Maps and Travel in the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Period: Knowledge, Imagination, and Visual Culture 9783110588774, 9783110587333

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Maps and Travel in the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Period

Das Mittelalter Perspektiven mediävistischer Forschung

Beihefte Herausgegeben von Ingrid Baumgärtner, Stephan Conermann und Thomas Honegger

Band 9

Maps and Travel in the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Period

Knowledge, Imagination, and Visual Culture Edited by Ingrid Baumgärtner, Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby and Katrin Kogman-Appel

ISBN 978-3-11-058733-3 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-058877-4 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-058741-8 Library of Congress Control Number: 2018962214 Bibliografic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliografic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2019 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Typesetting: Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Contents Notes on Contributors 

 VII

Ingrid Baumgärtner, Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, Katrin Kogman-Appel Maps and Travel: An Introduction   1

Part I: Historical Space Marcia Kupfer Traveling the Mappa Mundi: Readerly Transport from Cassiodorus to Petrarch  Debra Higgs Strickland The Bestiary on the Hereford World Map (c. 1300) 

 17

 37

Pnina Arad Cultural Landscape in Christian and Jewish Maps of the Holy Land 

 74

Part II: Use and Reception Ingrid Baumgärtner Winds and Continents: Concepts for Structuring the World and Its Parts  Katrin Kogman-Appel Fictive Travel and Mapmaking in Fourteenth-Century Iberia 

 91

 136

Patrick Gautier Dalché Les cartes marines comme source de réflexion géographique au XVe siècle 

 165

Camille Serchuk Around the World: Borders and Frames in Two Sixteenth-Century Norman Map Books   189

Part III: Travel into Sacred Spaces Eyal Ben-Eliyahu The Travels of the Rabbis and the Rabbinic Horizons of the Inhabited World 

 221

VI 

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Rachel Sarfati Real and Fictive Travels to the Holy Land as Painted in the Florence Scroll 

 232

Daniel M. Unger Between Nazareth and Loreto: The Role of the Stone Bricks in Caravaggio’s ‘Madonna di Loreto’   252 Veronica della Dora Sacred Topographies and the Optics of Truth: Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij’s Journeys to Mount Athos (1725–1744)   281

Part IV: Word and Images Larry Silver Antwerp Civic Self-Portraits 

 315

Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby Fra Niccolò Guidalotto’s City View, Nautical Atlas and Book of Memories: Cartography and Propaganda between Venice and Constantinople   342 Sandra Sáenz–López Pérez How to Represent the New World When One Is Not Andrea Mantegna: Sovereigns in the Americas on Sixteenth-Century Maps   363 Index of Toponyms and Locations 

 383

Index of Historical, Religious and Mythological Figures  Index of Modern Authors 

 403

 395

Notes on Contributors Pnina Arad is a postdoctoral fellow at the I-Core Center for the Study of Conversion and Interreligious Encounters at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, and at the Open University of Israel. Ingrid Baumgärtner has been Professor of Medieval History at the University of Kassel since 1994. She previously taught at the University of Augsburg (1983–1992) and was a Heisenberg Fellow of the DFG and Visiting Scholar in Princeton, Stanford, and at the Villa I Tatti in Florence. She served as ­vice-president of the Centro Tedesco di Studi Veneziani, as faculty dean at Kassel University, and as a member of the presiding committee and scientific board of the Mediävistenverband. Her publications explore medieval canon law and Roman law, the city of Rome, gender and women’s history as well as social space, cartography, and travel reports. Geographically, her focus is on Germany, Italy, and the Mediterranean world. Her latest book discusses the sixteenth-century cartographer Battista Agnese (WBG 2017). Eyal Ben-Eliyahu is a senior lecturer at the University of Haifa in the Department of Jewish History. His major research foci are the Jewish perception of space and holy places in antiquity. Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev is professor and chair of the art history department at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. Her main research interests include art and preaching in Renaissance Italy. She has published widely, including 2016, Crusade Propaganda in Word and Image in Early Modern Italy: Niccolò Guidalotto’s Panorama of Constantinople (1662) (2016), The Cult of St. Clare of Assisi in Early Modern Italy (2014), The Renaissance Pulpit: Art and Preaching in Italy 1400–1550 (2007), Renaissance Florence in the Rhetoric of Two Popular Preachers: Giovanni Dominici, and Bernardino da Siena 1356–1419 (2001). Veronica della Dora is Professor of Human Geography at Royal Holloway University of London. She holds a PhD in Geography from the University of California, Los Angeles, and previously served as a Senior Lecturer at the University of Bristol. She is a Fellow of the British Academy and has been a visiting fellow at Dumbarton Oaks (Washington, DC), the Getty Research Institute (Los Angeles), and the American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Her research interests span historical and cultural geography, the history of cartography, and Byzantine studies with a special focus on landscape and sacred space. Her publications include ‘Imagining Mount Athos: Visions of a Holy Place from Homer to World War II’ (University of Virginia Press, 2011; shortlisted for the Criticos Prize in 2012), ‘Landscape, Nature and the Sacred in Byzantium’ (Cambridge University Press, 2016; shortlisted for the Runciman Award in 2017), and ‘Mountain: Nature and Culture’ (Reaktion, 2016). Patrick Gautier Dalché is « directeur de recherche » (emeritus) at the CNRS, Institut de recherche et d’histoire des textes and « directeur d’études » (emeritus) at the École pratique des hautes études, Sorbonne. He is the author of numerous publications on the history of geography, among others Du Yorkshire a l’Inde, 2005 ; La Géographie de Ptolémé en Occident (IVe–XVIe siècle), 2009, and acts as the series editor of Terrarum Orbis at Brepols, Publ. Debra Higgs Strickland holds the PhD in Art History from Columbia University and has published widely on beasts, monsters and representations of non-Christians in medieval and early modern Christian art. Her major publications include ‘Medieval Bestiaries: Text, Image, Ideology’ (1995); ‘Saracens, Demons, and Jews: Making Monsters in Medieval Art’ (2003) and ‘The Epiphany of Hieronymus Bosch: Imagining Antichrist and Others from the Middle Ages to the Reformation’ (2016). Her current writing projects include the third in a series of three short studies on the Hereford World Map and a new book on ‘The Monsters of Hieronymus Bosch’. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-201

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 Notes on Contributors

Katrin Kogman-Appel is now an Alexander von Humboldt Professor for Jewish Studies at the Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität in Münster; she previously taught at the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev (1996–2015). She has published work on medieval Jewish art and is particularly interested in Hebrew manuscript illumination and its cultural and social contexts. She is the author of ­‘Jewish Book Art Between Islam and Christianity’ (E. J. Brill 2004), ‘Illuminated Haggadot from Medieval Spain’ (Pennsylvania State University Press 2007), and ‘A Mahzor from Worms: Art and Religion in a Medieval Jewish Community’, a monograph on the Leipzig Mahzor (Harvard University Press 2012). Marcia Kupfer contributes to the study of medieval art as an independent scholar based in ­Washington, D.C. Sandra Sáenz-López Pérez holds a PhD in Art History and studies medieval and early modern maps. She has published a book entitled ‘The Beatus Maps: The Revelation of the World in the Middle Ages’, Burgos 2014, as well as articles in ‘Archivo Español de Arte’ or ‘Word & Image’, among other scientific journals. She has curated two exhibitions on maps: ‘Marginalia in cARTography’ (Chazen Museum of Art, Madison, WI, 2014) and, with Juan Pimentel, ‘Cartografías de lo desconocido. Mapas en la BNE’ (Biblioteca Nacional de España, 2017–2018). Rachel Sarfati is Senior Curator for Jewish Art at The Israel Museum, Jerusalem. Her fields of expertise are Hebrew illuminated manuscripts and Middle Eastern material culture from the Middle Ages to modern times. As part of her work as curator at the Israel Museum she has published several catalogues to accompany her exhibitions: Each Year Anew: A Century of Shana Tova Cards, co-author and editor (Jerusalem: The Israel Museum, 2015); Sukkahs from Around the World, author (Jerusalem: The Israel Museum, 2003); Offerings from Jerusalem: Portrayals of Holy Places by Jewish Artists, ­co-author and editor (Jerusalem: The Israel Museum, 2002). Her most recent exhibition, Second Exodus: Jewish Ceremonial Objects from Egypt (April 2016–January 2017), was based on her article ‘The Yedid ­Collection – The Story of a Community’, in: Pe’amim 122–123 (2009), pp. 65–88. She received her PhD from the Tel-Aviv University in 2016; her dissertation focused on the Florence Scroll. She is currently working on a book for a special exhibit of this scroll, which will be published by the Israel Museum. Camille Serchuk is Professor of Art History at Southern Connecticut State University. Her research focuses on the intersections of painting and cartography in late medieval and early modern France. She is currently working on a book entitled ‘Lie(s) of the Land: Art, Cartography and Visual Culture in France, 1450–1610’. Larry Silver is the James and Nan Farquhar Professor of Art History, emeritus, at the University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia. He is the author or co-author of many monographs on major artists of the Low Countries and Germany, featuring: Rubens and Velázquez (2014), Pieter Bruegel (2011), Albrecht Dürer (2010), Rembrandt’s religious art (2009), Hieronymus Bosch (2006), and Quinten Massys (1984). His studies of prints and books include ‘Marketing Maximilian’ (2008) and exhibitions of large-scale prints (2008, from which this essay stems) and professional engravers in Antwerp and Haarlem, 1540–1640 (1993). He has served as President of the College Art Association and of the Historians of Netherlandish Art. Daniel M. Unger teaches history of early modern art at the Ben-Gurion University, Israel. His book ‘­ Guercino’s Paintings and His Patrons’ Politics in Early Modern Italy’, published by Ashgate in 2010, examines how the seventeenth-century painter Giovanni Francesco Barbieri, known as Il Guercino, ­instilled political ideas into his paintings. Unger’s most recent articles are ‘The Barnabites’ ­Contribution: Veneration, Art, and Politics in the Representations of St. Carlo Borromeo in Bologna’,



Notes on Contributors 

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in: Religion and the Arts 20 (2016), pp. 553–586, ‘Feminine Wiles and Masculine Weakness: Tasso’s ­Crusade and Its Visual Representations in the Seventeenth Century’, in: The European Legacy 21 (2016), pp. 812–835, and ‘A Painter of Pain: Games of Wit and Self-Promotion in Caravaggio’s ‘Boy ­Bitten by a Lizard’’, in: Journal of Baroque Studies 4 (2016), pp. 21–50. His book ‘Redefining Eclecticism in Early Modern Bolognese Painting: Ideology, Practice, and Criticism’, is going to be published in 2019. ­Unger published articles on Bolognese painting and patronage, Raphael’s Stanza della ­Segnatura, as well as on seventeenth-century art and politics, in such venues as Renaissance Studies, Word and Image, Storia dell’arte, Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, and Explorations in Renaissance Culture.

Ingrid Baumgärtner, Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, Katrin Kogman-Appel

Maps and Travel: An Introduction

Today, more than ever, maps and travel are substantial parts of our daily experiences. In the age of Google Maps and Global Positioning Systems we tend to believe that maps are faithful images of pre-existing realities and are made for locating places and routes. In contrast, medieval maps visualize the world in a completely different way that often seems strange to our modern eyes. Even at first sight, the modern viewer realizes that medieval maps communicate spatial and temporal perceptions of the world that differ considerably from our present understanding. While most premodern maps do not serve as appropriate aids for locating sites or planning an itinerary to clearly defined destinations, they do provide complex cultural, religious, and social interpretations of data and knowledge.1 In fact, premodern maps generally convey their owner’s or maker’s Weltbild, parts of which were drawn from imagination, whereas modern maps seem to be designed to impart empirical knowledge and, thus, in a sense, to fulfill a practical function. In many ways the geographic concept of medieval portolan charts, early modern maps, and early city maps overlaps with these contrasting approaches creating a liminal zone where scientific treatments of landmasses meet with visualizations inspired by theological concerns, and the cartographic medium becomes multilayered and multifunctional.

1 Cf. David Woodward (ed.), Art and Cartography. Six Historical Essays, Chicago, London 1987; John Brian Harley/ David Woodward (eds.), The History of Cartography, vol. 1: Cartography in Prehistoric, Ancient, and Medieval Europe and the Mediterranean, Chicago 1987, vol. 2,1: Cartography in the traditional Islamic and South Asian societies, Chicago 2003, vol. 2,2: Cartography in the traditional East and Southeast Asian societies, Chicago 1994, vol. 2,3: Cartography in the traditional African, American, Arctic, Australian, and Pacific societies, Chicago 1998; Denis Cosgrove (ed.), Mappings, London 1999; Paul Laxton (ed), John Brian Harley, The New Nature of Maps. Essays in the History of Cartography, Baltimore 2001; Ute Schneider, Die Macht der Karten. Eine Geschichte der Kartographie vom Mittelalter bis heute, Darmstadt 2004, repr. 2012; Ingrid Baumgärtner/ Stefan Schröder, Weltbild, Kartographie und geographische Kenntnisse, in: Johannes Fried/ Ernst-Dieter Hehl (eds.), Weltdeutungen und Weltreligionen 600 bis 1500 (WBG-Weltgeschichte. Eine globale Geschichte von den Anfängen bis ins 21. Jahrhundert 3), Darmstadt 2010, pp. 57–83; Vadim Oswalt, Weltkarten – Weltbilder. Zehn Schlüsseldokumente der Globalgeschichte, Stuttgart 2015; Ingrid Baumgärtner, Die Welt in Karten. Umbrüche und Kontinuitäten im Mittelalter, in: Uta Goerlitz/ Meike Hensel-Grobe (eds.), Mediävistik und Schule im Dialog (Das Mittelalter. Perspektiven mediävistischer Forschung 22, 1), Berlin 2017, pp. 55–74. Ingrid Baumgärtner, Mittelalterliche Geschichte, FB 05 – Gesellschaftswissenschaften, Universität Kassel, Nora Platiel-Str. 1, D-34127, Kassel, [email protected] Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, The Department of the Arts, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Beer-Sheva, Israel, [email protected] Katrin Kogman-Appel, Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität, Münster, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-001

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 Ingrid Baumgärtner, Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, Katrin Kogman-Appel

On the one hand, the makers of portolan charts and early modern maps employed scientific methods, new developments in optics, and cartographic tools, yet at the same time the maps were, as their medieval predecessors, elaborate works of art intended for public display, often transporting ideological messages and serving propagandistic aims. Early modern maps were artistic objects showing such innovative evolutions as the growth of perspective and scientific observations. The scholarship in recent decades has witnessed a marked increase in cultural studies in which late medieval and early modern maps are treated not as mere mirrors of reality, but rather as both exquisite works of art and uniquely rewarding sources for the historian. A central contention is that those maps fulfilled not only an aesthetic and artistic function, but also served utilitarian and political ends. In the premodern period, creating a map was an occasion for a display of artistry, and the work was a form of decorative art to be exhibited either as a wall hanging or as a collector’s item. For example, seventeenth-century maps were often framed with decorated columns and sensuous Baroque images associated with issues of power and politics.2 Thus, premodern maps were constantly entangled with religious Weltbilder, political constructs, and the determination to acqire and impart knowledge. Premodern travel touched upon similar schemes. Medieval and early modern travelers set out on various kinds of journeys. Some who traveled as merchants did not share their knowledge with others, but one of the most famous travelogues was dictated by Marco Polo, a merchant, to a professional author. Missionaries and pilgrims were driven by religious motives, the latter often designing their accounts as spiritual vehicles to enable others to undertake a mental pilgrimage. Finally, some authors embarked on fictitious journeys sharing their tales with readers who would not know the difference between real-life experiences and the products of an author’s imagination. Premodern maps and travelogues not only have much in common, but are entangled in various ways. They convey knowledge, either visually or verbally, about remote places in homely terms, easily understood by their readers and viewers. Maps function with signs and images from the familiar world of their makers to visualize places that neither their maker nor their viewer ever saw. By way of comparison, travel accounts often address a set of familiar norms and terms in order to present the reader with an unknown, sometimes uncanny world. As both genres created powerful images of the ‘Other’, they helped medieval readers to come to terms with their own cultural and religious identities.

2 Cf. John Brian Harley/ David Woodward (eds.), The History of Cartography, vol. 3,1–2: Cartography in the European Renaissance, Chicago 2007; David Woodward, Maps as Prints in the Italian Renaissance. Makers, Distributors and Consumers, London 1996; Lucia Nuti, Ritratti di città. Visione e memoria tra Medioevo e Settecento, Venice 1996; David Buisseret (ed.), Envisioning the City. Six Studies in Urban Cartography, Chicago, London 1998; Schneider (note 1); Francesca Fiorani, The Marvel of Maps. Art, Cartography and Politics in Renaissance Italy, New Haven 2005; Sean Roberts, Printing a Mediterranean World, Cambridge/ MA 2013; Mark Rosen, The Mapping of Power in Renaissance Italy, Cambridge 2015.

Maps and Travel: An Introduction 

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Maps, both premodern and modern, visualize knowledge of the world and create spatial configurations. Several scholars have pointed out that (early) modern maps can be read as compressed (re)constructions of social orders, political intentions, and other imaginings. Thus, they do not simply represent spatial configurations, but generate new, relational determined spaces and create spatially defined realities. In parallel, travelogues as verbally communicated information often follow itineraries emerging within well- defined spaces. In a way, they appear as counterparts of cartographic renderings. However, the relationship between visual cartographic knowledge and verbal information in travelogues is more complex. It has been shown that visualized imagination and textual narrative cannot be separated into two differing categories along a clearly demarcated dividing line. Rather, both are mirrors of their authors’ religious, cultural, and personal world and convey diverse degrees and elements of knowledge. Approached via the concept of multimodality as a methodological tool, both maps and travel accounts appear as distinct modes, that is, socially and culturally determined ways of creating meaning and establishing communication on similar matters.3 In fact, a relationship between maps and travel has been documented since late antiquity. On the one hand, the medieval cartographic renderings and diagrams included in manuscripts of Orosius’s ‘Historiae adversum Paganos’ and even earlier in copies of Strabo’s ‘Chrestomathies’ demonstrate that sketches of the outline of the tripartite world were considered suitable additions to historiographical and geographical texts.4 On the other hand, the Ebstorf world map, created around 1300 and destroyed during the Second World War, associates visualized knowledge of the ecumene with journeying. A legend in one of its corners explains that the practice of mapping is important not only for the observer but also for the traveler: Map means forma (form, design, plan, model, outline, drawing, figure). Hence a mappa mundi is a form of the world, which Julius Caesar, having sent legates throughout the breadth of the whole world, first instituted. Regions, provinces, islands, cities, sandy coasts, marshes, flat expanses [of seas or plains], mountains, and rivers he brought together, as it were, for viewing on a single page. It offers to readers no small utility, to wayfarers, direction and delight in the most pleasing sight of things along the way.5 3 Gunther Kress, What is mode?, in: Carey Jewitt (ed.), The Routledge Handbook of Multimodal Analysis, London, New York 2009, pp. 54–67. 4 Didier Marcotte, Orbis triquadrus, monde triparti. Une figure cartographique des Histoires d’Orose. Suivi de ‘Un diagramme inédit dans les Chrestomathies de Strabon’, in: Nathalie Bouloux/ Anca Dan/ Georges Tolias (eds.), Orbis disciplinae. Hommages en l’honneur de Patrick Gautier D ­ alché, Turnhout 2017, pp. 255–279. 5 Cf. Hartmut Kugler, Die Ebstorfer Weltkarte, Berlin 2007, 2 vols., here no. 7/1, vol. 1, pp. 21, 42 and vol. 2, p. 86: Mappa dicitur forma. Inde mappa mundi id est forma mundi. Quam Julius Cesar missis legatis per totius orbis amplitudinem primus instituit; regiones, provincias, insulas, civitates, syrtes, paludes, equora, montes, flumina quasi sub unius pagine visione coadunavit; que scilicet non parvam

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 Ingrid Baumgärtner, Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, Katrin Kogman-Appel

A map’s usefulness for the individual observer does not need to be justified, but there are also further advantages for the traveler: a map is designed to indicate directions to the itinerant and to activate his or her interest in the objects and events along the routes in the most pleasant way. In medieval mappae mundi the association with voyaging had nothing to do with real-life geographic routes and existing landscapes, but rather with imaginary worlds and mental pathways. It was the pilgrim’s eyes and his or her mind traveling the different parts of the orbis terrarum, in the double sense of speculatio, a religious c­ ontemplation of the world (Weltbetrachtung), on one hand, and dilectio, its delightful interpretation (Weltdeutung), on the other. The measurements taken by Caesar’s special envoys wandering all over the world offered the antique background for a spiritual pilgrimage for those in the Middle Ages who could not physically manage the actual itinerary. Similarly, Jewish maps “conceptualize the landscape of biblical topography” (in Pnina Arad’s words) and are framed here within the cultural ambience of the people who made them and those who used them. The maps convey both real-life experiences and symbolic meanings attached to pilgrimage sites. Likewise, the descriptions of travels reveal the authors’ and, in a way, the travelers’ approach to different parts of the known world from specific Jewish perspectives.6

Objective This volume is an attempt to illuminate the way geographic space was described and visualized in premodern times and how significantly these depictions differed from region to region, from period to period, and from context to context. Various methods of mapmaking and different ways of putting travel experiences into words yielded different results. The history of travel and mapmaking does not reveal a continuous evolutionary progression, but, rather, results in the delineation of individual distinctions

prestat legentibus utilitatem, viantibus directionem rerumque viarum gratissime speculationis dilectionem. English translation by Marcia Kupfer in her following article. Cf. Claude Nicolet/ Patrick Gautier Dalché, Les ‘Quatre Sages’ de Jules Césare et la ‘Mesure du monde’ selon Julius Honorius: réalité antique et tradition médiévale, in: Journal des Savants 4 (1986), pp. 157–218, here p. 205; Patrick Gautier Dalché, Agrimensure et inventaire du monde: la fortune de ‘Mappa (Mundi)’ au Moyen Âge, in: Les vocabulaires techniques des arpenteurs romains. Actes du colloque international (Besançon, 19–21 septembre 2002), Besançon 2006, pp. 163–171, here p. 169; Marcia Kupfer, Art and Optics in the Hereford Map. An English Mappa Mundi, c. 1300, London 2016, pp. 26–27, 32–38. 6 Similarly, Islamic maps conceptualize the parts of the world into stylized shapes, transmit issues of political power and religion, see, e.g. Yossef Rapoport, Reflections of Fatimid power in the maps of Island Cities in the ‘Book of Curiosities’, in: Ingrid Baumgärtner/ Martina Stercken (eds.), Herrschaft verorten. Politische Kartographie im Mittelalter und in der frühen Neuzeit (­Medienwandel – Medienwechsel – Medienwissen 19), Zürich 2012, pp. 183–210.

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and differences within the wide range of cartographic and travel practices, parallel developments, and different perspectives. The chapters that follow discuss visualizations and depictions of the world, or parts of it, as it was known during the Middle Ages and the early modern period. They focus on mapping as a conceptual and artistic practice, on visual representations of space both ‘civil’ and ‘savage’, and on descriptions of experiences recorded by travelers or imagined by narrators of fictive travel. How can a map as an intellectual construct deal with cultural diversity and different modes of knowledge and at the same time highlight their differences? Even though maps were often taken as straightforward, unbiased configurations, the individual case studies presented in this volume reveal deeply subjective frameworks bearing social, political, and economic ­significance. Likewise, travel narratives, whether illustrated or not, can address similar settings and contexts. Whereas traveled space is often adventurous and wild, a place of hardship, strange encounters, and danger, city portraits tell a tale of civilized life and civic pride. This volume addresses the multiple ways in which medieval and early modern maps and (illustrated) travel literature reflected and conceived of the world, communicated a Weltbild, depicted space, and defined knowledge. The included case studies span the period from late antiquity to the seventeenth century and focus on examples taken from the Mediterranean region, Europe, and the Middle East that reflect the continuation and innovation in depicting geographical space among different periods and diverse zones. Whereas the volume’s contributors recognize the importance of maps as informational tools, they challenge the academic boundaries in the study of medieval and early modern maps and travelogues by exploring the links among mapmaking, travel narratives, and artistic practices like painting, printmaking, and drawing. Apart from issues concerning the identity and the professional and intellectual ­profiles of mapmakers as artists and scientists, as well as authors of travel narratives, our c­ onsiderations focus on the exchange of maps among different cultures and their reception by various audiences.

Approaches In the late 1970s scholars such as John B. harley7 began to emphasize that maps can only be understood in their context and within their literary and visual frameworks. Consequently, there was a focus on the mutual influences and interactions between cartographic images and textual descriptions, between the visualization of and narratives about the ‘world’, and on the various ways these different systems of recording functioned and performed concurrently. Modes of enquiry and research objectives

7 Vgl. David Woodward, Obituary J. B. Harley (1932–1991), in: Imago Mundi 44 (1992), pp. 120–125; John B. Harley, Deconstructing the Map, in: Cartographica 26 (1989), pp. 1–20; repr. in: Paul Laxton (ed.), The New Nature of Maps. Essays in the History of Cartography, Baltimore 2001, pp. 149–168.

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changed over the years leading to different emphases, and the various disciplinary fields connected with cartography and travel literature developed into broader issues. Following harley’s work, recent decades have seen an increasing number of studies that suggest that cartographic information is organized within a complex network of content and form. For some time scholars concentrated on the exchange between geography, space, and power in cartographic images and literature.8 Later on, the research perspective on maps began to shift from the map as a final result to the process of mapping, from the presentation of the world and its spaces to the representation of a spatial order, from the illustration of mythical life to the potential power over spaces, and from the display of information to the ability to generate knowledge in interaction with the observer. In all these developments, the connection between cartographic images and texts became increasingly important. This was true for the study of manuscripts as the material settings for maps and the texts they accompany, as well as for the mutual exchange of information delivered visually and in such texts as travelogues and chronicles. Patrick Gautier Dalché was among the first to show how works such as the late twelfth-century ‘Expositio mappe mundi’, which he attributed to the Yorkshire chronicler Roger of Howden (d. 1201), describe in words exactly what we can perceive in an image such as a mappa mundi.9 He also analyzed Hugh of Saint-Victor’s ‘Descriptio mappe mundi’, in which the prologue notes that the cartographic representation of the world can replace the realia. Approaches such as Hugh’s opened the way to new intellectual spaces.10 Around 1218 and under the influence of the Fifth Crusade, Jacques de Vitry, Bishop of Acre, wrote that he considered world maps important instruments for visualizing geographic information about landscapes and sites. With regard to the Holy Land, this potential was recognized by both pilgrims and scholars, when Roger Bacon, for example, sketched a mental map of the Jordan Valley in his ‘Opus maius’, around 1266/1267.11 8 Cf. inter alia Martina Stercken, Kartographien von Herrschaft im Mittelalter, in: Rheinische Vier­ teljahrsblätter 70 (2006), pp. 134–154; Jess Edwards, Wie liest man eine frühneuzeitliche Karte? Zwischen dem Besonderen und dem Allgemeinen, dem Materiellen und dem Abstrakten, Wörtern und Mathematik, in: Jürg Glauser/ Christian Kiening (eds.), Text – Bild – Karte. Kartographien der Vormoderne (Rombach Wissenschaften. Reihe Litterae 105), Freiburg im Breisgau, Berlin, Wien 2007, pp. 95–130; Martina Stercken, Repräsentieren mit Karten als mediales Modell, in: Christian ­Kiening/ Martina Stercken (eds.), Modelle des Medialen im Mittelalter (Das Mittelalter. Perspektiven mediävistischer Forschung 15,2), Berlin 2010, pp. 96–113. 9 Patrick Gautier Dalché, Du Yorkshire à l’Inde: une ‘géographie’ urbaine et maritime de la fin du XIIe siècle (Roger de Howden?), Geneva 2005, pp. 49–82. 10 Id., La Descriptio mappe mundi de Hugues de Saint-Victor: texte inédit avec introduction et commentaire, Paris 1988, pp. 81–85; Id., ‚Réalité’ et ‚symbole’ dans la géographie de Hugues de ­Saint-Victor, in: Ugo di San Vittore. Atti del XLVII Convegno storico internazionale, Todi, 10–12 ottobre 2010 (Atti dei convegni del Centro italiano di studi sul basso Medioevo, Accademia Tudertina. Nuova serie 24), Spoleto 2011, pp. 359–381; Dominique Poirel, Alter mundus: cosmos réel ou cosmos ­symbolique chez Hugues de Saint-Victor, in: Bouloux/ Dan/ Tolias (note 4), pp. 63–81. 11 Roger Bacon, Opus Maius, ed. John Henry Bridges, London 1900, 2 vols., repr. Frankfurt am Main 1964, here vol. 1, pp. 185–186; English translation of the geographic chapters by Herbert M. Howe under

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Numerous publications in recent years have emphasized the meditative function of maps, their potential as an impetus for imaginary travel and their compensatory import for pilgrims who could not travel physically because of their religious status, such as nuns in enclosure behind convent walls.12 In all of these cases, a mappa mundi displayed in the convent or regional maps in travel reports or chronicles (such as the maps of Matthew Paris) helped devotees to re-enact and comprehend the religious practices of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.13 Based on the map in the London Psalter, Bettina Schöller shows how textual and pictorial systems of recording information interacted to systematize and contextualize knowledge. She explains the functions – to store, to order, and to transfer information – that had to be executed. At the same time, she sheds light on how knowledge was transferred from verbal description to visualization in the shape of a T-O diagram and encyclopedic world maps. As examples she takes the London Psalter Map (after 1262) on whose verso page a text appears, which Schöller identifies as the aforementioned ‘Descriptio mappe mundi’ by Hugh,14 and the nearly contemporaneous Lambeth Map from southern England, which is based on the divergent version of Honorius Augustodunensis’s ‘Imago mundi’ in the same manuscript.15 Similarly, fourteenth-century maps associated with the work of Ranulf Higden can and should be read in relation to copies of the latter’s chronicle, as that demonstrates how map and text engendered mental traveling around the world.16 http://www.geography.wisc.edu/histcart/bacon.html. Cf. David Woodward/ H ­ erbert M. Howe, Roger Bacon on Geography and Cartography, in: Jeremiah Hackett (ed.), Roger Bacon and the S ­ ciences. Commemorative Essays, Leiden, New York, Köln 1997, pp. 199–222, here pp. 219, 204. 12 Daniel K. Connolly, The Maps of Matthew Paris. Medieval Journeys through Space, Time and Liturgy, Woodbridge 2009; Kathryn M. Rudy, Virtual Pilgrimages in the Convent: Imagining Jerusalem in the Late Middle Ages (Disciplina Monastica 8), Turnhout 2011. 13 Pnina Arad, Pilgrimage, Cartography and Devotion: William Wey’s Map of the Holy Land, in: Viator 43 (2012), pp. 1–22; Bianca Kühnel/ Galit Noga-Banai/ Hanna Vorholt (eds.), Visual Constructs of Jerusalem (Cultural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages 18), Turnhout 2014 with case studies on Adamnáns drawing in his report (O’Loughlin), the origin of the Holy Land maps from the Liber locorum and the so-called Hieronymus-maps (M. Levy-Rubin), the Quaresmius map of the Holy City, made in 1639 (R. Rubin), the Jerusalem maps of American missionaries (E. Edson) as well as the Holy Land maps in Matthaeus Parisiensis historiographical work (L. J. Whatley), in the Rudimentum Novitiorum of 1475 (A. Worm) or by William of Wey and Gabriele Capodilista (P. Arad). 14 Bettina Schöller, Wissen speichern, Wissen ordnen, Wissen übertragen. Schriftliche und bildliche Aufzeichnungen der Welt im Umfeld der Londoner Psalterkarte (Medienwandel – ­Medienwechsel – Medienwissen 32), Zürich 2015, pp. 98–112, 191–200 for the map in London, British Library, Add. MS 28681, fol. 9r-v. Cf. Patrick Gautier Dalché, Comment et pourquoi décrire une mappemonde au Moyen Âge?, in: Pierre Chastang/ Patrick Henriet/ Claire Soussen (eds.), Figures de l’autorité médiévale. Mêlanges offerts à Michel Zimmermann, Paris 2016, pp. 69–88. 15 Schöller (note 14), pp. 200–223 for the map in London, Lambeth Palace Library, MS 371, fol. 9v. 16 Cornelia Dreer/ Keith D. Lilley, Universal Histories and their Geographies: Navigating the Maps and Texts of Higden’s Polychronicon, in: Michele Campopiano/ Henry Bainton (eds.), Universal Chronicles in the High Middle Ages (Writing History in the Middle Ages 4), Woodbridge 2017 pp. 275–301.

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 Ingrid Baumgärtner, Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, Katrin Kogman-Appel

Apart from historiographic and geographic literature, travelogues and their complex narratives increasingly influenced the visualization of the world or parts of it. In turn maps oftentimes directed authors how to put their travel experience into words.17 From the tiny London Psalter Map to the monumental mappae mundi in the Ebstorf convent and in Hereford Cathedral, as well as the one designed by Fra Mauro, these maps could be adapted to specific ideas and requirements. Their adaptability is clear when we look at how various textual sources starting with Ptolemy’s ‘Geographia’ influenced later cartographers to reconstruct the Asian coastline until Mercator’s Map in 1569.18 For centuries, the Indian Ocean was considered to be landlocked, and it took a long process of continuous adaptations and alterations generated by the testimonies of travelers until knowledge of the Indian Ocean as an open sea was generally accepted. Information arising from the pervasive narratives of Alexander’s military campaigns was integrated into maps just like geographic data gathered from pilgrims or merchants. The Holy Land dominated in medieval and early modern descriptions of space, both Christian and Jewish.19 Such texts were enriched with maps and, in the Christian context, with lists of indulgences to be obtained at holy places, such as the ones revised and circulated by the Franciscans of Mount Zion.20 From the fourteenth century on, the mixture of literary and visual reception became increasingly important, so that fifty-four maps and didactic illustrations were inserted in the manuscripts and early prints of Nicholas of Lyra’s well-known and widespread commentary on the Bible, the ‘Postilla Litteralis’ (1323–1332).21 A major cartographic innovation of the early modern period was the genre of the city view, which appears to have been at the interface between art and cartography, dealing with both artistic and scientific concerns. This genre was interdisciplinary, and employed a unique visual language worthy of the attention of art historians. In early modern culture, important branches of art and cartography had their roots in a common tradition. Maps were used as floor mosaics, frescoes, and wall hangings, and were often turned into collectors’ items and hung on walls as another type of landscape painting. Starting at the beginning of the fifteenth century, aesthetically 17 Folker Reichert, Asien und Europa im Mittelalter. Studien zur Geschichte des Reisens, Göttingen 2014, passim; Ingrid Baumgärtner, Europa in der Kartographie des Mittelalters. Repräsentationen – Grenzen – Paradigmen, in: Ingrid Baumgärtner/ Hartmut Kugler (eds.), Europa im Weltbild des Mittelalters. Kartographische Konzepte (Orbis mediaevalis 10), Berlin 2008, pp. 9–28. 18 Marica Milanesi, The Real Ganges. Gerard Mercator and the Question of the Borders of India, in: Bouloux/ Dan/ Tolias (note 4), pp. 395–418. 19 Jean-Pierre Rothschild, Aperçus sur le monde et la Terre sainte dans la littérature hébraïque médiévale et modern, in: Bouloux/ Dan/ Tolias (note 4), pp. 103–123. 20 Michele Campopiano, Écrire/décrire la Terre sainte: les Franciscains et la représentation des lieux sacrés (début du XIVe-début du XVIe siècle), in: Bouloux/ Dan/ Tolias (note 4), pp. 167–182. 21 Catherine Delano-Smith, Some Contemporary Manuscripts of Nicholas of Lyra’s Postilla Litteralis (1323–1332): Maps, Plans and Other Illustrations, in: Bouloux/ Dan/ Tolias (note 4), pp. 199–232.

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­pleasing maps manifested a fusion of art and science. The rediscovery of Ptolemy had a major impact on Renaissance cartography, and developments in optics and mathematics had a crucial influence on the changing designs and roles of maps.22 Many early modern cartographers were pictorial artists who painted and decorated their maps. Celebrated painters such as Leonardo da Vinci, Albrecht Dürer, and Jacopo de’ Barbari turned their hands to mapmaking and the genre was especially popular in the Dutch tradition. In 1501–1502, Leonardo combined the theory and practice of mapmaking when he prepared a list of maps of central Italy for Cesare Borgia. He also attempted to convert observations from the ground into an imagined view from the air when he produced a map of Milan with an oblique viewpoint and an abstraction based on the principles of mathematical perspective in an effort to preserve accuracy.23 This was followed in sixteenth-century Italian painting by a series of fantastic panoramas created from imaginary viewpoints. Renaissance technology further contributed to artistry in cartography as woodcutters, engravers, and printers who had been pictorial artists turned their energies to cartographic engraving, with Venice and Antwerp serving as prominent centers of publishing and mapmaking. The city view, which was figured with an emphasis on a realistic representation and rendered from various landscapes, was drawn from a bird’s-eye perspective. Prints and woodcuts of cities were invariably described as being true and lifelike (ad vivum), and the perspective plan emerged as the dominant form of topographic representation.24 Examples of this genre are the city view of Venice by Jacopo de’ Barbari, that of Rome by Alessandro Strozzi, and that of Florence by Francesco Rosselli, all of which were done at the end of the fifteenth century. Gradually, a style developed that drew the city view as seen from an elevated vantage point across the city, which was known as the profile city view.25 This format was also sometimes called the city panorama.26 22 See John Brian Harley, The Map and the Development of the History of Cartography, in: Harley/ Woodward, vol. 1 (note 1), pp. 1–42; Naomi Miller, Mapping the City. The Language and Culture of Cartography in the Renaissance, London 2003; Jürgen Schulz, Maps as Metaphors. Mural Map Cycles of the Italian Renaissance, in: Woodward (note 1), pp. 97–122. 23 On the artistic aspects of city views see Ronald Rees, Historical Links between Cartography and Art, in: Geographical Review 70 (1980), pp. 60–78. 24 Ian Manners, Constructing the Image of a City. The Representation of Constantinople in Christopher Buondelmonti’s Liber Insularum Archipelagi, in: Annals of the Association of American Geography 87, 1 (1997), pp. 72–102. 25 Lucia Nuti, The Perspective Plan in the Sixteenth Century. The Invention of a New Representational Language, in: Art Bulletin 76 (1994), pp. 105–128; Jessica Maier, A ‘True Likeness’: The ­Renaissance City Portrait, in: Renaissance Quarterly 65, 3 (2012), pp. 711–752. On city views of Florence see ­Thomas Frangenberg, Chorographies of Florence: The Use of City Views and City Plans in the Sixteenth ­Century, in: Imago Mundi 46 (1994), pp. 41–64; David Friedman, ‘Fiorenza’: Geography and ­Representation in a 15th-Century City View, in: Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 64 (2001), pp. 56–77. 26 The term city panorama is often applied to the nineteenth-century vast panoramic city views, but the city panorama has a longer history that goes back to the early modern period. On the development of the genre of the panorama see Bernard Comment, The Panorama, London 1999.

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 Ingrid Baumgärtner, Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, Katrin Kogman-Appel

This volume considers the manifold relationships among maps, geographic texts, and travelogues, both Christian and Jewish, creating bridges between text and image from the specific perspective of the depiction of geographic space. Transgressing the traditional boundaries between the Middle Ages and the early modern period, it follows the paths of recent scholars and goes beyond the traditional positivist approach of scientific geographic knowledge and its cartographic manifestations. The maps and texts we deal with challenges the boundaries between media; the contributions break through methodological boundaries – between literary study, text criticism, and history – and contextualization takes these methods (which are commonly not used for visual material) and applies them to maps and stories.

Sections The present volume is primarily an attempt to call attention to the visual aspects of mapmaking and travel writing. In accord with current research approaches, the thematically grouped chapters deal with a selection of works from late antiquity to the early modern period and offer several case studies. Structured in four parts organized along different spaces (historical and sacred space), these works define their uses and functions and describe the way text and image combine to mediate their messages. Most of the chapters are based on presentations delivered during a workshop held in June 2015 at the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Beer Sheva, Israel, supported by a grant from the Israel Science Foundation. The first section considers historical space in relation to cultural and religious values. The chapters explore such major issues as the motivation for cartography and travel, such specific iconographic features as the images of animals on maps, and Christian and Jewish depictions of the Holy Land. It opens with Marcia Kupfer’s essay in which she argues that the cartographic stimulus for imaginary travel, with its roots in ancient rhetoric, had become a topos well before the fourteenth century. She surveys readers’ approaches to medieval mappae mundi as gleaned from extant works in which the use of maps left visual traces and from the textual records about these uses. Debra Higgs Strickland focuses on animal imagery on the Hereford Map in its relation to the English medieval bestiary tradition. As the depictions of animals migrated from the Christian moralizations of the bestiaries to the c­ artographic context with its concerns about space and geography, they adapted to new meanings, occasionally with a political dimension. Pnina Arad examines Christian and Jewish maps of the Holy Land. From the early sixteenth century on, maps showing the Exodus to the Promised Land were occasionally inserted into printed Passover haggadot. She argues that these maps were associated with the haggadah because of their inherent capability to construct and maintain the formative memory of Jewish society and examines the connection between the map and the haggadah, considering both as media that constructed Jewish cultural values and national expectations.

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The second section deals with the production, use, and reception of maps from the twelfth to the sixteenth centuries. Major themes include the geometrical representation of space in medieval maps, the relationships between fictive travelogues and images, the importance of marine charts, and the complex relationships between maps and pictorial traditions. Ingrid Baumgärtner’s essay focuses on abstract representations of the world and its regions. Taking Burchard of Mount Zion’s description of the Holy Land (written before June 1285) as a starting point, she discusses the correlation among the three parts of the world, that is, Asia, Africa, and Europe, the earth’s four quarters, and their further division according to the twelve scientific or sixteen nautical wind directions. Her argument focuses on different models and their reception in a range of texts, especially historiography and travel accounts, and in different kinds of maps including T-O maps, world maps, regional depictions of the Holy Land, and nautical wind roses of late medieval sea charts. Katrin Kogman-Appel looks at the ‘Libro de conosçimiento de todos los reinos’, in Castilian, a (fictive) travelogue that describes a journey from Castile to China and includes descriptions of all of the kingdoms. Her essay suggests that whereas descriptions of Europe follow a chart, there was no such visual aid available for the descriptions of Asia. Patrick Gautier Dalché demonstrates that soon after the first appearance of marine charts as technical vehicles for the use of navigators and merchants in the thirteenth century, they began to draw the attention of litterati, historians, scientists, and authors of Crusader plans or poetical itineraries, who used them to study the geography of the orbis terrarum. Scholars commonly transcribed place names from marine charts and sought to identify them with toponyms known from ancient sources. Moreover, the circulation of the ‘Geographia’ in Latin raised questions about the geographic accuracy of the Ptolemaic concept of visualization in comparison with that of marine charts. He describes the way these scholars tackled the epistemological tensions between the attachment to ancient culture and recent scientific developments, touching upon general questions concerning humanism. Camille Serchuk’s essay focuses on the complex network of relationships between cartography produced in the sixteenth century in Normandy and contemporary pictorial traditions. The artistic ornamentation of these cartographic objects added both value and luster, and thus helped to distance these works from printed maps and proclaimed their originality, exclusivity, and their rarity. In the third section we turn to ‘Travel into Sacred Space’ and analyze intellectual traditions associated with religious travel in various societies. It focuses on Jewish travels, as well as pilgrimage in Catholic and Greek Orthodox culture. Eyal ­Ben-Eliyahu deals with the journeys of the rabbis and reconstructs the mental maps of their movements outside the Land of Israel in order to demonstrate their lack of interest in the West after the uprisings against Trajan and Hadrian. The rabbinic literature reveals that the geographical and ethnographical perceptions were more restricted than those of the Hellenistic-Jewish literary maps found in Jubilees and Flavius Josephus’s treatment in the ‘table of nations,’ and of Jewish travel schemes

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 Ingrid Baumgärtner, Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, Katrin Kogman-Appel

known from the Second Temple period. It also differs considerably from Roman visions of the world. In her contribution on the real or fictive travels addressed in a Jewish scroll from the fourteenth century, Rachel Sarfati describes a hitherto unknown Jewish ­fourteenth-century illustrated scroll depicting the Holy Land. She discusses the images of the holy sites, noting that some of those depictions suggest an imaginary journey from Egypt to the Land of Israel, whereas others relate to the scribe’s real journey. In ‘Between Nazareth and Loreto’ Daniel M. Unger discusses the appearance of bricks in Caravaggio’s painting ‘Madonna di Loreto’. In combination with earlier accounts of travelers and pilgrims to both Loreto and Nazareth the brick motif suggests an interesting point of view regarding the miraculous translation of the Madonna’s house from one place to another. Veronica della Dora writes about the life of Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij as a pilgrimage, pointing out sacred topographies and the “optics of truth”. She focuses on his two visits to Mount Athos (1725–1744), the largest monastic center in Greece. The sketches accompanying Barskij’s accounts provide a fascinating insight into his spatial perceptions. The fourth and last section deals with the relationship between words and images, among them such new media as urban panoramas and visual prints, focusing on innovations of the early modern era like the utilization of prints in cartography, the development of the city views, and the discovery of the New World as factors in cartography. Larry Silver’s ‘Antwerp Civic Self-Portraits’ analyzes early modern printed city views in a European context. These images appear as waterside profiles or bird’s-eye views in the form of murals or friezes, as parts of book projects or official publications commissioned by the cities themselves. In any case, they highlight the importance of an accurate representation of such views on a large scale. These views of Antwerp chart the expansion of the city, including newly added walls and citadels as well as skyline features, such as church towers and civic structures. Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby’s essay focuses on a painted panorama of Constantinople and a nautical atlas created by Fra Niccolò Guidalotto when he served in the Venetian Embassy in Constantinople during the seventeenth century (around 1646). They both combine text and images and are fascinating examples of Venetian visual propaganda against the Ottomans during the War of Candia. Investigating the New World in maps from the sixteenth century, Sandra Sáenz-López Pérez explores the development of a visual tradition of representations of non-European rulers, both American and Asian, on sixteenth-century maps. She demonstrates that, when it came to depicting the New World, early modern cartographers and artists were not free of the classical heritage. However, in the portraits of New World rulers, classicism was interpreted afresh and combined with a new ethnography born of empirical experience. Thus the essays that follow deal with individual mapmakers and authors of travelogues, mapmaking as an artistic practice, the relationship between travel literature and mapmaking, travel literature as a literary genre with and without

Maps and Travel: An Introduction 

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illustrations, imagination in depictions of newly explored worlds, patronage and audiences for maps and travel narratives, and the place of maps and travelogues in intellectual circles and religious groups. All of the discussions reflect a dual purpose: to represent a description of the world (which might be visual or textual) and to convey creativity (which might be artistic or scientific) in its imaginative depiction. They are simultaneously objective and genuine attempts to arrive at a truthful representation of geographical space while expressing the cultural values, ideologies, and creative talents of their makers. They also manifest an interesting combination of motivations for cartographic projects: some religious, such as those about pilgrimages or the images of the Holy Land, and some civic and commercial associated with the development of trade and the growth of cities. These intriguing case studies attest to the attraction of maps whether as paths to salvation or objects in the service of more mundane aspirations such as celebrating a city and its glory.

Part I: Historical Space

Marcia Kupfer

Traveling the Mappa Mundi: Readerly Transport from Cassiodorus to Petrarch Abstract: Authors from Cassiodorus to Petrarch associate maps with travel as a mental activity. This essay explores the history of the topos and how it is figured on three world maps of c. 1300. Keywords: Cotton (Anglo-Saxon) world map, Duchy of Cornwall fragment, Ebstorf world map, Hereford world map, Honorius Augustodunensis, Hugh of St. Victor, Isidore of Seville, mappa mundi, Petrarch, pilgrimage, Priscian, travel Writing to the papal secretary Francesco Bruni in 1367–1368, Petrarch recalled the dueling desires of his much younger self.1 On the one hand, he yearned to travel the world. But on the other, he also wanted to stay put, immersed in his books. A tiny map helped him resolve the conundrum: Of course, I have seen more by traveling than I would have seen at home, and I have added something to my experience and knowledge of things, but I have diminished my knowledge of literature. Think how many days of study these comings and goings have taken from me so that, upon seeing my little library again, I would feel like a stranger […] This is no small loss, considering the brevity and flight of time. Had this fear not possessed me and checked my impulses […] I would have gone to the ends of the earth, to China and the Indies, and visited the most distant land of Taprobane. […] At that age no labor of the road, no hardships at sea, no perils would have frightened me; it was the loss of time and wasting of my mind that frightened me, figuring that I would return full of the sights of cities and rivers, mountains, and forests [plenum spectaculis urbium, fluminumque ac montium et sylvarum], but not nourished by the dear books that up to that time I had collected with youthful zeal […] Therefore I decided not to travel just once on a very long journey by ship or horse or on foot to those lands, but many times on a tiny map [per breuissimam chartam], with books and the imagination, so that in the course of an hour I could go to those shores and return as many times as I liked, to those distant shores, not only unscathed, but unwearied too, not only with sound body, but with no wear and tear to my shoes, untouched by briars, stones, mud, and dust.2

1 I am indebted to an anonymous peer reviewer for valuable insight concerning Petrarch’s letters. 2 Sen. 9, 2; Francis Petrarch, Letters of Old Age (Rerum sinilium libri I–XVIII), vol. 1, transl. Aldo S. Bernardo/ Saul Levin/ Reta A. Bernardo, Baltimore 1992, p. 329. For the original Latin text, I used Francisci Petrarchae, Opera quae extant omnia, vol. 2: Epistolarum de Rebus Senilibus, Libri XVI, Basel 1554, pp. 944–945. See also Theodore J. Cachey Jr., Maps and Literature in Renaissance Italy, in: David Woodward (ed.), Cartography in the European Renaissance (The History of ­Cartography  3), C ­ hicago 2007, pt. 1, pp. 450–460; Evelyn Edson, Petrarch’s Journey between Two Maps, in: ­Robert Bork/ Andrea Kann (eds.), The Art, Science, and Technology of Medieval Travel, Farnham, ­Burlington / VT 2008, Repr. Abingdon / New York 2016, pp. 157–165. Marcia Kupfer, Independent Scholar, 3611 Patterson Street NW, Washington, D.C. 20015, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-002

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 Marcia Kupfer

The cartographic stimulus to imaginary travel had become a topos well before the fourteenth century. Indeed, Petrarch’s subordination of travel experience to literary nourishment is consistent with an age-old investment in book-learning as the primary purpose of geographic knowledge. Eschewing the distraction of sensory overload (the sights of things, which also covers also sounds and smells), Petrarch favors the readerly activity that had long attended the contemplative approach to maps. Virtual travel, I argue, is fundamental to the medieval consumption of maps. Recent scholarship has emphasized the compensatory visual role of cartographic images in support of spiritual pilgrimage by the cloistered, whose religious vows prevented excursion to shrines beyond convent walls.3 Where churches had mappae mundi installed for public display, the backdrop of the orbis terrarum might well have allowed the laity to translate veneration at their local shrines into an analogue of Holy Land pilgrimage.4 Rather than pursue the importance of cartographic images to such devotional practices, however, my remarks go in a different direction. I consider, first, how authors invoke the rhetorical equation between map reading and touring the world and, second, how cartographic artifacts themselves deploy it.

Reading as Iter Monastic assent to journeys in spirit via cartographic and literary transport had taken its cue already in the sixth century from Cassiodorus. He called on the monks of his foundation at Vivarium to gain “some notion of cosmography, in order that you may clearly know in what part of the world the individual places about which you read in the sacred books are located” (Institutiones 1.25). After directing them to a short text (libellus) by Julius Orator (Julius Honorius, fourth or fifth century) and a map (pinax) associated with the ‘Periegesis’ of Dionysius of Alexandria, he famously ­recommended:

3 Daniel K. Connolly, The Maps of Matthew Paris. Medieval Journeys through Space, Time and Liturgy, Woodbridge 2009; Sandra Sáenz-López Pérez, Peregrinatio in stabilitate: la transformación de un mapa de los Beatos en herramienta de peregrinación espiritual, in: Anales de Historia del Arte, volumen extraordinario 2 (2011), pp. 317–334. For a study that goes beyond maps, see Kathryn M. Rudy, Virtual Pilgrimages in the Convent: Imagining Jerusalem in the Late Middle Ages (Disciplina Monastica 8), Turnhout 2011. 4 Thomas De Wesselow, Locating the Hereford Mappa Mundi, in: Imago Mundi 65 (2013), pp. 180–206; Pnina Arad, Pilgrimage, Cartography and Devotion: William Wey’s Map of the Holy Land, in: Viator 43 (2012), pp. 1–22. For my view of how the Hereford and Ebstorf maps use pictorial icons to identify their respective ‘home’ sites with Jerusalem, see Marcia Kupfer, The Jerusalem Effect: Rethinking the Centre in Medieval World Maps, in: Bianca Kühnel/ Galit Noga-Banai/ Hanna Vorholt (eds.), Visual Constructs of Jerusalem (Cultural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages 18), Turnhout 2014, pp. 353–365, here pp. 361–365.

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Then, if a noble concern for knowledge has set you on fire, you have the work [codex] of Ptolemy, who has described all places so clearly that you judge him to have been practically a resident in all regions, and as a result you, who are located in one spot as is seemly for monks, traverse in your minds [animo percurratis] that which the travel of others has assembled with very great labor.5

The earliest extant Ptolemaic maps occur in deluxe Byzantine manuscripts commissioned c. 1300, following the discovery c. 1295/96 of the lost ‘Geography’ by the monk and scholar Maximos Planudes. Recent philological analysis suggests that the Byzantine edition, including the maps, depends on an exemplar dating from the fifth/sixth century.6 It is not impossible that the codex to which Cassiodorus referred had maps on which to feast the eyes. From the early Middle Ages, the material production of knowledge ensured the adaptation of cartographic images to monastic culture. Maps became an integral part of different cosmographical traditions useful for religious instruction and communal life. T-O and zonal schema served demonstrative and pedagogical functions in relation to the Isidorian ‘encyclopedic’ or computistical texts with which they circulated. More pictorially elaborated tableaux offered a meditative potential. By the second half of the eighth century, the codex format mobilized detailed maps to comport with the ancient philosophical and literary tradition of the cosmic vision. Gregory the Great had already Christianized the topos in his life of Saint Benedict.7 The abbot’s rapturous

5 Flavius Magnus Aurelius Cassiodorus, Cassiodori Senatoris institutiones divinarum et saecularium litterarum, ed. Roger A. B. Mynors, Oxford 1937, p. 66; the English is quoted from Cassiodorus Senator, An Introduction to Divine and Human Readings, transl. Leslie Webber Jones, New York 1969, p. 125; I have inserted the bracketed Latin from the edition of Mynors. On this passage, see Natalia Lozovsky, The Earth Is Our Book: Geographical Knowledge in the Latin West ca. 400–1000, Ann Arbor 2000, pp. 16–18, and more recently Patrick Gautier Dalché, L’enseignement de la géographie dans l’antiquité tardive, in: Klio 96 (2014), pp. 144–182, here pp. 164–165. For a discussion of Cassiodorus’s progression from text to map, and from Dionysius Periegetes to Ptolemy, see Id., La géographie de Ptolémée en Occident (IV–XVIe siècle), Turnhout 2009, pp. 61–71. 6 Florian Mittenhuber, Karten und Kartenüberlieferung, in: Alfred Stückelberger/ Gerd Grasshoff/ Florian Mittenhuber (eds.), Klaudios Ptolemaios Handbuch der Geographie, vol. 3, Basel 2009, pp. 34–108; Id., The Tradition of Texts and Maps in Ptolemy’s Geography, in: Alexander Jones (ed.), Ptolemy in Perspective: Use and Criticism of His Work from Antiquity to the Nineteenth Century, Dordrecht 2010, pp. 95–119. 7 Gautier Dalché, De la glose à la contemplation. Place et fonction de la carte dans les manuscrits du haut Moyen Âge, in: Id., Géographie et culture. La représentation de l’espace du VIe au XII siècle, Aldershot 1997, no. 8, pp. 749–762; Id., L’héritage antique de la cartographie médiévale: les problèmes et les acquis, in: Richard J. A. Talbert/ Richard W. Unger (eds.), Cartography in Antiquity and the Middle Ages: Fresh Perspectives, New Methods, Leiden 2008, pp. 29–66, here pp. 58–61; Id., Pour une histoire des rapports entre contemplation et cartographie au moyen âge, in Frank Lestringant (ed.), Les méditations cosmographiques à la Renaissance (Cahiers V.L. Saulnier 26), Paris 2009, pp. 19–40, here pp. 19–27. For an elaboration on Gautier Dalché’s insights, see Marcia Kupfer, Art and Optics in the Hereford Map: an English Mappa Mundi, c. 1300, New Haven / London 2016, pp. 55–60, 157–167.

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soul, dilated in divine light, had attained the “God’s-eye” view of a minuscule world gathered up in the compass of a sunbeam (Dialogi 2.35). Full-page images and double-page spreads of the orbis terrarum stage the transcendent elevation above a miniature creation upon which the visionary casts a detached gaze. While the reader’s position relative to the open book simulates the vantage point of an imaginary celestial/aerial prospect, the body’s size relative to the map concomitantly parallels the soul’s dilation. Looking out upon a scene from afar and high above the fray defines the essence of speculation. In compilations bringing together histories and spiritual teachings with cosmographical extracts, from astronomical and calendrical materials to geographical descriptions, a map encapsulated the world under divine governance. A fortiori in manuscripts of the Commentary on the Apocalypse by Beatus of Liébana, a prefatory world map models for readers Saint John’s ascent to the Enthroned One (Rev. 4:1). Through the scope of its apostolic geography, the map portrays the ecumenical church in the present age, to which the tribulations heralding the Second Coming figuratively pertain. Worldly learning and the meditative exercise of speculation converge in an Anglo-Saxon miscellany of the first half of the eleventh century (London, British Library, Cotton MS Tiberius B.v.1), attributed either to Winchester or Christ Church, Canterbury. The manuscript, with texts in Latin and Old English, comprises a richly illustrated cycle of the ‘Marvels of the East’; calendrical materials including illustrations of the Labors of the Months; many computistical texts including Aelfric’s ‘De temporibus anni’; chronological lists of popes, emperors, Anglo-Saxon bishops, Anglo-Saxon regnal lists and genealogies; an account of pilgrimage to Rome undertaken by Archbishop Sigeric of Canterbury and the stations he visited; a full-page zonal map; a star map (lost); a prayer to the Holy Trinity; an illustrated ‘Aratea’ as translated by Cicero with scholia; other astronomical selections; the ‘De laude crucis’ of Rabanus Maurus (lost); and Priscian’s Latin version of Dionysius’s ‘Periegesis’. The whole anthology originally ended with a full-page world map (Fig. 1), moved when the volume was rearranged in the early seventeenth century so that it now precedes the ‘Periegesis’.8 The compilation bears on both the spatial order of mundus (heavens, earth, ecumene, the marvels of the eastern hinterland, the way from ‘here’ at the northwest corner to Rome at the center), and the temporal dynamics of saeculum (annual cycles

8 See Patrick McGurk’s chapters on the contents and history of the manuscript in: Patrick McGurk et al. (eds.), An Eleventh-Century Anglo-Saxon Illustrated Miscellany: British Library Cotton Tiberius B.V. Part 1 (Early English Manuscripts in Facsimile 21), Copenhagen 1983, pp. 15–27. In the early twelfth century, the blank leaves between the end of the ‘Periegeisis’ and the map were filled with poems on the life and miracles of Saint Nicholas: ibid., pp. 39, 104–106, contra Leonid Chekin, Northern Eurasia in Medieval Cartography: Inventory, Text, Translation, and Commentary, Turnhout 2006, pp. 129–131, at p. 130. The manuscript also gained additions related to Battle Abbey (annals, record of dependent churches and their assets), to which it belonged by 1119 if not before.

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Fig. 1: Anglo-Saxon world map, first half of the eleventh century; London, BL, Cotton MS Tiberius B.V, fol. 56v. © British Library Board.

of work and prayer, histories of empire, church, and realm). The local assumes a place on the world stage, geographically and chronologically. The Trinity and the cross lie behind the cosmogonic architecture of creation. Far from extraneous insertions in the volume, the oration to the former acknowledges the eternal triune being of God while the praise of the latter pays homage to the instrument of Christ’s passion and vehicle of human salvation.

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Even as the Cotton world map promotes visualization, it reveals its dependence on linguistic structures that govern the verbal practices of speech, writing, and reading. A rubric at the head of Priscian’s rendition of the ‘Periegesis’ announces a mappam aptam, but the cartographic image does not derive its formal disposition or nomenclature from the poem.9 Indeed, the map cannot be said to illustrate any particular geographic text.10 By the same token, however, Martin Foys has astutely observed a remarkable relation between two sets of legends in Asia and syntax proper to a literary order of representation.11 The Taurus Mountains are entered twice for discrete chains: the label Mons Taurus is assigned to one range west of Noah’s Ark (in Asia Minor), and the label Taurini montes to a longer range east of the Ark (in Asia Maior). Orosius names the Taurus range four times, each a means to situate a different region. It is by breaking up the continuity of physical space into descriptive packets that he organizes the opening geographic excursus of his ‘History against the Pagans’ (1.2). The map translates this procedure back onto the spatial continuity of the visual field. The western range belongs to a cluster of sites closely following Orosius on the boundaries of Cappadocia, while the eastern one belongs to his positioning of Mesopotamia (Fig. 2). Below the wavy line representing the Euphrates River and running south, the string of place names conforms to the sequence in Orosius. Dislocation occurs at the Persian Gulf, where a sequence pertaining to the biblical story of the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt intervenes. The map’s linear relays within regional ‘phrases’ echo an analogy between verbal syntax and route-building found in Priscian’s ‘Institutes of Grammar’. The very word ‘letter,’ the smallest unit of a compound that produces sound, contains within itself the concept of ‘itinerary’: litera comes from leg-iter-a “because it provides a path for reading” (1.3, 17.2; later repeated by Isidore, ‘Etymologies’ 1.3.3). Priscian goes on to say that letters are “also called elements with an eye to the similarity with the elements of the world: as those elements combine to form any body, so these too when combined compose sound,” a “real body” that “touches the ear.” “Moreover, individual syllables” (the sound-producing compound) share with bodies the characteristic of having three dimensions, “height in their tone [tenor], thickness or breadth in their breathings, length in their measure [tempus]” (1.4). Letters do not combine “randomly, but according to a most fitting ordering, hence […] [their etymology] leg-iter-ae, since they provide a road for reading when they are put into fitting order. And the same thing happens to syllables, which are bigger items than letters, when

9 McGurk (note 8), pp. 23–24, on fol. 57r: liber pergesis id est de situ terrae Prisciani grammatici urbis Rome Caesariensis doctoris quem de priscorum dictis excerpsit ormistarum sed et huic operi de t­ ribus partibus videlicet Asia Africa Europa mappam depinxerat aptam in qua nationum promontoriorum ­fluminum insularum que situs atque monstrorum formatur honeste. 10 For a discussion of the map, followed by a transcription of the legends, ibid., pp. 79–87. 11 Martin Foys, Virtually Anglo-Saxon: Old Media, New Media, and Early Medieval Studies in the Late Age of Print, Gainesville 2007, pp. 110–158, here pp. 122–126.

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Fig. 2: Anglo-Saxon world map, detail, Taurus Mountains at Cappadocia and Mesopotamia; author’s graphic after Martin Foys, ‘Virtually Anglo-Saxon: Old Media, New Media, and Early Medieval Studies in the Late Age of Print’, Gainesville 2007, figs. 13 and 14.

the combinations made from their joining produce a complete word the way they should.” Finally, a sentence is the “grasping together” of “words that are ordered in the most fitting way […] And as the word consists of the conjunction of syllables, so the complete ­sentence consists of the conjunction of words” (17.2–3).12 The topos of the “reading road” powerfully consolidates the linkage between perusing a map and following a path. These multiple approaches to cartographic representation coexisted with the complementary understanding, explicitly articulated in the twelfth century, of the map as a medium of vicarious access not only to texts but also to lived geographical space. For his best-known work ‘Imago mundi’, Honorius Augustodunensis appears to have drawn on maps to structure his appropriation of standard textual sources, such as Orosius and Isidore. The verbal mappa mundi then substitutes for a graphic device. 12 English translation with references to the Latin editions in Rita Copeland/ Ineke Sluiter (eds.), Medieval Grammar and Rhetoric: Language Arts and Literary Theory, AD 300–1475, Oxford 2009, pp. 19, 173, 179–180, 235.

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But elsewhere in his oeuvre, he stages a classroom scene in which a ­cartographic image becomes the impetus for mental journeys across the land ­represented.13 The map-based lesson occurs in a short text that allegorizes the advancement from the Babylonian exile to Jerusalem. On the model of the people of God, the soul progresses from ignorance to wisdom, its true homeland, gaining knowledge of the material order along the way. The itinerary comprises stops at cities where the soul receives instruction from an eminent historical personage in one of ten arts (the usual seven plus physica, mechanica, and oeconomica). Finally, the soul arrives at scripture, which holds the key to knowledge of divine things. The sixth city on the route is devoted to geometry: there, “Aratus unfolds a mappa mundi in which he shows Asia, Africa, and Europe; he lists the mountains, towns, rivers, of the whole world, and calls to mind travelers passing through these places.”14 Geometry is the ‘place’ allotted for geography in the school classic ‘The ­Marriage of Philology and Mercury’. Even as Honorius’s vignette tacitly evokes the literary periegesis of Martianus Capella’s Lady Geometry, the prop of the mappa mundi gives rise to a new fiction – any remembered itineraries that Aratus might recount and that his audience, the soul, virtually re-enacts on hearing and seeing. Behind the generalized description of Aratus’s map, moreover, lies Honorius’s recollection of detailed cartographic images in which the aforementioned geographical features play a crucial role. Mountains and rivers structure the anatomy of the ecumene, subdividing its three partes into regions where towns are located. A near contemporary example of such a cartographic artifact is the map (Fig. 3) found in a north French copy of Isidore dated to the mid-twelfth century (Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 10058, fol. 154v). Patrick Gautier Dalché has identified the Munich map as a miniaturized reflection of a large, wall-mounted map from which Hugh of Saint-Victor taught geography.15 In the prologue to his ‘Descriptio mappe mundi’ of c. 1130, Hugh avers that the depiction of the orbis terrarum substitutes for realia otherwise impossible to show. Study of a map can therefore replace travel. “Not everyone can circle the ocean to see the situation of the islands, and not everyone can go to faraway regions to consider

13 Gautier Dalché, Maps in Words: The Descriptive Logic of Medieval Geography, from the Eighth to the Twelfth Century, in: Paul D. A. Harvey (ed.), The Hereford World Map: Medieval World Maps and Their Context, London 2006, pp. 223–242, here pp. 230–231. 14 Honorius Augustodunensis, De exsilio et patria animae, PL 172, cols. 1241–1246, at col. 1244D: Sexta civitas est geometria, per quam inquiritur patria. In hac Aratus mappam mundi expandit, in qua Asiam, Africam, Europam ostendit; montes, urbes, flumina totius orbis enumerat, per quae itinerantes transire commemorat. My translation essentially reiterates Gautier Dalché’s. 15 Patrick Gautier Dalché, La “Descriptio mappe mundi” de Hugues de Saint-Victor: texte inédit avec introduction et commentaire, Paris 1988, pp. 81–85; Nathalie Bouloux, The Munich Isidore Map (c. 1130), in: Dan Terkla/ Nick Millea (eds.), A Companion to English Mappaemundi of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries, Woodbridge forthcoming 2019.

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Fig. 3: World map in a copy of Isidore’s ‘Etymologies’, mid-twelfth century; Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 10058, fol. 154v. By permission of the Bayerische Staatsbiliothek München.

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their location, characteristics, and parts,” he writes.16 Hugh explains how the map’s graphic features – distinguishing colors and legends – serve cognitive functions. The overview afforded by the representation, combined with its enhanced intelligibility, makes the substitute device superior to direct experience for the purposes of analysis and understanding. Despite its extreme reduction and concomitant abridgment, the Munich map allows us to gauge how a visual grammar informed Hugh’s teaching. Inherent in a crafted work like a mappa mundi are formal structures, configurations, or arrangements that guide interpretation. Their operative totality or ductus, Mary Carruthers shows, enables the invention of meaning (per the Latin verb invenio, to find).17 Vice versa, the rhetorical doctrine that an author should mentally envision and plan the overall direction of a poetic composition came eventually to draw on the genre of the mappa mundi. In his ‘Poetria nova’ (c. 1208–1213), Geoffrey of Vinsauf makes the analogy: “Let the mind’s interior compass first circle the whole extent of the material. Let a definite order chart in advance at what point the pen will take up its course, or where it will fix its Cadiz” (ll. 55–59).18 The allusion takes for granted an intrinsic metaphorical relation among written language, map reading, and the journey as a mental activity. Still, the Munich map does not prescribe fixed routes. How then does Hugh decide upon a ductus or “reading road” through which to lead his pupils across the inhabited world? Excellent pedagogue that he is, Hugh first finds/devises a memorable foundation, laying out an essentially geometric order that applies to and rationalizes the whole. He begins with the envelope, the delimiting annular ocean. He redoubles the circumference through the identification of the four cardinal and eight collateral winds, deployed as markers to name the intervening islands. Turning from the outer ring to the interior, he sees/delineates a triangular pattern in the middle of the land – the west-southeast trajectory of the Tyrrhenian Sea to Alexandria, bent back obliquely north to the mouth of the Tanais River – from which the tripartite division of the orbis terrarum is derived (ll. 98–102). He thus reiterates in the Mediterranean the triangular shape of the Red Sea. Indeed, the latter is so important that it visually overrides the Nile as the boundary between Africa and Asia, the role accorded the river in classical geography and diagrammed in T-O maps. Together with the ocean circle, the two seas 16 Ibid., p. 133: Sed nec omnes ualent circuire occeanum, ut positiones uideant insularum, non omnes possunt adire longinquas regiones, ut aspiciant situs, qualitates et diuisiones earum (ll. 5–7). Chapter and line numbers above refer to Gautier Dalché’s edition. 17 Mary Carruthers, Rhetorical Ductus, or, Moving through a Composition, in: Mark Franco/ ­Annette Richards (eds.), Acting on the Past: Historical Performance across the Disciplines, ­Hanover/ NH 2000, pp. 99–117; Id., The Concept of Ductus, or Journeying through a Work of Art, in: Id. (ed.), Rhetoric beyond Words: Delight and Persuasion in the Arts of the Middle Ages, Cambridge 2010, pp. 190–213; Id., The Experience of Beauty in the Middle Ages, Oxford 2013, pp. 13, 53–54, 79, 137–138, 168–172. 18 Geoffrey of Vinsauf, Poetria Nova, ed. and transl. Margaret F. Nims, Toronto 2010, p. 20.

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cut the profile of the orbis terrarum. Correspondingly, Hugh’s opening chapters cover the islands that punctuate these primary aquatic entities. From the major archipelagos surrounded by water, he proceeds to the converse, the great landmasses of the partes mundi broken up by rivers and mountain chains. The shift to Asia, Africa, and Europe demands an expository strategy apt to the real space of nonregular geographic formations. An orographic and hydrographic anatomy determines the boundaries of sectors treated sequentially according to a pattern proper to each of the partes mundi. In Asia, Hugh presents the area between the continuous chain of mountains at north and the Red Sea at south as a rectangular block subdivided into horizontal sectors (Chap. IX–XI). He proceeds sector by sector from east to west, that is, top to bottom; but within each he moves north to south, that is, left to right, to name regions or provinces, locate cities, or interject remarks on peoples and marvelous creatures. He repeats the pattern for the wedge between the mountain chain and ocean at east down to the Tanais (XII). By contrast, Africa and Europe comprise vertical sectors, presented from southeast to northwest. Hugh moves across Africa from the oceanic rim to the Red Sea and western Mediterranean (XIIII), first covering Ethiopia with its monstrous creatures (XV), then all of Egypt (XVI), Libya (XVII), and the coast across from Spain (XVIII). He circles Europe, from west to east across the southern sector of Italy and Greece (first half of XIX; XX) and from east to west across Cisalpine regions (second half of XIX, XXI–II). It is Hugh’s extrapolation of ductus from the map’s formal composition that generates a cognitive framework for the organization and retrieval of information. To what extent does the ‘Descriptio’ reflect a lost map? Gautier Dalché maintains that notwithstanding the last chapters (XXIII, end–XXVIII), lifted from Orosius and Hugh of Fleury’s ‘Ecclesiastical History’, Hugh derived his geographical analysis directly from a cartographic artifact. Material extraneous to the map, Gautier Dalché reasons, was most likely added to supplement or flesh out the analysis when Hugh finalized the text of the reportatio (student transcription of an oral lesson).19 Recently, Bettina Schöller has questioned this conclusion, arguing instead for Hugh’s more extensive authorial reliance on and incorporation of multiple textual sources.20 Along 19 Gautier Dalché (note 15), pp. 106–107. 20 Bettina Schöller, Wissen speichern, Wissen ordnen, Wissen übertragen. Schriftliche und bildliche Aufzeichnungen der Welt im Umfeld der Londoner Psalterkarte, Zürich 2015, pp. 78–98, esp. pp.  87–88 and 96–98. She suggests that the way the ‘Descriptio’ shifts between varying organizational/locational strategies is more consistent with cartographic analysis in a first phase followed by recourse to textual sources. She contends that had Hugh relied only on a map, he would, for pedagogical reasons, have systematically adopted a uniform procedure. This expectation strikes me as anachronistic. Indeed, to my mind, the shifts reinforce the impression of map reading based on the principle of ductus. As for other objections raised by Hartmut Kugler and reiterated by Bettina Schöller, see the rebuttal, Patrick Gautier Dalché, Comment et pourquoi décrire une mappemonde au Moyen Âge, in: Pierre Chastang/ Patrick Henriet/ Claire Soussen (eds.), Figures de l’autorité médiévale. Mêlanges offerts à Michel Zimmermann, Paris 2016, pp. 69–88, here pp. 80–86.

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other lines, her study proves that the ‘Descriptio’ served as a textual source for both the Psalter map and its verso (London, British Library, Add. MS 28681, fols. 9r, 9v), dating after 1262–c. 1265. Likewise, the Lambeth map (London, Lambeth Palace Library, MS 371, fol. 9v) of the second half of the thirteenth century was based on marginal notes in the adjacent copy of Book I of Honorius’s ‘Imago mundi’.21 Her findings lead me to ask the following question about the Munich miniature. Might the latter already reflect the inculcation of Hugh’s methodical approach to map reading? In other words, might the scribe who executed the miniature have epitomized the content of a larger model via his reading of the ‘Descriptio’? Did respect for Hugh’s textual organization help him manage abridgement of some regions (Asia Minor, for instance) even as he more fully elaborated others (Scythia and the far northeast)? An anonymous late twelfth-century text of Yorkshire provenance, the ‘Expositio mappe mundi’, attributed on compelling grounds to the chronicler Roger of Howden (d. 1201), describes in exquisite detail a lost mappa mundi that very closely resembled the Hereford in cartographic structure and content, down to the wording of the legends.22 The author’s densely elaborated itineraries governed by a focus on maritime and urban geography, not to mention the transcription of legends, presuppose his poring over a large parchment surface to which he had intimate and unfettered access. By contrast with Hugh’s analytic procedure, its pedagogical aims rooted in practices of memory, Roger quite literally tours the map.23 He begins at the Tanais River, the boundary between Europe and Asia, and circles east along the rim of orbis terrarum, reading from the ocean islands to the interior, that is, from left to right, more or less in bands. After demarcating a line of transition between Scythia and India, he covers Asia Maior up to the Tigris River. He skips over Mesopotamia and most of the Holy Land to pick up an itinerary along the coast of Asia Minor, the Levant, and the Nile Delta, hugging the shoreline to inventory some seventy places. For Africa, delineated from the Catabathmon plateau, his reading extends to the Nile frontier with Ethiopia, but is most concentrated, however, along the Mediterranean coast. To tackle Europe, he returns to the Tanais. His circuit around the Greek and Italian coasts, and especially his movement up and down the Rhone and Danube valleys before traversing Saxony, the Rhineland, and France imbricates places in overlapping clusters. (The portion of the text dealing with Spain, the Mediterranean islands, and the British Isles is lost.) This periegesis entails an exacting method of variously situating geographic elements, for example, with respect to the winds or vis-à-vis each other. While his stringing of sequences recalls Priscian on the conjunction of letters, syllables, and words along reading roads, the descriptive process turns the map into a tissue of mutual relations. 21 Schöller (note 20), pp. 77, 98–112, 191–217. 22 Patrick Gautier Dalché, Du Yorkshire à l’Inde: une “géographie” urbaine et maritime de la fin du XIIe siècle (Roger de Howden?), Geneva 2005, pp. 49–82. 23 Gautier Dalché (note 22), pp. 143–164.

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Both Hugh and Roger considered the mappa mundi a means of intellectual access to real space. Their readerly perambulation actuates the virtual itineraries to which Petrarch alludes when he “decided not to travel just once on a very long journey by ship or horse or on foot, but many times on a tiny map, so that in the course of an hour he could go to those shores and return as many times as he liked.” Maps effected a mental transport that not only emulated contemplative transcendence and assisted cosmographical learning, but also encouraged literary pleasure. The ­Châlons-­­sur-Marne chronicler Guy de Bazoches (d. 1203) composed his ‘Libellus de regionibus mundi’ with an eye cast over a mappa mundi for topographic description.24 His celebration of the joys of reading anticipates Petrarch’s humanist revel in geography: Remaining in my chamber, seated on my couch, reclining on my bed or under the shade of a leafy tree on a green lawn, I place various books before me, I resolve their abbreviations, unlock their secrets, wander across the writing, and then the spirit is granted what is refused to the body, thought discovers what is concealed to the eye, an inestimable treasure is opened and it is there that is found what everywhere one searches. Then is manifest the immensity of the sky, the beauty of the heavens, the vast expanse of the sea, the breadth of the earth, the marvels of nature, the remarkable things of regions, the properties of animals, the diversity of nations, the sites of towns, the names of rivers, the slopes of mountains, the depths of valleys, the uncovered fields, the blanketing of forests, the powers of herbs, the virtues of gems, the customs of peoples, the examples of saints, the vicissitudes of churches, the decretals of councils and of popes, the laws of emperors, the triumphs of kings and the great deeds of the ancients. Then I am given the faculty to range across the circle of the world with the eye of the body and the mind, to make a circuit of the earth and meander across it. Thus, and not otherwise, an entry is gained into accessible and inaccessible places and one is permitted to behold, if one wishes, what it pleased the god of wine to see but what Alexander the Great, although he so desired, was refused.25

24 Gautier Dalché (note 20), pp. 73–75. 25 Patrick Gautier Dalché, Le renouvellement de la perception et de la représentation de l’espace au XIIe siècle, in: Renovación intelectual del occidente europeo (siglo XII): XXIV semana de ­estudios medievales, Estella, 14 a 18 de julio de 1997, Pamplona 1998, pp. 169–217, here pp. 171–172, with, in no. 6, the Latin passage transcribed from Paris, BnF, MS lat. 4998, fol. 39v: Manens in thalamis, sedens in cathedris, accubitans in thoris aut sub umbra frondentis arboris, graminis in gremio uiridantis antepono codices mihi multiplices, soluo signacula, resero secreta, lustro scripturas, et tunc menti conceditur quod corpori denegatur, ingenio patet quod oculum latet, thesaurus inestimabilis aperitur ibique repe­ ritur quod queritur ubique. Tunc mihi manifestantur immensitas celi, firmamenti speciositas, spaciositas maris, amplitudo telluris, nature rerum mundi mirabilia, memorabilia regionum, proprietates ­animalium, diuersitates gentium, situs urbium, nomina fluminum, deuexa montium, profunda uallium, aperta cam­ porum, operta siluarum, uirtutes herbarum, uires gemmarum, mores populorum, exempla sanctorum, status ecclesiarum, decreta conciliorum et pontificum Romanorum, leges imperatorum, ­triumphi regum et fortia gesta maiorum. Tunc datur mihi facultas girum mundi carnis et mentis oculo peruagari, ciruite terram et perambulare eam. Fit accessus in accessus uisos non aliter et nisi taliter i­ nacessos, licet intueri, si lbet, quod Libero patri quod magno libuit, sed non licuit Alexandro. I am grateful to Professor Hagith Sivan for working with me on the English translation.

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Guy’s literary reflection in the panoptic mode of the cosmic vision performs avant la lettre the encirclement and traversal that Geoffrey of Vinsauf advised by evoking the mappa mundi, a method of commentary on which Hugh had embarked in his ‘Descriptio’. To read a map is to trace invented pathways in the mind. Several large display maps of the turn of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries thematize their own visual consumption in terms of virtual travel.

The Map’s Figuration of the Reader’s Iter The surviving fragment of a large English mappa mundi now in the Archives of the Duchy of Cornwall includes an excerpt from the eighth-century ‘Cosmographia’ of Pseudo-Aethicus in the lower right-hand corner outside the orbis terrarum (Fig. 4). The inscription enumerates the seas, islands, mountains, provinces, cities, rivers, and peoples surveyed by three officials whom Julius Caesar had commissioned to measure the world.26 What the listing of survey data breaks down into categories the map transcribes into a spatial continuum. Appended to the end of the citation from the Pseudo-Aethicus is a line from the ‘Etymologies’ comparing Isidore’s cosmographical description to a brevis tabella (small tablet). The bishop of Seville inherited this figure of speech for compact and concise representation from writings by Florus (d. 130 CE), Ausonius (d. 395), and especially Saint Jerome (d. 420), where it appears as a metonym for map.27 Isidore applied it twice. In his ‘De natura rerum’, which sets forth the disposition of the cosmos and explains astronomical, meteorological, and geographical phenomena, the term qualifies the treatise as a whole.28 Consistent

26 Claude Nicolet/ Patrick Gautier Dalché, Les ‘Quatre Sages’ de Jules Césare et la ‘Mesure du monde’ selon Julius Honorius: réalité antique et tradition médiévale, in: Journal des Savants 4 (1987, actually published 1986), pp. 157–218, esp. p. 209 for Gautier Dalché’s transcription of the passage from the Pseudo-Aethicus on the Duchy of Cornwall fragment. On the map fragment, see Kupfer (note 7), pp. 79–80, 89–91, 112, 173, and the monographic essay by Terkla (note 15). 27 Gautier Dalché, L’enseignement (note 5), pp. 144–182, here pp. 164–165; Florus, The Epitome of Roman History, ed. and transl. Edward S. Forster (Loeb Classical Library), vol. 1, London 1929, pp. 4–5, at http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/L/Roman/Texts/Florus/Epitome/1A*.html#ref1 (accessed January 20, 2016); ­Decimus Magnus Ausonius, Ausonius, with an English Translation, ed. Hugh G. ­Evelyn-White (Loeb Classical Library), vol. 2, London 1921, pp. 224–225, at http://archive.org/details/­ ausoniuswithengl02ausouoft 0 (accessed Jan. 20, 2016), repr. Cambridge/ MA 1985. On the use of the expression brevis tabella in Jerome’s writings, see Susan Weingarten, The Saint’s Saints: ­Hagiography and Geography in Jerome, Leiden 2005, pp. 201–203. On the significance of the trope for defining the conceptual function of cartographic representation, see Kupfer, The Rhetoric of Late Antique and Medieval Maps, in: Kupfer et al. (eds.), The Visualization of Knowledge in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, forthcoming. 28 Praef. 2, in: Jacques Fontaine (ed.), Traité de la nature, Bordeaux 1960, pp. 167–168: Quae omnia, secundum quod a veteribus viris ac maxime sicut in litteris catholicorum virorum scripta sunt, ­proferentes, brevi tabella notamus. All these things [calculation of time, nature of the elements, course

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Fig. 4: Fragment of a world map, c. 1290; London, Duchy of Cornwall Archives. © Duchy of Cornwall Archives.

with its usage in the rhetorical tradition, the analogy fits perfectly Isidore’s methods (extraction of content from a storehouse of received authorities, recompilation) and

and properties of celestial bodies, signs related to the weather and winds, position of earth, ocean tides] we have noted in [the manner of] a small tablet, presenting them in accordance with what has been written by the ancients, especially Catholic authors.

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aims (comprehensive scope on one hand, delineation of fundamentals on the other). So, too, in the ‘Etymologies’, the opening sentence of Book XIII on the cosmos and its parts maintains that this unit (libellus), like a brevis tabella, sketches the motion of the heavens, the situation of earth, and the space filled by water.29 The simile not merely characterizes Isidore’s text in terms of its length as short or brief, but redescribes the content as a compendious spread, a spatialized form that facilities the reader’s overview and, ultimately, mastery of basic principles. Isidore’s word (percurrat) for such visual-­mental activity – traversal/transit through – echoes Cassiodorus’s ­(percurratis). Just as the passage from the Pseudo-Aethicus on the world’s measurement creates a self-referential genealogy for the adjacent cartographic image, so the transfer of the conceit of the brevis tabella from its literary context to an actual map has a reflexive effect. Through Isidore’s words, the map identifies the readerly decipherment of graphic signs across its vellum surface with the traversal of geographic space. The composite text block extant on the Duchy of Cornwall fragment gives way in the Hereford map, dated c. 1300, to a complex narrative and allegorical s­ caffolding.30 Gone the descriptive accounting of the Pseudo-Aethicus excerpt. Declarative statements, in rubricated inscriptions along the borders of the skin, report the survey begun under Julius Caesar and name the three men who measured the four directions, east, south, and west with the north. A vignette in the lower left-hand corner shows the emperor Augustus issuing a sealed charter to the three surveyors. The amalgamation into which their individual efforts were subsumed is the archetypal mappa mundi, the work made for Hereford Cathedral proclaiming itself the present-day avatar. The account of the ancient initiative refigures the process of compilation that entered into the production of medieval mappae mundi.31 The equation between readerly perusal and the traveler’s perambulation appears in the same position in the Hereford map as it does in the Duchy of Cornwall fragment, but takes the form of a pictorial image (Fig. 5). A noble equestrian turns around to look back at the world, sealed with the letters MORS, even as his horse presses on straight ahead. In fact his gaze dangerously meets that of a voluptuous siren, who, from her perch in middle of the Mediterranean Sea, holds up her mirror of deception 29 Isidori Hispalensis Episcopi Etymologiarum sive Originum Libri XX, ed. Wallace M. Lindsay, ­Oxford 1911, unpaginted: In hoc uero libello quasi in quadam breui tabella quasdam caeli causas situs terrarum et maris spatia adnotavimus, ut in modico lector ea percurrat, et compendiosa breuitate ­etymologias eorum causas que cognoscat. “Now in this little book we have noted in a short sketch, as it were, certain principles of the heavenly bodies and locations of the land and expanses of the sea, so that the reader may go through them in a short time, and through this succinct brevity come to know their etymologies and causes.” Saint Isidore, The Etymologies of Isidore of Seville, transl. Stephen A. Barney et al., Cambridge 2006, p. 271. 30 For in-depth treatment of the Hereford map, with full bibliography, see Kupfer (note 7), and my monographic essay in Terkla/ Millea (note 15). 31 Kupfer (note 7), pp. 33–38, 79–80. On the character of medieval world maps as compilations, see also Schöller (note 20), esp. pp. 200, 223–229.

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Fig. 5: Detail, Hereford world map, c. 1300; Hereford Cathedral. By permission of the Hereford Mappa Mundi Trust and the Dean and Chapter of Hereford Cathedral.

to the map’s spectators. Bringing up the rear, an attendant equipped with hunting gear and hounds urges the rider forward with the hunting cry passe avant, “go before/ go ahead”. The vignette allegorizes everyman’s earthly journey and inevitable departure; the path taken will come up for divine scrutiny at the Last Judgment, pictured in the neck of the skin. The mounted youth visualizes the predicament of the faithful liable to err through desire for worldly things. Hence the admonition to stay the course, passe avant, toward the goal of eternal life. The hermeneutic paradigm at stake is rooted in Saint Augustine’s refashioning of the reading road, his project in ‘On Christian Doctrine’32: Whoever takes another meaning out of Scripture than the writer intended, goes astray […] if his mistaken interpretation tends to build up love, which is the end of the commandment, he goes astray in much the same way as a man who by mistake quits the high road, but yet reaches through the fields the same place to which the road leads. He is to be corrected, however, and to be shown how much better it is not to quit the straight road, lest, if he get into a habit of going astray, he may sometimes take cross roads, or even go in the wrong direction altogether.33

32 Copeland/ Sluiter (note 12), pp. 14–20, 47–51. 33 De doctrina Christiana 1.36.41, transl. James F. Shaw, in: Philip Schaff (ed.), Select Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, series 1, vol. 2, p. 533 at http://faculty.georgetown.edu/jod/augustine/ddc1.html (accessed September 5, 2017).

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The equestrian knight is a surrogate for the reader whose processing of the graphic signs symbolically doubles for passage through this life. The map’s ductus leads spectators along multiple complementary trails. Most salient is the vertical axis defined by its centering of two vignettes: Jesus crucified above the earthly Jerusalem and the Majesty enthroned above the heavenly city. Figures representing Christ’s human and divine natures thus retain geometric primacy at the same time as the alignment off-center of Paradise, the Tower of Babel, and Rome encourages diverse associations through any number of pairings in bono or in malo. The line-up establishes a vector in relation to which other principal iconographic elements (e.g., the siren with her carnal mirror, the looped wanderings of the Hebrews, Lot’s wife, the labyrinth on Crete, the architecturally framed portraits of Augustine at Hippo and Abraham at Ur, marvels, monstrous peoples, and even evils) become guideposts in an interpretive matrix where resemblance and contrast generate meaningful play. To avoid confusion and bewilderment, the source of disorientation, alienation, and paralysis, viewers must discern/invent circuits that promote moral and spiritual edification.34 In its compilation of itineraries, the map not only gains narrative matter (Alexander’s military junkets) and geographical data (pilgrimage and trade routes) but also reflexively figures its own function as an instrument for proper conduct.35 Like the English examples, the eponymous map made for the Benedictine nunnery at Ebstorf rehearses the story of the Roman archetype in the field outside the orbis terrarum. The concluding line of the historiographical gloss expressly assimilates reading to travel: Map means form (design, plan, model, outline, drawing, figure). Hence a mappa mundi is a form of the world, which Julius Caesar, having sent legates throughout the breadth of the whole world, first instituted. Regions, provinces, islands, cities, sandy coasts, marshes, flat expanses [of seas or plains], mountains, and rivers he brought together, as it were, for viewing on a single page. It offers to readers no small utility, to wayfarers, direction and delight in the most pleasing sight of things along the way.36

34 We of the twenty-first century need to remember that medieval Christianity construed its own spirituality in terms of anti-Judaism. The reading of the Hereford map proposed by Debra Higgs Strickland in this volume explicates how the artwork’s negative representation of Jews feeds off of, supports, and amplifies its spiritual goals; see also Id., Edward I, Exodus, and England on the Hereford World Map, in: Speculum 93 (2018), pp. 420–469. 35 On itineraries as content, see Schöller (note 20), p. 132. 36 Hartmut Kugler, Die Ebstorfer Weltkarte, Berlin 2007, vol. 1, p. 42, no. 7/1 and vol. 2, p. 86: Mappa dicitur forma. Inde mappa mundi id est forma mundi. Quam Julius Cesar missis legatis per totius orbis amplitudinem primus instituit; regiones, provincias, insulas, civitates, syrtes, paludes, equora, montes, flumina quasi sub unius pagine visione coadunavit; que scilicet non parvam prestat legentibus utilitatem, viantibus directionem rerumque viarum gratissime speculationis dilectionem.

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While the statement defines the cartographic enterprise in accordance with the sentential model that Priscian described through the metaphor of the ‘reading road’, the cruciform body of Christ embedded within the orbis terrarum gives new meaning to the linguistic topos. The map integrates discrete items into an ordered whole, a fitting spatial arrangement that reflects the Creator’s speech-act through which the world was divinely composed. Because the assemblage substitutes for realia, it turns readers into travelers, offering them “direction and delight in the most pleasing sight of things along the way.” The latter phrase (rerumque viarum gratissime speculationis dilectionem) refers through the terminology of speculation to meditative practice.37 Seeing with the mind’s eye while walking along the way is an exercise that Hugh of Saint-Victor advocated in his structured meditation on Noah’s ark. Returning to a program elaborated in an earlier work, Hugh proposed: We will take a walk through all the works of our restoration from the beginning of the world, taking the things that happened and the deeds of men according to the successive periods of time. And when we have beheld the things that are inside [the ark], from time to time I shall open the window of the ark and, as an alternative, we shall refresh our mind’s eye by looking out on what is going on in the waters of the flood. For it will be pleasanter first to look from our vantage point at the evils which we have escaped, and then, turning our eyes to the good things within, to remember what we have found, and what we possess. […] This will be a long walk, but not a tedious one, for manifold delight in such great things will meet us on our way.38

The Ebstorf map invites readers to look for routes, that is, the meaningful conjunctions of places and things, as they move from sight to sight. The work’s utility to wayfarers on a spiritual journey of contemplative ascent rests on its entanglement of two claims – that the signified is immanent in the cartographic representation and that the Logos-Creator is immanent in the actual fabric of the world. Finding direction on the map, as in life, becomes a matter of reading governed by Christian precepts.

37 Marcia Kupfer, Reflections in the Ebstorf Map: Cartography, Theology and dilectio speculationis, in: Keith D. Lilley (ed.), Medieval Geographies: Cartography and Geographical Thought in the Latin West and Beyond, 300–1600, Cambridge 2013, pp. 100–126. 38 De vanitate mundi (c. 1128–29), PL 176, cols. 720A–D: Deambulabimus per cuncta opera restaurationis nostrae ab exordio usque ad consummationem saeculi secundum decursum temporum, eventus rerum et facta hominum. Cumque intrinsecus quae sunt contemplati fuerimus, ego aliquando aperiam fenestram arcae, et alternatim ea, quae foris sunt, respicientes in aquis hujus diluvii oculos mentis renovabimus. Magis enim delectabile erit alternis vicibus, nunc ea, quae evasimus quasi de quadam statione, mala prospicere nunc ea quae invenimus et possidemus bona reductis ad interiora oculis considerare.... Spatiosa quidem, sed non fastidiosa erit ista deambulatio, ubi intrinsecus tantarum rerum varia oblectatio transeuntibus erit obvia. The English is from Hugh of Saint-Victor, Selected Spiritual Writings, translated by a religious of C.S.M.V., New York 1962, pp. 181–182.

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By Way of Conclusion In the letter quoted at the opening of this essay, Petrarch describes giving himself over to the sense of immanence that maps elicit. He refuses the travel that would disrupt his scholarly pursuits, and thus resorts to a miniaturized cartographic model of the world that must placate his desire for “the sights of cities and rivers, mountains and forests”. As I have demonstrated, this acquiescence to the power of the map’s appeal is not new. For insight into the distance between how medieval mappae mundi figured the purpose of the reader’s ocular journey and how Petrarch inflected the tradition of meditative iter, we must look elsewhere. The famous letter relating his climb of Mont Ventoux challenges the linkage between right reading and right walking that the ­Hereford and Ebstorf maps take for granted.39 The account, addressed to his confessor Dionigi da Borgo San Sepolcro, transforms an arduous trek into an allegory of wayfinding in life.40 Petrarch admits that the hardships of the trail are not so easily traded for spiritual transport “in the twinkling of a trembling eye” (in ictu trepidantis oculi). His circuitous path up the mountain (foreshadowed by working through the dilemma of choosing the right companion for the excursion) symbolizes the recursive course that the well-intentioned subject traces in the hope of bypassing the steeper ascent. He longs to cross over with the mind (Petrarch’s animo peragam recalling Cassiodorus’s animo percurratis). Yet with the feet of his body, he nevertheless repeatedly quits the high road. The letter dramatizes the tension embodied in the conflicted posture of Hereford’s mounted youth (the rider is prodded forward from behind while Petrarch finally heeds his brother’s call from up ahead). The tone of the allegory, however, has shifted. Where the map leaves the rider’s fate unresolved in order to warn its audience to decide correctly, Petrarch’s confessional epistle gives voice to a self that struggles with its resistance to direction. 39 Fam. 4,1. Francis Petrarch, Letters on Familiar Matters (Rerum familiarium libri), vol. 1, transl. Aldo S. Bernardo, New York 2005, pp. 172–180. For the Latin I consulted Le Familiari (­ Familiarium libri I–XXIV) di Francesco Petrarca, Vittorio Rossi/ Umberto Bosco (eds.), vol. 1, Florence 1933, pp. 153–161, quote at p. 156. 40 Scholars now believe the letter to have been written in 1353 and backdated to Good Friday (April 26), 1336. The literature on this text is too extensive to cite here. For the purposes of this essay I found the following especially helpful: Albert Russel Ascoli, Petrarch’s Middle Age: Memory, Imagination, History, and the “Ascent of Mount Ventoux”, in: Stanford Italian Review 10 (1991), pp. 5–43, reprinted in Id., A Local Habitation and a Name: Imagining Histories in the Italian Renaissance, New York 2011, pp. 21–58; Jean-Michel Agasse, Vmbra montis, vmbra mortis: Pétrarque au ­Ventoux, in: ­Pallas 75 (2007), pp. 89–103; Enrico Santangelo, Petrarch Reading Dante: The Ascent of Mont ­Ventoux ­(Familiares 4.1), in: Martin Mc Laughlin et al. (eds.), Petrarch in Britain: Interpreters, ­Imitators, and Translators over 700 Years, Oxford 2007, pp. 94–111; Christian Moevs, Subjectivity and Conversion in Dante and Petrarch, in: Zygmunt G. Baránski/ Theodore J. Cachey (eds.), Dante and Petrarch: ­Anti-Dantism, Metaphysics, Tradition, Notre Dame 2009, pp. 226–259; Veronica della Dora, Mountains as a Way of Seeing: From Mount of Temptation to Mont Blanc, in: Christos Kakalis/ Emily Goetsch (eds.), Mountains, Mobilities and Movement, London 2018, pp. 189–211, esp. pp. 195–198.

Debra Higgs Strickland

The Bestiary on the Hereford World Map (c. 1300) Abstract: This essay seeks to clarify relationships between the English medieval bestiary tradition and the Hereford World Map (c. 1300) through close examination of how the map’s animal imagery functioned in its broader cartographical context, in which artistic strategies of proximity, spatial alignment, and geographical location are crucial to the creation of meaning. Created in Hereford around 1300, at a time when bestiaries in England had reached their apogee, this celebrated mappa mundi, with its twenty-eight or so bestiary creatures, provides an opportunity to consider how the bestiary contributed to the geographical, theological, political, and temporal dimensions of its large and complex image-field. Given the map’s nearly continuous presence in Hereford Cathedral, I move beyond the universal Christian moralizations attached to its bestiary birds and beasts to consider how the same creatures might have also served more local English concerns by evoking the legacy of King Edward I, during whose reign the map was made. I pay special attention to places on the map in which particular bestiary creatures and their geographical locations work together with surrounding imagery to reference Edward’s expulsion of the Jews in 1290, his crusading ambitions, and his position within the Plantagenet dynasty. Using the relationship between the medieval English bestiary and the Hereford World Map as a case example, the broader question I seek to address is: How does the ‘importation’ of external traditions into a cartographical context alter or expand traditional meanings? Keywords: mappa mundi, bestiary, Monstrous Races, Hereford, Edward I, anti-Judaism

Introduction Scholars have uncovered many of the textual and iconographical sources that informed designers of medieval world maps, in all of their varieties,1 but the question less frequently asked is how the ‘importation’ of noncartographical literary and pictorial traditions into a cartographical context can alter or expand traditional meanings. In what follows, I ask this question of the Hereford World Map, among the

1 For an introduction to the genre, see Marcel Destombes, Mappemondes A.D. 1200–1500. Catalogue, Amsterdam 1964; David Woodward, Reality, Symbolism, Time and Space in Medieval World Maps, in: Annals of the Association of American Geographers 75 (1985), pp. 510–521; Paul D. A. Harvey, Medieval Maps, London 1991. Debra Higgs Strickland, Senior Lecturer, History of Art, University of Glasgow, Glasgow G12 8QQ, Scotland, UK, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-003

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most famous of the late medieval mappae mundi, in relation to just one of the noncartographical traditions that informed it – the medieval English bestiary. Created in Hereford around 13002 at a time when bestiaries in England had reached their apogee, this map, with its twenty-eight or so finely rendered bestiary creatures, provides an opportunity to consider what the bestiary contributed to the multiple conceptual dimensions of its large and complex image-field (Fig. 1). Given the map’s nearly continuous presence in Hereford Cathedral, I believe it is appropriate to consider the bestiary creatures not only as familiar bearers of universal, Christian moral meanings, but also as references to more local English religious and political concerns. I am especially interested in the ways the map’s nonhuman inhabitants helped to evoke the legacy of King Edward I (r. 1272–1307), during whose reign the map was made, and with which the lion’s share of its medieval reader-viewers would have been familiar.3 Following a brief description of its main compositional and iconographical features, I pursue several research paths in order to clarify the map’s relationships to the bestiary. One is to observe the special importance of animals as corroborators of its geographical integrity and authority. A second is to draw attention to how relationships between the bestiary creatures and their surrounding texts and images significantly expand their traditional associations by allowing them to participate in the map’s wider temporal and theological meanings. I then turn to the map’s more local English messages and the ways certain nonhuman creatures help to shape them. I begin with references to Edward I’s expulsion of the Jews in 1290 retrievable along the map’s prominent Exodus path, followed by an examination of bestiary evocations of Edward’s status and position within the Plantagenet dynasty, including his crusading aspirations. Throughout my analysis of the extra-bestiary functions of the map’s birds and beasts, the importance of spatial alignment and proximity as fundamental cartographical strategies becomes especially clear.4

The Map The Hereford World Map, one of the largest and most intact of the extant medieval mappae mundi, is painted in colors and gold on a single calfskin measuring about 1.6 by 1.3 m.5 Its once bright colors are much faded and the once light cream-colored 2 On the evidence for the c. 1300 date, see Marcia Kupfer, Art and Optics in the Hereford Map. An English Mappa Mundi, c. 1300, New Haven 2016, p. 18. 3 I explore the map’s contemporary English meanings in more detail in Debra Higgs Strickland, Edward I, Exodus, and England on the Hereford World Map, in: Speculum 93 (2018), pp. 420‒469, on which parts of the present essay are based. 4 On mapping strategies, see Asa Simon Mittman, Gates, Hats, and Naked Jews. Sorting Out the Nubian Guards on the Ebstorf Map, in: FKW // Zeitschrift für Geschlechterforschung und Visuelle Kultur 54 (2013), pp. 88–101. 5 The literature on the Hereford Map is extensive. Major studies include P.D.A. Harvey, Mappa Mundi. The Hereford World Map, London 1996; expanded and updated edition: P.D.A. Harvey, The Hereford

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Fig. 1: Hereford World Map. Hereford, c. 1300. Hereford Cathedral Treasury. Photo: The Dean and Chapter of Hereford Cathedral and the Hereford Mappa Mundi Trust.

World Map: Introduction, London 2010; Naomi Reed Kline, Maps of Medieval Thought. The Hereford Paradigm, Woodbridge 2001; Patrick Gautier Dalché, Decrire le monde et situer les lieux au XIIe siècle. L’Expositio mappe mundi et la généalogie de la mappemonde de Hereford, in: Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Moyen Âge 113 (2001), pp. 343–409; Scott Westrem, The Hereford Map. A Transcription and Translation of the Legends with Commentary, Turnhout 2001; P.D.A. Harvey (ed.), The Hereford World Map: Medieval World Maps and Their Context, London 2006; Diarmuid Scully, Augustus, Rome, Britain, and Ireland on the Hereford mappa mundi. Imperium and Salvation, in: Peregrinations 4 (2013), pp. 107–133; Kupfer (note 2).

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vellum has greatly darkened, but traces of bright blue and green, numerous ­rubricated inscriptions, and large, golden letters hint at its former chromatic brilliance.6 The circular space of the ecumene surrounded entirely by Ocean is covered with hundreds of small, architectural icons marking inhabited places and by highly stylized representations of waterways, mountains, and other topographical features. Pictorial references to the Bible, bestiary, medieval legends, and classical mythology dispersed across the landmasses are almost all accompanied by black or red Latin inscriptions.7 Paradise is positioned at the top and Jerusalem is located at the center, as on several other mappae mundi.8 Directly above Jerusalem is an image of the crucified Christ, much worn, probably from repeated touching.9 A narrative scene of the Last Judgment, distinguished by a figure of the Virgin Mary baring her breasts as an intercessory gesture, unfolds in the triangular space of the map’s summit.10 In the lower left corner, the Anglo-Norman inscription that accompanies an image of an enthroned Emperor Augustus addressing three surveyors hints at the map’s purpose and patronage11; although the precise identity of the patron, one Richard of Haldingham or Lafford (Richard de haldingham o de Lafford), remains uncertain.12 In the lower right corner, the inscription that accompanies the lively image of an equestrian huntsman, his dog handler, and a pair of greyhounds invites the viewer to passe avant – go forth – into the world signified by the map, which, in light of its prominent eschatological imagery, is an invitation imbued with a certain ambiguity and tension.13

6 The map’s original pigments have been identified as typical of contemporary English illuminated manuscripts by Durham University’s ‘Team Pigment’ in connection with their ongoing ‘History of British Medieval Illuminators’ Pigments’ project. The results of the team’s analysis were briefly summarized in the didactics accompanying Hereford Cathedral’s ‘Uncovered’ exhibition (visited 24 May 2018) and will be fully published in a forthcoming monograph. For an overview of the project, see Andrew Beeby/ Richard Gameson/ Catherine Nicholson, New Light on Old Illuminations, in: Archives and Records (2017), DOI: 10.1080/23257962.2017.1325729. I would like to thank Richard Gameson for kindly providing me with information about these important investigations. 7 For a discussion of image categories, see Kline (note 5). 8 See Marcia Kupfer, The Jerusalem Effect. Rethinking the Centre in Medieval World Maps, in: Bianca Kühnel/ Galit Noga-Banai/ Hanna Vorholt (eds.), Visual Constructs of Jerusalem, Turnhout 2014, pp. 352‒365. 9 Frequent touching may also explain the near invisibility of the architectural icon marking Hereford, but whereas the crucified Christ image was presumably touched for devotional reasons; Westrem (note 5), p. 314 (no. 806), has suggested that the Hereford icon was used to orient viewers (“We are here”). 10 On the significance of this image, which is rare in English medieval art, see Kupfer (note 2), p. 39. 11 Westrem (note 5), p. 10 (no. 15). 12 For the different theories, see Valerie I. J. Flint, The Hereford Map: Its Author(s), Two Scenes and a Border, in: Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 8 (1998), pp. 19–44; Nigel Morgan, The Here­ ford Map. Art-Historical Aspects, in: Harvey (ed.) (note 5), pp. 119–135, here pp. 122–123; Westrem (note 5), pp. xxii‒xxiii; Kupfer (note 2), pp. 31‒33. 13 Kupfer (note 2), pp. 1, 92.

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The Hereford Map is compositionally similar to other medieval mappae mundi of the T-O variety, with its major landmasses divided into thirds separated by major waterways, forming the T, and ringed by the O of Ocean and its islands. The continent of Asia is positioned at the top, which represents the direction of east; Africa is situated on the viewer’s right, in the south; and Europe is on the viewer’s left, toward the north. Two of the three landmasses are famously mislabeled in large golden letters: the continent of Europe is inscribed AFFRICA and that of Africa is inscribed EUROPA. Until recently, scholars have considered this an awe-inspiring scribal error on an epic scale.14 However, in a recent, landmark study of the contemporary optical principles that underpin the map’s design, Marcia Kupfer has interpreted this mismatching gesture not as an error, but rather as a deliberate plan informed by a sophisticated, theologically inflected logic, in which the inscriptions are correctly placed if viewed from the downward-­gazing perspective of Christ at the map’s summit. For reader-viewers, Kupfer argues, the mismatched inscriptions are a warning that worldly appearances may deceive.15 Complementary to this analysis, I suggest that meaningful relationships created between the map’s bestiary creatures and other cartographical features – including the mismatched continent inscriptions – contributed to this wider theological project by inviting viewers to reflect on their own positions within God’s salvational scheme. The map designers’ obvious concerns with geography, spatiality, and temporality were also pursued by the bestiarists, but in notably different ways. As testimony to the extent and diversity of God’s creation and its distribution across the world, the geographical dimension of the bestiaries is revealed in many of the individual entries and also, in some manuscripts, through association with actual maps or other geographically related texts and images. Among the latter are Fitzwilliam 254, which includes a bestiary, a folio of Monstrous Races and a mappa mundi 16; and the Getty Miscellany, an anthology consisting of a bestiary, an extended, eight-folio series of Monstrous Races, and an illustrated copy of William of Conches’s ‘De philosophia mundi’, with Macrobian zone maps.17 Read cover-to-cover, such compilations present a medieval worldview that the Hereford Map both accommodates and transcends in a single pictorial space that does not merely incorporate the bestiary, but rather amplifies and authorizes many of 14 Flint (note 12), p. 23. 15 Kupfer (note 2), esp. pp. 5‒10, 71‒72, 82‒83, 151‒152. 16 Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum, MS 254 (England, c. 1220–1230). See Chet van Duzer/ Ilya Dines, The Only Mappamundi in a Bestiary Context. MS Fitzwilliam 254, in: Imago Mundi 58 (2006), pp. 7‒22. 17 Los Angeles, Getty Museum, MS Ludwig XV/4 (Thérouanne? c. 1278–1299). See Anton von Euw/ Joachim M. Plotzek, Die Handschriften der Sammlung Ludwig, 4 vols., Cologne 1979–1985, vol. 4 (1985), pp. 188‒206. For digitized versions of the illustrated folios, see the J. Paul Getty Museum website: http://www.getty.edu/art/collection/objects/1437/unknown-hugo-of-fouilloy-and-williamof-­conches-de-natura-avium-de-pastoribus-et-ovibus-bestiarium-mirabilia-mundi-philosophiamundi-on-the-soul-franco-flemish-1278-to-1299/ (accessed 15.7.17). On the Monstrous Races, see below.

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its characteristic features against the backdrop of the totality of God’s creation, and thus mirrors the importance of geography articulated in the bestiaries themselves. Geographical references in the bestiary build a picture of the vast, spatial scope of God’s creation, and they also function as (pseudo) finding aids for the individual creatures described. Moreover, in some entries, geographical location or a particular topological feature provides the anchor for the moral or spiritual interpretation of a given creature’s behavior. For example, the antelope (autalops) entangles his horns in a particular type of tree that only grows near the River Euphrates, around which the theological significance of the entangling is constructed. The elephant (elephans) is by historical necessity situated in India and Persia when utilized in warfare, but travels to Paradise when it is time to mate. The dangerous bovine known as the bonnacon wreaks anal havoc in faraway Asia, and the celestial symbolism of the wild goat (caper, caprea) is directly linked to his mountain location.18 Whereas reader-viewers encountered such geo-moralizations in sequence by turning the pages of their bestiary manuscripts, the panoramic view of creaturely locales enriched by the map’s other cartographical features bolstered the bestiary’s authority by corroborating its central premise: the space of the entire world – from the center in Jerusalem to the furthest stretches of the periphery – bears witness to God’s plans for humanity as imprinted on his nonhuman creatures. Concomitantly, it is possible that public perceptions of the map’s geographical spaces were influenced by the reputations of the creatures located therein. Put another way, the Hereford Map assimilates the bestiary into a larger worldview vividly and efficiently by articulating a metapattern of the world’s inhabitants and by visually clarifying relationships that can only be inferred from individual, noncartographical genres. However, it is crucially important for the fullest interpretation of the map’s bestiary creatures that they are located not only geographically, but also temporally within the Christian timeline anchored by the vertical alignment of Paradise, the crucified Christ, and the Last Judgment. Most significantly, creation’s fragility is foregrounded by the enframing letters M-O-R-S (death) positioned on small stalks equidistant around the outside of the ecumene to bespeak the transience of the world and all of its inhabitants within the larger temporal scheme of Christian eternity.19

18 For the bestiary text, see Cynthia White, From the Ark to the Pulpit. An Edition and Translation of the ‘Transitional’ Northumberland Bestiary (13th Century), Louvain-Le-Neuve 2009, pp. 74‒77 (antelope), 100‒105 (elephant), 130‒131 (bonnacon). For text and English translation of the wild goat entry (which is not included in the Northumberland Bestiary), see Willene Clark, A Medieval Book of Beasts, Woodbridge 2006, p. 136. The map’s elephant is discussed in more detail below. 19 Kupfer (note 2), pp. 92‒93. On alternative readings of this gesture, see Westrem (note 3), p. 4 (no. 5).

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Wild and Domestic, Exotic and Familiar It would therefore be reductive to assume that the bestiary animals were simply ‘imported’ to the Hereford Map with their traditional meanings intact, so that all that was required of audiences was to engage with the animal images and their accompanying inscriptions from this single perspective.20 It is true that some examples of bestiary iconography were transferred to the map more or less wholesale, such as the siren holding her mirror, the elephant strapped with a howdah, the pelican (pellicanus) piercing her breast, and the lynx (linx) urinating a gemstone.21 But for reader-viewers seeking a cartographical version of the traditional Latin prose bestiary, certain expectations are not met in two major respects: representation of the bestiary’s different animal categories is markedly incomplete, and the accompanying texts make no reference to the moral and theological meanings that define the genre. It is surely significant that domestic animals, such as the dog and horse, that receive extensive treatment in the bestiary and make up a sizable proportion of the creatures described therein are entirely absent from the map’s inhabited spaces.22 It must be remembered, however, that domesticity is in the eye of the beholder. For example, the camel (bactria) and elephant, both of which are depicted on the map, were used for transport, warfare, and as beasts of burden in their respective native lands, as the bestiarists attest. But for the map’s Western Christian audiences, the camel and the elephant were first and foremost emblematic of the exotic, unknown East, as their locations on the map make clear. The elephant, positioned near the top, in the easternmost area of the map, stands between the letters I and A of INDIA, a region given special status by means of a golden inscription similar to those that identify the three world continents, but with much smaller letters (Fig. 2).23 The camel is identified in its accompanying inscription with the region of Bactria in central Asia, and is described as having very tough feet, a trait also highlighted in the bestiary.24

20 Contra Kline (note 5), p. 99: “Whether stated or not, bestiary lore overlaid the textual, or more likely, the visual readings of the map.” 21 See Westrem (note 5), p. 42 (no. 84, elephant), p. 48 (no. 95, pelican), p. 142 (no. 315, lynx). The siren (sirena) is not identified by any label or inscription on the map, but is accounted for by Westrem in his commentary on the Mediterranean Sea (p. 404, no. 1028), and is an important iconographical element in Kupfer’s theological reading of the map (see below). For the bestiary entries, see White (note 18), pp. 88‒91 (siren), 101‒105 (elephant), 192‒193 (pelican), and 128‒129 (lynx). On the lynx, see also Élisabeth Halna-Klein, Sur les traces du lynx, in: Médiévales 28 (1995), pp. 119‒128. 22 For purposes of this argument, I am discounting the horse and hounds represented in the map’s rider image on the grounds that this scene operates independently from the imagery of the ecumene, as its external position suggests. 23 Westrem (note 5), p. 26 (no. 51). 24 The inscription reads: Bactria camelos habet fortissimos, numquam pedes atterentes (Bactria has extremely strong camels that never wear their feet out). See Westrem (note 5), p. 76 (no. 160). For the

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Fig. 2: Elephant in India. Hereford World Map (detail). Hereford, c. 1300. Hereford Cathedral Treasury. Photo: The Dean and Chapter of Hereford Cathedral and the Hereford Mappa Mundi Trust.

The crocodile (cocadillus), depicted on the map near the island of Meroe along the Nile and mounted by a naked man wielding an ax, while of primarily symbolic interest to the bestiarists,25 was thought to have been domesticated and used for transport across the Nile. But the map’s reader-viewers were more likely to recognize in the image a member of the Monstrous Race of Crocodile Riders known from other artistic contexts, including the bestiaries.26 Although Western domestic animals are missing from the map, wild beasts are well represented, albeit with some surprising omissions, such as the beaver, fox, owl, hedgehog, eagle, whale, and other English bestiary staples. The map’s roster of more exotic creatures – including some understood today as imaginary – is more extensive.27 Among others, the familiar bestiary unicorn (monoceros), phoenix (phenix),

bestiary entry, which, although unmoralized, calls attention to the camel’s lustful nature, see White (note 18), pp. 140‒141. 25 The bestiary’s moralized crocodile entry identifies the creature as a figure of the hypocrite. See White (note 18), pp. 86‒89. 26 Westrem (note 5), p. 130 (no. 292) does not recognize the Hereford Map figure as a Crocodile Rider, but this identification is supported by its proximity to the Nile’s lineup of Monstrous Races and its resemblance to other contemporary representations of this race, such as the one in the Getty Miscellany (fol. 119). On this manuscript, see note 17, above. 27 The blanket assumption that all medieval people accepted as ‘real’ creatures today recognized as imaginary is problematic; see Pamela Gravestock, Did Imaginary Animals Exist? in: Debra Hassig (ed.), The Mark of the Beast. The Medieval Bestiary in Art, Life, and Literature, New York 1999, pp. 119‒135. Medieval bestiaries often divide wild and domestic creatures into groups that correspond to the taxonomy of Isidore of Seville (Etymologiae 12.1.1) and the belief that after the Fall, domestic animals (pecus, iumenta) remained subordinate to humans, whereas nondomestic ones (bestiae, quadrupedia) became wild and, in some cases, hostile and dangerous to humans. See Sarah Kay, Animal Skins and the Reading Self in Medieval Latin and French Bestiaries, Chicago 2017, p. 35; Pierre-Olivier Dittman, Le seigneur des animaux entre pecus et bestia: Les animalités paradisiaques des années 1300, in: Agostino Paravicini Bagliani (ed.), Adam, le premier homme, Florence 2012, pp. 219–254.

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griffin (gryphes), bonnacon, yale (eale), and basilik (basiliscus) are all here,28 and so are the Monstrous Races, distributed all over the map, but with a critical mass confined inside small, stacked compartments situated in Africa along the Nile River.29 The map’s juxtaposition of exotic animals and monstrous peoples corroborates the medieval belief that they occupy the same faraway places, identified by both bestiarists and mapmakers as the vaguely defined and unstable geographical areas of India, Ethiopia, and the Far North. In some bestiary manuscripts, such as the Westminster Abbey Bestiary, cohabitation of beasts and monsters is signaled by integrating a section on the Monstrous Races into the usual animal entries, which implicitly upheld the contested, contemporary view that these Races were not quite human.30 The Hereford Map even more vividly authenticates the geographical scope of shared bestial and monstrous lands. Along the Nile River, for example, the basilisk hovers between the headless Blemmye (Blemee) and the shoulder-eyed Epiphagus  31; and the camel stands on the Balkh-āb River (Bactrus fluvius), just below the apple-sniffing Gangines, who inhabit the area around the Ganges (Ganges fluvius).32 The griffin marches toward combat with the one-eyed, sword-wielding, emerald-stealing Arimaspi (Carimaspi) in Scythia33; and the bonnacon defends himself with an anal blast in the province of Phoenicia (phenicis prouincia) in Syria (Siria), just outside the city of Antioch (Antiocha ciuitas), and in the presence of the web-footed member of the Monstrous Race of Tigolopes.34 In eastern Europe, in the vicinity of the Dnieper River (fluvius Danaper), the ostrich makes eye contact with a member of the Race of vile tanners known as the Griste, standing with a human skin draped over his horse and separated by a mountain range from a pair of Dogheads (Cinocephales) conversing on a peninsula near Scandinavia.35 Directly below, in what might represent Sweden, an unidentified humanoid figure on skis(?) faces an attentive ape (simea) and a bear (ursus) situated near Russia.36 28 Westrem (note 5), p. 182, no. 433 (unicorn), p. 346, no. 892 (basilisk). On the map’s phoenix, bonnacon, and griffin, see below. 29 On depictions of Monstrous Races on medieval maps, including the Hereford Map, see John Block Friedman, The Monstrous Races in Medieval Art and Thought, Cambridge/ MA 1980, pp. 37–58; Asa Simon Mittman, Maps and Monsters in Medieval England, London 2006, pp. 45‒59. 30 London, Westminster Abbey Library, MS 22, fols. 1v‒3r (York, c. 1290). On the issue of the Monstrous Races’ humanity, see Friedman (note 29), pp. 178‒196. 31 Westrem (note 5), p. 382, no. 971 (Blemmye). The name, Epiphagus, is a modern label; see Friedman (note 25), pp. 15, 25; the map’s inscription reads simply: Isti os et oculos habent in humeris (These ones have mouth and eyes in their shoulders); see Westrem (note 5), pp. 382‒383 (no. 973). 32 Westrem (note 5), p. 50, no. 102 (Gangines). Although Westrem does not connect the Gangines to the Apple-Sniffers, the depiction of the two figures harvesting fruit from a tree and sniffing it, respectively, justifies doing so. On the Apple-Sniffers (a. k. a. Astomi) see Friedman (note 29), pp. 11, 27–29. 33 Westrem (note 5), p. 100, no. 211 (griffin), p. 99, no. 210 (Arimaspi). 34 Ibid., p. 110, no. 235 (bonnacon), p. 108, no. 229 (Tigolopes). 35 Ibid., p. 186, nos. 443 (Griste) and 442 (Cynocephalus). 36 Ibid., p. 192, no. 456 (unidentified man), p. 194, nos. 458 (ape) and 463 (bear). The lack of any accompanying text for the bear beyond an identifying inscription is strange, given the significance

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But what of the creatures closer to home? The medieval belief that the most bizarre animals and peoples dwell in the most distant lands likely explains the absence of such types in Europe, the homeland of the bestiarists, the map’s designers, and their reader-viewers. However, a small number of more conventional wild beasts can be found here. In central Iberia, between the Miño (fluvius muneus) and the Danus River (fluvius danus), we encounter the genet (geneis), rendered somewhat naturalistically as a furry, fox-shaped quadruped.37 Southern France is the apparent dwelling place of the buglossa, an otherwise unattested type of bison for this area38; the scorpion (scorpio) is positioned in Germany; and bearing the name of the Aegean (egea) on his back is a curious quadruped that might have functioned as a rebus for the Aegean Islands, which from a distance were said to look like goats.39 But significantly absent are wild creatures familiar to English bestiary readers and from real-life encounters, such as the weasel, beaver, owl, hedgehog, fox, hare, goose, swan, crane, and stag, none of which are represented on the map.40 Even more curiously, the various rubrics and inscriptions that accompany the map’s bestiary creatures make no reference to their well-known Christian moralizations, even though these would have served an appropriately didactic purpose on a public church monument. The complete absence of this essential dimension of the bestiary tradition may be viewed as indirect evidence that the animal moralizations were already very well known and therefore did not need to be articulated, as in the Queen Mary Psalter and the Isabella Psalter, both of which include wordless bas-depage cycles of bestiary pictures positioned beneath the text of the psalms.41 But it is also true that the lack of prescriptive texts opens the way for the construction of extra-bestiary meanings from relationships between the individual creatures and the of this animal in the bestiaries and in medieval culture more generally. Stylistically, the image of the bear can be compared to that of the scorpion (scorpio) depicted in Europe (see below), which raises the possibility that both represent constellations that complement the map’s other cosmographical imagery, such as the twelve principal winds positioned around the world’s inner ring, just beyond Ocean. Westrem (note 5), p. 228, no. 557, has suggested that the scorpion might represent a zodiac sign but he does not suggest this of the bear representation. 37 Westrem has proposed that the genet might be identified with the jennet, a type of hyper-fertile Spanish horse; see Westrem (note 5), p. 330, no. 849. However, this supposition is unwarranted, as the catlike, carnivorous genet (genetta genetta), although indigenous to Africa and unknown from the bestiaries, also spread to Europe, including the Iberian Peninsula. See Serge Larivière/ Javier Calzada, Genetta genetta, in: Mammalian Species 680 (2001), pp. 1‒6. 38 Westrem (note 5), p. 294, no. 748. 39 Westrem (note 5), p. 394, no. 1001. 40 Given his uncertain identification and exotic location in Africa, the stag-like creature transporting the naked, snake-eating Troglodyte (Trocodite) along the Nile does not really qualify. See Westrem (note 5), p. 356, no. 914. 41 Both cycles are discussed in Debra Hassig [Debra Higgs Strickland], Marginal Bestiaries, in: Luuk A. J. R. Houwen (ed.), Animals and the Symbolic, Groningen 1997, pp. 171‒188. On relationships between the Queen Mary Psalter bestiary and the Hereford Map, see Kline (note 5), pp. 123–127.

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other texts and images with which they are aligned, juxtaposed, or otherwise visually linked across the map’s geographical spaces.

Mapping the Beasts I turn now to a small selection of the Hereford Map’s bestiary creatures to analyze their relationships to surrounding texts and images to clarify how they operated in their wider cartographical context. I suggest that once the animals left the confines of the bestiary to take up their positions on the mappa mundi, they became full participants in its multiple worlds – geographical, temporal, theological, and local. I hope to demonstrate that foreknowledge of the bestiary provides an essential, interpretative anchor, but perhaps not such a restrictive one as previously assumed. I begin with one of the most prominent figures on the entire map. The fish-tailed siren holding a mirror is centrally positioned in the Mediterranean Sea, directly below the last golden A of the continental ASIA inscription (Fig. 3, see Fig. 1). This aquatic location is consistent with bestiary entries that identify the siren as a woman-fish hybrid living in the sea,42 but as one of the few figures on the map without any accompanying text, there is conceptual space for her to fulfill extra-bestiary functions. As Kupfer has shown, crucial for understanding the presence of the siren on the map is her mirror,43 an attribute familiar from the bestiaries and many other artistic contexts, represented by the image of the siren admiring herself in the mirror before the centaur in the Getty Bestiary (Fig. 4).44 However, the Hereford Map siren is not looking at herself in her mirror, but rather is holding it before the viewer as she contemplates her own bifurcated tail. Kupfer interprets this gesture as a dangerous distraction and in relation to the map’s other optical warnings that worldly appearances may deceive.45 The deception theme is expanded by the siren’s well-known bestiary habit of deceiving sailors by lulling them to sleep with her sweet singing voice, only to tear at their flesh and kill

42 Some bestiaries picture and describe the siren as a woman-fish hybrid, others characterize her as a woman-bird hybrid (see fig. 6), and still others picture and/or describe her both ways. However, virtually all of them report her ruse involving sailors, which preserves the aquatic association. See Debra Hassig [Debra Higgs Strickland], Medieval Bestiaries. Text, Image, Ideology, Cambridge 1995, pp. 104–115; Ead., Sex in the Bestiaries, in: Hassig (note 27), pp. 71–99, here pp. 79–82. 43 Kupfer (note 2), pp. 9, 37. 44 Los Angeles, J. P. Getty Museum, MS Ludwig XV/3, fol. 78 (Thérouanne? c. 1270). The illustrated folios are available on the J. Paul Getty Museum website: http://www.getty.edu/art/collection/objects/1436/unknown-hugo-of-fouilloy-bestiary-franco-flemish-1270-000000/ (accessed 5.8.17). On the map, the centaur (albeit inscribed fauni) is positioned along the upper Nile, far away from the siren. See Westrem (note 5), p. 132, no. 296. 45 Kupfer (note 2), pp. 76, 92‒95.

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Fig. 3: Siren in the Mediterranean. Hereford World Map (detail). Hereford, c. 1300. Hereford Cathedral Treasury. Photo: The Dean and Chapter of Hereford Cathedral and the Hereford Mappa Mundi Trust.

them.46 The siren’s position on the map – just below and slightly to the right of the vertical axis formed by the alignment of God, Paradise, the Tower of Babel, the crucified Christ, and Jerusalem – secures for the bestiaries a visual and conceptual central place which invites viewers to understand all of the map’s bestiary creatures as essential players in the multiple dramas unfolding across the ecumene. By inviting them to look into her mirror, the siren reminds viewers that they, too, are part of God’s creation and must see themselves on the map; and more importantly that God at the summit sees them.47 The bestiary siren, then, is a seductive conduit by which the map’s viewers may begin their contemplation of the world and their own positions within it, which transforms her from bestiary villainess to an essential conduit for Christian self-awareness.

46 White (note 18), pp. 90‒91; see Elizabeth Eva Leach, ‘The Little Pipe Sings Sweetly While the Fowler Deceives the Birds’. Sirens in the Later Middle Ages, in: Music and Letters 87 (2006), pp. 187‒211. 47 God’s view of the map’s spaces is a major theme in Kupfer (note 2).

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Fig. 4: Siren and centaur. Bestiary. Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, MS Ludwig XV/3, fol. 78 (detail). Thérouanne? c.1270. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

Another prominent geographical position was granted to the bestiary ostrich (ostricius). It is the ostrich, in fact, that calls attention to one of the map’s anomalous inscriptions, which as noted earlier, comprise the strongest expression of its theologically inflected optics (Fig. 5). The ostrich’s juxtaposition with the first golden A of AFFRICA (positioned in Europe) underscores the significance of the mismatched inscription, but at the same time allows that letter to double as the bird’s horseshoe attribute, signaling the ancient belief that ostriches can digest anything, even iron, as reiterated in the accompanying inscription.48 This in turn creates an intervisual

48 The inscription reads: Ostricius: capud auce, copus gruis, pedes vituli; ferrum comedit (“Ostrich. head of a goose, body of a crane, feet of a calf; it eats iron”); see Westrem (note 5), p. 189, no. 447.

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Fig. 5: Ostrich. Hereford World Map (detail). Hereford, c. 1300. Hereford Cathedral Treasury. Photo: The Dean and Chapter of Hereford Cathedral and the Hereford Mappa Mundi Trust.

reference to horseshoe-eating ostriches familiar from bestiaries, aviaries,49 and other artistic contexts, such as the nearly exactly contemporary Queen Mary Psalter’s bestiary bas-de-page of a man feeding an ostrich horseshoes and nails (Fig. 6).50

The ostrich’s remarkable digestive abilities were recorded by Pliny (Historia naturalis 10.1) and repeated by medieval encyclopedists, including Bartholomew the Englishman (De proprietatibus rerum 12.34), whose work was translated into English by John Trevisa in 1388/89. See Bartholomeus Anglicus, On the Properties of Things. John Trevisa’s Translation, ed. Maurice C. Seymour, 3 vols., Oxford ­1975–1988, vol. 1 (1975), pp. 639–641, here p. 640. Based on empirical evidence, Albert the Great (1200–1280) refuted the assertion that ostriches eat iron, but confirmed that they will eat bones, pebbles, and other objects (Albertus Magnus, De animalibus 24.139). See Albert the Great, Man and the Beasts (De animalibus, Books 22–26), transl. James J. Scanlan, Binghamton 1987, pp. 316–317. Contemporary with the map’s ostrich is the image of an ostrich holding a horseshoe in the margins of the Rothschild Canticles (Flanders, c. 1300; New Haven, Beinecke Library, MS 404, fol. 113), on a folio that pictures and describes a crane-headed man and Dogheads, both also depicted on the map. See the digitized reproduction available on the Beinecke Digital Collections website: https://brbl-dl. library.yale.edu/vufind/Record/3432521 (accessed 26.5.18). 49 The aviary was often excerpted in the bestiaries. For study, text, and English translation, see Willene Clark, The Medieval Book of Birds. Hugh of Fouilloy’s Aviarium, Binghamton 1992. 50 London, British Library, MS Royal 2.B VII, fol. 114 (London, 1310–1320). See the digitized reproduction available on the British Library’s Catalogue of Illuminated Manuscripts: http://www.bl.uk/ catalogues/illuminatedmanuscripts/record.asp?MSID=6467 (accessed 11.7.17). On the bestiary cycle in this manuscript, see Hassig (note 41).

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Fig. 6: Ostrich. Queen Mary Psalter. London, British Library, MS Royal 2.B VII, fol. 114 (detail). London, 1310‒1320. © British Library Board.

The bestiary text, however, does not highlight the ostrich’s digestive abilities but rather describes how the female ostrich wanders away from her nest to gaze at the stars above. Readers are then urged to follow the ostrich’s virtuous example by turning their attention away from earthly things to heavenly ones,51 a moralization that complements the map’s implicit warning about worldly deception signaled by the anomalous placement of the AFFRICA inscription. Like the siren and the ostrich, the image of Noah’s ark opens up a range of meanings pertinent to the bestiary and the expanded expressive possibilities afforded by the spaces of the map (Fig. 7). It has been well recognized that images of Adam naming the animals positioned near the beginning of some of the bestiaries provided a biblical framework for the rest of its contents (Fig. 8).52 But whereas the bestiary versions of this event, such as the one included in the Northumberland Bestiary, depict a range of animals dispersed across the space of a single folio, the image of Noah’s ark on the

51 The ostrich’s habit of wandering away from her nest was known from Isidore of Seville’s Etymologiae 12.7.20. For the bestiary text, see White (note 18), pp. 124‒127. By contrast, the aviary text for the ostrich, aimed at a monastic audience, characterizes this bird as a figure of the hypocrite; see Clark (note 49), pp. 189–199. 52 Los Angeles, J. P. Getty Museum, MS 100, fol. 17v (England, c. 1250–1260). For the text, see White (note 18), pp. 58‒59. On the relationship between the Northumberland Bestiary (previously known as the Alnwick Bestiary) and the Hereford Map, see Kline (note 5), pp. 119–123. Digitized reproductions of the illustrated folios are available on the J. Paul Getty Museum website: http://www.getty. edu/art/collection/objects/240115/unknown-maker-northumberland-bestiary-english-1250-to-1260/ (accessed 23.7.17). On ‘Adam naming’ iconography, see Xenia Muratova, Adam donne leurs noms aux animaux, in: Studi Medievali 18 (1977), pp. 367‒394.

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Fig. 7: Noah’s ark, manticore, bonnacon, tiger. Hereford World Map (detail). Hereford, c. 1300. Hereford Cathedral Treasury. Photo: The Dean and Chapter of Hereford Cathedral and the Hereford Mappa Mundi Trust.

Hereford Map performs a more temporally expansive, cartographical parallel function by emblematizing the backstory for the subsequent (postdiluvian) distribution of birds and beasts across the entire space of the ecumene. In addition to commemorating the next pivotal event involving animals in Christian salvation history, the ark was a well-established typological figure of the Church and of Christ himself, which links the ark to the images of the crucified Christ near the map’s center and Christ as judge at its summit.53 Geographically speaking, the ark is anchored in the Armenian Mountains in Asia Minor. Its accompanying inscription simply states that it came to rest here, as recorded in Genesis 8:4 and in popular contemporary literature, such as the Middle English poem, ‘Cursor mundi’ (‘The cursor o the world’).54

53 See Augustine of Hippo, City of God 15.24‒27. Apart from Christ and possibly Abraham, Augustine of Hippo is the only historically attested person depicted within the inhabited spaces of the map; see Westrem (note 5), p. 88, no. 183, p. 358, no. 918. For discussion, see Strickland (note 3). On the theological implications of the ark’s presence on mappae mundi, see Marcia Kupfer, The Noachide Dispersion in English Mappae Mundi, c. 960‒c. 1130, in: Peregrinations 4 (2013), pp. 81‒106. 54 The inscription reads: Archa noe sesesit in montibus armenie (“Noah’s ark came to rest in the mountains of Armenia”); see Westrem (note 5), p. 106, no. 224. On the story of the ark, see Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae 14.3.35; Cursor mundi, ll. 1869–1870, in: Cursor mundi [The cursor o the world]. A Northumberland Poem of the XIVth Century in Four Versions, 3 vols., ed. Richard Morris, London 1874‒1893, vol. 1 (1874), p. 117. See also the ‘Historye of the Patriarks’, a single-witness, Middle English translation of the Genesis section of Peter Comestor’s ‘Historia scholastica’ (c. 1170) mediated through the ‘Bible historiale’ (c. 1295) by Guyard Desmoulins, and thus representative of popular traditions. See The Historye of the Patriarks, ed. Mayumi Taguchi, Heidelberg 2010, pp. 51‒63.

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Fig. 8: Adam naming the animals. Northumberland Bestiary. Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, MS 100, fol. 5v. England, c. 1250‒60. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

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More immediately, the ark’s cartographical presence may be interpreted in relation to one of the map’s main sources, Paulus Orosius’s early fifth-century ‘Seven Books Against the Pagans’. Commenting on the effects of the Flood, Orosius noted that: [T]he sea was poured over all the land and a deluge unleashed upon it, so that the world became entirely sea or sky, and that the human race was entirely destroyed, save for a few kept safe in the ark as a reward for their faith in order to create a new race […]. Even those who know nothing of times gone by […] have borne witness that this was so, learning of it by putting together the evidence and hints given by stones which we see on far-flung mountains encrusted with sea- and oyster shells and which often show signs of being hollowed out by the waves.55

This passage affirms the importance of the geological record as evidence of the historical truth of the Flood, with an emphasis on the state of the world’s mountains. On the map, although the vessel is not depicted on a mountaintop, it is understood to be so situated from the accompanying inscription and also by the surrounding stylized, curvilinear representations of mountain ranges, including the Taurus Mountains (mons Taurus) that extend into eastern Asia Minor.56 On the map, then, the ark in its cartographical context is an important participant in the salvation history played out across the ecumene. Complementary references to the bestiary can be found in the ark’s iconographical details. Its five windows still display much faded, profile representations of what appear to be, from left to right: (1) two birds of prey, (2) Noah and his wife, (3) a lion, (4) a sheep and two other mammals, and (5) three snakes (Fig. 9).57 Just as bestiary images of Adam naming the animals use representative individuals to stand for the Creator’s full complement of animals (see Fig. 8), so the map ark’s creaturely cargo represents the totality of the birds, beasts, and reptiles distributed across the ecumene.58 In addition, the vessel is positioned on a diagonal between two well-known 55 Orosius, Seven Books of History against the Pagans, transl. Andrew T. Fear, Liverpool 2010, p. 50. On this and the map’s other sources, see Westrem (note 5), pp. xxvii‒xxxvii; Gautier Dalché (note 5). 56 Westrem (note 5), p. 104, no. 222 (Taurus Mountains). 57 This roster differs from that of Westrem, who interprets what I identify as a maned lion head as the bearded head of Noah; see Westrem (note 5), p. 106, no. 224. However, I believe the lion identification is more congruent with the other iconographical details of this tiny image, and is further justified by the importance of the lion in contemporary English literary genres (see below). 58 The map’s roster of reptiles are all trackable in the bestiaries. Apart from the one being eaten by the Troglodyte (as above, note 36) and the fidelity-testing ones from Mount Burning depicted approaching mother and infant members of the monstrous race of Psylli (philli), snakes do not appear on the map, although there are additional verbal references to both the presence and the absence of snakes and dragons in some of the place-name legends. A lizard (lacertus) is positioned west of Paradise, between the Acesines and Ydaspes rivers; there are two pairs of dragons (dracones) in two different locations in the east; and a prominent salamander (salamandra) is located just below Joseph’s

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Fig. 9: Noah’s ark in the Armenian Mountains. Hereford World Map (detail). Hereford, c. 1300. Hereford Cathedral Treasury. Photo: The Dean and Chapter of Hereford Cathedral and the Hereford Mappa Mundi Trust.

bestiary creatures, the bonnacon and the manticore (manticora), the latter separated by a tree from a grinning tiger (tigris) (see Fig. 7). The map’s inscriptions refer to the bestiary stories of the bonnacon’s defensive excrement-spraying maneuver, which the image helpfully demonstrates, as well as the manticore’s ferocious hybrid appearance, also recorded by the image.59 The inscription that accompanies the tiger is similarly grounded in the bestiary text, which describes how hunters steal tiger cubs by distracting the mother tiger with a mirror, which is the usual narrative subject of its accompanying image.60 Although the tiger on the map is simply looking over her shoulder while walking away from a tree, I suggest that the inscription’s emphasis on her deception by the hunter’s mirror allows her to function alongside the siren and the mismatched continent inscriptions as another iteration of the map’s optical theme.61 barns (orrea ioseph) and to the left of the mandrake. See Westrem (note 5), p. 380, no. 969 (Psylli) and no. 970 (Mount Burning), p. 40, no. 78 (lizard), p. 32, no. 59 (Gold Mountains, with dragons), p. 66, no. 139 (dragons), and p. 176, no. 417 (salamander). Also, as noted above, along the Nile there is a crocodile (note 22), and a basilisk (note 24). As for fish, one inscribed and four uninscribed ones swim in the Aegean and in the Mediterranean, and the latter is also home to a sea monster; see Westrem (note 5), p. 394, no. 999, p. 404, no. 1028, p. 406, no. 1032, p. 408 nos. 1041, 1042 (sea monster). 59 Westrem (note 5), p. 111, no. 235 (bonnacon), p. 77, no. 157 (manticore). For the bestiary entries, see White (note 18), pp. 130‒131 (bonnacon), 132‒133 (manticore). 60 Westrem (note 5), p. 75, no. 152; White (note 18), pp. 126‒129. White provides the more literal translation, ‘ball of glass’, for spheram de vitro; see White (note 18), p. 127. See also Florence McCulloch, Le tigre et le miroir―la vie d’une image, in: Revue des sciences humaines 33 (1968), pp. 149‒160. 61 The map’s mirror trope is examined at length in Kupfer (note 2), esp. pp. 82‒95. Margriet Hoog­ vliet has repeatedly claimed that the map’s tiger iconography is paralleled in the Westminster Abbey Bestiary (fol. 19), on the grounds that there is a visible trace of a mirror hanging in the tree beside

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As a vessel understood to be filled with all types of birds and beasts, the ark’s more general connection to the bestiaries is perhaps self-evident. Beyond this, the map’s vast image-field animates the ark by allowing the viewer to grasp the full geographical scope of Noah’s world voyage, which reportedly lasted for a little over a year (Gen. 7‒8). Especially meaningful in this geographical theater is the ark’s evocation of medieval ideas concerning the custodianship of the world’s three continents, which were believed to have been entrusted by Noah at the Flood’s cessation to his three sons: Shem was assigned to Asia, Africa went to Ham, and Europe was given to Japhet, in order to ensure the fulfillment of God’s commandment to repopulate the world (Gen. 8:17–18).62 Medieval Christians understood that besides humanity’s survival, the most important postdiluvian event was the survival, repatriation, and multiplication of the animals. The particulars of their experience on the ark – How did Noah get them to embark? Could they all really fit? What did they eat? What was done with their dung? – were questions that commanded the attention of the highest-ranking Christian authorities,63 and centuries later, the details of building the ark, loading the animals, sailing, and landing were dramatized in the Middle English ‘Noah’s Flood’ plays included in all of the known cycles.64 Although a Hereford cycle has not survived, the one further north in Chester included a ‘Noah’s Flood’ play, put on, appropriately, by the water-carriers and -drawers from the River Dee,65 which is depicted on the map as a major waterway running past the prominent architectural icon that marks Chester (Cestria).66 What is pertinent here is the possibility that the representation of the ark evoked viewer memories of dramatic performances, which in turn shaped their understanding of the ark’s place in the Christian worldview articulated on the map.

the tiger; see Margriet Hoogvliet, De ignotis quarumdam bestiarum naturis. Texts and Images from the Bestiary on Mediaeval Maps of the World, in: Houwen (note 41), pp. 189‒208, here p. 204; Ead., Animals in Context: Beasts on the Hereford Map and Medieval Natural History, in: Harvey (ed.) (note 5), pp. 153‒165, here p. 157; and above, note 30 (on the Westminster Abbey Bestiary). The presence of a ‘circular object’ hanging in the tree has been tentatively seconded by Kline (note 5), p. 104, no. 21. However, the map’s tiger image does not include the hunter holding the tiger cub or the second tree featured in the Westminster Abbey Bestiary scene, and first-hand observation of the map’s tiger image reveals a very tiny smudge that has apparently been mistaken for a drawing of a mirror. 62 See Gen. 9:18–19 and Gen. 10; Isidore, Etymologiae 9.2.2–3; Cursor mundi, ll. 2087–2095, ed. Morris (note 54), vol. 1, p. 129; Historye of the Patriarks, ed. Taguchi (note 54), p. 65. See also Kupfer (note 53). 63 See, for example, Augustine of Hippo, City of God 15.27. 64 Edition: The Thirde Pageante of Noyes Fludd, in: The Chester Mystery Cycle, ed. Robert M. Lumiansky/ David Mills, Oxford 1974, pp. 42–56. 65 Although dated to the early sixteenth century, the Chester cycle plays reflect earlier medieval traditions. See Lisa J. Kiser, The Animals in Chester’s ‘Noah’s Flood’, in: Early Theatre 14 (2011), pp. 15‒44. 66 Westrem (note 5), p. 306, no. 787 (River Dee = fluvius de) and no. 785 (Chester).

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The Chester play, in fact, includes an opening stage direction reminiscent of God’s spatial relationship to the ark on the Hereford Map: “And firste in some high place – or in the clowdes, if it may bee – God speaketh unto Noe”.67 Subsequent stage directions indicate that the ark should be surrounded by boards painted with images of animals, so that the play’s words agree with the pictures.68 In stage productions, it is likely that the playwright used live animals, such as a dove and a raven, given that live animals were known to have featured in scenes of human-animal interactions in other plays in the Chester cycle.69 Lisa Kiser has suggested that the use of live animals in stage performances of the Chester cycle “[provoked] its audience to consider animals and humans as co-enactors of biblical history, in it together for the long run”.70 The Hereford Map’s image of Noah’s ark, overseen by God at the summit, and surrounded by beasts arrayed in the geographical space of the world and in the temporal space of eternity, likely provided a similar stimulus (see Fig. 1). It might seem self-evident that the postdiluvian return of the animals to their native habitats was something a world map could evoke more efficiently than a single narrative image, text, or live performance. However, the description in the late fourteenth-century, alliterative Middle English poem ‘Cleanness’ runs a close second: Then they escaped and dispersed, scattering by species. The feathered birds fluttered, flying in the air, Fish, with their fins, to the flood shot down, Grazing beasts were gone to the grassy plains. Wild snakes went to their dwellings in the earth, The fox and the fitchew to the forests away, Harts to the high heaths, hares to the gorseland, And lions and leopards to their lake-side lairs. Eagles and hawks to the high crags flew; To the water went the web-footed birds. Every beast hurried off to his own habitat, And the four men remaining were masters of the world.71

67 Lumiansky/ Mills (note 64), p. 42. 68 Lumiasky/ Mills (note 64), p. 48: The stage direction reads “Then Noe shall goe into the arke with all his familye, his wyffe excepte, and the arke muste bee borded rownde abowt. And one the bordes all the beastes and fowles hereafter reahersed muste bee paynted, that ther words may agree with the pictures”. 69 See Peter Meredith, ‘Make the Asse to Speake’ or Staging in the Chester Plays, in: David Mills (ed.), Staging the Chester Cycle, Leeds 1985, pp. 65‒66. Use of live animals is corroborated by the guild records, see Lawrence M. Clopper (ed.), Chester (Records of Early English Drama), Manchester 1979, pp. lvi, lxvii, n21. 70 Kiser (note 65), pp. 30–31. 71 Cleanness, ll. 529‒540, in: Brian Stone (transl.), The Owl and the Nightingale/ Cleanness/ St Er­ kenwald, 2nd ed., New York 1988, pp. 99‒100. For the Middle English text, see Cleanness, ed. J.J. Anderson, Manchester 1977, p. 26.

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The full scope of this joyful hegira is expressed visually on the Hereford Map by the wide variety and distribution of beasts across the broad areas of its landmasses, and its reception was doubtless informed and enriched by the viewer’s experience, if not of live performances, then of sermons or other works of art and literature. The map’s image of Noah’s ark, then, as a participant in a multimedia, cultural interest in the Flood and its aftermath, reminds viewers of the postdiluvian survival of the very spaces of the world, and also calls for renewed attention to, and appreciation for, the animals that continue to inhabit it. To whom were these beast-oriented messages directed? Hereford Cathedral, where the map was – and still is – publically displayed, was a major pilgrimage destination owing to the presence of the shrine of Saint Thomas de Cantilupe (c. 1220–1282), whose cult, thanks to the tireless efforts of Bishop Richard Swinfield (d. 1317), was established there in 1283, well in advance of Thomas’s canonization in 1320.72 This means that whether or not it ever functioned explicitly as a cult object,73 it would have been seen by an international audience of both religious and lay viewers. Thomas de Wesselow has argued persuasively that it was displayed in the south choir aisle in Hereford Cathedral, surrounded by the tombs of the early bishops. Iron mounts attached to a pier, today obscured by organ pipes, indicate that it was hung fairly high up on the wall.74 From this height, the land of England (Anglia) near the bottom of the map would have been closest to the viewer to invite readings from this perspective. Indeed, the architectural icon that marks Hereford (H[ere]ford) is barely visible, presumably after years of repeated touching by viewers seeking to orient themselves, as Scott Westrem has suggested,75 and is thus a reminder of the oral explanatory apparatus that Catherine Delano Smith has identified as the medieval map viewers’ typical experience.76 We can confidently assume that most reader-viewers would have recognized the bestiary imagery either from their direct experience of the manuscript genre or from having seen other works of art, or from hearing sermons,77 which are thought to have provided another important context for the map’s consumption.78 They would also have seen bestiary imagery in other parts of the cathedral, including the north porch portal, which was the main pilgrims’ entrance. Carved among the small 72 On Cantilupe and his cult, see Meryl Jancey (ed.), St Thomas Cantilupe, Bishop of Hereford. Essays in His Honour, Hereford 1982. On the canonization process, see Robert Bartlett, The Hanged Man. A Story of Miracle, Memory, and Colonialism in the Middle Ages, Princeton 2004. 73 On the proposed functions of the map in this connection, see Dan Terkla, The Original Placement of the Hereford Mappa Mundi, in: Imago Mundi 56 (2004), pp. 131–151. 74 Thomas de Wesselow, Locating the Hereford Mappa Mundi, in: Imago Mundi 65 (2013), pp. 180–206. 75 Westrem (note 5), p. 314, no. 806. 76 Catherine Delano-smith, Cartographic Signs on European Maps and Their Explanation before 1700, in: Imago Mundi 37 (1985), pp. 9‒29. 77 On the relationship between sermons and the bestiaries, see Clark (note 18), pp. 94‒96. 78 Kupfer (note 2), p. 45.

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voussoir images on the inner arch are a fish-tailed siren, a dragon, a lion, an owl, and still other creatures, some lost to damage and erosion, which would have been among the first images viewed by visitors to the Cantilupe shrine.79

The Map, the Bestiary, and the English Jews Turning now from their more universal theological meanings, I suggest that when viewed from the perspective of England, certain of the bestiary creatures communicate more local ones, especially when considered in relation to King Edward I, who either occupied the English throne or had recently done so at the time the map was created. My own Edwardian readings of certain bestiary creatures build on my recent analysis of the map’s only marked itinerary, the Exodus path, which charts the flight of the Israelites from Pharaoh and their subsequent journey, led by Moses, to the Promised Land.80 I return to this highly charged passage again, this time to consider in more detail the signifying powers of the animals surrounding it, but with some necessary recapitulation of some of my previous observations. The prominently rendered Exodus path is surrounded by the map’s only narrative image series based on events involving the fate of the Israelites as described in Genesis and Exodus (Fig. 10). To preserve their narrative chronology, the scenes must be read from right to left, beginning at Ramesses in Egypt, which is marked by an architectural icon.81 This starting point of the Israelites’ flight from persecution under Pharaoh is signaled by two flanking bestiary creatures. Standing on the left side of the icon is a yale (eale), an imaginary, hybrid creature, whose inscription reiterates the well-known bestiary emphasis on the utility of the animal’s large, flexible horns.82 To the right of the icon is an upside-down mandrake (mandragora), the animated, humanoid root familiar from both bestiaries and herbals, described simply as “an herb of amazing power”.83 79 The north portal sculpture, which also includes a figure of Synagoga, has been dated to the 1280s. See Richard K. Morris, The Architectural History of the Medieval Cathedral Church, in: ­Gerald ­Aylmer/ John Tiller (eds.), Hereford Cathedral. A History, London 2000, pp. 203–240, here p. 219; Strickland (note 3). The cathedral’s misericords, dated 1340s‒early 1350s, also include some of the same monstrous creatures and animals depicted on the map, including a bear, a pair of lions, a griffin, several dragons, and a siren suckling a lion; see Philip Dixon, The Woodwork, in: Aylmer/ Tiller (as above), pp. 345‒349. 80 Strickland (note 3). 81 Westrem (note 5), p. 128, no. 287. 82 Westrem (note 5), p. 122, no. 272; White (note 18), pp. 134‒135. 83 The inscription reads: Mandragora, erba mirabiliter uirtuosa. See Westerem (note 5), p. 178, no. 426. The fullest account of the mandrake is found in the medieval herbals. In the Latin prose bestiaries, it plays a secondary role in the elephant entry (see below), but it rarely receives a separate entry or illustration. However, it is the main subject of a pair of narrative illustrations in the Queen Mary

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Fig. 10: Exodus path (Ramesses to Jericho). Hereford World Map (detail). Hereford, c. 1300. Hereford Cathedral Treasury. Photo: The Dean and Chapter of Hereford Cathedral and the Hereford Mappa Mundi Trust.

Following the path upward, the next figure encountered, enframed between the twin, bright red arms of the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf, is the horned Moses (Moyses), kneeling on top of Mount Sinai (mons sinay), receiving the twin tablets of the Law from the hand of God emerging from a cloud above.84 Immediately below this scene are back-sliding Israelites kneeling before an idol. Significantly, the idolaters Psalter’s bas-de-page bestiary (fols. 119v–120r) (see above, note 50); and the Northumberland Bestiary’s separate entry for mandragora, logically positioned just after the elephant entry, describes its medicinal uses; see White (note 18), pp. 104‒105. 84 Westrem (note 5), p. 120, no. 268 (Moses) and no. 267 (Mount Sinai).

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are identified not as ‘Israelites’ or ‘Sons of Israel’, as they are in other medieval pictorial contexts. Rather, they are pointedly inscribed Judei,85 the medieval word, often used pejoratively, to denote contemporary Jews,86 a designation reinforced visually by the contemporary dress and stereotypically grotesque physiognomy exhibited by the frontmost figure. Moreover, these Judei are not venerating the golden calf but rather a demonic, squatting idol, shown defecating on the altar.87 I have argued elsewhere that the temporal transposition of the idol-worshipping scene from the biblical past to the fourteenth-century English present, achieved through costume details and the Judei designation, allowed reader-viewers to understand this scene in relation to Edward’s expulsion of the Jews from England in 1290. The reasons for the expulsion of the Jews at that time, following decades of persecution, are still debated and beyond the scope of this essay to address, but it has been persuasively suggested that their deteriorating reputation as ‘nefarious’ in light of continued host desecration and ritual murder charges alongside repeated demands by Edward’s knights for their expulsion in exchange for a tax badly needed by the Crown were two highly significant factors.88 I suggest that the map provides a theological framework for both understanding and justifying the 1290 expulsion in relation to Christian salvation history. In relation to the map’s even larger agendas, interpretation of the Exodus imagery from this perspective complements Kupfer’s theological reading of it as a conflation of the world’s past, present, and future in the mind of God.89

85 Ibid., p. 122, no. 270. 86 On the pejorative use of this term, see Bernhard Blumenkranz, Die Judenpredigt Augustins. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der jüdisch-christlichen Beziehungen in den ersten Jahrhunderten, Paris 1973, pp. 181–183; Id., Les auteurs chrétiens latins du Moyen Age sur les juifs et le judaïsme, Louvain 2007, pp. 38, 59, 85; Graham Harvey, The True Israel. Uses of the Names Jew, Hebrew and Israel in Ancient Jewish and Early Christian Literature, Leiden 1996, pp. 62–104; Steve Mason, Jews, Judaeans, Judaizing, Judaism. Problems of Categorization in Ancient History, in: Journal for the Study of Judaism 38 (2007), pp. 457–512. 87 The idol is inscribed mahun. On the significance of this designation, see Westrem (note 5), p. 120, no. 269; Strickland (note 3). 88 Paul Hyams, The Jewish Minority in Medieval England, 1066–1290, in: Journal of Jewish Studies 25 (1974), pp. 270–293; Sophia Menache, Faith, Myth, and Politics. The Stereotype of the Jews and Their Expulsion from England and France, in: Jewish Quarterly Review 75 (1985), pp. 351‒374; William Chester Jordan, The French Monarchy and the Jews, Philadelphia 1989, p. 182; Robert C. Stacey, Parliamentary Negotiation and the Expulsion of the Jews from England, in: Michael Prestwich/ Richard H. Britnell/ Robin Frame (eds.), Thirteenth-Century England VI. Proceedings of the Durham Conference 1995, Woodbridge 1997, pp. 77‒101. On other theories, see Robin Mundill, England’s Jewish Solution. Experiment and Expulsion 1262–1290, Cambridge 1998; Richard Huscroft, Expulsion. England’s Jewish Solution, Stroud 2006; Karen Barkey/ Ira Katznelson, States, Regimes, and Decisions. Why Jews Were Expelled from Medieval England and France, in: Theory and Society 40 (2011), pp. 475‒503. 89 Kupfer (note 2), pp. 115‒127.

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My reading of the map’s Exodus path in this regard is aided and abetted by its resident and nearby bestiary creatures, beginning with the large phoenix staring at the idolaters from the right. Its accompanying inscription reiterates the bestiary claim that it is the only one in the world, with a life span of 500 years.90 According to the bestiarists, the phoenix’s self-immolation and rebirth after three days allegorizes the resurrection of Christ, with reference to Christ’s statement in the Gospel of John (10:18), “I have the power to lay down my life and take it up again” – words said to have so angered the Jews that they wanted to stone him.91 On the map, then, the phoenix’s direct gaze at the idolatrous Judei transmits a supercessionist message that reinforces understanding of the Exodus episode as a biblical parallel for contemporary Jewish exile. As Heather Blurton has emphasized, references to Exodus were favored by medieval English chroniclers, such as William of Newburgh, whose descriptions of pogroms against the English Jews filtered through the lens of Exodus have been interpreted as implicit justification for the 1290 expulsion.92 Another nonhuman contributor to a postexpulsion reading of the Exodus path is a rather less familiar beast situated directly opposite Lot’s wife (Vxor Loth).93 The inscription identifies the creature as a marsok. Unknown to the bestiarists and unattested elsewhere, the marsok is rendered with four different types of feet – cloven, webbed, paw, and human – but is described only as a “shape-changing wild animal” (marsok bestia transmutat).94 For the map’s reader-viewers, the more familiar shape-changing wild animal was the bestiary hyena, whose habits of feeding on corpses and changing sex from male to female and back again rendered it unclean, and thus a figure of the Jews. According to the bestiarists, “To [the hyena] are compared the sons of Israel who at first served God, then afterwards, given to wealth and luxury, worshipped idols. In this way the prophet compared the synagogue to this unclean animal, saying ‘Mine inheritance has become for me like a cave of a hyena [Jer. 12:8]’”.95 Bestiary images of the hyena sometimes provide an anti-Jewish, visual gloss for this text; in the thirteenth-century Bodley 764 bestiary, for example, this is

90 The inscription reads: phenix auis: hec quinge[n]tis uiuit annis est autem unica auis in orbe. See Westrem (note 5), p. 122, no. 271; White (note 18), pp. 194–97. 91 White (note 18), pp. 194‒195: Est aliud uolatile quod dicitur phoenix […] Huius figuram gerit Dominus noster Iesus Christus, qui dicit in euangelio suo: ‘Potestatem habeo ponendi animam meam et iterum sumendi eam’. Propter haec uerba irati sunt Iudei, et volebant eum lapidare. 92 Heather Blurton, Egyptian Days. From Passion to Exodus in the Representation of Twelfth-Century Jewish-Christian Relations, in: Sarah Rees Jones/ Sethina Watson (eds.), Christians and Jews in Angevin England. The York Massacre of 1190, Narratives and Contexts, Martlesham 2013, pp. 222‒237. 93 Westrem (note 5), p. 116, no. 254. The figure appears fully animated and thus depicted at a moment prior to her transformation into a pillar of salt (Gen. 19:17‒26). 94 Westrem (note 5), p. 114, no. 249. 95 White (note 18), pp. 84‒85: Huic assimiliantur filii Israelis, qui ab initio Deo vivo servierunt postea diviciis et luxurie dediti idola coluerunt. Ideo propheta comparavit synagogam inmundo animali dicens, ‘Facta est michi hereditas mea quasi spelunca hyene’.

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achieved through the prominent rendering of a Gothic church in the background and the violation of a (presumably) Christian corpse in the foreground.96 The hyena’s negative meanings were considerably augmented in manuscript copies of the thirteenth-century versified ‘Bestiaire’ of Guillaume le Clerc, a Norman cleric and poet. Appropriate to the work’s expansively moralized text, illustrated versions, such as a late thirteenth-century English copy housed today in Paris, allot two miniatures per beast, one of which is dedicated to the animal’s allegorical meanings (Figs. 11 and 12).97 As in the Latin prose bestiaries, the hyena in the ‘Bestiaire’ is a figure of the Jews. Guillaume devotes a separate paragraph to the sins of the back-­ sliding children of Israel, who, he asserts, ‘became as females’ when they gave themselves up to fleshly pleasures and were so foolish that they worshipped idols.98 The accompanying miniature represents Moses before the burning bush in the top register, and below Israelites worshipping the Golden Calf (on the left) and being put to the sword (on the right). This scene, which is positioned ahead of a folio with a bas-de-page image of a hyena violating a sepulcher, follows the conceptual pattern of the Hereford Map Exodus path imagery in certain significant respects (Fig. 11; see Fig. 10).99 Both the map and the bestiary juxtapose images of Jewish idol-worshipping with Moses, and in both cases, the ‘Israelites’ are transformed into late medieval Jews: on the map via costume details and the Judei designation and in the manuscript by the attribute of contemporary ‘Jewish hats’.100 In the ‘Bestiaire’ Moses scene, God in the burning

96 Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Bodley 764, fol. 15 (Salisbury? 1250); reproduced in Christopher de Hamel, Book of Beasts. A Facsimile of MS Bodley 764, Oxford 2008. On this and other bestiary hyena images, see Hassig (note 42), pp. 145–155; Debrah Higgs Strickland, The Jews, Leviticus, and the Unclean in Medieval English Bestiaries, in: Mitchell B. Merback (ed.), Beyond the Yellow Badge. Anti-Judaism and Antisemitism in Medieval and Early Modern Visual Culture, Leiden 2007, pp. 203‒232, here pp. 209‒211. 97 Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS fr. 14969 (London or Oxford, c. 1265–1270), fols. 29v (moralization image) and 30r (bas-de-page). Digitized reproductions of all of the illustrated folios are available on the Bibliothèque Nationale de France Mandragore website: http://mandragore.bnf.fr/ jsp/switch.jsp?division=Mix&cote=Fran%E7ais+14969 (accessed 21.7.17). See also Xenia Muratova, Les miniatures du manuscrit Fr. 14969 de la Bibliothèque Nationale de Paris (Le Bestiaire de Guillaume le Clerc) et la tradition iconographique Franciscaine, in: Marche romane 28 (1978), pp. 141‒148. 98 MS fr. 14969, fol. 30v. This folio is not reproduced on the BNF Mandragora website (note 92). See George Druce (transl.), The Bestiary of Guillaume le Clerc, Ashford 1936, p. 49. 99 On the moralization image, see also Michael Camille, The Gothic Idol. Ideology and ­Image-Making in Medieval Art, Cambridge 1989, pp. 165–167; Suzanne Lewis, Tractatus adversus Judaeos in the Gulbenkian Apocalypse, in: Art Bulletin 68 (1986), pp. 543‒566, here pp. 549‒550; Debra Higgs Strickland, Saracens, Demons, and Jews. Making Monsters in Medieval Art, Princeton 2003, pp. 147–148. 100 On ‘Jewish hats’, see Sara Lipton, Images of Intolerance. The Representation of Jews and Judaism in the Bible moralisée, Berkeley 1999, pp. 15–19; Ead., Dark Mirror. The Medieval Origins of Anti-Jewish Iconography, New York 2014, pp. 16–39.

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Fig. 11: Moses and Jews before the burning bush; Jews worshipping the Golden Calf. Guillaume le Clerc, Bestiaire. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 14969, fol. 29v (detail), c. 1265–70. Photo: Bibliothèque nationale de France.

bush is represented with the cruciform halo of Christ, which sends a supersessionist message communicated on the map by the phoenix. In both artistic contexts, bestiary animals are put to anti-Jewish service. Owing to the fact that the bestiary hyena’s moralization accords with the map’s image of the idol-worshipping Judei, I suggest that the marsok’s proximity to the Exodus path and its triangular alignment with the phoenix (to the right) and the Judei (above) allowed it to operate as an intervisual reference to the more familiar bestiary animal and its anti-Jewish meanings. To imagine the marsok as a hyena was not such a stretch, given that the hyena was depicted on other world maps. These include the surviving fragment from the thirteenth-century Duchy of Cornwall Map, identified as a royal commission related to or derived from the mappa mundi made for Edward’s

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Fig. 12: Hyena violating a sepulcher. Guillaume le Clerc, Bestiaire. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 14969, fol. 30 (detail), c. 1265–70. Photo: Bibliothèque nationale de France.

father, Henry III, for his chamber in Westminster Palace, and also as an important model for the Hereford Map.101 The fragment depicts the portion of Africa around the Nile and features parallel, vertical lineups of animals and Monstrous Races, nearly all of which are also depicted on the Hereford Map. Among the Duchy of Cornwall Map animals is a hyena (hyena) standing in right profile, rendered as a generic quadruped visually similar to the Hereford marsok – albeit with uniform feet – and sandwiched between a panther (pantera) and catofeplas above102 and an elephant below. Like that of the marsok, the Duchy of Cornwall hyena’s meaning is shaped by its geographical location and proximity to other creatures; in this case, in the most exotic part of the world among other creatures seldom, if ever, witnessed by Western Christian reader-viewers, even the most well-traveled royal and aristocratic ones. By contrast, the Hereford Map marsok, situated just outside the land of Babylon (terra babilonie), occupies a geographical position of paramount eschatological significance, and its visual resemblance to the bestiary hyena intensifies the anti-Jewish 101 London, Duchy of Cornwall Office. See Graham Haslam, The Duchy of Cornwall Map Fragment, in: Monique Pelletier (ed.), Géographie du monde au moyen âge et à la Renaissance, Paris 1989, pp. 33‒44, here p. 33, with excellent color reproduction. The fragment has been dated c. 1260–1285 and measures 62 × 53 cm, which suggests that it was originally slightly larger than the Hereford Map. 102 The name, catofeplas, which is accompanied on the Cornwall map fragment by a generic image of a big cat, probably refers to Pliny’s catoblepas, a Nile-dwelling, sluggish, buffalo-like creature with a heavy head bent toward the earth that can kill with its eyes (Pliny, Natural History 8.32). As far as I am aware, it is not included in the medieval bestiaries.

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meanings conveyed by the idol-worshipping scene on the nearby Exodus path (see Fig. 10). This interpretation of the marsok is consistent with Margriet Hoogvliet’s suggestion that the creature should be read as a negative figure owing to its proximity to the wicked biblical city of Babylon,103 marked by the Tower of Babel (turris babel), the largest structure in the entire ecumene, toward which the marsok does indeed appear to be climbing.104 From a more local perspective, the marsok can also operate along the Exodus path and its residents in an ‘updated’ Edwardian understanding of the significance of Jewish exile. If the itinerary’s Old Testament narrative and anti-Jewish imagery are read against the 1290 expulsion, then Edward I is the unseen Pharaoh, a parallel that was not lost on contemporaries. For example, John of London conceived of Edward in precisely these terms in the widely circulating ‘Commendatio Lamentabilis’, written in 1307, the year of the king’s death.105 In this adulatory ode, John proclaimed that just as Alexander had defeated Persia, so Edward waged a ten-year war against King Philip of France; just as Joshua had defeated Jericho, so Edward captured Berwickon-Tweed; and just as the Red Sea had swallowed the army of Pharaoh, so Edward outdid the pharaohs by ridding England of its many Jews.106 This last comparison invites reflection not only on the map’s Exodus path of exile as ex post facto biblical justification for Edward’s expulsion of the Jews, but also on the king’s Hereford connections. These include his staunch support of the map’s custodian, Bishop Richard Swinfield, who tried repeatedly to put a stop to amicable Jewish-Christian relations in Hereford107 as well as his membership in the Hereford-based cult of Thomas de Cantilupe,108 whose articulations of hatred for Jews are recorded in his canonization dossier as strong evidence of his sanctity!109

103 Hoogvliet, Animals in Context (note 61), p. 160. 104 Westrem (note 5), p. 86, no. 181 (Babylon), p. 84, no. 180 (Tower of Babel). 105 Edition: John of London, Commendatio Lamentabilis in transitu magni regis Edwardi, in: Chronicles of the Reigns of Edward I and Edward II, ed. William W. Stubbs (Rolls Series 76), 2 vols., London 1882‒1883, vol. 2 (1883), pp. 3‒21. See Björn Weiler, The Commendatio Lamentabilis of Edward I and Plantagenet Kingship, in: Chris Given-Wilson/ Ann Kettle/ Len Scales (eds.), War, Government and Aristocracy in the British Isles, 1150‒1500. Essays in Honour of Michael Prestwich, Woodbridge 2008, pp. 114‒130. 106 Stubbs (note 105), vol. 2, p. 14. 107 See Joe Hillaby, The Hereford Jewry, 1179–1290 (third and final part). Aaron le Blund and the Last Days of the Hereford Jewry, 1253–90, in: Transactions of the Woolhope Naturalists Field Club 46 (1990), pp. 432‒487, here pp. 463‒466. 108 On Edward’s cult activities, see Louis F. Salzman, Edward I, London 1968, p. 188; Bartlett (note 72), pp. 117‒118. 109 Acta sanctorum. Octubris, Paris 1866, vol. 1, pp. 547‒548; for discussion, see Strickland (note 3).

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The King and the Beasts Although the Exodus path and its resident creatures represent the most prominent rerouting of the bestiary to serve a contemporary English agenda, other creatures on the Hereford Map were potential transmitters of other types of Edwardian messages. The most explicit of these, I suggest, are the lion (leo) and the leopard (leopard), rendered as a facing pair situated along the lower Nile (Fig. 13).110 By 1300, the leopard was universally identified in literature and heraldry with the Plantagenets in general and with Edward I in particular.111 In the early fourteenth-century poem, ‘The Song of Lewes’, for example, Edward is characterized as a leopard – a combination lion for his ferocity and pard for his pliability, mutability, and fickleness.112 In another contemporary poem, ‘In Praise of the Young Edward’, the prince is described as ‘warlike as a pard’ (belliger ut pardus); and in the fourteenth-century ‘Song of the Scottish Wars’, Edward “puts to flight his adversaries like a leopard” (fugat adversaries tanquam leopardus).113 In the bestiaries, however, kingship is identified not with the leopard or pard, but with the lion, often given pride of place as the first animal entry, in which he is designated the king of beasts and allegorized as a figure of Christ, the king of kings.114 By contrast, because he is the result of an unnatural mating between a lion with a pard, the bestiary leopard (leo-pardus) is a sign of corruption and sin.115 However, a competing, extra-bestiary definition of ‘leopard’ was the heraldic lion passant gardant, because a lion walking while looking around was thought to be behaving like a leopard, and so was known as a lion-leopardé.116 This more neutral characterization helps to explain how the leopard was able to bypass his bad bestiary reputation to serve English royal agendas in heraldic contexts. Thus, in a pose familiar to contemporary English viewers, the pard leopard from the thirteenth-century Harley 4751 bestiary, like the one on the Hereford Map, assumes the position to double as an intervisual reference to the heraldic leopards rendered in triplicate in the Plantagenet

110 Westrem (note 5), pp. 366–367, no. 940 (leopard) and no. 941 (lion). 111 See Dirk Jäckel, Der Herrscher als Löwe. Ursprung und Gebrauch eines politischen Symbols in Früh- und Hochmittelalter, Cologne 2006, pp. 75‒95, here pp. 89–91. In the bestiaries and other medieval sources, the names ‘leopard’ and ‘pard’ are often used interchangeably, even though they can also designate two different types of animal, as noted below. 112 Song of Lewes, ll. 417–419, 431–433, in: The Song of Lewes, ed. and transl. Charles L. Kingsford, Oxford 1890, pp. 14–15, 42. 113 Peter Coss (ed.), Thomas Wright’s Political Song of England, Cambridge 1996, pp. 128, 163. 114 White (note 18), pp. 72‒75. 115 White (note 18), pp. 128‒129. See Margaret Haist, The Lion, Bloodline, and Kingship, in: Hassig (note 27), pp. 3–21. 116 Caroline Shenton, Edward III and the Symbol of the Leopard, in: Peter Coss/ Maurice Keen (eds.), Heraldry, Pageantry and Social Display in Medieval England, Woodbridge 2002, pp. 69‒81, here p. 73.

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Fig. 13: Lion, leopard, and king of the Agriophagi along the Nile River. Hereford World Map (detail). Hereford, c. 1300. Hereford Cathedral Treasury. Photo: The Dean and Chapter of Hereford Cathedral and the Hereford Mappa Mundi Trust.

coat-of-arms displayed widely during this period on clothing, banners, and works of art – even though the bestiary moralization identifies the animal as a figure of the Devil, the sinner, and Antichrist (Fig. 14).117 117 London, British Library, MS Harley 4751, fol. 6 (Salisbury? c. 1240). The illustrated folios are available on the British Library Catalogue of Illuminated Manuscripts website: http://www.bl.uk/ catalogues/illuminatedmanuscripts/record.asp?MSID=8797 (accessed 21.7.17).

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Fig. 14: Leopard (pardus). Bestiary. London, British Library, MS Harley 4751, fol. 6 (detail). Salisbury? c. 1240. © British Library Board

From both bestiary and extra-bestiary perspectives, then, the Hereford Map lion and leopard doubly affirm the English king and his kingdom, and also participate in a wider English recognition of the symbolic significance of these particular animals. In the passage from ‘Cleanness’ quoted above, for example, the lions and leopards are highlighted as headed together for their ‘lake-side lairs’ upon their release from the ark; and it has been suggested that Shem’s report in the Chester Noah play that the first animals to board the ark were the lions and the leopards (l. 161) would have been understood by a contemporary English audience as Noah’s lucid attempt to uphold the monarchial system to ensure political stability, both during and after the Flood.118 This perhaps also explains why the artist gave the lion his own window through which to gaze from the ark across the vast spaces of the Hereford Map (see Fig. 9),119 which in turn complements the monarchial symbolism created by positioning the lion and leopard at eye level and directly across from England. It is also notable that the heraldic leopard’s positioning on a triangular axis between the R and O of the mismatched

118 Kiser (note 65), p. 17. In this reading, the lion represents the king and the leopards the aristocracy. 119 My identification of Noah’s wife (only partly visible beside Noah) in another window of the map’s ark is also consistent with the prominent role assigned to her in the later cycle Flood plays, including the Chester one.

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EUROPA at once calls attention to this important optical feature and disambiguates the geographical location of a European symbol in Africa. Against the backdrop of the map’s allusions to Edward’s 1290 expulsion of the Jews and the Plantagenet heraldic insignia, it is ironic that Leo was invariably a Jewish name in pre-fourteenth-century England.120 We might also consider the possible political significance of positioning on the map directly below the lion and leopard the monocular king of the monstrous race of Agriophagi, whose impaired, outward gaze and upward hand gesture reinforce his accompanying inscription’s proclamation that he and his people dine exclusively on leopards and lions (see Fig. 13)!121 For royalist reader-viewers, this lion-eating king may have evoked Simon de Montfort, leader of the baronial uprising against the English crown, or Philip IV, or some other enemy of England.122

An Edwardian Elephant? My final reading considers one of the Hereford Map’s bestiary creatures as a signifier of one of King Edward’s greatest ambitions, which was the recovery of the Holy Land from the hands of the non-Christian ‘infidel’. Near the top of the map is a very finely rendered, bestiary battle-elephant, bearing on his back an uninhabited howdah (Fig.  15; see Fig. 2). He is stylistically and iconographically similar to the elephant depicted in the thirteenth-century Northumberland Bestiary, except that the latter’s howdah is occupied by three knights wearing helmets and mail.123 As noted earlier, the map’s elephant is situated in India, between the golden I and A of the INDIA inscription, consistent with his bestiary location and as reported in the accompanying inscription.124 He stands just to the right (south) of Paradise, which is rendered at the very top of the ecumene as an unlabeled, circular space enclosed by a wall but fitted with an exit gate. Just outside the gate, an expelled Adam and Eve cower between a sword-wielding angel and, rather unexpectedly, a second pair of conversing Dogheads (inscribed gigantes)!125

120 Shenton (note 116), p. 79. 121 The inscription reads: agriophagi ethiopes solas panterarum et leonum carnes edunt; habentes regem cuius in fronte [oculus] vnus est (“Agriophagi Ethiopians eat only the meat of leopards and lions; they have a king whose one [eye] is in his forehead”). See Westrem (note 5), p. 387, no. 981. 122 See Marc Morris, A Great and Terrible King. Edward I and the Forging of Britain, London 2008. 123 Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, MS 100, fol. 17v. 124 The inscription reads: yndia mittit eciam elephantes maximos quorum dentes ebur esse creditur, quibus yndei turribus inpositis in bellis utuntur (“India also produces enormous elephants, whose teeth are believed to be ivory, which the Indians utilize in battles with surmounted towers”). See Westrem (note 5), p. 43, no. 84. For the bestiary entry, see White (note 18), pp. 100‒103. 125 Westrem (note 5), p. 34, no. 64 (Adam) and no. 65 (Eve), p. 36, no. 70 (gates of Paradise) and no.

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Fig. 15: Paradise and environs. Hereford World Map (detail). Hereford, c. 1300. Hereford Cathedral Treasury. Photo: The Dean and Chapter of Hereford Cathedral and the Hereford Mappa Mundi Trust.

The reader-viewer’s understanding of the elephant’s proximity to Paradise required foreknowledge of the bestiary story of the chaste male and female elephants, who, when they want to produce offspring, travel as a pair to Paradise to the mandrake tree that grows there. Accordingly, the female first takes fruit from the tree and then gives some to her husband to seduce him into copulation, whereupon she immediately conceives, and eventually gives birth in water while menaced by a dragon.126 The bestiarists thus identify the male and female elephants as figures of Adam and Eve, and their actions as a symbolic parallel for the Transgression and Expulsion. The expulsion association helps to explain why the elephant on the map is headed away from Paradise (and on his own) rather than toward it, and why the prominent mandrake, although occupied some distance below with a different expulsion, might also have been viewed in relation to the Paradise scenario.127 Although the opportunity was available in this context, the map’s designers stopped short of upholding bestiary relationships between Adam, Eve and the animals. The absence of interactions

71 (expulsion of Adam and Eve), p. 40, no. 80 (Gigantes). On this section of the map, see Mittman (note 29), pp. 29–53. 126 White (note 18), pp. 102‒103. The elephants carrying the mandrake to Paradise are represented in the Queen Mary Psalter’s marginal bestiary (London, BL, MS Royal 2 B.VII, fol. 119v), which also includes an image of the battle elephant (fol. 119r). In the Paris copy of the Bestiaire of Guillaume le Clerc, an image of the male and female elephants standing by the mandrake tree is juxtaposed with a smaller moralization miniature of Christ Creator admonishing Adam and Eve before the Tree of Knowledge (Paris, BnF, MS fr. 14969, fol. 59r); a second image represents the female elephant giving birth in water before the menacing dragon (Paris, BnF, MS fr. 14969, fol. 60v). For the images, see above, note 50 (Queen Mary Psalter) and note 97 (Bestiaire). 127 Similarly, in the Northumberland Bestiary, the mandrake receives a separate entry unconnected to the elephant’s story (White [note 18], pp. 104‒105), although its position in the manuscript immediately after the elephant entry encouraged reader-viewers to consider them together.

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Fig. 16: Adam, Eve, Christ, and the animals. Northumberland Bestiary. Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, MS 100, fol. 3v (detail). England, c. 1250‒60. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

between Adam and Eve and animals on the map contrasts with the human-animal contacts emphasized in the bestiaries in the scenes of Adam naming the animals (see Fig. 8). For example, an especially vivid image in the Northumberland Bestiary’s entry on Adam and Eve brings the protoplasts into direct engagement with the world’s animals, with Christ Creator making the introductions in advance of Adam’s naming project (Fig. 16).128 Beyond the bestiary, if the Hereford Map elephant is viewed from an Edwardian perspective, his signifying power is greater still, especially if new meanings are constructed around his battle guise, which is emphasized in the map’s image through the attribute of the howdah and the reference to this function (rather than to the Paradise allegory) in the accompanying inscription. I have argued elsewhere that the battle elephant can operate in the bestiaries as a visual reference to the Crusades.129 On the Hereford Map, this interpretation gains traction in light of Edward’s leadership on the crusade 128 Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, MS 100, fol. 3v. For the text, see White (note 18), pp. 54‒57. This entry is followed logically by the ‘Adam naming’ entry; see White (note 18), pp. 56‒57. 129 Hassig (note 42), pp. 135–140.

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of 1270‒1272, his subsequent promotion of crusading and support of large numbers of crucesignati at Westminster, and his multiple efforts to take the cross again himself.130 I suggest that his ultimate failure to return to the Holy Land is emblematized by the map elephant’s empty howdah as well as the great cartographic distance that separates the battle elephant, positioned near the top of the map, from the walled citadel of Jerusalem at its center, whose circular, walled icon marks the place the king longed to recover for Christendom and where he also decreed that his heart should be buried (see Fig. 1).131

Conclusions Integrated into the complex geographical theater of the Hereford World Map, bestiary creatures form part of a pan-Christian worldview widely consumed by an international audience at what was for a time one of the most important shrines in late medieval England.132 Just as geography was an essential element in medieval understanding of the bestiary animals, so the bestiary animals were essential bearers of meaning in a wider cartographical context. As external witnesses to geographical lore, the Hereford Map’s bestiary creatures enriched cartographic meanings at the same time that the map enlarged the beasts’ traditional signifying powers, and the authority of bestiary and cartographic traditions was mutually affirmed through meaningful alignments and juxtapositions of words and images that allowed the bestiary creatures to participate in the map’s multiple temporalities. I hope to have demonstrated how bestiary images not only intensified the map’s universal, timeless, Christian messages, but also contributed to more local, timely messages concerning the places of Edward I and England in Christian salvation history. With God as judge presiding at the summit, the central message of the map seems to be that worldly things may deceive, but God sees all. The substantial bestiary presence trackable across the drawn and painted ecumene helped reader-viewers to navigate the deceptive, worldly maze – signaled by strategically mismatched continent inscriptions and catoptric references – to attain knowledge of God’s plans for all of his creatures, themselves included.

130 See Simon Lloyd, English Society and the Crusade, 1216–1307, Oxford 1988, pp. 232‒243; Michael Prestwich, Edward I, New Haven 1997, pp. 326‒335. I have examined Plantagenet crusading ­interests in relation to an earlier image cycle; see Debra Higgs Strickland, Looking Back. The ­Westminster Psalter, the Added Drawings, and the Idea of ‘Retrospective’ Crusade, in: Elizabeth Lapina et al. (eds.), The Crusades and Visual Culture, London 2015, pp. 157‒184. 131 Christopher Tyermann, England and the Crusades 1095–1588, Chicago 1988, pp. 230–240. Edward bequeaths his heart to Jerusalem in an elegiac song written during the reign of Edward II; see Coss (note 113), p. 247. 132 See Ronald C. Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims. Popular Beliefs in Medieval England, London 1977, pp. 173–188; Robert N. Swanson, Devotional Offerings at Hereford Cathedral in the Later Middle Ages, in: Analecta Bollandiana 111 (1993), pp. 93–102.

Pnina Arad

Cultural Landscape in Christian and Jewish Maps of the Holy Land Abstract: In this chapter I explore maps of the Holy Land as instruments for conceptualizing topography in terms of the cultural significance of the biblical land for both Christian and Jewish societies. Focusing on several examples devised by Christian and Jewish artists between the sixth and the eighteenth century, I look at the various narratives for the biblical topography that we find on the maps and their potential for supporting Christian and Jewish religious values and cultural identities. Keywords: Madaba map, Bernhard von Breydenbach’s Holy Land map, Jewish map from Mantua, proskynetaria The term ‘cultural landscape’ marks any natural landscape that has been modified and reshaped by human activity. Whether we are speaking about the construction of a complete town, an individual monument, or a natural park or a street, or about destruction or preservation – every element in a modified landscape is related to and reflects the needs and values of the society that inhabits it. In other words, a cultural landscape is a physical identity document of a given society and a tool for understanding it.1 A cultural landscape is composed of layers. When one cultural group is replaced by another, a new landscape is superimposed on the remnants of the older one, while the attitude of a society toward the physical remnants built by earlier communities

1 The term was coined by Carl O. Sauer (1889–1975) in the field of Human Geography; on the concept, see Denis Cosgrove, Cultural Landscape, in: The Dictionary of Human Geography, 4th ed. (2000), pp. 138–141; see also Tadhg O’Keeffe, Landscape and Memory: Historiography, Theory, Methodology, in: Niamh Moore/ Yvonne Whelan (eds.), Heritage, Memory and the Politics of Identity. New Perspectives on the Cultural Landscape, Aldershot 2007, pp. 3–18; George L. Henderson, What (Else) We Talk About When We Talk About Landscape. For a Return to the Social Imagination, in: Paul Groth/ Chris Wilson (eds.), Everyday America. Cultural Landscape Studies After J. B. Jackson, Berkeley 2003, pp. 178–198; Denis E. Cosgrove, Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape, Madison 1998; Denis Cosgrove/ Stephen Daniels, Iconography and Landscape, in: Denis Cosgrove/ Stephen Daniels (eds.), The Iconography of Landscape. Essays on the Symbolic Representation, Design and Use of Past Environments, Cambridge 1988, pp. 1–31. Note: This research was supported by the I‐CORE Program of the Planning and Budgeting Committee and The Israel Science Foundation (grant No. 1754/12), and by The Fritz Thyssen Foundation (grant Az.50.13.0.005). Pnina Arad, Center for the Study of Conversion and Inter-Religious Encounters (I-CORE), Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Beer Sheva, Israel, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-004

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reflects its own cultural values. By ‘attitude toward past monuments’ I mean reutilization in a new context, destruction, neglect, or preservation, as all of these activities are related to a society’s cultural values and identity. Masada in the Judean Desert (Israel) is a good example of a cultural landscape: a natural cliff above the Dead Sea that King Herod found to be a suitable site for a fortified palace as a resort. Several decades later it served the Jewish rebels during the Great Revolt. According to Flavius Josephus, the rebels committed mass suicide to avoid capture at the end of the harsh Roman siege.2 In the early years of the existence of the State of Israel, Masada was regarded as a memorial to Jewish resistance and it became a symbol of heroism. Massive resources were invested in developing the archaeological site, and the swearing-in ceremony for soldiers after completing their basic training was held there. The ceremony ended with the declaration: ‘Masada shall not fall again’. A state medal from 1960 that shows the cliff with the inscription ‘We Shall Remain Free Men’ conveys the message explicitly. But over the years the symbolic meaning of the place has diminished because suicide is no longer regarded as a symbol of heroism. Today Masada is an attractive national park, but nothing more. The example of Masada and its depiction on the state medal illustrates the way in which a certain landscape acquires cultural significance and the role of images in reflecting and constructing a cultural landscape. In what follows I examine the way in which maps can reflect and construct cultural landscapes by focusing on maps of the Holy Land – by definition, a cultural landscape. Beyond the fact that the landscape of the biblical land is made up of layers (created by different societies in different times), it was valued through the biblical heritage; interpreted in light of the biblical text and it came to signify religious and cultural values.3 I focus on five maps made by Christian and Jewish artists in different periods: the sixth-century Madaba mosaic map, a single example of a Holy Land map from the Byzantine period that played a role in a decorative program of a Christian church in Madaba (Jordan); the map in Bernhard von Breydenbach’s pilgrimage account (printed in Mainz in 1486), which among all the late medieval maps of the Holy Land presents the most elaborate image; a Jewish sheet map that was printed in Mantua in c. 1560, the earliest known Jewish pictorial map of the biblical land, which was constructed on the basis of both earlier Jewish exegetical drawings of the Promised Land and the layout of Breydenbach’s map; and two Greek Orthodox icons of the Holy Land that were painted in Jerusalem during the Ottoman period, which encapsulate the fundamental layout of the traditional Holy Land map. The common features that these five cartographic images shared but the different narratives that they devised raise questions about what kind of interpretations they suggested for the biblical

2 Flavius Josephus, Bellum Judaicum. 7. 389–401, transl. Henry St. John Thackeray, vol. 3, ­Cambridge/ MA, London 1928, pp. 615–617. 3 On interpretation of landscape as another dimension of “cultural landscape”, see Cosgrove (note 1).

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t­ opography and the potentiality of the medium (a map of the Holy Land) to establish and strengthen diverse cultural agendas.4

The Madaba Map The Madaba Map exhibits the characteristic features that identified maps of the Holy Land until the early modern period: it orients the land toward the east; it emphasizes Jerusalem through a distinguishing vignette; and it portrays the land as a Christian sacred space.5 The sacred space was created here through the combination of numerous inscriptions that associate particular places with events from both ­Testaments and architectural symbols of small edifices with red roofs that signify churches in particular places – a combination that recalls the land’s sacred past and manifests its sacred present (Fig. 1).6 The sanctity of the land is further accentuated by the central position of the Jerusalem vignette. Entitled ‘The Holy City Ierusa[lem]’ ­(HAGIAPOLICIEROYCA[LEM]), it conveys the city’s sacred nature by punctuating the space with symbols of church buildings, but especially by positioning the Holy Sepulcher in the center. The central position of the Holy Sepulcher in the city and in the land (as evidenced by the reconstruction of the mosaic’s location in the church) defines the two as the city and land of the Passion. This is a cultural landscape.7 The fact that the Temple Mount does not appear in the Jerusalem vignette – seemingly out of the intention to depict Jerusalem without a Jewish past – is an example 4 Muslim mapmakers did not design maps of Palestine in isolation (but showed this territory in maps depicting the larger region of the Province of Syria), which are thus beyond the defined limits of my survey. 5 The main surviving fragment measures 10.5 × 5 m. It was discovered in 1896 during the construction of a new Greek Orthodox church on the ruins of the sixth-century basilica, where it covered the floor of the transept (today the Church of St. George). A reconstruction of the mosaic within the basilica was offered by Michael Avi-Yonah, The Madaba Mosaic Map with Introduction and Commentary, Jerusalem 1954, pp. 11–15 and fig. 3. Avi-Yonah’s work was the first comprehensive cartographic analysis done on the map; he included a comparison to biblical and exegetical sources of the Greek inscriptions. For a more recent study, see Michele Piccirillo/ Eugenio Alliata (eds.), The Madaba Map Centenary 1897–1997, Jerusalem 1999, with further bibliography. 6 Avi-Yonah established the connection between the map’s inscriptions and the Onomasticon – an alphabetical gazetteer of biblical places compiled by Eusebius, Bishop of Caesarea, in about 300 CE and translated into Latin by Jerome in the late fourth century. On this connection, see Leah Di Segni, The ‘Onomasticon’ of Eusebius and the Madaba Map, in: Piccirillo/ Alliata (note 5), pp. 115–120. For English translations of the Greek inscriptions, see Avi-Yonah (note 5), pp. 35–77; Piccirillo/ ­Alliata (note 5), pp. 47–101. 7 Both the Holy Sepulcher and the cardo maximus were shifted to be positioned in the center and thus turned the church itself into a focal point of the city vignette. Yoram Tsafrir regards this manipulation as a “distortion of the geographical layout”; see Yoram Tsafrir, The Holy City of Jerusalem in the Madaba Map Mosaic, in: Piccirillo/ Alliata (note 5), p. 155.

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Fig. 1: Madaba, Church of St George, mosaic map of the Holy Land, 10.5 × 5 m, third quarter of the 6th century. Photograph by Eugenio Alliata, The Studium Biblicum Franciscanum, Jerusalem.

of the way in which mapmakers constructed cultural landscapes through selectiveness.8 Yet, in Byzantine Jerusalem the Temple Mount had already become a Christian symbol; the ruins of the Temple were regarded by Christians as physical evidence of the punishment that God inflicted on the Jews for the crucifixion of Jesus and also as an emphatic confirmation of the fulfillment of Jesus’s prophesies about the days to come (Luke 21:5–6, 20–24).9 Therefore, by not including the Temple area on his map the author actually challenged the Byzantine concept of the Jerusalem landscape and in a sense diminished the potential of his map as a means of constructing a Christian topography.

8 Even in its ruined state in the sixth century the Temple Mount was the largest structure in ­Jerusalem, so its absence in the city vignette seems deliberate. For the identification of the places depicted in the city vignette, see Tsafrir (note 7), pp. 155–163; the absence of the Temple is discussed on p. 158. 9 For example, Theodoret of Cyrrhus (393–466), who made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem during the first half of the fifth century, expressed the idea that the remnants of the Temple were evidence of the fulfillment of Jesus’s prophecies. At the same time, there were pilgrims who saw the ruined T ­ emple as a proof of the Christian triumph over Judaism. See Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony, Encountering the ­Sacred. The Debate on Christian Pilgrimage in Late Antiquity, Berkeley 2005, pp. 174–176. On the Christian concept regarding the destruction of the Temple as punishment for the Crucifixion, see Marcel Simon, Verus Israel. A Study of the Relations between Christians and Jews in the Roman Empire A.D. 135–425, Oxford 1986, pp. 89–90.

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Fig. 2: Jerusalem, The National Library of Israel, Pal 133, Map of the Holy Land, Bernhard von Breydenbach, ‘Peregrinatio in Terram Sanctam’; woodcut, 128 × 27 cm, first edition, Mainz 1486. By permission from the National Library of Israel, Jerusalem, Eran Laor Cartographic Collection.

Late Medieval Christian Maps: Bernhard von Breydenbach In the late Middle Ages, a time when Catholic pilgrimage to Jerusalem flourished, maps of the Holy Land were made to commemorate individual journeys. Portraying the land with the same principles as formulated at Madaba (orientation toward the east; emphasis on Jerusalem; and conceptualization of the land as a sacred space), these maps provided those who stayed at home with a substitute for the experience of pilgrimage and an opportunity to contemplate the sacred biblical landscape.10 Among these, the map that was made by Erhard Reuwich for Bernhard von Breydenbach’s ‘Peregrinatio in Terram Sanctam’ offers the most elaborate image. It depicts Jerusalem in a huge panoramic view punctuated by numerous references to Christ’s Passion and thus further accentuates the sacred nature of the land and its significance to the Christian viewer (Fig. 2).11 In contrast to the Madaba Map, which ignores the Temple 10 On the cultural role of pilgrims’ maps of the Holy Land, see Pnina Arad, Pilgrimage, Cartography and Devotion. William Wey’s Map of the Holy Land, in: Viator 43:1 (2012), pp. 301–322; Pnina Arad, “As If You Were There.” The Cultural Impact of Two Pilgrims’ Maps of the Holy Land, in: Bianca ­Kühnel/ Galit Noga-Banai/ Hanna Vorholt (eds.), Visual Constructs of Jerusalem (Cultural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages 18), Turnhout 2014, pp. 307–316; Pnina Arad, Frederick III’s Holy Land Installation in Wittenberg during the Cultural Transition of the Reformation, in: Viator 48:1 (2017), pp. 219–252. On types of medieval maps of the Holy Land, see Paul D. A. Harvey, Medieval Maps of the Holy Land, London 2012. 11 Bernhard von Breydenbach was a canon in the cathedral of Mainz who embarked on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 1483. The map and the illustrations in his ‘Peregrinatio in terram sanctam’ were made by Erhard Reuwich of Utrecht, who was invited by Breydenbach to join him on the pilgrimage for the purpose of documenting sights along the way. The Holy Land map was designed in a large dimension and folded into the book; it measures 128 × 27 cm. On Erhard Reuwich, the production of the ­‘Peregrinatio’ and its content (including the map), see Frederike Timm, Der ­Palästina-Pilgerbericht des Bernhard von Breidenbach von 1486 und die Holzschnitte Erhard Reuwichs. Die Peregrinatio in terram sanctam (1486) als Propagandainstrument im Mantel der gelehrten Pilgerschrift, Stuttgart 2006; Andreas Klussmann, In Gottes Namen fahren wir. Die spätmittelalterlichen Pilgerberichte von

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Mount, the Temple – in the form of the Dome of the Rock – is highlighted in the center. By referring to the Muslim edifice as the Jewish Temple (labeled Templum Salomonis), this depiction encapsulates two cultural transitions that took place in the city over the centuries: the Muslim conquest in the seventh century, which involved the construction of religious monuments on the Temple Mount, and the Crusader conquest (1099), when the Muslim edifice of the Dome of the Rock was identified as the Jewish Temple and became a church. In the fifteenth century the Muslim monument was again called upon to fulfill its original Muslim function, but on the Christian map it serves as a reminder of the remote Jewish past, which, needless to say, is recalled here as part of the Christian narrative. This is an explicit expression of a cultural landscape. As in the Madaba Map, the written component is highly significant in converting the topography into a cultural landscape. The inscriptions, which associate a range of episodes (from both Testaments) with specific localities, actually combine many separate biblical events into one inclusive conceptualized representation that essentially conveys the sanctity of the land and encapsulates religious and cultural messages. Specifically, by referring to divine apparitions, miracles, and actions of both saintly and sinful figures, the map produces a condensed narrative that engenders a coherent message of belief. It thus gives rise to contemplation on faith, sin, reward, and punishment and offers a ‘cultural paradigm’ that enabled Christian believers to interpret their own lives.12 Significantly, by the use of terms such as ‘here’, ‘where’, or ‘on this mountain’ in these inscriptions, the map not only localizes the holy past in specific places, but emphasizes the significance of topography in the religious message. But such a map could also provide the very experience of pilgrims in the land itself. In real terms, pilgrims traveled around the country seeking the sites of the biblical events, while the landscape engendered visions of those events. As Jerome noted as early as in the fourth century, ‘with the eye of faith’ pilgrims could visualize the sacred event and even participate in the biblical drama. By evoking biblical episodes in one sentence, the map could serve as the landscape itself and give rise to a similar

Felix Fabri, Bernhard von Breydenbach und Konrad Grünemberg im Vergleich (Historica occidentalis et orientalis 1), Saarbrücken 2012; Elizabeth Ross, Picturing Experience in the Early Printed Book: Breydenbach’s Peregrinatio from Venice to Jerusalem, Pennsylvania 2014 with bibliography. 12 A few examples are enough to exemplify the method: “On this mountain Christ satisfied 5000 people with five loaves of bread and two fishes” (In hoc monte saciavit Christus quinque milia hominum de quinque panibus et duobus piscibus), Matthew 14:16–21 (and parallels); “Here David fled from his son, Absalom” (Hic fugit David a facie filii sui Absalon), 2 Samuel 15:14; “Here Lot’s wife was transformed into a statue of salt” (Hic uxor Loth versa est in statuam salis), Genesis 19:26; “Mount Tabor, where Christ was transfigured” (Mons Thabor in quo Christus fuit transfiguratus), Matthew 17: 1–8; “Valley of Mamre, where Abraham saw three and adored one” (Vallis Mamabre ubi Abrham tres vidit et unum adoravit), Genesis 18:2. Transcriptions follow Reinhold Röhricht, Die Palästinakarte Bernhard von Breydenbach’s, in: Zeitschrift des deutschen Palästina-Vereins 24 (1901), pl. 21. English translation is mine.

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spiritual experience. Such a map, then, strengthened Christian identity and reinforced the spiritual link between the Catholic West and the Holy Land.13 The most characteristic feature of Reuwich’s Map is the direction of Jerusalem in relation to the rest of the land. Whereas the whole land is seen from the west with the Mediterranean shoreline at the bottom, Jerusalem is depicted from the east and the eastern Golden Gate faces the viewer.14 A caption next to the gate declares that this is the gate through which Christ entered the city on Palm Sunday. The integration of a view of Jerusalem from the east within the map is highly significant. First, by showing the sight revealed to Christ before he entered the city, as well as to pilgrims standing on the Mount of Olives, this view allowed the contemplative beholder to take part in both sights. Second, by highlighting the gate through which it was believed that Christ would enter the city in his Second Coming, the map endowed both city and land with a messianic context.

Jewish Maps: Mantua 1560 We find a similar vignette, positioned in the same contrasting perspective to the rest of the land, in a Jewish woodcut map that was printed in Mantua in c. 1560 to show the wanderings of the Israelites to Canaan and the borders of the latter as described in Numbers 33 and 34 (Fig. 3).15 As an illustration of those verses, the Mantua Map is a significant Jewish image, as by summarizing the wanderings in the desert and presenting God’s description of the borders of the land that he is to bestow on his people, these two chapters proclaim the relationship between the people of Israel and the Promised Land. Significantly, this map offers the sole known pictorial ­representation of these

13 For the role of Holy Land maps in constructing Christian spirituality and identity, see Arad (note 10). Jerome’s note refers to Paula’s visit to the Cave of the Nativity and appears in his letter to Paula’s daughter, Eustochium. It was published in Sancti Eusebii Hieronymi Epistulae: Epistulae LXXI– CXX, ed. ­Isidor Hilberg (Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum 55), Vienna 1996, pp. 306–351; English translation: John Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims before the Crusades, Warminster 1977. 14 This view seems to reflect Reuwich’s observation from the Mount of Olives, where he most l­ikely made his sketches. Reuwich’s innovative depiction influenced later pilgrims to attach panoramic views of Jerusalem as seen from the Mount of Olives to their accounts (e. g., Konrad von Grünenberg, who embarked on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 1486). The medieval Holy Land maps that highlighted Jerusalem through a large and detailed vignette in their center showed it as seen from the west, in accordance with the orientation of the maps toward the east. For the image of Jerusalem in these maps, see Rudolf Simek, Hierusalem Civitas Famosissima, in: Codices Manuscripti 16 (1992), pp. 121–153. 15 There is no clue as to the context for the representations or use of this map. It is entitled by the first verse of Numbers 33 (“These were the marches of the Israelites who started out from the land of Egypt”, in Hebrew) and measures 30.7 × 50.9 cm; the only known copy is in Zürich, Zentralbibliothek, U 3, 2. On this map, see Pnina Arad, Memory, Identity and Aspiration: Early Modern Jewish Maps of the Promised Land, in: Imago Mundi 69:1 (2017), pp. 52–71 with further bibliography.

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Fig. 3: Zürich, Zentralbibliothek, U 3, 2, the Exodus and the wanderings in the desert toward Canaan, woodcut, 37.7 × 50.9 cm, Mantua, c. 1560. By permission from the Zentralbibliothek, Zurich, Map Department.

two biblical chapters in Jewish art. It presents an innovative image, which, on the one hand, was derived from (and reflects) two exegetical drawings of Canaan that Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhaki, c. 1040–1105) rendered for his commentary to these chapters, but on the other hand, it appears to have been inspired by the layout of Breydenbach’s map and its messianic connotations (evidence for that is the ­eastern-oriented vignette of Jerusalem in the center of Canaan).16

16 That the Mantua map is based on Rashi’s exegetical imagery (as recomposed by Rabbi Eliah Mizrahi for his own commentary on Rashi) is clearly stated in the long caption on the map’s right-hand side. For a Hebrew transcription and translation into English of the full text, see Rehav Rubin, A sixteenth century Hebrew map from Mantua, in: Imago Mundi 62:1 (2010), p. 42 and fig. 5. Specifically on Rashi’s plans and their exegetical context, see Catherine Delano-Smith/ Mayer I. Gruber, Rashi’s Legacy. Maps of the Holy Land, in: The Map Collector 59 (1992), pp. 30–35; Gruber, The Sources of Rashi’s Cartography, in: Norman Simms (ed.), Letters and Texts of Jewish History, Hamilton/ NZ 1998, pp. 61–67; Yosef Ofer, The Maps of the Land of Israel in Rashi’s Commentary on the Torah and the Status of MS Leipzig 1, in: Tarbiz 76 (2007), pp. 435–443 (in Hebrew); David Shneor, The importance of Paris Manuscript Héb 155 for Understanding the Maps Drawn in Rashi’s Commentary of Numbers XXXIV, in: Tarbiz 78:3 (2009), pp. 371–381 (in Hebrew).

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Fig. 4: The land of Canaan, detail of Fig. 3.

Canaan, which is on the left-hand side of the map (Fig. 4), is defined by a sequence of quotations of God’s words from Numbers 34,17 and includes all the Canaanite border settlements that are mentioned in the text and that Rashi included in his drawings to reflect the boundaries of the land. Rashi explained that his interest in the borders of Canaan was related to the commandments.18 Therefore, in reflecting Rashi’s understanding of the borders, the Mantua Map not only conveys God’s vision of the Promised Land as described in Numbers 34 but adopts the halakhic implication that was embedded in Rashi’s exegetical plans.

17 For the arrangement of the Hebrew biblical quotations (in translation to English) on the Mantua map, see Arad (note 15), fig. 4. 18 In his commentary on Numbers 34:2, Rashi explained that Jews must know exactly where the borders of Canaan were because there is a specific set of commandments that can be observed only within the frontiers of that land.

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Significantly, Jerusalem, Jericho, and Hebron – whose names do not appear in Numbers 34 – are highlighted by unique pictorial symbols within Canaan: Jerusalem is portrayed through a large vignette of a circular city with the Temple in the form of the Dome of the Rock in its center; Jericho is represented by an emblem of a labyrinth; and Hebron is seen beyond the Cave of the Patriarchs, where Caleb (one of the twelve spies sent to Canaan, who are imaged below the emblem of the city) is praying. It  seems to me that these three cities were added to the representation of Canaan, which reflects the biblical description in Numbers 34, to emphasize the link between the people of Israel and the land by evoking the period of the patriarchs ­(signified by Hebron), the conquest of the land (Hebron and Jericho), and the kingdom ­( Jerusalem), not to mention that by recalling these three specific themes (patriarchs, conquest, kingdom), the three symbols express the fulfillment of the promise. That is to say, whereas the Mantua Map portrayed the land according to Rashi’s exegetical diagram to Numbers 34, it was supplemented by three localities that further accentuated the Jewish connection to (and interpretation of) the biblical land.19 As I noted above, the depiction of Jerusalem seems to have been derived from the Breydenbach Map. The fact that the view of the city is from an ‘eastern vantage point’ is clear from the location of Mount Zion above and to the left of the city vignette (i.e., to the southwest), the closeness of the Temple to the wall (as in Breydenbach’s Map), and the representation of the double-arched Golden Gate in the section of the wall that faces the viewer (left-hand side of the city vignette) (Fig. 4). The Jerusalem vignette with the Temple in its center and the Golden Gate in its wall also encapsulated a sacred aura and a messianic dimension in the Jewish map, as for Jews as well as Christians, the Golden Gate, or the Jewish so-called Gate of Mercy, is the portal through which the Messiah will enter the city (on the basis of Ezekiel 44.1–3). In any case, the Mantua Map is the earliest known Jewish work of art that depicts ­Jerusalem in that way and seems to have been the origin for the Jewish motif of messianic ­Jerusalem in early modern Jewish art.20 Most significantly, both the Mantua and the Breydenbach maps show another gate in the eastern section of the wall, which faces the Dome of the Rock (cf. Figs. 2 and 4). This gate is much more conspicuous on the Mantua Map, as it is shown in the center of the circular circumference, and there is a road out of it that leads to the Temple itself. This gate seems to me to represent the old Second Temple gate that stood in this location and was closed up when the Golden Gate was constructed to replace it. Referred to in the Mishnah as the East Gate, it is said to have been the only eastern portal of the Temple compound (Kodashim, Middoth 1:3) and to have been aligned with the Holy of Holies (Zeraim, Berachoth, 9:6). The East Gate was still to be seen in the Middle Ages. The fourteenth-century Jewish traveler Rabbi Estori 19 On the iconography and meanings of the three city vignettes, see Arad (note 15), pp. 61–63. 20 On the connection of the Jerusalem vignette in the Mantua Map and the depiction of messianic ­Jerusalem in the so-called Venice Haggadah from 1609, what has hitherto been thought of as the earliest manifestation, see Arad (note 15), pp. 61–63.

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ha-Parchi described both gates as he saw them when he visited the place, referring to the East Gate as being “still discernible” to the south of the Golden Gate (a description that appears to coincide with the depiction on Breydenbach’s Map).21 Although it became a rubbish dump over the centuries, the East Gate remained Jewishly significant. It was a tangible reminder of the destroyed Temple, and Jews over the centuries continued to go there to pray. Thus it might be that the emphasis on this gate on the Mantua Map was intended to express the mishnaic description and to encourage the Jewish observer to reflect on Jerusalem in its Jewish glory.22 In contrast to the Christian Holy Land map that pictures the land as a theater for the biblical episodes, the Mantua Map shows only two biblical events: the Exodus and the wanderings in the desert (through a sequence of eight representative figurative scenes and some Hebrew captions; Fig. 3, center)23 and the conquest of Canaan ­(symbolized by the twelve spies, who are imaged with a bunch of grapes below ­Jerusalem; Fig. 4). By focusing on these two events and on the borders of Canaan, this map produced a picture that manifested the covenant between God and the people of Israel (through the fulfillment of the promise and the Giving of the Law) and conveyed a message of salvation. This very message is encapsulated by the large menorah that occupies the map’s right-hand bottom corner (Fig. 3). Above the menorah is the text of Psalm 36:10: ‘With you is the fountain of life; by your light do we see light’ (‫ באורך נראה אור‬,‫)כי עמך מקור חיים‬. It appears that the connection between the menorah and Psalm 36:10 was not new, but had been made as early as in ‘Yalkut Shimoni’, a medieval midrashic anthology for the Bible.24 Regarding the prophet’s words to the city of Jerusalem (Isa. 60:1), “Arise, shine, for your light has dawned; the Presence of the Lord has shown upon you”, the ‘Yalkut’ comments:

21 Estori ha-Parchi, Caftor va-perach, ed. Abraham M. Lunz, vol. 1, Jerusalem 1897, p. 93 (in Hebrew). Here Estori ha-Parchi refers to the East Gate as “Shushan,” a term derived from the gate’s mishnaic description. 22 Jewish observers could recognize the gate on the basis of Jewish writings, such as Estori ­ha-Parchi’s Caftor va-perach, which was printed in Venice in 1549. On the significance of the East Gate for Jews, see Joseph Braslavi (Braslavski), A Topography of Jerusalem from the Cairo Genizah, in: Eretz-­ Israel 7 (1964), pp. 71–72 (in Hebrew). 23 The figurative scenes include: the Egyptians’ pursuit of the Israelites; the crossing of the Red Sea; the battle against the Amalekites; the giving of the Law; the miracle of the water; the Brazen Serpent; the passage of brook Zered; and the praises sung by the people of Israel at the end of the journey for being given water by God in the desert. The journey ends with the depiction of Moses on Mount Nebo, looking at the land in a kneeling orans posture. 24 The Yalkut is thought to have been compiled in the thirteenth century in Ashkenaz. It contains more than 10.000 midrashic statements, covering all the books in the Hebrew Bible. The whole Yalkut was printed in Venice in 1566; see Jacob Elbaum, Yalkut Shimoni, in: Encyclopaedia Judaica 21 (2007), pp. 275–276.

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Israel declared to the Holy One, Blessed be He: we made you a menorah in the time of Moses and again in the time of Solomon: both were extinguished and lost. From now on we await your light alone, as it is said: ‘With you is the fountain of life; by your light do we see light’, and thus said the Holy One, blessed be He: ‘Arise, shine, for your light has dawned’.25

This linking of the menorah, Psalm 36:10, and Isaiah’s prophecy is most telling, as here Isaiah not only predicts a flourishing future for Jerusalem, the Temple, and the people of Israel, but also encourages the expectation of a return to Zion.26 The expression in the ‘Yalkut’ – the expectation of returning to Zion and reviving worship in the Temple – seems to me to be the key to the association between the menorah and Psalm 36:10 on the Mantua Map and for understanding that map as a Jewish image. For Jews living in exile, the menorah has always been a symbol of the Temple that would be rebuilt in later days. Therefore, on a map showing the Exodus and the wanderings toward the Promised Land, the messianic message of the menorah was strengthened and the menorah itself endowed the topography with a typological meaning of redemption.27

Greek Orthodox Icons of the Holy Land Another translation of the biblical topography into an emblem of salvation can be found on what are known as proskynetaria (proskynetarion in sg.) – paintings of the Holy Land on relatively large textiles that were produced in Jerusalem during the Ottoman period to be sold as pilgrimage mementos to Greek Orthodox pilgrims (Fig.  5).28 The proskynetarion followed the traditional Christian map in orientation 25 ,‫ מכאן ואילך אין אנו ממתינין אלא לאורך‬,)‫ בימי שלמה וכבת(ה‬,‫ עשינו לך מנורה בימי משה וכבתה‬:‫כך אמרו ישראל לפני הקב“ה‬ ‫ קומי אורי כי בא אורך‬:‫ וכן אמר הקב“ה‬,‫ כי עמך מקור חיים באורך נראה אור‬:‫שנאמר‬. (Yalkut Simoni, Isaiah 60, par. 499, Responsa Project, Bar Ilan University, Ramat Gan). I am grateful to David Aberbach for translating the passage into English. 26 On Isaiah’s prophecy, see Yair Zakovitch, “Who Proclaims Peace, Who Brings Good Tidings.” Seven Visions of Jerusalem’s Peace, Haifa 2004, pp. 27–45, esp. pp. 27–38 (in Hebrew). 27 Worthy of note is that the depiction of the Exodus and the wanderings of the Israelites in a sequence of representative episodes became a significant motif of the sixteenth-century Christian maps of the Holy Land. This motif was conceived by Lucas Cranach the Elder while devising a map of the Holy Land to commemorate his patron’s pilgrimage to Jerusalem (Frederick III, the Elector of Saxony). Cranach’s map was the first Holy Land map that depicted the Exodus through a narrative pictorial depiction. It wound up as an illustration to Numbers in the Protestant Bible and had a great influence on the portrayal of the Exodus in later Holy Land maps. On Cranach’s map, see Arad, Frederick III’s Holy Land (note 10), pp. 228–231. On the Exodus on Protestant Bible maps (including Cranach’s map), see Catherine Delano-Smith/ Elizabeth Morley Ingram, Maps in Bibles, 1500–1600, Geneva 1991, pp. 25–36. For a detailed discussion on the Jewish message of the Mantua map, see Arad (note 15). 28 Oil(?) on canvas(?), 101 × 81  cm, preserved in the Monastery of St. Anthony in Egypt. On the genre and on the religious significance of the proskynetaria as icons of the Holy Land, see Pnina

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Fig. 5: Monastery of St. Anthony, Egypt, proskynetarion, painting on textile, 101 × 81 cm, 18th century. Photograph by Mat Immerzeel.

and in the emphasis accorded Jerusalem through a large vignette in the center. After centuries of use, this layout was well embedded in Christian cultural memory as reflecting the holy nature of the Holy Land and thus was a fitting representation of the land on a pilgrimage souvenir.29 As in the prototypic Holy Land map, the sanctity of the land is embodied through the association between place and event, yet here the events are symbolized in pictorial depictions. For instance, the baptism in the Jordan (top center), the nativity in Bethlehem (right), and both the crucifixion and the resurrection of Christ within the Holy Sepulcher, which, as in the sixth-­century Madaba Map, occupies the center of Jerusalem and composes a focal point of the entire ­composition. Yet, whereas Holy Land maps present the land as a theater of events from both Testaments, the proskynetaria focus on episodes from the life of Christ and thus turn topography into an emblem of his presence on earth or as a p ­ hysical ­reflection Arad, Landscape and Iconicity: Proskynetaria of the Holy Land from the Ottoman Period, in: The Art ­Bulletin 100:4 (2018), pp. 62–80. 29 For a concise observation on the types of pilgrimage mementos and their meanings as visual mimeses of holy places, see Jaś Elsner, Art and Pilgrimage, in: Elizabeth Jeffreys/ John Haldon/ Robin Cormack (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Byzantine Studies, Oxford 2008, pp. 741–749.

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Fig. 6: Monastery of the Holy Cross, Jerusalem, proskynetarion, oil or tempera on wood, 2.70 × 1.70 m, 1770. Photograph by Pnina Arad.

of the incarnation and the Passion of Christ.30 The most pronounced expression of such a transmission is found in a unique proskynetarion that was made in 1770 for the Monastery of the Holy Cross in Jerusalem (and is still kept there), where a large depiction of the crucifixion replaces the vignette of Jerusalem in the center (Fig. 6).31 This is a remarkable example of the way in which place and event are taken synonymously and of the way the landscape is translated into a cultural concept. The proskynetaria were produced on the basis of the traditional map of the Holy Land, but they spoke in a Byzantine language of icons. Not only the figurative depictions but the assemblage of events that they image is reminiscent of the Greek Orthodox dodekaorton – the collective icon of the twelve major feasts of the Greek Orthodox liturgical year. As it portrays the main events in the life of Christ and refers to the salvation of mankind through his incarnation, the dodekaorton assumes particular significance in Greek Orthodox thought and ritual.32 Traditionally, the scenes of the 30 For the identification of all episodes depicted in the proskynetarion and its religious transmission, see Arad (note 28). 31 The Monastery of the Holy Cross commemorates the place where the tree of Christ’s cross grew. It is portrayed here below the Hill of Golgotha (at the bottom), so it became an integral part of the Crucifixion scene and its meaning in the Christological narrative is highlighted. This proskynetarion is uniquely painted on a wooden panel; at some point it was carelessly sawed in a semioval form that measures 2.70 × 1.70 m. It is discussed in Arad (note 28). 32 In its canonical form since the eleventh century, the dodekaorton included the scenes of the ­Annunciation, the Nativity, the Baptism, the Transfiguration, the Raising of Lazarus, the Entry into

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dodekaorton were presented side by side, surrounded by frames, on icons that were displayed in churches or served individuals for private devotion. In the proskynetaria, in contrast, they were integrated into one multiepisodic narrative that takes place in the space of the Holy Land. It resulted in an innovative iconic image that inherently transmitted a message of salvation, but also emphasized the significance of the biblical land itself in that message.

Conclusion The few examples that I have discussed here suggest that maps of the Holy Land – or the Promised Land – were instruments with which both Christians and Jews conceptualized biblical topography in accordance with specific religious values. Specifically, whereas the Christian maps marked numerous biblical events and contemporary holy places in order to highlight a moral message and conceptualize holiness in territorial terms, the Jewish map focused on the wanderings of the Israelites as they traveled to Canaan and on the latter’s borders, thus emphasizing a territorial message through symbols of Jewish sovereignty. Through combinations of topographical features and religious symbols – such as the Temple, the crucifixion, or the menorah – the different maps constructed cultural landscapes that connected the past with the present and reinforced cultural identities.

Jerusalem, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection, the Ascension, the Pentecost, and the Koimesis (Christ’s lone return from Heaven to transport the Virgin’s soul after her death).

Part II: Use and Reception

Ingrid Baumgärtner

Winds and Continents: Concepts for Structuring the World and Its Parts Abstract: The present essay is an attempt to show how and why winds and geographic entities, originally referred to as the parts of the earth and only later as c­ ontinents, became important for the perception of the structure of the world. My starting point is Burchard of Mount Zion’s travel report ‘Descriptio terrae sanctae’, written between 1274 and 1285, which was based on these two concepts. Versions of that report, which circulated from the fourteenth to the sixteenth century, were adorned with various illustrations. I explore the ways in which these cultural concepts developed into wellknown cartographic and textual motifs by means of several examples from medieval cartography and travel literature. I also discuss how their meaning and forms of representation have changed. In order to do so, I first address the abstract ideas that appear in illustrated copies of travel reports such as Burchard’s ‘Descriptio’. I then analyse the correlation and development of the four- and threefold concepts of the world and examine the different wind systems with eight or twelve rays as structural elements of texts and images. Keywords: Burchard of Mount Zion, cartography, Holy Land, parts of the world, travel report, wind diagram, world maps In his travel report ‘Descriptio terrae sanctae’, written between July 1274 and May 1285, the Dominican Burchard of Mount Zion explained his method for a sensible ­systematic description of the Holy Land: Considering, however, how I might usefully describe these things, so that they might be easily understood by my readers in their imagination, I thought of defining a central point among them and of setting out all land around it in due measure. And for this centre I have chosen the city of Acre, as it is better known than other places. However, it is not located in the centre but at its western border on the sea. From it I have drawn four lines corresponding to the four parts of the world and each quarter I have divided into three, so that those twelve divisions might correspond to the twelve winds of heaven; and in each division I have placed the cities and places mentioned more especially in scripture, so that the location and disposition of individual places might more easily be found, and the part of the world in which they lie.1

1 Denys Pringle (ed.), Pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Holy Land, 1187–1291 (Crusade Texts in Translation 23), Farnham 2012, pp. 241–320, here pp. 242–243; Latin edition: Burchard de Monte Sion, ­Descriptio terrae sanctae, in: Johann C. M. Laurent (ed.), Peregrinatores medii aevi quatuor, Leipzig Ingrid Baumgärtner, Mittelalterliche Geschichte, FB 05 – Gesellschaftswissenschaften, Universität Kassel, Nora Platiel-Str. 1, D-34127, Kassel; [email protected]. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-005

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The figure that Burchard used as a reference was a circle around the city of Acre, the last Crusader bastion until its fall in 1291 and the starting point for his exploration. The circle was divided into four quarters, each segmented into three subdivisions, which resulted in the twelve principal winds of Pliny’s system with its eight secondary winds distributed in pairs among the four cardinal directions.2 This structure formed the basis for Burchard’s text and for the location and disposition of the various sites within its description. This division of the world into four parts and twelve winds was widely accepted and commonly understood during the Middle Ages. Isidore of Seville, whose ‘Etymologiae’ (13, 11, 2–14) and ‘De natura rerum’ (37, 1–4) relayed the ancient knowledge to a wider public, was among its early medieval proponents. Based on these preliminary observations, the simple but far from trivial questions addressed in this essay are how and why phenomena such as winds, the parts of the earth, and later continents became so important – at least in the Latin Middle Ages – for the medieval perception of the world and its diagrammatic visualization. A discussion of different examples from medieval cartography and travel literature illuminates the process through which such cultural concepts were developed and used in cartographic and textual works. The analysis considers a representative selection of sources, in particular copies of popular encyclopedic works by authors such as Isidore, as well as chronicles and world maps of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The notion of structural elements can thus be studied in a broader context. How their meaning was established, how it transformed, and how forms of representation and different cultural conventions affected the production and interpretation of cartographic images becomes more apparent. Clearly, geographers and cartographers had to invent ‘instruments’ in order to make the underlying invisible configuration of the world visible, whereby concepts that referred to invisible or intangible phenomena became structural constituents of the visualization. In the following, the abstract thinking in such travel reports as ‘Descriptio terrae sanctae’ is addressed first; second the correlation between the four cardinal directions and a tripartite earth is discussed; and third, the function of four, eight, and twelve winds as structural elements of cartographic perception is examined. A summary of 1873, pp. 11–94, here p. 21: Advertens autem, quomodo possem hec utiliter decribere, ita ut possent a legentibus imaginatione facili comprehendi, cogitavi centrum aliquod in ea ponere et circa illud totam terram modo debito ordinare. Et ad hoc elegi civitatem Achonensem, tanquam plus aliis notam. Que tamen non est in medio, sed in occidentali eius fine supra mare sita. Et ab ipsa protraxi quatuor lineas, quatuor mundi partibus respondentes, et quamlibet quartam divisi in tria, ut responderent duodecim divisiones iste duodecim ventis celi, et in singulis divisionibus posui civitates et loca in scripturis magis nota, ut singulorum locorum situs et dispositio posset de facili reperiri ad quam partem mundi esset collocata. First English translation: Aubrey Stewart, Burchard of Mt. Sion: Description of the Holy Land (Literary of the Palestine Pilgrims’ Text Society), London 1896, repr. New York 1971, here pp. 4–5. 2 C. Plinius Secundus, Naturalis Historiae Libri XXXVII, Lib. II, 119, described Homer’s original classification into four winds, which was expanded to the wind rose with twelve points by the Greek philosopher Poseidonios.

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the results in comparison with an alternative system of organization concludes the observations.

Travel Reports and Cartographic Abstraction – A Case Study Burchard of Mount Zion gave the world and specifically the region covered on his voyage a well-defined structure when he recorded his experiences during or after several years spent in the Holy Land.3 In revealing his knowledge concerning the fortified cities and Crusader fortresses, landscapes, holy places and religions, plants, animals, and inhabitants, he took into account not only the regional borders and frontiers between local powers but also the traditional classification systems: the division of the known world in quarters and the demarcation of twelve winds. In this way, he created a relationship between the physical land and an abstract division, that is, between the visible earth and the invisible winds. He also claimed to have observed everything that he conveyed to his readers and to have recorded nothing that he did not see with his own eyes. Of course, the wind directions could hardly be seen – at best they could be felt – but they were present in the readers’ minds. In this form, they became fundamental components of a geographic and cartographic model, which was then completed by additional elements within his account. The whole organization of the report was arranged to allow readers to imagine the spaces and to relive the travel experiences, which was why Burchard divided the land and sea around the city of Acre into twelve sectors and enriched this structure with accounts of physical distances and specific places. Burchard’s text enjoyed enormous success in the Late Middle Ages. Approximately 100 medieval and early modern manuscripts of the work have survived as have some early prints. Even more important is the fact that some of the later copies and printed

3 On Burchard and his travel report, see Aryeh Graboïs, Christian Pilgrims in the Thirteenth Century and the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem: Burchard of Mount Sion, in: Outremer. Studies presented to Joshua Prawer, Jerusalem 1982, pp. 285–296; Paul D. A. Harvey, Medieval Maps of the Holy Land, London 2012, pp. 94–106; Ingrid Baumgärtner, Reiseberichte, Karten und Diagramme. Burchard von Monte Sion und das Heilige Land, in: Steffen Patzold/ Anja Rathmann-Lutz/ Volker Scior (eds.), Geschichtsvorstellungen. Bilder, Texte und Begriffe aus dem Mittelalter. Festschrift für Hans-Werner Goetz zum 65. Geburtstag, Wien, Köln, Weimar 2012, pp. 460–507; Ingrid Baumgärtner, Burchard of Mount Sion and the Holy Land, in: Peregrinations. Journal of Medieval Art & Architecture 4,1: Special issue “Mapping”, eds. Asa Simon Mittman/ Dan Terkla (Spring 2013), pp. 5–42; Ekkehart Rotter, Windrose statt Landkarte. Die geografische Systematisierung des Heiligen Landes und ihre ­Visualisierung durch Burchardus de Monte Sion um 1285, in: Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 69, 1 (2013), S. 45–106, who used data, digital copies of manuscripts, transcriptions, and literature provided by a research project at Kassel University; Jonathan Rubin, Burchard of Mount Sion’s Descriptio Terrae Sanctae: A Newly Discovered Extended Version, in: Crusades 13 (2014), pp. 173–190.

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editions illustrate the travel narrative with a range of pictures and cartographic representations, including a city plan of Jerusalem, regional maps of ­Palestine and the Near East,4 and wind diagrams of the eastern Mediterranean,5 as well as a T-O schema of the world.6 This broad range demonstrates how textual and pictorial systems of recording worked together to create, systematize, and contextualize knowledge; how information was transferred from textual descriptions to diagrams and maps; and which practices were implemented to store, order, and transmit knowledge. In the following, I focus on the T-O and the wind schemata because both principles are mentioned explicitly in Burchard’s prologue as ways that he structured his text. To explain his approach, Burchard’s travelogue starts with the short statement, “I have drawn four lines corresponding to the four parts of the world”.7 Pictorial representations of this concept are still preserved in several hundred medieval manuscripts. An interesting T-O schema, sketched with a quill (Fig. 1),8 can be found in a Munich codex. It was inserted in a series of ‘Descriptio’ excerpts and accompanied by a fragment of the historiographic treatise ‘De bellis sacris’, which includes historical notes on the occupation and destruction of Jerusalem from biblical times until the Islamic conquest.9 The diagram’s inner lines divide a circular world into two equal parts on which three continents are superimposed. At the top, Asia encompasses a spacious semicircle, whereas below Europe and Africa are each limited to one quarter. There 4 Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Plut. 76.56, fol. 97v–98r; Hamburg, Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek, Cod. geogr. 59, pp. 70–71. 5 London, British Library, Add. Ms. 18929, fol. 1r–50v (c. 1380–1420, long version), fol. 51r with a wind diagram; Berlin, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Handschriftenabteilung, Ms. lat. oct. 293, fol. 1*v (14th/15th century, long version); Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 569, fol. 184r–210v (15th century, short version), fol. 186v with a wind diagram; Hamburg, Staats- und ­Universitätsbibliothek, Cod. geogr. 59, pp. 10–69 (16th century, long version), p. 13 with a wind diagram. For late medieval cosmologic diagrams in general see inter alia Katrin Müller, Visuelle Weltaneignung. Astronomische und kosmologische Diagramme in Handschriften des Mittelalters (Historische Semantik 11), Göttingen 2008; Eckart Conrad Lutz/ Vera Jerjen/ Christine Putz (eds.), Diagramm und Text. Diagrammatische Strukturen und die Dynamisierung von Wissen und Erfahrung (Überstorfer Colloquium 2012), Wiesbaden 2014; Henrike Haug/ Christina Lechtermann/ Anja ­Rathmann-Lutz, Diagramme im Gebrauch (Das Mittelalter. Perspektiven mediävistischer Forschung 22,2), Berlin, B ­ oston 2017. 6 Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 14583, fol. 454r–488v, here fol. 471v (15th century). 7 Pringle (note 1), p. 243; Burchard de Monte Sion, ed. Laurent (note 1), p. 21: Et ab ipsa protraxi quatuor lineas, quatuor mundi partibus respondentes. 8 Munich, BSB, Clm 14583, fol. 454r–488v, here fol. 471v; cf. the d ­ igital reproduction and the description of the manuscript by Julia Knödler, München, Bayerische S ­ taatsbibliothek, Katalog der Handschriften aus dem Benediktinerkloster St. Emmeram in ­Regensburg, since 2012 ­researchable on http:// www.manuscripta-mediaevalia.de/info/projectinfo/muenchen-­emmeram.html. 9 On this text cf. Heinrich Canisius/ Jacques Basnage de Beauval (ed.), Thesaurus Monumentorum Ecclesiasticorum, tom. 4, Antwerpen 1725, pp. 426–446, here pp. 439–440, extant in many v ­ ersions; cf. Michele Campopiano, Tradizione e edizione di una compilazione di testi sulla Terra Santa proveniente dal convento francescano del Monte Sion (fine del XIV secolo), in: Revue d’histoire des textes 6 (2011), pp. 329–359, here pp. 336, 338, 359 no. 8.

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Fig. 1: T-O schema; Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 14583, fol. 471v; 15th century. By permission of the Bayerische Staatsbiliothek München.

is a certain tension between the four quarters as a geometrical division and the three parts of the earth, which were later equated with the continents. Each of the latter was attributed to one of Noah’s sons. The diagram filled the continents with words, which included topographical terms from the Bible and the region’s g ­ eography as well as

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the Noachide names.10 The most important achievements of their descendants were recorded as well: Nimrod from the tribe of Ham is portrayed as the first king and initiator of the Tower of Babel and Japheth is depicted as the progenitor of the Israelites.11 Such T-O schemata were common not only in encyclopedic treatises and descriptions of the world but also in geographical texts and compilations about the Holy Land, such as those by Burchard, Johannes Poloner, and the anonymous author of ‘De bellis sacris’, as exemplified by the present example, and the many creators of a wide range of fragments, excerpts, and other literary works.12 The prologue in Burchard’s report on the Holy Land continues by elucidating the world’s segmentation: “each quarter I have divided into three, so that those twelve divisions might correspond to the twelve winds of heaven; and in each division I have placed the cities and places mentioned more especially in scripture.”13 His chapters follow these divisions in accordance with the twelve principal winds, also taking the political importance of the Crusader city Acre in the center into account. From there, the routes extend across Palestine, Syria, and Lebanon, all the way to Lesser Armenia in the north and Egypt in the south. Seven out of the sectors surrounding coastal Acre cover land and five cover water. Colored chapter headings such as those in the manuscript in Padua14 order the expansive fan-shaped arrangement. The text describes the system of sectors from Syria in the north to the coastal areas in the south. The first four (prima, secunda, tercia, and quarta divisio) are f­ollowed 10 On this kind of map with a chorographical text, called ‘list map’ or ‘Listenkarte’, see Evelyn Edson, Mapping Time and Space. How Medieval Mapmakers Viewed Their World, London 1997, S. 5–6; ­Bettina Schöller, Wissen speichern, Wissen ordnen, Wissen übertragen. Schriftliche und bildliche Aufzeichnungen der Welt im Umfeld der Londoner Psalterkarte (Medienwandel – M ­ edienwechsel – Medienwissen 32), Zürich 2015, pp. 70–75, 186–195. 11 Munich, BSB, Clm 14583, fol. 471v: Licia Persida Pamphilia Tarsis Pontus et Ponticum mare Ephesum mirca in Asia sunt quam unus ex filiis Noe scilicet Kaam [sic] obtinuit et possedit qui genuit Nemrot primum regem et fundatorem turris Babilonis. | Magna Karthago Yppona Libia mare Libicum in Affrica sunt, filius Noe secundus Seth [sic] possedit. | Tercius filius Noe scilicet Japhed ex quo populus Israel generatus est possedit Europam. The schema is not edited and follows the manuscript in Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Bibliothek, Cod. Guelf. 354 Helmst., f. 290vb of which we have the description by Bertram Lesser (http://diglib.hab.de/?db=mss&list=ms&id=354-helmst&catalog=Lesser). In both manuscripts, the T-O schema is accompanied by an excerpt from Honorius Augustodunensis’ ‘Imago mundi’, lib. 3 (PL 172, p. 166), probably written by Johannes Poloner for his text ‘De filiis Noe et de divisione mundi’ (Melchisedech vixit DC annis huius tempore …). This part of Poloner’s work is not edited. 12 The copy of Poloner’s report in Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Bibliothek, Cod. Guelf. 354 Helmst., f. 290 is close to Munich, BSB, Clm 721, 70v–86r (written 1454–1457), which also contains a schematic world map in the T-O format and a simple pictorial representation of the Church of the Holy ­Sepulcher in Jerusalem; cf. Andres Betschart, Zwischen zwei Welten. Illustrationen und Berichte westeuropäischer Jerusalemreisender, Würzburg 1996 (Würzburger Beiträge zur deutschen Philologie 15), p. 268 no. 5. 13 Pringle (note 1), p. 243; Burchard de Monte Sion, ed. Laurent (note 1), p. 21: et quamlibet quartam divisi in tria, ut responderent duodecim divisiones iste duodecim ventis celi. 14 Cf., for instance, Padua, Biblioteca Antica del Seminario Vescovile, Cod. 74.

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by two densely populated sectors in the eastern quarter (secunda and tercia divisio quarte orientalis), with an additional section on Jerusalem and its surroundings, and lastly the southern sector (prima divisio quarte australis) with its coastal towns. The concluding three chapters provide an overview of the Holy Land’s size and its tribes, the crops and animals of the earth that was blessed with fertility, as well as the religions and customs of the region. This structure carries out what was suggested in the long version of the preface (prologus) of the ‘Descriptio’, cited above.15 The division of the world into four parts and twelve wind directions informs the text’s construction, and that also becomes apparent in the graphic depictions. Of late, it has been assumed that the regional diagrams in the ‘Descriptio’ manuscripts now in London, Munich, and Hamburg16 were meant to illustrate the travel account’s internal organization; the manuscript in Berlin, former Hildesheim, includes a diagram showing twelve winds, named in Latin and German, but does not connect them to the region of the Holy Land.17 However, the different modes of visualization have never been studied carefully. Without doubt, these cartographic schemata present highly abstract images. The text follows principal roads, whereas the illustrations employ the straight lines of the wind directions to conceptualize the world as divided into terrestrial and maritime units. Burchard utilized the wind rose for his text as did later copyists for their illustrations exclusively in regard to dry land, even though contemporary sea charts usually associated these devices with the sea. Burchard’s description concentrated on the Holy Land and its surroundings so it reaches only as far as the coastline of the Mediterranean, not beyond.18 The division into four parts – like the four parts of the world and the four principal winds – was the way in which to provide readers with a reliable orientation, regardless of their own location and education. Burchard opened his description with

15 Laurent (note 1), pp. 19–21, esp. 21; Pringle (note 1), pp. 241–243, esp. 243; Stewart (note 1), pp. 1–5, esp. 4–5. 16 London, British Library, Add. Ms. 18929, fol. 51r; Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 569, fol. 186v; Hamburg, Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek, Cod. geogr. 59, p. 13. 17 Berlin, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Handschriftenabteilung Ms. lat. oct. 293 (olim Hildesheim, Bibliothek des bischöflichen Gymnasium Josephinum, Nr. 17*), fol. 1*v. I am grateful to Jonathan Rubin and Michael Schonhardt for bringing this manuscript to my attention. Cf. Joseph Godehard Müller, Nachrichten über die Bibliothek des Gymnasii Josephini und die auf derselben vorhandenen Handschriften und alten Drucke, Hildesheim 1876, S. 6–7; Bettina Wagner, Die ‘Epistola presbitri Johannis’ lateinisch und deutsch. Überlieferung, Textgeschichte, Rezeption und Übertragungen im Mittelalter, mit bisher unedierten Texten (Münchner Texte und Untersuchungen zur deutschen Literatur des Mittelalters 115), Tübingen 2000, S. 47–48. Rotter (note 3), S. 84 wrongly states that the manuscript was lost. 18 Emmanuelle Vagnon-Chureau, Mesurer la Terre sainte. Mesures de l’espace et cartographie de l’Orient latin, du IXe au XVe siècle, in: Mesure et histoire médiévale, XLIIIe Congrès de la SHMESP, Paris 2013, pp. 293–309, esp. p. 301.

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the shoreline of the Mediterranean south of Acre, which was the most important area for pilgrims, as that was the place where they usually arrived: Let it be known first of all, as has been said above, that I have divided the Holy Land into four parts, corresponding to the four quarters of heaven, that is to say the eastern, western, southern and northern, notwithstanding that the whole of the western division faces the Great Sea as do those parts of the southern and northern divisions that adjoin the western. I shall begin first of all by proceeding in a straight line south from the city of Acre, which in antiquity was called Ptolomaïs, passing by the cities and places that are located on the shore of the Great Sea.19

Emmanuelle Vagnon points out that the expression “the four quarters of heaven” (quatuor plagis celi) relates to the terminology of scholarly astronomy, which – following Aristotle – became part of Dominican university education.20 This quartering as an academic model caused Burchard to implement the encyclopedic and Christian tradition of dividing the space into twelve parts that stood in contrast to the practical concepts of the eight or sixteen wind directions used by sailors. Burchard related his four-twelve construction to biblical themes that pertain to the structure of the Holy Land. The twelve tribes of Israel, which shaped not only biblical history but also the text’s composition, seem to have been especially important: It should be known first of all that one part of the land that we call the Holy Land, which fell to the lot of the twelve tribes of Israel, was called the kingdom of Judah and contained two tribes, Judah and Benjamin. The other part was called the kingdom of Samaria, that is to say of the city that is now called Sebaste and was the capital of the ten remaining tribes, which were called Israel.21

The numbers four and twelve harmonize with Dominican preferences that became visible on different levels in regard to the quartering of the whole world and the number twelve as a territorial classification associated with the biblical tribes and the regions evangelized by the apostles.

19 Pringle (note 1), p. 245; cf. Laurent (note 1), p. 23: Sciendum igitur primo, sicut supra dictum est, quod terram sanctam in quatuor partes diuisi, que partes respondent quatuor plagis celi, scilicet orienti, occidenti, meridiei et septentrionali, licet pars tota occidentalis respiciat mare magnum, et austri et aquilonis similiter partes ille, que sunt collaterales occidentali. Incipiam primo a directa linea, a ciuitate acconensi, que antiquitus Ptolomayda dicebatur, uersus aquilonem procedendo propre ciuitates et loca, que sunt in littore magni maris sita. 20 Vagnon-Chureau (note 18), p. 301; on the different types of wind roses cf. Patrick Gautier ­Dalché, Pere Marsili, une carte majorquine (1313) et l’ardua controversia des vents, in: Itineraria 5 (2006), pp. 153–169. 21 Pringle (note 1), p. 243; cf. Stewart (note 1), p. 5; Laurent (note 1), p. 21: Sciendum autem est in principio, quod terra ista, quam sanctam dicimus, que cecidit in sortem duodecim tribuum Israel, pro parte aliqua dicebatur regnum Iuda, que erat duarum tribuum, scilicet Iude et Beniamin; pro parte ­altera dicebatur regnum Samarie, ciuitatis scilicet, que nunc Sebaste dicitur et erat caput decem tribuum reliquarum, que Israel dicebantur.

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However, not all of the wind diagrams in manuscripts with the ‘Descriptio terrae sanctae’ follow Burchard’s concept in every detail, and, surprisingly, there are slight differences in regard to important elements. In a Munich manuscript (Fig. 2), a later scribe or illuminator transformed Burchard’s original design into a wind diagram oriented to the north.22 It shows the seaport of Acre on the Mediterranean coast as a heavily fortified triangle with nine steepled city gates, the three largest dominating the corners of the walls. Twelve sectors of land and water are separated by double lines: whereas the seven on land are labeled, the five on water are not. All lines emanate from the town’s center and lead to individual wind names outside the circle: septentrio is in the north, aquilo in the north-northeast, vulturnus in the east-­northeast, oriens in the east, euroauster in the east-southeast is not named; next are eurus in the south-southeast, nothus in the south, auster in the south-southwest, africus in the west-southwest, zephirus in the west, circius in the west-northwest, and chorus in the north-northwest.23 Each of the seven land sectors is accompanied by an explicit reference to a biblical or political location. The inscriptions along the double lines refer (from north to south) to the coastal town of Tyre, the Montfort and Château du Roi (castrum regium) castles of the Teutonic order, the Templar Castle Sephet (present-day Safed), Cana of Galilee, Mount Carmel, and Haifa on the southern coast.24 Each locale stands for one of the seven districts with all of its various sites, which are portrayed in the respective chapter. Despite the twelve double lines, only eight wind heads are blowing from the outer circle: these are the four principal winds, which alternate with four secondary winds. In this depiction, a certain tension arises between twelve and eight, that is, between the scholarly and the nautical wind systems and between their connotations and the different structures they impose. The innovative red and turquoise image incorporates not only numbers and their meaning but also various secular and religious concepts. The coastline accentuates the eastern orientation of the Holy Land, Acre’s triangular form in the center evokes the Holy Trinity as a sign of the Christian

22 Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 569, fol. 184r–210v (short version), here fol. 186v. The city’s triangular form in the different versions of Burchard’s report relates to the words habens formam ut clypeus; cf. Rotter (note 3), pp. 79–80 fn. 108. Jeffrey F. Hamburger, Haec figura demonstrat. ­Diagramme in einem Pariser Exemplar von Lothars von Segni ‘De missarum mysteriis’ aus dem frühen 13. Jahrhundert (Wolfgang Stammler Gastprofessor für Germanische Philologie. Vorträge 20), Berlin et al. 2013, demonstrated that diagrams were rarely a consistent part of a text and instead represented an additional means of expression. He showed as well that they were often different in the various manuscripts and thus provided new interpretations of the text. 23 Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 569, fol. 186v; cf. Harvey (note 3), p. 95 fn. 13; Baumgärtner, Reiseberichte (note 3), pp. 475; Baumgärtner, Burchard (note 3), pp. 19–22; Rotter (note 3), pp. 78–82. 24 Rotter (note 3), pp. 80–81, with a transcription and interpretation of these short texts along the double lines.

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Fig. 2: Wind diagram; Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 569, fol. 186v; 15th century. By permission of the Bayerische Staatsbiliothek München.

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faith, and the world’s circle encompasses the expansive missionary activities of the apostles in accordance with the twelve winds. The eight wind heads might refer to the practical application and usefulness of wind directions. The location of Acre also defines the layout of the second known wind diagram in a copy of Burchard’s report that was probably written around 1380–1420 in Germany, formerly belonged to the Monastery of Saint Peter in Erfurt and is now in London (Fig. 3).25 The port city seems to be indicated by a double-lined semicircle in the middle of the textladen diagram, which is oriented to the south and focuses mainly on the area east of the shoreline. The lines of seven winds, labeled in red, divide the territory into six sections: septentrio blows from the north at the bottom, boreas from the north-northeast, wulturnus (volturnus later on) from the east-northeast, oriens from the east, eurus from the east-southeast, euroauster from the south-southeast, and auster from the south.26 The seven lines of the winds or sectors distinguish six territories of different sizes, whose inscriptions list locations and regions (most of them not in the text of the ‘Descriptio’) in a seemingly uniform manner. The six zones, however, do not correspond to the seven sections of Burchard’s text. It is obvious that the illustrator had a twelve-wind schema in mind, which he considered an efficient illustration of the relevant geography. But the semicircle’s six parts are unequal and their lines do not all pass through the diagram’s center point. The coastline that runs from the south to the north and the eastwest intersecting line that meets it at the coast do not connect to the midpoint of the circle as marked by a pair of compasses. The correlation with the quarters of the earth is no longer recognizable. Thus it seems as if the twelve-wind pattern had become an independent model. In a later manuscript now in Hamburg, an east-oriented semicircle was sketched in the lower margin (Fig. 4).27 The drawing was apparently not produced by the text’s scribe, but by a later reader. At first glance, there seems to be hardly any order at all. Various names of Crusader castles and other places, fanning out around Acre, have been crossed out. The inscriptions surrounding the semicircle indicate the cardinal directions and winds, namely north (aquilo), northeast (volturnus), east (oriens), southeast (nothus), and south (auster). The east-southeast wind (ventus ost sut ost), at the top right, was presumably not part of the system as indicated by its name, a mixture of Latin and German, and its irregular position compared to the other winds.

25 London, BL, Add. Ms. 18929, fol. 1r–50v (long version), fol. 51r with the wind diagram; Harvey (note 3), pp. 95–96; Baumgärtner, Reiseberichte (note 3), p. 475; Baumgärtner, Burchard (note 3), pp. 21–22; Rotter (note 3), pp. 84–85; Rubin (note 3), pp. 173–182. 26 Rotter (note 3), pp. 85–86 fn. 132 with full transcriptions. 27 Hamburg, Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek, Cod. geogr. 59, p. 13; Reinhold Röhricht, ­Marino Sanudo sen. als Kartograph Palästinas, in: Zeitschrift des deutschen Palästinavereins 14 (1990), pp. 84–126, esp. p. 93 fn. 1; Harvey (note 3), pp. 95–96 with illustration; Baumgärtner, Reiseberichte (note 3), pp. 475–476; Baumgärtner, Burchard (note 3), p. 22. However, Rotter (note 3), pp. 86–90, judged the diagram to be incorrect (“fehlerhaft”) without consideration for the illustrator’s intentions.

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Fig. 3: Wind diagram; London, British Library, Add. Ms. 18929, fol. 51r; c. 1380–1420. © British Library Board.

To the left and right of the schema, there are calculations of distances taken from the text that describe the length and breadth of the Holy Land.28 In contrast to the 28 Hamburg, Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek, Cod. geogr. 59, p. 13; cf. Baumgärtner, Reisebe­ richte (note 3), p. 476; Baumgärtner, Burchard (note 3), p. 22; Rotter (note 3), p. 87 with slightly different readings.

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Fig. 4: Wind diagram; Hamburg, Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek, Cod. geogr. 59, p. 13; 16th century. By permission of the Staats- und Universitätsbiliothek Hamburg.

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labels, which follow Burchard’s account at least to some extent, the pictorial elements seem to implement their creator’s idea of an eight-wind classification rather than the travelogue’s original system of twelve winds.29 It is obvious that the illustrator’s mental image was not in line with Burchard’s concept, so he encountered difficulty in combining the two different wind systems. Interestingly, two additional wind roses with eight radial lines are pictured on a map of the Holy Land at the end of the ­manuscript.30 The images, which emphasize Acre and Jerusalem, were created in the sixteenth century, perhaps at the same time as the aforementioned sketch in this copy of Burchard’s report.31 It is even possible that all three visualizations originated in the same context. To summarize some preliminary results: the graphical illustrations of the text’s content are not uniform but relate to specifics of its dissemination from the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries. The surviving diagrams show a particular tension between the world’s division into four parts and into eight or twelve wind directions. This exemplifies the prevalent mode of cartographical thinking and emphasizes the importance of a reader’s or beholder’s imagination in the Middle Ages. Not only were geographical schemata organized in accordance with traditional geometric concepts, but they also pictured the world or parts of the world relying on their creators’ memories. The ideas of Greek and Roman philosophers, geographers, and sages were often adopted. Antique concepts that structured the world included, for example, the four quarters or corners of the world, the tripartite division of landmasses, the eight or twelve wind directions, and five or seven climatic zones, which determined the earth’s habitable regions. Both of the described principles, the four parts of the world and the classifications according to winds, should be considered in a broader context.

The Four Parts of the World and the Tripartite Order of the Continents Since the phenomenal world as well as the cosmos were (and are) only partially visible to the naked eye, different methods have been invented to systematize the perception of the world in its entirety, in accordance with the laws of nature and the framework of

29 Rotter (note 3), p. 89, contends incorrectly that in regard to the ‘Descriptio’ (and therefore the Munich wind rose), the artist of the wind rose sketch misconstrued several fundamental points. (“Der Zeichner der Windrosenskizze geht in Relation zur Descriptio (und somit zur Münchner Windrose) in grundlegenden Punkten fehl.”) 30 Hamburg, Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek, Cod. geogr. 59, pp. 70–71. 31 Rotter (note 3), p. 87 wrongly states that both of the wind roses on the map can be disregarded because their circles have only eight radial lines. (“Diese beiden Windrosen auf der Karte können hier außer Betracht bleiben. Sie haben in der ganzen Kreisfläche nur acht Radien”.)

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space and time. The continents are among the most common and widespread classifications of geography in the modern world. Their large physical landmasses seem to be natural entities. It is, however, important to be aware that continents are an artificial construct, which often includes simplistic notions of their role in a meta-geography.32 Just like the landmasses and their contours, which are in constant motion, geographic models and criteria evolved throughout history owing to changing cultural concepts. Transformations of the collective consciousness pertained to the global scale as well as to borders between known continents. From the beginning, the fact that Europe, Asia, and Africa are part of one contiguous landmass raised the question as to how and where a border should be drawn and which parts of the earth belonged to which side. The emergent dispute was influenced by ancient Greek divisions of the inhabited world into either two or three parts.33 If and how the world should be subdivided was a matter of controversy in which a hierarchy of the three continents had not yet been discussed. The historian Herodotus of ­Halicarnassus championed the trisection of the world introduced by the ethnographer Hecataeus of Miletus, which contradicted the bipartite system of Asia and Europe that circulated at the same time. Both approaches were conceived from a Greek perspective, that is, from the edge of Europe in close vicinity to Asia. Yet, they differed in their assessment of Libya, which represented Africa. ­According to one ­viewpoint, its smaller size and aridity disqualified it as an independent unit. ­Conversely, ­Herodotus, who was fully aware that every division in itself was a ­ rtificial and almost ­paradoxical in light of the contiguous landmasses, disputed at length about where the physical (not political or cultural) border should be drawn if Europe and Africa were to be divided.34 He did not accept the geometrical division along the Nile and argued instead for a united Egypt on both sides of the river, which formed an entity based on the empirical cartography informed by travel and practical e­ xperience. The twofold and the threefold models existed side by side for a long time. C ­ enturies later, the geographer and historian Strabo continued to criticize the Greeks for placing their own country at the geographical center without considering the whole inhabited earth. However, he accepted the tripartite world and suggested the Red Sea instead 32 Martin W. Lewis/ Kären E. Wigen, The Myth of Continents. A Critique of Metageography, Berkeley 1997, repr. 2003. This approach was discussed and expanded during an interdisciplinary workshop on ‘Mapping Continents in the Premodern World’, organized by Christoph Mauntel and Klaus O ­ schema on November 28, 2014 in Heidelberg; the result will be published in an article by Jean-Charles Ducène, Martin Hofmann, Christoph Mauntel, and Klaus Oschema. 33 Ingrid Baumgärtner, Europa in der Kartographie des Mittelalters. Repräsentationen – Grenzen – Paradigmen, in: Ingrid Baumgärtner/ Hartmut Kugler (eds.), Europa im Weltbild des Mittelalters. Kartographische Konzepte (Orbis mediaevalis 10), Berlin 2008, pp. 9–28, esp. pp. 11–17; Klaus Oschema, Bilder von Europa im Mittelalter (Mittelalter-Forschungen 43), Ostfildern 2013, pp. 88–96. 34 Herodot, Historien, IV, 42, 1–4 and 45,1–5; cf. Klaus M. Girardet, Kontinente und ihre Grenzen in der griechisch-römischen Antike, in: Sabine Penth et al. (eds.), Europas Grenzen (Limites 1), St. Ingbert 2006, pp. 19–65, esp. pp. 37–39.

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of the Nile as Africa’s boundary.35 Pliny the Elder discussed the issue as well. In his widely read ‘Naturalis historia’, which served as an encyclopedic source for many medieval authors, he formulated the oft-cited sentence Terrarum orbis universus in tres dividitur partes: Europam, Asiam, Africam, followed by information about the rivers Phasis or Tanais (Don) and the Nile as boundaries.36 The most crucial aspect of further developments was how this argument related to the ideas of Western Christianity. At the beginning of the fifth century, the Church Fathers Jerome and Augustine and the Christian historiographer Paulus Orosius attempted to reconcile the different notions. In his ‘De civitate Dei’, written around 413–426, Augustine distinguished the province of Asia from what was called Asia as a part of the tripartite earth and suggested that half of world should be conceded to Asia and that Europe and Africa were to share the other half.37 With this argument, a mode of thought emerged that had serious consequences. In his universal history, Orosius, one of Augustine’s students, agreed with his teacher’s reasoning when he offered an apologetic defense of Christianity.38 Moreover, Jerome, who wrote numerous c­ ommentaries 35 Strabo, Geography, Book I, 4, 7–8; Stefan Radt (ed.), Strabons Geographika, 10 vols., Göttingen 2002–2011, vol. 1: Prolegomena. Buch I–IV: Text und Übersetzung, Göttingen 2002, p. 162–167; Hans C. Hamilton/ William Falconer (eds.), The Geography of Strabo, vol. 1, London 1854, p. 102. 36 C. Plinius Secundus, Naturalis historiae libri XXXVII, ed. Carolus Mayhoff (Bibliotheca scriptorum Graecorum et romanorum Teubneriana), Leipzig 1887, repr. Stuttgart 1906 and 1967, 5 vols., III 1,3; C. Plinius Secundus, Naturalis historiae libri XXXVII, ed. Roderich König in Zusammenarbeit mit Gerhard Winkler, 2. Aufl., Munich, Zürich 2002, III 1,3. 37 Augustinus, De civitate Dei, XVI, 17: Asiam nunc dico non illam partem quae huius maioris Asiae una provincia est, sed eam quae universa Asia nuncupatur, quam quidam in altera duarum, plerique autem in tertia totius orbis parte posuerunt, ut sint omnes Asia, Europa et Africa; quod non aequali divisione fecerunt. Namque ista quae Asia nuncupatur a meridie per orientem usque ad septentionem pervenit; Europa vero a septentrione usque ad occidentem, atque inde Africa ab occidente usque ad meridiem. Unde videntur orbem dimidium duae tenere, Europa et Africa, alium vero dimidium sola Asia. Sed ideo illae duae partes factae sunt quia inter utramque ab Oceano ingreditur quidquid aquarum terras interluit; et hoc mare magnum nobis facit. Quapropter si in duas partes orbem dividas, Orientis et Occidentis, Asia erit in una, in altera vero Europa et Africa. Saint Augustine, The City of God against the pagans in seven volumes, transl. Eva Matthews Sanford and William McAllen Green (The Loeb Classical Library), 2. Aufl., Cambridge/ MA, London 1988, vol. 5, pp. 92–93: “Now by Asia I do not mean that portion which is only a province of greater Asia, but what we call the whole of Asia, which certain men have counted as one of the two divisions of the world, while the majority make it one of three parts of the whole, Asia, Europe and Africa. This division is not an equal one. For the part called Asia stretches from the south eastward to the north; Europe from the north to the west, and Africa, adjoining it, from the west to the south. Consequently two divisions, Europe and Africa, are seen to occupy half of the world, while Asia alone occupies the other half. But the first two are considered distinct portions of the world because between them enters from the Ocean the body of water that flows between their shores, and this forms our Great Sea. Therefore, if you divide the world into two parts, east and west, Asia will be in one, and Europe and Africa in the other”. 38 Paulus Orosius, Adversus paganos historiarum libri VII, I 2,1–12: Maiores nostri orbem totius t­ errae, oceani limbo circumsaeptum, triquadrum statuere eiusque tres partes Asiam Europam et A ­ fricam ­vocaverunt, quamvis aliqui duas hoc est Asiam ac deinde Africam in europam accipiendam putarint. […]

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on the Old and New Testaments, reinforced the Christian reading through his account of Noah’s sons and successors: “From Shem were born the Hebrews, from Japheth the people of the Gentiles.”39 From this evolved the narrative that each of Noah’s three sons received one of the three parts of the world as his inheritance. Subsequently, the model was firmly established in the Christian imagination. Isidore of Seville, the great mediator of ancient culture, adopted the theological endeavors and accentuated an orientation toward the east.40 Like his predecessors, he promoted the idea that Asia, Europe, and Africa divided the world into three with Asia alone occupying one half. This view was further strengthened by certain pictorial strategies, namely the invention of a schematic representation: Asia, Europe, and Africa with a ratio of 2:1:1, encircled by the ocean and divided by the T-shape of the Mediterranean and the rivers Don and Nile. Among the first known T-O schemata are three in a manuscript of Isidore’s ‘De natura rerum’. In the second recension of the text, preserved at the Escorial (c. 636–686), there are three sketches dating from around the end of the seventh century in the lower margins.41 At the time, the concept could still be modified at one’s discretion because form and meaning had not yet been determined. The famous square design in Clm 210 in Munich, a ninth-century copy of Bede’s ‘De natura rerum’, even offers a world divided in three equal parts with Europe in the lower third. Oriented to the south, the diagram shows the world in the center with four cardinal directions (clockwise from the left) Et quia breviter generales tirpertiti orbis divisiones dedi, ipsarum quoque partium regiones, sicut pollicitus sum, significare curabo. Cited from Orosio, Le storie contro i pagani, ed. Adolf Lippold, transl. Aldo Bartalucci (Scrittori greci e latini), 2 vols., Milan 1976, 4. Aufl. 2001, vol. 1, p. 16; English translation: Andrew T. Fear, Orosius: Seven Books of History against the Pagans (Translated Texts for Historians 54), Liverpool 2010, pp. 36–37. 39 Saint Jerome’s Hebrew questions on Genesis, transl. with introduction and commentary by Charles T. Robert Hayward, Oxford 1995, repr. 2001, p. 38 on Gen. 9, 27; Hieronymus Stridonensis, Hebraicae quaestiones in libro Geneseos, ed. Paul de Lagarde, in: S. Hieronymi Presbyteri Opera I: Opera Exegetica 1 (Corpus christianorum Series Latina 72), Turnhout 1959, p. 11: De Sem Hebraei, de Iafeth populus gentium nascitur. In Christian interpretation, the question of whether the Israelites were to be considered as being among the Gentiles was controversial. Cf. Denis de Rougemont, The Idea of Europe, New York 1966, p. 19. 40 Isidore of Seville, Etymologiarum sive originum libri XX, ed. Wallace Martin Lindsay, 2 vols., ­Oxford 1911, repr. 1948, vol. 2, XIV, 2: Divisus est autem trifarie: e quibus una pars Asia, altera Europa, tertia Africa nuncupatur. Quas tres partes orbis veteres non aequaliter diviserunt. Nam Asia a meridie per orientem usque ad septentrionem pervenit; […]. Quapropter si in duas partes orientis et o ­ ccidentis orbem dividas, Asia erit in una, in altera vero Europa et Africa. The last sentence cites Augustine word for word. Cf. ibid., XIII, 16,7 on the orientation toward the east. In general cf. Andy Merrills, ­Geography and Memory in Isidore’s Etymologies, in: Keith D. Lilley (ed.), Mapping Medieval Geographies. Geographical Encounters in the Latin West and Beyond, 300–1600, Cambridge 2013, pp. 45–64 for Isidore’s fragmented geography. 41 Madrid, El Escorial, Real Biblioteca R II 18, fol. 24v and 25r with three T-O schemata on both pages; cf. Bede, On the Nature of Things and on Times. Translated with Introduction, Notes and Commentary by Calvin B. Kendall and Faith Wallis (Translated Texts for Historians 56), Liverpool 2010, p. 10.

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oriens, auster, occidens, and aquilo, the four elements ignis, aer, aqua, and terra, the four climates calidus, [h]umidus, frigida, and sicca, and the four seasons ver calidum et humidum (spring), aetas calida sicca (summer), autumnus erigidus siccus (fall), and hiemps erigidus humidus (winter).42 There is a significant tension between three and four, that is, between the circle and the square, which had well-known ­symbolic meanings: The visualizations in quadruples were in accordance with the fourfold interpretation of Scripture. The circle displayed divine perfection in its infinite consistency. Since every point kept the same distance from its center, it unified all the world’s contradictions into the harmony of the Holy Trinity. From the early ninth century on, the three parts of the world were sometimes also identified with Noah’s sons: Shem, the first-born, was associated with Asia, Ham with Africa, and Japheth, the youngest, with Europe. One of the earliest surviving depictions can be found in a manuscript of Isidore’s ‘Etymologiae’ now in Rouen; there, the T-O map is combined with a V map to depict the two concepts side by side (Fig. 5).43 The abstract T-O form, influenced by religious ideas but flexible in its production and transmission of meaning, was repeated in many manuscripts. The instantly recognizable design established a convention that helped authors and readers to explain and comprehend the earth and its parts and all the differences among its inhabitants, and a depiction of the schema was not always necessary. Medieval historiographers, travelers, and readers knew that Europe was the third part of the world (tertia pars mundi) and that it encompassed only one-quarter of its area and population. In his ‘Chronica maiora’, the chronicler and cartographer Matthew ­ Paris, a Benedictine monk at the Abbey of St. Albans in Hertfordshire, demonstrated his awareness of this model when he reported that Emperor Frederick II had been accused of heresy by the inhabitants of the four parts of the world (quatuor mundi partes) at the Council of Lyon in 1245.44 Matthew probably intended his remark to underscore Frederick’s global relevance. The Benedictine preferred to illustrate his own works, was fully informed about the world’s structure, and was able to navigate

42 Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 210, fol. 132v; cf. Bede, On the Nature of Things (note 41), pp. 102–103; Barbara Obrist, Wind Diagrams and Medieval Cosmology, in: Speculum 72 (1997), pp. 33–84, here p. 63 on a similar illustration, produced around 818, in Vienna, Österreichische ­Nationalbibliothek, MS 387, fol. 134r. 43 Rouen, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 524, fol. 74v, early ninth century; cf. Chet Van Duzer, A ­Neglected Type of Medieval Mappamundi and its Re-Imaging in the Mare historiarum (BnF MS Lat. 4915, fol. 26v), in: Viator 43,2 (2012), pp. 277–301, esp. p. 294 with fig. Especially well known is the printed diagrammatic pattern in Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae, Augsburg, Günther Zainer, 1472 ­(London, British Library). 44 Matthaeus Parisiensis, Chronica maiora, ed. Felix Liebermann, in: MGH SS 28, Hannover 1888, S. 107–483, here p. 260: Constanter igitur et acerrime in pleno et iam plenissimo concilio imperator Frethericus, quasi toti ecclesie contumax et rebellis, a quatuor mundi partes inhabitantibus accusatur. Cf. Oschema (note 33), pp. 295–297, for similar expressions like quatuor Europae partes or quatuor Christianitatis partes.

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Fig. 5: V-map with the names of Noah’s sons; Rouen, Bibl. Municipale MS 524, fol. 74v; early 9th century. By permission of the Bibliothèque Municipale Rouen.

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Fig. 6: T-diagram in the margin of the Ebstorf Map; Hartmut Kugler, Die Ebstorfer Weltkarte, 2 vols., Berlin 2007, no. 6 A 1, vol. 1, p. 41.

the ­different ­connotations. Nevertheless modern researchers have raised doubts as to whether Matthew was referring to the four quadrants of the tripartite circle, to a fourth continent populated by antipodeans as represented on Beatus maps,45 or even to the other side of the earth seen on hemispherical world maps.46 The tripartite pattern can be found reflected in different forms and variations on most medieval mappaemundi. The Ebstorf Map, for example, presents the capital letters for EUROPA, ASIA, and AFRICA spread out all over its surface. In addition, a T-shape with three names appears outside of the map’s circle together with mythological explanations of the terms (Fig. 6).47 The account follows Isidore, sometimes

45 The Beatus maps regularly show a fourth continent that is occasionally even inhabited, for example, on the Osma Map by the Sciapode. Cf. Ingrid Baumgärtner, Visualisierte Weltenräume. Tradition und Innovation in den Weltkarten der Beatustradition des 10. bis 13. Jahrhunderts, in: Hans-Joachim Schmidt (ed.), Tradition, Innovation, Invention. Fortschrittsverweigerung und Fortschrittsbewußtsein im Mittelalter (Scrinium Friburgense 18), Berlin, New York 2005 pp. 231–276; Ead., Graphische Gestalt und Signifikanz. Europa in den Weltkarten des Beatus von Liébana und des Ranulf Higden, in: Baumgärtner/ Kugler (note 33), pp. 81–132. 46 The Wolfenbüttel manuscript of the ‘Liber floridus’ by Lambert of Saint-Omer, written around 1112–1121, depicts the tripartite earth on the left half of the globe and the world’s other side on the right half: Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Bibliothek, Cod. Guelf. 1 Gud. Lat., fol. 69v–70r; cf. the facsimile by Christian Heitzmann/ Patrizia Carmassi, Der Liber Floridus in Wolfenbüttel. Eine Prachthandschrift über Himmel und Erde, Darmstadt 2014. 47 Cf. Hartmut Kugler, Die Ebstorfer Weltkarte, 2 vols., Berlin 2007, no. 6 A 1, vol. 1, pp. 40–41 and vol. 2, p. 84: Orbis a rotunditate circuli dictus, qui est ut rota. Undique enim occeanus circumfluens in

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nearly word for word.48 Even the T-form that doubled as a crucifix was adopted from a Christian-Isidorian tradition, which integrated salvation into the orbis.49 With regard to the Hereford Map, Marcia Kupfer questions the impact of this intellectual and spiritual model. She argues that the practice of writing and reading a map was influenced by optical theories and that every single cognitive step from the first idea or experience to the memorization of the map was planned systematically. Kupfer shows that the writings of Robert Grosseteste and Roger Bacon in particular must have been known in Hereford circles. William Herebert (c. 1270–1333), a Franciscan at Hereford, collected, annotated, corrected, and translated manuscripts of Bacon’s works on optics and cosmography.50 The younger Richard of Battle, or de Bello, who was, inter alia, canon prebendary of Lafford and probably one of the map’s sponsors or initiators, had a close connection to Lincoln, the former bishopric of Robert Grosseteste, which had a large manuscript collection. The map has been attributed to a learned author or authors, who united Bacon’s moralization of optics with a moralization of geography, and thus created a spiritual vision in an intellectual space with rich potential on many levels. Based on these ideas, the map’s creators skillfully broke with convention to fashion special effects that delighted their erudite audiences. It was probably part of this intellectual game to exchange the inscriptions of AFFRICA and EUROPA on the lower half of the east-oriented map, which otherwise depicts the three parts of the inhabited world in a conventional manner. The elaborate gold leaf lettering, with AFFRICA written diagonally across the northwest quarter of Europe, and EUROPA across Africa in the southwest, probably expressed a unique meaning. Hitherto, scholarly opinion explained this reversal as a slip made by a careless or even ignorant artist or scribe, who was said to have made this strange mistake when applying the expensive lettering to the almost completed image. Kupfer, on the other hand, convincingly explains that this inversion of the T-O schema implied God’s west-oriented view from the east above, which projected a mirror image of the two western landmasses on the tripartite order.51 The result was the representation of both perspectives in one figure – the conventional tripartite image and God’s inverted view on the world. circulo. Est triphariam divisus, id est in Asyam, Europam, Africam. Sola Asya medietatem orbis, due tenent alteram partem Europa et Africa, quas intersecat velut subterraneum Mediterraneum mare. 48 Cf. Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae 14 (De terra et partibus), 2–5: The Etymologies of Isidore of ­Seville, transl., with introduction and notes, by Stephen A. Barney/ W. J. Lewis/ J. A. Beach/ Oliver Berghof, Cambridge, Ann Arbor 2006, pp. 285–293. 49 Cf. Anna-Dorothee von den Brincken, Die Ebstorfer Weltkarte im Verhältnis zur spanischen und angelsächsischen Weltkartentradition, in: Hartmut Kugler (ed.), Ein Weltbild vor Columbus. Die ­Ebstorfer Weltkarte. Interdisziplinäres Colloquium 1988, Weinheim 1991, pp. 129–145, esp. pp. 131–132. 50 Cf. Marcia Kupfer, Art and Optics in the Hereford Map. An English Mappa Mundi, c. 1300, New Haven 2016, pp. 43–49. 51 Cf. Kupfer (note 50), p. 135 on the T-O schema in different contexts; cf. Wesley M. Stevens, The Figure of the Earth in Isidore’s ‘De natura rerum’, in: Id., Cycles of Time and Scientific Learning in M ­ edieval

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Kupfer’s theory is based on the assumption that on the Hereford Map Boethius’ concept of divine providence was translated into a visual representation that merged the whole world into a gift for Christ enthroned in majesty.52 Consequently, the primary motive for this kind of representation would have been the creation of a work of art that inspired its audience to meditate on the reciprocity of human and divine thoughts and acts and to admire God’s greatness and omnipotence. The tripartite schema could be converted into a mirrored worldview, as the rational foundation of the multipurpose T-O figure underwent a transformation to become a symbol of Christ. An unfinished T-O map makes for an enlightening example. The image can be found in a manuscript of Isidore’s ‘De natura rerum’ now in the Bodleian Library (c. 1120, and before 1125),53 which belonged to Salisbury Cathedral when Richard de Bello was there in a move to advance his career.54 It shows a reversed T-O schema with transposed western quadrants, similar to the design in a particular, well-defined subgroup in Sallust’s ‘De bello Iugurthino’. This concept for the division of the world, which can be found in a shorter, significantly altered version of Isidore’s manual, transformed the T-O motif into a sign aligned with Christ.55 It seems that by the twelfth century at the latest two distinct but complementary methods had been developed for visual representations of the earth. The complex mappamundi and the geometrical abstraction of the reversed T-O schema with its religious connotations were finally combined on the Hereford Map at the end of the thirteenth century. Naturally, the concept of the world’s three parts provided not only a well-grounded structure for maps but also for historiographies, theological commentaries, and travel reports. One example of the correlation between text and visualization is the universal chronicle of the English historiographer Ranulf Higden. His ‘Polychronicon’ was Europe (Variorum Collected Studies CS 482), Aldershot 1995, no. III, pp. 268–277, esp. pp. 274–277 on the reversed image in texts of Isidore and mirror-image astronomy. 52 Cf. Kupfer (note 50), p. 120. 53 Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Auct. F. 3. 14, fol 19v; cf. Kupfer (note 50), p. 140 fig. 74. 54 Valerie I. J. Flint, The Hereford Map: Its Author(s), Two Scenes and a Border, in: Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 6th series 8 (1998), pp. 19–44, esp. pp. 27–29; Kupfer (note 50), p. 141. 55 Sallust, De bello Iugurthino 17,3–4, transl. John Carew Rolfe (Loeb Classical Library 1921), ­London, New York 1980, pp. 170–171: “In their division of the earth’s surface geographers commonly regard Africa as a third part, a few recognize only Asia and Europe, including Africa in the latter. ­Africa is bounded on the west by the strait between our sea and the Ocean, on the east by a broad sloping tract which the natives call Catabathmos”. (In divisione orbis terrae plerique in parte tertia Africam posuere, pauci tantummodo Asiam et Europam esse, sed Africam in Europa. Ea finis habet ab occidente fretum nostri maris et Oceani, ab ortu solis declivem latitudinem, quem locum Catabathmon incolae appellant.) Cf. Patrick Gautier Dalché, De la glose à la contemplation: Place et fonction de la carte dans les manuscrits du haut moyen âge, in: Géographie et culture: La représentation de l’espace du VIe au XIIe siécle (Variorum Collected Studies CS 592), Aldershot 1997, no. VIII, esp. pp. 710–711; Id., L’enseignement de la géographie dans l’antiquitè tardive, in: Klio 96,1 (2014), pp. 144–182, esp. p. 166; Kupfer (note 50), pp. 139–141.

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one of the most popular history books in late-fourteenth century England. It is extant in some 135 manuscripts, and those of the second recension prepared by the author after 1340 can include an oval world map (Fig. 7).56 It is likely that Higden had realized that a cartographic visualization could be enormously helpful, not only to readers who tried to identify the places mentioned in the text, but also to the author who generated and transformed an intellectual perception of the world.57 In the context of the present essay, it is interesting that Higden apparently envisioned an east-oriented, tripartite schema and expected his audience to do the same. Cornelia Dreer finds some evidence in favor of this theory within the text of the ‘Polychronicon’. Higden explained, for example, that the Mediterranean originates at the Pillars of Hercules in the Straits of Gibraltar and continues “with Africa on its right and Europe on its left” (ad sui dexteram habens Africam, ad laevam vero Europam).58 He apparently referenced the earthly rather than the divine perspective of the globe and assumed that his audience was acquainted with this particular tripartite world image as well as with the location of Europe and Africa within it. Other examples in historiographical texts show that this imagined structure could also be organized the other way around, that is, according to the Hellenistic or God’s view from east to west. Many centuries earlier, Orosius described Asia as an enormous territory surrounded by the ocean in the north, the east, and the south. He portrayed it as the part of the world that occupied the entire east, whereas toward the west, it would border Europe “on its right” and Africa “on its left”.59 It is evident that such a statement could only have been made from an eastern viewpoint, which, from the tenth century on, reversed T-O schemata in manuscripts by Sallust, Lucan, and a special version of Isidore’s ‘De natura rerum’. The two mental images of the world must have already existed as two different perspectives or two different projections.60 56 San Marino/ CA, Huntington Library, HM 132, fol. 4v. 57 Cf. Cornelia Dreer/ Keith D. Lilley, Universal Histories and their Geographies: Navigating the Maps and Texts of Higden’s Polychronicon, in: Michele Campopiano/ Henry Bainton (eds.), Universal Chronicles in the High Middle Ages (Writing History in the Middle Ages 4), Woodbridge 2017, pp. 275–301, esp. p. 282. 58 Ranulph Higden, Polychronicon Ranulphi Higden Monachi Cestrensis, ed. Churchill Babington/ Joseph Rawson Lumby (Rerum Britannicarum Medii Avi Scriptores 41), 9 vols., London 1865–86, here vol. 1, I, 52; cf. Dreer/ Lilley (note 57), p. 282 with note 24; L ­ ondon, British Library, Royal 14 C.IX, fol. 10v. 59 Paulus Orosius, Adversus paganos historiarum libri VII, I 2, 2–3: 2. Asia tribus partibus oceano circumcincta per totam transuersi plagam orientis extenditur. 3 haec occasum uersus a dextra sui sub axe septentrionis incipientem contingit Europam, a sinistra autem Africam dimittit, transl. Fear (note 38), p. 36. 60 Cf. Stevens (note 51), p. 275: “There have always been two perspectives on the globus caelestis and its stellar phenomena, which result in two quite different projections of star charts and land charts. If the astronomer looks up at the sky with Asia and its oceanus orientalis at his head, then europa est dextra, Africa est laeva. On the other hand if he imagines himself outside the globe and looking east, he would see that europa est laeva, africa est dextera”.

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Fig. 7: World map in Ranulph Higden’s ‘Polychronicon’; San Marino/California, The Huntington Library, HM 132, fol. 4v. By permission of the Huntington Library.

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Borders, regions, and cities varied on medieval maps but the cultural concept of the world’s three parts and four quarters was present in the mind of every reader and viewer. Thus, the model helped to organize textual descriptions in travelogues and historio­ graphies. For the medieval audience, each of the world’s quarters and parts was immediately recognizable, even if it was depicted separately, such as Europe in the ‘Liber floridus’ autograph in Ghent, which dates to c. 1112–1121.61 This unique map enlarged the northwest quarter as a detail, retaining its original form and eastern o ­ rientation. An educated observer would have been able to imagine its position in the T-O schema. The structuring of the world into three parts and four quarters shaped the ­collective consciousness at all levels. It was not only Burchard who organized his report according to these principles: even historiographers such as Ulrich Richental,  a  citizen of Constance and the famous chronicler of the Council of Constance (1414–1418), employed the tripartite concept when he registered the attendees in ­geopolitical order.62 Every author who represented the geographical schema as an intellectual category to inspire order and reflection was undoubtedly aware of its three- and four-part divisions. Only later, after the discovery of the Americas, did the secular concept of continents, defined as big landmasses in the vast ocean, emerge to compete with the religiously charged tripartite schema that focused on the Mediterranean. In modern usage, the terms ‘continent’ and ‘part of the world’ are often applied interchangeably. However, for their early users, they carried clearly distinct connotations. When seafarers and their patrons realized that the newly discovered territory did not belong to Asia but was a separate landmass on the other side of the Atlantic, they understood that the oikoumene could no longer be described as a single contiguous mainland divided into three parts and encompassed by an ocean. The discovery made the traditional classification appear obsolete and required a new order. Thus, the expression terra continens or simply continens developed in various contexts but always retained a connection with conventional practices.63

61 Map of Europe by Lambert of Saint-Omer, Liber floridus (c. 1212–1221) in Ghent, Bibliotheek der ­Rijksuniversiteit, Ms. 92, fol. 241r; Lambert von St. Omer, Liber Floridus, ed. Albert Derolez, Gent 1968 (facsimile of some parts); cf. Hartmut Kugler, Europa pars quarta. Der Teil und das Ganze im ‘Liber floridus’, in: Baumgärtner/ Kugler (note 33), pp. 45–61; Oschema (note 33), pp. 465–469. 62 Ulrich Richental, Chronik des Konstanzer Konzils 1414–1418, ed. Thomas Martin Buck (Konstanzer Geschichts- und Rechtsquellen 41), Ostfildern 2010, p. 142: “Ee das nun diß angefangen werd, so ist ze wissen, das aller umbkraiß der welt in drü getailt ist. Der erst haißet Asia, der ander Affrica, der dritt Europa”. Ibid. p. 143: “Och maint man, das daz tail Asia größer sy dann die andern zway tail, Affrica und Europa”. Cf. Christof Rolker, Die Richental-Chronik als Wappenbuch, in: Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 71 (2015), pp. 57–103, esp. pp. 87–92; Christoph Mauntel, The ‘Emperor of Persia’. ‘Empire’ as a Means of Describing and Structuring the World, in: The Medieval History Journal 20, 2 (2017) [= Chris Jones/ Christoph Mauntel/ Klaus Oschema (eds.), A World of Empires. Claiming and Assigning Imperial Authority in the Middle Ages, Los Angeles et al. 2017], pp. 354–384, esp. pp. 355–356, 377–378. 63 I have to thank Patrick Gautier Dalché for bringing this issue to my attention.

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One of the first references to the term continens can be found in Amerigo Vespucci’s ‘Mundus novus’, his famous letter to Lorenzo di Pier Francesco de’ Medici, which was first printed in 1503. In the prologue of the report about his journey under Portuguese command in 1501–1502, Vespucci wrote that the traditional opinion, which still prevailed in his day, was that there could not be a contiguous territory in the southern ocean beyond the equator (ultra lineam equinoctialem et versus meridiem non esse continentem, sed mare tantum) and that everyone was convinced that even if it did exist it would not be inhabited.64 He used the term continens, here and especially in the following sentence about his breathtaking discovery, for a coherent landmass that presented a kind of counterpart to the huge expanse of Europe, Asia, and Africa. Moreover, he recorded that the newly discovered continent in these southern realms was more densely populated than Europe, Asia, or Africa (continentem invenerim frequentioribus populis et animalibus habitatam quam nostram Europam seu Asiam vel Africam). Thus, the new territory was given a specific character and importance. The expression continens was not used in a sense that agreed precisely with its modern definition as a landmass separated from other continents, but it opened the way for a new concept of the world’s structure. A few years later, in 1507, Matthias Ringmann employed the phrase partes continentes, that is, coherent parts, for the three parts of the Old World in his ‘Cosmographiae introductio’ (Chapter 9). He used the term insula for the New World, which he famously named America after its discoverer.65 His views were again based on the l­ ong-established model of the world’s four quarters: he conceived of the first three quarters as continuous landmasses and the fourth part as a huge, solitary island surrounded by water. He evidently made an effort to integrate the New World into the accepted image of the earth divided into three and four, since this model represented an important tool that allowed an abstract concept to be understood and given visible form. 64 Amerigo Vespucci, Petri Francisci de Medicis salutem plurimam, Paris 1503, Ex. Séléstat BM, No. 2380 – K1156e (according to John Alden/ Dennis C. Landis (Eds.), European Americana. A Chronological Guide to Works Printed in Europe Relating to the Americas, 1493–1776, vol. 1, New York 1980, p. 7, no. 503/9), fol. a2r: Etenim hec opinionem nostrorum antiquorum excedit, cum illorum maior pars dicat, ultra lineam equinoctialem et versus meridiem non esse continentem, sed mare tantum, quod Atlanticum vocavere. Et si qui earum continentem ibi esse affirmaverunt, eam esse terram habitabilem multis rationibus negaverunt. Sed hanc eorum opinionem esse falsam et veritati omnino contrariam, hec mea ultima navigatio declaravit, cum in partibus illis meridianis continentem invenerim frequentioribus populis et animalibus habitatam quam nostram Europam seu Asiam vel Africam, et insuper aerem magis temperatum et amenum quam in quavis alia regione a nobis cognita. Cited from Klaus Anselm Vogel, Sphaera terrae. Das mittelalterliche Bild der Erde und die kosmographische Revolution, Diss. Göttingen 1995, pp. 449–450; Ilaria Luzzana Caraci, Per lasciare di me qualche fama. Vita e viaggi di Amerigo Vespucci, Rome 2007, pp. 76–82, 253–254 with the text and an Italian translation. 65 Martin Lehmann, Die Cosmographiae Introductio Matthias Ringmanns und die Weltkarte Martin Waldseemüllers aus dem Jahre 1507, Munich 2010, pp. 163–164: Hunc in modum terra iam quadripartita cognoscitur et sunt tres primae partes continentes, quarta est insula, cum omni quaque mari circumdata conspiciatur.

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Wind Diagrams In addition to the concept of four quarters, Burchard of Mount Zion used wind directions to structure his travelogue. This subdivision, however, was more ambiguous, owing to different kinds of segmentations and a broad range of wind names. Two distinct systems existed in the thirteenth century: one comprised twelve winds in accordance with the scholarly astronomy of Aristotle, which was adopted by Romans such as Varro, Vitruvius, and Seneca, and the other counted either eight or sixteen winds based on nautical practices.66 Both classifications had developed earlier but found their use during the Middle Ages. Wind, as a natural phenomenon, had shaped perceptions of the world since ancient times. Winds were pictured as personifications or even as gods in many cultures. The geometrical wind schema was probably invented by the astronomer Philip of Opus or by Medma, one of Plato’s students and later his secretary. A ­ ristotle developed the system further and described the winds’ relative positions in his ­‘Meteorologica’.67 The four main winds of the Greeks were boreas/aparctias (north), eurus (southeast, near to the eastern apeliotes), notus (south), and zephyrus (west). In ­Aristotle’s treatise, three were accompanied by a pair of minor winds. Only notus was left alone or flanked by unnamed winds. This resulted in an asymmetrical pattern with ten sections, which did not satisfy the requirements of later geographers. After 270 BCE, Timosthenes of Rhodes, commander of the fleet and renowned nautical expert under the Egyptian pharaoh Ptolemy II Philadelphus, noted twelve directions to complete the wind rose and made Rhodes, his home port, its center.68 As a specialist at surveying, he used the twelve winds not only at sea, but also as a means of locating people, nations, and regions within the inhabited world, as well as sunrise and sunset in summer and winter. The division into twelve parts generated an essentially astronomical diagram that corresponded to the twelve hours of day and night, the twelve months of the year, and the signs of the zodiac. The twelve-point wind rose persisted for a long time. It was adopted and communicated during the following centuries, especially by such Roman authors as Seneca, Pliny, Suetonius, and Apuleius.69 The twelve winds were still an important reference 66 Cf. Thomas Raff, Die Ikonographie der mittelalterlichen Windpersonifikationen, in: Aachener Kunstblätter 48 (1978/1979), pp. 71–218; Obrist (note 42), pp. 33–84; Alessandro Nova, The Book of the Wind. The Representation of the Invisible, Milan 2007, pp. 177–179; Gautier Dalché, Pere Marsili (note 20), esp. pp. 159–169. 67 Aristotle, Meteorology, 2, 4–6, ed. Henry Desmond Pritchard Lee (Loeb Classical Library 397), Cambridge, London 1978, pp. 187–191; cf. John B. Harley/ David Woodward (eds.), Cartography in Prehistoric, Ancient, and Medieval Europe and the Mediterranean (The History of Cartography 1), Chicago 1987, p. 145 with fig. 8.14; Raff (note 66), p. 81; Obrist (note 42), p. 37. 68 Harley/ Woodward (note 67), p. 153 with fig. 9.3; Nova (note 66), p. 178. 69 Pliny, Natural History 2, 119–121; Seneca, Quaestiones naturales 5, 16.1–3; Apuleius, Liber de mundo, 10–14; cf. Obrist (note 42), pp. 36–38.

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point around 531 CE, when the Neoplatonic philosopher Priscian of Lydia explained them in his ‘Solutiones ad Chosroem’, his answers to King Chosroes of Persia, which discussed various fields of knowledge, especially in the natural sciences.70 Lastly, Isidore of Seville secured the astronomical image of a twelvefold world by adapting it for a medieval audience. Yet winds were irregular, incorporeal, and could turn quickly. To integrate them into a concise symmetrical system was not easy. Aristotle had already noted the minor role of meteorology in a perfect cosmos and emphasized that the winds’ natural order was less clear than the regular rotation of the planets.71 Perhaps this was the reason for another classification that emerged in the Greek world. During the first century BCE at the latest, the Tower of the Winds, the Horologion of Andronikos, was constructed in Athens. This octagonal building was set with a frieze of sculptured personifications of eight winds: two triads centered on boreas to the north and notus to the south and were divided by zephyr to the west and apeliotes to the east.72 The tower was built at the edge of the Roman agora, and, aside from its main purpose of measuring time, it was apparently used to observe the impact of seasonal changes on the winds. A few decades later, Vitruvius described the octagon, with its sculptured figures on the façade and the roof, in his architectural treatise, when he debated the influence of different wind formations on structural design: It pleases to say that there are four winds: from equinoctial east Solanus, from the south Auster, from the equinoctial west Favonius, and from the north Septentrio. But those who have studied the matter more thoroughly insist that there are eight, above all Andronicus Cyrrhestes, who even went so far as to demonstrate this by means of an octagonal marble tower in Athens. On each side of the octagon he designed sculpted images of the winds, each facing its own blast, and atop this tower he put a conical column and above this he placed a bronze Triton holding a wand in its right hand, so contrived as to revolve with the wind, so that it will always face into the prevailing wind and hold its wand over the image of the wind that is blowing at the moment.73

Vitruvius considered the fourfold system inadequate and asked for further distinctions in accordance with the movements of the Triton on the rooftop. He pointed out

70 Priscian. Answers to King Khosroes of Persia, ed. Pamela Huby/ Sten Ebbesen/ David Lunslow/ Donald Russell/ Carlos Steel/ Malcolm Wilson, London 2016, 98,26–104,1, pp. 82–86. 71 Aristotle, Meteorology, 1, 1. 72 Nova (note 66), pp. 30–31; Hermann J. Kienast, Der Turm der Winde in Athen, mit Beiträgen von Pavlina Karanastasi zu den Reliefdarstellungen der Winde und Karlheinz Schaldach zu den ­Sonnenuhren (Archäologische Forschungen 30), Wiesbaden 2014; cf. Poul Pedersen, Rez. in: Orbis Terrarum 14 (2016), pp. 284–288. 73 Vitruvius [Marcus Vitruvius Pollio], De architectura libri decem, ed. Curt Fensterbusch, Zehn Bücher über die Architektur, Darmstadt 1964, 6th ed. Darmstadt 2008, I, 6, 4, pp. 60–63; English translation: Ingrid D. Rowland/ Thomas Noble Howe, Vitruvius. Ten Books on Architecture, ­Cambridge 1999, pp. 29–30.

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that a system of eight, or rather sixteen or twenty-four winds, would be preferable in order to precisely define each individual direction and its impact on architecture. For this reason, he explained step by step how to locate a north and south point and how to divide an imagined circle into eight equal parts by lines drawn to its center.74 ­Justification for an intersection into sixteen or more winds was derived from mathematical calculations by Eratosthenes of Cyrene, who had estimated the earth’s circumference and discovered that each of the eight winds would have to cover the enormous space of 3,937,500 paces in its section.75 Hence, Vitruvius developed a more practical system of twenty-four winds by adding a pair of secondary currents to each of the original eight. Every wind was given a name76 and an alphabetically designated position in the carefully structured system of the octagonal tower.77 To make sure that every reader would understand his explanations, the architect added two drawings to his text,78 which were intended to visualize the concept of the winds and demonstrate its importance for architectural practice, just as its significance was later represented for cartographic purposes.79 In all of these different systems of twelve, eight, sixteen, or twenty-four sections, the number four was crucial, for it was deeply rooted in the cosmos as well as the Bible, where it is recorded that since the beginning of the universe there have been four elements – air, water, earth, and fire. Four cardinal points defined the main directions that corresponded with Plato’s four cardinal virtues and the four fluids of humoral pathology. The number four determined the seasons based on the movements of the sun and the moon, which God created on the Fourth Day. Fourfold were the primeval transgressions in the Book of Genesis, that is, the Fall of Adam and Eve, the Fratricide, the Flood, and the Tower of Babel. Three symbolized the patriarchs 74 Vitruvius (note 73), I, 6, 7; Rowland/ Noble Howe (note 73), p. 30. 75 Vitruvius (note 73), I, 6, 9; Rowland/ Noble Howe (note 73), p. 30. 76 Vitruvius (note 73), I, 6, 10; Rowland/ Noble Howe (note 73), p. 30: “Thus at the right and left of Auster, Leuconotus and Altanus are wont to blow; on either side of Africus, Libonotus and Subvesperus; around Favonius, Argestes and at certain times of the year the Etesian breezes, at the sides of Caurus, Circias and Corus; around Septentrio, Thracius and Gallicus; to the right and left of Aquilo, Supernas and Caecias; around Solanus, Carbas and at a certain time of the year the Ornithiæ; and with Eurus occupying the middle range, Euricircias and Vulturnus take up the extremes (Figure 21). There are many other names for other breaths of wind, derived from places, or rivers, or mountain tempests.” 77 Vitruvius (note 73), I, 6, 12–13; Rowland/ Noble Howe (note 73), p. 31. 78 Vitruvius (note 73), I, 6, 12; Rowland/ Noble Howe (note 73), p. 31: “Because these things have already been set out by us briefly so that they be more easily understood, it seemed best to me that at the end of this book, I supply two figures or, as the Greeks say, schêmata, one so drawn that it displays the directions from which the various winds originate, and another showing how their harmful breaths may be avoided by the oblique orientation of streets and avenues”. 79 Alessandro Nova, The role of the Winds in Architectural Theory from Vitruvius to Scamozzi, in: Barbara Kenda (ed.), Aeolian Winds and the Spirit in Renaissance Architecture, London, New York 2006, pp. 70–86.

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of the Bible and four evoked the female world with the matriarchs Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah. The four gospels provided room for various other narratives around the number four in the Bible. From the very start, a fourfold division defined the time, space, and narratives of the world. In the Bible, each of the four corners of the earth corresponded to a cardinal direction and to one of the principal winds. The four winds stood for devastation and ­displacement in the Old Testament, as well as in Elam, the ancient pre-Iranian civilization,80 but Revelation in the New Testament describes four angels who restrained the strong winds from blowing violently across the earth and instead brought order and stability.81 These four winds appear in many medieval texts and illustrations, which indicates that the imagining of space was circumscribed by the number four, as shown by the angels on several world maps from the eleventh and twelfth c­ enturies.82 The Commentary on the Apocalypse by Beatus of Liébana provides good examples: its illustrations depict the four corners of the earth as angels blowing wind or as figures sitting astride bags full of air.83 Thomas Raff, who proposes three categories to organize the rich material (winds as figures of myth, as personifications, and as cosmolo­ gical symbols), suggests that images of the twelve winds developed from the system of four. He elucidates how the division into twelve acquired its own importance in the context of medieval cosmologies and encyclopedias.84 The twelve-point wind rose dominated during Roman times as a model that systematized and explained the winds, but its cosmological and religious connotations must have been a medieval conception that was based on the symbolic meaning of the number twelve: astronomically and chronometrically, twelve referred to the signs of the zodiac, the months of the year, and the hours of day and night, while biblically it was associated with the apostles, the tribes of Israel, the judges, and the gates of Jerusalem. An important source for this development was again Isidore of Seville,

80 Jeremiah 49, 36: “I will bring upon Elam the four winds from the four ends of heaven. And will scatter them to all these winds”. 81 Revelation 7, 1: “After this I saw four angels standing at the four corners of the earth, holding back the four winds of the earth, so that no wind would blow on the earth or on the sea or on any tree.”; cf. Bianca Kühnel, Carolingian Diagrams, Images of the Invisible, in: Giselle de Nie/ Karl F. M ­ orrison/ Marco Mostert (Eds.), Seeing the Invisible in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (­ Utrecht Studies in Medieval Literacy 14), Turnhout 2005, pp. 359–389. Kühnel connected this passage convincingly with the sign of the cross that stopped the “destructive action of the winds” and brought “order, perfection and stability into diagrams” (ibid. p. 362). 82 Jörg-Geerd Arentzen, Imago mundi cartographica. Studien zur Bildlichkeit mittelalterlicher Weltund Ökumenekarten unter besonderer Berücksichtigung des Zusammenwirkens von Text und Bild (Münstersche Mittelalter-Schriften 53), Munich 1984, pp. 155–160. 83 New York, The Pierpont Morgan Library, Ms. 644, fol. 115v; Turin, Biblioteca Nazionale Universitaria, Ms. I.II.1, fol. 45v–46r with a world map. Cf. Nova (note 66), pp. 45–50 on the transformation of winds into angels. 84 Cf. Raff (note 66), pp. 139–155.

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who described the winds and their purpose in long passages. His ‘Etymologiae’ distinguished between the four main winds and the total of twelve winds: There are four principal winds: the first of these, from the east, is Subsolanus; from the south is Auster; from the west Favonius; and from the north blows a wind of the same name (i.e., Septentrio, “the north”). Each of these has a pair of winds associated with it. Subsolanus has V ­ ulturnus from the right side and Eurus from the left; Auster has Euroauster from the right and Austroafricus from the left; Favonius has Africus from the right and Corus from the left; finally Septentrio has Circius from the right and Aquilo from the left. These twelve winds whirl around the globe of the world with their blowing.85

Isidore tried to explain the origin and significance of each wind name based on classical texts, tracing them back to Greek models as well as citations taken from Lucretius and Virgil.86 In the end, he created a hierarchy and assured his readers that the northern septentrio and the southern auster were the two most important principal winds.87 Isidore’s argument in his ‘De natura rerum’ is shorter,88 but no less remarkable, especially owing to the variety of illustrations and wind figures that appear in different manuscripts of the text and are always based on the twelvefold pattern. During the centuries that followed, the twelve-point wind schema with its primary and secondary winds was described in many texts and even more often was represented as a diagram or by the means of personifications. Under the Carolingians, the wind names were translated into the vernacular. One of the first to implement the Old High German terms was probably Einhard, who listed them in his ‘Vita Caroli’ with the intention of making them part of a veritable education program.89 The Isidorian text became a recurrent element of diagrammatic representations from the eleventh 85 Cf. Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae 13,11, 1–15, here 13,11,2–3; 2 Ventorum quattuor principales spiritus sunt. Quorum primus ab oriente Subsolanus, a meridie Auster, ab occidente Favonius, a septentrione eiusdem nominis ventus adspirat; habentes geminos hinc inde ventorum spiritus. 3 Subsolanus a latere dextro Vulturnum habet, a laevo Eurum: Auster a dextris Euroaustrum, a sinistris Austroafricum: Favonius a parte dextra Africum, a laeva Corum: porro Septentrio a dextris Circium, a sinistris Aquilonem. Hi duodecim venti mundi globum flatibus circumagunt. English translation cited from The Etymologies of Isidore of Seville, transl., with introduction and notes, by Barney et al. (note 48), p. 275; Isidoro di Siviglia, Etimologie, Libro XIII: De mundo et partibus, ed., trad. e commento a cura di Giovanni Gasparotto, Paris 2004, pp. 55–69. 86 Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae 13, 11, 4–13. 87 Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae 13, 11, 14: Ex omnibus autem ventis duo cardinales sunt: Septentrio et Auster. 88 Isidore of Seville, De natura rerum 36 and 37, 1–4; cf. Isidore of Seville, On the Nature of Things, transl. with introduction, notes, and commentary by Calvin B. Kendall/ Faith Wallis, Liverpool 2016, pp. 162–165 with the wind diagram of the second version. 89 Einhard, Vita Karoli magni imperatoris, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger (MGH SSrG [25]), Hannover 1911, c. 29, pp. 33–34: Item ventos duodecim propriis appellationibus insignivit, cum prius non amplius quam vix quattuor ventorum vocabula possent inveniri. […] Ventis vero hoc modo nomina inposuit, ut subsolanum vocaret ostroniwint, eurum ostsundroni, euroaustrum sundostroni, austrum sundroni,

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century on, mainly through the inclusion of a short poem: “From four thresholds rise four winds. These are joined on either side, right and left. And thus, twelve breezes surround the world.”90 Other diagrams inserted the T-O schema into the middle of a circle or square. A manuscript in Trier, for example, shows a rectangle with four diagonal lines that lead to a surrounding circle, cutting it into quadrants; each quarter is divided into three parts, which produces twelve segments that contain the relevant passages on the winds from Isidore’s text as well as the names of the months. The composition gave the appearance of a calendar that organized space as well as time.91 A similar combination of T-O schema and wind diagram can be found in the Wolfenbüttel version of Lambert of Saint-Omer’s ‘Liber floridus’ (Fig. 8).92 There, the twelve winds forming a wind rose surround a small, tripartite, east-oriented world in the center. The winds are represented in multiple ways: as wavy double lines, personified as faces with pointed ears, through descriptions of their specific qualities and effects, and simply through their individual names in the outer circle. The different approaches were combined in a single design. The accompanying text refers to Isidore and the Venerable Bede. The illustration is part of a series of four circular diagrams of the earth and its climates, the course of the sun and moon, and the resulting seasons, parts of the day, and elements. In this context, only the astronomical model with its twelve winds was suitable. The said wind rose played a significant role in the organization and communication of geographical knowledge, which also informed the famous world maps of the following centuries. According to Hartmut Kugler, it seems likely that the creator of the Ebstorf Map used the technical construction of a wind rose as a basis for the map and as its underlying drawing (Figs. 9a and 9b).93 Along the ocean surrounding the image, winds are indicated by double circles at regular intervals; each circle was inscribed in Leonine hexameter explaining the connection between each wind and ­ ustroafricum sundwestroni, africum westsundroni, zefyrum westroni, chorum westnordroni, circium a nordwestroni, septentrionem nordroni, aquilonem nordostroni, vulturnum ostnordroni. 90 Quatuor a quadro consurgunt limine venti. Hos circumgemini dextra levaque iugantur. Atque ita bisseno circumstant flamine mundum. Translation by the author of this article. Cf. Obrist (note 42), pp.  51–52 with an eleventh-century diagram in fig. 11 (Dijon, Bibliotheque municipale, MS 488, fol. 75r); Raff (note 66), p. 150. 91 Obrist (note 42), pp. 58 and fig. 18 with a T-O map with winds from St. Maximin, today still in Trier, Staatsbibliothek, MS 1084/115, fol. 99r. 92 Lambert of Saint-Omer, Liber floridus, Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Bibliothek, Cod. Guelf. 1 Gud. Lat., fol. 16r; cf. Heitzmann/ Carmassi (note 46), pp. 34, 103. 93 Kugler (note 47), vol. 1, pp. 18–19 and vol. 2, pp. 29–30, and commentaries to segments no. 4/3, 6/3, 14/7, 28/11, 49/10, 60/3, 57/35, 56/5, 43/12, 15/1, 22/3, and 2/2. Less convincing is Brigitte Englisch’s suggestion that the Beatus maps were constructed based on a right triangle; Brigitte Englisch, Ordo orbis terrae. Die Weltsicht in den Mappae mundi des frühen und hohen Mittelalters (Orbis medievalis. Vorstellungswelten des Mittelalters 3), Berlin 2002; cf. Hartmut Kugler, Weltbild, ­Kartenbild, geometrische Figur. Eine Auseinandersetzung mit Brigitte Englischs Analyse mittelalterlicher ­Weltkarten, in: Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie 124, 1 (2005), pp. 440–452.

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Fig. 8: Wind representation in Lambert of Saint-Omer’s ‘Liber floridus’; Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Bibliothek, Cod. Guelf. 1 Gud. Lat., fol. 16r; Heitzmann/ Carmassi (note 45), p. 103.

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Fig. 9a: The Ebstorf Map as a twelvefold wind rose; Hartmut Kugler, Die Ebstorfer Weltkarte, 2 vols., Berlin 2007, vol. 1, p. 19.

Fig. 9b: Schema of the twelvefold wind rose; Hartmut Kugler, Die Ebstorfer Weltkarte, 2 vols., Berlin 2007, vol. 1, p. 19.

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its assigned region of the earth. Accompanying quotations from Isidore enhance the information on natural history, territories, and people. The map’s creators broke with convention in only one detail: they reversed the positions of the north wind septentrio, usually one of the cardinal directions, and of aquilo, the secondary wind in the north-northeast.94 Kugler is the first to take this as a deliberate decision and not as the mistake of a careless scribe. He argues convincingly that this modification was part of a program to revalue the northern region. Septentrio, with its negative reputation as a violent, destructive storm, was moved upward, closer to the area of the apocalyptic people Gog and Magog, while the immediate north became linked to the less fearsome aquilo. Thus, the character of each wind corresponded perfectly with its spatial arrangement and with the attributes associated with the climate and inhabitants of its particular region. Apparently the practice of describing and depicting the earth’s provinces in accordance with the twelve winds was widespread when Burchard wrote his travelogue in the second half of the thirteenth century. Every writer and artist and every reader and viewer knew this system by heart. The same pattern can be found in connection with wind blowers (sometimes combined with texts by Isidore) on other prominent world maps, such as the human heads on the so-called Munich Isidore Map,95 the grotesque faces on the London Psalter Map,96 and the zoomorphic heads on the Hereford Map.97 All of them relate in many aspects to the ‘Descriptio Mappemundi’, probably written by Hugh of Saint Victor, which organized the winds in the same manner and might have influenced cartographic images.98 On each map, the twelve personifications were located where winds supposedly emerged, namely beyond the circle of the earth, from where they affected its territories. It must have been against this background that Burchard utilized the prevalent theory of twelve (instead of eight or sixteen) winds to structure his travel account. He combined his choice of the accepted contemporary concept with the innovative idea of applying the model to a specific region, namely the Holy Land, where the twelve tribes of Israel and other biblical references reinforced and enhanced its meanings. Instead of classical Rhodes, which was not far away, he brought Acre into focus, the last Crusader port on the coast of the Holy Land and the starting point for his expeditions to the Near East. In the prologue of the travelogue’s long version cited

94 Kugler (note 47), no. 15/1 and 22/3. 95 Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 10058, fol. 154v; cf. Patrick Gautier Dalché, La ­Descriptio mappe mundi de Hugues de Saint-Victor. Texte inédit avec introduction et commentaire, Paris 1988, p. 193. 96 Schöller (note 10), pp. 48–49, 99, 257–258. 97 Scott D. Westrem, The Hereford Map, Turnhout 2001 (Terrarum orbis, 1), pp. 10–21, no. 16–19 on cardinal directions, no. 20–31 on winds, no. 32–34 on the earth’s three parts. 98 Schöller (note 10), pp. 77–155, 258–270.

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above, the world was divided into four parts and twelve wind directions. This concept appears in an almost identical fashion in one copy of the short version that divided the world around Acre into four sectors, each with three parts, and the corresponding winds, whereas other copyists simply misinterpreted the template or reproduced a corrupted text.99 Regardless of the different versions of the text, all of which need further investigation, Burchard was not responsible for the images, as they were all inserted at a later date. The depiction in a long version held in the British Library in London (Fig. 3), produced after 1380, focuses on the half of the world east of the harbor city: six sections between seven winds structure a long list of locations and regions. As a result, the textual description and the graphic image resonate strongly, just as they do in the case of the ‘list maps’, which were repeatedly created in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The lines were not constructed with a pair of compasses; their position depended on the number of words they contained rather than on an attempt to systematically represent the cardinal directions. The diagram in Munich Clm 569 (Fig. 2), which is a short version written in the fifteenth century, adopts the twelvefold structure from the textual description. However, the artist also recorded the other, more practical eightfold concept and inserted eight wind blowers, even though they altered the symmetrical perfection of the visualization as a whole. In contrast, the diagram in the Berlin manuscript, which is a long version dated to the end of the fourteenth or the beginning of the fifteenth century, concentrates on the twelve winds and their names in Latin and German, but does not relate them to the journey’s regional focus (Fig. 10). These concepts were, of course, not spontaneous choices but deliberate decisions with due consideration for the existing, long-standing tradition. As Eckart Conrad Lutz and Vera Jerjen point out, diagrammatic representations helped to systemize common experiences and contents related to their own society and order them logically while the knowledge was being conveyed. In this way, they stimulated readers to think about their self-positioning in the world and to reflect on their own ways

99 Short version in Klagenfurt, Ms. 10, fol. 173r–173v: Advertent autem studiosi, quomodo possem utiliter haec omnia describere, ita ut a legentibus posset facile intelligi et ymaginacione facili comprehendi, cogitavi in terra centrum aliquod locare et circa illud totam terram modo debito ordinare et ad hoc elegi civitatem Accinemsem, licet vere non sit in medio terrae, et ab ea protraxi lineas ad quatuor plagas terrae seu mundi et quamlibet partem divisi in tria, ut respondeat XIIcim ventis; cited in ­Rotter (note 3), p. 64, see p. 71 on differences to other short versions. The old print version of the text supposedly taken from a lost Regensburg manuscript is misleading; cf. Burchard de Monte Sion, Descriptio terrae sanctae, ed. Heinrich Canisius, in: Id., Antiquae lectiones 6, Ingolstadt 1604, pp. 295–322, repr. in: Jacques Basnage, Thesaurus monumentorum ecclesiasticorum et historicum, sive Henrici Canisii Lectiones antiquae, Antwerpen 1725, 4, pp. 1–28, here p. 10: cogitavi centrum aliquod in ipsa terra collocare, & circa illud totam terram ordinare, & ad hoc elegi civitatem Accononsem, licet non sit vere in medio terrae, & ab ea protraxi lineam ad decem plagas mundi, & quamlibet quartam in tria, ut respondeant novem ventis.

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Fig. 10: Berlin, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Handschriftenabteilung, Ms. lat. oct. 293 (olim Hildesheim, Bibliothek des bischöflichen Gymnasium Josephinum, Nr. 17*), fol. 1*v; 14th/15th century. By permission of the Staatsbiliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Handschriftenabteilung.

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of judging and acting.100 Historiographical texts in particular referred over and over again to established structures such as the three parts of the world, the four cardinal virtues, the six ages of the world, and the winds. The last became more prominent in the middle of the thirteenth century. Two Benedictine monks at the politically and educationally significant Abbey of St. Albans – John of Wallingford, who died in 1258, and Matthew Paris – were already concerned with the subject when they portrayed the wind rose in historiographic and cartographic contexts. Matthew’s notes on the last folio of his ­‘Historia S. Albani’ are instructive; he mentioned two medieval interpretations of the wind schema:101 the twelve winds that intersect the circular horizon at regular intervals and the s­ ixteen-point wind rose, which he considered to be mathematically more precise. In view of the limited area of southern England, the first concept betrays a debt or at least a close proximity to a model by Elias of Dereham (d. 1245), canon of Salisbury and architect of the Great Hall at Winchester Palace, whose wall is said to have been decorated with a mappamundi. Elias valued the design that was still predominant in educated circles. Matthew’s second concept followed the aforementioned practice that grouped each of the four cardinal winds with two secondary currents, but he arranged them at angles of exactly 23.5 degrees (instead of about 30 degrees), which corresponded to the declination of the southern and northern tropics from the equator. Thus, sufficient space remained to insert four more winds, bringing their overall number to sixteen. He augmented his design with mnemonic verses to ensure that readers could memorize it.102 During the same years, John of Wallingford produced a similar wind diagram with accompanying notes on the back of Matthew’s map of Britain, also preserved in London.103 This corresponding copy in another codex is not only a sign that the two creators might have worked closely together and exchanged opinions, but also suggests 100 Eckart Conrad Lutz, Geschichte verstehen. Wie mittelalterliche ‘Annalisten’ informieren und was das mit diagrammatischem Denken zu tun hat. Zu Rodulf Glaber, Hugo von St. Viktor, der ­‘Oberrheinischen’ und der ‘Limburger Chronik’, in: Lutz/ Jerjen/ Putz (note 5), p. 241–286; Vera Jerjen, Struktur und Erfahrung im ‘Welschen Gast’ Thomasins von Zerclaere, in: Lutz/ Jerjen/ Putz (note 5), S. 349–372. 101 London, British Library, Cotton Nero D.V, last folio; Eva Germaine Taylor, The ‘De Ventis’ of ­Matthew Paris, in: Imago mundi 2 (1937), pp. 23–26; Nova (note 66), pp. 178. For the description of the manuscript, see Andrew G. Watson, Catalogue of Dated and Datable Manuscripts c. 700–1600 in the Department of Manuscripts, the British Library, 2 vols., London 1979, no. 545. 102 London, British Library, Cotton Nero D.V; cited by Taylor (note 101), p. 24. For three other diagrams of winds by Matthew Paris, see Cambridge, Corpus Christi College, MS 16I (= former MS 16, fol. Ir-Vv), containing inter alia a diagram of the winds, itineraries, and maps, and MS 26; London, British Library, Royal 14 C.VII; cf. Harvey (note 3), p. 74–75. 103 London, British Library, Cotton Julius D.VII, fol. 51v–52r; cf. Alfred Hiatt, Topographies of the Past: The Anglo-Saxon Heptarchy and the Birth of Historical Geography, in: Nathalie Bouloux/ Anca Dan/ Georges Tolias (eds.), Orbis disciplinae. Hommages en l’honneur de Patrick Gautier Dalché. Turnhout, Brepols 2017, pp. 689–714, esp. p. 701; Anna-Dorothee von den Brincken, Die Klimatenkarte in der Chronik des Johann von Wallingford – ein Werk des Matthaeus Parisiensis?, in: Ead.,

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that both tried to reconcile the scholastic system, derived from antiquity, with the sublunary system utilized by sailors. In any case, it is remarkable that these two wind diagrams and several others originated in the same region within a short period of time. Other authors followed suit: During his exile in France, Brunetto Latini discussed the two concepts in his ‘Li livres dou tresor’, written between 1260 and 1266. He accentuated their equivalence in his vernacular summary of scholarly erudition and also translated the names of the winds.104 The Dominican Pere Marsili, who served under King James II of Aragon and Majorca, did not accept a clear distinction between the philosophical and the nautical classification when he described the function of lines on sea charts in the ‘Chronica illustrissimi regis Aragonum domini Iacobi’ written around 1313, which was his Latin version of a Catalan biography of the king. Patrick Gautier Dalché has clearly indicated the contradictions and fluid transitions among the various intellectual contexts, where Pere Marsili favored the nautical terms, whereas his audience still expected the Latin names that prevailed in philosophical writings.105 Under discussion was not which cultural milieus could claim superiority, but rather the different ways in which the models, which were also associated with different devices, such as the armillary sphere of the clerics and the portolan chart of the mariners, could be used.106 As these examples show, the subject was much debated in monastic, civic, and academic milieus and use of the relevant terms changed with the respective context of interpretation. In view of these developments, it is not surprising that the Hamburg diagram (Fig. 4), which was drawn at the beginning of the sixteenth century in a long version of Burchard’s ‘Descriptio’, was elaborated and refined. Text and images no longer corresponded because the draftsman had the eight- or even sixteenfold model in mind. Both concepts were implemented at the time, but the cartography of portolan charts had gained importance and the twelvefold system lived on as scientific tradition. In treatises and disputationes, scholars attempted to synchronize the two practices to fall in line with the new requirements. Approaches were compared and contrasted. The efforts resulted in wind roses like those in an early s­ ixteenth-century illuminated French manuscript of nautical instructions in Paris, which shows two circles on the same page: one with twelve rays on top and another with eight, sixteen, and thirty-two segments below (Fig. 11).107 In this way, the anonymous author solved the Studien zur Universalkartographie des Mittelalters (Veröffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte 229), Göttingen 2008, pp. 137–148, esp. p. 143. 104 Brunetto Latini, Li livres dou tresor, I, 106, 10–14, ed. Francis J. Carmody, Berkeley 1948, repr. Geneva 1998, pp. 92–93, § 10–14; Brunetto Latini, Tresor, I, 106, 10–14, ed. Pietro G. Beltrami/ Paolo Squillacioti/ Plinio Torri/ Sergio Vatteroni, Turin 2007, pp. 148–151. 105 Cf. Gautier Dalché, Pere Marsili (note 20), pp. 153–169. 106 Cf. Gautier Dalché, Pere Marsili (note 20), p. 166. 107 Paris, BnF, ms. français 2794, fol. 2r; cf. Emmanuelle Vagnon, Un portulan illustré de cartes à la Renaissance, le manuscrit français 2794 de la Bibliothèque nationale de France, in: Bouloux/ Dan/ Tolias (note 103), pp. 731–751, esp. pp. 736–740.

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Fig. 11: Two wind roses; Paris, BnF, ms. français 2794, fol. 2r; early 16th century. By permission of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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­long-standing debate about the marine wind rose that contradicted Aristotle and Isidore. He considered its regular bisections in quarters and eighths to be the simpler solution compared to traditional schemata, which described physical and climatic conditions, that is, heat and cold and humidity and aridity, outside of as well as within their circles. Only the former could be widely used and helped to understand the different regional sailing techniques in the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. On sea charts, compass roses with sixteen or even thirty-two rays had, above all, nautical relevance. Their basic design featured a web of lines that signified order and incorporated directions, distances, and measurements. The practical information these lines provided established a new dimension of map construction and produced a classification system in which a varying number of sixteen or thirty-two centers, that is, intersections of rays, covered the space of a map. Nautical handbooks and treatises, such as Benedetto Cotrugli’s ‘De navigatione’, one of the oldest known manuals of this kind, which combined practical know-how and formalized literary knowledge, referred to the new categories and described them comprehensively.108 After characterizing the twelvefold scheme, Cotrugli, a wealthy and well-educated merchant, explained the modern system of thirty-two winds associated with the compass and listed their names in Italian. Moreover, he described the way in which the different colors marked their hierarchical order: black symbolized the eight principal winds, red the half-winds (meçanici), and green the quarter-winds (quarte). Such texts verbalized regulations and instructions for navigation, whereas portolan charts provided their graphic representation and implementation. Space was usually organized according to wind directions, as the names of winds were the same as their directions. By the sixteenth century, cartographers in Italy, Spain, and Portugal had appropriated these methods, which were first established for the Mediterranean and later implemented in connection with the earth’s vast oceans. Despite their rational, geomet­ ersonifications deeply rical approach, mapmakers sometimes added wind blowers, p rooted in cultural memory, on the margins of their world maps. A telling example of this contradictory practice is one of the first printed world maps that ­pictured the New 108 Piero Falchetta, Il trattato De navigatione di Benedetto Cotrugli (1464–65). Edizione commentata del ms. Schoenberg 473. Con il testo del ms. 557 di Yale, in: Studi Veneziani 57 (2009), pp. 15–335, esp. pp.  136–143, 240–243, 305–308; Benedetto Cotrugli, De navigatione / Benedikt ­ Kotruljević, O ­plovodbi (Yale University, Beinecke Library, MS 557), ed. Damir Salopek, Zagreb 2005, pp. 150–152. For the French translation with a commentary of this passage see Emmanuelle Vagnon, La représentation cartographique de l’espace maritime, in: Patrick Gautier Dalché (ed.), La Terre. Connaissance, ­représentations, mesure au moyen âge, Turnhout 2013, pp. 443–503, esp. pp. 459–472. Cf. also Piero ­Falchetta, Schiffsgeschichten: Michele da Rodi und Benedetto Cotrugli, in: Nicole Hegener/ Lars U. Scholl (eds.), Vom Anker zum Krähennest. Nautische Bildwelten von der Renaissance bis zum Zeitalter der Fotografie / From the Anchor to the Crow’s Nest. Naval Imagery from the Renaissance to the Age of Photography, Bremen 2011, pp. 140–150.

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Fig. 12: Map of the Indian Ocean with eight wind personifications and their Venetian names, Battista Agnese, Atlas of 1542; Kassel, Universitätsbibliothek Kassel – Landesbibliothek und Murhardsche Bibliothek der Stadt Kassel, 4° Ms. Hist. 6, fol. 8v–9r. By permission of the Universitätsbibliothek Kassel – Landesbibliothek und Murhardsche Bibliothek der Stadt Kassel.

World (1508). Its maker, the Florentine cartographer Francesco R ­ osselli, surrounded his visualization of the spherical earth with personifications of the twelve winds.109 By anchoring the new discoveries of the seafarers in the traditional twelvefold worldview, he generated a hybrid depiction that combined Ptolemy’s elliptical earth and the Latin winds with new empirical information. Battista Agnese, an extremely successful mapmaker in Venice, produced at least seventy-seven atlases between 1535 and 1564, many of which ascribed a double meaning to the winds. Their network of lines with sixteen centers visualized directions to assist with basic orientation, and personifications embodied the formations of eight and twelve winds. Agnese’s atlas of June 1542, today in Kassel, is a typical example, as it comprises three different wind illustrations in the same manuscript: The portolan maps of the Indian Ocean and the Black Sea (Fig. 12), with eight wind per­ ifferent sonifications and their vernacular names, conveyed nautical meaning in two d

109 Francesco Rosselli, Planisphere, copperplate engraving in Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale ­Centrale, Landau Finaly, Carte Rosselli, planisfero; cf. Ingrid Baumgärtner, Der Portulan-Atlas des Battista Agnese. Das Kasseler Prachtexemplar von 1542, Darmstadt 2017, pp. 18–19.

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Fig. 13: World map with twelve wind personifications, Battista Agnese, Atlas of 1542; Kassel, Universitätsbibliothek Kassel – Landesbibliothek und Murhardsche Bibliothek der Stadt Kassel, 4° Ms. Hist. 6, fol. 15v–16r. By permission of the Universitätsbibliothek Kassel – Landesbibliothek und Murhardsche Bibliothek der Stadt Kassel.

styles – in Nordic-German and Venetian, respectively.110 The twelve wind heads on the following Ptolemaic map, which surround an elliptical earth with a modernized geography and the route of the globe’s first circumnavigation by M ­ agellan, evoked the ancient scientific tradition through their names in Latin and Greek (Fig. 13).111 The different concepts matched perfectly with the cartographic picture that was being presented: the first displayed the Indian Ocean in accordance with the seafarers’ new information about Africa and Asia and the second showed the Black Sea as a Venetian dominion; on each of these two maps, a part of the earth was combined with geographical knowledge on coastlines and ports. The third map depicted the entire world in keeping with the most recent information, while its elliptical shape and twelve putti referred to the scientific standards of Ptolemy.

110 Battista Agnese, Portulan Atlas, Kassel, Universitätsbibliothek Kassel – Landesbibliothek und Murhardsche Bibliothek der Stadt Kassel, 4° Ms. Hist. 6, fol. 8v–9r and fol. 14v–15r; cf. Baumgärtner (note 109), pp. 69–70, 76–78. 111 Battista Agnese, Portulan Atlas, Kassel, Universitätsbibliothek Kassel – Landesbibliothek und Murhardsche Bibliothek der Stadt Kassel, 4° Ms. Hist. 6, fol. 15v–16r; cf. Baumgärtner (note 109), pp. 78–83.

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The contemporary audience was obviously accustomed to both styles and expected, accepted, and encouraged the discourse with all its contradictions. The growing production of portolan charts led to the increasing importance of the eightfold system not only for mariners but even for erudite readers and viewers. The late medieval shift to the vernacular, the multitude of powers concerned with the making of portolan charts, and the international composition of the field forced the question of language into focus. This went so far that, for example, in one of his atlases the Portuguese cartographer Diogo Homem included a concordance of wind names in different languages with explanations of their character and relevance.112 His familiarity with various languages was likely a result of his own life experience, as he had been exiled for a crime and worked first in England and later in Venice, where he died in 1576. The persistence of contradictory systems might be the reason that Burchard’s travelogue attracted a range of visualizations until the sixteenth century, even though or perhaps because his text offered only a rough structure and did not refine the wind names or other parameters. Thus illustrators could conceive their own visual designs based on their own associations.

Conclusion In the Middle Ages, concepts such as the three or four parts of the earth and the twelve or eight directions of the winds were used in texts and images to organize perceptions of the world. This was possible owing to their dual meaning: the parts of the world appeared as its quarters and as three differently sized ‘continents’, the winds as natural phenomena and as directions. The two models complemented one another excellently and between them described the composition of the world. For research on the intentions behind the use of these concepts, Burchard’s travel report ‘Descriptio terrae sanctae’, written between 1274 and 1285, provides an exceptional source because the text evolved from both principles. Burchard divided the territory around Acre into four parts and twelve sections, seven on land and five at sea, according to the wind directions. During the text’s history from the fourteenth to the sixteenth century, copyists adopted these guidelines and furnished the travelogue with various graphic representations of the written words. Whereas the travel report itself and its earliest images followed the scientific system of twelve winds, it was subsequently combined with the eightfold model. This alteration in the course of the text’s reception is noteworthy because it was implemented to aid readers’ comprehension of the narratives through a systematic categorization of the information. Apparently, conceptual models were behind these developments. 112 Taylor (note 101), p. 26.

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This essay demonstrated how and why phenomena such as winds and geographic entities, at first referred to as parts of the earth and only later as continents, became crucial for the perception of the world’s structure. A representative sample of encyclopedic and historiographical writings, cartographic material, and travel literature from the Middle Ages has revealed that these cultural concepts developed over a long period of time. From their conception in antiquity to their wider dissemination as cartographic and textual motifs, they were important for visualizing and memorizing their underlying ideas. Tensions between the four- and threefold concept, on the one hand, and the eight- and twelvefold concept, on the other, led to contradictions and dynamics that evoked changes in their meaning. Ancient scientific knowledge about the physical world was combined with Christian exegesis. Religious content and motifs such as the Holy Trinity, the cross, and the evangelizing Twelve Apostles were systematically linked to information from pagan sources. The diagrams of the earth and the winds provided sophisticated vehicles for productive reflections on conflicting ideas. The numbers three, four, eight, and twelve came to signify entire belief systems, while their scientific meaning was combined with Christian subtext. Finally, new contexts and new interpretations led to the evolution of the four quarters and three parts of the world into continents when an additional landmass was discovered on earth. The wind directions acquired new meaning when the portolan chart wind roses with sixteen or thirty-two rays dominated the discourse. Other spatial models were developed to explain the earth’s structure. The climate zones, for example, organized the globe according to meteorological conditions and their alleged effects on people and cultures. The zones were used to differentiate cultural and political settings not only on maps but even in historiographies and travel literature. William of Malmesbury was not the only author who attributed a weakness to the people of the East and their long-lasting empires, which he linked to climatic conditions.113 Such models, however, were less appealing and less appropriate for a broader public. Diagrammatic symbols such as T-O maps and wind roses were simple but also meaningful and effective. Within seconds, entire worlds could be constructed that were inaccessible to the naked eye. In the Middle Ages, the earth’s parts and the wind directions became basic categories, which were adopted as conventions by which to structure the world. The borders of the continents were just as invisible as the winds, but the words of their descriptions and the lines of their depictions made them visible and gave shape to their elusive presence.

113 William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum anglorum IV, 360, eds. Roger A. B. Mynors/ Rodney M. Thomson, 2 vols., Oxford 1998–1999, here vol. 1, 632–634: As many travelers, he was absolutely convinced that the ‘Persian’ (i.e., Seljuk) Empire was less the result of its strong rulers than of the weak personality and servile habit of their climatically determined subjects. Cf. Mauntel (note 62), pp. 370–371, 380.

Katrin Kogman-Appel

Fictive Travel and Mapmaking in Fourteenth-Century Iberia Abstract: In this essay I discuss the itineraries recounted in an anonymous Castilian text from the fourteenth century entitled ‘The Book of Knowledge of all Kingdoms’. Earlier scholarship tended to date the volume to the end of the century. The text, written in the form of a fictive travel report, describes the entire known world from the Atlantic Ocean in the west to China in the east. The portrayal of each kingdom is accompanied by an image of its flag, which often displays its coat of arms. The text has frequently been analyzed in conjunction with portolan charts, which indicates that some of the included information, especially place names and the design of the flags, owes a great debt to such charts. Specifically, scholars have suggested the so-called Catalan mappamundi in Paris (1375) or a similar world map as an optional source for the ‘Book of Knowledge’. The present essay scrutinizes the travel routes described in the book in an attempt to understand how the author imagined and planned his journeys. Observations about these itineraries reveal that only those routes that crossed Europe could be envisioned with the help of a map, whereas no such visual aid was available for the section on Asia. This not only indicates that the ‘Book of Knowledge’ predates the Catalan mappamundi and any similar hypothetical project, but also demonstrates how a medieval author of a fictive travel report approached varied sources that could be mined for bits of geographic information. Keywords: Travel literature and maps, Libro de conosçimiento, fictive travel

Introduction On some unknown date during the fourteenth century, somewhere in the Kingdom of Castile, a text eventually entitled ‘Libro del conosçimiento de todos los rregnos e tierra e señoros’1 was put out by an anonymous author. The work has survived in four

1 The full title reads: Libro del conosçimiento de todos los rregnos e tierra e señoros que son por el mundi, et de las señales et armas que han en cada tierra et señorio por sy e delos rreys e señores que las prouyen (The Book of Knowledge of all the Kingdoms and Lands and Lordships that There Are in the World, and of the Emblems and Arms that There Are in Each Land and Lordship Itself, and of the Kings and Lords that Rule Them); for an edition of the Castilian text juxtaposed with an English translation, see Nancy F. Marino (ed./ transl.), El Libro del conoscimiento de todos los reinos (The Book Katrin Kogman-Appel, Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität, Münster, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-006

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illuminated medieval copies, all presumably from the fifteenth century.2 Two copies are now in Madrid, one is in Salamanca, and one is in Munich, and none of them is dated.3 One of the Madrid manuscripts, cod. 1997, contains the complete text and is the most lavish in terms of the painted work. However, it is not the most accurate version in terms of its relationship to the original text. Rather, the Munich codex is considered the one that harks back to the earliest version.4 None of the manuscripts is signed, but they all include a brief introduction that mentions the birth date of the author, 1304; moreover, none notes either the date of its composition or the author’s name.5 As the title indicates the text provides a description of the ecumene, the entire known world from the Atlantic Ocean in the west to China in the east. It relates to todos los rregnos – ‘all of the kingdoms’ – and is in the form of a fictive travel report.6 It was long thought that the author was a Franciscan monk, but this was challenged by several scholars, and recently Nancy Marino has argued convincingly that he was in fact a secular expert in heraldry.7 The narrator informs his readers that he left Seville to travel from kingdom to kingdom. There is a brief description of each kingdom, a paragraph or so, quite schematic and somewhat redundant, often mentioning various cities, sometimes highlighting the one city where “they crown their king”. Each such account concludes with a description of the flag – a line or two – and an image of that flag (Figs. 1–3). In the following pages I scrutinize the travel routes described in the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ in an attempt to reconstruct the way that the author imagined and planned his fictive journeys. Owing to its description of the ecumene and to the depiction of the various kingdoms’ flags, this text has frequently been associated

of Knowledge of All Kingdoms), Tempe/ AZ 1999, p. xiii; the text was also edited by Joaquín Rubio Tovar, Viajes medievales, vol. 1, Madrid 2005. 2 This essay is part of a research project on the intellectual and professional background of Elisha ben Abraham Cresques, the presumed author of the Catalan mappamundi, supported by an Alexander von Humboldt Professorship, 2015–2020, and a grant from the Israeli Science Foundation, 2012–2016 (ISF grant 122/12). 3 Madrid, Biblioteca nacional, MS 9055 and MS 1997; Salamanca, Biblioteca Universidad, MS 1980; Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, cod. hisp. 150; for a facsimile edition of the last, see María Jesús Lacarra/ María del Carmen Lacarra Ducay/ Alberto Montaner (eds.), Libro del Conoscimiento de todos los rregnos et tierra et señorios que son por el mundi, et de las señales et armas que han. Edición facsimilar del manuscrito Z, Saragossa 1999. 4 For a description and discussion of the manuscripts, see Marino (note 1), pp. xi–xvi in her introduction to the bilingual edition; even though the Munich codex is considered to reflect an early version, its text, as Marino notes, was rather carelessly produced. 5 Marino (note 1), pp. 2–3. 6 Fictive travelogues were not very common; the most famous example is one about Sir John Mandeville’s travels. The ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ can in no way be compared with the latter; it is not an account of travel adventures, but a text aimed at mapping the political situations of the day. 7 Marino (note 1), pp. xxxviii–xliv discusses the earlier arguments; Peter Russel, La heráldica en el Libro del conosçimiento, in: Studie in honorem prof. M. de Riquer, Barcelona 1987, vol. 2, pp. 687–697, suggested that the author was a layman.

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with portolan charts, of which some 200 survive from the period between the 1200 and 1500.8 As they visualized nautical information regarding the location of ports and knowledge of distances, the shapes of coastlines, and various geographical phenomena, portolan charts made for a sophisticated cartographic medium. The production of such charts flourished particularly in Italy and Majorca.9 Perhaps conceived as aids in navigating the Mediterranean and the Black Sea, the genre also included other maps that were used for study and embellished in paint. These latter charts, often display flags of the sort found in the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ (Figs. 4–13). One such map, the so-called Catalan mappamundi, ca. 1375 (Fig. 4), which visualizes not only the Mediterranean Basin and the Black Sea, but the entire ecumene,10 was of particular interest in the scholarship concerning the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’. Documented to have been in the possession of the French Court since 1380, it is commonly attributed to the Jewish Majorcan mapmaker Cresques ben Abraham. In 1975 Jaume Riera i Sans identified Cresques with the Hebrew scribe and illuminator Elisha Cresques ben Abraham (1325–1387), who produced the Farhi Bible between the years 1366 and 1382.11 Elisha was active in Majorca for several decades as a scribe

8 This was suggested as early as in the 19th c.; for a detailed discussion of the earlier literature, see Bonaventura Bonnet, Las Canarias y es primer libro de geografía medieval, escrito por u fraile español en 1350, in: Revista de Historia 67 (1944), pp. 209–210; for later discussions, see Michèle Guéret-Laferté, Sur les routes de l’empire Mongol. Ordre et rhétorique des relations de voyage aux XIIIe et XIVe siècles (Nouvelle Bibliothèque de Moyen Âge 28), Paris 1994, pp. 92–93, which focuses on a 1339 chart by Angelino Dulcert; Marino (note 1), pp. xxvii–xxxviii; yet more recently Julia Roumier, El Libro del conosçimiento: l’imaginaire cartographique dans un voyage à travers les images, in: Loïc P. Guyon (ed.), Image et voyage. Représentations iconographiques du voyage, de la Méditerranée aux Indes orientales et occidentales, de la fin du Moyen Âge au XIXe siècle, Aix-en-Provence 2012, pp. 41–52, which suggests a no longer extant world map that combines features of Dulcert’s work and the Catalan world map; Emmanuelle Vagnon, Cartographie et Représentations de l’Orient méditerranéen en Occident (du milieu du XIIIe à la fin du XVe siècle), Turnhout 2013, pp. 239–241, assumes that the author used a circular world map, but the grounds on which she makes this assumption are not clear. 9 The literature on portolan charts is vast and I mention here only a few – the most recent projects; for an overview, see Tony Campbell, Portolan Charts from the Late Thirteenth Century to 1500, in: John B. Harley/ David Woodward (eds.), The History of Cartography, vol. 1: Cartography in Prehistoric, Ancient, and Medieval Europe and the Mediterranean, Chicago, London 1987, pp. 371–463; Philipp Billion, Graphische Zeichen auf mittelalterlichen Portolankarten. Ursprünge, Produktion und Rezeption bis 1440, Marburg 2011; Ramon J. Pujades i Bataller, Les cartes portolanes. La representació medieval d’una mar solcada, Barcelona 2007 with an English translation of the Catalan text; Sandra Sáenz-López Pérez, Imagen y conocimiento del mundo en la Edad Media a través de la cartografía hispana, PhD diss. Universidad Complutense Madrid 2007; see also Catherine Hofmann/ Hélène Richard/ Emanuelle Vagnon (eds.), L’âge d’or des cartes marines. Quand l’Europe découvrait le monde (exhib.cat.), Seuil 2012. 10 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, cod. esp. 30, http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b55002481n. r=abraham%20cresques?rk=42918;4 (accessed November 2016). 11 Jaume Riera i Sans, Cresques Abraham, judío de Mallorca, maestro de mapamundis y de brújulas, in: Gabriel Llompart i Moragues et al. (ed.), El Atlas Catalán de Cresques Abraham, Barcelona

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and illuminator of Hebrew manuscripts. He must have developed an interest in cartography around the 1350s, and from 1368 on archival material documented him as the most outstanding cartographer in the Crown of Aragon.12 There are some striking similarities between the Catalan mappamundi and the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’13: some of the map’s captions echo information offered in the Libro and the designs of many of the flags and their association with specific political realms have a lot in common. Some scholars have suggested that among his sources, the author of the Libro used a map of the same type as the Catalan mappamundi.14 Apart from their similarities, however, there are also significant differences that render the relationship between the two works more complex. Most strikingly, the Libro includes numerous references to the Monstrous Races of the East and other fabulous elements. These features, which are described verbally and depicted visually in the Libro, are largely absent from the imagery of the mappamundi. This is not simply a divergence born out of an enigmatic model-copy relationship, but, rather, a basic difference in regard to the ways the Libro’s author and Elisha Cresques envisioned the world. Moreover, as I shall show elsewhere the approach to the flags as markers of political power in the mappamundi appears to be significantly more sophisticated than that of the Libro’s imagery.15 In this essay I approach the itineraries in the Libro by asking how they would function when we compare them with cartographic realities. That the author of the Libro never traveled far is beyond doubt. It is also quite obvious that his primary interest was heraldry and that he was less concerned with accurate geographical details. Still, he chose to communicate his knowledge about heraldry in the form of a series of

1975, pp. 14–22; for the Farhi Bible: former collection of David Sassoon, MS 368, David S. Sassoon, Ohel Dawid. Descriptive Catalogue of the Hebrew and Samaritan Manuscripts in the Sassoon Library, London, Oxford, 1932, vol. 1, pp. 6–11; Bezalel Narkiss, Hebrew Illuminated Manuscripts [in Hebrew], Jerusalem 1984, pp. 98–99; Katrin Kogman-Appel, Jewish Book Art Between Islam and Christianity. The Decoration of Hebrew Bibles in Spain, Leiden, Boston 2004, pp. 150–154. 12 For a thorough discussion of the archival evidence, see Riera (note 11); for a summary of the biographic evidence about Elisha Cresques, see Katrin Kogman-Appel, Observations on the Work of Elisha ben Abraham Cresques, in: Ars Judaica 10 (2014), pp. 27–36. 13 See especially Russel (note 7), p. 693; for a summary of the argumentation, see Marino (note 1), pp. xxvii–xxxi. 14 The library of the Tokapi Serail in Istanbul, 1828 (49361/2758) houses a small fragment of a circular mappamundi showing only the northeastern end of Asia; as the surviving area shares numerous features with the Catalan mappamundi, it has been suggested that it should be attributed to Elisha Cresques’s workshop; Billion (note 9), pp. 184–188; that the two works are closely related is beyond doubt; at the current stage, however, and owing to the fact that the librarian in Istanbul refused to grant access to the map, the attribution of the Istanbul Map to Elisha remains uncertain; despite obvious similarities and very similar proportions, there are stylistic divergences that put this attribution in doubt. 15 Katrin Kogman-Appel, Books and Maps in Fourteenth-Century Majorca: The Intellectual Profile of Elisha ben Abraham Cresques, chap. 5, in preparation.

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itineraries (not, e.g., in the form of a list), thus leading his readers to believe that he moved in a space that comprised geographic and political realities. Such movements, naturally, can easily be conceived with the aid of maps. Hence, when we want to elucidate the relationship between the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ and contemporary maps, it is not sufficient to compare the textual or heraldic (or other iconographic) information, as several scholars have already done.16 Rather, it is necessary to understand the way a particular map’s visual perception would have facilitated the author’s imagining of itineraries that seemed to him logical and consistent. The way the Libro’s author organized these routes indicates that wherever he could he oriented himself with the aid of a map. However, as we shall see, there were certain areas of the known world for which he apparently did not have a suitable map to rely on, which casts doubt on the possibility that he had a full map of the entire ecumene in front of him. In fact, at the time he put his itinerary to parchment, no such map seems to have been available.

The Likely Date of the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ The ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ cannot be firmly dated. The only clue in the text itself is the author’s birthdate – 1304 or 1305 – in the introduction. Nevertheless, many scholars have suggested a date toward the end of the fourteenth century. In his description of Iberia the author mentions a battle between “King Don Alfonso de Castilla” and “Alboaçen”,17 which most likely refers to the Battle of Salado in 1340 between Alfonso XI (d. 1350) and Sultan Abu al-Hassan of Morocco (d. 1351). A few pages further on Abu al-Hassan is mentioned again as having been defeated in Kairouan in a reference to a campaign that took place in 1348.18 The fact that the author noted these two events suggests that he worked after the middle of the century. 16 See above note 14. 17 Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 22–23; for a discussion, ibid., introduction, pp.  xxxii. 18 Bonnet (note 8), p. 207; Georges Pasch, Les drapeaux des cartes-portolans: Drapeaux du Libro de Conoscimiento, in: Vexillogia: Bulletin de l’Association française d’Etudes international de Vexillologie 2:1–2 (1969), p. 9; John Kenneth Hyde, Real and Imaginary Journeys in the later Middle Ages, in: Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester 65:1 (1982), p. 146, proposed a date between 1348 and 1375 without indicating explicitly why he suggested the far end of this time span; given that he assumed that the Libro’s author used a map similar to the Catalan mappamudi, this likely would have led him to suggest that time period; Martín de Riquer, La heráldica en el Libro de Conoscimiento por tercera vez, in: Letters and Society in Fifteenth-Century Spain. Studies Presented to P. E. Russell on his Eightieth Birthday, London 1993, p. 317, suggested a date during the 1350s referring to the Genoese flag (see, e. g., Munich, hisp. 150, fol. 20v) adorning Corsica, apparently referring to the 1352 war between Genoa and Catalonia; however, there are two earlier portolan charts that also mark Corsica with a Genoese flag, and it is quite possible that the Libro’s attribution of Corsica to Genoa has nothing to do with that battle.

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Occasionally the treatment of the heraldry in relation to certain political developments has been approached as a clue to the Libro’s date. Similarly, heraldry has occasionally been employed to find hints for the dating of painted portolan charts, a method that should only be used with great caution.19 For example, the author explains that the “king [of England] is of the House of Françia (France),” and thus we find “in two quarters […] gold flowers on a field of blue”.20 The image of the flag of England is quartered and shows two fields with golden lions on red ground, typical of the arms of the Plantagenets, and two fields with the French fleur-de-lis (Fig. 1). In 1337 Edward III of England declared himself heir to the French throne, and in 1340 he changed the flag accordingly, quartering the Plantagenet flag to add the French colors in two quarters to mark his claim. It was only in 1360 that he renounced that claim, a fact that narrows down the possible date of the composition of the Libro to the 1350s or the early 1360s, which would leave some time for news of political change to have traveled to Castile. It is worthy of note that all the portolan charts with painted elements show England with the Plantagenet banner and none shows even a hint of a quartered flag. The earliest such chart associated with Majorca was signed by Angelino Dalorto in 1325 or 1330.21 Angelino Dulcert, whom some scholars hold to be identical to Dalorto, signed a chart in 1339 (Fig. 8)22 and an undated map now in London from around the same period.23 All of these maps predate the change in the English flag. Others, which I discuss further on, apparently postdate the events in England (Fig. 5). The flag of Bohemia also suggests a terminus post quem for the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ during the 1340s, as it shows the colors of Charles IV of Luxemburg, who became emperor in 1346 (Fig. 2 and Fig. 5). Other observations of this kind have led some scholars to date the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ considerably later, but these suggestions can be dismissed. Martín de 19 As asserted by Campbell (note 9), pp. 399–401, indications of certain political rules on specific charts can establish a terminus ante quem toward their dating; this may apply in those instances in which there are objective reasons to believe that this or that flag reflects current events; the method can lead to shaky ground, as it has been pointed out that in relation to the political moves of the day, these flags lack accuracy, are often outdated, and are occasionally manipulative in terms of how they present certain unfavorable political circumstances or even wishful thinking. For a summary of methodological approaches to dating portolan charts, see Billion (note 9), pp. 18–19. 20 Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 18–19; for the discussion, see Martín de Riquer, La heráldica en el Libro de Conoscimiento y la problema de su datación, in: Dicenda. Cuadernos de Filología Hizpánica, vol. 6 of Estudios y textos dedicados a Francisco Lópex Estrada, Madrid 1987, p. 317; Marino (note 1), p. xxxv. 21 Florence, collection Corsini, published in Arthur R. Hinks, The Portolan Chart of Angellino de Dalorto, MCCCXXV in the Collection of Prince Corsini at Florence, London 1929; most scholars read the date in the colophon as 1325, but Pujades suggests that one should read it as 1330; Pujades (note 9), pp. 489–490. 22 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, CPL GE B-696 (RES), http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b7759104r.r=dulcert (accessed November 2016); for the claim that Dulcert and Dalorto were one and the same, see Pujades (note 9), pp. 489–490. 23 British Library, MS Add. 25691.

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Fig. 1: England and Ireland, Libro del Conosçimiento; Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, cod. hisp. 150, Iberia, 15th c., fol. 5v. By permission of the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München.

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Fig. 2: Bohemia, Libro del Conosçimiento; Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, cod. hisp. 150, Iberia, 15th c., fol. 4r. By permission of the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München.

Riquer, for example, contends that the image of the French banner shows only three golden lilies on a blue ground, which is also confirmed by the verbal description. This version of the French flag was introduced in 1376, whereas until that date it was entirely covered by lilies.24 This apparently allows for the assumption of a date after 1376. However, an examination of the manuscripts reveals that this applies only to three of the four copies and that the Munich manuscript, which, as I noted, is thought to reflect the earliest version shows the old flag (Fig. 3), while its text says explicitly: el Rey de Francia ha por seynales un prudon azul con flores de oro atal (“the King of France has as his insignia a blue banner with golden flowers”).25

24 De Riquer (note 20), p. 318. 25 The other copies read “tres flores” (three flowers), e. g., Madrid, MS 1997, fol. 3r; see also Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 8–9.

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Fig. 3: Navarre, Toulouse, France, and Flanders, Libro del Conosçimiento, Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, cod. hisp. 150, Iberia, 15th c., fol. 3r. By permission of the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München.

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Marino, who agrees with de Riquer, posits yet another argument for a late date. Noting Avignon, the author of the Libro explained that the “Pope of Rome” resides in that city. Marino associates this remark with the Great Schism of 1378.26 Given that the Libro is only cited in another work as late as 1402,27 Marino suggests a date between 1378 and 1402. However, there is no need to link the mention of the popes’ residence in Avignon with the Great Schism, as the popes had resided there since 1309, when Clement V refused to move to Rome. The first pope to return to Rome after 67 years was Gregory XI in 1377, which was, in fact, the cause of the Great Schism. The explicit mention of the “Pope of Rome” clearly indicates that the author was referring to the period before the Schism. After this period, precisely the year 1378, the popes remained in Rome, whereas it was their adversaries who resided in Avignon. Moreover, if the date given in the introduction indeed refers to the author’s birth date (1304 or 1305), a date between 1378 and 1402 would make him quite an elderly man – between 73 and 97 – at the time he wrote the book. Given the life expectancy in the fourteenth century, a date around 1378 is not impossible, but not very likely.28 Taking all of these observations into account suggests that the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ was composed during the 1360s, and there is really no internal evidence that supports a later date.

Narrating Fictive Routes in a Coherent Space Beyond the issue of dating, the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ poses further interesting questions. The principal issue concerns the way the author gathered the geographical information. In order to compose such a description of the entire known world, he must have conceived of the ecumene as a coherent space. He arranged his account by means of a 26 Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 8–9, and introduction, p. xxxvii. 27 As observed first by Peter Russel, The Infante Dom Henrique and the Libro del conoscimiento del mundo, in: In memoriam Ruben Andresen Leitão, Lisbon 1981, vol. 2, pp. 259–267. 28 Marino (note 1), Introduction, pp. xxxii–xxxvii; Marino’s unlikely solution for this is the suggestion that the birthdate given in the introduction is fictive; the mentioned text from 1402 relies on the Libroʼs itinerary to the Canary Islands; for more information, see Bonnet (note 8), pp. 205–227; finally, in an attempt to account for the observations based on heraldry that point to the 1360s with suggestions of a later date, some scholars have argued that the author of the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ incorporated heraldic information from his sources, among them at least one portolan map with flags, without adapting it to the changing political realities; Russel (note 7), p. 691, dismisses the above-mentioned reference to the Battle of Salado; however, given the author’s obvious interest in heraldry, the assumption that he did not put any thought into the appearance of the flags is an unlikely solution; on the date see also María Jesús Lacarra, El Libro del concosçimiento: un viaje alrededor de un mapa, in: Lacarra/ Lacarra Ducay/ Montaner (note 3), pp. 77–93, who links the Libro to sources from the 1360s perhaps used by its author; she also observes, however, that it contains no references to the tales of Sir John Mandeville, Marco Polo, or Hayton of Coricos, all of which existed in Catalan translation by the 1370s.

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fictively designed travel itinerary, and the question we have to ask is: What guided him in determining the directions he took and the sequence of stations? Reading through certain sections of the text, one gets the impression time and again that the narrator moves within a visualized space. As I show below, he occasionally speaks from a bird’seye perspective, but in other passages this sense of coherently visualized space is lost and those parts of the itinerary seem to have been determined with no visual aid at all. In the following I approach the political spaces described in the book by asking how the visual perception of particular maps may have facilitated the author’s imagining of a seemingly logical and consistent itinerary. Marking the routes, for example, on a modern map makes one realize how unlikely it is that the author ever left Castile. It is not only the inaccuracy of the information offered, but also a lack of consistency in the physical sense, which becomes apparent if one visualizes the itinerary in relation to a present-day map. In contrast, the itineraries of real travelers, such as the Venetian Marco Polo (d. 1324) or the Moroccan Muhammad ibn Battuta (d. 1368) marked on a modern map make (almost) complete sense.29 There is, however, no point in proving that the Libro’s itinerary is fictive.30 Rather, the present discussion is designed to demonstrate that the author did indeed work with a map. However, I show that he did not simply borrow information conveyed on a map (or maps), but rather utilized it (them) as a visual device in order to impart a sense of coherent space. Marking some of the described travel itineraries on late medieval portolan charts offered an image, which, in contrast to the illogical web of routes on a modern map, suggests a somewhat consistent movement in space. Focusing on the itinerary specifically in relation to Dulcert’s charts and two maps attributed to Elisha Cresques yields interesting observations. In terms of their scope these maps are traditional portolan charts of the Mediterranean Basin and the Black Sea. As far as the eastern part of the ecumene is concerned, however, the itinerary seems to lose touch with a map, and it is quite obvious that the Catalan mappamundi was not among our author’s sources (Fig. 4). This poses the question as to whether it is feasible to assume that the Libro’s author really had access to a map of the entire ecumene.

29 And yet, in both cases the reality of their travels has been put in doubt by scholars who have suggested that they were fictive; on Marco Polo, see Francis Wood, Did Marco Polo Go to China?, Boulder/ CO 1996; on Ibn Battuta, see Ralf Elger (ed./ transl.), Ibn Battuta: Die Wunder des Morgenlandes. Reisen durch Afrika and Asien. Nach der arabischen Ausgabe von Muhammad al-Bailuni ins Deutsche übertragen, kommentiert und mit einem Nachwort versehen, Munich 2010, epilogue; in both cases the accounts were not written by the travelers themselves, but dictated to writers, a fact that resulted in inconsistencies and, in the latter case, insertions from earlier travel literature; despite such doubts, there is a broad consensus that both men really traveled. Whatever the case, concerning most of their routes their itineraries more or less make sense on the map. For editions, see Marco Polo (Rustichello of Pisa), Le Devisement du monde, ed. Philippe Ménard, Genève 2001–2009; Muhammad ibn Battuta (Ibn Juzayy al-Kalbi), The Travels of Ibn Baṭṭūṭa A.D. 1325–1354, ed. and transl. Hamilton A. R. Gibb, London 1929. 30 Marino (note 1), pp. xvi–xxvii.

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Fig. 4: Catalan mappamundi, attributed to Elisha ben Abraham Cresques; Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, cod. esp. 30, Majorca, ca. 1375. By permission of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Before I proceed any further, I should introduce Elisha’s earlier cartographic work. There are two smaller charts with painted embellishments that can be attributed to him, one in Paris (Figs. 5, 6, and 10) and the other in Naples (Figs. 7 and 9).31 Neither of them shows the entire ecumene, but rather only the traditional scope of the contemporary portolan charts. Neither is signed or dated, nor have they been studied in any depth. Observing many similarities to the Catalan mappamundi, most earlier scholars attributed these maps to Elisha’s workshop and suggested that they were produced after the mappamundi.32 However, there is no real reason to conclude such a late date, and in view of some measure of crudeness in the painted elements, the Paris Chart should be considered one of Elisha’s earlier works. Elsewhere, together with further internal evidence, I suggest a date shortly after 1355; the Naples Chart can apparently be dated somewhat later.33 These suppositions indicate that in all likelihood the Paris Chart, and perhaps also the Naples Chart, predates the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ by several years and shed light on its overall chronology in relation to cartographic work. It also suggests that its author may have used one of these maps toward the creation of his itinerary.

31 Bibliothèque nationale de France, GE AA – 751 (RES), http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b53064889t. r=AA%20751 (accessed November 2016); Biblioteca Nazionale Vittorio Emanuele III, Sala Direzione, Ms. XII D 102. 32 For the attribution of the Paris Chart to Elisha Cresques, see, e. g., Julio Rey Pastor/ Ernesto García Camarero, La Cartografia Mallorquina, Madrid 1960, p. 60; some scholars attributed this chart specifically to Elisha’s son Jafudà, who was trained in his father’s workshop: see Marcel Destombes, Cartes catalanes du XIVe siècle in: Rapport de la Commission pour la Bibliographie des Cartes Anciennes de l’Union Géographique International, Paris 1952, vol. 1, pp. 60–62; Youssouf Kamal, Monumenta Cartographica Africae et Aegypti, Cairo 1926–1951, vol. 4, Nr. 1396; Tony Campbell, Census of Pre-Sixteenth-Century Portolan Charts, http://www.maphistory.info/portolan.html (accessed Nov. 2016); as to the attribution of the latter to Elisha, see Billion (note 8), pp. 189–190. 33 Kogman-Appel (note 15), chap. 1, in preparation.

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A Sea Trip to the Atlantic Islands The fictive traveler begins his journey in Iberia and at some point finds himself near Cape Bojador on the North African Atlantic coast. From there he takes a boat trip into the Atlantic Ocean, which at the time would have been considered a particularly risky and adventurous undertaking, as nautical knowledge of the Atlantic was rudimentary. Without much apparent effort, the vessel reaches landmasses that are now known as the Canary Islands, Madeira, and the Azores. Associating the islands with the antique notion of the Fortunate Islands (“[I] went to see the Lost Islands that Ptolemy calls the Fortunate Islands”), he lists them one by one by their names.34 This trip to the islands can easily be visualized when looking at any of Elisha’s charts (Figs. 5 and 6). A glimpse at what is apparently his earliest extant map, the Paris Chart demonstrates this point, even though the details are no longer entirely legible; they can be followed more easily on the Naples Chart. First the author explains that the distance between Cape Bojador and the “first island […] Gresa (Graciosa)” is 110 miles. From the point of view of a traveler sailing from the Cape, the nearest (“first”) island is not Graciosa, but Fuerteventura. However, looking at them from the bird’s-eye perspective of the Paris Chart graciossa is the first in a series of toponyms marking the Canary Archipelago. Even though the first one on the map is areganza (Alegranza), the caption graciossa is actually the first to be read as it appears further north. The distance of 110 miles, on the other hand, seems to refer to Lanzarote. As other portolan charts, the Paris Chart has measuring scales, each such scale marking 50 miles,35 and the distance from the shore to Lanzarote is approximately two such scales. The following islands are shown on the Paris Chart: graciossa, l’aregranza, rocho (Roque), lansejano (Tenerife), gomora (La Gomera), fero (El Hierro), lanzeroto maloxelo, negimari (Lobos), fortoventura, and canaria. Their appearance on the map undoubtedly relies on nautical information, as their placement (a bit too far south), their numbers (missing one) and, more importantly, their shapes happen to be geographically accurate. Further to the northwest, Elisha, apparently the first cartographer to do so, marked the Madeira Archipelago: porto sancto, legname (Madeira), deserte (Desertas), and salvatge (Savage Islands). For this group, too, he must have had access to some nautical information as the number, the sizes, and the locations of the islands are all fairly accurate, but their shapes are stylized. Finally, all of the maps associated with Elisha’s workshop show six islands (legible only on the Naples Chart) off the Iberian coast, which, by some of their names, can be identified as what are now known as the Azores: corvi marini (Corvo), li conigi (Flores), san 34 Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 48–49. 35 Place names cited from the charts appear in lower-case italics and all other place names both from the Libro and in their modern usage appear in roman and capitalized. For details on scales on portolan charts, see Billion (note 9), pp. 68–75.

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Fig. 5: Atlantic Islands, portolan chart attributed to Elisha ben Abraham Cresques; Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, GE AA – 751 (RES), Majorca, ca. 1355–1360. By permission of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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Fig. 6: Atlantic Islands, portolan chart attributed to Elisha ben Abraham Cresques; Biblioteca Nazionale Vittorio Emanuele III, Sala Direzione, Ms. XII D 102, Majorca, ca. 1360–1370.

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zorzo (Saõ Jorge), ventura (Faial), li colunbi (Pico), and brazil (Terceira).36 In terms of its geographic characteristics, the archipelago vaguely reflects the placement of the individual islands, but again their shapes are stylized, so they must have been rendered with the aid of partial nautical information. In reality, the archipelago is located much further to the west. All of these are also listed in the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’, but Lanzeroto and Negimari do not appear in the earliest extant version of the book (as apparent from the Munich manuscript).37 Some of them appear under other names, such as Infierno instead of Lansejano. Neither Dulcert nor his predecessor Dalorto showed Madeira and the Azores as they are described in the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’. In 1325 and 1339, respectively, most of these islands were not yet known. Moreover, Cape Bojador, which in the Libro is mentioned as a point of departure and is marked on Elisha’s maps, does not appear on the earlier charts. Only a few islands are shown on those maps and they are not anywhere near where one would expect to find Cape Bojador. Only four of the Canary Islands appear on Dulcert’s charts (canaria being misplaced), which include what was apparently the first cartographic mention of the island of under that name, which was after its discoverer, the Genoese navigator Lanzarotus Marocelus, who arrived there in 1312. Lanzarote is the only island that is drawn accurately on Dulcert’s charts; the others are stylized (Fig. 7). Thus, with that one exception none of the islands was portrayed based on nautical knowledge, but rather on perhaps vague (oral and thus no longer extant?) information. Madeira and the Azores were discovered during a Majorcan campaign in 1342,38 and Elisha Cresques was the first cartographer to depict them. This observation is a strong indication that the author of the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ used one of Elisha’s charts as an aid in planning a visually consistent itinerary into the Atlantic Ocean. One might perhaps postulate that it was Elisha who used the Libro for the design of the islands, and not the other way around; however, the fact that the Paris Chart

36 The identifications (on the grounds of the islands’ placements) follow George Grosjean (ed.), Mapamundi: Der Katalanische Weltatlas vom Jahre 1375, Dietikon-Zürich 1977, p. 55; on the Paris Chart these islands and their captions are barely visible in the photographs; two of them were in gold but their color has flaked off completely. 37 Munich, cod. hisp. 150, fol. 11r–v. 38 For details on the discovery of the Atlantic Islands, see Felipe Fernández-Armesto, Atlantic Exploration before Columbus: The Evidence of Maps, in: Renaissance and Modern Studies 30 (1986), pp. 1–23; Felipe Fernández-Armesto, Before Columbus. Exploration and Colonization from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic, 1229–1492, Philadelphia 1987, pp. 159–166; Fernández-Armesto’s assumptions were taken into account by David Abulafia, A Mediterranean Emporium. The Catalan Kingdom of Majorca, Cambridge 1994, pp. 204–215; see also Eduardo Aznar Vallejo, The Conquests of the Canary Islands, in: Stuart B. Schwartz (ed.), Implicit Understandings, Cambridge 1994, pp. 134–156; Hyde (note 18), pp. 138–140, argued that knowledge about the islands was quickly incorporated in the European literary tradition.

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Fig. 7: Atlantic Islands and West Africa, portolan chart signed by Angelino Dulcert; Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, CPL GE B-696 (RES), Majorca, 1339. By permission of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

conveys not only the existence of the islands as such, but also some nautical knowledge about their shape and location, makes that highly unlikely. There are a few more features described in the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ that link it specifically to the Paris Chart. For example, the Reed Sea is described as follows: “And they call it the Red Sea because its bottom is all red ochre and red earth, and it makes the water red. And over this sea the Jews passed when they left Egypt from the captivity of Pharaoh”.39 Whereas Dulcert’s chart has only a brief note saying that “the Red Sea is called thus not because of the [color of its] water, but [because of] its bottom”, the Paris Chart, as the Catalan mappamundi later, has almost the same wording as the Libro: “You should know that this Sea is called the Red Sea, where the twelve tribes of Israel passed, when they left Egypt. And you should know that it is not the water that is red, but its bottom is of this very color”. After having established that the author of the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ may have used one of Elisha’s early maps in rendering the Atlantic Islands and the description of 39 Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 88–89.

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the Reed Sea, the subsequent question is whether the chart he used was one of the portolan charts of the Mediterranean and the Black Sea or a map of the entire known world, such as the Catalan mappamundi. Or rather: What are the chances that at the time the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ was authored, such a chart of the known world was already available? The author’s strong interest in all things geographic and heraldic suggests that had such maps been around at the time he produced his work, he would have exerted every effort to get hold of one. Finally, in comparison to the observed relationship between the Libro and Elisha’s work, specific links to Dulcert’s chart are minimal.

The European Routes Leafing through the book one soon realizes that the itineraries in the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ are not linear. They do not start at point A to reach B to go back following the same route. Neither do they follow a circular route, such as those taken by Marco Polo and Ibn Battuta. These real travelers had well-defined destinations and usually chose to take a different route on the way back. Not so the fictive traveler of the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’. He has no destination. His goal, rather, is to cover a map. His account is formulaic and repetitive. The fictive traveler wanders aimlessly from one kingdom to another, usually residing for some time in the place where the people crown their kings, places that in a modern context would have been considered capitals. Moreover, he also lists numerous other locations in each area. He leaves one such kingdom to enter another, which he then describes in similar terms. Occasionally, he elaborates on the narrative adding some geographic details. His itinerary does not lead from one destination to another, crossing these kingdoms using convenient routes; rather the next destination seems to have been chosen by looking at a map from a bird’s-eye perspective. In order to provide the descriptions of the kingdoms with a sense of a space that one can move within, the text splits them into several separate circular journeys (Fig. 8). First there is a European circle (light blue), which leads from Spain to France and Flanders into Denmark, Germany, and Poland; from there the traveler goes back westward to Scandinavia and the British Isles and returns to Spain. The next circle is a tour along the entire coast of the Mediterranean (brown): from Spain to the Riviera, Italy, and Croatia toward Turkey, the Middle East, and North Africa. The third circle leads him southward into the Sahara (dark blue). A fourth circle takes him to southern Asia, and a fifth covers northern Asia. Finally, the traveler has a clear preference for sea routes and coastlines, and does not neglect the islands near the coastlines. Very rarely does he visit interior lands. If one follows these itineraries on a contemporaneous portolan chart, and specifically the Paris or the Naples Chart, they appear to involve coherent and consistent routes (Fig. 8). The way the text describes certain locations within their geographic

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Fig. 8: Atlantic Islands, portolan chart attributed to Elisha ben Abraham Cresques; Biblioteca Nazionale Vittorio Emanuele III, Sala Direzione, Ms. XII D 102, Majorca, ca. 1360–1370, indicating the European routes described in the Libro del conosçimiento.

context can be easily visualized by looking at one of the charts. For example, he moves up the Atlantic coast northward into Navarre, crosses the Pyrenees to go to Bayonne only to return to Navarre, and then crosses the mountains again to reach Toulouse. He thus traverses the Pyrenees no fewer than three times,40 a trip that would have required enormous energies from any medieval traveler. In actual fact, Bayonne is located across the Pyrenees, but the charts mark it to the south of those mountains (Fig. 9). Hence, the trip from Galicia to Bayonne only makes sense when visualized on a portolan chart. Often the author seems to look at areas from a bird’s-eye perspective, as when he follows the Rhine to Cologne (Fig. 9). At that point he takes the opportunity to describe some of the geography of central Europe, focusing on places that are not destinations on his fictive journeys. His text here reflects a concise bird’s-eye perception of the Alps and the nearby river systems stretching from Arles to the Black Sea: And in this Alemaña there are some very high mountains that they call the Alpes Alemanie, from which three rivers originate. They call one Ruedano (Rhône), which runs through a city called

40 Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 4–7.

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Fig. 9: Northwest of Europe, portolan chart attributed to Elisha ben Abraham Cresques; Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, GE AA – 751 (RES), Majorca, ca. 1355–1360, indicating the flags of England, Bohemia, and France (red), as well as the Alps (orange) and the nearby river systems (blue). At the lower edge of the detail Bayonne is marked in red. By permission of the Bibliothèque nationale de France. Leon and converges with another great river that originated in the Alpes Alsaçie (Alsace). And they flow through Lurdevit (?) and Aviñon (Avignon), a city where the Pope of Rome resides, and enter the Medio Terreno Sea after a city they call Arle (Arles). And these cities are in the Kingdom of Proençia (Provence). The other river they call Rinus (Rhine), and it runs through the city of Coloña (Cologne) of which I told above, and enters the Sea of Alemaña. They call the other river Danubio (Danube), and it crosses all of Alemaña and enters through the middle of the Kingdom on Ungria (Hungary), and forms ten islands about which I will tell below. And in the province of Barbaria (Bavaria) they form a large sweet-water lake that the call Lacus Danoye (?), and it runs through a city they call Varispona (Ratisbonne) and enters the province of Germania near a city they call Veçina (?), and it forms a very large island near it. And the Emperor of Alemaña has as his insignia a yellow flag with a crowned black eagle.41

All of these details appear in Elisha’s repertoire on either the Paris or the Naples Chart or on the Catalan mappamundi. Dulcert’s 1339 chart conveys a very similar image, but unlike the Paris Chart, it does not show the arms of the German Empire.

41 Ibid., pp. 8–11.

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Fig. 10: Hungary, portolan chart attributed to Elisha ben Abraham Cresques; Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, GE AA – 751 (RES), Majorca, ca. 1355–1360, indicating the location of Hungary and adjacent kingdoms. By permission of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

A similar bird’s-eye perspective can be observed further on in the description of Hungary, which follows the details shown on the charts quite closely (Fig. 10): “This Kingdom of Ungria borders on Greçia (Greece) and Alemaña and Esclavonia (Dalmatia) and Palonia (Polonia) and Bulgaria.”42 All the charts have ungria in the center of this region, and it borders grecia in the east on all of them; alemania, however, appears as bordering ungria only on the Paris Chart; all the maps have polonia to the north and Bulgaria further to the south. The only exception is esclavonia, which is only marked on Dulcert’s chart. As noted, the Libro’s protagonist moves along coastlines; when he decides to visit lands in the interior, he travels along rivers. But he never goes far into the backland. Visualizing the itineraries one realizes that wherever he reaches the edges of the portolan chart the author worked with, he turns around to travel back into Europe. For example, reaching the area of “the great lake they call Tanaiz (Volga Springs)” while traveling in Poland, instead of continuing into the realm of the Jochid Khanate, he moves south to “the Kingdom of Leon” (Lvov) and from there toward “the other shore of the Sea of Alemaña, to the northern part they call the Land of Europe […] and

42 Ibid., pp. 30–31.

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entered a great province they call Suevia (Sweden).”43 He thus travels in the west in loops and does not go beyond the Dnieper, the eastern coast of the Black Sea, the Caucasus, and the Tigris, that is, the eastern edge of the portolan charts (Fig. 8). Reaching “Lake Tanaiz”, the traveler, as if facing a wall, goes back, crossing Europe via another route. The same is true in northern Africa, where the text describes what one sees in the Atlas Mountains and somewhat further to the south on a portolan chart. Likewise, he travels toward the east through Anatolia to get to Syria and Damascus, but instead of moving on into Mesopotamia, he turns south to Egypt and from there west again to the Maghreb.44 Finally, the Persian Gulf seems to be his gateway to the unknown East. Here, he begins a new route, one that does not follow a map smoothly, which leads into India and then onto central Asia and China. All this suggests that the descriptions of Europe and the Middle East in the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ approximately up to the Euphrates were written with the aid of a portolan chart. Moreover, the chart was not just a source of information and place names, but served as a visual tool by which the author planned the itineraries and described the geographic features of larger areas. So far we have seen that there are certain elements, first and foremost the Atlantic Islands, that seem to link the Libro specifically with portolan charts associated with Elisha Cresques’s atelier in Majorca. In fact, this observation leaves no doubt that the author had access to one of Elisha’s maps. Other features of the Libro suggest yet further links to Elisha’s work: for example, the mention of Feradelfia (Philadelphia) in Turkey45 and a whole set of place names on the shores of the Reed Sea that are not included in Dulcert’s chart.46 Other elements are not found on Elisha’s early work, but appear only on the Catalan mappamundi, but the fact that they are different from the representation on Dulcert’s chart links them to Elisha’s corpus of knowledge: the placement of the description of Ibernia near Ireland is such a case,47 as is the mention of mascarota in northern Africa.48 There are very few features that seem to create a direct and exclusive relationship with Dulcert’s repertoire,49 but one cannot exclude the possibility that the author was familiar with Dulcert’s work as well as that of Elisha.

43 Ibid., pp. 14–15. 44 Ibid., pp. 36–45. 45 Ibid., pp. 34–35. 46 Ibid., pp. 66–67: Gide, Serayn, Lidebo. 47 Ibid., pp. 20–21. 48 Ibid., pp. 50–51. 49 As Dulcert’s chart, the Libro marks Naples with a fleur-de-lis banner, Munich, cod. hisp. 150, fol. 7r, whereas Elisha fails to assign a flag to southern Italy; according to the Libro, the flag of Iconium in Turkey (Munich, cod. hisp., fol. 8v) matches the one shown on Dulcert’s map, whereas Elisha’s early charts have no flag at all, and the Catalan mappamundi defines Iconium as part of the Persian Ilkhanate; the Libro splits the name Jordan into “Jor” and “Dan”; see Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 36–37. This is a feature that is quite common in medieval maps, but not found in any of Elisha’s work.

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Beyond the Dnieper, the Black Sea, and the Tigris The impression that the author of the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ described what he saw on a chart does not apply to his journeys through Asia. We have seen that the only extant fourteenth-century map that shows the entire ecumene in the style of a portolan chart is the 1375 Catalan mappamundi (Fig. 4). However, as the following observations suggest, it is apparent that there was no such map to assist the Libro’s author in conveying a coherent image of Asia. The Persian Gulf (Fig. 11) serves as a gateway to Asia and the lesser known parts of the ecumene. The author mentions Golfathan (?, golfacum in the Catalan mappamundi) and several other places that are shown on that map.50 This indeed creates a first impression that the author worked with a large map in front of him, but the reader soon senses that the traveler has lost touch with a map. This is apparent when he moves toward India and China, where the impression that there was no map at his disposal becomes particularly strong. Although the scope of the ecumene described in the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ is similar to that of the Catalan mappamundi, the way the itineraries are built does not reflect a visual concept. For example, from the Tigris the traveler moves on to the Arabian Peninsula. The text becomes very fuzzy and cannot be followed coherently on the Catalan mappamundi (Fig. 11: the blue lines indicate illogical or inconsistent routes): I departed the island of Ansera (an island in the Tigris) and went down the River Cur (Tigris) a long way until I reached the province of Arabia. And I crossed a great expanse of land until I arrived at the city of Almedina […] from there I went to Meca […]. I departed Meca and went onward through the kingdom of Arabia and arrived at a very large and rich city abundant in many things that they call Fadal (?), which is on the shore of the Sea of India […]. I embarked on a ship in the sea and went to an island they call Sicroca (?) […]. I departed the island of Sicroca and went to another island that they call Enrro (?), […] And we went on and found two other islands. They call one Aquisio (Qeshm) […] and they call the other Hormixio (Hormuz) […]. And I departed the aforementioned gulf and entered the province of Sabba where they get incense, and I arrived at a great city that they call Golfathan, and from there Gepta (?), and from there to another than they call Cabat […]. And I departed Sabba and headed for the city of Hormixio.51

We do not find out if the traveler goes all the way down along the river to its mouth to cross the Persian Gulf and to reach Medina, or whether, at some point, he moves westward to cross the Euphrates (where exactly?) and along the coastline of the Gulf to reach the city. On the Catalan mappamundi the Persian Gulf extends in a westeast direction and the mouth of the Tigris lies opposite almadina. The fact that the Euphrates is not mentioned on this journey seems to indicate that he takes the way across the Gulf. However, such a sea journey is not referred to at all. In order to reach

50 Gepta, Cabar, Enrro and Hormixio; Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 70–71. 51 Ibid.

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Fig. 11: Catalan mappamundi, attributed to Elisha ben Abraham Cresques; Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, cod. esp. 30, Majorca, ca. 1375, indicating the itinerary to the Arabian Peninsula as described in the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ (red lines indicate coherent routes; blue lines indicate routes with insufficient information). By permission of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Mecca, the traveler would have had to cross quite a portion of the peninsula. When he reaches Mecca he returns to the shore to embark on a ship to visit the islands in the Gulf. He eventually arrives at the Island of Hormuz and the city of Hormuz. During this entire description, the text does not offer any information about the nature of the journey by sea or by land, and the traveler seems to spin about the area somewhat aimlessly. Starting the journey toward India at Hormuz makes more sense. According to a caption on the Catalan mappamundi, many ships reached that city and it

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Fig. 12: India, Catalan mappamundi, attributed to Elisha ben Abraham Cresques; Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, cod. esp. 30, Majorca, ca. 1375. By permission of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

was from there that one traveled to India.52 However, the traveler again turns toward Arabia and visits the province of Sabba and several cities on the shore (where he had been before), and finds himself back in Hormuz. Later he sails from Hormuz to the Indian coast and to the Kingdom of Delini (Delhi). Most of the cities he lists for this area do not appear on the Catalan mappamundi, with the exception of checimo (?) and demonela (Daibul), both located on India’s northwestern coast (Fig. 12: marked in green). We then suddenly find him in Delini, and one wonders if Delhi is supposed to be on the shore. Leaving Delini, he “enters the Kingdom of Viguy, which is also on the shore of the Sea of India.”53 It is not clear if by Viguy the author means the realm of the Christian King Colobo, whose portrait appears on the map in southern India, but there is nothing to suggest that this Viguy is a Christian realm. None of the cities listed in the itinerary that follows matches place names on the map. The author notes that Viguy borders not only the Kingdom of Delini but also the Empire of Armalet, by which, if we follow the arrangement on the Catalan mappamundi, he means the Chagatai Khanate in the northeast. All in all this placement of the various political realms does not make a lot of sense in relation to the mappamundi. 52 “This city is called Hormiz and it is here, where India begins. And you should know that ships […] arrive here.” 53 Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 72–73.

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Whereas Elisha’s mappamundi shows two very large islands in the Indian Ocean, illa iana and illa trapobana, the latter appearing in the southeastern corner of the map across the Chinese coastline (Fig. 4), the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ mentions the “Island of Java and Trapovana.”54 Nothing in the text indicates a visit; rather, the author explains that from the Kingdom of Viguy he moved on to the Gulf of Bengal and the city of Bangalia. In the first place, we do not know exactly where Viguy was supposed to be, and the reader does not get any idea as to whether the traveler reached Bangalia by following the coastline or crossing the peninsula. Moreover, Bangalia is described as the capital of the Empire of Armalet (the Chagatai Khanate), whereas on the mappamundi, it is part of Colobo’s Christian realm. Where the map marks the borders of India (finis indie, Figs. 12 and 7), the traveler encounters yet another kingdom, which he labels Oxanap.55 Not only are the place names different, but the political situation is not at all the same, and there is no mention in the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ of the Indian Christian communities that Elisha’s map marks in that area. These communities, which appear as political realms on the map, were actually Christian enclaves under non-Christian dominance; in this sense the Libro reflects the political situation more accurately than the Catalan mappamundi. All in all, however, reading the Libro, one clearly gets the impression that its author did not design his Indian itinerary while looking at a map, but rather seems to have drawn on textual information from various sources. The traveler then sails to the Island of Java, which is no longer the previously mentioned “Island of Java and Trapovana”, but perhaps what Elisha Cresques shows as illa iana. After having gone back to Oxanap, he “followed the land route to the Empire of Armalet”.56 This would make a lot of sense had he not described Canbalech (modern Beijing) as the capital of the empire (and that earlier he had mentioned Bangalia as the capital of that realm). On the Catalan mappamundi the city of chambalech appears correctly as the capital of the Empire of catayo, the Great Khanate (China), much farther to the northeast (Fig. 4). The traveler eventually does reach the Empire of Catayo, after going “by land a great distance”.57 Looking at the map one observes a dense network of cities all over this entire realm, both along the shores and in the backlands. In contrast, the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ informs us that “most of its (Catayo’s) cities are on the shores of the Eastern Sea that borders the Sea of India.”58 The author writes that he left the Empire of Catayo and went up the River Magot for sixty-five days without finding a town or a city, again in sharp contrast to Elisha’s map, which shows the area densely populated. The text goes on to describe the geopolitical situation and, once more, one realizes that the conveyed information does not share anything with the map: 54 Ibid., pp. 74–75. 55 Ibid. 56 Ibid., pp. 76–77. 57 Ibid. 58 Ibid.

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In the Empire of Catayo there is a kingdom they call Sçim (?) that borders on the Kingdom of Sarmagant (Samarkand) and the Kingdom of Bocarin (Bukhara) and the Kingdom of Trimit (Termez). And this Kingdom of Sçim is in Upper India, that borders on the Eastern Sea, which is the end of the earth.59

The Catalan mappamundi makes no mention of the Kingdom of Sçim. Judging from the location that the ‘Libro del conosçimiento’ describes, this kingdom would be to the south of Transoxania. However, this area is referred to elsewhere as the Empire of Armalet, whereas here the text speaks of Sçim as part of the Empire of Catayo. All in all, it seems that the author’s knowledge about the Mongol empires is extremely limited, whereas Elisha seems to have known the political situation in Asia astonishingly well.60 At the same point, the text also mentions the Caucasus as a natural border of Sçim, noting that it extends to the Eastern Sea. If so, the Caucasus would have at least reached the Persian Gulf, if not India itself. It seems that the author confused the Caucasus with the Himalayan Mountains. In comparison to the relatively clear structure of the geographic information on Elisha’s map, this description is confused and could not have been based on a study of a visual source. On the map, the Caucasus is located between the Black and the Caspian Sea and does not extend any farther. Further to the east there is the pair of amol Mountains as a natural border of Transoxania, whereas the Himalayas are not shown at all (Fig. 3). The Libro also mentions a “Kingdom of Cato”,61 not shown on the map. From there the traveler goes back west to cross what is named mons sebur (Sibir) on the map and reaches the Jochid Khanate with its capital Norganiçio (Urgench). He continues on to the Caspian Sea to the Gulf of Monimenti (?), embarks on a ship with Christian Qumans, and finds himself in Godaspi (?), a city within the realm of the Persian Ilkhans on the shore of the Caspian Sea. There he loses track of both real geography and the geopolitical situation as it is visualized on the Catalan mappamundi and speaks of the Tigris originating in the Toro (Taurus) Mountains together with four other rivers and running into the Caspian Sea. The mouth of the Tigris is supposed to be between Godaspi and Samarkand.62 At some point while in Asia, the author interrupts the description of his personal itinerary to offer a short explanation of two major routes from Europe to Catayo.63 As far as the Mediterranean Basin, the Black Sea, and the Caspian Sea are concerned these routes make sense when compared to portolan charts, but the descriptions of the routes from Persia to Catayo are extremely vague. In particular, the northern route is full of inconsistent detours. The author explains that this northern route leads from Constantinople across the Black Sea and into the Sea of Azov. It continues toward the Caspian

59 Ibid., pp. 82–83. 60 This is further discussed in Kogman-Appel (note 15), chap. 5. 61 Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 84–85. 62 Ibid., pp. 86–89. 63 Ibid., pp. 78–79.

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Sea, but the text is not clear as to whether it passes to the north or the south of the Caucasus, as the place names cannot be identified with any of the locations on the Catalan mappamundi. The route reaches the Gulf of Monimenti, northeast of the Caspian Sea. From there it becomes more and more difficult to follow. From the Gulf of Monimenti it goes on to the capital of the Jochid Khanate, Norgançia, and from there to the Caspian Mountains, but on the map the Caspian Mountains are much farther up in the northeastern corner of Asia. Apparently this is not the mountain range that the author is referring to, as soon enough the route reaches Bocarin (Bukhara). From there it crosses “all of Asia where you will not find cities nor towns until the Empire of Catayo.” The southern route leads from Cyprus to Lesser Armenia (erroneously) referred to as Armenia Major into Turkey, passes Sebaste, and reaches the Euphrates; it crosses Persia and moves on to Samarkand. At this point, again, the description becomes ambiguous. He describes what seems to be the previously mentioned “Kingdom of Sçim,” but insists that this is different from the one he wrote about earlier. The way to Catayo is not elaborated any further; it simply crosses Asia, which is shown bare of cities and towns. The repeated claim that Asia has no urban civilization appears, as we have seen, in stark contrast to the Catalan mappamundi, where a dense network of cities covers the continent.64 At the end of his journey the traveler returns to the Middle East. He reaches the Euphrates line, and from there we can, again, follow his itinerary easily and consistently on any portolan chart. Once he reaches Transylvania all he wants to do is head home to Seville. He travels on an extended route via Gotia (Gotland), Sweden, very quickly, embarking on a ship in the Gulf of Frisia, reaching Flanders, and from there going on to Seville.65 From the very concise description of his route from Transylvania to Seville it becomes apparent that at this point the author had no adventure to tell of and all the traveler had to do was close the circle and reach his home.

Conclusion The foregoing observations demonstrate a rather complex relationship between the ‘Libro de conosçimiento’ and fourteenth-century Majorcan mapmaking, in particular the corpus produced by Elisha ben Abraham Cresques. They suggest that the literary genre of fictive travel accounts should be put into tandem with the visual medium of cartographic representation. Approaching portolan charts not merely as sources of

64 On European views about noncivilized regions in Asia as features of European images of the Orient, see Kim M. Phillips, Before Orientalism: Asian Peoples and Cultures in European Travel Writing, 1245–1510, Philadelphia 2014, pp. 149–150; China, on the other hand, was considered to be opulently civil, urban, and rich: see Folker Reichert, Asien und Europa im Mittelalter. Studien zur Geschichte des Reisens, Leipzig 2014, pp. 293–320. 65 Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 106–109.

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geographic information but as visualized knowledge leads to the conclusion that the author did not merely incorporate verbal information, such as the contents of captions and place names, but, more interestingly, that he used such a map (or maps) as a visual aid in planning the routes he apparently would have followed. Time and again it becomes obvious that when he described geographic features, such as mountain ranges and river systems, he in fact translated visual information conveyed on a map and looked at them from a bird’s eye perspective to create a verbal medium. Suggesting the 1360s as the date of the ‘Libro del conosçimiento de todos los rregnos e tierra e señoros’, as I did in the first part of the present essay, puts it into chronological proximity to what can perhaps be considered Elisha Cresques’s earliest work, the Paris Chart, datable as I asserted elsewhere in the late 1350s. We have seen that the two works share specific features, specifically the rendering of the Atlantic Islands, suggesting that the Libro’s author might have been familiar with the Paris Chart or a quite similar chart now lost. That this author used a map as a visual aid to compose his itinerary clearly applies only to the description of Europe, the Middle East up to the Tigris, and Africa north of the Atlas Mountains. The map (or maps) he used was in the nature of a traditional portolan chart showing the Mediterranean Basin and the Black Sea. Not only does the text indicate that the author treated Europe and Asia as separate entities with the edge of a portolan chart as an invisible border, but any attempt to reconstruct the itineraries in Asia or south of the Atlas Mountains soon reveals that no visual aid was available for the description of these regions. Such a portolan chart was, of course, not the author’s sole source, and he must have had access to a great range of further information.66 Given our author’s strong interest in cartography and geography, it is reasonable to assume that he would have done anything in his power to acquire a map of the entire ecumene of the sort of the Catalan mappamundi. The fact that none of his Asian itineraries makes any cartographic sense suggests that no such map was available at the time he composed his work. The concept of such a project was thus developed not earlier than the late 1360s. By then Elisha Cresques had developed a professional profile that would eventually make him the court’s most outstanding cartographer. Given the means and the sources at his disposal in this position, it is most plausible that he was the one to conceive of the ecumene project. But this is an argument to be made elsewhere.67

66 This must be the case, e. g., for “Tenerefiz”, Libro del conosçimiento, ed. Marino (note 1), pp. 48–49; some pieces of information are likely to be linkable to Arabic background, as, e. g., the mention of the Canary Islands as “the lost islands that Ptolemy called islas de la Caridat”, ibid.; Bonnet (note 8), p. 217, suggested that the roots for “Caridat” replacing Ptolemy’s “Fortunate Islands” is the Arabic word kalidat (fortunate). Naturally, other sources were used for the descriptions of Asia, among them traditions of the Monstrous Races. 67 Kogman-Appel (note 15), chap. 1, in preparation.

Patrick Gautier Dalché

Les cartes marines comme source de réflexion géographique au XVe siècle Abstract: Soon after the first appearance of marine charts as technical tools of nav­ igators and merchants in the thirteenth century they began to draw the attention of litterati, historians, scientists, and authors of Crusader plans or poetical itineraries. Among these are Riccobaldus of Ferrara, Bartholemy of Parma, Marino Sanudo, Fazio degli Uberti, Petrarch, Boccaccio and others, who used the charts for the study of the geography of the orbis terrarum. Scholars transcribed place names from marine charts, and sought to identify them with toponyms known from ancient sources. The dissemination of Ptolemy’s Geographia in Latin, however, raised questions about the geographic accuracy of the Ptolemaic concept of visualization when compared to that of marine charts. Moreover, these charts generated more general descriptions of the world causing a great deal of discomfort among certain scholars who felt attached to ancient culture, leading thus to epistemological tensions touching upon general questions concerning humanism. Keywords: medieval geography, marine charts, Ptolemy’s Geography, humanism and geography En 1502, rapportant à la duchesse Anne de Bretagne le voyage en Hongrie de la prin­ cesse Anne de Foix qu’il accompagnait en vue de son mariage avec Ladislas Jagellon, le roi d’armes Pierre Choque s’exprime ainsi à propos de la plaine du Danube: Laquelle plaine est souvent nayée par le derivement d’icelluy fleuve, car c’est l’un des plus grans tant de longueur, largeur et profondeur que je veiz jamais; car il va cheoir jusques à Constantino­ ple, aynsi que apert par la quarte marine qui de ce fait mention.1

On pourrait s’étonner de rencontrer une telle référence à la carte marine, dans une circonstance et dans un milieu fort éloignés géographiquement et culturellement des grandes cités marchandes de la Méditerranée, où elle est à cette date un objet d’usage banal. Mais en réalité il n’y a là rien de surprenant, si l’on considère, de façon générale, les emplois des représentations cartographiques au Moyen Age. Les cartes, 1 Antoine Le Roux de Lincy, Discours des cérémonies du mariage d’Anne de Foix de la maison de France avec Ladislas VI, roi de Bohème, de Pologne et de Hongrie, in: Bibliothèque de l’École des chartes 22 (1861), p. 435. Patrick Gautier Dalché, CNRS, Institut de recherche et d’histoire des textes and École pratique des hautes études, Sorbonne, Paris, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-007

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de quelque échelle qu’elles soient, ont toujours eu des fonctions variées. C’est ce que montrent notamment, à partir du XIIe siècle, les nombreuses descriptions de mappae mundi qui se bornent à donner un équivalent textuel de l’image cartographique sans y ajouter la moindre considération théologique ou symbolique.2 Il en va de même pour les cartes marines, qu’on aurait tort de prendre pour de simples objets techniques dont l’usage serait limité dans le milieu de la gente di mare, marins et commerçants. C’est rapidement après leur apparition au XIIIe siècle qu’elles furent utilisés comme source de réflexion sur la structure et la géographie de l’orbis terrarum par les litterati, historiens, naturalistes, auteurs de projets de croi­ sade, d’itinéraires ou d’œuvres poétiques. On trouve une trace ténue de ce fait dans la deuxième décennie du XIVe siècle, dans le De locis orbis du notaire ferrarais Ric­ cobaldus, l’un des premiers représentants de l’humanisme.3 Mais déjà dans les der­ nières années du XIIIe siècle, le naturaliste et astrologue Barthélemy de Parme, qui enseignait à Bologne, revendiquait l’emploi de ce moyen qualifié de « moderne » pour décrire le monde dans son De divisione orbis terrarum.4 Quelques années plus tard, Marino Sanudo joignit à son projet de croisade des cartes tirées de cartes marines dont le contenu informa les conditions stratégiques de la croisade désirée.5 Dans son Iti­ nerarium Syriacum, Pétrarque, dont on connaît bien d’ailleurs l’intérêt pour les cartes comme moyen d’identification de toponymes antiques, décrit les côtes septentrio­ nales de la Méditerranée à l’aide d’une carte.6 Boccace s’appuie sur un tel objet lors­ qu’il décrit les parcours de ses héros Fiore et Biancaforte dans le Filocolo, ou Thésée dans la Teseida.7 Le poète toscan Fazio degli Uberti († 1367), dans son Dittamondo qui raconte un voyage terrestre guidé par Solin en imitation de la Commedia, emploie des toponymes et décrit des rapports topographiques qui émanent manifestement de

2 Patrick Gautier Dalché, Comment et pourquoi décrire une mappemonde au Moyen Age?, in: Fi­ gures de l’autorité médiévale. Mélanges offerts à Michel Zimmermann, Paris, 2016, pp. 69‒88. 3 Riccobaldo da Ferrara, De locis orbis, ed. Gabriele Zanella (Deputazione provinciale ferrarese di storia patria, Monumenti 10), Ferrara 1986, p. 105; Patrick Gautier Dalché, Riccobaldus de Ferra­ re géographe. A propos de l’édition du De locis orbis et insularum et marium, in: Sacris Erudiri 30 (1987–1988), pp. 426–427. 4 L’auteur prépare une édition de ce texte. 5 Nathalie Bouloux, Culture et savoirs géographiques en Italie au XIVe siècle (Terrarum Orbis 2), Turnhout 2002, pp. 45–68. 6 Ibid., pp. 134–140. L’image de la botte italienne, dont la première mention semble se trouver dans une lettre de Pétrarque (Epistolae metricae, 2, 12), provient de la vision d’une carte marine. 7 Antonio Quaglio, Tra fonti e testo del Filocolo, in: Giornale storico della letteratura italiana, 3e série, 140 (1963), p. 343; Virginio Bertolini, Le carte geografiche nel Filocolo, in: Studi sul Bocca­ cio 5 (1968), pp. 212–213; John Kenneth Hyde, Real and Imaginary Journeys, in: Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 65 (1982–1983), pp. 135–136; la glose de Boccace lui-même au voyage de Thésée porte: Sì come manifestamente appare sopra la carta da navicare, volendo del mare di Grecia entrare nel mare della Tana, si passa per uno braccio di mare il quale oggi si chiama per alcuni lo stretto di Costantinop­ oli (1, 40, Tutte le opere di Giovanni Boccaccio, ed. Vittore Branca, vol. 3, Milan 1964, pp. 266–267).

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ce type de représentations.8 L’astrologue florentin Paolo dell’Abbaco († après 1367) calcule des coordonnées de longitude sur l’ensemble de l’œcumène à l’aide d’un « mapamondo da Maiolica », c’est-à-dire sur une représentation construite à partir de cartes marines élaborée à Majorque.9 On voit qu’à cette époque le recours aux cartes marines s’observe exclusivement en Italie, dans différents milieux culturels, et que des représentants de l’humanisme jouent un rôle notable dans ce processus. Il s’ex­ prime en outre dans des genres littéraires très différents. Au XVe siècle, des textes assez nombreux témoignent de la poursuite de ce mou­ vement. Je les classerai en quatre catégories qui constitueront autant de parties de ma communication. Les cartes marines peuvent tout d’abord procurer un éclairage de détail sur des points douteux ou controversés, dans des domaines fort différents. Ensuite, grâce aux notes qu’ils ont laissées, je décrirai sommairement l’utilisation que certains personnages font des cartes, nous introduisant ainsi dans leur cabinet de travail. En troisième lieu, viendront des exemples où la carte marine sert de modèle structurant à une description générale de la Méditerranée ou du monde. Enfin, nous verrons que cette utilisation devenue massive, dans le cadre de l’humanisme italien triomphant, n’allait pas sans poser de graves problèmes culturels et par là même épistémologiques.

Quelques exemples: prétentions à la souveraineté, intérêts philologiques et antiquaires Examinons tout d’abord quelques cas ponctuels. Au concile de Bâle, en 1437, Portugais et Castillans disputaient de l’appartenance des îles Canaries récemment (re)décou­ vertes. L’évêque de Burgos Alfonso de Santa María, qui était l’un des premiers his­ paniques à être touché par la culture humaniste, rédigea à cette occasion un discours soutenant les prétentions de la couronne de Castille.10 Le roi de Portugal avait produit

8 Par exemple Fazio degli Uberti, Il Dittamondo e le rime, ed. Giuseppe Corsi (Scrittori d’Italia 206), vol. 1, Bari 1952, p. 355: Vidi Bugea, che v’è di grande loda: / questa nel mare Maiolica guata (5, 6, v. 103–104). 9 Patrick Gautier Dalché, Quando vuoli travare la longitudine d’alchuna citta da occidente, guarda nel mappamondo da Maiolica…: la mesure des coordonnées géographiques selon Paolo dell’Abbaco, in: Micrologus 19 (2011), pp. 151–199. 10 Il ne s’agit pas d’un discours prononcé en 1435 à Bâle, comme on le répète souvent, mais d’un écrit adressé à l’ambassadeur du roi auprès du Saint-Siège pour l’aider à défendre les droits de la Castille. Ce texte est souvent cité; la référence à la géographie et aux cartes n’est que rarement notée; voir analyse descriptive par Vicente Ángel Alvarez Palenzuela, La situación europea en época del concilio de Basilea. Información de la embajada del reino de Castilla, in: Archivos leoneses 46 (1992), pp. 55–62; et par Luis Parra García, Propositio super altercacione praeminentiae sedium inter ora­ tores regum Castellae et Angliae in concilio Basilensi, o los argumentos de Alfonso de Cartagena por la preeminencia de España, in: Cuadernos de filología clásica. Estudios latinos 20 (2002), pp. 86–91;

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un argument géo-cartographique à l’appui des règles juridiques issues du droit romain relatives à la possession des îles: il se fondait sur un objet qu’Alfonso de Santa María appelle « cosmographia », et sur les cartes marines du temps; les Canaries étaient proches de l’Afrique en cours de conquête depuis la prise de Ceuta par son père.11 Il est probable que l’argument fut affiné par les Portugais: certains d’entre eux affirmaient que les îles étaient aussi plus proches des côtes du Portugal que de toute autre côte du royaume de Castille et, pour le prouver, ils produisaient une « carta maris » où l’on voyait le cap Saint-Vincent s’avancer loin dans l’océan; on y observait que la ligne tirée de là vers les Canaries était plus courte qu’une ligne tracée depuis l’Algarve castillan.12 Sur cet aspect, la réponse de l’évêque de Burgos tient en deux points qui associent deux traditions de la géographie savante. Isidore de Séville, ainsi que Jean Balbi dans son Catholicon, approuvés par alii quamplures cum de divisione terrarum loquuntur affirment que la Mauritanie Tingitane appartient à l’Hispania.13 En second lieu, en examinant ex situ earum per mappam mundi vel cartam maris la situation des Cana­ ries à gauche de la Mauritanie, Alfonso de Santa María démontre qu’elles sont plus proches de cette dernière au point qu’on peut les en dire partie, tout comme la Sicile est partie de l’Italie14: elles appartiennent donc à l’Espagne. En réalité, l’argument de la proximité ne vaut pas, car il ne s’applique en droit romain qu’à la possession des îles fluviales. Mais, pour épuiser la question, l’évêque de Burgos va plus loin dans l’examen des faits sur la carte même. Tout bien considéré, il est possible que les îles soient plus proches de l’Andalousie castillane, ce qu’il conviendrait de véri­ fier, ajoute-t-il, par une mesure au compas sur la carte. Tout comme les textes autor­ isés, la carte marine est donc considérée par les deux parties comme donnant des

pas de référence aux particularités de l’argumentation dans Josef F. O’Callaghan, Castile, Portugal, and the Canary islands: Claims and Counterclaims, in: Viator 24 (1993), pp. 287–309. 11 Supplique à Eugène IV, août 1436, dans Charles-Martial de Witte, Les bulles pontificales et l’ex­ pansion portugaise au XVe siècle, in: Revue d’histoire ecclésiastique 48 (1953), pp. 715–716. Le roi de Portugal est lésé quia preffate insule adiacent magis et appropinquant Africe quemadmodum per cos­ mografiam et maritimas prescriptiones luculenter videri potest, ymo verius porcio quedam Africe sunt. 12 João Martins da Silva Marques, Descobrimentos portugueses, vol. 1, Lisbon 1944, n. 281, p. 298: inducebatur carta maris secundum quam patet quod ille angulus Portugalie qui dicitur finis seu caput sancti Vincentii facit magnum ingressum in occeano. Nam isti duo anguli, videlicet ille qui dicitur fines terre in Gallitia et ille qui dicitur caput sancti Vincentii in Portugallia seu Algarbio ingrediuntur mare aliquanto longius quam alie terre finitime que sunt in rota. Et consideratis lineis rectis et protensis ab angulo sancti Vincentii et a terris Castelle que sunt in Algarbio nostro vel per illam contractam et proten­ sis usque ad insulas Canarie videbatur aliquibus quod ille insule essent propinquiores seu viciniores illi angulo sancti Vincentii quam alicui terre Castelle. Le document est daté, à tort semble-t-il, de 1435. Plus loin, il excipe ex situ earum per mappam mundi vel cartam maris (ibid., p. 302). 13 Etym., 14, 4, 29. Cette apparente aberration provient évidemment de l’organisation dioclétienne de l’Empire. 14 Silva Marques (note 12), pp. 300–302.

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­renseignements exacts sur la réalité de l’espace.15 Le statut de vérité de la représenta­ tion cartographique est parfaitement admis, et de manière d’autant plus frappante qu’il intervient dans une discussion qui met en jeu des souverainetés et des droits. Les cas suivants relèvent davantage de l’étude savante. Le notaire Domenico Silves­ tri (vers 1335-après le 17/02/1411), qui occupa à Florence des charges publiques impor­ tantes, souhaitait compléter le dictionnaire géographique de Boccace (De montibus, silvis, fontibus, lacubus, fluminibus, stagnis seu paludibus et de nominibus maris) en traitant des îles que ce dernier n’avait pas mentionnées.16 L’intention de Boccace avait été d’aider les lecteurs à identifier les toponymes qu’ils rencontraient dans les textes antiques. Cette intention exprimait déjà un des problèmes majeurs de l’humanisme géo­ graphique qui parcourt tout le XVe siècle: fallait-il pour cela se limiter aux seuls auteurs antiques, ou bien devait-on avoir aussi recours aux sources contemporaines, considérés par principe comme disposant d’une moindre auctoritas ? Or s’intéresser aux îles rendait la tâche encore plus difficile, à cause de leurs changements de nom, et surtout de leur nombre. Le prologue du De insulis, achevé après 1406, exprime cette inquiétude, en donnant l’exemple des îles de l’Archipel telles que les dessinent les cartes: Adeo enim in locorum nominibus variant autores, ut quandoque quo in loco mari vel sinu sit insula affirmare difficillimum sit et facillimum errorem commictere. Tot insuper tanteque in quolibet oceano emisp[erii nostri] sunt insule quarum etiam notitiam non habemus deve quibus sine nominibus scribunt autores, quod nedum omnes, sed minimam earum partem ad plenum puto impossibile sit amplecti. Quot solum in Agios pelago, parva maris Egei parte, designant navigationis periti, innumera­ biles enim earum figuras inter Acaiam Cretamque interque Rodum ac Sergest[um] esse demonstrant. 17

Et de fait on note dans le De insulis une utilisation discrète des cartes marines: la situa­ tion des îles est parfois indiquée par rapport à d’autres îles ou à la côte, et les distances sont données, mais ce n’est nullement systématique.18 La source cartographique est 15 Il arrive pourtant que les arguments de nature géographique présentés aux conciles soient stig­ matisés comme insensés, “métaphysiques” ou “mythiques”, anachronisme inconscient provenant d’une vision moderne de la géographie; see Hermann Heimpel, Sitzordnung und Rangstreit auf dem Basler Konzil. Skizze eines Themas, in: Johannes Helmrath/ Heribert Müller (eds.), Studien zum 15. Jahrhundert. Festschrift für Erich Meuthen, vol. 1, Munich 1994, p. 5; Jürgen Miethke, Raumerfas­ sung und Raumbewusstsein auf den allgemeinen Konzilien des Spätmittelalters. Die Repräsentanz der ­Regionen in der Entwicklung der Geschäftsordnung vom 13. zum 15. Jahrhundert, in: Peter Moraw (ed.), Raumerfassung und Raumbewusstsein im späteren Mittelalter, Stuttgart 2002, p. 153. 16 Bouloux (note 5), pp. 93, 95, 229–232, 237–247. 17 De insulis et earum proprietatibus, prol., éd. Carmela Pecoraro, « Domenico Silvestri. De insulis et earum proprietatibus, in : Atti dell’Accademia di scienze, lettere e arti di Palermo, 4e série, 14, 2 e partie : Lettere, Palerme (1953-1954), fasc. 2, p. 20. Je corrige la ponctuation défectueuse de cette édition fortement critiquée. Une édition plus récente, sous forme de thèse, n’apporte aucun progrès (José Manuel Montes­ deoca Medina, Los islarios de la época del humanismo : el de insulis de Domenico Silvestri. Edición y traducción, Universidad de La Laguna, 2007 ; visible à : ftp://tesis.bbtk.ull.es/ccssyhum/cs103.pdf). 18 Ainsi l’île de Cythère est aujourd’hui appelée Cetri a navicantibus (Pecoraro, p. 78). La Crète: Prospectat versus orientem insulam Ciprum, a qua distat quadringentis milibus passuum; versus ­boream

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rarement nommée comme telle. Et il n’est pas sûr que Silvestri ait considéré la carte marine avec une attention suffisante, comme le montre l’exemple d’Ivissa (Ibiza), qu’il situe entre Valence et Majorque d’après une source orale, a ­ joutant: Illo tamen spatio in carta, quam navigiorum periti designant notatam aliquam illius nominis non inveni nisi iam esset que ibidem notant nomine Moncoluber.19 Il est peu probable que le nom d’Ibiza n’ait pas été porté sur la carte consultée par Domenico Silvestri, car l’île est systématiquement présente sur les cartes marines; ou bien, si le nom faisait défaut, il ne fut pas capable de reconnaître l’île. La même méthode peut s’observer dans une glose d’Enrique de Villena à sa tra­ duction de l’Énéide. Le marquis de Villena (1384–1434), haut personnage ouvert aux apports culturels italiens récents, conteste dans cette glose l’identification faite par Sil­ vestri de Malte et de l’Ortygia antique mentionnée par le poète (3, 694), en lui opposant une carta de marear.20 Mais c’est une attitude plus conséquente que l’on observe, toujours dans la péninsule Ibérique, dans une remarque de l’humaniste catalan Joan Margarit i Pau (ca 1421–1484), qui étudia à Bologne et fut le premier à appliquer les nouvelles méthodes des historiens humanistes italiens, notamment Leonardo Bruni. Dans son œuvre historique, le Paralipomenon Hispaniae dont la première version date d’environ 1481, il a précisément pour but de prouver, à l’aide de ces techniques histori­ ographiques nouvelles, l’antiquité de l’Hispanie. Dans son livre premier consacré à la topographie de la péninsule, il cherche à relier les toponymes antiques aux modernes; les sources principales sont les géographes antiques, mais il ne se prive pas de les compléter ou de les corriger en recourant aux cartes marines.21 Ainsi les Cassitérides de l’Antiquité, qu’il identifie aux Canaries, ne sont donc pas situées au nord du cap Finistère, comme le dit Strabon, mais bien au sud, « ce que montre à suffisance la carte

flectens intuitum paulum Rodum videt a qua, mediis Scarpento insula et Taxo scopulo existentibus, spa­ tio cxx milium separatur; in occasum vero versa videt Siciliam a qua dividitur passuum sexcentorum decem milium freto; occiduus eius angulus versus circium [cireium ed.!] divisus est a Romanie conti­ nenti centum otto [sic ed.] milium passuum, orientalis vero angulus versus septentrionem a continenti cl milia, versus vero meridiem [illis.] intercapedine separatus est (ibid., p. 84; je corrige la ponctuation dé­ fectueuse); ou la Corse: Corsica insula est in Ligustino mari sita Italie promuntoria prospectans, a porto Pisano separatur paulo plus nonaginta miliaribus, a Veneris vero portu pertantundem (ibid., p. 82). 19 Ibid., pp. 140–141. 20 Pedro M. Cátedra, Enrique de Villena. Traducción y glosas de la Eneida, libros I-III (Obras com­ pletas de Enrique de Villena 2), Madrid 1994, p. 69; Francisco Rico, Il nuovo mondo di Nebrija e Columbo. Note sulla la geografia umanistica in Spagna e sul contesto intelletuale della scoperta dell’America, in: Vestigia. Studi in onore di Giuseppe Billanovich (Storia e letteratura 163), vol. 2, Rome 1984, pp. 579–580. Je complète ce florilège hispanique par la demande d’une carte marine faite par l’humaniste et bibliophile catalan Pere Carbonell (1434–1517), signalée dans une lettre de 1478: Eu­ sebio Pascual, Detalles curiosos de una visita á Da Beatriz de Pinos, in: Bolletì de la Societat arqueo­ lògica Lul.liana 7 (1897–1898), pp. 2–3. 21 Robert Brian Tate, El Paralipomenon de Joan Margarit cardenal obispo de Gerona, in: Ensayos sobre la historiografía peninsular del siglo XV, Madrid 1970, pp. 123–150.

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nautique ».22 A propos de la largeur de l’Hispanie, de Port-Vendres à Compostelle, il donne d’abord une valeur de 10 000 stades tirée d’un auteur antique; mais il ajoute que le compte de Strabon est plus vrai (7 000 stades de longueur, et 5 000 stades de largeur): ces chiffres sont vérifiés sur la carte marine (munie d’une échelle).23 Les Pyrénées ne s’étendent que sur 350 milles, bien moins que ce qu’indiquent les anciens: le calcul de leur étendue a été fait ex charta navigantium.24 Il est très remarquable que ces notations peu nombreuses témoignent d’une confiance absolue dans la valeur de vérité de la carte, fondée sur le fait que la représentation est une réduction à l’échelle de la réalité géographique. Nous verrons plus loin que cette attitude n’était pas unani­ mement partagée à la même époque en Italie. Toujours dans le milieu des humanistes, la carte marine joue un rôle essentiel chez l’antiquaire Cyriaque d’Ancône († avant 1453). Ciriaco de’ Pizzicolli, qui appartenait à une famille de marchands anconitains, passa sa vie à voyager dans la Méditerranée orien­ tale, à la recherche de monuments et d’inscriptions antiques, ce qui impliquait souvent d’identifier les noms de villes célèbres que l’on trouvait dans les textes. En 1431, il visita l’Éolide, en Asie mineure, à la recherche de Kymè, supposée patrie du poète Hésiode, mais il ne trouva aucun reste digne d’attention dans un site appelé Chrysopolis par les habitants. Quinze ans plus tard, en 1446, il retourna dans la même région et trouva des ruines grandioses correspondant à une ville antique nommée Chrysonea.25 Comment parvint-il à ce résultat ? Il avait dans ses bagages un exemplaire du De chorographia de Pomponius Mela où, à propos de l’Éolide et dans la région même que Cyriaque par­ courait, un passage corrompu donnait et urbs leuca extraphoea crisioniae ultimae26: il y reconnut Phocée et une ville antique imaginaire créée par le texte corrompu, Crisonia. Or les cartes marines contemporaines signalent Phocée et, immédiatement au nord, un toponyme Grixona (var. Grisona, Griscona...). L’auctoritas de Mela, selon le texte per­ turbé que la tradition avait fait connaître au Moyen Age, avait donc été confirmée, dans l’esprit de Cyriaque, par les données de la carte marine qu’il avait consultée.27

22 Hispaniae illustratae seu rerum urbiumque Hispaniae… scriptores varii, ed. Andreas Schott, vol. 1, Francofurti 1603, p. 11, l. 55–58: Huic autem promontorio (ubi ecclesia de finibus terrae, quondam ara Solis) oppositae sunt insulae Cassiterides ad austrum in pelago, quod satis charta navigationis ostendit. Il ajoute une autre raison: et color incolarum, qui sunt fusci coloris. 23 Ibid., p. 10, l. 6–10: Continet autem in longitudine secundum Appianum clarissimum historiogra­ phum a Gadibus usque ad oceanum septentrionalem decem milia stadiorum, latitudo vero a portu ­Veneris usque in Compostelam totidem, vel verius secundum Strabonem libro tertio, quod ipsi probavi­ mus cum charta navigabili, habet in longitudine sex milia et in latitudine etiam circa quinque millia. 24 Ibid., p. 11, l. 3–7. 25 Giuseppe Ragone, Umanesimo e “filologia geografica”: Ciriaco d’Ancona sulle orme di Pomponio Mela, in: Geographia antiqua 3/4 (1994/1995), pp. 147–169. 26 Corrigé en et urbs Leuca, extra Phocaea, Ioniae ultima par la critique moderne: Piergiorgio ­Parroni, Pomponii Melae De chorographia libri tres (Storia e letteratura 160), Rome 1984, p. 126. 27 Patrick Gautier Dalché, La carta navigatoria de Cyriaque d’Ancône, in: Geographia antiqua 13 (2004), pp. 87–93.

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Dans le studio de l’amateur de cartes marines: méthodes de lecture Une identification de la carte consultée par Cyriaque est possible. Un manuscrit de l’Österreichische Nationalbibliothek contient une liste de toponymes, précédée par le titre Ex carta navigatoria Ciriaci Anconitani,28 où est nommé en son lieu le topo­ nyme Grixona, suivi de Castri, Follia nova et Follia vecchia. Tous les toponymes de la liste montrent des correspondances graphiques et dialectales très nombreuses avec une œuvre d’un cartographe lui aussi anconitain, Grazioso Benincasa, actif un peu après la mort de Cyriaque, entre 1460 environ et le début des années 1480. Il est donc probable que la « carta navigatoria » de Cyriaque émanait d’un atelier anconitain (ou vénitien) où Benincasa trouva son modèle. La liste du manuscrit viennois fut quant à elle élaborée par un personnage qui connaissait l’origine de cet objet, et qui était sans doute proche de Cyriaque lui-même. L’organisation et le mode de transcription de cette liste sont intéressants. Elle est divisée par des sous-titres en trois parties: (1) toponymes de Venise aux environs d’Al­ hucemas en Afrique du Nord, en passant par le littoral de la mer Noire, le tout dans le sens horaire; (2) toponymes de Venise au détroit de Gadès dans le sens anti-horaire; (3) toponymes côtiers des îles et presqu’îles de la Méditerranée, eux-mêmes classés en plusieurs ensembles spatiaux. Phénomène frappant, l’auteur a donné une sorte d’imitation textuelle de la carte marine. Les toponymes de lieux jugés plus importants sont soulignés en rouge (ils sont aussi rubriqués sur les cartes marines). Les embou­ chures des fleuves importants sont signalées par un trait légèrement ondulé séparant deux toponymes successifs. Les deltas sont signifiés par deux traits encadrant ainsi les noms de lieux situés entre les bouches extrêmes, comme pour le Danube (fol. 88v, col. 1). La troisième section relative aux îles distingue clairement des domaines géo­ graphiques: entre la Sicile et l’Italie; entre la Sicile et l’Afrique; et versus Italiam magis quam Affricam usque ad Gaditanum fretum. De même, dans la description topo­ graphique des deux grandes îles de Sicile et de Sardaigne, les différentes orientations de la côte sont nettement distinguées, de façon à classer les noms de lieux orientem versus, versus meridiem, versus occidentem et versus septentrionem scilicet Italiam (dans le cas de la Sicile). Quelle peut être la raison d’un tel découpage ordonné ? S’agit-il d’un modèle textuel destiné à faire une copie de la carta navigatoria de Cyriaque ? N’aurait-il pas été plus simple, dans cette hypothèse, de recopier directement la carte, sans tomber dans les risques d’erreurs que comportait ce procédé ? Même si tel était le cas, le titre donné à la liste soulignant que le modèle appartenait à Cyriaque la situe en dehors

28 Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, 3479, fol. 88r–94r. Le manuscrit est hétérogène; le premier élément est postérieur à 1432; le second, qui contient la liste à la fin, est du XVe siècle, sans qu’il soit possible de préciser davantage du fait de l’absence de filigranes visibles.

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de la banalité d’éventuelles pratiques d’atelier. Quoi qu’il en soit, la structure de cette liste nous renseigne directement sur la façon dont une carte marine pouvait être lue de façon structurée pour en extraire des données à mémoriser ou peut-être encore à reconnaître, à des fins d’étude, sur une autre carte. La méthode révélée par ce document n’est pas isolée. On devrait pouvoir ren­ contrer dans les bibliothèques d’autres exemples de cette mise en texte de cartes marines, bien que les catalogues et les spécialistes des cartes marines les négligent habituellement. La bibliographie permet d’en rencontrer deux, contemporaines, qui proviennent de personnages notables, actifs assez loin du monde méditerranéen où agissaient Cyriaque d’Ancone et Joan Margarit. Entre 1478 et 1480, à la fin de sa vie, vers le temps où Joan Margarit travaillait à renouveler la géographie de la péninsule Ibérique, le premier antiquaire et topographe anglais, William Worcestre (1415-avant 1482) notait scrupuleusement ses observations recueillies lors de voyages à travers l’Angleterre, en relevant les distances parcourues (il avait été surveyor au service de Sir John Fastolfe), les caractéristiques des monuments anciens et en copiant des extraits des manuscrits trouvés dans les bibliothèques monastiques ou privées. On rencontre dans son manuscrit des pièces qui ne relèvent pas directement de cet intérêt pour les antiquités anglaises, notamment une copie partielle du Liber insularum Archipelagi de Cristoforo Buondelmonti (sans les cartes).29 Mais ce qui est encore plus révélateur de la curiosité de William Worcestre, c’est une liste des îles de l’Afrique occidentale, dans le golfe de Guinée, transcrite d’une carte qualifiée de « nouvelle ». Là encore, l’analyse de la carte procède par un classement des îles selon leur situation et en indi­ quant leur position relative. Il y a trois catégories: –– Iste sunt insule in parte meridionali parte [sic] mundi videlicet in terra sive pro­ vincia regni de Ghyney scituate aprucio [sic ed.; lege a primo] occidentis [subaud. meridiano] directe eundo versus orientalem plagam seu meridianam; scripte extra novam cartam tantum de dictis insulis pictam. Insula Sancti Michaelis in boriali parte insule Ihesu Christi. Insula Sancta Maria in orientali parte insule Michaelis. Insula Graciosa est occidentalior omnium insularum … –– Iste insule sunt in boriali parte insularum .8. insularum subscriptarum. Insula de Sale. Insula Bonavista orientalior … –– Iste .8. insule sunt meridionali parte quatuor insularum precedencium. Insula magna sine nomine in meridionali insule Sale. Insula sancta Lucia. Insula Sanvis­ enco directe orientalior …

29 Cambridge, Corpus Christi College 210, pp. 279–295; voir John H. Harvey, William Worcester. Itin­ eraries, Oxford 1969, p. 372: Hic declarantur nomina et naturas circa .xl. insulas in mare greco de parte .iiiixx. insularum scituatarum vocatarum Insule Cicladum inter Venesiam et Rodes, versus Ierusalem compilat. per Willelmum Worcestre anno Christi .1478. London de libro Christoferi Baldemont clerici qui laborauit in singulis dictarum .iiiixx. insularum pertinenti domino Johanni Fastolf de Castre in comitatu Norff. quondam morante.

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–– Vltime iste .15. insule sunt in orientali parte et meridionali omnium precedencium insularum. Insula Vfantana. Insula Buamo. Insula borialior sine nomine proxime sequens … –– Omnium .15. insularum ut extremissima parte mundi ex parte meridionali. Insule tres de Braua orientalior omnium insularum orientalior et boriali parte insule de Ysoch …30 Aucune carte conservée ne comprend tous ces noms d’îles. Il est donc probable qu’elle était à plus grande échelle, et qu’elle portait une graduation en degrés de longitude (si l’on accepte la correction que je propose). Raphaël de Mercatellis (1437–1508) était le fils illégitime du duc de Bourgogne Philippe le Bon, sa mère appartenait à une famille de marchands vénitiens installés à Bruges. Il fut le conseiller de Maximilien d’Autriche, qu’il servit comme ambassadeur. C’était un bibliophile passionné, méprisant les imprimés, collectionnant et faisant com­ poser des manuscrits luxueux. L’un de ses manuscrits, copié avant 1487 (British Library, Arundel 93), contient la Bibliotheca de Diodore de Sicile, des traités mineurs d’Enea Silvio Piccolomini, l’Epistola de studiis et litteris de Leonardo Bruni et, dans son dernier élément, le Liber insularum de Cristoforo Buondelmonti muni de cartes et montrant des traces d’un usage intensif, ce qui est rare dans les autres manuscrits de cette bib­ liothèque.31 Le Liber insularum est suivi (fol. 160r-v) par une liste des îles décrites, qui témoigne d’un travail approfondi de localisation, d’identification et de mise à jour effec­ tué à l’aide principalement d’une carte marine. L’ouvrage de ­Buondelmonti, en effet, décrivait successivement les îles de l’Archipel identifiées par leurs noms antiques, en donnant leur situation et leurs dimensions, sans toutefois que l’énumération aboutisse à une vision d’ensemble. Le personnage responsable de ce travail note par exemple: Calogerus scopulus est ad ortum estivalem Andros plus 30 miliaria, parvum est, liber dicit inter Cium et Andros, dicitur in carta Calloire, secundum cartam est loco dicto, alibi non … Naxos quam puto in carta dictam Nicossa vel Nicossia est ad ortum Paron modicum distans ab ea, habet in circuitu 80 milliaria … Choa ad ortum Amurgo per 70 milliaria ab oriente in occidentem secundum librum, per 40 milliaria secundum cartam … Crussie reliqua valde parva est equaliter precedenti [scil. Dipsi] ad occiduum precedenti [sic] modicum inter Icaream et Patmon secundum librum picture insularum32

Il est clair qu’à l’aide de l’échelle il mesure les distances sur la carte, qu’il les confronte à ce qu’il lit dans le liber picture insularum de Buondelmonti, et qu’il identifie les noms anciens par leurs équivalents modernes. En somme, au lieu du respect absolu de 30 Cambridge, Corpus Christi College 210, pp. 305–306 (éd. ibid., pp. 374–376); voir Raleigh A. Skelton, English knowledge of the Portuguese discoveries in the 15th century. A new document, in: Congresso internacional de historia dos Descobrimentos, Actas, vol. 2, Lisbon 1961, pp. 365–374. 31 Albert Derolez, The Library of Raphaël de Mercatellis Abbot of St. Bavon’s 1437–1508, Ghent 1979, pp. 90–94. 32 Gand, Universiteitsbibl. 13, fol. 160r–v.

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l­’antique qui était la principale caractéristique de l’antiquaire ­Buondelmonti, William Worcestre cherche à actualiser l’image de l’Archipel à l’aide de l’outil moderne, la carte marine. C’est d’ailleurs la même intention qui se remarque dans les notes marginales qui analysent les données géographiques de Diodore de Sicile en les rapportant au présent.33 Mais quel fut le responsable de cette opération, qui s’exprime à la première per­ sonne? Comme le montrent de nombreux autres textes présents dans sa bibliothèque, Raphaël de Mercatellis s’intéressait aux questions géographiques, en particulier aux localisations des lieux et aux distances les séparant, peut-être en rapport avec les projets de croisade de son père, ou de Pie II.34 Un autre de ses manuscrits (Gand, Bibl. van de Universiteit, 13) contient, parmi divers textes géographiques, une table indiquant les distances sur les routes, dont le point de départ est Bruges, intitulée Distantiae locorum mundi (c’est l’Itinéraire de Bruges, fol. 54r-60v). Les notes du manuscrit Arundel émanent de Raphaël de Mercatellis lui-même, ou de quelqu’un qui était à son service.35 Quoi qu’il en soit, il est patent que la carte marine sert à instituer l’usage pratique ou érudit d’un texte tel que le Liber insularum de Buondelmonti, qui n’avait d’autre préoccupation qu’antiquaire.36 Il est rare que des documents précis attestent ce type de réflexions ordonnées sur la carte. Mais elles ont dû être beaucoup plus fréquentes, et même banales, aux XIVe et surtout au XVe siècle, si on en juge par la présence de cartes marines dans les biblio­ thèques de savants; une enquête systématique donnerait certainement des résultats intéressants.37 33 Par exemple, au fol. 95v, à propos de Libyam versus ad oceanum sita plurium dierum navigatione insula permagna agro fertili (Bibl., 5, 19), l’annotateur écrit: Hec insula hodie vulgo dicitur insula Ma­ dere in qua Sertorius habitavit et plures sunt vicine, quas antiqui Beatas vocabant, sed potius credo quod sint quas Chanarias vocant, que distant a continenti fere stadia dccc. 34 Christine Gadrat, Lire Marco Polo au Moyen Age. Traduction, diffusion et réception du Devise­ ment du monde (Terrarum Orbis 12), Turnhout, 2015, pp. 290–291. 35 Ainsi que me le communiquait aimablement Albert Derolez que je remercie (lettre du 22 mars 1998). 36 On rencontre encore une transcription d’une carte marine vénitienne dans le manuscrit de Berne, Burgerbibliothek 576 d’origine italienne (XVe siècle, fort. 1477). Il s’agit d’une miscellanée de textes historiques, géographiques, philosophiques et moraux antiques (dont la Géographie de Ptolémée) et médiévaux (notamment la traduction de la Périégèse de Denys par Antonio Beccaria), d’empreinte à l’évidence humaniste. Sous l’intitulé Questi son li lochi, zoè citade, castelli e porti cogniti [illis.] mari nostri Mediterranei, e may’ de li più famosi, la liste commence à Venezia et se termine à Bora c[ivitas], après Cartagene c. (fol. 371r). 37 Par exemple: dans la liste des livres des effets de Richard Exeter († 1396/1397), moine à West­ minster, on trouve trois cartes qui purent être confrontées dans des opérations semblables à celles qui sont analysées ci-dessus: une mappa Anglie, une mappa maris et une mappa Scocie: Richard ­Sharpe, English Benedictine libraries. The shorter catalogues (Corpus of British medieval libraries catalogues 4), London 1996, p. 629. Dans l’inventaire après décès, en 1440, de Pere d’Artes, chanoine de la cathédrale de Valence, una carta de navegar et un mapamundi voisinent avec un Marco Polo et des livres de liturgie et de droit canon; cf. Curt J. Wittlin, Testament i inventari del canonge valencià Pere d’Artes (1440), in: Quaderns de filologia, 1984 (Estudis en memoria del professor M. Sanchis

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La carte marine comme modèle structurant un discours géographique: trois réussites inégales Ce troisième aspect de l’utilisation des cartes marines permet de confronter trois méthodes: celle de Gregorio Dati, celle de Francesco Berlinghieri et celle de Bernardo Silvano. La Sfera est désormais reconnue comme l’œuvre du marchand florentin Gregorio (ou Goro) Dati (1361–1435) qui, vers la fin de sa vie, occupa des charges publiques importantes. Depuis les travaux influents de Hans Baron, Dati est considéré comme appartenant aux cercles humanistes de la cité: peut-être à tort, car son œuvre ne contient aucun élément relatif à la culture humaniste.38 La Sfera est un poème en ottava rima traitant, en quatre livres, de la structure de l’univers et des influences célestes sur les activités humaines (notamment commerciales), du rôle des éléments et de leurs qualités dans le monde sublunaire, et enfin de la géographie de l’Asie et de ­l’Afrique. Cette géographie prend d’abord, dans le livre III, la forme d’une map­ pemonde textuelle, puis le dernier livre décrit en 36 stanze le littoral de l’Afrique, de la Méditerranée orientale et de la mer Noire à partir d’une carte à laquelle il est fait parfois référence de façon générique: Insine a Tenedon diritto guata Quella costiera miglia quattrocenti A maestral vèr tramontana a quarta Secondo che si vede in su la carta.39

Guarner; Estudis de llengua i literatura catalanes), p. 427; le catalogue de sa bibliothèque fait par Philip ­Wieland, juriste, membre des conseils princiers de l’État bourguignon, compte parmi 130 items een quarte marine: Albert Derolez et al. (eds.), Corpus catalogorum Belgii. The medieval booklists of the southern Low Countries, vol. 3: Counts of Flanders, Provinces of East Flanders, Antwerp and Limbourg, Bruxelles 1999, p. 125; en 1484, l’inventaire après décès d’Arnold Volkaerts comporte een ge­ print boeck van den carten van der zee: Corpus catalogorum Belgii …, vol. 4: Provinces of Brabant and Hainault, Bruxelles 2001, p. 97; en 1507, Cristofore Camponi, chanoine de Santa Maria della Scala à Milan, lègue entre autres biens une cartam navigandi in una tabula: Monica Pedralli, Novo, grande, coverto e ferrato. Gli inventari di biblioteca e la cultura a Milano nel Quattrocento (Bibliotheca erudita. Studi e documenti di storia e filologia), Milan 2002, p. 622. 38 Raymond Clemens, Medieval maps in a Renaissance context: Gregorio Dati and the teaching of geography in fifteenth-century Florence, in: Richard J. A. Talbert/ Richard W. Unger (eds.), Cartog­ raphy in Antiquity and the Middle Ages: Fresh perspectives, new methods, Leiden 2008, pp. 237–256; la meilleure étude de La Sfera reste celle de Filiberto Segatto, Un’immagine quattrocentesca del mondo: la Sfera del Dati, in: Atti dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, Memorie 8e série, 27 (1983), n. 3, pp. 147–181. 39 La Sfera libri quattro in ottava rima scritti nel secolo XIV... da Gregorio Dati, ed. Gustavo Galletti, Rome 1863, p. 19 v. 4, 25, 5–8.

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Le texte de la Sfera est accompagné de fragments de cartes marines correspondant aux lieux décrits. Des images géométriques ont pour effet de transcrire dans l’esprit du lecteur les formes que le regard perçoit sur la carte: Tunis forme un triangle avec la Sardaigne et la Sicile; après Laiazzo, dans le golfe d’Alexandrette, la côte fait un angolo acuto, l’Asie mineure a la forme d’un quadro, la partie orientale de la mer Noire affecte celle d’un arc.40 Les situations respectives de certains lieux étendent le regard au loin sur l’ensemble de la carte; ainsi l’orientation de Chypre, qui conduit jusqu’au Portugal: Tra la Leccia e Tortosa ad Orïente L’isola detta guata la marina E per diritta zona invèr Ponente Guarda Rodi e Madera e poi Messina A Caglieri e Maiorca è poi seguente Valenza et Portogallo…41

La méthode descriptive de Dati se distingue des exemples analysés précédemment. Elle est très ordonnée et très précise. Il énonce d’abord la distance entre deux points éloignés: Dalla Rissa alla Jazza d’Ermenia Ritta costiera son miglia secento Per Tramontana: tutta quella via Va verso Greco per quarta di vento. Il porto di Baruti di Soria Nel mezzo sta appunto alle trecento; E quindi sono, a chi l’pileggio piglia Sin a Alessandria cinquecento miglia.42

puis énumère le détail dans les stanze suivantes. En outre la description ne se borne pas au littoral; de nombreux éléments de l’intérieur des terres sont localisés à partir de celui-ci, comme par exemple Marrakech et Fez à partir de Ceuta: Incominciando dal meridionale Lito del mare in sulla stretta bocca Che miglia sedici è largo il canale Ed ha da ogni parte monte et rocca: Sta la città di Setta, la qual sale Sei giorni al Greco di sopra a Marocca, Ed altrettanto è dirimpetto ad essa Per mezzo della gran città di Fessa.43

40 Ibid., respectivement p. 17, 19, 20 v. 9, 4–6; 21 v. 1, 32, 6 and 34, 4. 41 Ibid., p. 19 v. 23, 1–6. 42 Ibid., p. 18 v. 15. 43 Ibid., p. 17 v. 1.

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Comme on le voit, les distances sont exactement notées aussi bien au long des côtes que pour des parcours allant d’une côte ou d’une île à l’autre: ce que les portulans appellent du terme technique de pileggio, que reprend d’ailleurs Dati. La description de la carte est donc associée à l’emploi d’un recueil d’instructions nautiques. Les localisations s’appuient en outre sur la rose des vents des marins, et cela avec une précision allant jusqu’à la quarta di vento. Somme toute, le quatrième livre de la Sfera se présente comme un concentré des outils techniques que sont la carte, le portulan, la boussole et le sablier.44 C’est avant tout une transcription textuelle de l’expérience de la navigation; voyez le conseil donné au navire qui rencontre les bas-fonds des Syrtes: Da Affrica ad Capulia ed a Facesse Son molte secche dal lito remote Et chi vuol navicare indi a Capesse Fra esse e’l lito per canal si puote.45

Ce n’est pas une carte précise, identifiable, qui est décrite, mas « la » carte marine, objet générique. Quel pouvait être le public de cette élaboration complexe ? Il serait très naïf de penser que l’ouvrage s’adressait aux enfants de la classe marchande florentine et servait à leur enseignement, en somme qu’il s’agirait d’un « poème didactique ».46 Les textes qui accompagnent la Sfera dans les très nombreux manu­ scrits sont en majorité des poèmes en vulgaire, des histoires édifiantes et des récits de voyages, ce qui a conduit Filiberto Segatto à conclure que le public visé était celui des artisans et des marchands florentins d’un niveau culturel « moyen ou bas », qui n’étaient ni humanistes ni lettrés. Les choses sont en réalité plus complexes que ces deux interprétations fondées sur des visées sommaires. Il faudrait en effet prendre un compte deux autres données: tous les textes qui l’accompagnent dans les manuscrits, et les cartes qui ornent l’ouvrage. Or voici un exemplaire italien qui, loin d’être issu

44 Mentionnés d’ailleurs au livre 3, 4, 1–2 (E con la carta dove son segnati / I venti e porti e tutta la ma­ rina); 5, 1–2 (Col bossol della stella temperate / Di calamita verso Tramontana); 7, 1–4 (Bisogna l’orïuolo per mirare / Quant’ore con un vento siano andati/ Et quante miglia per ora arbitrare / Et troveran dove sono arrivati.). 45 Ibid., p. 17 v. 10, 1–4. 46 Clemens (note 38), pp. 237–238. L’argument est d’ordre général et exogène: la poésie serait “a common form for educational works produced during the Renaissance”; mais le seul exemple donné, à partir de Paul F. Gehl (A moral art. Grammar, society and culture in Trecento Florence, Ithaca 1993, p. 80), concerne exclusivement les oeuvres morales et ne s’applique pas aux élaborations techniques. Plus généralement, la catégorie “poésie didactique”, qui n’existe pas avant le XVIIIe siècle, est à uti­ liser avec précaution; voir les remarques éclairantes de Pierre Vesperini, La poésie didactique dans l’Antiquité: une invention des Modernes, in: Anabases 21 (2015), pp. 25–38.

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de quelque bottega de marchand ou d’artisan, contient les cartes de la Géographie de Ptolémée, sans le texte, succédant à un portrait de l’auteur. Vient ensuite la Sfera (attribuée à Brunet Latin).47 C’est un manuscrit de luxe, avec des titres et des initiales à l’or et en couleur: par son contenu comme par son aspect, on a peine à penser que ce manuscrit fut fait pour des marchands de niveau « moyen-bas ». Il s’agit à l’évidence d’un exemplaire témoignant des intérêts géographiques d’un personnage apparte­ nant à l’élite culturelle. Quant aux cartes accompagnant le texte, elles sont de facture variée selon les manuscrits. Examinons deux exemplaires très différents. Dans un manuscrit de la Newberry Library, outre les cartes particulières, on trouve une carte régionale de la Syrie-Palestine, allant d’Alexandrette à Ascalon, l’intérieur étant figuré jusqu’à Damas, au Jourdain et au Sinaï; sur la côte, les distances en milles entre les lieux énumérés par Dati sont marquées, tout comme sur les cartes particulières; le littoral présente un aspect plutôt rectiligne.48 La carte du manuscrit de l’Arsenal est tout dif­ férente (fol. 75v). Elle ne représente que la côte figurée selon les conventions des cartes marines, c’est-à-dire avec des golfes exagérément agrandis; elle ajoute les fleuves qui débouchent dans la mer (absents de la précédente) et Jérusalem. Il n’y a donc pas lieu de généraliser les intentions de Dati et du public à partir de quelques exemplaires, ni de préjuger de la connaissance par l’auteur de la Géographie de Ptolémée − qui est possible, étant donné la date de rédaction de la Sfera, mais dont celle-ci ne comporte aucune trace.49 Il faut donc distinguer entre les intentions de l’auteur et la réception de son œuvre, qui est nécessairement de nature variée. Il est clair que la Sfera a pour but de donner une image de l’univers, qui peut certes être utile au marchand, mais qui dépasse largement la simple intention didactique. Il s’agit en fait d’une mise en scène symbolique de l’univers culturel du marchand, fondée en partie sur la carte marine et sur les autres outils de la navigation, mais aussi sur le comput, l’astronomie, l’as­ trologie et la météorologie, domaines que l’on retrouve fréquemment dans les taccuini émanant de ce milieu. A l’inverse de la Sfera, le travail de Francesco Berlinghieri (1440–1500) sur la Géographie de Ptolémée peut être qualifié de pleinement humaniste. Membre de l’académie platonicienne de Marsile Ficin, familier de Laurent de Médicis, il composa 47 Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, 8536; voir Antonio Marsand, I manoscritti italiani della regia biblio­ techa parigina, vol. 2, Paris 1838, pp. 500–502; Henry Martin, Catalogue des manuscrits de la Bi­ bliothèque de l’Arsenal, vol. 6, Paris 1892, p. 480. Le manuscrit a appartenu au XVIe siècle à Étienne Tabourot des Accords, l’auteur des Bigarrures (ex-libris Taboroti sum suorumque). 48 Chicago, Newberry Library, Ayer Map 1, fol. 14v; reproduit chez Clemens (note 38), planche XIII. 49 La première grande carte, présente dans le livre III, qui représente l’ensemble du Proche-Orient, de la mer Noire au golfe Persique, n’est pas “based on the Ptolemaic map of Asia”, comme l’écrit Raymond Clemens (note 38), p. 244. Il suffit de la comparer avec cette dernière, que l’auteur fournit à la figure 4: elle dépend à l’évidence, comme la précédente, d’une mappemonde de type Sanudo-­ Vesconte.

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durant de longues années les Septe giornate della geografia, réécriture mise en terza rima de la Géographie de Ptolémée. Sous l’influence de l’Italia illustrata de Biondo Flavio, il y ajouta de nombreux compléments mythologiques, historiques et eth­ nologiques. C’est une encyclopédie platonicienne du monde terrestre montrant, sous la conduite d’un Ptolémée quasi divinisé, les liens entre les cieux, les lieux et les peuples qui les habitent; c’est aussi une géographie « strabonisée », considérée comme indispensable à l’homme d’État.50 Berlinghieri élabora ses vers (atroces et pénibles à lire) à l’aide de cartes marines qui lui servirent à « raccontare el moderno collo anticho »,51 c’est-à-dire à réaliser le but essentiel de la géographie humaniste depuis Pétrarque et Boccace: identifier les noms de lieux antiques en les rapportant au peuplement contemporain. La struc­ ture de la description de chaque région est identique tout au long de l’œuvre.52 Après le nom, la situation et les confins, vient l’énumération des localités maritimes, des monts et des fleuves, puis des localités de l’intérieur. La carte marine, à laquelle il fait allusion à quelques reprises, n’est évidemment mise à contribution que pour les localités littorales.53 Quand la localité antique semble située au même endroit que la moderne, il donne une identification qu’il considère comme sûre. Ainsi à propos des environs de Nice: Vedi una habitation chola neglecta porto heracleo uocato gia monecho ma nel presente uilla francha e decta.54

Mais dans de nombreux cas, c’est douteux et même impossible, ce qu’il note par exemple en Gaule Narbonnaise: Vedi Tauroentio et il promontorio Citharista Circelli hoggi appellato Olbia cicta si uede dopo loro Ma forse che Tolone e nominato dalla moderna eta...55

50 Les Septe giornate devaient d’abord être dédiées à Mahomet II; elles le furent ensuite à Frédéric de Montefeltre, puis à son fils Guido. Deux exemplaires de l’impression (1482) devaient être dédiés aux deux fils de Mahomet II, Bajazet et Gem Sultan. 51 In questo volume si contengono le septe giornate della geografia di Francesco Berlinghieri Fioren­ tino …, per Nicolo Todescho, Florence 1482, vol. 3, p. 14; fac-similé Francesco Berlinghieri, Geographia 1482 (Theatrum orbis terrarum, 3,4), Amsterdam 1966. 52 Roberto Almagià, Osservazioni sull’opera geografica di Francesco Berlinghieri, in: Archivio della Reale Deputazione romana di storia patria 68 (1945), pp. 49–62. 53 Berlinghieri Fiorentino (note 50), vol. 2, p. 5: Antiueteo acrone e questo sito / bolerio decto anchor ma dalle charte / moderne per musafola si intende. 54 Ibid., vol. 3, p. 1. 55 Ibid., vol. 2, Sito di Gallia Narbonese (non ch.).

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L’opération était donc complexe, longue et difficile: Raccontare el moderno collo anticho / difficile & tedioso e dogni loco / ma de famosi basta sio lo explico.56 Le résul­ tat est d’une qualité très variable, ce dont il a conscience: Tanto e mutato luniuerso & uario che appena appresso puossi auere il uero: che tempi & il cielo e non meno aduersario.57

Or les cartes que Berlinghieri a fait graver sur cuivre pour accompagner son édition de 1482, qu’il s’agisse des cartes ptoléméennes classiques ou des tabulae modernae, présentent toutes les découpures littorales accentuées caractéristiques des cartes marines. On est donc face à une situation ambiguë. Dans le texte des Septe giornate, la nomenclature des cartes marines est simplement juxtaposée au catalogue ptoléméen, sans qu’il y ait assimilation de l’un à l’autre pour créer une géographie autonome et originale. Mais d’autre part, dans l’appareil cartographique, ce sont les cartes marines qui procurent le cadre iconographique, comme s’il était impossible à Berlinghieri de concevoir comme parfaitement licite une représentation différente. Berlinghieri n’est pas le seul à avoir tenté l’impossible − ou, si l’on préfère, la diffi­ cile synthèse entre Ptolémée et la carte marine. En 1511, Bernardo Silvano d’Eboli pu­ bliait une édition de la Géographie de Ptolémée extraordinairement critique à l’égard de ses prédécesseurs, et en particulier de Marco Beneventano, responsable d’une édition parue en 1507–1508 qui souhaitait réformer les cartes de Ptolémée à partir des observations issues des navigations contemporaines. Actif à Naples, Silvano avait déjà produit un manuscrit de la Géographie dédié à Andrea Matteo Acquaviva, duc d’Atri et lui-même humaniste.58 Dans la dédicace à ce même personnage de l’impres­ sion de 1511, Silvano justifiait ses critiques en remarquant que les cartes de Ptolémée dont on disposait alors ne répondaient pas aux résultats des « navigations de notre temps », et que les manuscrits de la Géographie non seulement variaient extraordi­ nairement dans les chiffres des coordonnées de longitude et de latitude, mais encore étaient en contradiction avec le texte même de Ptolémée.59 Il entreprit alors de réviser

56 Ibid., vol. 3, p. 14. 57 Ibid., vol. 2, Sito di Gallia Narbonese. 58 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, lat. 10764. 59 Bernardus Sylvanus Eboliensis ad illustrissimum Andream Matheum Aquaevivum …, in: Claudii Ptholemaei Alexandrini liber geographiae cum tabulis et universali figura et cum additione locorum quae a recentioribus reperta sunt, per Jacobum Pentium de Leucho, Venetiis 1511, fol. [2r]: Ego, dux illustrissime, cum Ptholemaei inter alios Geographiae scriptores diligentissime & situs & distantias lo­ corum scripsisse conspicerem, admirabar profecto, cur illius tabulae, paucis admodum in rebus, cum nostri temporis navigationibus consentirent … ita tamen confusa, ita tamen perturbata omnia erant, ut nihil in his libris, nisi foeda quaedam corruptio reperiretur.

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les cartes anciennes, en les remodelant grâce à une analyse soigneuse du texte et à sa confrontation avec des cartes marines.60 Voici un exemple topique de sa méthode: In sexta etiam Europae tabula, Corsicam insulam describentes alii, Fesitam civitatem, Pitani fluvii hostia, & Marianum promontorium, in meridionali latere locavere, cum tamen a Ptholemaeo in occidentali esse dicantur. Siracusanum etiam portum, Rubram civitatem, Alistam civitatem, Gra­ nianum promontorium, ac Philonii portum, ad orientale latus transtulere, cum tamen in merid­ ionali, iuxta Ptholomei verborum sententiam, esse debeant. Quae omnia a nobis emendata, et suis finibus restituta sunt. In eadem etiam tabula Italiam describentes, occidentales eius termi­ nos ommiserunt, qui tamen a Ptholemaeo ab Adula monte ad Vari fluvii ostia ponuntur. Quodque magis admiror, est, quod littus omne quod a Gargano monte Hydruntem usque extenditur, orienti exposuerunt, cum tamen ad septentrionem vergat, quod ex navigationibus habetur, ac etiam ex Ptholemaei verbis comprobatur, dicentis Italiam a septentrione, praeter alia, littore Adriatici sinus a Tilavempto fluvio usque ad Garganum montem & Hydruntem terminari.61

Les cartographes antérieurs à Silvano ont placé certains lieux sur le côté méridional de la Corse, alors que le texte ptoléméen dit qu’ils sont sur le côté occidental, ce qui a entraîné le déplacement fautif d’autres lieux sur le côté oriental, alors qu’ils doivent être sur le méridional. Le même type de défaut se trouve sur la carte d’Italie. Il corrige seulement les chiffres des coordonnées corrompus par les copistes, ainsi que les cartes manuscrites ou imprimées. Or on estime communément que Silvano a « corrigé » Ptolémée, ou encore qu’il l’a « modernisé » par le recours aux « naviga­ tions de notre temps ».62 Remarquable incompréhension d’un texte parfaitement clair qui dit le contraire: le but de Silvano est de restituer l’original vrai de Ptolémée, en démontrant qu’il n’a pu se tromper, comme il le dit de la façon la plus explicite: Quod cum animadvertissem, coepi diligentius ipsa Ptholemaei verba examinare, cumque plerisque in locis numeri verbis ipsis repugnarent, cognovi Ptholemaei verba navigationibus prope omnia respondere, numeros maxime dissentire. Quae cum vidissem, audacius fortasse quam par erat, ratione tamen certa permotus, Ptholemaei verba cum navigationibus ipsis conferens, numeros qui facillime depravari, & possint, & soleant, correxi. [...] tabulas et Ptholemaeo ipsi, et veritati con­ gruentes descripsi.63

60 Analyse de sa méthode dans Guglielmo Cavallo (ed.), Cristoforo Columbo e l’apertura dei spazi. Mostra storico-cartografica, vol. 2, Rome 1992, pp. 730–731. 61 Annotatio in sextam Europae tabulam. De Corsica atque Italia, in: Claudii Ptholemaei Alexandrini (note 59), fol. [2v]. 62 Par exemple Numa Broc, La géographie de la Renaissance, Paris 1980, p. 11; Germaine Aujac, Le manuscrit d’Andrea Matteo Acquaviva et d’Isabelle Piccolomini, in: Bibliothèque nationale de France, La Géographie de Ptolémée, Paris 1998, p. 86; Vladimiro Valerio, Cartography in the king­ dom of Naples during the early modern period, in: David Woodward (ed.), The history of cartogra­ phy, vol. 3, p. 1: Cartography in the European Renaissance, Chicago, London 2007, pp. 940–974, ici p. 953; ­Simonetta Conti, Bernardo Silvano y su obra cartografica, in: Revista de estudios colombinos 5 (2009), p. 74. 63 Bernardus Sylvanus Eboliensis ad illustrissimum Andream Matheum Aquaevivum …, fol. [2r].

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Restituer le « vrai » Ptolémée à partir des « navigations de notre temps », c’est faire exactement la même chose qu’avait faite le géographe antique, dont l’œuvre était en grande partie fondée sur les rapports de voyageurs maritimes, comme le souligne Silvano à plusieurs reprises: eoque magis admirabar, quod Ptholemaeum quoque navigationibus comprimis innixus, ea quae scripserit, scripsisse arbitrabar.64

Et la vérité de l’image ptoléméenne se vérifie même dans les espaces africains récem­ ment reconnus par les Portugais, en Ethiopia inferior: Atque ita Ptholemaei verba, nostri temporis navigationibus, atque locorum illorum notitiae, nobis superioribus annis a Lusitanis traditae, optime respondent.65

Evidemment, cette opération de restitution essentiellement philologique (Silvano était en rapport avec les meilleurs humanistes de son temps) ne peut valoir pour le nouveau monde, ce qu’il reconnaît en concluant que la description du monde de Ptolémée est parfaite, si on enlève ce qui fut ignoré de lui; il le souligne encore dans la note sur la carte du monde qui tient compte des découvertes récentes. Il est signi­ ficatif qu’en faisant cette remarque réhabilitant Ptolémée comme le modèle absolu de la vérité cartographique, Silvano s’oppose explicitis verbis à ceux qui ont con­ damné Ptolémée comme dépassé.66 C’est une allusion au débat fondamental dont la Géographie de Ptolémée faisait l’objet chez les humanistes depuis le milieu du siècle précédent.67

La carte marine face à Ptolémée: un débat épistémologique La Géographie de Ptolémée était donc objet de débat chez les éditeurs et les carto­ graphes, chez qui la discussion portait essentiellement sur la conformité des manuscrits 64 Ibid. 65 Annotatio in quartam Africae tabulam. De Aethipia inferiori, sunque Hesperii, fol. [3r]. 66 De universali habitabilis figura cum additionibus locorum nuper inventorum, fol. [3v]: Placuit in­ super universae habitabilis figuram, cum iis omnibus quae recentiorum navigationibus reperta, & nobis tradita sunt, ex nostro addere. Quam nulla tamen ex parte, ab universali Ptholemaei descriptione dif­ fere sentias, modo illa quae Ptholemaeo ignota fuerunt demantur. Id vero ea tamen ratione egimus, ut videant qui Ptholemaeum damnarunt, quod nihilo nostri temporis navigationibus, ac veritati, modo neglectis prioribus numeris verba obseruentur, adversari videantur. 67 Patrick Gautier Dalché, La Géographie de Ptolémée en Occident (IVe–XVIe siècle) (Terrarum Orbis 9), Turnhout 2009, pp. 183–188.

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et des éditions avec les intentions du géographe antique. Débat principalement tech­ nique, comme le montrent les efforts de Bernardo Silvano; mais, en arrière-plan, ces polémiques recouvraient un autre débat, de nature épistémologique, dont Ber­ nardo Silvano était parfaitement conscient. J’en donnerai deux exemples, grâce aux œuvres de l’humaniste sicilien Pietro Ranzano et du naturaliste vénitien Giovanni Fontana. Le dominicain Pietro Ranzano (vers 1426–1492/1493) fut en relation avec l’élite des humanistes de son temps. Au service du pape et de la couronne d’Aragon, il entreprit, sans doute dès les années 1460, une énorme compilation intitulée Annales omnium temporum commençant à la création et se poursuivant jusqu’à l’époque contempo­ raine. L’histoire universelle y est conduite dans un cadre national ou plutôt dynas­ tique; la description géographique de chaque royaume joue un rôle important, à partir de très nombreuses sources textuelles et orales.68 Son effort essentiel a consisté, en partant de la Géographie de Ptolémée, à identifier les toponymes antiques, princi­ palement à l’aide de cartes marines. Sous forme textuelle, l’entreprise est analogue à celles, dans le domaine cartographique, de Marco Beneventano et de Bernardo Silvano: ces derniers voulaient retrouver la vérité ptoléméenne grâce aux navigations modernes, Ranzano admet cette vérité comme un donné qu’il faut mettre à jour. Mais l’absence de correspondance précise entre des sources de nature diverse rendait l’ex­ ercice très difficile, comme il l’avait été pour Berlinghieri. Ranzano fait preuve d’une remarquable capacité à transposer les cartes marines qu’il a sous les yeux. Elles lui donnent non seulement des renseignements toponymi­ ques, mais aussi et surtout elles procurent un élément de comparaison contemporain pour établir une image correcte des rapports topographiques réels tenant compte à la fois de l’apport de Ptolémée et de leur apport propre. Ainsi, sur les cartes marines (peut-être s’agit-il plutôt de l’une ou l’autre de ces mappemondes établies à l’aide de cartes marines, telle la mappemonde catalane), il calcule des distances qu’il exprime en milles. La construction de l’image de la côte atlantique de l’Afrique juxtapose par exemple la toponymie ptoléméenne et celle de la carte: Est ultra Nifeum ad cc et xxx m. p. promontorium caput Guerium hodie dictum, a quo non longe e mediis arenis squalens et asper minor hic Atlas attollitur, aliquantoque spacio mare dextra relin­ quens, primum ad austrum spacio circiter cxx p.m. protenditur.69

68 Palermo, Bibl. Comunale, 3Qq 54–60. Sur la vie et la culture de Ranzano, voir Bruno Figliuolo, La cultura a Napoli nel secondo Quattrocento. Ritratti di protagonista (Fonti e testi. Raccolta di sto­ ria e filologia), Udine 1997, pp. 94–121; Patrick Gautier Dalché, Rapport sur les conférences (Les représentations de l’espace de l’Antiquité tardive au XVIe siècle). I. Géographie et histoire à la fin du XVe siècle: Pietro Ranzano (et alii). II. Travaux récents sur les représentations de l’espace, in: École pratique des hautes études, Section des sciences historiques et philologiques, Livret-annuaire, 142e année (2009–2010), pp. 109–114. 69 Palermo, Bibl. Comunale, 3Qq 54, fol. 43v.

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Nifeum est Anfa sur la côte marocaine, place bien connue des commerçants italiens (Niffeum nomine, quod a multarum nationum mercatoribus maxime frequentatur com­ mercii gratia), le caput Guerium est le cap Ghir, contrefort occidental du haut Atlas où aboutit, sur les cartes marines, à proximité de plagas arenosas, la carena, nom d’origine arabe de l’Atlas qui est employé sur les cartes.70 Ce souci du détail va jusqu’à des identifications qui doivent provenir de rapports oraux, mais qui attestent une remarquable capacité de comparaison des données topographiques: Lixos Mosmor barbarorum lingua, locum vulgus hodie appellat71; l’antique Cartana est aujourd’hui appelée Marzema (Alhucemas), etc. Dans ce délicat travail d’identification, Ranzano rencontrait le problème récur­ rent de la géographie humaniste, susceptible de lui aliéner une partie de son public, mais riche aussi de possibilités d’interprétation plus fine de la géographie contem­ poraine. Fallait-il garder les noms antiques, ou bien livrer ceux usités par le vulgus ? Ce problème, depuis Leonardo Bruni et Biondo Flavio, avait troublé les humanistes attachés à l’étude de l’espace antique. Selon les uns, les Anciens, de façon générale, avaient tout connu avec exactitude, la tâche des modernes n’étant que de redécouvrir les secrets de leur connaissance totale et parfaite de l’orbis terrarum. Dès le milieu du XVe siècle, la Géographie de Ptolémée était ainsi devenue pour certains un modèle absolu de vérité et, comme on l’a vu, c’était cette vérité que Bernardo Silvano cher­ chait à restituer cartographiquement. D’autres au contraire considéraient que les modernes avaient fait considérablement avancer les connaissances dans tous les domaines.72 Conscient qu’il était sans doute de la prédilection de certains humanistes pour l’auctoritas, et des risques de jugements défavorables à l’encontre de son œuvre où l’on rencontrait nombre de toponymes « vulgaires », Ranzano adopte une attitude ambiguë. Dès le début, il relève que l’usage des marins appelant mare Hispaniae l’océan Atlantique « est incompatible avec l’usage des doctes ».73 Constamment, il prend donc soin de préciser que les noms qu’il emploie sont ceux « d’aujourd’hui »,

70 Ibid., fol. 43v: Illud tantum scimus totum ipsum montem et a barbaris et a nostris hominibus Care­ nam vulgo vocitari. 71 Ibid., fol. 40v. Mesmar, Mosmera, Maxmar à partir du XIIIe siècle dans les sources arabes; voir Ahmed Siraj, L’image de la Tingitane dans les sources arabes: l’historiographie arabe et l’Antiquité nord-africaine (Collection de l’École française de Rome 209), Rome, Paris 1995, pp. 352–354. 72 Voir par exemple les opinions assez opposées de l’ambassadeur portugais Vasco Fernandes de Lucena célébrant la découverte d’îles vix ipsis orbis descriptoribus incognitae dans son discours d’obé­ dience à Innocent VIII (Valasci Ferdinandi utriusque juris consulti, illustrissimi regis Portugalliae oratoris ad Innocentium viii pontificem maximum de obedientia oratio, Rome, Stephen Plannck, 1488–1490), et d’Ange Politien dans sa lettre au roi de Portugal Jean II datée de 1490 ou 1491 (Episto­ larum libri XII, X, 1, in: Omnia opera Angeli Politiani et alia quædam lectu digna, Venetiis, Alde Ma­ nuce, 1498, non paginée); voir Jean-Marc Mandosio, Ange Politien et les “autres mondes”: l’attitude d’un humaniste florentin du XVe siècle face aux explorations portugaises, in: Médiévales 58 (2010), pp. 27–42. 73 Palermo, Bibl. Comunale, 3Qq 54, fol. 35v.

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ceux du « vulgaire » ou « des barbares », et il ne manque pas, lorsqu’il en a la possibilité, de les expliquer par la corruption de termes antiques ou par l’évolution linguistique. Une bonne part de la nomenclature de Ranzano, issue des cartes marines, est donc contemporaine et vulgaire. Ce choix n’allait pas de soi, comme le prouvent les précautions de langage dont il use à ce sujet. Or Ranzano avait une forte conscience de l’évolution historique de la topographie et de la géographie, ce qui transparaît dans ses remarques. Sa géographie est donc véritablement historique. Nombre de passages de Pline sont exactement cités, avec cette différence que les verbes sont mis au passé. Si le détroit de Gibraltar est jugé plus large par ceux « qui autem tempestate mea loca illa navigant » que par les veteres, c’est selon lui le résultat de l’érosion due à la perpétuelle collision des flots.74 Pline termine sa description de la Maurétanie à l’Atlas sed sequamur aliqua ex parte Ptolemaeum nostrorumque temporum nautas, qui eo multo sunt progressi ulterius.75 Pas plus que pour Silvano, Ptolémée n’est donc disqualifié par les « navigations de notre temps », c’est-à-dire par les cartes marines. Le point de vue du naturaliste vénitien Giovanni Fontana (vers 1390–1455 ou peu après) est tout différent. Alors qu’il est rare que des outils cartographiques soient discutés dans un ouvrage de philosophie naturelle, Fontana en donne une analyse ­critique, notamment dans le livre IV de son Liber de omnibus rebus naturalibus.76 Il distingue plusieurs genres de pratique cartographique. Les cartes marines et les cartes régionales sont par nature partielles (magis diminute); d’autres dessinent des choses superflues, telles que le purgatoire, le séjour des démons et le domaine des bêtes sauvages (c’est sans doute un certain genre de mappa mundi qui est ici visé); les physici (naturalistes) se bornent à représenter les principales parties habitées en lais­ sant de côté l’Extrême-Orient et la zone torride; d’autres enfin ne font que figurer des noms de lieux confusément ordonnés, pour rapporter les histoires et les légendes à leurs lieux propres. La supériorité de Ptolémée géographe est d’approcher davantage la vérité: Neminem hactenus legi, qui clarius copiosiusque dixerit et magistraliter magis atque verius, quam Claudius Ptolomeus Alexandrinus.77 Fontana ne reconnaît nullement à Ptolémée une supériorité fondée sur la mathématisation de la représentation de l’espace. Il le juge « plus vrai » parce qu’il situe exactement les parties de la terre sub gradibus coeli: c’est cette caractéristique 74 Ibid., fol. 39v. 75 Ibid., fol. 45v. 76 Au XVIe siècle, le traité fut édité − et sans doute aussi remanié − sous son propre nom par Pom­ pilius Azalus qui le dédia à Charles Quint: Liber Pompilii Azali Placentini de omnibus rebus natu­ ralibus quae continentur in mundo, videlicet coelestibus et terrestribus necnon mathematicis et de angelis motoribus quae [sic] coelorum, Venetiis 1544. Lynn Thorndike l’a rendu à Fontana; voir Lynn Thorndike, An unidentified work by Giovanni Fontana: Liber de omnibus rebus naturalibus, in: Isis 15 (1931), pp. 31−46. L’édition est gravement fautive; c’est pourquoi les citations qui suivent sont éven­ tuellement corrigées quand la grammaire et le sens l’exigent. 77 Liber Pompilii Azali, IV, 8, fol. 94r.

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propre, à savoir le lien entre les cieux et le monde sublunaire, qui permet de com­ prendre et de représenter la Terre.78 Sur ce point, les idées de Fontana sont l’abou­ tissement des réflexions qui, depuis le XIIIe siècle, cherchaient à rendre raison des phénomènes terrestres par l’explicitation de leurs causes célestes. Mais les autres types de cartographie ne sont aucunement discrédités par cette supériorité. Fontana décrit la mappemonde de Ptolémée, mais il met aussi en œuvre des données prov­ enant notamment des cartes marines.79 Il emprunte des toponymes et des notions à une mappemonde circulaire semblable à celle qui, conservée à la même époque dans la bibliothèque des ducs de Ferrare, est connue sous le nom de carte catalane ou de mappemonde Estense,80 laquelle n’était pas dressée selon le système des coor­ données, mais à partir de cartes marines: par exemple les monts de la Lune appelés Cibelcamar situés sur la ligne équinoxiale ou les insulas quasdam Siladam [l’Islande] associés sans contradiction aucune avec les toponymes qui proviennent de la Géogra­ phie. Fontana considère les cartes, de quelque type qu’elles soient, comme des outils vrais selon leur caractéristique propre, et parfaitement adaptés à leur fonction propre intellectuelle ou pratique. Ainsi, les cartes marines, qui sont parfaites pour la con­ naissance des littoraux de la Méditerranée: Huius vero maris mediterranea forma partes littora insulae mirabiliter et verissime habentur in carta navigandi, qua christiani naucleri Veneti Ianuenses et Cathelani per ipsum navigantes utuntur, nec meliorem descriptionem requiras, si haec loca nostri maris perfecta scire desideras.81

Et c’est en même temps qu’il utilise tous ces types de cartes à des fins scientifiques, conscient de leur caractère conventionnel: ce sont des représentations toujours déter­ minées par des fins spécifiques et ne prétendant en rien être une copie imitant la réalité perçue. Esprit original formé à l’université, spécialiste des artes, d’un esprit curieux qui le conduisit à des expériences qui pouvaient passer pour de la magie, Fontana exprime donc une attitude assez rare au XVe siècle − probablement parce qu’il ne participe pas ou peu de la culture humaniste.

78 Ibid., IV, 2, fol. 90v: per hunc modum omnis situs in terra potest intelligi et pariformiter depingi, quare habita tabula vel notitia omnium particularium locorum habitabilis terrae in longitudine et latitu­ dine, facile est cosmographia designare. 79 Ibid., IV, 9, fol. 94r−95r. 80 Soigneuse édition par Annalisa Battini, avec verbeuse introduction par Ernesto Milano, Il map­ pamondo catalano Estense. Die katalanische Estense-Weltkarte, Zürich 1995. 81 Liber Pompilii Azali, IV, 8, fol. 94v.

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Conclusion Les usages réflexifs des cartes marines sont donc variés. De cette revue, on peut tirer quelques enseignements. Son usage est relativement courant, attestant le développe­ ment d’une culture cartographique approfondie − et pas seulement chez les savants de cabinet, comme le montre la discussion du concile de Bâle sur la possession des Canaries, prélude à la production de multiples cartes marines quelques décennies plus tard, à l’occasion des pleitos Colombinos. D’autre part, dans leur cabinet de travail, les savants lisent véritablement ces documents, les analysent avec ordre et précision, calculent des mesures à l’aide de l’échelle, ce qui les conduit à des ­ré­flexions appro­ fondies sur la topographie locale et, plus généralement, sur la géographie de l’orbis terrarum. Il serait naïf de penser que les savants médiévaux croyaient que la carte, de quelque type qu’elle soit, mappae mundi, tabulae ptoléméennes ou cartes marines, équivaut au territoire. Leur emploi est toujours soumis à des présupposés. Certains des premiers humanistes, comme Domenico Silvestri, sont gênés de faire référence à un instrument du vulgus dénué d’auctoritas. Leurs successeurs, comme Pietro Ranzano, les confrontent à Ptolémée en leur accordant une valeur de vérité égale. Silvano va jusqu’à restituer Ptolémée en s’appuyant sur elles. C’est qu’ils sont conscients du ca­ractère conventionnel de toute représentation cartographique, sans toutefois en faire nécessairement la théorie. Seul Giovanni Fontana, sans doute à cause de sa formation aristotélicienne, exprime le fond du mystère de la représentation: c’est une élaboration intellectuelle, toujours déterminée par des fins spécifiques, qui ne prétend en rien être une mimesis de la réalité perçue: comme nos propres cartes.

Camille Serchuk

Around the World: Borders and Frames in Two Sixteenth-Century Norman Map Books Abstract: This essay examines the complex network of relationships between cartography produced in sixteenth-century Normandy and other contemporary pictorial traditions. Focusing on the border motifs that adorned two volumes of maps made in the 1540s, it argues that the framing devices not only added value and luster to the books, but also helped the viewers of the books approach and understand the maps within them. The decoration of the books asserted their legitimate position in the libraries and on the desks of their owners; they connected the novel depiction of geography to other types of books that invited contemplation and sustained examination. Personalized for their viewers, in this case, the English king and the French crown prince, the borders of these map books drew on specific artistic forms and styles to ensure a warm reception for their appeals for royal patronage and favor. Keywords: frames, borders, cartography, sea charts, Rotz Atlas, Dauphin Atlas In 1542, having failed to secure an appointment at the court of François I, the ­Scottish-French pilot and navigator Jean Rotz traveled from Dieppe to London to seek his fortune at the court of Henry VIII, who was known to pay handsomely for foreign (and especially for French) navigational expertise. In England, Rotz offered the king two gifts. The first was a treatise that combined practical and theoretical knowledge of navigation, with a particular emphasis on the calculation of compass deviation. The treatise or ‘Traicte des differences du compas aymante’, also described a navigational instrument called a differential quadrant, which Rotz claimed to have devised, and which he also presented to the king.1 These gifts appear to have been favorably received,

1 The ‘Traicte des differences du compas aymante, et de certains poinctz notables dicelluy concernantz le faict des nauigations jusques a present incongnus, tresutille et necessaire a tous pillottes et mari­ niers. Compost par Jan Rotz, natif de Dieppe en lan 1542‘ is preserved today as London, British Library, Royal MS 20 B VII. Cf. Eva G. R. Taylor, Jean Rotz: His Neglected Treatise on Nautical Science, in: The ­Geographical Journal 73:5 (1929), pp. 455–459. Taylor, p. 456, describes the instrument as “one of the Note: I want to express my gratitude to my colleagues in the Arts and Sciences Research Roundtable at Southern Connecticut State University, who made generous and insightful suggestions for the revision and development of an earlier draft of this essay. Troy Paddock, Joel Dodson, and Kirstin Ringelberg read subsequent versions of the manuscript and made invaluable comments and corrections. Any errors that remain are my own. Camille Serchuk, Art Department, Southern Connecticut State University, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-008

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because Rotz identified himself as sarvant to the Kingis mooste excellent Majeste2 in his third offering to the king, a bound collection of maps, which he entitled the ‘Boke of Idrography’.3 Rotz served Henry as Royal Hydrographer until the king’s death in 1547.4 Rotz’s ‘Boke’ framed its description and representation of the world in a markedly luxurious format. Richly colored borders surround each of its twelve maps, adding elegance and luster to the description of the world they encompass. Like other luxury maps and map collections made in Normandy in the sixteenth century, Rotz’s ‘Boke’ presented orbis and ornament in nearly equal measure. This essay considers how the description of the world and its decoration worked together, by examining the framing motifs in the ‘Boke’ and in the so-called Dauphin Atlas, another, related, luxury map book made in Normandy in the 1540s for royal presentation. It argues that in these volumes, geography and garnish shaped comprehension and reception of their novel contents. The application of the conventions of luxury book illumination to bound map collections reveals how mapmakers experimented with format and decoration to situate the new image of the world into established frameworks for the dissemination of knowledge. A total of thirty-seven presentation maps made in Normandy are known; they were produced in Dieppe, Le Havre, and Arques, between about 1538 and 1635.5 Nine of these are bound collections of maps.6 Three of these, including the Rotz Atlas, the Dauphin (or The Hague) Atlas, and the Vallard Atlas, have richly illuminated borders.7 precursors of the theodolite, and a very elaborate one”. To my knowledge the instrument has not survived. 2 London, British Library, Royal MS 20 E IX, f. 1v. 3 A facsimile of the manuscript (see note 2) is provided by Helen Wallis (ed.), The maps and text of the ‘Boke of Idrography’ presented by Jean Rotz to Henry VIII: Now in the British Library, Oxford 1981. Scholars differ about the chronology of Rotz’s appointment and the production of the ‘Boke’; Taylor (note 1), p. 459, took it to be Rotz’s first official duty after his appointment; Helen Wallis, Sixteenth Century Maritime Manuscript Atlases for Special Presentation, in: John A. Wolter/ Ronald E. Grim (eds.), Images of the World. The Atlas through History, Washington/ DC 1997, pp. 3–29, here p. 14, believed instead it was presented to the king before the appointment was made. 4 Wallis 1997 (note 3), p. 14. 5 Sarah Toulouse, Marine Cartography and Navigation in Renaissance France, in: David Woodward (ed.), History of Cartography, vol. 3, 2: Cartography in the European Renaissance, Chicago, London 2007, pp. 1550–1568, here p. 1551. 6 The unfinished state of one of these nine, however, (London, British Library, Egerton MS 1513) and its numerous redundancies have led scholars to speculate that it may have been hastily assembled from workshop prototypes and cannot properly be considered a coherent whole. Tony Campbell, Egerton MS 1513: A Remarkable Display of Cartographical Invention, in: Imago Mundi 48 (1996), pp. 93–102. 7 Some scholars contend that structure and editing, such as can be seen in the printed volumes of Ortelius and Mercator, are essential to the atlas, and that collections of maps, bound or not, cannot properly be considered atlases. I use the term here for purposes of convenience. See James R. ­Akerman, From Books with Maps to Books as Maps: The Editor in the Creation of the Atlas Idea, in: Joan Winearls (ed.), Editing Early and Historical Atlases. Papers given at the Twenty-ninth Annual Conference on Editorial Problems. University of Toronto, 5–6 November 1993, Toronto 1993, pp. 3–48.

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Unlike most printed maps, these richly colored manuscript documents were distinctively individualized and specifically tailored to the tastes, interests, and reading habits of the kings and aristocrats to whom they were presented. Printed maps might flatter a monarch’s imperial ambitions, or promote acceptance of newly established treaties, but manuscript documents were more sumptuous and more personal, even when their production contexts are somewhat difficult to reconstruct. The decorated borders of the map manuscripts ally them with other contemporary works and thereby help to position the volumes in the conventions of luxury book production, consumption, and collection. Previous scholarship on sixteenth-century Norman maps has focused primarily on the evidence they offer for contemporary geographical and ethnographic knowledge.8 This essay focuses instead on the ways in which that knowledge was presented to royal viewers to enhance its favorable reception. The pictorial character of these maps is an integral component of their content; their color, composition, calligraphy, and framing all contribute forcefully to their persuasive and expressive enterprise.9 Norman map books are innovative and their producers made considerable effort to present them in the form of illuminated manuscripts. Thus the particular care given to the borders of the manuscripts can offer insight into how the books were to be handled and understood, and also into how established reading practices could adjust to the demands of these novel, primarily pictorial, cosmographical volumes.10 The Norman map books of the 1540s followed the basic structure of the sea chart, a navigational tool that depicted coastlines and coordinates for sailors. Yet the map books were never intended for shipboard seafaring. Their decorative schemes and handsome leather bindings affirm their harbor was a royal or aristocratic library, where they competed for the reader’s attention among similarly ornamented devotional books, travel accounts, ancient histories, and allegorical literature. Indeed, the decorative character of the map books explicitly aligned them with objects of reverence, knowledge, and contemplation, and also of fashion and delight. The format and ornament of the map books guided readers who were uncertain how to interact

8 The classic work on Norman cartography is Albert Anthiaume, Cartes marines, Constructions navales, Voyages de Découverte chez les Normands, 1500–1650, Paris 1916; a comprehensive if difficult-to-access study is the five-volume thesis of Sarah Toulouse, L’art de Naviguer: Hydrographie et Cartographie Marine en Normandie, 1500–1650 (Thèse pour le diplôme d’archiviste paléographe, École nationale des chartes, 1994). The most recent treatment of the maps is found in Chet van Duzer, A World for a King: Pierre Desceliers’ map of 1550, London 2015; Surekha Davies, Renaissance Ethnography and the Invention of the Human New Worlds: Maps and Monsters, Cambridge 2016, pp. 109–147. 9 See, e. g., Christian Jacob, The Sovereign Map, transl. Tom Conley, ed. Ed Dahl, Chicago 2006. 10 My thinking is particularly indebted to the late Myra D. Orth, and in particular to her article Orth, What Goes Around: Borders and Frames in French Manuscripts, in: Journal of the Walters Art Gallery 54 (1996), pp. 189–201, and also the chapter “Frames and Borders” in the posthumously published Orth, Renaissance Manuscripts. The Sixteenth Century, London, Turnhout 2016, pp. 51–60.

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with their unfamiliar structure and content. Although bound in the familiar format of a folio, their depiction of the world’s geography was novel and unprecedented, and it was also largely unmediated by textual instruction. The maps feature inscriptions and toponyms, but the only extended passages of text are Rotz’s dedication to his sovereign and a treatise on calculating the tides in The Hague volume. In the absence of rubrics and other verbal structures that customarily governed the reader’s consumption of the page, the borders and frames performed this task visually. They secured the reader’s confidence in the authority of the volume and his or her role in it by means of its approximation to works that were more familiar. The practices of reading – even in relation to a volume without many words – helped the viewer to consume the world before his or her eyes.11

Map Production, Manuscript Production The manipulation of the reader – in both senses – was clearly no accident. The Rotz, Hague and Vallard atlases were deftly designed to both captivate and activate their viewers. The elegantly animated continents, their figures, flora, and fauna, were carefully calibrated to intrigue their audience. Yet the identity of the designers of these manuscripts, their mapmakers, and the structure of their workshops all remain the subject of speculation. Because so many place names on sixteenth-century Norman maps are in Portuguese or awkwardly translated into French, scholars have assumed that the maps were copied from or at least based on Portuguese models, acquired through theft or purchase. The ambitious scope of Portuguese voyages of discovery and exploration rendered the circulation of cartographic information gathered on these expeditions treasonous, and considerable efforts were made to prevent the transmission of navigational documents. French privateers who boarded Portuguese vessels were known to seize not only luxury goods but also valuable charts. The Portuguese protected their knowledge of the seas through the maintenance of a master map (the padrão real) and prohibited unauthorized copies and the transmission of sensitive navigational information. Yet some Portuguese navigators and chartmakers appear to have defied these strictures and settled in Normandy, finding steady employment in France making copies of Portuguese sea charts and serving the French crown directly.12 11 Mary Carruthers, The Craft of Thought. Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400–1200, Cambridge 1998, argues persuasively that borders and ornament shape reception and comprehension of text in medieval monastic books. But the implications of her analysis are far-reaching, and a similar interaction between center and periphery can be seen to operate between the maps and their borders in Norman map books of the sixteenth century. 12 Relations between France and Portugal were marked by tensions around piracy and competition in exploration. For a discussion of the presence of the Portuguese (and particularly of specialists in

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Maps were produced with drawing and copying methods similar to those used by artists, including pouncing and tracing.13 The chartmaker outlined the continents and labeled the coastlines, and also often added the graphic elements of its navigational features – latitude, wind roses, and rhumb lines. On the Norman maps, many of the wind roses feature the fleur-de-lis, the stylized lily that was the emblem of the French crown, but which does not necessarily suggest a French producer or patron. Once these features were in place, the sheets might then be committed to the hands of a painter, who filled the continents and the seas with natural and architectural detail.14 In some manuscripts, the painter also decorated the ornamental borders of the pages; in others, this task was the work of yet another hand. And of course the sequence of these steps might vary to some degree. Although a few Spanish and English texts describe these practices, and a later text offers insights into the French cartographic context, no archival evidence has yet been found to substantiate specific details of cartographic production in Normandy.15 Illuminated manuscripts were begun in a similar fashion, although the first step was the work of the scribe, who copied the text onto the page. Thereafter were added initials, borders, and marginalia, and then miniatures were painted (along with any larger figures in the margins). Many different people were responsible for the different parts of the page. And the specific activities of those few peintre-enlumineurs who are mentioned in documents are difficult to trace generally, and almost impossible to attach to specific features or specific works of art.16 For map books with painted margins, therefore, convention would seem to dictate that the charts were produced before the borders, but the borders could have been designed before the maps were inhabited with figures. Janet Backhouse, writing about the Rotz Atlas, argues, “In accordance with normal workshop practice, the borders would have been painted before any of the details on the maps were supplied, so that the risk of a mistake in this less valuable aspect of the work could not endanger an otherwise completed page”.17

navigation and cartography) in sixteenth-century France, see Luís de Matos, Les Portugais en France au XVIe siècle: Études et documents, Coimbra 1952. 13 Campbell (note 6), pp. 93–102, esp. p. 95. 14 Such additions were at the chartmaker’s discretion, see Davies (note 8), p. 122, citing Guillaume Le Vasseur, Traicté de la geodrographie ou art de naviguer, 1608, in: Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Ms Fr 19112, f. 86. 15 Le Vasseur (note 14); cf. Toulouse (note 5), pp. 1557–1559; Davies (note 8), p. 122. 16 Myra D. Orth, Introduction, in: Livres d’heures royaux: la peinture de manuscrits à la cour de France au temps de Henri II, exh. cat., Musée national de la Renaissance, Château d’Ecouen 23 ­septembre–13 décembre 1993, Paris 1993, pp. 16–17. Christopher de Hamel, Scribes and Illuminators. Medieval Craftsmen, Toronto 1992, pp. 45–57, does not specify whether the borders or the miniatures were painted first. 17 Wallis 1981 (note 3), p. 10.

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Much of the scholarship on borders and marginalia in medieval manuscripts has focused on the extratextual space as a site of subversion and artistic autonomy; literature on edges and frames in other contexts has likewise considered these spaces as areas of freedom and license.18 Yet in the map manuscripts under consideration here, the role of the borders of the page is somewhat different. Elaborate framing devices were intended to shape the viewer’s engagement with the world depicted within them, with their geography, ethnography, ancient legend, and recent exploration. At the edge of the page, they were also the zone of the book grasped in the hand, connecting the viewer with the world in his hands. This tactile intimacy, as Myra Orth describes it, invited the viewer to enter the work and supports, rather than subverts, the imagery of the page.19 The margins helped neutralize the unusual and unfamiliar content of the works they framed by connecting the visual rhetoric of the page to established and respected conventions. Thus, the borders of these map books both mediated and facilitated the viewer’s access to their content, and, by approximating the ornament of other books, insinuated themselves into existing practices of visual consumption.

The ‘Boke of Idrography’ Rotz’s book is probably the earliest of the three manuscripts. It is also the example about which the most is known, because Rotz revealed details about himself in both the ‘Boke’ and the ‘Traicté’, and some fragmentary documentation of his activities survives. He was well-traveled and multilingual: the son of a Scottish father and a French mother, he appears to have spoken French, English, and some Scots; all three languages are used in the ‘Boke’, although the earlier ‘Traicté’ is composed in French.20 In the ‘Traicté’, Rotz claimed firsthand knowledge of the challenges of navigation encountered on long voyages, citing journeys both to Brazil and to Sumatra.21 In his preface to the ‘Boke’ he noted, “All this I have set down as exactly and truly as

18 Lilian M. C. Randall, Images in the Margins of Gothic Manuscripts, Berkeley, Los Angeles 1966 and Michael Camille, Image on the Edge. The Margins of Medieval Art, Cambridge/ MA 1992 are two often-cited treatments of this subject. On the historiography of marginalia, see Lucy Freeman Sandler, The Study of Marginal Imagery: Past, Present, and Future, in: Studies in Iconography 18 (1997), pp. 1–49. See also Ernst Gombrich, The Edge of Chaos, in: The Sense of Order: A Study in the Psychology of Decorative Art, Ithaca 1984, pp. 251–284. Rebecca Zorach’s discussion of the frames in Fontainebleau prints also engages with these questions: Rebecca Zorach, Blood, Milk, Ink, Gold: Abundance and Excess in the French Renaissance, Chicago 2005, pp. 140–158. 19 Orth (note 10), p. 51. 20 Taylor (note 1), p. 455; Wallis 1981 (note 3), p. 3. 21 Like many of his contemporaries, he calls Sumatra Taprobane; Wallis 1981 (note 3), pp. 6–7, ­discusses the journeys.

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possible, drawing as much from my own experience as from the certain experience of my friends and fellow navigators”.22 Rotz’s thirty-two-page volume represents a novel approach to the presentation of the known world. It includes eleven regional charts of Asia, Africa, Europe, and the Americas adorned with human figures, animals and trees, hills and buildings, followed by a world map on two hemispheres, which allowed the viewer to see both the detailed parts and the entirety of the whole known world in a single volume. Rotz not only transformed the image of the world into manageable form, but he rendered its populations and plants. He accounted for his innovative format in his preface: Believing the world was already well supplied with the common sort of marine charts, I formed the opinion it would be best to make a book […] containing all hydrography or marine science; both because I had never seen such a thing, and also because it would be more useful and profitable, more significant, and easier and more convenient to handle and to look at, than a single chart four or five yards in length.23

Although Italian cartographers such as Battista Agnese had been producing bound map collections for several years, Rotz’s ‘Boke’ is distinct from these volumes, which only outline coastlines and neglect the territorial interior. Rotz might not have been aware of them, or he may have believed, with good reason, that his ‘Boke’ was sufficiently distinct from earlier efforts to constitute an entirely new type of object, designed for the ease and convenience to the viewer.24 In the earlier ‘Traicté’, Rotz had apologized to the king for not offering him a chart, having assumed that Henry had

22 London, British Library, Royal MS 20 E IX, f. 2r: Et ce au plus certain et vray quil ma este possible de faire tant par mon experience propre que par la certaine experience de mes amys et compagnons navigateurs. Translation: Wallis 1981 (note 3), p. 80. 23 London, British Library, Royal MS 20 E IX, f. 2r: Appres avoyr considere le monde estre assez Remply de cartes marines selon la maniere vulgaire, ie maduisay pour le mieux de luy faire et drecer ung livre contenant toutte lidrographie ou science marine Pource quil nen avoyt pare avanture encore vue de semblable Et aussy pource quil seroyt plus utile et prouffitable et de plus grand esprit et plus ayse et facile a manyer et regarder que ne seroyt ugne longue carte marine de quatre ou cinq verges de long. Translation: Wallis 1981 (note 3), p. 80. 24 The earliest surviving atlas signed by Battista Agnese is dated 1536. Whether such an object could have been known to Rotz, even by reputation, remains uncertain: cf. Henry R. Wagner, The Manuscript Atlases of Battista Agnese, Chicago 1931; Id., Additions to the Manuscript Atlases of Battista Agnese, Imago Mundi 4 (1947), pp. 28–30; Ingrid Baumgärtner, Der Portulan-Atlas des Battista Agnese. Das Kasseler Prachtexemplar von 1542, Darmstadt 2017. Two Agnese atlases bear a dedication to Henry VIII and the arms of Great Britain, but it is not clear if these works were produced under his patronage or as gifts; Wagner (1931) dates Città del Vaticano, Barb. Lat. 4357 after 1545, pp. 77–78; he does not offer a date for London, Lambeth Palace #C 38 4 to 199; Baumgärtner, pp. 30, 35, 51, 134, notes the two atlases and dates them after 1542. Cf. Corradino Astengo, The Renaissance Chart Tradition in the Mediterranean, in: Woodward (note 5), vol. 3, 1, pp. 174–262, esp. p. 178 and note 29.

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many such charts in his possession.25 Between the composition of the ‘Traicté’ and decision to offer the king the ‘Boke’, he appears to have changed his mind; perhaps he discovered that the royal collection was not as robust as he had imagined, and that therefore his novel map would be a distinctive and valued addition. No Norman charts “four or five yards in length” survive, although some printed world maps that predate the ‘Boke’ and some manuscript examples that postdate it are more than two meters long. Such objects were, as Rotz noted, ill-suited for practical use. Writing in the early seventeenth century, the navigator Guillaume Le Vasseur explained that “all the universal maps [maps that show the whole world] serve more for decoration, like paintings, than for instruction and information”.26 He was distinguishing between large-scale coastal charts and smaller-scale maps of larger regions, but his observation that maps of the whole world were not practical for navigation reveals that such objects differed from functional charts. Rotz adapted the large format of the flat and decorative marine chart to a folio volume appropriate for the royal library. Intending originally to offer his work to François I, who, like Henry VIII, had both ample interest in navigation and a robust appetite for sumptuous books, Rotz presented his expertise in a format that a king would both enjoy and understand. Rotz’s ‘Boke’ was not only “useful and profitable, more significant, and easier and more convenient to handle and to look at”, but it also configured knowledge of the world gleaned from practical navigation in the same form as august volumes of cosmographical erudition. Rotz’s ‘Boke’ is also novel for its elaborate animation of geography, with people and places known to the author from his travels. The pictorial elements add color and vigor to the maps they inhabit, resulting in a hybrid of cartographic and illuminated manuscript forms. A few printed maps – notably the 1516 Martin Waldseemüller ‘Carta Marina’ and the homonymous 1530 map by Laurent Fries – include extensive additions of figures and fauna in large sheet form. Both competent and comprehensive, these printed works are also difficult both to manipulate and contemplate. In comparison, the ‘Boke’ is more intimate and luxurious, more vivid and compelling, and more accessible to a reader accustomed to elegant books. The manuscript format of the ‘Boke’ augments the firsthand, personal character of Rotz’s work and the authority he claimed through it. When he contrasted his volume with “the common sort of marine charts”, he distinguished his cartography from both unadorned sea charts and from printed examples, that is, from those intended for practical use or for a more popular market. The ‘Boke’ offered a unique combination of features. A folio-sized codex of painted parchment richly ornamented with gold, its 25 London, British Library, Royal MS 20 B VII, f. 3v: Je me doibz excuser de ne vous avoyr offert quelque carte marine ce que jeusse faire et feroys nestoit que je ne fays doubte quon vous en a par cy devant presente grande nombre de bonnes et belles; Taylor (note 1), p. 456. 26 From Guillaume Le Vasseur, Traicté de la geodrographie ou art de naviguer, 1608, in: Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Ms Fr 19112, f. 86v; cited by Toulouse (note 5), p. 1561.

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format amplified the distinctive character of his expertise, which united navigational practice, vivid experience of long-haul navigation, and travel westward to Brazil and east to Sumatra. Rather than a learned compendium of ancient information about the world, the ‘Boke’ offered events and images that were genuinely new and that do not appear to have been previously circulated pictorially in manuscript or print form. Unlike other Dieppe cartographers, Rotz foreswore the traditional cast of characters associated with exotic voyages. The only figures on his maps are those he witnessed himself or knew about from the reports of Norman navigators; notably absent are the Monstrous Races and legendary kings described by earlier sources such as Strabo and Pliny and Marco Polo. Rotz emphasized instead how firsthand knowledge could serve and educate the king. He noted in the dedication of the ‘Boke’: For in this work, Sire […] you may for the recreation of your noble mind observe and learn which coastal lands adjoin or face one another, how many leagues apart they are and in what latitude, together with the style and manner of houses, clothes and skin colour, as well as arms and other features of the inhabitants of all those coasts which are the least known to us. And this as most certain and true as it has been possible for me to do, as much by my own experience as by the certain experience of my friend and fellow sailors.27

The codex format brought these events and, indeed, the whole world closer to the king’s eyes. The format of the book also meant that the king could hold the world in his hands, and the structure of Rotz’s map pages permits and even encourages a physical connection to the contents of the volume. Each of the twelve maps is drawn and painted on a bifolium that is pasted into the binding, minimizing any distortion at the gutter. Scales on the left and right of each map situate the images in the measure of the world, and, beyond them, foliate borders about two inches wide anchor them to the page and add visual luster to the volume as a whole. The borders and framing devices of the Rotz Atlas are too curious and complex to have been simply an effort to gild what was already a rather magnificent lily. The borders comprise several different forms and styles rarely seen together, and their conjunction suggests either indifference to the conventions of book illumination, or the more likely possibility that the borders were modified over time. While the first option should not be wholly discarded, the unusual combination of border styles offers visual evidence to confirm Rotz’s own claim that he had first intended to offer 27 London, British Library, Royal 20 E ix, f. 2r: Car en icelles Sire vous pourrez pour la recreation de vostre noble esprit […] voyr et congnoistre quelles terres des costes de la marine ioygnent et Regardent les ugnes aulx aultres et par quel nombre de degrez de latitude elles sont Avec les facons et manieres tant des maisons des habitz et coulleurs de corps, que des armes et aultres usages des habittantz ne chascune desdictes costes que nous sont les mois congnues. Et ce au plus certain et vray quil ma este possible de faire, tant par mon experience propre que par la certaine experience de mes amys et compagnons navigateurs. Translation: Wallis 1981 (note 3), p. 80.

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the work to François I, but then sought the patronage of Henry VIII instead. Rotz attributes this to providence, saying, “But when it was almost finished, our Lord who wishes to arrange all things to his pleasure, wanted it to be addressed to another, with better fortune than I myself had hoped”.28 Rotz’s wording makes it clear that the work was nearly complete, and he did not reveal the extent to which it might have been revised and reframed for the English king. The structure of the book, with its pasted-in bifolia, makes it difficult to reconstruct the stages of its production. Presumably Rotz intended to present a French text decorated with a French coat of arms and fashionable French motifs to his French king. Some of these features are still present in the ‘Boke’. Yet Rotz’s work in its current form opens with a full page with Henry’s coat of arms and the inscription “This boke of Idrography is made be me Johne Rotz sarvant to the kingis mooste excellent majeste. Gode save his majeste”.29 Its English text and heraldry are surrounded by a classical gold frame, with columns, a pediment, and strapwork, all of which were fashionable decorative motifs in the 1540s. On the following pages, English texts offer a dedication to the king, as well as texts and illustrations pertaining to the calculation of the poles and the use of the compass; these are simply framed in gold. Page 5v, on which begin tables for the calculation of latitude, includes another English text framed in gold strapwork surmounted with stylized acanthus leaves. The tables continue on to the next page (fol. 6r), framed simply in gold. The original decorative scheme for these pages probably echoed the first page of the volume, with its elegant gold forms. At some point, however, this restrained decorative program appears to have been abandoned, because the narrow space between the gold frame and the edge of the page is filled with floral and foliate borders in red and green and pink and blue. The first of the twelve maps appears on fols. 7v and 8r (Fig. 1). It depicts southern Florida, Central America, the Moluccas and the Sey that is betwix the bak syde of the oriental Indis and the occidental Indis, proposing the proximity of Asia to the Americas, which had been disproved by Magellan’s circumnavigation of the globe two decades earlier. An elaborate network of rhumb lines is punctuated by compass roses, one of which is surmounted by a fleur-de-lis, the symbol of the French crown. In the middle of the borders are additional scales; on the left, the scales are surrounded by two pairs of blue grotesque masks in profile, and on the right, the scale is framed with pink strapwork and stylized gold acanthus leaves. Both left and right scale ornaments break the narrow bands of red (right) and blue (left) that outline the space of the border on either side of the page. The ornament does not, however, lie over these narrow bands of color; instead, the lines were carefully painted 28 London, British Library, Royal 20 E IX f. 2r: Mays comme ja elle estoit ou peu sen failloyt accomplie nre signeur quy de touttes choses veult disposer selon son plaisir, la voullu adrecer ugne aultre part avec milleure fortune que moy mesme nesperoys. Translation: Wallis 1981 (note 3), p. 80. 29 London, British Library, Royal 20 E IX f. 1v.

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Fig. 1: London, British Library, Royal MS 20 E IX, ff. 7v–8r, John Rotz, The Boke of Idrography, 1542, Central America, with Florida and the Moluccas. By permission of the British Library.

around the ornament. Within the red and blue bands are again the floral and foliate forms that frame the tables on fols. 5v and 6r. These latter marginal elements were also added after the map and its scale ornament were complete. Scales decorated with strapwork, acanthus, and masks appear on four bifolia in the volume, and in each case the frame of the border has been added around them.30 An additional scale, with a red ribbon flourish, appears on a map of the eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea (fol. 19v), and again on the world map on two hemispheres, which is the final map in the volume (fols. 29v–30r). These elements, along with the gold classical frames that open the volume and appear again on the last bifolium (fols. 31v–32r) were probably elements produced in France but left incomplete because of Rotz’s unsuccessful bid for royal patronage there. Typical of French ornament of the 30 That is, ff. 7v–8r, 11v–12r, 15v–16r, 21v–22r. It is not clear why these elements were introduced on only some of the maps, which do not appear to have been produced in two campaigns, although at least two hands drew and painted the figures and flora and fauna on the charts. The entire manuscript can be consulted on the website of the British Library at: http://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay. aspx?ref=Royal_MS_20_e_ix

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period, the acanthus leaf and grotesque motifs suggest that the ‘Boke’ was at least partially decorated before Rotz left France. Although Henry possessed a few books illuminated in the French style, the evidence in the Rotz ‘Boke’ suggests that the elements of the border decoration were conceived separately and sequentially.31 Other features of the manuscript also connect the volume to French pictorial traditions, notably some unusual tufted trees that appear on the maps of Labrador, Africa, and South America, which can be found in other works produced in Normandy. Similar trees are part of a stained-glass window design dated to about 1530, today at the Church of Ste. Jeanne d’Arc in Rouen (Fig. 2), and they are also found on Pierre de Vaulx’s 1613 map of the Atlantic.32 Rotz probably relied on models that were produced by painters who participated in Norman voyages of discovery and exploration.33 Rotz (or a painter with whom he worked) might have prepared copies of these models and brought them with him to England, but it seems more likely that some elements of the maps were complete before Rotz left France.34 Arriving in England with the manuscript, Rotz delayed presenting it to Henry. Perhaps he genuinely believed the royal library to be better provisioned with maps, or perhaps he feared that the maps were outdated (as the first map in the volume would seem to suggest) and rather than impress the king with his knowledge, they would expose Rotz’s expertise as obsolete. Once Rotz became aware, however, of the limits of the royal cartographic collection, he refurbished the manuscript, adding English texts and inscriptions, and hired a local painter to transform the mannerist motifs intended for François I into forms more familiar to the English king.35 A Tudor rose surmounts the world map on two hemispheres, and more roses bloom blowzily in the added floral and foliate borders. The borders added in England are markedly retardataire, and they have no exact parallel in the sixteenth-century manuscripts that survive from Henry’s library. Instead, their style is more characteristic of ­fifteenth-century devotional works then still in use, and they also resemble the

31 Other manuscripts in the French style in Henry’s library include several works by Jean Mallard (sometimes Maillart), who produced three manuscripts for Henry in 1540: a psalter, a theological work called ‘Le Chemin de Paradis’, and also a cosmographical work entitled ‘Le premier livre de la cosmograpphie en rhetorique francoyse’. David Starkey/ Susan Doran, Henry VIII: Man and Monarch, London 2009, pp. 198–200; Scot McKendrick/ John Lowden/ Kathleen Doyle, Royal Manuscripts. The Genius of Illumination, London 2011, p. 299. 32 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Cartes et plans, Rés. Ge S.H. ARCH-6. 33 Pierre Crignon, a navigator who traveled on the Parmentier expeditions, names one Me Jean Sasi, dit le Grand Peintre in his account of one journey, although the identity of Jean Sasi has never been confirmed by other sources. For Crignon’s text, the ‘Voiage aux Indes orientalles’, see Charles Schefer, Le discours de la navigation de Jean et Raoul Parmentier, de Dieppe, Paris 1883. 34 Wallis 1981 (note 3), p. 45, believes at least some of the material stayed in Dieppe because it reappeared in the Vallard Atlas and was also later used by Giacomo Gastaldi. 35 The most recent study of François I’s library (which includes few geographical works) is: Maxence Hermant/ Marie-Pierre Laffitte (eds.), Trésors royaux: la bibliothèque de François Ier, Rennes 2015.

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Fig. 2: Rouen, Église Sainte Jeanne d’Arc (formerly St. Vincent), Annunciation to Joachim, from the Saint Anne window, c. 1530. Photo Thierry Leroy © 1991 Inventaire général Région Normandie.

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borders on books made for Henry’s father, Henry VII, by Antoine Vérard.36 Rotz appears to have made a sincere effort to appeal to the tastes of his sovereign, but the novelty of maps with borders seems to have flummoxed the border painter, who did not always understand how the pages he was framing were to be viewed. Some of the border motifs are, as some scholars have noted, oriented in the opposite direction from the maps and their inscriptions, so they appear upside down (Fig. 3).37

Fig. 3: London, British Library, Royal MS 20 E IX, ff. 23v–24r, John Rotz, The Boke of Idrography, 1542, The Americas from Labrador to Northern South America. By permission of the British Library.

Although one common interpretation of marginal motifs is that they depict the world turned upside down, the inverted vases and birds in the Rotz Atlas are more 36 The illuminator most often identified with Vérard is known as the Master of Jacques de Besançon, active in Paris between 1478 and 1501. Perhaps whomever Rotz found to embellish the ‘Boke’ discovered a way to copy some of the decoration in the earlier volumes. For Vérard, see Mary Beth Winn, Anthoine Vérard, Parisian Publisher (1485–1512): Prologues, Poems and Presentations, Geneva 1997; a recent evaluation of the illuminator can be found in Mathieu Deldicque, L’enluminure à Paris à la fin du XVe siècle: Maître François, le Maître de Jacques de Besançon et Jacques de Besançon identifiés?, in: Revue de l’art 183 (2014), pp. 9–18. 37 This is particularly noticeable on ff. 21v–22r, 23v–24r.

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frame than folly. Their function is not to destabilize or challenge the authority of the page, but rather the opposite; the borders provide a familiar zone from which the king could explore the unfamiliar. Indeed, the Rotz ‘Boke’s depictions of Brazilian cannibals, fur-clad South African Khoikhoi, and sauntering Sumatrans present an antic upside-down world in need of marginal ballast secured by the king, into whose steady hands “the work preordained by divine will [was] presented”.38 The outmoded style of the floral and foliate borders of Rotz’s ‘Boke’ fostered familiarity in a volume overwhelmed with oddity. And in a similar fashion, the strapwork and grotesques that first furnished the volume as it was intended for François I adorned the page with fashionable forms familiar to the king that would have assured him that the world that welled up within them was worthy of his discerning gaze. The motifs made for each of the monarchs anchored Rotz’s sea charts to long established traditions of book illumination, and they helped each viewer to integrate their novel content into habitual practices of vision and contemplation. Earlier collections of map charts (again, probably unknown to Rotz) sometimes encircled maps with windheads; instead, Rotz’s ‘Boke’ blooms with terrestrial forms that approximated the ornamental borders familiar from devotional books and works of learning and literature. Although the map pages of the Rotz ‘Boke’ lack much text, the familiar borders prompted viewers to study the page in much the same way that they might consume other types of books with words and images.39 Indeed, the only mention Rotz made of the borders was to explain elements that might be unfamiliar: the scale and “along the borders of the said leaves are marked the degrees of latitude after their proportions and distance”.40 Their decoration, however, required no explanation. The borders, then, helped connect the royal examination of these novel cartographic documents to other practices of seeing and reading, inviting the king’s exploration of and meditation on the realms they depicted. Like the thirteenth-century Hereford World Map, which was framed like an altarpiece, the Rotz Atlas traded on the custom of contemplation to instruct a royal viewer in the wonders of the world. And whereas previous accounts of the geography of the world featured monsters and marvels that strained credulity, Rotz’s empirical account had been reported by trustworthy sources and was often seen with his own eyes. The visual connection to devotional books not only helped the reader to navigate the work as he might other books; it also invited him to have faith in its facticity.

38 London, British Library, Royal 20 E ix, f 2r: loeuvre par divin voulloyr preordonnee [estoit] preseentee. Translation: Wallis 1981 (note 3), p. 80. 39 Carruthers (note 11), pp. 116–117, argues, “the ornament and decoration, the ‘clothing’ of a piece will indicate ways in which these mental instruments are to be played”. 40 London, British Library, Royal 20 E ix, f. 2r.: longs the borders of the said leffs are market the degres of latitude after their proportions and distance. Translation: Wallis 1981 (note 3), p. 80.

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Dauphin/Hague Atlas The borders that frame the maps in the so-called Dauphin Atlas take a very different form from the roses and vines that adorn Jean Rotz’s ‘Boke of Idrography’, although they also appear to have been designed to secure the gaze of a royal patron. In this work, today in Koninklijke Bibliotheek in The Hague, the framing devices feature the fashionable forms prized by refined and mannered tastes of the French court, particularly those circulated in the prints of the so-called School of Fontainebleau. Despite the hallmarks of the royal circle, the production context of this work is hard to reconstruct with certainty, as it lacks the dedication, documentation, and the secure provenance of the Rotz Atlas. The Hague volume comprises thirty-eight sheets of nineteen bifolia, including fourteen regional maps representing Europe, Africa, and the Americas.41 North is marked on each map by a gold fleur-de-lis; south is indicated with a silver crescent. The frontispiece, which depicts Neptune in a dolphin-drawn chariot, is painted on different vellum from the rest of the volume, and with a warmer palette; some scholars believe it was a later addition.42 Following the maps are seven pages of tables of solar declination, tide tables, and other navigational data. The work bears the arms, mottos, and devices of the crown prince (known in French as the dauphin) who would become Henri II of France. Yet securely connecting the object with this royal viewer has proven difficult. Even the date of the volume has proven difficult to establish with precision; dates between 1538 and 1545 have been proposed, but without certainty or consensus.43 The atlas must have been made after 1536, since it includes the emblem of the crescent moon and the motto Donec Totum Impleat Orbem [Until it fills the circle, or the world], which were adopted by Henri when he became dauphin at the death of his brother François in that year.44 The maps do not depict the discoveries made during the expeditions of French explorer Jacques 41 There are no maps of Asia. Marcel Destombes/ Désiré Gernez, Un atlas nautique du XVIème siècle à la Bibliothèque Royale de la Haye (Pays-bas), in: Congresso Internacional de História dos Descobrimentos, vol. 2 das Actas, Lisbon 1961, p. 11, Repr. in: Gunther Schilder/ Peter van der Krogt/ Steven de Clercq (Eds.), Marcel Destombes (1905–1983), Contributions selectionnées a l’histoire de la cartographie et des instruments scientifiques, Utrecht 1987, pp. 141–151, here p. 144. 42 Destombes/ Gernez (note 38), p. 143. 43 Jaime Cortesão/ Avelino Teixeira de Mota, Portugaliae Monumenta Cartographica, vol. 5, Lisbon 1960, p. 135, date the volume to around 1538. Wallis 1997 (note 3), p. 19, argued instead for a date after 1540, or even closer to 1545. She mistakenly believed Henri’s crescent moon emblem to belong instead to Diane de Poitiers, who officially became the dame du dauphin in 1540. Destombes/ Gernez (note 38) agree with Wallis’s dating, but on the basis of the charts. 44 Thierry Crépin-Leblond, Sens et contresens de l’emblématique de Henri II, in: Hervé Oursel/ Julia Fritsch (eds.), Henri II et les Arts. Actes du colloque international École du Louvre et musée national de la Renaissance. Écouen, 25, 26 et 27 septembre 1997, Paris 2003, p. 86, n. 21, has been unable to identify the first appearance of the crescent motif in the emblematics of Henri II. The first dated use is on a jeton (token) of 1540, where Henri appears as Dauphin de Viennois and Duke of Brittany. Other scholars have suggested that the motif and motto were adopted in 1533, at the time of his marriage to

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Cartier, which are first seen on Dieppe maps around 1541: maps produced in France after this date would likely include these. Helen Wallis noted that the depictions of the South American Río de la Plata and Río Paraná reflect a later version of the Spanish padrón real (1536) than the Rotz ‘Boke’ (which draws from the 1529 version) and therefore depict a later state of knowledge about the character of these rivers.45 As with the Rotz Atlas, however, the decoration of the volume offers clues about the context of its creation. Abundant figures, strapwork, and cornucopias form a colorful border that surrounds each map; this arrangement of motifs begins to circulate in prints around 1543, although it is based on earlier prototypes. Thus the cartographic evidence and the artistic evidence for the date of the work seem to conflict. It seems, however, more probable that superannuated maps were bedizened with contemporary ornamentation than that current maps could be decorated with motifs not yet in circulation. A date between 1543 and 1546 seems most plausible. Despite the moons and mottos, the connection of the Dauphin Atlas to Henri II remains elusive. The motto, which surrounded the frontispiece of Neptune on his chariot, was scraped out, and in two prominent places the motif of three intertwined crescent moons was painted over, perhaps by a later owner or (although very unlikely) by Henri’s widow, Catherine de’ Medici.46 The crescent moons were once held high in the hand of the nymph who guides Neptune’s chariot on the frontispiece; they are now obscured by a swath of orange drapery. Three tiny silver crescents survive on the dial at the back of the manuscript related to the tidal tables; their size and location may have permitted them to escape detection and erasure. Half of fol. 6r is devoted to coats of arms; three appear, oriented to the right margin (the map of the Mediterranean is oriented with North at the top). The left blazon features the three lilies of the French crown, and the center blazon bears the arms of the dauphin, surrounded by the motto Esperant Mieulx. The right blazon comprises only a gold crown over a blank field; the verso reveals that the three interlaced crescents have been painted out (Figs. 4 and 5). The motto around the arms of the dauphin has been

Catherine de’ Medici. Volker Hoffmann, Donec Totum Impleat Orbem. Symbolism impérial au temps de Henri II, in: Bulletin de la Société de l’Histoire de l’Art Français année 1978 (1980), pp. 29–42. 45 Cortesão/ Teixeira de Mota (note 40) say: “No known copy survives of the padrón réal of 1536. But it can be reconstructed, and The Hague Atlas follows it exactly.” PMC 5, p. 135. Cf. Wallis 1981 (note 3), p. 47. 46 Several nineteenth-century sources suggest that the interlaced crescents were adopted by Catherine after Henri’s death, although other authors remain skeptical; see, e. g., Ernest Quentin-Bauchard, La bibliothèque de Fontainebleau et les livres des derniers des Valois à la Bibliothèque nationale (1515–1589), Paris 1891, p. 186. More recently scholars have documented how Catherine appropriated Diane’s imagery: Sheila Ffolliott, Casting a Rival into the Shade: Catherine de’ Medici and Diane de Poitiers, in: Art Journal 48:2 (1989), pp. 138–143; Nicola Courtright, A Garden and a Gallery at Fontainebleau: Imagery of Rule for Medici Queens, in: Society for Court Studies 10:1 (2005), pp. 55–84, 67; Margriet Hoogvliet, Princely Culture and Catherine de Medicis, in: Martin Gosman/ Alasdair MacDonald/ Arjo Vanderjagt (eds.), Princes and Princely Culture, Leiden 2003, vol. 1, pp. 103–130.

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Fig. 4: The Hague, KB | Nationale bibliotheek 129 A 24, ff. 5v-6r. Dauphin Atlas, c. 1538–1545, Chart of the Mediterranean, with repainted blasons. By permission of the Koninklijke Bibliotheek.

Fig. 5: The Hague, KB | Nationale bibliotheek 129 A 24, f. 6v. Dauphin Atlas, c. 1538–1545, Verso of blasons, showing their original form. By permission of the Koninklijke Bibliotheek.

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attributed, separately, to Henri II and to Catherine de’ Medici, although it was the official devise of neither.47 The royal and princely arms and luxury format – it is the most sumptuously decorated of the Norman map books – have prompted scholars to assume that the volume was presented to Henri when he was dauphin (i.e., before his father’s death in 1547). The coats of arms on several Norman sheet maps seem to suggest that they served as expensive gifts to French officials who might authorize or patronize sea voyages; thus not merely did they depict the world, but they also helped to navigate the unpredictable waters of flattery and favor that mobilized early modern gift culture.48 With such an atlas, Norman navigators, ship-owners and outfitters might have sought to secure from Henri the support for transatlantic shipping and exploration they had failed to garner from François I. Henri could have commissioned the work himself, as he clearly had an interest (as did his queen) in cartography. He visited Dieppe on the occasion of the entry of the queen and the dauphin in 1532 and as king in 1549, and he may have witnessed the local chartmaking traditions on either visit, although these dates square ill with the decoration in the volume.49 No surviving documents describe such a gift or commission, and no inventory catalogues it. The provenance can only be traced back to the eighteenth century. If the book ever entered the royal library, it did not remain there. Henri might have received the work as a gift and then presented it to someone else. Sarah Toulouse has suggested that the book was given to Henri during his visit to Dieppe in 1549, and that he may have then given it to Diane de Poitiers, the royal favorite who also used the crescent moon as an emblem because of its association with the goddess for whom she was named.50 Yet the date is inconsistent with the 47 It is the motto, however, of a sixteenth-century Norman poet, Jean LeBlond, who has no known connection to the volume. For attribution to Catherine, see the discussion of Chantilly MS 0323: Dominique Jacquinot, L’usage et utilité de l’astrolabe, in: Cécile Scailliérez/ Patricia Stirnemann, L’Art du manuscrit de la Renaissance en France, Paris 2001, pp. 81–82. For LeBlond, see Alphonse Chassant/ Henri Taussin, Dictionnaire des devises historiques et héraldiques, vol. 1, Paris 1878, p. 93. Cf. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Ms Fr 1539, explicit. 48 For a discussion of the maps as gifts, see Davies (note 8), pp. 115–116. As Myra D. Orth observed in 2001, the specific character of manuscript gifts in sixteenth-century France remains to be studied. Natalie Zemon Davis, The Gift in Sixteenth-Century France, Madison 2000, has studied both gift-giving generally in the period as well as gifts of printed books: Ead., Beyond the Market: Books as Gifts in Sixteeth-Century France, in: Prothero Lecture. Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 33 (1983), pp. 69–88. The map books described here are not, however, especially characteristic of the gift-giving practices described by Davis. 49 Ivan Cloulas, Henri II, Paris 1985, p. 76, notes the earlier visit without citing a source; for 1549, the visit is mentioned by Jean-Antoine-Samson Desmarquets, Mémoires chronologiques pour server à l’histoire de Dieppe, et à celle de la navigation françoise, avec un recueil abrégé des privileges de cette ville, Paris 1785, pp. 118–120. 50 Toulouse (note 8), vol. 1, p. 68. Early sources note the connection between Henri and Diane through the motto and the emblem, including Paolo Giovio and the Venetian ambassador, Giovanni

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arms of the dauphin in the manuscript; by 1549, Henri was king. Nonetheless, in royal entry ceremonies, Henri was often associated with Neptune, and the folio with the god seems to have been a special addition that customized the volume.51 A gift to Diane conforms to what can be reconstructed of the provenance. Diane’s books remained at the Chateau d’Anet after her death, and some volumes were ultimately acquired by the Duke de La Vallière, from whose collection the volume may be traced to the library in The Hague.52 But if the book were in Diane’s possession, the identifying arms would not have been painted out; surely she would have preserved these features. A later owner might have added his or her own arms to the work, but would not have eradicated the evidence of Henri’s ownership. Despite the irregularities of the provenance of the Dauphin Atlas, it seems reasonable to assume that it was originally destined for the prince who would become Henri II. The contents of the volume were clearly addressed to a well-educated reader with a taste for the monstrous and exotic; although many of the maps in the Dauphin Atlas are similar to those in the Rotz Atlas, they comprise not only the recently discovered peoples and creatures of the world, but also legendary races and places drawn from the learned ancient and medieval sources that were rejected by Rotz. In southern Africa, two large trees are bathed in the light of two moons; although the source of the Nile was thought to be the Mountains of the Moon, on some Dieppe maps these mountains morph into trees. Beyond them lurk some of the so-called Monstrous Races: a standing Blemmye converses with one of the Amyctyrae; they keep company with another exotic beast: a long-horned cow. In North America (25v–26r), lions roar futilely at an indifferent unicorn. A man and a woman loom large at left; they are clad

Capello, in a dispatch of 1551. Armand Baschet et al., La diplomatie vénitienne: Les princes de l’Europe au XVIe siècle, François Ier, Philippe II, Catherine de Médicis, les papes, les sultans etc., d’après les rapports des ambassadeurs vénitiens, Paris 1862, p. 443. Cf. Eric Thierry, De l’imaginaire des historiens locaux à l’imaginaire de François 1er et de Henri II: les sculptures scandaleuses du château de Villers-Cotterêts, in: L’amour de l’histoire locale: les sociétés archéologiques et historiques de l’Aisne, XIXe et XXe siècles (Mémoires de la Fédération des Sociétés d’Histoire et d’Archéologie de l’Aisne 45), Laon 2000, pp. 167–190. 51 The frontispiece is on different parchment from the rest of the volume and painted with a different palette. 52 Diane’s books were sold in 1723. Many of her books were acquired by Denis Guyon de Sardière, whose book catalogue included (inaccurately) ‘Cartes (XII) marines de tout l’Univers, écrites et dessinées en 1536 sur vélin’. (Catalogue des livres de la bibliothèque de feu M. J. B. Denis Guyon, chevalier, seigneur de Sardière, Paris 1759, p. 130). The Duke de La Vallière then purchased the book, and it appears (correctly described) in the catalogue of his library made at the time of his death. It was sold in 1783 to the Amsterdam-based bibliophile Pietro-Antonio Bolongaro-Crevenna, from whose collection the Royal Library of the Netherlands acquired it in 1790. Toulouse (note 8), vol. 1, pp. 68–69, vol. 4, p. 477. The Sardière catalogue would seem to substantiate a date of 1536, despite the imprecise description of the volume’s contents; the work was rebound in the eighteenth century, and evidence of the date could have been removed at that time. However, 1536 is too early for the decorative motifs.

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in pale brown garments heightened with gold. Nearby, a much smaller male bows deeply and deferentially, and behind him, another male points heavenward with his right hand and down with his left. The large scale of the couple suggests they might be giants, although giants are more commonly located in Patagonia.53 Just as elephants and unicorns on maps of Africa betokened the world’s unplumbed exoticism, so too did these monumental human figures in Canada. But the marvels in the Dauphin Atlas are not confined to the maps; they also roam from the center to the periphery of the page, just as the Norman sailors hoped to launch themselves to the edges of the world. The borders of the Dauphin Atlas seethe with the hybrid oddities that characterized the framing devices of French painting in the 1540s. Their visual language is self-consciously sumptuous and sophisticated, and they echo the lush and lustrous ornamentation of the maps they encircle. Rotz’s pen and ink figures and his sober and antiquated borders conferred an air of honesty and solemnity to his work, whereas the sumptuous colors of The Hague volume instead render the remote reaches of the world as so much fruit ripe for the plucking.54 Rotz’s earnest efforts to evoke the eyewitness pale (quite literally) in comparison to the saturated surfaces of the other work; every feature save the seas is drenched with colors that enhance the value not only of the codex but also of the treasures it depicts. The canny donors of the book devised this pictorial equivalence to seduce the imagination and stimulate the patronage of the princely viewer. Downplaying the dangers of sea voyages and savages, their gift cast the discovery of the world as an endeavor that was joyous and delightful, exotic and expensive. Some ships founder and sea serpents slither, but these calamities are modest compared to the riches that await the traveler, real or virtual, wending his or her way through the world on the page. Surekha Davies has noted that French accounts of Brazil, and in particular the depiction of its Tupi tribes, tend to neutralize the danger of violence and cannibalism in comparison to other representations of the New World in the sixteenth century.55 Their optimistic perspective on the perils of exploration is also enhanced by the lush and luxuriant image of Brazil as it is depicted on the pages of the Dauphin Atlas. Verdant and vivid, the maps promised possession of paradise and parrots, placing them in the prince’s own hands. Whereas Rotz’s ‘Boke’ was intended to impress and 53 For a discussion of the Patagonian giants, see Davies (note 8), pp. 148–182, Chapter 5 “Monstrous Ontology and Environmental Thinking: Patagonia’s Giants”. 54 In her discussion of a 1595 edition of Jean Cousin’s ‘La vray science de la pourtraicture’, Zorach (note 18), p. 155, argues that “Architectural ornament is closely connected to conquest as something acquired through appropriation (or looting) […]. The femininity, foreignness, animality, monstrosity of architectural ornaments – in short, their strangeness – is on some level intended to represent the conquest of these peoples and principles”. The borders of the manuscript, both appropriated and strange, surely convey the same invitation to subjugation. 55 Surekha Davies, Depictions of Brazilians on French Maps, 1542–1555, in: The Historical Journal 55:2 (2012), pp. 317–348.

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instruct Henry, the Dauphin Atlas sought to pique and prod its patron to promote the interests of Dieppe sailors hungry for adventure. Not only did its characterization of the remote and exotic regions of the world make these locations appealing and accessible, so too did the framing devices of the page moor these opportunities in the royal imagination. Just as the borders of the Rotz ‘Boke’ helped to situate that volume in the library of Henry the VIII, and helped the king make connections with other types of texts and images, the Dauphin Atlas also sought to approximate established fashions and codicological codes for the benefit of Henri II. The French royal library was well provisioned with maps and atlases, including the Catalan Atlas and the Atlas Miller, as well as more recent works made for François I. But even in this distinguished company the Dauphin Atlas is remarkable for the novelty of its form and format and for the exuberance and elegance of its ornamentation. The borders of the atlas draw on a complex collection of sources and references associated with the urbane artistic tastes of the court, yet few earlier works so ingeniously exploited the continuities between the obscure and the observed. Some of the motifs in the atlas seem directly connected to images circulating in print. The etchings of Antonio Fantuzzi, a Bolognese artist working at Fontainebleau, seem to have been particularly influential.56 Produced between 1542 and 1545, they often feature elaborate ornamental frames, with masks, figures, and cornucopias that are remarkably similar to those in the manuscript atlas. Several feature cartouches with landscapes, offering a provocative parallel to the map pages in The Hague Atlas. The moon-faced mask that appears on fol. 12r is, for example, very close to similar forms in the frame of Ignorance Dispelled dated to 1543 (Figs. 6 and 7).57 The twisted legs of another marginal figure on the facing page (11v) also resemble those in etchings by Fantuzzi; in other prints, Jean Mignon depicted similar forms. Many other motifs in The Hague volume can be traced to print; they would seem to confirm that the volume must date after 1543. Fontainebleau prints and their motifs offer one point of reference for the borders in The Hague Atlas; Henri II’s own books and those produced during his reign provide another. Henri and his entourage were sophisticated patrons and collectors of learned and luxury books.58 The Hague volume was designed with the same self-conscious and ostentatious ornamentation that characterized contemporary book illumination. Among the distinctive volumes that entered the royal library during Henri’s reign is a prayer book known as the ‘Hours of Henri II’, probably a gift to the king from the Dinteville family, which features majestic gold borders, adorned with many of the same types of cornucopias, trophies, and masks that bedizen The 56 Henri Zerner, The School of Fontainebleau. Etchings and Engravings, New York 1969, pp. 17–21. 57 It also bears a passing resemblance to the masks in the Rotz Atlas that bespeak its French origins; see fig. 1. 58 Frederic J. Baumgartner, Henry II: King of France, 1547–1559, Durham/ NC 1988. See also Ernest Quentin-Bauchart, La Bibliothèque de Fontainebleau et les livres des derniers Valois à la Bibliothèque nationale (1515–1589), Paris 1891.

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Fig. 6: The Hague, KB 129 A 24, ff. 11v-12r. Dauphin Atlas, c. 1538–1545, The Atlantic Ocean between Africa and South America. By permission of the Koninklijke Bibliotheek.

Fig. 7: Antonio Fantuzzi, after Rosso Fiorentino, Frame of Ignorance Dispelled, c. 1543, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 66.658.5. Gift of George Coe Graves by exchange, 1966.

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Hague volume (Fig. 8).59 In the book of hours, the golden frames corral each individual page, concentrating the viewer’s gaze with sharp contrasts of space, form, and color. The Hague book, almost certainly also a gift, features many of the same border forms, which probably originated in a printed model, although their vivid polychrome borders share the same palette with the bifolium maps they encircle.60 The visual continuity of map and margin blur the boundaries between the refined realm of the viewer and the world that shimmers before his or her eyes. Each map’s borders are unique, and they are oriented toward the outward edge of the page (regardless of the position of the viewer), so to examine them thoroughly, the viewer must either shift the book or his or her position around it, further stimulating the visual discovery of the contents of the maps. The implied movement around the volume replicated the circulation around the larger sheet maps (the impractical ones, according to Rotz, or the decorative ones, according to Guillaume le Vasseur) that were viewed on a table. The need to move and manipulate the manuscript prolonged the king’s navigation of it, sustaining and exhausting his gaze, taunting his eye with the promise and pleasure of discovery. The borders and the maps in the Dauphin Atlas share more than a palette; both exploit the appeal of the monstrous. If the volume was in fact intended as a gift to the dauphin to encourage his patronage of discovery and exploration, the similarity of the motifs on and around the maps summoned the prince’s scrutiny of the world in a frame both fantastic and familiar. Teeming with cornucopias and creatures, trophies and twisted torsos, grotesques and grimacing masks, and satyrs and strapwork, the borders of The Hague Atlas ally the book and its decoration to the esoteric appetites of the court elite. They insinuated the similarity of objects and places of potential discovery to those already subject to the dauphin’s gaze, and their supine positions invited their subjugation. Like François I’s gallery at Fontainebleau and the torrent of paintings and engravings that drew on its motifs, the borders of The Hague book both enhance and distract from the contents of their ostensible frame. As the heirs to medieval traditions of manuscript marginalia, early modern painted grotesques were expressions of artistic invention and creativity. In the Dauphin Atlas, they operate as an instrument of seduction, but they also complicate cartography’s customary claim to accuracy and precision. Whereas Rotz’s ‘Boke’ regaled its viewers with eyewitness evidence empirically obtained, here, instead, the sumptuous folly of the borders mirrors the monsters of the maps, revealing – even celebrating – the artifice and magnificence of the cartographic imagination.61

59 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Ms lat. 1429. See Elizabeth A. R. Brown, Les Heures dites de Henri II et les Heures de Dinteville, in: Oursel/ Fritsch (note 41), pp. 261–292. 60 See Myra D. Orth, L’enluminure au temps de Henri II, in: Oursel/ Fritsch (note 41), pp. 249–260. 61 Meyer Schapiro argued that margins and borders operate as liminal and permissive realms of artistic experimentation, a position exemplified, in his Review of Lilian Randall, Images in the Margins of Gothic Manuscripts, in: Speculum 45:4 (1970), pp. 684–686; Meyer Schapiro, Style, in Alfred

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Fig. 8: Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Ms lat. 1429, fol. 87v., The ‘Hours of Henri II’, c. 1550, Daniel in the Den of Lions. By permission of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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The Hague volume drew elements from many media to invite the complicity and delight of its princely recipient. Melding ancient authorities, the reports of navigators, and the luxurious courtly style associated with the royal palace at Fontainebleau, this manuscript appealed to its viewer’s refined aesthetic, classical learning, and the interest, expressed in his motto, in filling the world. A later work, also related to navigation, more explicitly sought to connect Henri’s motto and symbol to French expansion. Nicolas de Nicolay, geographer, cartographer, painter, soldier, and probable spy, dedicated his translation of Pedro de Medina’s ‘Arte de navegar’ to Henri in 1554.62 The frontispiece of the work featured similar grotesques and strapwork to those that ornament the pages of the atlas, as well as the three interlaced crescents that were subsequently effaced in the manuscript work. Tying the variety of ships at the king’s disposal, Nicolay offers the hope that the king’s control of the world will equal that of celebrated ancient kings, and that his crescent moon will wax full: I hope, sire, that this marvelous number of your galleys, galliots, brigantines, and the grand galleons, galleasses, ships and other vessels of the east and west, will not want a guide to drive them, with God’s permission, not only to extend your domination beyond that of Xerxes, Alexander, and of Caesar, and further, by the same means, to do so much that your crescent becomes an entire Diana, and you, a Phoebus, communicating its light to all the Universe.63

The similar borders in the book of hours presented to Henri II by the Dinteville family help situate the motifs and framing devices of The Hague Atlas within the pictorial context of Henri’s world, while Nicolay’s dedicatory metaphors ally its motifs with the Henri’s interest in navigation and cartography. Although the early history of The Hague Atlas may never be known with certainty, the evidence strongly suggests that it was presented to Henri to stimulate his imagination, flatter his taste, and engage his endorsement, both political and financial, of French expeditions of exploration. As a gift, it was distinctive, sumptuous and obviously unique; no other volume requires the same manipulation, nor rewards the viewer so handsomely for its handling. Turning L. Krober (ed.), Anthropology Today: An Encyclopedic Inventory, Chicago 1953, pp. 287–312, repr.: Theory and Philosophy of Art: Style, Artist and Society, New York 1994, pp. 51–102, esp. 62. This position was much amplified by Camille (note 17); by contrast, maps (such as those made by Jean Rotz) traditionally traded on a rhetoric of accuracy. 62 Robert W. Karrow, Mapmakers of the Sixteenth Century and Their Maps: Bio-Bibliographies of the Cartographers of Abraham Ortelius, 1570, Chicago 1993, p. 437. 63 Pedro de Medina, L’art de naviguer: contenant toutes les reigles, secrets, & enseignemens necessaires à la bonne navigation de M. Pierre de Medina, Espaignol, Lyon 1554, np.: J’espere, Sire, que cest emerveillable nombre de voz galeres, galeotes, brigantins, & des grands galeons, galeaces, naus & autres vaisseaux de votre Levant & Ponent, n’aura faute de guide qui les conduise, par la permission de Dieu, non seulement à estendre vostre domination par dessus celle de Xerxes, d’Alexandre, & de Cesar, ains encor, par mesme moyen, à faire tant que vostre Croissant devienne Diane entiere, & vous un Phebus, communiquant sa lumiere à tout l’Univers. I am grateful to Professor Richard W. Unger for his help translating the names of the types of ships in this passage.

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the book in different directions in order to examine the multiple orientations of its borders, Henri could both navigate and discover, shedding light (as Nicolay would later put it) on every corner of the world.

Conclusions: The Borders of the Vallard Atlas For all the paucity of documentation about its creation, the Dauphin Atlas can nonetheless be linked (albeit circumstantially) to the young Henri II, and the ‘Boke of Idrography’ clearly identified its royal recipient by name. These links, strong or weak, make it possible to situate these map books in libraries and collections, in contexts and in traditions, so that we can identify their function, meaning and use. The role played by the remarkable border forms in these books becomes intelligible through an examination of the circumstances of their production and reception. A third map book, made at about the same time and place, but with an unknown patron/recipient, highlights how significant context is to the analysis of the meaning and mediating role of borders in such works. This volume, known as the Vallard Atlas, is today at the Huntington Library; it comprises both elegant, sophisticated decorated borders as well as clear identification on the title page of a name, a place, and a date. Despite an inscription reading Nicolas Vallard de Dieppe, 1547, scholars have been unable identify this individual or his role in the production of the work. Some contend he was a navigator and a cartographer; others believe him to have been the patron or recipient of the book. Without a secure identification, however, it is difficult to speculate about the origins of the book or the needs, interests, and habits of its principal reader. The evidence of the volume’s ornamentation is also ambiguous. The only arms in the work, on the eleventh chart, may be overpainted but are definitely not royal, nor have they been securely identified. Recently Nicolas Medevielle has proposed that the work belonged to Pierre de la Gandille, a Norman aristocrat. This is a promising development that deserves further study.64 The borders of the first five charts in the Vallard Atlas would seem to offer a specific address to the reader, and were clearly intended to frame his or her engagement with the maps of the world contained between them. In a frieze perpendicular to the orientation of the work, and facing inward, the borders form a continuous narrative frieze that depicts the Olympian gods and goddesses, showing them to be summoned by Mercury to attend a wedding feast that culminates on the fifth chart. Despite its familiar iconography, a coherent reading of the nuptial narrative has proved difficult to identify, although it clearly alludes to divine approbation of and intervention in

64 I am grateful to Professor Medevielle for sharing his unpublished research with me.

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some kind of union, perhaps, (given the prominence of Mercury), pertaining to maritime commerce.65 Yet the meaning of the borders and the identity of their viewer remain elusive. Without these essential specifics, it is not possible to reconstruct how the margins might have mediated the maps they frame, or how the book might have related to other luxury objects in the owner’s possession. This volume must have belonged to a viewer with both ample resources and cosmopolitan tastes. More than the other two Norman map books, the Vallard Atlas relies on techniques of landscape painting and particularly on the characterization of the natural world as it was depicted in Flemish panel painting and manuscripts. The first chart, of Sumatra, opens to a luminous vista of palm trees, craggy hills, and exotic fauna. With its progression from brown to green to blue, from foreground to background in the landscape, this map heeds the prescribed formula for the atmospheric perspective of contemporary painting (Fig. 9), and rejects the aerial perspective of cartography. There can be no doubt that no expense was spared to prepare this book, and that the elaborately painted margins were significant to its viewer and intended to shape his or her engagement with the sumptuously rendered world depicted between them. Until the patron can be identified to clarify the iconography of the borders, or until the borders can be decoded to reveal the patron, no substantive reading of the relationship of the borders to the maps can succeed. Apart from the wedding sequence, which dissolves in the middle of the manuscript, only one more border adorns a map in the volume. It takes the form of an unmatched pair of bare-breasted but draped female figures, one of whom carries a basket on her head, while the other stares, unburdened, out at the viewer. Beneath each figure’s feet are the unidentified arms of the presumed patron, perhaps Pierre de la Gandille, as well as some strapwork and an abundant cornucopia. These figures, unlike the nuptial frieze, are oriented to the bottom of the volume (Fig. 10). Among the Dieppe maps, this figural border most closely approximates the framing motifs deployed in monumental wall painting, like those seen in François I’s gallery at Fontainebleau and also at Anne de Montmorency’s chateau of Écouen. In both contexts, frames prompted viewers to look carefully and recursively, to activate the surface with their gaze, to wander, to linger, and to discover. The visual exploration of maps of the newly explored world was a new practice for viewers at this time: the frames imported from other modes of painting helped their viewers to engage with, understand, and classify the unfamiliar imagery before their eyes. The frames prompted viewers to view and review, investigate, and reflect on the sumptuous new world. And the frames also served to reinforce the status of cartography as a creative and interpretive imagery deserving and rewarding ­sustained

65 Carlos Miranda García-Tejedor, The Mythological Narrative in the Margins of the ‘Vallard Atlas’, in: Manuel Moleiro (ed.), The Vallard Atlas, Barcelona 2010, pp. 199–215.

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Fig. 9: San Marino, CA, The Huntington Library, Vallard Atlas HM 29, 5v–6r, 1547, Sumatra and Java. By permission of the Huntington Library.

Fig. 10: San Marino, CA, The Huntington Library, Vallard Atlas, HM 29, 25v–26r, 1547, Northern South America. By permission of the Huntington Library.

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study. Ostensibly peripheral, the framing devices around charts in map books offered as gifts taught their viewers how to esteem and examine their content, as well as how to evaluate it. Little prior experience could prepare the recipient for the new and strange geography of these volumes. The border motifs, well established from other pictorial media, mediated the appropriate reception of the exotic charts, either by neutralizing their novelty, as they do in the Rotz Atlas, or instead venerating their variety, as in the Dauphin Atlas. As devised by the donor, with careful attention to the established preferences of recipient, the frames enabled the beholder to venture out into the unknown.

Part III: Travel into Sacred Spaces

Eyal Ben-Eliyahu

The Travels of the Rabbis and the Rabbinic Horizons of the Inhabited World Abstract: This essay charts and suggests a possible explanation for a shift in the rabbinic perception of the inhabited world. Apparently until the Bar-Kokhba revolt rabbis traveled both to the East and the West, but after the revolt their geographical focus became more restricted. An examination of reported rabbinic travels, as compared to Second Temple ‘maps,’ and rabbinic interpretations of the biblical ‘Table of Nations’ indicates a significant lessening of rabbinic interest in the West. This narrowing may be connected to rabbinic Judaism’s general retreat from, and diminished concern and connections with the Western world, as compared with their political activity in the earlier Hellenistic-Jewish period. Keywords: rabbinic literature, mental map, ‘Table of Nations’, rabbinic journeys Geography and history play an ancillary, not an independent role, in rabbinic texts,1 and the sporadic, incidental information of this type found in rabbinic literature most frequently arises in the context of halakhic or aggadic discussions.2 Study of the reported travels of rabbis to Jewish communities during the first and early second centuries CE facilitates a comparison of their mental map of the Jewish world with their ethnographical-geographical perception of the ecumene, namely, where in the world they placed various nations. To date, however, there has never been a comprehensive review of the rabbis’ geographical or ethnographical perception of their world.3 This can be attributed to the fragmentary nature of such data in rabbinic literature; the fact that that literature was compiled from different sources and in different locations over five centuries; and the difficulties of identifying the toponyms used, whether

1 Moshe David Herr, The Conception of History among the Sages (Hebrew), in: Proceedings of the Sixth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Jerusalem 1977, vol. 3, pp. 129–147; Isaiah M. Gafni, Rabbinic Historiography and Representations of the Past, in: Charlotte E. Fonrobert/ Martin S. Jaffee (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature (Cambridge Companions to Religion), Cambridge et al. 2007, pp. 296–312; Zeev Safrai, Geography and Cosmography in Talmudic Literature, in: Shmuel Safrai et al. (eds), The Literature of the Sages (Compendia Rerum Iudaicarum ad Novum Testamentum 3:2), Minneapolis 2006, pp. 497–508. 2 With the exception of several halakhic discussions in connection with the observance of agricultural commandments, such as those concerning the regional borders of the Land of Israel. 3 See Safrai (note 1), pp. 497–508. An initial step is my digital atlas “The Ancient Jewish Diaspora, 538BCE–640CE” (diaspora.haifa.ac.il). Eyal Ben-Eliyahu, Department of Jewish History, University of Haifa, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-009

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due to philological issues or Hebraization of place names as a result of complex transformative processes. The identification of place names in rabbinic literature is based on a combination of the internal evidence, archaeological remains, external literary sources, and similar sounding names. Using rabbinic sources – the tannaitic literature edited in the Land of Israel in the early third century CE and the amoraic literature edited between the fourth (the Jerusalem Talmud) to sixth centuries CE (some of the aggadic midrashim and the Babylonian Talmud) in the Land of Israel and Babylonia – I attempt to unveil the horizons of the rabbinic perception of the ecumene. A survey of these sources reveals diminishing rabbinic interest in the Western inhabited world that is reflected in the halakhic and homiletic discussions. Before the Bar-Kokhba revolt (132–135 CE) rabbis traveled West as far as Cappadocia in Asia Minor, Rome, and even Galia (whether in Asia Minor or Western Europe), but after the revolt they generally traveled eastward primarily to Babylonia, with Asia Minor being the outer limit of their reported journeys to the West. Following a brief survey of the extent of rabbinic travel as found in the sources, I look at known ‘maps’ of the world from the Second Temple period found in Hellenistic-Jewish writings, which preceded rabbinic literature and compare their scope to that reflected in three rabbinic sources. The smaller number of references in rabbinic literature to the Jews in the West, that is, west of Asia Minor, correlates with the contracted range of the rabbinic ecumene after the Bar-Kokhba revolt. I tentatively suggest that this diminished interest in the world in general may have been part of lessened rabbinic interest in the ­Greco-Roman world and culture,4 together with lessened Jewish political involvement in the Roman world after the suppression of the revolt in conjunction with the waning of Jewish political aspirations for independence.

Rabbinic Travels to the West Rabbinic literature does not include accounts of itineraries. The only systematic description of such journeys relates to those of the fourth-century Babylonian scholar

4 This thesis applies to the comparison between writers such as Philo and Josephus and the rabbis. Philo and Josephus wrote in Greek in Alexandria and Rome, respectively, the cultural centers of the Greco-Roman world, whereas the rabbis were in the Land of Israel, at the margin of the ­Greco-Roman world, and in Babylon, outside of the Roman world. An example of this gap is the historiographical writing of Josephus (and even Philo), as opposed to its absence from rabbinic literature. For a comparison of the Josephan and rabbinic corpora, see Vered Noam, Shifting Images of the Hasmoneans, transl. Dena Ordan, Oxford 2018, pp. 5–9. Even the authors of the book of Jubilees, which was written in Hebrew and opposed Hellenistic perceptions, were familiar with Hellenistic culture, and utilized it in its polemic against this world. See Cana Werman, Jubilees in the Hellenistic Context, in: Lynn LiDonnici/ Andrea Lieber (eds.), Heavenly Tablets. Interpretation, Identity and Tradition in Ancient Judaism, Leiden, 2007, pp. 133–158.

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Rabbah Bar Bar Hannah,5 but as recounted in the Babylonian Talmud,6 these appear to be fictive, not actual, trips. Tannaitic literature attests to travels by the rabbis outside the borders of the Land of Israel. Rabbi Akiva, for example, journeyed to Nehardea in Babylonia, Zifrin in Cilicia, Giznzkin Madai, and even Galia (perhaps to be identified as France but more likely as Galatia in Asia Minor).7 Rabbi Yehoshua visited Alexandria. Three rabbis are said to have left Yavneh to serve as heads of the rabbinical courts (av beit din) in Rome, Nisibis, and Nehardea, respectively.8 But Rome is the city mentioned most often as a place visited by the tannaim.9 These trips correspond closely to the mid-first-century journeys of the apostle Paul. The primary difference lies in the fact that the rabbis also visited Babylonia in the East, whereas Paul traveled exclusively to the West.10 The contexts in which these descriptions of the rabbis’ visits abroad are recounted suggest that their journeys were related to their rabbinic functions and activities. After the revolt against Trajan in 115–117 and the Bar-Kokhba revolt fifteen years later, the scope of reported Jewish travel contracted. From the third century on, the Palestinian rabbis seem to have traveled within the Land of Israel through the Galilee and the middle and southern coastal plains, going as far as Babylonia. There is little evidence regarding links between the Palestinian rabbis and the Jewish communities in the West. The sparse information in rabbinic literary sources available from the third and fourth centuries relates to visits to Asia Minor (Asia and Cappadocia) and Egypt (primarily Alexandria).11

5 For the genre of these tales, see Dan Ben-Amos, Talmudic Tall Tales, in: Linda Dégh/ Henry Glassie/ Felix J. Oinas (eds.), Folklore Today. A Festschrift for Richard M. Dorson. Bloomington/ IN, 1976, pp. 25–43; Eli Yassif, The Hebrew Folktale. History, Genre, Meaning, transl. Jacqueline S. Teitelbaum, Bloomington, Indianapolis 1994, pp. 183–189; Dina Stein, Believing Is Seeing: A Reading of Baba Batra 73a–75b (Hebrew), in: Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew Literature 17 (1999), pp. 9–32; Reuven Kiperwasser, Rabba bar bar Hana’s Voyages (Hebrew), in: Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew Literature 22 (2008), pp. 215–241. 6 BT Baba Batra 73a–75b. On the Bavli, see Eyal Ben-Eliyahu/ Yehudah Cohn/ Fergus Millar, Handbook of Jewish Literature from Late Antiquity, 135–700 CE, Oxford et al. 2012, pp. 32–42. 7 If we identify Galia mentioned in a baraita in BT Rosh Hashanah 26a with Gaul: “As it has been taught: R. Akiba said: When I went to Arabia, they used to call a ram yobla. R. Akiba further said: When I went to Galia, they used to call a niddah ‘galmudah’”, translation cited from Isidore Epstein (ed.), The Hebrew-English Edition of the Babylonian Talmud: Yoma, transl. Leo Jung, London et al. 1974. 8 Shmuel Safrai compiled the sources relating to the rabbis’ visits to the Diaspora. See Shmuel ­Safrai, Links between Eretz Israel and the Diaspora in the Roman and Byzantine Period, in: Isaiah Gafni (ed.), The Ancient Period, vol. 1 of Kehal Yisrael: Jewish Self-Rule through the Ages (Hebrew), Jerusalem 2001, pp. 199–230. 9 Shmuel Safrai, Le Visite a Roma dei “Maestri di Javnè” (Hebrew), in: Robert Bonfil et al. (eds.), Scritti in Memoria di Umberto Nahon. Saggi sull’ Ebraismo Italiano, Jerusalem 1978, pp. 151–167. 10 Doron Mendels, Why Did Paul Go West? Jewish Historical Narrative and Thought, London, New York 2013, pp. 1–11. 11 See Safrai (note 8), pp. 199–230.

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Second Temple Period Jewish ‘Maps’ and Rabbinic Interpretations of the Biblical Table of Nations Despite their travels eastward and westward, the rabbis did not impart any systematic description of the world in their literature; nonetheless, some sources offer a glimpse of their perception of the inhabited world. One such context is their interpretation of the biblical description of the spread of the descendants of Noah over the earth after the Flood, termed by scholars the Table of Nations12 (Gen. 10:1–32). This chapter includes a detailed biblical ethnographic map of the inhabited world. The biblical Table of Nations serves as the axis for the discussion, both in the ­Hellenistic-Jewish descriptions and in the rabbinic literature. The interpretations of this biblical table by Hellenistic-Jewish writers incorporated the Ionian map of the world. The rabbis, who viewed the list of seventy nations in Genesis 10 as u ­ nchangeable, nonetheless identified the locations of the descendants of Noah according to the geography of their day. In the absence of descriptions of the world in their literature, the rabbinic view of the ecumene can be elicited from their interpretations of that table. Comparison of the treatments of the Table of Nations in Second Temple Jewish literature with its later rabbinic interpretations illuminates how the rabbis understood the inhabited world in their day and reveals the different perceptions of the world in the ­ achiela,13 two corpora. As Philip Alexander, Esther Eshel, Cana Werman, Daniel M and others have recently shown, the second-century BCE interpretation of the Table of Nations in ‘Jubilees’ closely corresponds to the Hellenistic ecumene. Adopting the Ionian map of the world,14 it divides the world into three continents: Europe in the north, Asia in

12 This is the usual denotation in biblical scholarship for the list of the 70 descendants of Noah found in this chapter. The English term nation in this context is a translation of the Hebrew word ‫אומה‬/‫עם‬, but not in its modern meaning of ‘nationality’. See Mario Liverani, Nationality and Political Identity, in: The Anchor Bible Dictionary, vol. 4 (1992), pp. 1031–1037. My intent in this essay is an elucidation of the geographical perception of the rabbis. The discussion of the terminology for people/nations/ tribes is quite developed in the field of the sociology of antiquity; see, e. g., Antony D. Smith, The Nation in History: Historiographical Debates about Ethnicity and Nationalism, Hanover 2001. 13 Esther Eshel, The Imago Mundi of the Genesis Apocryphon, in: LiDonnici/ Lieber (note 4), pp. 111–132; Philip S. Alexander, Notes on the Imago Mundi of the Book of Jubilees, in: Journal of Jewish Studies 33 (1982), pp. 197–213. For a detailed discussion of the relationship between the Ionian map, the map in the Genesis Apocryphon from Qumran, and Jubilees, see Daniel A. Machiela, The Dead Sea Genesis Apocryphon. A New Text and Translation with Introduction and a Special Treatment of Columns 13–17 (Studies in the Texts of the Desert of Judah 79), Leiden 2009, pp. 105–130. 14 The first maps of the inhabited world were made by Anaximander (610–546 BCE), and later by Hecataeus (c. 500 BCE), both from Miletus, which is in Ionia, on the western seacoast of Asia Minor. See John B. Harley/ David Woodward, The Foundations of Theoretical Cartography in Archaic and Classical Greece, in: John B. Harley/ David Woodward (eds.), The History of Cartography, vol. 1, pp. 130–147, here pp. 132–140. Later Herodotus (ca. 489–425 BCE) divided the inhabited world into three continents: Libya, Asia, and Europe, ibid., pp. 136–137. This map impacted the T-O medieval maps.

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the middle, and Africa in the south.15 The continents are separated by rivers: the Tanais (Don) separates Europe and Asia and the Nile runs between Asia and Africa. The continents are surrounded by an ocean, with the Pillars of Hercules in the Strait of Gibraltar marking the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. Shem, Ham, and Japheth are each assigned to one of the three continents. The omphalos is shifted from Delphi to Jerusalem.16 Flavius Josephus’s treatment of the Table of Nations in ‘Jewish Antiquities’ also systematically adapts the Ionic map of the ecumene, which differs from that in ‘Jubilees’ in some of the details.17 Of these, the principal difference is that in ‘Jubilees’, Shem’s territory extends from the east to the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, including Canaan, Syria, and all of Asia, whereas, according to Josephus, it stretches from Tauros-Amanus in the northeast to Mauritania in the west.18 Josephus’s inclusion of Canaan and Syria in Ham’s allocation is consistent with a literal reading of Genesis 10.19 The version in ‘Jubilees’ seems to have been determined by a national sentiment that denied any link between the Land of Israel and other nations – such as the Canaanites.20 Examination of the interpretation of the Table of Nations in our second corpus reveals that it appears in three parallel rabbinic texts: (1) ‘Genesis Rabbah’ (edited in the Land of Israel, c. the fifth/ sixth centuries CE)21; (2) the Jerusalem Talmud (Land of Israel, composed in the third/fourth centuries CE)22; and (3) the Babylonian Talmud (edited in Babylonia, fifth century CE).23

Genesis Rabbah, 37 I begin with the most detailed ‘map’ of identifications from the Table of Nations, which is found in ‘Genesis Rabbah’. This midrash offers explanations of words and 15 Werman claims that the author of Jubilees had a detailed, presumably written, description of the Ionic map at his disposal. His use of that literature, however, was quite selective, for his primary purpose was to reject its influence. See Werman (note 4), pp. 133–158. 16 Philip S. Alexander, Jerusalem as the Omphalos of the World. On the History of a Geographical Concept, in: Lee I. Levine (ed.), Jerusalem. Its Sanctity and Centrality to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, New York 1999, pp. 104–119. 17 Francis Schmidt, Jewish Representations of the Inhabited Earth during the Hellenistic and Roman Periods, in: Aryeh Kasher/ Uriel Rappaport/ Gideon Fuks (eds.), Greece and Rome in Eretz Israel. Collected Essays, Jerusalem 1990, pp. 119–134. According to Schmidt the inclusion of Canaan and Syria in the allotment of Shem was a result of internal tension or dispute within Jewish society against the Greeks and the Hellenistic culture by assigning all of Asia, including Asia Minor, to Shem and excluding Japhet from this region. 18 Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 1, transl. Henry St. John Thackeray (Loeb Classical Library 203), vol. 5, London 1961, pp. 63–65. 19 Ibid., pp. 65–67. 20 See Jub. 10:29–34 for the rewritten description of the link between Canaan and the land of Canaan. 21 See Ben-Eliyahu/ Cohn/ Millar (note 6), pp. 81–83. 22 Ibid., pp. 29–32. 23 Ibid., pp. 32–37.

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sentences or gives aggadic interpretations and expositions, many of which are only loosely tied to the text. In the case of the biblical description of the descendants of Noah, the rabbis who composed the midrash identified the biblical names of the ethnoses with places in the Roman provinces: The Sons of Japheth: Gomer and Magog etc. ([Genesis] X, 2). [The Tanna] Rabbi Samuel ben Ammi said: These are Africa, Germania, Media, Macedonia and Mysia. And Tiras: Rabbi Simon said: That is the Euphrates region; the Rabbis said: It is Thrace. And the Sons of Gomer: Ashkenaz, and Riphath and Torgemah (X, 3), i.e., Asia, Adiabene, and Germania. Rabbi Berekiah said: Germanicia. And the sons of Javan: Elishah, and Tarshish, Kithim, and Dodanim (X, 4), i.e., Hellas and Taras […], Italia, and Dardania […]. And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad, and Calneh (X, 10), i.e., Edessa, Nisibis, and Ctesiphon. In the Land of Shinar: This is Babylonia […]. And Canaan begot Zidon his firstborn, etc. (X, 15–18). The Hivite: the inhabitants of Hildin. The Arkite, i.e., Arkas of the Lebanon. The Sinite: Orthosia. The Arvadite: Aradus. The Zemarite: Ḥamats […] The Hamathite: Epiphania. And the border of the Canaanite was […] unto Lasha (X, 19), i.e., as far as Callirrhoe […]. And their dwelling was from Mesha (X, 30) Rabbi Eleazar b. Pappos said: Mesene is dead; Media is sick, and Elam is dying. Ḥabil Yamma is the glory of Babylon. Ẓuẓira is the glory of Ḥabil Yamma […]. As thou goest toward Sephar, i.e., Taphar; Unto the Mountain of the East, i.e., the mountains of the East.24

As the midrashic genre interprets the biblical text verse by verse, ‘Genesis Rabbah’ constitutes the most elaborate expansion of the table. Its primary concern lies with the sons of Japheth and Ham, the Shemites being relatively neglected. Not all the sites can be identified with confidence, but from the places that can be identified,25 we see that the sons of Japheth are associated principally with the Balkans and Asia Minor. The association of Gomer and Magog with Africa and Germania26 is not specific and probably refers to the region of the Roman provinces Germania and Carthage (Tunisia). A more plausible explanation for the Africa that was identified with Gomer is that it refers to Phrygia in Asia Minor. In line with the context, the identification of Togermah refers to Germanicia in southern Asia Minor. The westernmost point mentioned in ‘Genesis Rabbah’ is Italy. The southern edge of the map is associated with the sons of Ham, who are in turn linked with the sons of Yoktan in Yemen along the southern edge of the Arabian Peninsula. The eastern edge of the

24 Midrash Rabbah: Genesis 1, transl. Harry Freedman, London 1951, p. 37:1–8. 25 The identifications of the sites mentioned in Genesis Rabbah are based on the commentary of J. Theodor and Ch. Albeck in their edition of Genesis Rabbah: Midrash Bereshit Rabba: Critical Edition with Notes and Commentary, Jerusalem 1965 (in Hebrew). 26 The identification of Magog with Germany fits the character of Magog as the terrible enemy that comes from afar, as in the prophecy in Ezekiel 38.

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map is Media – Persia in northwestern Iran.27 The boundaries of this map are from Italy in the west to Iran in the east to Yemen in the Arabian Peninsula in the south, all of which reflects the narrow scope of the rabbis’ horizons of the inhabited world.

The Jerusalem Talmud, ‘Megillah’ 1:8 The Jerusalem Talmud provides different identifications of the toponyms in the Table of Nations28: As in ‘Genesis Rabbah’, the discussion relates to the biblical description: “The sons of Japhet: Gomer: Magog, Madai, Yavan, Tuval, Meshech, and Tiras (Gen. 10:2)”. ‘Gomer’ is Garmamia; ‘Magog’ is Gothya; ‘Madai’ as you hear. ‘Yavan’ is Evasos, Tuval-Wotania, Meshech is Mosiyya. Tiras: R. Simon said: Persia. And the Rabbis say: It is Tarka. “The sons of Gomer: Ashkenaz, Riphat, and Torgemah” (Gen. 10:3). These are Asia, Adiabene, and Germanica. “And the sons of Yavan, Elishah, Tarkish, Kittim, and Dodanayyam” (Gen. 10:4). These are Hellas and Taras, Abiah and Dardanayyah. “The Arvadites” (Gen. 10: 18): they are Rhodes, The Zemarites are Hamas, the Hamathites are Hamath. “As far as Lasha”: R. Eliezer said: to Callirrhoe. (Neusner translation, slightly revised)

As in ‘Genesis Rabbah’, the Jerusalem Talmud associates the sons of Japhet, Gomer and Magog, with Germania in the west, but all the others are located more to the east – in Asia Minor and Persia. The Jerusalem Talmud also refers to Hamath in Syria and Callirrhoe on the western shores of the Dead Sea. The Jerusalem Talmud relates primarily to the sons of Japheth and some of the sons of Canaan – the sons of Ham. This discussion was conducted in the framework of a homily about the sons of Japheth, who will speak the language of Japheth in the tents of Shem. The ‘map’ that emerges from the Jerusalem Talmud focuses on the Balkans, Asia Minor, and Lebanon29 and closely corresponds to the one in ‘Genesis Rabbah’, without the references to the Arabian Peninsula.

27 In the midrash, the Palestinian rabbis criticize the Babylonian rabbis for residing in a region which is not obligated to observe Land-of-Israel-related commandments: “Shinar: This is Babylonia. Shinar connotes that it is emptied (shenenu’areth) of precepts, lacking the precepts of terumah, tithes, and the Sabbatical year […] Shinar connotes that its princes (sarim) die young (ne’arim)” (Gen. Rab. 37:4). The homily in the Palestinian Genesis Rabbah – which reflects tense relations between the Palestinian and the Babylonian rabbis – may be a response to the local patriotism expressed in the Babylonian Talmud. See Isaiah M. Gafni, Land, Center and Diaspora. Jewish Constructs in Late ­Antiquity (JSP Supplements), Sheffield 1997, pp. 96–117. 28 On the Jerusalem Talmud, see Ben-Eliyahu/ Cohn/ Millar (note 6), pp. 29–32. 29 If we accept the problematic identification of Germania and Gothia in the Jerusalem Talmud as Germania.

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The Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Yoma 9b–10a The map found in the Babylonian Talmud differs from the previous two interpretations of the Genesis listings: God shall enlarge Japheth, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem, [that means], although God has enlarged Japheth, the Divine presence rests only in the tents of Shem. Whence do we know that the Persians are derived from Japheth? – Because it is written: The sons of Japheth: Gomer, and Magog, and Madai and Javan, and Tubal, and Meshek, and Tiras. ‘ Gomer’, i.e., Germania: ‘Magog’, i.e., Kandia; ‘Madai’, i.e., Macedonia; ‘Javan’, in its literal sense; ‘Tubal’, i.e., Beth-­Unyaki; ‘Meshek’, i.e., Mysia; ‘Tiras’ – its identification is a matter of dispute between R. Simai and the Rabbis, or, according to another report, between R. Simon and the Rabbis, one holding that it is to be identified with Beth Tiryaka, and the other [authorities] declaring it is Persia. R. Joseph learnt: ‘Tiras’ is Persia, Sabtah and Raamah, and Sabteca. R. Joseph learnt: i.e., the inner Saḳistan and the outer Saḳistan. Between the two there is [a distance] of one hundred parasangs and its circumference one thousand parasangs. And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel and Erech, and Accad, and Calneh in the land of Shinar. ‘Babel’ in its usual sense; ‘Erech,’ ‘ i.e., Urikath; ‘Accad’, i.e., Baskar; ‘Calneh’, i.e., Nupar – Ninpi. Out of that land went Ashur. R. Joseph learnt: ‘Ashur’, i.e., Silok. And builded Nineveh and Rehoboth-ir, and Calah. ‘Nineveh’ in its usual sense; ‘Rehoboth-ir’, i.e., Perath of Meshan. ‘Calah,’ i.e., Perath de Borsif. And Resen between Nineveh and Calah – the same is the great city. ‘Resen,’ i.e., Ctesiphon. ‘The same is the great city’. I do not know yet whether by ‘the great city’ Nineveh or Resen is meant. But, as Scripture says, Now Nineveh was an exceeding great city unto God, of three days’ journey, say that by ‘the great city’ Nineveh is meant.30

The Babylonian Talmud relates to the sons of Japheth and Ham, focusing on the east and it betrays a local Babylonian bias by placing some of the sons of Japhet, such as Tiras, Sabtah and Raamah, and Sabteca, in the Iranian-Babylonian region. As a matter of fact, most of the sites mentioned in the Babylonian Talmud refer to that region.31

Comparison and Evaluation of the Three Sources A comparison of the three rabbinic sources with the Jewish records dating to the Second Temple period – ‘Jubilees’ and Josephus – indicates that the latter provide us with a comprehensive description of the world and its topographical division by rivers according to the Ionian map. Although ‘Jubilees’ adds ideological aspects to its

30 Translation cited from Epstein (note 7). 31 The identifications are according to Aharon Oppenheimer, in collaboration with Benjamin Isaac and Michael Lecker, Babylonia Judaica in the Talmudic Period, Wiesbaden 1983.

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geographical commentary and rewrites the biblical text, its description of the ethnographical map of the world is extensive. The rabbinic sources are much more fragmentary. The rabbis’ recorded interests lie mainly in interpreting the biblical description of the Table of Nations and they ignored topographical features. Their geographical scope was also much narrower: the concern regarding the West in ‘Genesis Rabbah’ and the Jerusalem Talmud extended only as far as Asia Minor and the Balkans, with sporadic references to Italia or even Germania. This clearly suggests a neglect of the West and a focus on nearby regions, which is significant when considered against the backdrop of the expansion of the Roman Empire from the days of Julius Caesar (mid-first century BCE) to the west and northwest to Gaul, Britain, and Germania. At a time when the Roman Empire was expanding westward, and one would have expected the rabbis to adopt the imperial map, their interest was rather limited to closer localities. The same picture emerges from the references in the rabbinic sources to Jewish communities in the West. Although we have direct and indirect evidence for, and physical remains of, Jewish communities in Western Europe throughout the first half of the first millennium CE,32 the references to the Jewish Diaspora from the second half of the second century CE do not extend beyond Asia Minor, and the sites mentioned in the rabbinic literature are noted mainly in the context of rabbinic visits to these places. More distant regions, and their Jewish communities, attracted less attention. The Babylonian Talmud naturally demonstrates greater interest in Babylonia and most of its identifications are in the Babylonian region; its map evinces a more eastern focus than that found in ‘Genesis Rabbah’ or the Jerusalem Talmud.33 The geographical dimension of rabbinic literature thus differs significantly from the Greco-Roman geographical genre.34 Strabo (64 BCE–21 CE), for example, wrote seventeen volumes on the geography of the entire world as it was known in his day. His accounts proceed from the Iberian Peninsula, Gaul, Britain, and Ireland in the west through the Alps, Italia, North Africa, Greece, Asia Minor to India in the East and Arabia, Libya, and Ethiopia in the south. He also described borders, topography, and flora and fauna.35 In contrast, the rabbis did not compose any systematic geography; the geographical-ethnographical features in rabbinic literature are sparse and some32 Aron C. Sterk, Latino-Romaniotes: The Continuity of Jewish Communities in the Western Diaspora, 400–700 CE, in: Melilah 9 (2012), pp. 21–49. 33 The difference between the geography of the Babylonian Talmud and the Jerusalem Talmud is striking for the lack of a map of the Land of Israel in the former as opposed to the latter. 34 We find its counterpart in Second Temple period Hellenistic-Jewish writings. Even concerning the Land of Israel, whereas Mishnah Shevi’it (6:1), e. g., refers to Judea and the Galilee, such allusions are sporadic and are not intended to provide a picture of the geography of the Land of Israel but rather serve halakhic purposes. Usually correlated to regions settled by Jews, this perhaps explains the omission of Samaria and the coastal region from tannaitic sources. 35 For further background, see Daniella Dueck, Geography in Classical Antiquity, Cambridge 2012, pp. 43–45.

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times imaginary. There are infrequent mentions of distant places such as Aspamia and Qurtuva,36 which might be Spain, or Cartegini,37 probably Carthage. But these references are sporadic and not part of a picture of the known world as a whole. Indeed, the expression ‘Galia and Aspamia’ in the rabbinic literature simply means the edge of the inhabited world.38 The map of rabbinic journeys in the wake of the Bar-Kokhba revolt exhibits a diminished scope of travel that goes hand-in-hand with the concentration of the Jewish population in the East. Although the Jewish communities in the West are a familiar phenomenon in the study of the ancient Jewish Diaspora – the principal sources in regard to the period between the second and seventh centuries CE being archaeological evidence – inscriptions, tombstones, and even synagogues – these communities are rarely referred to in rabbinic literature written after that revolt. The ethnographic maps in that literature demonstrate that the growth of the communities in the West was accompanied by lessened interest on the rabbis’ part in remote districts – primarily the West – that had been part of their area of concern prior to that time. This finding suggests a new framework in which to discuss rabbinic silence with respect to these communities. This silence is not necessarily a reflection of a different identity, of differences in the nature of eastern and western Judaism, as Mendels and Edrei propose.39 Rather, it belongs to the wider context of the reduced interest in the ecumene in the rabbinic worldview in general, already apparent in the early stages of rabbinic literature. Historical explanations and ascription to matters of identity do not elucidate this phenomenon. What is called for is a closer look at the connection between the shrinking scope of the rabbis’ interest in the world in general and the

36 Oppenheimer prefers to identify them as places in Babylonia. See Aharon Oppenheimer, From Kurtava to Aspamia (Hebrew), in: Aharon Mirsky/ Avraham Grossman/ Yosef Kaplan (eds.), Exile and Diaspora. Studies in the History of the Jewish People, Presented to Professor Haim Beinart, Jerusalem 1988, pp. 57–63. 37 BT Menahot 110a, cited from Epstein (note 7): “R. Abba b. R. Isaac said in the name of R. Hisda – others say, Rab Judah said in the name of Rab, From Tyre to Carthage the nations know Israel and their Father who is in heaven; but from Tyre westwards and from Carthage eastwards the nations know neither Israel nor their Father who is in heaven.” 38 Leviticus Rabbah 27:12, 29:2, Pesikta De-Rab Kahana, piska 26, BT Rosh Hashanah 26a. 39 Recently Arye Edrei and Doron Mendels suggested that this silence indicates that Western Judaism was not rabbinic as a result of its adherents’ inability to read Hebrew. The fact that all rabbinic literature was in Hebrew and later also in Aramaic (the amoraic literature) prevented them from accessing this literature. See Arye Edrei/ Doron Mendels, The Split Jewish Diaspora. Its Dramatic Consequences, in: Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 16 (2007), pp. 91–137; 17 (2008), pp. 163–187; Doron Mendels/ Arye Edrei, Zweierlei Diaspora. Zur Spaltung der antiken jüdischen Welt, Göttingen 2010. But see the critique by Fergus Millar, A Rural Jewish Community in Late Roman Mesopotamia, and the Question of a ‘Split’ Jewish Diaspora, in: Journal for the Study of Judaism 42:3 (2011), pp. 351–374.

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absence of attestation to links with the Jewish communities in Western Europe from the second century CE on. As noted, a map of rabbinic travels outside the Land of Israel evidences a lack of interest in the West after the uprisings against Trajan and Hadrian. Consideration of the rabbinic geographical perception as found in rabbinic literature demonstrates first of all that the scope of their geographical and ethnographical maps was much narrower than that of the Hellenistic-Jewish literary maps found in ‘Jubilees’ and the Josephan treatment of the Table of Nations. Second, not only was the rabbinic mental map of the world more limited than the maps known from Second Temple Jewish literature, it was also reduced in comparison to the Roman geographical perception of the world. A possible explanation for this phenomenon might be the shift from the Hellenistic scientific interest in mapping the ecumene to the Roman functional approach to mapping, dictated by the needs of the empire. But whereas the Romans had an empire to run, the rabbis, who had no such need, lost interest in distant places, and their awareness of such places was far less than is apparent in Jewish works from the Second Temple period, which were written in the ambience of Hellenistic geography. Although some rabbis visited Rome until the early second century CE, the rabbis’ world map became more limited and was directed to the eastern part of the Mediterranean Sea. A possible explanation for this transformation may be connected to the dramatic change in Jewish perceptions after the suppression of the Bar-Kokhba revolt. Jews abandoned the political aspirations that had motivated and ignited the four Jewish revolts beginning with that of the Hasmoneans in the middle of the second century BCE and rather viewed themselves as a religious and cultural entity. From this point on rabbinic interest converged on the Palestine-Babylonia expanse, showing much less concern with the larger space controlled by the Romans. This picture might hint at major differences between the Hellenistic-Jewish literature from the Second Temple period, which reflected much more of an interest in the contemporary Western culture than that of most of the talmudic rabbis, especially those in Babylonia. Thus, I suggest that the absence of discussions regarding the Western Jewish communities in rabbinic literature was the outcome of a narrowed geographical scope, which focused on the world and the Jewish communities from Babylonia in the east to Asia Minor in the west. Thus there is a correlation between the more restricted scope of rabbinic travels and their perception of a reduced ecumene after the Bar-Kokhba revolt as compared to Second Temple Jewish sources. This may also partially explain the lack of evidence for rabbinic interest in the West and its Jewish communities.

Rachel Sarfati

Real and Fictive Travels to the Holy Land as Painted in the Florence Scroll Abstract: This essay introduces a little-known manuscript, which I have named the ‘Florence Scroll’. Illustrating a pilgrimage from Egypt to the mountains of Lebanon, this exceptionally long scroll (10.7 m) depicts images of holy places along that route. Each image is accompanied by a name in Hebrew and sometimes by a short text. I show that the scroll was painted during the second decade of the fourteenth century and the painter was from Egypt. I deal here with the first part of the scroll, which depicts locations in Egypt, Sinai, and Transjordan. One of the basic assumptions is that in part the Florence Scroll is a record of a real-life journey of its creator. However, research and an analysis of the work suggest that similar to other Jewish pilgrims at the time, he did not actually visit any of the included sites in Sinai. Thus my discussion focuses on why these sites appear in the scroll. My conclusion suggests that the addition of these locations in Sinai may have a symbolic meaning in that it juxtaposes the illustrator’s journey and the biblical story of the Exodus. Keywords: Egypt, Transjordan, Sinai, Kanīsat Mūsā, Jewish pilgrimage, Samuel’s tomb, Pithom and Raamses, Rock of Moses, Exodus from Egypt The ‘Florence Scroll’1 (as I have named it) is a rare example of a Hebrew illuminated manuscript originating in the Middle East. This little-known illustrated parchment portrays holy sites in an extensive array of illustrations, and each of the images is accompanied by an identifying caption in Hebrew that gives the name of the depicted place. A small number of the illustrations are accompanied by short texts or inscriptions that tell about the traditions attributed to the site. Today, the Florence Scroll is 10.7 m long and roughly 17.5 cm in height. It seems to be missing a piece at the beginning and its upper margins have apparently been trimmed. We can assume that it originally measured about 20 cm in height.2 Although the Florence Scroll has no colophon identifying its illustrator, owner, place of origin, or time period, it is

1 Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, ms. Magll. III 43. A concise description of the scroll was recently published in an exhibition catalogue, see Rachel Sarfati, Scroll of Holy Places, in: Amedeo Spagnoletto/ Milka Ventura (eds.), Ele acque si calmarono, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, Florence 2016, pp. 39–40. 2 This paper is based on the first chapter of my doctoral dissertation: Rachel Sarfati, The Florence Scroll: Early Representations in the Visual Tradition of Depicting the Holy Sites, PhD thesis, Tel Aviv University 2016, pp. 25–55 (Hebrew). Rachel Sarfati, Senior Curator, The Israel Museum, Jerusalem, p.o.b. 71117, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-010

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safe to say that the terminus post quem date for its creation is the mid-thirteenth century, an attribution that is based on the appearance of the tomb of Rabbi Abraham ben Moses ben Maimon, who died in 1237. Further, a paleographic a ­ nalysis of the i­llustrator’s handwriting also indicated a thirteenth-century date. In addition to the Hebrew texts inscribed by its illustrator, the scroll also includes Italian translations of some of the inscriptions. These were written in different hands and at different times, but the earliest Italian hand can be dated to the mid-fourteenth century, which suggests a terminus ante quem for the scroll’s production.3 The text that accompanies the opening figure, Kanīsat Mūsā (the Sanctuary of Moses) in Egypt, seems to allude to events that took place in the first years of the fourteenth century. I discuss this particularly interesting text in detail further on, where I argue that the scroll’s creator was an Egyptian Jew and reach the conclusion that the date range for the scroll’s creation can be narrowed down to the second decade of the fourteenth century. Captions and elements of the illustrations suggest that the manuscript was not commissioned, but rather that the illustrator was also the owner, which is quite significant in the case of such a lavishly adorned medieval work. An unusual aspect of the Florence Scroll is that most of its illustrations have only identifying captions and are not accompanied by any further text, which makes it difficult to understand the significance of the depictions and their iconographic motifs. For that reason, my research proceeded in reverse order to the way in which the scroll was created: whereas the illustrator ‘translated’ the information at his disposal into visual representations, my analysis attempts to offer verbal ‘back-translations’ of the visual findings. The principal means I employed to decipher the illustrations was a comparison of their iconographic motifs and the adjacent captions to descriptions in various literary sources,4 including travelogues by Western Jewish travelers from the twelfth to the sixteenth century and lists and works by Eastern Jews dating from the tenth to the fifteenth century. The lists I referenced included descriptions of the sites; the traditions attributed to them; and, in some cases, the most usual itinerary for journeys from one place to another. I also engaged in a similar comparison with Muslim sources, including travelogues, chronicles, and cartographic works. Another important means for understanding the various elements in the illustrations was a comparison with artistic findings from medieval Muslim and Christian art that was created in the geo-cultural sphere of the Near East. The Florence Scroll depicts holy sites in a sequential arrangement of illustrations from right to left without internal divisions. In the interest of analysis and research, I

3 I would like to thank the scholars of the Hebrew Paleography Project at the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities on whose expert opinion I relied in connection with the paleographic analysis: Prof. Malachi Beit-Arie, Dr. Edna Engel, and Dr. Ilya Dines. 4 For a survey of the literary genre of the textual sources, see Elchanan Reiner, Traditions of Holy Places in Medieval Palestine – Oral versus Written, in: Rachel Sarfati (ed.), Offerings from Jerusalem: Portrayals of Holy Places by Jewish Artists, Jerusalem 2002, pp. 9–19; Martin Jacobs, Reorienting the East: Jewish Traveler to the Medieval Muslim World, Philadelphia 2014, pp. 21–49.

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have divided the scroll into three parts: the first includes portrayals of sites in Egypt, the Sinai Desert, and Transjordan; the second shows holy places in Hebron, Bethlehem, and Jerusalem; and the third is devoted to holy places in the northern part of the Land of Israel and beyond – Samaria, the Galilee, and the mountains of Lebanon. The realistic images reflected in the paintings5 suggest that the scroll was intended as a memento of the artist’s own journey from Egypt to the Land of Israel. The illustrations in the second and third sections of the scroll depict the route and the sites along the itinerary of the annual spring pilgrimage of Eastern Jewry.6 However, the ensemble of images in the first part is very different, as many of the depicted sites were not included in the Jewish pilgrimage itinerary. Moreover, whereas the practice of citing their predecessors was common among authors of travel literature in the Middle Ages, it seems unlikely that the author used pre-existing literary sources, as this sequence of illustrations does not conform to any known itinerary of travelers to the Holy Land. In the following pages I analyze the illustrations featured in the first part of the Florence Scroll in an attempt to verify the proposed dating of the scroll and determine its creator’s country of origin. The main section of the essay is devoted to the question of the significance of the appearance of places that are not suggestive of an actual journey on the part of the painter or of any other possible pilgrimage in the Middle Ages. I focus on these particular illustrations here because it is clear from my research that most of the illustrator’s original ideas can be found in this part of the scroll. The genre of Hebrew manuscripts that include depictions of holy places only became a subject of interest in recent years, so it is important to discuss the Florence Scroll in the broader context of what is now known about other manuscripts of the genre. Thus I relate first to that aspect of my research.

The Genre of Hebrew Illuminated Manuscripts Dealing with Holy Places The known manuscripts that include images of holy places date to the fourteenth and the sixteenth centuries,7 and nearly all of them are scrolls or in a scroll-like format. The sixteenth-century manuscripts belong to a corpus of works created in the Land 5 Sarfati (note 2), pp. 61–62, 105–106. 6 For the annual pilgrimage, see Reiner (note 4), p. 12. See also Elchanan Reiner, Pilgrims and Pilgrimage to Eretz Yisrael 1099–1517, thesis for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, Hebrew University of Jerusalem 1988, pp. 217–242 (Hebrew). 7 For examples with color reproductions, see Rachel Sarfati (ed.), Offerings from Jerusalem: Portrayals of Holy Places by Jewish Artists (Hebrew and English editions), Jerusalem 2002, pls. 10–21.

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of Israel and in Italy,8 but the included illustrations do not reflect the journeys of their creators. Rather, they all incorporate the same texts and the iconography of the illustrations is generally the same. These scrolls are also similar in size: about 12 cm wide and some 1.5–2 m long, and they were all produced by professional scribes and illustrators to raise funds in support of the Jewish communities in the Land of Israel.9 We know of two manuscripts from the fourteenth century that contain simple drawings and depictions. One of these is a small sheet of paper known as the ’List of Yitgaddal’,10 which scholars maintain was created in Egypt. The second is a remnant of a manuscript comprising two strips of parchment that were originally part of a single scroll, which I call the ‘Princeton Scroll’.11 This manuscript has not yet been fully researched, but I think that, like the Florence Scroll and the List of Yitgaddal, it was also created either in Egypt or perhaps in the Land of Israel.12 Unlike the sixteenth-­ century scrolls, these two fourteenth-century manuscripts were apparently made by their owners, perhaps as records of their pilgrimages. Compared with other works of this genre, the Florence Scroll is an anomaly: some 130 places are portrayed – a number far greater than in any of the other scrolls, of which the longest stretches for about 2 m and only features some 80 sites.

Kanīsat Mūsā in Egypt The Florence Scroll begins with a kind of decorative opening for the entire scroll of which only a few fragments have survived. The next figure is an unusually large uniquely designed illustration, which is the only depiction accompanied by a long and detailed text that tells of the tradition and history of the site (Figs. 1 and 2). Surprisingly, unlike the other portrayals, this image does not have a caption naming the site, but there are identifying legends alongside the different components of the illustration. Analyses of the accompanying text and the various visual elements and their captions suggest that it can be identified as Kanīsat Mūsā, a pilgrimage site and a holy place associated with Moses in the village of Dammuh, a few kilometers southwest of

8 For background regarding these scrolls, see Rachel Sarfati, The Illustrations of Yihus ha-Avot: Folk Art from the Holy Land, in: Offerings from Jerusalem: Portrayals of Holy Places by Jewish Artists, Jerusalem 2002, pp. 21–29; Rachel Sarfati, The Illustrations of the Yihus ha-Avot Manuscripts, MA thesis Tel Aviv University, April 2009 (Hebrew). 9 Sarfati 2002 (note 8), pp. 21–22. 10 London, The British Library, Add 27125, 20 × 14.5 cm. See Reiner (note 4), pp. 14–15 and pl. 10; Zvi Ilan, Tombs of the Righteous in the Land of Israel, Jerusalem 1997, pp. 131–144 (Hebrew); Jacobs (note 4), pp. 27–35. 11 Princeton University Library, Garret Hebrew MS. 4, 40.5 × 12.5  cm. See Sarfati 2009 (note 8), pp. 61–63; for color reproduction, see Sarfati (note 7), pl. 21. 12 About the dating of the two earlier manuscripts, see Sarfati (note 2), pp. 17–18, 55, 162–163.

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Fig. 1: Florence, BNC, Ms. Magl. III, 43; Kanīsat Mūsā (right part). By courtesy of Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo / Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze.

Fig. 2: Florence, BNC, Ms. Magl. III, 43; Kanīsat Mūsā (left part). By courtesy of Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo / Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze.

Fusṭāṭ – ancient Cairo – on the west bank of the Nile. The story of the site’s sanctification is an extension of the biblical narrative that tells of Moses’s prayer when he left Pharaoh’s palace to pray outside the city: “And Moses said unto him: ‘As soon as I am gone out of the city, I will spread forth my hands unto the LORD; the thunders shall

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cease, neither shall there be any more hail; that thou mayest know that the earth is the LORD’S’” (Exod. 9:29). Scholars note that Kanīsat Mūsā was the holiest and most important pilgrimage site for the Jews of Egypt throughout the Middle Ages.13 In 1498 the Mamluk sultan decreed that the site be destroyed, but parts of it apparently survived, as there are testimonies regarding pilgrimages there as late as the mid-sixteenth century. However, by the seventeenth century Kanīsat Mūsā lay in ruins.14 Earlier studies of Kanīsat Mūsā drew on a number of sources, the most prominent and detailed one being the 1442 chronicle of the Egyptian historian al-Maqrīzī.15 The site’s history and traditions were later described in a seventeenth-century chronicle entitled ‘Sefer Divrei Yosef’ by the Egyptian Jewish writer Yosef Sambari, who based much of his work on al-Maqrīzī.16 In addition to these accounts, documents found in the Cairo Genizah provided valuable information about the site. The earlier studies also cite two sources from Jewish traveler literature. The first of these was the travelogue of R. Benjamin of Tudela (on the Ebro River), ‘Sefer ha-Masse’ot’. Benjamin described a long journey (c. 1166–c. 1173) that included many countries in an account characterized by its detailed descriptions of the Jewish communities and their prominent personalities, customs, and traditions. The later source was a 1486 letter sent by the Italian Jewish scholar R. Obadiah Yare (c. 1450–c. 1515) of Bertinoro (today the region of Emilia-Romagna) from Jerusalem to his father.17 These two sources mention Kanīsat Mūsā briefly. The depiction of Kanīsat Mūsā in the Florence Scroll portrays a large compound surrounded by a frame that apparently represents a wall. Within the frame are different components depicting internal spaces and furniture as well as two texts. Parts of the illustration are damaged and the colors have faded, so the Hebrew captions are now the principal means for deciphering the image. The site is figured from two different perspectives: the entire compound is seen from above and the various elements are imaged in a horizontal perspective. We know from the sources that Kanīsat Mūsā

13 Richard J. H. Gottheil, An Eleventh-Century Document Concerning a Cairo Synagogue, in: Jewish Quarterly Review 19 (1907), pp. 467–539; Norman Golb, The Topography of the Jews of Medieval Egypt, in: Near Eastern Studies 24 (1965), pp. 251–270; Norman Golb, The Topography of the Jews of Medieval Egypt, in: Near Eastern Studies 33 (1974), pp. 116–149; Joel Kramer, A Jewish Cult of the Saints in Fatimid Egypt, in: L’Éypte Fatimide – son art et son histoire 28/29 (1998), pp. 579–601. 14 Kramer (note 13), p. 598. 15 Aḥmad b. ͑Alī al-Maqrīzī, Kitāb al-mawā i͑ẓ wa`l-i ͑tibār bi-dhikr al khiṭaṭ wa`l-āthār, Cairo 1987, vol. 2, p. 465. 16 Yosef Sambari, Sefer Divrei Yosef by Yosef ben Yitzhak Sambari – Eleven Hundred Years of Jewish History under Muslim Rule, ed. by Shimon Shtober, Jerusalem 1994. 17 Benjamin of Tudela, The Itinerary of Benjamin of Tudela, ed. and transl. Marcus N. Adler, London 1907, p. 74; Obadiah Bertinoro, Letters of R. Obadiah Bertinoro from the Land of Israel, in: Avraham Yaari, Letters from the Land of Israel, Tel-Aviv 1971, p. 124 (Hebrew). See also Jacobs (note 4), pp. 28–35, 41–42.

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Fig. 3: Florence, BNC, Ms. Magl. III, 43; The River of Egypt (right); the entrance gate to Pithom (left). By courtesy of Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo / Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze.

was surrounded by a wall and that it housed a synagogue, some living quarters, and a hostel for pilgrims and that it had an orchard, agricultural areas, and a well,18 but the illustration in the Florence Scroll marks some previously unknown inner spaces.19 These areas seem to have served as secondary memorials related to the tradition of Moses’s stay there when he returned with Aaron to appear before Pharaoh. In general, the illustration with its various details offers the viewer a fascinating combination of realistic features that attest to the historical appearance of the site alongside iconographic motifs that reflect the range of traditions attributed to it by both Muslims and Jews. In the upper-right-hand part of the picture we see a twisted image painted in red (Fig. 1). The first text that accompanies the illustration notes that this is the holy tree that grew on the site and, according to one of the associated miracle narratives, became twisted overnight when a local ruler demanded that it be cut down to provide timber for his palace.20 A river that comes down from the upper margins of the scroll surrounds the compound wall on three sides like a frame and then rises and disappears at the upper margins on the other side of the illustration (Figs. 1–3). The image is accompanied by a caption indicating that it is the “River of Egypt” that flows into the Garden of Eden (Fig. 3). Apparently the river in question is the Nile, which, in the view of medieval Egyptians, was one of the rivers in the Garden of Eden.21 18 Golb 1965 (note 13), p. 255; Kramer (note 13), pp. 590–596. 19 For new conclusions about Kanīsat Mūsā, see Sarfati (note 2), pp. 23–38. 20 Kramer (note 13), pp. 581–582. 21 Golb 1965 (note 13), p. 265.

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The second text that accompanies the illustration, which appears on the left (Fig. 2), tells us that this holy site is on the bank of the Nile and that Jews traveled there during the Jewish pilgrimage festivals – Passover, Shavuot, and Sukkot.22 The author also noted that “today Kanīsat Mūsā is in Jewish hands” and wrote about how he prayed there, likening his devotions to Moses’s prayer in Kanīsat Mūsā as it is described in Exodus 9:29.23 The statement that “today Kanīsat Mūsā is in Jewish hands” is surprising. According to the widespread belief among the Jews of Egypt, as well as what is known from historical research, the founding of the site as a compound holy to Jews dates to the second century CE, some forty years after the destruction of the Second Temple.24 If this place was in Jewish hands for such a long period, the question is why the painter made special note of the fact that today (i.e., at the time of the scroll’s creation) the place is in Jewish hands. I argue that this note appears in the scroll owing to historical events that led to Kanīsat Mūsā being expropriated from the Jews for a short period of time. During the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries the Mamluk authorities issued a number of decrees ordering the closing of Jewish and Christian houses of worship. There was one such ruling in 1301, but a new order in 1310 allowed the reopening of Kanīsat Mūsā. Sambari’s chronicle, which, as I noted, cites al-Maqrīzī, deals with the events surrounding the closing of the synagogue in 1301 and its subsequent reopening.25 Reading this text in its historical context supports the conjecture that the scroll was created a short time after the synagogue was reopened. It seems that the few words that the artist included to describe his prayer and to note the site’s Jewish ownership attest to both the history of Kanīsat Mūsā and to the story of the Florence Scroll itself. Apparently, it was the fact that pilgrimage to Kanīsat Mūsā was renewed around the time that he made the scroll that led the painter to note that the Jews were then in possession of the site. Furthermore, the description of his prayer, in the first person, creates the impression that he imagined himself in Moses’s place when the latter prayed to God and that his own prayer was one of thanksgiving for the return of the synagogue into Jewish hands. My study of the entire scroll revealed the working method of the illustrator, which was based on the copying of formal models (see, e.g., the illustration of the Cave of the Makhpela in Hebron; Fig. 4). It is likely that these models belonged to a local artistic tradition that has almost entirely disappeared, and that its characteristic motifs were borrowed from the world of Muslim architecture in the geo-cultural region of

22 The text about Kanīsat Mūsā should be compared to a similar description by Joseph Ibn Kaspi of Spain. Such a comparison, which I intend to draw in a future project, may point to Spanish roots in his biography. For the journey of Joseph Ibn Kaspi, see Ram Ben-Shalom, An (Unwritten) Diary of Joseph Ibn Kaspi’s Journey to the East: Images and Orientalism, in: Pe’amim – Studies in Oriental Jews 124 (2010), pp. 25–27 (Hebrew). 23 See above, pp. 236–237. 24 Kramer (note 13), p. 591. 25 Ibid., p. 598; Sambari (note 16), pp. 232–237.

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Fig. 4: Florence, BNC, Ms. Magl. III, 43; The Cave of the Makhpela in Hebron. By courtesy of Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo / Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze.

the Near East in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Apart from the depiction of Kanīsat Mūsā at Dammuh, the Florence Scroll includes one other uniquely designed illustration – Samuel’s tomb in Ramah (also known as Nebi Samwil), northwest of Jerusalem.26 Both of these figures portray major holy sites that were in Jewish hands during the Mamluk period. Every year during the annual pilgrimages of Eastern Jews thousands of pilgrims gathered at these sites for ceremonies.27 Clear formal differences indicate that the painter did not base these two illustrations on formal models, but created them independently. They show many details regarding the appearances of the sites, which are accompanied by identifying captions. The nature of these two portrayals makes it clear that the painter actually visited these places himself, so we can assume that the visual journey detailed in the Florence Scroll depicts, at least in part, a real-life journey. A unique and significant aspect of the Kanīsat Mūsā illustration in the Florence Scroll is that it was placed at the beginning of the manuscript. The late thirteenth century saw the introduction of a literary tradition according to which a work that presented a list of the holy places in the Land of Israel ended with a similar list of sites in nearby countries.28 Presumably, the creator of the Florence Scroll was aware of the 26 Sarfati (note 2), pp. 85–89. 27 Reiner (note 6), pp. 283–290. 28 Reiner (note 4), pp. 13–14. Alongside Dammuh in Egypt, the lists mention other places outside the Land of Israel such as Damascus and Aleppo in Syria, Tyre and Sidon in Lebanon, as well as Transjordan, Persia, and Babylon.

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position accorded to Kanīsat Mūsā in the conventional literary format, yet nevertheless chose to open his scroll with this illustration. The possible connections among the reopening of Kanīsat Mūsā in 1310, the date of the scroll’s production, and the illustrator’s prayer at the sanctuary, as well as the unusual placement of the site’s illustration at the beginning of the scroll all reflect the painter’s view of its special status. Moreover, these details also suggest an additional, somewhat concealed layer of meaning with which he sought to endow the scroll’s illustrations. An analysis of the depictions appearing immediately after that of Kanīsat Mūsā reveals a clearer, more comprehensive picture of this layer.

The Sinai Desert Following the portrayal of Kanīsat Mūsā we find illustrations of Pithom and Raamses, mentioned in the Bible as the cities built by the Israelites when they were enslaved in Egypt.29 The cities are represented by images of fortified gates. The first is identified in a caption as the entryway to Pithom (Fig. 3), and the two that appear one above the other are labeled as the entrance gates to Raamses (Fig. 5). According to the local tradition current in the Middle Ages, Pithom was located in the Wadi Tumilat area of the Nile’s eastern delta. Some scholars identify it with Tell el Maskhuta, which is near the eastern end of that wadi, whereas Raamses is traditionally set in the area of Qantir in the northeastern part of the delta.30 According to the biblical narrative, Raamses was the Israelites’ first stop on their way out of Egypt.31 The image representing the two cities as the gate of a fortress with battlements is significant. Biblical commentators explain the Hebrew term miskenot (rendered as “treasure cities,” “store cities,” or “strong cities”) as fortified cities that were built to protect the borders of the kingdom.32 An illustration of Elim, a site mentioned as one of the places where the Israelites pitched their tents during the Exodus, follows immediately after the portrayals of Pithom and Raamses. The image seems to match precisely the biblical description, according to which there were twelve springs and seventy palm trees at the site, and the accompanying caption paraphrases the verse (Fig. 6).33 The entire depiction has a

29 Exodus 1:11. 30 Yoram Tsafrir, History of Suez Region, in: Qadmoniot – A Journal for the Antiquities of Eretz-­ Israel and Bible Lands 3 (1974), p. 94 (Hebrew). 31 Exodus 12:37; Numbers 33:5. 32 See Rashi’s commentary on Exodus 1:11. 33 Exod. 15:27: “And they came to Elim, where were twelve springs of water, and three score and ten palm-trees; and they encamped there by the waters.”

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Fig. 5: Florence, BNC, Ms. Magl. III, 43; The entrance gates to Raamses. By courtesy of Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo / Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze.

Fig. 6: Florence, BNC, Ms. Magl. III, 43; The palm trees and the springs in Elim. By courtesy of Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo / Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze.

stylized, decorative appearance. For some reason the springs do not flow along river beds, but rather are imaged as still waters in handmade basins. After Elim we come to a picture of the Reed Sea as seen from above, the way rivers and seas are conventionally represented in geographic maps (Fig. 7).

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Fig. 7: Florence, BNC, Ms. Magl. III, 43; The Reed Sea. By courtesy of Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo / Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze.

The biblical site of Elim is identified with the city of Raithou, or by its Arabic name, Eṭ-Ṫur,34 which is on the bank of the Gulf of Suez in the south of the Sinai Desert. During the Middle Ages Eṭ-Ṫur was an important port city that received food and other market goods and was the point of departure for the trade convoys. The biblical Reed Sea is identified as the Gulf of Suez, passing between Egypt’s eastern shore and the Sinai Desert.35 The place where the Israelites crossed the sea is shown near the town of Clysma, now called Suez.36 The fact that the portrayal of the Reed Sea comes after that of Elim instead of before it suggests that the painter did not mean for this image to represent the site of the miracle of the sea’s crossing. Rather, the depiction of the sea should apparently be understood as part of the characterization of the nearby Elim–Eṭ-Ṫur. The Gulf of Suez, that is, the Reed Sea, can indeed be seen from the town of Eṭ-Ṫur, which is situated on the Gulf’s shore.37 34 Uzi Dahari, Monastic Settlements in South Sinai in the Byzantine Period – The Archeological Remains, Jerusalem 2000, pp. 11, 22. 35 At this point in the scroll the Italian caption deviates from a direct, literal translation (see fig. 7), noting that this is the “Port of Solomon.” Presumably, the translator knew of the famous port of Eṭ-Ṫur in the Gulf of Suez, and this was the one he meant. The attribution of the port to Solomon – certainly meaning King Solomon – is an interpretation reflecting the outlook of later owners of the scroll. Regarding the Italian captions see Sarfati (note 2), p. 46, and note 76. 36 Dahari (note 34), p. 11; Tsafrir (note 30), pp. 94, 96–97. 37 David Jacoby, Christian Pilgrimage to Sinai until the Late Fifteenth Century, in: Robert S. Nelson/ Kristen M. Colins (eds.), Holy Image – Hallowed Ground – Icons from Sinai, Los Angeles 2006, pp. 80–87. See also the map of the Sinai Peninsula and surrounding areas, ibid., p. 81.

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Fig. 8: Florence, BNC, Ms. Magl. III, 43; Mount Sinai. By courtesy of Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo / Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze.

Following the picture of the Reed Sea is an illustration of Mount Sinai, which measures some 50 cm in width and extends to almost the entire height of the scroll (Fig. 8). The mountain was designed using the illustrator’s standard formal motif for depicting topography: diagonal stripes in different colors. We can discern two images on the mountain: at the top is an elliptic image cut out of the striped background and to its left is an architectural figure in a frame of geometric motifs and a small entryway. Above the illustration is a caption that identifies the elliptic space as the cleft in which Moses hid as God passed by.38 Beginning in the third or fourth century CE, Mount Sinai was identified with a high mountain in the southern Sinai Desert. Over the centuries it also became sanctified in Islam under the name Jabel Mūsā. In the fourth century a church commemorating Moses was built on the summit of Jabel Mūsā,39 and an inscription within the architectural image on the left of the mountain identifies that church. The inscription also seems to refer to a common theme in pilgrim literature about large bribes in money and produce, which monks and Christian pilgrims had to pay to the Sinai Bedouin and the central government in Egypt for the use of the premises and for providing for their personal safety.40

38 Exodus 33:22. 39 Dahari (note 34), pp. 21–40; Yoram Tsafrir, Monasticism at Mount Sinai, in: Ariel 28 (1971), p. 75. 40 Regarding the condition of the Christian pilgrims and the monks inhabiting the holy sites in the East and in Sinai under Muslim rule, see Jacoby (note 37), pp. 82–85. The subject is also mentioned in the following travelogues: Lionardo N. Frescobaldi (1384), Pilgrimage of Lionardo di Niccolo

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The Journey in the Scroll: Between Reality and Fantasy The positioning of Pithom and Raamses immediately following Kanīsat Mūsā in Egypt and preceding sites in the Sinai Desert creates a visual route that deviates from those conventionally taken by pilgrims traveling from Egypt to Sinai. After leaving Cairo, pilgrims usually journeyed to the southeastern border between Egypt and Sinai, crossing the Gulf of Suez on their way and arriving in Elim–Eṭ-Ṫur (Raithou).41 This route did not lead them through the two cities in the Nile Delta. Only those pilgrims who took the via maris, the sea road, would have passed through those cities on their way. This latter route led from the Nile Delta via Al-Arīsh in Sinai to the Land of Israel through Gaza. Arguably, then, the route traced in the sequence of the Florence Scroll’s illustrations does not match any familiar pilgrimage itineraries or any realistic geographical route – neither the one leading from Fusṭāṭ to Gaza nor the one leading from Fusṭāṭ to Sinai. Placing Pithom and Raamses after Egypt and before the south Sinai Desert ostensibly matches the biblical itinerary of the Israelites. Yet a comparison with the biblical narrative reveals a deviation, as Pithom was not one of the stations where the Israelites camped on their flight from Egypt. The two cities may have been perceived in the Middle Ages as symbolizing the enslavement of the Israelites in Egypt – a perception that deepened each year with the reading of the Passover haggadah,42 which cites Exodus 1:11: “Therefore they did set over them taskmasters to afflict them with their burdens. And they built for Pharaoh store-cities, Pithom and Raamses.” Thus, the appearance of the two cities together, set between Egypt and Sinai, suggests a symbolic import in connection with the period of persecutions against the Egyptian Jewish community in the early fourteenth century as compared with the biblical narrative about the enslavement of the Israelites in Egypt.43 In light of what we know about the routes of pilgrimage and Jewish tradition regarding the holy places, the illustrations depicting places in the Sinai Desert – Elim,

Frescobaldi to the Holy Land, in: Theophilus Bellorini/ Eugene Hoade (eds.), Visit to the Holy Places, Jerusalem 1948, p. 59; Giorgio Gucci (1384), Pilgrimage of Giorgio Gucci to the Holy Places, in: Ibid., p. 113; Felix Fabri (1480–1483), The Wandering of Felix Fabri, transl. Aubrey Stewart (Palestine Pilgrimage’s Text Society), London 1893, vol. 2, 2, p. 583; Thietmar, Pilgrimage (1217/18), in: Denys Pringle, Pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Holy Land, 1187–1291, Farnham 2011, pp. 124, 126–127. 41 See above note 34. 42 Ritual text recited in the home on Passover eve. 43 Regarding the persecutions of Jews and Christians under Mamluk rule, especially during the fourteenth and the fifteenth centuries, see Dotan Arad, Being a Jew under the Mamluks: Some Coping Strategies, in: Stephan Conermann (ed.), Muslim-Jewish Relations in the Middle Islamic Period: Jews in the Ayyubid and Mamluk Sultanates (1171–1517), Göttingen 2017, pp. 21–39; Yehoshua Frenkel, Conversion Stories from the Mamluk Period, in: ibid., pp. 75–94.

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the Reed Sea, and Mount Sinai – also give rise to questions. Jewish pilgrimages did not generally include the sites in southern Sinai where the Bible says that the Israelites camped.44 Although the Bible refers to Mount Sinai as being of central importance in Israelite history, the talmudic literature and medieval biblical exegeses tend to diminish the sanctity of the place and its environs, marking it as holy only at the time God was revealed there at the giving of the Torah.45 There seem to be two main reasons for this. The first was a wish to discourage Jewish pilgrimages to places outside the Land of Israel. The second, more significant, explanation has to do with Jewish-Christian polemics: as the Byzantine Church was eager to identify the biblical sites in the Sinai Desert, medieval Jewry tended to play down the sanctity of the entire region.46 The perception that Jews avoided the holy sites in the southern Sinai is also a theme in the testimonies of fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Christian travelers. These sources reflect a strongly polemic tone, noting that not only do Jews not visit the holy sites in the Sinai, but that if they dare arrive there, danger awaits them. There is widespread mention of a tradition regarding a stone arch on the way to the top of Mount Sinai that Jews cannot pass through owing to a strong wind that pushes them back.47 Jewish pilgrim literature paints a similar picture and also notes that Jews tended to avoid pilgrimages to the Sinai Desert. Nevertheless, the holy sites that were originally venerated by the Christians eventually became part of the local Jewish and Muslim traditions as well. Several Jewish travelers chose to write about the sites in Sinai that are mentioned in the Bible. For example, the twelfth-century travelogues of R. Benjamin of Tudela and the French Jewish pilgrim, R. Jacob Nathaniel Cohen (1153–1187)48 do not include descriptions of their own journeys to the Sinai Desert. Rather, they detail what they knew about the region from written sources or rumors heard during their travels. In a letter dated 1488, R. Obadiah Bertinoro explicitly noted: “Indeed, I have never heard of any Jew who went there.”49

44 Jacoby (note 37), p. 79. 45 See, e.g., the talmudic source, Ta’anit 21b. 46 Joshua Schwartz, Sinai in Jewish Thought and Tradition, in: Immanuel 13 (1981), pp. 9–11. 47 The mention of Jewish pilgrimages to the Sinai Desert appears mostly in Christian travelogues from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, which, although composed after the time period of the Florence Scroll, describe religious-political trends of the fourteenth century that were still in evidence. See Felix Fabri (note 40), pp. 553–554; Christophori Furer (1565): Christophori Furer von Haimendorf, in: Samuel Purchas, Hakluytus Posthumus or Purchas His Pilgrimes, vol. 8, Glasgow 1905, p. 363. 48 Benjamin of Tudela (note 17), pp. 77–78; R. Jacob B. Nathaniel Cohen (1153–1183), Sippur Massa’ot (travel journal), in: Avraham Yaari, Masseo´t Ereẓ-Yisraél, Tel-Aviv 1976, pp. 118–119. Another work worth mentioning is the letter from R. Samuel b. Samson from 1210. The surviving – exemplar is a late copy, at the beginning of which the editor or scribe noted that he only copied the descriptions “worth writing down.” Among the places not worthy of being written down, the editor mentions the author’s description of passing through the Sinai Desert. See Sarfati (note 2), p. 42, note 63; Avraham Yaari, Letters from the Land of Israel, Tel-Aviv 1971, pp. 77 (Hebrew); Jacobs (note 4), pp. 25–26. 49 Letters of R. Obadiah Bertinoro (note 17), p. 118.

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We can assume that the artist who created the Florence Scroll, as his Jewish peers, did not travel to Sinai and that this part of the scroll does not represent a personal travelogue. Similar to the symbolic appearance of Pithom and Raamses, it seems that he included the array of illustrations of sites in the Sinai in order to convey a meaning and a message beyond the obvious account of a pilgrimage to the holy places. Using visual means, the painter determined to create portrayals that would reflect a correspondence between his feelings and experiences while on his own journey and the biblical narrative about the Exodus from Egypt.

Transjordan After the images of places in the Sinai Desert, the Florence Scroll goes on to picture sites in Transjordan: the rock that Moses struck and Moses’s river. According to local tradition the Rock of Moses and the water flowing from it are associated with the springs of Wādī Mūsā near Petra. This area is also the location of Jabel Hārūn, identified as the biblical Mount Hor, the site of Aaron’s tomb,50 which became a Jewish pilgrimage destination in the thirteenth century. Thus, the depiction of Mount Hor was in accord with contemporary Jewish pilgrimage customs.51 However, the image of the Rock of Moses is unexpected as that site was not included among the holy places in Jewish tradition. The depiction of the rock in the Florence Scroll is unique (Fig. 9). Painted entirely in green, in utter contrast to the scroll’s typical topographic images, which feature diagonal stripes in different colors, it has an angular, unnatural shape, with its top peaking in a sharp angle to the right and its base ending in a sharp angle to the left. There are two narrow, elongated depressions on its right side, which appear to be cracks. These should be understood as a visual representation of Moses’s sin, when, in defiance of God’s command, he did not speak to the rock to start the water flowing but rather struck it twice with his staff.52 Discovering traces of a holy staff striking a rock was a common practice when sanctifying a pilgrimage site. For example, the twelfth-century travelogue of Ali ibn Abi Bakr al-Harawi tells of the finding of a trace of Moses’s staff striking a rock in the village where he lived.53 It was also discovered

50 Michele Piccirillo, Mount Nebo – New Archaeological Excavations 1967–1997, Jerusalem 1998, pp. 74–75, 193–195; Jaakko Frösén/ Päivi Miettunen, Aaron in Religious Literature, Myth and Legend, in: Zbigniew T. Fiema/ Jaakko Frösén (eds.), Petra – The Mountain of Aaron 1, Helsinki 2008, pp. 10–25. 51 Päivi Miettunen, Jabal Harun. History, Past Explorations, Monuments, and Pilgrimage, in: Fiema/ Frösén (note 50), p. 36. 52 Numbers 20:8–11. 53 Ali ibn Abi Bakr al-Harawi, A Lonely Wayfarer’s Guide to Pilgrimage – Ali ibn Abi Bakr al-Harawi’s Kitab al-Isharat ila Marifat al-Ziyarat, transl. and ed. Josef W. Meri (Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam 19), Princeton/ NJ 2004, p. 36 and see note 194 there.

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Fig. 9: Florence, BNC, Ms. Magl. III, 43; The Rock of Moses (right); the River of Moses (left). By courtesy of Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo / Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze.

that the rock near Mount Sinai, identified as the one that Moses struck the first time,54 has twelve clefts ostensibly caused by Moses’s staff, and it was believed that these clefts gave rise to twelve springs.55 At the end of the inscription identifying the image as the rock that Moses struck, the illustrator noted that he himself, “the painter,” drank from the water flowing out of the rock, which makes it clear that he was actually present at the site. It also confirms the conclusion that the Florence Scroll is a visual depiction, at least in part, of an actual journey. We find such a personal note only in one other place in the scroll – next to the depiction of Kanīsat Mūsā – where the artist wrote of his prayer of thanksgiving.56 Near the image of the rock we can see several trees, which, according to the inscription set between two of them, represent a place called Nahar Moshe (literally the River of Moses). We read that the Muslims in charge of guarding Aaron’s tomb, which is immediately adjacent (see Fig. 10) cultivate the orchards growing around the River of Moses. The name Nahar Moshe, which is unique to the Florence Scroll, is probably based on the Arabic name Uyun Mūsā or Wādī Mūsā. As water flowed freely

54 According to Exodus 17:5–6. 55 See also the descriptions of the rock with twelve clefts in Christian travelogues: Martinus Baumgarten (1565), in: Samuel Purchas, Hakluytus Posthumus or Purchas His Pilgrimes, Glasgow 1905, vol. 8, p. 371; Felix Fabri (note 40), pp. 588–589. 56 See above p. 239.

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Fig. 10: Florence, BNC, Ms. Magl. III, 43; Aaron’s tomb on Mount Hor. By courtesy of Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo / Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze.

there, agriculture thrived and in the Byzantine period the crops were cultivated and consumed by monks.57 However, the scroll describes a later, different political reality in which Muslims were charged with guarding Aaron’s tomb and were the ones to benefit from the produce from the site. After the image of the fruit trees surrounding the River of Moses, we find the site of Aaron’s tomb (Fig. 10), which, as I noted, the Muslims call Jabel Harūn. The illustration is some 50 cm wide and takes up the entire height of the scroll. On the mountain’s right slope is a carved staircase, which still exists, that leads to the top of the tomb.58 On the left slope is an architectural image with an inscription that notes that the animals that were brought to the site were kept there when the pilgrims ascended to the tomb, which might be a reference to the animals used for transportation or to cattle and sheep for Muslim pilgrims’ sacrifices. The dearth of historical sources makes it difficult to find a medieval reference that tells of such a custom at Mount Hor or of a special place where animals were kept before being sacrificed, but twentieth-­ century travel literature and anthropological surveys do include testimonies of animal

57 Piccirillo (note 50), p. 196. 58 Miettunen (note 51), pp. 34–35, discusses the inscriptions on the tomb, including the date of the site’s construction or renovation by Mamluk rulers. The difficulty in deciphering the dates in the inscriptions makes it impossible to date the tomb’s construction. In my opinion, the appearance of an illustration of Aaron’s tomb as a structure with some realistic components in the Florence Scroll raises the possibility that the tomb was built by the Mamluks as early as the late thirteenth or early fourteenth century.

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sacrifices at holy places.59 We also know of an ancient pagan custom of animal sacrifice in the Sinai Desert as part of the worship at saints’ tombs, a ritual that continued even after Bedouin tribes in Sinai converted to Islam.60 As I noted above, the position of the Transjordan images in the scroll, like that of Kanīsat Mūsā at Dammuh, is a deviation from the literary convention in Jewish textual sources, wherein references to holy sites outside the Land of Israel are placed at the end of the work without regard to the pilgrimage routes.61 The positioning of the Transjordan in the Florence Scroll also differs from the common representations of the Jewish pilgrimage itinerary. Jewish pilgrims would set out for Transjordan from Jerusalem or Hebron, turn toward the Dead Sea, cross the Aravah Desert, and then come to Petra. After visiting Transjordan they would return to their point of departure and continue their journey within the boundaries of the Land of Israel. As the sequence of the different places that are pictured after Kanīsat Mūsā, the location of the visual depiction of Transjordan matches the itinerary of the Israelites in the desert, for, according to the biblical narrative, they turned from the Desert of Zin in Sinai toward Transjordan and Mount Hor, “at the edge of the land of Edom.”62

Conclusion: Real and Fictive Travels Depicted in the Florence Scroll Kanīsat Mūsā in Egypt is the first illustration in the sequence of portrayals in the Florence Scroll. The painter’s knowledge of the various traditions related to Kanīsat Mūsā and his familiarity with the actual appearance of the site strongly suggest that he was a member of the Egyptian Jewish community. From the text adjacent to the illustration, it appears that he executed the Florence Scroll in the second decade of the fourteenth century, after the site was reopened in 1310. The creator of the scroll apparently decided to emigrate from Egypt when the Mamluk rulers began to persecute the Jewish and Christian communities.63 Analyses of the paintings in the first part of the Florence Scroll allow us to discern the possible route of the artist’s real journey. He apparently embarked from Fusṭāṭ and turned northwest to the sea road. On his way, he might have encountered the cities of Pithom and Raamses in the Nile Delta. He arrived in Hebron and seemingly departed from there to cross the Jordan River on his way to see the sites in 59 Miettunen (note 51), pp. 30, 36, 38–40; see also Taufik Canaan, Mohammedan Saints and Sanctuaries in Palestine, Jerusalem 1927, pp. 154–174. 60 Ignac Goldziher, Muslim Studies, London 1971, vol. 2, pp. 298–299. 61 As these boundaries are defined in the literary sources. In this regard, see note 28. 62 Numbers 33:36–37. 63 See above note 43.

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­ ransjordan. His visit to Transjordan is documented by the caption next to the Rock T of Moses.64 The unique depictions of Kanīsat Mūsā and Samuel’s tomb, which are not based on existing models, also testify to the real journey and to a personal familiarity with the sites. In part, however, the itinerary that is traced in the sequence of the illustrations also recounts a fictive journey and depicts places that the painter never actually reached. After Kanīsat Mūsā in Egypt and before the sites in Transjordan, the scroll depicts places in the Sinai Desert. In this essay I argue that the artist did not undertake a pilgrimage from Egypt to Sinai and from Sinai to Transjordan. The inclusion of sites in the Sinai Desert and the specific order of the illustrations in the first part of the Florence Scroll suggest a symbolic pilgrimage that reflects a correspondence between the painter’s real journey and the biblical narrative of the Exodus and the Israelites’ itinerary as they wandered in the desert for forty years before coming to the Promised Land. The point of departure for this symbolic journey was Kanīsat Mūsā, where, according to tradition, Moses prayed before the Exodus. The painter prayed there as well, and his recorded prayer echoes that of Moses as it appears in the Bible. The suggested symbolic meaning of the sequence of the illustrations in the first part of the scroll supports the initial assumption that it is a record of the creator’s emigration from Egypt to the Land of Israel. It is conceivable that his journey took place within the framework of the Eastern Jews’ annual spring pilgrimage to the Land of Israel’s holy places, or perhaps that was how he wanted his audience to understand his work. All the foregoing leads to the conclusion that the Florence Scroll was not meant to be used by pilgrims as a visual travel guide and was certainly not designed to be a road map. It resembles the genre of travelogues common in the Middle Ages that were written by travelers upon their return, which incorporated references to traditions together with their own notions, impressions, and experiences. It appears that the painter chose to present ideas and meanings that came to mind during the course of his own journey, and, as an artist, he chose to express these ideas in visual terms, rather than in the more common form of a travelogue.

64 See above p. 248.

Daniel M. Unger

Between Nazareth and Loreto: The Role of the Stone Bricks in Caravaggio’s ‘Madonna di Loreto’ Abstract: The present essay focuses on Caravaggio’s ‘Madonna di Loreto or Madonna dei Pelegrini’ and its unique representation. In this painting, Caravaggio depicted an encounter between two pilgrims and the Madonna with the baby Jesus. At first glance, the importance of Loreto and the miraculous voyage of the Madonna’s house from Nazareth to Loreto is unrecognizable in the painting. The historical dimension of the miracle, so prominently displayed in earlier representations of the Loreto story is absent. Yet, Caravaggio’s choice of representation still marks its presence by adding a cluster of bricks revealed where the plaster has cracked and fallen away beyond the doorpost. These stone bricks, as I would like to argue, may help us locate additional meaning in the painting. The bricks connect two worlds, that of the Madonna and child in Nazareth and that of the two pilgrims in Loreto. Caravaggio created a superposition of two locations and two times with the help of a common wall. The integration of both moments in time and place defuses the historical character of the scene. The unhistorical perception yet replicated authority of the location depicted, enhances the importance and significance of the scene within the site. This will be argued with the help of pilgrims’ travelogues to both locations. Keywords: Caravaggio, Madonna di Loreto, Nazareth, Stone Bricks, Pilgrimage In his ‘Madonna di Loreto’, also known as ‘Madonna dei Pelegrini’ (Fig. 1), Caravaggio depicted two pilgrims in a devotional pose, kneeling with their hands clasped as they face the Madonna holding baby Jesus. The pilgrims, seen from behind, are turned to the left toward where the Madonna with the baby Jesus is standing on a step at what can be seen as the entrance to a house. The pilgrims’ clothes reveal their humble origins. The woman is old, with a wrinkled face. The man beside her, who may be a bit younger, has curly brown hair only just beginning to turn white.1 The Madonna is a beautiful young woman wearing her customary red tunic and blue dress. Baby Jesus, who seems older

1 Although some scholars have identified the two figures as Ermete Cavalletti and his mother, I do not discuss this identification and its veracity in this essay. See Rossella Vodret, Caravaggio in Rome: Itinerary, Milan 2010, p. 58; Ead., Caravaggio’s Rome: 1600–1630, Milan 2012, p. 22; Anne H. ­Muraoka, The Path of Humility: Caravaggio and Carlo Borromeo, New York 2015, p. 192. Daniel M. Unger, Dept. of the Arts, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, P.O.B. 653, Beer-Sheva 84105, Israel, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-011

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Fig. 1: Caravaggio, Madonna di Loreto or Madonna dei Pelegrini, 1605, Rome, Sant’Agostino.

than he is usually depicted, is looking towards the pilgrims. To the left of the Madonna, beyond the doorpost, a number of stone bricks have been uncovered under a peeling layer of plaster. These bricks, as I will argue, may help us construct a new reading of the painting, based on their connection to both Nazareth, the original location of the Madonna’s house, and Loreto, the Madonna’s house supposed ultimate location. Caravaggio’s bricks are an implicit suggestion that one site is a duplication of the other. My argument is based on pilgrims’ travelogues to both places.

The Commission of the Painting Caravaggio’s painting was commissioned as an altarpiece for the Ermete Cavalletti Chapel in Sant’Agostino in the center of Rome. In accordance with his 1602 will, Cavaletti’s widow, Orinzia, acquired the chapel on September 3, 1603, and dedicated it to the Madonna di Loreto.2 Caravaggio completed the work about two years later, in 2 For Cavaletti’s will, see Stefania Macioce, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio: Fonti e documenti 1532–1724, Rome 2003, p. 112. For the dedication of the Cavaletti Chapel to the Madonna di Loreto,

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1605. Although there are no records indicating what kind of instructions he received for this commission, his decision to depict barefoot pilgrims kneeling in front of the Madonna can be related to the patron’s biography.3 Ermete Cavalletti was a member of the confraternity of the Santissima Trinità dei Pellegrini, whose main activity was to welcome pilgrims to Rome. He himself participated in a pilgrimage to Loreto that took place on April 15 – May 3, 1600.4 We can learn about the activity of the confraternity of the Santissima Trinità dei Pellegrini from John Evelyn’s experience some 40 years later, as noted in his diary. Evelyn, who traveled in Italy in 1644–1646, described his participation in such a ritual in the same Santissima Trinità dei Pellegrini Church. He noted that members of Roman high society, including princes and cardinals, washed the pilgrims’ feet and served them at table. He added that he had heard that in 1600, more than 444,000 men and 25,500 women were received in the same way.5 It seems reasonable to assume that one of those high-ranking servers was Ermete Cavalletti.6

The Translation of the Madonna’s House from Nazareth to Loreto The miraculous translation of the Madonna’s house from Nazareth to Loreto was first mentioned in the second half of the fifteenth century, almost 200 years after its supposed occurrence. The earliest account was by Pietro di Giorgio Tolomei, known as Terramano, who, according to the sixteenth-century historian Orazio Torsellini ­(1545–1599), wrote his version of the story of Loreto in 1460.7 This seems plausible see ibid., p. 122. See also Howard Hibbard, Caravaggio, London 1983, pp. 184–186; Pamela M. Jones, Altarpieces and Their Viewers in the Churches of Rome from Caravaggio to Guido Reni, Aldershot and Burlington 2008, pp. 75–76. 3 This has been emphasized by many scholars. See especially Jones (note 2), pp. 79–103. See also Muraoka (note 1), pp. 190–193. 4 Marco Pupillo, La SS. Trinità dei Pellegrini di Roma: Artisti e committenti al tempo di Caravaggio, Rome 2001, pp. 64–67, 123–126; Sybille Ebert-Schifferer, Caravaggio: The Artist and His Work, Los Angeles 2012, pp. 170–172. 5 Esmond Samuel de Beer (ed.), The Diary of John Evelyn, 6 vols., Oxford 1955, vol. 2, p. 366: “Next we went to see the Hospital of the Pelerini, della S. Trinità, where I had seene the feete of many Pilgrims wash’d by Princes, Cardinals & noble Romans, and serv’d at Table. As the Ladys & Noble Women did to other poor Creatures in another roome; ‘twas told us no lesse than foure hundred fourty foure thousand had ben thus treated in the Jubilie of 1600 and of Women 25500 as appeares by the Register.” 6 Sybille Ebert-Schifferer (note 4), p. 170, writes that Ermete Cavalletti was very active in assisting pilgrims who arrived in Rome during the jubilee year of 1600. 7 The Latin edition was published in 1597. See Orazio Torsellini, Historia dell’ origine e translatione della santa casa della B. vergina Maria di Loreto historia della santa casa di Loreto, Venice 1600, p. 94. For the first description of the Loreto miracle, see also Kathleen Weil-Garris, The Santa Casa di Lore-

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given the fact that the English priest and scholar William Wey (1407? – 1476), who visited the Holy Land twice (in 1458 and in 1462), also described the Loreto miracle in his ‘Itineraries’, a collection of personal memories and practical suggestions for anyone wishing to make the journey to the Holy Land.8 Given the time required for news to spread from Italy to England in the fifteenth century, it would seem plausible that whatever document Wey was reading had crossed his path during one of his trips, before he got back to England in 1462. A third early reference to the Loreto story can be found in ‘Virginis Mariae Loretae Historia’ by Giacomo Ricci, a canon of the Brescia Cathedral in the early 1470s. According to these early references, the translation of the Madonna sanctuary took place between 1291 and 1294. This house, according to tradition, was not only the site of the Annunciation, but also the home in which the Madonna had grown up and where the holy family lived after their return from exile in Egypt. Indeed, all the significant religious experiences that occurred in Nazareth took place in this one location.9 Fearing that the holy site would be destroyed by the Saracens, angels lifted it off the ground and carried it off across the Mediterranean, first to Tersato near Fiume in Croatia and then to the property of a woman named Loretta near Ancona. It did not remain there for very long, however, because the site was not safe. Its next stop was on land belonging to two brothers, who began to fight over it, with one eventually killing the other. The last stop on the house’s journey was Loreto.10 As one can see, this story has no resonance in Caravaggio’s painting.

to: Problems in Cinquecento Sculpture, 2 vols. (PhD dissertation, Harvard University, 1965), New York, London 1977, vol. 1, p. 364, n. 1; Bernard Hamilton, The Ottomans, the Humanists and the Holy House of Loreto, in: Culture Theory and Critique 31:1 (1987), pp. 2–3; Karen Annelise Vélez, Resolved to Fly: The Virgin of Loreto, the Jesuits & the Miracle of Portable Catholicism in the Seventeenth-Century Atlantic World (PhD dissertation, Princeton University, 2008), Ann Arbor/ MI 2008, pp. 35–38; Alexander Nagel/ Christopher S. Wood, Anachronic Renaissance, New York 2010, pp. 202–208; Yves-Marie Bercé, Lorette aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles: Histoire du plus grand pèlerinage de Temps modernes, Paris 2011, pp. 13–15. 8 Bulkeley Bandinel (ed.), The Itineraries of William Wey, Fellow of Eton College, To Jerusalem, A. D. 1458 and A. D. 1462; And to Saint James of Compostella, A. D. 1456. From the Original Manuscript in the Bodleian Library, London 1857, pp. 53–54; see also Pnina Arad, Pilgrimage, Cartography, and Devotion: William Wey’s Map of the Holy Land, in: Viator 43:1 (2012), p. 301. 9 See, for example, Anna Laura Momigliano Lepschy (ed.), Viaggio in Terrasanta: di Santo Brasca, 1480 con l’itinerario di Gabriele Capodilista, 1458, Milan 1966, p. 222; Girolamo Angelita, Historia Della Translatione della S. Casa della Madonna à Loreto, 1525, repr. Macerata 1550, p. 13; Jacques de Villamont, Les Voyages du Seigneur de Villamont, Paris 1596, p. 65b; Cesare Franciotti, Viaggio alla Santa Casa di Loreto, Venice 1616, repr. Venice 1625, pp. 161 and p. 168. 10 Torsellini (note 7), pp. 4–47; Weil-Garris (note 7), vol. 1, pp. 3–5; F. Thomas Noonan, The Road to Jerusalem: Pilgrimage and Travel in the Age of Discovery, Philadelphia 2007, pp. 115–118; Nagel/ Wood (note 7), pp. 208–12; Marina Miladinov, Madonna of Loreto as a Target of Reformation Critique: Peter Paul Vergerius the Younger, in: Ottó Gecser et al. (eds.), Promoting the Saints: Cults and Their Contexts from Late Antiquity until the Early Modern Period, Budapest, New York 2011, p. 294.

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Fig. 2: Description of the Translation of the Holy House, late sixteenth or early seventeenth–century map; Loreto, Museo Pinacoteca.

The route of the sacred shrine from Nazareth to Loreto is charted on a map dating from the late-sixteenth to the early-seventeenth century, with the following inscription in Latin at the top: Descriptio Translationis Sancta Domus Beatissimae Virginis e Nazareth in Dalmatiam et inde Laoretu (Fig. 2). The route is marked by two straight lines, the first connecting Nazareth to Dalmatia and the second linking Dalmatia to Loreto. The Madonna with the baby Jesus surrounded by seraphs is shown in a mandorla at the center of the map, and smaller renditions of the image are repeated along the itinerary. Inscriptions in Latin and the date of the translation appear across the map. The year 1291 is marked along the track from Nazareth to Dalmatia, and the year 1294 is shown on the road from Dalmatia to Loreto. Loreto with its basilica is depicted more prominently than any other site, including Nazareth itself. Inscribed in the lower right-hand corner are the names of the places that the house passed through on its journey. Just above the inscription is a scene with Julius II leading an army and another scene of Julius II in a tent with four cardinals. These vignettes refer to his miraculous survival of a bombardment that took place during his military campaign against the town of Mirandola in 1509. Believing that he owed his life to the Madonna di Loreto, Julius II had made the trip to her shrine in Loreto to pay tribute.11 11 Hamilton (note 7), pp. 6–7; Vélez (note 7), p. 28; Giuseppe Santarelli, L’arte a Loreto, Loreto 2014, pp. 218–219.

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The Fame of Loreto as a Pilgrimage Site By the time Caravaggio made his painting, the Loreto Chapel was an important pilgrimage site. As early as 1494, Canon Pietro Casola mentioned Loreto as a vocative destination in times of distress. He recalled that while he was returning from the Holy Land on a Venetian galley, a mighty storm endangered his ship. The captain of the galley vowed to make three pilgrimages should the galley survive the storm, and one of those pilgrimage was to Loreto.12 Giovanni Pietro Giussano mentioned several occasions in which Cardinal Carlo Borromeo, the highly influential archbishop of Milan, (and the city where Caravaggio took his initial steps as a painter) visited Loreto. For example, in 1572, on his way back from Rome following the election of Pope Gregory XIII and in 1579 after the terrible plague that was raging in Milan was over.13 In 1587, the famous poet Torquato Tasso made the trip to Loreto and wrote a canzone dedicated “To the Most Blessed Virgin of Loreto”. He wrote: The Holy House here angels rear’d of yore, The House of Mary, and her holy Child: It o’er the clouds, and o’er the waves they bore. Great miracle! To which my mind I strain, Once bound to earth, oppress’d, and dust defil’d, Under the burden of its worldly pain. This is the mount, where glitt’ring, like the morn, Heav’n’s care thy walls hath plac’d, Oh Virgin pure, and chaste Before thy Babe, and since, and when ‘twas born.14

A year later, Jacques de Villamont visited Loreto and wrote about its popularity and renown. He noted that during the pontificate of Pope Gregory XIII, the roads to Loreto were widened and reconstructed for easy access to the shrine. He added that owing to its importance, the story of the miracle was engraved on the walls of the chapel 12 Mary Margaret Jewett, Canon Pietro Casola’s Pilgrimage to Jerusalem in the Year 1494, Manchester 1907, p. 324. 13 Giovanni Pietro Giussano, Vita di S. Carlo Borromeo Prete Cardinale del titolo di Santa Prassede Archivescovo di Milano Scritto dal Dottore Gio. Pietro Giussano, Nobile Milanese. Et dalla Congregatione delli Oblati di S. Ambrogio dedicate alla Santità di N. S. Papa Paolo Quint, Rome 1610, p. 202 and 373. For the English translation, see John Peter Giussano, Life of Saint Charles Borromeo, London, New York 2015, p. 189, and pp. 348–349. 14 Opere di Torquato Tasso, Milan 1824, 5 vols., here vol. 4, pp. 574–578: Alla beatissima Vergine di Loreto. He writes: Qui gli Angeli innalzaro il santo albergo/ Che già María col santo Figlio accolse,/ E’l portâr sovra i nembi e sovra l’acque./ Miracol grande! a cui sollevo ed ergo/ La mente, ch’altro obbietto a terra volse,/ Mentre da’ suoi pensier oppressa giacque/ Delle tue sante mura, Vergine casta e pura/ Anzi il tuo parto, e poscia, e quando ei nacque,/ Perchè Atlante gl’ invídi, avendo a scorno/ Suoi favolosi pregi,/ Del Re de’ regi – e tuo l’umil soggiorno. For the English translation, see Robert Milman, The Life of Torquato Tasso, London 1850, 2 vols., here vol. 2, pp. 160–164.

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in many languages and mentioned French, Spanish, Greek, Latin, Arabic, Hebrew, German, English, and Flemish, in that order.15 John Evelyn mentioned Loreto twice in his diary. The first entry concerns a visit to the Louvre in Paris, where he came across an image of the Madonna that was made in order “[…] to be sent by the Q: Regent to Lauretto as an offering for the birth of the Dauphine, Now the young King.”16 In another entry, Evelyn wrote about a popular pilgrimage site in France where a miracle had taken place, describing it as a site “[…] so inrich’d by the Devotas, as none save Lauretto in Italy is said to exceede it.”17 John Raymond, an Englishman who visited Italy in 1646–1647, wrote that “Loreto is of it selfe but a little Bourg or Village, yet by the noise it makes through Christendome, especially in the Catholike Regions, tis as much frequented as Saint Peters Chaire.”18 Richard Lassels, an English Catholic priest (1603–1668), who served as a tour guide of sorts for English gentlemen in Italy, described the fame of Loreto by noting that, “Now that it was so translated de facto, both ancient records, solid depositions, constant tradition, & the belief of all, almost, of the Catholick Princes of Europe who have sent rich presents hither do testifie.”19 From a geopolitical perspective, the emergence of the Loreto miracle as a subject addressed in the writings of various authors should be seen against the weakening power of Christians to maintain their holy sites in Palestine. As argued by Ivan Kalmar, the growing interest in the Loreto story reflects Christianity’s shift to the West after the fall of Constantinople in 1453.20 The substitution of Loreto for Nazareth was followed by the establishment of a growing number of new devotional pilgrimage sites within Europe. Another pilgrimage site that grew popular during this period is the Sacro Monte of Varallo, constructed by Bernardino Ciami in 1491. Yet another such site is the Sacro Monte of San Vivaldo, built a few years later.21 In these cases, too, the relocation of religious sites to within the borders of Catholic domains suggests the declining influence of Christians in the Middle East.

15 Villamont (note 9), p. 65a and p. 66b. 16 De Beer (note 5), p. 60. 17 De Beer (note 5), p. 211. 18 John Raymond, An Itinerary Contayning a Voyage, Made through Italy, In the yeare 1646, and 1647. Illustrated with divers figures of Antiquities Never before Published, London 1648, p. 271. 19 Lassels’ experiences during his various travels were gathered by Simon Wilson and published in 1670 as what may be regarded as the first English guidebook to Italy. Richard Lassels, The Voyage of Italy: Or a Compleat Journey through Italy, Paris 1670, pp. 324–325. 20 Ivan Kalmar, Early Orientalism: Imagined Islam and the Notion of Sublime Power, London, New York 2012, p. 42. See also Hamilton (note 7), pp. 7–11; Vélez (note 7), p. 26. 21 For the Sacro Monte of San Vivaldo, see Riccardo Pacciani, New Research on the Holy Sepulchre at the ‘Jerusalem’ of San Vivaldo, Italy, in: Bianca Kühnel/ Galit Noga-Banai/ Hanna Vorholt (eds.), Visual Constructs of Jerusalem, Turnhout 2014, pp. 77–80; Tsafra Siew, Pilgrimage Experience: Bridging Size and Medium, in: Ibid., pp. 86–90.

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Iconographic Precedents Caravaggio’s painting combines both a devotional and a narrative representation, though it does not correspond to the two iconographical traditions prevalent at the time. Before Caravaggio, painters depicted the Madonna wearing a majestic dress with golden ornaments and holding the baby Jesus in her arms, or else painted the most dramatic moment in the story – the Madonna’s miraculous journey atop the roof of her humble house as it was carried by angels to its present location in Loreto. The most obvious example of the devotional representation is the wooden statue on the altar of the Loreto shrine, which, according to tradition, was made by Saint Luke himself. This statue was destroyed in a fire in 1921 and was replaced by a replica (Fig. 3).22 Other such representations are evident on the chapel’s interior walls, which were painted by an unknown artist (Fig.  4). A few years after Caravaggio, in 1618, Guercino created his own version of the Madonna di Loreto, depicting Bernardino da Siena with a young companion kneeling before the statue of the Madonna and child in the Santa Casa (Fig. 5).23 Guercino combined the devotional character of the Loreto statue with the narrative featuring two Franciscan pilgrims in a composition similar to that of Caravaggio. Nevertheless, there are some obvious differences between Caravaggio’s composition, the traditional representations of the Madonna di Loreto in the Loreto statue, the painting on the Loreto wall, and Guercino’s rendition. The main difference is the humble, earthly appearance of the Madonna and child in Caravaggio’s painting, which stands out in contrast to her traditional representation in a majestic, heavily ornamented robe. During the sixteenth century, the narrative aspect of the Madonna di Loreto story received more attention by painters than the devotional ones. As stressed by Floriano Grimaldi, a growing number of artworks featured the Madonna sitting atop her

22 Floriano Grimaldi, L’iconografia della Vergine lauretana nell’ arte e i prototipi iconografici, in: Floriano Grimaldi/ Katy Sordi (eds.), L’iconografia della Vergine di Loreto nell’ arte, exh. cat., Loreto 1995, p. 15; Jones (note 2), p. 131, n. 42; Marcia Pointon, Brilliant Effects: A Cultural History of Gem Stones and Jewelry, New Haven, London 2009, p. 252; Bercé (note 7), p. 26. For the story of this wooden statue, see William Garratt, Loreto the New Nazareth and its Centenary Jubilee, London, Leamington 1895, pp. 155–159. 23 The title of Guercino’s painting, ‘St. Bernardino da Siena and St. Francis of Assisi with the Madonna di Loreto’, is quite awkward considering that St. Francis lived and died before the Loreto miracle took place. It seems to me more likely that the painting represents Bernardino da Siena with a young companion. Denis Mahon points out that Carlo Cesare Malvasia, the seventeenth-century biographer of the Bolognese painters, made an error by suggesting that the painter created this work for the church of San Bernardino in Cento, since such a church never existed there. Mahon assumes that Malvasia meant that the figure in the painting is St. Bernardino. As for St. Francis, Mahon notes that this name was first given by Orazio Cammillo Righetti in 1768. See Denis Mahon, Il Guercino: Catalogo critico dei dipinti, Bologna 1968, p. 61. See also Luigi Salerno, I dipinti del Guercino, Rome 1988, p. 123.

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Fig. 3: Present day wooden statue on the altar of the Loreto shrine; Loreto, Santa Casa.

Fig. 4: Unknown Painter, Madonna and Child, XIV Century; Loreto, Santa Casa.

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Fig. 5: Guercino, Bernardino da Siena with a young companion in front of the Madonna di Loreto, 1618; Cento, Pinacoteca Civica.

house as it was being carried by angels.24 This iconographic tradition followed Wey’s description of the shrine’s miraculous translation from Nazareth to Loreto: “[…] the chapel itself was lifted up by angels, with the most Blessed Mary seated on it, and carried from the Holy Land to Alretum [Loreto].”25 This iconography is exemplified in the sixteenth-­century relief by Nicolò Tribolo and Francesco da Sangallo on the eastern side of the marble screen that covers the chapel from the outside (Fig. 6).26 It persisted during Caravaggio’s time, as made evident, for instance, by Annibale 24 Grimaldi (note 22), p. 24. See also, Ralph Dekoninck, Figuring the Threshold of the Incarnation: Caravaggio’s Incarnate Image of the Madonna di Loreto, in: Walter S. Melion/ Lee Palmer Wandel (eds.), Image and Incarnation: The Early Modern Doctrine of the Pictorial Image, Leiden and Boston 2015, pp. 346–349. 25 Bandinel (note 8), pp. 53–54: portata a Terra Sancta usque ad Alretum, agricolis et pastoribus videntibus, angelos portantes eam et reponentes eam in loco, quo jam est ubi beatissima Virgo Maria habetur magno honore. For an English translation, see Francis Davey, William Wey, in: Id. (ed.), The Itineraries of William Wey, Oxford 2010, p. 67. 26 The attribution was made by Giorgio Vasari. See Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ piu eccellenti pittori, scultori, et architettori, Florence 1568, 3 vols., here vol. 2, p. 398. See also Weil-Garris (note 7), p. 236; Santarelli (note 11), pp. 57–60.

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Fig. 6: Francesco da Sangallo and Nicolò Tribolo, Translation of the Santa Casa, 1531/1534; Loreto, Santa Casa.

­ arracci’s ‘Madonna di Loreto’ from 1604/1605, commissioned by Cardinal Carlo GauC denzio Madruzzo (1562–1629) for Sant’Onofrio al Gianicolo in Rome (Fig. 7).27 Annibale depicted the scene in a straightforward manner that follows the textual description of the legend. He produced his painting at the same time that Caravaggio made his own version of this theme for a church located not far from Sant’Agostino, on the other side of the Tiber. The two painters knew one another, having both worked on the Cerasi Chapel in Santa Maria del Popolo a few years earlier. One should note that both the painting by Annibale and the relief by da Sangallo and Tribolo include explicit depictions of the house that highlight the fact it is made of stone bricks. These two iconographic traditions are also evident in two different editions of the same book, ‘Historia dell’ origine e translatione della santa casa della B. vergina Maria di Loreto’, written in Latin by Torsellini and translated into Italian by Bartolomeo Zucchi.28 The book was published in the vernacular as early as 1600, only a few years before Caravaggio’s ‘Madonna di Loreto’ commission. Page vii in the 1600 edition features a depiction of the Madonna wearing a long, ornamented dress and holding the baby Jesus in her arms. Both have crowns on their heads. Jesus, with both 27 Donald Posner, Annibale Carracci: A Study in the Reform of Italian Painting around 1590, London 1971, 2 vols., here vol. 2, p. 68; Daniele Benati/ Eugenio Riccòmini (eds.), Annibale Carracci, Milan 2006, p. 416. For a comparison with Caravaggio’s painting, see Vodret (note 1), p. 22. 28 The Latin edition was published in 1597. See Torsellini (note 7).

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Fig. 7: Annibale Carracci, Madonna di Loreto, 1604/1605; Rome, Sant’Onofrio.

fingers indexed, is giving a benediction. An inscription beneath the frame identifies the female figure as The Madonna di Loreto. In the 1610 edition of the same book, there is a much more elaborate depiction of the Madonna with the baby Jesus atop a house that angels are carrying through the sky (Fig. 8). Below them is a fortified town with three figures marching toward it and a ship at sea against the horizon.

Devotion and Pilgrimage Although Caravaggio was probably familiar with the two iconographical traditions of the Madonna di Loreto, he chose to create a different type of representation.29 At first glance, it is impossible to recognize the Loreto story in Caravaggio’s painting without preliminary knowledge about the commissioner of the painting and his religious commitments. The importance of Loreto and the miraculous translation of the Madonna’s house are not apparent in Caravaggio’s painting. The prominence of the pilgrims, iden-

29 For the development of this iconographic scheme, see Nagel/ Wood (note 7), pp. 197–198.

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Fig. 8: Madonna with Child on top of a house carried through the sky by angels; Historia dell’ origine e translatione della santa casa della B. vergina Maria di Loreto, 1610, frontispiece.

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tified as such by their staffs and bare, dirty feet as they kneel before the Madonna and child, suggests a different interpretation.30 Caravaggio chose to depict an encounter between two pilgrims and the heavenly figures. The disposition of the pilgrims in Caravaggio’s painting caught the attention of Francesco Scannelli, who, in his 1657 ‘Microcosmo della pittura’ emphasized the painter’s ability to depict the pure, simple, and direct devotional act of the two poor but faithful pilgrims, despite their ­non-decorous appearance, without diminishing the power of the devotional moment.31 Scannelli did not mention Loreto. His description of the painting suggests that he focused on the pilgrims themselves and on their act of devotion, while also alluding to the appearance of the Madonna and child as a miraculous vision. According to this interpretation, the historical dimension of the miracle, so prominently portrayed in earlier representations of the Loreto episode, is replaced by a contemporary representation of another miracle: a vision of the Madonna and of a benediction from the Son of God experienced by two poor pilgrims in ragged clothing. This type of vision was what pilgrims generally sought; here, according to Caravaggio’s depiction and Scannelli’s description, the miracle actually occurred. In a similar spirit, the French philosopher Michel de Montaigne, who visited Loreto in 1581, referred in his travelogue to the miraculous character of the site, noting the countless miracles that had happened there.32 In his

30 For the customary habit of pilgrims to walk with staffs, one should mention Pietro Casola, who asked the archbishop of Milan prior to his embarkation on a pilgrimage to sanctify what he called the emblems of his pilgrimage “the cross, the stick or pilgrim’s staff and the wallet”; Jewett (note 12), p. 117. Thomas Coryat described his first encounter with a pilgrim on his first trip to the continent in 1608. He wrote about the pilgrim: He had a long staffe, in his hand with a nobbe in the middle, according to the fashion of those pilgrims staffs, a chaine about his necke full of extraordinary great beades, and a box by his side, wherein was the picture of our Lady and Christ in her arms; Thomas Coryat, ­Coryat’s Crudities, London 1611, 3 vols., repr. London 1776, here vol. 1, p. 20. See also, Anthony Parr, Thomas Coryat and the Discovery of Europe, in: Huntington Library Quarterly 55:4 (1992), p. 579; Jonathan Sumption, Pilgrimage: An Image of Mediaeval Religion, London 1975, pp. 171–173. For the importance of the bare and dirty feet as representing pilgrims, see Catherine McCormack, Filthy Feet in Seicento Rome: Dirt as Relic and Text, in: Dandelion 4:1 (2013), pp. 1–9. For the dirty feet and their importance for representation of the custom of washing the feet of poor pilgrims in Caravaggio time, see Pupillo (note 4), pp. 126–128. 31 Francesco Scannelli, Il Microcosmo della Pittura, Bologna 1989, reprint of the 1657 edition, p. 198: Nella Chiesa di S. Agostino compare subito nell’entrare a mano sinistra nella prima Capella una Tavola dove intese di rappresentare dalla parte destra la B. Vergine in piedi col Santo Bambino in collo, & alla sinistra inginocchiati un Pellegrino insieme con una Vecchia in atto di divotione, e chi viene ad offervarli non può anco, se non confessare il lor’animo ben disposto, ed assai confirmato egualmente nella fede, come nella pura simplicità di cuore per orare ad immagine, che in vece di contenere il dovuto decoro, con gratia, e divotione si riconosce per ogni parte priva, havendo in fatti i foli primi capi, e maggiori Maestri dimostrato in un’epilogato a maraviglia il tutto. See also Hibbard (note 2), p. 188. 32 Michel de Montaigne, Journal de voyage de Michel de Montaigne en Italie, par la Suisse & l’ Allemagne en 1580 & 1581, Rome 1774, vol. 2, p. 245: Ce lieu est plein d’infinis miracles. See also Vélez (note 7), p. 67.

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‘De gli errori popolari d’Italia’, published in Venice in 1603, Scipione Mercurio claimed that the Santa Casa was a place where miracles happened on a daily basis.33 Other early biographers of Caravaggio were relying on what they knew about the commission itself and what was verified in documents. Giulio Mancini identified the painting simply as ‘Madonna di Loreto’.34 Both Giovanni Baglione and Giovanni Pietro Bellori called the painting by the same name as Mancini, while referring to the pilgrims and noting their filthy appearance and dirty feet.35 They did not elaborate further on the painting or on its connection to Loreto. The current literature on Caravaggio’s painting centers on the devotion and humility expressed by the two poor pilgrims and on the humble Madonna and child.36 To the best of my knowledge, the two most comprehensive interpretations to date are those by Pamela M. Jones (2008) and, most recently, by Ralph Dekoninck (2015). Jones focuses on the centrality of the pilgrimage cult in the painting and notes that the Madonna and child themselves are representatives of this cult, having themselves experienced a pilgrimage of sorts when they were forced to escape to Egypt. The older appearance of the baby Jesus is an indication that we are viewing him after that journey.37 Dekoninck’s discussion focuses on the image of the Madonna and her ambiguous location, which can be interpreted as the doorway of the Santa Casa in Loreto or the niche on its interior, and sees the Madonna’s transformation as the most likely idea that Caravaggio wanted to convey. Relying on an Augustinian conception of images, Dekoninck argues that the image of the Madonna is transformed

33 Scipione Mercurio, De gli errori popolari d’Italia, Venice 1603, vol. 6, p. 102. 34 Giulio Mancini, Considerazioni sulla pittura, Rome 1956, pp. 224, 282. 35 Giovanni Baglione, Le vite de’ pittori scultori et architetti: dal Pontificato di Gregorio XIII del 1572 fino a’ tempi di Papa Urbano Ottavo nel 1642, Rome 1642, 3 vols., repr. Vatican city 1995, here vol. 1, p. 137: Nella prima cappella della Chiesa di s. Agostino alla man manca fece una Madonna di Loreto ritratta dal naturale con due pellegrini, uno co’ piedi sangosi, e l’altra con una cuffia sdrucita, e sudicia; e per queste leggierezze in riguardo delle parti, che una gran pittura haver dee, da popolani ne su fatto estremo schiamazzo. Giovan Pietro Bellori, The Lives of the Modern Painters, Sculptors and Architects, transl. Alice Sedgwick Wohl, Cambridge, New York 2005, pp. 181–182, writes about the painting twice. On the first occasion he describes the painting: He went on to paint another picture in the chapel of the signori Cavalletti in the church of Sant’Agostino, of the Madonna standing with the Child in her arms in the act of giving benediction: two pilgrims kneel before her with joined hands, and the foremost of them is a poor man with bare feet and legs, wearing a leather capelet, with his staff propped against his shoulder; and he is accompanied by an old woman with a cap on her head. In his second remark he emphasizes the dirty feet of the pilgrims: In Sant’Agostino the filth of the pilgrim’s feet is presented to view. See also Anton W. A. Boschloo, The Limits of Artistic Freedom: Criticism of Art in Italy from 1500 to 1800, Leiden 2008, pp. 129–131. 36 For a summary of modern scholarship engagement with Caravaggio’s painting, see Jones (note 2), pp. 91–95. 37 According to Jones (note 2), pp. 75–129, esp. pp. 97–98, their pilgrimage happened when they were forced to escape to Egypt.

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in the visionary experience of the pilgrims from a statue into a living image.38 For our purpose, it should be noted that these two scholars do not devote any attention to the Loreto miracle of translation or to the stone bricks visible beside the doorpost underneath the deteriorating plaster.39 This detail, which seems almost insignificant to the modern eye, was quite important in the early modern period – likely serving as the only detail in the painting that connects the pilgrims’ devotion to Loreto.

The Loreto Bricks Caravaggio’s choice to expose the stones underneath the plaster points to his awareness of their importance in the story. In his book, Torsellini described the story of the Loreto bricks in detail. The authenticity of the stones was examined by a delegation to the Holy Land, sent by the governor of Dalmatia with exemplars in order to compare it to the types of stones to be found in Nazareth. The Loreto stones were found to be genuine.40 According to his own testimony, Torsellini’s description was based on Girolamo Angelita, who wrote his version of the Loreto story around 1525 and presented it to Pope Clement VII. Angelita mentioned Nicolo Frangipane as the governor of Dalmatia who sent the delegation to Nazareth.41 He also noted a tale that related to the bricks themselves. One of the stone bricks was taken from the Loreto shrine, put in a silver reliquary and brought with much difficulty to Trent by the Bishop of Coimbra, Joao Soares de Albergaria, who wanted to dedicate a church to the Madonna di Loreto in his diocese in Portugal. In Trent the bishop who took the stone subsequently became ill, and his health did not improve until he returned the brick to its

38 Dekoninck (note 24), pp. 341–368. 39 For the importance of the bricks in prints, see also Pupillo (note 4), p. 123. 40 Torsellini (note 7), pp. 167–168: Videro i fondamenti della Santa Casa da gli huomini di quelle contrade mostrati; distesero da ogni lato le misure, & all’ultimo chiaramente conobbero che’l tutto era uniforme. Trovavasi tra gli Ambasciadori Giovanni Senese, ilquale annisandosi che si dovea con quelche nuovo segno stabilire la fede dell’antico miracolo, di colà seco recò due delle pietre, con le quali usasi comunemente in Nazarette di fabricar le case. La pietra poi è simile alla forma d’un mattone (di quella sorte, che in qualche luogo si sogliono cavare là, ove le pietre si tagliano) ma nel resto è venata di giallo. A Loreto adunque ricondottisi Giovanni co’ compagni, e paragonate le pietre di Nazarette con quelle della Santa Casa, nè trovò due della medesima qualità e simiglianti afatto: cosa, che vie più accrebbe la fede del miracolo; poiche si sapeva che non era nella Marca alcuna vena di tal qualita: e d’altra parte si veggeva che ogni edificio, comeche vecchio era per la scarsità de’rozi sassi, e di così fatte pietre, alzato di mattoncelli. According to William Garratt (note 22), pp. 20–22, a chemical examination and comparison of materials between samples of stones from Loreto and Nazareth was conducted in 1857, and they were found to be similar in their structure and composition, even if their colors were slightly different. 41 Angelita (note 9), pp. 19–20. See also Victor Turner/ Edith Turner, Images and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture: Anthropological Perspectives, New York 1978, pp. 178–179.

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place in the shrine.42 This story was meant to underscore the miraculous quality of the bricks. Angelita’s account, which was rather famous in the sixteenth century, was republished frequently. Among the many editions that Caravaggio might have seen, there was one published in 1590, another in 1600, and a third that came out in 1603. Other accounts praise the main miracle. In his 1616 ‘Viaggio alla Santa Casa di Loreto’ Cesare Franciotti wrote repeatedly about the miraculous translation of the Madonna’s house from Nazareth to Loreto,43 and also mentioned Frangipane’s delegation to Nazareth.44 Richard Lassels noted that the walls of the Madonna’s house in Loreto were made of exotic stones that cannot be found around Loreto.45 This type of description, which focused on the makeup of the chapel, reinforced the miraculous nature of the house’s relocation from Nazareth to Loreto while underscoring the importance of the bricks.

The Replicated Authority of the Loreto Bricks Torsellini, Angelita, and Lassels’ descriptions all emphasize the story of the exotic stone bricks, thus enabling us to read Caravaggio’s painting from an additional perspective. At first sight, the bricks in the painting seem simply to indicate the existence of the chapel. However, viewed as indicators of the miraculous translation of the chamber, they gain new meaning. The stone bricks as focalizers suggest a sophisticated approach to the combination of objective truth, religious truth, and imagination. On the one hand, they are the sole indication in this painting of the miraculous transfer of the Madonna’s chamber to Loreto. On the other hand, they are also indicative of the original house in Nazareth. One cannot relate the bricks exclusively to only one of the two locations. There is no unity of historical time and place, and the true and untrue elements of the story cannot be separated from one another. The Madonna on the step, whose presence is highly palpable from the viewer’s perspective, represents an imagined or miraculous being for the two pilgrims visiting the Santa Casa. Nevertheless, Caravaggio depicted her realistically as a humble woman at the entrance to her home, whose simplicity befits the young wife of a Nazareth carpenter rather than the Holy Mother of God. Beautiful as she may be, Caravaggio did not depict an idealized image of the Madonna, but rather an earthly (some would say too earthly) figure, using as his model a local prostitute named

42 Angelita (note 9), pp. 133–137; Vélez (note 7), p. 58 and p. 67. For other miracles related to the bricks, see Garratt (note 22), pp. 88–90; Bercé (note 7), p. 24. 43 Franciotti (note 9), pp. 151, 161, 211. 44 Franciotti (note 9), p. 330. 45 Lassels (note 19), pp. 324–325, wrote: Besides, I can say this, that the walls are of such a stone as is not used in any house in all the Country about: a great presumption, that this wall is exotick.

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Maddalena Antognetti (known as Lena), with whom he probably had an intimate relationship.46 Her appearance is strikingly different, for example, from Guercino’s depiction of the Madonna and child in his ‘Madonna di Loreto’. Guercino remained loyal to the traditional statuesque presentation of the Madonna and the child positioned on the altar, portraying a realistic moment in which two Franciscan friars are present in front of the altar in the Loreto Chapel. Caravaggio’s depiction, by contrast, bespeaks his attempt to draw attention to the humble New Testament mother with her child in Nazareth. The pilgrims belong to a different time and place. Dressed as poor people from Caravaggio’s own time, they gaze toward the Madonna and the baby Jesus, although it seems that they cannot see them. As noted by Dekoninck, the man is looking intently toward an empty space next to the baby, his gaze is averted from the image of the Christ child in front of him.47 The woman is gazing at the Madonna and child, but her eyes are turned toward the Madonna’s hand instead of her face. She is not really seeing the Madonna, since her gaze is too low. Pilgrims were considered visionaries, so it would be reasonable to assume that the two intense blind gazes were meant to underscore the miraculous quality of the Madonna’s presence.48 For Bert Treffers, Caravaggio’s painting enacts a visionary experience. The obvious poverty of the figures casts them as true believers whose place in heaven is guaranteed, while the earthly Madonna is an embodiment of their vision.49 The Madonna and child standing at the entrance to the shrine seem to be welcoming the two pilgrims in front of them, who have just arrived. The wall seen in the painting is an external one. Yet Caravaggio, who some modern scholars believe actually made the trip to Loreto prior to creating the painting, could not have seen the original exterior of the chapel. At the beginning of the sixteenth century (1509), Julius II’s famous architect Donato Bramante (followed by Andrea Sansovino, Jacopo Sansovino, and others) covered it with a marble casting (rivestimento),50 so that the stone bricks can only be seen inside the chapel (Figs. 9 and 10). The bricks thus indicate

46 Hibbard (note 2), p. 191; Vodret (note 1), p. 22. See also Frances Gage, Caravaggio’s Death of the Virgin, Giulio Mancini, and the Madonna Blasphemed, in: Lorenzo Pericolo/ David M. Stone (eds.), Caravaggio: Reflections and Refractions, Farnham, Burlington 2014, pp. 87–90 with a discussion of the uncertainties concerning the profession of the model for the Madonna di Loreto. 47 Dekoninck (note 24), p. 356. 48 See Matthew Botvinick, The Painting as Pilgrimage: Traces of a Subtext in the Work of Campin and His Contemporaries, in: Art History 15:1 (1992), pp. 6–7. 49 Bert Treffers, The Art and Craft of Sainthood: New Orders, New Saints, New Altarpieces, in: Beverly Louise Brown (ed.), The Genius of Rome 1592–1623 exh. cat. London 2001, p. 353. Maurizio Cal­vesi, Caravaggio o la ricerca della salvazione, in: Storia dell’ arte 9/10 (1971), p. 116, sees the painting as an embodiment of salvation with the Madonna as a symbol of the Church. For observing the Madonna di Loreto as a gate to Heaven, see Baldassare Bartoli, Le glorie maestose del santuario di Loreto. Con il tesori celesti, venerati, Macerata 1684, p. 9. For the visionary stance in regard to Caravaggio’s Madonna di Loreto, see Dekoninck (note 24), pp. 361–363. 50 For the entire decoration, see especially Weil-Garris (note 7).

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Fig. 9: The Santa Casa from the outside, Loreto.

Fig. 10: A part of the southern wall; Loreto, Santa Casa.

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that Caravaggio depicted the pilgrims’ encounter with the Madonna and child inside the chapel, and that the step on which the Madonna is standing is that of the altar.51 The prominent position of the two pilgrims was meant to emphasize the most important aspect of the painting – their devotional stance and the vision that was a related aspect of pilgrimage. This type of representation was meant to evoke devotional sentiments, arousing in the viewer a wish to embark on such a journey.52 Yet, the humanized Madonna and child also seem to be standing at the entrance to their simple house in Nazareth, in which case the pilgrims are out of place. The role of the exposed bricks in the painting is to connect the two worlds – that of the Madonna and child in Nazareth and that of the two pilgrims in Loreto. The brick wall thus belongs to both narratives and was used by Caravaggio to conflate two sites and two periods. The viewers are simultaneously exposed to two historical moments and to two geographical locations, while they themselves are in a third place and time – the Sant’Agostino church in seventeenth-century Rome. The integration of these two moments in time and place defuses the historical character of the scene, drawing attention to the act of pilgrimage itself. The unhistorical perception yet replicated authority of the location depicted enhances the importance and significance of the scene within the site. Caravaggio assumed Loreto to be a replica of Nazareth, the one standing in place of the other. In the words of Alexander Nagel and Christopher Wood, “To perceive an artifact in substitutional terms was to understand it as belonging to more than one historical moment simultaneously”.53 It seems that Caravaggio was implying the duplication of the Santa Casa – Loreto as a substitute for the inaccessible authentic house of the holy family in Nazareth.

Right from Wrong Caravaggio’s painting may indicate an insistence on the Loreto shrine as an important pilgrimage site, but his departure from the usual iconography of the flying shrine can also be read as raising doubts concerning its translation by angels. As

51 William Gavin, Caravaggio’s Madonna of Loreto Reconsidered, in: Source: Notes in the History of Art 6:1 (1986), pp. 20–21, suggested that the step and pilaster in the painting represent the niche of the Holy House itself. For the interior-exterior controversy, see also Dekoninck (note 24), pp. 354–355. 52 See Arad (note 8), p. 306; Botvinick (note 48), pp. 7–10. 53 In their theory of substitution, Nagel/ Wood (note 7), pp. 29–34, argue that the perception of time and place in early modern Europe differed from the modern conceptualization of temporal sequences and historicity, so that the past participated in the present. For the principle of substitution, see also Erik Inglis/ Elise Christmon, ʻThe Worthless Stories of Pilgrimsʼ? The Art Historical Imagination of Fifteenth-Century Travelers to Jerusalem, in: Viator 44:3 (2013), pp. 261–262; Michele Bacci, Locative Memory and the Pilgrim’s Experience of Jerusalem in the Late Middle Ages, in: Kühnel/ Noga-Banai/ Vorholt (note 21), pp. 67–76, esp. pp. 74–75.

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Steven F. Ostrow has remarked concerning Caravaggio’s painting, its departure from the traditional iconography of this scene is revealed by the fact that angels are ‘“conspicuously absent’.”54 In that respect, however, Caravaggio was not alone. A very well-known precedent was Desiderius Erasmus’ reference to this story. In a Mass dedicated to the Madonna di Loreto in 1523, he wrote nothing about the miraculous translation of her house.55 It is hard to determine whether Caravaggio was aware of Erasmus’ silence on this subject, yet the two clearly shared a similar approach to the tale of the house’s miraculous translation. Another important reference in this regard was that by Francesco Suriano, who twice served as the Superior-General of the Franciscan Order in the Holy Land, and was the Guardian of Mount Zion in 1493–1515. Suriano visited Nazareth several times and claimed that the church in Loreto could not possibly be the Madonna’s original house in Nazareth because “The real house then of the Blessed Virgin is cut in the mountain, which is of tuff rock, and is underground […] And that same house that was there at the time of the Annunciation is there at present. And it cannot be transported or lifted unless you carry off the mountain.”56 It should also be noted that such an approach was compatible with post-Trent attempts to emend unreliable historical accounts.57 In this context, one should mention Gabriele Paleotti, the bishop (and later archbishop) of Bologna in 1566–1586, and his ‘Discourse on Sacred and Profane Images’ (Discorso intorno alle imagini sacre e profane), published in 1582. Paleotti’s aim in writing the book was to define the framework of religious art in rational terms and explain how art could be used to teach its viewers right from wrong. In regard to the Loreto miracle, Paleotti expressed his acknowledgment of the Loreto story in the same way as Erasmus before him, without mentioning anything about angels lifting the house off the ground and carrying it off across the Mediterranean. He wrote: “…as we know to have happened in that of the holy House of Loreto, which he transported from so far away and by means of which he has worked the numerous miracles we observe every day.”58 Elsewhere in his book, the Bolognese prelate related to the kinds of errors that can be associated with the Loreto story. Paleotti wrote about errore in re (error in the thing), a representation of a false object or of a true object that is untruthful in what it represents. In order to explain this point, he gave the example of Emperor Augustus flying in a chariot of fire: 54 Steven F. Ostrow, Caravaggio’s Angels, in: Pericolo/ Stone (note 46), p. 130. 55 The Mass was written as a dedication to Thiébaut Biétry, parish priest at Porrentruy. See Collected Works of Erasmus, transl. Alexander Dalzell, Toronto 1994, vol. 11, pp. xv, 106; Hamilton (note 7), pp. 6–7; Nagel/ Wood (note 7), p. 420, n. 57. 56 Francesco Suriano, Treatise on the Holy Land, transl. Theophilus Bellorini and Bellarmino Ba­ gatti, Jerusalem 1949, p. 160; Hamilton (note 7), p. 4; Vélez (note 7), p. 18. 57 Peter Burke, The Historical Anthropology of Early Modern Italy: Essays on Perception and Communication, Cambridge, London 1987, p. 49. 58 Gabriele Paleotti, Discourse on Sacred and Profane Images, transl. William McCuaig, Los Angeles 2012, p. 100.

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“Our response is that such pictures are mendacious nevertheless in terms of external appearance because the object is false.”59 In 1596, Paleotti was appointed, together with Cardinal Francesco Maria del Monte, to the role of protector of the Accademia di San Luca in Rome.60 Since Cardinal del Monte was one of Caravaggio’s most important patrons at the beginning of the painter’s career, the latter could well have met Paleotti in Rome. In fact, Baglione suggested that Cardinal del Monte helped Caravaggio obtain his first major commission – the one for the Contarelli chapel.61 Paleotti was very interested in painting and had personal connections with artists, and Caravaggio could well have been inspired by Paleotti’s assertion that the best way to create a religious painting was to imitate nature.62 The ambiguity regarding the location of the scene in Caravaggio’s painting refers to the existence of a Madonna shrine in both locations, and may also be perceived as offering a critical perspective on the dubious nature of the flying house legend. In this context, the stone bricks become an important element in the painting, as they reflect the painter’s interpretive stance. One can understand Caravaggio’s painting as the visual manifestation of a debate best explained, perhaps, by the French traveler François de La Boullaye Le Gouz. Almost 50 years later, in his ‘Voyages et obsevations’, from 1653, Le Gouz addressed the different attitudes of theologians and philosophers concerning the Loreto miracle. Theologians, he wrote, believe the story because they accept the superiority of an angel’s mind over matter, and its ability to translate different types of matter from one location to another by relying solely on the power of thought. However, philosophers do not accept such a hierarchy, and therefore cannot accept a miraculous ability to transmit any material substance. Whatever can be touched, they argue, is too heavy to be relocated by relying solely on the power of intelligence or thought.63 59 Gabriele Paleotti (note 58), pp. 218–219. See also Paolo Prodi’s introduction on pp. 16–17. 60 Melchior Missirini, Memorie per servire alla storia della romana academia di S. Luca fino alla morte di Antonio Canova, Rome 1823, p. 69; Luigi Salerno, The Roman World of Caravaggio: His Admirers and Patrons, in: The Age of Caravaggio, exh. cat. New York and Milan 1985, p. 17; Sandra Gianfreda, Caravaggio, Guercino, Mattia Preti: Das halbfigurige Historienbild und die Sammler des Seicento, Emsdetten, Berlin 2005, p. 49. 61 Baglione (note 35), vol. 1, p. 136. In his life of Guido Reni, Carlo Cesare Malvasia, Felsina pittrice: vite de’ pittori bolognesi, Bologna 1678, 2 vols., repr. Bolgona 1841, ed. Giampietro Zanotti, here vol. 2, p. 9, claimed that Caravaggio enjoyed the support of Cardinal del Monte, who became Caravaggio’s protector, took him into his house, assigned him an allowance, and successfully promoted him and ma più d’ogn’ altri il Cardinale dal Monte, che ne prese la protezione con tirarselo in casa, assegnargli la parte, ed efficacemente portarlo. For the English translation, see Carlo Cesare Malvasia, The Life of Guido Reni, transl. Catherine Enggass and Robert Enggass, University Park 1980, p. 43. 62 These ideas are exemplified throughout the book. See also, Anton W. A. Boschloo, Annibale Carracci in Bologna: Visible Reality in Art after the Council of Trent, The Hague 1974, 2 vols., here vol. 1, p. 127; John Varriano, Caravaggio and Violence, in: Storia dell’arte 97 (1999), pp. 318–319. 63 François de La Boullaye Le Gouz, Les voyages et obsevations du sieur de La Boullaye-Le-Gouz, Paris 1657, reprint of the 1653 edition, pp. 361–362: pres S. Jean Dacre est Nasaret, d’où l’on tient que la

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A different response to this debate, in support of the theologians, can be found in Richard Lassels’ conclusion to his description of the Loreto miracle: I easily believe that he who placed this great world it self in a place where there was nothing before, can easily place a house there where there was no house before; and that he who makes an Angel wheel the primum mobile, and the vast machins of the heavenly orbs, quite round in four and twenty hours, may easily make Angels translate this little chamber of our Lady from one part of the world to another.64

Viewed in the context of this debate, Caravaggio’s painting can be understood as siding with the philosophers.

Mental Pilgrimage Caravaggio’s painting might have been commissioned in order to help believers embark on a mental pilgrimage. The two pilgrims in the painting are represented as close as possible to an illusion of real life. Their presence inside the shrine, in front of the Madonna and child, cannot be denied. At the same time, their blind gazes indicate a visionary stance, encouraging viewers in the Cavalletti Chapel to embark on an imagined spiritual pilgrimage to Nazareth or an actual pilgrimage to Loreto. The chapel might have been conceived of as a replacement for concrete, physical visit to the holy site. Indeed, as shown by Kathryn M. Rudy, such imaginary journeys were a very common practice in the fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Europe, especially among women. Rudy focuses on women’s virtual pilgrimages to the Holy Land through the use of travelogues written by those who actually made the trip.65 Some of these devotional tracts also include Nazareth on the pilgrim’s route.66 Pnina Arad writes about two fifteenth-century travelers, the Paduan nobleman Gabriel Capodilista and the Dominican friar Felix Fabri. Capodilista, who visited the

maison de Lorrette a esté transportée en un instant par les Anges, sans passer par aucun lieu, ce que les Theologiens disent pouvoir arriver, parce que l’Ange agissant par son intelligence, le corps luy peut resister, estant d’une nature inferieure, de façon que si l’Ange entendoit que la Batille de Paris fust à Rome, elle s’y trouveroit en un instant, mais les Philosophes ont pour principe que ce qui peut toucher, ou estre touche, mouvoir ou estre meu, doit estre corporel, & quel’intelligence d’un esprit separé ne peut mouvoir le corps sans y estre uny, encor de necessité s’accommoderoit-il à la nature du corps, qui est de passer par un millieu, pour estre meu d’un lieu à l’autre. For an English translation of this paragraph, see Noonan (note 10), pp. 293–294 n. 3. 64 Lassels (note 19), pp. 323–324. 65 Kathryn M. Rudy, Virtual Pilgrimages in the Convent: Imagining Jerusalem in the Late Middle Ages, Turnhout 2011, p. 21. See also, Botvinick (note 48), p. 6, and pp. 13–14. 66 Rudy (note 65), p. 298, and p. 402, respectively for Darmstadt, Hessische Landes- und H ­ ochschul­bibliothek, MS 982; London, British Library, ADD. MS 31001.

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Holy Land in 1458, suggested at the beginning of his account that the nuns listening to his story not only share his experience, but also use it as a conduit for a spiritual journey. Fabri wrote a detailed account of his two visits to the Holy Land, in 1480 and 1483. His diary was similarly meant to serve as a spiritual guide for the nuns living near his monastery in Ulm, so that they could set out on a mental pilgrimage without exposing themselves to the dangers and hardships of actual travel.67 Fabri also mentioned important pilgrimage sites in Europe, including the Madonna’s shrine in Loreto.68 Ora Limor discusses Suriano, who wrote about his experience in Jerusalem in the form of a dialogue between him and his sister, Sixta, at her request. Sixta was a Clarissan nun in the convent of Santa Lucia in Foligno, who had commissioned her brother’s account for her own benefit and for that of her fellow nuns in their devotions.69 Zur Shalev mentions the Flemish Carmelite Jan Pascha, who wrote a year-long devotional plan for a mental pilgrimage (1563).70 Returning to the bricks in Caravaggio’s painting, we can now further probe their presence as suggesting a connection between the medieval chapel erected in Loreto in 1294 and the religious site of the Annunciation in Nazareth. Caravaggio suggests that both structures remain intact, a notion that contradicts the principle of translation – that is, the idea that a given site was actually moved from one location to another. Indicating the chapel in Nazareth as a viable location relies on information that could well have been known to Caravaggio and his contemporaries. It should be stressed, though, that Nazareth remained desolate following its destruction by the Mamluk Sultan Baibars in 1263. Nine years after the expulsion of the crusaders from Nazareth in 1272, Christians were permitted to return to the city’s holy sites, but this permission only lasted until the final expulsion of the Crusaders from Acre in 1291. It was not until the second decade of the seventeenth century that the friars minor received permission from the Ottomans to settle in Nazareth, thanks to the support of the Druze emir Faḫraddīn II Ma’n.71

67 Pnina Arad, ʻAs If You Were Thereʼ: The Cultural Impact of Two Pilgrims’ Maps of the Holy Land, in: Kühnel/ Noga-Banai/ Vorholt (note 21), p. 307. For mental pilgrimages, see also Bacci (note 53), pp. 68–74. 68 Felix Fabri, The Book of the Wanderings of Brother Felix Fabri, transl. Aubrey Stewart, London 1896, 2 vols., here vol. 1, pp. 39, 171; Rudy (note 65), pp. 47–48. 69 Ora Limor, Mary in Jerusalem: An Imaginary Map, in: Kühnel/ Noga-Banai/ Vorholt (note 21), p. 11. 70 Zur Shalev, Christian Pilgrimage and Ritual Measurement in Jerusalem, in: Max Planck-Institut für Wissenschaftsgeschichte, Preprint 384 (2009), pp. 8–9. 71 Jean de Thévenot, Relation d’un voyage fait au Levant: dans laquelle il est curieusement traité des Estats sujets au grand Seigneur des Mœurs, Religions, Forces, Gouvernemens, Politiques, Langues, & coustumes, des Habitans de ce grand Empire, Paris 1665, p. 424; Aurélien Girard, Impossible Independence or Necessary Dependency? Missionaries in the Near East, the Protection of the Catholic States, and the Roman Arbitrator, in: Massimo Carlo Giannini (ed.), Papacy, Religious Orders, and International Politics in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, Rome 2013, p. 69.

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The Holy House in Nazareth Nazareth thus remained beyond the reach of organized Christian pilgrimages from the time of its destruction until after the creation of Caravaggio’s painting. Such pilgrimage tours typically involved disembarking from a Venetian galley in Jaffa and visiting Ramla, Emmaus, Bethlehem, Jerusalem and its surroundings, the River Jordan, and some sites in the Judean desert. Some pilgrims continued on to the Sinai Desert, but most returned to Jaffa and boarded the same galley to travel back to Europe. The entire trip within the borders of the Holy Land took thirteen days.72 Nonetheless, some Europeans did make the trip to Nazareth, and their accounts contain the kind of information that would have supported Caravaggio’s undertaking. Simone Sigoli who completed his account in 1390, wrote: “In Galilee you find the city of Nazareth, and therein is a vaulted subterranean chapel, in which place is where the angel Gabriel announced to the Virgin Mary saying: Ave Maria gratia plena, Dominus tecum.”73 William Wey, who, as noted above, wrote about the shrine in Loreto, mentioned the chapel in Nazareth as still in situ, with an image of the Archangel Gabriel adorning one of its columns: In the city of Nazareth, in the chapel where he greeted the Virgin Mary, there is a likeness of Gabriel, pressed on the back of a stone column as though on a seal. When the rays of the evening sun touch the top of the angel’s head, that is the hour when Christ was conceived by the Most Blessed Virgin Mary. There also is a spring of water to which Christ used to come to get water for His Most Blessed Mother.74

In 1658, when the French traveler Jean de Thévenot visited the city, it was still in ruins. Thévenot described the grotto and the damage apparent there: “[…] there is about two Foot broken off by the Turks, so that the rest hangs (as it were) in the Air, sticking to

72 This can be deduced from travelogues of pilgrims such as William Wey, Pietro Casola, and others. See also Jonathan Sumption, The Age of Pilgrimage: The Medieval Journey to God, Mahwah/ NJ 2003, pp. 266–270; Arad (note 8), p. 308, esp. note 34. 73 Simone Sigoli, Viaggio al Monte Sinai, ed. Basilio Puoti, Naples 1831, pp. 75–76: Appresso a Galilea si trova la città di Nazzaret, ed evvi una cappella sotterra in volta, nel quale luogo è dove l’angelo Gabbriello annunziò la vergine Maria dicendo: ‘ave Maria gratia plena, Dominus tecum.’ For the English translation, see Visits to the Holy Places of Egypt, Sinai, Palestine and Syria in 1384 by Frescobaldi, Gucci and Sigoli, transl. Theophilus Bellorini/ Eugene Hoade, Jerusalem 1948, p. 192. Sigoli repeated Giorgio Gucci, who visited Nazareth in 1384, and described the chapel in the same way; see ibid., p. 139. 74 Bandinel (note 8), p. 120: In civitate Nazareth est ymago Gabriel, ex parte posteriori impressa in columpna lapidea sicut in sigillo, in capella ubi salutavit Virginem Mariam; et quando radii solares in vespere tangunt vestigium capitis Angeli, tunc est hora, in qua Christus conceptus est ex beatissima Virgine Maria. Est eciam ibi fons aque, ad quam veniebat Christus ad querendum aquam matri suae beatissime. For the English translation, see Davey (note 25), p. 157.

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the Vault to which the Capital of it is fastened.” It seems as though Thévenot thought that the chapel needed restoration.75 An illustration of the Annunciation grotto in Nazareth appeared in a guidebook written in the fourteenth century by Niccolò da Poggibonsi and first printed in the vernacular in 1500 in Bologna. The first illustrated edition came out in 1518. By Caravaggio’s time, it had become a bestseller; Kathryn Blair Moore counted sixty editions by the end of the eighteenth century, also noting that the guidebook’s author was mistakenly identified as Noe Bianco.76 What are important for our purpose are the illustrations of Nazareth, which show the city’s holy sites (Fig. 11). In the lower-righthand corner of one illustration, one can see the Grotto of the Annunciation. It does not appear as a ruin, and its round surfaced entrance corresponds to those of both the shrine in Loreto and the Crusaders’ grotto in Nazareth. One confusing fact that has yet to be addressed in this essay is that the Santa Casa in Loreto resembles the subterranean chapel beneath the Greek Orthodox Church of the Annunciation in Nazareth, which is also known as the Church of Saint Gabriel (Fig. 12). This grotto was first built by the Byzantines and was probably part of the oldest church in Nazareth. The present chapel was rebuilt in the twelfth century by the Crusaders, a century prior to the construction of the Loreto shrine (1294).77 The two chapels are similar in shape – a rectangular nave and a semicircle apse. An arch supported by pillars that are attached to the walls divides the chapel’s two parts. Both chapels have striped stone walls and barrel vaults, and their dimensions are almost identical. The Santa Casa measures 9.5 m in length, 4 m in width, and 6 m in height.78 The grotto in Nazareth measures 10 m in length, 3.3 m in width, and 3.5 m in height.79 (The difference in height is due to the fact that the vault in Loreto was constructed 75 de Thévenot (note 71), p. 425: Celle qui est au lieu où estoit la Vierge, est rompue en bas de deux pieds ou environ, les Turcs l’ayant ainsi rompuë, de sorte que le reste se soustient comme en l’air, aidé par la voute, dans laquelle elle est enclauéc par le chapiteau. For the English translation, see Jean de Thévenot, The Travels of Monsieur de Thévenot into the Levant, London 1687, p. 212. 76 Kathryn Blair Moore, The Disappearance of the Author and the Emergence of a Genre: Niccolò da Poggibonsi and Pilgrimage Guidebooks between Manuscript and Print, in: Renaissance Quarterly 66:2 (2013), pp. 357–411. 77 ,‫ עיון מחדש‬:18-‫זידאני במאה ה‬-‫עומר אל‬-‫אורתודוקסית בנצרת מתקופת השליט דאהר אל‬-‫ כנסיית הבשורה היוונית‬,‫ספדי‬-‫שריף שריף‬ 56 ‫ עמוד‬,2014 ‫אביב‬-‫ תל‬.1969–1741 ,‫ פרקים באמנות הנוצרית בארץ הקודש‬:‫קדר (ע’) יצירה עלומה‬-‫נורית כנען‬. 78 Villamont (note 9), p. 65b, mentions the size of the Loreto chapel in his description of the chapel in 1589: Quant au bastiment de la maison, il est tout faict de grosse bricque & vouté par le dedans, à la semblance d’une chapelle, ayant de longueur tréte pieds, & douze & demy de largeur”, which means 9.15 m in length, and 3.8 m. in width. For the measurements, see also Bartoli (note 49), p. 48; Weil-Garris (note 7), vol. 1, p. 10. See also The Grove Encyclopedia of Medieval Art and Architecture, Oxford, New York 2012, vol. 2, p. 142. 79 For the measurements of the St. Gabriel Chapel in Nazareth, see Denys Pringle, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus, Cambridge, New York 1998, 2 vols., here vol. 2, pp. 142–143. For the importance of accurate measurements of the holy sites, see Shalev (note 70), esp. pp. 10–11; Bacci (note 53), p. 71.

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Fig. 11: Niccolò da Poggibonsi, Viaggio da Venetia al Santo Sepolcro, et al monte Sinai, 1606; Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles (88-B1091).

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Fig. 12: The Greek Orthodox Church of the Annunciation, also known as the Church of Saint Gabriel, Nazareth.

many years later and was not part of the original shrine supposedly brought from Nazareth, which consisted of three walls and a floor. The eastern wall with the altar was also not part of the original house. The three walls were supposed to have been connected to the cave, which remained in situ).80 The similarities between the Loreto shrine and the grotto in Nazareth led Jean de Thévenot to suggest that the latter was a duplication of the Loreto shrine. “Even with this Grott is the place of the Virgins Chamber, which was by Angels Transported to Loretto; so that there are two Ness, one of the Grott, and another of the Chamber, in the space whereof there is another Rebuilt exactly like that of Loretto”.81 The parallels between the chapels in Nazareth and Loreto, especially in terms of their size, suggest that one was constructed as a replica of the other. It may be assumed that the Crusaders, who were forced out of the Holy Land in 1291, copied the shape and dimensions of the Annunciation Chapel in Nazareth. Most probably they began building the chapel in Loreto immediately after their expulsion, and likely 80 Garratt (note 22), pp. 29–31. 81 de Thévenot (note 71), p. 425: De plein pied à cette grotte est la place de la chambre de la Vierge, qui a esté transportée par les Anges à Lorette, de forte que ce sont deux ness, l’une de la grotte, l’autre de la chambre, dans l’espace de laquelle on en a rebasty une autre toute semblable à Lorette. For the English translation, see de Thévenot (note 71), p. 212.

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completed it in 1294. They might also have brought some stones from the Holy Land with them and incorporated them in the new chapel. What seems significant in terms of our discussion is that Caravaggio’s painting reflects two major phenomena that coexisted at the beginning of the seventeenth century. The first was the ever-growing popularity of both actual pilgrimages to accessible sites within the Catholic dominion such as Loreto, as well as spiritual and mental pilgrimages, which were common in early modern Europe. The second important development was the attempt to conceptualize religious-miraculous, and even imaginary deeds, in natural terms or paradigms. The story of the Madonna di Loreto as represented by Caravaggio, emphasizes a dichotomy between Nazareth and Loreto. It clearly addresses the Loreto story in accordance with what can be explained in natural terms, but also reflects its importance as a pilgrimage site. Today, the Loreto shrine is still a highly popular pilgrimage site, and a regular steam of visitors can be seen there throughout the year. Most of the visitors pray silently before the altar and the small statue of the Madonna and Christ child. Hardly anyone touches or even pays attention to the brick walls, which according to the audio guide are still perceived as authentic, although the guide admits that they were brought to the site in a most conventional way.

Veronica della Dora

Sacred Topographies and the Optics of Truth: Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij’s Journeys to Mount Athos (1725–1744) Abstract: This chapter focuses on the accounts of Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij’s visits to Mount Athos, the largest monastic center in Greece and in the Orthodox world. Barskij visited all of its twenty Byzantine monasteries, which he described and sketched in great detail. Athos’ monasteries provided Barskij with ‘narrative containers’, as well as with objects for graphic spatial experimentation. In the drawings included in the account of his second visit, the monastic buildings are captured from impossible vantage points, as well as through dynamic ‘maps’ illustrating liturgical performances and other aspects of everyday monastic life. They combine a topographic view from ground level with bird’seye and top views. Set in dialogue with the text, apart from their documentary value, these sketches shed light on a distinctive ‘way of seeing’ which reflects Barskij’s pious yet critical approach, that mixture of humble devotion and inquisitive spirit characteristic of eighteenth-century Orthodox Enlightenment scholars. They reveal a gaze suspended between place and space; between old sacred topographies and modern visual enquiry. Keywords: Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij, Mount Athos, pilgrimage, topography, Christian Orthodoxy The life of Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij (1701–1747) can be described as a long pilgrimage – and in much more than a metaphorical sense. Barskij was born into a rich merchant family from Kiev in 1701. He studied theology at the Kiev Moyhla Academy, the leading center for higher education in the Slavic world at that time, but never completed his degree. At the age of 22 he left his studies, his family, and his country. He returned home twenty-four years later, and died just one month later. During those twenty-four years, Barskij traversed on foot what are today Poland, Hungary, Austria, Italy, Greece, the Holy Land, Cyprus, Egypt, Lebanon, Syria, and Romania (Fig. 1); he perfected his Latin; he learned Greek; he received the monastic habit; and he pr­oduced a manuscript of more than 500 folios of detailed accounts and some 150 drawings of views and plans of remarkable places and buildings that he saw.1 1 The accounts, known as ‘The Travels of Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij in the Holy Lands of the East’, survive in the autograph manuscript of 503 folios, which includes some 150 drawings. The manuscript is preserved at the Akademiia Nauk Archive, Kiev, No. 1062. The manuscript was first published in a highly Veronica della Dora, Royal Holloway University of London, Department of Geography, Egham TW20 0EX, United Kingdom, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-012

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Fig. 1: Map of Barskij’s journeys (1723–1747); cartography by Malcolm Kelsey.

Owing to their extreme, almost obsessive, detail, Barskij’s accounts have been generally valued as precious historical sources on monastic and secular life in the Orthodox East.2 Likewise, and for the same reason, his drawings are usually appreciated abridged and corrupted edition in 1778 and was reprinted in 1785, 1793, 1800, and 1819. The most accurate published edition is: Nikolaj Barsukov (ed.), Stranstvovaniia Vasil’ia Grigorovicha-Barskago po sviatym mestamvostoka s 1723 po 1747 g., St Petersburg 1885–1887, 4 vols. Most of Barskij’s work remains untranslated from Slavonic. The most significant effort to date has been made by the architect Pavlos Mylonas and his successors, which has resulted in a Greek translation and critical edition of Barskij’s journeys to Mount Athos: Pavlos Mylonas (ed.), Βασίλη Γκρηγκορόβιτζ Μπάρσκι: τα ταξίδια του στο Άγιον Όρος, 1725–26 και 1744–45, Thessaloniki 2009. All the translations from this text in the following pages are mine. 2 Barskij’s accounts and sketches are in many instances either our earliest or, sometimes our only, records for the original appearance of Byzantine buildings and/or for buildings that no longer exist, especially in Greece and Cyprus. For example, his detailed drawing of Hosios Loukas and its accompanying

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for their architectural accuracy in an age before photography.3 This chapter engages Barskij’s textual and visual representations less as accurate historical documents and more as ‘windows’ on his perceptions of place and space and as reflections of his extraordinary multifaceted personality. Barskij has been variously described by scholars as a devout Orthodox faithful and a ‘pedestrian traveler’,4 as a pious pilgrim and as some sort of Enlightenment explorer,5 as an ‘ambulant scholar’ and a passionate antiquarian,6 as a skilled artist and ‘cultural geographer of his time’,7 and even as a philosopher.8 To say that he was a bit of all of these things is not an overstatement. As the epitaph on his gravestone reads, […] Listening to divine inspiration, For over twenty years he walked from country to country. On the land and at sea he endured many sufferings And everything he saw he paid careful attention to. […] The depth of the ravines and the height of known mountains He measured with his footsteps and with his span.9

annotations have been invaluable for conservators and art historians trying to determine the original eleventh-century iconographic program that was severely damaged during the following century; Ale­ xander Grishin, A Byzantine Pilgrim. Bars’kyj’s Manuscript and Its Real and Imagined Audiences, in: Gregory Kratzmann (ed.), Imagination, Books and Community in Medieval Europe, Melbourne 2009, pp. 145–151, here p. 147. Examples of the use of Barskij’s descriptions as sources for archaeological information include: Doula Mouriki, Stylistic Trends in Monumental Painting of Greece during the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 34/35 (1980/81), pp. 77–124; David Winfield/ Cyril Mango, The Church of the Panagia tou Arakos, Lagoudera. First Preliminary Report, 1968, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 23/24 (1969/70), pp. 377–380; Cyril Mango/ Ernest Hawkins/ Susan Boyd, The Monastery of St. Chrysostomos at Koutsovendis (Cyprus) and Its Wall Paintings. Part I, Description, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 44 (1990), pp. 63–94; Cyril Mango, Notes on Byzantine Monuments, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 23/24 (1969/70), pp. 369–375; Cyril Mango/ Ernest Hawkins, Report on Field Work in Istanbul and Cyprus, 1962–1963, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 18 (1964), pp. 319–340; Anatole Frolow, La date des mosaïques de Daphni, in: Revue Archéologique 2 (1962), pp. 183–208. 3 Graham Speake, Mount Athos. Renewal in Paradise, New Haven, London 2002, p. 132. 4 Alexander Grishin, Bars’kyj and the Orthodox Community, in: Michael Angold (ed.), The Cambridge History of Christianity, Cambridge 2006, pp. 210–228; Sergej Bushuiev, Russian Travellers to the Greek World. 12th–First Half of the 19th Century, Moscow 1995, p. 12. 5 Katerina Kolesnyk, The Strategies of Self-Representation in the Travel Notes of Vasyl HryhorovychBars’ky. Unpublished MA dissertation at the Central European University, Budapest 2014. 6 Ihor Sevcenko, Ukraine between East and West, in: Harvard Ukrainian Studies 16 (1992), pp. 174–183, here p. 182. 7 Panagiotēs Doukellis, Aπό την φυσική και την θρησκευτική γεωγραφία στα μοναστηριακά τοπία. Bασίλι-Γκρηγκόροβιτς Μπάρσκι, in: 1st International Conference Η Κύπρος στο σταυροδρόμι των αναζητήσεων χαρτογράφων και περιηγητών από τον 15ο έως τον 20ο αιώνα, Sylvia Ioannou Foundation, Athens 2012. Podcast available at: http://www.sylviaioannoufoundation.org/ (8.8.2015). 8 http://infokava.com/travel/10617-pervyy-ukrainskiy-puteshestvennik-vasiliy-grigorovich-barskiy. html (8.8.2015). 9 Vassilij Grigorovich Mparski, Βασίλη Γκρηγκορόβιτζ Μπάρσκι: τα ταξίδια του στο Άγιον Όρος, 1725–26 και 1744–45, ed. Paulos Mylonas, Thessaloniki 2009, p. 110.

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On the one hand, moved by piety, ‘Barskij-the-pilgrim’ journeyed and ‘mapped’ his journeys through old, well-established sacred topographies. Living mostly on alms, he moved horizontally through an extensive network of shrines, monasteries, and ecclesiastical schools. On the other hand, ‘Barskij-the-curious-enquirer’ surveyed the land and its antiquities (it is no accident that his journeys did not begin from the Holy Land and the conventional sites of Orthodox pilgrimage, but from Italy).10 His vision was grounded in first-hand observation, in careful examination, in measurement – in an Enlightenment ‘optics of truth’.11 Piety and curiosity coexisted in a creative tension, and it was this tension that set Barskij in motion – on a continuous march toward an ever-shifting horizon. Piety and curiosity were typical of an early eighteenth-century Russia caught between Orthodox tradition and new forms of scientific investigation, Western education, and secular travel encouraged by Peter the Great’s reforms and increased exchange with Western institutions and scholars.12 Unlike Western forms of radical Enlightenment (such as, e.g., the French), the Russian Orthodox Enlightenment blended faith and critical enquiry, and it reconciled “reason and revelation, science and religion, human autonomy and divine providence.”13 More characteristically, it was about spiritual self-enlightenment and personal moral progress, even more than political and social change. Education was part of this process and, as such, it was framed within religious faith: although pedagogically necessary, the study of secular subjects was deemed futile if confined to itself. As Metropolitan Platon of Moscow wrote later in the century, “without prayer and piety all human endeavours are empty.”14 Blended in the same discourse and culture, piety and curiosity nonetheless entailed different ways of seeing, perceiving, imagining, and representing space. This

10 Bushuiev (note 4), p. 13. 11 Matthew Edney, Reconsidering Enlightenment Geography and Map Making. Renaissance, Mapping, Archive, in: David Livingstone/ Charles Withers (eds.), Geography and Enlightenment, Chicago 1999, pp. 165–198, here p. 178. 12 Yuri Slezkine, Naturalists versus Nations. Eighteenth-century Russian Scholars Confront Ethnic Diversity, in: Representations 1 (1994), pp. 170–195. 13 Elise Wirtschafter, Religion and Enlightenment in Catherinian Russia. The Teachings of Metropolitan Platon, DeKalb/ IL 2013, p. 5. This blend was, of course, not unique to the Orthodox ­Enlightenment: there was, for example, a distinctive ‘Protestant Enlightenment’ in which English Calvinists particularly became involved. Other forms of ‘soft’ or ‘moderate’ European Enlightenments, which sought to reconcile pietism and rationalism, included the German Aufklärung and the Scottish Enlightenment; see, e.g., John Robertson, The Case for the Enlightenment: Scotland and Naples 1680–1760, Cambridge, 2005. The Orthodox Enlightenment nonetheless incorporated beliefs and acceptance of religious practices that made it distinctive from its Western counterparts (e.g., its concern with the illumination of the human soul before anything else and the existence and veneration of wonderworking icons). 14 Quoted in ibid., p. 42. For a fuller contextualization of Barskij’s work and life within the tradition of the Orthodox Enlightenment, see Veronica della Dora, Light and Sight: Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij, Mount Athos, and the Geographies of Eighteenth-century Orthodox Enlightenment, in: Journal of Historical Geography 53 (2016), pp. 86–103.

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chapter explores the dialectic between these ways of seeing – of Barskij-the-pilgrim and of Barskij-the-enquirer. I do so by focusing on his visits to Mount Athos, a mountainous peninsula in northern Greece and the Holy Mountain of Orthodoxy since the tenth century. Barskij’s two visits were undertaken almost two decades apart (on his way to and on his way back from the Holy Land), and thus marked different stages in his process of ‘enlightenment’. The first visit was guided by a mixture of curiosity and devotion, whereas the second was underpinned by a didactic tone and moralizing mission, which is reflected in the inclusion of edifying tales, as well as in a higher level of detail, critical analysis, and, not least, in the inclusion of drawings. Athos was an obvious destination for Barskij. It has been suggested that he was attracted by the Church of the origins, that is, by a form of pure Christianity, perhaps in response to Peter the Great’s reforms.15 Athos and its twenty Byzantine monasteries provided him with a living fragment of that world. Ironically, however, the conceptual and representational instruments Barskij used to discover, appropriate, and portray this world were largely those of Western modernity. By setting Barskij’s images in dialogue with his texts, in the following pages I explore these representational techniques and how they intertwined with non-Western ways of seeing, perceiving, and portraying space. The first part of the chapter sets Barskij’s visits to Mount Athos in the context of ­eighteenth-century Ottoman rule, a time of financial distress, which nonetheless resulted in the emergence of the Holy Mountain as an international pilgrimage destination. The following three sections focus on the techniques Barskij used to represent space: the sequential topographical account from ground level; the bird’s-eye view, whereby the monasteries were captured from imaginary elevated viewpoints; and, finally, the simultaneous top view employed in ground plans. A blend of elements of traditionally distinctive visual cultures (the Byzantine and the modern Western), in Barskij’s work not only did these techniques complement each other, but they often intersected creating hybrid spatial representations. As such, his sketches mapped on and at the same time contributed to a broader pan-Orthodox visual culture.

Barskij on Mount Athos Barskij visited the Holy Mountain at the outset of his journeys (in 1725–1726) and toward their end (in 1744). A monastic center protected by the Byzantine emperors since the ninth century, Athos became part of the Ottoman Empire in 1423, after the capture of Thessalonica. Even though over the following five centuries the peninsula preserved a relative autonomy and central administration in exchange for the regular payment of a 15 Grishin maintains that Barskij’s detailed descriptions of liturgical ritual, church furnishings, and the organization of the Greek Orthodox Church were meant as “a contribution to the purification and preservation of the Orthodox tradition both in Ukraine and Russia”; Grishin (note 4), p. 226.

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fee to the Ottoman central government, periods of prosperity alternated with periods of financial distress.16 In particular, throughout the eighteenth century taxation grew so heavy that it repeatedly drove many of the monasteries to the edge of bankruptcy. Their survival depended on the monks’ manual labor and, increasingly, on donations on the part of the Orthodox faithful and the rulers of Moldo-Wallachia and, later, of Russia. Barskij recorded these difficult circumstances in both of his accounts. On his first journey he was struck by the monks’ hard physical labor (a key motif in most of his drawings): Trust me, dear reader, as I honestly tell you that our Russia could not endure very long here […], except for those who wish to mimic Job in his patience. Because in our country the monks live in peace and abundance like the saints in paradise. They have no worry other than their salvation, because the monasteries have their own fields and servants who supply them with everything. [By contrast,] on Mt Athos there is nothing like that. The monks pour their sweat day and night. During the day they work the land, they look after the vines, they sow the grain on which they live, whereas at night they take care of their salvation. For this reason the Russians leave quickly, because they are not used to work the land. There is no other way one could survive here, because it is only through [such hard] work that the monks can afford to pay the Turks […] they give them a lot of money in order not to be chased away.17

Laboring on the land, however, was not sufficient. “Regardless of whether [the monks] have any income or not,” Barskij observed, “the Turks will collect [the tax] and […] sometimes, besides the tax to the Porte, either through deceitfulness or violence, they will take extra-money out of the monks.”18 In order to attract donations, the monks undertook long alms-begging missions to often distant lands. They took miraculous icons and relics from the Holy Mountain on procession, offered spiritual support to local populations, and, of course, sought to raise funds for their impoverished foundations.19 On his second visit, almost twenty years later, Barskij observed how in most of the monasteries he visited many of the monks were away on such missions: Hence, because they have no other way to get money, through God’s grace [the monasteries] seek help from the Christian faithful and send monks to different countries all over the world with [fragments of] the Holy Cross and relics of the saints, in groups of two or three, depending on the distance of the city, the number of its inhabitants, and how many of them are Christian. […] Were [these monks] not sent abroad, the monastery would perish very quickly, as they would not have a single seed to eat.20

16 Speake (note 3), pp. 120–121. 17 Mparski (note 9), p. 148. 18 Mparski (note 9), p. 148. 19 Maria Theocarēs, Church Embroidery, in: Manolēs Chatzidakēs (ed.), Treasures of Mount Athos, Thessaloniki 1997, pp. 441–446; Sōtērēs Kadas, Το Άγιον Όρος τα μοναστήρια και οι θησαυροί τους, Athens 1980, repr. 1998, p. 15; Elenē Aggelomatē-Tsougarakē, Το φαινόμενο της ζητείας κατά τη Μεταβυζαντινή περίοδο, in: Theodosēs Pylarinos (ed.), Ιόνιος λόγος, Corfu 2007, pp. 247–293. 20 Mparski (note 9), pp. 266–267.

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The increase in the number of these expeditions further spread the fame of Athos throughout the Orthodox world and helped to attract pilgrims from beyond the Ottoman Empire, Barskij being among them. On his first journey, he visited Athos as a poor student en route to the Holy Land – as a sort of ‘pilgrim-in-becoming’. Pressed by the arrival of winter, he spent a very short time in the monasteries (with the exception of the Russian monastery of Saint Panteleimon, where he stayed a month, waiting for the spring). The second time, he visited as a Greek-speaking monastic, as an experienced traveler, and as an accomplished sketcher and scholar – as an ‘Orthodox Enlightener’. At that point he spent several days in each monastery, did not shy away from theological discussions with the monks, and “had the permission to examine everything in detail.”21 The shift is reflected in the style and format of the resulting accounts. Those of the first journey are short, are not illustrated, and tend to follow the anecdotal pattern of the Russian khozdenia, an early genre of diaristic accounts of pilgrimage. By contrast, the descriptions produced during his second visit in 1744 are far more extensive, detailed, systematic, and analytical.22 As Barskij moved along on his journey and through life, his eye became more and more critical and his authorial voice betrays increasing self-confidence. Local traditions and hagiographic tales were integrated and critically assessed in the light of empirical or textual evidence.23 If in the early accounts he aimed to satisfy the curiosity of an imaginary audience keen on new places and adventures, in the later ones he wanted to educate and edify that very audience. In the accounts of his second journey to Athos, Barskij also included topographic sketches of the twenty Athonite monasteries, which represent the apotheosis of his artistic production as far as accuracy and technical sophistication are concerned.24 As he wrote, “I was allowed […] to describe everything [in each monastery] not only in words, but also through detailed graphic representations of their exteriors and their surroundings, as one sees them from nearby and from afar.”25 The result was, in Geōrgios Athanasiadēs’s words, “many pictures in one: a densely textured inscription; a display of important things; a promotion of minor and humble things; an exercise of patience; repetitions that do not bore us; unexpected encounters”.26

21 Ibid., p. 216. 22 Grishin (note 4). 23 Common formulae are: “as I read on an old parchment manuscript”; “I found [this account] in the library [of the monastery] in an old parchment book”; Mparski (note 9), pp. 221, 572. 24 Seventeen out of these twenty sketches are extant. 25 Mparski (note 9), p. 216. 26 Geōrgios Athanasiadēs, Σχεδιαστική αφήγηση του Άθωνα (ή παρατηρώντας προσεκτικά τον Βασίλιο Γρ. Μπάρσκυ), in: Sōtērēs Athanasiadēs (ed.), Οδοιπορικό στο Άγιον Όρος, Thessaloniki 1999, pp. 88–96, here p. 96.

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Barskij’s journeys to and through Mount Athos are themselves microjourneys within his lifelong journey; they are travels during which the peninsula and its monasteries were experienced, imagined, and represented in different, yet intertwined, ways: first, topographically from ground level as a sequence of places, or stations; second, from imaginary elevated viewpoints; and, finally, through a totalizing ­God’s-eye view. It is to these three ‘ways of seeing’ and experiencing Athos that I now turn.

Topography Pilgrimage and topography are intrinsically linked to one another. Orthodox Christian pilgrims moved over the land through a sequence of stations and stops to venerate relics and icons at each of them. Whereas the Latin word peregrinus indicates the wanderer per agra (through the fields) and thus places special emphasis on the journey, the Greek word proskynēma, by contrast, indicates the act of bowing down before a relic or an icon, and what lies between one shrine and the next does not really matter. In Annemarie Weyl Carr’s words: [M]ore than one who travelled, the Byzantine pilgrim was a proskynētēs, one who venerated; the critical movement was over the threshold of access to the one venerated. The space claimed was one less of distance than of presence. Though possible as a metaphor, the journey as such seems to have played a fairly small role in the imaginative terminology of Byzantine pilgrimage, while access and the craving for it played a large one.27

This is still true in the Greek Orthodox world: it does not matter whether the shrine is reached by foot or by car; what does really matter is the act of veneration at the shrine.28 In the Russian tradition, by contrast, the physical journey occupied an important place in the pilgrim’s experience (in this sense, it was closer to the Western peregrinatio than to the Greek proskynēma). Through the hardships experienced along the way the pilgrim underwent a process of spiritual growth. “The pilgrim marches, either for the sake of a vow or by his own will, for his salvation,” Barskij wrote: He visits the Holy Sites and he bows down before the feet of our Lord Jesus Christ and the relics of the saints. Such should be the virtuous life that leads to the forgiveness of sin. For this reason, while the traveler can die unexpectedly, I believe, not only is he not denied the kingdom of God,

27 Annemarie Weyl Carr, Icons and the Object of Pilgrimage in Middle Byzantine Constantinople, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 56 (2002), pp. 75–92, here p. 76. 28 René Gothóni, Tales and Truth. Pilgrimage on Mount Athos Past and Present, Helsinki 1994.

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but he receives the crown of martyrdom through illnesses, through the hardships, the heat, the rain, the snow, as by his will, he walks to death for God’s sake.29

In his own accounts, Barskij thus placed strong emphasis on both the act of veneration – “as I arrived [at the monastery] I first went to the church and duly venerated the holy icons”30 – and on the embodied experience of travel, of walking from one place to the next. In the account of his first visit to Athos, the rugged pathway leading to the mountain and connecting the monasteries became a site for adventurous anecdotes (e.g., a brigands’ assault as Barskij lost his way while approaching the peninsula, or an unexpected encounter with demon-looking goats as he climbed to the top of the mountain). It was also the site of physical endurance, of repentance, and of spiritual transformation: I then started from the promontory towards the sea, desiring to get on the shore, because I saw the tall cone of Athos in the distance, but could not find the pathway. Walking along the shore where possible, now going up and now going down, I tortured myself the whole day and I spoilt not only my second pair of sandals, but also my clothes and my arms and my legs amidst the rocks and the branches. I was very thirsty and hungry, but I continually thanked God for all he was doing to me.31

Unlike for the Greek proskynētēs, the landscape and the pathway occupy a central place in Barskij’s experience. In spite of differences, in both the Greek and the Russian traditions, the pilgrim’s journey remained one that was articulated through a network of shrines. In both cases, space was perceived as a sequence of places. Moreover, in both cases, the pilgrim’s gaze remained one from ground level focused on the final destination, the heavenly Jerusalem. Barskij’s accounts of his journeys to Athos were modeled on the structure of pre-existing proskynētaria – or pilgrim’s travel guides. The first Greek Orthodox proskynētaria were developed in the seventeenth century and focused on the holy sites of Palestine. They were in manuscript and were often enriched with schematic color drawings of the principal shrines.32 Later versions covered nonbiblical sites (including Mount Athos and the Meteora), came in print, and usually consisted of text alone. In spite of these stylistic differences, all proskynētaria could be defined as ‘textual maps’ akin to ancient itineraries. They recorded shrines, such as churches and monasteries, in the sequence in which they were (or were to be) encountered by the pilgrim, and included lists of relics and icons to be found at each of them.33 The

29 Mparski (note 9), p. 72. 30 Mparski (note 9), p. 131. 31 Mparski (note 9), p. 128. 32 Sōtērēs Kadas, Οι Άγιοι Τόποι: εικονογραφημένα προσκυνητάρια, 17–18 ου αι, Athens 1998. 33 Rehav Rubin, Greek-Orthodox Maps of Jerusalem from the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, in: e-Perimetron 8 (2013), pp. 106–132.

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following verses from a poem opening the first Mount Athos proskynētarion,34 which was originally published in 1701 and which Barskij used on his journeys, provide a good example of this topographic perception of space: Whoever wishes to visit Mount Athos, To see it and tour it around, Let him read this, and then set off. […] Go and venerate everything […] As you walk out of Lavra, go to Karakalon And by the evening, if you wish, go to Philotheon And from there, as you walk down, go to Iveron. Venerate there as well, and then go around Thank our Lady the Portaitissa, And venerate [her miraculous icon] With zeal and piousness.35

This proskynētarion was composed by Ioannēs Komnēnos, a Greek doctor who was also an astrologist in the service of Prince Constantin Brancovan of Moldo-Walachia.36 It was intended as a compendium for his patron and for all the “pious Orthodox Christians,” as well as a ‘must have’ for the prospective pilgrim to Athos. The short rhymed verses of the opening poem suggest rapid transitions from one station to the next. The poem invited the pilgrim to venerate the icons and relics in each monastery and then quickly move on to the next one, without really paying attention to what was in between them. His was a sort of ‘collection of the maximum number of blessings’ in the shortest time possible. It was a spiritual marathon. The rhythm slowed down in the pages that followed, as Komnēnos introduced the reader to the individual monasteries. For each of them, Komnēnos provided a brief topographical description, historical information, a list of relics, and accounts of miracles. Nonetheless his journey remained a sequential trek through places – a topographic journey, an itinerary.

34 Proskynētarion of the Holy Mountain of Athos, written and printed under the most serene rule of the most pious, illumined and highest autocrat and ruler of all Hungro-Wallachia sir sir John Constantine Bassaraba Voeovoda; dedicated to his eminence sir sir Theodosios, Metropolitan of HungroWallachia, with the zeal and expenditure of the most eminent doctor sir John Komnēnos, in order to give grace the to pious [Orthodox Christians] for the salvation of their souls. Printed in the monastery of Snagov by hieromonk Anthimos from Iberia: Ioannēs Komnēnos, Προσκυνητάριον του Αγίου Όρους του Άθωνος, Venice 1701, repr. 1745 (my translation). 35 Ὅποιος θέλει βουληθῇ, νὰ πᾷ νὰ προσκυνήσῃ | Τὸ Ἅγιον Ὄρος νὰ ἰδῇ καὶ νὰ τὸ τριγυρίσῃ | Ἄς διαβάσῃ τὸ παρὸν, ἔπειτα νὰ κινήσῃ. | Να προσκυνήσης άπαντα ... | Από την Λαύραν σαν βγης, να πας στον Καρακάλον | Και εως βράδυ εάν ποθείς, να πας στον Φιλοθέον. | Και απ’εκεί σαν κατέβεις, να πας εις την Ιβήρων, | Να προσκυνήσεις κι εκεί, είτα να πάς τριγύρω. | Κυράν την Πορταίτισσαν, να την ευχαριστήσεις, | Με πόθον κι ευλάβειαν, και να την προσκινήσεις (Komnēnos 1745[1701], my translation). 36 Athanasios Karathanasēs, Οι Έλληνες λόγοι στην Βλαχία (1670–1714), Thessaloniki 1982, pp. 186–195.

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Barskij adopted similar narrative patterns in his two accounts. In both of them the text took the reader on a circuit through Athos’ twenty monasteries (Fig. 2a and 2b), and in the first account he did it in the shortest time possible: “I promised the Lord that I would visit all the monasteries on the Mountain. […] Nowhere did I procrastinate, as I wanted to visit all the monasteries quickly […]. I feared that with the arrival of winter I would not be able to see all the monasteries.”37 As with Komnēnos, Barskij used the monasteries as narrative containers. To the basic information provided in the proskynētarion (whose validity he checked constantly), however, Barskij added obsessively detailed topographic and architectural descriptions, along with all sorts of other information: the origins of their names, legends, and traditions associated with them; the numbers of monks, their nationality, their daily occupations, their rituals; the location of the monastery, the types of plants and surrounding terrain – all complemented by long catalogues of relics and chrysobulls.38 The monasteries served as ‘containers’ for people, objects, and stories in a fashion reminiscent of Renaissance isolarii, or island books. Isolarii were books that featured a map of an island on each page accompanied by all sorts of information, including notes on the island’s history, its topography, customs, legends, and curiosities (Fig. 3).39 A naturally self-contained space, the island gave coherence to all of this (often disparate) information. Thus the reader was taken on a sequential journey through ­self-contained units – through places. This spatial tradition can be traced all the way back to Homer’s ‘Odyssey’ and Ulysses’s island-hopping at the edges of the inhabited world, as well as to Strabo’s chorographic writing. In both cases, the narrative was articulated as a succession of ‘containers’ of features with memorable characteristics, and space was experienced as a sequence of places: from the sky-scraping cliffs in the land of the giant Laestrygonians and Circe’s abode in the dark wooded glens40 to the idiōmata tēs chōras (the properties, peculiarities, or remarkable features of a region) and local differences (diaphoras topōn) in Strabo’s accounts.41 Mount Athos, a mountainous peninsula secluded from the rest of the world, was the ideal entity for chorographic description – the cartographic space par excellence. In fact, Athos was traditionally included in island books and represented as an island or as a “quasi-island” tenuously connected to the mainland through a thin neck of 37 Mparski (note 9), pp. 128, 141. 38 Chrysobulls, or golden bulls, were decrees issued by Byzantine emperors. 39 George Tolias, Isolarii, Fifteenth to Seventeenth Century, in: David Woodward (ed.), The History of Cartography, vol. 3, 1: Cartography in the European Renaissance, Chicago, London 2007, pp. 263–284; Frank Lestringant, Îles, in: Monique Pelletier (ed.), Géographie du monde au Moyen Age et à la Renaissance, Paris 1989, pp. 165–167. 40 Homer, Odyssey, transl. Robert Fagles, New York 1996, Book 10, vv. 56–102 and 133–347, pp. 233, 238. 41 Strabo 1.16, 1.22, 1.14, quoted in Christian Passen, The Classical Tradition of Geography, Groningen 1957, p. 17; see also Daniela Dueck/ Hugh Lindsay/ Sarah Pothecary (eds.), Strabo’s Cultural Geography. The Making of a Kolossourgia, Cambridge 2005.

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Fig.2a and 2b: Maps of Barskij’s journeys to Athos (1725–1726 and 1744); cartography by Malcolm Kelsey.

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Fig. 2a and 2b (continued).

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Fig. 3: Cristoforo Buondelmonti, Liber Insularum Archipelagi, c. 1430, featuring Mount Athos as an Island (on the right); Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, Lat. X.215.

land42 (Fig. 3). Thus Barskij made no exception in writing: “when you see it from the sea, Athos gives you the impression of being an island.”43 In his account, however, Athos does not feature solely as an insular space, but rather as a container of selfenclosed ‘insular’ spaces – the monasteries. Barskij called Athos a “small country” in which the monasteries are “like cities.”44 Captured in his sketches from a bird’s-eye perspective, the monasteries appear as serene self-contained and self-sufficient microcosms embedded in verdant surroundings – as islands on the land or as islands suspended between the land and the sea. The insular effect is created by the high walls of the monasteries and is at times reinforced by the local topography. In the sketches of the monasteries of Esphigmenou and Zographou, for example, insularity is highlighted by the curvature of the land (Figs. 4 and 5), whereas in the case of Gregoriou, it is created by its odd physical location (Fig. 6). “This monastery,” Barskij wrote, “is built on a hard and solid rock which stretches from the mountain down into the sea like a hand or a tongue. It rises above the sea surface for five or six sazens, or more. In winter the waves batter this 42 Veronica della Dora, Mapping a Holy Quasi-Island. Mount Athos on Early Renaissance Isolarii, in: Imago Mundi 60:2 (2008), pp. 139–165. 43 Mparski (note 9), p. 129. 44 Mparski (note 9), p. 152.

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rock producing a tremendous noise and their sprays reach up to the walls of the monastery.”45 Barskij described Athos’ twenty monasteries as sequential self-enclosed worlds in miniature, as with the islands in the isolarii. The difference, however, was that whereas isolarii uncritically mixed fact and hearsay, Barskij’s descriptions and sketches were based on first-hand observation – on direct sight, on clear vision. First-person observation served as a form of authentication. Barskij constantly reminded his readers that he saw this or that with his own eyes, and the stranger his descriptions and stories, the higher the concentration of these formulae. When it comes to miraculous objects, such as wonderworking icons of the Mother of God – icons that bled and were still bearing the scar, or icons that turned their faces or changed their postures – sight was complemented by touch: “All these things,” Barskij wrote, “I saw with my own eyes and I kissed with my sinful lips.”46 Other times, taste intervened as well: In front of the entrance of [Gregoriou’s] arsanas47 there is an eternal landmark, a giant rock. It is square and tall like a tower […] [you believe it is] the work of human hands. However, it is has been placed there by nature: either it fell from the mountain in the distant past, or the soft mud was led astray around it. […] In one of its cracks a huge fig tree sprang up and people climb it to get its fruit. I saw and ate of this fruit. What an unusual and wondrous phenomenon! Were it the work of human hands, the tree would not grow on this hard and dry rock. […] Since human hands could not move the rock because of its weight, nor could they break it because of its hardness, they just let it there as a rare phenomenon for the marvel of those who see it.48

Knowledge was measured through observation. Authority was conveyed through direct experience and therefore was literally ‘embodied’ by the pilgrim. Barskij’s goal was to bring places before his readers’ eyes, which, of course, can be linked to a much older tradition of pilgrims’ topographic writings. For example, the fourth-century Spanish nun Egeria was just as insistent on ‘having seen’ the sites of the Bible “with her own eyes.” The goal of the accounts of her pilgrimage to the Holy Land and Sinai was to help her Sisters who had remained home better memorize Scripture through mental spatial visualization – through topography.49 In the twelfth century, Abbot Daniel of Kiev used a similar narrative strategy:

45 Mparski (note 9), p. 530. 46 Mparski (note 9), p. 138; my emphasis. 47 The arsanas is the monastery’s dock or a small harbor. 48 Mparski (note 9), p. 534; my emphasis. 49 Egeria’s Travels, transl. John Wilkinson, Oxford 2006, Eg., 5.8: “I know it has been rather a long business writing down all these places one after the other and it makes far too much to remember. But it may help you, loving sisters, better picture what happened in these places when you read the Books of holy Moses.”

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Fig. 4: Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij, Esphigmenou monastery, 1744; Akademiia Nauk Archive, Kiev, No. 1062.

Fig. 5: Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij, Zographou monastery, 1744; Akademiia Nauk Archive, Kiev, No. 1062.

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Fig. 6: Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij, Grēgoriou monastery, 1744; Akademiia Nauk Archive, Kiev, No. 1062. And by the grace of God I arrived in the Holy Land safe and secure and I saw with my own eyes those holy places where the feet of our Blessed Lord trod and where he performed his wonders. My sinful eyes took in all of this and over many days the Lord allowed me to see things I longed to behold.50

Like Barskij, these early pilgrims stressed that they saw everything with their own eyes. They wanted their readers to experience those sites, if only imaginatively, so they adopted narrative devices that would convey the immediate experience of the places: “one must put down only what the traveler himself has experienced, what he saw with his own eyes […]; one must write without intricacies, in a simple manner, creating small stand-alone sketches and outlines and grouping them together in a whole work either on a chronographic or topographic and spatial basis.”51 Hence, besides constantly reminding the reader that they ‘saw’ things, these premodern pilgrims repeatedly addressed the reader in the second person. Barskij inherited these strategies, but he also went far beyond them. He did not simply transcribe information, but he constantly tested its reliability. On various

50 Quoted in Paul Steeves, The Modern Encyclopedia of Religions in Russia and the Soviet Union, vol. 6, Gulf Breeze/ FL 1988, p. 216. 51 Quoted in Bushuiev (note 4), p. 7.

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occasions, for example, he questioned and reported inaccuracies that he encountered in Komnēnos’s proskynētarion based on his first-hand experience of Athos and his own observations.52 Barskij literally walked the reader by hand through landscapes and monastic compounds using such formulae as: “now let’s walk out of the monastery and take a look at its surroundings”, or “here ends the western slope of Athos: let’s go and see the other ten monasteries.”53 He zoomed in and out between the fine detail and the distant horizon. He scrutinized geological formations, plants, and marble with the eye of the naturalist and the antiquarian. He measured objects, churches, and distances. He paid close attention not just to the sacred, but to everything he deemed beautiful or curious, or just worthy of notice. Interestingly, Barskij also embedded his physical presence not only in the text, but also in his drawings (Figs. 7 and 8). The custom was not unusual among contemporary mapmakers. For example, amid the lavish landscapes of Joseph Liesganieg’s monumental map of Galicia and Lodomeria (decorated by the artist Franz Anton Maulbertsch) one can spot the surveyor at work with his two young assistants (Fig. 9). Whereas the three of them surveyed the land with strings and scientific devices, Barskij did so with his footsteps, that is, through his own body, as did the pilgrims of old.54 Barskij’s depictions of himself within his topographic drawings are the visual equivalents of the ‘I-saw-with-my-eyes’ formulae. His presence is always diminutive, if not marginal. It is meant to validate his own experience without distracting the viewer (Fig. 7). Furthermore, most of the time, he portrayed himself on the move, as a perpetual wanderer (Fig. 8). Paradoxically, walking, a deeply bodily experience, granted him detachment. It was a form of xeniteia – or ascetic self-exile. By giving up home, the pilgrim aspired to make heaven his home, and in working his way to heaven he took a distance from earthly affairs and put his own life into perspective.

Perspective Athos’ monasteries provided Barskij not only with effective narrative containers, but also with objects for graphic spatial experimentation. The monastic buildings were captured from impossible vantage points in order to show the reader as much detail as possible in a ‘transparent’, ‘objective’ way. For example, the monastery of Simonopetra was portrayed from an imaginary spot above the sea (Fig. 10). We are presented

52 Mparski (note 9), p. 395. 53 Mparski (note 9), pp. 243, 440. 54 Zur Shalev, Christian Pilgrimage and Firma Measurement in Jerusalem, in: Micrologus 19 (2011), pp. 131–150.

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Figs. 7 and 8: Barskij embedded himself in his drawings. Details from the sketches of Ivērōn and Docheiariou; Akademiia Nauk Archive, Kiev, No. 1062.

with a distanced view of the monastery and its dramatic topography of steep ravines, winding pathways, and spectacular terraced cultivations. At the same time, however, we are also drawn into the picture; we are invited to follow Barskij as he approaches the monastery from the top of the ridge, or as he walks up and down the zig-zagging pathway to the arsanas. As on Byzantine icons (and in late Western medieval painting), different moments in time are conflated in the same scene. A first glance conveys the impression that the drawing is, as Barskij suggested, an accurate ‘snapshot’: the sun provides not only orientation in space, but also in time, signaling the moment of the day in which the drawing was executed. However, the presence of the pilgrim walking up and down

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Fig. 9: Detail from Joseph Liesganieg’s map of Galicia and Lodomeria, decorated by Franz Anton Maulbertsch; Royal Holloway University of London Library.

the slope suggests that it is a representation of different moments in time; the pilgrim ascends and descends the slope, just as Christ and his disciples ascend and descend Mount Tabor before and after his transfiguration on Theophanes the Greek’s icon (Fig. 11). In both cases, time is mapped onto space. Time is turned into space. The high oblique view nonetheless allows detachment and clear vision. It offers the viewer a chance to gaze into the monastic compound. The wide angle encompasses its surroundings, which include other buildings belonging to the monastery. It also allows the viewer to follow the monks in their daily activities, such as cultivating the land or fishing. Image and text are meant to work together. For example, consider the following passage from Barskij’s description of Xenophontos: In front of the entrance is a garden with various vegetables and fruit-bearing trees, as well as a tall cypress. Here is a small chapel and a cell for the gardener and a second, smaller, cypress. A third cypress is found inside the monastery, behind the church.55

Such detailed topographic descriptions allowed readers to construct accurate mental maps of the monasteries. At the same time, the accompanying sketches (Fig. 12) 55 Mparski (note 9), pp. 478–479.

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Fig. 10: Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij, View of the monastery of Simonopetra (1744); Akademiia Nauk Archive, Kiev, No. 1062.

helped them to visualize and locate all of the elements in space: the cypresses, the small chapel, the garden and its vegetables, the cell for the gardener, and so on. The drawing served the function of a ‘three-dimensional map’ and was a powerful mnemonic tool. Words turned into images and images into words. Barskij’s bird’s-eye views were based on observations taken on the spot and re-elaborated in his mind in a fashion akin to the views of the holy sites in earlier

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Fig. 11: Theophanes the Greek, Transfiguration, 14th century; © State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.

Greek Holy Land proskynētaria and Western pilgrims’ guidebooks (with which Barskij probably became familiar during his extended pilgrimages in Palestine). His goal was explicitly to help the reader ‘better understand’ the objects of his descriptions. “I saw all these things well and I present them to the keen reader as I sketched them on

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Fig. 12: Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij, Xenophontos monastery, 1744; Akademiia Nauk Archive, Kiev, No. 1062.

paper from North-West,”56 he wrote at Esphigmenou. “In order to further facilitate you, […] here I present you with a sketch I made from South-West encompassing all the surrounding area. […] The southern side is slightly warped, hence I found it difficult to make [the sketch]”,57 he explained to his readers when describing the Serbian monastery of Hiliandar. He noted how he “sketched the monastery [Lavra] with all its beauties from North-West to show you the most important things in it.”58 Or again, he explained how “Koutloumoussi monastery has equilateral walls, as you can see in the accurate drawing made by myself on paper from North-West.”59 Drawings appear where Barskij considered that words alone were not sufficient to provide explanations or to capture the sense of place. It was perhaps not a case that he started to sketch during his first visit to the Holy Land; it was as though the overwhelming encounter with those sites generated the need for an extra-vocabulary to describe them.60 The bird’s eye view allows ordering, visual mastery, and appropriation. In this sense, Barskij’s views performed a function akin to that of the panoramas sketched by

56 Mparski (note 9), p. 413, my emphasis. 57 Mparski (note 9), p. 421. 58 Mparski (note 9), p. 222. 59 Mparski (note 9), p. 356. 60 Barskij’s first drawing, of Jaffa, which dates to 1726, that is, three years after he left home.

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Western Enlightenment travelers and scientists, or of modern tourists’ photographs of scenery – they allowed the traveler to make sense of and ‘collect’ the world.61 Verisimilitude and graphic precision were key to the exercise. The year after his second visit to Athos, as he was sketching the monasteries of Meteora on their inaccessible rocky pillars, Barskij begged forgiveness from the readers of the future generations, “if you discover lines that are not straight in my drawings. I traced them with a trembling hand.”62 Barskij’s gaze was anchored in Western perspectival conventions; it was a detached gaze from above on a microcosm in flux. The word perspective comes from perspicere, to ‘see through’, but also to ‘see clearly’.63 Only by ‘seeing clearly’ can the reader fully understand Barskij’s textual descriptions. Perspectival conventions, however, are usually broken by his human figures (the monks), who always appear disproportionately large (Fig. 7). Here linear perspective gives way to the ‘psychological’ perspective of Byzantine icons, whereby the sizes of the human figures correspond to their significance, rather than to their position in space. Important figures are depicted quite large, followed by images of decreasing size reflecting a sliding scale of social and/or sacred significance. On Barski’s sketches, smallest of all, is his marginal figure – the diminutive figure of the humble pilgrim.

The God’s-Eye View When it came to illustrating the dynamics of liturgical ritual and other aspects of monastic routine, Barskij switched perspective. From the bird’s-eye view, he turned to an animated ground plan. On the plan of the main church of the monastery of Lavra (Fig. 13), for example, key features and key actors are numbered, captioned, and dynamically ‘mapped’ so that, as Barskij noted, the reader “can better understand my account, seeing the church as in a mirror.”64 As with the bird’s-eye views of the monastery, here we are offered a synoptic God-eye’s view or, rather, a combination of multiple views and moments in time. We are invited to wander through space and time and to follow the monks in their rituals. In the text, Barskij explained how the beautiful marble floors of the church are decorated in colored patterns, which have a practical function: they help the monks know exactly where they have to stand in the different parts of the service (so that the church itself becomes a three-dimensional map). He explained:

61 Susan Sontag, On Photography, New York 1977. 62 Athanasiadēs (note 26), p. 96. 63 Denis Cosgrove, Prospect, Perspective and the Evolution of the Landscape Idea, in: Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 10 (1985), pp. 45–62. 64 Mparski (note 9), p. 277.

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Fig. 13: Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij, Explanatory plan of church services featuring the katholikon of Great Lavra, 1744; Akademiia Nauk Archive, Kiev, No. 1062. the deacon stands afar when he reads the Gospel, farther from the centre of the main nave […]. The ektenis takes place in front of the Royal Door, whereas the Apostle is read on another spot, […] and in another spot the verses ‘Blessed is the man’ are pronounced, and yet in another spot the tone is announced, and elsewhere the Psalms are read.65 65 Mparski (note 9), p. 297.

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Likewise, in a ground plan of the refectory of Lavra (Fig. 14), the monks were sketched from different angles as they processed out of the refectory and performed their various duties. Tables were numbered according to the rank of their users (n. 1 was the table of the abbot, n. 2 was the table of the vice-abbots, n. 3 was the table of the priests, n. 4 was the table of the deacons, etc.). Barskij explained that he had “sketched the place and arrangement of the refectory as seen from above, so that one

Fig. 14: Vasilij Grigorovich Barskij, Plan of the refectory of Lavra, 1744; Akademiia Nauk Archive, Kiev, No. 1062.

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can see everything that happens [there].”66 Text and drawing once again complement each other. The text provided detail; the sketch allowed the reader to locate detail in space; space was animated through performance. Barskij was attracted by totalizing, cartographic views. On an elevated spot near the Church of Saint John Chrysostom (above the cemetery of Lavra), he became enthusiastic when he realized that “facing East, you can see, very beautifully, the entire monastery and its surroundings and the Aegean with its islands in a distance, as if you were holding them in the palm of your hand.”67 Likewise, from the skēte68 of Saint Anna he delighted in looking out into the sea: “despite of the great height, the sea looks close to your eyes,” he noted.69 In contrast, as he ascended the cone of Athos, Barskij was disappointed at first that he “could not see distant landscapes, as [he] had wished. […] The fog was so thick that I marched in the darkness, and I couldn’t see ahead of me for more than a stone’s throw and I could barely see the path.” On the mountaintop, as the wind dispelled the clouds, he was finally able to see the whole peninsula unfold under his feet like a giant map featuring: [B]eautiful thick forests and the many monasteries and skētes and cells and huts in different places here and there, all beautiful. I also saw the perennial snows hidden in the crevices and in the ravines. I could not see far in the sea because of the clouds, but they say that on a clear day one gets to see Constantinople, Thessalonica and the whole Aegean up to three-hundred miles. From the joy, I played the sēmandron [in the small chapel on the top of the mountain] and threw some stones down to hear their strange thud. I remained on the mountain three or four hours.70

Seeing the view from the mountaintop was a sort of epiphany for Barskij; it was a moment of almost completely clear vision through which he was finally able to apprehend and survey the whole peninsula. However, once on the summit, he did not attempt a sketch from above. Rather, he imaginatively split the mountain into two slopes in order to portray “all its monasteries for a better understanding.”71 That sketch is lost to us, but it must have been similar to (or indeed inspired by) the drawing featured in Komnēnos’s proskynētarion, where the eastern and western slopes of Athos are portrayed separately and all the monasteries are shown (Fig. 15). 66 Mparski (note 9), p. 273. 67 Mparski (note 9), p. 248; my italics. 68 Skēte are monastic communities that live separately from Athos’ twenty ruling monasteries, but are each subordinated to one of them. 69 Mparski (note 9), p. 253. 70 Mparski (note 9), pp. 258–259. Sēmandron is a long wooden or metal bar rhythmically struck with a hammer or mallet by Athonite and other Orthodox monks to call the congregation to a service. Under the Ottoman rule, it replaced the forbidden bells. 71 Mparski (note 9), p. 219: “Because I could not sketch the Mountain as a whole, because of its different aspect, and because on [both] its slopes are different monasteries and sketes, I present it to you ‘double-faced’ here on the paper, dear reader, for a better understanding; that is, separately, as it looks from the East and from the West.”

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Fig. 15: Views of the western and eastern slopes of Athos from Ioannēs Komnēnos, Προσκυνητάριον του Αγίου Όρους του Άθωνος, Venice 1701, repr. 1745; British Library; British Library Board. All rights reserved [868.d.9.G.7300].

The two slopes would have provided visual summaries of Barskij’s sequential narration – “here ends the first side of Athos. Let’s go and see the other ten monasteries.”72 By displaying the same place from two different angles, the sketch would have provided pilgrims and armchair-pilgrims alike with a synoptic map for general orientation on the peninsula. As with the plans of the church and refectory of Lavra, it would have empowered the reader with the God’s view that is found in Byzantine icons, a vision that is “simultaneous and thus view-pointless, i.e., things are not seen from a certain point of view but, potentially, from all possible viewpoints at once.”73

72 Mparski (note 9), p. 440. 73 Clemena Antonova, Space, time, and presence in the icon. Seeing the world with the eyes of God, Farnham, Burlington/ VT 2010, p. 103.

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Barskij was not the only one who took inspiration from Komnēnos’s views of Athos. The image also influenced the authors of large engravings in which the two slopes were set in front of each other forming spectacular 360-degree panoramas of the peninsula. The Athonite monks commissioned these engravings from famous typographic centers traditionally linked to large Greek communities in such cities as Venice and Vienna (later they were produced locally).74 The earliest of them was executed in 1707 by the Venetian Alessandro dalla Via (Fig. 16). The engraver used Komnēnos’s God’s-eye view as a layout, filled it with elaborate iconographic patterns drawn on similar engravings of Mount Sinai, and accompanied it with a trilingual translation of the introductory verses from Komnēnos’s proskynētarion inviting the prospective pilgrim to take a journey through the peninsula and its spiritual treasures: O glory be unto our Lord Whom all of us adore, Pray He grant us right-thinking so we may tell our tale. Whoever harbors the desire Should go on pilgrimage to see the Holy Mountain and to make the round of it. For if your wish is to enjoy an earthly paradise, Then to the Holy Mountain go and marvel at it all. You learn the meaning of virtue and find contentment there in reading good books and prayer, in chant and vigils kept. There’re relics there of holy men and tomes supremely wise And wonder-working icons too, and cells of hermit monks. Abandon then the mundane world and all its tumults flee, To Athos, Holy Mountain, go, live holily in God. Thus win salvation of the soul that flows from God Himself; So shall you with the blest possess the theocratic land. It is inhabited throughout by many thousands monks, Some of them in coenobia and some as anchorites. And such of you as haven’t gone to see what Athos holds, Go all of you with willing grace and make due pilgrimage. If you are pious and devout and wish your soul be saved, Then venerate there and look round at other things besides: The caves, the hermits and their cells and the sketes, The relic of Saint Anne preserved inside a reliquary.

Like Sinai’s Stairway of Repentance, on dalla Via’s engraving Mount Athos turned into a celestial ladder taking the viewer from a turbulent sea infested by monstrous creatures and pirates toward the kingdom of heaven.75

74 Spyros Staikos, Τα τυπωμένα στη Βιέννη Ελληνικά βιβλία, 1749–1800, Palaio Psychiko 1995, p. xxvi; Geōrgios Tolias, Αθωνική ιερή χαρτογραφία, in: Evaggelos Livieratos (ed.), ΄Ορους Άθω γης θαλάσσης περίμετρον χαρτών μεταμορφώσεις, Thessaloniki 2002, pp. 145–180. 75 Veronica della Dora, Imagining Mount Athos. Visions of a Holy Place from Homer to the Second World War, Charlottesville 2011, pp. 95–101.

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Fig. 16: Alessandro dalla Via, General View of Mount Athos, Venice, 1707; Graphic Arts Collection, Firestone Library, Princeton University. The two slopes are set in front of each other, offering a paratactic 360-degree view of the mountain peninsula and its monasteries.

Representations such as this were used by the monks of Sinai, Athos, and later of Meteora as ‘advertising brochures’ during their alms-begging missions and were bestowed on potential benefactors and on prospective pilgrims as blessings.76 Engravings featuring detailed plans of the monasteries surrounded by saints and miracles served as ‘visual pedigrees’. They enabled the viewers to conjure up a monastic foundation in their mind’s eye, while serving as effective visual aids to illustrate the monks’ tales and thus persuade prospective benefactors to help ensure the survival of their foundations.77 Likewise, engravings featuring general views of Mount Athos, such as dalla Via’s, allowed prospective pilgrims to undertake a short visual pre-pilgrimage within the engraving’s surface and appreciate the uniqueness of Athos as a whole.78 In a way, Barskij’s accounts served a function similar to these engravings. Not only did they allow distant nonpilgrims or prospective pilgrims to undertake an 76 Veronica della Dora, Mapping Pathways to Heaven. A Topographical Engraving of Meteora (1782), in: Imago Mundi 65:2 (2013), pp. 215–231; Dōrē Papastratou, Ο Σιναίτης Χατζηκυριάκης εκ χώρας Βούρλα. γράμματα, ξυλογραφίες 1688–1709, Athens 1981. 77 Dōrē Papastratou, Paper Icons. Greek Orthodox Religious Engraving, 1665–1899, Athens 1990, 2 vols. 78 This was part of a long tradition of virtual travel going back at least to Cassiodorus in the Christian West.

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armchair pilgrimage from the comfort of their town, but they were also designed to benefit the monasteries. As Barskij explicitly stated: I have written all these things so that those who read and listen get moved, praise the Mother of God, and give alms to this and the other monasteries, so that the monks can decently maintain themselves, pray to God for the Christians, and preserve the monasteries and their treasures from generation to generation.79

Conclusions The story of Barskij, perpetual pilgrim, curious observer, and self-enlightener, is the story of an amazing journey that blended Orthodox and modern Western ways of seeing. Barskij walked across the land, and as he walked, he prayed, measured, and described. He surveyed landscapes and scrutinized landforms, buildings, and anti­ quities with the eye of the curious antiquarian and critical enquirer. He transcribed legends and inscriptions; he critically assessed his sources; he questioned what he saw with a mix of curiosity, empiricism, and rationalism. He carefully recorded rituals and local costumes in the best Western ethnographic tradition. At the same time, however, unlike Western European travelers to the Levant, his was not the cold gaze of an outsider, but that of a compassionate insider sharing with his hosts the spiritual joys of liturgical life, as well as their sorrows. On his second visit to the monastery of Xenophontos, his heart broke as he found the monastery sunken in debt and inhabited by only three monks: I tried to comfort them in their sorrow as much as I could; I told them to be patient under the Turkish yoke and not to abandon this amazing monastery until God will provide. […] I was consumed by sadness seeing this beautiful monastery receive no help from anywhere. The only comfort was the thought that, through Divine Providence, some compassionate Christians might have mercy of them.80

Barskij’s story should be contextualized within the intellectual and spiritual framework of Russian Orthodox Enlightenment, as well as within the social and cultural framework of a pan-Orthodox world outweighing the locale, a cosmopolitan network of clergymen and donors, merchants and diplomats, and scholars and artists moving within and beyond the fluid boundaries of the Ottoman Empire. Within this network, Barskij featured as a pedestrian link between Russia and the Greek-speaking world, as well as between the Orthodox world and the West. His narrative and multifocal visual strategies reflect his itinerant state of ‘in-betweenness’ and his multifaceted 79 Mparski (note 9), p. 403. 80 Mparski (note 9), pp. 483–484.

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personality. Altogether, his sketches linger between space and place; between old sacred topographies and Enlightenment visual enquiry. Perhaps more intriguingly, they linger between sight and the geographical imagination – the capacity to picture in one’s mind places the eye cannot reach or cannot grasp in their fullness. Barskij fits and yet at the same time transcends any attempt at categorization. The pilgrim, the curious enquirer, and the Enlightener coexist. Moreover, this coexistence is reflected in the coexistence and intertwining of different ways of experiencing, imagining, and representing space: from ground level as a topographic sequence of places walked by the pilgrim; from a bird’s-eye perspective as a geometrical dimension surveyed by the curious enquirer; through a simultaneous God’s-eye view mastered by the Enlightener. Through his own insider-outsider’s perspective Barskij set his audience at a distance, but his ultimate goal was to transport his readers into the places that he saw and help to transform them. In his sketches he achieved this through a combination of Western and Byzantine spatial conventions; in his text he did it through the use of second person and his compassionate insights. Barskij wrote to educate his readers, to open their eyes on distant worlds, to cultivate their piousness – to enlighten them. Sometimes he also wrote to move them to send alms to the impoverished monasteries of Athos. Ultimately, however, he wrote, or so he claims, for the benefit of his own soul: When I was testing myself in my studies in Kiev I could never imagine I would travel to distant lands [...] and venerate the holy sites, and see and describe beautiful buildings and monasteries, church rituals, and the deeds of many virtuous men, and other remarkable things. […] I have described everything for the Glory and Praise of God and for the benefit of readers and listeners without any other purpose but your prayers over my unworthiness.81

81 Quoted in Kolesnyk (note 5), p. 19.

Part IV: Word and Images

Larry Silver

Antwerp Civic Self-Portraits Abstract: Early modern civic identity often took the form of large-scale city map prints, usually consisting of multiple sheets. Antwerp followed the prior examples of Florence and Venice and joined later sixteenth-century maps of Augsburg, Cologne, Nuremberg, and rival Bruges in asserting her prominence and pride. The city employed two principal forms of self-representation: a panorama of her skyline, punctuated by principal towers, as seen from a riverside approach or a bird’s-eye view that permitted a survey of principal streets and squares. This increasing attention to accurately mapped urban details corresponded to prose encomia of Antwerp by contemporary visitors, such as Lodovico Guicciardini (1567), and it heralded the assertiveness in both prose and city views of seventeenth-century Dutch cities. Keywords: Antwerp, city views, multi-sheet prints, bird’s-eye views, skyline views Of all the pleasures offered by the delightful and ingenious [art of] painting, none do I esteem more than the depiction of places. Anton van den Wyngaerde (1552)1

Antwerp’s Cartographic Cultural Translation In an anonymous, extended woodcut frieze dated 1515, the city of Antwerp issued its own skyline profile view (Fig. 1).2 This civic panorama (sole copy in Antwerp Stadsarchief; 12 blocks; 2.2  m × 53  cm tall) prominently features a scroll hovering above the city’s most striking skyline feature: the tower of the Church of Our Lady. That printed inscription reads ANTVERPIA MERCATORUM EMPORIUM (“Antwerp, market

1 Inscribed on the artist’s etched panorama of Genoa, Stockholm, Kungliga Bibliotheket, 1553; quoted by Juergen Schulz, Jacopo de’ Barbari’s View of Venice: Map Making, City Views, and Moralized Geography before the Year 1500, in: Art Bulletin 60 (1978), p. 472, n. 162, fig. 36. See the forthcoming volume by Jelle de Rock, The Image of the City in the Low Countries (1400–1600). Representations of Urbanity from Early Netherlandish Painting to Sixteenth-Century Printed Town View, Turnhout, in press. 2 Adrien J. J. Delen, Iconographie van Antwerpen, Brussels 1930, pp. 19–22, no. 11, plate 5; Jan van der Stock, Antwerp. Story of a Metropolis, exh. cat., Antwerp 1993, p. 154, no. 9, which suggests that the date of 1515 might refer to an event rather than the date of execution of the panorama. Unique surviving example, Antwerp, Stedelijk Prentenkabinet. Larry Silver, University of Pennsylvania, 3405 Woodland Walk, Philadelphia, PA 19104-6208, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-013

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Fig. 1: Anonymous, View of Antwerp, 1515, woodcut in twelve blocks, width: 2.2 m.

of ­merchants”).3 Other major building towers also bear labels, ending at the far right with the southernmost skyline features, the tower of St. Michael’s Abbey and the Cronenburch. Near its center the panorama includes the city wharf with its massive crane surrounded by deposited cargo of barrels and bales. The cloudy sky above this Antwerp skyline features Mercury, the god of trade, at left, holding his caduceus along with a pair of gold sacks in his hand; he plays a flute, recalling his soporific music performance to lull many-eyed Argus to sleep, and he wears his distinctive winged cap. At right hovers crowned Vertumnus, god of transformation (representing the seasons) and of gardens; he holds a fruit basket in his hand to signal the fecundity of produce in the commercial center of the busy port, owing to close links with its hinterland.4 Ships on the Scheldt include Venetian oared galleys with tents in their sterns as well as masted sailing vessels, showing a vast economic reach to both the Mediterranean

3 Carl Depauw, in: Van der Stock (note 2), p. 154, no. 9. By taking as fully documentary all elements of the woodcut, Depauw questions the inscribed 1515 date: first, because the completed north tower of the Church of Our Lady was not completed until 1521; second, because in the period 1508–1518 trade with Venice was suspended. However, there is nothing to prevent an artist from presenting a tower imagined as already completed (as Quinten Massys did on the exterior of his Brussels altarpiece of the Holy Kinship, completed and inscribed with its date in 1509), and to stress an earlier (or anticipated later) heyday of international trade through the exotic ships of faraway Venice. 4 The figure of Mercury is based not on a strictly orthodox representation of the god, as per Jacopo de’ Barbari, but rather based on the figure as represented in a 1463 set of Italian Tarocchi, also appropriated by Hans Burgkmair for his set of Planets (c. 1510). See Horst Appuhn, Zur Ikonographie der Riesenholzschnitte in Deutschland und den Niederlanden, in: Horst Appuhn/ Christian von Heusinger (eds.), Riesenholzschnitte und Papiertapeten der Renaissance, Unterschneidheim 1976, pp. 39–55, esp. 45.

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as well as the Atlantic (and thus anticipating the series of ten ships prints in the early 1560s by Pieter Bruegel, issued by Hieronymus Cock).5 At the far left a shipbuilding area, akin to the Arsenal in Venice, is described in terms that suggest a potential pilgrimage purpose: “Here ships are made that travel to Jerusalem, and others too” (hier maect men schepe die tot Jerusalem vare en andere oec).6 A large sailing vessel with a high forecastle floats on the water below the figure of Vertumnus; it bears a label that says that it comes from Jerusalem (dits tschip dat van Jherusalem comt).7 Antwerp legend also appears in the city view; for example, a tiny figure with a sword appears on a tower above the wharf near the Vleeshuis is captioned with the note, “this is the castle where Antigonus the giant lived.”8 Thus in this earliest self-portrait the city of Antwerp clearly asserts her mercantile prosperity, its magnificent buildings, its eponymous history, and in general its own pride. Here truly local assertion grows out of sophisticated, cosmopolitan awareness of recent pictorial inventions of city views in the woodcut medium, particularly in representing a ­mercantile 5 Nadine Orenstein (ed.), Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Drawings and Prints, exh. cat., New York 2001, pp. 212–218, nos. 89–94; Joris van Grieken/ Ger Luijten/ Jan van der Stock, Hieronymus Cock. The Renaissance in Print, exh. cat., Leuven, Paris 2013, pp. 368–375, nos. 101–102. 6 Both Depauw (note 3), p. 154, and Delen (note 2), p. 20, surmise that the Jerusalem reference indicates the ships of Dirk van Paesschen, whose caravel sailed to the Holy Land on pilgrimage after 1517 before being assailed by Ottoman Turks a decade later. 7 Jan Grieten/ Paul Huvenne, Antwerp Portrayed, in: van der Stock (note 2), pp. 69–77, identify this ship specifically as the property of captain-owner Dierick Van Paesschen, citing Roger Degryse, De Palastinaschepen van Dierick van Paesschen (1511–1521), in: Mededelingen van de Marine Academie 23 (1973/75), pp. 15–45. 8 Depauw (note 3), p. 154, no. 9: dits de burch daer Antigonus de Ruese te wonen plach.

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port. Inevitably such visual adaptation implies translation into the p ­ articulars of the local Antwerp idiom, but such a work also establishes a cultural link with the other, earlier municipal depictions. In the process, Antwerp asserted herself as a prominent urban player in contemporary Europe. A more modest (33 × 90 cm) aerial view of Antwerp from the west appeared shortly afterward as a bird’s-eye presentation, laid out horizontally on two engraved sheets and inscribed Antwerpia in Brabantia (ca. 1524–1528; Amsterdam, Rijksprentenkabinet, unique impression).9 Once more the cathedral tower provides the main vertical accent, just to the left of the center join of the sheets, while the main city streets recede outward from the river in the foreground to the old city walls and towers (rebuilt after 1542 according to designs by the Italian military engineer Donato Boni de Pellizuoli). The overall impression of the city emerges from its layout of those city streets. These proud urban self-portraits – one mural sized, the other a folio suitable for an album – did not emerge fully formed from nowhere. Just before the turn of the sixteenth century, both Germany and Italy produced urban views, some of them oversized composite prints that surpassed the limits of a single-sheet page size and the width of a printing press. By joining adjacent sheets to provide an expanded field for viewing, both engravings and woodcuts provided a wider vista for friezes and p ­ anoramas.10 From these print aggregates emerged one principal form of portraying a city: a profile city view or veduta shows how a traveler approaches the city, e­ specially from the water. This representation, especially appropriate for a port city such as Antwerp, features the skyline from ground level and emphasizes city prestige and beauty through its towers – churches, city halls, and other built landmarks that break the horizon. Antwerp’s 1515 city panorama was not the first image of its type, as we shall see below. In fact the Scheldt port was actively emulating a few prominent models, chiefly from German presses, in a spirit of confident competition. Such cultural adaptation provided a proud assertion of the city’s cultural (and economic) coming-of-age, something symbolized just as powerfully by Our Lady’s tower at the center of the image. Stephen Campbell and Stephen Milner define artistic cultural translation in Renaissance Italy in terms of how “a self-consciously distinct group […] articulates itself in relation to another in an act of self-definition which may involve an assimilation and refashioning of an ‘other’”.11 They emphasize the distance between ­cultures 9 Van der Stock (note 2), p. 158, no. 11. 10 Larry Silver, Triumphs and Travesties: Printed Processions of the Sixteenth Century, in: Larry Silver/ Elizabeth Wyckoff (eds.), Grand Scale: Monumental Prints in the Age of Dürer and Titian, exh. cat., Wellesley 2008, pp. 15–32. The only previous discussion of this phenomenon, limited to woodcuts, is Appuhn (note 4), pp. 39–55. 11 Stephen Campbell/ Stephen Milner (eds.), Artistic Exchange and Cultural Translation in the ­Italian Renaissance City, Cambridge/ MA 2004, pp. 1–2; among the publications they cite: James ­Clifford, The Translation of Cultures: Maurice Leenhardt’s Evangelism, New Caledonia 1902–1926, in: Robert Con Davis/ Ronald Schleifer (eds.), Contemporary Literary Criticism: Literary and ­Cultural Studies, New York 1994; Sanford Budick/ Wolfgang Iser (eds.), The Translatability of ­Cultures:

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and the awareness of differences, which then produce cultural homologies, that is, formations, often with variant appearances, that derive from a shared historical model or common ancestry.12 For locally generated images of cities, however, instead of cultural contrast or resistance to a dominant model, one might better recognize rivalry, urban competition, cultural as well as economic and political, when various cities sequentially adopted city view formulas across the long sixteenth century. Precisely that similarity of representation, marked by the distinctive local skyline and its unique appearance provided the appropriate visible means to suggest parity and importance in comparison to any peers for a major European city. Antwerp continued to generate these self-portraits across the sixteenth century, sometimes on a large scale for mural display, by adopting existing formulas from abroad. This essay charts Antwerp’s principal early printed civic map contributions, while noting how Antwerp city views interacted with their wider European counterparts as a form of competitive cultural translation in the sense of Campbell and Milner.13 The larger claim here, paradoxically, is that Antwerp’s very assertion of its own unique identity actually resulted from that very process of adaptation from abroad of pre-­existing formulas, which together point to the contemporary sixteenth-century cultural importance of independent, self-governing cities across sixteenth-century Europe. Those precedents can be seen as indicating both economic and political claims to autonomy and greatness by various regional cities – usually prosperous ports.14 Thus, as Antwerp translated both the forms and the meanings of such city views in order to show the Scheldt metropolis in all her own distinctive appearance and significance, by virtue of this very appropriation, Antwerp participated in a ‘decentered’ Renaissance, defined by Peter Burke as “a movement which coexisted and interacted with other movements and indeed with other cultures in a process of permanent cultural exchange across geographical, social, and chronological ­boundaries”.15 ­ igurations of the Space Between, Stanford 1996; Heide Ziegler (ed.), The Translatability of Cultures, F Proceedings of the Fifth Stuttgart Seminar in Cultural Studies, Stuttgart, Weimar 1998. 12 For the biological definition, Michael Ruse/ Joseph Travis (eds.), Evolution. The First Four Billion Years, Cambridge/ MA 2009, pp. 636–638. The classic biological homology is the relation between bird or bat wings and human arms. 13 Limited scholarship about city views includes the principal overview, Lucia Nuti, Ritratti di Città. Visione e memoria tra Medioevo e Settecento, Venice 1996; also Lucia Nuti, The Perspective Plan in the Sixteenth Century: The Invention of a Representational Language, in: Art Bulletin 76 (1994), pp. 1­ 05–128­; Hilary Ballon/ David Friedman, Portraying the City in Early Modern Europe, in: David ­Woodward (ed.), The History of Cartography, vol. 3,1: Cartography in the European Renaissance, ­Chicago, London 2007, pp. 680–704. Sketchy but useful: James Elliot, The City in Maps. Urban ­Mapping to 1900, London 1987; Naomi Miller, Mapping Cities, exh. cat., Boston 2000. For Germany only, Wolfgang Behringer/ Bernd Roeck (eds.), Das Bild der Stadt in der Neuzeit 1400–1800, Munich 1999. 14 For port cities as a type, including early representations, Wolfgang Braunfels, Urban Design in Western Europe. Regime and Architecture 900–1900, Chicago 1988, pp. 78–109. 15 Peter Burke, Decentering the Renaissance, in: Stephen Milner (ed.), At the Margins: Minority Groups in Premodern Italy, Minneapolis 2005, pp. 36–49.

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Fig. 2: Erhard Reuwich, View of Venice, 1486, woodcut in four blocks, width: 162 cm, From Pilgrimage to the Holy Land, by Bernhard von Breydenbach.

Printed City Views in Germany and Antwerp Antwerp’s woodcut civic self-portrait freely blends elements from the earlier printed design precedents showing Venice by both Erhard Reuwich and Jacopo de’ Barbari. The oldest printed city views as oversized woodcut images appeared as expansive horizontal illustrations in a 1486 German book ‘Peregrenatio in terram sanctam’ (Mainz, 1486; “Pilgrimage to the Holy Land”) by the Mainz canon Bernhard von ­Breydenbach.16 Dutch designer Erhard Reuwich, who accompanied von Breydenbach on the journey, illustrated this report; in particular, he included four composite woodcuts of cities that extend to four times the width of the book, so that they had to be inserted as foldouts.17 The view of Venice (Fig. 2), whence the pilgrims began their ocean voyage to the Levant, was printed from four woodblocks (each 26  cm high), measuring a full 162 cm in width. With its slight elevation, Reuwich’s view of Venice enables a viewer to behold background mountains and the lagoon expanse around the city. But essentially it already shows a skyline view of the city. The Reuwich Venice map also features principal building landmarks, clearly labeled at top center on a massive scroll. Near the center stand both the city campanile and a labeled Doge’s Palace, backed by the five domes of San Marco’s, also identified on a banderole. The island of Giudecca at left is balanced at right by a massive carrack under construction at the Arsenal. 16 Elizabeth Ross, Inventing the View – Reinventing the Book. A Netherlandish Painter’s Pilgrimage from Venice to Jerusalem, University Park/ PA, 2014; Frederike Timm, Der Palästina-Pilgerbericht des Bernhard von Breidenbach und die Holzschnitte Erhard Reuwichs, Stuttgart 2006, pp. 121–194, 357–359, asserts that Reuwich probably used a lost ‘retracto di Venetia’ by Jacopo Bellini with architectural illustrations. 17 For debates about whether Reuwich can be identified with the intaglio producer of drypoints known as the Master of the Amsterdam Cabinet or with the draftsman known as the Housebook ­Master, Daniel Hess, Meister um das ‘Mittelalterliche Hausbuch’, Mainz 1994, pp. 35–37.

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­Additionally, city vitality is suggested by varied foreground watercraft, including a large, oared civic barge. Breydenbach’s seven map-like presentations of major pilgrimage sites include: Parenzo, Corfu, Modon, Candia (Crete), Rhodes, and finally the destination, J­ erusalem (centered on the Dome of the Rock and Temple Mount but placed within its wider region). These images were the first woodcuts to focus on topographically accurate renderings, their purpose documentary, to mark the pilgrimage stops rather than to celebrate these sites as urban settings through skyline views, but no other city view is as detailed a description as the view of Venice. Several years after Breydenbach’s ‘Peregrinatio’, Hartmann Schedel’s ‘‘Weltchronik’’ (“World Chronicle”) of 1493 in Nuremberg adopted this same basic panorama principle to lay out almost all of its thirty-two city views, usually across the two-page opening of the volume. Cities featured in the world history included Rome, Venice, Constantinople, and Jerusalem, but more careful delineation of local monuments also provided the familiar, local skylines of major German cities, such as Cologne, Strasbourg, Ulm, and Würzburg, inserted into the sequence at the appropriate period of their supposed founding.18 As the greatest illustrated book project during the ­ incunabula era, the ‘Schedelsche Weltchronik’ featured woodcuts designed by ­Albrecht Dürer’s painting master Michael Wolgemut (1434–1519). Its numerous ­two-page ­openings of cities helped propagate the independent skyline city view, as did the smaller Antwerp folio mentioned above.

18 Elisabeth Rücker, Die Schedelsche Weltchronik, Munich 1973, pp. 72–77, 85–131 with the catalogue of city views; Stephan Füssel, Hartmann Schedel Weltchronik, Cologne 2001, pp. 7–37; Adrian Lancaster Wilson/ Joyce Lancaster Wilson, The Making of the Nuremberg Chronicle, Amsterdam 1976.

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Fig. 3: Michael Wolgemut, View of Nuremberg, 1493, hand-colored woodcut, from World Chronicle, by Hartmann Schedel.

The most authentic and careful ‘Weltchronik’ city view, of course, is the profile hometown skyline of Nuremberg itself (Fig. 3).19 Seen from the south, the city’ s imposing walls feature the double-headed eagle of the Holy Roman Empire on the city gate, in order to signal Nuremberg’s proud status as an independent imperial city, politically answerable only to the emperor himself. Across the top of the print appear dominant skyline features: the hilltop castle, or Burg, and the two major church towers, clearly labeled as St. Lorenz and St. Sebald, respectively. As a profile view with overlapping buildings, the ‘Weltchronik’ cannot show the Pegnitz River that separates Nuremberg’s two parish districts and divides the city, even though the stream visibly flows out from under the city walls. Half a century later a rival sixteenth-­century publication, Sebastian Münster’s ‘Cosmographia’ (first published in Basel, 1544; expanded 1550), published as a six-volume work in its fullest edition, emulated Schedel’s earlier work. Münster included sixty-two maps and seventy-four double-page city views (twenty-six from Germany alone).20 Antwerp’s own proud riverside panorama was in turn the inspiration for a long sequence of similar images in Germany by individual cities, the most impressive and 19 Jeffrey Chipps Smith, Imaging and Imagining Nuremberg, in: Arthur Groos/ Hans-Jochen Schiewer/ Markus Stock (eds.), Topographies of the Early Modern City, Göttingen 2008, pp. 17–41, esp. 18–25; Rücker (note 18), pp. 105–110. 20 Matthew McLean, The Cosmographia of Sebastian Münster, Aldershot 2007, esp. pp. 224–233.

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early instance stemming from Cologne (Fig. 4). Because Cologne also lies on the waters of the Rhine River, it could be easily seen from a distance and easily represented in profile. Thus it also was adopted as a skyline representation of unsurpassed detail in a 1531 frieze of nine woodcuts (39 × 350 cm), designed by Anton Woensam of Worms.21 Archdiocese for Antwerp and the entire Netherlands, Cologne was situated upriver, allowing that city to emulate the impressive earlier 1515 woodcut skyline of Antwerp.22 The text below the foreground shore proudly appeals to Cologne’s ancient Roman foundations, like the earlier situation of the city skyline in the ‘Schedelsche Weltchronik’: O FELIX AGRIPPINA NOBILIS ROMANORUM COLONIA. Peter Quentel, printer and publisher, provided this picture with a long inscription on a socle, which reports the history of the city in a song of praise by the goddess of fecundity, Flora, penned by local humanist Hermann von dem Busche; the text also names the printer as well as all the churches of “holy Cologne.” At its beginning stand portraits of Emperor Charles V and his brother Ferdinand, regent of the Holy Roman Empire; thus does Cologne, proud home to its ruling archbishop, one of the seven German electors, also proclaim itself an imperial city. This city map was occasioned by the election at Cologne in January of 1531 of Ferdinand of Austria as king of the Romans, ­heir-apparent to his older brother, the Emperor. Thus while the city proudly proclaimed its own independence, under the rule of its princebishop, it also asserted loyalty to the Holy Roman Empire – at a time of controversy when other German cities were uniting to oppose the Empire as Lutheran affiliates. Like other city panoramas, Cologne’s expanse along the riverbank of the Rhine reveals its sequence of city towers, walls, houses, and its prominent Catholic churches, fully seventy-four of them labeled, highlighted by the unfinished ­cathedral still under construction. Above the skyline, civic patrons hover in the heavens. At left Marcus Agrippa, Roman founder of the city and at right the epic hero Marsilius, both warriors in armor with banners of city heraldry; beside Marsilius hovers the mother of the emperor, Agrippina, whose name the city bore in Roman times. Above the uncompleted cathedral float the three magi, crowned and bearing a banner with their heraldry, whose holy relics were housed in Cologne. Besides their status as Catholic saints, the magi also signify the indulgence that came with the purchase of this largest, most beautiful German city view.23

21 Wolfgang Herborn, Köln, in: Behringer/Roeck (note 13), pp. 256–263; Wolfgang Braunfels, Anton Woensams Kölnprospekt von 1531 in der Geschichte des Sehens, in: Wallraf-Richartz Jahrbuch 22 (1960), pp. 115–136; Schulz (note 1), p. 470. 22 Influence of painting and oak sculpture from the Netherlands routinely passed up to Cologne via the Rhine during the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries: see Till-Holger Borchert, Van Eyck to Dürer. Early Netherlandish Painting and Central Europe 1430–1530, exh. cat., Bruges 2010, esp. pp. 246–275; for sculpture, Barbara Rommé (ed.), Gegen den Strom. Meisterwerke niederrheinischer Bildschnitzkunst in Zeiten der Reformation (1500–1550), exh. cat., Aachen 1997. 23 Frank Günter Zehnder, Die heiligen drei Könige. Darstellung und Verehrung, exh. cat., Cologne 1982, esp. p. 269, no. 230 for Woensam’s city view.

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Fig. 4: Anton Woensam, View of Cologne, 1531, woodcut in nine blocks, width: 6 m.

In 1552 the Nuremberg city council received new images of civic pride in the form of a pair of three-sheet panoramic skylines (30 × 150 cm); however, for the first time among our examples the medium of execution was not woodcuts, but rather finely delineated etchings. Hans Lautensack (Fig. 5) produced these twin expanses of the city as views, one from the east and the other from the west.24 The inscription emphasizes the fidelity of transcription of the city’s appearance; it even uses the same term, Contrafactur, to characterize portraits or life-like representations of biological specimens: “A Truthful Portrait of the Praiseworthy Imperial Town from the East.”25 An artist sketching outdoors is included just above the tablet with Lautensack’s monogram in the center of the trio of sheets; this draftsman is surrounded by a cluster of prosperous fellow-citizens who behold the principal skyline, which unfolds beneath a massive coat of arms within contemporary ornamental strapwork, a popular current framing device for printed texts on maps.26 But the familiar skyline only occupies the center of these three sheets; on either end the fertile, tilled fields of the countryside, located outside labeled city gates, span the seasons, from sowing on the left to harvesting on the right. This imagery provides a vision of the ideal city, connected harmoniously with its countryside, much like the vision represented by Ambrogio Lorenzetti just before the mid-fourteenth century

24 Smith (note 19), pp. 25–28. The artist produced the prints and was rewarded in turn with a generous remuneration, much as Dürer had been recompensed earlier for his Four Holy Men (1526; Alte Pinakothek, Munich); Jeffrey Chipps Smith, Nuremberg. A Renaissance City, 1500–1618, exh. cat., Austin 1983, pp. 254–257, nos. 163–164, with translations of inscriptions. 25 Peter Parshall, Imago contrafacta. Images and Facts in the Northern Renaissance, in: Art History 16 (1993), pp. 57–82; Claudia Swan, Ad vivum, near het leven. From Life: Defining a Mode of Representation, in: Word and Image 11 (1995), pp. 353–372. 26 On strapwork, Rebecca Zorach, Blood, Milk, Ink, Gold. Abundance and Excess in the French Renaissance, Chicago 2005, pp. 142, 147, 155–156.

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on his frescoed walls of the Palazzo Pubblico, Siena.27 On both outer sheets Lautensack frames inscriptions that praise Nuremberg in either Latin or German, with fonts (italic or Fraktur Gothic) appropriate to each language. The end of the Latin text of the eastern view declares (in translation), “Here we have drawn the towers and walls of this city,/ To paint its riches was too great a task”. The western view of Nuremberg presents a similar vision, essentially from behind the main city panorama but also revealing the St. John cemetery at the urban outskirts on the left sheet. In this triad of sheets a central figure of Lautensack appears again; in this case his sketching is observed by an even more intense group of onlookers. Nuremberg does not share the feature of a waterside location as is found in most other multisheet city skyline panoramas, but Lautensack used its open fields as the same kind of flat boundary space to provide foreground for skyline views. In the view from the west, furrowed rows of plowed fields recede to the city at the horizon like great waves. After midcentury, Antwerp quickly followed up Nuremberg’s intaglio profile views by Lautensack with her own intaglio city skyline. In 1557 native son Melchisedech van Hooren engraved and also signed an innovative tripartite set of superimposed Antwerp views on a single sheet, published by Hieronymus Cock at his productive press, Aux Quatre Vents (Fig. 6).28 Within a richly decorated frame with inscriptions, the riverside skyline from the Scheldt, already familiar from the wide 1515 woodcut, appears in the middle strip, with principal towers, the church of Our Lady and the St. Michael’s Abbey, once more labeled. On either side of the center panorama are f­ eatured the new ramparts of the city, built during the 1540s, seen in the view below from the northeast and above from the southeast along the St. George’s gate. Accompanying inscriptions 27 Uta Feldges, Landschaft als topographisches Porträt. Der Wiederbeginn der europäischen Landschaftsmalerei in Siena, Bern 1980; Randolph Starn/ Loren Partridge, Arts of Power. Three Halls of State in Italy, 1300–1600, Berkeley 1992, pp. 52–57. 28 Van Grieken/ Luijten/ van der Stock (note 5), pp. 74–75, no. 2, identifying designer Melchisedech van Hooren as an Antwerp citizen (poorter) and likely a specialist in city views.

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Fig. 5: Hans Lautensack, View of Nuremberg from the East, 1552, 30 × 150 cm.

Fig. 6: Melchisedech van Hooren, Triple View of Antwerp, 1557, etching 34.8 × 46.3 cm.

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tell the city’s founding legend of Brabo, a Roman soldier who cut off the right hand of the giant Antigon and threw it into the Scheldt ­(handwerpen), which (the text claims) led Julius Caesar himself to name the city for that eponymous deed.29 Praise for the city appears in Dutch, but, unusually, also in Latin, French, and Spanish, whose very variety underscores the multinational trading communities that still fostered the city’s prosperity. The print’s title reads: Hier mach een yeghelyck aenschouwen/ Die vernaeemde Coopstadt Antwerpen/ Met haer nieu Poorten en Blockhuisen Muern Wallen en Grachten/ Gheconterfeyt na dleuen duer Melchisedech van hooren/ Met gracie en privilegie D.K.M. Ghegheven 6 jaren. In short, this print purports to provide a true portrait ‘from life’ of the famous merchant city with all of her new ports, walls, and canals, and includes the artist’s claim of imperial privilege for a full six years. As Grieten and Huvenne point out, the hovering putti with palm branches and laurel wreaths confer glory on the city that would normally be reserved for distinguished personages or saints.30 In fact, designer van Hooren had already engraved an Antwerp city view in 1550 (unique surviving copy in Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum) with the same top two views, one of the walls and the other of the riverside skyline, thus anticipating Lautensack’s intaglio profile of Nuremberg by a couple of years.

Rise of Urban Bird’s-Eye Views Emerging Amsterdam issued its own composite, multisheet woodcut self-image as a vertigo-inducing bird’s-eye view. Cornelis Anthoniszoon’s 1544 map of Amsterdam presents a large (109 × 107 cm) perspective vision on twelve woodcut sheets from an impossibly great height.31 A prosperous seaport like Antwerp, Amsterdam sits at the confluence of the Amstel River and the Ij harbor, filled with seagoing vessels. But rather than a panorama, this view features the waterways of river, canals, and harbor. Some major buildings can still be recognized on the Anthonisz map (north is at the bottom): the old city gate, St. Anthonispoort, at the left edge of the city; the Old Church just inside it; and the New Church near the old Town Hall (burned in 1652) at the Dam

29 Original Dutch on the print: Darom dat die vromen capiteyn Brabon de Ruese Antigo kampelijck zijn recht hand af heeft ghesleghen en ghewoerpt inde Scheldt daerom steldend Julius Caesar een Borcht en heeft haren naem Hantwerpen ghegheven. 30 Grieten/ Huvenne (note 7), p. 72. 31 The woodcut was preceded by a 1538 panel, commissioned by the local city government, which placed the work in the City Hall. Christine Megan Armstrong, The Moralizing Prints of Cornelis ­Anthonisz, Princeton 1990, p. 12; Frederik Johannes Dubiez, Cornelis Anthoniszoon van Amsterdam 1507–1553, Amsterdam 1968, pp. 27–35. A later painted view, based on the sixteenth-century panel and woodcut of Anthonisz but showing cast shadows across the city from clouds aloft, was painted just after 1652 by Jan Micker: Ariane van Suchtelen/ Arthur Wheelock Jr., Dutch Cityscapes of the Golden Age, The Hague, Washington 2008, pp. 14–15, 146–149, no. 31.

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Square that gave the city its name. Much of the city, however, was transformed by vast canal expansion during the early seventeenth century.32 In the sky above the city protective Neptune bestrides a cloud and bears the crowned city heraldry on a shield. The bird’s-eye view, a scenic overlook of the city’s layout, depicts streets and principal features – the most significant buildings, waterways, and regional topography. It encourages a beholder to find orientation among these principal features in order to recognize the unique identity of the depicted city. Amsterdam’s image, too, stemmed from an earlier model, also produced by the presses of a German, but one that offered another view of the port of Venice. This first truly elevated bird’s-eye view, a large-scale woodcut mural dated 1500, comprises six enormous oversized sheets. Like Breydenbach’s city woodcuts, it also had a German pedigree, but for a mural ensemble rather than a book: Nuremberg merchant Anton Kolb financed p ­ roduction of this massive, three-meter-wide mural vista, but its Italian designer was Jacopo de’ Barbari (who would soon immigrate to German courts himself).33 According to the archive of the Venice Signoria, Kolb’s view of Venice took three years to make, and it was quite expensive to purchase – three ducats. This city map was constructed to suggest a one-point, highly elevated perspective, though more distant sites tilt upward for clearer viewing. Unlike Reuwich’s view, independent Venice stands fully isolated within her sea waters, akin to medieval boundary walls of other cities. VENETIE MD (“Venice 1500”) in large Roman block letters atop the woodcut clearly designates the subject and suggests civic pride for this greatest, most beautiful, and richest port city of Europe. Mercury, god of commerce, represents city prosperity above; on an axis below, before the ceremonial civic entrance at the Piazza San Marco, Neptune rides a dolphin; the god of the sea signals Venice’s mythic wedding with the surrounding Aegean.34 These chosen deities might well have influenced Antwerp’s use of Mercury and Vertumnus on the 1515 woodcut panorama. De’ Barbari’s work, the first surviving perspectival city view, probably derived from surveyors’ measurements, coordinated together into a composite sketch to represent a godlike viewpoint from the south, high above and beyond the island of San Giorgio. Once again Venice’s adjacent twin centers – religious San Marco and political Doge’s 32 Renée Kistemaker/ Roelof van Gelder, Amsterdam. The Golden Age, New York 1982, esp. pp. 66–67. 33 Bronwen Wilson, The World in Venice. Print, the City, and Early Modern Identity, Toronto, 2005, pp. 23–50; Schulz (note 1), pp. 425–474; Giandomenica Romanelli et al. (eds.), A volo d’uccello. Jacopo de’ Barbari e le rappresentazioni di città nell’ Europea del Rinascimento, exh. cat., Venice 1999; Daniel Hess/ Thomas Eser (eds.), The Early Dürer, exh. cat., Nuremberg 2012, pp. 395–399, no. 93; pp. 400–413, no. 94. 34 On the clouds beneath Mercury a Latin inscription proclaims, “I Mercury shine favorably on this above all other emporia”. Neptune’s inscription appears on an antique tablet beside his trident, “I Neptune reside here, smoothing the waters at this port”. Deborah Howard, Venice as a Dolphin: Further Investigations into Jacopo de’ Barbari’s View of Venice, in: Artibus et Historiae 35 (1997), pp. 101–112, notes that the Barbari image manipulates the shape of the city of Venice into the profile of a dolphin like that of Neptune.

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Palace – appear at its center.35 Nearby islands, Murano, Torcello, and Burano, are clearly located and described. De’ Barbari’s image presents a celebration by La Serenissima of her wealth, magnificence, and distinctive features, both canals and principal sites. A later intaglio bird’s-eye view of Antwerp from the year 1557 is signed by Hieronymus Cock, the publisher of prints after Pieter Bruegel and Frans Floris. It also features the new city walls but from a much more elevated bird’s-eye view, which permitted delineation of the main city streets, from the opposite viewpoint, looking toward the river from the St. George gate.36 This viewpoint, the oldest view of Antwerp from the east, reinforces the importance of the new city walls, and its perspective view would be imitated in the principal bird’s-eye images of the city for the rest of the century. To delineate the political ties of the city, this print also bears the coats of arms of the duchy of Brabant, of Spanish King Philip II, and of the margrave of Antwerp. A woodcut copy of Cock’s view by Pauwels van Overbeke adopts the same point of view and essentials (c. 1566, just prior to the addition after 1568 of the new defensive citadel on Antwerp’s south flank). To that print was added a paste-on supplement strip to update the woodcut and show the new citadel of the Duke of Alba, called the het nieu Casteel ende vermeerderinge (“New Castle and Its Expansions”).37 Actually the supplement (like the imagined completion of the cathedral tower in 1515) was based on drawings for the citadel, whose anticipated completion was only achieved in 1571. That paradigmatic citadel, constructed as a pentagon, was designed by Italian military engineer Francesco Paciotto but demolished in 1577 in political protest against Alba’s tyranny.38 When the city council of Bruges (Fig. 7) commissioned its own large-scale, local city view in 1562, it returned to the example already set by Venice and Augsburg (1521),39 or on the smaller scale of Antwerp’s own Cock and van Overbeke views, and 35 Nuti (note 13), pp. 105–128, esp. 124–125. 36 Van Grieken/ Luijten/ van der Stock (note 5), pp. 72–73, no. 1. Timothy Riggs, Hieronymus Cock. Printmaker and Publisher, New York 1977, p. 287, no. 62, signed and dated. For Cock’s role as a map publisher, ibid., pp. 280–288, nos. 52–62; Wouter Bracke/ Pieter Martens, A New View of the World. The Cartographic and Chorographic Publications of Hieronymus Cock, in: Van Grieken/ Luijten/ van der Stock (note 5), pp. 58–67; ibid., pp. 336–341, nos. 91–93. Riggs, pp. 139–140, suggests that this Antwerp map, executed in the same etching technique as Braun and Hogenberg’s later ­‘Civitates’ (see below note 46), likely shaped the work of etcher Frans Hogenberg, who would collaborate with Georg Braun on that renowned series of volumes of city views. 37 Grieten/ Huvenne (note 7), p. 73, fig. 41. Due to the labor involved in recutting a new woodblock, such plugs or supplements occur more often in that medium than in intaglio. 38 Van der Stock (note 2), pp. 273–274, no. 129. Martha Pollak, Cities at War in Early Modern ­Europe, Cambridge 2010, pp. 12–23, esp. p. 17, notes that the citadel was demolished largely because “the duke of Alba seemed to have built the citadel to protect himself from Antwerp, rather than to protect Antwerp from its enemies”. That construction, however, remained a much-studied model along with its counterpart in Turin by the same designer. 39 Twelve sheets; 81.7 × 190.7  cm, designed by local Augsburg goldsmith Jörg Seld and produced in woodcut by local printmaker Hans Weiditz. Rolf Kiessling/ Peter Plassmeyer, Augsburg, in:

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Fig. 7: Marcus Gheeraerts, Map of Bruges, 1562, etching in ten plates, 100 × 180.5 cm; Bruges, Stedelijke Musea, Steinmetzkabinet.

they opted for a comprehensive aerial view of the circular plan and walls of Bruges. That plan, produced in 1562 in a mural composition of ten engraved plates (1 × 1.80 m) was made by Bruges printmaker Marcus Gheeraerts.40 One year after the initial delivery of the images, a second printing was ordered, with altered inscriptions. This plan in turn was adapted for the book on the region, ‘Descrittione di tutti i Paesi Bassi’ by Lodovico Guicciardini, published 1567 in Antwerp by Willem Silvius.41 Meanwhile, Bruges officials continued to publish versions of the Gheeraerts map until 1762, when additional captions were added for streets and the six administrative districts. Like de’ Barbari’s map of Venice, Gheeraerts’s image of Bruges centers on the main square of the city, where converging streets mark the location of the cloth hall and its towering belfry; just to the left is another square with the city hall, and in the upper right appears the Church of Our Lady with its lofty tower.

Behringer/ Roeck (note 13), pp. 131–137, esp. pp. 133–134; Bruno Bushart (ed.), Welt im Umbruch, exh. cat., Augsburg 1980, pp. 115–116, no. 1; Id. (ed.), Hans Holbein der Ältere und die Kunst der ­Spätgotik, exh. cat., Augsburg 1965, pp. 172–173, no. 222; Schulz (note 1), pp. 468–470, fig. 35. For the artist, Norbert Lieb, Jörg Seld. Goldschmied und Bürger von Augsburg, Munich 1947. 40 Maximiliaan Martens (ed.), Bruges et la Renaissance. Notices, exh. cat., Bruges 1998, pp. 175–176, no. 154; dedicated to Illustrissimo amplissimoque senatus populoque Brugensi by the artist, who identified himself as pictor et sculptor. Originally the commission was extended to an Antwerp artist, ­Willem Silvius. In 1567 the artist applied for a privilege from the region’s rulers in Brussels. 41 Ibid., p. 206, no. 209.

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Fig. 8: Virgilius Bononiensis, Map of Antwerp, 1565, woodcut Antwerp, Stedelijk Prentenkabinet.

Antwerp countered the Bruges city map in 1565 with its own multisheet, elevated bird’s-eye view, ‘Urbs Antverpia’. Close in layout to Cock’s intaglio perspective but much larger (2.60 × 1.20 m), it was executed in the older medium of woodcut (like ­Barbari’s mural of Venice). It forms a true mural, designed by Virgilius Bono­ niensis and printed by Gillis van Diest (unique impression; Antwerp, Stedelijk

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­Prentenkabinet; Fig. 8).42 Like Barbari’s bird’s-eye view of Venice, this woodcut ensemble offers remarkable detail of individual buildings, slightly enlarged in size for clarity, as well as a commanding overview of the entire city. Seen from the land side at the east, it features many labeled buildings, including the major additions to the city around or after midcentury, rendered in elevation. Near the cathedral and its prominent tower stands the new City Hall, designed by Cornelis Floris (ded. 1565), at the top center under the city name. The new Stock Exchange (1531) and the imposing commercial house Oosterlingen for the German Hansa (“Easterlings”; 1564–1568, also largely designed by Cornelis Floris) are also featured.43 Even more prominently, the new ramparts surround Antwerp, albeit still prior to their further enhancement with the pentagonal, star-shaped Alba citadel of 1571. This woodcut city view includes coats of arms at the bottom left: the Holy Roman Empire, the duchy of Brabant, and the margrave of Antwerp; opposite at bottom right, the sitting rulers’ arms of King Philip II of Spain, regent Margaret of Parma, and the city itself. Like the Cologne map, a laudatory inscription of the city, composed by learned city secretary Cornelius Grapheus, is printed in the lower right corner of the ensemble, reasserting the importance of the Scheldt port. This image truly captures Antwerp’s streets and squares as well as the major buildings that punctuate the urban fabric. Moreover, it formed a reliable resource for all future depictions of Antwerp.

Consolidations Besides these two layouts of frieze panorama and mural perspective view, a third image, properly called ichnographic, presents a ground plan as a surveyor records it, laid out from directly above like a modern street map. Antwerp employed all three main mapping options to represent the city in printed images across the sixteenth century. Moreover, at the end of the sixteenth century, operating from Cologne, Georg Braun and exiled Antwerp printmaker Frans Hogenberg, with the considerable design contributions of another Antwerp émigré, Georg Hoefnagel, began to collaborate on the systematic production of city views in all three formulas within their six-volume

42 Hugo Soly/ Leon Voet, De kaart van Virgilius Bononiensis,in: Francine de Nave et al. (eds.), De Stad Antwerpen van de romeinse tijd tot de 17 de eeuw, Brussels 1978, pp. 133–143. 43 Grieten/ Huvenne (note 7), pp. 69–77, 72–74, fig. 40; p. 238, no. 87. This mixed form of mapmaking has remained a stable form of presentation; see Ernst Gombrich, Mirror and Map: Theories of Pictorial Representation, in: Id. (ed.), The Image and the Eye, London 1982, pp. 172–214; also Matthew Edney, Mapping Parts of the World, in: James Akerman/ Robert Karrow Jr. (eds.), Maps. Finding Our Place in the World, Chicago 2007, pp. 121–130.

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compendium ‘Civitates orbis terrarum’ (1572–1618).44 In the ‘Civitates’, large bird’s-eye views of both Bruges and Antwerp reappeared at smaller scale among the numerous engraved views of cities, compiled in a protracted publication (six volumes). Together, the Braun and Hogenberg images formed an appropriate close-up, or chorographic, viewpoint to Antwerp’s contemporary emerging geographies, the atlas publications by Abraham Ortelius (‘Theatrum orbis terrarum’ 1570).45 This urban mapping project by Braun and Hogenberg culminates the development of all previous representations of cities and presents numerous double-page images, reprising the Nuremberg ‘Weltchronik’ from a century earlier, but now in the intaglio medium of engraving.46 Following Lautensack’s and Gheeraerts’s intaglio prints from the second half of the sixteenth century, artists now favored the finer descriptive possibilities of engraving or etching on copper, which began to eclipse the simpler lines of woodcuts, despite the more limited number of clear impressions in a print run. This great work of collected city views, Braun and Hogenberg’s ‘Civitates’, was followed by Matthias Merian’s ‘Topographia Germaniae’ (16 vols., 1642–1654), in using illustrations only created as intaglios. Although this massive publication originated in Cologne, hometown of its author and editor, Catholic scholar Georg Braun (1541–1622), this book still held numerous strong ties to Antwerp. The principal printmaker, Protestant engraver Frans Hogenberg (1535–1590) had worked recently for print publisher Cock in Antwerp after his earlier career in nearby Mechelen; he also engraved several maps for Abraham Ortelius in the pioneering atlas ‘Theatrum orbis terrarum’ (1570) plus the celebrated world map (1569) of Gerard Mercator.47 But Hogenberg notoriously documented events

44 For distinctions between bird’s-eye views, vedute, and plans, especially the literally overhead plan, see Richard Kagan, Urban Images of the Hispanic World, 1493–1793, New Haven 2000, esp. pp. 1–18. He distinguishes views by altitude as a lower ‘oblique’ view and a higher ‘bird’s-eye’ view. Also Paul D. A. Harvey, The History of Topographical Maps. Symbols, Pictures and Surveys, London 1980, esp. pp. 66–83, 153–168. For a definitive study of the ichnographic plan, John Pinto, Origins and Development of the Ichnographic City Plan, in: Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 35 (1976), pp. 35–50. For the later Dutch cityscape, see Richard Wattenmaker et al. (eds.), The Dutch Cityscape in the Seventeenth Century and its Sources, exh. cat., Amsterdam, Toronto 1977; ­van Suchtelen/ Wheelock (note 31). This discussion of Antwerp maps and views draws upon Grieten/ Huvenne (note 7), pp. 69–77. 45 Cornelis Koeman et al., Commercial Cartography and Map Production in the Low Countries, 1500– c. 1672, in: David Woodward (ed.), The History of Cartography, vol. 3,2: Cartography in the European Renaissance, Chicago 2007, pp. 1296–1383; Pierre Cockshaw/ Francine de Nave (eds.), Abraham ­Ortelius (1527–1598). Cartographe et humaniste, exh. cat., Brussels, Antwerp 1998. 46 Facsimile edition, Raleigh A. Skelton, Civitates orbis terrarum, 1572–1618, Kassel, Basel 1956; edition by Stephan Füssel (ed.), Cities of the World, Cologne 2011; Nuti (note 13), esp. pp. 104–109. On Braun, a Cologne native also ordained as a Catholic priest, Füssel, p. 12. 47 Cornelis Koeman, The History of Abraham Ortelius and his Theatrum Orbis Terrarum, ­Lausanne 1964; Robert Karrow Jr., Mapmakers of the Sixteenth Century and their Maps. Bio-Bibliographies of the Cartographers of Abraham Ortelius, 1570, Chicago 1993; Cockshaw/ de Nave (note 45); Ute Schneider/ Stefan Brakensiek/ Timocin Celebi (eds.), Gerhard Mercator. Wissenschaft und Wissenstransfer, Darmstadt 2015.

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Fig. 9: Georg Braun and Frans Hogenberg, Antwerp, hand-colored engraving from Civitates orbis terraum, Vol. Five, no. 27, 1598, 45 × 70.8 cm (OR Vol. One, no. 18, 1572).

during the early years of the Dutch Revolt, starting with the 1566 iconoclastic removal of images from churches in Antwerp and elsewhere.48 Those prints were etched but had to be published in Cologne after 1570, since Hogenberg fled there shortly after he was banned by Alba in 1568 as a “follower of the New Religion”.49 Within the ‘Civitates’ the map of Antwerp itself (Fig. 9) was freshly made by Hogenburg for the initial 1572 volume. To feature the celebrated new citadel in the foreground, in essence it moved the viewpoint of the two most recent city views by both Cock and Bononiensis a quarter-turn. In addition, the map of Cologne, created expressly for the initial 1572 publication of the ‘Civitates’, closely resembles the recent model of Antwerp by Bononiensis: it shows the Rhine at the top and a view from the 48 Füssel (note 46), pp. 25–28; James Tanis/ Daniel Horst, Images of Discord. De tweedracht verbeeld, exh. cat., Bryn Mawr 1993, pp. 40–41, no. 2, one of a series of twenty prints, published for the first time in 1570, to illustrate the events between 1566 and 1570 in the Netherlands. 49 Hogenberg’s etchings first appeared in the chronicle of the Dutch Revolt by Michel Aitsinger, De Leone belgico, Cologne 1583 and 1585; Antwerp’s Golden Age. The Metropolis of the West in the 16th and 17th Centuries. An exhibition, organized by the City of Antwerp, Washington 1973–1975, pp. 115–118, nos. 96–103: Hedge Preaching (1566), Massacre at Oosterweel (1567), Calvinist Unrest at Antwerp (1567), Spanish Fury (1576), Siege of Antwerp (1584–85), Raid against Spanish Blockade (1585), and Entry of Spanish Forces into Antwerp (1585).

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south with the encircling walls seen in a steep bird’s-eye view, with the cathedral, city hall, and other principal buildings rendered in basic elevation.50 Principal draftsman of the early volumes, Georg Hoefnagel (1542–1600), who produced sixty-seven bird’s-eye views for the ‘Civitates’ engravings, also hailed from Antwerp.51 Many of his urban maps emphasize the countryside around each city ‘from life’, and they often show representative foreground figures in local costume.52 Hoefnagel’s on-site drawings stemmed from his numerous personal trips out of Flanders and across the continent, including the south of France, Spain, and England, as well as an extended trip to Bavaria, Prague, and Vienna. Indeed, Hoefnagel’s personal motto was natura sola magistra (“Nature is the only teacher”). Most images in the ‘Civitates’ volumes were hand-colored to enhance such naturalism of costumes and settings.53 Braun’s intended audience for his city views included all possible practical users: travelers, merchants, military leaders, and citizens, as well as scholars. He claimed that these engravings offered “skill and truthfulness”, and he called for updated ­submissions from readers and local officials. Several city views were even replaced over the time span of the full six volumes, but of course earlier reliable map sources were republished.54 For example, many cities of the Low Countries derived their

50 Füssel (note 46), pp. 73–75, 432–433. Ironically, the first image of Antwerp in Braun and Hogenberg shows the city in plan from the west, with the new citadel close by in the foreground, whereas the later view of Antwerp much more closely reprises the Bononiensis map and point of view. 51 After considerable early travel experience, Hoefnagel finally left Antwerp after the Spanish Fury of 1576 and traveled with Ortelius, after which time he began work (1578) as court artist in Munich; Füssel (note 46), pp. 28–36; Thea Vignau-Wilberg, In Europa zu Hause – Niederländer in München, exh. cat., Munich 2005, esp. pp. 39–53, biography on pp. 433–434. Füssel (note 46), pp. 28–36; Lucia Nuti, The Mapped Views by Georg Hoefnagel: The Merchant’s Eye, the Humanist Eye, in: Word and Image 4 (1988), pp. 545–570; Ead., The Urban Imagery of Georg Hoefnagel, in: Jürgen Schultze (ed.), Prag um 1600. Beiträge zur Kunst und Kultur am Hofe Rudolfs II, Freren 1988, pp. 211–217. 52 A beautiful preliminary drawing of Linz (Vienna, Albertina, reproduced in Vol. 5) survives; it shows the artist taking the view from the Pötlingberg: John Hand et al. (eds.), The Age of Bruegel: Netherlandish Drawings in the Sixteenth Century, exh. cat., Washington 1986, pp. 201–202, no. 74. Füssel (note 46), p. 36, for the costumes and their sources, including Jost Amman and Hans Weigel the Elder’s Trachtenbuch (Nuremberg 1577) and Abraham de Bruyn’s costume book (Cologne 1577). See Ursula Ilg, The Cultural Significance of Costume Books in Sixteenth-Century Europe, in: Catherine Richardson (ed.), Clothing Culture, 1350–1650, Aldershot 2004, pp. 29–47; Ulinka Rublack, Dressing Up. Cultural Identity in Renaissance Europe, Oxford 2010, esp. pp. 146–161. 53 Susan Dackerman, Painted Prints. The Revelation of Color, Baltimore 2002, which largely ignores the coloring of maps, but see p. 222. 54 For example, Moscow (vol. 2) chiefly through an imagined schematic and regular construction of the old walled Kremlin, accompanied by figures based entirely on a woodcut by Augustin Hirschvogel in Sigismund von Herberstein’s travel book, Rerum Moscoviticarum commentarii (1546); Füssel (note 46), p. 37, fig. XL. The reprise of Moscow (vol. 6, 1617) shows a much larger city with two additional girdles of walls and a more exacting portrayal of unique local churches, such as St. Basil’s (1561), with onion domes.

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images from Lodovico Guicciardini’s ‘Descrittione di tutti I Paesi Bassi’ (Antwerp, 1567), a geography and history of the region (see below), and for Germany from Münster’s ‘Cosmographia’.55 Attention to labels of “squares, churches, and gates”, according to a letter from Braun to Antwerp’s atlas publisher, Ortelius, remained consistently meticulous, complemented by Braun’s Latin descriptions on the reverse of the map images.56 Importantly, Braun also contacted governors of cities and provinces for assistance in his frankly collaborative publication.57 One borrowing, the elevated bird’s-eye image of Amsterdam in the first volume of the ‘Civitates’ derives closely from the 1544 Cornelis Anthonisz woodcut.58 Some of the smallest details are retained, including the small island with gallows in the lower-right corner and the many ships in canals and the harbor. Another source of urban drawings (48) for Braun emerged from a project of city views, Villes de Belgique, groundplans (plattegronden) of some 250 of the cities of the Spanish Netherlands, made by Jacob van Deventer on commission in 1559 in his role as geographer royal for King Philip II of Spain.59 These surveys were not intended for commercial publication, but rather for royal administration and knowledge as well as delectation. Coming at the end of a busy century of printed, multisheet city views, the ‘Civitates orbis terrarum’ offered a synthesis of the principal forms of urban representation as well as a full reprise of their range. For the most part these two-page printed (and often colored) images portray cities from an elevated bird’s-eye view, which suggests spatial depth and also articulates particular high points, especially towers and other prominent buildings. A few cities (Amsterdam, Paris, London, The Hague) are seen from so high up that they almost provide a street plan but little information about buildings in the round, the form known as ichnographic mapping. Others, 55 For Antwerp, see Grieten/ Huvenne (note 7), pp. 74–75, 170–171, figs. 30, 42. The main source for the map of Antwerp in the Civitates (note 46), vol. 4, goes back to Bononiensis, perhaps via the less expensive woodcut knock-off by Pauwels van Overbeke, c. 1568, ibid., fig. 41. For other sources, including Münster, Füssel (note 46), pp. 23–24. 56 Letter (31 October 1571; London, British Museum, Harley MS 7011, fol. 167), quoted by Füssel (note 46), p. 11. 57 Füssel (note 46), pp. 14–15, citing the assistance and patronage of the governor of Schleswig-­ Holstein, Heinrich Rantzau. 58 Again in vol. 6 (1617), a new map of Amsterdam appeared, with a much more encompassing and elevated to a nearly vertical view in order to include major expansions, notably defensive walls encircling the city. The costumes of the figures in the lower-left corner have also been updated to later fashions. 59 Füssel (note 46), p. 28, noting that the artist remains uncredited by Braun; Richard Kagan, Philip II and the Geographers, in: Id. (ed.), Spanish Cities of the Golden Age. The Views of Anton van den Wyngaerde, Berkeley 1989, pp. 41–45, quoting the commission, p. 44, “[to] visit, measure, and draw all of its towns, together with their rivers and out-lying villages, similarly the roads and district boundaries, and to put it all in a book, with a map [portrait] of each province and a plan of each individual town.” Finished drawings by Jacob van Deventer survive in Madrid (Biblioteca Nacional de España); preparatory drawings are in Brussels, Royal Library.

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in contrast, replicate the basic approach of the skyline profile, with its emphasis on towers and larger buildings. Additionally, the book also includes numerous images of countryside points of interest, especially the Spanish and Austrian settings drawn by Hoefnagel. Hoefnagel’s costumed figures and inserted genre scenes in the foreground add a generalized social dimension to the category of city views, which distinguishes them from earlier city panoramas (except for Lautensack’s Nuremberg). A subsequent, related project on the cities of Spain was commissioned from Anton van den Wyngaerde by no less a patron than King Philip II, following his ­sponsorship of Jacob van Deventer.60 In counterpoint to the prints made of Antwerp – by Antwerp publishers and for the greater glory of Antwerp – this exceptional set of city views for the purpose of royal surveillance of cities within his own kingdom was ­commissioned as early as 1562 by the Spanish ruler of the Netherlands, King Philip II (r. 1556–1598). Anton van den Wyngaerde (c. 1512–1571), a Flemish specialist (most probably from Antwerp) in topographical views, became pintor de camera, or royal court artist in Madrid in 1561 or 1562.61 This ‘Antonio de las Viñas’ made several trips across the realms of Spain in order to produce ‘from life’ (ad vivum) some ­sixty-two portraits of cities and towns for his monarch. His drawings, all of them with the same wide format of presentation as the Northern printed images, were collected and dispatched by the king to the Plantin Press in Antwerp, presumably for eventual publication as an atlas of Spanish cities; however, the project was never completed, and the drawings were dispersed, divided today between one segment in Austria (the Prague Habsburg portion, now in the National Library in Vienna) and another in England (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford; Victoria and Albert Museum, London). Van den ­Wyngaerde also painted a number of maps and city views on canvas to decorate royal lodges and palaces, including the Great Hall of the Alcázar in Madrid.62 To obtain detailed information, Philip distributed a geographical questionnaire after 1575 to cities and towns toward a goal of producing a new compilation, the Relaciones

60 Egbert Haverkamp-Begemann, The Spanish Views of Anton van den Wyngaerde, in: Kagan (note 59), pp. 54–67. These drawings are now divided among Vienna, London, and Oxford. Haverkamp-­ Begemann, pp. 63–66, notes that Antwerp publisher Christopher Plantin referred to these drawings in a letter of 1587, enquiring about their location, possibly with the intention of publishing them himself as a volume of cities of Spain, but the king had not granted permission. Some drawings are squared for transfer, but not necessarily to be printed. 61 Egbert Haverkamp-Begemann, The Spanish Views of Anton van den Wyngaerde, in: Master Drawings 7 (1969), pp. 375–399; Kagan, Spanish Cities (note 59). 62 For the contemporary phenomenon of maps in palaces, see Kagan (note 59), pp. 51–53; for Italian palaces: Juergen Schulz, Maps as Metaphors: Mural Map Cycles of the Italian Renaissance, in: David Woodward (ed.), Art and Cartography. Six Historical Essays, Chicago 1987, pp. 97–122; Francesca ­Fiorani, The Marvel of Maps. Art, Cartography and Politics in Renaissance Italy, New Haven 2005. On Plantin’s printed images, see Karen Bowen/ Dirk Imhof, Christopher Plantin and Engraved Book Illustrations in Sixteenth-Century Europe, Cambridge 2008, pp. 197–200, 255, 286–294.

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h ­ istórico-geográfico-topográficas, another unrealized project.63 The king is also documented as including wooden models of Spanish cities in the Alcázar.64 Van den Wyngaerde’s drawings, as royal commissions, reveal by contrast that all other city views we have seen since Reuwich arose from indigenous urban origins. Those royal drawings also remain noteworthy for another reason: their preliminary studies survive, showing the artist’s working process.65 He made separate sketches, viewed roughly straight on and presented in flat profile, for example, of Valencia’s buildings, towers (labeled), and walls (Oxford and London, respectively). Then he carefully compiled them together into his composite representation of the entire city from an elevated and unified perspective. As noted by Egbert Haverkamp-Begemann, van den Wyngaerde shifted his layout of the annotations – from labels above specific buildings to a key tied to letters on the drawing, presumably an arrangement that would have become standard in the printed works, as was often the case in the city views of Braun and Hogenberg after 1572.66 Taken together, these accurate images, made at the behest of the king, would have confirmed his royal authority through his territories – in effect providing a portable, distributable (when printed) version of his own palace decorations.

Description and Illustration What the Wyngaerde views reveal, then, is precisely what the Antwerp city depictions are not. Their visual effects suggest the kind of omniscience that Philip II sought to obtain for his own princely control, and they demonstrate how the Spanish king sought visual as well as political possession of the depicted cities and their actual localities. Braun and Hogenberg, by contrast, included Antwerp among the wide range of European cities (and even a few non-European ones, such as Constantinople or Cuzco and Mexico City), so that they comprise another form of armchair knowledge, akin to the contemporaneous production of world atlases – in Antwerp – by Abraham Ortelius (1570) and Gerard Mercator. As for the large and small Antwerp-produced city views, woodcut and intaglio, we cannot know the size of the editions of these profiles

63 Kagan (note 59), pp. 45–49. 64 On the Alcázar decoration with topographical views, described in 1599 and 1623 (destroyed by fire in 1734), see Steven Orso, Philip IV and the Decoration of the Alcázar of Madrid, Princeton 1986, pp. 121–123, 196–198; the 1571 description of the models by an Italian visitor, Venturini, is documented by Carl Justi, Velázquez y su siglo, Madrid 1953, pp. 184–185, quoted by Kagan (note 59), p. 49, n. 36. 65 Nuti (note 13), pp. 111–113, figs. 9–10. 66 Haverkamp-Begemann (note 60), pp. 58–65, esp. 54 n. 1, quoting the first epigraph with its Italian original text. He notes that some drawings were squared for transfer and reproduction, presumably for prints to be made by Plantin for publication. Those prints were submitted to the Antwerp publisher by 1587.

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or massive aerial murals, but it is obvious that these were public-commercial publications that served proudly as a form of urban publicity in a visual culture of rival city maps, especially in Germany and the Low Countries. However, the Braun and Hogenberg description of Antwerp indicates the kind of information that was deemed important about the city for a wider European readership (in comparison to the data supplied on the maps produced in the city itself, cited above). In fact, the large cartouche on the city map of Braun and Hogenberg offers most of the same features and proud achievements celebrated in Antwerp itself: Antwerp is a well-built and noted trade city in Brabant, which attracts many Germans, French, Italians, Spaniards, English and other nations. In this city there are beautiful, huge churches and houses, including in particular the Church of Our Lady with a tall stone tower and the splendid beautiful town hall. The venerable Hansa, the English and the Portuguese also own public buildings in which the merchants have their residences. In the Church of St. Michael is a magnificent setting and tomb for Isabella’s husband Charles, Duke of Burgundy. On 5 November 1567 the massive city wall was built with imposing blockhouses and bulwarks and surrounded by a large moat.67

All these printed images of cities  – whether profiles or bird’s-eye views, whether murals or friezes, whether entrepreneurial books or panoramas sponsored by the cities themselves – show the importance of accurate representation of city views on a grand scale across the sixteenth century for northern artists in Antwerp and the Low Countries as well as Germany. Yet Antwerp’s own city depictions, like those of peer and rival cities, particularly independent ports, convey local civic pride  – whether gathered in books or assembled in large-scale mural form. As the shapes of those cities altered, their views also represented important local features – some historic, local, urban constructions and others powerful new fortified defensive walls and c­ itadels.68 Concurrent with the visual representations, verbal portraits of cities and regions enjoyed popularity in the Netherlands after the middle of the sixteenth century. Their epitome was Lodovico Guicciardini’s often-translated ‘Description of All the ­Netherlands’ (orig. ed. Italian, 1567; Dutch translation 1612), a prose travel guide to 67 Füssel (note 46), p. 73. The description continues on the verso with more travel descriptions: “The city of Antwerp possesses all the vital necessities of life in abundance, as is also observed with wonder by the foreign merchants; here we find Spanish, French, and Rhenish wines, a huge fish market with a great number of fresh sea and river fish, and also salted fish. Among the public buildings, the splendid town hall must be mentioned first, built in four years at considerable cost and with great skill, and made of a very striking marble brought here from far-off lands.” 68 For other civic images made for rulers: Helmut Puff, The City as Model. Three-Dimensional ­Representations of Urban Space in Early Modern Europe, in: Groos/ Schiewer/ Stock (note 19), pp. 193–217; Andrew John Martin, Stadtmodelle, in: Behringer/ Roeck (note 13), pp. 66–72. A larger study of representations of fortified cities for rulers, including three-dimensional models, plans-­ reliefs, for King Louis XIV of France, Pollak (note 38), esp. pp. 48–49; on Antwerp as an exemplary pentagonal citadel, ibid., pp. 13–25.

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the region, centered on Antwerp and even dedicated to her magistrates.69 Although not a native of Antwerp, Guicciardini resided there, and his volume can readily serve as a panegyric, an exemplary description of the city, its highlights, and a ­ chievements. Like a mapmaker, the author describes its harbor, walls, gates, and streets; like a chronicler, he investigates the origins of the city name, its traditional markets, guilds and brotherhoods, and civic processions, as well as its laws and multiple ­political ties. Guicciardini noted how Antwerp deftly combines allegiance to the lord of Brabant within the Empire but also enjoys the ancient privileges of a free imperial city or even a republic, to combine the best features of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy. He praised major new local sixteenth-century buildings, notably the Church of Our Lady (later Cathedral; north tower completed 1521), Bourse (1531), and City Hall (1565), each illustrated with etched elevations in the Plantin edition of 1581 (original plates, ascribed to Pieter van der Borcht or Frans Hogenberg in Cologne, still in the ­Plantin-Moretus Museum).70 Of course, Guicciardini also proudly hailed all the foreign trade communities of Antwerp – Portuguese, German, Spanish, English, and various Italian cities – and noted their contributions to the glorious entry of the future Philip II into Antwerp in 1549. He praised renowned painters and other artists in a substantial passage in the middle of his account of Antwerp, but he also devoted long discussions to merchants and merchandise. This kind of verbal description, complete with illustrations in the Plantin edition, comprises the same kinds of claims for attention as a mapped self-portrait of a city, in this case Antwerp as the queen city of the Low Countries during the sixteenth century. Later Dutch city accounts, such as Jan Orlers on Leiden (1614) or Samuel Ampzing on Haarlem (1628), were also well illustrated with local topographical views and ­depictions of important civic and religious buildings as well as praise of famous hometown artists (Orlers, e.g.,, was the first author to mention Rembrandt as a Leiden notable in his second edition of 1641).71 Clearly within the greater Netherlands of the early modern era Antwerp participated, actively and formatively, in a celebratory assertion of urban identity through self-representation in published books with verbal descriptions and in both woodcuts and engravings, whether as a skyline or as 69 Van der Stock (note 2), pp. 170–171, no. 23. Original ed., Antwerp: Willem Silvius, 1567; republished in expanded edition with engravings by Christopher Plantin, 1581. 70 Van der Stock (note 2), figs. 23A (cathedral), 23B (City Hall; see also 92), 84 (Bourse). Bowen/ Imhof (note 62), pp. 196–199; note that fig. 5.9, a map of Antwerp, duplicates the view in Braun and Hogenberg. On van der Borcht and Plantin, ibid., esp. pp. 322–326. 71 Most recently, Arthur Wheelock Jr., “Worthy to Behold”: The Dutch City and its Image in the Seventeenth Century, in: van Suchtelen/ Wheelock (note 31), pp. 14–33, esp. 19. On Orlers and Rembrandt, Seymour Slive, Rembrandt and his Critics 1630–1730, The Hague 1953, pp. 35–37. In similar fashion, Ampzing was the first author to mention Hals as a portraitist, and the painter reciprocated with a fine small bust of Ampzing on copper; see also Walter Liedtke, Frans Hals: Style and Substance, exh. cat., New York 2011, p. 37, fig. 40 (private coll.). Also Herman Pleij, Antwerp Described, in: Van der Stock (note 2), pp. 79–85, 170–171, no. 23.

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­bird’s-eye ­overview. Thus what had begun in Antwerp as a form of cultural translation and self-conscious urban rivalry with printed precedents in Germany eventually spread across Europe at the end of the sixteenth century to both the private geography of the royal Spanish palace as well as to the international republic of letters (and images), served by the ‘Civitates orbis terrarum’.72

72 Since this essay was written, an important new reference to Antwerp views and their diffusion has appeared, too late to be incorporated into this publication. Now see Pieter Martens, Hieronymus Cock’s View of Antwerp (1557): Its Genesis and Offspring, from Antwerp to Italy, in: Simiolus 39 (2017), pp. 171–196.

Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby

Fra Niccolò Guidalotto’s City View, Nautical Atlas and Book of Memories: Cartography and Propaganda between Venice and Constantinople Abstract: This paper focuses on three Venetian sources created in the Venetian embassy in Constantinople during the seventeenth century that include a painted city view of Constantinople, a nautical atlas, and an illustrated volume. It explores the medieval traditions of these sources from a comparative perspective and the c­ onnections between them: the nautical atlas served as the ideological, artistic and cartographic source for the later Constantinople panorama; and the book of ­miniatures described the author’s sojourn in Constantinople and the political events surrounding the ­creation of the panorama. In their splendid iconography, these sources combine between word and image and serve as fascinating examples of ­Venetian visual propaganda against the Ottomans during the War of Candia. Keywords: cartography, Venice, Constantinople, Ottoman Empire, Niccolò Guidalotto, crusade propaganda The principal focus of this paper is a vast seventeenth-century panorama of Constantinople, which is an exceptional visual representation of the city discussed in conjunction with two additional sources, a nautical atlas and an illustrated volume. The city view presented in the panorama is examined in light of artistic and cultural ­traditions of the genre of urban panoramas and the tradition of maps advocating the crusades. It alludes to the author method of charting the city in the context of the emerging genre of city views in Europe and articulates the importance of the city view as a scientific work of art and as part of early modern cartography. It reveals the author’s ideological conception behind the shape and content of his city view and his motivation for the creation of this exquisite work of art. The double sided aspects of the panorama would thus be examined: its characteristics as a scientific ­achievement and as an ideological manifesto. The paper then turns to examine two invaluable sources relating to the Constantinople panorama: a nautical atlas that serves as an important ideological, cartographic and artistic source to the later city view and the manuscript Memorie Turchesche that include a text and a series of exceptional and vivid miniatures depicting the clash between the Venetians and the Ottomans in ­seventeenth century Constantinople. Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, The Department of the Arts, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Beer-Sheva, Israel, [email protected] https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-014

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The City Panorama The city panorama of Constantinople is an elaborate piece of anti-Ottoman propaganda designed by the Venetian Franciscan friar Niccolò Guidalotto da Mondavio who was a member of the Venetian embassy in Constantinople. The panorama was on display (since 2001) in the Tel Aviv Museum of Art on long-term loan and was recently transferred to the Phoenix Museum of Art (Fig. 1).1 Guidalotto also prepared a manuscript, now in the Vatican Library, explicating the features of the panorama and discussed the meaning of the work and the motivation behind its creation.2 The cityscape of Constantinople is but a small element in the panorama, inserted within a complex artistic and theological work.3 The painting includes several figures representing the political powers and complex Christian and mythological allegories. The view of the city, which depicts Constantinople as seen from across the Golden Horn in Galata, sheds new light on both the city itself and the relationship between the Ottoman Empire and the rival Venetian Republic. Pen and ink on linen-backed paper the enormous illustration shows the city hanging midway between expanses of sky and water, both of which are peopled by an array of angels and tritons declaiming apocalyptic texts (Fig. 2). Guidalotto created his panorama for public display, intent on producing a major vehicle for propaganda, and when it was completed he presented it to Pope Alexander VII (Fabio Chigi, pope 1655–1667). Using allegory, complex iconography, and quotations from the Bible, he accused the Turks of turning Constantine’s city from the New Rome into the New Babylon and called on the pope and the emperor of the Holy Roman Empire to join the Venetians in their struggle against the Turks. The sea and sky of the panorama are filled with allegorical vignettes and emblems, at the center of it all being God the Father and the Archangel Michael. Two

1 The panorama was first discovered in the Chigi archive in Rome in the 1960s, it was sold in the early 1990s to a private owner. It was subsequently lent to the Vatican, where it was exhibited in the corridor leading from the Sistine Chapel to the library. Afterward, from 2001, it was placed on a long-term in the Tel Aviv Museum; Chief Curator: Dr. Doron Lurie. It was recently transferred to the Phoenix Museum of Art. 2 Niccolò Guildalotto, Parafrasi di Opera a Penna Rappresentante in Dissegno un Prospetto dell’Imperiale Città di Constantinopoli, Pesaro 1622: Città del Vaticano, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Chig. D. II, fol. 70. 3 Publications on the panorama include the short entry in Christine Thompson, The New ­Babylon, in: Cornucopia: Turkey for Connoisseurs 12:2 (1997), pp. 30–33, published in Hebrew by Doron Lurie, in: Arech and Teva 57 (2002), pp. 34–38. For background on the panorama see Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, Crusade Propaganda in Word and Image in Early Modern Italy: Niccolò Guidalotto’s Panorama of  ­Constantinople, in: The Renaissance Quarterly 67:2 (2014), pp. 503–543; Nirit Ben-Aryeh Debby, ­Crusade Propaganda in Word and Image in Early Modern Italy: Niccolò Guidalotto’s Panorama of Constantinople, Toronto 2016.

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Fig. 1: Niccolò Guidalotto, Panorama; Private Collection, Canada.

central figures, St. Peter and St. Paul, dominate the upper part of the panorama under the Archangel Michael. The panorama is set within an elaborate allegorical border decorated with the Pope’s Chigi emblems and is dominated by the symbol of the Church Militant. The vignettes of the Seven Eastern Churches are shown in the sky above Constantinople and described in the manuscript. Guidalotto employed Alexander VII’s family emblems, the Chigi emblems of the mountain and star, to form a border that was originally gilded with the Chigi oak leaf in deference to the Pope. There are also references to the Chigi family’s city of origin of Siena, a city to which the Pope was strongly attached. His depiction of the Austrian eagles included complimentary iconography demonstrating the virtues of the Holy Roman Emperor, Leopold I of Austria. Finally, he placed medallion portraits of the Pope and the emperor in the corners of the panorama. Such apocalyptic images appear throughout the manuscript and the panorama. In the middle of the sea, a double-headed imperial eagle grips in his talons a nineheaded hydra (the Ottoman Empire) torn open to reveal a lion, a leopard and a bear, and the surrounding apocalyptic imagery reflects Guidalotto’s vision of a New Babylon ripe for destruction. Identical quotations in the panorama and in the manuscript come from the books of Daniel, Jeremiah, and Isaiah, and especially from the Book of Revelation of St. John (the Apocalypse). In describing the body of the work, Guidalotto places at its center the imperial eagle holding a flayed hydra representing the Ottoman Empire, its seven heads devouring one another. Guidalotto explicitly interprets the imperial eagle and the hydra, together with the surrounding angels and tritons, as the prevailing political powers: the republic of Venice, the Austrian empire, the papacy and the Ottoman Empire. In his detailed depictions of the various tritons and angels, he cites in full the quotations in the scrolls they are holding.

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Fig. 2: Niccolò Guidalotto, Panorama, Angels; Private Collection, Canada.

The panorama reflects Guidalotto’s zeal and is a prime example of anti-Ottoman Crusade propaganda in Early Modern Italy. The notion of Crusade was very much a part of that period’s Franciscan tradition. Friars preached sermons while collecting for the Crusade. St. John of Capestrano (1356–1456), for example, a Friar Minor, successfully led an army of untrained Crusaders to relieve Belgrade in 1456.4 From 4 On St. John of Capestrano see Roberto Rusconi, Giovanni da Capistrano: Iconografia di un predicatore nell’Europa del ‘400, in: Le Venezie Francescane: Predicazione francescana e società veneta

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the second half of the fifteenth century, the Turkish threat generated a great deal of ­interest in crusading. That interest, however, was not associated with reclaiming the Holy Land, as in earlier periods, but rather with returning the city of Constantinople to Christian rule. Historically – as far back as the twelfth century – Italy was ­sympathetic to the Crusades, and the activities of the mendicant orders were crucial in arousing that sympathy. Franciscan and Dominican preachers continued the ­tradition of mendicant Crusade sermons in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries in support of papal crusading efforts. The mendicant movements developed special types of artwork, including paintings, sculptures, drawings, and decorated maps – among them, the Constantinople panorama – to spread their religious ideals.5 Historically, in its ideological bent and propagandist intentions, Guidalotto’s panorama should be considered in the context of Crusade mapping, that is, as an heir to medieval maps connected with a Crusader cause. The most noted Venetian example of a Crusader map is to be found in Marino Sanudo’s book ‘Liber Secretorum Fidelium Crucis’ (Secrets of the True Crusaders, 1321), in which the maps and plans are thought to be the work of great portolan chart draughtsman Pietro Vesconte.6 Marino Sanudo of Torcello (1260–1338) was a Venetian statesman and geographer best known for his lifelong attempts to revive the crusading spirit and movement. ‘Liber Secretorum’ was his most celebrated work and with its maps occupies an important place in the development of cartography. Sanudo wrote from personal experience, as he visited Acre in 1285–1286 and again in 1306, after the fall of the city. He had an intimate knowledge of the Holy Land, and his work, which was based on his vast commercial and political experience, has much to say about trade and trade routes as well as about politics and history. He began his first version of the book in March 1306 and finished it (in its earliest form) in January 1307, at which point he offered it to Pope Clement V as a manual for true Crusaders who desired to reconquer the Holy Land. Sanudo added two more parts to the original ‘Liber Secretorum’, which he wrote between December 1312 and September 1321 and then presented the

nel Quattrocento. Atti del II Convegno internazionale di studi francescani. Padua 26-27-28 marzo 1987, 6 (1989), pp. 31–60; on Crusade sermons see Nancy Bisaha, Creating East and West: Renaissance ­Humanists and the Ottoman Turks, Philadelphia 2004, pp. 136–143. 5 On the traditional role of the mendicants in advocating the Crusade cause see Christopher T. Maier, Preaching the Crusades. Mendicant Friars and the Cross in the Thirteenth Century, Cambridge 1994, pp. 11–60. 6 Tony Campbell, Portolan Charts from the Late Thirteenth Century to 1500, in: John B. Harley/ David Woodward (eds.), The History of Cartography, vol. 1: Cartography in Prehistoric, Ancient, and Medieval Europe and the Mediterranean, Chicago, London 1987, pp. 371–463. Tony Campbell, Census of Pre-Sixteenth-Century Portolan Charts, in: Imago Mundi 38 (1986), pp. 67–69; Jonathan T. Lanman, On the Origin of Portolan Charts, Chicago 1987; Ramon J. Pujades i Bataller, Les cartes portolanes. La representació medieval d’una mar solcada, Barcelona 2007.

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entire work to Pope John XXII. A copy was offered to King Philip VI of France, as Sanudo saw him as the military and political leader of the new Crusade.7 The plans for a new Crusade in the ‘Liber Secretorum’ were twofold: first, Egypt and the Muslim world on the side toward Europe (Syria and Asia Minor) were to be ruined by stopping all Christian trade. By this strategy, Egypt would be fatally weakened and the way prepared for the second part of the campaign, that is, the armed attack of the crusading fleet and army on the Nile Delta. With the aid of the Mongols, the conquest of Egypt was to be followed by that of the Holy Land, invaded and held from Egypt. Sanudo deprecated any other route for the Crusade, and unfolded his plan of campaign, his bases of material supply, and his sources for the recruitment of good seamen in great detail. Finally, he designed the establishment of a Christian fleet in the Indian Ocean that would dominate its coasts and islands after Egypt and the Holy Land had been conquered. He also provided a sketch of the trade routes crossing Persia and Egypt, as well as the courses of Indian trade. A celebrated Genoese cartographer and geographer, Pietro Vesconte (1310–1330) was a pioneer in the art of the portolan chart and his work influenced Italian and Catalan mapmaking throughout the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Vesconte appears to have been the first professional mapmaker who sometimes signed and dated his works. He fashioned a world map, a nautical atlas, a map of the Holy Land, and plans of Acre and Jerusalem for inclusion in ‘Liber Secretorum’. There are three extant copies of the book (c. 1320–21, c. 1321, c. 1325) that include Vesconte’s maps, only the first of which is signed; the latter two are assumed to have been done by him as well, or at least under his direction. The chart of the Mediterranean and of the Atlantic coasts of Europe was drawn on five sheets, which together represent a good example of the earliest scientific cartographic design; in the world map a portolan of the Mediterranean area is combined with pre-portolan-type work in the more remote regions. The plan of Jerusalem is considered more accurate in shape than other medieval maps of the city, although not in scale. The plan of Acre is of particular interest, being the most complete representation known of the great Crusader fortress on the eve of its destruction, with all of the various defenders quarters indicated.8 Sanudo and Vesconte’s book and maps remained influential in the cartographic tradition throughout the Early Modern period. Several sheets in the work of the

7 On Marino Sanudo and his Crusade maps see Joshua Prawer, Foreword in reprinted edition of Marinus Sanudus Torsellus, in: Jacques Bongars (ed.), Liber Secretorum Fidelium Crucis super Terrae Sanctae Recuperatione et Conservatione, Hanover 1611, repr. Jerusalem 1972, pp. 5–19; Oswald Dilke/ Margaret Dilke, Mapping a Crusade, in: History Today 39:8 (1989), pp. 31–35; Angeliki Laiou, Marino Sanudo Torsello, Byzantium and the Turks: The Background to the Anti-Turkish League of 1332–1334, in: Speculum 45 (1970), pp. 374–392; Robert Finlay, Politics and History in the Diary of Marino Sanuto, in: Renaissance Quarterly 33:4 (1980), pp. 585–598. 8 Of the ‘Liber Secretorum’, twenty-three manuscripts exist, all from the fourteenth century. Marino Sanuto, Liber Secretarum Fidelium Crucis, Toronto, 1972.

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­ lorentine scholar and humanist Francesco Berlinghieri entitled ‘Geographia’ (1482), F a large book describing the world in Italian verse and inspired by Ptolemy, included engraved maps of the Holy Land based on Vesconte’s work. Following Berlinghieri’s lead, it became standard to include these maps as part of later printed editions of the ‘Geographia’.9 Guidalotto was probably familiar with Sanudo’s book and its maps as they were widely circulated and the intentions and political motivations evident in his work reflect those of Sanudo. However, whereas Vesconte’s maps focused on the Holy Land, Guidalotto’s target was Constantinople. Both Guidalotto and Sanudo used words and images – text and maps – to promote their Crusade propaganda. ‘Liber Secretorum’ combined a detailed text and accompanying maps and Guidalotto’s work similarly included an explanatory text and a drawn city view. Both works were dedicated to papal and secular authorities. Both Sanudo and Guidalotto wrote from personal experience and had firsthand knowledge of the places they were describing. Both called for a joint Christian front and for the unification of the Christian powers to confront the common Muslim enemy. Sanudo, Vesconte, and Guidalotto, although living three centuries apart and distinct in their identities and were interested in politics and offered the pope and the king or emperor pragmatic advice on strategic issues detailing military strategies. Sanudo, Vesconte and Guidalotto shared a similar utopian dream of uniting Christianity and reviving the Crusader sprit in a period when Crusade aspirations were largely anachronistic and unrealistic, whether it was the call to liberate Jerusalem in the mid-fourteenth century or to free Constantinople in the mid-seventeenth. These three men had much in common and they also shared a similar failure in that their hopes to revive the Crusades were never realized. On the artistic front, when we look at the medium, Vesconte and Guidalotto worked in and with the cartographic material they produced, we see significant differences, typical of the developments in cartography and geographic knowledge between the fourteenth and the seventeenth centuries. Vesconte’s maps were advanced and sophisticated examples of the cartography of his period, showing some important innovations, as they were among the first maps to show precise outlines of the Mediterranean and the Black sea. Yet they were modest in scale and inserted within the book as an appendix subordinated to the main text, which was the central part of the work. For example, the map of the Holy Land was only 51 × 35  cm and occupied two pages of the ‘Liber Secretorum Fidelium Crucis’ (British Library, MS 27376, ff. 188v–189r).10 Guidalotto’s map was a city panorama, large in scale, meant to be hung on a wall. Here the panorama was at the heart of the project and the text was meant to serve as the plan for the drawing and its accompanying explanation. In other words, in the Sanudo and Vesconte volume, the maps were subordinate to the text and were a small

9 See Sean Roberts, Printing a Mediterranean World, Cambridge/ MA 2013, pp. 72–73. 10 See Paul D. A. Harvey, Medieval Maps, London 1991.

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and even marginal part of the initiative, whereas in Guidalotto’s panorama, the image was the center of the project with the text being the more marginal part in both scale and importance. Guidalotto was in Constantinople as an official attached to the Venetian embassy from 1647 to 1655, a period marked by the instability of the Ottoman regime and by heightened tensions between the city’s Venetian residents and the Ottoman rulers in the wake of the Turkish invasion of Crete (1645). The extinction of the Ottoman line appeared to be a serious possibility at the time and in their reports between 1640 and 1641, the Venetian ambassadors discussed the coming end of the Ottoman dynasty and its possible results. At that period, the newly elected Sultan Mehmed IV (1648–1687) continued to rule an instable regime. Guidalotto described this period of instability in his manuscript and considered it as a window of opportunities for the Venetians owing to the fragility of the Ottoman rule. The friar described how the Ottoman sultans executed their brothers and relatives and having no sons, were bringing the Ottoman dynasty to its end, a situation favorable with the Venetian interest.11 Guidalotto’s panorama was created against the background of the Ottoman siege of Candia, which eventually ended in the latter’s surrender in 1669.12 A key role in these events was apparently played by the dragoman Antonio Grillo, who was executed as a result of his efforts to negotiate between the Ottoman court and the bailo and his party. He was declared a martyr by the Venetian government and became a symbol for Venetian heroism against the Ottomans.13 Guidalotto and another member of Soranzo’s staff were allowed to return to Constantinople to keep watch over the official Venetian residence. Two other secretaries, who had escaped the interrogation, were able to gather important papers and documents and bring them to the French embassy. Jean Delahaye worked hard to achieve the release of the rest of the Venetian delegation, and Soranzo was finally set free two months later, in May 1649. Guidalotto returned to Italy six years later in 1655, and recorded in his manuscript that diplomats in Constantinople continued to be expelled, arrested, and humiliated.14 The friar’s experience in Constantinople was characterized by a deep sense of humiliation. When reading his manuscript, one gets a strong sense of a call for ­vengeance. The friar constantly argues that he personally was mistreated by the ­Ottomans and 11 Guidalotto (note 2), fol. 45r: Ciò iò potrei con molta verità addattare al sudetto Sultan Murat, et Ibraimo fratelli; poiche Murat doppo l’Impresa di Babilonia, tornando di Persia con Trionfo à Constantinopoli, deliberò, uccidendo i Fratelli, ne havendo Figliuoli, morire senza Successori nell’Impero, volendo che nel punto del di Lui valore, come del più glorioso, segnalato, e trionfante Imperadore la Linea dell’ Ottomana prosapia si terminasse. Mà che? Con le lusinghe della Sultana Madre custodito Ibraimo plaga mortis eius curata est. 12 On the Wars of Candia see Kenneth M. Setton, Venice, Austria and the Turks in the Seventeenth Century, Philadelphia 1991, pp. 106–108. 13 Maria Pia Pedani-Fabris, Venezia Porta d’Oriente, Bologna 2010, pp. 163–164. 14 Guidalotto (note 2), fol. 41r.

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laments the humiliation of the Venetian delegation in general. Guidalotto had left Constantinople with bitter feelings of disillusion from the Ottomans and saw himself as a victim that was unjustly mistreated and then banished in a degrading manner after faithfully serving his republic. Condemning the ill treatment of foreign ambassadors, Guidalotto wrote: The wisest Ambassador of England never erred, when through the order of Ibraim he was treated with furious barbarism and one can say was dragged out of his House and subjected to horrible treatment in the sight of the world, publicly conducted, through Pera and Galata.

He described the miserable fortune of the Austrian ambassador, who, “with the heaviest irons upon his feet, was held for three months on a public balcony, in the sight of the whole of Constantinople, miserably chained around the throat.”15 Yet most tragic of all was the fate of the Venetian ambassador: What unprecedented destruction, of a like never seen since, was not carried out in the public and busy streets of Constantinople on the Knight Giovanni Soranzo, most worthy ambassador of his most strict [holiness]: in remembrance of which the mind is so much horrified, when the heart bows to the merit of those noble efforts with which his faithful Hero so laboriously served the Prince, for the Fatherland, and for the Faith, now makes himself worthy of a martyr’s crown, who holds up the Empire of Acrep Bassà Primo Vizier as a minority under the now reigning Sultan Mehmed?16

Guidalotto concludes this elegy with a prophecy that God shall revenge the ill treatment of the ambassadors and shall destroy the Ottoman monster. Back in Italy, Guidalotto retired to the Friary of Mondavio in the province of Pesaro near Urbino in 1659, where he maintained a keen interest in political developments. There is a letter from the archive of the Propaganda Fidei in which Guidalotto requested the privilege of a large room with light upon his return from Constantinople and was granted the room within the Friary presumably to work on the panorama.

15 Ibid., fol. 42r: In che mai peccò sagacissimo Ambasciator d’ Inghilterra, quando per ordine d’ ­Ibraimo con furiosissima barbarie tratto, e (si può dir) strascinato fuori di Casa con strapazzi horribili à vista d’un Mondo, publicamente per Pera, e Galatà condotto, alla fine hostilissimamente posto, anzi gettato sopra vascollo, fù cacciato con mille vituperij? Di che mai ardè se non di finissima Fedeltà quell’ animo generosissimo, hora degnissimo Cavaliere del Cielo Alessandro Greiflencla Residente Cesareo, quando con pesantissimi ferri à piedi, in un publico balcone, à vista di tutta Constantinopoli fù tenuto per più di trè Mesi misaramente per la gola catenato Prigione? 16 Ibid., fol. 42v: Che scempij inauditi, ne mai più veduti non si fecero per le publiche, e più cospicue Strade di Constantinopoli del Cavaliere Giovanni Soranzo Bailo degnis simo per la Sv.Ma: alla rimembranza de quali tanto s’inhorridi-s’inhorridisce la mente, quando il Cuore s’inchina al merito di quei sudori, cò quali questo constantissimo Heroe in servitio altretanto funesto, quanto laborioso per il Principe, per la Patria, e per la fede, s’è reso degno d’Una Corona di Martire all’ hora, che reggeva l’ Imperio Acrep Bassà Primo Visir nella minorità del hora Regnante Sultan Mehmeth?

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He started working on his manuscript and panorama using drawings he had made in Constantinople. Indeed, the meticulous detail of the portrayal can be attributed to his long sojourn in the city, which afforded him ample opportunity for first-hand close observation. It seems likely that he made his sketches on the spot and painted the panorama only after he had returned to Italy.

The Nautical Atlas An important source relevant to the Constantinople panorama is the portolan atlas that Guidalotto made immediately before his departure to Constantinople or during his sojourn there in 1646, and which he dedicated to the Venetian ambassador ­Giovanni Soranzo. Guidalotto’s atlas was characteristic of the genre of portolan charts that was especially popular in Venetian cartographic production and distinct for its beautiful colors and fine execution (Fig. 3). Portolan charts illustrating the harbors and trade routes of the Mediterranean were an early cartographic form, emerging in Spain and Italy in the thirteenth century. Pietro Vesconte was a pioneer of portolan chartmaking. Ornamented by compass or wind roses and criss-crossed by rhumb lines (lines showing the direction of the winds or compass points), portolan charts show the importance of the knowledge of the winds and of local ports to the Mediterranean trade. Ships and sea monsters people the chart’s sea, while the meticulously drawn city profiles, often sporting the city’s colors, offer a glimpse into the bustling landscape of Mediterranean trade. The charts show the Mediterranean world imagined by the Italian, Spanish, or Portugese chart makers, whether in insets of Christ or the new world or in the lions, camels, and extravagantly clothed inhabitants which populate the charts. Often the portolan charts include a cartouche detailing the circumstances of the chart’s creation, its date, and the name of the chart maker.17 Guidalotto’s portolan atlas was created using a very demanding and costly technique of hand painting on parchment. The atlas is richly colored in a wide range of ­pigments and includes silver plates and gilding. The volume is in a very good ­condition. The atlas consists of five 423 × 581  mm parchment sheets. The opening page includes the coat of arms of Giovanni Soranzo with two standing lions and a dedication plate with the author’s autograph, Niccolò Guidalotto da Mondavio, a 17 On nautical atlases see Ugo Tucci, La carta nautica, in: Susanna Biadene (ed.), Carte da Navigar: portolani e carte nautiche del museo Correr 1318–1732, Venezia 1990, pp. 9–21; on Battista Agnese’s atlases cfr. Ingrid Baumgärtner, Battista Agnese e l’atlante di Kassel. La cartografia del mondo nel Cinquecento, in: Ingrid Baumgärtner/ Piero Falchetta (eds.), Venezia e la nuova Oikoumene. ­Cartografia del Quattrocento/ Venedig und die neue Oikoumene. Kartographie im 15. Jahrhundert (Venetiana 17), Roma, Venezia 2016, S. 245–270; Ingrid Baumgärtner, Der Portulan-Atlas des Battista Agnese. Das Kasseler Prachtexemplar von 1542, Darmstadt 2017.

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Fig. 3: Niccolò Guidalotto, Atlas; Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, Cod. Ita. 491.

Franciscan Conventual friar, and indicating the place and the year of the creation of the atlas, as Constantinople, May 1646 (1r). The next sheet presents a nautical map of the Mediterranean from the Black Sea till the Red Sea, with the Ionian Islands with four wind roses (two large and two small ones). This map includes miniature icons symbolizing the political powers as: the Venetian lion, the Ottoman turban and moon, the Imperial eagle. The edges of the map are decorated with floral motifs. A special vivid detail appears in the area indicating the Saharan desert in the form of two picturesque bears playing together. There are two schematic descriptions of the Holy Land including Jerusalem with three crosses indicating Golgotha and the desert of Sinai represented as a high mountain. Another interesting detail is the depiction of the Red Sea with a marked passage indicating the passage of the Hebrews on their way from Egypt to the Holy Land. This detail which first had appeared in medieval mappa mundi was also introduced in portolan charts of the Jewish school of mapmakers in Maiorca. It was adopted by the Oliva family as in the nautical chart in the Museo Correr created by Bartolomeo Olives in Venice and dated to 1584 (1v-2r).18

18 Biadene (note 18), pp. 92–93.

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The second sheet depicts the Adriatic Sea with four wind roses and floral ­ ecorations. At the edge of the map, there are two medallions with allegorical figures: d one indicating an allegory of time with a winged hour glass and the caption in eternity (in eternum), and the other showing the Ptolemy’s conception of the universe as the earth (non comovedit). The most vivid and impressive detail here is a small cityscape of Venice (Fig. 4). This depiction includes several inscriptions praising Venice: the first reads Fundavit eam Altissimus, qui super Maria Fundavit eam. The second inscription circling the city view reads Tu Gloria Ierusalem, Tu Laetitia Israel, Tu ­Honorificentia Populi dei Nostri. The center of attention is on the entrance to Venice from the sea that is on the Piazzetta di San Marco, the adjoining open space connecting the south side of the Piazza San Marco to the waterway of the lagoon.

Fig. 4: Niccolò Guidalotto, Atlas; Detail: City of Venice. Atlas; Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, Cod. Ita. 491.

In general, portolan charts often included small pictures of cities. Generally, these were economic, standardized representations of a city, an ideogram that shows a defensive wall, a gateway, or a few houses huddled together, and a few tall buildings (such as towers and bell towers) that give the image a certain upward thrust and thus convey the idea of prosperity and power. Along with these schematic representations, there was a tradition of a more realistic representation of cities with one or two prominent identification features. Venice was represented and recognized as far as the fourteenth century by the representation of Piazza San Marco and its major monuments.

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These representations of the city were not intended for practical purposes for the sailors looking for trade routes but as embellished decorating elements pleasing the eyes of the patron or the collector of the atlases. In a sense, they echo the painted panels or the sculpted marble reliefs of city views represented in palaces and churches. One noted example for city views in marble are the maps of six fortified Italian and Dalmatian cities (Zara, Candia, Padua, Rome, Corfu, and Split) represented on the façade of the Venetian Church of Santa Maria del Giglio. In Guidalotto’s depiction, the Piazzetta lies between the Doge’s Palace on the east and Jacopo Sansovino’s Library on the west. Other prominent details are the two large granite columns carrying the symbols of the two patron saints of Venice. The first is Saint Theodore, who was the patron of the city before St Mark, holding a spear and stepping over the dragon; the second column has a winged lion – the Lion of Venice. Both statues are marked in gold. On the far side of the Piazzetta is the side wall of the Doge’s Palace (Palazzo Ducale) with Gothic arcades at ground level and a loggia on the floor above. The depiction includes the harbor with various ships (the Bacino di San Marco) at the end of the Piazzetta and the Basilica of San Marco, the Campanile, and the clock tower of San Marco all with gilded statues on their roofs. There are many people conversing in the city’s streets as a sign of its lively prosperity. At the upper part of the depiction, one may note, the gilded lion of Venice hovering over the city. The miniature city view is impressive in its attention to details and careful and accurate rendering of Venetian major buildings and monuments. The third sheet is dedicated to the Western part of the Mediterranean, to the coasts of Africa and Europe with an emphasis on Spain with the rose winds. Another representation is of the reigning houses of Spain and France. There is an image of the North Sea with floral decorations and a reference to the Americas (3v-4r). The fourth sheet describes the Aegean Sea with small rose compass and floral decorations and the coat of arms of Giovanni Soranzo with two standing lions. The final back cover (5v) describes a large full page rose wind with the names of the winds with floral decorations.19 The style of the atlas reflects the direct influence of the well-known Oliva family of mapmakers. The Oliva family was a Catalan family of portolan mapmakers and ­cartographers, whose extensive clan was active particularly in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in Italy, Spain, and France.20 The portolan charts they produced were based on an extremely expensive and refined technique of hand drawing on parchment. Their impressive artistic illustrations on their portolan charts were embellished with gold and silver leaf elements and had rich figural decorations. The most prominent members of the family were Joan Oliva who was active in Messina, Naples 19 The description of the atlas is based on Geoweb, the internet site of the Marciana Library managed by Piero Falchetta. Thanks are due to Piero Falchetta for making the atlas available for research purpose and for his generous help. 20 On the Oliva family of mapmakers see Biadene (note 17), pp. 90–93, 104–106.

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and Marseilles, Bartolomeo who was active in Venice and Messina, Johannes who was active in Messina, Naples, Livorno and Marseilles and the brothers Francesco and Salvatore active in Marseilles. In the seventeenth century, the most prominent member became Placido Oliva active in Venice and Messina. The Oliva family mapmakers paid much attention to ornamental motifs accompanying their atlases that were intended for a public of aristocrats, prelates, merchants, scholars, and rich bibliophiles. The demands and financial possibilities of the patron dictated the extent and the subjects chosen for the decoration of the charts. Since Guidalotto’s atlas was dedicated to the Venetian ambassador in Constantinople and was created in his identity as the chaplain or future chaplain of the Venetian embassy, the friar chose to include a particularly rich and impressive gilded city view of Venice as an act of patriotism and loyalty towards the Venetian ambassador. In sum, Guidalotto’s earlier nautical atlas reveals the author’s familiarity with the cartographic traditions of his times. The atlas was dedicated to Giovanni Soranzo and included his coat of arms; Guidalotto would later dedicate the Constantinople’s city view to Pope Alexander VII and to the Emperor Leopold I and would include the coat of arms of the papacy and emperor in the Constantinople panorama. Some of Guidalotto’s allegorical symbols of the banners showing the Venetian lion, the Imperial eagle or the Turkish turban would later appear in the Constantinople panorama, indicating Guidalotto’s interest in international politics that caused him to invest the cartographic depiction with political allusions. Another intriguing detail is the inclusion of animals as ornamental motifs in both the atlas and the panorama, although for a completely different purpose. While in the atlas, the conversing bears appear as exotic creatures that symbolize Africa, in the panorama, animals such as the seven headed hydra signify eschatological allegories conveying prophetic messages. A particular interesting case in point, predicting the later city panorama is the image of Venice as a miniature city view excelling in its accuracy and attention to details. This mastery of a cartographic representation would later be reproduced on a monumental scale in the Constantinople panorama. On the whole, then, while in its cartographic achievements and skills and in its various political references, the atlas predicts the later panorama; in some other important aspects, such as scale, a miniature depiction versus a wall size image, the panorama of Constantinople follows another ideological and theological content and presents a more elaborate attention to minute rendering of the entire city of Constantinople, including its monuments and public buildings.

The Memorie Turchesche The intriguing volume Memorie Turchesche is currently at the Biblioteca of the Museo Correr in Venice. It is a fascinating book, which contains a great deal of information

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on the history of the Ottoman Empire, on daily life in Constantinople, and on political events in the mid-seventeenth century with a particular focus on Venetian and Ottoman relations. The volume, which measures 21 × 30 cm, is dated to the second half of the seventeenth century and is made up of a text accompanied by miniatures. It is part of the Cicogna collection (Correr Library, Ms. Cicogna 1971) of books and works donated by the Venetian nobleman Emmanuele Antonio Cicogna to the Correr Museum and Library in 1865 (the museum itself was founded in 1830).21 The years surrounding the creation of the book in the mid seventeenth century were marked by heightened tensions between the city’s Venetian residents and the Ottoman rulers because of the Turkish invasion of Crete (1645). In March 1649, the Venetian Balio (ambassador) in Constantinople, Giovanni Soranzo, and his delegation, were summoned to the Topkapi Palace, and in the context of Venice’s refusal to cede Crete, they were interrogated in the presence of an executioner. Dispatches record that the entire Venetian delegation was subjected to the indignity of stocks and chains and led in a procession through the city. Illustrations of their humiliation survive in the Cicogna Codex; I will deal specifically with the miniatures and narrative depicting these dramatic events. The first page of the volume notes: “This curious book concerns the costumes of the Turks and their history. But it also concerns Venetian history as narrated by Ambassador Soranzo and others.”22 The volume includes fifty seven pages with two additional pages serving as an appendix and including two architectural illustrations. It is accompanied by fifty nine richly colored and marvelously executed miniatures. The volume might be divided into four major sections: the first tells the dynasty and history of the Ottoman sultans in a traditional manner (pp. 1–17), the second illustrates daily life in Istanbul (pp. 18–35), the third turns to depict the events following the clash between the Venetian embassy and the Turkish government in the mid seventeenth

21 This manuscript was first examined by Natalie E. Rothman, Visualizing a Space of Encounter: Intimacy, Alterity, and Trans-Imperial Perspective in an Ottoman-Venetian Miniature Album, in: Osmanlı Araştırmaları/ Journal of Ottoman Studies 40 (2012), pp. 39–80. Rothman discussed the ‘Memorie Turchesche’ in the context of diplomatic history and suggested that its author was Giovanni Battista Ballarino and dated it to the early 1660s; I would like to add to Rothman’s analysis which had focused on setting up the general framework of this manuscript further discussion especially regarding its third part dealing with the confrontation between the Venetian delegates and the Ottoman authorities. 22 See the inscription on the opening page of the ‘Memorie Turchesche’: Questo curioso libro spetta a costumi turcheschi e a quella storia. Ma spetta anche alla storia Veneta per quanto vi si narra del Soranzo ambasciator e altri. It then indicates that it tells on the immortal life of Giovanni Ballarino the first chancellor of the Venetian republic as told by Marco Trevisano in 1671 where the hanging of the dragomen and the death of the giovanni della lingu and the two letter carriers are described: Veggansi l’immoralità nella vita del Giambattista Ballarino primo cancelliere della Repubblica Veneta, desunti di Marco Trevisan van 1671–4 a pag. 98–105, 138–139 ove ricordansi il Tarsia giovine di Ligna, il dragoman Scillo strangolati- i due Portalettere, uno impalato, l’altro inganzato, ecc.

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century (pp. 36–46), the fourth part is dedicated to the depiction of the naval battles at the War of Candia and concludes with a very schematic and generic city view of Constantinople (pp. 47–59). At the end of the manuscript there are two vivid architectural illustrations of the Yedikule (the fortress of the Seven Towers) and the Rumeli Hisari (the fortress on the black sea) (pp. 60–61). On the cover of the volume there is an indication that the events described in this book are told from the point of view of the ambassador Giovanni Soranzo and by other officials, further establishing the hypothesis that the volume was composed in the context of the Venetian embassy. The first part of the book, which deals with the dynastic history of the Turks, discusses the reigns of seventeen Ottoman sultans with a commentary (up to two pages on each) on their characters and deeds. The sultans are figured similarly, wearing colorful oriental garments, turbans on their heads, and kneeling on oriental rugs, gesturing ceremoniously. It is hard to distinguish among them as they all appear to belong to the same generic type and resemble Bellini’s celebrated depiction of Mehmed II. These portraits belong to a long Venetian tradition, exemplified by the work of the Venetians artists Giacomo Franco, Paolo Ramusio, and Nicollo Nelli, wherein the sultans are imaged with beards and turbans, and they were produced in great numbers.23 The next section deals with the customs and habits of the Turks with colorful miniatures depicting daily life in Constantinople during the seventeenth century. One typical miniature highlighting the city’s prosperity shows merchants selling flowers, fruits, and poultry to female customers (possibly servants) dressed in Muslim outfits while other merchants are shown weighing wheat and bread. Brisk trade is being conducted in the market, with an impressive obelisk depicting scenes of kneeling people; cannons being fired; animals, including fish and horses with elaborate geometric designs serving as a setting. Two minarets are shown at a distance beyond a short wall, indicating that this market is in the Muslim quarter of the city (p. 28). There is a special emphasis on the highly embellished obelisk as a tribute to the city’s Byzantine and Christian heritage. In another miniature, we see a schematic and a simple city view, including private houses and mosques, highlighting the centrality of the aqueduct completed by the Roman emperor Valens in the late fourth century AD, represented on a huge scale as a major focus in the cityscape (p. 29). The choice of the aqueduct as the city’s major monument was clearly a tribute to its Roman past, which strongly suggests that the author was a European (Fig. 5). In a sense much of the material presented in the first and second parts of the Memorie Turchesche manuscript is reminiscent of the costume book genre, ­revealing interesting details of daily life in Constantinople. The source for many of the ­costumes depicted in the sixteenth century was based on Nicolas de Nicolay’s illustrated diary

23 Bronwen Wilson, The World in Venice: Print, the City, and Early Modern Identity, Toronto 2005, pp. 221–247.

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Fig. 5: Memorie Turchesche, The City Aqueduct; Venice, Museo Civico Correr, Ms. Cicogna 1971.

of his visit to the Ottoman Empire as part of the delegation of Francis I. Another example was Pieter Coecke van Aelst’s ‘Costumes and Fashions of the Turks’ published in 1553, which shows views of Istanbul and describes Turkish customs.24 An additional example is Melchior Lorck’s rich graphic record of Turkish life and landscape, which includes drawings and prints that were published posthumously in a book entitled ‘Well-Engraved and Cut Figures’ (1619).25 The first Italian Turkish costume book was printed in Venice in 1563 with engravings by Enea Vico showing servants and various female figures. In 1580, a book of Oriental and European costumes was published by Martino Rota. Cesare Vecellio’s famous costume book ‘Habiti antichi et moderni di tutto il mondo’ (Of Ancient and Modern Dress from Different Parts of the World) was published in Venice in 1590, where the seventh volume of the book was dedicated to the Ottoman Empire (Habiti dei Turchi). The costume book with Western portrayals of the habits and customs of the Turks became even more popular in the seventeenth century. One such volume, which can be found in the Marciana Library in Venice, illustrates individual occupations in Constantinople and their associated dress. It includes captions in Italian

24 Ibid., pp. 70–132. 25 On Lorck see Amanda Wunder, Western Travelers, Eastern Antiquities, and the Image of the Turk in Early Modern Europe, in: Journal of Early Modern History 7:1–2 (2003), pp. 89–119.

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and illustrates the portraits of various sultans and their wives, officials of the court, officers and soldiers, and merchants and traders, as well as life in the markets and other episodes of daily life in the city.26 Some scenes in the Memorie Turchesche volume showing daily life in the city reveal important information. The scene showing the Ottoman fireplace might suggest the drinking habits of the Turks since there are some interesting comments on the drinking of coffee and could fruitfully be compared to the scene in the Marciana library custom book showing the boy serving coffee (Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, Cod. Ita. 491, fol. 69). The scene showing the Sultan’s women playing music might suggest the type of musical instruments used in the court and the status of women in the Sultan’s circles, and could fruitfully be compared to the scene in the Marciana library custom book showing various female musicians at the court (Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana. Cod. Ita. 491, fol. 42, 49). These costume books, which were often produced by Turkish artists, served as practical guides to that society by depicting the sultans and their courts, the military and religious officials, the city’s trade and economic life, and its diverse populations.27 Memorie Turchesche reflects a similar interest in Turkish daily life, architectural monuments, and trade. The first and second parts of the Cicogna manuscript, which explore Ottoman political history and daily life in Constantinople, are characterized by a neutral or even positive approach toward the Turkish population and its leaders. Ottoman history and the portraits of the sultans are presented chronologically, whereas the images of daily life in the city reveal commercial prosperity and thriving cultural activity. Various mercantile enterprises, such as the horse market, the grain market, and the hostel (khan) for foreign merchants are described along with leisure pursuits. The members of the grand vizier’s court and the wives of the sultan residing in the old palace are shown in a positive light, emphasizing the strength and prosperity of the Turkish elite. Furthermore, occasionally Muslims, Christians, and perhaps Jews are imaged in a shared world of mercantile activity and life in the city, which suggests peaceful coexistence. In the third part of Memorie Turchesche, the author’s tone changed completely as he described the cruelty of the Turks in what might be seen as a fierce political accusation against the Ottoman authorities and their ill treatment of the Venetians. Various episodes are portrayed in detail. Each stage in this chain of events is described in full

26 On this costume book see Giovanni Curatola (ed.), Eredità dell’Islam. Arte islamica in Italia, exh. cat., Venice, Palazzo Ducale, Rome 1993, pp. 266–267: Fogge diverse di vestire de’ turchi (Diverse dressing habits of the Turks); Ennio Concina (ed.), Venezia e Istanbul. Incontri, Confronti e Scambi, Udine 2006, pp. 216–218, 233–242; Stefano Carboni (ed.), Venice and the Islamic World 828–1797, New Haven 2007, pp. 298–299, 318. 27 On the tradition of the Ottoman costume books see Julian Raby, The Serenissima and the Sublime Porte: Art in the Art of Diplomacy 1453–1600, in: Carboni (note 27), pp. 90–119.

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Fig. 6: Memorie Turchesche, Interrogation; Venice, Museo Civico Correr, Ms. Cicogna 1971.

with images illustrating the Turkish government persecuting the innocent and virtuous Venetian officials during the War of Candia. The events are recounted in eight specific scenes: in the first, Ambassador Soranzo and the secretary Ballarino are shown kneeling on a rug, being interrogated by the grand vizier’s executioner, with a group of Ottoman officials standing by (p. 36) (Fig. 6). Next, a two-page illustration shows a long line of Venetian officials in chains in a humiliating parade (pp. 37–38) (Fig. 7). The next scene shows the grand vizier leading a chained Soranzo into the Rumeli Hisari, the fortress where he was kept prisoner (p. 39) . In the following scene the Venetian dragoman Grillo is being dragged by the executioner at the entrance to the Rumeli Hisari in a dramatic and intense portrayal (p. 40). We then see the body of the previous dragoman Marcantonio Borisi who was executed in 1620 hanging on a wooden structure with four Muslim spectators standing at the side and chatting (p. 41). The next depiction shows a Venetian letter carrier being tormented and hanged through a sword in his stomach in a brutal posture with the blood pouring out (p. 42). The following scene shows another Venetian letter carrier being sliced through by a long knife, which comes out of his mouth in a ferocious depiction (p. 43). A particularly vivid image shows the entire Venetian Embassy staff in chains sitting in a row at the table with Ottoman officials conferring in the background (p. 44). Two additional scenes recount later developments, when Giovanni Battista Ballarino became the new ambassador de facto replacing Giovanni

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Fig. 7: Memorie Turchesche, Procession; Venice, Museo Civico Correr, Ms. Cicogna 1971.

Cappello and was interrogated and arrested and taken on horseback to a prison in Adrianople (pp. 45, 46). What is striking about these scenes is their narrative and picturesque quality and the realistic portrayal of events, with each member of the Venetian Embassy represented individually with his particular dress and facial features in a portrait-like depiction. The principal Venetian officials are recognizable by their attire: Soranzo is in a brown robe and a red hat, with a beard; Ballarino is in black and wearing a black hat; and the chaplain Niccolò Guidalotto is dressed as a friar. These are very vivid images rendered in minute detail. There is a strong sense of humiliation and a desire for revenge: the Venetian bailo is being led by a rope around his neck, the grand vizier is stepping over the dragoman Grillo, and the Venetians are figured as prisoners chained to one another. The last part of the Memorie Turchesche deals with the naval battles between the Venetians and the Ottomans (pp. 46–57). Here the neutral tone is again evident with an emphasis on accurate and minute descriptions of the various ships and weapons. The miniatures show the galleys and galleons of the two navies first departing from their ports and then they are imaged with full- blown sails, cannons ablaze. These images and the portrayals of the various ships are similar to the vast number of renditions showing the Battle of Lepanto with the Ottoman and Venetian navies, illustrated in detail.28 It is interesting to note that some of the depictions of the ships might be compared again with the Marciana costume book. For example the example of a Turkish boat with passengers (p. 53) is almost identical to the depiction of a similar boat in the Marciana volume (Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, Cod. Ita. 491, fol. 63r). Yet there is no sense of condemnation or moralistic intent in this part of the Memorie Turchesche, the focus being rather on accurate depictions of the various vessels and warships. The

28 For the images of ships and naval battles see Tonini Camillo/ Piero Lucchi (eds.), Navigare e Descrivere. Isolari e Portolani del Museo Correr di Venezia XV–XVIII secoli, Venice 2001, pp. 38–40.

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two architectural illustrations attached to Memorie Turchesche  – the Rumeli Hisari and the Fortress of the Yedikule – are both depicted in bird’s eye perspective. These drawings are impressive in their sophisticated and precise rendering of the buildings and their various features.

Conclusion The Venetian Franciscan friar, Niccolò Guidalotto da Mondavio, explains in his manuscript that he has drawn his vast panorama of Constantinople from the vantage point of Galata on the Christian bank, and that he chose this of three possible views because it was the safest. Had he made his drawings at sea (possibly the best option) he might have drowned, and if he had gone to the Asian bank he risked being taken for a spy. So, using his rough pen, he placed himself in a good position on the E ­ uropean shore from which he could design the panorama in safety and without danger from the ­Muslims.29 Both the author’s inclusion of himself in the painting and his detailed explanation of his choice of vantage point lend credibility to the panorama as being the product of the meticulous observations of an eyewitness. So what is one’s final impression regarding the artistic value of Niccolò Guidalotto’s panorama? The artist/author used sophisticated and enchanting methods. He had learned cartographical methods and stylistic techniques  – including Baroque imagery and complex visual language  – from the humanists and even from the Ottoman cartographers. The more one observes this elaborate piece of artwork, the more one is drawn to its visual elements, which totally captivate the imagination. The work stands out not merely for its huge dimensions, but for its wealth of detail and the sheer beauty of its design and execution. As the Ottoman Empire advanced westward from the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries, humanists responded on a grand scale, leaving behind a large body of fascinating yet understudied works. The three sources discussed above show another example of the complex interactions between Venetians and Ottomans during the seventeenth century. Tracing positive, or negative, or neutral viewpoints vis-à-vis the Ottomans in these intriguing texts and images proves that there was often a mix of attitudes during the period  – ambiguous and difficult to characterize. Whereas some evidence emphasizes coexistence with a focus on the prosperity of the Ottoman city and respect for its government, other examples highlight the fact that relations between the Ottomans and the Venetians were marked by animosity and conflict which reflects the complexity of Italian- Turkish dynamics in the Early Modern world.

29 Guidalotto (note 2), fol. 25r.

Sandra Sáenz–López Pérez

How to Represent the New World When One Is Not Andrea Mantegna: Sovereigns in the Americas on Sixteenth-Century Maps Abstract: The present essay is designed to contribute to the extensive literature on the images of the New World ‘Other’ following the early European contacts with the ­Americas. In particular, it focuses on hitherto neglected portraits of sovereign rulers in the Americas in triumphal procession in sixteenth-century cartography. It starts from the South American ruler depicted in Guillaume Le Testu’s ‘Cosmographie universelle’ (1556) and moves on to other portrayals of non-European sovereigns. I emphasize the idea that when it came to representing the New World early modern artists were not free of the influence of the classical heritage so that, for example, depictions of the triumphal processions in the Americas analyzed in this essay were based on Andrea Mantegna’s ‘Triumphs of Caesar’ paintings (c. 1486–1505). These early representations were rarely the result of direct contact with the New World, but I conclude with a singular exception: Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo (1478–1557), the Spanish chronicler of the Indies, who struggled with the difficulty of representing the novelty of the Americas and regretted not having the skills of an artist such as, paradoxically, Andrea Mantegna. We know that the latter was never in the New World so we can only wonder whether his visualization would have been very different or if he too would have chosen to depict its rulers in classical triumphal procession. Keywords: Cartography, Renaissance, New World, Alterity, Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo

Sovereign Rulers in Medieval Cartography The representation of sovereign rulers on maps was neither an invention of ­sixteenth-century cartography nor a standard feature on maps of the Americas. The fragmentary Vercelli mappa mundi,1 for example, which was made in around 1191– 1218, either in England2 or in France,3 includes a portrait of a king. He is depicted 1 Vercelli, Archivio Capitolare del Duomo di Vercelli. 2 Carlo F. Capello, Il mappamondo medioevale di Vercelli (1191–1218?), Turin 1976, pp. 9–11. 3 In the south of France, according to Leonid S. Chekin, Northern Eurasia in Medieval Cartography: Inventory, Texts, Translation, and Commentary, Turnhout 2006, p. 142; or in northern France, Paul D. Sandra Sáenz–López Pérez, PhD, Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, Spain https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-015

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sitting astride a bird (possibly an ostrich) with a horseshoe in its beak on the summit of Mount Atlas in Mauritania, and there is a legend labeling him as Philippus rex Francie (“Philip, King of France”). This has led to his being identified as both Philip II (1180– 1223)4 and Philip III (1270–1285), the latter known to have spent some time in Africa shortly before ascending the throne.5 Despite such examples, however, the portrayal of rulers on maps only became more commonplace with the development of nautical cartography in the late Middle Ages. From the Angelino Dulcert map of 13396 to the work of the seventeenth-­century cartographers, whom Julio Rey Pastor and Ernesto García Camarero dubbed the ­epigoni,7 nautical charts produced in the Crown of Aragon, in Mallorca or Barcelona, included images of rulers as a complement to vexillological and heraldic motifs used to illustrate the geopolitical divisions of the world. Such figures appeared in Europe, Africa, and Asia associated with the territories over which they ruled and were usually imaged enthroned or, in the case of Islamic or Mongol rulers, seated on large c­ ushions. The power these rulers wielded was evoked by emblems of sovereignty, which, despite some confusion, were often Western in origin for Christian leaders (crowns, scepters, orbs, shields, swords, etc.), and Oriental for others (turbans, scimitars, adargas, etc.). They are usually portrayed in isolation, rather than as part of a larger scene, although there are exceptions, such as the Gran senyor princep de Gog e de Magog (“Great lord prince of Gog and Magog”) in the ‘Catalan Atlas’ made around 1375 by the mapmaker Cresques Abraham (Fig. 1).8 This figure is depicted on horseback, surrounded by vassals shading him from the sun with a parasol, an emblem of power that also had religious associations – the image of a godlike sovereign receiving protection from the scorching sun.9 A small number of fourteenth-century Italian nautical charts also include depictions of sovereign rulers. The mappa mundi (fol. 1v–2r) of the ‘Atlante Mediceo’ also known as the ‘Medici-Laurentian Atlas’, composed in Genoa in 1351,10 includes a miniature portrait of the German emperor (Inperator [sic] Alemania) bearing what seems to be a scepter, and the chart made by the Pizzigani brothers in Venice in

A. Harvey, Matthew Paris’s Maps of Palestine, in: Peter R. Coss (ed.), Thirteenth Century England. Proceedings of the Durham Conference 1999, Woodbridge 2001, p. 174. 4 Capello (note 2), pp. 9–11. 5 Anna-Dorothee von den Brincken, Monumental Legends on Medieval Manuscript Maps. Notes on Designed Capital Letters on Maps of Large Size (Demonstrated from the Problem of Dating the Vercelli Map, Thirteenth Century), in: Imago Mundi 42 (1990), pp. 9–25, esp. 15. 6 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Rés. Ge B 696; http://gallicalabs.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b7759104r/f1.item. 7 Julio Rey Pastor/ Ernesto García Camarero, La Cartografía Mallorquina, Madrid 1960, pp. 44–46. 8 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS espagnol 30; http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b 55002481n/f12.image. 9 Jean-Paul Roux, Le Roi. Mythes et Symboles, [Paris] 1995, p. 216. 10 Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, MS Gaddi 9, fol. Iv–8r.

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Fig. 1: Eastern panels of Cresques Abraham’s ‘Catalan Atlas’ (c. 1375); Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS espagnol 30. By permission of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

1367 features a depiction of the Queen of Sheba.11 Influenced in all likelihood by ­Mallorcan practice, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries Italian mapmakers began to incorporate rulers’ portraits in their nautical charts, and in the second half of this period the motif also began to appear on charts produced elsewhere, for example, in ­Portugal or France, and in other forms of cartography, such as the printed edition of ­Ptolemy’s ‘Geographia’ prepared by Lorenz Fries and published in Strasbourg in 1522 by Johannes Grüninger. However, such depictions remained the exclusive reserve of maps portraying the Old World.

Sovereign Rulers from the Indies in Early Modern Cartography The earliest cartographical representations of the Americas depict only the curious and colorful natural environment of the New World, from the swathes of green representing its leafy vegetation crisscrossed by blue rivers in the Juan de la Cosa map

11 Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS 1612. For this map see Pietro Frabetti, Carte nautiche italiane dal XIV al XVII secolo conservate in Emilia-Romagna, Florence 1978, pp. 1–7.

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of 150012 to the forests full of exotic birds in the planispheres of Cantino (1502)13 and Nicolò de Caverio (c. 1505)14 and the fabulous animals portrayed in the World Map of Piri Re’is (1513), among others.15 When cartographers began adding images of the indigenous populations, they portrayed them not as rulers of their territories but as savages prone to cannibalism and other such uncivilized practices, as in the ­Kunstmann II Map (c. 1505),16 or working for the colonists in mining or forestry  – exploiting the New World’s natural resources – as in the ‘Vallard Atlas’ (1547).17 Any symbols of power were thus shown as being held firmly in European hands, but every rule has its exception. In 1556 Guillaume Le Testu (c. 1509–1573), a French explorer and cartographer, published a world atlas entitled ‘Cosmographie Universelle selon les Navigateurs, tant anciens que moderns’.18 The book includes fifty-six maps based on charts from French, Spanish, and Portuguese sources, and probably on his own hand-drawn designs as it is known that he traveled to Brazil in 1551–1552 and again in 1555. However, a further source of inspiration was his imagination, as he freely admitted in his notes about the map of Terra australis and the Strait of Magellan (fol. XLr): Combien que ceste terre soit decripte / et depaincte n’est seullement que par imaginaction, / pource que decouuerture n’a poinct este faicte (“Any description and depiction of the land stems only from the imagination, for it has not yet been discovered”). The image of a sovereign ruler being carried on a litter, shaded by a parasol, and accompanied by a procession of musicians and dancers on the shores of the River Plate (Rio, Terre de Plate) on the map of South America (fol. XLIIIv) is a prime example of his imagination at work (Fig. 2). Yet, there is more to it than that. Le Testu based his illustration on an early sixteenth-century iconographical motif that was very influential on European visual culture when it came to representing non-European rulers in unknown lands. The image in question is ‘Der Kvnig von Gvtzin’, the King of Cochin – an Indian king of Kerala – which was one of the woodcuts in the ‘Peoples of Africa and India’ series by Hans Burgkmair (1473–1531) in Augsburg in 1508.19 This woodcut

12 Madrid, Museo Naval, Inv. N. 257. For a facsimile reproduction see Carta de Juan de la Cosa: año de 1500, Madrid 1992. 13 Modena, Biblioteca Estense Universitaria, C.G.A.2. For a digital reproduction see Antichi planisferi e portolani: Modena, Biblioteca estense univesitaria, Modena, Milan 2004. 14 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, S. H. Archives N. 1; http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/­ btv1b7759102x. 15 Istanbul, Library of the Topkapı Palace. 16 Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Cod. Icon. 133. 17 San Marino, California, Huntington Library, HM 29, fol. 11; http://dpg.lib.berkeley.edu/webdb/ dsheh/heh_brf?Description=&CallNumber=HM+29. 18 Paris, Château de Vincennes, Bibliothèque du Service Historique de l’Armée de Terre, D.L.Z.14; http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b8447838j. 19 This series has been reproduced in Friedrich W. H. Hollstein, German engravings, etchings and woodcuts, ca. 1400–1700, Amsterdam 1957, vol. 5, pp. 132–133. For the various editions see

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Fig. 2: South American sovereign ruler in Guillaume Le Testu’s ‘Cosmographie universelle’ (1556); Paris, Château de Vincennes, Bibliothèque du Service Historique de l’Armée de Terre, D.L.Z.14.

frieze was created to illustrate the account written by a local merchant named Balthasar Springer of his voyage from Lisbon to Calicut in 1505–1506. Springer was an agent of the patrician Welser family – merchant bankers from Augsburg – who sponsored his voyage as part of the mission led by Francisco de Almeida to establish the

Henry  ­Harrisse, Americus Vespuccius. A Critical and Documentary Review of Two Recent English Books Concerning that Navigator, London 1895, pp. 36–67, esp. 41–67; Jean Michel Massing, Hans Burgkmair’s Depiction of Native Africans, in: RES. Anthropology and Aesthetics 27 (1995), pp. 39–51, repr. in: Studies in Imagery, vol. 2: The World Discovered, London 2007, pp. 114–140; Id., Triumph of  the King of Cochin, in: Jay A. Levenson (ed.), Encompassing the Globe. Portugal and the World in  the 16th and 17th Centuries, Washington/ DC 2007, vol. 2, p. 35, repr. in: Portuguese: ­Encompassing the Globe. Portugal e o Mundo nos séculos XVI e XVII, Lisbon 2009, p. 90; Mark P. McDonald, Burgkmair’s Woodcut Frieze of Natives of Africa and India, in: Print Quarterly 20:3 (2003), pp. 227–244; Stephanie Leitch, Burgkmair’s Peoples of Africa and India and the Origins of Ethnography in Print, in: Art Bulletin 91:2 (2009), pp. 134–159; repr. in: Mapping Ethnography in Early Modern Germany. New Worlds in Print Culture, New York 2010, pp. 63–99.

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Fig. 3: Detail of ‘Der Kvnig von Gvtzin’ or the King of Cochin from the ‘Peoples of Africa and India series’ by Hans Burgkmair (1505–1506); London, British Museum, 1895,0122.405–407. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

first Portuguese viceroyalty.20 This enterprise took Springer along the eastern coast of Africa as far as Malindi on the west coast to Calicut in India; on the return trip, storms forced the ships to sail close to the coast, passing Mozambique and Algoa, rounding the Cape of Good Hope, and continuing on to Guinea and the Cape Verde Islands. The expedition returned to Lisbon at the end of 1506, and Springer’s narrative appeared shortly afterward. His report was probably brought to Burgkmair’s attention by his humanist colleague Konrad Peutinger (1465–1547), a member of the Welser family, who, as I explain later, had an active role in the inclusion of ethnographical motifs in Burgkmair’s frieze. This multiblock woodcut frieze is around 28 cm high and 210 cm long and reflects the voyage in geographical sequence, depicting the peoples of Guinea, the region around the Cape of Good Hope and the east coast of Africa, a group of Indians, and a procession on India’s Malabar Coast, which includes the depiction of the King of Cochin (Fig. 3). This image of the king reflects information provided by Hans Mayr, another German merchant who was part of the expedition and also wrote an account of his travels. He included a description of the Indian king leaving his palace to meet the Portuguese party being carried on the shoulders of his men and protected from the sun, accompanied by thousands of soldiers armed with swords and shields, foot soldiers and archers, as well as musicians playing trumpets and oboes,21 and that scene is portrayed in the woodcut. 20 For the various publications of Balthasar Springer’s account and other texts relating to the Francisco de Almeida Expedition see Harrisse (note 19); Franz Hümmerich, Quellen und Untersuchungen zur Fahrt der ersten Deutschen nach dem portugiesischen Indien 1505/6 (Abhandlungen der Königlich Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften: philosophisch-philologische und historische Klasse 30, Abh. 3), Munich 1918. 21 See Hümmerich (note 20), pp. 19, 33, 125, and 133.

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Burgkmair’s woodcuts were an instant success,22 as evident from the pirated copies that are known to have been made by Nuremberg printer Georg Glockendon (fl.  1484–1514) as early as 1509 and 1511. Owing to these prints and reprints, ­Burgkmair’s images became very widely known, especially the woodcut of the King of Cochin, which was faithfully conveyed into a range of other media, including a tapestry woven in Arras in 1509–151123 and an oil-on-wood painting of the Portuguese School ‘The Triumph of the King of Cochin’, dating from 1540–1550.24 The image of the King of Cochin was also included in subsequent editions of Springer’s report, notably Jan van Doesborch’s 1508 Antwerp publication ‘Die reyse van Lissebone om te varenna obsem eyelandt Naguarir in groot Indien gheleghen voor bi Callicuten’,25 and the version issued a year later in Augsburg, ‘Die Merfart und erfarung nüwer Schiffung und Wege zu viln onerkanten Inseln und Künigreichen’, which included woodcuts by Wolf Traut (Fig. 4). In both editions Burgkmair’s woodcut was followed closely, albeit in simplified form and with several differences: the number of figures portrayed was reduced, their positions and gestures were altered, and the illustration was presented in mirror image. Burgkmair’s ‘Peoples of Africa and India’ has been called “a precocious study in human diversity” and praised for departing from stereotypes of exotic peoples at an extraordinarily early date.26 Burgkmair broke with earlier traditions by basing his portrayals of these unfamiliar people on empirical evidence and images taken from life. He worked from models, perhaps drawings made by an artistically inclined member of the expedition,27 or indigenous artifacts brought back by Springer.28 In fact, some such goods must have passed into Peutinger’s hands because in a letter he wrote to humanist Sebastian Brant, dated April 7, 1507, he mentioned having in his possession a talking parrot and other curiosities brought from India, including items made of 22 Interestingly, for example, the extensive print collection of Columbus’s son Ferdinand included a copy of ‘Peoples of Africa and India’ (1508); see Mark P. McDonald, The Print Collection of Ferdinand Columbus (1488–1539). A Renaissance Collector in Seville, London 2004, vol. 2, no. 2795, p. 515; illustrated in vol. 1, fig. 413, pp. 482–483. 23 Paris, Musée du quai Branly, Inv. No. 75.8650. http://collections.quaibranly.fr/?permq=­ permq_ 4483e058-9e17-4c09-9409-e9adebe5a803. For more on the influence of Hans Burgkmair’s woodcut on this tapestry see Götz Pochat, ‘Triumphus Regis Gosci Sive Gutschmin’. Exoticism in French Renaissance Tapestry, in: Gazette des Beaux-Arts 82 (1973), pp. 305–310; repr. in: Kunst, Kultur, Ästhetik: Gesammelte Aufsätze, Münster 2009, pp. 279–286. 24 Paris, Gallery De Jonckheere. See Massing, Triumph (note 19), vol. 2, p. 35 (2009, p. 90). 25 Translated into English in c. 1520 as Of the Newe la[n]des and of Ye People Founde By the Messengers of the Kynge of Porty[n]gale Named Emanuel with the same woodcut of the King of Cochin. 26 Leitch (note 19), p. 134; repr. (note 19), p. 64. 27 Isolde Hausberger/ Rolf Biedermann (eds.), Hans Burgkmair 1473–1531. Das Graphische Werk, Stuttgart 1973, no. 26. 28 Hugh Honour, Science and Exoticism: The European Artist and the Non-European World before Johan Maurits, in: Ernst van den Boogaart (ed.), Johan Maurits van Nassau-Siegen 1604–1679. A Humanist Prince in Europe and Brazil, The Hague 1979, pp. 269–296, esp. 275.

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Fig. 4: The ‘Triumphus Regis Gosci sive Gutscmin’ of Wolf Traut, after Hans Burgkmair, in: Balthasar Springer, Die Merfart und erfarung nüwer Schiffung und Wege zu viln onerkanten Inseln und Künigreichen, Augsburg 1509; München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Rar. 470, fol. 3r.

wood, a bow, skins, and shells.29 Peutinger also contributed to Burgkmair’s ethnographical approach in another way: in his copy of Ptolemy’s ‘Cosmographia’ (Rome 1490) there is an autograph note on fol. A3v,30 in which he reports on his father-inlaw Anton Welser’s purchase of Indian natives; in all likelihood the artist saw these natives first-hand in Germany and incorporated their images into his frieze.31 As a result, Burgkmair’s ‘Peoples of Africa and India’ includes elements not detailed in the verbal description of the journey, such as the parasol known as a chatta, the litter or palankeen on which the king is being carried, and various items of Indian apparel and hairstyles. The authentic character of the Indian artifacts and of the scene portrayed in Burgkmair’s woodcut was also affirmed by the testimony of other travelers, men such as Giovanni da Empoli (1515)32 and Duarte

29 Erich König (ed.), Konrad Peutingers Briefwechsel, Munich 1923, pp. 77–78. 30 Oxford, Bodleian Library, Gough Gen. Top. 225. 31 Leitch (note 19), p. 141; repr. (note 19), pp. 65 and 73. 32 See Giovanni da Empoli, Viaggio fatto nell’India per Giovanni da Empoli, in: Relazioni di viaggiatori, Venice 1841, vol. 2, pp. 46–48; Donald Ferguson, Letters from Portuguese Captives in Canton, written in 1534 and 1536, with an introduction on Portuguese intercourse with China in the first half of the sixteenth century, in: The Indian Antiquary 30 (1901), pp. 420–436, repr. Bombay 1902. Although Empoli’s letter was probably circulated in Italy after its arrival, it was not published until the mid-­ sixteenth century, when it appeared in Giovanni Battista Ramusio, Delle navigationi et viaggi, Venice 1550, vol. 1, fol. 156r–158r.

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Barbosa (c. 1516),33 who went to India and whose accounts of their travels confirm, for example, the custom of carrying the king on a litter and shading him with a parasol.34 Despite all its exotic novelty, however, Burgkmair’s image was arranged according to a familiar compositional and iconographical paradigm, specifically that of the Roman Triumph or triumphal procession – the greatest honor that could be bestowed on a sovereign or military commander (or, in classical antiquity, on a god or a hero). During the Renaissance, and particularly after the publication of Petrarch’s poem ‘I Trionfi’ (1351–1374), this secular practice became a key motif in the art world.35 In basing his image on a triumphal procession, Burgkmair could incorporate an unknown people into a syntax with which a Western audience was familiar. The idea of a series of multiple block prints creating a woodcut frieze was new in northern Europe, and the closest precedent to Burgkmair’s work has been found south of the Alps, in Italian Renaissance imperial imagery, which he may have seen during a trip he made to Italy in 1507 that included Venice and probably Florence and Milan as well. Of all the Renaissance depictions of triumphal processions, the most highly regarded was Italian artist Andrea Mantegna’s ‘The Triumphs of Caesar’, a set of nine paintings created for the Gonzaga family of Mantua in 1484–1492.36 Described by the Italian art historian Giorgio Vasari (1511–1574) in ‘Le vite de’ piu eccellenti pittori, scultori, e architettori’ (published in 1550 and reissued with additional content in 1568), as la miglior cosa che lauorarsse mai37 (“the best thing that he ever executed”38), these works were purchased for Charles I by his agent Daniel Nys in 1629 and are now housed in Hampton Court Palace, Surrey, England39 (Fig. 5). Burgkmair may have found the precedent for his King of Cochin in printed editions of these canvases40: a set of twelve

33 See Augusto Reis Machado (ed.), Livro em que dá relação do que viu e ouviu no Oriente, Lisbon 1946, pp. 130–132; Duarte Barbosa, The Book of Duarte Barbosa. An Account of the Countries Bordering on the Indian Ocean and Their Inhabitants, ed. Mansel L. Dames, New Delhi 2002, pp. 24–26. 34 The link between the image of the King of Cochin with the details given in other accounts of travels to India has been noted by Pochat 1973 (note 23), pp. 308 and 310, note 12; Id. 2009 (note 23), pp. 283 and 286, note 12. 35 For Triumphs in art see Lilian Armstrong, Triumphal Processions in Italian Renaissance Book Illumination, and Further Sources for Andrea Mantegna’s Triumphs of Caesar, in: Manuscripta. A Journal for Manuscript Research 52:1 (2008), pp. 1–63 and color plates; Tamar Cholcman, Art on Paper: Ephemeral Art in the Low Countries. The Triumphal Entry of the Archduke Albert and Isabella into Antwerp, 1599, Turnhout 2014. 36 For this work by Andrea Mantegna see Andrew Martindale, The Triumphs of Caesar by Andrea Mantegna in the Collection of Her Majesty the Queen at Hampton Court, London 1979. 37 Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ piu eccellenti pittori, scultori, e architettori, 4 parts in 3 vols., Florence 1568, vol. 1, part 2, p. 490. 38 Giorgio Vasari, The Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors and Architects, transl. Gaston du C. de Vere, ed. Philip Jacks, New York 2010, p. 209. 39 The paintings of the cycle that interest us the most are “The Picture-Bearers” (RCIN 403958), “The Bearers of Trophies and Bullion” (RCIN 403960), and “Caesar on His Chariot” (RCIN 403966). 40 Leitch (note 19), p. 147; repr. (note 19), p. 82.

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Fig. 5: Three paintings from Andrea Mantegna’s ‘The Triumphs of Caesar’ (1484–1492): “The Picture-Bearers” (RCIN 403958), “The Bearers of Trophies and Bullion” (RCIN 403960), and “Caesar on His Chariot” (RCIN 403966); Windsor, Royal Collection Trust / © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2016.

Fig. 6: Details from Jacob of Strasbourg and Benedetto Bordone’s ‘Triumph of Caesar’, Venice 1504; New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Harris Brisbane Dick Fund, 1927, N.o Inv. 27.54.118, 27.54.122 and 27.54.124. www.metmuseum.org.

Mantegna-inspired woodcuts was published in Venice in 1504 by Jacob of Strasbourg, also known as Jacobus Argentoratensis (Fig. 6). His ‘Triumph of Caesar’ was based on designs by Benedetto Bordone, a Venice-based miniaturist from Padua.41 As Jean Michel Massing has pointed out, this was the only easily available representation of a classical Triumph, which is why it was so widely copied during the first half of the sixteenth century.42 41 Bordone drew not only on Mantegna’s ‘Triumphs of Caesar’, but also on the woodcut of the Triumphs of Jupiter from Francesco Colonna, Poliphili Hypnerotomachia, Venice: Aldo Manuzio, 1499, and the description of Scipio’s triumphal entry into Rome given by the Roman historian Appian (c. 95–c. 165), Roman History, in: Appianus, Appian’s Roman history, 4 vols., London, Cambridge, MA 1964, vol. 1, pp. 507–509, probably known to Bordone through Flavio Biondo, Roma triumphans, Basel 1459. See David Landau/ Peter W. Parshall, The Renaissance Print, 1470–1550, New Haven 1994, p. 178; Larry Silver, Marketing Maximilian. The Visual Ideology of a Holy Roman Emperor, Princeton 2008, p. 94; Jean Michel Massing, The Triumph of Caesar by Benedetto Bordon and Jacobus Argentoratensis. Its Iconography and Influence, in: Print Quarterly 7 (1990), pp. 19–21; repr. in: Studies in Imagery, vol. 1: Text and Images, London 2004, pp. 108–140. 42 The influence of the Triumph of Caesar by Jacob of Strasbourg and Benedetto Bordone can also be seen, for example, in the Palace of Vélez-Blanco, not far from Granada, built between 1506 and

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It seems very likely that the representation of the King of Cochin was intended to evoke the idea of a triumphal procession. This may have been less overt in ­Burgkmair’s initial woodcut, but just a few years later, in 1509, Wolf Traut made the connection quite explicit by entitling his woodcut ‘Triumphus Regis Gosci Sive Gutscmin’ (Fig. 4).43 At first glance, there are many similarities between the images of the King of Cochin and both the Mantegna and the Strasbourg-Bordone ‘Triumph(s) of Caesar’, notably the presence of trumpeters at the head of the procession. These elements were also described by the Roman historian Appian when he discussed the “form of the triumph” in his book on Roman history.44 There is one fascinating detail, however, which sets the supposed Triumph of the King of Cochin apart from that of the Roman general: whereas Caesar is shown riding in a horse-drawn chariot, the Indian king is imaged sitting on a board supported by four poles and borne upon the shoulders of four men. This is similar to the ferculum or bier that was used in classical Triumphs for transporting the spoils of war rather than for carrying and honoring a sovereign ruler. As David Armitage bluntly noted: “spoils, not rulers, were lifted aloft.”45 This puts a rather less triumphant spin on the procession of the King of Cochin. There are other sixteenth-century maps, as well as Le Testu’s ‘Cosmographie Universelle’, that feature images of non-European rulers – be they New World or Asian – which are clearly influenced by Burgkmair’s King of Cochin. One such is the woodcut by Giacomo Gastaldi in the third volume of the ‘Navigationi et viaggi’ by Giovanni Battista Ramusio, entitled ‘Il Cvscho citta principal della provincial del Perv’ (“Cuzco, principal city of the province of Peru”),46 where Atahualpa, the last ruler of the Inca Empire prior to the Spanish conquest, is seated on a litter in front of the temple, accompanied by spear-wielding soldiers (Fig. 7). The map of ‘Cusco, Regni Peru In Novo Orbe Caput’ (“Cuzco, the capital of the kingdom of Peru in the New World”) in

1515, and in the House of the Count of Morata of 1552, both studied by Santiago Sebastián, El tema del “Triunfo de César” en la decoración del Renacimiento español, in: Cuadernos de Trabajos de la Escuela Española de Historia y Arqueología en Roma 15 (1981), pp. 241–246; it also inspired the tinglazed earthenware probably made in the workshop of Cafaggiolo in 1514, north of Florence, and attributed to the painter Jacopo di Stefano Schiavone, housed in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, Inv. N.º C.86–1927; http://webapps.fitzmuseum.cam.ac.uk/explorer/index.php?oid=47191. See Julia E. Poole, Italian Maiolica and Incised Slipware in the Fitzwilliam Museum Cambridge, Cambridge 1995, pp. 129–131, no. 188 and plate 10. 43 David Armitage, The “Procession Portrait” of Queen Elisabeth I. A Note on a Tradition, in: Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 53 (1990), pp. 301–307, esp. 302. 44 Appian (note 41), vol. 1, pp. 507–509. 45 Armitage (note 43), p. 304. 46 Giovanni Battista Ramusio, Navigazioni e viaggi, vol. 3, Venice: Stamperia de Giunti, 1556, fol. 411v–412r; Id., Navigazioni e viaggi, vol. 6, a cura di Marica Milanesi, Torino 1988, pp. 856–857; see Richard L. Kagan/ Fernando Marías, Urban Images of the Hispanic World, 1493–1793, New Haven, London 2000, pp. 95–101.

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Fig. 7: Map of Cuzco, in: Giovanni Battista Ramusio, Navigationi et viaggi, vol 3, Venice 1556, 2nd and 3rd ed. 1606, fol. 344; Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional de España, GMG/646. By permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España.

the ‘Civitates orbis terrarum’ (I:58) by Georg Braun and Franz Hogenberg47 was based on the map of ‘Delle navigationi et viaggi’. Braun and Hogenberg copied not only the general layout of the city, but also the image of Atahualpa. However, as is typical of the ‘Civitates orbis terrarum’, in the foreground we can see figures in local dress – in this case Atahualpa himself again, far more prominent here, and sheltered from the sun not by a parasol but by a baldaquin-like structure. Burgkmair’s image also inspired a second image in the ‘Civitates orbis terrarum’, that of the King of Calicut (geographically, at least, more closely related to his original Indian king) in the view of the city of ‘Calechut, celeberrimum Indiae emporium’ (“Calicut, famous Indian trading post”) (Fig. 8).48 Moreover, the woodcut is echoed yet again on the map of Asia (fol. 2) in the above-mentioned ‘Vallard Atlas’ (1547), in which a black sovereign is seen being carried on a litter toward Hindustan and, 47 Georg Braun/ Franz Hogenberg, Civitates orbis terrarum, Cologne, Apud Philippum Gallaeum, 1572, I, 58; for a facsimile reproduction see Georg Braun/ Franz Hogenberg, Civitates orbis terrarum 1572–1618, ed. Raleigh A. Skelton, 3 vols., Amsterdam 1965, vol. 1, p. 58. 48 Braun/ Hogenberg (note 47), vol 1, p. 54.

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Fig. 8: View of Calicut, in: Georg Braun/ Franz Hogenberg, Civitates orbis terrarum, Cologne: Apud Philippum Gallaeum, 1572, I:54; Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional de España, GMG/47. By permission of the Biblioteca Nacional de España.

more specifically, toward another black sovereign seated on a throne at whom the former is pointing (Fig. 9).49 Although the figures in this scene are very different from Burgkmair’s Indians in terms of both their racial features and their clothing, certain elements indicate that this detail of the map was derived from that iconographical model: the litter, the ruler’s pointed headwear, very different from the conventional crown that one of his vassals is holding up to him, and the parasol, which seems here to be acting as a pennant rather than as a means of protecting the sovereign from the sun. Furthermore, it is interesting to note that whereas this ruler is being carried on a litter, three classical deities are depicted in the margins of the map, each in an animal-drawn triumphal chariot: Venus’s by swans – Neptune’s by seahorses; and Bacchus’s by lions  – thus pointing out the contrast between a Triumph associated with a non-European ruler and the motif’s classical origins. As was the case in the later editions of Springer’s report on his travels, all the maps that drew on Burgkmair’s King of Cochin image did so in a simplified fashion, reducing the number of figures and eliminating the soldiers – in Le Testu’s ‘Cosmographie universelle’  – or the musicians  – in Braun and Hogenberg’s ‘Civitates orbis terrarum’ and in the ‘Vallard Atlas’. These cartographers were clearly not concerned with faithfully reflecting Burgkmair’s editio princeps or prints derived from it (such as Georg Glockendon’s), but instead adapted the iconography of what David Armitage calls an “isolable tradition of representing royal power which indeed draws upon triumphal motifs but is not in itself triumphal”,50 extending it not only to Indian kings,

49 Surekha Davies, Renaissance Ethnography and the Invention of the Human New Worlds, Maps and Monsters, Cambridge 2016, pp. 139–141 already noted the connection of this detail in the Vallard Atlas and Burgkmair’s woodcuts. 50 Armitage (note 43), p. 301.

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Fig. 9: Map of Asia; ‘Vallard Atlas’, Dieppe 1547; San Marino/ California, The Huntington Library, HM 29, fol. 2r.

but also to indigenous New World rulers. It is not surprising that the same motif should have had currency in maps of both the East and West Indies, as for a long time after the European arrival in the Americas, those two regions shared a single identity.

Depicting the Americas from Life: Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo According to John Lewis Gaddis: History, like cartography, is necessarily a representation of reality. It’s not reality itself; indeed, if truth be told it’s a pitiful approximation of a reality that, even with the greatest skill on the part of the historian [and the cartographer, we might add], would seem very strange to anyone who’d actually lived through it.51

If that is true of historical cartography in general it is even more true of maps of the Americas. As is well known, the Europeans who first went there struggled to 51 John Lewis Gaddis, The Landscape of History: How Historians Map the Past, Oxford, New York 2002, p. 136; author’s italics.

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­understand this new territory, its fauna and flora, and its people. Not without reason did the Italian explorer Amerigo Vespucci (1454–1512) name it a Mundus Novus in a letter published in Paris in 1503 or 1504 (a translation of an earlier, now lost, letter he had written to his friend and former patron Lorenzo di Pier Francesco de’ Medici in the spring of 1503). The letter published in Paris was reprinted in Rome, Venice, and Augsburg in 1504, and by 1515 had been translated into five languages and reissued almost thirty times. More than four centuries later, the Italian author Italo Calvino (1923–1985) wrote an essay entitled ‘How New the New World Was’, which opens with the following words: Discovering the New World was a very difficult enterprise, as we have all been taught. But even more difficult, once the New World was discovered, was seeing it, understanding that it was new, entirely new, different from anything one had expected to find as new.52

The New World did indeed turn out to be difficult to explain, but was probably still harder to illustrate, although even the earliest writings on the Americas were accompanied by pictorial images, beginning with Christopher Columbus’s letter.53 Of course, as Guillaume Le Testu and all the other cartographers mentioned above, many artists drew upon existing motifs and their own fertile imaginations when it came to depicting the New World. Even those who actually went to the Americas and tried to represent their landscapes, natural environments, and inhabitants were often doomed to failure because of their technical shortcomings and their inability to set aside their Western cultural preconceptions.54 Perhaps the most paradigmatic example in this regard was Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés (1478–1557), known as Oviedo, whom Emperor Charles V appointed

52 Italo Calvino, Come’era nuovo il Nuovo Mondo, in: Collezione di sabbia, Milan 1984; English translation: How New the New World Was, in: Collection of Sand: essays, Boston 2013, p. 10. 53 Christopher Columbus’s ‘De insulis nuper inventis. Epistola Christoferi Colom’, Basel: Johann Bergmann von Olpe, 1494. 54 In the extensive literature on images of the New World, see Fredi Chiappelli/ Michael J. B. Allen/ Robert L. Benson (eds.), First Images of America: the Impact of the New World on the Old, B ­ erkeley 1976, 2 vols.; Hugh Honour, The European Vision of America: A Special Exhibition to Honor the Bicentennial of the United States, Organized by the Cleveland Museum of Art, Cleveland 1975; Jean Michel Massing, Early European Images of America: The Ethnographic Approach, in: Jay A. L ­ evenson (ed.), Circa 1492. Art in the Age of Exploration, New Haven 1991, pp. 514–520, repr. in: Jean Michel Massing, Studies in Imagery, vol. 2: The World Discovered, London 2007, pp. 94–113; Victoria Dickenson, Drawn From Life: Science and Art in the Portrayal of the New World, Toronto 1998; Anna Greve, Die Konstruktion Amerikas. Bilderpolitik in den ‘Grands voyages’ aus der Werkstatt de Bry, Cologne 2004; Elaine Brennan, Visual Images of America in the Sixteenth Century, in: Literature Compass 5:6 (2008), pp. 1025–1048; Peter Mason, Infelicities. Representations of the Exotic, Baltimore, London 1998; Id., Before Disenchantment. Images of Exotic Animals and Plants in the Early Modern World, London 2009; Denise Daum, Albert Eckhouts ‘gemalte Kolonie’. Bild- und Wissensproduktion über Niederländisch-Brasilien um 1640, Marburg 2009.

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the official royal chronicler of the Indies in 1532. From his first publication on the Americas55 to the autograph so-called ‘Monserrate’ manuscript,56 which he deposited for safekeeping in an unspecified monastery in Seville in 1549, just before embarking on one of his voyages to Santo Domingo, his work reflects a relentless desire to create a truly comprehensive and authoritative guide to the New World, with his texts being brought to life by a series of complementary illustrations. As an eye-witness to and writer about life in the Americas, Oviedo wanted to convey what he actually saw by means of a verbal description, generally moving from the appearance of an object and its nomenclature (in both Western/Christian and indigenous languages) to thoughts about its use and value. He was aware that he faced the dilemma of writing for readers who had never seen the New World, and thus in order to conjure it in their mind’s eye, he compared its exotic natural world, people, and artifacts with their Old World equivalents, as well as with paintings and other visual arts of the period. He also included illustrations where words alone would not suffice. Image and text are inseparable from one another in Oviedo’s work.57 His understanding of the key role played by illustration is explicit in his efforts, where he made constant references to accompanying images, and also implicit in the fact that from his first publication about the Americas onward, he increased the number of woodcuts he included and continually modified his existing drawings in order to improve their accuracy and enhance their effect. One example is his representation of a hammock, first included in the ‘Sumario’ (fol. 17v), where it is shown ­ imension).58 hanging between two trees with the cloth parallel to the folio (i.e., in one d Although this detail was not corrected in a later edition published in 1535 and titled ‘La historia general de las Indias. Primera parte’, the woodcut was reworked to show a grid pattern on the cloth. This pattern, which matches the written description indicating that a hammock was una manta texida en partes y en partes abierta a escaques cruzada y hecha red porque sea mas fresca, that is, “a blanket, partly woven, and

55 Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, ‘De la natural historia delas Indias’, better known as the ­‘Sumario’, Toledo: Ramón de Petras, 1526. 56 San Marino, California, Huntington Library, HEM-HM 177; Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia, Salazar Collection 9-551-9/557. 57 Kathleen Ann Myers, Fernández de Oviedo’s Chronicle of America. A New History for a New World, Austin 2008, p. 81. For the importance and role of images in Oviedo’s work see also Daymond Turner, Forgotten Treasure from the Indies: The Illustrations and Drawings of Fernández de Oviedo, in: Huntington Library Quarterly 48:1 (1985), pp. 1–46; Jesús María Carrillo Castillo, Naturaleza e imperio: la representación del mundo natural en la Historia general y natural de las Indias de Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, Madrid 2004; Sandra Sáenz-López Pérez, Description and Representation in Oviedo’s and Staden’s Travel Accounts of the New World, in: Christina Ionescu/ Lauren Beck (eds.), Visualizing the Text from Manuscript Culture to the Age of Caricature, Newark 2017, pp. 145–170. 58 Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional de España, R/3864, is available online at http://bdh.bne.es/bnesearch/ detalle/bdh0000050339.

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partly openwork in squares that form a net so as to be cooler”.59 Later, in the Monserrate manuscript,60 a small figure of a native American was added to illustrate how these beds were used, and the one-dimensional hammock became three-dimensional (Fig. 10). The marginal comment Por hazer (To be done) demonstrates that Oviedo intended to have a new print made, but this final publication did not come out in his lifetime.61

If Only Mantegna Had Been to the New World: By Way of Conclusion Edmundo O’Gorman posited the idea that the Americas were invented,62 and his thesis can also be projected on their images. Early Western representations do not show a New World discovered, but a continuation of the Old World in those lands. Depictions such as those by Guillaume Le Testu and other sixteenth-century cartographers prove that both imagination and Western cultural notions were the two main ingredients for portraying the New World. Even those who experienced the Americas and depicted those new territories, nature, peoples, and costumes from life struggled with the difficulties that entailed. Despite the constant modifications he made to his drawings, Oviedo left a personal confession in his work, expressing his regrets about not being one of the world’s great artists. As he attempted to describe a particular tree, he noted: it would be preferable to have it rendered by the hand of [Pedro] Berruguete, or a painter as excellent as he, or Leonardo da Vinci, or Andrea Mantegna, famous painters I got to know in Italy, than to describe it by means of words. All of this is better seen than written about or painted (bk 10, Proemio).63

59 Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, La historia general de las Indias. Primera parte de la historia natural y general de las Indias, yslas et tierra firme del mar oceano, Seville: Juan Cromberger, 1535, fol. 47v; Madrid, Biblioteca Histórica Marqués de Valdecilla, Universidad Complutense de Madrid, BH FG 2194, is available online at http://alfama.sim.ucm.es/dioscorides/consulta_libro.asp?ref=B23557643&idioma=0. 60 Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia, Salazar Collection 9/551, fol. 16r. 61 Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés’s “Historia general y natural de las Indias” was finally published by José Amador de los Ríos, Historia general y natural de las Indias, islas y tierra firme del mar Océano, 4 vols., Madrid 1851–1855; repr. by ed. Juan Pérez de Tudela Bueso, 5 vols., Madrid 1951–1955, repr. Madrid 1992. 62 Edmundo O’Gorman, The Invention of America, an Inquiry into the Historical Nature of the New World and the Meaning of Its History, Bloomington 1961. 63 Es más para verle pintado de mano de [Pedro] Berruguete u otro excelente pintor como él o aquel Leonardo de Vince o Andrea Mantheña famosos pintores que yo conocí en Italia que no para darle a entender con palabras. E muy mejor que todo esto es para visto que escripto ni pintado, in: Gonzalo

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Fig. 10: Representation of a hammock in the so-called Monserrate manuscript (1548/1549), Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, Historia general de las Indias; Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia, Salazar Collection 9/551, fol. 16r. © Real Academia de la Historia, España.

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With the exception of artists such as John White (c. 1540–c. 1593), who sailed to the New World as artist-illustrator in the late sixteenth century (as part of the ill-fated English colony established on Roanoke Island, just off the coast of modern-day North Carolina, between 1584 and 1590),64 no artist of the quality of those mentioned by Oviedo traveled to the Americas during this period. Thus, we can only wonder what a painter such as Andrea Mantegna would have made of the New World and whether he too would have chosen to depict its sovereign rulers in triumphal procession, even if their Triumphs were slightly less glorious than those of their classical – and ­European – counterparts.

Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés, La historia natural y general de las Indias, Seville 1535, fol. 92r. English translation cited in Myers (note 57), p. 69. 64 For John White’s work on America see Laurence Binyon, The Drawings of John White, Governor of Raleigh’s Virginia Colony, in: The Walpole Society 13 (1924–1925), pp. 19–24 and images; Paul H. ­Hulton/ David B. Quinn, The American Drawings of John White (1577–1590), 2 vols., London 1964; Paul H. Hulton, America 1585: The Complete Drawings of John White, Chapel Hill, London 1984; Kim Sloan (ed.), A New World. England’s First View of America, Chapel Hill 2007; Kim Sloan (ed.), European Visions: American Voices, London 2009.

Index of Toponyms and Locations Terms from historical sources are in Italics. Institutions (Archives, Libraries, Museums, Churches, Monasteries) can be found by their location, e.g. London, British Library. We are grateful to Daniel Gneckow, Medieval History, University of Kassel, for the compilation of the indices. Abiah 227 Achaea / Achaïe 169 (Acaiam) Accad 226, 228 Acre 6, 91, 92 (civitatem Achonensem), 93, 96, 98 (ciuitate acconensi; Ptolomaïs; Ptolomayda), 99, 101, 104, 125, 126 (civitatem Accinensem), 275, 346, 347 Adiabene 226, 227 Adrianople 361 Adriatic Sea 353 Adriatici sinus 182 Adula monte 182 Aegean 46 (egea), 55, 169 (Egei), 307, 328, 354 Aeolis / Éolide 171 Africa / Afrique 11, 22, 24, 26, 27, 28, 41 (Affrica), 45, 46, 49 (Affrica), 51 (Affrica), 56, 65, 70, 94, 96 (Affrica), 105, 106 (Africam; Africa), 107 (Africa), 108, 110 (Africa; Africam), 111 (Affrica), 112 (Africam), 113 (Africam), 115 (Affrica), 116 (Africam), 133, 148, 152, 153, 157, 164, 168 (Africe), 172 (Affricam), 173, 176, 178 (Affrica), 184, 195, 200, 204, 208, 209, 211, 225, 226, 229, 354, 355, 364, 366, 368, 369, 370 Agios pelago 169 Al-Arīsh 245 Alcázar, Madrid 337, 338 Alegranza Island 148 (l‘areganza) Aleppo 240 Alexandrette 179 Alexandrette, Gulf of / Alexandrette, Golfe de 177 Alexandria / Alexandrie 26, 177 (Alessandria), 222, 223 Algarve 168 (Algarbio) Algoa 368 Alhucemas 172, 185 (Mosmor; Marzema; Mesmar; Mosmera; Maxmar) Alistam civitatem 182 Alnwick Bestiary, see Northumberland Bestiary Alps 154 (Alpes Alemanie), 155 (Alpes Alsaçie), 229 Alsace 155 (Alpes Alsaçie) https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110588774-016

Americas 115, 116, 195, 198, 202, 204, 354, 363, 365, 376, 377, 378, 379, 381 Amol Mountains 162 Amstel River 327 Amsterdam 208, 327, 328, 336 Amsterdam, New Church 327 Amsterdam, Old Church 327 Amsterdam, Rijksprentenkabinet 318 Amsterdam, St. Anthonispoort 327 Amurgo 174 Anatolia 157 Anet, Chateau de 208 Ancona 255 Andalusia / Andalousie 168 Andros 174 (Andros) Anfa 184 (Nifeum), 185 (Nifeum; Niffeum) Ansera (Island in Tigris River) 158 Anthimos 290 Antioch 45 (Antiocha ciuitas) Antwerp 9, 12, 315 (Antverpia Mercatorum Emporium), 316, 317, 318 (Antwerpia in Brabantia), 319, 320, 321, 322, 323, 325, 326, 327 (Antwerpen), 328, 329, 330, 331 (Urbs Antverpia), 332, 333, 334, 335, 336, 337, 338, 339, 340, 341, 369 Antwerp, Church of Our Lady 315, 316, 318, 325, 330, 339, 340 Antwerp, Church of St. Michael 339 Antwerp, Plantin-Moretus Museum 340 Antwerp, St. George’s gate 325, 329 Antwerp, St. Michael’s Abbey 316, 317, 325 Antwerp, Stadsarchief 315 Antwerp, Stedelijk Prentenkabinet 315, 331, 331–332 Arabia / Arabian Peninsula 158, 159, 223, 226, 227, 229 Aradus 226 Aragon 184, 364 Aravah Desert 250 Arkas (Lebanon) 226 Arles 155 (Arle) Armalet, Empire of 160, 161, 162 Armenia Major 163

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 Index of Toponyms and Locations

Armenian Mountains 52 (montibus armenie), 55 Arques 190 Arsenal, Venice 317, 320 Ashkelon / Ascalon 179 Asia / Asie 11, 24, 26, 27, 28, 41, 42, 43 (Central Asia), 47 (Asia), 56, 94, 96 (Asia), 105, 106 (Asiam; Asia; Asiae), 107 (Asia), 108, 110 (Asia), 111 (Asyam; Asya), 112 (Asiam), 113 (Asia), 115 (Asia), 116 (Asiam), 133, 136, 139, 153, 157, 158, 162, 163, 164, 176, 179, 195, 198, 204, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 364, 374, 376 Asia Maior 22, 28 Asia Minor / Asie mineure 22, 28, 52, 54, 171, 177, 222, 223, 224, 226, 227, 229, 231, 347 Aspamia 230 Athens 118 Athos, see Mount Athos Atlantic Ocean / Océan Atlantique / Atlantic Islands 115, 116 (Atlanticum), 131, 136, 137, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 154, 157, 164, 185, 211, 317, 347 Atlas Mountains / Atlas 157, 164, 184, 185, 186, 364 Atri 181 Augsburg 108, 315, 329, 366, 367, 369, 370, 377 Austria 281, 337, 344 Avignon 145, 155 (Aviñon) Azores 148, 151 Azov, Sea of 162, 166 (Mare della Tana) Babel / Tower of Babel 34, 48, 66 (turris babel), 96 (turris Babilonis), 119, 226, 228 Babylon 66, 222, 226, 240, 343, 344 Babylonia 65 (terra babilonie), 222, 223, 225, 226, 227, 229, 230, 231, 349 (Babilonia) Bacino di San Marco 354 Bactria 43 (bactria) Balkans 226, 227, 229 Balkh-āb River 45 (Bactrus fluvius) Bangalia 161 Barcelona 364 Basel / Bâle 167, 188, 322, 377 Baskar 228 Battle Abbey 20 Bavaria 155 (Barbaria), 335 Bayonne 154, 155 Beer Sheva, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev 10

Beijing 161 Beirut / Beyrouth 177 (Baruti di Soria) Belgium 336 (Belgique) Belgrade 345 Bengal, Gulf of 161 Benjamin (tribe of Israel) 98 (Beniamin) Berlin, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz 94, 97, 126, 127 Bern / Berne, Burgerbibliothek 175 Bertinoro 237 Berwick-on-Tweed 66 Bethlehem 86, 234, 276 Beth Tiryaka 228 Beth-Unyaki 228 Black Sea / Mer Noire 96 (Ponticum mare), 132, 133, 138, 146, 153, 154, 157, 158, 162, 164, 172, 176, 177, 179, 199, 348, 352 Bohemia 141, 143, 155 Bologna / Bologne 166, 170, 272, 277 Bora c[ivitas] 175 Bourse, Antwerp, see Stock Exchange Brabant 318 (Brabantia), 329, 332, 339, 340 Brazil 194, 197, 209, 366 Brescia 255 Britain 128, 229 British Isles 28, 153 Brittany 204 Bruges 174, 175, 315, 329, 330, 331, 333 Bruges, Stedelijke Musea 330 Brussels 316, 330 Brussels, Royal Library 336 Bukhara 162 (Bocarin), 163 (Bocarin) Bulgaria 156 Burano Island, Venice 329 Burgos 167, 168 Burgundy / Bourgogne 174 Cabat / Cabar 158 Caesarea 76 Cafaggiolo 373 Cagliari 177 (Caglieri) Cairo 236, 237, 245 Calah 228 Calicut 367, 368, 369 (Callicuten), 374 (Calechut), 375 Callirrhoe 226, 227 Calneh 226, 228 Cambridge, Corpus Christi College 128, 173, 174 Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum 41, 373

Index of Toponyms and Locations 

Cana of Galilee 99, 229 Canaan, Land of 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 88, 225 Canada 209, 344, 345 Canary Islands / Îles Canaries 145, 148 (canaria), 151 (canaria), 164, 167, 168 (insulas Canarie), 170, 175 (Chanarias), 188 Canbalech / chambalech 161 Candia (Crete) 12, 228, 321, 342, 349, 354, 357, 360 Canterbury, Christ Church 20 Cap Finistère 170 Cap Ghir 184 (caput Guerium); 185 (caput Guerium) Cap Saint-Vincent 168 (caput sancti Vincentii) Cape Bojador 148, 151 Cape of Good Hope 368 Capesse 178 Cape Verde Islands 368 Cappadocia 22, 23, 222, 223 Capulia 178 Carmel, see Mount Carmel Cartagena / Carthagène 175 (Cartagene) Cartana 185 Carthage 96 (Karthago), 226, 230 (Cartegini) Caspian Mountains 163 Caspian Sea 162, 163 Cassiterides / Cassitérides 170, 171 (insulae Cassiterides) Castile, Kingdom of / Castille 11, 136, 141, 146, 167, 168 (Castelle) Catabathmon 28, 112 Catalan Atlas / mappamundi 136, 138, 139, 140, 146, 147, 152, 153, 155, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 210, 364, 365 Catalonia 140 Catayo, Empire of 161, 162, 163 Cato, Kingdom of 162 Caucasus 157, 162, 163 Cave of the Makhpela 239, 240 Cave of the Nativity 80 Cave of the Patriarchs 83 Cento 259 Cento, Pinacoteca Civica 260 Central America 198, 199 Ceuta 168, 177 Chagatai Khanate 160, 161 Châlons-sur-Marne 29 Chantilly, Musée Condé 207 Château du Roi 99 (castrum regium)

 385

Checimo 160 Chester 56 (Cestria), 57, 69 Chicago, Newberry Library 179 Chios 174 (Cium) China 11, 17, 136, 137, 157, 158, 161, 163 Choa 174 Chrysonea 171 Chrysopolis 171 Cilicia 223 Città del Vaticano, see Vatican City City Hall, Antwerp 332, 340 Clysma 243 Cochin, King of 366 (Der Kvnig von Gvtzin), 368 (Der Kvnig von Gvtzin), 369, 370 (Regis Gosci sive Gutscmin), 371, 373 (Regis Gosci sive Gutscmin), 375 Coimbra 267 Cologne 154, 155 (Coloña), 315, 321, 323, 324, 332, 333, 334, 335, 340, 374, 375 Constance 115 Constantinople 12, 162, 165, 166 (Costantinopoli), 258, 307, 321, 338, 342, 343, 344, 346, 348, 349 (Costantinopoli), 350 (Constantinopoli), 351, 352, 355, 356, 357, 358, 359, 362 Corfu 321, 354 Corsica / Corse 140, 170 (Corsica), 182 (Corsicam) Corvo Island 148 (corvi marini) Crete / Crète 34, 169 (Cretamque), 169, 349, 356 Crisonia 171 Croatia 153, 255 Cronenburch, Antwerp Ctesiphon 226, 228 Cuzco 338, 373 (Cvscho; Cusco), 374 Cyclades 173 (Insule Cicladum) Cyme / Kymè 171 Cyprus / Chypre 163, 169 (insulam Ciprum), 177, 281, 282 Cythera / Cythère 169 Daibul 160 (demonela) Dalmatia 156 (Esclavonia), 256, 267 Dam Square, Amsterdam 327–328 Damascus / Damas 157, 179, 240 Dammuh 235, 240, 250 Danube River / Danube 28, 155 (Danubio), 165, 172 Danus River 46 (fluvius danus) Dardania 226, 227 (Dardanayyah)

386 

 Index of Toponyms and Locations

Darmstadt, Hessische Landes- und Hochschulbibliothek 274 Dead Sea 75, 227, 250 Dee River 56 (fluvius de) Delhi, Kingdom of 160 (Delini) Delphi 225 Denmark 153 Deserta Island 148 (deserte) Dieppe 189, 190, 197, 200, 205, 207, 208, 215, 216, 376 Dijon, Bibliothèque municipale 122 Don River 26, 27, 28, 106, 107, 225 Dnieper River 45 (fluvius Danaper), 157, 158 Docheiariou monastery 299 Durham University 40 East Gate, Jerusalem 83, 84 Eboli 181 Ebro River 237 Ebstorf Map 3, 8, 17, 18, 34, 35, 36, 110, 122, 124 Écouen, chateau of 216 Eden, Garden of 238 Edessa 226 Edom 250 Egypt 12, 22, 27, 59, 80, 85, 86, 96, 105, 152, 157, 223, 232, 233, 234, 235, 237, 238, 239, 240, 241, 243, 244, 245, 247, 250, 251, 255, 266, 281, 347, 352 El Hierro 148 (fero) Elam 120, 226 Elim 241, 242, 243, 245 Emmaus 276 England / Angleterre 7, 37, 38, 41, 51, 53, 58 (Anglia), 59, 61, 66, 69, 70, 73, 113, 128, 134, 141, 142, 155, 173, 175 (Anglie), 189, 200, 255, 335, 337, 350 (Inghilterra), 363, 371 Enrro 158 Ephesus 96 (Ephesum) Epiphania 226 Erech 226, 228 Erfurt, Monastery of St. Peter 101 Ermenia 177 Esphigmenou monastery 294, 296, 303 Ethiopia 27, 28, 45, 183 (Ethiopia inferior), 229 Eṭ-Ṫur (Raithou) 243, 245 Euphrates River 22, 42, 157, 158, 163, 226 Europe 5, 11, 22 (Europa), 24, 27, 28, 41 (Europa), 45, 46, 49, 56, 70 (Europa), 94, 96 (Europam), 105, 106 (Europam; Europa),

107 (Europa), 108 (Europae), 110 (Europa), 111 (Europa; Europam), 113 (Europam), 115 (Europa), 116 (Europam), 122 (Europam; Europa), 136, 154, 155, 156, 157, 162, 164, 182 (Europae), 195, 204, 222, 224, 225, 229, 231, 258, 271, 274, 275, 276, 280, 318, 328, 341, 342, 347, 354, 364, 371 Evasos 227 Facesse 178 Fadal 158 Faial Island 151 (ventura) Far East / Extrême-Orient 186, 200 (Indes orientalles) Ferrara / Ferrare 187 Fesitam civitatem 182 Fez 177 (Fessa) Fiume 255 Flanders 50, 144, 153, 163 Florence 9, 141, 169, 315, 371, 373 Florence Scroll 232, 233, 234, 235, 237, 238, 239, 240, 245, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250, 251 Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana 94, 364 Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale 232, 236, 238, 240, 242, 243, 244, 248, 249 Flores Island 148 (li conigi) Florida 198, 199 Foligno, Santa Lucia 275 Fontainebleau 194, 204, 210, 212, 214, 216 Fortunate Islands 148, 164 France 28, 46, 129, 141 (Françia), 143 (Francia), 144, 153, 155, 192, 193, 199, 200, 205, 207, 223, 258, 335, 347, 354, 363, 365 Frisia, Gulf of 163 Fuerteventura Island 148 (fortoventura) Fusṭāṭ 236, 245, 250 Gades / Gadès 171 (Gadibus), 172 (Gaditanum) Galata 343, 350 (Galatà), 362 Galatia 223 Galia 222, 223, 230 Galicia 154, 298, 300 Galilee 223, 234, 276 (Galilea) Gallia Narbonensis / Gaule narbonnaise 180 (Gallia Narbonese), 181 (Gallia Narbonese) Ganges 45 (Ganges fluvius) Gargano monte / Garganum 182 Garmamia 227 Gate of Mercy, Jerusalem 83

Index of Toponyms and Locations 

Gaul 223, 229 Gaza 245 Genoa 140, 315, 364 Gepta 158 German Empire, see Holy Roman Empire Germanicia 226, 227 (Germanica) Germany 46, 101, 153, 154 (Alemaña), 155 (Alemaña; Germania), 156 (Alemaña; alemania), 226 (Germania), 228 (Germania), 229 (Germania), 318, 322, 333 (Germaniae), 336, 339, 341, 364 (Inperator Alemania), 370 Ghent / Gand, Universiteitsbibliotheek / Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit 115, 174, 175 Gibraltar 186 Gide 157 Giudecca Island, Venice 320 Giznzkin Madai 223 Godaspi 162 Gog (region) 125, 364 Golden Gate, Jerusalem 80, 83, 84 Golden Horn 343 Golfathan / golfacum 158 Gothia / Gothya 227 Golgotha 87, 352 Gotland 163 (Gotia) Graciosa Island 148 (Gresa; graciossa), 173 (Insula Graciosa) Granada 372 Granianum promontorium 182 Great Britain 195 Greece 12, 27, 156 (Greçia; grecia), 166 (Grecia), 177 (Greco), 229, 281, 282, 285 Gregoriou / Grēgoriou monastery 294, 295, 297 Grixona / Grisona / Griscona 171 Grotto of the Annunciation 277 Guinea 368 Guinea, Gulf of / Guinée, Golfe de 173 (Ghyney) Haarlem 340 Ḥabil Yamma 226 Haifa 99 Hamas / Ḥamats 226, 227 Hamath (Syria) 227 Hamburg, Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek  94, 97, 101, 102, 103, 104, 129 Hampton Court Palace, Surrey 371 Hebron 83, 234, 239, 240, 250 Heidelberg 105

 387

Hellas 226, 227 Hereford / Hereford Map 8, 10, 17, 18, 28, 32, 33, 34, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 50, 51, 52, 55, 56, 57, 58 (H[ere]ford), 60, 63, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 111, 112, 125, 203 Hertfordshire, St. Albans Abbey 108, 128 Hildesheim, Bibliothek des bischöflichen Gymnasium Josephinum 97, 127 Hildin 226 Hilliandar monastery 303 Himalayas 162 Hindustan 374 Hippo 96 (Yppona) Hispania / Hispanie 168 (Hispania), 170, 171 (Hispaniae), 185 (mare Hispaniae) Holy Land 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 13, 18, 28, 70, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78 (Terram Sanctam), 80, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 91 (terrae sanctae), 92 (terrae sanctae), 93, 96, 97, 98 (terra ista, quam sanctam dicimus), 99 (terrae sanctae), 102, 104, 125, 232, 234, 255, 257, 261 (Terra Sancta), 267, 272, 274, 275, 278, 280, 281, 284, 285, 287, 295, 297, 302, 303, 317, 320, 346, 347, 348, 352 Holy Roman Empire 155, 322, 323, 340, 343 Holy See / Saint-Siège 167 Hormuz 158 (Hormixio), 159, 160 (Hormiz) Horologion, see Tower of the Winds Hosios Loukas monastery 281 Hungary / Hongrie 155 (Ungria), 156 (Ungria), 165, 281 Hungro-Wallachia 290 Hydruntem 182 Iberia / Iberian Peninsula / Péninsule Ibérique 46, 136, 142, 144, 143, 148, 170, 173, 229, 290 Ibiza 170 (Ivissa) Icaream 174 Iconium (Turkey) 157 Ij harbor 327 Ilkhanate 157, 162 Illa iana 161 Ionia / Ionie 171 (Ioniae), 224 Inca Empire 373 India 28, 42, 43 (India), 44, 45, 70 (India), 157, 158, 159, 161 (finis indie), 162, 229, 366, 368, 369 (Indien), 370

388 

 Index of Toponyms and Locations

Indian Ocean 8, 132, 133, 158, 160, 161, 347 Indies 17, 198 (Indis), 363, 365, 376, 378 (las Indias), 380 (las Indias) Infierno 151 Insula Bonavista 173 Insula Buamo 174 Insula de Sale 173 Insula Sancta Lucia 173 Insula Sancta Maria 173 Insula Sancti Michaelis 173 Insula Sanvisenco 173 Insula Vfantana 174 Insule Beatas 175 Insule de Ysoch 173 Insule Ihesu Christi 173 Insule tres de Braua 174 Iran 227 Ireland 142, 157 (Ibernia), 229 Islas de la Caridat 164 Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities 233 Israel, Land of 11, 12, 221, 222, 223, 225, 229, 230, 231, 234, 235, 240, 245, 250, 251 Israel, State of 10, 75 Israel, tribes of 61, 62, 63, 80, 83, 84, 85, 96 (populus Israel), 98 (tribuum Israel), 125, 353 (Israel) Istanbul 356, 358 Istanbul, Topkapi Serail Library / Library of the Topkapı Palace 139, 356, 366 Italy / Italie 9, 27, 131, 138, 153, 157, 168, 170 (Italie), 172 (Italiam), 182, 226 (Italia), 227, 229 (Italia), 235, 255, 258, 281, 318, 345, 346, 349, 350, 351, 354, 370, 371, 379 Iveron / Ivērōn monastery 290 Jabel Hārūn 247, 249 Jabel Mūsā 244 Jaffa 276, 303 Java 161, 217 Jazza 177 Jericho 60, 66, 83 Jerusalem 7, 18, 24, 34, 40, 48, 73, 75, 76 (Ierusa[lem]), 77, 78, 80, 81, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 94, 97, 104, 120, 173 (Ierusalem), 179, 225, 227, 229, 234, 237, 250, 275, 276, 289, 317 (Jerusalem; Jherusalem), 321, 347, 348, 352, 353 (Ierusalem) Jerusalem, Church of St. George 76, 77 Jerusalem, Dome of the Rock 79, 83, 321

Jerusalem, Holy Sepulcher 76, 86, 96 Jerusalem, Monastery of the Holy Cross 87 Jerusalem, National Library of Israel 78, 222 Jerusalem, Temple 12, 79 (Templum Salomonis), 83, 84, 85, 88, 221, 222, 224, 228, 229, 231, 239 Jerusalem, Temple Mount 76, 77, 78–79, 79, 321 Jochid Khanate 156, 162, 163 Jordan, State of 75 Jordan River / Jordan Valley / Jourdain 6, 86, 157, 179, 250, 276 Joseph’s barns 54 Judah, Kingdom of 98 (regnum Iuda) Judea 229 Judean Desert 75, 276 Kairouan 140 Kandia, see Candia Kanīsat Mūsā (Sanctuary of Moses) 232, 233, 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240, 241, 245, 248, 250, 251 Karakolon monastery 290 Kassel University 93 Kassel, Universitätsbibliothek Kassel – Landesbibliothek und Murhardsche Bibliothek der Stadt Kassel 132, 133 Kerala, King of 366 Kiev 281, 312 Kiev, Akademiia Nauk Archive 281, 296, 297, 299, 301, 303, 305, 306 Klagenfurt, Universitätsbibliothek 126 Koutloumoussi monastery 303 Kremlin, Moscow 335 La Gomera Island 148 (gomora) Labrador 200, 202 Labyrinth (Minos) 34 Lacus Danoye 155 Laiazzo 177 Lansejano 148, 151 Lanzarote Island 148, 151 Lanzeroto maloxelo 148, 151 Lasha 226, 227 Lavra monastery 290, 303, 304, 305, 306, 307, 308 Lebanon 96, 226, 227, 232, 234, 240, 281 Leccia 177 Le Havre 190 Leiden 340 Leon 155

Index of Toponyms and Locations 

Lepanto, Battle of 361 Lesser Armenia 96, 163 Leuca 171 Levant 28, 311, 320 Libya 27, 96 (Libia), 105, 175 (Libyam), 224, 229 Licia 96 Lidebo 157 Ligustino mari 170 Linz 335 Lisbon 367, 368, 369 (Lissebone) Livorno 355 Lobos Island 148 (negimari), 151 Lodomeria 298, 300 London 50, 51, 63, 173 (London), 189, 336 London Psalter Map 7, 8, 125 London, British Library 7, 20, 21, 28, 50, 51, 68, 69, 71, 94, 97, 101, 102, 108, 126, 128, 141, 174, 189, 190, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 202, 203, 235, 274, 308, 336, 348 London, British Museum 368 London, Duchy of Cornwall Archives / Office  17, 30, 31, 32, 64, 65 London, Lambeth Palace 7, 28, 195 London, Royal Holloway University of London Library 300 London, Victoria and Albert Museum 337, 338 London, Westminster Abbey Library 45 Loreto, Holy House / Santa Casa 12, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256 (Sancta Domus Beatissimae Virginis; Laoretu), 257 (santo albergo), 258, 259, 260, 261 (Alretum), 262, 263, 264, 265, 266, 267 (Santa Casa; Loreto), 268 (Santa Casa di Loreto), 269, 270, 271, 272, 273, 274 (Lorrette), 275, 276, 277, 278 (Lorette), 280 Loreto, Museo Pinacoteca 256 Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute 278 Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum 41, 44, 47, 49, 51, 53, 70, 72 Low Countries, see Netherlands Lurdevit 155 Lvov 156 (Leon) Lyon 108 Macedonia 226, 228 Madaba (mosaic) map 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 86 Madeira Island / Île de Madère 148 (legname), 151, 175 (insula Madere), 177 (Madera) Madrid 337

 389

Madrid, Biblioteca Histórica Marqués de Valdecilla, Universidad Complutense de Madrid 379 Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional de España 137, 143, 336, 374, 375, 378 Madrid, El Escorial, Real Biblioteca 107 Madrid, Museo Naval 366 Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia 378, 379, 380 Maghreb 157 Magog (region) 125, 364 Magot River 161 Mainz 75, 78, 320 Malabar Coast 368 Malindi 368 Mallorca / Maiorca / Majorque 138, 141, 147, 149, 150, 152, 154, 155, 156, 157, 159, 167 (Maiolica), 170, 177 (Maiorca), 352, 364 Malta / Malte 170 Mamre, Valley of 79 (Vallis Mamabre) Mantua 80, 81, 371 Mantua Map 74, 75, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85 Mare greco 173 Mare Libicum 96 Mariana (Korsika) 182 (Marianum promontorium) Marrakesh / Marrakech 177 Marseilles 355 Masada 75 Mascarota 157 Maurétanie 186 Mauritania / Mauritanie 168 (Mauritanie Tingitane), 225, 364 Mecca 158 (Meca), 159 Mechelen 333 Media 226, 227 Medina 158 (Almedina) Mediterranean Sea / Mediterranée 5, 26, 27, 28, 32, 43, 47, 48, 55, 80, 94, 98, 99, 107, 111, 113, 115, 131, 138, 146, 153, 155 (Medio Terreno), 162, 164, 165, 166, 167, 171, 172, 175 (mari nostri Mediterranei), 176, 187, 199, 205, 206, 225, 231, 255, 272, 316, 347, 348, 351, 352, 354 Meroe, Island of 44 Mesene 226 Mesha 226 Mesopotamia 22, 23, 28, 157 Messina 177 (Messina), 354, 355 Meteora monasteries 289, 304, 310 Mexico City 338

390 

 Index of Toponyms and Locations

Middle East 5, 153, 157, 163, 164, 232, 258 Milan 9, 176, 257, 265, 371 Milan, Santa Maria della Scala 176 Miletus 224 Miño River (fluvius muneus) 46 Mirandola 256 Modena, Biblioteca Estense Universitaria 366 Modon 321 Moldo-Wallachia 286, 290 Moluccas 198, 199 Mondavio 343, 350, 351, 362 Mongol empires 162, 347 Monimenti, Gulf of 162, 163 Mons sebur 162 Montfort Castle 99 Mont Ventoux 36 Morata, Count of 373 Morocco / Maroc 177 (Marocca) Moscow 335 Moscow, St. Basil‘s Cathedral 335 Moscow, State Tretyakov Gallery 302 Mosiyya 227 Mount Athos / Holy Mountain 12, 281, 282, 285, 286, 287, 288, 289, 290, 291, 292, 294, 295, 298, 307, 308, 309, 310, 312 Mount Burning 54 Mount Carmel 99 Mount Hor 247, 249, 250 Mount of Olives 80 Mount Sinai, see Sinai (mountain/desert) Mount Tabor 79 (Mons Thabor), 300 Mount Zion 8, 83, 272 Mountains of the Moon 208 Moyhla Academy, Kiev 281 Mozambique 368 Munich 335 Munich, Alte Pinakothek 324 Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek 24, 25, 26, 28, 94, 95, 96, 97, 99, 100, 104, 107, 108, 125, 126, 137, 140, 142, 143, 144, 151, 157, 366, 370 Murano Island, Venice 329 Mysia 226, 228 Naguarir Island 369 Nahar Moshe 248 Naples 181, 354, 355

Naples, Biblioteca Nazionale Vittorio Emanuele III 147, 148, 150, 153, 154, 155, 157 Navarre 144, 154 Naxos 174 (Naxos) Nazareth 12, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 258, 261, 267 (Nazarette), 268, 269, 271, 272, 273 (Nasaret), 274, 275, 276 (Nazzaret; civitate Nazareth), 277, 278, 280 Nazareth, Church of the Annunciation 277, 279 Near East / Proche-Orient 94, 125, 179, 233, 240 Nebi Samwil 240 Negimari 148, 151 Nehardea 223 Netherlands 323, 330 (Paesi Bassi), 334, 335, 336 (Paesi Bassi), 337, 339, 340 New Haven, Beinecke Library 50 New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art  211, 372 New York, The Pierpont Morgan Library 120 Nice 180 Nicossa vel Nicossia 174 Nifeum, see Anfa Nile River / Nile Delta 26, 28, 44, 45, 47, 55, 65, 67, 68, 105, 106, 107, 208, 225, 236, 238, 239, 241, 245, 250, 347 Niniveh 228 Ninpi 228 Nisibis 226 Noah’s Ark 22, 35, 51, 52 (Archa noe), 53, 56, 57, 58 Norfolk 173 (in comitatu Norff.) Normandy 11, 189, 190, 192, 193, 200 North America 208 North Carolina 381 North Sea 155 (Sea of Alemaña), 156 (Sea of Alemaña), 354 Northumberland Bestiary 42, 51, 53, 60, 70, 71, 72 Nupar 228 Nuremberg 315, 321, 322, 324, 325, 326, 328, 333, 335, 337, 369 Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum 327 Nuremberg, St. John cemetery 325 Nuremberg, St. Lorenz Church 322 Nuremberg, St. Sebald Church 322

Index of Toponyms and Locations 

Olbia 180 Oosterweel 334 Orient 163 Orthosia 226 Ortygia 170 Osma Map 110 Ottoman Empire 285, 287, 311, 342, 343, 344, 349, 356, 358, 362 Oxanap, Kingdom of 161 Oxford 63 Oxford, Ashmolean Museum 337, 338 Oxford, Bodleian Library 63, 112, 370 Padua 96, 354, 372 Padua, Biblioteca Antica del Seminario Vescovile 96 Palermo, Biblioteca Comunale 184, 185 Palestine 76, 94, 96, 179, 231, 258, 289, 302 Pamphylia 94 (Pamphilia) Patmon 174 Paradise 34, 40, 42, 48, 70, 71, 72, 286 Parenzo 321 Paris 258, 336, 377 Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal 179 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France / BnF 29, 63, 64, 65, 71, 108, 129, 130, 136, 138, 141, 147, 148, 149, 151, 152, 153, 155, 156, 159, 160, 164, 181, 200, 207, 212, 213, 364, 365, 366 Paris, Château de Vincennes, Bibliothèque du Service Historique de l’Armée de Terre 366, 367 Paris, Gallery De Jonckheere 369 Paris, Louvre 258 Paris, Musée du quai Branly 369 Parma, Biblioteca Palatina 365 Paron 174 Patagonia 209 Pegnitz River 322 Pera 350 (Pera) Perath de Borsif 228 Perath of Meshan 228 Persia 42, 66, 118, 135, 157, 162, 163, 227, 228, 240, 347, 349 (Persia) Persian Gulf / Golfe Persique 22, 60, 157, 158, 159, 162, 179 Persida 96 Peru 373 (Perv; Regni Peru) Pesaro 343, 350 Petra 247, 250

 391

Phasis River 106 Philadelphia (Turkey) 157 (Feradelfia) Philonii portum 182 Philotheon monastery 290 Phocaea / Phocée 171 (extra Phocaea) Phoenicia (phenicis prouincia) 45 Phoenix Museum of Art 343 Phrygia 226 Pico Island 151 (li colunbi) Pillars of Hercules 113, 225 Pi-Ramesses, see Ramesses Pisa / Pise 170 (porto Pisano) Pithom 232, 238, 241, 245, 247, 250 Plantin Press, Antwerp 337 Pötlingberg, Vienna 335 Poland 153, 156 (Palonia; Polonia), 281 Ponente 177 Pontus 96 (Pontus) Porrentruy 272 Port of Solomon 243 Port-Vendres 170 (Veneris vero portu), 171 (portu Veneris) Porto sancto Island 148 Portugal 131, 167, 168 (Portugalie; Portugallia), 177 (Portogallo), 185, 192, 267, 365, 369 (Porty[n]gale) Prague 335, 337 Princeton, University Library 235 Princeton University, Firestone Library 310 Promised Land 10, 59, 75, 80, 82, 85, 88, 251 Provence 155 (Proençia) Ptolomaïs 98 (Ptolomayda) Pyrenees / Pyrénées 154, 171 Qantir 241 Qeshm 158 (Aquisio) Qumran 224 Qurtuva 230 Raamah 228 Raamses, see Ramesses Raithou 243, 245 Ramah 240 Ramat Gan, Bar Ilan University 85 Ramesses 59, 60, 232, 241, 242, 245, 247, 250 Ramla 276 Rantzau, Heinrich 336 Ratisbonne 155 (Varispona)

392 

 Index of Toponyms and Locations

Red Sea 26, 27, 60, 66, 105, 152, 153, 157, 352 Reed Sea 242, 243, 244, 246 Regensburg 94, 126 Regensburg, St. Emmeram monastery 94 Rehoboth-ir 228 Resen 228 Rhine River 154, 155 (Rinus), 323, 334 Rhineland 28 Rhodes 117, 125, 169 (Rodum), 170, 173 (Rodes), 177 (Rodi), 227, 321 Rhone / Rhône 28, 154 (Ruedano) Río de la Plata 205, 366 (Rio, Terre de Plate) Río Paraná 205 Rissa 177 River Plate, see Río de la Plata Riviera 153 Roanoke Island 381 Rock of Moses 232, 248, 251 Roman Empire / Empire romain 168, 229 Romania 170 (Romanie), 281 Rome 9, 20, 22 (urbis Rome), 145, 155, 222, 223, 231, 253, 254, 257, 262, 271, 273, 321, 343, 354, 370, 372, 377 Rome, Accademia di San Luca 273 Rome, Contarelli Chapel 273 Rome, Sant’Agostino 253, 262, 265 (Chiesa di S. Agostino), 266 (Chiesa di s. Agostino), 271 Rome, Sant’Agostino, Cavalletti Chapel 253, 274 Rome, Santa Maria del Popolo 262 (Cerasi Chapel) Rome, Sant’Onofrio al Gianicolo 262, 263 Roque Island 148 (rocho) Rouen, Bibliothèque Municipale 108, 109 Rouen, Church of Ste. Jeanne d’Arc / Église de Sainte Jeanne d’Arc 200, 201 Rubram civitatem 182 Rumeli Hisari fortress 357, 360, 362 Russia 45, 286, 311 Sabba 158, 159 Sabtah 228 Sabteca 228 Sacro Monte of San Vivaldo 258 Sacro Monte of Varallo 258 Safed 99 Sahara 153, 352 Saint Panteleimon monastery 287 Saḳistan 228 Salado, Battle of 140, 145 Salamanca, Biblioteca Universidad 137

Salisbury 63, 68, 69, 112, 128 Samaria, Kingdom of 98 (regnum Samarie), 229, 234 Samarkand 162 (Sarmagant), 163 Samuel’s tomb 232, 240, 251 San Bernardino, Cento 259 San Giorgio Island, Venice 328 San Marino/California, Huntington Library 113, 114, 215, 216, 366, 376, 378 Santiago de Compostela / Saint-Jacques-deCompostelle 171 (Compostelam) Santo Domingo 378 São Jorge Island 151 (san zorzo) Sardinia / Sardaigne 172, 177 Savage Islands 148 (salvatge) Saxony 28 Scandinavia 45, 153 Scarpento insula 170 Scheldt River 316, 318, 319, 325, 327 (Scheldt), 332 Schleswig-Holstein 336 Sçim, Kingdom of 162, 163 Scotland 175 (Scocie) Scythia 28, 45 Sebaste 98 (Sebaste), 163 Seljuk Empire 135 Sephar 226 Sephet Castle 99 Serayn 157 Seville 30, 137, 163, 378, 379, 381 Sheba 365 Shinar 226, 227, 228 Sicily / Sicile 168, 170 (Siciliam), 172, 177 Sicroca 158 Sidon 240 Siena 344 Siena, Palazzo Pubblico 325 Silok 228 Simonopetra monastery 298, 301 Sinai (mountain/desert) / Sinaï 60 (mons sinay), 179, 232, 234, 241, 243, 244, 245, 246, 247, 248, 250, 251, 276, 295, 309, 352 Sinai, Monastery of St. Anthony 85, 86 Sistine Chapel 343 Snagov monastery 290 South America 200, 202, 211, 217, 363, 366 Southern Connecticut State University 189 Spain / Espagne 27, 28, 131, 153, 230, 239, 335, 337, 351, 354

Index of Toponyms and Locations 

Spanish Netherlands, see Netherlands Split 354 Stairway of Repentance, Mount Sinai 309, 310 Stock Exchange, Antwerp 332, 340 Stockholm, Kungliga Bibliotheket 315 Strait of Gibraltar 113, 225 Strait of Magellan 366 Strasbourg 321, 365 Suez 243 Suez, Gulf of 243, 245 Sumatra 194, 197, 216, 217 Sweden 45, 157 (Suevia), 163 Syrakus 182 (Siracusanum etiam portum) Syria / Syrie 45 (Siria), 76, 96, 157, 179, 225, 240, 281, 347 Syrtis / Syrte 178 Tabor, see Mount Tabor Tanais River, see Don River Taphar 226 Taprobane 17, 160 (Taprovana), 194 (Taprobane) Taras 226, 227 Tarka 227 Tarsis 96 Tauroentio 180 Tauros-Amanos 225 Taurus Mountains 22 (Mons Taurus; Taurini Montes), 23, 54 (mons Taurus), 162 (Toro) Taxo insula 170 Tel Aviv Museum of Art 343 Tell el Maskhuta 241 Teneriffa Island / Tenerife 148 (lansejano), 151, 164 (Tenerifiz) Terra Australis 366 Terceira Island 151 (brazil) Termez 162 (Trimit) Tersato 255 The Hague 336 The Hague Atlas 189, 190, 192, 204, 205, 206, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 215, 218 The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek / Nationale Bibliotheek 204, 206, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 214 Thérouanne 41, 47, 49 Thessalonica 285, 307 Thrace 226 Tiber 262 Tigris River 28, 157, 158 (Cur), 162, 164 Tilavempto fluvio 182

 393

Toledo 378 Tomb of Samuel, see Samuel’s tomb Torcello Island, Venice 329, 346 Tortosa 177 (Tortosa) Toulon 180 (Tolone) Toulouse 144, 154 Tower of the Winds, Athens 118 (Horologion) Town Hall, Amsterdam 327 Transjordan 232, 234, 240, 247, 250, 251 Transoxania 162 Transylvania 163 Trent 267, 272 Trier, St. Maximin 122 Trier, Staatsbibliothek 122 Tunis 177 Turin 329 Turin, Biblioteca Nazionale Universitaria 120 Turkey 153, 157, 163 Tyre 99, 230, 240 Tyrrhenian Sea 26 Ulm 275, 321 Ur 34 Urbino 350 Urgench 162 (Norgançio), 163 (Norgançia) Urikath 228 Utrecht 78 Uyun Mūsā 248 Valencia / Valence 170, 175, 177 (Valenza), 338 Vari fluvii 182 Vatican City / Città del Vaticano 195 Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana 343 Veçina 155 Vélez-Blanco, Palace of 372 Venice / Venise / Venetian Republic 9, 83, 84, 132, 134, 172, 173 (Venesiam), 175 (Venezia), 266, 308, 309, 310, 315, 316, 317, 320 (Venetia), 321, 328 (Venetie), 329, 330, 331, 332, 342, 343, 344, 352, 353, 354, 355, 356, 358, 364, 371, 372, 377 Venice, Basilica di San Marco 320, 328, 354 Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana 291, 352, 353, 354, 358, 359, 361 Venice, Doge’s Palace 320, 328–329, 354 (Palazzo Ducale) Venice, Museo Correr 352, 355, 356, 358, 360 Venice, Piazza San Marco 328, 353 (Piazzetta di San Marco), 354

394 

 Index of Toponyms and Locations

Venice, Santa Maria del Giglio 353 Vercelli, Archivio Capitolare del Duomo de Vercelli 363

Vercelli Map / mappa mundi 363 Vienna 309, 335 Vienna, Albertina 335 Vienna, National Library / Österreichische Nationalbibliothek 108, 172, 337 Viennois 204 Viguy, Kingdom of 160, 161 Villena 170 Vivarium 17 Vleeshuis, Antwerp 317 Volga springs 156 (Lake Tanaiz), 157 Wādī Mūsā 247 Wadi Tumilat 241 Westminster 73, 175 Westminster Abbey Bestiary 55, 56 Westminster Palace 65 Winchester 20 Winchester Palace 128

Windsor, Royal Collection Trust 372 Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Bibliothek 96, 110, 122, 123 Worms 323 Wotania 227 Würzburg 321 Xenophontos monastery 300, 303, 311 Yavneh 223 Yedikule fortress 357, 363 Yemen 226, 227 Yorkshire 28 Zara 354 Zered, brook 84 Zifrin 223 Zin, Desert of 250 Zion 85 Zographou monastery 294, 296 Zürich, Zentralbibliothek 80, 81 Ẓuẓira 226

Index of Historical, Religious and Mythological Figures Terms from historical sources are in Italics. Aaron 238, 247, 248, 249 Abba b. R. Isaac, Rabbi 230 Abraham 34, 52, 79 (Abrham) Abraham ben Moses ben Maimon, Rabbi 232 Abraham the Painter 239 Absalom 79 (Absalon) Abu al-Hassan, Sultan of Morocco 140 Acrep Bassà Primo Visir 350 Adam 51, 53, 54, 70, 71, 72, 119 Adamnán 7 Aelfric 20 Agnese, Battista 132, 133, 195, 351 Agrippina (the Younger) 323 Akiva / Akiba, Rabbi 223 (R. Akiba) Albergaria, Joao Soares de 267 Albert the Great / Albertus Magnus 50 Alessandro Greiflencla 350 Alexander VII, Pope 343, 344, 355 Alexander the Great 8, 29, 34, 66, 214 (Alexandre) Alfonso XI, King of Castile 140 Alfonso de Santa María 167, 168 al-Harawi, Ali ibn Abi Bakr 247 al-Maqrīzī, Aḥmad ibn ʿAlī 237, 239 Ambrogini, Angelo (Poliziano / Politian) / Ange Politien 185 Amman, Jost 335 Ampzing, Samuel 340 Anaximander 224 Andrea Matteo Acquaviva 181 Andronikos 118 Anna, Saint 307 Anne, window of Saint (Rouen) 201 Anne de Bretagne 165 Anne de Foix 165 Anne de Montmorency 216 Antichrist 68 Antigonus / Antigon, giant 317 (Antigonus de Ruese), 327 (de Ruese Antigo) Antognetti, Maddalena (Lena) 269 Appian of Aleandria / Appien d‘Alexandrie 171 (Appianum) 372, 373 Apuleius 117 Aratus 24

Argus 316 Aristotle 98, 117, 118 Ashkenaz (son of Gomer) 226, 227 Ashur 228 Atahualpa 373, 374 Augustine of Hippo / Augustinus, Saint 33, 34, 52, 56, 106, 107 Augustus, Roman Emperor 32, 40, 272 Ausonius 30 Bacchus 375 Backhouse, Janet 193 Bacon, Roger 6, 111 Baibars, Mamluk Sultan 275 Balbi, Giovanni / Jean 168 Ballarino, Giovanni Battista 356 (Giambattista Ballarino), 360, 361 Barbosa, Duarte 370, 371 Bar-Kokhba revolt 221, 222, 223, 230, 231 Barskij, Vasilij Grigorovich / Mparskij, Vassilij Grigorovich 12, 281, 282, 283, 284, 285, 286, 287, 288, 289, 290, 291, 292, 294, 295, 296, 297, 298, 299, 300, 301, 302, 303, 304, 305, 306, 307, 308, 310, 311, 312 Bartholomew the Englishmen / Bartholomeus Anglicus 50 Bartholemy of Parma / Barthélemy de Parme 165, 166 Baumgarten, Martinus 248 Bayezid II, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire / Bajazet II, sultan de l’Empire ottoman 180 Beatus of Liébana 20, 120 / Beatus maps 110, 122 Beccaria, Antonio 175 Bede / Beda Venerabilis 107, 108, 122 Bellini, Gentile 357 Bellini, Jacopo 320 Benedict of Nursia, Saint 19 Benincasa, Grazioso 172 Benjamin of Tudela, Rabbi 237, 246 Berekiah, Rabbi 226 Bergmann von Olpe, Johann 377 Berlinghieri, Francesco 176, 179, 180, 181, 184, 348

396 

 Index of Historical, Religious and Mythological Figures

Bernardino da Siena 259, 260 Bernhard von Breydenbach 75, 78, 81, 83, 84, 320, 321, 328 Berruguete, Pedro 379 Bianca, Noe 277 Biancaforte 166 Biétry, Thiébaut 272 Biondo, Flavio 179–180, 185, 372 Boccaccio, Giovanni / Boccace 165, 166, 169, 180 Boethius 112 Bolongaro-Crevenna, Pietro-Antonio 208 Boni de Pellizuoli, Donato 318 Bordone, Benedetto 372, 373 Borgia, Cesare 9 Borisi, Marcantonio 360 Borromeo, Carlo 257 Brabo 327 (Brabon) Bramante, Donato 269 Brancovan, Constantin, Prince of Moldo-Wallachia 290 Brant, Sebastian 369 Braun, Georg 329, 332, 333, 334, 335, 336, 338, 339, 340, 374, 375 Breydenbach, Bernhard von 74 Bruegel, Pieter 317, 329 Brunetto Latini / Brunet Latin 129, 179 Bruni, Francesco 17 Bruni, Leonardo 170, 174, 185 Buondelmonti, Cristoforo 173 (Christoferi Baldemont), 174, 175, 294 Burchard of Mount Zion / Burchard de Monte Sion 11, 91, 92, 93, 94, 96, 98, 99, 101, 104, 115, 117, 125, 126, 129, 134 Burgkmair, Hans 316, 366, 368, 369, 370, 371, 373, 374, 375 Caleb (spy) 83 Camponi, Cristofore 176 Canaan 225, 226, 227 Cantino, Alberto 366 Capello, Giovanni 207 Capodilista, Gabriel / Gabriele 7, 274 Cappello, Giovanni 361–362 Caravaggio 12, 252, 253, 255, 257, 259, 261, 262, 263, 265, 266, 267, 268, 269, 271, 272, 273, 274, 275, 276, 277, 280 Carbonell, Pere 170 Carolingian dynasty 121 Carracci, Annibale 261–262, 262, 263

Cartier, Jacques 204–205 Casola, Pietro 257, 265, 276 Cassiodorus 17, 18, 19, 32, 36, 310 Cavalletti, Ermete 252, 253, 254, 266 (signori Cavalletti) Cavalletti, Orinzia 253 Caverio, Niccolò de 366 Cem Sultan / Gem Sultan 180 Charles I, King of England, Scotland and Ireland 371 Charles II, Duke of Burgundy, see Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV of Luxemburg, Holy Roman Emperor 141 Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor / Charles Quint, empereur du Saint-Empire 186, 323, 339, 377 Chigi, Fabio, see Alexander VII Chosroes, King of Persia 118 Christ, see Jesus Christ Cicero 20 Cicogna, Emmanuele Antonio 356, 358, 359, 360 Circe 291 Clement V, Pope 145, 346 Clement VII, Pope 267 Cock, Hieronymus 317, 325, 329, 331, 333, 334 Coecke van Aelst, Pieter 358 Cohen, Jacob Nathaniel, Rabbi 246 Colobo, King in India 160, 161 Colonna, Francesco 372 Columbus, Christopher 369, 377 Columbus, Ferdinand 369 Constantine 343 Cornelis Anthoniszoon / Cornelis Anthonisz 327, 336 Cornelius Grapheus 332 Cotrugli, Benedetto / Kotruljević, Benedikt 131 Cousin, Jean 209 Cranach the Elder, Lucas 85 Cresques, see Elisha ben Abraham Cresques and Jafudà Cresques Crignon, Pierre 200 Cromberger, Juan 379 Cyriacus of Ancona / Cyriaque d’Ancône / Ciriaco de’ Pizzicolli 171, 172, 173 dalla Via, Alessandro 309, 310 Dalorto, Angelino 141, 151 Daniel, Saint 213, 344

Index of Historical, Religious and Mythological Figures 

Daniel of Kiev, Abbot 295 Dati, Gregorio / Goro 176, 177, 178, 179 Dauphin Atlas, see The Hague Atlas David, King 79 (David) de Almeida, Francisco 367, 368 de’ Barbari, Jacopo 9, 316, 320, 328, 329, 330, 331, 332 de Bruyn, Abraham 335 de La Boullaye Le Gouz, François 273 de la Cosa, Juan 365, 366 Delahaye, Jean 349 de las Viñas, Antonio, see van den Wyngaerde, Anton del Monte, Francesco Maria 273 (Cardinale dal Monte) Denis Guyon de Sardière 208 de Petras, Ramón 378 Desiderius Erasmus 272 Devil 68 Diana 214 (Diane) Diane de Poitiers 204, 205, 207, 208 Dinteville family 210, 214 Diodorus Siculus / Diodore de Sicile 174, 175 Dionigi da Borgo San Sepolcro 36 Dionysius of Alexandria / Denys d’Alexandrie / Dionysius Periegetes 18, 19, 20, 175 Dodanim (son of Javan) 226, 227 (Dodanayyam) Dürer, Albrecht 9, 321, 324 Duke de la Vallière, see Louis César de La Baume Le Blanc Duke of Alba, see Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba Dulcert, Angelino 138, 141, 146, 151, 152, 153, 155, 156, 157, 364 Edward I, King of England 37, 38, 59, 61, 64, 66, 67, 70, 72, 73 Edward II, King of England 73 Edward III, King of England 141 Egeria 295 Einhard 121 Eleazar ben Pappos, Rabbi 226 Elias of Dereham 128 Eliezer, Rabbi 227 Elisha ben Abraham Cresques 137, 138, 139, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 364, 365 Elishah (son of Javan) 226, 227 Elizabeth II, Queen of the United Kingdom 372

 397

Enrique de Villena 170 Erasmus of Rotterdam, see Desiderius Erasmus Erastothenes of Cyrene 119 Este 187 Estori ha-Parchi 83-84 Eugene IV, Pope / Eugène IV, Pape 168 Eusebius of Caesarea 76 Eustochium 80 Eve 70, 71, 72, 119 Evelyn, John 254, 258 Ezekiel, prophet 226 Fabri, Felix 245, 246, 248, 274, 275 Fantuzzi, Antonio 210, 211 Fastolfe, John 173 (Johanni Fastolf de Castre) Fazio degli Uberti 165, 166, 167 Ferdinand I, Holy Roman Emperor 323 Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba 329, 332, 334 Ficino, Marsilio / Ficin, Marsile 179 Fiore 166 Flavius Josephus 11, 75, 222, 225, 228 Flora 323 Floris, Cornelis 332 Floris, Frans 329 Florus 30 Fontana, Giovanni 184, 186, 187, 188 Fra Mauro, see Mauro, Fra Francis I, King of France / François I, roi de France 189, 196, 198, 200, 203, 207, 210, 212, 216, 358 Francis III, Duke of Brittany / François III, duc de Bretagne 204 Francis of Assisi, Saint 259 Franco, Giacomo 357 Frangipane, Nicolo 267, 268 Frédéric de Montefeltre 180 Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor 108 (imperator Frethericus) Frederick III, Elector of Saxony 85 Frescobaldi, Lionardo N. 244 Fries, Lorenz / Laurent 196, 365 Furer, Christophori 246 Gabriel, Archangel 276 (l’angelo Gabbriello; Gabriel) Gaius Plinius Secundus, see Pliny the Elder Galle, Philipp 374 (Apud Philippum Gallaeum), 375 Gastaldi, Giacomo 200, 373

398 

 Index of Historical, Religious and Mythological Figures

Geoffrey of Vinsauf 26, 30 Gheeraerts, Marcus 330, 333 Giovanni da Empoli 370 Giovio, Paolo 207 Glockendon, Georg 369, 375 God 21, 41, 42, 48, 56, 57, 60, 61, 62, 63, 73, 77, 80, 82, 84, 111, 112, 113, 119, 198 (Gode), 214 (Dieu), 228, 239, 244, 246, 247, 265, 286, 288, 289, 297, 304, 308, 309, 311, 312, 343, 350 Gomer 226, 227, 228 Gonzaga family 371 Gregory XI, Pope 145 Gregory XIII, Pope 257 Gregory the Great 19 Grillo, Antonio 349, 356 (Scillo), 360, 361 Grosseteste, Robert 111 Grünemberg, Konrad von 80 Grüninger, Johannes 365 Gucci, Giorgio 245, 276 Guercino 259, 260, 269 Guicciardini, Lodovico 315, 330, 336, 339, 340 Guidalotto, Niccolò 12, 342, 343, 344, 345, 346, 348, 349, 350, 351, 352, 353, 354, 355, 361, 362 Guido de Montefeltre 180 Guillaume le Clerc 63, 64, 65, 71 Guy de Bazoches 29, 30 Guyard Desmoulins 52 Habsburg family 337 Hadrian, Roman Emperor 11 Hals, Frans 340 Ham (son of Noah) 56, 95, 96 (Kaam), 107, 108, 109, 225, 226, 227, 228 Hayton of Coricos 145 Hecataeus of Miletus 105, 224 Henri II, King of France 204, 205, 207, 208, 210, 213, 214, 215 Henry III, King of England 65 Henry VII, King of England 202 Henry VIII, King of England 189, 190, 195, 196, 198, 200, 202, 210 Herberstein, Sigismund von 335 Herebert, William 111 Herod, King 75 Herodotus of Halicarnassus / Herodot 105, 224 Hesiod / Hésiode 171 Hieronymus Stridonensis, see Jerome Higden, Ranulf 7, 112, 113, 114

Hirschvogel, Augustin 335 Hisda, Rabbi 203 Hoefnagel, Georg 332, 335, 337 Hogenberg, Frans 329, 332, 333, 334, 335, 338, 339, 340, 374, 375 Homem, Diogo 134 Homer 92, 291 Honorius Augustodunensis 7, 17, 23, 24, 28, 96 Hugh of Fleury 27, 28, 29, 30 Hugh of Saint Victor 6, 7, 17, 24, 26, 27, 35, 125 Ibn Battuta, Muhammad 146, 153 Ibrahim, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire 349 (Ibraimo), 350 (Ibraim; Ibraimo) Innocent VIII, Pope / pape 185 Isabella of Portugal 339 Isaiah, prophet 85, 344 Isidore of Seville, Saint 17, 19, 22, 23, 24, 25, 30, 31, 32, 44, 51, 52, 56, 91, 107, 108, 110, 111, 112, 113, 118, 120, 121, 122, 125, 168 Jacob of Strasbourg / Jacobus Argentoratensis 372, 373 Jacob van Deventer 336, 337 Jacques de Besançon, Master of 202 Jacques de Vitry 6 Jafudà Cresques 147 James II, King of Aragon and Majorca 129 Jan van Doesborch 369 Japhet / Japheth (son of Noah) 56, 95, 96 (Japhed), 107 (Iafeth), 108, 109, 225, 226, 227, 228 Javan (son of Japhet) 226, 227, 228 Jeremiah, Saint 344 Jerome, Saint 7, 30, 76, 79, 80, 106, 107 Jesus 21, 34, 35, 40, 41, 42, 48, 52, 62 (Iesus Christus), 64, 67, 71, 72, 77, 78, 79 (Christus), 80, 86, 87, 88, 112, 252, 256, 262, 265, 266, 269, 276 (Christus), 280, 288, 300, 351 Joachim, Saint 201f Joan Margarit i Pau 170, 173 John, Saint (Book of Revelation) 344 John II, King of Portugal / Jean II, roi de Portugal 185 John XXII, Pope 347 John Chrysostom, Saint 307 John of Capestrano, Saint 345 John of Genoa, see Balbi, Giovanni John of London 66 John of Walingford 128

Index of Historical, Religious and Mythological Figures 

John the Baptist, Saint 20, 62 John Trevisa 50 Joseph (Genesis) 54 Joseph, Rabbi 228 (R. Joseph) Joseph Ibn Kaspi 239 Julius II, Pope 256, 269 Julius Caesar 3 (Julius Cesar), 4, 30, 32, 34 (Julius Cesar), 214 (Cesar), 229, 327 (Julius Caesar), 363, 371, 372, 373 Julius Honorius / Julius Orator 18 Jupiter 372 Kithim / Kittim (son of Javan) 226, 227 Kolb, Anton 328 Komnēnos, Ioannēs / Komnēnos, John 290, 291, 298, 307, 308, 309 Kotruljević, Benedikt, see Cotrugli, Benedetto Kunstmann, Friedrich / Kunstmann II Map 366 Ladislas II Jagellon, roi de Hongrie 165 Lambert of Saint-Omer 110, 115, 122, 123 Lanzarotus Marocelus 151 Lautensack, Hans 324, 325, 326, 327, 333, 337 Lazarus 87 Leah (Matriarch) 120 LeBlond, Jean 207 Leonardo da Vinci 9, 379 (Leonardo de Vince) Leopold I of Austria, Holy Roman Emperor 344, 355 Le Roux de Lincy, Antoine 165 Le Testu, Guillaume 363, 366, 367, 373, 375, 377, 379 Liesganieg, Joseph 298, 300 Lorck, Melchior 358 Lorenzetti, Ambrogio 324 Loretta (Madonna di Loreto) 255 Lot / Lot’s wife 34, 62 (Vxor Loth), 79 (uxor Loth) Louis XIV, King of France 339 Louis César de La Baume Le Blanc, Duke de la Vallière 208 Lucan 113 Lucretius 121 Luke, Saint 77, 259 Macrobius 41 Madai (son of Japhet) 227, 228 Madonna di Loreto 12, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 258, 259, 260, 261, 262, 263, 264, 265, 266, 267, 268, 269, 271, 272, 273, 274, 275, 280 Madruzzo, Carlo Gaudenzio 262 Magellan, Ferdinand 133, 198

 399

Magog (son of Japhet) 226, 227, 228 Mallard, Jean / Maillart, Jean 200 Mandeville, John 137, 145 Mantegna, Andrea 363, 371, 372, 373, 379 (Andrea Mantheña), 381 Manuzio, Aldo 372 Marco Beneventano 181, 184 Marcus Agrippa 323 Marcus Vitruvius Pollio, see Vitruvius Margaret of Parma 332 Mark, Saint 354 Marsili, Pere 129 Marsilius 323 Martianus Capella 24 Mary, Virgin 40, 88, 257 (beatissima Vergine; Mariá), 261 (beatissima Virgo Maria), 265, 268, 272, 276 (vergine Maria; Virginem Mariam; beatissime Virgine Maria), 278, 290 (Portaitissa), 295, 311 Massys, Quinten 316 Master of the Amsterdam Cabinet 320 Master of the Housebook 320 Matthew the Apostle 79 Matthew Paris / Matthaeus Parisiensis 7, 108, 110, 128 Maulbertsch, Franz Anton 298, 300 Mauro, Fra 8 Maximilian I, Holy Roman Emperor / Maximilien I d’Autriche, empereur du Saint-Empire 174, 332 Maximos Planudes 19 Mayr, Hans 368 Medici, Catherine de’ 205, 207 Medici, Lorenzo de’ / Médicis, Laurent de 179 Medici, Lorenzo di Pier Francesco de‘ 116, 377 Medici-Laurentian Atlas / Atlante Mediceo 364 Mehmed II, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire / Mahomet II, sultan de l’Empire ottoman 180, 357 Mehmed IV, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire 349, 350 (Sultan Mehmeth) Melchizedek 96 (Melchisedech) Mercator, Gerard / Gerardus 8, 190, 333, 338 Mercurio, Scipione 266 Mercury 215, 216, 316, 328 Merian, Matthias 333 Meshech / Meshek (son of Japhet) 227, 228 Michael, Archangel 343, 344

400 

 Index of Historical, Religious and Mythological Figures

Micker, Jan 327 Mignon, Jean 210 Miller, Atlas 210 Mizrahi, Eliah 81 Montaigne, Michel de 265 Moses 59, 60 (Moyses), 63, 64, 84, 85, 232, 235, 236, 238, 239, 244, 247, 248, 249, 251, 295 Mparskij, Vassilij Grigorovich, see Barskij, Vasilij Grigorovich Münster, Sebastian 322, 336 Murad IV, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire 349 (Sultan Murat) Nelli, Nicollo 357 Neptune 204, 205, 208, 328, 375 Niccolò da Poggibonsi 277, 278 Nicholas, Saint 20 Nicholas of Lyra 8 Nicolas de Nicolay 214, 215, 357 Nimrod 96 (Nemrot) Noah 22, 35, 51, 52, 54, 55, 56, 57 (Noe), 58, 69, 95, 96 (filiis Noe), 107, 108, 109, 224, 226 Nys, Daniel 371 Obadiah Yare Bertinoro, Rabbi 237, 246 Oliva family 352, 354, 355 Oliva, Francesco 355 Oliva, Joan 354 Oliva, Johannes 355 Oliva, Placido 355 Oliva Salvatore 355 Olives, Bartolomeo 352, 355 Orlers, Jan 340 Orosius 3, 22, 23, 27, 54, 106, 107, 113 Ortelius, Abraham 190, 333, 335, 336, 338 Oviedo y Valdés, Gonzalo Fernández de 363, 376, 377, 378, 379, 380, 381 Paciotto, Francesco 329 Paolo dell‘Abbaco 167 Parmentier, Jean and Raoul 200 Pascha, Jan 275 Paul, Saint 223, 344 Paula of Rome, Saint 80 Paulus Orosius, see Orosius Pedro de Medina 214 Pere d‘Artés / Pere d‘Artes 175 Peter, Saint 344

Peter Comestor 52 Peter the Great 284, 285 Petrarch, Francis / Pétrarque 17, 18, 29, 36, 165, 166, 180, 371 Peutinger, Konrad 368, 369, 370 Pharaoh 59, 66, 152, 236, 238, 245 Philip II, King of France 364 (Philippus rex Francie) Philip II, King of Spain 329, 332, 336, 337, 338, 340 Philip III, King of France 364 (Philippus rex Francie) Philip III the Good, duke of Burgundy / Philippe III le Bon, duc de Bourgogne 174 Philip IV, King of France 66, 70 Philip VI, King of France 347 Philip of Opus / Medma 117 Philo of Alexandria 222 Phoebus 214 (Phebus) Piccolomini, Enea Silvio 174, 175 Pierre Choque 165 Pierre de la Gandille 215, 216 Pierre de Vaulx 200 Piri Re’is 366 Pius II, Pope / Pie II, pape s. Piccolomini, Enea Silvio Pizzigani, brothers 364 Plannck, Stephen 185 Plantagenet dynasty 37, 38, 67, 70, 73, 141 Plantin, Christopher 337, 338, 340 Plato 117, 119 Platon, Metropolitan of Moscow 284 Pliny the Elder 50, 65, 92, 106, 117, 186, 197 Poliziano, see Ambrogini, Angelo Polo, Marco 2, 145, 146, 153, 175, 197 Poloner, Johannes 96 Pompilius Azalus 186 Pomponius Mela 171 Poseidonios 92 Priscian / Priscianus Caesariensis 17, 20, 22, 28, 35 Priscian of Lydia 118 Psalter, Isabella 46 Psalter, Queen Mary 46, 50, 51, 59–60, 71 Pseudo-Aethicus 30, 32 Ptolemy / Ptolemée 8, 9, 11, 19, 132, 133, 148, 164, 165, 175, 178, 179, 180, 181 (Ptholemaei), 182 (Ptholemaeo; Ptholemaei), 183 (Ptholemaeum; Ptholemaei; Ptholemaeo), 184, 185,

Index of Historical, Religious and Mythological Figures 

186 (Ptolemaeum; Claudius Ptolemeus Alexandrinus), 187, 188, 348, 353, 365, 370 Ptolemy II Philadelphus 117 Publius Vergilius Maro, see Virgil Quaresmius, Franciscus 7 Quentel, Peter 323 Rab 230 Rabanus Maurus 20 Rab Judah 230 Rabbah bar bar Hannah 223 Rachel (Matriarch) 120 Ramusio, Giovanni Battista 370, 373, 374 Ramusio, Paolo 357 Ranzano, Pietro 184, 185, 186, 188 Raphaël de Mercatellis 174, 175 Rashi / Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhaki 81, 82, 83, 241 Raymond, John 258 Rebecca (Matriarch) 120 Rembrandt 340 Reuwich, Erhard 78, 80, 320, 328, 338 Riccobaldus of Ferrara / Riccobaldus da Ferrara 165, 166 Richard de Bello, see Richard of Haldingham or Lafford Richard Exeter 175 Richard of Battle, see Richard of Haldingham or Lafford Richard of Haldingham or Lafford (Richard de haldingham o de Lafford) 40, 111, 112 Richard Swinfield, Bishop 58, 66 Richental, Ulrich 115 Righetti, Orazio Cammillo 259 Ringmann, Matthias 116 Riphat / Riphath (son of Gomer) 226, 227 Roger of Howden 6, 28, 29 Rosselli, Francesco 9, 132 Rosso Fiorentino 211 Rota, Martino 358 Rotz, John / Rotz, Jean 189, 190, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200, 202, 203, 204, 205, 208, 209, 210, 212, 214, 218 Sallust 112, 113 Sambari, Yosef 237, 239 Samuel, prophet 79, 232, 240, 251 Samuel ben Ammi, Rabbi 226 Samuel ben Samson, Rabbi 246

 401

Sangallo, Francesco da 261, 262 Sansovino, Andrea 269 Sansovino, Jacopo 269, 354 Sanudo / Sanuto, Marino 165, 166, 179, 346, 347, 348 Sarah (Matriarch) 120 Sasi, Jean 200 Schedel, Hartmann 321, 322, 323 Schiavone, Jacopo di Stefano 373 Scipio 372 Seld, Jörg 329 Seneca 17, 117 Sertorius 175 (Sertorius) Shem (son of Noah) 56, 69, 95, 96 (filius Noe secundus Seth), 107 (Sem), 108, 109, 225, 227, 228 Sigeric of Canterbury 20 Sigoli, Simone 276 Silvano, Bernardo 176, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186 Silvestri, Domenico 169, 170, 188 Silvius, Willem 330, 340 Simai, Rabbi 228 (R. Simai) Simon, Rabbi 226, 227 (R. Simon), 228 (R. Simon) Simon de Montfort 70 Solinus / Solin 166 Solomon, King 85, 243 Soranzo, Giovanni 349, 350 (Giovanni Soranzo), 351, 354, 355, 356, 357, 360, 361 Springer, Balthasar 367, 368, 369, 370, 375 Strabon / Strabo 3, 105, 106, 170, 171 (Strabonem), 180, 197, 229, 291 Strozzi, Alessandro 9 Suetonius 117 Tabourot, Étienne 179 Tarshish / Tarkish (son of Javan) 226, 227 Tasso, Torquato 257 Terramano, see Tolomei, Petro di Giorgio Theodore, Saint 354 Theodoret of Cyrrhus 77 Theodosios, Metropolitan of HungroWallachia 290 Theophanes the Greek 300, 302 Thésée 166 Thietmar (pilgrim) 245 Thomas de Cantilupe, Saint 58, 59, 66 Timosthenes of Rhodes 117

402 

 Index of Historical, Religious and Mythological Figures

Tiras (son of Japhet) 226, 227, 228 Tolomei, Petro di Giorgio (Terramano) 254 Torgemah (son of Gomer) 226, 227 Torsellini, Orazio 254, 255, 262, 267, 268 Trajan, Roman Emperor 11, 223 Traut, Wolf 369, 370, 373 Trevisano, Marco 356 (Marco Trevisan) Tribolo, Nicolò 261, 262 Triton 118 Tubal / Tuval (son of Japhet) 227, 228 Ulysses 291 Valens, Roman Emperor 357 Vallard, Nicolas / Vallard Atlas 190, 192, 200, 215, 216, 217, 366, 374, 375 van den Wyngaerde, Anton / de las Viñas, Antonio 315, 337, 338 van der Borcht, Pieter 340 van Diest, Gillis 331 van Hooren, Melchisedech 325, 326, 327 (Melchisedech van hooren) van Overbeke, Pauwels 329, 336 van Paesschen, Dirk / Dierick 317 Varro 117 Vecellio, Cesare 358 Venerable Bede, see Bede Venturini, Giovanni Battista 338 Venus 375 Vérard, Antoine 202 Vertumnus 316, 317, 328 Vesconte, Pietro 179, 346, 347, 348, 351 Vespucci, Amerigo 116, 377

Vico, Enea 358 Virgil 121 Virgilius Bononiensis 331, 334, 335, 336 Vitruvius 117, 118, 119 von dem Busche, Hermann 323 Waldseemüller, Martin 196 Weiditz, Hans 329 Weigel the Elder, Hans 335 Welser, Anton 370 Welser family 367, 368 Wey, William 7, 255, 261, 276 White, John 381 Wieland, Philip 176 William of Conche 41 William of Malmesbury 135 William of Newburgh 62 William Worcester 173 (Willelmum Worcestre), 175 Woensam, Anton 323, 324 Wolgemut, Michael 321, 322 Xerxes 214 (Xerxes) Yavan (son of Japhet), see Javan Yehoshua, Rabbi 223 Yitzhaki, Shlomo, see Rashi Yoktan 226 Zainer, Günther 108 Zidon (son of Canaan) 226 Zucchi, Bartolomeo 262

Index of Modern Authors Aberbach, David 85 Abulafia, David 151 Adler, Marcus N. 237 Agasse, Jean-Michel 36 Aggelomatē-Tsougarakē, Elenē 286 Aitsinger, Michel 334 Akerman, James R. 190, 332 Albeck, Chanoch 226 Alden, John 116 Alexander, Philip S. 224, 225 Allen, Michael J. B. 377 Alliata, Eugenio 76, 77 Almagià, Roberto 180 Alvarez Palenzuela, Vicente Ángel 167 Anderson, J. J. 57 Angelita, Girolamo 255, 267, 268 Angold, Michael 283 Anthiaume, Albert 191 Antonova, Clemena 308 Appuhn, Horst 316, 318 Arad, Dotan 245 Arad, Pnina 4, 7, 10, 18, 74, 78, 80, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87, 255, 271, 274, 275, 276 Armitage, David 373, 375 Armstrong, Christine Megan 327 Armstrong, Lilian 371 Ascoli, Albert Russel 36 Astengo, Corradino 195 Athanasiadēs, Geōrgios 287, 304 Athanasiadēs, Sōtērēs 287 Aujac, Germaine 182 Avi-Jonah, Michael 76 Aylmer, Gerald 59 Aznar Vallejo, Eduardo 151 Babington, Churchill 113 Bacci, Michele 271, 275, 277 Bagatti, Bellarmino 272 Baglione, Giovanni 266, 273 Bainton, Henry 7, 113 Ballon, Hilary 319 Bandinel, Bulkeley 255, 261, 276 Baránski, Zygmunt G. 36 Barkey, Karen 61 Barney, Stephen A. 32, 111, 121 Baron, Hans 176 Barsukov, Nikolaj 282

Bartalucci, Aldo 107 Bartlett, Robert 58, 66 Bartoli, Baldassare 269, 277 Basnage de Beauval, Jacques 94, 126 Basquet, Armand 208 Battini, Annalisa 187 Baumgartner, Frederic J. 210 Baumgärtner, Ingrid 1, 4, 8, 11, 91, 93, 99, 101, 102, 105, 110, 115, 132, 133, 195, 351 Beach, J. A. 111 Beck, Lauren 378 Beeby, Andrew 40 Behringer, Wolfgang 319, 323, 330, 339 Beit-Arie, Malachi 233 Bellori, Giovanni Pietro 266 Bellorini, Theophilus 245, 272, 276 Beltrami, Pietro G. 129 Ben-Amos, Dan 223 Benati, Daniele 262 Ben-Eliyahu, Eyal 11, 221, 223, 225, 227 Ben-Shalom, Ram 239 Benson, Robert L. 377 Bercé, Yves-Marie 255, 259, 268 Bernardo, Aldo S. 17, 36 Bernardo, Reta A. 17 Berghof, Oliver 111 Bertolini, Virginio 166 Betschart, Andreas 96 Biadene, Susanna 351, 352, 354 Biedermann, Rolf 369 Billion, Philipp 138, 139, 141, 147, 148 Binyon, Laurence 381 Bisaha, Nancy 346 Bitton-Ashkelony, Brouria 77 Blair Moore, Kathryn 277 Blumenkranz, Bernhard 61 Blurton, Heather 62 Bonfil, Robert 223 Bongars, Jacques 347 Bonnet, Bonaventura 138, 140, 145, 164 Borchert, Till-Holger 323 Bork, Robert 17 Boschloo, Anton W. A. 266, 273 Bosco, Umberto 36 Botvinick, Matthew 269, 271, 274 Bouloux, Nathalie 3, 6, 8, 24, 128, 129, 166, 169

404 

 Index of Modern Authors

Bowen, Karen 337, 340 Bracke, Wouter 329 Brakensiek, Stefan 333 Branca, Vittore 166 Braslavi / Braslavski, Joseph 84 Brennan, Elaine 377 Bridges, John Henry 6 Britnell, Richard H. 61 Broc, Numa 182 Brown, Beverly Louise 269 Brown, Elizabeth A. R. 212 Buck, Thomas Martin 115 Budick, Sanford 318 Buisseret, David 2 Burke, Peter 272, 319 Bushart, Bruno 330 Bushuiev, Sergej 283, 284, 297 Cachey Jr., Theodore J. 17, 36 Calvesi, Maurizio 269 Calvino, Italo 377 Calzada, Javier 46 Camille, Michael 63, 194, 214 Camillo, Tonini 361 Campbell, Stephen 318, 319 Campbell, Tony 138, 141, 147, 190, 193, 346 Campopiano, Michele 7, 8, 94, 113 Canaan, Taufik 250 Canisius, Heinrich 94, 126 Capello, Carlo F. 363, 364 Caraci, Ilaria Luzzana 116 Carboni, Stefano 359 Carmassi, Patrizia 110, 122, 123 Carmody, Francis J. 129 Carrillo Castillo, Jesús María 378 Carruthers, Mary 26, 192, 203 Cátedra, Pedro M. 170 Cavallo, Guglielmo 182 Celebi, Timocin 333 Chassant, Alphonse 207 Chastang, Pierre 7, 27 Chatizidakēs, Manolēs 286 Chekin, Leonid S. 20, 363 Chiappelli, Fredi 377 Cholcman, Tamar 371 Christmon, Elise 271 Clark, Willene 42, 50, 51, 58 Clemens, Raymond 176, 178, 179 Clifford, James 318

Clopper, Lawrence M. 57 Cloulas, Ivan 207 Cockshaw, Pierre 333 Cohn, Yehudah 223, 225, 227 Colins, Kristen M. 243 Comment, Bernard 9 Concino, Ennio 359 Con Davis, Robert 318 Conermann, Stephan 245 Conley, Tom 191 Connolly, Daniel K. 7, 18 Conti, Simonetta 182 Copeland, Rita 23, 33 Cormack, Robin 86 Corsi, Giuseppe 167 Cortesão, Jaime 204, 205 Coryat, Thomas 265 Cosgrove, Denis E. 1, 74, 75, 304 Coss, Peter R. 67, 364 Crépin-Leblond, Thierry 204 Courtright, Nicola 205 Curatola, Giovanni 359 da Silva Marques, João Martins 168 Dackerman, Susan 335 Dahari, Uzi 243, 244 Dahl, Ed 191 Dalzell, Alexander 272 Dames, Mansel L. 371 Dan, Anca 3, 6, 8, 128, 129 Daniels, Stephen 74 Daum, Denise 377 Davey, Francis 261, 276 David, Natalie Zemon 207 Davies, Surekha 191, 193, 207, 209, 375 Debby, Nirit Ben-Aryeh 1, 12, 342, 343 de Beer, Esmond Samuel 254, 258 de Clercq, Steven 204 de Hamel, Christopher 63, 193 Dégh, Linda 223 Degryse, Roger 317 Dekoninck, Ralph 261, 266, 267, 269, 271 de Lagarde, Paul 107 Delano-Smith, Catherine 8, 58, 81, 85 Deldicque, Mathieu 202 Delen, Adrien J. J. 315, 317 della Dora, Veronica 12, 36, 281, 284, 294, 309, 310 de los Ríos, José Amador 379 de Matos, Luís 193

Index of Modern Authors 

de Nave, Francine 332, 333 de Nie, Giselle 120 Depauw, Carl 216, 317 de Riquer, Martín 140, 141, 143, 145 de Rock, Jelle 315 de Rougemont, Denis 107 Derolez, Albert 115, 174, 175, 176 Desmarquets, Jean-Antoine-Samson 207 Destombes, Marcel 37, 147, 204 de Thévenot, Jean 275, 276, 277, 278 de Vere, Gaston du C. 371 de Villamont, Jacques 255, 257, 258, 277 de Wesselow, Thomas 18, 58 de Witte, Charles-Martial 168 Dickenson, Victoria 377 Dilke, Margaret 347 Dilke, Oswald 347 Dines, Ilya 41, 233 Dittman, Pierre-Olivier 44 Dixon, Philip 59 Dodson, Joel 189 Doran, Susan 200 Doukellis, Panagiotēs 283 Doyle, Kathleen 200 Dreer, Cornelia 7, 113 Druce, George 630 Dubiez, Frederik Johannes 327 Ducène, Jean-Charles 105 Dueck, Daniela 229, 291 Ebbesen, Sten 118 Ebert-Schifferer, Sybille 254 Edney, Matthew 284, 332 Edrei, Arye 230 Edson, Evelyn 7, 17, 96 Edwards, Jess 6 Elbaum, Jacob 84 Elger, Ralf 146 Elliot, James 319 Elsner, Jaś 86 Engel, Edna 233 Enggass, Catherine 273 Enggass, Robert 273 Englisch, Brigitte 122 Epstein, Isidore 228 Eser, Thomas 328 Eshel, Esther 224 Euw, Anton von 41 Evelyn-White, Hugh G. 30

 405

Fagles, Robert 291 Faḫraddīn II Ma’an, Druze emir 275 Falchetta, Piero 131, 351, 354 Falconer, William 106 Fear, Andrew T. 54, 107, 113 Feldges, Uta 325 Fensterbusch, Curt 118 Ferguson, Donald 370 Fernández-Armesto, Felipe 151 Ffolliott, Sheila 205 Fiema, Zbigniew T. 247 Figliuolo, Bruno 184 Finlay, Robert 347 Finucane, Ronald C. 73 Fiorani, Francesca 2, 337 Flint, Valerie I. J. 40, 41, 112 Fonrobert, Charlotte E. 221 Fontaine, Jacques 30 Forster, Edward S. 30 Foys, Martin 22, 23 Frabetti, Pietro 365 Frame, Robin 61 Franciotti, Cesare 255, 268 Franco, Marc 26 Frangenberg, Thomas 9 Freedman, Harry 226 Frenkel, Yehoshua 245 Fried, Johannes 1 Friedman, David 9, 319 Friedman, John Block 45 Fritsch, Julia 204, 212 Frösén, Jaakko 247 Frolow, Anatole 283 Füssel, Stephan 321, 333, 334, 335, 336, 339 Fuks, Gideon 225 Gaddis, John Lewis 376 Gadrat, Christine 175 Gafni, Isaiah M. 221, 223, 227 Gage, Frances 269 Galletti, Gustavo 176, 177 Gameson, Richard 40 García Camarero, Ernesto 147, 364 García-Tejedor, Carlos Miranda 216 Garratt, William 259, 267, 268, 278 Gasparotto, Giovanni 121 Gautier Dalché, Patrick 4, 6, 7, 11, 19, 24, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 39, 54, 98, 112, 115, 117, 125, 129, 131, 165, 166, 167, 171, 183, 184

406 

 Index of Modern Authors

Gavin, William 271 Gecser, Ottó 255 Gehl, Paul F. 178 Gernez, Désiré 204 Gianfredi, Sandra 273 Giannini, Massimo Carlo 275 Gibb, Hamilton A. R. 146 Girard, Aurélien 275 Girardet, Klaus M. 105 Giussano, Giovanni Pietro / John Peter 257 Given-Wilson, Chris 66 Glassie, Henry 223 Glauser, Jürg 6 Goerlitz, Uta 1 Goetsch, Emily 36 Golb, Norman 237, 238 Goldziher, Ignac 250 Gombrich, Ernst 194, 332 Gosman, Martin 205 Gothóni, René 288 Gottheil, Richrd J. H. 237 Graboïs, Aryeh 93 Grasshoff, Gerd 19 Graves, George Coe 211 Gravestock, Pamela 44 Greve, Anna 377 Grieten, Jan 317, 327, 329, 332, 333, 336 Grim, Ronald E. 190 Grimaldi, Floriano 259, 261 Grishin, Alexander 283, 285, 287 Groos, Arthur 322, 339 Grosjean, George 151 Grossman, Avraham 230 Groth, Paul 74 Gruber, Mayer I. 81 Guéret-Laferté, Michèle 138 Guyon, Loïc P. 138 Hackett, Jeremiah 7 Haist, Margaret 67 Haldon, John 86 Hamburger, Jeffrey F. 99 Hamilton, Bernhard 255, 256, 258, 272 Hamilton, Hans C. 106 Hand, John 335 Hanna-Klein, Élisabeth 43 Harley, John Brian 1, 2, 5, 6, 9, 117, 138, 224, 346 Harrisse, Henry 367, 368

Harvey, Graham 61 Harvey, John H. 173 Harvey, Paul D. A. 24, 37, 38, 39, 40, 56, 78, 93, 99, 101, 128, 333, 348, 363–364 Haslam, Graham 65 Hassig, Debra [= Strickland, Debra Higgs] 44, 46, 47, 50, 63, 67, 72 Haug, Henrike 94 Hausberger, Isolde 369 Haverkamp-Begemann, Egbert 337, 338 Hawkins, Ernest 283 Hayward, Charles T. Robert 107 Hegener, Nicole 131 Hehl, Ernst-Dieter 1 Heimpel, Hermann 169 Heitzmann, Christian 110, 122, 123 Helmrath, Johannes 169 Henderson, George L. 74 Henriet, Patrick 7, 27 Hensel-Grobe, Meike 1 Herborn, Wolfgang 323 Hermant, Maxence 200 Herr, Moshe David 221 Hess, Daniel 320, 328 Hiatt, Alfred 128 Hibbard, Howard 254, 265, 269 Hilberg, Isidor 80 Hillaby, Joe 66 Hinks, Arthur R. 141 Hoade, Eugene 245, 276 Hofmann, Catherine 138 Hofmann, Martin 105 Hoffmann, Volker 205 Holder-Egger, Oswald 121 Hollstein, Friedrich W. H. 366 Honour, Hugh 369, 377 Hoogvliet, Margriet 55, 56, 66, 205 Horst, Daniel 334 Howard, Deborah 328 Howe, Herbert M. 6, 7 Houwen, Luuk A. J. R. 46, 56 Huby, Pamela 118 Hümmerich, Franz 368 Hulton, Paul H. 381 Huscroft, Richard 61 Huvenne, Paul 317, 327, 329, 332, 333, 336 Hyams, Paul 61 Hyde, John Kenneth 140, 151, 166

Index of Modern Authors 

Ilan, Zvi 235 Ilg, Ursula 335 Imhof, Dirk 337, 340 Immerzeel, Mat 86 Inglis, Erik 271 Ingram, Elizabeth Morley 85 Ionescu, Christina 378 Isaac, Benjamin 228 Iser, Wolfgang 318 Jacks, Philip 371 Jacob, Christian 191 Jacobs, Martin 233, 235, 237, 246 Jacoby, David 243, 244, 246 Jacquinot, Dominique 207 Jäckel, Dirk 67 Jaffee, Martin S. 221 Jancey, Meryl 58 Jeffreys, Elizabeth 86 Jerjen, Vera 94, 126, 128 Jewett, Mary Margaret 257, 265 Jewitt, Carey 3 Jones, Alexander 19 Jones, Chris 115 Jones, Leslie Webber 19 Jones, Pamela M. 254, 259, 266 Jordan, William Chester 61 Jung, Leo 228 Kadas, Sōtērēs 286, 289 Kagan, Richard L. 333, 336, 337, 338, 373 Kakalis, Christos 36 Kalmar, Ivan 258 Kamal, Youssouf 147 Kann, Andrea 17 Kaplan, Yosef 230 Karanastasi, Pavlina 118 Karathanasēs, Athanasios 290 Karrow Jr., Robert W. 214, 332, 333 Kasher, Aryeh 225 Katznelson, Ira 61 Kay, Sarah 44 Keen, Maurice 67 Kelsey, Malcolm 282, 292 Kenda, Barbara 119 Kendall, Calvin B. 107, 121 Kettle, Ann 66 Kienast, Hermann J. 118 Kiening, Christian 6

 407

Kiessling, Rolf 329 Kingsford, Charles L. 67 Kipferwasser, Reuven 223 Kiser, Lisa J. 56, 57, 69 Kistemaker, Renée 328 Kline, Naomi Reed 39, 40, 43, 46, 51, 56 Klussmann, Andreas 78 Knödler, Julia 94 Koeman, Cornelis 333 König, Erich 370 König, Roderich 106 Kogman-Appel, Katrin 1, 11, 136, 139, 147, 162, 164 Kolesnyk, Katerina 283, 312 Kramer, Joel 237, 238, 239 Kress, Gunther 3 Krober, Alfred L. 214 Kühnel, Bianca 7, 18, 40, 78, 120, 258, 271, 275 Kugler, Hartmut 3, 8, 27, 34, 105, 110, 111, 115, 122, 123, 124, 125 Kupfer, Marcia 4, 10, 17, 18, 19, 30, 32, 35, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 47, 48, 52, 55, 56, 58, 61, 111, 112 Lacarra, María Jesús 137, 145 Lacarra-Ducay, María del Carmen 137, 145 Laffitte, Marie-Pierre 200 Laiou, Angeliki 347 Lancaster Wilson, Adrian 321 Lancaster Wilson, Joyce 321 Landau, David 372 Landis, Dennis C. 116 Lanman, Jonathan T. 346 Lapina, Elizabeth 73 Larivière, Serge 46 Lassels, Richard 258, 268, 274 Laurent, Johann C. M. 91, 94, 96, 97, 98 Laxton, Paul 1, 5 Leach, Elizabeth Eva 48 Lechtermann, Christina 94 Lecker, Michael 228 Lee, Henry Desmond Pritchard 117 Lehmann, Martin 116 Leitch, Stephanie 367, 369, 370, 371 Leroy, Thierry 201 Lesser, Bertram 96 Lestringant, Frank 19, 291 Le Vasseur, Guillaume 193, 196, 212

408 

 Index of Modern Authors

Levenson, Jay A. 367 Levin, Saul 17 Levine, Lee I. 225 Levy-Rubin, Milka 7 Lewis, Martin W. 105 Lewis, Suzanne 63 Lewis, W. J. 111 LiDonnici, Lynn 222, 224 Lieb, Norbert 330 Lieber, Andrea 222, 224 Liebermann, Felix 108 Liedtke, Walter 340 Lilley, Keith D. 7, 35, 107, 113 Limor, Ora 275 Lindsay, Hugh 291 Lindsay, Wallace Martin 32, 107 Lippold, Adolf 107 Lipton, Sara 63 Liverano, Mario 224 Livieratos, Evaggelos 309 Livingstone, David 284 Llompart i Moragues, Gabriel 138 Lloyd, Simon 73 Lowden, John 200 Lozovsky, Natalia 19 Lucchi, Piero 361 Luijten, Ger 317, 325, 329 Lumby, Joseph Rawson 113 Lumiansky, Robert M. 56, 57 Lunslow, David 118 Lunz, Abraham M. 84 Lurie, Doron 343 Lutz, Eckart Conrad 93, 126, 128 MacDonald, Alasdair 205 Machado, Augusto Reis 371 Machiela, Daniel A. 224 Macioce, Stefania 253, 254 Mahon, Denis 259 Maier, Christopher T. 346 Maier, Jessica 9 Malvasia, Carlo Cesare 259, 273 Mancini, Giulio 266 Mandosio, Jean-Marc 185 Mango, Cyril 283 Manners, Ian 9 Marcotte, Didier 3 Marías, Fernando 373

Marino, Nancy F. 136, 137, 138, 140, 141, 143, 145, 146, 148, 152, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164 Marsand, Antonio 179 Martens, Maximiliaan, 330 Martens, Pieter 329, 341 Martin, Andrew John 339 Martin, Henry 179 Martindale, Andrew 371 Mason, Peter 377 Mason, Steve 61 Massing, Jean Michel 367, 369, 372, 377 Matthews Sanford, Eva 106 Mauntel, Christoph 105, 115, 135 Mayhoff, Carolus 106 Mc Laughlin, Martin 36 McAllen Green, William 106 McCormack, Catherine 265 McCuaig, William 272 McCulloch, Florence 55 McDonald, Mark P. 367, 369 McGurk, Patrick 20, 22 McKendrick, Scot 200 McLean, Matthew 322 Medevielle, Nicolas 215 Medina, José Manuel Montesdeoca 169 Melion, Walter S. 261 Menache, Sophia 61 Ménard, Philippe 146 Mendels, Doron 223, 230 Merback, Mitchell B. 63 Meredith, Peter 57 Meri, Josef W. 247 Merrills, Andy 107 Miethke, Jürgen 169 Miettunen, Päivi 247, 249, 250 Miladinov, Marina 255 Milanesi, Marica 8, 373 Milano, Ernesto 187 Millar, Fergus 223, 225, 227, 230 Millea, Nick 24, 32 Miller, Naomi 9, 319 Milman, Robert 257 Mills, David 56, 57 Milner, Stephen 318, 319 Mittenhuber, Florian 19 Mittman, Asa Simon 38, 45, 71, 93 Mirsky, Aharon 230

Index of Modern Authors 

Missirini, Melchior 273 Moevs, Christian 36 Momigliano Lepschy, Anna Laura 255 Montaner, Alberto 137, 145 Moore, Niamh 74 Moraw, Peter 169 Morgan, Nigel 40 Morris, Marc 70 Morris, Richard K. 52, 56, 59 Morrison, Karl F. 120 Mostert, Marco 120 Mouriki, Doula 283 Müller, Johannes 169 Müller, Joseph Godehard 97 Müller, Katrin 94 Mundill, Robin 61 Muraoka, Anne H. 252, 254 Muratova, Xenia 51, 63 Myers, Kathleen Ann 378, 381 Mylonas, Pavlos 282, 283 Mynors, Roger A. B. 19, 135 Nagel, Alexander 255, 263, 271, 272 Narkiss, Bezalel 139 Nelson, Robert S. 243 Nicholson, Catherine 40 Nicolet, Claude 4, 30 Nims, Margaret F. 26 Noam, Vered 222 Noble Howe, Thomas 118, 119 Noga-Banai, Galit 7, 18, 40, 78, 258, 271, 275 Noonan, F. Thomas 255, 274 Nova, Alessandro 117, 118, 119, 120, 128 Nuti, Lucia 2, 9, 319, 329, 333, 335, 338 Obrist, Barbara 108, 117, 122 O’Callaghan, Josef F. 168 Ofer, Yosef 81 O’Gorman, Edmundo 379 Oinas, Felix J. 223 O’Keeffe, Tadhg 74 O’Loughlin, Thomas 7 Oppenheimer, Aharon 228, 230 Ordan, Dena 222 Orenstein, Nadine 317 Orso, Steven 338 Orth, Myra D. 191, 193, 194, 207, 212 Oschema, Klaus 105, 108, 115

 409

Ostrow, Steven F. 272 Oswalt, Vadim 1 Oursel, Hervé 204, 212 Pacciani, Riccardo 258 Paddock, Troy 189 Paleotti, Gabriele 272, 273 Palmer Wandel, Lee 261 Papastratou, Dōrē 310 Paravicini Bagliani, Agostino 44 Parr, Anthony 265 Parra Garcia, Luis 167 Parroni, Piergiorgio 171 Parshall, Peter W. 372 Partridge, Loren 325 Pasch, Georges 140 Pascual, Eusebio 170 Passen, Christian 291 Patzold, Steffen 93 Pecoraro, Carmela 169 Pedani-Fabris, Maria Pia 349 Pedersen, Poul 118 Pedralli, Monica 176 Pelletier, Monique 65, 291 Penth, Sabine 105 Pérez de Tudela Bueso, Juan 379 Pericolo, Lorenzo 269, 272 Phillips, Kim M. 163 Piccirillo, Michele 76, 247, 249 Pinto, John 333 Plassmeyer, Peter 329 Pleij, Herman 340 Plotzek, Joachim M. 41 Pochat, Götz 369, 371 Pointon, Marcia 259 Poirel, Dominique 6 Pollak, Martha 329, 339 Poole, Julia E. 373 Posner, Donald 262 Pothecary, Sarah 291 Prawer, Joshua 347 Prestwich, Michael 61, 73 Pringle, Denys 91, 94, 96, 97, 98, 245, 277 Prodi, Paolo 273 Puff, Helmut 339 Pujades i Bataller, Ramon J. 138, 141, 346 Puoti, Basilio 276 Pupillo, Marco 254, 265, 267

410 

 Index of Modern Authors

Purchas, Samuel 246, 248 Putz, Christine 94, 128 Pylarinos, Theodosēs 286 Quaglio, Antonio 166 Quentin-Bauchard, Ernest 205, 210 Raby, Julian 359 Radt, Stefan 106 Raff, Thomas 117, 120, 122 Ragone, Giuseppe 171 Randall, Lilian C. 194, 212 Rapoport, Yossef 4 Rappaport, Uriel 225 Rathmann-Lutz, Anja 93, 94 Rees, Ronald 9 Rees Jones, Sarah 62 Reichert, Folker 8, 163 Reiner, Elchanan 233, 234, 235, 240 Rey Pastor, Julio 147, 364 Ricci, Giacomo 255 Riccòmini, Eugenio 262 Richard, Hélène 138 Richards, Annette 26 Richardson, Catherine 335 Rico, Francisco 170 Riera i Sans, Jaume 138 Riggs, Timothy 329 Ringelberg, Kirstin 189 Roberts, Sean 2, 348 Robertson, John 284 Roeck, Bernd 319, 323, 330, 339 Röhricht, Reinhold 79, 101 Rolfe, John Carew 112 Rolker, Christof 115 Romanelli, Giandomenica 328 Rommé, Barbara 323 Rosen, Mark 2 Ross, Elizabeth 79, 320 Rossi, Vittorio 36 Rothman, Natalie E. 356 Rothschild, Jean-Pierre 8 Rotter, Ekkehard 93, 97, 99, 101, 102, 104, 126 Roumier, Julia 138 Roux, Jean-Paul 364 Rowland, Ingrid D. 118, 119 Rubin, Jonathan 93, 97, 101 Rubin, Rehav 7, 81, 289 Rubio Tovar, Joaquín 137

Rublack, Ulinka 335 Rudy, Kathryn M. 7, 18, 274, 275 Rücker, Elisabeth 321 Rusconi, Roberto 345 Ruse, Michael 319 Russel, Peter 137, 139, 145 Russell, Donald 118 Sáenz-López Pérez, Sandra 12, 18, 138, 363, 378 Safrai, Shmuel 221, 223 Safrai, Zeev 221 Salerno, Luigi 259, 273 Salopek, Damit 131 Salzman, Louis F. 66 Sandler, Lucy Freeman 194 Santangelo, Enrico 36 Santarelli, Giuseppe 256, 261 Sarfati, Rachel 12, 232, 233, 234, 235, 238, 240, 243, 246 Sassoon, David S. 139 Sauer, Carl O. 74 Scales, Len 66 Scailliérez, Cécile 207 Scanlan, James F. 50 Scannelli, Francesco 265 Schaff, Phillip 33 Schaldach, Karlheinz 118 Schapiro, Meyer 212 Schefer, Charles 200 Schiewer, Hans-Jochen 322, 339 Schilder, Gunther 204 Schleifer, Ronald 318 Schmidt, Francis 225 Schmidt, Hans-Joachim 110 Schneider, Ute 1, 2, 333 Schöller, Bettina 7, 27, 28, 32, 34, 96, 125 Scholl, Lars U. 131 Schonhardt, Michael 97 Schott, Andreas 171 Schröder, Stefan 1 Schultze, Jürgen 335 Schulz, Jürgen / Juergen 9, 315, 323, 330, 337 Schwartz, Joshua 246 Schwartz, Stuart B. 151 Scior, Volker 93 Scully, Diarmuid 39 Sebastián, Santiago Morata Segatto, Filiberto 176, 178 Serchuk, Camille 11, 189

Index of Modern Authors 

Setton, Kennth M. 349 Sevcenko, Ihor 283 Seymour, Maurice C. 50 Shalev, Zur 275, 277, 298 Sharpe, Richard 175 Shaw, James F. 33 Shenton, Caroline 67, 70 Shneor, David 81 Shtober, Shimon 237 Siew, Tsafra 258 Silver, Larry 12, 315, 318, 372 Simek, Rudolf 80 Simms, Norman 81 Simon, Marcel 77 Siraj, Ahmed 185 Sivan, Hagit 29 Skelton, Raleigh A. 174, 333, 374 Slezkine, Yuri 284 Slive, Seymour 340 Sloan, Kim 381 Sluiter, Ineke 23, 33 Smith, Anthony D. 224 Smith, Jeffrey Chipps 322, 324 Soly, Hugo 332 Sontag, Susan 304 Sordi, Katy 259 Soussen, Claire 7, 27 Spagnoletto, Amedeo 232 Speake, Graham 281, 286 Squillacioti, Paolo 129 Stacey, Robert C. 61 Staikos, Spyros 309 Starkey, David 200 Starn, Randolph 325 Steel, Carlos 118 Steeves, Paul 297 Stein, Dina 223 Stercken, Martina 4, 6 Sterk, Aron C. 229 Stevens, Wesley M. 111, 113 Stewart, Aubrey 92, 97, 245, 275 Stirnemann, Patricia 207 Stock, Markus 322, 339 Stone, Brian 57 Stone, David M. 269, 272 Strickland, Debra Higgs 10, 34, 37, 38, 46, 47, 50, 52, 59, 61, 63, 66, 73 Stubbs, William W. 66 Stückelberger, Alfred 19

 411

Sumption, Jonathan 265, 276 Suriano, Francesco 272, 275 Suriano, Sixta 275 Swan, Claudia 324 Swanson, Robert N. 73 Taguchi, Mayumi 52, 56 Talbert, Richard J. A. 19, 176 Tanis, James 334 Tate, Robert Brian 170 Taussin, Henri 207 Taylor, Eva G. R. 128, 134, 189, 190, 194 Teitelbaum, Jacqueline S. 223 Teixeira de Mota, Avelino 204, 205 Terkla, Dan 24, 30, 32, 58, 93 Thackeray, Henry St. John 75, 225 Theocarēs, Maria 286 Theodor, J. 226 Thierry, Eric 208 Thomson, Rodney M. 135 Thompson, Christine 343 Thorndike, Lynn 186 Tiller, John 59 Timm, Frederike 78, 320 Tolias, George / Georges / Geōrgios 3, 6, 8, 128, 129, 291, 309 Torri, Plinio 129 Toulouse, Sarah 190, 191, 193, 196, 207, 208 Travis, Joseph 319 Treffers, Bert 269 Tsafrir, Yoram 76, 77, 241, 243, 244 Tucci, Ugo 351 Turner, Daymond 378 Turner, Edith 267 Turner, Victor 267 Tyermann, Christopher 73 Unger, Daniel M. 12, 252 Unger, Richard W. 19, 176, 214 Vagnon-Chureau, Emmanuelle 96, 98, 129, 131, 138 Valerio, Vladimirio 182 van den Boogaart, Ernst 369 van der Krogt, Peter 204 van der Stock, Jan 315, 316, 317, 318, 325, 329, 340 van Duzer, Chet 41, 108, 191 van Gelder, Roelof 328 van Grieken, Joris 317, 325, 329

412 

 Index of Modern Authors

van Suchtelen, Ariane 327, 333, 340 Vanderjagt, Arjo 205 Varriano, John 273 Vasari, Giorgio 261, 371 Vasco Fernandes de Lucena 185 Vatteroni, Sergio 129 Vélez, Karen Annelise 255, 256, 265, 268, 272 Ventura, Milka 232 Vesperini, Pierre 178 Vignau-Wilberg, Thea 335 Vodret, Rossella 252, 262, 269 Voet, Leon 332 Vogel, Klaus Anselm 116 von den Brincken, Anna-Dorothee 111, 128, 364 von Heusinger, Christian 316 Vorholt, Hanna 7, 18, 40, 78, 258, 271, 275 Wagner, Bettina 97 Wagner, Henry R. 195 Wallis, Faith 107, 121 Wallis, Helen 190, 193, 194, 195, 197, 198, 200, 203, 204, 205 Watson, Andrew G. 128 Watson, Sethina 62 Wattenmaker, Richard 333 Weil-Garris, Kathleen 254, 255, 261, 269, 277 Weiler, Björn 66 Weingarten, Susan 30 Werman, Cana 222, 225 Westrem, Scott 39, 40, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 49, 52, 54, 55, 56, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 66, 67, 70, 125 Weyl Carr, Annemarie 288 Whatley, Laura J. 7 Wheelock Jr., Arthur 327, 333, 340 Whelan, Yvonne 74

White, Cynthia 42, 44, 48, 51, 55, 59, 60, 62, 67, 70, 71, 72 Wigen, Kären E. 105 Wilkinson, John 80, 295 Wilson, Bronwen 328, 357, 358 Wilson, Chris 74 Wilson, Malcolm 118 Wilson, Simon 258 Winearls, Joan 190 Winfield, David 283 Winkler, Gerhard 106 Winn, Mary Beth 202 Wirtschafter, Elise 284 Withers, Charles 284 Wittlin, Curt J. 175 Wohl, Alice Sedgwick 266 Wolter, John A. 190 Wood, Christopher S. 255, 263, 271, 272 Wood, Francis 146 Woodward, David 1, 2, 5, 7, 9, 17, 37, 117, 138, 182, 190, 195, 224, 291, 319, 333, 337, 346 Worm, Andrea 7 Wunder, Amanda 358 Wyckoff, Elizabeth 318 Yaari, Avraham 237, 246 Yassif, Eli 223 Zakovitch, Yair 85 Zanella, Gabriele 166 Zanotti, Giampietro 273 Zehnder, Frank Günther 323 Zerner, Henri 210 Ziegler, Heide 319 Zorach, Rebecca 194, 209, 324