Review of "The Dumas Club"...

Note: this article has now moved to review-of-the-dumas-club on Cipher Mysteries

If (like me) you enjoyed Roman Polanski's film "The Ninth Gate" (I happened to see it in a hotel room in New Haven, giving it a particular resonance for me) which I mentioned recently, you might think about reading the novel from which it sprang, Arturo Perez-Reverte's "The Dumas Club".

Its main protagonist, Lucas Corso, gets described early on as a "book detective": but he is closer to the romantic archetype of a charmingly ruthless European antiquarian book-hunter for which Wilfrid Voynich and Hans Kraus both felt nostalgic. Whenever short-sighted, boyish-looking Corso takes off his glasses and puts on his "innocent rabbit" face, everyone seems to give him what he wants: perhaps Wilfrid Voynich used much the same kind of trick, who knows?

But it's not simply a cherchez-la-livre romance: there are two stories intertwined, one concerning various Spanish book-dealers' passions for Alexander Dumas' pulpy (but vastly popular) bestsellers such as "The Three Musketeers"; and the other about the three remaining copies of a mysterious 17th century printed book for summoning the Devil, written in heavily abbreviated/coded Latin and with nine Tarot-like drawings, and whose printer (Aristide Torchia) was supposedly burned at the stake for creating it.

Structurally, this reminds me a lot of the TV show "CSI" (the proper Las Vegas one), which typically fills its hour-long slot by telling two forensic detective stories (each roughly half-hour long), and leaving it as a point of suspense whether the two strands are connected or not. Lucas Corso struggles gamely to see the link, but ultimately none materialises in the way that he expects. Despite the reader's (and Corso's) sense of a buzzing conspiratorial coherency in the early few chapters, the book actually ends up more like two intertwined extended short stories (one horror, one literary) than a single majestic novel, which is a shame.

For the film adaptation, Polanski simply ditched the whole Dumas connection, and instead concentrated on the "Book of Nine Gates" half of the book - essentially, whereas he optioned "The Dumas Club", he actually filmed "The Non-Dumas Club".

Yet the first hundred pages are simply brilliant, inspiring, edgy, like peering anxiously through Montecristo cigar fug to make out the looming shape of an unknown menace. But then Perez-Reverte (quite literally) loses the plot: the writing disintegrates into a mess of intertextuality and clunky self-referentiality, with the novelist having Corso continually feel as if he is a character in a serial novel - essentially, in a remake of a Dumas novel. Whether that's true or not, having it rammed down my, errrm, eyes so many times completely broke the spell.

One glaringly missed opportunity throughout is the aspect of whether the unidentified young girl (who takes the name "Irene Adler" from a Sherlock Holmes novel) actually exists, or is merely some kind of strange hallucinatory being, conjured up by Corso himself: a kind of "Dumas Club" meets "Fight Club", if you like. Kudos to Polanski for picking up this angle more strongly in his film. Perhaps she had to physically exist in the book as a result of Perez-Reverte's (I think wrong) decision to have to have one of the characters (Boris Balkan) as the storyteller. And so in the book, Irene's ambiguity centres not on whether or not she exists outside Corso' mind, but on whether for him she acts as a force for good or evil - an angel, succubus or demon.

All in all, I have to say that I really wish Perez-Reverte had found sufficient writing courage to take the horror through to its logical conclusion, rather than pull up short at the final hurdle. Though Polanski's literary take on the novel was (perhaps necessarily) quite superficial, his filmic instinct to raise the stakes yet higher than the book worked fabulously well.

For the full literary effect, I'd recommend reading "The Three Musketeers" first, then "Twenty Years After", then "The Dumas Club", and then watching "The Ninth Gate" late at night, with the curtains drawn, and a bottle of Bols gin by your side. Enjoy!

Incidentally, looking at the book with my Voynich research hat on, it was nice to see Perez-Reverte pick up on things like "The art of locking devils inside bottles or books is very ancient... Gervase of Tilbury and Gerson both mentioned it in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries" (p.202), and to have Torchia trawling around Prague for the cabalistic secrets of an unknown brotherhood (p.203). The uber-convoluted magic circle in the final chapter (p.312) is quite fun, too.

Of the three magic circles in the Voynich Manuscript, it is interesting that both sun and moon ones depict people holding bottles: here's the left man from the "hidden moon" magic circle - the "S" in his face probably denotes "Septentrio" (i.e. North). I'll write more about these another day: here's a link to an earlier post I made on William Kiesel's lecture at Treadwell's. Suffice it to say that this picture might simply refer to water and hyssop, both used to purify magic circles for millennia... unless you know better?

Voynich magic circles (Part 1)...

I'm just collecting my thoughts after an exhilarating lecture by William Kiesel (the publisher and editor of Ouroboros Press) on magic circles at Treadwell's in Covent Garden (Christina's post-lecture blog entry is here). William presented a long series of images of magic circles (manuscripts diagrams, woodcuts, paintings, etc) from the Middle Ages right through to the 19th century, including many of John Dee's strange diagrams.

Voynich Manuscript, page f57v (the 'magic circle' page)

The reason I've been trying to find out about magic circles for years is because, as you can see above, page f57v in the Voynich Manuscript apparently contains one. Or (more precisely), whatever f57v actually contains, it seems on the surface to follow the constructional rules and layout of genuine magic circles. However, this is hard to research because the topic of magic circles has attracted relatively little academic interest over the years, Richard Kieckhefer's (1997) Forbidden Rites (an in-depth study of a 15th century necromancer's manual) being one of the few honourable exceptions. Which is why I was so excited about the lecture.

Having said that, there are many things about f57v that cast doubts on its 'magic circle-itude'. For example, I could find no other magic circle with the directional spirits given faces rather than simply named: depictions in every other magic circle I had seen were instead abstract diagrammatic renderings (swords, pentacles, rings, sigils, etc), and names of the directions (to help orient the circle, the first thing any proper necromancer would want to do). But even more brutally: when magic circles are all about the power of names, why ever would someone want to replace them with images?

And so... after the lecture, I asked William for his thoughts on f57v (which, delightfully, he had looked at before). As far as the directional faces go, he agreed that this was pretty much a unique feature: though a tiny number of magic circles he had seen do have sigils shaped to broadly resemble faces, that would seem to be a completely different strand of development to that which we see in the VMs. Overall, even though he did note that it was intriguing thatthe postures of the four "people" on f57v were all different, the main impression the page left him with was that each of the four faces faced in a different direction (though he didn't know what that meant).

On the train home, I sat there wondering what this might have caused this, letting all the various aspects swirl around me (though, no, I didn't have any of Treadwell's wine that night). And then all the bits clunked into place, with that sound very familiar to any Simpsons fan: "d'oh!"

I should explain. Perhaps the biggest trap Voynichologists fall into is that of overthinking issues: when many complex explanations for a given phenomenon exist, sometimes simple ones gets overlooked, or (worse) rejected for appearing too simple. And the simplest explanation here is that, because almost every magic circle has the directions of the compass written on it, that would be both the first thing you would want to keep and the first thing you would want to hide. And so it seems highly likely to me that the four faces on f57v code for N/E/S/W. In short, I think that (like the VMs' "Naked Lady Code" I described in my book) the four faces employ a misleadingly elaborate way of enciphering something very simple - the compass directions. But which is which - and how - and why?

• The left figure is facing forward-left
• The top figure is facing backward-right
• The right figure is facing forward-right (and holding a ring / egg)
• The bottom figure is facing backward-left

But how do these four map onto N/S/E/W? The first thing to notice is that magic circles are very often written in Latin, with the four points written Oriens [E], Meridies [S], Occidens [W], Septentrio [N]: and so an encipherer would only need to hide one in order to hide them all.

While I don't know for sure... I do predict that the nose and eyebrow of the left figure's face was elaborated around an "S" to denote "Septentrio" [i.e. North]: and that the only useful information is that a ring (as rings are far more common than eggs in magic circles, The Black Pullet notwithstanding) should be placed opposite it [i.e. South]. The flower-like shape at the centre is probably an elaborated shape around the central o-shapes, which probably denote locus magistri, the place where the exorcist / conjuror / master of the magic circle should stand. Finally: might the heavily-drawn straight line on the shoulder of the ring-carrying person denote a sword? Very possibly.

Voynich Manuscript, page f57v - four central figures

This doesn't answer every question about f57v (how could it?): but it does give a good snapshot of my current thoughts on how (beneath all the deception) it is actually a magic circle (though perhaps not as complex a magic circle as you might initially think).

Part 2 will move on to the VMs' other magic circles...

Dots for vowels, revisited...

One very early cipher involved replacing the vowels with dots. In his "Codes and Ciphers" (1939/1949) p.15, Alexander d'Agapeyeff asserts that this was a "Benedictine tradition", in that the Benedictine order of monks (of which Trithemius was later an Abbot) had long used it as a cipher. The first direct mention we have of it was in a ninth century Benedictine "Treatise of Diplomacy", where it worked like this:-

• i = .
• a = :
• e = :.
• o = ::
• u = ::.

"R:.:lly", you might well say, "wh:t : l:::d ::f b::ll::cks" (and you'd be r.ght, ::f c::::.rs:.). But for all its uselessness, this was a very long-lived idea: David Kahn's "The Codebreakers" (1967) [the 1164-page version, of course!] mentions the earlier St Boniface taking a dots-for-vowels system from England over to Germany in the eighth century (p.89), a "faint political cryptography" in Venice circa 1226, where the vowels in a few documents were replaced by "dots or crosses" (p.106), as well as vowels being enciphered in 1363 by the Archbishop of Naples, Pietro di Grazie (p.106).

However, perhaps the best story on the dots-for-vowels cipher comes from Lynn Thorndike, in his "History of Magic & Experimental Science" Volume III, pp.24-26. In 1320, a Milanese cleric called Bartholomew Canholati told the papal court at Avignon that Matteo Visconti's underlings had asked him to suffumigate a silver human statuette engraved with "Jacobus Papa Johannes" (the name of the Pope), as well as the sigil for Saturn and "the name of the spirit Amaymom" (he refused). He was then asked for some zuccum de napello (aconite), the most common poison in the Middle Ages (he refused). He was then asked to decipher some "'experiments for love and hate, and discovering thefts and the like', which were written without vowels which had been replaced by points" (he again refused). The pope thought it unwise to rely on a single witness, and sent Bartholomew back to Milan; the Viscontis claimed it was all a misunderstanding (though they tortured the cleric for a while, just to be sure); all in all, nobody comes out of the whole farrago smelling of roses.

(Incidentally, the only citation I could find on this was from 1972, when William R. Jones wrote an article on "Political Uses of Sorcery in Medieval Europe" in The Historian: clearly, this has well and truly fallen out of historical fashion.)

All of which I perhaps should have included in Chapter 12 of "The Curse of the Voynich", where I predicted that various "c / cc / ccc / cccc" patterns in Voynichese are used to cipher the plaintext vowels. After all, this would be little more than a steganographically-obscured version of the same dots-for-vowels cipher that had been in use for more than half a millennium.

As another aside, I once mentioned Amaymon as one of the four possible compass spirits on the Voynich manuscript f57v (on p.124 of my book) magic circle: on p.169 of Richard Kieckhefer's "Magic in the Middle Ages", he mentions Cecco d'Ascoli as having used N = Paymon, E = Oriens, S = Egim, and W = Amaymen (which is often written Amaymon). May not be relevant, but I thought I'd mention it, especially seeing as there's the talk on magic circles at Treadwell's next month (which I'm still looking forward to).

Finally, here's a picture of Voynichese text with some annotations of how I think it is divided up into tokens. My predictions: vowels are red, verbose pairs (which encipher a single token) are green, numbers are blue, characters or marks which are unexpected or improvised (such as the arch over the '4o' pair at bottom left, which I guess denotes a contraction between two adjacent pairs) are purple. Make of it all what you will!