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MADNESS
Alongside leprosy and plague, another condition of public concern was insanity. Madness remained particularly disputed. On Galen’s authority, medical writers distinguished four main categories: frenzy, mania, melancholy and fatuity, each the result of a particular humoral imbalance. Folklore believed the moon caused lunacy; theology saw it as a consequence of diabolical possession or sorcery. Some viewed it as divinely inspired, perhaps involving the gift of tongues; others praised the innocence of the village idiot; while troubadours might sing of tragic love-madness.
Nor was there agreement over remedies. Some advocated drugs and bleeding to sedate the demented and evacuate peccant humours. Shock treatment might be tried, such as hurling a maniac into a river. For demoniacal possession, there was exorcism, while certain saints had the power to cure madness. Three shrines enjoyed a special reputation: St Mathurin at Larchant and St Acairius at Haspres (both in northern France), and St Dymphna at Geel in Flanders. A hospice built there to house the mentally ill proved too small and many were lodged in village households. From this a special ‘family colony’ developed, in which the mentally ill were tended by the villagers. The Geel community still exists.
Public attitudes towards the insane were mixed. German municipalities sometimes expelled idiots or insane persons, whipping them out of town – though the celebrated ‘ship of fools’ is not a reality but a literary conceit, symbolizing humanity’s follies. The insane were cared for in monasteries; various towns had madmen’s towers (Narrentürme); in Paris, special cells were set aside at the Hôtel Dieu; and the Teutonic Knights’ hospital at Elbing had a madhouse (Tollhaus). Specialized hospitals began to appear, notably under the influence of Islam in Spain: Granada (1365), Valencia (1407), Zaragoza (1425), Seville (1436), Barcelona (1481) and Toledo (1483). The priory of St Mary of Bethlehem in London, founded in 1247, was by 1403 housing six men ‘deprived of reason’; it developed into the notorious Bedlam. Such moves towards incarceration were counterbalanced by the image of the mad person as a holy fool, while in the ‘feast of fools’ medieval society came to terms with mental alienation through the carnival notion of the world turned upside down – madness as dionysian release.
The insane also became linked to witchcraft, with demonic possession serving as an explanation for deranged behaviour. Haunted by plague and heresy, the late medieval church warned against the Devil and his minions; women were considered particularly susceptible to Satan; and during the next 300 years the witch-craze seized Europe, leading to the execution, often after judicial torture, of upwards of 50,000 victims, mainly women (the figure of nine million burnings, often cited in feminist writings, is pure fantasy).
An individual of whom much is known is the English mystic, Margery Kempe (b. 1393). A wealthy woman who owned a brewery in King’s Lynn, she fell victim to puerperal insanity and began to behave oddly. Undertaking pilgrimages to Jerusalem, Rome and Spain, she described her spiritual experiences. The Book of Margery Kempe (c. 1423), perhaps the very first English autobiography, reveals the contested borderland between illness and religious experience. To some of her companions she was a sick woman, indeed a confounded nuisance with her non-stop wailings; to others, she was the mouthpiece of God – or was possessed by the Devil. ‘Many said’, she wrote,
there was never saint in heaven that cried as she did, and from that they concluded she had a devil within her which caused that crying. And this they said openly, amid much more evil talk. She took everything patiently for our Lord’s love, for she knew very well that the Jews said much worse of His own person than people did of her, and therefore she took it the more meekly.
WOMEN
Margery Kempe’s difficulties derived in part from perceptions of her gender; certain disorders were associated with women and their reproductive systems. Giving birth is depicted in medieval texts as an all-female business, the mother being supported by relatives, neighbours and a midwife. Midwives rose in status, as some town councils paid them to act in an official capacity in cases involving female illness, obstetrics and infant care. They were called upon to test for virginity or sterility, and to certify infant deaths.
A few obstetrical texts were directed to female readers, and male writers discussed gynaecological problems and prescribed remedies for female sexual disorders, advising not least on contraception. The Treasury of the Poor, ascribed to Peter of Spain (later Pope John XXI), gave over a hundred prescriptions concerning fertility, aphrodisiacs and contraceptives, presumably derived from popular tradition. Medical attitudes towards sex were far from puritanical, for sexual release was regarded as requisite for humoral balance, and female orgasm was widely believed essential for conception.
Female healers abounded, sometimes learning their craft from a male member of the family, and a few women wrote medical texts. Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179), who had been put in a convent at the age of eight and began having religious visions soon after, practised medicine in her role as abbess of Rupertsberg. Her main work was the Liber simplicis medicinae (c. 1150–60) [Book of Simple Medicine], on the curative powers of herbs, stones and animals; she also wrote on the natural causes of diseases. These texts summarize traditional lore concerning the medical uses of animals, vegetables and minerals, advising treatments on the principle of opposites, while for terrible diseases like leprosy she commended exotic remedies involving unicorn liver and lion heart. Herbs were God’s gifts; either they would cure or the patients ‘will die for God did not will that they should be healed’.
Another acclaimed woman healer is more enigmatic. Obstetrical writings and other treatises of women’s disorders are attributed to a certain Trotula, said to be a female member of the medical school of Salerno during the twelfth century; but ‘Trotula’, anglicized as ‘Dame Trot’, was more likely a male writing in drag. Texts called The English Trotula long circulated, containing advice on conception, pregnancy and childbirth and motherhood (nursing mothers should avoid highly salted or spiced food).
A few female healers were accepted into the Florentine practitioners’ guild, and English records show women called ‘leech’ or ‘medica’; at St Leonard’s Hospital, York, a Sister Ann was described in 1276 as a medica. But women were excluded in the later Middle Ages, marginalized by professional conflicts and guild restrictive practices. In 1421, the English physician Gilbert Kymer and his cronies petitioned Parliament to ban women from practising. The limitation of medical and surgical practice to those who had received a university training or were enrolled in a guild tended to confine women to nursing, midwifery and home physic.
Control of midwifery became more common from the fifteenth century. The Papal Bull of 1484 denouncing witchcraft drew attention to alleged attacks by sorceresses on virility and fertility; in their viciously misogynistic Malleus maleficarum (1486) [Hammer of Witches], the Dominicans Henricus Institoris (Heinrich Kramer, fl. 1470–1501) and Jacob Sprenger (fl. 1468–94) accused midwives of murdering babies in the womb, roasting them at sabbaths or offering them to the Devil. There is little evidence, however, that female healers were charged with witchcraft.
Medieval authors on sex and childbirth (or ‘generation’ as the subject was known) drew on a variety of traditions: Aristotle, Galen, Soranus and the Bible. The standard view was that men and women shared a common physiology, but in perfect and flawed versions. Female generative organs were like those of men, but inverted and inferior – the vagina was an inverted penis which had never fully developed. Thus, the female form was a faulty version of the male, weaker, because menstruation and tearfulness displayed a watery, oozing physicality; female flesh was moister and flabbier, men were more muscular. A woman’s body was deficient in the vital heat which allowed the male to refine into semen the surplus blood which women shed in menstruation; likewise, women produced milk instead of semen. Women were leaky vessels (menstruating, crying, lactating), and menstruation was polluting.
De secretis mulierum [On Women’s Secrets] spelt out the harmful effects of menstruation:
women are so full of venom in their time of menstruation that they poison animals by their glance; they infect children in the cradle; they spot the cleanest mirror; and whenever men have sexual intercourse with them, they are made leprous and sometimes cancerous.
The womb was an unstable organ, making women less balanced than men. Social consequences followed from these physiological teachings. According to the instigator of the Reformation, Martin Luther (1483–1546),
Men have broad and large chests, and small narrow hips, and more understanding than women, who have but small and narrow breasts, and broad hips, to the end they should remain at home, sit still, keep house, and bear and bring up children.
Controversies flared among doctors, philosophers and theologians over the gendering and engendering of the body. The roles of the male and female in fecundation were disputed, as Aristotle’s distinction between superior male ‘form’ and inferior female ‘matter’ (seed and seedbed), clashed with the Galenic theory of the confluence of male and female semen to make a baby. Such niceties could have weighty implications: how, for example, had the Virgin Mary conceived Christ – was it from menstrual blood, or was such blood a waste product? Contrasting explanations could also be given regarding the means and the moment of the soul’s entering the foetus.
In the later Middle Ages, medical and Christian views cross-fertilized at many points as the body assumed heightened significance in the humanistic theology of the times. While some, like the early Church Fathers, still viewed it as the prison of the spirit, new emphasis came to be placed on the soul’s incarnation in the flesh, the doctrine of immanentism. In the consecration of the host in the eucharist, the bread was transubstantiated into Christ’s body, turning miraculously to flesh. There was similar stress on bodily resurrection at the Last Judgment. In Catholic rituals, a saint’s power was associated with relics of the body: a hallowed bone, tooth or toenail protecting against evil; hence the booming relics business.
BODIES
Theological concerns loomed large in readings of the body, yet medicine too was concerned with the implications of the theory of embodiment and the soul. Scholastic medicine subscribed to the Chain of Being or Scale of Nature, with man as the midpoint between angels and brutes, distinguished from the beasts by possession of a rational soul. One consequence of this doctrine was that, considered in a purely physical light, the human body could be described in the same terms as that of a pig or a monkey. Belief in such a continuum of creation explains why the earliest medieval anatomies, conducted at Salerno and Bologna, could be performed on animals: the human soul was unique, so similarities between human and animal cadavers were not theologically worrying.
The first recorded public human dissection was conducted in Bologna around 1315 by Mondino de’ Luzzi (c. 1270–1326). Born into a medical family, Mondino graduated at Bologna, and rose to a chair of medicine there. His fame rests on his Anatomia mundini (c. 1316), which became the standard text on the subject. Built on personal experience of human dissection, the Anatomia was a brief, practical guide, treating the parts of the body in the order in which they would be handled in dissection, beginning with the abdominal cavity, the most perishable part. Relying on Galen and the Arabs, the Anatomia perpetuated old errors derived from animal dissections, such as the five-lobed liver and the three-ventricled heart. Mondino’s achievement derived from his intuition that the developing university-based education of his day required an introductory anatomy manual. The first printed version appeared in 1478, followed by at least forty editions – a clear recognition of how central anatomy was becoming to medical expertise.
Hitherto anatomy had played little part in medical education; it had no place in the Articella or the medical school of Salerno, though pigs had been dissected there. But from Mondino’s time learned physicians began to enunciate the view that medicine should be anatomy-based. Thereafter academic physicians gloried in public displays of human dissection and anatomy theatres were built. Dissection was justified largely in terms of natural philosophy and piety (the body demonstrated the wisdom of the Creator); the surgical benefits were rarely mentioned – clear evidence of the professional function of physicians’ anatomical knowledge.
Various factors contributed to the rise of human anatomy, among them Galen’s prestige (after all Galen had prided himself upon his dissecting abilities). Tampering with human remains was far from unknown in medieval Christendom. The wish to bring dead crusaders back from the Holy Land for burial had led to the custom of boiling up bodies to leave only the bones, and to the preservation of the heart of the deceased. Though this practice was condemned by Boniface VIII in 1300, the papal ban proved ineffective. From around 1250, autopsies also became regular in Italian, French and German towns, with surgeons called in to investigate homicide and establish cause of death. The step from a coroner’s postmortem to dissection was small.
Public dissection was spectacle, instruction and edification all in one. The corpse would be that of an executed criminal, presupposing municipal cooperation. It was sometimes staged in a church, usually in winter, since cold slowed putrefaction. Mondino’s order of dissection of the three main bodily cavities – first the lower abdomen, then the thorax and the skull – was designed with decay in mind. In illustrations of dissections, a physician resplendent in academic robes sits on a throne, intoning from a Galenic anatomical text, while a surgeon slits the cadaver with his knife, and a teaching assistant points out notable features. Whether or not dissections were actually conducted in this way, what is conveyed is the ritual of the performance: religious, civic, and university authorities agreed that the occasion must be accorded due gravity.
Book-driven anatomy – a demonstration of what was already known, within the explanatory framework of learned medicine – served many purposes, providing guidance to the student, who would not have been able to see much for himself. From Bologna, human dissection spread; the next key centre was Padua, which was popular with foreign students. In Spain, the first public dissection took place at Lerida in 1391; Vienna held its first in 1404. In England and Germany anatomy teaching with a human corpse did not become routine before 1550.
Anatomy had an impact upon medical illustrations – a subject bedevilled by modern prejudices about ‘realism’, for medievals who drew ‘childish’ images of the bones and arteries have been adversely contrasted with the new ‘scientific’ artists of the Renaissance (notably Leonardo da Vinci), admired for their realistic anatomical drawings. But the comparison is misleading. For one thing, Leonardo at times followed tradition rather than his eye, adopting, for instance, the standard five-lobed liver. For another, it is wrong to think that the apparent crudity of medieval images reveals ineptitude. Late medieval illustrations were not meant to depict minute documentary detail; they were diagrammatic teaching aids, schematically representing general truths – mnemonic rather than photographic.
The most common type of medieval medical illustration was the ‘Zodiac man’: a male figure marked up with blood-letting points or with the zodiac signs (Taurus controlled and cured diseases of the neck and throat, Scorpio the genitals, Capricorn the knees, Pisces the feet, and so forth). The right way and place to let blood was gauged by study of the constellations and the moon. There was also the group known as the ‘five-picture series’, standing for the five systems: arteries, veins, bones, nerves and muscles. Squatting figures with legs astride were occasionally used to show diseases, wounds and the influence of the stars and planets on body parts. There were also charts explaining how to examine urine. The success of such images is evident: they survived into the age of print, wound-men in particular continuing to crop up in surgery texts.
The late Middle Ages wear a gloom-laden appearance: painters gave Death a mocking grin and portrayed him accosting peasants, merchants and princes. Perhaps for this reason, and because it was roundly disparaged by Renaissance humanists, medieval medicine has never enjoyed a good press. Proud of recovering Hippocrates and Galen in the original Greek, humanists chid and despised their muddle-headed predecessors.
We should not blindly accept these judgments. Much was afoot before 1500: in particular the fifteenth century brought a rise in practical medicine, associated with the books of practica and case-histories (consilia) produced by Italian professors. Bedside consultations, autopsies and the spread of dissection gave Italian medical training an increasingly hands-on emphasis. It is ironic that from the 1490s the medical humanists reverted to theory, to philology and medicine’s ‘sacred’ books, notably through the Galen revival.
The later Middle Ages also consolidated the role of medicine in European society, with new institutions and regulations. At the time when the Salerno school was founded, physicians were to be found only in monasteries and palaces; five hundred years later they had infiltrated society (remember the physician on Chaucer’s pilgrimage) and were facing competition from other practitioners like barber-surgeons, professional bickering being but one sign of this growing medical presence. Other domains of life were falling under medical control: health officials directed urban hygiene and combated plague. From birth to death – and even beyond, if one had the misfortune to be cut up for a public anatomy display – medicine gained a hold that it had previously lacked or lost.
* Take for instance this section in the English translation by Sir John Harington (1561–1612) (who was, incidentally, the inventor of the water-closet):
Although you may drink often while you dine,
Yet after dinner touch not once the cup, …
To close your stomach well, this order suits,
Cheese after flesh, Nuts after fish or fruits.
CHAPTER VI INDIAN MEDICINE
EACH AREA OF THE GLOBE has created a medicine of its own. The neolithic revolution in India and China produced civilizations comparable in complexity and achievements to the developments discussed in the Middle East, the Levant and the eastern Mediterranean, like these, founded upon an agrarian economy sustaining, and sustained by, political overlords and large urban settlements. In the great Asiatic empires social hierarchy and the consequent division of labour facilitated the emergence of specialist healers, together with priests, wise men and bureaucrats.
The consolidation of writing encouraged learned traditions which helped to give permanence to particular corpuses of medical (as well as religious and philosophical) erudition. As with the writings of Hippocrates and Galen in the West, the result tended to be a glorification of tradition, and the associated belief that a fixed, permanent and perfect medicine had, in a quasi-divine manner, been handed down from some far-distant origin. It was the duty of successors to uphold such a tradition, protecting and purifying it against the threat of corruption. Such values imparted into Asian medical systems a great durability; they certainly gave no encouragement to innovation. Indian and Chinese medicine alike proved tenacious and encouraged myths of an essential unchangingness – though this was actually belied by developments. The consequence was that both traditional Indian and traditional Chinese medicine continued in place; yet both experienced in due course a tense and ambiguous encounter with western ‘scientific medicine’, which left them compelled to take aspects of it on board.
