In his essential book, Pagan Mysteries in the Renaissance, Edgar Wind describes ‘mystical imagery’ as belonging to ‘an intermediate state’:
They are never final in the sense of a literal statement, which would fix the mind to a given point; nor are they final in the sense of the mystical Absolute in which all images would vanish. Rather they keep the mind in continued suspense by presenting the paradox of an ‘inherent transcendence’; they persistently hint at more than they say. It is a mistake, therefore, to overlook a certain ambiguity in the praise of hieroglyphs which Ficino, and after him Giordano Bruno, adopted from an incidental remark by Plotinus. In a famous passage of the fifth Ennead, Plotinus had suggested that Egyptian ciphers are more suitable for sacred script than alphabetic writing because they represent the diverse parts of a discourse as implicit, and thus concealed, in one single form. Since Pico ascribed the same virtue to the writing of Hebrew without vowels, it is legitimate to suspect that the Renaissance speculations on ‘implicit signs’ were not concerned with a positive theory of optical intuition, but with that far less attractive subject called steganography, the cryptic recording of sacred knowledge. Because God, in the opinion of Ficino, ‘has knowledge of things not by a multiplicity of thoughts about an object, but by a simple and firm grasp of its essence’, it seemed only right that the Egyptian priests had imitated the divine comprehension in their script, signifying ‘the divine mysteries not by the use of minutely written letters, but of whole figures of plants, trees, and beasts.’ But as Erasmus observed in the Adagia, the content of these figures was not meant to be open to direct inspection, or ‘accessible to anyone’s guess’; they presupposed in the reader a full acquaintance with the properties of each animal, plant, or thing represented… Thus, contrary to the divine intelligence which the reading of hieroglyphs is supposed to foreshadow, the intuitive grasp of them depends on discursive knowledge. Unless one knows what a hieroglyph means, one cannot see what it says. But once one has acquired the relevant knowledge, ‘unfolded’ by more or less exoteric instruction, one can take pleasure in finding it ‘infolded’ in an esoteric image or sign.
With this in mind, let us venture, armed with discursive information, to intuitively grasp the divine intelligence ‘infolded’ in this most hieroglyphic of TdM triumphs. [As always, click any images to enlarge and for more info.]
PART ONE
Earliest examples of the Fortitude card expressed the concept allegorically as physical strength/courage; Hercules or Samson beating up the lion or a formidable lady exerting control over it (taming animal instinct or temperament). Alternately, this formidable Virtue could be found grasping or busting up a pillar, as you do. Sadly, the dragon-extractor with an anvil on her head standing on a wine press didn’t get selected…guess Medieval fashions had become passé.
Engravings: Samson rendering the Lion late 15th c, Hans Ledenspelder ‘Forteza’ (after “Mantegna” prints) mid 16th c
Read all about Horapollo’s Hieroglyphica and TdM here.
The word ‘force/forza’ comes from Latin ‘fortis’, meaning “strong, mighty; firm, steadfast; brave, bold.” It later came to include “courage, fortitude; violence, power, compulsion.” Being top of the food chain and having a solar mane (Leo), the noble lion is one of the oldest symbols of power and rule, including rule of law; it’s roar equated with the thundering word of God. Examples are exhaustive, going back to ancient times. But male deities could only hope to possess or overcome this indomitable force of nature, which ultimately belonged to the great Mother – giver, protectress and taker of life.
Without diving too far into the whole lion-goddess topic, there are a couple that might be mythically relevant to us; Al-lāt and Medusa/the Gorgoneion/Athena. We’ll return to them, and to Hercules, in a circular fashion. But the use of a woman, rather than Hercules or Samson, in the TdM Strength card might be intended to illustrate a ‘princely virtue not confined of military strategy, a combination of force and prudence’ and the mitigating effect of Venus on Mars’ impulsive and destructive nature. She does not destroy it – nothing would ever perish without Mars, creating a different kind of imbalance – merely keeps it in check, Venus as lion-tamer.
When we place all the numbered triumphs in a row, Strength/La Force is situated smack in the middle – a gateway or junction between earth and heaven, waking life and the intermediate state, or even just at midlife:
Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say
What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,
Which in the very thought renews the fear.
So bitter is it, death is little more;
But of the good to treat, which there I found,
Speak will I of the other things I saw there.
~ from The Inferno, Canto I, Dante Alighieri (trans by H.W. Longfellow)
That we can’t readily locate Prudence might indicate that Justice, Force and Temperance are more than just classical Virtues, if not the totality of them. Note how they all fall into the ‘2’ placement, according to the Pythagorean cosmology, ‘One becomes two, two becomes three, and out of the third comes the one as the fourth.’ Justice and Temperance flank Force on either side like two caryatids; one holding a sword and scales of dismemberment, the other, watery vessels of renewal. Seven cards (as with the 1s and 3s), three on either side of the central one.
Ten, the divine number that forms the mystic tetractys – was also of great importance to Pythagoreans. Here is how the cards match up using their Roman numerals (this is not the numerology way of adding the digits together to reduce it to the ‘lower octave’, which can only be done with Arabic numerals):
Our chief concern here is that I (Le Bateleur), XI (La Force) and XXI (Le Monde) represent beginning, middle and end (and/or vice versa). In the beginning, as mentioned in this post about the Juggler/Bateleur, we see beneath his table a little, mandorla-shaped flame or golden barley grain (or cypress tree), in the distance. At the end, the complete being makes their appearance inside a similarly shaped wreath. And at the half-way mark, the lion’s maw extends directly from the yonic gates. Unique to TdM, this strongwoman doesn’t simply straddle the lion, it is part of her, just like Skylla’s hounds.
The pip cards are also numbered I to X, and the suit of swords bears a similar design to XXI. To Pythagoreans, the Vesica Piscis created by two, intersecting circles represented the intersection of heaven and earth – a place where dimensions merge into a lens or keyhole through which a more essential (or quintessential) reality might be glimpsed. Of course the church picked this concept up and ran with it.
Notice how the TdM suit continually ‘blinks’ from sword (masc/odd) to flower (fem/even), until a blending of both (active red becomes passive blue, one sword becomes two) in the last card. The design is thought to be based on playing cards that originated during the Mamluk sultanate in Egypt, which ended in the early 16th century.
Now for a slight detour…
For over a thousand years prior to Islam, Northern Arabia and well beyond had been the domain of Al-lāt, central figure of a lunar triad known as ‘Manat’. The Black Stone in the Kabaa at Mecca (thought to be a meteor) was once part of Al-lāt’s cult and, as such, is not mentioned in the Quran. ‘The Kaaba marked the location where the sacred world intersected with the profane, and the embedded Black Stone was a further symbol of this; an object as a link between heaven and earth.’ [Wikipedia]
There were in fact two more stones (the other two goddess of the lunar triad?), a red one associated with the deity of the South Arabian city of Ghaiman and a white one in the Kabaa of Al-Abalat, near the city of Tabala, south of Mecca. (Note the relation to the three primary colours of alchemy).
One of the hidden secrets of the medieval bardic romance is the Arabian origin of the Waste Land motif, most prominent in the Holy Grail cycle of tales. Despite monkish efforts to convert it into a Christian chalice, the Grail was generally recognized as a female symbol, whose loss implied fear for the fertility of the earth. Crusaders had seen for themselves the desolation of Arabia Deserta, one of the most lifeless regions on earth. They heard the Shi’ite heretics’ explanation for it: Islam had offended the Great Goddess, and she had cursed the land and departed. Now nothing would grow there. [Barbara G. Walker, The Women’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets]
In the three Aces of Cups, above, the lunar triad and feminine symbolism is obvious, as is a hint of Islamic influence. In the two, printed cards, it almost looks as if her ‘house’ has been up and transplanted (from the Holy Land?).
In Christianity, the triple Moon Goddess became the ‘three Marys,’ the central or all-in-one figure being the ‘Mother of God.’ There were variations on the triad, depending on the context. She could also be expressed as the three virgins – Mother Mary with St. Catherine and St. Barbara.
In TdM tradition, the cup’s tripartite, central, steeple (flanked by three ‘minarets’ on each side = seven) evokes the robed Madonna – or at least something veiled and sacred with three conjoined circles at the top. All the great cathedrals of Europe were built and named for ‘Our Lady.’ Somewhat surprisingly, Mary is revered in Islam as the greatest and purest woman that ever lived, and is the only woman mentioned in the Quran.
The Visconti-Sforza card depicts a beautiful fountain with water flowing from the ‘waxing’ and ‘waning’ flowers. Its central flower is aligned with the vessel-shaped winged figure, which may or may not have a full Moon face (it is too damaged to be certain). Under the Visconti, 14th-early 15th century Milan was a centre of Marian veneration out of which, despite macho, power politics, much wealth, beauty, art and culture was generated (or re-generated), including the hand-painted Tarot cards that bear their name.
END OF PART ONE
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PART TWO
Welcome back. Now let’s return to the card in question and examine some details of our TdM mistress, beginning with her infamous hat. Many have noted its ‘lemniscate’ shape, but otherwise it’s a conundrum. Examples of Renaissance era straw hats, hair nets (most likely) and headgear are continually compared, as if to suggest there is no other reason for its weird shape except that’s just (kind of like) what people wore. Well, alright, but why did the artist choose this particular shape of hat, for this particular card? Consistent in Tarot de Marseille, which takes cues from Renaissance art, is that the image components must serve more than one, visual function and must therefore remain vague enough to evoke or suggest, but never give the whole game away. It’s a puzzle we are invited to figure out.
In both type 1 and 2 versions, only one side of the brim has a leafy/scaled pattern. We’ve established that XI is midway between I and XXI, and that what begins as a single ‘grain’ shape in the first card will become a whole wreath in the end. Might it not stand to reason, then, that only one side of her hat has been ‘filled’ thus far?
The scaly side in type 1 also strangely resembles a (bearded) serpent head, like that of the Egypto-Greco-Roman Agathos Daimon or ‘good spirit’ guarding the mysteries in the catacombs, below (and in opener image). The four, petal-like shapes in the gorgoneion (Medusa mask) above it are also a close fit.
Addendum: Didier Dufond, who is the expert on Bacchic-Orphic symbolism in TdM recently pointed out (in a comment on the Fool post, which is perhaps more relevant within the context of this post):
..I add that this liturgical sequence was unknown to scholars at the time of the Renaissance, which suggests a direct transmission, far from the elites of that time. Same concealment technique with the strange hat of Force, with the pine cone of the thyrsus decorated with a knot, plus undoubtedly a snake and a crown of ivy, all attributes of the bacchantes. And a bacchante thinking of tearing off the head of a lion with her hands is known in Euripides’ tragedy The Bacchae, when it was about her own son, Pentheus.
So, in this case, the serpentine ‘petals’ of the gorgoneion in the tomb are pinecones just like in the thyrsus the Agathos Daimon below holds. Can’t believe I didn’t catch that!!
What he is referring to is a scene in said Greek tragedy where Pentheus, King of Thebes, having imprisoned and insulted Dionysus, ends up having his head torn off by his own mother, Agave, who thinks he is a lion. So much for the ‘princely virtue not confined of military strategy, a combination of force and prudence’ and the mitigating effect of Venus on Mars’ impulsive and destructive nature! Agave is clearly a force of nature. I need to study this play.
It has also been suggested that the beast resembles the ‘Tarasque‘, an ancient, lion-headed, dragon-like creature from French/Gaulish mythology that was ‘tamed’ by St. Martha. This does not change the esoteric meaning at all, but rather adds to it, since Martha was one of the ‘3 Marys’ and appears in connection with her brother Lazarus being raised from the dead.
2 placement cards always depict some kind of vessel(s), here represented by her two, mismatched, gold vambraces. In Conver versions, each is divided by eight lines into nine sections (excluding the full bands on the ends). This might not be accidental, as we shall see.
It’s also odd that the artist, after having taken such great care with the animal’s detail right down to the teeth, would have neglect to fix the lady’s goitre – another detail unique to Conver (supposed to be her hair). Now it looks as though her head has been, idk, severed? Hmm, what mythical being had a severed head with serpent scales…oh right.
“Visita Interiora Terrae Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem Veram Medicinam” [Visit the interior of the earth, and by rectifying you will find the hidden stone which is the true medicine].
At first in motion set those beauteous things;
So were to me occasion of good hope,
The variegated skin of that wild beast,
The hour of time, and the delicious season;
But not so much, that did not give me fear
A lion’s aspect which appeared to me.
He seemed as if against me he were coming
With head uplifted, and with ravenous hunger,
So that it seemed the air was afraid of him;
And a she-wolf, that with all hungerings
Seemed to be laden in her meagreness,
And many folk has caused to live forlorn!
~ Dante [ibid]
Throughout history, initiations have been performed in caves, or underground, in the belly of the Great Mother. We know that mystery initiates confronted the darker aspects of themselves during the simulated death experience that is essentially descent into the ‘unconscious’. Dante, who bridged classical/Pagan and Christian theologies, would have been no stranger to this idea. The three scary beasts he meets in the dark wood – a leopard-like creature, a lion and a she-wolf – are usually understood as fraud, violence and greed/incontinence, i.e., the very shadows of our three Virtues, whether personal or collective (the she-wolf, which frightened him most, is also thought to symbolize Rome).
What’s fascinating is how the TdM artist has merged the three, Dantean bardo-monsters into one creature. Wearing of a flayed skin easily subs for ‘fraud’ and Dante specifically refers to this creature by its ‘variegated skin.’ (Perhaps this mystery animal is otherwise occupied flaying Le Mat).
A fool may deceive by his dress and appearance, but his words will soon show what he really is. ~ Aesop
As mentioned, both the Gorgoneion and Agathos Daimon (serpent/good spirit) had a powerful apotropaic function. Snakes were not considered evil by any means, they were the children of Mother Earth and protected her sacred places.
Kom El Shoqafa, like other catacombs in Alexandria around this time, featured both Egyptian and Greco-Roman gods and rituals. When it came to the final journey, initiates agreed no ancestral Gods should be left out, regardless of anyone’s recent conversion. In a similar vein, travellers usually respected and made offerings to local gods – especially Hermes, in the form of a herm (where he gets his name) – for protection in foreign turf.
Whether or not the TdM artist(s) knew of such ancient catacombs where Egyptian, Greco-Roman and Christian religious imagery co-habitated peacefully, who knows (Kom El Shoqafa itself was only discovered in 1900), but they were certainly aware of the syncretization of the gods and had some grasp on how hieroglyphic imagery worked (on multi-levels), if not on the actual meanings of real hieroglyphs. And they surely would have been familiar with the likes of Leonardo da Vinci, a master at using a single, timeless image to tell more than one narrative, while leaving room for ambiguity.
‘An endeavour to concentrate in a single subject those various powers, which, rising from different points, naturally move in different directions’, was regarded by Sir Joshua Reynolds as unprofessional by a painter. ‘Art has its boundaries, though imagination has none.’ The expression of a ‘mixed passion’ was ‘not to be attempted’. But Renaissance artists rarely feared to attempt what the 18th century pronounced impossible. [Edgar Wind, ibid]
In the Christian Catacombs of Via Latina, we find this fabulous fresco of Hercules fighting a Medusa-esque Hydra, his second labour. Both figures are red, emphasizing the Martian life-blood-force, or force of nature, presumably being transferred to him from the monster. Fading into the background is the Nemean lion’s flayed skin (again resembling a bear), fruit of his first labour:
Because its golden fur was impervious to attack, it could not be killed with mortals’ weapons. Its claws were sharper than mortals’ swords and could cut through any strong armour.
According to Apollodorus, he was the offspring of Typhon. In another tradition, told by Aelian (citing Epimenides) and Hyginus, the lion was “sprung from” the moon-goddess Selene, who threw him from the Moon at Hera’s request. [Wikipedia]
Hercules finally corners the lion in its own, dark cave, clubs it senseless, then strangles it with his bare hands. But after trying unsuccessfully to flay it with knife and stone, Athena finally has to intervene and tell him to use one of the lion’s own claws (those razor-like spikes in La Force’s hat?).
That the fresco depicts Hercules naked and full of regenerative, serpent fire suggests his protective function in the afterlife, as well as perhaps a belief in re-emergence (be it on earth or in heaven). In the myth, the hero only achieves god status at the end of his trials when, in mortal pain from a nasty balm (made from the poison side of Medusa’s bloodstream), he finally throws himself on a funeral pyre, ie., the transforming fire. At this point, Hera and Zeus both decide he’s had enough and place him up in the heavens. [This old post goes into it in more detail.] Thus, Herc had his own cult back in the day, worshipped as a divine protector of mankind.
11 has also been called the ‘mute’ number (perhaps because it is ‘neuter’; odd but reduces to even). In the woodcut above, Apollo’s serpent, fitted with the ‘special Cerberus of Serapis’ head (lion flanked by dog and wolf, which was also a hieroglyphic allegory of Prudence) descends the spheres from heavenly Apollo to the silent, chthonic realm of Thalia, equated with the musical pause. One can’t help drawing a parallel to La Force, with her looped, serpentine hat above, bare foot firmly planted on the Earth, and, in the Conver card, the 9 sections in her cuffs. Also to Dante’s three beasts.
Gafurius, a good friend of Leonardo, owned a copy of Ficino’s translation of Plato’s works. Edgar Wind again:
Gafurius’s serpent is distinguished by a particularly engaging trait. While plunging head-downward into the universe, it curls the end of its tail into a loop on which Apollo ceremoniously sets his feet. A serpent’s tail turning back on itself is an image of eternity or perfection (commonly illustrated by a serpent biting its own tail, but known also in the form of a circular loop on the serpent’s back…). Gafurius thus makes it diagrammatically clear that Time issues from Eternity, that the linear progression of the serpent depends on its attachment to the topmost sphere where its tail coils into a circle.
That the ‘descent’ of a spiritual force is compatible with its continuous presence in the ‘supercelestial heaven’ was a basic tenet of Neoplatonism. Plotinus illustrated this difficult doctrine, which was essential to his concept of emanation, by the descent of Hercules into Hades. Homer, he said, had admitted ‘that the image of Hercules appeared in Hades while the hero was really with the gods, so that the poet affirms this double proposition: that Hercules is with the gods while he is in Hades.’ Pico della Mirandola extended the argument to Christ’s descent into Limbo, in the most startling of his Conclusiones in theologia, no. 8, which it is not surprising to find among the articles that were condemned…
Interesting, then, that the very next card, #12 Le Pendu/The Hanged Man depicts exactly such a figure; a man with golden locks who appears to be hanging head down, in limbo and, when flipped, dancing with his head in the heavens. No wonder his face expresses not agony but ‘mind in continued suspense by presenting the paradox of an ‘inherent transcendence’.
The theme of the older cards has evolved from an allegorical but obvious representation of Hercules in his first labour as lion-basher to a more cryptic one eluding to his final labour, initiation and transition. At this ‘still point’ in the game, TdM’s enigmatic strongwoman of the threshold demands that we leave – or sacrifice – our own singular preconceptions (and egos) at the gates and submit to a higher/deeper understanding, if we wish to follow suit. ~rb
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