Spaces of Knowledge: Four Dimensions of Medieval Thought 1443863289, 9781443863285

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Spaces of Knowledge

Spaces of Knowledge: Four Dimensions of Medieval Thought

Edited by

Noemi Barrera, Gemma Pellissa-Prades, Delfi-Isabel Nieto-Isabel, Laia Sallés Vilaseca, Georgina Rabassó, Ivo Elies and Josep Bellver

Spaces of Knowledge: Four Dimensions of Medieval Thought, Edited by Noemi Barrera, Gemma Pellissa-Prades, Delfi-Isabel Nieto-Isabel, Laia Sallés Vilaseca, Georgina Rabassó, Ivo Elies and Josep Bellver This book first published 2014 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2014 by Noemi Barrera, Gemma Pellissa-Prades, Delfi-Isabel Nieto-Isabel, Laia Sallés Vilaseca, Georgina Rabassó, Ivo Elies, Josep Bellver and contributors Translated by Pangur Bàn, Ltd. www.pangurbansl.com All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-6328-9, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-6328-5

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements ................................................................................... vii Introduction ................................................................................................. 1 On the Classification of Knowledge in the Middle Ages and Today NOEMI BARRERA Part I: Sense and Experience Chapter One ............................................................................................... 15 The Influence of the Publication of Early Midwifery and Apothecary Books on the Medical Practices of Women CÉCILE CODET Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 25 Mala digestio, nulla felicitas: Gastronomy as an Element of Well-being in the Tacuinum Sanitatis KEVIN RODRÍGUEZ-WITTMANN Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 35 The Sound Space: Thought, Music and Liturgy LAURA DE CASTELLET Part II: Opinion and Language Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 49 The Vision of the Other as a Doorway to Knowledge: The Crusader Hugues of Caesarea at the Court of the Fatimid Caliph Al-Aঌid (1167) LAIA SALLES VILASECA Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 61 Between Reputation and Law: (Re)Thinking Citizenship in Early 15thCentury Barcelona (1375–1430) CAROLINA OBRADORS-SUAZO

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Chapter Six ................................................................................................ 73 The Street as a Space of Knowledge: The Importance of Reputation in the Civil Society of Medieval Catalonia (14th c.) IVO ELIES Part III: Fantasy and Speculation Chapter Seven............................................................................................ 89 The Image of Catalans in Troubadour Poetry MARIONA VIÑOLAS I SOLÉS Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 101 The Boundaries between Fantasy and Pattern in Literature: Curial e Güelfa and Catalan Sentimental Romance GEMMA PELLISSA-PRADES Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 115 Spaces of Thought Creation in Almohad Granada: The Almunias DOLORES VILLALBA Part IV: Intellect and Reason Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 127 The Universe, a Space of Knowledge in Hildegard of Bingen And Herrad of Hohenbourg GEORGINA RABASSÓ Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 139 A Matter of Time: Beguin Millennialism at the Beginning of the 14th Century DELFI-ISABEL NIETO-ISABEL AND CARLOS LÓPEZ-ARENILLAS Sources and Bibliography........................................................................ 151 Contributors ............................................................................................. 169 Index of Names and Works ..................................................................... 173

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The Editors would like to thank the University of Barcelona (UB), the Institución Milá y Fontanals (CSIC), the Societat Catalana de Filosofia (IEC) and the Philosophy and Gender Seminar (UB) for all their support in the organization of the congress “Spaces of Knowledge: an interdisciplinary approach to medieval thought”, which led to the publication of this book, whose translation has been funded by the Faculty of Philology (UB). We also extend our gratitude to the Institute for Research on Medieval Cultures (IRCVM, UB), the Master’s degree in Medieval Cultures (UB) and the Department of Medieval History, Palaeography and Diplomatics (UB), which have kindly supported our research and diffusion activities before, during and after the congress. We would also like to thank all the scholars who contributed chapters to this book, for participating in this undertaking, and for facilitating our publishing tasks. Special thanks go to all former and present members of ARDIT (Association of Interdisciplinary Research and Diffusion on Medieval Cultures). Without their energy, patience and dedication this book would not have been possible.

INTRODUCTION ON THE CLASSIFICATION OF KNOWLEDGE IN THE MIDDLE AGES AND TODAY NOEMI BARRERA

Medieval thought, traditionally associated with great figures and with the works generated by an intellectual elite, encompasses, however, a much wider variety, and an extraordinary wealth, if we broaden our perspective to include all the individuals that made up the society in which it developed. This approach allows us to envision the many different ways in which the intellectual production of the Middle Ages manifests, but it also demands that we expand the meaning of what we understand as the thought, or knowledge, of an era. Next to major philosophical, theological, political and medical works and those related to other scientific areas, we find technical treatises devoted to various arts and disciplines, as well as practical writings—on food, health and body care, among many other examples—cultural works (including poetry, novels and other literary forms), propaedeutic and moral or spiritual treatises, the extensive legislative output, court proceedings, notarial documents, letters, the knowledge passed on orally from one generation to the next, etc. In short, the thought of an age consists of a rich diversity of elements, and branches into numerous expressions that involve all social strata.

“Esguardant e pensant qual era aquest món”.1 The 1st ARDIT International Congress of Medievalists Extracted from the Llibre dels Fets by King Jaume I, this quote was chosen to head the announcement of the 1st ARDIT International Congress of Medievalists “Spaces of Knowledge: An Interdisciplinary Approach to Medieval Thought”, organized by the Association of Interdisciplinary Research and Diffusion of Medieval Cultures (ARDIT), formed by young medievalists connected with the University of

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Introduction

Barcelona.2 With this statement, the organizers of the meeting wanted to encourage multiple views and thoughts on the various fields involved in the study of medieval thought. This included a wide range of aspects related to knowledge and its language, the arts, the ways of learning, knowledge transfer, and the objects and spaces where thought was stimulated and developed in the Middle Ages. With this markedly interdisciplinary aim, the 1st ARDIT International Congress of Medievalists favoured the dissemination of innovative research in different but complementary disciplines, such as history, philology, literature, philosophy, and art history, among others. Our purpose was to provide a space for creation, transmission, and connection of knowledge within the academic world, often marked by specialization and the compartmentalization of knowledge. This space for encounter and discussion offered the possibility of establishing links between research topics and the different views provided by participants through the fifty contributions delivered at the congress. The present volume pursues the same goals that brought us together in Barcelona in November 2012, namely: enriching individual investigations through debate and a cross-disciplinary approach. The ideas and synergies put forward during that meeting led to the proposal that culminates in this work, where, together with the most recent results of the research of our contributors, we present a journey through the complexity of medieval reality. Taking as starting point the eleven most inspiring papers delivered at the congress, which have been developed to conform the specific purposes of this book, Spaces of Knowledge. Four Dimensions of Medieval Thought combines different approaches and areas of study in order to weave a picture of the worldview of the Middle Ages. Besides the theorizations of contemporary authors such as Edgar Morin or the late Georges Gusdorf—to cite but a couple of examples among the many scholars devoted to interdisciplinary research—and focusing exclusively on the context of universities and research centres, many scholars have voiced their concern for the abuse of the concept of interdisciplinarity in academia. Despite being a fashionable and ubiquitous notion in the Humanities, sometimes it comes with a certain degree of practical frustration due to the lack of guidelines that help focus research and make sure its results are indeed interdisciplinary. This situation has led some scholars to wonder if the interdisciplinary ideal is anything more than a chimera.3 The French philosopher and historian Georges Gusdorf, an author strongly related to the reflection on the possibility of interdisciplinary research, begins one of his articles on the subject with the following passage:

On the Classification of Knowledge in the Middle Ages and Today

3

L’interdisciplinarité s’impose comme un thème d’époque dont on mesure l’importance à la fréquence des apparitions du mot dans le débat philosophique ou dans les discussions universitaires. Chacun se réclame de l'interdisciplinarité et nul ne se hasarderait à se prononcer contre elle. Succès d'autant plus brillant que ceux-là mêmes qui prennent le parti de la nouvelle figure du savoir seraient souvent bien en peine pour la définir. La revendication interdisciplinaire apparaît comme une panacée épistémologique, appelée à guérir tous les maux qui affectent la conscience scientifique de nôtre temps.4

Such question did not concern us during our meeting, nor will it be a sticking point in the following pages, which will not delve into the issues involved in this debate. Nevertheless, given that the interdisciplinary approach aims to gain a comprehensive understanding of the subject of study, we strongly believe that its results describe the reality they aim to explain much better than those provided by any other research structure. That is the reason why ARDIT Medieval Cultures has invested its efforts in promoting activities that lead to truly interdisciplinary results, such as the 1st ARDIT International Congress of Medievalists, the starting point for this volume.

Order: The True Task of the Compiler Once the benefits of an interdisciplinary—or, at least, crossdisciplinary—approach to the study of the Middle Ages have been established, we must tackle the presentation of its contents. The task of modern compilers, as that of their medieval counterparts, is to sort out the contents of their book so that the final result goes beyond the juxtaposition of its parts. While such parts are actually composed by different contributors, the editors, precisely in virtue of their classifying function, author the work as a whole. One of the most representative indications of the awareness of medieval authors about the importance of this task can be found in the Libellus apologeticus, the prologue of the Speculum maius, the great encyclopaedic work by Vincent of Beauvais (1190í1264). At the end of the fourth chapter, the Dominican does not hesitate to credit the authors of the doctrines he presents: they are the true auctores, whereas he is the actor.5 Vincent admits that he can claim for himself the authorship of the work because of his role as a compiler: Presertim cum hoc ipsum opus utique meum simpliciter non sit, sed illorum potius ex quorum dictis fere totum illud contexui, nam ex meo pauca uel quasi nulla; ipsorum igitur est auctoritate, nostrum autem sola partium ordinatione.6

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Introduction

The question of the classification and arrangement of knowledge continues to be a problem, and the main solutions proposed in the Middle Ages are actually quite similar to those adopted now. Thus, the search for an organizing principle that structures our work brings us face to face with the same issues that medieval encyclopaedists and compilers had to confront when they first drafted their didactic reference books. What is the most suitable order? Is it advisable to focus on the entities and phenomena of reality, or is it more appropriate to turn to sciences and disciplines? In short, should we concentrate on the world, or on the tools with which human beings study it? The question is of no small significance, for our choice of an ordering principle shares the purpose of medieval compilers: which system will lead our work to become the mirror that most faithfully conveys the reality we want to address? Spaces of Knowledge. Four Dimensions of Medieval Thought aims to show the wealth and complexity of the different expressions of medieval thought, to be useful and of interest to both the specialist and those readers who wish to venture into the worldview of the time. For that reason, the structure of this work has been a matter of the utmost importance for the editors of this volume.

The World or the Science that Studies it? Between the Ordo Rerum and the Ordo Artium The elaboration of the programme of an academic conference, or the index of a miscellany composed of various contributions, usually entails a choice between two methods of classification, based on either the topic of study or the discipline. The first option builds on the structures suggested by reality itself (thus, in case of organizing a conference, we would put together in the same session papers whose objects of study could be included within a certain common category), while the second option classifies themes according to the science studying them (this principle would lead us to group contributions that share the same discipline: for example, all the papers dealing with literature, despite possible differences in the nature of their research). As we have already mentioned, the organizational proposals of medieval authors were quite similar. The German philologist Christel Meier, in several studies where she questioned the order and objectives of medieval compilations, especially encyclopaedias, suggested a major division for these works into two organizing systems that correspond to two different systems of knowledge: the ordo rerum (a classification based on natural entities) and the ordo artium (according to disciplines).7 Here

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we find a basic distinction, accepted and followed by specialists: the structure of the encyclopaedic work depends first on whether the author addresses knowledge through a natural classification or through a specific programme of disciplines or arts. Each of these systems is guided by different internal organizational principles. Despite the temptation—caused by habit—to follow one of these two classic models, the present volume will ignore them, just as we did, as far as possible, during the 1st ARDIT International Congress of Medievalists. The problem with both models is that they do not guarantee the improvement that could come out of a more interdisciplinary approach, where the connections between individual research topics are encouraged. The challenge we undertook at the 1st ARDIT International Congress of Medievalists was to develop a programme, which, beyond disciplinary fragmentation and conceptual association, would prompt the establishment of connections between contributions that could be useful for the participants. The goal of the following pages is similar: finding the approach that best conveys the multiple dimensions of medieval thought to the reader.

Human Cognoscitive Powers and the Classification of Knowledge How can we bridge the time gap between the medieval period and our own? Being aware that our study of medieval thought stems from our current structures of thought, our aim is to combine current didactic needs with the medieval spirit, that is, to arrange the following contributions in a way which is useful for the reader, but without recourse to organizing principles characteristic of our modern era, and, therefore, less suitable to mirror the reality of an earlier period.8 One classification principle stands out as the most suitable for our purpose, since it is at the same time close to reality (ordo rerum) and to human elaboration (ordo artium), medieval and present-day, and, especially, as philosophical as cross-disciplinary: the gnosiological model. There is an old link between the capacity of the human being for knowledge and the classification and presentation of the content of compilations. This relationship has been expressed in various ways. The most genuinely medieval is the one that centres on the division of knowledge, or philosophy. 9 Medieval authors reproduced and reworded the divisions of knowledge passed on by several works of Boethius (ca. 480í525)—two commentaries on Porphyry’s Isagoge and the De trinitate—and the first Latin encyclopaedic treatises focusing on the

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Introduction

liberal arts. Boethius, in his De trinitate, resumes the classic theme of the classification of knowledge, setting forth a division that will be maintained and replicated throughout the Middle Ages (even while not being fully understood), until 13th-century scholastics provided the necessary elements to comprehend its foundations. It is known as the Aristotelian division of philosophy: the starting point is a major division between speculative and practical philosophy; the former is divided into physics, mathematics (where the quadrivium, a term coined by Boethius himself, is introduced) and metaphysics, or natural theology; the latter, in turn, consists of individual ethics, family ethics or economy and, finally, politics.10 This classification combines elements derived from the Aristotelian doctrine with others whose origin lies in Platonic and Stoic theories.11 Although all of them outline a certain path or gradation of knowledge by distinguishing some disciplines as preparatory, and others as superior, the Platonic classification is the one most closely linked with epistemology. It puts forward a true ladder of knowledge, from the study of the natural world, that is, physics (which belongs to the doxa), through mathematics, and up to dialectic, the knowledge of the eternal and immutable Ideas (according to Plato, both mathematics and dialectic belong to the episteme, that is, they are proper sciences). Human beings can gain a deeper understanding of those objects of study that are the most alien to the sensible world, which cannot be apprehended by means of scientific knowledge since it changes constantly. The only thing behind the study of physics is the confusion of the world of shadows; they both belong to the sphere of opinion (doxa).12 However, the Boethian classification, based on ontological principles, is further away from gnosiology. Latin authors perpetuated and attempted to combine the various systems of classification of sciences provided mainly by Boethius, and other authors such as Cassiodorus (ca. 485íca. 580), in his Institutiones (based largely on the work of Boethius), or Isidore of Seville (ca. 556í636), in his Etymologiae. In turn, they picked up another tradition derived from a Greek methodological concept that they developed themselves: the set of disciplines that make up the liberal arts. Since Varro (116í27 B.C.) committed himself to pass on to the Roman world the Greek education system through the educational proposal embodied in his Disciplinarum libri IX, liberal arts formed the propaedeutic basis of medieval education, and were taken as a classification principle of the compilations of the time. Both the classification of philosophy and that of the liberal arts are directly linked to the organization of knowledge. In fact, despite their different origins, medieval authors took great pains to

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combine them, as Hugh of Saint Victor’s (ca. 1096í1141) Didascalicon shows. The relationship between epistemology and disciplines becomes more significant when the classification of knowledge is justified by means of the cognoscitive faculties of the soul. This is the case with one of the most paradigmatic works of the Modern Era: Diderot and D’Alambert’s Encyclopédie (1751í1772). The latter, in the Discours préliminaire de l’Encyclopédie, reflects on the origin and the dynamic of knowledge, aiming to evince the close connection between sciences and the cognoscitive faculties of the human being (memory, reason and imagination), which leads these authors to present a classification of knowledge based on natural faculties: Ainsi la mémoire, la raison proprement dite, & l’imagination, sont les trois manières différentes dont notre âme opère sur les objets de ses pensées . . . Ces trois facultés forment d’abord les trois divisions générales de notre système, & les trois objets généraux des connaissances humaines; l’Histoire, qui se rapporte à la mémoire; la Philosophie, qui est le fruit de la raison; & les Beaux-arts, que l’imagination fait naître. Si nous plaçons la raison avant l’imagination, cet ordre nous paraît bien fondé, & conforme au progrès naturel des opérations de l’esprit.13

In this passage we can see that the order of the disciplines is not random: the knowledge acquired through sciences is sorted out according to the faculties of the soul, according to the “natural progress of the operations of the spirit”. First, related to memory, we find history; second, related to reason, we find philosophy and all its subdivisions; last come the arts and poetry, which correspond to the imagination. The authors of the Enlightenment claim to have their precedent in Francis Bacon (1561í1626), with whom they find several points in common, except for the order between the faculties of imagination and reason. In fact, in the De dignitate et augmentis scientiarum, Francis Bacon also divided human sciences according to the faculties of the soul, associating history with memory, poetry and literature with fantasy and, finally, philosophy with reason. According to Bacon, this division of science is the truest precisely because of its connection with human cognoscitive powers. Contrary to the classic enumeration of these faculties—such as the one maintained by the English Chancellor—the men of the Enlightenment considered that reason precedes imagination, for the activity of the latter involves the action of the former. Despite having established a system consistent with the empirical ideals that allowed them to reformulate the classification of sciences, and

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Introduction

introduce the novelties the inductive method was contributing to the scientific world, the French encyclopaedia presents information through entries arranged in alphabetical order. For the authors of the Encyclopédie the link between science and cognoscitive faculties is so important that they are forced to explain, in the Discours préliminaire, the reason for not following that method. Such reason was no other than the ease of use provided by the alphabetical system, which leads readers to find quickly what they are looking for and frees editors from the task of coming up with a particular order within each section. However, the true classification of knowledge is epistemological; hence the inclusion of a diagram of sciences and faculties at the beginning of the encyclopaedia: the work must ensure that the reader can use it to place each of the individual entries that compose it within the corresponding branch of knowledge, and to envision its relationship with the other sciences. Although this explicit relationship between disciplines and the faculties of the soul is actually modern, its potential precedents have been identified in the Middle Ages, such as the Speculum maius. Christel Meier again suggests a link between the structure of this work and some of the epistemological concepts it discusses.14 Medieval works do not show the connection between the cognoscitive faculties of man and the classification of contents as clearly as the French encyclopaedia. However, we must not forget that the matters related to the psyche were highly appreciated in the Middle Ages, especially during the 13th century, when Aristotelian psychology and Arabic works gained a foothold in academic circles. Greek philosophical texts, and their Arabic commentaries and elaborations, enlivened the philosophical and scientific landscape. A modest quadrivium gave way to a rich classification of sciences, and to the development of certain materials that allowed the Latin West to finally understand the Aristotelian model that it had been passing on for centuries. Western authors integrated scientific innovations and reordered disciplines, concerned with finding the system that expressed their dignity (as the works of Hugh—the Didascalicon—and Richard of St. Victor (ca. 1110í1173)—the Liber exceptionum— show) or usefulness depending on their purpose—the Tresor by Brunetto Latini (ca. 1220í1294) is a good example—bearing in mind, either in its classification or in its content, the human way of knowing. Human psychology and the classification of sciences and knowledge were central concerns of the medieval man; they related to each other and linked the entities of reality with the didactic dimension of their study. Therefore, while the trinomial “epistemology-disciplines-organizing

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method” was not explicit, it responds to real issues and considerations that were addressed during the Middle Ages. In the present volume, our organizing principle is inspired by a gnosiological model, for such classification is in line with the spirit of the medieval period, and underlines the need for interdisciplinarity in medieval studies—or, in any case, the need for an integrated multidisciplinary approach—avoiding the fragmentation of disciplines and expressing the complexity of medieval thought.

Our (Non-) Scale of Knowledge In conclusion, delving into the thought of an age entails an exercise of interdisciplinarity in which different intellectual dimensions and expressions have their place. Bearing that in mind, we have structured this volume establishing a simile with a gnosiological classification, or scale of knowledge. Our scale, however, is not based on any epistemological principle, but on a narrative intuition that leads us to present the wealth of medieval worldviews through the distinction of four dimensions of thought. The spaces that we have identified here are the result of a general assessment—not derived from the academic study—that anyone could make on the basis of a reflection on the different expressions of thought, thus drawing an ascending line that leads from what is commonly regarded as the most basic knowledge to the most complex. Through this analogy with the degrees of cognition, we present four different—and at the same time interrelated—ways to approach medieval thought: the sphere of senses and experience; the dimension of opinion and language; speculation and the product of fantasy and, finally, intellectual activity and reason. All knowledge that stems from the realm of senses and experience is addressed by practical knowledge. How did people feel in the Middle Ages? What did sensory practice encompass? Which pathways did experiential knowledge follow? This section focuses on the context of senses and the exercise of mainly practical activities, based on the knowledge of the natural and sensorial world. At the same time, enables us to address, from a different perspective, issues that maintain their prominence today, just as they did in the medieval period. In this section we will deal with suggestive topics such as the female transmission of medical knowledge—gained and exercised outside academic circles— religious expression through music, and the interest of medieval people in the effect of dietary habits on their health. The second section is devoted to opinion and language. Approaching a specific culture and time requires questioning the vision people have of the

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Introduction

world around them; only thus can we gain a true understanding of the mentality behind their ways of thinking. The chapters in this section reveal the characteristic imagery and worldviews of different social groups in the Middle Ages through history and literature. While we delve into the prevailing worldviews of the medieval period, the authors of the historical documents that we will analyse bear witness to an approach to the Other that implies a value judgment of their beliefs and behaviour. We will exemplify it through two texts as unique as William of Tyre's Chronicon, where the Crusader mentality can be glimpsed, and a trial where the social power of reputation, rumour and public opinion are evinced. We will also have the opportunity to revise and go into detail about the medieval concept of citizenship through the interconnections between its theoretical, legal and cultural dimensions, for which we will focus on the case of the city of Barcelona. Fantasy, a mediator in every process of knowledge acquisition, can produce creations that embody alternative ways of communication and understanding. Therefore, its study deserves particular attention. As regards medieval thought, this section approaches us to the sphere of the irrational and spontaneous, the appetites and desires. These concepts: fantasy and speculation, evoke the most suggestive part of the human being, which often finds its expression in literature. Along with the theoretical, moral, educational, and conceptual aspects that literary works may present, there is also room for a dialogue, addressing questions for which there is no simple answer and that attest to the curiosity of man through the centuries: what is love? What makes up our identity when the one defining the image of our group is the Other? What is the ideal context for the appearance of the Muses? The chapters in this third section will explore how the architectural context stimulates the creative process— taking the example of Almohad Granada—the image of Catalan identity in the poetic texts of Provençal troubadours and, finally, the extent to which public taste may have influenced the authors of sentimental romances, where the boundary between fantasy and creation is also an issue. To conclude, the last part of this volume is dedicated to rational knowledge, traditionally conceived as the paradigmatic form of knowledge. Our aim in this section is to insist on several novel aspects and the least renowned expressions of intellectual activity: the possibilities of development of female magisterium, and the time perception related to the spirituality of certain groups considered heretical. This volume is presented as a study that encompasses the different topics and areas related to medieval thought. Due to its interdisciplinary nature, it provides an ideal framework for researchers approaching the

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worldviews of the medieval period from different fields and perspectives. The sections of this volume are based on the results of the most recent research, for they are the object of study of ongoing research projects involving our contributors; at the same time, as a whole, this is also an accessible study for the non-specialist who seeks to obtain a comprehensive idea of medieval thought.

Notes  1

Llibre dels feits del rei En Jaume, 48. “Contemplating and thinking how this world was.” 2 ARDIT Medieval Cultures is the association of graduate students linked to the Institute for Research on Medieval Cultures (IRCVM) and the Master in Medieval Cultures of the University of Barcelona. Its main goals are the research and diffusion of the cultural legacy of the Middle Ages from an interdisciplinary perspective. Since its foundation, at the beginning of 2012, the efforts of ARDIT have been focused on the exploration of innovative research lines based on the collaboration between researchers from different disciplines who devote themselves to the medieval world, as well as to the organization of training activities and the dissemination of research results. Among the numerous initiatives resulting from the collaboration between ARDIT and other entities and research groups stands out the organization of the 1st ARDIT International Congress of Medievalists “Spaces of Knowledge: An Interdisciplinary Approach to Medieval Thought”, held in Barcelona on 14-16 November 2012. More information can be found at http://arditculturesmedievals.weebly.com/. 3 Many studies note this debate around the actual possibility of interdisciplinarity. Examples can be found in works from different disciplines: “ . . . the perennial nature of those problems mark interdisciplinarity as a chimera that will never find a stable form in the real world of the academy and its politics. ‘Interdisciplinarity, in short, has no inherent meaning’ Julie Klein concludes (Humanities, Culture, and Interdisciplinarity)”. Meriwether, Studying the Dead, 257í258. “Is it the case that interdisciplinary exchange represents another chimera that only presents the semblance of a conversation?” Newton, Nature and Sociology, 151. Along the same line, see Núñez de Castro, “Ciencia y post-utopía”, 35 n. 55. 4 Gusdorf, “Passé, présent, avenir de la recherche interdisciplinaire”, 31. 5 The concept of authorship in the Speculum maius and the dichotomy between the actor (as Vincent refers to himself in his work) and the auctores (the authorities he quotes in the encyclopaedia) have been studied by Paulmier-Foucart, “L’actor et les auctores”, 145í160. 6 Vincent de Beauvais, Préface au Speculum Maius, 119. 7 For an introduction to this topic, see, especially, an article by Meier in which she presents a general panorama of this topic: Meier, “Organisation of knowledge and encyclopaedic ordo”, 103í126.

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Introduction



8 Although these pages remark the fact that current classification methods are quite similar to their medieval counterparts, the exception to that rule would be alphabetical order. Many works point enthusiastically to the medieval precedents of alphabetical order, but we cannot liken them to our current conception, since the medieval scholars did not intend to distance themselves from the eventual subjective valuation of their object of study, quite the opposite. 9 Some authors use the term “philosophy” as an equivalent to “knowledge”, whereas others—most of them, in fact—provide it with a more restrictive meaning which would exclude revealed theological concepts. Franklin-Brown, Reading the World, 343 n. 103. 10 Boethius, De trinitate, II, 3. 11 For a deeper study of the original Platonic, Aristotelian and Stoic structures, and their elaborations and attempts at combination during the Middle Ages, see Mariétan, Problème de la classification des sciences and Weisheipl, “The natura, scope, and classification of the sciences”, 461í482. 12 Plato, República, 6, 509dí511e. This explanation can be found in the famous Divided Line metaphor. 13 D’Alembert, Discours préliminaire de l’Encyclopédie, Wikisource. 14 Meier, “On the Connection between Epistemology and Encyclopedic ordo”, 93í114.

PART I: SENSE AND EXPERIENCE

CHAPTER ONE THE INFLUENCE OF THE PUBLICATION OF EARLY MIDWIFERY AND APOTHECARY BOOKS ON THE MEDICAL PRACTICES OF WOMEN CÉCILE CODET

Introduction According to many of those who, in the Middle Ages and at the beginning of the Renaissance, tried to define the features of both sexes, the rational nature of men stood in contrast to the more sensual disposition of women. For instance, in the Libro de las donas, a Castilian version of the Libre de les dones written by the Franciscan theologian Francesc Eiximenis at the end of the 14th century, we can read the following description of what women had become after the original sin: La muger no tiene freno alguno en sus passiones . . . Pues, síguese que en la muger reynan las passiones e maliçias e maldades de la carne, pues non ay freno que las tiemple, e esta dize que es la razón por que las mugeres son comúnmente revesadas, ca siguen las pasiones corporales, las quales son contrarias a la razón natural.1

Women were, therefore, more prone to be driven by their senses, and less capable of reasoning. As a consequence, rational knowledge was less accessible to them, at least in theory, which does not mean that they were unable to develop any form of competence, since, in particular, they were capable of observing an example and trying to imitate it. Juan Luis Vives, one of the greatest pedagogues of the beginning of the 16th century, considers that this is one of the most efficient ways for a young girl to know what she has to do: “tum colliget virgo, vel audiendo, vel legendo, sancta exempla virginum, quae sibi proponat imitanda”.2 In other words, in accord with the medieval point of view, women could acquire

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Chapter One

knowledge and skills through their senses (for they were much more developed than their rational capacity) and through experience, observing and reproducing what other people had done before. These two specific aspects of female learning were particularly useful within the scope of medical practices. While current pharmacology, gynaecology and obstetrics are considered to be scientific areas and medical specialities, that was not exactly the case at the end of the Middle Ages and the beginning of the Renaissance. Actually, gynaecology and obstetrics were regarded as mechanical arts, in opposition to the medical theory taught at the university, whereas pharmacology was not the exclusive prerogative of the apothecary, but was also practised by all those who knew the virtues of plants. In past times, several famous figures would have recourse to the medical knowledge of female practitioners: in the 5th century, Saint John Chrysostom told Saint Olympias, in a letter (407) sent when he was in exile, how the remedies of Syncletion had been effective for his illnesses and had relieved his sufferings. 3 A thousand years later, the peninsular successors of Syncletion were still able to prepare remedies for the most frequent diseases of the members of their household; an ability that was one of their responsibilities as mothers and wives, and implied that they had to acquire certain theoretical and practical skills. Therefore, we may wonder how a woman could learn how to prepare medicines, and how those recipes and techniques were transmitted between women of different generations and social backgrounds. One of the possible answers to this question is provided by the example of an experienced matron and her admonishments, weaving female networks that were more or less independent from the male society. Indeed, many scholars have stressed the importance of oral transmission for female sociability, staged, for example, in books such as The Gospels of Distaffs. Nevertheless, in contrast to this text, which is undeniably humorous and even satirical, many others were written in a serious and even scientific tone in order to transmit medical recipes or information related to gynaecology, midwifery or the proper treatment for newborns, to mention only a few of the numerous and varied elements listed in such books. They draw the attention of the researcher to the importance of writing for the circulation of knowledge related to pharmacology and obstetrics at the end of the Middle Ages and the beginning of the Renaissance. The process of writing down the oral tradition is fundamentally ambiguous, in so far as it prevented the recipes from being forgotten, yet it reserved their access to those who knew how to read. “Those who knew how to read”, in this case, could mean both women and men: indeed, putting female recipes and techniques in writing meant that men could have access to them much

The Influence of Early Books on the Medical Practices of Women

17

more easily than before, and questioned the exclusive female property of such knowledge. Therefore, the purpose of this contribution is to examine how the use of a specific medium—namely, books and all types of writing—influenced the female practice of medicine at the end of the Middle Ages in the Iberian Peninsula, and illustrated the passage from an empiric knowledge based on experience, to one supposedly more rational and particular to the academic setting. First of all, we are going to demonstrate that not only did women master a series of skills related to medication and cosmetics, but they also played, thanks to it, a decisive role in the household and in society in general. In the second part of the chapter we will examine how the written transcription of female medical experience and knowledge reflects a deeper change, namely the progressive masculinization and submission of the medical practices traditionally reserved to women to the control of the university.

Women Healers and their Social and Domestic Roles At the end of the Middle Ages, whereas men were often the only ones allowed to study medicine at the university and to practise surgery, women were specialized in curing everyday ailments, minor injuries and, more particularly, the illnesses of the female body. Indeed, it was one of the aspects of the reproductive and conservative function of medieval women, in opposition to, but also in collaboration with, the productive and creative role of men. Thereby, preparing plasters, potions, electuaries and all types of medicines was not only a female custom in the Middle Ages: it was part of the responsibilities of women and, as a consequence, they were expected to acquire those skills considered essential for a future wife. In fact, all the normative texts of the time that dealt with matrimony, and the role each partner was supposed to play, clearly distinguished feminine and masculine functions. They attributed to women the task of looking after the house and all its inhabitants, which implied that they had to cure the most common ailments. Every woman, including those belonging to the highest classes, was compelled to adopt this role and, at the end of the Middle Ages, moralists were still emphasizing this point. For example, Juan Luis Vives, in the Institutione foeminae christianae (1524) [Instruction of a Christian Woman] writes, addressing Mary Tudor: sed quatenus totius domus cura illa interior mulieri incumbit, tenebit remedia vulgaribus et paene quotidianis morbis, eaque in cellula habebit

18

Chapter One parata, quibus marito, parvis liberis, et familiae, cum res feret, subveniat, ne accessere subinde medicum necesse habeat, et omnia ex pharmacopolio emere.4

Moreover, women had to be able to cook properly, in order to contribute to the health of all the members of the family. Cooking and medicine were, indeed, very closely linked, and, in the Manual de mugeres en el qual se contienen muchas y diversas reçeutas muy buenas [Women’s Manual Which Contains a Great Variety of Very Good Recipes], published at the end of the 15th century, one may find twenty-nine cooking recipes among indications regarding the elaboration of medicines and cosmetics. All of them are presented in a seamless fashion: a pastry recipe is surrounded by a method for the preparation of a washing solution, and by another one related to textile dyeing. 5 In addition to the preparation of remedies and cosmetics, women also had to deal with all the aspects of gynaecology and obstetrics. As is well known, the female body remained an unknown territory for most physicians during many centuries, and it was considered indecent for a man to be in contact with it, especially as far as its more intimate parts were concerned. Physicians and women, thus, agreed in this point: the first wanted to remain apart from obstetrics and gynaecology, and the latter did not want to disclose the more intimate part of their lives to a man. Thus, midwives and women in general were in charge of curing gynaecological disorders, assisting women in labour, and taking care of the newborn. Those branches of medicine became female specialities, and Damián Carbón, in his Libro del arte de las comadres o madrinas [Book on the Art of Midwives or Accocheuses], published in Palma de Majorca in 1541, still affirms that all that is related to generation belongs to the feminine area,6 even if, at that time, some physicians had already assisted women in labour. Therefore, women were, with a great variety of skills and duties, specialized in homemade remedies, gynaecology and obstetrics. Fulfilling all these medical roles implied that they had to use many ingredients and instruments, and, consequently, they needed to set up small laboratories in their own houses. As regards the Iberian Peninsula, it is impossible not to draw a parallel with Fernando de Rojas’s character, Celestine, whose modest house hid a very well furnished laboratory.7 Without denying the comical and satirical aspect of this book, studying the practices related to homemade medicines allows us to put into perspective the supposed exaggeration of the Comedia. Once they had gathered all the ingredients they needed, women begun to prepare their potions, and then they had to master a great variety of techniques, from distillation to spraying. They also had to be able to use all the measuring units mentioned in the recipes,

The Influence of Early Books on the Medical Practices of Women

19

as in the case of the toothache remedy of the Manual de mugeres, for which it was necessary to mix, among other things: “media onça de piedra alumbre, una quarta de inçienso, medio quartillo de miel, medio açumbre de vino blanco”.8 In the Flores del Tesoro de la belleza [Flowers of the Treasure of Beauty], a Catalan manuscript composed at the beginning of the 15th century by Manuel Dies de Calatayud, the steward of King Alfons the Magnanimous, the number of ingredients for a single recipe can amount to more than thirty.9 If some of them seem rather strange to us, as it is the case of mice, which, after being captured, had to be cooked and then powdered, most of them were fairly common (for example, powdered shells, cow horns or urine) and the composite ingredients could be found in the apothecary. Nevertheless, the author of the Flores del Tesoro de la belleza mentions rather luxurious products, such as spices (cinnamon, cloves…), aromatic substances (musk, benzoin…) or stones (coral, marble and pearl, among others), only available to the noble women for which the treatise was meant, who did not mind spending a lot of money to prepare potions in order to conform to the cannon of beauty of the time. According to the opinion of some moralists like Eiximenis, who deprecated the use of make-up, the fact that women not only prepared remedies but also cosmetics for their own use, involved a transgression. This seems to suggest that women were quite independent from the normative discourses that tried to control their behaviour. Moreover, some manuals tend to equate women with genuine physicians, employing some specific vocabulary. For example, explaining how to relieve a pain in the hip, the Manual de mugeres addresses its public with the words: “echaréis un tristel d’ello al paçiente y sanará”. 10 The use of the word paciente (patient) implies that the woman who is trying to help him is a physician, who is able, according to the same manual, to cure diseases as serious as pestilence. Nevertheless, according to other authors, there is a clear distinction between the female art of preparing homemade medicines and the genuine medicine, as Juan Luis Vives states in his Institutione foeminae christianae: neque vero mulierem velim arti se medicae dedere, aut sibi nimis hac in re fidere, frequentibus et paene quotidianis morbis . . . atque eam quidem peritiam discet potius ex usu aliarum prudentium matronarum, aut ex consiliis cujusquam propinqui medici, ex libello aliquot facile ea de re conscripto, quam ex magnis et accuratis medicorum voluminibus.11

He establishes a clear difference between the empiric and limited knowledge derived from experience and suitable for women, and a scientific and deeper understanding, reserved to the physicians who study

20

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at the university. Indeed, medicine was taught in universities and, as a result, disclosed in male networks—except for some exceptions, especially at the end of the 15th century—while women did not benefit from a similar institution to share knowledge and techniques linked to their pharmaceutical practices. As a consequence, to share their experience and their wisdom, they had to do it through unofficial and more discreet institutions, namely those properly belonging to the female sphere.

The Ambiguous Role of Writing Since men were usually the ones to had access to university, women were forced to use other means to transmit their own particular knowledge, which thus became something mysterious and, eventually, perceived as dangerous in the eyes of some men. Moreover, the female capacity to prepare medicines or to attend to other women with gynaecological disorders or in labour was a widespread practice, and very few of those professional or occasional healers were able to read and write. This is one of the reasons why their knowledge remained unwritten during centuries, contrary to what happened in universities, where medical science was essentially based on written sources, whose authority was guaranteed by time. In the case of women, as Vives says, the youngest could learn from an older and more experienced woman, even within the family, for it was often mothers who taught their daughters how to prepare some particular mixture, especially cosmetics. Of course, preachers did not agree at all, especially saint Vincent Ferrer, who, according to some scholars, harshly condemned the mothers who taught their daughters beauty tips: “San Vicente criticaba severamente a las madres que enseñaban a sus hijas a pintarse y a depilarse”.12 Therefore, the line between what was allowed—and even recommended—that is, to cure the most common ailments by preparing medicines, and what was forbidden (the preparation and use of cosmetics, but also of love potions and abortive substances) was very thin, and women could easily fall into sin. Putting all the knowledge related to these practices in writing allowed men to have access to it and to take control over it, casting out its esoteric side and depriving women of its exclusive property. Therefore, to a certain extent, this transition to writing entailed, for the traditional owners, a disappropriation of their knowledge. Obviously, such phenomenon did not occur exclusively in the Iberian Peninsula. In fact, the 12th-century famous manual of gynaecology and obstetrics known as the Trotula was conceived, according to Monica Green,13 as a pathway to the female art of medicine, in order to allow men

The Influence of Early Books on the Medical Practices of Women

21

to have access to it and to become, in turn, experts in gynaecology and obstetrics. According to this author, the Trotula is actually a collection of three treatises, at least two of them written by male authors, although it is possible that the three treatises were authored by men. This medical compendium was written in Latin in the city of Salerno (whose physicians were renowned in all Europe) at the end of the 12thcentury. The use of this particular language reduces de facto the range of potential readers of a text, not only with regard to gender, but also to social classes. Damián Carbón, the author of the Libro del arte de las comadres y madrinas, seems to be aware of that fact when he proposes, in the tenth chapter of his book, a Latin recipe “para personas que pueden gastar”, and another one, in vernacular language, “para las otras”. 14 Therefore, there is a clear association between Latin and those who can spend money in cosmetics— that is to say, the members of the upper class—and the vernacular language and those who cannot afford to. However, the use of writing in the transmission of cosmetic and pharmaceutical recipes did not prevent women from sharing them as they had done up until then. Moreover, for upper class women, the book became a very interesting and convenient way to have access to this type of information. Actually, some activities, like cooking, remained quite unfamiliar to them, and, therefore, they had to acquire some skills in this particular field. Thus, according to Alicia Martínez Crespo in her introduction to the Manual de mugeres, 15 the circulation of recipes in noble circles created a genuine network between women interested in exchanging them, since they used to be inspired by recipes allegedly created by other noble women. As in the case of the pastry recipe attributed to the marquise of Villena (“Receta que ensenya la marquesa de Villena para las pastas”), 16 they could be sent in a letter or appear in collections. An example of this transmission of medical knowledge through writing can be observed also for the highest nobility; it is the case of the Latin manuscript entitled Remedio contra las cosas beninosas [Remedies against Poisonous Things] that Queen Isabel the Catholic had in her library, according to Ruíz García.17 When the Queen died and some of her possessions, among which several books, were sold to pay her debts, this manuscript was bought by a lady, Mencía de Guevara,18 which is quite significant, since the fact that it was a text written in Latin did not prevent it from passing from a female owner to another. What was, then, the role of men? The transcription of all the knowledge related to pharmacology, cosmetics, gynaecology and obstetrics not only made it available to men, but also turned them into unpredictable intermediaries. As a matter of fact, as we have seen, the manuals were

22

Chapter One

written by men, as in the case, for instance, of Manuel Dies de Calatayud, who created an anthology based on a Tresor de Beutat [Treasury of Beauty], in order to make it available to “vosotras, muy honorables señoras”.19 In other words, he chose to establish himself as the mediator between the female members of the upper class and a lore, which, maybe, they could not have accessed easily. On the contrary, Damián Carbón adopts a different attitude: in the dedicatory epistle with which the book begins, he confesses his preoccupation regarding the fact that midwives, to whom women appeal for all the questions related to pregnancy, do not receive adequate training anymore and, as a consequence, they make many mistakes, leading to a great number of catastrophes.20 The author, therefore, decides to write the Libro del arte de las comadres o madrinas to teach them their own art, for it is not enough to learn it from some experienced midwife. Nevertheless, this book presents various surprising aspects. Most of the midwives came from popular classes, that is to say, precisely those for whom writing represented an obstacle in the acquisition of knowledge, and even more when many of the technical words were written in Latin. Moreover, the author evokes several times his own experience, as when he alludes to the possibility of a woman giving birth to monsters. This assumption is based on “lo que en diversos auctores he leydo como aun por lo que de mis ojos humanos en el tiempo de mi plática he visto y tratado”.21 Thus, the author alludes to his own professional experience, suggesting that, at the beginning of the 14th century, and perhaps before, men started to be interested in gynaecology and obstetrics in the Iberian Peninsula. Actually, on various occasions, Damián Carbón does not address a female audience, but relies on “la discreción de vosotros”. 22 These few words are quite revealing: the author is not talking only to midwives, but also, and, perhaps, mainly, to those men who wanted to master their art in order to succeed them. Undoubtedly, those men were more used to reading and to Latin terminology. However, Damián Carbón’s book was an element of a wider movement, summed up by Bárbara Mujica in these terms: Most women learned their craft through apprenticeship and experience, but as medicine became increasingly professionalized, women were gradually excluded, at least in large cities. In rural areas, midwives continued to deliver babies, much as they had since biblical times. In urban areas, obstetrics (or midwifery), which had always been a woman’s field, came to be considered a medical specialization and, as such, was reserved for university-educated male physicians.23

The Influence of Early Books on the Medical Practices of Women

23

In other words, at the end of the Middle Ages and, more particularly, at the beginning of the Renaissance, men tried to appropriate a field of knowledge traditionally associated with the female world. This change concerning the gender of the practitioners implied other evolutions: gynaecology and obstetrics progressively became an official practice, and were no longer considered as a private and secret knowledge. The problem was that putting the female knowledge concerning gynaecology, obstetrics and pharmacology in writing did not provoke a revaluation of female capacities, at least not as far as medicine was concerned. On the contrary, the former female practitioners were then considered as unprofessional healers, and progressively rejected by society. In fact, sometimes, the 16th century witch is not so different from the 15th century midwife.

Conclusions To conclude, we wish to point out the ambiguous consequences of the transcription of the female knowledge concerning pharmacology, gynaecology and obstetrics. Books eased the divulgation of a lore originally reserved to the initiated, that is, women. Nevertheless, it had severe consequences for these women, especially for those who, as midwives, were professional healers. Indeed, they were not anymore the only ones to be able to deliver babies, and had to face the opposition and the competition of physicians with university training. Moreover: they began to be discredited, and all their experience concerning the use of plants, once regarded as essential because of the lack of medical assistance, fell under suspicion and turned them into potential emulators of Celestine. Finally, this particular phenomenon has to be placed in a more general context. On the one hand, the publication of books on gynaecology, midwifery and cosmetics has to be related both to the general development of the audience—and, particularly, the female audience—and to book production thanks to the expansion of the printing press. The wish to turn these fields of medicine into something supposedly more rational and less mysterious is also linked to a broader movement that sought a better understanding of the human being and the world humans lived in—a movement from which, however, the female body remained excluded during a long time. On the other hand, the progressive depreciation of the medical capacities of women participated in their increased marginalization from the public sphere in the Modern Era. Indeed, we cannot forget that women were excluded from the professional practice of medicine until the end of the 19th century: what happened in the 15th and 16th centuries had, therefore, far reaching consequences.

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Notes  1

Libro de las donas, MS 153, fol. 7r. There is a modern edition of the original Catalan version: Eiximenis, Lo libre de les dones, 21. 2 Vives, De Institutione Foeminae Christianae, 124. “. . . the young woman will collect examples of virgins from what she hears and reads, which she will hold up to herself for imitation”. Fantazzi, The Education of a Christian Woman, 119. 3 Saint John Chrysostom, Dialogue sur le sacerdoce, 306. 4 Vives, De Institutione Foeminae Christianae, 252. “And since the care of the inhabitants of the house falls upon the woman, she will keep remedies on hand for common and almost daily maladies and will have them ready in a larder so that she may attend to her husband, her small children, and the servants, when required, and will not have to call for the doctor often and buy everything from the apothecary”. Fantazzi, The Education of a Christian Woman, 263. 5 Specifically, the titles of the recipes are “receta para hazer bizcochos”, “agua para lavar el rostro” y “tinta para hazer tocas leonadas”. Martínez Crespo, Manual de mugeres, 57–58. 6 Carbón, Libro del arte de las comadres, 11. 7 Rojas, La Celestina, 258–61. 8 Martínez Crespo, Manual de mugeres, 47. 9 Dies de Calatayud, Flores del Tesoro de la Belleza, 58. 10 Martínez Crespo, Manual de mugeres, 55. 11 Vives, De Institutione Foeminae Christianae, 252. “I should not wish that a woman dedicates herself to the art of medicine or has too much confidence in it. I advise her to be familiar with the remedies for frequent and everyday illnesses . . . She can learn this skill from the experience of other prudent matrons rather than from the advice of some nearby physician, or some simple handbook on that subject rather than from big, detailed medical tomes”. Fantazzi, The Education of a Christian Woman, 263. 12 Julià Gisbert et al., “El saber de la matrona medieval”, 15. 13 Green, The Trotula, 61. 14 Carbón, Libro del arte de las comadres o madrinas, 35. 15 Martínez Crespo, Manual de mugeres, 15. 16 Ibid. 17 Ruiz García, Los libros de Isabel la Católica, 111. 18 Ibid.,139. 19 Dies de Calatayud, Flores del Tesoro de la Belleza, 29. 20 Carbón, Libro del arte de las comadres, 11. 21 Ibid., 26. 22 Ibid.,52 and 55. 23 Mujica, Women Writers of Early Modern Spain, XLV.

CHAPTER TWO MALA DIGESTIO, NULLA FELICITAS. GASTRONOMY AS AN ELEMENT OF WELL-BEING IN THE TACUINUM SANITATIS KEVIN RODRÍGUEZ-WITTMANN

In a book dedicated to the different expressions of knowledge in the medieval context, it is essential to consider not only theoretical and intellectual knowledge, but also its most practical aspect. In this regard, food is one of the features that arouse most interest among those that make up our current image of the medieval past. However, it is necessary to approach this topic cautiously and seriously in order to avoid a folkloric or romantic vision of food in the Middle Ages; to do so we must take into account a number of aspects that cannot be ignored. The aim of this chapter is to analyse the relationship between food and well-being throughout the Middle Ages. The main thread running through the following pages will be a series of works that represent the theoretical tools of study related to medieval dietetics. In other words, we will see how theoretical knowledge is transferred to the world of everyday sensations. In turn, these sensations are linked with physical well-being through a series of treatises, among which stands particularly out the Tacuinum Sanitatis as a basis of a food experience that results in the sensory development of the individual. Geoffrey Chaucer (ca. 1343í1400), in the prologue of his universal Canterbury Tales, recounts the conversation that takes place between the Host and the Cook, in which the former berates the latter for his bad cooking practices: For many's the stale pastry, drained of gravy, And warmed-up Jack-of-Dover pie you’ve sold, That’s been twice hotted up and twice left cold. Many’s the pilgrim who has been the worse

26

Chapter Two For the parsley stuffing in your fatted goose.1

The message this passage conveys is directly associated with the conception of food characteristic of human beings: the close relationship between food and well-being, both physical and psychological. From a historical and anthropological point of view, food has been the foundation of the most important social changes of mankind, thus becoming an inseparable part of our global history.2 In Western societies, the binomial food-well-being turned out to be one of the most characteristic factors of the culture of the Middle Ages, specifically, the introduction of certain culinary practices in the customs of medieval society rather than the relationship between dietary habits and the well-being of citizens. 3 However, addressing the conception of food in the Middle Ages as if it was only connected with physical well-being, that is, from a physiological point of view, can lead to superficiality: food is also understood in medieval literary circles as a metaphor for sensual pleasure, as a purely physical act that arouses markedly hedonistic feelings in the individual. Thus, numerous passages of the Libro del Buen Amor use gastronomic metaphors as literary images of sensuality,4 in contrast to the medicinal value of food, which, based on the theories of several authors, was widespread in Middle Ages. 5 Therefore, secular late medieval tradition offers two parallel perspectives concerning food: an artistic-literary standpoint and the medicinal approach.6 However, such perspectives are not mutually exclusive, for many treatises combine a theoretical character with illustrations accompanying their contents, in a sort of symbiosis between scientific knowledge and iconographic reference. One of the most important for posterity is the De materia medica by the Greek Dioscorides (d. ca. 90), which describes a large number of medicinal plants, mineral and animal substances, including a depiction of each item. The information accompanying each object of study includes factors such as its name, habitat, effects on the body, botanical description, medicinal uses, etc., which turns this treatise into a reference work whose heuristic significance would last throughout the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, both in the West and in the Islamicate milieu.7 The so-called Vienna Dioscorides (6th century) contains the depiction of seven of the major intellectual figures in this area. The Greek Galen (d. 200) occupies the central position. Galen was one of the most important characters of Late Antiquity, and his legacy has been the most influential in the history of medicine. Galen would be remembered, among many other things, for recovering the Hippocratic theory that postulates the existence of a direct relationship between the four elements and the four

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27

humours of man (blood, phlegm, black bile and yellow bile). The imbalance of humours—whose fluctuation depended on factors such as temperament, diet or the environment—was thought to be the direct cause of all diseases. The four humours would also be associated with the four seasons, the four ages of man and the four qualities of the human body.8 Galenic ideas soon reached Byzantine and Islamic intellectual circles and played a leading role in the development of the school of Salerno. Islamic medicine assimilated and standardized these theories establishing a sort of classification of Galenic sources.9 In this context, the figure of the physician Ibn Bu৬lƗn (d. 1075) emerges in 11th-century Baghdad. 10 He authored a work whose Latin translation would be the most read health manual of the Middle Ages: the TaqwƯm al-‫܈‬i‫ۊۊ‬a, translated as Tacuinum Sanitatis. We know little about his life: he studied medicine and philosophy in Baghdad, left the city in 1047 to travel around Aleppo, Antioch, Laodicea and Jaffa, and arrived in Cairo in 1049, where he had a bitter scientific confrontation—which would last until 1054—with the physician Ibn RiঌwƗn (d. ca. 1061). 11 After residing for some time in Constantinople, he finally retired to a monastery in Antioch.12 Ibn Bu৬lƗn left writings of great value, among them the work that would constitute a reference for medieval dietetics, the above mentioned TaqwƯm al-‫܈‬i‫ۊۊ‬a, a compendium of elements presented from a medical standpoint that comprised food, music, exercise, sleep, rest, etc. It is a compilation of the practical guidelines that should be followed in order to achieve physical and intellectual well-being. The work is organized into forty charts that include 280 elements, structured in the form of markedly geometric tables, reminiscent of certain decorative elements of Islamic art. The author discusses a number of material and immaterial factors, although it should be noted that most of the content is centred around gastronomy: thus, in twenty-eight of the forty charts, the subject discussed is related to food (fruits, legumes, bread, meat, fish, etc.), while the remaining twelve are devoted to topics such as exercise, baths or music.13 As corresponds to the reciprocal transfer of scientific influences characteristic of late medieval intellectual idiosyncrasy,14 the TaqwƯm al‫܈‬i‫ۊۊ‬a would soon cross the borders of Islam and reach the West. We cannot pinpoint the date of its translation, but the Tacuinum Sanitatis appeared as such around 1250, in the court of Manfred of Sicily (d. 1266), the son of Frederick II Hohenstaufen, within a cultural milieu that responded to the intellectual legacy of the Emperor. The manuscript is listed in the inventory of Charles I, Duke of Orleans (d. 1465), and it is the earliest Latin version of Health Charts known to us. This copy shares

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Chapter Two

much of its content with the original work and it also keeps the same formal structure in several aspects: it refers to the organization of tables presented by Ibn Bu৬lƗn, and is based on the theory of the four humours. Thus, the TaqwƯm al-‫܈‬i‫ۊۊ‬a reaches the western context through a Latin translation that would be crucial to its future dissemination. The next step in the development of the Tacuinum would be the last: at the end of the 14th century, new versions appeared in northern Italy. Tables gave way to profuse illustrations, which brought about a fundamental turning point. These versions, the earliest one dated around 1380 and preserved in the Bibliothèque national de France (BnF), fall between the theoretical legacy of the Arabic source, and the formal and iconographic characteristics of late medieval miniature in northern Italy. 15 The description of each item is accompanied by its depiction, which becomes more important than the theoretical content itself, a factor that shows the undeniable influence of the Materia Medica on these versions. In the words of Cendón, “the adornment is no longer secondary, it is the subject itself”.16 Once the contextual framework has been outlined, we will now turn to the analysis of the work itself. The backbone of our study will be a series of food products that were part of medieval diet and are described in the Tacuinum Sanitatis. First, on the basis of these miniatures, we will deal with the role of sugar and vinegar in medieval dietetics. Second, we will analyse the section devoted to cheese and bread, traditionally considered as secondary foodstuffs. Finally, we will focus on the elements that have been the cornerstone of human diet: pasta, meat, poultry and fish. Given the testimonial character of our object of study, we will also analyse the social dimension of these food products, without which it would be difficult to understand the significance of the work we are discussing. The starting point for our analysis will be the aforementioned illustrations. Next to them, the items are presented according to five factors: nature (natura), best variety (melior ex eo), use (juvamentum), noxiousness (nocumentum) and counteraction of noxiousness (remotio nocumenti). For instance, in the depiction of cherries featured in the copy preserved in Rome, their nature is considered “cold at the end of the first degree” (frigidus in fine primo grado).17 The best cherries are “fleshy and have a thin skin” (carnosa futilis corticis). They are beneficial to “phlegmatic stomachs laden with superfluities” (conferunt stomaco flegmatico pleno superfluitatibus); but they are difficult to digest (tarde descendunt a stomaco), and therefore should only be eaten on an empty stomach (a ieiunis sumpta).18 This structure repeats throughout the book: while the reference is Ibn Bu৬lƗn, modifications are also added to the

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29

original, such as the inclusion of a section devoted to pork (which does not appear in the TaqwƯm al-‫܈‬i‫ۊۊ‬a). Beyond its intrinsic characteristics, the value of the Tacuinum lies in the representation of specific aspects of late medieval society: its chapters illustrate the fashion of the time, 19 agrarian history, 20 spice trade, etc. Thus, the graphic representation of food allows us to relate European culinary traditions to both their dietary properties and their social dimension. In the image accompanying the description of sugar,21 we see a lady whose attire suggests a certain economic wealth, which reminds us of the high price of sugar, only affordable to wealthy consumers. Sugar was granted an increasing dietary value to the detriment of honey, especially in the Mediterranean area, although the latter prevailed in medieval kitchens as the main sweetener; in fact, the gastronomic nature of sugar did not exceed the medicinal value it was assigned until the end of the Middle Ages. Sugar was not the only foodstuff with both medicinal and culinary value: in the copy of the Tacuinum preserved in Rome—as well as in the versions preserved in Vienna, Paris and Liège—one of the chapters is devoted to vinegar,22 whose culinary use was not as prevalent as its use for medicinal and even logistic purposes (vinegar was one of the main food preservatives in cities). It was said that it counterbalanced the warmth of bile, thus aiding digestion, provided that its use was moderate. While the Byzantine Simeon Seth (11th century) recommended eating lettuce with vinegar due to its beneficial effect on the stomach, throughout the Middle Ages it became an inadvisable habit, as the old saying goes, and Flandrin reproduces: “The salad must be well washed and salted, with little vinegar and richly oiled”.23 As regards vinegar, medieval dietary habits actually show that its medicinal character prevailed over its nutritional value. In fact, medieval cuisine was mainly characterized by a tendency to sweet tastes, hence the importance of honey and sugar, which were key elements to “counteract” cold flavours, namely acid tangs. Other foodstuffs that can be related to the Mediterranean context through their presence in the Tacuinum are cheese and dairy products, from ricotta 24 to butter.25 Although their use was always conditioned by certain dietary prejudices, the consumption of cheese responded to a culinary tradition that never failed to be promoted. Enormously widespread, cheese showed a great variety of types and preparations. Its dry character was recommended to counteract the excessive moisture of fruit, and it was present on the tables of all social classes, especially in peasant and monastic communities, in which cheese became a substitute for meat products.

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Bread is one of the elements that show more variants in the Tacuinum. A staple food, constantly present on medieval tables, its typology also acquired an eminently social character: white bread, described in the work,26 was the most expensive category, and was therefore exclusive to the privileged classes, while the consumption of black bread (especially millet bread) 27 was common on peasant tables with few resources. The copy preserved in Rome describes it as an ideal food for sanguine bodies (corporibus sanguineis), although it had a drawback, it caused heartburn (facit ardore in stomaco).28 Another interesting case is that of pasta, universally widespread today and traditionally attributed to the Mediterranean context in general and to Italy in particular, although the issue of its origin has stirred up national disputes.29 Its current worldwide fame is out of the question, but it was not until the Modern Era that it became the basis of many dishes. Before that, it was considered a mere side dish to principal foodstuffs, especially meat. 30 In a miniature of Vienna’s Tacuinum we can see two different vignettes of the preparation of pasta within the same narrative framework:31 a woman prepares the dough, working it manually, while another places the strips already cut in a wooden pasta dryer (still used in certain areas of Italy). It is interesting to note that no specific cereal or raw material is presented as the best variety. The description simply indicates that the best pasta is prepared carefully, probably due to its adverse effect on weak bowels (debilibus visceribus et stomaco).32 Meat occupies a central place in the thematic content of the Tacuinum. Described in the work in various ways, and according to its different origins, it was a staple food in late medieval Europe, especially in secular and festive environments. The social dimension of the consumption of meat in the medieval context is something that should not be overlooked: the Tacuinum presents both the benefits of pork, of little commercial value and, therefore, accessible to most, and those of beef, much more expensive and only affordable to the privileged few. This is an indication that the message of this book is addressed to a wide audience. Although the physical reality of the manuscript points undoubtedly to courtly milieus, its contents include both elements meant for the upper classes, and everyday food, consumed by a social group of much lower purchasing power. While the social implications of the consumption of meat significantly influenced its trade throughout the late Middle Ages, the ways in which meat was cooked had a strong dietary component, directly related to Galenic theories. As mentioned above, each foodstuff had certain characteristics depending on the temperament of the consumer; characteristics that had to

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31

be counterbalanced on the basis of that temperament: fruits, generally considered moist and cold, had to be complemented with a dry food that “countered” that moisture, thus contributing to a healthy balance in the stomach, an idea that would popularize meals such as melon with ham, still consumed in the Mediterranean area. Therefore, meat, regarded as moist, had to be treated, for culinary purposes, so that its moisture was dried out, namely by roasting. In contrast, when preparing dry meat (such as venison), the right thing would be to moisten it through boiling.33 In fact, Montanari relates the practice of boiling the meat before roasting it, widespread in the Middle Ages and still practiced in some rural areas, to a process of preservation, of cleansing the meat before roasting it.34 Poultry is a case apart. Definitely the foodstuff with the highest market price, it embodies the refinement of upper classes in late medieval society. In this context, the depiction of the preparation of the pheasant in Paris’s Tacuinum35 responds to a process of social transformation of the dominant classes that Montanari associates with a change in dietary habits. In previous centuries, the conceptualization of political power (inherited from the Carolingian monarchy) equated it to warriors and warlike actions. The prince managed his power, which resulted in the consumption of game meat, whose capture required a physical exercise closely related to political vigour. In contrast, from the 14th century onwards, power was transferred to the princely cabinets and administrative proceedings, which, metaphorically, changed tastes towards much more delicate morsels, far from the warlike dynamism of hunting.36 Finally, we should not overlook a foodstuff that, despite not being central in the Tacuinum Sanitatis, still has a significant heuristic value: fish. Related to a religious conception of food, the references to fish included in the Tacuinum also depict the different steps taken during its preparation. For instance, the copy preserved in the Biblioteca Casanatense, illustrates the whole process, from the most basic treatment of fish, that is, its capture, which appears in the chapter devoted to fresh fish,37 to its method of preservation through salting.38 Interestingly enough, the fish is the main ingredient of the only recipe depicted in the Tacuinum, which appears as a meeting point between cooking, the transformation of the natural state of matter, and dietary action, understood from an almost medicinal standpoint: fish marinated in vinegar and herbs (“pisces infusi in herbis et aceto”).39 Nowadays, meat and fish are seen as antagonistic in nature; in the Middle Ages, this dissociation oscillated between dietary and symbolic implications. In contrast to meat—fat, heavy, dietetically complete—fish was white, light, almost ethereal, had a lower fat content, and produced

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nowhere near the same excitement. Soon, this idea was associated with the concept of purity that the Church demanded of the faithful. Thus, fish became a major element in religious festivals, where both peasants and nobles shared the same dietary habits, embodying the unity of mankind before God. The analysis we have carried out of the food and dietary practices in the Middle Ages through the study of the Tacuinum Sanitatis, evinces that culinary customs, from a dietary standpoint, built on a theoretical basis. The formal characteristics of the work have also been explored; they derive from the adaptation of the TaqwƯm al-‫܈‬i‫ۊۊ‬a to the western context by means of the Tacuinum Sanitatis and its precepts. On the other hand, we have also considered its extra-textual aspects, that is, the social implications and moral character of the consumption of certain foodstuffs presented in the work, without which, in general, the development of the culinary culture of the medieval West could not be understood. All of this shows the unquestionable heuristic value of this work for the analysis of the foundations of medieval knowledge and its practical adaptation, focused here on the achievement of well-being through food. First printed in 1531, in the city of Strasbourg, the subsequent centuries witnessed an increase in the number of available copies. Thus, it reached a much wider sector of the population that maintained the medical precepts that had dominated dietetics for fourteen centuries, which, as we have already mentioned, established the foundations of medieval medical practice. Over the next few centuries, the production of this kind of work evolved, and new versions appeared on a steady basis; they were known as Regimina Sanitatis. The first Lombard miniatures gradually fell into an oblivion from which they were not rescued until the late 19th century. Art historians such as Julius von Schlosser (d. 1938) and Gino Fogolari (d. 1941) analysed these rediscovered manuscripts from an aesthetic point of view, and left the door open to later generations of scholars who have seen in the copies preserved in Rome, Vienna and Paris a first-class source for research, not only on late medieval daily customs, but also on the whole collective idiosyncrasy that would define certain important features of medieval Western society.

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33

Notes  1

Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, 110. Fernández Armesto, Food: A History. 3 Obviously, the application of the relationship between well-being and food was always more evident in aristocratic circles, where necessity, the fundamental variable of the binomial, at least for popular classes throughout the medieval period, was not considered. 4 Miaja de la Peña, “Erotismo y misticismo”. 5 The medical value of food and its hedonistic aspect were sometimes mingled. In the Middle Ages, the idea that the taste of food was directly related to its dietary qualities was prevalent. In the words of Flandrin, “si un alimento gustaba a alguien era señal de que convenía a su temperamento”. Flandrin, “Condimentación, cocina y dietética”, 634. 6 The analysis of the religious symbolism of food and culinary traditions is not our goal here, but it is certainly a factor that should not be diminished. 7 Barret, “Reading the Literature”, 32. 8 Bovey, Tacuinum Sanitatis. An Early Renaissance Guide, 16. 9 Cogliati, Tacuinum Sanitatis. Das Buch der Gesundheit, 11. 10 The name Ibn Bu৬lƗn is the most accepted, but we also see him cited as Ububchasym of Baldach, Albulkasem or sometimes Ellbochasim of Baldach, a result of the Latinization of the original name. 11 On this topic, see Slacht and Meyerhof, The Medico-Philosophical Controversy. 12 Elkhadem, Le Taqwim Al-Shihha, 9í11. 13 Ibid., 15. 14 Among the many authors we could refer to in connection with this topic, we would like to point out León Florido, “Translatio Studiorum: Traslado de los libros” and Benoit and Micheau, “¿El intermediario árabe?”, due to their thematic proximity. 15 Cogliati, Tacuinum Sanitatis. Das Buch der Gesundheit, 37. The version preserved in the BnF is believed to be the earliest extant manuscript. However, four other copies are also extant. They were produced between the late 14th and the early 15th century, and are named according to their location: Liège (c. 1390), Vienna (c. 1385-1400), Rome (c. 1390) and Rouen. We will not focus exclusively on one of these versions but will address them as a whole, envisioning them as a formal unit. 16 Cendón, “La vida cotidiana en la pintura”, 259. 17 In medieval dietetics, the relationship between digestion and cooking was commonly accepted. The stomach was responsible for cooking food gently, and this process, during which the qualities of foodstuffs were balanced, was measured in degrees. Flandrin, “Condimentación, cocina y dietética”, 629. Let us bear in mind, however, that the Tacuinum also uses the same structure with nongastronomic elements, such as the seasons or the winds, whose application to the theory of degrees shows the dietary character they were assigned. 18 MS 4182, fol. 17r. 2

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 19

MS 4182, fol. 206r. Ser. nova 2644, fol. 54r. 21 Ser. nova 2644, fol. 92r. 22 Casanatense, Ms. 4182, fol. 164r. 23 Flandrin, “Condimentación, cocina y dietética”, 643, and Kislinger, “Los cristianos de Oriente”, 390. 24 Nouv. Acq. Lat. 1673, fol. 59r. 25 Ser. nova 2644, fol. 61r. 26 MS 4182, fol. 119r. 27 Nouv.Acq.Lat. 1673, fol. 56r. 28 MS 4182, fol. 122. 29 Toussaint-Samat, Historia natural, 159í161. 30 Montanari places the appearance of pasta as a main dish during the meat supply crisis of Naples in the 17th century. Montanari, Food is Culture, 101. 31 Ser. nova 2644, fol. 45v. 32 Ibid. 33 Montanari, Food is Culture, 52. 34 Ibid., 65. 35 Nouv. Acq. Lat. 1673, fol. 67r. 36 Montanari, Food is Culture, 123í124. 37 Nouv. Acq. Lat. 1673, fol. 78r. 38 Ser. nova 2644, fol. 82v. 39 Ser. nova 2644, fol. 83v. 20

CHAPTER THREE THE SOUND SPACE: THOUGHT, MUSIC AND LITURGY LAURA DE CASTELLET

Does broadening our understanding affect the evolution of the space where such a knowledge is conceived? Does the space where knowledge develops have an impact on it? Is there an actual space related to the cognoscitive metamorphosis? The space of knowledge this article aims to put forward is a physical and tangible space, a specific three-dimensional location developed for knowledge, where knowledge is transformed: the sound space. This is the story of how thought and emotions—and thus, integral knowledge—are conveyed within a space crafted as a language of sound and how that space, in an ongoing evolution, delivers the language of sound now reworded as knowledge.

Theology and Musical Expression From the beginning of the creation of the ideological, philosophical and moral corpus of Christianity, music was difficult to fit in. Although the Christian liturgy of the Mass and the Divine Offices was developed around synagogal chant, 1 musical expression, and particularly so, instrumental music, was in general condemned as a sensorial and corporeal manifestation. During the long medieval centuries, the figure of the jongleur was ruthlessly rebuked by the Church: the image of the jongleur appears in every iconographic programme related to sin and moral vices, the jongleur does not have a place in the Church nor in Paradise, he belongs to the pariahs of society, and as such, he is likened to gambling and prostitution. 2 Ramon Llull states it in the following manner: “Los joglars veem, Sènyer, que de nit van sonant los estruments per les places e per les carreres, per tal que moven lo coratge de les fembres a puteria e

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que facen falsia e traïció a lurs marits”3 and an anonymous author from the 13th century claims: “Quaedam officia sunt quae ex toto peccata sunt, ut meretricum et histrionum”.4 The jongleur, a musician esteemed by people but also an acrobat, an actor and a charlatan, a juggler, and a storyteller, who tells both true and fictional stories, is identified with the Late Antiquity histrion, with travelling street spectacles and moral baseness.5 The use of musical instruments made by the impious hand of man is not, according to Christian morality, music. In the medieval treatises on music theory, of Platonic descent,6 the hierarchy of sound starts with the inaudible sound of celestial motions, the so-called musica mundana or music of the spheres; second, the musica humana, as a humble approach of the flesh to divinity, that is, chant; the musica instrumentalis is an object of study on the basis of Harmonia, Metrica, Rhytmica and Organica, but the music produced by objects manipulated by men does not always deserve moral approval. This is particularly the case when the jongleur produces strident sounds with tubular instruments he introduces in his mouth—which, according to Christian morality, is an image filled with phallic allusions—or strikes and strokes animal skins in the streets and during festivals: Catholic aretology harbours the deepest animosity against percussion and wind instruments. However, when it comes to the musical expression of the spiritual chant, such contempt for popular music, or music per se, implodes. Saint Augustine himself, who had started to compose his De Musica on the basis of philosophical parameters—understanding music as numerical perfection—came into contact with the musical experience upon listening to Ambrosian chants, which led him to ponder this profound inner contradiction: how was it possible that music evoked emotions so vivid— even tears—that they enabled us to grasp the divine greatness?7 How did I weep, in Thy Hymns and Canticles, touched to the quick by the voices of Thy sweet-attuned Church! The voices flowed into mine ears, and the Truth distilled into my heart, whence the affections of my devotion overflowed, and tears ran down, and happy was I therein.8

The answer offered by the sphere of scientific and theological knowledge was based on a mathematical interpretation. Despite his emotional attachment to liturgical chant, even Augustine came to the conclusion that music was composed of order, intervallic relationships, inner rhythm and numerology, which, in turn, belonged to a corpus of cosmological nature that could only come from God, and whose understanding, therefore, approached us to God.9

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37

Music is mathematical, mathematics are the cosmos, the cosmos is both God and a divine creation. Therefore, all the music created and conceived within the parameters of study of celestial harmony, that is, related to the movement of numbers, can be listened to, interpreted, or used as a language of divine communication, because it is intrinsic to the Divinity. Hence the inclusion of the study of music within the four speculative arts of the Quadrivium (together with geometry, mathematics and astronomy),10 and the distinction between enjoyment and reason.

The Inner Space Once the intellectual effort to justify the enjoyment of sound was put forth, the Christian Church started to develop musical traditions related to liturgy (Psalms, the ordinary of the Mass, biblical chants, antiphons, Responsoria…) and produced, specifically, hymns of praise and glory. Such corpus was unified during the papacy of Gregory the Great.11 The only transmission element was the human voice, that is, chant: on the one hand, due to the obvious fact that chant makes it possible to accompany a text with a melody––a text which, in itself, is the Verb and the Word of God, and therefore the object that needs to be conveyed; on the other, since the human being was created in the image and likeness of God, the human voice is the language most closely related to angels and, therefore, the most propitious for the communication with God. The human voice is the pure expression of the soul, and the emotional and spiritual being. Later on, in the 12th century, the theologian and composer Hildegard of Bingen connected human voice and chant with the language of the communication with angels, and even with God, after the Fall of Adam, thus justifying musical expression within prayer in her own context. She also recalled that the Psalms had inspired ancient prophets to speak with God through music: Angels are called spirits from that Spirit which is God, and thus they have such voices by virtue of their spiritual nature . . . The holy prophets get beyond the music of this exile and recall to mind that divine melody of praise which Adam, in company with the angels, enjoyed in God before his fall . . . The body is the vestment of the spirit, which has a living voice, and so it is proper of the body, in harmony of the soul, to use its voice to sing praises to God . . . Therefore those who, without just cause, impose silence on a church and prohibit the singing of God’s praises and those who have on earth unjustly despoiled God of His honor and glory will lose their place among the chorus of angels, unless they have amended their lives through true penitence and humble restitution.12

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However, the study of music in the Quadrivium brought about the use of several learning instruments, especially in order to teach intervals—the numerical relationship between different tones and, in the end, the mathematics of music. Throughout the Early Middle Ages, the monochord, the organistrum, and the carillon developed within monasteries and centres of study. 13 These musical instruments belong to a philosophical and academic context, used to perfect the intellect given by God to men through the language of the Divinity, not to embellish chant. An organistrum, monochord or carillon “concert” would have been unthinkable. The monochord (fig. 1) is composed of a simple soundboard, with a vibrating string stretched between two bridges that transmit the sound to the board. A third movable bridge can be manipulated to establish arithmetical relationships that, depending on the length of the vibrating string, translate into musical intervals. The connection of music with the other speculative subjects of the Quadrivium is thus evident. The student, through his own experience and perception of the changes in the sound, establishes the equations. Medieval musical treatises comment on the use of the monochord and its construction and include descriptions and images.14 It is for that reason that the monochord also appears in sculptural scenes related to musical speculation and teaching, such as the capitals of Cluny, and the representations of the De Musica in the porticoes of Chartres and Vézelay. The organistrum (fig. 2) is an evolution of the monochord, since the simplicity and limited range of sounds of the latter did not allow for its use accompanying chant, for instance, during a music lesson. First, the organistrum enables the constant emission of sound. The vibrating string is not plucked with the finger in order to play a single note but continuously rubbed by a crank-turned wheel of polished wood. While the crank turns, the sound is constant, and can set a base pitch and rub two chords at the same time, thus establishing a basic interval. Above this sound, a third chord allows for variations of the musical pitch of the melody thanks to several keys, which, pulled by a second individual manipulating the instrument, alter the vibrating length of the chord. As if these keys acted like the movable bridge of the monochord, they enable the generation of a great variety of intervals of space and sound, and speculate melodically on the basis of different sound modes.15 These characteristics turn the organistrum into a very complete instrument for the study and accompaniment of chant in the speculative sphere. The student would be able to experiment with the different sounds related to the base pitch by moving the keys—similar to our current piano keys—translate them into chant, and get acquainted with the numerical

The Sound Space: Thought, Music and Liturgy

39

mobility of sound. That would enable him to deal with both the mathematics and the melodic improvisation of liturgical chant. This probably complemented or even facilitated melodic development, the process of elaboration of tropes and ornamental variants, and the birth of the organum parallelum.16 At any rate, the organistrum was not conceived as a relative or a surrogate of the organ for the embellishment of sound within the temple. For instance, the presence of an organistrum amidst the twenty-four elders of the Apocalypse of the Gate of Glory of the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela (Galicia), and at the collegiate church of Toro (Zamora), does not mean that such instrument leads any kind of concert, but that it symbolically represents the study of the language of sound, mathematical speculation and cosmological order, and the approach to the divine essence.17 The elders are not making music, but rather preparing themselves—some of them are tuning their instruments—both intellectually and spiritually, to face the advent of a new order of things. The third sound artefact devised for the study of music in the Quadrivium is a row of small tuned bells, conveniently hung from a wooden structure and struck by several small metallic hammers (fig. 3). Like the monochord and the organistrum, it has its place in the iconography of musical teaching and harmonic speculation (fig. 4), and it is one of the instruments usually depicted in the hands of King David, the biblical archetype of divine inspiration in musical language. These rows of small bells were also used in the monastic space due to the fact that their sound was invariable, in contrast with strings, whose sound changes. That is why they were used as a basis in order to tune the bells of the monastery, or were usually part of the movable set of the organ, together with the keyboard and the wind funnels.18 These three instruments had different material costs: whereas the construction of a monochord was within the reach of a student, the organistrum required a piece of expensive wood and an artisan expert in the construction of instruments of rubbed strings—together with an expert in intervals—and the bells had to be cast by a more or less specialized master, and were made of a material as costly as bronze. The possibilities of each monastery––its wealth, the studies taught, the abilities of the teachers, and the eventual availability of these instruments––conditioned the choice of instrument for the study of the Quadrivium.19

The Public Space This understanding of music as the access to supreme harmony, has its own space of expression in the temple, within the church. In Antiquity,

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cultured music was performed at an open space, in a natural surrounding that, nonetheless, had a sublime acoustic quality: the theatre.20 Who has not experienced the pristine quality of sound in Delphi, Ephesus or Epidaurus? In the Middle Ages, popular music, despised by religious circles, was performed in the streets, the squares, the fields, the workshops of artisans, and even in courts and palaces. Worldly life is noisy: work, crowds, the farming environment, the city. The monastic enclosure was the only space of silence. Silence was the sound space characteristic of the monastery, of prayer and study: with all its premises facing the inner closure, and usually surrounded by the walls, outside which earthly work goes on, the monastery establishes silence as one of its basic and typical manifestations; only the toll of the bells and liturgical chant, during the monastic hours, are regularly observed as a language of communication with God.21 The temple is the only space where sound, specifically musical knowledge, manifests freely and magnificently. The cosmological order of mathematical intervals is also expressed emotionally at a controlled tempo, at a precise moment, with the rhythm characteristic of the dialogue with God. Music is the main conveyor of the Divine Word, the Verb. Liturgy becomes sound, progressively, and eminently. The first architectural type of church where the understanding of sound is evident is the timber-roofed basilical building, of Roman origin.22 In this space the sound is sharp, there is almost no echo (fig. 5a). It is a space conceived in order to transmit words, which have to be understood clearly and exactly. The text is neatly conveyed through its oral expression; a single, perfectly audible, melodic line can accompany it as a sort of spiritual language. Incidentally—for its purpose was not enhancing sound transmission— Romanesque architecture progressively adapted the church space to the acoustics characteristic of a cave. 23 The transition from timber roofs to stone vaults—an architectural technique already known—responded to a completely functional issue: the need to minimize the effect of fires. Whether by accident or, especially, due to wars, churches burnt, and the barrel and the horseshoe vault, both of them made of stone, prevented it, but their acoustic consequence was reverberation: they did produce an echo (fig. 5b). In this context, words did not get through clearly, which, on the other hand, did not pose a huge problem, for the declaimed text was either well-known to everyone or in Latin, and therefore not understood by people who were already Romance language speakers. 24 However, the sound surrounded it and produced a new effect, leaving a deep impression on the listener.

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41

Audibility and acoustics became more complex and nuanced when buildings evolved into developing modular spaces (fig. 5c). The multiplicity of naves, apses, vaults, superior corridors, and domes made sound bounce off in multiple directions before reaching the listener.25 One of the most evident sound effects is the duplicity of sound: while a note is emitted, its previous interval resounds and bounces back. Thus the space creates an overlapping sound response (fig. 6). The first experiments of polyphonic creation—which date back to the 9th century—that is, the evolutions on the basis of the organum, are the almost incidental result of the different tessituras of the chanters of the choir: the voices of adult clerics and those of the children who studied in the monastery.26 The vox principalis established a basic melody, while the vox organalis provided a second melody, which was the transposition of the former by a perfect fifth, above or below it. But reverberation disrupted the basic melodic line and inspired, in the 11th and 12th centuries, the counter-melody of the discantus.27 Melodies started to combine: while the embellishment—the tropus—of a melodic line lifted, another one fell, creating a new effect emphasized by the echo within the building. It is not surprising, then, that polyphony was born in the complex acoustic environment of the 12th-century building of Notre Dame, in Paris, as an application of the overlapping sound response of the melodic line.28 Therefore, the knowledge of sound, the language of communication with God, developed within a tangible space, and the transformation of such physical space, in turn, reframed the understanding of sound itself.

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Fig. 1 Guido of Arezzo shows bishop Theobald the shift of the string plucked with a feather; the notes are written on the soundboard. Micrologus, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Wien, Cpv 51, fol. 35v. © Laura de Castellet 2014.

Fig. 2 Organistrum in the Apocalypse of the cathedral of Santiago of Compostela and inner detail of its reconstruction by Christian Rault (“La reconstitution de l’organistrum”, 387 and 397). © Laura de Castellet 2014.

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Fig. 3 Musical learning; capital of Saint Georges de Boscherville (Normandy). © Laura de Castellet 2014.

Fig. 4 De Musica in the portico of Chartres. Instruments: monochord, psaltery, row of bells and eight-shaped fiddle. © Laura de Castellet 2012.

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Fig. 5 Schematic acoustic response within a basilical church (a), simple barrel vault (b) three-nave churches with different shapes (c). © Laura de Castellet 2012.

Fig. 6 Schematic acoustic response within a Romanesque church with several naves, apses and tholobate with dome. © Laura de Castellet 2012.

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Notes  1

See an introduction to this matter in Hoppin, Medieval Music, chap. II, and Dieu, La Musique dans la sculpture romane en France, vol. 1, chap. I. 2 Especially, Faral, L’Église contre les jongleurs, 24í43; Dieu, La Musique dans la sculpture romane en France, vol. 1, chap. III and Baldwin “The Image of the Jongleur”. 3 Ramon Llull, Llibre de Contemplació en Déu, chap. 118. 4 De Poenitentia, ms. lat. 16419, fol. 71. 5 Faral, Les jongleurs en France au Moyen Age, 1í24 and Baldwin, “The Image of the Jongleur in Northern France Around 1200”, 639. 6 Medieval music theory draws on Boethius’s De institutione Musica (see bib., original sources). Introductions to this topic can be found in Hoppin,Medieval Music, 36í37 and 204í213, Brassy and Dieu, Instruments et musiques du Moyen Âge, 81 and Fritz, Paysages sonores du Moyen Age, chap. III. 7 Saint Augustine (354í430) is almost a contemporary of Saint Ambrose of Milan (337í397), who established the so-called Officium Ambrosianum, for which he wrote several hymns, different from the already usual psalms. Tradition claims that Augustine converted to Christianity after meeting Saint Ambrose and hearing him sing. 8 Augustine of Hippo, Confessions, IX, 6. 9 Augustine of Hippo, De Musica (Migne PL 032, 1079í1194, VI, 11, 29). 10 These subjects were generalized, at least, from the so-called Carolingian Renaissance onwards. 11 Gregory the Great (590í604) unified the Roman and Gallican rites, which would be later imposed on the old Visigothic and Celtic rites. Hoppin, Medieval Music, 45í70. On the repertoire see Monumenta Monodica Medii Aevi, a Gregorian corpus edited since 1956. 12 Hildegardis Bingensis, Epistolarium. Pars prima I-XC, XXIII. Translation: Baird and Ehrman, The letters of Hildegard of Bingen, 1:76í80. In her work on the virtues of the soul, the Ordo Virtutum, the figure of the Devil does not sing but declaim. 13 Dieu, La Musique dans la sculpture romane en France, 1:138í154; Brassy and Dieu, Instruments et musiques du Moyen Âge, 84í86 and Medina, “Instruments in medieval theorists”. 14 In Catalonia, the monk Oliba, from Ripoll, authored an interesting study of the monochord in his Breviarium de musica, of Boecian inspiration; see Moreno, “Tres notes sobre teoria musical”. 15 Rault, “La reconstitution de l’organistrum”, 383í421. 16 For a description of the organum parallelum, see Hoppin, Medieval Music, 205í214. The original texts can be found in the anonymous treatise Musica Enchiriadis and in Guido of Arezzo’s Micrologus. 17 Connoly, “Entering the Lord’s Joy”, 74.

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 18

See Castellet,“Un orgue romànic a Sant Benet de Bages?”, 7, or the English Psalter of Belvoir Castle (the image appears on the cover of all the editions of Hoppin, Medieval Music). 19 The third track of the CD attached to Brassy and Dieu, Instruments et musiques du Moyen Âge, and the DVD of the same collection show different vocalic exercises on the hymn to Saint John Ut quaeant laxis accompanied with an organistrum and a row of bells, just as it would sound in a music classroom in a medieval monastery. 20 Bélis, Les musiciens dans l’Antiquité, 123í155 and Pickard-Cambridge, The Dramatic Festivals of Athens, chap. VI. 21 Fritz, Paysages sonores du Moyen Age, chap. III and Zumthor, La lettre et la voix, 287í288. 22 Despite the changes its elevation has undergone, the Early Christian basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, in Rome, still preserves this type of structure, which has also survived in the timber-roofed churches of the Pyrenean valleys of Boí and Aran. 23 Forsyth, Buildings for music, 3. 24 Navarro and Sendra, “La acústica de las iglesias medievales”, 333. 25 Ibid., 330. 26 Described in the treatises De Harmonica Institutione by Regino of Prüm and Hucbald of Saint-Amand.Hoppin, Medieval Music, 204í209. 27 Hoppin, Medieval Music, 218í219. 28 On the polyphonic school of Paris and its representatives Léonin and Perotin, see Hoppin, Medieval Music, chap. IX-X; on musical production, see Reaney, “Manuscripts of Polyphonic Music”.

PART II: OPINION AND LANGUAGE

CHAPTER FOUR THE VISION OF THE OTHER AS A DOORWAY TO KNOWLEDGE: THE CRUSADER HUGUES OF CAESAREA AT THE COURT OF THE FATIMID CALIPH AL-‘ƖঋID (1167) LAIA SALLÉS VILASECA

Objectives: The Source and its Perception of Islam William II, archbishop of Tyre (ca. 1130íca. 1185), wrote a chronicle of the Crusades1 that began with the call to Crusade issued by Pope Urban II (1095) and finished just before William’s own demise, thus providing an account of the whole Crusader experience up to the eve of the battle of Hattin (1187), which opened the doors of Jerusalem to Saladin. As many other sources of various genres and content that were composed during the Middle Ages, our source of study discusses Islam as an “otherness”: its contact with the West brought about a “border” between two emerging identities, a border understood as a space of transition and encounter, which is always interesting due to the stances both parties adopted.2 R. W. Southern, in his synthetic discourse on the Western conception of Islam, presents it as the most problematic otherness;3 an otherness that constitutes a source of danger and inflicts a physical and psychological wound on both Eastern and Western Christendom. Therefore, it is also the otherness whose understanding turns out to be more necessary and urgent. The archetypal perception of Islam crystallized into a set of topics already in the first centuries of contacts with Christianity.4 These topics show ignorance and an intrinsic difficulty in understanding the other— while they incite and justify violence. The specific moment of the Crusades coincides with the aggravation of the opposition to Muslim otherness5—more than with a positive change stimulated by the contact

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between Crusaders and Muslims, as Southern would have put it; an ideological opposition easily understood in the framework of an armed conflict. In fact, if the chansons de geste and the chronicles of the First Crusade are studied in depth,6 it becomes evident that, especially this First Crusade, entailed the crystallization of the most brutal and distorted image of Muslims: the accusations of paganism, idolatry, monstrosity, heresy and any other kind of cruelty are characteristic of this period. However, the gaze upon the other can also be receptive to a new understanding: an observation beyond previously established categories and the schema of the already known. An understanding, which, impossible to apprehend from the standpoint of one’s own identity, becomes a source of a diverse and meaningful comprehension of reality. The focus of our contribution lies precisely beyond the usual perception of Islam in the Middle Ages, and, more specifically in the Crusader period. Our goal is twofold: first, to remark the existence of a double approach to Islam—the unreal, distorted and archetypally negative image and, as opposed to it, the specific rational knowledge of Islamic reality—which appears not only at the same time but also within the same work written by a single author, although this is a debated issue in current historiograpy;7 second, to examine the actual possibility of acquiring specific knowledge through otherness. To do so, we will refer to a largely unexplored episode of the chronicle of William of Tyre, which was included in the Recueil des historiens des croisades and is currently called Chronicon or Historia Ierosolymitana. One of the reasons for our interest in this source is explained by the archbishop himself, at the beginning of Book XVI: Que de praesenti hactenus contexuimus Historia aliorum tantum, quibus prisci temporis plenior adhuc famulabatur memoria, collegimus relatione, unde cum maiore difficultate, quasi aliena mendicantes suffragia, et rei veritatem et gestorum seriem et annorum numerum sumus assequuti, licet fideli, quantum potuimus, hec eadem recitatione scripto mandavimus. Que autem sequuntur deinceps partim nos ipsi fide conspeximus oculata, partim eorum, qui rebus gestis presentes interfuerunt, fida nobis patuit relatione. (WT XVI, I)8

The significance of this statement lies in how it reflects the “realistic” nature—to some extent “empirical”, stemming from one’s own experience—of the testimony we will analyse. On the one hand, the approach of William of Tyre to Islam and Muslims—which takes up most of our source of interest, a thousand pages in the modern edition— corresponds to a very solid, structured and complex archetype, a projected image which is not monolithic, and clearly pervades the text of his

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chronicle. His censure of Islam is fierce, based on racial, cultural and theological arguments, and his characterization of Muslims often develops into dehumanization. However, he is also able to present a positive view: the archbishop William even vindicates some Muslim figures, great leaders who conform to the ideal of the Crusader moral canon: for instance, ShƯrknjh, Nnjr ad-DƯn or Saladin. 9 However, those were again archetypal images, unrelated to actual knowledge, which is our goal in this contribution. Besides this general and prevalent approach, the source also presents another much more accurate and rational treatment of Muslim reality, one that cannot be perceived in its key episodes.

The Contact with Islam, a Source of Knowledge: The Episode In 1167, King Amaury I of Jerusalem, the father of the unfortunate Baldwin IV, the Leper, decided to forge an alliance with the Fatimid Caliphate of Cairo against a common foe: the Kurdish ShƯrknjh, a military chief at the service of Nnjr ad-DƯn, the Atabeg of Aleppo and Mosul, in the Seleucid Empire. The proposal came from ShƗwar, the vizier (soldanus, as William calls him) of the Fatimid Caliphate in a moment when the Fatimid dynasty was especially fragile: the caliph at that time was al-‘Ɩঌid, a boy who had succeeded his brother, al-FƗ’iz, a child caliph himself. Therefore, the episode takes places on the eve of the end of the dynasty that ‘Abd AllƗh al-MahdƯ bi-LlƗh had initiated in 909, and shortly before the beginning of the Ayyubid sultanate in 1171. Sultan ShƗwar, concerned about the strength of the troops of ShƯrknjh, offers the king of Jerusalem a large sum of gold; however, the agreement (from which it has already been said that it was established “inter dominum regem et calipham”: WT XIX, 17) would only enter into force when “calipha iuxta consonantiam placitam pacta firmaret: non enim sufficiens videbatur, si in eo solus soldanus se obligaret” (WT XIX, 17).10 With this purpose, a Crusader delegation, led by the young Hugh of Caesarea, was sent to Cairo, right to the heart of the Fatimid caliphal palace, in order to receive the approval of the caliph and attest to his willingness to pact. As William’s chronicle suggests (WT XIX, 18: “fida relatione eorum qui ad illum tantum principem sunt ingressi”), the Crusader leader gave an account of the events to our chronicler, who embarks on an excursus in his Chronicon in order to present a description of Cairo as the Christian army enters the territories of the Fatimid caliph, and to describe the experience of the envoys. We include brief passages of these chapters since they are quite revealing as to the knowledge William

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of Tyre had of the foundation of the Fatimid Caliphate and its first caliphs. The first passage is entitled “Describitur Cahere” in the Chronicon: Transeuntes ergo Pelusium et Cahere, ubi regni solium et totius Egypti culmen magnificis decoratum edificiis monstratur, ad levam habentes nobilem et egregiam metropolim que vulgo Babilonia dicitur, lingua vero Arabica Macer appellatur, super ripam fluminis castra locaverunt. (WT XIX, 15)11

An account of the origins of this city follows: sicut de Cahere constat, quod Iohar, princepsmilitie Meezedinalla, qui tunc in Affrica regnabat, postquam domino suo Egyptiacam omnem diocesim acquisivit fundasse dinoscitur, quod qualiter acciderit, in sequentibus dicemus . . . [Iohar] Cahere construxit quasi domino suo precipuum futurum et familiare domicilium, anno a regno Mehemeth CCCºLVIIIº; quem Mehezedinalla tertio postea anno, relicta Caroea, ubi regni sui sedes per annos aliquot fuerat, secutus, iuxta principis sui dispositionem predictum locum regni solium constituit et domestica inhabitatione reddidit gloriosum, anno a regno Mehemeth CCCºLXºIº, regni vero sui XXº. (WT XIX, 15)12

In another section of the chronicle (WT XIX, 21) William of Tyre speaks about the foundation of the Fatimid Caliphate by ‘Abd AllƗh alMahdƯ bi-LlƗh, mentioning his filiation as a descendant of ‘AlƯ, the establishment in al-Mahdiyya, and the military expansion undertaken by Jawhar. A previous work by the archbishop William, the Gesta orientalium principum, now disappeared, dealt with the history of Islam up to the 12th century in much more detail. Unfortunately, its content cannot be identified through other works influenced by it—such as the works by Jacques de Vitry, Matthew of Paris and William of Tripoli13— due to the variety of genres they present. Nevertheless, its confirmed existence reveals the knowledge available to William of Tyre. We are especially interested in remarking not only the veracity and chronological precision of the narrated events, but also the data which allow us to assert that William of Tyre knew the origin, filiation and main figures of the Fatimid Caliphate. However, beyond the sources on which William could have drawn, the crucial point is that these passages provide significant data on his understanding of Arabic, which can be inferred through the observation of the oscillation of Arabic anthroponymy throughout the Chronicon. Arabic anthroponymy and toponymy are not fixed but rather vary, evolve, from the formula adopted by the chroniclers of the First Crusade 14 to another kind of transcription, much more phonetically

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53

suitable, in the late sections of the Chronicon, based either on his own experience or on (presumably Arabic) sources so far unknown. Therefore, there is an understanding of the other, which can be expressed through minor details, such as the phonetic appreciation of his language, or through the evident ability to recount his history.

The Fatimid Caliphate Seen through Western Eyes Besides this “knowledge of otherness”, is it possible to create “knowledge from otherness”? Let us address this question using the Chronicon, following William’s account of the arrival at the palace of Cairo, where the archbishop makes a remark which reveals his ability to analyse the historical moment: Et quoniam singularem et seculis nostris incognitam habet illa principis domus consuetudinem, libet diligenter adnotare que fida relatione eorum, qui ad illum tantum principem sunt ingressi, de statu et magnificentia et immensitate divitiarum et glorie multiplicitate comperimus: non enim erit minimum profecisse, hec intellexisse diligentius. (WT XIX, 17)15

In that sense, the assessment William makes of the worth of his own work as a conveyor and preserver of information deserves to be noted. Thus, he mentions the corridors, the courtyards, the guard posts, the multitude of servants and their multiple origins, and, especially, the garden of the palace, its courses of water, and the animals living there. The similarities between the first testimony, by the Persian NƗৢir Khusraw, describing the caliphal palace in mid-11th century, and the last one, provided by Hugh of Caesarea and compiled by William of Tyre, four years before the fall of the caliphate, are significant16: in the Chronicon we find the confirmation of an heterogeneous complex, a lattice of courtyards, buildings (qu‫܈‬njr) and belvederes (manƗܲir) frequently connected through dark alleys, with doors arranged successively due to security reasons. One building stands out among the others because of its preeminence: “ipsam regiam”, the true royal palace, where the Crusader delegation was received, providing a realistic description, uncommon in the accounts of medieval Islamic-Christian embassies, which usually move between hagiography and legend in order to remark the superiority of their own faith. Let us see the entrance in the caliphal premises, in a sort of loose translation that nevertheless aims to follow the rhythm of William’s Latin: Ingressis porro eis et in interiorem partem palatii admissis, soldanus de more consuetam domino exhibens reverentiam semel et secundo humi

54

Chapter Four prostratus quasi numini debitum cultum et quoddam adorationis genus supplex cepit impendere; tertio iterum prostratus ad terram, gladium, quem de collo gestabat suspensum, deposuit,et ecce subito contractis mira velocitate velariis, margaritarum varietate auroque contextis, que media dependebant et obumbrabant solium, revelata facie, throno sedens aureo, habitu plusquam regio, paucis circa eum de domesticis et familiaribus eunuchis, apparuit calipha. (WT XIX, 19)17

The first thing that stands out is the subtlety with which William of Tyre opts for suspense and drama as a resource to convey to his readers the profound impression that finally arriving to the presence of the Fatimid caliph, whose power and solemnity are reflected by an almost supernatural appearance, caused on the Christian delegation. On the one hand, it is true that the Christian source cannot be compared in detail to most of the Arabic sources dealing with topics related to Fatimid ceremonial in the palace; for instance, see the studies by M. Canard (1951) or S. Stern (1950) in mid-20th century, and more recently, those by P. Sanders (1994) and J. Bloom (2007), based mainly on Mamluk sources. On the other hand, it is also true that the ceremonial was understood as a language used by all Islamic dynasties together with the mention of the caliph during the khu‫ܒ‬ba, the inscription of his name in coins and the titles he was awarded in order to assert his political and religious authority.18 The aim of this ceremonial was to evince the quality of the caliph as such. The Fatimid ritual is especially important in this regard, and even more so than the Abbasid ceremonial (from whose orientalization it stems); therefore, in this regard, it is important to pay careful attention to the sources, and also to the work of William of Tyre. The interest of the Chronicon lies not so much in the accuracy of the ceremonial performances it recounts (much more systematized in Mamluk sources) as in the new knowledge than can be inferred from it thanks to the accurate interpretation of the chronicler.

The Creation of Knowledge: The Evanescence of the Imamate at the End of the Fatimid Caliphate Formal similarities with the Abbasid and the Mamluk ceremonial cannot conceal the fact that the conception of caliphate in the Fatimid orbit, that is, the IsmƗ‫ޏ‬ƯlƯ ShƯ‘a, has a much more enhanced religious component, marked by the sacredness of the imamate. The caliph-imam possesses the ‘ilm—the knowledge—transmitted by the na‫—܈܈‬the designation—within the sphere of succession of the ahl al-Bayt—the family line of the household (of the Prophet). All in all, it confers the caliph-imam the role of privileged transmitter of the will of divine

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transcendence to physical reality. That is how the qƗ‫ڲ‬Ư al-Nu‘mƗn, in his KitƗb al-himma, places the ceremonial surrounding the Fatimid caliphimam within the context of religious devotion (‘ibƗda), to the extent that the imam becomes the way by which God is worshipped, and thus the imam ends up becoming a manifestation of the power and the will of God. This is made explicit in the fourth sura of the Qur‘an, an-Nisa’, The Women (Q 4:59), abundantly cited in IsmƗ‫ޏ‬ƯlƯ prescriptions about the caliph.19According to IsmƗ‫ޏ‬ƯlƯ ShƯ‘ism, the caliph, the imam, is the Face of God, and contains the Light and the Spirit of God. The Mamluk interest in the ceremonial developed in Egypt before their time, which, as I have already said, became the main source for scholars analysing the Fatimid reality of Cairo, is subjected to a rather different interpretation of authority, and to a varying political reality; therefore, these Arabic sources present a decontextualized version of Fatimid ritual. In contrast, the crusader Hugh of Caesarea, (or William of Tyre in his later elaboration of Hugh’s narration), in his account of the use of a veil (velum or sitr) before the imam and the prostration of vizier ShƗwar—as al-Nu‘mƗn indicates, the posture in front of the imam must be the same as in prayer, that is, once the essence of prostration (sujnjd) is reached, kissing the ground is the most appropriate stance— 20 equates the salute of the vizier to al-‘Ɩঌid with what it actually is, an act of worship due only to God, performed in front of him who is His transcendent manifestation. Thus, through his interpretation, he answers a question that has no place in Arabic sources, and whose answer they do not provide. And it is at this precise moment that, in light of the subsequent events, historical anecdote acquires the strength of a precept: Petentibus igitur nostris ut hoc propria manu firmaret, sicut dominus rex fecerat, prima facie visi sunt qui ei familiarius astabant auriculares et cubicularii, penes quos consiliorum regiorum erat auctoritas, rem nimis tanquam a seculis inauditam abhorrere, tandem vero, post multam deliberationem et soldani diligentem instantiam, manum porrigit invitus nimium, sed velatam. Cui predictus Hugo de Cesarea, multum admirantibus et stupentibus Egyptiis quod tam libere summo principi loqueretur, dixit: “Domine, fides angulos non habet, sed in fide media, per quam se obligare solent principes, omnia debent esse nuda et aperta cum sinceritate et colligari et solvi convenit universa, que fidei interpositione pactis quibuslibet inseruntur: propterea aut nudam dabis, aut fictum aliquid et minus puritatis habens ex parte tua cogemur opinari”. Tunc demum invitus plurimum et quasi maiestati detrahens, subridens tamen, quod multum egre tulerunt Egyptii dexteram suam in manum domini Hugonis nudam prebuit, eundem Hugonem, pactorum formam determinantem,

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Chapter Four eisdem pene sillabis sequens, tenorem conventorum bona fide, sine fraude et malo ingenio se observaturum contestans. (WT XIX, 19)21

Within this ritual framework, the slightest deviation from protocol is unthinkable: the seated posture and even the movement of one’s hands in front of the caliph-imam is perfectly regulated, and the veil is used so that the caliph-imam is not seen but for the perfection of his majesty sitting on the throne. In fact, ignorance of the ritual and its final purpose is no excuse, and its violation cannot be left unpunished.22 On the contrary, in that case, the violation is even greater. The sacredness imprinted by the imam in everything that belongs to him, everything he touches, which becomes sharƯf,23 or everything he looks at, makes it necessary both to regulate even the moments when he is observed through curtains and veils, and to prevent any physical contact by the interposition of clothes.24 The sacredness of the imam as a “friend of God”—“he who holds the Spirit of God within”—has a clear physical dimension that goes well beyond its hierarchical or political authority: his body must remain always invisible and immovable, and the responsibility of the expression of his physical entity and gestures is borne, as the ceremonial processions evince, by the eunuchs surrounding him.25 Veil, occultation and non-corporeality belong to a process of evanescence of the imam parallel to his sacredness and perennial presence.26 The action of Hugh of Caesarea asking to shake hands with the caliphimam and insisting on his hand being naked, appears as a sacrilege in the framework of the IsmƗ‫ޏ‬ƯlƯ faith, as William of Tyre wisely interprets: the “royal” majesty of the caliph is not in question, but his sacredness as the Fatimid imam, as the legitimate depository of the ‘ilm, is. This incident goes well beyond the impurity ShƯ‘a Islam associates with the unfaithful, which would make ritually impure any ShƯ‘ite who touched a Christian. This violation of protocol, which is not formulary, but reaches the roots of the IsmƗ‫ޏ‬ƯlƯ faith, would be unthinkable if the Fatimid caliph preserved sufficient factual power, which, in light of this episode, he obviously did not: the excessive ritualization of the environment of the imam appears as a formula void of content. In this context, it is the vizier ShƗwar who insists (“soldani diligentem instantiam”), so that the Fatimid imam overlooks the ritual that preserves his own sacredness; thus, the fragility of the Fatimid power structure is obvious, especially in the framework of the last child caliphs—as the historiography of the period has already shown—and evinces the dependency of the caliph on his own court. 27 Moreover, in the Chronicon, ShƗwar is not described as wazƯr, and lucidly so, but as sul‫ܒ‬Ɨn, a title that shows his exclusive hold on power, which

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evinces the precariousness of the mulk, the kingdom, in an evanescent power,28 totally unrelated to society and sustained by a precise regulation. To conclude, we believe that this knowledge generated from otherness during the visit of the Crusader Hugh of Caesarea to the Fatimid palace of Cairo, allows us to gain a deeper understanding of the object of study, not so much of its formulas but of its meaning. The perception of Hugh of Caesarea is not related to the ceremonial regulation that appears in Arabic sources, but it is capable of noticing the evanescence, the inviolability and adoration owed to the caliph-imam as the Face of God; all the regulations compiled later by Mamluk sources in a rather different context stem precisely from these factors. Through Hugh, the gaze of William of Tyre goes straight to the root of knowledge, involuntarily answering the question through the meaning of the events unfolding before him, and conveying the final sense of the figure of the caliph-imam in the context of IsmƗ‫ޏ‬ƯlƯ ShƯ‘a, a faith into which we must delve in order to understand the significance of the Fatimid ceremonial framework. By closely considering the account of William of Tyre, expressed in Latin terms—quite distinct from the Arabic and Muslim concepts he intends to convey—we may recognize the transcendent meaning of the events he compiles, which the chronicler was able to fathom.

Notes 

1 Willelmi Tyrensis Archiepiscopi Chronicon (Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalis, 63-63A). Hereinafter, the references to this source will be abbreviated as WT, the number of the book given in Roman numerals followed by the number of the chapter in Arabic numerals. 2 The concept of border is especially developed in the works of Thomas F. Glick, for example Glick, From Muslim Fortress to Christian Castle. On this matter, see the miscellany Rodríguez de la Peña, Hacedores de frontera and Ray, La frontera sefardí. 3 Southern,Western views of Islam in the Middle Ages, 3. 4 Meredith Jones, “The Conventional Saracen of the Songs of Geste” andFlori,“La caricature de l’Islam dans l’occident medieval.” 5 Vauchez, “I cristiani d’Occidente”, 11. 6 Loutchitskaja, “L’image des musulmans.” 7 Cf. Thomson, “William and Some Other Western Writers”, 176í177. 8 “The events which have been recorded in the present history up to this time have been assembled from the accounts of others who still preserve a faithful recollection of earlier times. It is, therefore, with much difficulty that we have obtained reliable material and the correct chronology and succession of events. As far as possible, however, we have given a faithful account of these events as received from the narratives themselves. The things which now follow we

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 ourselves have, in part, witnessed with our own eyes and, in part, learned from the trustworthy relation of those who were present when the events occurred”. William of Tyre, History of Deeds, 2:136 9 Cf. Jubb “Saladin vu par Guillaume de Tyr et par l’Eracles” and Richard “Les transformations de l’image de Saladin.” 10 “[Amaury I] sent Hugh of Caesarea, a young man of admirable wisdom and discretion far beyond his years, with several others to obtain the caliph’s ratification of the covenant by the hand of Hugh, according to the stipulations agreed upon; for the sultan’s guarantee alone in this matter seemed insufficient”. William of Tyre, History of Deeds, 2:319. 11 “The Christians proceeded on their way past the cities of Balbis and Cairo, of which the latter, with its magnificent buildings, was displayed as the seat of royal power and the supreme glory of Egypt. With the noble and famous city commonly called Babylon [Babilyun], but known in the Arabic tongue as Macer, on the left, they established the camp on the bank of the Nile.”William of Tyre, History of Deeds, 2:315. 12 “As to Cairo, this city is known to have been founded by Johar [Jawhar], commander in chief of the forces of Mehezedinalla [Mu‘izz]. This ruler was at that time reigning in Africa after Jawhar had won for him all the land of Egypt. How this happened will be related farther on . . . Jawhar established this city . . . and it became the principal and favorite residence of his master. Three years later, Mu‘izz left Kairawan, which had been the seat of his kingdom for some years, and, according to the intentions of the prince, made this place glorious as the capital of his kingdom and his own residence. This occurred in the year 361 of the Muslim calendar and the twentieth of Mu‘izz’s own rule”. William of Tyre, History of Deeds, 2:316í317. 13 Di Cesare, The Pseudo-Historical Image of the Prophet Mu‫ۊ‬ammad, 171. 14 Attiya, “Knowledge of Arabic in the Crusader States”, 205. 15 “Since the palace of that monarch is unique and after a fashion quite unfamiliar to our world, I have deemed it well to set down in detail what I have learned from the trustworthy accounts of those who visited that great prince, to describe his state and grandeur, his vast riches, and exceeding magnificence. To have an accurate understanding of all this will surely be of no slight advantage to my readers.” William of Tyre, History of Deeds, 2:319. 16 Cf. Bloom, “Ceremonial and Sacred Space”, 107, 110. 17 “They approached and were admitted to the inner part of the palace. Here the sultan showed the usual reverence to his lord, according to custom; twice he prostrated himself on the ground and humbly offered as to a divinity due worship and a kind of abject adoration. Then for a third time bowing to the ground, he laid down the sword which he wore suspended from his neck. Thereupon the curtains embroidered with pearls and gold, which hung down and hid the throne, were drawn aside with marvelous rapidity; and, with his face unveiled, seated on a throne of gold, presenting an appearance more than regal, surrounded by some of his privy counselors and eunuchs, the caliph was revealed”. Cf. William of Tyre, History of Deeds, 2:320. Text adapted by the author.

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 18

Sanders, Ritual, Politics and the City in Fatimid Cairo, 14í15. Ibid., 142 n. 23. 20 Ibid., n. 25. 21 “The Christians then requested that he confirm this statement with his own hand as the king had done. At first, the courtiers who surrounded him, as well as his counselors and gentlemen of the chamber, on whom rested the responsibility of the royal plans, were shocked at the suggestion, as a thing utterly beyond comprehension. Finally, however, after long deliberation, at the persistent urging of the sultan, he very reluctantly extended his hand covered. Then, to the consternation of the Egyptians, who were amazed that anyone should talk so freely to their supreme lord, Hugh of Caesarea said to him: ‘Sire, good faith has nothing to conceal, but when princes bind themselves together in true loyalty everything ought to be open; and everything which is inserted in good faith in any pact should be confirmed or refused with frank sincerity. Therefore, unless you offer your hand bared we shall be obliged to think that, on your part, there is some reservation or some lack of sincerity. Finally, with extreme unwillingness, as if it detracted from his majesty, yet with a slight smile which greatly aggrieved the Egyptians, he put his uncovered hand into that of Hugh. He repeated, almost syllable by syllable, the words of Hugh as he dictated the formula of the treaty and swore that he would keep the stipulations thereof, ‘in good faith, without fraud or evil intent”. William of Tyre, History of Deeds, 2:321. 22 Cf. Sanders,Ritual, Politics and the City in Fatimid Cairo, 16í18, 34. 23 Canard, “Le cérémonial fatimide et le cérémonial byzantine”, 382. 24 Sanders,Ritual, Politics and the City in Fatimid Cairo, 29. 25 Cf. ibid. 35. 26 Barceló, “El califa patente”, 138. 27 Cf. Sanders, Ritual, Politics and the City in Fatimid Cairo, 20. 28 Cheddadi, “Le système du pouvoir en Islam”, 547. 19

CHAPTER FIVE BETWEEN REPUTATION AND LAW: (RE)THINKING CITIZENSHIP TH IN EARLY 15 -CENTURY BARCELONA CAROLINA OBRADORS-SUAZO

Introduction Tots los habitadors de la ciutat deuen ésser partits per tres mans. La mà major e principal s'apella la mà dels generosos, e aquests són apellats los honrats ciutadans e aquests . . . són egualats a cavallers en si mateix . . . La segona mà dels habitadors de la ciutat s'apella mà mitjana, e aquests no s'apellen honrats ciutadans, mas son apellats ciutadans així que no hi ajusta hom altre vocable d'honor . . . E sots aquesta mà se comprenen comunament juristes, notaris, mercaders e drapers poderosos, e tots aquells qui sens generositat notable han grans riqueses en la ciutat. Aquests no són en lo grau dels primers ne deuen ésser tenguts en lo estament d’aquells. La terça mà s'apella de menestrals, així com són argenters, ferrers, sabaters, cuiracers, e així dels altres. E aquests no són dits ciutadans axí com los mitjans: mas són dits habitadors e vehins de la ciutat.1

It is widely known that Francesc Eiximenis (1340í1409), a celebrated Franciscan thinker, understood the urban society of his time as divided into three well-defined groups (or mans). Less known, at least in our view, is his opinion on citizenship, which appears in the passage above as the keystone of urban hierarchies. From Eiximenis' words, the citizen emerges as a member of the political and/or commercial elite, a figure essentially associated with the accumulation of power and wealth. These statements, originally related to the Valencian context, contrast with some interrogations conducted by the authorities of Barcelona in 1415. During the deliberations on whether Guillem Julià, a wool cloth weaver, truly deserved the citizenship franchise of Barcelona, the councilmen (consellers) did not hesitate to grant the franchise to such a

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humble artisan because, in the words of one of the witnesses, “the aforementioned Guillem Julià has been in Barcelona for about seven years, living in poverty ever since”.2 Therefore, the reality of Barcelona’s 15th-century citizenship seems to contradict the ideal urban organization defended by Eiximenis at the end of the 14th century. An essentially power-based and elitist idea of citizenship opposes another much more open, permissive and care-based one. These two quite different references are not so much contradictory but rather reflect different analytical approaches. The purpose of this chapter is precisely to combine various perspectives that we deem fundamental for the study of this topic, including the theoretical, legal, and cultural dimension of medieval citizenship. Regarding the latter two aspects, we will focus on the city of Barcelona, specifically on the Barcelonians of the first years of the 15th century, since the numerous high-quality extant sources turn this city into an exceptional laboratory to carry out new studies on citizenship at the end of the Middle Ages.

Some Theoretical Remarks Recent scholarship has remarked the complexity intrinsic to the study of medieval citizenship. As Giovanna Albini admitted, detailed analyses remain to be conducted involving the many problems it poses at all levels: legal, economic, fiscal, political and social. 3 Along this line, Mario Ascheri recalls some of the methodological difficulties associated with a topic that can be studied from so many different analytical perspectives: despite being an institution generally aimed at establishing the urban hierarchies of medieval society, as Eiximenis already noted, citizenship was identified extra muros with a unique sentiment of belonging, which brought about important economic and jurisdictional effects. 4 These difficulties notwithstanding, several works, mainly of a legal nature, have tried to analyse the most significant features of citizenship at the end of the Middle Ages. Thus, it has been defined as an institution committed to the establishment of the civic and legal responsibilities of all the inhabitants of the city, thereby defining the sentiment of belonging, and turning the organization of urban hierarchies into a guarantee for the common good. Certainly, the idea of the common good, of the commitment of the individual to the city, became crucial in the understanding of the concept of citizenship; this concept, assuming an almost feudal dimension, was based on an oath, a pact between the city and its citizens that, as Dina Bizzarri claimed in her classic study of 1916, was performed “col braccio, colla mente e col denaro”, in order to safeguard the common interests of

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the city.5 Being a citizen definitely implied a series of privileges, but at the same time, it involved some sacrifices, since the city and its development had to become the main concern of the citizen.6 To sum up, the citizen was not born as such, but rather created within a constant dialogue between the city and its inhabitants. As Bartolo de Sassoferrato noted: “civitas sibi faciat civem” (the city made its own citizens).7 As regards the Catalan area, it should be pointed out that the classic Catalan jurists of the 14th and 15th centuries (Jaume de Montjuïc, Jaume Callís, Guillem de Vallseca and Jaume de Marquilles mostly) also developed a Catalan theory of citizenship. 8 Their considerations were based on the Cives Autem, the tenth regulation included in the Usatges de Barcelona: Ciutadans e burgesos sien entre si pledejats e esmenats així com a cavallers: mas a la potestat sien esmenats axí com a vasvessors.9 In their commentary on this text, Montjuïc, Vallseca, Callís and Marquilles were less exclusive than Eiximenis. They included within the frame of citizenship not only members of the oligarchy and merchants, but also artisans, thus showing that they were well aware of the intense process of generalization that the concept of citizenship had undergone since the composition of the Catalan feudal code.10 However, the jurists, who were in the service of the monarch, 11 had to circumscribe the notion of the citizen in order to avoid the overlapping of the jurisdictional rights of an enhanced citizenship with the privileges of knighthood (especially regarding amends and compensations in moments of conflict). In keeping with that purpose, the arguments of the jurists were centred on the necessity of understanding citizenship as an institution stratified into major citizens (members of the oligarchy), middle citizens (merchants) and lower citizens (artisans). This turned the complex category of the ciutadà honrat (honoured citizen) into a fundamental cornerstone with which to define urban hierarchies and establish the graduation of citizenship. In the jurists’ view, indeed, only these honoured and major citizens were entitled to a legal treatment similar to that of knights. These theories, expounded in the writings of Eiximenis and the Catalan jurists, are crucial in the understanding of medieval citizenship as a legal instrument of social hierarchization. However, their considerations had little impact on the experience of citizenship within the walls of the city. In spite of knowing the reality of Barcelona and being themselves citizens of this city, Catalan jurists remained faithful to the texts they were commenting on, and turned their attention to the understanding of the feudal identity of the citizen. In that sense they differ—considerably— from the task carried out by Italian jurists such as the aforementioned Bartolo de Sassoferrato(1313í1357) or his disciple Baldo degli Ubaldi

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(1327í1400), who were key figures in the intellectual history of the Middle Ages. The work of these Italian jurists, composed of juridical consultations (consilia) 12 and commentaries on legal texts and urban by-laws, sheds important light on the interconnection between the theoretical dimension and the legal practice of citizenship. A practice that materialized in rights and duties the privileges and sacrifices of citizens; a practice that transformed the idea of the common good into evident urban needs the good citizen had to satisfy. However, rights, duties and needs were deeply variable both in time and space, and were closely related to the circumstances of each city. 13 These remarks result in one of the methodological foundations of the study of medieval citizenship: the necessity of choosing a specific framework when trying to grasp its most distinctive dynamics and mechanics.

Barcelona and the Legal Articulation of its Right of Citizenship (13th-15th centuries) Moving beyond the Italian context, which is by far the best studied, this article draws attention to the case of early 15th-century Barcelona as a research space. In that moment, the capital city of the Principality of Catalonia established itself as a centre of commercial redistribution, where goods of all sorts could be found, from Eastern spices to English textile manufactures. Moreover, it was a major slave-trade port. In contrast with traditional historiography, which has depicted late medieval Barcelona as a city in economic decline, Mario del Treppo, and other more recent studies following in his footsteps, have shown that the Catalan capital maintained its commercial dynamism through the better part of the first half of the 15th century. 14 Hence, it was not uncommon for Tuscan merchants and companies to establish their business in Barcelona, in some cases even indefinitely.15 Besides the dynamism brought about by foreign merchants, Barcelona had by then around 35,000 inhabitants, among them a variety of Catalan inland and coastal merchants, who were attracted by that liveliness and the possibilities the capital offered. Furthermore, peasants crowded the streets of the Raval quarter, and there were also a variety of artisans who, scattered all over the city, contributed to the activities of a quite dynamic industry, especially in the textile sector. Furthermore the ravages of the Black Death consolidated Barcelona as a centripetal pole of attraction,16 as it was the case of many other cities of the European West. From a political perspective, the Consell de Cent, the ruling institution of the city, managed to fully consolidate its taxing and political autonomy from the last third of

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the 14th century onwards.17 In spite of this dynamism, Barcelona was also the scenario of constant social tensions from the second half of the 14th century onwards, due to the monopolization of economic resources and political offices by the oligarchical families. This basic contextual overview depicts early 15th-century Barcelona as a deeply complex and contradictory space, full of rather different identities and interests. The study of its citizenship, both as an institution and a quotidian experience, appears as a key analytical tool in order to better understand which were the mechanisms of social cohesion that defined coexistence within this urban community. However, reframing the figure of the citizen of Barcelona in all its diversity implies considering the most practical aspect of citizenship, that is, going from the theoretical remarks we have provided above to its legal and cultural dimensions. In that regard, it is essential to briefly overview the progressive articulation of a law of citizenship in late medieval Barcelona. Therefore, it is necessary to look back at the privilege granted by Jaume I to the city of Barcelona in 1232, a document that exempted the citizen and the inhabitant of Barcelona from paying royal taxes for the entry and departure of goods throughout the territories under the rule of the Crown of Aragon.18 These rights and privileges were acquired through the obtention of a citizenship franchise, granted first by the king, and later, in the first decades of the 14th century, by the Consell de Cent, as shown by the first records of new citizens included in the deeds of the Llibre del Consell since 1302. 19 From the decade of the 1370s onwards, the authorities of Barcelona started to issue special citizenship registers and reports. 20 Considered as a whole, what we are facing is a corpus of documents in which the requirements for obtaining the franchise, that is, the duties of the citizen, were never fully established, thus turning the citizen of Barcelona into a flexible legal figure, open to multiple interpretations. Basic, barely indicative, criteria can be found in the documents. Thus, resuming the “ius commune”, the privileges issued by Jaume II (1312), Alfons the Benign (1334) and also some royal letters by Pere the Ceremonious addressed at his representatives in the city of Barcelona, established, along the 14thcentury, a permanent place of residence in the city as the main requirement in order to be accepted as a citizen of Barcelona.21 The citizen had to be also a free individual, capable of paying the taxes of the city.22 However, the privilege Recognoverunt Proceres, granted by Pere the Great in 1284, provided remences with the possibility of dreaming with the status of citizens. In fact, it established that they would become

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freemen if they managed to stay in the city for a year and a day without being summoned by their lords. Later interpretations of the Recognoverunt in other royal privileges turned the stay of a year and a day into a relevant requirement for the obtention of Barcelona’s citizenship.23

Towards a Cultural Approach: Reconstructing the Daily Experience of Citizenship Basing the analysis of citizenship on the personal entitlement inherent to the citizenship franchise results in interpretations focused mainly on taxes, turning citizenship into a quite lucrative right with very pragmatic purposes. Inhabitants of Barcelona themselves had a clear awareness as to the essentially practical nature of the franchise, and used it to favour their own personal plans and economic interests. An interesting case is that of the merchant Guillem de Montcofa, who registered more than one citizenship franchise in his name in a relatively short period of time.24Cases such as that of Montcofa, although rather infrequent, are not exceptional, which suggests that the franchise was easily adapted to the needs of the merchants, their goals and their various businesses. Thus, notarial documents show that, at least from 1414 onwards, Montcofa established a merchant society with some citizens with whom he would jointly request a citizenship franchise in 1419.25 All in all, the citizenship franchise of Barcelona reveals a remarkable flexibility, a trait that is also reflected in some notarial procurations where the merchants who act as the contracting party specify that their procurators can use on their behalf the citizenship franchises granted to them as citizens of Barcelona. Thus, the merchant Antoni Salavert and other citizens of Barcelona gave their vote of confidence to the sailor Joan Perelló in 1417: we appoint you, Joan Perelló, as our procurator, etc., so that you use on our behalf and in our name the franchises and immunities that each of us has received as a citizen of this city.26

Therefore, there are numerous examples showing that the people from Barcelona believed in the pragmatic character of citizenship, and many of them benefitted from it. However, we should try to balance this utilitarian and economy-based reality with the theoretical remarks we have mentioned above, which envisioned citizenship as an institution in charge of protecting the common good above personal profit. In order to resolve this contradiction, we should play down the value of the citizenship franchise and try to delve more deeply into the daily

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experience of citizenship. Barcelona, its sources and inhabitants will allow us to elaborate on the cultural dimension of medieval citizenship. With that purpose we will start from the aforementioned “citizenship reports” (Informacions de ciutadania). These documents, which record the interrogations conducted by the authorities about the life and habits of the individuals who had applied for the famous franchise, make up a rich fonds. Spanning from 1375 to 1457, it contains approximately 400 interrogation reports and two registers of new citizens for the periods of 1375í1381 and 1413í1425. It is, without a doubt, an exceptional source that enables, on the basis of the testimonies of the witnesses, the analysis of the true criteria that allowed an individual to “be considered and reputed as a true citizen of Barcelona”.27 The neighbours of Barcelona regarded as citizens those individuals who showed their commitment to the city and above all, their intention to remain there, start or raise a family, participate in the local festivals, and contribute to communal impositions and services. This was the case no matter whether the individual had spent sixteen years in the city, as Galceran Amat (1408) 28 had, or just a few days, as Pere Cerdunya (1411),29 a merchant from Berga, did. However, the reports show clearly that there was no fixed pattern, and that the extent and perception of such aspects were highly variable depending on the individuals and obviously on their relationship with the witnesses. Salvador Ros (1409), a remença peasant from Pineda who had escaped his lord, managed to bring forward fairly positive testimonies from his neighbours who, during more than three years, could see how Salvador made the daily effort to learn a new profession. Once his apprenticeship as a master builder was over, he was to marry the daughter of his former master and he had just bought the house where they would live and start their own family.30 The case of Joan Bartalot (1416), a merchant who lived with his father-in-law and associate, the master furrier Oliver Borassà, is also interesting. Two of the witnesses asserted that they had seen them living together but they confessed that they did not know enough about their private lives as to state whether he “es paga la seva pròpia messió” (paid for his sustenance), that is, if he made his own living and therefore, could be considered a reliable and resourceful citizen. In contrast, a third testimony, that of Berenguer Alemany, the notary of the candidate, asserted that he knew Joan quite well, and was sure that he made his own living and could have kept a home of his own. If he had not done so, it had been out of filial affection in order to keep his father-in-law company and give him support.31 Despite the difficulties, their witnesses did not hesitate to regard both candidates as citizens of Barcelona.

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All in all, citizenship was closely related to the knowledge of fellow neighbours, grounded in an everyday-shared reality, which could be seen and heard of in the streets. It is important to notice that the existence of a source such as citizenship reports and registers, created and systematized by the authorities, gave legal validity to this personal knowledge, showing that the citizen was actually defined by the effort to integrate into the social, neighbour, professional and family networks of the city, and to gain fame and reputation within this context. Thus, this fame was based on the establishment of a close link with the city and its social structures. Therefore, the laboratory that was Barcelona allows us to assert and continue to elaborate on certain already-known ideas; that is, medieval citizenship was, above all, a matter of behaviour and attitude, and a continuously evolving concept. Within this evolving process, the obtention of a document such as the citizenship franchise should be put in perspective as, in my opinion, not all the individuals who were considered citizens, thousands of them according to notarial registries, held such a document. However, they were nonetheless citizens, with their rights and duties. From the point of view of the daily life and perception of Barcelonians, we can finally draw our initial remarks to a close. As Bartolo de Sassoferrato suggested in a way, the city and its inhabitants were the ones who created the figure of the citizen in order to consolidate a united and integrated citizenry.32 However, the dialectic of citizenship was two-pronged. The authorities could grant the citizenship franchise, a legal and fiscal instrument, to individuals who were not regarded as citizens by the people of Barcelona. The “consellers” granted such a franchise to Joan Franceschi, a Florentine merchant who had just purchased a house in the city. The taxable property convinced municipal authorities, although the report clearly states that Francheschi was neither well known nor appreciated among his neighbours. 33 Despite their scarcity, such cases show that the different interests and actors are basic tools of analysis for the study of citizenship, being the key to grasp all its diversity.

Final Remarks Understanding citizenship in the scenario of late medieval Barcelona arouses several reflections, not so much conclusive as suggestive for future research. From a local point of view, it is necessary to insist on the fact that we have an exceptional source, which shows in early 15th-century Barcelona, an open, flexible and caring concept of citizenship, with a comprehensive purpose and a multiplicity of uses and dimensions: legal,

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fiscal and cultural. The Informacions de ciutadania appears as a unique source of great methodological merit, which evinces the crucial value of case studies. Indeed, grasping the wealth of a phenomenon such as citizenship implies bearing in mind the fact that it was experienced from very different individual perspectives and realities: for instance, the humility of Guillem Julià, the businesses and opportunism of Guillem Montcofa, the family of Joan Bartalot, and the effort of Salvador Ros, among many others.

Notes 

This article is part of the PhD project I am currently carrying out at the European University Institute in Florence (Citizenship and Foreigners in Mediterranean Europe at the End of the Middle Ages. Integration, Exclusion and Protectionism in 15th-century Barcelona), funded by the “Salvador de Madariaga” programme of the Spanish Ministry of Education. This research also benefitted from my collaboration with the research project La Corona de Aragón en el Mediterráneo bajomedieval. Interculturalidad, mediación, integración y transferencias culturales (HAR 2010—16361). 1 “All the inhabitants of the city are divided into three groups. The principal one is called the group of the generosos (generous), who are named honoured citizens . . . and they are equal to knights . . . The second group of inhabitants of the city is called the mà mitjana (middle hand) and they are not named honoured citizens but just citizens, without any other honourable distinction . . . This group includes jurists, notaries, powerful merchants and drapers, as well as all those who have great wealth in the city, in spite of not being of honourable condition. And these cannot be included in the previous estate. The third group is the group of artisans such as silversmiths, blacksmiths, shoemakers, armourers and others. And these are not named ‘citizens’, unlike those of the mà mitjana. Rather, they are called inhabitants and neighbours of the city”. Francesc Eiximenis, Lo Dotzè del Crestià, fols. 53v-54r (chap. 115: Com cascuna bona ciutat es partida en tres mans). Translation by the author. 2 “. . . entorn VII anys ha qu·el dit Guillem Julià està en Barchinona e de poquesa ensà sych és nodrit”. Informacions de ciutadania, 3 (8 March 1415) (unfoliated documents). 3 Albini, “Civitas tunc quiescit et fulget cum pollentium numero decoratur”, 97. 4 Ascheri, “Nella città medievale italiana”, 301í303. 5 Bizzarri, “Ricerche sul diritto di cittadinanza”, 20 and 33. 6 Riesenberg, Citizenship in the Western Tradition, 133. 7 Kirshner, “Civitas sibi faciat civem”, 697í698. 8 Roca i Trias, “‘Unde Cathalanus quasi in Cathalonia Stans’”, 11í12. 9 Original Latin text: “Cives autem et burgenses inter se iudicati, placitati atque emendatis sicut milites. Ad potestatem vero sint emendatis sicut vasvesores”. Valls i Taverner, Los Usatges de Barcelona,76-77. “Let townmen and burghers litigate

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 among themselves be judged and compensated as knights are. Moreover, let them be compensated by the ruler as varvassors are”. Kagay, The Usatges of Barcelona, 67. 10 In general, on the commentaries of classic jurists on the Cives Autem regulation, see Roca i Trias, “‘Unde Cathalanus quasi in Cathalonia Stans’”. The commentaries by Jaume de Montjuïc, Guillem de Vallseca and Jaume Callís on the Usatges can be found in the compilation work carried out by Carles Amorós in Barcelona in 1544: Antiquiores Barchinonensium Leges, fols. XVII-XIX. 11 Lalinde Abadía, La persona y obra del jurisconsulto vicense Jaime Callís and García y García, “El jurista catalán Guillem de Vallseca”, 677í708. 12 On the formation of a corpus of legal literature based on the consultations of jurists in specific cases and suits, see Ascheri et al., Legal Consulting in the Civil Law Tradition. 13 Quaglioni, “The Legal Definition of Citizenship”, 155. 14 Soldani, Uomini d’affari e mercanti toscani, 19í20. 15 For a recent comprehensive analysis of the presence and activities of Italian merchants in medieval Barcelona, see Soldani, Uomini d’affari e mercanti toscani. Among the classic and fundamental references regarding the social, economic and political situation of 14th- and 15th-century Barcelona, see: Batlle i Gallart, La crisis social y económica de Barcelona and Càrrere, Barcelona 1380-1462. On the role of Barcelona as a commercial centre, see the aforementioned classic work del Treppo, Els mercaders catalans. More recently, see the work Coulon, Barcelone et le grand commerce d’Orient au Moyen Âge. 16 Batlle, “La presenza degli stranieri a Barcellona”, 112. 17 For a synthesis on the evolution of the Consell de Cent, see Ortí i Gost, “El Consell de Cent durant l’Edat Mitjana”, 21í48. 18 For a reproduction of the privilege, see Capmany i Montpalau, Memorias históricas sobre la marina, comercio y artes, 2:14í15. 19 Cuadrada Majó, “Barcelona (ss. XIV-XV): Migracions, demografia i economia”, 1:327. 20 As specified below, there are extant notices and registers (2) of new citizens for the period 1375-1457. Informacions de ciutadania, 3/4/5. 21 In 1370, a letter by King Pere the Ceremonious to the bailiff and the veguer of Barcelona complicated considerably the perception of the figure of the citizen of the city, providing an extremely confuse definition that led debt collectors to denounce numerous cases of fraud and claim a more precise definition of the people entitled to exemptions. In response, a new letter (1385) of the monarch sanctioned the defining traits of the citizen as those already established in the privileges granted by his predecessors (that is, keeping a permanent family residence). The 1370 letter is extant in the Llibre Verd, vol. II, fol. 414. It also appears, together with the privileges granted by King Jaume II and King Alfons the Benign, in the 1385 letter reproduced in Diversorum, 1B XV-1, fol. 230. The 1370 letter is mentioned in Carreras Candi, La ciutat de Barcelona, 3:535. For a more in-depth study of the progressive legal articulation of citizenship in Barcelona, see Obradors Suazo, “Council, City and Citizens”, 377í383.

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 22

As clearly specified by the citizenship franchise itself: “quod solvit et contribuit in tallis et aliis exaccionibus et colletis comunibus in quibus aliis cives et habitatores eiusdem civitatis nutunt et solvunt”. This particular franchise model appears several times in the extant citizenship registers. An example can be found in Informacions de ciutadania, 3, Registre, fols. 2r-4v. 23 Roca i Trias, “‘Unde Cathalanus quasi in Cathalonia Stans’”, 19. 24 Nicolau Sala, an apothecary and citizen of Barcelona pledged that Guillem de Montcofa would collect the citizenship franchise granted to him and take the oath of citizenship, see Informacions de ciutadania, 4, Registre, fols. 13v (8 March 1414). Guillem de Montcofa, merchant and citizen of Barcelona collected the franchise and took the oath of citizenship, Informacions de ciutadania, 4, Registre, fols. 30v-31r (8 May 1415). Guillem de Montcofa, together with Simó de Montcofa, probably a relative, collected again a franchise and took the oath of citizenship, see Informacions de ciutadania, 4, Registre, fol. 102v (14 May 1418). Finally, Guillem de Montcofa collected again a franchise and took the oath of citizenship together with other citizens of Barcelona, Informacions de ciutadania, 4, Registre, fols. 116v (18 March 1419). 25 For instance, Bernat Pi, Manual 1414, fols. 39r-39v (1414, maig, 1). The associates were the apothecary Nicolau Sala, the sailor Nicolau Alomar and the merchant Joan de Reus. 26 “. . . consti et ordi vos dictum Johannem Perelló procuratorem nostrum et cuiuslibet nostrum etc ad utendum pro nobis et nomine nostro et cuiuslibet nostrum franquitatibus et inmunitatibus nobis et cuique nostrorum ut civibus dicte civitatis concessis”. Bernat Nadal, Manual 1416-1417, fol. 91r (23 February 1417). 27 “. . . ser haut e reputat com a ver ciutadà de Barchinona”. Although there are no extant interrogation reports, it seems that something of the sort happened in Venice, turning public fame into the basic criterion for the official obtention of the citizenship franchise. Mueller, Immigrazione e cittadinanza nella Venezia medievale, 42í46. 28 Informacions de ciutadania, 3 (8 May 1408) (unfoliated document). 29 Informacions de ciutadania, 3 (17 March 1411) (unfoliated document). 30 Informacions de ciutadania, 3 (9 July 1409) (unfoliated document). This case can be found in Vinyoles i Vidal, La vida quotidiana a Barcelona vers 1400, 89í91. 31 Informacions de ciutadania, 3 (3 February 1416) (unfoliated document). The final register of concession of the citizenship franchise to Joan Bartalot is also extant in Informacions de ciutadania, 4, Registre, fol. 43v (5 February 1416). 32 The analogy here is only rethorical since Bartolo defended a united citizenry created by the city in reference to the legal power, held by urban institutions, to create new citizens entitled to the same rights as those granted to the original citizens. Kirshner, “Civitas sibi faciat civem” andQuaglioni “The Legal Definition of Citizenship”. 33 On the citizenship report of Joan Franceschi: Informacions de ciutadania, 3 (1819 August 1413) (unfoliated document). On his register as a citizen: Informacions de ciutadania, 4, Registre, fol. 2v (23 August 1413).

CHAPTER SIX THE STREET AS A SPACE OF KNOWLEDGE: THE IMPORTANCE OF REPUTATION IN THE CIVIL SOCIETY OF MEDIEVAL CATALONIA (14TH CENTURY) IVO ELIES

In 1215, during the Fourth Lateran Council, Pope Innocent III forbade the use of ordeals in canonical processes.1 However, the main causes that led to this interdict had been developing during the previous centuries, when renowned canonists2 started to condemn such judicial practices. To have a complete picture of the consequences their prohibition entailed, it is necessary to consider also two important events. First, the rediscovery, study and dissemination of Justinian Roman Law at the university of Bologna and, second, the emergence of a new and decisive institution: the Inquisition, born in 1231, in order to fight the various religious dissidences in southern France. This situation brought about significant modifications in European judicature, prompting a change in the judicial system in place at the time. This chapter will be devoted to the concept of public reputation, a notion that ended up acquiring, as a result of the aforementioned causes, surpassing importance in the legal change that took place in Europe between the 13th and the 14th centuries. The Principality of Catalonia—the geographical context I will be dealing with—was not alien to the spread of common law and the new inquisitorial practices, and, therefore, the first mentions of public reputation appeared early on, as attested to by some of the oldest legal compilations of the Principality, such as the Costums de Tortosa3 and the ordinances of the Valleys of Àneu.4 In order to address the concept of public reputation I will use a documentary corpus composed of a collection of legal processes spanning the whole 14th century. The anonymous voices of the extant testimonies

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will allow the definition and quantification of the relevance of public reputation within Catalan medieval society; at the same time, they will help locate its main epicentres. The selection of documents has been carried out according to two basic criteria. First, all 14th-century trials susceptible of including issues related to reputation have been analysed; the documents produced as a result of conflicts among the peasantry have been carefully selected, and of particular interest are those related to debts, quarrels, thefts, murders and adultery. Second, in order to study the territory of the Principality of Catalonia, a selection of documents has been made according to their content and origin, which correspond geographically to the towns of Barcelona, Igualada, Copons (Anoia), Sitges (Garraf), Vilafranca del Penedès (Alt Penedès), Tàrrega (Urgell), Besora (Solsonès), Espluga de Francolí (Conca de Barberà) and Prenyanosa (Segarra). Within this context, the research presented in this chapter emphasizes the analysis of the popular common knowledge that civil Catalan society had about the concept of public reputation. As a consequence, this text does not fall within the scope of legal history but within the subdisciplines of the history of mentalities and the history of everyday life.

“Quid est fama?” The change from the accusatorial procedure to the inquisitorial system entailed a series of transformations that, in some cases, ended up altering the order and everyday daily life of medieval society. The inquisitorial procedure included, implicitly, after the opening of the legal procedure, an enquiry.5 Its purpose was clear: to establish the facts and settle the case that had led to the celebration of the trial. It is precisely due to the conduction of an enquiry that the concept of public reputation garnered, as we will see, great notoriety. It is necessary to bear in mind that the medieval notion of public reputation as it was understood in the 14th century was first conceived several centuries before. In 434 Vincent de Lérins stated that the correct interpretation of sacred texts was the one that “havia estat creguda arreu, sempre i per tots” (had always been believed everywhere by everyone).6 At the basis of such a mechanism of knowledge lies a completely innovative principle: the validity of events will be granted thereafter by the shared belief or judgement of the members of a community. Between the end of the 13th century and the beginning of the 14th, as a consequence of the success of the inquisitorial system and the full adaptation of common law, the knowledge shared by the members of a

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group entered the legal sphere under the name of public reputation.7 The people summoned to the enquiry, with their testimony, generated the necessary fiction for the judge to settle the case. The verdict determined what was veridical, and, once declared by a jurist, conveyed juridical truth.8 However, medieval jurists distrusted the use of reputation as a reliable legal concept; since it was—literally—the voice of the people, they regarded it as a volatile and mutable opinion. Therefore, before accepting it as valid evidence, its certainty and validity had to be proved, and its origin had to be certified.9 The reticence of numerous jurists towards the idea of public reputation is behind the inclusion, in many legal processes celebrated during the 14th century, of the question: “Quid est fama?”10 The answers, expressed by a series of anonymous citizens, enable an accurate analysis of the meaning of reputation in that context. In the analysis of the definitions included in such documents, two different meanings need to be distinguished. First, the general definition of reputation, understood as the community’s shared knowledge about an event, a person or a group. Second, several testimonies provide a much more specific definition, for they define reputation as the good name an individual acquires within a certain community. Despite the eventual differences between the hearsay evidence of a fact and the reputation of a person, it is necessary to remark that the origin is always the same: the collective knowledge shared by a specific community. After the systematic study of the selected documents, it can be ascertained that the most common definition is the one provided, for instance, by Pere Corneli, who answers to the question about the nature of reputation stating that reputation is what people say and believe.11 Other testimonies enrich this meaning with a more precise definition, such as Jaume Castell: “public reputation is the common opinion and beliefs of the people of Vilafranca”. 12 Indicating a geographical location is quite common, as we will see shortly. After being questioned about reputation (fama), Pere Figuera is asked for the source of such information and he points to the people from Copons and Igualada.13 Finally, some testimonies provide a much simpler description of the notion of reputation. That is the case of Jaume Pelegrí, who states that reputation is what people say “a una veu” (with one voice),14 as well as that of Guillem Gargala, who describes it as what people say “a un colp” (together).15 Some others even define it as the vulgar knowledge characteristic of commoners, as Jaume Llobera notes in his testimony: “Questioned about the nature of reputation he answered that it was what people ordinarily said”.16

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To conclude this section, I would like to note another interesting aspect of the concept of reputation. During the 14th century, there was a tendency to identify public reputation with truth. Two of the analysed trials include the question “quid est fama?” Together with the query “quid est verum?”17 It is not by chance that both questions are put to the same testimonies, on the contrary, it responds to the wish to equate reputation and truth. Let us not forget that collective awareness is the guarantor of validity. As a result, in light of this ascertainment, the public reputation of any given fact, person or group determines, in the eyes of the judicature, the true description of such facts.18 However, in some cases, the legal notion of reputation pervades society. 19 In a trial held in the castle of Sitges we find a surprising association. A testimony, whose name is not extant, answers the question about reputation with the following words: “it is said that the men from Sitges collect firewood and palms in the municipality of Garraf, and have been doing so for a long time”.20 Later on, when asked what truth is, he answers: “the truth is that I have seen the men from Sitges collecting firewood and palms in the aforementioned municipality of Garraf”. 21 Thus, both questions are answered with the same response, mingling— completely—the concepts of reputation and truth. This coincidence of meaning implies two interesting issues. On the one hand, both commoners and medieval jurists tend to assimilate reputation to truth, maintaining a clear equivalence between a scholarly knowledge, characteristic of the sphere of the judicature, and popular knowledge, conceived within medieval society. On the other hand, in my opinion, we can establish a correspondence between the paradigm put forward by Vincent de Lérins, in the middle of the 5th century, and the way in which truth was understood in the 14th century. In both cases the collective memory of a human group is the decisive guarantor of the validity of any given fact.

The Voice of the Street The street, the crucial centre of medieval urban society, is the main generator of public reputation. This public space must be understood as the vital environment of commerce and socialization of any urban community. The indiscreet gaze of the neighbours, who, from their windows, 22 entertained themselves observing what happened, turned to the street. It was, in short, a place to see and to be seen. Burials, marriages, and public penalties too, took place in this important public space, in order for them to be acknowledged.23 All the events experienced collectively were etched in and became part of the collective memory of the community. 24 The

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reputation of each individual depended on his/her actions and behaviour in the street.25 It was there, between houses, shops and workshops, that rumours started, and the most persistent resulted in public reputation. Juan Ruiz, Archpriest of Hita, describes their birth perfectly: De pequeña cosa nasçe fama en la vezindat; Desque nasçe, tarde muere, maguer non sea verdat, Sienpre cada día cresçe con enbidia e falsedat; Poca cossa le enpeçe al mesquino en mesquindat.26

The testimonies included in the studied trials evince the link between street and rumours. In 1302, Guillem Franquesa claims that he had heard in the streets of Vilafranca27 that Guillem Satrilla, accused of fraud, was a man of good reputation. Constança, the wife of Arnau Desprats, when the judge asks her for a witness of the incestuous relationship between her husband and his sister-in-law, answers “Nascarit Boter e sa muller, e altres del veynat” (Nascarit Boter and his wife, and others in the neighbourhood).28 Far more explicit is the testimony of Berenguer Escarré, a cooper from Barcelona, who maintains in his statement that he knows about the relationship between Arnau Desprats and Antònia because: ha oyt dir al vehinat del dit Arnau comunament que la dita muller del dit Arnau dehia que ella havia trobat lo dit Arnau e la dita Anthònia fahent pecat de luxuria, dix encara que ha oyt dit a alcunes persones del carrer d’en Robador lo nom de les quals no li veniren que havien vist moltes vegades que lo dit en Prat sen anava tot sol ab la dita Anthònia.29

Berenguer describes the source of the information in detail: the community of neighbours who live close to the defendant's home, in Robadors Street, is aware of the problems of the couple. In light of these examples, the street can be conceived as a space of knowledge, a place where popular knowledge has a significant effect: the creation of identities.30 Individual reputation, depending on whether it is good or bad, has—at the same time—important consequences, since it positions the individual within a social status. 31 Thus, on the basis of reputation, individuals are praised for their good name, or marginalized, when they do not follow the rules. The mechanism setting up categories always has the same starting point, the street, and the same actors, the neighbours of a community. The construction of a personal identity, and the importance and renown of a fact are invariably determined through the dialogue between the members of a group. And, as Chris Wickham recalls:32 “Groups construct themselves

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by talking”. Thus, the most trivial conversations start rumours, which, if they are powerful enough, end up becoming public reputation. Some scholars suggest that in the case of Italian cities, the rumours started among the male members of a community had more validity, in the eyes of the judicature, than those spread by female circles.33 In Catalonia, however, according to the trials studied in this chapter, jurists accept witnesses of both sexes in like manner when reconstructing the facts in issue. However, it does seem that they select the most appropriate witnesses for each process. This follows, for example, from the lawsuit brought by Berenguer Rossell and Maria against Constança, in 1376,34 for the possession of a house in Parellada Street, in Vilafranca; during the enquiry most witnesses are neighbours who live in the street of the defendant.35 The only distinction between the collective knowledge of both sexes refers to aspects of private life. Women, as Daniel Lord Smail suggests,36 easily entered the homes of their neighbours to chat, eat and help each other. These bonds of trust gave the female sector of society a more accurate knowledge of the intimate life of their fellow citizens.37 In the trial against Bernat Correnys, Gerard Aguiló and Guillema Sagarriga, accused of the murder of Guillem Mestre, we find two quite explicit examples of our previous remarks: Guillema Buulona—one of the testimonies—claims that, on the day of the crime, she was at the home of Simó Sagarriga, the father of the accused, where she had gone to look for a linen hat. Then Valentina recounts how, that same night, Guillema had come to her home to keep her company while she watched over her dying husband: “et quasi incontinenti venit Guilelma filia Simonis Sagarriga sine capa et intravit in domo istio testes et dixit isti testes com va al Senyor et ista testes dixit que esta al juy de deu”.

An Instrument of Social Coercion The public reputation acquired by individuals within a community— citizen, work or religious community—granted them an identity and a name. Depending on their behaviour, the community acknowledge their good reputation when they behaved according to pre-established canons of conduct, or give them a bad name when their behaviour was reprehensible. In the words of Jaume de Na Roca, reputation was no more than a way of categorizing someone.38 Therefore, during the Middle Ages reputation was an effective instrument of social coercion that worked in two ways: integrating, when individuals had a good reputation,39 or marginalizing, when they had gained a bad reputation among their fellow citizens.40

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Bad reputation, however, involved two distinct realities: legal infamy and de facto infamy. The former was issued by a judge in a court ruling. On the other hand, a person became de facto infamous through the public and popular opinion of neighbours.41 Legal infamy, with which I will not deal here, entailed social death, for the individual who had been declared as infamous was unable to hold any public office or develop some professions, such as advocacy.42 De facto infamy, however, popular in nature, brought about the social degradation of the infamous person.43 Despite lacking legal legitimacy, de facto infamy also represented a stain in the eyes of a community, and a hindrance to develop full socialization.44 The testimonies of the trials will serve, once again, to approach popular thought concerning good and bad reputation, and will help us establish which conducts were considered as the most reprehensible within 14th-century society. Pere Aragó and Pere Colgina probably provide the most generic answers. The former, to the question “quid est fama”, responds that someone who does well in his/her business, does not keep bad companies, and holds back from evil, has a good name. 45 Pere Colgina asserts, however, that a man acquires good reputation when he does not steal or murder, and is no thief, does not hurt people, and does not have vices.46 But which were these vices in the eyes of medieval society? According to the answers of many witnesses, such as Guillem Sadurní, one of the most reprehensible conducts was gambling: “Asked about the reputation of Bernat Correnys, he said that he is a gambler and has a bad reputation”.47 Another witness, Guillem Manresa, goes a little further in his description and also points to other vices: “many times I have seen him drunk in taverns, where he gambles with such enthusiasm that he even takes his clothes off and keeps only his shirt and breeches on”.48 Going to the tavern, getting drunk and gambling are, in the opinion of witnesses,49 actions that besmirch reputation. Another behaviour that leads to social degradation is adultery. In the trial against the saddler from Barcelona, Arnau Desprats and his sister-inlaw Antònia, accused of an adulterous and incestuous relationship, the neighbours, for instance Francesca, claim that, before that, Arnau “tots temps solia esser de bona fama” (used to have good reputation).50 The extramarital affair with Antònia and the constant quarrels with his wife damage the defendant’s reputation.51 As for Antònia, who is a foreigner, no one knows her, and therefore, no one can talk about her reputation, as Francesca, wife of Pere Calder, explicitly states: “pel que fa al dit Arnau Desprats ha sentit dir que és un home de bona fama, de la dita Antònia, en canvi, no en pot opinar ja que no la coneix” (she has heard that the

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aforementioned Arnau Desprats has a good reputation, on the aforesaid Antònia, however, she cannot comment because she does not know her).52 The neighbours are eye- and earwitnesses of the adultery, and explain it in detail in their statements. Pere sa Torra asserts that, from his window, he has seen Arnau and his sister-in-law alone on the roof, playing while they chased each other.53 In contrast, Catalina reveals in her statement that she is aware of the relationship because she has heard about it from other neighbours, but she herself has not witnessed it because she sells cabbages in the square and does not spend too much time at home.54 Finally, within the section devoted to vices, reference should be made to poverty. A modest economic situation entailed, especially for those who came by it because of laziness, a bad name. This consideration has been also documented in some parts of France,55 as well as in the Kingdom of Castile, where those “quienes son muy pobres y viles y andan en malas compañias” (who are very poor, and vile, and keep bad companies) were regarded as infamous. 56 In the trial against Guerau Satrilla, from Vilafranca del Penedès, the witnesses declare—for instance, Mateu Puig— that the accused is poor and owns nothing,57 and, in another statement—by Jaume Sença—another aggravating circumstance adds up to poverty: “és pobre i no vigila que diu” (he is poor and pays no mind to what he says).58 In light of this assessment, people who were overly talkative, and not cautious enough in expressing their views, could earn a bad name among their fellow citizens, as happened in France during the 13th and 14th centuries. The reason is quite clear: their opinion could be interpreted as an attack on the integrity and reputation of the person they were talking or ranting about.59 But what were the attitudes and characteristics of the individuals who enjoyed a good reputation in the eyes of the common people? The first requirement was to be free of all the evil vices mentioned above: gambling, drinking, adultery, laziness and talkativeness.60 The voices of medieval witnesses, however, are much more explicit, as Guillem Manresa says, someone who is good, and loyal to his lord and to other people, and does not insult anyone who is loyal and has a good reputation, acquires himself a good name. 61 Another commendable conduct is to be hardworking, and to perform one’s job well, as Guillem Ferrer, a muleteer from Igualada, states when he testifies about John Moxó, who, according to Guillem, is a man of good reputation and does well in his business.62 Finally, according to the testimony of Peter Vives, a neighbour of the town of Sitges, a person with a good reputation is one that follows the precepts of “a good Christianity and a good faith”.63

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The conducts described so far evince the similarities between popular medieval thought and the moral guidelines handed down by the Church. In this regard, reputation is one of the most effective tools of social coercion available to ecclesiastic institutions, for it derives from the common people, and it is managed by the members of a community themselves. In the words of Francesco Megliorino, reputation is nothing more than “un mezzo di pressione verso la conformità, mentre l’infamia diventa la sanzione sociale della trasgressione e lo stigma della diversità e dell’emarginazione”.64

Conclusions Public reputation, conceived within medieval society, acquired, throughout the Middle Ages and the Modern Era, the utmost importance for the society that had created it. Reputation was used as an effective mechanism, which, on the one hand, homogenized society and its patterns of social behaviour, and on the other, condemned to marginalization those individuals who did not behave accordingly. The street, the main epicentre of rumours and public reputation is, therefore, a fundamental space of knowledge during the medieval period, for it was there that the collective consciousness of a community ended up defining the social order. The direct testimonies of a heterogeneous group of medieval men and women has enabled, as we have seen, an approach to the notion of public reputation as it was understood in the 14th century. The anonymous voices of the witnesses have highlighted the practices, vices and virtues, which, according to popular mentality, determined the reputation of individuals. The personal reputation that someone acquired determined the position of individuals in the social order of the community where they lived. The construction of identity required conforming to the behavioural canons established by society, which were closely related to Christian morality. Community life defined, through conversations and rumours, the individual and collective identities of its members, who ended up acquiring a reputation, depending on which they were judged by their neighbours, friends and fellow citizens. Although it may seem a distant concept, personal good name and collective reputation still have an overwhelming influence today. The impartial 21st- century society still has recourse to public reputation. Let us consider, for instance, on the one hand, the xenophobic attitude of certain political parties, attacking the members of foreign communities and tagging them with archetypes that, unfortunately, have a strong impact on the citizenry. On the other hand, reputation becomes determinant, both in

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the Middle Ages and today, not only in this life but also in the life beyond life, as Paolo Certalado noted in the middle of the 14th century: meglio è l’uomo avere buona fama in questo mondo che avere un gran tesoro: e però procacciati di vivere in questo mondo dirittamente, acciò ch’acquisti buona fama, però che chi con buona fama muore, in questo mondo sempre vive.65

Notes  1

The prohibition of this kind of practices in secular processes dates back to 1222, during the papacy of Pope Honorius III. Baldwin, “The intellectual preparation for the Canon”, 615. 2 Such as Ivo of Chartres (1040-1116), Peter Cantor (d. 1197), Hugh of Pisa (d. 1210) and Gratian himself (the 12th-century author of the Decretum Gratiani). Baldwin, “The intellectual preparation for the Canon”, 626. 3 Rubric eight of this compilation refers precisely to the appropriate way to deal with people pronounced infamous. Massip, Costums de Tortosa. 4 The compilation specifies that in the Valleys of Àneu it was customary to have recourse to reputation before subjecting someone to torture: “axí emperò que per la fama cumuna ne altre negú no puge ésser posat turment, si donchs la fama per testimonis dignes de fe no’s provave que axí fos de feyt” (that no one shall be subjected to torture on the basis of hearsay if the reputation established by faithful testimonies does not advise it). Padilla, L’esperit d’Àneu,128. 5 Esmein, L’acceptation de l’enquête, 6. 6 Smail, “Archivos de conocimiento y la cultura legal”, 1051. 7 Théry, “Les Albigeois et la procédure inquisitoire”, 121. 8 Madero, Las verdades de los hechos, 47. 9 As Tommaso of Piperata discusses in his Tractatus de Fama. Megliorino, Fama e Infamia, 69. 10 See Théry, “Les Albigeois et la procédure inquisitoire”, 40 and Smail, “Archivos de conocimiento y la cultura legal”, 1052í1053. 11 “illud quod gentes dicunt et credunt.” Processos en quart, 1316E, fol. 3v. 12 “Est fama publica comunis opinio et credulitas gentium in Villa francha.” Processos en quart, 1302K, fol. 18r. 13 “ab omnibus hominibus loci de Coponibus et etiam de Aqualata.” Processos en quart, 1317I, fol. 20v. 14 “illud quod gentes dicunt a una veu.” Processos en quart, 1317I, fol. 11v. 15 “quod gentes dicunt a un colp.” Processos en quart, 1317I, fol. 12v. 16 “Interrogatus quid est fama, et dix que ço que és dit vulgarment per les gents.” Processos en quart, 1375C, fol. 11r 17 ACA, Processos en quart, 1376-1377. Procés judicial, 1384. 18 See Smail, “Archivos de conocimiento y la cultura legal”, 1052 and Madero, Las verdades de los hechos, 47.

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 19

Théry, “Les Albigeois et la procédure inquisitoire”, 126. “fama és que los hòmens de Ciges leyen e palmeyen e leyar e palmejar han acustumat en lo terme de Garraf”. Procés judicial, 1384. 21 “veritat és que los hòmens de Ciges he vistes leyar e palmejar en lo dit terme de Garraf”. Procés judicial, 1384. 22 “Pere sa Torra afirma que coneix la relació sentimental d’Arnau i Antònia ja que açò viu aquest testimoni estant en la finestra del seu alberch” (Pere sa Torra states that he knows of the affair between Arnau and Antònia because he has witnessed it from the window of his home). Processos en quart, 1376-1378, fol. 110v. 23 Smail, “Archivos de conocimiento y la cultura legal”, 1053. 24 Wickham, “Gossip and resistance”, 14. 25 Wickham, “Fama and the Law”, 24. 26 “From small events a rumor’s born and sweeps the neighborhood; / Once born, it’s slow to die, although no part of it be true. / Some people, out of envy, spread great lies, which isn’t good. / A little swamps the wretched man in wretchedness and rue” (Daly 1978, v. 707). 27 “audivit dici a placibus de Villa francham”. Processos en quart, 1302K, fol. 1r2r. 28 Processos en quart, 1376-1378, fol. 3v. 29 “He has heard Arnau’s neighbours say that his wife had surprised him and Antònia committing the sin of lust; moreover, he said that several people in Robador Street, whose names he does not recall, had seen Arnau Desprats leave with Antònia many times”. Processos en quart, 1376-1378, fol. 26r. 30 Gauvard, “La fama, une parole fondatrice”, 8. 31 Megliorino, Fama e Infamia, 9. 32 Wickham, “Gossip and resistance”, 11. 33 Wickham, “Fama and the Law”, 27. 34 Processos en quart, 1376-1377. 35 Fifteen out of the twenty-one witnesses of the trial were women. 36 Smail, “Archivos de conocimiento y la cultura legal”, 1073. 37 Processos en quart, 1324J. 38 “açò que les gens cateroguen a hom”. Processos en quart, 1317I, fol. 17r. 39 As regards its integrating function, see, for instance, the case of Agnès, the widow of Bernat Joan, who answered the question about reputation by saying “que hom haja bona fama e es-li bon dia a aquell que la ha bona” (that someone has a good name, and that who has it will have a good day). Processos en quart, 13761377, fol. 16v. 40 Megliorino, Fama e Infamia, 9 and 46í74. 41 Ibid., 175. 42 As the Costums de Tortosa note, in 1272, an attorney “deu ésser cathòlic, no vedat, ne apóstata, ne heretge, ne infamis, car aytals persones no poden avocar” (has to be Catholic, and cannot be banned or an apostate, or a heretic, or infamous, for those people shall not act as attorneys). Massip, Costums de Tortosa, 411. See also, Masferrer, “La dimensión ejemplarizante del Derecho penal”, 211 and 213. 20

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43 The members of a community also used the word infamous to categorize someone with a manifest bad reputation. See the example of Bartomeu de Munné, who declares that he “Ha oyt dir en lo vehinat que lo dit Arnau Prats és imfamat” (has heard in the neighbourhood that Arnau Prats is infamous). Processos en quart, 1376-1378, fol. 30v. 44 Masferrer, “La dimensión ejemplarizante del Derecho penal”, 467. 45 “qui fa bé sos afers, e no haia males maneres e es guard de mal”. Processos en quart, 1375C, fol. 22r-22v. 46 “est de bone fame quan nos robador, ne homeyer, ne sie ladre, ne fassa mal e que no haia mals vicis”. Processos en quart, 1302K, fol. 34v-35r. 47 “Interrogato de fama dicti Bernardi Correnys et dixit quod est male fame et lusor”. Processos en quart, 1324J. 48 “vidi embriac ipsam pluries et in tabernis et est magnus lusor en·axí que·es despuyava al joch e estava en camisa e bragues”. Processos en quart, 1302K, fol. 14r. 49 I share the opinion of the people who take part in the enquiry. See the case of Antoni Comes who notes that the accused “est lusor et cotidie intraverunt in tabernis et embriac·se” (fol. 11r-11v), or that of Ferrer Dalmau who notes that “bebit per tabernas frequenter”(fol. 22v). Both of them extracted from Processos en quart, 1302K. 50 Processos en quart, 1376-1378, fol. 47v. 51 Processos en quart, 1376-1378, fol. 58r. 52 “quant lo dit Arnau Desprats bé a oyt dir que és de bona fama, quant es de la dita Anthònia no la coneixia”. Processos en quart, 1376-1378, fol. 58r. 53 “lo dit Arnau e a la dita cunyada sua tots sols en lo terrat, e que jugaven endossos e la ·I· encalsava l’altro jugant e burlant per lo terrat”. Processos en quart, 1376-1378, fol. 11v. 54 “no ature en casa sua ne en la carrera, car tot dia ven cols a la plassa”. Processos en quart, 1376-1378, fol. 38r. 55 Porteau-Bitker, “La renommée dans le droit pénal laïque”, 78. 56 Madero, Las verdades de los hechos, 54. 57 “est pauper et nichil habet”. Processos en quart, 1302K, fol. 24r. 58 “est paupere no·s garda que diu”. Processos en quart, 1302K, fol. 3v-5r. 59 Akehurst 2003, 86. 60 The fueros of Castile define reputation as “el buen estado del ome que biue derechamente, e segun ley, e de buenas costrumbres, e non aziendo en si manzilla, nin mala estança”. Madero, Las verdades de los hechos, 63. 61 “que hom sia bo e leyal a senyor, e a les gens, e que no faya tort a aquel que és leyal e de bona fama”. Processos en quart, 1302K, fol. 14r. 62 “que·l dit Johan havia bona fama, e fahia bé ses afers”. Processos en quart, 1375C, fol. 6v-7r. 63 “d’un bon crestianisme e bona fe”. Procés judicial, 1384, fol. 28r. 64 Megliorino, Fama e Infamia, 46. 65 “It is better for a man to have a good fama in this world than to have a great wealth; and if you succeed in living in this world rigthly; then you gain good fama

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 because he who dies with good fama is ever alive in this world”. Kuhen, “Fama as a legal status”, 32.

PART III: FANTASY AND SPECULATION

CHAPTER SEVEN THE IMAGE OF CATALANS * IN TROUBADOUR POETRY MARIONA VIÑOLAS I SOLÉS

As Jordi Rubió i Balaguer noted, the interest in troubadour poetry and, more generally, in the study of Romance literature, aroused, in the middle of the 19th century, from “the Romantic fascination with popular and Provençal poetry, which was intensified in Catalonia due to the bonds of linguistic brotherhood with the other branch of the langue d’oc”. 1 In Catalonia, this research field was born in a circumstantial manner, completely related to the political and social whims of a century obsessed with the search for the primitive European homelands; it was the result of the collaboration between history, linguistics and textual criticism, and embedded Catalan culture into a literary map that encompassed almost all southern Europe. During the last century and a half, scholars have noted a good deal of connections between troubadours and the Catalan courts—some of which should be reappraised. Regarding our main topic, they have analysed the role played by troubadour poetry in relation to the political events developing in the background from different points of view. 2 Such an approach leads to a better understanding of poetry and, especially, of the reasons stimulating its creation; it is in this respect that troubadour poetry connects in depth with the interests of the milieu where it was composed: the court. Thus, the cornerstone of the discourse on troubadour poetry lays on the idea of the centre of power as a centre of culture and creation and diffusion of ideologies. Troubadour literature developed between the end of the 11th century, with the work of William of Aquitaine, and the end of the 13th century, coinciding with the exchange of poems between Frederick III of Sicily and

 *

This study was carried out under the support of FI-DGR (2012-2015) PhD fellowship granted by the Generalitat de Catalunya.

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Ponç Hug IV of Empúries in 1298.3 As for its geographic scope, the courts hosting the poetry that used the Occitan literary koine were located within a region that extended from the current French Midi to the Catalan territories, through the Central Massif, the Pyrenees and northern Italy. A lyric corpus of 2,542 works, corresponding to approximately 350 known troubadours, certainly makes it an exceptional and far-reaching literary phenomenon, which spread well beyond the aforesaid coordinates, entailing cultural and ideological consequences that marked European culture profoundly. It is, therefore, a literary phenomenon of great importance, but also—and that is the aspect we would like to remark here—a major testimony to the general and cultural history of those centuries. Taking into account the political and social implications of the compositions of that period, we thought it interesting to analyse the meaning attributed to the terms “Catalan” and “Catalonia” in troubadour poetry. The goal was to glean not only the image of Catalans (in the broadest sense of the word, that is, including the monarch and, by extension, the Crown of Aragon and its subjects), but also the ideology behind that image. The issue was particularly interesting because the reign of Alfons the Chaste represented a turning point for both the configuration of the Crown of Aragon and the development of the nexus between Occitan culture and the Catalan-Aragonese Crown. The historian Thomas Noël Bisson attested to its historiographic relevance stating that: Alphonse patronized the troubadours with their arcane forms of Limousin discourse, in which he was no mean dabbler himself, and so did his son . . . Yet one may search this literature in vain for a consistent ideology. If the Provençal politics had an underlying motive, it was to defend the Catalonian counties against the perceived threat of an expansionist Capetian monarchy allied with the count of Toulouse.4

However, this perspective should be reconsidered in light of the studies by Aurell 5 and Riquer 6 —two of the main authors of the discourse that links court politics and troubadours and that, especially, emphasizes the feedback between power and lyric composition. Drawing from their works, we know that the ideological connotation of the poetry produced around Alfons the Chaste constituted a powerful instrument of legitimation, one that Bisson does not suggest; that is, a deliberate strategy of the king, which conveyed the evocative image of a very specific system of values: courtliness.7 Troubadour poetry falls within this courtly ideology, which, expressed in the terms of courtly love, disseminated a set of virtues that the Occitan

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nobility had to pursue. However, despite the apparent preeminence of love, troubadour poetry also voices political interests, expresses existing alliances or suggests new ones, and disseminates an archetypal image of the courts involved in its composition, especially, the courts of the great lords who promoted it. As we will see, courtliness became an aspiration that provided both prestige and a rhetorical weapon to discredit enemies. The troubadours were related to the Catalan courts from the time of King Alfons, but many of the poems we will mention below belong to the work of troubadours who looked on Catalans “from the outside”. In those cases, we will have to bear in mind the background of those voices, finding their place, if possible, within the network of alliances and the most remarkable conflicts of the history of the period. Proof of the foreign acknowledgement of the count-kings as relevant figures who had already entered the orbit of troubadour interests before the time of King Alfons can be found in two pieces devoted to Ramon Berenguer IV. The first of the compositions we would like to point out is Emperaire, per mi mezeis (PC 293,22), by Marcabru.8 In this poem, the Gascon troubadour exhorts the peninsular kingdoms—including the Catalan-Aragonese area—to participate in the campaign against the Muslims of Toledo: Ab la valor de Portegal e del rei navar atretal, ab sol que Barsalona·is vir ves Toleta l’emperial, segur poirem cridar “Reial!” e paiana gen desconfir.9

On the other hand, in a rather different tone, in Bel m’es, qui a son bo sen (PC 323,8), Peire d’Alvernha denigrates the figure of Count Ramon Berenguer as well as that of his people, who, according to the author, suffered hunger and misfortunes. The interpretation of the passage, which is always difficult in humorous pieces, depends on the context in which the poem was allegedly composed: Fratta 10 indicates that it could have been written in the court of Barcelona—and he even notes 1159 as the date of composition—whereas Del Monte11 points to the possibility of it being actually composed in the court of Toulouse. Nevertheless, the humorous tone of the poem, which contributes little to a reliable interpretation, does not diminish the importance of the position of the court of Barcelona within the map of the troubadour world: Per que d’est comte aten de Barsalon’un don gen,

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92 que pro·m fassa e lui onransa; e cre, si de dar non dutz, qu’en sa cort, on suy vengutz, es fams e vera mermansa.12

Therefore, we will try to place the mentions of Catalans in the context of the historical events that gave them their meaning, and to see what lies behind the image they created. We have identified nineteen different terms referring to Catalans or Catalonia in forty-four compositions—which roughly represent 2% of the total lyric production— written by thirty-three different troubadours. To do so, we have only taken into account the poems that, going beyond the mere demonym, carry political or ideological connotations, which we will present in chronological order. Already in 1861, Milà i Fontanals described, and brilliantly so, the complex system of patronage established around the figure of Alfons I as well as in other noble courts. He recorded a score of troubadours, their vidas, razos and, mainly, their poems, which showed a certain link with the Catalan-Aragonese courts, or at least a certain interest in them. The scholars who have dealt with this topic after him have contributed to the exploration of those connections and, especially, to the interpretation of the motives which could have favoured the development undergone by troubadour activity in comparison with the previous period.13 According to the works by Riquer14 and Aurell,15 it seems clear that, under the patronage of Alfons the Chaste, the Catalan court integrated completely into the troubadour network and adopted the courtly code as its own (or at least that is the idea conveyed by the troubadours who were close to the king). Suffice it to recall the aforesaid passage of Bisson’s work, where the king is presented as an involved party in the fostering of poetry developed by Occitan patrons, in order to reinforce the image of courtly perfection attributed to him by troubadours, as well as that of royal dignity, and to make up a picture that, at any rate, legitimated his dominion over Provence and the Aragonese throne. A few years after the death of King Alfons, Raimon de Miraval, a troubadour from the viscounty of Carcassone, composed Bajona, per sirventes (PC 406,11). In this poem we find echos of the courtly image of the Catalan court: Car sai passes Barsaunes entre·ls Catalans joios, Serdanha ni Girones, say que vengues a rescos.16

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Catalans are depicted as a prototype of courtliness and as a people that promote the courtly values defined by the troubadours. The aspiration for the amorous joi, as one of the virtues of this courtly system, inspired this cultural universe.17 And the poem follows: Nostre reis Aragones que val mais de totz los pros, vuelh renovelh vostr’arnes, e diguatz m’als companhos que·l sieu gai captenemen volgra say vezer, Bajona! qu’entre nos fug lo Joven et us ricx no s’abandona, per qu’ieu am mas domnejar que no mal senhor forsar.18

In this composition by Raimon de Miraval,19 as well as in others such as Pos astres no m’es donatz (PC 248,65), by Guiraut Riquier, or Be·m plairia, seigner en reis (PC 242,22), by Giraut de Bornelh, the mentions of Catalans and the king himself can be the result of the image created by the troubadour poetry written within the dominions of Alfons I. Thus, the assimilation of the Occitan model, as regards both the compositional aspect and the patronage pattern, spread to all courts. However, this image works as a counterpoint to some of the criticisms of the enemies of King Alfons that were constructed with the same rhetorical tools, among which the pretz and the joi were double-edged swords. Let us see, for instance, a passage from Mout m’es deissendre carcol (PC 80,28), composed by the Aquitanian troubadour Bertran de Born in 1184: Aragones fant gran dol, Catalan, e cill d’Urgel Car non an qui los chapdel Mas un seignor flac e gran Tal qe·is lauza en chantan E vol mais deniers q’onor. E pendet son ancessor Per qe·is destrui et enferna.20

Bertran de Born was one of the strongest detractors of King Alfons I. In this poem, the Catalans, the Aragonese and the people from Urgell, appear as lordless vassals. The author questions the legitimacy of the

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monarch in courtly terms, which evinces the fact that the register and, especially, the code were the sine qua nons of the veracity of any discourse.21 In 1196, after the demise of Alfons I, the Chaste, his son Pere ascended the throne in the midst of the golden age of courtliness; if the legacy of King Alfons remained alive during the better part of the reign of his heir, Pere the Catholic’s own memory would be marked by the defeat of Muret. However, as Asperti22 notes, Pere I would be mentioned during his reign (1196í1213) by most of the troubadours from southern Occitania; therefore, evidence suggests continuity of the patronage of troubadours initiated by his father. According to some scholars, Albertet de Sisternon probably composed Monges, cauzetz, segon vostra sciensa (PC 16,17) towards the end of King Pere’s reign, on the threshold of the battle of Muret. This is the most significant poem concerning the mention of Catalans, precisely because it is the only one in which they are at the centre of the debate. The conversation between a certain monk and Albertet reflects the dispute between the two opposing forces in the crusade against Albigensians;23 as in the aforementioned poems, the dispute is described in courtly terms, within the canons of troubadour poetry, instead of in military terms. Thus, the first lines of the poem already define the direction in which the debate would develop: Monges, digatz, segon vostra scienssa, cal valon mais, Catalan o franses? E mier de sai Gaiscoigna e Proenssa e Limozin, Alvergne e Vianes, e de lai part la terra dels dos reis; e car sabetz de totz lur captenenssa, voill qe·m digatz en qals plus fins pretz es.24

Although the context of the composition seems to place us in the middle of the crusade against Albigensians, Riquer25 and Aurell26 argued that another approach would situate the dispute in the context of the Pax Dei, at the core of a cultural and institutional debate on this issue in terms of courtly values instead of those of the military, as noted by Guida.27 However, the storyline of the poem does not provide any clue as to which side is more likely to win the confrontation; the controversy focuses instead on discerning which side holds the supremacy in the system of courtly values.28 Throughout the reign of Jaume I, the Conqueror, a change can be perceived in the dynamics of the mentions of Catalans and the Crown; in

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fact, as Cabré29 suggests, no troubadour can be related to the figure of King Jaume on the same terms we find during the reigns of his immediate predecessors. Soldevila30, Cingolani31 and Aurell32 agree on the fact that, as a consequence of the monarch’s apparent lack of interest in Occitania— attested to by the loss of Languedoc and Provence—the promotion of poetry within and outside the Crown of Aragon declined. In this context, King Jaume I was involved in the intervention against the Angevin forces, due to which “the troubadours often criticize him, ironically and even spitefully, because of his absence from the theatre of military operations”. 33 On the other hand, and in keeping with the poem by Albertet de Sisternon, Aurell claims that the “severe criticisms, delivered by other troubadours against the crusaders who had invaded their land, also show a common Catalan-Occitan awareness, which is affirmed in opposition to the vices and the profound otherness of the French”.34 Here, Aurell refers to both the anti-crusade criticism and the attitude of the troubadours. From an Occitan standpoint, this was a moment of great tension in which political interests and religious dispute stirred up a conflict, echoed, as already noted, by the poetry. Although such criticisms are numerous, we cannot overlook the fact that during the reign of King Jaume a great deal of poems were dedicated to him, probably due to the fact that, in the course of the 13th century, poetry was increasingly used to deal with current issues and for propaganda purposes. In that period, the mentions including vocatives refer directly to the monarch, whereas Catalans appear only for geographical or descriptive references. In view of this situation, it is rather surprising to find the composition of the Narbonensian troubadour Guiraut Riquier Pos astres no m’es donatz (PC 248,65) in 1262. This poem is the clearest example of praise to Catalonia, in which the appearance of the virtues of the court and, by extension, of the Catalan-Aragonese territories, show in every verse by means of several recurrent words: En Cataluenha la gaya, entre·ls catalans valens e las dones avinents.35

Anglade 36 assumes that it could be a letter of introduction to the Catalan court. However, we should take into account that the poem was written at the end of the reign of Jaume I, the Conqueror, which would force us to place it in the milieu of the infant Pere, and not in the court of his father. As Cabré explains, that is the reason why “in the decade of the 60s of the 13th century, the Catalan court resumes its reference role, a

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change that has to be attributed to the arrival to the political arena of Pere the Great”. 37 Therefore, in our opinion, the image of Catalonia is established in the terms used by Guiraut Riquier. In fact, after a tumultuous period, as far as politics and territorial strategy are concerned, Jaume I became the target of criticism for many troubadours—such as Bernart de Rovenac (PC 60,1) and Sordel (PC 437,25)— and the object of respect for others. The court did not receive favourable criticisms again until the infant Pere created his own cultural circle and pro-Ghibelline political interests took shape.38 Thanks to the impetus of the infant Pere, the last years of the reign of King Jaume witnessed the renewal of the court. Remarkable figures, such as Cerverí de Girona, turned the Catalan court into a reference and patronage centre, as it had been in its origins under the rule of Pere’s great-grandfather, Alfons I, the Chaste. As his great-grandfather before him, Pere the Great was also attracted to the fostering of poetry. Although the poems of Cerverí de Girona hint at a more extensive work, only two exchanges of poems between Pere the Great and other troubadours have been preserved: the first one, between the King and a certain Peironet; the second one between the King and Pere Salvatge. Despite the militant antiAngevin component of several works composed in his milieu, mainly some sirventes written by Cerverí de Girona, Paulet de Marselha and Folquet de Lunel, the two poems attributed to Pere the Great are centred on courtliness. This fact is yet more significant because both of them evoke moments of great political tension: the first one, difficult to date, was probably written in 1268; but the poetic exchange with Pere Salvatge, more accurately dated, was composed on the eve of the French invasion of 1285. Besides these poems, the composition Nostre reis qu’es d’onor ses par (PC 57,3), by Bernat d’Auriac, also extant, opens the poem cycle of 1285. The troubadour, who favours the French spiritedly, makes a display of the French banners, shields and symbols, with the purpose of intimidating the Aragonese and the Catalans resisting the invasion. The metaphorical invasion of flowers depicted in the poem—the fleur-de-lis— again shows the importance of courtliness in rhetorics. Nostre reys, qu’es d’onor ses par, Vol desplegar Son gonfanó, Don veyrem per terra e per mar Les flors ana; Et sap mi bo, Qu’aras sabran aragonès Qui son francès,

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E·ls catalas estregz cortes Veyran las flors, flors d’onrada semensa, Et auziran diré per Arago Oil nenil en luec d’oc e de no.39

However, the scorn for the Catalans goes well beyond the combative elements of both sides, as shows the allusion to linguistic submission. Therefore, we could infer that the identity shaped by the CatalanAragonese crown, by means of the Occitan koine, was so deeply rooted that it ended up becoming the object of the threats of the opposing side.40 The four reigns we have mentioned above defined a sort of continuum in the use of troubadour poetry as a means of dissemination of certain ideologies and political criteria. Under the rule of Alfons I and Pere II, in a moment when the legitimacy of power and the revival of the original courtly values were the main goals, patronage was rather remarkable. The reign of Pere I was still under the shadow of his father’s cultural legacy, undone by the events of Muret. On the other hand, as we have shown, the mentions of Catalans under the rule of Jaume I often include vocatives addressed to the King himself, from which it can be deduced that territorial strategies became, through the quills of the troubadours, a double-edged sword trying to elicit a response from the King and creating a system of propaganda. At any rate, whatever the goal pursued by the monarchs, the persistent element is courtliness. As we have seen, even when the purpose is to denigrate a Catalan monarch or his court, troubadours do so by distancing themselves from that courtly elite, which evinces that the Catalan sphere had become an inextricable part of this culture and ideology.

Notes 

1 “La suggestió romàntica per la poesia popular i per la provençal, avivada a Catalunya per la germanor lingüística amb l’altra branca de la llengua d’oc”. Rubió i Balaguer, Història de la Literatura Catalana, 1:22. 2 We refer here mainly to Milà i Fontanals, De los trovadores en España; Riquer, Història de la literatura catalana, vol 1; the reference work Riquer, Los Trovadores, and, especially, the works focused on the presence of troubadours in the Crown of Aragon, as for example Nicolau d’Olwer, “Jaume I y los trovadors provensals”; Cluzel, “Princes et troubadours de la maison royale de BarceloneAragon”; Aurell, La vielle et l’épée; Di Girolamo, Els trobadors; Riquer, “Presencia trovadoresca en la Corona de Aragón”; Asperti, “I trovatori e la corona d’Aragona”; and Cabré, “Mécènes et troubadours” and “La lírica trobadoresca”.

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The coincidence between the closing of the troubadour period and the end of the century is obviously a historiographic convention. We can still find poems written in the style of troubadour poetry well into the 14th century. 4 Bisson, The Medieval Crown of Aragon, 36í37. 5 Aurell, La vielle et l’épée, “Les troubadours et le pouvoir royal” and “La fi de l’expansió a Occitània”. 6 Riquer, “La littérature provençale” and Los Trovadores. 7 As Bisson notes, another revealing factor as to the image and the characterization of Catalans is that they probably dominated the formation process of what he calls the federation—the Crown of Aragon—and, most importantly, for the first time ever the count-kings were dynastically identified as Catalans. This would clarify the meaning of the appearance of Catalans in several compositions, which, despite their connection with an ambivalent banner that belonged to both the counts of Barcelona and the Aragonese kings, would entail an unfair treatment for the other dominions under the rule of the kings of the Crown of Aragon. Bisson, The Medieval Crown of Aragon, 3. 8 The compositions of this paper are numbered according to the repertory indexed alphabetically by Pillet and Carstens, Bibliography der Trobadours (PC). The first number refers to the troubadour and the second one, followed by a comma, to the composition. 9 Gaunt, Harvey and Paterson, Marcabrú: A Critical Edition, 312, vv. 43í48. “With Portugal’s valour, and that of the Navarrese king as well, if only Barcelona turns towards imperial Toledo, we will be able to holler ‘Reial!’ and defeat the pagans”. Ibid. 10 Fratta, Peire d’Alvernhe. Poesie, 29. 11 Del Monte, Peire d’Alvernha. Liriche, 147. 12 Fratta, Peire d’Alvernhe, 31, vv. 13í18. “For that reason, I expect a gentle gift from this count of Barcelona, which serves me and honours him; and if he does not teach to give, I believe that in his court, where I come from, there will be hunger and true scarcity”. Translation by the author. 13 Cf. Riquer, “Un trovador valenciano”; Cluzel, “Princes et troubadours” and Alvar, La poesía trovadoresca en España y Portugal. 14 Riquer, “La littérature provençale” and Los Trovadores. 15 Aurell, “Les troubadours et le pouvoir royal”; La vielle et l’épée and “La fi de l’expansió a Occitània”. 16 Topsfield, Les poésies du troubadour Raimon de Miraval, 322, vv. 11í14. “Because you have crossed the territory of Barcelona, among the joyous Catalans, and those of Cerdanya and Girona, in order to come here, but I know you did so secretly”. Translated by the author from Andraud, La vie et l’oeuvre,69. 17 In that sense, it is surprising that Paterson values Catalan courtliness above that of the Occitan sphere, taking Ermengarda of Narbonne as an example, from whom he says “her reputation for solving questions of Love casuistry may not have been unconnected with her considerable legal and diplomatic skills”, which leads him to the opinion that “she was on close terms with the Catalans”. Paterson, The World of the Troubadours, 98.

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 18

Topsfield, Les poésies du troubadour Raimon de Miraval, 322, vv. 21í30. “I wish that our King of Aragon, who is worth more than all the mighty, would renew your equipment, and, Bajona, do me the pleasure of telling his companions that I would like to see him here with his lively manners. For Youth is leaving us, and none of the powerful wants to indulge in pleasure; as for myself, I would rather court the ladies than impose my presence on an uncourtly lord”. Translated by the author from Topsfield, “‘Jois’, ‘Amors’ and ‘Fin’Amors’”, 323. 19 For more information on the work of Raimon de Miraval, cf. Riquer, Los Trovadores; Topsfield, “‘Jois’, ‘Amors’ and ‘Fin’Amors’” and Les poésies. 20 Paden, Sankowitch and Stäblein, The Poems of the Troubadour Bertran de Born, 331, vv. 33í40. “The Aragonese lament, as do the Catalans and the people of Urgel, because they have no one to lead them but a loose and lanky lord who glorifies himself in song and prefers pennies to honour. He hanged his ancestor, so he destroys himself and damns himself to hell”. Ibid., 330. 21 For more information on the work of Bertran de Born, cf. Gouiran, L’amour et la guerre; Paden, Stankowitch and Stäblein, The Poems and Cabré, “La lírica trobadoresca” regarding the image projected by King Alfons in the extant poetry written in his milieu. 22 Asperti, “I trovatori e la corona d’Aragona”, 15í17. 23 As noted in Riquer, Los Trovadores; Aurell, La vielle et l’épée and Guida, “Questioni relative a tre partimens provenzali”. 24 Sanguineti, “Il trovatore Albertet”, 236, vv.1í7. “Monge, choose according to your understanding which are of greater worth, the Southerners or the French. On this side I put Gascony and Provence, the Limousin, the Auvergne and the Viennois, and on the other I put the land of the two kings. Now, since you know the whole nature of both them, I want you to tell me in which of them greater worth is to be found”. Harvey, Paterson and Radelli, The Troubadour Tensos and Partimens. 25 Riquer, Los Trovadores, 1135. 26 Aurell, La vielle et l’épée, 55í56. 27 Guida, “Questioni”, 273í301. 28 For more information on the work of Albertet de Sisternon, cf. Boutière, “Les poésies du troubadour Albertet”; Harvey, Paterson and Radelli, The Troubadour Tensos and Partimens and Sanguineti, “Pour une nouvelle édition critique”. 29 Cabré, “Trobadors i cultura trobadoresca”. 30 Soldevila, Vida de Pere el Gran. 31 Cingolani, Jaume I: història i mite. 32 Aurell, “La fi de l’expansió a Occitània”. 33 “Els trobadors el critiquen sovint, amb ironia, i fins i tot amb despit, per la seva absència del teatre d’operacions militars”. Ibid., 433. 34 “Crítiques molt fortes d’altres trobadors contra els croats que han envaït les seves terres mostren també una consciència comuna catalanooccitana que s’afirma de forma negativa considerant els vicis i la forta alteritat dels francesos”. Ibid., 433í434.

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 35

Riquer, Los Trovadores, vv. 8í10. “In Catalonia, the joyous, among the noble Catalans and gracious ladies”. Rosenberg, Switten and Le Vot, Songs of the Troubadours,175. 36 Anglade, Le troubadour Guiraut Riquier. 37 “Dans les années soixante du XIIIe siècle, la cour catalane reprend son rôle de réference, changement qu’il faut atribuir à l’accès à la politique active de Pierre le Grand”. Cabré, “Mécènes et troubadours”, 133. 38 For more information on the work of Guiraut Riquier, cf. Serra-Baldó, Els trobadors and Riquer, Los Trovadores. 39 Riquer, Los Trovadores, 1594-1595, vv. 1í12. “Our king, whose honour is peerless, wants to display his gonfalon, so we will see flowers advance by land and sea; and I agree, because now the Aragonese will know who the French are, and the Catalans, avariciously courtly, will see the flowers, whose seed is honourable, and will hear people say in Aragon oil nenil instead of oc and no”. Translated by the author. 40 For more information on the work of Bernat d’Auriac, cf. Parducci, “Bernart d’Auriac”, 82í98; Cluzel, “Princes et troubadours” and Hershon, Les troubadours de Béziers.

CHAPTER EIGHT THE BOUNDARIES BETWEEN FANTASY AND PATTERN IN LITERATURE: CURIAL E GÜELFA AND CATALAN SENTIMENTAL ROMANCE GEMMA PELLISSA-PRADES*

Foreword In order to approach the thought of the communities, social groups, and individuals that lived in a particular historical period we turn to archival documents, but also to the artistic and literary works of that period, which tell us about the individual and collective fears and passions of our ancestors. The study of Curial e Güelfa (ca. 1440–1450), one of the two major Catalan chivalric romances, shows the extent to which the fantasy of the author, and the influence of the prestigious literary models of the moment are intertwined. In the latest edition of this work, Badia and Torró1 proved that the writing of Curial e Güelfa responds to a strategy of imitation and emulation of previous texts, common in medieval literature. Since we now have a valuable bibliography on the sources of the novel,2this contribution focuses on the relationship between Curial e Güelfa and the traits that set the literary fashion of sentimental romance in the second half of the 15th century. To what extent did the author have in mind the successful mental model that these texts suggested? And, ultimately, did he seek to meet the expectations of a certain type of reader enthusiastic about these works?



* The author has benefited from a "Formación del Profesorado Universitario" grant from the Spanish Ministry of Education (2009-2013) in the Department of Catalan Philology of the University of Barcelona, aimed at the preparation of the PhD dissertation ‘La ficció sentimental catalana de la segona meitat del s. XV’, on which this contribution is based.

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This chapter will also assess whether this novel should be included in the corpus of Catalan sentimental romance. The study presented here is the result of a project whose goal was to implement the first census of writings related to Catalan sentimental romance.3 The inclusion of the texts of Catalan sentimental romance in the census has been carried out according to broad criteria. Thus, the chronology of the compositions is extensive—covering from the end of the 14thcentury until mid-16th century—translations have been included, in addition to the original works, as well as different literary forms—epistles, debates, sermons, narrations—and a distinction has been made between representative works and those other that share several literary resources and materials with the corpus, such as Curial e Güelfa. Although scholars have thoroughly studied sentimental romance in Spanish literature, the same cannot be said with regard to the French, 4 Portuguese,5Italian and Catalan6traditions, where the same phenomenon is also present, albeit it presents minor variations—yet to be defined—in the case of Italian and Portuguese literatures.7 Catalan sentimental romance is defined as a literary taste that surpassed genres, and was first conceived at the turn of the 14th to the 15th century. Initially, it manifested in narrative compositions in verse, and culminated in mid-16th century with the publication of Les estil·lades i amoroses lletres trameses per Bertomeu Sirlot a la sua senyora i per ella a ell, a parodic epistolary work. However, it was in the second half of the 15th century that it became a true reference model both in verse and, especially, in prose, for authors who sought to please an audience that was already dubbed enamorada generació (the generation in love). 8 Therefore, that audience found in amorous texts a number of features that all works worth their salt had to include. This literary fashion, produced in manuscript form, was probably read in courtly milieus9and urban literary circles, as the one Joan Roís de Corella describes in his Parlament en casa de Berenguer Mercader. Catalan sentimental romances are brief compositions of amorous theme characterized by their rhetoric wealth, and the prioritization of the theorization of passions and emotional effusiveness over the plot. Consequently, the fable, which usually revolves around a single narrative sequence, is subordinated to the discursive and/or lyric element of the text. One of the most common literary motifs of these works is the expression, in the first person, of the suffering caused by the unrequited love for a dame sans merci. The suitor establishes a vassalage relationship with his beloved, who does not reward him for his service; thus, some texts evince the contradiction between the ideal of courtly love and the reality of

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immediate disappointment.10 Amorous theorization, that is, the description of the causes and effects of passion, and moralization (divine or honest love versus dishonest love, rejection of passion) are also recurring motifs in these compositions. They were usually conveyed through rhetorical resources that ended up establishing the literary fashion of Catalan sentimental romance: narrator in the first person, allegories, epistles, alternating verse and prose, and the use of sentimental imagery (fire and flames, laments, sighs, martyrdom, Fortune...), and in fewer Catalan texts, disputes in favour of or against women, dreams or visions, classical mythology, debates and questions of love (questioni d’amore). The works written in Catalan that fulfil these characteristics and, therefore, occupy a central position within the corpus of sentimental romance are: the anonymous Frondino e Brisona; Glòria d’amor by Bernat Hug de Rocabertí; Tragèdia de Caldesa and the mythological prose written by Joan Roís de Corella; Lo despropriament d’amor by Romeu Llull; Regoneixença by Francesc Carròs Pardo de la Casta; Francesc Alegre’s Faula de Neptuno i Diana and Somni; and Bendir de dones and L’ànima d’Oliver by Francesc Moner. Despite the debates that usually follow the establishment of a census of literary texts, these texts are meant to endure, whether our classification criteria are broad, as in this case, or not. In fact, the common features observed in these works have allowed the configuration of the Catalan corpus of sentimental romance, but what is the distance between these texts—that is, between the mental model offered by Catalan sentimental romance—and Curial e Güelfa?

Amadís + Fiammetta = Curial e Güelfa In the first definition of sentimental romance, Menéndez Pelayo11 uses the formula that heads this section to identify its distinctive components. According to this scholar, the so-called novelas sentimentales (sentimental romances) responded to a combination, in varying degrees, of erotic and military elements, or to put it in his words, to the sum of the features of Fiammetta and the Amadís. Although Curial e Güelfa fits this description, it differs from Menéndez Pelayo’s definition of sentimental romance, because it is a chivalric romance in which the deeds of arms are not subjected to amorous exploits, in contrast with what happens in other works such as Cárcel de amor by Diego de San Pedro, translated into Catalan by Bernardí Vallmanya (1493) or in Tragèdia de Lançalot by mossèn Gras. Unlike the authors of Spanish sentimental romance, Catalan authors show little predilection for the development of chivalric episodes and, in

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general, for any kind of external action.12 In fact, if two translations have been mentioned so far (Lo càrcer d’amor and Tragèdia de Lançalot) as examples of the subordination of weapons to passion in Catalan sentimental romance, it is because the whole corpus only includes one original text that is both representative of this literary fashion and contains some sort of military element. In Frondino e Brisona (ca. 1400), lovers are forced to separate because the protagonist is involved in the war against the Turks. However, let us bear in mind that this work does not describe any battle, but alludes to the conflict only as a trigger of the separation of the lovers. On the other hand, Frondino e Brisona is one of the first examples of sentimental romance in the Iberian Peninsula, and for this reason it has often been treated as a precedent of this particular literary phenomenon.13 However, Cortijo14 claims that Frondino e Brisona already belongs to the corpus of sentimental romance, not as a mere precedent of such literary taste, but as part of the group of works that represent this fashion. Thus, while Catalan works including all of the aforementioned features of sentimental romance are often characterized by the importance given to the discourse and theorization of love at the expense of action, to the point of even dispensing with the chivalric element, Curial e Güelfa is based on a rich (and extensive) construction of the storyline where the military and amorous exploits of the protagonist are well balanced. Moreover, the distribution of the two components throughout the novel is uneven: if the deeds of arms prevail in the second book, the use of emotional traits is more pronounced in the first and third books, not only as regards the intensification of passion, but also concerning the literary resources used, although they do not aim to reinforce the amorous element—see, for instance, in book III, the treatment of allegory, and the intervention of mythological characters with different purposes. It still should be noted that in Curial e Güelfa sentimental elements do not appear so much in the relationship between the two main characters as in those established in the background between Curial and Laquesis (especially in book I) and Curial and Camar (in book III), despite the fact that they pose an obstacle to Curial’s happy marriage with Güelfa (the libidinal love opposed to Güelfa's chaste love). Although the prologue explicitly manifests the desire of the author to narrate the amorous vicissitudes of two characters that have been rewarded with marriage for their exemplary conduct, the book is actually a novel of formation of a virtuous knight, in both arms and love. And a good knight must be in love.15 Moreover, book II, the most extensive, is devoted almost exclusively to the chivalrous side of Curial. Therefore, unlike a text such

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as Tragèdia de Lançalot by mossèn Gras—where the adapter of the story remarkably summarizes the military episodes of La mort le roi Artu to promote the sentimental development of the narrative fable—in Curial e Güelfa the battlefield is described in as much detail as courtly feasts or the effects of amorous passion are in certain episodes of the work. It is in these scenes that the author uses the literary resources and motifs typical of sentimental romance. Thus, although the chivalric component of the novel is not merely at the service of love, and therefore cannot be considered representative of the literary fashion we are dealing with, it does contain all the materials that make up sentimental romance. The most significant elements are (hereinafter followed by the reference to the passage of the work in which they appear, according to the numbering in Badia and Torró 16 ): the allegory (2.35, 3.1, 3.26, 3.35, 3.39.4), the mentions of love letters (1.9.3, 1.13.3í1.13.4, 1.18.15, 1.22.7, 2.2.3, 2.14.6í2.14.10, 2.25.4 and 2.32.3), the presence of poetry (3.20.1 and 3.24.1), dreams or visions (1.14.22í1.15.2, 1.18.8, 2.47.1í2.47.2, 2.48.2í2.48.4, 3.10.2í3.12.1, 3.26, 3.30.2, 3.35), mythology (2.44, 2.48í2.49.1, 2.49.9, 3.1, 3.6-3.9, 3.10.2í3.12.1, 3.21.2, 3.27), specifically, the figure of Venus (1.13.12, 1.15.2, 3.6.1, 3.9.1, 3.19.4, 3.27.6, 3.35.8) and, finally, the use of sentimental imagery (1.17.7, 1.19.2, 1.23.3, 1.24.1, 2.26.2í2.26.4, 2.27.5, 2.31.1, 2.49.11í2.49.12, 3.2.5, 3.5.4, 3.17.2, 3.17.4í3.17.6, 3.19.1). Given the difficulty of specifying the type of images used in these texts, we transcribe an excerpt from Curial e Güelfa evincing the use of such resources. It is also worth noting in this passage the description of the symptoms of amorous passion in Camar: Emperò com Joan no curàs de Camar d’aquella cura que ella volguera, la mesquina de Camar, que encesa era del foc de Curial qui en ella com en forn de vidre cremava, se consumava e perdia ço que los captius cobraven, car ella no podia menjar ne dormir.17

As for the profuse rhetoric elaboration and the stylistic treatment received by sentimental romances, the following passage is a good example, comparable to Corella's Lamentacions, or to the Cárcel de amor by Diego de San Pedro. This is one of the many sentimental effusive expressions in Curial e Güelfa: —Ah, Melcior, pare meu! ¿E què és de la deessa del món? ¿E sí li recorda de mi? Ah, Cupido, les armes del qual port ficades en lo meu cor! Jo mir sovent en los cels e en lo terç contemple la tua mare, la qual ab los raigs lluminosos de la sua resplendor sol il·luminar aquest sobrestenebrós cor prometent-me bona esperança, digues-me, si alguna cosa de les

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Therefore, although Curial e Güelfa does not occupy a central position within the body of Catalan sentimental romance, it is necessary to include it as a work with sentimental materials, together with Lo somni, by Bernat Metge, and Joanot Martorell’s Tirant lo Blanc. First, because it uses resources that would become characteristic of this literary taste, and second, because, if we were to extract isolated passages or subplots, like the story of unrequited love between Camar and Curial in the third book, these episodes would constitute a sentimental romance in themselves. However, the whole text suggests a broader and more complex interpretation, where both the amorous moral example and the exaltation of the virtues of the Christian knight have their place, as well as the presentation of the author’s own conception of literature, which appears particularly at Parnassus, in Curial’s reflection on poetic truth.19 That is also the case with Lo somni, in which many different influences and sources are woven, on the one hand, with a purpose that goes far beyond what the authors of sentimental romances intended—discussing issues such as the political and religious context of the time, and metaphysical questions such as the immortality of the soul—and, on the other, in order to stage, in books III and IV, the remedy to the amorous passion of Bernat by means of a misogynistic debate. At this point in the story, the author displays a number of literary materials typical of sentimental romance. As for Tirant lo Blanc, it does not meet any of the essential premises of this literary fashion: the subordination of the storyline to the amorous experience. Indeed, if in Curial e Güelfa the deeds of arms of the protagonist promote his social ascent, and finally make him worthy of marrying Güelfa, Tirant allows an interpretation in which the binomial is reversed: it is love that enables the personal ambition of the protagonist and his parents. Proof of this is the observation of the narrator after Tirant and Carmesina exhange vows: “En alegria de goig tan inefable fou posada l’ànima de Tirant com se véu en camí poder posseyr la corona de l’Imperi grech per mitjà de les noves esposalles”.20

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The Process of Configuration of Literary Fashion: The Creation of a Reference Model When the author of Curial e Güelfa wrote his novel, between 1440 and 1450 approximately, Catalan sentimental romances were not yet a reference model, although several works considered today as clear exponents of that literary fashion had already been written, and already shared some influences characteristic of the works of the end of the century. As shown by Badia i Torró,21 the writer of Curial e Güelfa was acquainted with the troubadour tradition and the works of Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio, who, along with other medieval authors (Rodríguez del Padrón, Enric de Villena) became a channel of reception for the classics, including Ovid and Virgil, explicitly mentioned in the work. In fact, Camar, who in passage 3.16.5 revels in reading the Aeneid, ends up emulating Dido in a tragic death for love. Thus, classical literature, especially Ovid, contributed to shape the taste for sentimental romance, and so did the Italian reference authors (Dante Alighieri, Francesco Petrarca, Giovanni Boccaccio, Enea Silvio Piccolomini, Leon Battista Alberti) and the French tradition, specifically, the allegorical poetry and the questions of love.22 In most cases, the textual similarities between the resources employed by sentimental romance authors can be explained because they were based on the same sources and common places, and, in the second half of the 15th century, also due to their wish to satisfy the expectations of readers accustomed to such readings. From the composition of the first works of the corpus of Catalan sentimental romance, at the turn of the 14th to the 15th century, up to the recognition of a successful mental model in the second half of the century, the elaboration of the amorous theme suffered a slight evolution. The treatment of love proposed by sentimental romances was first seen in verse compositions, closely linked to traditional lyric forms, such as Salut d’amor, or Vicenç Comes’s Una ventura—written before 1381, this work recalls the French adages and allegorical works of Jaume March—the collective poem Lo conhort by Francesc Ferrer (1425–1458), and the lay Qui volrà veure un pobre estat by Pere Torroella (1436–1462). This group of works underlines that the beginning of Catalan sentimental romance is related to the tradition of courtly love, which is undoubtedly praised in both the anonymous salute and the text by Comes. In contrast, the works of the second half of the century reveal a criticism of the model of the fin’amors that not always triggered a break; Torró describes this phenomenon as the crisis of courtly love.23

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The greater dependence on courtly love of the sentimental romances of the beginning of the century is also evident in the literary texts that were translated into Catalan at the time. The Catalan versions of De amore by Andreas Capellanus (14th century) and Demandes d’amor (ca. 1400), a work of courtly theme, date back to this period, while there is no known Catalan version of Corbatxo and Boccaccio’s Fiammetta until the second half of the 15th century, which is fully consistent with the taste of the time. The first narrative work introducing prose into the corpus of Catalan sentimental romance was also composed around 1400: Frondino e Brisona, a composition alternating verse and prose that falls within the subgenre of chivalric romance; it refers, therefore, to amorous vassalage. Frondino e Brisona is the only representative work of the census of Catalan sentimental romance that conforms to the concept of “novel” as we understand it today, and ultimately, is the work that best lends itself to comparison with Curial e Güelfa, another chivalric romance, in this case, exclusively written in prose and quite extensive. Thus, Curial e Güelfa preserves continuity in the treatment of courtly love; in contrast to the ironic tone this topic receives in Tirant lo Blanc (1460–1464), written less than a decade later. The difference of status between Curial and Güelfa constitutes the driving force of the plot, just like in Frondino e Brisona. Once that obstacle is overcome by the rise and social triumph of the young knight, the two lovers meet again without fear that nothing will separate them again. The storyline, therefore, is the same in both works, although the author of Curial e Güelfa developed parallel narrative sequences and some digressions far from the subject of love, for the relationship between both protagonists is not the only storyline of the text. In turn, the happy outcome of both novels contrasts with the other texts of the census, which betray their negative conception of love. That is the case of the compositions of the first half of the century, in which the main character expresses his amorous suffering, without breaking yet the literary model offered by the fin’amors. The solutions the authors provide to the conflict are varied, but these early verse compositions do not represent a break with the tradition of the troubadours. For example, the poem Una ventura, by Comes, concludes with Hope and Firmness comforting the suitor, ensuring him that he will be rewarded for the suffering he withstands, whereas in Lo conhort, by Francesc Ferrer, the suitor, accompanied by a group of famous writers, resorts to slander to take revenge on an unknowing lady.

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The story told in Romeu Llull’s Despropiament, written in the second half of the 15th century, marks, symbolically, the turning point implied by the questioning of the validity of the rules of courtly love, which in some cases leads to the break of the amorous feudal vassalage (in Tragèdia de Caldesa by Joan Roís de Corella, written around 1458; Regoneixença e moral consideració by Francesc Carròs Pardo de la Casta, around 1478; and Faula de Neptuno i Diana by Francesc Alegre, composed between 1482 and 1486); in other works, it simply leads to a situation of disillusionment/deception with no way out (in the works of Francesc Moner and Francesc Alegre’s Somni) and, exceptionally, in the work of Romeu Llull, leads to a marriage with another woman, for whom the suitor does not feel an uncontrollable love.24 In Despropiament, Llull describes how the protagonist relinquishes the habit of amorous passion that had put him at the service of his beloved without obtaining anything in return. However, once the suitor is disappointed by the situation in which he finds himself, such disappointment does not always involve his release from amorous submission. In any case, except for the outcome, the argument of the text by Romeu Llull is also found, with little variation, in several works mentioned as representative of Catalan sentimental romance, with the exception of Frondino e Brisona, written at the beginning of the century, and Corella’s mythological prose writings—which are rewordings of classical myths with a tragic ending that exemplify the dangers of love. Overall, the second half of the 15th century emphasized reflection and psychological introspection, matching one of the main features of the final stage of Spanish sentimental romance, according to the classification established by Rohland de Langbehn,25 which enjoys a broad consensus. It is not until the last decades of the 15th century that we have clear evidence that Catalan sentimental romance is a literary stylistic model that both authors and readers bear in mind; a reality attested to by the fact that in ca. 1460-1464 Father Gras directly addressed the audience of the Tragèdia de Lançalot calling them enamorada generació (generation in love). Years before, the notary Narcís Gual had compiled much of the work that now occupies a central position in our census in a manuscript entitled Jardinet d’orats, composed for his personal use, finished in 1486, and now preserved in the Biblioteca de Reserva of the University of Barcelona (MS 151). 26 The selection of Narcís Gual responds to the literary taste of sentimental romance, which had been first conceived at the beginning of the century. The statement of Rubió i Balaguer about the amorous compositions of Antoni Vallmanya,27 an author also included in the Catalan sentimental corpus in verse, refers to this ambiance:

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Les monges de Valldonzella patien de “desconeixença”, com el poeta, perquè era la malaltia de moda. Tan de moda, que el cirurgià Martí Bellit va posar una joia com a premi en un certamen que havia de celebrar-se al convent de franciscans de Barcelona, el dilluns de Pasqua del 1457, a qui millor cantés “desconeixença de la enamorada” . . . Estem dins del mateix cercle de Rocabertí i no hi manquen ni el jardí amb les seves parelles enamorades ni la donzella ingrata . . . Representen una escola literària que reflecteix un matís, socialment difós, de la sensibilitat amorosa que va tenir a Barcelona el seu centre, el seu públic i els seus poetes a la segona meitat del segle XV.28

The monastery of Valldonzella should be connected with the production centres of Catalan sentimental romance, for authors like Antoni Vallmanya, Pere Pou and Francesc Alegre allow us to relate it to this literary fashion. Recent studies29 provide new data on the cultural centres around which Catalan authors moved after the death of Alfons the Magnanimous, in 1458, and place them in the vicinity of the court of Juan of Navarre, Ferran of Naples, and, especially, Carlos of Viana. Moreover, the delicate political situation in the period between 1458 and 1461, in which Juan II and the Prince of Viana frequented Catalonia, must have favoured the contact between the two most cultured literary courts of the time.30

Conclusions This journey through the evolution of Catalan sentimental romance reveals that the materials that would become characteristic of the literary fashion of the second half of the 15th century were already available to the author of Curial e Güelfa, and, in fact, had already given rise to Frondino e Brisona, which presents significant similarities with the former. The writer of Curial e Güelfa, drawing on different traditions, uses these resources and motifs in a chivalric romance written in prose with a clear moral purpose. Thus, the sentimental effusiveness required by a work of amorous theme coexists with the narrative action characteristic of the subgenre it belongs to.

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The model for Curial e Güelfa is the chivalric universe of the European romance of the 15th century, and its author does not seem to be consciously following any more or less defined literary taste, in contrast to the work of mossèn Gras in the decade of the 1460s. The author uses the materials and influences converging in the middle of the 15th century that, in the second half of the century, will consolidate in the so-called Catalan sentimental romance, which explores the rhetoric and literary exploitation of these elements without providing important innovations with regard to the storyline. It is precisely as an example of the use of these resources and common places that the inclusion of Curial e Güelfa in the census of Catalan sentimental romances as a work that contains sentimental materials needs to be claimed, together with Bernat Metge’s Lo somni and Joanot Martorell’s Tirant lo Blanc.

Notes  1

Badia and Torró, Curial e Güelfa. Hauf, “Edat Mitjana. Segle d’Or”, 2:127–203. 3 It can be found in Pellissa Prades, “La ficció sentimental catalana”, and will soon be available at the NARPAN website (www.narpan.net) in the form of a database that will allow combined searches. 4 Reynier, Le roman sentimental avant l’Astrée. 5 Deyermond, “The Female Narrator”, and Cortijo, La evolución genérica. 6 Rubió i Balaguer, Història de la literatura catalana, 1:402–406, and Llull, Obra completa, 41–45. 7 For an overview of the available bibliography on Spanish sentimental romance, see Deyermond, “El estudio de la ficción sentimental”. 8 This term was used by mossènGras, in the prologue to Tragèdia de Lançalot (ca. 1487), the Catalan sentimental adaptation of La mort le roi Artu. 9 Torroella, Obra completa, 1:55–73. 10 Llull, Obra completa, 42–43. 11 Menéndez Pelayo, Orígenes de la novela española, 1:281–309. 12 Ribera i Llopis, Narrativa breu catalana, 62–64, and Torró, “Context: l’autobiografia sentimental literària”, 62. 13 Annicchiarico, Frondino e Brisona, and Deyermond, “Las innovaciones narrativas”. 14 Cortijo, La evolución genérica, 9 and 27–38. 15 Badia and Torró, Curial e Güelfa, 619. 16 Badia and Torró, Curial e Güelfa. 17 Idem., §3.16.17. “John, however, did not care for Camar in the way she would have wished, and the wretched Camar, who was afire with love for Curial, which burned in her like a glass-maker’s furnace, wasted away more every day. What she lost, the slaves gained, for she could neither eat nor sleep.” Waley, Curial and Guelfa, 228. 2

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18 Badia and Torró, Curial e Güelfa, §1.13.12. “Ah, Melchior, my father, how is the goddess of the world? Does she remember me? Ah, Cupid, whose weapons are firmly fixed in my heart! I gaze often at the heavens, and in the third of them contemplate your mother, the shinning rays of whose splendour illuminate thid overcast heart, promising me good hope. Tell me, if anything in the future is sure to you, whether I shall ever see again her whose slave I am, without whom I should despise and hold as nothing the sovereignty of the world. Tell me if she wishes me well and holds me as hers, as she told me. Ah, woe me! How and when shall I deserve the good things she has given me and the honours she has done me, and does me every day? What counsel has won for me, what fates have decreed for me, that this queen of nobless should raise me up at her expense?” Waley, Curial and Guelfa, 28–29. 19 Badia and Torró, Curial e Güelfa. 20 Martorell, Tirant lo Blanc (València, 1490), chap. 271. “Tirant’s soul was filed with inexpressible joy, for her higness had treted him so warmly and generously, had shown him her infinite love with such true faith, that by means of these new espousals he saw himself on the way to obtaining the crown of the Greek Empire.” Martorell, Tirant lo Blanc: The Complete Translation, 537. 21 Badia and Torró, Curial e Güelfa. 22 For a detailed outline of the influences on sentimental romance, see Deyermond, “Las relaciones genéricas”. 23 Llull, Obra completa, 42–43. 24 Torró, in Llull, Obra completa, 43, proposes a more elaborate classification of the solutions adopted by the authors of Catalan sentimental romance when they face the impossibility of the main character to achieve a satisfactory relationship. The scholar distinguishes between: a) the works presenting a tragic exhibition of a moral lesson (Corella); b) those that defend honest love (Alegre); c) those rejecting passion (Faula de Neptuno i Dianaby Alegre); and d) marriage (Romeu Llull). 25 Rohland de Langbehn, La unidad genérica de la novela sentimental española. 26 Torró, Jardinet d’orats. 27 Rubió i Balaguer, Història de la literatura catalana, 1:438–439. 28 The nuns in the monastery of Valldonzella suffered from desconeixença (unrequited love), just like the poet, because it was the ailment of the moment. It was so popular that the surgeon Martí Bellit offered a jewel to the poest who best reflected his unrequited love for a woman in a literary contest held in the Franciscan convent of Barcelona, on Easter Monday in 1457 . . . This happened within the circle of Rocabertí and gardens, couples in love, and ungrateful maidens, appear frequently [in these poems] . . . They represent a literary fashion that shows certain sensibility about love matters and that was socially widespread, although it had its main focus in Barcelona, its audience and its poets in the second half of the fifteenth century. Translated by the author. 29 Torró, “Una cort a Barcelona”, Bassegoda, Vida i obra de Fra Bernat, and Torroella, Obra completa.

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 30

Torró, “Una cort a Barcelona”, Bassegoda, Vida i obra de Fra Bernat, 99, and Torroella, Obra completa, 1:65–72.

CHAPTER NINE SPACES OF THOUGHT CREATION IN ALMOHAD GRANADA: THE ALMUNIAS DOLORES VILLALBA SOLA

Foreword The analysis of intellectual activity has been approached from many different fields; however, we often forget the context and, above all, the space where this production developed, and the role of that space in creative writing. The study presented in this chapter aims to display the environment of intellectual creation and its influence, but above all, its purpose is to offer a new vision of Granada’s Almohad architecture based on literary sources.

Intellectual Production as a Source for the Study of Almohad Granada The city of Granada was one of the most important cultural centres of the Almohad Caliphate thanks to the literary court that developed around its first sayyid: Abnj Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd ‫ޏ‬UthmƗn b. ‫ޏ‬Abd al-Mu‫ގ‬min b. ‫ޏ‬AlƯ (d. 1178–9), the son of Caliph ‫ޏ‬Abd al-Mu‫ގ‬min (d. 1163), who appointed him as governor of Granada in the year 551/1156–1157.1 His passion for poetry, draw leading literary figures to the city, such as Abnj l-ণasan b. NizƗr, alKutandƯ, Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd, al-RuৢƗfƯ, Ibn Jubayr, al-MawƗ‫ޏ‬ƯnƯ, the author of the Ray‫ۊ‬Ɨnat al-albƗb and ণafৢa b. al-ণƗjj, among others. They left an account of their stay and work in this court in their literary creations, some of them extant, which provide insight into some part of the history of madƯnat GarnƗ‫ܒ‬a. Examples are the laudatory poems composed

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by ণafৢa b. al-ণƗjj (d. 1191)2 and Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd (d. 1163), in honour of sayyid Abnj Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd ‫ޏ‬UthmƗn: Ye ascribe wisdom and wit/ to him whom ye have trained: were it not for ye/ he would still remain in ignorance./ He is not worthy of praise, only/ thy greatness is capable of giving honours…/ I am nothing but thine, and it is towards thee that I go,/ and what is good in me/ is what has in thee its source.3

This verse, composed by Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd in honour of the Almohad sayyid at the beginning of his rule in Granada, allows us to grasp the good relationship between the poet and his liege. This situation would not last for too long, first because of their rivalry for the heart of the poetess ণafৢa b. al-ণƗjj and, second, due to the treason of Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd against the Almohads. Such betrayal cost him his life in the year 558/1163 after becoming an ally of Ibn MardanƯsh,4 one of the greatest enemies of the Almohad Caliphate. Therefore, this laudatory verse is no longer a perfect example of the evolution of the history of the city of Granada in the Almohad period, and there lies the importance of analysing and using the literary production as an additional source for understanding Almohad history and art. In fact, the intellectual production of this court, after careful study, allows us to access a part of history absent from official chronicles, thus creating a much more comprehensive and enlightening view of the time and its facts. This can be extrapolated to the Caliphate in general, given the importance that this court reached within its intellectual life. A good example is one of the poems composed by ণafৢa b. al-ণƗjj in 552/1158 in honour of the Caliph, 5 which was recited by the poetess herself in the city of Rabat, where she travelled as part of the delegation from Granada that paid homage to ‫ޏ‬Abd al-Mu‫ގ‬min: “Honour me with the gift of a piece of paper,/ that serves me as a defence against the vicissitudes of fate,/ and in which thy hand writes: All praise is due to God alone.”6 Along the same line, we find the poem composed by Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd to honour Caliph ‫ޏ‬Abd al-Mu‫ގ‬min during his visit to al-Andalus in 554/1160:7 May this sea suffice as evidence of good omen,/ since it comes to kiss the land which has walked/ thy army, as immense as the land itself./ The sounds it utters are therefore greetings/ offered to thee relentlessly: it directs them, near thee,/ with a smiling face showing its white teeth./ The vast Fortune upon the Peninsula and experience / have thus verified the omen./ ৫Ɨriq would lower his head in shame at such a success,/ and Ibn Nuৢayr never made a conquest like this./ They both have prepared this

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Peninsula so that ye/ ye may settle in the country, to be like a full moon/ in the middle of its halo.8

This poem consecrated Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd as one of the leading writers of his time, granting him the favour of the Caliph and his son, the sayyid of Granada. Given the good position he enjoyed at court, his betrayal is usually associated with reasons more related to love than to ideology, although, certainly, the persuasive ideas of the poet's own family were decisive and led to his turning to the rebel side and subsequent death. These brief remarks show how literary production is not only a means to know the activities, the ways of human expression, feelings, ideas and fears, but also a document describing a history parallel to that recounted in official chronicles, and a living remnant of such history. But, moreover, it is also a source for the study of architecture and environment in the Middle Ages, for it mirrors, as we will see below, the context in which it was created. Therefore, the study of the material remains that have survived to this day must be reconciled with the analysis of the extant written sources. However, we must bear in mind several issues concerning literary works. First, they are a first-hand source, produced at the same time than the historical and artistic events that make up history—in our case, the history of the Almohad Caliphate. Second, many of them originated in the different spaces that we intend to study, which served as inspiration for the creation, in many cases, of poetic compositions. In fact, in various compositions, we see descriptions of buildings, as well as allusions to buildings of special significance at the time, and even references to the city or the historical events occurred there. Finally, something that should not be overlooked is the fact that, in the case of literary sources, many of them should be considered works of art in themselves, thus, they are endowed with an important creative and imaginative content, which may cast doubts on their reliability. Therefore, when we use poetry, or other literary works as a source for the understanding of the city, its architecture, its society, or its historical events, we must consider that literature is an artistic source that should be taken with caution, and contrasted with other sources and archaeological remains, in order to get a glimpse of its veracity. However, in the case of the Almohad Caliphate, these compositions allow us to observe a less partial historical panorama than that offered by official chronicles.

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The Almunia. Spaces of Creation and Literary Inspiration in Almohad Granada The context, and above all, the space where literary creation takes place is one of the most overlooked aspects in the study of intellectual production. However, we must recall that environment, context, and space also play an important role in literary creation, influencing intellectual reflection both directly and indirectly. In the case of Almohad Granada, the main areas where intellectual activity was developed were the almunias and recreational mansions. For this reason, these are the spaces that best represent the environment of literary production of the period, because most of the intellectual meetings of the time, both official and unofficial, took place there. Thus, the almunia is the building more frequently described in the literary production of Almohad Granada, and the context and space where we can best assess its importance for the creation of literature. We know of the existence of several almunias and recreational mansions9 in Almohad Granada.10 Some examples are DƗr al-bayঌƗ, the mansion of the Cuarto Real de Santo Domingo and that of the Casa de los Girones, or the almunias located between 2000–2001 at 13 Cuarto Real de Santo Domingo Street, and 12 Solares Street,11 all within the famous Najd suburb, in the current Realejo quarter. This area was not the only one housing recreational mansions: other substantial buildings can be found outside the limits of that quarter, along the banks of the Genil River, such as the so-called Qaৢr al-Sayyid, which is none other than the Alcázar of the Genil River, or the almunia of KimƗma. Moreover, it seems that, in the Almohad period, there were also almunias in the opposite end of the city, that is, near the current San Juan de Dios Street; a good example of this are the remains that were discovered under the current Plaza de los Lobos.12 Thus, this type of building proliferated dramatically during the Almohad period not only in Granada, but also in other parts of the Caliphate. In fact, the existence of almunias in Seville, Córdoba, Málaga and Marrakesh, only to name the most famous examples, is well known. The almunia of KimƗma is the most frequently mentioned in the intellectual production of Granada, allowing us to know the function and characteristics of this environment of literary creation. The architectural and archaeological remains of this recreational residence have not been found so far, but it seems that it featured all the characteristics of this type of building. This can be deduced from the comparison between the information about it provided by literary texts and the archaeological remains of other extant almunias such as Qaৢr al-sayyid. This will allow

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us to assess the degree of accuracy of the literary production as a source for the analysis of Almohad architecture. KimƗma was the name of the recreational estate of the poet Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd. There, during the Almohad period, took place countless literary gatherings, and encounters between the poet and his beloved, the poetess ণafৢa b. al-ণƗjj. It is for this reason that several poems evoke this space, described as an estate with an orchard, gardens and a small mansion, as we will see captured in the verses reproduced below. Thus, a recreational estate becomes a space of amorous encounter and intellectual meeting, of inspiration for literary creation. This can prove the importance of literary sources as a means to know, in this case, Almohad architecture, and to show the influence of the environment on medieval intellectual activity. It is worth noting that we do not know the exact location of that almunia. However, two poems written by Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd and his beloved, the poetess ণafৢa b. al-ণƗjj, allow us to venture a hypothesis about its location: May God safeguard the night that goes through without anything objectionable/ coming to disturb it, the afternoon that covered us with its veil in ণawr Mu‫ގ‬ammal!/ From the Najd came a breeze that was as a balm and each/ of its blows gave off the perfume of clover!/ A turtledove moaned in the tall trees and a branch/ of myrtle hung above the stream./ The garden seemed contented with our display/ for there was nothing but hugs, caresses and kisses/ in which the lips greedily inhaled.13 For your life! The garden was not contented/ with our amorous encounter./ But it showed us/ all its envy and resentment./ Nor did the river applaud/ sociable, for being close/ or the turtledove sang/ but because it was sad./ Do not show confidence/ —even being worthy of it—/ because that is not always the right thing./ I think, however, that the sky shows us its stars/ but only so that they spy on us.14

In these poems, both poets describe one of their encounters, probably in KimƗma. In an earlier poem, the poetess, responding to her lover, who berates her for her absence, names this estate as the place where they met: “For God! The clouds pour their waters at all times;/ and at all times does the flower pop its bud (kimƗma)/ If thou had known my excuse,/ thou would have held thy slanderous tongue.”15 As regards the location of this almunia, our first concern, the analysis of the first two poems suggests that it was surrounded by vegetation and was located in a space nearby the suburb of Najd, but out of it, as the first poem indicates. Otherwise, it would not mention the “scents coming from that suburb.” Another important detail is that the meeting place is located

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on the banks of a river; chances are that it was the Genil River, given its proximity to the Najd. However it should be noted that, depending on the translation of the poem, it refers to a river or to a stream. Conversely, if we turn to the original poems, we see that the word used to designate this water flow is al-nahr,16 whose exact translation is “the river.” Certainly, the poem mentions a river, not a stream, which supports our theory that this almunia stood near the Genil River, because it is the only river that has been associated with such buildings. The Darro River was used by tanneries, butchers, potters and other workshops to discharge their wastes, which made its banks unappealing as a recreational area. Thus, the specified location, would be outside the city, in a similar place as that occupied by Qaৢr al-sayyid, whose remains are still extant. KimƗma, in turn, would be closer to the Najd than the remains of Qaৢr al-sayyid, an almunia also built during the Almohad period, although several years after the composition of these poems: Qaৢr al-sayyid was built in 611/1215 by the father of Caliph ‫ޏ‬Umar al-MurtaঌƗ,17 almost at the end of the Almohad period, while KimƗma belonged to the poet Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd—until his premature demise in 558/1163—who lived at the beginning of the Almohad rule over the city of Granada. Thus, although these two architectural spaces present the same features, they were, as we shall see, different buildings located in different areas, but probably close to each other. As for the configuration of this recreational estate, it is possible to identify some of its characteristics through a poem that Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd wrote to his fellow poets as an invitation to spend an evening in his mansion: Hasten, by the name of God! To an orchard,/ ornate branches and embroidered robes./ There is a pavilion there called KimƗma: look at it/ at flowers with a perfume more intense than storax./ I have everything I could wish for:/ wine, love, books, and games./ Each will do what he wants, I will not hold anyone’s reins:/ he who loves helps./ Nor will you miss the company of a slave, who,/ when she sings, makes the most balanced lose his mind . . .18

Therefore, it was a recreational estate with very specific characteristics: composed of orchards and gardens where a pavilion or qubba stood as the central architectural element of the complex. This building allowed them to shelter and have a number of commodities which could not be enjoyed outdoors. The structure seems to be composed of a central pavilion within a garden area with orchards. This distribution is the most repeated in Andalusian almunias and recreational residences and, particularly, in the

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Almohad buildings of this type built in Granada. So much so that the two great almunias whose remains have been located, both of them belonging to the ruling elite of the city, have this same structure. This allows us to establish a clear structural comparison between, on the one hand, KimƗma, and, on the other, the remains of the old Almohad almunia in the Cuarto Real de Santo Domingo, and the remains of Qaৢr al-sayyid, for the three of them have a similar configuration. It should also be noted that the extant Almohad almunias also share another common element: the presence of a garden pond in front of the pavilion. However, these garden ponds have nothing to do with the octagonal small pond located in the excavations in the Cuarto Real de Santo Domingo,19 or with the remains of the pool of Qaৢr al-sayyid. In fact, the pool of Qaৢr al-sayyid is the largest one built in al-Andalus, 121.4 x 28 m, not only under Almohad rule, but also in the whole Andalusian period.20 Undoubtedly, it is only comparable to the size of the pools built by Almohad caliphs in the city of Marrakesh, which can be explained if we consider its dual functionality: a recreational facility— as a swimming pool—with an agricultural application, as a water reservoir for the irrigation of the vega of Granada, as the extant remains of pipes and ditches show. Back to the subject at hand, the presence of garden ponds, both in these two almunias and in the archaeological remains of the other three recreational residences from the Almohad period located in Granada, suggests that, possibly, KimƗma also had a small garden pond in front of the pavilion. It is also possible that it had a fountain, one of the most frequent elements in this type of building. Fountains are one of the essential components of a recreational estate, since water is an element reminiscent of Paradise, and one of the main sources of inspiration for Arabic literature. A good example are the two poems composed by Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd and Ibn NizƗr (d. 2nd half 12th-c.), respectively, in which, in the context of a meeting with al-KutandƯ (d. 1187–9) in the garden of an almunia in La Zubia, they describe the parts of a fountain.21 Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd describes the jet of the fountain as a female dancer, whereas Ibn NizƗr, describing its basin, writes: Here is a dancer, she does not move/ if an unsheathed water sabre does not move her./ It makes her spin, albeit she is reluctant, and she unsheathes/ sharp sabres against him: she is not fatigued/ nor is he amazed./ Spinning quickly, thou would think/ that she faces at once all the sides of the garden.22

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Chapter Nine I have seen a tent of water spread it around,/ while a gust of wind fought for its mantle./ Sometimes it surrenders and others it revolts,/ like a female dancer who unfastens and fastens her robe.23

These two poems are good examples of how the environment and context affect literary production, to the point of even becoming its main character. In fact, it seems that these spaces were chosen as the environment of literary creation because of their features and paradisiacal connotations, which invited to relaxation, enjoyment and the opening of senses. This space was suitable, therefore, for the development of intellectual activity, which explains why almunias were one of the favourite places for the exercise of intellectual expressions in the Almohad period. Still, we must not forget that our analysis is framed in an Islamic context, and thus follows the parameters specific to intellectual production in the Islamic world. Since they are completely different from the parameters of the Christian world, they cannot be generalized for the entire medieval period.

Conclusions Our brief outline of one the most prominent spaces of literary creation in Almohad Granada, the almunias, allows us to conclude with a series of ideas that have emerged as important issues throughout our analysis. First, we can reaffirm the importance of literary compositions as a means to study and learn about the architecture and history of the Almohad period from a less partial standpoint than chronicles. Although we should not forget that every literary composition must be carefully analysed, given the important role ingenuity plays in their creation . Second, this type of study can approach Almohad architecture from a point of view that, while innovative, is also complementary to other written and archaeological sources. In fact, the analysis we have carried out, given its coincidence with architectural remains, allows the assessment of the reliability of the data extracted from literary sources, which turns these compositions into a valuable resource for research. Finally, this study has helped us reveal Almohad architecture as a space of intellectual inspiration and creation. This clearly indicates that the context in which intellectual activity is developed in the Middle Ages is not usually a mere space of expression and creation, but a place expressly chosen for the exercise of this activity. It is an environment that influences the actions taking place therein and it even becomes an aesthetic element in itself, as it is reflected, both consciously and unconsciously, in the compositions resulting from intellectual activity. Thus, there are cases, as KimƗma exemplifies, where the environment becomes the main character,

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and an evocative space that will endure for centuries in poems and literary compositions.

Notes  1

Ibn AbƯ Zar‫ޏ‬, Raw‫ ڲ‬al-qir‫ܒ‬Ɨs, 391. Rubiera, Poesía femenina hispanoárabe, 145. 3 Translated from Moral, Abnj Ǔaҵfar b. SaҵƯd, 45. 4 Ibn Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd al-MaghribƯ, El libro de las banderas, 218, and Ibn al-Kha৬Ưb, Al-I‫ۊ‬Ɨ‫ܒ‬a fƯ akhbƗr GharnƗ‫ܒ‬a, 218–220. 5 Huici Miranda, Al-‫ۉ‬ulal al-Mawšiyya, 62–65. 6 Translated from Ibn Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd al-MaghribƯ, El libro de las banderas, 212. 7 Huici Miranda, Al-‫ۉ‬ulal al-Mawšiyya, 185, and Ibn ‫ޏ‬IdhƗrƯ, Al-BayƗn alMughrib, 339–342. 8 Translated from Moral, Abnj Ǔaҵfar ibn SaҵƯd, 47. 9 The sources providing information about the almunias and recreational mansions of the city of Granada in the Almohad period suggest a classification of these buildings into: those we are only aware of through written sources, such as DƗr albayঌƗ, Qaৢr al-sayyid (Huici Miranda, Al-‫ۉ‬ulal al-Mawšiyya, 195), and KimƗma (Ibn Al-Kha৬Ưb, Al-I‫ۊ‬Ɨ‫ܒ‬a fƯ akhbƗr GharnƗ‫ܒ‬a, 491–492; Ibn Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd al-MaghribƯ, El libro de las banderas, 213–214) and those whose archaeological remains have been located, such as the mansions in theCuarto Real de Santo Domingo (Álvarez, “Actuación arqueológica de urgencia”,265–269), and Casa de los Girones (Orihuela, Casas y Palacios Nazaríes, 251), the almunias located at 13 Cuarto Real de Santo Domingo Street and 12 Solares Street (García, Informe de la actuación arqueológica, 20–22), and the one located under the current Plaza de los Lobos (Rodríguez, Propuesta de integración del hallazgo arqueológico, 159). 10 Villalba, Arquitectura del agua, 90–92. 11 García, Informe de la actuación arqueológica, 20–22. 12 Rodríguez, Granada Arqueológica, 159. 13 Translated from Moral, Abnj Ǔaҵfar ibn SaҵƯd, 28–29. See also Sobh, Poetisas arábigo-andaluzas, 94–97, andIbn al-Kha৬Ưb,Al-I‫ۊ‬Ɨ‫ܒ‬a fƯ akhbƗr GharnƗ‫ܒ‬a, 491– 492. 14 Translated from Sobh, Poetisas arábigo-andaluzas, 97.See also Giacomo, Une poetesse grenadine, 49–51. 15 Translated from Sobh, Poetisas arábigo-andaluzas, 104–105. 16 Ibn al-Kha৬Ưb, Al-I‫ۊ‬Ɨ‫ܒ‬a fƯ akhbƗr GharnƗ‫ܒ‬a, 491–492. 17 Huici Miranda, Al-‫ۉ‬ulal al-Mawšiyya, 195. 18 Translated from Moral, Abnj Ǔaҵfar ibn SaҵƯd, 102–105. 19 Álvarez, “Actuación arqueológica de urgencia”, 268. 20 Rodríguez, Propuesta de integración del hallazgo arqueológico, 6. 21 Moral, Abnj Ǔaҵfar ibn SaҵƯd, 35–36. 22 Ibid., 36. 23 Ibid. 2

PART IV: INTELLECT AND REASON

CHAPTER TEN THE UNIVERSE, A SPACE OF KNOWLEDGE IN HILDEGARD OF BINGEN AND HERRAD OF HOHENBOURG* GEORGINA RABASSÓ

Introduction The aim of this article is to analyse the cosmological contents included in the corpus of two magistrae, Hildegard of Bingen (1098í1179) and Herrad of Hohenbourg (1125/30íca. 1195), as a showcase of the scope of the scientific culture of women in the Middle Ages. The intellectual scene of their time was marked by the development of cathedral schools, whose access was forbidden to women. However, overcoming numerous obstacles and difficulties, they managed to find ways of learning and conveying their knowledge, which is expressed on the basis of another kind of experience, through another kind of writing, but deals with the same truths: God, the Creation and the human being. What was education like in medieval nunneries? Not only do the books of the magistrae evince that those communities were spaces of learning, but they also point to some of their intellectual and spiritual concerns.1 In particular, the present paper intends to delve into the interest both Hildegard and Herrad show––albeit through different attitudes and discourses––in the material universe, starting from the idea of “per visibilia ad invisibilia”, that is, the Creation as a path of knowledge towards the Creator.

Different Intellectual Attitudes The term magistra designated a complex role, which included the functions of prioress, administrator, master, and spiritual mother of the women integrating the cenobitic community. Such denomination appears frequently in the epistolary exchange between Hildegard of Bingen and

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other abbesses and prioresses. However, Hildegard separates her intellectual and educational activity from her magisterium, understood in the scholastic sense. Alien to the education of scholars, according to her own account, she regards herself as “indocta de philosophis” 2 and does not pretend to write after their fashion. However, she demands not to be despised for that reason, and remarks the need for her message to be heard. Her only authority, she claims, is divine wisdom, with which she establishes a cognoscitive unmediated relationship. According to Hildegard, philosophy and wisdom cannot be equated, since the former concerns the human being while the latter pertains only to God. Nevertheless, despite her reticence towards the humanae scientiae, her writings reveal a knowledge pervaded with the intellectual scene of her time. The magisterium of Herrad of Hohenbourg is clearly different, although it shares several interesting common points with Hildegard’s magisterium.3 Herrad compiled the Hortus deliciarum, a work composed with the collaboration of the Augustinian canonesses of her community, with the purpose of procuring them a solid education. In the description of her creative process, the abbess likens the texts compiled there to the flowers of a garden, and compares herself with a “quasi apicula Deo inspirante”, who selects them and turns them into a honeycomb, the spiritual and intellectual sustenance of her filiae.4 The Liberal Arts, strongly featured in her treatise, are depicted in one of the most meaningful miniatures of the Hortus. They appear as female personifications, inscribed within a rosette and forming a circle around Philosophy, at whose feet appear Socrates and Plato as scribes. Herrad shows a clear interest in the study of philosophy and her inclusion of this discipline in the cura monialium is innovative.5 In contrast with Hildegard, Herrad places great value on philosophy, and even identifies it with wisdom itself. Their respective descriptions of the material universe belong, as those of their contemporaries, within a much broader narrative of the history of salvation. In different ways, both authors manifest a lively interest in natural philosophy. On the one hand, Herrad opts for philosophy, draws on explicit sources, and shows the structure of the cosmos in a simple manner. On the other, Hildegard bases her description on a divine revelation, specifies only a few sources besides the Bible, and her allegorical image of the universe is much more complex and elaborated. Therefore, I will analyse first the cosmic structure described in the Hortus deliciarum, and later I will try to clarify the cosmology behind the visiones of Hildegard’s universe.

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The Structure of the Cosmos according to the Hortus deliciarum In the first folios of the Hortus deliciarum, a treatise of theological and encyclopaedic character written approximately between 1176 and 1195, Herrad of Hohenbourg compiles texts and diagrams related to the material universe and centred on the theme of creation. 6 The passages “De firmamento” and “De quatuor complexionibus mundi”7 are some of the writings authored by Herrad herself in which she presents the structure of Heaven and Earth. Those passages are interspersed with others extracted from the works of the Venerable Bede and Honorius of Autun, from Peter Lombard’s Liber sententiarum and Rabanus Maurus’s De universo, among others. Herrad is a bee in the garden of scholasticism 8 and the Hortus accounts for the kind of sources within the reach of medieval nunneries. As regards its contents, Herrad expresses succinctly, as we will see, the commonly accepted cosmological notions of her time. The composition of heavens is one of the main questions. Through a selection of texts, Herrad addresses both the elementary composition of the universe and its different areas, which do not always match the four elements. According to Bede—she claims—there are seven heavens: air, ether, olympus, fiery heaven, firmament, heaven of the angels, and heaven of the Trinity.9 Later on, in a text written by herself, she reproduces almost the same description, adding a heaven of water, which would occupy the sixth position in the upwards direction, after the firmament and before the angelic heaven: Quidam dicunt septem celos esse: primum aerium, secundum ethereum, tercium sidereum, quartum igneum, quintum firmamentum, sextum aqueum, septimum angelorum . . . Celi dissimiliter a magistris ordinantur et inequaliter distinguntur. Quidam enim septem celos, quidam quatuor, quidam tres distingunt, que tamen rationabiliter in unum conveniunt.10

In this passage, Herrad compiles three different ways of dividing heavens. Probably the quadruple division refers to the conception of the universe as composed of the four elements (in descending order: fire, air, water, earth), expressed by Hildegard of Bingen and other previous and contemporary authors, as we will see. In the sevenfold division Herrad does not follow the usual order, for she places the watery area above the fiery region and the firmament. The topic of the waters “which were above the firmament” (Gen. 1:7) is one of the most controversial points of the interpretation that tried to harmonize the physical principles of the Bible and Plato’s Timaeus (in Calcidius’s Latin version). As a result, the order of

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heavens indicated in the passage (which, as I have noted, modified Bede’s passage) acquires its full sense within such controversy, about which Herrad seems to be well informed. Finally, the triple division mentioned in the passage, alludes to the opinion of Jerome of Stridon, recorded by Bede himself: “Jheronimus autem dicit primum celum Trinitatis, secundum angelorum, tercium firmamentum”. 11 Without eluding the contradictions between auctoritates, Herrad adds yet another perspective: the rational unity of heavens. In so doing, she remarks that the abovementioned distinctions concern discursive order and not reality itself, which is known only to divine rationality. The diagram accompanying the text “De firmamento” depicts the Earth at the geometrical centre of the universe,12 surrounded by eight spheres. The orbits of the seven planets known at the time (in ascending order: the Moon, Venus, Mercury, the Sun, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn) are inscribed within them, and, in the eighth sphere (the firmament) we find the signs of the zodiac. Except for the swap in the positions of Venus and Mercury, the planetary order depicted by the diagram is similar to the ‘Chaldean’ scheme of the cosmos (so dubbed by Macrobius, who attributes it to Archimedes), ratified and fixed by the astronomer Claudius Ptolemy in the 2nd century, and passed on to the Middle Ages through writings such as Cicero’s Somnium Scipionis. On the other hand, although celestial spheres are related to the representation of a finite universe, Herrad maintains in another passage the extension ad infinitum of the “superior heaven”,13 a surprising idea in line with the speculative and infinitist theories of Alexander Neckam (1157í1217). Finally, the author expresses a clear understanding of the double motion of the celestial spheres, as claimed by philosophical tradition on the basis of Plato’s Timaeus and Aristotle’s De caelo. Since the theories of celestial double motion spread in the Middle Ages through a wide variety of compiling works, and the extant texts of the Hortus deliciarum lack explicit references about this matter, we do not know what was the primary source on which Herrad draw in order to describe these motions as follows: Duo motus sunt in superis, unus rationalis, alius irrationalis. Rationalis est in firmamento qui est semper unimodus, nam cottidie surgit ab oriente et pertransiens occidentem reflectitur ad orientem. Irrationalis motus est in planetis que semper contra firmamentum nituntur.14

The two motions to which Herrad refers are the daily motion of the firmament, and that opposing it, the motion characteristic of planets. This evinces the understanding of this double motion implied by more elaborate

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cosmologies, which however, do not formulate it explicitly, as is the case of the Liber diuinorum operum by Hildegard of Bingen. In contrast, Herrad does not provide any further explanation for the metaphysical and physical causes of celestial mechanics, which is explicitly dealt with, through an allegorical discourse, in Hildegard’s work. On the other hand, both thinkers examine the analogy between the universe and the human being, which is precisely the object of the passage that follows the previous one: Per rationalem motum firmamenti significatur rationalis motus anime, pertranseundo occidentem, id est occiduas res, semper tendit ad verum orientem. Per erraticum motum planetarum significantur carnales cupiditates que erratice trahunt hominem ab oriente, id est a celestibus, et submergunt in occidente, id est in caducis rebus, et omnimodis repugnant spiritui.15

Here the author links both celestial motions (rational and irrational) with the motions of the soul, and introduces her conception of the human being. The anthropological theme of the Hortus deliciarum is connected to the idea of Adam as the lord of the elements, the microcosm and primus homo prefiguring Christ,16 another interesting common point between both authors. Their common source is probably Honorius of Autun, a renowned author whose Elucidarium Herrad cites in her discussion of the original human being.

The Allegorical Image of the Universe according to Hildegard of Bingen The interest of Hildegard of Bingen in nature is expressed throughout her extensive corpus. The description of the material universe appears fundamentally in her two books of visions: Sciuias and Liber diuinorum operum. Despite their allegorical and apparently unsystematic nature, the careful reading of those visiones brings to surface the cosmological structure on which she bases her theological and prophetical speculations. The author focuses on the created world in her search for the footprints of its creator; however, her writings provide some indications that evince her admiration for nature as an autonomous reality. In fact, nature becomes an object of analysis in itself in her Liber Subtilitatum diuersarum naturarum creaturarum (also known as Physica), a medical-naturalist work in which she expresses her ample knowledge in the fields of botany and zoology.17 The image of the universe evolves across Hildegard’s corpus. In particular, between the composition of the Sciuias and the Liber diuinorum operum

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more than two decades went by, and the depiction of the cosmos would develop significantly from the former to the latter. In the Sciuias, composed between 1141 and 1151, Hildegard describes an oval-shaped universe. This idea conforms to the traditional allegory of the cosmic egg, according to which each one of the four parts of the egg (shell, membrane, albumen and yolk) corresponds to one of the elements (fire, air, water and earth, respectively) and its place in the universe. Such tradition was rooted in the Orphic writings on the formation of the cosmos, and found in the De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii by Martianus Capella (380í429) a means of wide dissemination throughout the Middle Ages. In the 12th century, this analogy was linked to the discourse of philosophers on the elements forming the universe and, in particular, was included in Honorius of Autun’s De imagine mundi and the Dragmaticon by William of Conches. 18 Hildegard implicitly participates in that tradition, and reframes the analogy through an oval universe composed of six regions constituted by the four elements. She writes: Post haec uidi maximum instrumentum rotundum et umbrosum secundum similitudinem oui, . . . in cuius exteriori parte per circuitum lucidus ignis fuit, quasi pellem umbrosam sub se habens . . . Sed sub eadem pelle purissimus aether erat . . . Sub eodem autem aethere aquosum aerem uidebam albam pellem sub se habentem . . . Et in medio istorum elementorum quidam arenosus globus plurimae magnitudinis erat, quem eadem elementa ita circumdederant quod nec hac nec illac labi poterat.19

In this passage, Hildegard lists the cosmic regions that she “saw”—as she claims—when the whole universe and the living forces acting within it appeared before her. It is a geocentric and geostatic universe, dynamized both by the elements and the winds. The peripheral area is composed of a double fire containing the Sun (the natural centre of the cosmos) and the superior planets (in ascending order: Mars, Jupiter and Saturn). Beneath them can be found the “ether” region, a term the author understands not in the Aristotelian sense, but in line with the Stoic interpretation; that is, according to Hildegard, the ether is a purer air and not a quinta essentia ontologically different from the elements. The Moon is located in this region, above which we find the inferior planets: Mercury and Venus. Although the names of the planets are not explicitly mentioned, we can infer their order from their description—even though the exact location of the inferior planets is uncertain. The ether region also contains the stars, a “mistake” (depending on the tradition referred to) she will amend in the Liber diuinorum operum by placing them in the firmament. Beyond the

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“ether”, there is a watery region formed by two layers, and the humidity emanating from the lowest layer pervades the whole universe. In the Liber diuinorum operum, written between 1163 and 1174, Hildegard describes the material universe again, and she does so in a more comprehensive and detailed way than in the Sciuias. The comparative analysis of these cosmological approaches shows several similarities, but also some significant differences. The first one, expressed by Hildegard herself, is that in her last visionary work the image of the universe becomes spherical (“ut rota”), in contrast with the universe “in similitudine oui” described in the Sciuias. She justifies such modification with the following words: Sed quod supradictum instrumentum in prioribus uisionibus tuis in figura oui denotatum est, hoc ostendit quod distinctio elementorum in eadem similitudine solummodo significatur . . . hic autem in rota circuito et recta mensura eorundem elementorum tantum ostenditur, cum neutrum ipsorum similitudinem figur‫ ܗ‬mundi per omnia teneat, quoniam illa undique integra, rotunda et uolubili existente globus aliquis, qui integer et uolubilis existit, formam ipsius in omni parte potius imitatur.20

Hildegard provides a distinct explanatory purpose for each vision of the universe. Whereas the Sciuias used the egg analogy to present the distribution of the elements in the universe, in the Liber diuinorum operum, in contrast, she uses the image of the spherical universe to deal with their relative proportions. I suspect that, with regard to this passage–– difficult to translate and understand––the author intends to protect the prophetic coherence of her work, preserving, at the same time, her visionary authority. We may think that if Hildegard’s visions of the universe are, as she states, the result of a divine revelation, it is contradictory for them to appear in two different manners, since God, in the eternity, has only one, permanent idea of reality.21 Despite the gift of vision, her interpretation of reality is constrained by the limitations inherent in human beings. On the other hand, it seems clear that her understanding deepened over the years separating the Sciuias and the Liber diuinorum operum, for in the latter she displays her ability to widen the knowledge of the constitution and functioning of the material universe. Other aspects that considerably differentiate the cosmology of the Liber diuinorum operum from that of the Sciuias are: the metaphysical entity creating the universe, the naturalist and allegorical description of the double motion of heavens, and the development of the analogy between the universe and the human being, understood as macrocosm and microcosm, respectively. In the Liber diuinorum operum Hildegard deals

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keenly with the modelling of her conception of the created universe. Therefore, I will now analyse the description of the universe she presents in this work in order to show the underlying cosmological structure that supports it. The first vision of the Liber diuinorum operum depicts God’s creation of the material universe through an ignea uis that undertakes several functions, both ontological and cosmological. In particular, Hildegard maintains that the “fiery force” is the origin of life in eternity, and possesses a rationalitas, which constitutes the ordering principle of the universe, an ordering principle that, due to its “aerial” quality, is the cause of cosmic motion. These are the words she puts in the mouth of the personification of such force: Ego summa et ignea uis, qu‫ ܗ‬omnes uiuentes scintillas accendi et nulla mortalia efflaui, sed illa diiudico ut sunt; circueuntem circulum cum superioribus pennis meis, id est cum sapientia, circumuolans recte ipsum ordinaui. Sed et ego ignea uita substanti‫ ܗ‬diuinitatis super pulcritudinem agrorum flammo et in aquis luceo atque in sole, luna et stellis ardeo; et cum aereo uento quadam inuisibili uita, qu‫ ܗ‬cuncta sustinet, uitaliter omnia suscito.22

In the writings of authors such as Bernard Silvestris and William of Saint-Thierry we find a similar idea of “fiery force”, filled with Stoic echos. Furthermore, some aspects of Hildegard’s characterization of both the “ignea uis” and its functions in the universe, maintain a fruitful affinity with the idea of the anima mundi thematized in Plato’s Timaeus. On the other hand, its link with the Trinity as the “ignea uita substantiĊ diuinitatis”, seems to associate it with the Holy Spirit, a rather controversial issue since the condemnation of the doctrines of Peter Abelard (1079í1142) in the synod of Soissons. Therefore, it is worth noting that Hildegard of Bingen participated, maybe without pretending it, in several philosophical-theological debates which were central at that time. In the second vision of the Liber diuinorum operum, Hildegard recounts how the universe, in which the human form is inscribed––thus evoking the figure of Adam and its Christological symbology––emerged from the breast of the “ignea uis”. Such vision was magnificently depicted in a 13th-century miniature representing brilliantly and with remarkable fidelity the textual description of Hildegard: the divine “ignea uis” encompasses the created universe that has emerged from it, provides order and directs its force towards the winds, in charge of celestial mechanics, which comprise both the daily and planetary motion. As for the elementary

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composition of the universe, it presents minor variations with respect to the Sciuias––for instance, she adds a seventh layer. Celestial mechanics are described fundamentally through the action of the winds, which Hildegard conceives at a cosmic scale. The main winds, placed at the four cardinal points, together with their respective auxiliary winds, bring about the daily motion of the firmament; in turn, a complementary wind, blowing in the opposite direction, is responsible for the planetary motion: Vidi, et ecce uentus orientalis uentusque australis cum collateralibus suis, per flatus fortitudinis su‫ ܗ‬firmamentum mouentes, illud ab oriente usque ad occidentem super terram circumuolui faciebant; ibique uentus occidentalis necnon et uentus septentrionalis et collaterales ipsorum, illud suscipientes spiraminibusque suis impellentes, ab occidente usque ad orientem sub terra reiciebant . . . Sed et uidi quod in superiori igne circulus apparebat, qui totum firmamentum ab oriente uersus occidentem circumcingebat, de quo uentus ab occidente progrediens septem planetas ab occidente ad orientem contra circumuolutionem firmamenti ire compellebat.23

This naturalist description, which can be better understood through the prism of the Stoic pneuma or spiritus, also includes a rich allegory in which the winds appear as specific animals, characterized in the manner of medieval bestiaries. 24 Such winds direct their blow towards the human figure, and represent both the virtues and faults influencing human behaviour.25 Moreover, the winds, as well as the celestial bodies, have an impact on human health, since their effect is related to the proportion of corporal humours.26 This topic is developed in the third vision of the work, where we find numerous passages evincing the medical knowledge of the author, both regarding the functioning of the main body organs and their interaction with humours. The underlying issue is the connection of the human being with the universe surrounding him/her, of which he/she is the reflection and culmination.

Conclusions This article emphasizes two issues. First, it shows that the descriptions of the universe––so different and complementary at the same time––owed to Hildegard of Bingen and Herrad of Hohenbourg, evince their interest in intellectual topics and, in particular, in philosophical questions. On the one hand, Herrad shows that, on occasion, the magistrae use the humanae scientiae and philosophical sources to shape their conception of the cosmos. On the other, Hildegard’s allegorical descriptions of the cosmos

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include singular conceptualizations in the fields of theology, cosmology and anthropology, through which the author establishes an implicit dialogue with the thinkers of her time. The research of both “masters” on the topic of the material Creation is based on the biblical theme of the Creation, but they take it a step further, towards the field of celestial and earthly physics. Second, this text confirms that, although the cosmological conceptions of Hildegard and Herrad are not always innovative from the point of view of scientific theories per se, they attest to a certain methodology secundum physicam being applied in nunneries during the 12th century, a period marked by the phenomenon known as the “discovery of nature”. 27 Hildegard and Herrad, although perhaps in the periphery of the corpus established by scholars to frame the scientific-philosophical renewal of the 12th century, nonetheless account for the extent of such phenomenon, to which they contributed their experience and writings.

Notes  *

This text is based on the doctoral dissertation “Subtilitates naturae. Continuïtats i ruptures a la cosmologia d’Hildegarda de Bingen (1098í1179)”, University of Barcelona, 2014. I thank Dr Rosa Rius Gatell for her precise comments on this article. 1 Dronke, Women Writers of the Middle Ages; Martinengo et al., Libere di esistere and Rivera Garretas, Textos y espacios de mujeres. 2 Hildegardis Bingensis, Epistolarium. Pars prima I-XC, VIII (l.15). 3 Santini, “Palabras e imágenes: alimento de libertad.” 4 Herrad of Hohenbourg, Hortus deliciarum, fol. 1v. 5 Griffiths, The Garden of Delights, 144í163. 6 The original manuscript was lost in 1870 after a fire in the library of TempleNeuf in Strasbourg, during the Franco-Prussian War. The source for the analysis of the Hortus deliciarum is the reconstruction edited under the direction of R. Green in 1979 from texts and illustrations copied before its destruction. Part of the passages from the original (which had 324 folios) are not extant, and the exact order that Herrad gave them is uncertain. In consequence, the approach to the cosmological interpretations of the Hortus is necessarily partial. For a more detailed development on this topic, see: Rabassó, “El cielo y la tierra en el Hortus deliciarum”. 7 Herrad of Hohenbourg, Hortus deliciarum, fol. 10r and 10v. 8 Sturlese, Storia della filosofia tedesca nel Medioevo, 176í182. 9 Herrad of Hohenbourg, Hortus deliciarum, fol. 9r. 10 “Some say that the heavens are seven in number: the first of air, the second of ether, the third igneous, the fourth fiery, the fifth being the firmament, the sixth watery, the seventh of the angels . . . According to the masters, the heavens are

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 ordered and distinguished from each other in diverse ways. According to some there are seven heavens, according to others there are four, while others recognise only three, but all of these converge rationally on one”. Herrad of Hohenbourg, Hortus deliciarum, fol. 10r. Translated by the author. 11 Herrad of Hohenbourg, Hortus deliciarum, fol. 9r. 12 Ibid., fol. 13v. 13 Ibid., fol. 11r. 14 “There are two movements in the heavens: one is rational and the other irrational. That of the firmament is rational and always uniform since it rises daily in the east and, passing through the west, returns to the east. The movement of the planets is irrational, since they follow the opposite path to the firmament”. Herrad of Hohenbourg, Hortus deliciarum, fol. 10r. Translated by the author. 15 “The rational movement of the firmament is reflected in the rational movement of the soul which, going beyond the west, that is to say, the perishable, tends always towards the true east. The erratic movement of the planets represents the carnal desires, which lead the human being away from the east (that is, from celestial reality), they plunge it into the west (that is, into perishable things) and they turn it entirely against the spirit”. Herrad of Hohenbourg, Hortus deliciarum, fol. 10r. Translated by the author. 16 Herrad of Hohenbourg, Hortus deliciarum, fol. 16v, 20v and 109v. 17 Hildegard von Bingen, Physica. 18 Dronke Fabula, 79í99. 19 Hildegardis Bingensis, Sciuias, 40í41 (l.1í96). “After this I saw a vast instrument, round and shadowed, in the shape of an egg . . . outside it, surrounding its circumference, there was bright fire with, as it were, a shadowy zone under it . . . But beneath that zone was purest ether . . . And beneath that ether I saw watery air with a white zone beneath it . . . And in the midst of these elements was a sandy globe of great magnitude, which these elements had so surrounded that it could not waver in any direction”. Hildegard of Bingen, Scivias, 93. 20 Hildegardis Bingensis, Liber diuinorum operum, 66 (l.1í11). “The abovementioned figure was shown to you in your earlier visions [Sciuias] in the form of an egg. This was because the characteristics of the world-matter can best be shown by this likeness . . . [In the vision of the Liber diuinorum operum] we should understand by this wheel the circumference and correct measurement of the worldelements. For none of these images incorporates the form of the world because this world is indeed intact on all sides, round and rotating. But such a ball, which is round and rotating, most of all resembles that form of the world in all its details”. Hildegard of Bingen’s Book of Divine Works, 26í27. 21 Rius Gatell, “La sinfonía constelada de Hildegarda de Bingen”. 22 Hildegardis Bingensis, Liber diuinorum operum, 47í48, (l.1í8). “I, the highest and fiery power, have kindled every spark of life, and I emit nothing that is deadly. I decide on all reality. With my lofty wings I fly above the globe: With wisdom I have rightly put the universe in order. I, the fiery life of divine essence, am aflame beyond the beauty of the meadows, I gleam in the waters, and I burn in the sun,

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 moon, and stars. With every breeze, as with invisible life that contains everything, I awaken everything to life”. Hildegard of Bingen’s Book of Divine Works, 8í10. 23 Hildegardis Bingensis, Liber diuinorum operum, 114, (l.2í22). “I looked –and behold!– the east wind and the south wind, together with their side winds set the firmament in motion with powerful gusts, causing the firmament to rotate around the Earth from east to west. Here in the West the firmament was snatched up by the west wind and the north wind, together with their side winds; it was driven by their blowing and thrown backward from west to east beneath the Earth . . . I also saw how in the upper fire there appeared a circle that encircled the whole firmament from est to west. Out of this circle’s west side a wind emerged which forced the seven planets to wander against the motion of the firmament”.Hildegard of Bingen’s Book of Divine Works, 56. 24 Cirlot, Hildegard von Bingen y la tradición visionaria de Occidente, 113í144. 25 Hildegardis Bingensis, Liber diuinorum operum, 61í63 (l.46í117). 26 Ibid., 114í119 (l.23í166). 27 Chenu, La théologie au douzième siècle, 108í141.

CHAPTER ELEVEN A MATTER OF TIME: BEGUIN MILLENNIALISM AT THE BEGINNING TH OF THE 14 CENTURY DELFI-ISABEL NIETO-ISABEL AND CARLOS LÓPEZ-ARENILLAS

Introduction Like a human being, who constantly reassesses and restates memories and perceptions in terms of new situations, circumstances and stimuli, history, understood as a social and environmental memory, undergoes similar processes in response to new paradigms and perspectives. But history is not merely a passive subject in this evolutionary scenario, it must be, and already is, the source and empirical basis for a new understanding of human perceptions, and their influence in individual and social constructs. The interaction between history and other disciplines is not only fruitful but also absolutely necessary. 1 The past two decades have witnessed a significant development in our comprehension of the physiological, psychological and social foundations of human behaviour, thus facilitating the synergy between psychology, neuroscience and fields such as philosophy, physics or history itself.2 Time is precisely one of the few key elements transversal to all branches of knowledge. It is often the subject of study and other times just a reference basis. But regardless of its definition or importance to a particular field, the presence of time is constant in virtually all phenomena, and, without any doubt, in those related to mental and social processes. Its all-pervading nature makes time a particularly appealing variable in a cross-disciplinary study, but also hinders our ability to devise a simple definition of it. This inherent difficulty is what has led scholars to adopt

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more functional and discipline-specific definitions. However, there are attempts to integrate the different features of time into one theory. This is the case of J.T. Fraser’s Hierarchical Theory of Time (hereinafter referred to as HTT), which will be the main framework of our study. The aim of this chapter is the analysis of the time-related psychological features of late medieval millennialist movements. In particular, we will focus on the case study of the 14th century beguins of Languedoc. We believe this approach may help shed new light on key questions about millennialism,3 such as the distinction between noetic and social millennialism, and its persistence throughout the medieval period and beyond, and also help foster new debates about how individual and social perceptions of time have influenced this and many other historical processes.

The Theoretical Framework Our choice of Fraser’s theoretical scheme is based on its potential as a unifying theory that embraces distinct temporalities, which are characteristic of each stable integrative level of the universe (from physical to mental realities); these temporalities being hierarchically nested.4 Another reason to adopt the HTT is related to its alternative name: the Theory of Time as Conflict. It claims the presence of an existential tension as the driving force of the unresolvable conflicts that define mind and society. This perspective is directly related to history, and allows us to interpret individual and social conflicts in terms of time. Fraser defines this existential tension as a need, whose satisfaction has to be regularly delayed, and whose origin lies in the ever-present differences between those conditions an organism is prepared for and those actually encountered. These differences amounted, through the evolution of life on Earth, “to a form of stress, to a chronic condition of life”. 5 As Daniel Smail points out, 6 in the case of human beings, such existential tension is reflected as a dialectic between stress and reward, which, in turn, translates into a sort of historical dialectic, where stress is balanced by chemical or cultural opiates—ideas, objects or practices. A clear illustration of the inextricable relation between social constructs and the stress-reward binomial is the unevenly distribution of stress across the social spectrum. In this regard, the neuroscientist Robert Sapolsky claims that events occurred throughout history have led to hierarchies of power that have institutionalized forms of stress. 7 An interesting claim we will come back to later.

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Time, the fundamental reference system of history, is a space, but not just any space. Time is, according to Kant, a pure concept of the understanding, a category. Therefore, time is usually accepted as a notion that underlies all discursive thought, and without which it is not possible to think of anything whatsoever existing. Thus, it is only logical to look for its associated cognitive, affective, and behavioural structures. In social psychology, past, present, and future are regarded as the regions of time. These loci are the basis of what is called time perspective, which is defined as the “composite cognitive structures that characterize the way an individual projects, collects, accesses values, and organizes events that reside in”8 each of the temporal regions. Another important concept is time orientation, whose definition we borrow from Lasane and O’Donnell: time orientation is the “behavioural predisposition to be more likely influenced by thoughts, emotions, and motivations for a distinct region of time.” 9 Particularly relevant to our analysis of millennialist realities is the time orientation concerned with the future. Conjectures, fears, commitments and beliefs about the future are part of the content of the future orientation, which can also be characterized by its extension (how far into the future an individual projects his/her hopes and expectations), attitudes (anguish, optimism, distrust…) and control beliefs (expected causal patterns and interactions). The future, as perceived by human beings, is a source of anxiety. We are extended beings in time; our self is a temporal reference system that enables us to think in terms of past, present and future. 10 This causal structure of consciousness seems like an advantage, but comes at a psychological price. Dealing with the future means dealing with uncertainty, and that is why humans feel the need to predict, to control the events to come. Terror management theory, which deals with one of the most terrifying by-products of temporal consciousness, death, posits that cultural worldviews are the solution to death anxiety.11 In general, the protection offered by cultural worldviews helps dealing with all kinds of anxieties related to the awareness of time, for they provide order, permanence, and meaningful descriptions of the world. Fraser, in the framework of his HTT, offers a clear explanation on how cultural values help handling the uncertainties associated with perceptual and cognitive temporal processes. According to him, Truth, Good, or Beautiful are values that can be defined in terms of permanence and stability, and, in that sense, they are human attempts to oppose the passage of time. Thus, believing what the normative teachings about values “say is true, doing what they claim is

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right, and appreciating what they judge beautiful will help achieve stability in the life of the individual and society.”12 Ironically, as Fraser remarks, value judgments, as well as those social constructs erected around particular definitions of these values—science, religion, law—have not been promoters of stability, but motors for change, and an effective way to generate and keep alive the aforementioned unresolvable conflicts. In light of the concepts presented above, it is reasonable to assume that it is possible to extrapolate them beyond our immediate temporal and cultural context. Therefore, our working hypothesis is that we can identify different characteristics of the future orientation of past societies, thus incorporating time-related psychological traits into the study of historical realities, for instance, a specific millennialist movement.

A Few Remarks on Millennialism Millennialist movements have been described, in accordance with Norman Cohn’s definition, as religious movements that expect an imminent, supernatural, and collective salvation. 13 In the case of Christianity, millennialist views refer, in general, to the belief that after a period of great tribulation, Christ and his saints will reign on Earth for a thousand years—that is, the millennium—after which the Final Judgement and the end of time will ensue. This vision, which entails a sort of cosmic renewal and is foretold in the New Testament,14 is central to Christianity. Although its interpretations may vary, the official stance of the Church throughout the Middle Ages drew on Augustine’s De Civitate Dei. According to him, the millennium was already on Earth; it had been brought about by the resurrection of Christ and the triumph of the Church. Thus, the only thing Christians had to prepare themselves for, was the Final Judgement and the end of time itself.15 It is not our purpose to deal with the general problem of Christian millennialism—for that we refer to an abundant and remarkable literature16—nor lies our interest in outlining a summary of the apocalyptic tradition reaching into the Late Middle Ages. Leaving aside the fascinating debate as to the all-pervading nature of such beliefs,17 our aim is to address the underlying key issues affecting a particular movement of such characteristics, specifically time perception and the way it modifies and conditions individual and collective behaviour Despite the aforementioned orthodox view, millennialist expectations kept appearing during the whole medieval period. However, it is necessary to make a distinction between noetic millennialism, that is, the intellectual development of millennialist beliefs and ideas, and millennialist movements,

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understood as a social phenomenon. The appearance and spread of a specific millennialist intellectual approach, does not necessarily prompt the emergence of a millennialist movement. 18 The ideational creation of a suitable millennialist suitable framework must be accompanied by some sort of social trigger; one that fosters the adherence to the new future oriented proposal, that is, that entails a change in the time perspective of individuals. The imminence of apocalyptic expectations is associated with a source of anxiety—traditionally expressed in the form of fear, even terror. 19 However, according to the aforementioned theory of time as conflict, some sort of reward mechanism must compensate that anxiety. As several scholars have pointed out, 20 millennialist movements are also strongly connected with hope, and the whole idea of the millennium is actually a compensatory fantasy, for it will deliver salvation to the righteous, not in an unknown world to come, but here on Earth, where they have endured suffering and penance.

Beguin Millennialism as a Case Study One of the first extant traces of the beguins of Languedoc is the censure they received during the Provincial Council held in Béziers in 1299.21 They were known for their practice of new forms of penitentia, their attire, the same for men and women, and, particularly, for preaching that the end of the world was near and that the time of the Antichrist had virtually arrived.22How did such millennialist ideas take hold of them? By the beginning of the 14th century, the apocalyptic traditions at hand were the book of Revelations, the sybilline prophecies, and the works of Joachim of Fiore (d. 1202). At the end of the 12th century, Joachim had proposed a new interpretation of the history of salvation whose true innovation was not so much its division into three ages, but the fact that the break between the second and the third age was nearly at hand, somewhere in the near—imminent—future, and would bring about the advent of the Holy Spirit and the age of the intellectus amoris.23 During the 13th century, Joachim’s views had a major influence on the Franciscan order, and, in particular, on the thought and works of Peter of John Olivi (d. 1298). In fact, the same Provincial Council also censured Olivi’s Lectura super Apocalipsim,24 and, despite the fact that Olivi and these beguins were not explicitly related by the council acts, it is easy to associate his followers with the previous description.25 Olivi was, doubtlessly, a major figure within the Joachimite tradition of the Franciscan order but there is much debate as to his true adherence to

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Joachim’s postulates. 26 Although he certainly praises the work of the Cistercian Abbott, he also criticizes him at some points. Whereas the third age is for Joachim the age of the Holy Spirit that will surpass the previous era, Olivi’s view is completely Christ-centred, the third age only renews the message of the New Testament, it does not bring about a new superior world order. Olivian “prophecies” were contextualized by his followers,27 Languedoc beguins, and the condemnation of the works of their spiritual master—barely a year after his demise—cast the first stone that triggered the radicalization of their views.28 Thus, Joachimite theories, through the works of Olivi, provided the ideational millennialist framework needed for the development of a true millennialist movement. In a way, Olivi’s followers supported Joachim’s views much more than Olivi himself: Asserens quod tempus novum dicti Spiritus sancti et novus status Ecclesie habuit initium in dicto Fratre Petro Ioannis, et consequitur in ipsa que loquitur, sicut dixit, et sic nunc est status Ecclesie novus in quo credere oportet in opere sancti Spiritus quod superius declaratur.29 Item credidit et credebat quod ecclesia carnalis, per quam ipse et conplices sui intelligebant Romanam ecclesiam, destrueretur ante adventum AntiChristi per bella, exceptis aliquibus paucis qui eligerentur de ea et essent viri Spirituales per quos, post mortem Anti-Christi, ecclesia alia erigeretur et fundaretur que esset pauper, humilis et benigna.30

Attending to their depositions before the inquisitor, some of them show a greater ideological commitment that distances themselves from the orthodox truth of the Church: Et si papa dictum ordinem fratrum Minorum cassaret, de facto non reputatur hoc esse factum secundum Deum, et si prohiberetur per sentenciam exconmunicacionis quod de cetero nullus reciperetur ad ordinem predictum, credit quod dicta sentencia non esset justa et etiam quod non ligaret contrarium facientes, quia esset contra Deum et salutem animarum.31

Others emphasize not so much their adherence to the spiritual Franciscan ideology as their astonishment at the condemnation of some men and women they deem good—that is, their commitment expresses a more social aspect. However, these seemingly different ways to adhere to the movement share a common origin: the stability and meaningful order established by their values. In the context of a Christian society, values and stability are directly related to God, for God is eternity and the source

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of all meaning. The evangelical character of the rule of Saint Francis could not be denied by any human power: Et quod regula Fratrum Minorum erat Evangelica, et idem ipse Papa non poterat aliquid diminuere de virtute nec in votis Evangelicis dispensare, que vota Evangelica dicebant esse paupertatem, obedientiam et virginitatem.32

And those whose life and/or death were exemplary could not be deemed heretics when they should be considered saints: Dixit quod bene habuit devotionem aliquotiens et credidit dictos beguinos condempnatos et combustos esse sanctos propter asperitatem vite quam faciebant.33

The fact that they adopt a millennialist perspective is the smoking gun to a change in their time perception and future orientation. A commitment with such specific and allegedly imminent future points to a conflict perceived as irresolvable without divine mediation—and therefore to the perception that the typical life-span development in the society in which they live no longer satisfies their needs—and to a drastic change in their personal goals, beliefs about the future and self-identity. Time constraints were imposed on the beguins, both before and after the inquisitorial persecution. Their future oriented goals were defined through a combination of the opportunities their society provided and their individual motives and values. Therefore, in light of the perceived conflict, they regarded their former goals as unsatisfactory and their society, where their values had no place, as a space where they could not construct their future. 34 Studies such as that of Zaleski, Cycon, and Kurc 35 show that emotional distress and hopelessness are negatively correlated with planning for the distant future. Additionally, “when time is perceived as open-ended, knowledge-related goals are prioritized. In contrast, when time is perceived as limited, emotional goals assume primacy.”36 If we consider this psychological background in combination with a narrative of the end of time, millennialism—in particular Olivi’s take on the subject—then it is not too difficult to understand why beguins favoured this view. But let us further analyse this last statement. What led beguins to commit themselves to their beliefs in the imminence of the Apocalypse and the advent of a Third Age of peace and understanding? Among other considerations, two circumstances may give us some hints as to the answer to this question. First, Sapolsky’s claim about the institutionalized forms of stress. Beguins were embedded in a hierarchical

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society where those with power and wealth could cope with stress/changes in much more different ways than those lower in the social scale. But let us recall that one of the major concerns of beguins was poverty. Many of them chose a life of poverty, therefore willingly placing themselves in a vulnerable situation (particularly so, when they became the focus of a general controversy within the Church): “ivit Narbonam et inibi habitavit, donec capta fuit, querendo panem amore Dei, credens tunc melius facere querendo victum suum et vestitum.”37 However, in their eyes, their choice brought them closer to God and the true Christian values. Therefore, in the case of these beguins, the binomial stress-reward was mostly represented, on the one hand, by the potential changes and conflicts forced upon them, and, on the other, by their religious beliefs which filled them with hope and the assurance of having made the right choice (besides more common individual or social factors such as family or peer group solidarities):38 “Item credidit quod dicti Beguini fuerunt mortui pro defendenda veritate.”39 Second, time perception is not only at the very heart of the conflict, but it is also a substantial part of the solution adopted by beguins. When the ideological conflict takes shape, beguins embrace the existing narrative of a foretold conflict that would end with the advent of the Age of the Holy Spirit, thus coping with the uncertainty about a future they did not expect. The seed of historical millennialist conflicts had been sown at the early periods of Christianity, when Christians were persecuted and this narrative provided hope for a period of deliverance, but when the Church gained power and authority, these expectations, no longer necessary, became a problem. Augustine, so concerned about the concept of time, perfectly embodies the position of the Church in this regard. If we examine these facts through the prism of Fraser’s theory, it seems like millennialism is both an unresolvable conflict of the Christian religion, from early on, and the channelling function of the existential tensions within the Church. Summarizing, the future-oriented goals of beguins were tightly linked to their religious beliefs, but, previous to their persecution, they perceived their chosen way of life was not only compatible with their society but also more in line with its values. The millennium is not a choice against social pressure, but an opportunity to actually be part of a utopia that was coming into being. Once their values were questioned, their future goals were channelled through the only thing that remained stable: God and a narrative full of certainties, a roadmap with a number of distinct steps they were able to identify, thus allowing them to predict their future.

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Conclusions If, as Robert I. Moore puts it, it takes two to make heresy,40 the heresy of the beguins of Languedoc was both real and perceived. Real for their teachings and beliefs were based on the Gospel but from a certain moment onwards were also contrary to those of the Church. It would be pointless to discuss who departed the doctrine first, in fact, it was the Pope who changed the doctrine and beguins were simply not fast enough or better, not ready enough to change with it. The better question would then be, why were they not? At some point, their relationship with the traditional sources of divine authority changed. They wanted to reconnect with a new, in a way, more literal, interpretation of the texts since the official approach did not satisfy them any more. The falldown of references entails anxiety and a search for a new stability. Was it there that their time perception changed? It is in that sense that medieval millennialist movements appear as a sort of by-products of a disagreement between different time perceptions. Long before the persecution against beguins was unleashed, they had already committed themselves to a very specific future-oriented goal, and were getting themselves ready for its development. In general, the adherence to poverty, shared by many spiritual groups during the 12th and 13th centuries, was usually related to a past-oriented perspective, that is, their ultimate goal was the renewal of the principles the original Church had stood for. In contrast, according to our analysis, poverty, in the case of the beguins of Languedoc, could have been connected with a rather different time perspective. Their system of beliefs, drawn on Joachim of Fiore and Olivi, involved the imminence of the advent of the Antichrist. Thus, the ideational framework, vague at first, for it did not provide the specific moment of those events, paved the way for the response of the community. But for that social response to happen, for those ideas to take a hold on the group, a previous conflict is needed. When the values of the group clashed with the established ecclesiastical values, the extension of their future orientation changed—the usual planning for the distant future, and the delay in gratification characteristic of Christian values, turned into a close future perspective—and so did its content—all their conjectures, fears or commitments collapsed into the certainty of their one goal. Its attitudes also changed—anxiety and fear were overcome by hope and trust—as well as its control beliefs—they would witness the advent of the millennium, which would legitimize their stance. Finally, although the previous pages have focused on time perspective as a source of information, it is necessary to recall that these movements

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also depend on many other factors, both historical and psychological. Thus, the disagreement between the value system and time perspective of 14th-century beguins and those prevailing in the society they belonged to, and their hope in the kingdom to come where all debts would be settled, would be two sides of a coin which has more than two sides to it.

Notes  1

An illustration and proof of this claim can be found in Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. This work evinces how science changes, a reality usually ignored by scientists themselves. 2 There is an increasing scholarly interest in finding a narrative able to draw on both historical and neuroscientific perspectives. Proof of this interest is the emergence of a new discipline called Neurohistory, which tries to find direct relations between historical and neurophysiological changes, that is, to infer a liaison between new behavioural patterns and brain structures. 3 For a terminological discussion see Landes, “The Fear of an Apocalyptic Year 1000”, 101. 4 For a more detailed insight into the hierarchical theory of time we refer the reader to Fraser, Of Time, Passion, and Knowledge. 5 Fraser, “Change, Permanence and Human Values”, 275. 6 Smail, “An Essay on Neurohistory.” 7 Sapolsky, Why Zebras Don’t Get Ulcers. 8 Lasane, and O’Donnell, “Measurement of temporal orientation”, 12. 9 Ibid., 14. 10 Becker, The Birth and death of meaning. 11 Routledge, and Arndt, “Time and terror.” 12 Fraser, “Change, Permanence and Human Values”, 269. 13 Cohn, In Pursuit of the Millennium. 14 Among other passages, Rev 20.4: “And I saw thrones, and they sat upon them, and judgment was given unto them: and I saw the souls of them that were beheaded for the witness of Jesus, and for the word of God, and which had not worshipped the beast, neither his image, neither had received his mark upon their foreheads, or in their hands; and they lived and reigned with Christ a thousand years.” 15 Augustine warns against the perils of interpreting historical events in terms of the Scripture, for him the book of Revelations is an allegory: “De hoc ergo regno militiae, in quo adhuc cum hoste confligitur et aliquando repugnatur pugnantibus uitiis, aliquando cedentibus imperatur, donec ueniatur ad illud pacatissimum regnum, ubi sine hoste regnabitur, et de hac prima resurrectione, quae nunc est, liber iste sic loquitur.” Augustine of Hippo, De Civitate Dei 20.9. 16 Among many other examples, see Cohn, In Pursuit of the Millennium; Landes, Heaven on Earth; and Trompf, “Millenarism: History, Sociology.”

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 17

See Moore, “The Birth of Heresy”, and Landes “The birth of Heresy”, for a discussion about the importance of this matter around the year 1000. 18 Trompf, “Millenarism: History, Sociology”, 106. 19 See Landes, “The Fear of the Year 1000.” 20 See, for instance, Head, andLandes, The Peace of God. 21 This chapter is based on the analysis of manuscripts 27 and 28 of the Collection Doat, preserved in the Bibliothèque national de France, Bernard Gui’s Liber Sententiarum, edited in Pales-Gobilliard, Le livre des sentences, an edition of the trial against Bernat Mauri, published in Manselli, Spirituali e Beghini, 331–345 and an edition of the beguin Martyrology kept at the Library of Wolfenbüttel and published in Burnham, So Great a Light, 189–193. 22 Martène, and Durand, Thesaurus novus anecdotorum, vol. IV, col. 225-228. 23 De Lubac, La posteridad espiritual, 46–50. 24 His extensive and complex work has been recently edited and studied by different scholars. However, his most analysed work is precisely the Lectura super Apocalipsim. See, among others, Manselli, La “Lectura super Apocalypsim”; Burr, Olivi’s Peaceable Kingdom; and Burr, “Olivi, Prous.” 25 Whilst some authors take for granted this bond, Burnham, So Great a Light, 34, others state that, in the absence of an explicit mention, the possibility that the condemnation of Olivi’s works was independent from the disapproval of these groups cannot be ruled out, Burr, The Spiritual Franciscans, 92. 26 De Lubac, La posteridad espiritual, 93–96. 27 Burr, “Did the beguins understand Olivi?” 28 Some extracts of the Postilla super apocalypsim, as well as several pastoral treatises would circulate already in the vernacular shortly after Olivi’s death. A proof of this is the story of the Franciscan Mateu de Bouzigues, who arrives in Rome in 1299, running away from his convent, accompanied by laymen and laywomen, and carrying several works of Olivi translated from Latin. See Manselli, Spirituali e Beghini, 41–46; and Lerner,“Writing and Resistance”, 191. To the case of Mateu de Bouzigues we could add others, like that of the Catalan friar Pons Bautuga, who dies in prison in 1302 for refusing to surrender the works of Olivi in his possession, Burnham, So Great a Light, 45. 29 MS 27, Collection Doat, fols. 75v-76r. Deposition of Na Prous Boneta, from Montpellier, 11 November 1328. 30 Pales-Gobilliard, Le livre des sentences, 1316. Deposition of Peire Morès, from Belpech, 4í5 July 1322. 31 Pales-Gobilliard, Le livre des sentences, 1302. Deposition of Raimon Bosch, from Belpech, 4í5 July 1322. 32 MS 28, Collection Doat, fol. 20v. Deposition of Bernat Castelló, from Montpellier, 11 November 1328. 33 MS 28, Collection Doat, fol. 14r. Deposition of Manenta Arnau, from Lodève, 2 July 1323. 34 Their values were not only questioned during the inquisitorial persecution. The so-called spiritual franciscans—despite the inaccuracy of the term, we use it here for the sake of simplicity—their spiritual guides, were mistreated, abused, and

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even persecuted by their less radical brethren from the beginning of the 14th century onwards. 35 Zaleski, Cycon, and Kurc, “Future Time Perspective.” 36 Carstensen, Isaacowitz, and Charles, “Taking time seriously.” 37 MS 28, Collection Doat, fol. 237v. Deposition of Amada, from Limoux, 1 March 1327. 38 Trommsdorff, “Subjective experience.” 39 Pales-Gobilliard, Le livre des sentences, 1304. Deposition of Raimon Bosch, from Belpech, 4-5 July 1322. 40 Moore, “The Birth of Heresy”, 16.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Noemi Barrerais a PhD candidate at the Department of History of Philosophy, Aesthetics and Cultural Philosophy of the University of Barcelona. Her dissertation is entitled ‘Els móns espiritual i corporal al De Proprietatibus Rerum de Bartholomaeus Anglicus’. She is also associate researcher on the research project ‘Speculum Arabicum Objectiver la contribution du monde arabo-musulman à l’histoire des sciences et des idées: sources et ressources de l’encyclopédisme médiéval’ at the Université Catholique de Louvain. Laura de Castellet has a BA in Fine Arts and a MA in Medieval Cultures by Universitat de Barcelona. She has carried out several research projects on medieval musical iconography within APEMUTAM (Association pour l´Étude de la Musique et les techniques en Moyen Age) and the Interdisciplinary Research Group MUSICONIS 2010 (Musique eticonographie) (Sorbonne IV – Poitiers). She has worked as a freelance illustrator and comic artist, a music interpret and guide for the Foundation ‘Historical Cardona’. Cécile Codet has been writing a thesis based on the didactic literature dedicated to women in the Middle Ages from 2010 to 2014. She belongs to various research groups, among which the UMR 5648 CIHAM. Now, she is working on the edition of some of the didactic texts she has been studying so far. Ivo Elies graduated in History at the University of Barcelona. He also graduated in Medieval Cultures at the same University. Now he is working in Progetto Giovani - Comune di Padova (Italy) where he is developing a European Voluntary Service. He is also collaborating at IRCVM. Carlos López-Arenillas is a PhD in Theoretical Physics, University of Barcelona, 2013. He works as an independent scholar and his main research interests are time physics and metaphysics, with a special focus on the possibilities of the relationship between physics and other disciplines, especially philosophy and neuroscience.

170

Contributors

Delfi-Isabel Nieto Isabel is currently completing a PhD on spiritual social networks in the Late Middle Ages at the department of Medieval History, Palaeography and Diplomatics of the University of Barcelona. She holds an FI scholarship of the Generalitat de Catalunya and her research interests lie in spiritual dissidence, textual communities and emotional groups in the Middle Ages. Carolina Obradors-Suazo holds a BA in History and a MA in Historical Studies from the University of Barcelona. She is currently a PhD candidate at the European University Institute in Florence, where she prepares a thesis on medieval citizenship with a special focus on the case of fifteenth century Barcelona. Gemma Pellissa-Prades is a PhD in Advanced Studies in Catalan Language and Literature by the Universitat de Barcelona. She is a researcher at IRCVM and she currently works as a part-time lecturer at the Department of Catalan Philology of Universitat de Barcelona. She is going to join Harvard University as a postdoctoral fellow from August 2014 to August 2016 with a fellowship from the Catalan Government. Georgina Rabassó is a PhD candidate in Philosophy at Universitat de Barcelona, where she has taught about women philosophers and the history of cosmology in the 12th-16th centuries. Her PhD thesis deals with the work of Hildegard of Bingen and she has done research stays at the University of Freiburg, the University of Berlin, the University of Trier, the University of Siena and at Harvard University. Kevin Rodríguez-Wittmann graduated in Art History at University of La Laguna. He is also a graduate student in European Medieval Identity at University of Lleida, and member of the Canarian Workshop for Historical Research, as well as the consolidated research group “Lhisarte. Texts and Contexts of Greek, Latin and Arab Scientific Knowledge” from University of La Laguna. Laia Sallés Vilaseca is a PhD candidate in History in her second year; her PhD dissertation’s project title is “The knowledge of Islam from the Latin Western Christianity prior to the 13th century”. She is also assistant researcher and assistant professor at the Department of Medieval History, Palaeography and Diplomatics of the University of Barcelona.

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Dolores Villalba Sola is currently a postdoctoral researcher in the Institute for Medieval Studies of the Nova University of Lisbon with a Postdoctoral Fellowship of Foundation for Science and Technology of the Ministry of Education and Science of Portugal. She is PhD in Art History from the University of Granada 2013. Her thesis title was Almohad Heritage: Historical Knowledge and Architecture. She is currently developing a postdoctoral project entitled "Almohad architecture, city and town planning in a light of Arab and Christian sources". Mariona Viñolas i Solés is a PhD candidate at the Department of Philology and Communication, and member of the Institut de Llengua i Cultura Catalanes of the University de Girona. Her PhD dissertation’s title is “The troubadours and the Crown of Aragon: study of cases”. She holds an FI scholarship of the Generalitat de Catalunya (2012-2015) and she is also collaborating on CODITECAM III, El Corpus Digital de Textos Catalans Medievals III, coordinated research project (2012-2014) of the Ministerio de Ciencia e Innovación.

INDEX OF NAMES AND WORKS A ‘Abd al-Mu‫ގ‬min .........................116 ‘Abd AllƗh al-MahdƯ bi-LlƗh .51, 52 Abnj Ja‫ޏ‬far b. Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd .... 115, 116, 117, 119, 120, 121 Abnj l-ণasan b. NizƗr..................115 Abnj Sa‫ޏ‬Ưd ‫ޏ‬UthmƗn ............115, 116 Aguiló, Gerard ............................ 78 al-‘Ɩঌid, caliph ......................51, 55 Albertet de Sisternon ........ 94, 95, 99 Alberti, Leon Battista .................107 Alegre, Francesc ......... 103, 109, 110 Faula de Neptuno i Diana....103, 109 Somni ............................103, 109 Alemany, Berenguer ................... 67 al-FƗ’iz, caliph ............................ 51 Alfons the Benign, king .........65, 70 Alfons the Chaste, king ... 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 96, 97 Alfons the Magnanimous, king .. 19, 110 al-KutandƯ, Muhammad b. 'Abd alRahman ......................... 115, 121 al-MawƗ‫ޏ‬ƯnƯ ................................115 Ray‫ۊ‬Ɨnat al-albƗb.................115 al-Nu‘mƗn, qƗঌƯ........................... 55 KitƗb al-himma ...................... 55 Alomar, Nicolau .......................... 71 al-RuৢƗfƯ, Allah ibn Galib ..........115 Amadís de Gaula ........................103 Amat, Galceran ........................... 67 Amaury I of Jerusalem, king ....... 51 Andreas Capellanus ....................108 De amore ..............................108 Aragó, Pere.................................. 79 Archimedes ................................130 Aristotle......................................130 De caelo ................................130

Augustine of Hippo ..... 36, 45, 142, 146, 148 Confessions ............................ 45 De Civitate Dei............. 142, 148 De musica......................... 36, 45

B Bartalot, Joan ................... 67, 69, 71 Bede, Venerable ................ 129, 130 Bernard Silvestris ...................... 134 Bernart de Rovenac ..................... 96 Bernat d’Auriac ................... 96, 100 Bertran de Born ............... 93, 94, 99 Boccaccio, Giovanni ......... 107, 108 Corbatxo .............................. 108 Elegia di madonna Fiammetta, L' ............................. 103, 108 Borassà, Oliver ............................ 67 Boter, Nascarit ............................. 77 Buulona, Guillema....................... 78

C Calcidius .................................... 129 Callís, Jaume ......................... 63, 70 Carbón, Damián............... 18, 21, 22 Libro del arte de las comadres .........................18, 21, 22, 24 Carlos of Viana, prince .............. 110 Carròs Pardo de la Casta, Francesc ..................................... 103, 109 Regoneixença ............... 103, 109 Castell, Jaume.............................. 75 Cerdunya, Pere ............................ 67 Certalado, Paolo .......................... 82 Cerverí de Girona ........................ 96 Chaucer, Geoffrey ................. 25, 33 Canterbury Tales.............. 25, 33

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Index of Names and Works

Cicero .........................................130 Colgina, Pere ............................... 79 Comes, Antoni ............................ 84 Comes, Vicenç ...................107, 108 Ventura, Una.................107, 108 Corneli, Pere................................ 75 Correnys, Bernat .............. 78, 79, 84 Costums de Tortosa .......... 73, 82, 83 Curial e Güelfa.. 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 110, 111, 112

D Dalmau, Ferrer ............................ 84 Dante Alighieri ...........................107 Demandes d’amor ......................108 Desprats, Arnau .... 77, 79, 80, 83, 84 Dies de Calatayud, Manuel ...19, 22, 24 Dioscorides.................................. 26 De materia medica ................. 26 Distaffs Gospels, The .................. 16

E Eiximenis, Francesc .. 15, 19, 24, 61, 62, 63, 69 Dotzè del Crestià, Lo ............. 69 Libre de les dones .................. 15 Ermengarda of Narbonne, viscountess ............................. 98 Escarré, Berenguer ...................... 77 estil·lades i amoroses lletres trameses per Bertomeu Sirlot, Les .........................................102

F Ferran of Naples, king ................110 Ferrer, Francesc ..................107, 108 Conhort, Lo ...................107, 108 Ferrer, Guillem ............................ 80 Figuera, Pere ............................... 75 Flores del Tesoro de la belleza ... 19

Folquet de Lunel.......................... 96 Franceschi, Joan .................... 68, 71 Franquesa, Guillem ..................... 77 Frederick III of Sicily, king ......... 90 Frondino e Brisona ...103, 104, 108, 109, 110, 112

G Galen ........................................... 26 Gargala, Guillem ......................... 75 Giraut de Bornelh ........................ 93 Gras, Mossèn .....103, 105, 109, 110, 112 Tragèdia de Lançalot .. 103, 104, 105, 109, 112 Gratian ......................................... 82 Decretum Gratiani ................. 82 Gual, Narcís............................... 109 Jardinet d'orats .................... 109 Gui, Bernard .............................. 149 Guido of Arezzo .................... 42, 45 Guiraut Riquier .........93, 95, 96, 100

H ণafৢa b. al-ণƗjj ..........115, 116, 119 Herrad of Hohenbourg ...... 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 135, 136 Hortus deliciarum 128, 129, 130, 131, 136 Hildegard of Bingen ..... 37, 45, 127, 128, 129, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138 Liber diuinorum operum ..... 131, 132, 133, 134, 137 Physica ......................... 131, 137 Sciuias ... 131, 132, 133, 135, 137 Honorius III, pope ....................... 82 Honorius of Autun ......129, 131, 132 De imagine mundi ................ 132 Elucidarium.......................... 131 Hugh of Caesarea 51, 53, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59 Hugh of Pisa ................................ 82

Spaces of Knowledge: Four Dimensions of Medieval Thought

I Ibn Bu৬lƗn......................... 27, 28, 33 TaqwƯm al-‫܈‬i‫ۊۊ‬a ......... 27, 29, 32 Tacuinum Sanitatis..... 25, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33 Ibn Jubayr, Muhammad ibn Ahmad ..............................................115 Ibn MardanƯsh, Muhammad .......116 Ibn RiঌwƗn .................................. 27 Innocent III, pope ........................ 73 Isabel the Catholic, queen ........... 21 Ivo, bishop of Chartres ................ 82

J Jacques de Vitry .......................... 52 Jaume I, king .... 1, 65, 95, 96, 97, 99 Jaume II, king .........................65, 70 Jerome, saint...............................130 Joachim of Fiore......... 143, 144, 147 Joan, Bernat................................. 83 John Chrysostom, saint ..........16, 24 Juan II of Navarre, king..............110 Julià, Guillem ................... 61, 62, 69

K Kant, Immanuel ..........................141

L Lérins, Vincent de ..................74, 76 Llibre del Consell ........................ 65 Llibre Verd .................................. 70 Llull, Ramon ..........................35, 45 Llull, Romeu .............. 103, 108, 109 Despropriament d'amor, Lo 103, 108, 109

M Macrobius ..................................130 Manresa, Guillem ...................79, 80

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Manual de mugeres ....18, 19, 21, 24 Marcabru ............................... 91, 98 March, Jaume ............................ 107 Marquilles, Jaume de ................... 63 Martianus Capella...................... 132 De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii .......................... 132 Martorell, Joanot ............... 106, 111 Tirant lo Blanc .....106, 108, 111, 112, 113 Matthew of Paris ......................... 52 Mencía de Guevara ...................... 21 Mestre, Guillem ........................... 78 Metge, Bernat .................... 106, 111 Somni, Lo ..................... 106, 111 Moner, Francesc ................ 103, 109 Ànima d'Oliver, L' ................ 103 Bendir de dones .................... 103 Montcofa, Guillem de...... 66, 69, 71 Montcofa, Simó de ...................... 71 Montjuïc, Jaume de ............... 63, 70 Mort le roi Artu, La ........... 105, 112 Moxó, Joan ............................ 80, 84

N Na Roca, Jaume de ...................... 78 NƗৢir Khusraw ............................. 53 Neckam, Alexander ................... 130 Nnjr ad-DƯn................................... 51

O Olivi, Peter of John ....143, 144, 145, 147, 149 Lectura super Apocalipsim.. 143, 149

P Paulet de Marselha ...................... 96 Peire d’Alvernha.................... 91, 98 Peironet ....................................... 96 Pelegrí, Jaume ............................. 75 Pere Salvatge ............................... 96

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Index of Names and Works

Pere the Catholic, king ...........94, 97 Pere the Ceremonious, king....65, 70 Pere the Great, king .... 65, 96, 97, 99 Perelló, Joan ...........................66, 71 Peter Abelard..............................134 Peter Lombard ............................129 Liber sententiarum ................129 Petrarca, Francesco .....................107 Petrus Cantor ............................... 82 Piccolomini, Enea Silvio ............107 Plato ................... 128, 129, 130, 134 Timaeus ................. 129, 130, 134 Ponç Hug IV of Empúries, count 90 Pou, Pere ....................................110 Ptolemy, Claudius ......................130 Puig, Mateu ................................. 80

R Rabanus Maurus .........................129 De universo ...........................129 Raimon de Miraval ..... 92, 93, 98, 99 Ramon Berenguer IV, count........ 91 Regimina Sanitatis ...................... 32 Rocabertí, Bernat Hug de ...........103 Glòria d'amor .......................103 Rodríguez del Padrón, Juan ........107 Roís de Corella, Joan. 102, 103, 105, 109 Lamentacions ........................105 Parlament en casa de Berenguer Mercader .........................102 Tragèdia de Caldesa .....103, 109 Rojas, Fernando de ...................... 18 Ros, Salvador .........................67, 69 Rossell, Berenguer ...................... 78 Ruiz, Juan, Arciprieste de Hita .... 77 Libro del buen amor............... 26

S Sa Torra, Pere .........................80, 83 Sadurní, Guillem ......................... 79 Sagarriga, Guillema..................... 78 Sagarriga, Simó ........................... 78

Sala, Nicolau ............................... 71 Saladin ............................. 49, 51, 58 Salavert, Antoni ........................... 66 Salut d’amor .............................. 107 San Pedro, Diego de .......... 103, 105 Cárcel de amor............. 103, 105 Sassoferrato, Bartolo de... 63, 68, 71 Satrilla, Guillem .................... 77, 80 Sença, Jaume ............................... 80 ShƗwar, vizier .................. 51, 55, 56 ShƯrknjh ........................................ 51 Sordel .......................................... 96

T Torroella, Pere ........................... 107 Qui volrà veure un pobre estat ........................................ 107 Trotula ................................... 20, 24 Tudor, Mary ................................ 17

U Ubaldi, Baldo degli...................... 63 ‫ޏ‬Umar al-MurtaঌƗ ...................... 120 Urban II, pope ............................. 49 Usatges de Barcelona ............ 63, 69

V Vallmanya, Antoni ............ 109, 110 Vallmanya, Bernardí ................. 103 Càrcer d'amor, Lo ................ 104 Vallseca, Guillem de ............. 63, 70 Villena, Enric de ........................ 107 Vincent Ferrer, saint .................... 20 Vives, Juan Luis .................... 15, 20 Institutione foeminae christianae .................................... 17, 19 Vives, Pere .................................. 80 Vives,Juan Luis ..................... 17, 19

W William of Aquitaine ................... 90

Spaces of Knowledge: Four Dimensions of Medieval Thought William of Conches....................132 Dragmaticon .........................132 William of Saint-Thierry ............134 William of Tripoli ....................... 52

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William of Tyre ...10, 49, 50, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59 Chronicon 10, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 56, 57 Gesta orientalium principum.. 52