Читать книгу Pious Postmortems - Bradford A. Bouley - Страница 7

INTRODUCTION

On March 26, 1612, the Bishop of Coimbra exhumed the body of Queen Isabel of Portugal (1271–1336), which had been buried for 275 years. Isabel’s body, according to witnesses, exuded a sweet odor and appeared not to have rotted despite almost three centuries in the ground.¹ These phenomena, which seem unusual to the modern reader, were standard elements of sanctity that dated back to medieval traditions.² But how could one tell if a body’s sweet smell and failure to rot were signs of a miracle and not just unusual, but natural phenomena?

For the Counter-Reformation Church, which was seeking to reassert both its identity and the validity of the cult of the saints, traditional signs of holiness had to be rigorously validated and defensible both to the faithful layman and to canonization officials.³ It was for this reason that the letters opening Isabel’s canonization process deputed two physicians and one surgeon to examine her body.⁴ In their thorough investigation of the corpse, these experts found that Isabel’s face was still “covered by white flesh,” her head was “full of hair,” which seemed as if it had been “just washed,” her “eye sockets, ears, and nose were whole,” and her breasts were “similarly totally white and dry” and, upon probing, “remained solid and firm.”⁵ Judging what they found against their experience with other bodies, the medical men ruled that what had occurred to Isabel’s corpse was “beyond nature.”⁶ In the lexicon of early modern natural philosophy, “beyond nature” was not a vague term at all; rather, it delimited a specific realm of phenomena created by God.⁷ These medical professionals were saying that, in their medical opinion, a miracle had occurred in the body of Queen Isabel.

Isabel’s case was not unusual, however, and, in fact, Catholic officials ordered the posthumous examination of nearly every prospective saint in the first hundred years after the Council of Trent (1545–1563). During these examinations, medical professionals found a variety of abnormalities in saintly cadavers including miraculous incorruption, evidence of extreme asceticism, and wondrously unusual anatomy. In many of these cases, the evidence of the body, interpreted by medical experts, became part of the demonstration of the individual’s sanctity. In a period of crisis, the Church looked to experts on the natural world—medical practitioners—to help them demonstrate the existence of supernatural realities such as miracles and saints.⁸

This book provides a comprehensive study of the role played by anatomical evidence in the creation of saints. Although several studies have explored the ecclesiastical interest in medicine by examining the role of medical professionals in canonization proceedings, few have discussed the numerous postmortems performed on prospective holy men and women.⁹ The studies that have looked at postmortem examination, which include works by Katharine Park, Nancy Siraisi, Gianna Pomata, and Elisa Andretta, have focused either on an earlier period or on only a select few of the most famous cases.¹⁰ Archival evidence demonstrates, however, that such examinations became especially widespread in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. From 1550 until about 1700, corpses of nearly every pope, prospective saint, and many other esteemed individuals underwent postmortem examinations, sometimes including a full autopsy, as part of the search for the holy.¹¹ Indeed, at least one prospective saint, Isidore the Laborer, was exhumed after 500 years so that medical practitioners could assess his body against the new standards of sanctity.¹² Francis Xavier’s corpse was examined in faraway Goa and then reevaluated in Rome by other, better known and more prestigious medical practitioners.¹³ The Catholic Church, it would seem, cared deeply about the anatomy of prospective holy men and women and went to great lengths to ensure that medical criteria were used in evaluating the unusual qualities of saintly cadavers.

The Church’s alliance with anatomical studies invites a reassessment of the relationship between Catholicism and medicine in the early modern period. Certainly, the narratives that once cast the Church, and religion more generally, as the enemy of science have given way to more complex theses.¹⁴ Various trends have been identified by modern scholars that demonstrate the ways in which religious authorities alternately collaborated with philosophers in studying the natural world, viewed natural philosophy as a separate sphere of knowledge, or, indeed, even opposed certain investigations into nature.¹⁵ The collaboration thesis has been subject to a great deal of scholarship in recent years as studies by John Heilbron, Sachiko Kusukawa, Marcus Hellyer, Rivka Feldhay, and others have provided convincing evidence that religion and natural philosophy frequently cooperated across a range of fields that were occupied with understanding nature.¹⁶ In medicine in particular, Maria Pia Donato describes the relationship between religion and medicine as involving a complex set of interactions characterized by “collaboration, competition, and conflict.”¹⁷ In short, knowledge of the natural world frequently consisted of a negotiation between various ways of understanding the interactions between man, nature, and the divine. In this respect, the attempt to locate the holy in human cadavers conforms to what is currently accepted about science and religion in the early modern period: medical professionals, theologians, and canon lawyers frequently worked together, and occasionally at odds, in defining what could be considered the miraculous in the human body.

Nevertheless, the Catholic Church’s extensive use of anatomy to verify the bodies of prospective saints also provides a distinctly new perspective on the interaction between the Church and medicine in the early modern period. On the one hand, such extensive use of medical expertise should alter how scholars understand the reassertion of Catholic identity after the Reformation. Medicine and anatomy acted as a buttress to Catholic claims about the saints. Indeed, the examination of the bodies of a wide variety of holy people—ranging from popes down to local mystics (some of whom were denounced as heretics)—became fundamental for the definition of Catholic identity in the early modern world.¹⁸ Through their corpses these individuals could offer confirmation of their connection with the divine or, conversely, reveal themselves as traitors to the faith. Anatomy, interpreted by skilled medical practitioners, was the key to knowing the true nature of an individual, physically and spiritually.¹⁹ Anatomy defended Catholicism. Indeed, the importance of anatomy to Catholic identity suggests that rather than the body becoming desacralized—as one recent scholar has argued—through the early modern expansion of anatomical studies, the opposite seems to have occurred.²⁰ Anatomical understanding harnessed to a Counter-Reformation agenda could invest the body with greater religious significance.

On the other hand, the extensive involvement of medical professionals in canonization proceedings in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries should also alter how we understand the ways in which the medical profession came to be defined. Church patronage of anatomical study helped sanction ongoing trends in the medical field related to who was allowed to make knowledge about the natural world and how that knowledge was made. The Church, for example, appears to have endorsed the position that university-trained physicians sought to claim for themselves: placing them at the top of the evolving medical pyramid. As many scholars have noted and various chapters of this book explore, the healing professions in early modern Europe encompassed a broad range of practitioners that included household healers, apothecaries, midwives, noblewomen, empirics, barber-surgeons, and physicians, to name only a few of the vast array of healers in this period.²¹ Physicians, who were defined by their university training, sought at various points to assert their preeminent role at the top of this hierarchy.²² Such preeminence, however, was not always necessarily apparent to patients who might seek the expertise of a variety of practitioners or, indeed, even have preferred other types of healers to physicians.²³ Yet canonization officials were clear in their preference for physicians in verifying bodily miracles. The evidence about Francis Xavier’s incorrupt corpse, for example, which was initially established by a medicus in a colonial outpost, required reinterpretation by an eminent Roman physician, Angelo Vittori, before it could be considered for his canonization.²⁴ Teresa of Avila’s holy body was examined three times, but only the last examination—undertaken by a university professor—seems to have counted in her final canonization process.²⁵ During the canonization of Giacoma della Marca, a physician’s testimony was used to invalidate a surgeon’s testimony.²⁶ Numerous other examples attest to this preference for university training in the Church’s expert witnesses. The reason for this predilection is clear: such education distinguished the physician as more able to discuss philosophical and theological issues related to a miracle.²⁷ The Church’s marked preference for physicians in this way gave religious sanction to a professional divide, which further enhanced a distinction that was already becoming more pronounced at this moment in history.

Church-organized anatomical investigation of prospective saints also helped promote and endorse a new way in which medical professionals produced knowledge in the early modern period: through empirical evidence. Firsthand experience, which had largely been considered at best a low form of knowledge or at worst not knowledge at all, began to be deployed with greater frequency in this period. Recent scholarship has shown that in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries individuals in a number of fields, including astronomy, alchemy, metallurgy, geography, and law, began to rely on experience as a guide to knowledge making.²⁸ However, medicine—considered both an art and a science—clearly and early on began to deploy new empirical evidence as both useful and problematic for the articulation of its discipline. Chiara Crisciani, Katharine Park, and Michael McVaugh have shown that as early as the fourteenth century, some elite medical practitioners had begun already to draw new conclusions based on their own clinical experience.²⁹ By the sixteenth century, Gianna Pomata has recently argued, clinical observation had become important enough for medicine that a new style of writing arose to meet this need. Medical practitioners created a new genre, loosely inspired by Hippocrates, to respond to a new way of making knowledge—through individual experience. This new style, generally denoted with a publication including the title of Observationes, constituted, according to Pomata, an “epistemic genre.” The Observationes format allowed medical practitioners to circulate knowledge among themselves that they deemed useful but was outside the accepted epistemologies of medical faculties.³⁰ Thus, by the sixteenth century many different ways of making knowledge from experience—“diverse, overlapping ‘empiricisms,’” in Alisha Rankin’s phrase—were emerging on the stage of European learning even before Francis Bacon articulated an accompanying epistemological program.³¹

Catholic officials lent their authority to these new empiricisms in medicine. In their attempt to demonstrate that a singular event—a miracle—had occurred in a human body, canonization officials relied on a number of techniques of making knowledge, including various empirical methods. A variety of medical practitioners, for example, examined Teresa of Avila’s corpse on multiple occasions and in various weather conditions. Their goal in these repeated examinations was to test the corpse for incorruption.³² The bodies of Isabel of Portugal, Francis Xavier, Giacomo della Marca, Luis Bertran, and numerous others were manipulated, prodded, and tested in various ways to demonstrate their holy nature.³³ The demonstration of Andrea Corsini’s incorruption by a Florentine physician was notarized and then signed by seventeen witnesses.³⁴ When the cadaver of Thomas of Villanova in 1611 (can. 1658) was unearthed, notaries recorded in thorough, firsthand detail their exact experience at the tomb and during the medical examination, a literary attempt to make the visit as real as possible.³⁵ All these techniques—repetition, testing, multiple witnessing, new narrative styles—have been seen as characteristic of the empirical programs of the later seventeenth-century experimental societies.³⁶ Although Catholic investigation of holy corpses was still a long way from systematic Baconian experimentalism, this was a moment in which religious authority sanctioned new ways of making knowledge about the natural world. Although there is no conclusive evidence, it is tempting to speculate that this support from such a powerful authority as the Catholic Church might have been partly why empiricism became a recognized way to make knowledge during the seventeenth century.

Through its collaboration with medicine, then, the Catholic Church should be seen as a major contributor in early modern attempts to understand the natural world. Church officials helped articulate who should investigate nature, what sort of evidence should be used in this investigation, and even to some extent what potential subjects of study were, since they funded numerous investigations into the boundaries of the human and the divine in the bodies of prospective saints. That is, rather than being a tale of science versus religion, the narrative that arises through posthumous examination of saintly bodies is one in which emerging scientific practice was supported and defined by religion.

This book explores these posthumous examinations of saintly cadavers across five chapters. As the central issue behind these medical examinations was the Church’s concern over its ability to correctly judge saintliness, Chapter 1 begins by discussing broadly the changes to canonization in the period after the Council of Trent (1545–1563). Saints have been a focus of a great deal of scholarship in recent years, and extensive studies by André Vauchez, Michael Goodich, Donald Weinstein, and Rudolph Bell, among others, have analyzed saints statistically in an attempt to gain a general overview of the qualities that defined holiness.³⁷ However, such monographs tend to either focus on the Middle Ages or downplay the differences between the early modern and medieval periods. This is problematic, because the medical examination of saints’ bodies was only one of several major changes affecting the making of saints in the early modern period. Chapter 1, therefore, looks at a number of specific cases to examine what had changed in the practice of canonization.

Chapter 2 then looks specifically at the advent of anatomical expertise as a means to discern sanctity. It follows the growing trend whereby holy bodies became no longer matters decided by popular acclaim, but medical subjects understood by experts. The impetus to create a medical context for the holy came, however, not from the Church authorities, but from the medical practitioners, who had become interested in unusual case studies. That is, reports on unusual anatomies of holy individuals began to appear in the epistemic genre of observationes, discussed by Pomata.³⁸ Shortly after medical practitioners began writing about unusual saintly anatomy, promoters of various prospective saints’ canonization attempted to use these medical case studies to defend claims of bodily sanctity. Such interest in anatomy by ecclesiastical officials grew out of existing practices of autopsy both within medical and in religious settings. Officials in Rome first ignored these attempts by local officials. However, by the early seventeenth century such case studies began to feature prominently in canonization proceedings. This chapter charts the eventual acceptance of new types of medical evidence by canonization officials.

Chapter 3 looks at one specific type of bodily wondrousness: miraculous incorruption after death. Incorruption was the most common sign of holiness, and medical professionals examined nearly every saint canonized during this period to confirm his or her failure to rot. Decomposition, however, was still a relative, subjectively viewed quality. Understanding whether a body was incorrupt relied on a number of ambiguous medical and theological signs.³⁹ Therefore, when medical practitioners testified about the bodies of incorrupt saints, they were also engaging in a negotiation between members of their community, their profession, and the Church hierarchy over the meaning of the corpse in question. Holiness, like other knowledge created in early modern Europe, was a profoundly local and contextual phenomenon.⁴⁰

The fourth chapter explores the role of asceticism as evidence of saintliness. Like incorruption, the perception of bodily asceticism was influenced by a number of cultural factors, including, in particular, social rank and gender. Medical professionals opened the bodies of far more men than women to confirm wondrous feats of asceticism during life. In this way, medicine and anatomy bolstered preexisting notions of sanctity, which connected asceticism to male ecclesiastical authority. Medical evaluation of women, on the other hand, tended to provide an outlet for preexisting skepticism over female sanctity.

The final chapter turns to a more thorough analysis of the ways that gender was fundamental, both to early modern categories of sainthood and the establishment of medical expertise. Despite the rise to prominence of several early modern female saints—such as Teresa of Avila, Rose of Lima, and Maria Maddalena de’ Pazzi—early modern sanctity based itself on the rearticulation of clear gender hierarchies. Ecclesiastical authority defined and articulated itself after the Reformation as being in opposition to feminine weakness.⁴¹ Holy women who had a public role, therefore, had to act masculinely in life to the point of even becoming physiologically like men. Such a stance was in itself threatening to hierarchies, and so after death the posthumous medical examination reasserted the feminine and sexual nature of women’s bodies, thereby subordinating them to ecclesiastical authority. Male bodies, in contrast, were completely stripped of their sexuality and made both asexual and hypermasculine after death. In assigning gender in this way, though, the medical practitioners involved in these cases also strongly reasserted their own masculinity. Indeed, this chapter argues that the act of performing a postmortem, especially an autopsy, on a prospective saint of either sex established gender roles for all involved—physicians, surgeons, bishops, and the bodies under the knife—and therefore reinforced the correct ordering of Catholic society. The practice of autopsy was a gendered and gendering activity.

In sum, the fact that canonization officials ordered medical examinations of almost every canonized saint and many more holy people who did not achieve canonization deeply affects how we understand a number of issues related to religion and medicine in the early modern period. It should encourage further reevaluation of the Church’s interaction with science, its reaction to the Protestant Reformation, the development of the early modern medical profession, and the interrelated way in which gender, sanctity, and nature were understood.

SOURCES AND METHODS

The overwhelming majority of the sources used for this book come from the processes of canonization conducted by the Congregation of Rites and housed in the Vatican Secret Archives. These are the official records of the canonization trials that were used by the Rota Tribunal, the Congregation of Rites, and the pope in deciding whether to confer sainthood. They are, therefore, ideal pieces of evidence for understanding what qualities the Church sought among those whom it canonized. In the course of this research, I examined records for all the saints canonized from 1588 until 1700, with the expectation that these successful cases would most clearly indicate what was required for canonization. In addition to successful cases, I also reviewed a number of failed canonization attempts, which fizzled either before any rank was achieved or after the blessed status was conferred. In choosing which, among many, failed cases to review, I based my decision on whether bodily holiness formed part of the saint’s cult. To supplement the rites processes, I have also examimed printed hagiography (vitae), letters, pamphlets, papal bulls, and inquisition trial dossiers. The Inquisition trial dossiers on which I focused were the cases of false or affected sanctity in the archives of the Roman Inquisition, which are now housed in the Archivio della Congregazione per la Dottrina della Fede. As only a few volumes, representing several dozen cases, survive, I examined all the records from the seventeenth century that exist in this archive.

These sorts of documents have many virtues but are not without pitfalls. As Dyan Elliott has observed, a canonization process is a trial that unfolds very much the same way a case before the Inquisition would.⁴² Canonization officials, usually including a notary and several religious authorities such as a bishop and a few members of his entourage, interviewed witnesses at a central location. The notary would record the questions asked in Latin, but the witnesses’ words were supposed to be recorded verbatim in the vernacular. Thus, as in the case of Inquisition trials, canonization proceedings might seem to allow a rare opportunity to hear a range of ordinary, “non-elite” people speak in their own voices.⁴³

In contrast to this view, several scholars have argued that such sources should be seen as at best a mix of official and local voices composed through multiple authorship, rather than an unmediated report of what a witness thought. Carlo Ginzburg has suggested that the distance between an educated churchman’s view of a supernatural phenomenon and that of an uneducated peasant was so great that in recording the latter’s words, the former almost certainly distorted somewhat his intended testimony.⁴⁴ Similarly, in both Inquisition and canonization proceedings, the interviewers at times asked leading questions. Indeed, for all early modern canonizations the interviewers had a list of questions that were asked.⁴⁵ In answering them, witnesses unwittingly followed the questioner’s logic, rather than speaking according to his or her own ideas about the individual in question. The intimidating nature of the setting—normally in a church before prelates who were generally of much higher rank than the witness—might also predispose the witness to follow the questioner’s logic. Thus, an argument could be made that a canonization process only narrowly tells us about what the judges understood holiness to be and not about what the believers or even medical professionals more broadly thought about the saint or the saint’s body.

Still, pieces of evidence point to the fact that testators frequently saw a canonization process as an opportunity to voice their opinion about the holiness—or lack thereof—of someone from their community. For example, in giving evidence for the canonization of their sister Caterina Ricci, two nuns dictated statements that lasted for more than twenty manuscript pages.⁴⁶ When Andrea Castaldi testified for the founder of his order, Gaetano dei Conti di Tiene, his testimony took up thirty-six pages.⁴⁷ Testifying for a saint was a rare opportunity to talk to the elite, and many seized upon it.⁴⁸ The length of their testimony implies that much of their personal opinion about the person in question, and therefore the definition of holiness in general, entered into the deposition. It also would seem to imply that many of these witnesses saw the testimony before these elite churchmen as something of a performance, which they may have rehearsed multiple times before telling it to the notary. In this way, then, such testimony might tell us more about what people in a given area thought sainthood should be rather than about the deeds of the individual in question.

On a similar note, witnesses occasionally expressed hostility toward canonization judges and testified in a way that was clearly against the intention of the question. When asked about the miracles carried out by Fra Felice of Cantalice—a Capuchin put forward for canonization in the sixteenth century, but only elevated to the rank of saint in 1712—his fellow Capuchin, Fra Giovanni da Bergamo, stated in what were less than glowing terms that “this was a great miracle from the life of Fra Felice. He studied in these three things, that is: the disregard of himself, obedience, and prayer.”⁴⁹ A knowledgeable listener would have recognized da Bergamo’s explicit denial that Felice had carried out any miraculous works. In a similar vein, medical witnesses did not invariably tell the canonization judges exactly what was expected.

What can be concluded is that the record of a canonization trial was a negotiated piece of evidence in which the voices of the believers blended with those of the ecclesiastical authorities who were attempting to turn local holiness into universal Catholic sainthood. It is those negotiations, especially as they pertain to the body of the saint, that this book examines. From a thorough review of extant sources, it emerges that the meaning of the saintly body, whether interpreted by laymen, medical practitioners, or theologians, itself had no single, fixed, or absolute meaning. Rather, the holy body was defined by local context and circumstances. This study documents the Church’s attempt to make local belief and local knowledge into universal Catholic truth.