We did not confine ourselves to Vercelli during the spring school. On Tuesday, our steps carried us southward to Pavia, where the solemn stones of the Basilica of San Michele Maggiore rose before us. Unlike monuments well-documented online, this church keeps its treasures quietly within. Much of what follows was not drawn from books or articles, but from the living voice of Marco, our guide, who unveiled stories and details otherwise hidden to passing eyes.
Lombard Romanesque ( 568 – 774 AD ) The earliest phase of Romanesque architecture, often termed First Romanesque or Lombard Romanesque, emerged in northern Italy, parts of France, and the Iberian Peninsula during the 10th and 11th centuries. Characterized by its thick masonry walls, lack of elaborate sculptural decoration, and the rhythmic use of Lombard bands (decorative blind arches), this style contrasts with the more refined Romanesque forms that developed later. First Romanesque buildings typically employed roughly cut stonework, small, narrow windows, and unvaulted wooden roofs supported by simple truss, tie-beam, or king-post systems.
Although stone or brick vaults were experimented with during this period, their forms remained relatively rudimentary. These early structural solutions laid the groundwork for later innovations, eventually leading to the development of the pointed ribbed vaults that became defining features of Gothic architecture.
Brief history of San Michele Maggiore Church 662–671: The church was built at the desire of King Grimoald, dedicated to St. Michael, on the site of the Lombard Palace chapel.
1004: Destroyed by fire; only the lower part of the bell tower remains.
Early 11th c.–1130: Reconstruction.
1155: Frederick Barbarossa was crowned with the Iron Crown of the King of Italy in the Basilica of San Michele Maggiore in Pavia. As Holy Roman Emperor, he received this symbolic coronation at the church.
1489: Redesign of the vault by master architect Agostino de Candia, changing two grossly squared groin-vaulted spans into four rectangular spans; the structure was created by his father, Iacopo da Candia, a renowned master mason from Pavia.
1968: Precious silver artifacts of Ostrogothic manufacture were found beneath a tomb dated between the 11th and 12th centuries; these are now preserved in the Pavia Civic Museums.
Important spots in the church The basilica is not just a relic of the past. It is a living monument that preserves layers of history.
Royal coronations: Several monarchs were crowned here, most famously Frederick Barbarossa in 1155, giving the church enduring political and symbolic importance.
Art beneath your feet: The altar floor features marble inlays representing the months of the year, a striking medieval attempt to bind the cycles of time to the sacred liturgy.
Romanesque atmosphere: Visitors can still sense the architectural austerity of Lombard Romanesque in its heavy walls, blind arches, and relatively unadorned interior, which together convey both strength and solemnity.
San Michele Maggiore embodies the essence of Lombard Romanesque architecture: robust, rhythmic, and foundational for the developments that would follow. From its role as the setting of royal coronations to its architectural experiments that paved the way for Gothic grandeur, the basilica stands as both a cultural treasure and a gateway into the medieval imagination.
In the summer of 2023, Göttingen University hosted a 12-day summer school program dedicated to the study of digital paleography. This intensive program delved into various paleographical topics, offering participants a comprehensive exploration of Latin manuscript scripts from the medieval.
The curriculum was thoughtfully structured, with morning sessions focused on the history and transcription of Latin scripts, and afternoon sessions introducing participants to cutting-edge digital methodologies and tools. These included fragmentology, codicology, editing, cataloging, TEI-XML, and advanced imaging techniques such as hyper- and multispectral imaging.
The summer school provided a unique opportunity for participants to engage deeply with leading experts and professionals in the field, acquiring the latest knowledge and innovative approaches to the study of paleography.
Most of the sessions took place at the Digital Humanities department, where a typical day began with instructional lectures followed by hands-on exercises or samples for practice. This format ensured that the knowledge we learn was directly applicable to our research, aligning perfectly with the overarching goal of the program: to equip us with practical skills and insights that we could integrate into our academic work.
Dr. Dorofeeva, the head of paleography, led many of the sessions, guiding us through the major scripts to provide a condensed yet thorough overview of paleographical study. Her teaching style was highly interactive and we had a lot of chances to pose questions and to discuss several interesting topics. In afternoon sessions at the university library, she guided us in selecting specific scripts for individual research projects. In line with the program’s focus on digitalizing this discipline, we were encouraged to use digital tools to document and enrich the archival information of the manuscripts we studied.
Ms. Kipke, an expert in image science, delivered a captivating lecture on digital approaches to image analysis. Her research, which involves intricate details and complex methodologies, was nothing short of fascinating, and her presentation was exceptionally informative.
One of the highlights of the program was a session at the Göttingen University Library with Professor Winfried Rudolf. He gave an insightful lecture on insular scripts and granted us the rare opportunity to examine a writing sample from the university’s collection up close.
Overall, the summer school was an incredible experience, offering invaluable learning opportunities from top experts in the field. It was an excellent opportunity to acquire knowledge and skills that will undoubtedly enhance my research and further my studies in paleography.
The Certosa has two origin stories. One of them follows the narrative that the Certosa was a selfless and devout gift from the first Duke of Milan, Gian Galeazzo Visconti, to his deeply religious wife Caterina Visconti. This story claims that the Duke’s second wife Caterina had been advised by a servant of God, monk Stefano Macone, to build a charterhouse in the area where the Certosa now stands. And because the duke was known for his kindness he ordered the Certosa to be built at the bequest of Caterina, at the turn of the fifteenth century. Though a romantic and pious origin story, it doesn’t hold up when we look at the character and actions of the first Duke of Milan: Gian Galeazzo Visconti.
In reality duke Gian Galeazzo Visconti was an incredibly ambitious man, who would use ruthless force to see his dreams come true. Upon the death of his father, Galeazzo II Visconti in 1378, Gian Galeazzo became lord of Pavia and quickly started expanding his realm both through conquest and through diplomacy. One of these instances of insatiable conquest comes in the form of Gian Galeazzo betraying his own family by marriage in order to consolidate his rule. On 6 May 1385, Gian Galeazzo Visconti went on a supposedly innocent mission of pilgrimage to Milan with the intention of meeting Caterina Visconti’s father, as well as his uncle Bernabò Visconti, who welcomed Gian Galazzo to his home in Milan. However, the true intention of this pilgrimage was to usurp the holdings of Bernabò and imprison him and his relatives. This coup d’état was what eventually led to him assuming the title “Duke of Milan” and acquiring the power and wealth to build the Certosa di Pavia. But through his actions we can see that the piety and the close familial connections of Gian Galeazzo weren’t the reasons for his desire to build the Certosa in the first place. It was most likely the strategic location of the Certosa that convinced him, since it would act as a mid-way point between the two influential cities of Pavia and Milan. Another reason may well have been a sense of prestige upon undertaking and funding such an ambitious and influential project.
A decade after Gian Galeazzo’s coup d’état, the project of building the Certosa was entrusted to Bernardo da Venezia. Because he was undertaking the project of building the Duomo di Milano at the same time, a sort of competition developed between the two major religious buildings. The construction of the Certosa started out with the laying of the first slab, which was an important event not only because it marked the birth of the Certosa, but also because it assembled the people who attended the event and who laid the first pieces. The laying of the first foundation stone on 27 August 1396 was attended by the most important individuals in the Duchy of Milan. This list included members of the nobility, the Bishop of Pavia, who consecrated the event, notables from the other Italian duchies, members of the recently founded University of Pavia, and the duke of Milan himself – Gian Galeazzo Visconti – who placed the first slab. This scene is immortalized within the Certosa’s church portal.
The plans of how the Certosa was to be built depended on the religious order that was going to run the monastery. The monastery was to be a charterhouse, according to the Carthusian model. This meant that the Certosa was to be built with two cloisters, one larger (great cloister), and one smaller (small cloister), with cells surrounding the cloister(s) where the Carthusian monks lived. But since the Certosa also acted as a place of residence for the duke, a ducal palace was incorporated into the complex, together with a large church.
Though work on the Certosa had begun and continued for multiple years, the building progress was disappointingly slow. By comparison, the rival project of the Duomo di Milano had already been erected as a recognizable structure, while the Certosa’s foundation was still being placed. At the same time, the Carthusian monks were either forced to live in a bare cloister, or to move to other locations to continue their cloistered practices.
The construction of the Certosa came to a sudden halt when Duke Gian Galeazzo Visconti died in 1402 and funding for the project died with him. It was only in 1412, when Gian Galeazzo’s successor Filippo Maria Visconti came to power, that new funding enabled the construction to recommence, this time under architect Giovanni Solari who, like his predecessors, also helped build the Duomo di Milano. It was during the reign of Filippo Maria that much of the Certosa was built: the refectory, library, small cloister, and vestibule were mostly or fully completed and furnished at this time.
The construction of the Certosa was halted once again upon the death of Filippo Maria Visconti in 1447. With it, the Visconti realm was thrust into disorder. It was only when the Sforza dynasty came to power a decade later that construction continued once again. Francesco Sforza, who had no “true” claim to the Visconti lands, wished to consolidate and legitimize his rule and so ordered the Certosa to be worked on once again. The Certosa was finally finished under the Sforza in 1491, with the completion of the church façade. Though plagued by a shortage of marble, the full Certosa di Pavia complex was finished on 16 October 1494, almost a hundred years after the first foundation slab had been placed.
However, it wasn’t until 1550 that the exterior of the Certosa was remodelled to look as it does today.
The feature that stands out the most in the Certosa di Pavia complex is the magnificent church building. It was the last building to be completed, most likely because of the competition between the Certosa and the Duomo for the necessary marble required to finish the works. In the end the church was able to obtain the resources and was adorned with an incredibly detailed Gothic church-facade.
After 1550, several spires were added to the church building.
The view of the Certosa from behind the church building, with a view of the spires. Source: https://www.certosadipavia.it
Upon entering the interior of the church we see some of the finest work of Italian artisans of the time.
A painting of the church’s interior from 18th century. This interior remains largely unchanged. Source: Maximilien de Haese (1765), “Church of the Certosa di Pavia”.
Looking up at the ceiling of the central nave, we see that it is made up of intersecting arches and elaborate tile patterns, with gold inlays where the arches intersect. In addition, a star-like pattern and blue background runs horizontally along both the nave and the aisle sections. Above the transept of the church we find a modest dome that is decorated by a fresco that is divided into eight sections, each portraying a different image.
The aisles accommodate seven side chapels in total, each of them containing works of art that are famous in their own right. The transept of the church is closed off from the public by a metal fence, but on the right side it is still possible to see Gian Galeazzo Visconti immortalized. The image shows an image of him and his family gifting the Certosa to the Virgin Mary, with his tomb standing immediately underneath.
In the chancel of the church, in accordance with Carthusian tradition, the choir and the altar are hidden away form the public. The choir stalls have incredibly detailed wood inlays. Tthe walls surrounding the altar are completely covered with works of art: not a single space remains that is not covered with either frescoes or sculptures.
Lastly, the old sacristy contains a masterpiece by Baldassarre degli Embriachi: a triptych that is made mainly out of hippopotamus teeth and turtle bone. Two and a half meters in both height and width, it ambitiously portrays the life of Jesus, John the Baptist, and John the Evangelist.
The small cloister is, as the name indicates, the smallest part of the Certosa di Pavia complex. Due to its size, the basic structure of the cloister had already been completed by 1402, but the decorations were only completed in 1460. Though it takes up little space in the complex, it is a central and important meeting point for people living in the Certosa, since it is bordered by the church, ducal palace, and great cloister. The roof of the small cloister had been covered in copper plate, but during the Napoleonic wars it was taken off to be melted down and made into cannons.
The great cloister is the accommodation area for the Certosa. This is where the Carthusian monks spent their lives living in solitude and silence. At first the great cloister included 23 cells, but in the sixteenth century this was expanded to a total of 36 cells. Some monks lived in actual houses, whose roofs are visible rising above the individual cells. The structure of the great cloister had already been built in 1463, with the finishing decoration being being completed by 1480. The large lawn in the middle of cloister was used for the monks to plant flowers and medicinal plants if needed. The northern corner of the lawn was used as a burial ground before the eighteenth century.
Even though nowadays the building in between the church and the small cloister in the south is called the ducal palace, this locations was only occasionally used as a summer residence by the lords in the region. It is only in the early-to-mid 17th century that the construction of the ducal palace as we see it today, was built in the baroque style. Today the ducal palace primarily houses the Certosa di Pavia museum.
After the Certosa was officially finished with the celebratory festivities in 1494. In the 16th century as mentioned before, the exterior of the buildings in the Certosa complex had been further embellished with detail, such as the continued work on the church facade, and the interiors had been additionally furnished. At the same time we get manuscripts being produced in the Certosa, most notably the missals and chorals.
And in the 17th century we have the ducal palace built, this becoming the most “golden-age” of the Certosa di Pavia seen in its most complete, though issues about completing the church facade were still ongoing. In the 18th century a change occurred, artworks were still being produced to further contribute to the already extravagant complex, but the power of the church started being undermined with the arrival of Enlightenment thought. Because of this the Certosa did not have as much funding as before, and not only that, the Carthusian order that had been inhabiting the complex since its beginnings, had been replaced by the Cistercians, and then not soon after changed ownership to the Carmelites. All the meanwhile in the late 18th century northern Italy was being invaded by Napoleon and bringing secular changes to the region, further diminishing the power of the church. During this time the collections of artwork of the Certosa was looted, and resources for the war effort were stripped away from the Certosa’s buildings.
In the early 19th century the Certosa was rid of the French, and in the mid-19th century the Carthusians were once again allowed to return to the complex. But this was a short lived residence as in 1880 they were once again told to leave as the state of the Kingdom of Italy had acquired the complex. In the early 20th century, the Certosa was in desperate need of reconstruction still recovering from the pillaging at the hands of Napoleonic troops a century before, however during the First World War restorations were halted. They are quickly continued after the war, and the Certosa is given back once again to the Carthusians, while Italy falls under fascism with Benito Mussolini leading the country. Benito Mussolini ends up visiting the Certosa complex in 1932 the same year the Carthusian order had returned back to the Certosa.
Benito Mussolini visiting the Certosa di Pavia, and meeting with the father prior. Source: https://www.certosadipavia.it/
The Certosa and fascist dictator Benito Mussolini end up having an interesting relationship after the war. After Mussolini had been killed, he was buried in the Musocco cemetery in Milan, but in April 1946 the grave had signs of being recently dug up, and it was found that the corpse of Mussolini was not there.
A couple of months later a lead in the investigation was discovered, where two Franciscan monks, Father Zucca and Father Parini were brought up by a neo-fascist suspect Domenico Leccisi in an interrogation. Through that the investigation is led to the Certosa di Pavia on August 12th 1946, where the corpse of the fascist dictator is found on the premises encased in two rubber bags and a wooden coffin. It is later found out that the two Fathers did not have any involvement in the hiding of the body and were probably used as scapegoats by Domenico Leccisi and his neo-fascist group who had actually dug up the body.
After this incident the Carthusians are replaced by the Carmelites again, yet they are then replaced by the Cistercians soon after in 1968, the religious order that inhabits the Certosa di Pavia till this day. The last exciting story that happens in the Certosa is the stealing of the Embriachi Triptych in the old sacristy in 1984, which was intended to be sold abroad, the perpetrators are imprisoned soon after and one of the oldest pieces of the Certosa is returned back without suffering any serious damage.
The Disticha Catonis is not, contrary to its name, a classical text. Though it was originally attributed to the famously conservative Roman senator Cato the Elder (or possibly his son, Cato the Younger), its true author is unknown, but probably lived in the 3rd or 4th century CE, up to four hundred years later than either Cato. However, this Latin text was extremely popular in classrooms throughout the Middle Ages and beyond, its two-line hexameters providing moral advice and guidance to diligent students who often translated the text into their own vernacular languages.
Such a translation accompanies the 15th-century copy of the text held by the Niedersächsische Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek Göttingen. The Anglicana script with its looping flourishes and long descenders records each couplet of the Disticha Catonis (sometimes imperfectly) and pairs it with an English translation, which is often several lines longer than the original Latin couplet. In addition to the Disticha, this manuscript contains several other texts within the same binding. Altogether, these texts form a motley collection in several different hands, including genealogical tables, copied letters between Pope Leo and King Charles of France, and a listing of Eastbury sheep farmers, just to name a few. Most of these hands, however, appear to be roughly contemporary—except for a few striking lines at the end of the text.
Several students gather around a manuscript during the 2023 Göttingen International Palaeography Summer School to examine the text and illustrations.
On the very last pages of the manuscript, in a darker ink and later hand, a new language appears—a few phrases of Greek at the bottom of the final folio. This is the only Greek in the manuscript, and its appearance is both exciting and startling. While Latin remained an important language, especially for Western literature, scholarship, and diplomacy, for centuries after it was no longer the lingua franca, ancient Greek language and literature was much more neglected until the Renaissance turned to an idealized vision of classical antiquity as a model for cultural excellence.
The recto of the final folio with text in the Göttingen copy of the Disticha Catonis, with two lines of Greek finishing the page.
But Greek wasn’t totally unknown in those intervening centuries, and as interest in ancient literature, culture, and art rose again, it became a subject of study once more, appearing not only in schoolroom texts, but also sometimes scrawled in the margins of other works—like here. A closer look at this handful of lines gives a glimpse into one person’s engagement with Latin, Greek, and the relationship between language, learning, and literature.
The first pair of Greek lines (74r) reads: πολλα μέταξυ πελεῖ κυλιχος | κ[α]ὶ κείλεος αχρ[ου]. Once the abbreviations have been deciphered, the sentence is perfectly recognizable Greek—except for the word κείλεος, which simply doesn’t exist. But this puzzle is easily solved when we realize that the phrase is an ancient proverb, which has been attributed without evidence to the both the Greek writer Palladas and the more famous epic poet Homer, but first appears as an already well-known saying in the 2nd-century Attic Nights of Aulus Gellius. Locating this source reveals the anonymous writer’s error—the word κείλεος should actually be χείλεος. This in turn leads us to a complete translation—“Many things come between the cup and the topmost lip,” or, as Paton translates more idiomatically, “There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.”
But why the mistake? In fact, the Greek letters kappa (κ) and chi (χ) sound quite similar to the English ear, so mistaking one for the other would be quite easy, especially if the writer was recalling the lines from memory or listening to someone else dictate them, rather than copying directly from another written source. Of course, there’s no way to be certain that’s what happened; the writer could also have copied from a source with an error or misread the original text. Still, this small slip in otherwise very good Greek suggests that our writer knew the language well—but perhaps not perfectly.
A similar conclusion can be drawn from the Greek on 74v, which reads: φιλωτιμος πατὴρ | ὅν φιλεῖ θεος αποθνήσκει νέος. The first line, “honor-loving father,” is fairly generic and could be equally fitting in an ancient context or a later one. The second, however, quite nearly matches a famous quotation from a fragment of Menander: ὃν οἱ θεοὶ φιλοῦσιν ἀποθνῄσκει νέος, meaning “he whom the gods love dies young.” Once again, our unknown writer has not gotten the quote exactly right—the article οἱ is missing, and we have a singular verb and subject (φιλεῖ θεος) instead of the original plural (θεοὶ φιλοῦσιν).
The verso of the Disticha Catonis’ final folio at the end of the text.
The writer is clearly familiar with the Menander quotation, but there are small errors. The writer might have just forgotten to add the article, and we may also note the switched positions of subject and verb in the phrases φιλεῖ θεος and θεοὶ φιλοῦσιν. This is not a grammatical mistake, but not a perfect quotation either, especially given the change from singular forms to plural ones. But that change might not be a mistake at all. In the first line, φιλωτιμος πατὴρ is singular—perhaps the writer changed θεοὶ φιλοῦσιν to φιλεῖ θεος on purpose so that it agreed with the singular subject φιλωτιμος πατὴρ, intentionally changing “gods” to one God—the honor-loving Father. Is this a reflection of the cultural shift from Menander’s polytheism to Christian monotheism? It’s impossible to know for certain whether this is a clever adaptation of Menander’s original text or a misremembered quotation.
Either way, taken together, these two bits of Greek do make it clear that the writer was familiar not only with the language (note the accent marks included in the phrases), but with ancient Greek literature as well. Though there are minor mistakes, this is no newbie student practicing his alphabet. It’s also worth noting that these quotations fit the spirit of the original text, the Disticha Catonis. Though other texts fill the pages between the Disticha and the later Greek, these short additions are just the sort of quick, quippy wisdom encapsulated by the Disticha Catonis. Thus, they make a fitting finish to this delightful collection of texts!
You never know what you might find in the margins of a manuscript (or an incunable), but the little notes and details found there can add richness and depth to our understanding of the texts themselves, and the people who worked with them. Göttingen’s copy of the Disticha Catonis has passed through many hands over the centuries since it was first produced, but every reader had their own story, and the faintest traces of those stories can still be found within the pages if we look closely.
Bibliography
The Greek Anthology, Volume IV: Book 10: The Hortatory and Admonitory Epigrams. Book 11: The Convivial and Satirical Epigrams. Book 12: Strato’s Musa Puerilis. Translated by W. R. Paton. Loeb Classical Library 85. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1918.
Menander. Aspis. Georgos. Dis Exapaton. Dyskolos. Encheiridion. Epitrepontes. Edited and translated by W. G. Arnott. Loeb Classical Library 132. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979.
