Certain measures 3b Preface – addendum

A reader has asked me to expand on a couple of points left obscure (as she says) in the previous post. I’m a bit reluctant to spend much time on this, because it deals only with medieval Latin imagery and culture – to which, in my opinion, the Voynich manuscript’s images bear little relation – but since this blog is intended to serve researchers, here we go.

The reader has asked that I explain more fully (a) the ‘cautionary’ tone that I find in the image from Brit.Lib. Burney MS 275; (b) why I speculated that the black-shod figure might imply criticism of Albertus Magnus and finally (c) what makes me link these with that image from a copy of Nicole Oresme’s treatise [BNF 1355] first introduced to Voynicheros by Ellie Velinska.

Before going further, I want to be quite clear that I do not consider the image from Burney 275 which I showed in the previous post, or Ellie’s image from BNF 1355 have any direct relevance to material now in Beinecke MS 408.

What the two French medieval images have in common is a style, the makers’ visual codes, and a particular attitude to astronomical studies characteristic of certain works made for Latin Christians in late medieval France.

from Brit.Lib. Burney MS 275.

So – concerning my speculation that the black shod figure (in the detail above from Brit.Lib. MS Burney 275), with his hidden left arm, might be an allusion to Albertus Magnus, here’s what I added as a comment under the previous post.

Because it must be classed as speculation, I add as a comment that I suspect the ‘transgressing-a-bit’ figure, with its sinister hand in his sleeve, might be a Francophile’s allusion to Albertus Magnus. I add two easily accessible sources to indicate why this idea occurs and why I find this image reflects the same cautions which occur in a copy of Oresme’s text – itself older and strongly cautionary in tone despite its being about astronomical learning.
On the Paris universities’ attempt to restrict readings from Aristotle see e.g. the wiki article,
“Condemnations_of_1210-1277”
and on Albertus’ being earlier considered a bit dubious on the same matter see e.g.

https://dailymedieval.blogspot.com/2012/11/albertus-magnus-astrology.html

There are, of course, many more and more detailed studies of this matter.

______

Denoting the non-orthodox.

To this I’d add that the same figure is represented by a conventional code for the dubious-to-heretical ruler or teacher, viz. ‘crossed-over limbs’.

This is no place to deliver a lecture on the history and uses of this item of visual code (where, when and by whom it was used) but I will offer another example of that usage, from a work that has not only been popular with straight-down-the line conservatives, but which actually does help elucidate one detail at least from the Voynich manuscript.

The well-known work is often called the ‘Manfredus Herbal’ (BNF Lat.6823) and its frontispiece(s) show, after the manner of late Roman and of Byzantine manuscripts, the best-known ‘names’ as authorities whose matter is contained within or widely associated with the subject matter.

While our view of how to depict classical characters and costumes differs considerably from the customs of medieval artisans, the reader must keep in mind that the medieval workers, like their audiences, were acutely conscious of costume as expressive of social and cultural distinctions, to the point we may describe depictions of clothing, bodily stance and more as elements in a common visual ‘code’ within a given cultural area.

Indeed, the analyst is wise to first interpret imagery [of costume in medieval Latin manuscripts] first as it contains ‘code’ and only then as literal depiction, though literalism is more common when the subject was a member of the European aristocracy. Something of this was touched on when discussing an image of C. Sergius Orata.

*see: https://voynichrevisionist.com/2019/09/12/the-skies-above-pt-5-bodies-in-baskets/

Here’s one page of portraits from the ‘Manfredus’ fronticepiece(s).

We’ll need to see some small details up close so the picture-file is large – I hope it won’t break your phone.

The two figures at the bottom of that page are Hippocrates (ypocras) and ‘Galienus’ – the latter an interesting evidence of contemporary confusion about Galen. As would later happen with the works of Ptolemy, we find an apparent confusion between the medical writer Galen, and Publius Licinius Egnatius Gallienus (co-emperor with his father Valerian from 253 to 260 AD and sole emperor from 260 to 268AD).

Note also that the works of this ‘Galienus’ are understood to be owned and taught – or at least preserved and translated – by Jewish scholars under western rule. Notice the ‘eastern eyes’ on that figure, and the sign of continuing use of the scroll, rather than the codex.

In the upper register, the figure to our left has his name erased, while the figure to our right has his name entirely omitted. Those who are acceptable (lower register) have their feet on the ground (proverbially and here graphically). Not all are Latins. In the upper register, though, the one who ‘transgresses’ a little is distinguished from the other who is considered both heretical and ‘inverted’ – or as we might say, has things totally back-to-front. The worst, by these marks, is obviously the one on the upper right, whom I managed to identify as ‘Johannitus’ thanks to the fact that most medieval scholars still memorised their texts and each of these figures speaks their incipit.

When first publishing this item from my Voynich research, I quoted the first sentences from ‘Johannitus’, and reproduce them here – in translation of course from his Isagogue.

Medicine is divided into two parts, namely, theory and practice. And of these, theory is further divided into three, that is to say the consideration of things that are natural, and of things that are non-natural (whence comes knowledge of health, disease, and the neutral state), and when these natural things depart from the course of nature – that is, when the four humours depart from the course of nature; and from what cause or symptoms disease may arise.

The Nestorian physician known to the west as ‘Johannitus’ was Hunayn ibn Ishâq (809-887), one of the Mesue dynasty of physicians that served as physicians to the Caliphs of Baghdad for generations.  Whether he ever wrote in Syriac, the liturgical language of the Church of the East (the so-called ‘Nestorian’ church) is not known, but some have made the mistake of supposing that anyone whose work appeared in Arabic was necessarily a Muslim, and this idea needs correction.

As Latin was the language of diplomacy, education and higher scholarship in western Christian Europe (so that we speak of ‘Latin Europe’), so throughout the Islamic empire, Arabic was the shared language. More – in Islamic scholarship, still, the custom was and is to call ‘an Arab’ anyone for whom Arabic is a primary language, written or spoken. So many have assumed that Hunayn was an Arab and a Muslim.

To add to the confusion, those noting that the way his name was rendered in Arabic indicates an original form meaning ‘John, son of Isaac’ imagined him a Christianised Jew.

It is easily forgotten today, but was not unknown to later medieval Europe that the Church of the East represented the original Christian church and existed from long before the rise of Islam being by the tenth century established from as far west as Constantinople and Egypt to as far east as China. Together with the ‘star-worshippers’ of Haran, the Nestorians (so called) are credited with having brought most works of classical science and scholarship to the knowledge of the first few generations of Muslim rulers, especially those in Baghdad. Part of their religious belief was that the Christian minister was expected to imitate Christ by ministering to body (medicine), mind (education) and soul (pastoral care). The western or ‘Roman’ tradition was strongly opposed to the first and the reason for Ficino’s being burned as a heretic was his becoming enamoured of that ‘ancient’ and original priesthood. This is the substance of his first (much misunderstood) legal defence. Canon law had initially accepted that the eastern church had chronological precedence and thus merited the description as ‘apostolic’. But by the time of Ficino’s second accusation, that argument was no longer enough. Ficino was a priest and was accused of practicing medicine. His own book proves that he had, and imitated specific recipes known to us from the ‘Nestorians’ Syriac Book of Medicines.

However – back to the main point.

Translation of Johannitus’ work into Latin is credited, by tradition, to a trader whose name on conversion to Christianity was Constantine, called ‘the African’, who brought with him from North Africa many medical texts, in Arabic copy, first to the court in Palermo (not Salerno) in Sicily.

He began translating the collection in Palermo, but soon passed on to the mainland, eventually to become a monk and end his days in Montecassino.

So the book being abjured according to this frontispiece to the Sicilan ‘Manfredus’ herbal is the Isagogue, some of whose content must have offended Sicily’s pluralistic society when it became known there. Among other things, Johannitus’ theory of the humors has it that all eye-colours save blue, and all hair-colours save yellow are the result of disease, or more exactly of humoral imbalance.

Selected excerpts from the Isagogue were still retained and taught but as with many such ‘dubious’ sources, maintained through collected extracts, in this case through a work called the Articella, and were further disguised by terming the whole of that collection “Greek” medicine.

Sicily was, and for centuries remained, far more culturally mixed and diverse than anywhere in western Europe and its Christianity stayed largely Byzantine well into the Norman period, making the word “Greek” a definition of orthodoxy. As usual, too, the frontispiece reflects western Christianity’s greater abhorrence towards other sects of Christianity than towards quite other religions. The ‘Manfredus’ herbal is dated by the BNF 1301-1350 AD. MS Burney 275 by the British Library 1309 and 1316 AD.

And you see how Johannitus’ ‘crossed limbs’ are depicted – with an improper amount of bare leg above the ankle. So we read ‘transgression’ for the figure on the upper left, but ‘heretic’ for Johannitus.

Not all historians make the link between ‘Johannitus’ and the Nestorian physicians. See e.g.

  • Behnam Dalfardi, Babak Daneshfard, Golnoush Sadat Mahmoudi Nezhad,  ‘Johannitius (809-873 AD), a medieval physician, translator and author’, Journal of Medical Biography, 2016 Aug;24(3):328-30. doi: 10.1177/0967772014532890. Epub 2014 Jun 9.

Connection between that image and Beinecke MS 408 is offered by the peculiar headwear given Johannitus, though apparently not quite understood by the painter, who has made a curl of hair from what appears to be a head-dress of horn. The validity of the underlying drawing is, however, confirmed for this same era, and again for peoples living in hither Asia, because a picture of Mongols’ captives shows it on them, together with dress that is typically Asian, and Mongol. It was not the custom, in Asian art, to encode images of costume, so we may take that image literally, and so too the dress seen in a late-stratum diagram (added to the back of the map) in the Voynich manuscript.

detail from Beinecke MS 408, folio 85v.

The Voynich detail shows that the ‘Nestorian’ figure (as we’ll call him for convenience) is used to mark the point of ‘east’; the diagram being a schematic representation of the world’s four quarters. Unlike most of the Voynich drawings, this one was almost certainly drawn by a European or, perhaps, an Armenian.

The motif upheld by the figure is not (as might first suggest itself to a modern viewer) a Norman or French ‘fleur de lys’ – as you’ll see if you make the necessary comparisons.

A truer match is the form given the tamgar for a certain Mongol ruler and while it has proven impossible so far to precisely identify a geographic reference for this ‘east’, the coins so adorned are fairly rare. Pace Kolbas, I’m strongly inclined to identify it with Amaligh and not Fars, though for reasons too many, and technical, to trouble readers with here.

Still, Kolbas is a numismatist and I’ll quote her again as I did in a post published in 2015 through voynichimagery.

On pages 149-150 of Judith Kolbas’ The Mongols in Iran: Chingiz Khan to Uljaytu 1220–1309)   we read:

Almaligh produced money in 650 and 651H, and Bukhara and Samarquand issued large flat billon, probably in 651H. …. [1253 AD] All of these inscriptions were similar to those of Bulghar and Tiflis, specifically in not having the name of the local dynast except in Fars. Instead, they had the great khan’s name and, except in Greater Khurasan and Transoxiana, his tamgha. In Fars, the imperial tamgha was artfully  drawn to resemble a graceful fleur de lys …

Almaligh produced money in 650 and 651H, and Bukhara and Samarquand issued large flat billon, probably in 651H. …. All of these inscriptions were similar to those of Bulghar and Tiflis, specifically in not having the name of the local dynast except in Fars. Instead, they had the great khan’s name and, except in Greater Khurasan and Transoxiana, his tamgha. In Fars, the imperial tamgha was artfully  drawn to resemble a graceful fleur de lys …To which I added – and still add – a demur

I add my original demur, too:

[this] ‘graceful fleur de lys’ is really a version of a much older Persian motif – and if it is the design Kolbas means this specific example [used in my illustration above] doesn’t appear to have been made for Fars, but more probably for Amaligh.

Other indications of eastern and Asian influence in the Voynich manuscript’s imagery certainly exist, some like this evidently first-hand and more at greater remove, but I’ve treated many in detail over the past years, and we must move on to the ‘Oresme’ issue.

Ellie Velinska’s comparison – BNF ms

Oresme (1328-82 AD) Which manuscript?

In 2014, in a blog now deleted, Ellie Velinska made a loose comparison of the image shown above with a detail from the Voynich manuscript, putting the two side by side without analytical commentary, leading readers to infer that only ‘common sense’ was needed to know what, if anything, might constitute a commonality between them.

Ellie’s chief interest was the Duc de Berry, and her Voynich theory was woven around that interest. If this sounds dismissive, it shouldn’t. For a person with no background or formal study of medieval imagery, her natural clarity of vision often made for interesting observations and flashes of insight, but the limited amount of time she had to spare for her hobby, as well as apparent ignorance of formal academic methods and standards, seemed often to see her at a loss to know, herself, just what to do with those observations, or how to test her own ideas against the historical record. But the same is true of the great majority of ‘Voynicheros’ online and Ellie’s pleasant and accommodating manner made her a very popular member of the self-styled online ‘Voynich community’.

Cross-checking my references today, I cannot think her original description of the source correct. My notes say she listed it as BNF 1355, but I rather think it was from

BNF fr.565, f.23r

Three years afterwards, and after properly citing Ellie’s post (as you can trust Pelling always to do), Pelling himself labeled a detail “BNF 565” (see further below).

The determined checker is welcome to go through all references to Oresme from the BNF’s Gallica portal.

https://archivesetmanuscrits.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/cc59311v

Oresme was not yet Bishop of Lisieux when he composed his ‘Treatise on the Sphere’ but already had his Doctorate in Theology from the University of Paris and had been appointed Grand Master over the College of Navarre where he’d had his own undergraduate accommodation and tutoring.

His credentials suggest, and his writings confirm, that whatever Oresme wrote would be absolutely sound from any western theologians’ point of view, and indeed, his Treatise was meant as much for the king’s good Christian guidance as to provide him with a reference text about astronomical theory.

Like his earlier work entitled Livre de Divinations, the Treatise shows Oresme to have been well aware of other ideas and traditions, but as time went on his ‘orthodoxy’ or theological rectitude becomes as strongly in evidence as his erudition.

In his earlier writings, especially the Livre des Divinationes, he is is plain when criticising Jews and of Arabic-speakers for their indulging in ‘divination’ including astrological divination, and these are seen to be identical to what he terms “the astrologers” or “the scientists.” But as time goes on, Oresme omits any but generic allusions to those groups, and even as early as the Livre.. when he considers the information, and its source, likely to serve as temptation for the curious.

Nonetheless, it is clear that he knew matter not only just non-Christian like Aristotle, but which derives from traditional lore, and some items that today we’d normally suppose Kabbalist. Oresme livedwhile Kabbalist teaching was flourishing near the border between modern day France and Spain, some of that border belonging to the Kingdom of Majorca until 1375. Living in the College of Navarre, one may suppose Oresme was unusually well situated to learn about ideas current in the south.

Here as illustration, a passage in translation from his Livre…

That he dismisses such ideas as ‘speculation’ is added indication of a non-orthodox (non-Christian) source. Had that ‘throne’ been described Christ’s rather than Solomon’s, Oresme might still have set the matter aside, but not as “speculation”. It would have been called a matter to be apprehended only by the eyes of faith, and not appropriate for earthly studies such as philosophy or astronomy. Just the same message, at much the same time, and environment, as that detail seen in the previous post and illustrated first in the present one.

Cautions

The cautions were evidently not always heeded by persons who wore a crown, and in that detail from BNF fr.565, f.23r (Ellie’s find, I think) the ‘doubtful’ characters are included, and are defined by the usual codes – headwear, clothing, posture, hair and facial hair or lack thereof.

I won’t provide any more detailed analytical commentary about it. This post is already longer than I’d like and the codes used in those images from fourteenth century France are not shared by the Voynich manuscript save in a very few details over no more than half a dozen folios.

.

Assimilating Aristotle and comparisons made to images in the Voynich manuscript.

Not so long before, only students of Theology had been permitted to read Aristotle at the University of Paris, the most desirable of all study-centres in those days unless you wanted to study medicine.

A degree in Theology was the highest and most demanding of the University degrees, since one had to know all other disciplines before admission into that Faculty. The reasoning here was not a new idea; it was that any authority which appeared to be incompatible with Christian doctrine and Biblical literature should not be taught verbatim to the uneducated, or even to the less educated, except it were provided with learned commentary which edited or ameliorated the ‘wrong’ by e.g. excusing pagan writers on the grounds that they had been permitted only a ‘dim’ apprehension of any truth, given that the fulness of truth had been vouchsafed to humankind only with the coming of Christ (as western Christianity believed).

By how much, and in what way they had fallen short, or where passages in older works were to be interpreted as allegorical and so on, was duly explained and/or the texts redacted or simply summarised by the theologians, with those acceptable summaries and extracts taught to the people.

In short, before the Italian renaissance, such ‘old works’ were treated like valuable but slightly out-of-date school texts today. Living exponents of unorthodox traditions were more sternly regarded, as we’ve seen.

That prohibition against Aristotle’s works didn’t apply beyond the University of Paris; It was not supported by any Papal pronouncement so far as I know, and even within the University of Paris didn’t last in practice more than (perhaps) three or four decades, but as mentioned earlier, it was serious enough that for a time the German Albertus (called ‘the great’) had been much exercised to defend his own, and others’ study of Aristotle.

One is usually told that Aristotle’s texts reached Europe from some long distance, and had to be especially translated at some royal court, but this isn’t necessarily so.

It is recorded by a Muslim military man at the time of the Muslim conquest of Sicily that he found the works of Aristotle being treated as if they were holy writ in Sicily, with readings aloud in the various niches within cathedral and the mummified body of that ‘saint’ suspended from the ceiling as its leading light. We don’t know what language they read it in, though Sicilian Greek is most probable and for reasons that can’t be fairly treated here, the practices as he reported them suggest connections to a ‘star-worshipping’ religion recorded in association with Haran and with north Africa and which was as old as, if not older, than Alexander the Great. Aristotle himself had died in 322BC.

When dealing with Oresme’s Treatise, then, it must be kept in mind that it was made – probably commissioned – of a person whose religious orthodoxy was beyond question, and whose use of Aristotle and other mathematical and scientific information could be regarded, by his authorship alone, as acceptable to any good western Christian – that is (as yet), a good Catholic.

Biographies that blur, or ignore, or misrepresent Oresme by calling him ‘a clergyman’ or which ‘politely’ omit reference to any medieval scholar’s religious views and/or standing ignore something that was an essential part of the person’s scholarly, as well as their personal character.

Ellie’s comparison was conveyed by inference, not argument or evidence, and appealed simply to her audience’s expectations of all-European content for the Voynich manuscript. Points of difference in form and all else were simply ignored but this is also usual in Voynich writings.

So when Pelling, who has a degree in modern historical studies, later revisited Ellie’s idea (naturally, with all due credit given), he omitted most of Ellie’s illustration, narrowing the whole tacit argument still further.

As I see it, the numerous points of difference are more telling than the few which are sort-of, more-or-less, similar. You will find no kings, no thrones, no flowing ermine robes, no kneeling suppliants, no armillary spheres, no ornate tapestry-pattern backgrounds in the Voynich manuscript and in neither the full Oresme illumination nor the small detail shown above is there the detail that I see as being the most telling of the Voynich diagram’s significance – I mean those eight curved ‘arms’ of which four are seen to emerge from the foreground and four apparently from below that visible surface ..

I think – I hope – that covers the three items I was asked to expand on.

Sorry about the length.

Skies above: Certain measures Pt.3a absences and avoidances

This post treats issues of method and the  fraught question of when theory-formation is a benefit to the study and when a hindrance. I hope revisionists will find it food for thought, but anyone with an investment in some Voynich theory, and especially a theory focused on Latin European personalities, might like to stop reading now. Besides, it is a long essay, not much enlivened with pictures.

 I would actually prefer not to to treat this topic at all. Theorists’ responses are easily predicted.   But it must be done –  Fiat jūstitia ….  as the Roman said about Libra.

——

“Divided minds” – logic and illogic in Voynich research.

A belief that ‘images are easy’ is arguably the first and longest enduring systemic error in Voynich studies, but may explain why so little effort has been made to study techniques of analytical method (though Voynich sites may entitle their non-analytical matter  ‘analysis of the imagery’).  From 1912 to the present, the study’s history shows little sign of  efforts made to understand how  images are assigned to their place, time and social community.  Theory-driven ‘nearest fit’ has been constantly imagined sufficient whether the Voynich theory being posited had the manuscript a product of medieval or of modern times, and attributed it to some part of western Europe, to the Americas or elsewhere..

Such magnificent indifference to objective criteria  is not so prevalent in other facets of the study.

A competent cryptologist, when he or she crafts a theory about Voynichese, remains conscious of the theoretical model’s being no more than an analogy, and takes notice of both what does and what doesn’t accord with the primary evidence.  If the theoretical model proves a poor fit, it is discarded, although the aim is to devise one so close to the original that it will help explain what has been so far unexplained.

In the same way, a botanist might posit a theory about a plant’s identification, and test it by balancing points of similarity against points of difference between a textual description and the living plant.  A linguist will also balance points for, and against, a theoretical model.

There is no confusion in their minds between the actual object which constitutes the standard, and the theoretical model which may achieve or fail to agree with that standard.

Quite the opposite habit pervades assertions made about this manuscript’s images in almost everything written since 1921.   In that case, whenever the hypothetical model fails,  the usual practice has been to ignore the differences, deem the primary evidence flawed in failing to agree with the theoretical model and thus, in effect, the analogy is taken as the standard and the primary evidence discarded.   Whatever details are deemed a near-fit (right or not) are given an importance out of all proportion, while the details which don’t are treated as of no consequence.  At best they are merely ignored; at worst attributed to an equally hypothetical creation described as  ‘author’ or ‘artist’ and blamed for the work’s not conforming to the analogy.

What is most curious is that, in Voynich studies, a single researcher  may switch from the rational and analytical mode to the emotional and inverted mode, depending on whether they are thinking about the manuscript’s written or pictorial evidence.

The switch is signalled by the degree of interest expressed in the reasons and evidence informing dissent from the hypothetical model: in other words, in why the dissenter dissents.  As a linguist or cryptographer, that researcher is likely to be interested in comments about flaws in a given model.  In emotional mode – and historical scenarios seem to have a strong emotional factor – the response to similar comment is more likely to be little other than expressions of personal hostility.   The level of that researcher’s interest in the primary evidence’s divergence from that theory is also reduced to the minimum.

And, in fact, theoretical-historical models appear to render differences invisible to the theorist. You can explain those differences, describe them, illustrate them and provide a yard of documentary evidence – but the theorist may well see nothing and read nothing and absorb nothing which he or she interprets as a threat to their theory.  Over-identification with a theory is the point at which Beinecke MS 408 becomes the ostensible but not the real subject of a person’s interest.

It is theory-induced blindness which produces illustrations of a myriad zodiacs and the assertion that the ‘nearest fit’ is the one which suits the theory. Or which reduces the question to a single emblem only (as the German theory has done with the ‘archer’ figure).  The person is no longer thinking, ‘What were these images meant to mean?’ but something more like, ‘Since I know my theory is right, what about this part of the manuscript can be fitted to it?’  What is absent from such exercises, in connection with the month folios specifically, is any effort to explain those drawings as whole images, or to understand why its series of  central emblems doesn’t, in fact, form a zodiac sequence at all – not even a truncated zodiac sequence.

After a century in which Newbold’s impression has been echoed and reasserted without variation it is difficult for modern reader to perceive the series as other than a Roman zodiac, or to realise how much virtual violence must be done to maintain that theory.   Images which are there have to be imagined not there.  Pages which are not there have to be imagined as being there,  with non-existent pages imagined present, and their surfaces covered with hypothetical/imagined content.

One has also to conjure up a single ‘artist’ – when the evidence of several is plain enough – and then accuse that imagined figure or even all of them of  a staggering incompetence and ignorance while at the same time (to maintain such theories as the ‘German’ theory) of such superb competence that they could draw a crossbow to scale within the space of one centimetre square.  It has to be supposed that not only the imagined ‘artist’had managed to remain unaware that a Roman zodiac has 12 figures with none repeated and all in set order,  but everyone else connected with the manuscript’s production had also managed to remain ignorant of a series which was to be found, in the Latin environment, carved on the exterior of churches, made in mosaic in public places, and used to illustrate manuscripts and calendars both liturgical and secular.  Not only the artist(s) as I say, but the scribes and the overseer of work.  And then one must imagine, further, that this ignorance survived in all of them while one is asked, simultaneously, to suppose that the person(s) for whom the month-folios were being made was an astrologer of some sort.

It defies reason and the historical evidence.  But apparently did not quite beggar belief.

I’ll turn again in the next post to the matter of variant depictions for the zodiac in works produced in Latin Europe the immediate point being that, once again, the focus of attention  slid from the primary evidence to a theoretical model for which one’s credence is demanded (with penalties ad hominem for refusal)  and this despite any formal argument’s being presented, or any effort made to explain what is actually on the manuscript’s page.

The primary evidence’s failing to concur with the hypothetical model is treated in the same way. One is encouraged to ‘just ignore the nonsense’ or to blame the source itself.  It *ought* to conform to the theory.

Is it any wonder that a century’s elaboration of that ‘Latin origin’ theory has not elucidated a single phrase of the written text?

The non-zodiac shall be deemed “a zodiac”; the purpose for which the month-folios were made shall be deemed astrological.  The ‘logic’ invoked to persuade one to accept that what is not so shall be so is not (as often asserted) any historical logic but the sort of internal logic we find in the best historical fiction.

To suppose that scribes so obviously competent as those who made the written part of the text (at least) wouldn’t know the series of 12 constellations in order, and that the labours of the months linked just one to each of those 12 months is to defy the historical evidence.  The logical conclusion is, surely, that the series in the month folios diverges from the zodiac’s standard sequence and order of ’12’ (or, if you like, of 10) for a reason.

Discovering that reason must be part of researching the manuscript if the aim is to understand the primary document and that certainly can’t be done by pretending the primary source is other than it is.

Which is why, in my opinion,  creation of theory-driven historical scenarios which presume what is not known is known is an inappropriate method, no matter how traditional in this study.

It leads  to that unreasonable confidence which has  one theory claim some creature, or plant- picture shows a New world species while another says the month-folios must speak of Christianised astrology and magic, or which – finding itself stymied by the plant-pictures – resorts to airy declarations that whatever it has not provided with a theoretical ‘nearest fit’ is to be dismissed as ‘the artists’ fantasy or personal whim.  If such guesswork was presented by one person claiming responsibility for it, the matter might be debated rationally, but such things are often decided as if by some anonymous bureaucracy or by public acclaim,  disseminated by a general weed-seeding,  as produced out of analogy by god-knows-who, and then as something ‘everyone agrees to’ defended by the masses to the hilt –  belief defining dissent as heresy.

So the normal relationship between primary evidence and that posited analogy  is  inverted, the story elaborated and more impositions laid on the primary source, and while individuals are eager to accept credit for a ‘genius idea’ it is rarely that the same individuals produce any formal argument for which they accept all responsibility.  By ‘formal argument’  I mean one which balances arguments for and against a proposition, adduces verifiable evidence and accurately documents both sources and any precedent.

Traditional method, in Voynich theory-making, is fundamentally just poor method.  The way  the images are treated in service to such theories is not remotely like the way pictures are normally approached, described and assigned their time and place of first enunciation or of subsequent copying.

And I suppose that to show the foregoing remarks are not themselves just theory, I must now add an example, but since examples are often confused with personal attacks on whoever’s work the example comes  from – even if the person is dead –   the safest example is one I’ve already spoken about at voynichimagery.

Below is an illustration which Ellie Velinska produced for a post to her blog in 2014.  It sets the diagram from folio 68v next to a detail from one copy of Oresme’s Treatise on the Sphere and was very warmly received, as you’ll see from the comments made to that blogpost. ( here). I’ll leave my own comments to the end of this post, but as you’ll see if you follow that link, none of Velinska’s commentary addresses points of difference between the ‘clips’. She offers no analytical discussion of the Voynich drawing, nor tries to explain its intended purpose or its particular form.

 

Since I can’t treat every historical-theoretical narrative proposed since 1912, I’ll keep to the oldest  – that which interprets the manuscript, and specifically its pictures, by analogy with western Christian (‘Latin’) culture  during the thirteenth- or fourteenth- or early fifteenth-century.

Here, in brief, is the negative case:-

Hallmarks of medieval Latin (i.e. western Christian) imagery.

As did every other cultural community, that of medieval Latin Europe expressed its own world-view using a distinctive repertoire of graphic and painterly techniques – the ‘language’ of art.

The conversations between maker and intended audience speak of that world-view they shared, doing so by both the style and the content of an image.  It is by recognising both form and informing thought that an image may be described as an expression of medieval Latin culture and assigned its origin in some particular region.

That world view characteristic of medieval Latins was  informed by an idea of universal hierarchy, this vision including everything from heaven, through earth to hell –  all of which were equally ‘real’ for them.  Their fixation on relative position in that universal hierarchy meant that every visual conversation emphasises the ranking accorded each element in a picture, whether animal or person, cloud or fish, angel, devil, noble or peasant. Except when used symbolically – as the lily might be used as symbol for Mary, Christ’s mother – all natural things of earth were assumed subservient to mankind, and within mankind the western Christian was assumed ‘properly’ superior to all others.  (This heritage and pre-disposition is why European society was initially outraged by Darwin’s theory of natural selection, and also why after a period of adjustment, Europe so easily translated it into what is a  ‘theory’ in the sense of a fiction: social Dawrinism).

But the medieval Latins’ attitude is expressed in imagery by showing man surveying as possessions the land and all it contains.  It also elevates the deeds of the male over those of the female; it sets nobles on thrones, on chairs, in high-towered castles and on horseback –  thus literally as well as conceptually over those deemed ‘lower orders’.   War is another constant: the struggle between the upper righteousness and lower sinfulness;  between Christianity and all other belief systems; between ruler by inheritance and the elected head of the church, between angels and devils.   Literally depicted forms, and allusion to beauty as expression of ‘higher’ rank, and goodness were among the techniques by which position in the universal hierarchy was envisaged and, so, communicated.

Images expressing this world-view occur even in Latin herbals, in their introductory images  (as in the Manfredus herbal and the Anicia Juliana), or in images scattered through it, and in such things as dedicatory inscriptions and colophon.

From the  Voynich manuscript,  those factors and themes and above all that perception of the world itself are overwhelmingly absent.  It is the most resounding silence and failure to appreciate its importance has been the single greatest failure of the many historical-theoretical models devised to explain the manuscript.

There is not one depiction of a king, of a throne, of a man on horseback, of a figure recognisably from the calendar of saints. There are no halos, none but late-added crowns; no bishops (though one preacher in a Mongol robe appears in one detail, an addition to the older material which I date to the late thirteenth or early fourteenth century, and one reason I date the material’s introduction to the Latins to that period.).   no massed armies, no servants in peasant costume, no image of a seated authority figure before a kneeling inferior. There is no allusion to Christian belief in the images, none of those emblems by which a saint was identified.  The only sign of war is a single small detail among those on folio 80v. It shows a male figure dressed in what appears to be Roman military dress, and in the act of enslaving a female).  There are no lovely noblewomen, no devils, no winged figures at all.  There is no reference to class distinction by the usual depiction of silk and ermine robes. The western preoccupation with fabrics is found only in the late-added heavy pigment laid over some figures in the month-folios – another indication of late translation into Latin domains. The arms and fingers of the great many female figures are unadorned with jewellery.  There are no interior scenes, no nuns or clerics, no travellers with staff and scrip, no vessels with handles and bellies; no emphasis on objects as tokens of status; no images of the hunt, no ‘horse, hound and falcon’ images and only one figure in the entire manuscript who is shod.

There are no vine borders, no interlace and knotwork designs, no drolleries formed by the fusion of human and beast into one creature –  in fact no evidence in any of it of an inclination to indulge in fantasy. This renders unlikely too,  the sort of excuses being invented at present to cover the fact that the old theory of the plant-pictures as a form of Latin herbal is bankrupt – something which Tiltman understood by the 1960s.  The latest rationalisation asserts whatever plant-pictures frustrate even the  ‘near-fit’  approach are merely the product of fantasy or whimsy.  For this new theoretical elaboration I find no evidence within the manuscript at all.  Symbolic, allusive and mnemonic devices certainly, but none without relevance and none personal whimsy.  They are not beyond understanding.   From what little is said in public, the ‘whimy’ idea seems to be another effort to find post-hoc justification for something in d’Imperio’s book, and to rely on arbitrarily transfering ideas which  Marco Ponzi offered about Cambridge Bodleian  Trinity MS O.2.48 to Yale, Beinecke MS 408. One would like to see that provided a formal argument.

Nor is there anything of officialdom in the Voynich images; no official figures’ granting gifts or meting out judgement. There is nothing of rule and government whether of religious or secular organisation. Not so much as a male holding a walking stick, a staff of office, a crozier, or a sceptre. (I’ve listed those in Latin order 🙂 )

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…in sum:  the entire fabric of the Latin Christian world, its culture, informing ideologies and world-view – the very means by which an image is assigned Latin origins –  are just not there.

THAT is why specialists in so many areas of medieval western culture have refused to endorse theoretical arguments, and denied overtly or tacitly that the manuscript is “one of theirs”.

See post of 25th. Feb., 2019.

It is remarkable, even astounding, that the logical inference has so rarely been taken: that the reason imagery in the Voynich manuscript doesn’t look like an expression of  Latin culture might be… because it isn’t.

The possibility  receives further support from what I describe as ‘avoidances’ in the imagery.

Apart from later accretions as e.g. the month-names;  additional images set onto the back of the Voynich map and a few other specifics, these avoidances are so pervasive across the various sections that I take them as indicating  a cultural norm, and one which was certainly not Latin and which represents an important phase in the content’s evolution and transmission: a chronological stratum.   The following details reproduce notes from my research log for July 13th., 2010,  with some of the marginal notes subsequently added as I began looking into the questions raised.  The notes were for personal use, as brief guide for research during the months to follow, and I daresay some will read a bit cryptic. But anyway here they are, verbatim. The first notes are in italics. Marginal notes in plain. Today’s comments in blue.

  1. No use of instrumentsneither ruler nor compasses. [exception: folio 57v.] Pages not ruled out.  No evident mark of wire, nor of pricking for this purpose- has textblock been trimmed for a later re-binding [later marginal note] – Rene Zandbergen says it hasn’t been and that he hopes I too may one day hold the manuscript in my hands, as he has done).   Folio 57v as late addition – possibly very late Cf drawing-style in illustration for  Kircher’s “Machauter” and note his source –  but perhaps the ink is against a date in the 17thC.  Other, less obvious, exceptions – some plainly informed by Latins’ traditions –  seen in drawings accommodated by using the map’s reverse. I’d date these to the fourteenth century.   [Further marginal note] In a post to second mailing list, in 2007, Rich Santacoloma notes that 57v shows the prick of a compass or dividers, and later that it has three distinct centres]. I would finally write extracts from this part of the research – that is, about f.57v -at voynichimagery over February-March, 2013.]

2. Not only no ruled lines but no perfectly straight drawn lines. This also reason for no ‘ruling out'(??)   Rapidity with which one scribe comes and goes from the ‘bathy-‘ section, after using some as ‘improvement’ on the original.  Effort to copy the original material so exactly… was the  15thC copying informed by any knowledge of the tabus, or not?  On this last point I think the balance of evidence is against the copyists understanding the earlier avoidances – a better definition than ‘tabus’.]

3. Avoidance of  crossed lines. No interlace, no ‘x’-form among the glyphs. Discounts the Insular, Coptic, Latin, mainstream Arabic,  Armenian as well as the Byzantine traditions (except in some superficial ornament, which  Pelling calls ‘cross-hatching’ and supposes invented in Renaissance Italy.   Re architectural structures added to the map –  c.13th(?) century – check comparisons.

4. No ‘boxes’including no triangles.  Nothing with sharp right-angles except a few late errors in copying and an (original) emblem for ‘south’ on the map – though even that is surrounded by an apotropaic ring – “shield against the fires implied”. North-oriented worship? cf. Harran.  (Tamara Green).  Containers in the root-and-leaf section, even simple cylinders, are bent to avoid the angular ‘box’.  Very unusual avoidance.  Perhaps related to observation that nothing natural to the world is ‘ruled line straight’? Arcs of horizon and heavens are conceptual, not physical.  Can’t identify the community. (must check ethnological studies – ugh!)

5. No literal depiction of any living creature. [perhaps one reason for the plant-pictures’ not showing specimens as we think characteristic of the Mediterranean world.  But it may have been just convenient to group by location and use].  ‘Violas’ image an obvious  ring-in – its maker clearly understood the principle but it wasn’t natural to him. He had no idea how to form a root-mnemonic or use the ‘shorthand’ motifs.  And he defines a plant by its flower(!).  His composite image is drawn as range of viola species occurring rom east to west (or vice versa?  A Latin, perhaps – his mind works differently from the original makers’.  The system (and key to text?) had been explained to him; but it isn’t his natural way, or training – doesn’t quite “get it”.  Get opinion on petals. micrography?  [ I later had the advice of an eminent specialist in the history of Jewish paleography about this posited micrography in f.9v but the reaction of the ‘Voynich community’, at that time, was strongly opposed to any suggestion of eastern or Jewish ‘authorship’ – so much so that I did not feel it right to name the specialist. Some years later,  Zandbergen and Prinke wouldproduce a book in collaboration with a writer named Stephen Skinner, who described a  ‘Jewish’ theory so appallingly ill-informed as to be offensive.  Since I’d been explaining for some years by that time, details indicative of Jewish influence, the specialists who’d been advising me were disconcerted and to ensure no connection was imagined between that essay and the work I’d published between 2009-2017 it added another item to my reasons for deciding to close voynichimagery soon after.]

6. No repetition [i.e. replication, in the images of the living creatures].  This is a remarkable achievement if you think about it, and realise how very many female figures had to be provided with distinctly different form-and- face without resembling a living, breathing, human.  Even in our present volume – which is reasonably supposed made by Latins who would have a very opposite inclination, we find only the occasional  ‘slip’ by which a face looks ‘real’.  [My favourite ‘shapely lady’ is one of those slips and it is a most valuable evidence that the draughtsman could have made them all just as ‘real’ if he’d been free to do so –  just as he might have fallen into an easy repetition for the figures around the month-folios’ tiers.   [Only some strong and probably religious principle would have prevented the earlier makers’ avoiding both literalism and replication. The fifteenth-century copyist who ‘slipped’ in making one very ‘shapely lady’ was certainly not working in monastic scriptorium. Nor, I should think in a fifteenth century European Jewish community.  I never found but two references to a prohibition against such  repetition [‘replication’] -one in connection with use of draw-loom fabrics in post-iconoclastic Byzantium, and another as a suggested reason for the fact that although knowledge of printing is attested within the Arab speaking world as early as the 10thC – it was almost immediately rejected and texts continued to be produced by hand for centuries more.  I’ll have reason to mention this another time and will add the references there. It implies an aversion to magical practice, by the way.]

I do not pretend to have found answers to all my own research questions, but enough avenues opened to allow a reasonable explanation for these non-Latin characteristics.

__________________

 

Example – Ellie Velinska and Oresme.

To my knowledge, none save the present author registered any hesitation about embracing Ellie’s proposed match.

 

Ellie was not trying to say that the two images came from the same artist, or even the same atelier.  Her argument – more implied than argued – was that similarities (only) between the two support an hypothetical Voynich history into which may be drawn the person of Nicolas Oresme, as well as the French royal court.

Ellie’s impression may one day be proven accurate in general, but to argue the ‘Oresme and Charles’ case, one would have to show that the manuscript’s vellum, its finish, dimensions and binding, its style of binding and much more are attested for that time and region or – if that is impossible – that the same detail occurs in earlier and in less formal, copies of Oresme’s Treatise.

Her case is weakened by the manuscript’s  unobserved and unmentioned differences from the ‘match’ but even more by the fact that we do not find that form in other and earlier copies of that Treatise. Given the style and technique displayed by her chosen copy ( BNF fr.565) it would not be unreasonable to suggest that the detail in question may have less to do with the treatise itself than to the stock repertoire of some particular atelier.  Below is the first image from a copy made during the first years of the fifteenth century ( BNF fr.1350)..

First illustration in a copy of Nicholas Oresme’s Treatise on the sphere. BNF fr.1350, dated 1400-1401.

As is usual with implied rather than stated inferences associated with ‘matched clips’, their appropriateness or otherwise is often shown by  re-contextualising the detail adduced as ‘nearest-fit’.   In this case, it becomes apparent that the chosen ‘match’ is from an mage entirely characteristic of Latin thought.  The chair tells us who is of the highest rank; the crown and sceptre denote royalty. The various types of hat refer to national and ethnic character. These are the ‘astrologers and diviners’ whom Oresme wishes the king to ‘put behind him’, echoing Christ’s words in the gospel.  There’s no doubt it’s a product of Latin culture as well as of Latin making.  Now consider the differences in attitudes, and forms for the human figures compared with what we see in the Voynich manuscript. The one aims at ‘realism’ as plainly as the other does not.  Here there are no ‘broken’ arms and shoulders or deformed faces. Certainly no avoidance of replication… and just look at those robes and fabrics.

On the positive side…

There is certainly other evidence which permits more general argument for the manuscript’s content having been, at some time, in French-owned territories.*

*or rather, of French cultural influence. (note added 16th.March)

We have the orthography of the month-names, which agrees closely with forms found in  Judeo-Catalan, Occitan and Norman French.  According to Sixto – and I haven’t checked this – there were Catalan Jews in north-western France.  The same orthography occurs on an astronomical instrument, made in Picardy, which was sent to England at some time. (I haven’t checked the object’s history yet).   Koen Gheuens’ discussion of the ‘double lobster’ indicates  dissemination of that form through Alsace and/or Flanders during the earlier decades of the fifteenth century and from an Anglo-Norman speaking source.  My own research into the standing, fully human archer as token for the constellation Sagittarius also led me to conclude that its first remaining expression – in a mosaic near Lake Tiberius – occurs several centuries earlier than its first extant example in Europe and the means by which it came was probably workers in glass, who brought with them the red tesserae found in quantity in that region and whose technical secret, according to a contemporary Latin’s account, was by then known only to one or two families or clans of the eastern Mediterranean shore.  The oldest western example is in a rich window originally in Braisne Abbey. Since that time, my illustration has been widely re-used by Voynich writers but minus reference to the associated evidence or argument as to what significance should be taken from the sudden appearance of this type, previously unattested in Latin art.

But altogether there is evidence enough to argue some link between the month-folios and France, but nothing like enough evidence to support a theory that the content originated there or that it has any connection to Oresme’s Treatise.

And that is without beginning to address the differences between her ‘matched’ clips or to explain the intention of the original image from folio 68v. Which last, surely, should have been attended to first.

On the history of Oresme and his works, and his detestation of astrology and divination see the short essay

  • Mackley, J. S., ‘Nicole Oresme’s treatises on cosmography and divination: a discussion of the Treatise of the Sphere’. Paper presented to: Starcraft: Watching the Heavens in the Early Middle Ages, University College London, 30 June – 1 July 2012. (available online as a pdf).

Nick Pelling recently revisited the ‘Oresme’ theme

  • Nicholas Pelling, ‘Nicole Oresme’s “Treatise on the Sphere” revisited’, ciphermysteries (Feb. 15th., 2020)