A macabre coincidence - pen trials and the guts of Saint Erasmus

History is full of macabre coincidences, and I encountered one such case over a week ago, as I was doing some research in the special collections at the University of Southern Denmark. I returned to look at a copy of the 1492 edition of the Lübeck Passionael, a collection of texts on the various feasts in the Latin Christian liturgical calendar, which was ultimately modelled on the thirteenth-century Legenda Aurea by Jacobus de Voragine. This book has been a recurring fascination for me ever since I first set eyes on it nine years ago, and this time I had come to take pictures of those woodcut vignettes that I had not yet photographed. Previously, I have focussed on a particular set of saints, while allowing my curiosity to direct me towards other saints that might be relevant for my research, or which might simply catch my eye. The book in question is comprised of 419 leaves, making 838 pages in total, and several of these pages contain one or more woodcuts. No wonder it has taken me years to photograph them all.

Since I was paying more attention to every woodcut missing from my collection, I suddenly noticed a very curious and macabre coincidence on the page containing the woodcut for Saint Erasmus. According to legend, Erasmus was martyred during the Diocletian persecutions in the early fourth century. Because he was killed by having his guts pulled out by a windlass, he is often depicted with the windlass in his hands, and sometimes with the guts rolled around it. The cutter who prepared the vignettes for the Lübeck Passionael made the most of this arresting and recognisable image, and prepared a woodcut for Saint Erasmus which depicted his passion. This choice is particularly notable because not all of the woodcuts in the 1492 edition are made specifically for the saint in question, and several woodcuts are used for several saints. 

Steffen Arndes, Passionael

Syddansk Universitetsbibliotek RARA M 15, f.33r

The copy now held in the special collections of the University of Southern Denmark was once in the possession of the library at Herlufsholm School, a boarding school in Næstved on Sjælland for young boys. The copy contains marginalia from several readers interacting with the book, but most often these seem to be products of boredom rather than engagement with the actual content. On this page - folio 33r - the interaction had been of a more practical kind. A young pupil had decided to test his quill to see if it was sufficiently well sharpened. This is a common type of marginalia in premodern books, and they are known as pen trials, probatio pennae. In this case, these trials consisted of s-like figures, a shape probably chosen because it would easily reveal whether the quill would need adjusment. As a consequence, the shapes of the pen trials are very similar to how the guts of Saint Erasmus often appear in late medieval art. Granted, in the book itself, the gut is pulled out in a straight line, so there is no reason to think that the pupil would be aware of this similarity, or that it is a conscious decision. As a consequence, the macabre connection needs a third factor aside from the image and the pen trials, and that factor are the eyes of a viewer sufficiently familiar with the iconography of Saint Erasmus to see the similarity. And in this case, I happened to be such a viewer. 

Saint Olaf in Aarhus, part I - the altarpiece of the Church of Our Lady

 

Some day I will go to Aarhus 

- Seamus Heaney, The Tollund Man 

Last weekend I was in Aarhus, and this was a trip I had been looking forward to for more than ten years. I have been in Aarhus twice before, but on those two occasion I was not able to explore the city, being once confined to the university area and once to the train station as I was changing trains on a journey from Northern Jutland. This time, however, I had set aside enough time to get to see some of the sights that I had been wanting to see for professional reasons. As it turned out, along the way I learned about more things to see, and this prompted a very felicitous discovery that I had not anticipated. 

The Church of Our Lady, Aarhus 

One reason for going to Aarhus was to visit some of the important medieval sites, especially the cathedral. Since I have been working a lot on the cult of Saint Olaf of Norway, and since I am currently very interested in his cult in Denmark, I had also included a trip to the ruins of the now-lost church that was dedicated to him (and about which I will write another blogpost). En route through some of the sights of Aarhus, I learned about the Church of Our Lady - formerly the Church of Saint Nicholas and the first cathedral of the town - whose medieval crypt was still intact. The church was nearby, and, despite some modernised features, proved to be full of interesting vestiges of its medieval past. The one that made me most excited was an altarpiece which featured a full-figure rendition of Saint Olaf of Norway.

The altarpiece is dated to the early sixteenth century, just a few years before the Danish Reformation of 1536/37. It is attributed to Claus Bjerg, an artist mainly based in Odense and Fyn. Typical of altarpieces of the period, it can be opened on particular feastdays, but when I was there the wings were shut and displayed the exterior paintings. The central doors depict fthe enthronement of the Virgin Mary with Mary sitting next to Christ - whose feet are resting on a model of the spherical earth - and this scene is flanked by six saints. Beside the Virgin is Mary the Magdalen with her pot of balm, and beside Christ is Anthony of Egypt, accompanied by the pig who serves as his attribute (a common feature in church art from late-medieval Denmark, owing to the rise of his cult in this period). The four saints below the enthronement scene are - from left to right - Barbara, Catherine of Alexandria, Christopher, and possibly John the Evangelist (due to his appearance as a young man holding a book). On the left wing of the altarpiece are Saint Anne with the Virgin and the Christchild, and on the right wing is Saint Olaf with his halberd - which by this time had replaced the long-shafted axe of earlier centuriers - who is trampling a dragon with a crowned human head. He is also holding what appears to be a pot of balm, which might signify the salved king.

The representation of Saint Olaf is typical of its time, and a very interesting rendition of a figure common in Nordic medieval church art. Olaf appears like a contemporary king, dressed in armour of the time, and serves as a reminder that saints are believed to transcend time, being forever contemporary and relevant. Since Olaf was a popular saint in medieval Denmark, his appearance on this altarpiece is unsurprising, but nonetheless an interesting testament to his importance in Aarhus. Indeed, from the evidence familiar to me so far, it is possible that Aarhus was the most important centre of the cult of Saint Olaf in Denmark. It remains to gather enough evidence to test this hypothesis, and also to suggest explanations for why this is the case. And thanks to this serendipitous encounter in the Church of Our Lady, I am now better placed than ever to get a better understanding of the history of Saint Olaf's cult in medieval Denmark, a long-standing ambition of mine that goes all the way back to my time as a PhD candidate. 

An annuncation from 1492

Today, March 25, is the feast of the Annunciation, which commemorates the Archangel Gabriel's announcement to the Virgin Mary that she would be the mother of God. This is one of the most important feasts of the liturgical year in the Latin Church, and medieval calendars typically mark this date in red ink to demonstrate its high liturgical rank. 

Last week, I was looking through the 1492 edition of Passionael, printed by Steffen Arndes in Lübeck, which is a collection of texts on the various feasts of the Catholic liturgical year. The collection is modelled on the Legenda Aurea by Jacobus de Voragine (c.1260), but it is also adapted to the interests of the Lübeck audience. (For instance, a number of Scandinavian saints were added, and these can be read about in this article by Iliana Khandza.) In 1492, Arndes issued an updated second edition of the book - the first edition came in 1488 - which included new chapters and new woodcuts. 

The chapter on the Annuciation runs from folios 384r to 387r and is introduced by a lovely and curious woodcut vignette. The Annunciation is a common theme in medieval art, and in numerous renditions Mary is depicted as reading from a book or performing her devotions. the Archangel Gabriel is usually standing a few feet away, although sometimes touching Mary with its hand. This 1492 rendition, however, is the first instance I have seen of Gabriel touching Mary with a staff, as if to rouse her out of her pious meditations. The woodcut is expertly done and contains a lot of details for such a small space, and it captures Mary's surprise very well.  

I am very fond of these woodcuts, as they represent a form of art that is not often as appreciated as the large wooden panels or frescoes so commonly associated with the fifteenth century, but which captures contemporary iconography in an effective and interesting way. 

Steffen Arndes, Passionael

Syddansk Universitetsbibliotek RARA M 15, f.384r

 

A thousand years is not that long - an example from Aarhus

 

The past is not as unfamiliar as is often presumed. Those who work on history-related subjects know this well. In the present day, however, this knowledge is often overshadowed by a pervasive sense of progressivism, by which I mean the idea that human history is constantly progressing, and often towards some specific goal. The most forceful form of progressivism nowadays is that which touts the blessings of artificial intelligence, colonising Mars, and other technological wonders that will change our relationship with earth, with knowledge, with ourselves, and so on ad nauseam.  

For me, however, raised as a son of farmers in the Western Norwegian fjords, elements of the past often resembles things from my own background. These resemblances are not due to the fjords being particularly backwards - although I suspect a lot of urban Norwegians would protest that this is exactly what it means - but rather that certain technologies are perfected very early in their history, and a lot of such technologies pertain to farm life. As a consequence, the solutions offered by these early technologies are still in use. 

I was reminded of this longue durée history of technology when I was visiting the Viking Museum in Aarhus this weekend. (Not to be confused with the famous Moesgaard Museum a bit south of the city.) The museum is small, but contains a lot of interesting archaeological finds from the centre of old Aros, the tenth- and eleventh-century city which was located in what is currently the centre of Denmark's second largest city. The items displayed in the museum are typical of such trading hubs as Aarhus was in that period - typical, but no less interesting for that - and include cooking pots of soapstone, nails from boats, weights from a loom, and whetstones. One of the items that caught my eye was a sinker, a rounded stone used to weigh down a fishing net so that one of its ends is dragged down into the water and prevents the net from just floating on the surface. 

Fishing with nets remains the best method for catching large amounts of fish on a lower scale, and in my family we are always paying attention to when the ice will break on one of the lakes back home, so that we can begin the season. Moreover, when I am out walking with my parents and we are traversing rocky ground, my father will often keep an eye out for rocks that might be suitable as sinkers. They are not as rounded and polished as the one found in the archaeological layers in Aarhus, but in order to serve as sinkers a stone only needs to be heavy but not too much, a bit thin and elongated so that it is possible to tie a cord around it, and shaped in such a way that it is easy to carry.  

The sinker is a technology that need not be improved upon, and I am not sure that it can be improved upon either, only altered in various ways that might give the illusion of improvement. There are several such technologies, and I think it is healthy to be reminded that due to their longevity, they connect us to the past in useful ways - useful because it is good to realise that some solutions have been perfected early, and also useful because modern people do sometimes need the reminder that a thousand years is not that long ago in certain respects.