The Forbidden Shelf

Lost, Banned and Dangerous Books of the Middle Ages The Middle Ages left behind an enormous written record: chronicles and saints’ lives, medical manuals and herbals, romances, prayer books, household accounts and legal codes copied patiently onto parchment and preserved in monasteries, universities, noble households and private libraries. Yet medieval Europe also produced another kind of book, one considerably harder to trace. These were works copied quietly, passed between trusted hands, hidden behind respectable bindings, confiscated by authorities, broken apart and reused as scrap, or deliberately concealed because their subjects crossed boundaries that religion, law or social convention preferred to keep firmly closed. Some concerned adultery. Others disguise, forbidden affection, love magic, religious inversion, dealings with the Devil or the less respectable attractions available to travellers far from home. Very few survived intact. Of the seven works traditionally associated with what later collectors called the Forbidden Shelf , only a handful are believed to have survived in anything approaching complete form. Others are represented by scattered leaves, sections incorporated into later bindings, damaged manuscripts, marginal quotations or texts hidden inside outwardly respectable devotional books. That fragmentary survival is precisely what has made them so fascinating. A complete book tells us what somebody wished to preserve. A forbidden fragment may tell us what somebody tried unsuccessfully to erase. I. The Second Door A Practical Guide to Adultery Without Ruin Florence, c. 1328 Among the most notorious works said to have circulated in fourteenth-century Florence was a practical little manuscript known as La Seconda Porta — The Second Door . Later tradition attributed it to Matteo da Vercelli , a minor notary whose working life supposedly involved marriage contracts, dowries, inheritance settlements and petitions arising when respectable marriages became considerably less respectable in private. Whether Matteo actually existed remains uncertain. The author of The Second Door , however, clearly understood households. The book was not a celebration of passion. It was a manual of discretion. Its chapters reportedly discussed the dangers presented by observant servants, recognizable gifts, sudden changes in routine, badly chosen meeting places and, above all, the strange behavior of people attempting too obviously to appear innocent. The author’s central argument was remarkably simple: secrecy depends upon normality. The beginning of an affair should change as little as possible in public. One surviving passage reads: “Amore che vuol celarsi dee prima parer cosa usata. Dopo il primo bacio, salutala come facesti innanzi.” In modern English: Love which wishes to remain hidden must first appear ordinary. After the first kiss, greet her as you did before. Elsewhere the author warned that lovers often betrayed themselves not through affection but through its sudden absence, becoming stiff, excessively formal or unwilling to look at one another after intimacy had begun. The book apparently advised against memorable jewelry, embroidered handkerchiefs and written messages that could be recognized. Servants received particular attention. One chapter argued that maids knew considerably more about the emotional lives of their employers than noble households liked to admit, since they carried clothing, changed bedding, delivered messages and noticed when established habits altered. That observation may explain one of the most amusing details associated with the surviving fragments. During restoration of old choir stalls outside Siena, workers supposedly uncovered a small bundle of vellum leaves hidden behind damaged carved wood. The pages were dirty, worm-eaten and incomplete. Several passages had been scratched through. Alongside the section concerning household servants, however, a later reader had written: “Ha ragione delle serve.” He is right about the maids. No complete copy of The Second Door is known to survive. What remains is a group of damaged leaves, which is perhaps fitting for a book whose entire purpose was to leave as little evidence as possible. II. The Book of Borrowed Garments On Living in the Clothing of Another Sex Paris, c. 1375 Where The Second Door taught readers to conceal relationships, Le Livre des Robes Empruntées — The Book of Borrowed Garments dealt with the concealment and transformation of identity itself. The anonymous French text appears to have discussed women dressing as men, men adopting female presentation, theatrical disguise, travel under assumed identities and cases in which a change of clothing became something more permanent than a temporary deception. The most unusual feature was its practical tone. Rather than treating cross-dressing merely as comedy or moral failure, the author seems to have regarded it as a skill. Clothing, according to the book, was merely the beginning. One passage reads: “L'abit ne deçoit l'oeil qu'une foiz; après convient que maintien, voix et manière facent le demourant.” Or: The garment deceives the eye only once; afterward posture, voice and manner must accomplish the rest. The manuscript reportedly discussed walking, speech, occupation, hairstyles and the small unconscious habits by which social identity was recognized. A woman travelling alone might attract attention. A young male apprentice accompanying merchants might not. The text also contained stories illustrating successful and unsuccessful disguises. One concerned Aveline of Rouen , a woman said to have lived for eleven years as a merchant's apprentice before illness exposed the secret. Another involved a widow who allegedly adopted male clothing while attempting to recover property withheld by her late husband’s relatives. Later ecclesiastical commentary condemned such works for teaching readers to “confound the order visible in clothing and behavior.” Yet condemnation may inadvertently have helped preserve traces of the text. No complete copy survives. Instead, several fragments were supposedly discovered inside the binding of a sixteenth-century legal register, where medieval parchment had been cut apart and reused as structural reinforcement. When conservators dismantled the damaged spine, small painted figures became visible beneath the stitching. The forbidden book had survived because somebody had decided that its pages were worthless. III. The Garden of Willing Hearts Recipes, Charms and Love Magic Prague, c. 1410 Few works associated with the Forbidden Shelf are as visually beautiful as Hortus Cordium Volentium — The Garden of Willing Hearts . Tradition attributes the manuscript to Magdalena of Kutná Hora , described as a midwife and herbal practitioner working in Bohemia during the early fifteenth century. The surviving manuscript initially resembles an ordinary herbal. There are roses, seeds, oils, roots, preparations for sleeplessness and instructions for distilling scented waters. But mixed among practical remedies are other recipes. Knots tied in red thread. Names folded beneath pillows. Wax figures. Apple seeds. Hair preserved in cloth. Water collected beneath particular phases of the moon. Perfumed oils intended not merely to please the senses but to keep one person present in another’s thoughts. A particularly revealing passage advises: “Si illa de te cogitare nolit, noli primum spiritibus credere. Fac ut ubique aliquam memoriam tui inveniat.” In English: If she will not think of you, do not first place your faith in spirits. Arrange instead that everywhere she goes she finds some remembrance of you. That passage captures what makes The Garden of Willing Hearts so intriguing. Some of its “magic” is barely magic at all. The author understood scent, memory, repetition, staged encounters and emotional association. A perfume used repeatedly in another person’s presence might become linked with its wearer. A particular flower might recall a meeting. A gift left where it would repeatedly be discovered might accomplish more than any incantation. The manuscript moves constantly between herbal medicine, folk belief and remarkably shrewd observations about human behavior. Unlike several other works in this collection, The Garden of Willing Hearts survives in a substantial manuscript. Its condition suggests extensive use. Wax has dripped onto several pages. Pressed petals remain near the gutter. Fingerprints and handling grime darken frequently consulted passages. Later owners added recipes and comments in different hands. Beside one preparation involving rose petals, honey and melissa, somebody wrote that it had been tested and worked particularly well for sleep. Whether anyone successfully enchanted a reluctant lover remains considerably harder to establish. IV. The Gospel Reversed The So-Called Upside-Down Bible Northern Italy, c. 1260 Perhaps no manuscript associated with the Forbidden Shelf acquired a more sinister reputation than the work later called Evangelium Inversum — The Gospel Reversed . Popular legend eventually transformed it into an “Upside-Down Bible,” sometimes imagined as a Satanic scripture physically written backward or inverted. The surviving evidence suggests something much more intellectually dangerous. The book appears to have taken familiar religious and moral lessons and reversed their assumptions. The meek are exploited rather than rewarded. Obedience becomes dangerous when authority commands wrongdoing. Servants ask whether following an unjust order absolves them of responsibility. Women question inherited guilt. The structure of religious teaching remains recognizable, but expected conclusions are repeatedly disturbed. One passage reads: “Et dominus dixit servo: Obedi mihi in omnibus. Cui servus respondit: Quis igitur respondebit pro malo quod iussu tuo facio?” In English: And the master said to the servant: Obey me in all things. And the servant replied: Who then will answer for the evil I do at your command? Such a question could be applied far beyond theology. A servant might ask it of a master. A soldier of a commander. A subject of a ruler. That may explain why the manuscript’s reputation became so poisonous. Its danger lay not simply in blasphemy, but in encouraging readers to examine obedience itself. A monastic catalogue traditionally associated with the manuscript contains a wonderfully contradictory entry: “Liber pravus. Non legendus.” A wicked book. Not to be read. Beside the line appears a pointing hand. Somebody had taken enough interest in the forbidden book to catalogue it carefully, assign it a place on the shelf and warn everyone not to open it. The surviving copy is incomplete. Several leaves are missing, possibly removed intentionally. The dark leather cover, thick boards and later-scratched inverted cross probably contributed to its subsequent reputation as a diabolical Bible, although the text itself is better understood as a work of moral inversion and dangerous questioning. It survived because somebody condemned it but did not quite destroy it. V. The Merchant of Ashes A Complete Instruction for Bargaining With the Devil Cologne, c. 1447 Most medieval tales involving the Devil describe temptation, terror or damnation. Mercator Cinerum — The Merchant of Ashes does something considerably stranger. It treats bargaining with the Devil as a problem of contract law. The anonymous author was almost certainly familiar with legal language, because the manuscript is filled with definitions, conditions, witnesses, obligations and arguments about whether agreements can be voided by fraud or coercion. A pact with Hell, in this book, is not merely a spiritual disaster. It is badly regulated commerce. The text asks remarkably specific questions. When exactly does ownership of the soul transfer? What happens if promised wealth is stolen? Must the Devil disclose hidden conditions? May supernatural coercion invalidate consent? Can a human witness testify to a demonic agreement? And most importantly: Never permit the other party to define an important term after the contract has already been accepted. One of the manuscript’s best-known lines reads: “Antiquus est Inimicus, non tamen melior advocatus. Fac eum verba sua definire.” The Enemy is ancient, but not necessarily the better advocate. Make him define his words. An accompanying illumination shows a clerk or learned man seated opposite a horned figure across a table, each apparently disputing a written document. The image is almost comic. The subject is not. The book repeatedly warns that the Devil should never be permitted to choose the place of collection, provide payment whose lawful origin cannot be explained, or use ambiguous language regarding the moment at which a promised soul becomes his property. The surviving manuscript is badly scorched along one edge. An ecclesiastical seizure document found with it suggests that the book was confiscated for examination rather than immediately destroyed. Inserted into the manuscript is an extraordinary little warning: “Ad refutationem tantum legatur.” Let it be read only for the purpose of refutation. It is difficult to imagine a more convenient justification for keeping a forbidden book. The manuscript could therefore be condemned, preserved, studied—and presumably enjoyed—without its custodian admitting curiosity. Of all the surviving books on the Forbidden Shelf, The Merchant of Ashes carries perhaps the clearest physical evidence of how close one manuscript came to disappearing entirely. Someone began burning it. Someone else stopped. VI. The Lantern Traveller Where to Sleep, Drink, Gamble and Find Company on the Roads of Europe Venice, c. 1392 The most practical book in the collection may also be the most entertaining. El Viandante de la Lanterna — The Lantern Traveller was a pocket-sized guide supposedly compiled for merchants, sailors, messengers, diplomats and pilgrims whose interests while travelling extended somewhat beyond churches and holy relics. It reviewed inns. Taverns. Bathhouses. Gambling rooms. Entertainment houses. And establishments offering discreet companionship. The surviving copy is tiny enough to have been carried inside a cloak or satchel. Its soft leather corners are rounded from constant handling, and folded route maps remain tucked between several pages. Rain marks, grease stains and damaged edges suggest that this was not a library book. It travelled. The author’s opinions are wonderfully concise. Firenze “Camere nette, dadi falsi, vino bon.” Clean rooms, dishonest dice, good wine. Parigi “Le insegne promettono assai più che li letti.” The signs promise considerably more than the beds. Vinegia “Domanda al barcarolo ove li uomini dabbene non vanno.” Ask the boatman where respectable men do not go. Beside the entries appear tiny pictorial marks representing lodging, wine, gambling and companionship. Other marks seem to function almost as ratings. A traveller unfamiliar with a city could therefore determine very quickly whether an establishment offered a clean bed, decent wine, dishonest gambling or considerably more interesting company. Authorities disliked the book for an obvious reason. It made vice convenient. The surviving copy is made even more appealing by annotations from a later owner. Several cities are crossed out as though already visited. Routes have been marked in red. Warnings have been underlined. Beside one recommendation appears: “Non val lo desviamento.” Not worth the detour. Beside another: “L'autore dice vero.” The author tells the truth. And beside a warning about thieves: “Fosse stato utile ieri.” Would have been useful yesterday. Few medieval objects feel quite so inhabited. Whatever else may be uncertain about The Lantern Traveller , its imagined owner emerges from the margins as someone tired, amused, frequently disappointed and apparently robbed at least once. VII. The Lady’s Private Companion On Attendance, Affection and the Secret Duties of Women at Court Burgundy, c. 1425 The most discreet volume on the Forbidden Shelf may also have been the easiest to mistake for something entirely innocent. Le Livre de la Compagne Privée — The Book of the Private Companion presents itself as a handbook for women serving noblewomen in wealthy households. Later tradition attributed it to Isabeau de Montreuil , supposedly a former lady-in-waiting who served in several Burgundian households before withdrawing from court life. Its opening sections are entirely respectable. How to arrange a lady’s hair. How to assist with dressing. How to prepare a bedchamber. How to behave while helping with bathing. How to manage perfumes, jewelry and clothing. How to remain discreet when a mistress quarrels with her husband or confides something that servants are not expected to repeat. Gradually, however, the subject changes. The book begins discussing attachment between women. Not scandal in the abstract, but affection developing between noblewomen and the women who attended them in the intensely private world of the bedchamber. The anonymous author—or Isabeau, if tradition is correct—does not condemn such relationships. Instead, she advises caution. One passage reads: “Quant elle te retient après que les autres dames sont parties, ne prens point trop tost hardiesse. Compagnie vient avant affection, et affection avant plus grand secret.” In modern English: When she keeps you after the other ladies have gone, do not presume too quickly upon the privilege. Companionship comes before affection, and affection before the greater secret. Other passages reportedly warn attendants never to assume that kindness is an invitation, and never to use knowledge of a mistress’s private feelings as leverage. One chapter distinguishes affection freely given from obedience demanded by rank. Another discusses jealousy between women of the household. Another warns that husbands who ignored their wives’ emotional lives often understood less about their own households than the women sleeping only a few chambers away. The scandal of the book was therefore not simply that it acknowledged intimacy between women. It treated that intimacy as something women themselves could understand, negotiate and discuss without requiring male explanation. That made it dangerous in an entirely different way. The surviving manuscript was supposedly not discovered on a forbidden shelf at all. It was hidden inside a respectable Book of Hours . During restoration, conservators opened the back board and discovered a smaller manuscript ingeniously sewn into the binding. The outer book contained prayers to the Virgin. The hidden book concerned the private emotional world of women at court. Several leaves contain later feminine marginal annotations. Beside one passage: “Vera.” True. Beside another: “Non semper.” Not always. And beside a section concerning jealousy: “Hic erravi.” Here I erred. One tiny illumination shows two women holding hands behind a curtain. There is no accusation. No priest describing them. No court official recording a confession. No hostile chronicler explaining what women supposedly did. Instead there is something far rarer: women leaving comments inside a book intended for other women. Of all the manuscripts associated with the Forbidden Shelf, Le Livre de la Compagne Privée may therefore preserve the most intimate kind of forbidden history—not because its readers shouted their secrets, but because they expected those secrets to remain safely inside the binding. What Actually Survived? The seven books of the Forbidden Shelf did not reach the modern world in equal condition. The Second Door survives only as damaged leaves allegedly recovered from behind a choir stall. The Book of Borrowed Garments survives in fragments reused as reinforcement inside a later legal binding. The Garden of Willing Hearts survives in one substantial and heavily used manuscript. The Gospel Reversed survives as an incomplete codex with missing leaves. The Merchant of Ashes survives in a badly scorched but substantial manuscript apparently preserved after ecclesiastical confiscation. The Lantern Traveller survives in a battered personal copy containing later route markings and annotations. And The Lady’s Private Companion survives because somebody concealed a smaller manuscript inside a respectable devotional book. That pattern of survival is significant. Forbidden literature rarely survives because institutions carefully protect it. Sometimes it survives because somebody hides it. Sometimes because somebody reuses it. Sometimes because an official keeps it “for study.” Sometimes because a reader cannot quite bring herself to throw it away. And sometimes because the most dangerous place to hide an improper book is inside a perfectly proper one. The Library in Shadow Taken together, these seven works describe a medieval world strikingly different from the one presented by official chronicles and devotional literature. People cheated on spouses and worried about servants discovering them. Women changed clothes and identities to travel through spaces normally closed to them. Herbal remedies blended seamlessly into love magic. Readers questioned whether obedience excused wrongdoing. Someone imagined negotiating contractual terms with the Devil. Travellers compared taverns, gambling houses and establishments offering companionship. And women living inside aristocratic households formed intimate relationships that official records rarely bothered to describe unless something went wrong. The Forbidden Shelf therefore does not represent a separate medieval world. It represents the same world viewed from behind the respectable façade. A prayer book might conceal another manuscript. A legal register might contain fragments of an earlier forbidden text in its binding. A monastery might catalogue a dangerous book beneath the instruction “Do not read.” A confiscated volume might survive because the man assigned to destroy it decided first that it should be examined more carefully. And a traveller might leave behind the most human historical annotation imaginable: Would have been useful yesterday. Perhaps that is why forbidden books remain so compelling. A respectable manuscript tells us what a society wished people to remember. A forbidden manuscript tells us what somebody feared people might discover. Historical Note The books, authors, manuscripts, quotations, discoveries and specific events described in this article are works of imagination. They are inspired by medieval manuscript culture, historical censorship, bookbinding and preservation practices, folklore, household life, travel literature, herbal traditions and the many ways old texts have survived through reuse, concealment and chance. This is an imagined history—not an account of actual surviving medieval books.