Thinking about Recluses: A recap of the second ‘Rethinking voluntary reclusion in Mediterranean Europe’ workshop

On 28th and 29th March 2019 an international band of intrepid medievalists, including four from St Andrews, gathered in Rome and Viterbo for the second of two interdisciplinary workshops dedicated to ‘Rethinking Voluntary Reclusion in Mediterranean Europe’. It was a truly international event, organized by the St Andrews Institute of Mediaeval Studies, the Scuola Superiore di Studi Medievali e Francescani, and the Centro Studi Santa Rosa da Viterbo Onlus.

Figure 1: A possible recluse cell?

Medievalists have long investigated the reasons for choosing to live walled-up in a cell and what it might signify in religious and social terms. Primary texts and material culture can help us to explore such questions in a more meaningful way. For example, most historians of the medieval English church have encountered guides for recluses, such as the widely disseminated early 13th-century Ancrene Wisse, or biographies of well-known recluses and their spirituality. For those wanting to pursue the question of what it might have been like to live as a recluse, there remain a few extant cells attached to English churches. There have also been useful and important studies of France, Germany, and Italy. However, these historiographies remain distinct from one another and have tended to focus either on hagiographical material or on specific cities.  Therefore, one aim of the workshop at the Università Pontificia Antonianum was to update our understanding of what it meant to be a recluse, particularly in Italy, and to do so by comparing the evidence and the historiographies of different areas. This constitutes a continuation of a conversation begun in St Andrews in 2018, when cases from Italy were discussed alongside Croatia and Portugal. This year comparisons were made between Catalonia, England, and Germanic speaking regions of the empire.

The workshop, funded by the European Community through a Marie Curie Action and the Centro Studi Santa Rosa da Viterbo Onlus (thanks to a donation from EFI-Edizioni Francescane Italiane), began with the welcome of Pietro Messa of the Pontificia Università Antonianum. This was followed by the opening keynote delivered by Eddie Jones of the University of Exeter. Asking how much ordinary people knew about English recluses, Jones argued that they were a familiar part of the fabric of many a town (or its liminal spaces) and therefore often went unremarked. This does not make them easy to track down, though careful investigation reveals good evidence for their daily lives and those who supported them. The question of support was also central to the paper given by Joshua Easterling of Murray State University, though with a more spiritual understanding. Easterling focused on the lives of seven saintly recluses to argue for a transition from the early importance of Cistercian salvation networks in sustaining and inspiring recluses, to later more urban Mendicant connections. Michelle M. Sauer of the University of North Dakota then explored the role of widows who, in their role as recluses also became mediators, mediatrices, in the wider community. Other papers unpicked the language of the Catalan sources (Araceli Rosillo, Biblioteca Franciscans de Catalunya), the responses of Central Italian bishops and synodal regulation (Simone Allegria, Università di Siena-Arezzo), the range of evidence for recluses in Rome (Anna Esposito, Sapienza Università di Roma), and the location of recluses in the Patriarchate of Aquileia (Marialuisa Bottazzi, Centro Europeo di Studi Medievali).

The round table, during which Frances Andrews, Attilio Bartoli Langeli, Eddie Jones and Eleonora Rava mulled over some of the findings of the day, underscored the importance of rethinking the whole question of what being a medieval recluse might be taken to mean.  One reason why recluses have often been ignored by historians of medieval religion, or underestimated as merely a ‘transitional’ phase in a pious itinerary towards monastic enclosure, is the difficulty of the source material, which is often fragmentary and lacking precision.  As several speakers at the workshop made clear, new research and new evidence is now allowing us to set aside longstanding commonplaces. By focusing on the documentary evidence of communal Italy it is being revealed that recluses were a specific and autonomous element in the religious world.

Figure 2: A couple of St Andreans snapping a photo of the Bible of St Bonaventure

On day two, we set off on a fascinating walking tour, led by Eleonora Rava, tracking down locations associated with the city of Viterbo’s medieval recluses. The tour began with the archives of the monastery of Sta Rosa (who was arguably a recluse), passed through the crypts and cloisters of several urban churches and ended in the diocesan archive now housed in the papal palace. Here an unexpected opportunity arose to inspect the Bible of St Bonaventure, once stored as a relic in Bagnoregio. With this last surprise the workshop came to a close, but all the participants came away with a keen interest in developing further connections. The first step in that process will be an edited volume to be tentatively published in 2020.

From Dakar to Aix: the struggle with researching imperial histories

Blog post written by Dr Sarah Frank


V-P-HIST-03440-05, Guerre 1939-1945. Châlons-sur-Marne. Dulag Ob West. Camp de prisonniers de guerre. Homme de confiance des détenus coloniaux français.

Reconstructing the stories of colonized peoples presents a certain number of challenges. One struggle for historians of imperialism is how to draw out the voices of marginalized peoples when the archival trace places a euro-centric filter on their experiences. The research for my book, Hostages of Empire: Colonial Prisoners of War and Vichy France, took me on what sometimes felt like a wild goose chase hoping for memoirs and first-person accounts of captivity and finding mostly administrative documents. My first research trip as a young, hopeful PhD student took me to Paris for the French National Archives and the French Military Archives. These are the first ports of call for anyone studying the Second World War in France. I quickly realized that finding prisonnier de guerre in an inventory most likely referred to white, metropolitan prisoners of war, and not the approximately 85,000 men from across the French empire who were also captured in the Battle for France.

Evidence was there, it just needed to be found. Digging through correspondence between the French and German armistice commissions revealed intense negotiations between Georges Scapini, the half-blind veteran of the First World War placed in charge of all POW affairs, and his German counterpart over where the colonial prisoners should be interned. Once prisoners were settled into camps, international inspectors from the Swiss International Committee for the Red Cross (ICRC), or the American Young Man’s Christian Association (YMCA) started visiting colonial and white prisoners and reporting on their mental and physical conditions. While white prisoners sometimes left memoirs most colonial prisoners did not leave written records of their captivity. Luckily there are a few notable exceptions such as Léopold Sédar Senghor (first president of Senegal, poet, a brilliant intellectual), Ahmed Rafa (who became one of the first Algerian generals in the French army) and Michel Gnimagnon (a teacher from Dahomey). Still, much of the information about the colonial prisoners’ captivity was filtered through a white European lens – even when colonial prisoners were asked about their own experiences.

V-P-HIST-03440-35, Guerre 1939-1945. Melun. Camp de prisonniers de guerre français et sénégalais. Groupe de détenus sénégalais.

For a variety of reasons, the French authorities interviewed most of the colonial prisoners who escaped from captivity. Summaries of these interviews were submitted to the French military authorities interested in German propaganda, morale in the camps, and relations with French civilians. These testimonies constitute the largest records of colonial prisoners’ captivity experience, containing first-person narratives from surrender, capture, through to camp life and escape. So this is a fantastic source where we can finally hear from the prisoners themselves. But it of course remains problematic. One of the challenges is then, how to draw out the voices of those people whose every interactions with the French, who represented the colonial authority, was impacted by hierarchies of race and citizenship. Questions of sex and gender are inherently important for POWs, but do not exist in the source material. No colonial soldier would ever think of reporting sexual relations with a white French woman to a French military officer.


V-P-HIST-03440-36, Guerre 1939-1945. Melun. Camp de prisonniers de guerre français et sénégalais. Groupe de détenus sénégalais.

One method I found useful when working with problematic written sources was to expand my research to include as many different perspectives as possible. To do so, I travelled to the German Military archives in Frieburg, French Overseas Archives in Aix, Kew in London, the Senegalese National Archives and seventeen departmental archives in France hoping to find traces of colonial prisoners who had worked locally. Being an underfunded PhD student, these archival trips were somewhat dire – 5am trains to Vesoul, low-budget hotel rooms, and archival staff confused as to ‘what I wanted’. I quickly learnt that material on the colonial prisoners was rarely in a box labeled ‘colonial prisoners of war’, and that one should never travel without tea bags.  Surprisingly, the presence of a large POW camp, like that in Epinal which held up to 10,000 prisoners, did not guarantee that information about its colonial prisoners would be found in the departmental archives. In many departments school children were encouraged to collect clothes and scrapes of fabric to send to the ‘suffering populations in North Africa’ while ignoring the North African prisoners located in their towns. Other archives had a wealth of material, like in Mayenne, a rural department, where many small towns were forced to hire colonial prisoners to work on public works. As costs increased, so did the number of complaints which were kept in the archive, revealing the multitude of attitudes of French civilians towards the colonial prisoners.

Eventually, the diverse material from different actors allowed me to reconstruct the colonial prisoners’ experiences of life in captivity, relationships they formed, and how they survived until their return home. Reading widely allowed me to identify and challenge the assumptions of the documents’ writers, my own assumptions, and those of previous historians. Most importantly, thinking outside the box (and visiting as many archives as possible!) helped reveal the voices and agency of the people I was researching.

LGBT History Month 2019 – Reading List

LGBT History Month for 2019 comes to a close today. Around the school this month we have posted seven posters to celebrate the occasion and hopefully you had a chance to see them reproduced here online: Same-sex relations in the Vienna Bible moralisée, James VI & I – King of Scotland, England and Ireland, Charity Bryant and Sylvia Drake, ‘Taste in High Life’, William Hogarth, 1746, Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, The Well of Loneliness (1928) by Radclyffe Hall, and The Indian Penal Code (Section 377).

This month we asked our staff members in the School of History to share their top recommendations for reading about LGBT history and the history of sexuality. Altogether we assembled a reading list of over a hundred books and articles covering the wide geographic and chronological range of our historians. You may download our reading list as as PDF or read below the fold to see the list directly online here.

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LGBT History Month Poster: The Indian Penal Code (Section 377)

An LGBT activist dances during the celebration after the Supreme Court verdict which decriminalizes consensual gay sex on September 06, 2018 in Calcutta, India. Photo attrib. Saikat Paul, CC-BY-NC-ND 2.0

On 6th September 2018, the Supreme Court in New Delhi pronounced a landmark verdict decriminalising consensual gay sex in India. The ruling concerned Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, legislation first drafted in the colonial era which still criminalises ‘carnal intercourse against the order of nature.’  Five Supreme Court judges declared that the law as it applied to consenting adults was unconstitutional, marking the end of a tortuous legal campaign by LGBT activists dating back to the 1990s. 

Supporters of anti-gay legislation in India argue that it protects traditional culture from ‘Western’ influences. However, many historians refute this, drawing attention to the ‘queerness’ of pre-colonial India and viewing Section 377 as an attempt by the British Raj to impose Victorian values on its colonial subjects.  Although Section 377 no longer applies to homosexuality in a legal sense, it may be argued that the attitudes that informed it persist and this question, amongst others, continues to fuel debate amongst historians about the impact of colonial rule. 

Sources: 

Section 377 – Supreme Court of India – WP(C) NO. 76 OF 2016 Judgement 06-Sep-2018, https://www.sci.gov.in, accessed 24thJanuary 2018.

Vanita, Ruth (ed.), Queering India. Same-Sex Love and Eroticism in Indian Culture and Society (Abingdon, Oxon; Routledge, 2002).

Further reading:

Arondekar, Anjali, For the record: On Sexuality and the Colonial Archive in India (Durham: Duke University Press).

Ballhatchet, Kenneth, Race, Sex and Class Under the Raj (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1980).

Chatterjee, Partha, The Nation and its Fragments: Colonial and Postcolonial Histories (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1993).

Menon, Nivedita, Sexualities (New Delhi: Women Unlimited, 2007).

Sinha, Mrinalini, Colonial Masculinity: The ‘Manly Englishman’ and the ‘Effeminate Bengali’ in the Late Nineteenth Century (Manchester: Manchester University, 1995).

Vanita, Ruth and Saleem Kidwai, Same Sex Love in India: Readings from Literature and History (New Delhi: Macmillan, 2000).

LGBT History Month Poster: The Well of Loneliness (1928) by Radclyffe Hall

Radclyffe Hall, Wikimedia Commons

A novel, The Well of Loneliness, by Radclyff (John) Hall, was first published by Jonathan Cape in an initially short print run in 1928.  Its protagonist is a female lesbian character, Stephen Gordon, and the plot follows her intimate encounters and relationships, which present the lesbian characters’ “inversion” – a contemporary term that Hall appropriated in her writing – as biologically-driven, and depict a complex picture of what life for lesbian women in interwar Britain could be like, setting experiences of personal, intimate happiness alongside wider social ostracism and rejection.

The context in which the novel appeared is important to consider. Published during a period in which the British parliament debated introducing legislation to outlaw sexual relationships between women, the novel was seized upon by the then editor of the Sunday Express, James Douglas, as “an intolerable outrage”.  The controversy manufactured by Douglas led to an obscenity trial in November 1928, in which magistrate Sir Chartres Biron upheld the Hinkley test to rule that the book had the potential to ‘deprave and corrupt’ and ordered the book destroyed. The Well of Loneliness was of course not the only book depicting homosexual love and relationships to be put on trial around this time; what was novel in this case was that the book was judged obscene and suppressed not for any particular explicit content but for “the subject itself” and for the fact, according to magistrate Biron, that it was well written and thus constituted a ”palatable poison”. The Well of Loneliness was not published in Britain again until 1949; in 1974 it was serialised as a Radio 4 Book at Bedtime.

Source: Joseph Bristow, “Homosexual writing on trial: from Fanny Hill to Gay News’ in Hugh Stevens ed. The Cambridge Companion to Gay and Lesbian Writing (Cambridge: CUP, 2010) 17-33.

Further reading:

Deborah Cohler, Citizen, Invert, Queer: lesbianism and war in early twentieth-century Britain (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010).

Laura Doan, Fashioning Sapphism. The Origins of a Modern English Lesbian Culture (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001)

Laura Doan, Disturbing Practices:  history, sexuality and women’s experiences of modern war (Chicago & London: University of Chicago Press, 2013)

Rebecca Jennings, A Lesbian History of Britain: Love and Sex Between Women since 1600 (Oxford: Greenwood World Publishing, 2007).

Lesley Hall, ‘”Sentimental follies” or ‘Instruments of Tremendous Uplift’? Reconsidering women’s same-sex relationships in interwar Britain’ in Women’s History Review vol. 25.1, 2016.

Alison Oram, Her Husband Was A Woman! Women gender-crossing in modern British popular culture (London: Routledge, 2007)

Martha Vicinus, Intimate Friends: women who loved women (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2004)

LGBT History Month Poster: Karl Heinrich Ulrichs

Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, Wikimedia Commons

Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, born in Saxony in 1825, was a writer who used his words and actions to publicly defend homosexuality (a term that came into usage in the German lands in the late 1860s, although Ulrichs himself preferred the term he coined, ‘Urning’) and to denounce the criminalisation of individuals accused of having engaged in same-sex sexual activity. Between 1864 and 1879 Ulrichs published twelve volumes of essays discussing Researches on the Riddle of Love between Men [Forschungen über das Rätsel der mann-männlichen Liebe], which elaborated his theory of homosexuality as anima muliebris virili corpore inclusa [a feminine soul confined by a masculine body]. This theory appears problematic to contemporary ears, and was shaped by Ulrichs’ interest in the then developing scientific branch of embryology as well as by contemporary societal-cultural assumptions that “love directed towards a man must be a woman’s love”.

Whilst the concept of ‘coming out’ is a 20th century one, Ulrichs effectively did this, consciously, first to his family and then publicly in 1868 when he stopped publishing under the pseudonym ‘Numa Numantius’ and began publishing his works discussing homosexuality and codifying different sexual orientations under his own name. Ulrich was also a political activist, speaking out against both the legal restrictions placed on homosexual activity and against the Prussian-dominated unification of Germany; the two combined in his (justified) fears that the extension of Prussian rule would lead to the extension of its strict anti-homosexuality laws.

Since his death in the Italian city of L’Aquila in 1895, to where he had fled in exile in 1880, Ulrichs has been claimed as a pioneering hero of the gay emancipation movement in Germany and beyond. Several German cities have named streets in his honour, his tomb in L’Aquila has been the site of an annual commemoration on Ulrich’s birthday since 1988, and the city was the major venue, along with Munich, where Ulrichs also lived for a time, for the ceremonies that in 2000 celebrated the 175th anniversary of Ulrich’s birth.

Source: Hubert Kennedy, Ulrichs: The life and works of Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, pioneer of the modern gay movement (Boston: Alyson Publications, 1988)

Further reading:

Robert Beachy, Gay Berlin: birthplace of a modern identity (Knopf, 2015)

Hubert Kennedy, ‘Karl Heinrich Ulrichs First Theorist of Homosexuality’, Science and Homosexualities (New York: Routledge, 1997), pp. 26–45.

LGBT History Month Poster: ‘Taste in High Life’, William Hogarth, 1746

Taste in High Life, Metropolitan Museum, CC-BY-NC-ND 2.0

Eighteenth century Britons did not recognize gay or straight sexualities and identities in the way we do today.  Gay sexual relations were still illegal, though only for men, and could be punished severely. Nevertheless, especially among elites, some men adopted fluid gender identities and maintained romantic relationships with other men.  In art, theatre, and fiction, one could often find such characters depicted, and the era especially saw the emergence of the “macaroni”; a very fashionably-dressed effeminate man who was a trend-setting member of London high society.

 William Hogarth was very famous for his popular portrayals of London life.  This print, like many others, is an engraving of one of his paintings, produced for mass consumption among the middling classes of early modern Britain. Here, Hogarth is satirising the lifestyles of the London elite.  The characters he chooses to do this include an enslaved African servant, a wealthy older woman but also, on the far right, a macaroni-like figure. Known for incorporating rich symbolism into his works, Hogarth here communicates the sexual ambiguity of the macaroni with a number of visual cues.  The man is thin and dressed effeminately.  His cane and pigtail are phallic symbols, and he is wooing a rich older woman who is intended to be viewed as physically unattractive. Finally, he is holding a fur muff in front of his crotch to suggest his gender should be female.  Nevertheless his hand is in the muff, also hinting at heterosexual interest. This man is neither gay nor straight, but he is representative of the fluid gender identities that were highly visible in eighteenth century society.

Source

Further reading:

Jody Greene, ‘Public Secrets: Sodomy and the Pillory in the Eighteenth Century and Beyond’ The Eighteenth Century, vol. 44, 2003, 203-32.

Karen Harvey, ‘The Century of Sex? Gender, Bodies and Sexuality in the Long Eighteenth Century‘ Historical Journal, vol. 45.4, 899-917.

Amelia Rauser, ‘Hair, Authenticity and the Self-Made Macaroni’ Eighteenth-Century Studies, vol. 38, 2004, 101-17.

Tim Hitchcock, ‘Redefining Sex in Eighteenth-Century England’  History Workshop Journal, vol.  41, 1996, 72-90.

Randolph Trumbach, Sex and the Gender Revolution, vol. 1: Heterosexuality and the Third Gender in Enlightenment London (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998)