The Amorous Heart

by Marilyn Yalom

  For the most part, in the world of Ibn Hazm the beloved and the lover were of unequal status. Differences of age, in feeling, in social rank were common. Often a man fell in love with his slave or someone else of a lower class and even ended up marrying her. This situation would be reversed in the European annals of courtly love. There, the minstrel or knight will become enthralled by a woman of higher status, the wife of a king or lord. The husband would allow the young man’s attentions to his spouse as long as they remained noncarnal.

  In the end Ibn Hazm came down on the side of noncarnal relations. After relating numerous stories about erotic love, mainly heterosexual but also a few homosexual, he excoriated the sins of sex, especially fornication, adultery, and sodomy. Passion itself was ultimately seen as “the key to the door of perdition.” His counsel was to abstain from sin and, if possible, follow the path of continence. “He whose heart is led astray, whose spirit is monopolized by love” will end up in Hell. Only the man who comes to Allah “with a pure heart” will be granted an eternal home in Paradise. The heart, as understood by Ibn Hazm, was simultaneously the home of earthly passion—which he condemned—and of religious conscience. Whatever his personal experience of passion in the past, Ibn Hazm made his peace with Allah by promoting the spiritual over the physical and by renouncing mortal love for the love of God.

  Chapter 3

  The Heart Icon’s First Ancestors

  THROUGHOUT MY RESEARCH INTO ANCIENT GREEK, ROMAN, Arabic, and early medieval civilizations, I was on the lookout for visual representations of the heart, hoping to discover the very first appearance of our familiar heart icon. It is one thing to find associations between the heart and love spelled out in poetry and prose and quite another to discover pictures of the two-lobed symmetrical heart symbolizing love. For many months a stubborn question pursued me: Did the heart icon exist before the high Middle Ages? The answer to that question is both yes and no. Yes, insofar as the shape of the heart icon could be found in the Mediterranean world as far back as the sixth century BCE on the Cyrenian coin shown in Figure 3. No, since that shape did not represent the human heart per se and was not equated with love.

  In time I discovered several other “heart” figures on artifacts from the Mediterranean region. For example, a magnificent silver drinking vessel created in Persia (present-day Iran) during the sixth century CE carries motifs shaped exactly like our familiar, scalloped heart. At that time in Persia, before the Muslim conquest and the adoption of Islam, the Sassanian Empire was at the height of its power, with mighty kings and a luxurious court culture. The vessel pictured in Figure 4 is a highly sophisticated work embossed with four female figures—three musicians and one dancer—each encircled by vines and grapes and separated from the others by a row of “heart” decorations. But it is unlikely that these motifs were intended to represent human hearts and even less likely that they were connected to love. Perhaps they were related to wine, as this is a drinking vessel on which grapes, leaves, and vines are prominently displayed.

  FIGURE 4. Artist unknown, Drinking bowl decorated with female musicians, sixth century AD. Silver, Tehran Museum, Tehran, Iran.

  Another sixth-century “heart” motif, this time of European origin, made its appearance in Paris in the fall of 2016 as part of an exhibition titled “What’s New in the Middle Ages?” (Quoi de neuf au Moyen Age?) On a clasp that once belonged to a Catholic chaplain and somehow ended up in the tomb of a sixth-century nobleman, a small object resembling a heart icon had been placed dead center. Was this small “heart” merely a fanciful shape, or did it have a specific meaning?

  The late Dutch neurosurgeon and publisher Pierre Vinken argued that such motifs from the early medieval period were not intended to represent the heart; rather, he saw them as merely decorative, more often than not inspired by ivy-like leaves. The examples pictured in his book The Shape of the Heart support that thesis. But other early artifacts not included by Vinken suggest that the bi-lobed shape may sometimes have had symbolic meanings, even if we don’t know what that meaning was. Some of the most intriguing can be found in the twenty-six Spanish manuscripts of a text known as The Commentary on the Apocalypse, dating from the late ninth through the early thirteenth centuries.

  The Commentary on the Apocalypse was originally written in Spain by the eighth-century monk Beatus of Liébana, who believed that the world was about to come to an end. This belief was based on the last book of the New Testament—the Apocalypse, or Book of Revelation—which describes in surreal detail the final destruction of the world when the righteous will be swept up into Heaven and all evil-doers destroyed by horrendous calamities. Beatus and his contemporaries had fixed the date of the Apocalypse at the year 800, but even when that date had passed, his Commentary continued to be reproduced in numerous monasteries in northern Spain, where Mozarabs had settled. Mozarabs were Christians who had held onto their faith without converting to Islam after the Muslim conquest of Spain in 711.

  One of the Beatus manuscripts, from the mid-tenth century and now in the Morgan Library in New York, was made by a Spanish scribe and illuminator named Maius (Ms 644). Of particular interest are the rows of little “hearts” outlined in red so as to mark a separation in the text. According to the medieval manuscript expert Christopher de Hamel, they resemble “those in a love-sick teenage girl’s exercise book,” but they probably had nothing to do with love.

  Moreover, elsewhere in the Morgan Beatus, an illustration of the Lamb of Christ is decorated with two small stylized “hearts” stamped on its body. Perhaps the illuminator of the Morgan Beatus had seen the “heart” motif, already employed among sixth-century Persians and Visigoth Christians, and thought it would make a useful embellishment to his work.

  ANOTHER BEATUS MANUSCRIPT, THE GIRONA CODEX COMPLETED in 975, contains “hearts” that may have had symbolic implications. In a full-page miniature featuring the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the white horse is decorated from head to tail with what we today instinctively see as little red hearts. Why should this horse bear such decorations while the others do not? If we look into the Book of Revelation for the passage that inspired this illustration, we find a description of the four horses, each with its specific color and attributes:

  “a white horse and he that sat on him had a bow.”

  “another horse that was red:… and there was given unto him [the rider] a great sword.”

  “a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand.”

  “a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death.”

  (Revelation 6:1–8)

  FIGURE 5. Artist unknown, “The Opening of the First Four Seals” (detail), from the Girona Beatus (folio 126r), tenth century AD. Illuminations decorated with gold and silver, 400 x 260 mm, Museum of the Cathedral of Girona, Girona, Spain. Copyright moleiro.com.

  The meaning of these four horses has been bedeviling theologians for centuries. The horses are clearly harbingers of doom, with the reddish one in the upper right symbolizing war, the black one in the lower left symbolizing famine, and the pale one in the lower right symbolizing death. The rider of the white horse is often identified with Christ, but some interpretations have presented him, instead, as the Antichrist.

  In the Girona Beatus the rider on the white horse is clearly different from the others (Figure 5). Not only does his horse carry upbeat-looking “hearts,” but the rider himself faces backward, toward the other horsemen, perhaps aiming his bow at them. The “hearts” on the white horse may be marking its rider as a counterforce to war, famine, and death, a visual statement consistent with the view that he is a representative of Christ.

  ANOTHER MANUSCRIPT FURTHER CONFOUNDS THE ISSUE. Known as the Facundus Beatus from the name of its scribe, it was commissioned by King Ferdinand I and Queen Sancha and dated 1047. It uses the “heart” decoration in several highly imaginative illustrations.

  In the “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse” two of the horses—the one in the upper rig
ht and the one in the lower left—are branded with a single heart on their haunches. Why should these two horses be stamped with hearts, whereas the white horse in the upper left is covered with small circles and the horse in the lower right has no decorative imprints whatsoever on its body? This question is unanswerable, at least by me.

  Another miniature from the Facundus Beatus, this one titled “Rider Called Faithful and True” shows six horses on three registers. The two horses at the top of the page are branded with a “heart” on their haunches, like a military insignia, whereas the four horses in the lower registers are not distinguished in this manner. Facundus placed “hearts” on animals in a few other illustrations, as well as in a picture of a palm tree trunk constructed from “heart” shapes lined up one atop the other.

  All these Mozarabic “hearts” created in northern Spain during the tenth and eleventh centuries do not appear in later versions of the Beatus manuscripts from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Why they disappeared is a mystery, and whether they had a direct connection to subsequent French and Italian illustrations of the heart—both religious and nonreligious—remains another mystery. Barring further discoveries, we have to conclude that the “heart” decorations from ancient Persia and early medieval Europe are probably not related to the heart or love. What we see is a pleasing form in search of a meaning or whose meaning has simply been lost or forgotten.

  Stop for a moment to consider what might have happened to this shape. If it had become strongly associated with the silphium seed pod pictured on the coin from ancient Libya in Figure 3, it might have become the sign for contraception or abortifacients. Or, five or six hundred years later, when rows of “hearts” appeared on the ancient Persian drinking vessel shown in Figure 4, it may have become the sign of wine and winemakers. Or, in tenth-century Spain, given the evidence of the Beatus manuscript in Figure 5, it might have become a brand for horses. Why not? The double lobes do suggest haunches. But none of these meanings stuck to the scalloped figure we call a heart. It had to await the right set of circumstances to become a symbol of love, and those circumstances would first emerge in the high Middle Ages.

  Chapter 4

  French and German Songs from the Heart

  FIGURE 6. Artist unknown, “Herr Alram von Gresten: Minne Gespräch,” from the Codex Manesse, (COD. Pal. 848, Bl. 311r), 1300–1340. Parchment, cover color miniatures, 35 x 25 cm, Heidelberg University Library, Heidelberg, Germany.

  DURING THE TWELFTH AND THIRTEENTH CENTURIES THE amorous heart found a home in the feudal courts of northern Spain, Provence, France, Germany, and Italy. Minstrels called troubadours in the South of France (where people spoke Occitane) and trouvères in the North (where they spoke old French) celebrated a new form of love that came to be known as fin’ amor. Fin’ amor is impossible to translate: today we call it courtly love, but its original meaning was closer to “extreme love,” “refined love,” or “perfect love.”

  Courtly love required the troubadour to pledge his heart—his whole heart—to only one woman, with the promise that he would be true to her forever. Accompanied by his lyre or harp, he would sing his heart out in the presence of his lady and members of the court to which she belonged. Wherever he wandered, he proclaimed his undying love for the one who had aroused his “yearning heart.” These words, from the twelfth-century troubadour Bernart de Ventadorn, were reputedly inspired by Eleanor of Aquitaine, whom he visited after she had relocated in England. Eleanor was the granddaughter of William IX, Duke of Aquitaine, credited with having created the first troubadour love lyrics, and she brought with her an entourage of gifted troubadours in her first marriage to Louis VII of France and in her second marriage to Henry II of England.

  Bernart began one of his song-poems with the assertion that “Singing has little value / If the song cannot come from the heart. / And the song cannot come from the heart / If it does not have fin’ amor within it.” Bernart claimed he sang better than any other troubadour because his heart—along with his mouth, eyes, and spirit—was consumed with love and his commitment to his lady was nothing less than global: “She has taken my heart, she has taken everything, / Myself and the entire world.”

  Fin’ amor was supposed to have a positive influence on the lover who strove to prove himself worthy of his beloved. Another troubadour, Arnaud Daniel, maintained that the love within his heart was a force that would make him “improve and grow better.” He insisted that such an extreme love had never entered into anyone else’s heart or soul. Troubadours were not shy about praising their personal prowess, be it in the domain of song, love, or moral valor.

  Neither were they shy about expressing erotic desire. Even the celebrated woman troubadour, the Countess de Die, spoke of the love she felt for her chevalier in terms that were frankly physical. When she wrote, “I grant him my heart and my love,” she added boldly that she hoped to hold him in her arms in the place of her husband. This rare woman among male troubadours lauded the joys of the bedchamber, just like the men.

  In the South of France, with its sunshine, warmth, and verdant vines, the religious asceticism that gained a greater foothold in the North never seriously challenged sensual life. In the latter region, with its various shades of gray, trouvères were, generally speaking, less focused on the physical. They too pledged their hearts to a chosen lady and willingly submitted to the dictates of fin’ amor, however hopeless their quest. Thus, Gace Brulé, a prolific minstrel active around the turn of the thirteenth century, sang frequently of his “true heart,” his “honest heart,” and his “loyal heart” given to his lady “with no hope of release.” The compulsion to love, to sing, and to suffer were all embedded within Brulé’s heart, which he called upon as a witness to his lovelorn state: “Heart, how can I help it.” He swore to his lady a pledge of permanent submission: “I grant you all my heart and body.” Brulé was the consummate poet of unconditional love, as he affirmed in a characteristic refrain: “For my heart wishes to have no one / but her.” Even if she did not share his sentiments, he professed to be grateful for the one-sided love in his heart.

  A generation later the Count Thibaut de Champagne, the great-grandson of Eleanor of Aquitaine, also sang of the suffering planted deep within his heart. Following the conventions of fin’ amor, he vowed to serve his lady faithfully, just as a vassal served his lord, and to welcome the pleasurable pains induced by love. He wrote, “He who has put all his heart and all his will into loving / Should suffer good and evil, and be grateful.” Yet sometimes Thibaut was less resigned and cried out, “If only God would grant me the favor of embracing her beautiful body.”

  A thirteenth-century minstrel known as Sordello visualized the literal impression his lady had made upon his heart:

  Love engraved

  Your features in an image

  Cut deeply into my heart,

  And so I’ve handed myself over,

  To do whatever pleases you,

  Finely and firmly through all my life.

  The idea of carrying the picture of one’s beloved within one’s heart became a commonplace among poets, as in the verse of Folquet de Marseille, who declared, “I carry your image deep in my heart, / And it urges me never to change my feelings.” When this poem was anthologized in a thirteenth-century collection of troubadour poetry, it was accompanied by an illustration of Folquet wearing the lady’s image on the part of his tunic that covered his heart.

  Troubadours and trouvères listened to their hearts as guides for the tone and mood of their songs. An anonymous trouvère was happy to offer his joyful heart to the woman who had inspired him to sing. Another, contemplating the form of his beloved, felt his heart expand and burst into flame “while singing gaily.” But more often than not the minstrel’s song was wistful and melancholic, as in the case of Blondel de Nesle, who complained that an unfeeling woman had caused his heart to become “black and gray.” Sad or happy, sensual or platonic, the poems sung by troubadours and trouvères all celebrated an idealized l
ove that honored women and granted them absolute power in matters of the heart. Of course, in real life most medieval women had practically no power at all, with the exception of those queens, duchesses, and countesses who promoted this new model of love at their courts.

  The explosion of song and poetry that started in France spread to surrounding countries, each of which added and created its own variations. Occitane song and poetry infiltrated northern Spain, Portugal, and northern Italy, while northern French poems and stories made their way to Germany, Hungary, and eventually Scandinavia. And in each region love staked out its place not only as a literary concept but also as an important social value and an intrinsic part of being human. Instead of viewing erotic love as a punishment inflicted by capricious Greco-Roman gods or as a sinful experience to be avoided by Christians, secular civilization embraced love as never before. A yearning for amorous love seeped into the Western consciousness and has remained there ever since.

  THE MEDIEVAL GERMAN COUNTERPARTS TO FRENCH MINSTRELS were known as Minnesingers (Minnesänger), taking their name from Frau Minne, the personification of love that developed after 1100 in Middle High German. Like their forerunners in France, Minnesingers usually composed both the words and music for their love songs. Many were members of the minor nobility or were high-ranking commoners who depended for their livelihood on court patronage. In writing and singing about love they adhered to the courtly ideal that had developed in France while adding their own regional and personal flavors.