Devotional Literature and the Eroticization of Pain in 17th century England i It is said that every generation thinks that it discovered sex, and my generation (who were teenagers in the ’60s) is probably more guilty than most. While the fallacy is, in one sense, too obvious to need pointing out, it is nevertheless the case that much of the debate on sexuality starts from the assumption that sexual identities as we understand them today they are, indeed, socially constructed and of fairly recent (19th century) origin (Foucault 3-16). Foucault’s main contention is that, in the early 17th century, sexuality could be – and was, openly and frankly – discussed, but in terms of acts, rather than in terms of identities or discourse, and that this “bright day” gave way to the “twilight” of sexual repressiveness, leading to the “monotonous nights” of Victorianism (3), during which it was transformed into a taxonomy of sexual identities and sexual discourse, whose long shadow still falls on us today. This thesis has been particularly influential in discussion of the emergence of the homosexual as a type with, as Betteridge points out, literary-critical analyses tending to follow Foucault in asserting that, as a sexual identity, the homosexual dates from the Victorian sexologists who settled on the nomenclature, while historians have more often taken the medieval and early modern understanding of the sodomite to be a stable sexual identity approximating to the modern concept of the male homosexual and, concomitantly, of sodomy as a fairly precisely-defined analogue to male homosexuality (1-9). Debate about sexual identities based on the eroticisation of pain follows a similar pattern, with many historians – particularly art historians – readily applying modern labels to medieval and early modern culture, Caviness, for example, describes Francke’s Martyrdom of Saint Barbara (c. 1410-15) as “sadistic” (115), while Spivey states, “If Sade was not the first sadist, nor did masochism begin with Leopold von Sacher-Masoch”, citing as evidence the fact that “Sacher-Masoch identified Titian’s Venus in the Mirror, painted c. 1555...as inspiring his title [Venus in Furs]” (as if this proved anything at all about Titian or his contemporaries), and with, apparently, little awareness that he might be kicking up any kind of a dust storm (237). Part of the reason for this lack of rigour may lie in the fact that the association of pain with sexual pleasure remains very much within the domain of psycholanalysis, a discipline which is, as Susan Derwin points out, uncomfortable with having so many of its labels (she adds Electra, Eros, Narcissus and Oedipus to the two already mentioned) derive from fiction (472), and hence sets out to objectify these concepts. while literary critics have generally been more cautious and aware of the possible anachronism that such labelling might entail. This is the pattern that emerges when the topic is discussed at all. Merback manages to write an entire volume subtitled “Pain and the Spectacle of Punishment in Medieval and Renaissance Europe” without touching on possible pornographic or erotic associations, and while accounts of the medieval and early modern history of sexuality generally cover the gamut, from monogamous heterosexuality to bestiality, with homosexuality, prostitution, promiscuity, incest, adultery, masturbation and so forth included in the spectrum, they have often been silent on the subject of the sexual identities which come under the umbrellas, in modern discourse, of sadism, masochism and sadomasochism. This is still largely as true today as it was a quarter of a century ago, and applies as much to, say, Ruth Mazo Karras (2005) as to Buller and Brundage (1982). Karen Halttunen, for example, citing David B. Morris’s work on the effect of anaesthetics on the perception of pain, demonstrates that we can by no means assume that the paradigms of our society are applicable to other periods and other societies: Orthodox Christianity had traditionally viewed pain not only as God’s punishment for sin (the English term is derived from the Latin poena, punishment) but also as a redemptive opportunity to transcend the world and the flesh by imitating the suffering Christ...The eighteenth-century cult of sensibility redefined pain as unacceptable and indeed eradicable and thus opened the door to a new revulsion from pain, which, though later regarded as “instinctive” or “natural,” has in fact proved to be distinctly modern. (304) Prior to the 18th century, then, the orthodox view of pain in Western European society was as something not only unavoidable but, if one was to attain salvation, actually necessary. As Halttunen points out, from the 18th century on, “the pornography of pain...represented pain as obscenely titillating precisely because the humanitarian society deemed it unacceptable, taboo” (305). The implications are clear; in the absence of a taboo on pain the titillation of breaking the taboo is, quite simply, inaccessible and hence, while there may be acts of extreme cruelty, some of it even explicitly sexual in nature, there can be neither sadism nor masochism in such a context. The present paper adduces evidence which partially supports this hypothesis by examining 17th century texts which appear, at face value, to have erotic features and analysing contemporary reactions to these texts. This leads to the conclusion that, whether or not there was, at some level, some sexually gratifying subtext in the (conscious or unconscious) minds of their authors, their readers or (in some cases) their biographical subjects, that subtext appears to have been missed by critics who were otherwise meticulously thorough in their condemnation and who, it can be supposed, would certainly have pounced on a salacious element had they discerned one. Conversely, though, I also demonstrate that the idea that pleasure (both in a general sense and, sometimes, in a sense closely associated with sex) can be derived both from inflicting and enduring pain, clearly forms a part of the 17th century psyche. Finally, I highlight the way in which, in England at least, Protestant unease at Catholic discourse structures appears to have been a factor leading to the conceptualising of pain as part of the brutish sensuality which undermines the human spirit, which in turn provoked the “discourses of infraction” which delighted in flouting “the new code of decency” (Foucault 18) from the latter part of the 17th century on. ii In “The Tenth Crisis” of The Critic (translated into English by Paul Rycault) the Spanish Jesuit Baltasar Gracián has his two protagonists (Critilo, the man of the world, and Andrenio, the natural man) encounter “a numerous multitude of Men and Women, bound and mannacled,” having fallen into the hands of robbers who “are so cruel, that they Rob and Murder, and afterwards deface the countenance of the Slain with Wounds and Scars, that they are not to be known who they are” (181). Andrenio contemplates escape, but Critilo says, “their Eyes have already discovered us, and their Voice commands us under their power, wherefore we must now go forward, and be contented to submit our hands and necks to their Chains” (182). However, the following lines give the lie to this, since they cannot at first see any trace of the perpetrators of these crimes, thus making Critilo’s instant submission seem voluntary, rather than enforced. At length they spy some villainous-looking individuals whom they suspect of being members of the band of robbers. Rycault, taking liberties with the original Spanish, has Critilo say, “he with a tawny Face looks like a Master of Bridewel, and he with a snarling Look puts me in mind of the Hangman at Tyburne” (182), but these conventional representations of cruelty turn out to be among the victims. “Why who then Robs?” asks Critilo, “Where are these tyrants of so much Liberty?” (183), whereupon a beautiful being, “something between a Woman and an Angel,” approaches: She was...a beautiful Woman, not rude, and unfashioned, but of a courtly behaviour, affable, and courteous; she showed a fair face, and outsight to all, but evil actions. Her Forehead was more smooth, then serene; she looked on none with an ill eye, and yet all were enchanted with her bewitching emissions; her Nostrils were white, which was a sign that she was not ill affected with Fumes, and Vapors; her Cheeks were Roses without Thorns, her teeth when she smiled and laughed at the World shewed like so many rows of Pearl, or Ivory. The Knots she tied with such air, and negligence, that her dexterity and art appeared pleasant, and her very sight was enough to captivate; her Tongue doubtless was of Sugar, for her words distilled Nectar, and her two Hands made signs of affection, for never did she extend a real hand in friendship, though ordinarily her Arms made indissoluble twinings, with counterfeited embraces, the more easily to entrap and entangle in her snares; so that none could probably suspect an Aspect so promising to be guilty of Theft or Robbery: Nor was she alone, but assisted by a flying Squadron of Amazons, beautiful and active, which continually bound one, or other, executing the Commands of their supreme Lady. (184) The contrast between the anticipated and the actual appearance of these perpetrators of cruelty, the elegant sophistication and insouciant nonchalance of the “supreme lady” as she binds her captives and issues her commands, the “pleasant” art which she practises so dextrously – all these would appear to be the very essence of the dominatrix of post-Sacher-Masoch fantasy, just as the willingness of the victims seems to encapsulate the masochistic mindset: ...the Captives they manacled, had the election of their own Bonds, and many so willingly submitted to the Servitude, that they brought their Chains with them; some were fettered with Chains of Gold, others with Lockets of Diamonds, an invincible tackling for such feeble Captives; many they bound with Garlands of Flowers, and others as their humour pleased them, with Roses, for only to encircle their Brows was an Enchantment sufficient to enfeeble their hands; another they saw tied with one Lock of a fair and golden Hair, which though at first he thought to rend with the smallest force, yet at last it proved more strong than a Cable, which held him Anchored, whilst he tumbled in the Storms and Tempests of Love. Women ordinarily were bound with Threads of Pearl, with Bracelets of Coral, and embroidered Ribbons, which seemed something, and their value nothing. (184-5) The account continues with an erotic voyeurism as the victims’ torments become “the delight of others,” wanton callousness – “Another there was so prittily furious, that she strained the Cord until the Bloud started forth, at which they were so much pleased, that they drank it in full bowls to several healths” – and, as a crowning touch, “what is most pleasant, after they had bound so many, they would perswade these silly persons that they had touched none” (186). The captives are then led willingly away to what is described as an inn (symbol of the spurious pleasures of sensuality [187]), which they enter smilingly, and in which “every one had the election of his own Prison” (188), only to emerge years later, “with tears in their eyes, sighing out their lamentations,” when they are “flung out of the Windows” (190). Strikingly similar as much of this may seem to the titillating or pornographic literature which grew up from the 18th century and came into its own in the Victorian period, it is also, taken in context, fundamentally different. Gracián (and with very few deviations Rycault, as translator, is faithful to the letter and intent of the original text) may show a canny understanding of a kind of fantasy that will appeal to the darker side of human nature, but at the same time as creating the illusion he works throughout to expose it as illusion. Nor does he subscribe to the idea that there is a submissive character-type that is particularly susceptible to the illusion. On the contrary, no one is immune: The Courageous, and Valientons of the World, after some few bravadoes and blustering words, contentedly submitted with the rest to the loss of Liberty: and what is very admirable they enticed many of their Comrades with Feathers, and Plumes, and these were in a Prison the most secure of any; persons of greater quality, they pretended to manacle with small twists, from whence hanged Shells, Keyes, and Links, which bound them so fast, that their whole strength could not break them; there were Bolts of Gold for some, of Iron for others, all being equally content, and as safely secured; but what I admired most was that in wanting Chains to imprison their numerous Captives, they committed some to the Bonds of Women's embraces, which though, but feeble, were yet the Chains of the most robustous champions. Hercules was ensnared in a tender Thread, and Sampson with some hairs, they cut from his own head. (185) Ultimately, Gracián’s purpose in spinning this narrative is, indeed, to entice and entrap his readers. Ostensibly, though, he does so only in order to make the point that such entrapment is out and out loss, and all that is required to escape from the trap is the will to do so; “[the] assent of their Will is the only Bond that ties them; for in desiring and wishing only to be freed, they immediately obtain their Liberty” (192). Certainly, his contemporaries appear to have found nothing contentious in this passage. There was, indeed, a publication (Crítica de Reflección y Censura de las Censuras) which criticised Gracián’s work bitterly and at some length, but the main cause of this vituperative response was not the passage quoted above, which is from the tenth chapter of the book, but a veiled attack, in the seventh chapter, on the Casa Profesa of the Jesuits in Valencia. There were, moreover, steps taken by the Jesuits to discipline Gracián for publishing this work, but the issue there was not that there was any unorthodoxy or licentiousness in the contents, but simply that he had – not for the first time – gone ahead and published without permission from his superiors in the order (see, e.g., Alborg 833). There is a striking similarity between this response of the Jesuits to Gracián’s work and that of the authorities towards Delarivier Manley’s The New Atalantis (1709): ...nine days after the publication of the second volume of The New Atalantis, Manley was identified as its author and arrested for libel against the state. Remarkably, prosecutors were oblivious as to whether the book was ‘obscene’ or ‘pornographic.’ They were more concerned with negotiating the boundaries between acceptable and unacceptable political satire... (Mudge 6) Manley crossed a line by adding a key, which identified the participants in a sexually explicit bedroom scene as major figures in the political landscape of the day, just as Gracián offended by making his veiled attack on the Jesuits of Valencia too transparent. In both cases, this was the issue which the authorities took exception to, rather than any perception that the narrative was in itself suspect. To our modern sensibilities the content of Gracián’s work may seem inappropriate for a piece of religious writing, but in the absence of the concept of pornography the only yardstick was whether it was conformable with Christian doctrine, the rule of the Church and the Jesuit order to which Gracián belonged, just as, for example, Alemán’s picaresque novel, The Rogue, despite the depravity of its central character, was, purely from a doctrinal point of view, perfectly conformable with Catholic doctrine and hence escaped the censure of the Inquisition. Even so, just as the exemplary evil of the picaro is essentially a subterfuge, serving to legitimate the main purpose (to entertain the reader with accounts of immoral and depraved behaviour) so one is forced to suspect, Gracián’s ostensible moral purpose and conformability with religious orthodoxy mask a rather different underlying aim. A central concept running through his works is that of “mastery” (señorío) and he is more easily understood in the context of Machiavelli than of other devotional writers. Indeed, he was uneasy with his position as a Jesuit and actually attempted to leave the order, but was prevented from doing so by his superiors (Alberg 833). The passage I have selected for discussion here is the most striking example of the themes of dominance and submissiveness in his work, but it is far from being the only one; The Critick is peppered with references to people willingly submitting to various forms of bondage and suffering, while others take the role of tormentors or exploiters. It is not too much to say that Gracián’s real interest is in power-relationships, rather than in the doctrines of the Church, and it is no accident that his work The Art of Wordly Wisdom finds its way (for example) onto an amazon.com recommended reading list “for Those Who Would Own Consensual Slaves” (Blake). iii ...she would often kisse the feet of all the Religious. Sometimes with her handes bound behind her, she severally of them all asked pardon for her defects. At other times, in the presence of them all she was disciplined by Mother Prioresse; and sometymes by some other of the Religious. Very often being at table in the Refectory, she was called by her Superiour with a loud voyce, and commanded to go round about, by the Religious, with a basket begging a bit of bread…and then commanded to sit upon the ground, and so eate the bread which she had begged. At other tymes she was made to prostrate upon the ground, and all the Religious did passe over her. And once, being in the Quire with the rest, she was caused to be bound to a post with her handes behind her. But she receaved this mortification with so joyfull a mind…that she was instantly rapt in spirit; and spake so highly in that rapt, that they could not heare her without wonder. Another tyme, retyiring into the Quire, she tooke a great Rope with which she caused her handes to be bound behind her, and she made her selfe to be hoodwinked, and so to be tyed to the grate of the Altar, to the end that the Religious who were to passe that way, might be moved therby to vilify & laugh at her…and she being asked by the Prioresse, upon what reason she had done that act, she answered that she had done it to become thereby more humble…She prayed her also with fervent tears, that she would be pleased to bid the Religious that…they should say such wordes to her as these, whereby to vilify her so much the more: Suor Maria Maddalena, this is come upon you for your defects…The Mother Prioresse satisfyed her desire heerin; and therupon Suor Maria Maddalena demanded pardon of them all with so great humility, that there was none of them who found not her selfe tenderly affected with it; and having continued for the space of an houre in this Mortification, she was loosed at last by Mother Prioresse, not without extraordinary edification…and she understood from her Lord, how that act of humility had beene gratefull to him. And by this meanes a great multitude of Divells being confounded, they came about her with so horrible outcryes as gave her no small vexation. (Puccini, The Life 140-142) In the preface to The Life of Maria Maddalena de’ Pazzi, Tobie Matthew issues a warning to any reader who may “deride it, because only it is strang[e]…or because it is ridiculous in his opinion” (fo. **5v), and then puts his finger on the doctrinal issue that would make passages such as the above unacceptable to Protestants: How many painefull disciplines, rude hairecloaths, hungry meales, sad nights, bitter sighs and salt teares, did she [i.e., Pazzi] with a noble & faythfull hart endure, send forth, and shed? And all in vaine, if it should be true which Protestants affirme, that faith only iustifyeth, that Christ hath so suffered for us all, as we are not bound in our bodyes to suffer with him, that these voluntary afflictions are no better then superstitions… (fo. ***2v) Matthew argues that what we might call the commonsense values of the Old Testament – “Riches, Plenty, Posterity, and the like” – were “degraded” by the life and example of Christ, and replaced by “their contraryes, [such] as Paine, Poverty, Persecution, Chastity, and Humility” (fo. ***3v). These, for Matthew, are the true Christian virtues, and the passage with which this paper opens is nothing other than an exemplification of those virtues, as practised by a “modern Sainte” (fo. **6v). From Matthew’s perspective, the Protestant worldview signals a rejection of the message of Christ and a return to Old Testament values. Indeed, he says of those who simply let themselves be guided by what they “see, and feele”, rather than what they “heare & should believe” (fo. ****7v) that, if it were not for “the other better life”, then “there is no question but that they are the only wise and well judging men” (fo. ****7r). In other words, for Matthew a central defining feature of faith is that it overrides common sense and justifies things which otherwise can have no justification. In presenting this Catholic Italian text to an English audience, then, Matthew shows an acute awareness of the way in which the Protestant and Catholic discourse communities are divided by the connotations of certain key words. Of course, in listing “Paine, Poverty, Persecution, Chastity, and Humility” he merely picks out a few representative terms; many others – “suffering”, “humiliation”, “mortification”, “contempt”, “flagellation”, etc. – could be added. Taken in their totality, these words represent the monastic values of a millennium of Christian tradition on which Protestants effectively turned their backs, claiming it to be a perversion of the teachings of Christ. This rejection of monastic values leads, in turn, to a stigmatization of the language associated with these values, until it reaches a stage where it becomes hard to imagine a context for a passage such as the one that prefaces this paper except within the realms of pornographic (specifically, sadomasochistic) literature, and Matthew’s acknowledgement that the material may strike some readers as “strang[e]” and “ridiculous” foreshadows the half-fascinated, half-horrified reactions of later commentators. As early as 1689 a Protestant translation of her life was published expressly in order “to give just caution against being transported beyond the bounds of true Chistian piety, and good sense, by the delusions of an over-heated imagination” (Puccini, Life, 1687, translator’s preface, fo. B2r), and typical of modern reactions is Rudolph Bell’s Holy Anorexia (1985), which includes a series of 17th century illustrations of Pazzi’s life with such captions as, “At the age of eleven, Mary Magdalen de’ Pazzi spent entire nights flagellating herself” and, “To combat fierce temptations against her chastity, Mary Magdalen lies naked on a bed of sharp branches and splinters in the convent’s woodshed. Her flagellum is in the foreground” (figures 14 and 17, between pages 116 and 117). Perhaps the most notable of all modern responses is E.J. Dingwall’s chapter on Pazzi (subtitled “She who got Slapped”) in Very Peculiar People (1950; 119-144). Dingwall describes Pazzi as “a confirmed neurotic with pronounced symptoms” (121) and “a classic example of the female flagellant and masochistic exhibitionist with now and then, as might be expected, a slight sadistic streak” (127). My purpose is not to speculate on whether or not there was a sexual component to Pazzi’s penances and mortifications, but to demonstrate the way in which 17th century translators of material of this kind show their awareness of the possible erotic connotations of such literature. Essentially, once exemplary suffering, such as that described in the lives of the saints, is divorced from the belief system that exalts such suffering as the necessary path to salvation it loses its didactic connotations and acquires salacious ones, and this paper shows some of the steps in that process. iv Tobie Matthew, of course, is operating within the Catholic belief system and, although he himself is far from feeling ill at ease with Puccini’s discourse, he shows an acute awareness of those features of the text which Protestants might find disturbing and, with the fervour of the convert, sets out to exacerbate those features, adding in his preface details that are not present in the text itself, such as that for many years Pazzi wore “the same single thin coate, in all the rigorous seasons of the yeare”, and “a girdle sometymes next her skin, all imbrodered as it were with sharp iron nayles” (fo. ***8r), and “would, for the overcoming of a temptation, tumble naked in a bed of thorns” (fo. ***8v). Sitting alongside his numerous challenges to Protestant readers not to condemn the text out of hand, such passages seem calculated to provoke, rather than to reconcile. The same could be said of many of the lexical choices made by the anonymous translator from the Italian. For instance, where the Italian describes Pazzi’s self-imposed mortifications as “tutti repugnanti al senso” (Puccini, Vita 3), the English reads “altogeather repugnant to Sense” (10). Of course, in the 17th century the word “repugnant” meant “contrary” or “antagonistic”, and only gradually acquired the sense of “loathsome” or “repulsive” (OED), but even so it tended to have a negative implicature. By translating “repugnanti” as “repugnant” the translator emphasises the point made in the preface; Pazzi’s actions, along with those of other saints, are utterly irreconcilable with the kind of pragmatic common sense that seeks pleasure and comfort. A more neutral word, such as “contrary”, would not convey this so strongly. This is just one of many cases where the English eschews more moderate or neutral possibilities and uses language that exacerbates the unease a Protestant reader might feel. Where Puccini writes “eccessivo fervore” (Vita 4), for example, the translator gives “excessive fervour” (11). The word “excessive” has strongly negative associations (“Transgressing the bounds of law, decency, or morality; outrageous, lawless, wrongful”, OED), which he could have avoided by translating “eccessivo” as “surpassing”, for example, or “exceedingly great”. And throughout the text he translates Pazzi’s “eccessos” as “excesses”, when “ecstacies” would have been less provocative to a Protestant English reader, just as “extraordinary ardour” and “disengaged from her senses” would have been less loaded translations of “veemenza straordinaria” and “alienate da’sensi” (Vita 27 and 33) than “extraordinary vehemency” (The Life 72) and “alienated from her senses” (The Life 89). Of course, in all these examples the translator has rendered the Italian with a cognate word or expression in English. However, he does not do this out of laziness or a lack of knowledge or imagination. In the introduction Matthew makes clear his contempt for Protestant translators of the Bible who “expresse, poenitentiam agite, by the wordes of Repentance only, and not of doing pennance” (****6v). Distinctions of this kind were important to him (as indeed to other Catholics of his day), and the use of cognate English cousins of Italian words in the text it conveys the full impact of a discourse which is not only foreign to Protestant England but also hostile to it. Nor is the translator averse to rejecting cognates when it suits his rhetorical purpose to do so. For example, in another context he uses the word “repugnance” in a way that approaches quite closely its modern meaning; when Pazzi embarks on a diet of bread and water he says, “although she felt great repugnance thus to lead a particuler life against the common use, yet nevertheless did she go through with it, as knowing that the will of her God was such” (46-37). And yet the expression “great repugnance” is, in the original Italian, “non poco disgusto” (Puccini, Vita 11). All of this indicates that the translator’s awareness that Pazzi’s sufferings are objectionable to Protestants from a doctrinal point of view leads him to emphasise the objectionable elements. Whether it shows any more than that is debatable. He does make sure, in the preface, that the reader is apprised of Pazzi’s “excellent beauty” and “illustrious extraction” (fo. *7v), but then Pazzi’s beauty and noble origins have been increasingly emphasised in Catholic retellings of her life all through the years; the beauty and high class of a masochistic victim might be an additional qualification in later literature of an avowed pornographic intent, but noting these qualities in this context cannot be taken as indication of anything other than Matthew’s wish to emphasise the degree of Pazzi’s renunciation of earthly matters in pursuit of her sacred aim. Alemán, Mateo. The Rogue. Trans. James Mabbe. Oxford. William Turner for Robert Allot, 1630. Betteridge, Tom, ed. 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