Sigewiza’s Cure

Suzanne Phillips and Monique Boivin provide us with a sympathetic and compelling account of how the various elements of Hildegard’s sophisticated amalgam of ritual, magic, religion, dietary and other medical remedies, caring, and community, formed a seamless cure for Sigewiza’s affliction. Whether Hildgard’s approach reflects an early instance of the biopsychosocial “model” is a separate claim, and may be challenged. But that her ministrations somehow effected a cure in this case seems—if not without a doubt, then very likely.

Descriptions of Sigewiza’s condition, with its “clumping together of blackness and steam” caused by a “constellation of humors,” echo those of other medieval writers speaking of the humoral disorder of melancholia—at that time an encompassing category for a range of symptoms and syndromes that would today be assigned as different mental disorders. In these descriptions a variety of explanations for mental illness are quite typically introduced, including biological, social, supernatural, dietary and astrological ones. Phillips and Boivin take care to point out that Hildegard was not offering her remedies as alternatives, but rather proposing them as at work jointly and in a range of causal directions, exhibiting mutual influence, and feedback loops. As these authors say, multiple explanations “were often held simultaneously . . . in reference to a specific case” (Phillips and Boivin 2007, XX). And the factors that might cause the system to move out of balance are many: food, emotions, the soul, the mind, actions, and spiritual forces. So although deeds may cause bodily changes and their psychological accompaniments, “problems in the diet might affect the humors which would then have psychological effects, which demons might . . . use as opportunities to cause further trouble in the spirit, mind, and body” (Phillips and Boivin 2007, 365).

What first struck me about Hildegard’s description of these many distinct causes interacting in complex ways is its compatibility with the multi-causal accounts of depression (and other mental disorder) frequently proffered in our own time. Daily habits (e.g., diet, sleep and exercise regimes), genetic predispositions, including biological states of fragility, external events, experiences of loss, social roles, and cultural beliefs—not to mention spontaneous recovery, and placebo effects—are all regularly implicated in the onset and course of conditions such as depression.

Still, the similarity to these modern causal accounts may be somewhat misleading and we must beware of overstating it. In favoring and pressing on Hildegard’s holistic understanding, moreover, Phillips and Boivin perhaps insufficiently emphasize significant dissimilarities between Hildegard’s and our contemporary accounts.

It is the interaction between the various elements making up Sigewiza’s cure that is most noteworthy in this account, as Phillips and Boivin recognize. Yet that relationship itself seems in some ways surprisingly problematic: difficult for us to make sense of, and profoundly unmodern. Granted, we think we see the way these approaches probably influenced how Sigewiza felt and responded; but it is not so clear how Hildegard saw things. Like a lot of thinking in medieval times, Hildegard’s account provides us with glimpses of an understanding of the world that today looks prescientific and in that respect, almost precausal. (So, to the extent that the biopsychosocial model is understood as a causal one, the case of Sigewiza may exemplify it only inexactly.)

It is not merely the range and type of causes, including supernatural and astrological ones, in accounts such as Hildegard’s that distinguish it from today’s analyses. It is also the reliance of such accounts on what seems to be a different metaphysics, one of associations or qualities.

Associationist presuppositions can be found in accounts of health and illness from before, during, and long after, Hildegard’s time. Three examples of this pervasive, but puzzling thinking serve to illustrate. The melancholiac’s perceived swarthiness and darkened skin color—regularly noted from the time of the Greek physicians and an established part of the medieval iconography in images of melancholy—were not, or not primarily, thought to be a causal result of the darkness of his bile, as one might suppose. Instead, this coloring seems...