traspontina, completed by 1619, fresco 214 8.18 Filippo Balbi, The Final Embrace of Peter and Paul, San Paolo fuori le Mura, north transept, 1857–60, fresco 214 8.19 Facsimile of The Final Embrace relief and inscription, 1975, Via Ostiense, 106 216 9.1 Il Fiammenghino (Gian Battista della Rovere), San Carlo Processes with the Santo Chiodo during the Plague, c. 1602, oil on canvas 220 9.2 S. Carlo Celebrates the Mass at a Temporary Altar during the Plague of 1576, 1610, woodcut. Frontispiece of the Relatione della festa fatta in Milano per la canonizatione di S.to Carlo Card. di S. Prassede et Arcivescvo di detta Citta, nell’Anno 1610. All’Illus.mo et Rever.mo Sig.re il sig. Card. di S. Eusebio. Milan: Pacifico Pontio and Gio. Battista Piccaglia, 1610 221 9.3 Alberto Ronco, San Carlo Blesses the Cross at Cordusio (Episodes from the Life of Carlo Borromeo), 1610, engraving 224 9.4 Stational cross of San Senatore, completed c. 1616. Sculpture of St. Helena by Giovanni Pietro Lasagna after a design by Il Cerano (Giovanni Battista Crespi). Corso Italia, Milan 225 9.5 Stational cross of San Martiniano (Verziere), 1604–73. Column by Giandomenico Richini, base after a design by Pellegrino Tibaldi (or Giovanni Battista Lonati), and the sculpture of Christ a copy after the original by Giuseppe and Giambattista Vismara. Largo Augusto, Milan 226 9.6 View of the columns of San Lorenzo from the south, showing the altar of San Venerio. Corso di Porta Ticinese, Milan 228 9.7 Giovanni d’Enrico, Chapel of the Agony in the Garden (detail of the figure of Christ), before 1604, polychrome wood sculpture, fresco, and other media. Sacro Monte di Varallo, Varallo-Sesia 231 9.8 Giovanni d’Enrico, Chapel of the Agony in the Garden (detail of the figure of the angel), before 1604, polychrome wood sculpture, fresco, and other media. Sacro Monte di Varallo, Varallo-Sesia 231

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9.9 Andrea Vaccario, Procession of the Confraternity of Santa Croce, detail of a broadsheet depicting the life and miracles of Carlo Borromeo, c. 1599–1620 (1610), engraving 235 9.10 Cesare Bassano, Mount Etna with the Theater and Pedestal Erected in the Piazza del Duomo di Milano (detail), 1630, etching after a drawing by Carlo Biffi 238 10.1 Anonymous, Crucifix with Confratelli, tempera and gold on vellum, c. 1567–80. ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 2, reg. Mariegola (1562–1756), c. 2v 245 10.2 Anonymous, Crucifix, painted wood with silver ex-voto plaques, approx. 135 cm tall, fifteenth century. Now in the Church of Santa Maria Assunta, Codroipo (UD), formerly in oratory of the Scuola di San Fantin, Venice 246 10.3 Detail of the wooden crucifix of the Scuola di San Fantin 249 10.4 Detail of the wooden crucifix of the Scuola di San Fantin 250 10.5 Alessandro Vittoria, The Crucifixion with the Virgin Mary, St. Jerome, and Kneeling Confratelli, relief, façade, Ateneo Veneto, 1580s 252 10.6 Alessandro Vittoria, Crucifix Altar with bronze statuettes of The Virgin Mary and St. John the Evangelist, 1580s, Cappella dei Morti, Basilica of Santi Giovanni e Paolo 254 10.7 Map with key sites in the Venetian execution ritual 260 10.8 Giovanni Boranga, Procession of the Scuola del Cristo to Bury a Drowned Man, oil on canvas, Venice, Museo Diocesano, 1700 266 10.9 Anonymous, The Virgin Mary and St. Jerome, tempera and gold on vellum, c. 1567–80. Miniature excised from ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 2, reg. Mariegola (1562–1756), c. 3r 268 11.1 Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome 274 11.2 Niccolò Circignani, Miracle of the True Cross, 1578–83, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome 283 11.3 Niccolò Circignani, Duel between Heraclius and Chosroes, 1578–83, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome 284 11.4 Niccolò Circignani, Vision of Heraclius, 1578–83, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome 286 11.5 Cesare Nebbia, Heraclius Carrying the Cross Barefoot, 1578–83, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome 287 11.6 Antoniazzo Romano and workshop (attr.), Legend of the True Cross, late fifteenth century, fresco, apse, Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Rome 288 11.7A Cristoforo Roncalli, Miraculous Survival of the Crucifix from the Fire in San Marcello (left side), 1583–84, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome 295 11.7B Cristoforo Roncalli, Miraculous Survival of the Crucifix from the Fire in San Marcello (right side), 1583–84, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome 296

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11.8 Paris Nogari, Procession of the Crucifix against the Plague of 1522, 1583–84, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome 297 12.1 The Saint-Maur stained glass program 307 12.2 Resurrection of Lazarus, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1560–70, Saint-Romain, Rouen, window 7 308 12.3 Last Supper, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1560–70, SaintRomain, Rouen, window 5 308 12.4 Virgin and Child, Saint Michael, and Donors, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1567, Saint-Romain, Rouen, window 9 309 12.5 Tobit Burying the Dead, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1569, by Jean Besoche, Saint-Romain, Rouen, window 7 311 12.6 The Rich Man and Lazarus, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1562, Saint-Romain, Rouen, window 10 312 12.7 Job’s Misfortune, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1560–70, SaintRomain, Rouen, window 5 314 12.8 Christ and the Temple Merchants, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1564, Saint-Romain, Rouen, window 8 316 13.1 Giovanbattista Mossi, The Flagellation of Christ, 1591, panel, Museo di Casa Vasari, Arezzo 322 13.2 Benedetto Buglioni, St. John the Baptist with Two Flagellants, 1490s, glazed terracotta, Chiostro dello Scalzo, Florence 330 13.3 Administrative offices within the Scalzo held by Jacopo Chiti, Giovanbattista Bandini, and Giovanbattista Mossi 333 13.4 House on the corner of Via dell’Agnolo and Borgo Allegri bequeathed to the Scalzo in 1591 by Lisabetta Pesci 337 13.5 Stemma marking the property of the confraternity of San Giovanni Battista detta dello Scalzo, 1594, Borgo Allegri, Florence 338 13.6 ‘Tanglegram’ plotting interactions that grew up around the confraternity, its members, and its benefactors in relation to Mossi’s altarpiece and Lisabetta Pesci’s house 340 13.7 Mattia Magnelli, elevation and plans of house on the corner of Via dell’Agnolo and Borgo Allegri bequeathed to the Scalzo in 1591 by Lisabetta Pesci, 1786. Archivio di Stato di Firenze, Patrimonio Ecclesiastico 496, no. 80 342 14.1 Oratory of San Lorenzo, Palermo 346 14.2 Oratory of the Rosary at San Domenico, Palermo 347 14.3 Oratory of the Rosary in Santa Cita, Palermo 348 14.4 Antonio Veneziano, Ruolo dei confrati defunti, 1388, tempera on panel. Museo Diocesano, Palermo. Formerly in the church of San Nicolò lo Reale, Palermo 350

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14.5 Bartolomeo da Camogli, Madonna of Humility, 1346, tempera on panel. Galleria Interdisciplinare Regionale della Sicilia, Palazzo Abatellis, Palermo. Formerly, San Nicolò lo Reale, Palermo 351 14.6 Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, Nativity with Sts. Francis and Lawrence, c. 1609, oil on canvas. Formerly in the Oratory of San Lorenzo, Palermo 355 14.7 Anthony van Dyck, Madonna of the Rosary, 1625–27, oil on canvas. Oratory of the Rosary at San Domenico, Palermo 360 14.8 Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, Madonna of the Rosary, 1606, oil on canvas. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna 364 14.9 Carlo Maratti, Madonna of the Rosary, 1695, oil on canvas. Oratory of the Rosary in Santa Cita, Palermo 368 15.1 Juan de Valdés Leal, In Ictu Oculi, 1670–72, oil on canvas, Hermandad de la Santa Caridad, Seville 373 15.2 Juan de Valdés Leal, Finis Gloriae Mundi, 1670–72, oil on canvas, Hermandad de la Santa Caridad, Seville 374

List of Abbreviations List of Abbreviations

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List of Abbreviations ACM ACSM ACT ADSM AEM AGN AHN AHSC ASCM ASDM ASF ASR ASV ASVe BAM BNB BSR BUP CA CRS CapCRS ELO GGC LUAB LVVA MAA NRO NCR OSTP PE PSA TLA UTB

Archivio Generale della Congregazione della Missione (Rome, Italy) Arciconfraternita del Crocifisso di San Marcello (Archivio Segreto Vaticano) Archivio Storico Comunale di Tivoli (Tivoli, Italy) Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime (Rouen, France) Acta Ecclesiae Mediolanensis: Ab eius initiis usque ad nostram aetatem Archivo General de la Nación (Mexico City, Mexico) Archivo Histórico Nacional (Madrid, Spain) Archivo Hermandad de la Santa Caridad (Seville, Spain) Archivio Storico Civico di Milano (Milan, Italy) Archivio Storico Diocesano (Milan, Italy) Archivio di Stato di Firenze (Florence, Italy) Archivio di Stato di Roma (Rome, Italy) Archivio Segreto Vaticano (Vatican City) Archivio di Stato di Venezia (Venice, Italy) Biblioteca Ambrosiana di Milano (Milan, Italy) Biblioteca Nazionale Braidense (Milan, Italy) Biblioteca del Senato della Repubblica (Rome, Italy) Biblioteca Universitaria di Pavia (Pavia, Italy) Church Archive of the Parish of Saint Martin (Municipal Archives of Aalst) Compagnie Religiose Soppresse da Pietro Leopoldo (Archivio di Stato, Florence) Capitoli delle Compagnie Religiose Soppresse da Pietro Leopoldo (Archivio di Stato, Florence) Erfgoed Leiden en Omstreken (Leiden, The Netherlands) Genaro Garcia Manuscripts Collection (University of Texas, Benson Collection) Academic Library of the University of Latvia (Riga, Latvia) Latvian State Historical Archives (Riga, Latvia) Municipal Archives of Aalst (Aalst, The Netherlands) Norfolk Record Office (Norfolk, England) Norwich City Records (Norfolk Record Office) Fondo Ospedale della SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini (Archivio di Stato, Rome) Patrimonio Ecclesiastico (Archivio di Stato, Florence) Parish Archive, Parroquia Santo Ángel (Puebla, Mexico) Tallinn City Archives (Tallinn, Estonia) University of Texas Benson Collection (Austin, Texas)

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Notes on Contributors

Notes On Contributors

Notes on Contributors Kira Maye Albinsky is a PhD Candidate in the Department of Art History at Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey, and a Visiting Instructor at Pratt Institute in New York. She specializes in early modern art in Italy, with a particular interest in the festive and visual culture of Rome during the Catholic Reformation. She is currently completing a dissertation entitled “Art, Ritual, and Reform: The Archconfraternity of the Holy Crucifix of San Marcello in Rome,” which examines the social history, devotional practices, and art patronage of the confraternity of the Crocifisso in sixteenth-century Rome. Meryl Bailey (PhD, UC Berkeley; JD, Harvard Law School) is Assistant Professor of Art History at Mills College, where she focuses on Venetian art and architecture in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Recent publications include “Punishment as Brotherly Love: Antonio Zanchi’s Expulsion of the Profaners from the Temple and the Venetian Conforteria” (Artibus et Historiae, 2016). Her current research project examines the business strategies of the painter Jacopo Palma il Giovane and his contemporaries. Her work has been funded by generous grants and fellowships from the Gladys Krieble Delmas Foundation, the Charlotte W. Newcombe Foundation, and other organizations. Cormac Begadon received a PhD from Maynooth University, Ireland on the subject ‘Laity and clergy in the renewal of Catholic Dublin, c. 1780–1830’. His principal interests of research are Catholic religious culture in the British Isles in the pre-Emancipation period. He has written on print and confraternities in the renewal of the Church in eighteenth-century Ireland, including contributions to the Oxford History of the Irish Book: the Irish Book in English (Oxford, 2011). He is currently a post-doctoral researcher with the AHRC funded ‘Monks in Motion’ project, a prosopographical study of the English Benedictines in exile 1553–1800, based at the Centre for Catholic Studies, Durham University. Caroline Blondeau-Morizot received her PhD in 2012 from the University Paris IV – Sorbonne. Her fields of research cover the period between the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance; she is particularly interested in figurative arts and the legislative framework of

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the artistic profession. Her thesis was published in 2014 in the Corpus Vitrearum collection: Le vitrail à Rouen, 1450–1530, l’escu de voirre (Rennes: Presses Uni­ versitaires de Rennes, 2014). She is currently working for the Archbishopric of Paris, at the sacred art committee, and the Centre International du Vitrail in Chartres, where she teaches history of stained glass in France. Danielle Carrabino is the Associate Research Curator of European Art at the Harvard Art Museums and a specialist in Italian Renaissance and Baroque art. Before taking up her position at the museum, she taught art history at the undergraduate and graduate levels in the United States and abroad. Her research interests include the Counter Reformation, the Hapsburg Empire, Caravaggio, Guercino, and Early Modern Sicily. She has authored articles and contributed to exhibition catalogs, and regularly presents her research at academic conferences. Carrabino is currently working on her book manuscript; an adaptation of her doctoral dissertation concerning Caravaggio in Sicily. Andrew Chen is a Research Fellow at St. John’s College, Cambridge. From June 2013 to July 2015, he was a predoctoral fellow at the Kunsthistorisches Institut in Florenz Max-Planck-Institut, and he completed his PhD at Cambridge in 2016. Chen’s articles have appeared in the Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes and Rivista di storia della miniatura. He is currently completing a book on flagellant confraternities and Italian art from the thirteenth to the seventeenth century. Ellen Decraene is currently working as a voluntary Research Fellow and docent at the University of Antwerp, Belgium (Centre for Urban History). Her main research interests are gender history, early modern urban history, network analysis, and religious history. She received a PhD Fellowship from the Fund of Scientific Research Flanders (FWO) and defended her dissertation, “Boundaries Transcended. Sis­ ters of religious confraternities in a small early modern town in the Southern Netherlands,” in 2014. Her dissertation will be published by Brill Press. Laura Dierksmeier is a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Tuebingen (Germany) in the research group: Religious Knowledge in Pre-Modern Europe (800–1800) Transfers and Transformations. In 2016, she completed her dissertation entitled “Charity for and by the Poor: Franciscan and Indigenous Confraternities in Mexico,

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1526–1700.” Dierksmeier received the American Academy of Franciscan History Fellowship in 2014.  Ellen Alexandra Dooley received her PhD in Art History from the University of Southern California in Los Angeles, where she specialized in seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century Spanish painting and print. Her dissertation, “The Academia de Bellas Artes and the Age of Crisis: Affluence, Art, and Plague in Seventeenth-Century Seville,” focused on the relationships among the city of Seville’s elite patrons and its community of artists. Broader research interests include the circulation of artist prints in Spain and the Americas and the trans-Atlantic art trade. She currently works as the Assistant Curator of Latin American art at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Douglas N. Dow is Associate Professor of Art History at Kansas State University, where he teaches courses on Renaissance and Baroque art. His research on the relationship between confraternal art patronage and ongoing church reform in the late sixteenth century led to the publication of Apostolic Iconography and Florentine Confraternities in the Age of Reform (Ashgate, 2014). In addition to articles on confraternal membership and patronage, he has also published on the representation of a virtual Renaissance Florence in a contemporary video game. His current research focuses on church reform and the religious paintings of Bernardino Poccetti. Anu Mänd is the head of the Institute of History, Archaeology and Art History of Tallinn University. She gained her PhD in medieval studies in 2000 from the Central European University in Budapest. She has published several monographs, including Urban Carnival: Festive Culture in the Hanseatic Cities of the Eastern Baltic, 1350–1550 (Brepols, 2005). She has edited Images and Objects in Ritual Practices in Medieval and Early Modern Northern and Central Europe, with Krista Kodres (2013), and Art, Cult and Patronage: Die visuelle Kultur im Ostseeraum zur Zeit Bernt Notkes, with Uwe Albrecht (2013). Currently she is working on medieval merchants’ networks, guilds and confraternities, gender and memoria. Rebekah Perry (PhD, University of Pittsburgh) is Lecturer in art history at Oregon State University. She specializes in Early Christian and medieval art and architecture

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of Western Europe and the Mediterranean with a research focus on urbanism, ritual performance, and civic identity. More of her work on late medieval processions and civic cult images is forthcoming in March 2017 in the Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians. Perry is currently developing a new project that analyzes how the municipal statutes of Italian medieval city communes controlled and regulated interaction between people and religious cult images in public spaces. Diana Bullen Presciutti is Lecturer in Italian Renaissance art and visual culture at the University of Essex. Her primary research addresses the visual culture of social problems in late medieval and early modern Italy, with a particular emphasis on intersections between gender, class, and cultural production. She is the author of Visual Cultures of Foundling Care in Renaissance Italy (Ashgate, 2015) and has published articles in Renaissance Studies, Renaissance Quarterly, the Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies, and Artibus et Historiae. Her current research focuses on the relationship between visual culture, social problems, and gender in depictions of miracles performed by mendicant saints. Pamela A.V. Stewart is Assistant Professor of Art History at Eastern Michigan University, specializing in Renaissance and Baroque Italian art. She holds a Ph.D. from the University of Michigan and a BA from the University of Pennsylvania. Her doctoral dissertation, “Devotion to the Passion in Milanese Confraternities, 1500–1630: Image, Ritual, Performance,” currently in preparation as a book-length study, examines the production of pictorial and physical sacred space by the chapels, image ensembles, and monuments of lay confraternities devoted to the Passion of Christ in early modern Milan. Publications include “Ritual Viewing in the Chapel of Corpus Christi: Bernardino Luini’s Passion Cycle in S. Giorgio al Palazzo, Milan,” in The Sacralization of Space and Behavior in the Early Modern World (Ashgate, 2015). Arie van Steensel is Lecturer in medieval social and economic history at the University of Groningen. He specializes in the late medieval and early modern history of western Europe, and has a special interest in the urban history of Italy, England, and the Low Countries. His publications include: “Guilds and Politics in Medieval Urban Europe. Towards a Comparative Institutional Analysis,” in E. Jullien and M. Pauly, eds., Craftsmen and Guilds in the Medieval and Early Modern Periods (Stuttgart, 2016), 37–56; and with J. Colson, eds., Cities and Solidarities. Urban Communities in Pre-Modern Europe (London, 2017).

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Barbara Wisch is Professor Emerita of Art History at the State University of New York at Cortland, specializing in Roman visual and festive culture. She has published extensively on confraternities, miracle-working images, Roman sacred topography, and anti-Semitism in the Sistine Ceiling. Acting on Faith: The Confra­ternity of the Gonfalone in Renaissance Rome (2013), written with theatre historian Nerida Newbigin, is her most recent book. Co-edited volumes include: “All the world’s a stage…” Art and Pageantry in the Renaissance and Baroque (1990); Confraternities and the Visual Arts in Renaissance Italy Ritual, Spectacle, Image (2000); and A Companion to Early Modern Rome, 1492–1692 (forthcoming).

Introduction: Confraternal Spaces

1

Introduction: Confraternal Spaces Diana Bullen Presciutti* In Gentile Bellini’s well-known painting of 1496 (Fig. 0.1), members of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista process with their relic of the True Cross through the capacious void of Venice’s principal piazza, St. Mark’s Square. With its readily identifiable domes, mosaics, and pilfered antique horses, St. Mark’s Basilica looms large in the background, anchoring the events depicted in a specific physical setting. Much closer to the viewer, the members of the Scuola, or confraternity, of San Giovanni Evangelista process parallel to both the church façade and the picture plane, forging with their bodies a moving barrier that works with the architecture to define the contours of the piazza. By siting the procession of the Scuola in the ‘practiced place’ of St. Mark’s Square, Bellini links this urban ritual to a constellation of potent civic symbols, including the Doge’s Palace, the Campanile, and, most important, the Basilica itself—the burial site of St. Mark, the chapel of the Doge, and the heart of Venetian religious practice.1 As has been observed by Patricia Fortini Brown and others, these monuments are described by Bellini with exceptional specificity, an ‘eyewitness’ style that facilitates identification and encourages the viewer to accept as authoritative the version of events represented.2 In addition to the various scuole and government figures processing in honor of the feast day of St. Mark (25 April), Bellini includes, rather covertly, the principal subject of the painting: the miracle performed by the confraternity’s relic of the True Cross (Fig. 0.2). The painting was one of nine that originally hung in the albergo (boardroom) of the scuola, each narrating a key event in the history of the relic received by the sodality as a gift in 1369; in * For very helpful comments on this introduction, I thank Angela Ho, Ivano Presciutti, Arie van Steensel, Pamela A.V. Stewart, Erika Suffern, Barbara Wisch, and the anonymous reader. Any errors or omissions that remain are my own. 1 For the concept of the ‘practiced place,’ see Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), esp. 117. For Florence’s Piazza della Signoria as ‘practiced place,’ see Stephen J. Milner, “The Florentine Piazza della Signoria as Practiced Place,” in Renaissance Florence: A Social History, ed. Roger J. Crum and John T. Paoletti (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 83–103. 2 Patricia Fortini Brown, Venetian Narrative Painting in the Age of Carpaccio (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988). See also Elizabeth Rodini, “Describing Narrative in Gentile Bellini’s Procession in Piazza San Marco,” Art History 21, no. 1 (1998): 26–44.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_002

FIGURE 0.1 Gentile Bellini, Procession in St. Mark’s Square, 1496. Tempera and oil on canvas. Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice. Photo: Cameraphoto Arte, Venice/ Art Resource, NY.

2 Presciutti

Introduction: Confraternal Spaces

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FIGURE 0.2 Gentile Bellini, Procession in St. Mark’s Square (detail), 1496. Tempera and oil on canvas. Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice. Photo: Cameraphoto Arte, Venice/ Art Resource, NY.

Bellini’s sweeping panorama, the relic appears in the foreground, carried beneath its canopy of honor. Just to the right, a kneeling figure—the Brescian merchant Jacopo de’ Salis—petitions the True Cross to heal his gravely injured son. After his return to Brescia, Salis would go on to discover that the relic had, at that very moment, performed a miracle—his son had recovered.3 Bellini’s painting depicts a combination of miraculous event and civic ceremony, located in the ‘shared space’ of St. Mark’s Square and facilitated by confraternal ritual.4 By becoming, albeit temporarily, a confraternal space, the piazza was thus transformed by the events taking place within it, by the bodies that processed through it, and by the miracles effected in it. Furthermore, in the context of the albergo of the scuola, the painting would have presented St.

3 Brown, Venetian Narrative Painting, 144–51. 4 On the ‘shared space’ of the Italian piazza, see Sharon T. Strocchia, “Theaters of Everyday Life,” in Renaissance Florence: A Social History, ed. Roger J. Crum and John T. Paoletti (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 55–80.

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Mark’s Square as a permanently confraternal space, one always-already shaped by the activities of San Giovanni Evangelista. As such, it engages with many of the themes at the heart of this anthology, which is the first sustained comparative examination of the relationship between confraternal life and the spaces of the late medieval and early modern city. More precisely, this book describes the dialectic between bodies and spaces—the ways in which urban spaces define the bodies that move within them, and the ways in which those very same bodies produce the spaces in which they operate.5 The Scuola di San Giovanni Evangelista in Venice comprised a group of laypeople who had voluntarily joined together to practice piety and charity—in other words, it fit the widely accepted definition of the term ‘confraternity.’6 As several of the chapters collected here elucidate, the boundaries between confraternities and other types of lay organizations—especially guilds—were often murky at best. In her contribution, for example, Anu Mänd demonstrates how the term ‘gild’ operated in late medieval Livonia as a catchall that included trade organizations and pious companies. In addition, confraternities could have professional religious as members, complicating their designation as ‘lay.’ Further muddying the waters is the situation in Palermo, explicated by Danielle Carrabino in her chapter; there, a distinction was drawn between ‘confraternity’ and ‘company,’ terms that on the mainland were used interchangeably. Rather than impose artificial and ahistorical limitations on the late medieval and early modern context, this book takes a wide-ranging approach to lay pious organizations, allowing for the definition of ‘confraternity’ to be productively interrogated. It should be said that the Scuola di San Giovanni Evangelista, one of the Venetian scuole grandi, was not by any definition a typical Italian confraternity. Venetian scuole grandi, as Brian Pullan and others have demonstrated, served as an alternative power structure for merchants and other middle-class citizens excluded by the serrata from participation in city governance.7 Thus, the social and devotional practices of San Giovanni Evangelista, like those of confraternities elsewhere, were inextricably linked with its particular sociopolitical context. With this diversity in mind, this book uses the city (defined broadly) as a key interpretive lens, focusing attention on how confraternal practice 5 For the ways in which space can be ‘produced,’ see Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991). 6 For the challenges in defining a ‘confraternity,’ see Christopher Black, Italian Confraternities in the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 23–24. 7 Brian Pullan, Rich and Poor in Renaissance Venice: The Social Institutions of a Catholic State to 1620 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press), 1971.

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shaped and was shaped by the specific urban setting. The chapters gathered here evince strong commonalities in confraternal practice across time and place, as well as significant differences tied to local context. While the Venetian political situation was unique, much of the activities of San Giovanni Evangelista aligned with those of sodalities found throughout the late medieval and early modern world. Like confraternities in cities as disparate as Mexico City and Tallinn, the members of the scuola grande collectively engaged in the practice of piety and charity, the performance of ritual, and the development of a corporate identity. These activities took place in various urban spaces, including oratories, churches, meeting houses, streets, and piazze; the city itself could also be configured through confraternal ritual as a symbolic or representational space, as Pamela A.V. Stewart’s chapter reveals about the ‘New Jerusalem’ of Borromean Milan.8 Many of the contributions collected here focus on buildings, like chapels and oratories. Others examine the spaces forged between physical structures, such as the city street. As groups, confraternities moved from interior spaces to exterior ones (and back again), altering each by their presence and through the pious rituals and charitable acts that they performed. This collection of essays draws inspiration from two recent anthologies: Confraternities in the Visual Arts in Renaissance Italy: Ritual, Spectacle, Image (2000) and Renaissance Florence: A Social History (2006).9 Concentrating primarily on the major cities of Florence, Venice, and Rome, Confraternities in the Visual Arts was the first anthology to focus on the role of confraternities as patrons of art and architecture. Renaissance Florence, in turn, examined the relationship between urban space and civic ritual in a single city.10 Both books modeled interdisciplinary scholarship by bringing contributions from art his8

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For representational and symbolic spaces, see Lefebvre, The Production of Space, 229–91. For Renaissance cities, see also Edward Muir and Ronald F.E. Weissman, “Social and Symbolic Places in Renaissance Venice and Florence,” in The Power of Place: Bringing Together Geographical and Sociological Imaginations, ed. John A. Agnew and James S. Duncan (London and Boston: Unwin Hyman, 1989), 81–103. Confraternities in the Visual Arts in Renaissance Italy: Ritual, Spectacle, Image, ed. Barbara Wisch and Diane Cole Ahl (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000); and Renaissance Florence: A Social History, ed. Roger J. Crum and John T. Paoletti (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). Urban culture in late medieval and early modern Europe has become the focus of much scholarly interest in recently years. See, among others, Fabrizio Nevola, Siena: Constructing the Renaissance City (London and New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007); Nicholas Terpstra and Colin Rose, eds., Mapping Space, Sense, and Movement in Florence: Historical GIS and the Early Modern City (London and New York: Routledge, 2016); Niall Atkinson,

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torians and social historians into conversation. Space, Place, and Motion builds upon these exempla by asking new questions about the relationship between corporate groups and urban space. From the candlelit oratory to the bustling piazza, from the hospital ward to the festal table, from the processional route to the execution grounds, the urban fabric of late medieval and early modern cities, this book contends, was made up of fluid and contested ‘confraternal spaces.’

Locating Confraternities

Confraternities have been the subject of concentrated scholarly attention for more than half a century, with the primary focus remaining squarely on the cities of late medieval and early modern Italy. In 1960, Italian scholars turned their sustained attention to the activities of urban sodalities with a conference in Perugia marking the 700th anniversary of the flagellant procession movement initiated by Fra Raniero.11 Fr. Gilles Gerard Meersseman continued this work in the 1970s with his three-volume magnum opus Ordo Fraternitatis (1977); although limited in its scope to Dominican confraternities, Meersseman’s work made a groundbreaking contribution to the understanding of confraternal devotion on a peninsular level and remains an essential resource today.12 In the 1970s and 1980s, anglophone social historians joined the conversation, most influentially Brian Pullan, Ronald Weissman, and John Henderson. The foci of their research were the cities of Venice and Florence, reflecting a longstanding geographical partiality in the scholarship on late medieval and early

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The Noisy Renaissance: Sound, Architecture, and Florentine Urban Life (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2016). This conference was followed by another in 1969. The proceedings of both the 1960 and 1969 conferences, which were organized by a team led by Fr. Ugolino Nicolini, were published in: Il movimento dei disciplinati nel settimo centenario dal suo inizio (Perugia-1260). Convegno internazionale, Perugia 25–28 settembre 1960 (Spoleto: Arti Grafiche Panetto e Petrelli, 1962) and Risultati e prospettive di ricerca sul movimento dei disciplinati. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studio, Perugia 5–7 dicembre 1969 (Perugia: Deputazione di storia patria per l’Umbria, 1972). See also Ugolino Nicolini, ed., Le fraternite medievali di Assisi (Perugia: Tip. Porziuncola, 1989). Gilles Gerard Meersseman, Ordo Fraternitatis. Confraternite e pietà dei laici nel medioevo, 3 vols. (Rome: Herder, 1977). While Gennaro Maria Monti was the first modern scholar to attempt a synthetic description of confraternal activities across Italy, Meersseman’s intervention has made a much more lasting contribution. See Monti, Le confraternite medievali nell’alta e media Italia, 2 vols. (Venice: La Nuova Italia, 1927).

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modern Italy. Pullan (1971) examined Venetian scuole grandi, like San Giovanni Evangelista, emphasizing the ways in which these organizations operated to preserve order within the stratified Venetian social system. Taking an approach influenced by anthropology and sociology, Weissman’s study of Florentine confraternities (1982) emphasized interpersonal relationships formed by confraternal life, analyzing patterns of membership including active and passive participation. In his 1982 doctoral dissertation (published in book form in 1994), Henderson situated confraternities within a network of charitable institutions (including hospitals) in Florence.13 Although deeply indebted to the work of these seminal interventions, this anthology unites two more recent scholarly conversations. The first addresses the place(s) of confraternal devotion in the late medieval and early modern city; the second concerns the intersection of confraternity studies with the histories of art and theatre. Following the lead of Richard Trexler and Edward Muir, who located confraternities, among other groups and institutions, in the ritual life of Renaissance Florence and Venice (1980 and 1981), social historians have shed considerable light on the myriad ways in which confraternities engaged with their urban environments.14 Nicholas Terpstra, for example, has 13

14

See Pullan, Rich and Poor; Ronald F.E. Weissman, Ritual Brotherhood in Renaissance Florence (New York and London: Academic Press, 1982); John Henderson, Piety and Charity in Late Medieval Florence (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994). Richard Trexler, Public Life in Renaissance Florence (New York: Academic Press, 1980, rpt. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991); Edward Muir, Civic Ritual in Renaissance Venice (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981). Key Italian contributions published in this period include numerous studies on Lombardy by Danilo Zardin, on Umbria by Giovanna Casagrande, and on Rome by Anna Esposito, for example: Zardin, Confraternite e vita di pietà nelle campagne lombarde tra ‘500 e ‘600. La pieve di Parabiago-Legnano (Milan: NED, 1981); Casagrande, “Women in Confraternities between the Middle Ages and the Modern Age. Research in Umbria,” Confraternitas 5/2 (1994): 3–13; Esposito, “Le confraternite del matrimonio. Carità, devozione e bisogni sociali a Roma nel tardo Quattrocento (con l’edizione degli Statuti vecchi della Compagnia della SS. Annunziata),” in Un’idea di Roma. Società, arte e cultura tra Umanesimo e Rinascimento, ed. Laura Fortini (Rome: Roma nel Rinascimento, 1993): 7–51. Much of the voluminous scholarship on Italian confraternities published in the 1980s is synthesized, together with new information on Perugia, in Black, Italian Confraternities. For an updated overview, see Christopher Black, “The Development of Confraternity Studies over the Past Thirty Years,” in The Politics of Ritual Kinship: Confraternities and Social Order in Early Modern Italy, ed. Nicholas Terpstra (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 9–29. See also Konrad Eisenbichler’s comprehensive reviews of North American and Italian language publications through the mid-1990s in Eisenbichler, “Ricerche nordamericane sulle confraternite italiane,” in Confraternite, chiese e società: Aspetti e problemi dell’associazionismo laicale europeo in età moderna e

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placed Bologna front and center on the map of confraternal studies with his numerous books and articles.15 Nicholas Eckstein, in turn, narrowed the lens from the metropolis to the neighborhood, highlighting the role of confraternities in the Green Dragon district in Florence.16 Turning away from the major urban centers to the Venetian subject city of Treviso, David Michael D’Andrea showed how the subjugation of a city to a regional power could engender the transformation of a local confraternity into a “rallying place for civic pride.”17 By considering cities large (Rome) and small (Aalst) in regions as disparate as Ireland and Mexico, Space, Place, and Motion seeks to uncover the commonalities and differences in confraternal practice as they played out on the urban stage. Beginning in the 1980s, historians of art and theatre have also sought to better understand the roles of visual and oral culture in confraternal ritual life.18

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contemporanea, ed. Liana Bertoldi Lenoci (Fasano: Schena, 1994), 289–303; Eisenbichler, “Italian Scholarship on Pre-Modern Confraternities in Italy,” Renaissance Quarterly 50, no. 2 (1997): 567–80. See, for example, Nicholas Terpstra, Lay Confraternities and Civic Religion in Renaissance Bologna (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), and, more recently, Nicholas Terpstra, Cultures of Charity: Women, Politics, and the Reform of Poor Relief in Renaissance Italy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013). Nicholas Eckstein, The District of the Green Dragon: Neighborhood Life and Social Change in Renaissance Florence (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1995). Another important facet of confraternal devotion was youth involvement, elucidated by Konrad Eisenbichler and Lorenzo Polizzotto in their respective monographs on Florentine youth confraternities: Eisenbichler, The Boys of the Archangel Raphael: A Youth Confraternity in Florence, 1411– 1785 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998); Polizzotto, Children of the Promise: The Confraternity of the Purification and the Socialization of Youths in Florence, 1427–1785 (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2004). For a broader view of youth culture in Renaissance Florence, see also Ilaria Taddei, Fanciulli e giovani: Crescere a Firenze nel Rinascimento (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 2001). David Michael D’Andrea, Civic Christianity in Renaissance Italy: The Hospital of Treviso, 1400–1530 (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2007). Important early interventions include those of Samuel Edgerton, who examined the use of images by so-called ‘comforting confraternities’ (sodalities devoted to the spiritual preparation of the condemned awaiting execution), and Patricia Fortini Brown, who shed new light on the narrative strategies used in pictorial cycles painted in the meeting places of Venetian scuole, including the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista. See Samuel Edgerton, Pictures and Punishment: Art and Criminal Prosecution During the Florentine Renaissance (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1985); and Brown, Venetian Narrative Painting. On comforting confraternities, see, among others, Adriano Prosperi, “Il sangue e l’anima. Ricerche sulle Compagnie di Giustizia in Italia,” Quaderni storici 51 (1982): 960– 99); Nicholas Terpstra, ed., The Art of Executing Well: Rituals of Execution in Renaissance

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A critical moment for the interdisciplinary study of cultural production in the confraternal context arrived with the conference “Ritual and Recreation in Renaissance Confraternities,” held in Toronto in 1989. This colloquium inspired the foundation of the Society for Confraternity Studies, with its associated journal, Confraternitas; in addition, Konrad Eisenbichler edited the proceedings from the conference, bringing together historians of music, theatre, and art together in an explicitly interdisciplinary anthology on the place of cultural production in confraternal piety.19 A decade later, art historians Barbara Wisch and Diane Cole Ahl published the first compendium of studies on the relationship between confraternal devotion and art patronage.20 Taking very different approaches, Nerida Newbigin and Mara Nerbano have also explored the intersections between devotional theatre and confraternal ritual, another recurring theme in this volume.21 In recent years, scholars from a range of disciplines have continued to examine the rich visual and material culture of late medie­val and early modern sodalities.22 In the same vein, this anthology is committed to an interdisciplinary approach, bringing together social historians and art historians with a shared interest in confraternities, cities, and cultural production. In more recent years, confraternity studies has participated actively in the so-called global turn, with increasing attention being paid to confraternities in

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Italy (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2008); Meryl Bailey’s contribution to this volume. Konrad Eisenbichler, ed., Crossing the Boundaries: Christian Piety and the Arts in Italian Medieval and Renaissance Confraternities (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 1991). Italian scholars also made significant contributions to our understanding of confraternal visual culture in this period; see, for example, the important work of Ludovica Sebregondi on Florentine sodalities: Sebregondi, La compagnia e l’oratorio di San Niccolò del Ceppo (Florence: Salimbeni, 1985); and Sebregondi, Tre confraternite fiorentine: Santa Maria della Pietà, detta ‘Buca’ di San Girolamo, San Filippo Benizi, San Francesco Poverino (Florence: Salimbeni, 1991). Wisch and Ahl, Confraternities and the Visual Arts. Nerida Newbigin, Feste d’Oltrarno: Plays in Churches in Fifteenth-Century Florence, 2 vols. (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1996); Mara Nerbano, Il teatro della devozione: Confraternite e spettacolo nell’Umbria medievale (Perugia: Morlacchi, 2006). A few important examples from what is a vast and ever-expanding list: Susan Verdi Webster, Art and Ritual in Golden Age Spain: Sevillian Confraternities and the Processional Sculpture of Holy Week (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998); Andreas Dehmer, Italienische Bruderschaftsbanner des Mittelalters und der Renaissance (Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2004; Barbara Wisch and Nerida Newbigin, Acting on Faith: The Confraternity of the Gonfalone in Renaissance Rome (Philadelphia: Saint Joseph’s University Press, 2013).

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Northern Europe, the New World, and Asia.23 Archconfraternities (e.g., Rosary and Sacrament confraternities) and Jesuit companies have offered one vehicle for such explorations, as they played a key role in the expansionist CounterReform Catholic Church. Examples of this shifted focus include the essays collected in Early Modern Confraternities in Europe and the Americas (2006), Brotherhood and Boundaries/Fraternità e barriere (2011), and Faith’s Boundaries: Laity and Clergy in Early Modern Confraternities (2012).24 This volume also embraces a comparative perspective, including essays focused on Northern and Eastern Europe and Colonial Latin America. By featuring contributions by social historians that reveal the activities of confraternities in the urban spaces of less-studied cities like Dublin and Leiden, the hope is to inspire future investigations into the cultural production of these regions and, through comparative analysis, to shed light on that which the ravages of time have left unrecoverable. While no amount of scholarly inquiry can replace buildings, visual culture, and documents that have been destroyed by iconoclasm, war, or neglect, by taking a global and comparative approach we can move, albeit incrementally, in the direction of a more nuanced understanding of how omnipresent confraternal activity was in the late medieval and early modern world.

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On Northern Europe, see, for example, Bram van den Hoven and Paul Trio, “Old Stories and New Themes: An Overview of the Historiography of Confraternities in the Low Countries from the Thirteenth to the Sixteenth Centuries,” in Religious and Laity in Western Europe, 1000–1400. Interaction, Negotiation and Power, ed. Emelia Jamroziak and Janet Burton (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), 357–84; Gervase Rosser, The Art of Solidarity in the Middle Ages. Guilds in England 1250–1550 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015); Monika EscherApsner, ed., Mittelalterliche Bruderschaften in europäischen Städten: Funktionen, Formen, Akteure / Medieval Confraternities in European Towns: Functions, Forms, Protagonists. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2009. Christopher Black and Pamela Gravestock, eds., Early Modern Confraternities in Europe and the Americas (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006); Stefania Pastore, Adriano Prosperi, and Nicholas Terpstra, eds., Brotherhood and Boundaries/Fraternità e barriere (Pisa: Edizioni della Normale, 2011); Nicholas Terpstra, Adriano Prosperi, and Stefania Pastore, eds., Faith’s Boundaries: Laity and Clergy in Early Modern Confraternities (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012). On Jesuit confraternities and their role in the Post-Tridentine Church, see also Lance G. Lazar, Working in the Vineyard of the Lord: Jesuit Confraternities in Early Modern Italy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005). On Ireland, see Colm Lennon, ed., Confraternities and Sodalities in Ireland: Charity, Devotion, and Sociability (Blackrock Co. Dublin: Columba Press, 2012).

Introduction: Confraternal Spaces



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Spaces of Piety and Charity

The members of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista, as Brian Pullan and others have shown, fulfilled their corporate mission through acts of both piety and charity. In addition to public performances of religiosity, like the procession in St. Mark’s Square, the confratelli came together regularly in their meeting house to engage in collective prayer and self-flagellation. Beyond these devotional practices, members of the sodality participated in the distribution of alms and other charitable works. Like that of other Venetian scuole grandi, San Giovanni Evangelista’s charity had an inward-looking orientation, with priority given to poor and sick members of the sodality.25 This internal focus increased by the sixteenth century, by which time the membership of scuole grandi became increasingly stratified, with rich members distributing their wealth to their less fortunate brethren.26 While the relationship between the non-noble confraternities and the aristocratic Senate in Venice was particular to that city, the essays collected in the first part of this anthology demonstrate that confraternal practice in La Serenissima had much in common with that found in small towns and big cities throughout the European continent and beyond. Confraternities organized their activities around the practice of both piety (amor Dei) and charity (amor proximi), the two facets of caritas. In so doing, they produced urban spaces both pious and charitable—and frequently both at the same time. In this first section, essays by social historians, organized chronologically, demonstrate the commonalities and differences between confraternal practice in the late medieval and early modern period, moving beyond the well-studied Italian peninsula to consider cities further afield like Dublin and Mexico City. Taking us to the guildhalls of late medieval and early modern Tallinn, Anu Mänd reveals the myriad urban spaces in which table guilds practiced their shared religiosity, charity, and sociability. She demonstrates the fluidity that existed between the categories of ‘confraternity’ and ‘guild,’ identifying the ‘table guilds’ as organizations very much akin to those called ‘confraternities’ elsewhere. The guilds of Tallinn prayed, distributed alms, mourned, processed, feasted, drank, and sang in a range of sites, including churches, guildhalls, streets and squares, and the city marketplace. Mänd also sheds light on the various roles women played within the table guilds, both as primary recipients of charity and as ‘guild sisters.’ In addition, with her discussion of the Tallinn 25 26

For example, in order to aid members in need, the Chapter-General of the Scuola had, in August of 1330, established a small hospital for their care: Pullan, Rich and Poor, 64. Pullan, Rich and Poor, 63.

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Corpus Christi procession, she introduces two activities that surface regularly in this anthology: devotion to the body of Christ and citywide processions. Shifting the focus to the relationship between the extra-religious activities of confraternities and their specific urban context, Arie van Steensel takes a comparative approach. He examines two towns—Norwich and Leiden—with sufficient commonalities to allow for meaningful comparative analysis. Like Mänd, he wrestles with the analytical challenge of distinguishing between ‘guilds’ and ‘religious confraternities’—organizations that often overlapped— in his case cities. He finds that neither differences in rates of population growth, nor in parish structures, significantly impacted the development and popularity of religious confraternities. In the realm of charity, however, contextual factors played a significant role; a network of extant charitable institutions in Leiden made internal charity redundant, whereas in Norwich confraternities filled that need for their members. Placing particular emphasis on charitable activities focused on the integration of marginalized individuals and groups, Laura Dierksmeier takes sixteenth-century Mexico City as her urban focus. In addition to providing internal assistance to members, Mexican confraternities, like many of their European counterparts, directed some of their charitable work toward the broader public. The Sacred Charity sodality, for example, freed those imprisoned for petty debts; the confraternity of the Holy Sacrament sponsored a house for girl orphans with full or half Spanish blood; the confraternity-run Hospital del Amor de Dios provided housing for sufferers of syphilis. In each of these cases, the sodality facilitated movement between a marginalized or liminal space (prison or street) to a sanctioned and socially legible one (home, orphanage, hospital), what Dierksmeier calls ‘spaces of inclusion.’ In her investigation of the social dimensions of confraternal piety and charity in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Aalst, Ellen Decraene introduces another of the key themes of this collection: the impact of the CounterReforma­tion on the urban practices of confraternities. In this period, the blurred lines dividing guilds and confraternities come into crisp focus, with guilds fading in significance and confraternities rising to greater prominence. In accordance with the Tridentine emphasis on equality of access, confraternities in Aalst drew from a diverse cross-section of society, with women making up a numerical majority of members. As was the case elsewhere in post-Tridentine Europe, the local archbishop of Malines exerted significant control over the devotional practice of confraternities in Aalst, discouraging feasting in favor of disciplined observance. The challenges of implementing the dictates of the Counter-Reformation in Ireland come to the fore in Cormac Begadon’s chapter, which centers on

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seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Dublin. While the parish church, as an urban space, was central to the organization of orthodox devotion in continental Europe, Ireland lacked a strong parochial network. Filling this void was the confraternity, typically sponsored by either the Jesuits or one of the mendicant orders. As the case of the lavish chapel of the Dominican-supported Confraternity of the Most Holy Name of Jesus attests, these orders subscribed to the Baroque notion that spaces of multisensory spectacle could promote devotional fervor. Confraternities of the Christian Doctrine, in turn, were charged with channeling that zeal in approved directions, teaching orthodox practice and instilling a sense of shared Catholic identity.

Spaces of Ritual and Theatre

Having established the commonalities—and differences—between confraternal activities in a range of urban contexts, the second part of this book returns to the Italian peninsula with five chapters focused tightly on the street as a space of ritual and theatre. Procession, as one of the most common urban performances enacted by sodalities in late medieval and early modern Europe, emerges as the common denominator. There was, however, tremendous diversity in confraternal processions: some were citywide celebrations in which many confraternities participated, such as the one taking place in Bellini’s Procession in St. Mark’s Square (Fig. 0.1), while others were staged by individual confraternities, for example, on the feast day of their patron saint. In addition, the routes taken by processions could vary both with the occasion and over time; these shifts altered the ways in which these ritual movements linked spaces and places. Processions were also inherently theatrical: many of the contributions collected here elucidate how processions were ‘performed’ in the spaces of the city, transforming streets and buildings into ‘stage sets’ for religious spectacle. Continuing with the theme of the citywide procession imaged by Bellini (Fig. 0.1) and discussed by Mänd and Van Steensel, Rebekah Perry analyzes the role of confraternities in Tivoli’s annual Inchinata procession. Modeled on the Assumption Day procession in nearby Rome, in which the miraculous Lateran Acheropita traveled to meet his ‘mother’ (the Salus Populi Romani icon), Tivoli’s rite was similarly centered around the ‘reunion’ of two miracle-working images: the Trittico del Salvatore (a copy of the Lateran icon) and the Madonna delle Grazie. In late medieval Tivoli, Perry argues, this increasingly theatrical ritual became deeply imbricated with both the rise of lay organizations—confraternities and guilds—and the development of a network of urban charitable

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institutions. Perry shows how the establishment of confraternal hospitals in a ring around Tivoli created ‘stage sets’ for the ceremonies associated with the Inchinata procession, before which was performed an allegorical pilgrimage, with the Savior triptych playing the role of ‘wandering stranger.’ Shifting the conversation north to fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Pavia, Andrew Chen explores the evolving ritual behavior of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo. Focusing on two manuscript sources, Chen elucidates how the processional routes of the sodality became increasingly formalized over the course of the late medieval period. Through their regular processions along the streets of Pavia, Chen argues, the confraternity members ‘recreated’ the city with their bodies. He compares the Pavian context to that found in Venice, noting that the surviving sixteenth-century statutes of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista, the subject of Bellini’s canvas (Fig. 0.1), also reveal a shift toward greater formality in processional culture, prescribing coordinated routes and detailing acceptable behavior. In addition, Chen examines how the practice of flagellation, both in the city streets and in more private oratories, was discontinued over the same period, despite its vestigial survival in the field of visual representation. While the urban spaces of late medieval and early modern Rome have received considerable scholarly attention over the years, the now-demolished Chapel of the Separation has enjoyed very little of it. This small chapel, constructed under the auspices of the Arciconfraternita della SS. Trinità dei Pelle­grini e Convalescenti, marked the site where saints Peter and Paul embraced before proceeding separately to their violent ends. In her contribution, Barbara Wisch reconstructs the building history, rich decorative program, and ritual functions of the chapel, which operated simultaneously as a monument, wayside marker, devotional site, pilgrimage destination, badge of confraternal pride, and testimony to the apostolic legitimacy of the Roman Church. As Wisch demonstrates, this decorative complex played a key role in positioning the archconfraternity, founded in the mid-sixteenth century under the guidance of Filippo Neri, at the center of pilgrimage practices in post-Tridentine Rome. Before the archconfraternity of SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini built its Chapel of the Separation, the site of the final embrace of Peter and Paul was marked, as Wisch demonstrates, by a monument comprising a cross on a column. This marker and others like it were common sights on the roads of late medieval and early modern Europe, serving to direct pilgrimage traffic, aid devotion, signal important sites, and mark property boundaries. In her chapter, Pamela A.V. Stewart reveals how one variant of this type—the ‘stational cross’—sanctified urban space and organized confraternal processions in the ‘ritual city’

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of post-Tridentine Milan. Altars installed at intersections throughout the city during the plague quarantine of 1576 were later rebuilt/refashioned as permanent features of the urban landscape; these multimedia structures, cared for and venerated on a daily basis by designated Santa Croce (Holy Cross) confraternities, transformed the city into a “Via Crucis in fragments” and a “theater of piety.” As was the case with many late medieval and early modern confraternities, the members of the Scuola di San Fantin in Venice structured their devotional practice around a miracle-working object, in this case a wooden crucifix. Unlike the large and powerful Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista, San Fantin was a more modest sodality devoted to comforting prisoners condemned to death. As Meryl Bailey demonstrates, the miraculous crucifix of San Fantin served to connect two distinct urban spaces: the oratory of San Fantin, where it served as an altarpiece and thaumaturgic object, and the streets of Venice, where it functioned as a processional standard and focus of the condemned’s imitatio Christi. Execution at the Piazzetta San Marco, Bailey argues, was the culmination of an elaborate sequence of ritual events, a multiact devotional performance directed by the brothers of San Fantin and enacted in a series of linked urban spaces.

Spaces of Identity and Rivalry

The final section of the anthology moves from the street to the oratory, the place where confraternity members assembled to pray, flagellate, administrate, and socialize. Deeply associated with the activities of sodalities, oratories functioned, like segni on robes and processional standards, as vehicles for articulating both group and individual identity. Indeed, the contributions here draw out the tensions between the corporate group and the individual, as we find figures like Guerard Louf in Rouen and Miguel Mañara in Seville forging a delicate balance between the needs of many and the ambitions of one. Oratories and related spaces became the site of such contestations, with pictorial decorations serving as the medium of debate. In her chapter, Kira Maye Albinsky returns us to the caput mundi that was post-Tridentine Rome, specifically the oratory of the SS. Crocifisso confraternity. Like the Scuola di San Fantin, the SS. Crocifisso ordered its pious activity around a miracle-working image of Christ on the cross; in Rome, as in Venice, the thaumaturgic crucifix moved between church, oratory, and street, shifting function and significance with the changes in location. The sodality, which was packed with Roman elites, achieved archconfraternity status in 1564; this swift

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rise of the SS. Crocifisso can be compared with the parallel ascension of the SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini, the focus of Wisch’s chapter. Just as the stational crosses of Milan served the interests of the institutional Church after Trent, so too did the elaborate public processions and exhibitions of the miraculous cross staged by the SS. Crocifisso. Within the space of the confraternal oratory, the fresco cycle articulated a corporate identity for the sodality while reinforcing Tridentine claims about the place of images in devotion and the role of the Church as mediator. Caroline Blondeau-Morizot shifts the conversation to northern France (Rouen) and the unusual case of the Utrecht painter Guerard Louf and the confraternity of the Trépassés. The brothers of the Trépassés, founded by Louf in 1475, were artists by trade and were devoted to the charitable act of praying for deceased souls. As such, the group fused two established types of sodality: one affiliated with an occupation and one focused on a specific type of charitable work. Louf and his brethren made their collective identity as artists and mourners visible through the construction of a new chapel. This structure, which hosted the confraternity’s pious and charitable activities, served much the same role as the oratory of the SS. Crocifisso in Rome. Unusually, though not surprisingly, considering the dedication of the group, the chapel of the Trépassés was located outside the city walls, in the cemetery of the Hôtel-Dieu. Destroyed in the iconoclastic events of the battle of Rouen (1562), the chapel was rebuilt and decorated with an elaborate stained glass program that made specific reference to the charitable dedication of the sodality as well as to the impact of confessional strife in Rouen. The confraternal oratory remains a critical urban space for constructing individual and corporate identity in Douglas N. Dow’s investigation into the commission for Giovanbattista Mossi’s Flagellation of Christ (1591). Dow uses Ian Hodder’s theories of entanglement to investigate the web of social relations forged by the commission of the altarpiece, which was destined for the auxiliary chapel of the oratory of San Giovanni Battista detta dello Scalzo in Florence. Moving beyond traditional models of art patronage, Dow shows how the Flagellation of Christ represented the intersection of the ambitions and interests of several confratelli: the artist, Mossi, who specialized in projects for the Scalzo; Jacopo di Bartolomeo Chiti, bookseller, who funded the cost of the painting and its frame; Giovanbattista di Francesco Bandini da Ronta, a woodworker who crafted the wood support and frame for the altarpiece. The violent subject matter and nocturnal setting of the painting itself, in turn, made visible the brethren’s corporate identity as flagellants devoted to imitatio Christi. Just as individuals could construct their identities through their relationship to a corporate entity, so too could confraternities negotiate distinctive

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reputations through competition with rival sodalities. In seventeenth-century Palermo, as Danielle Carrabino reveals, a ‘company’ (compagnia) meant something different from a confraternity; although the two kinds of corporate organization had much in common, compagnie drew their membership from a higher social stratum. Purpose-built oratories were reserved for the use of such elite companies, whereas their confraternal counterparts had to make do with preexisting structures. These oratories, Carrabino argues, became the stage for lively inter-company rivalry, with each organization seeking to outdo its peer groups by commissioning lavish decorations and hiring esteemed foreign artists like Caravaggio and Anthony van Dyck to paint their altarpieces. The power of an individual and a group to define each other comes to the fore in Ellen Alexandra Dooley’s contribution, the final chapter in this anthology. Against the urban backdrop of seventeenth-century Seville, Miguel Mañara y Vicentelo de Leca performed his identity as nobleman, sinner, bon vivant, convert, penitent, and, most importantly here, hermano mayor (head brother) of the Hermandad de la Santa Caridad. Mañara’s most high-profile expression of both his piety and his preoccupation with mortality was his commission to Juan de Valdés Leal for two monumental vanitas still lifes: In Ictu Oculi and Finis Gloriae Mundi; the paintings were installed across from each other in the church of the Hermandad. By including a depiction of himself as a corpse amongst the terrestrial detritus of Finis Gloriae Mundi, Dooley demonstrates, Mañara the individual remains in permanent competition with his brethren for pictorial dominance in their own church. Returning to Bellini’s Procession in St. Mark’s Square (Fig. 0.1), we can see how the confraternal space of the piazza, like the spaces discussed in this book, was one of piety, charity, ritual, theatre, identity, and rivalry—all at the same time. Indeed, the organizational dyads presented here—piety and charity, ritual and theatre, identity and rivalry—should not be taken as hard and fast divisions; they indicate little more than the aspects of space that are emphasized in the particular contribution. It is a fundamental contention of this book that confraternal spaces, like all urban spaces, were multivalent and kaleidoscopic, shifting in meaning with the footstep of each confratello.

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Introduction: Confraternal Spaces

Part 1 Spaces of Piety and Charity

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Table Guilds and Urban Space

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Chapter 1

Table Guilds and Urban Space: Charitable, Devotional, and Ritual Practices in Late Medieval Tallinn Anu Mänd Medieval guilds and confraternities used and influenced urban space in several ways. More substantial organizations had their own houses, which were often erected at or near the market or on some of the main streets of the city and decorated with the images of their patron saints or with other kinds of emblems. A better, that is, more sociotopographically central, location was an indicator of greater wealth and prestige. The houses of guilds and confraternities were usually among the most important visual landmarks of the city, not only physically but also symbolically: through their materials, architecture, and decorations these structures expressed the wealth, power, and social position of the associations that owned them. A guildhall was also the site of various associational activities: a place for daily social communication, as well as for annual festivals and weddings. However, the activities of guilds and confraternities were rarely limited to their meeting places. Indeed, these associations were physically and symbolically present in a variety of spaces throughout the medieval city: in churches, where their members prayed, maintained altars, commissioned artworks, endowed services, and commemorated their deceased members; in hospitals and churches, through their charitable activities; in streets and squares, where members marched in religious processions or festive parades, carrying banners with their emblems, statues of their patron saints, or other symbolic objects. It can therefore be said that guilds and confraternities were among the main agents that shaped urban public space in the late medieval and early modern periods. Studies related to confraternities, rituals, and urban space have recently become increasingly popular. Most, however, have focused on those topics in Western and Southern European countries, particularly in Renaissance Italian cities, where abundant source material survives.1 Other countries, especially 1 See, e.g., Confraternities and the Visual Arts in Renaissance Italy: Ritual, Spectacle, Image, ed. Barbara Wisch and Diane Cole Ahl (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Andrew

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_003

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those at the edges of medieval Europe, have received considerably less scholarly attention. For instance, in the Baltic Sea region, the ritual and devotional practices of guilds, crafts, and confraternities have begun to be studied only comparatively recently.2 The focus of this essay is the city of Tallinn, in medieval Livonia (a historical region that covered approximately present-day Estonia and Latvia), and on a specific organization called the Table Guild (German Tafelgilde).3 Table guilds, which operated in major Livonian cities, were devotional and charitable associations that received their name from a table (Tafel) set up in a church on Sundays and certain feast days from which food was distributed to the poor.4 Although prayer and charity were their main functions, they were certainly not the only ones. Brown, Civic Ceremony and Religion in Medieval Bruges c. 1300–1520 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Mittelalterliche Bruderschaften in europäischen Städten: Funktionen, Forme, Akteure / Medieval Confraternities in European Towns: Functions, Forms, Protagonists, ed. Monika Escher-Apsner (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2009); Renaissance Florence: A Social History, ed. Roger J. Crum and John T. Paoletti (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006); David J.F. Crouch, Piety, Fraternity and Power: Religious Gilds in Late Medieval Yorkshire, 1389– 1547 (Woodbridge: York Medieval Press, 2000). 2 Maija Ojala, “Religious Participation in the Craft Ordinances in the Baltic Sea Region,” in Religious Participation in Ancient and Medieval Societies: Rituals, Interaction and Identity, ed. Sari Katajala-Peltomaa and Ville Vuolanto, Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae, vol. 41 (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2013), 79–90; Tiina Kala, “The Religious Practices of Minor Corporations in Late Medieval Tallinn: Institutional and Legal Frameworks,” in Guilds, Towns and Cultural Transmission in the North, 1300–1500, ed. Lars Bisgaard, Lars Boje Mortensen, and Tom Pettitt (Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2013), 251–76; Anu Mänd, “Church Art, Commemoration of the Dead and the Saints’ Cult: Constructing Individual and Corporate memoria in Late Medieval Tallinn,” Acta Historica Tallinnensia 16 (2011): 5–11; Anu Mänd, Urban Carnival: Festive Culture in the Hanseatic Cities of the Eastern Baltic, 1350–1550 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005); Lars Bisgaard, De glemte altre: gildernes religiøse rolle i senmiddelalderens Danmark [Forgotten altars: The religious role of guilds in late medieval Denmark] (Odense: Odense Universitetsforlag, 2001); Stanisław Litak, “Confréries religieuses dans la Pologne médiévale,” Religious Communities and Corporations in Central Europe 10th–15th Century, Quaestiones medii aevi novae 2 (1997): 71–83. 3 Research was supported by the project no. IUT 18–8, financed by the Estonian Research Council. 4 For a history of the table guilds, see Anu Mänd, “Hospitals and Tables for the Poor in Medieval Livonia,” Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung, vol. 115, no. 3–4 (2007): 257–65; Thomas Brück, “Die Tafelgilde der Großen Gilde in Riga im 15. und 16. Jahrhundert,” in Buch und Bildung im Baltikum: Festschrift für Paul Kaegbein zum 80. Geburtstag, ed. Heinrich Bosse et al. (Münster: Lit, 2005), 59–87; Torsten Derrik, Das Bruderbuch der Revaler Tafelgilde (1364–1549), microfiche (Marburg: Tectum, 2000), 20–55.

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A remark has to be made here with regard to terminology. Scholars usually differentiate between guilds, as occupational organizations, and confraternities, as devotional ones. In German, there is an additional distinction between a guild (Gilde, frequently a corporation of merchants) and a craft (Low German amt, High German Zunft).5 However, the terminology used in medieval sources was, by our modern standards, not at all consistent: the same organization could alternatively be called a guild or a brotherhood.6 Other terms, such as ‘company’ and ‘society,’ also turn up. Therefore, I will use the names of the major associations in Tallinn in the forms that have become standard in scholarship.7 In an earlier article, I studied the development, financing, and clientele of the poor tables.8 This essay focuses instead on various activities of the Table Guilds and their relation to urban space. After providing background on the city of Tallinn and the organization of both guilds and table guilds, I will discuss the charitable space defined by the central function of the guilds. Then I will proceed to the devotional, ritual, and festive spaces, which were all interconnected: a ritual, for example, could be of devotional character; a guild festival, in turn, included several rituals, some of which were devotional. In the same manner, a strict borderline cannot be drawn between different ‘spaces’; however, a closer examination of various practices and their spatial environments will help to reveal other facets of the manifold roles that guilds and confraternities played in their late medieval urban communities.

5 Monika Escher-Apsner, “Mittelalterliche Bruderschaften in europäischen Städten: Funktionen, Forme, Akteure. Eine Einleitung,” in Mittelalterliche Bruderschaften in europäischen Städten, 11–17; Ruth Schmidt-Wiegand, “Die Bezeichnungen Zunft und Gilde in ihrem historischen und wortgeographischen Zusammenhang,” in Gilden und Zünfte: Kaufmännische und gewerbliche Genossenschaften im frühen und hohen Mittelalter, ed. Berent Schwineköper (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1985), 31–52; Franz Irsigler, “Zur Problematik der Gilde- und Zunftterminologie,” in Gilden und Zünfte, 53–70. 6 E.g., the Confraternity of St. Anthony in Tallinn is mainly recorded in the sources as a brotherhood (broderschop), but occasionally also as a guild (gilde). Tallinn City Archives (hereafter TLA), collection (coll.), 230, inventory (inv.) 1, no. Ba 1, fols. 439av, 441r, 442v, 443v (broderschop); no. Aa 15a, fols. 8v, 19v, 32r (broderschop); coll. 31, inv. 1, no. 216, fols. 84v (gilde), 85r (gilde), 93v (broderschop). The Corpus Christi Guild (hilligen lichames gilde) was mainly called a guild, but occasionally also a brotherhood, and sometimes even the Guild of the Sacrament. See Tiina Kala, “Tallinna Püha Ihu gildi skraa” [The statute of the Corpus Christi guild in Tallinn], in Vana Tallinn 22 (2011): 187–95 (194–95: broderschop). 7 For different names used in the sources, see Mänd, Urban Carnival, 29–31, nn. 15 and 17. 8 Mänd, “Hospitals and Tables for the Poor,” 257–65.

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The City Landscape, Guilds, and Confraternities

Prior to the discussion of the various practices of this guild and their relation to urban space, it is necessary to briefly introduce the city, its main ecclesiastical and secular landmarks, and its associations. Cities and towns in Livonia began to develop in the thirteenth century, after the German-Danish conquest. Tallinn (in the Middle Ages known by its German name Reval) was, in addition to Riga and Tartu (Dorpat), one of the three largest cities in the region, an important port and a member of the Hanseatic League.9 In 1248, it was granted the Lübeck Law. Visually and legally, Tallinn consisted of two parts: the Cathedral Hill (Domberg), which was the location of the Cathedral, the castle of the Teutonic Order, and the residences of the nobility, and the lower city, which was governed by the city council (Rat), and where the market and the City Hall, with its high tower (resembling that of a church), formed the economic, administrative, and symbolic center (Fig. 1.1) The lower city was divided into two parishes: St. Nicholas’s and St. Olaf’s. Two religious houses were situated near the city wall: the Dominican friary, with its St. Catherine’s Church, and the Cistercian convent, with its St. Michael’s Church. A hospital connected with the church of the Holy Spirit was located not far from the market, on the border of two parishes (although actually belonging to the parish of St. Olaf). Outside the city wall, on main roads, stood the hospital of St. John the Baptist (initially founded as a leper house), a hospital in front of the Nuns’ gate, and some small chapels. The social and ethnic composition of Tallinn’s population was rather heterogeneous: while the upper classes consisted predominantly of German merchants and the lower classes chiefly of the indigenous people (Estonians), the middle classes included, in addition to the mentioned ethnic groups, various Scandinavians, particularly Swedes and Finns.10 Although the number of ‘non-Germans’ has been estimated at nearly half of the city-dwellers, Tallinn and other large cities in Livonia were typically German in terms of their administration, guild systems, economic networks, the domination of the Middle Low German language, and so forth. The earliest guilds in Tallinn—those of St. Canute and St. Olaf—were probably founded in the thirteenth century, although they first appear in the sources in the first half of the fourteenth century. Initially, they united people 9

10

For a social history of medieval and early modern Tallinn, see Paul Johansen and Heinz von zur Mühlen, Deutsch und Undeutsch im mittelalterlichen und frühneuzeitlichen Reval (Cologne: Böhlau, 1973). For details, see Johansen and Mühlen, Deutsch und Undeutsch, 123–25.

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FIGURE 1.1 Plan of Tallinn in c. 1500. Key: 1. Market, 2. City Hall, 3. Great Guild, 4. St. Canute’s Guild, 5. St. Olaf’s Guild, 6. Black Heads’ house, 7. St. Olaf’s Church, 8. St. Nicholas’ Church, 9. Cathedral, 10. Castle of the Teutonic Order, 11. Dominican friary, 12. Church of the Holy Spirit, 13. Hospital of St. John, 14. Hospital at the Nuns’ gate, 15. Cistercian convent, 16. Big Coast gate, 17. Port. Photo: Anu Mänd.

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of different social status and occupation. In the mid-fourteenth century, the merchants established their own organization, called the Great Guild. Around 1400, another merchants’ association came into existence: the Brotherhood of the Black Heads. While members of the Great Guild were generally married and burghers of the city, the Black Heads consisted of young and unmarried journeymen merchants and foreign merchants. Over the course of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the guilds of St. Canute and St. Olaf developed into umbrella organizations for craftsmen, uniting representatives of diverse crafts.11 In addition to these four major associations, which can, with certain reservations, be characterized as occupational, there were about a dozen minor guilds and confraternities in the city (Corpus Christi, St. Anthony, and others), mainly of a devotional and charitable character.12 In Tallinn, the houses of all the major associations were situated on Long Street, which was one of the main traffic routes in the city, leading from the center to the Big Coast Gate and on to the harbor (Fig. 1.1). The guilds of St. Canute and St. Olaf had their own houses by the first half of the fourteenth century. The Great Guild was first mentioned as having a house in 1370; soon thereafter, however, the elite association required a larger and more impressive building to satisfy its growing ambitions and need for self-representation. To that end, a new house was erected at its present site between 1407 and 1410 (Fig. 1.2). The new meeting place lay closest to the market and the City Hall, thus giving it the best sociopolitical location among the guildhalls. The Black Heads, in turn, did not own a house until as late as 1531, although they had been renting the same house at least from the late 1480s. All four houses—those of St. Canute, St. Olaf, the Great Guild, and the Black Heads—were made of stone: in a city where wooden buildings dominated, this material alone was an indicator of prestige. The most public parts of the guild houses—the façades and the entrances—were decorated either with figures of the patron saints (St. Canute and St. Olaf) or with the coats-of-arms of the associations (the Tallinn cross in the case of the Great Guild and a Moor’s profile in the case of the Black Heads).13 The material and decoration of a building, 11

12 13

For a development and membership of major associations, see Mänd, Urban Carnival, 29–40; Mänd, “Membership and Social Career in Tallinn Merchants’ Guilds,” in Guilds, Towns, and Cultural Transmission in the North, 229–50. Kala, “The Religious Practices of Minor Corporations,” 255. See Anu Mänd, “The Cult and Visual Representation of Scandinavian Saints in Medieval Livonia,” in Saints and Sainthood around the Baltic Sea: Orality, Literacy and Communication in the Middle Ages, ed. Carsten Selch Jensen et al. (Abingdon: Taylor & Francis/Routledge, forthcoming); Tallinna Suurgild ja gildimaja [The Great Guild of Tallinn and the guild hall], ed. Tõnis Liibek (Tallinn: Eesti Ajaloomuuseum, 2011), 260–67, 272–75, 283;

Table Guilds and Urban Space

FIGURE 1.2 Great Guildhall, built in 1407–10. Currently the Estonian History Museum. Photo: Stanislav Stepashko.

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and especially its “face”—the façade—was an indicator of the rank and wealth of an association, and it formed a part of its social and religious identity. The Great Guildhall, in particular, had a deep impact on Tallinn architecture: the form of its façade or portal was copied by several dwelling houses. In addition, during the main annual festivals of the associations at Christmas and Shrovetide, the exterior and interior of the houses received special decorations, including banners with emblems raised at the houses.14

The Table Guild of the Great Guild

Unlike the aforementioned guilds, the table guilds in major Livonian cities were types of sub-organizations: they were founded by the major guilds of merchants and craftsmen, and their membership was limited to that of their mother association. At the same time, they can also be regarded as independent organizations: they had their own leaders and statutes and, unlike in the case of the mother guild, their main functions were prayer and charity. (Another remark concerning terminology: although the charitable and devotional nature of the table guilds was comparable to religious confraternities, they were still called ‘guilds’ throughout their existence.) In Tallinn (as well as in Riga), the earliest and most important of the table guilds was the one that constituted a kind of sub-organization of the Great Guild. It was founded at Candlemas in 1363, when the alderman of the Great Guild and his two assessors, with the consent of all guild members, decided to establish thirteen alms (i.e., prebends) for the house-poor (Hausarmen)— those who were in need of assistance but were ashamed to beg at doors and in the streets.15 In practice this meant that the guild members had at their disposal capital whose annual interest was enough to feed at least thirteen paupers. Initially, alms were to be distributed on Sundays and on the major Christian feasts: at Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost, and on the feasts of the Virgin Mary and of the apostles. Over time, however, the number of prebends increased, amounting to thirty by the 1520s and forty in 1555, and thus so did the number of days of distribution.16 Unlike the Great Guild, which was led by

14 15 16

Juhan Maiste, Mustpeade maja / The House of the Brotherhood of Black Heads (Tallinn: Kunst, 1995). Mänd, Urban Carnival, 61–62, 76, 83–84, 203, 258–59. Eugen von Nottbeck, Die alten Schragen der Grossen Gilde zu Reval (Reval: Kluge & Ströhm, 1885), 63–64 (High German translation), 96 (Low German transcript). Mänd, “Hospitals and Tables for the Poor,” 261–64.

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an alderman elected to the office for three years, the Table Guild was run by one or two wardens (Vorsteher), elected for a year.17 The wardens were assisted by junior members, who helped to hand out the victuals. According to the statutes of 1363 (Fig. 1.3), membership in the Table Guild was limited to brothers of the Great Guild.18 Lists of new members of the Table Guild have been preserved from 1364 to 1549 and of the Great Guild from 1509 to 1603.19 A comparison of these lists indicates that in the first half of the sixteenth century almost every man who entered the Great Guild also became a member of the Table Guild; only in a few years was the number of new members in the Great Guild slightly higher (by two to four men).20 There are no sources that indicate whether the situation was similar in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, or if the gap between the memberships of the two organizations had previously been higher. As we shall see below, some mid-fifteenth century sources, which regulate the marching order in the Corpus Christi procession, made a distinction between the members of the two guilds; this suggests that, at least at that particular moment in time, members of both associations had to choose how to identify themselves during one of the most important public religious rituals of the year. Both organizations also had guild sisters, meaning wives and widows of guild brothers, although they were mainly listed in the statutes and other guild documents in connection with funerals and rituals of commemoration. In the lists of new members of the Table Guild from 1396 to 1402, seven women are recorded, some of them identifiable as wives of city councilors.21 Later on, women were no longer recorded in these lists, but it is apparent from other documents, such as two festival regulations from the first decades of the sixteenth century, that guild sisters were not only considered to be members but they were also entrusted with certain tasks in the religious rituals of the guild. The statutes of the Table Guild of the Great Guild of Riga from 1425 specify that honorable women, either widows or married, could become sisters.22 Still, 17

18 19 20 21 22

Nottbeck, Die alten Schragen, 65, art. 11; 66, art. 17–18; 97, art. 11; 98–99, art. 17–18. Initially, there was more than one warden, but in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, there was only one. See the list of names: ibid., 121–25. Ibid., 64, art. 1; 96, art. 1. TLA, coll. 191, inv. 2, no. 1 and no. 15. The first has been published: Derrik, Das Bruderbuch der Revaler Tafelgilde. Anu Mänd, “Suurgildi ajalugu kuni Liivi sõjani” [History of the Great Guild until the Livonian War], in Tallinna Suurgild ja gildimaja, 35–36. Ibid., 43–44. Wilhelm Stieda and Constantin Mettig, Schragen der Gilden und Aemter der Stadt Riga bis 1621 (Riga: Häcker, 1896), 661, art. 2.

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FIGURE 1.3 Statutes of the Table Guild from 1363; a transcript from 1457. Tallinn City Archives. Photo: Stanislav Stepashko.

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female members did not have the same rights as men and, most importantly, they were not elected to any leading or administrative positions. The Table Guild founded by the Great Guild was not the only one of its kind: craftsmen, more specifically the St. Canute’s guild in Tallinn and the Small Guild in Riga, also established similar organizations in the fifteenth century.23 However, since the number and variety of sources concerning the table guilds of craftsmen is comparatively small, the following discussion includes only the charitable organization of the merchants.

Charitable Space

The Livonian table guilds have much in common with poor tables in the late medieval Low Countries.24 However, while in Bruges, for instance, the poor tables operated at the parish churches, the Tallinn Table Guild chose a hospital church of the Holy Spirit for its charitable and devotional activities (Fig. 1.4). At first glance, the reason seems to be entirely practical: the hospital church was situated across the street, opposite from the Great Guildhall (see Fig. 1.1). Since the Table Guild did not have its own house and the festive gatherings of the members were held in the Great Guildhall, it was logical to choose the closest ecclesiastical institution as a center of operation. However, additional reasons must also be taken into consideration. A hospital church, the primary function of which was to serve the spiritual needs of the hospital inmates— the sick and poor—was, because of its nature, more associated with the idea of charity than were the parish churches. It can be assumed that its location on the border between the two parishes was also of great significance: in this manner, the Table Guild could serve the house-poor of both parishes, without fostering unnecessary rivalry between the parish churches. In Riga, however, a city almost twice as large as Tallinn, both table guilds operated at parish churches, as was the case in the Low Countries.25 This indicates that the space of activity of table guilds in different urban centers was dependent on local circumstances, including sociotopographical factors, the connections of guildsmen to particular churches, and perhaps also the preferences of the mother organization. 23 24

25

Mänd, “Hospitals and Tables for the Poor,” 258–59. David Nicholas, The Later Medieval City 1300–1500 (London: Longman, 1997), 254–56; Michael Galvin, “Credit and Parochial Charity in Fifteenth-Century Bruges,” Journal of Medieval History 28 (2002): 131–54; Brown, Civic Ceremony and Religion, 8, 198–200. Mänd, “Hospitals and Tables for the Poor,” 258–59.

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FIGURE 1.4 Former hospital church of the Holy Spirit, fourteenth century. Photo: Stanislav Stepashko.

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The church of the Holy Spirit in Tallinn was meant not only for the pastoral care of the hospital inmates. Over time, it had developed into a prestigious house of the Lord and had powerful benefactors who endowed altars and services there: the city council, noble families, merchant families, and some guilds and confraternities, including the Table Guild itself and St. Victor’s Guild of the city servants.26 The city council is also known to have occasionally held assemblies there. As a result of this increasing prominence, it was necessary to arrange special ‘zones’ in the church, in order to create a spatial division between the respectable citizens and the sick and poor. Looking at the ground plan of the church, one immediately notices a certain anomaly: the church has two naves but the chancel is attached to only one of these, to the northern one (Fig. 1.5). The main entrance to the church—from Long Street—was also from the northern nave, where an elaborate medieval portal has been preserved. The southern nave could be accessed by a small door, which opened to the back yard and led directly into the hospital complex. Thus it has been assumed that the southern nave was meant for the hospital inmates, and that the more prestigious northern nave was meant for people of higher social rank.27 It is also conceivable that the services for the sick and poor, living in the hospital, took place at different times than those for the city councilors and other city dwellers. The charitable activities of the Table Guild were not something to be hidden or carried out in secret; quite the contrary: performing charity was the main function of the guild and formed an essential part of its public image. Still, it is only natural that alms were distributed in the most secular part of the church: the west end. The poor table was set up near the door leading to the tower, and the alms were distributed from morning until the end of the principal Mass.28 The space around the poor table was likely separated from the body of the church by a screen of some sort, as in some sources the location of the Tallinn poor table is described as a chamber. A record of 1530 reveals that the ‘food chamber’ (spisekamer) in the church of the Holy Spirit was lockable.29 It is probable that the guild wardens stored the dishes there and perhaps also some supplies of food that did not have a strong smell or would not easily spoil, such 26

27 28 29

Tiina Kala, “Ludeke Karwel, kogudusevaimulik” [Parish priest Ludeke Karwel], in Tiina Kala, Juhan Kreem, and Anu Mänd, Kümme keskaegset tallinlast [Ten medieval Tallinners] (Tallinn: Varrak, 2006), 166–75. Mai Lumiste, Pühavaimu kirik [Church of the Holy Spirit] (Tallinn: Eesti Raamat, 1971), 11–12. Nottbeck, Die alten Schragen, 64, art. 5; 96, art. 5. Academic Library of the University of Latvia in Riga (hereafter LUAB), Ms. 14, 131.

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FIGURE 1.5 Ground plan of the church of the Holy Spirit. Photo: In the public domain.

as bread. The dishes used for the distribution of food were made of cheap materials, mainly pewter. For instance, in 1526 the guild bought seventeen new pewter bowls and three pewter platters for the poor table.30 In Riga, too, the poor tables were spatially separated from the main body of the church: the Table Guild of the Great Guild used the space under the belfry of St. Peter’s Church, and that of the Small Guild used the Holy Cross chapel of St. James’s Church.31 In the first half of the sixteenth century, food was distributed twice a week. The composition of the alms was dependent on the church calendar. Bread was the main victual, distributed every time. On Sundays and some important feasts, fresh meat or bacon fat was added to bread. During the Lenten period, meat was replaced with fish and peas.32 Prior to the Reformation, one of the most expensive days of distribution was Good Friday, on which day, surprisingly, fresh meat was given to the poor.33 Since Good Friday was the strictest fasting day of the year, one can assume that the meat was actually meant to be eaten on Easter Sunday, so that the paupers would have something better on their table for the most important religious feast of the year. The prebends of the Table Guild were not meant for just any poor people or beggars, but specifically for the house-poor, meaning resident paupers, who lived in someone else’s household at the mercy of the owner. Typically the house-poor fell into poverty by misfortune, old age, or not earning enough to 30 31

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LUAB, Ms. 14, 105. Stieda and Mettig, Schragen der Gilden, 660: in sunte Peters kerken under deme clokthorne; Latvian State Historical Archives in Riga (hereafter LVVA), coll. 224, inv. 1, no. 826 and 827 (account books of the Table Guild of the Small Guild). The chapel was supervised by a woman, called the chapel hostess (Capellen mome). Mänd, “Hospitals and Tables for the Poor,” 261, 270, Appendix 2. Mänd, “Suurgildi ajalugu kuni Liivi sõjani,” 108.

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sustain themselves.34 Even a member of the Table Guild could ask for alms if he had fallen into poverty.35 After all, taking care of one’s own members was an important principle of any guild or confraternity. Before the 1520s, there is little information about who the house-poor actually were and why they were in need of assistance. The earliest surviving list of prebendaries is from 1528: it includes wives or widows of various craftsmen (shoemakers, stonemasons, carpenters, etc.) and four beguines.36 Only one among the thirty prebendaries was a man. Even more informative is a surviving partial list from 1550, which includes the names, diseases, and living conditions of fourteen prebendaries: twelve women and two men.37 Most of the women are described as old (including old servants), some were blind or infirm, and most of them had no children. Usually they lived in someone’s cellar, sauna, or garden house. These lists indicate that women were far more vulnerable to misfortunes than men and more likely to end up in poverty, especially in old age or after the deaths of their husbands. In addition to maids and servants, who belonged to the lower strata of the society even in their working years, the widows of craftsmen could end up among the house-poor, especially when they had no children who could take care of them in their old age. It can be concluded that a typical house-poor person in Tallinn in the second quarter of the sixteenth century was an old childless woman, sometimes with physical or mental disabilities.38 A person who wished to become a client of the Table Guild had to turn to the warden of the guild.39 The demand for the prebends was obviously higher than the Table Guild could meet and there is almost no information on how the guild chose their clients. There is, however, documentation about how they distinguished them from beggars and other people in need. The statutes of the Riga Table Guild from 1425 reveal that the prebendaries were given special ‘poor tokens’ (armen teken) of lead, which they had to present at the poor table

34

35 36 37 38 39

For the term ‘house-poor’, see Nicholas, The Later Medieval City, 254; Ernst Schubert, “‘Hausarme Leute’, ‘starke Bettler’: Einschränkungen und Umformungen des Almosengedankens um 1400 und um 1500,” in Armut im Mittelalter, ed. Otto Gerhard Oexle (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2004), 295. Nottbeck, Die alten Schragen, 64, art. 7; 97, art. 7. For Riga, see Stieda and Mettig, Schragen der Gilden, 661, art. 4. TLA, coll. 191, inv. 1, no. 193, fols. 6r–6v. TLA, coll. 191, inv. 1, no. 192, fols. 17r–30r. Mänd, “Hospitals and Tables for the Poor,” 263–64; Mänd, “Suurgildi ajalugu kuni Liivi sõjani,” 112–15. Nottbeck, Die alten Schragen, 64, art. 6; 96, art. 6.

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FIGURE 1.6 Token of a house-poor person from 1539. Lead, diameter 28 mm. Estonian History Museum. Photo: Ivar Leimus.

in order to receive alms.40 The system of tokens was also in use elsewhere in Europe, including Flanders, Spain and northern France.41 Although the Tallinn statutes from 1363 do not mention tokens, it is evident, from other textual and archaeological sources, that a similar system was used there. In 1516, the Great Guild paid for a new stamp for minting the tokens, as well as for thirty-four new ‘poor tokens.’42 In 1528, a new stamp was engraved and the old tokens were replaced with new ones. Some lead tokens from 1539 have been preserved (Fig. 1.6): they are decorated with the Tallinn cross, which was the symbol of the Great Guild, and the initials VD and HT, which probably belonged to the members of the Great Guild (or Table Guild) who were responsible for the purchase and distribution of tokens.43 It is, however, uncertain if these tokens were made for the poor table in the church of the Holy Spirit or for some other charitable institution. Some molds and tokens have been preserved from later 40 41

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Stieda and Mettig, Schragen der Gilden, 661, art. 4. Nicholas, The Later Medieval City, 254; Valentin Groebner, “Mobile Werte, informelle Ökonomie. Zur ‘Kultur’ der Armut in der spätmittelalterlicher Stadt,” in Armut im Mittelalter, 180–81. LUAB, Ms. 14, 57; Mänd, “Suurgildi ajalugu kuni Liivi sõjani,” 112; Ivar Leimus, “Money or No Money: What Does Society Need? Tokens in Medieval and Pre-Modern Tallinn,” in Nummi docent! Münzen – Schätze – Funde, ed. Gerd Dethlefs et al. (Osnabrück: Künker, 2012), 268. Leimus, “Money or No Money,” 270, 272; cf. Mänd, “Suurgildi ajalugu kuni Liivi sõjani,” 112, n. 38.

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decades; the most elaborate one, stamped for the house-poor at St. Olaf’s Church in 1556, depicts a beggar with a crutch.44 The tokens were not only material signs to recognize the clients of a particular charitable institution and to give proof of the right to receive alms: through the tokens, the institution—in this case, the Table Guild—expanded its visibility in the urban space and regularly advertised and reaffirmed its position as a public benefactor.

Devotional Space

The main devotional activities of the Table Guild included corporate attendance at mass and prayer, the commemoration of dead members, and participation in funerals. Given the overlapping membership with the Great Guild, it is questionable to what extent these activities can be treated separately from those of the mother organization, which paid equally intense attention to the fulfillment of common religious practices. As was fitting for an elite organization of the city, the Great Guild had close connections to many churches; the most important ones, however, were to the two parish churches: the guild maintained two altars in St. Nicholas’s Church and two in St. Olaf’s Church. At these altars, masses were celebrated and intercessory prayers said for the souls of the living and the dead. In the church of the Holy Spirit, the guild did not have an altar, but it regularly paid the priest for the singing of the Virgin Mary’s Mass. The Mass was celebrated fourteen days after Easter and all members were obliged to attend it. The Great Guild also paid for vigils and masses for souls in the Dominican church and endowed a sermon chair in the Cistercian convent.45 Thus, the guild was visually and symbolically present in five churches, i.e., in all of the major churches of the lower city. The Table Guild, in contrast, did not have its own altar. However, it had a special relationship with the church of the Holy Spirit, the center of its charitable activities. The guild members assembled at the vigil and memorial Mass in the church on the second Saturday and Sunday after Easter.46 Shortly after Christmas, when a new warden was elected, the old wardens had a vigil sung in the evening and a mass for the souls in the morning for all the deceased mem-

44 45 46

Mänd, “Hospitals and Tables for the Poor,” 263, fig. 5; Leimus, “Money or No Money,” 266, 268–70. Mänd, “Suurgildi ajalugu kuni Liivi sõjani,” 81–85. Nottbeck, Die alten Schragen, 68, art. 3.

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bers.47 Although the regulations of the Table Guild do not mention relationships with any other church, the accounts of the guild prove that vigils and masses were also regularly ordered from the parish church of St. Olaf.48 Thus, both the Table Guild and the Great Guild paid a great deal of attention to the spiritual needs of their members and actively invested in the liturgical remembrance of the dead. The regulations of the Table Guild from the early sixteenth century indicate that women, i.e., guild sisters, performed a special role in the ritual of commemoration. On the second Sunday after Easter, when the Mass was over, the wife of the warden of the Table Guild would offer a ‘candle for souls’ (selelicht); she was assisted by the wives of the warden’s assistants.49 It is evident that the leading role in this ritual was not entrusted to just any guild sisters: it was a privilege of the wardens’ spouses. A similar ritual is described in the statutes of the Table Guild in Riga, where a procession of guild sisters with candles was led by the wives of the two wardens.50 The statutes of almost every medieval guild and confraternity included a stipulation that obliged the members to attend the funerals of their fellow brothers and sisters. This was also true for the Table Guild and its mother association. The members had to attend the liturgy and carry the corpse to the grave. The guild paid for the candles, a vigil in the evening, and three masses for the soul in the morning; in addition, each member had to individually order a mass for the soul.51 The Table Guild also kept records of its deceased members: the lists survive from 1448 to 1549.52 The lists had two purposes: to provide churches with the names of the deceased members so that they could be announced from the pulpit and prayed for during the services, and for the ritual of commemoration that took place in the guildhall. The statutes of the Table Guild in Riga indicate that after corporate attendance at Mass, the members gathered in the guildhall, where they had a common meal. After that, the guild wardens would ring a bell and announce how many brothers and sisters had died that year.53 Presumably, a similar ceremony took place in Tallinn.54 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

Ibid., 66, art. 18, 99, art. 18. TLA, coll. 191, inv. 1, no. 193, fol. 2r. Nottbeck, Die alten Schragen, 68, art. 3; 71, art. 7; 100, art. 3; 103, art. 7. Stieda and Mettig, Schragen der Gilden, 662, art. 8. Nottbeck, Die alten Schragen, 66, art. 14; 98, art. 14. TLA, coll. 191, inv. 2, no. 1, fols. 20v–72r. Stieda and Mettig, Schragen der Gilden, 662–63, art. 13. It is noteworthy that the Tallinn lists from 1448–1549 include only the names of the male members. It is not known if the guild provided the priests with the names of deceased

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Funerals were important public ceremonies. Arranging proper Christian funerals for deceased members appropriate to their status was one of the key functions of the guild. Equally important was the regular commemoration of the dead, which kept alive the bond between the living and the dead, and was believed to shorten the sufferings of souls in Purgatory. Sources from Tallinn and Riga show that the commemoration took place not only in churches but also in the guildhall; therefore, the guildhall can also be classified as a devotional space in the late Middle Ages, even though most of the activities that took place there were secular.

Ritual Space: The Corpus Christi Procession

Scholars of different disciplines have defined historical rituals in a number of different ways.55 Concerning medieval rituals, Gerd Althoff has described them as “actions, or rather chains of actions, of a complex nature, repeated by actors in certain circumstances in the same or similar ways … with the conscious goal of familiarity.”56 Based on this, most of the devotional activities of medieval guilds and confraternities were of a ritual character: similar practices were performed every year at particular times, by certain guild officials or by the entire group, and in a solemn manner. Traditions were highly valued and changes took place very slowly. This section focuses on only one ritual, albeit a very important one: the procession arranged on the feast of Corpus Christi. This feast, celebrating the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, was initially founded in Liège in 1246 and declared universal by Pope Urban IV in 1264; it became widespread only in the fourteenth century, after being refounded in 1317.57 It was a moveable feast, celebrated on the Thursday after Trinity Sunday, and its liturgy included a Mass, followed by a solemn procession through the city, in which clergymen carried the consecrated host and in which guilds and confraternities marched in succession.

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women as well, or if they prayed for the souls of the guild sisters as a nameless group. See, e.g, Edward Muir, Ritual in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 1–9. Gerd Althoff, “The Variability of Rituals in the Middle Ages,” in Medieval Concepts of the Past: Ritual, Memory, Historiography, ed. Gerd Althoff et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 71. Miri Rubin, Corpus Christi: The Eucharist in Late Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 173–85.

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Since early calendars have not survived, the exact beginning of the observance of the feast in Livonian cities cannot be determined, but quite likely it happened after the revival of the feast in 1317, as it did, for instance, in nearby Scandinavia.58 The earliest references in municipal records to the feast of Corpus Christi are from 1330 in Riga and 1342 in Tallinn.59 The monstrance—a specific liturgical vessel for the visual exposition of the host—is first recorded in the church of the Holy Spirit in 1381.60 In the documents of guilds and confraternities in Tallinn, records on the feast of Corpus Christi appear beginning in the early fifteenth century. Almost every statute contains a stipulation concerning the obligation to participate in the procession or the carrying of candles. In 1405, the Great Guild decided that it would be the duty of the guild stewards (Schaffer) to carry the candles in the Corpus Christi procession.61 The account book of the alderman, established in 1425, includes regular entries on the making of the candles for this feast. Occasionally, the number of candles is also indicated: in 1484, thirteen candles were made for thirteen ‘trees,’ which were large wooden candlesticks.62 In most years, the Great Guild was content with eight candles. Over time, the annual expenditure on candles increased, which can perhaps be explained by inflation but was more likely due to the elite guild’s growing desire to represent itself. After all, the procession was not only about the veneration of the Body of Christ, but also about secular ambitions, such as the manifestation of individual status and group identity. The accounts of the Great Guild obviously concentrate on fiscal matters and reveal little about the ritual itself. As is known from other regions in Europe, one of the central questions for urban associations in connection with the feast of Corpus Christi was the order of precedence in the procession, often leading to rivalry and even serious conflicts.63 The order in the procession was 58

59 60 61 62 63

For Denmark and Sweden, see Thelma Jexlev, “Corpus Christi and Easter Period Datings of Danish Medieval Documents,” in Medieval Spirituality in Scandinavia and Europe, ed. Lars Bisgaard et al. (Odense: Odense University Press, 2001), 214–15. For the Corpus Christi feast in Livonia, see Mänd, Urban Carnival, 163–69. Hermann von Bruiningk, Messe und kanonisches Stundengebet nach dem Brauche der Rigaschen Kirche im späteren Mittelalter (Riga: Kymmel, 1904), 113. Liv-, Est- und Curländisches Urkundenbuch, vol. 3, ed. Friedrich Georg von Bunge (Reval: Kluge & Ströhm, 1857), no. 1176. Nottbeck, Die alten Schragen, 46–47, art. 63. TLA, coll. 191, inv. 2, no. 16, 125 (1484). The amount of wax for 13 candles was about 25 kg. Rubin, Corpus Christi, 263; Benjamin R. McRee, “Unity or Division? The Social Meaning of Guild Ceremony in Urban Communities,” in City and Spectacle in Medieval Europe, ed. Barbara A. Hanawalt and Kathryn L. Reyerson (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota

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usually defined according to social hierarchies: the most desirable positions were at the rear—closest to the Eucharist, borne by the clergy—whereas the front positions were the least valued.64 Some scholars have suggested that public rituals such as Corpus Christi processions were demonstrations of unity for the entire urban community.65 Others have argued that the effect was exactly the opposite: that the competition among guilds and confraternities for more prestigious positions in processions promoted division rather than unity, and that the order of marching further emphasized the lines of demarcation between various social groups.66 The interpretation of Livonian sources supports the second opinion. Two regulations from Tallinn, in 1451 and 1460, indicate that the question of the order of precedence had been acute there for quite some time.67 In 1451, eight days after Corpus Christi, the leaders of the three major guilds (the Great Guild, St. Canute’s Guild, and St. Olaf’s Guild) and of St. Gertrude’s Guild68 gathered to discuss and settle the marching order of associations “to avoid in the future the discord that had often and each year emerged.”69 The agreement of this year and of 1460 established the order as follows: St. Gertrude’s Guild would carry its candles after the craftsmen; after this guild came St. Olaf’s Guild and St. Canute’s Guild, followed by the Great Guild. The ship captains, who had to produce four main candles, were to follow the Great Guild, and it was stressed that the captains who carried these candles had to be Germans. If there were not enough German captains in the city at the time of the procession, these candles were carried by the wardens of St. Gertrude’s Guild. The ship captains were followed by the Black Heads and the candles of the May Count. After these marched the Table Guild. The Eucharist was carried at the end of the procession. Although the order of precedence indicated in these two regulations quite appropriately reflects the hierarchy of the associations, there are also other interesting points here. The first is that the regulations do not mention city councilors. Evidence from Western European cities suggests that city

64 65 66 67 68 69

Press, 1994), 189; Mervyn James, “Ritual, Drama and Social Body in the Late Medieval English Town,” Past and Present 98 (February 1983): 18–19. James, “Ritual, Drama and Social Body,” 5; McRee, “Unity or Division,” 194. James, “Ritual, Drama and Social Body,” 4, 9–12. McRee, “Unity or Division,” 189, 203. Liv, Est- und Kurländisches Urkundenbuch, vol. 11, ed. Philipp Schwartz (Riga, Moscow: J. Deubner, 1905), no. 158; Nottbeck, Die alten Schragen, 52–53. St. Gertrude’s Guild united sailors and foreign travelers, and was probably associated with St. Gertrude’s chapel near the harbor: Johansen and Mühlen, Deutsch und Undeutsch, 67. Liv, Est- und Kurländisches Urkundenbuch, vol. 11, no. 158; Nottbeck, Die alten Schragen, 52.

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councilors and other dignitaries marched at the rear of the procession and it was often they who carried the canopy over the Eucharist, which was borne by the clergy.70 The same might have been true in Tallinn, so that the omission of the city councilors from the above-mentioned regulations could be explained by the fact that their place in the procession was not a matter of contention. The second point of interest is that the Black Heads had a somewhat better place in the procession than the members of the Great Guild, the latter preceding the Black Heads. The ‘correct’ order should have been the opposite. The third and the most intriguing point is that the Great Guild and its Table Guild are listed separately. It remains unclear how those men and women who were members of both associations made a choice between the two. Quite likely, the wardens of the Table Guild and their wives were expected to represent the Table Guild, just as the alderman, his assessors, and the elders represented the Great Guild. But what about the ordinary members? Were there any gender-based differences? Did women prefer to associate themselves with the charitable guild and men with the occupational one? There are no sources to determine how many members chose to identify themselves with one or the other organization, and what their reasons were. It is also of great significance that the charitable Table Guild marched closest to the Eucharist, i.e., in the most prestigious position. The regulations from 1451 and 1460 say nothing about other urban associations, such as minor guilds and confraternities of a religious character. It can be surmised that, since the regulations were primarily concerned with the precedence of major organizations, the issue of the processing order of lesser associations probably did not matter to them. In that case, the religious confraternities were likely to occupy the positions in the front of the procession. It is also possible that there was more than one procession in the city and that some religious confraternities organized their marching separately from other urban groups. This could, above all, be true for the Virgin Mary’s Guild on Cathedral Hill: its statutes obliged every brother and sister to participate in the Corpus Christi procession, and, while the brothers carried the candles, the sisters carried the statue of the Virgin.71 It is not known if the Virgin Mary’s Guild arranged its own procession or whether they cooperated with other religious confraternities active on Cathedral Hill. The marching order within the umbrella guilds of craftsmen was also a matter that was not regulated on the level of the entire urban community, but 70 71

Rubin, Corpus Christi, 257. Friedrich Stillmark, “Der älteste Schragen der Dom- oder Mariengilde zu Reval,” Beiträge zur Kunde Estlands, vol. 18 (Reval: Kluge, 1932), 39–40, art. 24.

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43

instead among the professions themselves. For instance, the statutes of the shoemakers from 1416 and 1481 solved the problem as follows: one year the candles of the blacksmiths followed those of the shoemakers, and the next year the order was reversed. The apprentices marched before the masters. Before the shoemakers and blacksmiths marched the tailors and the bakers.72 An account book of the Great Guild indicates that the Corpus Christi procession took place on two consecutive days,73 but it is not clear if one of the days was the eve of the feast or the day that followed, i.e., Friday. The route of Corpus Christi processions is not indicated in the sources. This is unfortunate, for in places where these routes are documented, such as in some English and French towns, the selection of streets followed and locations passed reveal a lot about the perception of urban space and how city dwellers dealt with historical borders in their city.74 Considering the information on the routes of parades in Riga and Tallinn that took place at Shrovetide or in connection with the festive entries of a lord,75 it can be surmised that the Corpus Christi procession moved along the main streets, which were decorated for this purpose; halted at the main churches; and ended in the city center: the market. Indeed, the scanty records from Tallinn indicate that the monstrance with the host was carried through or around the city (Low German umme de stadt), that it was for a certain time placed on a platform in the marketplace for public veneration, that candles were set in front of it, and that a wooden canopy stood over it, serving both as a decoration and as protection for the Eucharist from rain and birds.76 Special benches were placed for the priests to kneel in front of the Holy Sacrament.77 The canopy belonged to the Great Guild, who paid for setting it up and afterwards for taking it back to the guildhall, where it was stored.78 Thus, the guild did much more than merely march in the procession; it played a significant role in setting the scene for the great religious feast and in providing a worthy decoration for the Body of Christ. 72 73 74

75 76

77 78

TLA, coll. 190, inv. 2, no. 23 (1416), fols. 4v–5r; no. 24 (1481), fol. 5r. LUAB, Ms. 14, 64. Rubin, Corpus Christi, 267–9; Anne Higgins, “Streets and Markets,” in A New History of Early English Drama, ed. John D. Cox and David Scott Kastan (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), 83–85. Mänd, Urban Carnival, 191, 262–68. Leonid Arbusow Jr, Die Einführung der Reformation in Liv-, Est- und Kurland (Leipzig: Heinsius Nachfolger, 1921), 92. That the Eucharist stood in the marketplace and was flanked with candles is indicated, e.g., in an account book of the Great Guild: TLA, coll. 191, inv. 2, no. 16, 125 (1482–84). LUAB, Ms. 14, 69. LUAB, Ms. 14, 10, 51, 64, 70, 75, 85, 91.

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The veneration of the host and the associated rituals reached their peak in the first decades of the sixteenth century. However, the years 1524–25 marked the culmination of the Reformation in the major Livonian cities: in Riga, the churches were plundered by mobs in March 1524, and in Tallinn in September of the same year. The Protestants denied the real presence of Christ in the Sacrament and thus the Reformation put an abrupt end to Corpus Christi processions. In Tallinn, the Corpus Christi procession is known to have taken place for the last time in May 1524.79

Festive Space

To discuss the festive space separately from the ritual space is again a matter of choice, because every medieval festival included ritual acts and most of the rituals took place in the framework of feasts and festivals. It would perhaps be more fruitful to distinguish between public rituals, such as the Corpus Christi procession, which took place in the public space—in streets and squares— and were witnessed by everybody, and the more private rituals, which took place within the walls of the guildhall. However, although some of the annual festivals of guilds and confraternities followed a rather strict scenario, in which every act and every speech was to be performed at a certain time and in a certain manner, the festivals also included spontaneous elements, which cannot be classified as ritual behavior.80 Just as in any other guild or confraternity, the social life of the Table Guild culminated in its annual festivals, which were primarily meant for the members. The main annual festivals of the Great Guild—Christmas, Shrovetide, shooting at the popinjay, and the May Count festival, in addition to banqueting in the guildhall—also included several outdoor activities, while the festivals of the Table Guild took place only within the walls of the Great Guild and were thus much more private events. Unlike the main festivals of the Great Guild, which lasted for several days or even weeks, the festive assembly of the Table Guild was limited to a day. According to the statutes of 1363, a festive assembly of the Table Guild was arranged twice a year: on the Tuesday following Easter and on All Souls Day (2 November).81 The program of the event was apparently rather modest: the 79 80 81

Mänd, Urban Carnival, 168–69. For the festival scenarios, see Mänd, Urban Carnival, 61–66 (Christmas), 73–88 (Shrovetide). Nottbeck, Die alten Schragen, 65, art. 10–11. At some point, this was changed, because the two festival regulations from the first decades of the sixteenth century indicate that at

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45

records mention only a banquet, the singing of religious songs, and the commemoration of dead members. There is no reference to dancing, games, or other entertainment, though the members were required to drink a barrel of beer together and sing “Christ is resurrected.”82 In the regulations from the early sixteenth century, other songs or musical pieces are mentioned as well, such as “Benedicite” and “Gratias.”83 The regulations reveal that a parish priest was present at the festival and that one of his tasks was to encourage the members to sing.84 The guests also included city councilors, who were served at the table by junior members of the Table Guild. The food served at these festivals included several meat dishes, as would be appropriate for the upper-class members; unlike at the festivals of the Great Guild, however, there were no expensive imported wines on the table: only beer, mead, and cider were served.85 The modest nature of the annual festival of the Table Guild was most likely due to the charitable nature of the organization. This fact was also emphasized by the presence of a parish priest: a figure whom one would not find at the festivals of the Great Guild or the craft guilds. Instead, the festivals of the Table Guild have more in common with those of the religious confraternities. Annual festivals were necessary for reaffirming and strengthening group solidarity. Ritual activities, such as eating, drinking and singing together, as well as commemorating deceased brothers and sisters, bound the members of the Table Guild together and expressed their common values. The festival venue—the Great Guildhall—can, on the one hand, be regarded as a private space, because entrance to it was mainly restricted to the members. On the other hand, concerning the presence of distinguished guests—the city councilors and the priest—it would be more justified to call it a semipublic space. Although the festival took place indoors, it was publicly known in the city that on this particular day and in this particular building members of the Table Guild would gather and feast together. There is no mention of it in the sources, but it is plausible that the city councilors arrived at the guildhall together, as a group, and that some members of the guild were waiting at the door to greet them. It is also probable that the stairs and entrance to the guildhall, and perhaps also the façade, were decorated for this day, advertising the

82 83 84 85

that time the annual festival took place on the second Sunday after Easter. Ibid., 68, art. 1; 70, art. 1. Ibid., 65, art. 10; 97, art. 10. Ibid., 69, art. 9 and 12. Ibid., 71, art. 12. For food and drink, see Mänd, Urban Carnival, 217, 322–24, tables 3a–3b.

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great day of the charitable elite guild. In this way, a private event would also have constituted a public spectacle.

Conclusion

The analysis of various activities of the Table Guild confirms that, aside from the devotional practices, such as prayer, that were the confraternity’s primary purpose, they also actively engaged in poor relief, memorial rites, and social activities. While the charitable work was directed toward people from the lower social strata, the quotidian religious practices and annual festivals were primarily meant for the guild members and their distinguished guests. All these activities undoubtedly strengthened the internal unity among the members, expressed their corporate identity, and shaped their public image. Different activities took place at different places and were of different degrees of public accessibility. The Corpus Christi procession was probably the most public event, moving along the main streets and squares. The order in which the guilds and confraternities marched was a matter of dispute and regulation, and reflected the social hierarchies and tensions within the urban community. Devotional practices took place mainly in the church, but some of them, such as the commemoration of the dead, encompassed the guildhall as well, thus correcting the understanding of the guildhalls as buildings of an entirely profane nature. Charity was again chiefly associated with the church— not with the building as a whole, but with its most secular part at the west end. This chapter began with the assertion that, through their activities, the guilds and confraternities made use of and influenced the urban space of Tallinn in several ways. It should also be remembered that space was not something static, either physically or mentally: it was continually reconstructed and redefined, and it was perceived differently by various social groups and at different moments in time.

Identifying Contextual Factors

47

Chapter 2

Identifying Contextual Factors: Religious Confraternities in Norwich and Leiden, c. 1300–1550 Arie van Steensel Religious confraternities were ubiquitous in medieval and early modern European society. They mainly proliferated in cities and towns from the late twelfth century onwards, but they were not exclusively an urban phenomenon. The concerns clerics and lay people harbored about their spiritual well-being and afterlife translated into the formation of these protective societies, bound together by the idea of spiritual kinship and practices of sociability. Yet, notwithstanding the predominantly pious motives of the brothers and sisters, confraternal membership could also have earthlier rewards, in terms of solidarity, political mobilization, and economic profit. In recent years, these secular functions have attracted the interest of scholars who seek to understand the pivotal role of voluntary associations in the social formation of medieval and early modern urban communities. The social activities of medieval and early modern confraternities have drawn the most attention in this respect. Although charity was deemed essential to salvation, only a minority of confraternities are known to have formally supported members in need, and even fewer were engaged in civic welfare—though clear differences can be discerned between urban confraternities in Italy and those in England and the Low Countries.1 Furthermore, the significance of multi-stranded relationships within confraternities has been highlighted: that is to say, confraternity members formed social networks within which social, cultural, economic, and political exchange could also take place. Recent empirical studies, however, have cast doubts on the significance of the social capital generated by confraternities for economic and

1 Benjamin R. McRee, “Charity and Gild Solidarity in Late Medieval England,” Journal of British Studies 32, no. 3 (1993): 195–225; Christopher F. Black, Italian Confraternities in the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 10–17, 170–78; Paul Trio, “Les confréries des Pays-Bas face au problème de la pauvreté (XVème-XVIème siècle),” in Confraternite, chiese e società. Aspetti e problemi dell’associazionismo laicale europeo in età moderna e contemporanea, ed. Liana Bertoldi Lenoci (Fasano: Schena, 1994), 277–88.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_004

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Van Steensel

political networking.2 Thus, despite all good efforts, a compelling answer to the question of how religious confraternities benefitted members beyond their core devotional services, as well as how they contributed to the well-being of the civic community at large, has still to be formulated.3 But it can at least be assumed that the scope and nature of the extra-religious roles of confraternities, as of other medieval voluntary associations, were shaped by contextual factors to an extent that precludes a comprehensive, generalized explanation. And this in turn raises another question: which contextual factors were of importance and how can they be determined? This chapter analyses the societal involvement of religious confraternities in the late medieval towns of Leiden and Norwich, in order to answer the questions of what and how contextual factors shaped their extra-religious activities. The confraternities are placed in their respective urban contexts, with the aim of establishing how and to what extent their functioning and organization developed in interplay with those of other institutions, such as guilds, parishes, and charitable foundations. Systematic cross-town comparisons of confraternal membership and activities are precluded by the nature of the available source material; however, by comparing and differentiating between Norwich and Leiden, the particular political, economic, and religious circumstances that shaped the development of confraternities in these late medieval towns can be identified. The focus on Norwich and Leiden is justified by the fact that both regional urban centers had enough in common to make meaningful comparisons and isolate the factors that determined the functioning of confraternities.

2 Richard Goddard, “Medieval Business Networks. St Mary’s Guild and the Borough Court in Later Medieval Nottingham,” Urban History 40, no. 1 (2013): 3–27; Wouter Ryckbosch and Ellen Decraene, “Household Credit, Social Relations, and Devotion in the Early Modern Economy. A Case Study of Religious Confraternities and Credit Relationships in the Southern Netherlands,” Tijdschrift voor sociale en economische geschiedenis 11 (2014): 1–28; Maarten F. Van Dijck, “Bonding or Bridging Social Capital? The Evolution of Brabantine Fraternities during the Late Medieval and Early Modern Period,” in Faith’s Boundaries. Laity and Clergy in Early Modern Confraternities, ed. Nicholas Terpstra, Adriano Prosperi, and Stefania Pastore (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012), 153–81. 3 The most recent attempt is the important study by Gervase Rosser, The Art of Solidarity in the Middle Ages: Guilds in England 1250–1550 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 44, who argues that “the overwhelming majority of these goals [of confraternities] may be characterized as ethical.”

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Inscribing the confraternities in medieval Leiden and Norwich into their urban landscape is, in another way, a “de-institutionalizing” approach,4 moving the focus from the pious confraternities proper to the relations with their institutional environment, in order to explain why voluntary associations functioned differently in different places or at different times. As such, the insights derived from these case studies contribute to the debate on whether the networks, norms, and practices generated by religious confraternities were conducive to political stability, social cohesion, and economic exchange in premodern urban societies.

Confraternities and Guilds

Religious confraternities were founded long before the fourteenth century, but it is from the second half of this century that they appear more regularly in the records of Leiden and Norwich.5 Still, many of these associations left few documentary traces, because they remained small in terms of membership, or existed only for a short period of time.6 Nevertheless, the existence of a considerable number of confraternal associations in late medieval Leiden and Norwich has been documented (Fig. 2.1). It is usually unknown precisely when a particular confraternity or guild was founded and if it was a long-lived foundation; the chronological distribution shown in the table is generally based on first mentions (and sometimes even single references) in the records. Guilds and confraternities left more documentary traces after the fourteenth century, 4 For this term, see Nicholas Terpstra, “De-Institutionalizing Confraternity Studies. Fraternalism and Social Capital in Cross-Cultural Contexts,” in Early Modern Confraternities in Europe and the Americas: International and Interdisciplinary Perspectives, ed. Christopher F. Black and Pamela Gravestock (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 264–83. 5 This increase is sometimes partially attributed to the Black Death, whose devastating effects spurred devotional practices among townsmen and forced them to come together in protective societies. See, for instance, Caroline M. Barron, “The Parish Fraternities of Medieval London,” in The Church in Pre-Reformation Society: Essays in Honour of F.R.H. Du Boulay, ed. Caroline M. Barron and Christopher Harper-Bill (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 1985), 13–37. 6 Only four confraternities are known to have continuously existed for more than a century in Norwich, compared with thirteen confraternities in Leiden. The confraternities experienced their heyday in the first half of the sixteenth century, with about twenty-one associations between 1510 and 1535 in Norwich, compared with thirty-four between 1500 and 1525 in Leiden; Norman P. Tanner, The Church in Late Medieval Norwich, 1370–1532 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1984), 74; Madelon van Luijk, “‘Ter eeren ende love Goodes.’ Religieuze lekenbroeder- en zusterschappen te Leiden, 1386–1572,” Jaarboek der sociale en economische geschiedenis van Leiden en omstreken 10 (1998): 30–31.

50

Van Steensel 1250– 1299

Leiden

1300– 1349

1350– 1399

1400– 1449

1450– 1499

1500– 1549

Total

Guilds

 3

 8

5

13

29

Confraternites

 5

11

9

31

56

 8

28

58

94

20

 7

14

52

Norwich Guilds Confraternites 1

2

8

FIGURE 2.1 Table showing the number of occupational and religious associations recorded in late medieval Leiden and Norwich. Data on the confraternities largely derived from: Van Luijk, “‘Ter eeren ende love Goodes’”; Tanner, The Church in Late Medieval Norwich; Kenneth S. Farnhill, Guilds and the Parish Community in Late Medieval East Anglia, c. 1470–1550 (Woodbridge: York Medieval Press, 2001).

as their organization became more formalized and the authorities sought to keep a closer eye on them. Yet, the general pattern is that the inhabitants of late medieval Leiden and Norwich felt an incessant urge to organize themselves into corporations. For analytical reasons the religious confraternities are distinguished in the table from the confraternities attached to a guild—that is, an association of trades- or craftsmen. In general, medieval occupational associations were closely connected to religious confraternities; the former often developed out of the latter, and confraternities were at the heart of almost every guild, although they did not necessarily overlap entirely in membership and administration in these cases.7 The narrow ties between confraternities and guilds meant that the distinction between them was not always so clear cut: in the fourteenth-century records of Leiden and Norwich, occupational associations appear primarily as religious confraternities rather than as economic or political interest groups. Nonetheless, this contribution focuses on devotional brother and sisterhoods, the membership of which was not restricted to specific professions or occupations. The occupational associations had strategic reasons to present themselves as confraternities. In the case of the Dutch town, the proper crafts or occupational guilds were suppressed by the town council with the support of the Count of Holland, probably out of fear of radical artisans and laborers, who had achieved political power in some cities and towns in the Low Countries

7 Catharina Lis and Hugo Soly, Worthy Efforts: Attitudes to Work and Workers in Pre-Industrial Europe (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2012), 324–25.

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during the early fourteenth century.8 In 1313, the Count ordered the magistrates of Leiden to prohibit the townsmen from organizing themselves into public or secretive guilds, of which no “honor or profit” would be gained.9 Although the ordinance does not specifically mention trade or craft guilds, the authorities prevented the occupational associations from developing into autonomous organizations with significant political privileges.10 While the political unrest instigated by the fullers in 1393 did not result in political representation or more autonomy for the guilds,11 the ambachten gradually gained more economic responsibilities in the fifteenth century. Still, the guilds in Leiden primarily figure in the late medieval sources as closed religious confraternities for traders or artisans. In Norwich at the end of the thirteenth century several occupational groupings were fined for forming guilds in defiance of royal prohibition, but an early fourteenth-century custumal arranged for the appointment by the town council of supervisors over each craft.12 Thus, traders and craftsmen were at that time free to organize themselves into occupational associations, and the first incorporated guilds were established in the second half of the fourteenth century. The guilds remained under strict control of the mayor and aldermen and played no role in the urban government or electoral procedures. It was decided in 1415 to give the guilds more autonomy and that guild organization was to

8

9

10

11

12

Maarten R. Prak, “Corporate Politics in the Low Countries. Guilds as Institutions, 14th to 18th centuries,” in Craft Guilds in the Early Modern Low Countries: Work, Power and Representation, ed. Maarten R. Prak et al. (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 75–81. Frans van Mieris, Groot charterboek der graaven van Holland, van Zeeland en heeren van Vriesland..., vol. 2 (Leiden: Pieter van der Eyk, 1754), 122; see, for later prohibitions on the formation of ‘rebellious’ associations in 1394 and 1406, Hendrik G. Hamaker ed., De middeneeuwsche keurboeken van de stad Leiden (Leiden: S.C. van Doesburgh, 1873), 60, 120. Jacob C. Overvoorde, “De Leidsche ambachtsbroederschappen,” in Rechtshistorische opstellen, aangeboden aan Mr. S.J. Fockema Andreae (Haarlem: De Erven F. Bohn, 1914), 334–75; cf. Jan W. Marsilje, “Bestonden er in het middeleeuwse Leiden volwaardige gilden?,” Leids Jaarboekje 91 (1999): 48–58, who does not substantiate the claim that ‘ordinary guilds’ existed in fourteenth-century Leiden. Marc Boone and Adrianus J. Brand, “Vollersoproeren en collectieve actie in Gent en Leiden in de 14de-15de eeuw,” Tijdschrift voor sociale geschiedenis 19, no. 2 (1993): 168–92 (at 183). Adolphus Ballard and James Tait, British Borough Charters, 1216–1307 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1923), 283; William Hudson and John C. Tingey, eds., The Records of the City of Norwich, vol. 1 (Norwich: Jarrold & Sons, 1906), xxix, 107–8, 192–93, 370. The tanners were fined in 1288 and 1291; the shoemakers, saddlers, and fullers in 1293.

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mirror the example of London. Revised regulations were issued in 1449 and 1543.13 At the same time, almost all of these Norwich guilds were attached to a religious confraternity; in fact, a religious confraternity of the girdlers (societatis zonatorum) is mentioned as early as 1292. Furthermore, among the confraternities that reported on their affairs in 1389 were seven brother- and sisterhoods of craftsmen, of which the tailors were founded in 1350, the carpenters in 1375, the pelterers in 1376, and the saddlers and furriers in 1385.14 The ordinances of these confraternities related to devotional and social matters, in contrast to guild ordinances of a later date that concerned organizational and economic matters.15 Unlike the situation in Leiden, the guilds in Norwich developed into separate bodies from the religious confraternities of traders and artisans.16 To return to the table (Fig. 2.1): it cannot be argued that the growth of the number of confraternities was a direct consequence of demographic developments, because Norwich and Leiden experienced very different demographic fates in the later Middle Ages. The English town reached its peak in the early fourteenth century, with estimates ranging between 15,000 to 17,000 inhabitants in 1311 and possibly even 25,000 around 1333, but its population fell sharply in the decades after the Black Death, resulting in a prolonged period of demographic contraction. It was only in the early sixteenth century that Norwich’s population passed the threshold of 10,000 inhabitants again, its population estimated at above 12,000 in 1524.17 Leiden, on the other hand, was a small but fast-growing town in the early fourteenth century, with an estimated 4,000 13

14

15 16

17

William Hudson and John C. Tingey, eds., The Records of the City of Norwich, vol. 2 (Norwich: Jarrold & Sons, 1910), xliii–xliv, 278, 296; Samantha Sagui, “Mid-Level Officials in Fifteenth-Century Norwich,” in The Fifteenth Century, ed. Linda Clark and Carole Rawcliffe, vol. 12 (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2013), 115–17. The other guilds were the artificers and operators, barbers and candle makers; Hudson and Tingey, eds., The Records of the City of Norwich, vol. 2, 15; Joshua T. Smith, ed., English Gilds. The Original Ordinances of more than One Hundred Early English Gilds (London: N. Trübner & Co, 1870), 27–44; John C. Tingey, “The Hitherto Unpublished Certificates of Norwich Gilds,” Norfolk Archaeology 16 (1907): 305; John L’Estrange and Walter Rye, “Norfolk Guilds,” Norfolk Archaeology 7 (1872): 112. See, for instance, the ordinances of the worsted weavers (1511): Hudson and Tingey, eds., The Records of the City of Norwich, vol. 2, 376–79. In 1522, the possibility was explored of merging occupations without vows (i.e., a confraternity) with those that had them; Norfolk Record Office (hereafter NRO), Norwich City Records (hereafter NCR), Case 16D/2, Assembly Proceedings, 1491–1553, fol. 134v (25 June 1522). Elizabeth Rutledge, “Norwich before the Black Death: Economic Life,” in Medieval Norwich, ed. Carole Rawcliffe and Richard Wilson (London and New York: Hambledon Press,

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53

inhabitants around 1350. Although comparatively spared by the first outbreak of the Black Death, the town’s growth was modest until the economic boom of the 1440s and onwards, after which it reached a demographic peak of 12,000 to 14,000 dwellers in 1498.18 This growth rate was not sustained in the first half of the sixteenth century, however, and the total population of Leiden stabilized at about 12,000 inhabitants. In the early fourteenth century, Norwich (Fig. 2.2) was the larger and more complex urban settlement of the two towns.19 This is also reflected by the walls surrounding the English town, which were completed earlier in the fourteenth century and encircled the urban space along with the river. A communal effort resulted in the completion of Norwich’s walls in 1343, while the third and last medieval expansion of Leiden’s physical space (Fig. 2.3) took place a few decades later, in 1386–89.20 The enclosed urban landscape was characterized by more open or built-up areas, according to the demographic fluctuations of the later medieval period. The earlier development of Norwich did not accelerate the institutionalization process of the occupational and religious groups significantly; the pattern of development in Leiden was very similar.21 Neither did the appearance and disappearance of guilds and confraternities in late medieval Norwich and Leiden show a direct correlation with the towns’ economic and demographic fortunes.

18

19

20

21

2004), 158; John F. Pound, “The Social and Trade Structure of Norwich 1525–1575,” Past & Present 34 (1966): 50. Hanno Brand, Over macht en overwicht: stedelijke elites in Leiden (1420–1510) (Leuven: Garant, 1996), 29–30; Dirk J. Noordam, “Leiden in last. De financiële positie van de Leidenaren aan het einde van de Middeleeuwen,” Jaarboek der sociale en economische geschiedenis van Leiden en omstreken 13 (2002): 18. Elizabeth Rutledge, “Immigration and Population Growth in Early Fourteenth-Century Norwich: Evidence from the Tithing Roll,” Urban History 15 (1988): 15–30; Dick E.H. de Boer, “De ontdorping van de stad: Leiden rond 1300,” Leids Jaarboekje 100 (2008): 33–61. Rutledge, “Immigration and Population Growth,” 16–17; Edward T. van der Vlist, “De stedelijke ruimte en haar bewoners,” in Leiden. De geschiedenis van een Hollandse stad. Deel 1: Leiden tot 1574, ed. Jan W. Marsilje (Leiden: Stichting Geschiedschrijving Leiden, 2002), 44–48. The increase in the number of confraternities fits into a European pattern: Katherine A. Lynch, Individuals, Families, and Communities in Europe, 1200–1800: The Urban Foundations of Western Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 91–92.

54

FIGURE 2.2 Map of late medieval Norwich. Photo: David Dobson.

Van Steensel

Identifying Contextual Factors

55

FIGURE 2.3 Map of late medieval Leiden. Photo: Christian Smid.



Confraternities and the Parish

In comparison to Leiden, Norwich’s early development had lasting consequences for its urban religious landscape. By the end of the thirteenth century, the English town counted approximately sixty parishes, nearly all of which dated back to eleventh-century churches and chapels. Some of these parishes disappeared in the later medieval period, but an impressive number (forty-six) have been documented for the 1520s, in addition to four friaries and several other religious institutions. This high proportion of parishes to parishioners did not result in a demolition of redundant churches; in fact, the parishes were not impoverished, and at least twenty-nine churches underwent major reconstruction during the fifteenth century.22 22

Tanner, The Church in Late Medieval Norwich, 2–5; Elizabeth Rutledge, “An Urban Environment: Norwich in the Fifteenth Century,” in The Fifteenth Century, ed. Linda Clark and Carole Rawcliffe, vol. 12 (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2013), 91.

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Whereas Norwich counted forty-six parishes for about 12,000 inhabitants in the 1520s, Leiden’s three parishes served about the same number of parishioners. Until the early fourteenth century, the territorial borders of Leiden coincided with those of the parish of St. Peter, which had developed from a comital chapel into a parish church during the twelfth century. The growth of Leiden resulted in the incorporation of two younger parishes into the urban territory: that of St. Pancras in the eastern part of the town, which was elevated to a collegiate church in 1366, and of Our Lady in the northwestern part.23 This increase in the number of parishes reflected the growth of the urban population and territory in the fourteenth century, but further expansion of Leiden in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries had to be accommodated by these parishes. The later development of the parishes of St. Pancras and of Our Lady was accentuated by their role in urban poor relief. The wardens of the Holy Ghost Table of St. Peter retained their responsibility of caring for the poor, foundlings, and orphans in all three parishes during the later medieval period; only the wardens of the resident poor (huiszittenmeesters) were appointed by Leiden’s magistrate in each parish from the early fifteenth century onwards.24 The parish network in medieval England was formed in the period before 1300, and it remained relatively unaltered thereafter.25 As Norwich developed as an urban settlement in the period from the eleventh to the early fourteenth century, it had far more parishes than Leiden, which experienced its demographic boom later, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The key question, of course, is if the different ratios between parishes and parishioners in Norwich and Leiden affected the role of the parish as an institution of local organization and the participation of parishioners in church matters.26 The 23

24 25

26

Brand, Over macht en overwicht, 24; Bauke N. Leverland, St. Pancras op het Hogeland: kerk en kapittel in Leiden tot aan de Reformatie, ed. Dick E.H. de Boer and Rudolf C.J. van Maanen (Hilversum: Verloren, 2000), 20, 27–31. In 1514, St. Peter counted about 5,000 communicants, St. Pancras between 4,000 and 5,000, and Our Lady a mere 550. Christina Ligtenberg, De armezorg te Leiden tot het einde van de 16e eeuw (’s-Gravenhage: Nijhoff, 1908), 203, 213. Beat A. Kümin, “The English Parish in a European Perspective,” in The Parish in English Life, 1400–1600, ed. Katherine L. French, Gary G. Gibbs, and Beat A. Kümin (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1997), 21–22; Jean Dumoulin, “La paroisse urbaine à la fin du moyen âge. Le cas de quatre villes de l’ancien diocèse de Tournai: Bruges, Gand, Lille et Tournai,” in La paroisse en questions. Actes du colloque de Saint-Ghislain, 25 novembre 1995, ed. Yannick Coutiez and Daniël Van Overstraeten (Ath. Mons and SaintGhislain: Cercle royal d’histoire et d’archéologie, 1998), 95–108. The parish-to-parishioners ratio was also surprisingly low in the southern Low Countries, where cities and towns were well established by 1300. In comparison to England, parish life in the medieval Low Countries has received little attention from historians: Katherine L. French, Gary G. Gibbs, and Beat A. Kümin, eds.,

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urban authorities in Leiden in the fourteenth century had a strong grip on the appointment of churchwardens, who were recruited from the ranks of the urban ruling elite and advised by a “council of the parish.”27 The churchwardens in Norwich have a less prominent role in the sources, but there is no reason to assume that the community of the parish functioned differently here from those in other English towns. The churchwardens were elected by the assembly of parishioners, and were of presumably more modest social status compared to those of Leiden.28 They bore responsibility for the fabric of Norwich parish churches, but unfortunately none of their accounts have been preserved for this period.29 The comparatively large size of the parishes in Leiden does not directly explain the number of confraternities that were founded in the later medieval period. It could, for example, be argued that the relationship between ordinary parishioners and their church became increasingly impersonal due to the growth of the two major parishes from the mid-fourteenth century onwards, giving them reason to form confraternities that served their personal and collective devotional, fraternal, and charitable needs.30 This interpretation would corroborate Rosser’s explanation for the popularity of these associations in late medieval England; namely that they allowed laymen and -women to collectively overcome the topographical and institutional boundaries of the

27 28 29

30

The Parish in English Life, 1400–1600 (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1997); Jan A.E. Kuijs, “Who Controlled the Urban Parish? Some Ways in Which Towns in the Late Medieval Northern Netherlands Got Control of Their Parish Churches,” in Processions and Church Fabrics in the Low Countries during the Late Middle Ages, ed. Marjan De Smet, Jan A.E. Kuijs, and Paul Trio (Leuven: Katholieke Universiteit Leuven, 2006), 83–91; Anne-Laure Van Bruaene and Michal Bauwens, “De Sint-Jacobskerk te Gent. Een onderzoek naar de betekenis van de stedelijke parochiekerk in de zestiende-eeuwse Nederlanden,” Handelingen der Maatschappij voor Geschiedenis en Oudheidkunde te Gent 65 (2011): 103–25. Brand, Over macht en overwicht, 164; Jacob C. Overvoorde, Archieven van de kerken 1 (Leiden: G.F. Théonville, 1915), 15–16. Beat A. Kümin, The Shaping of a Community: The Rise and Reformation of the English Parish, c. 1400–1560 (Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1996), 23–41. Tanner, The Church in Late Medieval Norwich, 16, 103, 126–29; Hudson and Tingey, eds., The Records of the City of Norwich, vol. 2, 97; Jonathan C. Finch, “The Churches,” in Medieval Norwich, ed. Carole Rawcliffe and Richard G. Wilson (London and New York: Hambledon Press, 2004), 70–71. This reasoning is also unsound, as more confraternities (sixteen) were based in the church of Our Lady than in St. Pancras, which was almost ten times larger and had thirteen confraternities.

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parish.31 However, the position of the confraternities in late medieval Norwich was not altogether different. The high number of parishes did not entirely obviate the need felt by parishioners to organize themselves into brother- and sisterhoods. About half of these associations were based in a parish church, indicating close ties between the (often short-lived) confraternities and the small parish communities, although only a few parish churches were home to more than one confraternity.32 The prevalence of parish confraternities is therefore difficult to reconcile with the argument that they originated in the members’ discontent with ecclesiastical institutions or the parish clergy.33 Confraternities fit into the religious landscape of Leiden and Norwich in more complex ways, which were shaped by factors other than the ecclesiastical structures alone.

Confraternities and the Body Politic

The idea that confraternities fulfilled the particular needs of lay parishioners opens up the question about what kind of roles these voluntary associations played in the urban political landscape. These relationships are most meaningfully analyzed using the concept of civic religion, which refers to the use of religious institutions and practices by civic authorities for political and religious ends; the concept also speaks to the ways in which lay people’s understanding of society was shaped by their ideas about and participation in religious practices.34 Hence, the roles of confraternities in the performance of public rituals have drawn much attention from historians, because they reveal the performed, idealized, sacred urban community, as well as the tensions between laity and clergy and between the different social groups that 31

32 33

34

Gervase Rosser, “Communities of Parish and Guild in the Late Middle Ages,” in Parish, Church and People. Local Studies in Lay Religion 1350–1750, ed. Susan J. Wright (London: Hutchinson, 1988), 32–36. The remaining associations were based at other religious institutions, such as the Cathedral (seven confraternities) and the four friaries (fourteen confraternities). In Leiden, confraternities and individuals worked together with the parish churches to establish chapels, altars, and memorial services; Douwe J. Faber, “Zorgen voor de ziel. Het Leidse memoriewezen van de late middeleeuwen,” Leids Jaarboekje 98 (2006): 67–95. The meaning of this concept is contested and its application to late-medieval urban so­ciety not unproblematic: see Andrew Brown, Civic Ceremony and Religion in Medieval Bruges c. 1300–1520 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 14–21; Nicholas Terp­ stra, “Civic Religion,” in The Oxford Handbook of Medieval Christianity, ed. John H. Arnold (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 148–65.

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constituted the community. Recognizing the variety of religious practices in—and the social dynamics of—late medieval Norwich and Leiden, it can be observed, on the one hand, how the relations between urban authorities and lay confraternities developed in both towns, and on the other, what role these associations played in the religious and civic rituals that structured the towns’ spatial and temporal rhythms. The cautious attitude of the authorities towards guilds and confraternities in fourteenth-century Norwich and Leiden indicates uncertainty on the part of the magistrates about the intentions of the members of these associations; in the fifteenth century, however, the relationship between the ruling elites and religious confraternities became less strained. This was most clearly the case in Norwich, where the confraternity of St. George became closely entwined with the civic government in the mid-fifteenth century. The religious confraternity was founded in 1385 and rose to social prominence after 1417, when the association was incorporated by royal charter and shortly thereafter issued a set of detailed ordinances.35 As has been analyzed in detail by Benjamin R. McRee, the membership of the confraternity was not only sizable but also socially diverse, including male and female members from the urban ruling families, the craft guilds, and notable county families.36 Norwich was the scene of strife between two political factions in the 1430s and 1440s, during which time the confraternity of St. George was used—though not controlled—by Thomas Wetherby, an influential citizen and leader of one of the factions, to strengthen his political network.37 After calm was restored, the confraternity was re-formed and, in 1452, a settlement was reached between the town council and the confraternity; this agreement stipulated that the outgoing mayor of the town should become alderman of the confraternity, that all aldermen should become members, and that all members of the common council could become members if they wished to.38 Although the association retained its devotional character, Norwich civic authorities achieved a supervi35 36

37

38

See, for an edition of these sources, Mary Grace, Records of the Gild of St. George in Norwich, 1389–1547 (London: Norfolk Record Society, 1937), 27–29, 33–38. Benjamin R. McRee, “Religious Gilds and Civil Order: The Case of Norwich in the Late Middle Ages,” Speculum 67, no. 1 (1992): 79–80, 90–92. Possibly, the confraternity took over the role of the confraternity of the Annunciation of St. Mary, which is sometimes identified with the elusive confraternity of the Bachelery; Tanner, The Church in Late Medieval Norwich, 78–79. McRee, “Religious Gilds and Civil Order,” 84–90; and see, from a broader perspective, Samuel K. Cohn, Popular Protest in Late Medieval English Towns (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 260–61. Grace, Records of the Gild of St. George, 39–42.

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sory role over the members and activities of the confraternity of St. George. Membership required proper behavior, and those who acted contrarily would lose their membership, civic offices, and citizenship, becoming “a man shamed and repreved and renne in the peyne of infamie.”39 In brief, the civic rulers of Norwich turned the confraternity into a means of strengthening their own political positions and preventing an escalation of mutual distrust. While religious confraternities in medieval Norwich may have been “an attractive meeting ground for the partisans of urban conflict,”40 the contrasting evidence from Leiden cautions against extrapolating this conclusion. Leiden’s urban community was repeatedly torn apart by political factionalism during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, but the two major political factions in the Dutch town—the hoeken and kabeljauwen—never organized themselves as pious associations, and they later were not identified with individuals or networks of a particular political alignment.41 Members of Leiden’s ruling families joined religious confraternities, but the town council showed little administrative concern for these associations, especially in comparison to the close supervision of the artisan associations. There are examples of confraternities that sought approval of their foundation or confirmation of their statutes from the town council, count, or bishop, but otherwise little supervision existed.42 It was only in 1556 that officials were first appointed to audit the brotherhoods’ financial administration.43 All in all, the role played by pious confraternities in politics in late medieval Norwich and Leiden was negligible. The confraternity of St. George was a significant exception, even though the association itself never represented any political interest groups. Several factors at play in Norwich during the first half of the fifteenth century explain why the confraternity became tied to the town’s government, of which the most important was probably the formation of a constitutional order and political power balance after the town became incorporated in 1404. 39 40 41

42

43

Ibid., 42–43. McRee, “Religious Gilds and Civil Order,” 95. Brand, Over macht en overwicht, 102–6. Lists of fines levied after political unrest in 1420 and in 1481–84 show that members of different factions lived in the same parishes, neighborhoods, and streets. Erfgoed Leiden en Omstreken (hereafter ELO), Archieven van de kerken, no. 330A (confraternity of St. Nicolas, 1394) and no. 372, fols. 1r–2r (confraternity of the Holy Cross, 1422– 23). Jacob C. Overvoorde, “De ordonnanties voor de Leidsche ambachtsbroederschappen,” Verslagen en mededeelingen oud-vaderlands recht 6 (1914): 620–21; Van Luijk, “‘Ter eeren ende love Goodes,’” 46.

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As a consequence of their non-involvement in urban politics, the religious confraternities in Norwich and Leiden were not regularly called upon by the civic authorities to participate in religious and civic processions until the early sixteenth century. In both towns, the responsibility of staging processions and related festivities was instead mainly borne by the trade and craft guilds or their associated confraternities. Probably as early as 1449, for example, the mayor and aldermen of Norwich ordered thirty-two craft guilds to participate annually in a procession on Corpus Christi day, starting at the College of St. Mary in the Fields, each with its banner behind the sacrament in a fixed order of precedence.44 Furthermore, the guilds participated in processions on the religious feasts of All Saints, Christmas, and Epiphany, as well as on days on which processions were organized for religious or civic reasons. Collectively, the Norwich guilds performed a cycle of twelve mystery plays on the Monday of Whitsun week in the first half of the sixteenth century.45 Finally, the ordinance for the guilds issued in 1449 stipulated that they were to hold a procession in their livery on the patron’s feast day, and the ordinances of 1543 assigned fixed guild-days to the crafts.46 Information about the religious and civic processions held in Leiden during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries is scanty, but the town council made annual payments for wine to be distributed after the two main general processions of Corpus Christi (sacramentsdag) and of Our Lady (ommegangsdag) on the sixth Sunday after Easter.47 The town militias (schutterijen) participated in the Corpus Christi procession, but the presence of occupational and religious confraternities is not mentioned in the sources. The trade and craft confraternities (ambachten) were responsible for coorganizing pageants during the procession of Our Lady in the fifteenth century, and in 1507 each guild was ordered to provide a number of performers for the plays.48 The involvement of the religious confraternities in general processions is first mentioned in 1513, when the town council listed forty-two recognized occupational and devotional associations required to bear torches and march in front of the sacrament 44 45 46 47 48

Hudson and Tingey, eds., The Records of the City of Norwich, vol. 2, 230. Norman Davis, Non-cycle Plays and Fragments (London, New York, and Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1970), xxvi–xxxii; Tanner, The Church in Late Medieval Norwich, 70–72. Hudson and Tingey, eds., The Records of the City of Norwich, vol. 2, 285–86, 310–13. ELO, Stadarchief I, no. 523, fols. 83r-v (town accounts, 1452). Petrus J. Blok, Geschiedenis eener Hollandsche stad. Eene Hollandsche stad in de middeleeuwen (’s-Gravenhage: Nijhoff, 1910), 281; Herman Brinkman, Dichten uit liefde: literatuur in Leiden aan het einde van de middeleeuwen (Hilversum: Verloren, 1997), 71–74; Piet J.M. de Baar, “De Ommegangsdag te Leiden,” Leids Jaarboekje 69 (1977): 96–103; Overvoorde, “De Leidsche ambachtsbroederschappen,” 361; ELO, Stadarchief I, no. 387, fol. 7r (1507).

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(absentees were to be fined by wardens of the confraternities). The procession was scaled up in the expectation that God would grant the town “peace and harmony, as well as trade and prosperity.”49 The later sixteenth-century statutes of the guilds obliged members to individually participate in the Corpus Christi procession, marching behind an image of their patron saint.50 In both Norwich and Leiden the religious confraternities held devotional services and local processions on the day of their patron saint,51 but their participation in the performance of the corpus christianum, the ideal of a unified urban community, was initially limited. The processions enacted this sacred body, in which political and social divisions were symbolically given a place, and their routes marked and linked to meaningful civic and religious places in the town.52 This is not to say that religious confraternities in Norwich and Leiden were not constituent parts of the civic body, but rather that the processions expressed above all the sociopolitical relations within the towns. The religious confraternities played no formal political role in either of the two towns, and the urban authorities did not invite them to participate in these top-down organized festivities.53 Besides, the membership of devotional associations was socially diverse and often locally focused, meaning that they could not easily represent the political interests of the brethren and sisters. In fact, many of them were also members of the trade and artisan guilds, organizations that could voice political concerns and that did participate in the processions.

49 50

51 52

53

This was, of course, also a period of religious change. ELO, Stadarchief I, no. 387, fols. 1r, 35r–36r, 82r (Aflezingenboek A, 1505, 1513, 1518). Processions are not mentioned in the preserved ordinances of religious confraternities in Leiden, but those of the artisan confraternity of the smiths did so in 1546: Overvoorde, “De ordonnanties voor de Leidsche ambachtsbroederschappen,” 577. The Norwich confraternity of St. Catherine, for instance, celebrated its patron saint day with a procession; Smith, ed., English Gilds, 19. This ritual performance of unity was fragile and vulnerable to disorder; therefore, the urban authorities in Norwich and Leiden took strict measures to prevent or punish disorder. Little is known about the precise routes of these processions in medieval Norwich and Leiden. The exception was the confraternity of the Annunciation of St. Mary in Norwich, whose ordinances of 1389 ordered the brethren and sisters to accompany the sacrament with torches on Corpus Christi day; Tingey, “The Hitherto Unpublished Certificates,” 296–97. The confraternity of St. George did not participate in the Corpus Christi procession. However, the members held a procession on their patron saint’s day, thereby performing a pageant depicting the story of St. George; Grace, Records of the Gild of St. George, 14–18.

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Confraternities and the Social Urban Landscape

There are few sources that provide direct information about the number and identity of confraternity members in late medieval Norwich and Leiden; if their names are known, it is generally difficult to further identify these individuals in other records, especially when they were common townsfolk. A number of general criteria applied to membership of pious confraternities: brothers and sisters were expected to be of good reputation, to pay an entrance fee, and to meet other (financial) obligations that came with membership. Membership of the confraternities was most often mixed or male, but at least four sororities that admitted only female members existed in late medieval Leiden.54 Finally, some confraternities were open only to those who fulfilled specific requirements, such as the four pilgrims’ confraternities in Leiden (St. James the Great, Jerusalem, Sts. Paul and Peter, and St. Ewout in Alsace). The priests’ brotherhood of Corpus Christi in Norwich also had an exclusive membership, but it was strictly speaking not a lay organization. The names of new confraternity members were inscribed in accounts or memorials, but few of these sources have been preserved.55 Names can further be gleaned from registers of properties, lands, and rents, but it remains difficult to identify these individuals as confraternity members. On the basis of an analysis of wills and testaments, Tanner identified many of the small confraternities that existed in medieval Norwich.56 He also calculated that only 15 per cent of the laity gave to guilds or confraternities—usually small donations in cash and rarely bequests of property. In comparison, 95 per cent of the laity left a bequest

54

55

56

Piet J.M. de Baar, “De nadagen van twee zusterschappen ‘die men hout in Sinte Pieterskercke binnen Leyden,’” in Uit Leidse bron geleverd. Studies over Leiden en de Leidenaren in het verleden, ed. Jan W. Marsilje and Bauke N. Leverland (Leiden: Gemeentearchief Leiden, 1989), 17–28. See, for example, NRO, NCR, Case 8E–F (accounts of the confraternity of St. George, 1421– 1548); and ELO, Archieven van de kerken, no. 1379 (accounts of the confraternity of St. Mary Magdalene, 1548–61). Wills and testaments are important sources that reveal the ties between individuals and confraternities, particularly in England where many of these records have been preserved in the archives of ecclesiastical probate courts. In medieval Leiden, in contrast, wills were drawn up by individuals, notaries, or aldermen, and not registered in courts. The surviving wills are found in archives of churches, guilds, and towns, but this is not a corpus that can be systematically analyzed. See, for the period 1499–1582: ELO, Het oud rechterlijk archief, no. 76A.

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for a parish church in the same period.57 These numbers attest to the strong bond of parishioners with their parish church in Norwich, especially considering that these donations were primarily designated for the high altar or for the upkeep of the church. Similar numbers cannot be produced for late medieval Leiden, as only a few wills of laypeople have been preserved for this period; however, based on the available examples, it is safe to conclude that bequests to parish churches were almost a rule, and bequests to religious confraternities an exception.58 Even though testamentary bequests may not have been a common practice, the confraternities in medieval Leiden generated enough income to acquire properties, land, and rents in and outside the town.59 The records of the confraternity of St. George in Norwich and those of St. Nicholas in Leiden show that these associations drew their members from all parts of their towns. However, these associations were the most prominent in the fifteenth century, a fact reflected by the high social profile of their members, though neither association became socially exclusive.60 The confraternity of St. George, based at the cathedral church, had over 200 members for several years; such a number indicates that it must have included ordinary artisans and their wives.61 A members’ list of the confraternity of St. Nicholas in Leiden lists 205 men who joined between 1394 and 1485. About a third of the brothers came from the town’s ruling circles, but the confraternity also counted eighteen clerics and several craftsmen among its members. The names are ordered according to street name, from which it can be determined that the majority of the brothers lived in Leiden’s oldest parish of St. Peter, in which church the confraternity was based, while eighteen brothers came from one of the other 57

58

59 60

61

Tanner, The Church in Late Medieval Norwich, 126, 132, 222–23. Sometimes testators designated gifts for religious or charitable purposes to more than one confraternity, but it is uncertain if this means they were members of all these associations. Jan Outgaertsz., who left his entire inheritance to the confraternity of St. Jacob in St. Pancras church in 1504, was such an exception: ELO, Archieven van de kerken, no. 1421. See, for the foundation of liturgical services by members of Leiden’s elites, Hanno Brand, “Mémoire individualisée et conscience communitaire. Souvenir, charité et représentation au sein des élites de Leyde à la fin du moyen âge,” in Memoria, communitas, civitas. Mémoire et conscience urbaines en occident à la fin du moyen âge, ed. Hanno Brand, Pierre Monnet, and Martial Staub (Ostfildern: J. Thorbecke, 2003), 87–116. See the several accounts and property books: ELO, Archieven van de kerken, nos. 373 (confraternity of St. Steven) and 1378 (sorority of St. Catherine). Cf. Rosser, The Art of Solidarity in the Middle Ages, 87: “Membership of a guild, whether powerful or humble in economic or political terms, was an assurance of credit and status in society.” Grace, Records of the Gild of St. George, 23; Smith (ed.), English Gilds, 453–60; McRee, “Religious Gilds and Civil Order,” 78–82.

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two parishes or from outside the town.62 It may therefore be assumed, despite the lack of available sources, that the membership of regular parish confraternities was socially diverse and mainly drawn from the local parish. Confraternities were locally rooted associations, but the significance of networks of solidarity that they embodied is not straightforward. Historians have taken both optimistic and skeptical positions in the debate on the meaning of confraternities’ charitable activities in medieval England. Some contend that there is little evidence for the actual distribution of aid by confraternities, while others emphasize that formal (monetary) assistance is not the only measure of confraternal charitable activities.63 On the basis of the bylaws and accounts rolls of the confraternity of St. George, McRee was able to give a rather detailed picture of the amount of formal relief that was distributed, as well as of its recipients. Between 1427 and 1548, the confraternity distributed aid to on average 2.2 impoverished members per year, to which on average 10 per cent of the annual income was devoted. The recipients could count on a weekly stipend of four or six pence.64 In total, eleven of the confraternities that made a return in 1389 mentioned mutual aid as one of their activities.65 The social assistance provided by the guilds in Norwich was aimed at members; they were not involved in providing poor relief to nonmembers. The religious confraternities in Leiden did not organize social safety nets for their members. The main explanation for this difference with their counterparts in Norwich is that a system of parochial poor relief was developed in the fourteenth century that was supervised by the town council but mainly financed by Leiden’s inhabitants.66 The confraternities in Leiden did make occasional distributions as part of the administration of memorial services; for example, the confraternity of St. Mary Magdalene distributed bread to the poor once a year.67 Finally, the pilgrim’s confraternity of Jerusalem supported an almshouse for thirteen poor men from 1467 onwards, but the institution was

62 63 64

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ELO, Archieven van de kerken, no. 330, fols. 1v–4v; Brand, Over macht en overwicht, 358–59. Barron, “The Parish Fraternities,” 26–27; McRee, “Charity and Gild Solidarity,” 198–99. McRee, “Charity and Gild Solidarity,” 219–20. The system was financed by means of weekly payments of a farthing by members. In this sense, it was a mutual insurance; Grace, Records of the Gild of St. George, 37. Herbert F. Westlake, The Parish Gilds of Mediæval England (London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1919), 201–06; and see n. 14. Arie van Steensel, “Variations in Urban Social Assistance. Some Examples from LateMedieval England and the Low Countries,” in Assistenza e solidarietà in Europa, secc. XIII– XVIII, ed. Francesco Ammannati (Florence: Firenze University Press, 2013), 143–48. ELO, Archief van de kerken, no. 1379 (1549).

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effectively managed by wardens appointed by the town council.68 Thus the charitable activities of the confraternities developed in an interplay with other systems and practices of poor relief, explaining why the Norwich confraternities had mutual aid schemes that were absent in Leiden. In neither town did the civic authorities charge the confraternities with the responsibility of managing civic charitable enterprises.

Conclusions

The core devotional, charitable and social functions of the late medieval religious confraternity are well known. Its organizational form and underlying ideology made it a flexible institution that met the spiritual and practical needs of clerics and laymen, rulers and subjects, rich and poor, men and women, in late medieval European society. At the same time, these general observations obscure the variations in the functioning of confraternities and the factors that explain this variety. The analysis in this chapter has shown how the confraternities’ activities in Norwich and Leiden were primarily shaped by the institutional environment of which they were part; that is to say, that context-specific political, ecclesiastical, and social conditions, as well as continuous interactions with other institutions, determined the broader responsibilities borne by confraternities in late medieval society. The identified contextual factors were not static: the configuration of urban institutions changed over time, rendering outcomes of this process path-dependent and contingent. In both Norwich and Leiden, these voluntary associations primarily served the interests of their members, for whom they provided a place and a network to meet at regular intervals. The extra-religious activities of the brother and sisterhoods did not directly benefit the urban community as a whole, but they were certainly a constituent part of the towns’ social fabric. In neither town did the confraternities play a role in politics, and the civic authorities were more focused on controlling the trade and craft guilds that more actively voiced their opinions about the urban body politic. Even the confraternity of St. George in Norwich, for example, which became a high-profile association for urban rulers and officials in the mid-fifteenth century, never evolved into an association that formally represented political interests. Furthermore, the confraternities in Leiden and Norwich were not engaged by the civic authorities in

68

Dick E.H. de Boer, “Jerusalem in Leyden, of de strijd om een erfenis,” De Leidse Hofjes 8 (1979): 65.

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organizing municipal poor relief, and their participation in civic and religious festivities was limited until the early sixteenth century. Confraternities were, of course, meant to serve the common interests of their members rather than those of the civic authorities, and it is unfortunate that the sources reveal little about the identity of the brothers and sisters, who had several options to fulfill their religious and social needs. The confraternities in Leiden, for example, did not develop formalized mutual aid schemes, because their members could turn to other charitable institutions. Also, the confraternities complemented rather than substituted for parish institutions: priests often joined the lay associations, confraternity members and church wardens presumably belonged to the same parish community, and parishioners identified themselves with their parish church before all.69 Religious confraternities in medieval Norwich and Leiden expressed a powerful form of voluntary association, but the urban institutional environment and the preferences of their own brothers and sisters put constraints on their development into pillars of urban civic society. 69

Occasionally, conflicts did occur, for example over the use of an organ between the wardens of the confraternity of the Holy Cross and the wardens of the church of Our Lady in Leiden in 1453: ELO, Archieven van de kerken, no. 660, fol. 9r.

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Chapter 3

From Isolation to Inclusion: Confraternities in Colonial Mexico City Laura Dierksmeier* Urban spaces bring together people from all walks of life. While inhabiting the same physical space, however, various groups may find themselves in very different social spaces. In other words, geographical inclusion may combine with societal exclusion. Marginalized individuals, as numerous historical studies record, pay a high price for their social isolation and are vulnerable to exploitation, psychological distress, social stigma, and crime at the hands of their cohabitants.1 While the responsibility to remedy these ills falls morally on society as a whole, in practice, only particularly committed individuals and institutions facilitate integration and reintegration of the excluded. In sixteenth-century Mexico, being part of respectable society typically required being born in wedlock, a proper marriage, orderly housekeeping, financial independence, appropriate dress, attendance at mass and a customary burial.2 Meeting these and further expectations to ‘fit in,’ was, naturally, more problematic for those with fewer financial means, often leading to the “coupling of disadvantages” of the poor.3 Nonetheless, marginalization was not necessarily permanent; a renegotiation of social identities remained at times possible. Confraternities frequently acted as intermediaries between society and isolated groups, helping them improve or redefine themselves so as to partake in the collective life of the city.

* I would like to thank Dr. Diana Presciutti, Prof. Dr. Renate Dürr, and Erika Suffern for their suggestions for improvement, as well as my husband Claus for discussing my sources with me at length and my mother Joyce Melkonian for proofreading this text. I am very thankful for this assistance. Any resulting mistakes are purely my own. 1 Andreas Gestrich et al., ed., Strangers and Poor People: Changing Patterns of Inclusion and Exclusion in Europe and the Mediterranean World from Classical Antiquity to the Present Day (Frankfurt am Main and New York: Peter Lang, 2009). 2 Asunción Lavrin, Sexuality and Marriage in Colonial Latin America (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1989). 3 Amartya Sen, The Idea of Justice (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2009), 256; Amartya Sen, Rationality and Freedom (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2002), 524.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_005

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Taking colonial Mexico City as a case study, this chapter considers the ways in which confraternities could function as social intermediaries by facilitating the reintegration of marginalized individuals into urban society. After a brief contextualization, I examine the inception and administration of Mexican confraternities in the period immediately following the Spanish Conquest. I then consider three groups of marginalized residents within the urban context of Mexico City: prisoners of petty debt, orphans, and people with contagious diseases. These groups were chosen because their social roles proved to be fluid in terms of social mobility and status. I shall conclude with some general observations and suggestions for future research.4

The Rise of Confraternities in Post-Conquest Mexico

Social relations under the Aztec Empire had been arranged in self-sufficient city-states called altepetl. After joint Spanish and indigenous forces conquered the Empire in 1521, the leader of the conquest, Hernán Cortés, left these structures in place and turned them into encomiendas,5 controlled by Spanish conquistadores. The native inhabitants, who had experienced some linguistic, religious, and cultural autonomy under the Aztecs, were now expected to understand Spanish commands, embrace Christianity, and give up their past ‘idolatrous’ traditions. In addition to the disregard for the former Nahua6 nobility, women faced different social roles, as they had before been able to hold political and religious positions on par with men. In many instances, the social status and decision-making power of the Nahuas declined.7 There was, however, one notable exception: indigenous participation in Mexican confraternities. Confraternities were among the first social institutions set up in the New World. While historians have attached much significance to eighteenth-century confraternities, the earlier colonial period has been understudied.8 This 4 5 6

7 8

I have translated Spanish excerpts into English. Encomiendas were landholdings in Mexico controlled by Spaniards (encomenderos), where indigenous people were required to work. Nahua is the term used by historians to refer generally to the people living under the Aztec Empire, who often (but not always) spoke Nahuatl in addition to their respective first languages. Michael Meyer, Susan Deeds, and William Sherman, The Course of Mexican History (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 123–208. For confraternal studies focused predominately on the eighteenth century, see: Alicia Bazarte Martínez, Las cofradías de españoles en la ciudad de México (1526–1860) (Mexico

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narrow focus may be due to the scarcity of sources on the subject or to the difficulty of unearthing them in parish archives. My research shows, however, that already in the 1530s, Mexican confraternities played a crucial role, not only in providing quid pro quo benefits to members but also in extending those benefits to isolated nonmembers. A moral mandate to provide Christian charity prompted many confraternities to carry out works of mercy that allowed for transitions through social space. Missionaries of religious orders in colonial Mexico preached charity as the chief Christian virtue. The Franciscans were the first order to begin systematic evangelization, followed by the Dominicans, Augustinians, and Jesuits in 1524, 1526, 1533, and 1594, respectively.9 Historian Miguel León-Portilla argues that indigenous people showed more reverence for the Franciscans above any other religious order due in part to “the focus on community action - in confraternities, schools and hospitals.”10 This preference is confirmed in a private letter by a Dominican priest of Mexico City, who, in 1554, wrote to the Council of Indies: “the Indians say they want no others than the fathers of Saint Francis, and will not feed those whom the archbishop sends.”11 Based on extant sources, the Franciscans instituted the first and largest number of confraternities in early colonial Mexico. This is not to say, however, that priests were in full control of confraternities. Because of the lack of friars compared with the large indigenous population (approximately 1:84,000 in 1532), practical limitations would not allow missionaries extensive time beyond their religious obligations of saying mass and

9 10

11

City: Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana, Unidad Azcapotzalco, División de Ciencias Sociales y Humanidades, 1989); Dagmar Bechtloff, Bruderschaften im Kolonialen Michoa­ cán: Religion zwischen Politik und Wirtschaft in einer Interkulturellen Gesellschaft (Münster: Lit, 1992); Emma Pérez Rocha, “Mayordomías y cofradías del pueblo de Tacuba en el siglo XVIII,” Estudios de historia novohispana v., no. vi (1978): 119–31; Héctor Martínez Domínguez, “Las cofradías en la Nueva España, 1700–1859,” Primer Anuario, Centro de Estudio Históricos, Universidad Veracruzana (1977): 45–71. For the Franciscans in Mexico, see: Elsa Cecilia Frost, ed., Franciscanos y mundo religioso en México (Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1993). “Tales condescendencias y también la frecuente defensa que hacía los frailes de los indios frente a los españoles, así como el enfoque de acción comunitaria - en cofradías, escuelas y hospitales - fueron probablemente factores de suma importancia que explican por qué en el ánimo de los indígenas fue acrecentándose el aprecio por los franciscanos”: Miguel León Portilla, Los franciscanos vistos por el hombre náhuatl: Testimonios indígenas del siglo XVI (Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1985), 291. James Lockhart and Enrique Otte, Letters and People of the Spanish Indies, Sixteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 217 (letter written by Fray Andrés de Moguer).

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administering the sacraments.12 This general sentiment is well captured in a 1567 letter from a Mexican bishop to the King. He writes: Evangelical ministers are needed here to teach the natives the law of God, for there is no one to instruct them. There are about fourteen friars for 150 leagues of inhabited land, and of these there are only three who can preach, the two others are beginners; there is the need for fifty friars.13 A few exceptions withstanding, friars did not have substantial influence over the mundane, day-to-day operations and finances of confraternities. Nahua protagonists in Christian social institutions accepted, adapted, and manipulated Christian beliefs to fit their needs and worldview. The hybrid result is often referred to as ‘Nahua Christianity,’14 and can be seen, for example, on the first page of a confraternity constitution from a parish archive of Puebla, formerly Mexico’s second most important city (Fig. 3.1).15 The document is written in Spanish in dedication to Santo Ángel de la Guarda but has the drawing of a bird on the cover, an Aztec symbol for heaven.16 Still, church officials had an official entitlement to visit and inspect confraternities. The relevant statutes in chapter eight in Session 22 of the Council of Trent from 1562–63 state: “The bishops … shall be the executors of all pious dispositions, whether made by last will, or between the living: they shall have a

12 13

14

15

16

Charles Gibson, The Aztecs Under Spanish Rule: A History of the Indians of the Valley of Mexico, 1519–1810 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1964), 103. One hundred fifty leagues is approximately 800 kilometers or 500 miles: Lockhart and Otte, Letters and People, 204–7 (letter written by Fray Francisco de Toral, bishop of Yucatán, to the king, 1567). For Nahua Christianity, see Louise M. Burkhart, The Slippery Earth: Nahua-Christian Moral Dialogue in Sixteenth-Century Mexico (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1989); Albert Meyers and Diane Hopkins, Manipulating the Saints: Religious Brotherhoods and Social Integration in Postconquest Latin America (Hamburg: Wayasbah, 1988); Martin Austin Nesvig, Local Religion in Colonial Mexico (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico, 2006). Parish Archive, Parroquia Santo Ángel, Puebla (hereafter PSA), caja 72. Puebla followed only Mexico City in terms of population size, splendor, and importance in the colonial period. Terry J. O’Brien, Fair Gods and Feathered Serpents: A Search for Ancient America’s Bearded White God (Bountiful, UT: Horizon Publishers, 1997), 53. For a thorough study on Aztec philosophy, see James Maffie, Aztec Philosophy: Understanding a World in Motion (Boulder: University Press of Colorado, 2014).

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FIGURE 3.1 Book of the Cofradía del Santo Angel de la Guarda, Puebla, Mexico, 1689. Photo: Laura Dierksmeier.

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right to visit all manner of hospitals, colleges, and confraternities of laymen.”17 Church oversight of confraternities increased in the eighteenth century, when the financial power of lay people in religious organizations was seen as a threat to Church officials. Church control culminated in 1794 with an initiative of the archbishop of Mexico City to shut down 500 of 951 confraternities under his jurisdiction.18 To function independently, confraternities in Mexico, like those in Europe, needed their own funds. Finances often came from membership dues, which ranged from one peso for an indigenous confraternity (less for child or widow members), to 1,000 pesos for entrance to an elite Spanish confraternity in Mexico City.19 Funds were kept in a double or triple locked wooden box that could be opened only when several leaders were present. In addition, many members and some nonmembers (indigenous, mestizo, creole, and Spanish) left donations to confraternities in their last wills. Houses purchased by the confraternities were also rented out for income. Alternatively, loans were given out to generate interest payments, often at a rate of 5 per cent.20 The confraternity used its funds to govern activities according to its constitution, a document that laid out the governing term for leadership (normally one year), the electoral process, and the leadership positions (often one mayordomo, two diputados, a treasurer, and a secretary). The confraternity’s patron saint would also be listed there, along with the annual religious holidays, member obligations (e.g., mandatory attendance at burials), member benefits, and charitable goals to aid the community. The 1570 Franciscan report to the visitor Juan de Ovando observes: “[T]hose that become confraternity members are more careful to avoid vice, as by their ordinances they would be reprimanded 17

18 19

20

The Canons and Decrees of the Sacred and Œcumenical Council of Trent, Celebrated under the Sovereign Pontiffs, Paul III, Julius III and Pius IV, trans. James Waterworth (London: C. Dolman, 1848). Elisa Luque Alcaide and Miguel Sarmiento, “Informe del arzobispo de México Alonso Núñez De Haro sobre las cofradías de México,” Hispania sacra 46, no. 94 (1994): 555–627. Asunción Lavrin, “La Congregación de San Pedro - una cofradía urbana del México colonial - 1604–1730,” Historia Mexicana 29, no. 4 (1980): 562–601. For an elite Italian confraternity in Florence, see: Olga Zorzi Pugliese, “The Good Works of the Florentine ‘Buonomini Di San Martino’: An Example of Renaissance Pragmatism,” in Crossing the Boundaries, ed. Konrad Eisenbichler (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 1991), 108–20. For confraternity finances, see John Frederick Schwaller, Origins of Church Wealth in Mexi­co: Ecclesiastical Revenues and Church Finances, 1523–1600 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1985); Gisela von Wobeser, El crédito eclesiástico en la Nueva España: Siglo XVIII (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2010).

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for it, and they occupy themselves in virtuous things, above all in the service to the sick.”21 Joining members were required to read and accept the regulations stipulated in the constitution. If they were illiterate, the constitution was to be read to them before they swore an oath of adherence.22 Members of confraternities were male and female, children and widows, farmers and Inquisitors, viceroys and slaves.23 The malleability of the institution to fit the needs of the most socially differentiated groups speaks to the universality of some fundamental human needs fulfilled or assisted by confraternities, such as help during sickness and death. In the first six decades of the Spanish colony, by 1585, Mexico had established at least 300 official confra­ ternities,24 in addition to the countless unofficial brotherhoods condemned in lawsuits, city council meetings, and bishops’ reports.25 Although we know little of the activities of unauthorized confraternities, archive records show that their motivation for incorporation, when nefarious, could be to solicit donations in the name of an institution that did not exist.26 Whether they were established without a license by ignorance or from a linguistic misunderstanding, the driving motivation may have been similar to that of official confra­ternities, namely, to achieve the many benefits that membership offered. Member benefits can be categorized in different ways but for simplicity I made two groups, naming them material and spiritual benefits. The material benefits ranged from physical security from violence, small loans (microcredit),27 assistance during sickness or incarceration, provisions for 21

22 23

24

25 26 27

Códice Franciscano, Siglo XVI, Informe de la provincia del Santo Evangelio al visitador lic. Juan de Ovando (Nahuatl translations by Alonso de Molina) in Joaquín García Icazbalceta, Colección de documentos para la historia de México: Tomo segundo (Mexico City: Francisco Díaz de León, 1889), 77. Forma y modo de fundar las cofradias del cordeon de S. Francisco (Mexico City: En casa de Pedro Ocharte, 1589). For an Inquisition confraternity, see Richard E. Greenleaf, “The Inquisition Brotherhood: Cofradía de San Pedro Martir of Colonial Mexico,” The Americas 40, no. 2 (1983): 171–207. For slaves in confraternities, see Nicole von Germeten, Black Blood Brothers Confraternities and Social Mobility for Afro-Mexicans (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2006). “En esta ciudad hay más de trezientas cofradías de indios,” reported the Third Mexican Council, as quoted in Arij Ouweneel and Simon Miller, The Indian Community of Colonial Mexico: Fifteen Essays on Land Tenure, Corporate Organizations, Ideology, and Village Politics (Amsterdam: CEDLA, 1990), 207. E.g., Archivo General de la Nación (hereafter AGN), Indiferente Virreinal, caja 2688, exp. 011; caja 0710, exp. 006. AGN, Indiferente Virreinal, caja 5083, exp. 036. See María del Pilar Martínez López-Cano, La Génesis del crédito colonial: Ciudad De México, Siglo XVI (Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de Mexico, 2001); von

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medicine and food shortages, funeral mass and burial, communal prayers for the deceased, assistance to family members in need, as well as feasts and celebrations. The potential spiritual benefits included: a sense of belonging, elevated feelings of self-worth and status, reduced anxiety in times of hunger or death, pleasure and pride in providing charity to others, scheduled events to look forward to, strengthened community relations, an outward demonstration (real or feigned) that the members had converted to Christianity, and protection from lawsuits (confraternities had the status of a legal entity).28 While not every confraternity provided each of these member benefits, many confraternal records document multiple member benefits, most often providing assistance during sickness and death. One activity that could both be a spiritual benefit and an obligation was the support offered to isolated nonmembers. By providing this type of aid, members exposed themselves to financial outlays, diseases, and the psychological problems of outcast members of society, but they also stood to receive feelings of goodwill, charity, and something attractive for many: indulgences.29 Papal bulls granted indulgences in exchange for confraternal acts of mercy and prayers for the dead. For example, Clement VIII’s bull dating from 1603 grants indulgences: Each time the confraternity members celebrate the said masses … give hospitality to the poor, make friends with their enemies, … accompany the dead, or process with the said Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament, … or say an Our Father or Hail Mary for the souls of the dead confraternity members, subdue a sinner, or exercise any other type of Charity;

28

29

Wobeser, El crédito eclesiástico. For a brief overview of benefits provided by a confraternity with a ‘Monte di Pietà’ structure, see Margaret Josephine Moody, “The ‘Compagnia Di San Paolo’ and the Turinese Poor,” Confraternitas 8, no. 1 (1997): 13–16. Members could also sue other entities collectively, e.g., in 1575 when confraternity members of the Cofradía de la Santa Veracruz sued their Spanish neighbors for interfering with their chapel shrine: AGN, Indiferente Virreinal, caja 5592, exp. 011. For indulgences granted to confraternities, see Vatican, Summario de las indulgencias concedidas á la Santa Iglesia Laterana, y confirmadas de muchos romanos pontifices (1594) (Mexico City: La Imprenta Real del Superior Gobierno, del Nuevo Rezado, de Doña Maria de Rivera, 1747); Archicofradía del Santísimo Sacramento y Caridad, Sumario de las indulgencias, y perdones, concedidos á los cófrades del Santissimo Sacramento, visitando la iglesia donde está instituida la dicha cofradía, si pudieren. (Mexico City: Viuda de B. Calderón, 1605).

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each time that they do one of these things, they gain ten days of pardon … perpetually.30 Nevertheless, explicit motivations for joining a confraternity are seldom recorded in the surviving documents, and such claims may be incomplete or manipulated. Even without proof of their motives, historians can show that something did motivate confraternity members to provide a major platform to assist those otherwise unable to access social assistance in colonial Mexico, and specifically in Mexico City. The first Spanish inhabitants of Mexico were the surviving conquistadores of Hernán Cortés. Some conquistadores succeeded in obtaining lands, prestige, and the title of Don. These ‘new nobles’ were reported to have few social graces, and they were known to treat women and their indigenous slaves violently. Cortés pleaded the Spanish government to send more missionaries and lawyers to stabilize the new society. In the following years, more and more missionaries would arrive, along with notaries, lawyers, doctors, government officials, theologians, tradesmen with their families, and businessmen scouting new enterprises. The conquistadores slowly but surely lost their elevated status in the eyes of the incoming Old World Spanish nobility. In addition, many conquistadores had already married indigenous women and produced mestizo children, a mark of inferiority in the eyes of the new white settlers arriving from Spain. Children born to one indigenous parent (regardless of his or her tribe or former nobility status) and one black parent (regardless of his or her free or slave status) were often referred to as mulatos (female mulata). Intermarriages between the various ethnic groups over time ossified into a complex class system with strict restrictions on one’s access to the university, to the priesthood, and to certain levels of trade mastership, among other limitations. In contrast, further social distinctions existed in Mexico City that could not be reduced to one’s ethnicity. Additional markers existed to marginalize certain people, such as those who could be classified as prisoners, orphans, contagious sick, or a combination thereof. In the following pages, I will examine these categories along with the prominent role confraternities played in their efforts to incorporate their cohabitants into ‘better’ social spaces.

30

Balthasar de Tobar and Manuel Gutiérrez de Arce, Compendio bulario índico (Seville: EEHA, 1954), 532.

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Prisoners of Petty Debt and the Cofradía de Santa Caridad

Most isolated from society, at least physically, were prisoners. Crimes leading to imprisonment included horse theft, the making of pulque,31 concubinage, and murder.32 One could also go to jail for founding a confraternity without proper authorization.33 In addition to criminal cases, civil prisoners could be held for unpaid services rendered or debts incurred from loans taken out from creditors. One common way for Spaniards to incur debt in the New World was to sponsor on credit the sea voyages of family members so that the family could be reunited. It was also the law that married Spanish men had to either bring their wives and children to New Spain or return home. Notary records from Mexico City document debts incurred by hundreds of people in the sixteenth century, beginning in 1524.34 For many confraternities, those most worthy of assistance were those imprisoned only because of their inability to pay a debt. In addition, debtors in prison were considered vulnerable because they had few options to generate revenue to pay off their debt while sitting behind bars. Their conditional release often meant working as a servant—in the best-case scenario as a trade assistant and in the worst as a forced laborer for arduous public works projects.35 Confraternities aided indebted prisoners who had no other option for their release.36 For the inmates, a minor payment and a set of clothing for their departure could mean physical freedom, social inclusion, reuniting with their family members, and the chance to seek gainful employment. For the Confraternity of Sacred Charity (Cofradía de Santa Caridad) in 31

32 33 34 35 36

Pulque, a pre-Hispanic alcoholic drink made from cactus paddles, was prohibited by the Spanish Inquisition because of its involvement in non-Christian ceremonies and divinations. For Spanish Inquisition regulations of pre-Hispanic traditions, see John F. Chuchiak, The Inquisition in New Spain, 1536–1820: A Documentary History (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2012); Luisa Zahino Peñafort, El cardenal Lorenzana y el IV concilio provincial mexicano (1771) (Mexico City: Miguel Angel Porrúa, 1999). Records of the above-mentioned crimes have been accessed from the criminal case files for Puebla, Mexico in the Rare Manuscripts Collection at Yale University. AGN, Indiferente Virreinal, caja 2688, exp. 014. Carlo Agustín Millares and José Ignacio Mantecón, Indice y extractos de los protocolos del archivo de notarías de México (Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 1945). R. Douglas Cope, The Limits of Racial Domination: Plebeian Society in Colonial Mexico City, 1660–1720 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994), 102. Confraternities also accompanied prisoners condemned to death: see Christopher F. Black, Italian Confraternities in the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 217–23.

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Mexico City, this was a common practice and will be studied here in more depth.37 Franciscan Friar Alonso de Herrera established the Confraternity of Sacred Charity in 1538 in the convent of San Francisco.38 Herrera recruited several male Spanish members, most of whom had arrived in Mexico as fellow conquistadores of Hernán Cortés.39 The regulations declared the goal to help all types of poor people, such as those who recently came from Castile (often severely ill from the voyage), as well as poor orphan girls, “poor Indians,” and the poor who once held a social status that made them too ashamed to beg for assistance (los vergonzantes).40 The records confirm that this confraternity completed practically all of the seven corporal acts of mercy, including housing the homeless, caring for the sick, providing food, drink, and clothing to the poor, caring for and releasing prisoners, and burying the dead. Even though prisoners were not explicitly mentioned in the initial constitution, the confraternity meticulously recorded expenditures made to aid prisoners (Fig. 3.2).41 For example, in 1538, its first year of operation, the Confraternity of Sacred Charity paid for the release of eight prisoners for petty debt. All of them appear to have been Spaniards, although the confraternity would pay for the release of non-Spaniards in later years. The payments for the first year ranged from three pesos and two tomines (eight tomines = one peso) to a payment of forty-one pesos and two tomines for the liberation of two prisoners (Fig. 3.3). Wage data for that period shows an average income for skilled workers to be approximately nine granos per day (twelve granos = one tomin) and for unskilled workers, six granos per day.42 Hence, the debts varied from the equivalent of

37 38

39 40

41 42

Unless otherwise stated, I have translated the quotations that follow into English from Spanish archive sources. University of Texas, Benson Collection (hereafter UTB), Genaro Garcia Manuscripts Collection (hereafter GGC), Libro de cabildos de c(ofradi)a denominada del Sanctisimo Sacramento de la charidad y colexio de las mocas rrecoxidas. 1538–1584. 146 L. 32 cm. Francisco A. de Icaza, Diccionario autobiográfico de conquistadores y pobladores de Nueva España (Guadalajara: Levy, 1969). This is often translated into English as ‘the shame-faced poor,’ although I prefer ‘the ashamed poor,’ used, for example, by Christopher Black, which encompasses not only the facial expressions but also the sentiments of the people too embarrassed by their economic state to beg for help (Italian: poveri vergognosi; German: verschämten Armen). UTB, GGC, Libro de cabildos. Woodrow Wilson Borah and Sherburne Friend Cook, Price Trends of Some Basic Commodities in Central Mexico, 1531–1570 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1958), 15, 21, 45.

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FIGURE 3.2 Account book of the Confraternity of Charity, Mexico City, 1538. Photo: ­Courtesy of the Nettie Lee Benson Latin American Collection, University of Texas Libraries, The University of Texas at Austin.

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Total

Number of Prisoners Released

Pesos Paid

Tomines Paid

1 1 1 1 2 1 1 8

24  4  3  6 41  3  3 84

 6  2  2  4 14

FIGURE 3.3 Table of confraternity funds paid to release prisoners incarcerated for petty debt, Mexico City, 1538. Source: University of Texas, Nettie Lee Benson Latin American Collection, Libro de cabildos de c(ofradi)a denominada del sanctisimo sacramento de la charidad. 1538–84. 146 L. 32 cm.

what could be earned in 35 to 264 days of work for a skilled laborer or in 52 to 396 days of work for an unskilled laborer. Each person assisted was recorded as a “poor prisoner” (preso pobre) in the confraternity’s entry book; the name of the detainee was not always included. In one instance, a man was recorded simply as “conquistador.” The confraternity made the release and reintegration of these prisoners into society possible. A small justification was often included in the record book for larger amounts paid to release certain prisoners, such as being the father of several children. Another example is the first entry in the table, a prisoner released for twentyfour pesos and six tomines, “known as Samuel.” He was able to pay a portion of his debt himself and the confraternity noted this in its records as a positive attribute. The other prisoners were more expensive to release, and it was listed if they were married, also emphasizing the potential benefit to the livelihood of their families. The records reiterated that the men were indigents, unable to pay for their own release.43 In addition to funding the full release of prisoners, the Confraternity of Sacred Charity also paid for food and supervision of other poor prisoners, presumably for those whose family members could not cover the basic costs associated with incarceration. The visiting of prisoners, not only by priests but also by confraternity members, was a common practice noted in missionary letters and chronicles. As no financial expenditure was made to visit prisoners, these sources do not make it clear how often this occurred. The sources I have accessed demonstrate that extra attention was given to prisoners with families, implying concern also for their children. After all, children could not take out their own loans and had to rely on the support of their parents. This leaves open the question as to how orphan children survived in 43

UTB, GGC, Libro de cabildos.

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Mexico City. The next section examines the role of confraternities to bring orphans from urban shadows to places of inclusion.

Orphans and the Cofradía del Santísimo Sacramento

After prisoners, orphans were arguably the most isolated members of society. Without parents to offer some level of protection and guidance, they were faced with difficult choices to make ends meet. Some would beg on the city streets, and others would steal or resort to prostitution; many traded continuous labor in exchange for food and shelter. Here we see a paradox faced by orphans: working in someone’s home could mean more security, but it could alternatively lead to exploitation or abuse. To help abandoned children on the streets of Mexico City, confraternities offered another option: the orphanage. While the admittance criteria for Italian confraternity-run orphanages (for boys) and conservatories (for girls) were often quite strict, as Nicholas Terpstra and others have revealed, Mexican confraternities could not afford to be so fastidious in their demands.44 Nevertheless, they still had some entrance restrictions, often giving preference to female orphans.45 Unlike their Italian counterparts, Mexican institutions distinguished between orphans based on race: full Spanish blood, half Spanish blood, indigenous blood, etc. One example is the Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament (Cofradía del Santísimo Sacramento), which created a house only for girls. The records for the orphanage are prescriptive, marking the ideals of proper behavior and rules governing the confraternity leadership and hired caregivers.46 According to its record book, the orphanage was designed to care for girls with full or half Spanish blood. Other confraternities existed to help orphans of indigenous blood, but this confraternity worked to fill the gap in care that existed for girls found in Mexico City, born to either two Spanish parents or an indigenous mother and a Spanish man. Presumably economic duress, shame, and resentment were factors for both categories of parents to abandon their daughters. 44

45

46

The Baraccano conservatory in Bologna, for example, only accepted healthy girls between ten and twelve years of age, born in Bologna to two Bolognese parents who had never begged nor served as domestic servants: Nicholas Terpstra, Lay Confraternities and Civic Religion in Renaissance Bologna (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 193. This was also the case in Italy: see Nicholas Terpstra, Cultures of Charity: Women, Politics, and the Reform of Poor Relief in Renaissance Italy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013); Philip Gavitt, Gender, Honor and Charity in Late Renaissance Florence (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011). UTB, GGC, Libro de cabildos.

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Due to the severe epidemic outbreaks, it is also likely that one or both parents succumbed to a sickness, leaving the child to fend for herself. The number of these children was evidently large enough to warrant action. At the time of institution in 1553, the house planned to take thirty girls. The conditions for admittance were the following: [I]f they are very poor and have no father, nor mother, nor relative nor any person who can protect them, aside from the house of our Lady of Charity, in such cases they will be taken in and cared for, even though they may be misdirected.47 Men of any age were seen as a potential threat to the well-being of the girls and women. Even the chaplains were to be examined before they could conduct prayers. Deliverymen or service workers were not allowed to enter for any moment without express permission because of “the inconveniences that could result.”48 Only married women, and, in some cases, single women over a certain age were to be trusted and could be hired to work in the house. Visitors to the orphanage meant potential donations on the one hand but also a threat to the safety of the girls on the other. For this reason, they were also strictly limited and controlled. The female adolescents were not only protected from outsiders entering the orphanage, but they were also themselves prevented, in most cases, from accessing the world outside. At this time, there were two separate words for young women. Virgin girls were referred to as doncellas and unmarried nonvirgins as solteras.49 This distinction in terminology mirrored the social distinction in their treatment. Women tarnished by their past, regardless of the circumstances, were less attractive marriage candidates and therefore less able to form a socially accepted identity. To protect the doncellas from becoming solteras, their physical freedom of movement was highly curtailed. Chastity was required. The girls were not allowed to attend festivals or even to hear mass outside the orphanage. Instead, masses would regularly be held in the house, and one festival would be celebrated per year on the premises. As was typical for confraternities in general, the feast would honor the patron saint, in this case, Mary. The young women were to be trained in several forms of 47 48 49

UTB, GGC, Libro de cabildos. UTB, GGC, Libro de cabildos. Asunción Lavrin, Intimidades, in Des Indes occidentales à l’Amérique latine, ed. Alain Musset and Thomas Calvo (Fontenay-aux-Roses: ENS éd. Fontenay-Saint-Cloud, 1997), 195– 218, 197.

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handiwork, increasing the chances to win the approval of a potential suitor and his parents. According to the regulations, women would leave the institution when they were married to a suitor proposed by the confraternity members. The confraternity would cover the costs of the dowry. To fund this expenditure, donations would be solicited from masters of servant girls consigned to the home. In addition, the leadership of the confraternity would inform priests, confessors, and notaries of their needs, asking them to encourage their parishioners and clients to leave donations to the orphanage while they were still living or at their death. Last wills often included donations for such charitable works by those who could afford to do so: confraternity leaders (rector, mayordomos, and diputados) employed shrewd tactics to make sure their confraternity, and not that of another, was well known to well-endowed testators before their death.50 In short, the daily routine of girls in the house revolved around lessons in Catholic doctrine, attending mass, training in handiwork, communal meals, and receiving visitors. The sodality aimed to help girls with “misdirected” pasts,51 but one exception was made: so as to not risk an outbreak of sickness throughout the entire house, the confraternity did not accept any girls with contagious diseases.52 Thus, orphans with certain illnesses still faced lives of isolation in the city.

Contagious Diseases and the Hospital del Amor de Dios

Even efforts at inclusion still exempted certain populations. Persons with contagious diseases were often avoided because of the threat their disease posed to others. The rapid spread of illness was highly feared, as outbreaks showed the vast loss of life that could result. The indigenous population, which was estimated conservatively at eleven million and liberally at thirty million upon 50

51 52

See, for example, Cayetano Reyes García, Índice y extractos de los protocolos de la notaría de Cholula (1590–1600) (Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia, Departamento de Etnología y Antropología Social, 1973); Sue Louise Cline, “Culhuacan 1572– 1599: An Investigation through Mexican Indian Testaments” (PhD diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 1981). UTB, GGC, Libro de cabildos. “Que la huérfana que entrare en la dicha casa sea vista por quien la tuviere a cargo si es sana o si tiene alguna enfermedad contagiosa para que no esté en la dicha casa”: UTB, GGC, Libro de cabildos.

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the arrival of the Spanish, dropped to somewhere between two and four million by the end of 1565 and between one and two million by 1607.53 According to conservative estimates, in less than a century, the total population of the former Aztec Empire was reduced, at the very least, by a quarter following the conquest of Hernán Cortés. Cortés himself, not incidentally, established both the first confraternity in Mexico in 1526, the Cofradía de los Caballeros de la Cruz, and the first hospital, the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno (in operation by 1524).54 As many historians have argued, outbreaks of disease greatly threatened demographic stability; solidarity was necessary to combat epidemics, which “took lives blindly among all layers of society.”55 In the sixteenth century, seven major epidemics hit Mexico: in 1520, 1531, 1545, 1564, 1576, 1588, and 1595.56 The first two epidemics were outbreaks of smallpox and measles, respectively, and the last, an outbreak of both measles and mumps. The other diseases are unknown or disputed based on their recorded symptoms. Nevertheless, particular populations were excluded from Cortés’s Hospital of Jesús Nazareno, for example, those with mental disorders, syphilis, leprosy, and those with the inflammatory skin disease gangrenous erysipelas, known in Spanish at the time as fuego sacro or el mal de San Antón.57 While some confraternities focused on contagiousness as their reason to provide specialized hospital care, it should be noted that other confraternities decided based on different factors.58 Some cared for people with terminal illnesses, both contagious and noncontagious. Maureen Flynn has demonstrated that similar

53 54 55

56 57 58

Josefina Muriel de la Torre, Hospitales de la Nueva España T. 1 Fundaciones del siglo XVI (Mexico City: Editorial Jus, 1956), 279, 288. Ibid, 38. Ignacio Sosa Álvarez and Brian F. Connaughton, eds., Historiografía latinoamericana contemporánea (Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Centro Coordinador y Difusor de Estudios Latinoamericanos, 1999), 94. Muriel de la Torre, Hospitales de la Nueva España, 279–88. Ibid, 45. For confraternity hospitals in Spain, see César Alonso de Porres Fernández, Cofradías y hospitales medievales burgaleses: “Santa Catalina” y “San Julián” (Burgos: Santos, 2002). Sickness was even at times the reason for confraternities to form, as with the Confraternity of San Roque, founded in 1598 during a plague outbreak: Allyson Poska, “From Parties to Pieties: Redefining Confraternal Activity in Seventeenth-Century Ourense (Spain),” in Confraternities and Catholic Reform in Italy, France, and Spain, ed. John Patrick Donnelly and Michael W. Maher (Kirksville, MO: Thomas Jefferson University Press, 1999), 215–31; Black, Italian Confraternities, 184–200.

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discrepancies in the admittance criteria of confraternal hospitals also existed in Spain.59 The first bishop of Mexico, Franciscan Juan de Zumárraga, decided that those with contagious diseases were among the most disadvantaged residents in the city. To remedy this, in the San Cosme barrio of Mexico City, the Hospital del Amor de Dios was to be founded with a dedication to the physician saints Cosme and Damían.60 In a letter to his brother from 1539, Zumárraga wrote, “I am now planning and arranging for a similar hospital for those afflicted with contagious diseases and who have no other place to go. Thanks be to God, it is already partly completed.”61 The Hospital del Amor de Dios, with the help of several confraternities, specifically cared for those with syphilis.62 The widespread syphilitic hospitals in Europe have been well documented, but few publications focus on the role of confraternities in Mexico to provide such care.63 Why would a bishop choose to help those with sexually transmitted diseases, where at least one partner had not waited until the holy sacrament of marriage to have sexual relations? Bishop Zumárraga writes in a private letter: “every afflicted person is the image of Christ.” He also gave suggestions for his sister-in-law’s work with the sick: “She should look upon them with this in mind, serve and wait upon them, make their beds, wash their rags, and feed them with her own hands.”64 Even though the church did not condone the conduct that gave rise to the disease, mandates to provide Christian charity, even to sinners, superseded. Zumárraga was also an author of early Mexican catechisms, in which he emphasized the

59 60

61

62 63 64

Maureen Flynn, Sacred Charity: Confraternities and Social Welfare in Spain, 1400–1700 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1989), 52. Robert Ricard, La Conquista espiritual de México: Ensayo sobre el apostolado y los métodos misioneros de las órdenes mendicantes en la Nueva España de 1523–24 a 1572 [La “conquête spirituelle” du Mexique], trans. Lesley Byrd Simpson (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1966), 157. Juan de Zumárraga, Zumárraga and His Family: Letters to Vizcaya 1536–1548: A Collection of Documents in Relation to the Founding of a Hospice in His Birthplace, ed. Richard E. Greenleaf, trans. Neal Kaveny (Washington, DC: Academy of American Franciscan History, 1979), 43. Peter Elmer and Ole Peter Grell, Health, Disease, and Society in Europe, 1500–1800: A Source Book (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2004), 329. See, for example, Cristian Berco, “Between Piety and Sin: Zaragoza’s Confraternity of San Roque, Syphilis, and Sodomy,” Confraternitas 13, no. 2 (2002): 2–16. Zumárraga, Zumárraga and His Family, 43.

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virtue of caring for the sick, listing it first among the seven corporal acts of mercy printed in his doctrina on Catholic teaching.65 Syphilis affected both natives and Spaniards alike. To alleviate their suffering, the Hospital del Amor de Dios employed many staff members, including a doctor, two surgeons, many nurses, two doormen, two clothing menders, several assistants, an accountant, three cooks, three launderers, as well as two atoleras (providers of atol, a cornflower drink), and both a sugar cane and a chocolate vendor. Various confraternities participated in the upkeep of the hospital, one under the name of the patron saints, San Cosme and San Damían, and workers from particular guilds, such as the embroiderers (gremio de los boradadores) and the silk traders and hat makers (gremio de los sederos y gorreros).66 Friars also recognized providing free hospital care as one of the most effective methods of evangelization. In the words of Peter of Gant, one of the first missionaries in Mexico: Next to our monastery we have built an infirmary for the sick among the natives, where besides those who are being taught in the house, others come for treatment, which is a great comfort for the poor and needy, and aid in their conversion, because they come to know the charity that is practiced among Christians, and are attracted to the faith and to liking us well and conversing with us.67 People from various ethnicities valued the efforts of confraternity members to provide patients with refuge and assistance. Unlike prisoners and orphans, syphilitics were not able to reintegrate fully into society, because the disease was then incurable. They were instead offered a space of shelter where their symptoms could be managed, and their needs of food, clothing, and shelter were met. To these patients, just as important as the medical care received may have been the compassion offered by the confraternity members. 65

66

67

Juan de Zumárraga, Dotrina breve muy p[ro]uechosa delas cosas q[ue] p[er]tenecen ala fe catholica y a n[uest]ra cristiandad en estilo llano p[ar]a comu[n] intelig[n]cia. Imp[re]ssa en la misma ciudad d[e] Mexico (Mexico City: Casa de Juan Cromberger, 1544). For other Franciscan catechisms, see Bert Roest, Franciscan Literature of Religious Instruction before the Council of Trent (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2004); for Mexico see, ibid., 265–59; for Spain, 262–65; for Italy, 250–52; for Germany, 253–57; for Holland, 258–61. For confraternities composed of guild members, see Manuel Carrera Stampa, Los Gremios mexicanos: La Organización gremial en Nueva España, 1521–1861 (Mexico City: Edición y Distribución Ibero Americana de Publicaciones, 1954). Lockhart and Otte, Letters and People, 212–14 (1532).

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Conclusion

Through the assistance of confraternities, city residents once stigmatized and marginalized as prisoners, orphans, or the contagious sick, could improve their social positions. Thus, birth into a certain social class, dips into financial hardship, or misfortune through sickness did not completely define or limit one’s available social roles. Instead, avenues to social mobility and societal participation were opened or restored. In these cases, the charitable actions of confraternity members were endorsed as the fulfillment of the Christian works of mercy. Regarding each and every human being, theologically speaking, as a child of God required classifying individuals spiritually, in terms of their dignity, rather than in regard to their material contributions. If and where persons were materially excluded from social life, confraternities saw it as a mandate of charity to assist them in moving from isolation to spaces of inclusion. When Church officials shut down more than half of the existing confraternities in Mexico City at the end of the eighteenth century, the financial power of confraternities may have been curtailed, but new problems arose. Increased numbers of beggars and vagrants roamed the streets. This prompted new expenditures for state-run asylum houses and law enforcement to punish beggars for their vagrancy. More than seven decrees aimed at confining beggars were passed between 1774 and 1800 alone.68 The poor, the sick, and the isolated were no longer seen as the deserving children of God in a temporary time of misfortune, but instead as a permanent annoyance to the more fortunate. Further comparative studies could demonstrate still more forms of social assistance provided by Mexican confraternities in urban spaces. The small amount of extant historiography on early colonial confraternities stands in marked contrast to their eminent contemporary role as forces of societal integration, which indicates a sizable research gap, to be addressed by future scholarship. 68

Silvia Marina Arrom, Containing the Poor: The Mexico City Poor House, 1774–1871 (Durham: Duke University Press, 2000).

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Chapter 4

Religious Confraternities and Spiritual Charity in Early Modern Aalst Ellen Decraene* Confraternities were a widespread form of association in the late medieval and early modern period and have been ascribed an important role in the molding of (early) modern political and social culture.1 In the seventeenth century, under the influence of the Counter-Reformation, religious brotherhoods in the Southern Netherlands became more numerous and important as the influence of traditional organizations such as guilds and chambers of rhetoric decreased. The rising significance of confraternities can be connected with the increasing urbanization of early modern Europe. Scholars such as Katherine Lynch have argued that the demographic setting of towns, with their high levels of migration and mortality, weakened strong extended family structures and kinship * I am grateful to the following bodies for the financial support: Fund of Scientific Research Flanders (FWO) and the University of Antwerp (Belgium). Special thanks are owed to my promotors Prof. Dr. Bert De Munck and Prof. Dr. Bruno Blondé as well as Prof. Dr. Guido Marnef who gave me great intellectual and personal support during this research. Their research works and enthusiasm have greatly affected this study. I would particularly like to thank Prof. Dr. Christopher Black, Prof. Dr. Deborah Simonton and Prof. Dr. Anne-Laure Van Bruaene for their support and comments on earlier drafts of this article. 1 Among others, see Christopher F. Black, “The Development of Confraternity Studies over the Past Thirty Years,” in The Politics of Ritual Kinship. Confraternities and Social Order in Early Modern Italy, ed. Nicholas Terpstra (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 9; Maarten Van Dijck, “Het verenigingsleven op het Hagelandse platteland. Sociale polarisatie en middenveldparticipatie in de 17e en 18e eeuw,” Tijdschrift voor sociale en economische geschiedenis 2 (2005): 82–84; Dylan Reid, “Measuring the Impact of Brotherhood: Robert Putnam’s Making Democracy Work and Confraternal Studies,” Confraternitas 14, no. 1 (2003): 3–12; David Garrioch, “Lay-Religious Associations, Urban Identities, and Urban Space in EighteenthCentury Milan,” The Journal of Religious History 28 (2004), 35–49; Anne-Laure Van Bruaene, “A Breakdown of Civic Community? Civic Traditions, Voluntary Associations and the Ghent Calvinist Regime (1577–84),” in Sociability and Its Discontents. Civil Society, Social Capital, and their Alternatives in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe, ed. Nicholas A. Eckstein and Nicolas Terpstra (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009), 273–91; Susie Sutch and Anne-Laure Van Bruaene, “The Seven Sorrows of the Virgin Mary: Devotional Communication and Politics in the Burgundian-Habsburg Low Countries (c. 1490–1520),” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 61 (2010): 252–78.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_006

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ties in the period. This evolution stimulated city dwellers to create and join the diverse voluntary associations that were active in many aspects of urban social life. The manifold urban guilds and confraternities are said to have generated mutual aid and poor relief, trust and friendship, and to have been permeated by collective religious rituals and practices. Social historians such as Hugo Soly and Catharina Lis postulate too that the meaning of civil society within an urban context corresponded to the dominant demographic setting and socioeconomic climate.2 They suggest that the ‘long eighteenth century,’ characterized by the fading significance of guilds, economic attenuation, and rising social inequality, caused friction within formal networks. This weakening of formal structures was compensated for by greater social control at the level of informal social bonds. Without denying the innovative character of these studies, they are somewhat limited in that they understand changes in the role and importance of civil society from a strictly social perspective. In other words, lurking in the background is the specter of reductionism, since the dominance of a strict socioeconomic explanatory model obscures the possible impact of religious and cultural processes on early modern urban communities. While in the last few decades religious confraternities have increasingly been acknowledged as more than purely devotional groups,3 a predominately religious perspective has long characterized confraternity studies. Here again, this rather limited view on the meaning of confraternal life within the early modern urban context underestimates the possible role of religious brotherhoods as social agents.4 Indeed, while religious studies on confraternal life have generated interesting ideas on the relation between confraternities and the experience of religion, we still lack adequate insight into the social dimension of confraternal life. Therefore, I start here from the assumption that social relations and strategies can only be captured through the prism of the religious. In other words, socioeconomic and religious factors were intertwined and should therefore be studied integrally.5 To this end, this chapter focuses on the 2 Katherine A. Lynch, Individuals, Families and Communities in Europe, 1200–1800, The Urban Foundations of Western Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 3 Reid, “Measuring the Impact,” 3–12; Garrioch, “Lay-Religious Associations,” 35–49. 4 An exception to the historiographical picture that I paint here: Ronald F.E. Weissman, Ritual Brotherhood in Renaissance Florence (London: Academic Press, 1982). 5 Promoters of an integrated perspective include André Chauvez, “Les confréries au Moyen Age: Esquisse d’un bolan historiographique,” Revue Historique 275 (1986): 467–77.

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charitable role of late medieval and early modern religious confraternities in Aalst, a small town in the Southern Netherlands. I argue that insight into the significance and nature of the charitable practices of religious brotherhoods constitutes an indispensable step towards a nuanced image of, first, religious confraternities as a potential source of social capital, and, second, the socioreligious logics behind confraternal membership of both female and male actors within a specific urban context. I will explore the intensity and variety of charitable activities carried out by the early modern religious brotherhoods present in the parish of St. Martin. A close reading of both prescriptive regulations and actual time and financial investments in charitable activities within the confines of confraternal practice will prove to be a fruitful way of assessing the socioreligious consequence of post-Tridentine religious confraternities. As charitable activities are often reduced to a strict social perspective and too often function as a byword for poor relief, my main aim here is to transcend artificial boundaries between the social and the religious by studying confraternal charity in its multiple forms and meanings.

Religious Confraternities in Early Modern Aalst: A Sketch

As religious confraternities developed under the influence of diverse social, political, and religious factors, their shape, meaning, and structure could differ significantly according to the context in which they functioned. Yet it is clear that they formed a diverse and popular form of association in Catholic contexts; as Gabriel le Bras has argued, the vast majority of late medieval Christians joined a religious confraternity.6 Most medium-sized cities in and beyond the early modern Low Countries boasted between thirty and ninety or more confraternities.7 In the case of large cities with more than 50,000 inhabitants, the number of religious confraternities could be as many as 400.8 In Protestant 6 7

8

Gabriel Le Bras, Etudes de Sociologie Religieuse (Paris: Arno Press, 1955–56), 454; John Bossy, Christianity in the West, 1400–1700 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985). Among others: André Deblon and A.M.P.P. Janssen, “Broederschappen in de zeventiende en achttiende eeuw in het bisdom Luik en in de omgeving van Sittard in het bijzonder,” Munire Ecclesiam. Opstellen over ‘gewone gelovigen’ aangeboden aan prof. Dr. W.A.J. Munier ss.cc. bij zijn zeventigste verjaardag (Maastricht, 1990), 156. For example, mid-eighteenth century Milan, with more than 120,000 inhabitants, counted more than 400 religious confraternities. The medium-sized city of Geneva counted approximately sixty confraternities. See Lynch, Individuals, Families and Communities, 92; and Garrioch, “Lay-Religious Associations,” 36. The city of Liège counted no less than eighty newly erected religious confraternities during the period 1640–59: Deblon and

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areas, in contrast, the majority of medieval religious confraternities were abolished in the sixteenth century and the ones that survived were often deprived of their initial devotional character.9 By way of a case study, I focus here on seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Aalst, a city that is small enough for developing an integrated perspective. As a city of approximately 5,000 inhabitants, Aalst was of no more than regional importance and was situated in inland Flanders, between the two larger cities of Ghent and Brussels. In the late medieval and early modern period, ten different religious confraternities were active within the town, which was organized as a single parish, the parish of St. Martin. This parish belonged to the Archdiocese of Malines during the period 1559–1806, after which the parish was put under the control of the Archdiocese of Ghent.10 Until 1868, the parish of St. Martin was centered on one church that harbored the altar and chapels of all formal groups and functioned as the epicenter of religious activity within the town of Aalst.11 Some religious confraternities did not leave any or sufficient source material, so that my analysis here is necessarily limited to only eight confraternities. Seven of these sodalities were post-Tridentine, six of which were established in the course of the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries (the confraternities of the Holy Altar, St. Barbara, the Faithful Souls, the Holy Death Struggle, the Holy Rosary, and the Holy Trinity).12 Only one, the confraternity of St. Catherine, which had been founded in the sixteenth century, originated before the Council of Trent.13 Due to the absence of membership lists and the fragmentary nature of the other source material for the confraternity of the Holy Mother of Halle, this organization will play only a marginal role in the analysis.

9 10 11 12

13

Janssen, “Broederschappen in de zeventiende,” 156. Late medieval Ghent counted forty confraternities: Paul Trio, De Gentse Broederschappen (1182–1580). Ontstaan, naamgeving, materiële uitrusting, structuur, opheffing en bronnen (Ghent: Verhandelingen der Maat­ schappij voor Geschiedenis en Oudheidkunde te Gent, 1990), 17. Llewellyn Bogaers, “Broederschappen in laatmiddeleeuws Utrecht op het snijpunt van religie, werk, vriendschap en politiek,” Trajecta 8, no. 2 (1999): 97–119. Willy Buntinx, ed., Oost-Vlaamse kerkfabrieken (Oud Regime en hedendaagse periode) (Brussels: Algemeen Rijksarchief, 1988), 35. Jos Ghysens, Heiligenverering te Aalst (Aalst: Genootschap voor Aalsterse Geschiedenis, 1993), 1–4. Municipal Archives of Aalst (hereafter MAA), Church Archive of the Parish of St. Martin (hereafter CA), inv. no. 704 (1779); inv. no. 627 (1743); inv. no. 652 (1699); inv. no. 634 (1664); inv. no. 634 (1664); inv. no. 632 (1723). The confraternities of St. Jacob, St. Joseph, and St. Ursula are not taken into consideration due to insufficient source material. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. no. 657 (1539), fol. 2v; Ghysens, Heiligenverering te Aalst, 1–4.

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Given that the number and nature of religious confraternities differed according to the social, political, economic, and demographic context in which they functioned, it is unwise to shoehorn all religious confraternities into a single, uniform definition. However, roughly stated, religious confraternities can be defined as voluntary associations of laymen and -women designed for devotional purposes and spiritual exercise.14 According to the reformed Catholic Church, post-Tridentine associations were to be open to all Christians and were to promote a universal form of brotherhood; the creation of ties of spiritual kinship thus centered on well-defined Christian values.15 All surviving statutes of post-Tridentine confraternities in Aalst explicitly mention that men and women, married or unmarried, religious or lay, rich or poor, could enter. The confraternity of the Holy Altar even formulated a strong dedication to unity and friendship within the framework of the association. Its statutes, drawn up in 1743, stipulated that since our clerical authorities established the Holy Sacrament of the Altar as a symbol of unity and love, with the purpose to unite all Christians following the Holy Command, it is stated that all brothers and sisters will unite themselves to honor our Lord’s wish. […] For the sake of the practice of this great task all brothers and sisters should shun conflict and division, envy and trial and should try to unite themselves in peace and forgiveness.16 14

15

16

This definition applies to religious brotherhoods in the Low Countries only (cf. Trio, Volksreligie als spiegel, 41). The characteristics of religious associations differed according to the geographical context and an extrapolation of this definition can therefore cause misinterpretations of the nature(s) of associational life in its different forms and settings. Among others: Daniel Zardin, “Relaunching Confraternities in the Tridentine Era: Shaping Conscience and Christianizing Society in Milan and Lombardy,” The Politics of Ritual Kinship. Confraternities and Social Order in Early Modern Italy, ed. Nicholas Terpstra (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 193; Christopher Black, “Confraternities and the Parish in the Context of Italian Catholic Reform,” Confraternities and Catholic Reform in Italy, France and Spain, ed. John Patrick Donnelly and Michael W. Maher (Kirksville, MO: Thomas Jefferson University Press, 1998), 1–27. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. no. 706, fol. 7v: “Aengesien dat onsen Saligmaeker het Alderheyligste Sacrament des Autaers heeft ingestelt al seen ken-teeken van die Eenigheijd ende Liefde, met de welcke hij heeft gewilt dat alle Christenen onder malkanderen souden samen gevoegt en vereenigt wesen, volgens het gebod aen ons gegeven, ende korts naer het instellen van het voorz. Mysterie tot drij reijsen herhaelt, soo sullen de Broeders ende Susters desen uytersten wille van Christus trachten uijt te wercken, ende tot dien eijnde schouwen alle twisten, vijandtschappen, haedt en nijdt ende processen

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Even more importantly, the confraternities for which sufficient evidence has survived seem to have been not only open communities in theory, but also in many aspects of their confraternal practice. Although only fragmentary evidence on confraternity membership has been preserved for the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, it seems safe to say that membership was very widespread. Based only on (incomplete) registration lists of the seven post-Tridentine confraternities in Aalst, over 25,000 individual names of confraternity members have been recorded. Between 1650 and 1800, an average of approximately 2,500 individuals joined one of the seven confraternities under examination every twenty-five years.17 Considering the population of the town (approximately 5,000 inhabitants)18 and the fact that registration lists have been preserved for only half of the confraternities, it can be confidently argued that, at the very least, half of the town’s population was involved in one or more religious confraternities. Membership in religious confraternities was not only widespread, it was also diverse. The religious confraternities in Aalst included both men and women, and women even dominated most post-Tridentine confraternities in a purely quantitative way (except for the confraternity of the Holy Altar), as they made up 68 per cent of all confraternity members.19 Membership in the religious confraternities under consideration here declined from the early eighteenth century onwards. During this period of decline, the Rosary confraternity and the confraternity of the Holy Death Struggle were responsible for the majority of newly registered members; the Rosary had 78 per cent of the total number of new brothers and sisters registered during the period 1700–1720, the Holy Death Struggle attracted 83 per cent of all members admitted in the following twenty years. In other words, while the period 1620–1700 saw a massive intake of new members, due to the booming number of newly established confraternities, the appeal of confraternal membership weakened in the opening decades of the eighteenth century. It was only in 1742 that a moderate increase in newly registered members occurred, due to the establishment of the religious confraternity of the Holy Altar. Even then, however, the number of new members was somewhat less

17 18

19

ende naer vermogen de geschillige trachten ten vereenigen, den peijs te maeken daer hij gebroken is, ende sorgelijck te bewaeren daer hij gemaekt is.” MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 633, 634, 627, 672. Reinoud Vermoesen, “Markttoegang en ‘commerciële’ netwerken van rural huishoudens” (PhD diss., University of Antwerp, 2008); Wouter Ryckbosch, “A Consumer Revolution Under Strain. Consumption, Wealth and Status in Eighteenth-Century Aalst (Southern Netherlands)” (PhD diss., University of Antwerp, 2012), 65–71. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 706, 633, 652, 634, 627, 672.

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impressive in comparison with the booming period of the seventeenth century. Although religious men and women did occasionally join one or more of the religious confraternities, only 3 per cent of the total number of sisters and brothers were registered as ‘religious brother’ or ‘religious sister.’ Although it is possible that inconsistent documentation of new members’ religious status may lead to a certain underestimation of the relative share of religious members, it still seems safe to say that the target group of post-Tridentine confraternities in Aalst was lay Catholics, men and women alike.20

Confraternal Activities in a Post-Tridentine Climate: A Normative Framework

Religious confraternities of the early modern Low Countries, and more specifically of Aalst, were thus not small, exclusive clubs, but large, open associations.21 Measuring the role religious confraternities played in an individual’s daily life starts with an analysis of the nature and functioning of these institutions. In the following, focus is placed on the moral principles underpinning the post-Tridentine religious confraternities active in seventeenth- and eight­ eenth-century Aalst. Can we understand confraternal aspirations as being of a dominantly spiritual nature, confined to the regulation of the parish church, or did the normative and actual confraternal sphere of influence reach out further into the surrounding spaces of the city?22 The confraternities in Aalst clearly functioned as a means to practice devotional sentiments. Their statutes above all stressed the importance of devotion, both collective and individual.23 As such, the general features of post-Tridentine confraternal life in Aalst did not differ much from the post-Tridentine confraternal organizations elsewhere in the Southern Netherlands.24 With 20 21 22 23 24

Same observation made for contemporary Ghent: Trio, Volksreligie als Spiegel, 112. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 627, 706, 652, 634, 660, 657, 633. Zardin, “Relaunching Confraternities,” 193. Deblon and Janssen, “Broederschappen in de zeventiende,” 168. Among others: Philippe Desmette, Les confréries religieuses et la norme (XII-début XIXe siècle), Centre de recherches en histoire du droit et des institutions (Brussels: Facultés universitaires Saint-Louis, 2003), 19; Philippe Desmette, Dans le sillage de la Réforme catho­ lique: Les confréries religieuses dans le nord du diocèse de Cambrai (1555–1802) (Brussels: Acad. Royale de Belgique, Classe des Lettres, 2010); Maarten F. Van Dijck, “Bonding or Bridging Social Capital? The Evolution of Brabantine Fraternities during the Late Medieval and the Early Modern Period,” in Faith’s Boundaries: Laity and Clergy in Early Modern

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regard to the representativeness of our case study, it is important to note that for the medieval town of Aalst, patchy traces of the existence of only three preTridentine religious confraternities have been found.25 All confraternal statutes under examination are characterized by a strong emphasis on the role of confraternities as guardians of the moral and spiritual well-being and behavior of the faithful.26 The main task of the post-Tridentine religious confraternity was clear and simple: propagating the Catholic faith and encouraging piety and morality. The confraternities active in early modern Aalst, as elsewhere in contemporary Europe, had a well-defined devotional program, always approved by the archbishop of Malines. The prescriptive framework of the confraternities was characterized primarily by a strong focus on both individual and collective devotional practices.27 While most forms of overt sociability within the context of the confraternities, such as confraternal banquets, were increasingly criticized by clerical authorities, the importance of morality and the observance of confraternal instructions regarding expressions of devotion continued to be stressed within all confraternal statutes.28 Indeed, all confraternities under study were characterized by a dominant religious focus. Social activities in the strict sense were virtually nonexistent in the confines of early modern confraternal life. Among the sodalities under examination here, the six post-Tridentine confraternities for which account books and or written statutes have been preserved did not, indeed, seem to organize gatherings or entertainment with a dominant worldly nature, such as fairs or annual meals.29 On the whole, it seems that the Trent strategy of banning feasting and emphasizing gatherings with a more explicit religious dedication was successful: apart from the Holy Rosary confraternity, the seventeenth- and

25

26 27

28 29

Confraternities, ed. Nicholas Terpstra, Adriano Prosperi, and Stefania Pastore (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012), 153–86. The confraternities of St. Jacob and of the Holy Mother of Halle may have been already in existence before the year 1470: Jos Reynaert, De Oude Broederschappen van den H. Martinus Kerk te Aalst (Aalst: Van Fleteren, 1942), 1–2. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 652, 673, and 660. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. no. 652, Statutes of the Faithful Souls Confraternity, 1699; inv. no. 706, Statutes of the Holy Altar Confraternity, 1742; inv. no. 673, Book of Resolutions of the Holy Rosary Confraternity, 1674); inv. no. 632, Statutes of the Holy Death Struggle Confraternity, 1720; inv. no. 660, Statutes of the Confraternity of Our Holy Lady of Halle, 1760. See also Trio, Volksreligie als spiegel, 301. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 627, 706, 652, 622, 634, 660, 672; Black, “Confraternities and the Parish,” 1–27; Trio, “Middeleeuwse broederschappen,” 108. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 628 and 630, 631, 639–44, 708–11.

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eighteenth-century account books do not reveal traces of gatherings in the form of banquets or drinking bouts.30 Statutes of the Holy Altar confraternity, established in 1742, state that the election of a new confraternal dean should be held “in the house of one of the provisor, but never in an inn.”31 This Catholic zeal to reduce such feasting and drinking must be seen in light of the Protestant sentiment (first expressed by Luther) that some German fraternities had become little more than drinking societies. This criticism was also made of some English and French fraternities.32 Even so, the renouncing of gatherings that could induce men (and women) to drink and behave immorally should perhaps be interpreted not as a renunciation of ‘social activities’ per se nor as symptomatic of a decline in the social purposes and effects of post-Tridentine confraternities, but rather as an attempt to influence the social behavior of sisters and brothers. Indeed, the dominance of religious aspirations does not exclude social aspirations. On the contrary, at a prescriptive level at least, it seems that religious authorities were convinced that social discipline and hierarchy served as the cornerstone of a well-functioning Christian community. All statutes emphasized that one of the most important requirements of new members, both men and women, should be their good reputation and impeccable behavior.33 In this respect, all statutes studied contain not only rules concerning spiritual practices, but also include disciplinary guidelines for members’ social and spiritual behavior both inside and outside the walls of the parish church. Drunkenness, gossiping, swearing, and the use of indecent language was absolutely forbidden during the activities of the confraternities; sisters and brothers guilty of indecent language or dishonorable actions would be fined. When a member brought shame on him- or herself, and thus on the confraternity, for a second time, they were to be excluded from the association.34 While all confraternal statutes incited members to live in harmony and mutual respect with each other, those of the confraternity of Our Lady of Halle and the confraternity of the Holy Altar explicitly state that confraternal members should approach the confraternal board with respect and submission. No member was allowed to dispute the words, actions, or decisions of the board, and they had to treat the board members with great respect and love,35 “avoid30 31 32 33 34 35

MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 628, 631, 639–44, 708–11. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. no. 706, fol. 9 (article 12) Bossy, Christianity in the West, 59. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 652, fol. 3r; no. 706, fol. 1r; no. 660, fol. 2. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. no. 660, fol. 1. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. no. 660, fols. 35–36.

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ing conflicts, hatred and malice.”36 This prescriptive framework suggests that the eagerness of religious authorities to regulate socioreligious order and conduct of the flock was highly intertwined with a desire to strengthen social hierarchy. This desire to influence social and religious morality of brothers and sisters transcended the walls of the parish church. Not only was the behavior of the members themselves subjected to strict codes, but the disciplinary vigor of the confraternities reached deep into the private circle of each member: husbands, wives, children, and servants of a new candidate had to behave appropriately as well. Once a member, it was considered a duty to encourage family members, servants, neighbors, and friends to join the confraternity.37 The moral duty of both brothers and sisters to recruit members of their own individual social network to join the same confraternity was emphasized in all available seventeenth- and eighteenth-century confraternal statutes. While control over both spiritual and moral experiences formed a key element of the prescriptive framework of all confraternities under study, it remains to be seen if the confraternal boards succeeded in implementing their behavioral regulations. None of the account books available left traces of an actual enforcement of the fines or expulsions foreseen in cases of excesses. Yet, this does not automatically exclude the possibility of an implicit coercion emanating from the rules, as they were always read out loud in front of each and every newly registered member.38 In sum, living up to the confraternal ideals of socioreligious order and harmony was a well-defined spiritual goal of sodalities in early modern Aalst.39 The confraternities’ wish to create a sense of unity among their members was connected to a desire to implement moral values of discipline, mutual respect, cooperation, and uniformity. In this way, social aspirations were legitimized and nurtured by spiritual aspirations, and vice versa.

Confraternal Brotherhood and the Act of Charity

The inextricable character of social and religious activities within the context of early modern confraternal life40 becomes all the more obvious as we turn to 36 37 38 39 40

MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. no. 706, fol. 8 (article 6). MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 652, fol. 3r; 706, fol. 1v; 660, fol. 2v. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 628 and 630, 631, 639–44, 708–11. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. no. 652, fol. 1. Black, Italian Confraternities, 168.

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the related concept of charity, i.e., the idea that caregiving was a religious duty. Medieval canonists made a distinction between caritas, the duty to give aid to those to whom one stood in close relation, and misericordia, assistance to the general religious community.41 Katherine Lynch has argued that, under the influence of processes of confessionalization, early modern poor relief became more inward-looking, more directed at one’s own confessional group. In contrast, Nicolas Terpstra and Christopher Black notice a shift towards more philanthropic and outward charitable intentions in Italian brotherhoods from the sixteenth century onwards, both as an answer to the growing social need for poor relief and as a Catholic response to the Lutheran attack on salvation through the ‘good works’ of philanthropic activity: The Catholic reform movement broadly promoted both confraternities and charitable institutions for marginal groups, and the new orders of the reform found the quasi-confraternal lay congregations an adaptable and more controllable vehicle for the kind of lay charitable work that extended the efforts of the regular clergy.42 This section will look at the forms of charitable assistance that confraternal members and nonmembers could expect from the religious confraternities in this study, and what this assistance reveals about the role of religious associations within the urban fabric of early modern Aalst. I will restrict my discussion of the charitable role of religious confraternities to an exploratory analysis of both confraternal statutes and expenditures, in order to gain more insight into the social effects of confraternal membership for both men and women. As early as the thirteenth century, the town and hinterland of Aalst, like other parts of the Southern Netherlands, witnessed the establishment of the “table of the Holy Spirit,” a parochial organization with the mission to provide poor relief to its own parishioners in need of support.43 Confronted by a rising 41

42

43

Lynch, Individuals, Families, and Communities, 102–18. See also Bossy, Christianity in the West, 60: “charity in our own more conventional sense played a large and perhaps increasing part in fraternal activity, though before the sixteenth century it was normally confined to members.” Black, Italian Confraternities, 213; Nicholas Terpstra: “In loco parentis: Confraternities, Conservatories, and Orphanages in Early Modern Florence and Bologna,” in The Politics of Ritual Kinship: Confraternities and Social Order in Early Modern Italy, ed. Nicholas Terstrpa (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 114. Jozef De Brouwer, Bijdrage tot de geschiedenis van de kerkelijke instellingen en het gods­ dienstig leven in het Land Van Aalst tussen 1621 en 1796 (Deel III) (Dendermonde: Jozef De Brouwer, 1975), 739.

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level of poverty throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth century, the tables of the Holy Spirit were faced with increasing pressure to provide financial aid for a growing number of poor households within the parish of St. Martin. According to Wouter Ryckbosch, 15 per cent of the total number of households within the city walls of Aalst received financial support from the parish.44 The following graphs give a visual representation of the general evolution of the yearly average sum of expenditure for each confraternity separately, as well as the relative share of expenditures in function of charitable support. The analysis is based upon an integral analysis of all available confraternal accounts, i.e., for the St. Barbara confraternity (1687–1764),45 the Holy Trinity confraternity (1708–22/1740–71),46 the Holy Altar confraternity (1750–59 and 1766–75),47 and the Holy Rosary confraternity (1723–85).48 All types of expenditure are categorized quite similarly to the notation of expenses in the account books themselves. As it is not always clear if purchases of wax and oil or payments to musicians and singers were made for the purpose of religious services, processions, or other sorts of activities, these expenditures are separated from the rest of the expenditure clusters. Expenditure for the purchase of obligations and rents has been filtered out, as this mainly concerns expenses in function of the support of ‘virtual’ money transactions and not actual activities—the actual purpose of these expenses cannot be extracted from the archival sources under examination. Expenditures made in order to support ‘social activities’ include costs involved in organizing gatherings or entertainment such as banquets and drinking bouts. I define ‘social activities’ as those with a less explicit religious dedication, such as banquets and feasts—gatherings that invite men and women to enjoy more ‘worldly’ pleasures. In early modernity one does not find a strict division between purely secular associations and religious associations, which became distinct only during the early nineteenth century. I found that the six post-Tridentine confraternities for which account books and/or written statutes have been preserved did not organize gatherings or entertainment with a dominantly worldly nature. However, this does not automatically imply that activities with an obvious religious purpose did not have latent effects on interpersonal relations within the confraternal group. Nor should we a priori exclude the religious purposes and effects of activities with a dominant social character such as banquets. 44 45 46 47 48

Ryckbosch, A Consumer Revolution, 120–21. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 628 and 631 MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 630, 639–44. MAA, CA, brotherhoods,, inv. nos. 708–11. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 690.

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FIGURE 4.1 Graph showing the evolution of relative share of the different types of expenditure (1680–1780). Source: MAA, CA, inv. nos. 628 and 630, 631, 639–44, 708–11.

The general pattern is clear: the vast majority of expenditure was made for activities with a dominantly devotional focus, either religious services or investments in a public display of confraternal religiosity and prestige (Fig. 4.1). In this respect, the organization of religious services absorbed the largest share of the total sum of expenditure—even when excluding wax and oil, this was a share that remained quite constant throughout the eighteenth century. The analysis of the account books of the Holy Altar and of the Holy Rosary (Figs. 4.2 and 4.5) confirms the absence of formal and organized charitable activities of these particular fraternities, at least when limited to material assistance.49 The analysis of the general investment patterns per confraternity (Fig. 4.1) also shows an overall dominance of investments in both material and immaterial expression of devotion and piety, the exception being the Holy Altar confraternity. On a normative level too, none of the confraternities studied imposed upon its members the duty to perform charitable acts in the form of material aid to less fortunate Catholics.50 Indeed, the duty to act according to the bodily and ‘worldly’ philanthropic activities, such as alms work, allocating dowries, or helping in hospitals, was not reflected in the formulation of duties for sisters 49 50

MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 690 and 708–11. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 673 and 706 .

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FIGURE 4.2 Graph showing the evolution of yearly average sum of expenditures of the Holy Altar confraternity (in guilders). Source: MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 709–11.

and brothers. The confraternity of the Faithful Souls was alone in imposing upon its relatively small number of members the duty to devote one entire day to the performance of a ‘good work,’ either through physical or spiritual care for oneself or for others (via fasting, alms, praying).51 As the Holy Trinity confraternity had the goal of raising funds to redeem Christian slaves imprisoned by Muslims, this brotherhood too can be ascribed a formal charitable function, at least on a prescriptive level.52 In practice, informal forms of material assistance were directed towards the poor—whether fellow members or not. The confraternities of the Holy Trinity and of St. Barbara were the only confraternities with a marginal, but nonetheless existing, commitment to those Christian souls in need of material aid (Figs. 4.3 and 4.4). From the year 1767 onwards, the St. Barbara confraternity contributed an annual grain rent of twelve to nineteen guilders a year to the house-poor of Aalst.53 As limited as this material support was, it transcended the boundaries of the confraternal group and may be an indication that at least some of the confraternities within the parish church practiced external charitable activities directed at the entire Christian community.

51 52 53

MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. no. 651, fol. 1 (article 4). Reynaert, De Oude Broederschappen, 67. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 631, fols. 474–582. The group of ‘house-poor’ include those poor who did not beg for support but received material support at home.

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FIGURE 4.3 Graph showing the evolution of yearly average sum of expenditures of the Holy Trinity confraternity (in guilders). Source: MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 639–44.

FIGURE 4.4 Graph showing the evolution of yearly average sum of expenditures of the St. Barbara confraternity (in guilders). Source: MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 628 and 631.

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FIGURE 4.5 Graph showing the evolution of yearly average sum of expenditures of the Holy Rosary confraternity (in guilders). Source: MAA, CA, brotherhoods, account books of the Holy Rosary confraternity, inv. no. 690.

With regard to material support initiated by individual confraternal brothers or sisters, this was limited to the distribution of bread to the poor in attendance at the annual masses of prominent confraternal members.54 As no more than five of the total of sixty-four fund-givers noted in the eighteenthcentury account books invested in the distribution of bread, it can be assumed that these informal charitable activities were small in scale and remained so throughout the period under study. Peeter Van Waesberge, provisor of the Holy Rosary confraternity during the period 1730–40, funded an annual mass followed by the distribution of fifteen loaves of wheat bread each costing three pennies.55 The remaining aid providers—Guillaume Evenepoel (and his wife Catharina Beeckman) and Maximiliaen van Oostendorp (and his wife Josina Janssens)—were prominent members of the Holy Trinity confraternity; they provided a total of ninety loaves annually for the poor in attendance at the sodality’s annual masses and this throughout the period 1717–86.56

54 55 56

MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 631, 639–44, 690, 708–11. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. no. 690, fols. 9–10. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 639–43.

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All in all, the post-Tridentine confraternities of Aalst rarely embarked on charity in the ‘worldly’ sense—as for example those described in the corporal Seven Acts of Mercy, e.g., dressing and feeding the poor. However, if charity is defined in a broader sense, beyond material aid—as contemporary confraternal boards understood charity57—the philanthropic character of con­fraternities becomes more apparent and even dominant in character. The charitable function of Post-Tridentine confraternities was primarily situated in the area of spiritual aid.58 It has become clear that confraternal membership was considered beneficial for the spiritual well-being of the individual confraternal member. Although not explicitly cited in statutes as guidance for confraternal activity, the normative duties of brothers and sisters were based on the spiritual Seven Acts of Mercy. The attendance at collective and private religious services for individual souls and the collective brotherhood can be seen as a form of spiritual charity. The philanthropic scope of the confraternities under study did not, however, extend beyond the particular confraternal group. Collective services organized by a specific confraternity benefited the spiritual welfare of their own members only. Again, the Faithful Souls confraternity and the Holy Trinity confraternity can be considered exceptions in this regard. The former was the only fraternity that organized an annual mass, held in the month of February, dedicated to an undefined group of ‘forgotten’ departed souls: deceased individuals commemorated by no one else.59 The latter sodality, in turn, was supposed to hold masses in remembrance of those Christian souls enslaved by the ‘Musulmannen’ (Muslims), that is, Christians outside their own confraternal group.60 While religious services organized by the confraternity itself were beneficial for the spiritual welfare of its own flock, private services funded by an individual member, on the other hand, were always directed at the salvation of the individual soul. More than 90 per cent of all funded masses, in the form of 57

58

59 60

As for the Faithful Souls confraternity, the duty to perform ‘good works’ implied either spiritual aid via praying or material aid—both were of equal value. MAA, CA, Brotherhoods, inv. no. 651, fol. 1. Black, Italian Confraternities, 17. Bossy, Christianity in the West, 61: “‘Good works’ could also involve prayer for others, improving religious education, encouraging frequent confession and communion, and peacemaking.” Post-Tridentine religious confraternities were characterized by a much more outspoken philanthropic character in comparison to the confraternities in this study: Christopher Black, Church, Religion and Society in Early Modern Italy (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), 130. MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. no. 651, fol. 3 (article 7). Reynaert, De Oude Broederschappen, 67.

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requiems and annual masses, were directed at members of both nuclear and extended family ties and friends.61 Individual and private deeds of spiritual charity did, in contrast to collective and formal confraternal charity, transcend the boundaries of the confraternal group, but they were chiefly directed at personal social ties and not the community itself.

Conclusion

As charitable activities are mostly reduced to a strict social perspective and too often are assumed to be synonymous with poor relief, the main goal of this article was to re-evaluate the nature and meaning of confraternal activity within a specific socioreligious historical context. Charitable assistance provided by the religious confraternities in early modern Aalst seems to have been dominantly focused on the spiritual welfare of the individual confraternal group. My conclusion is that post-Tridentine confraternities can be considered philanthropic if the understanding of early modern charity is not limited to the strictly material, i.e., the corporal Seven Works of Mercy. All written statutes preserved for the Aalst confraternities stress the idea that a member’s spiritual well-being was the responsibility not only of the individual but, and above all, of the collective. Paradoxically, most confraternal activity revolved around the salvation of the souls of a very select and elite group of members. Confraternal members’ charitable activities of an explicit private and spiritual nature were focused on the salvation of other individuals in and outside their own confraternal group. However, these individual deeds of spiritual charity did not serve the community as a whole, but were instead directed at a welldefined personal network. 61

MAA, CA, brotherhoods, inv. nos. 628 and 630, 631, 639–44, 708–11.

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Chapter 5

Devotion and the Promotion of Public Morality: Confraternities and Sodalities in Early Modern Ireland Cormac Begadon The history of the Catholic Church in Ireland from the Reformation to the nineteenth century can be summed up as one of ‘endurance and emergence.’ Its fortunes were very much indicative of the tumultuous political and social climate that predominated throughout the 1600s, and the political thaw that ensued in the following century. While in other Catholic countries the Church was developing along Tridentine lines, the situation in Ireland did not allow for this. Curtailed by the absence of domestic seminaries, a paucity of well-trained clergy, as well as economic poverty, the prospect of implementing the CounterReformation in Ireland was a challenging task to say the least. The Church that subsequently evolved mirrored little the great Churches of the Continent. What came to exist was an impoverished institution whose capacity to provide pastoral care to the Catholic population was hampered severely. The desire of Tridentine reformers to locate religion within the physical confines of the parish church was simply not feasible in Ireland. There were difficulties introducing a parochially centered, clerically supervised, sacramental religion, resulting in the faith of many Catholics coming to exist in somewhat unorthodox forms, often not in line with the ‘reformed’ spirituality that the Counter-Reformation Church was advocating.1 Even though the Catholic Church in Ireland faced serious challenges, there were in certain areas, however, signs that it was attempting to provide pastoral care in new and innovative ways: one of the means through which reformers attempted to grapple with the pastoral situation was the confraternity. And while confraternities had existed in the pre-Reformation Church in Ireland, they came to be a vital tool in the armory of Catholic reformers in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Confraternities in this period came to be, largely, an urban phenomenon, existing primarily in larger, wealthier towns and in cities, of which Dublin was by and far the most populous and wealthiest. Dublin, therefore, came to be a vibrant center of Catholic culture; the 1 See Séan Connolly, Priests and People in Pre-Famine Ireland (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2001).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_007

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spiritual needs of the city’s Catholics were catered to by a small but growing group of confraternities, complemented by an ever-expanding Catholic print industry.2 While urban Catholic religious culture in Ireland was beginning to shows some signs of evolving into a ‘Tridentine Church,’ the growing Catholic population presented reformers with considerable challenges. Large numbers of Catholics were migrating from rural areas into cities such as Dublin, swelling populations. Many of the new arrivals shared an unorthodox, even questionable, understanding of their faith, which allegedly fueled immorality. The lax morality of many came to be a serious cause of concern for reform-minded clergy and laity in the eighteenth century. When reformers decided to confront it head-on, they employed the services of confraternities and their members. By the end of the century, a mass program of poor relief and catechesis was being put in place in some dioceses, but especially in Dublin. Those who took up the mantle of reform came from a core of an intelligent, articulate, and active middle-class laity. While these lay elites eventually went on to found refuges, asylums, and schools, at a much earlier period they assumed central roles in confraternities, the subject of my inquiry here. Fusing the zeal of reform-minded laity and clergy, confraternities became a vital tool in the promotion of moral reform, works of grace, and personal piety. I demonstrate in this chapter that the public works of many confraternities complemented the increased emphasis on poor relief and apostolic care, while at the same time meeting the spiritual needs of its members. Members of confraternities were tasked with implementing a program of mass catechesis intended to turn the Catholic population into an educated, moral, practicing, and charitable multitude. The efforts of confraternities had a very real and decisive impact, creating a climate that was to bring more and more Catholics into the ‘sacramental fold.’ Often underestimated, and seen as catering to the spiritual desires of its members, confraternities, I argue, had a far greater impact on the wider society in Ireland than has been heretofore acknowledged.

Pre-Reformation Confraternities in Ireland

While the emphasis of this chapter is to illustrate the role played by confraternities in the post-Reformation period, it is useful to briefly acknowledge and 2 See Cormac Begadon, “Confraternities and the Renewal of Catholic Dublin, c. 1750–c. 1830,” in Confraternities and Sodalities in Ireland: Charity, Devotion and Sociability, ed. Colm Lennon (Dublin: Columba Press, 2012), 33–56.

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comment on their existence in late medieval and early modern Ireland. Even though sources on their evolution are relatively sparse, some general observations can be made. First, Irish confraternities in the pre-Reformation period, like their Continental counterparts, had a largely fraternal outlook, offering masses and prayers for their confrères. This largely salvific rationale provided spiritual succor to members, giving assurance that the holy sacrifice of the Mass would be offered for their souls after death. Such comfort led to the growth in popularity of these fraternal groups, with lay fraternities being recorded in forty-five towns and villages in nine counties in late medieval Ireland.3 As became the case in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, confraternities existed predominantly within an urban framework in the centuries preceding the Reformation. The majority of these sodalities were founded in towns and cities that can roughly be described as having been under the sphere of English cultural and political influence.4 For example, Dublin accounted for twelve of the sixtytwo known fraternities, while other eastern counties, as well as Cork, Sligo, and Galway, made up the majority of the remainder. By the fifteenth century, the Irish Church was effectively split into two ecclesiastical regions: one corresponded to the more recent Anglo-Norman areas of settlement, whereas the other was dominant in older Gaelic Irish areas, complete with their own peculiarities of Church governance.5 These early fraternities were, therefore, located primarily within the English-dominated areas. Of these groups, one of the most well known, and indeed best documented, was the St. Anne’s Guild and Confraternity.6 Late medieval fraternities in English-dominated cities, like St. Anne’s in Dublin, helped bridge social boundaries, with membership open to people of varying social classes. In the larger part of the country under Gaelic control, however, confraternities appear to have developed along different lines. Gaelic 3 Colm Lennon, “The Confraternities and Cultural Duality in Ireland, 1450–1550,” in Early Modern Confraternities in Europe and the Americas: International and Interdisciplinary Perspectives, ed. Christopher F. Black and Pamela Gravestock (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 36. 4 Since the arrival of the Normans in the twelfth century, the majority of Irish cities and towns, which were predominantly located in the eastern half of the country, were under English and Royal control. Much of rural Ireland was outside the English sphere of influence and remained largely dominated by the Gaelic Irish. 5 Lennon, “Confraternities and Cultural Duality,” 36. 6 For example, see Colm Lennon, “The Chantries in the Irish Reformation: The Case of St Anne’s Guild, 1550–1630,” in Religion, Conflict and Coexistence in Ireland: Essays in Honour of Monsignor Patrick J. Corish, ed. R.V. Comerford, Mary Cullen, J.R. Hill and Colm Lennon (Dublin: Gill and McMillan, 1989), 6–25.

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Ireland was predominantly rural, lacking towns and cities, and the civic and social structures in which confraternities traditionally existed differed. While in the English-dominated towns and cities these groups combined fraternal and civic missions, in rural Ireland the influence of the reformed branches of the Augustinians, Dominicans, and Franciscans in promoting third orders was much stronger; as a result, conventional parish fraternities failed to gain any sort of significant foothold outside of the English zone in the late medieval period.7 Scholars have traditionally portrayed the Irish Church in the late medieval period as being in a decrepit state, with stagnant monasteries and a poorly educated and largely ineffective secular clergy. This view, however, may be a somewhat simplistic one, as it ignores the reforming work undertaken by some clergy and small sections of the laity in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries. Changes were made in the devotional world during this period, developments which were continued in the seventeenth century by reformers inspired by Trent. The promotion of third orders and more traditional parish confraternities was a sign of revival, an indication that belief and devotion, and a concern for personal sanctification, were important in the century or so leading up to the Reformation.8 Salvador Ryan has suggested that, as a result of the pastoral deficiencies of the clergy, some wealthy Catholic families and reforming clergy came together in the decades preceding the Reformation to attend to the spiritual needs of the sections of the faithful. Their approach appears to have been two-pronged: first, the establishment and endowment of new chantries, ensuring prayers for the faithful dead; secondly, the promotion of confraternities and the publication and sale of pious works. This was a combination that would also prove to be essential to Tridentine reformers a century or so later. Even at this early stage, confraternities were beginning to show signs of moving slowly away from their original salvific function towards an early modern spirituality that promoted private devotion and works of mercy. The Observant Franciscans played an important role in this process, promoting regular sacramental participation and the interiorization of religion, as well as popular catechesis.9 Yet one must not overestimate the impact of such attempts to spread devotion and popular and personal piety in this period, as this phenomenon was largely lim-

7 Colm Lennon, “Confraternities in Ireland: A Long View,” in Confraternities and Sodalities in Ireland: Charity, Devotion and Sociability, ed. Colm Lennon (Dublin: Columba Press, 2012), 21. 8 Anthony Lynch, “Religion in Late Medieval Ireland,” Archivium Hibernicum 36 (1981): 12. 9 Salvador Ryan, “Resilient Religion,” The Furrow 56, no. 3 (Mar. 2005): 134.

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ited to urban areas where there were “sufficient numbers for such a group, and pious clerics and suitable churches to serve its needs.”10 Confraternities, both those of a traditional, fraternal nature, and the newer third orders promoted by the friars, were thus an important and visible, albeit uncharacteristic, sign of the Catholic Church in Ireland at the dawn of the Reformation. However, as was the case with their co-religionists in mainland Europe, confraternities would in time become a much more important and combative tool in the Church’s response to Protestantism. The Reformation and the subsequent expansion of the Protestant state had a drastic effect on the religious and social makeup of Ireland. As had happened in England, Ireland received a ‘national’ Reformed church when the Irish parliament passed an act in 1536 acknowledging Henry VIII as the supreme ruler of the newly formed Protestant Church of Ireland. Unlike the Church of England, however, it was not a success, at least numerically speaking, with the vast majority of the population remaining Catholic.

Confraternities in Ireland after Trent

While it failed to attract significant numbers of native converts, the Church of Ireland was nevertheless the established Church, and with that came the legal protection and privilege granted to its sister church in England. The gradual expansion of the Protestant state, and the legal and subsequent practical implications that went with it, had far-reaching consequences for Catholicism in Ireland. In time, the Catholic Church would see the bulk of its ancient chapels and monasteries closed, resulting in a Church characterized by an institutional poverty that was to last well into the nineteenth century. In addition, the reforms recommended by the Council of Trent were difficult, and in many cases, impossible to implement and fraught with danger; as a result, more often than not what was considered to be an ideal of Trent was “sacrificed on the altar of practicality” in Ireland.11 An Act of Uniformity passed in 1560, which proscribed traditional Catholic devotions and associated liturgical practices, proved a devastating blow for the traditional confraternities, which were more dependent on chapels and chantries than their newly formed Tridentine counterparts.

10 11

Lynch, “Religion in Late Medieval Ireland,” 12. Ryan, “Resilient Religion,” 133.

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Before 1603 there seems to have been relatively few instances of citizens being punished for their religious convictions.12 This practical ‘tolerance’ allowed Catholic reformers to make tentative attempts towards introducing Tridentine reforms. It seems fairly certain that by 1600 Tridentine confraternities were operating in a number of towns and cities throughout the country. Some of these seem to have been inspired by lately returned Jesuits. Of these, Fr. Henry Fitzsimons is possibly the most well known and influential. Fitzsimons, a convert from Protestantism and son of a Dublin alderman and wealthy merchant, is said to have returned to his native city in 1597, having studied at the Jesuit college at Pont-à-Mousson, and finally at Louvain.13 During this Continental sojourn he made a number of important and influential acquaintances, notably Peter Lombard, the future archbishop of Armagh, and Heribert Rosweyde, the Dutch Jesuit and influential member of the reforming Bollandist Movement.14 No doubt imbued with a reforming zeal, Fitzsimons set to work soon after his return to Ireland, offering Mass in private chapels and, making good use of his well-connected family, enrolling many of the city’s leading Catholics into a confraternity. Fitzsimons is perhaps one of the better-known ‘new’ priests, but he certainly was not alone, with a number of Jesuits being recorded as operating in Dublin at around the same time.15 These priests were responsible, for example, for the erection of a confraternity in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary sometime in the 1590s.16 Outside of Dublin, in the relatively prosperous Archdiocese of Cashel, the same confraternity was formally erected in 1617.17 Likewise, the Dominicans and Franciscans did not shirk their responsibility for implementing reform: the Dominicans established the Confraternity of the Holy Rosary by 1620, whereas the Franciscans promoted the Confraternity of the Cord of St. Francis by a similar date. Much of their promotion was taking place in Dublin, which at the same time was seeing many of its chapels being fitted out to more commodious standards. The Jesuits erected their famous 12 13 14 15

16 17

Colm Lennon, “Civic Life and Religion in Early Seventeenth-Century Dublin,” Archivium Hibernicum 38 (1983): 15. James Corboy, “Father Henry Fitzsimon, SJ, 1566–1643,” Studies 32 (Jun. 1943): 260. Corboy, “Father Henry Fitzsimon, SJ,” 260. In 1613, for example, there were six Jesuits recorded as ministering in the city. See Raymond Gillespie, “Catholic Religious Cultures in the Diocese of Dublin, 1614–97,” in History of the Catholic Diocese of Dublin, ed. James Kelly and Dáire Keogh (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2000), 139. Patrick Corish, The Irish Catholic Experience: A Historical Perspective (Dublin: Gill and McMillan, 1985), 93. Myles V. Ronan, “Religious Life in Old Dublin,” Dublin Historical Record 2 (Mar. 1940): 107.

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chapel in Back Lane by 1630, complete with a pulpit, confessionals, and an ornate railed-off high altar.18 Even at this early stage, the development of confraternities was tied in firmly with wider changes taking place within the Irish Church; the newly promoted devotions were given a physical accompaniment by sophisticated chapels inspired by the liturgical recommendations laid down at Trent. While the newly established Tridentine confraternities appear to be superficially similar to their more venerable predecessors, there were a number of key differences. The older fraternal groups were characterized by sociability and a reliance on the sacredness of physical spaces, an aspect manifest most notably in chantry chapels. The Reformation in Ireland dealt a deadly, but not quite fatal, blow to many such groups. The standout survivor was the aforementioned Confraternity of St. Anne in Dublin, but many others went by the wayside. The newer Tridentine confraternities relied less on the social, fraternal elements, and were considerably less socially diverse, counting their members now from generally better-off sections of society. This was certainly the impression given by the Dublin Jesuit William St Ledger in 1661, when he wrote that “crowds of the better citizens and young men entered the confraternities.”19 These newly founded confraternities took their inspiration from Continental religious orders, which placed a greater emphasis on catechesis, reception of the sacraments, and devotion to the Blessed Virgin. Harnessing the growing accessibility of religious books for ordinary Catholics, these groups promoted personal devotion and, to a limited extent, moral reform. Just as overestimating the impact of confraternities in attempts at preReformation ‘reform’ should be treated with caution, so too must one be careful when assessing the work of reforming priests and laity in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Unlike in England, where by 1600 the Reformation’s success was assured, with the majority of the population conforming to the Reformed faith, the situation in Ireland was very different, with most remaining Catholic. This of course presented reforming Catholic clergy with a series of advantages and disadvantages. On the plus side, by this time 18

19

Gillespie, “Catholic Religious Cultures,” 135. See also Rolf Loeber and Magda StouthamerLoeber, “Kildare Hall, the Countess of Kildare’s Patronage of the Jesuits, and the Liturgical Setting of the Catholic Worship in Early Seventeenth-Century Dublin,” in The Parish in Medieval and Early Modern Ireland, ed. Elizabeth Fitzpatrick and Raymond Gillespie (Dublin: Fort Courts Press, 2006), 242–65. William St Ledger, cited in Ronan, “Religious Life in Old Dublin,” 107. Before returning to the Irish mission St Ledger had served as rector of the Irish College, Salamanca.

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it seemed reasonably certain that a mass conversion to Protestantism was neither possible, nor perhaps wanted, by the Church of Ireland. Apart from a few towns and cities, the Church of Ireland had few footholds, while proselytism to the masses was not on the agenda. With that said, the Catholic Church was deprived of much of its infrastructure and was confronted with a disparate and largely ineffective and poorly trained clergy. By the beginning of the seventeenth century, only small numbers of Continentally-trained priests had returned to minister in Ireland. Faced with the colossal nature of the task ahead, these men could have only a limited pastoral impact, at least in the immediate term. This conclusion is backed up by the claims of two Dublin Jesuits, Andrew Morony and Nicholas Leinach, writing in 1606 to their superior in Rome: they suggested that while the “people of this country are well disposed” to religion, they were “almost entirely perverted by heresy, not indeed in faith … but in morals.”20 In Sgáthán Shacramuinte na hAithride, a tract on penance written by the Gaelic Irish Franciscan, Hugh McCaughwell, in 1618, the situation appeared sufficiently grave that the author advised readers to look for a learned lay person to act as a spiritual director rather than rely on an ignorant priest.21 McCaughwell’s admission may seem at odds with Trent’s supposed emphasis on clerical supervision. Yet, as has already been acknowledged, the climate in Ireland was not always conducive to the full implementation of Tridentine recommendations. Unfortunately, little in the way of documentary evidence survives for the second half of the seventeenth century to shed light on the activities of con­ fraternities. Clerical numbers in the wake of the wars of the 1640s certainly seem to have dropped considerably, and the numbers of clergy returning from the Continent waned too.22 In Dublin, for example, the numbers of Jesuits ministering had fallen to just two by 1649. When he returned to Ireland in 1662, Archbishop Edmund O’Reilly was said to have found a mere ten clergy ministering in the Archdiocese of Dublin, which was without a resident bishop.23 20 21 22

23

Mulrony and Leinach, cited in Ronan, “Religious Life in Old Dublin,” 107. Ryan, “Resilient Religion,” 133. From the early years of the seventeenth century a network of Irish colleges began to emerge in France, the Low Countries, Spain, and the Empire. The colleges were designed to provide an education for Irish priests and lay Catholics. See Thomas O’Connor and Mary Ann Lyons, The Irish in Europe (Dublin: National Library of Ireland, 2006); John Silke, “The Irish Abroad, 1534–1691,” in A New History of Ireland, vol. 3: Early Modern Ireland 1534–1691, ed. T.W. Moody, F.X. Martin and F.J. Byrne (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976), 587–633. See Beningus Millet, “Archbishop Edmund O’Reilly’s Report on the State of the Church in Ireland, 1662,” Collectanea Hibernica no. 6 (1959): 105–14.

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The paucity of priests must have had a substantial effect on the quality of pastoral care. Whether or not confraternities picked up any of the pastoral slack is impossible to say. References to their activities, even in Dublin, in the following decades are rare; a confraternity in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary was in existence there in 1696 (a membership book survives).24

Irish Confraternities in the Eighteenth Century

In the wake of the Williamite Wars of the 1690s, a series of penal legislation was introduced that restricted the political, religious, and social lives of Catholics and their Church. While the implementation of the laws in the following decades was at best sporadic, the legislation did, however, have a devastating impact on the mission of the Catholic Church. This made improvements in the advancement of physical infrastructure, like chapels, schools, and seminaries, a difficult task for most of the first half of the eighteenth century. Whatever progress there could be was largely in the area of belief and morality, and even then a concerted program of catechesis and moral reform was impossible. Once again the activities of confraternities played an important, and often underestimated, role in fostering improvements in belief and practice during this period. There were signs even in the early decades of the eighteenth century that aspects of Tridentine reforms were beginning to take place, especially in cities and wealthier towns. A glance at lists of Catholic books published in Dublin attests to the growth in popularity of private devotion among religiously engaged Catholics. The promotion of confraternities and the publishing of Catholic spiritual literature were often closely connected. Pious clergy used both interchangeably to promote their teachings. This strategy was certainly in evidence in the 1740s, with a number of Dublin regular clergy promoting the Confraternity of the Most Holy Name of Jesus. The confraternity was established in the Dominican chapel in Bridge Street. The chapel was said to have been relatively commodious in a report made in 1749, with a pulpit, pews, a grand altar, silver sanctuary lamp, and taber­nacle.25 Interestingly, it had a large painting depicting St. Dominic receiving the Rosary, that great devotional aid, from the Blessed Virgin.26 The Dominicans had

24 25 26

Ronan, “Religious Life in Old Dublin,” 107. Nicholas Donnelly, State and Condition of R.C. Chapels in Dublin, both Regular and Secular, ad 1749 (Dublin: Catholic Truth Society, 1904), 16. Ibid.

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labored hard to create a physical environment that would help stimulate private devotion and personal sanctification in the Catholic community. In a series of letters written in 1747–48, a Dublin Jesuit, Thomas Brennan, showed that he was suitably impressed by the actions of the Dominicans in promoting the Holy Name among the city’s Catholics. Brennan had been exposed to the world of Tridentine Catholicism, having taught in a number of Jesuit colleges in the Roman Province before his return to Ireland, and was aware of the need for further promotion of the Holy Name and other confraternities in his homeland.27 Writing to a fellow Jesuit, Michael Fitzgerald, in Rome, he praised the activities of the confraternity, whose principal aim was to counteract the “vice of profane swearing and cursing.”28 However, this concern was not a new occurrence; just over two decades before this, a work on the same topic was printed by the Dominican Edmund Burke, entitled The rosary’s of the B. Virgin Mary, and of the Most H[oly] Name of Jesus (Dublin, 1725). Dublin by this date had a flourishing Catholic print culture, catering to an array of spiritual and devotional tastes. Years later, another Dublin Dominican, John O’Connor, published a similar work: An essay on the Rosary and Sodality of the Most Holy Name of Jesus (Dublin, 1773).29 In this important work, O’Connor reinforced the idea of the confraternity stimulating social and religious restoration, stating that it was the obligation of all members “to use every lawful Effort to effect a Reformation, and to stop the dreadful contagion.”30 The Dominicans were not alone in their efforts to promote confraternities and works of grace amongst the laity, with the other religious orders each having their own particular cause. Unsurprisingly, the Jesuits played an important role. Their influence in Irish Catholicism in this period far outweighed their limited numerical strength—it was the Jesuits who gave Ireland its most popular religious devotion, the Sacred Heart.31 Devotion to the wounds of Christ had long since existed, but its popularity spiraled in the wake of the visions of St. Margaret Mary Alacoque in the 1670s; Alacoque was said to have seen Christ 27 28 29

30 31

Francis Finnegan, “Biographical Index of Members of the Dublin Jesuit Community,” Reportorium Novum 4, no. 1 (1971): 91. Hugh Fenning, “Letters from a Dublin Jesuit in Dublin on the Confraternity of the Holy Name, 1747–1748,” Archivium Hibernicum 29 (1970): 141. Works promoting the activities of confraternities were occasionally printed by Irish booksellers throughout the century and are a good indication of the popularity of certain devotions. John O’ Connor, An Essay on the Rosary and Sodality of the Most Holy Name of Jesus (Dublin: Patrick Wogan, 1773), 2. Apart from their role in promoting confraternities, Jesuit devotional authors, mostly Continental, were frequently published and sold by Irish booksellers.

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displaying his heart as a source of grace and love.32 This radiant source of divine love for humanity was an easily understandable, and easily communicable, concept for even the most uneducated of Catholics to grasp. Once again the role of Irish clergy on the Continent was central to its promotion in Ireland. A young Jesuit novice, James Connell, was studying in Rome when he wrote to his father in Dublin in 1766 espousing the benefits of devotion to the Sacred Heart. He begged him to “introduce into the Family the Devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus.”33 He gave the assurance that this devotion had been the cause of numerous miraculous cures, one of which he witnessed at the novitiate in Rome. Devotion to the Sacred Heart went on to become ubiquitous with Irish Catholicism; the image of the Sacred Heart in all its divine glory was an everpresent sight in Catholic homes well into the twentieth century. While by the middle of the eighteenth century devotional confraternities were largely populated with better-off Catholics, their mission extended far beyond this small number of spiritual elites. The mission of these groups was not merely to provide spiritual succor to a select group of wealthier Catholics, but rather to be a key component of a wider movement committed to improving public morality. A letter by Thomas Brennan includes a comment that illustrates this policy perfectly. Under the heading “Those who are to be admitted into the Sodality of the Holy Name of Jesus,” he stated: “chiefly the heads of families, or those who have the charge of others with some authority to punish their faults.”34 The letter goes on to declare that it was “those of an approved virtue, who will promise to exert their zeal against this vice, and will be judged to have influence enough on their acquaintances to exert with it success” who were the sodality’s desired members.35 In short, the confraternity wanted people in positions of influence, at the level of the family or within the wider society, to chastise moral indiscretions. This was to be a ‘top-down’ moral reformation, initially stimulated by a pious few and taken up, ideally, by the masses. The implorations of Brennan were underscored a few years later in O’Connor’s work on the Holy Name, in which he told readers that what was being proposed was a reformation. While O’Connor meant by ‘reformation’ refraining from profaning the Lord’s Name, this was of course part of a wider 32 33 34 35

Raymond Jones, France and the Cult of the Sacred Heart (London: University of California Press, 2000), 2. James Connell to William Connell, 25 Jan. 1766 (Presentation Archives, George’s Hill, Dublin, A1). Thomas Brennan to Michael Fitzgerald, 31 Jan. 1746/47, in Fenning, “Letters from a Dublin Jesuit,” 141. Ibid.

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and more important improvement in public manners. This moral crusade went hand in glove with the Church’s renewed emphasis on catechesis and sacramental participation. It is reasonable to suggest that up to roughly the middle of the eighteenth century the majority of confraternities that existed in Ireland were of a devotional nature. Limited in size, these organizations were small bodies made up of core groups of devout lay men and women. They were arguably never intended to attract large numbers of members but rather were designed to promote greater sanctity within the wider Catholic community. As the years of the eighteenth century went by and the climate for advancements in the political and religious causes of Catholics became more favorable, so too came pressure from reform-minded clergy and laity to bring ever-increasing sections of the Catholic populace into the sacramental fold. In the twentieth century, Ireland came to be seen as one of the great bastions of Catholicism, with near-universal sacramental communication, a multitude of clergy and religious, and a state that supposedly reflected the zeal and religiosity of its mostly Catholic population. Near-universal mass attendance had been achieved only in the post-Famine period, and a great many remained outside of the sacramental fold before this.36

Confraternities and Catechesis

Although church attendance may have been of concern, the equally challenging task of successfully reforming the Church in line with the ideals of Trent was to be a slow and arduous task, one that could not be achieved overnight. Nonetheless the ‘reformation,’ as a mass movement, was well underway in many dioceses by the later decades of the 1700s with a widespread program of catechesis and moral reform; it was particularly marked in the towns and cities of Ireland’s economic heartland. Religious instruction for many Catholics up to that point had been limited to the Lord’s Prayer, the Hail Mary, and the Creed, as well as a familiarity with the Seven Deadly Sins, “as a basis for moral 36

It is difficult to present even reasonably accurate mass attendance figures before 1831. Mass attendance was accepted to be generally highest in towns with Catholic populations in excess of 5,000, as well as in rural areas where efforts to stimulate reform had been successful in the decades before this. See David W. Miller, “Mass Attendance in Ireland in 1834,” in Piety and Power in Ireland 1760–1960: Essays in Honour of Emmet Larkin, ed. Stewart J. Brown and David W. Miller (South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2000), 158–79.

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teaching.”37 Coupled with the immorality and allegedly scandalous behavior of sections of the laity at religious events like wakes and pilgrimages, reformers thus faced considerable challenges. This battle was fought first in urban areas, with the confraternity being the most potent weapon in their armory. However, the situation was a little different in rural areas. To this point, the Archbishop of Dublin, John Thomas Troy, lamented some years later the moral state of sections of the laity in the rural parish of Rathdrum, Co. Wicklow, which he said was due to the absence of confraternities.38 Here Troy was not referring to any of the aforementioned devotional confraternities but rather to those of ‘the Christian Doctrine.’ He stated that “[n]o parish can therefore be without some degree of moral & religious instruction Catechetical in nature.”39 Unlike traditionally devotional confraternities, the Christian Doctrine was not so much an urban phenomenon, with branches in increasing numbers of rural parishes by the close of the century. It would eventually become a ubiquitous sight in most Irish parishes. From modest beginnings in the middle of the century, by 1800 the confraternity had been transformed into the one of the most effective and combative tools in the Church’s war on immorality and irreligion. The Christian Doctrine was essentially a catechetical organization, made up of a core of lay members, who acted as teachers, under the supervision of clergy. Run along the lines of a ‘Sunday school,’ these sodalities were growing in popularity in Ireland by the 1780s. As early as 1782 the archbishop of Cashel, James Butler II, praised the activities of confraternities in his diocese. “The priests,” he said, were “exhorted to encourage people to join confraternities,” noting also that it was the duty of priests to visit schools and to instruct the teachers on the proper method of instilling faith and morals.40 In 1788 Pope Pius VI recognized the importance of the Irish confraternity of the Christian Doctrine, granting members plenary indulgences for their works. The following year, the bishops in the ecclesiastical province of Cashel stated that the Christian Doctrine was to be established in parishes throughout the province.41

37 38 39 40 41

Raymond Gillespie, Devoted People: Belief and Religion in Early Modern Ireland (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1997), 13. John Thomas Troy to Sir Henry Parnell, 1816 (Dublin Diocesan Archives, Troy Papers, AB3/30/3(8)). Ibid. Mark Tierney, “A Short Title Calendar of the Papers of Archbishop James Butler II in Archbishop’s House, Thurles: Part 1,” Collectanea Hibernica 18/19 (1976/77): 125. Mark Tierney, “A Short Title Calendar of the Papers of Archbishop James Butler II in Archbishop’s House, Thurles: Part 2,” Collectanea Hibernica 20 (1978): 95.

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The zeal of reformers, it has been argued, was largely prompted by the alienation of the lower classes from the institutional Church.42 A large percentage of the Irish Catholic population in the period was said to be in conflict with the Catholic way of life. Drawing children into the confraternity of the Christian Doctrine was not only an attempt to promote improved morality and religious knowledge but it was also a means of ‘claiming’ children as Catholic and establishing a renewed Catholic identity; in short, it was about reengaging with sections of the Catholic population, which up to this point had a loose, if not quite questionable, association and affinity with the institutional Church. Reformers embarked with much enthusiasm on their mission to catechize and reacquaint the great mass of non-practicing Catholics with sacramental life. The newfound emphasis on religious education and moral reformation during this period in Ireland was, however, in no way unique to the Catholic community. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, religion was a driving force of charitable actions of all denominations.43 In 1791, James Butler wrote to William Gibson, Vicar Apostolic of the Northern District in England, stating that he had ordered the Confraternities of Christian Doctrine and of the Blessed Sacrament to be established in all parishes in his district to counteract the efforts of Protestant, evangelical proselytizers.44 While a more concerted effort to lure Catholics from their faith did not begin to emerge until the 1810s, proselytizing by Protestants was undeniably becoming more common, even as early as the 1790s. The Protestant churches, and in particular the Church of Ireland, were quick to identify the benefits, both to society and to their own church, of establishing charities and dispensing poor relief and catechesis. There is little doubt that it was the Protestant churches, especially the Church of Ireland, that in part prompted—or at least intensified—the speed with which the Catholic moral reformation was instigated. By embarking on their own program of moral reformation, the Protestants obliged the Catholic Church to follow suit; it was partly because the Protestant churches were involved extensively in education and charity that Catholics felt compelled to enter the sphere. Confraternities, therefore, were responding to external threats as well as acting as agents of evangelization. 42

43

44

Dáire Keogh, “Evangelising the Faithful: Edmund Rice,” in Confraternities and Sodalities in Ireland: Charity, Devotion and Sociability, ed. Colm Lennon (Dublin: Columba Press, 2012), 60. Rosemary Raughter, “Pious Occupations: Female Activism and the Catholic Revival in Eighteenth-Century Ireland,” in Religious Women and Their History: Breaking the Silence, ed. Rosemary Raughter (Dublin: Irish Academic Press, 2005), 36. Tierney, “A Short Title Calendar, Part 2,” 101.

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Geography of Confraternities in Ireland

At this stage it might be useful to say a little about the geographic spread of confraternities in Ireland. By the close of the eighteenth century, the majority of ‘devotional’ confraternities existed in cities and larger, wealthier towns. Confraternities of this nature rarely existed in more rural settings and were most definitely an urban phenomenon. Dublin being by far Ireland’s most populous city had, unsurprisingly, the most sophisticated network of devotional groups. Cities such as Cork, Limerick, and Waterford could also address the spiritual appetites of lay Catholics with a variety of devotional groups, all complemented by a flourishing Catholic book culture. The situation in smaller towns and rural areas was somewhat different. In many rural dioceses the ability to provide pastoral care was constrained considerably by insufficient numbers of clergy, and as a result sacramental and devotional life was infinitely less sophisticated. In 1792, Edward French, bishop of the rural Diocese of Elphin recorded not a single working confraternity in his diocese.45 Due to the absence of sources it is difficult to say how characteristic the situation was compared with other rural dioceses of a similar economic standing, but it seems unlikely that Elphin was unique in this regard.46 However, by 1802 the situation had changed dramatically; a report on the diocese recorded confraternities dedicated to the Scapular, Our Lady, Christian Doctrine, and the Blessed Sacrament.47

Conclusion

By the close of the eighteenth century the political and religious climate faced by Catholics in Ireland and their Church had evolved significantly. The majority of the penal legislation enacted almost a century earlier had been repealed. The Catholic Church was now in a much freer position to expand its mission to 45 46

47

Hugh Fenning, “Clergy Lists of Elphin, 1731–1818,” Collectanea Hibernica 38 (1996): 150. Not all rural dioceses were liturgically and devotionally impoverished. Dioceses within the ‘economic heartland’ (dioceses existing within the boundaries of the historic provinces of Munster and Leinster) generally had larger numbers of clergy, higher mass ­attendance rates, and, more importantly, a greater economic wealth that supported advancements in the daily life of the Church. Poorer rural dioceses found it more difficult to finance grander chapels than cities and towns, which had larger populations and subsequently a greater base from which to draw subscriptions. Hugh Fenning, “The Diocese of Elphin, 1747–1802: Documents from Roman Archives,” Collectanea Hibernica (1994/95): 171.

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provide pastoral care to an ever-growing population. An explosion of church building took place; new chapels were erected and existing ones rebuilt throughout much of the country. Indigenous religious orders were founded, each expanding the Church’s mission to catechize and provide much-needed poor relief.48 The burgeoning print culture and the growth of confraternities not only attended to the spiritual demands of elites, but were firmly grounded in the Church’s overall mission to stimulate moral reform. And while confraternities had for the most part existed largely within urban settings in Ireland since Trent, this was changing by the beginning of the nineteenth century. Now confraternities were used not only as agents of moral reform and promoters of personal piety, but were also becoming an important bulwark against the proselytizing tide that accompanied the ‘Bible War.’ Evangelicals became heavily involved in the provision of poor relief and moral reformation, establishing schools and refuges and distributing Bibles indiscriminately both in towns and cities, but especially in rural areas. While the Christian Doctrine was central in the defense of Catholics against evangelicals, they were ably supported by other confraternities, sometimes established as an invaluable accompaniment to parish missions.49 Parish missions often took place in areas where proselytizers had been active and had made gains among the local Catholic population. Missionaries were sent to such parishes to win back Catholics who might have been lost and to shore up the faith of others. To ensure that their work would not be undone, they always tried to set up confraternities to fill the vacuum left by their departure.50 Missionaries not only promoted orthodox teaching, but they also confronted local populations about moral indiscretions and implored parishioners to mend their ways. The confraternities they established helped promote new social mores and provide a framework in which a new social conservatism could be promoted. Even the older, more traditional, pre-Reformation confraternities became valuable tools in this battle. Purgatorian Societies, as these earlier sodalities became known, successfully adapted in order to dovetail with this wider mission. They enjoyed the approval of Archbishop Troy, who granted indulgences to the societies’ members in “order to promote the pious dispositions of the 48

49 50

From the 1790s onwards into the early decades of the nineteenth century there were a number of indigenous religious orders founded: Christian Brothers, Loreto Sisters, Presentation Nuns, Sisters of Charity, Sisters of Mercy. See James Murphy, “The Role of Vincentian Parish Missions in the Irish ‘Counter Reformation’ of the Mid-Nineteenth Century,” Irish Historical Studies 24, no. 94 (Nov. 1984): 152–71. Missionaries established confraternities of Christian Doctrine, the Living Rosary (concerned with church maintenance), temperance societies, as well as Ladies Associations of Charity.

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faithful of this city, and to render them more charitable to the poor sick, and more zealous to relieve, by their suffrages, the souls in Purgatory.”51 Members now were asked to attend to the dying as well as to be present at wakes and funerals. Wakes had famously been scenes of drinking and immorality, practices that reformers had found difficult to eradicate. Confraternity members were asked to attend and read aloud the Office of the Dead, “in order if possible to abolish these unchristian and diabolical practices which are alas! but too common at wakes; and are disgraceful and insulting to our holy Religion.”52 In many ways the fortunes of confraternities in Ireland mirrored the political and social conditions faced by Catholics in the early modern period. The political situation in the seventeenth century, and indeed for much of the eighteenth century, was not conducive to a widespread expansion in pastoral provision. For much of the earlier period, confraternities remained small in number, and were largely the demesne of a spiritual elite. Even as the years went by and as the political climate became more favorable to advancements in pastoral care, their growth was slow, and membership continued to be limited to better off Catholics. Similarly, devotional confraternities existed very much within a geographical and social sphere, confined mostly to cities and towns in Ireland’s economic heartland. By the early decades of the nineteenth century, however, this situation had changed. The lack of social diversity should not be taken to mean that confraternities were merely groups where the spiritual needs of a limited few were met. To take such a narrow view is flawed and ignores the wider charge of confraternities in this period. The mission of confraternities was multifaceted. While they promoted personal sanctification and devotion among their members, they also helped stimulate moral reformation and implement a mass program of catechesis. In so doing, their impact extended far beyond the remit of their members. By the early nineteenth century, the Catholic Church in Ireland was better placed to extend its pastoral mission and continue with its program of moral reform and poor relief. Confraternities were now beginning to spread beyond their traditional urban centers and were a more common sight in rural parishes. The Catholic Church in Ireland, however, still faced considerable challenges, with large sections of the laity (and clergy) unwilling to submit to the standards of morality and sacramental observation required by reformers. Confraternities would play a pivotal role in the battle to turn the Catholic 51 52

A copy of the indulgences granted to the Purgatorial Society, Sts. Michael and John’s Church (Dublin Diocesan Archives, AB3/30/5(28)). Rules for the Society of St. Patrick, cited in Miles V. Ronan, An Apostle of Catholic Dublin: Father Henry Young (Dublin: Richview Press, 1944), 141.

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population into an observant one in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Having evolved significantly from their more traditional, pre-Reformation origins, confraternities were by the nineteenth century an invaluable tool in promoting greater religious observance and social conservatism in both urban and rural Ireland.

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Confraternities and Sodalities in Early Modern Ireland

Part 2 Spaces of Ritual and Theatre

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Chapter 6

On the Road to Emmaus: Tivoli’s “Inchinata” Procession and the Evolving Allegorical Landscape of the Late Medieval City Rebekah Perry One of the oldest religious rites in the central Italian region of Lazio is a procession performed every year in the city of Tivoli on the night of August 14, the vigil of the Assumption Feast. The procession features an early twelfth-century wooden triptych—the “Trittico del Salvatore”1 (Fig. 6.1)—whose central panel depicts Christ Enthroned making a gesture of blessing. On the wings, standing figures of the Virgin Mary and John the Evangelist turn toward Christ with arms raised in attitudes of supplication. The bottoms of the wings are decorated with narrative scenes of the Virgin’s Dormition (on the left) (Fig. 6.2) and John preaching (on the right). On the evening before Assumption Day, the triptych, clad in its fifteenth-century silver covering, is carried out of the cathedral of San Lorenzo (Fig. 6.3 A) on a giant processional litter by the Confraternita del Salvatore (Confraternity of the Savior). Behind the bishop, clergy, and other confraternities, and ahead of the civic officials and townspeople, the Confra­ ternita del Salvatore processes the image around the city’s historic center (Fig. 6.4). The company follows the contours of the eleventh-century defensive wall, long ago swallowed up by later medieval structures or, for what survived into the twentieth century, destroyed by Allied bombs. Along the way the procession stops at Ponte Gregoriano (Fig. 6.3 B), the bridge over the Anio River. The river demarcates the eastern boundary of the medieval city and skirts the famous Tiburtine “acropolis” (Fig. 6.5, Fig. 6.3 E) with its two ruined Roman temples. On Ponte Gregoriano, the Confraternity of 1 The triptych was made around 1100, possibly a few decades earlier, according to iconographic and stylistic evidence. For the most recent literature on the icon: Giorgio Leone, ed., Icone di Roma e del Lazio (Rome: L’erma Di Bretschneider, 2012), 67–68; Lorenzo Riccardi, “Esposizioni e restauri del medioevo laziale,” in Tavole miracolose (Rome: L’erma Di Bretschneider, 2012), 30–31; Nino Zchomelidse, “The Aura of the Numinous and Its Reproduction: Medieval Paintings of the Savior in Rome and Latium,” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 55 (2010): 234–35, 239–42, 244, 251–53; Herbert Kessler, “The Acheropita Triptych in Tivoli,” in Immagine e Ideologia: Studi in onore di Arturo Carlo Quintavalle, ed. Arturo Calzona et al. (Milan: Electa, 2007), 117–25.

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FIGURE 6.1 Savior triptych, Cathedral of San Lorenzo, Tivoli. Photo: Courtesy of the Soprintendenza per i Beni Storici Artistici ed Etnoantropologici del Lazio.

FIGURE 6.2 Dormition of the Virgin, bottom left wing of Savior triptych, Cathedral of San Lorenzo, Tivoli. Photo: Courtesy of the Soprintendenza per i Beni Storici Artistici ed Etnoantropologici del Lazio.

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FIGURE 6.3 Map of Tivoli’s historic center. Gray areas indicate medieval structures. Dark green areas indicate post-medieval structures. Solid red line indicates route of today’s Inchinata procession. Dotted red line indicates where medieval route continued up to “acropolis” and original bridge over river gorge. Photo: Rebekah Perry, based on a map illustrated for the 1910 volume Statuti della Provincia Romana.

FIGURE 6.4 Confraternity of the Savior carrying Savior triptych in Inchinata procession, Tivoli, 2009. Photo: Rebekah Perry.

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FIGURE 6.5 “Acropolis” with round Roman temple (center), Tivoli. Photo: Rebekah Perry.

FIGURE 6.6 Ritual stop on Ponte Gregoriano during Inchinata procession, Tivoli, 2016. Photo: Rebekah Perry.

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the Savior turns the icon to face each of the four cardinal directions as the bishop prays for the protection and salvation of the Tiburtini (as the inhabitants of Tivoli are called) (Fig. 6.6). The confraternity’s captain retrieves a candle from the icon’s litter, lights it, and throws it burning into the river below. Later, the procession pauses in the courtyard in front of the hospital of San Giovanni Evangelista (dedicated to Santo Spirito until 1404) (Fig. 6.7, Fig. 6.3 C). The faithful fill the intimate space of the courtyard as the image’s feet are ritually washed and censed (Fig. 6.8) and the bishop enters the hospital to visit and bless the sick. Finally, the procession reaches its destination: the piazza of the Franciscan church of Santa Maria Maggiore (Fig. 6.3 D). At the Savior’s arrival in the piazza, the masons’ guild carries out of the church the “Madonna delle Grazie” (Madonna of the Graces) (Fig. 6.9), a thirteenth-century image of the Virgin depicted half-length with arms raised in a gesture of intercession that echoes the Marian figure on the Savior triptych’s left wing (Fig. 6.1). The two confraternities incline their respective images toward each other three times in a triple ‘bow’ of salutation as the people shout “Misericordia! Misericordia!” (“Mercy! Mercy!”) (Fig. 6.10). This dramatic ritual is called the “Inchinata” (the bow) and symbolizes the apocryphal reunion of Mary with her son Jesus Christ when, at the end of her mortal existence, she was assumed into heaven. After the bow, the icons are carried into Santa Maria Maggiore and positioned opposite each other in the nave as the faithful enter to venerate them. The next morning, Assumption Day, Mass is celebrated in the church, the triple bow between the icons is repeated in the piazza, and the Savior triptych is processed back to its home in the cathedral.2 This spectacle has been documented in Tivoli since the early fourteenth century, but it probably dates to the early twelfth century, when the Savior triptych was made.3 In the Middle Ages, as now, Tivoli’s cityscape functioned as a stage set upon which the Inchinata played out as a ritual narrative. But that stage set was not static. The city’s institutions and built environment evolved after the procession’s inception in the twelfth century. This evolution affected the dialogue between the image-protagonist and its ritual setting and added layers of meaning for audience and participants, lending new dimensions to the procession’s central messages of religious supplication and communal solidarity. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the increasing economic 2 This description is based on my personal observations of the Inchinata procession in 2009, 2011, 2013, and 2016, and on the vernacular text containing the liturgy and instructions for participants distributed each year in pamphlet form by the diocese of Tivoli. 3 See Kessler, “The Acheropita Triptych in Tivoli,” 117.

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FIGURE 6.7 Ritual stop at hospital of San Giovanni during Inchinata procession, Tivoli, 2011. Photo: Rebekah Perry.

FIGURE 6.8 Washing of Savior triptych at hospital of San Giovanni during Inchinata procession, Tivoli, 2013. Photo: Rebekah Perry.

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FIGURE 6.9 Madonna delle Grazie, church of Santa Maria Maggiore, Tivoli. Photo: Courtesy of the Soprintendenza per i Beni Storici Artistici ed Etnoantropologici del Lazio.

FIGURE 6.10 Bowing ritual between Savior triptych and Madonna delle Grazie at Santa Maria Maggiore at climax of Inchinata procession, Tivoli. Photo: Courtesy of .

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and social prominence of professional trade guilds and the appearance of mendicant religious orders and devotional confraternities transformed Tivoli’s civic culture and urban landscape. These transformations introduced changes to the Inchinata procession, both in the nuances of its performance and in the character of the cityscape within which the performance was staged—two reciprocal factors in the meaning of the rite. Featuring the city’s trade guilds in carefully ranked order, the procession came to embody an increasingly codified social hierarchy. But more than that, the spectacle expressed new models of bourgeois Christian conduct promoted by that hierarchy. Liturgical and iconographic evidence suggests that as hospitals and charitable institutions rose up along its route, Tivoli’s annual Assumption procession took on the character of an allegorical ‘pilgrimage,’ a moving morality play in which the Savior, made material in his wooden triptych effigy, played the role of the ‘wandering stranger.’ The hospital of Santo Spirito/San Giovanni did not exist at the site of the footwashing ritual before the second quarter of the fourteenth century. Therefore, the ritual predates the hospital. But by at least the early Renaissance the manner in which the ceremony was staged was integrally connected with the hospital setting and was performed under the auspices of mendicant friars and their affiliated lay societies. Thus the ancient scene of the foot washing was furnished with a new stage set and new actors—actors invested in promoting a civic ideal of personal religiosity and good works. Because of these changes, the message of the rite expanded from intercession and spiritual salvation to include an emphasis on charity, humility, and Christian mercy. The degree to which late medieval and early modern municipal and confraternal statutes regulated and enforced the performative elements of Tivoli’s Assumption procession and its analogues in other city communes of the region in turn reveals the preoccupation of the new civil ruling class with promoting public morality and reinforcing social order by exploiting communal ritual as a didactic and political tool.

Origins and Early Symbolism of the Inchinata Procession

Tivoli’s Savior triptych is the oldest of a family of monumental wooden panel paintings of Christ Enthroned made in Lazio in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The panels were modeled on the sixth-century “Acheropita” cult icon housed in the pope’s private chapel at the Lateran Palace in Rome and carried in that city’s Assumption procession from at least the ninth century until the

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spectacle was suppressed in the sixteenth century by Pope Pius V (r. 1566–72).4 The Acheropita’s replicas were used as civic palladia (communal protective devices)5 in local Assumption processions inspired by the Roman model. These processions were the most important public spectacles of the liturgical year in medieval Lazio. They survive today only in Tivoli and, in modified form, in Subiaco.6 Elsewhere in the region the tradition disappeared in the wake of the Counter-Reformation. The first textual mention of Tivoli’s Assumption procession dates to 1305. The city statutes of that year set forth a penalty for fighting in public on the eve of the Assumption “when the men go with the Savior in procession.”7 The ritual appears many more times in late medieval, early modern, and modern documents, indicating its continuous staging between the fourteenth century and the present day.8 In 1929 local historian Vincenzo Pacifici recorded parts of its 4 For the most recent literature on the Acheropita and Roman Assumption procession: Leone, ed., Icone di Roma e del Lazio, 54–55; Zchomelidse, “The Aura of the Numinous,” 221–63; Kirstin Noreen, “Re-covering Christ in Late Medieval Rome: The Icon of Christ in the Sancta Sanctorum,” Gesta 49, no. 2 (2010): 117–35; Enrico Parlato, “La processione di Ferragosto e l’acheropita del Sancta Sanctorum,” in Imago Christi (Gaeta: Type Studio, 2007), 51–63; Kirstin Noreen, “Sacred Memory and Confraternal Space: The Insignia of the Confraternity of the Santissimo Salvatore (Rome),” in Roma Felix, ed. É.Ó. Carragáin et al. (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), 159–87; Kirstin Noreen, “Revealing the Sacred: The Icon of Christ in the Sancta Sanctorum, Rome,” Word & Image 22, no. 3 (July-Sept 2006): 228–37. 5 Zchomelidse, “The Aura of the Numinous,” 238–39; Gerhard Wolf, Salus populi romani (Weinham: VCH, Acta Humaniora, 1990), 33, 73–76, 79–80. 6 On Subiaco, see n. 50, below. 7 Tivoli, Biblioteca Comunale, Statuto del 1305, fol. 83v. 8 Statuta et reformationes circa stilum civitatis Tyburtinae incipit liber primus (Rome: per Etienne Guillery, 1522), fol. 24r; Giovanni Maria Zappi, Annali e memorie di Tivoli, ed. Vincenzo Pacifici (Tivoli: Società Tiburtina di Storia e d’Arte, 1920), 83–85; “Libro delle Lettere Spedite 1664– 1685,” Archivio Storico Comunale di Tivoli (hereafter ACT), sezione preunitaria, ms. 681, fol. 64r; Vincenzo Pacifici, “Una Baruffa nella Processione dell’Inchinata del 1725,” Atti e memorie della Società Tiburtina di Storia e d’Arte 4 (1924): 81–84; Giovanni Carlo Crocchiante, Istoria delle chiese della citta di Tivoli (Rome: Girolamo Raindardi, 1726), 59, 75; Giovanni Marangoni, Istoria del’antichissimo oratorio o cappella di San Lorenzo (Rome: Stamperia di San Michele per Ottavio Puccinelli, 1747), 143–45; “Ordinanza da tenersi nelle Processioni del Corpus Domini e del SS. Salvatore…del 2 Giugno 1819,” Tivoli, Archivio dell’Arciconfraternita del Salvatore (published by Gino Mezzetti in Usanze e tradizioni secolari dell’antica Tibur: 1256– 1986 [Tivoli: Tipografica S. Paolo, 1986], 19); Filippo Alessandro Sebastiani, Viaggio a Tivoli (Foligno: Tipografia Tomassini, 1828), 36–44; Francesco Bulgarini, Notizie storiche antiquarie intorno alla città di Tivoli (Rome: Tipografia di Giovanni Battista Zampi, 1848), 63, 76–77, 145; Stanislao Melchiorri, Memorie storiche del culto e venerazione dell’immagine di Maria Santissima (Rome: Tipografia Monaldi, 1865), 45–49; Vincenzo Pacifici, “L’Inchinata: il significato della cerimonia,” Bollettino di studi storici ed archeologici di Tivoli 11 (1929): 1423–39.

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Latin liturgy,9 which was later replaced by the vernacular. Both versions of the liturgy performed at the procession’s climax at the church of Santa Maria Maggiore contain the same antiphons found in medieval Roman missals, breviaries, and antiphonals for the Mass and office of the Assumption.10 The procession’s route and performance are consistent with the earliest narrative record of the event, the sixteenth-century history of Tivoli by Giovanni Maria Zappi, who repeatedly emphasizes the antiquity of the rite.11 The principal landmarks of the procession’s itinerary—the cathedral, hospital of Santo Spirito/San Giovanni, bridge at the acropolis, and church of Santa Maria Maggiore—are all medieval (although rebuilt to varying degrees in later periods). The disposition and core structural fabric of the city’s historic center overall has changed little since the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. All these factors indicate that the procession’s archetypally circular route and the monuments it encounters or pauses at—which all had special importance for the medieval Tiburtini12—reflect long-standing tradition. In the twelfth century the Inchinata procession had two fundamental meanings. On the one hand, it had a liturgical meaning related to Assumption theology: Mary is raised up and reigns as Queen of Heaven at Christ’s side and acts as advocate and intercessor on mankind’s behalf; Christ in turn redeems mankind through his atoning sacrifice on the cross. This theology is expressed in the Inchinata in multiple ways, including in the iconography of the Savior triptych itself, as Herbert Kessler has thoroughly demonstrated.13 We see it in the supplicatory gestures of Mary and John on the triptych’s wings; in the Latin inscription on Christ’s book that paraphrases John 8:12 (“I am the light of the 9 10

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Pacifici, “L’Inchinata.” “Hodie Maria Virgo coelos ascendit” and “Gaudent angeli, exsultant archangeli in Maria virgine.” See Rachel Fulton, “‘Quae est ista quae ascendit sicut aurora consurgens?’ The Song of Songs as the Historia for the Office of the Assumption,” Mediaeval Studies 60–61 (1998–99): 82–85; René-Jean Hesbert, Corpus antiphonalium officii, vol. 1 (Rome: Herder, 1963), 282–89; Jacques-Paul Migne, Patrologiae cursus completus. Series latina, vol. 78 (Paris, 1895), 798–800. Zappi, Annali e Memorie di Tivoli, 83–85. Zappi does not mention the bridge ceremony, so we cannot say with certainty when this rite originated; however, the apotropaic practice of throwing ceremonial objects into bodies of water has ancient origins and is known elsewhere in medieval Italy, such as in Venice, where every May at the Feast of Sensa the doge threw a gold ring into the lagoon to symbolize Venice’s rule over, and symbolic marriage to, the sea. Rebekah Perry, “The Medieval Inchinata Procession at Tivoli: Ritual Construction of Civic Identity in the Age of the Commune,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, forthcoming March 2017. Kessler, “The Acheropita Triptych in Tivoli.”

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world: he that followeth me, walketh not in darkness, but shall have the light of life”); in the two stags below Christ’s feet, drinking from the four rivers representing the Gospels and the message of Christ’s redeeming grace; in the scene of Mary’s Dormition/Assumption; and in the scene of John preaching, which evokes the apocryphal sermon the Evangelist delivered at his grave, supplicating the Lord as “the root of immortality and the fount of incorruption.”14 The Inchinata’s bridge ritual also references salvation through Christ, as does the foot washing at the hospital of Santo Spirito/San Giovanni. The latter recalls the New Testament scene in the house of the Pharisee in which a penitent woman washes Christ’s feet with her tears and dries them with her hair and he tells her she is forgiven of her sins (Luke 7:36–50).15 Within the Inchinata procession’s atonement theology are embedded apotropaic archetypes. These are expressed in the rogation elements of the ritual. In medieval Europe, Rogation Day processions circled cities and towns, reciting litanies, penitential hymns, and prayers, and supplicating God to bless the crops and proffer protection from outside enemies. The rogations were rooted in the ancient Robigalia, a ritual procession performed to protect the fields during the annual agricultural festival.16 The Inchinata is evocative of the rogation processions in its circumambulation of the city (Fig. 6.3) with psalm-chanting and litanies and in its pauses at key topographical landmarks corresponding to the four cardinal directions for Gospel readings and recitations of supplicatory antiphons and responses. The other meaning of the twelfth-century Inchinata was civic. Modern scholars theorize that Rome exported the cult of the Acheropita and the Assumption procession to Lazio around the beginning of the twelfth century as part of a papal campaign to codify liturgical practice and secure loyalty in this region, a papal stronghold.17 Those ceremonies and their cult images 14 15

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See Kessler, “The Acheropita Triptych in Tivoli,” 120 and n. 56. See William Tronzo, “Apse Decoration, the Liturgy, and the Perception of Art in Medieval Rome,” in Italian Church Decoration of the Middle Ages and Early Renaissance, ed. William Tronzo (Bologna: Nuova Alfa, 1989), 182; and Kirstin Noreen, “Revealing the Sacred,” 233, 234. Franklin Toker, On Holy Ground: Liturgy, Architecture and Urbanism in the Cathedral and the Streets of Medieval Florence (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009), 137; Enrico Parlato, “Le icone in processione,” in Arte e iconografia a Roma da Costantino a Cola di Rienzo, ed. Maria Andaloro and Serena Romano (Milan: Jaca book, 2000), 70. Hans Belting, Likeness and Presence: A History of the Image Before the Era of Art, trans. Edmund Jephcott (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 327; Brenda Bolton, “‘Except the Lord Keep the City’: Towns in the Papal States at the Turn of the Twelfth Century,” in Church and City 1000–1500. Essays in Honour of Christopher Brooke, ed. David

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soon came to function as assertions of civic identity as the newly independent municipal communes of the ‘hinterland’ sought increasing political autonomy. My research adds to this body of scholarship by testing this assertion— which heretofore has remained largely theoretical—to ascertain if and how it applies in specific communities with idiomatic histories and topographies. I discovered that while elements of Tivoli’s Inchinata procession were inspired by the analogous spectacle in Rome and by contemporary social and civic phenomena that accounted for the latter’s changes over time, the two events had many differences; the performative details of each were affected by local events and distinctive cityscapes. My reconstruction of the medieval route and performance of Tivoli’s Inchinata within the context of contemporary topography, political tensions, and historical events suggests that the procession was a unique, site-specific ritual that drew on multiple sources. It conflated borrowings from Rome (a ceremonial image and certain liturgical elements) with a native rogation-style apotropaic ritual that incorporated foundation narratives embedded in local landmarks and topography. Civic leaders may have used this amalgamation to consciously invoke the New Jerusalem—through activation of the latent cosmographical choreography of the procession that echoed contemporary schematic depictions of that holy city—as an appeal to divine authority for Tivoli’s salvation, and thus justification for self-rule.18 But in the course of my research I observed something more, something that came to form the premise of the present study. Details in the late medieval and early modern textual sources for the Inchinata procession—which are supported by elements of the procession’s modern liturgy—coincide with contemporary changes in Tivoli’s social structure and built environment, suggesting evolving meanings for the spectacle, which we shall now consider.

Trade Guilds, Confraternities, and a Transforming Cityscape

Tivoli’s Assumption procession was most likely introduced in the city through episcopal channels. It would thus have originally featured the clergy, echoing the conceptualization and performance of its counterpart in Rome at that time. Textual sources indicate that by the fourteenth century, however, with rapid political and economic modernization, professional guilds and religious

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Abulafia et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 214–15; Hans Belting, “Icons and Roman Society in the Twelfth Century,” in Tronzo, ed., Italian Church Decoration, 36–41. Perry, “The Medieval Inchinata Procession at Tivoli.”

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confraternities had taken center stage as the featured actors in both cities’ processions. These brotherhoods played an active role in shaping the message and scenography of the spectacles by exploiting them as vehicles for reinforcing institutional hierarchies and by founding charitable hospitals and hospices that became some of the key staging areas for the processions’ ceremonies. In Rome in the fourteenth century, the Società dei Raccomandati del Salvatore ad Sancta Sanctorum founded at the Lateran a hospital dedicated to Sant’Angelo.19 This hospital became the stopping place for the first of a series of foot-washing rituals with the Acheropita icon in the procession. This was an obvious model for Tivoli, where from the early fourteenth century the Inchinata’s foot washing with the Savior triptych took place at the hospital of Santo Spirito/San Giovanni, also founded by local confraternities. In Tivoli, however, there was another phenomenon occurring: by the fourteenth century, the many hospitals and charitable institutions founded and patronized by local lay societies had formed a ring around the city, coinciding with the Inchinata procession route. I contend that this influenced the way the procession was conceptualized and performed in Tivoli. I shall now turn my attention to these brotherhoods and the manner in which their involvement restyled the spectacle. Late medieval Tiburtine municipal statutes, dating to the end of the fourteenth or beginning of the fifteenth century, designate the order to be followed in the Inchinata procession by the city’s trade guilds.20 The ordinance places the greengrocers at the head of the procession, behind the Savior triptych. The greengrocers are followed by the wagoners, millers, carpenters, shoemakers, butchers, merchants, ironsmiths, notaries, and plowmen, in that order, with each guild carrying a dupplerium, or wax votive candle. This ordering of the guilds is not random; it reflects the relative prestige of each professional brotherhood within the community and reveals the procession to be by that time a microcosm of the city’s social and economic hierarchy. The hierarchical nature of the Tiburtine arrangement is underscored by a similar regulation in Rome. A stone inscription in the courtyard of the Palazzo dei Conservatori on Rome’s Campidoglio (seat of the medieval Senate) prescribes the order to be followed by the professional guilds behind “the holy image” (the Acheropita) in that city’s Assumption procession.21 The inscrip19 20 21

For a concise history of the hospital and the Società dei Raccomandati’s connections to it, see Noreen, “Sacred Memory and Confraternal Space.” Statuta et reformationes circa stilum civitatis Tyburtinae, fol. 24r. See a summary of the inscription in Belting, Likeness and Presence, 501–2. According to Belting, the inscription probably dates from the early sixteenth century but reproduces an earlier decree that the magistrate had had inscribed permanently in his stone seat.

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tion explicitly states that the purpose of the regulation is to avoid conflicts among the guilds and that “those who are closer to the image have a higher rank.” The inscription then lists twenty-five professions, along with a fine of twenty-five gold scudi for violation of the designated order. Thus by the late Middle Ages the protagonists of Lazio’s Assumption processions were not clerics but secular brotherhoods, each of which had its place in a strict hierarchy that mirrored that of the larger institutionalized social structure of the commune, comprised of an increasingly diversified, commercial middle class. Religious confraternities, whose membership often drew primarily or exclusively from a particular trade guild, also came to play a central role in Tivoli’s annual Assumption procession, as happened in Rome. All three of Tivoli’s earliest confraternities with an expressly religious function are mentioned as featured players in Zappi’s sixteenth-century description of the procession. These are the Confraternity of Santo Spirito (documented from 132022), the Confraternity of the Annunziata (documented from 132123), and the Confraternity of the Savior (documented unequivocally from the 1380s24 but implied already in 1305 by the reference in the city statutes of that year to “the men who go with the Savior in procession”25). Zappi’s account illustrates how over time the pageantry of the procession became more elaborate and the role of the city’s confraternities and trade guilds as ‘actors’ in the spectacle ever more central. Zappi’s records that in the procession: all the artisans bring their talami [portable processional apparatuses] to piazza S. Lorenzo at the cathedral of the city. These talami are decorated according to each craft, with a fire lighted inside, carried by four porters each. All the officials of the guilds carry a white lighted torch of at least four pounds. In order after these are the officials of the confraternity of S. Giovanni Evangelista, of the Annunziata, of S. Maria del Ponte, of S. Maria della Oliva, of S. Rocco and finally the most noble, the confraternity of the Salvatore, with all the lords, officials, and magistrates of the city, with the governor and judge of the municipality. They go two by two, according to the customs and precedence of the city of Rome, all with 22

23 24 25

See Giuseppe Cascioli, “Un antico inventario di beni in Tivoli di proprietà della Basilica Vaticana coi nomi dei possessori dell’anno 1320,” Bollettino di studi storici ed archeologici di Tivoli 2 (1920): 37, n. 5. Rome, Archivio Generale della Congregazione della Missione (hereafter ACM), 5.5.1, fol. 127. Rome, Archivio di Stato (hereafter ASR), Ospedale del Salvatore, cass. 445, n. 14; ACT, Sezione Preunitarie, Testamentum, fol. 147v. See n. 7, above.

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lighted torches in hand, of such beautiful type and style, and they count in the number of 120 torches, all white, except the men and confratelli of the company of S. Maria della Oliva who carry green, and the company of S. Rocco who carry red, because this is the old custom.26 These confraternities were not just featured participants in the Inchinata procession; as founders and sponsors of hospitals and charitable institutions, they were also shapers of the urban landscape within which the spectacle unfolded, which in turn affected the nuances of the ritual’s performance and meaning. The impetus for the founding of hospitals by confraternities was the example set by the new urban mendicant orders. The do-it-yourself spirituality of the Franciscans, Dominicans, and Augustinians, centering on discipline and good works, was inspired by the principle of imitatio Christi, which first gained major currency in the eleventh and twelfth centuries in Benedictine and Cistercian communities as a model for behavior and devotion. The paradigm had older origins, and in that early form was a matter of man’s divinization—his participation in the resurrection by assimilating himself to Christ as the image of God.27 Later, imitatio Christi came to focus more on Christ’s humanity and the emulation of his earthly life and good works.28 After the twelfth century, the ideal of imitating Christ increasingly entered the main stream of late medieval spirituality and became equated with the Christian way of life.29 It was this model that was promulgated with special enthusiasm by the Franciscans and other mendicant orders beginning with their arrival on the scene in the thirteenth century. One way imitatio Christi was enacted in urban centers was through the founding and operating of hospitals. In Tivoli the confraternity of the Annunziata founded a church and hospital in the city by 1348. Two decades later, the complex was moved to the Santa Croce neighborhood, where the deconsecrated church still stands today in Piazza Annunziata (Fig. 6.11 A).30 The confraternity of Santo Spirito followed the example of the hospitallers of Santo Spirito in Saxia in Rome, founded at the end of the twelfth century under Pope Innocent III (r. 1198–1216) and organized on the model of the Augustinians. The Tiburtine 26 27 28 29 30

Zappi, Annali e memorie di Tivoli, 834–35. Giles Constable, “The Ideal of the Imitation of Christ” in Three Studies of Medieval Religious and Social Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 146. Ibid., 169–70. Ibid., 218. Rome, Archivio della Curia Generalizia dei Frati Minori, Archivio di S. Lorenzo in Panisperna, cass. 25, n. 25; ACM, 5.5.1, fols. 9–10.

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foundation’s original seat was established sometime before 1320 in the southwest corner of the city at Porta del Colle.31 In 1337 it was moved to Porta dei Prati32 (Fig. 6.11 C) where the Inchinata’s foot-washing ritual with the Savior triptych takes place (in 1404 the hospital was taken over by the Confraternity of San Giovanni Evangelista, affiliated with the Dominicans33; they rededicated the complex to San Giovanni and the nearby gate also adopted the new name).34 Surviving records of the Confraternity of the Savior are few, but its activities must have been similar to those of its counterpart in Rome, the Società dei Raccomandati del Salvatore ad Sancta Sanctorum, founded around the cult of the Lateran Acheropita in the fourteenth century. Besides maintaining the Acheropita and carrying it in the August Assumption procession,35 the Roman society was responsible for visiting the poor and sick at the hospitals the confraternity operated at the Lateran and Colosseum.36 A 1462 chronicle of the confraternity’s activities further elaborates on these charitable occupations, specifying that the purpose of the Lateran hospital was to receive pilgrims, the poor, and the sick; to heal the body and mind; and to bury the dead.37 It was this hospital that was the site of the first foot-washing ritual with the Acheropita. Other Tiburtine lay societies and pious individuals built and operated institutions for the poor, the sick, and weary pilgrims traveling along the Via Tiburtina Valeria, the east-west artery connecting the Adriatic coast with Rome. These new charitable institutions were concentrated at the gates and adjoining roads, creating a circular formation around the city inside the walls. Of the twelve hospitals documented in Tivoli at the end of the fourteenth century, eleven were on or adjacent to the course of the procession (Fig. 6.11). The largest and most important of these hospitals were situated at the city gates. Since all the Inchinata’s ritual pauses took place at the gates, hospitals now provided the backdrops—or stage sets—for these ceremonies.

31 32

33 34

35 36 37

See n. 22, above. Vincenzo Pacifici, ed., L’archivio tiburtino di S. Giovanni Evangelista, vol. 2 of Studi e fonti per la storia della regione tiburtina (Tivoli: Società di San Giovanni Evangelista, 1922), 28–31, doc. XVII; 39–41, doc. XXIV. Ibid., 3, n. 1. For more on the history of Tivoli’s medieval hospitals and a critical discussion of the primary sources, see Renzo Mosti, “Istituti assistenziali e ospitalieri nel medioevo a Tivoli,” Atti e memorie della Società Tiburtina di Storia e d’Arte 54 (1981): 87–205. ASR, Ospedale del Salvatore, vol. 1006, chp. II. ASR, Ospedale del Salvatore, vol. 1006, fols. 5r–19r. ASR, Ospedale del Salvatore, vol. 1009, fols. 8–9.

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FIGURE 6.11 Map of Tivoli’s historic center. Purple dots indicate locations of the city’s hospitals in the fourteenth century. Photo: Rebekah Perry.

From at least 1292 the hospital of Cornuta (later Santa Maria del Ponte) (Fig. 6.11 B) stood at the gate on the far side of the bridge connecting the acropolis to the small outlying borgo of Cornuta (see Fig. 6.5; the modern hotel facing the Temple of the Sibyl from across the gorge sits on this very site). It was here on this bridge that the Savior panel blessed the city during the medieval procession’s first stop (since the nineteenth century the ritual has been performed on the new bridge built a couple of dozen meters upriver [Fig. 6.6, Fig. 6.3 B]). From 1337 the hospital of Santo Spirito/San Giovanni, where the foot-washing ritual takes place, has stood at Porta dei Prati/San Giovanni (Fig. 6.11 C). And from at least 1320 the hospital of San Giacomo stood at Porta Avenzia (Fig. 6.11 D), adjacent to the piazza of Santa Maria Maggiore (Fig. 6.3 D)—the destination of the procession and the site of the ritual bow between the icons (Fig. 6.10). Mid-sixteenth-century legal documents relating to Santa Maria Maggiore indicate that Tivoli was not only a way-station for travelers headed for Rome

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but also a pilgrimage destination in its own right, albeit a minor one: testimonies of several Tiburtini complain that Cardinal Ippolito D’Este, in building his famous gardens abutting the church, tore down what is described as an ancient scala sancta (holy stair), which pilgrims ascended on their knees to the church.38 Thus by the fourteenth century, the Inchinata procession and the Savior triptych were not just making a penitential/apotropaic circumambulation of the city walls and gates, or celebrating civic identity and solidarity; they were also, in a sense, making a circuit of the city’s charitable institutions, particularly the largest and most important ones situated at the gates, which were set up to receive pilgrims. I believe that the advent of these institutions and their conspicuous positioning played a role in contemporary conceptualizations of the procession and its rituals. This was the product of the ongoing dialogue between the procession and the built environment, the interactive relationship, to continue my metaphor, among the actors, the stage set, and the script (the liturgy and its choreography). As the charitable brotherhoods were mediating the performance, they were also, consciously or unconsciously, restyling it in a manner that expressed a particular idiom of contemporary popular devotion: the allegorical pilgrimage.

Christ as Pilgrim

The subject of conceptual pilgrimage in the late Middle Ages has typically been examined from the standpoint of an imagined journey to the Holy Land for monks, who, by nature of their cloistered existence or ministerial duties, were prevented from making an actual pilgrimage. These monastics were aided by visual media like maps and labyrinth pavements that allowed them to 38

For the published depositions, see “Querele contro il Card. Ippolito d’Este sporte dai frati francescani e dai cittadini di Tivoli,” Bollettino di studi storici ed archeologici di Tivoli anno I, n. 4 (Oct. 1919): 167–68; anno II, n. 5 (Jan 1920): 33–34; anno II, n. 6 (April, 1920): 68–70; anno II, n. 7 (July 1920): 118–19; and anno II, n. 8 (Oct 1920): 158–61. Though not explicitly stated in the documentary record, I presume the pilgrims were drawn by the Madonna delle Grazie icon, whose cult enjoyed a long history at Santa Maria Maggiore. Dating to the second half of the thirteenth century, it was a copy of the famous Madonna Avvocata image at the church of Santa Maria in Aracoeli in Rome, and was believed to have miraculous powers in its own right. See “The Cult of the Madonna delle Grazie and the Franciscan Church of Sta. Maria Maggiore,” in Rebekah Perry, “Sacred Image, Civic Spectacle, and Ritual Space: Tivoli’s Inchinata Procession and Icons in Urban Liturgical Theater in Late Medieval Italy” (PhD diss., University of Pittsburgh, 2011).

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spiritually ‘visit’ the sacred sites of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection.39 I propose to think about the paradigm of the conceptual pilgrimage in a different light, one that considers its exploration and application among laypeople in their own urban environments. And not just in the sense of a meditational exercise, but of physical performance. In what follows I will argue that Tivoli’s late medieval and early modern Inchinata procession evoked for participants and viewers an allegorical journey in which the Savior triptych took on the didactic narrative role of pious wandering stranger or pilgrim. Vincenzo Pacifici briefly suggested a characterization of Tivoli’s Savior triptych as a pilgrim in 1929.40 Pacifici, however, cited no historical sources for this interpretation nor attempted to contextualize it within the contemporary cultural milieu or larger topographical scheme of the historic city. Nevertheless, it is an insightful interpretation that bears further exploration. Indeed, a number of factors provide evidence for this model. The metaphor of Christ as a traveling stranger or pilgrim was common in medieval religious discourse. Its origins lie in the New Testament. In Matthew 25:35–36 Jesus says to his disciples, “For I was hungry, and you gave me to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave me to drink; I was a stranger, and you took me in; naked, and you covered me; sick, and you visited me; I was in prison, and you came to me.”41 The Emmaus story in the Gospel of Luke was another inspiration for the metaphor. Jesus appears as a fellow traveler to two disciples journeying toward the town of Emmaus on their way to Jerusalem. That evening in Emmaus the pilgrims share their supper with Christ, who then reveals to them his true identity. The allegorical value of the story enjoyed widespread currency in late medieval popular religion.42 It was read in the liturgy on Easter Monday and often staged as an Easter drama known as the Peregrinus (pilgrim) play. It was also used as a topos in late medieval literature, including in Dante’s Divine Comedy and Vita Nuova. Christ-as-pilgrim was also an iconographic conceit frequently used in depictions of the Emmaus story in late medieval central Italian art. Examples include a panel in Duccio’s Maestà altarpiece in Siena, a fresco in the church of San Pellegrino (St. Pilgrim) in Bominaco, a scene painted on a cross in the Museo 39 40 41 42

See esp. Daniel K. Connolly, “Imagined Pilgrimage in Gothic Art: Maps, Manuscripts and Labyrinths” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 1998). Pacifici, “L’Inchinata.” As worded in the Douay-Rheims Catholic Bible. On the theological and iconographic tradition of the Emmaus episode, see William J. Travis, “The Journey to Emmaus Capital at Saint-Lazare of Autun,” in Art and Architecture of the Late Medieval Pilgrimage, ed. Sarah Blick and Rita Tekippe (Leiden: Brill, 2005): 187– 215.

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Nazionale di San Matteo in Pisa, and a fresco by Fra Angelico now in the Museo di San Marco in Florence. In these works Christ is depicted in variations of the distinctive costume and attributes of a penitential pilgrim: a short hair-tunic or poor garment that leaves the breast naked, a broad-brimmed hat, a walking staff, a flask, a scrip inscribed with the shell motif of Santiago de Compostela, and bare feet. In the Fra Angelico fresco, the two disciples in the scene with Christ are depicted as Dominican friars, recognizable by their distinctive white habits and blue cloaks. A later monumental terracotta frieze (made in the early sixteenth century) on the thirteenth-century Ospedale del Ceppo in Pistoia features the hospital’s rector, Certosan monk Leonardo Buonafede, on his knee washing the right foot of a seated figure of Christ wearing a pilgrim’s hair shirt and holding a walking staff (Fig. 6.12). In Tivoli, the scene at the hospital of Santo Spirito/San Giovanni suggests that the late medieval and early modern Inchinata procession contained elements of this allegorical paradigm. Before the hospital was founded by the confraternity of Santo Spirito in 1337, the site hosted a church dedicated to St. Christopher. Since a foot-washing ritual is documented in the Roman Assumption procession from the early twelfth century43—and this procession was a model for Tivoli’s Inchinata—it is probable that the Tiburtine procession also had a foot-washing ritual from its inception in the twelfth century. The church of St. Christopher was the most obvious location for the ceremony, given that site’s special significance in Tivoli’s metaphysical topography: it is located at the gate at the terminus of the city’s east-west axis (Fig. 6.11 C); like the gates corresponding to the other three cardinal directions of the city, Porta dei Prati/San Giovanni had a cosmographical role in the Inchinata procession as a ritual place for prayers and gospel readings. This pronounced rogation formula hints at some kind of preexisting local apotropaic rite into which the Inchinata was absorbed when it was introduced from Rome.44 Thus there is little doubt that a foot-washing ritual with Tivoli’s Savior icon was always part of the Inchinata procession and that it took place at this site. And given that the corresponding Roman ceremony in the twelfth century— when the custom was most likely introduced in Tivoli—was performed by the pope, we can presume that the Tiburtine ceremony in its early form in the twelfth century was performed by the bishop or cathedral canons. The performance of the scene subsequently shifted to confraternities, which were 43

44

Canon Benedict, Liber Politicus, copied in Liber Censum: see Louis Duchesne and Paul Fabre, eds., Le Liber Censum de l’eglise romaine (Registres des papes du XIII siècle) (Rome: De Boccard, 1910), 158–59. Perry, “The Medieval Inchinata Procession at Tivoli.”

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FIGURE 6.12 Santi Buglioni, terracotta frieze of the Ospedale del Ceppo, Pistoia, with scene of rector Leonardo Buonafede washing feet of Christ depicted as a pilgrim, c. 1525. Photo: Rebekah Perry.

communicating new values and a new message. When the Confraternity of Santo Spirito established itself at Porta dei Prati/San Giovanni in the second quarter of the fourteenth century and built one of the city’s most prominent hospitals and pilgrim way-stations, the foot-washing ritual seems to have taken on a new significance. Now, the scriptural foot washing that likely resonated with the most immediacy in the minds of participants and spectators was the episode in John 13:4–14 in which Christ washes the feet of the apostles at the Last Supper. This scene is associated in Christian discourse with Christ’s example of humility to his disciplines.45 Practiced in Benedictine monasteries already in the eleventh century, the ritual of foot washing as a charitable act for pilgrims and the poor became widespread in the later Middle Ages in urban hospitals operated by mendicants and lay religious societies. It was one application of the model of imitatio Christi. Here, as John Henderson explains, “the association between Christ and the poor refers to the idea of Christ the Pilgrim; in the context of the hospital the patient is seen as sharing Christ’s sufferings as a stage towards salvation. The hospital is therefore presented as the institutional embodiment of two of 45

See Constable, “The Ideal of the Imitation of Christ,” 185.

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the Seven Works of Mercy: housing travelers and pilgrims, and tending to the sick.”46 Henderson observes that late medieval hospital statutes even use such rhetorical language; for example, the statutes of 1374 of the Florentine hospital of Santa Maria Nuova remark that the poor were “almost like Christ in their persons.”47 A mid-fourteenth-century edition of the Liber regulae Sancti Spiritus, the rule book of the Santo Spirito hospitallers, gives an explicit directive for the sisters of the order to wash the feet of the poor every Thursday in hospital.48 This practice is illustrated by a miniature accompanying these instructions (Fig. 6.13). Since the hospital of Santo Spirito in Tivoli followed the rule of the Roman mother house, we can assume this foot-washing custom was practiced there too. When Tivoli’s Santo Spirito community ceded operation of the hospital to the Confraternity of San Giovanni in 1404, the charitable mendicant model—now represented by the Dominicans—continued. According to Zappi’s sixteenth-century account of the Inchinata procession: The Savior arrives at the Church of S. Giovanni Evangelista [at the hospital of San Giovanni], before whose door stands a friar of the Dominican order adorned in cloak and stole who takes in hand a bowl of rose water and washes the holy feet of our Salvatore, an act performed anciently, a ceremony done with good faith and holy charity…And while this ceremony is performed the men of the company of S. Giovanni stand with an infinity of lighted torches while the Savior passes.49 The liturgy of today’s Inchinata procession offers further indications of how the ritual pause at the hospital of Santo Spirito/San Giovanni evolved to emphasize an explicit prescriptive model of Christian conduct in imitation of Jesus’s earthly ministry. It also indicates a heightened sense of pageantry consistent with the manner in which confraternities mediated public religious devotion through ever more innovative and theatrical expressions. These are valuable insights because Tivoli is the only place in Lazio where such a ceremony, once widespread in the region, survives.50 It therefore offers clues to the 46 47 48 49 50

John Henderson, The Renaissance Hospital: Healing the Body and Healing the Soul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), 162. Ibid., 161–62. ASR, Ospedale di S. Spirito, ms. 3193 (Liber regulae Sancti Spiritus), chp. XLII. Zappi, Annali e memorie di Tivoli, 84. Even in Subiaco, where what appears to be a simplified version of the medieval Assumption procession survives, no ritual foot washing with the Savior panel is performed. It was most likely a part of the original procession and then later discontinued.

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FIGURE 6.13 Female member of Confraternity of Santo Spirito in Saxia washing feet of a pauper, Liber regulae Sancti Spiritus, Archivio di Stato di Roma, ms. 9193, fol. 128r. Photo: Courtesy of the Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali e del Turismo.

liturgical and performative elements of Rome’s medieval Assumption procession—about which little is known of the foot-washing liturgy—as well as of the Assumption processions in many other urban centers of late medieval and early modern Lazio where the tradition has disappeared.51 As the Savior triptych arrives at the courtyard and is set down facing the hospital door in the midst of the crowd of faithful (Fig. 6.7), the captain of the Confraternity of the Savior removes a bundle of flowers from the foot of the icon and gives it to the chaplain of the hospital to distribute among the sick. Approaching the hospital door, the captain kneels on the steps and kisses its threshold (Fig. 6.14). Pacifici in 1929 described this ritual as the “bacio al dolore,” 51

The eroded, sawn-off, or much repainted bottoms of many of Lazio’s medieval Savior panels indicate repeated ritual foot washings. See Wolfgang Volbach, “Il Cristo di Sutri e la venerazione del SS. Salvatore nel Lazio,” Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia 17 (1940–41): 97, 110; Parlato, “La processione di Ferragosto,” 60; Zchomelidse, “The Aura of the Numinous,” 243.

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or “kiss of pain,” and explains it as “a symbol of the power and wealth that bow to misery and humility, to human anguish that makes all equal, and [it is done] in fraternal ardor of the charity of the Savior.”52 While we do not know when this particular gesture originated, it clearly expresses the meaning and intent the hospital scene has had since the late Middle Ages. The liturgy performed in conjunction with it underscores this. The hospital chaplain approaches the Savior image and tosses rosewater on its feet with an aspergillum (Fig. 6.8) and a reader recites a vernacular version of the Gregorian supplicatory chant Deus a quo desideria: “O God, from whom come holy desires, just counsel and good works, bestow on us your servants that peace that the world cannot give: make our hearts follow your desire and free from the oppression of guilt, under your protection we may enjoy tranquil days.” Following the prayer, the chaplain censes the icon and the faithful sing the hymn “Dov’è carità e amore qui c’è Dio” (Where charity and love are, God is). This is a modern vernacular translation of the medieval Gregorian hymn “Ubi caritas et amor,” which was sung as an antiphon when a priest or bishop washed the feet of congregation members on Holy Thursday, the Thursday before Easter.53 After the hymn is sung, a reader recites from the apostle Paul’s letter in the second chapter of Philippians, which describes Christ taking on the humble guise of humanity for his earthly ministry (“For let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus, who being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being made in the likeness of men, and in habit found as a man. He humbled himself, becoming obedient unto death, even to the death of the cross”54). Then a reader recites from the second chapter of the Gospel of John the account of Jesus washing the feet of his apostles at the Last Supper. The liturgy for the scene is then concluded with the reading of Matthew 25: 35–36. The road to Emmaus/Jerusalem is a metaphor for the road to salvation. In this metaphor Christ travels along the road and invites the faithful to journey with him. Tivoli’s Assumption procession has always been fundamentally about redemption and can be viewed as a liturgical mis-en-scène of this journey. Over time this was conceptualized and expressed in new ways. By the late Middle Ages, the ‘journey’s’ sojourn at the hospital of Santo Spirito/San Giovanni functioned as a didactic sermon that cast the Savior—embodied in his effigy—in the role not just of Savior but of model and teacher. As the pilgrim or traveling stranger, the effigy functioned as both the object of physical 52 53 54

Pacifici, “L’Inchinata,” 1429. See Analecta hymnica medii aevi, vol. 2 (New York: Johnson Reprint Corp., 1961), 24–26. As worded in the Douay-Rheims Catholic Bible.

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FIGURE 6.14 Luigi Gaudenzi, pastel illustrating ‘bacio al dolore’ at hospital of San Giovanni during Inchinata procession, Tivoli, 1920s. Photo: Rebekah Perry, with special thanks to owner Vincenzo Pacifici for graciously making the painting available to her.

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Christian mercy and the metaphysical mediator of that mercy’s salvific corollary. An integral component of this morality play is its interactive relationship with the hospital complex. In addition to what the hospital’s presence symbolizes for the ritual, its physical structure functions as a stage set, providing spaces and props for the choreography of the performance. The disposition of the courtyard (Fig. 6.8) with the entrances of the hospital and church facing each other and the Savior triptych positioned in between, and the city gate comprising the third wall in the rear, forms a kind of theater-in-the-round in which the faithful too are participants. The ritual blurs the line between actor and spectator. The centrality of the pilgrim allegory and its elaborately dramatized narration and staging, already hinted at in Zappi’s early sixteenth-century account, were likely products of the institutional and infrastructural innovations that transformed Italian urban life and popular religion beginning in the thirteenth century. This is underscored by the extent to which public processions were codified under civil laws and norms in this period. It is telling that it is not ecclesiastical records but municipal and confraternal statutes that are the richest sources of information on Lazio’s Assumption processions and their ritual use of cult images in the late Middle Ages and Renaissance. These texts carefully controlled and regulated minute details of the performances, sometimes even specifying monetary fines for non-compliance. The statutes of the Viterbo butchers guild of 1384,55 for example, mandate that members accompany the guild’s officials in the Assumption procession, each carrying a candle, and those who fail to fulfill the obligation be fined ten soldi.56 The commune’s municipal statutes of 1469 specify that all the guilds of the city are to gather at the sound of the bell in the main square to follow the Savior icon in procession.57 The statutes also mandate the obligations of the city officials: they are to make an offering of two candles of twenty-five pounds in the church of Santa Maria Nuova while Mass is said, and to accompany the Savior icon from there to the cathedral with a new wax candle.58 The statutes of 1379 of the greengrocers of Tarquinia specify that guild members are to make an offering of a candle of pure wax weighing thirty pounds. With this candle they 55 56

57 58

Viterbo, Biblioteca degli Ardenti, ms. II G I 4. As transcribed from the original text (see n. 55, above) by Giuseppe Petrilli in his university thesis: Petrilli, “L’arte del macello minore di Viterbo” (University thesis, Università di Roma La Sapienza), 1966–67, 118. Corrado Buzzi, ed., Lo Statute del comune di Viterbo del 1469 (Rome: Istituto Storico Ita­ liano per il Medioevo, 2004), 360–61. Ibid., 318.

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are to accompany the Savior icon in procession and then conduct it back to its church.59 The Anagni city statutes of 1517, copied from an earlier version possibly dating to the fourteenth century, declare that on the eve of the Assumption an image of the Savior is to be carried from the church of Sant’Andrea to the cathedral, accompanied by the city officials and confraternities.60 These regulations reveal a picture of a true, fully formed bourgeois religiosity. They are exemplary of the larger trend in the late Middle Ages of regulating public behavior through civil law as the communes’ societies and economies became more complex and diverse and their governance more sophisticated. Contemporary statutes—composed by civic authorities who were likely some of the same men who were leading the communes’ religious confraternities— reveal very real anxieties about public behaviors that could undermine social stability. In addition to the ubiquitous prohibitions on public brawling, drunkenness, curfew violation, theft, rape, and murder, the late medieval municipal statutes of Lazio and elsewhere in Italy frequently contain penalties for blaspheming God or the saints through verbal profanation or physical damage to their cult images. These penalties are shockingly severe and include public beatings and the amputation of a tongue or hand.61 In the late medieval city, maintaining public order was a priority. In many ways confraternities and trade guilds were the models and mediators of this order. Tivoli exemplifies this phenomenon. The city’s lay brotherhoods used the Inchinata pro­cession as a public platform dually for reinforcing their status within the community and promoting public values and models of behavior that both served the common interest and fulfilled Christian duty as defined at that time.

Conclusion

As a pilgrimage destination and way-station on the Via Tiburtina Valeria, Tivoli saw, beginning in the thirteenth century, the rise of hospitals and charitable institutions along its city wall, with concentrations at its gates. The circular placement of these institutions synchronized with the Inchinata procession route and the sites of its ritual ceremonies, suggesting an evolving symbolism for the procession in an evolving urban culture. The new topography and 59 60 61

Francesco Guerri, ed., Lo Statuto dell’arte degli ortolani dell’anno 1379 (Rome: G. Bertero, 1909), 15–17. ASR, Statuto di Anagni, Stat. 640, fols. 316r–17v. See also Rafaelle Ambrosi De Magistris, Lo Statuto di Anagni (Rome: Società Romana di Storia Patria, 1880), 14–15. See, for example, ACT, Statuto del 1305, chps. 144–45.

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religious impulses of the urban lay brotherhoods added a moralizing message to the existing civic and supplicatory/salvific functions of the procession. Ritual movement through a landscape of ubiquitous hospitals and charitable institutions reinforced consciousness of Jesus’s New Testament role as a model of Christian love and charity. In providing stage sets for the Inchinata’s ceremonial stops, these new institutions added depth and complexity to the purpose of the procession and the meaning of its protagonist, the Savior triptych. The image now, in addition to being an apotropaic civic protector and a mediator of salvation, functioned as a kind of exemplar of contemporary Christian conduct. In its journey through an urban landscape that served as a metaphor for the universal Christian experience, the effigy pilgrim received the very mercy, shelter, and succor that Christ taught during his earthly ministry and which the mendicant friars and their associated confraternities and lay societies sought to emulate. This allegory was expressed in increasingly elaborate dramatic and narrative elements that evoke a kind of mobile morality play in which contemporary models of bourgeois Christianity were ‘performed’ by the image. At the same time, the staging of the ‘play’ was codified by municipal law with increasing rigor and specificity to visually reinforce the social hierarchy and promote public order.

The Processions of a Pavian Flagellant Confraternity

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Chapter 7

Discipline Transformed: The Processions of a Pavian Flagellant Confraternity, 1330–1460 Andrew Chen In a text composed around 1330, Pavian priest Opicino de Canistris describes a group of laypeople who process through his native town, beating themselves with chains and prostrating themselves in front of altars.1 This passage likely refers to the Raccomandati della Beata Vergine of Pavia.2 There were other confraternities in Pavia, but this one was unusually renowned. Its statutes, approved in 1334 by the bishop of Pavia, were adopted by confraternities in Milan, Lodi, and Piacenza.3 One year later, a schism split the confraternity into two factions, one of which remained at the church of San Gervaso in the northwest corner of the city. The other left San Gervaso and eventually settled at the church of Sant’Innocenzo.4 This chapter is concerned with the processions of the confraternity based for most of its long history at this second church, which is now destroyed. It analyzes the transformations of a processional culture from the time of Opicino’s text into the second half of the fifteenth century. 1 Unless otherwise noted, all translations are mine. Opicino de Canistris, Libellus de descriptione Papie, ch. 14: “Est autem ibi quedam societas laycorum, quod laudabilius est, qui certis diebus et noctibus, et maxime in ebdomoda maiori, que dicitur sancta, procedunt per civitatem ad ecclesias et predicationes, precedente cruce, amicti sacco super nudo, facieque velata et detectis scapulis, se cathenis ferries vel corrigiis verberantes, ac ante altaria prostrate quedam devotionis verba cantantes.” Faustino Gianani, Opicino de Canistris l’“Anonimo Ticinese,” Cod. Vaticano Palatino latino 1993 (Pavia: Fusi, 1927), 104. 2 Annibale Zambarbieri, “La vita religiosa,” in Storia di Pavia, vol. 3. Dal libero Comune alla fine del principato indipendente, 1024–1535. I. Società, istituzioni, religione nelle età del Comune e della Signoria (Milan: Banca del Monte di Lombardia, 1992), 330. 3 The shelfmarks of the surviving books are Milan, Biblioteca Nazionale Braidense (hereafter BNB), MS AC.VIII.2; and Piacenza, Biblioteca Comunale Passerini-Landi, MS Pallastrelli 323. The statute book of the Battuti della Misericordia di Santa Maria del Sole in Lodi is lost. See Andrew Chen, “The Decoration of a Statute Book for a Pavian Flagellant Confraternity,” Rivista di storia della miniatura 18 (2014): 64–65. 4 Maria Antonietta Grignani and Angelo Stella, eds., Antichi testi pavesi (Pavia: Tipografia del Libro, 1977), 13; on the date of the confraternity’s transferral to Sant’Innocenzo, see Caterina Zaira Laskaris, “San Guniforto Martire. Testimonianze storiche e iconografiche del suo culto a Pavia,” Bollettino della Società Pavese di Storia Patria 110 (2010): 142, n. 35.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_009

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At the core of this essay is an investigation of a Pavian confraternity’s changing relationship to its city, to sacred sites, and to objects. I anchor this story in local, peninsular, and institution-specific contexts. Two changes in ritual behavior—increasing formalization of processional routes, and discontinuation of flagellation—will be shown to correlate with each other and intersect with broader shifts in confraternal priorities and attitudes. Taking stock of these developments prompts a new and perhaps surprising interpretation of a surviving fragment of the confraternity’s late-fifteenth-century altarpiece. The concluding reflections on methodology will be of interest to historians concerned with the problem of assessing the evidentiary value of different kinds of visual and textual sources.

A Changing Experience of the City: Formalization of Processional Routes

Flagellant confraternities have long appealed to historians of art and theatre who focus on connections between art and drama, and understandably, these scholars are often captivated by the more spectacular aspects of these cultures.5 However eye-catching, these processions depend on a dialectic of high visibility and deep interiority. The full-coverage hoods and habits of flagellants’ ceremonial dress confirm this (Fig. 7.1).6 Flagellants make themselves visible in public so that they can perform their withdrawal from the world—a gesture of humility. Clothing creates this distance and enacts the ascesis that confraternities’ flagellation rituals entail. Everyday social status is suspended. To the observer of a procession, the only thing that can be known about an individual is his or her confraternal affiliation,7 but for the confraternity member, ritual 5 Two significant contributions published in the last ten years are Mara Nerbano, Il teatro della devozione: Confraternite e spettacolo nell’Umbria medievale (Perugia: Morlacchi, 2006); Barbara Wisch and Nerida Newbigin, Acting on Faith: The Confraternity of the Gonfalone in Renaissance Rome (Philadelphia: Saint Joseph’s University Press, 2013). 6 On the significance of the confraternal habit, see Robert A. Schneider, “Mortification on Parade: Penitential Processions in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century France,” Renaissance and Reformation / Renaissance et Réforme 22 (1986): 123–46; Ludovica Sebregondi, “Carità palese e carità occulta: Le vesti confraternali nell’esercizio delle opere di misericordia,” in Armut und Armenfürsorge in der italienischen Stadtkultur zwischen 13. und 16. Jahrhundert: Bilder, Texte und soziale Praktiken, ed. Philine Helas and Gerhard Wolf (Frankfurt and Oxford: Peter Lang, 2006), 97–112. 7 This is emphasized in Evelyn Lincoln and Pascale Rihouet, “Brands of Piety,” UC Davis Law Review 47 (2013): 675–703.

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FIGURE 7.1 Lorenzo Fasolo, Virgin of Mercy with Two Angels and the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo, 1490s(?). Panel, 75 × 150 cm. Palazzo Vescovile, Pavia. Photo: Andrew Chen.

dress functions also as a second skin that envelops and isolates. The flagellant confraternal habit makes possible a state of intimacy with the self in the most public of situations. For the Pavian confraternity, changes in liturgy in the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries dramatically altered the nature of the interiority-theatricality dialectic. In this essay, I argue that formalization of behavior was partly responsible for the weakening of penitential fervor, whose ultimate consequence was the discontinuation of flagellation. The idea that ritualization of behavior sometimes stifled rather than encouraged religious feeling runs through the history of commentary on ritual, even if the focus has always been on rituals that work—ones that stir the heart and fire the imagination, ones that provide some social good. In The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, Émile Durkheim acknowledged that conventionalized actions have the potential to become “movements without importance and gestures without efficacy”; immediately he adds, however, that “[b]y the mere fact that their apparent function is to strengthen the bonds attaching the believer to his god, they at the same time really strengthen the bonds attaching the individual to the society of which he is a member, since the god is only a figurative expression of the society.”8 It goes without saying that the positive consequences of ritual were what interested Durkheim. Most of the studies of ritual which followed in 8 Émile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, trans. Joseph Ward Swain (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1915), 226.

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Durkheim’s wake have been similarly concerned with what it can accomplish,9 but researchers have also begun to take an interest in the dysfunctional potential of ritual.10 This chapter places itself in this countercurrent; it examines a case in which a particular kind of ritual, flagellation, was abandoned because it no longer had virtue—in other words, it had lost its voluptuousness. This change in ritual had downstream effects on the meaning of art. Comparison of the two manuscript sources containing information about the processions of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo, one from the second quarter of the fourteenth century and one from around the middle of the fifteenth, reveals that routes were formalized considerably during the intervening period. One is MS Ticinesi 385 at the Biblioteca Universitaria in Pavia, which contains a fourteenth-century illuminated version of the abovementioned 1334 statutes in Latin. I have argued elsewhere that it is an early copy of these statutes, produced sometime between 1334 and 1350.11 The second is a processional, MS Ticinesi 390, composed shortly after 1456.12 The earlier ceremonial bears the signs of a confraternity still in the process of putting its rituals in order and working out its routes. According to the ninth chapter of the 1334 statutes, processions occurred on the last Sunday of each month and on Marian feast days, on Good Friday, and on other feast days 9

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Functionalist approaches to ritual after Durkheim are surveyed in Catherine Bell, Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 23–60. Other notable discussions of the utility of rituals for political legitimation or construction of order are: Clifford Geertz, Negara: The Theatre State in Nineteenth Century Bali (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980); Jonathan Z. Smith, Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982); Smith, To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987); and Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992). Philippe Buc, The Dangers of Ritual: Between Early Medieval Texts and Social Scientific Theory (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001) emphasizes that the success of rituals depended on their correct interpretation rather than the actions themselves; see also Adam B. Seligman et al., Ritual and Its Consequences: An Essay on the Limits of Sincerity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 103–82. Nineteenth-century and earlier prejudices against ritual as the opposite of reason are described in Peter Burke, The Historical Anthropology of Early Modern Italy: Essays on Perception and Communication (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 223–38; and Bell, Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions, 253–67. See Chen, “The Decoration of a Statute Book.” This is the completion date of the Ospedale di San Matteo, which was one of the confraternity’s processional stations for the month of July; see Adriano Peroni, “Residenza signorile e costruzioni pubbliche,” in Pavia: Architetture dell’età sforzesca, ed. Adriano Peroni et al. (Turin: Istutito Bancario San Paolo di Torino, 1978), 30; and below, n. 28.

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according to the wishes of the confraternal leadership.13 Members gathered in the confraternal church; they changed out of their clothes and into their habits. They sang the penitential psalms and other psalms. The brothers took up prearranged places. One member brought, depending on the prior’s wishes, either the crucifix (crux) or confraternal banner (vexillum) to the altar. Two others accompanied him. The standard bearer knelt, holding the banner with both hands.14 Each person confessed and was absolved by a priest. A series of versicles and responsories were recited. The standard bearer rose and exited the church, followed by his two companions at the altar, the chant leaders, the prior and a companion, and everyone else. They processed double file through the city, whipping themselves on bare skin, while saying Our Fathers, Hail Marys, psalms, and other prayers. Flagellation was “for contrition and remission of one’s sins and an occasion to provide a good example to others,” not for vainglory.15 They stopped beating themselves once they reached the entrance of a church or cemetery. The standard bearer went up to the first altar step and knelt with both hands on the banner. Everyone knelt while reciting Our Fathers and Hail Marys, followed by versicles and responsories, then other prayers. At the conclusion of the ceremony, the standard bearer rose and exited the church, and the confraternity continued its procession per terram, making its way back to the confraternal church, where each person took his place and everyone confessed again. Final versicles, responsories, and prayers were recited. Then they took off their habits, got dressed, and dispersed. Significantly, no waypoints are specified anywhere in the text, and no information is given about particular paths taken through the city. Already there is some distance between this text and Opicino’s account of a few years earlier, whose picture of people throwing themselves in front of altars conveys something of the fervor, even outright frenzy, of the early flagellant processions. The Dionysian quality noted by Opicino is just as evident in accounts of the 1260 Great Devotion, the ephemeral flagellant movement that radiated outward from Perugia.16 In the 1334 ceremonial text, by contrast, orderliness is repeatedly emphasized. The adverb ordinate appears several times; each person had his proper place in the church and in the processional 13 14 15 16

Pavia, Biblioteca Universitaria (hereafter BUP), MS Ticinesi 385, fols. 24r–26v. From this point forward, only the vexillum is cited in the ceremonial. BUP, MS Ticinesi 385, fol. 25r: “per contrictione et remissione peccatorum suorum et causa dandi aliis gentibus bonum exemplum.” John Henderson, “The Flagellant Movement and Flagellant Confraternities in Central Italy, 1260–1400,” in Religious Motivation: Biographical and Sociological Problems for the Church Historian, ed. Derek Baker (Oxford: Blackwell, 1978), 150.

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file. Even if the two sources are very different kinds of texts—one being a man’s subjective notes on his hometown, the other being a set of behavioral prescriptions – it is apparent from Opicino’s testimony and an explicit prohibition in the ceremonial text that between 1330 and 1334 it was deemed appropriate or necessary to cease flagellation once the procession reached the entrance of a sacred site. Evidently the leaders of the confraternity wished to minimize the level of disturbance indoors, perhaps under pressure from a disapproving bishop or other ecclesiastical authorities.17 That the bylaws place such an emphasis on decorum suggests that disorder was latent. By the middle of the fifteenth century, the confraternity had formalized ceremonial to the point where it became necessary to extract the processional from its place among the other statutes and make an independent liturgical book for processions. The post-1456 processional in MS Ticinesi 390 gives routes and ceremonials for the six processions that occurred on the last Sunday of the month, from April to September. The text begins with a preamble, after which come instructions that apply to all of the processions.18 All six began at Sant’Innocenzo, called domus as in MS Ticinesi 385. The liturgy of this starting ceremony remained exactly as it had been in 1334.19 Then the confraternity proceeded directly to the medieval double cathedral, cited in Ticinesi 390 as domicilium.20 The brothers entered the summer church of St. Stephen through the door leading to the stair to the crypt, where the body of St. Syrus of Pavia lay,21 and there they recited versicles/responsories and prayers for Syrus and 17

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See Gavin Hammel, “Revolutionary Flagellants? Clerical Perceptions of Flagellant Brotherhoods in Late Medieval Flanders and Italy,” in Faith’s Boundaries: Laity and Clergy in Early Modern Confraternities, ed. Nicholas Terpstra, Adriano Prosperi, and Stefania Pastore (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), 303–30. The preamble is found on fol. 1r. BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fols. 1r–2r; compare to BUP, MS Ticinesi 385, fol. 24r–v. BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fol. 2r: “Ordo processionum est cum exeunt domum directe ire ad domicilium.” For the medieval double cathedral in Pavia, see Arthur Kingsley Porter, Lombard Architecture, 4 vols. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1915–17), 3:185–96, 231–36; Gaetano Panazza, “Le basiliche di Santo Stefano e di Santa Maria del Popolo di Pavia,” Pavia 5/6 (1964): 4–21; Richard Krautheimer, “The Twin Cathedral at Pavia,” in Studies in Early Christian, Medieval, and Renaissance Art (London: University of London, 1969), 161– 80; Anna Segagni Malacart, “L’architettura romanica pavese,” in Storia di Pavia, vol. 3. III. L’arte dall’XI al XVI secolo (Milan: Banca Regionale Europea, 1996), 115–228. A representation of its exterior was produced by Opicino de Canistris; this stands as Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Pal. lat. 1993, fol. 2v. See Federico Riccobono, cat. no. I.9 in Arte lombarda dai Visconti agli Sforza, ed. Mauro Natale and Serena Romano (Milan: Skira, 2015), 97. BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fol. 2r: “et intrare per portam qua itur ad scalam ubi in confessore continetur.”

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Stephen.22 They oriented themselves toward the high altar for the second set of prayers dedicated to the protomartyr.23 Having said these, they brought their banner up to the high altar, knelt, and prayed to the Virgin. Then the confraternity embarked on the route specific to that month. These routes are individually described on the next eighteen leaves of the manuscript.24 Processions wound their way back to Sant’Innocenzo. The concluding ceremony detailed in this section is nearly identical to the fourteenth-century one.25 The confraternity reticulated the entire city over the course of six months. In April, after the opening ceremony at Sant’Innocenzo and the Cathedral, the confraternity visited San Teodoro, the famous Romanesque church of San Michele, San Marino, and finally the Dominican church of San Tommaso (Fig. 7.2). In May, it went to San Giovanni in Borgo, then to San Luca and San Primo,26 and last to the hospital church of San Guniforte next to their headquarters (Fig. 7.3).27 In June, the confraternity stopped at San Giovanni Domnarum, then to Santa Trinità, across the piazza to Santa Maria del Carmine, and over to San Pantaleone (Fig. 7.4). In July, the confraternity went to San Epifanio, Santa Maria in Pertica, Santa Chiara, San Francesco, and “to the new hospital at the church of St. Matthew” (Fig. 7.5).28 In August, the confraternity went outside the city walls and across the river after first visiting San Maiolo and San Pietro ad Vincula. Rituals took place at Santa Maria in Betlem and the monastery of Sant’Antonio next to it, south of the river (Fig. 7.6). For the last general procession of the year, in September, the confraternity visited Santa Maria Gualtieri, Sant’Agostino, Sant’Invenzio, and San Gervaso, the seat of the Marian confraternity from which the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo originally split (Fig. 7.7).

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BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fol. 2r. Opicino mentions a large, broad stairway accessing the crypt of St. Syrus, in Libellus de descriptione Papie, ch. 14: “Maximum et latissimum gradum S. Stephani Majoris, qui est supra Cryptam S. Syri.”; Faustino Gianani, Opicino de Canistris, 104. BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fol. 3r: “Etiam illic stantes pro sancto Stephano respectu altaris maioris.” BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fols. 4r–21v. BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fols. 21v–22v; compare to BUP, MS Ticinesi 385, fol. 26r–v. On the fifteenth-century frescoes of this church, see Piero Majocchi, Alessandra Viola, and Ilaria Nascimbene, Un lembo d’arte nella chiesa dei santi Primo e Feliciano di Pavia (Pavia: TCP, 2005). On this church, see Xenio Toscani, Aspetti di vita religiosa a Pavia nel secolo XV (Milan: Giuffrè, 1969), 128–29, for the pastoral visit of Amico de Fossulanis in 1460; also Laskaris, “San Guniforto Martire,” 133–34. BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fol. 16v: “ad hospitalem novum in ecclesia sancti mathei.”

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FIGURE 7.2 Processional path for the April procession of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo. Stations indicated are a) Sant’Innocenzo, b) Pavia Cathedral, c) San Teodoro, d) San Michele, e) San Marino, f ) San Tommaso. Map of Pavia used is a 1653–54 engraving by Cesare Bonacina after a 1617 drawing by Ludovico Corte. Photo: © Biblioteca Universitaria, Pavia; illustration: Matteo Bencini.

FIGURE 7.3 Processional path for the May procession of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo. Stations indicated are a) Sant’Innocenzo, b) Pavia Cathedral, c) San Giovanni in Borgo, d) San Luca, e) San Primo. The final station, San Guniforte, is adjacent to Sant’Innocenzo. Photo: © Biblioteca Universitaria, Pavia; illustration: Matteo Bencini.

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FIGURE 7.4 Processional path for the June procession of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo. Stations indicated are a) Sant’Innocenzo, b) Pavia Cathedral, c) San Giovanni Domnarum, d) Santa Trinità, e) Santa Maria del Carmine, f ) San Pantaleone. Photo: © Biblioteca Universitaria, Pavia; illustration: Matteo Bencini.

FIGURE 7.5 Processional path for the July procession of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo. Stations indicated are a) Sant’Innocenzo, b) Pavia Cathedral, c) San Epifanio, d) Santa Maria in Pertica, e) Santa Chiara, f ) San Francesco, g) San Matteo. Photo: © Biblioteca Universitaria, Pavia; illustration: Matteo Bencini.

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FIGURE 7.6 Processional path for the August procession of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo. Stations indicated are a) Sant’Innocenzo, b) Pavia Cathedral, c) San Maiolo, d) San Pietro ad Vincula, e) Santa Maria in Betlem, f ) Sant’Antonio. Photo: © ­Biblioteca Universitaria, Pavia; illustration: Matteo Bencini.

FIGURE 7.7 Processional path for the September procession of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo. Stations indicated are a) Sant’Innocenzo, b) Pavia Cathedral, c) Santa Maria Gualtieri, d) Sant’Agostino (San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro), e) Sant’Invenzio, f ) San Gervaso. Photo: © Biblioteca Universitaria, Pavia; illustration: Matteo Bencini.

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In terms of ritual topography, the design of the processional routes described in Ticinesi 390 was geographically, as opposed to liturgically, motivated. The paths carved up the city into big, roughly distinct swathes. The confraternity moved through and so recreated the city, from the ground, ritually, corporeally, every year. This is not to belittle the significance of individual sites. Close inspection of liturgies at each station would make plain the special care with which versicles, responsories, and prayers were crafted for each church. Nonetheless, there is an overall governing logic to the processions: an accretion of covered ground, the activation of a large number of sacred sites, successive webs cast over the city following the rhythm of the months, footprints over the course of a day. The temporal framework that determined the dates for processions was, unsurprisingly, a sacred one. They occurred on Sundays and feast days, and that the first general procession occurred in April suggests connotations of springtime renewal. The framework that governed the actual layout of routes, however, was zonal. This is made all the more evident by the fact that there is no relationship between the churches’ titular saints for a given month and the names listed on the corresponding leaves of the calendar of MS Ticinesi 385.29 For example, the names that appear in the April processional—Theodore, Michael, Marinus, Thomas—are not found on folio 4v of the manuscript. This form of ritual topography is distinct from those of the processions conducted by Pavian clergy and other laypeople. Throughout the year, the clergy organized processions on days designated by an eleventh-century necrology. Led by the bishop of Pavia, they proceeded from the Duomo to a single designated site, usually a church dedicated to a saint being honored that day.30 Other yearly processions, which involved both clergy and lay people, snaked all around the city. One of these, for example, departed from the church of Sant’Invenzio and stopped at thirty-two other churches over the course of three days.31 Though they operated according to a different temporal framework, these were more similar structurally to the fifteenth-century processions of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo. It is altogether possible that leaders of the confraternity looked to civic processions like these as models when formalizing and codifying their fifteenth-century routes. It is tantalizing to think about visual and sensory experience during these processions, but the liturgical character of MS Ticinesi 390 necessarily limits 29 30 31

BUP, MS Ticinesi 385, fols. 1r–6v. Zambarbieri, “La vita religiosa,” 297–98. Pietro Moiraghi, Aneddoti ticinesi. Le nostre antiche Litanie de’ Santi (Pavia: Fusi, 1893), 9–10; Zambarbieri, “La vita religiosa,” 299.

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the kinds of hypotheses one can make in this area. The aura of a particular architectural space can perhaps be gleaned when a precise location is specified in a text containing otherwise laconic rubrics. The rubrics for the April–September processions are not very precise about place and action within churches, whereas the liturgy for the cathedral of Santo Stefano requires the confraternity to enter through a particular door, the one that accesses the stairway to the crypt. One wonders whether there was something special, visually and aesthetically, about this path apart from its providing a course to the body of the local saint. Another fruitful approach is to analyze the texts recited in particular churches, to see whether there is some connection between these and cult images on site. There is one case where we learn something new about the function of a surviving artwork. At San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro, first versicles, responsories, and prayers for Sts. Peter and Paul were recited, then a set for St. Augustine, whose body rested at that site. This second part begins with the antiphon O Doctor optime.32 The central panel of the high altarpiece there, a panel executed by a Venetian painter in the 1370s or 1380s, shows the bishop saint with two Augustinians (Fig. 7.8).33 This would have provided a visual prompt for members of the confraternity when addressing the saint. A special liturgy contained in the fifteenth-century processional, not present in the fourteenth-century statute book, is that of Holy Week.34 These ceremonies may be seen as the most elaborate and significant of all—as they are in other contexts, like cathedral rites—even if only two leaves of the fif-

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BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fol. 20r. The altarpiece is mentioned in an episcopal sentence of 1392. See Cristina Guarnieri, cat. no. 54 in Susanna Zatti, ed., La Pinacoteca Malaspina (Milan: Skira, 2011), 225–26; Francesca Flores D’Arcais, “La tavola con Sant’Agostino oggi ai Musei Civici di Pavia, proveniente dalla basilica di San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro,” in San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro a Pavia. Mausoleo Santuario di Agostino e Boezio – Materiali antichi e problemi attuali, ed. Maria Teresa Mazzilli Savini (Pavia: Compitato Pavia Città di Sant’Agostino, 2013), 326–29; Carlo Cairati, “Il polittico trecentesco, ancona dell’altar maggiore,” in Mazzilli Savini, ed. San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro, 330–51. There was also a monumental crucifix from Venice, originally displayed in the middle of the church. The famous Arca di Sant’Agostino was in the sacristy during this time. See Maria Grazia Albertini Ottolenghi, “L’arca di Sant’Agostino,” in Mazzilli Savini, ed. San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro, 353; Luisa Erba, “San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro. La distrutta sacrestia dell’arca,” in Mazzilli Savini, ed., San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro, 382–405; Sharon Dale, The Arca di Sant’Agostino and the Hermits of St. Augustine in Fourteenth-Century Pavia (Turnhout: Harvey Miller, 2014). The fourteenth-century statute book only mentions that a general procession took place on Good Friday; see BUP, MS Ticinesi 385, fol. 24r.

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FIGURE 7.8 Jacobello di Bonomo (attr.), St. Augustine Enthroned with Two Augustinians, 1370s–1380s. Panel, 81 × 63 cm. Pinacoteca Malaspina, Pavia. Photo: © Musei Civici del Castello Visconteo, Pavia.

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teenth-century processional are dedicated to them.35 The opening rubric describes the handling of sacred objects: On Holy Thursday and Good Friday they would conduct the ceremony in this way in all churches and first in their own. If the banner is painted with the cross and Christ crucified it should be covered with another cloth. With the standard or the covered cross placed at the altar, all say in secret, not a single word loudly pronounced, the Our Father and Hail Mary.36 The brevity of the liturgical text for Holy Week stands in inverse relationship to the length and solemnity of the ritual journey. The only indicator of sites in this section is the phrase “in all churches and first in their own” (“in omnibus ecclesiis et primo in sua”). This may point to a remnant of the relative freedom of the fourteenth-century processional. The alternative is that the route was predetermined, just not specified in the text. One of the goals of this analysis has been to give a sense of just how much more detailed the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo’s fifteenth-century processional is on liturgies and routes than is the ceremonial contained in the fourteenth-century statute book, which by comparison seems inchoate and unstructured, though striving incipiently to regulate its subjects’ movements. It may seem banal to arrive at this point after so much exposition, but it is worthwhile to think about the effects that increased formalization of behavior must have had on experience and feeling. The norms that restricted freedom, spontaneity, and openendedness during rituals also moderated the penitential fervor described by Opicino, and, as we will see, eventually the confraternity embraced ways of expressing piety other than flagellation.37 The restrictiveness of the fifteenth-century text can be seen as the continuation of a trend. The prohibition introduced in 1334, which regulated spaces where flagellation could be practiced, is an earlier example of liturgy controlling and disciplining the urges of a group. There does appear to be a historical trend, among the Italian flagellant confraternities, toward increasing formalization of behaviors and routes going 35 36

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BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fols. 22v–23r. BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fols. 22v: “Die iovis et die veneris sancto faciant offitium suum sic in omnibus ecclesiis et primo in sua. Si vexillum est depictum cum cruce et yhu dependente cooperiatur alio panno. Firmato autem vexillo vel crux [sic] cooperta ad altarem omnes dicant secrete nullum verbum alte pronuntiantes.” A theoretical perspective on the antagonism between ritual and ecstasy is found in Seligman et al., Ritual and Its Consequences, 82–84.

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into the sixteenth century. The relevant statute of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista of Venice, in force from 1261 to 1457, is vague about the processional path, reporting only that the brothers “are required…to follow the Cross, with flagellation and discipline, going in procession through the city with peace and humility.”38 Then, from the sixteenth century, there are prescriptive texts spelling out precise, intricate, coordinated routes.39 Other ceremonial texts of the fourteenth century convey a sense of lability and freedom more explicitly. To give one little-known example, the 1319 bylaws of a Pratese confraternity, later adopted by two others of the city, prescribe that on Holy Thursday, “with their banner, the confraternity conducts the procession devotedly up to the Pieve a Borgo, along the path that suits the Prior.”40 The Pratese text spells out the freedom of choice in pathmaking that may be implied in the 1334 Pavian ceremonial.

Discontinuation of Flagellation

Between the fourteenth and the fifteenth centuries, the priorities of the Pavian Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo changed. It turned from acts of penitence toward acts of charity. During both private rituals and public processions, flagellation was discontinued. Many factors may have been responsible for the attenuation of penitential fervor that precipitated this change in ritual; an important one was probably the increasing formalization of behavior that took place, without surviving documentation, in the later part of the fourteenth century and the first half of the fifteenth. Formalization of ritual was antagonistic to desire; it calcified and mechanized religious experience. There were, 38

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Gian Andrea Simeone, ed., La Mariegola della Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista a Venezia (1261–1475) (Venice: Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista, 2003), 47: “sia tegnudi de…seguir la Croxe con verberation e disciplina, andando in procession per questa citade com paxe e humilitade.” The processions of the Scuole Grandi are fairly well studied: see Edward Muir, Civic Ritual in Renaissance Venice (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981); Patricia Fortini Brown, Venetian Narrative Painting in the Age of Carpaccio (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988), 165–91; Jonathan Glixon, “Music and Ceremony at the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista: A New Document from the Venetian State Archives,” in Crossing the Boundaries: Christian Piety and the Arts in Italian Medieval and Renaissance Confraternities, ed. Konrad Eisenbichler (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 1991), 56–89. Glixon, “Music and Ceremony.” Cesare Guasti, I capitoli di una compagnia di disciplina compilati nell’anno 1319 (Prato: Guasti, 1864), 15–16: “col gonfalone facciano la processione divotamente infino alla Pieve a Borgo, per la via che parrà al Priore.”

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of course, other circumstances that predisposed the confraternity to abandon the practice. New concerns held its attentions. The fifteenth century saw a broader turn, among Pavian confraternities, toward charitable activities and, specifically, the running of hospitals, and the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo was no exception.41 There is no question that the confraternity did in fact discontinue flagellation. In a fifteenth-century version of the Sant’Innocenzo statutes, now at the Braidense Library in Milan, the chapters governing processions and private devotional ceremonies—the rituals that involved flagellation—are omitted.42 Other statutes are reproduced from the original with virtually no changes.43 The processions chapter is replaced by MS Ticinesi 390, which makes no mention of flagellation. This development was far from inevitable; a sister confraternity in Milan followed the old statutes in the fifteenth century,44 and elsewhere in Italy the practice continued well into the early modern period. Some vestiges of the old flagellant identity hung on. In the fifteenth century, each member of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo still went in procession “veiled in his habit.”45 In MS Ticinesi 390, members are called verberatores.46 In a record of his pastoral visits to hospitals in Pavia, Amico de Fossulanis in 1460 likewise refers to the confraternity as scola Batutorum.47 This is not as surprising as it may seem—in Naples some confraternities similarly kept their old names after they stopped practicing flagellation.48 Symbolic holdovers notwithstanding, there are signs in MS Ticinesi 390 of a broader shift in confraternal mission. The preamble of MS Ticinesi 390 speaks of the confraternity’s devotion and love, but there is no longer any reference to the virtue of humility expressed through flagellation.49 The language of this preamble reflects the Christian values more closely associated with the confraternity’s pursuits in this period, namely, conducting long and liturgically intensive processions, and running a hospital.50 41

42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

Annibale Zambarbieri, “‘Demonstratione de fede et devotione’: Immagini della religiosità pavese tra il XIII e il XV secolo,” in Diocesi di Pavia, ed. Adriano Caprioli, Antonio Rimoldi, and Luciano Vaccaro (Brescia: La scuola, 1995), 204–10. BNB, MS AC.X.2. For a concordance, see Grignani and Stella, eds., Antichi testi pavesi, 8. This is clear from the text of BNB, MS AC.VIII.2. BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fol. 21v. BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fol. 1r. Toscani, Aspetti di vita religiosa, 128. Giovanni Vitolo and Rosalba Di Meglio, Napoli angioino-aragonese: Confraternite, ospe­ dali, dinamiche politico-sociali (Salerno: Carlone, 2003), 196. BUP, MS Ticinesi 390, fol. 1r. The confraternity is described as being responsible for the hospital and hospital church in the 1460 pastoral visit of Amico de Fossulanis; see Toscani, Aspetti di vita religiosa, 128–29.

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FIGURE 7.9 Lorenzo Fasolo, Virgin of Mercy with Two Angels and the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo (detail), 1490s(?). Panel, 75 × 150 cm. Palazzo Vescovile, Pavia. Photo: Andrew Chen.

If the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo abandoned the practice for which it was originally known, one must reconcile the late-fifteenth-century lunette, once the upper part of an altarpiece, where the hooded flagellants are shown clutching chain-link whips in their hands (Figs. 7.1 and 7.9). The panel shows the Virgin of Mercy with two angels supporting her protective mantle. There has in the past been some doubt as to the name of the confraternity whose members are shown sub pallio.51 It can be securely identified as the 51

Rodolfo Maiocchi noted the resemblance of the lunette composition to the miniature in MS Ticinesi 385, but he did not know the identity of the confraternity; see Maiocchi, I migliori dipinti di Pavia (Pavia: Ponzio, 1903), 95–96. In a scheda ministeriale of 1977, Maria Teresa Mazzilli Savini identified the donors in the lunette as members of the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo, though she does not say how she arrived at this conclusion. This provenance is likewise presented, without argument, in a commentary inserted in Grignani and Stella, eds., Antichi testi pavesi. Perhaps for the lack of explanatory details in this earlier commentary, Francesco Frangi indicated the original provenance as uncertain when he attributed the panel to Lorenzo Fasolo, who, unlike Leonardo Vidolenghi, was not a member of the confraternity; see Francesco Frangi, “I pittori pavesi in Liguria dalla fine del Quattrocento al 1528,” in Pittura a Pavia dal Romanico al Settecento, ed. Mina ­Gregori (Milan: Cariplo, 1988), 97 and 235. The attribution is accepted in Giuliana Algeri and Anna De Floriani, La pittura in Liguria: Il Quattrocento (Genoa: Carige, 1991), 442. Subsequent publications register uncertainty about the original patrons of the panel.

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Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo by the crosses emblazoned on their foreheads and shoulders (Fig. 7.9). Each cross consists of a red vertical arm and a white horizontal crossbar. These crosses are just like the portable ones held by the Virgin in the fourteenth-century full-page miniature. The chapter of the confraternity’s statutes concerning the selection and induction of new members explains that each member must “wear on his right shoulder a cross consisting of red and white colors, so that it may be visible to all, and this in remembrance of the Passion of Jesus Christ and of the glorious Virgin.”52 Further along, it is noted that “when he is received in said holy company and congregation and will wear, publicly, on his right shoulder, the cross consisting of red and white colors,”53 the inductee will receive an indulgence of three hundred days and three quarantene from the bishop of Pavia. It is clear that the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo retained the insignia of the ancestral confraternity after it split from the group that remained at San Gervaso, as the red-and-white cross is mentioned in its fifteenth-century statute book54 and featured on the confraternity’s eighteenth-century archival frontispieces.55 This red-and-white cross was the insignia of the Roman archconfraternity with which the Confraternity

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See Raffaella Fontanarossa, “Per Lorenzo e Bernardino Fasolo: Il catalogo ragionato dei dipinti,” Artes 6 (1998): 44; Stefano Manavella, “Fortune (e sfortune) di Lorenzo Fasolo,” Annali di critica d’arte 12 (2012): 515, 518. The date of the panel remains to be fixed. According to Stefano Manavella, it is datable, on the basis of style, to the end of the fifteenth century. From 1495, the artist began to shift his activity to Genoa, but in 1496 he is still documented as the owner of a house in Pavia. In 1498, he is supposed to have made a visit to his hometown. See Rodolfo Maiocchi, Codice diplomatico e artistico di Pavia dall’anno 1330 all’anno 1550, 2 vols. (Pavia: Bianchi, 1937–49), 1:64; and Frangi, cat. entry in Gregori, ed., Pittura a Pavia, 235. BUP, MS Ticinesi 385, fol. 13r: “Item quod debeat semper portare super spatulam dexteram unam crucem de iubeo et albo colore, ita quod sempre ab omnibus possit videri et hoc in memoriam dominice passionis et virginis gloriose.” BUP, MS Ticinesi 385, fol. 13v: “Primo quando recipitur in dectam sanctam societatem et congregationem et portat publice in dextera spatula sua crucem sanctam de iubeo et albo colore.” BNB, MS AC.X.2, fol. 32r–v: “Anchora che el debe sempre portare supra la spala drita una croxe facta de roso e de biancho colore cussì che sempre may da tuti el possa fir visto e questo in memoria de la passione de Yesu Christo e de la Vergene gloriosa”; BNB, MS AC.X.2, fol. 33r: “Primamente quando el fi recevudo in la dicta sancta compagnia e congregatione e portarà publicamente in la spala drita la sua croxe facta de roso e de biancho colore…” See, for example, Archivio di Stato di Milano, Fondo religione, b. 5448 (Pavia, Confraternita di Sant’Innocenzo), cartella n. 82. One of these is inserted into the beginning of MS Ticinesi 385.

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of Sant’Innocenzo was aggregated, and it was shared by other confraternities that participated in this peninsular network. It is found, for example, in the banner of the Perugian confraternity dedicated to St. Augustine, by Pinturicchio.56 Its color symbolism is described in the 1628 statutes of the Compagnia di Santa Maria dei Raccomandati of Florence: the white crossbar symbolizes purity and the virginity of Mary, and the red vertical bar evokes the blood and death of Christ.57 If the unhooded figures in the lunette are contemporary donors, on the right, opposite noteworthy historical members on the left—golden rays emanate from the head of the venerable male figure—then the group pictured is a confraternity across time.58 Significantly, neither of the recognizably female members is shown holding a whip.59 The lunette renovates and propagates, with some changes, a Virgin of Mercy composition contained in MS Ticinesi 385 (Fig. 7.10). In the altarpiece, it is the collective identity of the confraternity that is emphasized, while in the miniature it is the inclusiveness of the mater omnium. It seems fairly likely that the confraternity had a banner showing the Virgin of Mercy in addition to the one, mentioned earlier, showing Christ on the Cross.60 The presence, in the altarpiece, of hooded figures holding chains is reminiscent of another miniature in MS Ticinesi 385 representing a kneeling flagellant, showing us his bloody back while looking up toward a Man of Sorrows initial (Fig. 7.11). There is thus imagery from the confraternity’s earlier 56

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This is noted in Francesco Federico Mancini, “Un episodio di normale ‘routine’. L’affresco cinquecentesco dell’Oratorio di Sant’Agostino a Perugia,” Commentari d’Arte 1 (1995): 46, n. 13; and Lincoln and Rihouet, “Brands of Piety,” 692. For documentation, bibliography, and stylistic analysis of the Perugian banner, see Paola Mercurelli Salari, cat. no. 50, in Vittoria Garibaldi and Francesco Federico Mancini, eds., Pintoricchio (Cinisello Balsamo: Silvana, 2008), 268. See Luciano Artusi and Antonio Patruno, Deo gratias. Storia, tradizioni, culti e personaggi delle antiche confraternite fiorentine (Rome: Newton Compton, 1994), 281. Maria Teresa Mazzilli Savini has suggested that this figure is Simone Alberizzi, who founded the ancestral confraternity (dedicated, at the time, to the Holy Spirit) in 1216. See the insert in Grignani and Stella, eds., Antichi testi pavesi. Contained in BNB, MS AC.X.2 is a matriculation list for the years 1450–1592, which includes women. This is published in Grignani and Stella, eds., Antichi testi pavesi, 61–79. No earlier matricola is known. Inclusion of women may have been another impetus for the discontinuation of flagellation. I intend to continue researching the activities of women in Italian flagellant confraternities. The resemblance of the miniature to confraternal banners is noted in Pietro Moiraghi, “Sui pittori pavesi: spigolature e ricerche. Epoca seconda,”Almanacco sacro pavese 48 (1892): 209; Renato Soriga, “Pii sodalizi laicali in Pavia medioevale,” Bollettino della Società Pavese di Storia Patria 29 (1929): 268.

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history bound up in the lunette. The altarpiece claims of continuity with the ancestral confraternity’s early days when, as Opicino reports, its members fell to the ground in front of altars and beat themselves with chains. The fifteenthcentury picture of flagellants holding their whips is analogous to the denomination scola Batutorum, where the name becomes the signifier of a history rather than a descriptor of contemporary practices. The lunette assimilates earlier imagery associated with the confraternity; seen from a different perspective, it reaches back into the past, seizes flagellating bodies in action, pacifies them, and moves them into the field of representation.

Liturgy, History, and Iconography: Some Methodological Considerations

In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries the physical fabric of Pavia underwent dramatic transformations, particularly under the impact of the Visconti and then the Sforza: the broader cultural policies that these seigneurial families brought to bear on the city undoubtedly shaped the local confraternity’s attitudes toward ceremony and performance.61 A closer look at these contextual developments may help us to better understand why the Confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo’s processions changed the way they did. Setting aside the difficult problem of cultural causation, I have in this essay presented and analyzed two broad aspects of the transformation, with a view to describing their implications for confraternal experience and for the meaning of a particular cult image. What were the consequences, ultimately, of the two big changes in the procession liturgy? Because the members did not stop wearing their hoods and habits when they went on procession, the dialectic of theatricality and deep interiority was maintained, if superficially. Both elements in that dialectic, however, were fundamentally altered. Codification of behavior made the confraternity ever more predictable to its audience; the spontaneous and violent aspect of its processions, so striking to Opicino, was gone. With the discontinuation of flagellation, processions lost the vigor of a physically intensive performance, and expressions of piety took the form of prayers rather than Christomimesis. The whip, deprived of its active penitential function, became

61

See Peroni et al., Pavia: architetture dell’età sforzesca; Luisa Giordano, “Documenti per la storia delle piazze di Pavia (secoli XV–XVI),” Artes 2 (1994): 215–20; Piero Majocchi, Pavia città regia. Storia e memoria di una capitale medievale (Rome: Viella, 2008), 189–225.

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FIGURE 7.10 Lombard illuminator, Virgin of Mercy, from a book of statutes for a Pavian flagellant confraternity, c. 1334–50. Pavia, Biblioteca Universitaria, MS Ticinesi 385, fol. 19v. Photo: © Biblioteca Universitaria, Pavia.

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FIGURE 7.11 Lombard illuminator, initial P with Man of Sorrows, and Kneeling Flagellant in bottom margin, from a book of statutes for a Pavian flagellant confraternity, c. 1334–50. Pavia, Biblioteca Universitaria, MS Ticinesi 385, fol. 10v. Photo: © Biblioteca Universitaria, Pavia.

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a symbol of a venerable historical past, and was integrated into the confraternal altarpiece. This study has taken the ceremonial text as its methodological rock, as the artifact most closely related to actualities, one that apparently destabilizes, or at least complicates the interpretation of, other visual and verbal forms of evidence. Ceremonials are by nature normative and prescriptive, and they too remain at some distance from the object of study. These texts are the official, verbal products that emerged from an incomprehensible and inaccessible noise, the working out and consolidation of ritual habits. I have argued, with reference to anthropological theory, that formalization of ritual took away some of the dynamism of penitential devotions, that it helped to dissipate the fervor that had made voluntary flagellation so appealing in the first place. A text designed to regulate behavior was, perhaps, too successful at doing so. Only when the historical development of the confraternal liturgy is understood can one assess the evidentiary value of the lunette by Lorenzo Fasolo. Certainly it does have some: witness the red-and-white crosses. But what the fifteenth-century legal and liturgical books make clear is that flagellation was no longer practiced by the time of the creation of the altarpiece, so the image is better seen as a container of visual memories than as a document of actual practices. The iconography may bear a trace of older cult images executed before the discontinuation of flagellation, a now-lost banner for example. Like the name scola Batutorum, the chains we see in the surviving fragment of the altarpiece are lies—or, less cynically, vestiges of a ritual past.62 62

An additional point may be made about the provenance of the lunette. Maria Teresa Mazzilli Savini believed that the confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo transferred itself directly from the church of Sant’Innocenzo to San Filippo e Giacomo in 1807, when the former was deconsecrated. These remarks are repeated in Frangi “I pittori pavesi in Liguria,” 235. Archival documents reveal, however, that in 1784 the confraternity transferred itself to the church of San Gervaso e Protaso, where it had originated. Documents pertaining to this move are contained in Archivio di Stato di Milano, Fondo religione, b. 5449 (Pavia, Confraternita di Sant’Innocenzo). These documents record that liturgical furnishings (sacri arredi) and other furniture (mobili) were moved. The sister confraternity that had previously met at San Gervaso e Protaso had moved, in 1609, to Santa Maria di Loreto and remained there until it was suppressed. So long as the altarpiece was not dispersed during this transition period, it can now be assumed that the lunette was located at San Gervaso e Protaso from 1784 until 1807, the year in which confraternities were suppressed. The circumstances in which it reached San Giacomo e Filippo, where Rodolfo Maiocchi saw it around 1903, therefore remain to be clarified. On the later history of the Church of Sant’Innocenzo, see Adriano Peroni, “Un affresco del pavese Carlo Antonio Bianchi (1714– dopo il 1778) da un interno settecentesco distrutto: S. Innocenzo,” in: Pavia: Pinacoteca Malaspina (Pavia: Comune di Pavia, 1981), 58–65.

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Chapter 8

Embracing Peter and Paul: The Arciconfraternita della SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti and the Cappella della Separazione in Rome Barbara Wisch* Both in fact and in glorious prophetic vision, the epithets fashioned for ancient Rome proclaimed its centrality and destiny: caput mundi (head of the world), urbs aeterna (eternal city), imperium sine fine (empire without end). With its seat in Rome, the Church reinterpreted the imperial prophecies as its own providential destiny. The Eternal City refashioned itself as the New Jerusalem, supplanting the Jewish capital and the Synagogue. It could, in fact, lay claim to such a distinguished title due to the extraordinary number of holy sites and relics, more than any other city in Europe. So important was the cult of saints and relics that pilgrimage to Rome had become fundamental to Catholic devotion, inciting Protestants, in the sixteenth century, to vehemently deny its efficacy. The sacred spaces of this Renaissance city, diffused beyond the ancient walls, resonated in a unique fashion, no matter how many other cities proclaimed themselves a ‘New Rome.’ Of utmost significance, St. Peter and St. Paul, Princes of the Apostles and dual founders of the Roman Church, had suffered martyrdom there, jointly commemorated on 29 June. That day, in pagan times, had exalted the founders of Rome, the deified twins Romulus and Remus. In 441, in his famous sermon “On the Feast of the Apostles Peter and Paul,” Pope Leo the Great (r. 440–61) alluded to the coincidence of dates that further glorified the resplendent spiritual foundation of Christian Rome. The hallowed remains of the apostles were shared between two of the city’s most venerable basilicas, San Pietro on the Vatican Hill and San Paolo fuori le Mura on Via Ostiense. Pope Gregory the Great (r. 590–604) added 30 June as an additional feast day to commemorate * This essay is part of a broader study dedicated to the early art and architectural patronage of the Arciconfraternita della SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti that has been largely disregarded in the literature. Generous support for this research was provided by a Renaissance Society of America / Samuel H. Kress Foundation Fellowship in Renaissance Art History. Special thanks go to Diane Cole Ahl, Pamela M. Jones, and Diana Bullen Presciutti for their judicious comments. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are the author’s.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_010

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Paul’s martyrdom, since the papal Mass of 29 June was conducted with full magnificence at San Pietro.1 Yet Protestant reformers not only decried the primacy of Peter, but questioned whether or not he had even visited Rome, let alone been martyred there, subjects on which the Bible and canonical Acts were silent.2 A corpus of apocryphal literature, initiated in the second century, had attempted to fill these gaps. The Acts of Peter and Acts of Paul—as well as evolving narratives of their respective martyrdoms, which were widely circulated in Greek, Syriac, Armenian, Coptic, Ethiopic, and Latin—were elaborated well into the sixth century.3 Among these later apocryphal writings (now assigned to the sixth century) was an anguished, eyewitness account: a Letter to Timothy on the Death of the Apostles Peter and Paul. It was written in Greek to Paul’s dear friend and confidant, and ascribed to St. Dionysius the Areopagite, the Athenian judge whom Paul had converted in Acts 17:34. In the Letter to Timothy, Dionysius recounted that he had followed Paul to Rome and witnessed the excruciating final hours of the Princes of the Apostles. He described how Peter and Paul were led outside the ancient walls along Via Ostiense and recorded the last words they spoke to each other before Roman soldiers separated the two and led them to their respective executions. As a firsthand witness to the Roman martyrdoms of Peter and Paul, St. Dionysius the Areopagite as well as his influential corpus of theological writings came under new critical scrutiny by humanists. These scholarly inquiries, which exposed a wide range of doubts about the supposed first-century texts and their author, were exploited by

1 That 29 June marks the actual date of martyrdom is dismissed by most scholars; see Marguerita Guarducci, “Il 29 giugno: festa degli apostoli Pietro e Paulo,” Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia 18 (1985/1986): 115–25. Harry W. Tajra, The Martyrdom of St. Paul: Historical and Judicial Context, Traditions, and Legends (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr–Paul Siebeck, 1994). 2 Remigius Bäumer, “Die Auseinandersetzungen über die römische Petrustradition in den ersten Jahrzehnten der Reformationszeit,” Römische Quartalschrift für christliche Altertumskunde und Kirchengeschichte 57 (1962): 20–57. 3 Richard A. Lipsius and Maximilian Bonnet, Acta Apostolorum Apocrypha, 2 vols. (Leipzig: Herrmann Mendelssohn, 1891–1903); for the Latin and Greek Passio sanctorum apostolorum Petri et Pauli, see 1:118–222. Richard A. Lipsius, Die apokryphen Apostelgeschichten und Apostellegenden: Ein Beitrag zur altchristlichen Literaturgeschichte, 2 vols. (Braunschweig: C.A. Schwetschke und Sohn, 1883–87); Lipsius, Die apokryphen Apostelgeschichten und Apostellegenden: Supplement (Braunschweig: C.A. Schwetschke und Sohn, 1890). For a succinct discussion in English, see Tajra, The Martyrdom of St. Paul.

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Protestant reformers (including Martin Luther) in polemics against Catholic claims regarding the apostolic origins of the Roman Church.4 Such heated sixteenth-century controversies over the Princes of the Apostles—as well as over relics, pilgrimage, and the role of the Holy See of Rome—can be inextricably woven into the urban fabric of the Eternal City by means of a small, but significant, confraternal chapel. Dedicated to SS. Crocifisso, but tellingly known as the Cappella della Separazione (Chapel of the Separation)5 (Fig. 8.1), it was located a half mile past Porta San Paolo on Via Ostiense, the road that led to San Paolo fuori le Mura and culminated at the great port of Ostia. The chapel honored the sacred site where, according to tradition and Dionysius’s Letter, Peter and Paul tearfully shared their final moments before departing this earth to receive their celestial crowns. Focus on this little-known chapel affords new perspectives on the confraternal patrons and their role in the production of sacred space. It was built by brethren of the Arciconfraternita della SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti, a rising star in the glittering firmament of confraternal Rome. Begun in 1562, the chapel was the first independent religious edifice commissioned by Trinità confratelli at a critical point in the history of the confraternity and of the city of Rome. Perhaps because it was demolished in 1910, the chapel and its contexts have been virtually overlooked by scholars who have studied the rebuilding

4 Karlfried Froehlich, “Pseudo-Dionysius and the Reformation of the Sixteenth Century,” in Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works, trans. Colm Luibheid, foreword, notes, and trans. Paul Rorem (New York: Paulist Press, 1987), 33–46. 5 Mariano Armellini, Le chiese di Roma (1891), rev. and ed. Carlo Cecchelli, 2 vols. (Rome: Edizioni R.O.R.E. di N. Ruffolo, 1942): 2:1148–49, 1496; Orazio Marucchi, Le memorie degli apostoli Pietro e Paolo in Roma: Cenni storici ed archeologici (1894), 2nd rev. ed. (Rome: Federico Pustet, 1903), 155–56; Christian Huelsen, Le chiese di Roma nel Medio Evo: Cataloghi ed appunti (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1927), 120; Milton J. Lewine, “The Roman Church Interior, 1527–1580” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 1960), 444–48; Mario Bosi, “La memoria della separazione degli apostoli Pietro e Paolo sulla via Ostiense,” Studi romani 24 (1976): 219–26; La campagna romana antica, medioevale e moderna, ed. Giuseppe Tomassetti, 7 vols. (Rome: Banco di Roma, 1975–80), Vol. 5: Via Laurentina–Ostiense, ed. Luisa Chiumenti and Fernando Bilancia (Florence: L.S. Olschki, 1979), 82–89; Sandra Vasco Rocca, SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini (Rome: Fratelli Palombi, 1979), 62–63; Ferrucio Lombardi, Roma: Le chiese scomparse: La memoria storica della città (Rome: Fratelli Palombi, 1996), 422; Margherita Cecchelli, “I luoghi di Pietro e Paolo,” in Christiana loca: Lo spazio cristiano nella Roma del primo millennio, ed. Letizia Pani Ermini (Rome: Fratelli Palombi, 2000), 89–97; Claudio Rendina and Donatella Paradisi, La grande guida delle strade di Roma (Rome: Newton & Compton, 2003), 936; Cosmo Barbato, “C’era una volta in Via Ostiense la cappella della Separazione,” Alma Roma 46, n.s. 11 (2005/2006): 73–82.

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FIGURE 8.1 Giuseppe Primoli, Chapel of the SS. Crocifisso on Via Ostiense, flooded (March 1892). Rome, Fondazione Primoli, 8655/A. Photo: © Fondazione Primoli.

and decoration of the confraternal church and hospital, located inside the walls near Ponte Sisto (Fig. 8.2).6 6 The literature on the confraternity, the church, and the hospital complex is extensive. Among recent significant studies are: Noel O’Regan, Institutional Patronage in Post-Tridentine Rome: Music at Santissima Trinità dei Pellegrini, 1550–1650 (London: Royal Musical Association, 1995); Luigi Fiorani, “La confraternita della Trinità dei Pellegrini nei giubilei cinque-secenteschi: Il carisma dell’ospitalità,” in La storia dei Giubilei. Volume Secondo, 1450–1575, ed. Marcello Fagiolo and Maria Luisa Madonna, 4 vols. (Rome: BNL Edizioni, 1997–2000), 2:308–25; Carla L. Keyvanian, “Charity, Architecture and Urban Development in Post-Tridentine Rome: The

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FIGURE 8.2 Giovanni Maggi and Paul Maupin, Church, hospital, and oratory complex of SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti, detail of Map of Rome, 1625, woodcut. From Amato Pietro Frutaz, Le piante di Roma, 3 vols. (Rome: Istituto di Studi Romani, 1962), 2: pl. 315.

To inscribe this lost confraternal chapel in the cultic topography of Rome, I examine here the textual sources of the Separation of Peter and Paul and reconstruct the commemorative site. How the new chapel and its rich decoration were key in elevating this memorial to prominence in the late sixteenth century and beyond are also explored. An unpublished drawing attributed to Giovanni Guerra (1544–1618) is, I propose, a study for the lost altarpiece. In conclusion, I consider how the new confraternal chapel transformed devotional perceptions in Rome. By giving new life to the site that ‘verified’ Peter and Paul’s inextricably paired Roman missions and martyrdoms on the selfsame day and year, the SS. Trinità confratelli responded forcefully to Protestant denials of fundamental tenets of the Apostolic Roman Church. The potently symbolic chapel became a noted stop along a major pilgrimage road in Hospital of the SS.ma Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti (1548–1680)” (PhD diss., Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 2000); Marco Pupillo, La SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini di Roma: Artisti e committenti al tempo di Caravaggio (Rome: Edizione dell’Associazione Culturale Shakespeare and Company 2, 2001); Fabrizio Nurra, La mensa dei poveri a Trinità dei Pellegrini: Economia solidale nella Roma del Cinquecento (Florence: Atheneum, 2004); and Pamela M. Jones, Altarpieces and Their Viewers in the Churches of Rome from Caravaggio to Guido Reni (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 261–324.

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the same years that Filippo Neri revived the great processions to the Seven Principal Churches, the most revered basilicas in Rome. The site’s renovation must also be understood as contributing to Catholic reformers’ desire to renew, both spiritually and physically, an authoritative paleochristian past.

“I was present at the moment when they were separated”7

Because Acts 17:34 singled out Dionysius as Paul’s first Athenian convert, ecclesiastical historians deemed it imperative to ascertain how the Areopagite had fulfilled that promise. In the fourth century, Eusebius of Caesarea identified Dionysius as the first bishop of Athens.8 Two centuries later, an anonymous Syrian author under the name Dionysius the Areopagite9 composed in Greek four treatises—The Divine Names, The Mystical Theology, The Celestial Hierarchy, The Ecclesiastical Hierarchy—and eleven epistles.10 Although deeply indebted to late neoplatonism, the works were soon clad in the mantle of apostolic authority. Gregory the Great referred to Dionysius as “an ancient and venerable father.” During the seventh and eighth centuries Dionysius was regarded as a Doctor of the Church.11 He acquired even greater prestige in the West in the early ninth century when Abbot Hilduin of Saint-Denis identified him with the beheaded martyr, St. Denis, the first bishop and patron saint of Paris. Hilduin consequently had the presumed corpus of Dionysius translated

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St. Dionysius the Areopagite, Letter to Timothy on the Death of the Apostles Peter and Paul, quoted in Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend: Readings on the Saints, trans. William Granger Ryan, 2 vols. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 1:346; “Epistola Beati Dionisii Ariopagite de morte apostolorum Petri et Pauli ad Thymoteum,” in Boninus Mombritius, Sanctuarium seu Vitae sanctorum, 2 vols. (Paris: Albert Fontemoing, 1910), 2:356, lines 23–24. Jaroslav Pelikan, “The Odyssey of Dionysian Spirituality,” in Pseudo-Dionysius, 11–24, esp. 21–22, citing Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, iii, 4.11. For the significance of the pseudonym and the possibility that the author was a monk, see Charles M. Stang, Apophasis and Pseudonymity in Dionysius the Areopagite: “No Longer I” (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). In Pseudo-Dionysius, 288, n. 118, Rorem remarks that in modern compilations of the Dionysian corpus, only ten epistles are reprinted; the Letter to Timothy, perhaps by another author using the same pseudonym, is not included. Jean Leclercq, “Influence and Noninfluence of Dionysius in the Western Middle Ages,” in Pseudo-Dionysius, 25–32.

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into Latin from a Greek manuscript, and these works had a long and prestigious afterlife.12 For my purposes, St. Dionysius’s Letter to Timothy is decisive because it unequivocally set forth the Catholic tradition of the joint martyrdom of the Princes of the Apostles, although the Bible and canonical Acts of the Apostles made no mention of this.13 Only in apocryphal episodes recounted in The Passion of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul (compiled c. 450–550) do their lives intersect: the two meet in Rome, embrace long and lovingly, “bedew each other with tears,” then jointly undertake their Roman ministry, suffering martyrdom on the same day.14 Long passages from the Latin Letter to Timothy were quoted in the thirteenth-century Golden Legend in the lives of both St. Peter and St. Paul.15 The complete Latin Letter was printed in the authoritative Lives of the Saints (Milan, c. 1477) by the great humanist Mombritius (Bonino Mombrizio, 1424–82/1502).16 Dionysius’s crucial testimony was quoted again and again: O my brother Timothy, if you had seen the way they were treated in their last hours, you would have fainted with sadness and grief. Who would not weep in that hour when the sentence came down that Peter was to be crucified and Paul to be beheaded! Then you would have seen the mob of 12 13

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Paul Rorem, “The Early Latin Dionysius: Eriugena and Hugh of St. Victor,” Modern Theology 24, no. 4 (2008): 601–14. Lipsius, Die apokryphen, 2.1:228–31; Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend, 1:349: “There are some people who question whether Peter and Paul suffered martyrdom on the same day. Some say it was on the same day, but that one suffered a year later than the other. But Jerome and almost all the holy fathers who have dealt with this question agree that they suffered on the same day and in the same year. This is also clear from the letter of Dionysius.” Herbert L. Kessler, “The Meeting of Peter and Paul in Rome: An Emblematic Narrative of Spiritual Brotherhood,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 14 (1987): 265–75. See Acts of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, in Apocryphal Gospels, Acts, and Revelations, trans. Alexander Walker (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1870), 256–78. This development is summed up by Tajra, The Martyrdom of St. Paul, 143–51, who credits the fifth-century Pseudo-Marcellus in consolidating the disparate traditions. Jacobus de Voragine, “Life of Peter,” in The Golden Legend, 1:345–46, 349; “Life of Paul,” in The Golden Legend, 1:354–56. In Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend, 1:354, n. 1, Ryan incorrectly states that the letter is “unknown;” it is one and the same Letter to Timothy. “Epistola,” 2:354–57. The publisher of the single edition of Mombritius’s Sanctuarium seu Vitae Sanctorum is unknown (ISTC im00810000); see Alison Knowles Frazier, Possible Lives: Authors and Saints in Renaissance Italy (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), 100–67.

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pagans and Jews striking them and spitting in their faces! And when came the awful moment of their consummation, they were separated from each other, and these pillars of the world were put in chains as the brethren groaned and wept. Then Paul said to Peter: “Peace be with you, foundation stone of the churches and shepherd of the sheep and lambs of Christ!” Peter said to Paul: “Go in peace, preacher of virtuous living, mediator and leader of the salvation of the righteous!” When the two were taken away in different directions because they were not put to death in the same place, I followed my master.17 As noted above, fifteenth-century humanists began to untangle the traditions of Dionysius’s person and authorship, opening the way for Protestant reformers and their Catholic adversaries to reassess the texts critically and polemically.18 By the end of the sixteenth century, prominent Catholic scholars, such as Cesare Baronio (1538–1607) and Roberto Bellarmino (1542–1621), privately acknowledged that Denis of Paris and Dionysius the Areopagite were not one and the same, although that conclusion never appeared in Baronio’s Roman Martyrology (1st ed., 1584). Moreover, they continued to accept St. Dionysius as the author of all the writings attributed to him.19

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Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend, 1:345. “Epistola,” 2:355, lines 46–58: “O frater mi Thymothee si vidisse agones consumationis eorum: defecisses quidem prae tristitia et dolore. Quoniam autem non interfuisti: facile tibi videtur opus agonis ipsorum. Quis non flaeret hora illa: quando praeceptum sententiae egressum in eos est: ut Petrus silicet crucifigeretur: et Paulus decollaretur? Vidisse utique tunc turbas Iudaeorum et gentilium multiudines percutientes eos: illudentes eis: et spuentes in facies eorum: Ipsi vero quieti et tranquilli extiterunt sicut agni innocents et mansueti. Adviente autem terribili tempore consumationis eorum: cum seperarentur ab invicem: ligaverunt columnas mundi: non utique absque fratrum gemitu et ploratu. Tunc inquit Paulus Petro: Pax tecum fundamentum ecclesiarum et pastor ovium et agnorum Christi. Petrus autem ad Paulum inquit: Vade inquit in pace praedicator bororum mediator et dux salutis iustorum. Cum autem elongassent eos ab invicem: secutus sum magistrum meum Paulum: Non enim in eodem vico occiderunt eos.” Froehlich, “Pseudo-Dionysius.” Simon Ditchfield, Liturgy, Sanctity and History in Tridentine Italy: Pietro Maria Campi and the Preservation of the Particular (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 54–59.

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Commemorating the Sacred Site

The first marker at the site of the apostles’ embrace and subsequent leave-taking, located in the middle of Via Ostiense, probably dates no earlier than the tenth century, when the Letter to Timothy (in Latin) became widely diffused in the West. However, among guidebooks, including the Mirabilia, and pilgrim accounts that I have consulted, the earliest description of this memorial seems to be in a German handwritten codex dated 1448: And a little farther is a marble column, and on it is painted Saint Peter and Saint Paul, and to this same column Saint Peter and Saint Paul were taken, where they were to be killed, and due to the great throngs of people who wanted to go along, Saint Peter was again brought back to Rome.… And at this same column they were separated from one another. Then Saint Peter was taken to Rome upon a hill that is called ‘Montario,’ and was crucified with his head downward. And Saint Paul was taken to Sant’Anastasio and there his head was cut off.20 We can deduce important information from this manuscript. First, a marble column, not a chapel as the literature has posited,21 marked the site of the Separation. There, the unruly crowd caused the soldiers to change their plans for a dual martyrdom and return Peter to Rome, as Dionysius had attested. In addition, the author names Peter’s site of martyrdom as “Montario” (i.e., Montorio, the Janiculum Hill), a new belief that replaced the earlier tradition of Peter’s martyrdom near the Vatican. Indeed, Filarete’s panel of the Martyrdom of St. Peter on the bronze doors installed in the central portal of Old St. Peter’s in 1445 was apparently the first representation that depicted Peter’s

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Roberto Valentini and Giuseppe Zucchetti, eds., Codice topografico della città di Roma, 4 vols. (Rome: Tipografia del Senato, 1940–53), esp. 4 (1953). Nine Robijntje Miedema, Rompilgerführer in Spätmittelalter und Früher Neuzeit: Die “Indulgentiae ecclesiarium urbis Romae” (deutsch/niederländisch) (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2003), 91–133, “Wolfenbüttler Handschrift D76” (Codex 16.1), esp. 98: “Auch jst ain wen[i]g firb[a]s ain saul von marbelstain, vnd daran jst sant Peter vnd sant Paul gemalt, vnd bis zw der selben saul wart sant Peter vnd sant Paul gefiert, do man sy wolt totten, vnd durch des grossen folcks willen, daz da mitloff, ward sant Peter wider gen Raim gefiert … . Vnd beij der selben saul taijlten sy sich von ainander. Da wart sant Peter gefiert gen Raim auff ainen berg, der haisset Montario, vnd wart da kreiczigot mit dem habt vnder sich. Vnd sant Baul wart gefiert bis zw Sant Anastasio vnd da ward jm daz habt abgeschlagen.” See above n. 5.

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crucifixion on the Janiculum.22 It seems likely that the new location of Peter’s martyrdom drew fresh attention to the Final Separation.23 Four years after the German codex was written, Nikolaus Muffel, a member of Emperor Frederick III’s entourage in 1452, calls the marker a cross (“creutz”) and describes the Separation in detail, especially the Final Embrace: “Where the cross is, the two patriarchs of the church blessed one another in turn, embraced, and kissed with eyes brimming with tears as is stated in the Acts of the Apostles.”24 Muffel’s text underscores two crucial beliefs. First, by the midfifteenth century, the same tearful embrace and kiss of the apostles’ first meeting had been ascribed to their final meeting as well.25 Second, a cross of some kind commemorated the site. I propose that this cross, recorded by Muffel, crowned the marble column noted in the German codex of 1448. This hypothesis seems to be confirmed in the exquisitely drawn and handcolored maps of Rome by the noted Florentine miniaturist and visitor to the city, Pietro del Massaio (active 1458–72). These maps were added to three manuscripts of Ptolemy’s Geography (c. 1453/56–72), the most extensively annotated of which was made for Duke Federico da Montefeltro of Urbino (Fig. 8.3).26 They were the first to illustrate the memorial—a cross atop a tall column— vastly out of scale and equal in height to the two great imperial columns inside the walls. The column is labeled: “Apud hanc crucem s. Paulus prout a[nte mortem dixerat] defunctus telum [velum] mulieri reddidit” (Near/at this cross just before he died St. Paul said he would return the veil to the woman). The inscription refers to Paul’s miraculous restitution of his disciple Lemobia’s veil, the location of which was often conflated with the Separation.27 22 23 24

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J.M. Huskinson, “The Crucifixion of St. Peter: A Fifteenth-Century Topographical Problem,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 32 (1969): 135–61. See below p. 213. Nikolaus Muffel, Descrizione della città di Roma nel 1452. Delle indulgenze e dei luoghi sacri di Roma (Der ablas und die heiligen stet zu Rom), ed. Gerhard Wiedmann (Bologna: Pàtron, 1999), 60–61. Cardinal Baronio included all these events in the official account, set forth in the initial volume (1588) of his magisterial Annales Ecclesiatici; see Cesare Baronio, Annales ecclesiastici (1588–1609), 38 vols. (Lucca: Typis Leonardi Venturini, 1738–59), 1:338 (in the “year 69”). Naomi Miller, Mapping the City: The Language and Culture of Cartography in the Renaissance (London and New York: Continuum, 2003), 18–19, 129–131, with bibliography; Amato Pietro Frutaz, Le piante di Roma. 3 vols. (Rome: Istituto di Studi Romani, 1962), 1:137–44; 2: pls. 157–58, 160. Two scenes (painted 1571–72) in the Chapel of the Separation were dedicated to this story; see below, p. 206–08.

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FIGURE 8.3 Pietro del Massaio, Roma (detail), from Ptolemy, Geography, 1472, pen and ink with wash, Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Urb. lat. 277, fol. 131r. Photo: © 2015 Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana.

Almost a century later, in the first monumental printed map of the city, dated 1551, Leonardo Bufalini identified the site as “CRVCIFIXVS,” a crucifix located in the roadway (Fig. 8.4).28 The label is neither a mistake nor the first notice of a “chapel” there, as some scholars have suggested.29 Instead, I argue, Bufalini’s map indicates the same column-cum-cross monument described in the fifteenth-century sources. Similar cruciform stone monuments, often elaborated with a sculpted image of the crucified Christ, were the most common 28 29

Jessica Maier, “Leonardo Bufalini and the First Printed Map of Rome: ‘The Most Beautiful of All Things,’” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 56/57 (2011/2012): 243–70. See above n. 5.

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FIGURE 8.4 Leonardo Bufalini, “CRVCIFIXVS,” detail of Map of Rome, Rome: Antonio Blado, 1551 (Antonio Trevisi, 1560). From Amato Pietro Frutaz, Le piante di Roma, 3 vols. (Rome: Istituto di Studi Romani, 1962), 2: pl. 209.

wayside markers throughout Western Europe from the late thirteenth century until well into the modern era. Erected in ever-increasing numbers, their diverse functions—demarcating boundaries, indicating pilgrimage routes, or commemorating specific events—infused the countryside with a sacrality that could transform an ordinary passage into a salvational journey.30 That a cross or crucifix commemorated the sacred spot next to which the new Chapel of the Separation would be constructed is confirmed by the official donation of the site to the archconfraternity of SS. Trinità, notarized on 8 November 1562 and reconfirmed (with the same requisite stipulations) by the cardinal-vicar in July 1563.31 According to the document, four lay confratelli, 30

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Achim Timmermann, “Highways to Heaven (and Hell): Wayside Crosses and the Making of Late Medieval Landscape,” in The Authority of the Word: Reflecting on Image and Text in Northern Europe, 1400–1700, ed. Celeste Brusati, Karl A.E. Enenkel, and Walter S. Melion (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 385–441. I thank Prof. Pamela A.V. Stewart for drawing my attention to this article. For the 1562 document, see Archivio di Stato di Roma (hereafter ASR), Fondo Ospedale della SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini (hereafter OSTP), 87, fols. 87v–88r; for the 1563 document, quoted here, see ASR, OSTP, 545, II. “Notizie in quanto al Materiale,” fasc A. “Provenienza della Cappella del SS.mo Crocifisso fuori Porta S. Paolo,” 2. “Conferma della donazione

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Ottaviano Tesoro, and Giacomo della Porta, both of Rome, and Francesco Goldoni of Modena, and Andrea Somai of Rignano,32 moved by pious devotion, in the past months, at their own expense, restored the Image of the Most Holy Crucifix outside St. Paul’s Gate on the public road where it is called la selciata [the paved roadway33], [where the image] appear[ed] abandoned without [being paid] due honor…. They had constructed a Chapel in the same place, and they enclosed it with a railing so it would not be accessible to brutish animals but that the aforesaid image should have greater honor. The text goes on to prescribe that all alms and oblations left by the devout would be donated to the confraternal hospital. This hospital, which offered sanctuary to poor pilgrims and convalescents, had become the principal philanthropic activity of the SS. Trinità confraternity.

SS. Trinità “dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti” and the Chapel of 1562

In 1548, Pope Paul III (r. 1534–49) officially recognized the pious laymen and women who had gathered around the charismatic Filippo Neri (1515–95) as a confraternity dedicated to the Most Holy Trinity.34 Under Neri’s guidance, the

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fatta da Mons. Vicigerente fatta nel 1563.” I thank Professors Pamela M. Jones and Kenneth Rothwell for assistance with the translation. Ottaviano Tesoro was an active confratello, who attended meetings regularly from June 1568, served as caporione of his Colonna district the following year, and was elected guardiano in 1570 (ASR, OSTP, 2, fols. 62r, 65r). Nothing is known about the Modenese member, Francesco Goldoni. Andrea de Somao, probably of Portuguese descent, was from Rignano, a town approximately twenty-two miles north of Rome. The rector of San Benedetto, the confraternal church, was also from Rignano, perhaps a reason why Andrea was drawn to SS. Trinità. The road was “still paved with those big square black slabs with which [the ancient Romans] used to pave their highways,” Michel de Montaigne remarked in 1581; see Montaigne’s Travel Journal, trans. and intro. Donald M. Frame (San Francisco: North Point Press, 1983), 89. The literature on Filippo Neri is vast; e.g., see Louis Ponnelle and Louis Bordet, St Philip Neri and the Roman Society of His Times, trans. Ralph Francis Kerr (London: Sheed and Ward, 1979); La regola e la fama: San Filippo Neri e l’arte (Milan: Electa, 1995); and San Filippo Neri nella realità romana del XVI secolo: Atti del Convegno di studio in occasione del IV centenario della morte di San Filippo Neri (1595–1995): Roma, 11–13 maggio 1995, ed. Maria Teresa Bonadonna Russo and Niccolò Del Re (Rome: Società Romana di Storia Patria, 2000).

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sodality vaulted to fame due to its extraordinary care of pilgrims who converged on Rome in 1550 to earn the Holy Year indulgence. The confraternity was thereafter known as SS. Trinità “dei Pellegrini.” In 1558, it was conceded the small, dilapidated church and annexed convent of San Benedetto in Arenula, which the confratelli began to rebuild in 1587. In 1616, it was rededicated it to the Most Holy Trinity and St. Benedict. Contiguous with the old church, a permanent hospital for indigent pilgrims and convalescents was begun, adding the second epithet to its name, “Convalescenti.” This new charitable endeavor slowly evolved into a large hospital complex and found great favor with the papacy. In July 1562, Pope Pius IV (r. 1559–65) transferred a miracle-working Marian image from the wall of a neighboring palace to the church’s high altar and assigned all alms to the sodality’s mission. Two months later, he raised SS. Trinità to the rank of archconfraternity, among the first to be so honored in Rome. In November 1562, the sodality was officially granted the newly built chapel on Via Ostiense that honored the site where Peter and Paul had embraced for the final time. The eminent Roman architect Giacomo della Porta (1532–1602), named in the official donation quoted above, has not previously been associated with the Trinità or this project.35 Yet the confraternal networks he developed at this time were crucial to his rapid success. In May 1561, for example, Giacomo, together with Guidetto Guidetti, was asked by the wealthy confraternity of SS. Crocifisso di San Marcello to provide an estimate of the costs for building a new oratory.36 Giacomo alone presented a model and groundplan. The following May, on the feast of the Finding of the True Cross, which held special significance for the sodality, the cardinal-protector laid the first stone. Although Giacomo declined payment, the Crocifisso officials compensated him with a nominal stipend of one scudo a month from the inception of his employment. Similarly, his architectural service for the Trinità’s chapel seems to have been given gratis.37 Unfortunately, we have no evidence of the chapel’s appearance, or if Giacomo became a member of the archconfraternity. He had recently 35

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He is called “Giacomo del Sarta” in Cenni Storici della ven. Arciconfraternita della SS. Tri­ nità de’ Pellegrini, e Convalescenti di Roma con la regola comune e col catalogo delle indulgenze concedute dai Sommi Pontifici (Rome: Crispino Puccinelli, 1843), 17. Only Keyvanian, ”Charity, Architecture, and Urban Development,” 47, n. 81, recognized Giacomo della Porta’s participation and that he forfeited compensation for his work, but without further comment. Josephine von Henneberg, L’oratorio dell’Arciconfraternita del Santissismo Crocifisso di San Marcello (Rome: Bulzoni, 1974), 16–23. For this confraternity and the impressive decoration of its oratory, see Kira Maye Albinsky’s essay in this volume. Quite remarkably, on 14 May 1590, Giacomo della Porta ceded 500 scudi to SS. Trinità from a “cassazione della Società di Officio”; ASR, OSTP, 92, fol. 159v.

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become a confratello of Santa Maria della Consolazione, when, in March 1563, he was appointed their architect and immediately constructed a belltower for the confraternal church, for which he also refused remuneration.38 The reconfirmation document of 1563 explicitly stated that the brethren’s restoration of the crucifix and construction of the adjacent chapel were done “at their own expense.” This became a leitmotif for much of the art patronage of the archconfraternity. Large architectural projects were funded from the general confraternal coffers, but small projects, such as this chapel, and decorative enterprises were not usually subsidized. These depended on individual contributions and bequests. Sometimes members voted to solicit specific amounts from the confratelli to finance particular projects, all the while hoping for assistance from the cardinal-protector. Gentilhuomini—from their own district bearing small almsboxes—would also seek donations from nonmembers as the Crocifisso brethren had done.39 So too, almsboxes affixed in the Trinità’s church and chapels amassed substantial sums.40 The year 1562 witnesssed a convergence of significant events in the history of the confraternity, in the Catholic Church, and in the city of Rome, making it an apposite moment for the construction of the chapel on Via Ostiense. As we have seen, Pius IV had bestowed on the Trinità both a miraculous image, a desideratum of all confraternities, and new archconfraternal status, aligning the confratelli with the pope and the true Apostolic Roman Church. In 1562, the Council of Trent “supported by the authority of God Himself and of the blessed Apostles Peter and Paul,” as Pius’s 1560 bull avowed, had just reconvened after a decade-long hiatus.41 Moreover, this sacrosanct part of the Roman countryside was drawing special attention in 1562. According to avvisi (news dispatches) of late June, Ottoman ships had landed in Ostia, and it was even alleged that some of the Muslim crew had made their way inland as far as Tre Fontane, the site of Paul’s martyrdom. Nearby and in danger was the basilica of San Paolo,

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Carroll Winslow Brentano, “The Church of S. Maria della Consolazione in Rome” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1967), 48; Anna Bedon, Il Campidoglio: Storia di un monumento civile nella Roma papale (Milan: Electa, 2008), 158–59. Henneberg, L’oratorio dell’Arciconfraternita, 20. Keyvanian, “Charity, Architecture, and Urban Development,” 47, calculated (based on data published by Marco Borzacchini, “Il patrimonio della Trinità dei Pellegrini alla fine del Cinquecento,” Ricerche per la storia religiosa di Roma 5 [1984]: 237–60) that from 1571 to 1574, over 73 per cent of the Trinità’s total donations were collected from almsboxes affixed in the church, oratory, Chapel of the Separation, and a second chapel, dedicated to S. Andrea near the Milvian Bridge that had been conceded to the Trinità in 1566. Canons and Decrees of the Council of Trent, trans. Henry Joseph Schroeder (St. Louis: Herder, 1960), 122, 124.

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FIGURE 8.5 Stefano Duperac (attr.), Le sette chiese di Roma, Rome: Antonio Lafreri, 1575, etching with engraving. London, British Museum 1874,0613.582 AN495206001. Photo: © Trustees of the British Museum.

which safeguarded the saints’ holy remains. Securing for posterity the site of the Final Embrace on Via Ostiense was therefore a judicious defensive strategy. In addition to being one of the oldest roads leading to Rome, Via Ostiense was also a major pilgrimage thoroughfare. Perhaps most significantly, the road was used for pious processions to the Seven Churches, a venerable ritual to which Filippo Neri, the spiritual founder of the SS. Trinità confraternity, was devoted (Fig. 8.5).42 These basilicas conserved the most revered relics in the city and offered indulgences of such astounding generosity that a pilgrim could obtain more years of remission of sin, the guidebooks calculated, than in all the other sanctuaries in Christendom combined. Neri is traditionally credited 42

Barbara Wisch, “The Matrix: Le sette chiese di Roma of 1575 and the Image of Pilgrimage,” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 56/57 (2011/2012): 271–303; Niccolò Del Re, “San Filippo Neri rianimatore della visita delle Sette Chiese,” in San Filippo Neri nella realità, 89–103; and Martine Boiteux, “Parcours rituels romains à l’époque moderne,” in Cérémoniel et Rituel à Rome (XVIe–XIXe Siècle), ed. Maria Antonietta Visceglia and Catherine Brice (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1997), 27–87, esp. 52–59.

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with revitalizing the Seven Churches procession during Carnival of 1552, although he himself had begun this practice more than a decade earlier. In 1559, for example, 3,000 marched with him and the Trinità confratelli. In part a response to Protestant challenges to the efficacy of saints and relics as well as a concerted revival of an idealized paleochristian past, these grand processions came to redefine the pilgrim’s progress in Rome. In 1563, a year after the chapel’s construction, the pilgrimage route to the Seven Churches was redirected, privileging Via Ostiense and focusing attention on the archconfraternity’s new chapel. With the cardinal-vicar’s authorization, a separate visit to San Pietro was sanctioned; San Paolo became the first stop.43 At the same time, the confraternal name “dei Pellegrini” was ceremoniously reified. In addition, in 1567, Pope Pius V (r. 1566–72) granted the chapel an indulgence on the feast of All Saints (1 November), one of several occasions when the confraternity made its own pilgrimage to the Seven Churches.44

Reconstructing the New Chapel of 1568

It must have been a shock to the confraternity in 1568 when the maestri delle strade announced that Via Ostiense would be widened, causing the destruction of the crucifix and chapel. The confraternity was compensated with eight canne (c. 586 ft.) of land on the left side of the thoroughfare (Fig. 8.6).45 As recorded in the minutes of an assembly of 16 June 1568, five confratelli, including one of the original four patrons,46 would pay for “everything necessary regarding the transfer and rebuilding of the Chapel … and for the little house for the caretaker.” In return, the confraternity conferred on these benefactors the alms donated every year, with the expectation that if these exceeded the expenses of maintaining the chapel, the funds would be used on behalf of

43 44 45

46

Ponnelle and Bordet, St Philip Neri, 254–55. ASR, OSTP, 545, I. “Notizie in quanto alla spirituale,” fasc. B. “Indulgenze e Privilegi,” 1. “Breve antico d’Indulgenza di Pio V ad quinquennium.” ASR, OSTP, 2, title page: a note states that the eight canne on Via San Paolo were conceded on 19 June 1568, recorded in the acts of Ottavio Gracco, notary for the maestri delle strade; see also ASR, OSTP, 461, fol. 38r; 545, II. A. 1. “Memorie diverse della donazione fatta della Cappella alla nostra Compagnia.” These included: the current guardiano Bartolomeo Rusconi; Reverend Francesco Agneni, rector of the confraternal church of San Benedetto; Giovanni Antonio Fugacciola, guard­ iano in 1566–67 (ASR, OSTP, 1, fols. 22r, 32r); Ottaviano Tesoro, one of the original patrons; and the camerlengo Pietro Raimondo (guardiano in 1570: ASR, OSTP, 2, fol. 62r).

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the sodality’s hospital.47 On 29 July, the assembly resolved that all brethren would process to the site and “lay the first stone,”48 demonstrating the chapel’s significance. The new chapel’s appearance can be reconstructed based on an unpublished groundplan from 1597 that records the dimensions of the chapel and the adjacent caretaker’s lodging, each room twenty-two palmi (c. 16 ft.) square (Fig. 8.7). This differs from Stefano Duperac’s 1577 rendition, which elongates the chapel into a rectangular hall (Fig. 8.8). The façade of the chapel and domicile are best known from late nineteenth-century photographs, but these were made long after major renovations had been undertaken in 1841 (see Fig. 8.1). Due to the constant flooding of the Tiber, the floors were raised more than two feet, changing the relationships of windows, doors, and exterior and interior decorative elements.49 The few existing fragments from the rebuilt chapel give some indication of its original decoration. A marble inscription with the quotation from the Letter to Timothy (Fig. 8.9) was originally placed above the entrance, but was immured in 1935 in the retro-sacristy of the church of SS. Trinità, where it remains: IN . QVESTO . LVOCO . SI . SEPARORNO . S. PIETRO ET . S . PAVLO . ANDANDO . AL . MARTIRIO . ET. DISSE PAVLO . A . PIETRO LA . PACE . SIA . CON . TECO . FVNDAMENTO DELA . CHIESIA . ET . PASTORE . DI . TVTTI LI . AGNELLI . DI . CHRISTO ET . PIETRO . A . PAVLO VA . IN . PACE . PREDICATORE . DE . BVONI ET . GVIDA . DELA . SALVTE . DE . GIVSTI DIONISIVS . IN . EPISTOLA . AD . TIMOTEVM50 (At this place St. Peter and St. Paul were separated from each other while going to their martyrdom. And Paul said to Peter: Peace be with you, foundation 47 48 49 50

ASR, OSTP, 2, fols. 1v–2r; see also 545, II. A. 1. ASR, OSTP, 2, fol. 7v. ASR, OSTP, 545, II. fasc. B. “Restauri.” A slightly larger copy of the inscription in white marble (37½ × 18 in.), perhaps from the nineteenth century, is today in the Museo della Via Ostiense–Porta San Paolo; see Maria Floriani Squarciapino, Il Museo della via Ostiense (Rome: Istituto poligrafico dello Stato, 1955), 36–37. See also ASR, OSTP, 545, II. fasc. D. “Descrizione della Cappella del SS.mo Crocifisso posta sulla Via Ostiense fuori di Porta S. Paolo fatta nell’ Aprile del 1859,” written by Egidio Fortini.

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FIGURE 8.6 Casa No. CXXXVIII, Piante delle case della Ven. Archiconfraternita della SSma Trinità … Libro Secondo, 1680, fol. 200v, pen and ink with wash. Rome, Archivio di Stato (ASR), Fondo Ospedale della SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini (OSTP), 459, fol. 200v. Photo: Barbara Wisch, courtesy of the Italian Ministry of Cultural Property and Activities.

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FIGURE 8.7 “Cappella nella strada for della Porta di s.to Paolo,” Piante Antico di Case e Siti, 1597, fol. 38r (detail), pen and ink with wash, ASR, OSTP, 461, fol. 38r. Photo: Barbara Wisch, courtesy of the Italian Ministry of Cultural Property and Activities.

FIGURE 8.8 Stefano Duperac, Via Ostiensis, detail of Map of Rome, Rome: Antonio Lafreri, 1577, etching with engraving, with superimposed graphics by Barbara Wisch. Photo: © Bibliotheca Hertziana–Max-Planck-Institut für Kunstgeschichte, Rome.

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FIGURE 8.9 Inscription, originally on the façade of the Cappella del SS. Crocifisso (Cappella della Separazione / Chapel of the Separation) on Via Ostiense, 1568, marble, 34 3/8 × 16 in., SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti, retro-sacristy. Photo: Barbara Wisch.

stone of the church and shepherd of all the lambs of Christ. And Peter to Paul: Go in peace, preacher of goodness and leader of the salvation of the righteous. Dionysius, in the Letter to Timothy) The earliest record of this inscription was written c. 1568 by the erudite ecclesiastical historian and antiquarian, the Spanish Dominican Alfonso Chacón (Ciacconius, 1530–99), who was diligently investigating “three hundred basilicas, temples, and other holy places” to ensure that the Christian city was as equally well known to foreigners as the ancient metropolis had been, and preserved for posterity.51

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“In capella que est in itinere S. Pauli in tab. max.”, followed by the inscription, in Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional, MS 2008, fols. 350v–351r. Most of the manuscript was compiled in 1568. I thank Prof. Dr. Ingo Herklotz for this information (email correspondence, 21 May 2014). See also Anthony Grafton, “The Ancient City Restored: Archaeology, Ecclesiastical History, and Egyptology,” in Rome Reborn: The Vatican Library and Renaissance Culture, ed. Anthony Grafton (Washington, DC: Library of Congress, 1993), 87–123, esp. 115.

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FIGURE 8.10 Egidio Fortini, Cappella di S. Paolo sulla Via Ostiense nell’ Aprile del 1869, pencil, pen, and black and brown ink, ASR, OSTP, 545, II. D. “Descrizione della Cappella del SS.mo Crocifisso posta sulla Via Ostiense fuori di Porta S. Paolo fatta nell’ Aprile del 1859.” Photo: Barbara Wisch, courtesy of the Italian Ministry of Cultural Property and Activities.

Another inscription, one that once graced the lintel, is lost, but was recorded by the archivist-confratello Egidio Fortini (Fig. 8.10). It marked ownership and the date of foundation, reinforcing the connection between the site, the confraternity, and its chief charitable initiative, even elevating its long-term care of indigent convalescents above that of poor pilgrims: “CAPPELLA. HOSPITALIS. S.me TRINITATIS / CŌVALESCENTIŪ. ET. PEREGRINORŪ. / FŪNDATA. FUIT. ANO. M.D.LXVIII” (The Chapel of the Hospital of SS. Trinità dei Convalescenti e Pellegrini was founded in the year 1568).52 That the Trinità owned the chapel was repeated again and again in ecclesiastical histories and guidebooks, underscoring the confraternity’s promotion of the living memory of the apostles’ Roman deeds and martyrdom, its exemplary philanthropic good works, and its dynamic agency in shaping Catholic devotional culture.

52

Vincenzo Forcella, Iscrizioni delle chiese e d’altri edificii di Roma dal secolo XI fino ai giorni nostri, 14 vols. (Rome: Tipografia delle scienze matematiche e fisiche, 1869–84), 13:354; Armellini, Le chiese di Roma, 2:1148.

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FIGURE 8.11 Paliotto (detail), originally in the altar of the Cappella del SS. Crocifisso (Cappella della Separazione / Chapel of the Separation) on Via Ostiense, 1568, marble, 73 1/8 × 16 in., SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti, retro-sacristy. Photo: Barbara Wisch.

The only remaining fragment from the chapel’s interior is the marble paliotto (altar frontal) with “some inscribed lines forming squares, in the center of which is a circle with a cross,” also immured in the retro-sacristy (Fig. 8.11). The description by Fortini, who saw it in situ, conforms to those in earlier inventories and the illustration in the 1680 groundplan (see Fig. 8.6).53 In addition, a marble relief of uncertain date depicting The Final Embrace of Peter and Paul once adorned the façade (Fig. 8.12).54 The iconography derived from a long pictorial tradition, beginning with the concordia fratrum (fraternal harmony) of the Tetrarchs (293–c. 313), conveying joint sovereignty and political accord of augustus and caesar. The new motif of Peter and Paul embracing, which dates to the late fourth century, further signified concordia apostolorum (apostolic harmony)—spiritual brothers, having overcome deep theological conflicts acknowledged in Galatians 2:7–14. It underscored their unified missions to the Jews and the Gentiles as well as their dual foundation of the Roman

53 54

ASR, OSTP, 545, II. D. Rome, Museo della Via Ostiense–Porta San Paolo; Floriani Squarciapino, Il Museo della via Ostiense, 37.

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FIGURE 8.12 The Final Embrace of Sts. Peter and Paul, from the Cappella del SS. Crocifisso (Cappella della Separazione / Chapel of the Separation), marble, uncertain date, 24 5/8 in. wide × 25 in. high, Museo della Via Ostiense–Porta San Paolo, Rome. Photo: Barbara Wisch.

Church.55 Their embrace was adopted in the early fifth century in the authoritative final scene of the forty-two narratives frescoed on the north wall of San Paolo fuori le Mura.56 It became the image for the apocryphal episode of Peter greeting Paul outside the walls of Rome, their first meeting in the Eternal City. This emotive embrace also served as their farewell. The Final Embrace seems to appear initially in Byzantine art in the late tenth or early eleventh century, then in Italy, specifically Rome, in the thirteenth. Nonetheless, there are few examples in Italian art.57 In the relief, Peter and Paul are elevated on a low plinth and isolated against a neutral ground, unlike most Italian depictions, 55 56

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Charles Pietri, “Concordia apostolorum et renovatio urbis (Culte des martyrs et propagande pontificale),” Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire 73 (1961): 275–322. Destroyed in the fire of 1823, the cycle is best known from the set of watercolors made for Francesco Barberini c. 1635; see Stephan Waetzoldt, Die Kopien des 17. Jahrhunderts nach Mosaiken und Wandmalereien in Rom (Vienna: Schroll Verlag, 1964), 58–61; figs. 366–407. Kessler, “The Meeting of Peter and Paul”; Fabrizio Bisconti, “La sapienza, la concordia, il martirio: La figura di Paolo nell’immaginario iconografico della tarda antichità,” in San Paolo in Vaticano: La figura e la parola dell’apostolo delle genti nelle raccolte pontificie, ed. Umberto Utro (Todi: Tau, 2009), 163–76, with updated bibliography. See also George Kaftal, Iconography of the Saints in Tuscan Painting (Florence: Sansoni, 1952), cols. 811, 812 (fig. 923), and 857. More examples will be contextualized in a forthcoming study that includes an in-depth discussion of the relief.

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FIGURE 8.13 Cäcilie Brandt (designer) and August Kneisel (lithographer), Ansicht der Capelle von St. Peter und Paul auf dem Weg nach Ostia, from Friederike Brun, Römisches Leben (Leipzig: F.A. Brockhaus, 1833), vol. 2, frontispiece, lithograph. Photo: © Bibliotheca Hertziana–Max-Planck-Institut für Kunstgeschichte, Rome.

which illustrate the full narrative. Summarily executed and badly weathered, there is little consensus about its date.58 Unfortunately, no outside evidence prior to 1833 (Fig. 8.13) exists, in contrast to the inscriptions.59 The few smallscale representations of the chapel’s façade in monumental maps of Rome or in Giuseppe Vasi’s grand panorama of the city (1765; no. 231), even when greatly enlarged, fail to indicate exterior decoration.60 Although there are no known visual images of the interior of the chapel, documents and eyewitness accounts allow a vivid reconstruction. 58 59

60

See above n. 5. I thank Dr. Tobias Kämpf and Prof. Shelley Zuraw for enlightening discussions regarding the stylistic quandaries. Written evidence begins in 1841, when restorers reported that “the inscription and basrelief … on the exterior above the door” would have to be placed higher on the façade when the door itself was elevated to correct the severe flooding; see ASR, OSTP, 545, II. B.; see Figs. 8.1 and 8.10 For the chapel in the Vasi panorama, see Frutaz, Le piante di Roma, 3:171, pls. 434, 437.

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Decorating the Chapel

An inventory of 1569 lists a textile covering with a coat of arms for the altar, worked in lace, but includes no record of permanent decoration or an altarpiece.61 However, Canon Francesco del Sodo’s Compendium of the Churches (compiled 1575–85/87) reports that the “little church or better, the chapel” was “completely built anew and painted.”62 This sheds light on a significant item recorded in the assembly of 10 December 1571: “That Messer Bartolomeo Rusconi is having the chapel of San Paolo painted and set it in order as he sees fit and with his coat of arms, and it was paid for some time earlier.”63 Proud of his donation and service to the archconfraternity, he, like others who oversaw confraternal building projects, placed arms and even their names within the decoration.64 The archivist Fortini described the decoration in detail. On either side of the altar were painted life-size figures of Peter and Paul, each enclosed in a fictive niche with a Latin inscription below: “S. Petrus Princeps Apostolorum” and “S. Paulus Doctor Gentium,” paralleling those formerly above the central portal of San Paolo.65 The frescoes on the two lateral walls and the inner entrance wall comprised six narratives drawn from Paul’s life, with Italian inscriptions below relating the depicted events. Each inscription started with Paul’s name or “To Paul,” as the recipient of the action (Fig. 8.14). Every scene was set in an elaborate illusionistic frame, individualized with richly colored festoons and caryatids. Filling the space between these and the carved ceiling was a frieze, lavishly ornamented with chiaroscuro “meanders and volutes” that supported 61

62

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ASR, OSTP, 545, II. fasc. C. “Custodi, o Eremiti,” 2 (inventory of 13 June 1569). “Inventari”: “1569. Inventario di tutti li mobili, e suppellettili della nostra Cappella per la Via di S. Paolo.” Rome, Biblioteca Vallicelliana, MS G.33, Francesco del Sodo, Compendio delle chiese con la loro fondazione consegrazione e titolo de cardinali delle parocchie con il battesimo e senza dell’hospitali reliquie et indulgentie e di tutti li luoghi pij di Roma, fols. 130v–131r. Del Sodo continued his description by repeating the famous quotation from the Letter to Timothy and by listing the indulgences conceded by Gregory XIII in 1575. ASR, OSTP, 2, fol. 124r: “Che M. Bartolomeo Ruscone fa dipingere et accomodare come gli parera et con l’armi sue la cappella di san Paolo, et sià pagato quanto prima.” Rusconi served as guardiano in 1568–69 (ASR, OSTP, 2, fols. 1v, 22r) and camerlengo in 1570–73 (fols. 62r, 101v, and 143r). Santi Pesarini, “La basilica di S. Paolo sulla via Ostiense prima delle innovazioni del sec. XVI,” Studi romani 1 (1913): 386–427, esp. 422, as recorded in Panvinio’s manuscript: “S. paulus vas electionis et doctor gentium” and “S. petrus princeps ap[osto]lorum et pastor ovium,” commissioned by Pope John XXII (r. 1316–34).

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ovals with small figures, perhaps Virtues. Fortini dated these anonymous, badly damaged works to the end of the sixteenth or beginning of the seventeenth century;66 they must be the paintings commissioned by Bartolomeo Rusconi that Canon del Sodo had seen. The narratives were divided into two groups. Those on the left illustrated episodes from Paul’s miraculous conversion, a major feast celebrated on 25 January, for which worshipers at the confraternal chapel were granted an indulgence in perpetuity of ten years and forty days in 1575.67 The scenes on the right were related to the martyrdom of Peter and Paul on 29 June. As mentioned above, Gregory the Great had added 30 June to commemorate Paul, celebrated with full papal splendor at San Paolo. Pope Gregory XIII (r. 1572–85), following the lead of his namesake, decreed in 1575 that a devout visitor to the confraternal chapel on that day could earn a plenary indulgence. The episodes wrapped around the chapel in a counterclockwise direction. This narrative disposition was old and new—traditional for cloisters of religious communities where devotional meditations were performed, but not for churches or confraternal oratories. In the late sixteenth century, the counterclockwise pattern achieved ‘official status’ in the great fresco cycles sponsored by popes and cardinals. Indeed, Filippo Neri utilized this arrangement in the innovative cycle of the nave altars for his new Oratorian church, the Chiesa Nuova, begun in 1575. Although this physical renewal of Rome was spurred by the desire to authenticate the origins and continuity of the Roman Church, the narratives decorating the nave walls of the city’s most venerable basilicas were not configured this way.68 The arrangement of the frescoes in the small Chapel of the Separation apparently was intended to encourage contemplative devotion and thus consciously reflected monastic practices.

66 67

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ASR, OSTP, 545, II. D. ASR, OSTP, 545, I. “Spirituale,” B. “Indulgenze e Privilegi”: “Gregorius P.P. XIII.” The same indulgence was earned in honor of St. Bartholomew, another important feast day (24 August) celebrated at San Paolo, where a privileged altar and chapel dedicated to Peter, Paul, and Bartholomew, containing Bartholomew’s relics, once stood in the transept: see Pesarini, “La basilica di S. Paolo,” 417, 425. In addition, a Sunday visit to the confraternal chapel earned an indulgence of one year and forty days. At some point, after the publication of the statutes in 1578, a visit to the chapel on the station days of Paul’s basilica also earned an indulgence. Marilyn Aronberg Lavin, The Place of Narrative: Mural Decoration in Italian Churches, 431–1600 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 7, 241, 245, 255–60, and 291 (with a selected list of the few fifteenth- and early sixteenth-century cycles using the “Counterclockwise Wraparound”).

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FIGURE 8.14 Diagram of the painted decoration of the Cappella del SS. Crocifisso (Cappella della Separazione / Chapel of the Separation). Graphic design: Martine C. Barnaby. Photo: © Barbara Wisch.

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Lemobia’s Veil

St. Paul cycles are plentiful in Rome, a tradition that continued throughout the sixteenth century in both papal and private commissions. Yet there was no ‘formula’ for depicting Paul’s life, whether or not it was joined with that of Peter. Moreover, the conversion appears more often than the martyrdom.69 That said, the martyrdom often alludes to the legend of the pious matron’s veil by representing Paul blindfolded.70 Remarkably, two of the chapel’s martyrdom scenes were dedicated to this story of Lemobia’s veil. As Peter and Paul were led through the city gate, then called Porta Trigemina, Paul requested the veil of a devout, noble matron to bind his eyes during decapitation, promising to return it, soaked with his sacred blood, after his death, which he did.71 A small, now-destroyed church beyond the gate, believed by some to be the site of the matron’s house, was built in the eighth century to honor this miracle,72 which was often conflated with the site of the Separation (see Fig. 8.3).73 In the apocryphal Acts of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, the pious matron is named Perpetua.74 In the Passio Sancti Pauli Apostoli (Passion of Saint Paul the Apostle), a Latin redaction (dated, at the earliest, to the fourth century) of a Greek original (second half of the second century), she is Plautilla, which became her most familiar appellation.75 The Ethiopian Letter to Timothy referred to her as a “blessed woman from the palace of Nero” whom Paul had baptized. The Latin Letter, having been translated in France, identified her as 69

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73 74 75

See Golda Balass, “Taddeo Zuccari’s decoration for the Frangipani Chapel in S. Marcello al Corso, Rome,” Assaph 6 (2001): 177–204, esp. 198–99 nn. 31–33, which includes a substantial list. In the Byzantine doors (1070) at San Paolo, Paul is not depicted blindfolded. New Testament Apocrypha, ed. Edgar Hennecke and Wilhelm Schneemelcher, rev. ed. trans. and ed. Robert McLachlan Wilson, 2 vols. (Cambridge: James Clarke and Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1991–92), 2:260–65. Baronio noted this fact when he recounted the story in the “year 69” in the Annales. Giovanni Severano, Memorie sacre delle sette chiese di Roma, 2 vols. (Rome: Giacomo Mascardi, 1630), 2:70; Francesco Maria Torrigio, I sacri trofei romani del trionfante prencipe degli apostoli san Pietro gloriosissimo (Rome: Francesco Moneta, 1644), 71–72. The church was renamed SS. Salvatore by the thirteenth century due to an image on the altar; it was destroyed in 1849; see Armellini, Le chiese di Roma, 2:1148. Carlo Bartolomeo Piazza, Emerologio di Roma Christiana, Ecclesiastica, e Gentile, 2 vols. (Rome: Stamperia del Bernarbò, 1713 and 1719), 1:438. The Acts of the Holy Apostles, 276–78. Lipsius and Bonnet, Acta Apostolorum, 1:23–44, esp. 38–42. The Greek text (1:102–17) does not include the Plautilla narrative; see Tajra, The Martyrdom of St. Paul, 138–42.

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Lemobia, perhaps derived from the ancient Gallic tribe Lémovices.76 The Golden Legend, which cites the Latin Letter extensively in addition to referencing the apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, called her “Plantilla [sic], although according to Dionysius she also was known as Lemobia, perhaps because she had two names.”77 Around 1450, the English Augustinian John Capgrave believed that St. Plautilla was buried in San Paolo.78 The representations and inscriptions in the Chapel of the Separation stress the name Lemobia, emphasizing the account of Dionysius, the apostolic witness. The story was rarely depicted. The most significant precedents were at Old St. Peter’s. The monumental Stefaneschi Altarpiece (Musei Vaticani, Vatican City), ascribed to Giotto and dated to the late 1320s or 1330s, depicts the Martyrdom of St. Paul in the right panel. On a hill to the left stands the pious matron reaching up to catch her veil, returned by a winged apparition of Paul among angels.79 In Filarete’s bronze door panel, the blindfolded Paul kneels in prayer waiting to be beheaded; in the center background, again as a heavenly apparition, he delivers the veil.80 In no other sixteenth-century St. Paul cycle does Lemobia/Plautilla herself appear. To have devoted two separate narratives to her was unprecedented. The proximity of the Chapel of the Separation to the site of the miracle was probably one reason for the choice. A second motivation may be the patronage of Bartolomeo Rusconi. The emphasis on the devout matron, I suggest, was also to honor his wife: Portia Rusconi was currently serving her two-year tenure as sottopriora (deputy-prioress) of the confraternity, which had begun on 15 May 1570, when Bartolomeo was elected camerlengo.81 The office of priora— 76 77 78 79

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Lipsius, Die apokryphen, 2.1:230–31. In Baronio’s Roman Martyrology, St. Plautilla was baptized by Peter. For Dionysius’s account, see “Epistola,” 2:356, lines 25–38. Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend, 1:353. John Capgrave, Ye solace of pilgrimes, a description of Rome, circa ad 1450, ed. Henry Marriott and C.A. Mills (London: H. Frowde, 1911), 130–31. Bram Kempers and Sible De Blaauw, “Jacopo Stefaneschi, Patron and Liturgist: A New Hypothesis Regarding the Date, Iconography, Authorship and Function of his Altarpiece for Old St. Peter’s,” Mededelingen van het Nederlands Instituut te Rome 47 (1987): 83–113. Precisely when the altarpiece was moved from public view during the rebuilding of the basilica is unclear. Vasari (1568) saw it in the sacristy: see Giorgio Vasari, Vite de’ più eccellenti pittori, scultori et architettori, ed. Gaetano Milanesi, 9 vols. (Florence: Casa Editrice le Lettere, 1998), 1:384. See also Guy Caesar Bauman, “The Miracle of Plautilla’s Veil in Princeton’s ‘Beheading of Saint Paul,’” Record of the Art Museum, Princeton University 36 (1977): 2–11. George Kaftal, Iconography of the Saints in Central and South Italian Schools of Painting (Florence: Sansoni, 1965), col. 857. ASR, OSTP, 2, fol. 60v.

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“whom we like to call Minister and Mother of all the Sisters”—was reserved for the highest-ranking female members of Roman society; elected on the same day as Portia, the “most illustrious” noblewoman Francesca Orsina82 had also begun her two-year term, which she graciously prolonged for six additional years, as the 1578 statutes acclaimed, along with hopes for her to continue. However, the statutes also stated that the sottopriora actually carried “the larger portion of the weight, and effectively [had] to take care of governing the poor female Pilgrims and Convalescents.”83 Lemobia, who had succored St. Paul with her veil (just as Veronica had offered hers to Christ), exemplified the pious caregiving performed by Trinità consorelle.

The Altarpiece

Whether or not a painted altarpiece was in place when the frescoes were executed is unknown.84 In 1586, an inventory of the chapel listed “one cross on the altar with its Christ” and “one piece of sky-blue cloth that covered the altarpiece (il quadro).”85 The subject matter was not reported. Here I propose that an unpublished drawing of the Trinity with pilgrims and confratelli, attributed to Giovanni Guerra and dated stylistically to the 1590s (Fig. 8.15), is a study for 82

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Francesca Baglioni Orsini (1543–1626) was renowned for her piety, charity, and ministrations to ailing and indigent women. How long Francesca remained priora is uncertain, since her official role in the confraternity was not mentioned by her first biographer; see Domenico Bertucci, Istoria della vita ed azioni di Francesca Baglioni Orsini fondatrice del monastero di S. Maria dell’Umiltà di Roma (Rome: Per Generoso Salomoni, 1753). It seems likely that she continued as priora until late December 1587, when she left Rome with her husband Francesco Orsini to serve in the Florentine court of the new grandduke of Tuscany, Ferdinando de’ Medici, who was still officially cardinal-protector of the Tri­ nità (1573–88). See also Marilyn R. Dunn, “Spiritual Philanthropists: Women as Convent Patrons in Seicento Rome,” in Women and Art in Early Modern Europe: Patrons, Collectors, and Connoisseurs, ed. Cynthia Lawrence (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1997), 154–88, esp. 157–63, who notes her “personal involvement in visiting hospitals and ministering to the sick” (157). ASR, OSTP, 521, Statuti della Venerabile Archiconfraternita della Santissima Trinità de’ Pel[l]egrini, & Convalescenti, nuovamente riformati, e stampati (Rome: Per gli Heredi d’Antonio Blado Stampatori Camerali, 1578), 42–43. ASR, OSTP, 440, fasc. D.: An inventory of 16 January 1576 records: “one walnut frame, with all the finishings, of the altar”; “one sheet of paper with frame”; and “one brass cross with wooden feet.” ASR, OSTP, 440, fasc. G., fol. 2v (22 October 1586); 440, fasc. H., fol. 4v (2 January 1589): “Una tela turchina che chiude il quadro.”

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a monumental painting that had once adorned the altar. Although the sheet is unusual for its large size (14 3/16 × 9 13/16 in.), the free handling of the pen and brown ink, richly enhanced with light and dark brown wash over traces of black chalk, together with the figure types correspond to Guerra’s drawings of this period, such as the Life of St. Paul and Scenes from the Book of Esther.86 The drawing matches the description of the altarpiece recorded in an inventory of 176287 and another, in even greater detail, written by Fortini in 1869.88 In addition, I suggest Cardinal Alessandro Peretti Montalto (1571–1623), grandnephew of Pope Sixtus V (r. 1585–90) and protector of the archconfraternity (1588–1623), commissioned it and oversaw its installation prior to the Holy Year of 1600. The 1680 groundplan of the chapel (see Figs. 8.6 and 8.14) delineates a shallow niche above the altar in which the new painting was encased, as Fortini documented, while the earlier quadro was probably hung against the flat altar wall, depicted in the 1597 plan (see Fig. 8.7). Guerra’s absence from Rome (late 1595–c. 1599) afforded sufficient time to execute the altarpiece.89

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Elena Parma Armani, ed., Libri di immagini, disegni e incisioni di Giovanni Guerra (Modena 1544–Roma 1618) (Modena: Tipolito Cooptip, 1978); Stefano Pierguidi, “Riflessioni e novità su Giovanni Guerra,” Studi romani 48 (2000): 297–321; and Pierguidi, “On Giovanni Guerra’s ‘Book of Judith’ and other ‘books of drawings,’” Master Drawings 46 (2008): 91–100. The 1680 inventory mentioned by Fortini is lost. On 27 May 1762, two separate inventories were made. ASR, OSTP, 545, II. C. 2. “Inventario della Cappella e stanze fuori Porta S. Paolo”: “No 11 Un quadro grande all’Altare rappresentante la SSma Trinità con cornice dorata attorno”; and “Inventario della Cappella della SS.ma Trinità di Pellegrini e Convalescenti di Roma nella strada fuor di Porta S. Paolo”: “Un quadro grande in tela con la SS.ma Trinità, e fratelli e pellegrini”; “La sudetta Cappella è tutta dipinta.” ASR, OSTP, 545, II. D.: “Di prospetto all’ingresso scorgesi l’unico altare, sopra del quale esiste un quadro di sufficiente grandezza situato in un rincasso del muro che sfondrasi a guisa d’una nicchia: esso rappresenta S. Filippo Neri attorniato dai nostri Fratelli e da Pellegrini, in atto di raccommandarli alla SS.ma Trinità, il cui augustissimo mistero viene espresso in alto del quadro medesimo.” The altarpiece was also seen in situ by Mariano Armellini (1852–96) and Carlo Cecchelli (1893–1960); see Armellini, Le chiese di Roma, 2:1149. From their description, Lewine, “The Roman Church Interior,” 447, opined that it is “obviously a picture of the 17th century. The most likely altarpiece of the church of 1568 is a Crucifixion, probably sculpted.” Parma Armani, ed., Libri di immagini, 48–49: In October 1600, Guerra was paid for designing the decoration of the chapel of San Filippo Neri in the Chiesa Nuova. His brother, the architect Gaspare Guerra (1560–1622), signed a misura (measurement) regarding construction of the Trinità’s hospital on 30 April 1597, and was registered as a confratello in 1600; see ASR, OSTP, 381, “Conti dei Muratori del 1500,” fasc. R. “Conti di nomi incogniti”; Pupillo, La SS. Trinità, 19, for Gaspare’s membership. A thorough study is forthcoming.

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FIGURE 8.15 Giovanni Guerra, The Holy Trinity Surrounded by Angels with Instruments of the Passion Adored by Pilgrims and Confratelli of SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti with Filippo Neri, late 1590s, pen and brown ink with wash over traces of black chalk on paper, 14 3/16 × 9 13/16 in. Photo: Courtesy of Nissman, Abromson, Ltd., Old Master Drawings, Brookline, MA.

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Draughtsman, painter, engraver, and architect, Guerra played a major collaborative role in the great commissions of Sixtus V. Upon the pope’s death in 1590, Cardinal Montalto entrusted the artist with multiple projects, including the papal catafalque; by the early seventeenth century, Guerra was appointed capomaestro for the cardinal’s splendid villa on the Esquiline Hill.90 Montalto’s commitment to the Trinità’s preparations for the upcoming Holy Year as well as his engagement with the building and decoration of the new confraternal church has been demonstrated.91 With consummate skill, Guerra depicts God the Father who supports the dead Christ while angels, bearing instruments of the Passion, gaze devoutly at the lifeless body. In the lower zone, pilgrims, recognizable by their garb and walking staffs, adore the celestial vision. Also kneeling in prayer and wonder are confratelli in their sacchi (sackcloth habits). Two hooded brethren—one with the sacco exposing his back for flagellation, a penitential ritual in which many confratelli participated during public processions—extend their arms ecstatically while staring upward. Standing below the ground plane, a figure turns towards the viewer while gesturing at the scene. This is Filippo Neri, who recommends the viewer and the devotees to the Trinity. Comparing this preparatory study with the title page of the 1578 statutes (Fig. 8.16), one can see how Guerra monumentalized the confraternal insignia and magnified the drama of the sacrificed body of Christ, with its full Eucharistic and penitential implications. The new altarpiece would have complemented the decorative program perfectly. It placed the archconfraternity and its spiritual founder, Filippo Neri, already regarded as a saint, definitively at the center of renewed pilgrimage practices, above all to the Seven Churches, to which Sixtus V had also been especially devoted. So, too, the altarpiece probably reminded worshipers of the archconfraternity’s success in lodging and feeding almost 120,000 pilgrims during the 1575 Jubilee, and the great expectations (and complex preparations) for 1600.92 During the Holy Year of 1625, ceremonies at the chapel, resonating with 90

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Mario Bevilacqua, “L’organizzazione dei cantieri pittorici sistini: Note sul rapporto tra botteghe e committenza,” in Roma di Sisto V: Le arti e la cultura, ed. Maria Luisa Madonna (Rome: De Luca, 1993), 34–46; and Bevilacqua, “Giovanni Guerra,” in Roma di Sisto V: Le arti e la cultura, ed. Maria Luisa Madonna (Rome: De Luca, 1993), 533. Pupillo, La SS. Trinità; O’Regan, Institutional Patronage, 37–57. Cardinal-Protector Ferdinando de’ Medici had established a precedent for donating a grand altarpiece: he had commissioned Jacopo Zucchi’s Mass of St. Gregory (1574–75; today in the sacristy of SS. Trinità) for the newly constructed privileged altar chapel in the confraternal church. ASR, OSTP, 371, 5, Diario delle Cose Occorse l’Anno Santo 1600; 372, 6 and 7, Diario delle Cose Più Notabili Occorse l’Anno Santo del 1600.

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FIGURE 8.16 Title page of Statuti della Venerabile Archiconfraternita della Santissima Trinità de’ Pel[l]egrini, & Convalescenti, nuovamente riformati, e stampati (Rome: Per gli Heredi d’Antonio Blado Stampatori Camerali, 1578), ASR, OSTP, 521. Photo: Barbara Wisch, courtesy of the Italian Ministry of Cultural Property and Activities.

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“devout sermons,” were reported to be “particularly magnificent.”93 At the close of the 1650 Jubilee, special motets were composed for sacred performances there.94

Transforming Devotional Perceptions

Providing a dignified memorial to the dual founders of the Church, magnified by a façade inscription avowing the apostolic witness, drew new attention to the Final Embrace and Separation. It paralleled the carefully researched histories of Roman churches by contemporary and later ecclesiastical historians.95 For example, Pompeo Ugonio, in his History of the Station Churches of Rome (1588), after citing the Dionysian letter as “confirmation of this pious and ancient tradition,” noted that its text, in Italian, was placed above the door to “a very small Chapel.” He then analyzed in detail the route taken by the apostles from the Mamertine prison, especially St. Peter’s more circuitous passage to his martyrdom on the Janiculum, deflecting challenges to the veracity of the Final Separation on Via Ostiense.96 A fresco of The Final Embrace (completed by 1619) (Fig. 8.17) is located prominently in Santa Maria in Traspontina, at the entrance to the chapel dedicated to Sts. Peter and Paul that conserved the two columns to which they were bound before being flagellated.97 In 1644, Francesco Maria Torrigio, the erudite canon and scholar devoted to Christian archaeology, attributed the ‘original’ Chapel of the Separation to Pope Donus I (r. 676–78), providing an early, exceptional, and highly respected provenance to the chapel, now rebuilt and maintained by the Trinità archconfraternity.98 93

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Statuti della venerabile Arciconfraternita della Santissima Trinità de Pellegrini, e Convalescenti, Nuovamente riformati, e stampati (Rome and Cremona: Nella Stamperìa di Pietro Ricchini, 1721), 16; Cenni storici, 31. ASR, OSTP, 545, I. fasc. F. “Festa celebrata in detta Cappella nell’anno Santo 1650.” See above p. 198 (Chacón/Ciacconius) and nn. 25 (Baronio), 65 (Panvinio), 72 (Severano, Torrigio), and 73 (Piazza). Pompeo Ugonio, Historia delle stationi di Roma che si celebrano la Quadragesima (Rome: Bartholomeo Bonfadino, 1588), fols. 231r–233r. The chapel, donated by the Carmelites in 1599 to Count Giovanni Battista Stanga of Cremona for his burial, was rebuilt and richly decorated with paintings of the lives and martyrdoms of Peter and Paul, executed by Giovanni Battista Ricci da Novara in 1607–19. Depictions of the Final Separation as well as the figure of St. Dionysius the Areopagite were increasingly commissioned by private and papal patrons; these examples will be discussed in a forthcoming study. Torrigio, I sacri trofei, 68–73, esp. 71.

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FIGURE 8.17 Giovanni Battista Ricci da Novara, The Final Embrace of Peter and Paul, Cappella di San Pietro e San Paolo (or delle Colonne), Santa Maria in Traspontina, completed by 1619, fresco. Photo: Barbara Wisch.

FIGURE 8.18 Filippo Balbi, The Final Embrace of Peter and Paul, San Paolo fuori le Mura, north transept, 1857–60, fresco. Photo: Barbara Wisch.

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Although by the mid-nineteenth century Catholic as well as Protestant scholars were vociferously rejecting the authenticity of the event, the Final Embrace of Peter and Paul remained embedded in Roman iconography and tradition.99 In large part, this was due to the Trinità’s agency in securing the site within the sacred topography of the Eternal City. Quite remarkably, when San Paolo was rebuilt after the disastrous fire of 1823, The Final Embrace was represented as the penultimate of thirty-six frescoes in the transept (1857–60) (Fig. 8.18). The concordia apostolorum, the dual apostolic foundation of the Church in Rome, has remained a most potent signifier of the sanctity and ­legitimacy of the Roman Catholic Church. The constant flooding of the Tiber took its toll, and Via Ostiense was elevated again and again, allowing water to pool in the chapel, which major restorations in the mid-nineteenth century tried to prevent.100 Tradition aside, modern exigencies finally determined the fate of the chapel: controlling the Tiber by great stone embankments (begun 1876); providing electric tram service from Piazza Venezia to San Paolo (1897); industrializing the Via Ostiense area with wholesale markets (1910); and finally, supplanting the small chapel with the gigantic Centrale Montemartini (1910), Rome’s first public thermoelectric power plant.101 Today, it is common enough to say that art is the new religion; fittingly, since 1997 the Centrale Montemartini is a magnificent extension of the Capitoline Museums. Only a facsimile relief of The Final Embrace and an honorific inscription, installed during the Holy Year of 1975, mark the location of the chapel that the archconfraternity had embraced with such devotion (Fig. 8.19). Via Ostiense, the road that pious confratelli, consorelle, and contrite pilgrims traversed in the footsteps of the Princes of the Apostles, teemed with the miraculous and the numinous. Even a fragment of St. Paul’s walking staff remains a treasured relic in his basilica.102 By creating a worthy monument to adorn the sacred site where Peter and Paul met for the final time on earth, 99

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For the debate in the nineteenth century regarding Peter’s presence in Rome, concluding with the Dogmatic Constitution on the Church of Christ titled Pastor aeternus, issued at the First Vatican Council on 18 July 1870, see Dominik Burkard, “Petrus in Rom—eine Fiktion? Die Debatte im 19. Jahrhundert,” in Petrus und Paulus in Rome: Eine interdisziplinäre Debatte, ed. Stefan Heid (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2011), 32–66. ASR, OSTP, 545, II. B. Giuseppe Stemperini, “Cronologia,” in Un patrimonio urbano tra memoria e progetti: Roma, l’area Ostiense-Testaccio, ed. Carlo M. Travaglini (Rome: CROMA–Università Roma Tre and Città di Castello: Edimond, 2004), 241–43. Ugonio, Historia delle stationi, fol. 239r: the relics included a shoulder blade of St. Dionysius.

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FIGURE 8.19 Facsimile of The Final Embrace relief and inscription, 1975, Via Ostiense, 106. Photo: Barbara Wisch.

tearfully embraced, and commended themselves to one another before meeting their martyrdoms, the archconfraternity of SS. Trinità refocused attention on a quintessential moment in Church history. The early participation of the sodality in the renewed ‘paleochristian’ processions to the Seven Churches, its central role in providing material and spiritual sustenance to indigent pilgrims during Holy Years, and its construction and decoration of the Chapel of the Separation served to promulgate the Roman Church’s apostolic holiness and legitimacy in the face of Protestant challenges. The exponential growth of confraternities in early modern society, with their exemplary epicenters in Rome, placed them at the crucial intersection of faith, urban space, and audience.

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Chapter 9

Staging the Passion in the Ritual City: Stational Crosses and Confraternal Spectacle in Late Renaissance Milan Pamela A.V. Stewart* It is a Friday night in Milan at the turn of the seventeenth century. The hour is nearing midnight and the streets are quiet, save for the ringing of church bells. At various points in the darkened city, in the piazze and on street corners, companies of men and women begin to gather at large columns surmounted by crosses. The lanterns arrayed at the bases of the columns and the processional crosses waiting nearby indicate that the assembled crowds will not be staying long.1 Carrying a cross before them and chanting the Ambrosian Litany of Saints—“Holy Mary, pray for us! Saint Michael, pray for us!”—all at once they begin to move. The chorus is amplified as companies meet along the way, falling in behind one another to process along the main arteries of the city until they converge at its heart: the immense cathedral, still under construction. Here and there, flashes of torchlight reveal small panel paintings mounted on these processional crosses, each depicting an episode of the Passion of Christ. * The research for this article was first presented at the annual meeting of the Renaissance Society of America in New York in March 2014, and is related to my dissertation: Pamela A.V. Stewart, “Devotion to the Passion in Milanese Confraternities, 1500–1630: Image, Ritual, Performance” (PhD diss., University of Michigan, 2015). I am most grateful to Barbara Wisch and Diana Bullen Presciutti for their feedback on early versions of this text, and to Megan Holmes, Achim Timmermann, Tom Willette, Diane Owen Hughes, Betsy Sears, and the members of the University of Michigan’s Premodern Colloquium for their many incisive comments and suggestions. I would also like to acknowledge the archivists, librarians, and staff at the Archivio Storico Diocesano, the Archivio di Stato, the Archivio Storico Civico, the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, and the Raccolta delle Stampe Achille Bertarelli in Milan. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own. 1 According to the Trattato delle croci erette in Milano, written in the seventeenth century by Matroniano Binago, one of the ‘visitors’ assigned by the archbishop to supervise the confraternities of Santa Croce, each confraternity planning on processing “habbino a metter fora la sua Croce qual son[o] solito portar in processione insiema con li lanternoni al piede della colonna ... e questo sia de fare per dare segno che sia de andare in processione”: Trattato delle croci erette in Milano, Archivio Storico Diocesano (hereafter ASDM), section XIV, vol. 166, q. 11, fol. 23r.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_011

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The Ecce Homo originates at the Carrobbio on Corso di Porta Ticinese; from across the city in Porta Orientale, outside the church of San Babila, comes the Entombment. As the companies join together the Passion story slowly coalesces, panel by panel, until the entire cycle is present, from Christ taking leave of his mother to the interment of his corpse in the sepulcher. They then file into the Duomo to address their devotions to Milan’s holiest relic, a nail from the Crucifixion, acquired by St. Ambrose and conserved in the cathedral’s vaults. With the details of the cityscape obscured by the nocturnal setting, spectators looking upon these images of Christ—along with the mass of solemnly processing figures calling upon the saints, and the children costumed as angels marching with them—might think this another place entirely, as if Paradise itself had been opened, transforming familiar streets into the dusty road to Calvary or the shimmering avenues of the Heavenly Jerusalem. These companies were the confraternities of Santa Croce and this was the “ritual city” (la città rituale) created in Milan under the Cardinal-Archbishop Carlo Borromeo (t. 1564–84), one of the chief architects of Catholic reform in Italy.2 The “Borromean experiment,” as Wietse de Boer has described it, aimed to sanctify Milanese urban space and daily life through ritual and discipline, prescribing a rigorous program of daily prayer, the observance of liturgical feasts with elaborate processions, participation in lay confraternities, and the reinvigoration of the cult of relics and saints.3 These initiatives gained intensity during the catastrophic plague of 1576, which the archbishop proclaimed was a divine punishment for the sins of the Milanese and which killed over 17,000 before its abatement in the following spring.4 Throughout the epidemic, Borromeo organized public prayers and penitential processions to cleanse the 2 Adele Buratti et al., La città rituale: La città e lo Stato di Milano nell’età dei Borromeo (Milan: Franco Angeli, 1982). See also Franco Buzzi and Danilo Zardin, eds., Carlo Borromeo e l’opera della “grande riforma”: Cultura, religione, e arti del governo nella Milano del pieno Cinquecento (Milan: Silvana Editoriale, 1997); Danilo Zardin, “Relaunching Confraternities in the Tridentine Era: Shaping Conscience and Christianizing Society in Milan and Lombardy,” in The Politics of Ritual Kinship, ed. Nicholas Terpstra (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 190– 209; and Claudia Di Filippo, “The Reformation and the Catholic Revival in the Borromeo’s Age,” in A Companion to Late Medieval and Early Modern Milan: The Distinctive Features of an Italian State, ed. Andrea Gamberini (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 93–117. 3 Wietse de Boer, The Conquest of the Soul: Confession, Discipline, and Public Order in CounterReformation Milan (Leiden: Brill, 2001), ix. 4 See Borromeo’s ruminations on the epidemic (1579): Carlo Borromeo, Memoriale ai Milanesi, ed. Giovanni Testori (Milan: Giordano, 1965). On the casualties, see Samuel K. Cohn Jr., Cultures of Plague: Medical Thinking at the End of the Renaissance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 20.

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city of its spiritual and physical impurities, himself walking barefoot with a rope about his neck and carrying the Santo Chiodo (Holy Nail) mounted on a large cross (Fig. 9.1).5 In pastoral letters issued during the quarantine Borromeo advised his flock to follow a strict course of devotion to Christ’s Passion; to this end, he ordered the erection of temporary altars in Milan’s main intersections where the faithful could hear mass and other prayers from the windows of their homes (Fig. 9.2).6 When the contagion passed, many of these altars were converted into permanent structures, which took the form of columns topped with the “most magnificent trophy [trophaeum]...[and] standard [vexillum] of the cross.”7 These structures were not only powerful memorials and votives in their own right, commemorating the survival of a public trauma, they were also sites of potent sacred presence and ritual enactment. Spread across Milan, the columns, called croci stazionali (stational crosses) or crocette (small crosses), formed a network of monuments akin to a massive Via Crucis (Way of the Cross) where devotees could contemplate the suffering body of Christ and, after 1605, specific episodes of the Passion. To ­better care for and venerate the crosses, Carlo Borromeo established lay confraternities of Santa Croce (Holy Cross) in 1578. One of these sodalities was attached to each cross, and its members, men and women who lived in the surrounding neighborhood, would gather every evening at its foot to recite the oratione della sera (nightly oration) and other prayers and litanies. At the time of Borromeo’s death in 1584, nineteen stational crosses existed in Milan; their number increased to thirty-six under his cousin and successor Federico Borromeo (t. 1595–1631) and continued to grow until their suppression by the Austrian Hapsburg government in the eighteenth century.8

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Pamela M. Jones, “San Carlo Borromeo and Plague Imagery in Milan and Rome,” in Hope and Healing: Painting in Italy in a Time of Plague, 1500–1800, ed. Gauvin Alexander Bailey et al. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 65–96. Borromeo’s processions and ministry to plague victims are recorded at length in Giovanni Pietro Giussano, Vita di S. Carlo Borromeo, prete cardinale del titolo di Santa Prassede Arcivescovo di Milano (Rome: Stamperia della Camera apostolica, 1610), 248–316. See Borromeo’s pastoral letter dated 20 October 1576. Acta Ecclesiae Mediolanensis: Ab eius initiis usque ad nostram aetatem (hereafter AEM), ed. Achille Ratti, vol. 3 (Milan: Pontificia Sancti Ioseph, 1890–92), cols. 600–05. AEM, vol. 2, col. 242. Archival records indicate that there were eighty-six companies of Santa Croce in 1703, while a list of confraternities covering five of the city’s six main districts (porte) from 1786, immediately preceding their suppression, counts fifty-one. Archivio Storico Civico di Milano (hereafter ASCM), Materie 282 and Località Milanese 136. See further David

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FIGURE 9.1 Il Fiammenghino (Gian Battista della Rovere), San Carlo Processes with the Santo Chiodo during the Plague, c. 1602, oil on canvas. Photo: © Veneranda Fabbrica del Duomo di Milano.

Despite their ubiquity in early modern Milan and their profound importance within Borromeo’s ritual city, the croci stazionali remain little studied by art historians, who have been stymied by a deeply fragmented material record.9 In 1786, after a process spanning more than a decade, the con-

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­ arrioch, “Lay-Religious Associations, Urban Identities, and Urban Space in EighteenthG Century Milan,” The Journal of Religious History 28 (2004): 40, n. 16. Some of the major studies to consider the stational crosses are Buratti et al., La città rituale, cited above n. 2; Fermo Roggiani, Marina Olivieri, and Virginio Sironi, Le “crocette” nella Milano di San Carlo (Milan: Ripartizione Cultura Museo di Milano, 1984); Maria Antonietta Crippa and Ferdinando Zanzottera, Una Milano sconosciuta: La geografia dei segni sacri da Carlo Borromeo a Maria Teresa d’Austria (Milan: Strenna dell’Istituto “Gaetano Pini,” 2000); and Richard Schofield, “Architecture and the Assertion of the Cult of Relics in Milan’s Public Spaces,” Annali di architettura: Rivista del Centro internazionale di Studi di Architettura Andrea Palladio di Vicenza 16 (2004): 79–120. Extremely valuable is the historical monograph on the confraternity of Santa Croce at the church of San Babila, Marina Olivieri Baldissarri, I “poveri prigioni.” La confraternita della Santa Croce e della

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FIGURE 9.2 S. Carlo Celebrates the Mass at a Temporary Altar during the Plague of 1576, 1610, woodcut. Frontispiece of the Relatione della festa fatta in Milano per la canonizatione di S.to Carlo Card. di S. Prassede et Arcivescvo di detta Citta, nell’Anno 1610. All’Illus.mo et Rever.mo Sig. re il sig. Card. di S. Eusebio. Milan: Pacifico Pontio and Gio. Battista Piccaglia, 1610. Photo: In the public domain.

fraternities of Santa Croce in Milan were disbanded and most of the stational crosses ordered razed to the ground, an initiative that formed part of the whole­ scale suppression of the city’s religious institutions by the Hapsburg imperial regime.10 The shuttering of the stational crosses poses significant challenges for the historian. In addition to the demolition of the majority of the crosses themselves, there was the confiscation and dispersal of the sodalities’ other material holdings: artworks and furnishings that had adorned their altars and had been carried in processions were sold to museums and private collectors or repurposed, with few records of their provenance to assist efforts to trace them. Further complicating the recovery of the croci stazionali is the fact that, from the outset, the structures underwent a continual process of renovation so

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Pietà dei carcerati a Milano nei secoli XVI–XVIII (Milan: NED, 1985). For a full bibliography, including archival and early print sources, see Stewart, “Devotion to the Passion,” 212–309. Una Milano sconosciuta, 70–108. A useful summary from an art historian’s perspective of the losses to the material and archival patrimony of Milan’s lay sodalities is Starleen K. Meyer, “Conceptual and Material Culture in the Service of Confraternities in Milan,” Confraternitas 18, no. 2 (2007): 17–31.

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that no surviving examples bear any resemblance to their sixteenth-century forms. Archival documents and early printed texts, however, reveal a once-rich and expansive material culture, from panel paintings and altar decorations to life-sized polychrome sculpture and architectural stage sets created for feastday ephemeral displays. Drawing on documentary sources, several of them unpublished, and on surviving prints and drawings, this essay explores the ways in which the croci stazionali and the confraternities of Santa Croce ritually reimagined and reconfigured the topography of late Renaissance Milan. I will first provide a brief overview of the iconography of the stational crosses and the historical circumstances surrounding their emergence in the late Cinquecento. The assigning of individual episodes, or ‘mysteries,’ of the Passion to each cross in 1605 invites comparisons to broader traditions of the Via Crucis and wayside crosses, particularly to the sacro monte at Varallo and its urban analogues in Milan. Ultimately I will argue that, activated by the confratelli in nightly prayers, openair processions, and splendid spectacles, the crosses transformed the city streets into a ‘New Jerusalem’ and a living theater for the reenactment of Christ’s Passion. Form and Function of the Stational Crosses in the Late Cinquecento Before delving into the processional culture and confraternal performances oriented around the croci stazionali, some basic information about their form and origin as a monument type is helpful. Although the inception of Milan’s stational crosses is often aligned with the plague of 1576, Carlo Borromeo was reviving a tradition dating back to early Christianity when, according to legend, St. Barnaba placed a cross at the edge of the city as a sign of his spiritual conquest of the Lombards.11 The epidemic added a new urgency and valence, but there were six so-called antiche croci (antique crosses) in the city prior to the plague’s outbreak, several of which were connected to an epidemic in 1524, and Borromeo had already begun encouraging their renewed construction in 1573

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Paolo Morigia, Santuario della città e diocesi di Milano (Milan: Antonio degli Antonii, 1603), 112–13. St. Barnaba is often identified with Barnabas the apostle and credited with bringing the Gospel to Milan; in the sixteenth century, the Milanese considered him the city’s first bishop (in actuality, St. Anatalone in the late second/early third century).

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as part of his wider repristinatio (reform) of the Milanese church.12 The umbrella term for a Christian commemorative column or cruciform monument in a public space is a ‘wayside cross,’ and the geographic range of such crosses extended well beyond Lombardy. While Borromeo was the first to reintroduce them on such a large scale in Italy, by the late Middle Ages wayside crosses comprised the largest network of public monuments throughout Europe.13 Though they appear to have been more concentrated north of the Alps, Italian examples beyond Milan exist and multiplied substantially after the turn of the seventeenth century.14 The physical appearance of the Milanese stational crosses in the late Cinque­cento is recorded in an engraving from a series of episodes from the life of Carlo Borromeo, issued around his canonization in 1610 (Fig. 9.3).15 The print depicts the first cross to be erected and blessed by the archbishop in Piazza Cordusio in June of 1577. The structure’s simple composition is confirmed by contemporary descriptions: a metal cross or crucifix on top of a high marble or stone column, typically of the Doric or Tuscan order, with a plain pedestal.16 12

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These six antiche croci are recorded in an anonymous description of Milan from the late sixteenth century: Marzia Giuliana, ed., Le antichità di Milano: Una descrizione della città alla fine del Cinquecento (Rome: Bulzoni editore, 2011), 23. See also Ann G. Carmichael, “The Last Past Plague: The Uses of Memory in Renaissance Epidemics,” Journal of the History of Medicine 53 (April 1998): 150–51. Borromeo called for the revival of the practice in the decrees of the Third Provincial Council (1573). AEM, vol. 2, cols. 242–43. On Borromeo’s interest in paleo-Christian ideals, see Enrico Cattaneo, “Il restauro del culto cattolico,” in San Carlo e il suo tempo, vol. 1 (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1986), 427–53. Achim Timmermann, “Highways to Heaven (and Hell): Wayside Crosses and the Making of Late Medieval Landscape,” in The Authority of the Word: Reflecting on Image and Text in Northern Europe, ed. Celeste Brusati, A.E. Enenkel, and Walter Melion (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 386; and Adele Buratti Mazzotta, “Croci stazionali,” in Dizionario della Chiesa ambrosiana, vol. 2, ed. Angelo Majo and Giuliano Vigini (Milan: NED, 1988), 967–71. Gianvittorio Signorotto, “Gli esordi della via crucis nel Milanese,” in Il Francescanesimo in Lombardia: Storia e arte (Milan: Silvana, 1993), 145–58; and Amilcare Barbaro, ed., Atlante dei Sacri Monti, Calvari, e complessi devozionali europei: Atlas of Holy Mountains, Calvaries, and Devotional Complexes in Europe (Novara: Istituto geografico De Agostini, 2001). On these prints, see Danilo Zardin, La vita e i miracoli di San Carlo Borromeo: tra arte e devozione: Il racconto per immagini di Cesare Bonino (Milan: Jaca Book, 2010). “Ciasche duna [sic] di esse confratrie ha eretta una gran colonna di marmo, sopra la quale vi è posta l’imagine di nostro Signore Giesu Christo inchiodato sul legno della Santa Croce, scolpita di gitto di bronzo.” Paolo Morigia, Historia dell’antichità di Milano, facsimile reprint of 1592 edition (Bologna: Forni, 1967), 347. See further the brief descriptions by the chronicler Giambattista Casale, published in Carlo Marcora, “Il diario di Giambattista Casale (1554–1598),” Memorie storiche della diocesi di Milano 12 (1965): 304–5, 314, 316, 335, 343, 359, and 361; and those furnished throughout Servilio Latuada, Descrizione di Milano

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FIGURE 9.3 Alberto Ronco, San Carlo Blesses the Cross at Cordusio (Episodes from the Life of Carlo Borromeo), 1610, engraving. Photo: © Civica Raccolta delle Stampe Achille Bertarelli, Castello Sforzesco, Milano.

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FIGURE 9.4 Stational cross of San Senatore, completed c. 1616. Sculpture of St. Helena by Giovanni Pietro Lasagna after a design by Il Cerano (Giovanni Battista Crespi). Corso Italia, Milan. Photo: Pamela A.V. Stewart.

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FIGURE 9.5 Stational cross of San Martiniano (Verziere), 1604–73. Column by Giandomenico Richini, base after a design by Pellegrino Tibaldi (or Giovanni Battista Lonati), and the sculpture of Christ a copy after the original by Giuseppe and Giambattista Vismara. Largo Augusto, Milan. Photo: Pamela A.V. Stewart.

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This general design remained standard until the mid-seventeenth century, at which point many of the crosses surmounting the columns of the croci stazionali began to be replaced by large sculptures of saints (Figs. 9.4 and 9.5). Many of these columns were quite tall: the column near the church of San Babila, for example, was twenty braccia high—almost forty feet—and its cross weighed ninety pounds.17 A few were not three-dimensional structures at all, such as the crocetta established ca. 1603 on the site of one of Borromeo’s plague altars at the ancient Roman colonnade near the church of San Lorenzo, which consisted of a painting of the crucified Christ with “other saints” by an unknown artist that was affixed to an exterior wall.18 This altar remains on the south side of the columns (Fig. 9.6), but the image in the vitrine is a modern replacement. Most, if not all, of these columns also had attached altars, typically one on each side of the base for a total of four, the decorations for which I have discussed elsewhere.19 At the very least, according to Matroniano Binago, one of the visitors assigned by Federico Borromeo to supervise the confraternities in the early Seicento, “the Crosses must have a painting of some image of the Lord or of the Madonna or of Saints” to display on feast days, particularly those of great solemnity such as Corpus Christi, the Invention of the Holy Cross (May

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ornata con molti disegni in rame delle fabbriche più cospicue, che si trovano in questa metropoli, 5 vols. (Milan: Giuseppe Cairoli, 1737). Memoriale della Croce situata nel compito di P. Orientale di Milano (Milan: Gratiadio Ferrioli, 1618), 26–28; and Biblioteca Ambrosiana di Milano (hereafter BAM), P 250, Urbano Monti, Compendio delle cose più notabili della città di Milano e della famiglia de’ Monti, vol. 3, fol. 91r. The Milanese braccio at this time equaled approximately 0.6 meters—almost 2 feet. Jacques Heyman, The Stone Skeleton: Structural Engineering of Masonry Architecture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 148. The most complete description of this “crocetta” appears in a manuscript compiled in 1760 by Giovanni Antonio d’Aragona, chancellor of the confraternity of Santa Croce at Cordusio: “[un’] Imagine del Crocefisso con altri santi apressi nella anconna [sic].” He later appears to identify these saints as Sebastian, Roch, and Carlo Borromeo: Biblioteca Trivulziana, codice 1765, Memorie intorno alla Compagnia delle Sante Croci in Milano, fasc. 11. The volume does not have folio numbers, but numbers each section devoted to a particular cross. Prints from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries record an image fitting this description, as does a photograph in Aristide Calderini, La zona monumentale di S. Lorenzo in Milano (Milan: Casa editrice Ceschina, 1934), 42–43. The area around San Lorenzo was heavily damaged in the Allied bombardment of Milan in 1943. See Stewart, “Devotion to the Passion,” 236–46, 429–55. Occasionally the documents indicate portable altars that were assembled for particular occasions, rather than permanent fixtures.

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FIGURE 9.6 View of the columns of San Lorenzo from the south, showing the altar of San Venerio. Corso di Porta Ticinese, Milan. Photo: © Giovanni dall’Orto, Wikimedia Commons.

3), and the Exaltation of the Holy Cross (September 14).20 Those confraternities with crosses located along the processional routes followed on major feasts were admonished by Church authorities to take especial care to outfit their altars on those occasions “honorably with great diligence.”21 In 1605 each cross, together with its confraternity, was allocated a specific mystery of the Passion for particular devotion.22 These mysteries were accompanied by Latin mottos taken from scripture and—according to the revised general rules governing all companies of Santa Croce, issued by Federico Borro­meo in 1607—by small images depicting each episode, one braccia in size (about two feet by two feet), that would be affixed to the confraternity’s processional cross and occasionally be displayed on the altars at the base of

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“Tutte le feste de commandamente si debbe al meno le Croce meterli qualche palio con un quadro de qualche immagine del Sig[no]re o della Madonna o de Santi”: ASDM, Trattato delle croci, fols. 15v–16r. ASDM, Trattato delle croci, fol. 16r. The full list is given in ASDM, Trattato delle croci, fols. 6v–8r.

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each column.23 A manuscript of memorie relating to the cross and confraternity in Piazza Cordusio, for example, records a painting in the confraternity’s possession of the compendio, likely a multi-episodic image corresponding to their assigned mystery of the “compendium of the Passion.”24 With the exception of the cross and sodality at Cordusio, which is located close to the geographic center of Milan, and whose mystery exists outside of the chronology of the Passion story, these episodes were roughly grouped in narrative blocks moving clockwise around the city, beginning and ending in Porta Orientale. When the confraternities processed together, they did so following the order of their mysteries, creating an immense Passion cycle winding its way through the streets.25 The effect of these crosses and the large corpus of art surrounding them, as we shall see, was a projection of Christ’s torments into the everyday urban environment, facilitating a fusion of the ‘real’ world of the city with the imagined or transcendent world of salvation conjured in the devotions and rituals of the confraternities. As Carlo Borromeo’s biographer Giovanni Pietro Giussano wrote: “Milan might at this time have not been unfitly compared to ... an image of the heavenly Jerusalem, filled with the praises of the angelic hosts.”26

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In keeping with the centralizing thrust of Carlo Borromeo’s reforms, all confraternities of Santa Croce in Milan were governed by one set of universal statutes, revised and reissued by Federico Borromeo in 1607 and reprinted in a later compilation (cited here): “Alla Croce grande, qual si porta in processione sia affissa un’imagine d’avoglio grande un brazzo, et sia un Misterio della Passione del Signore, siano distributi tutti li Misterii per ordine nella Città e Diocesi.” Regole gia stabilite da Santo Carlo Cardinale Borromeo, per le Compagnie della Croce da esso erette, et hora date in luce d’ordine dell’Illustriss. et Reverendiss. Sig. Cardinale Federico Borromeo Arcivescovo di Milano (Milan: Nella stampa vicino la Rosa, 1633), 13. BAM, Fondo Trotti 72, Erettione della Croce del S. Crocifisso al Cordusio fatta da S. Carlo; regola dell’oratione, processioni, et altre fonzioni date dal sudetto; ... memorie di cose appartenenti alla S. Croce, fol. 49v. The mystery assigned to the cross at Cordusio is listed in the Diocesan trattato as Christ’s entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday but named in all other sources (including this one) as “il Compendio della Passione, come quella che contiene in se tutte le altre,” befitting its status as the first cross built under Carlo Borromeo (fol. 8r). It is possible that Cordusio was initially given the entry into Jerusalem in 1605 and then reassigned the “compendium” in 1607/8 when the mysteries appear to have been reapportioned to accommodate several newly established confraternities (fol. 28v). BAM, Trotti 72, fols. 28v–29r; and Biblioteca Trivulziana, codice 1765, Memorie intorno alla Compagnia delle Sante Croci, fasc. 4. Before the mysteries were assigned, the confraternities processed in order of seniority: BAM, Trotti 72, fols. 14v–15r. Giussano, Vita di S. Carlo, 286.

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Stational Crosses or Stations of the Cross? The dedication of each cross to a particular moment in the Passion narrative, and the invocation of Jerusalem, is suggestive of parallels with a subcategory of wayside crosses called the Via Crucis or Way/Stations of the Cross, developed by the Franciscans as a devotional aid, substituting for pilgrimage to the Holy Land.27 From the Latin statio, meaning a “standing” or “stopping,” the Stations of the Cross refer to a series of images or tableaux representing particular episodes from the Passion, or to a devotion that follows these moments and is connected to such representations or evokes equivalent mental images.28 As the worshiper walked to or contemplated each station, he or she effectively followed in Jesus’s footsteps on the way to Calvary. The prime example of the Via Crucis in early modern Lombardy was the sacro monte (holy mountain) at Varallo in the Alpine foothills, the first of the Italian sacri monti, established in 1486 in order that, according to an inscription at the site, “those who cannot make the pilgrimage see Jerusalem here.”29 Varallo’s stations were not crosses or columns, but a series of chapels in which scenes from the life and Passion of Christ were enacted by life-sized polychrome sculptures with horsehair wigs, glass eyes, and, sometimes, real garments, set against illusionistically painted backdrops (Figs. 9.7 and 9.8). Accordingly, pilgrims were transported not only across space, through Varallo’s claim to topomimesis, but across time, from early

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On the Stations of the Cross, with particular reference to Italy, see Signorotto, “Gli esordi della via crucis nel Milanese”; and Umberto Mazzone, “Nascita, significato, e sviluppo della Via Crucis,” in Viae crucis: Espressioni artistiche e devozione popolare nel territorio di Pesaro e Urbino, ed. A. Cerboni Baiardi (Bologna: Bononia University Press, 2006), 11–22. See also, generally, Herbert Thurston, The Stations of the Cross: An Account of Their History and Devotional Purpose (London: Burns & Oates, 1906). Reproductions of sites in the Holy Land, particularly of the Holy Sepulcher, existed as early as the sixth century but what we would recognize as a Via Crucis, representing specific episodes and visited or contemplated sequentially, did not appear until the fifteenth century, mostly in northern Europe and Spain, and did not become commonplace in Italy until the mid-seventeenth century. “Sacra huius Montis excogitavit loca ut hic Hierusalem videat qui peragrare nequit.” On Varallo, see, among many, Alessandro Nova, “‘Popular’ Art in Renaissance Italy: Early Response to the Holy Mountain at Varallo,” in Reframing the Renaissance: Visual Culture in Europe and Latin America, 1450–1650, ed. Claire J. Farago (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995); Elena de Filippis, Gaudenzio Ferrari, la Crocifissione del sacro monte di Varallo (Turin: Umberto Allemandi, 2006); and Christine Göttler, “The Temptation of the Senses at the Sacro Monte di Varallo,” in Religion and the Senses in Early Modern Europe, ed. Wietse de Boer and Christine Göttler (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 393–451.

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FIGURE 9.7 Giovanni d’Enrico, Chapel of the Agony in the Garden (detail of the figure of Christ), before 1604, polychrome wood sculpture, fresco, and other media. Sacro Monte di Varallo, Varallo-Sesia. Photo: Pamela A.V. Stewart.

FIGURE 9.8 Giovanni d’Enrico, Chapel of the Agony in the Garden (detail of the figure of the angel), before 1604, polychrome wood sculpture, fresco, and other media. Sacro Monte di Varallo, Varallo-Sesia. Photo: Pamela A.V. Stewart.

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modern Italy to biblical Jerusalem where they were able to bear witness to Christ’s life, torture, and death. The confratelli of Santa Croce in Milan would have been familiar with the project of the sacro monte, either through personal pilgrimage to Varallo, which Carlo Borromeo heavily promoted, or through exposure to loosely analogous sites and devotional practices within their city, not least their own stational crosses.30 Borromeo had a profound interest in the concept of stational worship that Varallo facilitated, and he sought to implement it in Milan, designating, for example, seven Milanese churches, to which members of the Santa Croce confraternities processed once a month, as stational churches in imitation of the Seven Principal Churches in Rome.31 A close approximation to Varallo was the ‘urban sacro monte’ conceived by Borromeo at the church of San Sepolcro, where pastoral visits from the 1570s record certain luoghi dei misteri, which appear to have been twenty-four small chapels containing statuary groups representing the mysteries of the life and Passion of Christ.32 San Sepolcro was well known to the companies of Santa Croce through their affiliation with the Oblates headquartered there and through its frequent inclusion in their processional itineraries; it was also one of the meeting places for the confraternities’ general congregation prior to the acquisition of their oratory at Santa Maria ad Elisabetta.33 Scholars have long hypothesized some relationship between the sacri monti and the stational crosses in Milan, perhaps mediated through San Sepolcro, but these correlations have been largely theoretical.34 Evidence suggests, however, that the two phenomena were connected in significant ways beyond their general similarities as structures that facilitated episodic, affective, and Christomimetic devotion, and that the confraternities of Santa Croce were conscious of this allusion and occasionally articulated it directly. The apparato (mise-en-scène) installed at the cross of Sant’Ausanio for Carlo Borromeo’s canonization in 1610, for example, included an elevated mount with a “chapel” 30

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Pier Giorgio Longo, “Il Sacro Monte di Varallo nella seconda metà del XVI secolo” in Da Carlo Borromeo a Carlo Bascapè: La pastorale di Carlo Borromeo e il Sacro Monte di Arona (Novara: Associazione di storia della Chiesa Novarese, 1985), 41–140. Buratti et al., La città rituale, 50–53; and AEM, vol. 3, col. 527. For the monthly procession by the Santa Croce confraternities, see AEM, vol. 3 col. 1327. Gabriella Ferri Piccaluga, “L’iconografia della Passione e il dibattito sulle sacre scritture. Il progetto di un Sacro Monte nella chiesa milanese di Santo Sepolcro nell’età della Controriforma,” in Sacri monti: Devozione, arte e cultura della Controriforma, ed. Luciano Vaccaro (Milan: Jaca Book, 1992), 173–93. ASDM, Trattato delle croci, fols. 8v–9v. See also Baldissarri, I “poveri prigioni,” 31. Buratti et al., La città rituale, 94; and Crippa and Zanzottera, Una Milano sconosciuta, 16.

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containing a polychromed sculptural tableau of the Agony in the Garden, with a kneeling figure of Borromeo looking on “in imitation of the prayer that he made at the Sacro Monte of Varallo,” a correspondence confirmed by the inscription on a hanging placard.35 Here it is important to acknowledge that despite these points of contact, and despite being habitually characterized as such in scholarship, the croci stazionali did not function as a Via Crucis in the true sense.36 No extant confraternal documents, to my knowledge, deploy the term, and no evidence has surfaced to indicate that members of the Santa Croce confraternities worshipped at crosses other than their own, or that the crosses were visited sequentially like the chapels at Varallo or more traditional Stations of the Cross, although a few were waypoints along major processional routes.37 Nor do the crosses appear to have borne any permanent marker of their particular mystery to denote their focus of devotion and order in the narrative, so that any ‘way of the cross’ would not have been legible on a daily basis. I propose that we might more correctly speak of an implicit Via Crucis, rather than an explicit one; one that was enacted simultaneously and collectively by the different confraternities of Santa Croce rather than a single set course to be ritually completed. Milan was a Via Crucis in fragments, and each confraternity performed a part. The Via Crucis thus offers a framework through which to understand the mechanisms of spatial and temporal hybridity that enabled the croci stazionali to transform 35

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“Vi fabricarono un’elevato monte ... Sopra il qual monte si vedevano tre divote capelle, una in mezo vicino alla colonna della croce, entro la quale era una figura al naturale di Nostro Signore, che faceva oratione all’horto con l’Angelo da una parte, con calice, et la Croce in mano che lo confortava; e dall’altra parte vi era San Carlo inginocchiato in oratione, a imitatione dell’oratione ch’egli fece al Sacro Monte di Varallo...con una cartella che conteneva questa inscrittione: ‘D. Carolus Cardinalis, vitae sanctitate, et rebus praeclare gestis, clarissimus, mortem adventantem; quasi eventus praesagiens in Sacrum Varalli Montem secessit, et divinis misteriis contemplandis, se se ad foeliciter migrandum apparavit.’” Marco Aurelio Grattarola, Successi meravigliosi della veneratione di S. Carlo Cardinale di S. Prassede e Arcivescovo di Milano (Milan: Pacifico Pontio, 1614), 303. The most frequently cited is Adele Buratti, who maintains: “Ogni croce è detta stazionale perché e collegata ad una stazione della Via Crucis. Per la città si snoda allora un grande percorso processionale che ha in questi punti le tappe della sua preghiera.” Buratti et al., La città rituale, 53. Tellingly, none of the major scholarly accounts of processions in post-Tridentine Milan make note of a fixed route of the Via Crucis either. See Arnalda Dallaj, “Le processioni a Milano nella controriforma,” Studi Storici 23, no. 1 (January–March 1982): 167–83; and Bruno Bosatra, “Le processioni in area milanese dopo il Concilio di Trento: Appunti su un fenomeno religioso-popolare,” Rivista liturgica 79 (1992): 457–77. Bosatra cites Buratti’s interpretation but provides no further commentary or additional sources.

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Milan into a New Jerusalem. The stational crosses may not have carved out a single processional route, but they punctuated the topography of Milan with the events of the Passion just as the Via Crucis demarcated and activated the landscape to allow devotees to access biblical places, temporalities, and even personages. Procession and Pageantry: Confraternal Ritual and Ephemeral Displays The nocturnal procession described in this essay’s introduction was one of several acts of public devotion that comprised the core of the spiritual practices of the confraternities of Santa Croce as laid out in their statutes.38 According to these rules, every night, summoned by the bells of their parish church, the members of each sodality—men and sometimes women—would kneel at the foot of their particular stational cross for the oratione della sera; such a scene is recorded on a broadsheet commemorating Borromeo’s pious works (Fig. 9.9).39 Every Friday at midnight, on the first Sunday of each month, and on the principal feasts of the year, the confraternities processed from their crosses to the Duomo to adore the Holy Nail and hear a sermon on the Passion. The Friday devotion was greatly expanded on Good Friday, when all confraternities would process to the seven stational churches and, later, assemble at the Duomo to hear a sermon on Christ’s death and burial, pray before the Nail, and adore the Holy Sacrament. Other processions of note included one to the seven stational churches on the first Sunday of each month as well as the grand festivities for the Invention of the Cross, for which the Holy Nail was brought down from the vaults of the Duomo in an apparatus resembling a cloud (known as the rite of the Nivola) and paraded to San Sepolcro and back.40 The collective visual and auditory effect of these simultaneous processions must have been striking. When the confraternities processed together, such as 38 39

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AEM, vol. 3, cols. 1320–1329. See also the manuscript copies conserved in the ASDM, section XIII, vol. 30, q. 20–23; and in BAM, Trotti 72, fols. 9–11. AEM, vol. 3, col. 1326. While the statutes indicate that “tutti li Fratelli e Sorelle della Compagnia” were to attend, female members were permitted to observe and pray from their doors or windows, or follow the ritual at home, addressing the prayers to their own crosses (badges worn by all members), an alternative also offered to the sick or otherwise “impedito.” The ritual consisted of the Ambrosian Litany of Saints followed by a series of versicles and responses, psalms, and collects. See Regole gia stabilite da Santo Carlo, 21–29. The inauguration of the Borromean protocols for the Invention of the Cross are described in Giussano, Vita di S. Carlo, 307–9.

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FIGURE 9.9 Andrea Vaccario, Procession of the Confraternity of Santa Croce, detail of a broadsheet depicting the life and miracles of Carlo Borromeo, c. 1599–1620 (1610), engraving. Photo: © Civica Raccolta delle Stampe Achille Bertarelli, Castello Sforzesco, Milano.

on the feasts of Corpus Christi and the Invention of the Cross and when they visited the seven stational churches, they followed the order of their mysteries to create a large, mobile Passion cycle. On Fridays the sodalities from each porta appear to have united only in the Piazza del Duomo, but the impression would still have been similar. The small images of the Passion, illuminated by the flickering light of torches and candles, might have seemed to become animate as they journeyed forward, merging with those of neighboring confraternities to form a continuous narrative, one episode after another unfolding against the backdrop of the city and the echoes of chanting voices. Children dressed as angels accompanying these processions, and the oratione della sera, heightened the celestial aspect.41 The experience was, as the confraternal chronicler Alessio Astefani exclaimed, immersive and transportive: [It was] as if the whole City was ... converted into one single and vast temple. Every night one heard a multitude of infinite voices praising God 41 A “choir” of these children was attached to each confraternity of Santa Croce. AEM, vol. 3, col. 1323.

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throughout the city and every Friday one saw devout men processing through the streets singing psalms and hymns that moved the soul of every good Catholic to devotion.42 Scholarly accounts of the città rituale universally underscore its theatrical dimension and place great emphasis on procession and spectacle. This theater of piety can be understood, paradoxical as it might seem, in relation to Carlo Borromeo’s 1565 ban on the performance of sacre rappresentazioni (mystery plays) of the Passion, which resulted in the rechanneling of dramatic impulses into sacred ritual and devotion.43 Claudio Bernardi refers to Borromeo as one of the first “‘directors’ of theatrical Baroque piety” and Marco Rossi, too, emphasizes the “scenographic concept of the city,” in which the centro storico, and the area around the Duomo in particular, came to be characterized in an ever more theatrical sense as the setting for frequent festive displays.44 Others comment more broadly on the high visibility of ritual practices in this period, following the model of “exterior religion” advanced by the Council of Trent, which produced in Milan a “cult on the streets.”45 This “scenographic concept” was particularly manifest in the croci stazionali and the activities of their sodalities. 42

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“che tutta la Città in certe ore era come convertita in un solo e vastisimo tempio, mentre ogni sera si sentiva simultaneamente lodar Dio publicamente in tutte le parti della Città da una multitudine innumerabile di voci, ed il Venerdi si vedavano caminare per le contrade moltissime processione d’uomini divotissimi, i quali col vario e patetico canto de Salmi e di Imni muovevano alla divozione il cuore d’ogni buon cattolico spettatore.” BAM, Cusani Q38, Storia della Compagnia della Santa Croce (basilica di San Satiro in Milano), 4. Angelo Turchini, “Note sul controllo delle sacre rappresentazioni in Italia nel XVI secolo,” in La drammatica popolare nella valle padana. Atti del 4o convengo di studi sul folklore padano (Modena: ENAL—Università del Tempo Libero, 1976), 413–40; and Claudio Bernardi, “Il teatro tra scena e ritualità,” in Mozzarelli and Zardin, I tempi del Concilio, 439–60. For the decree, see AEM, vol. 2, cols. 37–38. Claudio Bernardi, “Il tempo sacro: ‘Entierro,’ Riti drammatici del venerdì santo,” in La scena della gloria: Drammaturgia e spettacolo a Milano in età spagnola, ed. Annamaria Cascetta and Roberta Carpani (Milan: Vita e Pensiero, 1995), 595; and, in the same volume, Marco Rossi, “Architettura e immagine urbana nella Milano spagnola tra Cinque e Seicento,” 44. A useful complement is Danilo Zardin’s account of confraternal procession in the eighteenth century: Danilo Zardin, “Le confraternite in processione,” in Il teatro a Milano nel Settecento, ed. Cascetta and Giovanna Zanlonghi (Milan: Vita e Pensiero, 2008), 161–92. Giovanni Battista Sannazzaro, “Note sull’immagine agiografica della Milano di San Carlo Borromeo,” in Florence and Milan: Comparisons and Relations, ed. Craig H. Smyth and Gian C. Garfagnini (Florence: La Nuova Italia editrice, 1989), 40; and Gianni Mezzanotte, “L’attività dell’Alessi nell’urbanistica milanese del Cinquecento,” in Galeazzo Alessi e

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In addition to the oratione della sera and the processions of the confraternities of Santa Croce, themselves visually dynamic and performative affairs, the crosses were settings for elaborate apparati on feast days, largely unknown to scholarship. The scale and grandeur of such displays varied from ensembles of paintings set on the crosses’ altars to full-fledged multimedia installations, depending upon the occasion and on the location and prestige of the individual cross. By the seventeenth century, these tableaux were often huge productions involving polychromed sculptures, extensive drapery covering the cross and its environs, hundreds of candles and torches, greenery, and other props, sometimes even including live animals. The subjects of the tableaux, interestingly, did not need to correspond to the mystery allocated to each cross, but instead covered a broad spectrum of scenes from the New and Old Testaments and the lives of saints, as well as nonnarrative and abstract ensembles. The memorie of the cross at Cordusio, for example, describe an installation of the Last Supper, for Corpus Christi in 1619, as a “large theater” populated with figures of Christ and his disciples carved skillfully in wood.46 The Passover, constructed for Corpus Christi in 1630, took on additional meaning with a new outbreak of plague. Around the cross, on a large platform measuring approximately twenty-eight by twelve feet, was an “open city” in which some of the doors were marked with a Tau in “the color of blood.” In the midst of this display stood a sumptuously dressed angel with wings made of ostrich plumes, holding a sword and a lightning bolt, with which he prepared to strike the Egyptian firstborns dead “con atto di volere uccidere”.47 The apparato of the stigmatization of St. Francis in 1618, also for Corpus Christi, even involved the neighboring houses by placing the figure of the Cherubim on top of the home of one Cavanago, with a sculpture of St. Francis installed below it on a “high mountain” and then, at street level, a ­tableau of Francis preaching to the animals, some of which appear to have

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l’architettura del Cinquecento. Atti del convegno internazionale di studi: Genova, 16–20 aprile 1974 (Genoa: Sagep, 1975), 454. “Et cosi detto anno 1619 fu fatto in detto giorno l’apparato infrascritto, cioè un gran theatro [sic] con colonne tutte di legname, dentro il quale cioè sotto il portico di detto theatro fu fatto il Cenacolo di N.S. con le figure de tutti li Apostoli vestiti tutti all’Apostolica, et con teste, mani, et piedi di legname bene intagliati.” BAM, Trotti 72, fol. 22v. “Et cosi alla Croce si fece un Paleco alto di bracie 3 di terra et di longezza bracie 14, largo braccie 6, nelle quale si rapresentava una città apperto con alcune porte signate con il segno Tau color di sangue, fatta per mane del Sig. Bertolameo Genovesino ornata dalla parte de alcune piante di Verdura, et nel mezzo del palco l’angelo vestito molto pomposo con ali di piuma di struzzo con folgero et spada in mano, con atto di volere uccidere.” BAM, Trotti 72, fol. 59r.

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FIGURE 9.10 Cesare Bassano, Mount Etna with the Theater and Pedestal Erected in the Piazza del Duomo di Milano (detail), 1630, etching after a drawing by Carlo Biffi. Apparato designed by Francesco Maria Richini, with painting by Bartolomeo Genovesino and Panfilo Nuvolune and sculpture by Girolamo Prevosto and Giovan Pietro Lasagna. Photo: Civica Raccolta delle Stampe Achille Bertarelli, Castello Sforzesco, Milano.

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been alive.48 Although few, if any, traces of these ephemeral displays survive, there is a useful comparison in a print of the apparato of Mount Etna erected in the Piazza del Duomo in 1630 to celebrate the birth of King Philip IV’s firstborn son (Fig. 9.10).49 Several of the artists who contributed to this installation also carried out commissions for the confraternities of Santa Croce, including Bartolomeo Genovesino, who painted the “open city” for the apparato of the Passover.50 In the print there is a mountain, comparable to the alto monte for the stigmatization of St. Francis in Piazza Cordusio, rising up out of the square, naturalistically covered with greenery and rocky outcrops, with large sculptures representing the god Vulcan and his assistants contained in niches. “Another Jerusalem”: Heterotopia in Confraternal Performance The spectacular staging of salvation history in the streets of Milan was the most profound and outward expression of the stational crosses’ capacity to serve, as Achim Timmermann has written of wayside crosses generally, as heterotopian “‘access portals’ and ‘thresholds’ to a series of invisible trajectories” leading to sacred places and temporalities.51 The concepts of heterotopia and heterochronia, elaborated by Michel Foucault, refer to the juxtaposition within a single, real place and time of several otherwise incompatible spaces and moments.52 These other realities can be accessed—the heterotopia ‘opened’— through the performance of rites and gestures. In the case of Milan’s croci stazionali, the place accessed was biblical Jerusalem and the rites and gestures 48

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“Et l’anno 1618 un alto monte, sopra il quale in cime era l’imagine di S. Francesco quando hebbe le stigmate, essendosi posto il Cherubino al tetto della casa del Cavanago, et à basso Santo Francesco quando predicò alli animali con diversi animali vivi et morti postivi, et altre figure del qual apparato ne restò gustato tutto il popolo.” Ibid, fol. 22v. Racconto delle publiche allegrezze fatte dalla città di Milano alli IV febraro MDCXXX per la felice nascita del sereniss. primogenito di Spagna Baldasar Carlo Dominico (Milan: Appresso gli heredi di Melchior Malatesta, 1630). See also Laura Bertolini and Roberta Gariboldi, “Allegrezze per il ‘Dies Natalis’: l’erede regale come Bambino Divino,” in La scena della gloria, 627. BAM, Trotti 72, fol. 59r. Timmermann, “Highways to Heaven,” 435. See also his forthcoming book, Memory and Redemption: Public Monuments and the Making of Late Medieval Landscape (Turnhout: Brepols, forthcoming). Timmermann does not address the Milanese crosses, focusing instead on northern Europe and mostly on the period before 1525, but his arguments apply particularly well to the croci stazionali. Michel Foucault, “Des espaces autres,” Architecture, Mouvement, Continuité 5 (1984): 46–49.

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through which this opening was accomplished were the devotions of the confraternities of Santa Croce. The croci stazionali were not only stages for ritual and spectacle but also sites of, and supports for, private devotion by the confratelli, in which this potential for heterotopian ‘opening’ assumed vital importance. The statutes and indulgences of the confraternities of Santa Croce encouraged the frequent contemplation of “Jesus Christ crucified,” depicted on both the stational crosses and the small crucifix worn by each member as a badge; every day the brethren were to address to this crucifix five Pater Nosters and five Ave Marias in honor of the five wounds of the stigmata while meditating on the Passion.53 The confraternities of Santa Croce practiced a form of affective spirituality, common to many medieval and early modern sodalities, that aimed to fully immerse the devotee into the sensory and emotional world of the Passion, mirroring in many ways the erasure of temporal and spatial distance accomplished by the crosses.54 In Gaspare Loarte’s Essercitio della vita christiana (1573), a text likely used by the confratelli, Loarte exhorts the reader to visualize the events “as though they happened even in that instant before your eyes, in the same place where you are; or within your soul; or otherwise imagining you were in the very places where such things happened.”55 Here the mapping of the Passion onto the topography of Milan through the allocation of mysteries to the stational crosses comes back into play. A common strategy put forth in devotional handbooks to assist in the generation of these mental images was to encourage devotees to “compose the place,” or set the scene, by drawing on their own realities, a trope reminiscent of the rhetorical device of the memory palace. An early articulation of this 53 54

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AEM, vol. 3, col. 1325. Riccardo Bottoni, “Libri e lettura nelle confraternite milanesi del secondo Cinquecento,” in Stampa, libri, e letture a Milano nell’età di Carlo Borromeo, ed. Nicola Raponi and Angelo Turchini (Milan: Vita e Pensiero, 1992), 247–80; and Danilo Zardin, “Scolpisci in me divota imago. Libri di pietà figurati e meditazioni della passione nel Cinquecento,” Terra ambrosiana 40 (1999): 57–63. A recent account of affective spirituality and the composition of place, with additional bibliography, is Christine Göttler, Last Things: Art and the Religious Imagination in the Age of Reform (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010), especially 278–317. “Prima circa i passi della passione, che mediterai, tu dei avvertire, che s’hanno a meditare, come se allhora accadessero innanti a gli occhi tuoi, in quel medeumo luogo dove tu sei, overo dentro dell’anima tua, overo imaginandoti esser presea te a quelli stessi luoghi dove quelle cose accaderono.” Gaspare Loarte, Essercitio della vita Christiana. Dove si contengono le cose che debbe fare chi vuol vivere Christianamente (Venice: Altobello Salicato, 1573), fols. 30r–v. On the probable use of this text by the confraternity of Santa Croce at San Babila, see Baldissarri, I “poveri prigioni,” 136.

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process is provided in the oft-cited Franciscan Zardino di orazione (1454, printed 1494): The better to impress the story of the Passion on your mind ... it is helpful and necessary to fix the places and people in your mind: a city, for example, which will be the city of Jerusalem—taking for this purpose a city that is well known to you. In this city you will find the principal places in which all the episodes of the Passion would have taken place—for instance, a palace with the supper-room where Christ had the Last Supper with the Disciples, and the house of Ann[as], and that of Caiaphas, with the place where Jesus was taken in the night, and the room where he was mocked and beaten. Also the residence of Pilate where he spoke with the Jews, and in it the room where Jesus was bound to the Column. Also the site of Mount Calvary, where he was put on the cross; and other like places.56 At each cross, the confratelli of Santa Croce were able to see all around them the “city that was known to them” and use it as a surrogate for Jerusalem; at each cross within Milan, as if within biblical Jerusalem, they imagined the “principal places” in which their mysteries of the Passion took place—at Verziere the “supper-room where Christ had the Last Supper,” at the cross of San Caio the house of Caiaphas, at the cross of Sant’Ausanio the “site of Mount Calvary” where the cross was raised. At times the functional geography of the city of Milan overlapped with that of the imagined Jerusalem to further enhance the fantasy: the cross of San Dionigi, for example, whose assigned mystery was Christ taking leave of his mother before departing for Jerusalem, was itself located by a city gate (Porta Orientale); some of the crosses dedicated to the 56

“La quale historia acio che tu meglio la possi imprimere nella mente...ti sera utile e bisogno che ti fermi ne la mente lochi e persone. Come una citade, laquale sia la citade de Hierusalem, pigliando una citade laquale ti sia bene praticha. Nella quale citade tu trovi li lochi principali neliquali forono exercitati tutti li acti dela passione: come e uno palacio nelquale sia el cenaculo dove Christo fece la cena con li discipuli. Anchora la casa de Anna e la casa de Cayfas dove sia il loco dove fu menato la nocte Miser Iesu. E la stantia dove fu menato dinanti de Cayfas, e lui deriso e beffato. Anche il pretorio de Pilato dove li parlava con li iudei: et in esso la stantia dove fu ligato Misser Iesu alla colonna. Anche el loco del monte de Calvario, dove eso fu posto in croce, e altri simili lochi.” This passage is translated in Michael Baxandall, Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy: A Primer in the Social History of Pictorial Style (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 46, with the original text reproduced on 163–64. I have corrected Baxandall’s mistranslation of “la casa de Anna” from the “house of Anne” to that of the priest Annas, where Jesus was taken before being brought before Caiaphas.

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interrogation of Christ by religious and secular authorities were similarly located near the Duomo and Palazzo Reale.57 Activated in the course of these devotions, the stational crosses, like the sacri monti and the Via Crucis, collapsed physical and temporal distance to furnish confratelli with their own versions of Jerusalem. This Jerusalem was no static image, no print in a book or painting on a wall, but a living space that they could see and touch, and through which they could move and process. Within this rubric, the apparati staged at the crosses transcended the genre of spectacle to become almost like visions or sacred manifestations: the confratelli’s meditations in the flesh. For the confratello worshipping at the foot of the cross, meditating on Christ’s suffering, bearing the cross and images of the Passion through the streets, and encountering memorials to Christ’s death at every corner, it would have indeed seemed as if as the Passion was occurring before his eyes, “in the same place” where he was. Conclusion In the prayers, processions, and pageants of the confraternities of Santa Croce, the stational crosses staged Christ’s Passion in the neighborhoods of Milan. Gabriele Paleotti, archbishop of Bologna and author of the celebrated CounterReform treatise Discourse on Sacred and Profane Images, might have had the stational crosses partly in mind when, in a sermon delivered in the Milanese church of San Nazaro in Brolio in 1582, he proclaimed that when he regarded the city “I seem to see another Jerusalem.”58 The appellation of Jerusalem was widely claimed for early modern cities, from Savonarola’s Florence to Rome in the Jubilee to Granada after the Reconquista.59 The striking features of the Milanese case are: its complex layering of metaphors—Jerusalem, ritual city, Lombard 57

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At others points, they diverged: the several crosses devoted to moments of the Crucifixion, for example, were located near the Castello Sforzesco and not near the gallows, which were then sited across the city in Piazza della Vetra. “O Milano ... quando ti miro, e considero le tue attioni Sante, e la gran religione, mi par di vedere un’altra Girusalemme.” This anecdote is recorded in Giussano, Vita di S. Carlo, 581. Stefano Dall’Aglio, Savonarola and Savonarolism, trans. John Gagné (Toronto: Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, 2010); Simon Ditchfield, “Reading Rome as a Sacred Landscape, ca. 1586–1635,” in Sacred Space in Early Modern Europe, ed. Andrew Spicer and Will Coster (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 167–92; and Mercedes García-Arenal, “Granada as a New Jerusalem: The Conversion of a City,” in Space and Conversion in Global Perspective, ed. Giuseppe Marocci, Wietse de Boer, Aliocha Maldavsky, and Ilaria Pavan (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 15–43.

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capital; its pivotal place in Borromeo’s program of Catholic reform; and its profoundly performative dimension, with its carefully choreographed processions and ephemeral installations that drew as much from the local tradition of the sacri monti as from religious drama. The stational crosses thus give evidence for how Borromeo’s “ritual city” utilized confraternal performance to sanctify and activate the cityscape. Embedded within Milan’s urban fabric, Borromeo’s crocette provided a nexus of points for confraternal brethren and passersby to stop and contemplate Christ’s death, symbolized by the image of the cross, and through this encounter to become privileged witnesses to the Passion in their own city. As integral components of Borromeo’s ritual city, the crosses were sites for large and simultaneous processions in which the mysteries of the Passion were carried through the streets to create an approximation of the Via Crucis. This connection to the Via Crucis elucidates the ways in which the stational crosses engaged notions of heterotopia, working within structures of affective devotion and enhanced by ephemeral tableaux of painted statuary, to re-imagine and reconfigure the city as a second Jerusalem. Through these displays the stational crosses truly became portals out of Milan and into the world of salvation history, bringing the devotees’ meditations to brilliant life before their eyes. As the confratelli moved through the streets and encountered these visions, or processed with the mysteries of the Passion through the nocturnal gloom, the earthly city of Milan opened into a “vast temple,” a theater of memory, and “another Jerusalem.”

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Chapter 10

Carrying the Cross in Early Modern Venice Meryl Bailey* Bound into the mariegola of Venice’s Scuola di San Fantin is a full-page il­­ luminated miniature, painted in the late sixteenth century, depicting the confraternity’s officers assembled beneath a crucifix (Fig. 10.1).1 Within an elaborate gilded frame, billowing clouds part to reveal the crucified Christ. His pale body sags under its own weight, and his downturned head tilts slightly to the left. Above him, a white pelican sits in a straw-colored nest. Stretching its wings outward, the bird pierces its snowy breast with its beak, its crimson blood trickling down towards its clamoring offspring. Observing the dark color of the cross, the budding branches along its arms, and the orderly weave of the pelican’s nest, many contemporary Venetian viewers would have recognized the object depicted in the miniature as an actual devotional implement: a fifteenth-century wooden crucifix owned and revered by the members of San Fantin (Fig. 10.2). A lay confraternity founded in the early fifteenth century, San Fantin served as Venice’s conforteria, or ­comforting confraternity: its members provided assistance to prisoners condemned to death, an expression of their commitment to Christian charity.2 * I am grateful to the editor of this volume, Diana Bullen Presciutti, and to Lisa Regan for their insightful comments on earlier drafts of this essay. Unless otherwise specified, all translations are my own. 1 The confraternity’s official name was the Scuola di Santa Maria della Giustizia e San Girolamo. For purposes of brevity, it will be referred to here by its common sobriquet, San Fantin. On the history of the confraternity, see Chiara Traverso, La Scuola di San Fantin o dei “Picai”: Carità e giustizia a Venezia (Venice: Marsilio, 2000); and Giuseppe Pavanello, La Scuola di S. Fantin ora Ateneo Veneto (Venice: Officine Grafiche Vittorio Callegari, 1914). The term mariegola, which can be literally translated as “mother rules,” refers to the book that recorded a confraternity’s governing statutes or bylaws. 2 Comforting confraternities existed in many Italian cities, including Rome, Florence, Naples, and Bologna. For recent work and extensive prior bibliography on the lay conforteria in Italy, see Adriano Prosperi, Misericordie: Conversioni sotto il patibolo tra Medioevo ed età moderna (Pisa: Ed. della Normale, 2007); and Nicholas Terpstra, ed., The Art of Executing Well: Rituals of Execution in Renaissance Italy (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2008). On the date of the founding of Venice’s Scuola di San Fantin, see Biblioteca del Senato della Repubblica (hereafter BSR), AM Bianchi ms. 8, Registro di Giustiziati, fol. 5v; Flaminio Cornelio, Ecclesiae venetae et torcellanae antiquis monumentis, vol. 12 (Venice: Jo. Baptistae Pasquali, 1749), 332; and Ermolao Paoletti, Il fiore di Venezia, vol. 2 (Venice: Tommaso Fontana, 1837), 153. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_012

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FIGURE 10.1 Anonymous, Crucifix with Confratelli, tempera and gold on vellum, c. 1567–80. ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 2, reg. Mariegola (1562–1756), c. 2v. Inscribed as follows: (left) “IN TEMPO DI M. ZANPIERO DI MICHIEL GUARDIAN ET DE M. ZANPIERO DI MARCHIO AVICARIO.” (center) “D.P. IOSEF. DI RASPI. CA.” (right) “IN TEMPO DI M. ZUANE MAGETER GUARDIAN DA MATIN ET DE M. BATTISTA ZIGNONI SCRIVAN.” Photo: Archivio di Stato di Venezia.

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FIGURE 10.2 Anonymous, Crucifix, painted wood with silver ex-voto plaques, approx. 135 cm tall, fifteenth century. Now in the Church of Santa Maria Assunta, Codroipo (UD), formerly in oratory of the Scuola di San Fantin, Venice. Photo: Cameraphoto Arte Venezia.

The confraternity’s wooden crucifix predates a fire that damaged its chapter hall in 1563.3 While today the crucifix is displayed in the Church of Santa Maria Assunta in Codroipo, for almost three centuries it was used as an altarpiece in 3 Archivio di Stato di Venezia (hereafter ASVe), Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 2, reg. Mariegola, fol. 6v. The date of the fire was 15 February 1562 (Venetian style). The fire also destroyed the confraternity’s records, so most documentation postdates this year.

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the oratory of San Fantin.4 However, the crucifix also had a second ritual use, one that was equal in importance to its liturgical function. On the occasion of an execution, it served as the Scuola’s processional standard.5 When called to comfort a prisoner, the confraternity’s members would remove the crucifix from its altar and carry it with the condemned as he marched to the scaffold.6 The oratory of San Fantin was an interior, consecrated space within the meeting house. Open to the public, the room housed recurrent devotional and religious rites, including the liturgy of the Mass. By contrast, the ritual of capital punishment was, at least at first glance, primarily civic and secular, and its frequency was unpredictable. Executions typically took place outside, and were structured by an elaborate spectacle that symbolically and literally encompassed the city as a whole. In his analysis of Venetian execution in the Middle Ages, Guido Ruggiero emphasizes the importance of repetition to the development of a ritual’s meanings: “ritual orders time, especially through ­repetition, in such a way that the non-relevant is cut back and the relevant highlighted.”7 While the altar in San Fantin’s oratory and the scaffold in the Piazzetta San Marco were two distinct ritual contexts, this essay will argue that the display of the crucifix during the frequently repeated liturgy of the Mass also conditioned spectators’ understanding of the ritual of punishment, ­helping to highlight the relevant in a rite that was powerful but irregularly performed. The mobility of the crucifix—its transferability between the altar and the streets—was central to its meaning in both contexts, and essential to the Scuola’s efforts to shape the experience of execution. These efforts transformed earthly punishment into a sacred drama that enveloped the city’s populace in acts of charity, or Christian love. At stake in this process were souls—the souls of the condemned, but also those of the confratelli and of the many spectators who gathered to watch execution processions. Using the crucifix to link devo-

4 Pavanello, La Scuola di S. Fantin, 15; and Traverso, La Scuola di San Fantin, 157. 5 Francesco Sansovino and Giovanni Stringa, Venetia città nobilissima et singolare, descritta già in XIIII libri da M. Francesco Sansovino (Venice: Altobello Salicato, 1604), 92r. 6 In this essay, the condemned will be referred to using the male pronoun. Note, however, while the majority of the condemned were men, women were also occasionally executed in Venice. For two examples of the execution of a condemned female prisoner assisted by the members of San Fantin, see BSR, AM Bianchi ms. 8, Registro di Giustiziati, fol. 48v (Ottavia Pagani, executed in 1589) and fol. 64r (Olivia Chiapen, executed in 1618). 7 Guido Ruggiero, “Constructing Civic Morality, Deconstructing the Body: Civic Rituals of Punishment in Renaissance Venice,” in Riti e rituali nelle società medievali, ed. Jacques Chiffoleau, Lauro Martines, and Agostino Paravicini Bagliano (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo, 1994), 176.

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tion at the altar with compassion at the scaffold, the confraternity engaged the community and the condemned in the salvific performance of Christian love. The Crucifix on the Altar San Fantin possessed several crucifixes, each of which was employed for specific purposes.8 However, the simple wooden crucifix that served as the processional standard was the confraternity’s most recognizable symbol (Figs. 10.2–10.4). Small protrusions that swell from the cross recall both cut branches that evoke Christ’s death and buds that allude to his resurrection.9 The horizontal bar, which curves gently to suggest a yoke, evokes Christ’s words in the Gospel of Matthew: “Take up my yoke upon you, and learn of me, because I am meek, and humble of heart: and you shall find rest to your souls. For my yoke is sweet and my burden light.”10 Confraternity members who carried the crucifix in processions obeyed this command, both by physically taking up the burden of the crucifix and by fulfilling Christ’s exhortation to imitate him through their acts of charity towards the condemned. In both the wooden processional crucifix and the mariegola miniature, Christ’s cross is accompanied by a pelican piercing its own breast, a motif sometimes called the ‘pelican in piety.’ This iconography developed out of the assertion in early bestiaries that the pelican fed its offspring with its own blood, an act of self-mortification that recalled Christ’s sacrifice for humanity.11 The pelican in piety was closely associated with charity, the virtue central to confraternal devotional practices. Driving confraternities’ collective practice of charity was the belief that spiritual merit, earned through the good works of members, could be pooled and shared within the group. Charity had two aspects—amor Dei (love of God) and amor proximi (love of one’s fellow man). 8

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For instance, a small bronze crucifix was carried by the Scuola’s chief officer, the guardian grande, during executions, and was provided to the clergy when assisting the condemned at the prison chapel. After the Scuola assumed responsibility for burying the executed in 1614, a large white crucifix and white candles were used in the burial ritual. ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 5, Inventari oggetti della Scuola, Fontioni di giustitiati, unpaginated, and b. 2, reg. Mariegola, fols. 40v–41r. For the development of the arbor crucis, or tree-cross, see Gertrud Schiller, Iconography of Christian Art, trans. Janet Seligman (Greenwich, CT: New York Graphic Society Ltd., 1971), 2:135–36. Matthew 11:29–30. All Bible verses are from the Douay-Rheims Bible, an English translation of the Latin Vulgate Bible (London: Baronius Press Limited, 2008). On the pelican, see Victor E. Graham, “The Pelican as Image and Symbol,” Revue de Littérature Comparée 36, no. 2 (1962): 235–43; and Schiller, Iconography, 2:136–37.

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FIGURE 10.3 Detail of the wooden crucifix of the Scuola di San Fantin. Photo: Cameraphoto Arte Venezia.

By the sixteenth century, the pelican was most closely associated with the iconography of amor proximi. In Cesare Ripa’s Iconologia, Amor del prossimo is described as a man dressed nobly, who has beside him a pelican with its offspring, who are in the act of taking with their beaks the blood that streams from a wound that the aforesaid pelican makes with its own beak in the middle of its breast; and with one hand the man tries to lift a poor man from the ground, and with the other he offers him money, according to the words of Christ our Lord in the Gospels.12 12

“Hvomo vestito nobilmente, che gli stia a canto vn pelicano con li suoi figliuolini, li quali stieno in atto di pigliare con il becco il sangue ch’esce d’vna piaga, che detto pelicano si fa con il proprio becco in mezo il petto, & con vna mano mostri di solleuar da terra vn pouero, & con l’altra gli porga denari, secondo il detto di Christo nostro Signore nell’Euangelio.” Cesare Ripa, Iconologia (Rome: Lepido Faey, 1603), 18. In some Italian tarot decks, charity is similarly personified by a woman standing next to a pelican in piety.

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FIGURE 10.4 Detail of the wooden crucifix of the Scuola di San Fantin. Photo: Cameraphoto Arte Venezia.

In such cases, the personification evokes both aspects of charity: with one hand she reveals a flaming heart (amor Dei), while with the other she pours coins from a purse over the pelican (amor proximi). For examples of this type, see Adam von Bartsch, The Illustrated Bartsch, ed. Walter L. Strauss, vol. 24: The Early Italian Masters (New York: Abaris Books, 1978), 55 (128) and 155–A (136).

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Ripa’s passage refers to Christ’s words in Matthew 25:34–36, verses that spelled out six works of mercy, one of which was the imperative to assist prisoners. The works of mercy were eventually expanded into seven corporal and seven spiritual works that would accrue spiritual merit for those who performed them.13 Primary among the spiritual works was the saving of souls; as one Italian comforter wrote, “among the works of piety, tending diligently to the health of souls out of love for Christ exceeds all the others, both in terms of dignity and in pleasing God.”14 This emphasis on saving the souls of sinners was a profound motivation for members of the conforteria, who hoped to in­tervene in the final moments of a sinful life and save a soul from eternal torment. The pelican atop the wooden crucifix of San Fantin arches its neck gracefully as it reaches downward towards the hatchlings who sit below it in a woven nest (Fig. 10.4). With its wings spread above the crucified Christ and its beak pressed to its breast, the pelican imitates the Savior in posture and action. Given the bird’s association with amor proximi and imitatio Christi, the pelican and crucifix offered a resonant symbol for the confraternity’s work with the condemned, and the two recur with great frequency in the Scuola’s iconography. For example, patches displaying the pelican and crucifix were sewn onto the confraternity’s processional costume, or cappa, and served to distinguish the robes of San Fantin from those of other confraternities.15 Likewise, in a 13

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The spiritual and corporal works of mercy are laid out in Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Theologica, vol. 3 (part 2, section 2), translated by the Fathers of the English Dominican Province (New York: Cosimo, 2007), 2.2 q.32 a.2. For enumerations of the works closer in time to the period considered here, see Lodovico Gabrielli, Metodo di confessione, cioè arte, over ragione, & una certa brieve via di confessarsi, nella quale pienamente si contengono i peccati (Gabriel Giolito de’Ferrari, 1562), 336; Paolo de Angelis, Della limosina o vero opere che ci assicurano nel giorno del final giuditio (Rome: Giacomo Mascardi, 1611), 29; and Roberto Bellarmino, Copiosa dichiaratione della dottrina christiana (Venice: per li Prodotti, 1670), 189–90. “Fra tutte le opere di pietà, quella dell’attendere con studio per amor di Christo alla salute dell’Anime, avanza, e nella dignità, e nell’essere grato à Dio, tutte l’altre”: Marcello Mansi, Documenti per confortare i condannati a morte (Rome: L’herede di Bartolomeo Zannetti, 1625), 1. On the importance of caring for souls, see also the General Epistle of James 5:19– 20. Mansi’s Documenti is one of many examples of comforting guides and advice manuals written by and for the conforteria in cities across Italy. The practices and guidance related in these texts are consistent with what is known about the Venetian comforting process. Several such guides are relied upon here to elucidate aspects of the execution ritual. For illustrations of the cappa, see Cesare Vecellio, Habiti antichi et moderni di tutto il mondo (Venice: I Sessa, 1598), 137; and Giovanni Grevembroch, Gli abiti de veneziani di quasi ogni età con diligenza raccolti e dipinti nel secolo XVIII, vol. 2 (Venice: Filippo Editore, 1981), 69. Both of these sources depict two patches on the robe: the pelican in piety on the hood over the mouth, and the crucifix over the chest.

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FIGURE 10.5 Alessandro Vittoria, The Crucifixion with the Virgin Mary, St. Jerome, and Kneeling Confratelli, relief, façade, Ateneo Veneto, 1580s. Photo: Meryl Bailey.

large relief on the façade of the Scuola’s meeting house, a crucifix and pelican loom above kneeling confratelli and their patron saints, the Virgin Mary and St. Jerome (Fig. 10.5). Directly below this façade relief is the entrance to the oratory where the crucifix itself was displayed. Open to the public on a regular schedule, the oratory became a popular site of religious devotion.16 The primary draw for pious visitors was the wooden crucifix, which was said to be miraculous.17 The possession of a miracle-working object could bring a confraternity great renown, and 16

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Archival records mentioning the oratory’s popularity (ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 2, reg. Compendio, fol. 27v; and reg. Mariegola, fol. 25r) are confirmed by the observations of Giovanni Stringa, canon of San Marco, who visited the confraternity around 1603. Sansovino and Stringa, Venetia città nobilissima, 92r. See, for instance, ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 5, reg. Obblighi, Oblighi del Cercante della Città, unpaginated; and ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 3, Capitolare A (1599–1620), Parti, fol. 5v, also cited in Traverso, La Scuola di San Fantin, 106. In the latter archival record (Capitolare A), dated 1600, the confraternity authorized expenditures to complete the ceiling in the oratory, the ren-

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along with it, wealth in the form of alms and bequests. The Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista, for instance, published booklets and commissioned a cycle of paintings to publicize the miracles effected by its relic of the True Cross.18 No such written account survives recounting the miracles of the crucifix of San Fantin. However, parts of the crucifix are overlain with an accretion of small silver plaques that offer a visual record of its miracles. The images on these plaques—a disembodied leg, the profile of a man, devotees kneeling before the Virgin or the crucified Christ—suggest that these are ex-votos, objects left as tangible manifestations of thanks for grace received by supplicants whose prayers had been answered.19 Aside from these ex-votos, the entire object, including the cross, the pelican, and Christ himself, is covered with a dark paint or patina. While this dark color may have been meant to simulate bronze, it seems also to have had a specific iconographic purpose. Almost all the objects associated with execution processions, including the wax candles, crucifix, and robes, were black. While no record of the appearance of the altar in the Scuola’s original oratory survives, the altar commissioned after the 1563 fire was also black (Fig. 10.6).20 However, at burials of the condemned, the confraternity exchanged this dark ritual paraphernalia for white candles and a white crucifix to symbolize the dead man’s hope for salvation.21

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ovation of which was necessary to complement the “most miraculous Christ [i.e., the crucifix] for which the devotion of the faithful grows daily.” See Patricia Fortini Brown, “An Incunabulum of the Miracles of the True Cross of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista,” Bollettino dei Civici Musei Veneziani d’Arte e di Storia 27 (1982): 5–8; and Kiril Petkov, The Anxieties of a Citizen Class: The Miracles of the True Cross of San Giovanni Evangelista, Venice 1370–1480 (Leiden: Brill, 2014). The practice of leaving a votive object, or ex-voto, at a holy site to demonstrate a supplicant’s gratitude for answered prayers has ancient roots. On the phenomenon of the exvoto, see David Freedberg, The Power of Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 136–60. On the use of black candles during execution processions, see Grevembroch, Gli abiti, 2:69; and Pavanello, La Scuola di S. Fantin, 22. On the black altar, see Sansovino and Stringa, Venetia città nobilissima, 91; and Traverso, La Scuola di San Fantin, 159. Today this altar can be found in a chapel in the right transept of the Basilica of Santi Giovanni e Paolo. The bronze figures of the Virgin and St. John the Evangelist at the foot of the cross are original to the monument. However, the white crucifix is not. Both the chromatic contrast and this sculptor’s more triumphant vision of the crucified Christ are radically different from the altar’s original appearance. ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 5, reg. Inventari oggetti della Scuola, Fontioni di giustitiati, unpaginated, and b. 2, reg. Mariegola, fols. 40v–41r.

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FIGURE 10.6 Alessandro Vittoria, Crucifix Altar with bronze statuettes of  The Virgin Mary and St. John the Evangelist, 1580s, Cappella dei Morti, Basilica of Santi Giovanni e Paolo. The white crucifix shown here is a later addition to the altar. Photo: Studio Bohm with permission of the Curia Patriarcale di Venezia.

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A ceiling painting that was located above the black altar in San Fantin’s oratory reinforced the wooden crucifix’s significance as an altarpiece. The painting, part of a large cycle by Jacopo Palma il Giovane on the themes of purgatory and charity, depicts a priest celebrating the Mass before an altar with a crucifix as its altarpiece.22 As the priest raises a chalice towards the crucifix, angels swoop down to pull souls out of the flames of purgatory and towards heaven, illustrating the salubrious effects of the Mass. The illuminated miniature in San Fantin’s mariegola references the crucifix’s function as the focal point of the liturgy of the Mass in more subtle ways (Fig. 10.1). The frame that surrounds the figures resembles an altar with the crucifix as its altarpiece, and two winged angels recline on the raking edges of its pediment.23 Faint traces of a skull can be detected at the base of the page, directly beneath the crucifix.24 Iconographically, the presence of Adam’s skull below the cross evokes Original Sin, and underscores that Christ’s self-sacrifice on the cross was the definitive act of Christian love for sinners. The miniature is inscribed with the names of the confraternity’s four main officers and its chaplain. While it is neither signed nor dated, the presence of the officers’ names allows us to confirm that it was produced between the late 1560s and the 1570s.25 The faces of the figures are finely executed and appear to 22

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For a photograph of the painting and a discussion of the cycle as a whole, see Meryl Bailey, “La devozione delle confraternite, la Riforma cattolica e il ciclo del Purgatorio di San Fantin,” in Ateneo Veneto 1812–2012. Un’istituzione per la città, ed. Michele Gottardi, Marina Niero, and Camillo Tonini (Venice: Lineadacqua, 2012), 211–42. Indeed, the two angels who look down from the pediment of the altar itself (Fig. 10.6) may well have taken inspiration from the altar-like frame depicted in the illuminated page. The abrasion of the skull may be due to undocumented aspects of confraternal rituals that involved kissing or rubbing the image. For examples of mariegola illuminations used in confraternal devotions, see Lyle Humphrey, “The Illumination of Confraternity and Guild Statutes in Venice, ca. 1260–1500: Mariegola Production, Iconography, and Use” (PhD diss., New York University, Institute of Fine Arts, 2007), 200. No chapter rolls from these years survive. However, two of the officers, Zuane Mageter (Maieter) and Zampiero (Zanpiero) de Marchio, appear in documents dated 1572, the former as guardian grande and the latter as a sindaco. Officers served for short periods of time, and the same individuals frequently rotated through various offices. Since the mariegola itself was produced in 1566, under the guardianship of Antonio di Guerini, to replace records lost in the fire, we may presume that the miniature was produced in the decade after Guerini’s guardianship ended. See ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 2, reg. Mariegola, fols. 6r, 8r–v. In a personal communication, Helena Szépe has suggested that the painter of the mariegola miniature is likely the anonymous master whom she calls the Mannerist Master. On this painter, see Helena Szépe, “Civic and Artistic Identity in Illuminated Venetian Documents,” Bulletin Du Musée Hongrois

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be portrait likenesses. But despite the painter’s skill and attention to detail, the crucifix in the miniature differs from the reality of the object in important ways. Most striking is the fact that the illumination presents the crucifix as if the body of Christ is naturalistically painted. Many wooden crucifixes produced in the Veneto were, in fact, polychrome.26 More broadly, large-scale naturalistic sculpture, including both painted statuary and objects dressed in clothing and with real hair, were used in churches and devotional spaces to more fully simulate the experience of the Passion and to stimulate a profound emotional response in the viewer.27 While the painter of the San Fantin miniature depicts Christ in living color, there is no evidence that the wooden crucifix was ever polychrome. By deviating from the actuality of the sculpted figure, the illuminator makes visible a greater truth: the Real Presence of Christ at the altar as the Mass unfolds. Christ’s Real Presence in the Eucharist had long been a central tenet of Catholic doctrine. To quote Pope St. Gregory the Great (r. 590–604), whose experience of Christ’s Real Presence became a popular subject in the visual arts, [w]ho among the faithful could have any doubt that, in this moment of the offering, as the priest speaks, the heavens open and a chorus of angels

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Des Beaux-Arts 95 (2001): 71; and Helena Szépe, “Venetian Miniaturists in the Era of Print,” in The Books of Venice. Il Libro Veneziano, ed. Lisa Pon and Craig Kallendorf, Special Issue of Miscellanea Marciana, vol. 20 (2005–7) (Venice and New Castle, DE: La Musa Talìa, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, and Oak Knoll Press, 2008), Fig. 4. I am grateful to Dr. Szépe for helping to confirm the image’s date. See, for instance, the group of fifteenth-century crucifixes discussed in Anne Markham Schulz, “Antonio Bonvicino and Venetian Crucifixes of the Early Quattrocento,” Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz 48, no. 3 (2004): 293–332. For a useful discussion of large-scale polychrome figures within Venetian churches, see John T. Paoletti, “Wooden Sculpture in Italy as Sacral Presence,” Artibus et Historiae 13, no. 26 (1992): 92. Elaborate examples of highly naturalistic devotional sculpture can also be found at the sacri monti, the holy mountains in northern Italy that house recreations of scenes from Christ’s life and Passion. See William Hood, “The Sacro Monte of Varallo: Renaissance Art and Popular Religion,” in Monasticism and the Arts, ed. Timothy Gregory Verdon (New York: Syracuse University Press, 1984), 291–311; Alessandro Nova, “‘Popular’ Art in Renaissance Italy: Early Responses to the Holy Mountain at Varallo,” in Reframing the Renaissance: Visual Culture in Europe and Latin America 1450–1650, ed. Claire Farago (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1995), 113–26, 319–21; and Medina Lasansky, “Body Elision: Acting Out the Passion at the Italian Sacri Monti,” in The Body in Early Modern Italy, ed. Julia L. Hairston and Walter Stephens (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010), 245–94.

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attends the mystery of Jesus Christ, the highest is joined with the lowest, the earth unites with the heavens, the visible and invisible are made one?28 Given the crucifix’s function as an altarpiece, the use of color in the miniature reflects and reinforces the belief that the liturgy of the Mass not only commemorates but reenacts Christ’s sacrifice on the cross, a doctrine that had been confirmed at the Council of Trent in 1562.29 Billowing clouds that part to reveal the crucifix bolster the impression of Christ’s emerging presence before the assembled brothers of San Fantin.30 The cross in the illumination, then, fluctuates between a crucifix and the Crucifixion, and in doing so, negates the distance between representation and reality. By presenting Christ’s naked body fully enfleshed, the miniature also demands the viewer’s acknowledgement of his physical suffering in his human form as the victim of a public execution. But this depiction of a condemned man surrounded by comforters from San Fantin also ties the crucifix to the Venetian execution ritual that 28

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“Quis enim fidelium habere dubium possit, in ipsa immolationis hora ad sacerdotis vocem coelos aperiri, in illo Jesu Christi mysterio angelorum choros adesse, summis ima sociari, terrena coelestibus jungi, unumque ex visibilibus atque invisibilibus fieri?” Gregory the Great, Sancti Gregorii Papae Dialogorum Libri IV, Liber Quartus, Caput LVIII [Dialogues in Four Books, Book 4 Ch. 58], PL 77: 425D–428A. For a version of the legend that gave rise to the iconography of the Mass of Pope St. Gregory, see Jacopo da Voragine, Legendario delle vite de santi, composto in latino per il R.mo padre fra Iacobo de Voragine ... et tradotto in volgare per il R.P. Don Nicolò Manerbio venetiano, trans. Niccolò Manerbi (Venice: Gieronimo Polo, 1571), 58r. See the Canons on the Sacrifice of the Mass issued after the Twenty-Second Session (1562), Henry Joseph Schroeder, trans., Canons and Decrees of the Council of Trent (Rockford, IL: Tan Books and Publishers, Inc., 1978), 149–50. On Eucharistic devotion among Venetian sacrament confraternities in this period, see Richard MacKenney, “Continuity and Change in the Scuole Piccole of Venice, C. 1250–C. 1600,” Renaissance Studies 8 (1994): 395–98; Maurice E. Cope, The Venetian Chapel of the Sacrament in the Sixteenth Century (New York: Garland, 1979); and Stefania Mason, “Images of Christ for Venetian Piety and Devotions in the Light of the Council of Trent,” in New Perspectives on the Man of Sorrows, ed. Catherine R. Puglisi and William L. Barcham (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2013), 295–322. Similar depictions of Christ’s presence, manifested by his emergence from billowing clouds, can be found in Venetian commissioni, documents recording elections or appointments to high office. A particularly interesting example can be found in the commissione of Doge Nicolò da Ponte to Alvise Zusto, provveditore of Orzinuovi. For a discussion of this and related images, see Helena Szépe, “Painters and Patrons in Venetian Documents,” Bollettino Dei Musei Civici Veneziani 8 (2013): 32, 57, Fig. 43.

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unfolded in the city’s streets. There, in its role as processional standard, the crucifix set forth Christ as the paradigm of a willing and salvific death, providing prisoners with a guide and model for their own behavior. The Crucifix in the Streets In the mariegola illumination, within the altar-like frame and across from his praying confratello, one of the officers reaches out to grasp the base of the wooden crucifix (Fig. 10.1). This figure, in the left foreground, is most likely a portrait of the Scuola’s vicario, Zanpiero di Marchio, whose name appears in the inscription at the bottom left. According to the Scuola’s bylaws, only the vicario or his designee was authorized to carry the wooden crucifix in execution processions, and here he performs the role that is assigned to him in those bylaws.31 Alluding to both altar and procession, the illumination makes manifest the Scuola’s interest in linking the confraternity’s interior spaces of devotion with the external and public ritual of punishment. Public executions in Venice were understood as powerful deterrents and displays of the state’s power.32 With these goals in mind, the public nature of the event was essential, and its theatricality logical. The Piazzetta San Marco, the execution site, was an inherently theatrical location with profound religious and political resonance; with viewing positions from land, sea, and the buildings that flanked it, the Piazzetta served as the setting for a variety of spectacles, including the ritual of execution.33 Between the columns, instances of capital punishment could be observed not only by viewers below, but also by onlookers watching from the upper balconies and windows of the Doge’s Palace, from whose tribunals the death sentence had emerged. Also framing the spectacle were the fourteenth-century reliefs on the corner of the palace closest to the columns; these depict Adam and Eve with a judging, sword-bearing angel 31

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Carrying the crucifix was an honor. The vicario could assign someone else who had served on the banca, or board of officers, to carry it, but the confraternity was adamant that only authorized members were allowed to do so. ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione b. 5, reg. Obblighi, fol. 5v, 6r; and b. 2, reg. Compendio, fol. 12r. On the symbolism of the execution rite, see Edward Muir, Civic Ritual in Renaissance Venice (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981), 245–49; Lionello Puppi, “Il mito e la trasgressione: Liturgia urbana delle esecuzioni capitali a Venezia tra 14. e 18. secolo,” Studi Veneziani 15 (1989): 107–30; and Ruggiero, “Constructing Civic Morality.” On this point, see Eugene J. Johnson, “Jacopo Sansovino, Giacomo Torelli, and the Theatricality of the Piazzetta in Venice,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 59, no. 4 (2000): 436–53.

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above them. Thus, as the prisoner’s earthly punishment unfolded, onlookers would be reminded of man’s inherently sinful nature and the inevitability of divine judgment. As a piece of theater, however, public execution presented a peculiar challenge: the production’s protagonist, the condemned, was unlikely to be an enthusiastic participant. Nicholas Terpstra has suggested that governments permitted the conforteria in part for this very reason—comforting served the government’s interests by helping to align the behaviors of the condemned with the needs of the state, thus reducing the likelihood of a disruptive, protesting prisoner struggling violently against his fate.34 But while the comforting process may have served political ends, comforters themselves framed their actions in terms of concern for the soul of the condemned.35 The interaction between members of San Fantin and the condemned, often called the patiente (sufferer), was brief and intense. When the confraternity received notice of an execution, its brothers would be called to their meeting house (Fig. 10.7 A) to don their processional robes and to gather the necessary tools: processional candles, the wooden crucifix, a tavoletta (a hand-held panel painting representing Christ or the martyrdoms of the saints), and a smaller bronze crucifix to be used at the prison. The brothers would assemble to celebrate the Mass at an altar in the Scuola’s upper hall. From the meeting hall, they would process to the prison (Fig. 10.7 B).36 The small crucifix and the tavoletta would be delivered to the prison’s chapel, where a chaplain would also assist the prisoner. At the chapel, a powerful ritual of brotherly love unfolded. Placing the confraternity’s mantle, the patienza, over the prisoner’s shoulders, the guardian grande would “make a brief speech full of love and charity” and then proclaim that the condemned man was now a member of the Scuola.37 The induction of 34

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Nicholas Terpstra, “Piety and Punishment: The Lay Conforteria and Civic Justice in Sixteenth-Century Bologna,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 22, no. 4 (1991): 691–94. Terpstra focuses on the Bolognese comforting confraternity, Santa Maria della Morte. Ibid., 693. Various prisons existed in Venice, but after its construction in the late sixteenth century, the so-called Prigioni Nuove (see Fig. 10.7 B) near the Doge’s Palace served as the primary prison used for those accused of serious crimes. On the history of Venetian prisons, see Umberto Franzoi, Le prigioni della Repubblica di Venezia (Venice: Stamperia di Venezia, 1966). ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione b. 5, reg. Obblighi, Fontioni di giustitia, unpaginated. It is not clear whether this explicit initiation of the condemned into the confraternity was a practice shared by members of the conforteria in other cities. For instance, in a guide for comforters written by members of Santa Maria della Morte in

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FIGURE 10.7 Map with key sites in the Venetian execution ritual. Photo: Courtesy of Richard Depolo. Bologna, the condemned are referred to as “brothers” of the confratelli. See, for instance, “The Bologna Comforters’ Manual,” books 1 and 2, trans. Sheila Das, in Nicholas Terpstra, ed., The Art of Executing Well: Rituals of Execution in Renaissance Italy (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2008), 248–50 (bk. 2, chap. 2). The passage is discussed in Nicholas Terpstra, “Theory into Practice: Executing, Comforting, and Comforters,” in Terpstra, ed., The Art of Executing Well, 118–58 (especially 138–39). While this language suggests that the Bolognese conforteria also understood executed prisoners as members of the confraternal brotherhood, no ritual of initiation is described.

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a condemned criminal into a brotherhood normally reserved for upstanding men of widely recognized piety had a potent impact: as a brother of the confraternity, the prisoner was able to share in its spiritual treasures, which would lessen his time in purgatory. The induction ceremony was also a profound expression of the malefactor’s reintegration into the spiritual community and the social order. As we shall see, the induction anticipated that the condemned, now a member of a brotherhood dedicated to charity, would himself perform acts of Christian love on the scaffold. The death march of the patiente, accompanied by the crucifix and his new brethren, traversed the city. Typically, the prisoner would first be taken by boat to the city’s far end, to the Church of Santa Croce, where he would endure corporal punishment or mutilation before an ancient column known as the Column of Infamy (Fig. 10.7 C).38 Returning over land, the procession would also visit the churches of San Geminiano and San Marco (Fig. 10.7 D, E). The death march drew resonance from sacred history, and aspects of the ritual encouraged spectators to draw connections between the prisoner’s torments and Christ’s own via crucis. For instance, executions often unfolded at the hour of Christ’s death, while the infliction of ritual punishments before the Column of Infamy recalled Christ’s own Flagellation before a column.39 The Venetians had only to look to the legend of their beloved patron saint, Mark the Evangelist, to find another compelling account of a condemned prisoner led through a hostile city before suffering a brutal public death.40 Indeed, St. Mark’s legend even spoke to the tradition of comforting and its effects on the condemned. On the eve of his death, Mark was comforted in his cell by an angel and by Christ himself, whose assurances of salvation gave him courage. Thus fortified, Mark exemplified the willing acceptance of true martyrdom; 38

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Santa Croce, often called the Chiesa della Croce, no longer exists. The Column of Infamy is likely the ancient column now incorporated into a wall near the Giardini Papadopoli. For a brief history of Santa Croce, see Umberto Franzoi and Dina Di Stefano, Le chiese di Venezia (Venice: Alfieri, 1976), 85–86. On these aspects of the execution ritual, see also Traverso, La Scuola di San Fantin, 53–55. On the hour of Christ’s death, see Mark 15:25; and Traverso, La Scuola di San Fantin, 45–46. While the column is not mentioned in the Gospels, by the Middle Ages it was a standard part of the iconography of the Flagellation; Schiller cites examples dating as early as the ninth century. Schiller, Iconography, 2:66–68. For examples of this iconography from Venetian confraternity mariegole, see Lyle Humphrey, “From Column to Chalice: Passion Imagery in Venetian Mariegole Ca. 1320–1550,” in New Perspectives on the Man of Sorrows, ed. Catherine R. Puglisi and William L. Barcham (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2013), 219–56. Jacopo da Voragine, Legendario, 73v.

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according to popular hagiographical accounts, he died without fear or resistance, giving thanks to God. St. Mark’s performance of martyrdom was, of course, a compelling act of imitatio Christi, an imitation of Christ’s own receipt of comfort from an angel in the garden of Gethsemane, the torments of his Passion, and his ultimate acceptance of his agonizing death. Just as St. Mark imitated Christ, it was hoped that the prisoner would do so, thanks to the guidance offered by his comforters from San Fantin. The primary goal of comforters was to convince the prisoner to focus on saving his immortal soul. In cities across Italy, comforters urged the patiente to focus on the afterlife; while the machinery of earthly justice would not spare his body, willing submission to the sentence offered his soul the possibility of eternal rewards.41 To encourage this acceptance of the sentence, Italian rituals of comfort verbally reinforced the connection between the Passion, martyrdom, and the prisoner’s own suffering. For instance, in a guide for comforters, Marcello Mansi interweaves meditation on the Passion with elements drawn from the Italian execution ritual, in which prisoners were often made to kneel and kiss the crucifix on the scaffold.42 Mansi suggests that as the rope is placed around the prisoner’s neck, the comforter should remind him that Christ welcomed his own cross despite the many bodily torments he had already suffered; he further prescribes that the comforter should encourage the prisoner to imagine Christ, like the condemned, kneeling to kiss the cross.43 Evoking Christ’s agony in the garden of Gesthemane, the Florentine comforter Zanobi de’ Medici would remind prisoners that they “must with a calm and tranquil heart, with the highest peace and internal delight … drink with thanks to God this bitter chalice of death.”44 Comforters might also encourage prisoners to 41 42

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See, for example, “The Bologna Comforters’ Manual,” in Terpstra, ed., “The Bologna Comforters’ Manual,” 225 (bk.1). The Venetian diarist Marin Sanudo mentioned this aspect of the rite in his account of the execution of Bartolo di Maran in 1514. Marin Sanudo, I diarii di Marino Sanuto, vol. 18 (Venice: Visentini, 1887), cols. 47–48. The crucifix kissed on the scaffold was likely the small bronze implement carried by the chaplain or the guardian grande, although Pavanello quotes a document, without citing the archival source, stating that the wooden processional standard was also given to prisoners to kiss: Pavanello, La Scuola di S. Fantin, 15. Mansi, Documenti, 359. “[D]obbiamo con core quieto, et tranquillo, con somma pace, et gaudio interiore … bere con gratia del Signore questo amaro calice della morte: et dire col Saluatore. Pater si non potesti à me transire calix iste nisi bibam illum: fiat uoluntas tua.” Zanobi de’ Medici, Trattato utilissimo in conforto de condennati a morte per via di giustizia (Rome: Valerio Dorico, 1565), 8. Medici is paraphrasing Christ’s words in Matthew 26:39, 42.

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emulate the Good Thief, whose repentance and recognition of Christ as the Savior secured his place in paradise despite his earthly failings and shameful public death.45 The carrying of the wooden crucifix alongside the condemned amplified these associations. Christ’s body is rendered with sensitive and poignant realism (Fig. 10.2). The skin of his abdomen is pulled so taut that his ribs and muscles are clearly visible, and his bowed head and parted lips eloquently communicate his suffering. Christ’s acceptance of these torments, his lack of struggle or protest, served as the ultimate example for the condemned to imitate during their own brutal executions.46 The visual and symbolic links between the crucifixion of the innocent Christ and the execution of malefactors reinforced the central theme of the comforting ritual: whether innocent or guilty, those who find themselves on the scaffold are there because it is God’s will; and by imitating Christ, the patiente could transform his act of dying into a potent spiritual opportunity. The Crucifix and Charity Comforting was successful when it effected a visible and salubrious conversion of the prisoner’s attitude towards death, as his resistance and despair were replaced by acceptance and hope for the afterlife. Eyewitness accounts of execution suggest that often the prisoner did, in fact, undergo the very transformation that the comforting process encouraged. For instance, in 1513, Marin Sanudo witnessed the deaths of five men convicted of thievery and murder, including one named Alexandro Navajer: [the] execution of the gentlemen was dispatched at the usual time. Then the bell [rang]. There were many people in the piazza. First many guards and captains came out, and the Scuola di San Fantin, and the five [condemned men] … all in shirtsleeves, with only the usual black mantle, barefoot, and with hoods on their heads. They went through the piazza among the brothers who comforted them, kissing groups of friends who knew them, saying “go with God, pray to God for us”. Navajer walked steadily … Then the first, Navajer, said a few words, asking everyone to 45

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Gio. Battista Gargiaria, Conforto de gli afflitti condannati à morte del Dottor collegiato Gio. Battista Gargiaria Consigliere del Sereniss. Di Parma, vol. 1 (Piacenza: G. Bazachi, 1650), 64–65; and Medici, Trattato utilissimo, 16. See, for instance, Medici, Trattato utilissimo, 24–25.

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forgive him and to pray to God for him. It seemed that he died willingly; and he was beaten to death and placed underneath a mat.47 Sanudo’s comment that Navajer “died willingly” confirms that his death exemplified a successful execution, at least from the point of view of his comforters and spectators. His account also emphasizes the importance of communal acts of charity to the spiritual well-being of the condemned; at the scaffold, the five condemned men begged onlookers to pray for their souls, effectively asking them to perform charity on their behalf. Comforters saw the extreme physical torment endured by Christ as his own central act of charity and a clear demonstration of his love for humanity. By imitating Christ at the scaffold, the patiente, now a member of the confraternity, could himself engage in salvific acts of charity, both by demonstrating love for God and by helping other members of the community. For instance, on the scaffold, Italian comforters encouraged the condemned to forgive their executioners, just as Christ begged God’s forgiveness for his own tormenters.48 One comforting guide suggested that prisoners might reframe their ordeal as their own act of salvific charity towards the community, for the sight of repentant evildoers being punished might convince other law breakers to mend their ways.49 Similarly, if the prisoner forgave the executioner, judges, and community that witnessed his death, he would perform a work of spiritual mercy by bearing wrongs and forgiving offenses.50 This cycle of charity might also extend to the onlookers who gathered to watch executions. Spectators at executions were understood as more than mere observers. Rather, they were active participants in a devotional performance with essential roles to play in the drama of salvation. The confratelli of San Fantin encouraged spectators to reject the part of the jeering onlooker, blind to the unfolding miracle as Christ dies on the Cross, and to perform instead the role of devotee who recognizes execution as a manifestation of 47

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“Fo expedita la justitia contra i zentilhomeni a l’hora solita. Poi la campana, era assà zente in piazza; et sono menati fuora prima molti zaffi e capitanii, e la scuola di San Fantin, et i cinque, … tutti in camisa, con la tela negra solita sola, e discalzi, e scufioni in testa. Li qual andando per la piaza in mezo de frati che li confortava, andavano basando brigate che li cognosceva, dicendo: “Stè con Dio, pregè Dio per nui.” El Navajer andoe molto constante … Or il primo Navajer disse poche parole pregando tutti li perdonasse e pregase Dio per lui; par morisse ben disposto; e fo scopato et posto soto una stuora.” Marin Sanudo, I diarii di Marino Sanuto, vol. 17 (Venice: Visentini, 1886), cols. 76–77. Luke 23:34. On forgiveness as part of the comforting ritual, see, for instance, Medici, Trattato utilissimo, 24–25; Terpstra, ed., “The Bologna Comforters’ Manual,” 271 (bk. 2). Medici, Trattato utilissimo, 12–13. Ibid., 24–25; Terpstra, ed.,“The Bologna Comforters’ Manual,” 271 (bk. 2).

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God’s will and who feels compassion in the face of suffering. In part, they led by example, modeling compassion for their beleaguered fellow man. The task of their paid agent, known as the cercante della città, was more explicit. At executions, the cercante would repeatedly implore the crowd to pray for the condemned, to offer “a Pater Noster and an Ave Maria for this our brother.”51 In other processions, the cercante would likewise beseech the crowd to give alms for the miraculous wooden crucifix of San Fantin. In both of these cases, the cercante was essentially asking spectators to perform acts of charity, whether in the form of alms before the crucifix or prayers for the patiente. His exhortations confirm that in a good execution, the prisoner, the confraternity, and the community could be profitably bound together in the spiritual sense. Central to this cycle of charity was Christ’s sacrifice, embodied by the wooden crucifix that united the altar and the scaffold. While we have little visual evidence for the use of the wooden crucifix at Venetian execution processions, a painting by Giovanni Boranga depicting a funeral procession at Venice’s ceremonial center gives us some sense of what such a procession might have looked like (Fig. 10.8). Here, the robed brethren of another small Venetian confraternity, the Scuola del Cristo, process through the Piazzetta San Marco. Bearing flickering candles and a large white crucifix, they slowly move past groups of onlookers, carrying the coffin of an unknown victim of drowning.52 In the left foreground, a hooded confratello gestures towards a kneeling woman at the right, beseeching her to pray for the soul of the dead man. Her attention, though, is focused on the crucifix. With her arms outstretched and her face turned up towards Christ, she performs both amor Dei and amor proximi. Praying to God for the soul of the deceased, she displays the piety expected of a beholder and serves as a surrogate and guide for the viewer of the picture. In the crucifix depicted in Boranga’s picture, Christ’s body is polychrome and brightly illuminated, suggesting his presence in the Piazzetta as the procession unfolds. In the case of San Fantin, an even stronger claim of Christ’s presence in the streets was made by the crucifix’s transferability from altar to scaffold. In the oratory, the crucifix stood on an altar imbued with Christ’s Real Presence, and the object retained these associations in the streets. Devotees could observe the crucifix on the altar, partake of Christ’s body and blood, and demonstrate their love for God. Following the crucifix along the processional 51 52

ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 5, reg. Obblighi, Oblighi del Cercante della Città, unpaginated. On the Scuola del Cristo, or the Scuola del Santissimo Crocefisso in San Marcuola, see Gastone Vio, Le scuole piccole nella Venezia dei dogi, vol. 1 (Vicenza: Colla Editore, 2004), 484–86.

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FIGURE 10.8 Giovanni Boranga, Procession of the Scuola del Cristo to Bury a Drowned Man, oil on canvas, Venice, Museo Diocesano, 1700. Photo: Donald Carroll with permission of the Curia Patriarcale di Venezia.

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route leading to the scaffold, they could likewise perform acts of love towards their fellow man by offering prayers and compassion. Almsgiving and devotion at the crucifix altar in the oratory were quite popular, and while compassion surely did not fill the hearts of all spectators, many Venetians did indeed perform acts of charity and devotion at the scaffold.53 San Fantin’s use of the wooden crucifix connected these two ritual contexts, and reminded onlookers that the two aspects of Christian love, amor proximi and amor Dei, were actually inseparable. Christ’s enumeration of the acts of brotherly love in the Gospel of Matthew is followed by his revelation that an act of charity towards the needy is itself an act of love for God: “Amen I say to you, as long as you did it to one of these the least of my brethren, you did it to me.”54 In a guide to consoling the dying, Vincenzo Auruccio also makes explicit the unity between amor proximi and amor Dei. Man is made in God’s image, and therefore it follows that honest love for one’s neighbor is closely joined with the love of God, that with the same charity and love, we love God, and we also love our neighbor in God, and for God. So says the sainted Apostle: He who loves his neighbor fulfills the law. Therefore, where the need of the neighbor is greatest, there with the greatest charity one must fill it.55

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For instance, in exchange for a donation to the Scuola di San Fantin, members of the clergy and the patrician class could (and did) don the cappa and follow the wooden crucifix along the via crucis. Surviving lists of clergy and patricians who participated in execution and burial processions can be found in ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 36, reg. Registro dei Guisticiati. Matthew 25:37–40. “E perche quest’huomo fù creato da Dio à simiglianza sua, e per se stesso, sequita, che è tanto congionto l’amore honesto del prossimo all’amore di Dio, che con l’istessa Carità, & amore amiamo Dio, amiamo anco il prossimo in Dio, e per Dio. E però disse l’Apostolo santo. Chi ama il prossimo, adempisce la legge. Dove dunque è maggiore il bisogno del prossimo, iui con maggior carità supplire si deve.” Vincenzo Auruccio, Rituario per quelli, che havendo cura d’Anime, desiderano come buoni Pastori, vegliare sopra il grege à loro commesso da Dio … (Rome: Zannetti, 1611), 5–6. Auruccio is drawing upon St. Paul in Romans 13:8. First published in 1586, the Rituario was condemned in 1671, but it was still in use in Venice in the eighteenth century. For another late sixteenth-century Venetian source that similarly expresses the unity of amor Dei and amor proximi, see Sansovino’s Italian translation of the fourteenth-century Vita Christi of Ludolph of Saxony: Landolfo di Sassonia, Vita di Giesu Christo Nostro Redentore, trans. Francesco Sansovino (Altobello Salicato, 1589), pt. 2, 84–85. On almsgiving and good works as both spiritual and corporal works of mercy, see also Christopher Black, Italian Confraternities in the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 12–13.

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FIGURE 10.9 Anonymous, The Virgin Mary and St. Jerome, tempera and gold on vellum, c. 1567–80. Miniature excised from ASVe, Scuola Grande di Santa Maria della Consolazione, b. 2, reg. Mariegola (1562–1756), c. 3r. Now lost, reproduced in Giuseppe Pavanello, La Scuola di S. Fantin ora Ateneo Veneto (Venice: Officine Grafiche Vittorio Callegari, 1914, Tav. V). Inscribed on the frame: (left) “VBI CARITAS ET AMOR IBI DEVS EST” and (bottom) “LA SCOLA DI S. MARIA MATER IHS, DEPVTA ALLA GIVSTITIA”. The date at the bottom of the frame is not fully legible. Photo: Book and ­photograph in the public domain.

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Once again, the mariegola illumination with which this essay opened (Fig. 10.1) confirms the complex meanings embedded within the crucifix by its use in different ritual contexts. The confratelli depicted in the illumination enact the charity that they encouraged the condemned and spectators to perform during these rituals of devotion and punishment. One confratello prays, demonstrating amor Dei; another grasps the base of the cross, ready to venture forth in aid of the condemned, the confraternity’s central act of amor proximi. Both look to the wooden crucifix as exemplar and inspiration. Another miniature that has been excised from the mariegola further reminded the confraternity that these two expressions of love were closely intertwined (Fig. 10.9).56 This second illuminated page originally formed part of a two-page spread facing the crucifix with confratelli.57 The lost miniature depicts the Scuola’s patron saints, Jerome and the Virgin. The surrounding frame is inscribed with the words “VBI CARITAS ET AMOR IBI DEVS EST”: where there are love and charity, there is God.58 The phrase captures the same notion embodied by the crucifix: God is present in every act of Christian love, even those enacted at the scaffold. The unity between amor Dei and amor proximi, expressed so vividly in the crucifix’s form and ritual uses, helps us to comprehend the Scuola’s efforts to interweave the meaning of public execution and the liturgy of the Mass. For the condemned, the act of dying in imitation of Christ could become an expression of charity and a vehicle of salvation. And for Venetians who performed devotions in the oratory and who bore witness at the scaffold, the wooden crucifix of San Fantin was a powerful reminder that their love for the pitiful condemned, surely among the least of Christ’s brethren, also demonstrated their love of God. 56 57

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The missing illumination is reproduced in Pavanello, Scuola di S. Fantin, Tav. V. This arrangement followed a long visual practice. As Lyle Humphrey has shown, many mariegole include full-page illuminations depicting moments from Christ’s Passion, including flagellation scenes, crucifixions, and representations of the Man of Sorrows. Often, these were bound within the volume as one side of what Humphrey terms a ‘parchment diptych,’ with a facing page representing the confraternity’s patron saints or its members engaged in acts of devotion. Humphrey, “From Column to Chalice,” 226–30, 235; and Humphrey, “Confraternity and Guild Statutes,” 199–200. The San Fantin illumination is both deeply rooted in this tradition and innovative in its claims. The line derives from a hymn traditionally sung on Maundy Thursday. The phrase, which beautifully expresses the fundamental ideology of Venetian confraternal life, also appears on processional paraphernalia used by the Scuola Grande della Carità, and on the entrance to the Scuola Grande di San Marco. See Brian S. Pullan, “Poveri, mendicanti e vagabondi (secoli XIV–XVII),” in Poverty and Charity: Europe, Italy, Venice, 1400–1700 (Aldershot and Brookfield, VT: Variorum, 1994), 1043–44; and Marin Sanudo, I diarii di Marino Sanuto, vol. 42 (Venice: Visentini, 1895), col. 66.

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Chapter 11

The Performance of Devotion: Ritual and Patronage at the Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso in Rome Kira Maye Albinsky* The Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso stands in the center of Rome, just off the city’s principal north-south thoroughfare near the church of San Marcello al Corso. Between 1578 and 1584, six leading Roman artists decorated the prayer hall’s walls (Fig. 11.1) with scenes from the story of the Invention and Exaltation of the True Cross, a subject of great significance to the oratory’s patron, the Arci­ confraternita del SS. Crocifisso di San Marcello a Roma. Unique among Roman oratories, the cycle also illustrates four episodes from the confraternity’s own history on the entrance wall.1 Founded in 1522 to promote the cult of the holy crucifix of San Marcello, the company was one of the rare sodalities in Rome principally committed to a miracle-working image, and the only confraternity * A version of this paper was presented in the Society for Confraternity Studies panels at the 2014 Renaissance Society of America Annual Meeting. I am grateful to Diana Bullen Presciutti, whose recommendations significantly improved the final manuscript. The chapter derives from my dissertation. I wish to thank Catherine Puglisi, Sarah Blake McHam, and Benjamin Paul for their support and guidance. Grants from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, which I gratefully acknowledge, supported research for the project. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are mine. 1 Josephine von Henneberg’s 1974 monograph on the oratory remains an essential source for the prayer hall’s documentation. Specialized studies by Rhoda Eitel-Porter and Stefano Pierguidi have correctly revised her chronology of the frescoes’ execution. See Josephine von Henneberg, L’Oratorio dell’Arciconfraternita del Santissimo Crocifisso di San Marcello (Rome: Bulzoni, 1974), 63–83; Stefano Pierguidi, “Note su Cesare Nebbia e l’Oratorio del Crocifisso,” Studi di storia dell’arte 10 (1999): 267–78; Rhoda Eitel-Porter, “The Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso in Rome Revisited,” Burlington Magazine 142, no. 1171 (2000): 613–23. See also Paolo Mancini and Giuseppe Scarfone, L’Oratorio del SS.mo Crocifisso, 2nd ed. (Rome: Cassa di Risparmio di Roma, 1983), 36–47; Angela Negro, “Oratorio del Crocifisso, il ciclo cinquecentesco: De’ Vecchi, Nebbia, Circignani,” in Restauri d’arte e Giubileo: Gli interventi della Soprintendenza per i Beni Artistici e Storici di Roma nel Piano per il Grande Giubileo del 2000, ed. Angela Negro (Naples: Electa Napoli, 2001), 47–57; Enzo Fagiolo, “Le storie dell’Arciconfraternita del SS. Crocifisso di S. Marcello negli affreschi dell’Oratorio,” Strenna dei romanisti 66 (2005): 321–31; Stefano Pierguidi, “Un cantiere ‘gregoriano’ fuori dal Vaticano: L’Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso,” in Unità e frammenti di modernità: arte e scienza nella Roma di Gregorio XIII Boncompagni, 1572–1585, ed. Claudia Cieri Via, Ingrid D. Rowland, and Marco Ruffini (Pisa: Serra, 2012), 265–75.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_013

FIGURE 11.1 Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome.

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dedicated to a miraculous image of Christ on the cross. When displayed to the public or carried in procession, the company’s crucifix fused the interior space of the church and oratory with the exterior space of the city and linked the private devotion of the sodality’s members to the popular piety of the crucifix’s devotees, integrating the confraternity within the early modern city. This chapter examines the public performance of the confraternity’s devotion to its crucifix in religious rituals and urban processions after the Council of Trent (1545–63) and explores how these performances informed the meaning of the post-Tridentine frescoes in the Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso. After briefly reviewing the confraternity’s history, the chapter begins with a discussion of the devotional practices and processions surrounding the cult of the holy crucifix and demonstrates the company’s singular cultic devotion to a miracle-working crucifix. The discussion then offers an interpretation of the oratory’s frescoes, one of only three Roman oratories adorned with pictorial cycles in the sixteenth century.2 Asserting the close interdependence of art patronage and religious rituals in Rome after the Council of Trent, the study identifies the contemporary sources for the oratory’s iconography, which highlight the confraternity’s principal feasts and its commitment to a renewed and reformed Church. The chapter then analyzes the central role of spectacle in the frescoes’ formal structure and recovers the devotional function of this important but often neglected example of post-Tridentine art. At the Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, art patronage and religious rituals united to create a space for the artful construction of corporate identity in post-Tridentine Rome. The Arciconfraternita del SS. Crocifisso in Its Urban Context: Miracles, Relics, and Processions Two miraculous events inspired the foundation of the Holy Crucifix confraternity. On the night of 22 May 1519, the church of San Marcello suffered a devastating fire. When the smoke cleared, a wooden crucifix emerged, a miraculous survivor of the flames. A group of Romans began to gather each week in 2 The other two are the Oratorio di San Giovanni Decollato and the Oratorio del Gonfalone. See Rolf E. Keller, Das Oratorium von San Giovanni Decollato in Rom: Eine Studie seiner Fresken (Rome: Institut suisse, 1976); Jean S. Weisz, Pittura e Misericordia: The Oratory of S. Giovanni Decollato in Rome (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1984); Maria Grazia Bernardini, ed., L’Oratorio del Gonfalone a Roma: Il ciclo cinquecentesco della Passione di Cristo (Cinisello Balsamo, Milano: Silvana, 2002); Barbara Wisch and Nerida Newbigin, Acting on Faith: The Confraternity of the Gonfalone in Renaissance Rome (Philadelphia, PA: St. Joseph’s University Press, 2013), 394–453.

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the church to venerate the holy object. When the plague struck Rome in 1522, the titular cardinal of San Marcello, Raimondo de Vico (d. 1525), organized a penitential procession of the crucifix from San Marcello to St. Peter’s Basilica. Over the course of sixteen days in August, devotees accompanied by nobles, ecclesiastics, barefoot youths with their heads covered in ashes, and Roman citizens in black habits carried the cross through each rione (district) of Rome until it reached the Vatican. As they marched, they solicited the cross’s intervention against the disease with cries of, “Mercy, Holy Crucifix!” Shortly thereafter, the plague miraculously ended, and the confraternity was established to promote the cult of the wondrous crucifix.3 The pious union quickly became one of Rome’s most elite and influential confraternities. On 28 May 1526, Pope Clement VII de’ Medici (r. 1523–34) approved the sodality’s statutes. Recalling the penitential nature of its foundation, the company took as its habit a black robe, without a mozzetta (short cape), with an image of the crucifix on the left shoulder and a black cord at the waist from which a flagellant’s whip hung. The crucifix flanked by confraternity brothers in black habits and unmarried women to whom the company gave dowries served as the confraternity’s emblem.4 Nearly thirty years later, on 27 April 1554, Julius III del Monte (r. 1550–55) granted the association the privilege of liberating a condemned prisoner on one of the feasts of the True Cross, namely, the Feast of the Invention of the Cross in May or the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross in September.5 By the middle of the century, the confraternity’s membership reached ex­­ traordinary levels. Its membership album from 1550 to 1557 includes more than 3 For these events, see Statuti et ordini della venerabile Archicompagnia del Santiss. Cro­cefisso in Santo Marcello di Roma con l’origine d’essa (Rome: apud Antonium Bladum Impress. Cam., 1565); Jean Delumeau, “Une confrérie romaine au XVIe siècle: L’Arcicon­fraternita del SSmo Crocefisso in S. Marcello,” Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire 63 (1951): 281–82; Matizia Maroni Lumbroso and Antonio Martini, Le confraternite romane nelle loro chiese (Rome: Fondazione Marco Besso, 1963), 106; Von Henneberg, L’Oratorio, 11; Mancini and Scarfone, L’Oratorio del SS.mo Crocifisso, 7–8; Antonio Vannugli, “L’arciconfraternita del SS. Crocifisso e la sua cappella in San Marcello,” in Le confraternite romane: Esperienza religiosa, società, commitenza artistica, ed. Luigi Fiorani (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1984), 431. 4 Statuti, chap. XXXI. The company’s statutes are unpaginated. I give chapter references when possible. Versions of the emblem appear on the statutes’ frontispiece and in the tympana of the painted tabernacles in the oratory. 5 For the historical events described here and in the next paragraph, see Statuti; Maroni Lumbroso and Martini, Le confraternite romane, 106–7; Von Henneberg, L’Oratorio, 11–12; Mancini and Scarfone, L’Oratorio del SS.mo Crocifisso, 9–10; Vannugli, “L’arciconfraternita del SS. Crocifisso,” 431–32.

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1,800 male members, an astonishing 4 per cent of Rome’s estimated population of 45,000, and an even greater share of the laity in a city dominated by clerics.6 Furthermore, the book counts several members of Rome’s most noble families among the confraternity’s ranks, including the Orsini, Crescenzi, Capranica, Mattei, Carafa, Colonna, and Farnese. Cardinal Alessandro Farnese (1520–89), the most formidable patron in late sixteenth-century Rome, served as its cardinal protector between 1565 and 1589.7 Likely recognizing the group’s growing influence, Pope Pius IV de’ Medici (r. 1559–65) formally elevated the confraternity to the status of an archconfraternity on 15 May 1564, in the presence of his cardinal nephew, Carlo Borromeo (1538–84). The distinction allowed the company to aggregate other confraternities, and by 1600 the company incorporated some 250 confraternities from across Europe.8 Thus, within forty years of its foundation, the company rose to the highest echelons of Roman society, enjoying the patronage of the papal court and Rome’s most noble families as well as a vast and diverse following. As a devotional confraternity, the sodality expressed its commitment to venerating the holy crucifix and propagating its cult through religious rituals and processions. Such public acts of devotion also served to define the group’s 6 The list of female members from these years does not survive. In total, the book lists 1,867 names. However, some names are repeated, making an exact count of the association’s male members difficult. See Archivio Segreto Vaticano (hereafter ASV), Arciconfraternita del Crocifisso di San Marcello (hereafter ACSM), Z-I-48: Album dei Fratelli dal 1550 al 1557. For Rome’s population, see Christopher F. Black, Italian Confraternities in the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 284–85. 7 For discussions of the confraternity’s membership, see Delumeau, “Une confrérie romaine,” 289–99; Vannugli, “L’arciconfraternita del SS. Crocifisso,” 429–31. On Cardinal Alessandro Farnese’s patronage, see Clare Robertson, “Il Gran Cardinale”: Alessandro Farnese, Patron of the Arts (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992). 8 Delumeau, “Une confrérie romaine,” 305. The confraternity seems to have been one of the first companies elevated to the rank of an archconfraternity. Rome’s oldest confraternity, the Gonfalone, became an archconfraternity only in 1579, for instance. Most sources list the date of the Crocifisso’s promotion as 14 May 1564. However, von Henneberg noted that a document dated 26 February 1563, already referred to the confraternity as an archconfraternity. She also observed that a different hand added the date on the copy of Pius IV’s brief preserved in the association’s archive at a later date. Thus, she gave the date as 1563. More recently, Antonio Vannugli has argued that the brief’s date had been erroneously transcribed and was, in fact, 15 May 1564, the same date given in the statutes. He also introduced an earlier bull, dated 18 April 1561, in which the pope recognized the company as an archconfraternity, and thus gave the date as 1561, suggesting the brief of 15 May 1564, confirmed the group’s new status. I have used 15 May 1564, here because it is the date recognized in the company’s statutes. See Statuti; Von Henneberg, L’Oratorio, 12; Vannugli, “L’arciconfraternita del SS. Crocifisso,” 432.

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collective identity as an association committed to the reformation of the Catholic Church after the Council of Trent. As the company’s printed 1565 statutes explain, the company limited access to its crucifix in order to heighten devotion to the holy object: So that more honored, and with more devotion and greatness to His holy name, it be desired to see it, we order and decree that the most holy image of the most holy crucifix be kept closed with its keys and not opened but for four times a year: Good Friday, the Feast of the Cross in May, the day of the procession of Corpus Christi, and the Feast of the Cross in September.9 Thus, at a time when the Catholic Church had reaffirmed the veneration of relics in the twenty-fifth session of the Council of Trent, the confraternity focused its devotion on a cult object that functioned like a relic.10 The cross was kept under lock and key and rarely displayed so that its power might be heightened and devotion to it stimulated. Furthermore, it was to be venerated by the public, and through it, the faithful believed God could act. The statutes also prescribed solemn rituals for the unveiling of the cross in the Cappella del SS. Crocifisso in San Marcello, where the company displayed its crucifix on Good Friday, Corpus Christi, and the Feasts of the Invention and Exaltation of the True Cross.11 For example, the instructions for opening the crucifix on Good Friday were as follows: The Guardians, Treasurer, and Tredici [counselors by rione] with all of the archconfraternity with their sackcloth habits and candles of yellow wax, and with the four big torches and large lantern […] must go to the sacristy and together with the friars take the wood of the most Holy Cross and in procession, singing that which is appropriate on that holy day, exit by the 9

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“Acciò piu honorato, & con piu devotione & grandezza del suo santo Nome sia desiderato vederlo. Ordinamo & statuimo ch’ essa santissim’ Immagine del Santissimo Crocefisso si debbia tener’ serrata con sue chiave, & quella non aprire se non quattro volte l’anno. Il Vener’ santo. La Festa di santa Croce di Maggio. Il giorno della Processione del Corpo di Christo. Et la Festa de santa Croce di settembre.” Statuti, chap. XXVI. Canons and Decrees of the Council of Trent, trans. Henry Joseph Schroeder (St. Louis, MO: B. Herder, 1941), 215–17. This is the same decree in which the council dealt with the invocation of saints and the use of sacred images. It should be noted that the crucifix seen on the oratory’s altar in Fig. 11.1 is not the miracleworking cross. The miraculous crucifix was, and still is, kept in the Cappella del SS. Crocifisso in San Marcello.

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small door, circle around the Palazzo Salviati, enter by the main door, and piously present themselves in the Cappella del SS. Crocifisso, placing the wood of the most Holy Cross on the altar, opening [the altar], and singing the hymns as described.12 This process was repeated with small variations in order to close the crucifix and also on the association’s other feast days. Here, the text conflates the crucifix with a relic of the True Cross, “il legno della santissima Croce.” The passage undoubtedly refers to the opening of the crucifix, as it appears under the heading, “Della cura et ordine d’aprir’ il Santissimo Crocefisso” (On the care and order of opening the Holy Crucifix). However, it emphasizes the presentation of pieces of the True Cross, which had been in the confraternity’s possession since the 1550s.13 The slippage is telling: the crucifix gained power from its association with the cross, as if the crucifix’s story was another chapter in the sacred history of Christ’s cross. Great urban processions accompanied the cross’s unveiling and other important holidays. As outlined by the statutes, the confraternity was obliged to go in procession on four occasions a year: Epiphany, Holy Thursday or Good Friday, the Feast of the True Cross in May or September, and Corpus Christi.14 Meeting minutes and payment records indicate the grandeur of these events. During the Jubilee of 1550, the company joined the Gonfalone, Rome’s oldest confraternity, in its Good Friday procession to St. Peter’s, at the special request of Pope Julius III.15 To commemorate the day of Christ’s crucifixion, 12

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“li Sig. Guardiani, Camerlengo, & Tredici con tutta l’Arciconfraternità con suoi sacchi & lumi di cera gialla, & con li quattro facoloni, & lanternone […] andare alla sagrestia, & insieme con i Frati pilgiar’ il legno della santissima Croce, et processionalmente cantando quello ch’ in quel’ giorno santo si conviene, escir’ della porta piccola circuendo intorno il Palazzo de Salviati, entrar’ per la porta grande, & devotamente presentarsi alla Cappella del Santissimo Crocefisso, posando il legno della santiss. Croce sull’Altare, et quello aprir’, cantando l’Hymni come s’ è detto.” Statuti, chap. XXVI. The confraternity recorded the donation of reliquaries containing two pieces of the True Cross on 10 January 1552. It ordered a model for a tabernacle for the relics from the architect Nanni di Baccio Bigio (d. 1568), a confraternity member. The tabernacle does not survive, but the contract for it does. It was drawn with the goldsmith Francesco de Valenti on 20 April 1552. See ASV, ACSM, P-I-55: Congregazioni e Decreti dal 1544 al 1563, fol. 126 (20 January 1552); Josephine von Henneberg, “Annibale Lippi, S. Chiara a Monte Cavallo, and the Villa Medici in Rome,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 48, no. 3 (1989): 255, n. 56. Statuti, chap. XXVII. For this event, see ASV, ACSM, A-XI-14: Entrata e Uscita dal 1549 e 1550, fols. 14r–22r; Delumeau, “Une confrérie romaine,” 287.

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the confraternity draped San Marcello in black cloth. It commissioned a tremendous casket for its miraculous crucifix, which required twenty men to carry it in procession, and purchased cloth to wrap around the crucifix. In later years, the task of planning this bier was given to designers of the first rank, including the Roman noble and confraternity brother Tommaso dei Cavalieri (c. 1512–87) and the architects Girolamo Rainaldi (1570–1655) and Carlo Fontana (1634–1714).16 Orders “to make wings and hair for the angels” suggest that young boys, who are unusually prominent in the oratory’s decoration, went dressed as angels in the cortege.17 Alternatively, the sodality may have adorned the crucifix’s bier with sculpted angels, a practice documented in 1700.18 Payments to singers from St. Peter’s, San Luigi dei Francesi, San Lorenzo in Damaso, and Cardinal de’ Medici’s household demonstrate that choirs punctuated the assembly, while purchases of wine, whips, and habits for the flagellants and their comforters reflect the event’s penitential nature. Other participants carried gilded arms and batons or candles with painted crucifixes attached. In total, the historian Jean Delumeau calculated the confraternity spent nearly one-fifth of its income for the year on the procession.19 Beginning in 1557, the company was distinguished, together with the Gonfalone, as one of the select participants in the city’s great Holy Thursday procession initiated by Pope Paul IV Carafa (r. 1555–59).20 Records of the confraternity’s meeting on 27 March 1593 demonstrate the event’s growing 16 17

18

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Barbara Fabjan et al., “Il restauro del Crocifisso di San Marcello a Roma: Conservazione ed esigenze di culto,” Kermes 14 (2001): 28, 30. “per fare le ale et capigliare alli angeli”: ASV, ACSM, A-XI-14, fol. 14r (27 March 1550). Boys appear in the Miracle of the True Cross (Fig. 11.2), Procession of the Crucifix against the Plague of 1522 (Fig. 11.8), and Vision of Heraclius (Fig. 11.4). See Distinta relazione della machina, luminari, fanali, & altro di più solenne fatto dalla Vener. Archiconfr. del SS. Crocifisso in S. Marcello di Roma in occasione della celebre processione da essa fatta la sera del Giovedì Santo del presente Anno (Rome: per Gio. Francesco Buagni, 1700). Delumeau, “Une confrérie romaine,” 287. For the Holy Thursday and Good Friday processions, see Barbara Wisch, “New Themes for New Rituals: The Crucifixion Altarpiece by Roviale Spagnuolo for the Oratory of the Gonfalone in Rome,” in Confraternities and the Visual Arts in Renaissance Italy: Ritual, Spectacle, Image, ed. Barbara Wisch and Diane Cole Ahl (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 203–34; Margaret Kuntz, “Designed for Ceremony: The Cappella Paolina at the Vatican Palace,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 62, no. 2 (2003): 228– 55; Wisch and Newbigin, Acting on Faith, 395–98. The English priest Gregory Martin (ca. 1542–82) vividly described the Maundy Thursday procession he witnessed during his stay in Rome in 1576–78. See Gregory Martin, Roma Sancta (1581), ed. George Burner Parks (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1969), 89–90.

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splendor. Confraternity members were assigned to invite thirty-one distinguished dignitaries to the event, including the Spanish ambassador and the pope’s cardinal nephew, Pietro Aldobrandini (1571–1621). Others were asked to order and guide the procession, restore the processional crosses and batons, acquire the necessary wax, and enlist 200 men to carry the fiaccole (torches). Two were given the honor of preparing the company’s processional crucifix— a replica of its miracle-working cross, which was carried in procession only during Holy Years—and granted the authority to spend as much as needed. As in 1550, flagellants accompanied the assembly, and the confraternity arranged to provide comforters, wine, and other necessities for them. Finally, confraternity members were deputized to organize the music. One was responsible for hiring a sixteen-voice choir from Santa Maria Maggiore, and two others were assigned to direct the music. In all, nearly 300 individuals participated.21 Although often described as presenting only the outward appearance of piety, such spectacular events manifested the company’s commitment to igniting devotion to the crucifix through performance and demonstrated its obedience to the reforms of Trent, which recognized the power of ceremony and spectacle to stimulate piety.22 Already in 1554, the confraternity recognized the ceremonial unveiling and procession of its cross as an opportunity to present itself as an exemplary model to Christian viewers and a chance “to move them to devotion by the spectacle of the miraculous crucifix,” when it voted to join the general assembly ordered by Julius III to celebrate the return of England to the Catholic Church.23 At Trent, the Church affirmed the utility of such ceremonies in the liturgy. The council explained that “since the nature of man is such that he cannot without external means be raised easily to meditation on divine things,” the Mass employs “mystical blessings, lights, incense, vestments and many other things” so that “the minds of the faithful [might be] excited by those visible signs of religion and piety to the contemplation of those most sublime things which are hidden in this sacrifice.”24 As the most visible manifestation of the company’s devotion to its crucifix, processions and exhibitions of the cross asserted the confraternity’s presence in the city and inscribed the cult of the miraculous cross throughout the urban 21 22

23 24

ASV, ACSM, P-I-59: Congregazioni e Decreti dal 1589 al 1593, fols. 48–50 (27 March 1593). The Catholic Church’s appeal to the senses in art and religious practice after Trent has recently been explored in Marcia B. Hall and Tracy E. Cooper, eds., The Sensuous in the Counter-Reformation Church (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013). “a moversi a divotione per il spettaculo, de quel miraculoso Crucifisso”: ASV, ACSM, P-I-55, fol. 192 (16 December 1554). Canons and Decrees, 147.

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landscape. The confraternity carried the “visible signs” of piety usually consigned to the private space of the chapel or oratory out into the public sphere of the city. Candles flickered, incense burned, flagellants bled, and choirs sang as confraternity members guided the crucifix through the city streets. The company performed its devotion to the cross publically so that others might be moved “to devotion by the spectacle of the miraculous crucifix.” Blurring the line between public and private, these rituals and ceremonies integrated the confraternity into Rome’s city fabric. Venerating the True Cross and the Miraculous Crucifix in the Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso The pictorial decoration of the Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso expressed the confraternity’s dedication to arousing devotion through spectacle as well as its commitment to restoring the Catholic faith following the Council of Trent. On 3 February 1578, the confraternity appointed Tommaso dei Cavalieri and the painter Girolamo Muziano (1532–92) to oversee the oratory’s embellishment.25 The two were then collaborating in the Cappella Gregoriana in St. Peter’s, with Cavalieri developing the chapel’s iconography and Muziano its artistic program. They almost certainly filled the same roles at the oratory.26 Under their direction, Giovanni de’ Vecchi (1536–1615), Cesare Nebbia (1536–1614), and Niccolò Circignani (d. after 1596) adorned the prayer hall’s main walls with lavish frescoes between 1578 and 1583. Set within a decorative framework, the paintings narrate the story of the finding and recovery of the True Cross by St. Helena and the Byzantine emperor Heraclius, the events celebrated by the confraternity on its principal feasts in 25

26

Best remembered today as the intimate friend of Michelangelo (1475–1564), Cavalieri was an active member of the confraternity from about 1555 until his death in 1587. He served as a guardian of the company in 1565, when Alessandro Farnese was elected cardinal protector. He participated in the finding of a site for the oratory, the composition of its façade inscription, the direction of its interior decoration, and the commission of its wooden ceiling (now destroyed). His eldest son Mario (d. 1580) was guardian in 1573 and 1579, when Tommaso was overseeing the oratory’s decoration. His younger son Emilio (d. 1602), a famous musician, directed the sodality’s music from 1573 to 1583. Tommaso’s dedication to the association is attested by his request to be buried in its habit. See Von Henneberg, L’Oratorio, 12–16, 24, 26, 41–50, 63–64; Christoph Luitpold Frommel, Michelangelo und Tommaso dei Cavalieri (Amsterdam: Castrvm Peregrini Presse, 1979), 90. See Von Henneberg, L’Oratorio, 64; Patrizia Tosini, Girolamo Muziano, 1532–1592: Dalla maniera alla natura (Rome: U. Bozzi, 2008), 220–32.

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FIGURE 11.2 Niccolò Circignani, Miracle of the True Cross, 1578–83, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome. Photo: Alessandro Vasari.

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FIGURE 11.3 Niccolò Circignani, Duel between Heraclius and Chosroes, 1578–83, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome.

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May and September. On the right wall of the oratory (Fig. 11.1), Helena, the mother of the first Christian emperor Constantine, discovers the cross on which Christ was crucified. Having traveled to Jerusalem to find the cross, Helena comes across a pagan temple at the site of the Crucifixion in the first narrative episode. With a commanding gesture, she orders the temple razed and the idols destroyed. In the next scene, she holds her hand to her chest and gazes toward heaven, while Macarius, the bishop of Jerusalem, directs the finding of Christ’s cross and the crosses of the two thieves. In the third scene, Helena indicates the miracle of the True Cross in which Christ’s cross reveals itself by resuscitating a young man (Fig. 11.2). On the opposite wall, three frescoes portray the exaltation of the True Cross, in which the emperor Heraclius recovers the cross from the Persians. With the relic of the True Cross having been plundered by the Persians, Heraclius confronts the Persian king at the Danube and defeats him in single combat (Fig. 11.3). The emperor triumphantly returns with the cross to Jerusalem in the next episode (Fig. 11.4). However, an angel appears to him, admonishing him to follow Christ’s example of humility. In the last scene, having shed his imperial garb, a barefoot Heraclius returns the cross to Mount Golgotha in a somber procession with Zacharias, the patriarch of Jerusalem (Fig. 11.5). Unlike early visual precedents such as Piero della Francesca’s (c. 1415–92) famous fifteenth-century cycle in Arezzo, the oratory’s frescoes focus exclusively on the discovery and recovery of the cross by Helena and Heraclius.27 For these scenes, the frescoes attributed to Antoniazzo Romano (c. 1430–1510) in the main apse of the Basilica of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme in Rome offered the most immediate model (Fig. 11.6). One of the city’s seven major pilgrimage churches, the basilica housed the relics of the Passion that Helena brought to Rome from the Holy Land, including fragments of the True Cross. Moving from left to right, Antoniazzo’s version of the narrative follows the story of the wood of Christ’s cross found in Jacobus de Voragine’s thirteenthcentury Golden Legend, which remained the definitive source on the subject throughout the Quattrocento.28 To uncover the cross’s location, Helena speaks with a Jew named Judas, who indicates where Christ’s cross and the crosses of the two thieves may be found. Laborers unearth the crosses as three men observe the discovery. A funeral procession then approaches. Helena and her 27

28

Piero’s frescoes include scenes from the lives of Adam, Solomon, and Constantine. See Marilyn Aronberg Lavin, Piero Della Francesca: San Francesco, Arezzo (New York: G. Braziller, 1994). Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend of Jacobus de Voragine, trans. William Granger Ryan and Helmut Ripperger (London: Longmans, Green and Co, 1941), 1:269–76, 2:543–50.

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FIGURE 11.4 Niccolò Circignani, Vision of Heraclius, 1578–83, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome. Photo: Zeno Colantoni.

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FIGURE 11.5 Cesare Nebbia, Heraclius Carrying the Cross Barefoot, 1578–83, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome. Photo: Alessandro Vasari.

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FIGURE 11.6 Antoniazzo Romano and workshop (attr.), Legend of the True Cross, late fifteenth century, fresco, apse, Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Rome. Photo: DeA Picture Library / Art Resource, NY.

entourage test the crosses by laying the corpse over each one. Christ’s cross revives the man, who rises from it. On the right side, the armies of Heraclius and Chosroes gather on the banks of the Danube, while the rulers fight. Victorious, Heraclius returns to Jerusalem at the head of a grand procession, but the admonitory angel halts his progress. Duly humbled, the emperor carries the cross into Jerusalem on foot in the distance.29 Macarius and Zacharias, who take active parts in the oratory’s story, are noticeably absent from these events, as is the scene of Helena’s destruction of idols. Meanwhile, Judas is essential to Antoniazzo’s narrative, but missing from the oratory. These differences indicate that the confraternity and its iconographic advisor, Cavalieri, drew on textual sources beyond the medieval Golden Legend in devising the oratory’s program. Already in the early 1540s, Daniele da Volterra (c. 1509–66) had offered an interpretation of the theme inspired by early Christian sources in his now-destroyed paintings of the Life of St. Helena and 29

Anna Cavallaro, Antoniazzo Romano e gli Antoniazzeschi: Una generazione di pittori nella Roma del Quattrocento (Udine: Campanotto Editore, 1992), 263–64.

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the Legend of the True Cross in the Cappella Orsini in SS. Trinità dei Monti.30 In the chapel’s vault, the artist depicted the construction of the three crosses, Helena demanding to know where the crosses had been hidden, Helena ordering that Judas be cast into a well until he revealed the crosses’ location, and finally Judas showing Helena where the crosses had been buried. On the right wall, Daniele showed Helena ordering the excavation of the crosses and overseeing the proof of the True Cross. On the left, he portrayed the healing of a sick man by the cross and Heraclius carrying the cross barefoot into Jerusalem. In many ways, the program followed Voragine’s account of the sacred history. However, as Carolyn Valone has outlined, Daniele’s depiction of the climatic proof of the cross—known through surviving drawings and Vasari’s description of the scene—matched the drama of St. Paulinus da Nola’s (c. 354–431) lively account of the sacred history in a letter to Sulpitius Severus of c. 402. Employing a diagonal composition, pronounced chiaroscuro, and animated gestures, Daniele enlivened the narrative like Paulinus.31 The Holy Crucifix confraternity drew more directly on post-Tridentine texts rooted in authoritative early sources, firmly situating the confraternity’s choice of subject in the Early Christian revival then underway in Rome. The oratory depicts the rarely visualized story of Helena ordering the destruction of idols; it also grants members of the Church hierarchy an exceptionally prominent role in the finding and restitution of the cross and removes the polemical figure of Judas from the narrative. For these features, Cavalieri and his confraternity brothers most likely drew on the post-Tridentine Breviarium romanum (1568) and Cesare Baronio’s (1538–1607) Annales ecclesiastici (1588–1607).32 The texts offer versions of the Invention and Exaltation of the True Cross grounded in Early Christian and Byzantine sources, most significantly Rufinus of Aquileia’s Church history (401), St. Paulinus of Nola’s letter to Sulpitius Severus (c. 402), and the chronicle of St. Theophanes the Confessor (810–15).33 Following 30

31 32

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Michael Hirst, “Daniele da Volterra and the Orsini Chapel - I: The Chronology and the Altar-Piece,” Burlington Magazine 109, no. 774 (1967): 498–509; Bernice Davidson, “Daniele da Volterra and the Orsini Chapel - II,” Burlington Magazine 109, no. 775 (1967): 553–61. Carolyn Valone, “Elena Orsini, Daniele da Volterra, and the Orsini Chapel,” Artibus et Historiae 11, no. 22 (1990): 83–86. Manlio Sodi and Achille M. Triacca, eds., Breviarium romanum: Editio princeps (1568) (Città del Vaticano: Libreria editrice vaticana, 1999); Cesare Baronio, Annales ecclesiastici a Christo nato ad annum 1198, 12 vols. (Rome, 1588–1607). Sodi and Triacca, Breviarium romanum, 769–70, 886; Baronio, Annales ecclesiastici, 3:330– 32, 8:217; Jacques-Paul Migne, ed., Patrologiae cursus completus. Series latina (Paris, 1878), 21:475–77; Paulinus of Nola, Letters of St. Paulinus of Nola, trans. P.G. Walsh (Westminster, MD: Newmann Press, 1967), 2:125–33; Theophanes the Confessor, The Chronicle of

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Rufinus and Paulinus, the breviary reports that Helena found the crosses after first purifying the area of a pagan cult. Like Paulinus, it introduces the figure of Macarius into the narrative to help Helena distinguish between the crosses. And like Theophanes, it includes Zacharias in the story of Heraclius’s return of the cross to Mount Golgotha, reporting that it was the patriarch rather than an angel who advised the emperor to shed his imperial garb before returning the cross to Calvary. Meanwhile, Baronio cites each of the early sources for the Invention of the True Cross and references the breviary for the True Cross’s Exaltation. The unusual iconography inspired by these texts also carried significance within the official reform of the Catholic Church initiated by the Council of Trent. Like the Destruction of the Pagan Temples by Francesco Salviati (1510–63) of 1548–50 in the Cappella del Pallio in the Palazzo della Cancelleria in Rome, St. Helena Ordering the Destruction of Idols (Fig. 11.1) acts as a symbol of the restoration of true faith after the Protestant Reformation.34 In response to the Protestant critique of images, which often led to their proscription or destruction, the Catholic Church reaffirmed its position on the right use of religious images at Trent: Due honor and veneration is to be given them; not, however, that any divinity or virtue is believed to be in them by reason of which they are to be venerated, or that something is to be asked of them, or that trust is to

34

Theophanes Confessor: Byzantine and Near Eastern History, AD 284–813, trans. Cyril A. Mango and Roger Scott (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), 458–60. Von Henneberg first identified Baronio’s Annales ecclesiastici as a potential source for the unusual features of Nebbia’s Heraclius Carrying the Cross Barefoot (Fig. 11.5)—e.g., the patriarch Zacharias accompanies Heraclius and the emperor appears to be exiting rather than entering Jerusalem. Noting that the relevant volumes of Baronio’s text were published only in 1592 (vol. 3) and 1599 (vol. 8), Carla Heussler rejected the annals as a possible source for the fresco cycle, identifying the Breviarium romanum instead. However, as von Henneberg and EitelPorter noted, Baronio’s text circulated orally and in manuscript form before its publication. Therefore, both the annals and the breviary (and the early sources on which they draw) may be considered sources for the cycle’s iconography. See Josephine von Henneberg, “Elsheimer and Rubens: A Link in Early 17th Century Rome,” Storia dell’arte 95 (1999): 35–44; Carla Heussler, “Storia o leggenda: L’invenzione e l’esaltazione della vera Croce e Cesare Baronio,” in Arte e committenza nel Lazio nell’età di Cesare Baronio: Atti del convegno internazionale di studi, Frosinone, Sora, 16–18 maggio 2007, ed. Patrizia Tosini (Rome: Gangemi, 2009), 245–46; Eitel-Porter, “Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso,” 623. For the chapel, see Patricia Rubin, “The Private Chapel of Cardinal Alessandro Farnese in the Cancelleria, Rome,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 50 (1987): 82–112; Robertson, Il Gran Cardinale, 151–57.

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be placed in images, as was done of old by the Gentiles who placed their hope in idols; but because the honor which is shown them is referred to the prototypes which they represent, so that by means of the images which we kiss and before which we uncover the head and prostrate ourselves we adore Christ and venerate the saints whose likeness they bear.35 Distinguishing between the veneration due to God and that due to images, the Church differentiated the approved use of images by Christians from pagan idolatry. At the oratory, one sees Helena ordering pagan idols demolished because they were images of false gods that were used improperly. Her act is also purifying, for she cleanses the site of the Crucifixion of false religion. Through the eradication of old ways and erroneous beliefs, the true faith is restored, as the Catholic Church would be revived through reform and triumph over Protestantism. In addition, like the post-Tridentine texts on which it draws, the cycle emphasizes the Church’s role as mediator. The Protestant doctrine of justification by faith fundamentally challenged the Church’s role in salvation by questioning the necessity of the sacraments and the Mass. Furthermore, the reformers aimed their strongest criticisms at the institutions of the Church hierarchy, namely the papacy, episcopacy, and pastorate—exactly those officials tasked with mediating between the individual and God. As a result, the council dedicated the majority of its twenty-five sessions to confirming Church doctrine and reforming the clergy, thus reaffirming the central place of the Church hierarchy in salvation.36 The oratory expresses this renewal of ecclesiastical authority in the figures of Macarius and Zacharias. In the Discovery of the Three Crosses (Fig. 11.1), Helena looks to heaven, as if led to the crosses by divine revelation, a direct and unmediated experience of the divine. However, it is the bishop who leads the discovery of the crosses. Likewise, an angel appears to Heraclius (Fig. 11.4), conveying God’s message to him directly. However, the Church patriarch is given prominence in Heraclius Carrying the Cross Barefoot (Fig. 11.5), reflecting the breviary’s account of his intervention in the return of the cross to Golgotha. Thus, the confraternity’s choice of subject and the selection of individual scenes within it were of great significance. The 35 36

Canons and Decrees, 215–16. For the council, see Hubert Jedin, Geschichte des Konzils von Trient, 4 vols. (Freiburg: Herder, 1949–75); John W. O’Malley, Trent: What Happened at the Council (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2013); John W. O’Malley, “Trent, Sacred Images, and Catholics’ Senses of the Sensuous,” in Hall and Cooper, ed., The Sensuous in the Counter-Reformation Church, 28–48.

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group drew on post-Tridentine texts founded in early sources, celebrated the restoration of the Catholic faith after the Protestant Reformation, referenced the renewal of Church authority after Trent, and recalled the confraternity’s principal feasts—the Invention and Exaltation of the True Cross. The frescoes’ formal structure also expressed Catholic Reformation values, especially the proper use of sacred images. The compositions guide the viewer around the oratory, compelling him or her to read the images and meditate on the narrative. Beginning with St. Helena Ordering the Destruction of Idols (Fig. 11.1), the gaze follows the diagonal from the crowd behind Helena, down her arm, to the man kneeling before her, who directs the viewer to the next scene. There, Macarius’s glance and gesture lead the viewer to the Miracle of the True Cross (Fig. 11.2), where the sharp line of the cross and the balletic movements of its bearers guide the viewer across the entrance and to the opposite wall. Similarly, repoussoir figures set before the Duel between Heraclius and Chosroes (Fig. 11.3) point to the following episode (Fig. 11.4). There, the strong diagonal linking the emperor and angel directs the viewer forward to the final scene (Fig. 11.5), where a somber march continues the processional movement depicted throughout the oratory into the distance. The frescoes’ legibility corresponds with the expectations for religious art after the Council of Trent, which articulated the Church’s call for didactic and comprehensible art. Like devotional practices and urban processions, religious art after Trent was intended to instruct and inspire. Trent’s decree on the use of sacred images is notoriously vague, but its central message was: Let the bishops diligently teach that by means of the stories of the mysteries of our redemption portrayed in paintings and other representations, the people are instructed and confirmed in the articles of faith […] also that great profit is derived from all holy images […] because through the saints, the miracles of God and salutary examples are set before the eyes of the faithful, so that they may give God thanks for those things, may fashion their own life and conduct in imitation of the saints and be moved to adore and love God and cultivate piety.37 Thus, sacred art after Trent was meant to be intelligible, didactic, and compelling. However, following early commentators like Gabriele Paleotti (1522–97), scholars have often argued that the artificiality of late sixteenth-century painting in Italy prevented it from moving viewers to devotion because it 37

Canons and Decrees, 216.

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appealed to the intellect of the elite, rather than the emotions of the faithful.38 This claim has been especially persistent in discussions of the Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso because of the assumption that the confraternity’s “taste for the splendid and sumptuous and its profoundly aristocratic character” made the “profound intensity of religious sentiment” at the heart of reform “fundamentally extraneous” to the company.39 This chapter counters such claims, arguing instead that the theatricality of the images worked together with the narrative clarity of the frescoes to both instruct and inspire. The oratory’s images are not purely didactic. They also seek to arouse devotion through artifice. For example, the Miracle of the True Cross (Fig. 11.2) recalls a sacred drama. An architectural frame like that around Duel between Heraclius and Chosroes (Fig. 11.3) acts like a proscenium, and a perspectival view evokes a stage set. Like actors in a play, the figures are arranged in the foreground on an elevated platform. Their movements are graceful, but unnatural. Some of the actors even look out at the viewer, inviting him or her to witness the sacred event. The titulus held by two boys in contemporary garb at the forefront of the image identifies the cross as Christ’s. Both theatrical and didactic, the fresco responds to the Church’s demands for comprehensible, instructive, and inspiring religious art after the Council of Trent. Thus, although often maligned for its stylization, the artistic mode functions in the company’s private prayer hall to recall the devotional significance of the group’s public religious performances, as well as its dedication to the reforms of Trent.

38

39

This perception is rooted in discussions of Mannerism or Maniera, most influentially Walter F. Friedlaender, Mannerism and Anti-Mannerism in Italian Painting (New York: Schocken Books, 1965); Craig Hugh Smyth, Mannerism and Maniera, 2nd ed. (Vienna: IRSA, 1992); John Shearman, Mannerism (Harmondsworth, England: Penguin Books, 1967); S.J. Freedberg, Painting of the High Renaissance in Rome and Florence, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1961); S.J. Freedberg, “Observations on the Painting of the Maniera,” Art Bulletin 47, no. 2 (1965): 187–97; S.J. Freedberg, Painting in Italy, 1500– 1600, 3rd ed. (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1993); Marcia B. Hall, After Raphael: Painting in Central Italy in the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). “La profonda intensità di sentimento religioso comune a molte confraternite romane del ‘500 rimase infatti fondamentalmente estranea a quella del Crocifisso che, con il suo gusto per lo splendido e lo sfarzoso ed il suo carattere profondamente aristocratico, sembrò prendere della Controriforma quanto in essa vi era di più esteriore e appariscente.” Von Henneberg, L’Oratorio, 50.

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The Artful Construction of Corporate Identity after Trent Together, the confraternity’s public and private acts of devotion—its religious rituals, urban processions, and art patronage—worked to define the company’s collective identity as an association committed to Tridentine reforms. Two scenes from the sodality’s own history on the prayer hall’s entrance wall epitomize this message. As was customary in Roman oratories, the confraternity faced not the altar wall, but the entrance wall, during its routine meetings. A surviving inventory indicates that seats for the company’s officials were originally situated at either side of the doorway. Benches with kneelers provided seating for regular confraternity members along the lateral walls.40 The oratory’s officials conducted the group’s business from beneath the frescoes celebrating the confraternity’s miraculous origins on either side of the entrance: the Miraculous Survival of the Crucifix from the Fire in San Marcello (Figs. 11.7A and 11.7B) and the Procession of the Crucifix against the Plague of 1522 (Fig. 11.8). In the first, the church of San Marcello stands in ruins after the disastrous fire of 1519. In the background, the wooden crucifix stands intact over the rubble as an animated group of Romans gathers to venerate the holy object.41 The crucifix takes center stage in the following scene in which devotees, nobles, ecclesiastics, and countless Roman citizens carry the over-life-sized cross in procession through the streets of Rome in order to counteract the plague of 1522.42 Given the significance of ritual and ceremony to the Crocifisso, the oratory’s self-referential iconography undoubtedly served as a reminder of the confraternity’s dedication to fostering devotion to the holy crucifix through public religious performances, a commitment that grew in importance after the Council of Trent.43 As in the Miraculous Survival of the Crucifix, the confraternity dramatically exhibited its cross in the church of San Marcello on its main feast days. And like the Procession of the Crucifix, the company regularly went in procession through the streets of Rome to promote the cult of its holy crucifix. Thus, the histories in the oratory served a dual purpose. Like Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s better-known Allegory of Good and Bad Government in the Palazzo 40 41 42

43

ASV, ACSM, C-XVIII-23: Inventario di oggetti appartenenta all’Oratorio, 1734. The fresco is now obscured by a ladder to the organ loft. As is suggested by the image, the company’s crucifix is over six feet tall—the figure of Christ alone measures 6 ft. × 6 ft.—and is made of fourteenth-century poplar. For a technical analysis of the company’s cross, see Fabjan et al., “Il restauro del Crocifisso,” 31–39. The oratory was unique in its inclusion of scenes from the confraternity’s own history. No other Roman oratory included episodes from its sodality’s history. See n. 2 above.

The Performance of Devotion

FIGURE 11.7A Cristoforo Roncalli, Miraculous Survival of the Crucifix from the Fire in San Marcello (left side), 1583–84, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome.

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FIGURE 11.7B Cristoforo Roncalli, Miraculous Survival of the Crucifix from the Fire in San Marcello (right side), 1583–84, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome.

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FIGURE 11.8 Paris Nogari, Procession of the Crucifix against the Plague of 1522, 1583–84, fresco, Oratorio del SS. Crocifisso, Rome.

Pubblico in Siena from the fourteenth century and other such decorations for communal spaces, the frescoes both glorified the collective body and acted as constant reminders to its members of their duties.44 The paintings celebrated the group’s miraculous origins and recalled its commitment to fostering devotion to the holy crucifix through spectacle and performance. Through art patronage and religious rituals, the confraternity expressed and declared its adherence to Tridentine reforms. At a time when the Church had confirmed the veneration of relics, the confraternity focused its devotion on a cult object that functioned uncommonly like a relic. Furthermore, it labored to foster veneration of the crucifix through the public performance of its devotion in spectacular events like Rome’s Holy Thursday procession and thus demonstrated its dedication to a reformed Church throughout the urban landscape. Finally, the group commissioned works of art that drew on post-Tridentine texts and that worked with its devotional practices to both instruct and inspire, in accordance with the Council of Trent’s edict on religious art. Ritual and patronage worked together to define the Crocifisso’s post-Tridentine collective identity in the private space of the oratory and the public spaces of the city. 44

Randolph Starn, Ambrogio Lorenzetti: The Palazzo Pubblico, Siena (New York: George Braziller, 1994).

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Chapter 12

The Brotherhood of the “Trépassés”: Ruling the Artistic Life in Rouen during the Counter-Reformation Caroline Blondeau-Morizot Rouen in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries was the second city in the kingdom of France and an important political and artistic center.1 During the Hundred Years’ War, the city and the province of Normandy was under British domination and suffered civil war, famine, and disease. After its recapture by King Charles VII in 1475, Normandy became French again and reconstruction began in Rouen. The city tried to reconnect its commercial network after a century of contact limited to British trading posts. The effort was successful: from the late fifteenth century, Rouen was once again an economic, commercial, and political power.2 In the same years, the city also became the center of intense artistic activity. The permanent installation of the Parliament of Normandy in Rouen in 1495, along with its transformation into the “Échiquier” of Normandy in 1515, encouraged a renewal in artistic production.3 It created a new class of wealthy patrons: robed nobility, merchants, and financiers who made their fortune with the rise of Rouen trade.4 This new elite renewed artistic production in the city with the introduction of the Renaissance style and a concomitant taste for antique forms. In other words, after a century of insular, homogeneous production, late fifteenth-century and early sixteenth-century Rouen was opened to new stylistic influences. 1 In the Middle Ages, 50,000 inhabitants lived in the city. 2 Michel Mollat, Histoire de Rouen (Toulouse: Privat, 1979), 145. 3 Louis XII gave the city a sovereign court of justice and conferred to his close collaborator, Georges Ier d’Amboise, the right to govern it for the duration of his life. He was thereby confirming the illusion of independence of Rouen and Normandy, while at the same time installing in command a man in whom he had complete confidence. The “Échiquier” changed its name and became the Parliament of Normandy in 1515, when François Ier confirmed all the privileges of the court. A new elite, robed nobility, then appeared and played an important role in the artistic renewal that took place in the early decades of the sixteenth century. 4 Isabelle Lettéron and Delphine Gillot, Rouen: L’hôtel de Bourgtheroulde, demeure des Le Roux (Rouen: Connaissance du Patrimoine, 1996), 27.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_014

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All these conditions created a favorable environment for creation, especially for stained glass; glass factories in the surrounding forests provided high-quality material to the glass painters.5 This environment attracted many foreign artists, including Aert Ortkens, who arrived from Nijmegen in the early sixteenth century; Hans de Wesel, Guillaume Mosselmans, and Arnoult de Cronberg, from Germany; and Guerard Louf, from Utrecht.6 A painter, sculptor, and merchant, Louf moved to Rouen in the 1460s and soon became one of the most famous artists in the city.7 He was mentioned several times as designer and creator of altarpieces exhibited in the ambulatory of the cathedral.8 In 1468, Louf’s brother Jacob, also a painter, joined him in Normandy.9 The artists had two workshops: one in Rouen, the other in Vernon, near the famous stone quarries, a popular spot for sculptors. Guerard Louf was also probably at the head of a flourishing trade in carved altarpieces, between Normandy and the Low Countries. Even if the archives do not show a large number of orders, the Louf workshop seemed to have been quite successful. Referred to as the ‘bourgeois’ of the city, owner of several houses and land, the artist appears to have been financially secure.10 We can take Louf’s situation as evidence that it was not difficult for a foreign artist to settle in late fifteenth-century Rouen. There was no guild that regulated the artistic professions, meaning that non-native practitioners could establish their workshops unimpeded. As a result, Guerard Louf quickly became one of the pillars of Rouen’s artistic life. As I will demonstrate in this essay, Louf accomplished this in part by creating the brotherhood of the Trépassés. This confraternity played a large role as a religious institution but 5

6

7 8

9 10

Jean-François Belhoste, “La Normandie, grande région verrière de la Renaissance,” in L’architecture de la Renaissance en Normandie, Actes du colloque de Cerisy-la-Salle 30 septembre–4 octobre 1998, ed. Bernard Beck et al. (Caen: Presses Universitaires de Caen, 2003), 287–304. Jean Lafond, “Études sur le vitrail en Normandie. Arnoult de la Pointe, peintre et verrier de Nimègue et les artistes étrangers à Rouen aux XVe et XVIe siècles,” Bulletin des amis des monuments rouennais (1911): 13–32. Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime (hereafter ADSM), Comptes de fabrique de la cathédrale de Rouen, G 2499, fol. 96. “De Guerard Louf painctre et ymagier demourant a Saint Vincent de Rouen, pour avoir estallé en l’eglise ymages de couleurs en tables.” ADSM, Comptes de fabrique de la cathédrale de Rouen, G 2501, fol. 28. The use of the term “ymages” (sculpted representations) probably refers to polychrome carved altarpieces. ADSM, Comptes de fabrique de Saint-Vincent de Rouen, G 7654, n.p. Caroline Blondeau, Le vitrail à Rouen, 1450–1530, l’escu de voirre (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2014), 25–27.

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also as a professional group. For the first time in Rouen history, painters and sculptors joined together under the initiative of Guerard Louf. In what follows, I will show how the creation of the brotherhood of the Trépassés had a strong impact on the city at three different levels: firstly, on the social organization of artistic professions; secondly, on the urban space; and, thirdly, on the religious and political context of the Counter-Reformation movement. The Brotherhood of the Trépassés The city of Rouen hosted a multitude of confraternities in the fifteenth century. Between 1435 and 1596, eighty brotherhoods were listed in the records of the archbishopric.11 These organizations of devout laymen emerged as main players in new forms of urban solidarity born in the thirteenth century under the leadership of the mendicant orders. In Rouen they were located inside the city walls, in the parish churches or in the convents. Their relative importance in the urban space varied from group to group: some confraternities were active throughout the city, and sometimes beyond, whereas others worked to strengthen the identity of a specific parish or a district. Each brotherhood operated as an autonomous entity, with its own operating procedures, and each contributed to the range of religious offerings in the city. On 14 March 1475, Guerard Louf made his mark on Rouen by founding the brotherhood of the “Trépassés” (literally, “dead people”). Placed under the patronage of the Glorious Resurrection of Christ and also of the saints Martha and Lazarus, the confraternity’s objective was to pray for the salvation of deceased souls. The foundation of the sodality was commemorated by the completion of an illuminated manuscript, comprising its statutes along with the life of St. Lazarus.12 The statutes of the brotherhood specified its practical and spiritual organization.13 The structure, which was quite typical of religious brotherhoods, revolved around a group of members, supervised by an alderman. The life of the confraternity was punctuated by regular masses, processions and receptions. Every first Monday of the month, a Mass was celebrated “pour lame 11

12 13

These statistics must be used conservatively, as only the confraternities that used the archbishop’s authority were recorded in these registers: Marc Venard, “Les confréries dans l’espace urbain: L’exemple de Rouen,” Annales de Bretagne et des Pays de l’Ouest 90, no. 2 (1983): 321–22. Rouen, Bibliothèque Municipale, Martainville Y 97, fol. 1. The brotherhood’s statutes are transcribed in Blondeau, Le vitrail à Rouen, 260–61.

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dudit instituer dicelle chapelle” (for the soul of the founder of this chapel), followed by a short procession and, for those who wished, a prayer at Guerard Louf’s grave.14 Two celebrations were particularly important: first, Easter, the day of Christ’s resurrection, and, second, All Saints Day, when members held their annual meetings and elected new aldermen. On the occasion of All Saints Day, the brothers organized a Mass, followed by a dinner and a night procession with bells, banners, and crosses. It started from the center of Rouen and ended at their chapel outside the city walls. The next day, the brothers performed charity and mutual aid, and collected membership dues. Absentees had to pay higher or lower taxes, depending on their rank in the brotherhood: “masters or servants have to pay a 4d tournois tax each, and aldermen have to pay a 8d tournois tax each.”15 Each new member had to pay an entry fee (five deniers tournois): “each brother and sister who comes to the brotherhood should pay an entry fee of 5d tournois or more depending on his devotion and will.”16 All members also paid an annual fee (sixteen deniers tournois) divided in two terms: the first began on Easter and the second on All Saints Day: “every brother or sister from this confraternity should pay each year 16d tournois, which shall be used to the good and utility of this brotherhood.”17 Each newly elected alderman had to offer to all his brothers five sous tournois of wine to celebrate his election.18 An essential role of the confraternity of the Trépassés was, like that of any religious brotherhood, mutual aid and charity inside the group.19 This spiritual assistance extended beyond the sphere of members, reaching a wider circle, to their families. Thus the organization was responsible for facilitating a dialogue between the two communities, that of the living and that of the dead.

14 15 16 17 18 19

Ibid. “Iceulx frères, tant maistres que servans, n’y sont presents maiz lamenderont chacun de quatre deniers tournois, et les prevosts et esquevin chacun de huyt denier tournois”: ibid. “Payera dentrée chacun frere ou seur qui se rendra en icelle, cinq deniers tournois ou plus, a sa devocion et voulente”: ibid. “Item il est ordonné que chacun frere ou seur dicelle confrarie payera chacun an XVId tournois, qui seront convertis au bien et utilité dicelle confrarie”: ibid. “Audit nouvel esquevin leur donnera cinq solz tournois en vin silz veulent prendre refeccion a sa joyeuse réception”: ibid. According to the statutes, there is no indication that the brothers practiced charity beyond the scope of their brotherhood.

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A Confraternity for Artists Beyond its role as a religious institution, the brotherhood of the Trépassés played an important role in the social and professional context of Rouen, as well as in the legislative aspect of artistic life. At the end of the Middle Ages, around eighty confraternities were already active in the city, but none were focused on an artistic profession. When he arrived in Rouen in the 1460s, nothing prevented Guerard Louf from practicing as a painter and sculptor; there was no legislative framework that regulated those professions. This was the case in many cities in France, which endowed statutes only in modern times: Lyon in 1496 (painters), Toulouse in 1507 (glass painters), Nantes in 1574 (glass painters), and Paris in 1467 (glass painters) and 1620 (upholsterers).20 In 1475, when Louf created his confraternity, many painters and sculptors joined him, mostly friends and work relations. At the time of its creation, the brotherhood had forty members; a majority were painters and sculptors.21 In the manuscript documenting the creation of the group, one can identify several of the confrères, among them Jacob Louf, brother of Guerard, who was also a painter and sculptor; along with Naudin Larchevêque, Thomas Quesnel, Jean le Platrier, and Guillaume Roussel, who were already famous for their works at the cathedral and in several churches of Rouen.22 These men built the first chapel, dedicated to St. Maurus (Saint-Maur), and, almost certainly, crafted all of its decorations by themselves (mural paintings, altarpieces, stained glass windows, and statues). We can assume that it was also the brothers who paid for and—more importantly for my purposes here—built the new chapel again, in 1562. The Saint-Maur chapel’s decoration was glorified by the confraternity: in 1680, in a memoir written for its restoration, the stained glass windows of the chapel were described as “the most beautiful windows of the city.”23 The 20

21

22 23

Audrey Nassieu-Maupas, “Les corporations artistiques à Paris (XVe–XVIIe siècles),” Annuaire de l’École Pratique des Hautes Études, section des sciences historiques et philologiques (2009): 275–77; Jean-Marie Guillouët, “Les peintres verriers de Nantes au début de l’époque moderne et leurs statuts (1574),” Bibliothèque de l‘École des Chartes (2006): 203– 26; Joëlle Guidini-Raybaud, “Pictor et veyrerius”. Le vitrail en Provence occidentale, XII– XVIIe siècles (Paris: Presses Universitaires de Paris-Sorbonne, 2003), 81. Others were priests, lawyers, canons, and notaries: the brotherhood’s statutes, which mention some additional professions, are transcribed in Blondeau, Le vitrail à Rouen, 260–61. Ibid. Charles de Beaurepaire, “Notice sur le cimetière Saint-Maur de Rouen,” Bulletin de la Commission des Antiquités de la Seine-Inférieure (1882–85): 257.

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success of Guerard Louf and his confraternity of artists was so significant that thirty years later an official guild of artists was created, under the supervision of the bailli (the royal officer of Rouen); the brotherhood of the Trépassés was officially linked to the corporation in the city statutes.24 From then on, if someone aspired to be painter or sculptor in Rouen, he had to subscribe and pay a fee to the confraternity and the brothers of Saint-Maur for the right to practice: twenty sous for the corporation, and thirty sous for the brotherhood. Some painters and sculptors who signed the foundation of the corporation in 1507 are already known and were probably siblings of the original founders of the brotherhood, including Quesnel and Le Plastrier (but no Louf).25 This was a very common scheme in France: the creation of a religious ­confraternity generally came before the creation of the guild, an official organization ruling a profession under the supervision of the city.26 The corporate organization gave a legislative framework and consolidated the rules of the confraternity. While the brotherhood was under the authority of the archbishop (Guillaume d’Estouteville), the guild was regulated by the bailli, who represented the king in the city. If the grouping and association of many artists in the brotherhood played the role of informal and unofficial limits and ­bar­riers, the effect of the creation of a guild, with real legislative force and institutional control, was quickly felt. The texts relate that it was the existence of “many abuses and fraud” that necessitated the foundation of a guild.27 Following the enactments of the statutes, jurors could, in case of fraud, distribute taxes or even ban products that did not meet the set criteria. These were measures implemented to ensure the integrity and reputation of Rouen artists and their works. The statutes of Rouen in 1507 were very similar to those written in Paris in 1391 and 1467, both in terms of their legal application and material concerns. While some differences can be noted, the principal concerns of the Parisian rules were found also in the Rouen statutes.28 When he founded his brotherhood, Guerard Louf naturally reproduced the type of confraternities that existed in his native country, the Netherlands. We 24 25

26 27 28

ADSM, fonds de l’Hôtel-Dieu, Hdépot1, 1GP 101 fols. 4–14. These statutes are transcribed in Blondeau, Le vitrail à Rouen, 261–63. Clearly, the Louf brothers had no offspring: according to their wills, they bequeathed all their properties to each other. There was no longer the Louf name in Rouen after they died, around 1480. Catherine Vincent, Des charités bien ordonnées, les confréries normandes de la fin du XIIIe siècle au début du XIVe siècle (Paris: École Normale Supérieure, 1988). Blondeau, Le vitrail à Rouen, 260–61. These statutes are transcribed in: Guy-Michel Leproux, ed., Vitraux parisiens de la Renaissance (Paris: Délégation à l’Action Artistique de la Ville de Paris, 1993), 192–93.

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can assume that he deliberately invited a large number of artists to join him to create, from the beginning, a sort of devotional guild. The foundation of this brotherhood impacted the artistic world in Rouen and triggered a new development; thereafter, from the beginning of the sixteenth century, stained glass painters also created their own confraternities. It is exceptional for a foreign artist to so deeply affect his host country. Ironically, after Louf’s presence in Rouen, the activity of foreigners became more regulated and therefore more complicated. If the impact of Guerard Louf’s works of art is not very well known, his intervention in the religious and professional life of Rouen was nevertheless crucial.29 A Symbolic Place in the Urban Space The second interaction between the city and the brotherhood was the construction of the chapel itself. Guerard Louf could have chosen to connect himself and the confraternity of the Trépassés to a preexisting church, but instead he made a much bolder choice. Using his private funds, he decided to initiate the construction of a new chapel dedicated exclusively to the brotherhood’s activities. The location of this building was carefully chosen, away from the many churches of Rouen, and outside, but near, the city walls. The chapel was built inside the cemetery of Saint-Maur, which evokes, both by its function and its name, the spiritual dedication of the fraternity to the care of deceased souls: in French, Maur is the name of a saint but also, phonetically, the word mort means death.30 Fraternal solidarity here obviously did not stop at the urbanitas. Having a meeting place inside a cemetery was not unusual in the fifteenth century and the new chapel was used for all of the confraternity’s activities.31 In Rouen, there were many cemeteries: each parish had one, as did many religious institutions (convents and monasteries); there were also Jewish and non-Christian 29 30

31

He died three years after the foundation of his chapel and his brotherhood. “Guerard Louf natif du trect en Allemagne ymaginier et painctre meu en bonne devocion pour le salut et rédemption de toutes les ames des trespassez attendans la miséricorde de Dieu […] fait nouvellement édifier et ordonner en cimetière et place de Saint Mor jouxte Rouen une noble chapelle auctorizée et aournée de tous aournements.” [Guerard Louf from Utrecht in Germany, sculptor and painter, in good devotion for the salvation et redemption of all dead souls waiting for the mercy of God, […] newly had ordered and built in the location of Saint-Maur near Rouen, a noble chapel authorized and decorated with all ornaments]. Blondeau, Le vitrail à Rouen, 260–61. Alain Brassy, Les cimetières de Rouen au Moyen Âge (MA thesis, Université de Rouen, 1981).

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burial grounds. The cemetery used by the brotherhood was owned by the Hôtel-Dieu, a hospital, so the chapel was not related to a specific parish but instead to a charitable institution. Those who had died at the Hôtel-Dieu were buried in the cemetery of Saint-Maur, whether they had died of common illness, or had been victims of epidemics, like the plague.32 Originally, the cemetery of Saint-Maur was reserved for the brothers, the sisters, and the poor of the Hôtel-Dieu, but from the thirteenth century onwards, wealthy people were also asking to be buried there too. The cemetery had three chapels in the fifteenth century, including that of the Trépassés, which was the biggest and most popular.33 The friars of the order that governed the hospital consented to give a piece of land in the cemetery to Guerard Louf so that he could build his chapel, ­provided that they remained lords and owners.34 Because the confraternity counted many artists as members, the chapel decorations must have been quite beautiful and ambitious.35 Unfortunately, this building suffered heavy damage during the Wars of Religion, and, in May 1562, during the battle of Rouen, it was completely destroyed by the Protestants.36 After the massacres in Vassy, the French Protestants temporarily conquered several cities in the kingdom. They abolished the Catholic cult and generated a wave of popular iconoclasm. In May 1562, the churches of Rouen were vandalized: stained glass windows and statues were broken, treasures were sold or melted, and relics destroyed.37 No other church in Rouen suffered more from this iconoclasm than the Saint-Maur chapel. After this period of vandalism, the chapel had to be rebuilt; new stained glass windows were created between 1562 and 1586. The panels would consequently be removed for safekeeping at any time they were endangered: at the end of the sixteenth century during the last episode of the war, in the eighteenth century after the rebuilding of the chapel, and, in 1793, after the

32 33 34 35 36

37

Beaurepaire, “Notice sur le cimetière,” 228–58. Two of them were destroyed at the end of the fifteenth century: ibid. Ibid. The list of the first members is cited, partially, in the foundation text: Blondeau, Le vitrail à Rouen, 260–61. Laurence Riviale, “La chapelle des Trépassés du cimetière Saint-Maur de Rouen: Mémoire des violences iconoclastes de l’année 1562,” in Glasmalerei im Kontext, Akten des XXII. Internationalen Colloquiums des Corpus Vitrearum in Nürnberg, 29 August–1 September 2004 (Nuremberg: Germanisches Nationalmuseum and Corpus Vitrearum Deutschland, 2005), 243–56. Ibid.

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suppression and the destruction of the chapel during the Revolution.38 This was a testament to their great value. Some of these panels were saved from destruction and from the art market and are now found in the church of SaintRomain: today these windows are the only vestige left of the chapel of the confraternity of the Trépassés.39 As we shall see, the choice of their iconography was very suitable for a chapel dedicated to the dead and adjoined to a hospital: windows include subjects related to death and resurrection, the care owed to the dead, and God’s love for the poor (Fig. 12.1). One of the subjects chosen for the windows of this building, for example, represents the resurrection of Lazarus at the behest of Christ (Fig. 12.2).40 In this classic theme foreshadowing the Resurrection, Lazarus is shown alive, coming out of his grave. The episode of Tobit burying the dead also refers to the original function of the cemetery of Saint-Maur.41 These scenes are accompanied by some more commonly represented subjects: the Transfiguration, the Virgin with Child, the Crucifixion, the Flood and the Fall of Man.42 Some of them, the Last Supper and the Multiplication of the Loaves, are topics suitable for a brotherhood that hosted every year a dinner on All Saints Day (Fig. 12.3).43 This theme can be linked therefore to the confraternal ideal where brothers share bread and mutual charity. However, some subjects are much more unusual, like the representation of the book of Job, Christ and the Temple Merchants, and the vision of Ezekiel in the valley of dry bones.44 Some of these scenes are accompanied by the representations of donors, placed under the main scenes or included in the holy scenes, for example, presented to the Virgin by St. Michael (Fig. 12.4). The donors are all dressed in black, in attitudes of prayer, like mourners; these were the members of the confraternity. Each scene is accompanied by a titulus written in French rather than Latin, quoting the Bible or poems and precisely identifying the subjects in the windows. The 38 39

40 41 42 43 44

Michel Hérold and Françoise Gatouillat, Martine Callias-Bey, and Véronique Chaussé, Les vitraux de Haute-Normandie (Paris: CNRS, Monum, 2001), 393–94. Some of these panels were obviously made by the same glass painter (like the Last Supper and the Resurrection of Lazarus); they may have originally been part of the same window. Today, there are eight stained glass windows in the church of Saint-Romain, but they were remodeled and we cannot read their current state as the original disposition. Saint-Romain in Rouen, window 7. Saint-Romain in Rouen, window 7. Saint-Romain in Rouen, windows 3, 9, and 1. The panels representing the Flood and the Crucifixion are missing. Saint-Romain in Rouen, window 5. The panels representing the Multiplication of the Loaves are missing. Saint-Romain in Rouen, window 5, 8. Rouen, Musée des Antiquités de la Seine-Maritime, window L, galerie Langlois.

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The Brotherhood of the “Trépassés” Iconographic subject Job’s Misfortune Last Supper Christ and the Temple Merchants Virgin and Child, Saint Michael and Donors Transfiguration Tobit Burying the Dead Resurrection of Lazarus Fall of Man Sainte Geneviève and Donors Rich Man and Lazarus Ezekiel in the Valley of Dry Bones The Flood Annunciation Multiplication of the Loaves Agony of Chris Crucifixion Resurrection

Current location

Created in

Saint-Romain de Rouen, window 5 Saint-Romain de Rouen, window 5 Saint-Romain de Rouen, window 8 Saint-Romain de Rouen, window 9

1560-1570

Saint-Romain de Rouen, window 3 Saint-Romain de Rouen, window 7 Saint-Romain de Rouen, window 7 Saint-Romain de Rouen, window 1 Saint-Romain de Rouen, window 12 Saint-Romain de Rouen, window 10 Musée des Antiquités de Seine-Maritime, Rouen, window L Missing in 1816 Missing in 1816 Missing in 1816 Missing in 1816 Missing in 1816 Missing in 1816

1560-1570 1564 1567 1560-1570 1569 1560-1570 1560-1570 1560-1570 1562 1560-1570 1560-1570 1560-1570 1560-1570 1560-1570 1560-1570 1560-1570

FIGURE 12.1 The Saint-Maur stained glass program.

use of French indicates that the brothers wanted the stained glass windows to be very accessible, using a vernacular language understood by everyone. In the urban space of Rouen, therefore, the confraternity marked the city with symbolism: by the location in the cemetery of Saint-Maur, by the dedication of their chapel, and by the iconographic theme related to death.

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FIGURE 12.2 Resurrection of Lazarus, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1560–70, Saint-Romain, Rouen, window 7. Photo: © Caroline Blondeau-Morizot.

FIGURE 12.3 Last Supper, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1560–70, Saint-Romain, Rouen, window 5. Photo: © Caroline Blondeau-Morizot.

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FIGURE 12.4 Virgin and Child, St. Michael and Donors, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1567, Saint-Romain, Rouen, window 9. Photo: © Caroline Blondeau-Morizot.

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Through the Lens of the Counter-Reformation The iconography acquires another dimension when a double interpretation is applied to these windows. The rebuilding of the chapel took place during the Counter-Reformation. At this time, Catholics were fighting the ideas of Luther and Calvin, especially on the subject of predestination. Luther defended his theory that sin was permanent in man and that man’s acts could not change his fate, nor could they provoke the grace of God. The Catholics refuted this thesis on the basis of salvation by good works, acts of charity that could put man on the path to salvation.45 They quoted St. Matthew and his acts of mercy: to feed the hungry, to give drink to the thirsty, to clothe the naked, to visit the sick, to shelter the homeless, and to ransom the captive.46 Laurence Riviale has highlighted the parallels between the Saint-Maur stained glass windows and Counter Reformation discourse.47 The iconographic choices are related to the contemporary history of the brotherhood’s chapel: the brothers used stained glass as Catholic tools of propaganda against the Reformation, but also as reminders of the Protestants’ violence and the civil war. Several windows refer to the Seven Acts of Mercy; among them is the scene of Tobit burying the dead (Fig. 12.5). The window shows a man in the center of the picture, giving orders to men and women; these figures are lifting a body in order to bury it in a grave. The inscriptions on the titulus refer to the story of Tobit, from the tribe of Nephtali, in exile in Assyria. Tobit said: “I gave many alms to my brethren, and gave my bread to the hungry/and my clothes to the naked: and if I saw any of my nation dead, or cast about the walls of Nineve, I buried him.”48 This stained glass is today in a deplorable state of conservation: it is completed by many bouche-trous, fragments from others works of art. Without the inscriptions, the identification of the subject would be difficult. The iconographic choice of Tobit can be explained at several levels. Firstly, this stained glass refers to the function of the Saint-Maur cemetery and the goal of the confraternity, so it is very relevant to the chapel’s theme. Yet if we look at this window in the context of the Counter-Reformation, we can also see 45 46 47

48

Laurence Riviale, Le vitrail en Normandie, entre Renaissance et Réforme (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2007), 283–307. Matthew 25:31–46. In his Summa Theologicæ, Thomas Aquinas added “to bury the dead” in the thirteenth century. In her thesis and in her paper dedicated to the iconoclast violence in the chapel of SaintMaur: Riviale, Le vitrail en Normandie, 295–99; Riviale, “La chapelle des Trépassés,” 243– 56. Tobias 1:17.

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FIGURE 12.5 Tobit Burying the Dead, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1569, by Jean Besoche, Saint-Romain, Rouen, window 7. Photo: © Caroline Blondeau-Morizot.

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FIGURE 12.6 The Rich Man and Lazarus, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1562, Saint-Romain, Rouen, window 10. Photo: © Caroline Blondeau-Morizot.

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reference made to the Seven Works of Mercy, in this case, the act of burying the dead. This lends greater significance to this unusual episode. Other references to the Seven Works of Mercy are present in the chapel’s stained glass program, for example, in the representation of the parable of the rich man and Lazarus (Fig. 12.6).49 The poor Lazarus is standing in front of the rich man’s house, longing to eat what has fallen from the rich man’s table. Lazarus then passed away and went to heaven. A few days later, the rich man also died, but he went to hell. In the window, we can see the rich man in hell’s fire, calling Abraham to take pity on him and sending Lazarus to get him water. This episode refers to three of the biblical works of mercy: to feed the hungry, to give water to the thirsty, and to shelter the homeless; these allusions reinforce the moralizing message of the window. Today this set of windows is partially destroyed or has been sold; we must imagine a larger program dedicated to all the Seven Works of Mercy. The brothers of the Trépassés wanted to highlight the Seven Works of Mercy, which were highly contested by Protestants. We are here at the heart of the religious controversy: the brothers chose deliberately to focus on the Catholic point of view on this sensitive topic. This iconography can be read through yet another prism: during the Reformation, Protestants denounced both the Church practice of selling indulgences and the donations of works of art (images being another subject of discord). In a chapel funded by a painter and sculptor, where the brothers were members of artistic professions, the donation of many luxurious stained glasses was another way to affirm the Catholic response to the Protestant discourse. The ideas of the Counter-Reformation are also present in other subjects in the Saint-Maur chapel. The window representing Job (Fig. 12.7) includes three panels dedicated to Job’s misfortune: the collapse of his house, the death of his sons, his misery and sickness, and his wife and friends accusing him of deserving his misfortune.50 This is a rare theme in sixteenth-century Norman stained glass. The subject portrayed here is not the simply the suffering of Job but is in fact a metaphor for the Catholic Church, as deployed many times in prints published and used as Catholic propaganda.51 Job represents the Church, which suffered from the damage caused by the Calvinists, who, according to the metaphor, were inspired by the devil. After the period of iconoclasm, the book of Job thus symbolized the patience of the Church in the face of evil persecution. 49 50 51

Luke 16:19–31. Job 1:1–22, 2:1–13. In this window, the four subjects are combined into three panels. Riviale, Le vitrail en Normandie, 283–307.

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FIGURE 12.7 Job’s Misfortune, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1560–70, Saint-Romain, Rouen, window 5. Photo: © Caroline Blondeau-Morizot.

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In this iteration, the glass painter was inspired by a series of engravings from Philip Galle published in 1562–63 after drawings by Maarten van Heemskerck, and identified by Laurence Riviale.52 Van Heemskerck’s distinctive images of catechism were widely used by Catholics during the religious wars. After 1567, when iconoclasm almost ended Church commissions, van Heemskerck focused on designing prints. His prints not only helped to disseminate mannerism in Europe, but also provided models of Counter-Reformation discourse. Thus the van Heemskerck models were not simple graphical sources but instead constituted the deliberate redeployment of forms associated with the Counter-Reformation. The brothers of the Trépasses strategically used van Heemskerck’s designs to integrate the chapel’s stained glass windows with the Catholic formal repertoire of catechetical imagery. In addition to the topics selected for the windows, the choice of compositional models and, by extension, of van Heemskerck as artist, constitutes an act of propaganda. Yet another window in the chapel can also be related to the Catholic response to the Protestant Reformation: Christ and the Temple Merchants (Fig. 12.8).53 It was one of the first stained glass windows created in 1564, after the destruction of the chapel, in a context where violence would have still been prominent in people’s memories.54 This work of art differs stylistically from the rest of the set. It is a less colorful work, with the architecture painted in grisaille and the silver stain enhanced by the use of perspective. In the center of the composition, Christ, presented as an authority figure, brandishes a whip at the merchants, from whose stalls flow the silver-stained coins. The glass painter combines the classical columns of the Temple and a flaming canopy behind the image of the Christ. The violent scene is accompanied by a poem that recalls the anti-Protestant pamphlets of Artus Désiré: When you come to this sacred temple / God’s temple and house of worship / Don’t come with a false heart / But a pure, honest heart without treason / To pray God as it is reasonably proper / Not to sell or deal / Otherwise the High and peaceful God / Will strike you and your treasures with his whip / as He would filthy simonists / And will erase you from the celestial house.55 52 53 54 55

Riviale, “La chapelle des Trépassés,” 243–56. Mark 11:15–19; Matthew 21:12–27; Luke 19:45–48 and 20:1–8; John 2:13–16. Saint-Romain in Rouen, window 8. “Quand vous vindrez a ce temple tressainct / Temple de Dieu et maison d’oraison / Ny arrivez pas avecques ung Coeur fainct / Mais Coeur pur, monde et sans trahison/ Pour prier Dieu comme il fault par raison / Non pour y vendre ou y faire traffique / Ou

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FIGURE 12.8 Christ and the Temple Merchants, stained glass from the chapel of Saint-Maur, 1564, Saint-Romain, Rouen, window 8. Photo: © Caroline Blondeau-Morizot.

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In the 1560s, the Saint-Maur chapel had suffered from vandalism caused by the Protestants two years beforehand, and had just been rebuilt. Here, in this stained glass, the Temple is a metaphor for the chapel and this episode plays the role of memorializing the Wars of Religion. For this composition, the glass painter used a woodcut from Bernard Salomon as a model.56 This image was chosen because it perfectly illustrates the poem above, which evokes the punishment of God: “or the peaceful God will strike you with a whip.” As the author of the poem, Artus Désiré, was a famous Catholic satirist, it seems this stained glass does more than merely evoke the life of Jesus; rather, it is a reminder of the destruction of the chapel and the punishment for the vandals. In other words, the confraternity communicated, in its stained glass program, its own history through biblical iconography. Indeed, the brothers endured a trauma that differentiated it from other brotherhoods: their building is the one that suffered most from the Protestant riot and iconoclastic violence. This window in particular, which differs from the rest of the program by its subject and its form, is a reminder of that moment in the history of Rouen, one that had special significance for the brotherhood. The iconographic program in the chapel of the Trépassés ends on a positive note, with a rarely depicted episode: the vision of Ezekiel in the valley of dry bones. In this scene, God sends the prophet to a valley laden with bones that gradually came to life; in the upper register, the glass painter also represents the meeting of the twelve tribes of Israel.57 This scene is separated from the other vestiges of Saint-Maur, and is now in the Musée des Antiquités de SeineMaritime in Rouen.58 First of all, this was an appropriate theme for a crowded cemetery; in the sixteenth century, bodies that were not buried deep enough would be eaten by dogs and wolves, exposing their remains to public view. But

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aultrement le hault Dieu pacifique / A coup de fouet vous et vos thresors / Ainsy que simoniaques tres ordz/ vous effacera de la maison celique.” This poem painted on the window refers to John 2:18–22: “Jesus answered them, ‘Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.’ The Jews then said, ‘It has taken forty-six years to build this temple, and will you raise it up in three days?’ But he was speaking about the temple of his body. When therefore he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this, and they believed the Scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken.” “J’estime très probable que la gravure qui a servi de schema iconographique soit tirée des Figures du Nouveau Testament parues à Lyon chez Jean de Tournes en 1554 et illustrées par Bernard Salomon, puis traduites dans plusieurs langues”: Riviale, “La chapelle des Trépassés,” 249. Ezekiel 37:1–14. Hérold et al., Les vitraux de Haute-Normandie, 415–16.

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we can also read this stained glass through the eyes of the Counter-Reformist movement. This scene, illustrating the annihilation of people and a city, once again evokes the bloody battles that took place in Rouen a few years earlier. The image can thus be read as an expression of hope for the people of Rouen after the destruction of their city: in the stained glass, the city is rebuilt and the dead are seen as coming back to life. It depicts the ill effects of the civil war in a positive way, with hope and resurrection. The meeting of the twelve tribes also sends a positive message of reconciliation: it conjures the hope of seeing the Christian Church united again. Conclusion Accordingly, each stained glass in the Saint-Maur chapel can be read twice: once, linking the picture to the cemetery and more macabre iconography, and, the second time, associating it with the events of the religious wars. The presence of the ideas of the Counter-Reformation in the Saint-Maur chapel is not surprising. The chapel had several times hosted Catholic preachers, such as Jacques le Hongre, who may have influenced the choice of the subjects for the stained glass windows.59 The cemetery of Saint-Maur was also an object of contention between the two sides—not only the struggles when the chapel was destroyed, but also the scandals that broke out when Protestants asked to be buried in the cemetery. The brotherhood of the Trépassés was particularly affected by the Refor­ mation and Counter-Reformation: it was a Catholic brotherhood, but also because of its location, it was in the heart of religious unrest. In response to the violence of the Protestants in 1562, in Rouen and especially in this cemetery, the brothers used the windows of their chapel as a vector of CounterReformation ideology. It was not a classic iconographic program but instead a tool of propaganda. The city, whose space is suggested by its walls, appeared in the Middle Ages and the early modern era as the privileged place of caritas. The brotherhood of the Trépassés occupied a place apart in the Rouen panorama because it was located outside the walls: as it was not subject to the urban division of the city parishes and their influence, it could reach and affect the whole town. Therefore, its predominant place both in the discourse of the 59

Riviale, “La chapelle des Trépassés,” 243–56.

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Counter–Reformation movement after the sack of Rouen in 1562 and the role it played in the legislative framework of the artistic professions means that, without a doubt, it has its place among the main institutions in the city. The identity of the brotherhood has been shaped around its chapel, in the process of “faire corps,” in the words of André Vauchez.60 Today, there is no vestige left of the confraternity in the urban space. The chapel, which was built in 1472, then rebuilt after 1562, has undergone many changes (a new adjoining gallery in 1646, and changes in 1785) and was destroyed after 1841. The cemetery belonging to the religious of the Hôtel-Dieu was the only part of the former configuration that was retained after 1780; the hospital continued to be used until the late nineteenth century, but its state of great disrepair led the authorities to order its removal in 1869.61 From the chapel of Saint-Maur, there only remains a seventeenth-century altar and stained glasses, which are today scattered. The windows were placed in boxes and deposited at the Saint-Ouen abbey in 1793.62 In 1813–16, Abbot Crevel observed that several boxes and stained glasses were already missing.63 The various fragments remaining from the windows were reassembled in 1816 in the church of Saint-Romain without knowing whether the order made was faithful to the original program. It is only by reimagining the stained glasses in their turbulent political and religious context that we can understand the program and the subtleties of the iconographic choices made in the chapel as symbolic of the Catholic response to Protestant iconoclasm. From this point of view, the Saint-Maur program is a unique testimony in Normandy: other examples of Counter-Reformation iconography remain in several churches in the region, but they are all isolated windows. The vast majority of the eighty brotherhoods located in Rouen were attached to parishes and were hosted in small chapels inside the churches.64 None of them had the chance to order an artistic program at the scale of a 60

61 62 63 64

André Vauchez, “Faire corps. Les confréries au Moyen Age,” in Les laïcs au Moyen Age: Pratiques et expériences religieuses (Paris: Le Cerf, 1987), 95–124; Catherine Vincent, “Faire corps,” in Les confréries médiévales dans le royaume de France (Paris: Albin Michel, 1994), 31–48. The term “faire corps” refers to the collective and communitarian dimension of the confraternities, the fact that the members joined together to form a common entity—a body (“corps”). The hectare of land was divided and sold, and it is located in the city today. Hérold et al., Les vitraux de Haute-Normandie, 393. From archival records, it is known that at least six windows are missing. For example, Notre-Dame of Rouen housed a multitude of brotherhoods: each chapel

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building. The brothers of the Trépassés thus had an exceptional opportunity to create decorations for a whole building entirely dedicated to their themes, for a total of around fifteen windows. It is the only known example of this quality and scale, and remains Guerard Louf’s will and tribute to his confraternity. belonged to a confraternity. Some of the greatest stained glass windows of the cathedral were donated by the brothers to the cathedral and to their chapel.

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Chapter 13

An Altarpiece, a Bookseller, and a Confraternity: Giovanbattista Mossi’s Flagellation of Christ and the Compagnia di San Giovanni Battista detta dello Scalzo, Florence Douglas N. Dow Over thirty years ago, Werner Gundersheimer suggested that historians could benefit from taking a broad approach to patronage in the Renaissance, and that the application of “concepts derived from various social science disciplines” would allow scholars to see more clearly “the networks of mental attitudes and social connections” that comprised the “supportive structures” of patronage.1 Gundersheimer also speculated that if historians directed their attention to “a quantity of less wealthy and prestigious patrons teaming up with minor clients or sponsoring the less ambitious works of major ones,” they would illuminate “aspects of social and religious history, the history of taste, the history of the organization of work in the arts, and related subjects.”2 Gundersheimer conceded that “little of this so-called minor or decorative art, not to speak of the written record of its creation, has survived,” but he argued that what remained offered much potential for historical analysis.3 Near the end of his essay, Gundersheimer posited that by broadening our view of Renaissance patronage, social and cultural historians might “avoid the elitist bias that has been imposed on us by the accidents of survival and the preferences of connoisseurship.”4 As it happens, an altarpiece commissioned during the late sixteenth-century renovation of an auxiliary chapel at the oratory of a Florentine flagellant confraternity provides an example of a commission by less prestigious patrons for a work of art by a minor artist, a situation that closely fits Gundersheimer’s hypothetical patronage model (Fig. 13.1). Fortunately, the records maintained 1 Werner L. Gundersheimer, “Patronage in the Renaissance: An Exploratory Approach,” in Patronage in the Renaissance, ed. Guy Fitch Lytle and Stephen Orgel (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981), 4, 18–19. 2 Ibid., 21–22. 3 Ibid., 22. 4 Ibid., 21.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_015

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FIGURE 13.1 Giovanbattista Mossi, The Flagellation of Christ, 1591, panel, Museo di Casa Vasari, Arezzo. Photo: courtesy of il Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali e del Turismo—Soprintendenza Belle Arti e Paesaggio per le province di Siena, Grosseto, e Arezzo. Further reproduction prohibited.

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by the company of San Giovanni Battista detta dello Scalzo provide considerable detail about the commissioning of Giovanbattista Mossi’s Flagellation of Christ, about Mossi himself, the patrons of the work, the devotional and official capacities in which they served the confraternity, and the benefits and obligations of their memberships.5 In an attempt to better understand the “networks of mental attitudes and social connections” that were integral to the production of this altarpiece, this essay draws on the theories of entanglement discussed by the archaeologist Ian Hodder. The application of this theory provides a view into the interactions between people and things within the confraternity and shows that the patronage of Mossi’s Flagellation formed one strand of a large web of entanglements that existed between the confraternity and some of its members.6 Entanglement In a discussion of the excavations of the Neolithic site at Çatalhöyük in Turkey, Ian Hodder asked why the archaeological record suggested that certain houses in the town were more successful than others. According to Hodder, “the mud brick house was the social focus of material, social, symbolic, and sensual life” at Çatalhöyük, yet not every house that was established was successfully maintained.7 Some houses were constructed and then never rebuilt—rebuilding being a necessary form of maintenance for a mud-brick structure—while oth5 For recent discussions of the confraternity of San Giovanni Battista detta dello Scalzo, as well as relevant bibliography, see Alana O’Brien, “Apostles in the Oratory of the Compagnia dello Scalzo: ‘adornata da e mia frateli academizi,’” I Tatti Studies 14/15 (2011–12): 209–62; O’Brien, “‘Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno’: Artists and Artisans in the Compagnia dello Scalzo,” Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz 55, no. 3 (2013): 358–433; Douglas N. Dow, Apostolic Iconography and Florentine Confraternities in the Age of Reform (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2014), 75–102. 6 In this respect, this article draws inspiration from Michelle O’Malley’s analysis of the relationships that created (and were created by) the altarpiece by Benozzo Gozzoli that belonged to the confraternity of the Purification of the Virgin. In that essay O’Malley used the anthropologist Alfred Gell’s writings on agency in order to analyze the complex issue of the patronage of an altarpiece for a confraternity. O’Malley, “Altarpieces and Agency: The Altarpiece of the Society of the Purification and Its ‘Invisible Skein of Relations,’” Art History 28, no. 4 (2005): 417–41. Gell’s ideas are presented in Alfred Gell, Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998). For the relationship between Hodder’s theory of entanglement and notions of agency, see Ian Hodder, Entangled: An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and Things (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 213–16. 7 Hodder, Entangled, 151.

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ers were rebuilt a few times and then abandoned. On the other hand, Hodder noted that the town’s more successful houses were “rebuilt in the same way and in exactly the same location up to six times.”8 The seemingly obvious response to this discrepancy—that the families who lived in the successful homes were healthier and wealthier than those who inhabited the short-lived houses—is not supported by what is currently known about Çatalhöyük. To begin, the houses at the Neolithic settlement do not seem to have been occupied by close-knit family groups. Recent research “using tooth morphology as a proxy measure for genetic distance” has shown that “individuals buried beneath the floors of houses were not more closely related to each other than individuals in the population as a whole.”9 Furthermore, studies of the remains have shown that “those buried beneath the floors of the long-lived houses do not seem to have been better off in terms of health.”10 Other differences that might account for various levels of success among the houses—storage and productive space, for example—were also “much the same on both long-lived and short-term houses.”11 After eliminating these variables, Hodder suggested that the long-lived houses “were the ones that were most effective at using ancestral cults and memory construction to keep the house going.”12 According to Hodder, the successful houses constructed memory “through the passing down of animal and human skulls and body parts,” and that as they “started to build a history and to amass evidence of that history (skulls, bucrania, body parts, images of feasts), these houses were able to elaborate on and perform that history more powerfully than others.”13 In other words, the long-lived houses succeeded because the artifacts collected within them projected an image of vitality that attracted people to the house. Those people, in turn, helped to maintain the clay structure and in so doing solidified the physical and social structure of the house—both of which contributed to its longevity. The longer the house was maintained, the more impressive its collection of artifacts became. As its col8 9

10 11 12 13

Ibid. Ibid. In addition to rejecting the idea that the houses at Çatalhöyük were inhabited by family members, the authors of the study cited by Hodder also noted that the settlement does not seem to have been organized into biologically related neighborhoods. Marin A. Pilloud and Clark Spencer Larsen, “‘Official’ and ‘Practical’ Kin: Inferring Social and Community Structure from Dental Phenotype at Neolithic Çatalhöyük, Turkey,” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 145 (2011): 519–30. Hodder, Entangled, 151. Ibid. Ibid., 152. Ibid.

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lection of artifacts grew, the house projected an even greater sense of stability, which attracted more people to the house, thereby increasing its chances of survival. Like the houses at Çatalhöyük, a confraternity succeeded by creating ties among members who were normally not related, and the lay companies used various strategies to demonstrate their vitality, from marking the properties that they owned with their corporate emblems, to participating in public processions and commissioning works of art and architecture. As was the case with the houses at Çatalhöyük, if a confraternity projected an appearance of stability and vitality with an impressive collection of property and furnishings, it was more attractive to potential members. For Hodder, entanglements—“a heterogeneous mix of humans and things, potentials and constraints, ideas and technologies”—have the potential to be productive or destructive depending on their configuration.14 In the previous example, the more deeply entangled the house at Çatalhöyük and its residents became, the more likely it was to be maintained, but the permanent settlement also meant that its residents had to domesticate cattle and grain, thereby creating a further entanglement that precluded their return to a hunter-gatherer way of life.15 Similarly, the entanglements that developed within and around confraternities were not without costs. A property owned by the confraternity that displayed the corporate stemma functioned as a marker of the company’s wealth, but it also frequently came with a raft of entanglements. Not only did the property require upkeep, but it was subject to taxation, thereby creating financial entanglements between the confraternity, hired workers, and the state. If the property was received as a bequest, as was typically the case, then it was most likely attached to a series of obligations set out in the benefactor’s testament that might have required the company to distribute some of the revenue from the property as a dowry or to perform a memorial office on behalf of the deceased. The previous example suggests how people and things can become entangled with each other where, in one instance, a confraternity relies on its real estate portfolio to provide funds for its charitable mission, operating expenses, and as a way of attracting new members, even as the real estate requires that the confraternity maintain it and subsidize the expenses associated with it. Hodder selected the term ‘entanglement’ rather than ‘network’ to describe these types of relationships because he felt that network implies something efficient, whereas entanglement connotes something sticky, a kind of trap 14 15

Ibid., 208. Ian Hodder, “The Entanglements of Humans and Things: A Long-Term View,” New Literary History 45 (2014): 29–30.

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where “humans and things are stuck to each other” within a “dialectical tension of dependence and dependency.”16 This paper will explore one example of entanglement where art patronage and the obligations and benefits of confraternal membership converged. In the process it will show that the complicated relationships between people and things helped to bind the brothers of the Scalzo closer to each other and to the group as a whole. It will also explore the ways in which these relationships both enriched the confraternity by providing revenues and incentives for membership and benefited individual members within the entanglements. The Altarpiece The Flagellation was commissioned from Giovanbattista Mossi in 1591 to adorn the auxiliary chapel at the oratory of the Scalzo.17 The small chapel was a remnant from the confraternity’s earlier oratory, which led the members of the brotherhood to refer to the space as the “old place” (luogo vecchio). In October of 1580, the brotherhood passed a motion to remodel the chapel; both records of this vote mention “the altar and other things” as elements of the luogo vecchio that require attention.18 Although the motion passed by a vote of nineteen to three, the project did not gather momentum until 1590 when the architect Alfonso Parigi, who counted himself among the Scalzo’s members, donated building materials to the confraternity.19 Parigi was not the only member of the brotherhood to step forward and assist in the renovation of the luogo vecchio, and in 1591 three confratelli—the artist who painted the altarpiece, the woodworker who donated its panel and frame, and the bookseller who paid the painter for his efforts—collaborated in the production of a painting to adorn the chapel’s altar. The painter who received the commission, Giovanbattista di Bernardo Mossi (c. 1567–1602), was—to use Gundersheimer’s term—a “minor client,” and little is known of his career with the exception of the few securely documented works that he executed for the confraternity of San Giovanni Battista 16 17 18 19

Hodder, Entangled, 94; Hodder, “Entanglements,” 20. For a reconstruction of the oratory of San Giovanni Battista detta dello Scalzo, see Dow, Apostolic Iconography, 177–85. Archivio di Stato di Firenze (hereafter ASF), Compagnie Religiose Soppresse da Pietro Leopoldo (hereafter CRS) 1195.14, fol. 100r; ASF, CRS 1197.22, fol. 56v. Dow, Apostolic Iconography, 184. For more on Alfonso Parigi’s membership in the confraternity, see O’Brien, “Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno,” 405.

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and other works that are attributed to him on stylistic grounds.20 One of the benefits of membership in a confraternity for artists and artisans was the possibility of garnering commissions from the organization, and it is not surprising to learn that Mossi joined the confraternity in the same year that he painted the Flagellation.21 Mossi’s authorship of the altarpiece is recorded in the confraternity’s book of benefactors, which also states that Jacopo di Bartolomeo Chiti (d. 1626) underwrote the cost of painting the panel and gilding the picture’s frame.22 Although his occupation is omitted from the entry in the book of the confraternity’s benefactors, Chiti is described as a bookseller elsewhere in the company’s documents.23 The next entry in the libro di benefattori credits a woodworker named Giovanbattista di Francesco Bandini da Ronta (c. 1547– 1610) with making and donating the panel and the carved frame for the altarpiece.24 As will be shown below, both Chiti and Bandini were active members of the confraternity. 20

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The painting is now in the collection of the Museo di Casa Vasari in Arezzo and was attributed to various artists before it was linked to Mossi by Ludovica Sebregondi, “Di due dipinti ‘confraternali,’” Paragone 45, no. 529–33 (1994): 253–54. For more on Mossi, see Dominic Ellis Colnaghi, A Dictionary of Florentine Painters from the 13th to the 17th Centuries (London: John Lane, 1928), 187; Alessandro Nesi, “Note baroccesche tra Marche e Toscana: Filippo Bellini, Giovanbattista Mossi, Jacopo Benettini e Francesco Cungi,” Notizie da Palazzo Albani 36/37 (2008): 93–95; O’Brien, “Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno,” 416. For the sculpture by Mossi installed in the main chapel of the oratory of San Giovanni Battista, see O’Brien, “Apostles,” 218–19; Dow, Apostolic Iconography, 84–85. Nicholas A. Eckstein, The District of the Green Dragon: Neighbourhood Life and Social Change in Renaissance Florence (Florence: Olschki, 1995), 50–51; Barbara Wisch, “Incorporating Images: Some Themes and Tasks for Confraternity Studies and Early Modern Culture,” in Early Modern Confraternities in Europe and the Americas: International and Interdisciplinary Perspectives, ed. Christopher Black and Pamela Gravestock (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2006), 245–46; O’Brien, “Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno,” 379–81; Dow, Apostolic Iconography, 77–80. On Mossi’s entrance into the confraternity see O’Brien, “Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno,” 416; Dow, Apostolic Iconography, 98, n. 47. ASF, CRS 1198.26, fol. 3. These entries were brought to light by Ludovica Sebregondi: see Sebregondi, “Di due dipinti ‘confraternali,’” 253–54, 256–57; Sebregondi, “La soppressione delle confraternite fiorentine: La dispersione di un patrimonio, le possibilità residue della sua salvaguardia,” in Confraternite, chiese e società: Aspetti e problemi dell’associazionismo laicale europeo in età moderna e contemporanea, ed. Liana Bertoldi Lenoci (Fasano, Italy: Schena, 1994), 482–83. Chiti also donated other furnishings to the luogo vecchio, including an altar frontal, a cover for the missal, and candlesticks. ASF, CRS 1198.26, fol. 3. See, for example, the entries from 1594 to 1595 in ASF, CRS 1195.15, fols. 5v, 7r, 8r, 9r, 12r. For more on Chiti, see O’Brien, “Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno,” 413. ASF, CRS 1198.26, fol. 3. Sebregondi, “Di due dipinti ‘confraternali,’” 253; Sebregondi, “La soppressione delle confraternite,” 482–83. On Giovanbattista Bandini da Ronta, see

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The panel represents the scourging of Christ in a dimly lit and ambiguous space, and it must have provided an ideal focal point for the luogo vecchio, where the confraternity’s penitential ritual of self-flagellation took place.25 According to the statutes drawn up by the confraternity in 1579, after the recitation of the office and a sermon delivered by the leader of the group, the governatore, the brothers moved from the main chapel of their oratory to the luogo vecchio where they performed their self-mortification.26 An earlier book of statutes from 1456 describes the extinguishing of the chapel’s lights during flagellation, and although it is not explicitly mentioned in the sixteenth-century statutes, the practice probably continued.27 The confraternal ritual of darkening the room during the act of penitence fostered anonymity and encouraged each brother to focus on his own self-mortification. It also functioned as a symbolic echo of the shadow cast on the earth at the moment of Christ’s crucifixion, and reminded the confratelli that they punished themselves in imitatio Christi.28

25

26 27 28

O’Brien, “Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno,” 406. On the collaboration of painters and woodworkers in the production of altarpieces, see Anabel Thomas, The Painter’s Practice in Renaissance Tuscany (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 210–12; Michelle O’Malley, The Business of Art: Contracts and the Commissioning Process in Renaissance Italy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005), 28–38. ASF, Capitoli delle Compagnie Religiose Soppresse da Pietro Leopoldo (hereafter CapCRS) 86, fol. 3v. Weissman suggested that flagellation fell out of favor in the later sixteenth century, and “came to be perceived as something of an anachronism.” Ronald F.E. Weissman, Ritual Brotherhood in Renaissance Florence (New York: Academic Press, 1982), 206–7. The effort expended upon the decoration of the luogo vecchio at the oratory of San Giovanni Battista suggests that flagellation was still being practiced within this particular confraternity. Further evidence for the continued existence of self-mortification can be found in payments that the Scalzo made for the flails used in the ritual, including a payment made in 1580 of five lire and eight soldi for thirty-six whips (3 dozine di diciprine). ASF, CRS 1199.30, fol. 174 destra. Two other payments totaling four lire and ten soldi for a total of thirty-three whips were made at the beginning of the 1570s. ASF, CRS 1199.30, fols. 117 destra, 124 destra. Christopher Black noted that although practices varied widely, there was evidence for the continuation of the flagellation ritual among sixteenth-century confraternities. Black, Italian Confraternities in the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 101–2. For more on this question, see Barbara Wisch, “The Passion of Christ in the Art, Theater, and Penitential Rituals of the Roman Confraternity of the Gonfalone,” in Crossing the Boundaries: Christian Piety and the Arts in Italian Medieval and Renaissance Confraternities, ed. Konrad Eisenbichler (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute, 1991), 253–54. ASF, CapCRS 86, fol. 3v. ASF, CapCRS 152, fol. 11r. John Henderson, Piety and Charity in Late Medieval Florence (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 124.

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In Mossi’s painting the flagellation takes place at night—a barely visible crescent moon is framed by the arch in the upper right corner of the panel. Beneath the moon, two figures in the background make their way through a loggia or a courtyard. These two men—bearded, stooped, and conspiratorial—are most likely a reference to the Jewish elders, who, according to the fourteenth-century Meditations on the Life of Christ, bound Christ to a stone column before leaving him with guards who mocked and tormented him through the night.29 In the center of the panel, Christ is shown in front of the rectangular base of a large column. A loop of rope around his wrist suggests that he has been restrained, but it is not clear if he has been bound to the architecture. His eyes are closed, and his bent knees and curved spine give his body an S-shape that allows the soldier on the left to punish Christ with a scourge made from twigs.30 To the right, another tormentor raises his arm in order to lash Christ with a flail made from knotted cords, while the third executioner holds another scourge made from twigs near the edge of the picture plane. The garments stripped from Christ in preparation for his torture are piled up in the right foreground.31 The picture’s gloom, which is dissipated somewhat by natural (the moon), artificial (the three lamps) and miraculous (Christ’s aureole) light sources, would have reflected the darkened state of the luogo vecchio during the brothers’ ritual of self-flagellation. The large column that rises behind Christ in Mossi’s painting can be explained by the picture’s nocturnal setting. In 1223 a Roman cardinal, Giovanni Colonna (d. 1245), returned from Jerusalem with the column of the flagellation, which he installed in a chapel in his titular church of Santa Prassede.32 According to Barbara Wisch, centuries passed and no one was bothered by the lack of fit between this unusually shaped and diminutive column and the pictorial tradition, or by the fact that there was still at least one column in Jerusalem thought to be the one to which Christ had been bound during his 29 30

31

32

Isa Ragusa, trans., Meditations on the Life of Christ: An Illustrated Manuscript of the Fourteenth Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961), 326. The Meditations on the Life of Christ urge the reader to “see the Lord shamefacedly and patiently remaining silent to all, as though captured in crime, with downcast eyes, and feel ardent compassion for Him.” Ibid. The Meditations on the Life of Christ describe Christ as “stripped and bound to a column and scourged in various ways,” after which he sought “His clothes, which had been cast aside in the house by those who had despoiled Him.” Ibid., 328–29. Wisch, “Passion of Christ,” 246. See also Emile Mâle, L’art religieux de la fin du XVIe siècle, du XVIIe siècle et di XVIIIe siècle: Ètude sur l’iconographie après le Concile de Trente, 2nd ed. (Paris: Armand Colin, 1951), 263–65; Louis Réau, Iconographie de l’art chrétien, vol. 2, bk. 2, Iconographie de la Bible: Nouveau Testament (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1957), 453, but with the important caveats provided by Wisch, “Passion of Christ,” 245–46.

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FIGURE 13.2 Benedetto Buglioni, St. John the Baptist with Two Flagellants, 1490s, glazed terracotta, Chiostro dello Scalzo, Florence. Photo: Douglas N. Dow.

torture. An inscription placed in the chapel in Santa Prassede in 1585, however, attempted to clarify this potentially confusing situation by explaining that Christ had been whipped at two different columns in Jerusalem. The first, and the one that Jerome reported seeing stained with Christ’s blood, was part of the portico of the Temple of Jerusalem and was where Christ was flogged on the night of the Passion. The second column, which was identified with the short column that Colonna had brought to Rome, was from Pilate’s praetorium and was the location of Christ’s punishment on the following day.33 In order to create an atmosphere in the altarpiece that reflected the darkened state of the luogo vecchio, Mossi painted the scourging of Christ as a nocturnal scene. Once Mossi decided to show the flagellation taking place at night, his picture had to reject the representation of the short column—which was becoming the dominant iconography at the end of the Cinquecento—and present instead the large and architecturally substantial column of the Temple’s portico. To do otherwise would contradict the official account of the columns of Christ’s flagellation featured in the inscription at Santa Prassede.34 Thus, the final 33

34

Wisch, “Passion of Christ,” 247–48. Six years later, an engraving by Martin Fréminet repeated this explanation, drawing heavily from the inscription in Santa Prassede. Mâle, Art religieux, 263–64; Wisch, “Passion of Christ,” 248. Wisch, “Passion of Christ,” 248. Representations of the short column understandably first appeared in Rome, but they were also gaining popularity at this moment in Florence, as is demonstrated by a contemporary fresco by Bernardino Poccetti at the oratory of the

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appearance of the altarpiece is the result of the interaction between its location, its function, and broader concerns about iconographic orthodoxy. In addition to the darkness of the altarpiece’s setting, the exposed and dramatically lit back of the executioner on the right would have also resonated with the confratelli, who exposed their own backs to the flails made from knotted cords that they used in their penitential devotion (Fig. 13.2). This soldier, the only one who is nude from the waist up, occupies the largest portion of the panel’s surface, commanding more area than that devoted to Christ. His size, his bright drapery, and the light that defines the contours of his back further increase his prominence in the painting. In the darkened chapel he would have attracted the eyes of the brothers and presented to them a nude back and a flail of knotted cords, the two principal elements of their own self-mortification ritual. It is not difficult to imagine how the dimly lit interior of the luogo vecchio would have merged with the murky setting of the picture, collapsing time and space in much the same way that the self-punishment of the confratelli was meant to reenact the suffering of Christ. Understood in its original context, the altarpiece by Mossi, which was tailored to the specifics of its installation in the luogo vecchio and reflective of the devotions performed in its presence, emerges as a crucial component of the decorative program of the Scalzo’s oratory. The Patrons of the Altarpiece: Confraternal Service The patronage of art in Renaissance Florence has been frequently understood as an ostentatious display, an attempt at self-fashioning, an expression of piety, or some combination of all three.35 Within the confines of the confraternity, it is possible to imagine how the commission of Mossi’s Flagellation functioned

35

flagellant company of Santissima Annunziata that shows Christ bound to a short column. It is worth noting that Poccetti’s fresco represents the scourging taking place during the day, which would require the depiction of a short column. On this fresco, see Licia Bertani, “Gli affreschi del chiostro di San Pierino,” in La Compagnia della Santissima Annunziata: Restauro e restituzione degli affreschi del chiostro (Florence: Centro Di, 1989), 26–27. See, for example, Jonathan K. Nelson and Richard J. Zeckhauser, “Introduction,” in The Patron’s Payoff: Conspicuous Commissions in Italian Renaissance Art, ed. Jonathan K. Nelson and Richard J. Zeckhauser (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008), 1–13. For a recent and concise introduction to the issues surrounding art patronage in the Renaissance, see Sheryl E. Reiss, “A Taxonomy of Art Patronage in Renaissance Italy,” in A Companion to Renaissance and Baroque Art, ed. Babette Bohn and James M. Saslow (Chichester, UK: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013), 23–43.

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in a similar manner, even if on a somewhat smaller scale. Although the bookseller, Jacopo Chiti, and the woodworker, Giovanbattista Bandini, would not have received wide recognition for their sponsorship of the altarpiece outside the walls of the Scalzo’s oratory, their contribution to the decoration of the luogo vecchio would have been admired by their fellow confratelli. Their beneficent act of patronage, therefore, had the potential to increase their status among their peers in the brotherhood. In this sense, the commissioning of the altarpiece also allowed Chiti and Bandini to fashion themselves as benefactors of the group—or, to be more precise, the commissioning of the altarpiece allowed Chiti and Bandini to further augment their roles as benefactors to the brotherhood, since each man compiled an impressive record of service to the Scalzo, both in the years leading up to the commission and in those that followed. With around twenty different positions being filled three times each year, the company of San Giovanni Battista provided plenty of opportunities for members to assist in the administrative oversight of the brotherhood, and both Chiti and Bandini served the group extensively.36 Chiti served twentyeight terms in various positions between 1588 and 1610 (Fig. 13.3). He assisted in the charitable mission of the Scalzo by serving three terms as a provveditore d’infermi (1591, 1597, 1600), as well as four terms as a limosiniere (1593, 1605, 1608, 1610).37 Chiti also took on significant administrative roles within the confraternity, serving as governatore on four occasions (1591, 1597, 1599, 1607) as camarlingo three times (1589, 1592, 1601), as maestro de’ novizi six times (1589, twice in 1592, 1598, 1608, 1609), as sagrestano twice (1588, 1598), and as provveditore six times (three terms each in 1594 and 1595).38 Chiti’s record of service to the group not only attests to his dedication, but it also demonstrates that the 36

37

38

ASF, CapCRS 86, fol. 4v. Many of the artists and artisans who joined the Scalzo served in these various administrative and charitable positions. O’Brien, “Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno,” 370–71. ASF, CRS 1195.14, fol. 145r; ASF, CRS 1195.15, fols. 4v, 17r, 24v, 42v, 52r, 57v. The positions of provveditori d’infermi and limosinieri were filled through a simple drawing of eligible names, rather than an election. In the case of a reluctance to serve, the confratello whose name had been drawn could pay a fee of five soldi to renounce the obligation. See ASF, CapCRS 86, fols. 6v, 11r. ASF, CRS 1195.14, fols. 131r, 134r, 135r, 149r, 150v; ASF, CRS 1195.15, fols. 1v, 2v, 5v, 7r, 8r, 9r, 9v, 12r, 15v, 17v, 18v, 22v, 26v, 48v, 52v, 55v. Chiti was also named as the guarantor (mallevadore) for the camarlingo, sagrestano, provveditore d’infermi, and provveditore a total of twenty times, and his willingness to assume the responsibilities of an absent confratello is another indication of his dedication to the brotherhood. ASF, CRS 1195.14, fol. 149r; ASF, CRS 1195.15, fols. 4v, 5v, 9v, 12r, 12v, 15v, 24v, 25v, 26v, 27v, 29r, 30r, 31v, 32v, 50v.

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office

Jacopo Chiti

Giovanbattista Bandini

governatore

1591, 1597, 1599, 1607

1588

camarlingo

1589, 1592, 1601

1580

consigliere

Giovanbattista Mossi

1582, 1589

provveditore

1594 (×3), 1595 (×3)

1578 (×3), 1591 (×3), 1592 (×3)

maestro de’ novizi

1589, 1592 (×2), 1598, 1608, 1609

1577, 1595, 1597

sagrestano

1588, 1598

1572, 1576, 1577

1597

prov. d’infermi

1591, 1597, 1600

1573, 1575, 1594

1593

limosiniere

1593, 1605, 1608, 1610

1574, 1575, 1581, 1584, 1595

FIGURE 13.3 Administrative offices within the Scalzo held by Jacopo Chiti, Giovanbattista Bandini, and Giovanbattista Mossi. Photo: Douglas N. Dow.

confratelli entrusted him with positions of power.39 The governatore, for example, was the principal executive of the organization who oversaw issues related to membership, charity, and ritual, while the maestri de’ novizi played an important role in the selection and grooming of new members.40 The sagrestani monitored the company’s oratory and its furnishings and ensured that all necessary items were ready for use during the group’s meetings.41 The camarlingo and provveditore were responsible for the brotherhood’s finances, investments, and financial record-keeping.42 By serving the confraternity in 39

40 41 42

Rather than being drawn or elected, the maestri de’ novizi were named by the governatore and one of the consiglieri. ASF, CapCRS 86, fols. 6v–7r. That the executive board of the confraternity saw fit to appoint Chiti to this important post six times is evidence of the confidence his fellow members placed in him. ASF, CapCRS 86, fols. 3r–4v, 7r–8r, 15v–16v. ASF, CapCRS 86, fols. 19v–20r. ASF, CapCRS 86, fols. 15r, 17r–18v.

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these various roles, Chiti involved himself in every aspect of the group’s mission and activities. Chiti’s collaborator in the commissioning of the altarpiece, Giovanbattista Bandini, also accumulated an impressive record of service to the Scalzo, occupying twenty-seven administrative positions between 1572 and 1595. He served once as governatore (1588), twice as consigliere (1582, 1589), once as camarlingo (1580), three times as a provveditore d’infermi (1573, 1575, 1594), five times as limosiniere (1574, 1575, 1581, 1584, 1595), three times as maestro dei novizi (1577, 1595, 1597), three times as sagrestano (1572, 1576, 1577), and an impressive nine terms as provveditore (three terms each in 1578, 1591, and 1592).43 As was the case with Chiti, Bandini’s extensive service to the confraternity allowed him to participate in all of the group’s various endeavors. Finally, it should be noted that on two occasions Chiti and Bandini both occupied important posts within the confraternity at the same time, once in 1591—the same year that they commissioned the altarpiece—when Chiti acted as governatore and Bandini served as provveditore, and again in 1597 when Chiti served another term as governatore and Bandini took on the role of maestro de’ novizi.44 The Patrons of the Altarpiece: Confraternal Benefits Because the histories of administrative service by Chiti and Bandini are similarly extensive, one might conclude that such records of office-holding were typical within the company of San Giovanni Battista. An examination of Giovanbattista Mossi’s service to the confraternity, however, provides an important caveat. Mossi only served the Scalzo in two capacities, once as a provveditore d’infermi (1593) and once as a sagrestano (1597).45 Despite only occupying two offices as a member of the Scalzo, when Mossi was elected sagrestano in 1597, he served alongside Chiti and Bandini, a confluence that hardly seems coincidental.46 Although the patterns of office-holding within the Scalzo have yet to be fully elucidated, it appears as though the organization 43

44 45 46

ASF, CRS 1195.14, fols. 63r, 68r, 73r, 75v, 78v, 79v, 83r, 85v, 86v, 89r, 90v, 98r, 101r, 109v, 119r, 131v, 134r, 143v, 145r, 147v, 149r, 150v; ASF, CRS 1195.15, fols. 1v, 5v, 9r, 9v, 15v. Like Chiti, Bandini was also named mallevadore for the camarlingo, sagrestano, provveditore d’infermi, and provveditore on ten occasions. ASF, CRS 1195.14, fols. 66r, 77r, 79v, 82r, 73r, 99v, 149r, 150v; ASF, CRS 1195.15, fol. 1v. ASF, CRS 1195.14, fol. 149r; ASF, CRS 1195.15, fol. 15v. ASF, CRS 1195.15, fols. 3v, 15v. ASF, CRS 1195.15, fol. 15v. Unlike his patrons, Chiti and Bandini, Mossi was never named as mallevadore for any position.

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was largely governed through the participation of a group of dedicated confratelli who took on the confraternity’s administrative responsibilities, while many other members remained much less involved in the confraternity’s oversight.47 Indeed, the records of each of the three men who collaborated in the production of the altarpiece for the luogo vecchio show a marked difference between the activities of the patrons of the altarpiece, Chiti and Bandini, and the administrative service of Mossi, the painter of the panel. It is possible that Mossi joined the company of the Scalzo in the hopes that his affiliation might lead to a commission, a possibility strengthened by the fact that Mossi’s sponsor for his membership bid was one of the patrons of the altarpiece, Giovanbattista Bandini.48 If this was the case, Mossi’s strategy proved successful when he was tasked with the production of a sculpture and the altarpiece. Mossi’s service to the Scalzo may have been minimal because he also belonged to at least two other flagellant companies, the company of San Girolamo and the confraternity of San Benedetto Bianco.49 Although multiple memberships were frequently forbidden by the statutes of penitential brotherhoods, many men were inscribed in more than one confraternity, which suggests that motives for joining confraternities were not limited to the devotional and charitable work that they performed.50

47

48 49

50

Without attendance records it is impossible to establish precisely the level of engagement of any particular member of the Scalzo; patterns of office-holding provide a more reliable indicator of involvement in a confraternity than membership. For example, Weissman noted that although participation levels changed over the course of the life of a member of the confraternity of San Paolo, “members attended most frequently as novices or officers.” Weissman, Ritual Brotherhood, 160. See also O’Brien, “Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno,” 366–69. O’Brien, “Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno,” 416; Dow, Apostolic Iconography, 98, n. 47. For Mossi’s membership in the company of San Girolamo, see O’Brien, “Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno,” 416, n. 435. For his burial in the tomb of San Benedetto Bianco in Santa Maria Novella, see Nesi, “Note baroccesche,” 93, n. 16. The prohibition of multiple memberships in different flagellant confraternities was included in many books of statutes and has been traced to a decree of Archbishop Antoninus: Weissman, Ritual Brotherhood, 98, n. 171. This rule, however, seems to have been frequently ignored. In the early sixteenth century, for example, the coppersmith Bartolomeo Masi belonged to the flagellant companies of San Benedetto Bianco and San Paolo: see Bartolomeo Masi, Ricordanze di Bartolomeo Masi calderaio fiorentino dal 1478 al 1526, ed. Giuseppe Odoardo Corazzini (Florence: Sansoni, 1906), 49, 63. Weissman noted that some members of San Paolo were expelled from the confraternity for not obeying this rule: Weissman, Ritual Brotherhood, 128. In addition to Mossi, other members of the Scalzo

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Mossi’s burial by the confraternity of San Benedetto points to another incentive to join a lay brotherhood: the services provided by the groups, which included dowries for the members’ daughters, medical assistance from the provveditori d’infermi and the confraternity’s hired physician, charitable donations in times of need, and a funeral procession and burial in the company’s tomb dressed in the confraternal habit. These benefits to confraternal membership are well known; they feature prominently in the groups’ statutes and are reflected in the ranks of infermieri and limosinieri who populated the ­rosters of the lay brotherhoods.51 There were, however, other benefits to membership that derived not from official decree, but arose as a result of affiliation with the group and its members. The potential for an artist or an artisan to receive work from a confraternity has already been noted. Conversely, the chance to act as a patron of art must have been attractive to members of Florence’s non-elite class who did not have the resources to sponsor a chapel or a large work of art. Other more intangible benefits were available to members of the lay brotherhoods, and, in the case of Jacopo Chiti, it seems that one result of his membership in and service to the Scalzo was preferential treatment in the leasing of one of the confraternity’s properties. In 1591, the same year that Chiti and Bandini served, respectively, as governatore and provveditore, and the same year that the two men collaborated with Mossi to produce the Flagellation of Christ, a widow named Lisabetta Pesci bequeathed a small house and workshop on the corner of Borgo Allegri (then Via della Salvia) and Via dell’Agnolo to the company of San Giovanni Battista (Fig. 13.4).52 When the testament was drawn up on 25 July 1591, the structure was occupied by a tenant who was paying rent in the amount of eighteen scudi annually. The confraternity was obligated to pay twelve scudi directly to a beneficiary named by Lisabetta, called Cecilia in the bequest. Upon Cecilia’s death, ten of the twelve scudi that were previously paid to her were to be used to provide a dowry to the daughters of the Scalzo’s members, while the remaining two scudi were slated to underwrite an annual office of the dead to be performed in the company’s oratory in memory of Lisabetta and her relatives. Once the company met these obligations, any remaining proceeds from the property—in this case six scudi—went into the confraternity’s account. In 1594, the confraternity commissioned a sculptor named Antonio di Domenico Giovanlorenzi to carve a stemma representing John the Baptist that

51 52

ignored the prohibition as well. For examples, see O’Brien, “Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno,” 379. For the benefits offered by the Scalzo, see O’Brien, “Maestri d’alcune arti miste e d’ingegno,” 369–71. ASF, CRS 1190.7.A, no. 16.

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FIGURE 13.4 House on the corner of Via dell’Agnolo and Borgo Allegri bequeathed to the Scalzo in 1591 by Lisabetta Pesci. Photo: Douglas N. Dow.

would mark the house as the property of the company. This severely weathered stone relief is still visible on the building’s west side (Fig. 13.5).53 In 1597, the Scalzo rented the structure to Jacopo Chiti. According to a summary of the agreement between him and the confraternity, Chiti was obligated to pay 53

Two entries for the payment to Antonio di Domenico Giovanlorenzi appear in the Scalzo’s documents at ASF, CRS 1200.31, fol. 24 destra; and ASF, CRS 1203.41, fol. 292. Each describes the stemma as a “Santo Giovanni” and one specifies that it is “di pietra.”

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FIGURE 13.5 Stemma marking the property of the confraternity of San Giovanni Battista detta dello Scalzo, 1594, Borgo Allegri, Florence. Photo: Douglas N. Dow.

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annual rent in the amount of fifteen scudi, one lira, eleven soldi, and eight denari, and to provide the company with two pounds of candles made of yellow wax.54 The records reveal that these candles took the form of two falcole weighing one pound each and that they were burned above the confraternity’s tomb in the church of Santissima Annunziata.55 Even taking the expense of the candles into account, Chiti received a slight discount on the property as compared to the rent that had been paid by the previous tenant.56 The advantages of the arrangement between Chiti and the Scalzo are clear: the confraternity secured a tenant who was known to the brotherhood and who could be trusted to care for the property—a valuable asset to the company as well as a source of potential expenses for maintenance—and the tenant received modestly preferential treatment from the confraternity when the lease was drawn up.57 Chiti had demonstrated his commitment to the confraternity by serving repeatedly as an officer and by underwriting a portion of the costs associated with renovating the luogo vecchio. When the company rented Lisabetta’s house to Chiti, the brotherhood rewarded his dedication and placed the property in good hands. Confraternal Entanglements A diagram—Hodder calls them ‘tanglegrams’—of the interactions between Chiti, Bandini, Mossi, and the company of San Giovanni Battista begins to hint at the complexity of the relationships between people, places, organizations, finances, rituals, families, charity, art, and architecture in the one example ­discussed here (Fig. 13.6). Although it includes elements not discussed at length in this essay, it still does not represent all the possible nodes of entanglement, since, as Hodder noted, no diagram can be expected to map all of the potential interactions within a system.58 Hodder has also suggested that the 54 55 56 57

58

ASF, CRS 1200.31, fol. 33 sinistra. ASF, CRS 1200.31, fols. 33 destra, 68 destra. In 1591 the Scalzo paid one lira, six soldi, and eight denari per pound “di candele p[er] li ufiti.” ASF, CRS 1199.30, fol. 233 sinistra. The subtle modification of the lease payment for Chiti provides further evidence to support Michelle O’Malley and Evelyn Welch’s observation about pricing in the Renaissance, that “differences in the amounts that were charged were as strongly related to human relationships as they were to objective financial considerations.” Michelle O’Malley and Evelyn Welch, “Introduction,” in The Material Renaissance, ed. Michelle O’Malley and Evelyn Welch (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2007), 3. Hodder, Entanglement, 48.

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FIGURE 13.6 ‘Tanglegram’ plotting interactions that grew up around the confraternity, its members, and its benefactors in relation to Mossi’s altarpiece and Lisabetta Pesci’s house. Photo: Douglas N. Dow.

more complex the entanglement, the more difficult it was to dissolve.59 As a result, entanglements like those that involve Chiti, Bandini, and Mossi helped to ensure the confraternity’s vitality and longevity. Indeed, the administrative structures, devotional rituals, and charitable practices of many of the lay companies facilitated these types of relationships. For example, both Bandini and Mossi were sons of members of the Scalzo, an entanglement that was encouraged by the company in the form of a reduced membership fee for family members, called a benefizio.60 Membership also provided dowry funds, charity that usually resulted from entangled real estate holdings, like the house bequeathed by Lisabetta Pesci. Membership had the potential to offer the opportunity to act as a patron of art and to provide preferential access to the confraternity’s real estate portfolio, entangling its members yet further. As the entanglements within the confraternity became more complex, they became more difficult to undo, thereby ensuring the company’s continued existence.61

59 60

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Hodder, “Entanglements,” 31. According to the statutes from 1579, the regular entrance fee was seven lire, but those who had a great-grandfather, grandfather, father, or brother in the company received the benefizio and paid a reduced fee of one lira and eighteen soldi. ASF, CapCRS 86, fol. 8r. Hodder, “Entanglements,” 32.

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Both Pesci’s house and Mossi’s altarpiece provide good examples of the longevity of these entanglements. Long after the deaths of Chiti, Bandini, Mossi, and Pesci, the confraternity of San Giovanni Battista maintained the arrangements that these people had set in place at the end of the sixteenth century. In the case of Pesci’s house, the Scalzo began to fulfill the obligations of Lisabetta’s bequest immediately after her death, paying Cecilia twelve scudi annually as specified in the will.62 When Cecilia died in 1619, the Scalzo used ten scudi of the rental income to dower the daughters of the company’s members, and this annual outlay appears in a document from 1783 that assessed the confraternity’s recurring expenditures.63 The two scudi allotted for a memorial office for Lisabetta and her relatives were also paid out dutifully until the late eighteenth century, and the office of the dead for her is included in a list of the Scalzo’s annual obligations that dates from 1746.64 According to an inventory of the oratory taken in 1783, Mossi’s altarpiece remained in the luogo vecchio, though it had been moved to a side altar at some point in the eighteenth century.65 After having endured for almost two centuries, it took the passage of a law in the eighteenth century to destroy the entanglements surrounding Pesci’s house and Mossi’s altarpiece. In 1785, Archduke Pietro Leopoldo banned the lay religious companies in Tuscany and the government seized their property.66 As part of this process, Pesci’s house was inventoried and reproduced in plans and an elevation before it was transferred from the Scalzo (Fig. 13.7).67 Mossi’s altarpiece was removed to the state art collections and eventually installed in the museum at the Casa Vasari in Arezzo. The Scalzo was disbanded and no more masses or offices were performed in its deconsecrated chapel, which eventually came to be used as a warehouse and is now part of a post office.68 In spite of the suppression of the confraternity and the seizure and de­­ struction of its property, the information contained in the surviving records of the Scalzo makes it possible to reconstruct more completely the circumstances surrounding the production of the Flagellation of Christ. This episode provides a concrete example of the type of mid-level art patronage posited by Gundersheimer, where “less wealthy and prestigious patrons” worked with 62 63 64 65 66

67 68

ASF, CRS 1200.31, fols. 14v, 61, 89. ASF, Patrimonio Ecclesiastico (hereafter PE) 44, no. 53. ASF, CRS 1190.6, fol. 10r. ASF, PE 44, no. 53. Konrad Eisenbichler, “The Suppression of Confraternities in Enlightenment Florence,” in The Politics of Ritual Kinship: Confraternities and Social Order in Early Modern Italy, ed. Nicholas Terpstra (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 273–78. ASF, PE 496, no. 80; ASF, PE 220, F. Dow, Apostolic Iconography, 176–77.

FIGURE 13.7 Mattia Magnelli, elevation and plans of house on the corner of Via dell’Agnolo and Borgo Allegri bequeathed to the Scalzo in 1591 by Lisabetta Pesci, 1786. Archivio di Stato di Firenze, Patrimonio Ecclesiastico 496, no. 80. Photo: Courtesy of il Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali e del Turismo. Further reproduction prohibited.

342 Dow

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“minor clients.” As it turns out, however, an analysis of the commission of Mossi’s altarpiece does more than offer a glimpse into the art patronage of non-elites; it also reveals a series of interactions that includes—to name only a few touched upon in this essay—the effect of confraternal devotional ritual on iconography, patterns of membership and office-holding within the confraternity, the motivations of those primarily responsible for the fashioning of the altarpiece, and the benefits of confraternal membership. This essay has argued that the relationships that developed among the people and things within these circumstances can be understood as an entanglement where confraternal membership, art patronage, and real estate converged. The entanglement itself represents the web of obligations and benefits that served to bind members of the Scalzo closer to each other and to the group as a whole. In this sense, situating the patronage of the Flagellation within this tangle of interactions allows for a better understanding of the circumstances that gave rise to the altarpiece, and shows how patronage was one aspect of a larger mesh of relationships that strengthened the bonds that held the organization together. That these relationships persisted for almost two centuries—and were only finally dissolved by a legislative act of the modern state—is a testament to the durability of this entanglement of people, places, and things.

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Chapter 14

Oratories of the Compagnie of Palermo: Sacred Spaces of Rivalry Danielle Carrabino In his eighteenth-century manuscript, The Sacred History of all of the Churches, Convents, Monasteries, Hospitals and other Pious Places of the City of Palermo, the priest and historian Antonino Mongitore (1663–1743) described the many diverse religious organizations in his native city.1 These groups included confraternities, compagnie, congregazioni, maestranze, and nazioni, all of which were formed of lay members who gathered to pray, repent for their sins, and carry out charitable acts—all with slightly different organizing principles. While maestranze brought together persons carrying out a particular profession and nazioni gathered resident ‘foreigners’ from cities and nations outside of Palermo, confraternities united larger groups of people through a common mission. The members of confraternities did not take religious vows but were often affiliated with certain religious orders. They were guided by a set of rules known as capitoli and could be identified by their burlap habits when participating in public processions marking religious feast days.2 Volume 6 of Mongitore’s eight-volume tome defines confraternities as the lay organizations established in Sicily beginning in the thirteenth century with the common purposes of carrying out acts of charity, communal prayer, and penitence. Similar to confraternities, compagnie were also lay organizations that often grew out of confraternities but formed an entirely distinct group. As Mongitore noted, compagnie differed from confraternities in that they met more frequently and were devoted to a specific example of Christian piety. In his words, compagnie were “much more organized and had more decorum.”3 The “decorum” described by Mongitore may refer to the members themselves, who 1 Angela Badami, “La città e gli oratori. Maestranze e confraternite nella costruzione di Palermo,” in L’architettura degli oratori. Uno strumento ermeneutico per l’urbanistica palermitana, ed. Maria Clara Ruggieri Tricoli, Angela Badami, and Maurizio Carta (Palermo: ILA Palma, 1995), 18. 2 Diana Malignaggi, “La Natività del Caravaggio e la Compagnia di S. Francesco nell’oratorio di S. Lorenzo,” in L’ultimo Caravaggio e la cultura artistica a Napoli, in Sicilia e a Malta, ed. Maurizio Calvesi (Siracusa: Ediprint, 1987), 281. 3 Badami, “La città,” 18.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_016

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represented the highest ranks of political, mercantile, and religious life in Palermo. Members of compagnie were expected to pay an annual tax, conduct a moral life, pray at certain times of the day, attend meetings, abide by the capitoli, and ask for alms. Failure to comply with any of these activities could result in immediate expulsion.4 The advantages of membership included the receipt of indulgences, which placed a great deal of power in the hands of these organizations. Another defining characteristic of compagnie that set them apart from other religious organizations in Palermo is that they assembled in private, partially sacred spaces known as oratories, rather than convening in preexisting structures such as chapels or convents.5 Due to the wealth of their members, compagnie lavished large sums of money on the construction and decoration of their oratories. Of the nearly seventy oratories constructed and decorated between the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in Palermo, the Oratory of San Lorenzo, the Oratory of the Rosary at San Domenico, and the Oratory of the Rosary in Santa Cita provide representative examples of the extent to which compagnie decorated these interiors (Figs. 14.1–14.3). A distinguishing feature of these three oratories is their monumental altarpieces by non-Sicilian artists of international acclaim: the Nativity with Sts. Francis and Lawrence by Caravaggio, the Madonna of the Rosary by Anthony van Dyck, and the Madonna of the Rosary by Carlo Maratti (Figs. 14.6, 14.7, 14.9). These paintings are part of a larger trend among the wealthiest patrons in early modern Sicily, who commissioned works of art from artists from the mainland. As I will demonstrate, the competition among compagnie took visible form in the altarpieces that decorate these oratories, with each painting becoming increasingly larger, more complex, and more expensive than the one before. Although the history of the compagnie and the decoration of their oratories have been explored in the literature, particularly by Pierfrancesco Palazzotto, the rivalry among the compagnie that motivated the decoration of these oratories has not yet been examined carefully. Moreover, these three paintings by renowned artists became touchstones for paintings produced in Sicily in the centuries that followed.6 An examination of these altarpieces suggests the individual devotional character and social sta4 Pierfrancesco Palazzotto, ed., Palermo: Guida agli oratori: Confraternite e congregazioni dal XVI al XIX secolo (Palermo: Kalós, 2004), 26. 5 Badami, “La città,” 18. 6 Palazzotto, Palermo, 58. This author also includes in the group the painting (1688–91) by Guercino, destroyed in 1832, formerly in the oratory of the Compagnia del Santissimo Sacramento alla Kalsa. For this painting, see Filippo Meli, Secondo centenario serpottiano 1732–1932 II: La vita e le opere (Palermo: F. Ciuni, 1934), 146–47, and Donald Garstang, Giacomo Serpotta and the Stuccatori of Palermo 1550–1790 (London: Sellerio, 1984), 267.

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FIGURE 14.1 Oratory of San Lorenzo, Palermo. Photo: Enzo Brai, with approval of the Museo Diocesano di Palermo.

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FIGURE 14.2 Oratory of the Rosary at San Domenico, Palermo. Photo: Enzo Brai, with approval of the Museo Diocesano di Palermo.

tus of these three compagnie. The lavish decoration of these oratories renders visible the power and prestige of these lay organizations, which became one of the major sources of artistic patronage in Palermo between the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The Context of Compagnie in Palermo and Their Oratories From the thirteenth to the eighteenth centuries, Palermo was the center of political power in Sicily and the seat of the Spanish viceroy. Since antiquity, Palermo had been a major port at the crossroads of the Mediterranean. The city continued to attract many nobles and merchants from mainland Europe

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FIGURE 14.3 Oratory of the Rosary in Santa Cita, Palermo. Photo: Enzo Brai, with approval of the Museo Diocesano di Palermo.

throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when it was under Spanish domination. The geographic proximity of Palermo to Muslim territories to the south and east made this city an important Catholic stronghold. Despite its mercantile, religious, and artistic importance, Palermo and the rest of Sicily have received comparatively little scholarly attention. As in other areas of Europe, lay organizations such as confraternities spread to Sicily and were an integral part of religious and social life. The formation of compagnie in Palermo coincides with the moment of Catholic Reformation in Europe. Religious organizations such as compagnie formed toward the end of the sixteenth century and were affiliated with religious orders.7 The decrees established at the Council of Trent (1545–63) quickly 7 Badami, “La città,” 22.

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spread to Catholic areas, but were not approved in Sicily until 1565.8 From this moment on, religious orders assisted in ensuring that these new religious principles took hold in Sicily as one of the southernmost points of Catholic Europe.9 One of the topics discussed during the twenty-fifth and final session at Trent established that the abuse of indulgences must be diminished and in their place the Church should promote works of charity as a form of repentance for sins. The charitable acts typically carried out by compagnie included visiting the sick, collecting alms for the poor, distributing bread, and caring for widows and foundlings. Yet compagnie in Palermo had even older roots that predate the Council of Trent, as many of these organizations evolved from previously established confraternities. For example, the Compagnia del Santissimo Crocifisso, the first compagnia in Palermo, has its origins in the Confraternity of San Nicolò lo Reale, established around 1343.10 A list of the deceased members was recorded in a painting by Antonio Veneziano from 1388 (Fig. 14.4). This source also informs us that the confraternity met in the chapel dedicated to their titular saint in the church of San Francesco d’Assisi. Further information about this confraternity is offered by another painting, the Madonna of Humility panel by the Genoese artist Bartolomeo Pellerano da Camogli,11 which was once located in the north cloister of the Franciscan convent (Fig. 14.5). In the predella of the painting, members of the confraternity are depicted praying before the symbols of the Passion in their white hooded habits. These robes gave the confraternity their nickname, the ‘Bianchi,’ and may have been inspired by those worn by members of penitential confraternities in Spain.12 It is important to note that the robes concealed the identity of the members, to ensure 8 9

10 11

12

Ibid., 20. Simonetta La Barbera and Angela Mazzè, “Regesto delle Compagnie a Palermo nei secoli XVI e XVII,” in L’ultimo Caravaggio e la cultura artistica a Napoli, in Sicilia e a Malta, ed. Maurizio Calvesi (Siracusa: Ediprint, 1987), 253. Palazzotto, Palermo, 9 (introduction by Donald Garstang). Filippo Rotolo, La Basilica di San Francesco d’Assisi e le sue cappelle. Un monumento unico della Palermo medievale (Palermo: Provincia di Sicilia dei Frati Minori Conventuali Ss. Agata e Lucia, 2010), 90. Penitential confraternities that wore these robes were introduced to Sicily under the Aragonese rule. See Maurizio Vitella, “Les commandes d’oeuvres d’art des compagnies et des confréries de Palerme entre Contre-Réforme et Baroque,” in Les confréries de Corse: Une société idéale en Méditerranée, ed. Marie-Jeanne Iwanyk (Ajaccio: Collectivité territoriale de Corse-Albiana, 2010), 389. These hooded robes may date back to the sixteenth century in Spain, but were probably worn much earlier. See Susan Verdi Webster, Art and Ritual in Golden-Age Spain: Sevillian Confraternities and the Processional Sculpture of Holy Week (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998), 47.

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FIGURE 14.4 Antonio Veneziano, Ruolo dei confrati defunti, 1388, tempera on panel. Museo Diocesano, Palermo. Formerly in the Church of San Nicolò lo Reale, Palermo. Photo: Museo Diocesano di Palermo and the Congregazione San Eligio.

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FIGURE 14.5 Bartolomeo da Camogli, Madonna of Humility, 1346, tempera on panel. Galleria Interdisciplinare Regionale della Sicilia, Palazzo Abatellis, Palermo. Formerly, San Nicolò lo Reale, Palermo. Photo: Galleria Interdisciplinare Regionale della Sicilia, Palazzo Abatellis, Palermo.

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that their charitable acts were carried out anonymously so as not to attract individual praise. In 1541, the Senate and Viceroy Ferrante Gonzaga, Prince of Molfetta, established the Bianchi as the Compagnia del Santissimo Crocifisso, which would eventually become the richest, most exclusive compagnia in Palermo.13 After the foundation of this first compagnia, others soon followed, each structured hierarchically and with several common characteristics. At the head of each compagnia was an elected superiore (governor). Other members held titles and carried out specific duties that organized them according to rank, such as consiglieri, maestri dei novizi e delle ceremonie, cancelliere, tesoriere, and razionale.14 The hierarchy by which compagnie were organized reflected the social strata of the city itself. This structure was made visible during religious processions when compagnie were ordered according to the year in which they were founded. Due to the nobility of their members, compagnie held a place of importance in processions such as the Corpus Domini and the Feast of St. Rosalie.15 As public events, these processions were crucial to reminding the city of the presence of compagnie and their distinguished place in society. To further reinforce the idea that membership in compagnie was exclusive in nature, these organizations did not assemble in the public spaces of chapels or churches, as confraternities had done, but instead constructed their own private oratories. These spaces were reserved for members, with the exception of brief moments during certain religious holidays of great importance, such as Christmas or Good Friday, when the public was allowed inside.16 As Mongitore pointed out, this feature set compagnie apart from both confraternities and maestranze. The oratory had emerged as a new type of space in Rome around the prayers, litanies, sermons, and singing as conceived by Filippo Neri, founder of the Oratorian order.17 By the nineteenth century, oratories were generally described as sacred places with a single nave and a chapel oriented at the eastern end where Mass could be celebrated for the funerals of deceased members and in honor of special feast days, especially the Corpus

13 14 15 16 17

Palazzotto, Palermo, 255. Maria Giulia Aurigemma, Oratori del Serpotta a Palermo (Rome: Palombi, 1989), 16. Filippo Azzarello, Compagnie e confraternite religiose di Palermo: Cenni storici e documenti (Palermo: Edizioni Poligraf, 1984) as in Badami, “La città,” 18. Palazzotto, Palermo, 27. Louis Ponnelle and Louis Bordet, St. Philip Neri and the Roman Society of His Times (1515– 1595), trans. Ralph Francis Kerr (London: Sheed and Ward, 1979).

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Domini.18 Although compagnie in Palermo were not necessarily affiliated with the Oratorian order, the oratory was adopted as a space in which these organizations congregated to worship together and discuss how to carry out their charitable mission. The proliferation of oratories constructed in Palermo was part of the larger urbanization project that improved circulation and transformed the city from its medieval configuration into a distinctly Baroque one. With the rise of the noble and ecclesiastic powers in the sixteenth century, additional plots of land were created on which to build palazzi for the nobility, religious houses, and churches. A major urban project that coincided with the construction of these buildings was the enlargement and extension of the main east-west street known as “Il Càssaro,” and the expansion of the north-west street, the Strada Nuova or Via Maqueda.19 The intersection of these two main axes superimposed a cross, or “Croce Barocca,” on the city, marking its heart at the Piazza dei Quattro Canti and separating Palermo into the four quarters of La Loggia, Il Capo, La Kalsa, and L’Albergheria.20 Inscribed onto this new urban layout were the oratories, built by the same noble class that had originally initiated the changes to the city. Paradoxically, oratories were constructed in conspicuous locations to remind the public of the presence of compagnie, yet only a select number of people were allowed inside. The plain façades of oratories in Palermo provide little indication of their opulent interiors, largely decorated over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. These interiors were the result of the union of an impressive number of artistic commissions across various media. From their multicolored inlaid marble or tiled floors, to their frescoed ceilings, the decoration of these spaces was extensive. Nearly every oratory in Palermo was embellished by the Palermitan stucco sculptor, Giacomo Serpotta (1659–1732). The stark stucco decoration on the walls and framing the altarpieces created a visual unity among these interiors throughout the city. These spectacular displays of pattern, texture, and color were expressly aimed at the members of the compagnie, who could admire this decoration from the intricately carved wooden pews that were attached to the lateral walls of the oratories. The ­governors commanded the best views from their seats, a throne-like structure 18 19 20

Gaetano Moroni, Dizionario di erudizione storico-ecclesiastica (Venice: Tipografia Emiliana, 1840–70). Mario Di Liberto and Adriana Chirco, Quattro Canti di Palermo: L’ottagono del sole (Pa­­ lermo: Flaccovio, 2013), 14. See the map “Palermo nel terremoto del primo settembre” by Antonio Bova from 1726 in Tricoli et al., eds., L’architettura, Tavola 2.

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usually raised above the ground and situated on the façade wall. From this vantage point, they conducted their meetings facing the other members of the compagnia and enjoyed an unobstructed view of the altar, to which all members turned their attention during prayer. As the remainder of this chapter will demonstrate, the grandiose altarpieces were the most important works of art commissioned for these interiors and remained the focal point of oratories in Palermo. The Compagnia of San Francesco and the Oratory of San Lorenzo The Nativity with Sts. Francis and Lawrence (Fig. 14.6) was one of the earliest altarpieces created for a compagnia in an oratory in Palermo. While the painting’s attribution, location, and relationship to the Compagnia of San Francesco have never been questioned, the date of the Nativity and how Caravaggio obtained this commission have long been a source of debate among scholars.21 The lack of documentary evidence concerning this work, further complicated by the theft of the painting in 1969, has rendered it difficult, if not impossible, to fully determine the circumstances of its commission. Although no specific document may be securely tied to the Nativity, several texts including biographies and guidebooks locate this painting over the altar in the Oratory of San Lorenzo as early as the seventeenth century. The painting was still in situ in 1951 when it was included in the “Mostra del Caravaggio e dei Caravaggeschi” in Milan. We may assume that the Nativity was completed in 1609, when the oratory was undergoing renovations. Caravaggio was present in Messina that year, until at least 24 October, when he was recorded in Naples.22 Moreover, the discovery of a list of members of the compagnia from the early seventeenth century reveals that some of the members of this organization were related to previous patrons of Caravaggio in Rome, such as the Costa, indicating a

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22

For a summary of the debate from the early twentieth century to today, see Giovanni Mendola, Il Caravaggio di Palermo e l’Oratorio di San Lorenzo (Palermo: Kalós, Palermo, 2012), 8; and Michele Cuppone, “Dalla Cappella Contarelli alla dispersa Natività di Palermo. Nuove osservazioni e precedenti iconografici per Caravaggio,” Roma moderna e contemporanea 11 (2011): 363, n. 43. Both authors have argued that the Nativity may be linked to a document in Rome for an altarpiece commissioned to Caravaggio in 1600 when he was still in Rome. Johannes Albertus Franciscus Orbaan, Documenti sul barocco in Roma. Raccolti da J.A.F. Orbaan (Rome: 1920), 157.

Oratories of the Compagnie of Palermo

FIGURE 14.6 Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, Nativity with Sts. Francis and Lawrence, c. 1609, oil on canvas. Formerly in the Oratory of San Lorenzo, Palermo. Photo: Scala/Art Resource, New York.

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­ ossible continuation of patronage in Sicily.23 Regardless of the details of its p commission, a close examination of the painting in relation to the compagnia will locate the Nativity within its original context and inform us about the specific audience for which it was created. The Compagnia of San Francesco was founded by a group of mostly Genoese merchants in 1564 as the Compagnia dei Bardigli e Cordigeri, a reference to their robes. Its mission was primarily devotional, but they also cared for the sick and buried the dead in the impoverished quarter of Palermo known as La Kalsa, where the Franciscans had constructed their church and convent.24 This area was largely inhabited by the Genoese community and was a center of mercantile activity. By 1566 the compagnia had moved its meetings from the church of San Nicolò to the nearby church of San Lorenzo, next to the Franciscan convent.25 By 1569 the compagnia had begun construction of its oratory, which retained its dedication to St. Lawrence in honor of the group’s first meeting place. The two patron saints of the compagnia, Francis and Lawrence, thus refer to its affiliation with the Franciscan order and the church in which their early meetings had been held. In 1574 and 1586 the Franciscans ceded to the compagnia additional plots of land adjacent to the Franciscan church and convent that enabled this charitable organization to carry out one of its main missions—to bury the dead.26 Around this same time, the earliest phase of the decoration of the oratory of San Lorenzo (Fig. 14.1) began with a series of six paintings in gold stucco frames by the Palermitan artist Paolo Bramè, who also provided the miniature for the frontispiece of the capitoli of the Compagnia.27 Scholars have proposed that the paintings were possibly derived from a series of prints by Philip Galle from

23

24 25 26 27

Danielle Carrabino, “‘Ascondersi per la Sicilia’: Caravaggio and Sicily” (PhD diss., Courtauld Institute of Art, 2011), 33 and 194. The seventeenth-century manuscript listing the members of the compagnia is today housed in a private library in Palermo. See Vincenzo Abbate, “La città aperta. Pittura e società a Palermo tra Cinque e Seicento,” in Porto di mare 1570–1670, pittori e pittura a Palermo tra memoria e recupero, ed. Vincenzo Abbate (Naples: Electa: 1999), 35. See also La Barbera and Mazzè, “Regesto delle Compagnie,” 253–77. Palazzotto, Palermo, 184. Malignaggi, “La Natività,” 287. Ibid., 279. The paintings were probably removed around 1699 to accommodate Serpotta’s stucco decoration. Vincenzo Abbate, “Caravaggio in Palermo,” in Caravaggio: The Final Years, ed. Silvia Cassani and Maria Sapio (Naples: Electa, 2004), 93.

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the 1580s.28 Now lost, these paintings represented scenes from of the lives of the compagnia’s two patron saints: along the right wall, three scenes from the life of St. Francis and, along the left, three from the life of St. Lawrence. The subject of the paintings on the lateral walls are united in a single pictorial field in the Nativity, where St. Francis in his habit is arranged at right and St. Lawrence with his gridiron at left in accordance with the nearby paintings. The two saints appear together anachronistically in the altarpiece, as the culmination of the larger decorative program of the oratory. This image and those displayed on the oratory walls served to remind the compagnia of the charitable actions and the exemplary lives of their two patron saints, who were models of chastity, purity, and humility.29 A closer examination of the unique iconography of Caravaggio’s altarpiece (Fig. 14.6) leaves little doubt that it was painted specifically for the Compagnia of San Francesco, with its members as its primary audience. Firstly, the choice of subject for Caravaggio’s Nativity may be explained by the compagnia’s ties to the Franciscans and their special devotion to Christ’s birth. St. Francis and his followers reenacted this event on Christmas Eve in 1223 at Greccio, a remote location in the Marches.30 The figures bow their heads in humility and St. Francis clasps his hands in prayer, showing the viewers how to respond to this scene. The painting also carries with it themes of Christian salvation and the promise of resurrection that would have directly related to the compagnia’s original charge of burying the dead. The placement of the Virgin on the ground recalls the same pose in Camogli’s painting of the Madonna of Humility, formerly located in the nearby Franciscan cloister.31 Both paintings by Camogli and Caravaggio emphasize the confraternity’s insistence on humility, as demonstrated by their members through their acts of charity. Serving as a backdrop for the compagnia’s meetings, the six paintings of the lives of Francis and Lawrence, together with the altarpiece, would have reinforced the compagnia’s charitable mission through the exemplary deeds of Francis and Lawrence; two saints who cast off their riches, assisted the poor, 28

29 30

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Simonetta Prosperi Valenti Rodinò, “La diffusione dell’iconografia francescana attraverso l’incisione,” in L’immagine di San Francesco nella Controriforma, ed. Claudio M. Strinati and Simonetta Prosperi Valenti Rodinò (Rome: Edizioni Quasar, 1982), 164–65. Ibid., 164–65, and for images see 179–81. For descriptions of the night at Greccio, see Francis’s two biographers, Thomas of Celano, “The Life of Saint Francis by Thomas of Celano,” and St. Bonaventure, “The Major Legend of Saint Francis 1260–1263,” in Regis J. Armstrong, Wayne Hellmann, and William J. Short, eds., Francis of Assisi: Early Documents, vol. 2 (New York: New York City Press, 2000), 255– 56, 610–11. Carrabino, “‘Ascondersi,’” 202.

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and lived modest lives thereafter. The themes of sacrifice and piety are further emphasized in the Nativity. As role models for members of the compagnia, these two saints were, in a sense, ‘present’ and presided over the meetings. Within its original context above the altar of the oratory of San Lorenzo, Caravaggio’s Nativity created a seamless unity between the charitable acts of Sts. Francis and Lawrence and recalled the good works carried out by the members of the compagnia. The Nativity was celebrated throughout Palermo and soon became one of the city’s most famous altarpieces. At least two copies of the Nativity were commissioned in the early seventeenth century, as mentioned in inventories of two noble collections.32 This altarpiece would have not gone unnoticed by the members of the other compagnie, who were constructing and decorating oratories of their own. By offering the commission to Caravaggio, one of the leading painters of his day, the Compagnia of San Francesco sent a clear message about the status of its members. Furthermore, this painting reinforced the exclusive nature of the compagnie through its subject matter and customized iconography. The Nativity set the bar for the production of other large-scale altarpieces by noted foreign artists in the oratories of Palermo. The Compagnia del Santissimo Rosario and the Oratory of the Rosary at San Domenico The foundation of the Compagnia of San Francesco, and the construction of its Oratory of San Lorenzo, was roughly contemporary with that of the Compagnia del Santissimo Rosario (Holiest Rosary). Founded on Christmas Day 1568 by the Dominican Mariano Lo Vecchio, this compagnia was dedicated to the Madonna of the Rosary, as the majority of compagnie were, and counted nobles and the wealthiest merchants in the city among its members since its origins in the fifteenth century as the Confraternita del Santissimo Rosario.33 Confraternities dedicated to the Madonna of the Rosary date back to the Middle Ages and were often affiliated with the Dominican Order because of St.

32

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One of these copies, painted in 1627, may be the one mentioned in the Reytano inventory of 1656. See Sebastiano Di Bella, “Il collezionismo a Messina nei secoli XVII e XVIII,” Archivio storico siracusano 74 (1997): 67–68. Palazzotto, Palermo, 242. Important members included the canon Marco Gezio, Antonio Della Torre, the bishop of Patti don Francecso Martinelli, and artists such as Pietro Novelli and his student Giacomo Lo Verde.

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Dominic’s vision of the Virgin, in which she gave him a rosary.34 This episode had been challenged by Protestants, causing the membership of the Roman confraternity dedicated to the Madonna of the Rosary to increase in the years following the Council of Trent.35 In 1570, only two years after the establishment of the Compagnia of the Rosary in Palermo, it split into two factions, due to internal disagreements. One of the compagnie that resulted from this division constructed its oratory (Fig. 14.2) next to the church of San Domenico in 1574 and was enlarged several times, while the other built an oratory (Fig. 14.3) near the church of Santa Cita in 1686. The interior of the oratory next to the church of San Domenico (Fig. 14.2) would not be decorated until 1621, when the chaplain of the cathedral, Marco Gezio, commissioned the Sicilian Caravaggesque painter Mario Minniti to provide an altarpiece.36 His Madonna of the Rosary with Sts. Dominic, Catherine of Siena, Agatha, Oliva, Ninfa and Cristina featured the patron of the compagnia, two main Dominican saints, and the four patron saints of Palermo at the time. It is worth noting the deliberate decision to commission a painting from Minniti, Caravaggio’s best-known Sicilian follower and personal friend. This choice testifies to the immediate impact of Caravaggio’s Nativity, which had probably been installed in the Oratory of San Lorenzo only for a few years before the Compagnia of the Rosary called for its own Caravaggesque altarpiece. When the Flemish painter Anthony van Dyck was present in Palermo in 1624, the compagnia seized on the opportunity to commission a new altarpiece (Fig. 14.7) for its oratory by this increasingly famous artist to replace the one by Minniti. More importantly, the new altarpiece would celebrate two recent miraculous events: one in the Catholic world and one in the city of Palermo itself. The first of these miracles occurred in 1571, when the Madonna of the Rosary intervened at the Battle of Lepanto to assist the alliance of Christian forces in defeating the much larger Turkish fleet. The triumph of the Church against the 34

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The early type of painting representing the Madonna of the Rosary mainly prevalent in Northern Europe was known as the Rozenkrantzbild. For the origins and evolution of Rosary confraternities, see Anne Winston-Allen, Stories of the Rose: The Making of the Rosary in the Middle Ages (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1997), 24–25, 28–29, 116–22, 127–28. Nathan Mitchell, The Mystery of the Rosary: Marian Devotion and the Reinvention of Catholicism (New York: New York University Press, 2009), 24, 32. The painting measured twelve palmi in height and the artist received 100 onze. Vincenzo Abbate, “Van Dyck a Palermo,” in Anton van Dyck. Riflessi italiani, ed. Maria Grazia Bernardini (Milan: Skira, 2004), 80. This painting substituted a copy of Vincenzo da Pavia’s painting in 1616, now in San Domenico. See Palazzotto, Palermo, 246.

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FIGURE 14.7 Anthony van Dyck, Madonna of the Rosary, 1625–27, oil on canvas. Oratory of the Rosary at San Domenico, Palermo. Photo: Museo Diocesano di Palermo.

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Ottomans and the devotion to the Virgin were both reaffirmed at a time when the expanding Ottoman Empire was encroaching from the east and the sanctity of the Virgin was being attacked by Protestants from the north. The Ottoman threat was especially present in Sicily, with its proximity to Muslim territory in North Africa. The outcome of Lepanto was celebrated throughout Europe as a reaffirmation of the Catholic Church and the centrality of the Virgin Mary. It was to this cult figure of the Madonna of the Rosary, who embodied the triumphant Catholic Church itself, that the two compagnie in Palermo were dedicated. The second miracle took place during the summer of 1624, when the plague had descended upon Palermo. By June, the city gates were closed and Palermo was under quarantine. On 15 July 1624, at the height of the plague, the twelfthcentury virgin martyr Rosalie appeared to the people of Palermo, instructing them to find her remains in a cave outside the city and to carry them in procession.37 After the discovery of these relics, Palermo was rid of the plague; Rosalie’s intervention, in turn, was rewarded by Palermo declaring her the new patron saint of the city. In May of that same year, van Dyck was residing in Genoa when he received an invitation from Viceroy Emanuel Filibert of Savoy to travel to Palermo to paint his portrait. The artist had been traveling through Italy since 1621, probably on the recommendation of Peter Paul Rubens, his master in Antwerp, who had previously spent eight years in Italy studying and copying paintings (1600– 1608). Soon after van Dyck presented his portrait, the viceroy also fell victim to the plague. Now under quarantine, the artist spent the next year in Palermo producing portraits and devotional paintings, as well as his one major public commission: the monumental altarpiece for the Oratory of the Rosary at San Domenico (Fig. 14.7). The contract for the altarpiece commissioned from van Dyck is dated 22 August 1625.38 It stipulated the size of the painting as 15 by 10 ¾ palmi (397 by 278 cm), and ordered it to include the Madonna of the Rosary; three Dominican saints, Dominic, Vincent, and Catherine of Siena; and the four virgin saints of Palermo, Cristina, Ninfa, Oliva, and Agatha. It was also to feature the recently named patron of the city, Rosalie. The contract was finalized just before van Dyck’s departure from Palermo, specifying that he could paint the work in 37 38

Xavier F. Salomon, “Van Dyck in Sicily,” in Van Dyck in Sicily: 1624–1625, Painting and the Plague, ed. Xavier F. Solomon (Cinisello Balsamo: Silvana Editoriale Spa, 2012), 35. For the transcription of the contract in full, see Appendix 3 in ibid., 113. For Bellori’s description of the painting, see Giovan Pietro Bellori, Le Vite de’ Pittori, Scultori e Architetti Moderni, ed. Evelina Borea (Turin: Giulio Einaudi, 1976), 276.

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either Naples or Genoa after submitting three colored modelli, now lost. By 8 April 1628, van Dyck had finished painting the altarpiece in Genoa and sent it to Palermo.39 The altarpiece remains in situ in the oratory and is one of many pictures van Dyck created featuring St. Rosalie, helping to establish her icono­ graphy soon after the performance of her miracle.40 The protagonist of this composition is clearly the Virgin, the namesake of the compagnia. Van Dyck’s use of brilliant color, scintillating light, and dynamic poses combine to stage a heavenly vision for the viewer, who is immediately directed to the Virgin’s rich blue and red robes and the Christ Child she balances on her lap. The holy pair is at once at the apex of a triangular composition and at the center of a circle, formed by the clouds below and an arch above. The presence of angels further identifies the upper part of the painting as part of the celestial realm, as opposed to the earthly realm below. The upper and lower halves of the canvas are connected by the rosary, which the Virgin is about to place in the extended hand of St. Dominic. Dressed in the black and white habit, Dominic occupies a prominent position closest to the Virgin as one of the patron saints of the compagnia. Next to him is Vincent, and the third Dominican saint, Catherine of Siena, is the standing figure to the right, recognizable by her Dominican habit and crown of thorns. The figure next to St. Catherine grasping an olive branch is likely Oliva, while the blonde woman clutching her breast in the center must be St. Agatha, whose martyrdom included the crude severance of her breasts with pincers. At the far left is a woman with dark hair dressed in a golden garment holding a salver full of roses, who may be identified as either Christina or Ninfa, two saints who were also celebrated in the Eastern Orthodox Church. Van Dyck added additional figures to his composition to further draw attention to the recent end of the plague. St. Sebastian, a saint commonly associated with the plague, tugs at the arrow in his chest, while a nude putto steps over a skull in the center foreground and holds his nose from the stench of rotting bodies.41 To the left of this figure, with roses at her feet, must be Rosalie. Van 39

40

41

Van Dyck received a total of 260 Neapolitan ducats, 119 onze and 19 tarì, or the equivalent of about 417 Roman scudi. Giovanni Mendola, “Un approdo sicuro. Nuovi documenti per Van Dyck e Gerardi a Palermo,” in Porto di Mare 1570–1670, pittori e pittura a Palermo tra memoria e recupero, ed. Vincenzo Abbate (Naples: Electa, 1999), 93. Gauvin Alexander Bailey, “Anthony van Dyck, the Cult of Saint Rosalie, and the 1624 Plague in Palermo,” in Hope and Healing: Painting in Italy in a Time of Plague 1500–1800, ed. Gauvin Alexander Bailey et al. (Chicago: Worcester Art Museum, 2005), 118–36. St. Sebastian does not appear in the original contract for the painting or in the only surviving preparatory drawing, now in a private collection. See Salomon, Van Dyck in Sicily, 43, fig. 32.

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Dyck kept Rosalie’s dark habit from earlier representations, but transformed her into the fair beauty with flowing blonde hair that he would paint thereafter.42 Thanks to her role in saving Palermo from the plague, van Dyck included Rosalie among the other virgin saints of the city, whom she supplanted as its new patron saint. This altarpiece celebrates the saints to which the compagnia was devoted; with the addition of figures, such as Rosalie, that allude to the plague, it carries a strong message of civic pride. It is likely that when van Dyck received the commission for the Madonna of the Rosary altarpiece, Caravaggio’s nearby Nativity (Fig. 14.6) was at the forefront of his mind. Like the Nativity, van Dyck’s altarpiece would occupy an oratory belonging to a compagnia and would thus serve a similar function. Moreover, even though Caravaggio had been dead for more than a decade, his style continued to thrive well into the 1620s through his many followers; his painting was still enjoying popularity in Palermo. In fact, only one year before van Dyck received his commission, Paolo Geraci’s copy of the Nativity was commissioned by the Genoese nobleman Don Gaspare Orioles. Significantly, van Dyck was already familiar with Caravaggio’s work before arriving in Palermo. The biographer Giovan Pietro Bellori recorded van Dyck’s presence in Rome, where it would have been difficult to avoid encountering Caravaggio’s paintings, especially since they had been copied and studied by his master, Rubens. Although there is no firm evidence that van Dyck viewed and studied Caravaggio’s Roman paintings, we may be certain that he had seen at least one important work by his hand before ever setting foot in Italy: the Madonna of the Rosary altarpiece (Fig. 14.8). Soon after Caravaggio painted the Madonna of the Rosary in 1606, it was rejected for unknown reasons and became available for purchase on the art market in Naples the following year.43 The altarpiece was acquired by a consortium of Flemish artists, including Rubens, who in turn offered it to the Dominican church in van Dyck’s native Antwerp. When the Madonna of the Rosary arrived in Antwerp around 1617/18, van Dyck was probably already working with Rubens in his workshop. On the odd chance that van Dyck did not see Caravaggio’s altarpiece in Antwerp, he could not have helped learning of its existence once he became a pupil of Rubens.44 The 42

43

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Bailey, “Anthony van Dyck,” 124. A painting by Vincenzo La Barbera is now housed in the Museo Diocesano of Palermo, and is probably the first that was created of Rosalie after she was named patron of the city. For the two published letters to Duke Vincenzo I Gonzaga of Modena from 1607, see Stefania Macioce, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio: Documenti, fonti e inventari 1513–1875 (Rome: Ugo Bozzetti, 2010), 236. Christopher Brown, Van Dyck (Oxford: Phaidon, 1982), 80. For my argument that van

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FIGURE 14.8 Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, Madonna of the Rosary, 1606, oil on canvas. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna. Photo: Scala/Art Resource, New York.

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common subject matter of the two paintings as well as their compositions point to van Dyck’s memory of Caravaggio’s earlier painting when composing his own version for the Palermo compagnia. When comparing Caravaggio’s Palermo Nativity to van Dyck’s Madonna of the Rosary, there are clear differences in palette and treatment of the human body; however, the paintings are similar in their triangular compositions, arrangement of figures around a central void, and architectural framing devices. Van Dyck’s figures are also much less crude and more elegantly dressed and posed, and he transformed Caravaggio’s painting from a distinctly earthly scene into a more celestial one, with the Virgin seated on a cloud among floating angels. The overall thrust of van Dyck’s painting is decidedly upward, whereas Caravaggio leads our eye downward toward the infant Christ on the ground. While the subject and style of van Dyck’s altarpiece is far removed from Caravaggio, the reference to this earlier altarpiece was intended to bring to viewers’ minds the two oratories belonging to the rivaling compagnie. Even after van Dyck’s altarpiece was in place, the decoration of the oratory (Fig. 14.2) continued throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The oratory was enlarged in 1627 with the addition of a new presbytery, and the decoration extended to the ceiling with a fresco of the Virgin by the Palermitan artist Pietro Novelli from the 1620s, around the time he became a member of the compagnia himself.45 Prior to van Dyck’s commission for the altarpiece, the lateral walls of the oratory had been decorated in the first half of the seventeenth century with red lamé and fourteen paintings, seven scenes from the life of Mary and seven from the life of Christ.46 These paintings were commissioned to the most famous Sicilian and foreign artists working in Palermo, including Pietro Novelli, Guglielmo Borremans, and Matthias Stom. The arrangement of the paintings would have echoed the original appearance of the Oratory of San Lorenzo (Fig. 14.1) with its scenes from the lives of Francis and Lawrence, before they were taken down to accommodate Serpotta’s stucco teatrini (small narrative reliefs) with the same subjects. However, the lateral walls of the oratory at San Domenico now more than doubled the number of paintings formerly in the Oratory of San Lorenzo. In addition to the paintings, the oratory at San Domenico contains wooden pews carved with zoomorphic motifs for the brothers of the compagnia, and

45 46

Dyck’s altarpiece was inspired by Caravaggio’s Nativity and his earlier Madonna of the Rosary, see Carrabino, “‘Ascondersi,’” 209. Palazzotto, Palermo, 247. Aurigemma, Oratori, 28.

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walnut seats for the Governors. The final phase of its decoration, by Serpotta, took place between 1708 and 1717, with the addition of stucco teatrini, allegorical statues, and high reliefs, some accented with gold leaf, representing the Mysteries of the Rosary.47 The result was an even more elaborate oratory than that of San Lorenzo, clearly aimed at dazzling all who entered this space. Part and parcel of this competition was van Dyck’s Madonna of the Rosary, which, at roughly 130 centimeters taller and 81 centimeters wider than the Nativity, was conceived to outdo the Caravaggio painting. The Compagnia del Rosario and the Oratory of the Rosary in Santa Cita Still more elaborate than either the Oratory of San Lorenzo or the Oratory of the Rosary at San Domenico is one of the most decorative interiors in Palermo, the Oratory of the Rosary (Fig. 14.3) in Santa Cita (or Zita). When twenty members of the original compagnia dedicated to the Rosary separated to found their own group in 1570, they gathered at the Dominican convent attached to San Nicolò dei Greci.48 By 1590 the compagnia had purchased an oratory between Santa Cita and the now-destroyed Palazzo dei Principi di Lampedusa, and finally in 1686 built a new oratory in the cloister of the church of Santa Cita, where it remains today.49 The comparison between the two compagnie dedicated to the Rosary—once united—and their respective oratories was guaranteed. As in the other two examples, the driving force behind this most ornate of oratories was the wealth of its members, who did not pay annual fees like other compagnie but instead freely gave unspecified amounts of their personal incomes. This resulted in huge sums being lavished on the decoration of their oratory, which was intended to be unrivalled in Palermo. Illustrious members of this compagnia included archbishops, merchants, architects, professors, and princes of the Sicilian Curia. In fact, Mongitore declared the oratory in Santa Cita to be “one of the most noble [oratories] of the city for its size, ornamentation, and richness.”50 47 48 49

50

Palazzotto, Palermo, 248. Giuseppe Pecoraro, Oratorio del Rosario in Santa Cita (Palermo: Centro S. Mamiliano, 1999), 9. Maurizio Carta, “Il recupero della memoria urbana: gli oratori serpottiani a Palermo,” in L’architettura degli oratori: Uno strumento ermeneutico per l’urbanistica palermitana, ed. Maria Clara Ruggieri Tricoli, Angela Badami, and Maurizio Carta (Palermo: ILA Palma, 1995), 67. Vincenzo Mortillaro, Guida per Palermo (Palermo: Stamperia Pensante, 1850), 58.

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In addition to its grandiose altarpiece, the decoration of this oratory, which was carried out between 1686 and 1718, included a polychrome marble floor with the eight-pointed Marian star (1699), ebony pews inlaid with mother of pearl (1700–02), ceiling frescos (1718), fifty-four silver vases, several candelabra (before 1798), and Serpotta’s most elaborate stucco decoration of any oratory in Palermo (1686 and 1717–18), which closely followed the completion of his work at the rival oratory of the Rosary at San Domenico.51 Santa Cita, unlike the other oratories, already had some of its stucco decoration by Serpotta in place before the commission for the altarpiece. These animated sculptures provide a framework for Carlo Maratti’s painting (Fig. 14.9), complementing its rich and varied palette with their stark whiteness. The reliefs of the Fifteen Joyful, Glorious, and Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary directly relate to the altarpiece, which remains the decorative culmination of the oratory.52 On the façade wall is Serpotta’s most monumental work in stucco of any oratory, with six teatrini reliefs covering the entire surface and the Battle of Lepanto at center. Originally a painting of the Adoration of the Magi by local artist Pietro d’Asaro was displayed on this wall, until the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries when the first oratory was decorated. The painting of the Madonna of the Rosary over the altar therefore faces the Lepanto teatrino at the opposite end of the oratory, to draw attention to the two subjects dearest to the compagnia. In 1689 the compagnia, for which money was not an obstacle, entrusted Maratti, the most famous painter in Rome at the time, to provide the altarpiece (Fig. 14.9) for the oratory. Bellori, friend and biographer of Maratti, recorded that the artist was commissioned by the compagnia and received the large sum of 1,500 scudi.53 Although the document recording the original commission to Maratti is not known to have survived, one can surmise that the artist was instructed to include several Dominican saints and the patron saint of the compagnia, the Madonna of the Rosary, similar to van Dyck’s painting. Maratti was especially known for his beautiful images of the Virgin Mary, earning him 51 52

53

Palazzotto, Palermo, 239–40. On the left wall are the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary (Annunciation, Visitation, Nativity, Presentation, and Dispute among the Doctors). The Glorious Mysteries are located behind the altar (Resurrection, Ascension, Pentecost, Assumption, Crowning of the Virgin). The right wall is dedicated to the Sorrowful Mysteries (Agony in the Garden, Flagellation, Crowning with Thorns, Carrying the Cross, and Crucifixion). See Carta, “Il recupero,” 68. Bellori, Le vite, 635. It is interesting to note that two members of this compagnia since 1685 were Giuseppe Maratti and Tommaso Maratti; the former was instrumental in the commission for the altarpiece. See Pecoraro, Oratorio, 32, n. 51.

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FIGURE 14.9 Carlo Maratti, Madonna of the Rosary, 1695, oil on canvas. Oratory of the Rosary in Santa Cita, Palermo. Photo: Museo Diocesano di Palermo.

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the moniker “Carluccio delle Madonne.”54 In every way, this artist was the ideal choice for the compagnia, both to represent the status of its members and to surpass not only the other compagnia that shared its name, but every other compagnia in Palermo. Bearing a striking resemblance to van Dyck’s painting of the Madonna of the Rosary (Fig. 14.7) in composition and cast of characters, Maratti’s version may have been based on a drawing of it.55 Since Maratti is not documented as having traveled to Sicily, the compagnia presumably provided this drawing to spur Maratti to compete with the van Dyck altarpiece. Maratti’s composition is also hierarchical, with the enthroned Madonna and Child at the top, and it includes the two most important Dominican saints, Dominic and Catherine of Siena, who both help to distribute rosaries. However, here St. Vincent has been replaced by Thomas Aquinas, with the sun emblazoned on his chest. The four virgin saints of Palermo are reduced to only one, St. Oliva, seated on a step with an olive branch at her feet and wearing a turban to refer to her martyrdom in Tunisia. Beside her is a Dominican nun holding roses at her breast, perhaps St. Rose of Lima.56 This Dominican nun had been recently canonized in 1671, mainly due to her care of the needy—a charitable act that would have resonated with the compagnia. Finally, retaining her position in the foreground and her pose with her back to the viewer, the blond woman with outstretched arms is St. Rosalie. Several decades after the plague in Palermo, Maratti eliminated the figure of St. Sebastian. The putto in the foreground remains, if nothing else to ensure comparison with the painting by van Dyck in the oratory of the rival compagnia. It is not surprising that Maratti’s Madonna of the Rosary (Fig. 14.9) is larger and was more expensive than its predecessor. Both paintings with this subject contain roughly the same number of figures, but those in Maratti’s painting are more monumental. Both artists have answered Caravaggio’s single angel with an abundance of winged figures. Over time, the colors have become more vibrant, the compositions more complex, and the overall effect increasingly more elegant. Even the intricately sculpted pearwood frame of the Maratti altarpiece warranted a separate commission to Pietro Navarrino, and a curtain rod was paid for in 1765 so that the painting may be covered and unveiled for 54 55 56

Bellori, Le vite, 590. Pieralda Albonico Comalini, “A Negrana una singolare testimonianza dell’emigrazione a Palermo,” Quaderni della biblioteca del convento francescano di Dongo 18 (2007): 49. Ibid. This compelling identification may be based on Bellori’s Vita of Maratti, where he records the two female figures seated on the steps as “Santa Oliva e Santa Rosa”: see Bellori, Le vite, 652.

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specific occasions.57 In addition to the larger, more opulent altarpieces, the oratories also became increasingly more decorative. Serpotta’s stucco statues of allegorical figures and teatrini reliefs grew in number and scale to the extent that the walls of the oratory in Santa Cita are almost entirely given over to these sculptures. Maratti sent the completed painting to Palermo in July 1695. As the final artist in his Vite, Bellori provides a detailed account of Maratti’s altarpiece, perhaps even provided by the artist himself, as Bellori is not known to have traveled to Palermo. According to Bellori, the altarpiece was blessed with favorable winds during its journey from Rome, taking only five days to arrive.58 This literary motif had been employed by Bellori’s predecessor Giorgio Vasari in his account of the voyage from Rome to Palermo in 1517 of Raphael’s Christ Carrying the Cross (“Spasimo di Sicilia”).59 According to the Tuscan biographer, the painting by Raphael had survived a shipwreck “due to its beauty,” as if by divine intervention.60 The common ‘survival’ of the two paintings would have associated them in the minds of a seventeenth-century audience, automatically exalting Marratti’s painting alongside one of the artistic treasures of the city. Bellori ended his biography of the artist with the transcription of a letter from the compagnia, dated 4 August 1695, thanking Maratti for the altarpiece.61 The members of the compagnia wrote that the painting “invites the minds of the entire kingdom to come and contemplate the beauty, the propriety, the design and all the excellence of the composition.” The letter provides evidence that Maratti’s altarpiece was favorably received, as the next in a long line of paintings by non-Sicilian artists in Palermo. Conclusion Spanning the entire seventeenth century, the decoration of the three oratories and the commissions for their altarpieces by foreign artists exemplify the 57

58 59

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Pecoraro, Oratorio, 32. At some point in its history, a curtain rod was affixed above the altarpiece in the Oratory of San Lorenzo. Indeed, the two angels by Serpotta that flank the painting appear to be pulling back a drape to reveal the image for the viewer. Bellori, Le vite, 653. Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ più eccellenti architetti, pittori, et scultori italiani, da Cimabue insino a’ tempi nostri, eds. Luciano Bellosi and Aldo Rossi (1550) (Turin: G. Einaudi, 1986), 631. I have argued elsewhere that the Spasimo was also at the center of an earlier artistic rivalry among foreign artists in Sicily: Carrabino, “‘Ascondersi,’” 135–77. Bellori, Le vite, 651–54.

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one-upmanship among the compagnie. Compared with Caravaggio’s Nativity, the paintings by van Dyck and then Maratti were increasingly larger, had more complex compositions, and employed a wider palette. Van Dyck could not help but be aware of his predecessor, just as Maratti could not avoid comparison with both van Dyck and Caravaggio. What is perhaps most extraordinary about these altarpieces is that they were not on public view, yet still became famous throughout Palermo. These altarpieces became the vehicle through which compagnie declared their importance and wealth. Similar to the way the habits worn by the compagnie hid the identity of their illustrious members during public processions, the oratories concealed from public view the artistic splendor of what became charged sites of rivalry. The three altarpieces represented the very essence of the compagnie that commissioned them. The richness of their decoration and their grand scale corresponded to the wealth of the compagnie members. These paintings were conceived as part of larger decorative programs created not for the general public, but for a rather exclusive audience of viewers. The choice to commission foreign artists reinforced the notion that the members of the compagnie saw themselves as connected to mainland Europe in terms of their elevated artistic tastes, education, and status. Related to this notion is the unusual icon­ ography in each altarpiece, intended to resonate with the concerns, ideals, and mission of the compagnie. As such, these paintings did not function merely as decoration, nor were they exclusively aids for spiritual mediation, but instead they reinforced the identity of these lay organizations and provided inspiration for their religious devotion and charitable works. By the middle of the nineteenth century, ninety-two compagnie existed in Palermo. These and other religious organizations began to decline and were greatly reduced in number under Napoleonic law and during the Bourbon rule in Sicily.62 Although many compagnie are now defunct, several are still active today and their oratories have become public museums.63 A visit to Palermo is not complete without a tour of the oratories, many of which have undergone recent restoration. The three most prominent remain the Oratory of San Lorenzo, the Oratory of the Rosary at San Domenico, and the Oratory of the Rosary in Santa Cita. These spaces are still regarded as containing some of the finest works of art ever to have been created in Palermo, testifying to the rivalry that fueled these commissions and the affluence of the compagnie. 62 63

Aurigemma, Oratori, 16. Badami, “La città,” 18.

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Chapter 15

The Art of Salvation: Don Miguel Mañara and Seville’s Hermandad de la Santa Caridad Ellen Alexandra Dooley* Among the most illustrious patrons of confraternities in Seville was Miguel Mañara y Vicentelo de Leca (1627–79). A wealthy nobleman and the alleged ‘original Don Juan,’ Mañara underwent a dramatic conversion in the aftermath of Seville’s great plague of 1649. He assumed the role of hermano mayor (head brother) of the Hermandad de la Santa Caridad (Brotherhood of Charity) and dedicated the remainder of his life to the confraternity and its charitable causes, including the Hospital de la Caridad. In this position, Mañara became a champion of charity and an important patron of art, funding the confraternity’s services as well as the renovation and adornment of its church of San Jorge. While Mañara’s philanthropic works and articulations of piety are many and multifaceted, this essay focuses specifically on the artworks he commissioned for the Brotherhood of Charity’s church and his public displays of penitence directed toward his personal salvation. Mañara carried out his acts of charity and devotion publicly, and he recorded many of his good deeds for posterity. I argue here that Mañara, ripe with angst and uncertainty regarding the destination of his own soul, made his spiritual transformation open in an effort to convince his fellow brothers and the wider community that he had rightfully repented and was undoubtedly worthy of salvation. Arguably, Mañara’s preoccupation with death fueled much of his behavior. In early modern Europe, death was an omnipresent threat amid frequent outbreaks of pestilence and war. In his lifetime, Mañara witnessed the devastating impact of Seville’s plague epidemic and the deaths of most of his family members. His treatise, Discurso de la verdad (Seville, 1671) and the artworks he commissioned, namely, Juan de Valdés Leal’s (1622–90) In Ictu Oculi (Fig. 15.1) and Finis Gloriae Mundi (Fig. 15.2), reveal that Mañara was changed by loss and deeply concerned with his own fate. These lasting forms speak to the fragility of life and to the indiscriminate nature of death. Collectively, the cultural * Thanks to Daniela Bleichmar, Sean Roberts, Sherry Velasco, and Charlene Villaseñor Black for their guidance with this research in its various stages. I would also like to express gratitude to my mother, Mary Dooley, and Diana Bullen Presciutti for their valuable feedback on drafts, as well as to Don Antonio Domínguez Rodríguez for his assistance in the archives of the Hermandad de la Santa Caridad. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are by the author.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_017

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FIGURE 15.1 Juan de Valdés Leal, In Ictu Oculi, 1670–72, oil on canvas, Hermandad de la Santa Caridad, Seville. Photo: Courtesy of the Hermandad de la Santa Caridad, Seville.

byproducts of Mañara’s conversion relay an important message: our time is short and neither worldly success nor riches guarantees salvation. Significantly, the citizens of Seville were privy to Mañara’s anxieties; he processed his fear of the unknown in lasting, public forms. Mañara, a nobleman and self-professed sinner, actively sought to ensure his salvation. His efforts were set within the Brotherhood of Charity and against the backdrop of the city of Seville. At the turn of the seventeenth century, the city was the capital of Spanish drama, boasting four public theaters and the

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FIGURE 15.2 Juan de Valdés Leal, Finis Gloriae Mundi, 1670–72, oil on canvas, Hermandad de la Santa Caridad, Seville. Photo: Courtesy of the Hermandad de la Santa Caridad, Seville.

Coliseo, a municipal stage.1 While Seville was home to several theaters, confraternities rather than playwrights and thespians were responsible for much of the drama—the city itself proved to be the greatest stage of all. Theatrical processions and dramatic acts of self-mortification were particularly symptomatic of confraternal life in seventeenth-century Seville. The social and religious climate of the city surely fostered Mañara’s unique persona; his transformation 1 John H. Elliott, Spain, Europe and the Wider World, 1500–1800 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), 282.

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and subsequent actions were theatrical displays in their own right, performed and validated by his fellow brothers and the local community. From Babylon to Brotherhood Integral to Mañara’s biography is the city in which he lived.2 In the sixteenth century, the demographic makeup and overall character of Seville underwent a significant transition. In 1503, the city established a monopoly on Spanish trade with the Americas­­, becoming the only port authorized for Atlantic travel and Europe’s primary location for exchange and commerce with the Indies. In this position, Seville experienced an influx of unimaginable wealth. The prospect of great fortune drew immigrants to the city, and Seville quickly reached its peak in population.3 New social values surfaced as a result of these economic and demographic changes. While historically detached from commercial pursuits, nobles invested in trade, eagerly aligning themselves with the merchant class. In turn, merchant families identified with the aristocracy by purchasing titles of nobility.4 Though Seville’s booming economy benefitted the city and its citizens in many ways, it also contributed to a certain degree of moral depravity. Don Juan, the protagonist of Tirso de Molina’s classic drama, El burlador de Sevilla (1630), came to typify Seville’s new privileged class. Don Juan holds titles of nobility and yet he lacks honor. He is conniving, irresponsible, passionate, and depraved, and his misguided pursuits speak to themes central to Tirso de

2 Among others, monographs on Miguel Mañara include Juan de Cárdenas, Breve relación de la muerte, vida y virtudes del venerable caballero Don Miguel de Mañara Vicentelo de Leca, caballero de la Orden de Calatrava, hermano mayor de la Santa Caridad (Seville: Tomás López de Haro, 1679); José Andrés Vázquez, Miguel Mañara (Madrid: Atlas, 1943); Jesús M. Granero, Don Miguel Mañara (Seville: Artes Gráficas Salesianas, 1963); Jesús M. Granero, Muerte y amor: Don Miguel Mañara (Madrid: Jesús M. Granero, 1981); Francisco Martín Hernández, Miguel Mañara (Seville: Publicaciones de la Universidad de Sevilla, 1981); Olivier Piveteau, El burlador y el santo: Don Miguel Mañara frente al mito de Don Juan (Seville: Cajasol, Obra Social, Fundación, 2007); Enrique Valdivieso, Miguel Mañara: Espiritualidad y arte en el barroco sevillano (1627– 1679) (Seville: Hermandad de la Santa Caridad, 2010); José Fernández López and Lina Malo Lara, eds., Estudios sobre Miguel Mañara: Su figura y su época santidad, historia y arte (Seville: Hermandad de la Santa Caridad, 2011). 3 The populations of Seville and Madrid both reached between 130,000 and 150,000 in the early seventeenth century: James Casey, Early Modern Spain: A Social History (New York: Routledge, 1999), 32. 4 Teofilo F. Ruiz, Spanish Society, 1400–1600 (New York: Routledge, 2014), 60.

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Molina’s play—injustice, privilege, pleasure, and the passage of time. For several playwrights and authors of fiction writing in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, there was a clear correlation between the biography of Mañara and the fictional character.5 Like Don Juan, Mañara was representative of an entire community of the titled elite—rich in wealth and lacking in integrity. Mañara, however, abandoned his privileged life to care for the disadvantaged and to bury the dead. Exaggerated accounts of Mañara’s indulgent life further dramatize his ultimate conversion and shift in lifestyle. These mythologies are as integral to the biography of Mañara as are the facts. Born in 1574 in Calvi, Corsica, Mañara’s father, Tomasso Mañara, immigrated to Seville as a young man and profited significantly from business with the New World.6 He traveled to Peru before 1600 and likely made his fortune there through involvement with the Manila Galleons.7 After returning to Seville, he married Doña Jerónima Anfriano in 1612, a daughter of Juan Antonio Vicentelo, who was one of Seville’s wealthiest merchants and, like Mañara, a Corsican immigrant. The couple produced eleven children, three of whom died in infancy.8 While the family faced many tragedies, they maintained a comfortable existence. As members of the Hermandad de San Pedro Mártir, a group closely aligned with the House of the Inquisition, the Mañaras were guaranteed honor and enjoyed access to offices of political power as well as to the material symbols of high status.9 Tomasso Mañara collected luxury items and purchased 5

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Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy, Don Juan (Dresden: B.G. Teubner, 1863); Arnold Bennett, Don Juan de Marana (London: Privately printed by T. Werner Laurie, 1923); Mirko Jelusich, Don Juan: Die Sieben Todsünden (Vienna: Speidel, 1931); and Josef Toman, Don Juan: The Life and Death of Don Miguel de Mañara (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1958). For an overview of fiction inspired by the life and death of Mañara, see Piveteau, El burlador y el santo; and Pierre Brunel, Don Juans insolites (Paris: Presses de l’Université Paris-Sorbonne, 2008). Little is known regarding immigrants to Seville from Corsica because they are often confused with others coming from various Italian groups. For more, see Enriqueta Vila Vilar, Los Corzo y los Mañara: Tipos y arquetipos del mercader con Indias (Seville: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1991), 31–37. Ibid., 42. The children baptized in the parish of San Nicolás include: Juan Antonio (b. 1613), Jácome (b. 1614), Nicolás (b. 1616), Isabel (b. 1617), Ana María (b. 1618), Jerónima (b. 1619), Francisco (b. 1621), and Jacinta (b. 1623). Jácome, Nicolás, and Jacinta died shortly after birth. See Diego Oliva Alonso, Restauración: Casa-palacio de Miguel Mañara (Seville: Junta de Andalucia, Consejería de Cultura y Medio Ambiente, 1993), 284. The Hermandad de San Pedro Mártir was a select group of fifty men whose blood was without trace of ancestry from Jews, Moors, heretics, or converts. The group was closely

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titles of nobility for his two surviving sons, Juan Antonio and Miguel.10 Juan Antonio entered the Order of Santiago, and Miguel, at the age of eight, the Order of Calatrava.11 Following the deaths of his father, mother, and two older brothers, Mañara became the sole heir of his family’s fortune. Fabulously rich and married to Doña Jerónima Carillo de Mendoza, a beautiful noblewoman, Mañara held a covetable position in Sevillian society.12 He partook in worldly delights—or, as he later put it, “served Babylon and the devil, its prince, with a thousand abominations, arrogance, adulteries, profanities, scandals and thefts, whose sins and crimes are beyond counting.”13 However, his carefree existence dissolved in 1661 upon the death of his wife; her demise dramatically changed his direction and outlook on life. The most noted biographer of Mañara, historian Jesús Granero, writes that Mañara succumbed to nervous agitation, and that it was impossible for the “brave knight” to pass one night alone in his own bedroom.14 Soon thereafter, Mañara committed himself to a life of seclusion and meditation, retiring to a hermitage of the Unshod Carmelites. Father Juan de Cárdenas (1613–84), a Jesuit chronicler, states that during this period Mañara made a sincere confession and fervently fulfilled acts of contrition.15 “Guided by the light,” Mañara returned to Seville to do the work of Christ and to lead a life of holy service.16 Following this conversion, Mañara met members of the Brotherhood of Charity along the Guadalquivir River while they collected the bodies of nameless beggars, invalids, and criminals for burial.17 As the men worked, Mañara

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aligned with the Inquisition. See Timothy Mitchell, Passional Culture: Emotion, Religion, and Society in Southern Spain (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1990), 54. Ibid. Archivo Histórico Nacional, Consejo de Órdenes. Escribanía de cámara de la Orden de Calatrava, Exp. n. 9993. Jonathan Brown, “Hieroglyphs of Death and Salvation: The Decoration of the Church of the Hermandad de la Caridad, Seville,” Art Bulletin 52 (1970): 266. Cárdenas, Breve relación, 146. Granero writes: “En tales casos, su agitación nerviosa le angustiaba, sin que lograse sobreponerse, y el valiente caballero no se atrevía a pasar solo la noche ni aun en el refugio de su propia alcoba”: Granero, Don Miguel Mañara, 294. “Allí se dispuso para una confesión general, que hizo con fervientes actos de contrición, y todo bañado de lágrimas”: Cárdenas, Breve relación, 9. “Guiado de acuesta luz, tomó resolución de entregarse todo al amor, y servicio de Jesús Cristo; y no determinándose a entrar en religión, se resolvió de venir a Sevilla a su casa con grande confianza, de que nuestro Seño le manifestaría su voluntad acerca del estado, y modo de vida, que le convenía escoger para su santo servicio”: ibid. Mitchell, Passional Culture, 55.

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petitioned them for admission to the Brotherhood.18 Knowing his reputation as a bon vivant, the brothers doubted his commitment to charity and were initially hesitant to admit him. Was service to the poor a realistic lifestyle for Mañara? Despite their reservations, the Brotherhood of Charity accepted Mañara in 1662. Shortly thereafter, he assumed a guiding role in the redirection of the Brotherhood, devoting not only money, but also his life, to its mission. Because of his contributions, Mañara’s fellow brothers elected him to the position of hermano mayor in 1663; he held this office until 1679. Mañara then rejoined Sevillian society as a champion of the poor, the sick, and the dying, and he emerged as the “personification of charity.”19 The Brotherhood in the City Mañara became a member of the Brotherhood at a pivotal moment in the history of Seville. In 1248, Ferdinand III of Castile (1201–52) ordered each parish in the city to establish a hospital and confraternity to provide care for the sick and dying.20 However, by the fifteenth century, the initial fervor for this cause had dissipated. Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, archbishop of Seville from 1486 to 1502, recognized that while there were many hospitals in the city, few functioned efficiently. As a result, he called for the closure of most.21 By 1588, the number of hospitals was significantly reduced; however, the Hospital del Amor de Dios and the Hospital del Espíritu Santo remained open to serve the medical needs of the populace.22 Given this dramatic reduction in hospitals, the services provided by confraternities assumed greater importance, especially during the 1649 plague. The demand for social services intensified with the onslaught of pestilence; because of the increasing number of underprivileged citizens, latent hospitals, like the Hospital de la Caridad, reopened. While

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Granero, Don Miguel Mañara, 288. Mitchell, Passional Culture, 55. Mary Elizabeth Perry, Gender and Disorder in Early Modern Seville (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 154. Antonio Hermosilla Molina, Cien años de medicina sevillana (Seville: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas Instituto de Estudios Sevillanos, 1970), 610. María Jesús Sanz Serrano, “El legado del cardenal Hurtado de Mendoza a la catedral de Sevilla,” Laboratorio de Arte 17 (2004): 94; and José Rodríguez Molina, “Patrimonio y rentas de la Iglesia en Andalucía,” in La iglesia en el mundo medieval y moderno, ed. María Desamparados Martínez San Pedro and María Dolores Segura del Pino (Almería: Instituto de Estudios Almerienses, Diputación de Almería, 2004), 130.

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many of these previously shuttered hospices and hospitals provided no care for victims of plague, they did aid survivors. While the Brotherhood of Charity responded to the city’s needs, it was the confraternity’s commitment to the burial of the dead that prompted its resurgence.23 The proper burial of bodies and the purification of the air were of upmost importance in terms of public health, as the odors emitted from exposed bodies were considered a sign of decomposition and a cause of infection, and therefore posed both a psychological and physical threat.24 Diego Ortiz de Zúñiga (1633–80), chronicler of Seville and eyewitness to the epidemic, wrote that bodies were “barely covered with earth giving off an intolerable stench.”25 Despite the growing demand for burial services, gravediggers remained in short supply. This need surely influenced the Brotherhood’s growing enrollment, with twenty-eight new members admitted in 1650 and ninety between 1651 and 1653.26 While this increase in membership was integral to carrying out the mission of the Brotherhood of Charity, the provision of services and the much-needed renovation of its facilities demanded substantial capital. Mañara’s limitless wealth and generosity, first and foremost, permitted the brothers to expand services and to improve facilities. His personal donations enabled the establishment of a hospice to shelter the sick and to feed the poor, and he initiated an ambulance service and a Christian education program.27 Once elected hermano mayor, Mañara immediately assessed the state of the dilapidated church of San Jorge and ordered the Brotherhood to complete the construction of its capilla mayor and to renovate its interior.28 Upon the project’s completion, Mañara directed the church’s decoration scheme, commissioning Seville’s most celebrated artists, including Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (1617–82), Bernardo Simón de Pineda (1638–1702), Pedro Roldán (1624– 99), and Valdés Leal to adorn the interior with splendid artwork. Arguably, Mañara invested heavily in art as opposed to other charitable causes because 23 24 25 26 27 28

Brown, “Hieroglyphs of Death and Salvation,” 266. Kristy Wilson Bowers, Plague and Public Health in Early Modern Seville (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2013), 33–34. Diego Ortiz de Zúñiga, Anales eclesiásticos y seculares de … Sevilla que contienen sus más principales memorias desde el año de 1246 ... hasta el de 1671 (Madrid, 1677), 708–9. Brown, “Hieroglyphs of Death and Salvation,” 265. Ibid., 267. Cárdenas describes the church, writing: “Cuando entró en esta hermandad este venerable varón, hallo la Iglesia muy desmentida, el suelo era terrizo, el techo estaba a teja vana, tenía abiertas unas buhardas, por donde entraban, y salían una bandada de Palomas, que continuamente andaban saltando los maderos”: Cárdenas, Breve relación, 42.

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paintings and sculpture, especially those destined for display within the confraternity’s church, were widely accessible and enduring reminders of their patron’s commitment to the confraternity. For this reason, the art he commissioned for the Brotherhood was a crucial component of his personal narrative. Building a Lasting Legacy Central to understanding Mañara’s iconographic program for the interior of the church of San Jorge are two paintings that form the Hieroglyphs of Our Last Days diptych: Juan de Valdés Leal’s In Ictu Oculi (Fig. 15.1) and Finis Gloriae Mundi (Fig. 15.2). The two paintings are exemplars of vanitas paintings, illustrating the worthless nature of worldly pursuits and material success. In the Brotherhood’s inventory of 1674, the description focuses specifically on the display of these paintings within the newly renovated church of San Jorge: Item two other canvases of the Hieroglyphs of death by the hand of Juan de Valdés with large gilt frames and backgrounds, of dark color, and each one with its pinnacle of the hearts of the Sta. Caridad. And these are pictures of the Postrimerías; one facing the other, making a set and correspondence with those of the above item, in the two arches which fall below the choir; the cost five thousand seven hundred and forty reales.29 The inventory describes the placement of the paintings, facing each other below the choir, where they remain today. There, brothers and congregants entering and exiting the space unquestionably viewed them. The paintings relay an important message, one crafted by Mañara and explicitly articulated in his treatise, Discurso de la verdad. The congruencies between the paintings’ iconography and Mañara’s writings suggest that Valdés Leal consulted and relied heavily on this treatise when painting his compositions. The diptych was a project of personal significance, one closely guided by Mañara. 29

Archivo Hermandad de la Santa Caridad (hereafter AHSC), Libro general de inventarios, folio 15. Text reads: “Item Otros dos lienzos de Jeroglíficos de la muerte de mano de Juan de Baldes con molduras randas, doradas y fondos, de color pardo, y cada uno con su remate de los corazones de la Sta. Caridad. Y estas estar por pinturas de las Postrimerías; uno frente de la otra, hacienda juego y correspondencia con las de la partido de arribo, en los dos arcos que caen debajo del choro; costaron cinco mil setecientos y cuarenta reales.” Quoted and translated in Duncan Theobald Kinkead, “Juan de Valdés Leal: His Life and Work” (PhD diss., University of Michigan, 1976), 229.

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Discurso de la verdad is a brief treatise in which Mañara shares his ruminations on life, death, and salvation.30 He opens the treatise with the declaration: Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris. Remember, man, that you are dust and to dust you must return. This is the first truth that must reign in our hearts: dust and ashes, corruption and worms, burial and oblivion. Everything passes away: today we are and tomorrow we are gone; today people miss seeing us, tomorrow we are wiped from their hearts.31 Mañara immediately commands his audience to reflect upon the fleeting nature of life. He emphatically calls for contemplation on mortality, stressing temporality and the ephemerality of possessions, earthly successes, and the human body, as well as the importance of timely repentance. He also emphasizes the insignificance of the individual and the futility of the corporeal form. Actual human decomposition was also of great concern to him, and like many of his time, he dreaded the eventual fate of his own flesh: And this is the truth, and there is not any other: the shroud that we must wear seeing it every day or at least keeping in mind that you must be covered by earth and stepped on by everyone. And if you consider the vile worms that must eat that body, and how ugly and abominable it must be in the tomb, and how those eyes which are reading these words must be consumed by the earth, and those hands must be eaten and dry, and the silks and finery that you have today will be turned into a rotten shroud, your perfumes into a stench, your beauty and grace to worms, your family and greatness into the greatest dissolution imaginable.32 30

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His writing recalls theological texts popular in seventeenth-century Spain, such as Diego de Estella’s Tratado de la vanidad del mundo (Toledo, 1562), Juan Eusebio Nieremberg’s Diferencia entre lo temporal y lo eterno (Madrid, 1640), and Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet’s Méditation sur la brièveté de la vie (Paris, 1648). See Valdivieso, Miguel Mañara, 106. “Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris. Es la primera verdad que ha de reinar en nuestros corazonespolvo y ceniza, corrupción y gusanos, sepulcro y olvido. Todo se acabahoy somos, y mañana no parecemos; hoy faltamos a los ojos de las gentes, mañana somos borrados de los corazones de los hombres”: Miguel Mañara Vicentelo de Leca, Discurso de la verdad (1671) (Seville: n.p., 1961), 9. Translations drawn from Miguel Mañara Vicentelo de Leca, Discourse on Truth (1671) (Seville: Micrapel, 2001), 1–2. “Si tuviéramos delante la verdad, esta es, no hay otra, la mortaja que hemos de llevar, viéndola todos los días, por lo menos con la consideración, de que has de ser cubierto de tierra y pisado de todos, con facilidad olvidarías las honras y estados de este siglo; y si

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Mañara’s exposure to corpses, both as a witness to the plague and through his ministry with the Brotherhood of Charity, likely further fueled this preoccupation with the deterioration of the body; Mañara was cognizant that he would inevitably meet the same demise as the corpses he observed in the streets and hospitals of Seville. Repentance is yet another theme central to Discurso de la verdad and to Mañara’s biography in general. Mañara preaches the necessity of committing one’s life to God, so as to ensure quick passage into heaven, thereby bypassing purgatory. He conveys a sense of urgency regarding this spiritual journey, emphasizing the impending nature of death. Consistently questioning the validity of penitence, specifically the compunction of those who commit to God late in life, Mañara states: “You fool, now that the sun is setting are you asking for time to do penitence? What were you doing when I lighted your way through the day?”33 Mañara probes the motivation behind the failure to convert in a timely manner and expresses his condemnation and disbelief for the insincere penitence of others. The penitence of such men as these certainly seems false, since if they get better they return to their vices; necessity forces them to speak the truth, not good will. They are like robbers who do not confess their crimes except under torture, whose confession does not free them from punishment, but brings them death.34 Having already made his own amends with God, Mañara assumes a certain authority; however, a thread of anxiety and uncertainty runs throughout the treatise.

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consideras los viles gusanos que han de comer ese cuerpo, y cuán feo y abominable ha de estar en la sepultura, y cómo esos ojos, que están leyendo estas letras, han de ser comidas y secas, y las sedas y galas que hoy tuviste, se convertirán en una mortaja podrida, los ámbares en hedor, tu hermosura y gentileza en gusanos, tu familia y grandeza, en la mayor soledad que es imaginable”: Miguel Mañara Vicentelo de Leca, Discurso de la verdad, 12; Mañara, Discourse on Truth, 6–7. “Necio, ¿ahora que el sol se pone, pides tiempo de penitencia? ¿Qué hacías, cuando te alumbraba todo el día?” Mañara, Discurso de la verdad, 21; Mañara, Discourse on Truth, 21. “Bien parece ser falsa la penitencia de los tales, pues en sanando vuelvan a sus vicios; la necesidad les fuerza a que digan verdades, no la Buena voluntad; son como los ladrones, que no confiesan sus delitos sino a puros tormentos, cuya confesión no los libra de la pena, antes les da la muerte”: Mañara, Discurso de la verdad, 21; Mañara, Discourse on Truth, 21–22.

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While Discurso de la verdad circulated among members of the Brotherhood of Charity, Mañara’s carefully crafted message of austerity, piety, and repentance did not travel far. Artworks easily accessible to the general public, however, served to further disseminate Mañara’s newly found outlook on life. For this reason, Valdés Leal’s diptych painted for the church of San Jorge is an integral component of Mañara’s legacy. As the Brotherhood’s initial hesitation to accept Mañara suggests, his infamous reputation was well known throughout the city. These paintings changed public opinion, as Mañara strove not only to redefine himself, but also to control his fate and to write an acceptable life’s ending. Valdés Leal’s In Ictu Oculi (Fig. 15.1) and Finis Gloriae Mundi (Fig. 15.2) are striking works conveying an indisputable message. The artist’s painting style contributes to the effectiveness of the paintings; Valdés Leal relies on a remarkable degree of surface naturalism meriting comment from viewers since the earliest days of their display. Writing in the eighteenth century, Spanish painter and author Antonio Palomino (1653–1726) described the painting group as: some hieroglyphs of time, and of death, and a cadaver corrupted and half eaten by worms, which gives a horror and dread to look at; besides it is so natural, that many who see it, inadvertently shrink back with fright, or stopped their noses, fearing they should be infected with the stench of the corruption.35 Palomino clearly conveys that the paintings, affective and visceral, provide an unsettling welcome to the church of San Jorge. Palomino suggests that Valdés Leal’s canvases are so naturalistic that one can smell the disgusting odors the festering bodies exude. The paintings likely startled many early modern onlookers, at least briefly, into consideration of the transience of life and the value of worldly possessions and pursuits. The church of San Jorge’s program begins with In Ictu Oculi, hanging on the left vestibule wall below the choir. The painting is an elaborate mélange of objects and symbols composed as though frozen in time. Valdés Leal haphazardly crowds representations and symbols of material possessions and terrestrial success below reminders of mortality. The inscription, “In Ictu Oculi” 35

“de unos geroglíficos del tiempo, y de la muerte, y un cadáver corrompido, y medio comido de gusanos, que causa horror y espanto el mirarlo, pues está tan natural, que muchos al verle, inadvertidamente, ó se retiran temerosos, ó se tapan al olfato, temiendo ser contaminados del mal olor de la corrupción”: Antonio Palomino de Castro y Velasco, El museo pictórico y escala óptica (1715–24), vol. 2 (Madrid, 1797), 645.

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(in the twinkling of an eye), encircles a candle recently extinguished by a gesticulating skeleton. The inscriptions’ message, articulated in Corinthians 15:52, refers to the fragility of life and the unpredictable nature of death: Behold, I show you a mystery; we shall not all sleep, But we shall all be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye at the last trump: For the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised Incorruptible, and we shall all be changed. The painting’s composition and title encourage a meditatio mortis; life is a great illusion, bodies and our mere being are corruptible. Central to the image, the skeleton emphasizes the ephemeral nature of our identity and flesh and serves as an indisputable reminder of mortality. The skeleton is distinctive, as it directly confronts the spectator, making the painting almost aggressively captivating, demanding the viewer’s gaze rather than inviting it. Imbued with unnatural life, one foot of the skeleton rests atop a globe and the other on a collection of objects representing a wide range of worldly pleasures and pursuits—richly colored red, pink, and white textiles drape a marble tomb as well as armor, a sword and baton of command, and a chain and medal of the Order of the Golden Fleece.36 To the left is a stack of books with curled pages. The artist incorporates sacred texts and secular histories in the paintings, many with titles inscribed on their spines. Included among the collection are a book labeled plinio, likely one of Pliny the Elder’s volumes on natural history; Purdencio de Sandoval’s history of Charles V (labeled Historia de los V I P te); Padre Fancisco Suárez’s editions on Thomas Aquinas (labeled Suarez in 3 p. D. Th); and, Johannes Casparus Gevartius’s festival book, Pompa introitvs honori serenissimi principis Ferdinandi Avstriaci hispaniarvm infantis (Antwerp, 1635).37 The inclusion of texts alongside more direct symbols of futility conveys a clear message: wealth, power, and knowledge will all vanish. In Ictu Oculi’s companion piece, Finis Gloriae Mundi, is a complex work painted in a subdued palette. The work depicts three decomposing figures lying in open coffins. Bones and skulls are piled up and scattered about in the background, and a snake slithers in the lower right-hand corner. An ethereal hand delicately suspends a scale, an obvious reference to Judgement Day and 36 37

Kinkead, Juan de Valdés Leal, 231. Alejandro Guichot y Sierra, Los famosos Jeroglíficos de la Muerte de Juan de Valdés Leal de 1672. Análisis de sus alegorías. Estudio crítico (Seville: Imprenta de Álvarez y Rodríguez, 1930), 48.

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to the uncertainty of salvation. Valdés Leal includes representations of vice and virtue within the opposing pans of the scale. The left pan holds animals associated with the seven deadly sins—a peacock, for pride; a dog, anger; a goat, avarice; a monkey, lust; a hog, gluttony; a sloth, laziness; and, a bat, for envy. The opposing side contains objects relating to penance and charity. Valdés Leal includes a rosary, a hair shirt, bread, and books, one of which titled Salt de David, or the Psalms of David. Suspended above the collection of objects is a heart carrying the monogram IHS, a reference to the Society of Jesus. Below the menagerie of animals is a label that reads “NI MAS”—no more—and beneath the pan representing the life worthy of salvation, “NI MENOS”—no less. The key to fully understanding the paintings and their relationship to Mañara is in the foreground of the composition. Three coffins, each holding a body in various states of decomposition, dominate the lower register of the painting. These are included to serve not only as visualizations of the body’s expiration, but also as a direct reference to the mission of the Brotherhood of Charity—the burial of the dead. Valdés Leal depicts one as a skeleton and two in the process of decomposition. The illustrated figures include an unidentified skeleton, a bishop clothed in white robes and clasping a crosier, and a knight with dark hair and olive-colored skin, wearing a white mantle decorated with the red cross of the Order of Calatrava, the pureblood rank to which Mañara belonged.38 Art historians widely hold that the knight is indeed a premature ‘portrait’ of Mañara after his death.39 The portrayal of Mañara as a corpse is shocking and departs remarkably from traditional modes of representation. It is very likely that Mañara, rather than Valdés Leal alone, provided the direction for this gruesome posthumous depiction. The inclusion of the decomposing corpse not only suggests Mañara’s anticipation of his own demise, but also implies an intimate relationship between the painting and its patron; he is not only the patron of the painting, but also its indirect subject. Mañara invested heavily in the construction and preservation of his identity, and Valdés Leal executed several postmortem ­portraits in which he consistently portrayed Mañara engaging the viewer.40 While Valdés Leal includes allusions to death in each portrait, he portrays Mañara as vivacious and instructive to the viewer. The artist’s gruesome por-

38 39 40

See Elizabeth du Gué Trapier, Valdés Leal: Spanish Baroque Painter (New York: The Hispanic Society of America, 1960), 57; Mitchell, Passional Culture, 54. Peter Cherry, “Valdés Leal,” The Burlington Magazine 133, no. 1061 (1991): 569. Valdivieso, Miguel Mañara, 128–33.

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trayal of Mañara in Finis Gloriae Mundi is in sharp contrast to these later portraits. While the Hieroglyphs of Our Last Days diptych is rich in symbolism, employing a complex visual language, the overall message and purpose are clear: to illustrate the indiscriminate nature of death and to encourage repentance and a pious life. Contemporaries deemed the painting group efficacious, as it worked to provide an impetus for reflection within the context of the space. In his biography of Mañara, Cárdenas includes his understanding of the painting group, stating “he was so full of this knowledge, of how much it mattered to be brothers to exercise themselves in meditation on Death and on the other Novísimos he put in the church of the Holy Charity all the paintings and hieroglyphs of death.”41 Cárdenas interprets the diptych principally within the context of the confraternity and in relation to the community of brothers there. The painting group was a gift from Mañara to his adopted community. While intended for the Brotherhood, the inclusion of Mañara’s body complicates the intended purpose and meaning, inextricably linking the paintings to their patron. In Ictu Oculi and Finis Gloriae Mundi were public yet personal, an integral component of Mañara’s carefully crafted persona. The religious climate of seventeenth-century Spain surely influenced Ma­ñara’s efforts to make spiritual preparations for his own demise. In confronting death, early modern Catholics assumed active roles to ensure their own salvation. While Protestants tended to emphasize reliance on faith and the power of divine grace, Catholics depended on pious action as a means of mitigating lengthy sentences in purgatory. Because death was unpredictable, and God’s judgement was based on the state of one’s soul at the moment of death, the faithful made attempts to ensure a ‘good death’ while still in good health.42 These acts were not only to encourage God’s forgiveness, but also to allow one to face death calmly, salvation assured.43 Mañara’s conversion and 41 42

43

Cárdenas, Breve relación, 78; translated in Kinkead, Juan de Valdés Leal, 229–30. The concept of the ‘good death’ emerged from the ars moriendi tradition. Ars moriendi, translated as the “art of dying” or the “science” or “knowledge” of dying, often refers to a genre of Western European literary tradition from the fifteenth century on preparation for death. See Philippe Ariès, The Hour of Our Death: The Classic History of Western Attitudes Toward Death over the Last One Thousand Years, trans. Helen Weaver, 2nd ed. (New York: Vintage Books, 2008). The Council of Trent mandated in Chapter 12 of the Sixth Session: “No one, moreover, so long as he lives this mortal life, ought in regard to the sacred mystery of divine predestination, so far presume as to state with absolute certainty that he is among the number of the predestined, as if it were true that the one justified either cannot sin any more, or, if he does sin that he ought to promise himself an assured repentance. For except by special

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commitment to the Brotherhood of Charity are powerful examples of such preparations. Membership in the Brotherhood of Charity enabled much of Mañara’s redemptive activities. Located somewhere between the ecclesiastical and the secular, and accessible to laymen, confraternities in early modern Seville became venues for widened philanthropic activity. The city’s upper class financed their charitable services, participated in their Holy Week processions, and commissioned religious artworks for the adornment of confraternal churches; the ability to finance worthy causes was deemed a symbol of status as well as piety.44 Membership was also significant because fellow brothers would validate these acts. This, seemingly, was of utmost importance to Mañara, who went to great lengths to ensure that his good deeds were not forgotten or ignored. He kept a log recording his charitable donations and the number of citizens he assisted, and his acts of piety and contrition became elaborate spectacles.45 Biographers document Mañara’s extreme and at times bizarre behavior under the mantle of charitable acts; some of his actions were reportedly so shocking that they attracted crowds of onlookers. Granero recounts Mañara’s interaction with a man undergoing treatment for a skin ulcer. Mañara allegedly kissed a lesion “so disgusting that one could hardly look at it,” dirtying his face with pus.46 On another occasion, Mañara claims he drank the vomit of a dying beggar.47 Many of Mañara’s documented displays suggest exhibitionism—devotional acts evolved into dramatic public spectacles. Mañara also undertook acts of self-mortification. He fasted and flagellated himself daily, asked his fellow brothers to deride him, and he wore harsh scapulary that irritated his skin.48 While undeniably theatrical, these kinds of public and emotive displays of penitence and devotion were standard fare in the lives of saints when proving sanctity.49 If this was in fact Mañara’s goal, these acts

44 45 46 47 48 49

revelation, it cannot be known whom God has chosen to Himself.” Canons and Decrees of the Council of Trent, trans. Henry Joseph Schroeder (Rockford: Tan Books and Publishers, 2005), 38. Susan Verdi Webster, Art and Ritual in Golden-Age Spain: Sevillian Confraternities and the Processional Sculpture of Holy Week (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998), 31. AHSC, Cuaderno N. 1 de el S. Mañara–Limosnas. Granero, Don Miguel Mañara, 610–11. Martín Hernández, Miguel Mañara, 185. Mitchell, Passional Culture, 55. Catherine of Siena and Catherine of Genoa ate bodily excrements to demonstrate they had overcome the natural instincts of repulsion in an effort to prove sanctity. See Susan Signe Morrison, Excrement in the Late Middle Ages: Sacred Filth and Chaucer’s Fecopoetics (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), 75.

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were not in vain; the Brotherhood of Charity petitioned for his sainthood in 1679 and 1735.50 Conclusion Mañara is a unique and at times fantastical character in the history of early modern Seville. He was pompously humble, promoting his shortcomings and exaggerating his sins. While there is an evident disparity between these defamations and his record of good deeds, some of Mañara’s self-critiques were valid. While Mañara demonstrated a seemingly unwavering commitment to the poor, he continued to lead a privileged life. Unwilling to live alongside those he served, Mañara remained in his family’s magnificent home until 1674.51 Further complicating Mañara’s carefully crafted narrative is the fact that his significant wealth supported his philanthropic activities and allowed him to articulate his anxieties in elaborate and lasting forms. Curiously, Mañara commissioned the city’s most accomplished and highly paid artists to illustrate and celebrate his newfound commitment to austerity, making an important contribution to the city’s cultural life and brilliance. The abandonment of worldly goods was easier to preach than to practice. Arguably, his inability to fully abandon his former life further fueled Mañara’s anxieties relating to the afterlife and motivated his efforts to convince his community, and himself, that he was worthy of salvation. Despite this paradox and his alleged past sins, Mañara’s tenure at the Brotherhood of Charity was nothing short of remarkable. Upon his death in 1679, he requested a simple funeral and left his remaining wealth to the confraternity. His tombstone reiterated the humility that he promoted throughout his later life. The epitaph reads: HERE LIE THE BONES AND ASHES OF THE WORST MAN THERE HAS BEEN IN THE WORLD PRAY TO GOD FOR HIM To this day, the city of Seville hails Mañara as one of its most pious and honorable citizens, and the Brotherhood of Charity reveres him as their most remarkable member. Copies of Discurso de la verdad are readily available, and

50 51

Valdivieso, Miguel Mañara, 77–81. Ibid., 59.

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the art he commissioned for the church of San Jorge remains in situ.52 Valdés Leal’s diptych, in particular, serves as a lasting monument to the patron’s spiritual conversion and as a reminder of his charitable work. The involvement of Mañara’s confraternal community was integral to his efforts to ensure personal salvation; members of the Brotherhood of Charity witnessed and validated his dramatic transformation. For this reason, Mañara’s remarkable conversion narrative, cast within the Brotherhood of Charity and against the backdrop of seventeenth-century Seville, is an important testament to the transformative power of confraternal membership in early modern Europe. 52

The majority of Murillo’s paintings for the Brotherhood were taken from the church by the French general and statesman Jean-de-Dieu Soult (1769–1851) in 1810. Standing in the places of the originals are faithful reproductions.

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442

Index

Index

Index Aalst (Belgium) 88–105 confraternities Faithful Souls 91, 101, 104 Holy Altar 91–93, 96, 99–101 Holy Death Struggle 91, 93 Holy Mother of Halle 91, 95n25, 96 Holy Rosary 91, 93, 95, 99–100, 103 Holy Trinity 91, 99, 101–04 St. Barbara 91, 99, 101–02 St. Catherine 91 St. Jacob 91n12, 95n25 St. Joseph 91n12 St. Ursula 91n12 demographics 91, 93 Acts of Mercy, see Mercy, Acts of Alacoque, Margaret Mary (St.) 115 Aldobrandini, Pietro 281 Ambrose (St.) 217–18, 234n39 Anagni (Italy) 153 apparati 230, 232, 234, 237–39, 242–43 Aquinas, Thomas (St.) 251n13, 310n46, 369, 384 archconfraternities, see confraternities Assumption, Feast of the 127, 131, 134–42, 146, 148n50, 149–53 See also processions, Assumption Day Augustinian Order 70, 109, 141, 166–67, 173, 207 Auruccio, Vincenzo 267 Aztec Empire 69, 71, 84 Bandini da Ronta, Giovanbattista di Francesco (woodworker) 327, 332–36, 339–41 banners, processional 61, 159, 161, 168–69, 173, 177, 247–48, 258, 262n42, 301 banquets 44, 45, 75, 95–96, 99 Baronio, Cesare 185, 187n25, 206n72, 207, 213n95, 289–90 Bellarmino, Roberto 185, 251n13 Bellini, Gentile 1–3, 13–14, 17 Bellori, Giovan Pietro 361n38, 363, 367, 369–70 Benedictine Order 141, 147, 191 Bigio, Nanni di Baccio 279n13

Black Death, see plague Blessed Sacrament confraternities, see confraternities, archconfraternities Bollandist Movement 111 Boranga, Giovanni 265–66 Borromeo, Carlo 218–24, 227, 229, 232–36, 243, 277 Borromeo, Federico 219, 227–28, 229n23 Bramè, Paolo 356 Brennan, Thomas 115–16 Bufalini, Leonardo 188–89 Buglioni, Benedetto 330 Buglioni, Santi 147 Buonafede, Leonardo 146–47 burials, charitable, see funerals, confraternal bylaws, confraternal, see statutes, confraternal Calvinism 310, 313 Camogli, Bartolomeo Pellerano da 349, 351, 357 candles 38, 40–43, 52n14, 131, 139, 152–53, 235, 237, 248n8, 253, 259, 265, 278, 280, 282, 327n22, 339, 384 Canistris, Opicino de 155, 159–61, 168, 174 Caravaggio, Michelangelo Merisi da 345, 354–59, 363–66, 369, 371 Cárdenas, Juan de 377, 379n28, 386 Çatalhöyük (Turkey) 323–25 catechism 85, 86n65, 107, 109, 112, 114, 117–19, 121–22, 315 Cavalieri, Tommaso dei 280, 282, 288–89 Chacón, Alfonso (Ciacconius) 198, 213n96 charity, confraternal, see debtors; disease; foundlings; funerals, confraternal; ‘house-poor’; Mercy, Acts of; orphans; poor relief; poor tables; prisoners; sick, care for the; slavery; widows Charles VII (King) 298 Chiti, Jacopo di Bartolomeo (bookseller) 327, 332–41 Christ-as-pilgrim 144–53 Christian Doctrine confraternities, see confraternities, archconfraternities Christomimesis, see imitatio Christi Circignani, Niccolò 282–86

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2017 | doi 10.1163/9789004339521_019

Index Cistercian Order 24, 25, 37, 141 Clement VII (Pope) 276 Clement VIII (Pope) 75 Codroipo (Italy) 246 Colonna, Giovanni 329–30 compagnie (in Palermo) 344–71 conforteria, see confraternities, types, comforting confraternities archconfraternities Blessed Sacrament 23n6, 75, 78n38, 81–83, 119–20, 257n29 Christian Doctrine 118–21 Cord of St. Francis 111 Gonfalone (Raccomandati di Maria Vergine) 172–73, 275n2, 277n8, 279–80 Holy Name of Jesus 114–16 Rosary 91, 93, 95, 99–100, 103, 111, 121n50, 345, 347–48, 358–71 Sacred Heart of Jesus 115–16 SS. Crocifisso di San Marcello 191, 273–97 SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini 178–216 female members of 29, 31, 38, 42, 57, 59, 63, 74, 90, 92–94, 96, 98–99, 117, 149, 173, 190, 207–08, 217, 219, 234, 277n6, 301 flagellant practices of, see flagellation, self-flagellation insignia of, see insignia, confraternal relationship to company (compagnia) in Sicily 344–45, 348–52 relationship to guild 21, 23, 49–53, 62, 86n66, 89, 108, 138–44, 302–04 relationship to parish in Leiden and Norwich 55–58 statutes of, see statutes, confraternal types comforting (conforteria) 244–69 flagellant, see flagellation, self-flagellation pilgrim 63, 65 priest 63 conquistadores 69, 76, 78, 80 Constantine 285 constitutions, confraternal, see statutes, confraternal

443 Corpus Christi confraternities of 23n6, 26, 63 Feast of 39–44, 61–62, 227, 235, 237, 278–79, 352–53 See also processions, Corpus Christi Cortés, Hernán 69, 76, 78, 84 Council of Indies 70 Council of Trent 71, 91, 95, 109–10, 112–13, 117, 121, 192, 236, 257, 275, 278, 281–82, 290–94, 297, 348–49, 359, 386n43 croci stazionali, see Milan, stational crosses cult images, see miracle-working images; relics Daniele da Volterra 288, 289 debtors 69, 77–81 Désiré, Artus 315, 317 D’Este, Ippolito 144 D’Estouteville, Guillaume 303 Dionysius the Areopagite (St.) 179–80, 183–86, 198, 207, 213, 215n102 disease, see leprosy; measles; plague; smallpox; syphilis Dominican Order 24–25, 37, 70, 109, 111, 114–15, 141–42, 146, 148, 161, 198, 358–63, 366–67, 369 Donus I (Pope) 213 Dublin (Ireland) 106–08, 111–16, 118, 120 chapels Dominican (in Bridge Street) 114–15 Jesuit (in Back Lane) 111–12 confraternities Confraternity of St. Anne 108, 112 Confraternity of the Blessed Virgin Mary 111, 114 Confraternity of the Cord of St. Francis 111 Confraternity of the Holy Rosary 111 Confraternity of the Most Holy Name of Jesus 114–16 Duperac, Stefano 193, 195, 197 Durkheim, Émile 157–58 Easter, Feast of 28, 34, 37–38, 44, 61, 145, 150, 301 emblems, confraternal, see insignia, confraternal Emmaus, Supper at 145

444 Eucharist, devotion to the 39–44, 61, 62n53, 117, 211, 234, 256, 257n29, 265 See also confraternities, archconfraternities, Blessed Sacrament; Corpus Christi Eusebius of Caesarea 183 Farnese, Alessandro 277, 282n25, 290n34 Ferdinand III (King of Castile) 378 Filarete 186, 207 Fitzsimons, Henry (Fr.) 111 flagellation Flagellation of Christ 261, 269n57, 321–23, 326–31, 336, 341, 343, 367n52 Flagellation of Sts. Peter and Paul 213 self-flagellation 155–60, 168–77, 211, 276, 280–82, 328–31, 335, 387 Florence (Italy) 321–43 churches Santissima Annunziata 339 confraternities San Benedetto Bianco 335–36 San Giovanni Battista detta dello Scalzo 323, 326–43 San Girolamo 335 Santa Maria dei Raccomandati 173 Santissima Annunziata 331n34 hospitals Santa Maria Nuova 148 streets Borgo Allegri 336–38, 342 Via dell’Agnolo 336–37, 342 Fontana, Carlo 280 foot washing 131–34, 137, 139, 142–43, 146–50 Fortini, Egidio 195n50, 199–200, 203–04, 209 Foucault, Michel 239 foundlings 56, 349 See also orphans Franciscan Order 70, 73, 78, 85, 86n65, 109, 111, 113, 131, 141, 230, 241, 349, 356–57 funerals, confraternal 29, 37–39, 68, 73, 75, 122, 248n8, 253, 265–67, 282n26, 305, 317, 335–36, 352, 356–57, 377, 379, 385, 388 Galle, Philip 315, 356 Golden Legend 183n7, 184, 185n17, 207, 285, 288 Gonzaga, Ferrante 352 Granero, Jesús 377, 387

Index Gregory the Great (Pope) 178, 183, 204, 256, 257n28 Gregory XIII (Pope) 203n62, 204 Guerra, Giovanni 182, 208–11 Guidetti, Guidetto 191 guildhall 21, 26–28, 31, 38–39, 43–46 guilds 21–48, 59–66, 86, 88–89, 131, 134, 152–53, 299 relationship to confraternities 21, 23, 49–53, 62, 86n66, 89, 108, 138–44, 302–04 table guilds, see table guilds; Tallinn, table guilds Gundersheimer, Werner 321, 326, 341 Hanseatic League 24 Heavenly Jerusalem, see Jerusalem Heemskerck, Maarten van 315 Helena (St.) 225, 282, 285, 288–92 Henry VIII (King) 110 Herrera, Alonso de (Fr.) 78 Hodder, Ian 323–26, 339 ‘house-poor’ (Hausarme) 28, 31–32, 34–37, 101 Hurtado de Mendoza, Don Diego 378 iconoclasm 44, 290, 305, 310n47, 313, 315, 317, 319 imitatio Christi 141, 147–48, 174, 232, 251, 261–64, 328, 331 insignia, confraternal 21, 26, 28, 172, 211, 234n39, 240, 276, 325, 336–38 Ireland 106–23 post-Tridentine confraternities in 110–17 pre-Reformation confraternities in 107–10 Protestant Church of 110, 113, 119 Jerusalem 145, 150, 230, 232, 239, 241–42, 285, 288–89, 290n33, 329–30 Heavenly Jerusalem 218, 229 ‘New Jerusalem’ 138, 178, 222, 229, 234, 241–43 See also Leiden, confraternities Jesuit Order 70, 111–16, 377, 385 Julius III (Pope) 276, 279, 281 Leal, Juan de Valdés 372–74, 379–80, 383–86, 389

Index Leiden (Netherlands) 48–67 churches Our Lady 56, 57n30, 67n69 confraternities Holy Cross 60n42, 67n69 Jerusalem 63, 65 St. Ewout in Alsace 63 St. James the Great 63 St. Mary Magdalene 63n55, 65 St. Nicholas 64–65 St. Steven 64n58 Sts. Paul and Peter 63 demographics 52–53, 56 parishes Our Lady 56 St. Pancras 56–57 St. Peter 56, 64 sororities St. Catherine 62n51, 64n59 Lemobia 187, 206–08 Leopoldo, Pietro (Archduke) 341 Leo the Great (Pope) 178 Lepanto, Battle of 359, 361, 367 leprosy 24, 84 Livonia 22, 24, 28, 31, 40–41, 44 Loarte, Gaspare 240 Louf, Guerard 299–305, 320 Lo Vecchio, Mariano 358 Lutherans 98 Luther, Martin 96, 180, 310 McCaughwell, Hugh 113 Malines, Archdiocese of 91, 95 Mañara y Vicentelo de Leca, Don Miguel 372–89 Mansi, Marcello 251n14, 262 Maratti, Carlo 345, 367–71 mariegole 244–48, 252n16, 255, 258, 261n39, 268–69 See also statutes, confraternal Massaio, Pietro del 187–88 measles 84 meeting places, confraternal, see oratories, confraternal Mercy, Acts of 78, 86, 104–05, 158, 251, 267n55, 310, 313 Mexico City (Mexico) 69, 73, 76–87 confraternities Cofradía de la Santa Veracruz 75n28

445 Cofradía de los Caballeros de la Cruz 84 Cofradía del Santísimo Sacramento (Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament) 81–83 Cofradía de Santa Caridad (Confraternity of Sacred Charity) 77–81 convents San Francisco 78 hospitals Hospital de Jesús Nazareno 84 Hospital del Amor de Dios 84–86 orphanages Our Lady of Charity 81–83 Milan (Italy) 217–43 Castello Sforzesco 242n57 churches Duomo 218, 234, 236, 242 San Babila 218, 220n9, 227, 240n55 San Lorenzo 227–28 San Nazaro in Brolio 242 San Sepolcro 232 confraternities Santa Croce 217–43 Corso di Porta Ticinese 218, 228 Oratorio di Santa Maria ad Elisabetta 232 Palazzo Reale 242 piazze Piazza Cordusio 223–24, 229, 237, 239 Piazza del Duomo 235, 238–39 Piazza della Vetra 242n57 Porta Orientale 218, 229, 241 stational crosses 219–43 Minniti, Mario 359 miracle-working images Acheropita (Rome) 134, 137, 139, 142 Crucifix of San Marcello (Rome) 273–97 Crucifix of San Fantin (Venice) 244–69 ‘Madonna delle Grazie’ (Tivoli) 131, 133, 144 Madonna of SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini (Rome) 191–92 Savior triptych (Tivoli) 128–54 See also relics missionaries 70, 76, 80, 86, 121 Mombritius (Bonino Mombrizio) 184 Mongitore, Antonino 344, 352, 366 Montaigne, Michel de 190n33

446 Montalto, Alessandro Peretti 209, 211 Montefeltro, Federico da (Duke) 187 Mossi, Giovanbattista di Bernardo 322–23, 326–36, 340–43 Muffel, Nikolaus 187 Muslims 101, 104, 192, 348, 361 Muziano, Girolamo 282 mystery plays, see plays Nahua people 69, 71 ‘Nahua Christianity’ 71 Nebbia, Cesare 282, 287, 290n33 Neri, Filippo (St.) 182, 190, 193, 204, 209n88, 210–11, 352 See also Oratorian Order ‘New Jerusalem,’ see Jerusalem Nogari, Paris 297 Norwich (England) 48–67 confraternities Annunciation of St. Mary 59n36, 62n53 Corpus Christi 63 St. George 59–60, 62–66 craft guilds 51–52, 59, 61, 66 demographics 52–53 parishes 55–57 Novelli, Pietro 358n33, 365 O’Connor, John 115–16 Oratorian Order 204, 352–53 See also Neri, Filippo (St.) oratories, confraternal 15–17, 182, 191, 192n40, 204, 232, 246–47, 252–55, 265, 267, 269, 273–97, 321, 326–36, 341, 344–71 orphans 56, 69, 76, 78, 80–83, 86–87 See also foundlings Ortiz de Zúñiga, Diego 379 Pacifici, Vincenzo 135, 145, 149, 151 Palazzotto, Pierfrancesco 345 Paleotti, Gabriele 242, 292 Palermo (Italy) 344–71 churches and chapels San Domenico 345, 347, 358–61, 365–67, 371 San Francesco d’Assisi 349, 356 San Nicolò dei Greci 366 San Nicolò lo Reale 350–51, 356

Index Santa Cita 345, 348, 359, 366–68, 370–71 confraternities and compagnie Bardigli e Cordigeri, see Palermo, confraternities, San Francesco San Francesco 354, 356–58, 363, 365, 371 Santissimo Crocifisso 349, 352 Santissimo Rosario (San Domenico) 358–63, 365–66, 369, 371 Santissimo Rosario (Santa Cita) 358–59, 361, 366–71 oratories Rosary (at San Domenico) 345, 347, 358–63, 365–67, 369, 371 Rosary (at Santa Cita) 345, 348, 359, 366–71 San Lorenzo 345–46, 354–59, 363, 365–66, 370n57, 371 Palazzo dei Principi di Lampedusa 366 Piazza dei Quattro Canti 353 Strada Nuova (Via Maqueda) 353 Palma il Giovane, Jacopo 255 Palomino, Antonio 383 Parigi, Alfonso 326 Paul IV (Pope) 280 Paulinus da Nola (St.) 289–90 Paul the Apostle (St.) 150, 178–219, 267n55 Pavia (Italy) 155–77 churches San Epifanio 161, 163 San Francesco 161, 163 San Gervaso 155, 161, 164, 172, 177n62 San Giovanni Domnarum 161, 163 San Giovanni in Borgo 161–62 San Guniforte 161–62 San Luca 161–62 San Maiolo 161, 164 San Marino 161–62 San Michele 161–62 San Pantaleone 161, 163 San Pietro ad Vincula 161, 164 San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro 164, 166 San Primo 161–62 Santa Chiara 161, 163 Santa Maria del Carmine 161, 163 Santa Maria Gualtieri 161, 164 Santa Maria in Betlem 161, 164

447

Index

Santa Maria in Pertica 161, 163 Santa Trinità 161, 163 Sant’Agostino 161, 164 San Teodoro 161–62 Sant’Innocenzo 155, 160 Sant’Invenzio 161, 164–65 San Tommaso 161–62 Santo Stefano (St. Stephen, Cathedral) 160–61, 165–66 confraternities Raccomandati della Beata Vergine 155 Sant’Innocenzo 155–77 hospitals San Matteo 158n12, 161, 163 monasteries Sant’Antonio 161, 164 pelican, as symbol of Christ 244, 248–53 Peter the Apostle (St.) 178–219 Piero della Francesca 285 pilgrimage 118, 134, 142, 144–45, 153, 178, 180, 182, 189, 193–94, 211, 230, 232, 285 See also Christ-as-Pilgrim; confraternities, types, pilgrim; plays, pilgrim plays Pistoia (Italy) 146–47 Pius IV (Pope) 191–92, 277 Pius V (Pope) 135, 194 Pius VI (Pope) 118 plague 49, 52–53, 84n58, 218–22, 227, 237, 276, 280n17, 294, 297, 305, 361–63, 369, 372, 378–79, 382 Plautilla (St.), see Lemobia plays mystery plays 61, 134, 152, 154, 236 pilgrim plays 145 Poccetti, Bernardino 330n34 poor relief 22, 31, 33, 46, 56, 65–68, 75, 78, 80, 82, 86–90, 98–100, 103–07, 119, 121–22, 142, 147–48, 190, 199, 208, 305, 349, 357, 378–79, 388 See also ‘house-poor’ poor, shame-faced 78 See also ‘house-poor’ poor tables 23, 31, 33–36, 56, 98–99 See also table guilds ‘poor tokens’ 35–36 Porta, Giacomo della 190–91 Prato 169

print culture 107, 115, 121, 188, 222–25, 239, 278, 313, 315, 317, 356 prisoners 76–81, 86–87, 244, 247–48, 251, 258–65, 276 processions Assumption Day Anagni 153 Rome 139–40, 146, 149 Subiaco 148n50 Tarquinia 152–53 Tivoli (Inchinata) 127–54 Viterbo 152 Corpus Christi Norwich and Leiden 61–62 Rome 278 Tallinn and Riga 29, 39–44, 46 Milan (Santa Croce confraternities) 228–29, 232–37, 242–43 Palermo 344, 352, 361, 371 Pavia (confraternity of Sant’Innocenzo) 155–77 Rogation Day 137–38 Rome Seven Churches 193–94, 211, 216, 232 SS. Crocifisso di San Marcello 275–82, 294, 297 Rouen (brotherhood of the Trépassés) 300–01 Venice Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista 1–3, 6, 169 Scuola di San Fantin 244–71 See also banners, processional Protestant Reformation 110, 178–82, 185, 194, 215–16, 290, 292, 310, 315, 319, 359, 361 Protestantism 44, 90, 96, 111, 113, 119, 291, 305, 313, 317–18, 386 See also Calvinism; iconoclasm; Lutheranism Ptolemy 186, 188 Puebla (Mexico) 77n32 Cofradía del Santo Angel de la Guarda 71–72 Rainaldi, Girolamo 280 relics Column of the Flagellation 329–30

448 relics (cont.) Holy Nail (Santo Chiodo) 218–20, 234 True Cross 1–3, 253, 279, 285 Walking Staff of St. Paul 215 See also miracle-working images Reval, see Tallinn Riga (Latvia) 24, 31, 39–40, 43–44 churches St. James’s 34 St. Peter’s 34 guilds Small Guild 31, 34 table guilds Table Guild of the Great Guild 28–29, 34–35, 38 Table Guild of the Small Guild 34 Ripa, Cesare 249, 251 Romano, Antoniazzo 285, 288 Rome (Italy) 178–216, 273–97 Assumption Day procession 139–40, 146, 149 Campidoglio (Capitoline) 139 churches and chapels Cappella della Separazione (Chapel of the Separation) 178–216 Chiesa Nuova 204, 209n89 San Lorenzo in Damaso 280 San Luigi dei Francesi 280 San Marcello al Corso 273–97 San Paolo fuori le Mura 178, 180, 201, 214 San Pietro (St. Peter’s) 207, 276, 279–80, 282 Santa Croce in Gerusalemme 285 Santa Maria in Aracoeli 140n38 Santa Maria in Traspontina 213–14 Santa Maria Maggiore 281 Santa Prassede 329–30 Santissima (SS.) Trinità dei Monti 289 Santissima (SS.) Trinità dei Pellegrini (San Benedetto) 181–82, 190n32, 191–92, 194n46, 195, 198, 211 Colosseum 142 confraternities Gonfalone (Raccomandati di Maria Vergine) 172–73, 275n2, 277n8, 279–80 Santa Maria della Consolazione 192

Index Santissima (SS.) Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti 178–216 Santissimo (SS.) Crocifisso di San Marcello 191, 273–97 Santo Spirito in Saxia 141, 149 Società dei Raccomandati del Salvatore ad Sancta Sanctorum 139, 142 hospitals Santissima (SS.) Trinità dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti 181–82, 190–91, 195, 199, 209n89, 211 Sant’Angelo (Lateran) 139, 142 Santo Spirito in Saxia 141, 148–49 Oratorio del Santissimo (SS.) Crocifisso di San Marcello 273–99 palaces Palazzo dei Conservatori 139 Palazzo della Cancelleria 290 Piazza Venezia 215 Porta San Paolo 180, 199 Tiber River 195, 215 Via Ostiense 178–181, 186, 191–94, 198–201, 213, 215–16 Roncalli, Cristoforo 295–96 Rosary confraternities, see confraternities, archconfraternities Rouen (France) 298–320 cemeteries Saint-Maur 304–07, 310 churches and chapels Saint-Maur (St. Maurus) 302–19 Saint-Romain 306–09, 311–12, 314, 316 confraternities Brotherhood of the Trépassés 298–320 hospitals Hôtel-Dieu 305, 319 Rusconi, Bartolomeo 194n46, 203–04, 207 Sacred Heart, devotion to 115–16 sacre rappresentazioni, see plays, mystery plays sacro monte, see Varallo Salviati, Francesco 290 Sanudo, Marin 262–64 Serpotta, Giacomo 353, 356n27, 365–67, 370 Seville (Spain) 372–89 churches San Jorge 372, 379–80, 383–84, 386, 389

Index confraternities Hermandad de la Santa Caridad (Brotherhood of Charity) 372–75, 377–80, 382–83, 385–89 Hermandad de San Pedro Mártir 376 demographics 375 hospitals Hospital de la Caridad 372, 378 Hospital del Amor de Dios 378 Hospital del Espíritu Santo 378 sick, care for the 31, 33, 74–76, 78, 83–87, 122, 131, 142, 145, 148–49, 208n82, 234n39, 289, 310, 349, 359, 378–79 See also disease; Mercy, Acts of; poor relief Sixtus V (Pope) 209, 211 slavery 74, 76, 101, 104 smallpox 84 stational crosses, see Milan, stational crosses statutes, confraternal Aalst 92, 94–99, 104–05 Florence 328, 335–36, 340n60 Mexico City 73–74, 78 Milan 229n23, 234, 240 Norwich and Leiden 60, 62, 65 Palermo (called capitoli) 344–45, 356 Pavia 155, 158–60, 166, 168–70, 172–73, 175–76 Rome 204n67, 208, 211–13, 276–79 Rouen 300–02 Tallinn and Riga 23n6, 28–30, 35, 36, 38, 40–44 Tivoli 134, 152 Venice 244n1, 258 See also mariegole stemma, confraternal, see insignia, confraternal Subiaco (Italy) 135, 148n50 syphilis 84–86 table guilds 21–48 Tafelgilde, see table guilds talami 140 Tallinn (Estonia) 21–46 Cathedral Hill 24, 42 churches Holy Spirit 24, 25, 31–37, 40 St. Catherine’s 24 St. Michael’s 24

449 St. Nicholas’s 25, 37 St. Olaf’s 37–38 City Hall 24–26 Corpus Christi procession, see processions, Corpus Christi Great Guildhall 26–28, 31, 45 guilds Brotherhood of the Black Heads 25–26, 41–42 Great Guild 25–45 St. Canute’s 24–26, 31, 41 St. Gertrude’s 41 St. Olaf’s 24–26, 41 St. Victor’s 33 Virgin Mary’s 42 hospitals Holy Spirit 24–25, 31–37, 40 St. John the Baptist 24–25 lower city 24, 37 parishes St. Nicholas’s 24 St. Olaf’s 24 streets Long Street 26, 33 table guilds Table Guild of the Great Guild 28–46 Tarquinia (Italy) 152 testaments 63–64, 73, 83, 303n25, 325, 336 Tivoli (Italy) 127–54 “acropolis” 127, 129–30, 136, 143 Anio River 127 Assumption Day procession (Inchinata) 127–54 churches San Cristoforo (St. Christopher) 146 San Lorenzo (Cathedral) 127–28, 131, 136, 140, 152–53 Santa Maria Maggiore 131, 133, 136, 143, 144n38 confraternities Annunziata 140–41 Confraternita del Salvatore (Confraternity of the Savior) 127–49 San Giovanni Evangelista 140, 142, 148 San Rocco 140–41 Santa Maria della Oliva 140–41 Santa Maria del Ponte 140 Santo Spirito 140–41, 146–48

450 Tivoli (Italy) (cont.) gates Porta Avenzia 143 Porta dei Prati 142–43, 146–47 Porta del Colle 142 hospitals Cornuta 143 San Giacomo 143 San Giovanni Evangelista (Santo Spirito) 131–32, 134, 136–37, 139, 142–43, 146–52 Santa Maria del Ponte 143 Santo Spirito, see Tivoli, hospitals, San Giovanni Evangelista Piazza Annunziata 141 Ponte Gregoriano 127, 129–30 Porta dei Prati/San Giovanni 142–43, 146–47, 152 trade guilds 131, 134, 138–40, 153 Via Tiburtina Valeria 142, 153 Tobit 306–07, 310–11 Trent, Council of see Council of Trent Troy, John Thomas (Archbishop) 118, 124 True Cross, veneration of the 1–3, 191, 227–28, 234–35, 253, 273–93 See also relics Ugonio, Pompeo 213 Van Dyck, Anthony 345, 359–67, 369, 371 Varallo, Sacro Monte di 222, 230–33 Vasari, Giorgio 207, 289, 370 Vasi, Giuseppe 202 Vecchi, Giovanni de’ 282 Venice (Italy) 244–71 churches San Geminiano 260–61

Index San Marco (St. Mark’s) 1–3, 11, 13, 17, 260–61 Santa Croce 260–61 Santi Giovanni e Paolo 253n20, 254 confraternities (scuole) Scuola del Cristo 265–66 Scuola di San Fantin 244–69 Scuola Grande della Carità 269n58 Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista 1–3, 11, 14, 169, 253 Doge’s Palace 1, 258, 259n36 Oratory of the Scuola di San Fantin 247, 252–53, 255, 265, 267, 269 piazze Piazzetta San Marco 247, 258, 260, 265 St. Mark’s Square (Piazza San Marco) 1–3 Prigioni Nuove 259n36 Viterbo (Italy) 152 Voragine, Jacobus de 183–85, 207n77, 257n28, 285, 289 See also Golden Legend wayside crosses 189, 222–23, 230, 239 See also Milan, stational crosses widows 29, 35, 73–74, 336, 349 wills, see testaments Works of Mercy, see Mercy, Acts of Zappi, Giovanni Maria 136, 140, 141n26, 148, 152 Zumárraga, Juan de 85, 86n65