Say the words Bibliothèque nationale de France to any manuscript researcher and it tends to invite a series of anecdotes – usually horror stories about long days trawling through blurry microfilms, refusals of access to manuscripts, and its somewhat unique bureaucratic arrangements. So, while I was excited about the prospect of spending a few days researching in Paris this month, I was also feeling a little nervous about whether I would actually get to see the manuscripts I wanted to examine, and whether I would come out sane at the other end. Luckily, things went better than I expected they would and I thought making some notes on the experience might be of help to other researchers preparing to brave the experience.

First, before you go it’s recommended to fill out a ‘pre-admission’ form. I received a prompt automatic response with a registration number, which, if nothing else, is something useful to brandish when you eventually get to the Library’s admissions desk. I also emailed the Manuscripts Department with a description of my research and a list of the manuscripts I wished to consult, Although I didn’t receive a reply, it was useful to be able to say that I had made contact.

The majority of the manuscripts at the BnF are housed at the Richelieu site (5 Rue Vivienne). Within ten minutes walk from the Louvre (though the picturesque grounds of the Palais Royale) it’s a beautiful building.

Daily commute through the gardens of the Palais Royal © wikipedia.org

A general reader’s ticket is issued for 3 days, 15 days, or a year. If, like me, you’re there for a week, it’s possible to get a three-day ticket, then renew it, which works out much cheaper than paying for the 15 day pass. The manuscripts reading room (Galerie Mazarine) is upstairs in the building. At this point, things get a little complicated. You present yourself at the desk at the manuscript reading room and hand over your card. You’re given a red plastic plaque with a number on it, and a locker key with a different number on it. You’re also given a blue paper slip, which essentially serves as your temporary card allowing you to leave and re-enter the reading room as you need. You put your belongings in the locker and then go back into the manuscript room and find the desk with the same number as on the red plastic plaque. At this point, dazzled by all the numbers and the stunning decoration of the room, you proceed to request the manuscripts that you want to see.

Manuscript Reading Room © http://www.bnf.fr

I had identified prior to the trip which manuscripts were online, and looked up the catalogue numbers of those which had been microfilmed. I decided to request some items that hadn’t been microfilmed first, then to take the time to look at microfilms each day prior to requesting permission to view the originals. Of course, leaving the manuscript room requires returning the red plaque, the blue slip, and the locker key, before heading downstairs to the main reading room (Salle Ovale), to get a different blue slip and a new red plaque assigning a place at a microfilm machine. The microfilm service is incredibly efficient (maximum of five requests a day) and they bring the reels your desk. While it’s never pleasant to go through reels of black and white images of manuscripts, it is a good way to determine how vital it is to examine the manuscript in person.

Salle Ovale BnF © http://www.wikipedia.org

Armed with the knowledge that I had garnered as much information as possible from the microfilms, I headed back up to the manuscript room each day and requested permission to see the originals from the central desk in the room. The information needed to support the request varied depending on the librarian on duty. Sometimes I was required to provide extensive information on my studies, qualifications, what codicological and palaeographical information I needed, what folios I was interested in. Sometimes it was sufficient to simply say that I had seen the microfilm and it wasn’t sufficient for my research, without further elaboration. If the manuscript is in the ‘Grand Reserve’ it’s necessary to fill out a purple form providing additional information for examination by the Chief Conservator. Once the request is made, it takes some time to receive confirmation (often provided in person by one of the librarians from the stacks, but also sent by email). When confirmation is received, you still have to submit the request form (at the entry desk) – but at that point, it doesn’t matter whether you request it that day, or whenever best suits.

I found the library’s set-up a bit baffling, but the staff were generally very helpful and patient with my French and perpetual confusion between request-slip types and desk plaques. Fueled by the incredibly sugary vending machine coffee, I felt I eventually got the hang of how to make the requests (and how to work the retro microfilm machines). In defence of the access policy of the BnF’s manuscript section, I was refused permission to see only one of over twenty manuscripts requested (as its binding was in bad condition). While the process of gaining access takes time, it’s a reminder that getting to see this material is a privilege in the first place, and one I’m very lucky to have had.

On a beautiful sunny day last week, the Turning Over a New Leaf project team decided to take a day off from the office to visit a spectacular chained library in the small town of Zutphen (located in the eastern part of the Netherlands). Built in 1564 as part of the church of St Walburga, it is one of only five chained libraries in the world that survive ‘intact’—that is, complete with the original books, chains, rods, and furniture.

Needless to say, it was a rather surreal moment for all of us to step into the little room to see the dark-wood lecterns, upon which were placed (in neat rows, side-by-side) beautiful 15th- and 16th-century books, secured in place by metal chains.

Chained Library in Zutphen

Looking closer, it is possible to see just how the chained-library system works. Each book is fitted with a metal clasp, usually on the back cover, and then a metal chain is attached and strung through a long metal rod. The rod is then locked in place either to a lectern (or to a bookcase, depending on the library).

Book chained to a long metal rod in Zutphen

During the later middle ages, more and more people were interested in reading, and chained libraries provided an excellent resource for those who could not afford to purchase books themselves. The system of locking the books to the room, thus allowed the public free access to read, while at the same time safe-guarding the library’s valuable collection from potential thieves.

The team checking out some books in the upper library of Zutphen (photo courtesy of Julie Somers)

(For more photos of Zutphen, see Erik Kwakkel’s recent Tumblr post).

Perhaps one of the world’s most famous examples of a chained library is that of Hereford Cathedral in England. Constructed in the early 17th century, it is one of the largest surviving examples of a chained library with over 220 manuscripts (including the famous eighth-century Hereford Gospels).

Chained Library in Hereford, England

The layout of this library differs slightly from Zutphen, as the books are chained to a bookcase, as opposed to a lectern. Although the view might have been ‘less-than-inspiring’, the reader could choose from a wider number of books.

What I find especially neat (and slightly terrifying) is the effect of the chains dangling down in front of the books—almost like some scary metal veil. (I wonder how many readers have experienced book-themed nightmares after visiting this library).

I would like to also briefly mention the beautiful Malatestiana Library in Cesena, Italy. This library was commissioned and constructed between 1447 and 1452 by the Lord of Cesena (Malestesta Novello) who wished to have a public space for reading. The library was attributed to the Friars of St. Francis and its construction greatly added to the library’s original collection—expanding it from 50 books to over 340.

Malatestiana Library, Cesena Italy

The library is designed almost like a church with pews where readers could sit and read. The books are tucked inside the small lecterns in front:

Books chained to the lecterns in the Malatestiana Library

Recently, the library’s collection has been documented by the ‘Open Catalogue of the Malastestiana Library‘ project, which is now available online (with lots of manuscript images)!

What I find so interesting about the chained library is the rather fascinating dichotomy between the idea of ‘locking the books down’ in order to create a free, open, and shared space for an entire community to engage in reading. Despite the slight air of ‘mistrust’ (in a perfect book utopia, chains would not be needed), there is still a strong sense of community that underlines the creation of such libraries.

In Zutphen, for example, sixty keys to the front door of the library were issued, not only to the canons, but also to the townspeople—creating easier access to the books. The Malaestiana Library was also the dream of a nobleman, who wished to build a library open for everyone, and keys to the library were given to both the monks, as well as town officials.

So despite the rather austere measures enacted to prevent book-theft, these chained libraries were very much the product of a collective desire to share books with the entire community—truly the world’s first public libraries.

On my Tumblr I recently posted two entries devoted to a remarkable discovery made in the Book History class I am co-teaching with Paul Hoftijzer for the Book and Digital Media Studies programme at Leiden University. It concerns 132 notes, letters and receipts from an unidentified court in the Rhine region, jotted on little slips of paper. They were hidden inside the binding of a book printed in 1577, which is part of the Bibliotheca Thysiana, a seventeenth-century library in Leiden, established by Johannes Thysius (d. 1653). The gems were discovered by during our class while students were systematically going through the binding remains in the library. The tiny slips made headlines in Dutch and Belgian printed media and featured in a popular news show on Dutch national radio. Why are they so special?

The hidden archive and the bookbinding it came from

The slips are first of all remarkable simply because such small written objects rarely survive from medieval society. Due to their limited dimensions they tend to fall in between the proverbial cracks of the transmission process. There are few places where such objects can slumber undisturbed for centuries. Their low survival rate is also connected, however, to the fact that they were meant to be thrown out after use. In fact, this is what actually happened, although through the process an early-modern bookbinder unintentionally saved them. When a printed book from 1577 was to be fitted with its binding, the binder grabbed the 132 paper slips from his equivalent of a blue recycling bin and moulded them, likely wet, into cardboard boards. This is when their long journey to our modern period started, as stowaways hitchhiking on sixteenth-century printed matter. Thysius bought the volume second-hand and had likely no idea of the hidden treasures it contained.

Title page of the book that contained the archive

The collection also stands out because of its sheer size. As I briefly explained in an earlier blog, recycling medieval written material was a frequent occurrence in the workshop of early-modern (as well as medieval) binders. However, the very high volume of leaves the binder used is exceptional. What is so striking about the paper slips is that they tell us everyday things that we normally rarely hear about in historical sources. Take the note from 4 December 1461 sent to a chamberlain by a steward, asking “Could you please send me 6 guilders, because we need it?” It concerns internal mail from within the unknown household, likely delivered by a servant: the back reveals a fold and the designation “chamberlain”. We can almost hear him dash through the house, note in hand. A number of slips are receipts from payments: for work done by a carpenter, for the purchase of wheat for the horses of guests, and alike. Messages like these bring us as close to real medieval society as you can get. They are the medieval voices we normally don’t hear, that tell the story of what happened “on the ground”.

Note from steward to chamberlain (front)

Note from steward to chamberlain (back)

My favorite slip is a tiny note written by (or on behalf of) Count Philip (d. 1508), who held court near the river Rhine. On 31 May 1486 he sent his servant to Heidelberg with a most charming request. “Could you please get me some wild roses?”, he writes, adding “But make sure to also include some that are not yet flowering.” It is a small miracle that we still have this 527-year-old paper slip, which is the equivalent of our yellow sticky note. (How many post-it notes do you keep after use?) Judging from the back, where we encounter part of a seal and an address, the note was cut from a letter. In other words, the paper used for this request was recycled twice: once in 1486, when the note was written; and once in 1577, when it was made into a board for a bookbinding.

Note from 1486 requesting for wild roses

That such a twice-recycled object still exists and that it provides such detailed information about real people asking for real things, turns the archive into both a valuable medieval source and an exciting object to work with. Holding the request for wild roses in your hand really makes you think about how the flowers will have been used, who looked at them, and what conversations were held in the room where they were placed. Students will continue to hunt for fragments in Bibliotheca Thysiana and one of them will write his MA thesis on the hidden archive. The voices it contains will hopefully be allowed to speak more and louder.

At the Huygens ING in The Hague, researchers and program developers convened last week to discuss the creation of tools that are intended to help all ‘scholars-at-large’ of medieval manuscripts use digital technologies in useful ways. The two-day workshop, Easy Tools for Difficult Texts: Manuscripts & Textual Tradition (18-19 April 2013) brought together projects that addressed the varieties and difficulties of managing medieval manuscripts in a digital medium. Wonderfully organized, the first day focused on Digitization and Transcription Tools for Medieval Manuscripts and Markup Tools, while the second day dealt with Editing and Publishing Texts and Browsing and Linking Texts and Corpora.[1] One of the many highlights of the workshop was the demonstration hour (ImageJ, Transcribe Bentham, TPen, EVT, Shared Canvas, eLaborate) where we could watch the tools in action, handling those difficult texts with ease. It was a nice opportunity to ask questions and discuss methods, with the tool right in front of us.

Transcribe Bentham -Tim Causer, eLaborate – Karina van Dalen, T-Pen – Abigail Firey, Annotated Books On Line – Valentijn Manshande, EVT – Roberto Rosselli Del Turco, Shared Canvas – Robert Sanderson, ImageJ – Mike Toth

The title of the workshop gives a hint that there is a dilemma in using digital tools for medieval manuscripts. The texts are difficult to begin with, the tools should not make things harder, yet an easy tool may not be able to handle a difficult text. What to do? The workshop presented a variety of approaches to this question. From crowd sourcing to Creative Commons, project developers are devising solutions to the wants and needs of the medieval  ‘scholar-at-large’. Many of the tools presented invite collaboration, expanding the work environment beyond your own library walls.

Shared Canvas: Dealing with Uncertainty in Digital Facsimiles Robert Sanderson (Los Alamos National Laboratory, US)

For example, Robert Sanderson (Los Alamos National Laboratory, US) presented the project Shared Canvas which allows “multiple institutions and individuals to independently contribute to the descriptions, digitization, transcription and commentary regarding a manuscript.” Annotated Books Online, (Els Stronks, Utrecht University, NL) and Transcribe Bentham, (Tim Causer, UCL London, UK) work with public volunteers on transcription of often difficult documents.

Annotated Books Online: A Public Tool to Investigate the Reader’s Private Thoughts
Els Stronks (Utrecht University, NL)

The presentation by Michael Toth (Walters Art Museum, US) focused on the high quality digital image dataset creation and preservation project of the Walters Art Museum. Toth stressed the structured dataset, high resolution images, and “unmediated presentation of the data” as core functions of their texts available for tools. Wary of the changeable nature of the end user, Toth spoke of the standardization of the image metadata, and the use of Creative Commons licensing, so that different people are able to do different things with the data. Karina van Dalen-Oskam (Huygens ING, NL) 
and Ronald Haentjens Dekker (Huygens ING, NL) presented eLaborate, a tool that provides an online work environment for transcription and annotation of text, offering different possibilities of functionality for project leaders.

Pen to Pixel: Bringing Appropriate Technologies to Digital Manuscript Philology
Michael Toth (Walters Art Museum, US)

So much more was discussed and new, up-coming projects were introduced. (A digital work environment for the transcription, editing and publication of manuscripts, Pundit, CATMA, The Elwood Archive Viewer, HisDoc Retrieval Module, Parzival Database) In all, this workshop created an overview of the current development in digital tools as they are applied to manuscript studies. These tools represent the steps beyond displaying a static image of a folio on a webpage. At various levels of interaction with the manuscript, an ‘easy tool’ can help you navigate through the digital image, let you annotate, transcribe, and publish your work. The main point that seems to come across at this workshop, like many others, is to admit to the limits of functions a tool can provide, and, paradoxically, to admit there are never enough functions a tool can provide. The digital needs (and wants) of the scholar dealing with a medieval manuscript will always be too many and not enough, all at the same time. As the conference description states, “a true convenient and intuitive means of re-representing medieval text in the digital medium seems elusive.” I am so happy people are trying.

To learn more about the workshop and all the projects presented, please go to the Huygens ING/KNAW workshop website or review the live twitter feed at #tools4text.

Access to digitized manuscripts online (see Irene’s Navigating the Digital World) is changing the way medievalists can and are expected to work. While the benefits of accessing an electronic facsimile for research with respect to preservation and efficiency are obviously enormous, there are numerous reasons why I’m glad my current research requires hands-on interaction with my subjects (in amazing Bruges, no less). The physical element of codicology is partly why I was drawn to studying medieval books as objects, rather than for the texts they contain.

Beautiful Bruges. If you haven’t been, go.

Traveling through the Flemish countryside on my way back from Bruges provides a great backdrop to consider my research trip and the manuscripts I’d explored over the past few days (with the gracious cooperation of the Biekorf Library’s leadership and staff). While, of course, I run through my usual checklist of paleographical features which can be done on-screen – pp biting? Ampersand or tironian note? Minim direction?… – there are a number of features that I can only properly identify in the flesh. My research on Ter Duinen’s twelfth-century collection requires that where possible I determine which manuscripts were homemade and which acquired from elsewhere. Many of the minute features that often photograph very poorly are important clues to the patterns and habits of a scriptorium.

In just a small sample of manuscripts I found many physical features that just wouldn’t show up well using the digitization techniques employed by most libraries (and I must note, only a couple of the ~90 manuscripts I’ll study are digitized). For example, there was inner margin pricking (typically Cistercian) on a few manuscripts which required a gentle push at the binding and sometimes the use of a small mirror to confirm. I can also tell, from the tiny hole shape, positioning, and pricking errors, that quires were folded and then pricked together in a stack, which would be tricky indeed to see in 2D. A faint (especially on camera) but drastic change in ruling techniques in one manuscript announces two codicological units made in different scriptoria (not obvious by looking at the hand alone), while other internal evidence tells me that these two works were bound together since the Middle Ages. Taken together these small details begin to tell a story of how Ter Duinen’s monks made and used their books.

In addition to purely visual, technical observations, hands-on research is a more physical experience. You smell, touch, and hear so much more than a computer screen, photos, or microfilm allows. I have a tendency, and I’m sure I’m not alone here, to discretely sniff every book I open, searching perhaps for a whiff of medieval sheep, eau de medieval monk, or musty monastery library. However, one manuscript threatened me with a powerful sneezing fit every time I leaned in for a closer look.

Sheep, goats, and a monk. Can you smell them?
Allegory of the Good and the Bad Shepherd, c. 1190-1200. Brugge, Grootseminarie, MS 89/54 , f. 115v (The Ter Duinen Aviary).
Full digital facsimile here.

Another manuscript crept out of the vault with hair. Its medieval binding – dense, dark brown, and rather appealing in its ugliness – wore patches of the fur of the cow it had once belonged to. It was both something that begged to be touched, and also vaguely off-putting. An online photo wouldn’t do this furry little book justice.

The Biekorf requests that photos taken by researchers be only privately used. Here’s a slightly more dramatic version of a hairy book from Harry Potter.

The last manuscript I requested was quite large. Of course, measurements are listed in the catalogue, but that doesn’t always give you the full picture. At 30cm x 40cm it covered my whole desk. With 249 folia and a very hefty 17^th-century binding it did its best to give me a workout while lifting it from its box, and also did a bang-up job in squashing the display foam I set it on. It was in excellent shape and, although I always handle manuscripts with the utmost care, it needed no handling delicacy beyond the ordinary. However, its binding was tight, and every few page-turns resulted in significant crackles and pops. I was the only person viewing manuscripts in the reading room, and the sound caused other readers to look up anxiously from time to time. I was worried they’d think I was torturing the poor old thing.

Okay, so my manuscript wasn’t this big, but I did feel a bit like this guy with the Codex Gigas.

One thing I encountered that actually showed up better much better on camera (as I discovered when I zoomed in with my iPhone) was this bookworm.

The Golden Bookworm.

When I first turned the page I thought I’d found an errant piece of gold (which would have been a bit atypical in my collection) because it shone so brightly. On closer inspection, it was a very old, very squished bookworm. I can’t hazard a guess at how long he’d been there (my bookworm dating is remarkably less developed than my manuscript dating), but considering his probable love for manuscripts in life, this seemed a rather suitable postmortem resting place.

It’s not only the intellectual aspects of manuscript study that appeal to me; the physical experience of research is also exciting. When my data has been collected and I can no longer justify handling this collection, it’s the memory of hands-on experiences (and of course the more ‘meaty’ findings) that will keep me passionate about my work in the stages of writing, proofing, and presenting my research.

Leaf number in Paris Bible (BL, Arundel 311, 13th c)

Advertisement sheet from Herman Strepel, professional scribe in Münster, c. 1447 (The Hague, KB, 76 D 45)

Scribes also included advertisements in books they had copied for a client. An example of such “spam” is found in a French manuscript made in Paris by a scribe who calls himself Herneis. On the last page of the book he writes, “If someone else would like such a handsome book, come and look me up in Paris, across the Notre Dame cathedral.” Herneis and his fellow bookmen lived and worked in the Rue Neuve Notre Dame, which served as the center of commercially-made vernacular books. Similarly, students were served in the Rue St Jacques, on the Left Bank, where the latest Latin textbooks were on offer. For Parisians and students it was handy to have all the professionals in one street: you knew where to go when you needed a book and it was easy to check out who was available for making one for you.

Advertisement by Herneis le Romanceur, professional scribe in Paris (Giessen, UB, 945, 13th c)

Marginal note regarding payment to the professional scribe Jehan de Sanlis (The Hague, KB, 71 A 24, 13th c)

Although making books for profit was a common scenario in the later Middle Ages, it did not make you particularly rich. On the last page of a Middle Dutch chronicle a clearly frustrated scribe wrote, “For so little money I never want to produce a book ever again!” This world of professional medieval scribes, the underpaid and others, was shaken up by the coming of Gutenberg’s printing press, around the middle of the 15th century. The ink pots dried up and the handwritten book slowly turned into an archaic object that was more costly than its printed counterpart. In the 16th century only large choir books (which did not fit on the press) and handsome presentation copies, custom-made for an affluent client, were still written by hand.

And so we see scribes jumping the handwritten ship, many ending up working in printing shops. Here, too, a striking parallel between the medieval and modern world of the book may be pointed out. Medieval producers and salesmen of books had to adapt to the new medium made popular by Johannes Gutenberg, as much as publishers today have to change their ways in a world where pixels are gaining grounds over ink.

***

Want to know more? Here you will find a Dutch guest blog I wrote for kennislink.nl on the same topic. Check out this YouTube movie for a public lecture I did on commercial book production in medieval times. This is the “Bible” of commercial book production in Paris. On English books made for profit, check out some of the essays in this book. Read a great lecture by Malcolm Parkes about (commercially-made) books at universities here.

Recently, the library of Trinity College, Dublin made their most famous manuscript, the Book of Kells free to view online. While this is a welcome move, I was disappointed by the relative lack of browsing ease that the resource facilitates. In an extensive critique, Dr Katy Rudy highlighted the failings of the website – pointing out that the resolution of the images is insufficient for in-depth examination, and that the images are not numbered by folio, making it difficult to navigate and reference the manuscript accurately. While there is no doubt that digital reproductions of manuscripts are a valuable resource for the sedentary scholar, it would seem that not all digitisation projects are created equal, nor serve their end-user with the same degree of efficiency.

The number of manuscripts available in digital format grows by the day and several variables affect their usefulness for study, or, indeed, enjoyable browsing.  Significantly, a resource is only as useful as the tools that are provided to allow accurate searching and referencing of images. E-codices, the ‘virtual manuscript library of Switzerland’ allows keyword searches of manuscript descriptions, but also provides a basic browsing-index which allows one to select certain features, eg. date or language, and even allows one to choose specific types of liturgical manuscripts. A similar approach is used by The Royal Library in Copenhagen, which provides a browsing index categorised by author, date, and, loosely, by genre. Akin to casting one’s eye over a library shelf and noticing that the book next to the one you intended to borrow also looks interesting, such indexes can often extend one’s understanding of a collection.

E-codices Browsing Index (Search Screen)

Along these lines, large scale digitisation projects, such as the virtual reconstruction of the Lorsch abbatial library or the scanning project conducted for the Bibliotheca Carolina facilitate the understanding of digital images within a context. Capturing of the holdings of a library at a specific time, whether medieval, as in the case of Lorsch, or modern, as in the case of the ambitious digitisation of the Fondo Plutei of the Biblioteca Medica Laurenziana in Florence, may prompt conclusions regarding origin, provenance or use.

The quality of information provided for consultation alongside the images also matters. While slightly clunky, the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek (BSB) in Munich’s images are linked to a scanned version of the library’s catalogue, for example, which provides information about provenance, contents, and foliation. Recently, the BnF scanned the index cards containing bibliographic information about its manuscripts (Fichier bibliographique des manuscrits latins et grecs) and linked them to their online manuscript catalogue entries. Furthermore, one can now consult the Catalogue général des manuscrits des bibliothèques publiques de France online. While the digitisation of these resources may seem of secondary importance, they provide the apparatus that gives manuscript images meaning.

A final word in defence of quantity over quality. There is, naturally, a considerable qualitative difference between manuscript images that have been recently photographed in high-resolution colour and those images that have simply been produced by scanning already available (usually black and white) microfilms.  Although frequently maligned, the latter approach has been used to some efficacy by the BSB in Munich and by the Bibliothèque Nationale de France (BnF). While black and white scans hide important features of the text, such as ink colour, and may mask marginal interventions, the (presumably) cheaper cost of making already available images accessible often allows consultation of the complete manuscript. This, in my opinion, is preferable than simply being able to access a few individual high-quality images from a manuscript, particularly when those images have been selected to show off illuminations or pretty details, rather than the more mundane aspects of the text.

Munich BSB Clm 18474, f. 1r – scanned microfilm image, complete with thumb [http://daten.digitale-sammlungen.de/~db/0007/bsb00077177/images/index.html?seite=5&fip=193.174.98.30]

A non-exhaustive list of some useful digitised manuscript resources:

Swiss Libraries: http://www.e-codices.unifr.ch/en

Royal Library of Copenhagen http://www.kb.dk/en/nb/materialer/haandskrifter/HA/e-mss/index.html

Digitised Manuscripts in German Libraries: http://www.manuscripta-mediaevalia.de/

Early Manuscripts at Oxford University http://image.ox.ac.uk/

Digital Scriptorium: http://bancroft.berkeley.edu/digitalscriptorium/

Illuminated manuscripts in the BnF: http://mandragore.bnf.fr/jsp/rechercheExperte.jsp

Illuminated manuscripts in French public libraries (outside the BnF) http://initiale.irht.cnrs.fr/accueil/index.php

Illuminated manuscripts in Bibliothèque Mazarine and Sainte-Geneviève http://liberfloridus.cines.fr/

Resource containing manuscripts scanned largely from eastern European libraries: http://www.manuscriptorium.com/

The Warburg Institute Iconographic Database http://warburg.sas.ac.uk/vpc/VPC_search/main_page.php

Irish Script on Screen http://www.isos.dias.ie/

Medieval Manuscripts in Dutch Collections: http://www.mmdc.nl/static/site/

BnF: http://gallica.bnf.fr/?lang=EN

BSB Munich: http://www.digitale-sammlungen.de/index.html?c=faecher_index&l=de&kl=308

British Library: http://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/

Stammheim Missal, Getty Collection, Los Angeles MS 64, f. 85v-86r

Depiction of Christ in Majesty (left), Crucifixion (right) from the Stammheim Missal, used at Hildesheim (Germany) in the 1170s.  If you look on the bottom of f. 86r, you can observe a man treading grapes in a vat. The banners reference Isaiah 63.2-3: ‘Why are your robes red, and your garments like theirs who tread the wine press? I have trodden the wine press alone and from the peoples no one was with me’, a pre-figuration of the solitude of the crucifixion.

We’ll return to our regular blogging schedule next Friday, after the Easter Vacation.

For most God-fearing medieval Christians the Devil was ‘legitimately scary’. He (and his band of demonic followers) presented a very real threat to one’s spiritual fortitude—always out to trick, torment, and tempt good Christians into a life of sin. It was very easy to be fooled by the Devil, and Christians were constantly reminded to be vigilant and wary of temptation.

Monk Fighting Off Some Devils with a Club (Royal 10 E IV, fol. 247 © The British Library)

To educate and fortify themselves against the Devil’s potential schemes, many medieval readers turned to the Scriptures and other homiletic or hagiographical texts. The Gospel of Mark, for example, not only describes Jesus’s own encounter with Satan, but also recounts a number of successful demonic exorcisms. In the Life of Saint Anthony (written c. 360), the Devil tempts the saint with memories of his previous wealth and love of women—even going as far as to masquerade as a pretty lady for a night (just to test Anthony’s vow of celibacy). After much devoted prayer and pious resolve, Anthony overcomes the Devil’s efforts and enters into the ascetic life.

Many medieval books also contain illustrations of the Devil, often in the form of a small painted miniature or a sketch in the margin. He is typically portrayed as a beast-like monster with pointy horns or ears, hairy arms, sharp claws, and a sinister hunchback (more or less like a terrifying evil dog).

Depictions of the Devil (© The British Library)

(Or sometimes as an adorable musical bear):

(Royal 10 E IV, fol. 201v © The British Library)

It is interesting that images of the Devil can also appear in books that are not ‘specifically’ on the topic of Satan, such as Gregory IX’s Decretals or Justinian’s Digestum vetus, which implies that the Devil was a common and familiar illustrative trope. This also suggests that some medieval bookmakers felt it was appropriate to warn readers of the perils of sinful behaviour by adding images of the Devil, with or without providing much context for such discussions.

Some manuscript illustrations were quite explicit in their warnings, showing how specific sins might provoke the Devil. In the image on the left we see the Devil swooping down from the ceiling as two lovers embrace. On the right, we see the Devil alongside a man adoring his fine clothing:

(Royal 19 C I, fol. 203v, © The British Library)

Even relatively minor sins could lead to trouble. Alcuin of York (born 735) famously recounts a story of his own temptation. He explains that as an 11 year-old boy, he was awoken in the middle of the night by a group of satanic demons who threatened to beat him up. Assuming that this hellish visitation was sparked by his ‘less-than-zealous’ spiritual devotion and his love of classical literature, he cried out “O Lord Jesus, if thou wilt deliver me from their [demons’] bloody hands, and afterwards I am negligent of the vigils of the Church and of the service of lauds, and continue to love Virgil more than the melody of the Psalms, then may I undergo such correction…” (1). With this promise, the Demons left his bedchamber and Alcuin never again (openly) praised the merits of pagan literature.

In addition to warning medieval readers about specific sins (such as vanity or a preference for the classics), there are many other illustrations of the Devil that focus on the consequences one faces upon death. In the following images we see the Devil happily carting away a condemned soul — in some cases, he literally sucks the soul out of the deceased person’s mouth. (Click on the images for a larger view).

Condemned Souls (© The British Library)

If this did not terrify the reader into adopting a more pious lifestyle, one only needs to look at some medieval depictions of Hell to reconsider one’s sinful actions.

The Mouth of Hell (© The British Library)

While it is impossible to know if these illustrations and stories of the Devil actually struck fear into the hearts of medieval readers, I know that if I ever encountered an evil winged dog telling me to stop adoring my clothes or reading Virgil, I would probably listen.

__________

1. Herbert de Losinga, The Life, Letters, and Sermons of Bishop Herbert de Losinga, Vol. 1, ed. Edward Meyrick (Oxford and London: James Parker and Col, 1878), p. 48.

Recently, I received as a gift a pretty amazing coloring book full of images of medieval tapestries. Beautifully drawn copies of medieval masterpieces, yet empty and free to the possibility of re-creating them in my own fashion, or faithfully following the ‘exemplar’. This made me think of the relationship between the scribe, rubricator and/or illuminator. Which can be complicated, because in different settings, they could be the same person.

Medieval Tapestries -Coloring Book

In past posts we have discussed the medieval doodle, typically a rough drawing placed in the empty margins of a manuscript. Yet, what about those drawings that were intended, but left unfinished?  Did the artist know what was desired and where to place the image? Sometimes, like looking at the coloring book, it is best to start with an unfinished piece to see the steps needed to complete it.

When the medieval scribe set about creating a manuscript, much like the modern publisher, layout was of key importance. The scribe had to decide many factors, including the placement of images. Often, when a manuscript was ‘under construction’ notes were left behind indicating what initials the rubricator should add and where.

Commonly called ‘guide letters’, they acted as instructions to the next step in line of production. Look closely, it is very small!

Guide Letter ‘C’
BL Royal MS 12 C IV
c. 1200

Another example, a mid twelfth-century manuscript from Germany, now at the Walters Museum has many initials left in varying stages of production.

Walters Ms. W. 12 f. 4v
12th c.

In fact, sometimes more detailed instructions were left for the illuminator. An early example of this practice can be seen in the Quedlinburg Itala from the 5^th century.  Some of the paint has worn away revealing the instructions beneath; “Make the tomb [by which] Saul and his servant stand and two men, jumping over pits, speak to him and [announce that the asses have been found].”

Quedlinburg Itala 5th c.(Berlin, Staatsbibliothek Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Cod. theol. lat. fol. 485)

In addition to initials, miniatures are often found unfinished. In an example from ‘The Abingdon Apocalypse’ (1270-1275) we can see the area that was ruled for the miniature, with a pencil sketch in place.

BL Additional MS 42555
1270-1275

Perhaps the most well known example of unfinished miniatures is the Winchester Bible (1160-1175). Many of the images represent the progressive stages of production. Some are  sketches while others seem to be just waiting for color.

Winchester Bible, Cathedral Library Ms 17.
Photo by John Crook

From these few examples it is easy to see that a great way to learn about the production of a medieval image in a manuscript is to look at those that were left unfinished. In this web video presentation from the Fitzwilliam museum, you can follow along in the process of creating illuminated manuscripts.

With a focus on the material aspects of the medieval manuscript, we might ask; what can we learn about the creation of images from those left unfinished? In fact, we can learn quite a lot. It may be even more interesting to consider those images that were planned but did not make it to final completion.