Religious conversion and identity: the semiotic analysis of texts

Religious Conversion and Identity

Every religious conversion contains a language. The way in which people change and represent their spiritual evolution is often determined by recurrent structures. Through the analysis of ancient and modern stories, which are embodied in either words or images, Massimo Leone describes the adventure of conversion, the encounter with a di¡erent system of religious ideas, the discomfort of spiritual uncertainty, the loss of personal and social identity, the anxiety of destabilization, the reconstitution of the self and the discovery of a new language of the soul. The author traces the paradigm of conversion and identity in relation to the spiritual turning points of three protagonists of Christianity; Saint Augustine, whose mainly intellectual conversion is studied through the analysis of the symbol of the ¢g tree, the Magdalene, whose emotional turning point is approached through a semiotic analysis of both the mirror and the ointment, and Saint Paul, whose `conversion of actions' is studied through a semiotic investigation of the symbol of the horse. Religious Conversion and Identity focuses mainly on the early-modern e¨poque, especially in the Catholic area, but also considers the way in which modern authors (such as Saramago, Claudel, Rilke, Proust and Pasolini) adopted previous stories of conversion as models for the representation of the turning points of human life. Massimo Leone lectures in Semiotics at the University of Siena, Italy.

Routledge Studies in Religion

1

Judaism and Collective Life Self and community in the religious kibbutz Aryei Fishman

2

Foucault, Christianity and Interfaith Dialogue Henrique Pinto

3

Religious Conversion and Identity The semiotic analysis of texts Massimo Leone

4

Language, Desire, and Theology A genealogy of the will to speak Noe« lle Vahanian

5

Metaphysics and Transcendence Arthur Gibson

Religious Conversion and Identity The semiotic analysis of texts

Massimo Leone

First published 2004 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004.

& 2004 Massimo Leone All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Leone, Massimo, 1975^ Religious conversion and identity: the semiotic analysis of texts/ Massimo Leone. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index. 1. Conversion^Christianity^History. 2. Identi¢cation (Religion)^History. 3. Christian converts^Biography^History and criticism. I. Title. BR110.L39 2004 248.20 4^dc21 2003046659 ISBN 0-203-16194-7 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-34188-0 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0^415^30611^6 (Print edition)

Contents

List of illustrations Acknowledgments List of abbreviations

vi viii ix

Introduction Vertigos and lies

x

1

The destabilization of the self Comparing ¢ction and reality: some epistemological notes 2 Preaching and conversion after the Council of Trent 11 The mute word: cultural obstacles between preaching and conversion 13 The eloquent icon: sermons of images and images of sermons in early-modern Catholic evangelization 19

1

2

The crisis of the self Conversion and treason 53 Conversion and controversy 62 Conclusion 78

53

3

The re-stabilization of the self Introduction 79 The conversion of ideas: the ¢g tree 81 The conversion of passions: the mirror and the ointment The conversion of actions: the horse 151

79

104

Conclusion

171

Notes Bibliography Index

174 210 236

Illustrations

1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.6 1.7 1.8 1.9 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6

Carlo Saraceni, Saint Raymond Nonnatus preaching. Rome, General Curia of the Fathers of Mercy, painted before 1614. Vicente Carducho, The torment of Saint Raymond Nonnatus. Madrid, church of Saint Hieronymus. Bernardo Castello, Saint Vincent Ferrer preaching. Rome, church of S. Maria sopra Minerva, Giustiniani chapel, executed in 1584. Anthony van Dyck, Saint Ignatius's conversion. Rome, Vatican Gallery, after 1622. Peter Paul Rubens, Saint Ignatius of Loyola preaching. Genoa, Chiesa del Gesu©, executed between 1609 and 1622. Saint Ignatius of Loyola's example converts a sinful youngster. Engraving from the Rubens/Barbe¨ graphic hagiography of Saint Ignatius, ¢rst published in 1609. Mattia Preti, Saint Augustine's baptism. L'Aquila, National Museum of Abruzzo, 1670^80. Giovan Battista Gaulli, known as il Baciccio, Saint Francis Xavier preaching. Rome, church of Saint Andrew at the Quirinal, around 1704. Giovan Battista Gaulli, known as il Baciccio, Saint Francis Xavier baptizes an Oriental princess. Rome, church of Saint Andrew at the Quirinal, around 1704. Artemisia Gentileschi, The Magdalene's Conversion. Florence, Pitti Palace, Palatina Gallery, 1615^16. Frontispiece from the Vida de Santa Magdalena in cobles. Engraving from the Vida de Santa Magdalena in cobles showing the receptacle containing the Magdalene's ointment. Engraving from the Vida de Santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the eighth stanza. Engraving from the Vida de Santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the ninth stanza. Engraving from the Vida de Santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the tenth stanza.

26 27 30 42 43 44 49 50 51 118 139 140 141 142 143

Illustrations 3.7 3.8 3.9 3.10 C.1 N.1 N.2 N.3 N.4 N.5 N.6 N.7 N.8 N.9 N.10

Engraving from the Vida de Santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the twenty-sixth stanza. Engraving from the Vida de Santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the twenty-seventh stanza. Engraving from the Vida de Santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the twenty-ninth stanza. Engraving from the Vida de Santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the thirtieth stanza. Francesco Queirolo, Il disinganno. Naples, chapel of Sansevero, 1754. Saint Ignatius of Loyola meets Saint Philip Neri. Engraving from the Rubens/Barbe¨ graphic hagiography of Saint Ignatius, ¢rst published in 1609. Canonization of Saint Ignatius of Loyola. Engraving from the Rubens/Barbe¨ graphic hagiography of Saint Ignatius, 1622 edition. Saint Peter appears in a vision of Saint Ignatius of Loyola. Engraving from the Rubens/Barbe¨ graphic hagiography of Saint Ignatius, ¢rst published in 1609. Saint Ignatius of Loyola reading religious books. Engraving from the Rubens/Barbe¨ graphic hagiography of Saint Ignatius, ¢rst published in 1609. Saint Ignatius of Loyola preaching to a crowd of people. Engraving from the Rubens/Barbe¨ graphic hagiography of Saint Ignatius, ¢rst published in 1609. Baccio Ciarpi, Constantine's Baptism. L'Aquila, church of Saint Silvester, painted around 1617. Saint Augustine's Conversion. Erfurt, Church of the Augustinians, ¢rst quarter of the fourteenth century. F.-A. Monti, Saint Augustine's Conversion. Genoa, church of N.S. della Consolazione, 1930. Fra' Angelico, Saint Augustine's Conversion. Museum of Cherbourg, executed between 1425 and 1430. Cover of Daniel-Rops, 1954.

vii 145 146 147 148 172 184 185 186 187 188 190 196 197 198 207

Acknowledgments

A number of people have contributed to the completion of this work. I should like to thank, in particular, Professor Jean-Robert Armogathe, Professor Olivier Bonfait, Professor Omar Calabrese, Professor Giovanni Manetti, Professor David Scott, Professor Victor I. Stoichita and Professor Barbara Wright. I also want to express my gratitude toward those institutions which helped me to ¢nance my research activity over the past three years: the University of Siena, the French Embassy in Italy (`Primoli' Foundation), the E¨cole Franc° aise in Rome and the Spanish Embassy in Italy. I thank Routledge for the assistance with which I was provided during the editing and publication of Religious Conversion and Identity. This book is dedicated to my family.

Abbreviations

(1643^94) Acta Sanctorum, 68 vols, Brussels: Socie¨te¨ des Bollandistes. Cara¡a, F. and Morelli, G. (eds) (1967^) Bibliotheca Sanctorum, 14 vols, Rome: Citta© Nuova Editrice. DACL Cabrol, F. and Leclercq, H. (eds) (1924^) Dictionnaire d'arche¨ologie chre¨tienne et de liturgie, 15 vols, Paris: Librairie Letouzey et Ane¨. DS Viller, M., Cavallera, F. and Guibert, J. de (eds) (1932^) Dictionnaire de spiritualite¨ asce¨tique et mystique: doctrine et histoire, 16 vols, Paris: Beauchesne. LCI Kirschbaum, E. (ed.) (1970) Lexikon der Christliche Ikonographie, 8 vols, Rome^Freiburg^Basel^Wien: Herder. LTK Buchberger, M. (ed.) (1993^2001) Lexikon fÏr Theologie und Kirche, 11 vols, Freiburg: Herder. NRSV Metzger, B.M. and Murphy, R.E. (eds) (1991) The New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocryphal/Deuterocanonical Books: New Revised Standard Version (New Oxford Annotated Bible), New York: Oxford University Press. OED Simpson, J.A. and Weiner, E.S.C. (1989) The Oxford English Dictionary, 20 vols, Oxford: Clarendon Press. PL Migne, J.-P. (1844^55) Patrologi× Cursus Completus, Series Latina, 221 vols, Paris: Jacques-Paul Migne. PG Migne, J.-P. (1857^66) Patrologi× Cursus Completus, Series Gr×ca, 161 vols, Paris: Jacques-Paul Migne. Re¨au Re¨au, L. (1955^8) Iconographie de l'art chre¨tien, 3 vols, Paris: PUF. AASS BSS

Introduction

Vertigos and lies Italian writer Piero Meldini's ¢rst novel, L'avvocata delle vertigini (`The advocate of vertigo', Meldini 1994) reports the probably apocryphal story of Blessed Isabetta's religious conversion. Isabetta was a terribly sinful woman; one day, for no particular reason, she felt disgust at her life and resolved on committing suicide. She climbed up the bell tower of the local cathedral, but, when she tried to throw herself o¡, an insuperable attack of vertigo prevented her from committing the insane act. From this miraculous event on, Isabetta's life was spotless, and after death she was celebrated in popular memory and devotion as the advocate of people struck by dizziness, giddiness or vertigo. I ignore the question of whether this story is true, but, notwithstanding, let me invoke the Blessed Isabetta, that she might preside over the writing of the present work, wherein I shall explore the vertiginous depths of religious conversion. The concept of vertigo is suitable in order to introduce this topic. I shall try to demonstrate it through a survey of the rare insights which this fascinating physiological phenomenon has triggered in semiotics and psychoanalysis. First of all, as regards the physiology of vertigo, it has to be admitted that medical treatises which deal with this subject are quite uninteresting for scholars working in the humanities. In fact, they do not generally take into account the aesthetic dimension of this phenomenon, and restrict themselves to explaining the anatomical causes of it, which are always the same. Nevertheless, some rare but interesting philosophical clues about vertigo can be found in that branch of medicine which is called semeiotics, or the science of symptoms, and is usually considered as a speci¢c part of general semiotics, at the junction between natural and human sciences. Physiologists Guerrier and Basse©res, for example, in their essay Le vertige et le vertigineux (`vertigo and the vertiginous', Guerrier and Basse©res 1984), make a point which is interesting for a semiotician: as is the case for an average human body, equilibrium cannot and must not be perceived. This means that when one feels one's own equilibrium, it always happens negatively, as an absence, as a lost

Introduction

xi

property of the body. This simple observation can have huge philosophical consequences. First of all, it reveals that what is called equilibrium is nothing but a zero degree of the presence of the body in a given space. Nevertheless, it is only through a pathological condition, an alteration of normality, that this point of departure of perception can itself be perceived. Second, this medical remark can lead us to argue that all those circumstances wherein a feeling of vertigo is perceived could be occasions through which the human body succeeds in developing a full awareness of itself. If this argument is considered within the theoretical framework of psychoanalysis, vertigo immediately becomes a privileged point of view from which to understand the complex dialectics between the conscious and the unconscious. Sigmund Freud, in an article written in 1894, entitled Ûber die Berechtigung von der Neurasthenie einen bestimmten Symptomenkomplex als `Angstneurose' abzutrennen (which I should translate `On the legitimacy of separating from neurasthenia a precise complex of symptoms as ``neurosis of anguish'' ') (Freud 1894), includes a speci¢c kind of vertigo among the symptoms which accompany this type of neurosis. Several elements in Freud's theory are interesting: ¢rst, he points out a relation between vertigo and anguish, as existentialist philosophers will do some decades later;1 second, he proposes a typology of vertiginous attacks and explains through which symptoms it is possible to recognize a neurotic vertigo; third, he understands that vertigo is not meaningless. Freud was a great semiotician: he created not only new interpretations of old signs, but also new signs for old interpretations. Vertigo is one of them.2 In this book, religious conversion will be analysed mainly from this vertiginous point of view, i.e. from the perspective of how what we shall call the `religious self ' of a person is destabilized by the encounter with a di¡erent system of religious ideas and becomes aware, for the ¢rst time, as in an attack of vertigo, of the precariousness of its previous stability. The way in which we use the term `self ' needs a more detailed explanation. Although this word and the concept that it designates have become increasingly popular in cognitive psychology,3 it is not from the point of view of this disciplinary area that we shall use the term `self '. Instead, we shall propose to analyse conversion through a semiotic interpretation of the concept of `the self '. But what is semiotics? Generally, it is de¢ned as the discipline which studies signs and their systems. However, although this de¢nition ¢ts in with the cultural status which this discipline held in the 1960s and in the 1970s, it is rather inadequate to give a correct idea of how semiotics and its wide range of interests, theoretical instruments and analytical practices have evolved in the last two decades of the twentieth century. So, in the present work, and especially in relation to the way in which the concept of `the self ' will be used in order to analyse religious conversion, it is preferable to adopt Umberto Eco's witty de¢nition of semiotics (Eco 1975), which also has the advantage of being more abstract and general: semiotics

xii

Introduction

can be de¢ned as the discipline which studies everything that can be used to lie.4 Consequently, we shall analyse the self of converted people, before, after and during religious conversion, as a sort of lie. This will not mean that we shall consider religious conversion as a simulation, but that we shall aim at blurring the boundaries between psychical reality and narrative ¢ction.5 In other words, religious conversion will be studied as a story, which converted people constantly recount to themselves in order to consolidate their identity and eliminate the feeling of vertigo which seizes everyone who has lost one's own spiritual equilibrium. At the same time, we shall interpret another kind of story: that which a given religious community unceasingly invents and recounts in order to stabilize the social role of converted people. The fact of studying religious conversion as a form of story will allow us to analyse it as a complex text ^ composed of both psychical and social (internal and external) representations ^ through the sophisticated theoretical and analytical instruments of textual semiotics. Simultaneously, as we believe that the semiotic analysis is impotent without a deep awareness of the historical context which surrounds each representation (and vice versa), every text, and every story of conversion, will be constantly read in the framework of its particular historical milieu.6 This tension between a synchronic and a diachronic point of view will be particularly evident in the choice of texts which will constitute the corpus of the present book. Most representations of conversion will belong to the earlymodern epoch (so rich in phenomena of religious conversion, for historical reasons) and most of them, with few exceptions, will depict conversion to Catholicism. At the same time, though, our semiotic sensibility will encourage us to elaborate several comparisons between early-modern representations of conversion and the texts which either have inspired them or have adopted them as a model for the representation of other spiritual turning points.7 So, in this book, besides the analysis of early-modern poems, paintings or sermons, the reader will ¢nd frequent mentions of modern or contemporary authors, such as Saramago, Claudel, Proust or Pasolini, and of the way in which their works are intertextually related to more ancient stories of conversion or, more generally, of a turning point. This book will be not only multi-chronic but also multi-medial: verbal, visual or musical texts will be analysed together, in order to determine how they refer to each other and how, often by merging together, they contribute to shape the imaginaire of a given religious conversion.8 For reasons of space, I am obliged to spare the reader a long and complex survey of the di¡erent approaches that have been adopted in order to analyse religious conversion.9 Instead, I shall restrict myself to a focus on those studies which have been particularly relevant for the shaping of my own perspective of analysis. First of all, it has to be emphasized that this book can be placed in the framework of the new, vast but still underdeveloped area of research which specialists call `semiotics of religion'. As Daniel Patte has pointed out in a

Introduction

xiii

very informative article (Patte 1986, with a vast bibliography), this disciplinary area can be divided into three sections: theories of religion that use an implicit semiotic theory, theories of religion that use an explicit semiotic theory and studies of religious texts that use semiotic methodologies.10 This book takes its place at the intersection between the last two sections, but at the same time tries to both enlarge and specify the boundaries of the semiotics of religion in two di¡erent ways: 1

2

It is not only religion to be analysed through semiotic devices, but the whole complex of texts which compose the way in which a given religious civilization interprets and represents a religious phenomenon (in our case, conversion). The concept of `text' is not conceived in relation to the idea of the `written text', as many traditional semiotic studies do, but in close connection with the idea of `representation' (Marin 1994), i.e. in the framework of a semiotic theory (and methodology) wherein the word `text' indicates everything which can be studied as a text.

From this second point of view, continuous reference will be made to the semiotic model of Lithuanian semiotician Algirdas Julien Greimas, and to the most recent developments introduced in his theory by the disciples of his semiotic school. The structure of this book will also stem from the adoption of such a semiotic perspective. In harmony with the general theoretic principles of our analysis, the phenomenon of conversion and the representations which depict it will be studied as the di¡erent moments of a story, whose development includes a destabilization of the religious self, a moment of (both internal and external, psychical and social) crisis and a ¢nal moment of re-stabilization, when a new language of the soul is shaped and adopted in order to re-create the credibility of that ingenious lie which human beings call their `self '.11

1

The destabilization of the self

In this ¢rst chapter, the vantage point of our discourse will focus more on textual analysis than on theoretic abstraction and more on the details of history than on the generalizations of semiotics. We shall not abandon our semiotic perspective. On the contrary, we shall use the theoretic tools brie£y sketched in the introduction in order to analyse phenomena and representations of conversion in a particular geographical and historical setting: Europe (and its missions) after the Council of Trent. There is no contradiction between history and semiotics, or between diachronic and synchronic inquiry: in a virtuous and hermeneutic circle, history provides for the examples which con¢rm the theoretic imagination and theory shapes the tools which transform history into a matrix of hypotheses. The religious history of Europe after the Council of Trent is a rich source of examples concerning religious conversion (given both the opposition between Reformation and Counter-Reformation and the e¡orts of the Catholic Church to create new believers in the faraway missions, or among Jewish or Muslim communities).1 At the same time, semiotics is a box of suitable and sophisticated analytical tools with which to elucidate the complicated spiritual problems of early-modern religious history. The chapter devoted to the `destabilization of the self ' will concern the ¢rst step of conversion, when the system of religious (or irreligious) ideas of a person is shaken by the encounter with a spiritual message which speaks a di¡erent language. This chapter will be composed of three parts. In the ¢rst part, we shall focus on the role which the encounter with a religious word plays in conversion. Also, we shall stress the possibility of grasping the relevance of this encounter through a comparison between historical and ¢ctional conversions, between history and narrative. In the second part, we shall deal with the communicative strategies which are adopted when the encounter with the religious word is di¤cult, or even impossible (for example in the case of total linguistic incomprehension). Taking as an example both the problems and the techniques of Catholic evangelization in early-modern Europe, in the third part of this chapter we shall analyse in depth how images can be used as instruments for the destabilization of the self, in the

2

Religious conversion and identity

form of either images of sermons (visual texts representing verbal texts) or sermons of images (visual text replacing verbal texts).

Comparing ¢ction and reality: some epistemological notes Portuguese writer and Nobel laureate Jose¨ Saramago, in his best-selling novel Memorial do Convento (Saramago 1982), reinterprets the real story of Bartolomeu Lourenc° o de Gusma¬o through the narrative lenses of literary ¢ction. What kind of historical knowledge do we possess in relation to this character, beyond the narrative transposition of his life proposed by Saramago? From fragmentary information kept in Portuguese and Brazilian archives and other historical sources (Forjaz 1964; Cruz Filho 1985), we know that he was a Jesuit and a priest, that he was born in Santos, Brazil, in 1685 and that he died in Toledo, Spain, in 1724. Also, we are aware of the fact that his contemporaries used to nickname him o Voador, i.e. `the Flier', because of the very peculiar hobby that Bartolomeu loved to cultivate. Professor of mathematics at the University of Coimbra, very learned in Canon Law and skilful linguist, this talented and bizarre priest was obsessed by the idea of enabling men to £y like birds, a desire which he eventually ful¢lled, at least in part, by becoming the inventor of the ¢rst aerostat in history (Portugal de Faria 1911). Tested for the ¢rst time before the Portuguese Royal House on 8 August 1709, 75 years before the much more famous experiment of the French Montgol¢er brothers took place, Bartolomeu's aerostat managed to successfully £y over Lisbon. In Memorial do Convento, Saramago profusely and poetically describes the construction of this wonderful £ying machine, whose technical story is unceasingly paralleled by the subtle depiction of a second, spiritual construction: the evolution of Bartolomeu's religious conversion. His Catholic faith is progressively eroded by theological doubts and increasingly replaced by Jewish beliefs. Also this second narrative account is based on history: from archive material, we know that the Portuguese priest was accused of having converted to Judaism, and that he was therefore forced to go to Spain in order to £ee the Portuguese Inquisition (Herbermann et al. 1907^18, sub voce `Lourenc° o de Gusma¬o, Bartolomeu'). When he died in Toledo, on 18 November 1724, some sources a¤rm that he was completely out of his mind. Was this sad end the divine punishment that he had to su¡er as a consequence of having tried to defy the law of gravity? Or was his ¢nal madness rather the result of another dangerous journey, that of the human mind through the unexplored territories of religious conversion, beyond the abyss that surrounds identity? I am asking these questions because I am convinced that Saramago's intriguing narrative account of Bartolomeu's conversion can help historians

The destabilization of the self

3

to elucidate what cannot be explained merely with reference to historical sources. By saying this, I am implicitly suggesting that religious conversion is personal mystery enshrined in public history, and that if historical and sociological research is fundamental to analyse the context of religious conversion, its personal features are better illustrated through the semiotic analysis of stories and representations. Works of ¢ction can be investigated in relation to intellectual and cultural history in two di¡erent ways. On the one hand, we can study a corpus of texts2 in order to understand how they convey the religious imagery of the epoch in which they were produced. On the other hand, we can analyse some ¢ctional texts in order to grasp some anthropological features of religious conversion. While the ¢rst operation is widely accepted in cultural history,3 the second is more risky and controversial, because it introduces the possibility of anachronism. Is it possible to use Saramago's narrative invention in order to understand religious conversion in seventeenth-century Portugal? I think that we can answer a¤rmatively, but only if we accept two postulates. The ¢rst is that religious conversion is an anthropological as well as an historical phenomenon, and that some of its characteristics do not vary depending on the historical period or the social context in which conversion appears: brie£y speaking, the way in which human beings change does not always change. The second is that narrative inventions can contain some interesting theoretic clues about the way in which human beings function.4 In order to demonstrate to what extent this is true, I should like to compare some passages from Saramago's novel with a seventeenth-century autobiographical account of conversion. My purpose is to show that, although the ¢rst text is a work of ¢ction, which describes artistically a conversion that took place many centuries before, while the second is a text based on personal experience, they share, nonetheless, some common features, to the point that they can be used to reciprocally illustrate each other.5 This is the kind of semiotic analysis of comparable narrative and semiotic structures that I shall propose throughout the book, together with more traditional pieces of philological and historical research. My point is that new insights about religious conversion can stem only from the combination of semiotic inventiveness and philological rigour. A ¢ctitious encounter with the word ^ Bartolomeu Lourenc°o de Gusma¬o: a Catholic preacher converts to Judaism I should like to point out a particular passage in Saramago's novel, when the priest and inventor Bartolomeu Lourenc° o de Gusma¬o interrupts his technical and scienti¢c activities so as to rehearse a sermon on Holy Trinity, which he is going to preach in Lisbon, at the Royal House, on Corpus Christi Day. As the preacher is repeating the words which he himself has previously

4

Religious conversion and identity

written, something very strange happens: he starts to reconsider the dogma of Trinity, and is progressively seized by the terrifying doubt that he does not really believe in what he is saying (Saramago 1982, 172^3).6 The more the preacher re£ects on the topic of his sermon, and the more he plays with the words that he has written on it, trying to ¢nd a de¢nitive antidote to the sudden weakness of his own faith, the more he feels entrapped in a vortex of theological subtleties, in a solitary vertigo from which he will be able to escape only by rejecting the dogma of Trinity and by embracing Judaism. The sermon that he eventually preaches at the Royal House is certainly a¡ected by these doctrinal uncertainties, so that the Inquisition itself becomes increasingly worried about Bartolomeu's behaviour. In e¡ect, the Jesuit is experiencing a dangerous multiplication of his personal, and especially religious, identity: as we shall point out through many other examples, religious conversion often triggers a fragmentation of the innermost self, which is e¤caciously described by Saramago (ibid., 178).7 He gives us many interesting and clever clues about the functioning of the self, its longing for a feeling of harmony and unity, the disruptiveness of its fragmentation and the relief provoked by its temporary annihilation, when the body is asleep and the mind does not dream (even dreams, Saramago seems to imply, are endangered by the multiplication of personal identities). It is equally signi¢cant that Bartolomeu becomes aware of his doubts while he is rehearsing his own sermon: through the written word, or through the word which, albeit still oral, has been crystallized in the rhetorical form of a sermon, the thoughts of the preacher are objecti¢ed, and, therefore, can become an alienating term of comparison for the self: as in a mirror,8 the Jesuit inventor perceives the uncertainty of his faith through his own words. As a consequence, he abandons the study of the traditional sources of Catholic theology, i.e. mainly the New Testament and the Fathers of the Church, and devotes all his erudite e¡orts to the Old Testament. The disbelief in the dogma of Trinity, whereby he fulgurated during the night of his rehearsal, becomes an articulated series of strictly monotheistic beliefs that progressively transform the Catholic preacher into a Jew. Nevertheless, the transformation is never complete, and this is what prevents the preacher from reaching the peaceful ful¢llment of conversion. He remains in a state of spiritual and intellectual recklessness, as if his body were inhabited by di¡erent and opposite beliefs (ibid.).9 The word is a source of doubt, but is also the end of it: exactly as it happens when one repeats continuously a given word, and the meaning of it seems to progressively leak out of its phonetic shell, so the more the preacher interrogates the words of his theological knowledge, the more he extenuates them, until they lie in front of him, completely deprived of any sense. So, the `Flier' pro¡ers his ¢nal admission of apostasy. He acknowledges the crimes which will cause the Inquisition to persecute him.10

The destabilization of the self

5

However, it could be argued that this ¢ctional account of the conversion of a Catholic preacher is nothing but the fruit of the fervid imagination of a brilliant Portuguese writer, and that it can by no means help scholars to understand the real phenomenon of religious conversion. I should like to object to this argument by proposing an audacious, but, I think, not pointless, comparison with an autobiographical text representing religious conversion. A real encounter with the word ^ Mr Des Ecotais: a Catholic preacher converts to Anglicanism As I knew the intriguing story of Bartolomeu Lourenc° o de Gusma¬o, having passionately read Saramago's O Memorial do Convento, I was highly surprised when I found, in a seventeenth-century spiritual autobiography, too obscure to be known and used as a direct source by the Portuguese Nobel laureate, a story that was in many ways analogous to that of the Jesuit `Flier'. I am talking about a little pamphlet, which I read in the Marsh's Library, in Dublin: Memoires of Mr. Des Ecotais (Des Ecotais 1677). This text, an autobiographical account and a work of religious controversy at the same time, had both a public and a private purpose: its author wanted to deny the authority of the Catholic Church, but also longed for a de¢nitive acknowledgement and attestation of good faith by his new coreligionists, the Protestants. As a matter of fact, the two objectives often merge together, since the author wants to seduce his new friends by demonstrating the worthlessness of his former religion.11 He therefore explains the `Motives of his Conversion'. The public goals of this pamphlet are clearly stated in the preface of the book: ¢rst of all, Mr. Des Ecotais wants to prove that the Doctrine of the new Roman Church is not grounded neither upon the Holy Scripture; neither upon the belief of the Primitive Church, or the Authority of the Holy Fathers. Which is more particularly and more evidently veri¢ed in the examination of the Belief of Rome concerning the Eucharist.12 (Des Ecotais 1677) The second public goal of the author is to demonstrate that the Church of Rome is not the true Church, that is doth not enjoy, as absolutely its own, out shutting all other Churches, neither the Antiquity of the Belief, neither the multitude of the People, neither the true and lawful Succession of the Bishops; that the Authority thereof is not infallible; and that it is full of Errors and Corruptions. (ibid.)

6

Religious conversion and identity

After these statements concerning the general and more public purposes of the book, the author deals with the speci¢c and more private consequences of religious conversion. In this part of the pamphlet, Des Ecotais provides us with some interesting notes about the social hostility which inevitably surrounds those who abandon an old faith in order to embrace a new one: at the same time, they are considered as traitors by their old friends and regarded with suspicion by their new companions.13 This is, I think, a common reaction of society toward religious conversion, as well as toward other kinds of radical change. The preface of the book instructs us also about the possible antidotes that converted people can adopt in order to a¤rm their new religious position: they can write a pamphlet, for example, and try to demonstrate that their conversion, far from being the fruit of calculation or sudden madness, is, on the contrary, grounded upon a solid theological and moral basis. This is exactly the strategy adopted by Des Ecotais. In the preface, he dedicates his book to Henry, then bishop of London, and asks for his powerful protection: 'Tis not of to day, that those, who leave the party of Error, to embrace Truth, ¢nd themselves exposed to the Persecution of the World; And 't is not of to day neither, that they have need of powerful Protectors, to defend them against Injustice. (ibid.) This plea for public support is followed by another interesting passage, in which Des Ecotais makes reference to Saint Paul's conversion and emphasizes the analogies between the pain endured by the Saint after the turning point of his life, and the author's own disgraceful condition of apostate. As we shall see in this book, Saint Paul is a constant and fundamental term of comparison for converted people, both in Catholicism and Protestantism. Since he converted from Judaism to Christianity, every new Christian can use him as a model and an example: Your Lordship knows, that St. Paul had no sooner the title and the quality of a Man newly Converted, but presently he saw himself Forsaken and Persecuted of all the Earth. He doth but lose his labour, in alledging to the Jews the Motives of his Conversion, in Disputing against them, in Confounding them; the Jews are not yet for all that, less mad, or less furious, against him. (ibid.) The ¢rst sentence of this analogy seems to imply that Des Ecotais needs the protection of the bishop of London precisely because Catholics are not going to accept the calm and articulated exposition of the motives of his conversion, which Des Ecotais is proposing in his book. The parallel between the newly converted Anglican and Paul continues:

The destabilization of the self

7

These wicked men do still imagine, that the Motives, which have obliged Saint Paul to leave the Religion of his Fathers, for to embrace the Purity of the Gospel, are not others but the Inconsistency of his mind, or the desire of Novelty: And in that persuasion, they look upon him as a Runaway, and an Apostate; they lay wait for him; they frame Plots and Conspiracies to kill him; and think that they cannot render to God Almighty a service more Religious, than to bind themselves with a solemn Vow, saying, that they would neither eat nor drink till they had killed Paul. (ibid.) In this magniloquent seventeenth-century English prose, Saint Paul is adopted as a symbol of the hatred that conversion inspires in religious groups. However, if hatred characterizes the attitude of the former coreligionists of newly converted people, the new religious society in which they try to integrate and be accepted does not behave much better toward them. At the end of his preface, Des Ecotais expresses all his sorrow in relation to the coldness which the Protestant community manifests to his regard: Though, by the Grace of God, it is almost three years, since I professed the Purity of the Gospel, yet I may for several reasons be accounted in the numbers of those who are newly converted; and in that condition, I ¢nd myself reduced to the same fortune, to fall into the hatred and detestation of those, whose Errors I have forsaken, and to ¢nd in a great many Protestants coldness and repugnancy, when they shall know that I have formerly professed Error, and Persecuted those, who embrace the Purity of the Gospel. (ibid.) As is clearly indicated by this last excerpt, religious conversion causes not only a problem of personal and psychological identity, but also a problem of social identity.14 How long do converted people have to wait, and how many demonstrations of full acceptance of their new faith do they have to o¡er, before the new community wherein they are desperately trying to integrate, considers them as full members and bestows upon them all the rights of their new position? The answer to this question varies depending on the social context from which converted people are escaping, and on the social context into which they are trying to integrate. At Des Ecotais's time, evidently, three years was too short a time for a former Catholic priest to be accepted as a good Protestant. Religious identity needs a certain amount of time to consolidate, both at a psychological and at a social level. By measuring this time, and the variables which accelerate or delay the formation of religious identity after conversion, it is possible to categorize social and religious groups, depending on the di¡erent degrees of permeability by which they accept (or reject)

8

Religious conversion and identity

converted people; in fact, conversion plays a role of paramount importance in the formation of new religious groups, and in the dismantling of old communities. I should like to put an end to these general observations, and point out the astonishing similarities between Saramago's novel and Des Ecotais's pamphlet. We have already remarked how the rehearsal of a sermon on the Corpus Christi triggered Bartolomeu Lourenc° o de Gusma¬o's conversion. Now I shall dwell on the way in which Des Ecotais describes the moment when doubts and uncertainties spoiled for the ¢rst time his Catholic faith. The title of the section where this event is recounted is signi¢cant: `The occasion of a Sermon about the Sacrament called again in my mind all the notions I had of the Errours of Rome.' In this case too, the need to write, rehearse or preach a sermon, triggers a complicated catalysis that conjures in the mind of the preacher a series of thoughts previously scattered, or present only at a subconscious level. The e¡ort of synthesis that is required in order to write a sermon, allows the preacher to have a more general grasp on the theology of his faith, and to spot its possible inconsistencies. Des Ecotais likes to see his conversion as the achievement of a divine plan, which begins many months before the turning point of his religious life: I left the Monastery where I was near Saumur to come again to Paris; there the F. Provincial, who had disposed of his Secretary to send him to govern one of the Monasteries of our province, spoke of making me his Secretary; but the Divine Providence ordered it another way: for the F. Provincial, seeing that the F. General had taken upon himself all the care of our Province, for the while he was to stay at Paris, thought that it should be needless to take a Secretary; that was the reason why he commanded me to go to preach at the Parish of Meudon, which is a Borough six miles out of Paris. (ibid.) It is thanks to divine providence, then, that Des Ecotais becomes a preacher. This event will be fundamental in his life, because it will eventually provoke his conversion. As I read the continuation of Des Ecotais's spiritual autobiography, I was amazed when I realized that his conversion did not spring from the general activity of preaching, but from his rereading a sermon that he had written about a speci¢c topic. Surprisingly enough, this topic was the Catholic festival of Corpus Christi Day: I preached every Sunday and every Holy-day which is kept by the church of Rome, till at last, about the time they Celebrate the days which are called Corpus Christi days, being engaged to preach as I us'd to do; I read again what I had written afore upon the matter of the Sacrament, and I was troubled in reading what I had written:

The destabilization of the self

9

What! said I, must I abuse the people who trust to my knowledge and sincerity? (ibid.) As in Bartolomeu's conversion to Judaism, so in Des Ecotais's becoming a Protestant, the text of a sermon happens to function as a mirror, which re£ects theological and spiritual doubts of the preacher.15 The fact that both conversions are caused by the necessity of preaching on Corpus Christi Day, about the sacrament of Eucharist, can be explained with reference to how important the dogma of transubstantiation was in controversies between Catholics and Jews, but above all between Catholics and Protestants (and also among di¡erent Protestant groups), in early-modern Europe (Bridgett 1881; Darwell 1909; Blanchette 1989; Meyer 1989; McAdoo and Stevenson 1997; Kilmartin 1998; Tollu 1998). But there is another element in Des Ecotais's conversion, which has to be taken into account: a sermon is a rhetorical instrument of persuasion and conversion, so that it is very natural for a preacher who is writing one to imagine himself in the place of his audience, and to try to experience what e¡ect his words will have on them. This is a natural operation that we all carry on when we write something. As semioticians and narratologists have thoroughly explained, every writer has in mind the model of a reader (Eco 1979).16 But this imaginary displacement between the two poles of communication can be very risky: as the preacher simulates the reception of his sermon by a hypothetical audience, he may realize that he himself is not convinced by what he is going to say in order to persuade other people. Also, it has to be stressed that preaching involves a feeling of responsibility, which is clearly emphasized by Des Ecotais as an important reason for his doubtfulness: I have been a long while in a doubt, a long while examining; 'tis enough, while I doubted, I taught the people certain Doctrines of which I was not sure; but now that God Almighty has lightened my eyes, must I still withstand the light? be stubborn and rebellious against truth? (ibid.) At the beginning of his conversion, though, Des Ecotais did not have enough spiritual strength and courage to either abandon his pulpit or use it as a place from which to publicly reject his former faith: Yet for all that, God forsook me once more, or rather I could not persuade my self, I was not constant enough to oppose my self openly to the errors of the Roman Church. Ah! I should have gone up to the Pulpit; I should have said to all that people, that certainly they lived in ignorance and Idolatry; I should have said that the Eucharist is true Bread, that Christ is in Heaven present corporally, and that he is present upon the Earth, only by Faith in the souls of the faithful who receive the

10

Religious conversion and identity Sacrament of his body and blood holily and worthily. But I should have been sure in the mean time to be stoned presently, or else if that people had dealt with me more moderately according to the forms or other laws, I should have been sure to have heard pronounced against me a severe sentence of death, at least a condemnation without mercy to be kept in a dark hole of a Prison, and there make an end of a woeful life, in the middle of the Enemies of the Faith, who would have unmercifully lookt upon me with horror and execration. (ibid.)

Evidently, Des Ecotais did not have a marked inclination for martyrdom, so he continued to preach on subjects that were not matter of controversy, until the discrepancy between his words and his beliefs was so unbearable, that he decided to move from France to England, where he could eventually manifest his new faith openly. Here I quote the passage which ends the autobiographical confessions of the Catholic priest: And thou didst not give me, O my God! at that time the strength and the constancie wherewith thou hedgest and cloathest the Martyrs. I preached again afterwards some sermons, wherein I avoided as much as I could to speak of matter of controversies; at last, ¢nding my self not strong enough to make a publick profession of the gospel in the middle of the Enemies of the Faith, I took a resolution to go dwell in a Country, where I should be free to profess openly the purity of the word of God. (ibid.) Des Ecotais describes the spiritual tricks by which he managed to preserve his interior religious identity, that of a person converted to Anglicanism, under the exterior appearance of a Catholic preacher (it is di¤cult to imagine a more audacious double life):17 he would never preach but matters of morality, never speak in his Sermons either of transubstantiation of Christ in the Sacrament, or of the invocation of the Saints, or of worshipping images, or of the infallibility of the Pope in making articles of faith, or in canonizing, or of indulgencies, or purgatory, i.e. of all the topics which, at that epoch, after Reformation, di¡erentiated Catholicism and Protestantism. He also adds that when he was obliged to bend his knees in the presence of the Sacrament, he would lift up his spirit toward Heaven, in order to direct his worshipping directly to Jesus Christ. Texts of this kind, which recount the conversion of Catholic preachers to Protestantism, are not rare in early-modern Europe, especially in the chaotic religious context of England (Gilley and Sheils 1994; Chadwick 2001). In fact, they are so common, and sometimes so characterized by the same cliche¨s, as to appear farfetched. The propagandistic purposes of these pamphlets are quite evident: if a Catholic preacher, who is supposed to have a good theological knowledge, and to be able to move other people to his

The destabilization of the self

11

own faith, doubts himself the truth of Catholic dogmas, eventually converting to Protestantism, this can be a strong argument in favour of the reformed religion. In the Marsh's Library, in Dublin, I have found a whole anthology of these texts, which was probably used as a propagandistic instrument.18 It is not always simple to distinguish between reality and ¢ction, history and invention. On the one hand, Saramago's novel is certainly a ¢ctional text, but o¡ers some interesting remarks on the general anthropology of religious conversion; on the other hand, Des Ecotais's book is probably based on reality, but it frequently indulges in the use of some cliche¨s deposited in the narrative tradition of spiritual autobiography. Beyond the di¡erences between truth and verisimilitude, though, both texts point out the importance of the encounter with the word (in this case the word embedded in a sermon) for the springing of religious conversion. As we shall see, many representations of conversion indicate that this particular encounter can destabilize the unity and identity of the self. This is evident in Saint Augustine's conversion, but also in several representations of the conversion of the Magdalene, and even in the abrupt turning point that characterizes Saint Paul's religious life. Now I should like to stress the relevance of these encounters by brie£y analysing the relation between preaching and conversion in early-modern Catholicism.

Preaching and conversion after the Council of Trent A famous passage of the Confessions describes the e¡ect that the sermons of Saint Ambrose, bishop of Milan and exquisite preacher, produced on Saint Augustine's soul: initially, he was not interested in their content, but was nonetheless intrigued by the beauty of their rhetorical form (Augustine had read classical rhetoric and taught this discipline for 12 years, in Carthage, Milan and Rome). Afterwards, Augustine realized that form and content are not really separable (so anticipating one of the fundamental principles of contemporary linguistics) and began to appreciate the word of Ambrose as a unity of stylistic perfection and spiritual wisdom: For, although I took no trouble to learn what he said, but only to hear how he said it ^ for this empty concern remained foremost with me as long as I despaired of ¢nding a clear path from man to thee ^ yet, along with the eloquence I prized, there also came into my mind the ideas which I ignored; for I could not separate them. And, while I opened my heart to acknowledge how skillfully he spoke, there also came an awareness of how truly he spoke ^ but only gradually.19 (Augustine of Hippo 1955, 5, 14, 24) The sermons of Ambrose did not convert Augustine, but cast a shadow of doubt on his soul. The de¢nitive turning point in Augustine's religious life

12

Religious conversion and identity

occurred in a Milanese garden, where a second, supernatural and more powerful encounter with the word took place.20 As regards the conversion of the Magdalene, the Gospels do not mention the in£uence of any sermon on her spirituality, but later accounts of her conversion, contained in medieval hagiographies or conveyed by earlymodern engravings, indicate that the Magdalene's ¢rst desire to convert derived from her listening to a sermon of Christ. Also the sudden conversion of Paul is marked by the presence of a message uttered from a mysterious voice.21 I have referred to these three examples in order to point out to what extent the word is traditionally designated as a central spiritual instrument of conversion. This becomes particularly clear after the Council of Trent (1545^63), when the role of preaching in guiding the spiritual life of the faithful, strengthening the faith of the lukewarm believer and encouraging the conversion of the in¢del, was highly stressed. As Giovanni Pozzi argues in an article devoted to the preaching of Francesco Panigarola (Pozzi 1960a, 315^22), one of the ¢nest Catholic preachers of early-modern Italy, whilst even the most accomplished Italian religious rhetoricians of the ¢fteenth century (Bernardino from Siena, Bernardino from Feltre, Roberto from Lecce, Bernardino de' Busti and even Savonarola) lay at the margins of the intellectual and literary life of Italian humanism, from the second half of the sixteenth century on, sermons became increasingly popular, to the extent that, in the seventeenth century, Giovan Battista Marino, the epitome of the baroque poetic invention, wrote some ¢ctitious sermons, Le Dicerie Sacre (`sacred ditties') (¢rst printed in Turin, 1614),22 in order to deal with some aesthetical problems concerning painting and music. This demonstrates that in Marino's time sermons were such a successful form of communication that they could be even used to express non-religious themes. This is because the best Italian preachers of the seventeenth century were also among the ¢nest literates of the epoch, and were examples and models of poetic and literary style. However, it was the Council of Trent which gave a powerful impulse to sacred rhetoric, especially in Italy:23 while the Spanish and Portuguese Counter-Reformation was mainly a theological event, characterized by the prominence of the theological school of Salamanca, in Italy this historical phenomenon was essentially represented by an impressive revival of preaching, a practice that happened to be fundamental and very e¡ective in order to promote the renewal of the Catholic Church and to concretize the principles expressed by the Council of Trent. New religious orders were founded so as to evangelize the in¢dels, and handbooks of sacred rhetoric were written in order to give preachers some indications on the way they should formulate their sermons. Then, as Roberto Rusconi a¤rms in an essay on religious preaching in Italy (Rusconi 1981), the institution of the Holy O¤ce, in 1542, marked the turning point in the history of early-modern preaching, since it imposed a rigid control on the formation and activity of preachers, no matter what

The destabilization of the self

13

religious milieu they came from. Literature on the evolution of the art of preaching is quite vast (Santini 1923 and 1960),24 but in the context of this book, I should like to point out that when preachers could not convert through a merely verbal rhetoric, mainly because of problems of linguistic or cultural incomprehension, images became an indispensable instrument of conversion. As has been variously emphasized by an extensive literature, the Catholic Counter-Reformation both defended the liturgical use of painting against the attacks of Protestant iconoclasm and used the ¢ne arts as a powerful instrument of persuasion.25 Images were useful to emphasize the content of preaching, and were indispensable in transmitting it to illiterate people26 or in the case where preachers did not speak the language of their audience. In this last case, the linguistic incomprehension between the converter and the in¢del was a severe obstacle to communication. This problematic situation is exempli¢ed well by the reports of Jesuits missionaries in the Middle and the Far East, and especially in the works of Daniello Bartoli. The shortcomings of a purely verbal evangelization and the importance of visual communication in religious rhetoric will be analysed in depth in the next two sections.

The mute word: cultural obstacles between preaching and conversion In the previous section, it has been pointed out that the encounter with the word (for instance, in the form of a sermon) can trigger a destabilization of the religious self. In the theoretic schema, which is adopted in this book, this destabilization constitutes the ¢rst stage of religious conversion, as has been shown with reference to both history and ¢ction. The present section will be devoted mainly to the impediments which make this encounter more problematic or even impossible. As in the preceding section, a keen attention will be given to early-modern practices, episodes and representations of conversion, especially in relation to problems of religious communication in the context of the Christian missions. In particular, the Jesuit recounting of a missionary failure in sixteenth-century Asia will be used as an example of a situation in which the word, which is supposed to evangelize and convert, is made mute by cultural misunderstandings. The obstacles that troubled missionary evangelization from the sixteenth century on were not only of linguistic, but also of a semiotic (i.e. cultural) nature, and were related to the di¡erent weight that words, persuasive communication and rhetoric had (and, perhaps, still have) in di¡erent cultures. When missionaries travelled to remote countries, and had to face `exotic' people and their `strange' customs, subtle theological dissertations were not, as an instrument of persuasion, as e¡ective as the production of tangible, visible, immediately understandable tokens of the existence of the Christian God (Palumbo 2000).

14

Religious conversion and identity

On the one hand, the Council of Trent had given a vigorous impulse to the evangelization of the New World, where the Catholic Church hoped to recover the believers that had been lost in Europe as a consequence of the Protestant Reformation. On the other hand, this evangelization caused some new logistic problems to arise: one could not adopt, for the conversion of Asiatic, African or American folks, the same instruments that had been successfully used for the conversion of European people. In the glorious epoch of Christian evangelization, i.e. in the ¢rst centuries of the history of the Church, the saint Apostles would convert multitudes of people thanks to the charisma which they obtained by accomplishing amazing miracles (they would heal the worst forms of illness and even resurrect people from death, this being the real apex of miraculous virtue). But this epoch seemed now, at the watershed between Middle Ages and Modernity, totally over. At the same time, the e¡orts of conversion made by the Jesuits, as well as by other missionaries with the same apostolic vocation, were directed to folks that were completely immune to the classic verbal systems of persuasion. They desired, instead, the display of some concrete evidence of the powerfulness of Christ. Missionaries received a scrupulous and increasingly re¢ned linguistic formation, in the colleges which had been founded to form them for their religious activities, so that it was quite unusual for them to leave Europe without possessing at least a rudimentary knowledge of the language of the people whom they were supposed to evangelize. Nevertheless, the power of persuasion of traditional rhetoric was totally inadequate, especially when it had to be embedded in a poor and hesitating vocabulary. New instruments and new strategies were required, more international than verbal language and more suitable to establish an e¤cacious link of communication (Palumbo 2000, 289). Missionaries described di¤culties, advancements and failures of the process of evangelization in countless letters, addressed to their relatives, friends or superiors. In these documents, which often are a veritable work of travel literature, or an ethnographic notebook on the customs of `exotic' folks, they unceasingly recount episodes which show how `in¢del' people, and especially Muslims, had a di¡erent idea of conversion. Among these texts, Daniello Bartoli's La missione al Gran Mogor (Mission to the Great Mogul) deserves a close attention. Daniello Bartoli was born in Ferrara on 12 February 1608. Aged 15 he entered the Company of Jesus, and in 1650 became its ¢rst o¤cial historian. In his youth, he was a brilliant preacher, and his rhetoric skills led him to visit the most important Italian religious centres of the epoch. However, Bartoli's superiors were worried by the fragility of his health, and, at the same time, they were impressed by his propensity to write. They therefore discouraged him from undertaking missionary journeys, and destined him, instead, to the painstaking task of writing the history of the Jesuit order. Bartoli's fervid imagination had been

The destabilization of the self

15

fed by the stories of Saint Francis Xavier's Indian spiritual conquests:27 he ardently desired to leave Europe in order to join a mission. Nevertheless, he accepted the advice of his superiors and carried on his task in a scrupulous way, spending the following twenty years in a little Roman studio, packed with books, manuscripts, letters and other kinds of documents. From time to time, he also wrote some hagiographic and scienti¢c works. He died in Rome, the 13 January 1685, exhausted by a life of study.28 In 1663, Bartoli published a work which was at the same time a piece of hagiography, the story of a mission, the account of a martyrdom and an ethnological description of some Asiatic customs: La Missione al Gran Mogor del Padre Rodolfo Acquaviva (`Father Rodolfo Acquaviva's mission to the Great Mogul', Bartoli 1663). Some biographical notes concerning the protagonist of this work will be useful. Rodolfo Acquaviva was born in Atri, Italy, on 2 October 1550 from a patrician family.29 On 2 April 1568 he vanquished the tenacious resistance of his father and entered the Roman seminar of the Jesuit order.30 After being ordained a priest in Lisbon in 1577, in 1578 he embarked for Goa, where he taught philosophy for a while. His superiors were so con¢dent in his abilities and in the holiness of his nature, that they entrusted him with a di¤cult mission: he was nominated head of a small group of Jesuits and sent to Fatipur, seat of the Great Mogul Akbar. The Mogul, in fact, had long been asking the Jesuit Company for some Christian missionaries to visit his royal house. It is di¤cult to know what were the real reasons of this request, and whether they were primarily religious or political. Some brief notes on Mogul Akbar's life will contribute to clarify both context and meaning of the Jesuit mission. Akbar was born in Umarkot, in the Sind, in 1542 and died in Agra in 1605. Nephew of the founder of the Bašbur Empire, Akbar is famous not so much for his military conquests (Eastern Afghanistan, Bengal, Kashmir and a great part of the Deccan), but because of his attempt at reforming the religion of his subjects. His intention was to equalize the political status of both Hindus and Muslims, by introducing a syncretistic State religion, based on rigid monotheism and tolerance toward ritual di¡erences. Akbar's initiative failed, but his insistent desire to get in contact with the Jesuit missionaries could be interpreted either as an attempt to gather information about the new spiritual force which was penetrating the already complicated religious sphere of his kingdom, or as an attempt to pro¢t by the presence of the Jesuit missions in order to learn the dogmas of a new monotheistic religion.31 Bartoli describes the long journey of the missionaries to the court of the Mogul, the great pomp with which they were received, the holiness that the Christians, and especially the Blessed Rodolfo Acquaviva, demonstrated by politely refusing the Sultan's o¡ers of gold and silver. However, it is particularly important to stress that, when the Jesuits arrived at Fatipur, they were

16

Religious conversion and identity

unable to speak the language of their hosts, as is shown by Bartoli's reference to the fact that `they were sustained by an interpreter called Domenico Perez'.32 Communication with the Mogul was therefore slow and imperfect. One of the most signi¢cant moments of this encounter occurred when the Sultan instructed his Muslim savants to meet the Christian theologians, and to debate about the value of their respective religions. This episode shows that preaching, which was supposed to convert the `in¢dels' through the persuasive power of the word, had no e¡ect on the Muslims, and did not succeed in destabilizing their religious identity. Daniello Bartoli's description of this dispute is not impartial: he is an enthusiastic supporter of the Christian faction. Nevertheless, his account remains relevant. It witnesses how the Muslim savants, probably exasperated by the slowness of translations, reacted to the theological subtleties of the Jesuits: Now, the Muslims realized that they could not win the dispute. When the ¢rst controversies still remained unsettled, new and not less di¤cult problems would arise. The despair made them audacious, and they took a new and strange resolution: they proposed to settle the question by means of miracles. And one of them happened to be so bold (but he was bold because he was sure that he would not be put to the test) that before the king he de¢ed Father Rodolfo and suggested to him that they both go into the ¢re naked, bringing each the main Scriptures of their religion: he would bring the Koran of Mahomet, while the Father would bring the Gospel of Christ. The one who comes out of the ¢re alive and unhurt, obtains the victory; let the dispute be settled without contradiction, and without appeal; let the sky be their judge. This was the way to manly dispute on matters of religion, by clarifying them through tests that never fail, and not by overcoming the adversary through words. This (he says) would be a womanly victory.33 (Bartoli and Segneri 1967, 286) The Jesuit missionaries, who in Europe could boast the appellation of `soldiers of Christ', had to face some savants whose idea of defending their own religion was not simply metaphoric. They were ready to ¢ght; they wanted to irrefutably demonstrate the existence of their God, even at the cost of undergoing tests of physical endurance. In comparison with this bellicose attitude, the rhetorical means of the Jesuits were discredited, and considered as not manly. In this case, the word of the sermon was mute not only because it was linguistically inadequate, but also because, within a di¡erent culture, it was di¡erently evaluated. La Missione al Gran Mogor represents very well the di¡erences between Christian and Muslim concepts of conversion in the early-modern epoch. For the savants who defended the religion of Mahomet, the ¢ght between the two confessions was like a real ¢ght, like a battle between warriors. In order to choose in which God one had to believe, he

The destabilization of the self

17

had ¢rst to demonstrate his value by physically crushing the enemies, and afterwards by both satisfying desires and ambitions and relieving the fears and pains of humankind.34 A second episode recounted by Bartoli shows that the Muslims' attitude toward the Holy Scriptures was another important source of incomprehension between missionaries and their audience. At their arrival at the court of the Mogul, the Jesuits had given him, as a present, a polyglot Bible,35 containing translations of the Scriptures into several languages. Bartoli does not specify into which languages the Bible was translated, but it is quite clear that Persian was not one of them (in fact, we are told that afterwards Father Rodolfo Acquaviva learned this language with miraculous rapidity, and was therefore able to explain the Gospels to the Sultan). At the beginning, the Jesuits were under the illusion that the Mogul would convert to Catholicism, since he had showed many signs of interest in the new religion (these signs had probably been misinterpreted: they were, perhaps, tokens of mere politeness). After a few weeks, however, the Sultan being annoyed by the troubles that the missionaries were causing in his kingdom by proclaiming the falseness of Islam on every possible occasion, he decided to support his savants in their theological disputes against the Jesuit theologians: during one of these arguments he a¤rmed that the Christian Scriptures were corrupted and not to be trusted. This accusation was motivated by the di¡erent attitude which Islam and Christianity held (and still hold) toward the translation of their Holy Texts. While for many centuries Christianity has adopted translations of the Bible as holy texts (the Latin Vulgate until the sixteenth century, then translations of the Bible into the various national languages), Muslims have always considered the Koran as a text which cannot be translated. The translated word is powerful in Christianity, but is impotent in the Islamic world. Christians have always been able to separate the expression of the word and its content, while Muslims have adopted a di¡erent semiotic perspective. However, the philological point made by the Sultan was closer to the Jesuit way of debating, than to the warlike strategies of the Muslim savants. By the way, the result of the duel that they had proposed to their opponents was the following: as it was easy to foresee, Rodolfo Acquaviva rejected the de¢ance. The reasons for his refusal are signi¢cant in order to point out both the distance between Christians and Muslims, and the di¡erence between medieval Christianity, whose civilization and religious system of beliefs was grounded upon miracles, and early-modern Christianity, in which the relevance of divine prodigies was increasingly threatened by scienti¢c knowledge and reduced to the advantage of theological discourse. Daniello Bartoli exposes these reasons with admirable precision: But, as regards the fact of going into the ¢re with the Gospel in one's hands, it is not su¤cient to have a good motivation and hope for e¡ective

18

Religious conversion and identity miracles, in order to make them; and we cannot ourselves promise, if not boldly, what is not in our possibilities; and we do not have to force God, who is the only operator of miracles, to approve our zeal and to keep our promises through works which are beyond the order of nature.36 (ibid., 297)

In this passage, Daniello Bartoli conveys a theological conception of the miracle that does not correspond at all with that of the Muslim savants. For example, his concept of `order of nature' is a consequence of his studies of physics, chemistry and natural sciences, and of his familiarity with the works of Robert Boyle and Galileo Galilei (Bartoli was one of the few to have the courage to praise the Italian scientist even after the Church had condemned his theories).37 The Jesuit historian therefore voiced a rational and scienti¢c attitude that did not suit the needs of missionary persuasion. As is shown by the continuation of Bartoli's account, the gap between the Christian medieval tradition of preaching, whose heroes were often supported by the grace of miracles, and the somewhat ridiculous failures of modern missionaries ^ in their attempt at imitating the Apostles' ability to amaze and convince in¢del and heretic people through the exceptionality of miracles ^ was wide: Too many times scandalous accidents have occurred, and too many times those who, moved more by fervour than by wisdom, had promised to walk upon the waters without wetting their feet, as a proof of the truth of their faith, sank in front of a whole mass of idolater and heretic spectators.38 (ibid., 297) From the critique that Bartoli moves against these imprudent preachers, who promised miracles that they could not make, it follows that he neither devaluates the concept of miracle itself, nor excludes the possibility that the order of nature be subverted by the will of God. On the contrary, he implies that this supernatural possibility still exists, but unfortunately, for reasons that escape human comprehension, modern preachers cannot have the same powers that their predecessors had. Since grace does not abound as it did in the past, it is more reasonable not to promise any miracles. This explains why the powers of the word are the only important resource on which preachers, who desire to convert the in¢dels, can rely. But what happens when the word is mute? What other means can be adopted to overcome imperfections and failures of verbal communication? As we shall see very soon, images are the real miracles of early-modern evangelization, persuasion and conversion. In the next section of this chapter, some of these iconic miracles for the destabilization of the `in¢del' self will be thoroughly analysed.

The destabilization of the self

19

The eloquent icon: sermons of images and images of sermons in early-modern Catholic evangelization In the previous section, an example of how verbal communication can fail to destabilize and convert non-Christian people has been proposed and analysed. In the present section, the way in which images were used, in order to achieve the destabilization of the religious self, especially in the context of early-modern Catholic evangelization, will be thoroughly studied. This section will deal ¢rst with sermons composed of images, then with images representing sermons. Sermons of images As Adriano Prosperi, one of the most distinguished analysts of Italian earlymodern religious history, argues in an interesting article on the rhetorical strategies adopted by missionaries for the conversion of non-European and, more generally, illiterate people (Prosperi 1998), at the beginning of modern history there was an intense debate about which style of preaching was the most appropriate to use for the evangelization of people in Africa, Asia, America, but also in the countryside or in the suburbs of Catholic capital cities. Should preachers emphasize the intellectual part of their sermons, or, on the contrary, should they have recourse to a large number of images and other rhetorical tricks in order to guide the emotions of their audience? In the Middle Ages the Church had aimed mainly at the conversion of aristocracy, which would trigger, consequently, the conversion of the masses; in the early-modern epoch this strategy had to be reversed: owing to both the new religious situation provoked by the Reformation and the need to evangelize new territories, priorities had changed, and the conversion of the masses was much more important than it was in the past. Therefore, the rhetoric of conversion had to become less sophisticated, and suit the needs of its new audience. From the second half of the sixteenth century on, specialists in sacred rhetoric tried to decide to what extent the content of a sermon could be decorated and embellished by `sensible spices', in order to attract the palate of the less learned. Docere, delectare, movere (`to teach, to entertain, to move') are the three Latin words (from Cicero's rhetoric) that best summarize the programme of early-modern preaching. One of the most signi¢cant handbooks of sacred rhetoric of this period is the Rhetorica cristiana, written by the Mexican Franciscan Diego Valade¨s.39 Mindful of the di¤culties of teaching the Christian doctrine to Mexican Indians, Diego Valade¨s tried to condense the basic principles of Christianity in a series of beautiful engravings. Valade¨s describes how in Mexican missions, the walls of the classrooms used for the teaching of the catechism were entirely covered by images representing the creed, the ten commandments, the mortal sins, the seven sacraments, the spiritual works of mercy

20

Religious conversion and identity

and so on. The use of images enabled Franciscan missionaries not only to overcome the linguistic obstacles of communication, but also to make their teaching more attractive for an exotic audience, which was not accustomed to the complexity of theological discourse and, at the same time, appreciated the beauty of the engravings.40 Images had always been important in Christian liturgy and pedagogy, as is exempli¢ed by the worshipping of paintings and icons from early Christianity on, or by the didactic use of images in medieval illuminated Bibles; in the early-modern epoch, though, for the ¢rst time, the rhetorical role of visual communication became the object of a theoretic re£ection and was systematized in a coherent strategy. This semiotic turning point was also related to the development of a new theology of conversion. As Prosperi points out in his article, for the primitive Christian Church conversion was a moment of regeneration and return to a pristine and childlike spiritual purity. However, Augustine's theology of baptism transformed deeply this na|« ve concept of conversion. From Augustine on, conversion was considered not so much as a return to purity, but as the abandon of a sinful life, and, at the same time, as the beginning of a new religious existence. After the Reformation, though, the Catholic Church interpreted conversion again as a form of return to a traditional past. It also distinguished between the conversion of men, the conversion of women and the conversion of children. As will be studied later, mainly through a comparison between the manly model of conversion embodied by Saint Augustine and the womanly model represented by the Magdalene, the conversion of men was dealt with mostly as an intellectual or spiritual phenomenon, while the conversion of women was related to a change in the use of the body (hence the foundation of many religious institutions in order to encourage and promote the conversion of prostitutes). However, it was the conversion of children which was used as a term of comparison in order to understand the conversion of `savage' or illiterate people. As a consequence, the importance of images increased in earlymodern Catholic techniques of evangelization: the self which was to destabilize was the self of a child, and what better instrument was there for this purpose, than beautiful engravings and colourful paintings? Furthermore, the model of spiritual conquest typical of the Middle Ages, that of the crusade, i.e. the violent imposition of Christian faith to the `in¢dels', was partially replaced by a model of paci¢c persuasion. When colonizers ¢rst arrived in South America, for example, they forced multitudes of people to receive baptism. Afterwards, though, they realized that these people continued secretly to practise their pagan traditional rites; this disillusion became the occasion for the invention of new strategies of Catholic evangelization. For example, missionaries tried to replace the violent muteness of the word through the persuasive meaningfulness of images. A change in the theological conception of baptism, which is the sacrament that embodies the re-stabilization of a self after conversion, marks the

The destabilization of the self

21

watershed between late-medieval and early-modern missionary strategies: until the 1540s, baptism was considered as a magical sacrament able to save the soul of the `in¢dels';41 after this date, theologians started to a¤rm that, in order to be a good Christian, it was not su¤cient to receive baptism: one had to know, and live according to, the Christiani mores, the Christian way of life.42 Some members of the theological school of Salamanca, in particular, mindful of the disastrous conversion imposed on Spanish Jews in the ¢fteenth century (they had converted to Catholicism only exteriorly),43 claimed that it was better for the Catholic Church to convert fewer people, but more deeply.44 So, images became an instrument for a profound destabilization of the self, for a veritable and long-lasting conversion. Of course, di¡erent views were expressed about the quantity and quality of images to be adopted within sacred rhetoric. If Diego Valade©s was enthusiastic about the use of images in sermons, Milan's bishop Carlo Borromeo, one of the principal protagonists of Italian Counter-Reformation, preferred a more sober style of preaching, and a very limited use of images (Borromeo 1577). Bologna's bishop Gabriele Paleotti adopted an intermediary point of view: he favoured the use of images, and defended them from Protestant and especially Calvinist iconoclasm, but, at the same time, urged that the prominence of words over images should be maintained (Paleotti 1582; Prodi 1959^67; Prodi 1962). The new didactic instruments shaped in order to convert `exotic' people in the Far East and in the New World were rapidly adopted and used for the conversion or the catechetic instruction of European illiterates, as was recommended in Gaspar Loarte's Avisi di sacerdoti et confessori (Loarte 1579).45 Loarte, a Jesuit who had experienced the tremendous ignorance of the Catholic community of Corsica, urged his order to create a visual catechism. Gian Battista Romano, another Jesuit who had converted from Judaism to Catholicism, and was therefore well aware of the theological di¤culties of learning the principles of a new religion, ful¢lled Loarte's desire. He prepared a powerful visual instrument of conversion (Romano 1587). The way in which missions in America or in Asia were compared with missions in the countryside or in the poorest areas of European cities is exempli¢ed well by an episode of Saint Philip Neri's life.46 One of the most popular and in£uential protagonists of early-modern Catholic religious history, Philip Neri converted many Roman people, mainly `in¢dels', prostitutes and delinquents. As is described by countless hagiographies devoted to his life, often illustrated by engravings, when Philip Neri was a young priest, he decided to leave Rome in order to join the Indian missions. Exactly as in the case of Bartoli, missions were the dangerous place where young Catholic priests hoped to prove their holiness by converting the in¢dels and, in the luckiest circumstances, by dying heroically as Christian martyrs. Martyrdom, which in Christian theology is the most advantageous occasion for receiving holiness and grace, had become rarer after the adoption of Christianity by the Roman Empire in the fourth century (to the point that,

22

Religious conversion and identity

afterwards, eremitic life was often embraced as a less dramatic substitution of martyrdom);47 early-modern missions o¡ered new occasions to sacri¢ce one's own life for the sake of Christ. However, Philip Neri's ambitions to travel to a Christian mission were reoriented toward a di¡erent sort of evangelization, as is visually recounted by one of the engravings that illustrate the 1703 edition of Pietro Giacomo Bacci's life of the Saint (Bacci 1622) (one of the most successful hagiographies written on Philip Neri, re-edited countless times,48 often with additions and new engravings, and translated into many languages). The engraving depicts the encounter between Philip Neri and Cistercian monk Agostino Ghettini Monaco, in 1557. As is explained by the caption, Philip Neri's plan was to leave Rome in order to join some Indian missions. Agostino Ghettini, though, encouraged Philip to change his mind: Philip Neri should choose Rome as his mission, and devote his e¡orts to convert the unbelievers of his own city instead of trying to convert people from faraway countries. The monk, in his turn, had received this advice from Saint John the Baptist himself, whom he had seen in a vision (represented in the left part of the engraving).49 This event of Saint Philip's life exempli¢es how frequently in early-modern Christianity, `external' missions in geographically remote lands were compared to `internal' missions, in socially and economically distant parts of the European society. Philip Neri proved a great converter in popular areas of early-modern Rome. Among the rhetorical strategies adopted by the preachers of the Oratory, the order founded by the Saint, tools of visual communication were quite common. For example, it is surprising to realize how much importance was given to engravings or other forms of popular illustration concerning the life of Saint Philip Neri himself: they either accompanied the hagiographical text or circulated as pure icons, often with no caption. A particular miracle attributed to Philip Neri after his death is a good example of the role played by visual texts in early-modern techniques of conversion. The belief in the miraculous powers of images had long existed in Christianity (Freedberg 1989), and was one of the reasons that moved Protestant reformers to attack the Catholic worshipping of artistic representations as a form of idolatry. However, after the Council of Trent, on the one hand the Church imposed stricter limits on the role played by sacred images in liturgy and popular beliefs ( Jedin 1935; 1975);50 on the other hand, since this control was exerted mainly on painting and on the other ¢ne arts, hagiographical engravings and other visual supports of popular imagery (such as small holy pictures, playing cards decorated with sacred motifs, religious tattoos, ex voto images and so on) had greater freedom in representing sacred themes. They were often surrounded by beliefs and legends on their healing and miraculous powers (Vovelle 1982a and 1982b). The large success obtained by these visual texts, which unfortunately art historians often do not consider as an object of interest,51 relates to the dialectics between the hierarchical control of the Church and the free development

The destabilization of the self

23

of popular imagery: preachers were often moved to adopt these heterodox forms of communication in order to convert the most illiterate members of their audience. At the same time, this phenomenon relates to the introduction of more e¡ective techniques for the reproduction of images. In the Middle Ages, the uniqueness of a sacred image was an indispensable element of its miraculous power; in the early-modern epoch, prodigious images became a mass phenomenon: the reproduction on a large scale of an image was not an obstacle to its miraculous e¡ectiveness. This attitude was often encouraged also by the Catholic Church itself, or by some of its members, as is exempli¢ed well by a book which is kept in the `Biblioteca Vallicelliana', Rome, (i.e. the main library of the Oratory founded by Saint Philip Neri): Ri£essioni spirituali e morali (`Spiritual and moral re£ections'), written by priest Ignazio Orsolini, and published in 1699 (Orsolini 1699). This book consists of a series of theological and spiritual considerations that the author conceived by contemplating the engravings which illustrate the hagiographies concerning Saint Philip Neri's life. It proposes a double reversal: ¢rst, it reverses the relation between theology and iconography by using some popular visual supports as an occasion of theological and erudite re£ection; second, it reverses the relation between image and written text: normally, images illustrate the hagiographical text, but Orsolini's book shows that in early-modern Italy popular engravings had become so successful and autonomous from the verbal text that they could function as its source, and not only as its appendix. As regards our survey on the history of Catholic sermons of images, the most signi¢cant part of this book is the description of a miracle which, in 1688, bene¢ted Vincenzo Maria Orsini, Dominican and bishop of Benevento, Italy. The bishop was in his palace when a tremendous earthquake shook the town of Benevento: the palace was completely destroyed, but a wardrobe containing some engravings of Saint Philip Neri miraculously protected Orsini by forming a narrow but comfortable niche around his body. When the bishop was rescued, it was found that a particular image had sheltered his head during the earthquake. It was an engraving representing a miracle often depicted by illustrations of Saint Philip Neri's hagiographies or by other popular images: in a vision, the Saint had seen the Virgin Mary sustaining the roof of the church of Saint Mary in Vallicella (the Church founded by Saint Philip himself ), which was collapsing. This curious event, in which a visual text performs a miracle analogous to the miracle that it represents, shows how, in early-modern Christianity, hagiographical illustrations were a fundamental tool of visual communication, to the point that sometimes they became a source of prodigies and (as a consequence) an object of worshipping.52 Other, more sophisticated visual tools were created in the same period in order to move to conversion people whom it was not easy to persuade through the rhetorical power of a purely verbal preaching. The most famous

24

Religious conversion and identity

of these instruments was certainly the highly illustrated Adnotationes et meditationes in Evangelia, written by Jerome Nadal (1507^80) in the second half of the sixteenth century and completed after his death by Jacobus Ximenes in 1593.53 Nadal was one of the oldest companions of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuit order. In the Spiritual Exercises, which are among the most important texts of Christianity, Ignatius had strongly emphasized the role of vision in the spiritual formation of the Christian.54 Afterwards, following the teaching of its founder, the Jesuit order had always given a great importance to the pedagogical use of images, and especially to theatrical communication. Nadal's Adnotationes et meditationes in Evangelia were the most e¡ective visual instrument of conversion created by the Jesuits in the sixteenth century: this book contains 153 engravings, designed and engraved by the Wierix brothers, among the ¢nest engravers of the time. Every image represents an event of the Catholic liturgical calendar, and is thoroughly explained by a system of detailed captions. This work was unceasingly re-edited, reprinted and translated for more than two centuries, and was of foremost importance in the evangelization of China. Matteo Ricci, the Jesuit who most successfully exported the Catholic faith to the Far East, used to say that Nadal's work was more useful than the Bible itself, since it allowed missionaries to overcome the linguistic problems that they were experiencing in the conversion of the Chinese. However, the history of how images replaced a mute word and managed to perform a destabilization of the religious self of the in¢dels contains not only sermons of images, but also images of sermons. Images of sermons Paintings or other kinds of images representing sermons are quite common in Christian art. They have at least two di¡erent functions. First, they witness the glory of the Christian word and its power of conversion, especially when preaching is di¤cult or even impossible: for example, when the preacher is killed and continues to miraculously speak after death, or when the sermon is addressed to animals (Donatus 1934; Waddel 1953; Caprettini 1974; Cardini 1977) or to in¢del, heretic or hostile people. Second, images of sermons reproduce some of the rhetoric powers of the word through visual expressive means: when eloquent paintings replace a mute word,55 they may represent sermons in order to appropriate some of the expressive capabilities of verbal language. In a dense and erudite article of his, Roberto Rusconi a¤rms that, in the Italian Renaissance, images of sermons were not executed in order to pictorially represent preachers and their preaching, but, mainly, in order to promote the cult of a Saint and to encourage the religious fervour of the faithful (Rusconi 1997). The author proposes many examples of Italian Renaissance paintings representing sermons and points out that they can be used as historical evidence in order to study the ways of preaching in the

The destabilization of the self

25

same period. Of course, paintings do not show the content of the sermons which they represent, but only what semioticians would call their `conditions of enunciation', that is, the place and time where sermons take place, as well as their protagonists (Manetti 1998). After the Council of Trent, images of sermons became even more frequent, and focused more on the act of preaching itself than on the cult of holy preachers. Arguably, the principal function of these painted sermons was to overcome the di¤culties of a mute word. I would like to introduce a brief survey on this kind of painted sermon through the semiotic analysis of an image painted by Carlo Saraceni, Saint Raymond preaching (Figure 1.1). This painting was originally situated in the Roman church of Sant'Adriano al Foro Romano, and is now kept by the general curia of the Fathers of Mercy (Mercedari), in the same city.56 It was certainly painted before 1614, when a copy of it was engraved by Johann Friedrich Greuter. The painter, Carlo Saraceni, was a follower of Caravaggio. He is mentioned by Giovan Pietro Bellori ^ one of the most important sources for the history of seventeenthcentury Italian art ^ as well as by other sources of the same epoch.57 The protagonist of the painting is Saint Raymond, who was nicknamed in Latin Non natus (`not born').58 He was born in Portell, near Barcelona, probably in 1200, extracted miraculously alive from the body of his mother, who had died before his birth (hence the origin of the nickname). In 1224 Saint Raymond entered the Order of the Fathers of Mercy, founded a few years before by Saint Peter Nolasco, who was to become one of his closest friends. The main purpose of this order was to relieve and possibly free Christian slaves who had been imprisoned by Muslim Moors;59 at that time they occupied a great part of Southern Spain. After having successfully pleaded a case for his Order in Rome, Saint Raymond moved to Algeria, where the Muslims captured him and kept him as a prisoner for several months. In order to prevent him from preaching, they pierced his lips with a red-hot iron and shut his mouth with a padlock. An image painted in the ¢rst half of the seventeenth century by Vicente Carducho represents this torture (Figure 1.2).60 According to the hagiographies devoted to Saint Raymond, even after this torment he prodigiously continued to preach, to comfort the Christian prisoners by his miraculous words and to incite the in¢dels to convert.61 The fact that the seventeenth-century painter Carlo Saraceni and his religious clients chose to represent this story is signi¢cant from several points of view. First of all, this story glori¢es the power of the Christian word, beyond the di¤culties of linguistic incomprehension (Saint Raymond is surrounded by people who presumably do not speak his language) and even beyond torture (the locked mouth of Saint Raymond continues to preach his sermon). As we shall see when dealing with the cult of another prodigious Christian preacher, Saint Francis Xavier, seventeenth-century hagiographies and the paintings which they inspired often attributed to the Saints of the Counter-Reformation, and especially to missionary Saints, miraculous

26

Religious conversion and identity

Figure 1.1 Carlo Saraceni, Saint Raymond Nonnatus preaching, oil on canvas, 300  210 cm. Rome, General Curia of the Fathers of Mercy, painted before 1614.

The destabilization of the self

27

Figure 1.2 Vicente Carducho, The torment of Saint Raymond Nonnatus, oil on canvas. Madrid, church of Saint Hieronymus.

linguistic skills, such as the ability of being understood by people speaking di¡erent languages.62 As a consequence, this story was very suitable to glorify an Order (the Fathers of Mercy) essentially devoted to preaching.63 Furthermore, it was appropriate in the particular period in which Carlo Saraceni executed his painting: in the context of the new missions, Christian preachers were forced to face the same problems as those which they had dealt with in the past when confronted with Muslim people from the Middle East or from Northern Africa. It is worthwhile analysing this painting in depth. It depicts the miraculous story of Saint Raymond by representing its di¡erent stages in di¡erent parts of the canvas (a strategy of representation of time through space which is well known to semioticians). In the left part of the canvas there is a tiny representation of the Muslims locking the mouth of the Saint, while Saint

28

Religious conversion and identity

Raymond himself, who preaches with his mouth shut, occupies the centre of the painting. The way in which the ¢ngers of his right hand form a ring is a visual reference to the closeness of his mouth, and the expression of amazement which appears in both faces and gestures of the Muslim audience is a consequence of the miracle: a sermon comes miraculously out of Saint Raymond's locked mouth. This painting is interesting not only by virtue of its historical signi¢cance, but also because of its semiotic value. By representing the e¤caciousness of a mute sermon, it implicitly a¤rms the expressive and evangelical power of images. `Images can convey the word of Christ even without using any words', the painting seems to a¤rm through the story of Saint Raymond. Again, images appear to be the real miracle of Counter-Reformation rhetoric. Images representing the close relation between preaching and conversion are quite frequent in seventeenth-century art; they can be divided into two groups. On the one hand, seventeenth-century painters revived, through their works of art, the memory of the great preachers of the past, as Carlo Saraceni did by representing Saint Raymond; on the other hand, artists represented the achievements of the new converters of the CounterReformation. Let us consider the ¢rst group ¢rst. Saint John Chrysostom (`John of the golden mouth') is one of the greatest preachers of Christianity. Born in Antioch in 344, he was nicknamed `of the golden mouth' because of his eloquence.64 According to a legend, when the devil reversed his writing desk so as to prevent him from composing his sermons, John Chrysostom dipped the pen in his own mouth: it came out imbued with golden ink. According to a second legend, when the right hand of the Saint was amputated, it was miraculously stuck to the body of the Saint (the same miracle occurred to Saint John Damascene, another great preacher of the past). Both legends focus on the supernatural powers of the Christian word (in these miracles, it is the written word), which overcomes the hostility of the devil and the handicaps of the body. Around 1640, Mattia Preti, a ¢ne seventeenth-century Italian painter,65 painted an image whose subject art historians and iconologists have found quite di¤cult to identify; it represents an obscure but signi¢cant episode of Saint John Chrystostom's life. According to a medieval legend, which was popularized in sixteenth-century protestant Germany (perhaps also with disparaging purposes), John Chrysostom had chosen to live in the desert as a beast, walking on all fours and bearing an iron chain around his neck, in order to do penance for a crime that he had committed in his youth. After many years of this hermitic and savage life, the child of a pagan woman miraculously asked John Chrysostom to christen him. At the same time, he freed the Saint from his bestial condition. Mattia Preti represented this episode in a painting that is currently kept by the Cincinnati Art Museum, Ohio.66 The Oriental headgear of the woman

The destabilization of the self

29

who holds the child (probably his mother) and the presence of a Moor youth in the bottom-left corner of the painting indicate that John Chrysostom is encountering some `exotic' and `in¢del' people. Both his gaze and his right hand, which the Saint raises from the ground after many years of bestial life, express his amazement (this event is both a symbolical reference to the end of his penitence, and a physical reference to the act that the right hand is called to perform: the baptism of the child). Amazement in front of the miracle is expressed also by the posture of the Moor child (especially by his gaze and by the position of his body), by the mother of the prodigious child (see her right hand) and by the character behind Saint John Chrysostom, who probably represents a donor. In order to interpret this painting properly, we should know its historical background and the context to which it was destined. Unfortunately, we are quite ignorant about both. However, through a semiotic analysis of the painting, we can interpret it as a subtle representation of the power of Christian preaching. In the legend represented by Mattia Preti, the normal structure of conversion is subverted: it is not the great preacher to incite the `in¢del' to convert, but it is a pagan child to ask for his own baptism (in this case, the equivalence between the conversion of children and of `exotic' people is clearly stated). Also, the child is an evident visual reference to the Christ child. The painting seems to a¤rm that even when the Christian preacher renounces the power of his word (the decision to live as a beast implies this renunciation), this power continues to exist in his mouth, since it is a gift given directly by God. At the same time, as in the case of the mute sermon of Saint Raymond, this painting is a meta-logical a¤rmation of the persuasive powers of sacred images: although the message is mute, God guarantees the possibility of visual communication through gestures and other expressive means. This close relation between preaching and imagination and between the production of sacred words and the production of sacred images, is a constant topic of early-modern religious art, whose aesthetics aim at defending Catholic art from the attacks of Protestant iconoclasm.67 Such relation is e¡ectively pointed out by a painting, which represents another great preacher and converter of the past, Saint Vincent Ferrer. The painting was executed by the early-modern Italian artist Bernardo Castello in 1584 (Figure 1.3).68 In this case, we know exactly the historical and artistic context of the painting, and we can use both in order to interpret it. First of all, who is the Saint represented by Bernardo Castello? Dominican preacher, Vincent Ferrer was born in Valencia in 1350 and died in Vannes, Brittany, in 1419. Adviser to King John I of Aragon, Vincent Ferrer was a proli¢c writer of sermons and a mighty converter: through his preaching, he converted many Jews, Moors, Waldenses and Catharists. He was a medieval preacher, able to convert through miracles: once, he resurrected a Jewish woman, who afterwards embraced Catholicism.69

30

Religious conversion and identity

Figure 1.3 Bernardo Castello, Saint Vincent Ferrer preaching, oil on canvas, 276  178 cm. Rome, church of S. Maria sopra Minerva, Giustiniani chapel, 1584.

Bernardo Castello and his clients chose to represent a scene in which Saint Vincent is preaching not for the conversion of an in¢del, but for the persuasion of both a pope and an emperor. The painting, in fact, visually represents a sermon which Vincent Ferrer preached in Constance on 7 November 1415, and which is known by its ¢rst Latin words as ossa arida, audite verbum Dei, `arid bones, listen to the word of God'. Through this sermon, Vincent Ferrer wanted to a¤rm and protect the unity of the Church, endangered by the Oriental Schism.

The destabilization of the self

31

Saint Vincent is represented while preaching to a large audience, divided into two groups: at the right of the Saint sit the members of the Church, while at his left the painter has situated the representatives of the empire. In front of the preacher, the pope, Benedict XIII, and the emperor, Sigismond, respectively embody the supreme religious and lay authorities. In his memorable sermon Saint Vincent made many references to the Last Judgement (which the painter represented in the top of the canvas) and incited Pope Benedict XIII to renounce his papal tiara. Bernardo Castello's painting is signi¢cant for two reasons at least. From an historical point of view, it has to be stressed that Cardinal Vincenzo Giustiniani, client of the painting, had many points in common with Saint Vincent Ferrer. The ¢rst of these common points is quite trivial: they shared the same name. A second common point is less banal: after the Protestant Reformation, the Italian Cardinal embraced the cause of the unity of the Catholic Church, and took part in the works of the Council of Trent (1545^63). During this Council, Luther, Zwingli and Calvin were declared heretic, in the same way as during the Council of Constance, attended by Vincent Ferrer, Hus, Wyclif and other reformers were condemned. Bernardo Castello, then, celebrated the achievements of his client, a seventeenthcentury clergyman, through the visual glori¢cation of a ¢fteenth-century preacher:70 exactly as Saint Vincent fought the Albigensian and Catharist heresy through his preaching, so the Cardinal opposed the Protestantism, and promoted the Catholic evangelization through sending many missionaries to lands which had not yet been touched by the Christian word. The second reason is not historic but semiotic: the painting implies that images (in this case, images contained in sacred visions) are a miraculous instrument of persuasion; they can even surpass the rhetorical power of words. The gigantic vision which towers over the preacher visually expresses the content of his sermon: the cross and the column, symbols respectively of the Church and of the Empire, stay at opposite sides of Christ, who is the supreme judge of the relation between them. Rusconi argued that current medieval images of preaching did not represent the content of the sermons which they depicted; nevertheless, early-modern paintings make headway in the possibility of this visualization. Bernardo Castello's painting is a typical example of how early-modern religious art glori¢ed the power of Counter-Reformation preaching, and especially the virtues of visual evangelization, by celebrating the achievements of the great Christian preachers of the past. Many hagiographies concerning these ancient converters were written in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and probably inspired both early-modern painters and their clients. From this point of view, the case of Saint John of Capestrano is very signi¢cant: he was born in Capestrano, Italy, in 1385 and entered the Franciscan order in 1415. Disciple of Saint Bernardino of Siena, he converted many Bohemian Hussites. Like Savonarola, he loved to organize bon¢res of obscene paintings, playing cards, dice, wigs and so on, in the middle of

32

Religious conversion and identity

public squares. He is famous especially for having preached, in Vienna, the crusade against the Turks, who in 1453 had seized Constantinople. As many other medieval and early-modern preachers, Saint John of Capestrano was violently anti-Semite and preached the need of converting Jews.71 However, it was his canonization in 1690 which moved many early-modern artists to celebrate his deeds.72 In order to point out relations between images of sermons and conversion, three visual representations of great Christian preachers and converters of the past have been chosen and analysed: Saint John Chrysostom, Saint Raymond Nonnatus and Saint Vincent Ferrer. The choice of these Saints was guided mainly by the signi¢cance of their pictorial representations, but di¡erent examples could have been singled out. On this occasion, a complete survey of the pictorial representations of preaching would have been impossible. However, besides this ¢rst group of early-modern painted sermons, which boasted the glories of early or medieval Christianity, a second group of images must be analysed: images which depict directly the miraculous rhetorical deeds performed by the new Saints of the Counter-Reformation. In this case, too, a selection is required, and only three examples will be analysed: Saint Philip Neri, Saint Ignatius of Loyola and Saint Francis Xavier. These three Saints share many common points: they were among the most important personalities of early-modern Catholicism; they were great preachers and converters; they had a huge impact on the Catholic civilization; they were canonized the same day, 12 March 1622, with a sumptuous ceremony (one of the most magni¢cent in the history of the Church), which constitutes an important watershed in early-modern religious history.73 Saint Philip Neri Saint Philip Neri was born in a popular area of Florence on 21 July 1515, into a poor family. After a brief experience in commerce, with his uncle Romolo, the desire for a more spiritual life seized him, and he moved to Rome. There, he earned his living, for a while, as a preceptor. He perfected his theological and philosophical education by attending some classes in the Sapienza, the main university of Rome, then in 1548, together with other pious friends, founded a confraternity (Santissima Trinita© dei Pellegrini e Convalescenti, `Very Holy Trinity of Pilgrims and Convalescents'), whose purpose was to succour poor pilgrims or convalescent people. On 23 May 1551 he was ordained a priest. From then on, his fame as a highly spiritual person grew unceasingly. The main seat of his confraternity became a centre of spiritual activities, known as `the Oratory' (a place where people would pray, discuss and sing). For our purposes, it is important to stress that Saint Philip completely revolutionized the rules of preaching. He would encourage all the members of the Oratory, no matter their respective cultural level, to take part in the

The destabilization of the self

33

reading and in the interpretation of religious texts (lives of the Saints,74 essays of ascetics or works on the history of the Church). This collective and participative form of preaching achieved extraordinary results in terms of the general devotion that it promoted among all the social classes of earlymodern Rome. Some of the most erudite and in£uential personalities of early-modern Italian religious history received their ¢rst spiritual education in the school founded and animated by Saint Philip Neri (for example Cesare Baronio, the greatest historian of the Church, or Antonio Gallonio, the ¢rst hagiographer of Saint Philip Neri).75 Saint Philip Neri not only comprehensively modi¢ed the communicative structure of the sermon (by infringing the semiotic law according to which a sermon does not imply any switch between the speaker and the listener), but also its expressive form. Music,76 songs, walks and even popular games were introduced as an element able to interrupt the sermon and lighten the monotony of the word. It is impossible to dwell here on all of the aspects of the life of this Saint, whom hagiographers and historians have always characterized as gentle and joyful in every activity that he undertook. In the framework of this book, we shall focus mainly on the fact that, when Saint Philip Neri decided to choose Rome as his mission,77 he proved a prodigious converter, especially in the most populous areas of Rome. Saint Philip Neri was a talented persuader, and his ability in destabilizing the self of `in¢dels', unbelievers or sinners through his word was frequently represented by both early-modern verbal and visual texts. On the one hand, among the verbal texts the more relevant are the countless hagiographies devoted to the Saint. These stories are often con¢rmed or supported by testimonies and documents gathered during the process of canonization (Incisa della Rocchetta and Vian 1957). On the other hand, the most signi¢cant visual texts are paintings, engravings, but especially illustrations contained in hagiographies or other popular religious texts. Saint Philip Neri did not experience conversion personally (unless we consider vocation as a form of conversion), but was frequently represented as a converter. Three types of conversion, described in both words and images, will be analysed in this section of the chapter: the conversion of in¢dels (Roman Jews); the conversion of unbelievers (Roman heretics); the conversion of sinners (Roman prostitutes). The conversion of Jews living in predominantly Christian areas was an important objective for the Catholic Church, for reasons which are too complicated to be summarized in a few lines.78 Fundamentally, the Catholic hierarchy had always seen the presence of Jewish groups as a danger for the integrity of the Christian community, and as a potential source of tensions and troubles. The forced conversion of the Jews of Menorca in 417^8, which was recounted by the Christian bishop of the island, Severus, is probably one of the ¢rst examples of con£ict between the two religions: the Christian faith was imposed on the Jewish community.79

34

Religious conversion and identity

Marcello Ferro, one of the witnesses who was consulted during the process of canonization of Saint Philip Neri, told the story of how the Saint moved two Jewish youngsters, belonging to the Jewish community of Rome, to convert to Catholicism.80 The area in which Saint Philip Neri ran his spiritual activities was not far from the region where Jewish families lived in early-modern Rome.81 As a consequence, it would not be di¤cult at all for the Saint to come across some Jewish people, even by chance. According to the story reported by Marcello Ferro, on the day of Saint Peter and Paul, Saint Philip Neri had encountered two Jewish youths, aged 18, who had manifested a keen interest in Catholicism. Marcello Ferro showed them the inside of a church, and instructed them about the basic principles of Catholicism. He also told them that Peter and Paul were Jewish before converting to Christianity, exactly as the two youngsters were. Since Marcello Ferro realized that they were deeply moved by his words, he promised them that he would have them meet a holy Catholic man, i.e. Saint Philip. This happened in the evening of the same day, and from then on they kept visiting Philip almost every day. At some stage, though, the two Jews stopped their visits, so Saint Philip became worried about them. He therefore ordered Marcello Ferro to ¢nd more about what had happened to them. It transpired that the reason for their disappearance was that one of them was very ill, and even in danger of death. When Saint Philip paid a visit to him, the Jew promised that if he survived, he would convert to Christianity (conversion as a consequence of a miraculous healing is very common in all epochs).82 Fearing the sudden death of the `in¢del', the Saint asked the Roman Cardinal Saracino for the permission to baptize the dying youth, but he had to renounce this, because of strong opposition from the Jewish boy's family. Finally, Saint Philip decided that he would obtain the conversion of the young man by saving his life through prayer. In fact, the Jew survived and converted to Christianity. This story contains several interesting elements about the relation between preaching and conversion in early-modern Rome: ¢rst, it shows that preaching could stimulate an interest in Catholicism, but it did not always provoke conversion. The real turning point in the life of the young Jew was represented by his miraculous survival. The healing power of a preacher was still more e¡ective than his rhetorical power. Second, the sensibility of the modern reader is inevitably shocked by the violence perpetrated by the Catholics against the integrity of another religious community, violence which is even more evident in other testimonies included in the dossier; for example, in the document where Agostino Boncompagni recounts the conversion of his mother from Judaism to Catholicism (Incisa della Rocchetta and Vian 1957, 268^70, 19 October 1600, ¡. 605^6). The woman (her name was `Gemma', but after conversion she changed it into `Maria Felicita') had resisted the insistent pressure of the Catholic community and had remained faithful to her own religion; Saint Philip

The destabilization of the self

35

himself had declared that she was not ready to convert. Gemma had two Jewish daughters who had married and moved out of Rome. A tragic event happened (which Agostino Boncompagni joyfully welcomes in his testimony): the two sons-in-law of the woman died, and both the daughters and their respective children were obliged to go back to Rome. So Agostino Boncompagni and a brother of his, who had both converted to Catholicism, obtained the tutelage of the children, whose mothers (not surprisingly) decided to convert too. In the meantime Gemma had £ed to Senigallia, a town on the Adriatic coast of Italy, together with the two children of a Jewish son of hers, in order to put them out of reach of the Roman Catholics. Her purpose was to embark ¢rst for Venice, then for Turkey. Unfortunately, the poor woman was captured and brought back to Rome. The end of the story is that she converted to Christianity together with eleven Jewish people. Once again, our sensibility is disturbed by the huge amount of violence and pain that we can perceive beyond the rejoicing testimony of the witness. Furthermore, the word does not have any persuasive power in this episode. It is even hard to speak about conversion, if not in a purely exterior way. This story can be read as a narrative account of the relations between Jews and Catholics in Rome after the Council of Trent. As Renata Segre points out in a detailed article of hers,83 the status of the Jewish community in the State of the Church was quite ambiguous and uncertain (and a probable cause of problems of social and personal identity for the Roman Jews). The attitude of the Catholic Church toward the Talmud is a good example of this ambiguity. In 1553, Pope Julius III had ordered the bon¢re of the Talmud,84 but in 1563, at the end of the Council of Trent, some delegates of the Italian Jewish communities had asked the Cardinals for the permission to read and study again this fundamental text of Judaism. They never obtained a de¢nitive answer.85 In the meantime, during the Counter-Reformation, the Church made many e¡orts to convert Italian, and especially Roman, Jews.86 Between 1542 and 1543 Pope Paul III founded the `Arch confraternity of the Hospital of the Neophytes', afterwards renamed as `House of catechumens', which was in charge of helping people to convert and to receive spiritual (but above all material) assistance after conversion.87 Furthermore, the religious obligations of people who had converted from Judaism to Catholicism were precisely de¢ned: they would take the citizenship of the place in which they had been baptized, renounce the Jewish celebration of Shabbat and aliasque solemnitates et antiqu× sect× ritus (`and the other solemnities and rites of the ancient sect'); moreover, they would avoid marrying other converted people (this was considered as a danger for the perpetuation of Catholic faith).88 In 1569, after Pious V's decision to expel the Jews from the State of the Church, with the two exceptions of Rome and Ancona, the Catholic pressure for the conversion of the Jews became unbearable, especially for women and young people.

36

Religious conversion and identity

The £ight of Gemma, which is mentioned in the documents for the canonization of Saint Philip Neri, re£ects the di¤cult position of those Jewish women, whose husbands had converted to Catholicism, and who did not want to follow them. As Renata Segre points out in her article, women and young people were often sequestrated by the Catholics, in order to be forced to convert. Of course, these conversions were such only by name. Also, Gemma's decision to embark for Turkey was probably a consequence of the interdiction for Jewish people to be shipped to Palestine.89 From Turkey, in fact, it was possible to reach Palestine by land (Simonsohn 1986). In early-modern Rome, many Jews converted to Catholicism, but only few of these conversions were motivated by spiritual reasons. When the Jews were not obliged to convert (Roth 1936; Milano 1950; Milano 1970), they frequently did so in order to obtain some material advantages, such as receiving a dowry from the Church (this was the case for many young, unmarried and poor Jewish women) (Boxel 1998), or being acquitted of a charge.90 The acts of Saint Philip Neri's process of canonization report many other episodes in which the intervention of the Saint was decisive for the conversion of some `in¢dels'.91 At the same time, hagiographic illustrations represent these conversions as a pure consequence of the miraculous persuasive powers of the Saint.92 The second category of unbelievers whom Saint Philip Neri converted through his sermons was that of heretics. The best example of this kind of conversion is contained in the story of a clergyman known by the nickname of `the Paleologue', who was found to be a heretic by the Inquisition and condemned to the stake. As is indicated by some documents used during the process of canonization (8 June 1610, 333, Germanico Fedeli, f. 932; ibid., 3, 254), a few words from Saint Philip managed to convert the heretic just before he was burned, and obtained from the pope a prolongation of his life, in order to ascertain whether his conversion was true and permanent. Here the story becomes more complicated, because, as the acts of the process a¤rm, the heretic remained a good Christian, but was nevertheless burnt! The third and last category of people converted by Philip was that of sinners. Many references to these conversions are contained in the process of canonization, but also in the ¢rst hagiography ever written about the life of Saint Philip, i.e. that of Antonio Gallonio (1557^1605).93 He was a disciple of the Oratory and considered as the rival of Cesare Baronio, another erudite who received his education under the guidance of Saint Philip Neri. The Saint assigned di¡erent tasks to the two savants: Cesare Baronio (who was also the ¢rst one to publish, in his Annales, the Letter of Severus, bishop of Menorca, on the conversion of the Jews) was to carry on the monumental project of writing the history of the Church,94 while Philip entrusted Antonio Gallonio with the less o¤cial task of rewriting the lives of the Saints for the Oratory.95 As was pointed out earlier, works concerning both the history of the church and hagiography (which was considered as part of the history of

The destabilization of the self

37

the church), attracted a keen interest in the years of the Council of Trent, because of the important propagandistic role that they could play.96 Preaching and conversion are continuously linked together in the life of Saint Philip written by Gallonio. He writes that Philip liked to walk along the popular street called `di Banchi', and that there he managed to deter from sinning the young people of the street by preaching the truth of Christianity (Gallonio 1995, 22^3). One of these miraculous conversions is vividly depicted by an engraving, contained in an 1818 edition of the Life of Saint Philip written by Pietro Giacomo Bacci.97 In this popular image, Philip shows a young sinner the place (a blazing chair) that he is going to occupy in hell if he does not change his own life. The youngster expresses all his horror in front of this supernatural vision, and takes o¡ his feathered hat (symbol of vanity).98 This illustration is signi¢cant especially because it stresses the importance of vision and visual imagination as bases of the relation between preaching and conversion. In order to convert those who are very distant from the Church, such as `in¢dels', but also unrepentant sinners, the preacher has to strike their imagination more than their rationality, by transforming his words in a tool of visual composition.99 A second, less domestic predication is shown in other engravings,100 where the young Philip seems to enumerate on his ¢ngers the principles of Christianity. Two elements at least are interesting in these representations: ¢rst, the diligent attention of the listeners, which visually emphasizes Saint Philip's ability of capturing his audience; second, the modesty of the setting wherein the youngsters sit or lean on bales and barrels, which stresses Saint Philip's vocation for the evangelization of the poor people of Rome, `his internal mission'. We cannot dwell here on all the episodes of conversion that Saint Philip Neri provoked through his preaching among the poorest people of Rome. This would require another book. However, I should like to conclude this brief survey on Saint Philip as a typical early-modern converter by pointing out a category of people who did not bene¢t from his persuasive grace: women. The di¤dence that very holy people manifested toward women is almost a cliche¨ in Christian hagiography.101 Saint Philip Neri also shows this same characteristic: as is seen in Gallonio's hagiography, Philip was a mighty confessor, and would spend a lot of time in listening to other people talking about their sins. Nevertheless, he was never eager to confess women, and considered them as a dangerous source of spiritual fault. However, Saint Philip's ability in overcoming womanly temptations is shown by a curious episode, recounted by all the hagiographies devoted to the Saint. A sinful woman attracted him to her house with the excuse that she was very ill and in need of a last confession. When the Saint arrived, she was almost completely naked. Saint Philip Neri smelt a trap, and £ed away, far from the temptation of the £esh. At this stage, the sinful woman was so upset, that she threw a chair at the head of the Saint, but he was

38

Religious conversion and identity

miraculously missed. According to another hagiographic episode, some prostitutes were introduced into Saint Philip's bedroom in order to tempt and corrupt him. But as soon as the Saint saw the women, he bent on his knees and started to pray, perplexing the prostitutes to such a point that some of them converted to a saintly life. Among the pious people who frequented the Oratory of Saint Philip in the ¢rst years of its activity there was a small Spanish man, slightly lame, who spoke half in Italian and half in Spanish. He was a good friend of Philip, and used to call him `the bell of Christianity', because of the powerfulness of his Christian word. This man was Saint Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuit order.102 Saint Ignatius of Loyola Ignatius of Loyola was canonized on the same day as Saint Philip Neri, in the basilica of Saint Peter in Rome.103 The impact which Ignatius managed to have on Catholicism, both during his life and after his death, however, is even greater than Saint Philip's. He founded a religious order, the Company of Jesus, which was destined to dominate early-modern Catholicism; he wrote a little book of spiritual exercises, which was to become one of the foremost religious texts of Christianity. But Ignatius was also a prodigious preacher and a powerful converter. These two aspects of his complex personality will be particularly pointed out here. Saint Ignatius was born in Loyola, in the province of Guipu¨zcoa, in 1491.104 His ¢rst name was In¬igo, a Basque name, and was changed into `Ignatius' only in 1528, after a sojourn in Paris. During his childhood, Ignatius received a deeply religious education, but, unlike Philip Neri or Daniello Bartoli, he was not attracted by the adventurous environment of the new Christian missions; he was inspired, instead, by the example of his older brothers, who had chosen a military carer, and by the reading of Spanish novels and poems of chivalry (he was fond of the Amad|¨s de Gaula) (Rodr|¨ guez de Montalvo 1987^8). He therefore became a knight, and in 1517 enrolled in the private army of Antonio Manrique, duke of Na¨jera and Viceroy of Navarra. In 1521, he took part in the defence of the castle of Pamplona against the French siege. On 20 May he was seriously injured by a cannonball. This event represents the most important turning point in the life of Saint Ignatius of Loyola. Unlike Saint Philip, he was not only a converter; he himself experienced conversion, after having been wounded during the battle of Pamplona. Generally speaking, there is a close relation between illness and conversion: when the body is well, it is used in order to perform some acts in the exterior world; illness obliges people to rest, and to refrain from all action, so that the wounded or weak body becomes the centre of a di¡erent type of life, characterized not by action, but by thought and passion. Also, illness

The destabilization of the self

39

frequently leads people to reconsider the limits of their human power, so destabilizing the structure of their interior self. One of Saint Ignatius' legs had been injured, causing him great pain and even endangering his life. He prayed to Saint Peter, for whom he had a keen devotion, and managed to survive. However, the conversion of Saint Ignatius to a religious life was not simply a matter of recovering after a state of illness. There was more. A bone in his leg had been dislocated, and it was necessary to cut it. During his recuperation from this painful operation, Ignatius could not ¢nd in his house the books on chivalry that he preferred, so he was forced to read another kind of text: religious literature. This is a second important relation between illness and conversion: a forced state of immobility prevents one from being able to look for the sources of entertainment that one usually prefers and one must accept whatever is available to read. The encounter with a book can replace the encounter with a preacher: the Christian word is written instead of being orally communicated, but it does not lose its e¤caciousness (think about the conversion of Augustine). The destabilization of the self is the consequence of a complex series of elements, which include some suitable exterior circumstances and a suitable disposition of the self. When these two groups of elements match, the empty and unstable space which illness creates inside a person can be ¢lled by the content of a new group of ideas, be it transmitted to the ill person by a preacher or by a book. It is important to stress that, during his convalescence, Ignatius read a particular type of religious text, i.e. some hagiographies (the Legenda Aurea ^ `Golden Legend')105 and a biography of Christ (the Vita Christi ^ `Life of Christ' by Ludulph von Saxen).106 The reading of hagiographical texts appears often as a key element in the process of conversion.107 When the self is destabilized, in semiotic terms this means that it is unable to recount its own story in a coherent way. So, the reading of other people's biographies, especially when they are characterized by conversion (which occurs quite frequently in the hagiographies gathered in the Golden Legend ), can o¡er some suitable models according to which converted people might restructure and re-stabilize their own self. In the case of Saint Ignatius, his desire for military glory was reoriented. He read the accounts of how Saints such as Dominic or Francis devoted their life to Christ and acquired a supernatural glory. He therefore decided to imitate them, and to change the ¢eld of his activity. The conversion of Ignatius was a process more than an event. It was not as sudden as Saint Paul's conversion. It was rather fashioned according to the model of Saint Augustine's conversion: a slow but steady redesigning of the self. This gradualness of the spiritual change enabled Ignatius to be aware of the slightest movements of his soul, and to acquire a psychological competence which he will afterwards instill in his Spiritual Exercises.108 The stages of Ignatius's conversion have a geographical counterpart in the steps of the journey that he decided to undertake in order to visit Jerusalem

40

Religious conversion and identity

and the Holy Land. Pilgrimage is often the physical displacement through which converted people can express the spiritual displacement of their soul, so that the goal of the geographical journey coincides with the achievement of the spiritual transformation.109 Also, Saint Ignatius's pilgrimage became the narrative structure through which the ¢rst hagiographers of the Saint organized the story of his life.110 So, in Monserrat, near Barcelona, Ignatius de¢nitively renounced his military life and confessed all his sins to a holy Benedictine monk; in Manresa he led, for a while, a hermitic and penitent life and gathered together a series of pious thoughts and meditations; they constituted the ¢rst nucleus of the Spiritual Exercises, one of the most in£uential spiritual books of Christianity (according to Franc° ois de Sales, another great early-modern preacher and converter, on whose life and works unfortunately we cannot dwell on this occasion, Saint Ignatius's little book converted more people than the letters that it contains). Saint Philip Neri revolutionized preaching by introducing interaction in sermons: speakers and listeners could switch their positions. This idea increased the persuasive power of the Christian word and its ability to convert people, because it promoted an active participation in the comprehension of religious literature and an intimate relation with its texts. Saint Ignatius of Loyola, in his Spiritual Exercises, introduced some new great changes in the use of the Christian word: ¢rst, he gave a systematic structure to prayer and meditation, so that these activities could be easily quanti¢ed and reproduced according to a well-detailed model; second, he understood the importance of both the ¢ve senses and the mental ability of imagination in the process of conversion.111 After Saint Ignatius of Loyola, praying became a multimedia activity. We cannot describe in detail all the aspects of Saint Ignatius's rich life: his mystical experience in Manresa, when he conceived the mysteries of Christianity with a clearer intelligence and formulated the ¢rst idea of founding a new religious order; his pilgrimage to the Holy Land; his studies in Spain and Paris; the way he settled in Rome and acquired the reputation of being a holy man; the foundation of the Company of Jesus. For our purposes, the activity of Saint Ignatius as a preacher and as a converter is particularly relevant. This activity took place mostly in Rome, where on 27 September 1540 Pope Paul III, the same who opened the Council of Trent, gave his de¢nitive approbation to the foundation of the Jesuit Order. Very soon, this new Order showed its profound evangelical vocation: friends and disciples of Saint Ignatius moved to di¡erent regions of Italy, but also to Germany, Austria, Ireland, India and Ethiopia. Saint Ignatius remained in Rome, but directed this massive spreading of the Christian word throughout the world by writing thousands of letters (he wrote about 6795). At the same time, Ignatius, like Saint Philip Neri, whom he knew and by whom he was befriended, became the `Apostle of Rome': he would preach in churches and squares, half in Italian, half in Spanish, with simple words, while he would use his complex Spiritual Exercises only in order to guide more

The destabilization of the self

41

erudite people. This constitutes another important change in the relation between preaching and conversion: for the ¢rst time, Ignatius understood the need to di¡erentiate the strategies of communication according to the characteristics of the audience. This strategy enabled him to persuade and convert di¡erent sorts of people, as is described in countless episodes contained in the hagiographies devoted to the Saint. The power of the Jesuit word was also soon celebrated through visual representations. The iconography of Saint Ignatius is particularly rich,112 but it is especially in popular engravings contained in hagiographies that Ignatius's own conversion, and also his achievements as a converter, were visually glori¢ed. Let us consider the representations of Saint Ignatius of Loyola's own conversion ¢rst. Around the same year in which Ignatius of Loyola was canonized, Anthony van Dyck represented the conversion of the Saint in an image which visually depicts Ignatius' renouncing both the military life and the status of a knight in order to embrace a spiritual existence (Figure 1.4).113 In a 1610 Latin edition (Antwerp, C. Galle) of the life of Saint Ignatius written by Ribadeneyra, engraving n. 1 (executed by J. De Mesa and Th. Galle) o¡ers a depiction of the same episode.114 Saint Peter appears to Ignatius and restores his health. The spiritual change in the life of the Spanish knight is visually represented by the passage of the keys (symbol of the possibility of having access to a saintly existence) from Peter to Ignatius himself. It is interesting to remark that this engraving also shows three books on a table near to Ignatius: the written Christian word (Golden Legend and Vita Christi ) which helped the founder of the Jesuit order to convert.115 In the same hagiography, other engravings do not represent the conversion of Saint Ignatius himself, but the conversions that he provoked through his preaching. Some engravings represent the Saint preaching a sermon, usually surrounded by a huge mass of people.116 Some paintings also belong to this same iconographic group, for example the one representing the miracles of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, painted by Rubens (Figure 1.5). It seems to suggest an etiological relation between the preaching of the Saint from his pulpit and the miracles that he performed.117 Other engravings try to visualize the strong evangelical impulse that Ignatius transmitted to his disciples:118 the Saint, standing on the threshold of his church in Rome, encourages his pupils to leave, and to travel to the Christian missions all over the world.119 Another iconographical type focuses on the supernatural talent of Saint Ignatius as a preacher: his head irradiates light while he is preaching to some children (an activity that, according to the sources of the process of canonization, Ignatius liked very much).120 An interesting representation of conversion can be found in one of the illustrations engraved by Rubens/Barbe¨ for the 1609/22 edition of the Vita Beati P. Ignatii (n. 42).121 In Paris, a sinful young man sees from a bridge Saint Ignatius who bathes in the gelid water of the Seine in order to vanquish

42

Religious conversion and identity

Figure 1.4 Anthony van Dyck, Saint Ignatius's conversion, oil on canvas, 343  215:5 cm. Rome, Vatican Gallery, after 1622. Reproduced here with the permission of the Vatican Museum.

the temptation of the £esh. The youngster is so struck by this sight, that he decides to convert and to abandon his depraved existence (Figure 1.6). As in one of the engravings illustrating Saint Philip Neri's life, a feathered hat is used as a symbol of lascivious life.122 These images demonstrate that in Rome and in the other `internal missions' of Christianity, early-modern preachers had many occasions to show

The destabilization of the self

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Figure 1.5 Peter Paul Rubens, Saint Ignatius of Loyola preaching, oil on canvas. Genoa, Chiesa del Gesu©, executed between 1609 and 1622.

the persuasive power of the Christian word for the conversion of in¢dels, unbelievers and sinful people. However, it was especially in the external missions that the destabilizing power of a converter could manifest all its spectacular rhetoric talent, as is exempli¢ed very well by the painted sermons of Saint Francis Xavier, the third Saint, canonized on 12 March 1622.

44

Religious conversion and identity

Figure 1.6 Saint Ignatius of Loyola 's example converts a sinful youngster. Engraving from the Rubens/Barbe¨ graphic hagiography of Saint Ignatius, ¢rst published in 1609. Copyright Editions Mensajero S.A.U. reproduced here with permission.

Saint Francis Xavier Saint Francis Xavier is one of the most popular Saints of early-modern Catholicism. From the end of the sixteenth century on, his fame became more and more international: churches, images and other tokens of devotion were dedicated to this Saint in several continents. He can be considered as the epitome of an early-modern converter, preacher, evangelizer and missionary. His representations, both in verbal and visual texts, in hagiographies and paintings, are interesting particularly because they often deal with the di¤culties that Francis Xavier encountered in the transmission of the Christian message to non-European people. They also represent the way in which these obstacles were overcome by the extraordinary (and even supernatural) communicative skills of the Jesuit preacher. Saint Francis Xavier was born in the eponymous castle of Javier in Navarre, on 7 April 1506, into an aristocratic family.123 He studied ¢rst in Spain, then in Paris, where in 1529 he met Saint Ignatius of Loyola, who was destined to change the course of his life. A few years after the completion

The destabilization of the self

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of his studies, he went to Venice, with the intention of embarking for a faraway mission, and was ordained a priest on 24 June 1537. For logistic reasons, Saint Francis's journey was delayed until 15 March 1540 (in the meantime the Saint had moved ¢rst to Bologna, then to Rome), when he left the capital of Catholicism for Lisbon. From there he embarked for a long and painful journey to the Portuguese colonies. He was in Brazil and in Mozambique, then in Socotra, and ¢nally on 6 May 1642 he settled in Goa, the commercial and religious capital of the Portuguese colonial empire. In Goa, Saint Francis took all the possible measures in order to spread the message of the Gospels: he preached and confessed, taught the children the ¢rst principles of Catholicism and adapted the Portuguese o¤cial catechism (written by Juan de Barros) to the needs of his audience. He therefore explored the most Oriental part of India, where some new Christian groups were not provided with religious assistance by the Church. He baptized thousands of people (according to the acts of canonization, between November and December 1544, he alone christened more than ten thousand ¢shermen of Travancor, on the Western Indian coast).124 Since communication with these people was a di¤cult task, the sacrament of baptism was a practical and straightforward way to include them in the Christian community. Afterwards, hopefully they would learn, little by little, the main rudiments of Christianity. Baptism and conversion after the Council of Trent Given the importance of this sacrament in early-modern practices and representations of conversion, it is opportune to dwell on its theological and historical meaning, especially in the context of the Counter-Reformation. As E¨mile Delaye suggests in an article on baptism contained in the Dictionnaire de Spiritualite¨,125 sacraments are fundamentally signs, and are therefore an object of particular interest for semiotics (this is obvious in the case of the semiotics of religion). However, sacraments are a special kind of sign: since they are tangible tokens of the sancti¢cation of souls, they must express and signify what they perform, and perform what they signify.126 From a linguistic point of view, it could be argued that baptism is expressed and performed through a performatory verb.127 When performatory verbs are uttered in the ¢rst person singular, they create the event that they designate. Performatory verbs have two characteristics. 1 2

They are unique, in the sense that they can be uttered as linguistic acts only in particular circumstances, in a de¢nite situation of time and space: every new act is a di¡erent act. They are auto-referential, i.e. they refer to a reality that they themselves create. A typical example of this kind of verbs is the verb `to promise': when this verb is enunciated in the ¢rst person singular, the enunciation of the promise coincides with the act of promising.

46

Religious conversion and identity

The relation between the individuality of performatory signs, which is epitomized by the word, the sign and the act of baptism (in which the fact of enunciating `I baptize you' performs the baptism) and the individuality of conversion (which, analogously, can be in£ected only in the ¢rst person singular, and announced by those who convert and not by a third person) is at the basis of the close conceptual and spiritual link between baptism and conversion, between the individuality of those who bestow the grace of God and the individuality of those who accept it. From an anthropological point of view, as regards the signi¢cation of the ritual usage of water (which is present in many religions), it is quite trivial to explain how the relation between dirtiness and cleanness, between the spot and the water which cleans it, may have become the physical basis of a spiritual symbolism concerning the relation between sinfulness and grace, between damnation and holiness.128 The centrality of baptism in the conversion of `in¢del' people can be understood only if one conceives this sacrament as `a rite of aggregation to the visible society which is formed by Christian people'.129 When Saint Francis Xavier baptized his ¢shermen, he knew that their position in relation to the Catholic community was quite di¡erent from the theological status of Protestant people. Although Protestants are not part of the Church of Rome, they are theologically members of the Church of Christ, whilst those who are not even baptized lie completely out of the Christian community. Baptism is therefore the ¢rst and foremost step toward the spiritual salvation of `in¢dels'.130 This sacrament was always fundamental in Christian theology, but its role was particularly emphasized after the Council of Trent. In an ordinance of the Council, the doctrine relative to baptism is thoroughly de¢ned by a series of prohibitions: let the anathema of the Church strike whoever says that baptized children, when they grow up, must be interrogated again in order to know whether they con¢rm the promises made by their godparents during their baptism (the Council insists on the irrevocability of this sacrament); let the anathema strike whoever a¤rms that, in the case where these people do not want to ratify their godparents' promises, they must be free to choose their life, and renounce the sacraments if they want to do so, without any need to su¡er a punishment, or be compelled to live as Christians.131 This shows that, in the theology approved and promoted by the Council of Trent, baptism had a value which could be de¢ned as `legal': it marked, in a de¢nitive way, the ingress of an `in¢del' in the Christian community. However, in order to understand the close relation between baptism and conversion in the early-modern history of religious ideas, one has to point out that the Council of Trent considered baptism as a shortened form of penitence. With reference to the Fathers of the Church, the theologians of Trent de¢ned penitence as a `laborious baptism': being baptized could give the new Christian an immaculate soul, which could be otherwise achieved only through a long and painful practice of repentance.132

The destabilization of the self

47

The tears which characterize the sacrament of Penitence are compared with the baptismal water: on the one hand, the water of tears comes from inside the body, and symbolizes the achievement of those Christians, who through their e¡orts succeed in realizing the gravity of their sins; on the other hand, the water of baptism comes from outside the body, and symbolizes the help of grace given freely by God to sinful people. As a consequence, baptism is an easier source of puri¢cation than penitence. At the end of the sixteenth century and the beginning of the seventeenth, a ticklish question arises from this comparison: if the Church recommended people to renew and multiply the sacrament of penitence every time that this was needed, the theological correctness of renewing baptism was not equally clear.133 Since baptism is a sacrament which cannot be renewed in a ritual and explicit way, early-modern theologians wondered about the means that were to be adopted in order to renew it in an indirect and implicit way. The meaning of this theological search is clear: since baptism cleans the soul, and cancels every trace of sin, theologians looked for what could reproduce this same e¡ect of puri¢cation through di¡erent means. Various solutions were given to this problem. First of all, the equivalence between baptism and penitence, and between baptism and conversion, was pointed out. Also, theologians compared baptism with martyrdom, which produces the same e¡ect of bestowing upon the soul the plenitude of the divine grace. However, since martyrdom cannot be su¡ered voluntarily, and since a long theological tradition compares it with ascetic life (the second would be a slower and longer form of the ¢rst), a possible equivalence between the e¡ects of baptism and the e¡ects of monastic life was suggested.134 During the Council of Trent and its aftermath, this problem was constantly dealt with. The Catechism of the Council of Trent, published under the aegis of Pious V, incited Christians to renew periodically the obligations that each of them had contracted with God in the day of their baptism, and to consider whether their life and customs were conforming to those stated in the Christian profession of faith.135 It was in order to direct the practice of the renewal of baptism toward the spiritual edi¢cation and even toward the `second' conversion of Christian people (for example for those who had ceased to believe, or were lukewarm believers) that Carlo Borromeo, powerful engineer of the spirituality, theology and liturgy of the Counter-Reformation, revived the traditional practice of the baptismal anniversary (according to which Christian people commemorated the date of their baptism year by year by renewing the profession of faith) (Borromeo 1683, I, 246). So, if in the Christian missions baptism was a powerful instrument through which missionaries could annex thousands of new adepts to the Catholic community (as is shown well by Saint Francis Xavier's activity in India),136 in the internal missions of Europe, baptism became a subtle instrument for the control of the souls.137 Countless early-modern religious texts, especially

48

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in the di¤cult spiritual context of sixteenth and seventeenth century France, promoted baptism as a rhetoric tool of conversion.138 The importance of baptism in the spiritual history of early-modern Catholicism is indicated also by visual evidence. Many paintings, engravings and other kinds of images represent baptism, often as a consequence of conversion. The great converted people of Christianity are frequently represented not only in the instant of their conversion, but also in the moment when this conversion becomes de¢nitive and is made o¤cial by their ingress into the Christian community through the sacrament of baptism.139 A good example of this iconography is the baptism of Saint Augustine, an episode which many early-modern painters depicted. Figure 1.7 is a reproduction of Mattia Preti's interpretation of this baptism:140 the Saint is on his knees in front of the bishop Ambrose, while Augustine's mother, Monica, who interceded for her son's conversion, indicates by her right hand an open book, that is a visual reference to the encounter with the written word of Christ which triggered the turning point of Augustine's life. It is interesting to remark that a seashell is used as a recipient for the holy water of the baptism. It is, of course, a reference to one of the most di¡use iconographic themes of Christian art, i.e. the baptism of Christ by Saint John,141 the epitome of every baptism, but also to the complicated symbolism of the seashell.142 The iconography of Saint Francis Xavier con¢rms the centrality of preaching and baptizing in early-modern missionaries' strategies of conversion. The Saint is usually represented together with an Indian youngster who bends on his knees in front of the Jesuit and waits for his baptism.143 We cannot analyse all these representations, but we shall dwell on two paintings which are particularly suitable in order to clarify the relations between preaching, baptism and conversion (Figures 1.8 and 1.9).144 They were both painted by Giovan Battista Gaulli, known as il Baciccio (1639^1709) around 1704, when the cult of Saint Francis Xavier and his iconography were already well consolidated. Both paintings are now in the church of Saint Andrew at the Quirinal, in Rome. The ¢rst represents Saint Francis Xavier preaching to some Indians (Figure 1.8). Several elements in the painting contribute to create an exotic atmosphere: the Saint is barefoot, a sign of his ability to adopt the customs of the people whom he was trying to evangelize, but also a reference to the toughness of his vocation and to the fact that he was fashioning his apostolic activity according to the model of the ¢rst preachers of Christianity. Clothes, headgear and lances of the `savages' increase this sense of exoticism (the vertical and martial aggressiveness of the lances is counterbalanced by the verticality of the cruci¢x, a sign of peace which towers over the signs of war). From an anthropological point of view, concerning Western representations of the East, it is interesting to remark that faces in Saint Francis Xavier's Oriental audience are not too exotic, and look even familiar: it is perhaps an implicit reference to the possibility of communicating the word of Christ to these people, who were di¡erent

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49

Figure 1.7 Mattia Preti, Saint Augustine's baptism, oil on canvas, 415  290 cm. L'Aquila, National Museum of Abruzzo, 1670^80. Reproduced with permission of the Ministero per i Beni e le Attivita© Culturali ^ Soprintendenza per il Patrimonio Storico, Artistico e Demoetnoantropologico per l'Abruzzo di L'Aquila.

externally (hence the strangeness of their clothes) but not internally (their Western faces seem to express a potential ability to understand Saint Francis Xavier's sermon). This painting celebrates the Christian word in the same way as it was glori¢ed by the miracle of Pentecost (indeed, the prodigy of being understood by people speaking all sorts of languages was attributed to the Jesuit preacher). At the same time, the painting boasts its own capacity to

50

Religious conversion and identity

Figure 1.8 Giovan Battista Gaulli, known as il Baciccio, Saint Francis Xavier preaching, oil on canvs, 254  173 cm. Rome, church of Saint Andrew at the Quirinal, around 1704.

overcome the muteness of visual communication and to reach an audience even wider than that reached by the word. The second painting is the logical and narrative continuation of the ¢rst: it represents Saint Francis Xavier who baptizes an Oriental princess (Figure 1.9). This painting is interesting from a double point of view. Historically, it shows that if on the one hand missionaries preached to everyone, on the other hand they were particularly interested in the conversion of the leaders of an `in¢del' community; the conversion of eminent or aristocratic people would give a prestigious example to the others. From a semiotic point of view, il Baciccio's painting is quite extraordinary, since it transforms the iconography of baptism in order to give a profound representation of conversion, based on the symbolism of re£ecting water. While the ¢rst painting represented the moment of the destabilization of the self (notice the expressions of bewilderment among the audience), the second painting depicts the moment in which conversion has already occurred, and

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Figure 1.9 Giovan Battista Gaulli, known as il Baciccio, Saint Francis Xavier baptizes an Oriental princess, oil on canvas, 254  173 cm. Rome, church of Saint Andrew at the Quirinal, around 1704.

the converted person is ready to re-stabilize the new religious position through the ritual value of the sacrament, i.e. through baptism. But the painter represented the scene in such a way that, in the same moment in which Saint Francis is pouring water onto the princess's head from a little seashellshaped receptacle, she can look at herself in the re£ecting water contained in the baptismal font.145 So, the holy water becomes both a symbol and an executive sign of the sacrament, but functions also as a device of restabilization of the self. So far, we have dealt in depth with some verbal and visual texts representing the encounter between unbelievers and the Christian word, an encounter which is the ¢rst step in the process of conversion. In fact, no kind of religious change is possible without this coming across di¡erent spiritual beliefs.

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However, in our study of the relation between preaching and conversion, we have privileged the point of view of the speaker. Now it is important to counterbalance this analysis by giving more attention to the way in which texts represent the reception of the Christian word. What happens when the message of a new religion penetrates the system of beliefs of a person, and how do texts represent a self which is shaken by this encounter and which su¡ers a loss of personal and social identity? This is a moment of crisis, when some new religious ideas have already emerged in the cognitive panorama of a person, but they are not completely accepted or integrated. As regards the analysis of this critical moment, the real watershed of conversion, two di¡erent points of view will be adopted. On the one hand, conversion will be considered from an external perspective, in order to point out how conversion triggers a painful loss of social identity. On the other hand, an internal perspective on this moment of crisis will show the main characteristics of the loss of personal identity. So as to understand this stage of religious conversion and its representations, two di¡erent concepts will be used as terms of comparison: treason and controversy. On the one hand, the loss of social identity is epitomized by the accusation of treason, which is often moved against converted people by the members of the religious (or irreligious) groups to which they formerly belonged. On the other hand, controversy can be used as a powerful metaphor in order to explain what happens in the mind of a person, and in the texts which represent it, during the confused moment of religious crisis.

2

The crisis of the self

Conversion and treason In this section, relations, analogies and di¡erences between treason and conversion will be explored, with special reference to the early-modern period. What are the relations between these two elements? More generally, has the concept of treason ever had any religious connotations? Or, vice versa, has the concept of conversion ever had any treacherous connotations? I shall try to answer these questions in four di¡erent ways: 1 2 3 4

A brief lexicological inquiry into the word `treason' and its equivalents in other European languages. An analysis of models of evil religious change in late medieval and earlymodern religious literature. An analysis of models of good religious change in late medieval and earlymodern poetry of chivalry. A study of the relations between treason and religion in early-modern law texts.

The lexicology of treason The ¢rst part of the analysis, concerning the lexicology of treason, will consist of three sections: etymology, semantics and taxonomy. Let us consider etymology ¢rst. Many European words for `treason' derive from the Latin word `traditio', which in its turn translates two di¡erent Greek words, `o' and `o'. The ¢rst one means `to transmit, to hand something over to someone', while the second one means `to hand someone over to the enemy by fraud'. In Latin, while the word proditio is related only to the Greek verb `o', the verb tradere and the noun traditio have absorbed the concepts of both tradition and treason. This etymological ambiguity must be borne in mind in the semantic section of the present lexicological inquiry. Most modern and contemporary European languages use di¡erent words in order to distinguish between positive and negative transmission, i.e. between `tradition' and `treason'. Nevertheless,

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these words are usually very similar, especially in romance languages, and remind one of the fact that they share a common etymological root. I shall give some examples: tradimento and tradizione in Italian, trahison and tradition in French, traicio¨n and tradicio¨n in Spanish, traic° a¬o and tradic° a¬o in Portuguese, tra­dare and tradit° ie in Rumanian. Furthermore, poetic wordplays and literary inventions seem to suggest that treason and tradition are always related: on the one hand, it is argued, every tradition is a form of treason; it is the transmission of a cultural object to someone who is di¡erent, and therefore potentially hostile. This is particularly evident in the modern imagery of literary translations. They are thought to transmit traditional meanings through alien languages, so being a form of both treason1 and tradition.2 Many European wordplays point out this association (for example the Italian il traduttore e© un traditore, `the translator is a traitor').3 On the other hand, treason is a form of tradition. This is perfectly exempli¢ed by the proverbial imagery which characterizes the semantics of treason from the ancient Greeks on. A famous Greek proverb states:  oo; oo  "~ " " "~

(Tosi 1992)

which means: `love treason, hate traitors'. This Augustan apophthegm, reported by both Plutarch in his Life of Romulus4 and by the Romanorum apophtegmata (Plutarch 1741, 207a), outlived the Roman Empire, was popular during the Middle Ages through the Latin version amo proditionem, odi proditorem, i.e. `I love treason, I hate traitors' (Walther 1963^7, 980a) and has its equivalents in most modern European languages. The meaning of this proverb and the reason explaining why treason is a form of tradition, is wittily illustrated by a seventeenth-century English aphorism, very popular in the forensic milieu: Treason never prospers. What's the reason? If it prospers, none dares call it treason. (Quoted in Minogue 1986) So, treason, which prospers, is called tradition. This semantic switch from devaluation to valorization is particularly central to religious tradition. Every new system of religious ideas stems from older religious beliefs through personal and social changes, which receive either positive or negative denominations depending on what point of view is adopted. Conversion is the most extreme of these personal changes, and is usually judged according to opposite (internal and external) points of view. Catholic canon law, from Thomas Aquinas on, contains a ¢nely articulated taxonomy of negative religious changes (Naz 1949, sub voce `he¨re¨sie', 5, 1106^9). The ¢rst step in the negativity of religious change is heresy, which Thomas Aquinas de¢ned as follows:

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Form of incredulity concerning those who profess the faith of Christ, but spoil His dogmas.5 The subsequent de¢nitions of the canon law derive all from this ¢rst acceptance and distinguish between formal and material heresy, depending on whether heresy is voluntary or involuntary; and between internal and external heresy, depending on whether heresy remains silent in the soul of the heretic person or is externally expressed through signs. Also, they distinguish between concealed heresy, which is manifested without witnesses, and public heresy, which is expressed in front of a considerable number of witnesses. The second step in the negativity of religious change is schism: from Thomas Aquinas on, schismatic people are those who reject the pope's authority. They therefore go outside the ecclesiastic society, whilst heretical people may claim to be Christian even though rejecting some Catholic beliefs. The third and most extreme step in the negativity of religious change is apostasy. The apostate abandons the Church and denies the beliefs of Christianity as a whole. However, what can be de¢ned as heresy, schism or apostasy from a point of view internal to a religion, is normally called conversion from an external point of view. The historical problem remains to pinpoint how the word `treason' or its synonyms have been used, both in literary and other ¢ctional texts, in order to discredit religious changes. Answers to this question depend on three factors at least: 1 2 3

The development of religious history in di¡erent parts of the world. The di¡erent legal de¢nitions of treason. The di¡erent cultural semantics of treason, which are the background of legal de¢nitions.

Evil religious changes At the watershed between late Middle Ages and early-modern history, Dante's conception of treason is fundamental to Catholic civilization. Even when humanist philosophers were abandoning scholastic moral conceptions, Dante's poetical transposition of Thomas Aquinas's theology was still considered an irreplaceable reference. Dante summarizes medieval attitudes toward treason and transmits them to modernity. So, what are these attitudes? In Dante's semantic universe, treason is a fraudulent action perpetrated against those who trusted the traitor. It is the worst crime, the worst sin, despicable in both religious and social terms. In the Commedia, the topology of hell con¢rms this extreme condemnation: traitors occupy the deepest part of it, the ninth circle, described by Dante in the cantos 11, 32, 33 and 34 of the Inferno. I quote from the Inferno, 11, 66:

56

Religious conversion and identity Therefore, in the smallest circle . . . every traitor is consumed eternally.6

Dante's taxonomy of treason is very sophisticated: ¢rst of all, he distinguishes treason from general fraud. On the one hand, fraud is perpetrated when someone damages someone else by practising deception. In this case though, there is only the general bond of love, common to all humankind, which links the defrauder and the defrauded. On the other hand, treason is perpetrated when there are deeper and more speci¢c reasons for the victim to trust the good faith of the traitor. In this second and di¡erent case, stronger and less general bonds of love link the victim and the traitor, for example ties of a¡ection, such as love for homeland, parents, family and political or military party, or ties of hospitality and gratitude. The sin of treason against these bonds is the worst possible, because it is the opposite of what Dante considers the highest virtue of all, i.e. justice. The architecture of the ninth circle, where traitors are punished, illustrates the relation between treason, which is the worst form of human injustice, and religion: the circle is divided into four parts: the Caina, from the Biblical name of Cain, hosts the traitors of parents; the Antenora, from the name of a Trojan character in the Iliad, who was spared by the Greeks during the destruction of Troy, and therefore considered a traitor by some post-Homeric legends, is occupied by the traitors of either homeland or political party; the Tolomea, from the name of the Egyptian king Ptolemy XIII, who killed the Roman fugitive Pompey in search of asylum, gathers together the traitors of hospitality; the Giudecca, from the name of Judas, the worst part of the whole Inferno, hosts traitors of supreme authority and traitors of benefactors. Three elements of this architecture are particularly signi¢cant in order to grasp the relation between treason and religion in Dante's epoch: 1 2 3

The philological sources of such a disposition. The relation between treason of supreme authority and treason of benefactors. The etymology of the name Giudecca.

First, as many scholars have pointed out, Dante's taxonomy of treason was inspired by Aristotle's philosophy, through the mediation of Catholic medieval thinkers, such as Gregory the Great and Thomas Aquinas. According to these theologians, treason against religious benefactors is the worst kind, and Judas is the archetype of every traitor. As regards the second element, the centre of the Giudecca, the deepest point of the whole Inferno, is occupied by Satan who, in his three mouths, devours the three worst traitors ever: Brutus, Cassius and Judas. On the one hand, Brutus and Cassius are the epitome of treason against supreme political authority. From Suetonius's Life of the Caesars7 and Cassius Dio's Roman

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57

History8 to Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, the phrase `Et tu, Brute?', `you too, Brutus?' is an archetypical expression of amazement in the face of unexpected treason. On the other hand, Judas is the epitomic traitor of benefactors. But even in the deepest point of hell, there is a hierarchy of punishment: according to Dante's poetical description, Judas su¡ers slightly more than Cassius and Brutus. Treason against religion is therefore worse than treason against public authority. But is this relevant in order to conclude that late medieval Catholic civilization considered conversion a form of treason? The etymology of the name Giudecca may help to answer this question: it derives not simply from Judas, but also from the late Latin words Iudaica or Iudeca, which in many thirteenth-century documents designates the Jewish ghetto of a town, or, more generally, places associated with Jewish people. In cultural and literary history, this is not the only case where representations of Judas and supreme treason bear an anti-Semitic connotation. As French scholar Maurice Accarie has pointed out in his essay Le the¨aªtre sacre¨ a© la ¢n du Moyen Aªge. E¨tude sur le sens moral de la Passion de Jean Michel (Accarie 1979, 251^63), late medieval theatrical representations of the Passion used the treason of Judas in order to convey anti-Semitic messages. So, treason is associated not simply with those who convert to another faith, but also with those who do not want to convert to Catholicism. More generally, from the late Middle Ages on, literary representations of Judas are used in order to incriminate many di¡erent forms of social deviance. The way in which the life of Judas is recounted in the thirteenth century in the Golden Legend of Jacobus de Voragine is a good example of its paradigmatic value: unfortunately, it is impossible to dwell on this very interesting legend, but some important details must be emphasized. According to this legend, Judas is the son of a man called `Ruben' and a woman called `Cyborea'. After conceiving the child, she dreams that he will be the ruin of Israel, so as soon as the child is born, his parents abandon him in a basket set a£oat in the sea. It is evident that the intertextual relation of this episode with that of Moses' birth tries to designate Judas as an anti-Moses, as a destroyer of Christian religion, just as Moses was one of its builders. Exactly like Moses, Judas is found on a beach by a childless queen, and adopted. Not long afterwards, however, the queen conceives a son from the king. Since Judas is jealous of his brother he mistreats him, and one day the queen is so angry with Judas that she tells him the truth about his birth. After this bitter revelation, the little traitor kills the son of the king, and escapes to Jerusalem. Evidently, in this second episode, Judas is associated with Cain, traitor of his parents. Once in Jerusalem, Judas becomes Pilate's right-hand man. One day, in order to satisfy a caprice of his chief, he kills his true father, whom he does not know, and receives as a reward the privilege of marrying the wife of the dead man, that is his mother. So, in the legendary representation of Jacobus de Voragine, which he derives from older medieval sources, Judas is an anti-Moses, a Cain and an Üdipus

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before being the traitor of Jesus. Alain Boureau, in the article `L'inceste de Judas' has explored the psychoanalytical implications of these medieval legends (Boureau 1986, 33). But what happens in the subsequent centuries, and precisely from 1400 to 1700? Judas remains the epitome of treason, but also the symbol of evil conversion, of negative religious change. As G.-D. Farcy has pointed out in his comparative book Le sycophante et le re¨dime¨, ou le mythe de Judas (Farcy 1999), many early-modern literary texts continue to cultivate this genre called `the shame of Judas'. The Vatican library contains many seventeenth-century texts, which poetically recount the treason of Judas and propose him as a negative model to Catholic audiences after the Council of Trent. In 1616 Giulio Cesare de' Carli published in Brescia, near Milan his Opera nova in ottava rima, dove si contiene il nascimento, vita e morte di Giuda Schariot, `New work in ottava rima in which Judas Iscariot's birth, life and death are contained' (Carli 1616), transposing the Golden Legend into rhymes; in 1628 Angelo Gabrieli published in Venice a poem bearing the title `Disperatione di Giuda', `Desperation of Judas' (Gabrieli 1628); a little poem with the same title was published in 1629 (Tasso 1629), attributed to the great Italian poet Torquato Tasso, and republished almost at the end of the century, in 1688 (Tasso 1688). Moreover, Judas's treason of religious benefactors is so paradigmatic that he is proposed as a negative example by both Catholic and Protestant writers. In 1522, Thomas Naogeorgus,9 fervent Lutheran pastor and author of Latin tragedies which harshly attacked the Catholic Church, published a work entitled Iudas Iscariotes (Naogeorgus 1552). Judas is also an interesting example of amorality for biblical exegetes, who from the sixteenth century on typologically relate Judas's treason to the adoration of the golden calf in the Old Testament. In both cases, treason is associated with a form of despicable conversion, an apostasy in favour of the god gold, to which a very long tradition attributed diabolic connotations. Good religious changes However, early-modern literature does not simply propose examples of negative religious changes, but also specimens of good conversion, usually towards Catholic faith, which the reader is encouraged to absolve from any accusation of treason. The best illustrations of this point of view, so di¡erent from the one expressed in the legends of Judas, are to be found in French and Italian late medieval and early-modern poems of chivalry. A thirteenth-century French edition of the Karlamagnu¨ssaga, the saga of Charles the Great, probably inspired by the coeval incursions of Saracens in the South of Italy, recounts the story of Agolante, king of Africa, who tried to impose the Muslim faith on the Catholic King Charles. In answer to his refusal, Almonte, son of the African king, invades Italy. At the end of the saga, Charles defeats the enemy with the help of the young knight Orlando

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and kills the Saracen chiefs. The widow of Agolante converts to Catholicism and marries Florent, son of the Christian king of Hungary. So, instead of being a treacherous act, conversion is represented as the apex of the Christian triumph over Muslims. In the fourteenth century, this same legend was transposed into an Italian poem of chivalry, the Aspromonte ^ name of a geographical area in the South of Italy ^ written by Andrea da Barberino (who died in 1370) (Barberino 1951). Soon this poem became very popular, and was a source of the Orlando Innamorato, `Orlando in love', written by Matteo Maria Boiardo and published in its ¢rst complete edition in 1506. This ¢ne Italian poet, who was born in Scandiano in 1441 and died in Reggio Emilia in 1494, recounted the history of Galaciella, a Saracen female warrior converted to Catholicism. Persecuted by her own family, Galaciella gives birth to a child, Ruggiero, who is abandoned on African soil and educated as a Saracen by a magician called Atlante. In this case too, religious conversion is not a matter of treason, but a heroic act, associated with the birth of a man, who is destined to convert to Catholicism and to become a great warrior, the saviour of Christianity against Muslims. Also, this same interpretation of conversion is exempli¢ed by one of the greatest Italian literary works, the Orlando Furioso, `the Furious Orlando', which continues the story of the Orlando Innamorato, brusquely interrupted by Boiardo's death.10 The plot of the poem is very complicated, but at the end of it, the valorous Saracen warrior Ruggiero, converted to Catholicism, is accused of treason by another Saracen knight, Rodomonte, in front of the Christian King Charles. I quote stanza 107: At these words Ruggiero stood up and, with Charlemagne's leave, retorted that he lied, as did anyone who called him a traitor. His behaviour towards his liege had always been such that no accusation could rightfully be made against him. He was ready to maintain that he had always done his duty to him.11 In this stanza Ruggiero defends himself. He has abandoned his former Saracen king in order to ¢ght in favour of Charles, leader of the Christian army, so that Rodomonte accuses him of treason. The ferocious duel, which follows this accusation and occupies all the ¢nal part of the poem, ends with the death of Rodomonte, the last Saracen warrior surviving, and a¤rms the moral victory of conversion over any suspicion of treason. Legal de¢nitions of treason However, in order to understand how the semantics of religious conversion meets the semantics of political treason, it is important to point out both similarities and di¡erences between late medieval and early-modern conceptions of treason. All in all, literary representations seem to convey more similarities

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than di¡erences, while the opposite occurs in legal texts and forensic de¢nitions of treason. Early-modern religious poems convey a conception according to which every form of religious disorder is a kind of treason. Also, this attitude remains in the canon law nowadays. In the Dictionnaire de droit canonique edited by R. Naz in 1949, sub voce `h|¨ re¨sie' the editor a¤rms that: The heretic is a maker of trouble. Just as any perfect society, the Church has the right to defend itself against those who cause troubles in it.12 Historically, Italian criminal law has progressively puri¢ed the concept of treason from every religious or even moral connotation; from the end of the nineteenth century on, according to articles from 71 to 77 of military criminal law and articles from 71 to 78 of naval military criminal law, the term `treason' is exclusively used in order to designate a military crime against the State. On the contrary, however, analogous criminal acts, when perpetrated by common citizens, are not quali¢ed as treason. This distinction derives from the Roman Law, according to which citizens can be traitors, but treason is much more serious and severely punished when committed by a soldier. I quote from the Digestum ad legem Iuliam maiestatis 48, 4, L. 7, ½ 3: The crime perpetrated against the supreme authority, by spoiling either statues or images, is especially serious for soldiers.13 Incidentally, it is interesting to point out that in both political and religious treason, the act of spoiling images or other representations is considered an outrage against supreme authority. In early-modern Italian law, treason is distinguished from other deeds generating moral or religious disorder, but is always punished by extremely severe sanctions, and often by death. In the kingdom of Naples, for example, a law promulgated on the 22 April 1563 stated: Let the culprit be killed with pikes and then quartered, and let his goods be con¢scated and given to the royal tax o¤ce.14 Analogous sanctions were provided for in the criminal law of Sicily and Piemonte. However, it is impossible to understand Italian early-modern conceptions of treason and their relation with religious changes without comparing them with the concept of treason in English early-modern law. Because of the di¡erent juridical and lexical traditions, what English jurists call `treason' does not correspond to what Italian jurists call tradimento. It is a case of a di¡erent segmentation of culture, as semioticians call it. Following the example of Roman law, Italian early-modern law distinguishes between `treason', which is a crime punished mainly by military criminal law, and `felony'. In juridical contexts this word was used from the thirteenth century

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on, and designated those feudal criminal acts previously called in French forfaitures, from the Latin locution foris factura. The etymology of the word `felony' is particularly uncertain. Some scholars propose the ancient French fe'honnie, `violated faith'. Other etymologies suggest the German ¢llon, `scourge', the Irish fella, `to kill', the English `fell', `ferocious', and even the Sanskrit root sphal, which means `to move, to deviate' (from the law or from the feud). However, the most probable etymology of `felony' is from the Anglo-Saxon fee, `feud', and lon, `price'. So `felony' originally means pretium feudi, `the price of the feud', and refers to every crime, which causes the feudal land to be lost and returned to the feudal lord. In Italian earlymodern law, while the word `treason' is not ambiguous and designates solely military misbehaviour, the word `felony' is metaphorically used. From the late Middle Ages on, the Italian words fellonia, fellone, fello generally referred to any case of per¢diousness, wickedness, violence, cruelty, dangerousness and so on. But, what is more important for the purposes of the present section is the fact that these words were used to designate in¢del people, and especially Muslim people. Those who refused to embrace Christian faith or those who converted to another religion were felons. In English early-modern criminal law, there is a superposition between the semantics of treason and the semantics of felony. Crimes concerning currency are called `felony' in the Act of the twenty-seventh year of the rule of Edward I; in the Act of the third year of the rule of Henry VII `felony' generally designates any behaviour against the King's Council; in the Act of the third year of the rule of James I, felony is any criminal action perpetrated in order to serve foreign countries against the oath taken in front of the king; ¢nally, in the Act of the thirty-third and thirty-fourth year of the rule of Queen Victoria, the term `felony' is still used with reference to any destruction of the State's military resources. The religious connotation of treason and felony in England is also attested by An Exhortation to stir all Englishmen to the Defence of their Country, written by Richard Morison in 1539, in which he accused all the `papists' of treasonously attempting to rupture the political unity, which God has ordained in every Christian commonwealth (Skinner 1978, vol. 2: `The Age of Reformation', 106). As a conclusion, I should like to argue that, mutatis mutandis, and beyond the di¡erences in the lexicology of treason and felony, late medieval and particularly early-modern semantics of treason was characterized by an increase of extension, a term used by analytical philosophy in order to designate the objects to which the meaning of a word can be applied. As Kenneth R. Minogue has e¡ectively a¤rmed in an article on `Treason and the Early Modern State' (Minogue 1986, 421^36), `there is a tendency to move from a situation in which treason provoked the greatest indignation (Middle Ages) to one in which whatever provoked the greatest indignation becomes treason'. As is illustrated by early-modern literary texts, but also by the coeval iconography of treason, which unfortunately I cannot explore on this

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occasion, evil religious changes, in the form of heresy, schism and apostasy were perfectly suitable to being quali¢ed as treason. The three mouths of Satan, which punished the traitors in Dante's medieval imagination, were destined to multiply, and the narrow space at the bottom of hell was to become more and more densely populated. Religious conversion is a serious danger for the social identity of a person, especially if it breaks one's belonging to a given religious community. As is exempli¢ed well by Des Ecotais's story and apologetic e¡orts, what is personally lived as a spiritual turning point is often socially stigmatized as an execrable form of treason. This is especially true in, but not limited to, the problematic period of the Counter-Reformation. Radical personal changes are anthropologically di¤cult to account for by those who experience them, and they are impossible to understand by those who judge them from an external point of view. Those who change are usually seen as enemies, but before becoming enemies to other people, in the most critical moment of their conversion, they paradoxically become enemies to themselves. In the next section, we shall analyse this internal ¢ght through a comparison between conversion and controversy.

Conversion and controversy In the previous section ^ through a comparison between treason and religious conversion ^ we focused on the way in which conversion endangers the social identity of a person. That analysis was centred more on history than on theory. In the present chapter, since we shall focus on the crisis of personal identity which is triggered by religious conversion, we shall ¢rst dwell on a theoretic comparison between the semiotic structures of both conversion and controversy. Afterwards, we shall give some historical examples (as always, mostly from seventeenth-century religious history), where the results of such a comparison can be used as an e¡ective analytical instrument. Relations Relations between conversion and controversy can be analysed from two di¡erent points of view. From an external point of view, the relation between these two elements consists in the fact that conversion is very often an object of controversy. It was so not only during the Counter-Reformation. For instance, even at the present time, conversion to Pentecostal or charismatic Christian movements is a controversial phenomenon in South America, especially from the point of view of the Catholic hierarchy; the activity of Mormons in contemporary Russia is suspiciously assessed by the local political and administrative establishment (since it allegedly gives rise to aggressive social behaviour); conversion of Chinese people (and even members of the communist party) to the Falun Gong movement is ¢rmly disallowed by the Chinese government; orthodox Hindus in the North of India despise the

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conversion of some Indian groups to Islam (Lamb and Bryant 1999). This list could be endless, since religious conversion has always been and continues to be a controversial phenomenon, for very understandable reasons. This is especially evident when converted people put an end to their attachment to a given religious institution in order to a¤liate themselves with another spiritual movement: the members of the former religion are likely to react polemically against this choice, and qualify it as treason (see previous section). This is also so because, in accounts of conversion, people tend to play down the value of their past spiritual condition in order to praise their new religious attachment. Conversion can also be a controversial phenomenon from an internal point of view, in the sense that the process leading to religious conversion can be seen as a form of intra-subjective controversy. In the present section, I shall try to understand whether the psychological struggle which a person might experience while converting from one religion to another (religious transition), or leaving atheism or agnosticism to adhere to a particular religious denomination (religious a¤liation), or quitting a given denomination in order to become an irreligious person (religious defection) (Rambo and Farhadian 1999), can be de¢ned as `controversy', which is a term usually designating public discussions or arguments. In other words, I shall try to understand whether psychological struggle and social controversy share some common features or structures. Di¡erences Semiotic structures Since the way in which the question formulated above is answered strictly depends upon the models of both religious conversion and controversy, the ¢rst step of the present section will be to try to pinpoint such models. Obviously, there can be a vast variety of di¡erent kinds of both conversion and controversy, depending on all the determinations of various orders somehow a¡ecting them. Nevertheless, as in all phenomena and objects of analysis, it may be hoped that these variations share a single kernel, a general pattern justifying the use of either of the words `conversion' or `controversy', when this kernel occurs in reality (Taylor 1999). So, what is the kernel of conversion, and what is the kernel of controversy? In order to answer these last questions, di¡erent epistemological strategies may be adopted, depending upon the extent to which deductive thought is admitted in order to interpret phenomena. The analysis of a controversy naturally focuses on signs exchanged by contestants, no matter what kind of signs they are, either verbal or belonging to di¡erent semiotic systems (for example gestures, postures, distances, intonations and so on). Controversy, which is a social phenomenon, is studied through the analysis of social interactions. On the contrary, in the study of religious conversion, the focus naturally bears on what transformations

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are happening in the psychological system of a person. Yet this system is not directly observable. One can study through which signs religious conversion is encouraged or stimulated, described or recounted, and may infer from them an abstract psychological model of conversion. However, no matter how accurate, this model is shaped studying psychological phenomena through the analysis of social interactions. This epistemological di¡erence between the analysis of either conversion or controversy must be borne in mind: when studying a controversy, one studies signs in order to understand the structure of signs themselves; but when studying conversion, one studies signs in order to understand the structure of minds. It could be argued that in controversies too, one might wonder about the state of the minds of the contestants. However, the question is whether the relation between the text of a controversy (produced in any kind of semiotic system) and the minds producing it, is the same as the relation between the signs (or texts, which are systems of signs) of a conversion and the mind a¡ected by it. The answer is probably negative: signs studied in order to articulate an abstract model of controversy actually are the controversy, whilst signs studied in order to articulate an abstract model of conversion are not conversion. Conversion is what may be inferred, or guessed, from these signs. Temporal structures Another point may reveal further di¡erences between controversy and conversion. It is related to the idea and the representation of time. Conversion strictly depends upon the idea of time. There cannot be conversion without this idea. Conversion implies a sequence of at least two sections of time: the time of disbelief and the time of belief. Conversion is neither the time of disbelief nor the time of belief. It is the passage between them; this is why some specialists prefer to speak of `converting' instead of `conversion' (Rambo and Farhadian 1999). Conversion is the moment when one ceases to disbelieve and starts to believe. There can be oscillations between belief and disbelief, but there cannot be any coexistence of both. It is a consequence of the principle of non contradiction: one may believe in God and not believe in the Holy Trinity, but one cannot both believe in God and not believe in him at the same time, since this would contradict the very idea of believing in something. Conversion is therefore a punctual event, and not a durative one. It could be argued that the idea of time is not fundamental to shaping the model of controversy, where the coexistence of contradictory beliefs is always possible, and perhaps even essential. What is fundamental to a controversy is rather the presence of di¡erent and independent bodies encapsulating di¡erent beliefs. In conversion, di¡erent beliefs must belong to a single body at di¡erent times, while in controversy di¡erent beliefs must belong to di¡erent bodies at the same time.

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Is this su¤cient to state the impossibility of comparing conversion and controversy? This question has to be transformed into the following one: is it possible to compare representations of conversion and representations of controversy? Similarities Representations of time Representations of controversy depend on the idea of time, just as do representations of conversion. Although one might de¢ne the perfect coexistence of opposite beliefs as a form of controversy, this opposition would not be intelligible if these beliefs were not represented or communicated at di¡erent times (or in di¡erent spaces, which is the same). This is also true in the case of conversion: a model representing religious conversion does not only imply the succession of belief and disbelief, but also the awareness of believing and having disbelieved. If there cannot be coexistence of belief and disbelief, there must be coexistence between awareness of believing and awareness of having disbelieved. In order to experience conversion, it is not su¤cient to pass from disbelief to belief. One has to have memory of having disbelieved, awareness of believing and (eventually) the assurance of continuing to believe. In other words, if conversion implies the separateness of belief and disbelief in di¡erent times, the representation (and awareness) of conversion implies the coexistence of representations of belief and disbelief at the same time. So, representations of religious conversion unite beliefs previously separated, while representations of controversy separate beliefs previously united. Yet, in conversions the necessity of both the separateness of contradictory beliefs and the unity of their representations is paradoxical. How can the coexistence of opposite beliefs be both impossible for the mind and necessary for the representation that the mind bears of itself? Representations of identity The con£ict between these two opposite requirements endangers the idea of a personal identity. How could this idea be de¢ned in the model describing conversion and controversy? Identity is the permanence of a group of beliefs and disbeliefs within a single body, in the course of time. Although converted people might experience the strength of their psychological identity at the present time, this feeling is inevitably disrupted as soon as they try to develop a representation of their own psychological life encompassing past, present and future. At this stage, the question is to understand to which strategies these people might have recourse in order to be able to represent their own

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identity. As a preliminary step toward the answer to this question, it is useful to wonder whether the coexistence of di¡erent beliefs endangers the identity of a controversy. The answer is certainly negative. Since the essence of a controversy is the opposition between di¡erent and often contradictory beliefs, what could really dismantle a controversy is the coexistence of identical beliefs. In any controversy whatsoever, as soon as the contestants agree, the controversy disappears, and there is no longer any need to use the word `controversy'. So, as previously stated, the representation of di¡erent beliefs is as essential for conversion as it is for controversy. Intersections A strategy that converts could adopt in order to soothe their loss of identity is the following: di¡erent beliefs can be described as belonging to di¡erent bodies. This psychological strategy of representation is very common not only in the case of religious conversion, but also in representations of any sort of internal struggle. When two di¡erent psychological elements are seen or experienced as too distant from each other to be borne in the same body, the body itself is represented as if it were split into two or more parts, each carrying and voicing a di¡erent point of view. Countless examples of this kind of representation can be found in the literary genre called the `psychological novel' or `psychological roman', whose main feature and aim is indeed the exploration, analysis and description of psychological states and transformations. One could even argue that the division and multiplication of the body, as in Stevenson's Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, is the conventional narrative device through which ¢ctional texts express the internal struggles of the characters. The self as a theatre The way in which the mind represents its own struggles, and especially the complicated psychological evolution of a religious conversion, is moulded out of the patterns of social interaction. So, despite the deep di¡erences existing between the structure of belief and disbelief in either conversion or controversy, they give rise to similar representations. Conversion is therefore represented as a special kind of controversy, acted by only one person. At this stage, it has to be pointed out that many of the terms used above belong to theatrical terminology: representation, acting, staging, etc. The theatrical metaphor is central to the understanding of the relation between conversion and controversy. It is not by accident that this same metaphor is also fundamental to narration theories. In order to describe the structure of narration, A.J. Greimas has developed two useful concepts: actants and acteurs. The acteurs or actors are the characters of a text, while the actants of a text are its narrative roles. Actors and narrative roles can be combined according to the three following situations:

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There are as many actors as narrative roles, each actor representing a speci¢c narrative role. There are more actors than narrative roles, a narrative role being represented by more than one actor. There are more narrative roles than actors, an actor representing more than one narrative role.

A controversy is likely to be described by situations number one and two, while conversion is likely to be described by the third theoretical possibility. In a controversy, di¡erent narrative roles, including di¡erent beliefs, are supposed to be embodied by di¡erent actors; in a controversy involving more than two people, it might happen that more actors support the same belief (this is situation number two). In religious conversion, on the contrary, a single actor embodies di¡erent beliefs. Yet this third possibility triggers some problems of representation. In Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho, for example, the protagonist simulates a dialogue between his mother and himself, and it is only at the end of the ¢lm that this simulation is unmasked. It is interesting, though, to wonder about what elements make this simulation credible. First, spectators never see the body of the simulator; second, the dialogue is actually embodied by two di¡erent voices (although, it will be found out, belonging to the same larynx). So, the audience is actually moved to believe that two bodies (and two actors) exist. When this kind of simulated dialogue is represented through non-iconic media, i.e. through media unable to represent the body analogically, other arti¢ces must encapsulate the alternation between two di¡erent voices. In written texts, for example, there can be a change in typography, or a change of style. Also di¡erent semantic structures (or `isotopies', in Greimas's language) can convey the idea of a splitting of the personality, although not without ambiguities for the reader. This point comes to be very important where representation of conversion is considered as a kind of simulated dialogue, or internal controversy. A written dialogue is usually recognizable by means of some expressive conventions. This is why a good writer can easily simulate a dialogue between two people. On the contrary, in representations of religious conversion (especially in representations that the mind holds about its own psychological history) there are no such expressive conventions to convey the oscillation between di¡erent beliefs. There is only one voice, only one body, and conversion must therefore be expressed through semantic di¡erences. Monologues and dialogues This point deserves closer attention, since it relates to M. Bachtin's interpretation of interior language. In the article `Konstrukcija vyskazyvanija' (Bachtin 1929), he claims that dialogues are the most natural form of language. Even the prolonged enunciations of a single speaker (the speech of a rhetorician, the conference of a teacher, the monologue of an actor, the reasoning in a

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loud voice of a solitary man, etc.) have merely the exterior form of a monologue, whilst their essential, stylistic and semantic construction is dialogical. So, is there no di¡erence between dialogue and monologue? Of course there is. The expressive form of dialogue implies the presence of two bodies, while monologue only requires one voice. This is why Bachtin a¤rms that monologues and dialogues have di¡erent expressive forms. Is it true, then, that they share the same semantic structure? Undoubtedly, even monologues have a communicative aim, for every monologue could be de¢ned as a dialogue between a speaker and a perfectly silent person. Since every sign is potentially a sign for somebody, a perfect monologue does not exist. Perhaps only the word of God is a perfect monologue, as mystical thinkers might suggest. Yet, although dialogues and monologues share the same general semiotic conditions, they do not follow the same pragmatic rules: a monologue can possibly evoke an interpretation, but it does not necessarily evoke an answer. On the contrary, dialogues always imply an alternation between at least two voices. This is why one can say that a speaker, who is not respecting the rules of good dialogical interaction, is soliloquizing. If monologues had the same pragmatic structure as dialogues, accusing someone of soliloquizing would make no sense. Furthermore, there is a big di¡erence between monologues embodying the idea of an answer and monologues simulating a dialogue. Since the body of the convert is unique, the interior language of conversion is not a dialogue, but a monologue simulating a dialogue. Bachtin's belief in the essentially dialogical nature of language is even wider. In the above-mentioned article, he claims that even the interior language of a speaker is dialogical. According to him, intimate enunciations are also totally dialogical, totally imbued with the evaluations of a hypothetical audience, even when the thought of a potential listener has barely touched on the mind of the speaker. Every verbal thought is therefore socially conditioned and has a dialogical form. Bachtin extends this conception of the mind as far as to decisional processes: when a di¤cult decision has to be taken, it is as if the mind was split into two independent voices opposing each other. In Bachtin's interpretation, the hierarchy between these di¡erent voices is moulded out of the social structure of classes. So, the dominant voice is that of the ideal member of the class one belongs to. This interpretation is certainly in£uenced by socialist ideology, i.e. it considers what happens in the structure of the mind as a consequence of what happens in the social structure. This is a delicate point, requiring a deeper analysis. In order to con¢rm the existence of a direct relation between the structure of the mind and the structure of the classes, empirical evidence should be put forward. If one does not accept this kind of relation, a weaker assumption can be made: the way in which internal con£icts are represented is moulded out of the way external con£icts occur. This a¤rmation is quite di¡erent from Bachtin's interpretation: the social structure does not determine representations of conversion (or other psychological con£icts). On the contrary, one

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gets the impression of this determination merely because the (semantic and pragmatic) structure of social controversy is adopted as a metaphor to describe what happens in the mind. There are no classes in the mind, but only in the way the mind is represented and described. If one agrees to this model of the mind, representations of conversion (but not conversion tout court) can be interpreted as a form of controversy, where di¡erent beliefs are expressed by di¡erent voices. Yet, it has to be stressed that this is nothing but a metaphor (among the countless metaphors that everyone uses to build one's own knowledge), and is not di¡erent from Bachtin's metaphor comparing monologues and dialogues. Models Conversion, controversy and psychodynamics There is another important point in Bachtin's analytical strategy: since the mind contains di¡erent beliefs, these beliefs must be ascribed to di¡erent and independent parts of the mind, interacting with each other in the same way as speakers interact in a controversy. This image of the functioning of the mind is similar to the way in which psychodynamics models mental processes: di¡erent parts of the mind express di¡erent voices, and one is never totally aware of what exchanges go on between these parts. The concept of the unconscious is, as a matter of fact, fundamental to this approach. In Bachin's conception of internal language, although one may believe oneself to speak with a personal voice, this voice is always severely a¡ected by the social class one belongs to. In psychodynamics, it is not stated what causes the intrusion of uncontrolled voices in the mind, but the same general structure is a¤rmed: one can neither know nor control what goes on in one's own mind. In M.J. Horowitz's psychodynamics ^ an interesting synthesis of old psychoanalysis and new cognitive psychology ^ the interaction between unconscious and conscious mental processing is thoroughly analysed (Horowitz 1988). The ways in which unconscious processing a¡ects conscious mental activity are divided into di¡erent categories: computational information processing, such as constructing words into grammatical sentences; unconscious solutions to problems and contradictions; long-standing intentions organized into unconscious fantasies and instinctive drives. The interaction of all these phenomena is not so di¡erent from the interaction of voices in a controversy. In a controversy, one never knows how the contribution of the other speakers will a¡ect the course of the interaction, so that a controversy is always more than the sum of the individual beliefs. In the same way, the mind is more than the sum of the di¡erent mental activities. It is therefore reasonable to assert the need of distinguishing between sociopragmatics, studying inter-subjective interactions, and psycho-pragmatics, analysing the interaction between di¡erent mental activities.

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Nevertheless, it might be argued that in psychodynamics, just as in Bachtin's interpretation, what is imagined to occur in the mind is nothing but a metaphoric projection of what is observed in social interactions between people. In other words, if this hypothesis is true, there should not be such things as unconscious drives in the mind: structures and patterns of social phenomena are used in order to metaphorically describe psychological activities. The same goes for textual semiotics: the meaning is nothing but what is projected over the expression of a text on the basis of what is known from social interactions. The classical graphical representation of the sign, for example F. de Saussure's signi¢ant/signi¢e¨ (Saussure 1972), should therefore be inverted: signi¢e¨/signi¢ant. The meaning is neither injected nor uncovered under the signi¢er, but is rather imposed on it. From a phenomenological point of view, religious conversion is therefore not a kind of controversy. It can be described as a kind of controversy, merely because patterns of social interaction are the only models at one's disposal to describe how the mind works. W. James's interpretation of conversion William James's interpretation of conversion can be classed in the abovementioned category of metaphorical understanding of psychological phenomena through sociological patterns. In 1901 and 1902, he delivered the prestigious Gi¡ord Lectures at Edinburgh University, afterward published as The Varieties of Religious Experience ^ a Study in Human Nature ( James 1902). Lectures number nine and twenty were devoted to religious conversion. The ¢rst paragraph of lecture nine proposes a famous de¢nition of conversion, frequently quoted in literature on this topic: To be converted, to be regenerated, to receive grace, to experience religion, to gain an assurance, are so many phrases which denote the process, gradual or sudden, by which a self hitherto divided, and consciously wrong, inferior and unhappy, becomes uni¢ed and consciously right, superior and happy, in consequence of its ¢rmer hold upon religious realities. This at least is what conversion signi¢es in general terms, whether or not we believe that a direct divine operation is needed to bring such a moral change about. ( James 1902, 189) This quotation needs a scrupulous perusal. First of all, the text does not distinguish between conversion and being converted. As has been pointed out above, conversion is an ine¡able moment between disbelieving and being converted. The unity of the self may characterize a mind after conversion, but not during conversion. Furthermore, this unity is only a unity of beliefs, and not a unity of representations. It is striking that James describes the consequences of a religious conversion as if he were describing the end of a

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controversy: people hitherto divided by opposite views reach a common agreement and put an end to their discussions. The way in which James understands the psycho-pragmatics of conversion is shaped according to the structure of socio-pragmatics phenomena. Yet, if this dependence of psychological interpretation on social interactions is accepted, one has to take into account the way social interactions evolve. A collection of essays edited by R. Porter, bearing the title Rewriting the Self: Histories from the Renaissance to the Present, tries to demonstrate that the idea of the self can be classed among the myths of Western civilization. The way the mind and the self have been imagined is deeply in£uenced by certain social values, so that currently `the secret of selfhood is commonly seen to lie in authenticity and individuality, and its history is presented as a biography of progress towards that goal, overcoming great obstacles in the process' (Porter 1997, 1). James's interpretation of conversion as being the end of a psychological controversy embodies this same idea of the self, which is reinforced by the way in which he imagines the causes of sudden conversions. According to this scholar, sudden conversions are like a controversy in which one of the participants suddenly assumes a strong argument, forcing the other contestants to agree. In the case of unforeseen conversions, James claims that it is not necessary to postulate the existence of a supreme being in order to explain them. Through the analysis of both the ¢eld of consciousness and subliminal stimuli, James proposes to demonstrate that these conversions might be explained simply with reference to the way in which external stimuli lying on the fringe of mental life suddenly penetrate the limits surrounding the ¢eld of consciousness. The structure of this mechanism is analogous to the way psychodynamics imagines the sudden rise of new solutions to personal problems or contradictions (Rothenberg 1979; Weiss and Sampson 1982; Gardner 1986). In this model, one has no access to what is going on in one's mind, and it is precisely through a sudden and unforeseen communication between consciousness and unconsciousness that a solution to either artistic, scienti¢c or religious problems, can be found. It might be argued that this point of view is nothing but a secular embodiment of the very old concept of grace. A God hidden within the mind replaces a God hidden in the sky. Actually, this shows that in James's interpretation of religious conversion, grace and unconscious mental mechanisms are more or less the same. His idea of the development of the self in Western history is characterized by an increasingly direct relationship between men and God, but also between the self and the parts of the mind that the self cannot control: From Catholicism to Lutheranism, and then to Calvinism; from that to Wesleyanism; and from this, outside of technical Christianity altogether, to pure `liberalism' or transcendental idealism, whether or not of the mind-cure type, taking in the mediaeval mystics, the quietists, the

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Religious conversion and identity pietists, and Quakers by the way, we can trace the stages of progress towards the idea of an immediate spiritual help, experienced by the individual in his forlornness and standing in no essential need of doctrinal apparatus or propitiatory machinery. ( James 1902, 211)

Religious grace is therefore compared to a brilliant £ash of inspiration that one might experience during a controversy. We shall dwell more on this phenomenon with reference to the way in which, in the pragmatics of human communication formulated by the researchers of the psychological school of Palo Alto, sudden psychological changes are compared to unexpected turning points in the course of a con£ict (i.e. within social interaction). In Change, P. Watzlawick, J.H. Weakland and R. Fisch introduce their analyses of psychological changes by an apologue concerning a con£ict (Watzlawick, Weakland and Fisch 1974). In 1334, the duchess of Tyrol Marguerite Maultasch's soldiers besieged the castle of Hochosterwitz. After a long and exhausting siege, the besieged had almost ¢nished their provisions. They only had an ox and two sacks of barley. The situation of the duchess's army was not much better: soldiers started to manifest some signs of indiscipline. Suddenly, the captain of the castle gave orders to butcher the last ox, to ¢ll it with the last two sacks of barley and to throw it to the enemies. After receiving this message, the duchess decided to raise the siege and leave. The authors of Change consider this episode a good example of what happens in the mind when an unforeseen change (for example an unexpected conversion) occurs. So, the pragmatic structure of a con£ict becomes an e¡ective metaphor of psychological change. Access to the mind and access to the body Yet, it might be wondered whether the comparison between social and psychological levels is always adequate, and whether the way one cannot have access to one's own mind is comparable to the way one cannot have access to other people's minds. Some philosophers have argued that one has privileged access to one's own mind. In the philosophy of mind this position is called the `doctrine of privileged access' and has been the object of endless (and inconclusive) debate so far. As a consequence, it is perhaps better to distinguish between conversion and controversy on the basis of the di¡erent access one can have to the body. It might be argued that the unity and uniqueness of the body is the greatest obstacle for those trying to represent conversion as a form of controversy. When the tension between the necessity of a single body and the coexistence of di¡erent beliefs is unbearable, there can be a phenomenon of bodily multiplication. This phenomenon is close to schizophrenia. If di¡erent beliefs cannot be subsumed in the same body, the body multiplies itself in order to produce as many receptacles as beliefs. This narrative strategy is very

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common in iconic media, especially in painting. Actually, the representational di¤culties of the mind are very close to the representational di¤culties of paintings. In the same way, paintings must exist in the present time. They can only represent instants, with neither a past nor a future. As a consequence, in order to depict conversion, paintings usually choose to represent the most signi¢cant moment of a religious conversion. Yet, the representation of this moment is not a representation of conversion, but a fragment of it, from which the whole representation of conversion must be inferred. Another strategy which paintings may adopt is, exactly, the multiplication of the body. This is the case, quite common in the history of Western art, of schizophrenic painting: the same body is represented more than once in the same painting, so as to convey the coexistence of di¡erent beliefs. Spectators are now accustomed to this kind of representational convention, but it would be otherwise totally natural to believe that a painting reproducing the same body in di¡erent postures depicts twins with di¡erent personalities instead of believing that it represents the same person in di¡erent moments of their psychological history. However, it is only by recognizing the same body that pictorial representations of religious conversion can be understood. In the same way, when the mind represents its own conversion as a controversy, it is only with reference to the persistence of the body that the unity of di¡erent beliefs in the same representation may be grasped. So, the body is at the same time a fastidious obstacle and a useful resource in order to experience a feeling of identity. On the one hand, memory of the opposition between di¡erent beliefs is held precisely because a single body has contained them; on the other hand, the persistence of a single body as a receptacle for contradictory beliefs enables mental representations of conversion. Stories In this section some examples of religious conversion will be analysed and compared with controversy. The following distinction between the pragmatics of either conversion or controversy is important: in a controversy, it is normal, and even essential, that di¡erent beliefs be supported alternately, sometimes through a rapid exchange of di¡erent points of view. On the contrary, in religious conversion, as soon as one comes to believe in a certain religious denomination, going back to a state of disbelief, or embracing a di¡erent faith, is very problematic. Yet some examples of multiple conversions can be found in religious history. In multiple conversions, one experiences multiple passages between di¡erent sets of religious beliefs. This oscillation is not the same as the indecision that one may experience through the process leading to conversion. In multiple conversions, there is not simply alternation between opposite religious beliefs but alternation between opposite religious intentions. Intentions are persistent beliefs, connected with plans of action, which are to be performed by the body. This strong connection between religious intentions and bodily actions makes multiple

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conversions very problematic for the psychological integrity of an individual. Sometimes intentions can be so opposite that one cannot imagine bearing them in the same body. The body is therefore multiplied, so as to simulate a controversy between di¡erent actors. This form of conversion is the most similar to a real inter-subjective controversy: the mind is split into several parts, which are not able to represent the unity of the self any more. As a consequence, the body itself is multiplied, through di¡erent strategies of multiplication. One of these strategies stems from the strict connection existing between self, body and name. Selves, bodies and names A comparison between the representations of both conversion and controversy will be useful in order to understand the connection mentioned above. In the written account of a controversy, it is central to distinguish which person is supporting which belief. In the representation of a political debate, for example, the possibility of distinguishing between di¡erent contestants is essential to the intelligibility of the exchange, so that as soon as a contestant takes the £oor, his/her name is mentioned. In the same way, in religious conversions a sharp change of beliefs is frequently marked by a change of personal name. This happens for both social and psychological reasons. From the social point of view, names always bear a precise meaning, often connected with a certain religious tradition. Every religion has its own set of favorite personal names: Paul, Luke and Mark are typical Christian names, while Muhammad, Ali and Ishmael are typical Muslim names. So, it is natural that, after conversion, and especially in the passage from one religious faith to another (religious transition), the name is also changed. The personal name is an etiquette pinpointing the relation between a self and a social tradition. People entering Christian religious orders, for example, are always requested to change their old name, and to adopt a new name, more consistent with their new beliefs. A new religious life means new beliefs and requires a distinct mark in the use of a new name. In multiple conversions, adopting di¡erent names is a strategy of bodily multiplication. Since naming a body means choosing a single name, the use of more than one name implies the multiplication of the body. So, the body becomes the arena of a real controversy. Miguel de Barrios This is the case of Miguel de Barrios, a poet who was born in Montilla (province of Cordoba), in a family of conversos15 and was baptized on 3 November 1635. Soon afterwards, the Barrios family left Spain. The poet's parents and some of their children settled in Algeria, while Miguel went ¢rst to Nice and then to Livorno, where a strong Jewish community had long been established. Here, guided by an aunt of his, he converted to the Jewish faith, and

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went through the rite of circumcision. In 1660 this adventurous and restless poet moved to Tobago, in the Dutch Antilles, to settle down, but immediately returned to Livorno, from where he moved again to Brussels. The most interesting part of this story is that for a very long time Miguel de Barrios would oscillate between Brussels and Amsterdam, living a double life: he would be a Catholic in Brussels, while in Amsterdam his name would suddenly change into Daniel Lev|¨ de Barrios, Jewish. This story shows many interesting points, which deserve closer attention. First of all, it has to be pointed out that Miguel de Barrios was born in a particular social context, which forced some people to hide their faith and to super¢cially embrace Catholic religion (on this topic, see pp. 35^7). This social context must have had a deep in£uence on Miguel de Barrios' religious intentions. Second, it has to be stressed that the restless geographical displacement of Miguel de Barrios, ¢rst with his family, then on his own, certainly contributed to the shaping of his body as the arena of a controversy. Here the theatrical conception of the body^mind relation is useful again. As E. Go¡man has shown in his studies, one presents di¡erent social masks and even di¡erent beliefs within di¡erent social contexts, so that moving between separate spaces enables one to oscillate between opposite representations of oneself (Go¡man 1959). Miguel de Barrios' unceasingly travelling from place to place was therefore indispensable for the staging of his multiple conversions. Third, it has to be emphasized that Miguel de Barrios' changes of faith were constantly marked by changes in both his personal name and his poetic inventions. He would not only be at the same time Miguel de Barrios and Daniel Lev|¨ de Barrios; he would also a¤rm his religious beliefs through literary texts. For example, he celebrated his ¢rst conversion to the Jewish faith by the following lines: `A mi t|¨a Raquel Coe¨n de Sosa/debo la primer luz de la Ley pura'; `I owe to my aunt Raquel Coe¨n de Sosa the ¢rst light of the pure Law'. As a Catholic man living in Brussels, he would mock Jewish religious beliefs, and, vice versa, as a Jewish man living in Amsterdam, he would write satirical poems concerning the Gospels. One of these poems is particularly suitable in order to show Miguel de Barrios' internal controversy: the Fabula de Christo y la Magdalena compuesta por frai Antonio Ma¨rquez, catedra¨tico de Visperas en la Universidad de Salamanca, que estando en la Inquisicio¨n escrivio¨ este discurso en Londres en 45 de enero del an¬o que viene de 1003 y 34 ^ (`Fable of Christ and the Magdalene, written by Fray Antonio Ma¨rquez, Professor of Vesper in the University of Salamanca, who, being in the Inquisition wrote this speech in London, the 45th of January of the coming year 1003 and 34 '). This surreal title introduces a harshly satirical poem concerning the relation between Christ and the Magdalene, having its peak in a blasphemous coitus. Probably this parody, contained in the manuscript 17.687 of the Spanish National Library in Madrid, was not written for publication (Alatorre 1993, 401^58). It was a text for Jewish people only, addressed exclusively to men, given its obscene content. Miguel de Barrios' moving

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from Judaism to Catholicism and vice versa was so sharp that it enabled him even to adopt satirical points of view on either religion. This is something very common in controversies: opponents adopt harshly satirical attitudes towards each other's ideas. Yet, this kind of bitter irony is not frequent at all in religious conversion: it is impossible to hold some religious beliefs and to mock them at the same time. Nevertheless, this happened in the life of Miguel de Barrios, which ended tragically. In 1674 the poet experienced a mental breakdown: he had fanatically believed, like many other Jewish people, in the new Messiah Shabbatai Zevi, a charismatic but unstable prophet who disappointed his supporters by converting to Islam.16 At Easter of 1674 Barrios spent several days in deep madness, haunted by strange visions. He eventually recovered his mental stability, but not completely: he went through new crises in 1682 and 1685. Miguel de Barrios had been able to manage the continuous switches of his conversions, but the unity of his identity eventually cracked before the conversion of a religious leader of his to a third creed (Islam). T. Oelman, who studied the life of this poet, argued that his religious instability was the main cause of the poet's breakdown (Oelman 1981). As in a controversy, di¡erent parts of his mind voiced opposite arguments, which nevertheless had to be encapsulated in the same single body. The multiplication of Miguel de Barrios' body could not be as e¡ective as the multiple representation of a painting, since even changing names or literary attitudes could only temporarily postpone the inevitable and unbearable fragmentation of his self. Fucan Fabian Another story of conversion is interesting in order to understand how the mind can become the place of an internal controversy (although with all the limits signalled above). It is the story of one of the ¢rst Japanese Jesuits, reported by P. Akamatsu in an article of his (Akamatsu 1996).17 Fucan Fabian was a Japanese man converted to Catholicism and allowed to enter the Jesuit order in 1586. This was his ¢rst conversion. Twenty years later he abjured the Catholic religion (second conversion) and embraced it again on the point of dying (third conversion). The most amazing aspect of Fucan Fabian's life is that he was the protagonist of a controversy whose many roles he played alone. Furthermore, in his psychological history there cannot be even the suspicion that he was simulating conversion, since he was not forced either to accept or to abjure the Catholic religion (as might have been the case in Miguel de Barrios' life). Instead, in his multiple switches, Fucan Fabian did what the protagonists of a controversy usually do: every time he converted, he wrote an essay in praise of his new religion and in order to denigrate the old one. So, when he converted to Catholicism, he translated many Latin religious texts into Japanese, and wrote a meticulous book, bearing the following title: Myo-Tej Mondo, `Questions and Answers of

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Myoshu and Yutei'. This essay is noteworthy for at least two reasons. First of all, it criticizes Buddhism, Shinto and Confucianism in favour of Christianity. Second, it is a perfect example of what has been called above a simulated dialogue: a single mind invents two actors playing two di¡erent narrative roles. Myo-Tej Mondo is a sort of projection of Fucan Fabian's state of mind. Yet, at this stage, and in order to distinguish between internal and external struggles, between psychological and social exchanges, another element in Fucan Fabian's life must be emphasized. His abjuration of Catholicism, twenty years after his ordination as a Jesuit, was probably triggered by his encounter with the young Japanese erudite Hayashi Razan. Personal encounter is important also in Miguel de Barrios' life, since his ¢rst conversion to Judaism was promoted by his visiting a Jewish aunt in Livorno. This shows that although conversion can be seen as a form of internal controversy, especially as regards multiple conversions, whose structure is very close to that of a controversy, it is rather through social interactions that the balance between belief and disbelief is modi¢ed.18 After his encounter with Hayashi Razan, Fucan Fabian wrote the essay Io Ha Dajiusu, o Contra Deum. This witty text is the perfect counterpoint to Myo-Tej Mondo, wherein the author analyses the weak points of the Christian religion. Among other episodes, he describes how in Macao he had seen Jesuits and monks of di¡erent orders ¢ghting with each other with sticks and harquebus. He is also ¢lled with indignation against the kind of conversation he heard between Jesuits and lay people and against the racism European Jesuits held towards Japanese novices. Yet, the history of philosophy o¡ers many examples of these sudden turning points, where psychological struggle is often a consequence of social controversy, a sort of internal representation of it. The others The way in which these philosophical or religious turning points occur shows the importance of personal encounters in the development of religious conversion. Although an internal controversy might take place in the mind of a person, inter-subjective di¡erence is always more decisive than intrasubjective di¡erence in the shaping of a conversion. The mind can represent itself as a theatre where more actors play di¡erent roles, or as a chessboard on which di¡erent people are moving their chessmen, but it is through real encounters, and through inter-subjective exchanges, that one can experience a feeling of otherness. Currently, the most articulated models of conversion also stress this predominance of social interaction over psychological dynamics. Among the seven stages which compose the model of L.R. Rambo, for example (context, crisis, quest, encounter, interaction, commitment and consequences), most have a social nature (Rambo and Farhadian 1999). In this model, encounter is the central stage. This is not simply because

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a sociological approach is privileged: it depends instead upon the importance of external exchanges in the formation of religious conversion.

Conclusion Conversion has always been interpreted by focusing more on either of the two following di¡erent models: on the one hand, interpretations have privileged the in£uence of elements external to conscious mental activities (this is the case of theological interpretations stressing the importance of grace and predestination, or the case of psychoanalytical explanations focusing on unconscious mental processes); on the other hand, other interpretations have privileged the conscious activity of the mind and its ability to shape itself. The ¢rst group of interpretations has considered conversion as a phenomenon comparable to a sort of controversy (the controversy between God and Satan, for example, or the controversy between di¡erent parts of the mind). The present chapter has tried to elucidate the relation between conversion and controversy, through the demonstration of the following points. 1

2 3

Although the structure of some religious conversions may be similar to the structure of a controversy, deep di¡erences exist between these two elements in their relationship to the body: conversion requires a single body, while controversy requires a multiplicity of bodies. All the further di¡erences between conversion and controversy derive from this fundamental opposition. Although conversion is essentially di¡erent from a controversy, it is represented as a controversy, because people tend to use metaphors deriving from social interaction in order to represent the activity in their minds. The inter-subjective encountering of people supporting di¡erent beliefs (also through media) is central to the development of conversion. Representations of intra-subjective arguments derive from inter-subjective discussion.

3

The re-stabilization of the self

Introduction The ¢rst chapter of this book (`The destabilization of the self ') has dealt with the way in which the encounter with a new system of religious ideas (in the case of the conversions studied here, the Christian system of religious ideas) provokes a destabilization of the self, i.e. the disorganization of the (more or less) coherent structure of beliefs, which characterizes both the personal (or psychical) and collective (or social) identity of a person. Also, this same chapter has focused on the way in which texts (in the form of both words and images) represent this phase of religious conversion. The anthropological and semiotic considerations about this moment of destabilization of the self have been situated within the context of early-modern Christianity, when a large quantity of persuasive (both verbal and visual) instruments was displayed in order to enlarge the Catholic community by converting people who either had previously converted to Protestantism, or to another religion di¡erent from the Catholic one, or belonged to di¡erent religious groups ( Jews, Muslims, people of the newly discovered parts of the words), or were atheist or simply lukewarm believers. The second chapter (`The crisis of the self ') has dealt with the di¡erent aspects of the crisis which arises from the above-mentioned and de¢ned destabilization of the self. This crisis has been analysed from two points of view. On the one hand, the destabilization of the self implies the loss of personal identity. This means that converted people do not know how to coherently organize the di¡erent (and often opposite) religious (and nonreligious) ideas which they have received from the encounter with the Christian message or which they have developed as a consequence of this encounter. On the other hand, the destabilization of the self implies the loss of social identity. This means that the group or community to which converted people belonged (or still continue to belong) does not know how to coherently integrate them. These two losses have been analysed from a psychical (internal) and social (external) point of view, but also from the semiotic point of view of representations. How do converted people represent

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themselves? How does society represent converted people? Two concepts have been chosen in order to answer these two questions and in order to be heuristically compared with the concept of conversion: the loss of personal identity has been elucidated with reference to the concept (and representations) of controversy, while the loss of collective identity has been elucidated with reference to the concept (and representations) of treason. This chapter will deal with a phase of religious conversion which can be de¢ned as `the re-stabilization of the self '. The main purpose of this third section is to describe and, possibly, understand the semiotic mechanisms through which the personal and collective identity of converted people can be recovered and a coherent system of (religious) ideas and beliefs can be re-stabilized. This phase of religious conversion will be analysed from a psychological and sociological point of view, but, above all, from a semiotic perspective. The representation of the turning point in the religious life of a person is problematic, for reasons which will also be explored in this chapter (and which have been partly dealt with in the section about the relation between conversion and controversy in the previous chapter). Given these di¤culties, two questions can be asked: at a personal level, how do converted people invent a language in order to recount and account for religious conversion? At a social level, how does a social group (for example a religious community) invent a language in order to recount and account for the religious conversion of a new member? As in chapters 1 and 2, the considerations of chapter 3 will be situated mainly in the historical context of earlymodern Christianity. These considerations will be divided into three parts. Since, from both a psychological and a semiotic point of view, three main types of religious conversion can be singled out (corresponding to the three main levels of narration): intellectual, emotional and pragmatic conversion (Pinard de la Boullaye in DS, vol. 1, sub voce `conversion'), it will be argued that three of the most famous conversions of Christianity (respectively, the conversions of Saint Augustine, the Magdalene and Saint Paul) have often functioned as a model of re-stabilization of the self for those who, after them, have lived an analogous experience of conversion to Christianity, for example during the period of the Counter-Reformation. But how did Augustine recover the integrity of his self after conversion? And how did the Magdalene, or Paul? Through what semiotic mechanisms and devices has Christianity told the stories of these three converted people in order to express a meaning of both change and identity, evolution and coherence? The main hypothesis through which this chapter will try to answer the above-mentioned questions is that these conversions have been represented mainly through paradoxical objects, able to symbolize both good and evil, to convey the ambiguous spiritual nature of religious conversion and represent the otherwise ine¡able watershed between the sinful and the saintly life of a converted person.

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Three objects will be particularly analysed from this point of view: the ¢g tree, the ointment and the horse, in relation to, respectively, the conversions of Augustine, the Magdalene1 and Paul. First of all, the conversion of Augustine will be dealt with. After a brief demonstration of the fundamentally intellectual nature of this conversion, the passage of the Confessions (Augustine's spiritual autobiography) which describes the turning point of his religious life will be analysed, with reference to the following questions: why did Augustine choose a ¢g tree in order to shelter the moment of his conversion? Is this a mere accident or is it a considered choice, which takes into account the symbolic potential of this plant? Through philological evidence, it will be shown that the choice of the ¢g tree was not casual, and its symbolical consequences will be pointed out. What was the meaning which Augustine tried to convey by mentioning a ¢g tree in the passage of his autobiography that describes his conversion? What meanings have been attributed to this ¢g tree by those who have adopted Augustine's spiritual autobiography as a model of re-stabilization of the self? In order to answer these two questions (the ¢rst is philological, the second semiotic) the connotations of the ¢g tree will be listed and analysed. The huge number of these connotations will be sifted twice: ¢rst, only the religious connotations will be considered; second, only the JudeoChristian connotations will be taken into account. The following sources will be referred to: the Old and the New Testament, the Fathers of the Church, the apocryphal texts and the popular imagery embodied in idiomatic expressions. The way in which the connotations that characterize the ¢g tree in verbal texts (such as the above-mentioned sources) interact with the connotations which characterize the ¢g tree in visual representations of Augustine's conversion will also be analysed. The last part of the section, devoted to Augustine, will deal with the way in which his model has been used by other converted people so as to represent or describe the re-stabilization of their self.

The conversion of ideas: the ¢g tree Classifying religious conversion: two criteria Representations of religious conversion can be classi¢ed in two ways at least: ¢rst, depending on whether they emphasize more the process (evolution) or the instant (turning point) of conversion; second, depending on whether they focus more on the intellectual, emotional or pragmatic dimension of conversion. The purpose of the ¢rst part of the present section is to demonstrate that Augustine's conversion and its autobiographical representation emphasize the process more than the instant, and the intellect more than the emotions or the praxis.

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Intellectual and gradual nature of Saint Augustine's conversion Most scholars agree in a¤rming the slow and gradual nature of Augustine's religious conversion. For instance, H. Pinard de la Boullaye, in an article on religious conversion, contained in the Dictionnaire de spiritualite¨ (sub voce `conversion', 1, cols 2224^65), chooses Augustine's conversion as an example of those intellectual and slow conversions which terminate in an emotional peak. According to this scholar, it is inadmissible to reduce Augustine's conversion merely to the hours of desolation which are ended by the tolle et lege, without taking into account the long investigations of the Saint and his doubts, even after the evidence of the ¢nal resolution.2 Obviously, although Augustine's conversion is mainly intellectual, it contains also some emotional elements, as is indicated by the following passage of the Confessions: From a hidden depth a profound self-examination had dredged up a heap of all my misery and set it `in the sight of my heart'(Ps. 18:15). That precipitated a vast storm bearing a massive downpour of tears.3 (Augustine of Hippo 1991, 152^8, 12, 28) So, emotions are not absent from Augustine's religious conversion, but, nevertheless, they are not preponderant. The intellectual (or cognitive) dimension of this conversion is more important. In the same way, although Augustine's conversion is mainly a process, it contains also a turning point, which, according to the way in which it is depicted in Augustine's spiritual autobiography, takes place in a Milanese garden. The following passage of the Confessions describes the turning point of Augustine's conversion: I threw myself down somehow under a certain ¢g tree, and let my tears £ow freely. Rivers streamed from my eyes. A sacri¢ce acceptable to you (Ps. 50: 19), and (though not in these words, yet in this sense) I repeatedly said to you: `How long, O Lord? How long, Lord, will you be angry to the uttermost? Do not be mindful of our old iniquities.' (Ps. 6: 4). For I felt my past to have a grip on me. It uttered wretched cries: `How long, how long is it to be?' Tomorrow, tomorrow. `Why not now? Why not an end to my impure life in this very hour?' 4 (ibid.) So, a turning point is not absent from Augustine's religious conversion, but it is not preponderant. In this conversion, the process is more important than the turning point. Demonstrating the intellectual and slow nature of Augustine's conversion is important because its representations will be frequently adopted, also in the early-modern epoch, as a model for those who will experience an analogous type of spiritual turning point.

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Augustine and the representation of a paradox Catholic interpreters of Augustine's conversion have emphasized more its elements of continuity and identity rather than its elements of diversity and change. John Paul II, for example, in an article on Augustine's conversion, interprets it as a return to Christianity rather than as the discovery of a totally unknown and new religion. He a¤rms that Augustine's conversion followed a very particular path, and that it was not a conquest of the Catholic faith, but a recuperation of it. According to this author, Augustine was convinced, when he lost his faith, that he was abandoning only the Church, and not Christ.5 This interpretation is convincing, but it cannot eliminate the paradoxical element which is contained in Augustine's conversion: it is a process and an event at the same time; Augustine changes gradually, but at some stage he becomes a completely di¡erent person.6 How did Augustine succeed in representing this paradoxical mixture of conversion and identity? Answering this question is important not only in order to interpret Augustine's conversion and its representations, but also in order to understand all those representations of conversion which have adopted Augustine as a model.7 Augustine, bishop of Hippo, is one of the most in£uential writers in the whole of Christianity. Most scholars agree on this point. John Paul II, for example, emphasizes the importance of the Augustinian tradition, and states that the bishop of Hippo, who just a year after his death was considered as `one of the best masters of the Church', by Pope Celestine I (422^32), has always been present in the life of Christianity and in both the mind and the culture of the whole Occident.8 The main hypothesis of the present section is that Augustine was able to e¤caciously represent the paradoxical process/moment of his conversion thanks to the fact that, when he described it, he used the symbolic potential of a particular ¢gure: the ¢g tree. The second hypothesis is that those who have modelled the representations of their religious conversion according to the example of Augustine's spiritual autobiography, have used the same ¢gure in a similar way. The semiotics of ¢gures Since the semiotic concept of ¢gure will be important in the development of these two hypotheses, it must be de¢ned rigorously. What are the ¢gures of a text? Literature on this semiotic element is extensive. Erich Auerbach's essay `Figura', which is contained in his Gesammelte AufsÌtze zur romanischen Philologie (Auerbach 1967, 55^92), summarizes the history of ¢gures in Biblical exegesis and promotes them as a critical device. In the present context, though, ¢gures will be de¢ned di¡erently, and precisely with reference to structural semiotics. In this discipline, ¢gures are objects of the real world, which appear in a text in order to constitute a ¢ctional world.9 The most important characteristic of a ¢gure is that it can always be lexicalized, i.e. it

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can always be designated by a word. When objects of the real world appear in a text, be it verbal or visual, they become ¢gures of such a text. The way in which a ¢gure modi¢es the meaning of a text in which it appears, depends on three factors at least: 1 2 3

The structure (including shape and functioning), which characterizes the object in the real world, before it becomes the ¢gure of a text. This is the level of phenomenological analysis. The interaction between this structure and the other features of the text, which receives the object as one of its ¢gures. This is the level of semiotic analysis. The interaction between the text in which the ¢gure appears, and other texts, which use the same object in comparable ways. This is the level of intertextual analysis (Kristeva 1969; Ruprecht 1983; Hebel 1989).

The symbolical nature of Saint Augustine's ¢g tree After de¢ning the concept of ¢gure, the symbolic nature of the ¢g tree, which appears in the Milanese garden of Augustine's conversion, must be demonstrated. Why should this ¢g tree be considered as a symbolic ¢gure, and not simply as a realistic decorative element in Augustine's prose? The symbolic nature of this ¢g tree will be pointed out with reference to Pierre Courcelle's analysis of the scene in the Milanese garden. Pierre Courcelle is the author of two important books on the literary and symbolic tradition which refers to Augustine and his Confessions: Les Confessions de saint Augustin dans la tradition litte¨raire (Courcelle 1963) and Recherches sur les Confessions de Saint Augustin (Courcelle 1968). Chapter twelve of the ¢rst book is entirely devoted to the `historicity of the scene of the garden',10 with many references to the ¢g tree under which Augustine heard the message which achieved his conversion, the tolle et lege (Courcelle 1963, 191^3; 342^3 n. 3 ; 388 n. 1 and 2; 392^3 n. 6; 469; 502). Pierre Courcelle tries to demonstrate, against other possible interpretations, that the ¢g tree has not a pure descriptive value, but that Augustine chose it by virtue of its symbolic potential: Yet I have claimed ^ and I keep claiming ^ that when Augustine mentions this ¢g tree, in the moment when he throws himself down on the ground and complains about himself, he does so because of its symbolic value.11 (Courcelle 1963, 191) In order to support his hypothesis, Courcelle adopts two strategies: the ¢rst one, indirect, consists in pointing out that Augustine was critical about other writers when they used too many decorative descriptions.12 As a consequence, according to these stylistic principles, Augustine would have mentioned the

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¢g tree only if it had had a symbolic value, and not a merely realistic function. A second, more direct strategy, consists in demonstrating the symbolic meaning of the ¢g tree through a philological analysis. Courcelle's claim is that when Augustine mentions the ¢g tree, he is alluding to the encounter between Jesus and Nathaniel, described in John 1, 48. This interpretation is supported by two series of reasons: a grammatical series and a philological series. The ¢rst one relates to Augustine's use of the evangelical locution sub arbore ¢ci, instead of the more common expression sub arbore ¢cu. The philological series relates to the fact that Augustine frequently comments on this evangelical passage in his exegetical texts, and always in relation to the ¢g tree as `the mortal shadow of sins, in spite of which Jesus perceives and justi¢es humankind.'13 Also, Courcelle supports his a¤rmation of the symbolic value of the ¢g tree through the fact that many exegetes of the Confessions, such as Philip of Harvengt (twelfth century),14 Franc° ois de Sales and Jean-Louis Fromentie©res (seventeenth century) (Fromentie©res 1692), considered the ¢g tree as a reference to Nathaniel's episode. The meaning of the ¢g tree: three types of intentio Courcelle's demonstration of the symbolic value of Augustine's ¢g tree is credible, but the way in which he interprets the meaning of this ¢g tree, i.e. merely as a reference to the episode of Nathaniel, is not fully convincing. In order to illustrate this point, the di¡erence between historical intertextuality and semiotic intertextuality, and the di¡erence between intentio auctoris, intentio operis and intentio lectoris must be elucidated. As regards the ¢rst di¡erence, on the one hand, the presence of historical intertextuality implies that some kind of historical contact has generated the resemblance between two texts. For instance, Augustine read the gospel of John, and was in£uenced by it. Historical intertextuality is always chronological: sources are the past of a text, which is a source for subsequent texts. On the other hand, semiotic intertextuality is not a matter of historical contact, but a matter of structural resemblance. From a semiotic point of view, Augustine's ¢g tree has many more connotations than the ones implied by Augustine's probable knowledge of the gospel of John. As regards the second di¡erence, the intentio auctoris, i.e. the meaning which Augustine wanted to express through the ¢gure of the ¢g tree, must be distinguished from the intentio operis, i.e. the meaning which the text of the Confessions attributes to the ¢g tree, and from the intentio lectoris, i.e. the meaning which a reader of the Confessions can attribute to the same ¢gure (Eco 1979). Courcelle's interpretation deals only with the historical intertextuality and with the intentio auctoris of the scene in the garden. Through philological instruments, he tries to demonstrate what meaning Augustine wanted to express deliberately by using the symbol of the ¢g tree. Courcelle's idea is that Augustine's mention of the ¢g tree is a veiled reference to a possible comparison between his own spiritual situation and the story of Nathaniel.

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Even from this strictly philological point of view, though, some perplexities about Courcelle's interpretation can be pointed out, and di¡erent exegetical possibilities explored. Nathaniel and Augustine are comparable for two reasons: ¢rst, they both sit under a ¢g tree; second, they are both seen by Jesus while they are sitting under a ¢g tree. However, the di¡erences between the two episodes must also be pointed out. First of all, Augustine and Nathaniel change in a di¡erent way. On the one hand, Nathaniel is simply skeptical about Jesus and changes his mind after encountering him. He does not experience a real conversion. On the other hand, Augustine's turning point is much more radical. Sitting under a ¢g tree, he becomes a di¡erent person. Both episodes represent a change, but with di¡erent intensity. A second di¡erence relates to the meaning of sitting under a ¢g tree. According to many commentators of Nathaniel's story, his sitting under a ¢g tree must be interpreted with reference to the fact that in several tales reported by the rabbis of the ancient Palestine, ¢g trees were likely to be chosen as a shelter in order to read and meditate on the Scriptures.15 When Augustine sits under a ¢g tree in the Confessions, he is severely anguished by his spiritual situation, while when Nathaniel sits under a ¢g tree in the gospel of John, he is probably meditating. It is impossible to know whether Augustine was aware of this di¡erence, and could be in£uenced by it, but even if Courcelle's way of interpreting Augustine's expressive intention is considered as correct, other connotations of the ¢g tree must be explored in order to understand the semiotic intertextuality, the intentio operis and the intentio lectoris of the scene in the garden. What di¡erent connotations of the ¢g tree could have inspired Augustine (even at the level of his subconscious imagery) in the description of his conversion? Which of these connotations have guided those who adopted Augustine's Confessions as a model of spiritual autobiography in their interpretation of the scene in the garden? Sources of interpretation In order to answer these questions, the ¢gure of the ¢g tree must be interpreted with reference to di¡erent contexts and sources. This operation implies a problem: the ¢g tree is a ¢gure tree, i.e. an object whose semiotic and symbolic potential is enormous, for two reasons at least. First, trees in general are very common symbols in almost every culture. Second, ¢g trees are very common trees in the Mediterranean area. As regards Augustine's passage, it is neither possible nor useful to consider all these connotations. The Paulys RealencyclopÌdie der Classischen Altertumswissenschaft, for example, devotes more than ¢fty columns (sub voce `feige') to the symbolic potential of the ¢g in the classic civilization (Wissowa 1909). Many of these connotations, though, cannot be used in order to interpret Augustine's scene in the garden (even from the point of view of its intentio lectoris), because they do not contain any religious isotopy.16

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For instance, the fact that Cato showed fresh ¢gs from Carthage to his cocitizens the Romans in order to give them a vivid impression of the closeness of the enemy has probably nothing to do with Augustine's symbolical use of the ¢g tree. As a consequence, the ¢rst interpretative restriction is that only religious meanings will be considered. This restriction, though, is not su¤cient. The Motif-Index of Folk Literature, compiled by Stith Thompson, registers a great number of religious connotations related to the ¢g tree in various cultures. In some folkloric traditions, for instance, the ¢g tree is `the chief priest of trees', or `the God-tree' (Thompson 1958, 283). The Thompson-Balys Motif and Type Index of the Oral Tales of India reports other examples, such us the `¢g tree which stays with the angels' (Thompson and Balys 1958, sub voce `¢g tree'). Other scholars have pointed out that in Estonian folklore the `¢g tree protects Jesus from rain: is green all year' (Anti 1907; Tubach 1981). All these references are interesting, but they are probably useless for the interpretation of Augustine's Confessions and its tradition, since they are unlikely to have in£uenced Augustine or his interpreters. As a consequence, a second interpretative restriction will be added to the ¢rst: only the religious connotations of the ¢g tree in the Judeo-Christian civilization will be taken into account. The ¢g tree in the Bible: the Old Testament 17 The Old and the New Testament will be the ¢rst sources to be analysed. In the whole Bible, the word `¢g tree' occurs thirty-nine times, twenty-¢ve of them in Hebrew (te'e¨naªh), and the rest in Greek (). The most famous ¢g tree of the Old Testament is probably the one whose leaves were used by Adam and Eve to make clothes after they had committed original sin, in the book of Genesis. This passage must be analysed in depth, for two reasons: ¢rst, Augustine commented on it frequently. This makes the book of Genesis another possible source (even from a philological point of view) of the scene in the garden. Second, this passage relates to an exegetical and iconographical misunderstanding, which could cast new light on the religious symbolism of the ¢g tree. Augustine devoted much attention to the book of Genesis, with which he dealt in De Genesi contra Manichees libri duo,18 in the un¢nished De Genesi ad Litteram Imperfectus liber19 and in the exhaustive commentary De Genesi ad Litteram libri duodecim.20 In the eleventh book of this last commentary, Augustine relates the ¢g leaves to the shame of the ¢rst sinners.21 It is reasonable to presume that in Augustine's personal imagery the ¢g tree was a symbol of original sin and, more generally, a symbol of evil. This hypothesis is con¢rmed by the way in which Augustine quotes this biblical episode in many di¡erent texts.22 It is interesting to remark that, when Augustine comments on such an episode, the fruit of original sin is never speci¢ed, and remains a general,

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abstract fruit.23 In the iconography24 and in the popular imagery25 of original sin, though, this fruit is associated immediately with an apple, which is never mentioned in the book of Genesis. The wrong iconography of Adam and Eve's original sin refers to the Vulgate, the Latin translation of the Bible which has dominated the Christian civilization for many centuries, until the appearance of the ¢rst translations in vernacular in the ¢fteenth century (Fischer et al. 1965). The Vulgate translated the Hebrew word for `fruit' by the Latin word `pomum', which in Latin also means `apple'.26 Visual interpretations of Adam and Eve's original sin contributed to this identi¢cation of a generic fruit with an apple: images, unlike verbal texts, must choose a shape for the ¢gures which they represent, and inevitably redirect the interpretation of the Bible (especially that embedded in popular imagery). In Christianity, it is not infrequent that abstract concepts or metaphors, which are de¢ned through words, become concrete objects once they are represented through images. Obviously, this transformation also modi¢es the popular reception of concepts and metaphors. This linguistic misunderstanding has been mentioned also in order to point out that some ancient theologians and exegetes claimed the ¢g tree, and not the apple, to be the fruit of original sin. This claim was supported by a simple inference: since, according to the book of Genesis, Adam and Eve covered themselves with ¢g leaves just after eating the fruit of sin, it could be presumed that this fruit was a ¢g, and not an apple. Spanish theologian J. de Pineda (1558^1637), for example, in the ¢rst book of his Monarquia Eclesiastica (Pineda 1620), quotes many authors who support this claim. Among others, he mentions Procopius Gazeus's commentary on the second chapter of the Genesis, Teodeoretus Cirenensis's exegesis, the ¢rst book of Niceforus Calixtus's Historia Eclesiastica, Moses Barcefa's Liber De Paradiso, Filoxenus's De arbore vit×, Teodorus Antioquenus, Anastasius Sinaita's Hexameron, Origen, Nicoleus de Lyra, the second book of Mart|¨ nez Cantapetrense's Hipoteposeon, etc.27 Was Augustine aware of the identi¢cation of the fruit of original sin with the ¢g (and of the consequent identi¢cation of the tree of knowledge with the ¢g tree) when he described the garden of his conversion? Oswald Goetz, in Der Feigenbaum in der religiÎsen Kunst des Abenlandes, one of the most complete surveys on the religious symbolism of the ¢g tree (Goetz 1965), claims that the episode of Adam and Eve's original sin, recounted by the book of Genesis, is not referred to in the other books of the Old Testament. These books do not mention Adam, except in 1. Chr. 1, 1, where his name appears in the beginning of a genealogical record, and in Hos. 6, 7, where it is said: `but they transgressed the Alliance, like Adam'. According to Goetz, the Bible does not contain either the concept of original sin or the concept of its elimination thanks to the redemption of a Messiah. This idea was the fruit of both legends and speculations of the talmudists and a consequence of the predication of Paul (ibid., 50).

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Augustine, who was a supporter of Paul's exegesis of the Bible and one of the fathers of typological interpretation, could have included a ¢g tree in the garden of his conversion in order to create a symbolic link between his own spiritual turning point and Adam's original sin. The typological idea according to which Christ is a new Adam, come to redeem the humankind from original sin, is fundamental in the Christian theology. Augustine, by situating the peak of his conversion under a ¢g tree, could have suggested that he too was a new Adam, recovering his spiritual pureness after a dissolute life. Other biblical passages mention the ¢g tree with di¡erent connotations. They can be all important in order to interpret Augustine's imagery of this tree. Num. 20, 5 a¤rms that a land which is not good for ¢g trees is fruitless; Deut. 8, 8 mentions the ¢g tree in the prophesy of a fruitful land; in Judg. 9, 10^11, the ¢g tree appears in a parable and is praised for the sweetness of its fruits. 1 Kgs. 5, 5 gives the ¢g tree the connotation of a peaceful tree, under which people can sit and rest in safety. This passage contains the same `proxemic' structure which characterizes both Augustine's and Nathaniel's sitting under a ¢g tree.28 In 2 Kgs. 18, 31 the ¢g tree has the same peaceful connotation. In Isa. 34, 4 the falling of the ¢g leaves is a symbol of dilapidation, while in Isa. 36, 16 the tree has the same connotation as in 1 Kgs. 5, 5. Jer. 5, 17 uses the ¢g tree as a symbol of privacy and personal possession. In Jer. 8, 13 God threatens his people through the metaphor of a sterile ¢g tree. This threat appears again in Hos. 2, 14, Joel 1, 7 and Joel 1, 12, while in Joel 2, 22 the fruitfulness of the tree is a token of safety. In Amos 4, 9 the ¢g tree is hit by an epidemic, while in Mic. 4, 4 the connotation of peacefulness returns. Nahum 3, 12 characterizes the ¢g tree with a connotation of fragility, while the ¢g tree of Hab. 3, 17 blights. The same happens in Hag. 2, 19. Zech. 3, 10 contains the prophesy of a peaceful community, where people invite each other to sit under each other's ¢g trees. In Ps. 105, 33 a ¢g tree is hit by divine rage. Even one of the proverbs (Prov. 27, 18) is devoted to the ¢g tree: those who will cultivate it, will also eat its fruits. S. of S. 2, 13 is very similar to Hos., 9, 10, while 1 Macc. 14, 12 ends the list using the ¢g tree as a peaceful metaphor. After this brief but complete survey of the passages of the Old Testament which mention the ¢g tree, the isotopies which characterize it can be summarized and classi¢ed. The ¢g tree is generally a symbol of peace and fruitfulness. With very few exceptions, this tree maintains, in the metaphors in which it appears, the same positive and advantageous features that it has in the natural and economic life of the Mediterranean area: a fruitful and generous tree. Even in the texts which convey a threat or describe a catastrophe, the ¢g tree has a positive connotation, since it is a source of welfare, whose withering or disappearing is indicated as a disaster for the humankind. However, this survey would be incomplete, without reference to the connotations attributed to the ¢g tree in the New Testament.

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The ¢g tree in the Bible: the New Testament Matthew (Matt. 21, 19) mentions the ¢g tree in a story which, because of its controversial content, has often attracted the attention of the exegetes and has frequently been commented on. The story can be summarized as follows: Jesus returns to Bethany early in the morning, and is hungry. He sees a ¢g tree close to the road, and approaches it, but ¢nds only leaves and no fruits. He tells the ¢g tree that it will never bear any more fruits, and suddenly the tree withers. The problematic nature of this apologue is illustrated well by the ironical comment of E¨mile Chartier (alias Alain), who writes in one of his Propos: The Spirit struck there. Scandal, says the pious reader; I cannot understand. Patience. The scandal will be greater when you understand. I like to imagine the defence of the ¢g-tree: `Why am I cursed? I am not ruled by your thirst; I follow the seasons, and I obey the exterior necessity. . . . The same God which set a limit to the tides wanted me to have ¢gs at a certain time, and £owers in another time.29 The modern reader of the story recounted in the gospel of Matthew probably shares Alain's interpretation, and is amazed by the apparently irrational and capricious behaviour of Jesus. The apostles, though, did not interpret Jesus' cursing the ¢g tree as a sign of impatience or caprice. They were simply amazed by the miraculous power of their master. This passage has been usually interpreted according to the same attitude, and considered as an a¤rmation of the power of faith. This is so also because in the gospel, when Jesus explains his cursing the ¢g tree to the apostles, he proposes it as an example of the power of faith (a power which can `displace mountains').30 Nevertheless, this story has provoked the attribution of a negative connotation to the ¢g tree. In many languages, `being a sterile ¢g tree' is a metaphoric locution which designates unproductiveness and barrenness. In French literature, for example, this expression is common. Chateaubriand, in the Me¨moires d'outre-tombe, refers explicitly to the ¢g tree mentioned by Matthew: `Everywhere, a land worked by miracles: the burning sun, the impetuous eagle, the sterile ¢g tree, all the poetry, all the images of the Scriptures are there';31 Anatole France, in La vie litte¨raire en France en 1908, uses this locution metaphorically: `He declares in his articles and his conferences that I am the sterile ¢g tree of the Scriptures?';32 Le¨on Bloy does the same in Le De¨sespe¨re¨, `since Marchenoir doubted in¢nitely of the crises of energy which shakes sometimes the sterile ¢g tree of journalism . . . , decided . . . to o¡er, as a start, an article of incredible violence.' 33 It is impossible to de¢ne the weight of this evangelical episode in the imagery of Augustine. He probably knew the story of the ¢g tree cursed by Jesus when he put this tree in the description of his conversion. The same hermeneutical criterion which was adopted in the comparison between Augustine's and

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Nathaniel's stories must be followed also in this case. What are the di¡erences, and what the analogies, between Augustine's ¢g tree and the ¢g tree cursed by Jesus in the gospel of Matthew? The most relevant di¡erence between the two trees is that the ¢rst is not going to wither at all. For instance, it is usually represented in a vigorous state in the iconography of Augustine's conversion. The most relevant analogy is that Augustine's spiritual condition can be metaphorically represented by a sterile ¢g tree: just before the turning point of his conversion, he feels that his life has been fruitless, and fears the curse of God. The ¢g tree appears in other passages of the New Testament with di¡erent connotations. Matt. 24, 32 contains the `comparison of the ¢g tree': the fact that its branches become tender and its leaves appear, is a sign that Summer is imminent. Some commentators have compared this ¢g tree with that of Augustine.34 Mark 11, 13 and Mark 13, 28 attribute to the ¢g tree the same meanings as Matt. 21, 19 and Matt. 24, 32. The most remarkable di¡erence is that Mark explicitly states that when Jesus came upon the ¢g tree, this was not in its fruitful season. He also inserts a narrative pause between Jesus's cursing of the ¢g tree and its withering. A similar parable is contained in Luke 12, 13. In this case, the fruitless state of the tree is not immediately condemned; a short delay is conceded in order to let the gardener take care of it for one more year. The parable is less drastic than the story recounted by Matt. 21, 19. Jesus leaves an open door. It is the kind of openness which a soul needs in order to convert. Luke 21, 29 proposes the same connotations as Matt. 24, 32 and Mark 13, 28. John 1, 50 recounts the encounter between Jesus and Nathaniel, which has already been analysed. Jas. 3, 12 contains a passage which mentions the ¢g tree, and is interesting from a semiotic point of view. In this passage, language is compared to a ¢g tree, which can give only one kind of fruit, i.e. ¢gs. This comparison does not give the ¢g tree its justice, since in the Bible the ¢g tree is able to give several (and often opposite) kinds of symbolical fruits. Rev. 6, 13 is the last Biblical passage which mentions the ¢g tree. It compares the falling stars evoked in the prophesies of the book of Revelation with ¢gs which fall from a ¢g tree hit by the storm. The ¢g tree and the Fathers of the Church The ¢g tree being a common symbolical ¢gure in the Bible, the Fathers of the Church have often devoted parts of their biblical exegeses to this tree, and added more connotations to its already rich symbolic potential. Among the Greek fathers, Methodius Olimpius (who died in 311) commented on the ¢g tree mentioned in Judg. 9,10 in the Symposium seu convivium virginum (PG 18, 196 ¡ ); Origen (who died in 254) proposed his exegesis of the ¢g tree which appears in the gospel of Matthew in the Commentarium in Mt. libri 10^17 (PG 13, 836; Lostermann 1934); John Chrysostom (died in 407) commented on the same passage in the Homiliae in Mt (PG 57, 58). Other exegeses of the

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same passage or of the ¢g tree mentioned in Mark 11, 13 were suggested by Severianus Gabalensis (died after 408), who devoted an entire work to the ¢g tree (De ¢cu arefacta) (PG 59, 585), Isidorus Pelusiota (died about 435) in the Epistolarum libri quinque (PG 78, 77) and Victor Antiochenus (¢fth cen tury) in the Catena in Mc (Cramer 1840, 266; Lampe 1968, sub voce `'). Among the Latin Fathers, some patristic sources interpret the ¢g tree as a symbol of the synagogue, of the House of Israel, of the fruitless Judaism (for example Hilary of Poitiers, Comment. in Mt cap. 21) (PL 9, 1037^9). Several allegorical interpretations are given by Rabanus Maurus, who in the Alleg. in S. Scripturam (PL, 112, 926) comments on the genealogy of humankind contained in Luke 13, 6 (LCI, sub voce `feigenbaum'; Klauser 1950^1994, 7, 640^89; Smith 1960, 315^27; Cser 1962, 315^35). The ¢g tree in the apocryphal sources The Old and the New Testament and the exegeses of the Fathers of the Church are the most important sources of Christianity, but other, less o¤cial sources must be taken into account in order to complete the survey of the connotations of the ¢g tree in the Judeo-Christian tradition. Countless references to the ¢g tree are contained in the apocryphal texts, in the Jewish and Christian legends, and especially in the popular imaginaire of Christianity, a repository of ¢gures whose origins and limits are di¤cult to de¢ne. On this occasion, only some examples can be given: the second chapter of the Gospel of Peter refers the ¢g tree to the eschatological expectations concerning the end of time. Another interesting reference is contained in some apocryphal legends which recount the death of Judas. According to these legends, Judas hanged himself from a ¢g tree, which, therefore, becomes a symbol of evil. Some idiomatic expressions guard the memory of this story, such as the Italian locution `to obtain a position by the same ladder which Judas used to climb the ¢g tree.' 35 Also, the ¢g tree is frequently mentioned in Jewish legends. Louis Ginzberg reports a legend according to which, after Adam and Eve's original sin, all the plants refused to be used by them in order to cover their obscenity, with the exception of the ¢g tree, whose fruit had caused the damnation of the ¢rst couple. According to this legend, the plants behaved like the maidservants of the palace: when the prince seduced one of them, and was expelled by his father, they all refused to hide the prince, except the one whom he had seduced (Ginzberg 1998). This legend con¢rms that also in the Jewish culture the ¢g was considered as the fruit of original sin. This identi¢cation does not appear only in rabbinic sources, but also in the Apocalypse of Moses (and in Tertullian). According to Ginzberg, the identi¢cation of the fruit with an apple is due to a pun: Nahmanide, for instance, a¤rms that the Hebrew word `birjt', `apple', derives from the word `bbr', `he desired'.36 Ginzberg adds that the choice of the ¢g as the fruit of the tree of knowledge was probably due to the Gnostic tradition according to which God is

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compared to a seed of ¢g. According to Ireneus, Adam and Eve covered themselves with ¢g leaves because they sting, and mean repentance. Other rabbinic sources report that the Bible does not specify the identity of the fruit of original sin on purpose, since otherwise it would have been hated by humankind. The ¢g tree in Saint Augustine It is di¤cult exactly to know to which connotations of the ¢g tree Augustine intended to refer when he described the garden of his conversion.37 Even more di¤cult is to limit the ¢eld of connotations to which the interpreters of Augustine's spiritual autobiography may have referred. Yet, some conclusions can be drawn from the survey of the religious connotations of the ¢g tree in the Judeo-Christian civilization. This survey revealed that two opposite semantic values are often attributed to the ¢g tree: on the one hand, it is a symbol of extreme evil (as in the story of Adam and Eve's original sin, or in the legend of Judas' death); on the other hand, it is a symbol of extreme good (as in many passages of the Old Testament). Augustine was probably aware of the ambiguity of the ¢g tree, at a physical level (the contrast of light and shadow, fruits and leaves) and at a symbolical level (the contrast between peacefulness and anxiety, safety and damnation), and used it as a ¢gure able metaphorically to express the paradoxical moment of religious conversion. Augustine could not describe the mixture of continuity and di¡erence, identity and change, evil and good which characterized the turning point of his life through merely narrative devices. If conversion was the paradoxical point where the good and the evil parts of his soul had merged together for just an instant, and then had separated forever, the ¢g tree was a symbol rich enough in ambiguous connotations to shadow and shelter this spiritual ballet. The ¢g tree in visual texts As regards the representation of Augustine's conversion in visual texts, the ¢g tree is a fundamental element in the iconography of this episode. Few representations of it do not contain a ¢g tree. There is a relation of mutual in£uence between verbal and visual representations of Augustine's conversion. On the one hand, the passage of the Confessions which describes this turning point was the literary source of the visual representations of the same episode. On the other hand, visual representations have contributed to give a symbolical value to the ¢g tree; they have even reoriented the interpretation of the written text. This relation of reciprocal hermeneutical in£uence is quite common in the domain of religious iconography. Pierre Courcelle, with the collaboration of Jeanne Courcelle-Ladmirant, carried on a vast survey of the whole iconography of the scene in the Milanese garden (Courcelle 1963, 641^88, and plates 1^54). On this occasion, it is

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not possible to dwell on all the visual representations of Augustine's tolle et lege. As an example, only the most ancient and the most recent of these countless representations will be mentioned. One of the ¢rst representations of Augustine's conversion is contained in one of the stained glass windows (called the `Saint Augustine stained glass window') of the church of the Augustinians, at Erfurt.38 One of the most recent representations of this scene is contained in a stained glass window of the church of N.S. della Consolazione, in Genoa.39 In both images, Augustine's conversion is shadowed and sheltered by a ¢g tree. Between the fourteenth and the twentieth century, countless visual representations have been devoted to this episode, and most of them contain a ¢g tree. As regards these visual representations, three main phenomena must be analysed: ¢rst, the way in which the adoption of visual media modi¢ed the representation of Augustine's conversion; second, the way in which visual representations of the ¢g tree in the scene in the garden interacted with di¡erent visual representations of the same tree; third, the way in which the ¢g tree of Augustine's conversion has been visually quoted in images of other religious conversions, as a symbolical device able to solve the di¤cult semiotic problem of the representation of psychological change. Visualizing the ¢g tree: three phenomena As regards the ¢rst phenomenon, visual representations of Augustine's conversion contributed to transform the ¢g tree into a symbol of this turning point, because they used it in order to solve a representative problem. While verbal texts can represent both temporal structures and their qualitative features through verbal morphology and through the other devices of verbal enunciation, images can represent time only through space.40 The conversion of Augustine, which is characterized by both continuity and instantaneity, was di¤cult to represent by verbal texts, but was even more di¤cult to depict by visual texts. How could images convey the idea of a turning point, of an instant which at the same time summarized all the spiritual evolution of a self, through its destabilization and crisis, and contained the expectation of a totally new life, a re-stabilization of the self through a di¡erent language of the soul? The ¢g tree, with its potential for ambiguous connotations, was a perfect symbolical device to overcome this representative problem. As regards the second phenomenon, i.e. the visual intertextuality in the images of Augustine's conversion, the religious iconography of the ¢g tree must be brie£y surveyed. Visual representations of Adam and Eve's original sin are common in Christian iconography. The ¢rst images of this episode appear in the early Christian art: in the Gnostic Catacomb in Rome; in the frescos of the second catacomb of Saint Gennaro in Naples (third^fourth century); in the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus; in the Vatican grottoes in Rome; in one of the sarcophagi of the Lateran. Other Biblical episodes which

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contain the ¢g tree have been less represented. The iconography of the sterile ¢g tree, for instance, is scarce.41 An interesting representation of this subject, though, is contained in a medieval illumination, which suggests a typological interpretation of the biblical passage: on the left of the main scene, representing the withered ¢g tree, the illumination contains an image of the prophet Habakkuk, who indicates some words quoted from the eponymous book (Hab. 3, 17): Since the ¢g tree will not bear any fruits. On the right of the sterile ¢g tree, David indicates the following words: Then the one who wakes and who is saintly, came down from heaven, and cried out in a loud voice [and he said thus]: `Chop down the tree at the foot, cut its branches [make its leaves fall, and disperse the fruits]'.42 These images are too obscure to be thought to have an intertextual relation with images representing Augustine's conversion. In the Christian iconography of the ¢g tree, though, other representations may have played a more important role. In the illustrations contained in many Christian Psalters, the ¢g tree is characterized as the tree under which the divinity manifests itself. An example of this iconography is the ¢g tree in the Stuttgart Psalter,43 under which David is represented as a shepherd. This visual reference has been ignored by scholars, but it can be crucial in the network of intertextual relations which surround the scene in the garden. Also in Augustine's conversion, the divinity manifests itself to Augustine while he is sitting under a ¢g tree.44 Other iconographic traditions attribute to the ¢g tree di¡erent (and often opposite) connotations. In the Renaissance, the ¢g tree appears as an esoteric symbol of evil, while in the Marian symbology it refers to the burying of Mary. It is also represented among the plants which constitute the £ora of the Incarnation and that of the mystical Lamb. Also, the therapeutic qualities of the ¢g tree are represented in many hagiologic images. From this brief and incomplete survey, it emerges that in Christianity the ¢g tree is an ambivalent symbol not only in verbal texts, but also in images. Visual representations of Augustine's conversion referred to this ambivalence when they adopted the ¢g tree as a symbol of spiritual change. As regards the third phenomenon, i.e. the adoption of the ¢g tree as a visual reference to conversion, ¢g trees are represented in many Renaissance and early-modern hagiological images: Saint Andrew, Saint Christopher, Saint Dominic, Saint George, Saint Jerome, etc. The ¢g tree is such a di¡use visual symbol of spiritual change that sometimes this can create problems of iconological identi¢cation. For example, two distinguished scholars, Roberto Longhi and Pierre Courcelle, disagreed in identifying the Saint represented under a ¢g tree in a painting of Fra' Angelico.45 In an article written in

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1940, `Fatti di Masolino e di Masaccio' (Longhi 1939^40, 2, 175), Roberto Longhi proposed to identify the Saint with Saint Julian, while Pierre Courcelle rejected this hypothesis and suggested identi¢cation with Saint Augustine (Courcelle 1963, 648). This di¡erence of interpretation demonstrates that the abundant iconography of Augustine's conversion has progressively transformed the ¢g tree of the Milanese garden into a general symbol of conversion, so that other conversions (such as the repentance of Saint Julian) can adopt it as a visual symbol. The ¢g tree as a literary symbol of conversion This is even more evident in the case of literary texts which refer to Augustine's ¢g tree as a symbol of conversion. For example, Francesco Petrarca's Secretum, a literary representation of the spiritual life of the poet, is deeply in£uenced by Augustine's Confessions. In the Secretum, Petrarca imagines a dialogue between Augustine and himself, where the ¢g tree is used as a symbol of pious life, opposed to the boastful trees of poetic glory, the laurel and the myrtle: [Augustine] Eventually then, after I really wanted it, I could immediately do it, and with an extraordinary and favorable rapidity I was transformed into a second Augustine, whose story, if I am right, you know from my Confessions. [Francesco] Perfectly, and I cannot forget that healthy ¢g tree under whose shadow this miracle happened. (Petrarca 1981, 72)46 Other more recent texts use the ¢g tree in the same way. For example, French writer Ulric Guttinguer, in his spiritual autobiography, adopts the ¢g tree as a symbolical device able to describe the turning point of his life: We slept in Aniane, in an ancient little abbey. . . . It is built above a very deep ravine: a curve of Bengalese rose-bushes form its avenue. There I saw the most beautiful ¢g tree of the country, it is as big as one of our Norman chestnuts and thick like them.47 (Guttinguer 1925, 105) Petrarca's and Guttinguer's texts are examples of historical intertextuality. These authors read the Confessions, memorized the presence of a ¢g tree in the garden of Augustine's conversion and mentioned it in order to evoke and describe their own spiritual turning point. In the last part of the present section, some examples of semiotic intertextuality between Augustine's Confessions and other texts will be analysed. Since the semiotic concept of semi-symbolism will be fundamental in this analysis, it will be brie£y introduced and de¢ned.

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Theoretical interlude The concept of semi-symbolism The concept of semi-symbolism is acquiring an increasing importance as an instrument of semiotic analysis. The most recent survey on the theory of this concept is contained in Omar Calabrese's book Lezioni di semi-simbolico (`Lessons of semi-symbolism') (Calabrese 1999). What does semi-symbolism mean? According to the theory of Danish semiotician and linguist Louis Hjelmslev (Hjelmslev 1943), ¢ve elements are important in order to characterize a semiotic object: two planes (expression and content), two axes (process and system), some rules of syntactical government and combination, commutability and non-conformity of the two planes.48 Of these ¢ve elements, the ¢rst three are relevant in order to decide whether an object is semiotic or not, whereas the last two (commutability and conformity) distinguish between di¡erent types of semiotic objects and de¢ne the concept of semisymbolism. Commutability is a semiotic property which can be identi¢ed by a test, invented by Hjelmslev, and called `test of commutability'. Given the two planes of a semiotic object (expression and content), if, when something is changed (commuted) on one of these two planes, a correspondent element changes also on the opposite plane of the object, this object is commutable. If, on the contrary, when something is changed (commuted) on one of the two planes of a semiotic object, nothing changes in the structure of the opposite plane, the object in question is not commutable. The concept of conformity must be de¢ned with reference to the notions of sign and ¢gure. According to Hjelmslev's terminology, a sign is each one of the unities in which it is possible to resolve the two planes of a semiotic object, when these unities have an autonomous meaning. A ¢gure, on the contrary, is each one of the semantic particles which compose a sign; they have no autonomous meaning.49 Through the concepts of sign, ¢gure and commutability the concept of conformity can also be de¢ned. Given a semiotic object, if, when a ¢gure is changed on one of its two planes, a correspondent ¢gure changes on the opposite plane, the semiotic object in question is characterized by the property of conformity. If, on the contrary, when a ¢gure is changed on one of the two planes of a semiotic object, no correspondent ¢gure changes on the opposite plane, the two planes of the semiotic object in question are characterized by the property of non-conformity. The properties of commutability and conformity can be combined in four di¡erent ways, as is shown by Table 3.1. Objects which are conformable but not commutable are de¢ned as `symbolical systems'. Objects which are commutable but not conformable are de¢ned as `semiotic systems'. Objects which are neither commutable nor conformable are logically impossible: the absence of the property of conformity implies the presence of the property

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Table 3.1 The four possible combinations of the properties of commutability and conformity. Commutability Conformity

YES

NO

YES NO

Semi-symbolical systems Semiotic systems

Symbolical systems X

of commutability. The fourth possible combination between conformity and commutability de¢nes the concept of semi-symbolism: objects which are both conformable and commutable are called semi-symbolical systems. In semi-symbolical systems, the planes of expression and content are commutable, but they are also conformable, since the property of commutability applies to pairs of ¢gures instead of applying to single elements. A typical example of a semi-symbolical system is the way in which a¤rmation and negation are expressed through horizontal and vertical oscillations of the head. As Roman Jakobson has pointed out in one of his articles ( Jakobson 1973, 113^22), some cultures express a¤rmation through a vertical oscillation of the head, and express negation through a horizontal oscillation of the head; other cultures, though, invert this correspondence between expression and content (for instance, the Bulgarian culture). This is an example of a semi-symbolical system: a couple of terms of the plane of the expression is combined with a couple of terms of the plane of the content, but no commutability exists between the single elements within the couples. Theories on semi-symbolism Two semioticians, in particular, have studied in depth and used in their analyses the concept of semi-symbolism: Jean-Marie Floch and Fe¨lix ThÏrlemann. For the purposes of the present section, concerning the intertextuality of Augustine's scene in the garden, the works of the ¢rst scholar will be important in order to de¢ne the analytical and heuristic properties of the concept of semi-symbolism, while the works of the second scholar will be relevant because they apply to the semiotic potential of the tree, an element which is fundamental in the scene of Augustine's conversion. Jean-Marie Floch has been one of the most important theoreticians and analysts of visual semiotics.50 Together with Fe¨lix ThÏrlemann, he wrote an article on the concept of semi-symbolism in the second volume of Greimas and Courte©s' Dictionary of Semiotics (Greimas and Courte©s 1989). The considerations on semi-symbolism which Floch proposes in this article try to answer four questions. First, what are the analytical possibilities of semisymbolism? Second, what are the possible types of semi-symbolical systems?

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Third, what content do semi-symbolical systems express? Fourth, what is their origin? As regards the ¢rst question, Floch singles out three main possible applications of the concept of semi-symbolism in semiotic analysis: ¢rst, semisymbolism can be used in order to analyse the plastic contrasts of a visual text. Visual semiotics distinguishes between two levels of analysis in visual texts: the ¢gurative level, which uses some objects of the real world in order to create a ¢ctional world; and a plastic level, where no object of the real world is recognizable. The plastic level, trough, contains a network of non¢gurative features, such as positions, forms and colours. The concept of semi-symbolism is particularly useful in order to analyse the network of oppositions and relations which exist between these plastic elements.51 Second, the concept of semi-symbolism allows the analyst to study the internal semantic structure of a visual text, without any need to compare the text in question to di¡erent texts (which is the operation usually carried on by iconology or history of art). Third, the concept of semi-symbolism allows the analyst to describe the plastic level of a text as if it were a fragment of poetic discourse (Floch's idea was to compare the plastic discourse with the prosodic or musical discourse). As regards the second question (concerning the typology of semisymbolical systems), Floch singles out at least four typologies. First, a semisymbolical system can consist of single pairs of elements, or be composed of complicated hierarchies of pairs of elements. Second, it can be embodied in a single expressive substance (a visual substance, or an acoustic substance, for example) or it can be expressed by a syncretistic substance, combining more expressive media. Third, some semi-symbolic systems are contained by a single text, while others are expressed by a series of texts (this distinction is particularly important, since it raises the possibility of analysing a whole civilization, or a whole fragment of it, through the concept of semisymbolism). Fourth, some semi-symbolical systems link expression and content of a semiotic object, while others link di¡erent semantic levels of a semiotic object. Floch calls this last type of semi-symbolical system `semisymbolical codi¢cation'. As regards the third question (concerning the contents expressed by semisymbolical systems), Floch singles out two types of content: ¢rst, oppositions of ¢gurative universals, such as earth, air, water and ¢re (which usually constitute the ¢gurative level of most texts); second, narrative oppositions, at di¡erent levels of the generative path.52 As regards the fourth and last question, Floch argues that most semisymbolical systems derive from the deviation of certain features of the level of the signi¢er and from the constitution of a sub-language able to renew and con¢rm certain contents. This is possible because semi-symbolical systems introduce a component of motivation within a language which would be otherwise totally arbitrary. This is the main reason that semisymbolical systems are very common in both the mythic and the artistic

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language, which try to introduce elements of motivation within the arbitrariness of language.53 The second scholar who has given a signi¢cant contribution to the study of the concept of semi-symbolism is Swiss semiotician and art historian Fe¨lix ThÏrlemann. In 1982, Fe¨lix ThÏrlemann proposed a semi-symbolical analysis of some watercolours of Paul Klee (ThÏrlemann 1982). According to ThÏrlemann, the plastic level is predominant in most works of Paul Klee.54 In the Myth of the Flowers,55 for instance, two types of expressive elements (curvilinear and rectilinear) and two types of semantic elements (celestial and terrestrial) can be singled out. These elements cannot be associated one by one, but only in pairs. As a consequence, this watercolour can be interpreted only if it is considered as the visual embodiment of a semi-symbolical system. After the concept of semi-symbolism has been introduced and de¢ned, in the last part of this section this semiotic tool will be used in order to analyse the intertextual relations between the story of Augustine's conversion and other representations of spiritual turning points. The tree as a visual symbol of conversion The concept of semi-symbolism can be e¡ectively used in order to analyse the ¢gure of the tree. The morphology of this ¢gure contains two plastic poles, i.e. top and bottom, which many texts associate with a couple of opposite semantic poles. This association constitutes a semi-symbolical system, which characterizes most texts in which trees appear with a symbolical value. In other words, many of these texts contain a mythical sub-language.56 For example, Paul Klee, the artist whose works have been analysed by Fe¨lix ThÏrlemann through the concept of semi-symbolism, used to compare poetic creation to the biological activity of trees (Klee 1924): exactly as trees transform the earth into a growth toward the sky, so poets transform the words of human language into an instrument of in¢nity. The Swiss artist associates two di¡erent pairs of semantic terms to the morphology of the tree (top^bottom): ¢rst, the (biological) opposition between roots and foliage; second, the (metaphorical) opposition between use of language and poetic creation. This hierarchical structure of semi-symbolical associations can be summarized in Table 3.2. Klee has identi¢ed an analogous semisymbolical system in his analysis of the morphology of plants (Klee 1956). Analogously, Gaston Bachelard studied trees as poetical ¢gures, and devoted a chapter of L'air et les songes (`Air and dreams') to the arbre ae¨rien, the `aerial tree' (Bachelard 1943). Although this scholar was not a semiotician, he realized that the morphology of trees is suitable for use as the expressive level of a semantics whose terms hold the same relation as the top and the bottom of a tree: earth (land) and air (sky), for example, or all the metaphorical concepts which can be associated to these two ¢gurative universals.57

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Table 3.2 Summary of hierarchical structure of semi-symbolic associations. Topology

Morphology Biology Symbology

Top

Bottom

Foliage Biogenesis of leaves Poetic creation

Roots Chemical activity Use of language

In most religious imageries, indeed, trees speak a particular language, which is neither ¢nely articulated as verbal language is (i.e. like a semiotic system), nor rigidly determined as a symbolic system. Trees speak a semisymbolical language, whose contents are always associated to the same expressive opposition (top^bottom), but cannot be determined once and for all. Semiotics does not look for the archetypical meanings of ¢gures, but identi¢es them in relation to the context in which they appear. Literature on the symbology of trees is vast (Danie¨lou 1961; Gubernatis 1976; Pastoureau 1993; Wolfson 1995; Boyer 1996; Brosse 1998; Keel 1998; Dumas 2002), but, for the purposes of the present section, only the way in which the morphology of trees interacts with their religious symbolism will be analysed. The religious symbolism of trees: climbing In many Christian texts, people climb trees in order to achieve a mystical union with God. A passage from the diary of Saint Veronica Giuliani illustrates this phenomenon well:58 12 November 1697. God be praised! While I wandered at night through the balconies and in the garden and a strong North wind blew, I was seized by the desire to climb the scrub and the trees of the orchard in order to feel more passion. My humanity disliked this, because of the great cold which I felt. In the meantime, I realized that the desire to su¡er was growing in me. So, I took a ladder and climbed a pear tree which was in the middle of the orchard.59 This passage is just an excerpt of a text which recounts the mystical adventure of Saint Veronica Giuliani through a complicated network of metaphors and other ¢gures of speech. From a semiotic point of view, in this passage the tree is used as an expressive device in order to articulate (and eliminate) the opposition between earth and air, immanence and transcendence. The physical movement through which the Saint approaches God embodies a spiritual transformation. The morphological structure of the tree (roots^ foliage) and the correspondent topology (bottom^top), are part of a semisymbolical system in which they are associated with a spiritual ascent.

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From a philological point of view, the passage most probably refers to Luke 19,4, where the story of Zacchaeus is recounted: exactly as the short man climbed a sycamore (a sort of ¢g tree) in order to see the arrival of Jesus, so Veronica Giuliani climbs a pear tree in order to approach God. From the point of view of semiotic intertextuality, the passage extracted from Veronica Giuliani's diary must be compared with a series of Christian texts which interpret the act of climbing a tree as a metaphor for spiritual achievement. In the history of Christian monasticism, people have often climbed objects whose morphology was characterized by a strong component of verticality, in order to symbolically achieve both detachment from terrestrial values and union with celestial values. Some hermits were called `stylite', because they used to live on top of columns.60 Other hermits chose to live on top of trees. They were called `dendrites', from the Greek word  `"o', which means `tree' (Charalampidis 1995). The analogy between the semi-symbolical system embodied in Veronica Giuliani's diary and the semi-symbolical system expressed by the descriptions of the dendrites' hermitic lives can be better understood with reference to the way in which some ancient texts recount the ¢ght between hermits who want to stay on top of their trees and the devil, who wants them to fall down to the earth.61 The symbolism of this kind of story is simple: saintly men have not to touch the earth (which symbolically means that they have to avoid terrestrial values). Many later Christian hagiologies adopt the same semi-symbolical system: Saint Anthony from Padova, for example, is often represented sitting in the foliage of a walnut tree,62 as in a painting of Lazzaro Bastiani.63 The fact that trees are used as semi-symbolical devices in most Christian civilizations is con¢rmed by the way in which parodistic texts adopt the same semantic structure in order to subvert it. For instance, in Boccaccio's Decameron, in the ninth tale of the seventh day, the act of climbing a pear tree is part of a complicated trick through which a man can seduce the woman of a friend of his (Boccaccio 1992). In the fourth tale of the third day, a priest convinces a fanatically religious and na|« ve man to undertake a new form of bodily morti¢cation: he has to climb on the roof of his house, and spend the night there. While the man tries to gain a celestial heaven, the priest gains a terrestrial heaven with the wife of his victim.64 The religious symbolism of trees: sitting The analysis of the semi-symbolical system of trees must be completed by a second part, which will be central in order to understand the possible intertextual relations between Augustine's scene in the garden and other accounts of spiritual turning points. The ¢rst part has been devoted to the meaning of climbing a tree. The second one will analyse the meaning of sitting under a tree. This is a di¡use topos in philosophy, religion and myth: sitting at the roots of a tree (probably, a ¢cus religiosa), Buddha Shaªkyamuni found the way of wisdom near to the Nairanjanaª river, in Uruvela (Bodh-Gayaª). That

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Table 3.3 Summary of semi-symbolical system of the tree. Topology

Gnoseological symbology Moral symbology

Under the foliage

Foliage

Over the foliage

Revelation Conversion

Ignorance Sin

Knowledge Grace

tree was called the `tree of revelation'.65 The fact of sitting under a tree (another ¢g tree) appears also in the myth of the foundation of Rome: Romulus and Remus were nourished by a she-wolf under a ¢g tree (which was called ¢cus ruminalis). In all these examples, and also in Augustine's conversion, a semisymbolical relation links the fact of sitting under a tree and the beginning of a process of spiritual revelation. If those who have climbed the tree reach a mystical union with God, those who sit under the foliage are at the beginning of their spiritual adventure, as if the trunk was the physical metaphor of a spiritual path through which the earth is abandoned, the shadow is overcome and the light beyond the foliage is attained. The foliage is an element of both separation and junction between shadow/earth and light/sky.66 Table 3.3 summarizes the semi-symbolical system of the tree. This system characterizes the imagery of Christianity: Adam and Eve commit original sin under a tree, but at the same time they start a process of conversion and redemption of humankind which will culminate with the arrival of a new Adam, i.e. Christ. The redemption of humankind will be complete thanks to Jesus' climbing on a second tree, the tree of his cruci¢xion. Countless exegetical texts and pictorial representations a¤rm the existence of a typological relation between the tree of original sin and the tree of the cross.67 When Augustine sits under a ¢g tree in a Milanese garden, he is starting to relive, in his own soul, the passage from Adam to Christ, from darkness to light. Topological analogies: Paul Claudel's conversion The identi¢cation of the abstract semi-symbolical system embedded in the representation of Augustine's turning point is important in order to perceive the structural analogies which exist between this representation and other accounts of religious conversion. On this occasion, only one example will be put forward: the religious conversion of Paul Claudel. As the French writer recounts in many texts of his (Claudel 1965, 1008^14),68 the turning point of his spiritual life occurred while he was standing in a church, leaning against a column. In this representation of religious conversion, the column replaces the tree. Trees and columns have several points in common. From

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a historical point of view, columns replaced trees in classical architecture, as many art historians have argued. From a semiotic point of view, trees and columns share the same morphology: they are strongly vertical elements, which symbolically connect earthly and celestial values (immanence and transcendence, sin and grace, evil and good). This is the reason that columns are not only the scene of many ecstasies (another form of communication between humankind and God),69 but also the semi-symbolical topology through which religious conversion can be represented. The column becomes the symbol of Paul Claudel's conversion (Baden 1968), exactly as the ¢g tree, with its mystical morphology and its paradoxical connotations, became the symbol of Augustine's conversion. This section has analysed one of the semiotic devices through which a destabilized self, after the experience of the crisis and the loss of personal and social identity, rewrites the paradoxical story of its conversion and starts to recompose itself through new symbols and a new religious language. The importance of ambiguous ¢gures (like the ¢g tree, with its multiple and contradictory connotations) in this process of re-stabilization of the self has been particularly pointed out. Through the paradoxical symbol of the ¢g tree, Augustine is able to represent the inextricable interweaving of di¡erence and change, continuity and discontinuity, which characterizes his religious conversion. Augustine invents a new model for the representation of spiritual change. But is this model able to represent every sort of religious conversion, or is it rather suitable only for those who experience the same kind of turning point, i.e. a mainly intellectual conversion? What semiotic devices are used in the re-writing of the self when it has been shaken by a mainly emotional religious conversion? These questions will be answered through the analysis of a di¡erent model of religious conversion, epitomized by another protagonist of Christianity: the Magdalene.

The conversion of passions: the mirror and the ointment The Magdalene's tradition Augustine is one of the most in£uential writers on Christianity. His doctrinal inheritance is incalculable and his texts a¡ect a great part of Western literature. Nevertheless, if Augustine is considered from the point of view of the iconographic tradition which represents him, or from the perspective of the poetry which refers to him, it is impossible not to notice that other conversions, more than his, have stimulated the imagination of painters and poets. In particular, the Magdalene's conversion is the source of an amazing amount of poems, novels, paintings, sculptures, engravings, dramatic plays, ¢lms, musical compositions, philosophical essays and, ¢nally, semiotic re£ections.

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Literature on the Magdalene This section is not going to analyse such a huge tradition in its entirety, since it would be impossible within the limits of the present book. Furthermore, some accurate instruments are already at the disposal of those who wish to penetrate into this complex cultural area. One of them is Carmen Bernabe¨ Ubieta's book Mar|¨a Magdalena, tradiciones en el Cristianismo primitivo (`Mary the Magdalene, traditions in early Christianity') (Bernabe¨ Ubieta 1994). This survey, though dealing only with a part of the Magdalenian tradition, i.e. with the ¢rst centuries of Christianity, is rich in every sort of information about the cult devoted to this Saint. As regards medieval representations of the Magdalene, one of the best studies on the topic is E¨lizabeth Pinto-Mathieu's Marie Madeleine dans la litte¨rature du Moyen-Age (`Mary the Magdalene in the Medieval literature') (Pinto-Mathieu 1997). A more general investigation is contained in a book written by Susan Haskins, Mary Magdalene ^ Myth and Metaphor (Haskins 1993),70 which covers the whole range of representations (with few, but important, exceptions) concerning the Saint. The ¢rst chapter, `De Unica Magdalena' (`The unique Magdalene') deals with the historical documents concerning the Magdalene, while the last one, `La Magdalena calumniada' (`The calumniated Magdalene'), studies the most recent representations of this saintly woman, and includes also several remarks on her role as a key ¢gure in some feminist theological theories. Between these two chapters, the author arranges an amazing amount of detail on the Magdalene, with many references to visual representations. In the course of the present section these three books will be referred to constantly, but a more speci¢c problem will be dealt with, i.e. the representations of the Magdalene's conversion and their semiotic value. The emotional nature of the Magdalene's conversion First of all, the mainly emotional nature of the Magdalene's conversion has to be pointed out, in the same way as the previous section focused on the mainly intellectual nature of Augustine's spiritual turning point. While Augustine's conversion is di¤cult to categorize, above all because of the multifarious nature of it, the Magdalene's conversion is easier to classify, given the predominance of emotional elements in its representations. Passions are fundamental in both the literary and the iconographic tradition which characterizes the re-stabilization of her self. In the present section, they will be studied from two di¡erent points of view: semiotics and the history of philosophy. The passions of the Magdalene: semiotics As regards the ¢rst perspective, relatively recent research, developed by semioticians interested in passions and their representations, has progressively

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built and analysed a repertory of pathetic expressions, which occur in texts in order to convey, in the most exterior layers of signi¢cation (according to Greimas' theory), the emotional dimension of a story (Greimas and Fontanille 1991; Pezzini 1991; Pezzini 1998). Tears are undoubtedly the most evident manifestation of a negative passion. Every time that they are represented, the cognitive and pragmatic dimensions of a text retreat into the background, while passions are emphasized (Lutz 1999). Tears characterize the Magdalene's conversion in most representations, but this does not mean that she is a purely emotional character, since many of the legends which recount her story, such as some of the adventurous episodes of her life narrated by the Legenda Aurea (`Golden Legend'), describe her as an active and pragmatic woman. One of these episodes, for example, reports that when the Magdalene was in Marseille, she energetically tried to convert the governor of the city and his wife, in order to obtain material support for the newly formed Christian community, which she led. Since her attempt at persuading them failed, one night she appeared before the noble couple. The Saint was trembling with indignation, and emitting from her scarlet face such vivid £ames of rage that it seemed as if the whole house were on ¢re; she shook the governor, woke him up and spoke to him in the following way: `Tyrant! Instrument and son of Satan! How do you dare sleep so quietly in this white bed beside this viper who did not want to report my orders to you?' The crying Magdalene of the Gospels can be barely recognized in this passage, although a strong emotional dimension is present also in this account of precipitous and e¡ective apostolic action. The cognitive dimension is not extraneous to the representations of the Magdalene either. For instance, she is a common patristic symbol of vita contemplativa (`contemplative life'), while her sister Martha epitomizes the vita activa (`active life').71 Later, we shall dwell on the philosophical and artistic consequences of this opposition. However, although action and thought appear too in the legends or myths which represent the Magdalene's life, her conversion is mainly an emotional phenomenon of passion. From the semiotic point of view, then, we shall analyse the texts which recount (in words or images) the turning point of the Magdalene's spiritual life mainly through emotional narrative devices. The passions of the Magdalene: philosophy From the perspective of philosophy, on the one hand traditional theology always characterized the Magdalene's conversion as a model of womanly spiritual change, where emotions are more relevant than theological subtleties. Feminist theologians have often complained about this `macho' interpretation. On the other hand, the predominance of passions in the destabilization, crisis and re-stabilization of the Magdalene's self became particularly interesting for those philosophers who, from the end of the

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sixteenth century onwards (i.e. the same epoch which is focused on by this book), began to investigate the nature of passions and, in particular, the essence of a passion which is central to Christian theology: repentance. As regards this speci¢c trend in early-modern intellectual history, three hypotheses will be put forward: ¢rst, the existence of a strong connection between the development of the idea of `self ' and the importance given by early-modern philosophers to the subject of passions; second, the relevance of artistic and narrative representations of passions in the shaping of philosophical theories; third, the centrality of religious art and literature, and of early-modern representations of conversion, in the cultural distillation which led to a modern understanding of human emotions. In order to demonstrate these points, a brief survey of early-modern philosophical theories of passions is necessary. Passions are a central topic in the philosophical inquiry of this epoch. Pierre Charron (Paris 1541^Paris 1603), priest, preacher of the royal court, man of letters and libertine, friend of Montaigne and one of the most original thinkers of sixteenth-century France, was one of the ¢rst early-modern philosophers to deal with this subject. In 1601 he published a Traite¨ de la sagesse (`Treatise on wisdom') (Charron 1601), where rational theology is criticized and the human incapacity for rationally discovering truth openly a¤rmed. This text promoted a ¢deistic and tolerant conception of religion and was therefore censured by the Sorbonne. A second, revised, edition was published together with Montaigne's essay and met a great readership. A few years later, Jean-Pierre Camus (Paris 1582^Paris 1652), abbot of Aunay, in Normandy, a religious man of letters who tried to transform the literary genre of the novel into an instrument of spiritual persuasion, published a Traite¨ des passions de l'aªme (`Treatise on the passions of the soul'), where even the title a¤rms an explicitly systematic interest in human passions. As regards the study of the intersections between representations of conversion and philosophy of passion, one must not forget Charles Franc° ois Abra de Raconis' Totius philosophi× . . . tractatio (`Treatise on the whole philosophy', Abra de Raconis 1622);72 the author, a controversialist who had converted from Calvinism to Catholicism, devoted a large part of his philosophical summa to the theme of passions. A more systematic approach to this topic characterizes Nicolas Coe«¡etau's treatise,73 which bears the title of Tableau des passions humaines (`Table of human passions', Coe«¡etau 1620). This essay, published in 1620, was greatly appreciated by his contemporaries. Between 1640 and 1642, two important philosophical works on passions were published: ¢rst, the monumental Les Characte©res des passions (`The features of passions', Cureau de la Chambre 1640), written by Marin Cureau de la Chambre, advisor and doctor of the French king (four additional volumes of this work were published in 1645, 1658, 1662 and 1663).74

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In his pioneering work, Cureau de la Chambre, who had a keen interest in occultism and physiognomy and was considered the most distinguished chiromancer of his epoch,75 tried to connect passions and their bodily expressions. Two years later, in 1642, Jean-Franc° ois Se¨neault published a book where passions were no longer only an object of investigation, but also a pragmatic tool: De l'usage des passions (`On the use of passions'). Other seventeenth-century scholars adopted a di¡erent perspective on passions: they studied them not so much as a topic of metaphysical speculation, but as an object of experimental and empiricist research (from this point of view, they were closer to the way current cognitive psychology approaches the same theme). The best example of this kind of study is Niels Stensen's Discours sur l'anatomie du cerveau (`Discourse on the anatomy of brain', Stensen 1669). Danish anatomist Stensen (Copenhagen 1638^ Schwerin, Germany, 1686), also known by the Latin name of Nicolas Steno, is the father of modern geology. He was a famous convert of his time, and tried to verify the Biblical tale of Noah's £ood through a revolutionary stratigraphic analysis of the Tuscan coast. This (obviously incomplete) list of early-modern treatises on passions ends with a book published in 1684, Claude Ameline's Traite¨ de la volonte¨ (`Treatise on will'), better known as `Traite¨ des passions' (`Treaty on passions', Ameline 1684).76 In this short catalogue of seventeenth-century books on passions something important is missing. Besides the minor works, which speci¢cally deal with the topic of passions but are currently known only by specialists of earlymodern philosophy, most of the major philosophical texts of the same epoch, which played a central role in European cultural history, devote at least some thoughts to this fascinating subject, so relevant in relation to the ideas of self and Christian perfection. Only the most famous can be mentioned on this occasion: Franc° ois de Sales' Traite¨ de l'amour de Dieu (`Treatise on the love of God', Sales 1996), ¢rst published in 1616; Eustache de Saint Paul's Summa philosophica (`Philosophical summa', 1609); Guillaume du Vair's La saincte philosophie (`The holy philosophy'), Philosophie morale des sto|« ques (`The moral philosophy of the stoics') and Traite¨ de la Constance (`Treatise on constancy'). Furthermore, some of the greatest philosophers of the epoch re£ected on the theme of passions: Nicholas Malebranche (1638^1715) in De la recherche de la ve¨rite¨ (`On the search for truth', 1674^5); Leibniz (1646^ 1716), in the Neue Abhandlungen Ïber den menschlichen Verstand (`New essays on human understanding', 1690) and, above all, Descartes in the last of his complete texts, Les passions de l'aªme (`The passions of the soul'), whose publication the French philosopher announced by a letter written on 15 April 1649. Most of these texts dwell on the passion of repentance, which is of interest to the present section for at least four reasons: ¢rst, it always implies a re£ection on the relation between time (past, present and future) and passions; second, it is relevant for the institution of an ideal moral philosophy; third,

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it is central to the designing of the political structure of society; fourth, it has several important consequences in the ¢eld of the philosophy of religion. In Descartes' Traite¨ des Passions, repentance is de¢ned through the contrast with another passion: remorse. Articles 60 and 63 of the second part give a ¢rst de¢nition, which is subsequently re¢ned in the third part. Here is the text of the ¢rst article (60): And if one has resolved on some action before eliminating all indecision, this provokes the remorse of conscience: which does not relate to the future, as the previous passion, but to the present or the past.77 And here is the article which de¢nes the passion of repentance: Satisfaction of oneself and Repentance [title of the article]. We can also consider the cause of either good or evil, in the present or in the past. And the good that we did gives us an interior satisfaction which is the sweetest of passions. Evil, instead, triggers repentance, which is the most bitter.78 In the third part, articles 177 and 191 rede¢ne remorse and repentance in greater detail (Descartes 1996, 210 and 217). Through these de¢nitions, Descartes tries to precisely single out repentance, and to situate it within the coherent and articulated system of the other passions. Nevertheless, this process of de¢nition is guided neither by an esprit de syste©me, nor merely by a semantic intuition related to a commonsensical perception of the lexicon.79 On the contrary, it could be argued that seventeenth-century (and, above all, Descartes') philosophical re£ection on passions, and especially on repentance (which is a fundamental component of conversion) is nurtured by a semantic universe which is largely composed not only of philosophical texts, but also by literary texts and their artistic representations, characterizing repentance in a rather speci¢c way. Philosophers (for example, Descartes) trim these representations, clean and summarize them, crystallize their content in a formula but at the same time cannot abstract a purely formal idea of repentance. For this reason, also in Descartes' philosophy, repentance is ineluctably de¢ned according to an intellectual logic which refers to Christian (and especially Biblical) representations of this passion. When seventeenth-century philosophers study passions, they tend to de¢ne them by taking into account the large amount of religious representations encountered during both their studies and their life. The existence of a close link between philosophical de¢nitions of repentance and Christian imagery is demonstrated by the text of a letter which Descartes wrote on 3 November 1645, wherein he states that `repentance is a Christian virtue' (Descartes 1996, 275, n. 1).80 This concept is even more signi¢cant, from a political, moral and religious point of view, if one

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compares it with the way in which Spinoza de¢nes, despises and situates this same passion in a non-Christian context. In the fourth part of his Ethics, in Propositio number 54, Spinoza a¤rms that `repentance is not a virtue'.81 Seventeenth-century philosophical debate about the essence of passions and, above all, about repentance is closely related to the di¤culty of conceiving a language able to describe and explain the temporal and spiritual paradoxes of conversion. As will be shown in the present chapter, the biblical character of the Magdalene epitomizes these paradoxes and becomes the protagonist of a large number of stories, which try to solve the dilemma of her identity. In what consists this dilemma? The dilemma of the Magdalene's identity The Bibliotheca Sanctorum, sub voce `Maria Maddalena' (`Mary of Magdala') provides a suitable point of departure in order to answer the question above. This article, written by Victor Saxer, one of the most distinguished scholars in the area (Saxer 1958; 1959; 1975), begins by a¤rming that the Magdalene's identity, as is generally represented, is a complex mixture of various elements scattered throughout the Gospels. The problem of the Magdalene's multiple identity can also be introduced with reference to a poem which John Donne sent to Mrs Herbert, mother of the Anglican theologian George Herbert, on the day of the Magdalene's feast, in 1607:82 Her of your name, whose fair inheritance Bethina was, and jointure Magdalo An active faith so highly did advance That she once knew, more than the Church did know, The Resurrection; so much good there is Deliver'd of her, that some Fathers be Loth to believe one Woman could do this; But, think these Magdalens were two or three. Increase their number, Lady, and their fame: To their devotion, add your innocence; Take so much of th'exemple, as of the name; The letter half; and in some recompense That they did harbour Christ himself, a guest, Harbour these hymns, to his dear name addressed. (Donne 1953, 1, 317^8) This poem does not only lyrically summarize all the elements which are going to be analysed in the present section, but also points out the fact that the problem of the Magdalene's identity is inextricably linked with her conversion. This spiritual change appeared so radical to Christian theologians that they were encouraged to question the existence of a single Magdalene.

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Augustine's conversion does not shake one's belief in the uniqueness of the Saint, whereas in the case of the Magdalene the `actants' played by this narrative actor are so di¡erent from each other that many have imagined the presence of three or more personae, instead of a single character. As feminist theologians (and Donne before them) pointed out, this disbelief is also moved by mistrust of the spiritual achievements of the woman. How could a prostitute be the ¢rst witness of Jesus' resurrection? In the present section, the di¡erent solutions given to the problematic nature of the Magdalene's identity (and, as a consequence, of the philosophical essence of her repentance) will be described according to four vantage points: ¢rst, theology and philosophy; second, philology; third, art; fourth, society. Depending on which of these four points of view was adopted, the dilemma of the Magdalene's self found a di¡erent solution. However, before taking into account all these cultural tendencies, it is necessary to a¤rm that the problem of the Magdalene's identity is not only related to Christian theologians' frequent di¤dence towards the spiritual status of converted women, but is also rooted in the kind of philological information which the Gospels provide about the Magdalene's conversion. It is therefore useful to brie£y survey this complex network of textual references. The Magdalene in the Gospels: a fragmentary identity The Magdalene's identity is composed of three fragments, which are referred to in di¡erent evangelical passages. The ¢rst appears in Luke 7, 36^50 [1]; this text recounts the conversion of a woman, whose name is not mentioned, who, while Jesus was attending a meal o¡ered to him in Galilee by Simon the Pharisee, entered the room, moistened Jesus' feet with her tears, wiped them with her hair, perfumed them with precious ointment and obtained forgiveness for her sins. The second evangelical persona which constitutes the Magdalene's identity is a woman named `Mary', sister of Martha. When Jesus visited them, Mary, unlike her sister, who took care of the domestic work, only cared about the word of Jesus, who praised her choice and defended her from the criticisms of Martha. This Mary appears in Luke 10, 38^42 [2], but has no philological relation with the woman which one encounters in [1]. Nevertheless, although the two women do not share a common philological identity, they present some semiotic similarities: ¢rst, a proxemic similarity: they both sit at the feet of Jesus; second, a pathetic similarity: the attitude of both women is characterized by passion rather than by action.83 Also John 11, 1^45 [3] recounts the episode of a woman called `Mary', described as the sister of Martha (once again) and Lazarus, who perfumed Jesus' feet in order to thank him for the resurrection of her brother. So, [3] seems to unify the two identities which appear in [1] and [2]. However, if the Mary of [3] is certainly identi¢able with the Mary of [2], the same cannot be said of the coincidence between [1] and [3]: the Mary of [3] is not

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characterized as a repentant woman. Again, though, some structural similarities seem to compensate the lack of philological identity. In particular, the women of [1], [2] and [3] are all characterized as passionate personae (for example, the Magdalene's passion and passivity counterbalance Martha's activity).84 The anointment recounted in [3] di¡ers from the one represented in [2] also because it gives a greater amount of detail; it describes what kind and what quantity of ointment was bought by Mary and how much money was paid for it. It is also said that Judas complained about this luxury, and was promptly reprimanded by Jesus himself.85 Matthew 26, 6^12 [4] also describes a meal in Bethany, in the house of a certain Simon, probably a¡ected by leprosy, where an anonymous woman enters the room and anoints Jesus's head while he is at the table. The disciples complain about this action because of its excessive luxury. This passage seems to merge together [1] and [3]. On the one hand, there is an anonymous woman, who furtively enters the dining room in the house of a man called Simon, who is o¡ering a meal to Jesus. She holds some ointment. This follows [1]. On the other hand, Simon is not a Pharisee, but someone a¡ected by leprosy (perhaps a confusion with the illness of Lazarus in [3]?), her ointment is very precious and moves people to complain about it. One ¢nds these elements also in [3]. There are some new elements, too: it is not Judas who complains about the ointment, but the totality of the disciples, and it is not on the feet of Jesus that the ointment is poured, but on his head. Mark 14, 3^9 [5] is very similar to [4], the only di¡erences being that the kind of ointment used by Mary is speci¢ed, and the complaint about the luxury of this gesture comes from an unde¢ned group of people. The third persona who constitutes the Magdalene's complex identity is a woman called `Mary of Magdala', whom Jesus frees of seven demons. Her story is recounted in Luke 8, 2 [6] and Mark 16, 9 [7]. This same Mary of Magdala appears again at the death of Jesus (Matt. 27, 55^56 [8]; Mark 15, 40^41 [9]; Luke 23, 49 [10]; John 19, 25 [11]) and the morning after his resurrection (Matt. 28, 1^10 [12]; John 20, 1^10 [13] and Mark 16, 1 [14]). [14] in particular, recounts that Mary of Magdala, Mary the mother of James and Salome¨ bought some ointment to embalm the body of Jesus. The same detail is related in Luke 24, 1 [15]. The third persona who constitutes the Magdalene's identity is the one who shocked theologians the most (as is poetically mentioned by Donne's poem): how could a woman formerly possessed by devils be the ¢rst one to witness the resurrection of Jesus? The Magdalene's identity: solutions 1

The theological solution will be the ¢rst one to be dealt with. In Christian thought, the Magdalene holds an ambiguous status. On the one hand, the fact that a sinful woman, a prostitute possessed by demons, was the

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¢rst witness of resurrection, is a great opportunity in order to a¤rm the possibility of human redemption, the generosity of divine forgiveness and the incommensurableness of grace. This is why many great theologians have claimed the existence of a single Magdalene, and opted for the plausibility of both her repentance and the re-stabilization of her self. It is the opinion of Gregory the Great (590^640), who ¢rst adopted this exegetical point of view. In his evangelical homilies he states: We believe that the woman whom Luke de¢nes as sinful, and John names `Mary', be the same as the woman about whom Mark a¤rms that she was freed of seven demons.86 (PL 76, 1189)

2

On the other hand, the unity of the Magdalene's identity appeared as blasphemous to some theologians, whose opinion was ¢rst expressed by Origen. The Greek and oriental Fathers and the orthodox liturgy also followed this point of view. From the beginning of the sixteenth century on, the philological perusal of the Gospels clashed with the theological solution o¤cially adopted by the Catholic Church. The textual analysis of the Magdalene's identity revealed a fragmentariness which had been occulted for the sake of liturgy and evangelical communication. The philologist, humanist, exegete and theologian Jacques Le Fe©vre d'E¨taples ( Johannes Faber Stapulensis) is the protagonist of a polemics on the philological status of the Magdalene, which arose mainly between 1517 and 1521.87 In 1517, he published in Paris a book entitled De Maria Magdalena (`On Mary of Magdala') (Lefe©vre d'E¨taples 1517), where he demonstrated, through philological evidence, the impossibility of considering the Magdalene as a single evangelical character. On the one hand, sixteenth-century philologists, who a¤rmed the necessity of recuperating the divine truth hidden in sacred texts, warmly welcomed this work; on the other hand, it was promptly censured by the Sorbonne and harshly criticized by those theologians, who defended the Magdalene as the highest symbol of human redemption. In particular, John Fisher, bishop of Rochester, wrote a book entitled The Single Magdalene in order to confute Le Fe©vre d'E¨taples' heretical exegesis (Fisher 1987). More than a century later, the polemics on the Magdalene's identity arose again among exegetes and liturgists. Famous seventeenth-century Benedictine biblical scholar Augustin Calmet wrote a Dissertation sur les trois Maries (`Dissertation on the three Marys') (Calmet 1750, 13, 331^ 49) in order to expose the problems connected with the Magdalene's description in the Gospels. As recently as in 1968, a coherent solution of the problem of the Magdalene's identity had not yet been found. In the ¢rst years of the 1970s, though, the scholars of the Biblical School of Jerusalem stated

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that the Magdalene is the product of the fusion of at least three di¡erent personae. Consequently, the Roman calendar was modi¢ed, and the feast of 22 July, which used to celebrate the three women under a single identity, became a day uniquely devoted to the celebration of one of them. The philological urge for a truthful exegesis of the Gospels clashed not only against the reasons of theology, but also against the needs of popular religious imagery, wherein, from the early Middle Ages on, the Magdalene had played the role of a powerful symbol of repentance.88 From this point of view, the Magdalene's dilemma had already found a suitable solution in both this popular imagery and its various artistic embodiments. The same identity which theologians were unable to rationally justify through their arguments and which philologists denied in their textual perusal had been already recomposed at a symbolical level.

In the last part of the present section, we shall analyse two ¢gures which appear very frequently in (especially late-medieval and early-modern) representations of the Magdalene's conversion: the mirror and the ointment. According to our hypothesis, they function both as textual and narrative mechanisms ¢t for the re-composition of the Magdalene's identity and as semiotic devices for the re-stabilization of her self. The mirror As has been shown in chapters 1 and 2, religious conversion revolutionizes the boundaries which delimit personal identity. As a consequence, the main semiotic problem of mental and cultural representations of this religious phenomenon is to convey simultaneously a feeling of sameness and otherness, identity and change. In the present section, mirrors are analysed as cultural mechanisms which enable representations to accomplish this paradoxical task. After a brief survey concerning the literature on mirrors, some earlymodern religious texts using these optical instruments as representative devices of a paradoxical identity will be analysed in depth: a painting of the Magdalene's conversion by Artemisia Gentileschi, an engraving representing conversion from a seventeenth-century French book, a fragment from Saint Therese's spiritual autobiography, a passage from John Calvin's Institutes of the Christian Religion. In its conclusion, the section will emphasize the importance of Saint Paul's metaphoric conception of mirrors for the cultural history of these objects; it will also try to de¢ne the role which cultural semiotics should play concerning this kind of representative mechanism. Personal and collective identities are guaranteed by the presence of some limits, borders, thresholds, boundaries and so on. These terms are not synonyms, but can all be interpreted as words which contribute to designate the semiotic shape of an object, especially in the case of human beings or groups of people. This semiotic shape can be a¡ected by di¡erent kinds of

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changes, which can be called troubles, improvements, decays and so on, depending on which axiological evaluation is attributed to the change itself. `Change' and `modi¢cation' are rather neutral terms, which do not imply any encomiastic or derogative evaluation. Certainly, religious conversion is an extremely important change in the life of a person. As has been speci¢cally pointed out, there are various types of religious changes, and di¡erent kinds of religious conversion ( James 1902; Rambo 1982a and 1993; Oksanen 1994). However, all these kinds give rise to problems of identity. As has been analysed in depth in chapter 2, from a cognitive point of view, religious conversion is a paradigmatic form of change, since individuals cannot decide which beliefs in general, and which religious beliefs in particular, they want to believe. Conversion, as it has been represented in Christian culture, is quite independent from individual will. As a consequence of this impossibility of totally controlling beliefs, religious conversion is very problematic for the feeling of personal identity. When one converts to another religion, one inevitably experiences a paradoxical status: the awareness of the change is fundamental for the identity of the converted person, yet at the same time this awareness is a severe obstacle for the perception of the wholeness of the self. Di¡erence and similarity, otherness and identity paradoxically coexist in the representations of religious conversion. This happens not only in the case of mental representations, but also in the case of cultural representations of conversion. In particular, pictorial texts representing conversion seem to face the same problem as mental representations. Mutatis mutandis, they both have to use the present in order to represent the past and the future. On the one hand, conscience works and exists only in the present tense, which a very long philosophical tradition has de¢ned as a moment entrapped between the memory of the past and the expectation of the future (RicÝur 1983). On the other hand, as an abundant semiotic and aesthetical literature has meticulously analysed, paintings cannot represent time in its extension, but must have recourse to various semiotic stratagems in order to give an e¡ective representation of it (Calabrese 1985a and 1985c). Although both the nature and e¡ectiveness of these stratagems may vary depending on visual cultures and their histories, this limit of paintings remains unchanged: time must be compressed into a single instant. Therefore, when these di¡erent texts (be they painted or mental narratives) represent conversion, they must adopt some suitable cultural mechanisms, which enable them to keep both otherness and identity in the same semiotic space. As I shall try to demonstrate in this section, mirrors, as they are used by consciences or are represented by paintings, are an example of this kind of cultural mechanism. Mirroring surfaces are very common in human history, in every time and in every culture, but it is especially after the technical invention of the modern mirror, that they have stimulated the human imagination in many di¡erent ways. Unceasingly, from the beginning of early-modern history on,

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poets, writers, visual artists, philosophers and so on, have represented mirrors and used them as metaphorical devices for their conceptual inventions. Literature on the cultural history of mirrors is particularly copious, but some contributions can be singled out: in 1994, Sabine Melchior-Bonnet published a very interesting book, still considered one of the most important texts in this ¢eld, which bore the title Histoire du miroir (`History of the mirror', Melchior-Bonnet 1994). Another fundamental work concerning the same topic is The Mirror and the Man, by Benjamin Goldberg in 1985 (Goldberg 1985). Also, Andrea Tagliapietra's La metafora dello specchio, (`The metaphor of the mirror'), is particularly concerned with the philosophical implications of this fascinating object (Tagliapietra 1991). As regards mirrors in paintings, certainly the best contribution to this topic is contained in Victor Stoichita's masterpiece of cultural and intellectual history The SelfAware Image (Stoichita 1997b). Besides these major contributions, countless articles, from the most disparate points of view, have been written on mirrors, their uses and their representations. Also, as all semioticians know, mirrors are an important object in semiotic theory, as well as in other twentieth-century humanistic disciplines, such as psychoanalysis or hermeneutics. Umberto Eco's book on mirrors, ¢rst published in 1985 (Eco 1985), was soon translated into many languages and became very popular. But Eco's witty considerations about mirrors, which he afterwards perfected in another semiotic book, Kant e l'ornitorinco (`Kant and the platypus', Eco 1998), concerned more the semiotics of their perception than their cultural relevance. Therefore, it is to another founder of contemporary semiotics, a semiotician more interested in the cultural semiotics of mirrors, that reference will be made in relation to mirrors in representations of the Magdalene. We are alluding to Jurij Mihailovic Lotman, founder of the semiotic school of Tartu, Estonia. In 1986, this group of semioticians organized a series of seminars about the semiotic relevance of mirrors. The results of this investigation were published in the international journal for semiotics ""o ^ Trudy po znakovym sistemam.89 As regards the Magdalene's mirrors, I shall refer in particular to Lotman's brief but compact article K semiotike zerkala I zerkal' nosti (`Semiotics of the mirror and of specularity'). According to Lotman, since the dichotomy between the space which is internal to a given culture, and the space which is external to it, is a universal element in cultural semiotics, the boundary separating these two spaces is particularly meaningful. This explains why the semiotics of culture is interested in mirrors: mostly, they function as boundaries of semiotic organizations and as frontiers between `our' world and an `alien' world. So, it is argued by Lotman, the simplest mirroring e¡ects, such as the switch between left and right, or internal and external, are signs of di¡erent forms of organization, which are frequently stigmatized as `incorrect' or `disorganized'. Therefore mirrors, in the history of culture, are semiotic mechanisms for the description of alien structures.

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Lotman's semiotic conceptions about mirrors are a good point of departure in order to analyse the relation between identity, conversion and mirroring e¡ects. According to Lotman, Lewis Carroll ¢rst pointed out the semiotic problem of the mirror in his preface to the novel Alice through the Looking Glass. However, probably the most accomplished imagination of mirrors as traps for alien cultural structures is to be found in a short text by Jorge Luis Borges, entitled Animales de los espejos (`Animals in the mirrors'), in El libro de los seres imaginarios (`The book of imaginary beings'), written by Jorge Luis Borges and Margarita Guerrero in 1967 (Borges and Guerrero 1967). This intriguing text refers to a mythical epoch, when `the world of mirrors and the world of men were not separated, as they are now'.90 As the people of the mirror tried to invade the human world, and were defeated, they were obliged to stay beyond the re£ecting surface, and to mirror every human move. This mythical invention is perfectly suited to functioning as a literary counterpart of Lotman's semiotic thoughts. Moreover, both the semiotics of Lotman and Borges's short text are suitable to introduce the topic of mirrors as cultural mechanisms for the representation of conversion. Among the countless early-modern visual representations of the Magdalene which include a mirror, we shall analyse in detail `La conversione della Maddalena', `the conversion of the Magdalene' (Figure 3.1), painted between 1615 and 1616 by the Italian painter Artemisia Gentileschi, one of the very few female painters of Italian early-modern art history.91 The painting is an oil on canvas, measures 146.5 by 108 cm and it is signed on the back of the chair appearing in the image: `Artemisia Lomi'.92 As has been pointed out earlier, the ordinances of the Council of Trent, which were to revolutionize the whole structure of the Catholic Church, also gave attention to the question of sacred images ( Jedin 1935; id. 1975: 235^70), which, especially in France, had undergone the attacks of Calvinist iconoclasts. The in£uence of the Catholic Counter-Reformation on the art of the end of the sixteenth century and of the ¢rst half of the seventeenth century is di¤cult to overestimate. Among the religious themes represented by artists in this historical period, the conversion of the Magdalene was particularly popular. Although theological pamphlets, sermons, hagiographies, legends, novels, poems, plays, engravings, popular visual texts, musical plays, sculptures, paintings and so on had represented the Magdalene and her life from the ¢rst centuries of Christianity, the Magdalene's conversion was particularly represented in the early-modern epoch, when the Catholic Church tried to instill a renewed religious fervour in Western Europe. The Magdalene, the sinful woman who had embraced the Christian faith after a dissolute life, and was to become one of the dearest followers of Christ, ending her life in eremitic penitence, was a paradigmatic example for a Catholic civilization shocked by the Lutheran Reform and endangered by heresy and secularization. She was a paradoxical character, which expressed very suitably the contradictions of early-modern Catholic Europe. But the

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Figure 3.1 Artemisia Gentileschi, The Magdalene's Conversion, oil on canvas, 146:5  108 cm. Florence, Pitti Palace, Palatina Gallery, 1615^16. Reproduced here with permission of the Ministero dei Beni e le Attivita© Culturali.

representation of this woman, especially her pictorial representation, inevitably implied a problem of ine¡ability. How was it possible to condense in a single image two opposite identities? What cultural mechanisms were to be adopted, in order to sew the disjointed boundary separating sinfulness and holiness, as well as the di¡erent, heterogeneous evangelical elements which coalesce in the persona of the Magdalene? Let us analyse the way in which Artemisia Gentileschi decided to solve this problem of representation. First of all, a brief verbal description of the painting will be put forward, in order to point out which elements of it are going to be included in the analysis. The body of the Saint occupies the largest and most central part of the canvas, also being the main source of colour and light. Overall, the posture of the woman follows the traditional iconography of the Magdalene; the disposition of her limbs could be de¢ned as chiastic: on the one hand, the

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right arm crosses the chest and grasps the left breast, expressing repentance and referring to the Saint's carnal and sinful past. On the other hand, the legs of the woman are conspicuously crossed, embodying the same feeling of contrition and perhaps referring to the passion of Christ on the cross. Only the left arm of the woman holds an unusual position, which will be interpreted later. The hair and garments of the Magdalene follow the iconographic tradition too: the golden colour of the robe, the elegant green of the edging on both gown and neckline, the sumptuousness of the material, the abundance of wide folds, the ampleness of the neck-opening and the ru¥ed tawny curls all refer to the Magdalene as courtesan. And, of course, contrition is also embodied in the lineaments of the Saint's face. In the following analysis, these transparent elements will not be dealt with; more attention will be given, instead, to four speci¢c details: the inscriptions; the mirror; the skull; the pendant earrings. Two inscriptions appear in the painting, the ¢rst one from the left on the back of the chair, the second one on the frame of the mirror. Some art historians have claimed that probably these inscriptions are not original, and have been added to the painting later (Spike 1991; Bissell 1999: 209^11). A tragic event in Artemisia Gentileschi's life is related to these inscriptions. On 6 May 1611, when Artemisia was not yet eighteen years old, she was raped by Agostino Tassi, painter and assistant of her father. After this event, which was to have huge consequences both on Artemisia's personal and artistic life, Agostino Tassi was brought to trial and banned from Rome. The acts of the trial prove that Artemisia was unable to write. Nevertheless, this does not demonstrate that the two inscriptions in the Conversione are not hers: she could have learned to write after the trial, when she moved to Florence with her new husband. Or, as it has been argued by other art historians, she could have asked someone else to write the two inscriptions. However, from a semiotic point of view, this philological question is not very interesting. The meaning of the inscriptions is more relevant. As we have seen, the ¢rst inscription is the signature of the painter. The second one is a Latin quotation from the gospel of Luke 10, 42. It is a reference to an episode, which has been represented obsessively by Western Christian art and concerns the complicated equilibrium between the vita contemplativa, `contemplative life', and the vita activa, `active life'. Here follows the passage: Now as they went on their way, [ Jesus] entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, `Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.' But the Lord answered her, `Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.'

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The ¢nal sentence of this passage translates the Latin inscription in the painting: `optimam partem elegit', `she chose the best part'. However, the inscription of this sentence in the context of the painting is problematic. As has been already shown, from the Renaissance on, many theologians denied that the woman represented in the above quoted biblical passage is the same as the converted Magdalene. Nevertheless, the question remains to decide to which `part' the sentence `optimam partem elegit' refers. In the biblical passage, there are two `parts': contemplative life and active life. But the choice represented in Artemisia's painting is not between these two parts, but between sinfulness and holiness. The position of the inscription o¡ers a solution to this dilemma. The parts to which the inscription refers are the two cultural structures separated by the mirror, as Lotman would have said. Optimam partem elegit does not mean just that the Magdalene chose the contemplative life, but also that she chose the right side of the mirror. It is now possible to interpret the position of the Magdalene's left arm, which does not follow the traditional iconography of the Saint. The left hand of the Magdalene rejects the mirror as both a symbol of vanity and a separating surface beyond which the wrong part is entrapped, like the mythical enemy in Borges' short story. But in order to reject this wrong part and the mirror, which both contains and entraps it, the Saint has to touch the re£ecting image. So the mirror is not simply a vehicle of a negative identity, but also an optical instrument of perfection, enabling a distinction between good and evil. Therefore, the mirror can function as a cultural mechanism of both conversion and identity, as a paradoxical device, which simultaneously permits change and continuity. Both functions, which frequently appear as fused in the same cultural relation between human beings and mirrors, refer to a long tradition. But before brie£y exploring it, the content of the mirror in Artemisia Gentileschi's painting must be explored. As Lotman lucidly stated in his article, what the mirror inverts in its re£ection is the wrong side of a cultural structure. In Artemisia's painting (not visible here), this wrong side is embodied by the nape of the neck of the Saint, which represents her sinful life, now behind her back, in her past; but it is also the pendant earring hanging from her left ear. According to a longestablished Christian axiology, often the left side represents evil. So, mirrors can function as a device of puri¢cation, inverting the left and the right side of an image. Pearls and jewels in general are a traditional symbol of vanity, especially of female vanity, but Artemisia's painting also suggests a more sophisticated dialectic between two di¡erent re£ecting surfaces: the surface of the mirror and the surface of the pearls. The ¢rst one is clear and £at, while the second is opaque and convex. So, in a sort of semi-symbolical system (see pages 98^100), on the one hand pearls symbolize the imperfection of the soul (which a long religious tradition describes through the metaphor of the opaque mirror), and also its haughtiness (as is evident in many earlymodern moral emblems, convex mirrors symbolize arrogance because they

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always magnify what they re£ect); on the other hand, the £at and clean surface of the mirror represents the state of moral awareness of the soul after contrition and repentance. The skull beside the mirror attests that the penitent soul has learned the mortal limits of its vanity. This painting is not the only example in which conversion and its paradoxical structure is represented through the analogously paradoxical cultural dynamics of a mirror. Artemisia's Conversione della Maddalena was painted between 1615 and 1617. Just a few years later, in 1625, a book was published in Paris, bearing the title Les triomphes de l'amour de Dieu en la conversion d'Hermoge©ne (`The triumphs of the love of God in Hermogenes' conversion'), written by the Capuchin Philippe d'Angoumois (Angoumois 1625). On page 1170, the book contains a very interesting engraving, which has been analysed by art historian Michel Vovelle, one of the most distinguished experts of early-modern popular visual culture (Vovelle 1982a). The engraving represents a young man kneeling before an altar, who contemplates the image contained in a mirror held by an angel. The friar, who spies on the conversion from behind a column, refers to a common icononographic cliche¨, according to which miracles and other marvellous events always need the presence of a hidden witness, who will be able to recount and describe what has been seen. The garments of the young man are very sumptuous, and are a customary reference to a sinful life, full of elegance and vanity (see Figure 1.6). Also the posture of the repentant youngster is quite traditional, and refers to both the cruci¢x on top of the altar and to the cross, interwoven in the altar-cloths. The most interesting peculiarity of the scene is the mirror. Why should the £at surface held by the angel be called a mirror? Why, if it does not seem to re£ect any object of the real world? Several elements can explain this phenomenon. First of all, there is a great resemblance between the converted person and the man tortured by devils in the supernatural image. Second, the angel holds this image as if he were holding a mirror, i.e. trying to enable the young man to see himself in the mirroring surface. Third, the sinner does not look into this surface as if he were observing a painting. From the way in which he bends toward the image, and looks into its depth, he seems to search for himself inside the frame, as one normally does in front of a re£ecting image. In other words, in this scene of moralized narcissism, we do not perceive a re£ection because there is a mirror, but we perceive a mirror because there is a re£ection. Furthermore, the way in which the sinner is tortured in the guise of his infernal alter-ego is a reference to the semiotic structure of the scene: the sinner is sawn by two monstrous devils, who propose a metaphoric image of a divided self. Again, Lotman's considerations about mirrors as cultural mechanisms are useful: the mirror separates the young convert from the evil part of his soul. At the same time, mirrors re£ect and invert. As a consequence, they are instruments of both sameness and di¡erence. In the two images, which have

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just been analysed, the re£ected object and the re£ected image are both equal and di¡erent. But in this context the mirror is a vehicle for a precise moral axiology: the re£ected image represents an evil reality, or, as semioticians would like to de¢ne it, a `disphoric' structure. Yet now we shall slightly diverge from Lotman's consideration on mirrors, by arguing that in some texts this axiology is inverted. So, a positive connotation is attributed to the re£ected image, which is seen as more perfect than the re£ected object. The best example of this inversion can be found in a text written a few years before the appearance of Artemisia Gentileschi's painting, and precisely between 1561 and 1562, when the Council of Trent had almost come to its conclusion. I am alluding to the Libro de las Misericordias del Sen¬or, o de las grandezas del Sen¬or (`Book on the Grace of God, or on the Greatness of God'), written by Saint Therese of Avila.93 Here is a passage from the ¢nal chapter of the work (chapter 40): Once, when I was with the whole community reciting the O¤ce, my soul became suddenly recollected, and seemed to me all bright as a mirror, clear behind, sideways, upwards, and downwards; and in the centre of it I saw Christ our Lord, as I usually see Him. It seemed to me that I saw Him distinctly in every part of my soul, and at the same time the mirror was all sculptured ^ I cannot explain it ^ in our Lord Himself by a most loving communication which I can never describe.94 (Teresa of Avila 1987, 341) This text contains several interesting elements. First of all, in the last sentence the Saint expresses three important concepts: 1 2 3

The relation between Jesus and herself is a relation of communication. This communication is a communication of love. This communication is ine¡able (`yo no sabre¨ decir', `I shall not be able to say').

The mirror is the metaphorical device which enables the Saint to describe this communication. This time, the mirror is not pictorially, but mentally represented. The soul of Therese is like a mirror, which perfectly re£ects the face of Jesus. So, the customary axiology of the mirrored image is inverted: the mirror does not entrap an evil structure, but absolute perfection. Yet, the mystical image invented by the Saint is more complicated, since Jesus himself becomes a mirror, which re£ects the mirror of the Saint's soul. This produces two paradoxical e¡ects: ¢rst, both Jesus and the Saint are simultaneously re£ected and trans¢gured into each other; second, this re£ection/ trans¢guration is in¢nite, like the in¢nite e¡ect of mirroring produced by opposing two mirrors. This is not the only text in which Therese of Avila uses the metaphor of the mirror. In the same chapter, she explains that sinful souls are like opaque

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mirrors, and that heretical souls are like a chipped mirror. Also, this same metaphor reappears in the ¢nal passage of the Libro de su vida, where the soul is compared to a mirroring diamond. It is surprising to realize that the metaphor of the mirror is used in exactly the same way in a Protestant text, the Institutio christian× religionis (`Institutes of the Christian religion'), written by John Calvin a few years before the Libro de su vida, in Latin in 1535 and in French (Institution de la Religion Chre¨tienne) in 1541 (Calvin 1911). As Eric Kayayan points out in La porte¨e e¨piste¨mologique de la me¨taphore du miroir dans l'Institution de la Religion chre¨tienne de J. Calvin (`The epistemological value of the metaphor of the mirror in J. Calvin's Institutes of the Christian Religion') (Kayayan 1997), the metaphor of the mirror is used thirty-two times in this text, and often in a way which is similar to Saint Therese's, for example in the following passage: Christ is like a mirror, in which it is convenient to contemplate our election, and in which we shall contemplate it without deceit.95 So, the tradition of the mirror as a cultural mechanism, which enables complex relations between identities and their boundaries to be expressed, is very long and articulated, and is relevant for two disciplines at least: anthropology and history. On the present occasion, just a few references about the most important contributions on this topic can be made. From the anthropological point of view, the phenomena, which have been brie£y analysed in this section, have been included in the category of the `portalling phenomena', i.e. the cross-culturally common mystical experiences of moving from one reality to another via a tunnel, door, aperture, hole or, of course, through a mirror. Literature on this topic is extensive, but a classic point of departure is the passage which Mircea Eliade wrote on mirrors in his famous book about shamanism (Eliade 1964: 153^5). From the historical point of view, most Christian texts using the metaphor of the mirror directly or indirectly refer to Paul's famous passage on the mirror in 1 Cor. 13, 12: `For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face'. The bibliography on the possible interpretations of this sentence, and on the gigantic tradition generated by it, is impressive. One of the best contributions on this topic, on which unfortunately it is impossible to dwell here, is the book by Norbert Hugede¨ La me¨taphore du miroir dans les Ep|ªtres de Saint Paul aux Corinthiens (`The metaphor of the mirror in Saint Paul's Epistles to the Corinthians') (Hugede¨ 1957). The role that cultural semiotics (and semiotics of religion as a part of it) can play concerning mirrors as mechanisms of identity, is to mediate between the di¡erent disciplines which study these objects, and to pinpoint what structures and representations are triggered by their metaphorical use. Mirrors are a semiotic device which representations use in order to recompose the Magdalene's identity and re-stabilize her self after the crisis of repentance and conversion. The unity of both the character and its story

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is achieved not at a philological level, but through the artistic interpretation of a symbol. Art is a fundamental element in guaranteeing and communicating the harmony of the Christian thought. This will be even more evident after another paradoxical device of representation, the ointment, is studied in the next section. The ointment The main hypothesis of the present section is that, in the Magdalene's conversion, the ointment and its representations ful¢ll a function which is similar to that of the ¢g tree in Augustine's conversion: the ointment is a paradoxical object, able to recompose a broken identity. This hypothesis can be discussed following two di¡erent series of arguments. The ¢rst and philological one concerns the analysis of the evangelic texts concerning the Magdalene. One of the few elements which link together the three identities of this character consists in the fact that the three of them share at least the intention to anoint the body of Jesus. The second argument relates to the sensory dimension of the act of anointing. From a semiotic point of view, the conversion of Augustine is mainly auditory. He hears the message of God, then he converts. As recent semiotic analyses of semiotics on the ¢ve senses have pointed out, hearing is a sense often associated with a cognitive dimension. It implies a distance between the two poles of communication. Furthermore, the auditory nature of Augustine's conversion perfectly corresponds to its Pauline theological inspiration (ex auditu ¢des, `faith from listening'). In the Magdalene's conversion, the tactile and olfactory dimension is more important, and emphasizes the emotional nature of her spiritual change: she touches Jesus, perfumes him, and the odour of the ointment pervades the room. In order to fully grasp the meaning of this symbol and its function in the texts which represent the re-stabilization of the Magdalene's self, it is necessary to explore the cultural history of the ointment and its connections with the Magdalene. The little receptacle of alabaster, where the Magdalene keeps the ointment, is a symbol of her identity since the very ¢rst manifestations of her cult. For the Greeks, the second Sunday after Easter, called `the Sunday of the Mirrophor× ' (i.e. `women bringing ointment'), celebrated the saintly women who, on Easter morning, wanted to embalm the body of Christ (Saxer in BSS, 1081). This tradition is referred to from the fourth century on, for example in the homilies of John Chrysostom and Gregory of Nissa. In the Western Church, the most ancient traces of this cult are in the celebrations of the ¢rst week after Easter and many Christian writers mention it from the ¢fth to the eighth century. In the Oriental liturgy, then, the thirtieth of June is still devoted to these women. Mentions of the Magdalene's conversion are also very abundant in the Western liturgy. The Martyrologium of Üngus reports the existence of a `feast

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of her conversion to Christ', which in Merovingian calendars was celebrated on 28th March. Other references are contained in liturgical texts like masses and o¤ces (ninth century), Oriental (seventh century) and Occidental (ninth century) legends, manuscripts related to the cult of Ve¨zelay, twelfthand thirteenth-century hagiographic compilations and in the cycle of Saint Maximin. A detailed analysis of all these texts would require several volumes of commentaries. Furthermore, some good books have already e¤caciously made the point on the topic. We shall, therefore, dwell on early-modern written texts and on the relations which they hold with visual representations. In particular, we shall focus on the symbolic tradition contained in early-modern Spanish representations of the Magdalene's ointment. David Lloyd Catron's book Saint Mary Magdalene in Spanish and Portuguese Literature of the 16th and 17th Centuries (Lloyd Catron 1986) is a good introduction to the present inquiry, although it neither analyses some important representations of the Magdalene, nor does it deal with visual material. After explaining the obsession of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Spanish and Portuguese literature by describing the Magdalene as `the prostitute who rose from the depths of degradation and perversion to become the ``redemptoris ardentissima dilectrix'' ' (ibid., 1), the author points out that the roots of this `mania' have to be found in the attitude of early Church writers. They were intrigued at the fact that the Magdalene's eyes, hair, mouth and ointment, all formerly used in the pursuit of sinful pleasures, were afterwards converted to the service of the Lord. This is the opinion which Gregory the Great adopted in his interpretation of the Magdalene's conversion: It is evident, my brothers, that she had used the ointment before in order to perfume her body, and had engaged in illicit acts. Now, she was praiseworthily o¡ering to God what she had depravedly exhibited. She had coveted material pleasures with her eyes, but now she was crying through them. She had exhibited her hair to embellish her face, but now she was wiping her tears with it. She had said boastful things through her mouth, but now she was repairing this sin by kissing the feet of Jesus and following the Redeemer. She found in herself as many gifts as the many amusements she had had before. In order to serve God completely, she converted into virtues everything sinful she had performed before to wickedly defy God.96 (XL Homiliarum in evangelia, 2, 33; PL 76, 1240) This passage is important for a semiotic analysis of both the ointment and its meaning. A (relatively) new branch of structural semiotics is trying to develop a `¢gural semiotics', i.e. to explore and de¢ne the mechanisms which rule the composition of the most exterior layers of a text.97 One of these mechanisms has been de¢ned as an `exchange of ¢gures': ¢gures which

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are normally used to convey a certain meaning can be transferred into another semantic position, in order to express an intersection between di¡erent semantic areas. In early representations of the Magdalene's conversion, the ointment is transformed (converted) from an instrument of sexual perversion into a ¢gure of repentance, able (like the ¢g tree) to represent both the past and the future of the soul, its sinful and its saintly life, good and evil. This same semiotic mechanism (so distinctively baroque) can also be found in early-modern poetic representations of the Magdalene's conversion. Before brie£y surveying this abundant literary tradition, we shall dwell at some length on the symbolic connotations which the ointment can hold in the framework of a religious text (this analysis will be analogous to that carried on about the religious symbolism of the ¢g tree in the representations of Augustine's conversion). The Spanish thesaurus Cuervo (Cuervo 1994), uses two quotations in order to explain the meaning of the verb ungir, (`to anoint'). First, a passage from a religious text of M. de Chaide;98 second, the following lines, from the Ero¨ticas of Villega (5, Cl.C. 21.258): While I am alive, Let the sophistication and the erotic amusement live; Let my forehead be crowned by roses, My face anointed with oils, And you will call, my servant, My sweet girl.99 In the semantic structures of several lexicons (which, as Louis Marin demonstrated in many of his essays, are often condensed in the headwords of dictionaries) the ointment refers to the repentance of the Magdalene, but is also a symbol of sexual sin (the whole list of quotations contained in the Cuervo dictionary shows this oscillation between sex and repentance). In the texts which represent the Magdalene's conversion and the re-stabilization of her self (especially, as we shall see, in early-modern baroque religious literature), although the ointment is transformed from instrument of sinful sexual perversion into device of saintly repentance, it nevertheless keeps some of its former connotations. This does not mean that the nature of the Magdalene's passion for Jesus is sexual. On the contrary, since, as in most mystical texts, the words of sensual love are the most ardent which poets have at their disposal, these same words are used in order to describe a metaphysical love. Besides this connotation of sensual device of pleasure, the ointment appears also in other semantic ¢elds, mainly related to the liturgy of the sacraments and to ceremonies of proclamation or election. In the Bible, the word `ointment' and its equivalents and derivatives are frequent, with several di¡erent meanings.100 On the one hand, there are positive connotations. In Deut. 32, 13 and Job 29, 6 the image of an oil £owing from a rock is a symbol of abundance. Oil is a typical product of the Holy Land; often employed in

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order to trade with other geographic areas, it is an important element in the preparation of food, fuel for lamps, cosmetics and medicines. Its role in rituals derives mainly from a simple association of ideas: since oil is used to bake bread, and since sacri¢ces are called `the bread of God', oil is used in the preparation of sacri¢ces, too. On the other hand, oil and its ritual counterpart, the ointment, have also negative connotations; Isa. 28, 1^4 associates the ointment with the sin of arrogance. Moreover, since oil was used to make the leather of the shields supple, the expression mashah magen, `to oil a shield', is a frequent idiom for `to wage war'. However, among all the uses of the ointment in the Judeo-Christian civilization, one is particularly important in relation to the Magdalene's conversion. As an element in the normal grooming of all classes of people in the Ancient Near East, anointing with oil, like the washing that preceded and the dressing that followed it (Ezek. 16, 9^10; Ruth 3, 3), was symbolic of a change in status throughout the Ancient Near East. The practice of anointing in legal and cultic proceedings is to be understood in the light of the role of ablutions and the changing of garments. The Bible speaks frequently of donning victory (e.g., Isa. 59, 7), honour (Ps. 104, 1), disgrace ( Job 8, 22), etc. Likewise, it prescribes washing as the key to ritual purity (Exod. 30, 20; Lev. 22, 6, etc). In the same way, the consecration of Aaron to the priesthood included washing (Lev. 8, 6) and donning special garments (Lev. 8, 12). The consecration of Aaron's sons as priests also implied the use of these three elements (Lev. 8, 6^13). In the Magdalene's anointing of the feet of Jesus, this connotation of change of status is certainly present. Also, in the Old Testament the ointment appears in the consecration of temples and people, in connection with kings like Saul, David, Solomon, Absalom, Jehoash, etc. Analogously, in the language of the Bible the idiom `oil is sent to . . . ' means the conclusion of a treaty, since oil was often used in diplomatic relations with neighbours. In the vast tradition of words, images and other media which have represented the Magdalene's conversion, each text has emphasized some of the multiple connotations of the ointment, adopting it as either a symbol of sexual perversion, spiritual change, divine consecration and so on. The Bible (especially the Old Testament) and its countless interpretations have been a repertoire of meanings which representations have borrowed in order to be able to re-count (and re-stabilize) the spiritual turning point of the Magdalene, patron Saint of all converted sinners. In the following section, the way in which early-modern religious literature has exploited this repertoire will be studied in depth. The Magdalene in early-modern literature The myth of the Magdalene spread throughout Europe especially in the sixteenth and seventeenth century, when she seemed to perfectly embody both the religious ideology of the Counter-Reformation and the literary aesthetics

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of the baroque epoch. Only the most important texts can be remembered on this occasion. In Italy, one has to mention the poem in forty-two octaves by Giuseppe Policreti La conversione di Maddalena (`The Magdalene's conversion') (Vicenza, 1588), Le lagrime di Santa Maddalena (`The tears of Saint Magdalene') by Giovanni Ralli and Anton Giulio Brignole Sale's Maria Maddalena peccatrice, e convertita (`Mary of Magdala sinner, and converted'). Other poems were also composed by Grillo and Marino.101 In France, the following texts must be remembered: Sime¨on-Guillaume de la Roque's Les Larmes de la Magdeleine (`The tears of the Magdalene', 1590); an anonymous poem, appeared in 1597, Magdalen repentie (`Repented Magdalene'); Ce¨sar de Nostredame's Les Perles ou les larmes de Ste Magdeleine (`The pearls or tears of Sainte Magdalene', 1606); Dom F. M. A. Durant's epic Magdaliade (1608); Re¨mi de Beauvais's Magdeleine (1617); the anonymous Larmes de la Magdeleine, contained in Raphael du Petit Val's Muse chre¨tienne (`The Christian Muse', 1628); Jacques Le Clerc's L'Uranie pe¨nitente ou la vie et la pe¨nitence de la Magdaleine (`The penitent Urania or the life and penitence of the Magdalene', 1628); Pierre de Saint-Louys' Magdeleine au de¨sert de la Sainte-Baume en Provence (`The Magdalene in the desert of SainteBaume in Provence', 1668) and Desmarets de Saint-Sorlin's Marie-Madeleine (1669) (Rey¡ 1989). In England, in 1550 Lewis Wager composed an allegorical play with Protestant tendencies, The Life and Repentance of Mary Magdalene, in 1591 Robert Southwell wrote a Mary Magdalen's Funeral Tears, which was published in 1594, and in 1595 Nicholas Breton wrote a Mary Magdalene's Love. The same author composed The Blessed Weeper in 1601 (it was the second part of A Divine Poem, 1601). The list includes also Gervase Markham's Tears of the Beloved (1600) and Marie Magdalene's Lamentations for the Loss of her Master (1601), Thomas Robinson's The Life and Death of Mary Magdalene (ca. 1620) and Richard Crashaw's Sainte Mary Magdalene or The Weeper (1646). In the present chapter, we shall dwell particularly on the Spanish and Portuguese literary tradition. It displays the most interesting (and spectacular) semiotic devices in order to describe the re-stabilization of the Magdalene's self after her conversion. The roots of this tradition in Catalan religious literature will be focused on in detail. The Magdalene in early-modern Spain Early-modern Spanish and Portuguese representations of the Magdalene's conversion are countless: the anonymous poem Breve Summa de la Conversio¨n y Vida de la gloriosa Mar|¨a Magdalena (`Brief summa of the conversion and life of the glorious Mary Magdalene'), the texts written by Marque¨s de Berlanga, Juan Seden¬o, de Are¨valo, Cristo¨bal de Mesa, Diogo Mendes Quintela, Ambrosio Montesino, Pedro de Mendoza, Archangel de Alarco¨n, Anto¨nio

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Ferreira, Diogo Bernandes, Alvaro de Hinojosa y Carvajal, Esteªva¬o Rodrigues de Castro, Leonel de Costa and so on.102 A complete analysis of all this material would be impossible. Four authors will be singled out, because of the interesting way in which they represent the Magdalene's ointment and of the deep impact that they had on both early-modern religious and artistic culture: Pedro de Chaves, Pedro Malo¨n de Chaide, Fray Luis de Leo¨n and Lope de Vega. Pedro de Chaves Pedro de Chaves's Libro de la vida y conversio¨n de santa Maria Magdalena . . . (`Book of the life and conversion of Saint Mary Magdalene', Chaves 1549) is one of the ¢rst representations of the Magdalene's conversion in earlymodern Spain (although anticipated by several texts in Valencian and Catalan literature).103 In order to describe the Magdalene's conversion, Pedro de Chaves quotes John Chrysostom, who a¤rms that her spiritual turning point consisted in performing acts which were contrary to those of her former sinful life (ibid., fol. liiiir ).104 As Catron explains in his interpretation of the passage (Lloyd Catron 1986, 21), this re-stabilization of the Magdalene's self involves taking those things previously used in the service of sin and restoring them to their rightful owner, God. Chaves also quotes Gregory the Great as a representative authority able to con¢rm the e¤caciousness of this mechanism of conversion: the ointment which the Magdalene had applied to her own skin she now used on Christ's feet; the eyes which formerly coveted earthly goods, now wept; the hair, before prized for its beauty, now used to wipe dry the Lord's feet; the mouth, once a source of arrogant and vain speech, now kissed Jesus' feet. Pedro Malo¨n de Chaide This imagery of the Magdalene's repentance and conversion, almost a narrative counterpart of early-modern philosophical treatises on passions, was especially spread by the most famous early-modern theological essay on the saintly woman, the Conversio¨n de la Magdalena . . . (`Conversion of the Magdalene'), written by Pedro Malo¨n de Chaide in 1588 (Malo¨n de Chaide 1588) and generally considered a classic text of Spanish literature.105 The readership of this book was remarkable: Jose¨ Simon D|¨ az, in his Bibliograf|¨a de la literatura hispa¨nica (`Bibliography of Spanish literature', D|¨ az 1950^1984, 14, 49), lists more than ten di¡erent editions of the same work.106 They probably amount to more than ¢fteen. The large success of Malo¨n de Chaide's book was achieved thanks to his good communicative skills. As Lloyd Catron points out in his book, the author's intention was to bring material hitherto reserved for the learned to the attention and comprehension of the lay

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reader. In doing so, he signi¢cantly contributed to spread the Magdalene's myth in popular imagery. This was also possible because Malo¨n de Chaide's book, very rich in allegorical ¢gures and complex stylistic structures, constantly borrows its rhetorical instruments from both the vivid repertoire of baroque sermons and the colourful palette of early-modern religious paintings. As in early-modern French philosophy of passions, the visual representations of Christian art play a fundamental role in this intertextual network of words and images. But, as has already been pointed out about the representations of Augustine's conversion, it is di¤cult to de¢ne unidirectional in£uences between di¡erent kinds of texts: the exchange was constant and usually worked in both directions. In recounting the Magdalene's conversion, Malo¨n de Chaide particularly emphasizes the ¢gure of her tears. For the purposes of the present section, though, it is more interesting to study the way in which the author represents the Magdalene's ointment. The following passage is especially relevant: When one takes the wrong path and gets lost, the most certain remedy is to go back along the same path in the opposite direction. . . . The Magdalene looked for her remedy through the same steps which had lost her. She fought God with her mouth, eyes and hair, with perfumes, mawkishness and gifts; now she serves God with these same things and sacri¢ces and devotes to God what she had previously sacri¢ced to the devil in order to serve him. . . . She uses her eyes to cry for her sins and bursts into tears; she tears the hair which she appreciated so much; she wastes the precious ointments, which she used to pour over her head.107 (Malo¨n de Chaide 1959, 3, 56^9) This text shows clearly how the symbols of the Magdalene's sinful perversion are converted into those of her redemption. The ointment not only represents the Magdalene's turning point between good and evil, and the re-stabilization of her self according to a new language of the soul, but also the a¤rmation of her identity as an evangelical character. This second function ful¢lled by the ointment is particularly evident in the following passage: . . . the Magdalene went out from her house to go to Simon's. She was carrying a pot of very precious liquid, in order to anoint the feet of the Redeemer; it must be the ointment which she used in order to perfume her hair and head. She thought that her sins would stink in the nostrils of God, and that, since she had committed so many, he would abhor her and chase her away, like an abominable thing.108 (Malo¨n de Chaide 1959, 2) This passage, wherein the transformation of the sinful oil into a saintly device is a further manifestation of the baroque poetics of metamorphosis, is

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important for two reasons. First, the author is not completely faithful to the Gospels, where no mention is made of the nature of the Magdalene's sinfulness. Second, the passage shows how the representations of the Magdalene's conversion (especially in early-modern Spanish literature) are deeply olfactory, for example when the author comments at length on the smell of sins, unbearable to most humans, but tolerated by God. Moreover, although Pedro Malo¨n de Chaide dedicates the greatest part of his imaginative e¡orts to the Magdalene's tears, as Catron rightly points out, they are often trans¢gured into oil, and ful¢ll the same function as the ointment. This transformation is evident in the following sentence: `tears anoint, make supple, push, move and force' (ibid., 2, 245).109 The conversion of the Magdalene, and the re-stabilization of her self, is emotional in comparison to Augustine's conversion, olfactory within the system of the ¢ve senses, but also liquid, or aqueous, if one considers it in the framework of Bachelard's epistemology of the natural elements (Bachelard 1942; 1943; 1948a; 1948b; 1949). In the spiritual conversion of the Magdalene, embodied by a physical conversion from a solid state into a liquid consistency, the ointment means the passage, the intermediary stage, from the heaviness of sin to the lightness of sainthood. As in many mystical texts, the watershed between the life of the body and that of the soul, between materiality and spirituality, is often occupied by an intermediate phase, whose ¢gures are usually ¢re or water. This could explain how the liquid elements of the Magdalene's conversion, such as her tears and ointment, have been so popular in early-modern representation. A brief historical survey of this tradition is needed in order to introduce its semiotic interpretation. Interlude: tears and the ointment ^ a liquid Magdalene Many scholars have linked the literary tradition of the Magdalene's tears with that of the tears of Saint Peter. Such a point of view is expressed, for example, in an article by Perry J. Powers, `Lope de Vega and Las la¨grimas de la Magdalena' (Powers 1956),110 wherein the author not only comments on Lope de Vega's famous poem, but also a¤rms that the vogue of the poetry of tears was started by Luigi Tansillo with his Le Lagrime di San Pietro (`The tears of Saint Peter').111 Nevertheless, the relation between the two literary traditions has to be reconsidered, from both a semiotic and a philological point of view. First of all, the structural position of Saint Peter and that of the Magdalene are di¡erent: the ¢rst is repenting, while the second is converting (from earlymodern philosophy on, the di¡erence between conversion and repentance has been frequently pointed out). Also, the symbolic function of the Magdalene's tears is not only that of expressing sorrow, as in Saint Peter's repentance, but also that of physically separating her from the body of Jesus. The liquid elements in the Magdalene's conversion (tears and the ointment) not

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only symbolically separate good and evil, sinful and saintly life, but also physically impede a direct contact between Jesus and the Magdalene. Malo¨n de Chaide describes the olfactory dimension of this separation (the ointment covers the unbearable odour of sins), but the semiotic function ful¢lled by this intermediary liquid state is more general: it allows a communication between immanence and transcendence, which would otherwise be scandalous. The noli me tangere (`do not touch me') passage, so variously interpreted by theologians, perhaps is related to the scandal which a direct touch between divinity and humanity would provoke.112 From a philological point of view, some of the texts which describe the Magdalene's tears predate Tansillo's Lagrime di San Pietro. They will be analysed in the section devoted to the Catalan roots of early-modern Spanish representations of the Magdalene's conversion. Fray Luis de Leo¨n Fray Luis de Leo¨n (1527^1591) wrote a poem which bears the title De la Magdalena ^ A una sen¬ora pasada la mocedad (`On the Magdalene ^ to a Lady after her youth', Leo¨n 1959, 1469). There is no evidence enabling one to precisely date this poem. Nevertheless, most scholars, by reason of its lyricism and poetical value, consider it as the work of a poet who has already reached a complete maturity. Some textual details seem to indicate that the poem was written before the author's imprisonment (1570^1). A complete analysis of this text would be di¤cult within the framework of the present work, since every line of it contains references to either Latin classics or sixteenth-century Spanish poetry, and should be examined in depth.113 On the contrary, the poem will be interpreted from two speci¢c perspectives: ¢rst, the way in which it represents the relationship between conversion and identity in the re-stabilization of the Magdalene's self; second, the way in which it uses the ointment as a semiotic device for this re-stabilization. As regards the ¢rst point of view, Fray Luis de Leo¨n merges together di¡erent evangelical sources in order to create his own Magdalene. This me¨lange is not only provoked by the multiple identity of the woman in the Gospels, but also by the structural resemblance between tears and the ointment. Poets are frequently led to fuse them together in order to express the liquid transformation of the sinful woman into a saintly one. Fray Luis de Leo¨n follows this tradition: Who wont recount your cry, your well converted love, oh Magdalene, of your ointment the treasure, with the perfume of which the stranger's house, the wholeness of the world is replete?114 (Leo¨n 1959, 1469, lines 46^50)

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In Fray Luis de Leo¨n's poem, the ointment is not only the object which maintains the coherence of the Magdalene as a narrative character (coherence which is endangered by both her tripartite nature and the suddenness and sharpness of her conversion), but also a universal symbol of repentance, forgiveness and conversion, whose perfume pervades ¢rst the house of Simon, then the world in its wholeness. Lope de Vega Several of Lope de Vega's Rimas Sacras are devoted to the Magdalene. The Soneto 68, for example, is dedicated A la Sant|¨sima Magdalena (`To the very saintly Magdalene'). The last triplet adopts the tears of the Magdalene as a baroque instrument for the transformation of her self: Discreet lover, who perceived the danger And suddenly transformed through her tears the love of the world into that of Christ.115 (Vega Carpio 1983, sonnet 68) The passage from sinful to saintly life is completed through a liquid dimension, as is even more evident in Lope's eight hundred-lines poem in eightline stanzas Las la¨grimas de la Magdalena (`The tears of the Magdalene'), whose title explicitly points out the instrument and symbol of the Magdalene's conversion. We are not going to analyse the poem in its entirety. Instead, we shall dwell on those of Lope's lines which refer to the ointment and the liquid dimension of the Magdalene's conversion. The ¢rst reference is in the sixth stanza: And, as if she already knew the way to enter and see them, poured for them precious ointment, which she had mixed with tears of love. And since she was holding the feet of Heaven, she wanted to grasp Him by her hair, which, between the feet of the Holy Lamb, formed waves in the sea of crying.116

(ibid., 372, lines 41^8)

As in the analysis of Fray Louis de Leo¨n's poem, these lines will be commented on from two points of view: ¢rst, the relation between conversion and identity; second, the representation of the ointment. As regards the ¢rst point, many scholars have pointed out that the magnetism of the sinful woman of Naim has always been so powerful, that even a poet like Lope, who usually followed closely the sacred texts which inspired him (in this case, the Gospel of John), could not help contaminating it with the

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`tears of love' described by Saint Luke (Aladro and Colomb|¨ de Monguio¨ 1996, 163). The poet merges together two of the three women who compose the Magdalene's evangelical identity. This fusion is possible for both historical and structural reasons. On the one hand, it is approved by the Western Church and a¤rmed by many liturgical references. On the other hand, the aqueous dimension of both tears and ointment leads poets like Lope de Vega to merge these two elements together in their metaphors. As regards the particular structure of this representation, the contact between Jesus and the Magdalene is recounted as an encounter between Earth and Heaven. Lope refers to Jesus as el cielo (`Heaven'), and also a¤rms that the Magdalene el cielo por los pies ten|¨a (`she was holding the feet of Heaven'). On the plastic level, the poem evokes two horizontal elements: the sea and the waves. Semantically, they are strictly connected, not only because the waves are formed by the sea, but also because they both refer to the sinful nature of the Magdalene: the sea is a sea of tears and ointment (from the liturgical locution `sea of tears'), and the hair which composes the waves is a reference to the body of the woman, instrument of evil. From a ¢gurative point of view, the water of both sea and tears is an element which mediates between Earth and Heaven. The encounter of the sea^tears and the waves^hair (horizontal elements) with Heaven^Christ is both theological and semiotic: it embodies the contact between the human and the divine, between the form and the ¢gure. Many scholars have considered the Italian literary tradition of the tears of Saint Peter as the main source of early-modern Spanish and Portuguese representations of the Magdalene's tears and ointment. In the following section, the importance of a di¡erent kind of source will be pointed out: late-medieval and renaissance Catalan religious literature. The Magdalene in Catalan literature The Legenda Aurea (`Golden Legend') recounts an interesting story about the Magdalene. Fourteen years after the Passion and Resurrection of Jesus, Saint Peter entrusted Saint Maximin with the duty of taking care of her spirituality. So, when Saint Maximin left Judea in order to evangelize pagan people in other regions of the Mediterranean area, the Magdalene followed him. But some pagans who did not want to receive the word of Jesus forced Saint Maximin and his companions (the Magdalene, Lazarus, Martha, her daughter, Saint Cedonius who had been blind from birth and whose blindness had been healed by Christ, and many other Christians) to embark in a ship without oars, sail or anything which might be needed for navigation; then the pagans abandoned the ship in high seas, with the per¢dious idea that it would sink and its passengers drown; but God wanted to save the expedition, so that the dilapidated ship miraculously landed at the port of Marseille.

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This apocryphal legend tries to explain the origin of the Magdalene's cult in the South of France. The creation of the abbey of Ve¨zelay marked an important step in the history of this devotion. The pilgrimage to Ve¨zelay had a deep in£uence on the development of the Magdalene's cult in almost all the Latin West in the eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth century, and reached its peak with the predication and preparation of the two crusades which took place in 1146 and 1190. In this context, several new sanctuaries were devoted to the Magdalene, among them those of Aix and Saint Maximin. The routes of the pilgrimage to Ve¨zelay are the missing link between the Southern coast of France, at which the Magdalene's ship had miraculously landed, and the £ourishing of devotional literature on the Magdalene in late-medieval Spain. A good introduction to Medieval Catalan literature on the Magdalene is contained in Rosanna Cantavella's article `Medieval Catalan Mary Magdalene Narratives' (Cantavella 1990).117 According to this author, with the shift of the location of the Magdalene's cult from Ve¨zelay to Saint Maximin of Provence, the devotional activity directed towards this Saint enjoyed a revival in Occitan lands from 1279 onwards. As far as the Crown of Aragon was concerned, this transfer of the centre of pilgrimage must have been received with much enthusiasm, not only because the journey to pray for the Saint was now easier because of geographical proximity, but because of a sense of political a¤nity with Provence, since it had been ruled for a whole century (1112 to 1213) by members of the house of Barcelona, the dynasty reigning in Aragon (ibid., 27). The ¢rst Catalan text which recounts the story of the Magdalene is a thirteenth-century Catalan translation of the Legenda Aurea (`Golden Legend'), the Vides de sants rosselloneses (`Lives of the Saints of Roussillon', Maneikis Kniazzeh and Neugaard 1977), written in the abbey of Sant Miquel de Cuixa©, Roussillon. After this translation, a poem of the same century narrates the life of the Magdalene, the Cantinella de Sancta Maria Magdalena (`Saint Mary Magdalene's ballad'). Composed of 23 cobles (`stanzas') of ¢ve lines with a three-line tornada (`refrain'), this poem was probably sung during the liturgy, and is characterized by a remarkable theatrical dimension. The cobles recount the life of the Magdalene, while the tornada exhorts people to conversion and repentance. Cobles two to four, in particular, describe the Magdalene's anointing of the feet of Jesus (Spaggiari 1977). This text is a good example of how religious literature frequently succeeds in acquiring a theatrical dimension by describing objects whose symbolism has already been shaped by iconographic tradition. The ointment, for instance, can function as a link between di¡erent media, since the mention and description of it can be easily transposed from image to play, or from written text to image, and vice versa.118 Leslie Levin, in an essay on the Metaphors of Conversion (Levin 1999), points out that the theatrical use of objects in sacred rhetoric persisted in

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seventeenth-century Spain. According to this scholar, props were frequently used to further heighten the e¡ects of the physical space and the preacher's delivery. Objects such as skeletons, cruci¢xes, a crown of thorns and other instruments of the Passion were used as supports to render visible the invisible.119 The relationships between sermons, painting and literature have often been emphasized as a fundamental component of Catholic earlymodern religious civilization (Estepa 1989; Pozzi 1993; Pozzi 1996). The Medieval origins of such a characteristic have been emphasized less often. On the contrary, some of the features of Spanish early-modern representations of the Magdalene (especially in drama and sacred rhetoric) can be found in Saint Vincent Ferrer's sermons,120 one of which was devoted to the Magdalene (Ferrer 1934, 187^99).121 This text, mainly based on the Legenda Aurea (`Golden Legend'), decorates the story of the Magdalene with several careful descriptions, which look like stage directions for actors. According to Rosanna Cantavella, who rapidly analyses the sermon, the sequence dealing with the conversion is the most outstanding. The Valencian friar explains at length how the beautiful woman began to listen to Jesus preaching with her head held high, and how gradually it bowed as she listened to Christ's words: a clear indication that, within her soul, pride was dying and humility was born (Cantavella 1990, 32). From the point of view of enunciation, this passage constitutes a textual mise en abyme: in his sermon, Saint Vincent Ferrer describes the e¡ect of Jesus' preaching on the Magdalene, and hopes that his own words will have the same in£uence on his contemporaries. The gestures of the Magdalene are precisely described not only in order to confer a `reality e¡ect' to her conversion, but also in order to obtain what semioticians and anthropologists would call an e¡ect of `symbolic e¤cacy' (Fabbri and Pezzini 1987).122 After Vincent Ferrer, several Catalan authors wrote poems or other texts on the Magdalene and her conversion, many of which have had a deep impact on the development of the Magdalene's tradition in early-modern religious literature (and, as a consequence, on the language adopted in order to recount the re-stabilization of her self ). For instance, in the Vita Christi (`Life of Christ'), written by Valencian Franciscan nun Isabel de Villena (Villena 1916),123 many passages are devoted to the Magdalene. But, as Rosanna Cantavella remarks in her article, this is not a pedagogic text, like Vincent Ferrer's. It is a work inspired by worldly love, where the Magdalene is represented as a woman enamoured with Jesus.124 Depending on the context in which the Magdalene's conversion takes place, authors emphasize di¡erent aspects of her personality. Whereas in Isabel de Villena's text she is a secondary character, whose narrative function is that of contributing to the praising of Jesus' life, in the Historia de la gloriosa santa Magdalena (`History of the glorious Saint Magdalene'), written at the end of the ¢fteenth century (terminus post quem: 1482) by theologian and knight Roic° de Corella (Roic° de Corella 1913), she is the veritable protagonist of the text.

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Roic° de Corella's History is the main source of one of the most interesting Catalan texts ever written on the Magdalene: Jaume de Gassull's Vida de santa Magdalena en cobles (`Life of Saint Magdalene in verse') (1496).125 This book is a treasure for bibliophiles, from several points of view: it is a very rare book (perhaps it is even unique; to my knowledge, there is only one exemplar of this work in the world, kept in the National Library of Madrid), it is probably one of the ¢rst printed in Spain; it contains many exquisite engravings (every page of printed text is accompanied by an image); furthermore, it enables one to realize how the tradition of the Magdalene's ointment was already present in Catalan religious literature, in both words and images. Despite of all these interesting characteristics, Jaume de Gassull's text has never been the object of a systematic study. In the present section, we shall carefully describe this book, recount its bibliographic history in detail, and analyse it in depth from the perspective of word and image studies. A ghost-book: the Vida de santa Magdalena en cobles The Vida de santa Magdalena en cobles was partially reproduced for the ¢rst time in an article written by Ramo¨n Miquel y Planas (Miquel y Planas 1916). This scholar tried to explain why the text had been hitherto almost completely ignored: the existence, often pointed out by several bibliographers, of only one exemplar of the book, printed in Valencia in 1505, had discouraged anyone from publishing an edition of it (ibid., col. 232). The ¢rst bibliographic mention of the Vida de santa Magdalena en cobles appeared in 1783, in the catalogue of the sale of the Crofts' Library. The entry 4592 describes the book as follows: `4592. ^ Pellicer (Gabr.): Santa Maria Magdalena, cum ¢g. ligneis, 4 io. perg., per Joan Jofre, acabada M.D.V.', (`Pellicer (Gabr.): Saint Mary Magdalene, with woodcuts, 4 leaves of parchment, completed by Joan Jofre in 1505').126 The book, sold for the modest price of six and a half shillings, was afterwards referred to in several bibliographies, which share a bizarre common point: scholars describe the Vida without having seen it directly, frequently proposing erroneous descriptions.127 The ¢rst accurate description of the poem is contained in the Cata¨logo de la biblioteca de Salva¨ (Salva¨ y Mallen 1872, 630). According to the author, no other book of the same epoch shows the same profusion and luxury of engravings. All the pages of the text are surrounded by many decorations and all the stanzas in the even pages are depicted by illustrations placed in the odd pages. As regards the iconographic description of the Vida de santa Magdalena en cobles, Miquel y Planas points out the many mistakes committed before him. The Vida was the object of special attention in the book Origens del gravat en Valencia; apunts critich-historichs (`The origins of the engraving in Valencia; critical-historical notes', Puig Torralba and Mart|¨ Grajales 1882).128 The authors pretend to talk about a book which they have not seen, dissimulating the source of their information. Afterwards, short mentions of the Vida

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appeared in the catalogue of the sale of the Salva¨'s library, in 1891,129 and in an 1894 edition of Les Trobes en lahors de la Verge Maria (`Verse in praise of the Virgin Mary', Grajales 1894). Ramo¨n Miquel y Planas' description of the genesis, structure and style of the Vida is lucid and interesting. The Catalan scholar points out that Jaume de Gassull used the prose of Roic° de Corella as the main source of his poem. The metric features of the text are also described in great detail. Nevertheless, the part devoted to the analysis of the engravings is quite incomplete; the relation between written text and images, for instance, is almost ignored. But who was Jaume de Gassull, and what do we know about his literary creation and cultural milieu? A general introduction to the religious and devotional literature in ¢fteenth-century Catalun¬a is contained in Mart|¨ de Riquer's Historia de la literatura catalana (`History of the Catalan literature', Riquer 1980, 2, 117) and Literatura Religiosa i Moralitzadora (`Religious and moral literature'). The author does not analyse the works of Jaume de Gassull in particular, but describes the context in which his poems were created. A more precise reference is in Josep Llu|¨ s Sirera's Historia de la literatura valenciana (`History of Valencian literature', Llu|¨ s Sirera 1995). The author mentions Jaume de Gassull as one of the participants in the Marian poetic competition of 1474 (another competitor was Joan Ro|¨ s de Corella himself ) (ibid., 187; see also Ferrando France¨s 1983). However, Salvador Guinot's article on Jaume de Gassull certainly is the most informative (Guinot i Vilar 1924a, 1^48).130 The author summarizes the life of the poet (he was born around 1450) and his works, among which some deserve a particular mention: La Resposta (`The answer'), written and published in 1474, which is probably the ¢rst book ever printed in Spain; and Lo proce©s de les olives (`The trial of olives'), written in 1496 and printed the following year. This second work is remarkable because it was illustrated by several engravings, whose style is close to that of the engravings which are contained in the Vida de santa Magdalena en cobles. Ramo¨n Miquel y Planas argues that they were engraved by the same artist. He probably was Jaume de Gassull himself. After this brief description of Jaume de Gassull's cultural and artistic environment, we shall dwell on the text of the Vida, and, in particular, on the relation which words and images entertain within this text. Given the large number of engravings contained in the book, a complete analysis of them would be too long. As always, only those images which represent the ointment as a device of the Magdalene's re-stabilization of the self will be studied at length. First of all, some words must be spent on the frontispiece of the book (Figure 3.2). The coat of arms, which represents a cat and appears under the title, held by two angels, is probably a visual pun suggesting the author's name: the rampant cat (un gat rampant in Catalan) visually mentions the ¢rst syllable of Gassull's name (Miquel y Planas 1916, 255). As regards the receptacle containing the Magdalene's ointment, it appears right from the ¢rst engraving of the book. The Saint holds it in her left hand

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Figure 3.2 Frontispiece from the Vida de Santa Magdalena in cobles.

and seems to o¡er it to the poet (Figure 3.3). The analysis of the plastic dimension of this image can reveal some more interesting details about its structure. The Saint occupies the top-left corner of the image, while the poet is sitting in the bottom-right one. Furthermore, the poet is holding his pen in a position which mirrors the gesture of the Magdalene. So, the image suggests a semantic correspondence between ointment and ink. The stanza accompanying the engraving con¢rms this interpretation: Since the Holy Scriptures, relating your many and authentic acts, show every day the renouncements and contracts by which you made with Jesus those pacts which placed you in such a high position, I do not want to keep silent about the saintly life which you lived, so full of grace, as well as about your gifts of in¢nite glory, you the favourite of God, exceptional Saint, Mary of Magdala! Then I beg you, so that under your guide, I can easily express what I want to say.131 (Gassull 1987, ¢rst stanza)

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Figure 3.3 Engraving from the Vida de santa Magdalena in cobles showing the receptacle containing the Magdalene's ointment.

The idea which is expressed in this ¢rst stanza of the poem is simple: the poet invokes the help of the Saint in order to have enough poetic ability to recount her life in verse. As a consequence, the ointment which appears in the corresponding engraving does not only symbolize the Magdalene, but is also a reference to the semiotic conversion (from the idea to the word) which is implied by the poetic creation. The plastic structure of the engraving embodies this analogy: the religious conversion of the Magdalene is mirrored by the semiotic conversion of the poet: the ointment and the ink, the receptacle of alabaster and the pen in the poet's hand, are inextricably linked together. Moreover, the fact that the Saint o¡ers the symbol of her conversion to Jaume de Gassull possibly refers to one of the religious connotations of the ointment, i.e. that evoking a sacred election. The ointment which appears in the illustration of the ninth stanza is also interesting. In order to analyse it, we shall quote the poem from the eighth stanza to the twelfth, and describe the corresponding engravings. Here follows stanza number eight: Since the deep faith which is in you, assuredly guided you to the meal, so that none of those present recognized you, and nobody obstructed you on your way to that divine source; thus, in front of everyone, you showed such penitence, with contrite heart, without saying anything, that after obtaining very soon a sentence in your favour from such an excellent judge, you saw your destiny change. Who suggested you, without saying any word, to seek your Saviour before that table?132 (Gassull 1987, eighth stanza)

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Figure 3.4 Engraving from the Vida de santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the eighth stanza.

The engraving which accompanies this stanza shows the Magdalene at the feet of Jesus, wiping them with her hair (Figure 3.4). There is no trace of the ointment. But here is the following stanza (number nine): And water distilled by the ¢re of love £ows from that recollection, so that the mind vacillates: the ¢re was the will, converted by the contempt of the past life, the eyes were the alembics of such a distillation; and the holy feet of Christ the only receptacle of such water as well as the tiles of the £oor, and your hair a towel for these feet, which you dry while they get wet. And thus, by such holy water, you dried his legs of so many sins, trunks, branches and leaves [completely]?133 (Gassull 1987, ninth stanza) The engraving which illustrates the written text (Figure 3.5) is very similar to the preceding one. Like in a puzzle, one can amuse oneself by trying to ¢nd out the slight di¡erences between the two images. The position of the hands of Jesus has changed: in the ¢rst engraving, they represent a state of astonishment, while in the second one they indicate the other guests at the meal, in order to express a desire for communication and evangelical explanation.134 One of the three Apostles represented in the ¢rst illustration disappears in the following one, replaced by three people without haloes. Presumably, they are Simon the Pharisee and two more guests, scandalized by the behaviour of the sinful woman. The most remarkable di¡erence is that in the second engraving, at the bottom of the image, the receptacle of alabaster appears again.

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Figure 3.5 Engraving from the Vida de santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the ninth stanza.

In order to understand the meaning of such a di¡erence, it is important to realize that these engravings are not mere illustrations, but a sort of graphic theatrical setting which enhances the poet's imagination. They work like the paintings which used to compose the theatrical set in Medieval mystery plays. Here follows the tenth stanza: You brought water to the source of life, and you drank this water; you went there ill and sad; you came back joyful and healthy, as your face shows. Who could tell the perfect grace and happiness over which you must have rejoiced, when you became so clean, by washing God, so that not even a single little spot remained, of which Satan could accuse you? What a great good, which one cannot praise enough, the fact of knowing how to deceive the devil!135 (Gassull 1987, tenth stanza) In this case, there are few semantic links between the verbal text and its illustration. The image, again, works as the general background of the poem (Figure 3.6). As regards the di¡erences between this engraving and those illustrating stanzas eight and nine, the receptacle containing the ointment is missing again. From this point of view, the engraving accompanying the tenth stanza is close to that illustrating the eighth stanza. The setting is almost the same, as well as the number of characters (with the exception of Simon the Pharisee, who is absent in the eighth stanza). If these three slightly di¡erent images are considered together, one could wonder what e¡ect they could have had on a ¢fteenth-century reader; the

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Figure 3.6 Engraving from the Vida de santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the tenth stanza.

answer could be that they would produce a sort of cinematographic illusion ante-litteram, exactly like in a slow-motion e¡ect; the representation of time and movement being one of the main aesthetical problems of images, the representational di¤culty which the Vida had to face was even greater: in the scene of the Magdalene's conversion the movement is almost nonexistent, since action (and activity) in the episode is overpowered by passion (and passivity). So, like in contemporary cinema, the slow-motion representation aims precisely at reproducing the very subtle change in the emotional state of the characters. Moreover, the three engravings are designed so that the reader has an impression of change in a context of permanence: the sudden appearance and disappearance of the receptacle of ointment is not only a graphic technique used in order to represent the passing of time, but also a stratagem which conveys the multiple identities of the Magdalene. The appearance and disappearance of the halo on the head of the sinful^ saintly woman follows the same logic. On the one hand, it is probably the consequence of a technical constraint: presumably, the engravings for the ninth and tenth stanzas are derived from the same visual matrix; on the other hand, this intermittency creates an impression of both movement and the presence of a temporal dimension within the iconic text. It has a semiotic value, too. The Magdalene is a symbol of both sin and redemption, and her main attribute (the ointment), as well as her halo, appears and disappears intermittently in order to convey the meaning of this ambiguity.136 The engraving illustrating the twentieth stanza, in particular, is a suitable example to explain how the ointment is used to re-compose and re-stabilize the triple identity of the Magdalene into a single character. Here is the verbal text:

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Religious conversion and identity So, when she saw him, she went out to receive him; and when he went o¡, she accompanied him; and because of the desire to serve him continuously, she took such a pleasure in listening to him, that she could not leave him a minute; on the contrary, you with him and he with you stay alone, so that he can salute you both manifestly and secretly. In fact, you were never tired of his gifts, so that I can say that Martha's protests were only a token of saintly envy. But remark how he defends you from these accusations.137 (Gassull 1987, twentieth stanza)

The engraving which illustrates this stanza clearly refers to Saint Lazarus and his resurrection, as is con¢rmed by the index of Jesus, indicating the Magdalene's brother. The woman is represented at the feet of Jesus, thanking him for saving the life of Lazarus. As has been already emphasized, there are no textual reasons for identifying this woman with the one who converts in Simon the Pharisee's house. Through this image, the three di¡erent women which compose the Magdalene's identity in the Gospels are uni¢ed into a single persona: the ointment functions as a symbol of conversion but also as a symbol of identity. On the one hand, it signi¢es the religious change of the Magdalene thanks to its paradoxical and composite semantic value. On the other hand, this meaningful object reconciles the textual identities of both the sinful woman who anoints the feet of Jesus feet and the saintly sister of Martha and Lazarus, whose devotion is praised by Christ.138 As has been pointed out in relation to the concept of `crisis of the self ', in a coherent narrative structure, either di¡erent actors can play the role of a single `actant' (`thematic role') (for example, three di¡erent characters who play the same thematic role of sinfulness); or di¡erent `actants' can be played by a single actor (for example, a single character whose behaviour presents nuances of both sinfulness and sainthood). In the Bible, these two possibilities are often combined together in a paradoxical way. The Magdalene, for example, does not only play di¡erent roles (good and evil), but also is di¡erent characters. The coherence of the passages which in the Gospels describe the Magdalene is weak exactly because she is not legible as a character with a single identity, but as di¡erent personae, representing di¡erent themes, bound together thanks to the permanence of some common objects, gestures and postures. From this point of view, the Magdalene embodies the same paradoxical reconciliation of opposites which characterizes myths. The engraving which illustrates the twenty-sixth stanza con¢rms this analysis: we are able to recognize the Magdalene because her textual and narrative functioning is close to that which has already been encountered: she wipes Jesus' feet (Figure 3.7). This happens as well in the following illustration. Here the receptacle which contains the ointment is multiplied (Figure 3.8). Each of the three women represented in the engraving holds a di¡erent ointment, but it is not di¤cult to recognize which one is the Magdalene. Undoubtedly, she is the ¢rst woman on the right, and she is

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Figure 3.7 Engraving from the Vida de santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the twenty-sixth stanza.

distinguishable not only because of her characteristic iconographic attributes (the long hair, for example, or the fact of being bareheaded), but also from the speci¢c way in which she holds the receptacle itself. She is the only one who keeps it in both hands, and close to her heart. In other words, she is the only one who has a deep emotional relation with the receptacle and its content. The meaning of the ointment held by the Magdalene is di¡erent from that of the ointments of Martha or Mary. From the vantage point of C.S. Peirce's categorization of signs, the Magdalene's ointment is not merely a symbol, but also an index. It does not only refer to the dead body of Christ, but is also a sign of physical contact, of contiguity, between him and the Magdalene. She is the only woman who has anointed his feet, and the ointment is for her a reference to this touch. The engraving which accompanies the twenty-ninth stanza is another example of the way in which the ointment guarantees the identity of the Magdalene: she holds the receptacle of alabaster while she learns of the resurrection of Christ (Figure 3.9). The engraving for the thirtieth stanza deserves a more careful analysis (Figure 3.10). It depicts the moment when Jesus revealed himself to the woman. The position of the ointment is interesting: because of the lack of perspective, it seems to £oat on air between Christ and the Magdalene. But this visual feature is not only evoked by a technique of representation, but refers, also, to a semantic content. The ointment is represented as a device which mediates between the resurrected body of Jesus and the woman who wanted to anoint it. From this engraving on, the ointment in the Vida becomes a typical attribute of the Magdalene, and appears every time that a miracle is performed:

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Figure 3.8 Engraving from the Vida de santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the twenty-seventh stanza.

it acquires a sort of thaumaturgic value. The engraving of the forty-second stanza exempli¢es this transformation: here the poet is recounting a miracle which is attributed to the Saint from the Legenda Aurea on; in the corresponding illustration, the Magdalene holds the ointment in her left hand, while the right one is performing the miracle. Catalan religious literature (and the iconography which accompanies it) mediates between Medieval and early-modern representations of the Magdalene (especially as regards the way in which the ointment is used as a theatrical device, able to re-compose the identity of the woman). In the next section, the tradition of the ointment as a symbol of conversion will be studied in detail. The universality of the Magdalene in Christian art and literature According to George Kaftal, in Tuscan iconography the Magdalene is represented either as a haggard penitent in the desert, naked under her long hair, or as a young early Christian matron, holding a vase, or a box of ointment, or a cruci¢x, or enthroned, or as a patroness of a confraternity of penitents or, very often, in cruci¢xions (Kaftal 1986, 717). Two elements are interesting in this description. First of all, this iconography is not di¡erent from that of ¢fteenth-century Valencia. The iconographical attributes of the Magdalene seem to be common to all the Christian area. Second, when the Magdalene is represented, she often holds

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Figure 3.9 Engraving from the Vida de santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the twenty-ninth stanza.

objects. On the one hand, this meets a common representative requirement of religious painting: since Saints have to be recognized, they have to be represented together with their attributes, these attributes being frequently placed in the hands of the Saints themselves. On the other hand, this graphic feature is not unrelated to the semiotic status of the Magdalene: the fact of her carrying some objects, in e¡ect, emphasizes the passive role of her character, who is (also visually) burdened with sacred symbols. The hands of the Magdalene are not free, and, as a consequence, cannot imply a readiness for action. On the contrary, they signify a passive acceptance of the divine will. Kaftal's works refer mainly to an Italian (and above all Tuscan) corpus. However, the receptacle of the ointment becomes a visual symbol of the Magdalene's conversion in all the Christian world. The ¢rst occurrence of it is in the twelfth century, in one of the images which decorate the main door of the church of Saint Lazarus, in Autun. Another early representation which associates the Magdalene and her ointment is in the `Gisle' manuscript, in OsnabrÏck, in the Library of the Gymnasium Carolinum. The LCI devotes more than twenty-¢ve densely written columns to the iconography of the Magdalene, with a copious bibliography. Speci¢c attention is paid to the representations of the receptacle. The receptacle is mainly cylindrical, or spherical, mostly simple in early Christian painting, preciously decorated later and represented as a beautiful bourgeois decorative object from the Renaissance on. The receptacle is generally closed, but in the ¢fteenth and sixteenth centuries it also appears open.

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Figure 3.10 Engraving from the Vida de santa Magdalena in cobles illustrating the thirtieth stanza.

The visual connotations of the open receptacle are di¡erent from those of the closed one. In the ¢rst iconographic type, the image probably refers to the aftermath of the Magdalene's conversion, while the second one represents the moment immediately preceding the religious change. The receptacle, once again, functions as the symbol of the watershed, the turning point, the threshold which separates good and evil, sinfulness and sainthood. When it is closed, it refers to the sins of the Magdalene, and to a conversion which has yet to happen; when it is open, it refers to the forgiveness of these sins and the beginning of a new life. Countless images have been devoted to the Magdalene. In paintings, she was represented by Timoteo Viti, Cima da Conegliano, Andrea del Sarto, Fra' Bartolomeo, Hans Memling, GrÏnewald, Bonifacio Veronese, Paolo Veronese, Correggio, Tiziano, Jacopo and Domenico Tintoretto, Van Dyck, Annibale Carracci, Cristoforo Allori, El Greco, Barocci, Murillo, Rubens, Poussin, Luca Cambiaso, Pompeo Batoni, Claudio de Lorena, Nattier, Baudry and Delacroix, just to mention the most distinguished artists of an endless list. In sculpture, the most famous representations were executed by Donatello and Canova. The literary tradition of the Magdalene, even after the golden period of the early-modern epoch, is equally impressive. Between the second half of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth, for example, in the religious revival which characterized this epoch (especially in France, see Foucart 1987), the Magdalene returned to be a protagonist of theatrical imagination. In 1843, Friederich Hebbel staged in Paris a play called Maria Magdalena, which, instead of recounting the life of the woman, used her as a

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metaphoric background. In 1899, the poet and theatre writer Paul Heyse directed a play called Maria von Magdala. In 1913, Maurice Maeterlinck wrote another play entitled Marie Magdaleine. As regards music, the Magdalene and the stormy story of her conversion is not less popular. Giovanni Bononcini's Magdalen at the feet of Christ, the sacred play in three parts written by Jules-E¨mile Massenet, the song of William Wallace, the melodrama of Fritz Roenecke, the Magdalena of Sergej Proko¢ef and the symphonic poem of Licinio Re¢ce are just some of the possible examples. Moreover, in the same period in which the character of the Magdalene became fashionable in the Parisian artistic arena, Rilke, who had just come back to Paris in 1911 from a journey to Egypt, fortuitously discovered, in a little bookshop in the Rue du Bac, another bibliographical treasure: a manuscript containing the anonymous French sermon L'Amour de la Madeleine.139 He immediately understood the value of the book, and bought it.140 In a letter which he wrote to the princess of Tour y Taxis on 10 May, he described his admiration for the sermon, which he attributed to the pen of Bossuet, veritable champion of seventeenth-century French spirituality. Afterwards, Rilke himself translated the French text into German (Anon. 1996).141 The Magdalene's ointment does not only appear in modern religious art, but also in secular literature, where it is metaphorically referred to as a device symbolizing a sharp and emotional watershed. In the last part of the present section, the role of the Magdalene in Proust's literary turning point will be investigated (as was the tree in the conversion of Claudel). Proust's literary conversion  In the New Testament, the Greek word `" o' designates a phenomenon of `conversion'. The semantic value of this term has to be explained with reference to the Hebrew term `sub', which in the Old Testament means `to convert' in the particular sense of retreating from present things and returning to the point of departure (Balz and Schneider 1992). In this context, the  term `" o' has a mystical connotation. It refers to a neo-Platonic philosophical milieu, and expresses the possibility of returning to a state of spiritual indeterminacy, where a perfect identity with the pure Being is achieved. In generative semiotics, some scholars have formulated an analogous hypothesis. Since texts are conceived as generated through a theoretical elaboration which embraces di¡erent layers of meaning, the tendency toward the exploration of the most abstract semiotic structures, and the implicit but evident desire to touch the degre¨ zero of the semiosis, were both intrinsic to the theory. The abstract philosophy of generative semiotics leads to the imagination of a mythical textual place where every text has its origin.142 From this  point of view, the work of the semiotician is close to a sort of " o, i.e. an e¡ort to rescue more and more elements of theoretical knowledge from the

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metaphysical indeterminacy which precedes semiosis. Nevertheless, despite the praiseworthy poetic e¡orts of Greimas and Fontanille, this indeterminacy, like the God of the mystics, is ine¡able: one cannot describe what is imagined to be before the semiosis, because every description of it is already part of this semiosis. As regards Peircian semiotics, Umberto Eco has also been tempted by such a mystical tendency, for example in his Heideggerian inquiry on the concept of Being (Eco 1998). Nevertheless, faithful to his rationalism, he does not dare push his imagination too far. He stops just in front of what he calls the resistances of the Being, the ¢rst embryo of every semiosis. According to Eco, what is beyond these ¢rst directions of the emergence of meaning is a matter of poetic imagination rather than of theoretical perusal. If this position is correct, the last book of Greimas, L'imperfection (Greimas 1987), where the semiotician pushes his regard beyond this limit, appears more as an intriguing poetic text than a semiotic analysis. Like Greimas and some of his disciples, so was Proust haunted by the idea  of a literary " o. He was surrounded by the imperfection which time imposes on the Being, and tried to recover the origin of it through an attempt at reversing the £owing of time. When he eventually found a breach, he recounted and described this event in one of the most famous passages of both the Recherche and the whole world literature.143 Several scholars have profusely commented on almost every single word of it (Matore 1957; Driver 1961; Sonnenfeld 1972; Graham 1976). Nevertheless, an important detail in this passage can receive an alternative interpretation in relation to the general topic of the present section, i.e. the conversion of passions in the Magdalene's turning point.144 Why did Proust mention a madeleine (a typical French cake) in recounting the turning point of both his memory and the literary representation of it? Why not another kind of cake? Is this just an accident, merely related to a biographical experience, or a precise symbolical choice? Philological evidence seems to exclude that Proust's choice could be fortuitous and unintentional. In the text of Contre Sainte-Beuve, Proust had recounted the same episode by mentioning a slice of toast, which nevertheless did not have the same symbolic connotation (Proust 1995, 211^12). This fact seems to con¢rm the hypothesis that in the above quoted passage Proust is explicitly referring to the Magdalene's myth.145 The cake is named madeleine, because of the structural similarity which it entertains with the Magdalene. The sinful woman cries tears of repentance, while the little madeleines of Proust cry tears of tea, or milk. Probably, Proust chose the madeleine precisely because of this symbolic analogy: as soon as the cake cries in the mouth of the textual alter ego of Proust, he experiences his conversion, in the mystical sense of the word; exactly as the Magdalene recovers purity through her tears, so Proust, guided by the taste and smell of a madeleine, dives into the layers of time and recovers the essence of his psychological identity from the depths of memory.

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An exhaustive enquiry on the Magdalene and her representations is impossible to achieve. A very speci¢c point of view has been chosen in order to cast light on the general subject of conversion (and on the process of restabilization of the self ). The ointment, in particular, has been singled out as the focus of the analysis. In the representations of the Magdalene's conversion, this object functions in the same way as does the ¢g tree of Augustine: it absorbs opposite semantic dimensions and lets the text which recounts the conversion keep its internal coherence. From the perspective of a comparative study of written texts and images, this object also permits the intertextual translation from one medium to another. It does not only preserve the historical identity of the Magdalene, but also guarantees her textual congruence. Nevertheless, this symbol di¡ers from the ¢g tree because of the relationship which it holds with the converted. The ¢g tree shelters a conversion, but without any contact between the symbol and Augustine, whereas the ointment mediates a physical contact between Jesus and the Magdalene. The emotional nature of the Magdalene's religious turning point is therefore mirrored by this aqueous and perfumed substance, which bears the connotation of the proximity between the converted and the spiritual source of conversion. In the next section, a di¡erent re-stabilization of the self will be explored, wherein the pragmatic dimension overpowers both the intellectual (like in Augustine) and the emotional (like in the Magdalene) component: the dramatic conversion of Saint Paul. Another symbol will be singled out as the focus of the analysis: the horse.

The conversion of actions: the horse The Pauline tradition In the vast series of representations which refer to either Augustine or the Magdalene, one element has been neglected: one of the stations of the Parisian underground network bears the name of the bishop of Hippo, Saint Augustin, because of the presence of an Augustinian monastery nearby. Another station on the same network is called Madeleine, due to its proximity to a church which, according with the hagiographic tradition, hosts some relics of the saintly woman. In this last section of the chapter on the re-stabilization of the self, a third station has to be mentioned, which completes the metropolitan trilogy of the Saints. We allude to the stop named Saint Paul, near the homonymous church in the Marais. This is one of the most modern elements composing the Pauline tradition, which is extensive from di¡erent points of view. Theologically, Paul is one of the most important protagonists of Christianity. We are not going to demonstrate this a¤rmation analytically, since a vast bibliography exists on the topic. There is a shorter way to con¢rm it.

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We must simply refer to the theological phenomenon called `Paulinism', according to which Paul is the real protagonist of the Christian theology, while Christ himself is relegated to the background. This interpretation has been rejected by most contemporary theologians, but it demonstrates the importance of Paul in the history of Christianity: the tradition related to the Apostle is so rich that someone has considered him as even more important than Jesus. Another less evident but analogous token of the paramount role played by Paul in the development of the Christian thought is the interpretation of the `school of TÏbingen', according to which there is an opposition between, respectively, Paul's and Peter's interpretations of the Christian theology, which has been subsequently transcended in the Acts, real synthesis of the Christian doctrine. The theses of the `theological school of TÏbingen' have been replaced by more modern and moderate positions, but the importance of the Pauline tradition can be perceived from an even more direct point of view: a huge number of texts refer to Paul: novels, plays, paintings, musical compositions and so on. As in the previous sections, the focus of the analysis will be progressively narrowed, and the number of texts to be interpreted reduced to a manageable corpus. The ¢rst restriction relates to the main general topic of the present book. The Pauline tradition will not be analysed in its totality; instead, a speci¢c element of it will be pointed out: the conversion of Saint Paul. But this selection is not su¤cient, since conversion is the most important moment ^ the turning point ^ in the life of the Apostle, and almost every text concerning the Saint refers to it.146 Therefore, the conversion of Saint Paul will be considered exclusively in the light of the topic of religious identity. This issue is particularly important in the conversion of the Apostle. We can perceive it more clearly if we compare his spiritual story with those of both Augustine and the Magdalene: conversion threatens Paul's identity (both from an external/social and internal/cognitive point of view) in an even more dramatic way than it does in the other conversions analysed in this book. There is a sort of escalation: Augustine is an enemy of Christianity, but his hostility has the same nature as his conversion: it is mainly cognitive, a hostility of ideas. Furthermore, as we have pointed out in the section devoted to the ¢g tree, Augustine does not discover Christianity, but rather returns to it. The conversion of the Magdalene is sharper than Augustine's, since it is not a return to a lost path of faith, but a sudden and stormy spiritual experience. Nevertheless, her mainly emotional conversion does not have the same violence which characterizes Saint Paul's conversion. Unlike the Magdalene, Paul is a dynamic, energetic and active character, ready to persecute the Christians. When he converts, his identity is shaken with the same violence he had manifested as a persecutor. This radical change is problematic: what are the elements which characterize it, and what are the narrative features which maintain the identity of Paul as a protagonist of Christianity? In order to answer these questions, we shall focus

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on a single textual object, the horse, which almost constantly appears in the representations of Saint Paul's conversion. Our hypothesis is that this animal, like the ¢g tree in Augustine's conversion or the ointment in the Magdalene's spiritual turning point, has been obsessively represented because it is able to summarize, even in a single image, the paradoxes which are implied by a rapid destabilization of the self. Texts adopt the horse as a symbol of a new language of the soul, where the signs of evil are converted into the signs of holiness. But before carrying on this inquiry into the semiotic function and the symbolic value of the horse, the conversion of Saint Paul has to be classi¢ed in the general and tripartite schema through which the conversions of Saint Augustine and the Magdalene have also been studied. The pragmatic nature of Saint Paul's conversion The classi¢cation of Saint Paul's conversion within the above-mentioned schema implies two series of problems. The ¢rst one is connected with the internal structure of the schema itself. As has been said many times, it is only by virtue of analytical abstraction that the three semiotic dimensions of a text (actions, thoughts, passions) can be split apart. Consequently, although we a¤rm that a pragmatic nature is prevalent in Saint Paul's conversion, this will not mean that the other two dimensions are not present at all in the texts representing his religious change. The second series of problems is more complex and needs a more accurate examination. The conversion of Paul has huge consequences for the development of the Christian doctrine. Even the fact that some theological interpretations might consider him as the founder of Christianity, shows that his intellectual contribution to this religion is di¤cult to underestimate. Why, then, should we consider his conversion to be a pragmatic one, when his e¡ects on Christianity are mainly cultural and cognitive? This question can be answered through a reasoning which focuses on the fact that travel (which is a typical narrative embodiment of action) characterizes Paul's life before, after and even during his conversion. Before converting to Christianity, Paul travels in order to persecute the Christians. During his conversion, Paul is travelling from Jerusalem to Damascus. After conversion, travel becomes the pragmatic strategy through which Paul tries to spread the word of Christ. After being touched by the grace of God, Paul travels in a legendary, supernatural way, and so do his texts. His letters, the medium of his apostolic action, are not destined to be shelved in a library, but to travel, to move around and circulate. Travel is a theme which underlies the entire life of Paul, and embodies the pragmatic dimension of his conversion. Augustine travels as well, but his conversion is static: it happens under a tree, which is an archetypical symbol of immobility. There is no comparison with the adventurous conversion of Paul. As we shall see, the iconography of Saint Paul's conversion emphasizes this element of movement, whilst the

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conventional image which we have of Augustine is that of a writer who sits in a bare room, peacefully writing the works through which he will be known in all the Western world. On the contrary, the Christian religious imaginaire commonly represents Paul as someone who writes while riding, running, escaping, sailing and travelling between opposite corners of the Mediterranean area. The horse The fact of choosing the horse as a symbol to explore in order to understand the representations of Saint Paul's conversion implies a paradoxical aspect: the horse does not appear in the biblical passages which relate the conversion of the Apostle. Let us analyse these passages in detail. Paul himself recounts his own conversion in many of his letters, but a complete account of this turning point is found in three di¡erent passages of the Acts. The ¢rst one is Acts 9, 3^9: Now as he was going along and approaching Damascus, suddenly a light from heaven £ashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, `Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?' He asked, `Who are you, Lord?' The reply came `I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting. But get up and enter the city, and you will be told what you have to do.' The men who were travelling with him stood speechless because they heard the voice but saw no one. Saul got up from the ground, and though his eyes were open, he could see nothing; so they led him by the hand and brought him into Damascus. For three days he was without sight, and neither ate nor drank. There is no mention of a horse in this passage. The second text which describes the conversion of Paul is Acts 22, 6^11: While I was on my way and approaching Damascus, about noon a great light from heaven suddenly shone about me. I fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to me, `Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?' I answered, `Who are you, Lord?' Then he said to me, `I am Jesus of Nazareth whom you are persecuting.' Now those who were with me saw the light but did not hear the voice of the one who was speaking to me. I asked, `What am I to do, Lord?' The Lord said to me, `Get up and go to Damascus; there you will be told everything that has been assigned to you to do.' Since I could not see because of the brightness of that light, those who were with me took my hand and led me to Damascus. No horses appear in this passage either. The third and last text is Acts 26, 12^18:

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With this in mind, I was travelling to Damascus with the authority and commission of the chief priests, when at midday along the road, your Excellency, I saw a light from heaven, brighter than the sun, shining around me and my companions. When we had all fallen to the ground, I heard a voice saying to me in the Hebrew language, `Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me? It hurts you to kick against the goads.' I asked `Who are you, Lord?' The Lord answered, `I am Jesus whom you are persecuting. But get up and stand on your feet; for I have appeared to you for this purpose, to appoint you to serve and testify to the things in which you have seen me and to those in which I will appear to you. I will rescue you from your people and from the Gentiles ^ to whom I am sending you to open their eyes so that they may turn from darkness to light and from the power of Satan to God, so that they may receive forgiveness of sins and a place among those who are sancti¢ed by faith in me.' This third text, wherein Paul describes his conversion to Agrippa, is perhaps the most detailed of the three passages, but does not mention any horses either. Nevertheless, there might be a veiled reference to an animal, probably a horse, in the proverb quoted by Jesus: `it hurts you to kick against the goads'. This idiom, in both its Greek and Latin version, was common in antiquity (especially after Aeschylus), and was used to mean a useless e¡ort of resistance against a greater power (Loh¢nk 1967, 97^8). This linguistic reference is central in order to understand the di¡erences between verbal and visual representations of Saint Paul's conversion: while the ¢rst ones are usually faithful to the evangelical text, and do not include any horse, images often introduce the animal as a visual reference to an idiom which would be otherwise impossible to represent: Paul is represented together with a horse because he is the horse going against the will of God. The semiotic value of the horse As we have seen, the ¢g tree (in Augustine's conversion) and the ointment (in the Magdalene's) are paradoxical ¢gures, characterized by opposite ideological connotations. The way in which the horse works as a semiotic and narrative device for the re-stabilization of Saint Paul's self is quite similar, and shows with even greater emphasis the coexistence of good and evil, Heaven and Hell, within the phenomenon of conversion. Before considering the tradition of this symbolic ambiguity with speci¢c reference to the horse, the reasons for the frequent appearance of this animal in visual texts, and its rather rare appearance in verbal ones, must be explained. There is no certain and general explanation of this cultural phenomenon. Visual representations could stem from some apocryphal literature, although the Legenda Aurea (`Golden Legend'), which had an

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enormous in£uence on the development of Christian iconography, never mentions the animal ( Jacobus da Voragine 1969, 133^5). But even without any relation to a written source, ¢gurative arts may have introduced Saint Paul's horse for both descriptive and allegorical reasons. The ¢rst ones are related to the abstract semiotic structure of images. There is a great logical di¡erence between verbal and visual texts, which has often been neglected: when a verbal text does not mention an object, this does not mean that the object is not there. It means, trivially, that the object has not been described or mentioned. On the contrary, when an image does not show an object, this always means that the object is not there. This self-evident truth is connected to the main semiotic di¡erence between images and verbal texts. Images do not dispose of any semiotic device of negation in order to negate the presence of an object. An image may show an object, but cannot tell us that the object in question does not exist. On the contrary, this property is peculiar to verbal language (Horn 1989; Ginzburg 1998). From this point of view, when images transpose a verbal text into a mainly iconic language, they always provide a sort of commentary on it, wherein many of the implicit elements of the word are made explicit because of the di¡erent way in which visual language works. But what are these elements in the representations of Saint Paul's conversion? It is always di¤cult to put all the connotations associated with an object into a coherent system. We have already encountered this di¤culty in our analysis of the ¢g tree, as well as in that of the ointment. In the case of the horse, this problem is even more remarkable. In the speci¢c context of the present book, it would be both di¤cult and useless to consider the totality of these possible meanings. As in the previous two sections, only the religious meanings belonging to the Judeo-Christian civilization will be considered. In his monumental Histoire des origines du christianisme (`History of the origins of Christianity'), Ernest Renan gives his personal interpretation of the conversion of Saint Paul. He writes that the Apostle probably travelled on foot, together with several companions (Renan 1866, 4, 578). Renan is faithful to the Biblical text, and consequently does not mention any horse. This choice is coherent with the general style of his exegesis of Christianity, wherein every phenomenon is explained in a rational way: Paul has probably fainted, and the reasons for his vision can be psychologically determined. But the absence of the horse in this version of Saint Paul's turning point is motivated not only by an attempt to respect the evangelical text, but also by that of avoiding any theatrical e¡ect. This reasoning stems from the main hypothesis of the present section: the horse is introduced in the description of Saint Paul's conversion in order to emphasize its dramatic dimension. In order to con¢rm this hypothesis, we shall examine a series of texts which embody this phenomenon. As always, late Medieval, Renaissance and early-modern texts will be pointed out in particular. The ¢rst text which we are going to analyse is one of the French Medieval mystery plays contained in manuscript number 1131 of the Bibliothe©que

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Sainte-Genevie©ve, in Paris. It was discovered in 1921 in the Anholt Castle, in Germany. It is composed of 218 leaves of paper, copied before 1450 (Runnals 1976).147 The mystery play which is particularly interesting to us is entitled La convercion Saint Pol (`The conversion of Saint Paul').148 There are di¡erent opinions about the origin of this play. Some scholars think that it was part of the original repertory of the Confre¨rie de la Passion (`Confraternity of Passion'). This dramatic company, which was one of the most famous of the Middle Ages, was founded by Charles IV in 1402 (though it had been active for twenty years before that date). Other scholars believe that this play was in the repertory of the Confre¨rie de Sainte Genevie©ve (`Confraternity of Saint Genevie©ve'), founded in 1412 at the request of Charles VI. The text is written in the Parisian dialect of the ¢rst half of the ¢fteenth century. We are going to dwell in particular on lines 544^50, and on the stage directions between the lines 544 and 545: Annas: `Go, that God almighty might defend you!' Then Saul mounted A horse and said: `To horse, to horse, everyone! We are not worth a straw, If someone escapes us. I shall be damned If I do not entrap them.' His companions: `You ride! We shall go on foot.'149 The horse is a central element of this scene for at least three reasons: the animal is explicitly mentioned in the stage directions (`Saul mounts a horse'); it is emphatically referred to by Paul when he incites his men (`to horse, to horse'), and, above all, it is mentioned in lines 564^8 with reference to the idiom quoted in Acts 26, 14: Jesus: `I am Jesus of Nazareth, Whom you persecute, by ¢ghting Those who believe in me. You are insane and a felon If you kick against the goads.'150 This French Medieval mystery play is not the only one to be characterized by a strong relation between the horse and the theatrical dimension of the text. Let us consider another bibliographic jewel: the sixteenth-century Spanish play La Conbersio¨n de Sant Pablo (`The conversion of Saint Paul'). It is contained in a manuscript, whose only existent copy (as far as I know) is bound together with ten more manuscripts and catalogued under the number 14864 in the Spanish National Library of Madrid.151 According to

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Vera Helen Buck, who edited four of these Autos Sacramentales (`Sacramental Acts'),152 they were written on the occasion of the celebration of the Eucharist on Corpus Christi Day (Buck 1937, 3). The date of writing of three of the plays is not given, but there are indications that they were written between 1575 and 1590.153 The play on the conversion of Paul, in particular, occupies folios 48 verso to 59 recto of MS 14864. We are not going to claim the existence of a philological relationship between this play and the French Medieval one. We are simply going to emphasize some structural similarities. Let us analyse lines 200^10, for examples, with the corresponding stage directions: (Then everybody leaves and after a while Saul comes back together with his captains and soldiers with their weapons, ready to ¢ght; Saul rides his horse and sings the following song): `To the war, my soldiers, straight away. Hyah! Hyah! Up! Under orders. Everyone take care of himself. Do not waste your blows; do not forgive anyone, according to my order. Advance, run, persecute without delay. Hyah! Hyah! Up! Under orders.'154 Such is the structural analogy between this passage and the French one that one could even entertain the hypothesis of the existence of a philological relation between them. Nevertheless, their resemblance is mainly semiotic: the horse appears in the dramatic peaks of both plays. Another example of such a relation between theatricality and the appearance of the horse is the way in which the Spanish text explicitly mentions the animal in relation to the fall of Paul: Paul fell from the horse to the ground.155 But in the mystery play the horse is mentioned also in a di¡erent context: And if by any chance I ¢nd one of them, I shall drag him by the hair attached to the tail of my horse.156 The horse, then, does not only add dramatic weight to Saint Paul's fall, but is also a symbol of his activity before conversion, as a persecutor of the Christians. We shall deal with this ambivalence in more detail later. It has

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to be stressed, though, that other texts, which recount the conversion of Saint Paul without this focus on its theatrical potential, do not mention the animal at all. This is especially typical in the novel from the twentieth century on, wherein the internal, psychological and cognitive dimension of Saint Paul's conversion is particularly emphasized. Polish writer Dimitri Merejkowski, for example, ¢nely depicts the character of the Apostle in the book De Je¨sus a© Nous ^ Paul, Augustin, Franc° ois d'Assise, Jeanne d'Arc (`From Jesus to us ^ Paul, Augustine, Francis of Assisi, Jeanne d'Arc) and describes his conversion in a poetic way: The route which, after eight days of march, leads from Idumie to Gaulonitide, passes through a desert devoured by the sun, where the air looks like trembling and sparkling as in a furnace, and the hot whitewashed stones burn the feet through the shoes; suddenly, this long route looks di¡erent: pilgrims who follow it come out of this hell and all of a sudden ¢nd themselves in the Eden-like freshness of the gardens of Damascus, washed by the clear waters of many brooks, tributaries of the Albana and the Parpar. Suddenly, Saul fell on the ground, paralyzed and as struck by lightning, shrieking inhumanly, like once shrieked in Tarsus the adolescent, bent on his work.157 (Merejkowski 1941, 29) The writer uses the description of the landscape which surrounds Paul during his journey in a metaphorical way: the aridity of the soul of Paul is mirrored by the `desert devoured by the sun', and the `pilgrim who comes out of this hell and all of a sudden ¢nds himself in the Eden-like freshness of the gardens of Damascus' is an image of the spiritual path which leads Paul from the hell of persecution to the heaven of conversion. But in such delicately poetic imagination there is no mention of a horse. This omission does not only derive from the desire to follow the evangelical text closely, but also results from the fact that this particular passage stresses more the passive dimension of narration than the active one. Paul is a soul in passion, rather than a man in action, while the horse, in the Pauline tradition, appears as a reference to a more active and theatrical conception of the conversion of Paul. In order to have a con¢rmation of such hypothesis, let us consider another text (of the same epoch), which treats the theme of the conversion of Paul in a similar way: Daniel-Rops's Saint Paul aventurier de Dieu (`Saint Paul adventurer of God'): He had almost arrived. Soon the oasis would appear, the gray of its plane trees and the green of its palms. The air was heavy, opaque, as it is in the desert around midday. Suddenly, a fulgurating light fell down from the sky, straight on the traveller: it was more bright than the light of the sun. The little man fell on the ground.158 (Daniel-Rops 1954, 4)

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This passage is rich in Biblical references and interesting semantic structures. For the purposes of the present section, it must be emphasized that, as in the description of Merejkowski, so in Daniel-Rops the landscape expresses the spiritual condition of Paul, his heaviness and opacity, while the supernatural light which bursts out in the desert is an evident symbol of the spiritual light of conversion. Once again, there is not even the trace of a horse in this landscape, because every element of it is transformed into a geographical ¢gure of Saint Paul's psychology. For example, conversion is said to happen vers l'aplomb de midi (`around midday'), i.e. in a moment of the day when no shadows are cast on the ground. This means that the ¢gurative layer of this passage is characterized by extreme emptiness, embodied in the typical ¢gures of the desert and its lack of forms. Every detail in the exterior landscape is erased in order to point out the condition of the interior one; in other words, as the passive dimension of narration is prevalent, the dramatic image of the Apostle riding through the desert disappears. But the text of Daniel-Rops is interesting especially because it is illustrated. A series of drawings accompanies the written text and represents the most important moments of Paul's life.159 The image on the cover of the book is particularly relevant: Paul is represented riding a beautiful black horse, at the exact moment when he falls from it.160 Visual representations of Saint Paul's conversion often introduce this theatrical element. A fall from a horse, in fact, is certainly more dramatic and spectacular than a simple fall. Other less trivial reasons, though, justify the introduction of this animal in the texts which represent the conversion of the Apostle. They relate to the complex universe of connotations which the horse can evoke. Since this animal is used as a symbol in many cultures and epochs, the classi¢cation of all its possible meanings would be impossible. It is su¤cient to peruse the entry `horse' in the Oxford English Dictionary, for example, to understand how many di¡erent ¢gurative meanings this word (and the concept which it represents) can have. As a consequence, we are going to make a rigorous selection from this huge corpus of connotations, and point out only the religious isotopy related to the horse, with a particular attention to the Judeo-Christian semantic area. Literature on the symbolic value of the horse is extensive. On this occasion, only two books can be mentioned: Marlene Baum's Das Pferd as Symbol (`The horse as symbol') (Baum 1991),161 and the very informative Le Cheval ^ Mythes et textes, written by Franck Evrard and Eric Tenet (Evrard and Tenet 1993).162 In the introduction to this last book, the authors describe the `symbology' of the horse in a way which ¢ts in with the hypothesis of the present section. According to the authors, the horse is a paradoxical animal, characterized by a complex system of oppositions (male/female, domestic/ savage, active/passive, master/slave), even beyond the reductive point of view following which it would simply be either the ally or the enemy of the humankind. The horse cannot be disentangled from this series of symbolic

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oppositions without losing its identity. In e¡ect, the authors claim that this animal can be de¢ned only through an absence of de¢nitions, which always implies an imaginaire of intermediality: inversion, subversion and perversion are the modes of the presence of the horse. Our hypothesis is that the theological, ideological and ethical opposition between good and evil, which is central to the phenomenon of conversion, also belongs to the series of paradoxical oppositions embodied by the horse. This animal, like the ¢g tree of Augustine and the ointment of the Magdalene, is a perfect symbol for conveying the ine¡able nature of conversion. It guarantees, once again, the identity of its rider and the re-stabilization of his self through a paradoxical semiotic functioning. Greek mythology often uses the falling from a horse as a narrative structure which conveys a turning point, for instance in the stories of Phaeton or Bellerophon. However, for the purposes of our analysis, it is rather the Biblical imaginaire of the horse which has to be investigated. The horse is omnipresent in both the Old and the New Testament. The ¢rst reference to this animal is contained in Gen. 47, 17: So they brought their livestock to Joseph; and Joseph gave them food in exchange for the horses, the £ocks, the herds, and the donkeys. That year he supplied them with food in exchange for all their livestock. The last reference appears in Rev. 19, 18: [Come, gather for the great supper of God], to eat the £esh of kings, the £esh of captains, the £esh of the mighty, the £esh of horses and their riders ^ £esh of all, both free and slave, both small and great. The ¢rst occurrence of the horse in the Bible is a reference to the practice of using this animal as a token of economic exchange, the last one appears in the context of the mysterious book of Revelations. Between these two occurences, the Bible mentions the horse 159 times: in Hebrew (souªs, paªraªsh, raªkav) and in Greek (o&). Despite this large number of references, the `isotopies' which underlie the semantics of this animal within the Bible are not so complex. The horse is either a means of mercantile exchange or a symbol of wealthy or noble social status. It is not fortuitous, then, that both the books of Kings often include horses in their descriptions.163 The connotation of the horse in both the Old and the New Testament is generally positive. Since it would be very tedious to examine in depth every single mention of this animal, only those occurrences which are more interesting in relation to the representations of Saint Paul's conversion will be dealt with. The passage at 2 Kgs. 2, 11 is particularly relevant because it associates the horse with the supernatural intervention of God:

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Religious conversion and identity As they continued walking and talking, a chariot of ¢re and horses of ¢re separated the two of them, and Elijah ascended in a whirlwind into heaven.

There is an evident parallel between these horses of ¢re and those of many ancient mythologies. The saddle which bears God must be divine, so the horse is transformed into a supernatural animal, as happens in 2 Kgs. 6, 17: Then Elijah prayed: `O Lord, please open his eyes that he may see.' So the Lord opened the eyes of the servant, and he saw; the mountain was full of horses and chariots of ¢re all around Elijah. Another interesting passage is Isa. 31, 3, which introduces the semantic ambiguity related to the horse: it is not only a symbol of divine intervention but also a possible reference to an ideologically opposite dimension: The Egyptians are human, and not God; their horses are £esh, and not spirit. When the Lord stretches out his hand, the helper will stumble, and the one helped will fall, and they will all perish together. We shall not continue this series of micro-analyses. Let us only mention a last passage, Isa. 63, 13: Like a horse in the desert, they did not stumble. This line demonstrates how paradoxical the semantics of Biblical ¢gures can be: the horse is both a symbol of stability and the protagonist of many falls, the animal which does not stumble in the desert and the one which fell during Saint Paul's conversion. But the symbology of the horse is even more di¤cult to examine, because it frequently appears also in patristic, apocryphal and devotional texts. However, as has been argued earlier, it is mainly in the visual representations of Saint Paul's conversion that the ambiguous connotations related to the horse are used in order to express an otherwise ine¡able re-stabilization of the converted self. Saint Paul's horse in visual representations The conversion of Saul on the road to Damascus has been the object of many representations and its iconography may be categorized in two di¡erent traditions, according to which, respectively, Saul would walk or ride a horse. It is interesting to notice that the second tradition is more recent than the

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¢rst one, and reaches its peak in the Baroque period, i.e. in a period characterized by a close relationship between painting, literature and especially theatre (this could maybe contribute to con¢rm the hypothesis of the theatrical nature of the horse in the representations of conversion). Saint Paul's horse appears in a fourteenth-century bas-relief of the Door of the Singers in the cathedral of Saint Stephen in Vienna; on a wood carving of Taddeo di Bartolo (now in the Museum of Pesaro); in a Coronation of the Virgin by Giovanni Bellini (1470, again in the Museum of Pesaro, Italy); in the paintings of Signorelli for the Holy House of Loreto, Italy; in a miniature of the Book of Hours of the Duke of Bedford (1434, National Library, Paris); in the Hours by Jean Fouquet (Chantilly, Museum of Conde¨); in a painting of Ludovico Brea for the church of Santa Maria di Castello in Genoa (1512). Michelangelo gave new strength to the representation of this theme with his beautiful Conversion of Saul, completed on 12 July 1545 for the Pauline Chapel in the Vatican.164 Other representations are a tapestry of the Vatican Gallery, woven from a drawing of Raphael; an engraving by Albrecht DÏrer, a tapestry kept in the Deutsches Museum of Berlin from a drawing of Hans Baldung Grien; the painting of Pieter Bruegel (1567) in the Kunsthistorisches Museum of Vienna. One of the most famous representations of Saint Paul's conversion in early-modern history of art is that of Michelangelo Merisi, alias Caravaggio, for the church of S. Maria del Popolo, in Rome. The contract for the painting was signed on 24 September 1600. Another copy of the same painting is of doubtful attribution (the one in the Collection Odescalchi Balbi di Piovera of Rome). In both representations the presence of the horse is enormously emphasized, and occupies half of the painting. Other seventeenth-century representations include Taddeo Zuccari's Conversion of Paul in the `Doria' Gallery in Rome, Ludovico Carracci's painting in the Bologna Gallery and the Rubens of the Munich Gallery. Also, Jacques Jordaens painted a conversion of Paul for the Tongerloo Abbey, but the work is unfortunately lost. It would be di¤cult to analyse all these images in detail within the limits of the present book. I prefer to study in depth just one of them, which has been singled out because it is particularly signi¢cant for its semiotic structure and for the relationship which it entertains with an early-modern verbal text. We allude to the Conversion of Saint Paul painted by Laurent de la Hyre.165 The painting, a large composition,166 is dated and signed in the bottom-left hand corner: `L. de La Hyre In & F 1637'. This work was o¡ered as a gift by Franc° ois Henault and Antoine de la Fosse in the name of the goldsmiths of Paris on the occasion of the traditional celebrations of May in the church of Notre-Dame.167 This image is interesting for two series of reasons: ¢rst, the semiotic value of the horse in the visual structure of the painting; second, its relationship with a series of sonnets which were dedicated to this painting on the occasion of the above-mentioned Parisian religious celebrations.

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Let us proceed with a semiotic analysis of the painting, and let us start with the horse appearing in the bottom-right corner.168 Actually, there are two horses in the image: the one which is lying on the ground, and a second horse, which is galloping just above the head of the ¢rst one, in the background. La Hyre uses a quite common semiotic device in order to represent, within the image, the temporal development contained in the verbal narration of the Acts: the same element appears in di¡erent points of the image with slight changes, so giving an impression of both identity and modi¢cation of the scene (we realize that the couple rider^horse is the same because we can recognize the clothes of Saul: a red cloak and a helmet with a feather). The di¡erence of postures and positions between these two couples gives us the general meaning of the visual composition: Saul was galloping with the red £ag of persecution in his hand, while the other hand was holding the reins. After the fall, one hand touches the ground to signify the suddenness of the event, while the other is in the typical position of many mystical ecstasies, receiving the grace of God. If we analyse the chromatic structure of the painting, it is evident that the red cloak of Jesus and the red clothes of both Saul and his companions are in opposition to each other. This contrast is emphasized also at the plastic level of the painting, not only by the mutual position of Saul and Jesus, but also by the childish play of the two little angels in the top-left corner, who seem to simulate and echo the relationship between Jesus and the Apostle. The semiotic structure of the image is quite clear: one of the branches of the tree in the top-right corner points to the ¢nger of Jesus in order to connect the immanent part of the representation with the transcendent one. Nevertheless, the horse lies at the bottom of the image as a troubling element of it. He occupies a vast part of the painting in a quite intrusive way, like the nightmarish horse in the famous painting of John Henri Fuseli. Allegedly, Freud kept a reproduction of Fuseli's painting in his studio. The inventor of psychoanalysis never mentioned this image in his works, but he was maybe in£uenced by it when he analysed the presence of a horse in one of his patients' nightmares and phobias, in the Analyse der Phobie eines fÏnfjÌhrigen Kneben (`Analysis of the phobia of a child aged ¢ve', Freud 1940^52, 7, 243^377). In the phobia analysed by Freud, the horse is characterized by a human face, by a resemblance between the muzzle of the horse and the moustache of the child's father. The horse painted by Laurent de la Hyre (as so many horses in the representations of Saint Paul's conversion are) is troubling for similar reasons: it has a human look, but at the same time its gaze shows some peculiar features. As several scholars have already pointed out, horses may be used as disturbing semiotic points of observation within a scene. We want simply to add that this possibility is probably related to the fact that, in a horse, the angle which separates the eyes is wider than that which separates the eyes of humans. The consequence of this anatomical di¡erence is that the horse of La Hyre, for example, may stare at us (the

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virtual observers of the painting) with one eye, while the other eye is pointed to the fall. Furthermore, in this speci¢c image, the humanoid nature of the horse's gaze is emphasized by the fact that the animal seems to be crowned with human hair. The painting of Laurent de la Hyre is interesting also because it is accompanied by a verbal text which illustrates it. We allude to the Sonnets et e¨pigrammes sur la conversion de S. Paul Apostre represente¨e par Laurent de la HYRE peintre du Roy, en un tableau o¡ert par les Maistres de la Confrerie de Saincte Anne a© nostre Dame de Paris (`Sonnets and epigrams on the conversion of Saint Paul Apostle represented by Laurent de la Hyre, painter of the King, in a painting o¡ered by the Masters of the Confraternity of Saint Anne to Notre-Dame of Paris'). It was published in Paris, by Denys Bechet, in 1637, and distributed the ¢rst day of May, the same year. This anthology comprises six sonnets, followed by thirty-one stanzas of epigrams, three stanzas of VÝus a Iesus (`Vows to Jesus'), three stanzas of Prieres a la tres sainte vierge (`Prayers to the very holy Virgin'), three stanzas of Prieres a s. Paul (`Prayers to S. Paul'), three stanzas of epigrams to the king and three of epigrams to the queen. The following poem is the last one, and it is devoted A l'auteur dudit tableau (`To the author of the above-mentioned tableau'): I. Use all the power Of your imagination, For expressing the violence Of the illustrious conversion Of the great Saint Paul, whose memory Fills of glory the whole universe. But, my dear Cousin, do not fear That God all-mighty, like the King of Elide, Will incinerate you, and send you to Hell, Because you imitated his lightning so well. II. The sudden metamorphosis Of a proud lion into a Lamb Is not a thing as strange As what one sees in this painting. However it is full of enchantment, And shows well that the inventor, Who makes such weapons, Can always subjugate his competitors. III. We do not regret Apelle, We see him resuscitated, La Hyre, in your immortal work, Which righteously deserved you.169

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This poem deserves an accurate perusal not only because of its ironic comments or Biblical and classical references, but also because it shows that conversion is conceived as a perfect topic for a painter. Like the metamorphoses of Ovid, which are referred to in the poem, religious conversion de¢es the skills of the painter. An analogous relationship between conversion and painting is pointed out in a sermon of the same epoch, La Conversion de saint Paul, explique¨e en douze sermons . . . (`The conversion of Saint Paul, explained in twelve sermons . . . ').170 This text is a systematic explanation of the theological issues connected with Paul's conversion. It is articulated in four parts: `1. L'e¨clat avec lequel Je¨sus Christ se manifeste a© lui; 2. Le temps de cette manifestation; 3. Son e¡et; 4. La parole que Je¨sus Christ lui adressa' (`1. The fulguration by which Jesus Christ manifested himself to Paul; 2. The time of this manifestation; 3. Its e¡ect; 4. The word that Jesus Christ addressed to him'). In the third sermon of the series, the author claims that religious conversion is a work of God which deserves more admiration than creation itself. In supporting this claim, Simon de Goyon a¤rms two points which are interesting in the context of this book: that conversion is characterized by a sudden change from darkness to light; that conversion can be compared to a painting whose painter is God: Although God looks admirable in all of His deeds, there is no moment wherein He manifests the richness of His glory in a brighter way than in the conversion of sinners, through which He makes them pass from darkness to light, from death to life, from the miserable condition of sin to the merry state of grace.171 And about the God-painter, the author adds: Similarly, between the two paintings wherein shines the skilfulness of a same painter, one esteems more that which has been completed with the greatest e¡ort, and on which the painter has laid the most vivid colours.172 The poem dedicated to La Hyre puts forward the same reasoning: conversion is a subject which stimulates the inventiveness of painters. But whilst in the passage from the verbal text of the Gospel to the visual composition of La Hyre the horse had suddenly appeared in the painting, in the subsequent intertextual transposition, which moves from the image to the poetical text which illustrates it, the animal disappears again: As the rage of the ferocious wolf is felt By the tender lamb which has lost its fold; So Saul, longing for blood and massacre, Had devoted himself to kill the disciples of Christ.

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While he was going to Damascus with his great party So as to arrest everybody he would met, A fulgurating voice crushed his body And softened his bravery.173 This description con¢rms our hypothesis on the theatrical nature of the horse: even when a verbal text directly refers to a visual representation which includes the animal among its elements, it follows the evangelical account and eliminates the horse from the description. As a consequence, since the horse is peculiar to the iconic representations of Paul's conversion, an inquiry into the visual connotations of this symbol is required. The `isotopies' connected with the horse vary considerably depending on the di¡erent cultures in which this animal is used as a ¢gure or as a symbol. The bibliography on these speci¢c connotations is extensive.174 A good introduction to this topic is the densely written article which the LCI devotes to the horse. According to the author, the complex series of meaning connected with this animal, generally divisible into a `good' and a `bad' principle, concerns both a sacred and a profane semantic ¢eld.175 As regards the positive connotations, the horse is a visual symbol of dominion in many images representing passages of the Old Testament, as well as in much Medieval symbology, e.g. in the heraldry of Constantine's donation. Furthermore, the image of Jesus riding a horse contained in Rev. 19, 11^14, causes the horse to be used as a visual symbol of the Church as a whole.176 Another positive connotation is related to Plato's imagination, wherein the horse is the symbol of the most spiritual part of the soul. Consequently, in the Christian interpretation of Plato's philosophy, the horse signi¢es the divine ascension and the Holy Spirit. So, for instance, in the Baroque period, it represents the quintessence of magnanimity. On the other hand, the horse is frequently adopted as a visual symbol of lustful people, of people possessed by the Devil,177 or even as a symbol of the Anti-Christ itself.178 These negative connotations probably derive from the Bible, and in particular from Jer. 5, 8 (`they were well-fed lusty stallions, each neighing for his neighbour's wife'). Such an ambiguous mixture of good and evil connotations concerns especially visual representations: the horse is a symbol of the majesty of the Kingdom, or even a symbol of the Church, but simultaneously it is represented as an animal with demonic powers. If we consider the image of Saint Paul's conversion painted by Laurent de la Hyre, and try to interpret it in the light of both the semiotic analysis of this painting and the `symbological' inquiry into the religious semantics of the horse, it has to be admitted that the black horse which appears (multiplied) in the painting, escapes a rigid semantic de¢nition, exactly as the ¢g tree of Augustine or the ointment of the Magdalene do in the paintings which represent these famous converted people of Christianity. Is the horse the divine instrument which accomplishes the will of God, falling together

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with Paul on the road to Damascus, or a symbol of the sinful past of Saul, of his being possessed by the devil? Probably, the right answer is: both things. In fact, this ambiguous animal is perfectly suitable for carrying in its saddle the paradoxical moment of conversion, when the limits between an evil past and a good future are still indistinguishable, merged together in a turbulent present. The fall of Saint Paul as a model of conversion A fall from a horse is not simply a fall, for several reasons. From a semiotic point of view, riders and their horses are a sort of `dual actant' (a centaur), so that, when they are separated by a fall, riders do not only lose their horses, but also, on a deeper semantic level, what horses represent. The history of literature is full of falls from a horse which signify a turning point in the life of an individual. Ja¨nos Sza¨vai, in his survey on the `myth of Saul^ Paul', indicates a whole series of authors who have referred to the story of the conversion of the Apostle in order to express a turning point in their lives: August Strindberg in the play Till Damas, for example, or Franz Werfel in the dramatic legend Paulus unter den Juden (Sza¨vai 1985). Moreover, who does not remember that `falling on the road to Damascus' is an idiomatic locution well known in many modern languages, and used to indicate that someone has suddenly and radically changed his plans in a totally unexpected way? Pasolini's Saint Paul Among the modern and contemporary authors who have moulded their literary imagination upon the Pauline tradition, one of the most important is Pier Paolo Pasolini, who always manifested a deep interest in the life and texts of Saint Paul.179 The adventurous attitude of the Apostle and his moral intransigence must have fascinated Pasolini, who at the end of the 1960s decided to write a script on Saint Paul. The original typescript bears the following title: Abbozzo di sceneggiatura per un ¢lm su San Paolo (sotto forma di appunti per un direttore di produzione) (`Sketch of a script for a ¢lm on Saint Paul ^ in the form of some notes for a producer).180 Pasolini's interest in Saint Paul is also witnessed by another text, which the Italian writer and ¢lmmaker wrote in the same period: Progetto per un ¢lm su San Paolo (`Project for a ¢lm on Saint Paul'). The making of the ¢lm was obstructed by many personal and practical problems. In 1974 it seemed that it was possible to transform the script into a ¢lm, but the costs of production were too high for such a highbrow work. Eventually, Pasolini decided to publish this work as an unused ¢lm script. Pasolini's text is extremely interesting in relation to the period of dramatic political events in which it was written and also because it is a transposition of the life and travels of Saint Paul into the contemporary epoch. Pasolini's

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aim was to demonstrate that the teaching of Paul was still modern in 1960s Italy. Here follows his own introduction to the text: The poetic idea ^ which should also become the guideline of the ¢lm, and its novelty, too ^ consists of transposing the whole life of Saint Paul into the present day. This does not mean that I want to change or someway alter the letter of his preaching: on the contrary, as I have already done for the Gospel, none of the words pronounced by Paul in the dialogues of the ¢lm will be invented or analogically interpreted. . . . What is the reason for which I should like to transpose his human life to nowadays? It is very simple: in order to give the cinematic impression and conviction of its modernity, in the most direct and violent way.181 (Pasolini 1977, 5) For the purposes of our research, it is particularly interesting to point out the way in which Pasolini has transposed the fall from the horse. Although in his introduction he promises to be completely faithful to the evangelical text, he realizes that the horse is a very important theatrical element, which cannot be eliminated in a cinematic version of Saint Paul's conversion. Therefore, Pasolini does not eliminate the animal, but replaces the black horse of la Hyre with a black car: French province. Daytime, outside. There are some `passages' through occupied France, in the direction of Spain. In a big black car ^ the car of the authorities, followed by a little escort ^ the young Paul is directed to Barcelona (Damascus). The countryside, with the little deserted villages, the little provincial towns which live their tragedy in silence: armed people everywhere, women, old people and children ^ in despair and mute ^ everywhere. Then the long deserted roads to the frontier, with the Pyrenees vaguely threatening like a dull wall against the horizon. Suddenly Paul feels bad, touches his forehead and faints. The car stops; the escort gathers all around, worrying; the driver opens the door for some fresh air to come in. But Paul does not recover consciousness, he is lost in his illness, although his eyes are open and he seems conscious.182 (ibid.) From a narratological perspective, this script does not alter the narrative level of the conversion of Paul (as it is recounted by the Acts), but only the ¢gurative one: this is the way in which most transpositions and adaptations work. Moreover, some ¢gurative details remain unchanged, like the desert, for example, which had already stimulated Renan's imagination. The horse, on the contrary, disappears, but not completely. Pasolini, who understood the value of such a theatrical element, replaces it with a car. Moreover the Italian intellectual emphasizes the black colour of the vehicle,

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like the black horses of many painted representations, so that it can inherit the ambiguous semantic value of the animal (without the same mysterious potential, though): it is an instrument of evil (black is the colour of evil in many Western chromatic axiologies), but at the same time it stops to obey the will of God. Pasolini seems to encourage his contemporaries to experience an analogous turning point in their own life, converting from a bourgeois and capitalistic way of life to a Christian one. Once again, following an iconographic tradition of many centuries, the ¢gure which conveys this ideological turning point is a fall from a horse, transposed into the more modern image of a car which stops. The present section completes the chapter on the re-stabilization of the self. The way in which a particular symbol, the horse, has been used by (mainly visual) representations in order to recompose the identity of Saint Paul after the violent crisis of his identity experienced on the road to Damascus, has been analysed as an example of how a new language of the soul, a new spiritual semiotic system of words and images, can be (both psychically and socially) invented in order to reconstruct the coherence of a person after what we have called a `conversion of actions'. In the last part of this book, we are going to summarize the most important conclusions that can be drawn from the semiotic analysis of religious conversion and its representations, which has been carried out in the previous chapters.

Conclusion

In the Carmina Tridentina (`Poems of Trent'), written by Antonio Sebastiano Minturno soon after the end of the Council of Trent (Minturno 1564), the Catholic Church is compared to a huge ¢shing net which rescues the souls of the faithful and saves them from the spiritual wreck of heresy. This metaphor, which refers to the many evangelical images of ¢shing, gives a positive connotation to the net. Nevertheless, almost in the same historical period, in the various editions of Ripa's Iconologia which were printed in Europe, in several languages, between the end of the sixteenth century and the beginning of the seventeenth, the ¢shing net was given a negative connotation: it was a central iconographic element in the representation of the Inganno (`illusion'). A century later, when Raimondo di Sangro, prince of Sansevero, designed the iconography of the Sansevero Chapel, in Naples, which was to host the sumptuous tombs of his aristocratic family (Cio¤ 1994), he situated a marvellous sculpture, entitled `Il disinganno' (`the disillusionment')1 in the right corner of the chapel, near to the altar (Figure C.1). It depicts, through a virtuoso realism, a young man who disentangles himself from the meshes of an intricate ¢shing net. The right arm of the standing man lifts up one end of the net and discloses his white chest and most of his face. The gaze of the man is directed toward the eyes of a young winged angel, standing on a globe, who removes with his left hand another end of the net, while his right hand points towards a huge marmoreal in-folio, bearing on the verso a cento of three biblical quotations, and on the recto their respective sources. The quotations are the following. From Nahum 1, 13: vincula tua dirumpam (`and now I will break o¡ his yoke from you'); from the Wisdom of Solomon 22, 7: `tenebrarum et lung× noctis quibus es compeditus' (`of the darkness and the long night by which you are fettered'); from the First Letter of Paul to the Corinthians 11, 33: `ut non cum hoc mundo damneris' (`so that we may not be condemned along with the world').2 On the man's left, a huge gravestone bears a Latin text which explains the meaning of the representation: it is an allegorical sculpture in honour of

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Figure C.1 Francesco Queirolo, Il disinganno, Naples, chapel of Sansevero, 1754.

Antonio di Sangro, one among Raimondo's ancestors celebrated in the Chapel, who after a dissolute life mended his ways and became a priest of the temple. In the framework of my conclusions, I mentioned these three di¡erent examples of the symbolism of the ¢shing net in the early-modern Catholic imaginaire for two purposes. First, because I think that the image of a person coming out of a net summarizes well what I have been trying to do in the present book: through an eclectic bricolage of theoretical instruments, through

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both a historical and semiotic (diachronic and synchronic) strategy of constitution of the corpus of analysis and through reference to a large variety of (both verbal and nonverbal) texts, I have made an attempt at recounting the adventure of religious conversion: the encounter with a new nucleon of religious ideas, the personal and social crisis which derives from it, the painful process through which a new religious identity is recomposed. Yet, this book is not only about religious conversion: it has the more ambitious goal of using this particular phenomenon as the most dramatic and representative example of spiritual change, of turning points. The frequent (and anachronistic) references which have been made to modern or contemporary authors, and their (often) completely unreligious contexts was not merely decorative, but was meant to demonstrate that the way in which people change, and recount both their change and their identity, shows some constant features, many of which derived from the lexicon of religious experience. And this is also the second purpose for which I mentioned the ¢shing net, an object which has been used, like the ¢g tree of Augustine, like the ointment of the Magdalene, like the horse of Paul, as a device of both salvation (the Gospels, the Carmina Tridentina) and damnation (Ripa's Iconologia, the `San Severo' chapel). The main contribution of my book does not consist in a¤rming the ambivalent, ambiguous and paradoxical semantic value of these objects, since almost every object has received both positive and negative connotations in the enormous reservoir of meanings which is the JudeoChristian civilization. On the contrary, the main point of this book was to show that religious conversion is primarily a conversion of meanings, wherein the paradoxical constitution of a stable identity through a sharp change is possible only when the elements which compose a soul are rearranged in order to express a di¡erent language. The rope and the knot are not di¡erent objects. They are only di¡erent stories.

Notes

Introduction 1 See especially Kierkegaard's Sygdommen til DÖden `The Sickness unto Death' and Frygt og Baeven, `Fear and Trembling' (Kierkegaard 1909^48). 2 On the semiotics of vertigo, see Fabbri 1991 and 2000b. 3 In cognitive sciences, literature on `the self ' is extensive. I cannot mention them all but an anthology which surveys many di¡erent approaches to this topic is Gallagher and Shear 1999. For a more philosophical survey, see Bodei 2002. 4 See also Marrone 1987. 5 On the concept of religious self, see also Baumgarten 1998 and Assman and Stroumsa 1999. 6 In this exposition of the cultural and semantic history of religious ideas, I shall constantly refer to the works of Jean-Robert Armogathe (Armogathe 1978; 1980; 1982; 1985; 1989). 7 See the de¢nition of `turning point' in Sheringham 1993. 8 As regards the analysis of visual texts, my method of interpretation will try to follow the example of Italian semiotician Omar Calabrese. On this occasion, I can only mention the most important books of this proli¢c scholar (Calabrese 1980, 1984, 1985a, 1985b, 1985c, 1987, 1999 and 2000). Also, I shall make continual reference to the works of Romanian art historian Victor I. Stoichita (esp. Stoichita 1995; 1997a and 1997b). 9 Literature on this topic is very vast. A good survey is contained in Rambo 1982a (see also Kilbourne and Richardson 1988). Generally, books on religious conversion can be roughly divided into four groups. The ¢rst is characterized by a psychological point of view (see James 1902; Sanctis 1924; Clark 1929; Lang 1931; Luca 1934; Barra 1959; Thouless 1971; Seggar and Kunz 1972; Gillespie 1973; Scobie 1975; Scroggs and Douglas 1977; Conn 1986; Kirkpatrick 1988; Kirkpatrick and Shaver 1990; Oksanen 1994; Capps and Liebman Jacobs 1995; Gromolard 1998); the second has adopted a sociological perspective (see Lo£and and Stark 1965; Billette 1976; Lo£and and Skonovd 1981; Wiesberger 1990; Rambo 1982b, 1989 and especially 1993; Viswanathan 1998; Matthew 1999; Hervieu-Le¨ger 2001); the third one has analysed conversion from a theological or philosophical point of view (see Buck 1805; Archibald 1841; Frost 1908; Brunschvicg 1951; Cecci 1958; Clavier 1983; Gadille 1985; Mello 1985; Paternoster 1985; Muhlen 1986; Ciolini 1987; Swift 1988; Panimolle 1995; Armstrong and Wood 2000); the fourth in relation to speci¢c historical, geographical or confessional milieus (hundreds of titles could exemplify this section). 10 Literature produced in each one of these three sections is too vast to be mentioned. For a survey on this bibliography, besides the excellent article of Daniel Patte (Patte 1986), see Grabner-Heider 1973; Barr 1979; Waardenburg 1979; GÏttgemans 1981; Delorme and Geoltrain 1982. See also the international journals

Notes

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Linguistica biblica; Se¨ miotique et Bible; Structuralist Research Information and Semeia: An Experimental Journal for Biblical Criticism. 11 Semiotic interpretations of religious conversion are quite rare. Nevertheless, two books have had a deep in£uence on my conception of this phenomenon: Marin 1992 and Fabbri 2000a. I also have to acknowledge my intellectual debt to some books which are not strictly semiotic but o¡er some new insights on conversion either through comparative research or by paying speci¢c attention to linguistic or narrative problems: Ricoeur 1979; Krailsheimer 1980; Hawkins 1985; Spindler 1985; Morrison 1992a and 1992b; Hefner 1993; Peters 1993; Attias 1997; Lamb and Darrol Bryant 1999. 1 The destabilization of the self 1 I could mention many introductive books on early-modern European religious history. I have found particularly useful Filoramo and Menozzi 1997. 2 In my book I shall use the word `text' according to contemporary semiotics, so designating every possible form of linguistic structure, independently from the particular language or medium in which this structure is embedded (we can therefore speak of verbal texts, visual texts, musical texts and so on). 3 From the development of the French historical school of the Annales on, this ¢rst type of intellectual operation has been quite popular. See, as an example, the works of French historian M. Vovelle (Vovelle 1982a; 1985; 1989; 1993); on the use of images in cultural history see Haskell 1993 and Burke 2001. 4 The debate about how ¢ctitious stories can help scholars to understand the human mind and consciousness is very intense, especially in relation to cognitive psychology, a discipline that usually tends to minimize the heuristic value of ¢ction and humanities and to borrow its analytical tools from natural sciences. David Lodge's novel, Thinks (Lodge 2001), comically and e¡ectively describes the current clash between cognitive sciences and narrative and humanistic expertise. 5 On this topic see Schmitt 2003, especially the chapter on `¢ction and ve¨rite¨' [¢ction and truth] (pp. 25^62). 6 `O padre Bartolomeu Lourenc°o passaria ali a noite, aproveitava a vinda para ensaiar o seu serma¬o, ja¨ poucos dias estavam faltando para a festa do Corpo de Deus. . . . O padre saiu para o pa¨tio, aspirou profundamente o ar, depois contemplou a estrada luminosa que atravessava a abo¨ bada celeste de um lado a outro, caminho de Santiago, se na¬o teriam sido antes os olhos dos peregrinos que, de tanto ¢xarem o ce¨u, forma deixando nele a¨ pro¨pria luz, Deus e¨ uno em esseª ncia e em pessoa, gritou Bartolomeu Lourenc°o subitamente' (Saramago 1982, 172^3). 7 `Treª s, se na¬o quatro, vidas diferentes tem o padre Bartolomeu Lourenc°o, e uma so¨ apenas quando dorme, que mesmo sonhando diversamente na¬o sabe destrinc°ar, acordado, se no sonho foi o padre que sobe o altar e diz canonicamente a missa, se o acade¨ mico ta¬o estimado que vai inco¨ gnito el rei ouvir-lhe a orac°a¬o por tra¨s do riposteiro, no va¬o da porta, se o inventor da ma¨quina de voar ou dos va¨rios modos de esgotar sem gente as naus que fazem a¨gua [here Saramago is quoting the title of a little book written by Lourenc°o de Gusma¬o about one of his inventions], se esse outro homem conjunto, mordido de sustos e du¨vidas, que e¨ pregador na igreja, erudito na academia, cortesa¬ no pac°o, visiona¨rio e irma¬o de gente mecaªnica e plebeia em S. Sebastia¬o da Pedreira, e que torna ansiosamente ao sonho para reconstruir uma fra¨gil, preca¨ria unidade, estilhac°ada mal os olhos se lhe abrem . . .' (ibid., 178). 8 On the relation between mirrors and conversion, see pp. 114^24. 9 `Abandonara a leitura consabida dos doutores da Igreja, dos canonistas, das formas variantes escola¨sticas sobre esseª ncia e pessoa, como se a alma ja¨ tivesse extenuada de palavras, ma

176

10 11

12 13 14 15

16 17

18

Religious conversion and identity porque o homen e¨ o u¨nico animal que fala e leª , quando o ensinam, embora enta¬o lhe faltem ainda muitos anos para a homen ascender, examina miudamente e estuda o padre Bartolomeu Lourenc°o o Testamento velho, sobretudo o cinco primeiros livros, o Pentateuco, pelos juduos chamado Tora, e o Alcora¬o. Dentro do corpo de qualquer de no¨s poderia Blimunda [Blimunda is the main female character of the novel; when she fasts, she has the ability of seeing other people's souls] ver os o¨ rga¬os, e tambe¨ m as vontades, mas na¬o pode ler os pensamentos, nem ela a estes entenderia, ver um homen pensando, come em um pensamento so¨ , ta¬o opostas e inimigas verdades, e com isso na¬o perder o ju|¨ zo, ela se o visse, ele porque tal pensa' (ibid.). `Eu sei do que me acusara¬o, se a minha hora chegar, dira¬o que me converti au juda|¨ smo, e e¨ verdade' (ibid., 194). It happens quite often that people who convert from a religion to another become the harshest enemies of their former religious community. This is the case of many medieval and early-modern Catholic preachers, who had converted from Judaism to Catholicism. For example, when on 12 August 1553 Pope Julius III del Monte (1550^5) condemned the Talmud and gave the order to burn every copy of it, he was inspired by Chenanel of Foligno, a Jew converted to Catholicism. See also the story of the Biblical scholar Sixtus of Siena (1520^ 69), author of the famous Bibliotheca Sancta (Sixtus of Siena 1566), one of the most important Renaissance works of Biblical scholarship. The author was probably a Jew converted to Catholicism. The pages of the preface are not numbered. On the possible relations between treason and conversion, see pp. 53^62. We shall deal with the consequences of this individual and social loss of identity in the section on `The Crisis of the Self '. The mirror is often used as a metaphor in early-modern written and especially visual representations of conversion. See page 51 on baptismal water as a mirroring surface and pages 114^24 on the metaphoric use of mirrors in the representations of the Magdalene's conversion. For a complete and very clear synthesis about this topic, see Manetti 1998, 97^ 104. The same kind of contradiction between psychological and social identity can be found in many historical phenomena. After the expulsion of Jews ¢rst from Spain in 1492, and then from most Catholic countries in the following years, many of them decided to convert to Catholicism only externally, in order to avoid exile, but would secretly continue to profess their former religion. These crypto-Jews were also called marranos. The bibliography on this topic is extensive. See, for an introduction, Falbel and Guinsburg 1997; Heymann 1988; Bonn|¨ n 1998; Netanyahu 1999. The following di¡erence must be borne in mind: the conversion of the marranos is a simulated conversion (Pinard de la Boullaye in DS, sub voce `conversion', col. 2224), while Des Ecotais is a case of simulated adhesion to his former religion. London: M. Pitt, 1675. This anthology contains the following pamphlets: (1) Les motifs de la conversion a© la Religion Reforme¨ e / DU / Sieur F. de la Motte; (2) Sermon du Sieur / Du / Luzancy Prononce¨ dans l'Eglise de la Savoye, / le Unzieme de Juillet, jour de son / Abjuration; (3) The Franciscan Convert: or a Recantation ^ Sermon of A. Egan; (4) A Narrative of the strange Behaviour and Speeches of the Papists in Ireland since His majesties Declaration of Indulgence / And the Commendatory Letter in Latin, given to the Author by his Superior before his Conversion; (5) The Defense of a Sermon, Preach'd upon the Receiving into the Communion of the Church of England, the Honourable Sir T. Mac Mahon Baronet, and Christopher Dumn: / Converts / From the Church of / Rome; (6) The Conversion / of / P. Corwine / a Franciscan Fryar, / to the Reformation of the / Protestant

Notes

19

20 21 22 23

24

25

26 27 28

29

30 31

177

Religion; (7) Motives / of / Conversion / to the / Catholic Faith, / As it is Professed / in the / Reformed Church / of / England. / by N. Carolan, formerly Parish-Priest of Slane. `Cum enim non satagerem discere qu× dicebat, sed tantum quemadmodum dicebat audire ^ ea mihi / quippe iam desperanti ad te viam patere homini inanis cura remanserat ^ veniebant in animum meum simul cum verbis, qu× diligebam, res etiam, quas neglegebam. Neque enim ea dirimere poteram. Et dum cor aperirem ad excipiendum, quam diserte diceret, pariter intrabat et quam vere diceret, gradatim quidam', Latin text from Augustine of Hippo 1965, 140 (5, 14, 24). Unless di¡erently speci¢ed, all translations in this book are mine. We shall analyse in depth this event and its representations at pages 81 ¡. This event and its representations will be thoroughly studied at pages 151 ¡. Printed by Pizzamiglio. For a detailed introduction to this text, see Pozzi 1960b. In 1545, at the opening of the Council of Trent, the question of how to teach the Scriptures, which is closely related to the question of how to preach, was one of the ¢rst to be faced: the Act `Super lectione et pr×dicatione' deals extensively with these topics (Alberigo et al. 1973, 645 ¡ ). I can mention only the most important sixteenth- and seventeenth-century treatises on sacred eloquence: Baglioni 1562; Villavicencio 1768 (1581); Valier 1574 (published by the bishop of Verona upon a request of Carlo Borromeo, for the new seminars of the diocese of Milan); Estella 1584 (1576); Grenada 1576; Trujillo 1584 (1578); Botero 1585; Ridol¢ 1591; Carbone de Costaciaro 1595; F. Panigarola, the prince of Italian early-modern preachers, wrote three important treatises: Panigarola 1584, 1603 and 1609. On this subject, see also Fumaroli 1980 and Bre¨mond 1923^33. I can but mention some of the most signi¢cant contributions to this topic: Dejob 1884b; Weisbach 1921; Blunt 1956; Zeri 1957; Prodi 1962; Wittkower and Ja¡e 1972; Brown 1978; Pinto Crespo 1978^9; Scovizzi 1981; Maio 1983; Freedberg 1985; Freedberg 1988; Bouza A¨lvarez 1990; Menozzi 1991; Fabre 1992; Jones 1993; Michalski 1993; Fumaroli 1994; Saint-Sae«ns 1995; Stoichita 1995; Morgen 1998; Prosperi 1998; Tre¡ers 1998; Christin and Gamboni 1999; Corby Finney 1999; Dillenberger 1999; Sers 2002. On this occasion, I can list only the principal treatises on religious art written in Italy at the end of the sixteenth century and the beginning of the seventeenth (a more complete list is to be found in Dejob 1884a; see also Barocchi 1960^2): Gilio da Fabriano 1564; Molanus 1570; Paleotti 1582; Borghini 1584; Alberti 1585; Armerini 1587; Possevino 1595; Ottonelli and Prenettieri 1652; Malvasia 1678. After the Council of Trent, Jesuits and other religious orders of preachers started a massive campaign for the evangelization of the countryside, or of the poorest areas of European cities (Faralli 1975). On Saint Francis Xavier's missionary skills, see pages 44 ¡. For an introduction to both the life and works of Daniello Bartoli, see Scotti 1967. On the life of the Jesuit historian, Asor Rosa 1964; a complete list of the works of Bartoli is in Sommervogel 1890^1909, 1, 965^85. Marietti (Turin) has published the complete works of Bartoli between 1825 and 1856, in 39 volumes. The bibliography on Bartoli is extensive. A good synthesis is in Scotti 1967. See also Belloni 1931 and Raimondi 1977. Rodolfo's father, Giangirolamo, was the duke of Atri; two of his brothers, Giulio and Ottavio, became cardinals: his uncle Claudio was elected general of the Company of Jesus. The Acquaviva family was linked with the noblest Italian dynasties, and even with the Gonzaga. Here he became a good friend of Stanislas Kostka, who was afterwards canonized. On the relations between the Great Mogul and the Christians, see Hoyland and Somervell 1922; Maclagan 1932; Narayan 1945.

178

Religious conversion and identity

32 `Erano sustentati dall'interprete Domenico Perez' (Scotti 1967, 283). 33 `Or veggendo i mulassi che durare non la potevano disputando e non che mai disciogliessero queste prime opposizioni, che anzi in altre nuove e non meno di¤cili a uscirne s'inviluppavano, fatti temerari dalla disperazione si consigliarono a un nuovo e strano partito: di vederla per via di miracoli. E si trovo© un di loro s|© ardito (ma ardito su 'l saper certo che non se ne verrebbe alla pruova) che innanzi al re s¢do© il padre Ridolfo ad entrar seco ignudo nato nel fuoco, con in mano ciascun d'essi le scritture mastre della sua legge: egli l'Alcorano di Maometto, il padre l'Evangelio di Cristo. Qual di loro ne uscisse vivo e illeso, avesse la vittoria; e la lite, giudice il cielo, decisa fosse senza contradizione, senza consentirsene appello. Cos|© disputarsi da uomo in materia di religione, chiarendone il vero a pruove che non falliscono, non soperchiando (diceva egli) in parole, che e© vittoria di femine.' An image of this dispute is in Wellesz 1952, 16. 34 This mentality is attested also by the way in which late medieval and earlymodern chivalry poetry depicts the conversion of Muslim warriors to Christianity. See the conversion of the Muslim warrior Morgante to Catholicism in the ¢rst canto of Luigi Pulci's Morgante (Pulci 1948). Luigi Pulci (Florence 1432^ Padova 1484) wrote this poem between 1460 and 1470. 35 From the end of the sixteenth century on, many polyglot Bibles were printed, in order to assist philologists and exegetes in their studies and missionaries in their e¡orts of evangelization. See McCarthy and Sherwood-Smith 1999. 36 `Ma, quanto all'entrar nel fuoco coll'Evangelio in mano, non basta avere buona causa e sperar da' miracoli buon e¡etto onde presumere d'adoperarli; ne¨ possiamo noi da noi stessi, se non temerariamente, prometter quello che non ista© in nostra mano attenderlo; ne¨ dobbiamo costringere Dio, che solo e© l'operator de' miracoli, ad approvare il nostro zelo e adempiere le nostre promesse con opere sopra l'ordine della natura' (Bartoli and Segneri 1967, 297). 37 Bartoli himself wrote several scienti¢c books (Bartoli 1677; 1679; 1681). 38 `E troppo e© avvenuto vedersi scandalosi accidenti d'andare a fondo, veggente dal lito tutto un popolo d'idolatri e d'eretici, taluno che con piu© fervore che senno avea loro promesso di caminar sopra l'acque a piedi asciutti, in pruova della verita© della fede.' 39 Incidentally, C. Dejob gives a negative judgement about this work (Dejob 1884a, 113): `Cet ouvrage est infe¨ rieur aux autres: les avis utiles y sont noye¨ s dans un me¨ lange bizarre de scolastique, de rhe¨ torique et de re¨ cits sur les mÝurs des Ame¨ ricains', `This work is inferior to the others [about sacred rhetoric]: the useful recommendations are drowned in a bizarre mixture of scholastics, rhetoric and accounts of the customs of the Americans.' 40 Franciscan missionaries in Mexico elaborated several visual instruments for the evangelization and conversion of the natives, such as the Catecismo en pictogramas [`catechism in pictograms'] (1525 and 1528) by Pedro de Gante, one of the ¢rst missionaries to arrive in the New Spain in 1523 (in Tenochtitla¨n); another pioneer of the Mexican evangelization, Fray Ioan Baptista, wrote a Hierogl|¨ ¢cos de conversio¨n, donde por estampas se ensen¬a a los naturales el aborrecimiento del pecado y deseo que deben tener al bien del soberano ciel. Unfortunately, this work went missing (see Garc|¨ a Icazbalceta 1981); see also the engravings contained in the important catechistic work of Molinas 1565. On these visual instruments of conversion, see Carceles Laborde 1990 and Cortes Castellanos 1987. On the use of theatre as a device of conversion in New Spain, see Horcasitas 1974. 41 This conception characterizes also the representations of conversion in Italian chivalry poetry: see the conversion of Agricane in Matteo Maria Boiardo's Orlando innamorato (¢rst book, canto 18): a Muslim warrior, he is defeated by a Christian enemy, but before dying, he asks for baptism, and expires as a Christian (Boiardo 1951). Matteo Maria Boiardo was born in Scandiano in 1441 and died in Reggio Emilia in 1494.

Notes

179

42 A di¡erent conception of the sacrament of baptism was adopted in the `internal missions' of Europe. 43 On the faked conversion of marranos, see Chapter 1, note 17. 44 On the evangelization and conversion of the natives in the Nueva Espan¬a [`New Spain'], see Mendieta 1980. An e¤cacious synthesis is contained also in the remarkable book of Gloria Espinosa Sp|¨ nola (which studies the `architecture of conversion' of the new churches built in Mexico by the Christian missionaries ^ mainly in the second half of the sixteenth century) (Espinosa Sp|¨ nola 1998, especially the chapter `El Proceso de evangelizacio¨n de la nueva Espan¬a' [`the process of evangelization of New Spain']). On the speci¢c problem of the sacraments, see Barobio 1992. 45 For a thorough account of how the church discovered its `internal missions', see Prosperi 1996, 551^600. 46 The bibliography on Saint Philip Neri, his life, his role in early-modern religious history and his iconography, is extensive. On this subject, besides the articles in the BSS (with bibliography and many insights on the role that this Saint played in the evangelization of early-modern internal missions) and in the AASS, see Gallonio 1600 (this was the ¢rst hagiography devoted to the Saint; it was soon translated into Italian: Gallonio 1601; on the life and works of Antonio Gallonio, see Bonadonna Russo's preface to Gallonio 1995); Baronio 1607^9 (Cesare Baronio was a disciple of Saint Philip Neri and the author of a monumental and widely in£uential history of the Catholic Church); Bagnoregio 1613; Aringhi (Ms); Bacci 1622; Marciano 1693^1703; Macchiarelli 1699; Buonanno 1893; Novelli and Alessandri 1922; Ponnelle and Bordet 1928; Incisa della Rocchetta and Vian 1957; Gasbarri 1974; Mengarelli 1974; Cistellini 1989; AA.VV. 1997; Bonadonna Russo and Re 2000; Zanutel, Rietti and Romani Brizzi 1996. 47 See p. 28. 48 On this occasion, I cannot give a complete list of these editions. Exemplars of almost all of them are kept in the `Biblioteca Vallicelliana', in Rome (the Library of the Oratory founded by Saint Philip Neri himself ). 49 The fact that it was John the Baptist, one of the most important preachers of Christianity, to give this suggestion to Saint Philip Neri, adds an evident symbolic meaning to the episode. 50 See also Chapter 1, note 25. 51 In this case too, long-established conventions exclude these images from the domain of art history (they are studied mainly by historians and anthropologists). An enlargement of this domain should be encouraged, in the same way as James Elkins has done in the area of scienti¢c images (Elkins 1999). 52 The miracle of the earthquake of Benevento became the subject of a sort of metaengraving: the prodigy of the engravings was engraved too (a reproduction in Novelli and Alessandri 1922). 53 On the complicated history of the edition of this text, see the introduction to the most recent reprint: Benti 1976, 15^8. A detailed analysis of Nadal's Adnotationes is contained in Palumbo 2000, 295^303. 54 This topic has been thoroughly studied in several books. See especially Fabre 1992, chap. IV: `Les Evangelic× histori× imagines de Je¨roªme Nadal. Essai d'une arche¨ologie de l'iconographie je¨suite primitive'. 55 See the title of M. Fumaroli's famous book (Fumaroli 1994). 56 The painting is an `oil on canvas' and measures 300  210 cm. 57 Bellori 1672, 234^5. The historian writes that Saraceni was a follower of Caravaggio, but that his use of colour was smoother than that of the master. According to Bellori, the painting representing Saint Raymond is the best work

180

58

59

60 61 62

63

64

65 66 67 68

69

Religious conversion and identity of Saraceni. The painter is mentioned also by other important seventeenthcentury sources: Baglione 1649, 145^6 mentions the painting representing Saint Raymond. See also Mancini 1956, 251. As regards more recent scholarship on Saraceni, see Bertolotti 1884, 57^63; Voss 1924. The only monograph devoted to the painter is Ottani Cavina 1968. See also Longhi 1951, 85^7 and 1991; Moir 1967, 82; Borea and Gasparri 2000. Some art historians identi¢ed the Saint as Saint Raymond of Penyafort, probable co-founder, together with Saint Peter Nolasco, of the Order of the Fathers of Mercy. For reasons that I shall explain later, I prefer to identify the Saint in the painting as Saint Raymond Nonnatus. The Order of `The Blessed Mary, Virgin of Mercy' was founded in Barcelona, in 1218, by Pedro Nolasco, who had the political support of James I, king of Aragon. In 1235 Pope Gregory IX con¢rmed the o¤cial existence of the Order and assigned to the Fathers of Mercy the Augustinian rule. The Order was instituted as `sacred, royal and military' and consisted of both clergymen and knights. In 1317 it became a mainly religious order and in 1690 it was declared a mendicant order. It had also some female branches. See Va¨zquez Nu¨n¬ez 1931^6. The painting was originally executed for the choir of the church of the Fathers of Mercy in Madrid; it is now kept in the church of San Jero¨nimo, in the same city (Angulo In¬iguez and Perez Sanchez 1969, 113). AASS Augusti, VI, Anversa, 1743, 729^76; BSS, sub voce `Raimondo Nonnato, Saint'; LTK, 8, 978; Sancho 1910; Blanco 1925; Boudot and Chaussin 1935^59; Thurston and Attwater 1956, 3, 449^50. Obviously, the model of this kind of miracles is the Pentecost, which in the New Testament counterbalances the punishment in£icted on humankind after Babel, i.e. the diversi¢cation of human languages and the impossibility, for human beings, to understand or speak them all. Moreover, although Saint Raymond was a thirteenth-century Saint, his cult was especially di¡used in the seventeenth century, when the pope, Alexander VII, included his name in the Martyrologium Romanum, the Catholic book of martyrs. Other important events, related to the cult of Saint Raymond, took place in the same period (BSS, cit.). As a consequence, the iconography of Saint Raymond became particularly abundant from the seventeenth century on, especially in Spain, where the Saint was born and where the Order of Mercy was founded (Weyrauch, in LCI, sub voce `Raymund Nonnatus', 8, cols 249^50 and Re¨au, 6, 1138). Saint John Chrysostom's iconographic attribute is an apiary, visual reference to honey and symbol of the sweetness of his preaching (the same attribute characterizes Ambrose, the preacher who encouraged Augustine's conversion). On the iconography of Saint John Chrysostom, Re¨au, 4, 721^2 (with bibliography) and Raggi, in BSS, sub voce `Giovanni Crisostomo', 6, cols 669^701. This painter has attracted a growing interest in the second half of the twentieth century (Spike 1999). Ibid., 126. It is an oil on canvas and measures 244  189 cm. On this aesthetics, especially in France, see Cousinie¨ 2000. It is an oil on canvas, measuring 276  178 cm, situated in the Giustiniani chapel, in the church of S. Maria sopra Minerva, Rome. On this painter, and on this particular painting of his, see Danesi Squarzina 2001, 188^9 (with bibliography). Another prodigious phenomenon of conversion caused by Saint Vincent Ferrer's preaching occurred in Salamanca: according to a legend, while the Saint was trying to convert a group of Jews in the synagogue of Salamanca (after the expul-

Notes

70 71

72

73

74 75 76 77 78

181

sion of the Jews out of Spain in 1492, the synagogue was knocked down and replaced by a building which currently hosts the Department of Mathematics of the local University), a multitude of little white crosses started to fall down from the ceiling of the synagogue onto the clothes of the Jews, many of which were so struck by this miracle that they decided to convert. The street where this supernatural conversion took place still bears the name of `Calle de la Vera Cruz' (`street of the true cross'). For a complete account of Saint Vincent Ferrer's life and works, Bertucci, in BSS, sub voce `Vincenzo Ferrera', 12, cols 1168^76, with a rich bibliography. On the vast iconography of the Saint, BSS, cit., Re¨au, 4, 1330, and LCI, sub voce. The Order to which Saint John of Capestrano belonged, the `Osservanza', the strictest branch of the Franciscan Order, was characterized by a strong antiSemitism, probably due to the fact that this Order put up a violent ¢ght against usury (Simonsohn 1986, 46 and n. 23). In 1450 John of Capestrano had a public argument on matters of faith with the Jewish rabbi and savant `Magister Gamliel' and converted him to Catholicism. Many Jews of the same community followed their rabbi in his conversion (Wadding 1562^1648); Vogelstein and Rieger 1895^6, 2, 13). Allegedly, Saint John of Capestrano proposed to put all the Jews in a big ship and to send them o¡ shore (Rodocanachi 1891, 149). On Saint John of Capestrano, see also Hofer 1936, 110. Re¨au, 4, 732^3. On the important role of the Saints after Reformation (the cult of the Saints had been attacked by the Protestants but it had been rea¤rmed by the Catholic theologians during the Council of Trent) and the huge success of hagiography in early-modern culture, the bibliography is quite vast. See Delehaye 1903; Aigrain 1953; Martin 1969, vol. 1, 2nd part: `Le livre parisien au temps de l'humanisme chre¨tien (1598^1643)', 1st section: `Essai d'inventaire', 99^127; `La litte¨ rature de la Re¨ formation catholique', ibid., pp. 128^69; Certeau 1975, 274^ 88; Weinstein and Bell 1982; Wilson 1983; Boesch Gajano 1990; Sallmann 1994; Burschel 1995; Ditch¢eld 1995; Rubial Garc|¨ a 1999 (which contains a good historical account of the changes in the process of canonization ^ and also in hagiography and in the iconography of the saints ^ after the advent of the pope, Urban VIII in 1623); Golinelli 2000; Lurdes Correia Fernandes 2000. Saint Therese of Avila, another protagonist of early-modern Catholicism, was proclaimed Saint on the same day. A description of the solemn rite of canonization, the ¢rst one to be o¤ciated in the then recently completed basilica of Saint Peter, in Rome, can be found in AA.VV. 1922, 5^80. On the importance of hagiography in early-modern Catholic Europe, see Chapter 1, note 72. The in£uence of Saint Philip Neri on the ideas of Catholicism has continued to grow until nowadays: the participative reading of religious texts is a common activity in Catholic catechistic centres. Saint Philip Neri holds a central position in the history of religious music. A choice that he shares with Saint Ignatius of Loyola. The attitude of the Catholic Church toward the Italian Jewish communities was often ambiguous, especially in the early-modern epoch. In the Middle Ages the Church cultivated the mirage of either exterminating or expelling the Jews from the Catholic countries (see Chapter 1, note 71 on the anti-Semitism of most medieval and early-modern preachers); after the Council of Trent, though, at the end of the sixteenth century, the church could not resolve whether to expel the Jews from its territories or take advantage of their economic and ¢nancial activities, uncertain between the desire to convert and assimilate the Jewish communities on the one hand and, on the other hand, the di¤dence that neophytes (people who had converted from Judaism to Catholicism) continued

182

79

80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88

89 90 91

92

Religious conversion and identity to inspire in the hierarchy of the Church. This situation was complicated by the fact that many Jewish communities lived outside the State of the Church, and were subjected to di¡erent jurisdictions. The bibliography on this topic is extensive (Vogelstein and Rieger 1895^6; Ho¡mann 1923; Browe 1942; Milano 1963 and 1964; Stow 1977; Sermoneta 1986; Bon¢l 1990; Ruderman 1992; Stow 1994). The best edition of the letter of Severus of Minorca is Severus of Menorca 1996. It contains also an erudite study about both the document and the historical context in which it was written (with a complete bibliography). See also Ginzburg 1991. For a more general survey on the tensions between early Christian and Jewish communities, Simon 1948. The testimony can be found in Incisa della Rocchetta and Vian 1957, 1, 88^9, 23 August 1595, ¡. 68^9. On 14 July 1555, Paul IV (1555^9) wrote the bull Cum nimis absurdum, which obliged the Jews of Rome to live in a few streets of the Capital. It was the creation of the ¢rst Roman ghetto. On this topic, see the motives of conversion of seamen in the stories reported by Sp|¨ nola 1996. Segre 1986. See Chapter 1, note 11. Baron 1972, 356; 556 (n. 6); 560^1. In some periods of particularly intense Catholic propaganda, Jews were forced to attend Catholic sermons once a week (Milano 1963 and 1964). After the Council of Trent, Cardinal Guglielmo Sirleto was nominated director of this house. On the life of the Cardinal, Paschini 1917 and 1947 and especially Dejob 1884a. During the Counter-Reformation, the jurisdiction of the neophytes was ruled according to the Papal bulls Cupientes judeos (Rome, 2 March 1542) and Illius qui pro Dominici gregis (Rome, 19 February 1543). These two bulls referred to two decrees of the XIX session of the Council of Basilea (approved 7 September 1434), Decretum de judeis et neophytes and Decretum de his qui volunt ad ¢dem converti (Alberigo et al. 1973, 459^60). Gemma's choice was probably motivated also by the favourable conditions of life that Jews could ¢nd in Turkey. In 1607 four Jews were condemned to be jailed for seven years; they asked the pope for a reduction of their punishment in exchange for their conversion (Stow 1977). Incisa della Rocchetta and Vian 1957, 3, 359: Extra Urbem, (4), Milan, February 1596, ¡. 5^6 (617^18). Incidentally, also a failure of the Saint as converter is reported, although in a way that boasts Saint Philip's powers of premonition: once Philip was sitting beside a Jewish youngster, and suddenly burst into tears. After a few years, that youngster became a powerful Rabbi, described by the hagiographers of the Saint as one of the most pernicious enemies of the church (ibid., n. 2349). See also the testimony in the acts of the process of canonization (8 June 1610, 333), in particular the recount of Germanico Fedeli, f. 932, ibid., 3, 254. Saint Philip Neri also converted two Muslims, ibid., Testimonianze varie: Francesco Pucci, 4, 150: `Ego vidi, in oratorio Divi Hieronymi, duos Turcas, in albis vestibus, qui quotidie ad dictum Oratorium accedebant, et ab ipso p. Philippo (ut puto) conversi fuerant', `I saw in the Oratory of Saint Jerome two Turks (i.e. Muslim people), in white clothes, who went to the above-mentioned Oratory every day, and were converted by father Philip himself (I think).'

Notes

183

93 Antonio Gallonio spent all his life in the Oratory of Philip, and knew the life of the Saint very well. 94 This event is recounted in all the hagiographies concerning Saint Philip, and is often illustrated by engravings. See an engraving in a 1703 edition of the life of Saint Philip written by Bacci (Bacci 1622). 95 The `Vallicelliana' library keeps more than one thousand manuscripts containing these lives (Cuttano 1962, 12). 96 The Fathers of the Council of Trent dealt with the question of both style and content of hagiography in 1563, in the XXV session of the Council. The text of the deliberation has been published many times and in di¡erent contexts (Marcocchi 1970, 2, 726^1231). Cardinal Gabriele Paleotti, author of the Discorso intorno alle immagini sacre et profane (`treatise on sacred and profane images') (Paleotti 1582) took an active part in the session (Prodi 1959^67). In the same years, and especially thanks to the impulse given by Saint Philip Neri himself, there was an upsurge of the interest in Christian archaeology (for example in catacombs). The Catholic Church, attacked by the Protestants, tried to recover its identity through a thorough exploration of its own past (archaeology, history and hagiography). 97 Analogous engravings are contained in many seventeenth-century hagiographies of Saint Philip. On the vast iconography of Saint Philip Neri, see Carapelli 1989; Strinati 1995. 98 An analogous illustration is contained among the engravings which illustrate the life of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, and especially the conversions which he obtained. See pp. 38^44. 99 On the importance of visualization in the spiritual exercises promoted by Ignatius of Loyola, see pp. 38^44. 100 This image was invented and designed by Luigi Agricola and engraved by Luigi Fabri. 101 About Saint Ignatius's di¤dence against those women who wanted to enter his company, see Ribadeneyra 1594, 196. Ignatius opposed the petition whereby these same women had asked the pope for the permission to be admitted into the Jesuit order. The Company of Jesus was fashioned according to a military model, which, as a consequence, precluded the access to women. 102 Figure N.1 represents the friendship between Saint Philip Neri and Saint Ignatius of Loyola. From the Rubens/Barbe¨ visual hagiography of Saint Ignatius of Loyola (see Chapter 1, note 121). 103 See Figure N.2, from the Rubens/Barbe¨ visual hagiography of Saint Ignatius of Loyola (see Chapter 1, note 121). 104 On the life and works of Saint Ignatius, Garc|¨ a Villoslada, in BSS, sub voce `Ignatio da Loyola', 7, cols 674^705. The article contains a vast bibliography. See especially the very informative introduction contained in Iparaguirre, Dalmases and Jurado 1997. 105 The Legenda Aurea ^ Golden Legend is a medieval anthology of hagiographies, edited by Jacopus of Voragine around 1260 (Voragine 1969). It contains several picturesque and fantastic stories about the life of the most prominent Saints of Christianity; for an introduction to this important text, Magrelli 1993. On the huge in£uence that the Golden Legend had on Christianity (and mostly on Christian iconography), Maggioni 1995. Saint Ignatius read a Spanish translation of the Legenda Aurea, edited by Gauberto M. Vagad (Leturia 1949, 156 ¡ ). 106 Saxen 1522. Saint Ignatius probably read a Spanish translation by Ambrosio Montesino. Ribadeneyra gives one of the ¢rst accounts of Saint Ignatius's illness and conversion (1594, 5^6). See also the `autobiography' of the Saint, Iparaguirre, Dalmases and Ruiz Jurado 1997, 102, n. 5.

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Religious conversion and identity

Figure N.1 Saint Ignatius of Loyola meets Saint Philip Neri. Engraving from the Rubens/ Barbe¨ graphic hagiography of Saint Ignatius, ¢rst published in 1609. Copyright Editions Mensajero, S.A.U., reproduced here with permission. 107 Ibid., 9: Ignatius himself became an editor of hagiography: he had a notebook in which he copied the deeds of Christ, the Virgin Mary and the Saints with di¡erent colours. In Vida de Don Quijote y Sancho (`Life of Don Quixote and Sancho'), Miguel de Unamuno stresses the importance of Ignatius of Loyola's encounter with these religious texts, and proposes an interesting comparison between the way in which Ignatius was moved by his readings to become a soldier of Christ and the way in which chivalry literature inspired Don Quixote to undertake the life of an errant knight; Unamuno 2000, 51^2. 108 Ignatius of Loyola 1592; 1919; Iparaguirre, Dalmases and Ruiz Jurado 1997. 109 Bibliography on the symbolical value of pilgrimages is quite vast. Voorst van Beest 1975; Baumer-MÏller 1977; Chelini and Branthomme 1982; Marin¬o Ferro 1987; Dupront 1987; Nolan 1989; Vest 1998; Boutry and Julia 2000; Boutry, Julia and Fabre 2000; Eade and Sallnow 2000. On the link between conversion and pilgrimage, see Hervieu-Le¨ger 2001.

Notes

185

Figure N.2 Canonization of Saint Ignatius of Loyola. Engraving from the Rubens/Barbe¨ graphic hagiography of Saint Ignatius, 1622 edition. Copyright Editions Mensajero, S.A.U., reproduced here with permission. 110 Among the countless hagiographies devoted to Saint Ignatius of Loyola, the most important are: Ribadeneyra 1594 (1583) (re-edited many times and translated into several languages); Ma¡ei 1585; Bartoli 1650; Bouhours 1680; Pien in AASS, Iulii, 7, 409^853. See a complete list in Iparaguirre, Dalmases and Ruiz Jurado 1997, 3^44. 111 For a semiotic interpretation of Saint Ignatius's Spiritual Exercises, Barthes 1971; Fabre 1992; Marin 1999. 112 Garc|¨ a Villoslada, op. cit., cols 701^4; KÎnig-Nordho¡ 1982 (with a vast bibliography); Werner, in LCI, sub voce `Ignatius von Loyola', 6, cols 568^74; Angeli 1911; Bricarelli 1922; Tacchi-Venturi 1929; Vargas Zu¨n¬iga 1949. 113 The painting is an oil on canvas and measures 343  215.5 cm. It is kept in the Vatican Gallery, Rome. On the history of this painting, Larsen 1988, 1, 215: `Redig de Campos has authoritatively established that two large canvases now at the Vatican representing the Saints `Ignatius of Loyola' and `Francis Xavier', trace their provenance to Il Gesu©, the most important church of the order, and were mentioned in the artistic guide of Philip Titi in 1674 as works by `Vandic ¢ammings'. Ludwig Burchard's proposed identi¢cation with works by Rubens, executed c. 1606^8, can be dismissed ^ the two Saints having been canonized on March 12, 1622 only.' See also Redig de Campos 1936, 150. 114 This engraving is reproduced in KÎnig-Nordho¡ 1982 [plate 63]. 115 Other representations of Saint Ignatius's renouncement of military life and conversion are in the engraving by A. Massicci and I. Freij contained in Mattos

186

Religious conversion and identity

Figure N.3 Saint Peter appears in a vision of Saint Ignatius of Loyola. Engraving from the Rubens/Barbe¨ graphic hagiography of Saint Ignatius, ¢rst published in 1609. Copyright Editions Mensajero, S.A.U., reproduced here with permission.

116 117

118 119

1718; see also Figures N.3 and N.4 (from the Rubens/Barbe¨ visual hagiography of the Saint, see Chapter 1, note 121). KÎnig-Nordho¡ 1982, n. 71. See also Figure N.5 from the Rubens/Barbe¨ hagiography (see Chapter 1, note 121). The painting is an oil on canvas and measures 442  287 cm. It is kept in the `Chiesa del Gesu©' (SS. Andrew and Ambrose), Genoa. The painting was probably executed between 1609 and 1620 (Ignatius of Loyola was beati¢ed on 27 July 1609; in the same year Rubens started to study the imagery of the life of the Saint for a very illustrated hagiography (79 engravings), published in 1609 (Vita Beati Ignatii Loiol× Societatis Jesu Fundatoris ^ `life of Blessed Ignatius of Loyola founder of the Company of Jesus', Rome: s.n.). Not all of the engravings contained in the hagiography can be attributed to Rubens without hesitation. For a detailed historical analysis of the painting, Biavati 1977. KÎnig-Nordho¡ 1982 [plate 73]. The same engraving can be found in a 1612 French edition of the hagiography (Paris, J. Le Clerc); reproduced in KÎnig-Nordho¡ 1982 [plate 80]. The left part of the image also decorates P. de On¬a's poem on Saint Ignatius (On¬a 1639 [plate 84]). It appears also in a cycle of frescos representing the life of Saint

Notes

187

Figure N.4 Saint Ignatius of Loyola reading religious books. Engraving from the Rubens/ Barbe¨ graphic hagiography of Saint Ignatius, ¢rst published in 1609. Copyright Editions Mensajero, S.A.U., reproduced here with permission. Ignatius in the St. Michael-Kolleg of Freiburg, Switzerland, in the chapel devoted to the Saint (KÎnig-Nordho¡ 1982 [plate 85]). 120 The engraving is in the 1610 Antwerp edition of the life of the Saint, and is reproduced in KÎnig-Nordho¡ 1982, plate 69. See also the same iconography in a painting by Sebastiano Conca, Irraggiamento dalla testa di S. Ignazio durante una predica, University of Salamanca, ¢rst half of the eighteenth century and also Rubens/Barbe¨, Figure N.5 (see Chapter 1, note 121). 121 Another converted person was among the promoters of this `visual biography' of the Saint: Nicolaus Lancicius (1574^1652), historian of Lithuanian origin, formerly a Calvinist, converted to Catholicism and became a voracious reader of every story concerning the founder of the Jesuit Order. When in 1605 Pope Paul V started the process for the beati¢cation of Ignatius of Loyola, Lancicius, together with the then director of the German College in Rome, Philip Rinaldi, were entrusted by General Claudio Aquaviva (uncle of Rodolfo) with the task of editing the visual biography of the Saint. Peter Paul Rubens (1577^1640) is the (very probable) author of the majority of the 79 engravings which illustrate the Latin text written by Lancicius and Rinaldi. Jean Baptiste Barbe¨ (1578^ 1649), brother-in-law of the famous Flemish engraver Jerome Wierix, executed

188

Religious conversion and identity

Figure N.5 Saint Ignatius of Loyola preaching to a crowd of people. Engraving from the Rubens/Barbe¨ graphic hagiography of Saint Ignatius, ¢rst published in 1609. Copyright Editions Mensajero, S.A.U., reproduced here with permission.

122 123 124

125 126

the engravings. A ¢rst edition was published in 1609; a second edition, containing a new engraving representing the ceremony of canonization of the Saint, was published in 1622. Both editions are kept in the Historical Archive of the Sanctuary of Loyola. For more details on these splendid seventeenth-century visual hagiographies, see introduction and bibliography in Iturriaga Elorza s.d. A conversion of three Jews is represented by the same cycle of engravings (n. 65). See introduction and bibliography in Zubillaga 1953. Francis Xavier was also the ¢rst missionary to evangelize the Western coast of Japan (1549), where Portuguese traders had arrived in 1543 at a small island called Tanegashima, o¡ the Southern tip of Kyushu. Literature on the Christian evangelization of Japan is extensive. For a bibliography of both Western and Japanese studies, see Kitagawa 1990, 136, n. 10; see also the bibliography in Kitagawa 1987. Other fundamental references are Voss and Cieslik (eds) 1940 and Elison 1973. E¨mile Delaye in DS, sub voce `bapteªme', 1, cols 1218^25. On this topic, Corblet 1881^2. `Il est de re© gle que les sacrements, e¨ tant des signes sensibles de la sancti¢cation des aªmes, doivent exprimer et signi¢er ce qu'ils ope© rent, ope¨ rer ce qu'ils signi¢ent', ibid., col. 1218.

Notes

189

127 Benveniste 1963, 328. See also Manetti 1998, 29. For a discussion about the coincidence between sign and sacred presence in images, Freedberg 1989, esp. chap. 2. 128 `Du reste, il n'y a rien de plus naturel qu'une ablution rituelle pour signi¢er le de¨sir de purete¨ de l'aªme et le pardon des pe¨ che¨ s ainsi e¡ace¨ s par Dieu comme les souillures corporelles par l'eau du £euve', `by the way, there is nothing more natural than a ritual ablution in order to signify the desire of pureness of the soul and the forgiving of sins so cancelled by God as the corporal dirtiness is cancelled by the water of a river', Delaye, op. cit. The bibliography on the ritual symbolism of water is extensive: Bachelard 1942; Reymond 1958; BÎhme 1988; Hidiroglou 1994; Pierrot 1994; Morali 1997; Ginvert 2000. 129 `Un rite d'agre¨ gation a© cette socie¨ te¨ visible que forment entre eux les chre¨ tiens', Delaye, op. cit., col. 1222. 130 The importance of baptism in order to enable in¢dels to enter the Christian community is represented well by the frequency with which this sacrament appears in the conversion of Muslim Knights in early-modern Italian chivalry poetry (for example when Tancredi baptizes Clorinda in Tasso's Gerusalemme liberata, XII canto) (Tasso 1956). 131 Delaye, op. cit., col. 1223. 132 `Par le bapteª me, nous reveª tons le Christ et devenons en lui une cre¨ ature toute nouvelle, recevant la pleine et entie© re re¨ mission de tous nos pe¨ che¨ s; c'est une nouveaute¨ et une inte¨ grite¨ telles que, par le sacrement de Pe¨nitence nous ne saurions y arriver sans des £ots de larmes et de grandes peines; c'est la divine justice qui exige cela, et voila© pourquoi, a© bon droit, les Saints Pe© res ont appele¨ la Pe¨ nitence un bapteª me laborieux', `through baptism, we wear Christ and become a completely new creature in him, by receiving the full and whole remission of all our sins; it is such a novelty and an integrity that, through the sacrament of Penitence, we could not achieve it without £oods of tears and great pains; it is the divine justice which requires that, and this is why the Holy Fathers have correctly called the Penitence ``a laborious baptism'' ', ibid.; see Denziger 1854, n. 895. 133 This debate must be put in the wider context of early-modern theological discussions about the possibility of renewing sacraments (the debate on the sacrament of the Eucharist, for example, was extremely intense in seventeenth-century France, between orthodox Catholics and Jansenists. It was a delicate topic, since each position involved a di¡erent conception of grace, a traditional element of controversy between Catholics and Protestants) (Armogathe 1989). 134 Around this suggestion, a dispute arose between scholastic theologians and Luther, who denounced the above-mentioned equivalence as a pure invention of Saint Thomas Aquinas. 135 Daeschler in DS, sub voce `Bapteªme (commemoration du)', 1, cols 1230^40. See also Cate¨chisme du Concile de Trente 1881, 310: `Ils ne manqueront pas de se rappeler les obligations que chacun d'eux au jour du bapteª me a contracte¨ es avec Dieu, et de se demander si leur vie et leurs mÝurs sont bien celles que suppose la profession de chre¨ tien.' 136 On the use of baptism in missions, Arenthon d'Alex 1695. 137 In Rome, for example, in 1566 Pious V had to move the baptismal font out of the House of Catechumens, because of the too great assembly (`tantam multitudinem') of people. The font was situated in the church of Santa Maria dei Monti. See the papal bull Sacrosanct× Catholic× Ecclesi×, Rome, 29 November 1566, in AA.VV. 1857^72, 7, 489^94. 138 On this occasion, only the main works can be mentioned: Benoist 1580; Coster 1587 (1578); Eudes 1637, especially part 7, which contains an `Exercice de pie¨ te¨ pour rendre a© Dieu les devoirs que nous aurions duª lui rendre lorsque nous avons e¨te¨ baptise¨ '; Eudes 1662, where the 11th `entretien' is devoted to baptism as a sacrament of

190

Religious conversion and identity

Figure N.6 Baccio Ciarpi, Constantine's Baptism, oil on canvas, 327  202 cm. L'Aquila, church of Saint Silvester, painted around 1617.

Notes

139

140

141 142

143

144 145

191

birth, death and resurrection (in Eudes 1905^11, 2, 177^95 and in Milcent 1991); Eudes 1654 (also in Eudes 1905^11, 2, 205^44); Quarre¨ 1649 (1635); he wrote also two spiritual exercises on baptism (in Quarre¨ 1654, 5, 132) (see also Quarre¨ 1648); Saint-Pe¨ 1675 (1667), one of the most important works on the topic; see also Saint-Pe¨ 1669; Bouchard 1679; Quesnel 1693; among the treatises inspired by the Jansenist philosophy, we must mention: Anon. 1676 and a book by C. de Sainte-Marthe, confessor of the nuns of Port-Royal (Sainte-Marthe 1702), which in the second volume, at p. 577, contains an `Avis . . . sur le renouvellement du bapteª me' (`re£ections on the renewing of baptism'). Pictorial representations of the baptism of Clorinda after her conversion from Islam to Christianity (from the episode of Tasso's Gerusalemme liberata) are also very common. See, as an example, the painting `Tancredi baptizes Clorinda' (oil on canvas, 142  161) executed around 1609^10 by Sisto Badalocchio (Parma 1585^Parma after 1620), now kept in the Estense Gallery, in Modena (Borea and Gasparri 2000, 211) or the representation of the same episode given by Bartolomeo Manfredi (formerly attributed to Lanfranco) (Modena, Campori Gallery); on this painting, see Bernini 1985, 190. On the visual representations of Tasso's Gerusalemme liberata, Bozzoni 1985 and Pigler 1974, 3, 472: `Tankred tauft die von ihm tÎdlich verwundete Amazone Clorinda', `Tancredi baptizes Clorinda, whom he had mortally wounded'. The painting is an oil on canvas, and measures 415  290 cm. It is kept in the National Museum of Abruzzo, L'Aquila, Italy. Originally the painting was in the high altar of the church of Saint Antony Abbot, in Tortoreto (Teramo) (Spike 1999, 151). Saint John the Baptist is also the epitome of the Christian preacher. He is extensively represented after the Council of Trent. A seashell is used in order to contain holy water and to pour it on the head of the converted person also in Baccio Ciarpi's pictorial representation of another important baptism of Christianity: that of Constantine, Figure N.6; oil on canvas, 327  202 cm, painted around 1617, church of Saint Silvester, L'Aquila. For more details on this painting, see Contini 1997, 102^3. Kurrus, in LCI, sub voce `Franz Xavier', 6, cols 324^7. See also Stadler 1996; LTK, 4, 248; BSS, 5, cols 1226^38; Koch 1934, 591^601; Manus 1966, 2, 296^ 9; and especially Kepler 1923. On the iconography of Saint Francis Xavier, see also Garc|¨ a Gutierrez 1998. Canvases, 254  173 cm. The same happens in Mattia Preti's representation of Constantine's baptism. In chapter 3 we shall deal extensively with the symbolism of mirrors and mirroring surfaces in pictorial representations of conversion.

2 The crisis of the self 1 This is why a translation can be quali¢ed as `faithful' or `unfaithful', in many languages. 2 Sontag 2002, 340: `Like tradition, something which is handed ``over'' or ``down'' (originally, something material) to others, translation is the conveying or transmitting of something from one person, site, or condition to another.' 3 See Fabbri 1997. 4 Plutarch 1967, 1, Life of Romulus, 17, 1^4, 141^2: `Antigonus was not alone, then, in saying that he loved men who o¡ered to betray, but hated those who had betrayed; nor yet Caesar, in saying of the Thracian Rhoemetalces, that he loved treachery but hated a traitor.'

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Religious conversion and identity

5 `In¢delitatis species pertinens ad eos qui ¢dem Christi pro¢tentur, sed eius dogmata corrumpunt ', Thomas Aquinas 1974, IIa^IIae, q. XI, art. 1. 6 `Nel cerchio minore . . . / qualunque trade in etterno e© consunto', Petrocchi 1966^7. 7 Suetonius 1979, 1, 111: The Dei¢ed Julius, 82, 2^3: `And in this wise he was stabbed with three and twenty wounds, uttering not a word, but merely a groan at the ¢rst stroke, though some have written that when Marcus Brutus rushed at him, he said in Greek, ``you too, my child?'' ' 8 Dio Cassius 1961, 44, 19, 5: `Thereupon they attacked him from many sides at once and wounded him to death, so that by reason of their numbers Caesar was unable to say or do anything, but veiling his face, was slain with many wounds. This is the truest account, though some have added that to Brutus, when he struck him a powerful blow, he said: ``Thou, too, my son?'' ' 9 Pseudonym of Thomas Kirchmair or Kirchmeyer, who was born in Hubelschmeiss in 1511 and died in Wiesloch in 1563. 10 The Orlando Furioso is a poem in ottava rima in 46 cantos, whose editing began between 1502 and 1503 and which was published in a complete and de¢nitive edition in 1532. The author of the poem is Ludovico Ariosto, one of the ¢nest Italian poets, who was born in Reggio Emilia in 1474 and died in Ferrara in 1533. 11 `Ruggiero a quel parlar ritto levosse, e con licenzia rispose di Carlo, che mentiva egli, e quantunqu'altro fosse, che traditor volesse nominarlo; che sempre col suo re cos|© portosse, che giustamente alcun non puo© biasimarlo; e ch'era apparecchiato sostenere che verso lui fe' sempre il suo dovere.' (Ariosto 1962, stanza 107) 12 `L'he¨ re¨ tique est un fauteur de trouble. Comme toute socie¨ te¨ parfaite, l'E¨glise a le droit de se de¨fendre contre ceux qui viennent jeter le trouble dans son sein' (Naz 1949). 13 `Crimes maiestatis facto vel violatis statuis, vel imaginibus, maxime exacerbatur in milites.' See A. Menassero sub voce `tradimento', in Lucchini 1912^16, 23, 1593. 14 `Il colpevole sia passato per le picche e poi squartato, et li sia con¢scata tutta la roba, et applicata al regio ¢sco', AA.VV. 1623, 292 and 397. 15 Jewish converts to Christianity after the ban of Jewish people from Spain in 1492. 16 The history of this conversion is very complicated, and it is described in an extremely fascinating manner in a famous book written by G. Sholem (Sholem 1973). For a semiotic interpretation, see Fabbri 2000a. 17 On Fucian Fabian, see also Elison 1973, 257^92 and Kitagawa 1990, 147. 18 See pp. 1^52 on the importance of the encounter with a di¡erent religious word as the ¢rst step of conversion. 3 The re-stabilization of the self 1 The conversion of the Magdalene will be also analysed in relation to the ¢gure of the mirror. 2 `[Conversions] lentes, elles peuvent venir a© terme sans aucune crise ¢nale, tout au moins sans de¨cha|ªnement meªme temporaire de la sensibilite¨; ainsi en est-il souvent chez les hommes de science. . . . Elles peuvent s'accompagner pourtant d'une crise e¨ motive. Le cas typique est celui de saint Augustin. Le re¨ duire aux seules heures de de¨ solation que termine le Tolle, lege . . . sans tenir compte des longues enqueª tes du saint et de ses atermoiements meª me apre© s e¨ vidence de la re¨solution a© prendre . . . est manifestement inadmissible', col. 2243. See also Burgaleta Clemos 1981.

Notes

193

3 `Ubi vero a fundo arcano alta consideratio contraxit et congessit totam miseriam meam in conspectum cordis mei, oborta est procella ingens, ferens ingentem imbrem lacrymarum', Augustine of Hippo 1965, 247^8, 12, 28; see also Confessionum Libri Tredecim, PL 32, 764. 4 `Ego sub quadam ¢ci arbore stravi me nescio quomodo, et dimisi habenas lacrymis, et proruperunt £umina oculorum meorum, acceptabile sacri¢cium tuum. Et non quidem his verbis, sed in hac sententia multa dixi tibi: Et tu domine, usquequo? (Ps. VI, 4.) Usquequo, Domine, irasceris in ¢nem? Ne nemor fueris iniquitatum nostrarum antiquarum (Ps. LXXXVIII, 5, 8). Sentiebam enim eis me teneri: jactabam voces miserabiles. Quamdiu? quamdiu, cras et cras? Quare non modo? Quare non hac hora ¢nis turpitudinis me×? ', Augustine of Hippo 1965, 247 ^ 8, 12, 28; PL 32, 765. 5 `Eandem vero conversionem hanc percucurisse constat iter prorsus singulare, cum non sane id ageretur ut catholica ¢des retegeretur, verum tandem repeteretur. Eam enim amiserat ille sibe profecto persuasum habens perdentem se ipsam non iam Christum sed solam Ecclesiam deserere', John Paul II 1987, 14. 6 From this point of view, in the topological interpretation of semiotics (and especially in the semiotics of passions), conversion would be a perfect example of catastrophe (in the mathematical meaning of the word). On the applications of the topological theory of catastrophes in semiotics, see Petitot 1985. 7 From this point of view, Augustine can be de¢ned as a logotete, as R. Barthes de¢nes the inventors of new languages in his book on Sade, Fourier and Loyola (Barthes 1971). 8 `Augustinum Hipponensem cum vix uno post obitum eius anno numeravit longinquus Decessor ille Noster Sanctus C×lestinus Primus `inter magistros optimos' Ecclesi×, eo quidem ex tempore ipso haud umquam pr×sens hic in vita Ecclesi× adesse ac totius in occidentalis orbis mente humanitatisque ratione cessavit ', John Paul II 1987, 11. 9 See Greimas and Courte©s 1979, 148^9, sub voce `¢gure'. 10 `Historicite¨ de la sce© ne du jardin'. 11 `J'ai pre¨ tendu pourtant ^ et je continue de pre¨ tendre ^ qu'Augustin ne mentionne ce ¢guier, au moment ou© il s'e¨tend a© terre et il ge¨mit sur lui-meªme, que pour sa valeur symbolique', ibid., 191. 12 Courcelle especially quotes Augustine's remarks on Cyprian's Ad Donatum. 13 `L'ombrage mortel des pe¨che¨s, malgre¨ quoi Jesus aperc°oit et justi¢e le genre humain', ibid. 14 Philip of Harvengt, Vita sancti Augustini, chap. 11, PL 203, 1212. 15 `D'apre© s les re¨ cits des rabbins on s'abritait volontiers sous un ¢guier pour lire et me¨ diter l'e¨ criture', Traduction Ücume¨nique de la Bible, 1515, n. j. 16 `Isotopy' is the technical term used by Greimas in order to designate the semantic coherence of a text. For a more precise de¢nition of this semiotic concept, Greimas and Courte©s 1979, 197^8, sub voce `isotopie': `A.J. Greimas a emprunte¨ au domaine de la physique-chimie le terme d'isotopie et l'a transfe¨ re¨ dans l'analyse se¨ mantique en lui confe¨rant une signi¢cation spe¨ci¢que, eu e¨gard a© son nouveau champ d'application. . . . Dans un second temps, le concept d'isotopie a e¨ te¨ e¨ largi: au lieu de de¨ signer uniquement l'ite¨ rativite¨ de classe© mes, il se de¨ ¢nit comme la re¨ currence de cate¨ gories se¨ miques, que celles-ci soient the¨ matiques (ou abstraites) ou ¢guratives', `A. J. Greimas borrowed the term ``isotopy'' from the domains of physics and chemistry and transposed it to the semantic analysis by giving it a speci¢c meaning, in consideration of the new ¢eld of application. . . . Afterwards, the concept of isotopy has been widened: instead of designing uniquely the repetition of auxiliary semantic particles, it is de¢ned as the recurrence of semantic categories, be they thematic (or abstract) or ¢gurative.' 17 Unless di¡erently speci¢ed, all Biblical quotations in English are from the New Revised Standard Version. 18 PL, 34. According to Migne, it was written about 389.

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19 PL, 34. About this treatise, Migne writes `Hunc librum anno 393 adscribendum putamus', `we think that this book was written in 393.' 20 PL, 34. Migne dates this text as follows: `Inchoati circiter annum 401, absoluti sub annum 415', `begun about 401, completed in 415.' 21 `Denique illa conturbatione ad folia ¢culnea cucurrerunt, succintoria consuerunt, et quia glorianda deseruerant, pudenda texerunt ', Augustine of Hippo, De Genesi ad Litteram libri duodecim, vol. 11, chap. 32, PL 34, 447. `Therefore, because of such a confusion, they got some ¢g leaves, sewed some clothes, and since they had abandoned what has to be glori¢ed, they wove some clothes for what is shameful.' 22 After Augustine, many patristic authors dwell on the same passage. 23 `Et dixit mulier serpenti, A fructus ligni quod est in paradiso edemus, de fructu autem ligni quod est in medio paradisi, dixit Deus, Non edetis ex eo, neque tangetis illud, ne moriamini ', ibid., chap. 1, PL 34, 429, `and the woman said to the snake: ``We can eat the fruits of the trees which are in Eden. On the contrary, God told us to not to eat the fruit of the tree which is in the middle of Eden, and not to touch it, otherwise we should die.'' ' 24 For an example, see Albrecht DÏrer's depiction of Adam and Eve (1507, oil on panel, each panel 209  82 cm, Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid). 25 This is true also in contemporary design. See the analysis of the logo of the computer ¢rm `Apple' in Floch 1995. 26 The same happens in French: the French word pomme derives from the Latin word pomum but means `apple'. 27 See also Covarrubias Orozco 1994, sub voce `higuera', and Larousse 1982, sub voce `¢guier'. French writer Julien Green gives a literary version of this exegetical dilemma in his Journal, Green 1954, 90: `. . . cette feuille de ¢guier qui nous vient, e¨videmment, du troisie©me chapitre de la Gene©se ou© il est dit qu'apre©s la faute, Adam et Eve cousirent ensemble des feuilles de ¢guier pour s'en faire, disent les versions anciennes, des tabliers. Et pourquoi des feuilles de ¢guier? Parce que c'e¨ tait l'arbre dont ils auraient mange¨ le fruit. Telle est, en tout cas, l'explication que donnait, vers la ¢n du XIe sie© cle, Rashi, le ce¨le©bre rabbin de Troyes', `. . . this ¢g-leaf which derives, evidently, from the third chapter of the book of Genesis, where it is said that after the fault, Adam and Eve sewed some ¢g leaves in order to make, it is said in the ancient versions, some aprons. And why ¢g leaves? Because it was the tree whose fruit they probably ate. However, this is the explanation given by Rashi, the famous rabbi of Troyes, about the end of the eleventh century.' 28 Proxemics is a branch of semiotics and studies the human use of space. The text which founded this discipline is Hall 1969. See also Greimas and Courte©s 1979, 300, sub voce `proxe¨ mique'. 29 `L'esprit a frappe¨ la©. Scandale, dit le lecteur pieux; je ne puis comprendre. Patience. Plus grand scandale quand vous comprendrez. Il me pla|ª t d'imaginer la de¨ fense du ¢guier. ``Pourquoi maudit? Je ne me re©gle point sur votre soif; je me re©gle sur les saisons, et j'obe¨is a© la ne¨cessite¨ exte¨ rieure. . . . Le meª me Dieu qui a limite¨ les mare¨ es est celui qui a voulu que j'eusse des ¢gues en un certain temps, comme des £eurs en un certain temps'' ', E. Chartier, alias Alain, Propos, 1924, 572, quoted in CNRS 1980, sub voce `¢guier'. 30 On the symbolism of broken trees, hit by the cursing of God, in paintings, see Marin 1995, 71^2. 31 `De toutes parts une terre travaille¨ e par des miracles: le soleil bruªlant, l'aigle impe¨ tueux, le ¢guier ste¨rile, toute la poe¨sie, tous les tableaux de l'e¨criture sont la©', Chateaubriand 1848, 2, 223. 32 `Il de¨ clare dans ses articles et dans ses confe¨ rences que je suis le ¢guier ste¨ rile de l'Ecriture? '. 33 `Marchenoir doutant in¢niment des crises d'e¨ nergie qui secouent parfois le ste¨ rile ¢guier du journalisme . . . de¨cida . . . d'o¡rir, comme de¨but, un article d'une ve¨he¨mence inou|« e.'

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34 An early-modern French sermon, interprets the ¢g tree of Augustine's conversion with reference to this passage: `Il n'y a rien de si doux et gracieux que la ¢gue, laquelle est alors d'autant plus aggre¨ able au goust qu'elle estoit insipide en son commencement. Telle est la seconde sorte des saints, du nombre desquels a este¨ s. Augustin. Aussi n'est-ce pas sans mystere que la divine Providence voulut qu'il se convertist tout a© fait a© l'ombre d'un ¢guier, pour monstrer que si bien le debut de sa vie avoit este¨ rude et tre© s mauvais, neanmoins ses fruits estant venus a© maturite¨ , elle deviendroit ensuite tre© s pretieuse', `there is nothing sweeter and more gracious than the ¢g, which is even more agreeable to taste inasmuch it was tasteless at its beginning. This is the second sort of saints, among which there was Saint Augustine. So, it is not without mystery that the divine Providence wanted him to convert de¢nitively under the shadow of a ¢g tree, in order to show that although the beginning of his life had been rough and very bad, nevertheless, once its fruits came to ripeness, his life became soon very precious', quoted in Courcelle 1963. 35 `Salire a un impiego per la scala colla quale Giuda sal|¨ sul ¢co', Battaglia 1968, sub voce `¢co'. 36 Perus­ a Lv, 23, 40. 37 Another interesting reference is reported by Jacobus a Voragine 1969, 550: `Ad has etiam nugas adductus est, ut arborem ¢ci plorare diceret, cum ab ea folium vel ¢cus tolleretur', `he was led to believe these stupid things, for example that the ¢g tree cries, when one tears o¡ from it leaves or fruits'. Here there is a contrast between the negative tears of heresy and the positive tears of conversion. 38 This representation was probably executed in the ¢rst quarter of the fourteenth century, and measures 65  50 cm (Figure N.7). 39 La re¨ve¨lation `tolle, lege', by F.-A. Monti, 1930 (Figure N.8). 40 See Calabrese 1985a and 1985c; Eugeni 1995; Corrain 1987; Corrain and Valenti 1991; Lancioni 2000. 41 See DACL, sub voce `Figuier ste¨ rile': `La sce© ne du ¢guier desse¨ che¨ est une de celles que les artistes chre¨tiens ont presque syste¨matiquement e¨carte¨es de leur re¨pertoire', `the scene of the withered ¢g tree is one of those which Christian artists have almost systematically rejected from their repertory'. 42 See also Omont 1900, 1845, plate 19. The scene of the sterile ¢g tree appears also in a sarcophagus used as baptismal font in the church of Saint-Trophine, in Arles. 43 Folio 55 r (tenth century). 44 Among the biblical passages which contain a ¢g tree, the story of Nathaniel has also been visually represented. 45 Fragment of an altarpiece, oil on wood, 20  32 cm, executed between 1425 and 1430, now in the museum of Cherbourg (Figure N.9). 46 `[Augustinus]: Itaque postquam plene volui ilicet et potui, miraque et felicissima celeritate transformatus sum in alterum Augustinum, cuius histori× seriem, ni fallor, ex Confessionibus meis nosti.' ^ [Franciscus]: `novi equidem illiusque ¢cus salutifer×, cuis hoc sub umbra contigit miraculum, immemor esse non possum'. 47 `Nous avons couche¨ a© Aniane, dans une ancienne petite abbaye . . . Elle est baªtie au-dessus d'un ravin tre© s profond: une courbe de rosiers du Bengale lui sert d'avenue. J'ai vu la© le plus beau ¢guier du pays; il est grand comme un des nos cheª nes normands et tou¡u comme eux.' 48 For a synthetic presentation of L. Hjelmslev theory, see Marsciani and Zinna 1991. 49 The meaning of the term `¢gure' in Hjelmslev's theory is di¡erent from the meaning which has been de¢ned with reference to structural semiotics. See pp. 83^4.

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Figure N.7 Saint Augustine's Conversion, stained glass windows, 65  50 cm. Erfurt, Church of the Augustinians, ¢rst quarter of the fourteenth century. 50 The main contributions of J.-M. Floch on the concept of semi-symbolism are Floch 1979; 1983; 1985; 1986; 1987; 1990; 1995; 1997. 51 As a consequence, semi-symbolism is particularly useful in the analysis of non¢gurative visual texts, such as works of abstract art, for example. 52 The generative path is the abstract path of theoretic instruments through and along which Greimas' semiotics analyses the structures of a text. 53 This is also the reason that there is a strong connection between the concept of semi-symbolism and mythological studies. On the one hand, the study of the language of myths has inspired the formulation of the concept of semi-symbolism (see, for example, Le¨vi-Strauss's anthropological analyses, and especially Le¨viStrauss 1985); on the other hand, the concept of semi-symbolism has been used for the purposes of mythological analysis. 54 For a semiotic interpretation of Paul Klee's works of art see Fabbri 2000c. 55 1918, watercolor, 29  15.8 cm, Sprenger Museum, Hannover. 56 The importance of trees in the structure of the language of myth has been pointed out by James Frazer in a passage of The Golden Bough: `If in the present work I have dwelt at some length on the worship of trees, it is not, I trust, because I exaggerate its importance in the history of religion, still less because I would deduce from it a whole system of mythology; it is simply because I could not ignore the subject in attempting to explain the signi¢cance of a priest who bore the title of King of the Wood, and one of whose titles to o¤ce was the plucking

Notes

197

Figure N.8 F.-A. Monti, Saint Augustine's Conversion, a glass window. Genoa, church of N.S. della Consolazione, 1930. of a bough ^ the Golden Bough ^ from a tree in the sacred grove', Frazer 1993, vii. 57 `Tout grand reª veur dynamise¨ rec°oit le be¨ ne¨ ¢ce de cette image verticale, de cette image verticalisante', `every dynamic dreamer pro¢ts by this vertical image, by this image which produces verticality', ibid., 232. 58 Veronica Giuliani was born in Mercatello, Italy, in 1660 and died 6 July 1727. For a biography of the woman, and a commentary on her works, see Leonardi and Pozzi 1988, 512. 59 `Alli 12 novembre 1697. Laus Deo. Quando io andai la notte girando per tutte le loge ed orto che tirava quella gran tramontana, per sentire piu© patire mi vene desiderio di montare ne' sterpi

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Figure N.9 Fra' Angelico, Saint Augustine's Conversion, fragment of an altarpiece, oil on wood, 20  32 cm. Museum of Cherbourg, executed between 1425 and 1430. Reproduced here with permission of the Muse¨e d'Art Thomas-Henry, Cherbourg, France.

60 61 62 63 64

65 66 67

68 69 70

ed albori di detto orto. A questo l'umanita© repugnava molto, stante il gran fredo che sentiva. Fra tanto sentivo che il desiderio di piu© patire mi cresceva. Cos|© andai per una scala e salii su© in un pero che sta in mezzo all'orto', Saint Veronica Giuliani, Diari, manuscript, Citta© di Castello, monastery of the Capuchin nuns of Saint Veronica Giuliani, D 8, ¡. 222r^225v. Also in Leonardi and Pozzi 1988, 512. See the literary description of a stylite's life in France 1943. See the story contained in Nau 1899. On the symbolic meanings of the walnut tree, see Gubernatis 1976, 242^53. End of the sixteenth century, Gallery of the Academy of Venice. On the iconography of dendrites, Charalampidis 1995. At the end of the eighteenth century Johannis Vilara©s, Greek doctor, politician and literate, wrote a poem which was a pastiche of Boccaccio's two novels. For a detailed analysis of this work, which plays with the semi-symbolical system of the pear tree (it becomes a ¢g tree in the poem) see Ghicopoulos 1990. On the religious imagery of the tree in India, see Gupta 1980a and Gupta 1980b. On the symbology of shadows, see Stoichita 1997a. As an example, Giovanni da Modena, The tree of redemption, church of saint Petronius, Bologna, about 1420. On this painting, see Volpe 1983, 213^95. PseudoAmbrose resumes this typological interpretation as follows: `Igitur sicut per arborem mortui, per arborem vivi¢cati', `so, as death comes from the tree, so from the tree comes life', PL 17, 692b. See also Pseudo-Tertullian 1852, 2, 735. On the parallel between the tree of original sin and the iconographical tradition of the mystical miller, see Alexandre-Bidon 1990. See Guillemin 1968. See, as an example, the ecstasies of Sainte Catherine of Siena and their pictorial representation by the `Sodoma' in the church of S. Domenico, Siena. I read a Spanish translation of this book: Haskins, S. (1996) Mar|¨ a Magdalena ^ Mito y Meta¨fora, Barcelona: Herder. Cf. the very important anthology by Rey¡ 1989.

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71 See the exegesis of Saint Augustine in C. Faust., 22, 52, PL 42, 432^3, and, among the Greek fathers, Origen, Comm. In Ioann., 9, 18, quoted in Butler 1967, 203. 72 He was born in Raconis in 1580 and died in the same place in 1646. 73 Nicolas Coe«¡etau was born in Chaªteau-du-Loir in 1574 and died in Paris in 1623. Dominican and preacher of the converted king, Henri IV, engaged in harsh polemical debates against James I King of England, du Moulin and other coeval theologians. 74 He was born in 1594 and died in 1669. 75 In 1653, Marin Cureau de la Chambre published a Discours sur les Principes de la Chiromancie, translated into English in 1665. 76 Ameline lived between 1635 (Paris) and 1708 (Paris). 77 `Et si on s'est de¨ termine¨ a© quelque action avant que l'irre¨ solution fuªt oª te¨ e, cela fait na|ª tre le remords de conscience: lequel ne regarde pas le temps a© venir, comme les passions pre¨ ce¨ dentes, mais le pre¨ sent ou le passe¨ ' (Descartes 1996, 138). 78 `La satisfaction de soi-meªme et le repentir [title of the article]. Nous pouvons aussi conside¨ rer la cause du bien ou du mal, tant pre¨ sent que passe¨ . Et le bien qui a e¨ te¨ fait par nous-meª me nous donne une satisfaction inte¨ rieure, qui est la plus douce de toutes les passions; au lieu que le mal excite le repentir, qui est la plus ame© re' (ibid., 139). 79 In Furetie©re's famous seventeenth-century French lexicon, the word remorse is de¢ned exclusively in relation to judiciary language, designating the remorse of criminals. Descartes de¢nes the concepts of remorse and repentance in contrast with the common use of the words, as if he wanted to detach them from their current semantic position in order to give them a precise philosophical de¢nition. On the lexicology of seventeenth-century philosophy, see Fattori 2000. 80 `Le repentir est une vertu chre¨ tienne, laquelle sert pour faire qu'on se corrige, non seulement des fautes commises volontairement, mais aussi de celles qu'on a faites, par ignorance, lorsque quelque passion a empeª che¨ qu'on connuªt la ve¨ rite¨ ' (ibid.). 81 `PÝnitentia virtus non est, sive ex ratione non oritur; sed is, quem facti pÝnitet, bis miser, seu impotens est', (Spinoza 1963, 4, 54); `repentance is not a virtue, since it does not originate from reason; on the contrary, those who regret what they have done, are miserable twice, since they are impotent'. 82 Mrs Herbert's name was Magdalene. 83 We shall see how pictorial art uses these semiotic analogies in order to reconstitute the Magdalene's identity from the fragments which compose it (see Stoichita 1997b). 84 Greimas developed the semiotics of passion as a counterpart of the semiotics of action. In his view, in the narrative structure of a text, every action corresponds to a passion in another point of narration. In the case of the evangelical description of the relation between Mary and Martha, it seems that they are each responsible for a di¡erent dimension of the text: Martha is traditionally active, while Mary is passive and passionate (Greimas would de¢ne this particular structure as a `dual actant'). 85 We shall deal with this passage in more detail later. 86 `Hanc vero quam Lucam peccatricem mulierem, Ioannes Mariam nominat, illam esse Mariam credimus, de qua Marcus septem d×monia eiecta fuisse testatur'; after Gregory the Great, his interpretation was followed by the totality of the Latin Fathers, with only three exceptions: Pascasius Radbertus and Bernard and Nicolas of Clairvaux. 87 Jacques Le Fe©vre d'E¨taples was born in E¨taples in 1455 and died in Ne¨rac in 1536. He read philosophy in Paris, then, between 1486 and 1492, frequented the humanist circles in Pavia, Padova, Rome and Florence. Back in France, he studied and commented on Aristotle's philosophy, translated many Greek Fathers of the Church, edited several medieval philosophers, contributed to the

200

88

89 90 91 92 93

94

95 96

97 98 99

100 101 102

Religious conversion and identity di¡usion of Marsilio Ficino's and Niccolo© Cusano's philosophy and undertook a philological perusal of the Bible. The Sorbonne attacked him for his humanist approach to the sacred texts of Catholicism and his frequenting of religious reformists (Luther certainly knew and annotated his Psalterium quintuplex; the young Calvin visited him in Ne¨rac in 1534). For the same reasons, some of his philosophical or exegetical works were censured. Hufstader 1969, 55: `She who had begun as a woman of the streets ended as a contemplative on a mountain top. Is it any wonder that there was an outcry when the representatives of the new learning attempted to demolish a story which for centuries had captured the imagination and devotion of the faithful?' In numbers 28, 30, 31 and 32. `El mundo de los espejos y el mundo de los hombres no estaban, como ahora, incomunicados.' She was born in Rome in 1593 and died in Florence in 1653. Lomi was the family name of Artemisia Gentileschi's father. The painting is exhibited in the Palatina Gallery of the Pitti Palace, Florence. The text was ¢rst handwritten in 1561, in order to satisfy the request of the Saint's spiritual director, the Dominican friar Iban¬ez. Some new chapters were added in 1562. It is now universally known as Libro de su vida (`Book of her life'), since it is a spiritual and mystical autobiography of Saint Therese. The manuscript of this text, one of the highest achievements of Western Christian spirituality, is still kept in the library of the Escorial, in Spain. `Estando una vez en las Horas con todas, de presto se recogio¨ mi alma, y parecio¨me ser como un espejo claro toda, sin haber espaldas ni lados ni alto ni bajo, que no estuviese toda clara, y en el centro de ella se me represento¨ Cristo nuestro Sen¬or, como lo suelo ver. Parec|¨ ame en todas las partes de mi alma le via claro, como en un espejo, y tambie¨ n este espejo, yo no se¨ decir co¨mo, se esculp|¨a todo en el mesmo Sen¬or, por una comunicacion, que yo no sabre¨ decir, muy amorosa' (Teresa of Avila 1987: 40, 124). Christ donc est comme un miroir, auquel il convient contempler notre e¨ lection, et auquel nous la contemplerons sans tromperie (Calvin 1911, 3, 24, 5). `Liquet, fratres, quod illicitis actibus prius mulier intenta unguentum sibi pro odore su× carnis adhibuit. Quod ergo sibi turpiter exhibuerat, hoc jam deo laudabiliter o¡erebat. Oculis terrena concupierat, sed his jam per pÝnitentiam conterens £ebat. Capillos ad compositionem vultus exhibuerat, sed jam capillis lacrymas tergebat. Ore superba dixerat, sed pedes Domini osculans, hoc in Redemptoris sui vestigia ¢gebat. Quot ergo in se habuit oblectamenta, tot de se invenit holocausta. Convertit ad virtutum numerum criminum, ut totum serviret Deo in pÝnitentia, quidquid ex se Deo contempserat in culpa.' See also the Venerable Bede, In Luc× evangelium expositio, 3, PL 92, 424; Honoris Augustodunensis, Speculum ecclesi×: De Sancta Maria Magdalena, PL, 171, 979^80 and Radulphus Ardens, Homili× de tempore, 25: in festo Beat× Mari× Magdalen×, PL 155, 1399. On the semiotic concept of `¢gure', see pp. 83^4. On M. De Chaide's Magdalene, see pp. 129^31. `Mientras yo vivo, viva El gusto y el retozo; Mi frente cin¬an rosas, Mis sienes unjan o¨ leos, Y a¨ mi dulce muchacha LLamara¨sla, ea, mozo'. See the Encyclopedia Judaica, s.v. `oils'. For more information about early-modern Italian literature on the Magdalene, see Delia Eusebio's introduction to Brignole Sale 1994. See Aladro and Colomb|¨ de Monguio¨ 1996 and Lloyd Catron 1986; the `comedies of conversion' were a speci¢c literary genre of early-modern Spanish literature, and included several representations of the Magdalene. Mlle Anne

Notes

103

104 105

106

107

108

109 110 111

201

Teulade is carrying on a PhD thesis on this subject for the Sorbonne (see her paper `La poe¨tica de la conversio¨n en La Magdalena de Roma de Juan Bautista Diamante', delivered at the symposium `L'hagiographie entre histoire et litte¨rature', 10^12 October 2002, Spanish Department, University of Toulouse. Fray Pedro de Chaves was a Benedictine friar of the monastery of Nuestra Sen¬ora de Montserrat, near Barcelona. See `Una historia ine¨dita de Montserrat', Analecta Montserratensia, 4, 1920^1: 113, and especially `Bibliograf|¨ a dels monjos de Montserrat', Analecta Monserratensia, 7, 1928, 219: `We do not know the nationality of this monk. Probably he was Galician or Portuguese. He is not to be confused with another Father de Chaves, who was a writer too, but Carmelite, and was born in Seville in 1470', `no sabem la nacionalitat d'aquest monjo. Probablement fou gallec o portugueª s. . . . No cal confondre `l amb un altre Pere de Chaves, tambe¨ escriptor, pero¨ Carmelita, nat a Sevilla al 1470 '. `Obrando cosas contrarias a los peccados '. Pedro Malo¨n de Chaide was born in Cascante, Navarra. Augustinian since 1557, he taught in the Universities of Huesca and Zaragoza. He was abbot of the monasteries of Zaragoza (1575^7) and Barcelona (1586). Several books have been devoted to Pedro Malo¨n de Chaide's work. See Sanjuan Urmeneta 1962, esp. ch. 11, `La conversio¨n de la Magdalena. Consideraciones generales. Premilinares y licencias' (pp. 95^114) and Langenegger 1993. Critical commentaries do not always agree in evaluating the literary quality of the Conversio¨ n de la Magdalena. According to Mene¨ndez Pelayo, the Tratado de la conversio¨n is `the most brilliant, ordered and accomplished book, the most joyful and picturesque of our [Spanish] devotional literature' (Mene¨ndez Pelayo 1883). Other critics are less enthusiastic about it. Incidentally, this overall accurate list presents an incongruity. Among the foreign translations of the work, Diaz includes an Italian translation (La Conversione, Confessione et Penitentia di S. M. Maddalena del R. P. F. Pietro di Ciaves, tradotta . . . per Gio. Hieronimo Torres, Naples: G.M. Scotto, 1561 ^ an exemplar is available in the Library of the University of Genoa), which is actually a translation of a di¡erent work, i.e. the already mentioned Libro de la vida y conversio¨ n de santa Maria Magdalena, written by Pedro de Chaves. The similarity between the names `Chaves' and `Chaide' ^ which is even closer in their Italian version ^ must have originated this little mistake: the translation cannot predate the editio princeps of the original work of Fr. Pedro Malo¨n de Chaide (David Lloyd Catron commits the same mistake, p. 72, n. 3). `Para cuando uno ha errado el camino y va perdido, el ma¨s cierto remedio es volver a desandar lo andado. . . . La Magdalena, por los mismos pasos por donde se perdio¨ , por esos mismos busco¨ su remedio. Hab|¨ a echo guerra a Dios con boca y ojos y cabello, con olores y blanduras y regalos; pues con todo eso le sirve y eso que hab|¨ a sacri¢cado al demonio, y con que le hab|¨ a servido, eso mismo le sacri¢ca y dedica a Dios. . . . All|¨ emplea los ojos en llorar sus pecados y se deshace en la¨grimas; all|¨ arrastra aquel cabello que tan estimado ten|¨ a; all|¨ gasta los ungÏentos tan preciados, que ella sol|¨ a traer sobre su cabeza.' `. . . salio¨ la Magdalena de su casa para ir a la de Simo¨ n. Llevaba consigo un vaso de licor precios|¨ ssimo para ungir los pies del Redentor; deb|¨ a de ser del que ella ten|¨ a para ban¬arse el cabello y la cabeza. Parec|¨ ale a esta santa penitente que a las narices de Dios le ol|¨ an muy mal los pecados y que, yendo ella con tantos, le aborrecer|¨ a y desechar|¨ a, como a cosa abominable.' `Las la¨grimas ungen, ablandan, punzan, mueven y fuerzan'. Perry mainly refers to Peyne 1948. First appeared in fragmentary form (42 octaves) in 1560, the poem was published in a thirteen-canto version in 1585. On the iconography of Saint Peter's

202

112 113 114

115 116

117 118

119

120 121

Religious conversion and identity tears in golden-age Spain, see Pe¨rez-Sa¨nchez and Sa¨nchez-Lassa de los Santos 1999). Feminist exegetes have pointed out that Jesus, on the contrary, encourages Thomas to touch him. There are, for example, many intertextual references to Garcilaso. See Ramajo Can¬o 1984. `¹Quie¨ n no dira¨ tu lloro, tu bien trocado amor, oh Magdalena, de tu nardo el tesoro, a cuyo olor la ajena casa, la redondez del mundo es llena?' `Discreta amante, que en el peligro visto su¨bitamente translado¨ llorando los amores del mundo a los [de] Cristo.' `Y como ya parece que sab|¨a el camino de entrar a verse en ellos, precioso nardo, que mezclado hab|¨ a con la¨grimas de amor, vertio¨ por ellos. Y como el cielo por los pies ten|¨a, asirle pretendio¨ con los cabellos, que entre las plantas del Cordero santo hicieron ondas por el mar del llanto.' On the same subject, see also Woolf 1974; Babbi 1976; and KÏsters 1995. The connection between drama and literature is central to early-modern religious literature, especially in baroque aesthetics. See Lloyd Catron 1986, 43, n. 21. The author claims that although the great seventeenth-century Jesuit preacher Anto¬nio Vieira routinely denounced rhetorical devices, and inveighed against turning the pulpit into a stage, practice di¡ered from theory, and few men were more adept at the ars bene dicendi than he. The bibliography on this topic is extensive. See Cantel 1959; Green 1959; Hausenchild 1967. For instance, see Luque Fajardo 1612, fols 8^9. The author describes Pedro de Valderrama's sermon on the conversion of the Magdalene, a very popular theme among the preachers, poets and painters of the epoch. Valderrama ¢rst blacked out the church and hid two torches behind the pulpit. Then he placed singers and cornet players in the corners of the church, to be brought into action at a given signal. Half-way through his sermon he broke o¡, and cried out: ``Sen¬or mio, Jesu Christo, parezca aqu|¨ vuestra divina Magestad, y vea este pueblo el estrago que con sus pecados han echo en su Santa persona, tan digna de respecto y veneracio¨ n '' (`My Lord, Jesus Christ, let your divine Majesty appear here, and let these people see the ruin which their sins have provoked in his Holy person, so worthy of respect and veneration'). When he ¢nished speaking, there suddenly appeared the image of Christ on the cross with the torches on each side. The e¡ect on the surprised congregants was truly dramatic. Shrieks and lamentations rent the air, and the mujeres perdidas (`lost women'), who were encouraged to attend Lenten sermons, threw themselves around in an agony of remorse, tearing their hair and beating their breast, como gente de veras convertida (`like truly converted people'). The biographer who recorded the event commented that the confusion inside the church `parec|¨a una pintura o representacio¨n del juicio ¢nal' `looked like a painting or representation of the Last Judgement'. On Vincent Ferrer's life, see pp. 29^31; he was the most famous Catalan preacher of his time. On Ferrer's sermon on the Magdalene see Viera 1991.

Notes

203

122 According to the theory of symbolic e¤cacy, ¢rst sketched by Claude Le¨viStrauss in an article of his, some textual structures are particularly suitable for provoking an emotional reaction in the receiver (Le¨vi-Strauss 1944^5). Most of these structures are semi-symbolic systems (see pp. 98^100). 123 She lived between 1430 and 1490. 124 This is evident in the following passage: `E, venint sa Magestat per preycar e pujant en lo predicatori, mira de ¢t a ¢t la dita Magdalena ab aquells vlls de clemencia, tirant li una sageta de amor dins lo seu cor', `and, when his Majesty comes to preach and goes up to the pulpit, he stares at the Magdalene with his clement eyes, and shoots an arrow of love into her heart', Villena 1916, 88. 125 For a modern edition, see Gassull 1987. 126 In Biblioteca Croftsiana. A catalogue of the curious and distinguished library of the late reverend and learned Thomas Crofts. . . . 127 Brunet, for example, in his Manuel du libraire, quotes as the beginning of the poem a verse which is not even written in Catalan, but in Castilian: Brunet 1860^5, 4, 473. Another incorrect description of the book appeared in the Estudio Histo¨ ricoCr|¨ tico sobre los poetas valencianos de los siglos XIII, XIV y XV (`historical-critical study on Valencian poets of the thirteenth, fourteenth and ¢fteenth centuries') by R. Ferrer y Bigne¨ (Ferrer y Bigne¨ 1873), who erroneously quote the ¢rst lines of the poem. 128 In his introduction, Mart|¨ Grajales follows the description of Salva¨. So do Eduard Genove©s y Olmos, in the Cata©lech descriptiu de les obres impreses en llengua valenciana (`descriptive catalogue of the works printed in Valencian language') (Genove¨s y Olmos 1900^14) and Masso¨ y Torrents in his Bibliograf|¨ a dels antics poetes Catalans (`bibliography of ancient Catalan poets') (Masso¨ y Torrents 1914). 129 From its sale on, the book has been kept in the National Library of Madrid. In Serrano y Morales' Diccionario de la imprentas que han existido en Valencia (`dictionary of the publishing houses existing in Valencia'), it is said that the book was bought for only 500 francs. 130 See also Guinot i Vilar 1924b and Fuster 1973. 131 `Ab tot que tant, ab tan aute© ntichs actes parlant de vo¨s, la Scriptura sagrada mostre tots jorns les cedes y.ls contractes ab que© ferma©s ab Jesu¨s aquells pactes que .n grau tan alt vos an aposentada, no vull per c°o callar la sancta vida que vo¨ s tingue¨ s, de gra©cies tan plena, ni meyns los dons de gloria .n¢nida an que© tostems vos a© De¨u favorida, sancta .xcel.lent, Maria Magdalena!

132

Per c°o us supplich que, sots vostre g[u]iatge, al que vull dir tinga segur passatge.' `Car la gran fe que tant en vo¨ s reposa, en lo convit vos fo¨ n segura mina; que, per la gent que stava dins enclosa, no us distingue¨ s, ni res vos feya nosa per arribar a .quella font divina. Ans, davant tots, fe¨s tal obedie©ncia ab cor contrit, sens dir cosa neguna,

204

Religious conversion and identity que, prestament guanyada la sente© ncia per vostra part, ab tan gran excel.le© ncia, vos ve¨ s tantost delliure de fortuna.

133

¹Qui us consella©, sens dir mot ni paraula, cercar salut davail aquella taula?' `Y ab foch d'amor un. aygua stitlada d'aquell recort que .ll pensament vac°itla: fo¨ n lo foguer la voluntat girada en lo meynspreu de la vida passada, hi .ls alambins lo[s] ulls per hon destitla;

y .ls peus sagrats de Jhesucrist, a soles los veyxells so¨ n que tal aygua recullen, y ab ells ensems del trespol les rajoles; que fo¨ n mester li fossen tovalloles vostres cabells, segons quant se remullen. Y ax|¨ seca©s ab tant sant, aygua cames, de tants pecats, soques, branques y rames.' 134 Also the setting changes: in the second image, Jesus speaks from a sort of pulpit (this stresses the evangelical dimension of his word). 135 `Aygua y porta©s vo¨s a la font de vida, y aigua .n begue¨ s, que us mata© la set vostra; vingue¨ s all|¨ malalta y entrestida; torna©s-vos-ne alegra y ben guarida, segons tantost mostra© la vostra mostra. ¹Qui pora© dir la gra©cia perfeta ni de quin goig degue¨ s vo¨ s alegrar-vos, quant vos troba©s, lavant a© Deu, tan neta que no us resta© una sola taqueta ab que© .l Satan porgue¨ s me¨ s acusar-vos? O, que© gran be¨ , que prou no .s pot percebre, saber ax|¨ al diable decebre!' 136 This interpretation can be con¢rmed through a brief analysis of stanzas eleven and twelve (with the corresponding engravings). In the ¢rst image both the ointment and the halo appear together, while in the following one only the second element remains. The halo disappears too in the engraving accompanying the fourteenth stanza. 137 `Per c°o, quant ve, exiu a rec°ebir-lo; y, quant se'n va, anau a .companyar-lo; y, ab lo desig de continu servir-lo, tan gran delit prenieu en hoir-lo, que un instant no podieu dexar-lo; ans, vo¨ s ab Ell hi Ell ab vo¨ s s'aparta, perque© .n pale¨ s y en secret vos festeja; car dels seus dons jame¨s vos ve¨yeu farta: per c°o puch dir que les clamors de Marta no foren pas sino¨ de sant. enveja. Pero© mirau, que del qu. ella us acusa, com s'oblida© donar per vo¨ s la scusa!'

Notes

205

138 The meaning of objects in the frame of semiotics has recently been explored. According to Italian semiotician Paolo Fabbri, objects are the real topic of semiotics, which does not study things, but analyses things which are shaped by thought, i.e. objects (Fabbri 1998). 139 The manuscript of the sermon had been previously found by French abbot Joseph Bonnet in the Imperial Library of Saint Petersburg. 140 Rilke had just completed his Aufzeichnungen des Malte Laurids Brigge (`The notebook of Malte Laurids Brigge') and was living at number 77, Rue de Varenne. 141 I have read this text in a Spanish translation. 142 The semiotic of passions, in particular, has been intensively investigating such an area (Greimas and Fontanille 1991 and Brandt 1993). 143 `Il y avait de¨ ja© bien des anne¨ es que, de Combray, tout ce qui n'e¨ tait pas le the¨ aªtre et le drame de mon coucher, n'existait plus pour moi, quand un jour d'hiver, comme je rentrais a© la maison, ma me© re, voyant que j'avais froid, me proposa de me faire prendre, contre mon habitude, un peu de the¨. Je refusai d'abord et, je ne sais pourquoi, me ravisai. Elle envoya chercher un de ces gaªteaux courts et dodus appele¨ s Petites Madeleines qui semblent avoir e¨ te¨ moule¨ s dans la valve rainure¨ e d'une coquille de Saint-Jacques. Et bientoª t, machinalement, accable¨ par la morne journe¨ e et la perspective d'un triste lendemain, je portai a© mes le© vres une cuillere¨ e du the¨ ou© j'avais laisse¨ s'amollir un morceau de madeleine. Mais a© l'instant meªme ou© la gorge¨e meª le¨ e de miettes du gaªteau toucha mon palais, je tressaillis, attentif a© ce qui se passait d'extraordinaire en moi. Un plaisir de¨ licieux m'avait envahi, isole¨ , sans la notion de sa cause. Il m'avait aussitoªt rendu les vicissitudes de la vie indi¡e¨rentes, ses de¨sastres ino¡ensifs, sa brie© vete¨ illusoire, de la meª me fac°on qu'ope© re l'amour, en me remplissant d'une essence pre¨ cieuse: ou plutoª t cette essence n'e¨ tait pas en moi, elle e¨ tait moi. J'avais cesse¨ de me sentir me¨ diocre, contingent, mortel', Proust 1954, 44^5. 144 Also Bischo¡ 1988 reads the passage with reference to the religious myth of the Magdalene, but proposes a di¡erent interpretation. 145 Proust openly refers to the Magdalene also in Le Coª te¨ de Guermantes 1, 458: `Ces arbustes que j'avais vus dans le jardin, en les prenant pour des dieux e¨ trangers, ne m'e¨ tais-je pas trompe¨ comme Madeleine quand, dans un autre jardin, un jour dont l'anniversaire allait bientoª t venir, elle vit une forme humaine et crut que c'e¨ tait le jardinier? '. See also n. 2, p. 1603. 146 Countless books try to explain the conversion of Saint Paul, from di¡erent points of view. I can mention but a few titles, out of an extensive bibliography: Goyon 1654; Lyttelton 1749; Dummy 1827; Laurent 1853; Philip 1855; Dide 1864; Kreyts 1910; Loh¢nk 1967; Armogathe 1980. 147 This manuscript is a veritable bibliographic treasure: evidence of it is the fact that it was lent by the Librarian of the church of Sainte-Genevie©ve to some noble (probably M. le Duc de la Vallie©re) together with other four very rare manuscripts, and it took great e¡ort to get the copies back! 148 It is followed by another mystery play representing the conversion of Saint Denis. 149 `Annas: ``Va, le grant Dieu te puist de¡endre!'' Lors Saulus monte A cheval en disant: ``A cheval, a cheval, tout homme! Nous ne valons pas une pomme, S'il y a nulz qui nous eshape. Se je ne lez vous met soulz trape, Sy me couronnez d'un trepie¨ !'' Ses Conpaignons ``Chevauchiez! Nus yrons de pie¨.'''

206 150

151 152 153 154

155 156

157

158

159 160 161 162

Religious conversion and identity `Jhesus: ``Je suis Jhesus Nazarethus, Que tu poursuis, quant guerroiant Vas ceulz qui en moy vont croiant. Tu fais que fol et que felon De regiber contre aguillon.'' ' The collection originally belonged to the Osuna library in Guadalajara and was transferred to Madrid in 1884. This edition was presented as a PhD thesis for the University of Iowa, whose library owns a copy of the texts. Above the title of the ¢rst play of the collection, Auto de la degollacio¨ n de Sant Jhoan (`Act of the decollation of Saint John the Baptist'), is written the date: an¬o 1590 (`year 1590'). `(Agora se salen todos y desde a un poco buelbe a entrar Saulo y sus capitanes y algunos soldados con sus armas y a punto de guerra, y Saulo biene en su caballo y cantan este villanc°ico siguiente:) ``A la guerra, caballeros, sin tardanza. ¸Sus! ¸Sus! ¸Alto! A la hordenanza. Cada qual mire por s|¨. No pierda golpe oportuno; no perdone¨ is a ninguno, segu¨n el horden que os d|¨. Alcanzad, corred, segu|¨ sin tardanza. ¸Sus! ¸Sus! ¸Alto! A la hordenanza.''' Stage direction, between lines 250 and 251: `Saulo cayo¨ del caballo en tierra.' Lines 97^100: `Y si acaso alguno de¨ llos por su desaventura hallo, a la cola del caballo lo trahere¨ de los cabellos.' `La route qui me© ne en huit jours de marche presque sans interruption d'Idumie a© Gaulonitide, traverse le de¨sert de¨vore¨ par le soleil, ou© l'air para|ªt trembler et scintiller comme au-dessus d'une fournaise, et les pierres chau¡e¨ es a© blanc bruªlent les pieds a© travers les chaussures; cette longue route change subitement d'aspect: le pe© lerin qui la suit sort de cet enfer pour se trouver bientoª t parmi la fra|ª cheur e¨ de¨ nique des jardins de Damas, que baignent les eaux claires de nombreux ruisseaux, a¥uents de l'Albana et du Parpar. Soudain, immobilise¨ et comme frappe¨ par la foudre, poussant le meª me cri inhumain que jadis, a© Tarse, jaillit de la poitrine de l'adolescent penche¨ sur son me¨ tier, Saul tomba a© terre . . . ' `Il touchait presque au but. Bientoª t l'oasis appara|ª trait, grise de ses platanes et verte de ses palmiers. L'air e¨tant lourd, opaque, comme il est au de¨sert vers l'aplomb de midi. Tout a© coup, une lumie© re fulgurante tomba du ciel, droit sur le voyageur: elle de¨ passait en e¨ clat celle du soleil. Le petit homme roula a© terre.' The illustrator is Luc Delfosse. Figure N.10, showing the cover of Daniel-Rops's Saint Paul aventurier de Dieu, 1954. See especially the chapter on Das Pferd als Symbol in der Malerei der Neuzeit (`the horse as symbol in the painting of the modern epoch'), pp. 126^8. See also Ackermann-Arlt 1990; Ginkowa 1988; Pre¨vot and Ribe¨mont 1994; RÔdstrÎm 1991; RÌnk 1981; Rump 1983; Zimmermann 1989 (esp. introduction and chap. 3).

Notes

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Figure N.10 Cover of Daniel-Rops's Saint Paul aventurier de Dieu, 1954. 163 See 1 Kings 1, 5; 5, 6^8; 10, 25^29; 18, 5; 20, 1; 20, 20; 20, 25; 22; 4 and 2 Kings 2, 11; 3, 7; 5, 9; 6, 14^17; 7, 6^7; 7, 10; 7, 13^14; 9, 33; 10, 2; 11, 16; 14, 20; 18, 23; 23, 11. 164 In this image Saul bears the face of Michelangelo. 165 Unfortunately, I cannot include a reproduction of this painting. 166 It measures 3.40  2.20 m. 167 Pierre Rosenberg and Jacques Thuillier, in their book Laurent de la Hyre, 1606^ 1656 ^ L'homme et l'oeuvre (`Laurent de la Hyre, the man and the work') (Rosenberg and Thuillier 1988), give a detailed list of the bibliographic references to this particular painting (ibid., entry 137). The dossier of the painting clearly shows that this painting was moved a great deal from one place to another. In 1963 it eventually returned to its point of departure, in the Saint Anne Chapel (formerly Saint Augustine Chapel) of Notre-Dame, in Paris. 168 As Rosenberg and Thuillier point out in their book, Laurent de la Hyre invented a new iconographic model for the representation of the horse, which was to be subsequently used by later painters. In particular, the invention of the horse which turns its head probably inspired French painter Le Brun when he painted his Hercules beating Diomedes, between 1639 and 1641. 169 Ibid., 18: `I. Emploie toute la puissance De ton imagination, Pour exprimer la violence De l'insigne Conversion Du grand Saint Paul, dont la me¨ moire Remplit tout l'univers de gloire Mais, mon cher Cousin, ne crains pas

208

Religious conversion and identity Que pour bien imiter ce foudre Le Tout-puissant te mette en poudre Comme ce Roy d'Elide, & t'envoie la bas. II. La soudaine me¨ tamorphose D'un ¢er Lion en un Agneau Ne para|ª t si e¨ trange chose Que ce qu'on voit dans ce Tableau. Toutefois il est plein de charmes, Et montre bien que l'inventeur, Qui fait de telle sorte d'armes, Peut de ses concurrents toujours eª tre dompteur.

170 171

172 173

174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181

III. Nous ne regrettons point Apelle, Nous le voyons ressuscite¨, La Hyre en ton oeuvre immortelle, Qui a beau nom t'a me¨ rite¨ . Published in Saumur, by Iean Ribotteav, in 1654. Ibid., pp. 129^30: `Quoi que Dieu paraisse admirable en toutes ses oeuvres, si est-ce qu'il n'y en a point ou© il de¨ ploie les richesses de sa gloire avec plus d'e¨ clat qu'en la conversion des pe¨ cheurs, par laquelle il les fait passer des te¨ ne© bres a© la lumie© re, de la mort, a© la vie, de la condition mise¨rable de pe¨che¨, a© l'e¨tat heureux de la graªce.' `Comme de fait, tout ainsi que des deux tableaux ou© reluit l'industrie d'un meª me Peintre, l'on estime d'avantage celui qu'il a acheve¨ avec plus de peine, & sur lequel il a couche¨ de plus vives couleurs.' Sonnet B: `Comme un loup ravissant fait ressentir sa rage A l'agneau tendrelet du bercail esagre; Ainsi Saul respirant le sang & le carnage, Des Disciples de CHRIST la mort a© conjure¨. S'en allant a© Damas avec bon e¨ quipage Pour arreª ter tous ceux qu'il aura rencontre¨ , Une Voix e¨clatante amollit son courage, Apres avoir son corps puissamment atterre¨ .' Besides the books mentioned in Chapter 3, note 162, see Kerkeslager 1993; Odell 1993; Schwede 1996; Dougherty 1997. LCI, s.v. `Pferd ' (`horse') c. 411. See also Rabanus Maurus, De Universo, PL 111, 213. See Rupert of Deutz, De Trinitate, PL 167, 1146. See Rabanus Maurus, op. cit. See Rupert of Deutz, Commentarium in Job, PL 168, 1173^5; Petrus Lombardus, Commentarium in Psalmos, PL 191, 334; Garnerius of Saint Victor, Gregorianum, PL 193, 87. See Sza¨vai 1985, 12: `La ¢gure de Paul, son deuxie© me pre¨ nom, a ve¨ ritablement hante¨ Pasolini durant toute sa vie', `the character of Paul (his second name) has really haunted Pasolini during his whole life.' It is one of the few texts of Pasolini which is dated by the author himself: Rome, 22^8 May 1968. In the ¢rst copy corrections are also dated: Rome, 31 May^ 9 June. `L'idea poetica ^ che dovrebbe diventare insieme il ¢lo conduttore del ¢lm, e anche la sua novita© ^ consiste nel trasporre l'intera vicenda di San Paolo ai giorni nostri. Questo non signi¢ca che io voglia in qualche modo manomettere o alterare la lettera stessa della sua predicazione: anzi, come ho gia© fatto per il Vangelo, nessuna delle parole pronunciate da

Notes

209

Paolo nel dialogo del ¢lm sara© inventata o ricostruita per analogia. . . . Qual'e© la ragione per cui vorrei trasporre la sua vicenda terrena ai nostri giorni? E' molto semplice: per dare cinematogra¢camente nel modo piu© diretto e violento l'impressione e la convinzione della sua attualita©.' 182 `Provincia francese. (Esterno giorno). Si tratta di alcuni ``passaggi'', attraverso la Francia occupata, in direzione della Spagna. In una grossa macchina nera ^ la macchina delle autorita©, seguita da una piccola scorta ^ il giovane Paolo e© diretto verso Barcellona (Damasco). La campagna, coi piccoli paesi deserti, le piccole citta© di provincia che vivono la loro tragedia in silenzio: armati dappertutto, donne, vecchi e bambini ^ disperati e muti ^ dappertutto. E poi le lunghe strade deserte verso il con¢ne, coi Pirenei vagamente minacciosi come una spenta muraglia contro l'orizzonte. Paolo si sente improvvisamente male, si porta la mano alla fronte e perde i sensi. La macchina si ferma; la scorta si raduna intorno all'armata; l'autista apre lo sportello, perche¨ passi l'aria ecc. Ma Paolo non si riscuote, e© perduto nel suo malore, benche¨ abbia gli occhi semiaperti e sembri essere cosciente.' Conclusion 1 In the positive meaning of the word, in the sense of `liberation from deceit'. 2 The reference for the passage from the Wisdom of Solomon probably refers to a seventeenth-century version of the Vulgate, showing a di¡erent subdivision of the text. In a modern Bible, the passage can be found in 17:2.

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Index

Abra de Raconis, C.F 107 Accarie, M. 57 Acquaviva, R., Blessed 15^17 active life (vita activa) 106, 118^20 Agolante 58 Akamatsu, P. 76 Akbar 15^17 Alarco¨n, A. de 128 Allori, C. 148 Almonte 58 Ambrose, Saint 11, 48 Ameline, C. 108 Anastasius Sinaita 88 Andrew, Saint 95 Angelico, Fra' (Guido di Pietro) 95 Angoumois, P. d' 121 animals 24 Anthony from Padova, Saint 102 anthropology 3, 48 apocryphal sources 92^3 apology 5 apostasy 4, 55, 62 Ariosto, L. 192 Auerbach, E. 83 Augustine, Saint 11, 20, 39, 48, 80^104, 151, 153^4, 161, 167, 173 autobiography 81 Bacci, P.G. 22, 37 Bachelard, G. 100 Bachtin, M. 67^9 Baldung Grien, H. 163 baptism 20^1, 45^51 baptismal anniversary 47 Barberino, A. da 59 Barocci, F. 148 Baronio, C. 36 Barrios, M. de 74

Barros, J. de 45 Bartoli, D. 13^18 Bartolo, T. di 163 Bartolomeo, Fra' (Baccio della Porta) 148 Basse©res, F. x Bastiani, L. 102 Batoni, P. 148 Baudry, P. 148 Baum, M. 160 Beauvais, R. de 128 Bellerophon 161 Bellini, G. 163 Bellori, G.P. 25 Benedict XIII, Pope 31 Berlanga, M. de 128 Bernabe¨ Ubieta, C. 105 Bernades, D. 129 Bernardino from Siena, Saint 12 Bloy, L. 90 Boccaccio, G. 102 body 72^4 Boiardo, M.M. 59 Boncompagni, A. 35 Bononcini, G. 149 Borges, J.L. 117 Borromeo, C. 21, 47 Bossuet, J.-B. 149 Boureau, A. 58 Boyle, R. 18 Brea, L. 163 Breton, N. 128 bricolage 173 Brignole Sale, A.G. 128 Bruegel, P. 163 Brutus 56 Buck, V.H. 158 Buddha Shaªkyamuni 102

Index Buddhism 77 Busti, B. de' 12

cultural history 3, 106^10 Cureau de la Chambre, M. 107

Cain 56^7 Calabrese, O. 97 Calmet, A. 113 Calvin, J. 31, 114, 123 Cambiaso, L. 148 Camus, J.-P. 107 canonization 32^3 Cantavella, R. 135 Carducho, V. 25 Carli, G.C. de' 58 Carracci, A. 148 Carracci, L. 163 Carroll, L. 117 Cassius 56 Cassius Dio 56^7 Castello, B. 29^30 Catalan literature 134^46 Catharists 29 Cedonius, Saint 134 Celestine I, Pope 83 change 3, 72, 114^15, 164 Charles IV, King 157 Charles VI, King 157 Charles the Great 58^9 Charron, P. 107 Chartier, E¨ (Alain) 90 Chateaubriand, F.-R. de 90 Chaves, P. de 129 chivalry, poems of 58 Christopher, Saint 95 Cima da Conegliano 148 Claudel, P. xii, 103^4 Coe«¡eteau, N. 107 communicative interaction 40 conformity 97 Confucianism 77 contemplative life (vita contemplativa) 106, 118^20 controversy 16^18, 52 Corella, R. de 136^8 Corpus Christi Day 3, 8^9 Correggio (Antonio Allegri) 148 Costa, L. de 129 Counter-Reformation 1, 13, 21, 25, 31^2, 47, 62, 80, 117 Courcelle, P. 84^6, 93^5 Courcelle-Ladmirant, J. 93 Courte©s, J. 98 Crashow, R. 128

Daniel-Rops (Henri Petiot) 159 Dante 55^6 Delacroix, E. 148 Delaye, E¨. 45 dendrites 102 Des Ecotais 5^11, 62 Descartes, R. 108^110 D|¨ az, J.S. 129 Dominic, Saint 95 Donne, J. 110 DÏrer, A. 163

237

Eco, U. xi, 9, 85, 116 Edward I, King 61 El Greco (Domenikos Theotocopoulos) 148 Eliade, M. 123 enunciation 136 equilibrium x eremitism 22, 102 etymology 53^4, 61 evangelization 1^2, 13^21, 24 Evrard, F. 160 Falun Gong 62 Farcy, G.-D. 58 felony 60^1 Ferreira, A. 129 Ferro, M. 34 ¢ction (narration) xii, 2^11 ¢g tree 82^104, 161; in the apocryphal sources 92^3; in the Fathers of the Church 91^2; in images 93^6; in the New Testament 90^1; in the Old Testament 87^8 ¢gurative universals 99, 134 ¢gures 83^4, 97, 125^6, 130 Filoxenus 88 Fisch, R. 72 ¢shing net 171^3 Floch, J.-M. 98 Florent 59 Fontanille, J. 150 Fouquet, J. 163 France, A. 90 Francis Xavier, Saint 15, 25, 32, 43, 44^52 Franc° ois de Sales, Saint 85, 108 fraud 56

238

Index

Freud, S. xi, 164 Fromentie©res, J.-L. 85 Fucan Fabian 76 Fuseli, J. H. 164 Gabrieli, A. 58 Galaciella 59 Galilei, G. 18 Gallonio, A. 33, 36 Gassul, J. de 137^46 Gaulli, G.B. (il Baciccio) 48^51 Gentileschi, A. 114, 117^121 George, Saint 95 Ghettini Monaco, A. 22 Ginzberg, L. 92 gnosticism 93 Goetz, O. 88 Go¡man, E. 75 Goldberg, B. 116 Goyon, S. de 166 grace 71^2 Gregory of Nissa, Saint 124 Gregory the Great, Saint 113, 125 Greimas, A.J. xiii, 66^7, 98, 106, 150 Greuter, J.F. 25 GrÏnewald, M. 148 Guerrero, M. 117 Guerrier, Y. x Guinot, S. 138 Gusma¬o, B.L. de 2^5 Guttinguer, U. 96 hagiography 33, 36^7, 39, 41 Haskins, S. 105 Hayashi Razan 77 Hebbel, F. 148 Heidegger, M. 150 Henry VII, King 61 Herbert, G. 110 heresy 31, 36, 54^5, 62 Heyse, P. 149 Hilary of Poitiers 92 Hinduism 15, 62 Hinojosa y Carvajal, A. de 129 Hitchcock, A. 67 Hjelmslev, L. 97 Holy O¤ce 12 Horowitz, M.J. 69^70 horse 154^70 Hugede¨, N. 123 Hus, J. 31 Hussites 31 Hyre, L. de la 163^9

iconoclasm 13, 21, 25, 29, 117 Ignatius of Loyola, Saint 24, 32, 38^44 illness 34, 38^9 images 18, 22^32, 41^4, 48^51, 60, 93^6, 114^24, 130, 138^49, 156 imaginaire xii, 92, 154 intentio auctoris, operis, lectoris 85^6 intertextuality 85, 130 Ireneus 93 Isabetta, Blessed x Isidorus Pelusiota 92 Islam 1, 15^17, 25^9, 32, 58^9, 62^79 Jakobson, R. 98 James, W. 70^1 James I, King 61 Japan 76^7 Jerome, Saint 95 Jesuits 13^18, 21, 38, 76^7 John Chrysostom, Saint 28^9, 32, 91, 124, 129 John Damascene, Saint 28 John Fisher, Saint 113 John of Capestrano, Saint 31^2 John Paul II, Pope 83 John the Baptist, Saint 22 Jordaens, J. 163 Judaism 1, 2^5, 9, 29, 33^6, 57, 74^6, 79, 92 Judas 56^8, 92, 112 Julian, Saint 96 Kaftal, G. 146 Kayayan, E. 123 Klee, P. 100 Koran 17 law 59^62 Le Clerc, J. 128 Le Fe©vre d'E¨taples, J. 113 Legenda Aurea (Golden Legend) 39, 57, 106, 134^5, 146, 155^6 Leibniz, G.W. von 108 Leo¨n, Fray Luis de 129, 132^3 Levin, L. 135 lie xi^xii Lloyd Catron, D. 125, 129 Loarte, G. 21 Longhi, R. 95 Lorena, C. de 148 Lotman, J.M. 116, 120^2 Ludulph von Saxen 39 Luther, M. 31

Index madness 76 Maeterlinck, M. 149 Magdalene, Saint 11, 12, 20, 75^6, 80, 104^51, 161, 167, 173 Malebranche, N. 108 Malo¨n de Chaide, P. 129^31 Manrique, A. 38 Marin, L. xiii Marino, G.B. 12, 128 Markham, G. 128 marrans 74^6 Martha, Saint 106, 111^2 Mart|¨ nez Cantapetrensis 88 martyrdom 21^2, 25, 47 Massenet, J.-E¨. 149 Maximin, Saint 134 Melchior-Bonet, S. 116 Meldini, P. x Memling, H. 148 Mendes Quintela, D. 128 Mendoza, P. de 128 Merejkowski, D. 159 Merisi, M. (Caravaggio) 163 Mesa, C. De 128  " o 149 Methodius Olimpius 91 Michelangelo (Buonarroti) 163 Minogue, K.R. 61 Minturno, A.S. 171 Miquel y Planas, R. 137^8 miracle 14, 16^18, 22^3, 25, 28, 34 mirrors 51, 114^24 missions 13^19, 33, 40, 44, 48^51 Monica, Saint 48 Montaigne, M. de 107 Montesino, A. 128 Morison, R. 61 mormons 62 Moses 57 Moses Barcefa 88 multimedia 40 Murillo, B.E. 148 music 149 mystery plays 156^8 Nadal, J. 24 names 74 Nattier, J.-M. 148 Naz, R. 60 neurosis xi Niceforus Calixtus 88 Nicoleus de Lyra 88 Nostredame, C. de 128

239

Üdipus 57^8 Oelman, T. 76 oil 126^7, 130 ointment 124^49, 161 Origen 88, 91 Orlando 58 Orsini, V.M. 23 Orsolini, I. 23 Paleotti, G. 21 Panigarola, F. 12 Pasolini, P.P. xii, 168^70 passions 105^10, 130 Patte, D. xii Paul III, Pope 35, 40 Paul, Saint 6^7, 11, 12, 34, 80, 88, 114, 151^70, 173 Paulinism 152 penitence 46^7 Pentecost 49 performatory verbs 45^6 Peter, Saint 34, 39, 134, 152 Peter Nolasco, Saint 25 Petit Val, R. du 128 Petrarca, F. 96 Phaeton 161 Philip Neri, Saint 21^2, 32^8, 42 Philip of Harvengt 85 philosophy 106^10 physiology x Pilate 57 pilgrimages 32, 40, 135, 159 Pinard de la Boullaye, H. 82 Pineda, J. de 88 Pinto-Mathieu, E¨. 105 Pious V, Pope 35, 47 plans of a language 97 Plutarch 54 Policreti, G. 128 Pompey 56 Porter, R. 71 Poussin, N. 148 Pozzi, G. 12 pragmatics 72 preaching 3^5, 11^45, 135^6 Preti, M. 28^9, 48 Procopius Gazeus 88 Prosperi, A. 19 Protestantism 5^11, 29, 31, 46, 61, 79, 117 Proust, M. xii, 149^51 psychodynamics 69^70 Ptolemy XIII, King 56

240

Index

Rabanus Maurus 92 Raimondo di Sangro 171 Ralli, G. 128 Rambo, L.R. 77 Raphael 163 Raymond Nonnatus, Saint 25, 29, 32 Re¢ce, L. 149 Reformation 1, 14, 19^20, 31 religion, semiotics of xii^xiii Remus 103 Renan, E. 156 repentance 109^10 rhetoric 11^12, 19^20, 135^6 Ribadeneyra, P. 41 Ricci, M. 24 Rilke, R.M. 149 Ripa, C. 171 Riquer, M. de 138 Roberto from Lecce 12 Robinson, T. 128 Rodomonte 59 Rodriguez de Castro, E. 129 Romano, G.B. 21 Rome 22, 36 Romulus 103 Roque, S.-G. de 128 Rubens, P.P. 41^2, 148, 163 Ruggiero 59 Rusconi, R. 12, 24^5 sacraments 45^8 Saint-Louys, P. de 128 Saint Paul, E. de 108 Saint-Sorlin, D. de 128 Saraceni, C. 25 Saramago, J. xii, 2^5 Sarto, A. del 148 Saussure, F. de 70 Savonarola, G. 12 Saxer, V. 110 schism 55, 62 school of TÏbingen 152 science 18 seashells 48 Sede·o, J. 128 Segre, R. 35 self (identity) xiii, 4, 33, 50, 52, 65^6, 70^3, 79^80, 110^14, 114^15, 130, 164 semeiotics x, 149^50 semiotic systems 97 semiotics xi^xiii, 65^9, 83^4, 97^100, 105^6, 116^17, 155^62

semi-symbolism 97^100 Se¨neault, J.-F. 108 senses 124 Severianus Gabalensis 92 Severus of Menorca 33 Shakespeare, W. 57 Shinto 77 Sigismond, Emperor 31 signi¢ed 70 signi¢er 70 Signorelli, L. 163 Sirera, J.L. 138 Southwell, R. 128 Spanish literature 125^6, 128^34 Spinoza, B. 110 Spiritual Exercises 39^41 stability xi Stensen, N. 108 Stevenson, R. L. 66 Stoichita, V. 116 Strindberg, A. 168 stylites 102 Suetonius 56 symbolic e¤cacy 136 symbolic systems 97 Sza¨vai, J. 168 Tagliapietra, A. 116 Talmud 35 Tasso, T. 58 tears 132^3 Tenet, E. 160 Teodoretus Cirenensis 88 Teodorus Antioquenus 88 test of commutability 97 text xiii, 83^4 theatre 57, 66^7, 135^6, 148^9, 156^8 theology 110, 151^2 Therese of Avila, Saint 114, 122^3 Thomas Aquinas, Saint 54^5 Thompson, S. 87 ThÏrlemann, F. 98 time 64^5, 94, 115, 164 Tintoretto, D. 148 Tintoretto, J. 148 Tiziano 148 translation 15^17, 25^6, 45, 49^50 travel 75^6, 153, 159 treason 52, 53^62 trees 100^4 Trent, Council of 1, 12, 25, 46^7, 122 typology 89, 103

Index Vair, G. du 108 Valade©s, D. 19^20 Van Dyck, A. 148 Vega Carpio, L. de 129, 133^4 Veronese, B. 148 Veronese, P. 148 Veronica Giuliani, Saint 101 vertigo x^xii Victor Antiochenus 92 Villena, I. de 136 Vincent Ferrer, Saint 29^32, 136 Viti, T. 148 Vovelle, M. 121

Wager, L. 128 Waldenses 29 Wallace, W. 149 water 46, 51, 99, 134 Watzlawick, P. 72 Weakland, J.H. 72 Werfel, F. 168 women 37^8, 110^1 Wyclif, J. 31 Zuccari, T. 163 Zwingli, U. 31

241