Holy Moly
Summer is closing in Geneva in a blaze of glory. Saturday was a day so sunny and friendly it felt like eternal happiness. The Husband (what I married) wanted to work on a presentation he’s giving on Monday. He loves his job that much. So we had agreed to split the day in his favour. Working morning. Working evening. Swimming in the river for the rest.
Oh yeah, and a last minute re-negotiation to walk through Geneva’s large Plainpalais markets.
Since our girly friend Dan left (taking with him his endless ability to sift through boxes of other people’s rejects) it’s just been me and Pam. (Know this, Dan, you are missed.)
But since the morning had been given to work, I was able to stiff arm the Husband into following me through this Labyrinth of Crap. He wasn’t happy about it, but he managed to maintain a liberal distance: not so close that it would seem like he was frog-marching me through the place, not so far that he couldn’t hear when I asked, “Isn’t that darling, darling?”
20 minutes or so and we were nearly out without a purchase, when in the sun I saw a framed parchment.
In the sun.
It’s yellowing paper and illuminated letters wilting under the direct gaze of photons arriving at high speed from 92 million miles away and splatting kapow kapow kapow onto its little face.
Scott didn’t hear me ask, “How much?”
“35,” said the enormous Romanian.
I showed him my money, “I have 20.”
“25.” It was the end of the day, and he was already packing a clock and a cow onto the back of a low-loader.
“This is what I have,” I replied, holding the red twenty steady.
He snatched it off me and waved me off. Annoyed. It had obviously been a slow day. Cool. Nice picture for 20 francs.
“Oh Sheridan!,” said husband when he saw the frame under my arm, “we don’t need any more crap.”
“That’s true,” I replied, “but it was out in the sun.”
The husband wouldn’t carry it. Wouldn’t look at it. We went for a swim and returned home for our contractually agreed evening of work. Him downstairs at the desk by the windows — the red rooftops of Geneva jutting their way to the lake. Me upstairs, under the afternoon sun streaming through the sky-light.
I took the single, double-sided page out out of its frame.
It was yellowed with age, and buckling with humidity. Small black dots looked like the start of mould, or the plague. The lettering was rusty brown with age. But the colours on the letters were vivid. There were bright pencil marks where lines had been ruled. And fine rubbing out around the illuminated C.
Also, there were swirls in the paper which suggested the patterns of animal skin. So maybe it’s vellum.
There were also a couple of enigmatic ‘Dan Brown’ holes in the paper, as though you could put it over another book — and discover secret words.
The paper generally had the look I tried to achieve when I was about 10, and wanted to create a treasure map. It was buckled and browned around the edges. But there was one thing that didn’t look ancient — the page was regular, as though it had been machine cut — like it was modern, and had been taken from a book or folio.
Going on-line, I found a number of museum items that looked similar:
And discovered that it’s sheet music. For chanting. So how old is it? What does it say? What does it sound like?
On-line, I found a website that was (effectively) how to read a manuscript. And this one — how to read the Aeneid
Following their advice about short cuts and abbreviations, I typed out what the document said, and tried to read it:
[Valeri]anum ad coronas vocabat prae dominus aut. Expansisma
mausorabat ad dominus urcam emperet domini
ar prae celienar aut. Cilicio Cecila menbra domabat
Deum gemitibus exorabat prae Dominus est Rex
Instantibus orga misericordia Cecilia
Cuir go incoz te shi o folido
mimo tecanta bat du censsiat domi
necosme um et cos pusme um inmacu[lat]
peri principatuz o Martine dutecco medicam
tuz et medice o sanctissima anuma quaz si gladi
us perfecutoris non abitulit palmaz tamen mar-
tyr non amisit [prae mag]
[RED] INFOSTO SCE CECILIE, AD MAGRANT
(Blue) Est secretum
Valeriane quod tibi volo dicere angelum
Dei habeo amatorem qui nimio zelo custodit
cospus meum. onag [Red] G eci ua ur
go almachum exuperabat Tyburtiium et Valeri[ane]
I then fed that into Google.translate —
— and Yeah. No. That didn’t work. Some crazy shit about “the crowns of an anus” and “God as a jealous lover…”
Sounds like something you’d find of 4Chan.
Maybe social media holds the answers. Maybe there are other souls in the interverse making hobbies from thin air.
I posted the photos on Facebook.
I posted the photos on Reddit, in a sub-Reddit called What Is This Thing?
You can read the thread yourself, or here’s a summary of what the hive-mind told me
vorpalbladerunner:
That style of musical notation is called “neumes” This is a guide if you want to transpose it http://lphrc.org/Chant/ That guide talks about a c clef designating do (tonic in the key), but yours uses a red line instead, which is not uncommon.
This likely isn’t “authentic”, as in from the earliest eras of music notation, but instead from a later revival of the style. Even so it could easily be over 100 years old.
Source: am a music teacher, studied in a conservatory.
I wanted to know more — When was the later revival of the style? Could it be contemporary.
vorpalbladerunner:
The staff like this (the 4 lines) started showing up around 1200, an order of Benedictine monks revived the system, standardized it, and published a number of old chants sometime around the 1850s. I’m not an expert in the field, but it seems much more likely to me that you found a page from a 160 year old published book than a hand crafted one of piece from 800 years ago.
A friend over on Facebook told me that it was from The Feast of St Cecilia and offered to sing a few bars… so I updated the folks on Reddit who added
fabiolafan
Parts of the proper texts are for use in the Divine Office. I can make out the antiphon for the Magnificat of Vespers and a hymn for Matins. These exact texts are still used by Catholics.
Source: Do praying.
invisibo even added a link to the music
Here is a version of the chant (starting at the big ol’ C in the middle of the page). This is not verbatim what’s on your page though.
Click through the link and listen. It’s very pretty. But we still didn’t know what it said. So I tried posting it over on another sub-reddit that specialises in translations:
Craigius offered this translation:
“The little bits between the sections are obscure to me, but appear to be instructions for when these are to be sung (at matins, and so on). ‘… the empire’s reign. O Martin, sweetness, the medicine and the doctor. O most holy soul, which though the persecutor’s sword did take away, yet did not lose the martyr’s honour.’
Continued on the other page: ‘As the instruments played, the maiden Cecilia sang in her heart to the lord alone, saying: “may my heart and my body be made spotless… “
Meanwhile the husband had got into the act — he found a website with almost exactly the same hymn for sale, with this beautiful translation:
From the illuminated ‘’E’’: “Est secretum…” (There is a secret, Valerian, which I wish to tell thee. I have an Angel of God for a lover, who guards my body with great jealousy).
The illuminated “C” begins: ‘’Cecilia virgo…’’ (The Maiden Cecilia overcame Almachius, and called Tiburtius and Valerian to crowns).
The illuminated ‘’E’’ begins: ‘’Expansis…’’ (She spread forth her hands and prayed unto the Lord, that He would deliver her from her enemies).
Fantastic! But what about the date? The paper seemed to be one of the biggest stumbling block. It felt like animal vellum, but it could be cotton — and either way, that’s still made today.
TheShandyMan on Reddit said…
Paper can be artificially aged with nothing more than some milk, and a hair dryer. Or lemon juice, or a dozen other ways; some more difficult to detect than others.
Black ink was commonly made with iron gall up until even the mid 1900’s; this is why old writing turns brownish — it “rusts”; or worse it actually erodes the paper it’s on given that it’s also fairly acidic. It’s also still readily available for use as there are dedicated fans of older printing methods.
Your example however doesn’t appear to exhibit this; rather the color change appears to me to be an issue of ink quantity. That is to say certain areas didn’t get enough ink and are thin.
We got to a point where the Redditterati were suggesting I check the paper under a microscope. I joked to The Husband, “First get your microscope,” and it turned out he had one.
A 3D printed jobbie — that we didn’t really understand how to work — but that we used and took these photos.
I don’t know what they prove — other than the internet (and Genevoise flea markets) are a marvellous place to spend the weekend.
Update: I took the manuscript to the local library in Geneva, but they explained that they lent books and manuscripts — weren’t experts on them. So I then took it to the local Christie’s auction house, where they were very welcoming. (Go Christie’s.) The woman there couldn’t authenticate it for me, but took photos and sent them to Paris for an opinion.
She thought the red detail on the Blue E was a signature — a lion — and might help identify the artist. (To see it, you tilt your head left so the tail is on the right.)
Update 2: So then next day I went to the library for the Conservatoire de Musique housed in the Grutli theatre. There, the librarian recommended I visit a paper restorer called Mme Francoise Netz.
Mme Netz is on the eve of her retirement. Her office was full of books and papers piled high ready to be moved. An old-fashioned hand press was to one side. The conversation was conducted in French — not my strong point, so if I’m wobbly on the finer points — that’s my fault, not hers.
The upshot of our conversations: She says it’s vellum, antique, and in very good condition. She said the ‘mould’ was not fungus, but a natural part of the animal skin.
She thought it probably dated from the Reformation (a big deal here in Calvin’s adopted home of Geneva) when illuminated Bibles and Hymnals were taken apart and repurposed. She said a collector had asked her to restore a bible with pages like this one that had been repurposed as book covers.
This page is in excellent, and original condition. She said that clean pages where usually reproductions.
She pointed to the number as being the page of a hymnal. And mimed how the book would have been opened to sing from, and how the page had been cut from the book with a blade.
By that reasoning, the page itself would be older the Reformation, which happened in Geneva from 1519 onward.
She gave me a proper cardboard carrier for it, and said to keep it out of the light, and away from the heater. She said it would be best framed in double sided glass, with bolts attached to lift it off the wall.
Update 3: So Christies just got back to me. “Our Books and manuscripts department in Paris informed us that the value of the leaf from a decorated antiphonal on vellum, northern Italy, mid-15th century would be around €400–600.”
Tee hee: Their italics — not mine.
You know what else was happening in northern Italy around 1450? Just the Renaissance. My husband has asked me to buy him a marzipan hat.
