Viewing Disability in Medieval Spanish Texts: Disgraced or Graced 9789048527397

Table of contents :
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Introduction: Disability Theory and Pre-Modern Considerations
1. Lameness – Los Contrechos
2. Blindness – Los Ciegos
3. Deafness and Inability to Speak – Los Sordomudos
4. Leprosy – Los Gafos
5. Cured by the Grace of God – Los Milagros
6. Conclusions
Works Cited
Index

Citation preview

Viewing Disability in Medieval Spanish Texts

Premodern Health, Disease, and Disability This series is timely as the fields of premodern health and disability studies have grown rapidly in the last decade. To date, there is no series concentrating on early medicine, disabilities, or health generally (see related series below). Premodern Health, Disease, and Disability would cover all topics concerned with health, disease, and disability – including injury, impairment, medical care, physicians, and hospitals – before about 1800. The board would entertain material from all parts of the globe, but given our own contacts will encourage those studying Europe and the Mediterranean from antiquity to the end of the Early Modern period. Series Editors Wendy J. Turner, Georgia Regents University Walton O. Schalick III, University of Wisconsin, Madison Christina Lee, University of Nottingham and a wider Advisory Board of scholars from universities at Bremen, Exeter, Chapel Hill, and elsewhere

Viewing Disability in Medieval Spanish Texts Disgraced or Graced

Connie L. Scarborough

Amsterdam University Press

Cover illustration: British Library, Harley ms. 4425, f.10v Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Lay-out: Crius Group, Hulshout Amsterdam University Press English-language titles are distributed in the US and Canada by the University of Chicago Press. isbn 978 90 8964 875 4 e-isbn 978 90 4852 739 7 (pdf) doi 10.5117/9789089648754 nur 684 © Connie L. Scarborough / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2018 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book.

Dedicated to Charles



Table of Contents

Acknowledgements 9 Introduction: Disability Theory and Pre-Modern Considerations Disability Theories: Definitions and Limitations Adapting Disability Studies for the Pre-Modern Era The Role of the Church and Christian Beliefs Disability Studies and Literary Texts Goals and Organization

11 13 15 20 25 27

1 Lameness – Los Contrechos Definitions and Theories Legal Status Historical and Pseudo-Scientific Accounts Work and Occupational Hazards Mobility Devices Divine Punishment Ridicule and Example The Monstrous

31 31 32 38 42 47 51 55 59

2 Blindness – Los Ciegos 65 Medieval Theories of Sight 65 Causes for Loss of Sight 66 Religious Beliefs 67 Begging and Charity 74 Blinding as Judicial Punishment 78 Blinding as Divine Punishment 85 Self-Blinding 90 Comic Potential 93 3 Deafness and Inability to Speak – Los  Sordomudos Deaf vs. deaf Legal status Cures (?) Popular Refrains and Wisdom Literature Spiritual Autobiography/Pathography/Consolation Loss of Speech

99 99 103 103 104 107 118

4 Leprosy – Los Gafos Medical Knowledge Segregation (?) The Leper as Metaphor Leprosy as Divine Punishment Leper as Holy Messenger Leper as Figure in Religious History Leprosy and ‘Tests of Friendship’

131 131 138 142 146 149 156 161

5 Cured by the Grace of God –  Los Milagros 165 The Medieval Concept of Miracle 167 Miracle Accounts 169 Missing Limbs 173 Lameness and Paralysis 177 Multiple Impairments 188 Blindness 192 Deafness and Inability to Speak 200 Leprosy 205 Interdependence of Disability and Divine Cure 207 6 Conclusions

211

Works Cited

217

Index 227

Acknowledgements I would like to thank my colleagues in the Department of Classical and Modern Languages and Literatures at Texas Tech University and the Department Chair, Dr Erin Collopy, for their support of my research. I am also indebted to the staff of the Library of Texas Tech University, especially the Inter-Library Loan personnel, and to the librarians of the Biblioteca Nacional de España in Madrid. Thanks to the Office of the Provost of Texas Tech University for a semester Development Leave during Spring Semester, 2016 that allowed me to finish this project. A special thanks to my editors at Amsterdam University Press. A final thanks to the Humanities Center at Texas Tech for a Stimulus Grant that facilitated an extended period of work in Madrid.



Introduction: Disability Theory and Pre-Modern Considerations

As the field of disability studies has grown over the last 40 years, there has been increasing critical interest in how current notions and attitudes toward the impaired were shaped historically.1 While the present study is not one of social history but rather of textual analysis of literary texts – as these will be broadly defined – its aim is to introduce a heretofore largely unexplored body of work within disability studies. I will examine a variety of texts produced in Medieval Spain to determine how individuals with physical impairments were presented. This study will establish two main paradigms for how the disabled are portrayed in works produced in Spain during the Middle Ages – the impaired individual was either perceived as having been punished by God for a sin he/she had committed or, conversely, as a potential recipient of divine reversal of impairment in response to prayer and sincere belief in a cure. In broad brushstrokes, these two extremes reflect the principle that if God could give He could also take away – you could be disgraced or graced by the same omnipotent divinity. But between these extremes this analysis also reveals a myriad of other, often contradictory, notions about disability as it appears in Medieval texts: as a measure for denying certain rights or privileges, a motive for charitable acts, or the opportunity to emulate the suffering of Christ, to name but a few. My readings of a wide-range of texts from Pre-Modern Spain, far from being an esoteric exercise, adds to previous scholars’ efforts to unearth and understand how ideas of bodily difference were portrayed in the past. This may, in turn, further a better understanding of how our current concepts about the disabled, normalcy, and physical variety have developed. An examination of the disabled as they appear in Medieval texts is a useful tool to discover how and why writers portrayed impaired individuals as they did and what ideas about physical difference might have meant to their society at large. From the outset of any study on disability, it should be noted that singling out the physically impaired for critical study is a fundamentally different exercise from approaches designed to recuperate under-represented minority groups in literature. Disability studies is not merely another attempt to be inclusive as is the goal of critical analyses based on notions of race, gender, 1 See, for example, the works by Brueggemann, Davis, Metzler, Newman, Pearman, Silverman, Stiker, and Wheatley as cited.

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sexual orientation, etc.2 In contrast to other identity groups, characters with physical impairments frequently appear in literary texts. This fact has led David Mitchell to posit a hypothesis that he admits is paradoxical: ‘[D]isabled peoples’ social invisibility has occurred in the wake of their perpetual circulation throughout literary history.’3 This study will show that in texts produced in Medieval Spain the disabled frequently appear as historical figures, members of a legal category, and as fictive characters. Although my primary focus is literary texts, I also include other works such as legal treatises, advice manuals, and some historical tracts. 4 I take into account these categories of texts, which would not today be classified as literature, for several reasons. In the case of legal texts, Medieval works of law contain much more than statutes or lists of punishments for particular crimes. They could more properly be classified as manuals for good behaviour and as blueprints for a well-ordered society. In a similar vein, advice manuals, often intended for a sovereign or other person in a position of authority, reveal much about what a society valued and how one should act in order to uphold and preserve those values. Works that are labelled as histories or chronicles in the Medieval period were not based on contemporary academic notions of historical accuracy but rather on accumulated knowledge and mythology about events and individuals. As such, they can provide valuable information about how a society included, or excluded, impaired individuals and what roles they may have played in narratives that reflected their collective memory. Another type of text that one would assume to be useful in a study such as the present are medical manuals. However, in fact, medical treatises rarely address physical impairments, presumably because these conditions were considered beyond medicine’s power to reverse or substantially alter. Although there are some allusions to medical remedies for impairments, these are few and seem to address conditions that could render the patient only temporarily disabled as the consequence of an illness or accident. Thus, although I will present some evidence from medical texts, these have not proved as useful for the 2 Mitchell, ‘Narrative Prosthesis and the Materiality of Metaphor’, pp. 18-19. 3 ‘Narrative Prosthesis and the Materiality of Metaphor’, p. 19. Mitchell further claims that this omnipresence of impaired individuals as literary characters occurs because ‘the representation of disability strikes at the very core of cultural definitions and values’ (‘Narrative Prosthesis and the Materiality of Metaphor’, p. 19). 4 By including a wide range of texts, I am following Irina Metzler who proposes that ‘the story of medieval disabled persons [can] be unearthed from texts pertaining to legal history, from philosophical treatises, from works of literature, and from social and economic sources’ (A Social History, p. 3).

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present study as the other types of works I will examine. Furthermore, for this study, I include only physical impairments, since the portrayal of mental impairments would require a range of theological, philosophical, and psychological considerations beyond the scope of this project.5 As a first step, this book will catalogue occurrences of disability in texts from Christian Medieval Spain. For these representations of the physically impaired, I will examine how disabilities are portrayed, enacted, and discussed in these texts and, finally, begin to draw some conclusions about the roles and functions the physically impaired play in the works consulted. While students and researchers in the field of Spanish Medieval literature will be familiar with many of the texts I include in the following chapters, I hope they will discover the disabled characters they may have overlooked in previous readings. If recognizing the potential vulnerability of an individual’s physical condition is an essential part of what it means to be human, perhaps these Pre-Modern embodiments of disability can still illuminate ideas about how societies define humanity and react to bodily differences.

Disability Theories: Definitions and Limitations While recognizing the critical imperative to place the portrayals of the physically impaired from the Middle Ages, as fully as possible, within the ideological and culture contexts in which they originated, a review of methodologies and theories of disability as academic discipline is a logical point of departure. Initially, disability studies revolved around two competing models – the medical and the social. The medical model views disability as an individual issue, a problem to be solved, cured or ameliorated by some form of prosthesis.6 In the medical model, the impaired individual is suffering from a type of pathology which the physician can ‘treat’ in order to bring the impaired individual more fully into the abled society. The social model, however, sees disability as a concept applied by a community to denote difference from that society’s concepts of normalcy. The social model is careful to distinguish between the terms ‘impairment’ and ‘disability’: ‘An impairment, in this model, refers to a corporeal difference with which a 5 See, for example, Wendy Turner, ed., Madness in Medieval Law and Custom. 6 Siebers, ‘Disability in Theory’, p. 180. Davis speaks of medicine’s control over the discourse about disability ‘as controlling as any described by Michel Foucault […] The previous discourse, heavily medicalized and oriented toward care and treatment, served its institutional purposes well. But it failed to understand dialectically its own position in the economy of power and control, and it failed to historicize its own assumptions and agency’ (Enforcing Normalcy, p. 2).

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person is born or that a person acquires during the course of his or her life. A person with an impairment only becomes disabled, though, when some kind of social obstruction (physical, perceptual, amongst others) denies that person the opportunity to participate in life fully, fairly, and completely.’7 While this is an important distinction in modern and contemporary disability studies, for the Middle Ages, what may have constituted full, fair, and complete participation in life is difficult to determine and, even if it could be discerned, the definition for such participation would no doubt be radically different from that of contemporary, developed, Western societies. A third model for approaching disability was later developed. Known as the cultural model, this theory does away with the distinction between ‘impairment’ and ‘disability’ and prefers to use only the term ‘disability’ because it sees the experience of disability and the environment in which the disabled live as mutually dependent. The cultural model does not separate the impaired individual from societal notions of normalcy because it holds that he/she must confront the physical and psychological parameters that those notions have established. As a result of the cultural model’s theses about the mutual dependence between physical impairment and the environment, some critics have chosen to concentrate on the physicality of the disabled body. They advocate for accurate portrayals of the corporeal realities as experienced by the disabled individual.8 Exponents for a realistic, matter-of-fact portrayal of even the most intimate details of the lived existence of the impaired contend that other approaches to disability result in representations that would be unrecognizable to the disabled themselves.9 Some who follow the realist interpretation of disability argue that the only valid representations of it are those created by individuals who experience the physical reality of disability themselves.10 Although this may be a valid perspective, it must be recognized that historically many of the disabled characters in literature were created by authors who did not personally experience the disabilities they portray. Furthermore, since for Medieval texts often little is known about the author(s) involved in a work’s production, this critical stance is untenable.11 7 Eyler, ‘Introduction: Breaking Boundaries, Building Bridges’, p. 5. 8 See Siebers, Butler, and Thomson for examples. 9 Siebers, ‘Disability in Theory’, p. 174. 10 Gareth Williams, in his chapter ‘Theorizing Disability’ in the Handbook of Disability Studies, speaks of the post-Foucauldian focus on the body that has led many adherents of the social model of disability to develop new theoretical approaches to the impaired body (p. 136). 11 A notable exception is Teresa de Cartagena whose works will be discussed in the chapter on Deafness.

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A key element in contemporary discussions of disability is the concept of ableism. Fiona Kumari Campbell gives a succinct evaluation of ableism in her 2013 essay, ‘Stalking Ableism’: ‘Central to the system of ableism are two elements, namely, the notion of the normative (and normal individual) and the enforcement of a divide between so-called perfected or developed humanity (how humans are supposedly meant to be) and the aberrant, the unthinkable, underdeveloped and therefore not really-human.’12 While it may seem extreme to speak of disability as a ‘not really-human’ condition, being able-bodied, as Campbell goes on to discuss, can only fully be understood by its opposite. However, it should be noted that the idea of the normative with regard to the body did not appear in English until a little over 150 years ago; before the nineteenth century the most common word to describe the fully-abled was ‘ideal’.13 Thus, in early periods the imperative to be normal – as opposed to abnormal – simply did not exist and bodies could exist on a sliding scale towards or away from the ideal body. The ideal body could also have been perceived, in Judeo-Christian terms, as ultimately inaccessible in the postlapsarian world. The ideal body, created in the image of God, and placed in the Garden of Eden was lost forever on the earthly plane and one might only hope to exist in such a body in an after-life. Since only resurrected bodies would be ‘ideal’, the degree of ableness in this world might be seen as irrelevant. In fact, critics of modernity, such as Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, point out that moderns are in denial about their own fragility and believe that feelings such as pain and suffering can be ameliorated, or even erased, by scientific essentialism.14 In the Pre-Modern world, what are now considered negative realities – pain and suffering – were part and parcel of the fabric of life. As such, the ableist view, with its culturally-fabricated notions of normalcy, did not hold the kind of psychological and institutional sway in the Middle Ages that it does today. The realities of corporal existence simply could not be ‘corrected’ or made to conform to a particular paradigm for people in the Pre-Modern era.

Adapting Disability Studies for the Pre-Modern Era Since I will examine the experience of impairment in a specific Pre-Modern cultural and historical context, my theoretical approach does not strictly 12 Campbell, ‘Stalking Ableism’, p. 215. Emphasis in the original. 13 Davis, ‘Crips Strike Back’, p. 504. 14 Hughes, Goodley, Davis, ‘Conclusion: Disability and Social Theory’, p. 313.

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adhere to any of the models used for contemporary analyses. As such, I do not make a conscious effort to distinguish between the terms ‘impairment’ and ‘disability’ as dictated by the social model for example. I do, however, view the impaired as dependent on the physical and social realities in which they exist and, in this aspect, my approach is more closely aligned with the cultural model. Whenever possible, I try to relate the physical circumstances of the impairment itself to the cultural environment in which it occurs. In this manner, images begin to emerge which, in turn, illuminate how authors in Pre-Modern Spain incorporated, described, and integrated the disabled into their texts. It should be noted that some scholars argue that the term ‘disabled’ is anachronistic when applied to writings from the Middle Ages since the period possessed no one word to describe people who were lame, blind, or deaf (to name but a few conditions now categorized as disabilities). Sara Newman, for example, argues that the standardization of social perceptions and practices surrounding disability occurred after the sixteenth century, facilitated by the technological advancement in print and medicine. She contends that ‘[t]he advent of mechanical printing is concurrent with the appearance of the actual word “disability” as well as with the ability to spread emerging categorical cultural considerations of it more widely and systematically’.15 By contrast, in the Medieval period, the variety of terms and the indistinct descriptions of the disabled who were often considered together with, and often indistinguishable from, the poor, the old, or the infirm complicates our understanding of the status of the disabled during this period.16 In one aspect, however, illness, sickness, or disease can be differentiated from disability by noting that Medieval medicine viewed illness as a dynamic state whereas disability was static.17 Illness changes and evolves, resulting in either the patient’s recovery or death, whereas a physical impairment, whether congenital or acquired, was considered a permanent state.18 John Theilmann concurs with Irina Metzler when he notes that, in the Middle Ages, those suffering from disease were seen as sick but, once the symptoms of a disease had passed, the person was redefined as healthy. He further contends that Medieval physicians often did not draw connections between diseases and the physical impairments 15 Newman, Writing Disability, p. 6. 16 Metzler, A Social History, pp. 4-5. 17 Metzler specifically cites Arnau of Vilanova (c. 1240-1311), doctor and professor at Montpellier, on this point (A Social History, p. 5). 18 Metzler, A Social History, p. 5.

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that might result from them.19 Some scholars insist on what Theilmann labels ‘retrospective diagnosis’ with regard to studies on Medieval impairments or diseases. However, laboratory analysis is almost impossible to undertake and definitions of disease and the ways they are described has changed significantly over time, making such an approach specious.20 For his part, Edward Wheatley dismisses outright any application of the medical constructs of disability when dealing with the Medieval period since medical knowledge competed with traditional beliefs about the impaired. Furthermore, there was not an established and all-powerful medical profession as such in the Middle Ages since medical knowledge ‘based in universities, monasteries, or folk practices was too decentralized to wield the institutional and discursive power that it has today’.21 As this study will demonstrate, the perceived and real permanence of a physically disabling condition came to be associated with miracle cures, whereas illness could be medically treated even though recovery clearly was not guaranteed. Any study of the disabled that tries to reconstruct both aesthetic and ethical mores around those with impairments from a time remote from our own faces some real challenges. As early as 1999, Lennard Davis drew attention to the scholarly debate about whether people with disabilities were better off now than in the past.22 While there is some evidence that individuals with physical disabilities, especially if the impairment was acquired in battle, were respected in Pre-Modern cultures, there are other competing paradigms that must be considered. Social historians have addressed some of these issues and provide valuable insights for a study such as the present one. In her book, Disability in Medieval Europe, Irina Metzler astutely observes that ‘impairment can carry widely differing notions of disability with it. Potentially stigmatizing conditions which are formally identical can have different meanings to people from different cultures around the world, and by implication to different cultures in time as well.’23 In other words, in order to understand why some bodies were considered as fully-abled or as disabled in the Pre-Modern era requires examining how 19 Theilmann, ‘Disease or Disability?’, p. 203. 20 ‘Retrospective diagnosis presents problems in several ways. Even though it is possible to undertake laboratory analysis on DNA from past times with the use of polymerase chain reaction (PCR), obtaining genetic material is often difficult and the use of PCR must be done with extreme caution in order to avoid contaminating samples’ (Theilmann, ‘Disease or Disability?’, pp. 200-01). 21 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 9. 22 Davis, ‘Crips Strike Back’, p. 505. 23 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 29.

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these concepts, if they existed as such a dichotomy, were defined within their own historical and cultural environments. To this end Wheatley argues for a consideration of ‘distinctly medieval constructions that did not grow out of the nature of the impairment but made it a disability in ways specific to that era’.24 For example, in the Middle Ages the human body was considered as a microcosm that reflected, negatively and positively, what occurred in the wider social sphere or the macrocosm. This concept led to the belief that anything that was wrong in the macrocosm, especially sin, could be manifest in the microcosm of an individual body. It followed, then, that corruption of a society (macrocosm) might be manifest in a disabled body (microcosm).25 Acceptance of the fact that an impairment or birth defect might result from moral aberration or be sent as a warning to a society places the cultural construct of disability in a much different light from contemporary thinking about the physically impaired.26 Another concept that must be taken into consideration when placing disability within Medieval Christendom is that of the individual as imago Dei. In sharp contrast to the pagan notion that human value is acquired, the Christian ethos argued for the inherent sanctity of all human life since humans were created in God’s image.27 Christianity introduced moral obligations to care for the unfortunate – including, but 24 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 6. Wheatley further contends that ‘[o]ur historical distance from the Middle Ages allows us to see these constructions of [disability] with greater clarity because modern ones are so different’ (Stumbling Blocks, p. 6). Joshua Eyler agrees with Wheatley and advocates for the ‘need to develop new models that take into account the aspects of medieval social and religious systems that cannot be completely explained by modern constructionist models’ (‘Introduction: Breaking Boundaries, Building Bridges’, p. 2). 25 Newman-Stille, ‘Morality and Monstrous Disability’, pp. 234-35. It should be noted that there was diversity of opinion about the association of sin with disability in the Middle Ages and it is an exaggeration to state that all depictions of the impaired equated the condition with sin (Newman-Stille, ‘Morality and Monstrous Disability’, pp. 237-38). 26 For example, Gerald of Wales (c. 1146-c. 1223) writes in his Topographia Hibernica, ‘just as those who are kindly fashioned by nature turn out fine, so those that are without nature’s blessing turn out in a horrible way’ (quoted in Newman-Stille, ‘Morality and Monstrous Disability’, p. 235). 27 Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, pp. 62-63. Amundsen addresses, at some length, the exposure or killing of defective new-borns in classical antiquity. He finds no laws in Greece or Rome that prohibited these practices and, if any such laws existed, they appear not to have been enforced. He further contends that ‘in Roman culture the killing of defective new-borns was common, and was even apparently required in the case of those infants so grossly deformed or unusual to appear to be portentosi or monstrous births. For Greece, however, we have seen only the anomalous conditions in Sparta and the “ideal” practices suggested by Aristotle and Plato. They really tell us little about conditions in Greek society during the classical period’ (Medicine, Society, and Faith, p. 60). The evidence presented by Amundsen leads him to two conclusions: ‘One is that the care of defective new-borns simply was not a medical concern in classical antiquity. The second is that the morality of the killing of sickly or deformed new-borns

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not limited to, the widowed, the orphaned, the sick, and the poor – a notion that was virtually alien to Greek and Roman ethical beliefs.28 The most common type of interaction between the impaired and the rest of Medieval society that is often cited by critics is through begging, but this limited notion of the position occupied by the disabled in Medieval society is only part of the picture. While the disabled did make up some portion of the begging poor it is wrong to assume that this was their only form of livelihood. Wheatley concludes that almsgiving should not be considered a primary factor controlling the lives of the disabled. He maintains that ‘[e] ven if we assume that the majority of people with disabilities needed alms or institutional care, many would have needed neither, and therefore charity would not have constructed their experience of disability’.29 While Wheatley’s qualifications about the disabled and their relationship to the poor with regard to their need for charitable assistance are well-argued, a disability that rendered one unable to work could have significant consequences. The poor, too, were not the only group that shared some of the experiences of the disabled. The chronically ill were among those who might also require special assistance or benefit from charitable almsgiving. Furthermore, the realities of the impaired individual’s existence depended on a number of other factors, including gender, economic status, family support, place of residence, etc. Metzler ultimately concludes that the physically disabled in the Middle Ages lived in a liminal state, not fully members of the able-bodied society but neither totally excluded from it. For these reasons she rejects the term marginalized for the disabled. Metzler’s arguments against the term marginalization are much more nuanced and qualified than those expressed earlier by Henri-Jacques Stiker, who argued for an almost utopian inclusion and acceptance of the disabled within Medieval society. Stiker claims that ‘the disabled, the impaired, the chronically ill were spontaneously part of the world and of a society that was accepted as being multifaceted, diversified, disparate. The kind of social eugenics that was to be the fate of recent society had not yet emerged. Normalcy was a hodgepodge, and no one was concerned with segregation, for it was only natural that there should be malformations.’30 Davis picks up this same chord when he pronounces that ‘[p]reindustrial societies tended to treat people with impairments as part appears not to have been questioned, as least not in extant sources, either by nonmedical or by medical authors’ (Medicine, Society, and Faith, p. 62). 28 Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, p. 13. 29 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 14. 30 Stiker, A History of Disability, p. 65.

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of the social fabric’.31 To Stiker’s and Davis’s credit, they are not postulating the contemporary notion of accommodation toward the disabled for the Medieval period but argue more for the reality of a society in which significant numbers of the physically impaired probably existed.32 Wheatley specifically comments on a lack of historical data that would support a claim that people with impairments were integrated into their societies ‘because they lived lives too unexceptional to leave lasting textual evidence’.33

The Role of the Church and Christian Beliefs One of Wheatley’s key contentions is that the Church ultimately controlled discourse about and treatment of the disabled in the Middle Ages. He finds this particularly true with regard to the Christian imperative to give charity to the less fortunate. His opinion finds some support in Stiker’s observations about the rich assuring their salvation by giving alms to the poor and the disabled.34 Wheatley also affirms that the Church’s promotion of stories of miraculous cures of the ill and impaired kept those suffering with disabilities within the powerful grasp of the Church.35 Joshua Eyler takes issue with Wheatley’s contention about the power of the Church because it implies what he calls a ‘top-down’ approach and points out that ‘[n]ot every medieval person followed the ideology of the Church either exactly or unquestioningly’.36 Louise Elizabeth Wilson centres her argument about the Church’s relationship to the disabled on its concern for the soul of the faithful who experienced illness or other physically-limiting condition. Instead of focusing on the causal relationship between impairment and 31 Davis, Enforcing Normalcy, p. 3. It seems a bit contradictory that Davis qualifies this statement by adding that preindustrial societies integrated the disabled into society but treated them unkindly (Enforcing Normalcy, p. 3). He presents no evidence to support this qualification. 32 One could argue that the main reasons for physical impairment – congenital defects, maiming in accidents, and injuries resulting from warfare – are the same as those operative today, but the percentage of disabled individuals was probably higher than in contemporary, developed societies due to improvements in pre-natal care, safety regulations, and technologies of war in which significant numbers of the military are not involved in direct physical combat. 33 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 8. 34 Braddock and Parish echo this opinion when they contend that ‘the poor were perceived to offer opportunities for wealthier citizens to do good by providing alms’. They further conclude that ‘[i]n this context, persons with disabilities doubtless had more widespread acceptance as part of the poor’ (‘An Institutional History of Disability’, p. 19). 35 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 12. 36 Eyler, ‘Introduction: Breaking Boundaries, Building Bridges’, p. 7.

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sin, she interprets the Church’s role as one that focused ‘on the perceived effects that enduring such conditions could have on the spiritual state of a petitioner’.37 Contrition and abiding faith, Wilson contends, were perceived as paramount in attaining a cure from illness or the removal of physical impairment.38 In the Church, as well, there existed the belief that any bodily suffering, including physical impairment, emulated that of Christ’s passion and, therefore, served to strengthen one’s faith in the redemptive sacrifice of Jesus.39 Any disability or illness, when endured with patience, was believed ‘to bring the soul of the sufferer into a state of true contrition and resolute faith’. 40 If suffering was a part of a Medieval Christian’s identity, there also existed the abiding belief that physical impairment could be visited on an individual as a punishment for sin.41 Wheatley claims that ‘Medieval Christianity often constructed disability as a spiritually pathological site of absence of the divine where “the works of God [could] be made manifest”’.42 Some of the Church fathers promoted the link between impairment, illness, and sin, such as St. John Chrysostom (CE 347-407) who, in a homily about the paralytic cured by Christ stressed that sin was the root of the man’s condition.43 This spiritual appropriation of the disabled contributed to the idea that the impaired individual was somehow marked by God. This association continues to manifest itself in many contemporary folk beliefs around the world as 37 Wilson, ‘Hagiographical Interpretations of Disability’, p. 136. 38 Wilson, ‘Hagiographical Interpretations of Disability’, p. 136. Despite the Church’s emphasis on spiritual healing, Darrel Amundsen concludes that all patristic sources held that consulting physicians was in no way inappropriate for Christians and that God could cure through a physician but also that He could affect cures without the doctor’s knowledge or medications (Medicine, Society, and Faith, pp. 6-7). 39 Hutchinson speaks of Christ on the cross as a disabled God who stands as a metaphor for the fragility of the body (‘Disabling Beliefs?’, p. 18). On this subject, see also, Nancy Eiesland’s The Disabled God: Toward a Liberating Theology of Disability. 40 Wilson, ‘Hagiographical Interpretations of Disability’, p. 157. Perhaps the most famous example of physical suffering in order to imitate Christ was St. Francis. Francis was not only a model of self-denial but recently historians, such as Donna Trembinski, have drawn attention to Francis’s various disabilities such as impaired sight and limited mobility (‘An Infirm Man’, pp. 274-75). 41 Amundsen distinguishes a particular nuance of such a belief that is worth noting: ‘[I]t is one thing to maintain that a person is sick as a punishment for a specific sin to which he or she is obstinately and tenaciously clinging, but it is quite another matter to attribute one’s own sickness to one’s general sinfulness and see the sickness as part of God’s punitive and refining process’ (Medicine, Society, and Faith, p. 188). 42 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 11. 43 Wilson, ‘Hagiographical Interpretations of Disability’, p. 153.

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Wayland Hand and others have catalogued. The phrase ‘marked by God’ has had surprisingly long staying power as many popular refrains attest.44 Some critics cite Biblical authority as a source for the historical association between sin and disability. But, as Metzler has established, there are, in fact, surprisingly few physical or mental impairments that actually appear in Biblical narratives. In the Old Testament, God’s wrath with the wickedness of humankind is more often expressed through punishments such as war, pestilence, earthquake, storm, fire, or blight than the infliction of impairment on an individual.45 The most often cited passages from the Old Testament about disability are found in Deuteronomy and Leviticus.46 In Chapter 28 of Deuteronomy, sin is connected with physical imperfection and those who disobey divine law are afflicted with illnesses or impairments. 47 Especially Deuteronomy 28:27-29 includes a host of afflictions, among which are found some that would now be labelled as disabilities: The Lord will smite you with the boils of Egypt, and with the ulcers and the scurvy and the itch of which you cannot be healed. The Lord will smite you with madness and blindness and confusion of mind; and you shall grope at noonday, as the blind grope in darkness […]

Some of the most famous proscriptions about the disabled are found in Leviticus and concern who may not serve as a priest. Forbidden from priestly service are the blind, the lame, the disfigured, the deformed, anyone with a crippled hand or foot, hunchbacks, dwarfs, anyone with eye or skin disease, and eunuchs (Leviticus 21:18-20). 48 Metzler feels that this passage has been 44 Among the many examples, cited by Matilde Cuevas Díaz in La imagen de los discapacitados en la literatura tradicional, are the following: ‘Al que nació señalado, no lo traigas a tu lado’ (p. 24) (‘He who is born marked, don’t have him by your side’). ‘Dios, no me ponga cercano del hombre señalado de su mano’ (p. 24) (‘God, don’t put me close to one marked by Your hand’). ‘De hombre a quien Dios señaló, ni la conversación’ (p. 24) (‘Of the man marked by God, not even conversation’). ‘Guárdate de aquel a quien Dios señaló’ (p. 24) (‘Guard yourself from one marked by God’). All these and related phrases imply that even being in the company of those ‘marked by God’ is dangerous either from fear of contagion, repulsion, or sin by association. 45 Hand, ‘Deformity, Disease and Physical Ailment’, p. 525. 46 There are other references to the disabled found in Genesis, Exodus 1 and 2, Samuel 2, Chronicles, and Zechariah. 47 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 39. 48 Even though at first reading, this list appears excessively exclusionary, Hutchinson reminds us that since the Hebrew conception of personhood was embodied and physical, ‘the impure

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overemphasized and that, in fact, it tells us very little about actual prohibitions for the disabled in the Middle Ages. 49 Even though papal edicts in the Medieval period decreed that those with physical deformity, mutilations, or serious blemishes could not enter high orders, it is not known if any such restrictions were placed on other clerics (lower orders) or lay brothers and sisters.50 In the Middle Ages, canon law as penned by Raymond of Peñafort (d. 1275) was even more influential than Gratian’s Decretum (twelfth ­century) and Raymond promoted the idea of healthy individuals, especially in positions of responsibility within the Church. Raymond declared that fully-abled individuals were best suited ‘to fight for the Church’ and even stated that the faithful might be discouraged by the example of infirm or disabled clergy.51 In Spain, Alfonso X’s monumental thirteenth-century law code, the Siete Partidas (Seven Parts) reflected canonical law in its proscriptions about the disabled becoming priests and also places restrictions on their abilities to serve as judges or witnesses in court, write and administer wills, and even to marry. These proscriptions will be discussed in detail in subsequent chapters but suffice it here to say that the Siete Partidas serves as a good example of a Medieval Christian ruler’s attempt to establish the legal status of the disabled among his subjects. These laws include outright injunctions or exclusions of impaired individuals from certain activities but also some exemptions from taxes or duties as well as a recognition of the need to assist and protect them. Turning to the New Testament’s teaching about the disabled, physical impairment is not viewed as a punishment but rather as an opportunity for healing.52 Disability is most often mentioned in connection with miracles performed by Jesus or one of His apostles. Perhaps the most emblematic of all the miracles performed by Jesus is the healing of the man born blind from the Gospel of St. John. When his disciples ask Jesus if the man was blind due to his own sin or that of his parents, Jesus replies that sin played no part in the man’s impairment. According to Jesus, the man is blind so that God’s power may be revealed. According to Colleen Grant, ‘[n]ot only is the healing unconditional but the disciples’ concern for determining the “past cause of the man’s blindness” is […] replaced with focus on the “future associations documented in Leviticus may relate to broader priestly concerns for discerning how the impaired body reflects the “image of God”’ (‘Disabling Beliefs?’, p. 13). 49 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 40. 50 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, pp. 40-41. 51 Trembinski, ‘An Infirm Man’, p. 277. 52 See, for example, Hebrews 12: 12-13.

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purpose” of the impairment’.53 Figuring prominently in the Pauline Books of the New Testament are images of impairment in relationship to the body of Christ crucified. The paradox of God’s power made complete in a disabled body is central to Paul’s theology and his appeal for believers to become the image of Christ perforce entailed physical suffering.54 Stiker takes up the notion of the disabled as reflections of the suffering Christ and associates this attitude with the rise of the Franciscan movement in the thirteenth century. The dignity of the poor, as preached by Francis, was extended to other marginalized groups, such as the physically impaired, who came to be seen as embodying suffering akin to that of Christ.55 While it is undeniable that the Medieval Church was a prominent influence on attitudes about the disabled, it is also true that Christian teaching was not hostile to the medical profession or to individuals seeking medical solutions for affliction as some may assume. Even though the Church held that God was the ultimate cause of all disease and impairment and the care of one’s spiritual well-being was of foremost importance, it did not assert that efforts to find medicinal cures were to go against God’s will.56 For example, a decree from the Fourth Lateran Council of 1215, that later became codified in canon law in the Decretals of Gregory IX, states that ‘[s]ince bodily infirmity is sometimes caused by sin, the physician ought to ensure a patient hears confession before the physician applies the medical treatment so that the soul is “cured” prior to the body’.57 The key word here is, of course, sometimes, and the Church viewed any physical trauma as an opportunity for the faithful to participate in the sacrament of confession. Sara Newman over-generalizes when she categorically states that in the Middle Ages the Church’s spiritual guidelines about physical impairment held that ‘problematic physical conditions […] were obstacles, i.e. disabilities, to be removed from blocking the path to salvation, a goal which required perfect bodies and souls’.58 While Church teaching is central in any discussion of Medieval European texts it was not a monolithic presence and the perfect body was certainly not a requirement for salvation. It is true, 53 Grant, ‘Reinterpreting the Healing Narratives’, pp. 79-80. 54 Hutchinson, ‘Disabling Beliefs?’, p. 14. See 2 Corinthians 3:18. 55 Stiker, A History of Disability, pp. 80-81. 56 Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, p. 11. Amundsen also observes that ‘[m]edicine was a standard part of the medieval curriculum, and it is not uncommon to encounter educated clerics requesting medical handbooks and both seeking and giving medical advice’ (Medicine, Society, and Faith, p. 194). 57 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, pp. 46-47. 58 Newman, Writing Disability, p. 6.

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however, that the reversal or cure of a disabling condition was believed to come ultimately from God since contemporary medical knowledge could not address most issues of physical impairment. Hagiographic texts, especially, include numerous accounts of impaired individuals seeking divine intervention to reverse an impairment. As this study will show, Newman’s stance that ‘physical problems were common and generally undifferentiated by categories’ in the Middle Ages is not entirely accurate either.59 Those who had limited mobility, such as the lame, as well as the blind, the deaf, and those who suffered irreversible and debilitating illness such as leprosy, were perceived in different lights that effected their portrayals.

Disability Studies and Literary Texts Heretofore, the engagement of disability studies with literary works has focused primarily on modern or contemporary texts.60 While some of the tenets proposed in these studies can be adapted for use in an investigation of works produced in the Pre-Modern period, they, like general theoretical approaches to disability, must be modified to take into account the belief systems and social realities of the time of the texts’ production. An apt starting point for examining how some studies of modern literature and disability can prove useful for those involving Medieval texts is the work of David Mitchell and Sharon Snyder. Mitchell and Snyder identify two essential functions that disabled people perform in literary works – they are either portrayed as stock characters or as an ‘opportunistic metaphorical device’.61 They label literature’s dependence on disability as a ‘narrative prosthesis’ since ‘[d]isability lends a distinctive idiosyncrasy to any character that differentiates the character from the anonymous background of the “norm”’.62 In another study by Mitchell and Snyder, ‘The Uneasy Home of Disability in Literature and Film’, the authors address how various critics, over time, have attempted to explain the enduring popularity of the disabled in literary texts. They speak of the ‘negative image school’, consisting of those scholars 59 Newman, Writing Disability, p. 41. 60 Notable exceptions are the studies by Brody, Martínez García, Mendizábal, Turner, Pearman, and Walter, as cited. 61 Mitchell and Snyder, ‘Narrative Prosthesis’, p. 222. 62 Mitchell and Snyder, ‘Narrative Prosthesis’, p. 222. Mitchell, in a related study, also defines disabled individuals that appear in literature as undisciplined because they do not conform to the narratives established for them either by medical or rehabilitative models (‘Narrative Prosthesis and the Materiality of Metaphor’, p. 16).

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who found the disabled to be presented in overwhelmingly stereotypical fashion or, at worst, in ways that humiliated them.63 This school emphasized the isolation of the disabled individual who was often embittered and angry, and frequently defeated by his/her physical condition. It held that ‘disability portrayals could be understood best as a form of cathartic revenge in which the stigmatizers [the able-bodied] punish the stigmatized [disabled individuals] to alleviate their own worries and fears about bodily vulnerability and inhumane social conditions’.64 Derek Newman-Stille echoes a similar view when he states that ‘the disabled themselves bodily represent the fears of the able-bodied, embodying the worry of eventually potentially becoming disabled, of being injured or hurt, and being different’.65 The negative image school awakened some scholars to a more politicized view of disability which first manifested itself in efforts to show how the vast majority of the portrayals of the disabled were inaccurate. These scholars, however, did not posit positive images of the disabled to counter the negative ones found in literature or film. They argued that even when the disabled were portrayed as heroes, the realities of their lives were often distorted and could result in them becoming characters in a freak show.66 These scholars directly argue for images of the disabled that reveal the physical and attitudinal struggles that the impaired face on a daily basis. While this model is extremely useful in pointing out the relationship of literary representations of the disabled to societal attitudes, the advocacy element inherent in it, while laudable, is not directly applicable to analysis of Medieval art forms. Neither the construction of disability as a negative prosthesis in literature nor the assertions about the impaired as negative images to compensate for the fears of the able-bodied is entirely valid when considering Medieval texts. It is difficult to determine if the impaired serve solely to differentiate and highlight the norm since notions about normalcy in the Pre-Modern world differ from contemporary ones. Similarly, what constituted a stereotypical portrayal of the disabled is complicated when considering Medieval texts since modern notions about stereotypes have been formed by repetitive models that may have been unknown to Pre-Modern authors. Additional problematic factors affecting the validity of disability approaches to modern literature when considering Medieval works is the frequent lack of 63 ‘The argument of the negative imagery school set out to establish a continuum between limiting literary depictions and dehumanizing social attitudes toward disabled people’ (Mitchell and Snyder, ‘The Uneasy Home’, p. 197). 64 Mitchell and Snyder, ‘The Uneasy Home’, p. 198. 65 Newman-Stille, ‘Morality and Monstrous Disability’, p. 253. 66 Mitchell and Snyder, ‘The Uneasy Home’, p. 200.

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knowledge about an author or the circumstances of a text’s production. The contemporary importance of the author and his/her personal worldview are concepts that did not exist in the Middle Ages with many texts of unknown or dubious authorship. Fundamental too is consideration of the way that Medieval audiences interacted with texts in contrast to modern ideas about reading and interpreting literary works. The reception of texts differed significantly from the way contemporary readers process such materials. Fictional narratives, poetry, advice manuals, legal pronouncements, and historical accounts were all designed not simply to either, on the one hand, entertain or, on the other, to provide objective information. For Medieval audiences, either reading a text or, more often, listening to it being read, was an act of ‘demonstrative rhetoric that reached out and grabbed the reader, involved him or her in praise and blame, in judgments about effective and ineffective human behaviour. They engaged the reader, not so much in the unravelling of meaning as in a series of ethical meditations and of personal ethical choices.’67 Given this model for textual reception in the Middle Ages, essentially any written work would engage its public in critical decisions about their own lives and how they interact with their fellow human beings. Literature in the Middle Ages, too, especially depended on precedent and established sources considered authoritative. Thus, portrayals of the disabled would have relied more prominently on literary exemplarity and established motifs than do modern works in which originality or novelty of approach is valued.

Goals and Organization Sara Newman calls for examining materials about disabled individuals ‘in their original social contexts’ and goes on to argue for an understanding of cultural artefacts, such as texts, as an exercise in historical reconstruction.68 To investigate how authors in the Pre-Modern era write about physical impairment, I have tried, where possible, to provide a theological, legal, or medical background in order to comprehend, as fully as possible, the beliefs and practices that inform these works. I agree with Theilmann who insists on viewing disability through the lens of the era and warns against trying to enforce modern notions about the impaired on earlier historical periods.69 67 Dagenais, The Ethics of Reading, p. xvii. 68 Newman, Writing Disability, p. 4. 69 Theilmann, ‘Disease or Disability?’, p. 228.

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Literature can be a means to demonstrate that norms themselves change over time and cultures, and analyses of artistic production reveal that ideas about normalcy are both artificial and malleable.70 As with any artistic representation, the disabled in literature are not some homogenous class with no consideration for individual differences.71 In an essay published as recently as 2012, Bill Hughes labels beliefs about the disabled in the Middle Ages as ‘superstitious’ and tries to establish that impaired individuals were invariably viewed with disgust by the able-bodied.72 This type of stereotypical representation of the Medieval period reveals anachronistic reasoning that needs to be countered by a careful study of precisely how impaired individuals were represented in Pre-Modern texts. Joshua Eyler contends that medievalists need to ‘unpack’ the ways in which Medieval society viewed the impaired.73 A goal of the present study is to reveal, or ‘unpack’, attitudes toward the disabled through an analysis of one body of Pre-Modern texts. The varied and conflicting ways that disability is portrayed in Medieval texts – as burden, punishment, object of charity, promise, or hope – indicate that Medieval authors did not hold a monolithic view towards disabled individuals.74 Such indecisiveness and conflicting ideas in the presentation of those with physical impairments also implies a struggle with an enduring issue at the heart of disability studies, i.e., how do writers cope with and explore ‘underrecognized and undertheorized facts of bodily difference’.75 I have divided my investigations into chapters with each focusing on a specific impairment as seen in a variety of texts. Examining different representations of a particular disability affords various textual reactions to, and representations of, that condition while also discerning patterns – where they exist – in its portrayal. I will address lameness, blindness, deafness, lack of speech (most often associated with deafness in the Middle Ages), and also leprosy. The latter is technically an illness and not a physical impairment but the disease leads to disabling conditions and served as both a very real condition as well as metaphor in Medieval texts. Leprosy, too, was 70 ‘If one seeks to argue that the current predicament of and social attitudes toward people with disabilities are inadequate, then demonstrating the kaleidoscopic nature of historical responses to disability can prove an important tool for interrogating the “naturalized” ideology hiding behind current beliefs’ (Mitchell and Snyder, ‘The Uneasy Home’, p. 214). 71 Williams, Gareth, ‘Theorizing Disability’, p. 139. 72 Hughes, ‘Civilising Modernity’, pp. 19-21. 73 Eyler, ‘Introduction: Breaking Boundaries, Building Bridges’, p. 2. 74 Sticker, A History of Disability, p. 87. 75 Bérubé, ‘Disability and Narrative’, p. 570.

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the one, most prominent disease of the Middle Ages (before the outbreaks of Bubonic plague beginning in the fourteenth century) for which there was no hope for a medical cure, despite some remedies proposed in medical texts. My decision to include leprosy in a study of the physically impaired is supported by John Theilmann’s assertion that when leprosy became defined as permanent and contagious, ‘the disfigurement and crippling produced […] could be defined as a disability’.76 Theilmann further contends that leprosy is a unique case that conflates the concepts of disease and disability because the disease was considered the initiator of a disability that became a permanent condition.77 I also devote a chapter to the miraculous cures of disabling conditions. This part of the study is inspired by Jay Timothy Dolmage’s paradigm of ‘kill-or-cure’ as the ultimate solution in narratives for dealing with disabled individuals. In the texts that I have studied, a physical impairment may result in death or long years of suffering (the kill principle), but one of the most dominant themes in Medieval literature is hope for a cure through divine intervention or grace, usually through the intercession of a saint or his/her relics. Hagiographic literature is replete with cures of all kinds of physical impairments and these will be treated selectively in that chapter. Although hagiographic texts are intentionally formulaic and designed to promote the sanctity of an individual, the number of the disabled and the variety of physical impairments presented in them can provide valuable clues to how these individuals were perceived and beliefs about the role of faith to reverse such conditions. A final chapter will offer some overriding conclusions about the ways the disabled were perceived and portrayed in texts produced in Pre-Modern Spain.

76 Theilmann, ‘Disease or Disability?’, p. 214. Theilmann further contends that Medieval society had a multifaceted perception of leprosy that combined theories about contagion, the bodily humours, and divine intervention. As a result, the leper was stigmatized but not to the extent that was asserted by writers in the nineteenth century (‘Disease or Disability?’, p. 215). 77 Theilmann, ‘Disease or Disability?’, p. 227.

1

Lameness – Los Contrechos

Definitions and Theories Old Spanish uses an all-encompassing word for the type of disabilities that will be discussed in this chapter – contrecho. Contrecho can denote one who is deformed, crippled, maimed, lame, hunchbacked, paralyzed, or even the modern equivalent of estropeado/a, meaning ruined. Anyone labelled contrecho/a would have some sort of bodily ‘defect’ in that he/she might be missing a limb, have withered or twisted limbs, suffer a deformity from birth, or otherwise experience some sort of mobility issue or disfiguring condition. All these types of impairments are what Irina Metzler labels ‘visible’, that is, ones that are more noticeable than other impairments as, for example, deafness, mental impairment, or even diabetes or asthma. She claims that ‘[g]reater visibility of an impairment would […] bring with it greater cultural or social consequences for the affected individual’.1 Metzler also points out the variety and inconsistency of terms applied to such physical impairments in the Middle Ages. This irregularity of terminology is true for Spanish texts for although the overriding term contrecho/a is frequently used, there are a host of other words to denote specific physical limitations such as cojo/a (lame), manco/a (missing a limb, especially an arm or hand), paralítico/a (paralytic), giboso/a (hunchbacked), or variations on its modern equivalent, corcovado/a (hunchbacked or humpbacked) as well as other designations and variant spellings of the ones mentioned here. I will include in this chapter an examination of literary texts where individuals are described with vocabulary that infers that they are lame, missing one or more limbs, hunchbacked, partially or completely paralyzed, or otherwise physically deformed. In all cases these impairments are clearly noticeable to others and the individuals usually require some form of mobility assistance. Physical difference that is readily visible to all demands an explanation and the literature in which contrechos appear ‘inaugurates an explanatory opportunity that the unmarked body eludes by virtue of its physical anonymity’.2 Mitchell and Snyder speak of the visceral nature of response to physical deformity and claim that representations of physical 1 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 4. 2 Mitchell, ‘Narrative Prosthesis’, p. 24. Mitchell, later in the same essay, reiterates this idea in a slightly different way: ‘If the nondysfunctional body proves too ordinary to narrate, the disabled body becomes a paramount device of characterization’ (‘Narrative Prosthesis’, p. 29).

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imperfection in literature evoke ‘powerful sentiments within the safe space of textual interactions’.3 Mitchell further contends that the types of physical disabilities discussed in this chapter can be used in literature as ‘master metaphor for social ills’. 4 The various sorts of impairments that fall under the term contrecho constituted a major category of the disabled in the Medieval world. Tory Vandeventer Pearman identifies a current theme in disability studies which has tried to counter the belief that Medieval society was intolerant or hostile to people with such physical limitations.5 As late as the 1960s, scholars contended that there was a complete lack of support or responsibility for mobility-impaired individuals.6 Even in 1999 Deborah Mark held that people in the Middle Ages were superstitious with regard to the disabled and even persecuted them.7 However, Pearman and Metzler affirm that some physically-impaired individuals could have functioned well within Pre-Modern society, even though they were stigmatized in some religious discourse. However, their economic integration, i.e., their ability to work in certain occupations or perform certain tasks, should not necessarily be construed as accommodation for the impaired in the contemporary sense.8 Pearman suggests that critics should not polarize the Middle Ages by establishing either the monolithic view that the period was intolerant of the physically disabled or that it was entirely accepting of these individuals.9 This rejection of binary extremes of reactions to the physically impaired allows for a more nuanced approach and corresponds to the variety of ways these individuals are represented in literary texts.

Legal Status From the outset it is fundamental to be aware that there were certain legal restrictions placed on the lame or disfigured, as there were on the blind and the deaf. Authority for such restrictions was most often justified in terms of Biblical teaching about impaired individuals who may not serve 3 Mitchell and Snyder, ‘The Uneasy Home of Disability in Literature and Film’, p. 209. 4 Mitchell, ‘Narrative Prosthesis’, p. 24. Thomson calls the physically disabled body ‘a repository for social anxieties about such troubling concerns as vulnerability, control, and identity’ (Extra-ordinary Bodies, p. 6). 5 Pearman, Women and Disability, p. 4. 6 Cited in Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 13. 7 Quoted in Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 13. 8 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 26. 9 Pearman, Women and Disability, p. 5.

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as priests. Although briefly discussed earlier, the most oft-cited passage in this regard is in the Book of Leviticus 21:18-20 which includes the following injunction: ‘No man with any physical defects may make the offering: no one who is blind, lame, disfigured, or deformed; no one with a crippled hand or foot; no one who is a hunchback or a dwarf; no one with any eye or skin disease; and no eunuch.’ Nonetheless this passage did not hold universal sway over treatment of the physically disfigured and scholars should not assume that this prohibition was always enforced.10 However, canonical law did restrict those not considered physically intact from entering higher orders of the Church unless a dispensation was granted.11 Alfonso X in his thirteenth-century legal code, the Siete Partidas (Seven Parts), adheres very closely to established canon law, especially in the First Partida that deals with matters related to the Church. This code follows the concerns of bodily perfection imbedded in canonical law. For example, Law XXV, of the 6th Title, or division, of the First Partida begins with a general principle about bodily perfection: ‘Forma es conplida de onbre quando ha todos sus mienbros conplidos: & sanos: & el que tal no fuere no le pueden llamar onbre conplido quanto en façion’12 (‘A man’s form is perfect when all his members are complete and sound, and he who is not such, cannot in any manner be called a perfect man’).13 The law then states that men cannot serve as priests who have lost members that it calls ‘los mayores’ (‘greater members’), whether they be visible or concealed. Greater members are defined as the arm, leg, foot, and hand, because of their size, but also include the eye, nose, ear, or finger because of ‘grand apostura que dan a los cuerpos’ (93) (‘the great symmetry which they impart to the body’) (I, 93). Further, members defined as ‘great’ are those that ‘son vergonçosos de nonbrar’ (93) (‘which it is immodest to mention’) (I, 93), if the unfortunate man lost them due to violence or an accident. But, if those members were removed on the advice of a physician ‘por temor que ouiesse de caer en grande enfermedad’ (93) (‘through fear that he might contract some serious illness’) (I, 93), this should 10 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 40. 11 See for example title 20 of the Liber extra, canonical documents promulgated in 1234 by Pope Gregory IX (Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 40). 12 All citations from the Siete Partidas are from P. Sánchez-Prieto Borja, Rocío Díaz Moreno, Elena Trujillo Belso: Edición de textos alfonsíes en REAL ACADEMIA ESPAÑOLA: Banco de datos (CORDE) [en línea]. Corpus diacrónico del español. [7 de marzo 2006]: Siete Partidas. Accessible at dspace.uah.es/dspace/bitstream/handle/10017/…/Siete%20 Partidas.pdf. Here, p. 92. All references are to page numbers of the pdf file. 13 All translations of the Siete Partidas are from the five volume edition edited by Robert I. Burns and translated by Samuel Parsons Scott. Here, vol. 1, p. 93. Subsequent references are to volume and page number(s).

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not prohibit a man from being ordained, thus not ruling out all eunuchs from the priesthood as stated in the Leviticus prohibitions. Other conditions that do not impede ordination involve the ‘inferior members’ such as the lack of a tooth, a toe, or part of a finger, unless the latter prevents him from grasping the host and breaking it. Striving to cover every contingency, as the Siete Partidas are wont to do, the law stipulates that men may be ordained who have six fingers on one hand, one eye larger than the other, or very small eyes. Finally, any deformity may prevent one from entering the priesthood if it is deemed ‘ugly’ by those authorized to confer ordination.14 While such exclusions from the priestly vocation might, to contemporary sensibilities, seem unreasonable, blemishes or deformities such as those stipulated by Alfonsine law may not have applied to those entering lower orders of the Church and dispensations were commonly received.15 The Second Partida decrees that not only are the disabled barred from the priesthood but also from knighthood. A man ‘que fuesse menguado de su persona o de sus mienbros’ (402) (‘with any defect in his body or limbs’) (II, 423] is excluded from becoming a knight because ‘se non podiese en guerra ayudar de las armas’ (402) (‘he would not be able to render assistance by means of arms in time of war’) (II, 423) as explained in Title 21, Law XII. 14 Alfonso repeats, in slightly different language, these prohibitions in his General estoria (General History). See note 22 of this chapter for complete reference. A section entitled ‘Dela ley de los embargos pora non poder ser clerigo’ (‘Of the Law of Prohibitions About Who May be a Priest’), includes the following description: Dadas estas leys alos sacerdotes, dio les despues ley quales eran los que sacerdotes non podien seer, et son estos: los ciegos, los coxos, los que ouiessen la nariz pequenna, o grand además o muy tuerta, o si fuesse y alguno que ouiesse el pie quebrado o la mano, o si fuesse corcobado, o lagannoso, o touiesse nuue enel oio, o postilliento toda uia, o lleno de empelingres, o crebado […] Pero mando que todos estos malparados de sus cuerpos, que del linage delos sacerdotes fuessen, que comiessen delas offrendas e dessos sacerdotes e delos sacrificios, e que desso uisquiessen; mas toda uia de guisa que non entrassen estos enel sanctuario del uelo a dentro, nin se llegassen all altar por que non fiziessen y, por su contrechura e por razon delas menguas de sus cuerpos, algunas cosas como non fuessen de fazer, ca se ensuziarie y el sanctuario de Dios, lo que non deue seer por ninguna guisa. (I, 577) (Having given laws to the priests, later laws were given about who cannot be a priest and they are the following: the blind, the lame, those with a small or large nose, or blind in one eye, or anyone who had a crippled foot or hand, or if he were hunchbacked or with lots of sleep in the eyes or cloudy eyes, or with skin lesions, or full of scars, or broken […] But I command that all those misshapen in their bodies, that were of the lineage of the priests, that ate the offerings and of those priests and their sacrifices, who lived by these, that in no way should they enter the sanctuary behind the veil, nor go up to the altar because they should not be there, because of their crippling and for the reason that their bodies are lacking, these things they should not do, for they pollute the sanctuary of God, something that should never be.) 15 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 41.

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This exclusion seems quite reasonable, even by contemporary standards, because the military in most countries still has regulations that preclude men and women with certain physical limitations from performing some combat duties. It is worth noting that an entire title of the Second Partida is devoted to compensation for injuries incurred while in service to the king in time of war. Those who are severely wounded or crippled for life receive very specific amounts of compensation depending on the nature of the wound. The second law of Title 25 of the Second Partida reads as follows: E por la ferida del cuerpo que non pasase de vna parte a otra diez marauedis. E por ferida de braço o de pierna que pasase al otro cabo çinco marauedis. E por otra ferida que non pasase la meytad desto que diximos & de ferida que pasa por quebrantamiento de pierna o de braço de que no fuese lisiado para toda via doze marauedis. Mas si acaesçiese que alguno fuese ferido de guisa que fincase lisiado, assi como si perdiese ojo o naris o mano o pie por cada vno destos deuen auer çiento marauedis. E por la oreja quarenta marauedis. E si perdiese el braço fasta el cobdo o pierna fasta la rodilla o dende arriba ha de auer çiento & veinte marauedis. E quien perdiese el pulgar de la mano deue auer çinquenta marauedis. & por el debdo segundo que es cabo del pulgar quarenta marauedis & por el terçero treinta marauedis & por el quarto veinte marauedis. & por el quinto diez marauedis. & por los quatro dedos si acaesçiere que ge los corten en vno ochenta marauedis si el pulgar le fincare. E si perdiese de los dientes delanteros de los quatro de suso o de los quatro de yuso por cada vno dellos deue auer quarenta marauedis. E por otra ferida de que fuese lisiado assi como quebrado deue auer çiento marauedis. (446-47) (For a wound on the body, not reaching from one side to the other, ten maravedis.16 For a wound on the arm or the leg, reaching from one side to the other, five maravedis. For another wound which did not pass clear through, half as much as for one which did; for the fracture of a leg or an arm, where the party would be crippled for life, twelve maravedis. But where it happens that anyone is wounded in such a way, as to be maimed; as, for instance, when he loses an eye, or his nose, or a hand, or a foot, for each of these he should receive a hundred maravedis, and for an ear, forty. Where he loses his arm as far as the elbow, or his leg as far as the knee, or above it, he should have a hundred and twenty maravedis. Whoever 16 Burns and Scott have determined that a maravedi was worth approximately $22.00 in 2001; thus approximately $30.50 in 2017.

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loses a thumb, is entitled to fifty maravedis, for the second finger opposite the thumb, forty, for the third, thirty, for the fourth, twenty, and for the fifth, ten maravedis; and for all four fingers, if they all should happen to be cut off together, eighty maravedis, if the thumb remains. Where the party loses four front teeth, either above or below, he should receive for each of them forty maravedis; and for any other wound by which he is permanently crippled he should have a hundred maravedis.) (II, 471)

There is a specif ied degree of compensation depending on the injury. Permanent maiming is compensated at a much higher rate than severe wounds which may produce prominent scars but do not impede one’s ability to work or earn a living. Amputation of arms and legs earned one the most compensation while the fingers of the hand each carried a separate and specific value. All this would seem to correlate with perceived future loss of income as stated in Law I of this title which states that one of the advantages of offering compensation to wounded soldiers is that ‘los onbres auer mayor sabor de cobdiçiar los fechos de la guerra no entendiendo que caeran en pobreza por los daños que en ella reçibieron’ (446) (‘men take greater pleasure in martial deeds, knowing that they will not suffer poverty on account of the injuries they receive in war’) (II, 470). Alfonsine law seems to echo some of the same concerns about disabled veterans that Metzler has identified. She contends that ‘[c]oming home from war as a disabled veteran could potentially lead to a downward slope of loss of former working ability and poverty, and hence descent into criminal activities’.17 The compensations these laws provide could be seen, then, as ultimately contributing to the maintenance of order and, potentially, to keeping the peace. Part Four of the Siete Partidas treats domestic relations and family issues. Important for the present consideration of the legal status of contrechos are, especially, restrictions regarding marriage by persons who are physically impaired. Law IV of Title 8 is particularly graphic and has to do with the prohibition to marry for those who have been emasculated: Castrados son los que pierden por alguna ocasion que les auian aquellos mienbros que son menester para engendrar: assi commo si alguno saltase sobre algund seto de palos que trauase en ellos o ge los ronpiese: o ge los arrebatase algund osso o puerco: o can: o ge lo cortase algund onbre: o ge los sacase: o por otra manera qual quier que los perdiese. E porende qual quier que fuese ocasionado desta manera non podria casar. E si casare 17 Metzler, A Social History, p. 40.

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non vale el matrimonio porque el que atal fuese non podria conplir a su muger el debdo carnal que era tenudo de conplir le. (855) (Those persons are emasculated who, through some accident, have lost the organs of generation, as, for instance, where anyone leaping over a fence tears them off; or where said organs are destroyed by a bear, a hog, or a dog; or where he is deprived of them by some man, or loses them in any other way whatsoever. Wherefore anyone who has met with an accident of this kind cannot marry, and, if he does, the marriage will not be valid, for the reason that a person of this kind cannot fulfil his marital obligations which he is bound to do.) (IV, 914)

But, the laws of this title go on to stipulate that if the organs are lost after one is married or betrothed, the marriage cannot be annulled and the parties will only be separated by death. It is worth noting that this law also prevents from marrying those men who are ‘cold by nature’ or bewitched (IV, 916). Opinions vary widely about what legal treatises actually tell us about the treatment and the place that the disabled occupied in Medieval society. Law codes represent, in a sense, the ideal of a well-ordered society but, without corroborating documentation about their enforcement, it is hard to determine their effect on actual practices. For example, the documentation surveyed by Michael Oliver leads him to conclude that, from a legal standpoint, the physically impaired were well-integrated into medieval economic structures.18 But Margaret Winzer’s data suggests that those with mobility impairments in the Middle Ages and Renaissance lived existences of great hardship due to severe legal limitations on their ways to earn a living.19 Cory Rushton, in Disability and Medieval Law, contends that, in everyday terms, ‘ability’ in Medieval times was probably seen on a spectrum and ‘the impaired individual […] was not universally marginalized nor permanently on the wrong side of an able-bodied/disabled line’.20 However, Rushton further points out that this spectrum of ‘ability’ in day-to-day matters rarely extended to issues of the law. The law, in all historical periods and almost universally, is concerned about ‘who has access to authority and in what measure, [and…] runs up against and potentially braces itself in notions of normality/normativity and abnormality’.21 As such, the law works with polar opposites and, in the case of Medieval law, the physically 18 Oliver, The Politics of Disablement, p. 27. 19 Winzer, ‘Disability in Society’, p. 76. 20 Rushton, Disability and Medieval Law, p. 4. 21 Rushton, Disability and Medieval Law, p. 5.

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deficient usually seem to have occupied a marginal or exclusionary position. The disabled did not fit, in most cases, an ideal legal norm and, although they were certainly considered as human beings under law they were also treated as ‘something else’, to use Rushton’s term.

Historical and Pseudo-Scientific Accounts If the accepted premise is that the maimed, crippled, and otherwise physically-deformed were fairly commonplace in Medieval society, it is not surprising that they frequently appear, too, in accounts about disabled individuals in history. For example, Alfonso X in Part I of his General estoria (General History) includes a version of the Biblical story of Jacob’s fight with the angel as found in Genesis 32:22-32. During this fight, the angel touches Jacob’s thigh, causing it to shrink, rendering him lame. The Alfonsine rendering clearly labels Jacob as a ‘coxo’ (‘lame’) as a result of this incident: ‘lidio con el angel quel parescio, e finco el ende coxo, e le bendixo ell angel e le mudo el nombre’22 (‘he fought with the angel that appeared to him and he became lame as a result and the angel blessed him and changed his name’).23 Later, Alfonso follows his Biblical source and adds a description of Jacob’s permanent limp: ‘Pues que esto fue fecho e Jacob paso Phanuel, nascio el sol; e dize Josepho que por el trabaio dela lucha quel tomo despues dolor a aquel neruio en que ell angel le tanxiera dell ala, e coxeaua del pie’ (185) (‘And this being done, as Jacob passed Penu’el24 the sun rose; and Joseph said that because of the travail of the fight he felt pain in the nerve that the angel had touched and he limped about on that foot’). Here Alfonso’s compilers use an expression very close to that found Genesis 32:31 of the Vulgate: ipse vero claudicabat pede (‘he halted on his foot’). Although Jacob carries a physical reminder of his struggle with the angel in the form of a limp, his condition did not render him any less of a prophet. Alfonso includes this Biblical narrative and presents Jacob’s physical impairment as divinely induced, a permanent visible reminder that he had struggled with God’s messenger and prevailed. In another chapter of the Segunda parte (‘Second Part’) of the General estoria the crippled or deformed are counted among the weak, women, and 22 All citations are from General estoria. Primera parte edited by Antonio G. Solalinde. Here, p. 184. 23 This is the occasion when the angel tells Jacob that his name will be changed to Israel. 24 Jacob called the place where he struggled with the angel Penu’el (‘the face of God’) since he had seen God there.

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children in a section on the flight of the Israelites out of Egypt. These groups are set apart and contrasted with able-bodied men who are capable of fighting: toda aquella muchedumbre que de los fijos de Israhel, que oyestes que saliera de Egipto que sin omnes contrechos e flacos e mugieres e ninnos chicos fueron de omnes endereçados de edat e de ualentia pora armas seys cientas uezes mil omnes a pie.25 (all the host of the children of Israel about whom you heard, had left Egypt and, without the crippled, the weak, women, and children, they were 600,000 able-bodied and valiant men on foot).

The ‘contrechos’ here are literally left out of the count of the chosen people and appear as superfluous and, perhaps, burdensome to the group as a whole. Alfonso X’s history of Spain, the Estoria de España, includes a description of King Ordoño I (821-866) who was crippled by gout (podagra). The description of his condition includes an etymological explanation of the word podagra and its effects on the body: Andados X annos desse rey don Ordonno – et fue esto en era de DCCC et LXX et IIII26 annos – enfermos el rey de los pies, de una enfermedad a que dizen en la física podagra. Et podagra es palabra compuesta destas dos partes: de pos que dizen en el griego por lo que en el lenguage de Castiella llaman pie, et ell otra agros, en el griego otrossi, por lo que en el castellano dizen contrechura o contrecho; onde podagra tanto quiere dezir en el lenguage de Castiella como enfermedad de contrechura de manos o contrecho de los pies. Onde quando los que esto saben dizen a alguno: ‘podagrido es aquel’, et quiere dezir tanto como enfermo o contrecho de los pies. Et desta enfermedad podagra enfermo el rey don Ordonno et murio ende en Ouiedo; et enterraronle y muy onrradamientre como a rey en la eglesia de santa Maria. La su alma reyne con Dios, ca muy buen rey fue.27 25 All citations from the Second Part of the General estoria are from General estoria. Segunda parte edited by Antonio G. Solalinde, Lloyd Kasten, and Victor R. B. Oelschläger. Here, Vol. I, p. 135. 26 The dating here is inaccurate. Ordoño I reigned from 850-866 but the text states that in the era 874 Ordoño was 10 years into his reign. The Hispanic era is 38 years ahead of the CE calendar. Thus the dating here of era 874 would give the Christian calendar year of 836. Ordoño was not born until 821 and is very unlikely he suffered gout as an adolescent. 27 All citations from the Estoria de España are from Primera crónica general de España (Estoria de España), edited by Ramón Menéndez Pidal. Here, Vol. 2, pp. 366-67.

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(In the tenth year of his reign – this was in the era of 874 years – King Ordoño was afflicted in his feet from an illness that medicine calls podagra. And podagra is a word composed of two parts: of pos that in Greek means the Castilian word for foot, and the other agros also from Greek that means in Castilian deformity or deformed; thus podagra in Castilian means either an illness or deformity of the hands or deformity of the feet. So when those who know say that someone is podagrido, they mean that he has an illness or deformity of the feet. And King Ordoño was sickened by this illness, podagra, and he died from it in Oviedo; and they very honourably buried him as a king in the church of Saint Mary. May his soul rest with God, for he was a very good king.)

In this accounting of the life and deeds of King Ordoño, the king’s illness is identified as gout which affected his feet to such a degree that the author calls his condition a deformity (‘contrechura’) and blames the king’s death directly on this disfiguring illness. Although it is impossible to know with any probability that the condition of which Ordoño suffered was indeed gout, the Estoria does not hide the king’s affliction and its crippling effects and even gives an explanation of the etymology of the word used to describe his condition. Pseudo-scientific treatises, such as Alfonso X’s translation of ’Alī Iben al-Riğāl’s El libro conplido en los iudizios de las estrellas (The Complete Book on the Judgments of the Stars), a book on astrology, also mention lameness. This text predicts that lameness will occur if one is born when the moon is in a certain position in the house of Saturn: E si la Luna fuere ayuntada con Saturno de cuerpo en la casa de los enemigos, e fueren catados de Mars, significa que el nacido sera coxo o contrecho que non puede andar, o aura azemena grant e fuerte en los mienbros deiuso o dannamiento o torcemiento feo en sus piernas o e sus pies.28 (And if the Moon is aligned directly with Saturn in the house of enemies and when in the sight of Mars, this means that one will be born lame or deformed in such a way that he cannot walk or he will have severe and intense paralysis in his lower extremities or damage or ugly twisting in his legs or his feet.)

28 Quotations are from Aly Aben Ragel: El libro conplido en los iudizios de las estrellas, edited by Gerold Hilty. Here, p. 223.

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Here the person born under this particular alignment of the stars will be either lame (‘coxo’), deformed (‘contrecho’), or suffer some kind of severe paralysis (‘azemena grant e fuerte’) in which the legs and feet will be badly disfigured. As part of the monarch’s overarching project to translate Arabic works into Castilian, Alfonso X’s scriptorium faithfully translated books on both astrology and astronomy since the two sciences were intimately mixed in many texts. While a devout Christian monarch, such as Alfonso, would have professed that the workings of the stars are under the power of God, he nonetheless was concerned about passing on Islamic knowledge about the movements of the heavenly spheres and their possible effects on human beings. José A. Sánchez Pérez claims that Alfonso X’s choice to translate works on astrology implies that the King accepted the basic hypotheses of astrology and it is documented that he personally oversaw the work of his team of astronomers, especially in Toledo.29 In other passages about the moon and its particular positioning at the time of birth there is warning that a waning moon when Mars is opposite it can cause a child to be born deformed (‘tollido’), arthritic (‘artetico’) to a degree that he will be immobilized, crippled (‘contrecho’) in his hands and feet, afflicted with mortal wounds (‘mortales llagas’), or without limbs (‘cortaran algunos de sus mienbros’).30 In another astrological text, translated by Alfonso’s scriptorium, the Libro de las cruzes (The Book of Crosses), there are other clear references to certain alignments of the stars causing paralysis or lameness. In chapters on the conjunction of Saturn and Mars when Jupiter aligns with the Sun, various disastrous circumstances can occur such as too much rainfall, the rise of bad rulers and judges, and various illnesses that can result in broken limbs (‘dazemena’), twisted limbs (‘contrechos’), paralysis (‘peralisy’), and other similar afflictions (‘similia’).31 Being cursed from birth with a crippling affliction not only appears in astrological texts but also in historical accounts. A passage from the Estoria de España (History of Spain) that deals with King Bermudo includes a curse on one’s offspring issued by the Archbishop of Galicia. When the King is falsely accused of wanting to hand Galicia over to Muslim invaders, the Archbishop comes to investigate the charges.32 He discovers that Bermudo is innocent and curses the lineage of the slanderers wishing that ‘nunqua 29 Sánchez Pérez, ‘Nota preliminar’, Libro de las cruzes, p. viii. 30 Aly Aben Ragel: El libro conplido en los iudizios de las estrellas, p. 223. 31 All citations are from the edition of the Libro de los cruzes prepared by Lloyd A. Kasten and Lawrence B. Kiddle. Here, p. 20. 32 Again, the Estoria seems to have confused the dates. These events are said to occur in the year 962 or 1000 of the Hispanic era, but, in fact, Bermudo II reigned from 984-999. Interestingly,

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mingue y malato nin coxo nin ciego nin manco nin uil’ (II, 444) (‘may there never be any who are not ill, lame, blind, one-handed or vile’). This is an example of an interesting juxtaposition of obvious physical impairments with the element of having a foul temperament. The Estoria explains that the precedent for the archbishop’s curse on the slanderers’ progeny is the curse that David pronounced on Joab and his lineage for the killing of Abner without just cause.33 Bringing a false accusation against the King is a very serious offense that is here compared to murder in that both warrant a crippling curse on the culprits and their children.

Work and Occupational Hazards Having already established links between poverty and disability,34 David Braddock and Susan Parish contend that ‘adults not capable of working were often a tremendous burden to their families’.35 These two scholars further affirm that the physically disabled probably relied on a variety of means to survive, including begging, help from family members and neighbours, and charitable institutions.36 With regard to the physically disabled who resorted to begging, they further contend that this practice may have been more related to their poverty than their physical impairment.37 However, other scholars, like Metzler, reject the view that the physically impaired should be represented unilaterally as either beggars or a burden.38 Begging was especially common among the blind, but the texts that I have consulted seem to bear out Metzler’s opinion because they do not portray the lame or physically-disfigured as living exclusively from begging. There were, however, many negative connotations, both economic and religious, associated with an inability to perform work. In particular, the lamed or otherwise deformed, who could not do manual work were forced to find some alternative way of making a living because, if not, in most cases there may have been some confusion between Bermudo and Ordoño since, historically, Bermudo is called El Gotoso (the Gout sufferer) (Menezo, Reinos y Jefes de estado, pp. 48-50). 33 See 2 Samuel 3:29. 34 See, for example, Stiker, A History of Disability, especially p. 72. See also Braddock and Parish’s article ‘An Institutional History of Disability’ in the Handbook of Disability Studies, edited by Gary L. Albrecht, Katherine D. Seelman, and Michael Bury, especially p. 18. 35 Braddock and Parish, ‘An Institutional History of Disability’, p. 18. 36 Braddock and Parish, ‘An Institutional History of Disability’, p. 19. 37 Braddock and Parish, ‘An Institutional History of Disability’, pp. 18-19. 38 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 14.

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their wages would cease.39 Nonetheless, there were some employment safety nets for those who became disabled while at the workplace. Although these often did not pay wages, they ‘provided a primitive type of social security in the form of more or less regular charitable aid’.40 The possibility of accidents was recognized and instances of some compensation or other charitable assistance for those that suffered impairment as the result of work-related accidents are documented. 41 With regard to occupational hazards, other than those inherent in war, Metzler concludes that, ‘in peacetime the occupations with the highest risk of accidentally induced disability would, not surprisingly, have been those of persons in the building trades and riders’. 42 There are allusions to injuries and maiming from accidents in a number of Alfonso X’s Cantigas de Santa Maria (Songs of Holy Mary). For example, Cantiga 131 relates the cave-in of a silver mine in which a number of men perish, but only the emperor Alexios is saved in response to the prayers of his devout wife. In Cantiga 144 a good man is saved from an attacking bull by the intervention of the Virgin. A strong wind blows a woman from a high cliff in Cantiga 191 and in 241 a young man falls from a window and rolls down a steep ravine. The latter poem contains a detailed description of the injuries the man sustained: Sayu muyt’ ao moço sangue pelas orellas, e quebraron-ll’ os braços, ollos e sobrencellas, e ouve feramente desfeita-las semellas, e foi o moço morto alá jus’ u jazia. (II, 331)43 (Blood gushed out of the boy’s ears, and his arms, eyes, and forehead were crushed and his features badly disfigured. The boy died right where he lay.) (291)44 39 Metzler, A Social History, p. 45. An example is found in Alfonso X’s Cantigas de Santa Maria (Songs of Holy Mary). In Cantiga 218 a man who is crippled in his feet and hands, although very wealthy, is thrown into poverty when he becomes disabled. The text states that ‘de seu aver tanto lle custou este feito, / assi que ficou pobre e con grandes cuidados’ (Mettmann, ed., Cantigas de Santa Maria, Vol. II, p. 279) (‘This circumstance cost him so much of his wealth that he became poor and burdened with cares’) (Kulp-Hill, Songs of Holy Mary, p. 262). This cantiga is discussed in detail in the chapter on Cures. 40 Metzler, A Social History, p. 45. 41 Metzler, A Social History, p. 46. On this point, Metzler also notes that job accidents were not considered as divinely ordained (A Social History, p. 46). 42 Metzler, A Social History, p. 54. 43 All quotes from the Cantigas de Santa Maria are from the three volume edition by Walter Mettmann. References are to volume and page. 44 All translations of the Cantigas de Santa Maria are from Kathleen Kulp-Hill’s Songs of Holy Mary. References are to page number.

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The boy’s injuries are too severe for him to survive but his mother, who has unquestioning faith in Holy Mary, carries his mangled body to the Virgin’s altar and prays that he be restored to life. The mother’s prayer is granted and the young man was ‘tan ben guarido / que sol non parecia per u fora ferida’ (II, 332) (‘so completely cured that no sign of his injuries remained’) (292). The Virgin also saves a stonemason in Cantiga 242 when he falls from a high wall while constructing a church in Castrogeriz. 45 Another potentially crippling injury that occurs during the construction of the church in Castrogeriz is recounted in Cantiga 252. In this account, men are digging sand for the building when the pit they are working in collapses in on them. A beam from this same church falls on a group of worshippers as they are listening to a sermon in Cantiga 266. In Cantiga 282 a little boy falls from the roof of a house in Segovia, while in 337 another child who is riding a horse falls from a bridge. In Cantiga 364, a tower falls on a group of workmen who are digging the foundation for the church in El Puerto de Santa María. 46 While there is no way of knowing if the accidents recounted in these Cantigas are representative of actual occurrences of incidents that could result in maiming or crippling, the frequency with which accidents occur in construction seems to support Metzler’s findings about the dangers of this profession. 47 45 A variation on his same event is found as Cantiga 249. 46 This town is in the province of Cádiz and very near Jerez de la Frontera. Its name under Muslim rule was Alcanate. Alfonso X re-baptized the city as El Puerto de Santa María after he conquered it and encouraged Christian settlement there. The events around the capture of Alcanate are recounted in Cantiga 328. For a more complete discussion of the importance of El Puerto de Santa María to Alfonso, see Chapter 4 of my book A Holy Alliance: Alfonso X’s Political Use of Marian Poetry and my article ‘Las Cantigas de Santa Maria, poesía de santuarios: el caso de El Puerto de Santa María’. 47 In another work produced at the court of Alfonso X, the Estoria de España (History of Spain), King Sigerico (d. 415) of the Visigoths is described as lame due to injuries he received when he fell from a horse. This last detail seems added almost as an afterthought since the rest of the description addresses his personality and other attributes: Este rey Sigerico era communal de grandez et de grand coraçon et no muy fablador ni amador de muchas mugieres, era toruado en la sanna, cobdicioso de auer, muy sabio para aleuantar las yentes et mouer contiendas et mezclar malquerencias, et coxcaua de cayuda dun cauallo. (233) (This King Sigerico was ordinary in stature with a great heart and of few words; he was not a ladies’ man, he was quick to anger, greedy of his possessions and very wise in stirring up people and causing ill-feeling, and he limped from a fall from a horse.) This is a curious mixture of positive and negative attributes with regard to this King. Since Alfonso X consulted a variety of sources when composing the Estoria de España, the inclusion of the King’s lameness, and the reason for it, figured in at least one previous account. For a complete study of Alfonso’s histories and his source materials see Inés Fernández-Ordóñez’s

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Paralysis, as result of an accident, occurs in several of the Cantigas de Santa Maria. For example, in Cantiga 385 of the collection, a man receives a severe wound in the head from a falling stone. The stone completely crushes his forehead and broke through to the brain (‘a tea assedada’) (III, 285). He consulted surgeons but none were able to heal him. The wound causes him to suffer a partial paralysis: Porend’ o ome contreyto ouve a sseer dun lado, e foi daquela partida… En que a chaga avia, u foi da pedra ferido. (III, 285) (Therefore the man became paralyzed on one side, the same one where he had been wounded when he was struck by the stone.) (470)

He is eventually healed by the Virgin at her church in El Puerto de Santa María. As with other miraculous cures, this one occurs only after the afflicted man sought standard medical attention that proved ineffective. In another Cantiga – No. 276 – one of the king’s huntsmen enters a chapel and begins to ring the bells. One of the bells falls, crushing his head and leaving him unable to walk. His companions place him before the altar and, before the next day dawns, he is healed and ‘se’ ergesse pera yr / con os outros monteiros’ (III, 48) (‘[he rises] up to go away with the other huntsmen’) (335). While the accident that caused his crushed skull and paralysis is purely arbitrary and not related to his job as a huntsman, the fact that it occurs in a chapel dedicated to the Virgin proves essential in the plot since the place where the accident occurs propitiously also proves to be the place where he is most likely to be healed. Loss of one’s profession due to maiming is found in another poem from the Cantigas de Santa Maria. In Cantiga 138 St. John the Damascene is captured by Muslims and sold to a man who enlists him to teach his son to read and write.48 In time, the son’s handwriting comes to precisely resemble that of John himself. The emperor learns of John’s renown for learning and asks his master to send John to him as a present. The master complies, but, in time, the son whom John had taught becomes envious of his former teacher’s new-found status in the emperor’s household. He decides to write letters in which John appears to invite enemy forces to attack the emperor. Since the son’s writing is indistinguishable from John’s, when the emperor finds excellent book, Las Estorias de Alfonso el Sabio. Also helpful are the essays edited by Georges Martin, La historia alfonsí: el modelo y sus destinos (siglos XIII-XV). 48 Doctor in the Greek Church who died after 754 (Kulp-Hill, Songs of Holy Mary, p. 321).

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one of these letters, he assumes that John is the true author of it. For this act of treason, he commands that John’s right hand be severed. Since he had earned his living as a teacher and writer, the emperor declares, when about to cut off his hand, that John will now be forced to earn a living however he can: ‘e pois faça sa prol / per u mais poder’ (III, 22). John beseeches the Virgin to restore his hand and affirms his complete innocence in the matter; in response to his plea, Holy Mary reattaches the hand to his wrist. The key factor here is that the emperor specifically chooses to maim John in such a way as to prevent him from earning a living by pursuing his profession. As noted, besides accidents, war injuries resulted in individuals becoming maimed or lame. A graphic example of a disfiguring war wound is found in the Libro del Caballero Zifar (The Book of the Knight Zifar), a novel of chivalry probably dating from the early part of the fourteenth century but not published until 1512. The text recounts a confrontation between the Knight Garfín and Count Nason when the latter refuses to be taken prisoner by Garfín whom he considers to be of lesser noble rank than he. Garfín accuses the Count of disloyalty to the King of Mentón who Garfín also serves. He vows to take the Count as a prisoner before the King so that he can answer to the charge that he had conducted raids throughout the King’s land without permission. A sword fight ensues and, at one point, the Count strikes Garfín’s horse with his sword and the animal is paralyzed. Garfín is forced to dismount and continue the fight on foot. Nason wounds Garfín severely on the cheek but Garfín continues the fight and cuts off the hand that the Count was using to wield his sword. Not only does the Count lose his hand but Garfín’s blow is so strong that it also slices through a piece of his haunch and Nason falls to the ground. Garfín mocks him: ‘“Ea, conde,” dixo Garfin, “non vos fuera mejor yr de grado en la mi presion, e sano, que non yr syn vuestro grado, manco e coxo?”’49 (‘“Ha, count,” asked Garfín, “would it not have been better for you to go willingly as my prisoner – and healthy – than to go unwillingly, handless and lame?”’).50 The assumptions are that Nason will no longer be a useful knight and that Garfín has permanently deprived him of the ability to serve the king in combat. While the maiming of the disloyal Count Nason is presented as justified in the Libro del Caballero Zifar, the portrayal of permanently disabled heroic individuals is rare, especially in the literature of courtly romance, as Metzler has pointed out.51 While undeniably there are few disabled knights in this 49 All citations are from the edition by Cristina González of the Libro del Caballero Zifar. Here, p. 221. 50 All translations are those of Charles L. Nelson, The Book of the Knight Zifar. Here, p. 122. 51 Metzler, A Social History, p. 42.

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body of literature, there is a notable exception in Fray García de Castrogeriz’s Glosa castellana al ‘Regimiento de Príncipes’ de Egidio Romano (Castilian Gloss to the ‘Rule for Princes’ by Aegidius Romanus) (1344) which includes an example of a knight who is lame.52 Since he is lame, he claims that he is a better soldier because he cannot easily flee battle, but must stand and fight. Otro enxemplo cuenta allí de un caballero cojo a quien fué dicho por denuesto que por qué iba cojo a la hueste. E él respondió que su intención era de lidiar e no de fuir, la cual cosa mejor podía facer el cojo que no el que había los pies ligeros e por ende no era de denostar por la cojedad, mas era de alabar. (125)53 (Another example tells of a crippled knight about whom it was said that it was an insult that one who is lame should fight with the troops. And he responded that it was his intention to do battle and not flee, something that a crippled person could do better than one who was fleet of foot, and for that reason they should not consider it insulting that the lame participate but, rather, they should be praised.)54

Mobility Devices Medical texts that I have examined do not contain any information about prostheses for the maimed or other devices to make the lame more mobile.55 There is some information about deformity resulting from fractures, especially in manuals on surgery as, for example, in Theodoric’s (Theodoric Borgognoni) Cyrurgia (1267).56 These texts discuss splints and even devices for traction during the healing of fractures, but surgical manuals do not contain information on prosthetic devices if one is left with

52 A Castilian translation of Giles of Rome’s (c. 1243-1316), De Regimine Principum. 53 All citations are from the edition by Juan Beneyto Pérez of Fray Juan García de Castrogeriz [Aegidius Romanus], Glosa castellana al ‘Regimiento de Príncipes’ de Egidio Romano in 3 vols. 54 All translations are mine unless otherwise indicated. 55 Dolmage discusses the confusion between prothesis and prosthesis. The former is a Greek term for setting forth or placing something into view. Prosthesis was originally used as a grammatical term for adding a syllable to the beginning of a word. Not until 1704 was prosthesis used to mean a replacement for a missing body part. He proposes that prosthesis ‘fuses linguistic and corporeal supplementarity in our embodiment, as beings with a grammar and biology, an idiom and anatomy, overlapping both in something material and much that is ineffable’ (Disability Rhetoric, pp. 106-07). 56 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 110.

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permanently impaired mobility.57 Literary texts and art works, however, include depictions of pilgrims using sticks, crutches, or other devices to increase mobility: ‘Some medieval pilgrims who had lost the use of their legs pulled themselves along with hand-trestles, dragging their lower limbs behind, or they used wheeled platforms and pushed themselves about.’58 Ronald Finucane presents incidents of the impaired being transported on litters, in wheelbarrows or farmyard carts, as well as transportation on horses with some sort of special fittings.59 Metzler alludes to these same types of transportation for the orthopedically impaired.60 An example of the use of a litter for transporting a paralyzed woman is found in Alfonso X’s Cantigas de Santa Maria where a woman is described as follows: hũa moller que avia tolleito o mais de seu corp’ e de mal encolleito. [….] Que amba-las suas mãos assi s’encolleran, que ben per cabo dos onbros todas se meteran, e os calcannares ben en seu dereito se meteron todos no corpo maltreito. (I, 251) (a woman whose body was almost entirely paralyzed and shrivelled with a disease. Both her arms were so twisted that her hands were near her shoulders and her heels pressed into her misshapen body.) (101)

The poet takes advantage of the rhyme scheme to establish a parallel between the woman’s paralyzed body, ‘tolleito’ (‘paralyzed’) and its resultant disfigurations: shrivelled (‘encolleito’) and misshapen (‘maltreito’). This woman has herself carried on a litter (‘un leito’) to the Virgin’s shrine at Lugo in hope of a cure. Similarly, in Cantiga 179 a woman is described as ‘toda tolleita’ (‘completely crippled’) with her legs ‘premudos / os talões e 57 Lanfranc of Milan in his Chirurgia magna (1296) also discusses fractures as do Bernard de Gordon in Lilium medicine (1303), and Guy de Chauliac in Chirurgia magna (1363) (Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, 112-113). 58 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 86. 59 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 86. A well-known example of such transportation is related in various versions of the life of St. Francis who, when he was too ill or weak to walk, was carried about on a donkey (Trembinski, ‘An Infirm Man’, p. 274). Trembinski adds that ‘[t]he repeated references to Francis being so infirm he required transport by donkey in different early and reliable sources suggest that this anecdote has a solid kernel of truth to it’ (‘An Infirm Man’, p. 274). 60 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, pp. 169-72.

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metudos / nas rẽes e aprendudos / ben como pedra con cal’ (II, 192) (‘twisted until her heels pressed into her kidneys and were rigid as stones with lime’) (215). She, too, has to be carried by others from her home in Molina61 to a shrine of the Virgin, in this instance to the church dedicated to Holy Mary of Salas.62 There is a fairly explicit description of how a severely crippled woman is taken to the tomb of St. Dominic in the Vida de Santo Domingo de Silos (The Life of St. Dominic of Silos). Since the poem stipulates that she could not walk or grip anything with the hands, her loved ones ‘cargáronla en andas presa con un dogal’ (585b)63 (‘loaded her on a stretcher and fastened her to it with a rope’).64 In another section of the Vida de Santo Domingo, a woman who suddenly becomes paralyzed is carried to the saint by her family and friends on their shoulders: ‘prisiéronla en ombros’ (297b). In Cantiga 268, a noble woman who is described as crippled in her whole body has herself transported by cart (‘hũa carreta’) to the Virgin’s shrine in Villasirga.65 This poem indicates that she has herself pushed in the cart all the way from France to the town of Villasirga in Spain. Since there is no mention of horses or other beasts pulling the cart, one can assume that this woman of the nobility had numerous servants to perform such a task and undertake the long journey. Similarly, in Cantiga 333, a crippled man is transported by cart for fifteen years before finally being cured at the Virgin’s shrine in Terena in Portugal. In Gonzalo de Berceo’s Vida de San Millán (Life of St. Aemilianus), a young woman is carried across Castile in search

61 A reference to Molina de Aragón in the province of Guadalajara in Spain (Kulp-Hill, Songs of Holy Mary, p. 215). 62 A church dedicated to the Virgin about 1 km. outside of the town of Huesca, in northeastern Spain in the region of Aragón. There are 22 miracles in the Cantigas de Santa Maria that take place in Salas. 63 Reference is to verse numbers. All citations are from Gonzalo de Berceo, Obra completa, edited by B. Dutton et al. 64 My translation. 65 This town, in the province of Palencia today boasts a population of 155 (according to the 2013 census) but its large church and its location on the Camino de Santiago suggest that it was once a much grander place. The Virgin’s church there was sufficiently well-known to have been included in other important collections of Marian miracles such as those of Caesarius of Heisterbach, Gautier de Coincy, Jacques de Vitry and Vincent de Beauvais. Today the town is known officially as Villalcázar de Sirga and is located on the road between Fromista and Carrión de los Condes at about 6 kilometres from the latter town. The Medieval name of Villasirga is found in documents from as early as the eleventh century (Andrés Ordax, Villalcázar de Sirga, p. 5) and it is the name Alfonso uses for the town throughout the Cantigas de Santa Maria. The name did not change to its current official name of Villalcázar de Sirga until 1661. For a complete history of Villasirga see Villalcázar de Sirga: la iglesia de Santa María by Salvador Andrés Ordax.

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of St. Aemilianus ‘puesta y aguisada en una carretiella’ (141b)66 (‘placed and carefully arranged in a small wagon’) (342). Various accounts refer to the crippled or malformed being confined to bed and only able to be moved with great difficulty. A typical description is found in Gonzalo de Berceo’s Vida de Santo Domingo de Silos; in strophe 598 a man, described as ‘contrecho’ is bedridden and cannot leave his home: Sancho era clamado esti barón contrecho, que avié muy grand tiempo que non salié del lecho, tanto vedié de fuera quanto dïús el techo, por quequiere quel vino assaz era maltrecho. (598abcd) (Sancho was the name of this crippled man who had kept to his bed for a good long time; he saw nothing but what was under his roof: whatever the reason, he was in a sorry state.) (295)67

Not only is there a convenient rhyme between ‘contrecho’ and ‘maltrecho’ (‘in a sorry state’) in this passage, but the two concepts are semantically related in that the lame person is naturally linked to living in lamentable circumstances. The poem also affirms that this man was reduced to begging to survive: ‘yacié como un cepo quedo en un logar, / fuera lo que pidié ál non podié ganar’ (597cd) (‘he lay quietly in everyone’s way like a hindrance / he could not get a thing but what he begged for’) (295). These lines seem to suggest that the man’s condition was a burden to others since he is called a ‘hindrance’. Despite this fact, some charitable individuals eventually take pity on him and carry him to the tomb of St. Dominic to pray for a cure. Metzler, in her study Disability in Medieval Europe, concludes that in the Middle Ages, ‘before the invention of the wheelchair, mobility of the impaired was not necessarily curtailed or restricted, but relied on improvisation, making the most use of already existing transportation methods […] and adapting them for the specific needs of the impaired person’.68 This is very much the case for the narratives that I have just discussed. In these examples information about the mobility of the impaired is most often found in accounts of travel to sites associated with miracle cures, but 66 Reference is to verse numbers. Citations from Gonzalo de Berceo, Obra completa, edited by B. Dutton et al. 67 From the translation by Jeannie K. Bartha in Bartha, Cash, and Mount, The Collected Works of Gonzalo de Berceo. All translations of Gonzalo de Berceo are from this edition unless otherwise indicated. 68 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 172.

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one can infer from them some ideas about how the disabled moved about on a day-to-day basis. While the blind were often led by guides, sticks or crutches were available to help those with issues of mobility. The various kinds of carts and litters that frequently appear in literary texts imply that such modes of transport were also common and that the severely crippled or paralyzed may have required some assistance from servants or relatives to move from one place to another by these means.

Divine Punishment Crippling or paralysis as a divine punishment is evident in several works. For example, El libro de exenplos por a.b.c. (The Book of Tales by A.B.C.) (1436-38), includes the story (in Section 47) of a man who confesses to a friar that he had bared his backside to a statue of Christ. As a result of this affront, he becomes paralyzed in all his limbs. His limbs are described as ‘dissolutos’ (‘loosened or dissipated’) and ‘muertos’ (‘dead’). The only part of his body that functions and is under his control is his tongue. When the paralytic asks his confessor why this should be the only part of body that he can use, the friar replies that he has been granted use of his tongue so that he may praise the Virgin and sing the Ave Maria. In Section 165 of this same collection, a pregnant woman is suffering during childbirth. She promises to keep the Feast of St. Francis if she should survive the birth. As soon as she makes this promise, she is able to easily deliver her child. Later, however, she forgets her vow to St. Francis and works on his feast day. As punishment, her arms wither: ‘el braço que estendio derecho quedo envarado e seco que non lo pudo doblar. E queriéndolo doblar e traer contra ssy con el otro braço, secosele el sano’ (149)69 (‘the arm she stretched out remained stiff and dry so that she could not bend it; and trying to bend it and draw it to her with the other arm, the good arm withered too’) (116).70 She repents and promises to keep her vow and, miraculously, she recovers use of her arms. A similar tale is included in the Cantigas de Santa Maria as No. 117. In this Cantiga a seamstress vows not to work on Saturday, the day traditionally dedicated to the Virgin.71 When she breaks her vow, her hands 69 Citations are from the Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c., eds. John E. Keller and Connie L. Scarborough. 70 Translations are from The Book of Tales by A.B.C., trans. John E. Keller, L. Clark Keating, and Eric M. Furr. 71 In her translation of the Cantigas de Santa Maria, Kathleen Kulp-Hill explains that the word used here, sabado, can mean either Saturday or the Sabbath. Around the eighth century Saturday

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become crippled: ‘fez-ll’as mãos / que aos braços apresas foron’ (II, 58) (‘He caused her hands to be twisted up against her arms’) (145). She seeks medical attention for her crippled hands but to no avail. The use of her hands is not restored until she makes a pilgrimage to Chartres where she repents and is cured. Related thematically to Cantiga 117 is Cantiga 289. In No. 289, a farmer is punished for working on the day of St. Quiricus.72 As he is reaping grain, the hand with which he grasped the sheaf is clenched tight and he is unable to open it. Likewise, the hand that held the sickle is stuck to the tool ‘assi como se fosse con fort’ engrud’ engrudada’ (III, 73) (‘as though it were stuck fast with glue’) (349). When he repents and weeps before the statue of Holy Mary of Atocha in Madrid his hands are loosened (‘desaprendeu-ll’ as mãos’) (III, 73). Yet another example of twisted body parts as divine punishment is found in Cantiga 293. In this narrative, a minstrel enjoys great success as a mimic. One day he passes a beautiful statue of the Virgin with the Christ Child in her arms and tries to imitate the posture of the statue. For his lack of reverence, his mouth and chin are twisted: ‘Mas pesou a Jhesu-Cristo, e atal o adobou / que ben cabo da orella pos-ll’ a boqu’ e o grannon’ (III, 82) (‘However, this displeased Jesus Christ, and He caused his mouth and chin to twist right up beside his ear’) (355). He is then struck with other impairments until he becomes completely immobilized: ‘o colo con o braço tan forte se ll’ estorceu, / que en pees estar non pode e log’ en terra caeu’ (III, 82) (‘His neck as well as his arm writhed so violently that he could not remain standing and fell down on the ground’) (355). Thus, deformed and helpless, people carry him into the church and pray for his recovery. The minstrel himself admits that he is being justly punished for his sins: ‘Os pecados meus / son tan muitos, que aquesto mi avẽo con gran razon’ (III, 82) (‘My sins are so many that this has rightfully befallen me’) (355). However, the next day, the Virgin forgives him for his impious imitation and straightens both his face and arm. A squire is struck lame in Cantiga 317 when he kicks the door of a hermitage dedicated to the Virgin.73 During the feast of the Assumption of the came to be associated with devotion to Mary and those who kept that day holy refrained from working on Saturdays. Kulp-Hill consistently translates sabado as Saturday to avoid confusion with the accepted association of the Sabbath with Sunday (Songs of Holy Mary, p. 145, note 1). 72 Also spelled Quriaqus. This saint’s holy day is 16th June. He was reported to be a child martyred along with his mother, Julieta, during the persecutions of Diocletian in 304. The poem does not make clear why working on this saint’s feast day would have been condemned. It makes no mention of the farmer’s special devotion to St. Quiricus or any promise he had made to keep the 16th June holy. 73 The hermitage is called Santa Maria do Monte in the text. Mettmann suggests that this is a reference to Santa Maria do Monte in the municipality of Triacastela in the province of Lugo in Galicia (Cantigas de Santa Maria, Vol. 3, p. 135).

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Virgin, a squire spies a girl in the crowd of worshippers at the hermitage and tries to force himself on her. However, the girl runs away and takes refuge inside the church. When the people learn of the squire’s unwanted advances they lock the doors to the church so that he cannot enter. He becomes enraged and vows to kick down the doors. When he attempts to do so, he breaks his leg and faints from the pain. He is also struck mute and can only utter the name of Holy Mary. There is no cure or forgiveness for this would-be rapist as the Cantiga states that he remained ‘tolleit’ e sen sen / viveu gran temp’ e per portas pidia’ (III, 137) (‘maimed and crazy, he lived a long time and begged from door to door’) (385). His lameness and inability to speak appear to have driven him mad and he has no recourse other than begging to sustain himself. A comical example of divine punishment by crippling is found in Cantiga 327. In this tale, a woman gives a very fine piece of cloth to the Virgin’s church at Odemira (Portugal) to be used to cover the altar. A priest in the church steals the cloth from the altar and has a pair of underpants made from it. When he lays down to sleep in his newly-fashioned underwear, his legs become twisted backward: ‘os calcannares anbos pelos lombos os sentiu / que ll’ entraron tan de rijo que os non pod’ en tirar’ (III, 158) (‘he felt both his heels pressing into his loins so tightly that he could not pull them out’) (397). When he repents and confesses, his legs are straightened and he is able to move about as before. Loss of hands and feet from an attack of St. Martial’s fire is the result of a punishment from the Virgin Mary in a miracle account from Gonzalo de Berceo’s Milagros de Nuestra Señora (The Miracles of Our Lady) (ca. 1260).74 In miracle No. 17, three knights attack a neighbour who they consider their enemy. When the neighbour runs from his attackers, he takes refuge in a church dedicated to the Virgin. The knights follow him into the church and murder him there. As a consequence of desecrating her church, Holy Mary strikes the murderers with St. Martial’s fire. The disease is so severe that their feet and hands drop off (‘perdién piedes e manos’ (386b)). The men in this state are labelled ‘contrechos’, translated by Annette Cash and R. Terry 74 St. Martial’s f ire, also called St. Anthony’s f ire, were terms used in the Middle Ages to describe the disease known as ergotism or the condition known as erysipelas. Ergotism results from eating grains that are infected with a fungus. The disease can cause convulsions and also gangrene-like conditions in the extremities. Alkaloids produced by the fungus cause vasoconstriction, especially in the fingers and toes. Those infected suffered severe burning sensations, and the lack of blood flow could cause loss of limbs. Erysipelas is caused by a streptococcus bacteria and causes severe swelling and redness in the extremities. It may also affect the lymph nodes and lead to necrosis of the skin (Kulp-Hill, Songs of Holy Mary, p. 28).

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Mount as ‘deformed’ because, in addition to the loss of extremities, their legs and arms are drawn up to their chests (‘las piernas e los brazos bien çerca de los pechos’ (386c)). This poem includes the detail that no saint, either male or female, responds to the crippled men’s cries for help and it is not until they appeal to the Virgin that they are cured of the disease. However, even though they no longer suffer from St. Martial’s fire, they do not regain full use of their restored limbs and they remain, as the poem declares, ‘contrechos’ (‘deformed’). In this state they are reduced to begging and announce to all that their physical state is due to the grievous sin they had committed. When they confess to the Bishop, he imposes as penance that they carry on their backs the weapons they had used to commit murder in the church as well as go on pilgrimages. Each of the knights goes his separate way and bears his arms at all times. The narrative does not address how the men, in their crippled state, were able to complete the pilgrimages ordered by the Bishop or how they were able to bear the weight of their heavy arms with their deformed limbs. There is no mention made to the efficacy of completing these penances or if they resulted in a restoration to full health. Rather, the tale is meant as a warning to those who commit wicked deeds, especially any who would do disservice to the Virgin or dare to profane spaces dedicated to her. Another quite curious example of paralysis that is visited on someone, not as a result of punishment, but rather as a physical response to extreme joy in found in section 204 of El libro de los exenplos por a.b.c. (Book of Tales by A.B.C.), a manual for preachers composed in the early years of the fifteenth century. In this tale, when Titus, the son of Vespasian, learns that his father has been elected Emperor of Rome he is so happy that he loses control of all his limbs (‘se tollescio todos los mienbros’). A learned man, Josephus, proposes to Titus to invite the man he most vilifies to dinner. When the table is set, Josephus secretly tells the servants to not obey any of the orders or requests that Titus might make of them. He then asks the man that Titus hates to sit at the table and orders the servants to do whatever he commands and treat him with great honour. Titus is furious: ‘E mirandolo Tito asy a aquel su henemigo, començosse a ençender commo fuego e mando a sus servidores que lo matasen’ (178) (‘And Titus, looking thus upon that enemy of his, began to burn as if on fire and ordered his servants to kill him’) (140). His anger is such that he recovers from his paralysis. The moral of the story is that the remedy for any complaint is its opposite. Thus, since feelings of great joy had caused Titus to become paralyzed, the wise man determined that engendering feelings of intense hatred could, and did, restore the function of his limbs. The tale ends with the former enemy of Titus becoming his faithful friend since the very sight of him had caused the emperor’s son to be restored to health.

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Ridicule and Example As was the case for others who suffer any type of impairment, the lame or disfigured could be the butt of jokes. For example, in the Libro de buen amor (Book of Good Love) (1330 and 1343), a woman deceives two potential suitors by vowing to marry the one who can prove he is laziest; one of the men is lame and the other is blind in one eye. The lame man is described as having a crippled leg (‘de la pierna contrecho’) and tells the woman how he became disabled: Fabló luego el coxo, coidó se adelantar. Dixo, ‘Señora, oíd primero la mi rrazón: yo soy más perezoso que éste mi conpañón; por pereza de tender el pie fasta el escalón, caí del escalera, finqué con esta ligión.’ (459d-460abcd)75 (Trying to gain an advantage, the cripple spoke up first: ‘Lady, listen to my case. I am clearly lazier than my rival because once, to avoid the nuisance of lifting my foot high enough to reach the rung, I fell down the ladder and became permanently lame.’) (116)76

Clearly, here, the lame man is portrayed as a buffoon who takes the lady literally at her word when she proposes a contest of laziness. After he and his one-eyed companion have made their appeals, the lady replies that it is indeed a tie. Her clever retort derides both men and openly mocks their disabilities: veo vos, torpe coxo, de quál pie coxeades;77 veo vos, tuerto suzio, que sienpre mal catades. (466cd) (I can see, you stupid cripple, which of your feet is lame, and I see, you half-blind fool, how poorly you see.) (117)

In this diatribe the woman makes it clear that the crippled man is not only physically impaired but, in her mind, stupid, as is his one-eyed companion. 75 All citations from El libro de buen amor are from the edition by G.B. Gybbon-Monypenny. References are to strophe and verse numbers. 76 From the prose translation The Book of Good Love by Rigo Mignani and Mario A. Di Cesare. All translation of the Libro de buen amor are from this edition unless otherwise noted. 77 This is a play on the popular Spanish expression ‘saber de qué pie cojea alguien’ which literally means ‘to know on which foot someone limps’, but figuratively means ‘to know someone’s faults or weak points’. Here this is most appropriate because the obvious weak point for both suitors is their extreme sloth.

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This tale is included as a lesson in love, i.e., one who is lazy will never win the affections of a lady since persistence is required to earn a woman’s approval. In another section of the Libro de buen amor, as part of the advice Don Amor (Sir Love) gives to the Archpriest/protagonist, there is a discourse on the power of money. Again, the disabled are used as examples to show the miraculous ability that money has to transform individuals and situations. Money ‘faze corer al coxo o al mudo fablar; / el que non tiene manos dineros quiere tomar’ (490cd) (‘makes the lame man run and the dumb man speak. Even a man without hands reaches out and grabs for money’) (121). This section of the Libro drips with cynicism and misogyny and concludes that all women lust after money and that you will never find a beautiful lady with a poor man. This misogynist theme is taken up again in the Corbacho, o reprobación del amor mundano (Corbacho, or Condemnation of Worldly Love) (1438) by Alfonso Martínez de Toledo, Archpriest of Talavera. In a section on the deceptive nature of women’s love, the author comments on the irony of beautiful women who keep company with those he labels the vilest, ugliest, and unluckiest of men. He does not overlook the physically disabled among the men with whom he claims women consort, because their inordinate sexual desires drive them to any and every man: verás lyndas mugeres con viles, feos e desaventurados hombres, e para poco, e pobres, se enbolver, asý coxos como mancos e tuertos, e los gibados non los holvidan. (81)78 (you will see lovely ladies with vile, ugly, and unfortunate men, and even poor men; and they get involved also with those who are lame, missing limbs, who are half-blind and let’s not forget the hunchbacks.)

This theme of women choosing unsuitable partners is a theme that the Archpriest of Talavera returns to often in his book.79 It forms part of his overall arguments about women’s inability to make correct choices, their fickle nature, and their inability to curb their sexual appetites. It is noteworthy that the author singles out the disabled as the most despicable partners for women, especially for beautiful women. Of course, the brunt of his attack is directed toward the women themselves but he uses the disabled as extreme examples of woman’s inability to use reason and make what he considers appropriate choices when choosing a mate. 78 All citations from the Corbacho are from the edition prepared by J. González Muela. 79 See for example, his warnings in Part I, Chapter 26 on the sin of fornication.

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Didactic treatises also make references to the lame as part of their advice on appropriate behaviour and avoidance of the world’s ills. A good example is found in El Conde Lucanor (Count Lucanor), a compendium of moralizing tales and proverbs written by Alfonso X’s nephew, Don Juan Manuel (12821348). The second section of his book, entitled ‘Razonamiento que face Don Juan por amor de Don Jaime, Señor de Xérica’ (‘Argument that Don Juan made for the love of Don Jaime, Lord of Jérica’), includes, among a litany of proverbial advice, the following: Espantosa cosa es ensennar el mudo, guiar el çiego, saltar el contrecho; más lo es decir buenas palabras et fazer malas obras. (II, 448-49)80 (It is an astonishing thing to teach the mute, guide the blind, make the lame jump; but not as astonishing as speaking good words and doing bad deeds).

In this section of El Conde Lucanor, Don Juan compiles a list of 100 proverbs for the edification of his friend. His project follows a tradition in Spain that borrowed from both Eastern and Western source materials to produce a host of didactic compendia in the thirteenth century. Juan Manuel, in a sense, is continuing the work of his uncle Alfonso X and of the king’s father, Fernando III, who translated collections of Eastern proverbs such as the Flores de filosofía (Flowers of Philosophy) and Bocados de oro (Sayings of Gold). These didactic collections were very popular and formed part of the school curriculum where they were frequently used as tools for teaching grammar.81 The fact that Juan Manuel includes proverbial sayings regarding the lame indicates that the physically disfigured or maimed were part of this axiomatic tradition and passed into the repertoire of students through his and similar works. No discussion of the lame or disfigured in literature would be complete without the famous example of the deformed storyteller, Aesop. As in other literary traditions, the fables attributed to Aesop and the story of his life, made their way into Castilian letters. The most complete collection in Castilian is the Esopete ystoriado (The Stories of Aesop). Aesop was born with a number of impairments including an oversized head, twisted neck, huge feet, a humpback, and a stutter. The Castilian version includes all these,

80 All citations from El Conde Lucanor are from the edition of the Obras completas (2 volumes) of Don Juan Manuel prepared by José Manuel Blecua. References are to volume and page number. 81 Lacarra, ‘Introduction,’ El Conde Lucanor, p. 26.

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with some additional elaboration. Folio 3v of the Esopete ystoriado as found in the version published in Toulouse in 1488, reads in part:82 Enlas partes de Frigia donde es la antiquissima cibad de Troya, avia vna villa pequeña llamada Amonio enla qual nascio vn moço difforme et feo de cara & de cuerpo mas que njnguno que se fallasse en aquel tiempo, ca era de grand cabeça, de ojos agudos, de negro color, de maxillas luengas & cuello corto, & de pantorrillas gruessas & de pies grandes, bocudo, giboso & barrigudo, & de lengua tartamuda et çaçabilloso, & avia nombre Esopo. E como cresciesse por sus tiempos, sobrepujaua a todos en saberes astuciosos. (2)83 (In the region of Phrygia, where the ancient city of Troy was located, there was a small village called Amonia [sic] in which was born a deformed boy, ugly of countenance and with a body more deformed than any other boy of his time. He had a large head, and piercing black eyes; he was long of jaw and had a twisted neck; he had fat calves and big feet; he was large of mouth, humpbacked and bepaunched; he stuttered and his name was Aesop. As he grew, in time he surpassed all others in astuteness.) (9)84

Aesop is captured and sold to a rich man in Athens who puts him to work in his fields. One day, Aesop shows great kindness to a priest who wanders off the road and comes to ask directions in the field where Aesop is working. Aesop sets the priest down under a fig tree, gives him water to drink, and then shows him the way to the city. The priest has no money with which to compensate Aesop for his help and kind attention, but he prays to the gods for a reward for Aesop. After Aesop gets up from taking his siesta later that day, he finds that he can now speak without any impediment and that he knows all the languages spoken in the world. He has also gained from the gods the knowledge of bird song and the ability to understand all the animals and, with these abilities, the skill to compose fables. There are a number of reasons that traditionally associate the figure of Aesop with disability. His body exhibits impairments and abnormalities, but his inner goodness and the talents granted to him by the gods far outweigh 82 The printing prepared by Johann Parix and Stephan Clebat, preserved in a unique copy housed at the John Rylands Library of the University of Manchester. There are two other incunabular editions of Esopete dating from 1489 and 1496 (Burrus and Goldberg, eds., Esopete ystoriado, p. xxi). 83 From the edition of Esopete ystoriado (Toulouse 1488) prepared by Victoria A. Burrus and Harriet Goldberg. 84 From the translation, Aesop’s Fables with a Life of Aesop by John E. Keller and L. Clark Keating.

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his physical appearance. The message here, from the outset of the text, seems related to lessons that appear in the fables themselves, such as not judging another by appearance or discrediting another simply because of perceived differences.

The Monstrous Individuals who were afflicted with severe physical deformities or disfigurations, especially in the case of birth defects, were often described in Pre-Modern texts in much the same way as beings considered to be monsters. Physiques that radically transgressed what were considered the natural boundaries of the body brought into question basic theological beliefs, such as the human body being made in the image of God.85 No lesser an authority than St. Isidore of Seville, however, insisted that all birth defects and even the monstrous races, were expressions of God’s will because nothing is outside of God’s power.86 John Friedman expands on this Isidorian precept when he states that ‘[m]onstra involved for all Latin readers the showing forth of divine will’. 87 For Christians, then, the existence of monsters, or those so grossly deformed to be considered monstrous, was one of the proofs of God’s power over nature and monsters were often associated with marvels or miracles.88 But the mere existence of a being considered monstrous was not considered, in and of itself, a miracle. For example, Thomas Aquinas contends that monsters occur in nature but that they are beyond the intention of active nature and he does not qualify them as miracles.89 Despite St. Isidore’s pronouncements about birth defects being manifestations of divine will, he qualifies this teaching in the Libri Etymologiarum (Books of Etymologies) when he speaks about monsters. Isidore claims that monsters, too, result from divine will but they also constituted ‘some fault or other in newborn creatures’.90 The idea of fault here denotes not only a deviance from normality but also implies the notion of guilt for such a birth. Isidore uses the term monstra and portentum interchangeably and claims that portents ‘exist either by virtue of some 85 Williams, Deformed Discourse, pp. 109-10. 86 Asma, Monsters, p. 76. 87 Friedman, The Monstrous Races, p. 109. 88 Friedman, The Monstrous Races, p. 109. For a complete discussion on Medieval beliefs about the miraculous, see the chapter on ‘Cures’. 89 Bartlett, The Natural and the Supernatural, p. 19. 90 Friedman, The Monstrous Races, p. 112.

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bodily size beyond the measure common among men […] or else by smallness of bodily stature […] [or] a hugeness of parts, such as misshapen heads or superfluous members’.91 Although Isidore probably did not read Aristotle directly, he had been exposed to his ideas and especially, it would seem, to the philosopher’s analysis of offspring who do not resemble the parents. In the Generation of Animals, regarding the monstrous, Aristotle states: [They] do not take after a human being at all in their appearance, but have gone so far that they resemble a monstrosity […] There are others that qualify for the name in virtue of having additional parts to their body, being formed with extra feet or extra heads.92

St. Augustine addresses the issue of whether deformed bodies will be resurrected at the Final Judgment in perfected form; he asserts in the Enchiridion [Manual]93 that ‘other births, which, because they have either a superfluity or a defect, or because they are much deformed, are called monstrosities, [and] shall at the resurrection be restored to the normal shape of man’.94 Thus, both Classical and Christian authorities clearly established links between physical deformity, beliefs about monsters, and their place in the created order. One of Jeffrey Cohen’s seven theses about monsters is that ‘they are disturbing hybrids whose externally incoherent bodies resist attempts to include them in systematic structures’.95 For the Medieval Christian the primary systemic structure was the universe as fashioned by God with human beings as the pinnacle of His creation and made in His image. Any appearance then that violated this structure, by virtue of its deformity, could be considered a sign of God’s displeasure. Since an unimpaired body was believed to represent order and normalcy within creation, a hybrid or monstrous body could represent disorder within the universe. The distinction between those who exhibited severe physical malformation and the monstrous was often blurred and portrayals of these individuals often resembled those used to depict monsters. A good example of this blurred distinction is found in another section of the Esopete ystoriado where the author describes a baby born with two heads: 91 Friedman, The Monstrous Races, p. 112. 92 Quoted in Friedman, The Monstrous Races, p. 115. 93 Alternatively titled Faith, Hope, and Love. 94 Quoted in Friedman, The Monstrous Races, p. 121. 95 Cohen, ‘Monster Culture’, p. 6.

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E despues de vn pequeño espaçio de tiempo en las marcas de Ytalia fue vna hembra que pario vn njño de forma humana, el qual avia dos cabeças & las caras se mjravan la vna ala otra & los braços que abraçavan el vno el cuerpo del otro. Eran estos dos cuerpos del pecho en alto ayuntados en vno & dende avajo distintos o apartados el vno del otro, assi que los miembros genjtorios se mostravan manifestamente. Eran apartados de vno & non menos las piernas et pies. Las quales nuevas vinjeron al Papa. (166) (And a little while later in the frontier of Italy a woman gave birth to a child in human form that had two heads and the heads were facing each other and with the arms of one embracing the other. They were attached from the chest upward and unattached below so that their genitalia were clearly visible. Their legs and feet were separate from one another. And this news reached the Pope.)96

An important detail is the way the child is described as ‘de forma humana’ (‘in human form’), i.e., he resembles a human but is somehow not completely human. He is clearly a ‘disturbing hybrid’ to use Cohen’s term, and his appearance is deemed so remarkable that no lesser an authority than the Pope was aware of his existence. The fact that the text includes the Pope’s knowledge of the baby seems to indicate that a hybrid being such as this demanded the attention, and perhaps judgment, from God’s representative on earth. A related example of a hybrid body, resulting from a birth defect, is found in Alfonso X’s Cantigas de Santa Maria. In No. 108 of this collection, a Jew enters into a theological dispute with Merlin, of Arthurian fame. The Jew argues against the incarnation of Jesus in the Virgin Mary. Merlin, in order to prove that the Jew is mistaken and punish him for his disbelief, prays to the Virgin, asking that the child that the Jew’s wife is expecting be born with its head facing backwards: Que ssa moller enprennar foi; o que lle nacer en queras tu assi guisar que com’ outr’ o rostro ten adeante por catar, tenna atras, e des en and’ assi todavia. (II, 32)

96 My translation.

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(He has gotten his wife with child, so I beg you to cause the son who will be born to him to have his countenance not facing forward as others have, but looking backward, and that he always be that way.) (135)

When the child is born, deformed as per Merlin’s prayer, the Cantiga states that ‘mas ben se podo sinar / quen aquel seu fillo viu’ (II, 32) (‘anyone who saw that child […] crosses himself in fear’) (135). Fear and astonishment are reactions to this accident of nature whose existence is clearly, divinely ordained in much the same way that the monstrous were believed to express divine will. The horror and revulsion the child engenders in others is shared by his father who tries to kill the baby as soon as he is born. But Merlin saves the child and uses him as an example to convert Jews to Christianity. The child’s monstrous appearance almost drives the father to infanticide but, in the end, the child becomes an instrument for salvation whereby Jews come to believe in the truths of the Christian faith, according to the Cantiga narrative. The anti-Semitic thrust of this poem cannot be denied and is reflected in other poems in the collection; the fact that this gross disfigurement is visited on a Jewish child plays into the proselytizing mission of the Cantigas and is considered a just punishment for the Jews’ denial of Christ’s divinity. Since gross physical deformation, whether the result of birth, accident, or disease could be interpreted as a punishment, individuals thus impaired could become objects of shame or rejection, both because of their monstrous appearance itself and what that appearance could connote. The notion of the monstrous as part of the created order and thus ordained by God served to further engrain the idea that individuals who were grossly deformed existed because God wanted to send some sort of message. This message could inspire fear and awe at the limitless power of the divine or could denote God’s displeasure or serve as a warning. The conflation of ideas about monstrous beings and the physically disfigured is evident in how these disabled individuals may appear in literature. This chapter has examined portrayals of individuals with impaired mobility that resulted from loss of a limb, maiming, birth defect, paralysis, or other crippling condition. Maiming or crippling could have been visited on an individual as a sign of God’s displeasure or could have been imposed as a judicial punishment. Additionally, impaired mobility could have resulted from a work-related accident or other physical mishap. Wounds received in battle or other bellicose incidents also could have caused the impaired use of limbs. Most of these disabled individuals would have required some sort of physical assistance either in the form of a prosthetic device or other means to facilitate movement. While there are some examples in literary

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texts of the ridicule of characters who are lame, many others are aided by friends and family. Conditions of lameness seem to have been common in the Medieval period because individuals with impaired mobility are among the disabled individuals who most frequently appear in texts from the period.

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Blindness – Los Ciegos

Medieval Theories of Sight Concepts that informed how the blind were represented in texts derived from Medieval ideas about the sense of sight and its role in cognitive perception of the world. Mary Jane Kelley, for example, has investigated Medieval medical and philosophical theories about sight and optics in the thirteenth century as they relate to depictions of the blind. She finds that authors obviously were familiar with the theories that defined sight as a necessary first step toward understanding and cognitive processing.1 Visual information about an object was believed to be carried by particles called species; these species multiplied likenesses of themselves in the space that separated the viewer from the object.2 ‘The principal way in which all outside entities, whether truly existing or conceptual, entered the mind was as a species received through the senses.’3 Vision was considered essential to understanding because in the Neoplatonic worldview what one sees is but an imperfect reflection of the perfect world as embodied by God. 4 Kelley further explains this belief: ‘The sensory stimuli humans absorbed as visual images represented information about the subjective, physical world. Platonic philosophy, and the Neoplatonism of the Middle Ages, distinguished between this subjective perceivable domain and an objective, true realm of being beyond the direct reach of human perception.’5 James Burke explains that sight in the Middle Ages was considered to exist as two types. One was the physical sight that transmitted images to the sensory organs of perception while a second type of sight was a function of the soul.6 ‘This second and very superior way of “seeing” depended in the first instance upon those traces that physical vision (and the other senses) presented to the mind. But in addition the eye of the soul was able to utilize information that had been originally inscribed upon the soul by the Creator.’7 It was believed that by looking at the material world as a reflection of God’s will on earth, one could come closer to a knowledge of God. This concept was 1 Kelley, ‘Blindness as Physical and Moral Disorder’, p. 143. 2 Burke, Vision, p. 13. 3 Burke, Vision, p. 28. 4 Burke, Vision, p. 10. 5 Kelley, ‘Blindness as Physical and Moral Disorder’, pp. 142-43. 6 Burke, Vision, p. 12. 7 Burke, Vision, pp. 12-13.

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essential to St. Augustine’s theology who claimed that ‘physical capacity for vision contributed to memory, which the properly oriented will could access to achieve understanding and ultimately lead the individual Christian to God’.8 Kelley affirms that ‘[t]he educated individual knew that human sensory experience was the first step in acquisition of knowledge regarding this world and, in addition, could lead one to knowledge of God’.9 If sight was necessary for knowledge of God, then blindness could serve as an indicator of a lack of cognitive function that would prevent an individual from awareness of the divine. Kelley calls this latter state an estrangement from God and this explains, in part, why Christian authors often speak of those who fail to recognize Christ as the Son of God as blind.10

Causes for Loss of Sight Descriptions of the blind in Medieval texts tend to say very little about what may have caused one to become blind. Some texts specify that an individual was blind from birth but, in other cases, the loss of sight could have been brought on by illness or dietary deficiencies, as noted by Ronald Finucane. This critic identifies ophthalmia, or severe eye infection, as a possible cause for many cases of blindness in the Middle Ages since this had been a problem since the time of ancient Egypt. He also cites xerophthalmia that can result from a diet heavy in cereals but lacking in green vegetables or animal protein and may cause blindness due to insufficient intake of Vitamin A. Trachoma was easily spread in unsanitary conditions and causes granulations on the inner eyelids that can also lead to blindness.11 No lesser a figure in the Middle Ages than St. Francis suffered impaired sight and eye pain which historians have attributed to wide range of possible problems such as glaucoma, iritus, or corneal ulcers.12 Any of these conditions, as well as injury, could have resulted in blindness in the Middle Ages. 8 Kelley, ‘Blindness as Physical and Moral Disorder’, p. 143. Just as light enters the eye and brings images of the world to one’s intellect, a parallel divine light, emanating from the Holy Spirit, was capable of bestowing spiritual understanding (Kelley, ‘Blindness as Physical and Moral Disorder’, p. 146). 9 Kelley, ‘Blindness as Physical and Moral Disorder’, pp. 143-44. 10 Kelley, ‘Blindness as Physical and Moral Disorder’, p. 145. 11 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 107. Finucane also claims that trachoma ‘would have found an ideal environment in many a medieval cottage’ (Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 107). 12 Trembinski, ‘An Infirm Man’, p. 274. Trembinski affirms that St. Francis was almost totally blind when he died in 1226 and that he was unable to walk (‘An Infirm Man’, p. 282).

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Although historical records about blind individuals are scarce to nonexistent, Wheatley contends that ‘varying degrees of visual impairment must have been so widespread as to be unremarkable, especially before the Italian invention of eyeglasses for nearsightedness in the 1280s and for farsightedness in about 1450’.13 Blindness, too, like other impairments exists on a spectrum from those with some, though limited sight, to total sightlessness. Without recourse to medical or surgical treatments for many of the causes for loss of sight, it is safe to conclude that the blind were a prominent group among the disabled.

Religious Beliefs In Stumbling Blocks before the Blind, Edward Wheatley comments on the paucity of historical evidence about blind individuals in the Middle Ages: ‘[A]lmost no historical evidence exists to answer […][the] questions about how blind people in the Middle Ages viewed not only themselves but also the beliefs and practices that determined their place in society.’14 Despite the lack of testimonies left by blind people in the Medieval period, Wheatley deduces that they were victimized in one very particular way that was directly related to their participation in the Christian religious experience. From the twelfth century onward, most Christians’ experience of the Eucharist was not the reception of sacramental Communion by the individual but rather the viewing of the consecrated Host as it was raised on high by the priest (the elevatio). Wheatley cites compelling evidence that the fervour to view the Host in which Christians believed to experience the actual presence of Christ escalated rapidly and extended throughout Europe. This intensity of devotion led to the creation of Corpus Christi Day in 1264 with its public processions of the consecrated Host and the display of the Host in elaborate monstrances from 1300 onward.15 Wheatley contends that ‘[t]he exclusion of 13 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 8. 14 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 5. 15 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 15. Amundsen relates the promotion of the exposition of the Host directly to the need to curtail the business of trafficking in the relics of saints. The Church tried to redirect adoration away from minor saints, whose relics often were of questionable authenticity, to promote devotion to Christ and Mary. Amundsen claims this change was practical since there were no relics required for veneration of Christ and His Mother who both ascended into Heaven in their earthly bodies. This redirection of devotion, in turn, added ‘relic value’ to the Sacrament of Communion and the viewing of the consecrated Host. As a result of the exposition of the Eucharist, he claims, stories about healings during Mass were very common by the late Middle Ages (Medicine, Society, and Faith, p. 212).

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blind and visually impaired people from the elevatio made them marginal to an observance that was central to both personal and affective piety and Christian community-building’.16 The spiritual benefits one derived from viewing the Host were denied to the blind and, in turn, led to them being considered spiritually inferior to the sighted.17 Biblical accounts of the blind would certainly have formed an essential backdrop for consideration of the blind in Christian Europe. Blindness appears in the Old Testament as, for example, in the well-known story of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah as related in the Book of Genesis. When the men of Sodom try to break down the door of Lot’s house to get to the two angels he is housing, the angels strike the attackers blind so they cannot find them. The blindness of the Sodomites allows Lot and his family to escape the fire that the Lord later rained down on Sodom and Gomorrah. This account implies the spiritual as well as physical blinding of the Sodomites as divine retribution for sin. The relationship of sin to blindness is also established in the Book of Tobit in the Old Testament. Tobit is blinded when sparrow droppings fall into his eyes. He goes from doctor to doctor but to no avail. Later, when he falsely accuses his wife of theft, he is so ashamed of his behaviour that he fervently prays to God for forgiveness. In part of his long prayer he attributes his blindness to his sins: ‘You have often judged my ancestors for their sins and punished me for mine.’18 In response to Tobit’s prayer, the Lord sends his angel, Raphael, to restore his eyesight.19 Other examples of the curing of blindness in the Old Testament, were later interpreted in Christian exegesis as pre-figurations of Christ’s healing of the blind as attested in the New Testament. For example, Psalms 146:8 and Isaiah 35:5 include phrases that lent themselves to such exegesis: ‘The Lord opens the eyes of the blind; the Lord lifts up those who are bowed down’ (Psalms 146:8); referring to Zion’s happy future, Isaiah prophesizes, ‘[t]hen the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped’ (Isaiah 35:5). There are numerous references to Christ’s healing of the blind in the New Testament. For example, in Matthew 9: 27-31, two blind men follow after 16 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, pp. 15-16. 17 ‘Ironically, among the physical blessings that the gaze upon the consecrated Host could grant its viewers was protection for the remainder of the day from, among other inflictions, blindness’ (Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 16). 18 Tobit 3:5. This detail is noteworthy in light of the famous story of the cure of the blind man found in the New Testament in John 9 which I discuss below. 19 For Medieval interpretations of the Tobit story by the Venerable Bede and Matthew of Vendôme, see Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, pp. 67-69.

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Jesus. When He asks them if they believe that He is able to cure them, they both respond that they do. He touches their eyes and their sight is restored; the message, of course, being that with sufficient faith a disability can be reversed. Another pair of blind men are healed by Christ in an account in Matthew 20:30-34. A noteworthy detail in this account is that the two men incessantly cry out to Jesus when they learn that He is passing nearby and the crowd rebukes them. The fact that the people, gathered to see Jesus, tried to silence the two individuals who cannot enjoy gazing upon the Christ is both a warning to, and metaphor for, those who do not believe in Christ’s divine grace. Jesus hears the cries of the blind men despite the crowd’s efforts and takes pity on them, once again healing them by His touch. Mark 8:22-26 tells of Jesus healing the blind man with His saliva. Also, Mark 10:46-52 recounts the episode of a blind beggar who calls out to Jesus for healing. He is reprimanded by others in the crowd as was the case for the blind men recounted in Matthew 20. Christ responds to the beggar’s pleas and tells him that his faith has restored his sight. Perhaps the most famous miracle of Christ healing a person blind from birth is found in Chapter 9 of the Gospel of St. John. Wheatley calls this miracle ‘theologically complex’, and indeed it is.20 Jesus’s disciples ask him if the man’s blindness is the result of the man’s sins or of those of his parents. Christ replies that ‘[i]t was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be made manifest in him’ (John 9:3). He then goes on to proclaim Himself light for the world. Jesus then spits on the earth, makes a clay, applies it to the sightless eyes of the man, and instructs him to wash in the pool of Siloam. After the blind man washes the clay from his eyes, he can see. His neighbours are amazed because they knew him as blind from birth and know that his only means of support is by begging.21 This story continues because the neighbours take the formerly blind man to the Pharisees so that he can tell them about the cure. Some of the Pharisees refuse to believe him because Jesus had effectuated the cure on the Sabbath, and thus committed a sin. Others among the Jews refuse to believe that the man was ever blind and call in his parents to corroborate the story that he had been blind from birth. The parents profess to having no knowledge about how their son was cured and tell them to ask him instead. The man again tells his story and the Pharisees cast him out of the synagogue. Jesus comes to him again later and asks if he believes Him to be the Christ and the formerly blind man professes 20 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 226. 21 In many of these New Testament stories the relationship between being blind and working as a beggar is well-established.

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that he does. But they are overheard by the Pharisees who Jesus accuses of being blind because they do not recognize Him as the Son of God.22 The metaphor of blindness as a failure to believe in the truth of Christian doctrine was a common motif in Medieval literature, especially in references to Jews and Muslims who refuse to see this truth. Wheatley in his article, ‘“Blind” Jews and Blind Christians: Metaphorics of Marginalization in Medieval Europe’, notes that St. Augustine’s commentary on this miracle conflates the idea of the spiritual blindness of non-Christians with a condemnation of the physically blind.23 Augustine argues: If no man is without sin, were the parents of this blind man without sin? Was he himself born blind even without original sin? Or had he while living added nothing? Can it be that because he had closed his eyes, his lusts were not at all awake? How great are the evils the blind commit! From what evil does the evil mind abstain, even with closed eyes? He could not see, but he knew how to think, and perhaps to lust for something which as a blind man he could not accomplish.24

It would seem that Augustine condemns all blind people while at the same time viewing the blind man of the Biblical story as a metaphor for the sinfulness of all humankind after the Fall.25 While I will emphasize the portrayal of physical blindness in the present study, the quote from Augustine masterfully illustrates how the metaphorical associations of this disability were never entirely absent from Christian thought and affected, to some extent, how authors represented the blind. Christian teachings and beliefs about sight and sightlessness made their way into a variety of texts from Medieval Spain. A number of references from literary texts make allusions to incidents in the Bible or apocryphal religious texts about the blind. For example, in the Cantar de Mio Cid (Song of the Cid) (1207), Jimena, in her long prayer imploring God to protect her husband while he is in exile includes a reference to Longinos, the apocryphal name given to the soldier who pierced Christ’s side with his sword as He hung on the cross. Longinos was believed to have been blind from birth and this is reflected in 22 Wheatley contends that the blindness of the Jews, i.e., their inability to see the divinity of Jesus, ‘dominates, perhaps because Paul, a Jew converted to Christianity after being blinded on the road to Damascus, chose this metaphor knowing that in the Jewish tradition, blind people were denied a number of rights and privileges accorded to the sighted’ (Stumbling Blocks, p. 65). 23 Wheatley, ‘“Blind” Jews and Blind Christians’, p. 357. 24 Quoted in Wheatley, ‘“Blind” Jews and Blind Christians’, p. 357. 25 Wheatley, ‘“Blind” Jews and Blind Christians’, pp. 357-58.

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Jimena’s prayer that includes the verse ‘Longinos era ciego, que nuncuas vio alguandre’ (v. 352)26 (‘Longinos was blind and never saw a thing’). Longinos is, of course, spiritually blind as well since he actively participates in the crucifixion of the Christ. Another allusion to Biblical material is found in Alfonso X’s (1221-1284) encyclopaedic text, the Setenario, a kind of ‘Mirror for Princes’ with legal, astronomical, and literary content probably first planned by his father, Fernando III. Among many other subjects, the Setenario treats the sacraments of the Church. The section on Baptism, Law 84, includes an explanation for the priest spitting on his hand and then placing his fingers in the nose and ears of the newly baptized infant. These acts are an imitation of Christ’s healing the man who was blind from birth by mixing his saliva with clay as discussed above.27 The passage from the Setenario reads as follows: Law 84: De cómmo se muestra la Trenidat conplidamente en las cosas que se fazen ante del bautismo e en las cosas que son fechas después del bautismo…. La ssetena, que ffabla por ponimiento de la ssaliua, esto es que el clérigo deue escopir en la ssu mano ssiniestra e tomar con el polgar de la mano diestra e con el otro dedo que está cabo dél de aquella escopedina e poner della en las narizes e en las oreias de aquel que quiere baptizar, diziendo estas palabras que dixo Nuestro Ssennor Ihesu Cristo, que sse muestra en el Euangelio que ffizo Ssant Matheos, en que cuenta que aduxieran vn omne que ffuera çiego de ssu naçençia e él escupiera en tierra a ffizo lodo con la escupedina e púsogelo ssobre los oios e mandól que sse ffuese lauar en vna laguna en que sse mostruan los moços a nadar e que ueríe, e ffué lugeo assí ffecho.28 (Law 84: How the Trinity is fully revealed in the things that are done before and after baptism [….] The seventh that speaks of using the saliva and how the priest should spit into his left hand and take the thumb of his right hand and with the other finger that is next to it and put that saliva in the nose and ears of he who is to be baptized, saying these words that our Lord Jesus Christ said, as recorded in the Gospel of St. Matthew, which relates that they brought a man who was blind from birth to Him and He spit on the ground and made mud with His saliva and put it on his eyes and commanded him to go to a lake a league away that the young people who swim there will show him and he would see, and it was so after he did this.) 26 The reference is to verse number. All citations are from the edition by Alberto Montaner, Cantar de Mio Cid. 27 The most complete recounting of this miracle is in the Gospel of St. John but the Setenario cites St. Matthew as its source. 28 From the edition by Kenneth M. Vanderford of the Setenario, pp. 136 and 143-144.

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The story of the man blind from birth as healed by Christ in St. John, Chapter 9, also appears in the another late thirteenth-century speculum principis, the Castigos e documentos para bien vivir ordenados por el Rey Sancho IV (Lessons and Documents for Good Living Ordered by King Sancho IV) (12581295). In a section that treats the omnipotence of God, the author speaks first of the fact that God wills all children to be born, whether they are wanted by their parents or not. Furthermore, He wills that some be born healthy, well, beautiful, prudent, and wise (‘sanos e escorrechos e fermosos e sesudos e entendidos’),29 while others are born damaged, ugly, crazy, and unwise (‘lijados e feos e locos e desentendidos’).30 After these pronouncements about God’s control of births and the characteristics of new-borns, the author adds a reference to Christ’s healing of the man blind from birth, as further proof of God’s omnipotence: por esto dizen en el euangelio del omne que era çiego de su naçençia, el qual Jesu Cristo sano con el lodo que fizo con su saliua. Quando le demandauan los judios sobre ello, que les dixesse por que nasçciera ciego, sy fuera pecado de su padre o de su madre o de sus parientes o por el suyo mesmo, e Jesu Cristo les respondio que non fuera por ninguno dellos, mas Dios lo feziera por demostrar en el la su gloria, la qual gloria le fue demostrada quando Jesu Cristo lo sano. (39-40) (for that reason the Gospel speaks of a man who was blind from birth whom Jesus Christ healed with the mud He made from His saliva. When the Jews demanded an explanation as to whether the man had been born blind due to the sin of his father or his mother or his other relatives or the man himself, Jesus answered that it was not for any of these reasons, but that God had done this to show in Him His glory, the glory that was made evident when Jesus Christ cured him.)

Other references to blindness in the Bible are reproduced in Alfonso X’s (1221-1284) General estoria (General History), originally designed to be a history of the world from its inception until the present-day, but never completed. In Section 3 of Book 12 of Part I of the General estoria, Alfonso, with his team of collaborators, reproduce the Exodus story in which God 29 Castigos e documentos, edited by Agapito Rey, p. 39. All references are to page numbers from this edition. 30 Castigos e documentos, edited by Rey, p. 30. The reference here to lijado (modern, lisiado) is particularly noteworthy since the modern equivalent of this word is best translated as ‘crippled’ and its infinitive form (lisiar) means ‘to damage permanently’. It is used in modern phrases such as ‘un lisiado de guerra’, meaning ‘a disabled war veteran’.

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must convince Moses to approach the Pharaoh of Egypt and demand freedom for the enslaved Israelites. When Moses is reluctant to follow God’s command, the Lord first rebukes him, reminding Moses that all is possible with God for it is He who can make men mute, deaf, seeing, or blind as found in Exodus 4:10.31 De como se escusa Moysen a nuestro Sennor dela yda de Egipto e de las sennales que nuestro Sennor le ensenno. Dixol essora nuestro Sennor: ‘¿Non so Yo el que faz la boca del omne, e fiz otrossi el sordo, e el mudo, e ell alumbrado e el çiego? Ve tu carrera pora Egipto quanto pudieres’ (326) (About how Moses was reluctant to lead the exodus from Egypt and the signs that the Lord showed him. Our Lord said to him: ‘Wasn’t it I who made man’s mouth, and also made the deaf, and the mute and illuminated the blind? Go on your way to Egypt as soon as you can’)

The inclusion of the Lord illuminating the blind has both a literal and metaphorical meaning for Moses, since he will be the instrument to illuminate Pharaoh to the need to free the Israelites. Another part of the General estoria, Section 7 of Book 27, incorporates part of the consequences for disobedience to the law as stipulated in the Book of Deuteronomy, specifically the warning about worshipping idols found in Deuteronomy 28:28-29.32 Among the woes to be visited upon the Israelites if they worship false gods is blindness: Delas maldiciones sobre qui la ley de Dios non touiere, a aorare ydolos. E dete tanta de sarna e de comezon que non puedes ende sanar nin folgar. Enloquesca te. Ciegue te. Saque te de mient. Palpando andes a medio dia, como el ciego que anda en la tiniebra, e non enderesce El las tus carreras. (738) (About the curses on he who turns away from God and worships idols: You will suffer horribly from scabies and rashes of which you cannot be cured nor find relief. You will go mad. You will go blind. You will be out of your head. You will walk feeling your way around at midday, like the blind who walks in darkness and He will not set you straight on the paths.)

31 ‘[D]ixit Dominus ad eum quis fecit os hominis aut quis fabricatus est mutum et surdum videntem et caecum nonne ego’, www.latinvulgate.com. 32 Percutiat te Dominus amentia et caecitate ac furore mentis et palpes in meridie sicut palpare solet caecus in tenebris et non dirigas vias tuas, www.latinvulgate.com.

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The fact that texts such as histories and mirrors for princes included Biblical passages dealing with the blind attests to the influence of these teachings on important works penned at court. The lessons implied in them were incorporated as part of the wisdom needed to properly lead and as warnings about the power of God and the consequences of disobedience.

Begging and Charity As Irina Metzler has shown, despite the limitations put on the blind with regard to spiritual knowledge, they were not categorically excluded from the workplace, especially in urban areas.33 Although Metzler asserts that there is no anthropological evidence that would support a claim that disabled persons were relegated to a single group of activities, the sole exception appears to be the blind as beggars.34 There appears to be some ambivalence in attitudes toward the blind beggar; while they were considered legitimate recipients of charity they were also often characters in farces.35 As with other types of the disabled who supported themselves from begging, there was suspicion that some able-bodied folk feigned their disability in order to dupe well-meaning almsgivers. When some towns and districts began to enact restrictions on beggars, especially in the later Middle Ages, groups of beggars, and the blind in particular, began to organize themselves into fraternities or guild-like organizations.36 With regard to Spain, Metzler identifies confraternities of the blind operating in Barcelona and Valencia dating from 1329.37 Anxiety over feigned beggars resulted in requirements in some parts that they wear certain insignia that were, in essence, licenses to beg.38 But Wheatley reminds us that not all blind people would have had to resort to begging or be cared for in an institution and he asserts that overemphasizing the image of the blind beggar deprives persons with 33 Metzler, A Social History, pp. 75-77. 34 Metzler rejects the assignation of the blind to roles such as minstrel or basket-weaver as stereotypical without basis in historical evidence (A Social History, p. 84). 35 Metzler, A Social History, p. 162. 36 Metzler, A Social History, p. 177. 37 Metzler, A Social History, p. 177. ‘Unlike most such corporations, and particularly in contrast to later fraternities, which were modelled on the religious fraternities extant in many cities, the Barcelona and Valencia guilds, provided for different forms of solidarity and mutual aid within the organisation, such as reciprocal loan of the guide for the blind (lazarillo), help in cases of sickness and collective sharing out of the alms received’ (Metzler, A Social History, p. 177). 38 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 22.

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this disability of agency.39 He states that ‘[s]ome blind people worked in the Middle Ages, and the same would have been true of people with other disabilities; they were not all simply passive recipients of alms’. 40 This is an important point even though there is little to no evidence about the particular occupations that the blind may have held. The blind were the recipients of charitable giving and some institutional care despite societal concerns about false beggars and feigned blindness. Henri-Jacques Stiker asserts that all kinds of disabled persons, and the poor in general, were recipients of charitable giving, from alms placed in the outstretched palm of the beggar to institutional foundations with substantial legacies. 41 Perhaps the best known of institutes established specifically for the blind and outside of direct Church or monastic control was the Hospice des Quinze-Vingts founded by Louis IX (St. Louis) in 1256 in Paris. 42 Besides being motivated purely by Christian charity, it would seem that Louis also founded this institution because of anxiety about ablebodied beggars. 43 Wheatley claims that this foundation was a ‘watershed moment’ in the history of blindness: The foundation of the Hospice des Quinze-Vingts revised the discourse surrounding blindness by challenging the religious model and in some ways moving toward a social one; although the institution included a chapel under the control of at least one chaplain, and residents had license to beg at the doors of Parisian churches, the general raison d’être of the organization was not religious but social. 44

It was a community for the blind, and even their sighted relatives, where people worked communally and had certain control of their own governance. In order to indicate that the residents had royal permission to beg in Paris they wore special uniforms.45 Other similar institutions sprung up all over France but in England no such specialized centres for the blind arose 39 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 14. 40 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 14. 41 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 77. Wheatley sees charitable giving as a system for redistribution of wealth in which ‘[a]ll charitable action was […] financed by the rich, who could be nobles of the courts or kings and emperors themselves’ (Stumbling Blocks, p. 77). 42 This institution survives today in association with the National Center for Ophthalmology in Paris (Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 42). 43 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 44. 44 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 42. 45 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, pp. 42-44.

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and hospitals of all sorts remained in large part under Church control. 46 In Spain, many of the vassals of Alfonso VIII were left blind after the monumental battle against the Muslims at Las Navas de Tolosa (16 July 1212). They formed a brotherhood (cofradía) in Toledo protected by the King and with certain privileges and exemptions; a few years later a similar brotherhood of the blind was founded in Madrid. 47 Many blind people, however, were not institutionalized or organized. There is evidence to support the fact that the blind were often aided by a guide, called a lazarillo in Spain. 48 Metzler devotes attention to mobility aids for the blind and affirms that ‘[b]lind people tended to be led by other people, preferably adults, since children (although cheap to employ) were deemed unreliable, as were dogs’. 49 While the portrayal of the blind exclusively as beggars has been considered stereotypical, it should be recognized that the blind beggar was one of a number of stock figures that appear in traditional verse in the early literature of Spain. The best known example is found in the Libro de buen amor (strophes 1710-11) in which Juan Ruiz, Archpriest of Hita, includes a song intoned by the blind as they cry out for alms bemoaning their condition and emphasizing their impoverished existence: Varones buenos e onrrados, queret nos ya ayudar, a estos çiegos lasrados la vuestra limosna dar; somos pobres menguados, avemos lo a demander. De los bienes deste siglo non tenemos nós pasada; bevimos en gran peligro, en vida mucho penada; çiegos bien commo vestiglo, 46 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 59. 47 Montoro Martínez, Los ciegos en la historia, Vol. 1, p. 550. In 1460 Pedro Fernández Lorca founded in Carabanchel Alto in the province of Madrid, an asylum for the blind, Santa Catalina de los Donados, that continued in service until 1941 when it was incorporated into the Colegio Nacional de Ciegos (The National School for the Blind) (Montoro Martínez, Los ciegos en la historia, Vol. 1, p. 569). 48 This term was adapted from the anonymous picaresque novel, Lazarillo de Tormes (1554), in which a young man serves a number of masters, the first being a blind man for whom he serves as guide. 49 Metzler, A Social History, p. 178.

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del mundo non vemos nada. (1710a-17llf) (Good and honoured men, we beg you to help us; to these miserable blind men give your alms. We are wretched paupers, we must live by begging. Of the goods of this world we have no portion. We pass our painful life in great affliction; blind are we, as moles, we see nothing of the world.) (315-16)50

Here the blind men claim to be ‘wretched paupers’ (‘pobres menguados’) who lead ‘painful’ (‘penada’) lives and their only recourse is to beg. Of course, their song is designed to illicit pity but the appearance of the songs in the Libro de buen amor argues not only for the existence of such petitions in verse but also that they were probably well-known among the Archpriest’s audience.51 He includes another variation on these petitions a few strophes later in the poem beginning with verse 1720a: Cristianos de Dios amigos, a estos çiegos mendigos con meajas o con bodigos queret nos acorrer, e queret por Dios faser. Si de vós non lo avemos, otro algo non tenemos con que nos desayunar; non lo podemos ganar con estos cuerpos lasrados, 50 These strophes are from the translation by Rigo Mignani and Mario A. Di Cesare and are not included in the Singleton translation in verse, cited below. It is worth noting that Mignani and Di Cesare choose to translate ‘vestiglo’ found in verse 1711e as ‘mole’, whereas the most common translation for this word is ‘monster’ – a change with considerable implications for perceptions of the blind. If the blind beggar compares himself to a monster, this would affirm that he is keenly aware of his ostracism by society and exclusion from considerations of normalcy. 51 For examples of beggars’ prayers and songs included in literature from later periods see pp. 40-52 of Matilde Cuevas Díaz’s La imagen de los discapacitados en la literatura.

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çiegos pobres e cuitados. (1720a-1721f) (Christians, friends of God, we beg you to succour, in the name of God, these blind beggars, with your pennies and your bread. Unless you give to us we will having nothing else with which to break our fast; to earn we are unable, with these wretched bodies, blind, poor and miserable as we are.) (318)52

Again, the emphasis is on begging as the blinds’ only form of making a living. If they do not receive alms from charitable Christians, they will, quite literally, go without breakfast.53 The verses speak specifically of their ‘wretched bodies’ (‘cuerpos lasrados’) that are unsuitable for or incapable of performing any kind of work. While such songs were stylized and passed down as part of an oral tradition, they give some clues to the harsh realities of blind persons who were forced to rely primarily on alms for their survival. The blind beggar as minstrel was a traditional character that Juan Ruiz incorporated into his work as one element in his panoramic portrayal of the follies of human existence.

Blinding as Judicial Punishment Edward Wheatley has studied blinding as a punishment in Medieval France and England at length, and concludes that while the French frequently used blinding as a criminal penalty the practice was quite rare in England.54 While blinding was practiced in Norman England, by the thirteenth century a number of laws were enacted that rescinded the practice.55 In contrast, blinding as a juridical practice continued in France throughout the fourteenth and 52 This translation is also from Mignani and Di Cesare as specified in the footnote above. 53 It is worth noting that Juan Ruiz also includes two begging songs put in the mouths of students earlier in the work. They make no allusion to not being able to earn a living in any other way but only admit that they are poor and that God will reward the generosity of those who help them. See verses 1650a-1660d. 54 See chapter 2 ‘Leading the Blind: France versus England’ in Stumbling Blocks before the Blind. 55 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 37.

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well into the second of half of the fifteenth century.56 In Spain, specifically in Alfonso X’s extensive law code the Siete Partidas (Seven Parts), there is direct prohibition against blinding as punishment. Since the Alfonsine law code relies heavily on Roman as well as canonical law, the influence of the latter seems paramount in the discussion of blinding because its prohibition is based on not mutilating the face since man is made in the image of God. The Seventh Partida, Title 31, Law VI, under the heading ‘What Punishment Judges Are Forbidden to Inflict’ reads as follows: Pugnar deuen los iudgadores de escarmentar los yerros que se fazen en las tierras sobre que han poder de iudgar despues que fueren iudgados o conosçidos. Pero algunas maneras son de penas que las no deuen dar a ningund onbre por yerro que aya fecho, assi commo sesalar a ninguno la cara quemandole con fuego caliente o cortandole las narizes. ni sacandole los oios ni dandole otra manera de pena en ella de que finque señalado. Esto es porque la cara del onbre fizo dios a su semeiança & por ende ningund iuez no deue penar en la cara. ante defendemos que lo non fagan. Ca pues dios tanto lo quiso onrrar & enoblesçer faziendolo a su semeiança no es guisado que por yerro y por maldad de los malos sea desfeada ni destorpada la figura del señor. (1343) (Judges should endeavour to punish crime in the territories over which they have jurisdiction, after the guilty parties have been convicted or confessed; there are, however, certain kinds of punishment which should not be inflicted on any man on account of an offense which he may have committed; as, for instance, branding him on the face with a hot iron; cutting off his nose, plucking out his eyes; or inflicting any other kind of punishment on him by which his face may be disfigured. This is the case because God made man in His own image, and therefore no judge should punish anyone in this way, and we forbid them to do so; for, since God wished to honour and ennoble man to such an extent as to create him in His own image, it is not fitting that because of some offense or wickedness of evil-disposed people, the face of the Lord should be disfigured, or injured.) (V, 1465-1466)

Even though blinding as punishment is strictly prohibited in the Siete Partidas, Alfonso X, in his General estoria, incorporates mythological material in which blinding is seen as a punishment inflicted by the gods. For example, in the first volume of the second part of the General estoria there appears a 56 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 39.

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debate between Jupiter and his wife, Juno. Jupiter says that women enjoy sex more than men and Juno denies this. To settle the dispute, they bring in one Thiresias as a witness. Thiresias is uniquely qualified to render judgment in this matter because he had been turned into a woman and then back into a man so he can speak to the desires of both sexes. Thiresias agrees with Jupiter and Juno is so enraged that she blinds Thiresias. Thiresias heartily complains to Jupiter about the loss of his sight but Jupiter refuses to undo the work of another of the gods. As compensation for his blindness, Jupiter grants Thiresias the ability to know the future. This tale presents a blind man as a soothsayer, a figure that was common in literature from the Classical world. In this tale as recounted in the General estoria, sight is called one of ‘las meiores cosas’ (‘the greater or most important things’) as well as ‘la lumbre del cuerpo’ (‘the light of the body’), as in the following passage: Alli fue muy sannuda la reyna Juno; e maguer que era solaz y era la contienda dellos jogosa, dolio se ella daquel juyzio mas de su derecho; et antel rey Jupiter non pudo fazer, mas tollio la lumbre al alcalde e cegol. Et doliese ende Thiresias mucho además, cuemo qui pierde uno de los sentidos e de las meiores cosas que ha, e quexose dent quanto podie. Mas Juppiter, que era poderoso de todas las cosas, segunt las uanidades e la uana creencia de sos gentiles, por que non conuenie nin se fazie entre sos gentiles que ningun dios desfiziesse los fechos que ell otro fazie, diol por ello a saber las cosas que auien de uenir, e onrol con saber quel dio por perdida de la lumbre et por la pena de la ceguedat en que le echara Juno. Et assi como diz el autor, si perdió Thiresias la lumbre del cuerpo, alumbrol Juppiter con la lunbre del saber, que es otra lunbre muy buena (160) (And Queen Juno was enraged, and even though the dispute was entertaining and playful, that judgement hurt her more than it should have; but she could not do anything to King Jupiter, so she took the light from the judge and blinded him. And Thiresias was very saddened, as would be anyone who lost one of his major senses, and he complained very much about it. But Jupiter, who was powerful in all things, according to the vanities and the vain beliefs of the pagans, refused because it was not accepted or done among those pagans that one god should reverse what another god had done, but he gave him the power to know things that were to come and he honoured him with this knowledge in compensation for the loss of sight that Juno had imposed on him. And thus the author says, if Thiresias lost the light of his body, Jupiter illuminated him with the light of knowledge, which is another great light.)

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Historical references to blinding as punishment are also referenced in other historical texts from the period. In Alfonso X’s Estoria de España (History of Spain), also known as the Primera crónica general (First General Chronicle), the act of blinding is condemned in the story found in section 614 of the book. This is the section that treats the reign of Alfonso II, King of Asturias, also known as El Casto (The Chaste) (c.760-842). It is known that Alfonso II had several official contacts with Charlemagne (c.742-814) who is mentioned in the following account of the Empress Erena blinding her son Constantine. The names of these individuals should not be confused with those of St. Helen (c.250-330) who is credited with converting her son Constantine to Christianity, although the similarity in the names is striking and may have indicated some confusion on the compilers’ part. In its depiction of events which were supposed to have occurred in the year 794 (era 832),57 the Estoria includes the following: Esse anno otrossi cobre Erena, la emperadriz, por su sabiduría ell imperio que su fijo Costantin le auie tomado; et priso a ell et sacol los oios, et echol de tierra, et murió en desterramiento. Et regno ella sola tres annos. Mas el papa Leo quando esto uio, enuio por Carlos, rey de Ffrancia, e alçol por emperador de Roma. E esto fizo el papa con conseio de los romanos, ca se tenien por desonrrados et maltrachos de assennorearlos mugier que tan mal fecho fiziera en cegar assi a su fijo. E por ende loaron ellos mucho los fechos de Carlos, et dizien que merescie bien de seer emperador. (II, 348) (And also in this year, Erena, the Empress, regained by cleverness the empire that her son, Constantine, had taken from her; and she took him prisoner and put out his eyes, and sent him into exile where he died. And she reigned for three years. But Pope Leo when he became aware of this, sent for Charles, King of France, and made him Emperor of Rome. And the Pope did this with the counsel of the Romans for he deemed them dishonoured and mistreated being ruled by a woman who had done such an evil deed as blinding her own son. And, for that reason, they greatly praised the deeds of Charles, who well deserved to be Emperor.)

This passage justifies and praises the appointment of Charlemagne as the first Holy Roman Emperor while also condemning, in no uncertain terms, a mother who blinds her son in order to occupy a place of power. This historical reference to blinding is presented as part of a wider discussion of the justification or non-justification for blinding as punishment. 57 The Hispanic era is 38 years ahead of the CE calendar.

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Alfonso X includes other historical cases of blinding as punishment in his Estoria de España (Primera crónica general). In Chapter 656 of the second volume of the Estoria de España, there is a section on Alfonso III of Aragón, also known as Alfonso Magno (852-910). His succession to the throne after the death of his father, Ordoño I, was complicated. According to the chronicle, Alfonso’s brother, Fruela, plotted with three of his other brothers (Nuño, Bermudo, and Odoario) to kill the king and assume the throne. But the king discovered their plot and, when they tried to flee, he caught them and had all four of his traitorous brothers blinded. Although blind, one of the conspirators, Bermudo, later raised an army of Muslim forces and attacked his brother. Alfonso was victorious but his brother escaped and took refuge in Astorga. This blinding of one’s own family members is not an isolated case in the Estoria de España. Later, in Chapter 685 of the second volume, there is an account of King Ramiro II of Léon (898-951) who also had to confront challenges to his investiture. Upon the death of his father, Ordoño II, the throne was claimed by Ordoño’s brother, Fruela II, over the inheritance rights of Ordoño II’s sons. When Fruela died within a year, Fruela’s sons challenged the sons of Ordoño. Although one of Ramiro’s brothers assumed the throne of León as Alfonso IV, he later relinquished his rights to his brother, Ramiro. However, Alfonso came to regret his decision and banded with Fruela’s sons to try to win back his crown. When Alfonso and his supporters summoned Ramiro to Asturias, ostensibly to hold talks, Ramiro was suspicious of their intentions. Ramiro knew them to be his enemies and he went to the meeting with an army. He battled with them and took his brother and his cousins prisoners and had them all blinded.58 He later repented of his cruelty and sent his blinded relatives to live in the Monastery of San Julián Ruiforco de Torío.59 According to the chronicle, Ramiro provided for the blinded men until their death. It should be noted that, in these historical cases, blinding was imposed only as a punishment for the most serious of crimes – high treason against the crown. A case of judicial blinding is found in Clemente Sánchez de Vercial’s Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c. (Book of Tales by A.B.C.). Section No. 224 relates a story attributed to Valerius Maximus about a ruler, Salentium, who enacts a law that anyone who commits adultery should have his eyes put out. 58 Interestingly, the Estoria de España calls the challengers Ramiro’s nephews when, in reality, they are his cousins since they are the sons of his father’s brother (see II, 390-91). 59 The Estoria de España simply identifies the monastery as one dedicated to San Julián near León. The monastery of Ruiforco was dedicated to San Julián and Santa Basilia. The chronicle erroneously attributes the founding of this monastery to Ramiro II. The monastery no longer exists.

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When the ruler’s son is convicted of adultery, the people declare that the King should not be obligated to inflict this punishment upon his own son. Salentium wants everyone to be subject to the rule of law but he also wants to show mercy to his son. In order to do both, he rules that only one of his son’s eyes be removed and also one of his own. In this way he completes the letter of the law but does not completely deprive his son of sight. The story ends with the declaration: ‘E por contemplamento e ygualdat entre el padre e el aver misericordia del fijo el que fizo la ley justicia’ (191) (‘Thus, the father carefully considered his options of showing mercy to his son or doing his duty and he acted in a way that upheld justice under the law’) (150). Each section in the collection is headed by a couplet that sums up its moral lesson; in this case the tale illustrates that no one is above the law, but that fairness should also prevail in any judicial decision: ‘Deve el ombre fazer justicia / de ssy e de otros sin favor e maliçia’ (191) (‘A man must show a just behaviour, / Treating all sans fear or favor’) (150).60 Another example from the same collection, Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c., No. 22, recounts that the King of Bulgaria relinquished his throne to his sons so that he might take vows as a monk and live in a monastery. The oldest son takes up the mantle of his father but oppresses the people and forces the Christians to worship idols. When his devout father hears of this idolatry, he leaves the monastery and fights against his son whom he defeats. As punishment the King orders that the eldest son’s eyes be gouged out and places his youngest son on the throne so that he may return to monastic life. Again, blindness as punishment is reserved for extreme cases of misconduct such as, in this instance, the sin of worshipping false gods. The son’s crime is particularly revolting to his devout father who has no desire to personally return to power, but intervenes when his eldest son acts like a tyrant. In this case, love of God wins out even over love of one’s children as illustrated by the moralizing verses that accompany the tale: ‘El amor del Ssalvador / ssobrepuja a todo amor’ (46) (‘The Saviour’s love is greater than / Any love of fellow man’) (29). Blinding is also used as punishment in one of the fable collections circulating in Spain, El libro de los gatos (The Book of Cats) (1350-1440), probably a translation and adaption of Odo de Cheriton’s (1185-1246/47) Fabulae (Fables).61 El libro de los gatos contains a story (No. 28 of the collection) about the encounter of two men with a group of monkeys. One man vows to tell the 60 This story repeats almost word for word in the Glosa castellana al ‘Regimiento de Príncipes’ de Egidio Romano in Vol. I, chapter 11, pp. 113-14 in the edition of Juan Beneyto Pérez. 61 El libro de los gatos, edited by John E. Keller, p. 10.

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truth to the monkeys while the other decides to lie to them. The liar lavishes praise on the monkey who appears to be the group’s leader and is rewarded with fine food and riches. His truthful companion tells the monkeys that he thinks they are the foulest creatures he has ever encountered. In response, the monkeys gouge out the eyes of the man who told the truth.62 The blind man’s sight is later restored when he washes his eyes in a magic fountain, but the liar is eventually eaten by wild beasts. The obvious moral is that telling lies will eventually lead to punishment whereas the truth-teller, although temporarily disabled by blindness, eventually triumphs. In at least one tale, No. 151, found in the Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c., the author introduces a comic element in a tale dealing with a man condemned to have his eyes put out. The prisoner begs the judge to let him choose the nail that will serve as the instrument of his blinding. They bring him a great quantity of nails from which to choose but he never finds one to his liking. The authorities have no other alternative than to free him since they had agreed to let him select the nail to gouge out his eyes. The stated moral of this tale is that one should avoid choosing anything potentially evil. The story itself seems only tangentially related to the moral, because it actually emphasizes more the cleverness of the accused than the lesson it purports to teach. Blinding as punishment is also included in the collection of Marian tales compiled in the thirteenth century by Alfonso X, the Cantigas de Santa Maria (Songs of Holy Mary). In Cantiga 177, blinding is accompanied by a curious twist of plot. In this poem, a good servant is viciously slandered and his master believes the lies told about him. Rather than discerning the truth of the accusations, the master becomes enraged and orders that his servant’s eyes be put out. The good man asks for his eyes once they are removed and, with great faith, goes to a surgeon’s house and asks him to restore his eyes to their sockets. The introduction of a medical remedy for the man’s sightlessness is rare and the audience for this work would have been predictably incredulous as to the outcome of this procedure. However, as the surgeon is replacing his eyes the man prays to the Virgin and, with divine aid, the operation is successful. When the surgeon replaces the eye balls in their sockets, ‘non parecia du llos tiraran sinal, / ante cuidavan ben 62 This story repeats with a different moral in the Esopete ystoriado. In Book Four, Story No. 8, the liar tells the leader of the monkeys that he is a great emperor and the truthful man tells them they are all nothing more than monkeys. The leader of the monkeys orders the truthful man killed and the moral is that those who tell falsehoods are more often rewarded than those who tell the truth (Esopete ystoriado, p. 77).

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todos que non ouvera en mal’ (II, 189) (‘there was no trace that his eyes had been taken out. Rather, all believed he had suffered no harm from it’) (213). This narrative attests not only to the blinded man’s faith in the Virgin but also his presence of mind to request his eyes even after suffering the pain and humiliation of being blinded. Although there are numerous other cures of blindness found in the Cantigas de Santa Maria, this account combines an instance of unjust punishment by blinding with a correction that involves both abiding faith and surgical intervention. While juridical blinding appears to be strictly prohibited in Spanish law by the thirteenth century, it appears with some frequency, as just noted, in works of history, collections of moralizing tales, mirrors for princes, fables, and miracle narratives. However, in all these instances blinding seems reserved for offenses such as high treason, abandoning the Christian faith, or, rarely, personal or moral revenge. Especially in moralizing tales, blinding can appear as part of the overall lesson the account wants to emphasize or it is used as a warning device. The systematic incorporation of Biblical, mythological, historical, and folkloric materials into works that involve blinding attest to the enduring impact of this violent form of punishment and how the loss of sight is coupled to, or associated with, loss of power and moral defeat.

Blinding as Divine Punishment More common in early literature from Spain than instances of blinding as corporal punishment for crime are accounts of blinding as a divine punishment sent by God. Perhaps because it was considered such a vile punishment, those who are blinded are held up not only as examples of conducts to be avoided but also to remind the faithful that God has the power to permanently disable even His most beloved creature, humankind, created in his own image. Blinding as divine penalty is found in a wide variety of texts. For example, Gonzalo de Berceo in his Vida de San Millán de la Cogolla (Life of Saint Aemilianus of Cogolla) recounts the story of two thieves who steal a mule the saint used to carry wood for the poor. As punishment for this crime, God puts out one eye of each of the thieves: ‘[O] vieron sendos ojos de las caras qebrados, / tanto qe senda nueces cabrién en los forados’ (vv. 273cd) (‘Each of them had one eye put out, / so that a nut would fit in the hole’) (356). This vivid description of the men’s empty eye sockets would not have been lost on Berceo’s audience who are invited to picture the deformed faces of the thieves. The one-eyed men repent of their

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crime, return the mule to the saint, and beg him to pray for the restoration of their eyes. Rather than plead to God on their behalf, the saint refuses to intervene, saying that they were lucky to have only lost sight in one eye when the just punishment for their theft would have been hanging. He concludes by saying that they should do penance for their wrongdoing and suffer their punishment with patience: ‘[M]as val’ con sendos ojos salvar vuestros pecados, / qe con dos dos [sic] veervos en infierno damnados’ (276cd) (‘But it is better to save you from your sins with one eye / than to see yourselves condemned to hell with both eyes’) (356). Two tales from the Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c. deal with gamblers who curse God (and in one case also the Virgin Mary) and subsequently lose their sight. In section No. 55, when a sailor loses at dice he denies God and the Virgin. After he blasphemes, he bends down toward the gaming table and his eyes fall from their sockets onto the playing board. In a very similar tale, No. 236, a knight who is playing dice swears by the eyes of God, and in response to this oath, one of his eyes pops out and lands on the board in front of him. In Alfonso X’s collection of Marian miracle tales, the Cantigas de Santa Maria, Cantiga 316 relates how a priest is punished by blinding for burning a church dedicated to the Virgin. The priest is upset because more pilgrims come to the Virgin’s shrine and leave offerings than visit his church which is just across the river from Mary’s church. As soon as he torches the church dedicated to Holy Mary, he is struck blind. He immediately acknowledges his sin and rebuilds the church. Once the church is rebuilt and consecrated, the priest’s sight is restored. In No. 314 of the same collection, a knight is distressed that his wife spends more time in prayer than in his company. The knight declares that he disapproves of long prayers and calls the church dedicated to the Virgin where his wife frequently prays ‘ũu avol muradal / u non á nulla vertude’ (III, 129) (‘a vile dung heap where there is no miraculous power’) (381). After this pronouncement, the knight loses his sight and writhes in pain. When his wife discovers him in this state, she prays to Mary to restore his sight and he is once again able to see. Blinding here, although eventually reversed in response to the wife’s petition, is considered appropriate punishment for speaking ill of the Virgin. After he regains his sight, the knight then dedicates his properties to Mary in thanksgiving. The power of the Virgin to restore the man’s sight in this poem is specifically attributed to powers that Mary had received as an eye-witness to her Son’s crucifixion – ‘Virgen que aduz / sempr’ a nos ben e saude, que guaanna do que na cruz / viu estar’ (III, 129) (‘The Virgin […] always brings us blessings and health which She receives from the One She saw nailed on the cross’)

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(381). Even though the knight’s insult is punished by God, the ever-merciful Virgin has not only the power to forgive the blasphemy but also to reverse the divinely-inflicted sentence. A thieving priest is punished with blindness in Cantiga 318 from the Cantigas de Santa Maria. The priest steals a silver cross from a church, scrapes off the silver plating, and gives the precious metal to a woman, presumably his mistress. He then brings the cross without its silver plate back into the church, declaring that whoever is guilty of this crime should be immediately struck blind. Of course, since he is the thief, the Virgin grants his wish and he goes completely blind. To compound his sightlessness, the priest’s nose grows so large that it covers his mouth and reaches to his ears. In this poem, the priest is not forgiven nor is his sight restored nor his nose returned to its normal proportion. The text declares that all should praise the Virgin since she did not kill the priest but rather chose only to physically disable him: non quis matar aqueste, mas pose-lle tal sinal por que quantos lo pois vissen leixassen de fazer mal; e dereit’ é que tal aja quena en pouco tever. (III, 139) (She did not kill this man, but rather She placed such a terrible disfigurement on him so that everyone who saw him would avoid sin. It is only right that anyone who would belittle Her so should suffer such a fate.) (387)

This poem is rare in the Cantigas since Mary is usually portrayed as merciful, even to those who commit grievous sin or blaspheme against God. The priest, as a representative of Christ’s Church on earth, is here held to a higher standard and is left permanently, physically impaired for his brazen act of theft and subsequent attempt at a cover-up. He not only, personally, suffers his impairment but his physical appearance serves as a warning to others who may be contemplating committing a crime or other sinful act. Muslims are punished with blindness in Cantiga 229. While blindness is frequently used as a metaphor when referring to those who do not recognize the truths of the Christian faith, the Muslim protagonists of this poem suffer literal blindness in response to an act of sacrilege against a church dedicated to Mary. During a time of war between Alfonso IX of León (ruled 1188-1230) and Alfonso VIII of Castile (ruled 1158-1214), Muslim forces attack the Virgin’s church at Villasirga.63 Despite their efforts to destroy the church, the invaders are not able to budge even one stone from 63 See note 65 of Chapter 1.

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the building. Furthermore, as punishment for this attack, Mary strikes the Muslim attackers blind and cripples them. Here the wrath of the Virgin is kindled against non-believers and she comes to the defence of a place especially devoted to her. Blindness as a punishment for a Muslim thief is found in Cantiga 329 from this same collection. In this intriguing account, the poets include a lesson about Islamic beliefs concerning the Virgin Mary. The text states that the Qur’an upholds the belief that Mary became pregnant through the power of the Holy Spirit and that she gave birth to Jesus who they consider to be a great prophet. It further states that even though Muslims do not revere Jesus as the Christ, the Son of God, they pay special homage to Mary, believe in her perpetual virginity, and consider her the most honoured among all the angels in Heaven. After this brief lesson in Islamic theology, the Cantiga states that some Muslims from an invading army stop at the Virgin’s church in Tudia to pray and leave coins as offerings on the altar.64 This account stands in stark contrast to the plot of Cantiga 229 just discussed – here the Muslims stop to worship in a church dedicated to Mary instead of trying to destroy it. After they complete their prayers and leave their donations, one of the Muslims stays behind after his compatriots leave the church and steals all the coins left on the Virgin’s altar. Before he even gets to the door of the church with the purloined money, the thief is struck blind and paralyzed. His companions miss him, go back to the church to look for him, and find him unable to move or see. They notice, too, that their offerings are not on the Virgin’s altar and suspect their companion of stealing them. They search the blind man and, of course, find the coins. Here, as is often the case in Christian writings about Islam, the detail of the man’s race, specifically his dark skin colour, is included: ‘Aquel mouro que estava mui mais negro que o pez’ (III, 165) (‘The Moor, who was blacker than pitch’) (401).65 When the blind man’s companions return the monies to the altar, the thief’s eyesight is restored and he is able to move again. The poem claims that the Muslims themselves shared news of this miracle with the Christians. This account combines an instance of blinding, specifically for the crime of stealing from the Church, with a discourse on Islamic beliefs about the Virgin that helps to explain why the blind thief’s eyesight is returned when he makes restitution. Blindness can also be a punishment for the sin of vanity. There are at least two versions of a tale with this theme – one in the Libro de los exenplos 64 A sanctuary built by the Order of Calatrava in the Sierra de Tudia in the western part of the Sierra Morena in the province of Badajoz in Spain (Kulp-Hill, Songs of Holy Mary, p. 394, note 1). 65 This phrase is frequently used to negatively describe Muslim protagonists.

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por a.b.c and another in the El espéculo de los legos (Mirror for the Laity) (first half of fifteenth century).66 In Section No. 371 from the Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c., an English woman longs for more beautiful, green eyes and goes to the shrine of St. Thomas in Canterbury to pray for them. When she arrives at the shrine and makes her plea, she goes blind. The lesson here is that rather than being grateful for the gift of sight, she makes a frivolous plea to a saint. The implication is that petitions for saintly intervention or help should be reserved for serious matters and especially not for reasons of temporal vanity. After going blind, the woman prays to the saint to restore her former eyes just as they were. Her prayer is answered but the woman’s temporary blindness is meant as a stern lesson about the consequences of undue concern for earthly beauty. The text in El espéculo de los legos that treats this same moral lesson is longer and provides more details than the very short version in the Libro de los exenplos. The version in El espéculo is also set in England and also involves the shrine of St. Thomas Becket. The text claims that the tale forms part of a Life of St. Thomas but does not cite a specific source. It is more elaborate and cites two Psalms as illustrative of the story’s moral lesson: Onde en la Vida de Santo Tomás mártir, obispo de Conturbel se lee que una muger desaua mucho aver más fermosos ojos que tenía, e fué a visitar el cuerpo de aquese santo mártir por le rogar que le pluguiese de le ganar ojos fermosos. E desque se leuantó de la oración fallóse çiega del todo, e conosçiendo su locura e faziendo della penitencia, echóse en oraçión con mucho afinco rogando al santo mártir que le plugiese de le dar los ojos que perdiera e alcançó los que demandaua con mucha graueza. E de aquí es lo que dize el Psalmista: Tú, Sennor, homillarás los ojos de los soberuios. E esto paresçe claramente en aquesta muger. E aún este mesmo Psalmista dize en otro Salmo: Sea fecha la su oraçión en pecado. E si la oraçión es fecha en pecado asaz razonablemente será fecha en pena, asy como acaesçió a ésta. (431-32)67 (One reads in the Life of St. Thomas, Bishop of Canterbury, about a woman who greatly desired to have more attractive eyes; she went to visit the tomb of the holy martyr and begged him for very beautiful eyes. When she rose from praying she was immediately struck completely blind and, realizing her folly, she began to do penance, earnestly beseeching the 66 This is a Spanish translation of the Speculum Laicorum, essentially a manual for preachers. 67 All citations are from El espéculo de los legos: texto inédito del siglo XV, edited by José María Mohedano Hernández.

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saint to return to her the eyes she formerly had and her wish was granted with much seriousness. And thus says the Psalmist: You, Lord, humble the eyes of the prideful. And this is seen clearly in that woman. For the same Psalmist says in another Psalm, thus it happens when a prayer is made in sin. And if prayer is made in sin, with reason it will be answered with woe, as happened to this woman.)

Just as excessive vanity caused the women in the above-cited examples to lose their sight, another tale from the El espéculo deals with the consequences of not keeping a vow when petitioning the Virgin for the restoration of sight. Section 562 of this work tells of a blind woman from Bohemia who asks Holy Mary to give her back her sight and, if the Virgin grants her petition, she promises to make a journey to Mary’s church and not eat meat until she has made the pilgrimage. The Virgin grants the woman’s request, but as soon as she receives her sight, she forgets her promises to Mary, neither making the trip to the Virgin’s church to leave offerings nor refraining from eating meat. The consequences of her failure to keep her promises are quite grave: atrauesósele un ueso en la garganta e estuvo ocho días que no pudo comer nin dormir. E tornóse con lágrymas del cuerpo y del coraçón a la Madre del Redentor e Ella librola con grandeza de misericordia, e la muger veyéndose sana e acordándose del tormento que pasara fué luego a conplir el voto que avía prometido. (456) (a bone pierced her throat and for a week she could neither eat nor sleep. And with heartfelt tears she turned to the Mother of the Redeemer and She freed her with Her great mercy, and the woman, seeing herself cured and remembering the torment she had endured, went to complete the vow she had promised.)

Here, although the Virgin restored the woman’s eyesight, she visits another physical affliction on her since she failed to keep her vow. There is no question about Holy Mary’s power to restore sight and the moral lesson centres on the need for a proper show of gratitude in response to divine intervention to reverse a disability.

Self-Blinding Although not common, there are some examples in Spanish texts of people blinding themselves voluntarily. For example, under Section 370 of the Libro

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de los exenplos por a.b.c. there are two examples of self-blinding under the moral heading, ‘Codbiciar fermosura es cossa vana; / quien desto enferma, tarde sana’ (309) (‘Desire for beauty, be assured / Late or never can be cured’) (246). In one instance a king falls in love with a chaste nun because of her beautiful eyes. The nun has her eyes removed and sends them to the king as a gift with the terse message, ‘Cobdiçiaste los ojos, los ojos rescibe’ (309) (‘You desire my eyes, receive my eyes!’) (247). The second tale in this section recounts how many of Plato’s disciples blinded themselves so that no sight could provoke lustful feelings. In the Libro de los buenos proverbios (The Book of Good Proverbs) (mid-thirteenth century) the association of self-blinding with Plato also appears. In a section on writings, supposedly attributed to the philosopher, the following quote appears: ‘Et [Plato] dixo: quanto siente el ojo las cobdicias deste siglo mejor cieganlo de escoger lo major’ (26)68 (‘And Plato said: when your eye feels a desire for things of this world, the best choice is to blind that eye’). In these short accounts, blinding is used to dissuade one from lust, an impairment used as a type of preventive infliction. In a sense, this is the other side of the coin of disability as divine punishment since in these accounts the impairment precedes, and thus negates, the potential for sin. An unusual case in which an individual asks to be blinded is found in the Spanish version of Aesop’s Fables, the Esopete ystoriado (1488). In story No. 17, two men appear before the Sun who declares that he will grant them anything they wish, and, whatever the first one asks, it will be granted, but the second will be given a double portion of the item requested by the first man. One man is described as avaricious and the other as envious. The avaricious man wants the envious man to make his petition first so that he (avarice) will receive double what the envious man requests, assuming that the envious man will ask for riches. But the envious man asks the Sun to pluck out one of his eyes, and in keeping with the terms of the bargain, he assures that the avaricious man will lose both his eyes. The fable is a cautionary one about two of the seven deadly sins – greed and envy – and the onset of blindness is portrayed as an ultimate consequence of both. In Tale 44 from El Conde Lucanor (Count Lucanor) (1335), a collection of moralizing tales by Don Juan Manuel (1282-1348), there appears an extreme case of matrimonial devotion that involves voluntary blinding. A loyal knight, Pero Núñez, accompanies his lord into exile and after his lord’s death, Pero returns home. However, on the journey back, he encounters a group of people who are about to execute a woman by burning her. The 68 Citations are from Libro de los buenos proverbios, edited by Hermann Knust.

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woman proclaims that she is innocent of the charges against her and only a knight who defeats her accuser can save her. Núñez believes the woman is innocent and volunteers to fight for her. He wins the battle, saves the woman, but in the fight he loses an eye. When he finally makes it back to his home, his family is so delighted to see him that they burst out laughing. He thinks that they are laughing at his disfigured face and hides away in shame. His wife is greatly saddened when her husband tells her that he thinks they are all making fun of him because of his lost eye. The wife reacts by putting out one of her own eyes so that when people are laughing in his presence he will not think that they are making fun of him. This portion of text graphically describes how the wife puts out her eye: Quando la buena duenna esto oyo, diose con vna aguja en el su ojo, et quebrolo, et dixo a don Pero Nunnez que aquello fiziera ella por que si alguna vez riesse, que nunca el cuydasse que reya por le fazer escarnio (II: 359) (When the good lady heard this, she ran a needle into her own eye and put it out, and told Don Pero Núñez that she had done it so that if she ever laughed, he would never think that she was laughing to shame him.) (164)69

There are also examples of texts which treat the potential benefits of blindness – an ability to see the angels or avoid temptations from what one might see in the world. A section in the Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c. treats these two motivations. The advice in Section 63 bears the following heading: ‘Non es casto de coraçon / quien en los ojos ha corrupcion’ (75) (‘Upon chaste heart do not rely, / If corruption dwells within the eye’) (53). To illustrate this maxim, Section 63 refers to St. Anthony consoling a blind man by telling him that, even though he cannot see the things of the world, he can see the angels of God. This section also cites St. Syncletica (fourth century CE) who was told not to grieve over the loss of sight because blindness means that he cannot see what might lead him into sin. These ideas also appear in an example from the fifteenth-century El espéculo de los legos (Mirror for the Laity). Section 319 relates the story of how St. Andomaro,70 who had been blind for many years, regained his sight during a ceremony at the time of the 69 All translations from El Conde Lucanor are from The Book of Count Lucanor and Patronio: A Translation of Don Juan Manuel’s El Conde Lucanor, prepared by John E. Keller and L. Clark Keating, unless otherwise noted. 70 St. Andomaro of Thérouanne (595-670).

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moving of the relics of St. Vedasco.71 Andomaro vehemently prays that he be made blind again because he claims that seeing the things of the world impedes him from seeing the angels: ‘[R]ogó a Dios con muchas lágrimas e plegarias muy afincadas que le tornase la çeguera que tenía primero porqué non se enbargase de ver los ángeles por la vista de las cosas mundanales’ (224) (‘He prayed to God with many tears and fervent supplications to be made blind again because seeing the things of the world prevented him from seeing the angels’). The spiritual limitations attributed to the ability to see, as well as blindness as a way of avoiding exposure to worldly vanities, are used as consolatory devices in these accounts. These examples are direct counterparts to accounts in which sightlessness is equated with spiritual blindness or the failure to recognize Christian truths. Thus, depending on the moral lesson a text wished to convey, blindness could be employed as both a positive or a negative metaphor.

Comic Potential Wheatley devotes Chapter 4 of his book, Stumbling Blocks before the Blind to the use of the blind as objects of humour. In fact, he begins his book with a fifteenth-century account of an entertainment in Paris in which four blind people are given sticks and told that there is a large pig in their midst and that the one who kills it can claim it. In reality, there is no pig and the crowd is entertained by the sight of the four men whacking away at each other.72 This account is remarkably similar to tales from Medieval Spain in which blind people are used as butts of jokes or belittled for their disability. For example, the Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c. contains a fictional version of the fight scene recounted by Wheatley’s fifteenth-century Parisian chronicler. Section 64 of this collection paints an identical scene – a pig is given to a group of blind men and they are told the animal is theirs if they can kill it with sticks. Obviously, they all strike at each other with the result that they are ‘muy mal feridos’ (76) (‘badly wounded’) (54). In the version in the Libro de los exenplos, an allegorical meaning is attached to the joke. The pig represents sin, and those who commit the souls of sinners to ignorant priests are likened to the blind, since the blind are physically sightless, whereas the ignorant are spiritually blind: ‘[S]on çiegos quanto a los ojos corporales e quanto a los spirituales’ (76). The moral lesson accompanying this section 71 Perhaps a reference to St. Vedast (453-540). 72 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 1.

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reads: ‘Quien al ciego animas encomienda, / es locura magnifiesta’ (76) (‘Who trusts his soul to sightless ones / Surely proves himself a dunce’) (54). Another example of blindness being used for comic ends, also found in the Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c., is intended as a warning against heeding bad advice. In Section 76, a man is suffering pain in his eyes and asks a companion for advice. The friend tells him to take out his eyes, put them in his purse, and he will no longer feel any pain. In this case, the sufferer does not follow this bad advice because if he had done so he would have been not only blind, but a fool as well. Blindness equated with foolishness is also the theme of Tale 34 of the El Conde Lucanor which relates a version of the blind leading the blind, a Biblical motif, particularly as expressed in the Gospel of St. Matthew 15:14: ‘[I]f a blind man leads a blind man, both will fall into a pit.’ In the tale from El Conde Lucanor, one blind man proposes to another that they go to a nearby town. The second blind man is reluctant because he knows that the road that leads to the town is treacherous, but the first blind man persuades his companion by promising to serve as his guide. As can be expected, when they come to the difficult and perilous parts of the road, the ‘guide’ falls, taking his companion with him: ‘Et desque llegaron a los lugares fuertes et peligrosos, cayo el çiego que guiaua al otro, et non dexo por esso de caer el çiego que reçelaua el camino’ (II, 283). (‘And as soon as they arrived at the bad and dangerous spots, the blind man who was leading the other fell, and the one who had been afraid to undertake the journey could not keep from falling also’) (136). Related to this tale from El Conde Lucanor is a passage from the Flores de filosofía (Flowers of Philosophy), an advice manual from the mid-thirteenth century. In a section entitled ‘De la buena guarda’ (‘On Keeping Good Guard’), the author admonishes his audience to think about the consequences or possible outcomes of any action before undertaking it. For if one does not, he will fall into a pit, or well, as if he were blind: Sabed que la buena guarda es que meta omne mientes en sy e en las cosas en que entiende á que ha de acudir, e esto ha de ser ante que lo comience, ca el que se mete en aventura, en las cosas en que puede errar es atal commo el ciego que se mete á andar en el lugar que hay sylos ó poços do puede caher. (66-67)73 (Know full well that being on good guard means thinking about the things that one understands and which will probably happen, and this should be done before undertaking anything, for he who sets off on an 73 Quotes from Flores de filosofía are from the edition prepared by Hermann Knust and published in Dos obras didácticas y dos leyendas sacadas de manuscritos de la Biblioteca del Escorial.

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adventure can be led into error, like a blind person who sets off walking where there are pits and wells into which he may fall).

While the blind were often portrayed as foolish, blindness is also associated with the sin of sloth, but with a comic twist, in texts from Medieval Spain. Perhaps the best known example is the version that appears in the Libro de buen amor (Book of Good Love) (1330 and 1343). Strophes 457-466 relate the story of two very lazy men who compete for the affections of a lady, as alluded to in the Chapter on ‘Lameness’. One of the lazy men is blind in one eye while the other has a very hoarse voice and a deformed leg. In order to make fun of these two less-than-handsome suitors, the lady agrees, in jest, to marry the one who proves to be the laziest. The lame man with the hoarse voice claims he is the lazier because he hurt his leg by falling from a ladder because he was too lazy to move his foot to the next rung. He attributes his hoarse voice to the fact that while he was swimming on a very hot day, he was so slothful that he did not open his mouth to drink. The one-eyed man claims that he lost a lady he had once wooed because he was too lazy to wipe his nose when it began to run. His blindness resulted from sleeping under a leaky roof and, when it rained, he was too lazy to move his head and thus the dripping water blinded him in one eye:74 Yo ove grand pereza de la cabeça rredrar; la gotera que vos digo, con su mucho rrezio dar, el ojo de que soy tuerto, ovo me lo de quebrar. Devedes por más pereza, dueña, con migo casar. (465abcd) (So lazy was I madam, that I would not move my head, 74 A variation on this story is found in the Esopete ystoriado. In this version, a man leaves his sons an apple tree, a goat, and a mill. In order to determine which son should receive the most valuable inheritance, the mill, he tells his sons that he will give it to the one who is the biggest liar. The eldest son claims he is best at lying and precedes to tell the following story about water dripping, not into his eye, but his ear, with disastrous results: Muchos años ha que yo yago en vna casa grande & por vn solo agujero cahe sobre mj oreja vna gotera, la qual assi me ha cortado & dapñado las venas dela mj cabeça, & desnerbiando & derramando los miembros me ha quebrantado los huessos et empodresçido el çerebro de manera que ya me sale & me corre el meollo por la otra oreja & assi soy ya tibio que me non puedo levantar del lecho, nj bolver me ala otra parte, nj inclinar la cabeça por grand fuerça de mentir. (95) (Many years ago I was sleeping in a big house and a hole allowed drops of water to fall into my ear, and this water cut and damaged the veins in my head, destroying the nerves and separating my members. It has broken my bones and rotted my brain so that it spills out and the marrow comes out my other ear, and thus I am so unenthusiastic that I cannot get up out of bed, nor roll over or incline my head from the force of so much lying.)

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Though rain in swift descent dripped down, as previously I’ve said. It pierced this one eye deeply, and it left my sight half dead! This proves that I the lazier am, and ought with you to wed.) (45-46)75

Another example of blindness used for comic effect is found in a tale about a blind husband who is deceived by his wife as related in the Esopete ystoriado. The blind man is very jealous of his beautiful wife. One day the couple is sitting under a pear tree and the wife climbs up into the tree to pick some fruit. Her husband embraces the tree trunk because he suspects someone might climb up after his wife. But, unknown to him, a young man is already waiting for his wife among the many leafy branches of the tree. When he hears the sounds of his wife with the other man, he prays to Jupiter to restore his sight. Jupiter restores the husband’s vision and he witnesses his wife frolicking with her lover up in the pear tree. But she is quick of wit and tells her husband that his sight was restored by her prayers to the gods. She claims that after incessant praying that his blindness be cured, the god Mercury appeared to her and told her that if she wanted her prayers to be answered she should make love to a young man in the pear tree. So she declares: ‘Lo qual yo he complido por tu bien & salud, por que deves dar gracias alos dioses & en especial deves agradesçer a mj, pues has por mj rrecobrado tu vista’ (147) (‘This I have done for your welfare and health, and you should give thanks to the gods and especially to me since it was through me that you have won your sight’) (218). This tale of a clever wife and the befuddled husband is reminiscent of the French Fabliaux and, in this tale, ironically, the restoration of sight actually ‘blinds’ the husband to his wife’s infidelity. Gonzalo de Berceo, in the Milagros de Nuestra Señora (Miracles of Our Lady), (c. 1260) uses blinding in an ironic sense to refer to divine judgement meted out to a Roman senator who stole, handed down false judgements, and even deprived sacred places of their funding.76 When the senator dies, he finds himself in purgatory where he is forced to confront two of the saints whose shrines he had defrauded – St. Agnes and St. Lawrence.77 When the senator comes before God for judgement, He condemns him to hell calling him ‘mal ballestero, / cegó a muchos omnes, non a uno señero’ (244cd)78 75 Translation from Mack Singleton’s verse translation of El libro de buen amor: The Book of the Archpriest of Hita. References are to page numbers. 76 Milagro 10: ‘Los dos hermanos’ (‘The Two Brothers’). 77 Berceo also wrote a life of St. Lawrence, El Martirio de San Lorenzo (The Martyrdom of Saint Lawrence). 78 From the edition of Claudio García Turza in Gonzalo de Berceo: Obra completa, edited by B. Dutton et al., pp. 555-795. Reference is to verse numbers.

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(‘a wicked crossbowman; / he blinded many men, not just one’).79 Here the ‘mal ballestero’ (‘wicked crossbowman’) is figuratively, ‘one who does not hit the mark’, and in this case ‘one who failed in his responsibility to fairly administer justice’. The metaphor of the bad marksman continues when God accuses him of blinding more than one man, i.e., harming many with his false pronouncements. This extended symbol of a bad bowman who blinds with his arrows likens the wicked man’s false judicial pronouncements to doing physical harm to the citizens, in this case resulting in blindness. The assumption that justice is blind is here turned ironically on its head to demonstrate that the sighted individual who administers justice unfairly actually blinds his victims instead of submitting them to the impartial judgement all deserve. Blindness also comes into play in a satire on physicians and the efficacy of their treatments in El libro de los exenplos por a.b.c. In Section 283, a man with eye problems consults a physician about his condition. The doctor says that he had a similar affliction some time back on his foot and that he put hot onions on it and it was healed. He counsels his patient to put hot onions on his eye and, as a result, the man goes blind in that eye. The moral of the story is that no one medicine is good for all afflictions. However, one cannot help but see that blindness here is used as a tool of humour to make fun of not only the doctor but also his credulous patient. A similar version of this story is found with animal protagonists in El libro de los gatos. In Chapter 31, the crow, who serves as physician for all birds, is approached by an eagle who is having problems with his vision. The crow makes a plaster from onions and puts it on the eagle’s eyes, thus blinding him.80 The crow takes advantage of the sightless eagle and eats his offspring. A moral explanation follows in which the eagle is equated with a prelate who must always be watchful and vigilant over the faithful, who are likened to the eagle’s offspring. The crow is the devil who makes a plaster of worldly concerns and places it on the prelate’s heart. When the prelate begins to dwell on worldly matters, he becomes blind to his religious duties such as serving God and those entrusted to his spiritual care. Blindness developed metaphorically as a trope that signalled not only failure to see physical objects but also as lack of spiritual insight. Out of this association, in turn, grew a set of stereotypes about the blind as ‘drunks, moral reprobates, and thieves’.81 They were viewed with suspicion to a certain 79 Translation from Mount and Cash’s Miracles of Our Lady. 80 Keller in his edition of the Libro de los gatos, states that in folklore the crow is often depicted as plucking out the eyes of its enemies (p. 93). 81 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 21.

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extent since blindness could be feigned and they were convenient targets of jokes because they were perceived to act foolishly.82 Individuals who are blind or suffer from impaired vision constitute another of the larger groups of the impaired in texts from Pre-Modern Spain. Although the literary stereotype of the blind beggar may come readily to mind, there is sufficient historical evidence to claim that the blind often did subsist on alms. On a practical level, the blind needed to be guided, usually by a sighted person, but, as noted, they might also be perceived as in need of spiritual guidance as well. As one of the most severe types of penalties, blinding could be used as a punishment, both human and divine. Additionally, the representation of those with impaired visions as beggars, fools, or frauds reveal certain historical anxieties about the blind.83 Wheatley sees those who were blind as living at the social periphery, neither truly integrated with the sighted nor uniformly vilified.84 Although there is no uniform representational model of those without sight in the Spanish texts examined, blindness is consistently portrayed as a major impediment that restricted full economic, religious, and even intellectual participation in society.

82 Juan Cruz Mendizábel, in speaking of the blind in Hispanic literature, classifies the seeingimpaired as an archetype who is either isolated and ostracized or else used as a butt of jokes or the clown for the sighted (Luces y sombras, p. 22). Among the many Spanish popular refrains about the blind, Cuevas Díaz lists the following: ‘El ciego mal juzagará de los colores’ (p. 67) (‘The blind man cannot judge colours’), used to refer to someone who insists on having an opinion on a subject about which he knows nothing. ‘La mujer del ciego, ¿para quién se afeita?’ (p. 68) (‘The wife of the blind man, for whom does she dress up’), a way to denounce women who adorn themselves for other men who are not their husbands. ‘Pues, el camisón es para un ciego ¿qué más da que sea blanco o negro?’ (p. 68) (‘Since the nightshirt is for a blind man, what difference does it make if it’s white or black?’), implying that the blind will be ignorant of this as in other things about which they may be deceived. ‘Quitáronme el espejo por fea y diéronle a la ciega’ (p. 70) (‘They took the mirror away from me because I was ugly and gave it to the blind woman’), as a way to refer to an injustice being committed. 83 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, pp. 26-27. 84 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 26.

3

Deafness and Inability to Speak – Los  Sordomudos

Deaf vs. deaf 1 Deafness is a unique topic with respect to the other conditions herein labelled as disabilities. While being deaf is usually defined as a loss of hearing, contemporary scholars have challenged the idea that deafness is a pathology. It has been argued that deaf individuals do not define themselves in relationship to the norm of hearing: ‘To many in the deaf community, being deaf has nothing to do with “loss” but is, rather, a distinct way of being in the world, one that opens up perceptions, perspectives, and insights that are less common to the majority of hearing persons.’2 A collection of essays, published in 2014, Deaf Gain, explores the positive aspects of the lives of those who are deaf, both in terms of individual benefit but also as a healthy part of societal diversity. Disability critics readily recognize the difference in studies on the deaf where Deaf (written with capital D) represents deafness as a culture, and deaf (written with small-case d) denotes a physical condition. Critics such as Brenda Jo Brueggemann and Nancy Eiesland speak of the deaf in terms of a unique linguistic and cultural minority. Eiesland recognizes that this stance has caused some tensions with others in the disability rights movement.3 The history of oralism – forcing the deaf to vocalize rather than, or in addition to, sign language – has produced resentment and feelings of oppression among those who do not hear. The imposition of the ‘normalcy’ of speaking and the correlative assumption that orality was necessary for learning, knowledge, and the exercise of power has impacted persons who are deaf and shaped how scholars approach and investigate the experience of deafness. Deaf culture relies, among other factors, on sharing a common language through signing.4 While it is true that the use of signs among the deaf dates from ancient times, the standardization of signage only began in the seventeenth century, so it is difficult to know, for the Pre-Modern period, exactly 1 For a recent assessment of this distinction see Peter V. Paul’s article ‘d/Deaf and Hard of Hearing with a Disability or an Additional Disability: The Need for Theory, Research, and Practice’. 2 Dirksen, Bauman, and Murray, ‘Deaf Gain’, p. xv. 3 Eiesland, ‘Barriers and Bridges’, p. 228. 4 Wheatley, Stumbling Blocks, p. 6.

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how and to what extent the deaf might be set apart as a separate community, sharing a common language. Dirksen and Bauman insist that the deaf have always sought each other out and formed communities. They specifically cite Socrates remarks in Plato’s Cratylus: ‘Answer me this: If we hadn’t a voice or a tongue, and wanted to express things to one another, wouldn’t we try to make signs by moving our hands, head, and the rest of our body, just as dumb people do at present?’5 If Socrates’s remarks imply that there was a community of the deaf in Athens in the fifth century BCE, Dirksen and Bauman contend that in other centres of civilization throughout the world groups of signers have communicated. They recognize that different sign languages were developed for particular communities, but insist that the human capacity to sign is open to all and thus not restricted to the imposition of an ‘official’ sign language.6 Davis has asserted that before the late seventeenth or early eighteenth century, deaf persons were not considered a group. He claims that before this period there was ‘no significant discourse constructed around deafness’.7 While it is true that deafness is less frequently the subject of works involving the disabled than the other conditions herein discussed, I do not agree with Davis’s contention that prior to the Enlightenment deaf persons suffered what he calls ‘discursive nonexistence’.8 The deaf are portrayed in texts from the Medieval era and their condition is analysed in medical and theological terms. Dirksen and Bauman point out the difficulties in determining the histories of signing communities because manual languages have no written system and ‘we are left to connect the dots from one sighting of deafness to the next to form a ventriloquist historiography, where the actual lives of deaf people and signing communities are known only through the writings of others’.9 Irina Metzler calls signing during the Medieval period ‘limited communication’ and speaks to the belief, held by Pre-Moderns that signing did not allow for the transmission of abstract concepts, especially those related to religious dogma.10 Brueggemann has studied the Church’s belief that the deaf could not acquire knowledge about religion. She cites St. Augustine who claimed that those who were born deaf could not practice the Christian faith 5 Dirksen and Bauman, ‘On the Disconstruction’, p. 127. 6 Dirksen and Bauman, ‘On the Disconstruction’, p. 142. 7 Davis, Enforcing Normalcy, p. 51. 8 Davis, Enforcing Normalcy, p. 51. I think Davis overstates the case when he contends that before the period of the Enlightenment ‘The only deaf people who fully attained sociability were found in urban areas or in families or groupings of hereditary deafness’ (Enforcing Normalcy, p. 52). 9 Dirksen and Bauman, ‘Introduction: Listening to Deaf Studies’, p. 5. 10 Metzler, A Social History, p. 200.

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since they cannot hear the Word of God proclaimed.11 They were allowed to participate in some Church rites, however, since they could imitate actions even if they were believed not to understand the meaning of their actions.12 For example, Richard Silverman has found that deaf individuals participated in the sacrament of marriage as conducted through signing.13 Metzler points out that the congenitally deaf in the Middle Ages were often considered also to be cognitively impaired.14 For this reason, she sees the deaf as liminal and concludes that they were perceived as having the appearance of an adult but were considered child-like because of the inability to speak or be aware of what actions, objects, or even social status might mean.15 Silverman suggests that our modern use of the word ‘dumb’ in slang to refer to the deaf and those who cannot speak implies a belief in their inferior intellect and ‘has its roots in the supposed mental incapacity of the deaf’.16 Finucane adds that since deafness, or an inability to speak, could be feigned, individuals who could not hear were often viewed with suspicion.17 Although forms of signing have always existed and this study will cite examples of allusions to the deaf communicating through signs, certain Classical and Medieval philosophical notions about language and speech need to be taken into consideration. Susan Plann reminds us that language is a mental representation and speech only one of the forms it may take.18 In the Middle Ages, however, ‘speech, rather than language, was viewed as the mark of our species, the critical attribute that distinguished humans from beasts’.19 Brueggemann eloquently expresses the correlation between 11 Brueggemann, Lend Me Your Ear, p. 31. Augustine based this declaration on his interpretation of St. Paul’s claim that faith comes from hearing (Brueggemann, Lend Me Your Ear, p. 31). See for example in the letter of Paul to the Romans 10:14 that reads, in part, ‘And how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard?’ 12 Metzler, A Social History, pp. 200-01. 13 Silverman, ‘From Aristotle to Bell’, p. 422. Silverman also includes a reference made by the Venerable Bede (seventh century CE) to Bishop John of York who successfully taught a young man to speak (‘From Aristotle to Bell’, p. 422). 14 Metzler, A Social History, pp. 200-01. 15 Metzler, A Social History, p. 201. Lennard Davis also discusses the tendency to conjoin reason to language: ‘In setting up the common-sense notion that language occurs in two forms and only two forms – speech or writing – we are engaging in a tautology based on an equation of language as such and reason’ (Enforcing Normalcy, pp. 18-19). 16 Silverman, ‘From Aristotle to Bell’, p. 422. 17 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 107. 18 Plann, A Silent Minority, p. 16. Lennard Davis argues that the aural/oral mode of communication should not be considered as normal practice because, like any act of communication it is a signifying process (Enforcing Normalcy, p. 16). 19 Plann, A Silent Minority, p. 16.

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deafness and the history of the teaching of rhetoric during the past 2500 years. She sees in this history an emphasis on the value of speaking well and asserts that this preoccupation with eloquent speech has relegated the deaf to an inferior position vis-à-vis those who speak. The inferior position of the deaf has led to the perception that lack of hearing is a pathology and classifies those who cannot participate in speech activities as almost sub-human.20 This belief has profound implications for a study of deafness in the Medieval period when a great deal of literature was designed for oral performance and the only way that an audience would have experienced the work was by listening to its recitation. Other signifying processes would have been unavailable to a largely illiterate populace. Furthermore, the advent of the ‘normalcy’ of silent reading was not yet a standard practice and, as such, deaf persons were at a particular disadvantage regarding the reception of texts. Since during the Middle Ages it was believed that the deaf could not be taught to speak, deafness was essentially correlated with an inability to speak. The term deaf-mute, although not appropriate for scholarly discussions of disability, the equivalent term in Spanish – sordomudo/a – is employed in texts from the period and will be cited as such when it occurs. This chapter will also treat the inability to speak since although the power of speech could be lost by a person with hearing, the failure to speak relegated the speechless to an inferior status similar to that of the deaf who were excluded from most discursive activities. The belief that speaking and hearing were invariably linked reflected Pre-Modern medical science that ‘attributed a common origin in the brain to both speech and hearing, the commune sensorium, believing that a lesion to this region would result in both deafness and muteness’.21 In addition, speech was believed to be instinctual and, thus, could not be taught.22 20 Brueggemann, Lend Me Your Ear, p. 11. Brueggemann claims that ‘[d]eaf persons were double damned, unable to gain access not only to the moral content of proper rhetorical education, but also to the right “style” of speaking’ (Lend Me Your Ear, p. 31). 21 Plann, A Silent Minority, p. 16. 22 Plann, A Silent Minority, p. 17. Plann explains how Aristotle’s views about those deaf from birth were misconstrued in the Middle Ages to support the idea that the deaf could not be taught: ‘[Aristotle] held that deaf people, like animals could make vocal sounds but could not articulate. Speech was the result of the soul acting on those body parts that humans shared with animals, which had no soul. Speech flowed from the soul, animals had no soul, and speech was absent in both animals and the deaf […] For Aristotle, hearing was the sense most crucial to learning. Yet he understood that the role of hearing in education was not essential but rather, accidental, because hearing conveyed sound, which he took to be the vehicle of thought. Theoretically, then, there could be other ways to access the mind. Although Aristotle never wrote that deaf people could

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Legal status As with the other disabilities discussed, a point of departure for considerations of the deaf in the Pre-Modern era can be found in their appearance in codes of law. Alfonso X’s thirteenth-century law codes classified the deaf and those without speech as mentally incompetent and denied them rights such as entering into contracts or legal obligations or being a witness in court.23 In Alfonso X’s El espéculo ó espejo de todos los derechos (The Reflection or Mirror of All Rights) deafness is called ‘contra natura e contra razon’ (I, 130) (‘against nature and against reason’).24 This is a blanket statement that Alfonso qualifies in his more extensive code, the Siete Partidas. Partida III, Title 4, Law 4 of the Siete Partidas excluded the deaf from among those who could serve as judges.25 The deaf, as well as the blind, could not occupy judgeships because they, respectively, could not hear discussions or be able to recognize those brought before them.26 In most cases, too, the deaf were not allowed to inherit certain entailed estates. In addition, canon law barred the deaf from the priesthood because, since they could not speak, they could not pronounce the words necessary to consecrate the Eucharist and sacramental wine during Mass.27

Cures (?) There are texts from Pre-Modern Spain that claim specific cures for deafness. Alfonso X’s Lapidario (Lapidary) is a translation of an Arabic treatise on the virtues and powers of stones and minerals and how these powers are not be taught, in time his remarks came to be so construed, and the belief that deaf individuals were ineducable, wrongly attributed to him, was widely accepted’ (A Silent Minority, p. 17). 23 Silverman, ‘From Aristotle to Bell’, p. 422. Silverman elaborates: ‘In justice to Justinian’s Code, it must be said that a sharp differentiation was made between deaf-mutes and those whose deafness was acquired and who had learned spoken and written language. Although the Code did not prohibit marriage for the deaf, its influence later caused medieval law to deny to the congenitally deaf and dumb the highly cherished right of primogeniture’ (‘From Aristotle to Bell’, p. 422). 24 From the edition in Opúsculos legales del Rey Don Alfonso el Sabio, publicados y cotejados con varios códices antiguos por la Real Academia de la Historia, 2 vols. 25 This same restriction is found in Vol. 1 of El espéculo o espejo de todos los derechos also issued by Alfonso X. This code excludes all those from judgeships who are under 30 years of age, deaf, blind, insane, or a slave (I, 130). 26 ‘[N]i el sordo, por que non oyria lo que antel fuesse razonado ni el çiego porque non veria los onbres ni los sabria conosçer ni onrrar’ dspace.uah.es/dspace/bitstream/handle/10017/…/ Siete%20Partidas.pdf (p. 536). 27 Plann, A Silent Minority, p. 24.

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enhanced when celestial bodies occupy certain positions.28 The first 93 folios of his work are divided into the twelve signs of the zodiac and then further into 30 chapters with each chapter corresponding to the thirty degrees of each sign.29 Each chapter treats one stone and identifies the position of the stars when the stone in question will have its most powerful properties. On folio 90v the stone, called delmencia, has healing power when the sign of Aquarius is in the twenty-third degree. The text explains that delmencia is a Chaldean30 word that Alfonso’s translators render as ‘sanador de sordedat’ (‘curer of deafness’). The text recommends burning the stone, which gives off a very strong and noxious odour, then grinding it and mixing it with oil. When this mixture is put in the ear of a deaf person, his/her hearing is restored. According to the Lapidario, this remedy is especially efficacious when the middle of the three stars is in the third orbit of Aquarius.31 The Códice Zabálburu de Medicina Medieval (The Zabálburu Codex of Medieval Medicine) (fourteenth century) includes some recipes for curing deafness. One involves extracting the oil from the pit of a type of peach (prisco) and putting it in the ear canal.32 Another recommends using the juice of leeks mixed with goat’s bile to take away both earache and to restore hearing.33 While such remedies would appear to be efficacious only in the case of a condition or illness that rendered one temporarily deaf or hard of hearing, they also imply that the loss of hearing was believed, in some cases, to be medically reversible.

Popular Refrains and Wisdom Literature Matilde Cuevas Díaz notes that in contrast to abundant popular refrains that stigmatize the blind, the lame, hunchbacks, and those with only one arm or one eye, there are relatively few such sayings regarding the deaf.34 28 Although a number of Arabic authors have been suggested as author or compiler of the work Alfonso had translated, the identity of the author has not been as yet determined with certainty (Diman and Winget, ‘Introduction’, Lapidario, pp. iv-v). 29 Diman and Winget, ‘Introduction’, Lapidario, p. iii. All citations from the Lapidario are to this edition. 30 Refers to a Semitic group of people who lived in Mesopotamia from the tenth to the sixth century BCE and briefly ruled Babylonia. 31 Reference is to the edition of the Lapidario and Libro de las formas & ymagenes as prepared by Roderic Diman and Lynn Winget. Here pp. 114-15. 32 Códice Zabálburu, p. 141. 33 Códice Zabálburu, p. 163. 34 Cuevas Díaz, La imagen de los discapacitados, p. 31.

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However, those she does catalogue present the deaf either in a negative light or characterize them as useless or superfluous. A prime example is, ‘Pintar para el ciego y tañer para el sordo ¿quién hay tan loco?’(‘To paint for the blind or play instruments for the deaf, who would be so crazy?’).35 Other refrains imply that, like the blind, the deaf are incapable of reason as in, ‘Ni el ciego juzga de colores, ni el sordo de razones’(‘The blind cannot distinguish colour nor the deaf person reason’), or, ‘Quien ve y oye poco, muchas veces le hacen loco’(‘He who sees and hears little, is often made mad’).36 Diaz, too, finds in traditional verse expressions that emphasize the isolation of the deaf. For example, ‘Nunca está el sordo más aislado que cuando está acompañado’(‘Never is the deaf person more isolated than when he is accompanied’).37 Other negative comments about the deaf can be found in Santob de Carrión’s38 Proverbios Morales (Moral Proverbs) (c. 1350).39 In a section of this poem Santob speaks of solitude as better company than that of an inconsiderate guest, a deceitful person or a bore. Especially with reference to suffering a bore, he proclaims: Nol cumple dezyr quantas Vanidades se cuyda, mas fazeme preguntas Neçias aquel rrecuda. E querria ser mudo Antes quel responder, e querria ser sordo Antes quel entender (vv. 1127-1130)40 (It’s useless to even mention how shallow he is, and he asks stupid questions that beg one to respond. I would prefer to be mute rather than to have to answer him, I would prefer to be deaf so as not to understand him.)

This is very much like the folk sayings collected by Cuevas Díaz and attests to the long tradition of such references to the deaf and those without speech. The desire to be deaf or unable to speak in order to avoid interacting with an insufferable individual is the equivalent of being totally isolated from such a person and oblivious to any conversation with him/her.

35 Cuevas Díaz, La imagen de los discapacitados, p. 115. 36 Cuevas Díaz, La imagen de los discapacitados, p. 115. 37 Cuevas Díaz, La imagen de los discapacitados, p. 116. 38 Common name given to the Hebrew-Spanish poet Sem Tob ben Ishaqu ibn Ardutiel. 39 Probably prepared as an advice book for King Pedro I (ruled 1350-1369). 40 All citations are from the edition of the Proverbios morales edited by Ignacio González Llubera.

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The Spanish version of the ancient collection of moralizing tales known as Calila e Dimna (Kalila and Dimna) (c. 1261), 41 was a translation of one or more of the many incarnations of these stories circulating in Arabic in the Iberian Peninsula. 42 In this collection, animals are used to investigate human behaviour and to give advice about good behaviour and avoiding misfortune. In a tale included in the third chapter of Calila e Dimna, one of the oxen, named Sençeba, discusses ideas about loyalty and gratitude with one of the jackals, Digna. 43 He likens ingratitude toward those who show one loyalty to sowing seed on infertile ground or preaching to the deaf: Et quien ofreçe su lealtad et su femençia a quien gelo non gradesçe es tal commo el que sienbra su simiente en los gamonales o en los tremedales, et commo el que da consejo al que se tiene por de acabado consejo, o commo el que predica al sordo que ge non oirá. (158)44 (And whoever offers his loyalty and his efforts to one who does not show him gratitude is like one who sows seeds among the brambles or on boggy land, and like one who gives advice to one who has already made up his mind, or like one who preaches to a deaf man who will not hear him.)

Similarly, Juan Ruiz, in El libro de buen amor (Book of Good Love) (1330 and 1343) includes some pearls of wisdom regarding the folly of speaking to the deaf. ‘Fablar mucho con el sordo es mal seso y mal rrecabdo’ (‘Speaking much to the deaf is stupid and yields no result’) found in verse 663b is typical of such sayings in the Libro. Another such refrain involving deafness is found in stanza 1540 when the archpriest speaks of relatives who rush in to grab the wealth of a rich family member when he dies. The neophyte heirs do not pay for Masses for the repose of the soul of the deceased or give alms to the poor; their lack of concern either for others or for the deceased is described as ‘dar bozes al sordo’ (‘making an outcry to the deaf’), in other words, they do nothing beneficial for the living or the dead.

41 Much of the material in Calila e Dimna seems to have originated with the Panchatantra, a collection of tales from ancient India, circulating in oral tradition and gathered into written form about 300 CE. 42 Blecua and Lacarra, Calila e Dimna, p. 13. 43 One of the variations on the name of Dimna in the title of the work. 44 From the edition of Calila e Dimna prepared by Juan Manuel Cacho Blecua and María Jesús Lacarra.

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Spiritual Autobiography/Pathography/Consolation A unique, first-person exploration of loss of hearing is found in a remarkable book, Arboleda de los enfermos (Grove of the Infirm), in which a nun, Teresa de Cartagena, examines her own experience of deafness. The author was not born deaf but became deaf after a serious illness. In response to her impairment, she wrote a type of spiritual autobiography that could also be classified as a pathography. This is a sub-genre of autobiography in which authors explore their own experience of illness. Anne Hunsaker Hawkins likens these narratives to cautionary parables about dramatic changes in a life’s circumstances. 45 Although Hawkins deals mostly with works written after 1950, she includes some information about the history of writing about illness and its relationship to spiritual conversion narratives. Teresa de Cartagena combines characteristics of both pathography and conversion narrative in Arboleda de los enfermos as she recounts her struggles to come to grips with her deafness and ultimately concludes that her impairment is a gift from God to help her on the road to salvation. Hawkins concludes that pathographies and spiritual autobiographies are similar in that they contain myths about rebirth, i.e. the notion that the illness or religious conversion fundamentally changes an individual and that he/she sees the world differently after a life-altering experience. Both types of narratives are neatly blended in Arboleda de los enfermos. Teresa’s narrative must, too, be considered within the larger framework of autobiographical narrative produced primarily by religious men and women in Pre-Modern Christendom. While Arboleda does not adhere to the pattern followed by mystic writers, it shares with these Medieval narratives what Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson label ‘a rhetoric of self-reference in [the] quest for salvation’. 46 The fact that this spiritual autobiography is authored by a woman is of paramount importance when discussing both the generation of and the reception of Teresa’s text. Sara Newman ultimately traces the dependence of visionary women’s narratives in the Pre-Modern era on works of affective piety, such as Meditations on the Life of Christ by St. Francis. 47 This work was popular especially as a meditative exercise for cloistered women who were encouraged to participate visually and physically in the suffering of Christ. When women chose to write about their own experiences of salvation through the redemptive power of Christ’s 45 Hawkins, Reconstructing Illness, p. 2. 46 Smith and Watson, Reading Autobiography, p. 87. 47 Newman, Writing Disability, p. 41.

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suffering they frequently depended on their own bodily experience of pain or illness. A female author, such as Teresa, who suffered from a physical disability, describes how she came to accept the physical condition of her suffering body and expresses her experience of disability in both physical and spiritual terms.48 In Teresa’s case, she not only speaks of her own journey to salvation but writes to console others who have suffered the physical challenges of severe illness or disability. 49 Teresa’s writing represents an opportunity for an application of the tenets of the sub-field of biographical representations of impairment within disability studies. Biographical criticism developed in response to the fact that the majority of representations of the disabled have been produced by able-bodied authors. Mitchell and Snyder speak of the need for the special perspective that disabled authors bring to our knowledge of the personal experience and physical realities of living with an impairment. They state that, ‘[s]ince disability offers its own routing of an author’s experience in the world, biographical scholarship on disabled authorship properly assumes that revisiting texts from this disability orientation will yield important insights into the influence of disability identities on creative efforts’.50 Teresa’s Arboleda not only gives us a first-person narrative about disability but it also grew out of the corporeal and spiritual realities of that impairment. By clothing her autobiographical treatise as a consolation treatise Teresa participates in a popular genre of literature in fifteenth-century Spain, the consolation narrative.51 The ultimate precedent for such texts was Boethius’s De consolatione philosophiae (Book of the Consolations of Philosophy) and Teresa probably also directly knew Pedro de Luna’s Libro de las consolaciones de la vida humana (Book of the Consolations of Human Life) (ca 1414) since Luna was a friend of Teresa’s grandfather.52 Although the consolation aspect is certainly apparent in Teresa’s work, she also incorporates other literary 48 Newman, Writing Disability, p. 51. 49 On this point, Newman states that by writing a book on consolations, Teresa is co-opting a form of writing usually written by men for men (Writing Disability, p. 54). 50 Mitchell and Snyder, ‘The Uneasy Home of Disability in Literature and Film’, p. 205. PreModern texts, such as those of Teresa de Cartagena, debunk G. Thomas Couser’s claim that there were hardly any autobiographical works written by people with disabilities before World War II (Couser, ‘Disability, Life Narrative’, pp. 456-57). 51 Rivera-Cordero, ‘Spatializing Illness’, pp. 63-64. 52 Seidenspinner-Núñez, The Writings of Teresa de Cartagena, p. 4. Both Seidenspinner-Núñez and Hutton (ed., Arboleda de los enfermos) point out a very close relationship between various passages and arguments in Arboleda and those in Pedro de Luna’s Libro de las consolaciones de la vida humana.

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models – sermons, exempla, and the Bible – to explore her own experience of deafness and ‘creates through her writing the answer to her existential situation of corporeal pain, psychological anguish, and social isolation’.53 In Arboleda the disabled individual herself speaks to us and informs us of her perception of her condition and how she has found solace in her impairment. Teresa de Cartagena’s writing is an excellent example of a member of a socially-devalued group – female and disabled – who reaches out from her stigmatized position to address others who suffer from illness or isolation. She expresses the hope that her own path to an appreciation of her condition will serve to help others who suffer from physical impairment or illness.54 Yonsoo Kim suggests that Teresa saw her deafness as a kind of privilege that allowed her to break through the phallocentric control of writing and express her own ideas about suffering, pain, and, ultimately, salvation.55 Teresa was born in 1424 or 1425 to one of the most important judeoconverso families in Spain.56 Like other members of her family, she received an excellent education and Teresa alludes to a period of study at the University in Salamanca.57 Joan Cammarata concludes that Teresa knew Latin well and had knowledge of the writings of St. Jerome, St. Augustine, St. Bernard, and St. Gregory.58 Although the exact date of the onset of her deafness is unknown, Kim postulates the earliest date for her hearing loss to be probably 1453, when she was approximately 29 years old.59 In Arboleda she states that she had been deaf for twenty years before beginning to compose the work. She was not confined to the convent because of the onset of her hearing loss, as earlier critics supposed, because she was already a nun in the Order of the Clarisas in Burgos when she became deaf.60 In 1449, Teresa’s uncle, the Bishop of Burgos, Alonso de Cartagena, petitioned the papacy for 53 Juárez, ‘The Autobiography of the Aching Body’, p. 133. 54 In this regard, Juárez notes that Teresa’s ‘personal case, extended by the use of the pronoun we, ultimately merges with a community of sufferers’ (‘The Autobiography of the Aching Body’, p. 133). 55 Kim, El saber femenino, p. 147. 56 Seidenspinner-Núñez details the lives and deeds of the Cartagena/Santa María family on pages 4-8 of her book, The Writings of Teresa de Cartagena. Other members of Teresa’s family were also important authors, including her grandfather, Pablo de Santa María (ne Rabbi Šelomó ha-Levi) and her brother, Alonso de Cartagena, one of the leading humanists of the period. On Teresa’s family, see also Kim, El saber femenino, pp. 31-32. 57 ‘los pocos años que yo estudié en el estudio de Salamanca’ (103) (‘the few years that I was at the University of Salamanca’) (80).. 58 Cammarata, ‘Teresa de Cartagena’, p. 38. Cammarata adds that it is impossible to know whether her familiarity with these authors came from her own reading or from what she knew through her family and confessors (‘Teresa de Cartagena’, pp. 38-39). 59 Kim, El saber femenino, p. 45. 60 Kim, El saber femenino, pp. 34-38.

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Teresa to change to the Cistercian order and when she wrote Arboleda, she was probably living in the Cistercian monastery of Las Huelgas.61 Arboleda de los enfermos was written between 1473 and 1479.62 The bold act of a writing as a woman in fifteenth-century Spain cannot, and should not, be ignored.63 In fact, Teresa’s discussion of her own physical impairment is without precedent in Spain.64 In discussing Teresa, Brenda Jo Brueggemann calls her writing a ‘triumph of resistance’: ‘Bound by legal, literary, social, and ecclesiastic discourses that dictate her inability to author, or to “hear” the word of God, or to interpret text, Teresa’s text is a triumph of resistance and contradiction, a tale of interruption and eruption.’65 Indeed, Arboleda is the only known work written in the first person by a disabled person in Pre-Modern Spain.66 From the outset of Arboleda, Teresa stresses her feelings of solitude, of being cut off from others due to her hearing loss.67 Given both her feelings of estrangement from others and the desire to avoid idleness, she states her motives for writing near the beginning of her treatise: ‘[s]olamente por no dar lugar a estos dos daños, los quales son soledat e vçiosydat, e pues la soledat no puedo apartar de mí, quiero fuir la vçiosidat porque non pueda trauar casamiento con la soledat, ca sería vn pelygroso matrimonio’ (38-39)68 (‘Since I cannot rid myself of solitude, I want to drive idleness away so that it cannot join with solitude, for this would be a dangerous marriage’) (25).69 Cammarata contends that ‘Teresa 61 Kim, El saber femenino, p. 38. In this petition, the Bishop asks that she be allowed to hold any position of authority in her new Order. Kim argues that exercising such roles would not have been possible if she had already become deaf (El saber femenino, p. 39). Therefore, when she was 25 years old, it is safe to deduce that Teresa had not yet lost her hearing. 62 Seidenspinner-Núñez, The Writings of Teresa de Cartagena, p. 4 and Kim, El saber femenino, p. 45. 63 Seidenspinner-Núñez labels Teresa as thrice marginalized: ‘[B]y her gender, by her deafness, and by her status as a conversa’ (The Writings of Teresa de Cartagena, p. 3). 64 Later in the sixteenth century Santa Teresa de Ávila will make numerous references to the many bouts of ill-health that plagued her throughout her life, but her afflictions are not the centrepiece of her writing as is the case with Teresa de Cartagena. 65 Brueggemann, ‘Deaf She Wrote’, p. 580. 66 Juárez, ‘The Autobiography of the Aching Body’, p. 132. 67 ‘La idea de una arboleda donde se puede encontrar saludables consejos brota de la obra del gran místico y mártir franciscano, Raimundo Lulio’ (Hutton, ed. Arboleda de los enfermos, p. 24). (‘The idea of a grove where one can find healthy counsel comes from the work of the great Franciscan mystic and martyr, Raymond Lull.’) 68 All quotes from Arboleda de los enfermos are from the edition prepared by Lewis Joseph Hutton (Madrid: Anejos del Boletín de la Real Academia Española, 1947). 69 Translations of the Arboleda de los enfermos are from Dayle Seidenspinner-Núñez’s The Writings of Teresa de Cartagena.

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writes because it fulfils her need to be intelligible and to communicate in a silent world’.70 Teresa explains how she feels in the company of people with hearing. She stresses her isolation: ‘[q]uando en conpañía de otrie me veo, yo soy desanparada del todo, ca nin gozo del consorçio o fabla de aquéllos, nin de mí mesma me puedo aprouechar’ (39) (‘When I find myself in the company of others, I am completely forsaken, for I cannot profit from the joy of companionship nor from the speech of those around me nor from myself’) (25).71 Since Teresa had learned to speak before the onset of her deafness, her silence is self-imposed because, she argues, not hearing those who are speaking deprived her of meaningful communication with others. Teresa openly states that those who can hear do not understand her disability.72 Her deafness ‘penetrates her intellectual and spiritual life, her identity and self-image, and her relations with others’.73 The positioning of Teresa as ‘outside of language’,74 as quoted in the passage above, at first appears to be a curse, but, ironically, for Teresa her condition ultimately becomes her greatest blessing.75 Ronald Surtz has noted that Teresa considers her deafness a blessing precisely because she could not be disturbed by worldly noises, thus allowing her to devote full attention to listening to God alone with her inner ear.76 Teresa claims that God had touched her ears to deaden them to the chatter of the world and, as such, the illness that brought on her deafness was a gift from God to direct her towards salvation. E asý yo, estando enbuelta en el tropel de las fablas mundanas e bien rebuelto e atado mi entendimiento en el cuydado de aquéllos, no podía oýr las bozes de la santa dotrina que la Escritura nos enseña e amonesta; mas la piadat de Dios que estaua comigo en este ya dicho tropel e con discreto acatamiento veýa la mi perdiçión [e] conosçía quánto era a mi salud conplidero çesar aquellas fablas para mejor entender lo que a mi 70 Cammarata, ‘Teresa de Cartagena’, p. 39. 71 Davis, in contrasting blindness with deafness, makes a similar point about the isolating nature of deafness: ‘Deafness has been more excluded precisely because it seems to be outside of meaning. Blind people are never considered outside of language, while deafness is conventionally seen as such’ (Enforcing Normalcy, p. 105). 72 Juárez, ‘The Autobiography of the Aching Body’, p. 137. 73 Cammarata, ‘Teresa de Cartagena’, p. 39. 74 Davis, Enforcing Normalcy, p. 105. 75 Cammarata states that ‘Teresa experiences a type of conversion in her deafness that enlightens her understanding’ (‘Teresa de Cartagena’, p. 40). 76 Surtz, Writing Women, p. 23.

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saluaçión cunplía, hízome de la mano que callase. E bien se puede asý dezir, pues esta pasión es dada a mí por su mano. (40-41) (And thus enmeshed in the confusion of worldly chatter, with my understanding disordered and bound up in worldly cares, I could not hear the voices of holy doctrine that Scriptures teach us. But merciful God, who was with me in this din and with discreet observation saw my perdition and knew how important it was to my health to have the chatter cease so that I would better understand what was necessary for my salvation, signalled me with His hand to be quiet. And one may well say that this suffering is given to me by His hand.) (26)

Victoria Rivera-Cordero has noted that here Teresa does not equate sin with illness as was often the case in religious writings. Instead, in her treatise ‘sin is linked to physical health (specifically, hearing) because […] such a state brings one closer to the sinful world of vanities’.77 When others entreat Teresa to interact with the hearing – even though she could not hear them, she would have been able to speak with them – she rejects this notion as senseless. She argues that interaction is futile when one cannot hear; since she cannot hear when someone speaks to her, she wonders why anyone would bother to ask her anything in the first place.78 Teresa views God’s elimination of her hearing as also a prohibition on speech. Teresa embraces a world of total silence where she finds herself at peace with her condition: Mi deseo es ya conforme con mi pasyón, y mi querer con mi padesçer son asý abenidos, que nin yo deseo oýr nin me pueden hablar, nin no deseo que me hablen. Las que llamaua pasyones agora las llamo resureçiones. (43) (My desire now conforms with my suffering and my longing is thus reconciled to my affliction, so that I no longer wish to hear nor can people speak to me nor do I want them to speak to me. What I used to call my crucifixion, I now call my resurrection.) (28-29)

This dramatic contrast between a disability once viewed as extreme suffering (crucifixion) has become for Teresa the very instrument of her salvation (resurrection).79 77 Rivera-Cordero, ‘Spatializing Illness’, p. 65. 78 Kim suggests that Teresa’s discussion about the visitors she receives coincides with her time at Las Huelgas, the most important monastery for daughters from noble families and one with a very active social life within its walls (El saber femenino, p. 38). 79 Rivera-Cordero states that Teresa’s ‘objective is not to reject her physical ailment, but to find within it what she perceives as “true health” or “verdadera salut”’ (‘Spatiazling Illness’, pp. 65-66).

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Although undoubtedly Teresa’s Arboleda is her vehicle to understand her own disability, she sees herself as part of a wider community of the sick and impaired. Even though she has chosen solitude and silence, she invites all who suffer to find another, better existence – one focused on God. She literally invites the infirm and disabled to embrace their condition because it can lead to spiritual happiness: Nos deuemos gloriare en nuestras pasyones e afliçiones, que la virtut y linpieza de nuestra devota alegría apareje posada agradable a la virtut soberana. Y a esta tal alegría yo conbido a los enfermos y deseo ser conbidada, porque como somos yguales en las pasiones seamos en las resureçiones, donde me paresçe quel alegría tenporal e humana deue aquí perder sus fuerças. (59) (We should glory in our sufferings and afflictions in such a way that the virtue and purity of our devout joy may prepare an agreeable dwelling for His sovereign virtue. And to this spiritual happiness I invite the infirm and I wish to be invited, so that, just as we are equal in our suffering, we may be equal in our resurrection, where, it seems to me, temporal and human happiness have no place.) (43)

Teresa places her own frustrations, as well as the spiritual lessons she has learned as a result of them, on display so that others might learn from her experience.80 She writes of signing a pledge of sisterhood with all who are sick – ‘los enfermos con quien tengo hecha carta de hermandad’ (61). By scorning worldly concerns, she proclaims, the infirm can find spiritual joy even though the world rejects them.81 Cammarata claims that Teresa directs her writings ‘to remind imperfect beings that to suffer tribulation is the road to salvation and perfection’.82 Teresa questions why the disabled should want the pleasures of the world since none of these are available to them (us): Los plazeres que en él [el mundo] son del todo nos haborresçen, la salut nos desanpara, los amigos nos oluidan, los parientes se enojan, e avn la

80 Cammarata places Teresa’s work within the tradition of Christian exegesis in that she ‘uses herself as an exemplum to create a sermon based on example, with additional patriarchal confirmation provided by the Sacred Scriptures’ (‘Teresa de Cartagena’, p. 44). 81 ‘Ca si ésta ya dicha alegría alcançamos, de tan buena gana despreçiaremos los gozos humanos como ellos a nos’ (61) (‘And if we do achieve this spiritual joy, we shall gladly scorn human joys as they scorn us’) (45). 82 Cammarata, ‘Teresa de Cartagena’, p. 46.

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propia madre se enoja con la hija enferma, y el padre aborresçe al hijo que con continuas dolençias le ocupare la posada. (63) (Worldly pleasures despise us, health forsakes us, friends forget us, relatives get angry, and even one’s own mother gets annoyed with her sickly daughter, and one’s father despises the son who with chronic afflictions dwells in his home.) (46)

Rivera-Cordero contends that Teresa’s ‘act of writing about her illness is an attempt to comprehend her state while affirming her identity as different from those who enjoy “physical health”’.83 Her ultimate advice for all who suffer pain or difference is patience and she devotes most of the second half of Arboleda to its benefits. She explains that ‘si ésta [la paciencia] no rige y manda el convento de los dolientes, todas nuestras dolençias y nuestro trabajo quedarían syn fruto’ (63) (‘if Patience does not rule and order the convent of the suffering, all our afflictions and our travail would be fruitless’) (47). It is noteworthy that she uses the word ‘convent’ as the space inhabited by the disabled, i.e., a place set apart but still belonging to the larger world.84 In Teresa’s allegory, Patience is the abbess who presides over the convent of the disabled.85 Surtz, in a study on image patterns in the Arboleda, calls the convent a metaphor that functions on two levels: on a literal, biographical level Teresa lives within the confines of a convent, but on a figurative level, her deafness results in her being cloistered within herself.86 Teresa describes her affliction as divinely ordained and spiritually beneficial: ‘[C]onviene a saber, de los trabajos que vienen de buena parte y por nuestro grand bien, que son solamente aquéllos que vienen de la mano de Dios’ (66) (‘My hardships […] come from a good source and for my own good, which are those that come from the hand of God’) (49). She adapts part of St. Bernard’s ‘Libri de modo bene vivendi, XLIII, De Infirmitate’ (‘Books on How to Live Well, XLIII, About Infirmity’) when she explains why God visits hardships on individuals: ‘[F]lagela a los justos a prouaçión, flagela a los pecadores a correbçión, flagela a los malos a dapnaçión’ (66) (‘He punishes the righteous to test them, He punishes the sinful to correct 83 Rivera-Cordero, ‘Spatializing Illness’, p. 66. 84 For a discussion of architectural images in Arboleda, see Ronald Surtz’s ‘Image Patterns in Cartagena’s Arboleda de los enfermos’. 85 Seidenspinner-Núñez, The Writings of Teresa de Cartagena, p. 13. 86 Surtz, ‘Image Patterns’, p. 300. Surtz sees in Teresa’s use of architectonic images an emphasis on solitude caused by bodily suffering which has a positive value, ‘for Teresa sees suffering as a sort of shortcut on the road to salvation’ (‘Image Patterns’, p. 302).

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them, He punishes the wicked to condemn them’) (50). Teresa chooses to concentrate on the hardships that God sends to help us amend our lives, since she believes that is why He caused her to become deaf.87 The gift of deafness from God, she claims, has given her spiritual benefits, and thus valorises her illness.88 In fact, Teresa sees those who suffer as enjoying a superior status and, in this way, begins to dismantle notions of inferiority. She cites the example of St. Francis who was spiritually enlightened only after suffering a long and grave illness. She concludes that the afflicted should actually be grateful for their state: Por ende los que dolençias y pasyones corporales padesçemos, no seamos desagradesçidos ni neguemos el grand bien que en ello nos viene, ca syn dubda, marco de muy saludable metal resçebimos de Dios, para que con él podamos ganar tantos bienes. (81) (Therefore, let not those of us who suffer afflictions and physical pain be ungrateful nor deny the great good that comes to us through suffering, for without doubt we have received a talent of very healthful metal from God with which to earn many blessings.) (62)

Teresa sees suffering as a way to destroy vice and engender virtue. She specifically points to a kind of imposed humility which the disabled endure due to the contempt that others feel toward them. She even goes so far as to suggest that the scorn of others leads to a kind of self-scorn which engenders true humility: Ca el fundamento de la verdadera humildad yo creo que es despreçiar onbre a sý mesmo e tenerse en reputaçión de mucho menos estima y valor de aquélla que sus despreçiadores e dezidores le tienen. (89) (For the foundation of true humility, I believe, is for man to despise himself more and esteem and value himself less than his detractors do.) (69)

While at first glance, this declaration of self-deprecation seems at odds with Teresa’s notions of the spiritual superiority of the disabled, her assertion is actually part of her ‘journey toward a final resolution through her body in pain […] to subdue her soul and gain insight’.89 Encarnación Juárez claims 87 Rivera-Cordero maintains that Teresa’s disability makes her ‘more able’ (‘Spatializing Illness’, p. 70). 88 Rivera-Cordero, ‘Spatializing Illness’, p. 74. 89 Juárez, ‘The Autobiography of the Aching Body’, p. 137.

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that Teresa’s discussion of humility is a form of dealing with the social repulsion that her condition evoked and asserts that ‘we [i.e., her fellow sufferers] must renounce the values on which we have formerly based our security and self-esteem’.90 Near the end of her treatise Teresa speaks directly to the afflicted to reiterate the need for patience since patience prepares one for entrance into heaven.91 If the disabled follow the jurisdiction of patience, he/she will be a ‘más bienaventurado enfermo’ (101) (‘most blessed invalid’) (78).92 Also, one should pray for patience rather than praying for a restoration to health: ‘Ca más vale vn día de pasçiençia perfeta que no de diez años de salud corporal, la qual es la menos çierta cosa que en esta vida tenemos […]’ (101) (‘For one day of perfect patience is worth ten years of physical health, which is the least certain thing we have in this life […]’) (79). Good health can be snatched away in an instant, but the spiritual truths learned from suffering will endure and lead directly to salvation of the soul. Teresa de Cartagena penned a second work in response to the reception of Arboleda de los enfermos. In Admiraçión operum Dei (Wonders of the Works of God) Teresa reacts to those who questioned her authorship of her first work on the grounds that it could not possibly have been written by a woman, given the complexity of its theological arguments. She is insulted by such accusations, she writes, because even though it is not common for a woman to author such a text, with God’s help anything is possible. She goes on to argue that those who would deny her authorship are, in essence, denying God’s ability to perform miracles, such as a woman authoring a work like Arboleda. Teresa further insists that whatever powers of intellect or talent in writing that God can bestow on a man, He is also perfectly capable of bestowing on a woman. She bemoans the fact that some do not believe she 90 Juárez elaborates on this point: ‘By abandoning cultural values that are no longer viable and through a transformation of identity, one can construct a protective building of humility, an alternative place of comfort for the disabled body’ (‘The Autobiography of the Aching Body’, p. 141). 91 ‘Pues conosçe, enfermo, quién es paçiençia y hallarás que otra tan discreta e prudente prelada no la ay en el mundo, ni tan amadora del bien de sus adictos, ca no es otro su ofiçio syno aparejarles camino derecho a paraýso, y robarlos del mundo y llevarlos al çielo’ (100) (‘Know well, infirm, who Patience is and you will find that there is no other prelate in the world so discreet and prudent, nor so beloved by her subjects, for her office is none other than to prepare for them a straight road to heaven and steal them away from the world and take them to heaven’) (78). 92 Kim asserts that, for Teresa, ‘la paciencia representa el don primordial para confrontar e interpretar la dolencia, y a partir de este nuevo concepto del sufrimiento organiza su argumento’ (El saber femenino, p. 134) (‘patience represents the greatest gift to confront and interpret pain, and beginning from this new concept of suffering she organizes her argument’).

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wrote Arboleda because they wonder how anyone so afflicted could have done so. Teresa writes both as woman and a disabled individual who, in Arboleda, sets out to console and counsel fellow sufferers who feel rejected by their society and their families. As Tory Vandeventer Pearman points out, Teresa was writing within a context of double defect or redundancy as a disabled woman in fifteenth-century Spain.93 The Medieval physiological view of woman as a defective male coupled with the Church’s teachings about Eve’s role in original sin led directly to a belief in the inherent inferiority of women. Moreover, as a disabled woman, who by her own admission suffered mightily from her deafness, she would have been considered less capable than even an abled-bodied woman. These attitudes were on vivid display in the incredulous reactions of male readers to Arboleda. But Teresa uses disability to her advantage in a striking way in the Admiraçión. She takes as one of her primary metaphors the Biblical parable of the blind man on his way to Jericho. In chapter 18 of the gospel of St. Luke, this blind man calls out to Jesus when he is told that the Saviour is passing by. In response to his cries, Jesus asks the man what he wants from Him and the blind man asks for his sight. Teresa puts herself in the place of the blind man and claims that she responded to Christ’s question about what she desired by asking Him for true spiritual sight and the health of her soul: Señor, que vea yo luz por la qual conosca que eres verdadera Luz e Sol de justiçia; que vea yo luz por la qual conosca en éstos mis públicos males los ascondidos bienes de la tu grand misericordia; que vea yo luz por la qual en éstas mis penales pasyones busque e desee grand feruor a Ti que eres verdadero Médico de las ánimas; que vea yo luz por la qual en esta mi afliçión, confusión e tormento aya yo continua menbrança de Ti (133) (Lord may I see the light to know that You are the true Light and Sun of justice; may I see the light to recognize in my public misfortunes the hidden blessings of Your great mercy; may I see the light to seek You with great fervour in my chastising suffering and desire You who are the true Healer of souls; may I see the light to have continuous remembrance of You) (105)

I quote this passage at some length not only because Teresa uses the metaphor of blindness to refer to her own deafness, but because she openly acknowledges her disability when she refers to her ‘public misfortunes’ and ‘suffering’, addressing God as the doctor of the soul. By appropriating 93 Pearman, Women and Disability, p. 7.

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another disabled individual from the Bible, Teresa deflects her critics who fail to recognize her authorial agency as a woman whose deafness has led her to a deeper understanding of her need for God and awareness of spiritual truth. Cammarata contends that Teresa ‘is victorious in breaking her dual silence: she communicates her voice out of the silence of her affliction and breaks the silence imposed by medieval society on the learned woman who expresses her thought in written word’.94

Loss of Speech As noted, Teresa de Cartagena chose not to speak after she became deaf even though she was physically capable of speech after she lost her hearing. For those who were deaf from birth, however, it was presumed that they could never be taught to speak. According to Pre-Modern medical authorities, such as Galen, deafness and the inability to speak were attributed to the same dysfunction in the brain and so it was believed that those deaf from birth were invariably incapable of speech.95 Nonetheless, just as sightedness or deafness could exist on a scale in which, on one extreme, individuals might have limited sight or hearing and on the other complete loss of sight or hearing, speech could similarly be limited. The case of individuals with severe to minor impediments to speech could be counted among those considered incapable of comprehensible oral communication. Although rarely treated in literary texts, those with impaired speech could be considered disabled since the impediment effected their ability to communicate with others. Perhaps the most well-known example of a speech impediment in Pre-Modern literature is that of the young Aesop. In the Spanish version of the Aesop story, the Esopete ystoriado (1488), Aesop is born with a ‘lengua tartamuda e çaçabilloso’ (2) (‘stammering and stuttering tongue’).96 As previously noted Aesop is presented with many physical imperfections and impairments and, while his appearance does not change, part of the ‘Aesop myth’ involves the cure of his speech impediments. This cure comes in response to a prayer that the priest Ysidis makes on behalf of Aesop who had shown him great kindness. Ysidis prays to the goddess of piety and charity who grants Aesop the power to speak distinctly as well as the ability to understand all languages, including those of the animals and birds. With 94 Cammarata, ‘Teresa de Cartagena’, p. 46. 95 Rivera-Cordero, ‘Spatializing Illness’, p. 72. 96 My translation.

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his new found gifts of clear speech and accompanying understanding, he becomes a great reciter of fables. The miraculous cure of Aesop’s stutter is a necessary step towards the creation of a legendary figure who possesses great wisdom. While his physical impairments, such as his hunchback, remain and distinguish him, his speech is now unimpaired. This part of the Aesop story reflects the prevailing view that the ability to speak, and speak well, is directly related to intelligence. Thus, when he is afflicted with a stammer, Aesop is not the fountain of wisdom he becomes once he can speak clearly. As in the case of Aesop, a speech defect most often requires supernatural intervention to reverse the condition. However, some texts also contain instances of fanciful cures for those who are unable to speak. A prime example is found in El libro de los gatos (The Book of Cats), a collection of moralizing tales from the latter half of the fourteenth century. In Tale 28, a fox proposes a unique cure for the King’s daughter who is unable to speak. The fox is in the habit of stealing the bread that women leave as offerings on the tombs of the dead on Sundays. He declares that if someone extracts the first mouthful of bread that he eats before he swallows it, then gives it to the girl, she will recover the power of speech. The King follows this formula and indeed the girl is able to speak after eating the purloined bread: ‘E la ora que la infant comio el pan, luego fablo’ (36) (‘As soon as the princess ate the bread, she spoke’). It can safely be assumed that the young girl in this tale is not deaf, since she immediately begins to speak; if she had been deaf from birth she would not have acquired speech. Furthermore, the text makes no reference to what caused the King’s daughter to lose her speech. Since the protagonist of this tale is a fox, the animal most often associated with astuteness and deception in the tradition of fables and bestiaries, the reader is actually invited to celebrate in the fox’s delight as he witnesses the King’s own daughter eating his half-chewed food. This particular cure for speechlessness is fanciful at best, and somewhat disgusting, but nonetheless effective. As with other impairments, loss of speech could be imposed as divine punishment for sin, blasphemy, or other offenses. In Alfonso X’s Cantigas de Santa Maria, such a punishment is inflicted on a blasphemer as found in Cantiga 163. In this narrative, after a man gambles away all his wealth playing dice, he renounces his faith in the Virgin Mary. For this act of apostasy, he immediately becomes crippled and loses the ability to speak: e logo perdeu a fala, ca Deus ouve del despeito, que lla tolleu a desora, como se dissesse: ‘cala!’ (II, 161) (At once he lost his speech, for God had contempt for him and took it from him in a flash, as though He said ‘Hush!’) (198)

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God silences the sinner as a way to prevent him from uttering any further blasphemies – a particularly apt punishment. After he loses his speech, the protagonist of this tale communicates through sign language: ‘[A] cousa que queria per sinaes amostrava’ (II, 161) (‘When he wanted something, he indicated it with signs’) (198). This is one of the earliest references in the Spanish corpus to the use of a primitive style of sign language that I have discovered. The cantiga also states that his useless tongue made a sound like a crackling fire: ‘[D]eu-ll’ a lingua tal sõo como fogo que estala’ (II, 161). Another blasphemer loses his ability to speak when his tongue becomes so enlarged that he is unable to articulate. This story is found Section 52 of the Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c. Once again, a gambler curses the Virgin when he loses and, as divine retribution, his tongue grows so large that it protrudes from his mouth: ‘E luego se le salio la lengua de fuera quanto un palmo’ (66) (‘And then his tongue extended to the length of a hand span’).97 His appearance causes terror (‘muy grand espanto’) in those who see him. Obviously, with his elongated tongue, he loses the power of speech and soon after dies. The gambler’s eternal fate is expressed in no uncertain terms: ‘E bien podedes entender a qual lugar seria levada su anima’ (66) (‘And you will well understand to what place his soul would be taken’) (46). Another punished with loss of speech is a priest who preaches against going on Crusade as related in the El espéculo de los legos (Mirror for the Laity) (first half of the fifteenth century). Chapter 146 contains the following account: E aún commo un religioso predicase la cruzada en Ynglaterra e uno que ende estaua e auia ydo en romería a la Tierra Santa, amonestase a los otros que non tomasen aquella cruzada, acostándose a la noche a dormir, aparesçiole uno su conpannero que fuera primero muerto e dixole: Si non emendares tu lengua con la qual enbargas a los otros de la salud de sus almas, serás condennado con los diablos, ca yo por la cruzada soy saluo. E commo aquel ome mezquino non çesase de sus malos dezires e amonestase a los otros que non tomasen la cruzada para pasar a la Tierra Santa, e anduviese un dia labrando en alto, que era pedrero, cayó a tierra e cortose con los dientes la lengua. (99-100) (And even as a religious was preaching the Crusade in England, another was there who had gone on pilgrimage to the Holy Land who admonished the others not to go on Crusade. When he went to bed that night, a companion of his who had died appeared to him and said: ‘If you don’t 97 My translation.

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mind your tongue with which you are hindering the health of the souls of others you will be condemned with the devils, for I was saved by the Crusade.’ But that miserable man did not stop saying bad things and advising others not to go on Crusade to the Holy Land, and one day, as he was working high up in his profession as a stone worker, he fell to the earth and his teeth bit off his tongue.)

Loss of the tongue resulting in the loss of speech as a punishment for discouraging others to participate in the Crusades literally silences the man so that he will no longer be able to speak again on this or any other matter. In the same work, a vision of post-mortem torture involving the mutilation of the tongue is found in Chapter 67. In this tale a major-domo of an English prince is extremely cruel to the peasants on his lord’s lands and takes their properties by means of false accusations. After he dies he appears to the vassals of the prince and proceeds to cut his tongue into small pieces with a knife and then to rip it out and throw it aside. Miraculously he is still able to speak because when the startled vassals ask the man who he is, he responds that he is the major-domo who had tormented them and the lord’s other vassals. He then explains this particular kind of eternal punishment involving his tongue: E aun dixo que sofría aquella pasion en la lengua por los enplazamientos enjuriosos que mouia algunas vegadas a los pobres […] E del tal es dicho en el Salmo: Todo el dia pensó la tu lengua la non justiçia e fizo enganno así commo nauaja aguda. E por tanto por juizio de Dios era atormentado con nauaja, segun aquello que es escrito que el que biue de cuchillo pereçera por cuchillo. (46) (And he said that he suffered that torment on the tongue for the injurious legal actions that he had at times taken against the poor […] For so it says in the Psalms: He who does not think all day to keep his tongue from saying anything that is not just is as deceived as a sharp knife.98 And, as such, by the judgement of God, he was tormented with a knife, according to that which is written that he who lives by the sword, will die by the sword.)99 98 A reference either to Psalm 34:13 (‘Keep your tongue from evil, and your lips from speaking deceit’) or to Psalm 64:03 in which the singer asks God to protect him from his enemies (‘[W]ho whet their tongues like swords, who aim bitter words like arrows’). 99 A reference to Matthew 25:52 when Jesus admonished the disciple who cut off the ear of one of the men who had come to arrest Jesus.

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As previously discussed in the chapter on lameness, the divine retributions visited on the squire who tries to seduce a young woman as related in Cantiga 317 include the crippling of his limbs as well as the loss of speech. When the woman runs away from the squire and seeks refuge in a church dedicated to the Virgin, those gathered inside bar the doors so that her attacker cannot enter. The would-be seducer is furious when he finds the doors locked and he swears to break them down. As he raises his leg to kick in the church doors, his leg suddenly breaks, but the poem stipulates that something worse than a broken leg befell the man: E d’al ll’avẽo aynda muy peyor: esmoreceu con coita e con door, e Nostro Sennor sen tod’ aquest’ a fala lle tollya […] En tal guisa, que pois nunca disse ren ergo ‘ai, Santa Maria’. E des en tolleit’ e sen sen viveu gran temp’ e per portas pidia. (III, 136-37) (And something much worse happened to him: he fainted in shock and pain, and Our Lord in addition took away his speech so that he could never say anything except ‘Oh, Holy Mary,’ and after that, maimed and crazy, he lived a long time and begged from door to door.) (385)

When the squire is punished with loss of speech, he is driven mad (‘sen sen’) and reduced to living by begging. Since he cannot ask for alms directly and utters only a plaintive cry to the Virgin, his plight draws the attention of charitable Christians. This is one of the relatively few Cantigas in which Mary does not show mercy and the squire’s actions are deemed egregious enough to not warrant the Virgin’s forgiveness or restoration of his ability to speak. Loss of speech resulting from cutting, or biting, off the tongue is a motif in a number of texts from Medieval Spain. For example, Alfonso Martínez de Toledo’s misogynist text the Corbacho (1438) includes the tale of a woman biting off the tongue of her husband who she suspects of adultery. The wife had seen him speaking often to another woman with whom she suspects he is having an affair. She tricks her husband into introducing his tongue into her mouth and she bites down on it. When the wife is brought to trial for thus mutilating her husband, she justifies her action because of his amorous affair, and shouts ‘con ésta jamás a ella nin a otra fablando engañarás’ (95) (‘you’ll never again be able to deceive me speaking with her or any other woman’).

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Self-mutilation by biting or cutting off one’s own tongue also occurs with some frequency. For example, in the Cantigas de Santa Maria, song No. 174 tells of a knight who, when he loses at dice, denounces the Virgin. Later, regretting his blasphemy, he draws out his knife and cuts off his tongue: E mui de rrijo chorando des i sacou seu cuitelo e estev’ assi tallando sa lingua, con que a Virgen severa mal dẽostando. (II, 182) (Weeping loudly, he quickly drew out his knife and cut off his tongue with which he so strongly insulted the Virgin.) (209)

After the knight suffers in agony for three days, the Virgin Mary appears to him, puts her hand in his mouth, and restores his tongue and his ability to speak despite the sin he had committed against her. However, in other portrayals of severing one’s own tongue, there is no restitution of speech for one who self-mutilates. For example, El espéculo de los legos (Mirror for the Laity) recounts an incident from the life of St. Amand.100 One day while Amand is preaching, a member of the audience heckles him. God punishes the heckler by causing him to sever his own tongue with his teeth, after he had confessed his error. The man later dies ‘mesquinamente’ (119) (‘miserably’). In this case, repentance and confession do not warrant divine mercy and the heckler remains speechless for the rest of his life. Whereas this tale from the life of St. Amand is a cautionary one, another group of tales involves biting off one’s tongue, either to maintain chastity or to prevent one from betraying a trust under torture. Maintaining virginity as a motive for self-mutilation is found in another tale included in El espéculo de los legos. In Tale 90, a young man wants to maintain his virginity and bites off his own tongue and spits it in the face of a beautiful woman who has been sent to seduce him. The source for this tale is Jerome’s Life of Saint Paul the Hermit. In Jerome’s version a young Christian martyr has resisted torture but his tormenters want to test his vow of chastity. They tie him to a bed and have a beautiful woman mount him but, in order to preserve his chastity, he bites off his tongue and spits it in the woman’s face to repulse her.101 The tale in El espéculo is quite similar but here the young man is tied up in a meadow where the woman tries to seduce him:

100 The reference is most probably to Amandus (c. 584-675), Bishop of Tongeren-Maastricht. 101 Yamamoto-Wilson, Pain, Pleasure, and Perversity, p. 67.

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Leese en las Vidas de los Padres que commo un mançebo non quisiese consentir en luxuria, fué puesto atado en un prado e fué enbiada a él una muger muy fermosa, la qual lo falgaua besandolo e abraçandolo, e veyendo él esto e non se pudiendo ayudar de ningun mienbro, tajose la lengua con los dientes e escupiola en la cara de la muger. (62) (One reads in the Lives of the Fathers how a young man, who did not want to give into lust, was tied up in a meadow and a very beautiful woman was sent to him, and she took pleasure in kissing him and embracing him and seeing that he could not resist her with any of his members, he bit off his tongue with his teeth and spat it into the woman’s face.)

A tale of self-mutilation to assure one’s silence under torture is found in slightly different versions in two works from Spain, the Jardín de nobles donzellas (Garden of Noble Ladies) (1468-1469)102 and the Glosa castellana al ‘Regimiento de Príncipes’ de Egidio Romano (Castilian Version of the ‘Regiment of Princes’ of Aegidius Romanus) (1344). These are versions of the story of Timycha from the Life of Pythagoras. Timycha and her husband are captured by King Dionysius and Timycha, rather than reveal any secrets to him, bites off her own tongue. In the Glosa, the story includes the fact that Timycha is pregnant and that she is killed after her self-mutilation: […] [C]uenta Valerio en el libro sobredicho, de una doncella pitagórica, que fué acusada ante el rey de Grecia e el rey mandóla prender para saber de ella la verdad e mandó que la azotasen fasta que confesase el fecho. E ella cuando vió que havía de ser tan atormentada, cortóse la lengua con los dientes e escupióla al rey en el rostro, porque no pudiese descubrir nada contra sí. E dice que aquélla fué vencida por cobdicia, mas no pudo ser vencida por tormento; fué fuerte de corazón, mas el vientre lleno. E cuando el rey no pudo saber la verdad por su confesión, mandóla matar. (II: 220) (Valerius tells us in the above-mentioned book of a Pythagorean woman who was accused before the King of Greece and the King had her arrested so that he might learn the truth from her. He commanded that she be whipped until she confessed. And when she saw that she was to be tortured, she bit off her tongue with her teeth and spat it in the King’s face so that she could not reveal anything to him. It is said that she was conquered by greed but that she could not be conquered by torture; she was strong of heart even though her belly was full. And when the King 102 Written by Fray Martín de Córdoba for the purpose of defending Queen Isabel’s right to the throne of Castile.

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could not learn the truth from her by her confession, he ordered her to be killed.)

In the version of this tale found in the Jardín de nobles donzellas, Fray Martín de Córdoba attributes the story to St. Ambrose and merely states that a Pythagorean woman did not want to reveal a secret to a tyrant. To assure her own silence, she bites off her tongue and spits it in the face of the tyrant, as in the version in the Glosa just discussed. Fray Martín uses this tale as a cautionary one about women preserving virginity. He speculates that the secret she did not want to reveal was that she had lost her virginity. He proclaims that the woman ‘fue exenplo de callar, mas no de castidad, e porende castigó la lengua por negar la culpa’ (251)103 (‘was an example of keeping quiet but not of being chaste and, for that reason, she punished her tongue to deny her guilt’). Since in the version in the Glosa castellana al ‘Regimiento de Príncipes’, Timycha is pregnant, Fray Martín may have known this version and used this detail to preach about the need to maintain one’s virtue. But he does admire the Pythagorean woman for her ability to keep a secret and uses her as a counter-example to the misogynist rhetoric about the inability of women to keep private things told to them in confidence. A variation on the theme of biting off one’s tongue in order to not reveal information under torture is found in the Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c. In Section 376,104 rather than reveal the names of his co-conspirators in a plot to kill the king, a man bites off his tongue and spits it in the face of his tormenter. The author of the Exenplos por a.b.c., Clemente Sánchez de Vercial, attributes this story to Boethius: Dize Boeçio que un tirano que de los antiguamente eran prendio un ombre libre e diole muchos tormentos por que confessasse un consejo que avian avido el e otros para lo matar, e que le dixesse quien eran sus compañeros. El, menospreciando sus tormentos e de mas fuerte coraçon que el tirano, mordio la lengua e cortola e lançola a la cara del tirano. E assi vençio del que pensava ser vençido, e la pena lo fizo ser virtuoso. (355) (Boethius says that a tyrant among those of antiquity arrested a free man and tortured him severely to make him confess a plan he and others had devised to kill him and to make him tell who his companions were.

103 All citations are from the edition prepared by Harriet Goldberg. 104 Only appears in the Madrid manuscript (BNE ms. 1182).

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He, scorning his torments and with a heart stronger than the tyrant’s, bit his tongue, severed it, and spat in into the face of the tyrant. So he conquered him who thought to be the victor, and pain made him virtuous.) (285).

A 1494 Spanish translation of Boccaccio’s De mulieribus claris (Of Admirable Women) (1375), entitled De las ilustres mujeres en romance (Of Illustrious Women in the Vernacular), includes a variation on the same theme of biting off one’s own tongue rather than reveal one’s accomplices. In this version, a woman, Leena, conspires with Aminta, Armonio, and Aristón to overthrow a tyrant, Hyparco. Leena is captured and reveals nothing when first tortured. However, as the torments increase she fears that she may not be able to keep silent and she severs her own tongue rather than reveal the names of her allies or their plot.105 The details are largely the same as those in other tales about severing one’s own tongue but, since this book is a catalogue of exemplary women, Boccaccio adds comments regarding this woman’s bravery. The Spanish version reads as follows: Quien dira: Leena si no por peccado de su desventura: hauer morado & fecho vida enel publico? Por cierto no la hauia conocido el que dixo que las mujeres solo aquello callan que no saben […] quando contemplo su esfuerço varonil enlos tormentos: con el qual no menos gloria & honrra alcanço primero muda: e despues cortada la lengua (folios 56r-56v) (Who can say if Leena, if not for the fault of her misfortunate, might not have had a life in public service? Certainly, whoever said that women only keep quiet about what they do not know did not know her […] when I think about her virile fortitude during the tortures when she earned glory and honour, first by keeping silent and later by cutting out her tongue)

This is another example to counter misogynist tracts about women’s inability to keep silent and the praise of Leena’s ‘esfuerço varonil’ (‘virile fortitude’) is a common motif in pro-feminine arguments. The fact that a woman displays virtues most commonly, if not exclusively, associated with men earned her the designation as ‘virile.’ 105 ‘[C]orto se ella misma con los dientes reziamente la lengua & scupio la: & assi con vn solo acto, empero muy esclarecido, quito alos tormentadores toda la sperança de saber de ella lo que preguntauan & buscauan’ (folio 56r) (‘She forcefully bit off her tongue with her teeth and spat it out, and thus with a single act, although very illustrious, deprived her tormenters of all hope of learning from her what they were asking and seeking’). All quotes are from De las ilustres mujeres en romance (Zaragoza 1494).

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In another tale from the Glosa castellana al ‘Regimiento de Príncipes’, again citing Valerius as the source, a man bites off his own tongue rather than let the king cut it out as punishment: Eso mismo [Valerio] cuenta allí de Anasarco, a quien mandó un rey cortar la lengua; e él respondióle que aquella parte del cuerpo no era de su sennoría e cortóla con los dientes e mascóla e escupiósela en el rostro. (I, 134) (This same Valerius tells that the king ordered that Anasarco’s tongue be cut out; and he responded that that part of his body was not subject to the king’s jurisdiction, and so he cut it out with his teeth, chewed it up, and spat it in the king’s face.)

These extreme tales of severing one’s own tongue appear to have been popular since there are variations on this theme in a number of collections of moralizing tales and advice books. The inability to speak in these cases is not accompanied by deafness. On the contrary, the biting off of one’s tongue is made in response to petitions for information or to maintain chastity. This is very different from an inability to speak because one has never heard speech; it is a conscious decision to silence oneself by an ultimate form of self-mutilation. As a final example of the loss of speech, I include the tale about a child who cannot speak but who recovers his speech under extreme circumstances. This account appears in two collections, El libro de los exenplos por a.b.c. and in the Glosa castellana al ‘Regimiento de Príncipes’. In both versions, the authors cite Valerius as their source and the story involves King Croesus and his son. In the Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c.,106 Clemente Sánchez de Vercial specifies that the king’s son had been unable to speak since birth whereas in the Glosa castellana the author is unsure if the boy lost his speech at an early age or if was born thus impaired: ‘[P]erdió el fabla de pequenno o nasció sin fabla e mudo’ (II, 138) (‘He lost his speech when he was very young or he was born without the ability to speak’). In one version the Persian King attacks Croesus, and in the other, horsemen from Persia attack Croesus. In order to save his father’s life, the speechless boy calls out to warn his father and saves his life. The version in the Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c. is very short and lacking in detail and is found in a section on filial piety. It ends with the simple statement: ‘E el que sienpre biviera mudo fablo por salud del padre’ (154) (‘And he, who had always lived without speaking, spoke out for his father’s safety’) (119-20). The version in 106 Section 173 in the Paris manuscript (102 in the Madrid manuscript).

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the Glosa castellana adds more dramatic tension, specifying that the boy calls out just as the King of Persia had raised his sword above the father’s head to deal him the fatal blow: ‘[E] cuando vió el mozo que tenía el rey de Persia el espada sacada sobre la cabeza de su padre para matarle, comenzó a dar voces e cobrar el fabla por dar la vida a su padre’ (II, 138) (‘And when the boy saw that the King of Persia had his sword raised above his father’s head and was about to kill him, he began to cry out and recovered his speech in order to save his father’). The King of Persia is so shocked that the boy who had been unable to speak is now able to shout out a warning to his father that he spares the life of King Croesus. This version ends on a moralizing note about filial devotion: ‘E allí dice tanto bien del amor que los fijos ovieron a sus padres que en el mundo no pudo ser cosa de mayor alabanza’ (II, 138) (‘And this shows that the love of children for their parents is so great that there is nothing on earth more worthy of praise.’) While instances of sudden recovery of speech by a person without speech are not common, examples do exist. The direct divine intervention for the cure of the deaf or those without speech will be included in the chapter on miraculous healing, but I introduce here a unique example of immediate recovery that occurs when a man who cannot speak merely views a statue of the Virgin; there is no supplication for cure on the part of the man nor do others offer prayers on his behalf. In Cantiga 324 of Alfonso X’s Cantigas de Santa Maria, a man who has been unable to speak for two years spontaneously regains his ability to speak when he sees a beautiful statue of Holy Mary in the Cathedral of Sevilla on the feast of the birth of the Virgin (8 September).107 The text stipulates that when this statue is brought into the cathedral, the man makes signs to ask about the statue: ‘[P]er sinas enpreguntou’ (III, 151). This is another early allusion to sign language and the people gathered in the cathedral clearly understand what he is signing because they respond to him. Since he understands when they speak to him it is obvious that he is not deaf but has suffered some affliction that has kept him voiceless for two years. They tell him that King Alfonso X himself had gifted the statue to the cathedral and presented it for the faithful to view on this feast of the Virgin. As soon as he learns about the statue’s importance and he gazes upon its beauty, he regains his speech. As might be expected, the first words that the formerly-speechless protagonist utters are ‘Santa Maria, val, / ca por ti sõo guarido, ai, Sennor esperital’ (III, 151) (‘Holy Mary, preserve me, for through you I am cured, oh Spiritual Lady’) (393). 107 Mettmann dates this event as probably occurring in 1279. It is one of the Cantigas related in first person and in the poem Alfonso claims to have been an eye-witness to the man’s recovery.

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Although deafness during the Medieval period was inextricably linked to an inability to speak, loss of speech could also occur without reference to a loss of hearing. Those who could not hear or speak were marginalized in a unique way in Medieval Christian society. The deaf could not hear the word of God proclaimed in sermons and those without speech could not fulfil the obligation to verbally confess one’s sins in the sacrament of confession. Even though there is evidence that some forms of signing existed, these were not standardized and, thus, those who could not hear were kept closely tied to those individuals – usually family members – with whom they could reliably communicate. And, as was the case of Teresa de Cartagena, some chose not to interact with the hearing populace. Those who could not hear or speak were isolated in a distinctive way from the rest of society because, while not encountering physical barriers or impediments to movement, their disability severely limited the opportunity to communicate within their community. Lennard Davis contends that deafness is not visible in European texts until the advent of the Enlightenment in the eighteenth century, but he overlooks the appearance of the deaf, as well as those who could not speak, in a variety of texts from the Pre-Modern period.108 While Davis admits that deafness is included in both the Old and New Testaments and discussed by writers such as Aristotle and Augustine, he seems to ignore any other literary treatment of this impairment prior to the advent of schools for the deaf. While specialized education for the deaf did not exist in the Middle Ages, authors nevertheless expressed interest in those who were deaf or without speech and incorporated them into a variety of different kinds of texts as this chapter has shown.109 Davis attributes the ‘visibility’ of deafness in the eighteenth century to the Enlightenment’s philosophical interest in what made humans human.110 I would argue that this epistemological question has been central to philosophic and literary production since Classical times. Beliefs about the inextricable link between deafness and the inability to speak were to 108 Davis, Enforcing Normalcy, p. 51. Davis fails to acknowledge even well-known examples from English Medieval literature such as the Wife of Bath in The Canterbury Tales who Chaucer portrays as hard-of-hearing. See his Chapter 3 ‘Universalizing Marginality: How Europe Became Deaf in the Eighteenth Century’ (pp. 50-72) in Enforcing Normalcy. 109 Spain was the early center of teaching the deaf to speak. The monk Pedro Ponce de León developed a system for instruction of the deaf at the Monastery of San Salvador de Oña in the sixteenth century. For a complete account of this development, see the first chapter of Susan Plann’s A Silent Minority (pp. 13-35). 110 Davis, Enforcing Normalcy, p. 55.

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break down as education for the deaf began to take shape in monasteries in sixteenth-century Spain but for the Medieval period those born deaf were thought to be incapable of speech and this belief contributed to their stigmatization.

4

Leprosy – Los Gafos

This chapter deals with a disabling disease of paramount importance in the Middle Ages – leprosy. I have chosen to include leprosy in a book dealing with physical disabilities for a number of reasons. First, leprosy is indeed disabling, both in the medical sense and from a social standpoint since a diagnosis of leprosy could result in social isolation and stigmatization. Secondly, the disease may manifest symptoms, especially skin lesions, that result from the constricted flow of blood to the body’s extremities, that make the leper as visible, if not more so, than other disabled persons in a community. Also, the symptoms of leprosy can develop slowly over time, thus subjecting the afflicted to long years of the experience of disability.

Medical Knowledge The cause of leprosy was not discovered until 1873, when Gerhard Armauer Hansen identified the organism responsible for the disease, the mycobacterium leprae. The organism multiplies and affects peripheral nerves, the skin, and finally the bones; the rate of progression of the disease depends on the individual’s immune system. Leprosy is not, in fact, very contagious and is usually spread by contact with nasal fluid from an infected individual, but even in cases where such contact occurs, many people have natural resistance to the bacteria. If contracted, the disease can range from the mild tuberculoid type known as paucibacillary leprosy to the more serious multibacillary form that results in gross physical disfigurement. The milder form can manifest itself as pale areas of desensitized skin but it can worsen and later result in crippling from atrophy, secondary infections, and, finally, loss of the extremities.1 Luke Demaitre addresses the very valid question about whether the disease identified by Hansen, and often called Hansen’s disease, was identical to Pre-Modern leprosy. This is basically impossible to determine unless one is a paleopathologist but, due to the similarities in symptoms and for the purposes of this study it is assumed that the diseases were at least very similar in their physical manifestation. Leprosy spread gradually through Europe, especially after the tenth century and seems to have abated somewhat by the fifteenth.2 1 Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, pp. vii-viii. 2 Demaitre in Leprosy in Premodern Medicine debunks the widely circulated notion that the Crusades played a major role in the spread of leprosy. He also identifies the decline in the disease

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The identification of leprosy and the degree to which one suffered from this disease was ultimately based on the long-established theories about the balance, or imbalance, in the body’s four humours. Theories regarding bodily humours to explain human physiology dominated medical thought from Hippocrates (460 BCE-370 BCE) through Galen (129 CE-216 CE) and into the eighteenth century. According to this theory, ‘the four elements of earth, water, air and fire correspond to the four bodily fluids of black bile, phlegm, blood and yellow bile. Yellow bile was thought to be hot and dry; black bile cold and dry, phlegm cold and moist, and blood hot and moist’.3 Humoral theory and its almost limitless combinations and modes of analysis were long used to explain diseases and an imbalance in one’s humours could be manifest on the skin, usually in terms of pigmentation or lesions. There existed the generalized belief that all forms of leprosy were caused by the melancholy humour or excess of black bile. 4 Pre-Modern physicians identif ied a whole host of signs that could indicate that a person suffered from leprosy. Since the disease manifests itself in many different ways, the semiology was difficult and showed little in the way of progress, relying often on tradition and assumptions rather than empirical observation.5 While there were many efforts to describe the disease, terminology was not precise or standardized in any way.6 As early as the second century CE, the Greek physician Aretaeus of Cappadocia identified forty signs for the disease he labelled elephantia that would seem to imply that he was a keen observer of his patients but, when Aretaeus was rediscovered, many of the fine points of his symptoms were ignored.7 Avicenna (c.980-1037), in his Canon of Medicine, named a number of signs of leprosy, and his ideas were adapted and classified in subsequent centuries. as due to much more complex reasons than simply the reoccurrence of waves of bubonic plague from 1348 on (pp. viii-ix). 3 Connor, The Book of Skin, p. 18. 4 Ironically, even though black bile was believed to be the ultimate culprit in leprosy, it was also widely believed that the disease manifested itself on the skin in white spots. This idea resulted from the influence of Biblical proscriptions for lepers as found in Leviticus chapter 13. Leviticus 13:9 holds that a white swelling on the skin is a sign of ‘chronic leprosy’ and the individual with such marks on the skin is declared unclean. In his Mishneh Torah, Moses Maimonides (end of twelth century) lists the grades of whiteness of those afflicted by leprosy (Connor, The Book of Skin, p. 163). However, even though some areas of the skin may appear paler than others due to the constriction of blood caused by the bacteria responsible for the disease, leprosy does not produce the kind of white spots alluded to in Leviticus and this has led some scholars to conclude that the disease spoken of in Leviticus 13 is actually not leprosy at all. 5 Brody, The Disease of the Soul, p. 56. 6 Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, pp. 207-08. 7 Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 208.

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Whereas Aretaeus identified more than 40 signs for leprosy, Avicenna listed some 29. But even the shorter lists of symptoms included many that were quite fanciful as, for example, the widespread notion that leprosy caused one to be inordinately interested in sex. Texts called De examine leprosum (On the Examination of Lepers) or Signa leper (Signs of Leprosy), attributed to the thirteenth-century Catalan physician Arnau de Vilanova, began to divide symptoms into categories. Galvanus de Levanto (d. 1340), a Genoese physician, chose to concentrate on only three physical signs of leprosy. These were a stained and swollen face and eyes, a hoarse voice, and discoloured skin. Bernard de Gordon (c.1270-1330) in the early fourteenth century made the biggest impact on the identification of the disease when he and others who studied or worked in Montpellier began to develop methodical checklists rather than just imprecise, and sometimes contradictory, descriptions of symptoms. But it was Guy de Chauliac (c.1330-1368) who reconstructed Bernard’s lists along more logical lines and divided his taxonomy into three groups: signs that indicated that one was predisposed to the disease, signs of actual leprosy, and ‘equivocal’ signs, i.e., those that could also indicate other diseases that were not leprosy.8 Guy identified the following six signs as unequivocal markers that one was leprous: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Roundness of eyes and ears; eyebrows thick or tuberous, loss of hair Nostrils widen externally, constrict internally Lips turn hideous Voice hoarse, nasal Fetor of breath, of entire person Fixed and terrible stare9

It is worth noting that the signs now most associated with leprosy – dark or variegated skin, epidermal ulcerations, and anaesthesia in the e­ xtremities – are listed in Guy’s equivocal signs of leprosy because they could be symptoms of other diseases as well. This attention to itemization was, according to Demaitre, not a pedantic exercise but part of a plan developed at the medical school in Montpellier ‘to make the guidelines easier to memorize or copy, and more convenient for consulting in the field’.10 8 Guy de Chauliac offered what Demaitre labels a ‘most lucid diagnostic taxonomy’ (Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 216). 9 Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, pp. 218-19. 10 Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 219.

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Prevalent among many other beliefs about leprosy was that it could be hereditary or that it was a congenital disease. Bernard de Gordon’s Lilium medicinae (1303) contends that: Leprosy is either introduced from within the uterus, or after birth. If from within the uterus, it is because of conception at time of menstruation, or because it is the child of a leper, or because a leper has had intercourse with a pregnant woman and thus the baby will be leprous, for leprosy is generated out of these great corruptions that befall the conception.11

It was traditional belief, too, that leprosy was highly contagious and could be acquired through any contact with lepers, especially through sexual intercourse. Again, I cite Bernard de Gordon: Leprosy also arises from too much company with lepers, and from coitus with a leprous woman. And also in him who lies with a woman who has lain with a leper whose seed still remains in her womb.12

It was also believed that leprosy could result from retaining toxins or that bad air could enter the body through the pores of the skin and cause all sorts of diseases, including leprosy.13 The breath of one infected with leprosy constituted ‘bad air’ because it was ‘transformed and changed through the corruption of the inward parts of the body’.14 There is evidence that lepers who were confined in hospitals were bled each month, indicating a belief that the outward corruption of their skin could be helped by eliminating fluid from within the body.15 These ideas were all coupled to the longstanding conviction, as noted earlier, that all forms of leprosy resulted ultimately from an excess of the melancholic humour or black bile.16 Undoubtedly due to Biblical teaching, Medieval medical encyclopaedias classified leprosy under skin conditions even though Avicenna, following Galen, considered the disease ‘a devastation of the entire organism’ and 11 Quoted in Demaitre, ‘The Description and Diagnosis’, pp. 329-30. 12 Quoted in Demaitre, ‘The Description and Diagnosis’, p. 330. 13 Pouchelle, The Body and Surgery, pp. 151-52. 14 Bartholomew of England (Bartholomeus Anglicus) quoted in Pouchelle, The Body and Surgery, p. 152. From Bartholomew’s De proprietatibus rerum (On the Properties of Things), an encyclopaedic work written in 1240. 15 Pouchelle, The Body and Surgery, p. 155. 16 The balance, or imbalance, of the vital humours was thought not only to explain physical conditions but also one’s disposition or character (Connor, The Book of Skin, p. 19).

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labelled it a cancer communis copori toti (common to the whole body), in his Canon.17 Later commentators on Avicenna’s work, however, questioned this analysis and debated whether leprosy was a disease of the whole body or only of the flesh.18 There were attempts to define various degrees of leprosy often in terms of incipient and advanced stages of the disease, as did Arnau de Vilanova writing in the thirteenth century. By the beginning of the fourteenth century, Bernard de Gordon was not satisfied by this distinction and deemed leprosy a partial disease only to the extent that it affected the flesh. Bernard claimed that ‘the natural red flesh, warm and moist, failed “to assimilate” […] noxious nutriment; instead it produced cold, phlegmatic, granulous and disconnected [separatam] flesh’.19 Bernard’s Lilium medicinae (Lily of Medicine) (1303) was translated into Spanish and the 1495 edition of Lilio de medicina seems to have enjoyed widespread circulation due to the number of extant copies of this edition that survive today.20 In the Spanish translation the treatise on leprosy appears in the First Book, Chapter 22. Bernard’s text reflects the widely-held belief that leprosy was caused by melancholic humour. It asserts that this excess melancholy could corrupt the whole body or only parts of the body and cause a variety of diseases besides leprosy.21 The Spanish translation of Bernard’s treatise perpetuates the idea that leprosy could be hereditary or result from intercourse with a leper or with a woman while she is menstruating. It further held that one could contract leprosy by eating foods that produced melancholy such as lentils and other beans as well as the meat of certain animals such as foxes, hedgehogs, camels, hares, or donkeys.22 Bernard adds that one could become leprous by drinking milk or eating fish at the same table with a leper.23 Although Bernard admits that leprosy 17 Orlemanski, ‘Desire and Defacement’, p. 161. 18 Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 115. 19 Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 119. 20 This translation was printed in Sevilla by Meynardo Ungut and Stanislao Polono. Today copies of this incunabulum are found in the Hispanic Society of America (New York), the British Museum (London), National Libraries of Spain (Madrid) and France (Paris), the Provincial Library in Evora (Portugal), the Royal Spanish Academy (Madrid), the Kestner Museum in Hanover (Germany), the Huntington Library (New York), New York Academy of Medicine, the Pierpont Morgan Library (New York), the Yale Historical Library of the Medical School, Indiana University, and the Casa del Libro (Puerto Rico) (Lilio de medicina, edited by Cull and Dutton, p. xviii). 21 The Lilio de medicina also names fevers, warts, sclerosis, cancer, or herpes (edited by Cull and Dutton, p. 46). 22 Lilio de medicina, edited by Cull and Dutton, p. 47. 23 Lilio de medicina, edited by Cull and Dutton, p. 47.

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cannot be cured, he does claim that the life of a leper can be prolonged and treatment can keep the disease from reaching the heart or other vital organs. He gives eleven therapeutic approaches to leprosy ranging from phlebotomy to dietetics.24 Specifically, he recommends bleedings, purging of the digestive system (with elaborate recipes for laxatives),25 purging of the sinuses with agents that cause sneezing, cauterization of legs, arms, shoulders and neck (if the patient can stand it), baths, snake’s blood dissolved first in salt water and later in white wine, and unguents.26 Bernard disagrees with Galen and Avicenna who maintained that leprosy begins with manifestations on the face and contends that the disease may attack other parts of the body, especially the extremities, before manifesting itself on the face.27 A few years after Bernard de Gordon published his Lilium medicinae, in his famous textbook on surgery, Cyrurgia, Henri de Mondeville claimed that: Lepra is a shameful disease resulting from matter that is melancholic or turned into melancholy, and destroyed by irremediable destruction. It is to the whole body like a cancer is to the cancerous member. Hence, just as a cancer cannot be cured without the total destruction of the affected member, neither is lepra cured without the destruction or excision of the entire body – but that is impossible.28

Physicians did, however, recommend treatments for leprosy. For example, as noted, Bernard de Gordon devotes over a third of his extensive chapter on leprosy to treatments for slowing the progression of the disease. A late fourteenth-, or possibly early fifteenth-century, medical manual from Spain, the Códice Zabálburu de Medicina Medieval (Zabálburu Codex of Medieval Medicine), includes pharmacological treatments made from Aristolochia 24 Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 20. Demaitre points out that the sequence of these therapies contradicts Bernard’s usually conservative practice of treatment which moved from questions of hygiene, then to medication, and lastly to manual intervention (Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 20). The fact that he lists bleeding as the first step in treatment may point to the seriousness of the disease which, unlike other conditions, demanded immediate and drastic intervention. 25 Especially efficacious is the whey from goat’s milk (Lilio de medicina, edited by Cull and Dutton, p. 49). 26 Lilio de medicina, edited by Cull and Dutton, pp. 48-50. 27 Lilio de medicina, edited by Cull and Dutton, p. 51. 28 Quoted in Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 121.

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baetica, a vine native to the Iberian Peninsula,29 and the seeds of the Brassica nigra (black mustard) plant when these are mixed with animal fat and vinegar.30 Also many types of cereal grains mixed with radish and salt were recommended to treat leprous lesions on the skin.31 Francois-Oliver Touati names some 270 medicinal plants and herbs believed to alleviate, or in some cases cure, the symptoms of leprosy.32 Interestingly, the increased sexual appetite traditionally associated with leprosy also found its way into medical writings which consistently recommended that the leper abstain from sexual activity. Sex was believed to dry out the body’s natural moisture and overheat the body, leading to further imbalance of the humours.33 Even though some people were indeed cured by one or more remedies or regimens recommended, the most probable conclusion is that the individual did not suffer from leprosy but rather from some other condition that manifests itself with similar symptoms. Evidence from texts produced in thirteenth-century Spain would suggest that there was some belief in medical/magical cures for leprosy. The scriptorium of Alfonso X translated a number of Arabic scientific treatises, including four lapidaries that were gathered together in a volume usually referred to simply as Lapidario.34 As noted earlier, this work on the powers of stones and minerals explains how these powers are enhanced when under the influence of particular celestial bodies at different times of the year. This text presents both medical and magical properties of stones under astrological influence. For example, in a section on the stone called ‘bedunaz’, the Lapidario contends that grinding this stone, mixing it with a liquor, and putting it in the nostrils of a leper will cure the patient but only if the leprosy has not crippled any member of the body: ‘[S]i la gaffedat non fuere tan fuerte quel aya tollido algun miembro’ (16). The text is careful to state that the stone cannot cure an advanced case of leprosy but that it can prevent the disease from spreading: ‘[N]on dexa yr la enfermedat dalli adelante’ (16). Another of Alfonso X’s scientific translations, the Libro de las 29 Since Aristolochia baetica is poisonous its therapeutic value is questionable at best. The Códice Zabálburu contends that it is ‘muy provechosa alos que han por lepra’ (edited by Sánchez Téllez, p. 156) (‘very beneficial for those that have leprosy’). 30 Códice Zabálburu, edited by Sánchez Téllez, p. 175. 31 Códice Zabálburu, edited by Sánchez Téllez, p. 180. 32 For an excellent summary of the types of treatments see pp. 255-277 of Demaitre’s Leprosy in Premodern Medicine. 33 Castration was sometimes recommended as a cure for leprosy (Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 259). 34 Escorial ms. h-I-15.

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formas & ymagenes35 (Book of Forms and Images), treats the magical properties of certain images when they are engraved on particular stones or metals. An engraving done under the sign of the Lion, i.e., Leo (23 July-22 August) promises to cure leprosy completely (‘sanar la gafedat’).36 Another under the sign of Libra also purports to have a similar curative power (‘sanar al omne gafo dantiguedat’).37 The potential for ‘magical’ cures for leprosy as seen in the Alfonsine texts was only one manifestation of how medieval authors wrote about the disease they classified as leprosy. In his article ‘The Description and Diagnosis of Leprosy by Fourteenth-Century Physicians’, Demaitre contends that since ‘medieval accounts of leprosy interweave traditional formulas with contemporary teaching and speculative explanation with personal observation, the degree of their correspondence with reality is often hard to determine’.38 Although he exclusively analyses medical treatises, this statement can be equally applied, I believe, to accounts of leprosy that appear in other types of writing – historical, legal, and literary. Even when a treatise purports to be factual the effects of long-established beliefs and taboos about the disease always formed part of the environment in which the work was created and received.

Segregation (?) The segregation of lepers from those not infected with the disease is a complicated issue and there is significant evidence that injunctions about isolating those determined to be leprous were not strictly enforced. The stereotypical notion of the banishment of lepers is partly false since the degree of isolation depended on where one lived, one’s economic or social status, and other mitigating factors. The ingrained idea that the leper was always secluded from contact with others grew out of the belief that leprosy was highly contagious. This perception began with classical authors who associated touching (contagion) with contact or contagion (contagium) and thus determined that the disease could be spread through even the slightest contact with an infected individual.39 By the thirteenth century the idea of an external agent, as for example corrupt air, was also believed to spread the 35 Escorial ms. h-I-16. 36 From the edition Lapidario and Libro de las formas & ymagenes prepared by Roderic C. Diman and Lynn W. Winget. Here p. 160. 37 Diman and Winget, p. 155. 38 Demaitre, ‘The Description and Diagnosis’, p. 331. 39 Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 138.

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disease. 40 It should be noted, too, that although leprosaria, special shelters for lepers, existed prior to the late thirteenth century, it is not until that date that such institutions were established as isolation centres for fear of contagion. Until the late thirteenth century the leprosaria were seen more as charity ‘hospitals’ to care for those believed to suffer from the disease. 41 Although Demaitre presents ample evidence that Medieval physicians were reluctant to label a patient as suffering from leprosy, public fear of the disease put pressure on officials to enact ever more restrictive policies about lepers’ contact with well individuals. However, there are many documented instances of laxity in enforcing such restrictions and Saul Brody concludes that the frequency of laws passed to restrict lepers’ mobility attest to the fact that they were ‘frequently unenforceable, or at least unenforced’. 42 The concepts of contagion and infection were brought more clearly into focus with outbreaks of bubonic plague (1347-1350). 43 The time of the first major outbreaks of the plague, too, corresponds to the period when physicians begin to form part of the juries that determined if one was leprous. Prior to the fourteenth century such judicial bodies were usually composed of ecclesiastical authorities and diagnosed lepers, since it was assumed that the latter could readily recognize a fellow sufferer. 44 Although the Third Lateran Council (1179) had prescribed a special ritual to formally separate the leper from his/her community – the separation leprosorum – there is little evidence that it was universally enforced. 45 This ritual was similar to the Mass for the dead and Brody describes it as follows: During the ceremony, the leper knelt before the altar, beneath a black cloth supported by two trestles. (However, at Amiens and elsewhere, he was required to stand in a grave in a cemetery.) His face was covered by a 40 For example, Velasco de Tharantha writing in 1418 states that the ‘primary causes are the corruption of the air, such as there is in pestilential air; also, dealings and conversation with leprosi, because the inhaled and exhaled air, corrupted and infected by them, corrupts the surrounding air and thus infects someone who draws it repeatedly: because this is a disease that invades others, as Avicenna says’ (quoted in Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 146). 41 Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 141. 42 Brody, The Disease of the Soul, p. 60. For example, Demaitre notes an injunction issued by Charles V of France in 1371 who was concerned about the numbers of leprous beggars in Paris. He maintains that ‘the injunction was neither heeded by the beggars or enforced by the supposedly endangered burghers, and even that the promiscuity spread beyond Paris’ (Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 143). 43 Demaitre, Leprosy in Premodern Medicine, p. 140. 44 Brody, The Disease of the Soul, p. 63. 45 Brody, The Disease of the Soul, p. 64.

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black veil as he heard the mass. The officiating priest threw a spadeful of earth from the cemetery on the head of the leper three times, explaining that the ritual symbolizes the death of the leper to the world. The priest said: ‘Be dead to the world, be reborn to God’, and the leper replied, ‘O Jesus, my redeemer, you formed me out of earth, you dressed me in a body; let me be reborn on the final day.’46

Félix Contreras Dueñas and Ramón Miguel y Suárez Inclán also cite this same kind of ceremony in Medieval Christian Spain, stating that the judge in leper cases was a priest and that there was no provision for appealing his decision. They also affirm that these rituals often took place in a special chapel known as the ‘Sala de los Leprosos’ (‘Room of the Lepers’) and that many of these special chapels can still be identified as such in churches in the regions of Spain where leprosy was most common. 47 Contreras and Miguel also note that in Spain lepers usually lived in leper houses outside of the towns and that hospitals for lepers were usually reserved for rich patients. 48 The first leper hospital, or refuge, in Spain was founded in the ninth century by the Bishop of Barcelona; the second one was in Soria, founded in the tenth century; the third in Lafores in Portugal; and, a fourth in Asturias between Aller and Piñares. The number of leper colonies grew significantly between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries with 91 known sites, most situated in the areas where the majority of cases of leprosy were reported – Asturias and Galicia. However, Contreras and Miguel estimate that some 200 colonies probably existed although many have long since disappeared and left no archaeological trace. 49 Nicasio Mariscal notes that Alfonso X founded a leper hospital in his favourite city of Sevilla to which he granted significant royal privileges.50 In a letter to his heir, Sancho, King Alfonso wrote that this hospital should be the only place designated for the housing and care of lepers in the city: que ningún tocado de esta enfermedad pueda ser recogido ni amparado, ni curado en casa alguna, so graves penas, y perdimiento de bienes, que luego se ejecuten en la una y en la otra parte, sin otra licencia de poder estar en otra que esta casa, atinente en todo a que de su comunicación y 46 Brody, The Disease of the Soul, p. 66. Brody mentions only France, Flanders and the area south of the Rhine (ancient Gaul) as the site for such rituals (The Disease of the Soul, p. 65). 47 Contreras and Miguel, Historia de la lepra, p. 32. 48 Contreras and Miguel, Historia de la lepra, p. 34. 49 Contreras and Miguel, Historia de la lepra, pp. 38-39. 50 Mariscal, Don Alfonso X el Sabio, p. 32.

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trato no se le pegase a otro el mal y gafedad, y que le fuesen en todo y por todo guardadas estas libertades, entre las demás, al mayoral, de poder ejecutar todo esto, y poner en la casa a los tales malatos, sin que en lo tocante a este particular le pueda ir a la mano alguna justicia eclesiastica ni secular, escepto solamente su consejo real.51 (that no one touched by this infirmity should be kept, nor aided, nor cured in any other house, under grave penalty of losing one’s possessions that will be enforced here and elsewhere and there exists no other license than for this house, assuring that through communication or contact no one else falls victim to the illness, and that their rights be protected and a steward appointed to oversee the house and place the ill there and he is not subject to any ecclesiastical or secular justice except only that of the royal council.)

Certain other royal decisions affected lepers such as certain exemptions from taxes as Alfonso X stipulated in the Siete Partidas. For example, Partida I, Title 20, Law 6 states that ‘Preuillejados son los gafos de la eglesia de Roma, que non den diezmo de sus huertas ni de la criança de sus ganados mas deuen lo dar de todas las otras heredades que ouieron’ (‘Lepers belonging to the Church of Rome are exempt from paying tithes from their gardens and the increase of their beasts, but they must pay them from all other landed property which they own’) (I, 233).52 Despite the high number of leper hospitals identified, it does not necessarily follow that all lepers were separated from society. The rich who were afflicted were often permitted to stay isolated within their own homes where they were cared for, or to build their own, private dwellings on land allotted for the lepers.53 But, despite legal proscriptions and popular prejudice, many poor lepers roamed about, usually living by begging. Bronislaw Geremek contends that even when lepers were forced to live apart from their communities they were part of the social structure and the fact that they were supposed to announce their presence by the use of a bell or rattle is evidence that they circulated outside their supposed zone of isolation.54 Those who were hospitalized, i.e., in some sort of institution designed for the care of lepers, were supported largely by donations from churches, usually in the form of a legacy in parishioners’ wills or endowments from wealthy 51 Quoted in Mariscal, Don Alfonso X el Sabio, p. 33. 52 dspace.uah.es/dspace/bitstream/handle/10017/…/Siete%20Partidas.pdf (p. 222). 53 Brody, The Disease of the Soul, p. 70. 54 Geremek, ‘The Marginal Man’, pp. 367-68.

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patrons.55 Lepers often went on pilgrimage in search of a cure, as is attested by the fact that many of the patients confined in hospitals located along pilgrimage routes either suffered from leprosy, or diseases that manifested themselves with similar symptoms.56

The Leper as Metaphor Julie Orlemanski identifies two representational schemes for leprosy in Medieval literary texts – the affective and the moralistic.57 The affective portrayal is one in which encountering a leper is described with emotions such as disgust, fear, pity, or love. While the first three of these emotions – disgust, fear, or pity – can be easily understood, the last, love, is rarer and restricted to religious tracts. Orlemanski cites, as an example of the latter, accounts of the life of St. Francis in which the saint expresses love and affection toward a leper he encounters. In the moralistic paradigm of Medieval representations of the leper, the disease could function as a metaphor for the Fall from Grace, or for sin in general.58 The idea that the leper was not only sick in body but also in soul, as part of the moralistic paradigm, is developed by Saul Brody in his book, The Disease of the Soul. Brody contends that ‘[s]ince ancient times, leprosy has been considered an unclean disease, and its victims have long been linked with moral impurity. Tradition transmitted by copying helped perpetuate the idea of a leper as emblem of spiritual corruption – and the moral associations of leprosy surround the disease during the Middle Ages’.59 Joseph Ziegler identifies a clear difference in attitudes toward lepers in Medieval Islamic societies and Christian societies claiming that this difference ‘reflected the morally neutral aetiology based on Greek medieval theory adopted by the Arabs and the moral or religious meaning attached to the disease by Christians’.60 Ziegler takes a more nuanced view than Brody about the association of leprosy with moral corruption in Christian thought and identifies changes in social attitudes about leprosy beginning in the second half of the thirteenth century as Greek medical theory became more 55 Geremek asserts that ‘the leprous enjoyed society’s aid; they were provided for copiously enough to arouse envy, and collections were continually taken for them’ (‘The Marginal Man’, p. 367). 56 Contreras and Miguel, Historia de la lepra, p. 49. 57 Orlemanski, ‘Desire and Defacement’, p. 162. 58 Orlemanski, ‘Desire and Defacement’, p. 162. 59 Brody, The Disease of the Soul, p. 51. 60 Ziegler, Medicine and Religion, p. 13.

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fully assimilated in the Latin West.61 He also emphasizes the importance for Christian attitudes about the disease in this period as control of the discourse about, and treatment of, lepers came more under the purview of physicians and less under that of priests and the Church. Nevertheless, even as medical writings and preventive and palliative treatments were becoming more widespread authors continued to draw moral parallels between leprosy and sin. For example, Galvanus da Levanto (d. 1340), a Genoese physician and priest, writes about spiritual corruption using leprosy as metaphor for moral decay. Galvanus uses as the starting point for his arguments Avicenna’s definition of leprosy as a mala infirmitas (bad disease) that spreads throughout the body causing an unnatural disposition (disposito contra naturem). He uses the pathology of leprosy as a metaphor for what he calls a leprosy of the soul, ‘a moral disease caused by the dispersion of the filth of sin throughout the body’.62 Galvanus develops his comparison in great detail of which the following passage is illustrative of his arguments: Physical leprosy involves the loss of many natural goods such as complexion, shape, and senses; similarly, spiritual leprosy causes the loss of goods of fortune and grace, and excludes sufferers from the ability to perceive punishment, to hear God’s words, and to smell the stench of their sins. In physical leprosy, the harder one strives to suppress the disease the more violently it boils over. Similarly, in spiritual leprosy, the more hidden and untouched by confession the dung of sin is, the uglier it appears when revealed. The raucous, hardly audible voice typical of the corporeal leper characterizes the spiritual leper who cannot be heard by God.63

Galvanus, however, does not recommend banishing either the physical or the spiritual leper (sinner) from society even though he does allude to the fact that lepers are often kept away from human company and behave immorally. Writing at almost the same time as Galvanus, Don Juan Manuel (nephew of Alfonso X) (1282-1348) also speaks of leprosy in association with moral or spiritual inferiority. Juan Manuel compares the feelings of numbness that lepers experience with an immoral insensitivity to others, especially with regard to a failure to show gratitude. In his Tractado de la Asunción de la 61 Ziegler, Medicine and Religion, p. 13. 62 Ziegler, Medicine and Religion, p. 104. 63 Quoted in Ziegler, Medicine and Religion, pp. 104-05.

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Virgen (Treatise on the Virgin’s Assumption), the Castilian noble recounts part of a conversation he had with his father-in-law, King Jaime II of Mallorca,64 to Fray Ramón Masquefa, prior at the Dominican convent of Peñafiel and a trusted emissary of Juan Manuel. On this occasion King Jaime remarked that one of the worst attributes in a human being is a lack of sensitivity toward others. For that reason the King likens such an individual to a leper: la peor dolencia del mundo era la gafedat, por que asi amortigua aquel logar do llega la gafedat, quel fazia perder el sentimiento. Et por ende el omne que non se sintia, que era hascas commo gafo. Ca assi commo non sintia quando le fazian alguna cosa de que se deuia agrauiar, que assi non sintia quandol fiziesen algun bien que deuiesse gradesçer, pues el omne sin gradesçimiento del bien quel fazen e sin sintimiento del mal que reçibe, con razon por peor es que las vestias; ca las vestias, e todas las animalias, todas se sienten del mal que reçiben, e gradesçen e connoscen el bien que les fazen. (I, 507)65 (the worst disease in the world is leprosy because it makes numb that place where the leper is infected. Thus, a man who cannot feel is like a leper; for he does not recognize when someone does him ill nor does he know when he should show gratitude to someone who does something good for him, because a man who is ungrateful when someone helps him or does not know when someone has done him wrong is worse than the beasts, for beasts and all animals react when ill is done to them and express gratitude when they are treated well.)

In the El libro del Caballero Zifar (The Book of the Knight Zifar), contracting leprosy is associated with treason. In a section on honour, a direct parallel is made between acts of treason and the contagion of leprosy. It is especially noteworthy, in light of prevailing beliefs about leprosy as a hereditary disease, that this section maintains that treason, like leprosy, can be passed down through four generations. Onde sy los omes quesieren parar mientes a saber que cosa es trayçion, fuyrian della commo de gafedat; ca bien asy commo la gafedat encona e gafeçe fasta quarta generaçion desçendiendo por la liña derecha, asy la trayçion del que la faze manziella a los que del desçienden, fasta quarto 64 Juan Manuel’s first wife, Isabel, was the daughter of Jaime II of Mallorca. 65 From the 2 volume edition of the Obras completas of Don Juan Manuel prepared by José Manuel Blecua.

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grado; ca los llamarían fijos e nietos e visnietos de trayçion, e pierden onrra entre los omes, e non los resçiben en los ofiçios, saluo sy el señor los diere por quitos de aquella infamia a los que desçienden del traydor, porque puedan auer los ofiçios de la su tierra. E porende deuen todos fuyr del asy commo de gafo e de cosa enconada, e los parientes, por çercanos que sean, deuen lo negar e dezir que non es su pariente nin de su sangre, e deuen fuyr de los sus vasallos, otrosy, que non es su señor. (236-37) (Wherefore if men were disposed to know treachery for what it is, they would flee from it as from leprosy; for just as leprosy inflames and corrupts unto the fourth generation descending through the direct line, so does the treachery of the one who commits it stain those who descend from him unto the fourth degree of kinship, because they would be called sons and grandsons and great-grandsons of treachery, and they would be dishonoured among men. They will not be welcomed in service unless their lord absolves from infamy the ones who are descended from the traitor so that they may be able to have the use of his land. And all ought to flee from the traitor as from a leper and corruption, and his kinsmen, however close they may be, ought to disown him and declare that he is not their relative nor of their lineage. Moreover his vassals should abandon him, for he is no longer their lord.) (135-36)

Juan Ruiz, the Archpriest of Hita, in the Libro de buen amor (Book of Good Love) (1330 and 1343), speaks of leprosy in an argument he has with the allegorical figure of Don Amor (Sir Love). The Archpriest claims that love causes one to commit mortal sins and, among the seven deadly sins, he singles out greed (cobdiçia) as the ultimate root of all the other sins. However, like leprosy, all sins are as vile and contagious as the dreaded disease since committing any sin can lead one to fall into other forms of wickedness as he explains in strophe 219: La sobervia e ira, que non falla do quepa; avarizia e loxuria, que arden más que estepa; gula, envidia, açidia, ques pegan commo lepra: de la cobdiçia nasçen, es dellas rraíz e çepa. (vv. 219abcd) (Pride and anger, which cannot be restrained anywhere; avarice and lust, which burn more easily than straw; gluttony, envy, and all sloth, which are as contagious as leprosy – of all cupidity is the root and trunk.) (77)66

66 From The Book of Good Love as translated by Rigo Mignani and Mario A. Di Cesare.

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Thus, well into the fourteenth century, leprosy was embroiled in religious or moralistic rhetoric. Despite the growing control by physicians and local authorities on the diagnosis and care of lepers, in Spain, until the time of the Catholic Kings in the late fifteenth century, the Church still controlled not only most of the physical facilities for lepers, but tended to perpetuate rhetoric that clothed discourse about leprosy in theological or moralistic terms.67

Leprosy as Divine Punishment With this important fact in mind, it should not be surprising that a number of texts from Medieval Spain present leprosy as a divine punishment sent by God. The corrosive and chronic nature of leprosy made it the divine punishment par excellence in literary texts. For example, in another work penned by Don Juan Manuel, El Conde Lucanor (Count Lucanor), a collection of exempla (moralizing tales), Exemplum 44 relates the story of Count Rodrigo el Franco who marries a very honourable woman. The Count brings false accusations, for no apparent reason, against his wife and she prays to God to punish her if she be guilty, but to punish her husband if his claims against her are false. She no more than finishes her prayer when the Count is struck with leprosy: Luego que la oración fue acabada, por el miraglo de Dios engafezio el conde, su marido, et ella partiosse del. Et luego que fueron partidos, envio el rey de Nauarra sus mandaderos a la duenna et caso con ella, et fue reyna de Nauarra. (II, 356) (Now after her prayer by some miracle, the count, her husband, was stricken with leprosy and she left him. And as soon as they were separated, the king of Navarre sent messengers to the lady, and married her, and she became queen of Navarre.) (161)

The wife immediately separates from her husband when he contracts leprosy and soon thereafter marries the King of Navarre while her husband is still alive. Leprosy as grounds for divorce is not found in legal codes of the period. For example, Partida 4, Title II, Law 7 of Alfonso X’s Siete Partidas states:

67 Contreras and Miguel, Historia de la lepra, p. 35.

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[S]i alguno de los que fuesen casados çegase o se hiziese sordo: o contrecho: o perdiese sus mienbros por dolores: o por enfermedad: o por otra manera qual quier por ninguna destas cosas nin avn que se hiziese gafo non deue el vno desanparar al otro por guardar la fe: & la lealtad que se prometieron en el casamiento.68 (Where one of the parties married becomes blind, deaf, or deformed, or loses his limbs through suffering or disease, or in any other way whatsoever; on account of none of these things not even though one of them become a leper should he or she be deserted by the other, in order to keep the faith and loyalty which they promised one another at the time of marriage.) (IV, 889)

But, in the tale from El Conde Lucanor, Don Juan Manuel seems less concerned with leprosy as cause for annulment of marriage and places more importance on the fact that the count is struck by the disease for falsely accusing his innocent wife. In the story, the Count, knowing that there is no cure for his condition, decides to go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land as atonement for his sin. The bulk of the tale actually centres on the loyalty of three knights who choose to accompany the Count during his self-imposed exile; when all his other vassals desert him these three care for him until his death. In another tale, this one from the first half of the fifteenth century found in El espéculo de los legos (Mirror for the Laity), leprosy is conjoined to the sin of arrogance. The tale numbered 537 relates that two lepers approached St. Bridget hoping to be cured. She tells them that they must wash each other’s body and they will be healed. The first leper washes his companion and the latter loses all trace of the malady. Now cured, the former leper refuses to touch his afflicted companion, seemingly repulsed by him. As punishment for his pride and lack of compassion, St. Bridget strikes the cured individual again with leprosy, but cures the companion whom he had refused to bathe.69 In another section of El espéculo de los legos leprosy is among the punishments visited on executors who do not follow the instructions of a testator.70 In this case the man making the will is a moneylender who instructs his executors to return any monies he had earned dishonestly, presumably by

68 dspace.uah.es/dspace/bitstream/handle/10017/…/Siete%20Partidas.pdf (p. 835). 69 Exemplum 537, p. 432. 70 Section 262.

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charging an unfair rate of interest.71 On his deathbed the moneylender, the testator, asks his three executors what each one fears the most. They reply: [E]l uno le dixo que temía la lepra sobre todas las cosas, e el otro que temía el fuego de San Antón, e el otro la pobreza. E dixoles el usurero: Todas estas cosas vos vengan sy non restituyeredes todo lo que yo gané malamente. (176-77) (The one said that he feared leprosy above all things, the other one that he feared St. Anthony’s fire,72 and the other one poverty. And the usurer said to them: May all these things happen to you if you do not pay restitution on all that I did not earn honestly.)

When the usurer dies, the executors divide all his wealth among themselves. Within a few days, each one is struck with the condition he most feared. The text does not tell us of the ultimate fate of any of the three men, but one may safely assume that the leper eventually succumbed to the disease.73 The Cantigas de Santa Maria (Songs of Holy Mary) include a poem in which leprosy results from indulging in ‘tod’ aquele viço que à carne praz’ (I, 286) (‘all carnal vice without exception’) (118).74 A boy who is described as handsome and charming commits carnal sins and as a result of what the text labels his pride and disdain for moral standards, God inflicts him with leprosy. He is so disfigured that he decides to separate himself from others and goes to live in a hermitage. He prays a thousand ‘Ave Marias’ for three years until the Virgin decides to cure him of the disease. This poem establishes a direct relationship between moral depravity and the onset of leprosy and, thus, clearly reflects one of the many commonly held beliefs about the disease in the Middle Ages. In another Marian tale from the Cantigas, the brother of a Count falsely accuses a woman who is caring for the Count’s son of killing the child.75 The lady had rejected the advances of the Count’s brother and, in revenge, he slits the boy’s throat and blames the child’s caretaker for the crime. She is 71 It is probably safe to assume that the moneylender referred to in this section of El espéculo is Jewish since Christians and Muslims were barred from lending money for interest. The text refers to the testator as a ‘usurer’ (‘usurero’) and speaks of the monies he requests his executors to return as ‘mal ganadas’ (‘badly earned’). 72 See note 74 of Chapter 1. 73 El espéculo de los legos also makes a brief reference to the sister of Moses being struck with leprosy as punishment for speaking ill of her brother: ‘[P]orque dixo mal de Moysen fué ferida de lepra’ (p. 119). 74 Cantiga 93. 75 Cantiga 5.

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sentenced to be drowned but the sailor who is charged with taking her out to sea decides to have his way with her. The lady cries out to Holy Mary who speaks to the sailor and threatens him with death if he persists in molesting his charge. Frightened by this voice from Heaven, the sailor decides to leave the lady on a deserted island. There she is cared for by the Virgin who also entrusts her with a special herb that has the power to cure leprosy. The woman is eventually rescued by a group of pilgrims on route to Rome. When the woman arrives in Rome she uses the herb to cure more than a thousand lepers. As fate would have it, one of the lepers she cures is the brother of the Count who had falsely accused her of murder. However, before she can effectuate his cure, he has to confess his crime and declare that the accusation he had made was false.76 The text labels him a ‘gaffo traedor’ (I, 71) (‘a traitorous leper’) (10). In this poem, a case of inordinate lust and attempt at rape, or a false accusation of murder, are punished by the infliction of leprosy.

Leper as Holy Messenger As previously stated, leprosy was also used as a prime motive for the Church to solicit funds and to encourage Christians to exercise their charitable duty to provide for the unfortunate or infirm. For example, one popular tale about acts of charity toward a leper, and the ultimate reward for such kindness, is extant in a number of sources from Medieval Spain. One version is found in the Castigos y documentos para bien vivir ordenados por el rey don Sancho (Lessons and Documents for Good Living Ordered by King Sancho IV) (late thirteenth century). Chapter Seven, entitled ‘De quand noble cosa es fazer limosna e quantas virtudes e bienes trae consigo’ (‘How Noble it is to Give Alms and what Virtues and Goodness Accompany this Act’), includes the following account of charity performed by St. Duarte, i.e., St. Edward, probably Edward the Confessor (c.1003-1066): Fallamos escripto en la estoria del rey Sant Aduarte de Inglaterra que vna vegada andaua a monte en el yermo con muy grand frio, e yendo el 76 The woman is actually the Empress of Rome. In the long and complex plot of this Cantiga she suffers many hardships and betrayals, beginning with the Emperor’s own brother. While the Emperor is away on crusade, the brother tries to seduce the Empress. She imprisons him and, upon the Emperor’s return to Rome, the brother says that she tried to force herself on him. Thus begins the long banishment of the Empress and her many misadventures. At the end of this poem the Emperor’s brother, too, is afflicted with leprosy, but the Empress cures him only after he admits his deceit to the Emperor.

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rey partido de toda su gente en pos vn çieruo topo con vn pobre que era gafo e estaua desnudo moriendo de frio, de tal manera que si en aquella ora non le acorrieran fuera muerto, segund el frio que demostraua que auie. E aquel gafo le dixo: ‘Rey, ruegote por amor de Jesu Cristo, aquel tu saluador, e Sant Joan Bautista, que tu amas de coraçon, que me tomes en pos de ti en la bestia y me lleues deste logar que non muera aqui; e si yo aqui moriere, a ti lo demande Dios.’ E el rey quando oyo estas palabras dexo la caça e cunplio la voluntad del pobre, e por tal que non muriese de frio vestiol las vestiduras que el mesmo traya, e caualgole en la su silla, e el rey pusose en pos en las ancas de la bestia, e fue con el para vna abadia de monjes negros77 que era a dos leguas dende. E en yendo con el por el campo rogole aquel pobre e gafo por aquellas palabras mesmas que ante conte que con jura que le sonase las narizes. E commo quier que aquel rey fuese en muy grand cuyta de fazer aquello, por el husgo que ende auie, ouolo de fazer por amor de Jesu Cristo y de Sant Joan. E desque le ouo sonado las narizes fallo en la mano vn rubi muy grande y muy bueno, mayor que vn hueuo de gallina. E quando el rey cato e vio aquel rubi fue muy marauillado en el su coraçon. E quando paro mientes ante si, fallo la silla vazia e non vio mas aquel pobre. E en esta guisa entendio el rey que aquel miraglo veniera por Dios que le quisiera probar que era lo que farie por el su amor. Estonçe tomo el rey aquel rubi e pusolo en vna corona, la qual corona es aquella con que oy dia se consagran e se coronan primeramente los reyes de Inglaterra, e asi lo vsaron despues de aquel tienpo aca. (61-62) (We find written in the history of St. Edward, King of England, that one time he was in the wild forest when it was very cold, and the king left his party and followed after a deer and he came upon a leper who was naked and dying from exposure, and, if he had not come upon him, he surely would have died because it was so very cold. And the leper spoke to him and said: ‘King, I beg you for the love of Jesus Christ, your Saviour, and St. John the Baptist, who you love with all your heart, to let me ride behind you on your horse and take me from this place so that I do not die here, for if I die here God will demand an explanation from you.’ When the King heard these words he left off hunting and complied with the wishes of the poor man, and so that he would not die of cold, he dressed him in the same clothes he was carrying, and he placed him on the saddle, and the king rode behind him on the rump of the horse. He took him to an abbey of the black monks that was two leagues away. On the way there, 77 A reference to monks of the Order of St. Benedict (OSB) who wear black habits.

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using the same plea as he had before, the poor leper asked the King to blow his nose for him. It troubled the King to do this because he felt repulsed by him, but he complied because of his love for Jesus Christ and St. John. After he blew the man’s nose, he found a very large and fine ruby, bigger than a hen’s egg, in his hand and he greatly marvelled at this. And as he was thinking about what had just occurred he saw that the saddle was vacant and he could no longer see the poor wretch. In this way the King understood that this miracle came from God who had wanted to test him to see what he would do for love of Him. Then the King took that ruby and set it in a crown that is still used to bless and proclaim the Kings of England for it has been used from that time until now.)

This version seems to conflate a number of other stories about saints and lepers. With specific regard to St. Edward the Confessor, the story of the ruby may be related to the famous tale about Edward giving a ring to a beggar (although not specified as a leper) outside Westminster Abbey. Some years later, English pilgrims to the Holy Land meet an old man who says that he is John the Evangelist and that he should return the ring to Edward.78 The obvious association of the leper in the tale in Castigos y documentos para bien vivir with an angel sent by God and the posthumous appearance of St. John as a celestial figure sent by God to Edward, albeit indirectly in this case, should not be overlooked. Parts of this story also find their way into the life of St. Julian the Hospitaller as related in Jacobus de Voragine’s Legenda aurea (The Golden Legend). The tale, as related in The Golden Legend, was known in Spain and seems also to have influenced the story found in Castigos y documentos. Julian is tricked into killing his parents and, as penance for the sin of patricide, he and his wife found a large hospice for the poor and also provide transportation across a nearby river to all who are in need. One cold night, Julian hears a man plaintively crying out for help. He takes the man in even though he appears leprous, warms him by the fire, and then puts him in his own bed. Soon after, the leper levitates and tells Julian that he has been sent by God to tell him that the Lord is happy with Julian’s penance and that he will soon die and go to Paradise.79 The motif of the heavenly messenger sent to earth as a leper was quite common in the Middle Ages so it should not be surprising that one or more versions of the tale found their way into Spanish texts. 78 Farmer, The Oxford Dictionary of Saints, p. 124. 79 Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend, Vol. 1, pp. 127-28.

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Very closely related to the tale of Julian the Hospitaller is the version found in the epic fragment, Las mocedades de Rodrigo (The Youthful Deeds of Rodrigo). Rodrigo, who as an older man will be known as El Cid, is on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. On the shore near a ford, he comes upon a leper who is asking for help to cross the river. All the other knights scorn the leper but Rodrigo gives him help as the poem relates: A la horilla del vado estava un pecador de malato, a todos pediendo piedat que le passesen el vado. Los caballeros todos escopían e ívanse d’él arredrando. Rodrigo ovo d’él duelo e tomólo por la mano, so una capa verde aguadera passólo por el vado, en un mulo andador que su padre le avía dado. E fuesse para Grejalva, do es Çerrato llamado, so unas piedras cavadas, que era el poblado. So la capa verde aguadera, alvergó el castellano e el malato [sic], e en siendo dormiendo, a la oreja le fabló el gapho, ‘¿Domides, Rodrigo de Bivar? Tiempo has de ser acordado, mensagero só de Cristus, que non soy malato. Sant Lázaro só, a ti me ovo Dios enviado, que te dé un resollo en las espaldas, que en calentura seas entrado, que cuando esta calentura ovieres que te sea menbrado, quantas cosas comenzares, arrematarl’ás con tu mano.’ Diol’ un resollo en las espaldas, que a los pechos le ha pasado, Rodrigo despertó e fue muy mal espantado, cató en derredor de sí e non pudo fallar el gapho, menbróle d’aquel sueño e cavalgó muy privado. (vv. 636-656)80 (On the shore of the ford, there was a pitiful leper, asking for mercy from all, to be taken across the ford. All the knights spat and moved to get away from him. Rodrigo felt sorry for him and took him by the hand, under a green rain cape he took him across the ford, on a riding mule that his father had given him. And he went toward Grijalba, to a place called Cerrato, under some cavernous rocks, where the settlement was. Under the green rain cape, the Castilian and the leper took shelter, and while he was sleeping, the leper spoke in his ear, 80 From the edition, Las Mocedades de Rodrigo; The Youthful Deeds of Rodrigo, El Cid as edited by Matthew Bailey, here, pp. 47-48. Reference is to verse numbers.

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‘Are you sleeping, Rodrigo de Vivar? It is time for you to awaken, I am a messenger of Christ, I am not a leper. I am Saint Lazarus,81 God sent me to you, to blow a breath of air on your back, for a fever to come over you, and once you sense this fever, you should remember, that anything you undertake, you will be able to finish with your own hands.’ He blew a breath of air on his back that passed into his chest. Rodrigo awoke and was very badly frightened, he looked all around and could not find the leper, he remembered that dream and rode off quickly.) (82-83)82

Another related tale involving the young Rodrigo de Vivar helping a leper in distress, who is later revealed to be a heavenly messenger, appears in a prose version of the lost Gesta de las Mocedades de Rodrigo (Deeds from Rodrigo’s Youth) as found in the Crónica de Castilla (Chronicle of Castile).83 In this version the young Rodrigo is again on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela with twenty knights. During the journey, he freely gives out alms to the needy and poor. One day he encounters a leper who is stuck in a bog and begs Rodrigo to help him. The motif of the burst of hot breath as a signal to Rodrigo that he will enjoy success in the future is repeated in a slightly different way in the Chronicle: E él yendo por el camino, falló un gafo lazrado en un tremedal, que non podié sallir dende, e començó de dar muy grandes bozes que lo sacasen dende por amor de Dios. E Rodrigo, cuando lo oyó, fuese para él y descendió de la bestia e púsolo ante sí e levólo consigo fasta la posada donde alvergavan; e d’esto tomaran los cavalleros muy grant enojo. E cuando la cena fue guisada, mandó asentar los cavalleros, e tomó aquel gafo por la mano e asentólo consigo e comió con él todas las viandas que troxieron delante. 81 St. Lazarus who was resurrected from the dead by Jesus in the Gospel of John is often confused with the poor beggar in the Gospel of Luke in the parable about the Rich Man and the Poor Man. Lazarus, the beggar, was sometimes portrayed as a leper and thus St. Lazarus, too, came to be associated with leprosy. Adding to this association was the religious/military Order of St. Lazarus which originated in a leper hospital of the Knights Hospitaller in the twelfth century in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. 82 The translation is by Matthew Bailey from his bi-lingual edition of Las Mocedades de Rodrigo; The Youthful Deeds of Rodrigo, the Cid. 83 As reconstructed by Alberto Montaner Frutos in ‘Rodrigo y el gafo’ published in El Cid: de la materia épica a las crónicas caballerescas, pp. 121-79.

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E tan grande fue el enojo que los cavalleros d’él ovieron, que les semejava que le caía la gafedat de las manos en la escodilla en que comían. E con grant enojo que ovieron, dexáronles la posada a amos a dos. E Rodrigo mando fazer cama para él e para el gafo, e alvergaron amos de consuno. E a la media noche, en dormiendo Rodrigo, diole un resoplo por medial de las espaldas, que tan grande fue el bafo e tan rosio que le recudió a los pechos. E Rodrigo despertó muncho espantado e cató cabe sí por el gafo e non lo falló. E començó de lo llamar, mas él non le respondió ninguna cosa. Estonce levantóse muncho espantado e demandó lunbre e troxiérongela luego. E cató al gafo e non falló ninguna cosa e tornóse a la cama. E estando el lumbre encendida, començó a cuidar en lo que l’acaesciera del baho tan fuerte que le dio por las espaldas e de cómmo non fallara al gafo. E él estando cuydando en esto, a cabo de una gran ora aparescióle un omne en vestiduras blancas. (155) (And going on his way, he came across a wretched leper stuck in a bog, and he could not get out, and he began to cry out loudly asking for help to free him for the love of God. And Rodrigo, when he heard him, went to him, got down from his horse, and put him [the leper] on his steed and carried him to the inn where they were housed; and his knights were very angry about this. And when dinner was prepared, he commanded the knights to be seated and he took the leper by the hand and set him down beside him and ate with him all the foods that were put before them. And the knights were enraged because it seemed to them that the bowl from which they were all eating was contaminated by leprosy. And they were so angry that they left Rodrigo and the leper alone in the inn. And Rodrigo commanded that a bed be prepared for him and the leper and they slept together. About midnight, while Rodrigo was sleeping, a great blast of air hit him between his shoulder blades, and the blast was so strong and so hot that it shook his chest. And Rodrigo woke up very much afraid and looked around for the leper but he did not find him. And he called out, but there was no response. So he got up and, very frightened, he ordered a light and they brought it to him. And he looked for the leper but found no trace of him and so he went back to bed. And, with the light still lit, he began to think about what had happened with the strong blast of air that shook his shoulders and how he could not find the leper. And he was thinking about all this when at a very late hour a man dressed all in white appeared to him.)

When Rodrigo inquiries about the man’s identity, he replies that he is St. Lazarus and that he was the leper whom Rodrigo had treated so well. Again, the leper is revealed to be St. Lazarus as was the case in the version found in

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Las Mocedades de Rodrigo. In the version in the Chronicle of Castile, St. Lazarus, as a reward for Rodrigo’s great show of Christian charity, announces that God has bestowed on Rodrigo a great gift which he perceived as the strong blast of hot air. The gift is no other than that Rodrigo will triumph in all the battles he undertakes and his glory will grow with each battle, in short, that he will never be defeated and will die with honour in his own home. This prophecy is somewhat more specific than the one related in Las Mocedades but both versions attribute the heavenly guarantee of the Cid’s future success to the kindness he showed to one whom he believed to be a leper. Lazarus from the Biblical parable about the Rich Man and the Poor Man as found in Chapter 16 of the Book of Luke, was often cited as a leper since he is described as ‘full of sores’ (Luke 16:20).84 Since the Biblical tale is about showing Christian charity to the poor, the choice of St. Lazarus as the heavenly messenger, disguised as a leper, conflates the identity of the beggar and the saint while the exemplary behaviour of the young Cid reflects the theme of the parable as expressed in Luke’s gospel. It is telling, too, that the Cid’s show of Christian pity and kindness is contrasted with the reactions of the other knights who are repulsed by the leper and offended that the Cid introduces him into their company. Showing pity to a leper is also the theme of a story related in the abovecited El espéculo de los legos. The tale involves a noble woman who helps a leper who begs her to bathe him and give him a bed where he may rest. The woman’s husband thinks that the man who his wife helps is her lover but the case of mistaken identity is resolved when, in the bed where the leper had lain, the husband finds a bouquet of sweet-smelling roses. The leper here also is disguised as a messenger sent by God as seen in the text of this short exemplum: E aún maestre Jacobo de Vitraco dize que fué una noble duenna deuota a los pobres e en espeçial a los leprosos, e un día vino un leproso a le rogar que lo quisiese bannar. E commo ella lo fiziese en logar secreto, començole el leproso a rogar otra vez que lo acostase en la cama de su marido. E ella fizolo con grand pena por temor del marido. E esto fecho, vino luego el marido e ouo della sospecha porqué la vido demudada e andar apriesa e entró en la cámara creyendo que tenía allá ascondido algún ome con quien fazía malefiçio, e falló en la cama en logar del leproso muchas rosas rezientes e de olor marauilloso. E commo él preguntase a la muger qué cosa era aquello e le contase ella por orden todo el fecho, mandó él a la 84 Many hospitals devoted to the care of lepers were dedicated to St. Lazarus.

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muger que diese a los pobres todo quanto ellos avían. E éste pudo dezir asaz conveniblemente aquello que es escripto en el quarto capítulo del quarto Libro de los Reyes: Pienso que este varón de Dios es santo e pasa por aquí muchas vezes: fagasmosle una cámara pequenna e pongamosle en ella cama e mesa. (210-11) (And master Jacques de Vitry tells of a noble woman who was devoted to the poor and especially to lepers, and one day a leper came to her and begged her to bathe him. And she did it in a secret place and the leper then begged her to let him rest in her husband’s bed. And she did so but with great fear of her husband. The husband then came and he was suspicious of her because he saw that she was acting differently and moving quickly and he went into the bedroom believing that she had some man hidden there with whom she was having a dalliance and he found in the bed in the place where the leper had been a bouquet of fresh, sweet-smelling roses. He asked his wife about it and she told him all that had happened and he then ordered his wife to give all their possessions to the poor. For this tale could very appropriately be related to that which is found written in the fourth chapter of the fourth Book of Kings: I think that this man is a saint sent from God and that he comes by here often; let us make for him a small room and we will put a bed and a table in it.)

This tale from El espéculo is not only an extreme show of Christian pity but also implies that anyone asking for aid, including the leper, could be a celestial being and, therefore, one should not refuse any request from the poor or diseased.

Leper as Figure in Religious History One of the most widely-circulated and popular tales involving leprosy was that of the Emperor Constantine (c. 272-337) and Pope Sylvester (d. 335). The story is found in Jacobus de Voragine and in a number of Spanish versions in collections of hagiographic texts.85 To cite but two versions from Spain, the Estoria de España (Primera crónica general), in a section about the years

85 The Constantine story is found in Biblioteca Nacional de España ms. 12688 fols. 118b-128d, in Escorial mss. h.I.14 fols. 39b-42b, h.III.22 fols. 72c-82a, K.II.12 fols. 25b-27d, M.II.6 fols. 50a-53ª, in the Lázaro Galdiano ms. 419 fols. 15a-17a, and Biblioteca Menéndez Pelayo ms. 9 fols. 9r-10r. I would like to thank Andy Beresford for these references.

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of the reign of Constantine, includes the following entry regarding events in the ninth year of his reign: Del noueno anno no fallamos escripta ninguna cosa granada que de contar sea, sino tanto que adolecio ell emperador Costantino de tan fuerte enfermedat que torno todo gafo, assi que no podie fallar a ninguna parte físico quel pudiesse dar conseio. En el dezeno anno, que fue en la era de trezientos et cinquaenta et seys, auino assi que ell emperador Costantino, andando con grand cueyta de la gafedat prouando muchos físicos de muchas tierras sil podrien dar conseio et no fallando ninguno que lo sopiesse sanar, uinieron a el los sacerdotes del Capitolio, et dixieron le que mandasse fazer una albuhera en el Capitolio, et que la fiziesse fenchir de sangre de ninnos, et que se bannasse en ella et sanarie luego. (I, 183-84) (In the ninth year we find nothing great to recount but that the Emperor Constantine suffered a very grave illness and he became a leper, and he could not find a doctor anywhere who could give him advice. In the tenth year, in the era of 356,86 the Emperor Constantine was in such torment from leprosy that he consulted many doctors from many lands so that they might counsel him, but he found no one who knew how to cure him. Then the priests from the acropolis came and told him to command that a tank be constructed on the Capitoline and to fill it with the blood of children and he would be cured by bathing in it.)

The chronicle relates that the Emperor did not follow this advice because he was moved to pity by the cries of the mothers of the children to be sacrificed. That night he has a dream: Et aparescieron le en suennos sant Pedro et sant Paulo, los dos santos apostolos, et dixieron le: ‘por que no quesiste derramar la sangre de los que eran sin culpa nos enuio a ti Nuestro Sennor Ihesu Cristo que te demos conseio que puedas cobrar tu sanidat. Et por ende oynos, et faz lo que te conseiaremos. E sepas que Siluestre el papa, por tal de desfoyr los sacrificios de los gentiles et de no aorar los sus ydolos, fuxosse pora los montes, et esta escondido con sus clerigos en el monte Seraptin, et enuialo tu llamar, et fazlo uenir a ti, et el te mostrara una albuhera de que te fazemos cierto que tanto que te el banne en ella, luego seras sano de la gafedat.’ (I, 184) (And St. Peter and St. Paul, the saintly apostles, appeared to him in dreams and said to him: ‘Because you did not shed the blood of those 86 Hispanic era 356 equals the year CE 328.

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who were innocent, our Lord Jesus Christ has sent us to you to tell you how you can be cured. So listen to us and do what we advise. You know that Sylvester, the Pope, for trying to dissuade the sacrifices made by the pagans and their adoration of idols, had to flee to the wilderness and is hidden with his clerics on Mount Seraptin; send him a message and make him come to you and he will show you a tank where if you bathe in it, we assure you that you will be cured of leprosy.’)

Constantine sends for Sylvester who baptizes him into the Christian faith and he is cured. The tank that St. Peter and St. Paul refer to when they speak to the emperor in dreams is, of course, the baptismal font. The account in the Estoria de España ends with a dramatic conclusion that leaves no doubt as to the story’s import: ‘E Costantino leuantosse limpio del baptismo, et dixo ante todos que uiera a Ihesu Cristo’ (I, 184). (‘And Constantine arose clean after baptism and said before all that he had seen Jesus Christ.’) The implication that leprosy is visited on a non-believer and that health is restored through baptism is a perfect metaphor for leprosy as disease inflicted on those who do not uphold the Christian faith. Leprosy, as part of traditional beliefs about the conversion of the Emperor Constantine, makes the disease a metaphor for paganism, persecution of Christians, and lack of spiritual truth. Constantine’s cure and his clean, healthy appearance after baptism represent not only his physical purity but also his spiritual purity since he now professes the truths of Christianity. The Constantine story is also found in Don Juan Manuel’s Crónica abreviada (Abbreviated Chronicle) in Book I, Chapter 342. It is basically the same version but in the Crónica abreviada Constantine speaks directly to his people after he hears the cries of the mothers of the children about to be sacrificed. The emperor is moved to pity and makes the following pronouncement: Sepades que bien entiendo que fuy formado daquel mismo lodo que aquellos ninnos, commo quier que soy so sennor o por ende mejor es que muera yo por salud dellos, que son sin culpa, que non biua por la muerte dellos. (II, 636)87 (Know that I understand that I was formed from the same mud as those children,88 and given that I am their lord, for that reason it is better that I 87 From the Obras completas in 2 volumes prepared by José Manuel Blecua. 88 Even though at this point in the narrative Constantine has not converted to Christianity, he here seems to express the Judeo-Christian notion of the creation of man as found in Genesis.

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die for their health, for they are without guilt, than for me to live because of their deaths.)

From this point on the tale is the same, including the dream vision in which St. Peter and St. Paul tell Constantine to send for Sylvester who effectuates a cure when he baptizes the emperor as a Christian. The motif of bathing as a cure for leprosy is seen in an apocryphal tale about Jesus’s childhood as found in the Libre dels tres reys d’orient (Book of the Three Kings from the Orient) (first half of 13th century, written in Castilian with strong Aragonese influence), also known as the Libro de la infancia y muerte de Jesús (Book of the Infancy and Death of Jesus). According to this text, when the Holy Family flees to Egypt after Herod’s killing of the Innocents, they are attacked by two thieves. While one thief wants to rob the parents and kill the child, the other thief is horrified at the idea of murdering the baby and persuades his companion to spare the child. In the poem, the thieves are labelled simply the Bad Thief and the Good Thief, respectively. The Good Thief takes the Holy Family to his home where he tells the Bad Thief they can divide up their booty. The wife of the Good Thief treats the Holy Family with great kindness and generosity and offers to give their baby a warm bath. While she is bathing the Christ Child, the woman weeps bitterly and the Virgin asks what is troubling her. The woman responds that her new-born child was born a leper and attributes his condition to her own sins. The wife of the Good Thief tells the Virgin: yo tengo tamaña cueita, que querría seyer muerta; un fijuelo que había, que parí el otro día, afelo allí don jaz gafo por mi pecado despugado. (vv. 164-69)89 (I am so upset that I wish I were dead; a son that I had, that I gave birth to the other day, look at him lying there a leper as punishment for my sin.) 89 From ‘Concordancias e índices léxicos del “Libro de la infancia y muerte de Jesús”’ by Manuel Alvar Esquerra published on-line at http://ifc.dpz.es/recursos/publicaciones/06/68/08alvar.pdf. References are to verse numbers.

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Upon hearing the reason for the woman’s sadness, the Virgin offers to bathe the leprous child in the same water in which her host had bathed the infant Jesus: la Gloriosa lo metió en el agua do bañado era el rey del cielo e de la tierra. La vertut fue fecha man a mano, metiól gafo e sacól sano. En el agua fincó todo el mal tal lo sacó como un cristal. (vv. 176-82) (The Glorious One put him in the water in which had been bathed the King of Heaven and Earth. The truth was revealed at once: she put him in as a leper and brought him out well. All the malady remained in the water and he came out bright as a crystal.)

The father, the Good Thief, is so grateful when he learns of his son’s cure, that he helps the Holy Family to escape to Egypt. Before he bids them farewell he asks that the fate of his son always be entrusted to them. The poem adds that the Bad Thief also had a son about the same age as the boy who had been cured and the two sons appear as adults in the next section of the work which treats Christ’s crucifixion. The sons of the Good and Bad Thieves have followed in their fathers’ footsteps and are thieves as well. As chance would have it, these are the two thieves that were crucified, one on either side of Jesus. The boy whom Jesus had cured with his bath water asks for Christ’s blessing and goes to Paradise with Him after death. The son of the Bad Thief does not believe that Jesus is divine and is condemned to hell. The poem uses the traditional names given to the two thieves crucified with Jesus – Dimas, the Good Thief, and Gestas, the Bad Thief.90 The obvious theological parallel to bathing the leprous child here is to baptism by which one is washed clean of sin and welcomed into the community of Christian believers. 90 In the version of the Libre studied by Fradejas Lebrero, the two thieves are named Tito and Dúmaco respectively. Also, they are not the sons of the original thieves but rather the same two thieves who tried to rob the Holy Family some thirty years before and now find themselves on either side of Jesus on the cross (‘El Evangelio árabe’, p. 145).

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That the poem uses leprosy as a symbol for the unbaptized had obvious implications for Spain in the thirteenth century, a century that saw important movements by Christians into formerly Muslim-occupied territories of the Peninsula. The message of the benefits of conversion was imbedded in this and other texts that reinforced the propagandistic implication of Christian superiority. Alan Deyermond finds completely unfounded the assertion that the Libre dels tres reys d’Orient is a translation of a work originally written in French or Provençal and asserts that the work is original to Spain. He states that the story of the sons of the two thieves who attacked the Holy Family later appearing as the same men who were crucified with Jesus is a unique treatment of this apocryphal material. Deyermond concludes that ‘Los Tres Reys constituye la única obra que dispone de este modo material tomado de la tradición de los evangelios apócrifos y la única además que introduce el tema teológico de la acción de la gracia como finalidad principal de la narración’91 (‘The Three Kings constitutes the only work that lays out in this manner material taken from the tradition of the apocryphal gospels and the only one that also introduces the theological theme of the act of grace as the ultimate purpose of the narration’).

Leprosy and ‘Tests of Friendship’ There also exists in Spanish a version of the widely-circulated French romance Amis et Amiles (Amis and Amiles) about leprosy and the test of true friendship.92 The Spanish tale, Oliveros de Castilla y Artús d’Algarbe (Oliver of Castile and Arthur of the Algarve), appears not to be a direct translation of the thirteenth-century French chanson de geste but rather is based on the numerous re-workings of this story in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.93 In the French chanson, Amis becomes a leper and can only be cured by the blood 91 Deyermond, Historia de la literatura española, p. 134. 92 The word play for the names of the two friends is obvious in the French work’s title. 93 Alvar, Amis y Amiles, p. 28. There was wide diffusion of the tale of Amis et Amiles when Vincente de Beauvais included it in the Speculum historiale (c. 1250) (Alvar, Amis y Amiles, p. 35), but there was an earlier version in Latin by Radulfus Torarius in the late eleventh century. There was another hagiographic version written in Northern Italy shortly after the Latin version with the title Vita sanctorum Amici e Amelii carissimorum in which the two friends form part of Charlemagne’s army and die fighting in Italy (Alvar, Amis y Amiles, p. 15). Later in Spanish literature, Lope de Vega used the motif of killing one’s children to rid a friend of leprosy in his play Don Juan de Castro (Alvar, Amis y Amiles, pp. 36-37).

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of the children of Amiles. The tale centres on the theme of the extremes of devotion to one’s friend as Amiles decides to kill his own children and use their blood to cure his friend, Amis. However, in both the French and later Spanish versions, the children are miraculously restored to life. In chapters 65-70, of Oliveros de Castilla y Artús d’Algarbe, Artús and his friend, Oliveros, are at the court of the King of England when Artús is struck with a ‘mortal pestilencia’ (‘mortal pestilence’), that is described as leprosy in other versions of the tale. The description of the disease in the Spanish version is graphic: Ca de su cabeça salia vna especie de gusanos negros como el carbon, e le descendian por la frente, e le comian toda la cara. E eran tantos, que quando le quitauan vno salian luego cinco o seys. (II, 511)94 (From his head came a kind of black worm, as black as coal, and they descended from his forehead and ate away his face. And there were so many of them, that when they plucked one off, five or six more took its place.)

The detail of the eating away of Artús’s face has led most students of this romance to judge his disease to be leprosy. The text states that no physician or surgeon is able to cure Artús. Oliveros is the only person who can stand to be near his friend because of the ‘grande fedor’ (II, 511) (‘terrible stench’) that emanates from Artús’s flesh. Within a few days, the disease has eaten away Artús’s nose and caused him to become blind. Artús prays for death to put him out of his misery while Oliveros prays unceasingly for a cure for his friend. Over several nights, Oliveros is told in a dream that if Artús drinks the blood of a male and a female child, without knowing what he is drinking, he will be cured.95 Oliveros has a son and a daughter and he agonizes over the decision about sacrificing his children to cure his friend since he knows that he will lose his wife if he commits such a crime, as well as face the King’s justice. But the love for his friend wins out and Oliveros decides to sacrifice his children in their nursery: [C]erro la puerta por dentro, e fue para la cama de los niños, e alço la ropa para cortarles las cabeças; e el fijo, que era de edad de cinco años, desperto, e riendo e tendiendo los braços para abraçarle, le llamo padre; 94 All citations are from the edition Oliveros de Castilla y Artús d’Algarbe, edited by Adolfo Bonilla y San Martín in Libros de Caballería, 2 parts, Part II, pp. 443-523. 95 In the French chanson, Amiles has a vision that the children must be his own. Also, he is instructed to bathe Amis in the blood of the children rather than drinking it as specified in the Spanish version.

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mas la fija, que era de menos dias, no desperto. E quando Oliueros oyo su fijo que le llamaua padre, le saltaron las lagrimas de los ojos, e le cayo la espada de la mano, e del grande dolor que houo por su misma crueldad le fue forçado apartarse de la cama. (II, 513) (He [Oliveros] closed the door from inside, and went to his children’s bed and lifted the covers to cut off their heads; and his son, who was five years old, woke up and smiling, held out his arms for an embrace, and called him ‘father’; but his daughter who was younger did not wake up. And when Oliveros heard his son calling him ‘father’, his eyes filled with tears and the sword fell from his hand, and because of the great sorrow that he felt over this cruelty, he had to leave the bedside.)

Oliveros debates with himself at length about the horrendous deed he is contemplating. But, in the end, he decides to sacrifice the children to save his friend: [F]ue a gran priessa a la cama de los niños, e sin mirarlos en la cara, tomo el fijo por los cabellos y le corta la cabeça, e luego despues a la fija, e rescibio la sangre en el bacin, e despues tomo los cuerpos e los trono en la cama, e los cobrio como estauan de primero, e puso las cabeças en sus lugares sobre los cuellos, e tomo el bacin, e cerro la puerta de la camara con llaue. (II, 513) (Then he returned in haste to the children’s bed and, without looking at their faces, took his son by the hair and cut off his head, then afterwards, the daughter’s, and he caught the blood in a washbasin and then he put their bodies back in the bed, covered them up, put their heads back on their necks, took the washbasin, and locked the door of the bedroom with a key.)

Oliveros then returns to Artús and gives him two glasses of the children’s blood to drink. As soon as he drinks the blood, worms pour out from this head and face and ‘echo por la boca toda la podre e ponçoña que tenia en el cuerpo’ (II, 514) (‘from his mouth spewed all the corruption and poison that he had in his body’). Then, as in the French tale, Oliveros washes his friend’s face and head with the blood and ‘le crescio la carne que estaua comida, e cobro vista de los ojos’ (II, 514) (‘the flesh that had been eaten away was restored and sight returned to his eyes’). When Oliveros confesses to his friend that he had sacrificed his own children so that Artús could be cured, Artús tells him that he would have sooner died than have his friend kill his children. Oliveros plans to exile himself so as to avoid the wrath

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of his wife and the King and to spend his life in penance for the crime he had committed. The two men go into the children’s room and are shocked to find them well and happy but covered in bloody sheets. They then go to the King and tell him all that occurred. The King immediately sends for the Bishop so that the miracle of the cure and the restitution of the lives of the children can be proclaimed publicly. The cure of Artús in Oliveros de Castilla y Artús d’Algarbe forms part of a popular motif in Medieval literature – the proof of true friendship by making an extreme sacrifice for one’s friend.96 The cure of the emperor Constantine and of the child of the Good Thief in the Libre dels tres reys d’Orient unmistakably serve as metaphors for baptism and the removal of sin, while the cure of Artús in Oliveros de Castilla y Artús d’Algarbe symbolizes the cleansing power of the blood of Christ’s sacrifice. Although these cures are metaphorical, they also involve elements of the supernatural that reinforce the idea that leprosy could not be cured by medical intervention alone. The following chapter on cures demonstrates the Christian belief that the most certain way to restore a leper to health was through the miraculous intervention of a saint or his/her relics combined often with prayer, fasting, going on pilgrimage or other acts of devotion.

96 This motif, in fact, is common to many other folklore traditions as well. For other ‘tests of friendship’ in Spanish literature, see Tale 48 in El Conde Lucanor, ‘De lo que contesçió a uno que provava sus amigos’ (‘About What Happened to One who Tested his Friends’). There are also versions on this theme in the Disciplina clericalis, Libro del Caballero Zifar, Vida del Ysopete con sus fabulas historiadas, and Castigos e documentos (see José Manuel Blecua’s edition of El Conde Lucanor, p. 248).

5

Cured by the Grace of God –  Los Milagros

In a particularly evocative chapter, ‘Archive and Anatomy of Disability Myths’ of his book, Disability Rhetoric, Jay Dolmage contends that ‘[j]ust as a loaded gun shown in the opening scenes of a movie will eventually be fired, a disabled character will have to be “killed or cured”’ by the end of the work in which he/she appears.’1 Disability is something that, according to Dolmage, ‘must be eradicated in one of these two ways’.2 In texts from Medieval Spain the kill principle in Dolmage’s equation is relatively infrequent, except in cases where the impairment is a result of punishment, whether secular or divine. Sometimes the fate of the disabled individual is unspecified or there is a reference to suffering for some extended period of time. In other instances, the impaired individual may simply be used as part of a larger moral lesson in which the ultimate fate of the disabled is not central to the argument. While the impaired individual may be socially isolated, as in the case of Teresa de Cartagena because of her deafness, or stigmatized due to blindness or physical deformity, in the texts examined in this study, these characters are rarely eliminated. Even though the kill part of Dolmage’s equation does not play as prominent a role in texts from Medieval Spain as it does in the novels and movies he surveys, the cure principle looms large. Whereas, in contemporary works the cure of the disabled may involve surgery, drug treatment, or some elaborate prosthetic device, the reversal of a disability in Pre-Modern texts is most often attributed to divine intervention. Medical treatises provide little information about permanent physical impairments beyond some references to palliative care for the disabled.3 The ‘cures’ proposed in some Medieval medical manuals were most likely only effective in cases where paralysis, blindness, or deafness was the temporary result of an illness or accident. The overriding hope for cure lay with miraculous intervention.4 Hagiographic literature and collections of Marian miracles contain litanies of cures for all kinds of physical impairment and 1 Dolmage, Disability Rhetoric, p. 39. 2 Dolmage, Disability Rhetoric, p. 39. 3 There is some mention of disability in surgical manuals but these texts usually only describe ways that might prevent impairment after one is injured (Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 139). 4 Titchkosky and Michalko view the cure of disability as ‘the quintessential solution to disability conceived as a problem’ (‘The Body as the Problem’, p. 133).

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there were enduring beliefs about the efficacy of prayer, pilgrimage, fasting, or other manifestations of devotion as the means of relief from a disabling condition. Furthermore, Ronald Finucane stipulates that the medieval concept of ‘cure’ was flexible and that even ‘the slightest improvement or partial or even temporary recovery was considered a miraculous cure’.5 There is a long-standing debate among scholars about whether miracle narratives faithfully reflect the kind and number of real infirmities or impairments among the Medieval population, or if they merely mimic Christ’s miracles, especially the curing of the blind and the lame.6 For example, Marcus Bull has studied miracle narratives associated with Holy Mary’s shrine at Rocamadour 7 and concludes that they simply imitate Biblical accounts and do not, in any way, reflect actual medical conditions suffered by Medieval people.8 Other scholars disagree because this is almost impossible to prove since there is very little, if any, historical evidence about the number or kinds of the sick or disabled in Medieval populations. Irina Metzler argues that whether mimicking Biblical accounts or not, a cure for disability was viewed as a miraculous event and was considered as remarkable as raising the dead.9 Miracle cures are almost exclusively for conditions that Medieval medicine was unable to remedy. As Metzler contends: ‘[T]he miracula do not intend to address all human ailments, only those which are medically difficult or incurable ones.’10 Louise Wilson argues for the inherent value of accounts of miraculous healing which have, too often, been dismissed as implausible or inexplicable by modern medical knowledge. Although the accounts of miracle cures may rely on literary stereotypes and were usually mediated by the cultural elite, ‘the information contained in miracle narratives reflected an author’s beliefs and expectations about what would be most convincing to his intended audience’.11 In my examination of miraculous cures of physical impairment I do not deal with modern ideas about the veracity, or not, of the cure. In this way, I am following Metzler’s lead who suggests examining the ‘types of impairments presenting at the 5 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 78. This critic also states that ‘[i]n the Middle Ages perception of illness or healthiness of a given individual was practically a social generalization, whether someone was “cured” was little better than a consensus of opinion’ (Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 73). 6 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 133. 7 In Southwest France, overlooking the River Dordogne with a sanctuary of the Blessed Virgin that was a popular pilgrimage site for centuries. 8 Bull, The Miracles of Our Lady, p. 13. 9 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 135. 10 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 139. 11 Wilson, ‘Hagiographic Interpretations’, p. 139.

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tombs and shrines of saints and their (apparent) cures by locating these phenomena within the context of medieval notions of miracle, cure, and the transcendence of what was deemed natural’.12

The Medieval Concept of Miracle As a starting point, it is useful to consider what Medieval authors believed about the nature of miracles in general, the specific dynamics of miracles attributed to the intervention of the saints, and why written collections of miracles were popular and deemed important. Benedicta Ward claims that miraculous explanations for cures were preferred to natural ones, since God, who created and controlled the world, was deemed to intervene constantly in our lives in unfathomable ways.13 The perception of miracles in the Middle Ages was informed primarily by the writings of St. Augustine of Hippo. According to Augustine, miracles ‘were wonderful acts of God shown as events in this world, not in opposition to nature but as a drawing out of the hidden workings of God within a nature that was all potentially miraculous’.14 These unusual events were thus, by definition, divine in origin and primarily designed to inspire wonder. The Medieval perception of what constituted a miracle carefully distinguished these divine acts from both naturally-occurring events and those caused by the will of man.15 Augustine believed that all in the natural world stemmed from one miracle, that of the creation, and there was no reason to question that the universe harboured the essence of the miracle by which it came into being. Authors of miracle collections believed in the potential for divine intervention as part of God’s grand plan. They shared a ‘fascination for the wondrous and the fantastic, which derives its poetic energy from the impetus to promote the idea of a new reality and to lend structure and meaning to a world of dynamic change’.16 For Medieval authors miracles formed part of the supernatural, as did magic, but they were also signs from God, indications of His omnipresence and omniscience. In his book, The Concept of Miracle, Richard Swinburne states that a miracle must have religious import: ‘To be a miracle an event must contribute 12 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 127. 13 Ward, Miracles and the Medieval Mind, p. 32. 14 Ward, Miracles and the Medieval Mind, p. 3. 15 Ward, Miracles and the Medieval Mind, p. 4. 16 Weiss, The ‘Mester de clerecía’, p. 15.

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significantly towards a holy divine purpose for a world [….] An event will have religious significance if it is a good event and a contribution to or foretaste of the ultimate destiny of the world. Thus, the healing of a sick person will be of religious significance since the world’s ultimate destiny is, on the Christian view, a state where evil, including sickness, is no more.’17 A reversal or cure of a physical impairment, by extension, was also a miracle with religious import since it contributed to a vision of the world to come where suffering will be unknown. There was some difference in opinion and belief about how miracles occurred in relationship to the intervention of the saints. One perspective held that God performed miracles for the saints because of the merits of the saint who had proven his/her Christian devotion either through an act of martyrdom, extreme ascetic practice, or other noteworthy service. Due to the sufferings the saint had endured while living, it was believed that God was somehow obliged to help those who asked the saint for help or remedy. Another assessment of the role of the saints in miracles held that God acted through the saints, i.e., they were intermediaries of God’s grace. In this perspective, one must first repent, then pray sincerely, and the saints would then add their weight to the supplicant’s petition.18 The earliest efforts to recount and analyse miracles were commentaries on the miracles found in the Bible, especially those composed by Isidore of Seville (c. 556-636). Later, in the seventh century, an anonymous Irish monk composed the De mirabilibus sacrae scripturae (On the Miracles of Sacred Scriptures), a work which, by the twelfth century, had acquired the same authority as Augustine.19 In the twelfth century, preachers began to incorporate miracles into sermons and, by the thirteenth century, miracle stories were gathered into collections and were incorporated, together with other forms of exempla, into handbooks for preachers.20 Most Medieval peoples’ earliest exposure to miracle stories would have been through listening to sermons at Mass.21 Although collections of miracles could be designed for a lay audience with the purpose of promoting visits to the shrine of a particular saint, there were probably other stimuli for their creation. Some were compiled as acts of devotion, designed to glorify God by documenting 17 Swinburne, The Concept of Miracle, p. 8. 18 Vauchez, Sainthood, pp. 461-62. 19 Ward, Miracles and the Medieval Mind, p. 23. 20 Ward, Miracles and the Medieval Mind, pp. 24-27. 21 Attendance at Mass and listening to homilies as part of the liturgy form part of the plot in a number of the Cantigas de Santa Maria of Alfonso X. For examples, see Cantigas 63, 78, and 149.

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the works He performed through His saints while also glorifying the saint and the community where he/she had resided.22

Miracle Accounts The miracle tale as literary ‘sub-genre’ has been studied by various scholars including Jesús Montoya and David Flory. Flory bases his definition on genre theory as articulated by Tzvetan Todorov and Mikhail Bakhtin to distinguish the miracle tale from the miracle plot. The tale, he contends, may take many forms including oral recitation, song, stage performance, or depictions in miniatures, tapestries, frescoes, and stained glass. The plot, on the other hand is predictable, usually involving an individual who finds him/herself in dire straits, either through his/her own folly or outside malevolent forces. He/she calls on a saint (often the Virgin Mary) who acts as a deus/dea ex machina and intervenes to rescue the devotee. Since the plot is largely invariable, the miracle narrative fits Todorov’s discussion of referential tale as an element that determines a discourse community. The recipients of the miracle fully understand its aims and make adjustments to ‘normal’ discourse in order to appreciate it.23 Montoya further differentiates the miracle tale from both the hagiographic legend and brief narrative (exemplum or cuento). He sees the miracle as related to both but maintains that the miracle tale projects the reader into a different mind-set.24 While Montoya concurs with Ward’s observations about miracles serving the pastoral mission for preachers, he also asserts that the miracle tale ‘poco a poco fue adquiriendo dimensiones más amplias y de superior categoría resultando ser estas breves narraciones fiel reflejo – speculum – de la vida del hombre sobre la tierra; expresión de un anhelo, de una esperanza’ (‘little by little was acquiring more ample dimensions of superior category that resulted in these brief narratives being a faithful reflection – mirror – of the life of man on earth; an expression of a desire, of a hope’).25 Ward pays special attention to the prologues of the popular and everincreasing number of miracle collections because, despite their formalized patterns and repetitive rhetorical posturing, they hold clues to the writers’ intentions in compiling them. Authors primarily stated that they wrote their 22 Wilson, ‘Hagiographic Interpretations’, p. 140. 23 Flory, Marian Representations, p. 17. 24 Montoya, Las colecciones de milagros, p. 9. 25 Montoya, Las colecciones de milagros, p. 10.

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collections to convert nonbelievers or to strengthen the faith of professed Christians. Collections of miracles attributed to a particular saint were also written as advertisements for the faithful, inducements for them to visit shrines associated with that holy figure. But this is not the case for collections of miracles attributed to the Virgin Mary; miracles attributed to Mary were unique since it was believed that Mary was assumed body and soul into heaven and, thus, there was no one particular site dedicated to her devotion.26 Miracles of the Virgin could, however, sometimes be seen as localized, i.e., occurring in a particular locale, such as at a church dedicated to Mary or in the presence of a statue of the Virgin. At the same time, the power of Mary was seen as universal and it was believed that she was capable of helping those who petitioned her in any place and in all circumstances.27 Julian Weiss asserts that, through the composition of miracle tales, writers were able to bridge a gulf between the natural and the unnatural and, at times, blur these distinctions.28 Writers of miracles relied on the public’s shared expectations for miracle accounts and their potential to emotionally affect and motivate an entire community of believers. They exploited the intervention of the divine in the lives of mortals in miracle tales which served as sanctified reflections of life on earth.29 They also established requisite and invariable criteria for the miracle plot, as Flory has outlined. First, the recipient of the miracle must possess strong faith in the saint to whom he/she turns for help. Second, one must demonstrate confidence in the saint’s ability to perform the miracle. And, third, one must give thanks for the miracle and, to the extent possible, publicize the miraculous occurrence to inspire greater faith in others.30 I agree with Metzler when she asserts that miracle accounts offer a unique perspective from which to examine the physiological, spiritual, and, to an extent, psychological conditions of the impaired. Marcus Bull argues 26 Some relics associated with the Virgin were believed to exist. There are references to locks of her hair, vials of her breast milk, materials from her articles of clothing, and even her shoes. 27 Ward, Miracles and the Medieval Mind, p. 133. 28 Weiss, The ‘Mester de clerecía’, p. 28. 29 The miraculous event, however, could produce different kinds of receptions as Weiss explains: ‘[M]iracles can lead to a sophisticated theological understanding of the relation between man and God, and of the process of sin, redemption, and salvation; in others to an ingenuous, fervent faith in God’s goodness; and in others still, to be continued, wilful ignorance’ (The ‘Mester de clerecía’, p. 28). 30 On this point, Bull reminds us that ‘the people who brought news of miraculous episodes to the monks [who wrote the miracle accounts] were responsible for much of the interpretative process that turned initial occurrence into “official miracle”’ (The Miracles of Our Lady, p. 15).

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that details of everyday life and lived experiences were consciously included by authors in miracle accounts precisely in order to contrast the mundane with the exceptional experience of the miracle.31 He also correctly claims that miracle narratives foreground certain social groups, like women, the diseased, and the disabled for whom evidence from other kinds of sources can be scarce.32 In this regard, he maintains that ‘miracle stories become an important source for the self-perception and functioning of different types of community within medieval society’.33 Additionally, miracle collections are what Wilson calls ‘documentary evidence of acts of divine compassion’ and adds that they ‘have the potential to provide scholars with significant knowledge about medieval interpretations of disease and disability’.34 In miracle narratives that involve healing, it is sometimes difficult to distinguish between cures of illnesses and actual restitution to full ability for those who petition for a remedy. Additionally, miracle stories rarely deal with what caused the impairment or illness and do not lend themselves to attempts to apply modern medical analyses to information gleaned from them.35 A number of scholars, however, have been able to conclude, from studies of miracle collections from Medieval England, Germany, and France, that the majority of healing narratives involve motor impairments followed by cases of blindness.36 To the extent possible I will confine my discussions in this chapter to unquestionable reversals, i.e. cures, of physical impairments such as lameness, blindness, deafness, and leprosy. While it should be recognized that many miracles performed by the saints follow the pattern of Christ’s cures of the sick and impaired as related in the New Testament, collections of miracle accounts were unique in that ‘each text was necessarily shaped by the particular circumstances of where, when and why it was brought into being’.37 Saints are exemplary figures through whom, or for whom, God works miracles. Metzler contrasts the power of the saints with those possessed by the physician: ‘[S]aints are transcenders of nature, while the physician

31 Bull, The Miracles of Our Lady, p. 11. 32 Bull, The Miracles of Our Lady, p. 12. 33 Bull, The Miracles of Our Lady, p. 16. 34 Wilson, ‘Hagiographic Interpretation’, p. 163. 35 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 127; Bull, The Miracles of Our Lady, pp. 13-14. 36 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 132. In addition to Metzler’s study, see Ronald C. Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims: Popular Beliefs in Medieval England and Pierre-André Sigal, L’homme et le miracle dans la France médiévale (XIe-XIIe siècle). 37 Bull, The Miracles of Our Lady, p. 20.

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has to work with nature.’38 Shrines of the saints were believed to hold powerful potential and prayers made near their relics were believed to be especially efficacious. Darrel Amundsen concludes that ‘[f]or the physically ill or maimed or the demon-possessed, these shrines became a focal point for hope, comfort, healing, and a social and spiritual reintegration throughout the Middle Ages’.39 The reliance on the saints and veneration of sites associated with them did not, however, preclude or take the place of work performed by physicians. Evidence of this fact is found in numerous accounts of miracle cures that stipulate that the miracle occurred after the afflicted individual had sought standard medical treatment. Finucane has estimated that at least ten out of every hundred cures described as miraculous in Medieval England occurred after the recipient had consulted with a physician. 40 The enduring faith that true Christian believers had in the power of the saints to effectuate miraculous cures is clearly and succinctly stated by King Sancho IV (1258-1295) in his book of advice and instruction for his son, who would later rule as Fernando IV. In the second Chapter of his Castigos e documentos para bien vivir (Lessons and Documents for Good Living), King Sancho admonishes his son about his duties as a Christian ruler and contrasts the truth of Christianity with the inferior beliefs of Muslims and Jews. Sancho tells his son that none of the men and women that these other religions hold as sacred can accomplish the miracles performed by the Christian saints. Sancho speaks of the miracles the saints performed during their lifetimes as well as those that occurred after their deaths: Ca los nuestros santos commo quier que ellos muchos miraglos fiziesen syendo biuos, mas fizo Dios por ellos depues que muerion e faze cada dia, ca por ellos resuçitan los muertos, guaresçen los gafos e se alunbran los çiegos e salen los diablos de los demuniados e se estienden los contrechos e se enderesçan los paralíticos e oyen los sordos e fablan los mudos. Mas el alma del cristiano que resçibe bautismo e oye e vee e sabe todos estos miraglos e non quiere meter mientes en ellos e dexa el bien e toma el mal e vsa por ello, por que la su alma viene a perdiçion, este es perdido para syenpre jamas. (45) 38 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 138. 39 Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, p. 91. Gómez Moreno states that ‘el túmulo del santo es polo de atracción inmediato, como los del prohombre o padre de la patria’(‘the tomb of the saint is a centre of immediate attraction, like those of a great man or the father of the nation’) (Claves hagiográficas, p. 203). 40 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 59.

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(For our saints performed many miracles while they were alive, but God worked even more through them after their death and continues to do so every day, for through them, the dead are resuscitated, lepers are cured, the blind see, demons come out of the possessed, cripples are made straight and paralytics move, the deaf hear, and the mute speak. But the soul of a Christian who has received baptism and who hears and sees all these miracles but does not believe them and leaves off doing good and turns toward evil, his soul will come to perdition and be lost forever.)

Sancho not only asserts the superiority of Christian doctrine and the infinite powers of the saints but also reminds his son that, as king, he must be a model of faith for his subjects. Faith in the potential for the cure or removal of an impairment is paramount in accounts of miracles. No malady or deformity is so severe that it is beyond the competence of the saints to effectuate its reversal, whether through direct intervention by a living saint or through the intercession of a saint after his/her death. The following pages analyse Spain’s most complete collection of Marian miracle accounts, the Cantigas de Santa Maria, as well as the miracles that occur in the hagiographic works penned by Gonzalo de Berceo. While all these works relied on previous source materials, the specific modes of narration as well as the types of impairments that are remedied tell us much about the mind-set of the texts’ authors and audiences with regard to miraculous intervention on behalf of the disabled.

Missing Limbs One of the most visible disabilities for which a miracle cure is especially dramatic is the regeneration or reattachment of missing limbs. There are numerous examples of severed limbs being miraculously restored in Spanish texts. On some occasions the limb is lost or mangled due to accident and, in other cases, an individual self-mutilates because of severe pain in an extremity, or other cause. The Cantigas de Santa Maria includes several examples of the restoration of limbs after acts of self-amputation. In Cantiga 37, a man suffers from a burning pain in his foot, probably a case of erysipelas or ergot poisoning. The former is a bacterial infection that causes reddening of the skin and pain while the latter was caused by ingesting a fungus found on rye, wheat or barley. Erysipelas and ergot poisoning were also called St. Martial’s fire

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or St. Anthony’s fire in Medieval texts. 41 In the Cantigas, the most common term used for these, or similar, conditions is St. Martial’s fire due to the fact that symptoms of the infection often manifested themselves in summer around the date of the feast day of St. Martial on June 30. At times the conditions were called ‘fire from heaven’ which associated them with divine punishment. 42 The painful symptoms of his illness cause the man in Cantiga 37 to cut off his own foot. Some interesting details emerge from a careful reading of this miracle narrative. Before severing his foot the man goes to a church dedicated to Holy Mary and lays for some time before her altar among other afflicted persons – ‘ent’ outros coitosos’ (I, 151). The presence of impaired individuals in churches and shrines is implied here, since many gathered at such places in hopes of being restored to full health. The poem emphasizes the man’s intense suffering – ‘Aquel mal do fogo atanto o coytava’ (I, 151) – as justification for his self-mutilation. Most telling for the purposes of this study is the fact that once he loses his foot, the text clearly states that he should be considered totally disabled: ‘[D]epois eno conto dos çopos ficava, / desses mais astrosos’ (I, 151) (‘He joined the ranks of the most deformed cripples’) (50). Even in this condition, he still holds out hope for a cure from the Virgin and he prays to her, saying that, if she does not come to his aid that he will ‘mais tẽudo / por dos mais nojosos’ (I, 152) (‘henceforth be considered one of the most miserable of creatures’) (50). During the night, Holy Mary passes her hands over the stump of his leg and, when the man awakes, his foot has been restored and he is free of all signs of disease. Without his foot, the poem clearly classifies him as ‘crippled’ and ‘deformed’ and the man calls himself a ‘miserable creature’. The vocabulary leaves little doubt that, missing a foot, the man would be destined to suffer hardship and to be categorized by others, and by himself, as among the ranks of the disabled. Erysipelas or ergot poisoning is the culprit in another poem from this collection in which a man has his own leg removed because of the pain caused by this condition. In Cantiga 134 a host of those suffering from St. Martial’s fire assemble in Paris to implore the Virgin for relief. In fact, the poem states that the disease may cause many of them to lose arms or legs: ‘[O]s nenbros todos de tal tempestade / avian de perder’ (II, 99) (‘They were about to lose all their members from such a dire affliction’) (166). The sufferers have themselves carried to the altar of the Virgin. This is a significant detail in the account since it implies that the afflicted were immobilized by 41 See note 74 of Chapter 1. 42 Kulp-Hill, Songs of Holy Mary, p. 28.

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their condition and depended on others to transport them to a place where they could pray for a cure. Holy Mary physically appears to the throng of sufferers in the church and walks among them, making the sign of the cross, and pronouncing them healed in the name of her Son. All those who had managed to enter the church are healed but the masses outside are not. The crowd of sufferers is quite large because the narrative specifies that those outside cannot enter the church ‘ca non cabian dentr’ end’ a meadade’ (II, 100) (‘for there was not room for them among the multitude inside’) (166). These details paint a picture of mass suffering; even a Parisian church is unable to accommodate the crowds of those afflicted with St. Martial’s fire. Among those who do not enjoy the healing power of the Virgin is a man whose leg is so inflamed that he has had it cut off and cast into the river. But the disease then infects his other leg and the pain he feels is described as burning more fiercely than a lantern: ‘[T]an forte que ardeu / mui mais que lenterna’) (II, 100). Holy Mary sees his agony and heals him but he pleads with her to restore the leg he had severed. Even though the severed limb is not present since he had thrown it into the river, the Virgin restores the missing leg which is then described as whole and beautiful: ‘[S]ãa e fremosa’(II, 101). The contrast between the diseased condition of his legs – the text uses the term ‘gafidade’ which can mean leprosy but also can be used as a general term meaning diseased or erythematic – and the restored and beautiful leg invites the audience to marvel at the Virgin’s power to heal. Furthermore, the narrative equates unsightliness, inflammation, and intense pain with disease and eventual impairment, whereas all that Mary touches becomes unblemished, whole, and beautiful. There are other examples of self-mutilation in the Cantigas de Santa Maria. Cantiga 127 is a strange tale about lack of filial respect, punishment, self-mutilation, forgiveness, and miraculous cure. The poem describes the protagonist of this tale as a ‘contemptible man’ (‘om’ avizimao’) who is of ‘base character’ (‘siso rafez’) (II, 80). He has a quarrel with his mother and kicks her, wounding her badly. When the mother prays to the Virgin for reparation, her son is moved to confession. As penance for the attack, he is ordered to beg for pardon on his knees before his mother and to go on pilgrimage with her to the Virgin’s church in Puy. 43 The mother forgives her son and they go to Puy, but when they arrive at the church, Holy Mary physically restrains the son from entering the church even when others

43 Le Puy en Velay in the department of Haute-Loire, France (Kulp-Hill, Songs of Holy Mary, p. 157).

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gathered there try to drag him inside. 44 The priests advise him to cut off the foot that had harmed his mother and the man does so. Afterward the poem states that he was able to enter the church without difficulty. Although the text is silent on how he enters the church if he has only one foot, it is logical to assume that he was helped by others. The mother is distraught upon seeing her son so maimed and prays to the Virgin, pleading with her to not allow her son to leave the church with only one foot. She prays until she falls asleep and, in a dream, Holy Mary tells the mother to take her child’s foot, put it back on his leg, and stroke her hand over it, promising that he will be healed. The mother does as the Virgin instructed her, the foot is restored, and ‘mellor / se juntou que ant’ estava que o fezesse tallar’ (II, 82) (‘it joined better than it was before he had it cut off’) (158). In this case, Mary uses the offended party, the mother, as the instrumental part of the miraculous restoration of the missing limb of the son who had wronged her. The audience naturally would see in the son a negative reflection of Mary’s own perfect and divine Son. In contrast to the suffering that the innocent Christ endured, his suffering is justified. The mother’s love and concern for her son despite his mistreatment of her also mirrors the ever-merciful love of the Virgin toward all those who petition her for help. Lustful temptation is the basis for self-mutilation in Cantiga 206. This narrative deals with Pope Leo, although it is not clear to which Pope Leo the poem refers.45 The Pope is tempted by a beautiful woman he spies while saying Mass and, when she kisses his hand after the offering, he becomes completely unhinged and is barely able to continue with the liturgy. He is so upset by the effect that the woman’s presence had on him that he cuts off the hand that she had kissed. 46 As noted earlier, anyone maimed in this fashion was legally prohibited from offering the Mass and this seems to be the case, even for a Pope, according to the Cantiga narrative. The poem stipulates that, after losing his hand, the Pope no longer appears on holy days and the people began to criticize and ridicule him for not fulfilling 44 Finucane cites divine punishment for cursing one’s parent as taking the form of impairment or illness (Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 73). 45 The poem states that the events took place ‘not long ago’. Since Alfonso X and his collaborators were preparing the manuscripts of the Cantigas from about 1257 until the King’s death in 1284, the only Pope Leo of fairly recent times would have been Pope Leo IX who occupied the papacy from 1049-1054. 46 There is a slight variation here in the version of this Cantiga in the Florence Codex of the Cantigas de Santa Maria. In the Florence Codex version the Pope declares that God relieves him of the hand the lady had kissed and declares himself to be God’s instrument to sever it: ‘He said, “God takes this hand from me, but I shall be the one to cut it off.” He at once picked up a knife and cut off his hand’ (Kulp-Hill, Songs of Holy Mary, p. 248).

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his responsibilities. It clearly states: ‘Pois que ouv’ a mão corta, non podia ja dizer / missa de Santa Maria’ (II, 255) (‘After he cut off his hand, he could no longer say the mass of Holy Mary’) (248). The Pope regrets his action and begs Holy Mary to make it possible for him once again to offer Mass. The Virgin appears, rubs balm onto the stump of his arm, and he immediately has no pain. Then she puts the hand back in place. Here Mary plays the role of holy physician, applying a treatment to the wound and then miraculously reattaching the severed limb. Finucane speaks of the Virgin appearing to the faithful in dreams or visions to effectuate healing, as she does in this Cantiga, and calls her role in such scenes one of a ‘quasi-earthly healer’. 47

Lameness and Paralysis More numerous than the reattachment or regrowth of severed limbs are miracle accounts that deal with impaired mobility. Cures for paralysis or lameness are among the most frequent in miracle narratives. 48 Finucane qualifies ‘paralysis’, the term most often used in miracle accounts, as a non-specific and vague designation. ‘Paralysis on one side’, for example, is a common phrase that was used very loosely. 49 As noted earlier, the term ‘contrecho’ in Medieval Spanish texts could have a wide variety of meanings, implying different types and degrees of physical immobility or paralysis. As a result of the ambiguous nature of the terms used to describe lameness or paralysis, it is, at times, difficult to ascertain from miracle narratives the exact nature of the condition involved. The hagiographic works penned by Gonzalo de Berceo (c. 1198-1264), especially his Vida de San Millán de la Cogolla (Life of St. Aemilianus of Cogolla) and the Vida de Santo Domingo de Silos (Life of St. Dominic of Silos), contain accounts of these saints healing cases described as paralysis or lameness both during their lifetimes and at their tombs after their deaths. In the Vida de San Millán there are two cases of crippled women being cured by St. Aemilianus during the saint’s lifetime. Beginning in strophe 132 of the poem, a paralyzed woman who is described as ‘alechigada’ (132d) (‘bedridden’) learns of Aemilianus’s fame as a healer. The woman’s relatives 47 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 68. 48 Vauchez identifies cures of paralysis and motor impairment as the most common form of therapeutic miracles (Sainthood, p. 468). 49 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 103. Finucane speculates that such a condition may have been hemiplegia, but it is impossible to be certain (Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 103). This could also refer to any effect caused by a stroke.

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carry her to the saint’s doorway where she lays on the ground: ‘[Y]azié la mesquiniella en tierra abuçada, / ca non podié erecha levantarse por nada’ (134cd) (‘The poor woman lay prostrate on the ground, / because she could not stand up at all’) (341). The use of the term ‘mesquiniella’ is translated as ‘poor woman’ by Cash, but this word can also mean ‘wretched one’ or ‘pitiable one’. The poet portrays this woman as helpless, totally dependent on others, and an object of pity. Berceo repeats phrases that emphasize her abject immobility when, after stating that she is bedridden, he adds ‘ca non podié andar’ (132d) (‘because she could not walk’) and in 134d, as quoted above, he reiterates the fact that she cannot stand on her own. When Aemilianus comes out of his dwelling and finds the woman at his doorstep he prays to God: ‘[V]alas a la pobre lazdrada’ (135c) (‘Help the poor suffering lady’) (342). As with the word ‘mesquiniella’, ‘lazdrada’ here denotes not only the woman’s physical distress but also implies that she is miserable and unfortunate. The pitiful nature of the woman’s condition is thus further emphasized as if in preparation for the dramatic climax. After praying, the saint extends his hand to bless the paralytic, and, at that moment, she is completely healed. Berceo concludes this miracle account by stating that his source text in Latin, the Vita Beati Aemiliani composed by St. Braulius of Zaragoza (590-651), includes the name of the cured woman – Barbara – and that she was born in Amaya, a town some 60 kms. northwest of Burgos. This type of specific, personal information is typical of Berceo who is careful to include all the information he finds in his sources as well as openly admitting when information is lacking. He refrains from inventing any details he cannot verify and often asserts that he is trying to construct the most verisimilar account possible. Immediately following the miracle of the paralytic woman, the poet includes the cure of another woman whose feet have been crippled since childhood. Finucane classifies this type of cure as more specific than those which merely specify paralysis but maintains that it is pointless to speculate about the true nature or cause of such a condition.50 In this account, however, the crippled woman’s condition is vividly described: ‘[N]on irié por mil marcos del lecho al corral’ (138d) (‘She could not go from her bed to the corral for a thousand marks’) (342). The lady learns of St. Aemilianus’s power to heal and she shouts out loudly, exclaiming that she will be able to walk if she can but touch his clothes.51 She begs to be taken to Aemilianus’s dwelling because she 50 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 104. 51 Reminiscent of Christ’s miracle of curing the woman with a haemorrhage when she touched his garments (Matthew 9:21; Mark 5:28; Luke 8:44). Also in Matthew 14:36 and Mark 6:56, all the

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has complete faith in his ability to cure her crippled feet, claiming that she will have no need for help on the return journey: ‘Ca no l’ serié al torno ayuda menester’ (140d). Her friends and family place her in a small wagon and carry her to Aemilianus’s cell where the saint is living in seclusion, fasting, and maintaining silence during Lent. The woman appeals to the saint through the locked door of his cell, calling herself wretched (‘mezquina’) and her body anguished (‘lazrado’) – vocabulary very similar to that used in the account of the other paralytic woman healed by Aemilianus. Since the saint does not leave his cell during Lent, she asks him to give her his staff so that she may touch it, expressing certainty that contact with any object touched by the saint will cure her. Aemilianus prays for the woman and sends out his staff to her. The woman rejoices and calls the staff the medicine she requires: ‘Agora veo de plan la medezina, / la qual me dará sana con la gracia divina’ (149cd) (‘Now I see clearly the medicine / which will cure me with divine grace’) (343). She begins to kiss the staff over and over and is reluctant to release it even when she is asked. Her faith and the prayers of Aemilianus heal the woman and her feet are restored to full health. The poet calls Aemilianus the woman’s doctor (‘menge’) since he had administered the medicine – his staff – that led to her regaining the use of her feet. In the Vida de Santo Domingo de Silos, a number of crippled and paralytic individuals are cured at the saint’s tomb. For example, the chapter on Contrechos alluded to the case of the paralytic woman who is transported to the saint’s tomb on a stretcher to which her body is fastened by ropes. A few other details about this account are worth mentioning here as well. Again, Berceo is careful to include the woman’s name, María, and her native town of Fuentoria. He explains her condition: ‘Non andarié en piedes nin prendrié de las manos’ (582a) (‘She could not walk on her feet or grip with her hands’) (293). She is described as severely weakened (‘desleída’) and reduced to skin and bones (‘los uessos avié solos, cubiertos de pellejo’) (583b). When she is carried to Dominic’s tomb the poet, to further emphasize her agony, states that ‘yazié ella ganiendo como gato sarnoso’ (586d) (‘she lay there howling like a mangy cat’) (293). After praying all night and hearing Mass the next morning, the paralytic woman is healed and returns to her home under her own power. All are amazed that such a frail person was restored so quickly to full health and her cure is likened to restoring life to the dead: ‘[C]a tanto la contavan como cosa transida / e de muerta que era que la tornó a vida’ (590cd) (‘For it was told so often as if she had died, / and that he had restored her from death to life’) (294). sick who touch Christ’s clothes are healed.

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A number of other posthumous miracles attributed to St. Dominic involve those who are crippled or lame.52 A man and woman, Muño and Fruela, are described as ‘contrechos’ (‘cripples’) in strophe 603b of La Vida de Santo Domingo. The next line, however, reveals the extent of their disability: ‘[A]mbos yazién travados como presos en cueva’ (603c) (‘They both lay bound like prisoners in a cave’) (295). This line seems to imply that they are totally immobile but the poem does not specify how they make their way to the saint’s tomb. When they arrive at the tomb, they keep vigil, pray, and afterward recover full mobility. The text specifically refers to the cure of their feet which allows them to walk without assistance: ‘[G]uarieron de los piedes, el andamio cobraron’ (605c). Another pair of healings occurs later in the poem. Two women, again, are described as ‘contrechas’; more specifically, one has one hand that is crippled while the second woman is crippled in both her hands. The woman, María, who does not have use of either of her hands appears also to have withered arms as implied in verses 676bc: ‘[T]ales avié los braços como tabla delgada, / non podié de las manos travar nin prender nada’ (‘Her arms were just as thin as a board; she could not grasp a thing or hold it with her hands’) (304). The text also states that all who look on her consider her unfortunate (‘lazrada’). The second woman appears to have lost the use of her hand as divine punishment because she did not attend vespers service on Saturday. Rather, she washed her hair and swept out her yard, resulting in her falling into what the poem calls great danger (‘peligro atal’). Since this woman has been maimed for lax attention to her religious obligations, the poem does not specify that others consider her unfortunate or pitiable as is the case for the woman with the withered arms. However, both women are healed after keeping vigil at Dominic’s tomb for several nights and then return to their respective homes. One other instance of a withered hand is found among the miracles that occur at Dominic’s tomb. A woman, Ximena, has one useless hand and one that is sound. The poem contrasts the two hands with graphic metaphors: ‘[S]embla la seca paja e la sana bon grano, / la seca al ivierno, la sana al verano’ (617cd) (‘It [the withered hand] resembled dry straw, and the good one fine grain, / the withered one winter, and the healthy one summer’) (297). The poem includes the words of Ximena’s prayer to Dominic 52 Finucane, in speaking of posthumous miracles attributed to saints, states that ‘pilgrimage in search of cures at shrines was a fully-formed tradition received from earlier centuries and legitimized if not encouraged by the Church. At the same time the expectant faith which motivated such a journey and the hope placed in saintly auxilium were in themselves therapeutically beneficial’ (Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 81).

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for healing in which she describes her afflicted hand saying that ‘non me val más la mano que si fuesse agena’ (618c) (‘[it is] more useless than if it belonged to another’) (297). Also, in her prayer she calls herself a ‘mesquina pecadriz’ (619a) (‘unfortunate sinner’) (297). As in other miracle narratives, variation on the word mesquina also implies wretchedness or one who is pitiable. Although, to a certain extent, calling oneself an unworthy sinner when petitioning a saint is formulaic, the text makes no mention of how the woman’s hand came to be withered and there is no implication, as was the case for the woman who failed to observe Saturday vespers, that it resulted from any particular fault she may have committed. She does, however, repeat, just three lines later that she is a ‘mesquina pecadriz’ (‘unfortunate sinner’), emphasizing her wretched condition and dependence on the saint as her only hope for healing. Her prayers, combined with her persistence (‘porfidiosa’) in making her request result in the restoration of her hand to full mobility. Again, the poet introduces a contrastive pair of adjectives to describe her arm and hand before and after it is healed: ‘[E]l braço que fo seco tornó verde e sano, / si pesado fo ante, depués fo bien liviano’ (621bc) (‘Her arm that was withered became well and healthy; / if clumsy before, after that it was quick’) (298). Finally, the poet adds a detail, stating that Ximena is once again able to weave, or to sew, after her hand and arm are restored to full function. It is not clear if weaving is her occupation but Berceo includes this information, either because it appeared in his source text or because he wants to emphasize that Ximena, now cured, is once again a productive member of her society. Berceo also includes a reference to healing of the lame in his Martirio de San Lorenzo (The Martyrdom of Saint Lawrence). In a general reference to Lawrence’s holiness and his abilities to heal, Berceo uses a colourful turn of phrase to illustrate the saint’s power: ‘[L]os que andavan antes a penas por los planos / depués corrién la pella fuera por los solanos’ (48cd) (‘Those who before could hardly walk on level ground / were afterwards out playing ball in the sun’) (422). The use of sunlight and its relationship to healing is also part of the description that Berceo presented of Ximena in the previous example. When the poet speaks of her returning to her weaving he specifies that she can now sew in the sunshine: ‘[A] su solano’ (621d). While, of course the rhyme scheme of cuaderno vía verse may have influenced the choice of phrase, in these examples Berceo consciously associates disability with darkness and uselessness and full ability with light and activity. Among the posthumous miracles that occur at Dominic’s tomb are two accounts of immobility from gout. While gout is properly classified as an illness and not a disability, the difficulty that these individuals have in

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moving about on their own is described in much the same language as those who are labelled crippled, lame, or contrecho. A man named Ananía suffers so badly from gout that he is confined to his bed for four months: ‘[B]ien avié quatro meses que iazié lechigado’ (549d).53 As with other lame individuals thus far discussed, he is described with the adjective, mesquiniello. The effects of his severe gout are described in detail: Avié el mesquiniello los braços encorvados, teniélos enduridos, a los pechos plegados, ni los podié tender ni tenerlos alçados, ni meter en su boca uno ni dos bocados. (550abcd) (The unhappy man had his arms doubled up, stiffened and bent right up to his chest: he could not extend them or even raise them, or put in his mouth even one or two morsels.) (289)

The fact that the man cannot feed himself obviously implies that he is dependent on others, even for this most basic activity. The poem relates that the sick man is taken to Dominic’s monastery at Silos by his parents and other helpers. They make rich offerings of wax candles at the tomb and keep vigil until the crippled arms of the man are straightened and he is freed from pain. But, as Ananía is in a very weakened state he cannot leave the monastery immediately and must gradually regain enough strength to return to his hometown. Although the healing takes place at once, full restoration of health is not immediate. This example resembles those cures that Metzler identifies as gradual, i.e., cases in which complete relief from the effects of an impairment is not spontaneous.54 Metzler sees this type of gradual cure as more acceptable to modern readers who are ‘perhaps more readily prepared to accept such gradual “miracles” as real, than the sudden, abrupt transformation at the high altar or shrine of an immobilised impaired person into an able-bodied, mobile one’.55 The fact that Ananía must spend some time in recovery, however, would not have distracted from a Medieval audience’s appreciation of, and belief in, the saint’s power to heal.

53 Bartha translates ‘gota’ as epilepsy and ‘podagral’ as gout, but I see no reason to translate ‘gota’ as anything but gout here, especially since the poem does not detail any of the other symptoms associated with epilepsy. 54 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 182. 55 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 183.

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Another case of gout that completely immobilizes an individual is found later in the collection of Dominic’s miracles, beginning with strophe 591. Using adjectives similar to those used to describe Ananía in the example above, this man is described as ‘pobre’ (‘poor’), which can imply either a pitiable state or material poverty; both meanings of the adjective could apply to this man since he has been unable to move for some time and is not able to leave his bed: ‘[N]on podié moverse passó grand temporal, / non ixié solamientre del lecho al corral’ (591cd) (‘For a good long time he had been unable to move / he never even stirred from his bed to his yard’) (294). The poem tells us that his feet have been badly swollen from gout for almost four years. He begs his neighbours to take him to Dominic’s shrine and they agree to help him travel there. After arriving at Silos, the afflicted man lays for one week before the saint’s tomb and is cured on the eighth day. This case is somewhat typical in that, although there are examples of cures that occur instantaneously, many occur only after individuals have spent days, or even months, at a healing shrine. Cures for paralysis or lameness also figure prominently in miracle accounts in Alfonso X’s Cantigas de Santa Maria. Among these is Cantiga 77 that features a woman whose feet and hands are paralyzed. She is described in terms very similar to those used by Berceo to portray those with twisted or misshapen limbs: Que amba-las suas mãos assi s’ encolleran, que ben per cabo dos onbros todas se meteran, e os calcannares ben en seu dereito se meteron todos no corpo maltreito. (I, 251) (Both her arms were so twisted that her hands were near her shoulders and her heels pressed into her misshapen body.) (101)

An important detail included in this miracle account, as in others, is that the paralyzed woman turns to Holy Mary for a cure only after she has consulted doctors and sought a medical remedy. Amundsen reminds us that the idea that the Medieval Church opposed the medical profession or was, in general, hostile to science is false.56 Although ultimately the cure of illness or infirmity was believed to lie with God, many clerics were well-educated in medicine and both sought and gave medical advice. Physicians were encouraged to place their faith in God but the Church did not disparage the practice of medicine. However, Amundsen does note that accounts of 56 Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, p. 193.

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the spectacular nature of miraculous cures frequently mention, as is the case here, that the cure occurs after medical knowledge has failed to find a remedy.57 The cure is thus considered superior to and also beyond the power of medicine to achieve. In Cantiga 77 the lady cannot move under her own power and must be carried to the Virgin’s church in Lugo on a narrow litter: ‘[L]eito […] pequen’ e estreito’ (I, 252). She lays there patiently until Holy Mary deigns to cure her on the Feast of her Assumption (15 August). The healing is not entirely spontaneous, however, and the poem describes how her limbs were straightened one-by-one, each producing a loud cracking sound as this occurred:58 [C]ada un nembro per si mui de rig’ estalava, ben come madeira mui seca de teito, quando ss’ estendia o nervio odeito. (I, 252) (Each member gave a resounding crack like dry timbers in a roof when the shrunken tendon was stretched out). (101)

In Cantiga 166 a man is crippled after suffering a grave illness. His paralysis is directly attributed to his sins but this is mentioned in passing and the text does not make a direct correlation between his paralysis and any particular sin committed on his part. His limbs have been twisted for five years and he is described as completely immobile: ‘[M]over-se non podera, / assi avia os nenbros todos do corpo maltreitos’ (II, 167) (‘Unable to move, so badly twisted were all the members of his body’) (201). The poem does not specify how he travels to the Virgin’s church at Salas but once there, he is immediately cured.59 Also, it appears that in this case he does not need to rebuild strength in his weakened limbs for ‘ya muy ledo, como quen sse sen niun mal sente, / pero tan gran temp’ ouvera os pes d’ andar desafeitos’ (II, 168) (‘he went along nimbly as one who feels no pain, notwithstanding that his feet had been unaccustomed to walking for a long time’) (201). The sin of working on Saturday, the day traditionally devoted to Marian devotion, is punished by the crippling of a seamstress’s hands in Cantiga 117. This poem, unlike the vague reference to the man’s sins in the previous 57 Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, pp. 193-94. 58 Finucane affirms that cracking limbs and snapping sinews are often included in miracle cures of ‘cripples’ (Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 104). Vauchez, too, speaks of the ‘noise as bones and nerves went back into place’ as commonplace in cures of contracti (Sainthood, p. 445). 59 See note 62 of Chapter 1.

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account, establishes a very clear link between a particular sinful act and the onset of paralysis. The woman had promised to do no work on Saturdays but she is tempted by the devil and, in order to further her reputation as a fine and productive seamstress, she breaks her vow. Her hands become twisted up against her arms: ‘[A]s mãos / que aos braços apresas foron’ (II, 58). Again, the lady tries many medical remedies but they are ineffective. She then goes to Mary’s church in Chartres, where she weeps and repents before the altar, and she is cured immediately. There is a particularly interesting detail in the account of a cure of a paralyzed woman in Cantiga 179. In this miracle, the Virgin is again portrayed as a kind of holy physician who learned the art of medicine from Her Son: Ca de seu Fill’ á sabuda fisica muit’ asconduda, con que nos sempre ajuda e nos tolle todo mal. (II, 191) (For from Her Son She has learned very mysterious medicine, with which She always helps us and takes away our suffering.) (215).

The poem further states that Mary provides medicine beyond the laws of nature: ‘[F]isica sobre natura’ (II, 192). This phrase precisely reflects theological teaching about miracles as something produced above and beyond natural law and, indeed, against natural law or outside of it.60 As in other Cantigas, the woman’s impairment is described in detail, with her badly twisted limbs pressing her feet into her kidneys.61 The cure is especially dramatic and similar to the one described in Cantiga 77. She is carried from her hometown of Molina to the Virgin’s church at Salas62 and, as the faithful are singing at Mass, ‘os nervios ll’ assi sõavan / como carr’ en pedregal’ (II, 192) (‘the woman’s tendons snapped like a cart rolling over stones’) (215). She needs no time to regain strength in her legs but jumps up at once and runs out of the door of the church. In Cantiga 263 a man who has lost the use of his limbs is cured by the Virgin in Cudejo.63 He is described as completely immobile and bedridden: ‘E deste mal tan cuitado era que sol sse volver / non podia nen ergersse eno 60 Zaragoza, ‘Enfermedades incurables’, p. 36. 61 See the chapter on Lameness for a complete discussion of the description of this woman’s condition. 62 See note 62 of Chapter 1. 63 Probably the town of Bárcena de Cudón in the province of Santander where the parish church is dedicated to Mary (Mettmann, Cantigas de Santa Maria, Vol. III, p. 14).

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leito nen seer’ (III, 15) (‘He was so afflicted by this ailment that he could not turn over or raise himself in his bed or sit up’) (319). The recurring motif of the lame or paralyzed confined to bed begs questions about how they are moved from place to place, the effects on muscle and skin tissue that result from long periods of immobility, as well as the demands put on caretakers. Of these questions, the detail most often found in the miracle accounts relates to the transportation of these individuals, as is the case in this Cantiga. In this account, Mary appears to the afflicted man and instructs him to have himself carried to her church at Cudejo. She tells him to have Mass sung and he will be cured. When the lame man sees the consecrated Host during the Mass, he is healed at once, gets up, and runs toward the altar. This is a good example of the curative power attributed to the Host and not directly to the Virgin. As noted earlier, with the increased importance placed on displays of the consecrated Host, miracles that occurred during Mass increased as well. Yet another case of paralysis is cured at the Virgin’s church in Villasirga in Cantiga 268.64 This poem was discussed in the chapter on lameness, especially with regard to the particular description of the woman’s paralysis in which she is described as having no limb that is straight: ‘[N]on avia neun dos nenbros dereito’ (III, 28). In this Cantiga pilgrims returning from Santiago de Compostela tell her about the miracles worked in the Virgin’s church in Villasirga. She has herself taken there and after praying and offering many candles to the church, she fully recovers. This poem stresses the immediacy of the cure: ‘[D]eu lle saud’ en seu corpo, e foi sãa e cobrada / de quantos nenbros avia mais toste ca vos dizemos’ (III, 29) (‘She was made well and recovered the use of her limbs quicker than it takes to tell you’) (326). The crippled man portrayed in Cantiga 333 recovers the use of his limbs at Terena in Portugal.65 The text stresses that his impairments were readily visible to all for his arms are twisted backwards, as are his hands, fingers, 64 See note 65 of Chapter 1. Over fifty years ago, John Keller first argued that Alfonso was promoting the Virgin’s church in Villasirga as an alternative to the shrine of St. James in Santiago de Compostela. Since there are instances in the Cantigas of protagonists who experience the miraculous power of the Virgin at Villasirga when their petitions for help to St. James fail, there may indeed be some validity to this argument. See Keller, 1959 and 1979. See also my essay, ‘The Pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in the Cantigas de Santa Maria’. 65 This city is located in the district of Évora in the province of Alto Alentejo, Portugal. ‘Terena has long been known as a place of healing. There was a pre-Roman shrine there to the god called Endovélico, who in Roman times was associated with Aesculapius, the Greek god of medicine. Later a hermitage was built dedicated to Saint Michael (São Miguel da Mota), the archangel protector of medicine’ (Kulp-Hill, Songs of Holy Mary, p. 236).

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and feet: ‘Este tiynna os braços tortos atras, e as mãos / tortas assi e os dedos, e os pees non ben sãos, / ca eran outrossi tortos atras’ (III, 171). He appeals to many saints but received no relief until he goes to Terena. There, laying in the cart in which he had been transported to the Virgin’s church, he prays for months – from Easter until mid-September. The text states that God waited to perform this miracle because He wanted as many people as possible to know about the man’s condition and thus have more witnesses who can attest to the miraculous reversal of his deformities. When a large group of pilgrims comes to the church in September, probably on September 8 when the Church celebrates the Nativity of the Virgin, the man’s pleas for help are answered. In this poem, the Virgin appears to the crippled man and heals him by her touch. She lays her hands on each of his deformed limbs and straightens them one by one. With no need for time to recover the strength in his muscles, the man immediately leaps from his cart and all the pilgrims are witnesses to the miracle. A final example from the Cantigas de Santa Maria is poem 391. This is one of a number of stories set in the Spanish southern city of El Puerto de Santa María.66 This cantiga involves the cure of a child from Jerez de la Frontera whose feet are severely crippled as the text describes them: ‘[O]s pees tortos assi / avia: o qu’ é adeante, atras’ (III, 292) (‘The girl’s feet were so contorted that they were turned completely backward’) (475). Her father brings her to the Virgin’s church in El Puerto and one night, while there, the girl calls out in great pain. When her father asks her why she had cried out, she replies: Porque britar me foi os pees a Virgen e tornou-ss’ a sseu altar, e ouve door tan grande qual nunca cuidei aver. (III, 292) (Because the Virgin broke my feet and returned to Her altar, and I felt a pain such as I never thought possible.) (475)

Here, the young girl saw the Virgin descend from her place on the altar, grab hold of her feet, and physically straighten them. The account ends by proclaiming that all who examined her after this miracle attest to the fact that her feet were now perfectly healed. This is another example of the Virgin acting directly to straighten twisted or misshapen limbs, especially in churches dedicated to her and that are known as sites of healing.

66 See note 46 of Chapter 1.

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Multiple Impairments Another category of the disabled who find healing through the intercession of the saints are those with multiple impairments. The healing of such individuals is remarkable because the curing of multiple afflictions is evidence of the extraordinary power of a particular saint and, in turn, enhances the fame of his/her tomb. In the case of cures performed by the Virgin, relief from multiple impairments serves to further the idea of Mary’s limitless capacity to intervene and heal those devoted to her. Individuals with multiple disabling conditions are portrayed as especially vulnerable and are invariably described with a host of adjectives designed to elicit both pity and compassion. An example of a woman with multiple impairments, presented as ‘lazdrada’ (‘unfortunate’) and suffering from ‘enfermedad doblada’ (‘twofold sickness’), is healed at the tomb of St. Aemilianus in Berceo’s Vida de San Millán. Specifically, this woman is said to have dead, or numb, feet as well as very poor vision. As in other descriptions of the lame or paralyzed, the woman’s conditions are here likened to being imprisoned: ‘Yazié la mezqiniella muy mal encarcelada’ (340d) (‘The wretched woman lay badly imprisoned’) (363). Once again the term ‘mezqiniella’ is used to describe the woman who is confined, perhaps literally, to her bed or to her home because of her multiple impairments of mobility and sight. The healing of this woman is brought about, not so much by prayer and vigil, as is most common, but by the oil that burns in the lamp above St. Aemilianus’s tomb. Immediately before recounting the cure of this woman who is lame and vision-impaired, Berceo recounts the miracle of the oil itself. When the sacristan ran low on oil for the lamp that perpetually illuminated the tomb of Aemilianus, the lamp was miraculously filled with the finest oil available. The friars realize that this oil was sent from Heaven and they empty it out, replace it with regular lamp oil, and conserve the sacred oil to use as a healing agent. This is the oil that they use to anoint the eyes and feet of the woman who has come to the tomb for healing. The oil effects an immediate cure and she is restored to full ability. Berceo’s Vida de Santo Domingo includes a number of miraculous cures that involve multiple impairments. Among the posthumous miracle cures at Dominic’s tomb, there is the account of Pedro, a young man from Aragón, who becomes seriously ill. He is unable to eat and all fear for his life. Although he recovers from the illness, he is left impaired; his limbs are weakened, his hands and feet twisted, and, finally he loses his sight. Of interest here is the fact that Berceo stresses that losing his sight was the greatest of the disabilities that resulted from the illness: ‘[E]sta fo

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sobre todo la peor lesïón’(541b) (‘This [blindness] above all was his greatest impairment’) (288). The poet also states that the crippling effects are ‘more bearable’ (‘más sofridera’) than the blindness and that the man was ‘inconsolable’ when he goes blind: ‘[N]on avié sin la lumne nulla consolación’ (541d). Pedro’s condition is described as a ‘dreadful affliction’ (‘grand coita’) and a form of the usual adjective – ‘mesquino’ – describes him, implying unhappiness as well as his pitiable state, a motif repeated in almost all accounts of miraculous cures. Pedro’s family and friends decide to take him to Dominic’s tomb to pray for healing. The poem specifies that readying him for this journey is not an easy task: ‘Aguisaron el ome como mejor pudieron’ (543a) (‘They got the man ready as best they could’) (288). They take him to the monastery of Silos, lay him before Dominic’s tomb, and pray for three days and three nights. After three days, Pedro first regains his sight, the condition he considered most dire, and then stretches out his arms and legs that are now free of pain. But he does not fully recover immediately because he had grown so weak from his conditions. However, he gradually regains his strength and is able to leave the monastery and return home. Pedro’s three days of prayer, of course, have obvious Christian symbolic value and, again, the inclusion of details about his need to regain strength before he can become fully self-reliant definitely adds a note of verisimilitude to this account. This pattern of slowly returning to a state of complete recovery is quite common as, for example, in the case of the cure of Ananía who was immobilized for a long period from gout. Another example of an individual suffering multiple impairments is included in the Vida de Santo Domingo, beginning at strophe 597. A man is described as crippled (‘contrecto’) and with very limited eyesight: ‘[N]on vedié de los ojos más con el polgar’ (597b) (‘He could not see an inch in front of his nose’) (295). The poem speaks of him suffering greatly due to being doubly afflicted: ‘[Y]azié muy lazrado, / ca avié doble pena e lacerio doblado’ (599ab). Some good people take pity on him and take him to Dominic’s tomb. There he is completely cured; his eyesight is restored and he is able to see better than before his loss of vision, and he is able to walk with ease. The recurring pattern of enjoying a body that performs better, or is more attractive, than before the onset of disabilities appears once again in this account. Later the Vida de Santo Domingo, beginning in strophe 606, recounts the cure of a woman with a withered hand who is also unable to speak: ‘[N]in prendié de la mano nin podié fablar nada’ (606c) (‘She could not use her hand or say a single word’) (296). She goes to the tomb of St. Dominic and, although unable to make a verbal appeal to the saint, the text stipulates that God understood her intentions and heals her hand and gives her back her

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speech.67 The significant detail in this account is the fact that the woman cannot pray aloud as is usually the case in miracle narratives in which the author includes the words of supplication or paraphrases the sufferer’s petitions. The woman’s faith in Dominic to intercede on her behalf is manifest in her visit to the saint’s tomb and understood by God in His omniscience. There are several examples from the Cantigas de Santa Maria in which the Virgin intercedes to heal those who suffer multiple impairments. An example of a healthy young man who becomes disabled as the result of a vicious attack occurs in Cantiga 146. The young man insists on going on pilgrimage to Mary’s shrine in Albesa despite his mother warning him not to undertake the journey because he has enemies who may try to do him harm along the way.68 He ignores his mother’s warning; while en route to Albesa, her fears prove warranted when the young man’s enemies ambush him, gouge out his eyes, and cut off his hands with a falchion. He is left agonizing (‘con mui gran coita’) by the side of the road and, when he hears others passing by he calls out to them to take him to the shrine at Albesa where he is convinced that the Virgin will restore his eyes and hands. The presentation here of one who becomes doubly impaired – blind and handless – as a result of a cruel attack enhances the audience’s sympathy for the pilgrim. When the young man’s mother learns about what happened to her son, she, too, sets off for the Virgin’s shrine at Albesa. Apparently the son reaches the shrine before his mother because in the mother’s prayer to the Virgin at the shrine, she alludes to her son lying injured before the altar: ‘[V]ees qual meu fill’ é, / que ante ti desfeito jaz’ (II, 130) (‘See what state my son is in, who lies maimed before you’) (180). In response to the young man’s faith and the mother’s prayers that her son be cured, Holy Mary, fez-ll’ ollos come de perdiz pequenos a aquel donzel, mui fremosos, e de raiz 67 Bartha here translates the phrase ‘la lengua que tenié mal travada’ (608b) as ‘her tongue tied by evil’ (296) which implies that the woman had been struck dumb either through her own sin or that her muteness was the work of the Devil. However, this phrase simply means that she had a tongue that was impeded or not under her control, the most commonly accepted meanings for ‘travada’. Her tongue is also described as ‘embargada’, or impaired, and there is no mention of the woman committing a sin or that the Devil is involved in any way. 68 Albeça in the original text. This may be Albesa in the province of Lérida in Spain or Albeta in the province of Zaragoza. In Albeta an image of the Virgin was venerated as working miracles since the time of Alfonso I of Aragón (1073-1134) (Mettmann, Cantigas de Santa Maria, Vol. II, p. 127, note 3).

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creceron-ll’ as mãos enton. (II, 130) (at once made for that young man small beautiful eyes like a partridge, and his hands grew out again from the wrists) (180).

This miraculous restoration of the man’s eyes and hands not only relieves the son of a life of severe impairment but also serves a judicial aim, reversing the actions of those who had viciously attacked him while he was engaged in making a pilgrimage to a shine dedicated to the Virgin. In Cantiga 218, a wealthy merchant from Germany is thrown into poverty after he becomes paralyzed on both sides of his body. This is a good example of how impairment impacted one’s ability to earn a living. Even a man described as wealthy would soon exhaust his savings when he could no longer ply his trade. The merchant goes with a group of pilgrims to Santiago de Compostela in hope of a cure. The text specifies that the pilgrims had to make something to carry him to the shrine and stresses the hardship they experienced when transporting him to the tomb of St. James: ‘[A] mui grandes pẽas alá con el chegavan’ (II, 280) (‘With great difficulties, they arrived there with him’) (262). When they arrive at Santiago, the merchant is not cured and the poem attributes this failure to the man’s sins: ‘[P]olos seus pecados’ (II, 280). Again, no specific sin is named for which he is being punished and the expression repeats a formula that is almost compulsory in healing narratives. On the return trip from Santiago the pilgrims abandon the man in Villasirga after he also goes blind.69 They fear that he will die if they continue the journey with him and decide that it is best to commend him to the care of the Virgin in her church there. Abandoned and alone in Villasirga, the poem uses the familiar word ‘mesquynno’ (‘poor wretch’) to describe his state. He weeps bitterly and cries out to Holy Mary who responds by curing him of his paralysis and restoring his sight. He is then able to return home and sends generous offerings to the church in Villasirga in thanksgiving. This is yet another example of a cure at the Virgin’s church in Villasirga after a failed appeal for healing made at the tomb of St. James in Compostela. Cantiga 357 features a protagonist who has crippled limbs, a twisted mouth, and very bad eyesight. This combination of impairments resulted from an unspecified illness and the poem stipulates that the lady had suffered for a long time. Her condition is so dire that she can no longer swallow except a few bites of food: ‘[S]ol troçir tres bocados’ (III, 227). She goes to the church of Holy Mary in El Puerto de Santa María70 where she 69 See note 65 of Chapter 1. 70 See note 46 of Chapter 1.

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calls out to the Virgin saying, ‘tu soa es meezinna’ (III, 227) (‘you alone are medicine’) (436). With this phrase, she expresses assured faith in Holy Mary who she believes alone possesses the medical knowledge to relieve her of her impairments. She offers candles to the church and spends nine days before the altar in prayer. The Virgin responds by making her face more beautiful than it ever had been before, clearing her vision, and restoring her useless limbs to complete health. This release from her multiple afflictions is likened to a release from the chains of captivity: ‘[C]omo soltan de cadeas / os reys aos seus presos que non sejam justiçados’ (III, 227) (‘As kings release their prisoners so that they may not be sentenced’) (436). The likening of the reversal of impairment to the release from prison is another motif that appears frequently and stresses the reality of the physical restrictions that the impaired faced daily before experiencing a cure. This poem also repeats the motif of the woman being more beautiful after the Virgin cures her than before the onset of her disabilities.

Blindness In her studies of miracle cures at shrine sites, Metzler finds that instances of blindness are second in number to the healings of those who are crippled or suffer various forms of paralysis.71 This also appears to be the case for the Spanish texts examined here. In hagiographic texts, particularly in Berceo’s Vida de Santo Domingo de Silos, there are accounts of some seven cures for blindness. In addition, in his Vida de San Millán and the Martirio de San Lorenzo there are two cures for blindness included in each of these works. Cures for blindness are proportionately prominent, too, in Alfonso X’s Cantigas de Santa Maria which includes seven instances of blindness being cured through the intercession of the Virgin. In Berceo’s Vida de Santa Domingo a blind man is cured by Dominic as recounted in strophes 336-350. In addition to being blind, the poem also includes the fact that the man suffers from terrible ear aches, thus heightening the pathos the audience feels toward him. The man goes to Dominic’s monastery and cries out at the door, begging the saint to lay his hands on him and heal him.72 Dominic hears the man’s pleas, comes out of 71 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 133. 72 He specifically asks that he ‘sígname del polgar’ (‘bless me with your thumb’) in verse 342b. Ruffinatto explains that this phrase refers to using either the index finger and thumb, or the thumb alone, to trace the sign of the cross on the forehead, the mouth, and the breast. This

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his cell, takes the man by the hand, and guides him inside. Dominic prays all night for the restoration of the man’s eyesight. The next morning after Mass, Dominic sprinkles holy water on the afflicted man and makes the sign of the cross on his eyes. Immediately, the man’s vision is restored and he is freed from all pain. Dominic admonishes the man to thank God for his vision and not to sin lest he be struck blind again. There is no mention in the account of the man’s blindness resulting from a previous sin he had committed so this warning appears to be a general admonition about avoiding falling into evil ways. As a strict adherent to his source text, Berceo refuses to speculate either about the cause of the man’s blindness or how long he had been without sight before his encounter with St. Dominic. Further on in the text, related in the litany of miracles that Dominic performed during his lifetime, is the story of a Galician count who loses his eyesight.73 He consults with many doctors and buys a number of medicines but to no avail; the poem states that ‘avié mucho espeso en vanas maestrías, / tanto que seríe pobre ante de pocos días’ (389cd) (‘he spent a fortune on useless remedies, / so much that he soon would have made himself poor’) (270). The association of loss of sight with a potential for poverty is emphasized, an emphasis also found in other miracle accounts of cures. Additionally, the medical cures that had been prescribed are described as totally ineffective. When the count learns of Dominic’s powers to heal, he goes to visit him in Silos. He implores the saint to help him and his weeping made all who witness his petition weep as well: ‘[F]acié de grand duelo plorar toda la gent’ (392d). The saint draws water from a fountain in the cloister of the monastery of Silos, blesses the water, and sprinkles it on the count’s eyes.74 The count’s eyesight is instantly restored and, in gratitude, he bestows rich gifts on the monastery. As in the previous miracle account, Dominic uses blessed water as the agent to affect a cure and thus acts as God’s healing agent on earth. There are five posthumous miracle accounts of blind petitioners at Dominic’s tomb who have their vision restored. The four lines of strophe 571 recount that a blind man from Espeja is cured at Dominic’s shrine, but there symbolic representation of Christ’s crucifixion was used to free one from enemies or illnesses (ed., Gonzalo de Berceo, Obra completa, p. 344). 73 Ruffinatto affirms that chronicle accounts refer to a visit by the Galician count, Pedro Peláez, to Dominic’s monastery at Silos before the saint’s death (ed., Gonzalo de Berceo, Obra completa, p. 354). 74 The poem calls this fountain ‘la su fuent onrada’ (394b) (‘his famous fountain’) (271). It refers to a fountain that is located in the southeast corner of the cloister at the Monastery of Silos, known popularly as the Fountain of the Saint (Ruffinatto, ed., Gonzalo de Berceo, Obra completa, p. 356 and Bartha et al., The Collected Works of Gonzalo de Berceo, p. 271).

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are no details offered about this miracle.75 There immediately follows a more developed account of a woman from Asturias who had been blind for thirty months. The adjective ‘mezquina’, and its diminutive derivative, ‘mesquiniella’, are both used to describe her and the poem speaks of the wretched existence of the blind: ‘[O]mne que no vede iaz en grand angostura’ (573c) (‘For anyone who does not see is in dire straits’) (292). With her guide, she travels to Dominic’s tomb at Silos, flings herself down on his gravestone, and begs for her eyesight to return. The poem relates that her prayers are answered for she regains her sight and returns home without the aid of the guide on whom she had relied to help her go to Silos. Immediately after this account, another blind woman, named María, is cured at Dominic’s tomb. The poem states that María had visited many other shrines in hopes of a cure but her prayers at these other sites had not been answered. When she goes to the tomb of Dominic, she spends three days in continuous prayer and, at the end of these three days, she is healed. The three day ritual is a direct reference to the time frame between Christ’s death and resurrection, as previously noted, and also associates the restoration of sight, metaphorically, with a rising from the grave. Beginning in strophe 609 of the Vida de Santo Domingo, Berceo expresses frustration about the lack of clarity in his Latin source text. His source relates that a blind man came to the saint’s tomb in search of healing but our poet cannot tell us where he was from or other details because ‘era mala letra, encerrado latino’ (609c) (‘the writing is poor and the Latin obscure’) (296). Without any details, the poem simply states that the man is persistent and the saint intercedes for the restoration of his sight. Later, in strophes 622-625, there is an account of a woman who goes blind due to a severe illness. Her sightless condition is likened to being in jail: ‘[S]i yoguiesse en cárcel non yazrié más cerrada’ (622d) (‘Were she lying in jail she would not be more confined’) (298). As noted earlier, this common motif in Berceo’s works suggests both social isolation and restricted mobility for the impaired. The blind woman begs to be taken to Dominic’s tomb and some good people take pity on her and help her to reach the monastery. She beseeches the saint, asking him to remove the blotch from her eyes: ‘[T]uelle de los mis ojos esta tan grand manciella’ (624c). She is healed and returns to her home in Agosín.76 These short accounts of miraculous cures are clustered together 75 Ruffinatto compares the name of this town with the place name given in Berceo’s Latin source and concludes that Espeja is not Espeja de San Marcelino, between Dominic’s monastery at Silos and the town of Osma, but rather the village of Espejón, near Espeja and about 20 kms. to the southeast of Silos (ed., Gonzalo de Berceo, Obra completa, p. 400). 76 Ruffinatto identifies this town as Ausín or Los Ausines, a village in the province of Burgos, near the town of Lara (ed., Gonzalo de Berceo, Obra completa, p. 402).

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in Berceo’s poem and, while there are some variations in detail, they all emphasize the curative powers of St. Dominic’s relics in Silos. There are two cures of blindness in Berceo’s Vida de San Millán. In strophe 154 of this work there is a tale about a certain good man, Sicorio, whose servant loses her sight. Sicorio first sends her to a doctor who had cured others but he has no success in restoring the servant’s vision. When St. Aemilianus sees the afflicted woman, he is moved to pity and prays for the restoration of her vision. Her eyesight returns and ‘ovo claro sue viso como nunqa mejor’ (156d) (‘her vision was clearer than ever before’) (344). This is another example of two recurring themes – the miracle cure that occurs when medicine fails, and comments about the body functioning better than before the onset of an impairment after divine intervention and reversal of the condition. The lesson is reinforced that intercession by the saints can not only restore one to full ability but actually enhance the body’s functioning. Two blind men are beneficiaries of a posthumous miracle in strophes 323-330 of the Vida de San Millán. The two men, aided by their guides, go to the tomb of St. Aemilianus and pray for a cure for their condition. They are quite stubborn and determined in their demand, vowing not to leave the monastery until they regain their vision. Since the poem had earlier stipulated that they were living in misery and poverty – ‘vivién en grant miseria de todo bien menguados’ (323b) – this vow may have been made since, if they were not cured of their blindness, they would probably need to stay at the monastery and depend on the aid of the friars who live there. They fervently pray to St. Aemilianus, calling him their surest hope for health and protection (‘salud e manto’). They receive their sight at Cogolla and although the poem does not specify, it would seem that the two were blind from birth since they are shocked and afraid when they are able to see: Quando la luz vidieron qe avién desusada, prisieron adesora una grant espantada; tovieron un grant día la memoria turbada, qe entrar non podieron en acuerdo por nada. (329abcd) (When their sight returned, they were so unaccustomed to seeing that they were suddenly afraid. The whole day they were stunned and could not regain consciousness at all.) (362)77

77 The final line of this strophe could also be translated ‘they could not agree on anything’. This translation, I believe, better reflects the men’s confusion that results from seeing the

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After a day, however, they are more accustomed to seeing, and give thanks to God for curing them. They then return home on their own since they no longer need their guides. The most striking aspect of this cure is the men’s confusion and fear when they are able to see their surroundings. This is not a common feature of miracle accounts but it enhances the audience’s appreciation of the enormity of the change that the restoration of sight brings to these men’s lives. Another of Gonzalo de Berceo’s hagiographic works, the Martirio de San Lorenzo features the restoration of sight for two individuals and one general reference to the saint’s ability to restore sight to the blind. The latter reference is found in verse 47d in a litany about Lawrence’s holiness and simply states that ‘dava a los ciegos lumne e sanedat’ (‘[he] gave to the blind sight and health’) (422). Later, in strophe 59, Lawrence encounters a blind man who begs the saint to lay his hands on him and cure him so that he may be saved from ridicule by others (‘que no ande por riso’). This is an intriguing detail because it implies that the blind were mocked and the man does not want to suffer such embarrassment. Lawrence lays his hands on the man’s eyes and asks God to cure him in the same manner that Jesus had acted for the man who was born blind.78 The man who petitions Lawrence for a cure at once recovers his eyesight. In another episode from the poem, Lawrence heals a blind man when he and the saint are imprisoned together. A blind knight asks Lawrence to intercede for him so that he may regain his sight, but the saint only agrees to do so if the knight will convert to Christianity. The knight accepts baptism and, afterwards, he immediately regains his sight. In this account, healing is reserved for Christians and there is no indication that Lawrence would have taken pity on the man if he had not agreed to be baptized. The Cantigas de Santa Maria include several tales of cures for blindness. In Cantiga 92, a blind priest begs for his eyesight to be returned. Since blindness was one of the conditions that prevented one from offering the Mass, this priest cannot practice the duties of his office. The priest begs Holy Mary for a cure and, that night, the Virgin appears to him in a dream. She tells him to say her Mass the next day and he will regain his sight. However, there is a strange caveat to this cure since it is not a permanent one. Each day the priest is granted his vision, but only for the time necessary for him to offer

world, probably for the first time. They cannot agree on the identity of things and people they are seeing because of the novelty of vision. 78 See John 9:1-38.

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the Mass. This seems like a partial cure, at best, but it does allow the priest to perform his duties since he is not technically blind when saying Mass. Cantiga 138 relates a story about St. John Chrysostom (345?-407) who is attacked by assailants who put out his eyes and send him into exile.79 Without anyone to guide him, John soon falls from the road his attackers had set him upon and lands in a briar patch. Finding himself in such straights, he calls out to the Virgin who answers him saying that soon his eyesight will be restored and he will be returned to his former place of honour. She appears to him in a vision with her Son in her arms who is suckling her breasts. After this vision of the nursing Christ Child, St. John recovers his sight and all the possessions he had lost. The fact that he can see the Virgin in a vision despite the fact that he is physically blind reinforces the idea of the divine as existing and accessible without recourse to the physical senses. A good example of the Virgin acting in collaboration with a physician is found in Cantiga 177. This poem was discussed in the chapter on blindness as an example of blinding as punishment. As noted previously, after a master undeservedly blinds his servant, the servant asks for his eyeballs and goes directly to the home of a surgeon. With great hope that the Virgin will assist the physician, he asks the surgeon to return his eyes to their sockets and his sight is restored. This is an unusual combination of faith in the Virgin and confidence that Mary will guide the hand of a medical professional to bring about the restoration of sight. Cantiga 247 is a tale about a child who is born blind. Before the child was born, her mother had promised her in service to the Virgin’s church at Salas but, when she is born blind, she is deemed unable to take on such a duty.80 Although the text does not explain why the blind girl could not serve in the Virgin’s church, it can be assumed that either she would not have been able to perform any useful tasks or that blind individuals, in general, were barred from such service. When the girl is ten years old, her father dies and the distressed mother takes the child to Salas and begs the Virgin to give her the ability to see so that she may fulfil the vow of working for Mary’s church. When the mother pleads to the Virgin she expresses regret that her child had ever been born. Although she had prayed to have a child, she states that ‘mas se eu soubesse / que cega me naceria, non sei ren per que 79 Patriarch of Constantinople in the years 398-404. He was known for his eloquent speech and the Cantiga calls him ‘Saint John the Golden Mouthed’ (Kulp-Hill, Songs of Holy Mary, p. 171). This is the saint who also preached about the possible connection of impairment with sin, as discussed in the Introduction. 80 See note 62 of Chapter 1.

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quisesse / ave-la’ (II, 345) (‘if I had known that she would be born to me blind, I should in no way have wished to have her’) (300). The mother then entrusts the child to Mary’s care and refuses to provide for her any longer: ‘[D]es oi mais penssa dela, ca de mi sol un bocado […] / Non averá’ (II, 346) (‘Care for her from this day forth, for from me she shall not have another mouthful’) (300). This statement indicates that the blind child has become a burden for her widowed mother who now disavows any responsibility for continuing to care for her. Although the poem does not specifically state that the mother is unable to care for her daughter since she has become widowed, handing the child over to the Virgin does, in fact, fulfil the vow that the mother had made before the child’s birth. This instance of disavowal of parental care is rare in the Cantigas since there are many more poems that stress the love and devotion of parents for their children and their great distress when they fall ill or die. In Cantiga 247 the girl’s sight is restored through the intercession of the Virgin and she thereafter remains in the service of the church at Salas. Another Cantiga that supports the claim that Alfonso X promoted the shrine of Our Lady of Villasirga over the shrine of the apostle at Santiago de Compostela is No. 278.81 In this poem, a blind woman from France goes to Santiago to plead for a cure but her sight is not restored. On the way back home, she and her daughter take refuge during a rainstorm in the Virgin’s church in Villasirga. The woman prays there to regain her sight and Mary answers her prayer. The next day, now cured, she continues her journey and on the way she encounters a blind man who is traveling to Santiago de Compostela in hope of a cure. She tells him that she had been blind and that she was not healed in Santiago but rather at the Virgin’s church in Villasirga. He decides to change his destination and goes to Villasirga to entreat Holy Mary to restore his sight, which she does. This poem not only conflates two cures for blindness within a single narrative but it also evidences the rivalry among churches or shrines competing for pilgrims who often made lucrative gifts to them in exchange for answers to prayer.82 In Cantiga 338 a faithful young servant, working diligently in the fields one day, is suddenly struck blind. There is no allusion to an accident or illness, but his blindness is immediate and complete: ‘[F]oron-sse-ll’ apertando / como se fossen apresos con visco ou con betume’ (III, 183) (‘They [his eyes] 81 See note 65 of Chapter 1. 82 Finucane speaks of reports of ‘failure to cure’, especially with regard to rival shrines. He gives the example of the shrines of Frideswide vs. Becket, competing for miraculous cures in Medieval England (Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 77).

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became tightly closed as though stuck with birdlime or pitch’) (411). He has to be led by others back to the house of his master, who is greatly distressed since the servant is both loyal and hardworking. The implication, of course, is that, now blind, the man will not be as useful nor will his master be able to entrust to him the responsibilities he had before his loss of vision. After the servant has been blind for a year, his master takes him to the Virgin’s church in Évora in Portugal where his sight is restored. Upon regaining his sight, the boy sees candles burning in the church and, in a humorous aside declares that the candles ‘[n]on son esas feas’ (III, 184) (‘are far from ugly’) (411). In penitent gratitude for the restoration of his sight, he vows to eat nothing but vegetables that day, a somewhat feeble gesture, it would seem, for a miraculous cure of this magnitude. Another example in which blindness would keep one from performing one’s job is found in Cantiga 362. A goldsmith in Chartres goes blind but, before the onset of his blindness, he had made a gold chest for the relics of the Virgin that he sold to the Cathedral in Lyon. When there is a great fire in Lyon, this chest was taken out of the church and carried throughout the land to earn funds to rebuild the church from the offerings the faithful would make for the miracles the relics could perform.83 When the chest arrives to Chartres the goldsmith realizes that it is the one that he had fashioned. He trusts that the relics in the chest can cure his blindness which he claims was visited on him because of his sins (‘por meus pecados’). He falls before the chest, weeping, and his eyesight returns. In Cantiga 407 blindness is a direct punishment for denying God and vowing to serve the devil. In this poem, a man stubs his foot on a rock and, in a fit of rage, pledges to no longer believe in God and serve the devil instead. He is immediately paralyzed and his eyesight is taken away. His relatives come to his aid and take him to his home where they put him in his bed. On Easter Sunday, the Virgin appears to him and announces that, since he has bourn his impairments with patience, God will soon restore his sight. She tells him to have himself taken before her altar and, when he does so, he is healed. This is typical of the Cantigas’ narratives in which the Virgin shows mercy, even to those who blaspheme or commit other heinous sins. It is also another example of the blind seeing a vision of the Virgin even before the physical sense of sight is restored. A cure for blindness is also found in a non-hagiographic text, the El espéculo de los legos (Mirror for the Laity). In a section that deals with the 83 These events are the topic of another poem in the collection, Cantiga 35, which specifies that the relics in the chest are a vial of the Virgin’s milk and some of her hairs.

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life of St. Dionysius, who had been converted to Christianity by St. Paul,84 Dionysius and Paul are walking together one day when they encounter a blind man. Dionysius tells Paul that if he commands the man to see in the name of the Lord, then the man will come to believe in Christ. He gives Paul very specific instructions about how he should invoke the cure, so that it will not appear that he is using any ‘encantamentos’ (‘enchantments’) to bring about the healing. This is an unusual reference in miracle accounts since the use of enchantments or magic is not usually associated with the saints. However, since the blind man is not a Christian, perhaps this warning is actually intended for the disabled individual so that he will know that the true source of his healing is the Risen Christ. Dionysius tells Paul to repeat these exact words: ‘Yo te mando que veas en el nonbre de Ihesu Christo que nasçió de la Virgen e fué cruçificado e muerto e enterrado e resuçitó e subió a los Çielos’ (189) (‘I command you to see in the name of Jesus Christ who was born of the Virgin and was crucified and died and buried and arose and ascended into heaven’). These phrases come straight from the Creed in the liturgy and would have been very familiar to the audience of El espéculo. Paul responds, telling Dionysius to pronounce the words of healing himself. Since Dionysius was a protégé of Paul, Paul here shows his disciple that he, too, can heal others if he does so in the name of Christ. When Dionysius utters the pronouncement, the man’s sight is restored. Since the text specifies that the blind man is not a Christian, it can be safely assumed that he will convert as a result of being healed in the name of Christ and, thus, his ability to see can be interpreted as the gift of spiritual, as well as physical, sight.

Deafness and Inability to Speak Those that are deaf, including for many an accompanying inability to speak, make up the third and fourth impairments respectively most frequently reversed by miracle cures according to Metzler’s research.85 Miracle narratives from Spain usually consider these two impairments together and they make up the third most frequent type of disability addressed in accounts of miraculous healing in the Spanish corpus, thus reflecting much the same results as for the works studied by Metzler. While not as prevalent as 84 See Acts 17:34. 85 The relative frequency of cures of the deaf and those unable to speak in Spanish texts contrasts with Finucane’s claim from a study of accounts from England that miraculous cures of the deaf and those unable to speak were rare (Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 107).

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accounts of the cure of various forms of lameness or blindness, in works from Pre-Modern Spain there are a significant number of narratives about the restoration of the powers to hear and speak. Among the posthumous miracles performed at the tomb of St. Dominic as recorded in Berceo’s Vida de Santo Domingo, strophes 557-570 tell of a woman from Palencia who loses the power of speech and hearing due to her sins (‘por sus pecados’). The text further states that when the woman becomes deaf and without speech, she also loses her ability to reason. As previously mentioned, the deaf and those unable to speak were often believed to be mentally deficient due to an inability to communicate and this appears to be the perception in this text as well. Strophes 559-560 specify the sin the woman had committed that warranted this divine punishment; rather than attend vesper services on Saturday evening, she stayed home and kneaded dough for bread. According to the poem, she is struck deaf and loses the power to speak due to the sin of pride (‘sobervia’). The woman’s parents and all her friends are very distressed by the onset of her impairments and decide to take her to Dominic’s tomb in Silos. They remain with the woman at the tomb for a week, begging the saint to intercede for her. During Mass on the following Sunday, the woman regains her speech and utters ‘Gloria tibi Domine’ (‘Glory to You, Lord’) before the reading of the Gospel. In gratitude for this cure, the woman makes offerings to the monastery and never again misses Saturday vespers. This is another example of a cure effectuated during the offering of the Mass and appropriately the words of praise that this woman first utters are part of the Mass itself. Cases of the deaf and those who cannot speak who seek the intercession of the Virgin Mary for a cure are more frequent in the Cantigas de Santa Maria. There are seven Cantigas that deal with those who are unable to hear or speak. Cantiga 69 deals with historically identifiable figures and is set in Toledo. The poem reports that during the reign of Alfonso VII (1126-1157) when the King is visiting Toledo, a monk identified as a friend of Count Ponce de Minerva86 travels with his deaf brother, Pedro de Solarana, to Toledo. Pedro, although completely deaf, understands all that is said by way of signs: ‘[P]er sinas todo ben entendia’ (I, 231). The inclusion of communicating by signs is a detail that has been previously seen in other narratives that deal with the deaf who do not speak. Here it would seem 86 The poem names him only as Count Don Ponce but Mettmann identifies him as Ponce de Minerva, who appears in the Primera crónica general as a vassal of Fernando II (1157-1188) and who is identified in documents from 1144-1146 as the king’s standard bearer or second lieutenant (Cantigas de Santa Maria, Vol. I, p. 231).

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that Pedro has developed a fairly comprehensive system for signage. Pedro is very devoted to the Virgin and, by grunting (‘mugindo’) he begs her to cure him of his impairments. One day while he is passing in front of a church, he sees a beautiful light emanating from inside the building. When he looks inside he sees a beautiful lady who beckons him to come before the altar where a priest is preparing to say Mass. He does as she indicates and kneels before the priest who extracts a worm from his ear and he recovers his hearing. The worm is described in detail as ‘semella / destes de sirgo, mais come ovella / era velos’ e coberto de lãa’ (I, 233) (‘like a silkworm but fleecy as a sheep and covered with wool’) (91). Pedro goes immediately to his brother, the monk, and indicates to him by signs that he can now hear. The following Friday, when Pedro is again passing by the church, he sees a man with white hair and beard who takes him inside the church where, again, he sees the Virgin. She orders the same priest who had restored his hearing to restore to him the power of speech. The priest obeys and Pedro speaks at once, singing praises in gratitude to Holy Mary. This is a long poem with a somewhat convoluted plot but it takes great pains to offer details that add realistic notes to a tale that revolves around divine apparitions and the appearance of heavenly beings on earth. The use of historically identifiable characters and the careful attention to details about names and places lend veracity to the account and establish specific witnesses for this miracle cure. By contrast, Cantiga 101 is a very short text that relates the cure of a deaf man at the Virgin’s church in Soissons in France. The poem establishes that the man begs for a cure with his heart since he cannot express himself in words: ‘[R]ogar Deus no coraçon, / ca pela boca ja non / llo podia el mostrar’ (II, 11). Before the Virgin’s altar he makes gestures with his hands; this is yet another reference to a type of sign language which, supposedly, Mary understands. The Virgin appears before the man, touches his face with her hands, and he is cured. When he regains his speech and hearing, blood pours from his ears and tongue. Cantiga 234 is another of the poems set at the Virgin’s church in Villasirga.87 As in Cantiga 69 discussed above, the poem is careful to provide verifiable details. The deaf boy, who is the protagonist of Cantiga 234, is identified as coming from Saldaña, a town in the province of Palencia, who is brought up by Don Rodrigo, the nobleman who is entrusted by the King with the protection of Saldaña. Rodrigo decides to visit Villasirga and takes the deaf boy with him. He has the boy sleep in front of the altar and, when Mass is being sung, on the following morning he regains both his hearing 87 See note 65 of Chapter 1.

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and his speech. Recovery during Mass and sleeping in a consecrated space are familiar patterns that are repeated in this account. A woman who is deaf and without speech is cured at Puy in Cantiga 262.88 The circumstances of this healing are unusual but it follows the pattern of the appearance of celestial beings, as is common in the cure of those who are deaf in the Cantigas. There is a tremendous storm in Puy with thunder and lightning at the hour of matins, i.e., just before dawn. The storm is so severe that all the faithful vacate the church. However, the woman who is deaf does not leave the church, but hides behind the altar. There is no reason given for this woman staying behind; she presumably could not hear the storm, but there is no motive given for her not following the others out of the church. With the church vacant, except for the presence of the deaf woman, she sees all the saints appear before the Virgin and sing the ‘Salve Regina’. Upon witnessing this heavenly gathering, the woman regains her speech and hearing. The text stipulates that, after her cure, she can speak fluently and she is especially talented in singing the ‘Salve Regina’. The protagonist of this miracle goes from being unable to hear or speak to become one who sings well in praise to the Virgin. This Cantiga ends with a reference that implies that the woman becomes a kind of troubadour of the Virgin: ‘[P]or outros trobadores mostrasse tan gran sinal / a Virgen Santa Maria’ (III, 14) (‘The Holy Virgin Mary could also show such favours to other troubadours’) (318). This is an internal reference within the Cantigas that parallels Alfonso’s own desire to be the Virgin’s troubadour, as expressed in Prologue B of his Marian collection. In the Prologue, he declares: [E]u quero seer oy mais seu trobador, e rogo-lle que me queira por seu Trobador e que queira meu trobar reçeber, ca per el quer’ eu mostrar dos miragres que ela fez [….] (I, 55) (I wish from this day forth to be Her troubadour, and I pray that She will have me for Her troubadour and accept my songs, for through them I seek to reveal the miracles She performed.) (2)

The recipient of the miracle cure in Cantiga 262 is likewise a troubadour for the Virgin as she sings hymns in praise of Mary in much the same way that Alfonso composes songs to Mary’s glory. Alfonso, too, proclaims himself a 88 See note 43 of this chapter.

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fellow sufferer with those whom the Virgin cures since he himself received miraculous intercession from Mary in times of severe illness. Alfonso is the protagonist in Cantigas 235, 209, 279, and 367, which all relate incidences when the King suffered life-threatening illnesses and his recovery in each is attributed to the power of the Virgin.89 Cantiga 324 takes place in the cathedral in Sevilla and recounts the cure of a man who is unable to hear or speak. Although discussed in the chapter on the deaf, I repeat this account here because it was a particularly personal miracle for Alfonso X since he claims to have been an eye-witness to this cure. This is the Cantiga about the beautiful statue of the Virgin that the King had made for the cathedral in Sevilla. He orders that the statue be taken from its chapel and brought out in procession because the faithful are clamouring to see it. The deaf protagonist of this narrative uses signs to inquire about the statue, as previously noted. When he learns that it is a statue commissioned by the King and gazes on its beauty, he at once regains his speech which he had lost two years previously. Alfonso here participates both directly as one of many witnesses to this miracle cure and also indirectly, since he had commissioned the statue that becomes the instrument for divine intervention. The King uses this Cantiga as an instrument to display his affection for Sevilla as well as to emphasize the role he plays in bringing about this instance of miraculous healing. Loss of speech, without accompanying hearing loss, is the subject of Cantiga 156. This poem deals with a priest who is especially talented in singing hymns to the Virgin. This ability irritates some heretics who capture him and decide to cut out his tongue so that he can no longer sing. His inability to sing causes the priest deep emotional distress: E o que mais grave ll’ era, que quando oya son dizer dos que el dissera, quebrava-ll’ o coraçon […] (II, 150) (The most grievous thing to him was that when he heard one of the songs which he used to sing, his heart broke […]) (191)

The text states that he wandered about in his suffering until one day he comes to the Virgin’s church at Cluny in France.90 When he hears the singing 89 For a complete discussion of these Cantigas, see Chapter 7 of my book A Holy Alliance. 90 City in the department of Saône-et-Loire, site of a famous tenth-century Benedictine abbey (Kulp-Hill, Songs of Holy Mary, p. 191).

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of vespers he longs to join in and Mary responds to his desire, causing his tongue to grow back ‘toda nova e comprida, qual ante soy’ aver’ (II, 150) (‘new and full length, as he used to have’) (191). In this case, the Virgin does not appear to the priest but she is, nonetheless, credited with the miraculous regrowth of his tongue. The poem also shows Mary’s omniscience since she is aware of the priest’s desire to sing again, even though he is not capable of verbally expressing his petition for healing.

Leprosy Metzler contends that the most common condition linked with sin in accounts of miraculous cures is leprosy.91 Although this study identif ied examples of the onset of leprosy as a divine punishment for evil, the association of the condition with sin is not a common motif in accounts of divine cures found in texts from Pre-Modern Spain. An exception to this rule is found in Cantiga 93 of the Cantigas de Santa Maria as previously discussed in the chapter on leprosy. In this narrative a young man is afflicted with leprosy because of his licentiousness as the poem clearly states: ‘[Q]uiso Deus que caess’ en el mui gran gafeen’ (I, 287) (‘God willed to inflict a horrible leprosy upon him’) (118). After three years spent in isolation and prayer, the Virgin appears to him and anoints his body with her milk. This holy treatment completely cures the young man and ‘o coiro ouve tod’ a mudar’ (I, 287) (‘his skin grew back perfectly’). The power of Holy Mary’s milk to heal and comfort is a standard motif in accounts of divine healing. Another example is found in Cantiga 54 in which the Virgin’s milk cures a monk who is gravely ill.92 Another example of a cure of a leper is found in the Vida de Santo Domingo in strophes 475-478. A leper approaches St. Dominic after he finishes preaching a sermon. There is no mention of the leper having committed any sins that would have warranted leprosy as divine punishment. Nevertheless, the text emphasizes the shame the man feels at being so disfigured: ‘[N] on era de bergüença de parecer osado’ (475d) (‘Ashamed, he had hardly the courage to appear’) (280). While one could argue that his shame results 91 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 151. 92 Perhaps the most famous recipient of the Virgin’s milk is St. Bernard. As a reward for Bernard’s defence of her perpetual Virginity, a statue of Mary was believed to have given the saint milk from her breasts. As an iconographic motif, this incident was painted by Alonso Cano and Bartolomé Murillo, among others.

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from sin, the reference here seems more directly related to the fact that the leper is aware that his physical appearance is repulsive to others and he suffers emotionally from their rejection or avoidance. The leper falls at the feet of St. Dominic and begs him to offer a Mass for his healing. Dominic is moved to pity at the sight of this ‘mesquino’, enters a nearby church, and offers the Mass the leper had requested. At the end of the Mass, Dominic blesses salt and water, pours the mixture over the afflicted man, and all trace of leprosy disappears.93 Another miracle account deals with both the cause and the cure of leprosy. Cantiga 189 relates the encounter between a pilgrim from Valencia, on his way to the Virgin’s church at Salas, and a dragon-like beast in the forest.94 When the pilgrim takes out his sword and deals the creature a mortal blow, blood and foul breath spew forth from the beast and cause the pilgrim to become a leper.95 Despite his affliction, he continues his journey to Salas where he prays to be cured and he is at once healed of his condition. There is no mention of sin in connection to the man’s infection with leprosy and, in fact, the sufferer here is a devout pilgrim. In this narrative leprosy is caused by a malevolent, outside agent in the form of an otherworldly beast. Dragons are extremely rare in Spanish literature other than in translations from texts originating outside of Iberia and the link with this creature and leprosy is unique to this Cantiga.96 Other divine cures for leprosy that were cited in the chapter on leprosy include that of the Emperor Constantine’s healing by Pope Sylvester when he baptizes the Emperor as a Christian, the healing of the leprous child when he bathes in the same water used to bathe the Christ Child as portrayed in the Libre dels Tres Reys D’Orient, and the cure of the leper who bathed his fellow sufferer as instructed by St. Bridget in El espéculo de los legos. These accounts contain several repeating motives – the use of water as miraculous agent to cure leprosy, the pity and compassion felt by the saints toward the leprous, and the acknowledgement that none of those afflicted would have been cured without divine intervention.

93 Ruffinatto reminds us that salt had liturgical uses since ancient times, especially in the blessing of water (ed., Gonzalo de Berceo, Obra completa, p. 344). 94 See note 62 of Chapter 1. 95 The breath of the basilisk was thought to be particularly dangerous. Finucane cites the case of Gaufrid who began to swell and turn black from the sulphurous vapour of a large snake who hissed at him (Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 73). 96 For a complete study of this Cantiga, see my article, ‘A Rare Case of a Dragon in Medieval Spanish Literature’.

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Interdependence of Disability and Divine Cure The examples provided of cures for missing limbs, paralysis, crippling, blindness, deafness, inability to speak, and leprosy are representative of the cures effectuated by the saints and their relics in texts from Medieval Spain. In most cases there is little, if any, information about how an individual became impaired. Although there are vague references to ‘one’s sins’ as a cause for suffering a disability, these seem more literary convention than precise attempts to establish cause and effect. Occasionally a disability is said to result from an illness, but this is the exception to the rule. Metzler asserts that the ‘vast majority of impairments […] were described without attribution of either punishment or chance/accident’.97 Almost all versions of saints’ lives contain references to healing. Often these appear purely formulaic as, for example, in the following passage from the La vida de San Alejo (Life of St. Alexis) about cures at the saint’s tomb: ‘[L]os mudos recobravan su fabra e los çiegos la vista e los gafos eran limpios’ (81)98 (‘The mute recovered their speech, the blind their sight, and the lepers were made clean’). This is typical of the litany of powers of the saints and their relics found in hagiographies and collections of miracles and it became, in a sense, a literary convention. The sites where miraculous cures were most likely to occur were the tombs of saints and churches dedicated to the Virgin Mary. With regard to the efficacy of shrines marking the burial place of saints, Finucane claims that the proximity of ‘[r]elics, especially the integral skeletons of 97 Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe, p. 151. 98 From the version of Alexis’s life found in ms. 9247 of the Spanish National Library, Madrid, in the edition prepared by Carlos Alberto Vega. Another version of St. Alexis’s life, also edited by Vega and found in ms. 419 of the library of Lázaro Galdiano in Madrid, stipulates that, after the saint’s death, his body ‘los çiegos alunbrava e sanava los endominados e todos los enfermos que le tañían luego sanavan de qualquier enfermedat que oviessen’ (La vida de San Alejo, pp. 95-96) (‘illuminated the blind and cured the demonically possessed and all the sick who touched him of whatever illness they suffered’). Saint Alexis rejected marriage and lived a life of poverty and service to God. After years living as an ascetic on the alms he received, he returned to the house of his father, who was a rich patriarch of Rome. There he lived for seventeen years without being recognized by his family. When he knew that he was about to die, he wrote a letter to his father revealing his true identity. After death the body of Alexis had the power to heal the sick and disabled. The moral of this story is the blindness of Alexis’s own family to his identity since he appeared to them as a poor beggar. It is only after they read the account of his life and witnessed the miracles his body can perform that they realize that they have been in the presence of sanctity without being aware of it. This theme of the lack of spiritual vision, i.e., of not recognizing a blessed or celestial figure, is a familiar motif and a warning about the deception of appearance.

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widely-known saints, emitted a kind of holy radioactivity which bombarded everything in the area’.99 Importance was placed on traveling to the shrine and petitioners often slept near the tomb or the relics of the saint since ‘it was believed that their therapeutic power acted most effectively during sleep’.100 Often, in miracle accounts, the cure does not occur right away but only after the afflicted individual has spent several days, weeks, or even months at the saint’s tomb or at a shrine or church.101 Finucane and Vauchez concur in affirming that miracle accounts in which the sufferer was cured instantaneously when he/she approached a saint’s tomb were not typical.102 In many collections, there are references to the impaired or ill lying about in the churches waiting to be cured, at times interfering with other pilgrims who wanted to enter the church.103 When cures do occur, they may not be immediate or complete and references were made to the formerly-impaired needing time to regain strength before gaining complete control of their fully-abled bodies. Posthumous miracles performed by the saints, and pilgrimage to their shrines, were recognized and encouraged by the Church in the Middle Ages. Furthermore, the expectation of a cure and faith in the power of a saint’s relics or the healing properties of certain shrines or statues could have therapeutic value in and of themselves.104 Although the Virgin Mary was not associated with one particular shrine, certain churches and images of Mary became particularly important destinations for suffering pilgrims. Images of saints, too, could acquire thaumaturgical properties just as did statues of the Virgin.105 Dreams or visions of a saint or the Virgin could prompt one to go on pilgrimage and the impaired often reported apparitions in response to their prayers for a cure.106 The most important element in Medieval accounts of miraculous cures was, without exception, absolute faith on the part of the sufferer that he/she would be healed. In the very rare cases where cures do not occur, the failure to be healed is related to some grave sin or failure to believe in the truths of Christian doctrine. When 99 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 26. 100 Vauchez, Sainthood, pp. 444-45. 101 Vauchez, Sainthood, p. 445. 102 Finucane maintains that ‘in the Middle Ages a miracle might take weeks or, in some cases, months. No matter – in the end the saint still received credit, another miracle was recorded’ (Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 76). 103 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 76. 104 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 81. 105 Vauchez, Sainthood, p. 450. 106 Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims, p. 111.

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written collections of miracles began to circulate, as texts or as accounts in sermons, the sites named as places where cures occurred became popular destinations for the disabled. Miracle tales were popular, oft-repeated, and served a variety of purposes – to promote a particular shrine, increase devotion among the faithful, and inspire hope for the sick or disabled. The physically impaired were particularly likely candidates for a miraculous cure since, in most cases, the reversal of the disabling condition was beyond the pale of medical knowledge. In Medieval literary texts, miraculous cures are real and tangible, with the potential to heal any affliction, regardless of severity. For the physically impaired, restoration to full ability was always a possibility since it was believed that God had infinite potential to change anything in His created universe.

6 Conclusions This study has shown that the traditional models for studies of disability – the social and the medical – are not sufficient in an exploration of disability in Pre-Modern literature. A cultural model that takes into account the historical and social circumstances in which the impairment is experienced and represented has proven more helpful. For texts produced in the Middle Ages this model requires an understanding of the theological and legal systems operative during the period. A study such as the present must also take into account the roles of literary texts in Medieval society and the way that readers/listeners interacted with them. The task of recuperating the aesthetic and ethical milieus that produced the texts studied herein requires the examination of a wide range of written materials including histories, law codes, advice manuals, medical tracts as well as works now classified as fiction. A thorough analysis of how the disabled were portrayed in such works is a first and critical step toward a recuperation of the beliefs, traditions, taboos, and prejudices about physically-impaired individuals during this period. Furthermore, a study of how authors represent the disabled provides clues about how the impaired may have functioned in Medieval society and the ways in which they were distinguished, and at times, isolated from those perceived as fully-abled. Concepts about what constituted physical, as well as mental, normalcy effected the ways in which impaired individuals were perceived and the barriers that may have existed that prevented their full participation in society.1 While the Spanish corpus includes a unique case of an autobiographical representation of disability – that of Teresa de Cartagena writing about her experience of deafness – such treatises are largely unavailable or impossible to authenticate for Medieval literary works. Without first-hand accounts of the lived experience of the disabled, trying to determine how and why individuals with impairments were portrayed in works from an early historical time frame is a complicated task. Among factors that must be taken into account is the imperative for many Medieval authors to base 1 Popular in contemporary discourse about disability has been the trend to replace ‘disability’ with ‘differently-abled’, thus emphasizing a person’s abilities, even if these are less than those associated with the fully-abled. A contemporary manual on Inclusive Education in Spain rejects the term ‘individuales discapacitados’ (‘disabled individuals’) entirely and states that ‘todas las personas somos limitadas y podemos ser discapacitadas en algún momento de nuestra vida’ (‘we are all limited persons and we all can become disabled at some time in our lives’) (Abarca Heredia, La discapacidad, p. 5).

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their arguments on accepted authoritative sources – philosophical, theological, and legal. The idea of attributable authorship, too, was not a hallmark of literature in the Medieval period. Works were often anonymous and consisted of reworking existing source materials. Therefore, works in which the disabled appear were not necessarily based on first-hand experience with impaired individuals. The disabled appear in texts, many of which could more correctly be qualified as the rewriting, reinterpretation, or refashioning of an author’s or authors’ sources. In addition, it is impossible to verify if the body of texts available for study is actually representative of the works of the period since many have not survived the vagaries of time and history. My choice to include texts that would not be classif ied as ‘literary’ by contemporary standards as, for example, historical, scientif ic and legal manuals is based on the fact that in the Middle Ages these works did not adhere to the current academic guidelines for such materials. Histories, law codes, and scientif ic tracts could more accurately be considered under the large rubric of didactic materials since they were often anecdotal in structure and intended to edify as well as to inform. The frequent appearance of the disabled in a wide variety of texts attests not only to their abiding presence but also to a need to explain and understand individuals perceived to be differing from the norm. Since different forms of physical disability were considered within specif ic frameworks of beliefs and practices, I consider various impairments separately. Lameness, blindness, deafness (and the associated lack of speech), and leprosy are presented as disabling and the responses to each condition range from rejection to compassion, from punishment to metaphor for societal ills. The lame, paralytic, and amputees were part of the vast repertoire of physical disabilities contained in literary texts. These disabled individuals – most commonly referred to as contrechos in texts from Medieval Spain – were usually portrayed as in need of some type of physical assistance either in the form of a prosthetic device or other means to allow them a degree of mobility. Due to their impaired ability to move about unaided, authors tend to emphasize the restrictive spaces in which the lame lived, often alluding to their confinement to bed or to the interior of the home. While not entirely absent from the workforce, they were often portrayed as unable to perform many basic, everyday tasks. Any contrecho condition could result from accident, war, or circumstances of birth, although the reason for the impairment is not often stated. In some portrayals of individuals with restricted mobility issues, the condition was attributed to

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God’s displeasure. Additionally, maiming, resulting in the disfigurement or loss of limb could be imposed as divine punishment against a sinner, but could also be used as a secular, judicial punishment for certain crimes. Some, who were born grossly deformed or became severely disfigured due to accident or injury, were considered monstrous and were objects of fear or rejection. The physically deformed might, too, be ridiculed or used as examples to teach moral lessons. In literary portrayals, contrechos/as can be presented as a burden for others but there are counter examples of their inclusion in a society where those with issues of restricted mobility may have been all too common. The blind constitute the second largest group of individuals with physical impairments that appear in Medieval Spanish texts. Although the blind beggar has been viewed, perhaps erroneously, as a stereotypical figure in literature, there is historical evidence that the blind often did subsist on alms and, in certain areas, there were well-organized fraternities of the blind who were authorized to solicit aid from others. In literary texts, the blind could be portrayed as either foolish or somehow lacking not only physical, but also spiritual, sight. In particular, the inability of the blind to view the consecrated Host was considered a severe impediment for full participation in the Christian community. Not seeing the world physically could also be used metaphorically to imply that one was blind to the truths of the Christian faith. On a practical level, the blind needed to be guided, usually by a sighted person, but they might also be perceived as in need of spiritual guidance. Blinding could be imposed as either divine retribution or as legal penalty and was considered one of the most severe types of punishment. Although Spanish law forbade blinding as a juridical sentence, historical and literary examples abound of gouging out eyes in acts of cruelty or as a fitting response to heinous crimes such as treason or blasphemy. Blinding oneself also appears in some works as a way to avoid lust or the distractions of worldly vanity. The blind could also be convenient targets as the butt of jokes who appear to act foolishly or who are easily deceived. In other cases, the blind might be viewed with suspicion since blindness was an impairment that could be feigned and the blind beggar, particularly, was pitiable but also untrustworthy. Those who were deaf were usually also portrayed as lacking speech, especially for individuals that were deaf since birth. Medieval medicine held that those deaf from birth were incapable of speech. This belief gradually broke down as education for the deaf began to take shape with the first system for teaching the deaf to speak originating in Spain. The monk Pedro Ponce de León developed a system for instruction of the deaf at the

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Monastery of San Salvador de Oña in the sixteenth century.2 However, during the Middle Ages, the inability to hear or speak led, particularly, to religious stigmatization since individuals with these impairments could not hear the Christian gospel proclaimed nor make oral confession. It is fortunate, albeit ironic in light of religious teaching about the deaf, that the only first-person account in Medieval Spain of the experience of deafness is the writing of a religious individual, Teresa de Cartagena. Her consolatory text, Arboleda de los enfermos, provides a unique perspective and insights into the way one individual struggled and came to appreciate the onset of deafness. While deaf individuals from wealthy families might live in a monastery or convent, as did Teresa de Cartagena, those of more humble origins populated the towns and countryside. Wherever they resided, however, they would have been isolated even if they had developed some system of signing to communicate with family and friends. Deafness could result from circumstances of birth or from illness or disease. Like other impairments, deafness or an inability to speak could be visited on an individual as a punishment from God. An inability to speak, as well, was often interpreted as a lack of intelligence, the vestiges of which are still circulating in the expression ‘deaf and dumb’. Although the lame, blind, or deaf were portrayed at times as socially ostracized, the impaired most likely to suffer social rejection or rebuff were the lepers. In Pre-Modern texts leprosy was certainly considered a disability – a physical condition that visibly conveyed bodily difference and led to both deforming and debilitating realities for the afflicted individual. Leprosy was a disease that would inevitably lead to disfiguration and an inability to perform most motor tasks. The most common reaction to encountering a leper was disgust or fear. In addition to the obvious inclusion of lepers in medical texts, they also appear in histories, law codes, manuals for preaching, moralizing tales, romance, and epic. With the lepers of the Bible as everpresent models, the lepers that populate Medieval texts carried with them not only the weight of tradition and prejudice but also the very real facts of the deterioration of their bodies as the disease progressed. They are portrayed as both a social reality and as metaphor. As metaphor, a person suffering from leprosy functions as a symbol of the fallen condition of all humankind or as an embodiment of general social or moral pollution. Leprosy was sometimes portrayed as a punishment sent by God but a leper could also be a heavenly messenger in disguise who tests one’s dedication to the rule of Christian 2 For a complete account of this development, see the first chapter of Susan Plann’s A Silent Minority (pp. 13-35).

Conclusions

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charity. The fact that certain men and women come to the leper’s aid despite societal concerns about contagion usually adds to the exemplary moral character of these individuals and they are often rewarded for their acts of kindness. Despite the common notion that lepers were ostracized from society, the exclusion of lepers from a community was far from consistent or permanent and their inclusion in literature attests to authors’, and their audiences’, familiarity with those afflicted with the disease. For all the conditions considered in this study, the lines between the reality of any impairment and its symbolic implications were sometimes blurred and, as such, resist contemporary definitions or theoretical models about the disabled. In texts from Medieval Spain, there are examples of the disabled who are viewed as a burden to their families or society at large, as worthy objects of Christian charity, as sinners punished by divine wrath, as hopeful recipients of medical, or more often, miraculous cures, and as the butt of jokes or humiliations. This wide variety of ways in which the impaired were portrayed does not lead us to conclude that the disabled were systematically vilified, tolerated, or humanely treated in Pre-Modern literature. This survey of works from Medieval Spain establishes that the disabled suffered certain legal restrictions and, additionally, could be judged as morally deficient. There are, however, counter-examples of admirable historical figures with impairments as well as portrayals of acts of great kindness toward the disabled. Do the disabled in Medieval texts serve merely as ‘narrative prosthetics’, as labelled by Mitchell and Snyder in their study of the portrayals of impaired individuals in modern or contemporary texts? Not exclusively but they do since their impairment often drives the narrative and the disabled proliferate in all types of texts. However, the vastly different historical and social contexts in which both disabled characters and the authors who wrote about them lived must always be taken in account. While religious discourse was a prominent and authoritative model, even in Pre-Modern Spain, it did not always constitute the unilateral control over how the disabled were represented that Wheatley has postulated. If, as Stiker affirms, the Middle Ages did not establish an effective praxis for portraying the disabled, this lack of stable patterns should not necessarily be construed as negative. Just as each impaired individual experiences his or her disability differently, so too the authors who wrote about the disabled interpreted the lives of these individuals with differing degrees of acceptance, tolerance, rejection, or prejudice. While certain established literary motifs or allegories with regard to the disabled in early literature cannot be denied, neither is it accurate to see all impaired individuals as merely or exclusively symbols or metaphors.

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Perhaps the most striking difference between contemporary attitudes about the disabled and those revealed in Medieval texts is embodied in the last chapter of this study which looks at the pervading belief that any impairment could be cured by divine grace. Faith, and acts of devotion such as prayer, fasting, and going on pilgrimage were portrayed as having tangible results. The proliferation of impaired characters especially in hagiographic texts and miracle collections attests to an abiding hope that, potentially, all who believed could be returned to full health and ability. Religious belief in a cure did not wholly replace medical intervention, but the most reliable reversals of disabling conditions were inevitably acts of divine intervention. By following Irina Metzler’s lead in analysing cures as separate from portrayals of the impairments themselves, I have tried to explore two sides of the same issue – the experience of a disability, and the conviction that the condition is not necessarily permanent.3 Ideas about human difference are ever-changing and exploring how the disabled were portrayed in a different historical/social context from the present can be especially valuable to understand how disability is viewed today. Contemporary definitions of disability, impairment, and normalcy did not emerge fully formed, and examining how authors presented these concepts in earlier periods can provide insight into how current notions came to be constructed. The disabled individuals who populate Medieval literary texts – as herein broadly defined – do not, necessarily, faithfully represent the realities the disabled experienced in Pre-Modern society, but they do reflect certain shared beliefs, mores, and taboos about the physically impaired. In this study of texts from Medieval Spain, even though no single pattern of portrayals of the disabled has emerged, an over-arching matrix, common to all types of impairments has taken shape. A disability can serve to damn or redeem persons labelled as differing from the norm. On one hand, the impairments visited on individuals can be seen as physical indicators of sin, either as a result of some personal moral failing or as representative of the taint of original sin that affects all humankind – a state of disgrace. On the other hand, individuals who are disabled were all seen as latent recipients for a miraculous cure and an attending return to grace. Their presence reminded Christian audiences of God’s infinite power to punish His sinful creatures, but also of His potential to restore the disabled body, as well as to save the sinful soul.

3 See Chapter 5 of Metzler’s Disability in Medieval Europe: Thinking about Physical Impairments during the High Middle Ages, c. 1100-1400.



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Index able-bodied; see also fully-abled 15, 19, 26, 28, 37, 39, 74, 108, 182 abnormal, abnormality 15, 32, 37, 58 accidents 20, 43-44, 46 Admiraçión operum Dei 116-17, 218, 222 Aemilianus, St. 49, 85, 177-79, 188, 195 Aesop 57-58, 91, 118-19 Alfonso X 23, 33, 38-41, 43-44, 48, 57, 61, 71-72, 79, 81-82, 84, 86, 103, 119, 128, 137, 140-41, 143, 146, 168, 176, 183, 192, 198, 204 alms 19-20, 74-78, 98, 106, 122, 149, 153, 207, 213 Amis et Amiles 161 Aquinas, Thomas 59 Arboleda de los enfermos 107-10, 113-14, 116-17, 214 Aretaeus of Cappadocia 132-33 Aristotle 18, 60, 101-03, 129, 224 Arnau de Vilanova 16, 133, 135 astrology 40-41 Augustine, St. 60, 66, 70, 100-01, 109, 129, 167-68 Avicenna 132-36, 139, 143 begging 19, 42, 50, 53-54, 69, 74, 77-78, 122, 141, 192, 201 Bernard de Gordon 48, 133-36 Bernard, St. 109, 144, 205 Bible, biblical; see also Old Testament and New Testament 70, 72, 109, 118, 168, 214 blind, blindness, blinding 16, 22-23, 25, 28, 32-34, 42, 51, 55-57, 65-98, 103-05, 111, 117, 147, 162, 165-66, 171, 173, 189-201, 207, 212-14 Bocados de oro 57 Calila e Dimna 106 Cantar de Mio Cid 70-71 Cantigas de Santa Maria 43-45, 48-49, 51-52, 61, 84-87, 119, 123, 128, 148, 168, 173, 175-76, 183, 185-87, 190, 192, 196, 201, 205 Castigos e documentos para bien vivir ordenados por el Rey Sancho IV 149, 151 charity 19-20, 28, 74-75, 118, 139, 149, 155, 215 Christ; see also Jesus 11, 21, 24, 51-52, 62, 66-72, 87-88, 107, 117, 150-51, 153, 158-60, 164, 166, 171, 176, 178-79, 193-94, 197, 200, 206 Christian, Christianity 13, 15, 18, 20-21, 23, 39, 41, 44, 59-60, 62, 66-68, 70, 75, 78, 81, 83, 85, 87-88, 93, 100, 107, 113, 122-23, 129, 140, 142-43, 148-49, 155-56, 158-61, 164, 168, 170, 172-73, 189, 196, 200, 206, 208, 213-16 chronicle 12, 81-82, 153, 155, 157-58, 193 Church 20-21, 23-24, 33-34, 67, 71, 75-76, 87-88, 100-01, 141, 143, 146, 180, 183, 187, 208 ciego/a 34, 42, 57, 65, 71-73, 76-78, 93-94, 98, 103, 105, 172, 196, 207 clergy; see also priests 23

Códice Zabálburu de Medicina Medieval 104, 136-37 cojo/a, coxo/a 31, 34, 38, 40-42, 46-47, 55-56 Conde Lucanor 57, 91-92, 94, 146-47, 164 confession 24, 123, 125, 129, 143, 175, 214 consolation 107-08 Constantine, Emperor 81, 156-59, 164, 206 contrechos 31-32, 36, 39-41, 50, 53-54, 55, 57, 147, 172, 177, 179-80, 182, 212-13 Corbacho, o reprobación del amor mundano 56, 122 corcovado/a 31 crime 12, 79, 82-83, 85-88, 148-49, 162, 164, 213 crippled 22, 31, 33-36, 38-39, 41, 43, 47-52, 54-55, 72, 119, 137, 174, 177-80, 182, 184, 186-87, 189, 191-92 Crónica abreviada 158 Crónica de Castilla 153 cures; see also miracles and healing 11, 13, 17, 20-21, 24-25, 29, 43-45, 48-50, 52-54, 59, 68-69, 72-73, 85, 90-91, 96, 103-04, 118-19, 128, 136-38, 141-42, 147-49, 157-68, 171-75, 177-209, 215-16 Cyrurgia 47, 136 De consolatione philosophiae 108 De las ilustres mujeres en romance 109, 126 deaf, deafness 14, 16, 25, 28, 31-32, 68, 73, 99-107, 109-19, 127-30, 147, 165, 171, 173, 200-04, 207, 211-14 defect 18, 20, 31, 33-34, 59-62, 117, 119 deformed, deformity 18, 22-23, 31, 33-34, 38, 40-42, 47, 52, 54, 57-60, 62, 85, 95, 147, 165, 173-74, 187, 213-14 Deuteronomy 22, 73 disease, diseased 16-17, 22, 24, 27-29, 33, 48, 53-54, 62, 131-45, 147-48, 156, 158, 162, 171, 174-75, 214-15 Dominic, St. 49-50, 77, 179-83, 188-95, 201, 205-06 Esopete ystoriado 57-58, 60, 84, 91, 95-96, 118 Espéculo de los legos 89, 92, 120, 123, 147-48, 155, 199, 206 Espéculo ó espejo de todos los derechos 103 Estoria de España; see also Primera crónica general 39, 41, 44, 81-82, 156, 158 Eucharist 67, 103 eunuchs 22, 33-34 faith, faithful 18, 20-21, 23-24, 29, 44, 60, 62, 69, 84-85, 87, 97, 100-101, 119, 128, 147, 158, 170, 172-73, 177, 179-80, 183, 190, 192, 197-99, 203-04, 208-09, 213, 216 Flores de filosofía 57, 94

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Fourth Lateran Council 24 Francis, St. 21, 24, 48, 51, 66, 107, 110, 115, 142 fully-abled 15, 17, 23, 208, 211 gafo/a 131, 138, 141, 144-45, 147, 150, 153-54, 157, 159-60, 172, 207 Galen 118, 132, 134, 136 Galvanus de Levanto 133, 143 General estoria 34, 38-39, 72-73, 79-80 giboso/a 31, 58 Glosa castellana al ‘Regimiento de Príncipes’ de Egidio Romano 47, 83, 124-25, 127-28 God 11, 15, 18, 21-25, 34, 38, 40-41, 59-62, 65-66, 68-70, 72-74, 78-79, 83, 85-88, 92-93, 96-97, 101, 107, 110-21, 123, 129, 140, 143, 146, 148, 150-51, 153-56, 165, 167-68, 170, 173, 176, 178, 183, 187, 189-90, 193, 196, 199, 205, 207, 209, 213-14, 216 Gonzalo de Berceo 49-50, 53, 85, 96, 173, 177-79, 181, 183, 188, 192-96, 201, 206 Gospel of St. John 23, 68-69, 71-72, 153, 196 gout 39-40, 42, 181-83, 189 Gratian 23 Gregory IX 24, 33 guilt, guilty 59, 79, 87, 125, 146, 159 Guy de Chauliac 48, 133 hagiography, hagiographic 25, 29, 156, 161, 165, 169, 173, 177, 192, 196, 207, 216 Hansen, Hansen’s disease 131 healing 21, 23, 47, 67, 68-69, 71-72, 104, 128, 166, 168, 171-72, 175, 177, 180-84, 186-89, 191-94, 196, 200-08 Henri de Mondeville 136 Hospice des Quinze-Vingts 75 hospitals 76, 134, 139-42, 155 humours, bodily 29, 132, 134-35, 137 hunchbacked, humpbacked 31, 34, 57-58 illness; see also sickness 12, 16-17, 20-22, 25, 28, 33, 40-41, 66, 104, 107-09, 111-12, 114-15, 141, 157, 165-66, 171, 174, 176, 181, 183,-84, 188, 191, 193-94, 198, 204, 207, 214 imago Dei, image of God, God’s image 15, 18, 23, 59, 79 injury 36, 44, 66, 213 Isidore of Seville, St. 59-60, 168 isolation 26, 105, 109, 111, 131, 138-39, 141, 194, 205 Jacobus de Voragine 151, 156 Jardín de nobles donzellas 124-25 Jesus 21, 23, 52, 61, 69-72, 88, 117, 121, 140, 150-51, 153, 158-61, 196, 200 Jews 62, 69-70, 72, 172 John the Baptist, St. 150-51 John Chrysostom, St. 21, 197 John the Damascene 45-46 jokes 55, 93, 98, 213, 215

lame, lameness 16, 22, 25, 28, 31-34, 38, 40-42, 44, 46-47, 50, 52-53, 55-57, 63, 95, 104, 122, 166, 171, 177, 180-83, 185-86, 188, 201, 212, 214 Lapidario 103-04, 137-38 Lawrence, St. 96, 181, 196 laws 12, 18, 22-24, 33-38, 71, 73, 78-79, 82-83, 85, 103, 139, 141, 146, 185, 211-14 Lazarus, St. 153-55 Legenda aurea 151 lepers, leprosy 25, 28-29, 131-62, 164, 171, 173, 175, 205-07, 212, 214-15 leprosaria 139 Leviticus 22-23, 33-34, 132 Libre del tres reys d’orient; see also Libro de la infancia y muerte de Jesús 159-61, 164, 206 Libri Etymologiarum 59 Libro conplido en los iudizios de las estrellas 40 Libro de buen amor 55-56, 76-77, 95-96, 106, 145 Libro de la infancia y muerte de Jesús 159 Libro de las consolaciones de la vida humana 108 Libro de las cruzes 41 Libro de las formas & ymagenes 104, 137-38 Libro de los buenos proverbios 91 Libro de los exenplos por a.b.c. 51, 54, 82-84, 86, 88-94, 97, 120, 125, 127 Libro de los gatos 83, 97, 119 Libro del Caballero Zifar 46, 144, 96 Lilium medicinae, Lilio de medicina 48, 134-36 limbs 31, 34, 41, 48, 51, 53-54, 56, 62, 122, 147, 173, 175-77, 183-88, 191-92, 207, 213 manco/a 31, 42, 46, 56 manuals, see also treatises 12, 54, 60, 89, 211-12, 214 advice 12, 27, 94, 211 medical 12, 47, 136, 165 Manuel, Don Juan 57, 91-92, 143-44, 146-48 marginalized, marginalization 19, 24, 37, 70, 110, 129 marked by God 21-22 marriage 36-37, 101, 103, 110, 147, 207 Martínez de Toledo, Alfonso 56, 122 Martirio de San Lorenzo 96, 181, 192, 196 Mass 67, 103, 106, 139-40, 168, 176-77, 179, 185-86, 193, 196-97, 201-03, 206 medicine, medical 12-13, 16-17, 19, 21, 24-25, 27, 29, 40, 45, 47, 52, 65, 67, 84, 97, 100, 102, 104, 118, 131-39, 142-43, 164-66, 171-72, 179, 183-86, 192-93, 195, 197, 209, 211, 213-16 Milagros de Nuestra Señora 53, 96, 165 miracles, miraculous 17, 23, 49-50, 53, 59, 69, 70-71, 85-86, 88, 116, 146, 151, 164-74, 177-78, 180-88, 190, 192-96, 198-204, 206-09, 216 mobility 21, 25, 31-32, 37, 48, 50-51, 62-63, 139, 177-78, 180-81, 186, 188, 194, 212-13 assistance 31, 76 devices 47, 50 Mocedades de Rodrigo, Gesta de las Mocedades de Rodigo 152-53, 155

Index

mock 46, 55, 196 models cultural 14, 16, 211 medical 13 social 13-14, 16 monsters, monstrous 18, 59-60, 62, 77, 213 mudo/a 56-57, 73, 99, 102, 105, 127, 172, 207 Muslims 41, 44-45, 70, 76, 82, 87-88, 148, 161, 172 narrative prosthesis 12, 25, 31-32, 215 negative image school 25-26 New Testament 23-24, 68-69, 129, 171 norm, normal, normalcy, normative 11, 13-15, 19, 25-26, 28, 37, 59-60, 77, 99, 102, 169, 211-12, 216 Old Testament 22, 68 Oliveros de Castilla y Artús d’Algarbe 161-64 oralism 99 pain, painful 15, 38, 53, 66, 77, 85-86, 94, 108-09, 114-16, 122, 126, 173-75, 177, 182, 184, 187, 189, 193 paralysis, paralyzed, paralytic, paralítico/a 21, 31, 40-41, 45-46, 48-49, 51, 54, 62, 88, 165, 173, 177-79, 183-86, 188, 191-92, 199, 207, 212 pathography 107 pathology 13, 99, 102, 143 Paul, St. 24, 70, 101, 157-59, 200 podagra 39-40, 182 poor; see also poverty 16, 19-20, 24, 43, 56, 75, 78, 85, 106, 121, 141, 151, 153, 155-56, 183, 193, 207 poverty 36, 42-43, 148, 183, 191, 193, 195, 207 priests, priesthood 22-23, 33-34, 53, 58, 67, 71, 86-87, 93, 103, 118, 120, 140, 143, 157, 176, 196-97, 202, 204-05 Primera crónica general 39, 81-82, 156, 201 prosthesis, prosthetic 13, 26, 47, 62, 165, 212 punishments divine 21-23, 28, 51-54, 62, 86, 88, 91, 98, 119-20, 121, 143, 146-48, 159, 165, 174-76, 180, 199, 201, 205, 207, 212-14 legal 12, 78-79, 81-85, 98, 127, 165, 197, 207, 213 Raymond de Peñafort 23 restrictions 23, 32, 36, 74, 103, 139, 192, 215 ridicule 55, 63, 176, 196, 213 Ruiz, Juan, Archpriest of Hita 76, 78, 106, 145 saints 29, 54, 67, 89-90, 96, 151, 156, 164, 167-73, 180-81, 187-88, 195, 200, 203, 206-08 Sánchez de Vercial, Clemente 82, 125, 127 Sem Tob de Carrión 105 separation leprosorum 139 Setenario 71 shrines 48-49, 86, 89, 96, 166-68, 170, 172, 174, 180, 182-83, 186, 190-94, 198, 207-09

229 sick, sickly, sickness 16, 18-19, 21, 40, 74, 113-14, 142, 156, 168, 171, 179, 188, 207, 209 Siete Partidas 23, 33-34, 36, 79, 103, 141, 146 sight; see also vision 21, 65-80, 83-90, 92-94, 96-98, 117-18, 163, 188-89, 191, 193-200, 207, 213 signing, signage, sign language 99-101, 120, 128-29, 202, 214 sin, sinner 11, 18, 21-24, 52, 54, 56, 68-70, 72, 83, 86-93, 95, 112, 114, 117, 119-20, 123, 129, 142-43, 145, 147-48, 151, 159-60, 164, 170, 181, 184-85, 190-91, 193, 197, 199, 201, 205-08, 213, 215-16 sordo/a 73, 103, 105-06, 147, 172 sordomudo/a 99, 102 speech 28, 101-03, 105, 111-12, 118-23, 127-30, 190, 197, 201-04, 207, 212-13 St. Anthony’s fire; see also St. Martial’s fire 53, 148, 174 St. Martial’s fire 53-54, 173-75 stigma, stigmatizing, stigmatized 17, 26, 29, 32, 104, 109, 130-31, 165, 214 suffering, sufferers 11, 13, 15-16, 20-21, 24, 29, 42, 51, 94, 107-109, 112-17, 139, 143, 165, 168, 174-76, 185, 189-90, 204, 206-08 Teresa de Cartagena 14, 107-18, 129, 165, 211, 214 Theoderic 47 theories 11, 13-14, 29, 31, 65, 99, 132, 142, 169 Thomas Becket, St. 89 tomb 49-50, 89, 119, 167, 172, 177, 179-83, 188-91, 193-95, 201, 207-08 tongue 51, 100, 118, 120-27, 190, 202, 204-05 Tractado de la Asunción de la Virgen 143-44 treatises 12, 37, 40, 57, 103, 108, 110, 112, 116, 135, 137-38, 144, 165, 211 Vida de San Alejo 207 Vida de San Millán de la Cogolla 49, 85, 177, 188, 192, 195 Vida de Santo Domingo de Silos 49-50, 177, 179-80, 188-89, 192, 194, 201, 205 Virgin 43-46, 48-49, 51-54, 61, 84-88, 90, 119-20, 122-23, 128, 148-49, 159-60, 166, 169-70, 174-77, 184-88, 190-92, 196-208 vision 65-66, 96, 97-98, 121, 159, 162, 168, 177, 188-89, 192-93, 195-97, 199, 207-08 women 35, 38-39, 43, 48-49, 51, 53, 55-56, 61, 80-81, 87, 89-92, 98, 107, 110, 116-18, 119, 122-26, 134-35, 146, 148-49, 155-56, 159-60, 171-72, 176-81, 183, 185-86, 188-90, 192, 194-95, 198, 201, 203, 215 work (labor), workplace 19, 32, 36, 42-44, 51-52, 58, 62, 69, 74-75, 78, 121, 172, 184-85, 197-98, 212 wounds 35-36, 41, 45-46, 62, 93, 175, 177