Header: (left) Precession and the northern circumpolar stars; (centre) night sky over Paris, Aug.22nd., 1420; (right) Precession and the southern circumpolar stars.
Two previous posts in this series:
- Skies above: 6b Due (pro-) portion. (October 12, 2019)
- Skies above Pt 6a: Adding and removing layers (October 4, 2019)
update 11th November to show skies as calculated for Alexandria in 1420 AD, (August 22nd.). readers comments and any correction most welcome.
The reason for spending so much time on the historical ‘backdrop’ is that when text and images are both problematic, as they are in the Voynich manuscript, we need to identify the ideas that will (one hopes) direct us towards the time, place and languages common to the first enuciator and his – presumably contemporary – audience.
How this is done: a thumnail guide to method and technique (1,500 wds)
As example: by merely looking at this small image (below, right) we might say that it is “a bear, writing”. That’s called treating an image as a “picture of..” Since the 1920s it has been the standard approach adopted by Voynich writers.
Against this approach, the analyst’s aims to – as it were – listen in on the communication between the maker and his first audience, and assumes that their communication will be about their shared environment and languages – both verbal and visual. We can do this for images produced in the pre-modern period because individual self-expression was not then perceived as the chief purpose of art nor was ‘the artist’ the chief focus of attention.
So although this little detail could be imagined to be all about bears, the form given it here depends on knowledge of [St.} Ursula‘s legend (her name means a dear ‘little bear'(f.) combined with a specific error made by Geoffrey of Monmouth in relating her biography, in twelfth century England. It is that error which is reflected in the conjunction of a little bear, and writing. (see details further below).
Recognising the tenor of this ‘conversation’, the researcher can now provide an upper (earlier) date for first enunciation (a terminus a quo) and simultaneously identify a region within which maker and audience would be ‘speaking the same language’.
This, in turn, limits the range of spoken and written languages embodied in the accompanying text. It must be one of those attested in the region and period where Geoffrey’s error had affect.
And this will be so whether or not the accompanying text is legible.
Stylistics must then be taken into account. If they are not compatible with the information which an iconological analyst has ‘read’ from the image so far, that analyst must re-think the way they have read the image. It is quite unacceptable to address opposition between the historical record and a personal impression by making statements which begin “the painter could have been/done…”.
In this case, the inclusion of a French-influenced bryony/’ivy’ border gives us the lower (i.e. later) limit for first enunciation: terminus ad quem.
The image cannot have been formed earlier than Geoffrey of Monmouth’s error; the style of the bryony ornament makes it unlikely it was first enunciated later than the fourteenth century.
We can conclude with some confidence therefore – whether or not the accompanying text is legible – that the manuscript’s content and specifically its written text came from a source available in the range 12thC-14thC and this detail was first given form in England and/or in 14thC France, a time when England and France were very closely connected by both popular and learned culture – and by politics.
I thus reach a conclusion that the ‘conversation’ between the first enunciator and his intended audience occurred in an Anglo-Norman environment and that it employs languages (visual and written-verbal) which were shared in that time and region: Latin or one of the vernaculars employed at that time in England and/or in France would be indicated as the language of any accompanying text.
So now, having explained both ‘why’ and ‘how’ the conclusions were reached, I must emphasise the the next step as the most vital when an opinion is to be shared, especially in a formal assessment of any object, and most particularly if (as is the case for most Voynich researchers) one has no access to raw data from laboratory tests or even to the physical object.
This step is where conclusions are tested against external scholarship and verifiable fact before being offered the reader, colleague or client. And once again – if the evidence opposes an analyst’s opinion, it is they who must reconsider the matter.
To obscure disparities between one’s opinion and the objective historical record by creating stories or indulging in speculation is frowned upon, and not least because it shifts attention from the object at issue, to the researcher. It alters a process of understanding to one of credulity. It alters the relative roles of researcher and client or colleague – because instead of assisting their better understanding the object, it demands an act of faith from them to the researcher. I should much prefer that a reader or colleague reacted to the information I provided by saying, “I accept your evidence and understand your reasoning, but I won’t believe your conclusions” than “I don’t understand the thing any better, but I will believe whatever you say.”
In this case, conclusions drawn from our reading of the ‘bear’ detail are very easily checked. We have the manuscript’s catalogue record (Brit.Lib. MS Egerton MS 3277), a very solid source because while no catalogue is perfect, it has always been the British Library’s practice to exclude speculative matter. Informed differences of opinion, where they exist, are always from well-informed persons; are clearly marked as items debated and the catalogue entry includes a bibiography which allows the reader to weigh the grounds on which each opinion was built.
So.. testing against the catalogue record (or other historical sources) shows that the ‘little bear’ on folio 13r is indeed in an Anglo-Norman work, one made in England, and that the manuscript’s written text is in Latin and Anglo-Norman French, the whole manuscript being dated to the second half of 14th century.
Because the written text on folio 13r is legible, we can add further to our description and say the ‘little bear’ serves as illustration, specifically, for verses 6-8 of that Psalm. (Psalm 15 in the Vulgate; 16 in modern translations).
Here the iconological analyst would stop, even if privately they thought that, in addition to the rest, the image might also convey an indirect compliment to the scribe.
Why might the analyst think so?
In the western European Christian (Latins’) manuscript tradition, the usual order of production was that the scribe first ruled out the page and then inscribed the written part of the text. before the page was passed on down to the ‘pictors’ – whose available space, and its shapes, the scribe had effectively determined. And verse 6 of that Psalm reads: “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance..” 🙂
Why would the analyst not say this to the client or colleague?
Because there is no objective source against which that idea/insight can be tested. Simple as that. To prove an idea is to test it – to stress-test it – and in our discipline, the default must be that whatever cannot be tested must be presumed untrue. Others have different standards.
Monmouth and Ursula
In 12thC England, Geoffrey of Monmouth appears to have mis-read “Deo notus”(?) as Dianotus, and then supposed it the name of Ursula’s father. ‘Dia notus’ can be punningly rendered as a ‘record of days’ or ‘book of hours’ or even of the months (dian-notus). On which point see entry ‘Saint Ursula’ in the Catholic Encyclopaedia of 1917 or the wiki article in which much of the same information is repeated. On ‘Dianotus’ see Geoffrey of Monmouth’s (Historia.., Bk 5 Ch.14 ). Cusack credits a fifteenth-century Englishman, Edmund Hatfield with the form ‘Deonotus’, though Hatfield himself refers to a lost Latin sermon. In any case, Hatfield’s slip is clearly inspired by existing connection made between Ursula and literacy.
- Carole Cusack, ‘Hagiography and History: the Legend of Saint Ursula’, in Carole M. Cusack and Peter Oldmeadow (eds), This Immense Panorama Studies in Honour of Eric J. Sharpe, [Sydney Studies in Religion 2], 1999, pp. 89-104. (p.96)
There exists little on ‘the monk of Rochester’ Edmund Hatfield, though he is thought to have died in 1502. My sources were
- Cecil Henry Fielding (compiler), The Records of Rochester (1910) p.246.
- W.B. Rye, ‘Catalogue of the Library of the Priory of St.Andrew, Rochester AD.1202’, Archaeolgia Cantiana, Vol.3 (1860) pp. 47-64 (p.53). He notes the alternative spelling ‘Hatfeld’.
Though the explanation of Ursula’s true origin would take us too far from our subject, it is to the point that Ursula was associated with women’s education, and in later Italy was chosen as role model (patron saint) for a community of nuns whose charter was to promote literacy and learning for women.
I hope I’ve shown in this example that analytical method is valuable whether or not the accompanying written text can be read.
Analysis of one small detail couldn’t provide the title of the text written on this page of Egerton 3277, not even the fact that it came from the Bible – though if one were to consider every image in that manuscript, or if one were a medieval person whose literacy began with memorising the Psalter, we might. (Note that our aim is not only to say where and when a manuscript, as object, was manufactured).
Today, what analysis of this type can do is to define the range in which those who are attempting to read an illegible text may concentrate their efforts with reasonable confidence. The image of the little bear was fairly easily read but those in the Voynich manuscript display a variety of influences and disparity between times and places of first enunciation. The work is clearly a compilation; its images have been affected by time and by transmission. They incorporate evidence of distinctly different ‘conversations’ between one section and another, and even at times in a single page. The whole then presents a fascinating range of questions which must be addressed first by analysis and then (as always) by ‘stress-testing’ any initial opinion or impression against the solid information provided by external scholarship.
Naturally, if one’s conclusions agree with those of an earlier Voynich writer, it is essential to credit that precedent – if you can be certain you have seen the original statement.
The language of art is compounded of a particular people’s shared culture, ideas and formalised conventions in expression – and of the verbal and visual languages proper to them. These things together both inform and limit, first, the mental image and then the range of its physical expression.
Because the imagery in the Voynich manuscript includes very few details exhibiting the customs of medieval western Europe’s common culture, we must work from a wider historical ‘backdrop’ to identify the narrower historical context(s) which will make the manuscript’s content less unintelligible for a modern reader.
To this point, the backdrop now extends from the Hellenistic to the medieval centuries, and from Asia minor to the south-western Mediterranean and has shown how certain themes and concepts were maintained but variously expressed though that range. What is now to be done is – so to speak – to move a problematic image across that backdrop until its form and content no longer appear remarkable. It should look quite at home; still individual but not uncomfortably different, and most importantly no longer unreadable.
Connection to spoken language is a factor often overlooked in discussions of the imagery in this manuscript, though it is certainly true that when the sense depends on some pun in the vernacular, or some event of only local and temporary interest, the meaning may be lost quite rapidly, even within the same traditions.
example – snails and knights.
Today many are puzzled by the frequent marginal images in books of hours where an armed knight is shown fighting a snail. Now, this might be an allusion to the centuries-long ongoing struggle called the [re-]’conquista’ – by way of allusion to Pliny’s term for a snail: concha. But alternatively, or indeed, simultaneously, it may refer to the sort of things Crusaders had in mind when they set off to go a-conquering. (to clarify this further might imperil the blog’s ‘G’ rating).
Or, again, it might be paralleling the adults’ battles with the children’s game of conkers, once played “using snail-shells, hazelnuts and the like (as Southey wrote in his memoirs in 1821). Children’s games weren’t of interest to medieval writers, and only Southey’s much later comment and the conjectured etymology offers support for that possibility.
[Conkers] have come from the dialect word for ‘hard nut’ (perhaps from the French for ‘a conch’ – ‘conque’), maybe from the old game using shells and nuts (‘conquerors’), or again from the French ‘cogner’ (to hit).
(I am indebted to Jane Struthers’ blogpost (here) for that information.
Or, of course, it may allude (in addition or exclusively) to a pun on armour/armor – Amo(u)r vincit omnia.
The most problematic images – and the most intriguing for the specialist – are ones whose first enuciation clearly occurred in one period and culture, but which now include details indicative of very different time(s) and attitudes. Images of this type bring to the analyst’s calculations a third, and dynamic, factor: affect from transmission. Now, instead of a simple, linear structure for the research – such as that needed for the ‘bear’ in Egerton 3277 (see above ‘How this is done’) – we have a sort of historical 3-D chess problem with ‘transformations’ between one level (historical-cultural stratum) and the next.
This may occur when a new text conflicts with established conceptions of the world for a particular community, but we are principally concerned with the other side of that coin – when imagery itself was transmitted into evironments where it could not be ‘read’ as originally intended. One must then take into account the probability that an original detail was accorded different relative weight and value in one plane as against in the next. Ideally, one aims to explain this too, but it isn’t always possible. History doesn’t always relate.
we have a clearly Indian ‘Lakshmi’ statuette, of ivory, which was recovered from ruins of Roman Pompeii. How the native Romans interpreted it we don’t know: as the image of a slave, perhaps? as the goddess ‘Venus? as an ordinary ‘dancing girl’? as the personal ‘idol’ of a bride brought from India? – or did some actually know the story of Lakshmi? History just doesn’t relate, and there is no basis for choosing one over another bit of guesswork..
Similarly, at present, we cannot explain the inclusion in the Rohan Hours of characteristically Buddhist-Hindu forms for the ring of guarding ‘angels’ on folio 159r, though the presence of similarly blue-faced angels in an Armenian church in Jerusalem suggests the idea and characteristics might, possibly, have arrived via Armenia. One cannot say – there’s no record, and too few examples in the western sphere to allow any sure conclusion. Interestingly, Armenian Christians had come, by this time (c.1420s) to bind their manuscripts in Latin style, i.e. with stitch-supports.
Problems of this kind are why researching really problematic imagery is the most fun for specialists of a certain type. 🙂
A further difficulty is presented when the receivers of transmitted imagery or text react negatively simply because information in it, or about it, seems to present an offence to their sense of what is personally right – their amour propre – and thus their allegiance to their own hierarchical ordering of persons or of ideas.
We have seen a hint of this mechanism at work in the way that Wilfrid Voynich, and even more William F. Friedman, approached the Voynich manuscript.
To either of them it was an idea intolerable (and thus instinctively seen as preposterous) that the manuscript’s content could be of non-European character and be a worthwhile study unless by, or at least mediated by, or owned by some high-ranking European male.
Just so, information and reasoning alone will not persuade a man who believes he has bought a seventeenth-century Cremona violin that he has an instrument sounding quite as fine but made by a nineteenth century emigre from Hungary. His self-image is invested in the other idea, and since he is driven primarily by his beliefs, the only recourse is to refer him to some text, or person, in which he is predisposed to feel faith. He will often then accept ‘on faith’ precisely the same information.
History shows, repeatedly, that the strongest rejection of new information comes from the top and the bottom of the social hierarchy; from those with greatest self-regard and those who think truth is defined by “what everyone knows”. Consider reactions to the platypus, or to Darwin’s explanation of natural selection; or to a solution for the determination of Longitude.. This allows us to apply a (discardable) rule of thumb that ‘foreign matter’ will not have been first intended for the highest or lowest people in the new environment, something apparently borne out in the case of the Voynich manuscript by its materials, codicology and general presentation.
I do not think it true that personality-based decisions are necessarily a sign of the small-minded, but the pattern of history suggests that over-emphasis on personality has been one of the greatest hindrances to any intellectual advance. It distorts the usual sense of the maxim that information is as good as its source.
Unhappily for the study, it seems that in William Friedman’s case, there was no person nor any academic field in which he placed more faith than he had in himself. His aim was chiefly to prove his first ideas right and to ‘break’ the text. I find no evidence that he had any interest in the manuscript as such, nor troubled to learn anything much of manuscript studies, paleography, codicology, medieval art or even of medieval history. And since he determined the line taken by his study groups, and thus the content, implicit biases and all, in d’Imperio’s Elegant Enigma, his approach deeply affected what followed after just as Wilfrid’s affected it throughout most of the twentieth century.
Happily, the study is moving on, but a milder version of that ‘Cremona vs Hungarian’ reaction is still apparent.
In illustration I’ll treat a couple of astronomical motifs from two folios in other parts of the manuscript. The one offers a nice example of alteration – in this case addition – to its original diagram. The other appears scarcely affected by the process of transmission, and occurs in another ‘ladies’ section. Both display knowledge of the southern skies – and that is the information which seems preposterous to some.
Stars beyond the book: Crux and false Crux in the Voynich manuscript.
In English writings, and specifically in Voynich studies, there lingers a habit of taking ‘Europe’ to mean the world, a habit still so general and so ingrained that one finds entirely nonsensical generalisations made, and regularly assented to without pause for thought.
Scarcely an eyebrow is raised, for example, by such assertions as that “the stars of Crux were lost” or “most star-names are Arab star names” though even a moment’s pause for thought, or turning to read even a wiki article, should have given that speaker pause.
For a bit of perspective, the introduction by Chamberlain and Young provides a pleasant first exposure to the wider view:
- Von Del Chamberlain and M. Jane Young (eds), Songs from the Sky: Indigenous Astronomical and Cosmological Traditions of the World, pp. 49-64.(2005)
And for an idea of how complex even the idea of ‘Arab star-names’ is and what variety such imagery could take:
- Danielle Adams, ‘Whose stars? Our heritage of Arabian astronomy‘, The Planetary Society website (December 18, 2018)
On the basis of accepting the bald statement that “the stars of Crux were lost” I have seen dismissed the fact that one or both of Crux and ‘false crux’ are depicted in the Voynich manuscript.
The unvoiced chain of thought among some theorists seems to run:, ‘Since my theory is inconsistent with depiction of Crux, therefore Crux cannot be depicted in the manuscript. I shall find some way to explain it which agrees with my theory, because my theory – which is mine – cannot be wrong.” (The usual alternative produced – or more exactly created as reaction to my first publishing this information – has been Gregory of Tours‘ cross in Cygnus, but that has never marked ‘south’ in any system, not even the Europeans’. Efforts to hastily manufacture ‘patches’ of this sort for a theory opposed by new evidence will normally forget to consider context, or to treat as one the critical elements of context, function and stylistics).
A more reasonable response in such a case might be: ‘Since no reference to Crux has been noted in any European astronomical text dated before 1440, then if Crux is depicted in the Voynich manuscript, and if the manuscript was indeed manufactured in western Europe, this knowledge would have had to come from a different type of source – written, oral or representational.”
To say that ‘most star-names are Arab star-names’ is also – need one say – untrue.
The Arabs did have a name for Crux – Sulbar, meaning the beam of crucifixion, but this appears to be a result of early naturalisation of an older, Tamil term Sulba, meaning the knotted measuring cord. The illustration shown (right) may serve as mnemonic. It is from an old fresco showing a motif of older Nubian Christianity; cross and kombologion. Below (left) is Schiller’s (reversed) image of Sulbar, from one version of his astonishingly well-informed and constantly misinterpreted and underrated ‘Christianised Heavens’.
Throughout that half of the world where it was seen each night, Crux served as practical marker of the night hours, and indicator of the unmarked Southern celestial Pole. In folio 67v-i it is used as an emblem for ‘South’ – and is complemented, correctly, by the other three astronomical emblems present in that diagram. All four are actually superfluous – the directions already marked by other emblems – and employ a very different style of drawing to the rest.
More, while the assignments of its four asterisms are not wrong in astronomical terms they are a little odd in terms of traditional custom in those regions where Crux was a well known. The tradition of the eastern Arabs was to speak of Canopus as the proverbial ‘southern Pole’ for example. So the four astronomical emblems on that diagram are a little odd – academic and noticeably ‘foreign’ as if taken from a globe rather than from personal habit – but still, they are not wrong. What they are is later additions.
I date their addition to about the 13thC, not only – but not least -because to represent stars as detached ‘heads’ is out of keeping with the regular practice of images in this manuscript. Here I deal with only one of the four on folio 67v-i, the emblem for south – Crux.(upper register in illustration, below).
False Crux (lower register in illustration above).
When I spoke first of the crosses in the manuscript, I identified the form on folio 79v-i again as Crux but going over these notes almost ten years later, I should now say this second is more likely meant for what we call ‘false crux’ and which was certainly known, if confusedly, to medieval Europe. The older pictorial traditions in depicting it may be divided into those which envisage it as the ‘shield of the face’ (I use the longer expression deliberately), and those which have it the cover of an entry to the world below and/or as a seal upon that entry from which the dead who are not truly dead will emerge again on the last day.
‘False crux’ lies in fact between Argo ratis and Canis major but is variously positioned in the European and Arabic imagery.
It has never been included among the official constellations but was very well known. In the older traditions it receives two interpretations, each given various expressions. In one strand, it appears as the cover of the cavern (‘mouth’) or entryway to the world below. Bayer seems to have understood it so, though to have been uncertain about the difference between Crux and the false crux.
In the other strand of tradition, false crux is the seal and protection of the ship and may appear as a veil, shield other barrier set between the crew and the elements. These images often betray uncertainty about how to show the ship, going ‘backwards’ can yet being drawn by Sirius (as Aratus say it is).
The asterism’s character – if not its form – was clearly if surprisingly best understood in medieval Europe by the illustrator who created the following image, now in an early monastic copy of Cicero’s Aratea, Brit.Lib.Harley MS 647. That section’s manufacture is attributed to northern France, possibly Rheims, though to form images of words was not a custom native to Latin Europe, and is now associated earliest with works of roughly the same date made by the Karaite Jews of Syria (near Lake Tiberius) and of Egypt. And one mustn’t forget, since this is a copy of the Aratea, that when Harranian ‘star-worshippers’ were obliged to produce their holy books, or convert to Islam, or die during the first wave of Arab conquest, Aratus’ text was among those they produced, and their knowledge of astronomy was such that members of their community established the study in Baghdad. In latin Europe this conception of Argo ratis soon devolves.
- Brit.Lib. ms Harley 2506 f. 42 (Fleury 10thC) and e.g. Brit.Lib. ms Royal 13 A XI f. 111v also from northern or central France; dated last quarter of the 11thC or 1st quarter of the 12thC.
By contrast, a celestial globe made in Mashhad, as late as the seventeenth century, preserves memory of Argo as bird-headed, and more exactly here phoenix-headed and also of the ‘veil’ as shield against the dog whose rising theoretically marked Egypt’s annual inundation and drew the ship onwards (whether by stem or stern differs). This example takes additional sigificance from the fact that certain iconographic and stylistics found in the Voynich plant pictures occur also in a few leaves within the Mashhad Dioscorides.
- M.M. Sadeh, The Arabic ‘Materia Medica’ of Dioscorides (1983) esp. Ch.2 (pp. 7-19)
About those stylistic connections to the plant-pictures in Beinecke MS 408, I’m can cite no prior ‘Voynichero’, and my sources were all academic ones. I daresday one might now find examples posterior to my study, and.or illustrations re-used illustrations from my posts to Voynichimagery
To help with orientation… The view from the northern hemisphere – skies visible in Alexandria, August 22nd., 1420 AD.
‘star atlas’ style…:
The glorious reality..
Postscript: The next post, ‘Elevated souls Pt.1’ returns to the month folios. Once this series, focused on folio 70v-i ends, I;ll return to the short ‘reading-guide’ format with relief and pleasure which, I hope, my readers will share.
A much modified, ‘planispheric’, version of Schiller’s ‘Christianised Heavens’ can be seen here.