Church and Censorship in Eighteenth-Century Italy: Governing Reading in the Age of Enlightenment 9781351393393, 1351393391

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Routledge Research in Early Modern History

CHURCH AND CENSORSHIP IN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY ITALY GOVERNING READING IN THE AGE OF ENLIGHTENMENT Patrizia Delpiano

Church and Censorship in Eighteenth-Century Italy

Dealing with the issue of ecclesiastical censorship and control over reading and readers, this study challenges the traditional view that during the eighteenth century the Catholic Church in Italy underwent an inexorable decline. It reconstructs the strategies used by the ecclesiastical leadership to regulate the press and culture during a century characterised by important changes, from the spread of the Enlightenment to the creation of a state censorship apparatus. Based on the archival records of the Roman Inquisition and the Congregation of the Index of Prohibited Books preserved in the Vatican, it provides a comprehensive analysis of the Catholic Church’s endeavour to keep literature and reading in check by means of censorship and the promotion of a “good” press. The crisis of the Inquisition system did not imply a general diminution of the Church’s involvement in controlling the press. Rather than being effective instruments of repression, the Inquisition and the Index combined to create an ideological apparatus to resist new ideas and to direct public opinion. This was a network mainly inspired by anti-Enlightenment principles, which would go on to influence the Church’s action well beyond the eighteenth century. This book is an English translation of Il governo della lettura. Chiesa e libri nell’Italia del Settecento (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2007). Patrizia Delpiano is professor of Early Modern History at the University of Turin, Italy.

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Church and Censorship in Eighteenth-Century Italy Governing Reading in the Age of Enlightenment Patrizia Delpiano

First published 2018 by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 Taylor & Francis Originally published in Italian as Il governo della lettura. Chiesa e libri nell’Italia del Settecento, Bologna: Il Mulino, 2007. The right of Patrizia Delpiano to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Delpiano, Patrizia, author. Title: Church and Censorship in Eighteenth-Century Italy : Governing Reading in the Age of Enlightenment / by Patrizia Delpiano. Other titles: Governo della lettura. English Description: New York: Routledge, 2018. | Series: Routledge research in early modern history | “Originally published in Italian as Il governo della lettura Chiesa e libri nell’Italia del Settecento, Bologna: Il Mulino, 2007”—Title page verso. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017028289 (print) | LCCN 2017028726 (ebook) | ISBN 9781315141862 (ebook) | ISBN 9781138306639 (alkaline paper) Subjects: LCSH: Censorship—Italy—History—18th century. | Censorship—Italy—Religious aspects—History—18th century. | Books and reading—Social aspects—Italy—History—18th century. | Books and reading—Italy—Religious aspects—History— 18th century. | Catholic Church—Italy—History—18th century. | Prohibited books—Italy—History—18th century. | Church and state—Italy—History—18th century. | Italy—Religion— 18th century. | Italy—Politics and government—18th century. Classification: LCC Z658.I8 (ebook) | LCC Z658.I8 D4513 2018 (print) | DDC 025.2/130945—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017028289 ISBN: 978-1-138-30663-9 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-14186-2 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Apex CoVantage, LLC

To the memory of Luciano Guerci

Contents

List of Abbreviations Acknowledgments Note to the English Edition

1

Introduction

1

From the Spoken to the Written Word

9

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 2

ix xi xiii

Paper Threats 10 The Dangers of Individual Reading 14 Disbelief, the Sin of the Century 18 Hidden Poisons: on Novels and Pleasure Books 21 New Readers for a Deluge of Libels 28

The World of the Index

53

1. From Censorship to Self-Censorship: Benedict XIV’s Proposal 55 2. Heresies of the Enlightenment 60 3. Jurisdictionalist Thinkers, Deists, Atheists “or Something Like That” 67 4. Short Stories and Poems, Comedies and Novels 72 5. Friar Ambrogio and the Others: the Universe of Censors 78 6. The Rules of the Game: from Book-Burning to Silence 83 3

Hunting for Books 1. Circular Letters from the Holy Office in Rome 116 2. Inquisitorial Edicts 120 3. Spiritual Weapons for the Peninsula: the Appeal to Bishops 127 4. From Bishops to Priests 131 5. Sermons to Believers 138

115

viii 4

Contents In Pursuit of Public Opinion 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

161

The New Book War 163 Ecclesiastical Patronage: Writing and Censoring 168 The Index and the Printing Press 172 Uses of the Periodical Press 175 Antidotes Against the “Itch to Philosophise” 180 Protecting the Eyes to Protect the Soul 185 On Good Books and Ways of Reading 189

Conclusion

223

Index

237

Abbreviations

Archival Sources ACDF—Archivio della Congregazione per la dottrina della fede, Rome (Index: Archivio della Congregazione dell’Indice; S.O.: Archivio della Congregazione del Sant’Ufficio; C.L.: Censura librorum; St. St.: Stanza Storica) ASMo—Archivio di Stato, Modena ASR—Archivio di Stato, Rome ASVe—Archivio di Stato, Venice BABG—Biblioteca Archivio Bassano del Grappa, Vicenza BCAB—Biblioteca comunale dell’Archiginnasio, Bologna BPT—Biblioteca della Provincia di Torino chap.—chapter col., cols—column, columns ed., eds—editor, editors edn—edition et seq. et sequentes—and the following f., ff. folio, folios—sheets in manuscripts fasc.—fascicle ibid. ibidem—in the same place id. idem—the same inf. infra—below MS, MSS manuscriptum, manuscripta—manuscript, manuscripts n.d.—no date no., nos.—number n.p.—no page or.—original r recto—right (front of manuscript sheet) s.a. sine anno—without year s.l. sine loco—without place (of publication) s.n. sine nomine—without name (of publisher) sup. supra—above t., tt. tome—tomes v verso— verse (reverse of manuscript sheet) vol., vols—volume, volumes

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank all those who over the years have so generously offered me the benefit of their experience, in particular Vincenzo Ferrone, Marina Roggero, Lodovica Braida and Giuseppe Ricuperati, who each read (and reread) the text and gave me invaluable suggestions. I also offer warm thanks to Elena Brambilla, Elvira Chiosi, Gigliola Fragnito and Antonio Trampus for their reading, partial or complete, and for their comments and encouragement. I am grateful to Frédréric Ieva for his analytical reading of the manuscript, and to Emanuela Verzella for her meticulous review of it. Thanks also to Franco Motta for his endless suggestions and, above all, to Raffaella Sarti for her constant support and friendship. Finally, my gratitude goes out to the staff of the libraries and archives in which I have worked, in particular that of the Archive of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith in Rome. Some aspects of this book were anticipated in the article “Per una storia della censura ecclesiastica nel Settecento. Aspetti e problemi,” Società e storia XXVII, no. 105 (2004): 487–530, Franco Angeli. The first chapter is a revised version of an essay published in Rivista storica italiana CXVIII, no. 2 (2006): 440–485, Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane, titled “La Chiesa e la lettura nell’Italia del Settecento.” I would like to thank the editors of the two journals for having agreed to this edition.

Note to the English Edition

This is the English language and revised edition of my Italian book (Il governo della lettura. Chiesa e libri nell’Italia del Settecento, Bologna: Il Mulino, 2007), and it includes translations of Italian, French and Latin quotations. Some examples included in the Italian edition have been removed, while the notes have been considerably shortened and in some cases eliminated. On the other hand, the bibliography has been updated, and every effort has been made to refer to English versions of the works listed in references to secondary literature. Primary sources, both in the notes and the bibliography, are mentioned and listed in the language of the versions consulted, with the date of the original edition (in French, English and Latin) placed in brackets. The bibliography has been divided between primary sources and secondary literature, and it contains a full list of the works referred to in the main text and in the notes. The page references given in the notes are to the editions listed first in the bibliography, unless otherwise stated. In any case, the first editions of the works are always included in brackets. Archival sources are mentioned only in the notes (see the list of abbreviations for the location of archives). Books reviewed in eighteenth-century periodicals have been indicated by complete editorial references only in the notes, and therefore, they do not appear in the bibliographical references at the end of each chapter. I offer my particular thanks to Roberta Richiero for revising my translation of the notes and, above all, to Matthew Armistead who not only translated the main text of the book, but also stimulated discussions about the best way to adapt my Italian style to English readers. Finally, I would like to extend my gratitude to the staff of the Interlibrary Loan service provided by the Norberto Bobbio Library of the University of Turin for their efficiency and helpfulness. The costs of the translation were supported by research funds granted by the Italian Ministero dell’Istruzione, dell’Università e della Ricerca (Ministry for Education, University and Research), Progetto di ricerca di rilevante interesse nazionale [PRIN], 2015, L’eredità dell’Illuminismo, directed by Vincenzo Ferrone: n. 2015C3Z9AJ.

Introduction

This book addresses the issue of ecclesiastic control of reading in eighteenthcentury Italy. Its aim is to bring to light the strategies developed by the Catholic Church to govern the printing press and broader culture in a century of profound intellectual and political change that included the spread of the Enlightenment and the translation of jurisdictionalist ideas into practice, beginning from the 1760s. There have been many studies of the relationship between the Roman Catholic Church and books in the early modern period, and these have in fact multiplied following the opening of the Archive of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith in 1998. Being interested in moments of rupture, many historians have focused their attention on the religious crisis of the sixteenth century to show how the post-Tridentine era provided the Italian context for a veritable crackdown on the circulation and consumption of the written word, realised through the creation of a robust structure of norms and prohibitions and the practice of book burnings and expurgations.1 The eighteenth century has been investigated much less, being the focus of limited studies of specific aspects, but never of comprehensive interpretations. The interest of scholars in this period has concentrated on the changes that occurred following the birth of state censorship, aimed at breaking, in a jurisdictionalist context, the monopoly hitherto enjoyed by the clergy on the world of the printed word and oriented in certain cases towards promoting the trade of works listed in the Index librorum prohibitorum.2 Yet history does not unfold only through moments of rupture, so the story told in this book is also one of continuity. In practice, studying a century seen even by its contemporaries as being divided between “a love of religion and the spirit of libertinage”3 (a characterisation often used to stigmatise the secular morality of the Enlightenment) inevitably means taking account of the aforementioned turning points, while not forgetting the continuity between them. First among these was the stalwart resistance of the Catholic hierarchy which, despite the Church being rent internally by the threats to religious unity posed by Jansenism and the polemics against the Jesuits that culminated in the suppression of the Society of Jesus in 1773, on the whole remained deployed in safeguarding the patrimonium

2

Introduction

fidei of the Tridentine Council and continued to rely, through the censorship imposed by the Congregations of the Index and the Inquisition, on methods that were by no means novel. Thus, despite these events being rooted in the period of the Catholic reconquest and the fact that it is difficult to distinguish signs of innovation in long-term processes, the basic hypothesis of this book is that in the eighteenth century, in parallel with the decline of inquisitorial procedures established during the Counter-Reformation and while secularising forces were active in Italian society,4 the Church steadily shifted the centre of gravity from repressive to persuasive techniques. Combatting its enemies on equal terms on the field of the written word, it accepted confrontation in the public sphere. This brought about the transition from secret to public censorship, which took the positions adopted by the hierarchy in matters of religion, ethics, politics, justice and education away from the offices of the Index and the Inquisition and turned them into official norms to which the good Catholic was obliged to adhere. The shift was a significant one, and it is possible to detect within it the origins of mechanisms for the control of public opinion that would go on to have a profound effect on the Italian path to modernity. Because of this, the word “governance”—as the subtitle suggests—seems even more appropriate than “censorship” to describe a complex programme which, while never abandoning the effort to halt the spread of prohibited texts, tended rather to guide the burgeoning reading public by means of a skilled application of communication methods able to reach both clergy and laity. Precisely in order to follow the continuity and changes, this analysis, although focused on the eighteenth century, also looks back to the CounterReformation and forwards to the Restoration. As for geography, Italy is the centre of the picture, but the work does not ignore Catholic Europe and in particular France, a choice that seems natural considering the close relations between the elites of the two countries and the fact that across the Alps, there was a varied literary production in French that quickly entered the publishing networks of the peninsula.5 The work has drawn on many sources: the minutes and reports of the meetings of the Congregations of the Index and the Inquisition, and the censorship judgments on proscribed books preserved in the Archive of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith and records of certain trials held by the Holy Office found in other inquisitorial archives. Encyclicals, pastoral instructions, catechisms and also sermons, conduct manuals, journals, letters, autobiographies and warnings to the youth were all consulted. Thus the sources accessed were not only those unearthed from the so-called archives of suppression. Nevertheless, a warning must be made before outlining the structure of this book. To study the Church’s control of reading means to approach institutions and men who were in different ways responsible for surveillance: popes, censors, inquisitors, bishops, priests and preachers. While there is no

Introduction

3

doubt that there were profound differences on many issues of internal and external policy between the various occupants the Throne of Saint Peter during the eighteenth century, and that there was no lack of disagreements between the censors on the fate of investigated books,6 it is also true that, if one follows the common thread of the control of books and reading, the actions of the Church are seen to have been consistent and uniform. It should not be forgotten, however, that the Church was composed of many individuals, each with different opinions: it is enough to underline that the works of the exponents of enlightened Catholicism and of the reformist clergy were themselves placed under scrutiny by the censors, nor did they avoid being placed on the Index. The issue of conflict within the Church and the role of censorship as a tool at the service of the various doctrinal movements and religious orders is certainly fundamental. However, this is a problem that this book addressed only marginally since it focuses on secular literature—and, so to speak, on the Catholic Church’s external enemies— rather than on religious books. There is hardly any need to remind the reader that the history of the Church in the eighteenth century is not fully reflected in that of the control of reading: a control—to provide another detail about this study—that is tackled here by analysing highly coherent attempts and endeavours made by many members of the clergy (the short- and long-term outcomes of which will be discussed in the conclusions), leaving in the background the issues more strictly related to the vicissitudes of the readers and affairs of the publishers. The nucleus of the first chapter is the consolidation of the Enlightenment movement, which can be traced back to cultural categories that went well beyond the Protestant heresy that arose as a result of the sixteenthcentury crisis of religion. Propounding a secular morality entirely alien from Tridentine dogmatic faith and based on forms of religiosity that sidelined revelation, or on the principles of a virtuous atheism, the Enlightenment as a whole appeared to overturn the established order and to attack, in the name of a cosmopolitan universalism, the Catholic and Christian identity of the peninsula. An important role was played by the development of the literature of entertainment, of which the novel was the most original product. Initially spread through translations of European works before becoming an indigenous literary genre, this was regarded with suspicion since it was capable of reaching a wider public than that of the traditional elite of readers. From the 1750s, these two phenomena, which in fact were closely connected in the ecclesiastical worldview, raised new concerns for the clergy and the Catholic hierarchy regarding the spread of books. They also inspired reflections on the damage wreaked by reading, which in that decade emerged as one of the great dangers to which the people that the Church had previously sought to protect, particularly from the poisons of Protestantism, were exposed. Driven by these two fears, the Holy See invested considerable energy and manpower in the defence of its intellectual hegemony. The censorship

4

Introduction

apparatus is recreated in the second chapter through the activities of the Index and Inquisition and by bringing to light the array of different censors called to pass judgment on individual texts. A key moment was the reorganisation of the Index, carried out by Benedict XIV in the 1750s, which brought an end to the lively debate that arose in early-eighteenth-century Catholicism between conservatives and novatores. Prospero Lambertini, who many scholars consider the tolerant pope,7 in fact succeeded in updating the Index of Prohibited Books and using it to combat the unorthodoxies of his time. He also proposed strategies to encourage men of letters8 to adopt the practice of self-correction and therefore of self-censorship. In the course of the century—thanks to the diligent denunciations of the papal nuncios, who acted as intermediaries between the censorship institutions of the various states in which they operated—all the classics of the Italian and European Enlightenment were condemned, especially those in their original language not yet translated. As shown by the clandestine circulation of books on the Index throughout the peninsula, including in the Papal States,9 reading courts undoubtedly experienced a profound crisis during the eighteenth century, which can only be explained by examining changes external to the Church. Censorship measures seemed incapable of keeping pace with the accelerating publishing market, especially considering the spectacular delays that sometimes occurred. As for the deterioration of the system of the Inquisition (third chapter), this was not caused by the Roman Holy Office abdicating its role. Indeed, the 1760s saw the start of a strict suppression in the Papal States that involved book burnings and the exemplary punishment of unrepentant readers. Elsewhere, however, inquisitorial courts had to come to terms with the establishment of state censorship, against which the various antijurisdictionalist edicts and regulations issued by the Holy Office in Rome could do little. Nevertheless, the crisis of the Inquisition should be interpreted not so much as a total and definitive decline, but rather as the institution’s gradual adaptation to ongoing changes.10 In response to the depletion of its powers of suppression, the Roman Holy Office focused on methods of persuasion and, in order to tackle the growth of texts deemed to be impious, rallied the bishops of the Papal States. The mobilisation of all the clergy of the peninsula was carried out by the popes through the use of encyclicals—a method of communication not just internal, but which reached beyond the Church—giving instructions related to books. The chronological and thematic correlation between the rules of the Inquisition and papal encyclicals on the one hand, and sermons and pastoral instructions to local clergy on the other, indicates a certain common intent between the centre of Catholicism and the periphery of the various dioceses in their support for what appears to have been a well-orchestrated campaign against books and reading. And this happened despite the different positions expressed by the Jansenists on the question of who held the

Introduction

5

authority to prohibit (the bishops, and not the pope) and regarding licences to read prohibited texts, denounced as absurd privileges compared to bans that applied to all the faithful. The 1770s and 1780s were a turning point with regard to the mechanisms used by the Catholic Church in view of the orientation of the nascent public opinion (fourth chapter).11 Essentially, suppressive approaches appeared to be failing in a context in which calls for renewal were being translated into jurisdictionalist practice through the suppression of local inquisitorial courts (in Tuscany, 1781, and Lombardy, 1782). The relaunch of the war against books was therefore crucial and, being closely associated to the fight against the spread of the Enlightenment, was fought through the publication of rebuttals of the books on the Index, the translation of antiphilosophique literature and the publication, in periodicals linked to the Holy See, of reviews denigrating prohibited volumes. The protagonists of this war, it is worth noting, were often members of the Congregations of the Index and of the Holy Office, and men of the clergy. Not that this task was carried out exclusively by individuals in some way close to the leaders in Rome, but the intertwined relationships of patronage with the authors reveal the closeness of the link between the books on the Index and the publishing production promoted by the Roman and peripheral Church hierarchy that targeted prohibited works. The use of editorial resources entailed a transformation of the literary genres used as critical tools against the ancien régime (dictionaries and novels, for example) and also involved the development of a pedagogy for good books that took account of the new tastes of the public. A wealth of conduct manuals taught readers to look at the world of books with suspicion so as to encourage them to internalise the norms of the Index and then to practice forms of self-censorship. This was an approach with the potential to solve the problem of obedience to the Church at a time when its policy of repression was in decline. The “other” eighteenth century12—that hostile to the Enlightenment, of which this research reconstructs one aspect—does not appear, therefore, a world facing the new in a state of inertia. On the contrary, it was able to counter the changes relating to the spread of secularisation by promoting a “preventive counter-encyclopaedia”13 and organising, through the use of the written word, an “active counter-revolution”14 based on a solid theoretical structure that would act as a guide to the actions of the Holy See well beyond the end of the century. In this sense, it is undeniable that the Church had employed the communication tools of modernity, however true it is that it knew how to bend these to the end of maintaining the status quo. This was an operation which can aptly be described with terms like “conservative innovation” or “anti-modern modernisation,”15 where the oxymorons effectively convey a plan of intellectual hegemony carried out through the strengthening, and at the same time the control, of the press as the fundamental institution of learning.

6

Introduction

Notes 1. See in particular Fragnito, La Bibbia; Fragnito, Proibito. For an overview of studies, see Rozzo, “Sulla censura.” On the attempt made by the Inquisition and the Index during the sixteenth century and the beginning of the seventeenth to purify devotional works written in vernacular Italian, see Caravale, Forbidden Prayer. See also, among others, Ricci, Inquisitori; Caravale, Preaching. 2. On the Republic of Venice and the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, see respectively Infelise, L’editoria, especially 99 et seq.; Landi, Il governo, 75 et seq. The outcome was different in the Savoyard State, where state and ecclesiastical censorship intertwined, resulting in an alliance between throne and altar. On this topic, see Braida, Il commercio, 73–140. For an analysis of different censorship apparatuses in the eighteenth-century Italian states, see Braida, “Censure.” For a comparative perspective at European level, see Sabato, “Comparing Book Censorship.” 3. These are the words used in the 1780s by the former Spanish Jesuit Andrés, Dell’origine, 452. 4. This frame is outlined by Venturi, Settecento, vol. II, La Chiesa, who pays close attention to the jurisdictionalist reforms undertaken by Italian states in the second half of the eighteenth century. 5. On the vast circulation of French books in the Italian Peninsula, see Waquet, “La lumière” and, with regards to the prohibited texts, see Valeri, Libri nuovi. 6. On the contrasts between the two congregations over the ages, see Rebellato, La fabbrica. 7. Rosa, “Benedetto XIV,” 401. See also Rosa, “Pope Benedict XIV.” 8. On the use of the term man of letter (letterato) in the ancien régime, see Chartier, “The Man of Letters.” 9. On the important role played by the Société typographique de Neuchâtel in disseminating prohibited books in Italy, see Braida, Il commercio, 255 et seq.; Pasta, Editoria, 225 et seq.; Valeri, Libri nuovi, 74–81 (particularly for works by d’Holbach). On the Rome area, see Tarzia, Libri e rivoluzioni. See the database The French Book Trade in Enlightenment Europe (hosted at http://fbtee. uws.edu.au/stn/interface/ accessed 8 April 2017) and Burrows, Curran, Hiribarren, Kattau, Merivale, The French Book. See also the pioneering work by Darnton, The Forbidden Best-Sellers. 10. The actual decline of the Inquisition is the topic tackled by Brambilla, La giustizia, 228 et seq.; Del Col, L’Inquisizione, 700 et seq. 11. Regarding the conceptualization of public opinion during the ancien régime— an opinion which was not disentangled from the influences of censorship—see, among studies on the Italian Peninsula, Landi, Naissance (with reference to the Grand Duchy of Tuscany and provinding a long-term perspective); Landi, “Censure et formation.” 12. Guerci, La discussione, 11. 13. This expression was used by the antifascist intellectual Piero Gobetti (1901– 1926), in Risorgimento, 13–64. The reference was to the antiphilosophique culture which was widespread in the eighteenth-century Savoyard State. 14. See Chiosi, Lo spirito, 263 (for the Kingdom of Naples). 15. See Caffiero, Religione, Premessa, 11–24, 15, who—quoting Reinhard, Papauté, 163—rightly highlights how the Church has been “able to adapt the processes of the early modern world to its own ends” (12). For a general introduction to this topic, widely debated in Italy, see Ferrone, “Chiesa cattolica e modernità”; Ferrone, Lo strano Illuminismo; Ferrone, The Enlightenment. A different perspective can be found in Menozzi, Chiesa; Menozzi, “La Chiesa”; Rosa, “The Catholic Aufklärung,” who in particular underlines the relationship between Catholicism, Catholic Church and Enlightenment.

Introduction

7

Bibliographical References Primary Sources Andrés, Juan. Dell’origine, progressi e stato attuale d’ogni letteratura, vol. I. Parma: Stamperia reale, 1785.

Secondary Literature Braida, Lodovica. “Censure et circulation du livre en Italie au XVIIIe siècle.” Journal of Modern European History 3, no. 1 (2005): 81–98. Braida, Lodovica. Il commercio delle idee. Editoria e circolazione del libro nella Torino del Settecento. Florence: Olschki, 1995. Brambilla, Elena. La giustizia intollerante. Inquisizione e tribunali confessionali in Europa (secoli IV–XVIII). Rome: Carocci, 2006. Burrows, Simon, Mark Curran, Vincent Hiribarren, Sarah Kattau, and Henry Merivale, eds. The French Book Trade in Enlightenment Europe, 1769–1794: Mapping the Trade of the Société typographique de Neuchâtel. Leeds: University of Leeds, 2012. Burson, Jeffrey D., and Ulrich L. Lehner, eds. Enlightenment and Catholicism in Europe: A Transnational History. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2014. Caffiero, Marina. Religione e modernità in Italia (secoli XVII–XIX). Pisa-Rome: Istituti editoriali poligrafici internazionali, 2000. Caravale, Giorgio. Forbidden Prayer: Church Censorship and Devotional Literature in Renaissance Italy. Farnham, Surrey, England-Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011. Translated by Peter Dawson. Originally published as L’orazione proibita. Censura ecclesiastica e letteratura devozionale nella prima età moderna (Florence: L. S. Olschki, 2003). Caravale, Giorgio. Preaching and Inquisition in Renaissance Italy: Words on Trial. Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2016. Translated by Frank Gordon. Originally published as Predicazione e Inquisizione nell’Italia del Cinquecento. Ippolito Chizzola tra eresia e controversia antiprotestante (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2012). Chartier, Roger. “The Man of Letters.” In Enlightenment Portraits, edited by Michel Vovelle, 142–89. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997. Translated by Lydia G. Cochrane. Originally published as L’uomo dell’Illuminismo (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1992). Chiosi, Elvira. Lo spirito del secolo. Politica e religione a Napoli nell’età dell’Illuminismo. Naples: Giannini, 1992. Darnton, Robert. The Forbidden Best-Sellers of Pre-Revolutionary France. New York: W.W. Norton, 1995. Del Col, Andrea. L’Inquisizione in Italia dal XII al XXI secolo. Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 2006. Ferrone, Vincenzo. “Chiesa cattolica e modernità. La scoperta dei diritti dell’uomo dopo la crisi dei totalitarismi.” In Chiesa cattolica e modernità, edited by Franco Bolgiani, Vincenzo Ferrone and Francesco Margiotta Broglio, 17–131. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2004. Ferrone, Vincenzo. The Enlightenment. History of an Idea. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2015. Translated by Elisabeth Tarantino, with an afterword by the author. Originally published as Lezioni illuministiche (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2010). Ferrone, Vincenzo. Lo strano Illuminismo di Joseph Ratzinger. Chiesa, modernità e diritti dell’uomo. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2013. Fragnito, Gigliola. La Bibbia al rogo. La censura ecclesiastica e i volgarizzamenti della Scrittura (1471–1605). Bologna: Il Mulino, 1997, reprint 2015.

8

Introduction

Fragnito, Gigliola. Proibito capire. La Chiesa e il volgare nella prima età moderna. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2005. Gobetti, Piero. Risorgimento senza eroi e altri scritti storici (1926). Turin: Einaudi, 1976. Guerci, Luciano. La discussione sulla donna nell’Italia del Settecento. Aspetti e problemi. Turin: Tirrenia stampatori, 1987. Infelise, Mario. L’editoria veneziana nel ’700. Milan: Franco Angeli, 1991, 2nd edn (1st edn 1989; updated edn 1999). Page references are to the 1991 edition. Landi, Sandro. “Censure et formation de l’opinion publique dans l’Italie des Hasbourg.” In L’opinion publique dans l’Europe des Lumières. Stratégies et concepts, edited by Bertrand Binoche and Alain J. Lemaître, 25–39. Paris: Armand Colin, 2013. Landi, Sandro. Il governo delle opinioni. Censura e formazione del consenso nella Toscana del Settecento. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2000. Landi, Sandro. Naissance de l’opinion publique dans l’Italie moderne. Sagesse du peuple et savoir de gouvernement de Machiavel aux Lumières. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2006. Menozzi, Daniele. Chiesa e diritti umani. Legge naturale e modernità politica dalla rivoluzione francese ai nostri giorni. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2012. Menozzi, Daniele. “La Chiesa e la modernità.” Storia e problemi contemporanei 13, no. 26 (2000): 7–24. Pasta, Renato. Editoria e cultura nel Settecento. Florence: Olschki, 1997. Rebellato, Elisa. La fabbrica dei divieti. Gli indici dei libri proibiti da Clemente VIII a Benedetto XIV. Milan: Sylvestre Bonnard, 2008. Reinhard, Wolfgang. Papauté confessions modernité, edited by Robert Descimon. Paris: École des hautes études en sciences sociales, 1988. Ricci, Saverio. Inquisitori, censori, filosofi sullo scenario della Controriforma. Rome: Salerno, 2008. Rosa, Mario. “Benedetto XIV.” In Dizionario biografico degli italiani, vol. 8 (1966), 393–408. Rome: Istituto dell’Enciclopedia italiana, 1960– . . . Then in Enciclopedia dei papi, vol. 3, 446–461. Rome: Istituto dell’Enciclopedia Italiana, 2000, 3 vols. Rosa, Mario. “The Catholic Aufklärung in Italy.” In A Companion to the Catholic Enlightenment in Europe, edited by Ulrich L. Lehner and Michael Printy, 215–250. Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2010. Rosa, Mario. “Pope Benedict XIV (1740–1758): The Ambivalent Enlightener.” In Enlightenment and Catholicism in Europe: A Transnational History, edited by Jeffrey D. Burson and Ulrich Lehner, 41–60. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2014. Rozzo, Ugo. “Sulla censura ecclesiastica in Italia: acquisizioni e questioni aperte.” In Cinquant’anni di storiografia italiana sulla Riforma e i movimenti ereticali in Italia, 1950–2000, edited by Silvana Peyronel, 125–149. Turin: Claudiana, 2002. Sabato, Milena, “Comparing Book Censorship: An Italian and European Perspective (Centuries XVI–XVIII).” European Scientific Journal 10, no. 22 (2014): 53–68. Tarzia, Fabio. Libri e rivoluzioni. Figure e mentalità nella Roma di fine Ancien Régime (1770–1800). Milan: Franco Angeli, 2000. Valeri, Stefania. Libri nuovi scendon l’Alpi. Venti anni di relazioni franco—italiane negli archivi della Société typographique de Neuchâtel (1769–1789). Macerata: Eum, 2006. Venturi, Franco. Settecento riformatore, vol. II, La Chiesa e la Repubblica dentro i loro limiti (1758–1774). Turin: Einaudi, 1976. Waquet, Françoise. “‘La lumière vient de France’. Le livre français en Italie à la veille de la Révolution.” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Italie et Méditerranée 102, no. 2 (1990): 233–259.

1

From the Spoken to the Written Word

Although marked over the years by a general attitude of suspicion, the relationship of the Church to reading has a history characterised by moments of weakness and of strength: a history, that is, profoundly conditioned by what existed and what was changing around the Church, in the wider culture, in society and in the realm of politics. If we look at the early modern age, we see that there is no doubt that, after the introduction of the printing press—a watershed in a fundamental sense1—the second half of the sixteenth century was one of the strongest moments. The control over reading set in course by the Roman Church hierarchy during the Counter-Reformation—over both religious and secular texts—constituted a turning point from the previous Renaissance period with respect to the access to books in the Catholic world. Intensified by the unfolding of the Protestant Reform movements, which preached that every believer should read the Holy Scriptures for themselves, the Church’s traditional distrust then took form in the creation of a formalised censorship apparatus with a list of banned texts—the Index of Prohibited Books (1559)—and with a congregation specifically appointed to enforce it (1571). For its part, the Inquisition carried out a veritable hunt for books, which were perceived as the vehicle par excellence of heterodoxy, while confessors diligently exhorted the faithful to report disobedient readers.2 After lengthy internal discussions, the Church arrived at a definitive ban on translating the Bible into the vernacular, in other words, a ban on Catholics having direct knowledge of the founding text of their own religion.3 In reality, this was not simply a matter of suppressing and punishing, but also one of preventing and curing. Such was the purpose of the Counter-Reformation educational handbooks which dispensed healthy doses of “defensive and preservative medicine,”4 helping to prescribe specific reading guidelines in relation to contents and readership. The question of the actual effectiveness of ecclesiastical prohibitions in the early modern age needs further analysis, bearing in mind the fact that every rule, however rigid, had its exception through a system of privileges: after standards were set they were inevitably transgressed.5 It should especially be noted that the adoption of repressive strategies had different

10

From the Spoken to the Written Word

outcomes within different social groups. Indeed, it is known that there existed a double censorship regime, which at the time effectively permitted an “aristocracy of free readers” the use of banned texts.6 However, these were nothing but exceptions to the rule, which, starting from the Counter-Reformation, formally outlawed the freedom of Italian inhabitants to read. Reading was forcefully discouraged, and similar attitudes, in matters of faith, promoted not the birth of an informed religion, but rather that of a “passive reception of elementary indoctrination.”7 This favoured the survival of an oral transmission of knowledge among the lower classes on the one hand,8 and the clandestine circulation of prohibited texts among cultured people on the other.9 This split, which in theory made books the exclusive objects of the elite, eventually became the most significant outcome of the religious crisis of the sixteenth century. The long-term effects of this process and the changes that took place in the Church’s stance on reading during the eighteenth century are the subject of this chapter.

1.

Paper Threats

Once it had deployed, between the mid-sixteenth and mid-seventeenth centuries, its frontal attack on the Protestant heresy, which involved every area of knowledge, from science to literature, the Church passed through a phase in which it appears the fight against books was not an absolute priority. Certainly, in 1645, the Jesuit Daniello Bartoli, outlining the image of the good Catholic man of letters, drew attention to the “ignoble profession” of the “lustful” poets and stressed the terrible damage caused by their works.10 Likewise, another Jesuit, Giuseppe Agnelli, when instructing urban priests on the containment of sexual desire, referred to the deadly effects of “lustful books, or those that deal with love,” which seemed to him “like poison in milk, which quickly spreads through the veins and takes away life.”11 But for all this, it seems that the habit of reading was not widespread given that Paolo Segneri, in his Cristiano istruito, did not offer a single item of advice on it.12 In his Lenten sermons, he urged the faithful to read good books, but showed no particular concern about bad ones because “evil companions” were much worse. Indeed, Segneri did not believe that reading was in itself a natural and immediate cause of sin: The hearing, or not hearing of a sermon, the reading, or not reading of a book . . . can lead [the believer] to heaven or to hell. I said can lead, you see, because our wellbeing does not immediately depend on our actions but it depends on them only remotely.13 If we then try to discover what were the main causes of concern for the Italian clergy at the end of the seventeenth century, we find that for them, the danger lay elsewhere. In 1690, the pastoral letters of Gregorio Barbarigo, Bishop of Padua—who was also the founder of the local seminary’s printing

Paper Threats

11

works and keenly interested in the role of good printed matter in spreading the faith—considered taking action against dancing and bad language and threatened believers who went to church bearing weapons. But not even when addressing educational issues did he suggest that the fathers be diligent in overseeing the reading of their sons.14 Similar impressions are suggested by the history of repression. From the mid-seventeenth century, in fact, inquisitorial trials for possessing or reading books on the Index were reduced considerably in both Italy and Spain.15 And eventually there were changes in the perception of violating the rules: the production of heretical texts being wiped out, the reading of prohibited books was deemed not so much a crime as a misdemeanour. At the end of the century, the inquisitor for Aquileia, Antonio Dall’Occhio, in recommending a vicar to pardon a penitent reader, suggested “some salutary penance, that is that for fifteen or twenty days . . . he recite on his knees the five holy wounds of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the Credo once.” He also invited him to make the accused reflect “most deeply on the article ‘Credo sanctam. Ecclesiam catholicam’, which by means of a papal summa his representative on earth prohibited the reading of such books.” This suggestion contrasted sharply with that given in 1532, at the time of the heretical plague, by the Franciscan Giovanni da Fano, according to whom “heretics must be burned. . . . This should also be done to those who own the books of the lost Luther.”16 In the eighteenth century, the Index, as we shall see in the next chapter, naturally continued to dictate what books were banned to good Catholics, seeking thereby to curb the circulation of forbidden knowledge. Up to the 1740s, however, the remedies of the clergy do not seem to have oriented on this objective. If we view the habits of the people through the eyes of the many bishops, priests, confessors and moralists tasked with educating them, we see a population immersed in orality and the dangers of orality. Apparently, the repressive strategies against reading in the second half of the sixteenth century had prevailed, and their goals were reached. Had the control been so effective that the clergy no longer considered reading a danger and therefore not worth talking about? Or was the Church showing an unprecedented tolerance towards prohibited texts? Let’s take a trip through the peninsula and listen to a few sermons, which give an insight into the fears of the day, as well as general behaviour. They tackled many different subjects, from the deceitfulness of the world to the evil of lechery, but in the early decades of the century scant attention was given directly to reading. No concern about it can be found in sermons on subjects that might implicitly refer to reading, that is, those on lust, children’s education, opportunities for sin, and the misuse of time—all themes which, from the mid-century onwards instead gave reason to dwell at length on the issue. Pantaleone Dolera, a regular cleric, when speaking of lasciviousness, did not once mention the existence of books and when identifying, on the topic

12

From the Spoken to the Written Word

of education, bad examples given by parents to their children, he instanced conversation and dance.17 For his part, the Capuchin father Gabriello Maria da Brescia, when referring to sinful situations, counselled the faithful as follows: “If you do not wish to contaminate yourself, stop ogling that face, burn that book, tear up that titillating painting.” Yet for him the real “lusts” were games and conversations.18 The indexes of works examined bear out this hypothesis: the alphabetical lists of illustrations to be used in specific sermons referred mainly to sins connected to the oral sphere. The index of Carlo Maria Gabrielli’s Sermoni, for example, included such words as “dances,” “shows” and “carnival,” but made no mention at all of the world of books.19 The non-existence of discussions spotlighting the damage caused by books is confirmed by the analysis of instructions given to the clergy. Teodoro Gennari, Bishop of Veglia, when reflecting on the use of time in a book for confessors and preachers (1722), railed against the hours lost by men combing their hair or shaving or “chattering with women.” As for women, it seemed to him that they spent their days on “dressing up, tittletattling, dancing, and playing.”20 And, although in the second printing in 1723 of a pastoral letter by Bishop Barbarigo, the duty of regularly attending the sacraments was restated,21 in general it was the theatre that emerged as the greatest peril to the believer during the first half of the century. Many in fact were the moral objections made in that direction by various Italian bishops in their pastoral letters.22 And neither was there a lack of equivalent warnings to confessors, such as those penned by the Domenican Daniello Concina in a work that circulated widely in eighteenth-century Italy.23 Nonetheless, it was one thing to preach in the countryside, and another in the city; one thing to address illiterates, another the intellectual upper classes. The sporadic allusions to books and reading that were made applied to the elite. Gaetano Zuanelli, Bishop of Belluno, for example, when preaching about education, decried the terrible examples given to children by parents immersed “in games, debauchery, and dissolute pleasures” and, preaching on “lost opportunities,” he placed bad companions alongside “immodest” books, “love stories” and texts of “bitter criticism”; but the public he was addressing—“noblemen” and “greats”—was defined quite specifically.24 Having said all that, it must be emphasised that the reflections came from different voices expressing different religious and pastoral sensibilities, linked moreover to the functions of the order to which the speakers belonged and the dress they wore. It is this crucial point that allows us to understand the special diligence with which the Society of Jesus, traditionally responsible for the education of the nobles during the early modern age, took care of—then and later—the reading of young people. Suffice it to recall the sermons of the Jesuit Giovanni Granelli, who from the 1730s underscored how books could be an “arma daemonum”:25 an observation which recurred in particular in educational textbooks aimed the scions of the nobility. Another Jesuit, Carlo Gregorio Rosignoli, at the beginning of

Paper Threats

13

the century offered his Avvisi salutari alla gioventù contro a’ suoi maggiori pericoli, spelling out three dangers faced by young people: The first, which particularly strikes the heart is affection, and the friendship of bad companions, who with their bad habits infect the innocence of others. The second, damaging to the tongue, are obscene words and obscene discussions, which lead the way to depraved deeds. The third, a danger to the hands, are unrighteous games, that lead to injustices, fights and the ruin of families. While the author’s ideas about the tongue related primarily to the spoken word, the “windows that lead to death” in his opinion were “the eyes, and the ears.” The “fatal injury” was inflicted by obscenities “heard in songs” and “read in books,” and he opined that “written ones do more damage than heard ones: because they remain more fixed in the soul.”26 In the early eighteenth century, then, there was no dearth of attention to reading on the part of some sectors of the Church, nor was there a lack, alongside the Jesuits, of those who, like Giacomo Laderchi, who had launched the inquisitorial offensive against the Enlightened Catholic Celestino Galiani, were well aware that “books, and writing are to be considered in the same way that we consider speaking and discussing.” These, Laderchi explained, were nothing more than “written discussions and disputes, in which the pen takes the place of the tongue,” and he added that “while the voice is heard in only one place, the written word can be heard in many places and also passed on to future centuries.”27 Furthermore, the opposite was also true, which is to say that, especially from the 1760s onwards, when the Church launched its onslaught on the world of books, the attention paid to the dangers of orality did not slacken. From the pulpits of the churches and in the public squares, when preaching on the use of time, the clergy continued to thunder against the damage wreaked by the theatre. This was, however, also a sign of how the bishops had failed to discourage either the clergy or the laity from attending performances since the sixteenth century:28 from the arrows fired by Adeodato Quercini at Carlo Goldoni29 to the condemnation without right of appeal signed, in 1790, by the Dominican Antonino Valsecchi, according to whom the “innocent” who entered the theatre inevitably left it “broken and contaminated,” the message was clear.30 It should rather be noted that in the early eighteenth century, not everyone in the Church felt consternation about the harm caused by reading and, more importantly, that when the clergy addressed the question, it did so in reference to the elite, apparently disregarding the lower classes. Instead, towards the middle of the century, a significant change was discernible: the reading public began to appear dangerously on the increase, and reading therefore gradually emerged as one of the main hazards to which the inhabitants of the peninsula seemed exposed.

14

From the Spoken to the Written Word

2.

The Dangers of Individual Reading

At first the voices were isolated, being heard from the 1740s onwards, confirming the early launch of the conspiracy theory against the Church, which seemed to use the book as its main weapon.31 From that moment on, the Capuchin Gaetano Maria da Bergamo, in a sermon on lust, denounced their spread: Permeating many, many houses one finds novels, obscene poems, and pictures so obscene and scandalous that they can truly be called instruments of the devil, and inflame lust and lead to innumerable mortal sins being committed endlessly.32 In the 1750s, the Dominican Fulgenzio Cuniliati, in a work addressed “to all ministers of souls,” dedicated a reasoning specifically to dangerous books.33 From then onwards, moral warnings multiplied. Thus, in the Prompta bibliotheca by the Minor Observant Friar Lucio Ferraris, published in 1767–1768, devoted a full, particularised section to prohibited readings which maintained that those who disseminated, owned or read texts listed in the Index were committing a mortal sin.34 And, similarly, in 1769, the Jesuit Giambattista Roberti, in a text presented as “a new kind of speech between the declamation of the pulpit and the dissertation of the academy,”35 argued that “in our proposal of the apologias of crime, licentious books perhaps rank higher than licentious companions.” The latter did not use “the artifice of studied words,” they were rarely encountered, and in any case could repent, while “books neither feel shame, nor are their insidious campaigns any less active in the quietest of nights in the hidden-most closets of the most isolated countryside.” His call was explicit: “If up to now the zealots have fulminated against canvas, how can we not today fulminate against paper?”36 Changes to the subject matter of sermons caught the eye of contemporaries. Whereas in 1748, looking at the Novelli predicatori d’oggidì, an anonymous author had seen “conversation” rather than reading as one of the key issues of the preachers of his time and one of the great ills of the century,37 in 1781 abbot Roberti cautioned against excessive attention being given to esprits forts and the circulation of their books: “I know that this habit of the pulpit is becoming more common year by year,” he noted. Such sermon topics not only seemed to him to be dangerous—given that “showing unbelief” meant offering “a temptation in matters of faith”—but was also completely nugatory in some contexts. Such subjects, Roberti suggested, ought to be addressed only in large cities, especially university ones, and not in small places, where books were less widespread and where they would only cause “bewilderment” in the “common people.” With subtle irony, he related the example of a preacher from a mediocre city [who] alluded sometimes more openly and sometimes less so to one or another of Rousseau or Voltaire’s ideas,

The Dangers of Individual Reading

15

and I knew that nobody except one religious man owned the works of either, and that he did not lend them out. The citizens’ understanding was limited to Semiramide and Zaira.38 Thus, while poor use of time was consistently condemned, Counter-Reformist concerns resurfaced only at certain moments, along with the notion that people read too much. From the mid-century, the debate on reading, its pluses and its minuses, was also conducted on a European level, in both Catholic and Protestant countries and among both clergy and laity.39 Suffice it to recall that Voltaire made fun of the general distrust towards the printing press, albeit with reference to the Ottoman Empire.40 France, where the clergy readily proposed countermeasures for the spread of the Enlightenment, was a source of pinpoint suggestions. Conversation was “a sudden image,” and writing “a licentious and long-lasting painting” able to inflict long-term injury: these were the teachings of Gabriel Gauchat, one of the chief opponents of Enlightenment culture, contained in his monumental Lettres critiques (1755–1763), which was translated into Italian in the 1780s and which we will return to later.41 In Italy, Alfonso de’ Liguori offered an explicit reflection along the same lines in his Dissertatio de justa prohibitione et abolitione librorum nocuae lectionis, a harsh indictment against the circulation of books and in defence of Church censorship, which provoked controversy on its publication in Naples (1759). According to him, what the Bible taught about evil talk was relevant also to harmful reading: If the spoken word, which immediately flies away, can spread like a cancer and inflict mortal wounds, how much greater damage can be caused by a bad book, which can be a permanent source of destruction? An ungodly book can enter any house, which an author perhaps could never enter. . . . Anything we read, in fact, takes over our mind in a profound way and passes easily into the soul. Just as good readings encourage virtue, bad reading drives people to vice, and this happens all the more easily because men are by nature more inclined to vice than to virtue.42 De’ Liguori took many well-known Biblical passages in which the Apostle Paul warned of the dangers of the spoken word and adapted them to the written word, starting from the exhortation to “avoid godless chatter, because those who indulge in it will become more and more ungodly” (2 Timothy 2:16, New International Version). De’ Liguori insisted that “that verb ‘to avoid’ warns not only against conversation with heretics, but also against their written works.”43 He was not the only one. The apostle’s “Watch your life and doctrine closely. Persevere in them, because if you do, you will save both yourself and your hearers” (1 Timothy 4:16, NIV) was turned into a very different warning: “Watch your life, and what you read.”44 By the

16

From the Spoken to the Written Word

1770s, these reinterpretations were deeply rooted and extended to many verses of Scripture. The quotation made by Paul in 1 Corinthians 15:33: “evil conversations corrupt good manners,” was transposed by Ildefonso da Bressanvido into a different context: books, in fact, “are nothing more than written words,” and reading was a form of conversation.45 Also in France, Nicolas Jamin published in 1774 the Traité de la lecture chrétienne, a work central to our analysis, which was translated into Italian in 1784.46 He used the Scriptures loosely, so to speak, for example when referring to the previously cited passage from 1 Corinthians regarding “evil conversations,” which the Church fathers had always taken literally.47 These were the words of Jamin: “Evil conversations, as Menander said, quoted by Saint Paul, corrupt good morals,” but for him the proverb “tell me who you walk with, and I will tell you who you are,” also offered advice about reading and could be changed to “tell me what kind of books you usually read, and I will tell you who you are.” In his opinion, in fact, “an evil reading is usually more seductive than an evil conversation,” or at least—he contended—this was the case for the pernicious books typical of the century. In speech, on the other hand, everything “is less weighted; the trap stretched artlessly, is more easily discovered.” He therefore concluded that “the law which forbids us to listen to impure words, naturally forbids us also to fix our eyes on books representing them.”48 In this sense, the changes made around that time to sermons about scandal are also noteworthy: as an obstacle in the journey towards God, scandal was always defined, in the words of Thomas Aquinas, as “something less rightly said or done that occasions spiritual downfall” and was deemed to be an extremely grave sin because the falsehood it conveyed was potentially long-lasting and far-reaching.49 At the beginning of the eighteenth century, scandal was seen as something mostly related to the spoken word, in other words to bad talk, or even misbehaviour: for Gabriello Maria da Brescia, he sinned by scandal who by “speaking, or acting, [gave] an incentive to others to sin,” and da Brescia believed conversations were potentially much more dangerous than book reading.50 In the course of the century, on the other hand, scandal became increasingly associated with the written world as well. Thus, according to the Jesuit Jacopo Antonio Bassani, those guilty of the sin of scandal included he “who lends a hand and assists licentious or lewd or seditious or impious writings.”51 And the Domenican Valsecchi warned: “Do not think, however, that scandalising evil is portrayed only on the stage” for it more usually appears “in books of gallantry and novels” or “in improper paintings and statues.”52 The gradual shift of attention away from the dangers of oral language to those of the written word does not necessarily evidence a sudden increase in the number of readers, a point to which we will return. It instead reveals a change in the perception of members of the Church, which was linked to the profound cultural upheavals that impacted on Europe during the eighteenth century, primarily the blossoming of the Enlightenment movement.53

The Dangers of Individual Reading

17

It was in fact in reaction to the emergence of the issues debated by the philosophes—initially perceived as novice Luthers and then as Lucretius resurrected—that preachers and moralists began again to fear that the peninsula’s inhabitants were reading too much and, worse still, that reading was spreading to large sections of the population. As we will see, it gradually became clear that the philosophes’ books added to the Index referred to cultural categories that had little to do with the epidemic of Protestant heresy. Consequently, while pointing to the new prohibited writings, Dominicans such as Tommaso Vincenzo Moniglia and Concina launched offensives against the variegated sect of “tolerantism” (tolerantismo), of deism and of materialism. Moniglia, as Professor of Holy Scripture and Church History at the University of Pisa, in contending with the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century crisis of religious consciousness, addressed students in particular,54 whereas Concina, in his Della religione rivelata, written “at the suggestion of our most wise Pope Benedict XIV” in order to “save the faithful from disbelief,”55 targeted a wider public when giving vent to his concerns about the circulation of books in Europe. He observed that in his time, in some countries, “barefaced luxuriant and arrogant impiety” appeared “publicly and in book production, and on the lips of libertines, and in the conversations between beaus and belles where, with shameless impudence, the aphorisms of disbelief are disseminated.” This was no longer a matter of “heresies,” which “left the mind some freedom to interpret for itself the mysteries of religion,” as had occurred in previous centuries. The situation was much more serious because religion itself was called into question. For this very purpose “those many books which nowadays are to be seen everywhere are purposely produced to savagely attack the fundamentals of religion.” Through the press, unbelievers attempted to propagate what seemed to Concina not “a notional ghost,” but a “real plague,” albeit not yet in Italy, but instead in England and Holland (unequivocal proof, to his mind, of the Protestant origins of deism). Concina warned that books contained new subjects and dangers: books by atheists and deists, described as “masked atheists,” and propagators of “tolerantism,” whose fathers included John Locke and Pierre Bayle, and which by “their nature” led to atheism. Indeed, for him, all non-Catholic confessions risked leading people to atheism by dint of being subject to “various interpretations.” The only secure faith, thanks to the infallibility of the Church, was Roman Catholicism.56 In 1756, de’ Liguori, alarmed by the spread of irreligious texts in Naples, published the Breve dissertazione contro gli errori de’ moderni increduli.57 A year earlier, in France, Gauchat had countered the new “system of tolerance” with an absolute certainty: “No, Christians have not abandoned and will never abandon the spirit of intolerance: it is the spirit of truth.”58 Then, in 1757, the lawyer Jacob-Nicolas Moreau, in an article published in “Mercure de France” alerted public opinion to what he considered the cultural imperialism of the Enlightenment and sounded the alarm against the

18

From the Spoken to the Written Word

“cacouacs.”59 Given these new dangers, it was apparent that the spread of books constituted a terrible threat to the Catholic faith and to religion itself. Such fears of course applied also to the oral transmission of works written60 in a world in which the art of reading naturally contemplated two paths: as Louis de Jaucourt recalled in the Encyclopédie, “once learned, you can carry out this operation by sight, or aloud,” in the second case “to flatter the listeners’ ears.”61 Nevertheless, it seemed that reading was more dangerous than listening, especially when it came to individual readings. If the birth of writing had been a turning point in human history by enabling the accumulation of knowledge, access to written texts offered the opportunity to develop critical faculties: a terrible situation in the eyes of many. “What you listen to,” Jaucourt continued, “is intended to pass quickly, what you read is digested at leisure. You can easily return to the same passages, and comfortably discuss, so to speak, each sentence.” In comparison to recitation and reading out loud, which he thought had more seductive power, individual and “dispassionate” reading was more useful: “To grasp the whole fruit, you need silence, rest and meditation.” In short, “the eye is a more severe censor and a more accurate scrutineer than the ear.”62 Books could be lifelong companions: the possibility of reading and rereading, and thus of reflecting, opened the door to doubt and—to borrow Jack Goody’s telling phrase—to a “accumulated scepticism” seemingly absent from societies with no access to literature.63

3.

Disbelief, the Sin of the Century

In effect, in the eighteenth century, not only did the Church renew its awareness of the fearsome effects of reading, but a change was also registered in the nature of the associated dangers. While in the age of the CounterReformation the Church had seen books mainly as potential instruments for the spread of the Protestant heresy, in the eighteenth century, the risks appeared more varied. Recreating this chain of events requires a grasp of important continuities with the past on the one hand,64 and of significant changes linked to newly gained knowledge on the other. It is a story to be followed, while bearing in mind that its subject matter did not concern the Italian Peninsula alone, but also involved many moralists of Catholic Europe deployed in a new crusade against books. Although the relationship between forbidden reading and sin was well rooted in the past, this connection foresaw various nuances: reading could be viewed either as a “deadly sin”65 in itself or, in a more moderate interpretation, as a simple occasion of mortal sin.66 Furthermore, the reasons for reading were deemed decisive because it was evil intentions that led to the death of the soul.67 The content of books was also to be considered. A careful distinction was made between reading books with indecent subjects, which was a mortal sin, and reading those with amorous themes that presented an opportunity for sin, albeit one that was almost always taken.68

Disbelief, the Sin of the Century

19

The boundary between opportunity for sin and out-and-out sinning, however, became ever more imperceptible from the 1760s onwards. Suffice it to recall that in 1767, de’ Liguori gave voice to a widespread opinion when declaring that voluntarily exposing oneself to probable temptation was in itself a sin.69 Reading was associated with sin since it was closely linked to behaviour, as the previously quoted words of Apostle Paul in 1 Corinthians 15:33, reinterpreted as a warning against the written word, taught. Reading could change individuals profoundly, as evidenced by an example given by Liguori, in which by reading an “obscene” book a “fine” young man had become so “depraved” as to be such a “scandal of everybody” that he was eventually exiled from his country. The mere possession of a dangerous volume, even if unread, corrupted morals, as de’ Liguori again taught with a story of another young man who, being unable to “sin with a young woman,” sent her a book about love “and thus made her lose . . . her soul.”70 In a word, it was impossible to defend oneself against books, especially when reading alone. The following reflection by Ildefonso da Bressanvido made this crystal clear: With any spoken artifice that someone uses to seduce us, we feel that our heart is offended: and neither honesty nor propriety allows us to listen to it without some internal agitation or blushing; and usually this easily cancels out the impression made on us. But the perverse and obscene book is read by our own choice, and because only we are aware of it, without blushing. From this follows that the mind is so entranced by the pleasure it finds in reading, that it does not even think about the damage it does, and in this way it enjoys drinking down all the poison.71 But what sinful actions did prohibited texts lead to? They mainly had to do with the world of passion. The link, no stranger to the pedagogy of the Counter-Reformation,72 was theorised meticulously in 1694 by JacquesBénigne Bossuet,73 who demonstrated the definitive shift in focus, initiated in the late sixteenth century, of the reflection on reading from the theological sphere to that of morality. This shift coincided with, and to some extent triggered, a new direction in the activities of the Inquisition, which, by expanding its field of intervention, changed “from being a heresy court to a court of collective morality.”74 According to Bossuet, reading teasingly nudged the reader towards concupiscence and therefore could play an impermissible role in the workings of sexuality. This was a theme that recurred even in the eighteenth century, as can be traced in the works of thinkers from a variety of cultural traditions: from the Capuchin Gaetano Maria da Bergamo75 to the Jesuit Antonfrancesco Bellati,76 from Lodovico Antonio Muratori77 to Ildefonso da Bressanvido.78 In fact, concupiscence was not simply lust, in that it pertained to more than the sexual sphere: as theorised again by Bossuet, it was

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From the Spoken to the Written Word

an “insatiable desire to experiment and to know . . . which . . . leads one to cross the limits of the wise sobriety so recommended by Saint Paul.”79 And in this yearning for knowledge one should not go too far in reading “above all new books, novels, comedies, poems.” The desire to read was nothing more “than amusement and ostentation. A regrettable nosiness that . . . dries out the source of alms.”80 Lust was perceived as a looming threat even in the eighteenth century. Leonardo da Porto Maurizio, when giving instruction on how to conduct confession, had no doubts: better to start the dialogue with the faithful from the sixth commandment (“thou shalt not commit adultery”), “because purged as the penitent then is of this mire, he walks more freely, and neither will be anxious about all the rest.”81 Nevertheless—as the anonymous author of Novelli predicatori d’oggidì noted—lust changed its name, using the aliases of “conversation, gallantry [cicisbeismo], the soft life, platonic love, and such like.”82 But much more importantly, reading now risked leading not only to the loss of the “true” faith, that of Catholicism, or driving people towards lust. To put it another way, the desire for knowledge did not stop when faced with religion, for the feared outcome was the loss of faith tout court. Many subscribed to the blunt certainty of Gauchat: at no time had “disbelief been produced more boldly, and spread more widely.”83 This kind of reflection was shared by a large section of the clergy as a part of the philosophes’ literature became radicalised in a materialist way. Having expressed atheist ideas in his Lettre sur les aveugles of 1749, four years later, Denis Diderot published his De l’interprétation de la nature; then in 1758, Claude-Adrien Helvétius’s De l’esprit was published; and in 1770, Baron d’Holbach’s Système de la nature appeared.84 It was in this period that the printed word took shape, within ecclesiastical imaginary, as the prime facilitator of disbelief,85 and the reactions were not long delayed. For example, in 1765, Father Francesco Antonio Arici reflected that people had sinned in every era but, just as no man commits every sin possible, so every age was distinguished by specific vices. But he believed that this rule did not apply to the eighteenth century because the “weakening” of Christianity had made it worse than all others.86 And according to Valsecchi (1776), ungodliness had battled against religion in the past, but “books that fire several shining almost poisoned arrows that strike against it make this fact more evident and solemn. Their number is surprising, their audacity intolerable.”87 It was no coincidence that he wrote about reading in relation to a “speculative and practical atheism.”88 In short, the variety of publications targeted to no avail by the Congregation of the Index, by the Inquisition and from the pulpits of Italy’s churches seemed to be posing a forbidden question: to use the words of Valsecchi, “in the eighteenth century it wanted to know if God existed.”89 The Enlightenment attempt to found a new social morality was answered by denouncing a new alliance: that between reading, immorality and disbelief. Immorality, lust and libertinage seemed to be common traits of

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unbelievers, deists and those within the substantial ranks of “tolerantism.”90 The new alliance, then, superseded the Counter-Reformist bond between reading, immorality and heresy, as well as that between reading and lust, which seems to have strengthened during the seventeenth century. However, all this appeared to be twisted together in a circular process: “It is beyond doubt,” the Jesuit Bellati had declared perceptively in 1745, “that lechery, more than any other vice, leads by its nature to atheism.”91 In consequence, the reflection on reading ended up within the compass of new commandments. By tradition, it related mainly to three: the fourth (“honour thy father and mother”), on the basis of which parents guided their children’s education by controlling their reading; the sixth (“thou shalt not commit adultery”) and the ninth (“thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife”), which connected reading to concupiscence.92 But now the fifth commandment (“thou shalt not kill”) was increasingly linked to reading—in so far as reading was seen as something that could mortally wound the soul93—as was also the first (“thou shalt have no other god before me”).94 For instance, in the 1770s the Discorso sulla parola di Dio by the priest Giovanni Battista Arignani called for young people to be kept well away from “those books, invented to build, . . . by demolishing religion, the ruinous broken building of the most uncontrolled desires.”95 The greatest fear was that reading might spread the germs of atheism and deism, which diminished the authority of the clergy. But all this was connected, more generally, with freedom of conscience: reading “bad books” gave strength, in the words of abbot Tommaso Campastri, to “the fatal freedom of thinking and discussing.”96

4.

Hidden Poisons: On Novels and Pleasure Books

The reflection on reading during the century of Enlightenment was also transformed by the renewal of ancient literary genres. In effect, as contemporaries noted, while “countless” books were “a new manifestation of ancient lies,” the “means” by which they expressed themselves had multiplied: impiety found a way to “enter novels, tragedies, history, dictionaries, philosophy, and books on critique and legislation.”97 Traditionally, all types of reading were permeated by specific dangers, and these could have different effects.98 In the eighteenth century, through the wide circulation of the so-called literature of entertainment or enjoyment, of which the novel was the most original product, a significant change of direction took place in Europe, leading to a potential increase in the number of readers. While it is true that the moralists lamented “an ideological forgery,” they were in fact voicing common fears rather than testifying to an incontrovertible rise. Even so, indirect analyses, such as that of the catalogues of the Leipzig book fair, do indeed point to significant new trends, namely an increase in the number of titles and editions available, as well as a decline in Latin texts with a concomitant growth of those in the vernacular, in particular books intended to be read

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From the Spoken to the Written Word

purely for pleasure.99 As for Italy, translations of European, French and English novels (the latter translated from French versions) initially flooded the publishing market, but in the 1750s, homegrown production got under way, beginning in Venice.100 The literacy rates in Catholic Europe naturally urge caution, all the more so for the Italian Peninsula where there was also a marked difference between the north and the south in this regard.101 Nevertheless, none of this deterred the conservative clergy from taking careful note of what was happening. When reviewing the reflections of the time, it is useful to distinguish between the dangers of reading in general and those of reading literary or pleasure books, which, of all secular works, appeared particularly deleterious because of the size of the intended readership. Suffice it to recall how de’ Liguori argued that reading Boccaccio’s Decameron, which he categorised as a novel, was—for its ability to enchant the uncultured and to influence moral behaviour—much worse than reading the works of Luther and Calvin. Not for nothing did he emphasise the spread of “several booklets, called novels,” which “every day circulate everywhere, passing from one house to another, and even getting into the hands of ingenious adolescents.”102 As Roberti noted, in contrast to “metaphysical” books, novels reached “a multitude.”103 Pleasure books thus caused great concern, in some ways far more than heretical works, whose circulation had in any case been curbed. For this reason, the production of novels and the like was generally refused an autonomy that would commend indulgence by the Church: that is, no provision was made for the excuse of creative genius. Gauchat taught that the use of metaphor and allegory might well indicate poetic licence, but this was still a way of spreading error and impiety.104 Poetry, theatre and novels were often grouped together in the critiques of moralists and preachers for their common interest in style, which ultimately magnified the adverse effects of their works given that the danger inherent in them was hidden.105 Another commonality of pleasure works was the possibility of creating characters to take the rap for the offensive words and actions composed by the author.106 Yet another shared feature concerned the passions of the soul—first and foremost love—which an author had to have felt before transferring it to paper, thereby betraying his guilt: as a contemporary pointed out, poets often write when they are corrupted by love. He who “represents a passion properly” is “in some way touched by it; and the passion voluntarily impressed in the soul it will be difficult . . . to remove entirely so that there does not remain some spark that can easily be rekindled.”107 In this sense, watching a theatre show or reading a novel produced much the same effects, and therefore the dangers traditionally cited with reference to poetry and theatre also applied to novels. For Muratori “the writers of novels” were nothing but “poets in prose.”108 Roberti’s negative opinion of the genre was fuelled not only by the example offered by the French Jesuit Louis Bourdaloue,109 but also by Bossuet’s Maximes et réflexions sur la

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comédie (1694), which had been translated into Italian at the beginning of the century,110 and which Roberti admired for its analysis of contents rather than that of the possible harm of theatrical productions.111 Reading pleasure books could, moreover, damage health, according to a source predating the eighteenth century and bearing traces of both the Protestant and Catholic worlds.112 In France, the theory was developed by, among others, Bossuet, who, in a study of plays, novels and poems, maintained that those who over-indulged in these “no longer possessed themselves. . . . Because all of this is nothing but an intemperance, a disease, a disorder of the mind, a hardening of the heart, a wretched captivity.”113 Reading was thus subjected to a process of medicalisation.114 By exciting the imagination it impaired the faculty of self-control and caused confusion between the worlds of reality and make-believe. Moreover—as Muratori argued in the 1740s, with reference to Homer, Virgil, Ariosto, Tasso and others—apart from stimulating lust, books could give rise to “illnesses of the human body.”115 This was a topos destined to endure since nobody harboured any serious doubts about the links between reading literary works and the unpredictable heightening of fantasy. For Roberti, reading novels “revives a person’s faculty of wicked imagination” since “the soul loses its beautiful colour through sad reading just as the body loses it in the sad air: it dims and falls ill.”116 However, it should be noted that taking pleasure in different genres presupposed taking different routes to sin. Theatre brought everyday life to the stage, portraying people under the influence of human ills and thereby enticing the audience to identify with them and so become directly and immediately contaminated: in Bossuet’s words, “a spectator on the outside, is a secret actor on the inside.”117 As for novels, while the argument against them was fuelled in part by topoi used in the past and on criticisms of the theatre, in other respects, it focused attention on what appeared to be the specific reception of the novel: the fact that the experience was personal and thus extremely captivating.118 Condemned as much by the Jansenists as by the Jesuits, who waged war against them in the pages of Mémoires de Trévoux,119and also marked by the eagle eye of the state censorship,120 the novel was identified by its content, which was nothing more than a love story and ergo dangerous by definition.121 It was associated, as in previous centuries,122 with the sphere of concupiscence and consequently belonged to the category of impure books “in which”—to use the words of the Jesuit Bellati—“all evils germinate.” Although “shameless” and overtly licentious books did considerable harm, those capable of “softening the heart” did even more: [They are] pernicious . . . also because they don’t seem to be so, and people trust them! One might read in a novel, by way of an example, about the vicissitudes of a heroine, who on the one hand is described as being highly virtuous, and on the other hand is described as being

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From the Spoken to the Written Word in thrall to great passion. But he who, in reading, admires her virtue, bit by bit starts to love her passion; he interrupts his reading without noticing; he exclaims and applauds without being aware of it; he goes back to reading what he’s already read like a flame that suddenly alights on a greasy surface, licks it, flees, and then returns. As his mind chews the food that his eyes devour by reading, he is no longer a reader, but an actor: he loves, fears, hopes, despairs. And all these passions, which he reads about and now feels, and which are refreshed by reading, are displayed on his face and nature, which is innocent, cannot conceal the heartfelt pain in his eyes. I will not say that such reading, animated by so much vehemence, is always a desire, but I will say that it is more than reading, and that he who do not wish to expose himself to its most subtle poison, which steals into confused feelings, should guard himself jealously.123

The question of personal involvement, relevant also to the theatre, is a trope to be found, for example, in Muratori.124 However, the novel probed the intimacy of the individual, thus giving voice to his innermost desires and secrets, and it did so even when giving examples of the struggle against the evils of the world, in other words models of virtue. It thus appeared the realm par excellence of doubt and individual conscience, and not by chance its reading was depicted as a solitary and individual activity.125 A fundamental transformation was one of several changes that occurred in the sphere of books from the mid-eighteenth century onwards: after being seen as a pernicious medium designed to stir up desire, the novel was remodelled, in the clerical imagination, into an instrument capable of overthrowing the established order, that is, as a device closely associated with philosophie.126 This way of thinking originated in France, where in 1736 the Jesuit Charles Porée had warned against the spread of works whose purpose was to corrupt minds and destroy “the simplicity, modesty and decency of women.”127 There also, in 1755, Armand-Pierre Jacquin, in his indictment Entretiens sur les romans, not only described novels as a useless waste of time that brought about ruin by stimulating the libido, since he went on to define them as pagan products that were not merely devoid of religious purpose, but rather were in every respect contrary to the Christian spirit and purposed to subvert the religious, political and social world:128 “You will see, almost in all of them,” he reflected, “divine rights and human justice violated; authority of parents over their children despised; holy bonds of marriage and friendship broken.” And again, “novels do not tend only to disturb peace in the family, but they overthrow the most necessary order useful to preserving society.”129 Appraising, in order to reject, the considered judgment made in 1670 by Bishop Pierre-Daniel Huet, who in his Traité de l’origine des romans had defended the literary and moral dignity of the genre,130 Jacquin condemned en masse the entire production of novels, including in his definition of the genre various works by authors

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from Ariosto to Milton, and from Rabelais to Montesquieu and Voltaire. He, however, historicised the discourse, being well aware of the genre’s modernisation: Books of chivalry changed the mind of our fathers, above all of the Spaniards: works by de la Calprenède, and Madame de Scudéry, created the Précieuses. Now these frivolous, voluptuous and impious little brochures which appear every day increase the levity of the nation, libertinage and irreligion.131 Whereas chivalric romance had reinforced superstition, the new novels boosted impiety. Bayle was one of the first to “attack on the most indisputable evidence of religion,” but his argument, Jacquin opined, “was too speculative, too deep, too erudite, to be intelligible to everyone, and consequently it became less dangerous.”132 Conversely, contemporary novels— from the Lettres persanes to Zadig, whose authors nevertheless seemed to him to be Bayle’s progenies—had a large readership because their dangerous function was “to amuse.” Extending to the novel the disturbing techniques traditionally associated with the theatre, Jacquin declared that without exception “each novelist lent to his hero his depraved emotions, and pretended to obtain approval, in fictional beings, for things that readers would have despised in the writer.” The disastrous upshot was the rise of doubt, because “the first effect produced by reading of novels is a prejudice, which seems a precaution needed to discover the truth.”133 Jacquin, moreover, did not halt at denouncing the pathological effects of reading novels because his main purpose was to highlight the correlation between reading and madness. He claimed that the effects of reading novels included “madness,” since “it is impossible to often lose yourself in fictional thoughts without becoming familiar with them, without adopting them”; and “reason and madness are enemies too irreconcilable to ever be united.”134 The fact that madness could be furthered by an excess of imagination, stimulated in turn by the reading of chivalric novels, had been amply demonstrated by Don Quixote (1605–1615), which eighteenth-century medical textbooks quoted to illustrate the point.135 A similar tale was related by Marivaux in Pharsamon ou les nouvelles folies romanesques (1737), later republished under the title Le don Quichotte moderne (1765), immortalising another character enthralled by knightly adventures.136 It was in the eighteenth century, moreover, that the idea of madness caused by identification with characters from literature became a veritable topos, of which Domenico Cimarosa’s Armida immaginaria, first performed in Naples in 1777, was an example of Italy’s contribution.137 However, sickness and madness were not the only possible side effects of reading licentious books. In the eighteenth century, the idea that it could also induce melancholy took root, as medical manuals of the time bear witness.138 But madness had taken on a new look: it was no longer the madness

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From the Spoken to the Written Word

of Erasmus’s itinerary of the sage, nor was it the kindly madness of Don Quixote and Pharsamon, whose loss of reason was linked to naivety and extreme, absurd generosity.139 Nor was it even the madness of Muratori, who held that the damage caused by reading fictitious prose, apart from lust, led to the spread of false beliefs, particularly witchcraft, and “other outlandish ideas” contrary to “rational philosophy.”140 Rather, the newlook madness was one that subverted the religious and political order, being destined to produce collective damage. In pausing to consider the French detractors, we are reminded that Gauchat, who had a clear grasp of the educational nature of the novel, made a valuable contribution to the redefinition of the perils inherent in the new genre. “The novel,” he wrote in reference to the Lettres persanes, “becomes a history and real lesson.”141 Gauchat investigated the havoc caused by concupiscence and, before the Nouvelle Héloïse was added to the Index (that is, in 1806), advanced a detailed rejection of Rousseau’s novel on the grounds that it was more dangerous than manifestly obscene works. Its characters were not grossly licentious: they made as if their profane love was a virtue, almost a celestial flame, and offered access to hidden intrigue.142 If Rousseau had really wanted to put forward an edifying model of virtue for Christian women, he would have offered a salutary lesson. But this is not what he did, since it was beyond belief that Julie, an impassioned reader, would repent and turn into a pedantic housewife. Although stressing that the novel did in fact incite passion, Gauchat drew attention to what he saw as the real danger posed by the work: what, he asked, did Julie teach her children about religion, since she did not make them to learn anything by heart, not even the catechism? She hid behind philosophie, which prompted parents to educate children as sceptics. What was more, her children seemed to have been born without vices: thus the novel denied original sin. And finally, Volmar represented a typical deist: referring to himself as a Christian in all that he understood, he granted only superficial respect to everything else. Behind his mask lay the virtuous atheist described by Bayle, and yet he was an impossible figure: an atheist without vices and passions did not exist, and conjuring up such a man was to deny revelation. Deep down, Rousseau had sought to set out “a plan for tolerance,” but Gauchat said, “a true believer must be intolerant, that is, he must be sure, by taking the path of truth, that people attacking it are in the wrong.”143 With regards to Italy, the changes made in the reflection on novels followed the same basic direction as elsewhere. Whereas in the mid-1750s they were seen to stimulate desire,144 in de’ Liguori’s aforementioned dissertation of 1759 novels, that is stories of “amorous incidents and stratagems,” especially when read “in solitude and idleness,” incited on the one hand “souls to profane love” and, on the other, encouraged them to “turn away from God.”145 In 1769, Roberti disseminated in Italy both Jacquin’s Entretiens and Gauchat’s Lettres,146 spelling out that reading books, especially novels, for entertainment led to “three losses”: of time, of affection and of

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“devotion,” because when reading people forget their love of God. In 1775, Anastasio Furno published the discourse De’ libri amatori, ed osceni, e de’ romanzi, in which he recalled that several popes, beginning with Pius IV, had rightly banned the reading of similar texts and that Carlo Borromeo in the second council of Milan in 1569 had ordered them to be burned.148 However, as the former Jesuit Francescantonio Zeccaria (1777) said, the most frightening thing was the “prejudiced frame of mind with which the majority go to read them.” Such books ended up legitimising misconduct, justifying what readers perhaps wanted, but were afraid to do: “A reading that brings you what the heart longs for most, casts a powerful spell that can turn the reader into a libertine, even an atheist, at least in practice.”149 So for Giuseppe Manzoni (1780), the novel was born “in the impure chambers of our philosophes.”150 And in the Italian translation (1784) of Jamin’s educational work, Placido a Scolastica, it featured as the most effective tool of religious scepticism.151 After 1789, the preacher Pier Luigi Grossi counted the novel among the works of the philosophes: he argued that Rousseau, Voltaire and the other “libertine writers”—including Fréret and d’Alembert whom he also held to be authors of the genre—had tried to create a new morality opposed to that of the Gospel. For them the “most voluptuous outbursts and most studied sensuality” were “the rights of man.” Their books had corrupted the hearts of loyal subjects and led them to overthrow kings. The link between novels and revolution was conclusively borne out by events: impiety, associated with a general moral debauchery, had inflicted irreparable damage within the realms of religion and politics.152 The revolution was not, of course, carried out only by novels or any kind of book, although there was no lack of reflections in Europe that went along such lines.153 Be that as it may, it was true that novels helped to bring the individual, his thoughts and desires to the fore, and so it is quite admissible to claim that they had played a pivotal role in the birth of individual conscience and had helped open the way to secularisation and the vindication of the rights of man.154 It is no coincidence that the years 1750–1760, when the production of novels spiralled upwards—despite following different timelines across Europe—and coincided with the increase of works by the philosophes,155 had been accompanied by the rise and consolidation, in circles hostile to the Enlightenment culture, of a long-lasting stereotype. The novel appeared as a form of reading capable of attacking the established order, and it must not be overlooked that this stereotype was to have a long history in the nineteenth century when it would be perceived as an instrument of political and social upheaval. Before it became a danger principally to the working classes between the 1820s and 1840s, it was, in the eyes of the reactionaries, the most subversive product created by the liberals, who, it was said, promoted the circulation of novels, chiefly French ones, as a deliberate strategy for the toppling of kings. Reading them led people away from the true faith, and as an essentially secular product, they unsettled collective morality.156

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From the Spoken to the Written Word

5.

New Readers for a Deluge of Libels

Another feature that appeared on the scene during the 1760s and 1770s was the burgeoning reading public, which drew attention not only for its ever-increasing size, but also for its complete lack of respect for the norms of the Index. It included of course the elite, but the new literary genres threatened to reach out to other sectors of society considered to be particularly fragile and malleable, above all the youth who had always seemed and still seemed the most vulnerable of all. While their voices echoed traditional concerns, the moralists did not use abstract rhetorical concepts, but instead historicised the debate by making reference to a generation brought up with prohibited reading, a generation that appeared to have—and in fact had—embraced new values. After the revolution, in a homily of 1790, Adeodato Turchi, Bishop of Parma, was precise in his identification of a huge chasm that had opened between the generations, causing Christian mothers and fathers to lament “the incorrigible libertinage of their children.” The philosophes had seduced them, to the point that they saw in their parents nothing more than “censors and the interfering enemies of their freedom, an annoying impediment to the release of their passions.” They had been brought up on the catechism, but had read it alongside “impious books,” leading them to demand “freedom of thought.”157 Another group watched with particular diligence was that of the lower classes. More than a few observers feared that dangerous books could end up in the hands of “so many idiots, incapable of discerning, and of rejecting the poison.”158 The fears regarding the spread of the Enlightenment and the rise of the reading public proceeded as one. From the time that the world “wanting to be a philosophe no longer seemed Christian”—as abbot Campastri put it in 1778—the “fatal freedom to think and discuss” appeared to have “blighted the people who until recently had a virtuous simplicity and a refined holy integrity.” The danger was clear: This part of the Church, mostly innocent and uninfluenced by the divine light, which makes cultured and learned people wary, is now more gullible, more easily seduced, and prejudiced about the august maxims of religion and Christian living.159 The female public seemed to be especially exposed to the dangers of reading, and the discourse apropos of this once again took a traditional line. Heeding the teachings of the Apostle Paul, who had offered women a model of knowledge to draw on through orality alone,160 the pedagogy of the Counter-Reformation had placed precise limits on women’s reading: a good father was supposed to ensure that his daughter said her prayers and read the lives of the saints, all the time steering her towards the practical skills useful for household tasks.161 In eighteenth-century Italy, not a few subtle

New Readers for a Deluge of Libels

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differences of opinion were expressed by preachers and moralists about women being allowed to read;162 likewise, there was no lack of reservations regarding the matter in European Enlightenment culture itself.163 But what is worthy of special note is the fact that, whereas in the early eighteenth century the sins of women mainly revolved around such issues as vanity and luxury,164 in the following decades, they increasingly centred on reading. “The passion for reading,” Turchi reflected, “has now become a furore. Women want to distinguish themselves in this, often letting themselves be seen with a book in hand.” The ramifications of this appeared to him harmful and likely to subvert family and social roles: That serpent which wanted Eve to be learned wanted it for no other reason than to harm her children. The women of the past read less . . . but with less reading there was a greater number of modest daughters, and Christian wives and good mothers. People read less, but had more religion and more fear of God.165 The focus was on young women, but control over female reading habits needed to be exercised promptly. Hence women, in the eighteenth century, ended up being grouped with young men and sometimes the lower classes.166 Their feminine “nature” and their extreme suggestibility—much like the youth’s—exacerbated the injurious effects that reading had on them. Women were also grouped with “rough” young men because of the difficulty they had in distinguishing between serious and petty misdeeds: theologians noted—for example, in the Biblioteca per li parrochi—that “some, especially uncouth young men, and women, repeatedly offend in grave matters that they believe to be negligible.”167 Such points would be made through the centuries and, with the definitive shift from the theological to the scientific sphere, would be given new expression in the nineteenth century in the fields of medicine and anthropology. Still, women had something that long marked them out from all other readers. They were not only inordinately curious and lazy—as per Pauline teaching—but, chiefly because of their physical fragility which stemmed from the uterus (as Jean Astruc’s mid-eighteenth-century medical bestseller, Traité des maladies des femmes, explained),168 but they also had a melancholic character and a particularly vivid imagination. Reading did nothing but amplify this natural propensity for fantasising, heightening the risk of mental instability and even insanity.169 What was more, the fact that women were constantly prey to their melancholic temperament, then seen as a pathology, could occasion a measure of charity: better to use the cure of the physician than the severity of the judge.170 Indeed, de’ Liguori counted women among those with diminished responsibility (impediti), together with the old, infirm, young and poor: to his mind, women should be spared the excommunication envisaged by the papal bull In coena Domini for readers of heretical books.171

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It should however be noted that this way of thinking did not belong uniquely to the clergy, for theologians and the medical profession saw things in much the same way. At the end of the century, medicine made a significant contribution to the exclusion of women from the cultural, as well as political, world, by medicalising certain sins.172 This important fact requires a clear grasp of whether and how the link between reading and madness had by then consolidated in European and Italian thought, particularly in relation to the spread of novels and the growth of female readership. The doctor Pierre Pomme (1735–1812) argued that “it may be that among all the causes which harmed women’s health, the multiplication of novels has been the most important,”173 while Simon André Tissot issued a blunt warning to mothers: “If your daughter reads novels at fifteen years of age, she’ll have an attack of nerves at twenty.”174 Thus, in Italy, in the farce Le convulsioni (1784), the Marquis Francesco Albergati Capacelli illustrated the effects on the female nervous system caused by reading such works as Candide, La nouvelle Héloïse, and the Système de la nature, thereby giving credence (that of an on-stage doctor) to a widely held medical theory.175 There was then a general transition, thanks to “moral” medicine, from the infernal punishment threatened by soulwinners to the “bogeyman of terrible punishment to physical health.”176 Casting an eye briefly over the beginning of the nineteenth century, we find that Doctor Jean-Étienne Dominique Esquirol, one of the fathers of psychiatry, attributed to women a certain predisposition to “nervous disorders” in a thesis of 1805 titled Des passions. And, when listing the vices of upbringing that could trigger these conditions, he mentioned, in addition to the abuse of music and theatregoing, the spread of novels, whose reading stimulates in the young a precocious activity that heightens the imagination, inspires in them ideas of an imaginary perfection that they wish to acquire, and causes despair when they do not find that perfection anywhere.177 From a historical perspective, all these reflections indicate that the fear expressed in 1614 by Cardinal Roberto Bellarmino in a letter to provincial inquisitors about the actual effectiveness of the Index of Prohibited Books had become fact.178 Instead of functioning as a court of conscience, the Index risked serving as a free publicity machine for publishers. The consultors called to express their censorship judgments during the eighteenth century were aware of this possibility, which was confirmed by the commercial success of banned works, like the burlesque anticlerical poem Ricciardetto (1738), which quickly became a bestseller.179 In fact, the production of books deemed harmful or at least suspect seemed, and in fact was, persistently expanding.180 The traditional metaphor of plague and contamination, which since the Counter-Reformation

New Readers for a Deluge of Libels

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181

had depicted Italy as a land to be saved from a transalpine pandemic, was thus joined by a new one: that of flooding, which Gauchat had introduced to France in the mid-1750s when referring to a “deluge of miserable libels which inundate Christianity.”182 In mid-century Italy, Concina still spoke of a contagion coming from the Protestant north. But now, while he did not deny that in Italy there was “some spirit rotted in vice who, seduced by some book brought here from England or the Netherlands, is making fun of religion,” he was certain that “if he was found out, he would quickly pay the price precisely because in the Roman Church there is a court that represses the unholy freedom of these esprits forts.”183 With the passing of time, however, those who continued to propound the theory of a northern contagion (despite being aware of the presence of Italian “imitators”184) were followed by others who painted a picture of an Italy awash with prohibited writings. From the 1770s, the metaphor of the deluge—with its variant of flooding—appeared in all sorts of works: from moral texts to treatises written in defence of the Catholic faith.185 But there was worse. Not only did a torrent of dangerous books overwhelm Italy, pouring down from elsewhere in Europe, especially France, but it had already borne fruit, having been used to irrigate Catholic lands and stimulate homegrown production.186 According to Zaccaria, “bitter” were the fruits of reading many books, that no longer, as at one time, had to navigate the seas or scale mountains to pass through our lands, but with our own presses now easily spread among us under the vain shadow of a most damnable commerce.187 After 1789, it was possible to give first-hand accounts of the long-expected outcomes. “Europe is flooded by her books, and we unfortunately see their death-dealing effects in private and public society,” declared Adeodato Turchi in a homily of 1790.188 But what in fact was the origin “of the general plan of independence” that had led to 1789? His response was that it came from a rain cloud of infamous books that once came only from beyond the mountains, but which today comes from within Italy itself, and writing and printing are found in the centre of the Catholic Church where there is eagerness to read them, mania to spread and publish them, and fanaticism to defend and protect them.189 The emergence of the new metaphor is not without significance: while a contagion could hopefully be halted with the right medicines and by isolating the infected, a flood required a different response. This is a question that concerns the methods used by the Church to control reading in the eighteenth century. And to this, we will now turn our attention.

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Acknowledgments This chapter is a revised version of “La Chiesa e la lettura nell’Italia del Settecento”, Rivista storica italiana CXVIII, no. 2 (2006): 440–485, Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane.

Notes 1. Eisenstein’s works, The Printing Press and The Printing Revolution, continue to be helpful, although contemporary research tends to identify elements of continuities between manuscripts and printed books. See, among others, Alcorn, Baron, Lindquist and Shevlin, Agent of Change. 2. Prosperi, Tribunali, 229–231 and passim. 3. On this topic in general and on Clement VIII’s Index (1596) in particular, see Fragnito, La Bibbia; Frajese, “La politica dell’Indice.” On the monopoly of Latin and its effects far beyond religious literature, see the foundational work by Fragnito, Proibito. See also Niccoli, Rinascimento, who highlights how Renaissance anticlerical tradition was silenced by post-Tridentine ecclesiastical censorship and recovered its strength only by the nineteenth century. But see also Infelise, I padroni, who invites us to analyse the emergence of the role of the civil authorities in the early modern age. 4. See the classic conduct manual by Silvio Antoniano, Tre libri, 88–89, which suggested that parents should ban books placed on the Index from their homes and recommend good books such as “lives of the saints and similar” to their children. 5. On this system of privilege, see Prosperi, I tribunali, 107 et seq. On the breaching of rules, see Roggero, Le carte. 6. Rotondò, “La censura,” 1415. 7. Fragnito, La Bibbia, 320. 8. See Julia, “Reading.” It should be noted, however, that also in the Protestant world, there was no lack of reservations about the spreading of the Bible among the lower classes. On this point, see Gilmont, “Protestant Reformation”; Gilmont, La reforme; Gilmont, Jean Calvin. On the oral use of written texts among the Italian lower classes, see Roggero, Le carte and, on France, Chartier, Lectures. 9. On the circulation of prohibited books, including Giordano Bruno’s works, at the end of the seventeenth century, see Garin, “Da Campanella,”110 et seq. 10. Bartoli, Dell’huomo, 176–215. 11. Agnelli, Il parrocchiano, vol. I, 256–257. 12. He cared about those he considered ordinary dangers: blasphemies and “freedom of conversation,” dances and “licentious comedies,” gambling and a habit of not celebrating the holy days, for example, or frequenting bad company and immodesty in clothing. See Segneri, Il cristiano. Also in Segneri, Confessore, 173, only one reference can be found to the world of books, in particular to the positive effects of devout works. 13. Segneri, Quaresimale, sermon XXI, 213–224; 215. 14. Barbarigo, Lettere pastorali: see the letter dated 24 December 1687, 146– 151. On his role in spreading good books, see Donati, “Vescovi,” 368; Sarti, “Obbedienti,” 110–111. 15. Kermol, La rete. The author analyses the Inquisition’s activity in the diocese of Aquileia and Concordia, which was active from 1551 to 1798, and highlights the decrease of these trials from 1653 onward, emphasising the significant “tolerance” in this sense (ibid., 12). See also the data presented in Monter and Tedeschi, “Towards a Statistical Profile,” 137; 144–147. On Spain, see Contreras and Henningsen, “Fourty-four Thousand Cases,” who do not even

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16.

17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24.

25. 26. 27.

28. 29.

33

include the category of trials for reading prohibited books. However, for a critical discussion on the data provided by this research, see Del Col, L’Inquisizione, 234–236. Prosperi, I tribunali, 544–545; 163. Some changes can also be traced in the literature concerning pastoral visits. In Trattato della visita pastorale by Giuseppe Crispino, published in Naples in 1682 and reprinted many times, the categories of possible sinners included, as was customary, “he who holds or reads obscene or prohibited books” and “booksellers.” Among the questions suggested to priests for confessions, one concerned prohibited texts. Nevertheless, evils caused by the bad use of sight seemed much more serious: eternal damnation was forced onto sculptors and painters of forbidden images (ibid., 41–42, 74–77, 362–371). Dolera, Quaresimale: see sermon VII on lasciviousness (72–84; 83) and sermon XII on education (133–145). On preaching in the first half of the eighteenth century, with an eye to educational problems, see Novi Chavarria, “Ideologia,” 211–229. More generally, on preaching in eighteenth-century Italy, see Zanotto, Storia, 320–422; Santini, L’eloquenza; Rusconi, “Predicatori,” 1006 et seq.; Bolzoni, “Oratoria,” 1069 et seq. Gabriello Maria da Brescia, Prediche; sermon Delle occasioni peccaminose, 27–34; 28; 31. Gabrielli, Sermoni. In support of this argument, see Argomenti delle prediche durante la Quaresima del 1739 fatte dal p. teatino Cavalcanti, BCAB, MSS. 1032, 4. Gennari, Discorsi; deception VII, dedicated to “those who worry about losing gold and not for the lost of wasted time” (ibid., 282 et seq.; 393). Barbarigo, Lettera pastorale. With regards to the beginning of the century, we can mention the activity of Filippo Albini, Bishop of Sant’Agata dei Goti, in Benevento (Southern Italy), between 1699 and 1722, reported in Campanelli, Centralismo, 54–55. On pastoral instructions dating from the 1730s and 1740s and aimed at censuring theatrical performances, see Concina, De’ teatri, 247–248; 301–313 (in which the author published letters by Delfino Dolfin, patriarch of Aquileia, by Rainero d’Elci, Archbishop of Ferrara, by Giacomo Lanfredini, Bishop of Osimo and Cingoli). Another example is the Bishop of Brescia, Angelo Maria Querini, who in 1753 actively engaged in the promotion of anti-theatrical works (see Querini, Lettera pastorale). Concina, Istruzione, 10–11. See also Concina, De spectaculis theatralibus; Concina, De’ teatri. Zuanelli, Le prediche; sermon XIII L’educazione de’ figlioli, 162–174; 173; sermon XXVIII La fuga delle occasioni, 362–375. A similar line of reasoning was expressed by Lanfredini, Bishop of Osimo and Cingoli, who issued warnings to the nobles in his diocese concerning good books, while excluding the lower classes on the basis that they were affected—according to him—by “evil speaking” and “wicked actions” (see Lanfredini, Lettere, 11–24; 27–56). Granelli, Prediche, 179. The first edition of the posthumous work of Granelli (1703–1770), from Genova, who preached at the end of the 1730s, dates back to 1771. Rosignoli, Avvisi, 5–19; 25. Laderchi, I congressi (my italics). On Laderchi and Galiani, as well as on the intellectual project of the enlightened Catholics open to the theme of the crisis of the European mind in Italy at the beginning of the eighteenth century, see Ferrone, The Intellectual Roots, in particular 122–131. On this topic, see Prosperi, “La Chiesa tridentina.” Da Cittadella, “Il padre Adeodato Quercini,” 243–246.

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30. Valsecchi, Prediche; sermon XXVII Dello scandalo, 329–340; 331. On Valsecchi, see Prandi, Religiosità, 256–378. 31. I adhere here with the periodization suggested by Donati, “Vescovi,” 378 et seq. For a history of the Church in the eighteenth century, see Donati, “La Chiesa di Roma.” 32. Gaetano Maria da Bergamo (1672–1753), La morale; Sermone sul vizio della lussuria, 159–186; 166. The first edition of this collection of sermons was published in Padua by the press of the Episcopal seminary in 1743. The collection was reprinted many times until 1840. On the author, see Metodio da Nembro, Gaetano Migliorini. 33. Cuniliati, Il catechista; reasoning LXIII Del discacciare i pensieri, e gli affetti impudici, e del custodire gli occhi dagli oggetti, e libri pericolosi, 427–433 (from now on Del discacciare i pensieri). After the first edition in Venice, Bettinelli 1754, it was published again in 1761, 1768, 1775 (also with a Neapolitan edition) and 1804. 34. Ferraris, “Luxuria.” 35. Roberti, Del leggere; Prefazione intorno al libro intitolato della predicazione, 1–64; 1. 36. Roberti, Del leggere, 248; 232. This work had several editions and was reprinted in Id, Raccolta, vol. VI (1786). 37. Anonymous, I novelli predicatori, 8. 38. Roberti, Lettera ad un illustre prelato, V, XXXI, LI. The first edition was published in 1781 by Remondini in Bassano. 39. As for France, see Ferrand, Livre et lecture, 61–63; passim. On the German area, see Le Vot, Des livres à la vie, 55–102. 40. Voltaire, “De l’horrible danger.” 41. Gauchat, Lettres; Lettre IX Sur les Lettres persanes, vol. II (1758), 1–26; 10. On Gauchat, see Masseau, Les ennemis, 275 et seq.; Straudo, “L’abbé Gauchat.” 42. Liguori, Dissertatio, 69–79; 69–70. The first edition was published in Naples in 1759. On the controversies raised by this work in the Kingdom of Naples, see De Maio, Società, 221. On Liguori, beatified in 1839 and canonised in 1871, see Rey-Mermet, Le saint; Giannantonio, Alfonso M. de’ Liguori. 43. De’ Liguori, Dissertatio, 72. 44. See, for example, Biblioteca predicabile; Discorso vigesimo quinto sulla lettura dei libri di pietà, vol. III, 358–365; 362. The first edition was published in Venice in 1754. 45. Ildefonso da Bressanvido, Istruzioni; Si espone quanto sieno validi incentivi d’incontinenza i libri osceni, e le disoneste pitture, vol. II, 240–246; 240. The first edition of the work by Ildefonso da Bressanvido (1696–1777) from Vicenza was published in Milan by Pietro Antonio Frigerio, in 1771, and the work was reprinted many times. This text and many works mentioned here are analysed by Guerci, La discussione and La sposa, with reference to the eighteenth-century debate on the role of women. 46. Jamin, Traité. We will return to the Italian translation at a later time. 47. See, for instance, Saint Jerome, Letters to Eustochium, no. XXIX. 48. Jamin, Traité, 38–39; 105. 49. As the Jesuit Carlo Lobelli noted, “scandal never ends until the end of the world.” Lobelli, Prediche; sermon XII on scandal, 93–101, 100. 50. Gabriello Maria da Brescia, Prediche; sermon Dello scandalo, 51–159; 152; 157. The examples are frequent: to recall one, see Dolera, Quaresimale; sermon XVIII on scandal, 210–222. 51. Bassani, Prediche, Dello scandalo, 185–199; 187–188.

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52. Valsecchi, Prediche; sermon XXVII Dello scandalo, 329–340; 332. 53. The periodisation suggested here is confirmed by the simultaneous transition from libertinism to Enlightenment, through which “the problem of communication as publicity becomes a new political, ethical and religious affair.” Ricuperati, La città terrena, 134. 54. Moniglia, Dissertazione contro i fatalisti; Moniglia, Dissertazione contra i materialisti. 55. Concina, Della religione rivelata, vol. I, IV. 56. Ibid., respectively vol. I, XII–XIII; 8; vol. II, 345; 362; vol. I, 283. On the beginning of Jesuit preaching against the esprits forts, see Religiosità, 36 et seq. On Concina, see ibid., 193–224. 57. Liguori, Breve dissertazione. 58. Gauchat, Lettres; Lettre X Sur les troglodites et la loi naturelle, vol. II (1758), 27–49; 46–47. 59. On Moreau’s article attacking the cacouacs (“evils” in Greek), considered a turning point with regards to the antiphilosophique fight, see Masseau, Les ennemis, 123–131. On the offensive against the Enlightenment in France, see Palmer, Catholics; Diaz, Filosofia, in particular 154 et seq.; Cottret, Jansénisme; Delpiano, Liberi, 60–93. 60. The reflection by the former Jesuit Cristoforo Muzani remained explicit in the 1780s: “Propositions and principles fly inseparable and removed from paper and detached from books, they go on and are imprinted on the heart through the effective instrument of the tongue.” See Muzani, Difesa, quoted in Prandi, Religiosità, 31 (the work was published anonymous). 61. Jaucourt, “Lecture (arts).” 62. Ibid. 63. Goody, The Domestication, 46–48. For a reflection on the transition from primary oral cultures where knowledge is transmitted through the spoken word to literate societies, as well as on the effects of writing on the transformations of the human mind, see Ong, Orality. 64. On the book as a vehicle of Protestant heresy in the eighteenth century with regard to Bohemia, see Ducreux, “Reading unto Death.” 65. See, for instance, Rosignoli, Avvisi, 26; Ildefonso da Bressanvido, Istruzioni; Si parla del terzo peccato capitale, ch’è la lussuria, vol. III, 365–371; 365. 66. This was stated, for example, by the Capuchin Gaetano Maria da Bergamo in the 1740s in La morale evangelica, 122 (the first edition was published in Padua by the press of the Episcopal seminary in 1743). 67. Ferraris, “Luxuria.” 68. Cuniliati, Il catechista; reasoning LXIII Del discacciare i pensieri, 431–432. 69. See, for example, Liguori, Istruzione al popolo; Avvertimenti all’istruttore, 9–20; 12; Roberti, Del leggere, 272. 70. Liguori, Istruzione al popolo; Regolamento 1 per il buon padre di famiglia, 127–131; 128. 71. Ildefonso da Bressanvido, Istruzioni; Si espone quanto sieno validi incentivi d’incontinenza i libri osceni, vol. II, 240–246; 240 (my italics). 72. Antoniano, Tre libri, 88 insisted precisely on the effects of dangerous readings in relation to lust. Recalling Ginzburg, Titian, Prosperi, I tribunali, 509 mentions that until 1540 the sin discussed most frequently in the confessors’ and penitents’ handbooks was avarice; after that date, it is replaced by lust. On the persistence of this theme, see Delumeau, Sin. 73. Bossuet, Traitez du libre-arbitre. This work was written in 1694 and published posthumously in 1731. The first Italian edition (Bossuet, Del libero arbitrio) was printed in Padua by the press of the Episcopal seminary in 1733.

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74. This shift is highlighted, among others, by Prosperi, I tribunali, 465 and by Prodi, Una storia, 269 et seq. On the similar course of the Spanish Inquisition, see Pinto Crespo, Inquisición. 75. Gaetano Maria da Bergamo, La morale evangelica; Sermone sul vizio della lussuria, 166. 76. Bellati, Opere, vol. II, Predica sopra la lascivia, 150–163; 161. On Bellati (1665–1742), who had trained in the Jesuit college of Ferrara, see De Blasi, “Bellati, Antonfrancesco.” 77. On the close link between reading and imagination, interpreted as “the bellows of concupiscence,” see Muratori, Della forza, 163. 78. Ildefonso da Bressanvido, Istruzioni; Si espone quanto sieno validi incentivi d’incontinenza i libri osceni, vol. II, 240–246; 240. 79. Bossuet, Traitez du libre-arbitre, 16. 80. Bossuet, “Traité de la concupiscence”, 55. 81. Leonardo da Porto Maurizio, Dialogo tra il confessore ed il penitente, 53. 82. Anonymous, I novelli predicatori, 8. On the issue of lust in eighteenth-century devotional literature, see Allegra, Ricerche, 82 et seq., who underlines its continuity during the whole century. On the phenomenon of cicisbei in eighteenthcentury Italy, see Bizzocchi, Cicisbei. 83. Gauchat, Lettres; Préface, vol. I (1758), n.p. 84. On the publication of anti-religious works by d’Holbach starting in 1765, see Diaz, Filosofia, 302 et seq. On the role played by De l’esprit with regards to the campaign against Enlightenment, see also Masseau, Les ennemis, 131–132. 85. Even in Venice, where between the seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries disbelief seems to have been widespread among all social classes, the instruments of propagation were not printed materials, but oral mediation which had its privileged places in taverns, craft shops, coffee shops and private houses. On this topic, see Barbierato, The Inquisitor. 86. Arici, Quaresimale; sermon XII Dei peccati del secolo corrente, 121–132; 121. 87. Valsecchi, La religione; A chi legge, III–VIII; III–IV. On this work, see Prandi, Cristianesimo, 245–314. 88. Valsecchi, Prediche; sermon XXIX contro gli spiriti forti del nostro secolo, 352–365; 365. 89. Valsecchi, La verità, 37 (the first edition of this work was published in Padua by the press of the Episcopal seminary in 1787). 90. This is what emerges from Gagliardi, L’onest’uomo, 64, where Bayle’s representation of the virtuous atheist was confuted. 91. Bellati, Opere, Predica sopra la lascivia, 154. 92. Cuniliati, Il catechista; reasoning LXIII Del discacciare i pensieri. 93. See, for example, Ferreri, Istruzioni, 1768 (the first edition was published in Venice in 1744). 94. Campastri, Il buon pastore; part III, chap. I Del primo comandamento. Adorare un solo Iddio, 130–144; 132 and chap. V Del quinto comandamento. Non far omicidio, 201–220; 202–203. 95. Arignani, Discorsi morali, vol. I, Discorso XVII sulla parola di Dio, 66–70; 68. 96. Campastri, Il buon pastore; L’autore a’ leggitori, n.p. 97. Valsecchi, La religione vincitrice; A chi legge, III–VIII; IV; 31. 98. This was the teaching of many educational handbooks circulating in eighteenth-century Italy. See—just to cite one example—Gobinet, Istruzione della gioventù, 134–136, Italian translation of the work by the theologian Charles Gobinet (1613–1690), Instruction de la jeunesse (1664). The first Italian translation dates back to 1708. In here, four categories of work to be forbidden were identified: heretical works, those against religion and sanctity, and lustful and romantic novels.

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99. See Wittmann, Was there a Reading Revolution?, who analyses the catalogues of the Leipzig book fair: Latin literature decreases from 27.7 per cent in 1740 to 3.97 per cent in 1800 and pleasant readings increase from 6 per cent in 1740 to 16.5 per cent in 1770, then to 21.45 per cent in 1800. On the spread of this literature, see also, with regards to France, Kirsop, “Nouveautés.” 100. On the spreading of the novel in Italy, see Pizzamiglio, “La fortuna del romanzo”; Pizzamiglio, “La letteratura d’intrattenimento,” with regards to the Republic of Venice. On Venice and Naples, see Bertoni, “Editoria.” On the Italian Peninsula in general, see Clerici, Il romanzo; Madrignani, All’origine del romanzo; Crivelli, “Né Arturo né Turpino”; Valeri, Libri nuovi. 101. According to data available for the northern Italian urban context in the last decades of the eighteenth century, only 41 per cent of men and 20.6 per cent of women were literate at the moment of marriage. In rural areas the percentages were respectively 17 per cent and 4.8 per cent. See Marchesini, La fatica, who compares the overall data available for France (47 per cent of men and 27 per cent of women) and England (60 per cent of men and 40 per cent of women). See also Roggero, L’alfabeto and, on the Kingdom of Naples, Pelizzari, Sulle vie della scrittura. 102. Liguori, Dissertatio, 71. 103. Roberti, Del leggere; Al lettore del secondo trattato, 215–221; 216. 104. Gauchat, Lettres; Lettre XXIV Sur la Henriade, vol. III (1756), 1–38. 105. Ibid. See Lettre IX Sur les Lettres persanes, vol. II (1758), 1–26. According to Liguori, it is particularly novels that “insinuate a secret poison.” Liguori, Sermoni; Avvertimenti necessari a premettersi, 1–6; 4 (the first edition was published in 1771). 106. On this subject, see Gauchat, Lettres; Lettre XXXIV sur divers sujets de tragédies, vol. III (1756), 258–282. 107. Stefani, Lo specchio: see in particular vigil VI on theatre, 93–233; 208 et seq. (quotation, 209) and vigil VII on novels, 233–272; 236–237 (the first edition was published in 1751). 108. Muratori, Della forza, 195. 109. Roberti, Del leggere, 262, quoted his reflection “on profane entertainment for Sundays,” which can be identified in Bourdaloue’s work Sermoni, translated into Italian and subsequently reprinted after the first edition (1739). On Bourdaloue (1632–1704), see Ingold, “Bourdaloue.” 110. There were many Italian translations of Bossuet, Maximes (published in 1694), starting with Massime, e riflessioni, printed in Lucca in 1705. 111. Roberti, Del leggere, 260–261. 112. On the harmful effects of reading on health, see Johns, “The Physiology,” with reference to the case of Robert Boyle’s Anatomy of Melancholy (1621). See also Porter, “Reading”; García Hurtado, “Enfermedades.” 113. Bossuet, Traité de la concupiscence, 52. 114. See Chartier, “Commerce.” See also Masseau, Les ennemis, 298–312. 115. Muratori, Della forza; Ai lettori, III–XII; X. The abbot refers here to the treatise De viribus imaginationis (1608) by the Flemish physician Thomas Feyens, also known as Fienus (1567–1631). On this work, published in Leuven and on its author, a professor in the same city, see Rather, Thomas Fienus. 116. Roberti, Del leggere, 255 and 259. 117. Bossuet, Traité de la concupiscence, 205. See also Concina, De’ teatri, 71. 118. On the effects of reading novels such as Pamela and La nouvelle Héloïse, which could change the reader’s life, see also Darnton, The Forbidden BestSellers, 217–231. 119. Masseau, Les ennemis, 300 recalls that in the Jesuit journal, 42 articles against novels were published up to 1762, then from 1762 to the end of century as many as 122. See especially Labrosse, “Les Mémoires,” 27 et seq.

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120. On France, see Weil, L’interdiction. 121. Gauchat, Lettres; Lettre CLXXXIX Sur la Nouvelle Héloïse, vol. XIX (1763), 1–30; 11; Roberti, Del leggere, 262–264. 122. On the previous censure and censorship against the novel, see Cappello, “Letteratura narrativa” (with regards to France); Rozzo, “Italian Literature” (with regards to Italy and Spain). The category “novel” included works such as those by Boccaccio, Rabelais and Ariosto. For a long-term reflection on the Platonic origins of the hostility towards narrative works, starting from the ban of poets in Republic, see Ife, Reading, 24–83. On the last phase of the early modern age, see Siti, Il romanzo, 129–150. 123. Bellati, Opere; Predica sopra la lascivia, 155 and 161. 124. Muratori, Della forza, 195 et seq. 125. On Liguori’s and Ildefonso da Bressanvido’s reflections, see sup., 14 and 19. For an analysis on the detractors of the philosophique novel, see Masseau, Les ennemis, 299 et seq. 126. On the link between the Enlightenment and the novel, see Krauss, Pomeau, Garaudy and Fabre, Roman; Goulemot, La littérature; Séité, “Romanzo.” On the eighteenth-century debate, see also, on France, May, Le dilemme; Barguillet, Le roman. On moral censure in the eighteenth-century Italy, see Caesar, “Bagatelle.” 127. Porée, De libris, 40. 128. Jacquin, Entretiens, 109; 121 and 207. On this work, published in Paris in 1755, see Madrignani, All’origine del romanzo, 97–98. 129. Jacquin, Entretiens sur les romans, 225; 339. 130. Huet, Traité. Huet (1630–1721) was bishop of Avranches, in Normandy. This treatise was written in 1666, published in 1670 and translated into many European languages. 131. Jacquin, Entretiens sur les romans, 170. 132. Ibid., 208–209. 133. Ibid., 212; 214. 134. Ibid., 257; 185 and 127. 135. See, for instance, Chiarugi, Della pazzia, 158. 136. Marivaux, Pharsamon (this work was written in 1712). 137. Roscioni, Il governo, 251. 138. Dizionario compendioso, 299–300, quoted in Roscioni, Il governo della follia, 15. 139. Marivaux, Pharsamon, 508. 140. Muratori, Della forza, 114; 221. 141. Gauchat, Lettres; Lettre IX Sur les Lettres persanes, vol. II (1758), 1–26; 5. 142. Ibid. See Lettres CLXXXIX and CXC Sur la nouvelle Héloïse, vol. XIX (1763), 1–30; 31–73. For an analysis of the critiques of this novel, see Mornet, La Nouvelle Héloïse. See also Labrosse, Lire. 143. Gauchat, Lettres; Lettre CXC Sur la Nouvelle Héloïse, vol. XIX (1763), 31–73; 57. 144. Cuniliati, Il catechista; reasoning LXIII Del discacciare i pensieri. 145. Liguori, Dissertatio, 71. The author took the Italian quotation from Alessandro Tassoni’s De’ pensieri diversi (1646); the Latin phrase (“a Deo alienant”) is his own. 146. Roberti, Del leggere. See Al lettore del secondo trattato, 218–221 (on Jacquin); 235 (on Gauchat). 147. Ibid., 286 et seq. 148. Furno, Il pregio, 246–249. 149. Zaccaria, Storia; Dissertazione I sulla necessità di proibire i libri cattivi, 209– 269; 235–237.

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150. Manzoni, “La leggitrice” (1780), quoted in Calabrese, Intrecci, 48. 151. Jamin, Placido a Scolastica, VI. This is the Italian translation of Jamin, Placide à Scholastique, which was published in Paris in 1776. 152. See, for example, Grossi, Quaresimale; in particular, see sermon Dei libri moderni, vol. I, 171–187. This text by Grossi—nee Tomaso Vincenzo Giuseppe Melchiore (1741–1812)—is not dated, but it can be deduced from internal references (177–182) that it was written after 1789. See also sermons Degli spiriti forti, ibid., 254–273 and Gli spiriti illuminati ed i liberi pensatori, 274–291. On Grossi, see Prandi, Religiosità, 137–147; 186–187. I translated the Italian term diritti dell’uomo, used in the eighteenth-century Italy, with the expression “rights of man” (and not “human rights”) to avoid the danger of anachronism. On this point, see Ferrone, “The Rights,”131. 153. “For as long as the world has existed—as stated by the Swiss bookseller Johann Georg Heinzmann in 1795—there have been no phenomena so remarkable as the reading of novels in Germany and the Revolution in France. They have evolved more or less simultaneously, and it is not beyond the bounds of probability that novels have been just as much the cause of unhappiness to people in secret as the terrible France Revolution has been publicly.” Wittmann, Was There a Reading Revolution, 284. On the relationship between books and revolution in Robert Darnton’s works, see Mason, The Darnton Debate. On the problem of changes in reading practices, see Chartier, The Cultural Origins. 154. On the relationship between the novel and individual conscience, see Stone, Family. On the novel and the history of rights, see Hunt, Inventing Human Rights, who, by using contributions from psychology, neurology and the sciences of the mind, suggests that reading novels, which impacts the emotional sphere, has even caused physical changes to the brain. A gender perspective is offered by Armstrong, Desire. On the role played by the Enlightenment in shaping the modern language of rights, see Ferrone, Storia dei diritti. 155. Séité, “Romanzo.” 156. Del Corno, “Paridi,” 37–54. On the German area in nineteenth century, see Aselmeyer, “The Lazy Reader.” 157. Turchi, “Omelia nel giorno della Pentecoste.” On Turchi, see Prandi, Religiosità, 164–190. 158. Valsecchi, Prediche quaresimali; sermon XXIX Contro gli spiriti forti del nostro secolo, 364. 159. Campastri, Il buon pastore; L’autore a’ leggitori, n.p. 160. 1 Cor 14,34–35: “Women should remain silent in the churches. They are not allowed to speak, but must be in submission, as the law says. If they want to enquire about something, they should ask their own husbands at home.” 161. Zarri, Donna. See, for example, Antoniano, Tre libri, 153. On the representation of women in preaching at the beginning of the eighteenth century and on the changes concerning the increased importance of the educational role of women through the centuries, see Novi Chavarria, “Ideologia,” 187–211. 162. On this topic, see Guerci, La sposa, 231–258. 163. See Hoffmann, La femme; Pateman, The Sexual Contract; Goodman, The Republic of Letters. 164. See, for exemple, Leonardo da Porto Maurizio, Prediche; in particular, see the sermon Dello scandalo, vol. II (1822), 74–113; 88. 165. Turchi, Omelia Sopra la lettura dei libri, 150–151. For an earlier reflection, see Valsecchi, Prediche; sermon XVI Dell’occasione, 190–201; 197. 166. On the identification between women readers and illiterate people or rustici, that is those who did not know Latin and had no education, see Plebani, “Nascita,” 23–44. On the relationship between censorship and gender, see

40

167. 168.

169. 170. 171.

172.

173. 174.

175. 176. 177.

178. 179. 180. 181.

From the Spoken to the Written Word Fragnito, “Censura ecclesiastica”; Fragnito, Proibito, 275–287; von Tippelskirch, Sotto controllo. Biblioteca per li parrochi, vol. I, 111 (the first edition was published in Venice in 1752). On Astruc’s book, published in 1761–1765, see Hufton, The Prospect, 41. A foundational text on this topic was published in Amsterdam in 1771: La Nymphomanie, ou traité de la fureur utérine by Bienville, whose Italian translation, La ninfomania, was printed in 1783. The link between reading and a melancholic temperament concerned above all the female world, as noted for instance by Muratori, Della forza (Ai lettori, XI et seq.). On this topic, see Chartier, “Commerce.” Biblioteca per li parrochi, vol. I, 92. As for the history of confession, Prosperi, I tribunali, insisted on two approaches, that of the physician and that of the judge. Liguori, Istruzione e pratica, vol. III, 26. On the feminine infirmitas, a category born at the legal level in the second half of sixteenth century, see Graziosi, “Fragilitas sexus.” The concept of fragilitas involved not only minor intelligence and lucidity, but also a legal exclusion. See Feci, Pesci, 46–49. The role played by eighteenth-century medicine in creating feminine stereotypes is analysed in Laqueur, Making Sex, 154–163. On the effects in the political and cultural fields, see, among others, Hunt, The Family Romance, 156–157. Pomme, Traité (1763), quoted in Mattioda, Il dilettante, 97. Trasforini, L’isterica, 264. It should be recalled that in L’onanisme (1760), first published in Latin (Dissertatio, 1758), Tissot dealt with the topic of reading, not limited to licentious works, describing it as a stimulus to masturbation, considered a disease (the treatise was translated into Italian in Venice in 1770). On this topic, see Goulemot, Forbidden Texts; Porter, “Forbidden Pleasures.” An analysis of this work by Albergati (1728–1804) can be found in Mattioda, Il dilettante, 99–104. On the entanglement between theology and medicine in the second half of the eighteenth century in Italy, see Brambilla, “La medicina” (quotation, 113). On the links between reading and medicine, see Houle, “La lectrice.” Esquirol, Des passions. On this topic, see Ghidetti, “Il romanzo,” 27. In the mid-nineteenth century, Jean Martin Charcot and Pierre Briquet, when studying feminine hysteria, would consider it the fruit of an “imaginative and novelesque character.” By trying to identify a relationship of cause and effect, they would underline the influence of reading novels. See Trasforini, L’isterica, 261–262. The letter by Bellarmino (26 July 1614), at that time consultor for the Holy Office and member of the Congregation of the Index, is quoted in Rotondò, La censura, 1399–1400. Cardinal Niccolò Forteguerri (1674–1735) is the author of this poem, written between 1726 and 1730, published posthumously in Venice and placed on the Index in 1739. See Prencipe Di Donna, Letteratura, 27 et seq. This is confirmed by studies on the circulation of prohibited books, among which see Braida, Il commercio; Pasta, Editoria. For a synthesis, see Infelise, I libri. In a brief dated 8 May 1536, concerning Lutheranism and addressed to the Inquisitor of Ferrara, Paul III referred to a “heretical plague.” The document is quoted in Prosperi, I tribunali, 35. On the metaphor urging the isolation of the infected from the healthy and the burning of sources of infection, see ibid., 228. On links between contamination of the body and contamination of the soul, see Pastore, Le regole, 61.

From the Spoken to the Written Word 182. 183. 184. 185. 186. 187. 188. 189.

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Gauchat, Lettres, Préface, n.p. Concina, Della religione rivelata, vol. I, 243. Campastri, Il buon pastore, 132. See, for instance, Viganego, Il filosofo, vol. I, Prefazione, III–XXXIV; XXX; Valsecchi, La verità, VIII. “By foreign readings—Roberti pointed out—Italian intellects have generally been perturbed.” Roberti, Lettera ad un illustre prelato, LXVI. Zaccaria, Storia, 243–244. Turchi, “Omelia nel giorno della Pentecoste,” 88. Turchi, Omelia sopra la lettura dei libri, 156. See also the reflection by Andrà, who in 1791 focused his attention “on the most monstrous truths” which “descend from beyond the mountains and from overseas,” filling up “cities with absurd and miserable books,” which “by now are flooding over beautiful Italy.” Andrà, La voce, vol. I, 8; 31.

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Braida, Lodovica. Il commercio delle idee. Editoria e circolazione del libro nella Torino del Settecento. Florence: Olschki, 1995. Brambilla, Elena. “La medicina del Settecento: dal monopolio dogmatico alla professione scientifica.” In Storia d’Italia, Annali, vol. 7, Malattia e medicina, edited by Franco Della Peruta, 7–147. Turin: Einaudi, 1984. Brizzi, Gian Paolo, ed. Il catechismo e la grammatica, vol. 1, Istruzione e controllo sociale nell’area emiliana e romagnola nel ’700. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1985. Caesar, Ann Hallamore. “Bagatelle, Bamboccerie, and Bordellerie: The Critics and the Novel in Eighteenth-Century Italy.” Italian Studies 60, no. 1 (2005): 22–41. Calabrese, Stefano. Intrecci italiani. Una teoria e una storia del Romanzo (1750– 1900). Bologna: Il Mulino, 1995. Campanelli, Marcella. Centralismo romano e ‘policentrismo’ periferico. Chiesa e religiosità nella diocesi di sant’Alfonso Maria de’ Liguori. Milan: Franco Angeli, 2003. Cappello, Sergio. “Letteratura narrativa e censura nel Cinquecento francese.” In La censura libraria nell’Europa del secolo XVI, edited by Ugo Rozzo, 53–100. Udine: Forum, 1997. Cavallo, Giorgio, and Roger Chartier. A History of Reading in the West. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1999. Translated by Lydia G. Cochrane. Originally published as Storia della lettura nel mondo occidentale (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1995). Chartier, Roger. “Commerce in the Novel: Damilaville’s Tears and the Impatient Reader.” In Inscription and Erasure: Literature and Written Culture from the Eleventh to the Eighteenth Century, 105–125. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007. Translated by Arthur Goldhammer. Originally published as Inscrire et effacer. Culture écrite et littérature, XIe–XVIIIe siècles (Paris: Gallimard Seuil, 2005). Chartier, Roger. Lectures et lecteurs dans la France d’Ancien Régime. Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1987. Chartier, Roger. The Cultural Origins of the French Revolution. Translated by Lydia G. Cochrane. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1991. Originally published as Les origines culturelles de la Révolution française (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1990). Chartier, Roger, and Henri-Jean Martin, eds. Histoire de l’édition française, vol. 2, Le livre triomphant (1660–1830). Paris: Fayard, 1984. Chiabò, Miriam, and Federico Doglio, eds. I gesuiti e i primordi del teatro barocco in Europa. Rome: Torre d’Orfeo, 1995. Clerici, Luca. Il romanzo italiano del Settecento. Il caso Chiari. Venice: Marsilio, 1997. Contreras, Jaime, and Henningsen Gustav. “Fourty-Four Thousand Cases of the Spanish Inquisition (1540–1700): Analysis of a Historical Data Bank.” In Henningsen and Tedeschi, The Inquisition, 100–129. Cottret, Monique. Jansénisme et Lumières. Pour un autre XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Michel Albin, 1998. Crivelli, Tatiana. ‘Né Arturo né Turpino né la Tavola rotonda.’ Romanzi del secondo Settecento italiano. Rome: Salerno Editrice, 2002. Da Cittadella, Giancrisostomo. “Il padre Adeodato Quercini e Carlo Goldoni.” L’Italia francescana 32 (1957): 234–246. Darnton, Robert. The Forbidden Best-Sellers of Pre-Revolutionary France. New York: W.W. Norton, 1995. De Blasi, Nicola. “Bellati, Antonfrancesco.” In Dizionario biografico degli italiani, vol. 7, 613–614. Rome: Istituto dell’Enciclopedia italiana, 1965. Del Col, Andrea. L’Inquisizione in Italia dal XII al XXI secolo. Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 2006. Del Corno, Nicola. “Paridi della letteratura. Romanzi e reazionari nell’Italia preunitaria.” Belfagor 55, no. 325 (2000): 37–54.

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Delpiano, Patrizia. Liberi di scrivere. La battaglia per la stampa nell’età dei Lumi. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2015. Delumeau, Jean. Sin and Fear: The Emergence of a Western Guilt Culture, 13th18th Centuries. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1990. Translated by Eric Nicholson. Originally published as Le péché et la peur: la culpabilisation en Occident, XIIIe–XVIIIe siècles (Paris: Fayard, 1983). De Maio, Romeo. Società e vita religiosa a Napoli nell’età moderna (1656–1799). Naples: Edizioni scientifiche italiane, 1971. Diaz, Furio. Filosofia e politica nel Settecento francese. Turin: Einaudi, 1962. Donati, Claudio. “La Chiesa di Roma tra Antico Regime e riforme settecentesche (1675–1760).” In Storia d’Italia, Annali, vol. 9, La Chiesa e il potere politico dal Medioevo all’età contemporanea, edited by Giorgio Chittolini and Giovanni Miccoli, 721–766. Turin: Einaudi, 1986. Donati, Claudio. “Vescovi e diocesi d’Italia dall’età post-tridentina alla caduta dell’Antico Regime.” In Rosa, Clero e società, 320–389. Ducreux, Marie-Elisabeth. “Reading unto Death: Books and Readers in EighteenthCentury Bohemia.” In The Culture of Print: Power and the Uses of Print in Early Modern Europe, edited by Roger Chartier, 191–230. Translated by Lydia G. Cochrane. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989. Originally published as Les usages de l’imprimé (Paris: Fayard, 1987). Eisenstein, Elisabeth L. The Printing Press as an Agent of Change: Communications and Cultural Transformations in Early-Modern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980. Eisenstein, Elisabeth L. The Printing Revolution in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge-New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 2005 (1st edn 1993). Enciclopedia cattolica. Rome: Ente per l’enciclopedia cattolica e per il libro cattolico, 1948–1954, 12 vols. Enciclopedia dei papi. Rome: Istituto dell’Enciclopedia Italiana, 2000, 3 vols. Études sur la presse au XVIIIe siècle: les Mémoires de Trévoux. Lyon: Centre d’études du XVIIIe siècle de l’Université de Lyon II, 1973. Feci, Simona. Pesci fuor d’acqua. Donne a Roma in età moderna. Diritti e patrimoni. Rome: Viella, 2004. Ferrand, Nathalie. Livre et lecture dans les Romans français du XVIIIe siècle. Paris: PUF, 2002. Ferrone, Vincenzo. The Intellectual Roots of the Italian Enlightenment: Newtonian Science, Religion, and Politics in the Early Eighteenth Century. Translated by Sue Brotherton. Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press, 1995. Originally published as Scienza natura religione. Mondo newtoniano e cultura italiana nel primo Settecento (Naples: Jovene, 1982). Ferrone, Vincenzo. “The Rights of History: Enlightenment and Human Rights.” Human Rights Quarterly 39 (2017): 130–141. Ferrone, Vincenzo. Storia dei diritti dell’uomo. L’Illuminismo e la costruzione del linguaggio politico dei moderni. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2014. Ferrone, Vincenzo, and Daniel Roche, eds. L’Illuminismo. Dizionario storico. RomeBari: Laterza, 1997. Filippini, Nadia Maria, Tiziana Plebani, and Anna Scattigno, eds. Corpi e storia. Donne e uomini dal mondo antico all’età contemporanea. Rome: Viella, 2002. Fragnito, Gigliola. La Bibbia al rogo. La censura ecclesiastica e i volgarizzamenti della Scrittura (1471–1605). Bologna: Il Mulino, 2015 (1st edn 1997). Fragnito, Gigliola. “Censura ecclesiastica e identità spirituale e culturale femminile.” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome 115, no. 1 (2003): 287–313. Fragnito, Gigliola, ed. Church, Censorship and Culture in Early Modern Italy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001.

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Fragnito, Gigliola. Proibito capire. La Chiesa e il volgare nella prima età moderna. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2005. Frajese, Vittorio. “La politica dell’Indice dal Tridentino al Clementino (1571– 1596).” Archivio italiano per la storia della pietà 11 (1998): 269–356. García Hurtado, Manuel-Reyes. “Enfermedades de la lectura en el siglo XVIII.” In Senderos de ilusion. Lecturas populares en Europa y America latina, edited by Antonio Castillo Gómez and Verónica Sierra Blas, 407–432. Gijón: Ediciones Trea, 2007. Garin, Eugenio. “Da Campanella a Vico.” In Dal Rinascimento all’Illuminismo. Studi e ricerche, 79–117. Pisa: Nistri-Lischi, 1970. Ghidetti, Enrico. “Il romanzo nelle storie letterarie del primo Ottocento.” La rassegna della letteratura italiana, series VIII, 91, no. 1 (1987): 24–38. Giannantonio, Pompeo, ed. Alfonso M. de’ Liguori e la civiltà letteraria del Settecento. Florence: Olschki, 1999. Gilmont, Jean-François. Jean Calvin et le livre imprimé. Geneva: Droz, 1997. Gilmont, Jean-François. “Protestant Reformation and Reading.” In Cavallo and Chartier, A History of Reading, 213–237. Gilmont, Jean-François, ed. La reforme et le livre. L’Europe de l’imprimé (1517– v.1570). Paris: Cerf, 1990. Ginzburg, Carlo. “Titian, Ovid, and Sixteenth-Century Codes for Erotic Illustration.” In Ginzburg, Clues, Myths, and the Historical Method. Translated by John and Anne C. Tedeschi with a new preface, 77–95. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013. Originally published as Miti, emblemi, spie: morfologia e storia (Turin: Einaudi, 1986). Goodman, Dena. The Republic of Letters: A Cultural History of the French Enlightenment. Ithaca-London: Cornell University Press, 1994. Goody, Jack. The Domestication of the Savage Mind. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977. Goulemot, Jean-Marie. Forbidden Texts: Erotic Literature and Its Readers in Eighteenth-Century France. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1994. Translated by James Simpson. Originally published as Ces livres qu’on ne lit d’une main. Lecture et lecteurs de livres pornographiques au XVIIIe siècle (Aix-en-Provence: Alinea, 1991). Goulemot, Jean-Marie. La littérature des Lumières. Paris: Nathan, 2002 (1st edn 1989). Graziosi, Marina. “‘Fragilitas sexus.’ Alle origini della costruzione giuridica dell’inferiorità delle donne.” In Filippini, Plebani and Scattigno, Corpi e storia, 19–38. Guerci, Luciano. La discussione sulla donna nell’Italia del Settecento. Aspetti e problemi. Turin: Tirrenia stampatori, 1987. Guerci, Luciano. La sposa obbediente. Donna e matrimonio nella discussione dell’Italia del Settecento. Turin: Tirrenia stampatori, 1988. Henningsen, Gustav, and John Tedeschi, eds. The Inquisition in Early Modern Europe: Studies on Sources and Methods. DeKalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press, 1986. Hoffmann, Paul. La femme dans la pensée des Lumières. Geneva: Slatkine reprints, 1995 (1st edn 1977). Houle, Martha M. “La lectrice avertie ou la création d’espaces liminaires féminins dans la médecine du XVIIIe siècle.” In Lectrices d’Ancien Régime, edited by Isabelle Brouard-Arends, 81–90. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2003. Hufton, Olwen. The Prospect Before Her: A History of Women in Western Europe. London: Harper Collins, 1995. Hunt, Lynn. The Family Romance of the French Revolution. Berkeley-Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1992. Hunt, Lynn. Inventing Human Rights: A History. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2007.

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Ife, Barry W. Reading and Fiction in Golden-Age Spain: A Platonist Critique and Some Picaresque Replies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985. Infelise, Mario. I libri proibiti da Gutenberg all’Encyclopédie. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1999. Infelise, Mario. I padroni dei libri. Il controllo sulla stampa nella prima età moderna. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2014. Infelise, Mario, and Paola Marini, eds. L’editoria del ’700 e i Remondini. Bassano del Grappa: Ghedina e Tassotti, 1992. Ingold, Augustin. “Bourdaloue, Louis.” In Dictionnaire de théologie catholique, edited by Alfred Vacant and Eugene Mangenot, vol. 2 (1910), cols 1095–1100. Paris: Librairie Letouzey et ané, 1909–1950, 15 vols. Johns, Adrian. “The Physiology of Reading in Restoration England.” In Raven, Small and Tadmore, The Practice, 138–161. Julia, Dominique. “Reading and the Counter-Reformation.” In Cavallo and Chartier, A History of Reading, 238–268. Kermol, Enzo. La rete di Vulcano. Inquisizione, libri proibiti e libertini nel Friuli del Seicento. Trieste: Università degli Studi di Trieste, 1990. Kirsop, Wallace. “Nouveautés: théâtre et Roman.” In Chartier and Martin, Histoire, 218–229. Krauss, Werner, René Pomeau, Roger Garaudy, and Jean Fabre, eds. Roman et Lumières au XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Éditions Sociales, 1970. Labrosse, Claude. “Les Mémoires de Trévoux et le Roman (1730–1740).” In Études sur la presse au XVIIIe siècle: les Mémoires de Trévoux, 27–76. Lyon: Centre d’études du XVIIIe siècle de l’Université de Lyon II, 1973. Labrosse, Claude. Lire au XVIIIe siècle. La Nouvelle Héloïse et ses lecteurs. Lyon: Presses Universitaires de Lyon, 1985. Laqueur, Thomas. Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud. Cambridge, MA-London: Harvard University Press, 1990. Le Vot, Valérie. Des livres à la vie. Lecteurs et lectures dans le Roman allemand des Lumières. Bern: Peter Lang, 1999. Madrignani, Carlo A. All’origine del Romanzo in Italia. Il ‘celebre Abate Chiari’. Naples: Liguori Editore, 2000. Marchesini, Daniele. La fatica di scrivere. Alfabetismo e sottoscrizioni matrimoniali in Emilia tra Sette e Ottocento. In Brizzi, Il catechismo, 83–169. Mason, Haydn T., ed. The Darnton Debate: Books and Revolution in the Eighteenth Century. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, 1998. Masseau, Didier. Les ennemis des philosophes. L’antiphilosophie au temps des Lumières. Paris: Michel Albin, 2000. Mattioda, Enrico. Il dilettante per mestiere. Francesco Albergati Capacelli commediografo. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1993. May, Georges. Le dilemme du Roman au XVIIIe siècle. Étude sur les rapports du Roman et de la critique (1715–1761). New Haven-Paris: Yale University Press-PUF, 1963. Metodio da Nembro. Gaetano Migliorini da Bergamo nel Settecento religioso italiano. Milan: Centro studi cappuccini lombardi, 1959. Monter, E. William, and John Tedeschi. “Towards a Statistical Profile of the Italian Inquisitions, Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries.” In Henningsen and Tedeschi, The Inquisition, 130–157. Mornet, Daniel. La Nouvelle Héloïse de J.-J. Rousseau. Étude et analyse. Paris: Éditions Mellottée, 1950. Myers, Robin, and Michael Harris, eds. Medicine, Mortality, and the Book Trade. Folkestone: Oak Knoll Press, 1998. Niccoli, Ottavia. Rinascimento anticlericale. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2005. Novi Chavarria, Elisa. “Ideologia e comportamenti familiari” (1988). In Il governo delle anime. Azione pastorale, predicazioni e missioni nel Mezzogiorno d’Italia (secoli XVI–XVIII), 183–229. Naples: Editoriale scientifica, 2001.

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Ong, Walter J. Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word, updated 3rd edn with additional chapters by John Hartley. London-New York: Routledge, 2012 (1st edn 1982). Palmer, Robert Roswell. Catholics and Unbelievers in Eighteenth Century France. Princenton: Princeton University Press, 1939. Pasta, Renato. Editoria e cultura nel Settecento. Florence: Olschki, 1997. Pastore, Alessandro. Le regole dei corpi. Medicina e disciplina nell’Italia moderna. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2006. Pateman, Carole. The Sexual Contract. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1988. Pelizzari, Maria Rosaria, ed. Sulle vie della scrittura. Alfabetizzazione, cultura scritta e istituzioni. Naples: Edizioni scientifiche italiane, 1989. Pinto Crespo, Virgilio. Inquisición y control ideológico en la España del siglo XVI. Madrid: Taurus, 1983. Pitch, Tamar, ed. Diritto e rovescio. Studi sulle donne e il controllo sociale. Naples: Edizioni scientifiche italiane, 1987. Pizzamiglio, Gilberto. “La fortuna del Romanzo e della letteratura d’intrattenimento.” In Arnaldi and Pastore Stocchi, Storia, 171–195. Pizzamiglio, Gilberto. “La letteratura d’intrattenimento nell’editoria veneziana del ’700.” In Infelise and Marini, L’editoria del ’700, 83–95. Plebani, Tiziana. “Nascita e caratteristiche del pubblico di lettrici tra Medioevo e prima età moderna.” In Zarri, Donna, disciplina, 23–44. Porter, Roy. “Forbidden Pleasures: Enlightenment Literature of Sexual Advice.” In Bennet and Rosario II, Solitary Pleasures, 75–100. Porter, Roy. “Reading: A Health Warning.” In Myers and Harris, Medicine, 131–152. Prandi, Alfonso. Cristianesimo offeso e difeso. Deismo e apologetica cristiana nel secondo Settecento. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1975. Prandi, Alfonso. Religiosità e cultura nel ’700 italiano. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1966. Prencipe Di Donna, Carmen. Letteratura e vita in Niccolò Forteguerri. Naples: Laurenziana, 1984. Prodi, Paolo. Una storia della giustizia. Dal pluralismo dei fori al moderno dualismo tra coscienza e diritto. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2000. Prosperi, Adriano. “La Chiesa tridentina e il teatro: strategie di controllo del secondo Cinquecento.” In Chiabò and Doglio, I gesuiti e i primordi, 15–30. Prosperi, Adriano. Tribunali della coscienza. Inquisitori, confessori, missionari. Turin: Einaudi, 1996 (new edn 2009). Rao, Anna Maria, ed. Editoria e cultura a Napoli nel XVIII secolo. Naples: Liguori, 1998. Rather, Lelland J. “Thomas Fienus’ Dialectical Investigation of the Imagination as a Cause and Cure of Bodyly Disease.” Bulletin of the History of Medecine 41, no. 4 (1967): 349–367. Raven, James, Helen Small, and Naomi Tadmore, eds. The Practice and Representation of Reading in England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Rey-Mermet, Théodule. Le saint du siècle des Lumières. Alfonso Liguori (1696– 1787). Paris: Nouvelle Cité, 1982. Ricuperati, Giuseppe. La città terrena di Pietro Giannone. Un itinerario tra crisi della coscienza europea e Illuminismo radicale. Florence: Olschki, 2001. Roggero, Marina. L’alfabeto conquistato. Apprendere e insegnare nell’Italia tra Sette e Ottocento. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1999. Roggero, Marina. Le carte piene di sogni. Testi e lettori in età moderna. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2006. Rosa, Mario, ed. Clero e società nell’Italia moderna. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1995 (1st edn 1992). Roscioni, Lisa. Il governo della follia. Ospedali, medici e pazzi nell’età moderna. Milan: Bruno Mondadori, 2003.

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Rotondò, Antonio. “La censura ecclesiastica e la cultura.” In Storia d’Italia, vol. 5, t. 2, I documenti, edited by Ruggiero Romano and Corrado Vivanti, 1397–1492. Turin: Einaudi, 1973. Rozzo, Ugo. “Italian Literature on the Index.” In Fragnito, Church, 194–222. Rusconi, Roberto. “Predicatori e predicazione (secoli IX–XVIII).” In Storia d’Italia, Annali, vol. 4, Intellettuali e potere, edited by Corrado Vivanti, 949–1035.Turin: Einaudi, 1981. Santini, Emilio. L’eloquenza italiana dal Concilio tridentino ai nostri giorni, vol. 1, Gli oratori sacri. Palermo: Remo Sandron, 1923, 133–210. Sarti, Raffaella. “Obbedienti e fedeli. Note sull’istruzione morale e religiosa di servi e serve tra Cinque e Settecento.” Annali dell’Istituto storico italo-germanico in Trento 17 (1991): 91–120. Séité, Yannick. “Romanzo.” In Ferrone and Roche, L’Illuminismo, 301–315. Shattuck, Roger. Forbidden Knowledge: From Prometheus to Pornography. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996. Siti, Walter. “Il romanzo sotto accusa.” In Il romanzo, vol. 1, La cultura del romanzo, edited by Franco Moretti, 129–192. Turin: Einaudi, 2001. Stone, Lawrence. Family, Sex and Marriage in England (1500–1800). New York: Harper and Row, 1977. Straudo, Arnoux. “L’abbé Gauchat: un apologiste des Lumières.” Dix-huitième siècle 34 (2002): 277–288. Tippelskirch, Xenia von. Sotto controllo. Letture femminili in Italia nella prima età moderna. Rome: Viella, 2001. Trasforini, Maria Antonietta. “L’isterica.” In Pitch, Diritto e rovescio, 257–273. Valeri, Stefania. Libri nuovi scendon l’Alpi. Venti anni di relazioni franco-italiane negli archivi della Société typographique de Neuchâtel (1769–1789). Macerata: Eum, 2006. Weil, Françoise. L’interdiction du Roman et la Librairie 1728–1750. Paris: Aux Amateurs de livres, 1986. Wittmann, Reinhard. “Was There a Reading Revolution at the End of the Eighteenth Century?” In Cavallo and Chartier, A History of Reading, 284–312. Zanotto, Francesco. Storia della predicazione nei secoli della letteratura italiana. Rome: Tipografia pontificia ed arcivescovile dell’Immacolata Concezione, 1899. Zarri, Gabriella, ed. Donna, disciplina, creanza cristiana dal XV al XVII secolo. Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1996.

2

The World of the Index

A history of the governing of reading cannot of course ignore the Index librorum prohibitorum, of which a complete reconstruction for the eighteenth century has yet to be made.1 Following the course of the Index, which was one of the channels used by the Church to convey its religious and political message, involves evaluating the ability of the ecclesiastics to grasp the cultural changes then taking place, as well as the evolution of the eighteenth-century publishing market. And to understand the reasons that led to the proscription of innumerable works of the century of philosophie means analysing the position taken by the Holy See towards the secularisation process that began during the Age of Enlightenment. The fact that the Roman hierarchy in general did not accept with any enthusiasm what can be considered the common principles of the Enlightenment—the critical use of reason and an anti-dogmatic and secular conception of knowledge and ethics—is well known. Examined through the prism of the courts of reading, however, this attitude is seen to have been long entrenched and determined. Indeed, the world of the Enlightenment— bearer of a culture that rejected the theory of the divine origin of power on the political level and, in the name of tolerance, revelation on the religious level—was strongly condemned by means of the banning of most of its Italian and European texts.2 The activity of the Congregations of the Index and of the Inquisition demonstrates quite clearly that combating the Lumières was one of the kingpins of eighteenth-century ecclesiastical censorship. In reality, taking into account the establishment and gradual consolidation of the Enlightenment as a movement from the late seventeenth to the end of the eighteenth century, it is plain to see that the clash, punctuated by prohibition decrees issued by one congregation or the other, was longlasting. If one is prepared to place the origins of the movement in the sort of aurorean phase commonly called the “crisis of the European mind,”3 during which emerged the principles of autonomy of reason and of the separation between religion and the triad of ethics, science and politics that later merged in the Enlightenment, then it is irrefutable, given that the works of the main representatives of this crisis were listed in the Index, that the first

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things to be rejected were the premises of the Enlightenment culture. After the censorship in 1679 of the Opera posthuma (1677) by Baruch Spinoza, a supporter of free thinking and of the rights of human reason, from the 1780s onwards the works of Pierre Bayle, a proponent of religious toleration and theorist of virtuous atheism, were repeatedly condemned.4 It should be noted, however, that not only was the radical production that contributed to the crisis targeted, but so too was the output of intellectual restlessness that did not stray into heresy. Suffice it to recall the condemnation, in 1682, of the Histoire critique du Vieux Testament (1678) by Richard Simon, which reflected on changes made to the sacred text over the centuries without in any way implying doubt as to its divine origins. Nevertheless, after the famous Neapolitan trial of atheists, which began in 1688 and ended in 1697 with a public recantation—a sort of pre-emptive response to cultural ferment in Europe—the early eighteenth century saw the same ecclesiastical hierarchy make a sustained effort to reconnect the Church to modern knowledge, albeit to transform it to the greater glory of God. In Rome itself, there were so-called Enlightened Catholics who sought to resume the dialogue between science and Catholicism interrupted at the end of the seventeenth century. Formed around the monk Celestino Galiani, this group aimed in particular at reconciling Newtonianism with Christianity by dint of an apologist and anti-materialist interpretation of Newton’s thought. While Galiani’s boldest ideas on the links between reason and faith were kept consigned to unpublished manuscripts in order to escape the censors, the group made available to the Italian public texts by prohibited authors such as Galilei and Boccaccio. During this period, a lively debate broke out within the Church between novatores and veteres, and the cautious opening to the new involved the very institutions responsible for the control of books: it was in fact one of the Index censors—Giovanni Gaetano Bottari, who was associated with Galiani—who played a major role in the difficult publication of the Opere di Galileo Galilei, which came out in Florence in 1718.5 The renewal project carried forward by the Enlightened Catholics had however to reckon with the harsh reaction of a large section of the Church hierarchy to the emergence of radical ideas within the Enlightenment, ideas which in the 1730s drove the Church towards gradual isolation and to reassess, with suspicion, books long published.6 It was during the pontificate of Clement XII (1730–1740) that action was taken against John Locke, yet another father of the Enlightenment. His Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1689), which had avoided censorship in 1709 when the Congregation of the Index pronounced judgment on it, was the subject of a brief by Clement XII issued on 19 June 1734. And three years later, on 25 September 1737, Locke’s attempt to rationalise the Christian message in The Reasonableness of Christianity (1695) was banned by the Inquisition.7 The chronology of these bans is not incidental and, in the 1730s, Locke’s attempt to give a rational explanation of reality took on a different and

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much more worrying significance. Condemnations like that which, in May 1734, was given against Le Conte du Tonneau, the French version of Jonathan Swift’s satire A Tale of a Tub (1704), bear witness to the spread of new fears. The consultor Francesco Baldini had actually recommended the burning of the allegory, which he deemed a manifestation of impiety: its author was not only a threat to “Catholic dogmas, discipline, traditions and institutions,” but even to the foundations of “all religions.”8 Thus concerns relating to the circulation of Newtonian principles in the Italian language among a public of “inexperienced and insolent adolescents and idle women” led, in July 1738, to the condemnation of Newtonianesimo per le dame (1737) by Francesco Algarotti. This defence of heliocentrism and the Galilean tradition, on which the censor focussed attention, could recklessly suggest that natural world problems could find answers in the reality of the physical world and not in the Holy Scriptures.9 A sign of the new development had already been discernible in April 1738, when Clement XII issued a bull against Freemasonry that took aim at not only the society’s secrecy, but also its defence of religious tolerance. The Masons were accused of welcoming people of all religious confessions, united solely by a kind of “natural honesty,” or rather by a natural morality without religious basis.10 And the screw was turned again and again: the bull was followed, in 1739, by the arrest of the Masonic poet Tommaso Crudeli by members of the Florence Inquisition,11 and then, in the same year, by the sentence to burning of the Rélation apologique, a pamphlet extolling the materialist pantheism of John Toland written by the grand master of the lodge of the Royal Society, Martin Folkes,12 and then also by the abjuration of Giovanni Alberto De Soria, who had propounded a materialist reading of Newtonianism.13

1.

From Censorship to Self-Censorship: Benedict XIV’s Proposal

The attempt to block the circulation of Enlightenment texts, which brought to fruition the process—set in motion in the second half of the seventeenth century—towards the autonomy of politics, science and ethics from religion, thus preceded the condemnation of Montesquieu’s Esprit des lois (1748), decreed in 1751 during the papacy (1740 to 1758) of Benedict XIV: a condemnation often seen as a moment of break in the relationship between the Church and the Enlightenment.14 In truth, looking at the stance adopted by the Index and the Inquisition, it is difficult to share the notion of Benedict XIV as the pope of “tolerance and Christian indulgence,” the father of a “liberal” Index.15 But this was a pope who received a difficult inheritance and found himself holding the reins of the Church in a period of profound cultural upheaval. Long before Montesquieu’s treatise, other works were banned which in various ways belonged within the Enlightenment culture or which fuelled

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the debate on the relation between science, faith and reason, then the focal point of mature Enlightenment thought. In 1742, the French edition of Alciphron by the Newtonian theologian and philosopher George Berkeley, and the Recueil de diverses pièces sur la philosophie, which contained texts by Leibniz, Clarke, Newton and others, were both banned,16 then between 1742 and 1744, it was the turn of the Lettres cabalistiques, the Lettres chinoises and the Lettres juives, published in the late 1730s by the man of letters and philosopher Jean-Baptiste de Boyer, Marquis of Argens,17 and of the French version of The Fable of the Bees, by the Dutchman Bernard de Mandeville.18 These were solemn and exemplary proscriptions: the Lettres juives, castigated for deism, were burned in a public ceremony on 6 May 1744. The same fire destroyed, among others, the French translation of the Political History of Devile by Daniel Defoe, which was strongly censored for atheism in April 1743.19 The revision of censorship practices implemented by Pope Lambertini in the mid-eighteenth century and the enactment of a new Index in 1758 responded to the dual aim of breaking new ground in the face of the considerable ineffectiveness of ecclesiastical censorship, and of adapting to the problems of the times. The revision, which dated back to the 1750s, thereby also constituted a response to the widespread concerns expressed by the Italian clergy regarding the circulation of books and the presumed expansion of the reading public (as outlined in the first chapter). In essence, while Benedict XIV’s tenure marked a turning point in the history of ecclesiastical censorship, it did not necessarily imply a greater tolerance. What changed, if anything, were the strategies used with an eye to the preservation of the Church’s cultural hegemony. The rules introduced with the bull Sollicita ac provvida (9 July 1753) were therefore of prime importance. The new procedure, which recommended a lenient interpretation in cases of doubt, allowed celebrated Catholic authors with unsullied reputations the appointment of a second censor, and a third in the event of disagreement, as well as the opportunity to present a defence of their work. It thus insisted on the principle of donec corrigatur, aimed at persuading writers to correct their texts during the suspension phase of the decree of condemnation.20 These innovations should not be underestimated for it was just such “secret and hidden” procedures of the Index that Giannone had denounced.21 It should be noted, however, that the measures were also designed to deprive individual censors of the discretion that Constantine Grimaldi had decried.22 Nevertheless, faced with new cultural ferment, Lambertini’s reform, rather than taking the path of tolerance, developed a new but not unfamiliar strategy: while ruling out the method of harsh repression aimed at muzzling authors, it promoted self-correction and thus self-censorship in a way that left space for writing, albeit only that which was appropriate and compliant. Invited to amend the censored passages of their works, Catholic men of letters were thus pressurised into recognising the Church’s authority over

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23

their intellectual reflections. Moreover, the pope continued to punish the readers of heretical texts with reserved excommunication as foreseen by the bull In coena Domini,24 and those caught reading other books prohibited by the bishops faced whatever spiritual penalties the bishops thought fitting, despite the secretary of the Index, the Dominican Tommaso Agostino Ricchini, having made recommendations to the contrary.25 In the light of these tried and tested strategies to guide writers, it is possible to interpret certain instances in the relationship between the Church and the Enlightenment during the time of Benedict XIV. The well-known but very different cases of Montesquieu and the Neapolitan Antonio Genovesi are most telling in this regard. Both writers were asked to correct their works in accord with ecclesiastical judgments. Montesquieu refused to alter the censored passages of the Esprit des lois, starting with the censorship report of the philo-Jansenist Bottari. Cardinal Domenico Passionei and the French ambassador to Rome, Louis-Jules Mancini Mazarini, Duke of Nivernais, tried hard to mediate, but all their efforts proved futile. In the end, faced with a man of letters unwilling to cooperate, the decision to prohibit Montesquieu’s work was taken in 1751.26 Genovesi, conversely, accepted, at least formally, to make corrections to the Elementa metaphysicae (1743), and his book was therefore not added to the Index.27 The essential point being made, then, was that writers must not impugn the Church’s authority. Muratori avoided the rigours of censorship precisely because of his loyalty to the Roman Church: “You may remain sure,” Benedict XIV informed him, “that if someone else had inserted these things in his works, these congregations would not have failed to prohibit them.”28 Genovesi was not the only author who, confronted by this threat, declared his readiness to revise his work, thereby bending to the higher will. The decree of condemnation against Nicolas Lenglet du Fresnoy’s Recueil de dissertations anciennes et nouvelles sur les apparitions (1751) was suspended because the abbot was open to self-censorship. On January 1754, he wrote to Cardinal Passionei, with whom he was on friendly terms, humbly requesting to know which passages were indicted and to beseech him to suspend the decree issued by the Index on 18 December relating to a collection of dissertations about apparitions, visions and dreams that I published. I beg you to do me the grace of instructing me more particularly on what I must do. When he later sent the requested corrections to the Congregation, he denounced “the story of The Maid of Orleans,” sending a copy “as a mark of my submission and my filial regard.”29 The action against the philosophes’ books increased in the 1750s, that is, in the decade in which the forces of the Enlightenment coalesced into a single movement, finding common voice in the Encyclopédie, the first volume of which was published in 1751. The papal brief of 25 January

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1751 banned Voltaire’s La voix du sage et du peuple (1750), a product of the French jurisdictionalist struggle, and then, in March 1752, the theses by the abbot Jean-Martin de Prades, collaborator of the Encyclopédie, were condemned.30 In that same year, Voltaire’s Lettres philosophiques (1734) were added to the Index, as were his Œuvres (Dresden: George Conrad Walther, 1748), censored by the Holy Office on 6 September. And between 1753 and 1756, his Siècle de Louis XIV (1751), Histoire des croisades (1745–1751) and Abrégé de l’histoire universelle (1753), which had an underlying anti-providentialist perception of history, were also banned.31 What is more, the Catholic hierarchy was not slow in recognising that the Enlightenment had gradually assumed the character of a movement. In 1729, analysing Grimaldi’s Discussioni istoriche teologiche o filosofiche, the then secretary of the Index, Nicolò Ridolfi, had concentrated on the supposed Protestant aspects of the book.32 And in 1744, the Lettres juives were still being read for their alleged links with Luther and Calvin, heretics and leaders in the struggle against superstition, as well as for their connection with libertinism, which recalled the theory of the imposture of religions. Nonetheless, the points most at issue were by now the attack on revelation and the defence of religious tolerance.33 But censorship judgments quickly changed, becoming oriented towards identifying precise associations between the various authors. Not by chance did the decree of 24 May 1752 denounce both Voltaire’s Lettres philosophiques and La philosophie du bon sens by d’Argens, who was described as an “impious and declared enemy of revealed religion.” D’Argen’s teachers had been Bayle and Locke, with whom he shared the mission “to overturn” not only Christianity, but all religions.34 Thus the long censorship report on Voltaire’s Œuvres by the Inquisition consultor Lorenzo Ganganelli, later Pope Clement XIV, was emphatic in underlining the correlational decline in morality and in placing Voltaire within a large “sect of indifferents.”35 In the censorship judgment on the Siècle de Louis XIV, the association between authors was made manifest, for Voltaire appeared as a follower of Montesquieu.36 In truth, Pope Lambertini and his collaborators, principally Ricchini, acted with great courage in declaring that the number of prohibitions handed down over the centuries was excessive and that there was need for clearer rules: in other words, the Index did not work as it should.37 Even so, the pope did little more than make public what the ecclesiastical hierarchy had known for years.38 It was therefore necessary to specify whom exactly they were opposing, who were the real enemies.39 In effect, just as Lambertini had redefined the standards of sainthood not in order to devalue its thaumaturgic character, but rather to reinforce it by using “a medicine as yet hesitant, and deemed scientific, in the service of the faith,”40 he now in similar fashion sought to turn the Index into an instrument attuned to the climate and challenges of his day. And, to be sure, the Index was brought up

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to date in 1758, taking account of the cultural production of the time and providing the reader with a new, user-friendly format that listed the authors in alphabetical order.41 A close inspection, however, shows that what was added to or left on the new list was more important than what was removed. As regards Protestantism, the operation was pure façade, for single works of authors were cancelled, while the prohibition of their complete works (opera omnia) was retained.42 The new Index then authorised for the first time the reading of vernacular versions of the Holy Scriptures that had been approved by the Holy See,43 but the provision, while certainly important, did not imply the renunciation of ecclesiastical verification. The limits of the operation did not go unnoticed: the Jesuit Zaccaria in fact called it an “equivocation.”44 As for Copernicanism, the reference to “all books that teach the movement of the earth and the immobility of the sun” was deleted from the Index, as suggested by the Jesuit Pietro Lazzeri, not least to avoid the Holy See being exposed to derision.45 However, Ricchini’s proposal to remove other books from the Index went unheeded.46 While some works by the Genevan Jean Leclerc were dropped,47 many others were kept: among these, Bacon’s De dignitate et augmentis scientiarum (1623), prohibited donec corrigatur in 1668; the works of Descartes, banned between 1663 and 1720; Galileo’s Dialogo sopra i massimi sistemi (1632), proscribed in 1634; Grotius’s De iure belli ac pacis (1625), added to the Index in 1627; Johann Gottlieb Heinecke’s Elementa iuris naturae (1738), condemned in 1743. Furthermore, the suggestion to remove some of Locke’s works, Nicolas Malebranche’s De inquirenda veritate (1674–1675), banned in 1707,48 and Samuel Pufendorf’s De iure naturae et gentium (1672), censored in 1711, was ignored. In fact, shortly before the publication of the new Index, the enemies of the past had been reaffirmed in clear-cut terms: particularly revealing was the condemnation in May 1757 of Grotius’s opera omnia theologica and Bayle’s opera omnia.49 No wonder, then, that Lambertini’s work was later applauded by men who could never be accused of being open to modern knowledge.50 These were challenging times for the Catholic faith. There was need for rigour, yet no room for favouritism. When, in the 1750s Charles of Bourbon, king of Naples, begged the pope to remove the Lettera apologetica de’ Queipu, a work (inspired by Toland) by “his noble and faithful subject, the prince of Sansevero” from the Index, and to make it available for reading “with a final apology by the speaker who long ago humiliated your holiness,” he received a stern reply. It was not possible that an absolutely forbidden book be allowed provided that all read the declaration or retraction made by the author. Giannone does not allow everyone to read with the same condition the work by Father Bianchi, but only those who have the prohibited book licence.

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Moreover, Giannone had written against the Church, but not against the Catholic faith, while the book by the Freemason Raimondo di Sagro was full of sentiments and expressions at least seriously suspected of deviating from Catholic dogma, and overly favourable towards the spurious and detestable systems of esprits forts, deists, materialists and cabalists, for which reason it is impossible to protect the reader from the poison in all the work with a simple reading of the petition presented to Our Lord if whole pages are not deleted, or a rebuttal expressed.51 In short, the enemies had been precisely identified, accurately established. But the repression of the radical ideas of the philosophes signified the outbreak of a battle between the two congregations and the entire Enlightenment culture.

2.

Heresies of the Enlightenment

During the pontificate of Clement XIII (1758–1769), who succeeded Benedict XIV in July 1758, the Church’s condemnation of the Enlightenment continued with the same intransigence, displaying an attitude that was no doubt a reaction to the radical tones of some works of the philosophes. A pivotal moment in this confrontation was the publication of Helvétius’s De l’esprit, issued in Paris in July 1758 with a royal privilege and considered, in conservative circles, to be highly scandalous. For its materialist conception, defence of republicanism and exaltation of the world of passions, the work was straightway the subject of interventions by all the censorial institutions of France, beginning with the arrêt of the state council (10 August 1758), and the author was forced to make a series of public retractions.52 In Rome, De l’esprit was denounced by the papal nuncio in Paris, Luigi Gualtiero Gualtieri, who also warned of the presence in France of a “kind of school of atheism.” The judgment of the Servite Benedetto Baldoriotti, a theologian of the pro-Jansenist Cardinal Passionei, was damning: denouncing its criticism of religious fanaticism and intolerance and regarding it as a vehicle of materialism, he demanded the book be burned.53 The proscription expressed in the papal brief of 31 January 1759 was solemn. The book—held to be full of impious, scandalous and heretical assertions—was banned in both printed and manuscript form in all languages, on pain of excommunication for the laity and suspension a divinis for the clergy; in addition, it was excluded from lists of books that could be read by those with licences.54 Another affair that occurred—not by chance—around the same time was that of the Encyclopédie, and this quickly gave rise to a lively Europewide debate.55 The dictionary of the Enlightenment was in fact immediately accused of impiety by the Jesuits in the periodical Mémoires de Trévoux, and there was no lack of confutations, notably the Préjugés légitimes contre l’Encyclopédie, published in Paris by the Jansenist Abraham Joseph de

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Chaumeix in September 1758. In France, moreover, interventions and condemnations were made by both political and religious bodies: from the suppression of the first two volumes, with the state council’s arrêt of 2 February 1752, to various denunciations from the clerical assembly in 1758 and more general condemnations of philosophe works by the faculty of theology. In Rome, the Encyclopédie became the subject of a lengthy debate.56 Being assessed in two stages, it was first banned by the Index on 5 December 1758, and then—after the hard line taken by the Holy Office on 2 August 1759— by the brief issued by Clement XIII on 3 September 1759. The examination by the Index was carried out on the first six volumes of the Paris edition, and it involved several consultors (consultori), each appointed to analyse one or more of the volumes. They included the Jesuit Carlo Benvenuti; Giovanni Luigi Mingarelli, a regular canon of San Salvatore; Giovanni Antonio Valentini, procurator general of the Congregation of Christian Doctrine; and the Camaldolese Ferdinando Mingarelli. In their reports, however, they did not speak with one voice (Giovanni Luigi Mingarelli, for example, was inclined to recommend a corrigatur verdict), but they did identify the passages to be censored, drawing attention to certain entries. These included François-Vincent Toussaint’s “accusation”, which contained a strong attack on the Inquisition underlined by the censors; “Aius locutius,” written by Diderot, which was interpreted as an invitation to write freely and without restraint about religious matters; “athées,” penned by Claude Yvon; célibat, in which Diderot considered such abstinence entirely contrary to nature; “Église,” in which Antoine-Gaspard Boucher d’Argis took sides against ecclesiastical privileges; “éloge de Montesquieu,” in which d’Alembert seemed to make a disturbing apologia of religious tolerance. When presenting their judgments to the congregation, the reporters, rather than suggest a general measure, called for a complete reading of the encyclopaedia to be undertaken.57 This was in effect completed by Secretary Ricchini in the meeting of 5 December 1758,58 and, taking account of the judgments passed on the first two volumes of the edition printed in Lucca in 1758 (to which we will return), the point of drawing up a decree of condemnation seemed to have been reached.59 Nonetheless, the publication of the decree, which would have forbidden anyone to own and read the work as well to print it “in any language” was suspended in January 1759, while the examination of De l’esprit was under way, albeit “with the intention,” as the prefect Antonio Andrea Galli said, “to supplicate His Holiness for a brief.”60 A new procedure had been launched within the Inquisition, which had denounced in the meantime the Italian edition of the Encyclopédie published in the Republic of Lucca in 1758 on the initiative of a group gathered around the nobleman Ottaviano Diodati.61 This was in actual fact a French version with corrective notes aimed at moderating its subversive force by providing Italian readers with its technical-scientific contents, while eliminating, in tones not unlike those of an apologetic, its radical aspects, especially all its deistic ideas and criticism

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of Church institutions. Having been assured, in 1757, that the Index would approve the work—thanks to the diplomatic endeavours of Filippo Maria Bonamici, agent of the republic at Rome—the publishers of Lucca, had—in order to be even more sure of avoiding censorship—sent for inspection a series of notes to be added to the third volume. Having undergone a review by the Holy Office, the Encyclopédie was passed to the Camaldolese monk Mauro Sarti, professor of sacred history at the University of Bologna, for analysis. He examined the first seven volumes of the Paris and the Lucca editions, and asked for both to be strongly condemned. Thinking in the long term, Sarti had discerned a common intent in the various volumes, indicating inter alia Bayle as one of the spiritual fathers. Consequently, the possibility of the book being read by the unwary concerned him. Highlighting certain entries—including “Aius locutius,” “athées,” “christianisme,” “éloge de Montesquieu,” “fanatisme,” “femme,” “fortune,” “gloire”—he singled out doctrines that were “false, scandalous and impious, close to heresy.” The dictionary’s purposive design was, he concluded, to attack revelation, external worship and ecclesiastical celibacy, and to criticise the Inquisition. He furthermore detected the odour of heresy in various ideas of biblical exegesis, and pointed out the book’s defence of religious tolerance, of freedom of conscience and expression, as well as a general invitation to licence in moral matters. As for the notes to the Luccan edition, Sarti found these to be entirely insufficient to obviate the errors and general subversive nature of the work. But in fact, there was no lack of support for the expurgation recommended by the Cistercian consultor Raimondo Besozzi and the Camaldolese Ferdinando Mingarelli, which stressed the importance of the work, dedicated as it was to “crafts, arts, and faculties that the community of men needs.” However, it was the intransigent approach supported by the Dominicans Alessandro Pio Sauli, general commissioner (commissario generale) of the Holy Office, and Giuseppe Agostino Orsi, then Master of the Sacred Palace, that won the day. Orsi declared that indifference (indifferentismo) to matters of religion, materialism, fatalism, deism, and the unrestrained freedom of thought are diseases that in the present season are highly contagious and which, as experience shows, easily attack all types of people. This epidemic is a disease born in countries infected with heresy, especially in England, and then passed to France through many pestiferous books, and subsequently to Italy, and despite the excellent preventatives that have been used and the antidotes in the many distinguished volumes against it edited by people of courage, doctrine and zeal, the evil did not cease, nor does it ever cease, propagating itself and being favourably received by supposed beautiful spirits of our unhappy century. In his opinion, a handful of corrective notes could certainly not halt “the torrent of impiety.”62 The Holy Office, in a meeting of 2 August 1759,

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therefore proposed a special brief against this work full of “impious doctrines leading to irreligion and incredulity.”63 And the Damnatio, et prohibitio issued by Clement XIII on 3 September 1759 prohibited, under pain of major excommunication for the laity and suspension a divinis for the clergy, any edition of the work, “wherever and in whatever language it is published, even if with notes and corrections,” considering the Encyclopédie a vehicle of impious doctrines in conflict with Christianity and good morals, and even capable of eradicating religion itself.64 The inclusion of the Encyclopédie in the Index, at the same time as condemning De l’esprit, certainly constituted a decisive episode. It was in this context that the metaphor of the torrent emerged, and this would—as we have seen—go on to become a leitmotif of the late eighteenth century. And it was not by chance that around the same time the first encyclical dedicated to the circulation of books was drafted: the Quantopere Dominus Iesus propounded by the Jansenist Pier Francesco Foggini—a theologian of the Secretary of the Holy Office, Cardinal Neri Maria Corsini—“against the books of the libertines and the impious,” inspired by the reflections on Helvétius’s De l’esprit65 and aimed at countering the entire Enlightenment culture. The substantial failure of this encyclical, following disagreements that had escalated within the Inquisition (which we will discuss later), was moreover connected to the publication of the above-cited brief of September 1759 against the Encyclopédie. It was an admonitory proscription which, although enacted mainly to prevent the circulation in the peninsula of the Lucca edition, struck the European symbol of the Enlightenment and placed the Church hierarchy in a position of absolute opposition to the debate developed in Enlightenment circles on the problem of the relation between religion, politics and morality. This was therefore a decision destined to mark the deep gulf between the Church and modern thought. The condemnation would in addition became the benchmark for not a few later prohibitions. The Italian translation of the Journal encyclopédique published in Liège from 1756 by Pierre Rousseau, and published in Lucca, after considerable corrections, was thus strongly stigmatised: The word encyclopaedia alone . . . makes plain the nature of the journal, and as for the use of it, it is better to keep the flocks far away, as one would guide them away from a poisoned pasture.66 Over the next decade the effort to combat the different tactics and manœuvres of the Enlightenment’s assault on the political and religious institutions of the ancien régime was sustained with determination. When the Enlightenment consolidated its publishing operations, the Church hierarchy reacted by extending the concept of heresy, on the one hand,67 and by increasingly identifying deism with atheism, on the other. The censorship judgment pronounced against Morelly’s Code de la nature (1755), a manifesto of utopian communism, illustrates the point: in January 1761, the

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Jesuit Lazzeri focusing on certain ideas expressed in the work—in particular the denial of revelation, doubts about the immortality of the soul, criticism of clerical celibacy, and the defence of the legitimacy of divorce—equated them to heretical doctrines because they were totally at variance with divine laws. Furthermore, he defined the text “atheist or deist or something like that.”68 The assimilation between heresy, deism and materialism was undoubtedly one of the key points of attack of ecclesiastical censorship in the 1760s, and evidence of it was seen outside Rome.69 Suffice it to recall that, de’ Liguori, a prominent representative of eighteenth-century Catholicism wrote the following in a letter to Remondini about his Verità della fede contro i materialisti che negano l’esistenza di Dio, i deisti che negano la religione rivelata: I am composing a book against the modern heresies of atheists and deists, because these are the errors that do the rounds nowadays. The Calvinists in England and the Jansenists of France are no longer Jansenists or Calvinists, but atheists and deists, and continuously send out books infested with this matter.70 Nor was it a coincidence that volumes and dictionaries devoted to the subject of heresy examined “the seductive works of Rousseaus and Voltaires, of philosophers of bon sens, of the essential Religion, of the Esprit, and of a hundred other declared enemies of the fundamental dogmas of orthodox belief.”71 Although the Italian word Illuminismo (Enlightenment) was not used,72 the movement was identified with a relatively compact world traced back, at least in the first instance, to the traditional categories of heterodoxy, therefore to within the Christian religious universe. One of several proofs of this can be seen in the proscription of JeanJacques Rousseau’s Émile, published at the end of May 1762 and immediately sentenced to be publicly burned for impiety by the Parliament of Paris (9 June), then censored by the Archbishop of Paris, Christophe de Beaument, and thereafter made the subject of numerous confutations in Europe and Italy.73 In Rome, the book was placed on the Index by decree of the Holy Office on 9 September 1762, only three months after its publication. As an anonymous letter sent from Paris shows, Émile had in fact been promptly reported to the Holy Office, presumably by the then papal nuncio to Paris, Pietro Pamphili. Partly echoing the terms of the Paris arrêt, Francesco Antonio Mariani analysed both the novel’s educational theory and, at the same time, its moral and political implications. The theory, as we know, was based on respect for the child’s personality and on the absence of any kind of social conditioning. Rousseau, in Mariani’s eyes, did indeed attack the dogmas of the Catholic religion, but in making this interpretation, the latter did not dwell on Calvinism, to which the Genevan had returned in 1754 after his conversion to Catholicism (1728). Instead, Mariani opined that Rousseau’s educational system was not at all disposed to correcting human

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vices, given the absence of restrictions and punishments, and would result in a “very dangerous freedom” that could lead to unbridled licence in terms of morals. And this was because Rousseau set human reason against divine authority, thus not only “weakening,” but actually “eradicating” the Holy Scriptures, the miracles and revelation. By disseminating natural religion, the work was a true “plague” for the Christian republic, a source of moral corruption and social upheaval: in short, it belonged with both heretical and impious books, which taught “such enormous perversities and such evil doctrines against the faith.”74 The defence of a natural religion, free of dogmas, and tolerance towards all confessions were the principles which the Index and Inquisition opposed in those years, in the end considering them in the same way as impiety. To block the spread of such thinking countless texts of the European Enlightenment were censored, among these being the posthumous work of Nicolas-Antoine Boulanger, Recherches sur l’origine du despotisme oriental, edited by the coterie of d’Holbach as part of the materialist offensive of the 1760s. The book did not in fact enquire into the origins of despotism, as the title suggested, but was a ploy for “fighting any revealed religion,” as the consultor Tommaso Mamachi, who regarded the text as a product of deism, argued when calling it “a work full of mistakes and impiety.”75 The judgments pronounced on Voltaire’s Dictionnaire philosophique (1764) and his edition (1762) of the Testament by the parish priest Jean Meslier, considered particularly harmful to unwary believers, followed the same logic, and both works were banned on 8 July 1765.76 In Italy, the same fate befell Cesare Beccaria’s Dei delitti e delle pene (1764), a classic of the Italian and European Enlightenment, which, apart from denouncing the death penalty and torture, had reconstructed the conception of law on a secular foundation. Marketing the treatise had been forbidden in Venice by the state inquisitors in August 1764,77 and the work was proscribed in Rome on 3 February 1766. The report of the Jesuit Lazzeri was explicit in associating the Enlightenment thinker’s plans for the reform of justice with heresy. Beccaria was not satisfied with praising prohibited authors (including Montesquieu), with drawing inspiration from “Protestant writers” (like Rousseau), and with reaching conclusions “which slander the common practice of Catholic experts on crime, while condemning the use of torture, the death penalty and the confiscation of property,” but he also advanced propositions which attacked “religion, pity and offend[ed] Christian ears”:78 an expression which, while not referring to outright heresy, implied that his work was close to it and indicated an attack on good Christian conscience.79 Furthermore, the book was particularly dangerous in so far as it was “written in Italian and in a small format . . . thus risking to be read by many people” and so was able to spread beyond the elite.80 That the concept of heresy was then extended to incorporate the secular morality of the Enlightenment is confirmed by numerous judgments of the

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censors. Of particular significance were, for example, the words used by the Cistercian Angelo Fabri with regard to Voltaire’s Traité sur la tolerance (1763), proscribed with the aforementioned decree of 3 February 1766: the “impious” book contained “suggestions of flagrant heresy, schism and sedition.”81 For his part, in July 1768, the Jesuit Lazzeri, analysing Voltaire’s Commentaire sur le livre Des délits et des peines (1765) and dwelling at length on the section dealing with suicide, called it “impious, blasphemous, heretical.”82 A prime example in this respect was the condemnation, on 16 June 1766, of Rousseau’s Du contrat social (1762), banned along with his Lettre à Christophe de Beaumont archevêque de Paris (1763), which he wrote in defence of his Émile. Called to give his opinion of both works, Ambrogio Maria Erba, of the Order of Friars Minor Observants, treated them as an unmitigated “plague” for humanity. It should be noted, however, that, with regard to the Lettre à Christophe Beaumont, Erba censored principles considered heretical from a theological point of view, such as the denial of original sin, the necessity of baptism, and transubstantiation. Nevertheless, the situation was far more serious, for not only did Rousseau advocate natural religion, but he even cast doubt on divine creation itself. As for Du contrat social, on the other hand, the concept of heresy had nothing to do with doctrinal questions. Here the point at issue was that, by denying the divine origin of power, the author caused the collapse of monarchical power: and, in truth, Rousseau fully approved “rebellions and popular riots against kings.” More specifically, book I, which discussed the transition from a state of nature to civil society through the contract, from its famous opening line (“Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains”) seemed to Erba to be full of insults of the monarchy and the Holy Scriptures. And to him, the reflection on family, in chapter II, seemed contrary to natural law, and seditious in that it could destroy the respect of children for their parents and thus disempower every kind of hierarchical bond. Having pointed out Rousseau’s praise for Calvin and Machiavelli—both prohibited authors—Erba concentrated on chapter VIII, book IV, which dealt with “civil religion.” This he correctly interpreted as a patent defence of “tolerantism” and natural religion, but he also perceived it to be a blasphemous attack on Christianity, which Rousseau accused of having long been a source of social instability. From a political standpoint, to the Roman hierarchy the Genevan philosopher—whose reflections against the sciences and the arts were in fact appreciated by various exponents of Catholicism and were not subject to institutional censorship—seemed to be a denier of the origin of divine power, and consequently a subversive of the order established by God. And, what was more, he was in favour of demanding the right to rebellion. On a religious level, his concept of a faith without Church and dogmas, although contrary to the materialistic consequences of a current of the Enlightenment thought (as is known, Rousseau did not dismiss the

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idea of the immortality of the soul), appeared to undermine all religion and became assimilated into impiety.83

3.

Jurisdictionalist Thinkers, Deists, Atheists “or Something Like That”

Censorship of the Enlightenment’s most important texts was, at that time, bound together with the proscription of the classics of Enlightenment jurisdictionalist thought, which in various Italian and European states were being translated into practical political action aimed at limiting the influence of the Church. In the 1750s, in conjunction with the controversy started in France around the immunity of the clergy, both the Lettres. Ne repugnate vestro bono of the lawyer Daniel Bargeton and—as mentioned—Voltaire’s pamphlet the Voix du sage et du peuple (1750), were promptly banned,84 and in the 1760s and 1770s, the Church’s response to works written in the Italian Peninsula in support of jurisdictionalist practices was just as swift and severe. The simultaneity of the bans was no accident. Carlo Antonio Pilati’s L’esistenza della legge naturale (1764), for example, was prohibited with the decree of 16 June 1766 that also banned Rousseau’s political treatise. The rules for Catholic authors, which historical records show were introduced by the papal bull Sollicita ac provida, in this case did little more than provide support for the decision to condemn the works, since the two censors were in agreement. “I see that the cause of the impious rather than that of religion is brought to light”: this was the observation made on 7 July 1765 by the Conventual Franciscan Giuseppe Martinelli in reference to Pilati’s defence of natural religion and dangerous use of the Italian language.85 Eleven months later, the Hieronymite Giuseppe Marenchi, abbot of the monastery of San Paolo Albani, included the work “among those books which offer poison to the unwary readers” both for hypothesising the existence of a natural law outside the divine one and for denying the immortality of the soul. Furthermore, it was thought that the book’s small size and its “vernacular language” heightened the danger it posed to an “inexperienced” public.86 This fear was voiced in the meeting that ended with the book’s condemnation: the minutes show that Marenchi had asserted that “little or nothing good at all, and in fact much harm, can come to believers from it, and above all to uneducated and weak people and to women.”87 There were certainly times when the authorities of outlying areas acted more swiftly than those of the Roman centre. Thus Di una riforma d’Italia, the primary work with which Carlo Antonio Pilati launched his frontal assault on the clergy and the Inquisition, was published in Venice on 19 April 1767 and proscribed without delay by the Bishop of Trento (15 June 1767), partly because it put forward ideas offensive “to pious ears” (piarum aurium).88 It was then condemned, together with Rousseau’s Lettres écrites de la montagne (1764), by the Holy Office, on 29 July 1767, having been reported to the secretary of state.89

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The banning of Enlightenment jurisdictionalist texts was a constant in the late eighteenth century, continuing unabated during the tenure of Clement XIV, who became pope in March 1769. Moreover, just as the concept of heresy had gradually been extended to cover religious tolerance and the natural religion of deism, so it now expanded to incorporate all jurisdictionalist principles relating to the reshaping of relations between the state and the Church. The judgments passed on Pilati’s Riflessioni di un italiano sopra la Chiesa (1768), censored first by decree of the Index (11 August 1769) and then by the Holy Office (1 March 1770), bear witness to this. In the examination conducted for the Congregation of the Index by the reporter Giovanni Lazzari, parish priest of Sant’Angelo, the passages that made the text particularly scandalous for “people who read and hear” were those that contained attacks on the Church hierarchy, beginning with the pope, those that criticised the regular orders and ecclesiastical celibacy, and those that made a case for civil matrimony. In fact, Lazzari, apart from acknowledging the denial of the veneration of saints, interpreted all jurisdictionalist principles as a series of blasphemies “against the faith,” and accordingly, he concluded that the work was full of “damned, impious, blasphemous, schismatic, erroneous and heretical propositions.”90 Its impiety now squarely established, the book was returned to the Inquisition, for it to proceed towards—as the assessor Leonardo Antonelli put it—“a most solemn condemnation.” The subsequent condemnation handed down by the Holy Office was even more severe in that it highlighted the text’s heretical nature, attributed to Episcopalianism, then refused it a reading licence and demanded it be destroyed by burning: according to the Theatine Francesco Dugnani, Pilati was “a follower of the heretical system of M. Antonio de Dominis, and of Richerio, with whom Febronio agrees; but by making the government of the Church democratic, he shows himself worse than M. Antonio.” A meeting held on 14 March 1770 decided that the book “be publicly burned by the hands of the executioner.” And Pilati’s book indeed perished in the flames—together with others, as we will see.91 Cosimo Amidei’s La Chiesa e la Repubblica dentro i loro limiti, another classic of Italian jurisdictionalism, was also condemned by that decree of 11 August 1769. Published anonymously in 1768, the book was a key text that theorised a clean separation between church and state. Its historical analysis of the origins of ecclesiastical political power, and its attack on the immunity and privileges of the clergy combined together with strong criticisms of the ecclesiastical law concerning the prohibition of books, which was held to be a serious abuse that was damaging to civil power. The Capuchin Ferdinando da Verona, while noting statements contrary to Catholic dogma (for example, he held that the book denied the validity of the ecclesiastical confession, considered naturally “privative”), spotlighted the principles that he took to be “false, reckless, pernicious, scandalous, contrary to canon and civil divine natural law” but also such that “offend increasingly pious ears (magisque piorum aures offendunt),” in other words, almost heretical.92

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The increasing severity of the prohibitions, further evidenced by the denial of reading licences to various texts, is easier to understand when due account is taken of the deepening materialist and atheist radicalisation of a part of Enlightenment culture. The proscription of Julien Offroy de la Mettrie’s Œuvres philosophiques (1751), which included his Hommemachine (1748) was most emphatic: the books were first censored on 11 August 1769 by Mamachi on behalf of the Congregation of the Index. Thus, given the fears expressed in that meeting regarding the spread of materialism and atheism in the peninsula,93 La Mettrie’s works were sent to the Holy Office and condemned to the fire by the Inquisition (15 February 1770). Mamachi’s judgment reveals that he grasped La Mettrie’s message with great clarity: after analysing the “Discours préliminaire” in particular, he underlined that the author intended to establish a new secular morality, free of support from religion and yet able to constitute per se a major constraint for society. In short, La Mettrie upheld Bayle’s principle of a “society of atheists,” and his “thoughts” were “no less impious and deadly dangerous to the republic.” The discourse was “the work of a dissolute, a master of iniquity, an impious man.” As for the pamphlet La volupté, “it horrifies, and all modesty forbids referring to what he writes in the treatise on the art of enjoyment, and the prayers, which he addresses to pleasure as if to a God.”94 The congregation of 11 August 1769, in which the above books were discussed and the danger of atheistic principles being diffused was spelt out, constituted a critical moment in so far as the identification between deism and atheism was conclusively made, while a more stringent approach towards natural religion—now increasingly construed as being next door to disbelief—was taken. When, on 26 March 1770, Erba advocated the condemnation of Nicolas Fréret’s Examen critique des apologistes de la religion chrétienne (1766), he acted as if deism was the most evil doctrine of the time, regarding the book as “impious and evil and deserving of solemn proscription” and fearing that it might reach uneducated readers and “fragile maidens.”95 And it was around this time that a number of texts published twenty years earlier were seized, including, for example, Telliamed (1748), in which the naturalist Benoît de Maillet expounded his theory of terrestrial evolution and in which Erba unhesitatingly perceived expressions of “materialism, Epicureanism, deism, atheism.”96 Not surprisingly, there was a rigorous reflect response to the circulation of texts that, in the 1770s, cast doubt on the very existence of God. The Holy Office’s Damnatio amplissima (9 November 1770) placed on the Index Baron d’Holbach’s Système de la nature (1770), a materialist and provocatively anti-deist work published under the pseudonym Mirabaud. Felice Nerini, procurator general of the Girolamini and member of the Inquisition, called it “the most impious and most detestable book ever to have come out of the abominable workshop of atheism either in ancient or modern times.” It could have poisoned all mankind, were it not for the fact that “with

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promptness and providential care all copies were consigned to the flames.” Epicurus, Lucretius, Spinoza, Hobbes and others had challenged religion, but “they at least retained the name of God.” Yes, they had questioned the existence of a supreme entity, but “doubt itself,” Nerini noted, “was tantamount to a confession of the divinity.” D’Holbach, on the contrary, “brazenly decides that there is no God, and that there cannot be one,” and that the very idea of God is “a chimera born out of terror.” The consultors voted unanimously to forbid the text, ruling out a reading licence and imposing a special provision that made violators subject to fines, confiscation of property, and, with the aid of secular branch (braccio secolare), also corporal punishment “until the ultimate punishment.”97 While the Church opposed a natural and obvious refusal of the request for virtuous atheists to be granted a place of respect on earth, it should be noted that in the 1770s there was no decline in the repeated prohibitions of books written not to deny divine creation, but rather to propound a nondogmatic religion. In addition to the numerous novels by Voltaire that we will appraise in the next section, another book deemed in 1771 to be a vehicle of deism was Le militaire philosophe, a classic of clandestine literature that circulated in manuscript form in the first half of the century.98 At the same time, the Histoire philosophique et politique des établissemens et du commerce des européens dans les deux Indes (I edn, 1770) was similarly reckoned a channel of the dreaded “tolerantism.” The work, which denounced European colonialism, was written by Guillaume-Thomas-François Raynal, and its French version (Amsterdam, 1773) was banned in August 1774, as was the Italian translation (Siena, 1776), in February 1784.99 On the Italian side, the censors did not overlook Giuseppe Maria Galanti’s Elogio storico di Genovesi (Naples, 1772), which was prohibited in November 1773 despite initial disagreement within the Congregation of the Index. As censorial procedures show, tensions did in fact exist within the ecclesiastical hierarchy: not all the censors were immediately in favour of the proscription proposed by the abbot Giovanni Luigi Mingarelli, who found in the book many ideas “sounding bad (mal sonantia), or erroneous, or scandalous, or seditious or heretical, or shamelessly impious.” Giovanni Carlo Boschi and Mario Marefoschi expressed doubts about the condemnations of Giuseppe Maria Castelli and the prefect Benedetto Veterani, but the position taken by the secretary Pio Tommaso Schiara settled the matter: he saw the work as a dangerous defence of natural religion and freedom of expression, as well as a medium of Spinozian pantheism.100 The fact that in the minds of the censors the paths of deism and atheism continued to criss-cross that of Italian jurisdictionalism is confirmed by the solemn proscription of the Vero dispotismo (1770) by Giuseppe Gorani. The unanimous condemnation of this book on the part of the Index, subsequent to the judgment of Lazzeri (18 August 1773), was not thought sufficient, but the Jesuit insisted that the book was an “impious work aiming to subvert the foundations of faith, religion, pity and, ultimately, of

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ecclesiastical discipline.” Gorani never mentioned Jesus Christ, who he audaciously referred to as the “supreme being,” in the manner of the deists. To make matters worse was the consideration that the book was “written in the vernacular, in simple language and not without elegance, divided into two slender volumes”: in short, there was a risk that this text might end up in the hands “above all of the common people and women.” On that account, then, Lazzeri called for a solemn condemnation of the book, which contained theories that were “false, offensive to the ears, scandalous, seditious, offensive, irreligious, impious, blasphemous, heretical, and subversive of revealed religion.” The defence of religious tolerance and calls for jurisdictionalist-style reform (the abolition of ecclesiastical celibacy and the ecclesiastical right to make a will, for example) were interpreted as an attempt to establish “tolerantism and deism.” The author was also guilty of defending the principles of Beccaria, considering the death penalty to be unjust and unnecessary. Therefore, Lazzeri concluded, the text, published anonymously, had not been written by a “Christian author,” but by an “atheist pagan, a bitter enemy of revealed religion.”101 In consequence, the book was sent to the Inquisition for a condemnation that, issued with the decree of 26 August 1773, published on 7 September, denied it a reading licence.102 In the years of the pontificate of Pius VI—that is, from February 1775 to 1799—various books were banned for attacking revealed religion and arguing for religious tolerance. These were books, it bears repeating, that did not deny divine creation and the existence of God, but merely defended religious tolerance. While d’Holbach’s Système social (1773), proscribed on 18 August 1775, was defined by the Carmelite Giacinto Terzi as the birth of an Epicurean who slandered religion and came from “the flock of defenders of natural religion (naturalistarum),”103 on 22 April 1776, La raison par alphabet (published anonymously in 1769, but correctly attributed to Voltaire) was censored for deism, which Baldoriotti explicitly juxtaposed with disbelief. The author aimed to subvert natural religion and encouraged incredulity: [He] offers a drink filled with the poison of impiety but sweetened with the taste of amusement and clowning, a drink easily enjoyed particularly by uneducated, inexperienced and unwary people. The recommendation that the book be burned responded to the need for admonitory sentences, seeing that as the more revealed religion was called into question, the greater did the dangers associated with such works circulating among “unwary” readers seem to be.104 The pace of censorship procedures was, as we shall see, steady but relentless. In January 1777, it was the turn of William Robertson’s The History of the Reign of the Emperor Charles V (1762–1771), read in the French translation of 1771, to be condemned.105 In the 1780s, the

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Traité des trois imposteurs, a central text of anti-religious radicalism, was censored by decision of the Holy Office on 28 August 1783.106 Not long afterwards (26 September 1783), Edward Gibbon’s History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1776–1788), in which the author considered Christianity to have been a contributory factor in the crisis of Rome, was added to the Index. The Belgian censor, Jean Ponsart, having read the Italian edition (1779–1792) published in Pisa by Carlo Ginesi, condemned it as harmful to the Catholic religion, the Church hierarchy and all authority.107 In December 1784, Gaetano Filangieri’s Scienza della legislazione, published in 1780, was seized following the judgment given on the first two volumes of the Neapolitan edition of 1781 by the Augustinian Domenico Nicola and the jurist Michele Di Pietro. Nicola criticised, among other things, the radical subversion of authority and the attack on revealed religion, which seemed directly inspired by the Militaire philosophe.108 During the eighteenth century, and hence well before the Revolution, the main works of the European and Italian Enlightenment were all placed on the Index. The publication or planning of Italian translations sometimes triggered or accelerated the censorship process oriented towards impeding the circulation of such works among the large public of Italians who could not read foreign languages. It should however be noted that most of the texts were prohibited in the original, that is, before the Italian versions were produced. On the religious level, the diversity of the Enlightenment, which had both a deist and an atheist heart, was not grasped by the censors, who were inclined to see “tolerantism”—for them, a synonym of “indifferentism”—as the guiding thread of the movement and to identify deism as a direct road to outright disbelief, often assimilating natural religion and impiety. And so, on the political level, theories (from the tempered monarchism of Montesquieu through Rousseau’s direct democracy to the representative democracy of Gaetano Filangieri) incubated in the world of the Enlightenment, however disparate they were, all appeared one and the same—scant attention having been paid to the variety of the proposals advanced—because they all seemed designed to undermine the idea of the divine origin of power. The principles of Enlightenment jurisdictionalism, meanwhile, were interpreted as a direct attack on the original teaching of Christ.

4.

Short Stories and Poems, Comedies and Novels

The consolidation of Enlightenment publishing activity and the atheist radicalisation of part of Enlightenment culture stiffened the censors’ attitude towards the world of literature, making it more and more severe. But, obviously, this is not to pretend that the harsh repression of literary works in the early modern age actually ensued from the spread of Enlightenment culture. Anything but, in fact. As we know, after the 1570s, when the burnings of

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heretical books had ceased, literature, both sacred and profane, still did not escape the restrictions and penalisation of ecclesiastical censorship.109 Indeed, in the context of the general strategy for the governance of social customs and morality, irreverence towards the Church expressed in the literary sphere, as elsewhere, was often equated with heresy.110 So what one can at best say is that the attention paid by the censors to literary texts seems to have undergone cyclical surges that corresponded to the renewal of cultural and ideological orientations. As regards the eighteenth century, the events and actions involving the Index confirm that the 1760s was a turning point: a response, that is to say, to widespread fears among the peninsula’s clergy, and also, for all that, a sign that the Index was entirely equal to the task of monitoring the evolution of the book trade. In fact, in the first half of the century, many literary works of various kinds were subjected to the scrutiny of the censors, who, in addition, had to assess traditional works belonging to the distant past, but still deemed dangerous: the production of Boccaccio, Machiavelli and Ariosto, for example, were regarded with more than suspicion.111 Also to be closely examined were the works of some particularly dangerous authors of the more recent past. First among these was Gregorio Leti (1630–1701), a convert to Calvinism, whose book Vita di donna Olimpia (1666), profoundly anti-curial, was banned several times during the eighteenth century.112 A close link had been identified between him and the writers who, from the later part of the seventeenth century onwards, originated a genre of imaginary journeys through Europe as seen through the critical eyes of non-Europeans. Among them was Giovanni Paolo Marana, whose famous satire of European society, L’espion dans les cours (1684),113 inspired Montesquieu’s better-known Lettres persanes. Finally, contemporary works were also a target of the censors. Suffice it to mention the ban, in 1732, of Paolo Rolli’s Italian translation of Paradise Lost (1730) by the Protestant John Milton. This was ordered despite Rolli having expurgated the version specifically for the Italian public in order to avoid the work being added to the Index. This was censorship that referred back to the cultural categories of the past, namely the Protestant heresy and immorality, often associated with each other according to a well-established tradition. In Paradiso perduto, for instance, Bottari looked for things “our religion does not agree with,” emphasising in particular the Protestant criticism of ecclesiastical celibacy, as well as the idea that matter existed before divine creation.114 Early in the century, moreover, the censors seemed to have been far more alarmed by the spoken use of literary texts than by the reading of them. In the written judgment on Don Pilone (1711), a version of Molière’s Tartuffe adapted into Italian by Girolamo Gigli that was placed on the Index in 1714, Lodovico Gotti insisted that the play had to be banned chiefly because the “scandalous” and “heretical” ideas it contained were accompanied by “not very honest acts.” “These ideas” in fact were intended

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Plainly, the reading of the censors was prejudiced and suspicious, always on the lookout for ambiguities and contradictions, indeed any tiny hint of a double meaning. It was an analytic reading, then, in which individual sensitivity was sacrificed to the search for any deviation from the superior truth of orthodoxy. What is more, in the case of literature fears were magnified by the potential size of the readership concerned, as well as by the pleasurable style of writing and, in the case of poetry, the musicality of the verses. While the censors were asked to read literary texts in the same way as any other, it should be stressed that in the first half of the century, they frequently made divergent proposals about the penalty, if any, to impose on works under examination. These differences betrayed a lack of unanimity among the censors in general and, at the same time—in certain cases at least—a certain regard for texts that were difficult to interpret by those who had received a largely theological education. Not surprisingly, then, the censors involved in the examination of Gian Vincenzo Gravina’s Tragedie (1712) held opposing opinions. The Jesuit Antonio Maria Bonucci proposed the expurgation of passages of the Andromeda in which ambiguities concerning the pope were discernible. However, the consultor Leone Bertolotti won the day, pointing out that Gravina, whose reputation as a man of letters was known to him, had prefaced his work with a call to distinguish between the author of the text and the characters on stage: the work should therefore be read as an allegory and had no doctrines deserving censorship.116 In 1739, however, the examination of the well-known anticlerical poem Ricciardetto by Niccolò Forteguerri, had a quite different outcome: while Bottari was in favour of the donec corrigatur, the congregation opted for outright condemnation.117 Once again in the context of the debate that arose in 1752 around Voltaire’s Œuvres (1748), the position of the censors was split particularly with regard to literary texts. Indeed, prior to the inquisitional decree of 6 September 1752, there had been many doubts about the tragedy Henriade (1728), and in this case, too, the prestige of the author was influential. Thomas Leseur, of the Order of Minims, although inclined not to condemn the fourth and fifth volumes, which contained comedies and tragedies, recommended the prohibition of the Henriade tragedy in the first volume. However, an anonymous reporter, called to give his views of the last volume (the ninth, published in 1750), wrote: “I do not think that this, like the tragedies and Henriade, deserve prohibition. . . . Unless,” he continued, we do not think we must do as was done with the works of Machiavelli, when in order to ban the Principe, the novellas and the comedies, we

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also banned the Istoria and the Discorsi sopra Tito Livio, which did not deserve it. For his part, Giovanni Antonio Bianchi, who highlighted the success of the Henriade among the Italian and European public, clergy included, noted the criticisms of the Catholic Church in Voltaire’s work, while also pointing out that it told the story of a conversion: he therefore suggested applying the donec corrigatur clause before resorting to a prohibition. Even so, it was the firm line proposed by the consultor Ganganelli that prevailed, and all the volumes of the Œuvres were added to the Index.118 From then on, censorship judgments were very different, and certainly more in step. The censors began to see literature as a channel for the spread of the disturbing doctrines of the time, and so the reasons for condemnation changed, not so much because the subjects tackled in publishing genres were in the process of renewal, but rather because the censors’ way of dealing with literature reflected their anxiety and this, predictably, gave rise to new prejudices and greater severity. For the most part, the members of both congregations agreed with this approach. Thus, while in 1767 Bélisaire by Jean-François Marmontel, a bold supporter of “tolerantism,” was condemned donec expurgatur,119 other texts were denied reading licences and, worse still, were burned, as we shall see: among them was Voltaire’s poem La pucelle d’Orléans (1755)—which Baldoriotti called “ugly and stinking” and an expression of a “sense of irreligion, disbelief and impiety”120—and also the tragedy Le royaume mis en interdit (1768) by the Protestant PaulPhilippe Gudin de La Brenellerie, which insulted the Holy See.121 The relationship between the worrisome growth of the reading public, the spread of the Enlightenment and the heightened concerns about literary works emerges clearly in the reflections of the censors. In 1779, to give just one example, Atanasio da Pogno was outspoken when evaluating La filosofia della natura di Tito Lucrezio Caro e confutazione del suo deismo, e materialismo (1776), a confutation of Lucretius work written in Italian verse by the abbot Raffaele Pastore, a former Jesuit. Stressing the inconclusiveness of a confutation that would be to his mind completely ineffective, he compared it with Bianchi’s rebuttal of Giannone’s Istoria civile. The work of Giannone, given for reading “together with Bianchi’s dumodo proviso” was one thing, but the Italian versions of Lucrezio Caro have as their essential purpose that of facilitating, even for women and uneducated men, the understanding of all the obscenities contained in Lucrezio’s poem, and all the impieties against God, religion and immortality of the soul that can be found in the same poem.122 One had to keep in mind the times: After the publication of so many works by François-Marie Voltaire and Jean-Jacques Rousseau . . . even in the Italian states there are many

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The World of the Index people who despise ecclesiastical censorship, deny the apostolic traditions and consider the Holy Bible in much the same way as they do a fable . . . and they feel no shame in committing other such actions by behaving like the esprits forts they are.

On the other hand, from June 1771, when Francesco Marchetti, son of Alexander, had sought permission to reprint, with corrective notes, the translation of the work of Lucretius made by his father at the beginning of the century, he was persuaded to abandon the project, being convinced himself, in the end, of the evil it would have produced.123 The perception of a secular social morality emerging within the Enlightenment movement also helped to ensure that the Church hierarchy had a clear grasp of the dangers posed by the circulation of the modern novel. Obviously, the proscriptions have a chronology marked by the history of the genre, which developed exponentially from the mid-century onwards. However, it was the spread and radicalisation of the Enlightenment that led, in the 1760s, to attention being refocused on works that in some cases had been printed for years, and also led, well before 1789, to an association being discerned between novels and philosophie, the former appearing to be a tool of the latter. It is true that Rousseau’s La nouvelle Héloïse (1761) was placed on the Index only at the beginning of the nineteenth century and that the French moralists were far more diligent than the Roman congregations in publicly denouncing the damage it caused. However, the start of the Roman proscription of the novel dates back to the 1760s. On 24 May 1762, the Italian translation of Voltaire’s Candide (1759) was banned: the Cistercian Fabri considered it to be dangerous, “especially in these days, when there are many who seek knowledge not for edification . . . but to sell it,” and especially harmful to “unwary” readers and women.124 The same decree proscribed Montesquieu’s Lettres persanes, a full forty years after the first edition was published anonymously in Amsterdam in 1721, and after the passing of the author, who died in Paris in 1755. The work was now held to be dangerous not only for the feared increase of readers,125 but also because it was clearly an instrument of the Enlightenment movement. The text, not surprisingly, had yet to be denounced and so the process towards a sort of censorship by right of office was begun. Furthermore, in his brief comment the Theatine Giuseppe Sisto called attention to the heretical principles of the text (an attack on the doctrine of the Eucharist, for example), to its Gallicanism (the criticism of the pope’s temporal power) and to its moral ambivalence (its discussion on profane love seemed to him to deliberately incite sensual pleasure). The core of the work, however, was pinpointed in Voltaire’s defence of religious tolerance.126 A similar fate also befell Madame de Graffigny’s Lettres d’une péruvienne (1747), a “fabled history, . . . in Italian called romanzo” censored on 8 July 1765, eighteen years after its original publication.127 The judgments expressed in these cases were quite unlike those inspired by the analysis of

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Samuel Richardson’s Pamela, the first modern novel to end up (in its French translation of 1742) on the Index, in 1744, by decree of the Holy Office. On that occasion, the Olivetan monk Giovanni Francesco Caravelli had placed the “fable” in the category of obscene books.128 In the 1770s, several novels were not only added to the Index, but were the subject of stinging censorship judgments. Some were written by famous and already condemned authors, such as Voltaire, and others by minor writers. When, in 1770, Baldoriotti analysed L’espion chinois (1765) by the Frenchman Ange Goudar, he first dwelt on its criticism of political and ecclesiastical institutions, but in the end declared it to be an apologia of atheism.129 In 1771, two anonymous novels were then included in the Index, namely La defense de mon oncle (1767) and L’homme aux quarante écus (1768), and the consultor Tommaso Gabrini immediately determined their Voltairean paternity by dint of their espousal of “the tolerantism of religions that he applauds.” In La defense de mon oncle, the author wrote about sex, incest and sodomy, and showed himself a true deist as well: he defended, among other things, Muslims, and called for the destruction of what Christians had written against Mohammed, thus profaning the Holy Scriptures in the manner of Toland and Fréret.130 Meanwhile, in the judgment pronounced in 1773 against the novel L’an 2440 by Sébastien Mercier, published anonymously in Amsterdam in 1771, the consultor Erba stigmatised, in addition to its attack on revelation, its defence of freedom of thought and individual conscience, designating Mercier as one of Voltaire’s many followers, and even hinting that the latter might be the book’s real author. The censored passages concerned in particular freedom of thought; attacks on theology, so sacrilegious as to imagine the total disappearance of discipline and its practitioners; criticisms of the monastic orders and the vow of chastity; the lawfulness of divorce; and, finally, proposals for a religion without priests and appeal to individual conscience as the sole rule of human conduct.131 In May 1779, the anonymous novel Lettres d’Amabed traduites par Tramponet (1770) was also placed on the Index, and again the censor suspected Voltaire of its authorship, not least for the letter V placed on the frontispiece. The book—the story of two lovers in India, which seemed to him to belong with those containing “fables, and chimeric stories, and commonly called novels (romanzi)”— had, according to the censor, already led to spiritual ruin, reaffirming the errors of the unbelievers known as esprits forts.132 The Index was therefore able to translate into prohibitions the cries of alarm emanating from the preachers and moralists who were ready to denounce publicly the fearful effects that novels had on the human heart. The task was to stem the ingress of original editions and to forestall the Italian translations of major European novels. This raises questions about the role that Church censorship played both in delaying and helping to determine the Italian approach to the modern novel. For while it is possible to follow the illegal and underground spread of many original or translated

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novels on the Index, it is a fact that some of these were published for the first time or in new editions in the brief period of press freedom which opened during the triennio repubblicano. It therefore is not merely coincidental that in that very moment, two Italian editions of L’an 2440 appeared (one in Genoa, the other in Rome)133 and that Candide once more saw the light in Genoa in 1797, being transformed from a novel into verses for the Italian public.134 But it should also be remembered that the first translation of the Lettres persanes was not published until 1821, in Milan.135 On the other hand, the 1789 revolution confirmed the fears of the Church hierarchy. The next century therefore opened with prohibitions intended to serve as warnings: in 1804, the novels of Voltaire that had previously escaped banning were snared when the collection Romans et contes par Voltaire (1790) was placed on the Index.136 At the same time, Diderot’s Jacques le fataliste, first published in the 1760s in Correspondance littéraire, was banned for materialism in its subsequent Paris edition of 1797.137 Then, in 1806, it was the turn of the La nouvelle Héloïse (1761), proscribed long after Rousseau’s death (1778).138 The Restoration would look with similar concern on the philosophes’ novels, since the Roman edition of Mercier’s L’an 2440, published during the triennio, was once again banned in 1822, and interpreted as a novel about a pre-announced revolution.139 Here was a chain of events destined to continue and, since it seems never to have been interrupted over the years, it should not surprise us that in the nineteenth century some characters of the novels of Stendhal, Hugo, Balzac, Flaubert and Zola would, in the eyes of the censors, be seen as a band of Voltaire’s disciples.140

5.

Friar Ambrogio and the Others: The Universe of Censors

Although compact in terms of theological formation, the world of the censors was not without variety: indeed diversity emerges as one of its most salient traits. It was composed of as many obscure individuals as influential members of the curia, all suitably installed in the nerve centre of ecclesiastical power, as well as in the cultural institutions of the time. Many actually left behind only slight traces, in spite of having played a primary role in the proscription of major texts of eighteenth-century European and Italian culture. The examples are innumerable, and they span the entire century. We know little, for example, of Pietro Maria da Lucca, the procurator general of the Order of the Capuchins, who in 1727 proscribed Franco Sacchetti’s Novelle.141 Nor do we know much about the Capuchin Atanasio da Pogno, censor of Voltaire’s novel Les lettres d’Amabed, who took the oath of qualifier (qualificatore) of the Holy Office on 18 May 1778.142 And we also have but scant information about men like Giustiniano Orsini, who left behind only a few scant lines of poetry and at the beginning of the century banned the Teatro comico fiorentino,143 and the Dominican Vincenzo

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Lodovico Pavoni, who in 1768 called for the burning of the aforementioned tragedy Le royaume mis en interdit. The Theatine Sisto, a lector in Holy Scriptures in Sant’Andrea della Valle who censored the Lettres persanes,144 has likewise left few footprints, as has the Milanese Minor Observant Friar Ambrogio Erba, professor of theology in Rome’s Ara Coeli, who was heavily involved in the condemnation of Enlightenment culture, and after whom this section is named. Some censors, however, made only brief appearances, collaborating in single cases, like the Belgian priest Ponsart who, as we know, passed judgment on the work of Gibbon. Although we can identify their personal details, such men have for want of a public literary production been left in shadow. Let us try, then, to put a face to at least some of the many members of the Congregations of the Index and the Inquisition who were involved in the censorship of books. In doing this, it must immediately be made clear that we cannot share the view of those who, assuming that the censors were in the main ignorant, failed to recognise their key role in the culture of the time.145 From an intellectual point of view, the secretaries who took turns in administering the Index in the course of the century were by no means second-tier scholars.146 All were Dominicans, and as such custodians of orthodoxy, who followed a well-defined career path: starting out usually as teachers in monasteries or universities, they then joined the Casanatense Library,147 in most cases as prefect; afterwards they became secretaries and, at the end of their mandate, took the post of Master of the Sacred Palace, having responsibility for the control of books in the province of Rome.148 In addition, with few exceptions, such as those of Ridolfi and Giacinto Bonfigli, the secretaries left behind them a copious literary output. How close was the link between their production and the texts on the Index, we will see in chapter 4. The secretaries, in fact, played a pivotal role in orienting the reading public through an extensive use of printing “to the greater glory of God.” Entering deeper into the secret world of the censors to understand how they were appointed, it must be emphasised that it was not only permanent members of the two congregations who pronounced judgments. Outsiders, even laymen, were sometimes called upon to assist, providing, as the bull Sollicita ac provida specified, they were “men of outstanding culture.”149 Almost always, however, the work involved churchmen: preachers, lectors, teachers and librarians active in seminaries, convents and universities. The organisational structure was rigid: in the Index, a distinction was made between reporters, occasionally called to make censorship judgments, and consultors, who were licenced and therefore enjoyed privileges. The Holy Office had consultors, who provided intermittent services, and qualifiers, who were licenced.150 Many applicants sought the posts of Index consultor and Inquisition qualifier, sending their requests in the form of letters addressed to the pope. These were usually people who had already passed judgments on behalf of one of the congregations, and were also members

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of other Church institutions.151 Giuseppe Vasco was one of them. He had written three censorship judgments (including one on Raynal) and in the 1750s applied to be a consultor of the Index. In February 1771, he became a qualifier of the Holy Office.152 Many members of the ecclesiastical elites requested the position for themselves. One of these was Mariani, superior general of the Order of Friars Minor Observants and lector in sacred theology, who was accepted as an Inquisition qualifier in 1748.153 Often orders sought to have their subordinates or members appointed. Giacomo Maria da Tarsia, theologian to Cardinal Domenico Orsini and censor of the Lettres juives, was introduced by the cardinal himself, who called him “a subject full of merit.”154 The requirement for the posts included a long experience of teaching and absolute loyalty to the Church.155 The trustworthiness of those chosen was guaranteed by an oath, which all congregation members were required to swear. They formally pledged to “observe inviolable secrecy . . . also on the books and doctrines examined,” and to reject “recommendations of any persons, of any dignity and importance,” on pain of reserved excommunication.156 The censors performed their duties alongside their other professions, usually when they had reached middle age. For instance, the Servite Baldoriotti, who taught theology at the college of San Marcello and was also active in the Accademia dei Concili, was appointed qualifier at the age of forty-five, having served for years as a consultor.157 Confirmation of the wide variety of routes into the congregations can be seen in the cursus honorum, which had different timescales. Whereas Leseur, a lector of theology at the monastery of the Trinità dei Monti, acted as a consultor to the tribunal of 1741, and within two years was promoted to the post of qualifier,158 the Discalced Carmelite Clemente di Gesù Maria Brunetti, also a lector in theology and “theologian to the cardinals,” obtained the post he desired in 1743, but only after having reported to the Holy Office for a full fifteen years.159 For others, however, censoring books, and thereby demonstrating loyalty to the Church, was a way of advancing their careers. Giuseppe Pergolini, another Minor Conventual, was appointed Inquisitor of Belluno after six years in which he “had the honour of reporting to the holy Congregation many times,” purely “out of approval for his censorships.” And, citing his work in defence of the Catholic faith, he was then able to entreat Pope Clement XI to accept him as a qualifier of the Holy Office.160 Having held that office one could then become secretary of the Index, as Agostino Pipia161 and Ridolfi both did. But minor regular clerics like Gabrini, a key witness in the apostolic trial of Benedetto Labre,162 also dedicated themselves to censorship. Some were also future popes, including Benedict XIV, who began his activities as a consultor in 1713, and Clement XIV, a qualifier from 1744.163 The declared motives for aspiring to the office naturally related to the defence of Catholicism and of the Church: applicants longed—to use the words of Giacomo da Tarsia—“in this way to have the honour of working

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164

more fully in the service of the Holy See.” In reality, however, another important reason was the sense of belonging more closely to an order and congregation: the Olivetan friar Caravelli, like many others, stated that he wanted to “work to the greater advantage and glory of his congregation in the service of the holy faith.”165 The men of the Index were in fact chosen with the aim of ensuring a substantial balance in the representation of the various religious orders,166 and there was a tacit substitution system: when a member of one order died, the procurator general requested a replacement from the same. And an applicant for a position had more reason to hope for a favourable outcome if the congregation then lacked a representative from his order.167 Ferdinando da Verona, who we saw tackling the work of Amidei, asked in 1768 to be accepted by the Index precisely because since the death of the last Capuchin representative, no other had been appointed.168 Thus, among the main active censors of Enlightenment works in the two congregations, we find the aforementioned Leseur of the Order of Minims, the Theatine Sisto, the Cistercian Fabri, the Augustinian Carlo Niccolò Fabi, the Minor Observant Erba, the Jesuit Lazzeri, the Servite Baldoriotti, the Camaldolese Ferdinando Mingarelli and many others. The censors were of course not without privileges, including tax exemptions.169 Remuneration, however, was handled on a case-by-case basis. While some did not receive any pay, Francesco Maria Ferretti, a converted rabbi, enjoyed a monthly commission of three scudi as an analyst of Hebrew books and also obtained the increase he requested for a one-off payment (the printing at his own expense of an anti-Jewish work).170 A few years later, his successor, Jacobo Cavalli, obtained ten scudi. In 1747, Giovanni Antonio Costanzi, in his role as an interpreter of Jewish books, did not receive a fixed salary, but the pope granted him “only on the basis that he had been a rabbi . . . some secret alms.”171 He also received economic subsidies to have “the means to live,”172 or for “needing to go and take baths . . . for his indispositions”: thus wrote, in 1746, the Minor Observant Bianchi, then a consultor of the Holy Office.173 Even relatives could make requests of this kind, as did Gaetano and Laura Gay, brother and sister-in-law of the deceased Bartolomeo Gay, a lector in Hebrew at the University of Rome who, they said, served the tribunal from 1706, censoring innumerable books, especially in the years 1732 and 1733 when, by order of His Holiness all the books of the ghetto were taken from the perfidious Jews, with indescribable toil and immense study he had to review or criticise a considerable number of those superstitious and erroneous volumes. He had never been rewarded for those efforts, and, since the couple found themselves in miserable conditions and had three children to support, they dared to ask for an “annual allowance,” referring to previous cases that had turned out well.174

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However, those who censored other people’s books did not generally do so for money, but if anything for privilege, prestige and power and, of course, in the name of the defence of the Catholic faith. Proof that many were culturally equipped for the task was given by their own intellectual production. Alongside the many who left no literary legacy, there were others like the Dominican Norbert d’Elbecque, censor at the start of the century of La Fontaine’s Contes and author of various works of moral theology.175 His confrere Gotti, who in 1714 censored Gigli’s Don Pilone also published texts of refutation and apologetics.176 The Jesuit Bonucci, who in 1718 scrutinised Gravina’s Andromeda was also the author of works of edification and anti-Jansenist polemic.177 And there were others, such as the abovementioned Bianchi, who wrote a rebuttal of Giannone’s Istoria; and the erudite Bianchini, famous for his La istoria universale (1697), was open to the experimental methods of Newton and was chosen at the start of the century to head the literary republic envisioned by Muratori.178 The list can be extended with names such as Somascan Baldini, who in 1734 recommended the banning of the work of Swift;179 with the theologian and philosopher Leseur, who in 1752 delivered a judgment on Voltaire’s Œuvres; and with François Jacquier who had already published his Commentarius (1740–1742) on Newton.180 Among those involved in the Encyclopédie affair, there was the Cistercian Gioacchino Besozzi, who wrote works on logic and physics,181 and the Jesuit Benvenuti, a professor of the Roman College and editor of works by his confrere Ruggero Boscovich.182 Above all, there were many writers who—as we shall see—played a central role in the cultural debates of the time, from the Domenican Concina to the Barnabite Sigismondo Gerdil, a leading Italian critic of Enlightenment culture, who later became prefect of the Index. The majority of the censors, moreover, while not leaving behind any written works, were nevertheless linked to the world of knowledge as academics. Naturally, many of the Jesuits were professors, like Lazzeri, librarian at the Roman College, where he also held the chair of ecclesiastical history from 1742 to 1773 (the year of the suppression), before becoming librarian of Cardinal Francesco Saverio de Zelada.183 Giovanni Luigi Mingarelli, who cultivated interests in history, oratory and languages, after teaching in Bologna, arrived in Rome as a lector in theology.184 Bartolomeo Foscarini was a professor at the Sapienza in Rome when he censored, in 1761, Hume’s An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding.185 The censors had identical backgrounds, in as much as all were experts in doctrinal issues, but this does not mean that ecclesiastical censorship should be interpreted as a close-knit, uniform universe of repression. Traditional controversies within the congregations, for example on precedence in seating arrangements, signify anything but harmony and solidarity.186 Indeed, there was not always agreement on what form of censorship to impose, a sign that different inclinations existed. A broad analysis of the proscription of religious texts during the eighteenth century instead shows the presence

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of strong conflict within the Church, linked in part to membership of different orders. That absence of unanimity, however, seems to have been principally a feature of the early eighteenth century. In that period of internal Church renewal, there were not a few men who found themselves cast as both censors and censored. Bottari, for example, who, as we have seen, contributed to the seminal edition of the Opere di Galileo Galilei, was also an editor of Sacchetti’s Novelle (Florence, 1724), which was censored on 22 April 1727. Five years later, in 1732, while he was professor of ecclesiastical history at the University of Rome, he wrote the judgment condemning the Italian translation of Milton’s Paradise Lost, and afterwards, in 1738, he demanded the donec corrigatur for the Ricciardetto.187 The Jesuit Lazzeri, who in the middle of the century assisted Benedetto XIV in the reorganisation of the Index, had earlier been penalised by the censors who had banned some of his texts for their stinging attacks on the Dominicans.188 Although the censorship apparatus of the second half of the century—the years in which the Church gradually closed itself off from contemporary knowledge—appeared to be more united in the struggle against common enemies, ecclesiastical censorship should still be seen as an expression of non-rigid practices that were adapted to the times and individual authors, as well as their possible relationships with members of the curia.189 There were in fact many rules of the game, which could lead to sentences of greater or lesser severity, to delays or even to silence.

6.

The Rules of the Game: From Book-Burning to Silence

It is clear that, in terms of ability to block the cultural and publishing innovations of the time, Church censorship of the eighteenth century was certainly not in a state of crisis. However, to judge the level of its severity, we need to look carefully at the diversity of its condemnation procedures. During this period both the Congregations of the Index and the Inquisition were tasked with controlling books. However, despite the efforts of Benedict XIV to specify the respective areas of responsibility,190 these remained difficult to identify both before and after his reorganisation. There are ample data to show that the Holy Office specialised in assessing texts suspected of heresy and, in general, its involvement implied a more serious form of censorship. In fact, as we have seen, texts deemed particularly scandalous, once discussed by the Congregation of the Index, were passed to the Inquisition for a more solemn conviction. This explains why the tribunal dealt with texts deemed to be heretical (like the poem La pucelle d’Orléans and the tragedy Le royaume mis en interdit) as well as works that had little to do with heresy (such as the novel Pamela). A censorship judgment was followed by the publication of a decree by the press of the Reverend Apostolic Chamber, and the publication process could be as short as a few days or as long as a year or more. There were

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various types of decree. One provided for a simple sentence: often without stating the reasons for the prohibition, it enjoined the faithful, “under the penalties established by the Index of Prohibited Books,” to hand over their copies of banned texts to the inquisitors or local ordinaries.191 More serious were the condemnations enunciated via a papal brief, a real Damnatio (the opening word of the brief), which announced the reasons for the censorship and ordered the inquisitors or ordinaries to prepare burnings in loco for the destruction of prohibited books in circulation. In addition, the brief stipulated the punishment of major excommunication for the laity and suspension a divinis for the clergy.192 While a variant of this sentence could prescribe those penalties without calling for fires,193 a more serious one did demand public book burnings, which in the eighteenth century were carried out by the executioner in the square outside the Roman Church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, close to the Casanatense Library, both institutions belonging to the Dominican fathers in whose monastery the meetings of the Holy Office were held.194 The form of condemnation was not decided haphazardly and, in this regard, we should pay heed to the energy and inflexibility with which the ecclesiastical hierarchy tried to curb the spread of works on the Index. The burnings which the dioceses of the peninsula and peripheral inquisitorial seats were ordered to organise at the beginning of the eighteenth century were intended to eradicate heretical and jurisdictionalist works,195 but over the course of the century, this extreme measure was extended to texts of a different nature. Papal briefs consigned Locke’s Essai,196 Helvétius’s De l’esprit and the Encyclopédie to the flames and imposed the penalty of major excommunication or suspension a divinis for their readers.197 Due note must be taken of these drastic actions because they confirm the hypothesis that the Enlightenment was identified with the world of heterodoxy: excommunication, which (like absolution) only the pope could authorise, was now inflicted not only on readers of heretical texts, but also on readers of philosophie. As evidence of the resurgence of convictions, it should also be noted that the history of burnings seems to have undergone incremental changes. There were various episodes of public burnings, which reduced to ashes works deemed heretical or damaging to the Catholic faith in some other way, and others too.198 A turning point in this sense—following the destruction by fire of Folkes’s Rélation apologique199—is discernible in the aforementioned condemnation, passed down in 1744 by the Holy Office, of d’Argens’s Lettres juives and Defoe’s The Political History of the Devil. The fact that the decree did not remain a dead letter, but was implemented publicly three days later, is confirmed by the Diario ordinario of the Chracas printers, which the pope utilised as an international communique.200 Early on Wednesday morning in the Piazza della Minerva, while our cardinals hold the regular ceremony of the congregation of the Holy

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Office, the aforementioned books were burned publicly on the ignominious stage by the minister of justice, and at the same time the same holy Congregation prohibited, on the order of His Holiness, the transcription, printing and reading, or hereafter the retention of said books under penalty of excommunication ipso facto incurrenda.201 As has been said, special decrees were then issued against literary works, such as La pucelle d’Orléans, which, having earlier been refused reading licences, was sent to be burned by the local inquisitors.202 Similarly, in 1768 the tragedy Le royaume mis en interdit, was “prohibited and ordered [by the Holy Office] to be burned publicly by the hand of the executioner” before the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva; this book, “libellous against the Holy See, scandalous and seditious,” was set ablaze on the stage “in the presence of many people,”203 albeit perhaps “in effigy,” as the censor had suggested in order to preserve what he said was the only available copy.204 That the stiffening of punishments can be linked to the materialistic radicalisation of a part of Enlightenment culture—a turn of events that so concerned the censors that in the end it influenced their reading of other texts—is well illustrated by the Congregation of the Holy Office of 11 August 1769. On that occasion, starting with Mamachi’s judgment of La Mettrie’s Œuvres philosophiques, the cardinals addressed the problem of the spread of materialism in Italy. All the books under discussion were sent to the Inquisition for a solemn condemnation, being then sentenced to public incineration. The order given by the general commissioner was categorical: “That they be entirely burned, and reduced so they no longer appear, giving us then a legal declaration of what you have executed.”205 Thus the flames consumed not only La Mettrie’s Œuvres, but also the collection of Voltaire’s works Les colimaçons, Jean-Martin de Prades’s Abrégé de l’histoire ecclésiastique and Pilati’s Riflessioni di un italiano sopra la Chiesa.206 The Diario ordinario appears to have registered the change of climate. While in the first half of the century it had not reported all prohibition decrees (it had announced the condemnation of Giannone’s Istoria civile,207 an Italian text, but not that of the works of Locke), in the 1750s the editors became more diligent in reporting prohibitions and warning the public against subscriptions set up to sell prohibited works.208 Further evidence of the change in climate was the decision to deny reading permits to various works, including d’Holbach’s Système de la nature, Gorani’s Il vero dispotismo, and Voltaire’s Raison par alphabet, which—as mentioned—did not escape the flames.209 The upsurge in condemnations was not confined to the Church hierarchy of Rome, given that it also characterised the eighteenth-century Spanish Inquisition.210 Moreover, book burnings were also organised on the initiative of bishops in outlying dioceses, like that in Trento which disposed of a booklet by Girolamo Tartarotti in 1761.211 It is noteworthy that elsewhere in Europe the civil censorship institutions seem to have been just as

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severe. The Parliament of Paris destroyed many of the philosophes’ texts by fire. And the strong symbolic value of purifying flames was recognised by the parliamentarians who, in July 1766, condemned Jean-François de La Barre to the stake for having mutilated a crucifix and for uttering blasphemies. When the sentence was carried out, a copy of the Dictionnarie philosophique found in La Barre’s house was burned along with his body.212 In focusing on the role of the Church in order to gauge the effectiveness of censorship that was intentionally severe, it is necessary to consider the length of time that elapsed between the years in which a book was published and condemned. Some texts, owing to the disruptive radicalism of their ideas, fell foul of the censors just months after the release of their first editions: one thinks of Rousseau’s Émile and, in Italy, of Pilati’s Di una riforma d’Italia (1767), both proscribed in their debut year. In general, however, Church censorship was not distinguished by its speed. In most cases of the century, works were censored one, two or three years after their first editions appeared: Sachetti’s Novelle (1727) was placed on the Index in 1729; the French translation (1742) of Pamela (1740–1742) in 1744; La pucelle d’Orléans (1755) in 1757; the Dictionnaire philosophique (1764) in 1765; Dei delitti e delle pene (1764) in 1766; L’an 2440 (1771) in 1773. In other instances, there was an interval of between four and nine years: the 1695 Amsterdam edition of Contes et nouvelles en vers by La Fontaine (I ed. 1664–71) was placed on the Index in 1703; Morelly’s Code de la nature (1755) in 1761; Du contrat social (1762) in 1766. La Mettrie’s Homme-machine (1748) was banned only in 1770 and, as we have seen, the Lettres persanes (1721) survived a full four decades before being proscribed in 1762. These, then, were excessively protracted proscriptions, drawn out to such an extent that ecclesiastical intervention was made to appear totally incompetent. Yet the delays were caused not merely by the danger posed by the texts becoming evident only years after the first edition, but were caused also by sluggish communications between the centre and periphery as well by procedures that were unwieldy and even haphazard, similar to those that typified the Spanish Inquisition.213 In effect, the congregations could act by right of office, or anyway in these cases there is no trace of a denunciation. In general, though, the examination of a book was begun only after a complaint or discovery had been made. This was certainly the practice of outlying Inquisition tribunals. Pamela, for example, was unearthed by the inquisitor of Parma after the sequestration of “some books belonging to Giuseppe Gagliardi, a French bookseller, which were held under suspicion by this Holy Office.”214 And in the 1760s, the inquisitor of Venice, through the good offices of the magistrates’ board of the Savi all’Eresia, acquired a list of books to be banned and dealt with them accordingly.215 And, again, in the 1780s the Traité des trois imposteurs was sent to the local inquisitor by Duke Ferdinand of Parma, who described it as “a horrible book that I found in a public bookshop abroad, . . . the height of iniquity and impiety.”216

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There are, however, many signs, after the 1750s and before the reorganisation of the Index by Benedict XIV, of an attempt to develop, through the actions of the nuncios, a link with the censorship bodies of several other European and Italian states. In 1751, when sending two suspicious theological works to the Congregation of the Inquisition, the nuncio of Paris, Gualtieri, alluded to the order that in the future I send all those publications and works that come to light to the holy Congregation of the Holy office, which, either for reasons of religion or pre-eminence may interest the Holy See, addressing them to the secretary of state with all possible speed.217 In the following years, he did in fact forward other books, from De l’esprit to Émile, as we have seen. The Roman hierarchy thus joined forces with institutions, both ecclesiastical and secular, operating in Europe, and especially France where the campaign against the Enlightenment had begun early. The collaboration process seems to have been circular, and Rome did not always lead the way. Sometimes the expeditious procedures of France set the pace: De l’esprit, for instance, was immediately condemned by the state council (10 August 1758) but not prohibited in Rome until 31 January 1759. And Émile was sent to the flames for impiety by the Paris parliament on 9 June, but by the Roman Index only in September; and, again, Voltaire’s L’homme à quarante écus (1768), banned in France by a parliamentary arrêt of 24 September 1768, was condemned in Rome only in 1771. In some cases, in fact, French censorship ended up legitimising the bans of the Index: in his judgment of the aforementioned Le royaume mis en interdit, the censor also warned “that this impious tragedy was already solemnly prohibited in France.”218 But in other cases, the positions were reversed: Benedict XIV intervened against Voltaire’s La voix du sage et du peuple (1750) on 25 January 1751, while in France, the text was not banned until 21 May. On the other hand, as shown by Mario Rosa, although in France, the first two volumes of the Encyclopédie were banned in February 1752, it was the Roman secretariat that urged stringent measures to be taken against it and had a part in the condemnation by the Parliament of Paris (23 January 1759) and the cancelling, by the arrêt of the state council of 8 March 1759, of printing privileges granted in 1746.219 The history of censorship, however, is also one of silences, in other words of texts that one would expect to find on the Index having been spared from condemnation. Several factors help to explain this anomaly. Some works slipped through the net—avoiding bans and even inspection—simply because they were never denounced. Works that escaped in this way in Italy, despite having been condemned in France, included Baculard d’Arnaud’s Les époux malheureux (1746) and the French version (1750) of Fielding’s The History of Tom Jones (1749), respectively banned in France in 1746

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and 1750. Also absent from the Index are such works as Pensées philosophiques (1746), condemned in its debut year in France and in 1766 by the Spanish Inquisition,220 and Diderot’s La lettre sur les aveugles (1749), which had led to the author’s arrest in his homeland.221 There were also instances of a kind of temporary silence that concerned works circulating in manuscript, which it appears the Church censorship bodies could do little to counter. For this reason certain classics of clandestine literature were added to the Index only when they had been published. At times, moreover, silence was taken to be the right response when the Church needed to maintain good diplomatic relations with the political authorities, especially during particularly delicate moments in relations between the states and the Church. This is clearly demonstrated by the events of 1775 relating to the Cours d’études pour l’instruction, written by Condillac for the future Duke of Parma, Ferdinand of Bourbon, who the French abbot had tutored from 1758 to 1767. The matter led to a significant exchange of correspondence between the general commissioner of the Holy Office and the bishop of Parma, Francesco Pettorelli Lalatta, who managed to ensure that the Course was not added to the Index after its publication in Parma in 1775 by the Imprimerie royale and at the expense of the royal court. The bishop had in fact got word to the Inquisition that, given the involvement of the royal press, “this royal court would be offended if [it] were prohibited.” And so it was that Condillac’s work, which had been banned by the Spanish Inquisition in 1789, was added to the Roman Index only in 1836.222 But silence could at the same time be a means of censorship: not a casual choice, but a calculated one. As far back as the start of the century, the censors had been well aware that Index rulings could inadvertently provide free advertising for books and authors.223 Therefore there was occasionally good reason to hesitate before deciding to formally ban exceptionally troublesome texts. The abbot Michele Angelo Monsagrati, assigned to examine, as consultor, the Traité des trois imposteurs, argued that it deserved to be “condemned with the full procedures usually used in such cases.” However, he continued by noting that the consultors had hitherto refrained from condemning it since they were “dealing with a book that has been printed and reprinted for years, and which seems to have fallen into oblivion and contempt by itself”; “hence,” he suggested, “it may pay to avoid anything that could re-stimulate curiosity.” In the event, however, the Holy Office decided otherwise, proscribing the work on 28 August 1783.224 But this story, more than illustrating tolerance on the part of the ecclesiastical institutions, reveals that previously editions of the work had from time to time been seized and destroyed. And therefore, one might ask if such silent censorship, unobtrusively carried out by the individual inquisitors and bishops who seized the books, might not be the best course to take. For it obviated loud protests (and free publicity). Suffice it to recall the events surrounding Die Leiden des Jungen Werther (1774), Goethe’s scandalous novel, sequestered

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by the Archbishop of Milan, Giuseppe Pozzobonelli, but never passed on to the congregations for examination.225 And so, in this analysis of a relatively brief period, a picture is painted of a censorship that was too slow to interrupt the rhythm of book circulation. A censorship, however, which was anything but soft and which constituted one of the ways in which the Church consistently sought to exert control over intellectual production, a control moreover that it was unwilling ever to renounce. Even so—as we will see later—the Index served an important purpose, in that it dictated the guidelines of the cultural and editorial policy of the Catholic world. And, in any case, if the power of this censorship did not lie in its speed of intervention, it was definitely well and truly present in its ability to sustain long-term strategies.

Notes 1. See Rotondò, “La censura” (on the first half of the century); Delpiano, “Per una storia della censura”; Delpiano, “Il controllo ecclesiastico”; Delpiano, “La Congregazione.” On the censorship of Neapolitan works, see Di Rienzo and Formica, “Tra Napoli e Roma”; Sabato, Poteri. A long-term perspective is offered by Wolf, Index, Frajese, La congregazione and Black, The Italian Inquisition (on the eighteenth century, see 200–207). For an overview of state and church censorship in early modern and modern Italy, see Frajese, La censura. Essential research tools are now provided by many volumes on the prohibitions issued by the Congregation of Index and the Inquisition. They have been produced by the team coordinated by Hubert Wolf. See Wolf, Römische Inquisition und Indexkongregation. A prosopography of censors, inquisitors and consultors operating in the eighteenth century is offered by the same team. See Wolf, Prosopographie. 2. On the Roman censorship of Enlightenment works, see Macé, “Les premières censures”; Macé, “Les Lumières françaises”; Delpiano, “Per una storia della censura”; Delpiano, “Illuminismo”; Israel, Democratic Enlightenment, 326– 336. On the ecclesiastical strategies to the Enlightenment, see also Minois, Censure, 181–229. 3. The reference is to Hazard, The Crisis of the European Mind. On this point, see Ricuperati, Frontiere. 4. See Totaro, Documenti su Spinoza and Cavarzere, La fortuna di Bayle. For a list of condemnations, see Bujanda, Index, 850; 114–115 (Opera omnia by Bayle was prohibited in 1698, 1699, 1701, 1731 and 1757). 5. On the movement of Enlightened Catholics and the reactions of Roman hierarchies, see Ferrone, The Intellectual Roots. The backgrounds of the Opere di Galileo Galilei are reconstructed ibid., 49–55. 6. On radical Enlightenment, see Jacob, The Radical Enlightenment; Israel, Radical Enlightenment; Israel, Enlightenment Contested. It should be noted that English free thinking and its proposal of libertas philosophandi had not escaped condemnation. Discourse of Free Thinking (London, 1713) by Anthony Collins was prohibited in 1715, and Adeisidaemon (The Hague, 1709) by John Toland, who was favourable to a religion free of dogma and superstition, was banned in 1722. Neither had escaped the same fate as the Italian representatives of the crisis of the European mind: Istoria civile (Naples, 1723) by the jurisdictionalist thinker Pietro Giannone was banned by the Holy Office in the same year (1723).

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7. See Costa, “La Santa Sede.” The two works were censored in the French editions: Essai philosophique (Amsterdam, 1700); Le christianisme raisonnable (Amsterdam, 1731). 8. The censored edition (17 May 1734) of this satire of the three monotheistic religions is Le Conte du Tonneau (The Hague, 1721). The censorship judgment by the Somascan Baldini is in ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1731–1734, ff. 888–890. 9. The work was published in Milan under a false place of imprint (Naples, 1737) and condemned on 28 July 1738 (the judgment was written by Baldini). Index, Protocolli 1737–1740, ff. 217–222. See De Zan, “La messa all’Indice.” 10. Francovich, Storia della massoneria, 69; Giarrizzo, Massoneria, 73–88; with attention to the bull Providas (1751) by Benedetto XIV, see Ferrer Benimeli, “Origini.” 11. On the vicissitudes of Crudeli, see Morelli Timpanaro, Tommaso Crudeli. His Raccolta di poesie (Naples: s.n., 1746, posthumous) was prohibited by a decree issued by the Congregation of the Index (5 July 1746). The turning point of those years is also demonstrated at the Venetian Inquisition. See the case of the hatter Bortolo Zorzi, whose trial started in May 1739 and is to be connected to issue of freemasonry. See Peruzza, L’Inquisizione 148 et seq. and Barbierato, The Inquisitor, 317–333. 12. On the public burning of Rélation apologique (Dublin, 1738) executed in February 1739, see Francovich, Storia della massoneria, 71. 13. On his abjuration, dating back to the 1740s, see Ferrone, The Intellectual Roots, 276. 14. See Rosa, “Cattolicesimo e ‘Lumi’”; Rosa, “Encyclopédie, ‘Lumières’.” 15. Rosa, “Benedetto XIV,” 401; Rosa, “Pope Benedict XIV.” See also Cenacchi, “Benedetto XIV”; Di Carlo, “Il libro.” In reference to the policy towards Jews and Jewish books, Marina Caffiero has instead identified an attitude that was anything but tolerant in Lambertini’s age. See Caffiero, “I libri degli ebrei,” 214 et seq. See also Caffiero, Forced Baptisms. On his censorship policy, see Delpiano, “La riorganizzazione.” 16. The two works were prohibited by the same decree (20 November 1742). The work by Berkeley which was condemned as anonymous is Alciphron (Paris, 1734, 1st edn 1732). On Recueil de diverses pièces (Amsterdam, 1720), see Ferrone, The Intellectual Roots, 98–99. 17. The decrees date back to 28 July 1742 and 16 January 1743 (as for Lettres juives). 18. Censored edition (18 August 1744): La fable des abeilles (London, 1740, 1st edn 1714). On 21 January 1732, another work by Mandeville in its French version had already been condemned as anonymous: Pensées libres (The Hague, 1722; English or. edn 1720). 19. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1744–1745, fasc. 1. The judgment by Giacomo Maria da Tarsia of the Order of Minims (24 April 1743) was written on Lettres juives (The Hague, 1737–1738). The judgment by Carlo Maria Peruginus of the same order was made on Histoire du diable (Amsterdam, 1730, English or. edn 1726). 20. The bull Sollicita ac provida can be read in Index, XVII–XXX. See also the notice Catholico lectori Fr. Thomas Augustinus Ordinis praedicatorum Indicis secretarius, ibid., n.p. On the bull, see Neveu, L’erreur, 413–415; Borromeo, “Index.” On the continuity with the past, see Rebellato, La fabbrica, 201–205; Schmidt, “Critica.” 21. Giannone, Vita, 103. 22. Grimaldi, Memorie, 72 (the work was written in 1730s). 23. These were the two directions followed in previous ages. See Fragnito, “Aspetti e problemi,” 179; Frajese, “La politica dell’Indice”; Frajese, “La Congregazione dell’Indice”; Frajese, Nascita dell’Indice, 177 et seq. See

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24.

25. 26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32.

33. 34.

35. 36. 37.

38. 39.

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above all Cavarzere, La prassi, who underlines the role of self-censorship in seventeeth-century Italy. On self-censorhip in the eighteenth-century Spain connected to the relationship with Benedict XIV’s policy, see Roldán Pérez, “Censura,” 131–132. The reading of heretical books was actually treated as a reserved case, a category that identifies the most serious sins for which absolution could only be granted by the pope himself. The reserved cases were listed in the bull In coena Domini, which was annually promulgated on Holy Thursday. Memoriale del p. Segretario Ricchini [sulle] scomuniche aggiunte alle proibizioni d’alcuni libri, ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 169. The treatise was published anonymously in 1748 in Geneva and was long analysed within the Congregation of the Index from the beginning of 1750. On the condemnation of the work (29 November 1751), which was judged by Bottari and Tommaso Emaldi and whose Italian translation was about to be published (Naples: Giovanni di Simone, 1751), see Rosa, “Cattolicesimo e ‘Lumi’”; Maire, “La censure différée,” who connects the affair to the fight against Gallicanism. The decree was published only on 3 March 1752. See Perna, “Genovesi, Antonio”; Borchi, “I guai”; Borchi, “Quando l’inquisitore si distrae.” Letter by Benedict XIV to Muratori (25 September 1748), quoted in Vismara, “Muratori ‘immoderato’,” 343–344. The work, Recueil de dissertations (Avignon, et se trouve à Paris, 1751), was judged by the Conventual Franciscan Giuseppe Martinelli. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1753–1754, ff. 453 et seq. The work, Jerusalem coelesti, quaestio theologica (Paris, 1752), was censored by papal brief of 22 March 1752. Le siècle de Louis XIV (Berlin: C.F. Henning, 1751) was condemned on 20 February 1753 and Histoire des croisades, published in “Mercure de France” (Paris, 1745–1751), on 11 March 1754. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1753–1754, ff. 458–461r. On Abregé de l’histoire universelle (censored edn London, 1754), see ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 128, ff. 301–306r. Le discussioni was prohibited on 23 September 1729. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1737–1740, f. 1075. Other works by Grimaldi were placed on the Index in the 1720s. His Risposte a Benedetto Aletino (1699–1703) was condemned in September 1726 and thrown in the sea in December 1726 by order of Cardinal Michael Friedrich von Althann, Viceroy of Naples. Ferrone, The Intellectual Roots, 197. In 1736 Grimaldi wrote a retractation of his Risposte. See Perna, “Grimaldi, Costantino,” 494. On the judgment by Giacomo da Tarsia on Lettres juives, see sup., 56. La philosophie du bon sens was prohibited in the edn of The Hague, 1746 (1st edn 1737). The judgment was written by Filippo da Carbognano, of the Order of Minims. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1753–1754, ff. 176–177v. Also his Mémoires secrets (Amsterdam, 1737–1748) was banned (28 July 1755). ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 127, ff. 298–300v. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1752, fasc. 10. The judgment by Emaldi is in ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1753–1754, ff. 187–194r. See the already mentioned notice Catholico lectori (see sup., 56, note 20). In addition to Ricchini, the main collaborators included Michele Angelo Monsagrati, abbot General of the Canons Regular of St. Salvatore, the Olivetan monk Giovanni Francesco Caravelli and the Jesuit Pietro Lazzeri. See, for instance, the statement by the Neapolitan nuncio Raniero Simonetti in 1732, quoted in Napoli, “Editoria clandestina,” 344. Memorie e riflessioni dello stesso segretario su la produzione d’un nuovo Indice de’ libri proibiti, e suo Indice espurgatorio dei medesimi (1754), ACDF, Index,

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40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

48. 49. 50. 51.

52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57.

58. 59.

The World of the Index Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 170 (from now on Memorie e riflessioni dello stesso segretario). See also ibid., Protocolli 1753–1754, ff. 368 et seq. Sallmann, Naples, 359. Lambertini had devoted the work De servorum Dei beatificatione et beatorum canonizatione (1734–1738) to this topic. The suggestion had been given by Ricchini, Breve informazione delle regole e diligenze usate nella costruzione del nuovo Indice de’ libri proibiti, ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 41. See, for example, the sixteenth-century cases of the two Protestants, Georg Callisen or Calixtus and Alberico Gentili, in Index, ad indicem. Fragnito, La Bibbia, 197–198. The letter, dating back to 1758, was sent to Giovanni Battista Remondini and is quoted in Luigi Zellini, L’arte della stampa in Bassano, 2 vols MSS., in BABG, vol. I, 67. Lazzeri, Riflessioni sopra l’articolo libri omnes docentes mobilitatem Terrae et immortalitatem solis, ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 170, ff. 486 et seq. See Mayaud, La condamnation; Baldini, “Teoria boscovichiana,” 283 et seq. Memorie e riflessioni dello stesso segretario. Not—as Ricchini had suggested—the Bibliothèque universelle et historique, published in Amsterdam from 1686 and prohibited in 1691, 1692 and 1733 (see Bujanda, Index, 133), but the Compendium historiae universalis (Amsterdam, 1698), on the Index from 1709; the Harmonia evangelica (Amsterdam, 1699), prohibited in 1703 and Historia ecclesiastica (Amsterdam, 1716), prohibited in 1721. Costa, Malebranche. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 69. Zaccaria, Storia, XIV referred to the “much praised new Index by Benedict XIV” and appreciations were expressed by the Piedmontese antiphilosophe count Robbio di san Raffaele (Della condotta, 85–86). The work—Lettera apologetica (Naples, 1750)—was prohibited as anonymous on 29 February 1752 and remained on the 1758 Index. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1753–1754, ff. 60–62v. See Iovine, “Una cattedra,” 450–451; Origlia, Istoria, vol. II, 354–360; Francovich, Storia della massoneria, 127–130; Venturi, Settecento riformatore, vol. I, Da Muratori, 538–544; Ferrone, I profeti, 218–237. Giovanni Antonio Bianchi, of the Order of Friars Minor Observants, was the author of the work written against jurisdictionalist theory and against Pietro Giannone, Della potestà 1745–1751. Smith, Helvétius. ACDF, S.O., Decreta 1758, ff. 172r/v; p. 172v. See Rosa, “Encyclopédie, ‘Lumières’,” 136–149. See the brief Injuncti nobis in ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1757–1759, fasc. 36 and ACDF, S.O., Decreta 1759, ff. 20–21v. On the burning, see inf., 84. On the Encyclopédie, see Venturi, Le origini; Israel, Enlightenment Contested, 840–862. On the publishing history of the Encyclopédie, see Darnton, The Business. Rosa, “Encyclopédie, ‘Lumières’,” 136–149; Maire, “L’entrée”; Delpiano, “Enciclopedia.” ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1757–1759, fasc. 19–33. Judgments by Benvenuti, Giovanni Luigi Mingarelli, Valentini, Giovanni Giacomo Proville and Ferdinando Mingarelli on different volumes are respectively ibid., fasc. 19, ff. 174r–179v; fasc. 21, ff. 184–185r; fasc. 22, ff. 186–187r; fasc. 23, ff. 188–189 v; fasc. 24, ff. 190–191v. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1757–1759, fasc. 25, f. 194; ACDF, Index, Diarii, vol. XVII (1749–1763), ff. 144–145; f. 144. Judgments on the Lucca edition were expressed between the end of 1758 and the beginning of 1759 by the Jesuit Benvenuti and the Somascan Giuseppe

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60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68.

69. 70. 71.

72. 73. 74. 75.

76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81.

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Bettoni. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1757–1759, fasc. 29, ff. 201r/v and fasc. 30, ff. 203–205v. The manuscript decree is ibid., fasc. 26, f. 196 r. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1757–1759, fasc. 27, f. 198r and ibid., fasc. 28, f. 200. On the Lucca edition (1758–1771), see Rosa, “Encyclopédie, ‘Lumières’,” 121–136; Baldacci, “L’‘Enciclopedia’.” ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1759–II, fasc. 1 (my italics). ACDF, S.O., Decreta 1759, ff. 193v–194v; f. 194v. A copy of the brief Ubi primum is in ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1759–II, fasc. 1 a. Rosa, “Encyclopédie, ‘Lumières’,” 141. The Italian translation is Giornale enciclopedico di Liegi, 1756–1760. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1759—part I, fasc. 1 (the judgment was expressed by Felice Nerini, abbot General of the Hieronimytes). The Italian translation of the Cyclopaedia by Ephraim Chambers (1728) was also placed on the Index (19 May 1760): Ciclopedia, 1747–1754. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 22. On the Livorno edition, see ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1759 II, fasc. 1. On heresy as an ever-changing concept, in a constant state of renewal and expansion, see Neveu, L’erreur, 262 et seq. ACDF, Protocolli 1759–1762, fasc. 49, ff. 195–197r and ibid., fasc. 68. See also the judgment written by Bartolomeo Foscarini on Hume’s An Enquiry (1748); censored edn Essais philosophiques (Amsterdam, 1758). ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1759–1762, fasc. 50, ff. 199–203v. A different interpretation is offered by Trampus, I gesuiti, 297 et seq., according to whom the link between Enlightenment and heresy was an outcome of the French Revolution. See the letter by de’ Liguori to Remondini, 29 December 1765, in de’ Liguori, Lettere, vol. III, 273. The work Verità della fede was published in Naples in 1767 and reprinted by Remondini. Contin, I caratteri; Prefazione, IX–XIII; XI. On the Theatine Contin, who, on the other hand, was a supporter of the anti-Jesuit policy conducted in the Duchy of Parma, see Venturi, Settecento riformatore, vol. II, La Chiesa, 122–131. See also Pluquet, Dizionario dell’eresie, vol. III, 135 et seq. The French work (1762) was translated into Italian by Contin. On this translation, see Schluter, “Exporting Heresiology,” 171–174, who underlines its links with the jurisdictionalist culture. In the eigheeenth century, this word, in fact, referred to the “illuminati” sect. See Rosso, “Inventing ‘Illuminismo’.” The Parliament also ordered the arrest of the author. Émile and Du contrat social were burned by order of the Petit conseil of Geneva. Among the Italian refutations, see Gerdil, Réflexions, published in the same year (1762). All documentation is in ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1762–1764, f. 5 and has been partially published by Borchi, “Jean-Jacques Rousseau.” See also Delpiano, “Rousseau.” ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1763–1767, fasc. 40, ff. 186–191r. The second part of Recherches (1764) was censored by the Holy Office on 29 July 1767. On Boulanger, see Venturi, L’antichità svelata; Manca, “A proposito dell’ ‘Antichità svelata’.” ACDF, Index, Diarii, vol. XVIII (1764–1807), ff. 16–18. See Torcellan, “Cesare Beccaria” (1964); Firpo, “Le edizioni italiane.” ACDF, Index, Diarii, vol. XVIII (1764–1807), ff. 20–23; f. 22. Praise of authors placed on the Index was a cause for condemnation in itself. See Neveu, L’erreur, 304. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1763–1767, fasc. 63, ff. 280–289v; f. 280. See also Imbruglia, “Illuminismo e religione.” ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1763–1767, fasc. 64, ff. 291–296r; on the meeting of 3 February, see ACDF, Index, Diarii, vol. XVIII (1764–1807), ff. 20–23; f. 22.

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82. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 35, ff. 306v–308. 83. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1763–1767, fasc. 80, f. 372 and fasc. 77, ff. 358– 360r. See also Delpiano, “Rousseau.” 84. The two works were placed on the Index by Benedict’s brief of 25 January 1751. See Macé, “Les premières censures”; Maire, “La censure différée,” 181–182. 85. The judgment on Pilati’s work (1764) is in ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1763– 1767, fasc. 52, ff. 232r–235r. 86. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1763–1767, fasc. 76, ff. 348–356v. 87. ACDF, Index, Diarii, vol. XVIII (1764–1807), ff. 25–26 (report of the meeting of 16 June 1766). 88. A copy of the decree which had been sent to Rome is in ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 17, f. 116). See Seidel Menchi, “Prelati”; Luzzi, “Il processo.” 89. The documentation on Pilati’s Di una riforma d’Italia (1767) is in ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 17, ff. 115–116. On the Lettres écrites de la montagne (1764), see ACDF, Index, Diarii, vol. XVIII (1764–1807), f. 38 and ACDF, S.O., Decreta 1767, ff. 160–161v. The two judgments were expressed by the Dominican Serafino Maccarinelli, general commissioner of the Holy Office. 90. The judgment on Riflessioni di un italiano (1768) is in ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 50, ff. 392–395v. 91. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1770, fasc. 3. 92. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 51, ff. 398–401r. 93. See the report of the meeting of 11 August 1769 in ACDF, Index, Diarii, vol. XVIII (1764–1807), ff. 58–63, in particular ff. 58–59. 94. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 48, ff. 368–385. The judgment by Mamachi was expressed on the edition of Amsterdam: s.n., 1753 (1st edn 1751). The decree was published on 1st March 1770. 95. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 62, ff. 465–466v. The Examen critique circulated under the name of Fréret, but was written by d’Holbach’s coterie. 96. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1771–1773, fasc. 4, ff. 19–21r. Censored edn Basil: Les libraires associés, 1749. 97. The documentation, with judgment, is in ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1771–1772, fasc. 1 (see also Valeri, Libri nuovi, 52–53); ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1771–1773, fasc. 6. D’Holbach’s Le bon sens (1772) was censored for atheism on 18 August 1775 (censored edn London [but France]: s.n., 1774). ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1773–1778, fasc. 6, ff. 62–64v. “Braccio secolare” refers to the power of the political authority to execute the judgments and orders of the ecclesiastical tribunals. 98. The judgment was expressed by Francesco Dugnani (ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1771–1773, fasc. 17, ff. 66–67r). The work was published in 1760s by d’Holbach’s coterie and was then attributed to Jacques-André Naigeon (it was placed on the Index under his name; censored edn London: s.n., 1770). On this work, see Mortier, Difficultés and, regarding the attribution to the Frenchman Robert Challe, see Challe, Difficultés. 99. Imbruglia, “Reflected Images.” The same category of ‘tolerantism’ was used in Spanish Inquisition with reference to Beccaria’s Dei delitti e delle pene, translated into Spanish (De los delitos y de las penas, Madrid, 1774) and prohibited in 1777. See Álvarez Cora, “El derecho,” 190. 100. ACDF, Index, Diarii, vol. XVIII (1764–1807), ff. 106–108 (report of the meetings of 15 and 16 November 1773); ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1771–1773, fasc. 50, ff. 367–369v (judgment by Mingarelli). See also Iovine, “Elementi di continuità,” 142 et seq.; Chiosi and Iovine, “L’Elogio censurato.”

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101. ACDF, Protocolli 1771–1773, fasc. 36, ff. 246–256r. See also ibid., fasc. 37, ff. 260–268v. 102. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1773–1775, fasc. 4. See also ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1771– 1773, fasc. 47, f. 360. 103. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1773–1778, fasc. 68, ff. 66–73. The decree was issued on 18 August 1775 and published on 26 April 1776 (ibid., fasc. 10). It included, among others, condemnation of Histoire philosophique by Raynal and Bon sens by d’Holbach. 104. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1773–1778, fasc. 31, ff. 424–434v. The work passed to the Holy Office, which called for the burning. Macé, “Les lettres persanes,” 52. 105. Censored edn Amsterdam, 1771 (on 31 January 1777). ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1773–1778, fasc. 20, ff. 335–341r. On the Italian translations of Robertson’s work, see Tarabuzzi, “Le traduzioni italiane”; Castagnino, “Traduzioni.” 106. Censored edn Verdon: de l’Imprimerie du professeur de Felice, 1768. See Berti, Trattato; Landucci, “Il punto sul ‘De tribus impostoribus’”; Minois, Le ‘Traité.’ 107. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1781–1784, fasc. 93, ff. 475–77v. 108. The decrees have been published in Motta, “Le condanne” (quotation 296). 109. See Rozzo, “Italian Literature”; Rozzo, “L’espurgazione dei testi”; Fragnito, “Li libbri”; Fragnito, “Torquato Tasso,” 57–61; Prosperi, “Censurare le favole.” 110. Suffice it to remember that for Antonio Possevino chivalry novels were “diabolic vehicles of heresy.” Fragnito, Proibito, 157–158. 111. For instance, Contes et nouvelles en vers by Jean de La Fontaine which had been based on works by Boccaccio, Machiavelli and Ariosto was placed on the Index on 12 March 1703 (censored edn Amsterdam, 1695; French or. edn 1664–1771); ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1703, ff. 204–209. 112. Many decrees from 1667 to 1702 had condemned opera omnia. See Bujanda, Index, 536–539. 113. L’espion dans les cours des princes chrétiens was prohibited between 1705 and 1706 (censored edn Cologne, 1696–1699). ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1705– 1706, fasc. 19, ff. 147–151, ff. 838 et seq. and ibid., Protocolli 1704–1705, ff. 327–328. On Marana (1642–1693), see Roscioni, Sulle tracce. 114. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1731–1734, ff. 204–207. On the Italian translation by Rolli and on its publishing success, see Santovetti, Nella città, 177–190. 115. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1711–1714, fasc. 36. The work was prohibited particularly as an instrument for spreading the “impious” ideas of Miguel de Molinos. On censoring the Spanish Quietist de Molinos, see Canosa, “‘Quietisti’ ed ‘ateisti’.” 116. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1715–1721, ff. 598 et seq. e 638 et seq. On the relationship between “storyteller” and “writer,” see Fumaroli, Le statut. 117. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1737–1740, ff. 313–319. 118. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1752, f. 10. See also Rosa, “Clemente XIV”; Macé, “Les premières censures.” All the volumes were condemned, as proved by the decree issued on 28 February 1753 (ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1753–1754, f. 216). 119. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 16. Expurgation concerned chapter XV, which had already been a source of debate in France for its defence of natural religion. 120. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 164; ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1757–58, f. 2. 121. This work (Amsterdam, 1768) was prohibited as anonymous and without editorial references on 21 September 1768 (ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1767–1768, fasc. 11). 122. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1778, II, fasc. 2.

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123. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1771–1772, fasc. 4; ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1718–1721, fasc. 6. 124. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1759–1762, fasc. 81 (censored edn s.l. [but Geneva]: s.n., 1759). On the Italian translations of Voltaire’s works, see Rotta, “Voltaire in Italia.” 125. See in this sense Macé, “Les lettres persanes.” 126. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1759–1762, fasc. 79, ff. 237–238v; ACDF, Index, Diarii, vol. XVII (1749–1763), ff. 186–188 (censored edn Cologne: 1754). 127. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1763–1767, fasc. 53, ff. 238 r/v. The work was censored in its original French edition (Lettres d’une péruvienne, Peine [but Paris], 1747). An Italian translation had been published in Venice (Lettere d’una peruviana, The Hague [but Venice]: Domenico Deregni, 1754). 128. Richardson’s novel (1741) was censored in its French edition (1742). ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1740–1748, ff. 106–107v. An Italian translation dates back to 1744–1745. 129. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 55. On Goudar, whose work was censored while the author was in Italy, in the Kingdom of Naples, see Dioguardi, Ange Goudar; Hauc, Ange Goudar. 130. The two novels were published in Geneva and condemned on 29 November 1771. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1771–1773, fasc. 19, ff. 71–76v. 131. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1771–1773, fasc. 5 (censored edn London, 1772). 132. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1779–1781, ff. 143–148. 133. Mercier, L’anno (Rome, 1798); Mercier, L’anno (Genoa, 1798). 134. Voltaire, Candido, 1797. On the anti-Christian campaign during the triennio, see Guerci, “Incredulità.” 135. Rotta, “Montesquieu,” 134. 136. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1800–1808, fasc. 129 (judgment by the secretary of the Index, Tommaso Maria Soldati). 137. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1800–1808, fasc. 33 (censored edn Paris, 1797). 138. ACDF, Index, Diarii, vol. XVIII (1764–1807), ff. 196–197v (report of the meeting of 9 December 1806; censored edn Paris, 1793). 139. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1821–1822, fasc. 127. 140. Many novels by these authors would be placed on the Index in the nineteenth century. See Amadieu, “La littérature française”; Artiaga, Des torrents, 33–65. 141. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1726–1727, ff. 843–847. On Pietro Maria da Lucca (also named Pietro Maria Pieri), see Wolf, Schwedt, Hasecker, Höink, and Schepers, Prosopographie, vol. II, 1020–1021. 142. ACDF, S.O., Iuramenta 1777–1796, f. 39. 143. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 78. 144. See his request to be appointed consultor of the Index (ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 86, f. 187). 145. See Godman, Die geheime Inquisition. 146. The list of secretaries includes Giulio Maria Bianchi (1684–1707); Gregorio Selleri (1707–1711); Agostino Pipia (1711–1721); Domenico Perez (1721– 1724); Nicolò Ridolfi (1724–1738); Giuseppe Agostino Orsi (1738–1749); Tommaso Agostino Ricchini (1749–1759); Pio Tommaso Schiara (1759–1778); Tommaso Maria Mamachi (1779–1781); Giacinto Bonfigli (1781–1788); Pio Bonifacio Fassati (1788–1796); Filippo Becchetti (1796–1800); Tommaso Soldati (1800–1807). 147. On the inquisitorial origin of this library, see Cavarra, “La Biblioteca casanatense”; Prosperi, “L’arsenale”; De Gregorio, “La Biblioteca.” 148. Creytens, “Le ‘Studium romanae curiae’.” 149. Sollicita ac provida, XIX (see sup., 56, note 20). 150. On various roles within the two congregations, see Schwedt, Die römischen Kongregationen.

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151. See, for instance, the request by the Celestine monk Diego Grignani, lector of theology in Rome (ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1704–1705, f. 344). 152. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 76. 153. ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1743–1749, ff. 590–591. For other examples, see ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1710–1727, f. 261; Privilegia 1736–1742, f. 276; ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 95. 154. ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1743–1749, ff. 414–415. For other examples, see ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1715–1721, ff. 518, 520, 522, 524, 526. 155. This is the case, for instance, of Francesco Dugnani dating back to 1768 (ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 37). See also the request by the parson Giovanni Lazzari (ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 32b, f. 272). 156. See ACDF, S.O., Iuramenta 1766–1776, f. 1 (on the oath before the Inquisition); ACDF, Diarii, vol. XVII (1749–1763), f. 624 (regarding the Index). 157. ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1743–1749, ff. 420–421. 158. Ibid., ff. 19–20. 159. Ibid., ff. 17–18. 160. See his letter to Clement XI, ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1710–1727, f. 121. His request was granted on 11 July 1714. 161. Moroni, “Pipia, Agostino,” 249. 162. See Cancellieri, “Gabrini, Tommaso”; Caffiero, La politica, 36 et seq. 163. ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1743–1749, ff. 118–120. 164. Letter by Giacomo da Tarsia to Benedict XIV, ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1743– 1749, f. 414. 165. ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1743–1749, ff. 31–32. For other examples, see ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1736–1742, f. 80; ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 23, f. 24. 166. In this regard, see the brief by Benedict XIII in 1727 on the Index consultors (ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1781–1784, fasc. 1, ff. 5–6v). 167. See, for instance, the letter by Francesco Galindo, General Prior of the Minims, to Benedict XIV (ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1755–1759, f. 382). His request was granted on 12 May 1757. 168. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, 32 b, f. 273. Similar cases are to be found in ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 22. 169. Prosperi, Tribunali, 188. 170. ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1736–1742, f. 807 (n.d.). 171. ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1743–1749, ff. 520–521 (30 September 1747). On Costanzi and the censorship of Jewish books, see Caffiero, “I libri degli ebrei,” 207–213; Caffiero, Forced Baptisms, 78–83. 172. These are the words used by Domenico Capretti, consultor of the Holy Office, in a letter (undated) to Benedict XIV. ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1736–1742, f. 793. 173. ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1743–1749, ff. 410–411. His request was granted on 30 June 1746. 174. ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1736–1742, ff. 32–34. 175. On d’Elbecque (1651–1714), Belgian professor of theology in Leuven, see D’Amato, “Elbecque, Norbert d’.” 176. On Gotti (1664–1742), who studied in Salamanca and became professor of theology at the University of Bologna and inquisitor in Milan from 1715, see Busolini, “Gotti, Lodovico”; Fabene, “Vincenzo Ludovico Gotti.” 177. On Bonucci (1651–1728), see Pignatelli, “Bonucci, Antonio Maria.” 178. On Bianchini (1662–1729), one of the collaborators of the Giornale de’ letterati, and on his experimental activity (he famously met with Newton in London in 1713), see Rotta, “Bianchini, Francesco.” See also Ferrone, The Intellectual Roots, passim; Ricuperati, “Francesco Bianchini.”

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179. After studying theology in Venice, Baldini (1677–1764) was professor of philosophy and of theology in Rome (from 1714), consultor of the Index (1729) and qualifier to the Holy Office (1739). He was Superior General of the Somascan Fathers (1748–1751) and a member of many Roman academies, and the author of works of antiquarianism. He contributed to contemporary periodicals. See Moretti, “Baldini, Francesco.” 180. On the French Leseur (1703–1770), in Rome since 1734, see Moretti, “Leseur, Thomas.” Commentarius is Philosophiae naturalis principia (1739–1742). 181. Besozzi (1679–1755) arrived in Rome from Milan in 1724 and became consultor of the Holy Office (1728), then cardinal (1743) and a member of various congregations. See Pignatelli, “Besozzi, Gioacchino Raimondo.” 182. Benvenuti (1716–1789) had replaced Boscovich at the chair of physics and mathematics at the Roman College (1750–1752). He edited his Elementorum matheseos libri, which was published in Rome (1752–1754) and Venice (1758). See Casini, “Benvenuti, Carlo”; Baldini, “Teoria boscovichiana,” 283 et seq. 183. On Lazzeri, who was born in Siena and died in Rome (1789), see Baldini, “Teoria boscovichiana,” 301 et seq. He was the author of historical works on the history of the Church in the first centuries. 184. Mingarelli was born in the Bologna area in 1722. He was Superior General of the Clerics Regular of San Salvatore (1773) and a member of several Roman academies. See Filippini, “Mingarelli, Giovanni Luigi.” 185. See sup., 93, note 68. 186. ACDF, S.O., Privilegia 1750–54, f. 738. 187. The philo-Jansenist Bottari (1689–1775), in Rome since 1730, was professor of ecclesiastical history at La Sapienza. He became censor, then keeper (1768) of the Vatican Library. He was involved in the Italian translation of the catechism written by the Jansenist François-Philippe Mésenguy, Esposizione, and published in Naples in 1760 and in Venice in 1761. The work had already been prohibited in its original French edition (1744) on 28 July 1755. The Italian translation was banned by the brief of Clement XII on 14 June 1761. See Pigna-telli and Petrucci, “Bottari, Giovanni Gaetano.” 188. For instance, his Lettre d’un docteur (1749) was prohibited by the Index on 5 May 1750 and then by the Holy Office on 15 September 1751. 189. On this point and with reference to seventeenth-century ecclesiastical censorship, see Cavarzere, La prassi; on state censorship, see Tortarolo, “Censura e censori” and, for an European perspective, Tortarolo, “Zensur”; Tortarolo, The Invention. 190. The intervention of the Holy Office was expected for serious matters (Sollicita ac provvida, XXIII). On the monopoly excercised by the Inquisition on censoring Jewish works in the eighteenth century, see Caffiero, “I libri degli ebrei,” 207. On the role played by the two congregations in the previous centuries and on the contrasts between them, see Fragnito, “La censura libraria.” She identifies two models: one based on the power of bishops and the other linked to a project of centralisation, which belonged to the Inquisition. See also Frajese, “La Congregazione dell’Indice”; Frajese, Nascita dell’Indice, 93 et seq. 191. This type of decree often concerned more than one book. For instance, the decree published on 28 February 1753 made known the prohibitions of Philosophie du bon sens, condemned on 24 May 1752, and Œuvres and Siècle de Louis XIV by Voltaire, condemned on 20 February 1753. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1753–1754, f. 216. 192. On the papal brief, see Neveu, L’erreur, 411. On major excommunication, which prevented access to the sacraments, entailed an exclusion from the

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193. 194. 195. 196. 197. 198. 199. 200. 201.

202. 203. 204. 205. 206. 207. 208.

209. 210. 211. 212. 213.

214.

99

community, and, unlike minor excommunication, was no temporary, see ibid., 247 et seq.; Bethencourt, L’Inquisition, 191. See, for instance, the decree by the Holy Office against Émile by Rousseau (17 September 1762). ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1759–1762, fasc. 88. On the symbolic value of burning, see Rozzo, “Il rogo dei libri”; Rozzo, “Quando si bruciano i libri.” See for instance decree issued on 28 January 1704 against the Gallican Jean de Launoy, Véritable tradition de l’Église, Liège, 1703. See Bullarum Collectione, t. XXI, 98–99. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1734–1735, f. 139. See sup., 63. For reports of burnings, see Valesio, Diario di Roma, book IX–X, vol. V, 1729–1736, 740 (24 November 1734). See sup., 55 and Valesio, Diario di Roma, book XI, vol. VI, 1737–1742, 208 (25 February 1739). See Formica, “L’information politique,” 37 et seq. and Formica, “Mutamenti politici.” Diario ordinario, no. 4179, 9 May 1744, 12–14; 13–14. See also ACDF, S.O., St. St. N—e, f. 11v. A later burning should also be remembered dating back to 13 March 1753 and concerning the Idea di una perfetta repubblica, a posthumous work by Paolo Mattia Doria, prohibited by the Neapolitan archbishop for its attack of absolute power and for its idea of religious reform. No copy of this work has ever been found. See Ferrone, “Seneca e Cristo,” 66–68. ACDF, S.O., Decreta 1759, ff. 20–21v; ibid., S.O., C.L. 1757–1758, fasc. 2; ibid., Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 39. Diario ordinario, no. 7993, 1st October 1768, 13–14; 14. See sup., 87. A copy of the decree by the Holy Office is in ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 39. See the undated order signed by the general commissioner of the Holy Office, Maccarinelli, and the paper with the words “burned by the hands of the executioner.” ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1770, fasc. 2. The decree of condemnation to burning was published on 13 March 1770. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1770, fasc. 3. Diario ordinario, no. 926, 10 July 1723, 10–12. See, for instance Diario ordinario, no. 6489, 10 February 759, 2 (on the brief against De l’esprit) and ibid., no. 7056, 25 September 1762, 9 (on Émile). See also ibid., no. 7713, 6 December 1766, 2. The reference was here to the Italian translation of works by Justinus Febronius, planned in Venice by Bettinelli. See sup., 71. Particular attention was paid to foreign books. See Defourneaux, L’Inquisition; Domergue, La censure. On Tartarotti’s work (Lettera seconda, published in Lucca in 1760) and the following events, see Ravanelli, “Un interdetto”; Benvenuti, “Il busto di Tartarotti.” See also Luzzi, “Il processo,” 699–700. Walter, “L’affaire La Barre,” 362. See Defourneaux, L’Inquisition. While the Spanish translation (1774) of Dei delitti e delle pene by Beccaria was banned after a few years and excluded from licences to read prohibited books (ibid., 122), the Lettres persanes were forbidden only in 1797 (ibid., 169). In some cases, there was a chronological coincidence between condemnations by the two Inquisitions: for instance, De l’esprit and Encyclopédie were prohibited in 1759 also in Spain (ibid., 170). See his letter to the Holy Office, 26 July 1743 (ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1744–1745, fasc. 2).

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215. Censura del p. commissario sopra alcuni libri empi non proibiti dalla S. Sede, e dati in nota da Savi all’Eresia a quel p. inquisitore per proibirli, ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1767–1768, fasc. 4. Traité de la morale (1728) by Jean Barbeyrac, Lettres écrites de la montagne by Rousseau and Di una riforma d’Italia by Pilati were among the works placed on the Index (29 July 1767). 216. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1783–1784, fasc. 8. 217. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1751 I, fasc. 4. In the 1750s lists of banned books were also sent from Vienna. See, for instance, Catalogo de’ libri rigettati dal consesso della censura di Vienna da quando cominciò nell’anno 1754, ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1755–1757, fasc. 163, ff. 392 et seq. 218. See sup., 75. On the different censorship institutions in France, see De Negroni, Lectures interdites, 199–212. See the list of prohibited works (1723–1774) in Appendices, 305–374, which is the reference for the following comparisons. 219. Rosa, “Encyclopédie, ‘Lumières’,” 136–149. 220. Defourneaux, L’Inquisition, 171. 221. The work of Baculard d’Arnaud was prohibited by arrêt of the State Council on 11 June 1746; the translation of Fielding’s novel was banned in the same way on 24 February. Pensées philosophiques (1746) was censored by a parliamentary arrêt dated 7 July 1746. 222. The episode, dating back to November–December 1775, must be related to the interruption of anticlerical policies carried out by the Duchy of Parma, after the fall of the anti-curial minister Du Tillot. ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1773–1778, fasc. 8, ff. 162–170v; ibid., fasc. 9, ff. 162–170v. See also Valeri, Libri nuovi, 86–88. On the origins of Condillac’s work, see Guerci, “La composizione.” For the censorship by the Spanish Inquisition, see Defourneaux, L’Inquisition, 174. 223. See, for instance, the consideration by the Jesuit Antonio Maria Bonucci, a censor of Tragedie by Gravina in 1718 (see sup., 74). On the ambiguous role played by the Index, see Prosperi, “La Chiesa e la circolazione” and, on state censorship, see De Negroni, Lectures interdites. 224. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1783–1784, fasc. 8. 225. Zapperi, Una vita, 56.

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Fabene, Katia. “Vincenzo Ludovico Gotti e la ‘Via Notarum’ nell’apologetica cattolica del XVII–XVIII secolo.” ACME. Annali della Facoltà di Lettere e Filosofia dell’Università degli Studi di Milano 52, no. 1 (1999): 249–260. Ferrari, Stefano, and Gian Paolo Romagnani, eds. Carlo Antonio Pilati. Un intellettuale trentino nell’Europa dei lumi. Milan: Franco Angeli, 2004. Ferrer Benimeli, José Antonio. “Origini, motivazioni ed effetti della condanna vaticana.” In Storia d’Italia, Annali, vol. 21, La Massoneria, edited by Gian Mario Cazzaniga, 143–165. Turin: Einaudi, 2006. Ferrone, Vincenzo. The Intellectual Roots of the Italian Enlightenment: Newtonian Science, Religion, and Politics in the Early Eighteenth Century. Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press, 1995. Translated by Sue Brotherton. Orignally published as Scienza natura religione. Mondo newtoniano e cultura italiana nel primo Settecento (Naples: Jovene, 1982). Ferrone, Vincenzo. I profeti dell’Illuminismo. Le metamorfosi della ragione nel tardo Settecento italiano. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1989, 2nd revised edn (1st edn 2000). Ferrone, Vincenzo. “Seneca e Cristo: la ‘Respublica christiana’ di Paolo Mattia Doria.” Rivista storica italiana 96, no. 1 (1984): 5–68. Filippini, Orietta. “Mingarelli, Giovanni Luigi.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 74 (2010), 602–604. Firpo, Luigi. “Le edizioni italiane dei ‘Dei delitti e delle pene’.” In Beccaria, Opere, 369–699. Formica, Marina. “L’information politique à Rome au XVIIe et au XVIIIe siècle.” In Gazettes et information politique sous l’Ancien Régime, edited by Henri Duranton and Pierre Rétat, 33–47. Saint-Étienne: Pubblications de l’Université de SaintÉtienne, 1999. Formica, Marina. “Mutamenti politici e continuità editoriali: le gazzette della tipografia Chracas.” In Caffiero and Monsagrati, Dall’erudizione alla politica, 103–126. Fragnito, Gigliola. “Aspetti e problemi della censura espurgativa.” In L’Inquisizione e gli storici: un cantiere aperto, 161–179. Rome: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, 2000. Fragnito, Gigliola. La Bibbia al rogo. La censura ecclesiastica e i volgarizzamenti della Scrittura (1471–1605). Bologna: Il Mulino, 1997. Fragnito, Gigliola. “La censura libraria tra Congregazione dell’Indice, Congregazione dell’Inquisizione e Maestro del Sacro Palazzo (1571–1596).” In Rozzo, La censura libraria, 163–175. Fragnito, Gigliola, ed. Church, Censorship and Culture in Early Modern Italy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Fragnito, Gigliola. “‘Li libbri non zò rrobba da cristiano.’ La letteratura italiana e l’Indice di Clemente VIII (1596).” Schifanoia 19 (1999): 123–135. Fragnito, Gigliola. Proibito capire. La Chiesa e il volgare nella prima età moderna. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2005. Fragnito, Gigliola. “Torquato Tasso, Paolo Costabili e la revisione della Gerusalemme liberata.” Schifanoia 22–23 (2002): 57–61. Frajese, Vittorio. La censura in Italia. Dall’Inquisizione alla Polizia. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2014. Frajese, Vittorio. “La Congregazione dell’Indice negli anni della concorrenza con il Sant’Ufficio (1593–1603).” Archivio Italiano per la Storia della Pietà 14 (2001): 207–255. Frajese, Vittorio. “La politica dell’Indice dal Tridentino al Clementino (1571– 1596).” Archivio italiano per la storia della pietà 11 (1998): 269–356. Frajese, Vittorio. Nascita dell’Indice. La censura ecclesiastica dal Rinascimento alla Controriforma. Brescia: Morcelliana, 2006 (updated edn 2008).

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Francovich, Carlo. Storia della massoneria in Italia. Dalle origini alla Rivoluzione francese. Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1975 (1st edn 1974). Fumaroli, Marc, ed. Le statut de la littérature. Mélanges offerts à Paul Benichou. Geneva: Droz, 1982. Giarrizzo, Giuseppe. Massoneria e Illuminismo nell’Europa del Settecento. Venice: Marsilio, 1994. Godman, Peter. Die geheime Inquisition. Munich: List Verlag, 2001. Guerci, Luciano. “La composizione e le vicende editoriali del ‘Cours d’études’ di Condillac.” In Miscellanea Walter Maturi, 187–220. Turin: Giappichelli, 1966. Guerci, Luciano. “Incredulità e rigenerazione nella Lombardia del Triennio repubblicano.” Rivista storica italiana 109, no. 1 (1997): 49–120. Hauc, Jean-Claude. Ange Goudar: un aventurier des Lumières. Paris: Champion, 2004. Hazard, Paul. The Crisis of the European mind, 1680–1715. New York: New York Review Books, 2013. Translated by J. Lewis May, with an introduction by Anthony Grafton. Originally published as La crise de la conscience européenne (Paris: Boivin, 1934). Imbruglia, Girolamo. “Illuminismo e religione. Il ‘Dei delitti e delle pene’ e la difesa dei Verri dinanzi alla censura inquisitoriale.” Studi settecenteschi 25–26 (2005– 2006): 119–161. Imbruglia, Girolamo. “Reflected Images: The Histoire des deux Indes and the Censorship of the Roman Congregation of the Index.” In Voltaire Raynal Rousseau Allégorie, monographic issue. Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century 7 (2003): 175–201. Index librorum prohibitorum SS.mi D.N. Benedicti XIV pontificis maximi iussu recognitus, atque editu. Romae: ex Typographia Reverendae Camerae Apostolicae, 1758. Iovine, Raffaele. “Elementi di continuità nell’Illuminismo napoletano: D. Mangieri tra C. Galiani e G.M. Galanti.” Frontiera d’Europa 10, no. 1 (2004): 127–167. Iovine, Raffaele. “Una cattedra per Genovesi. Nella crisi della cultura moderna a Napoli.” Frontiera d’Europa 7, nos. 1–2 (2001): 359–532. Israel, Jonathan I. Democratic Enlightenment. Philosophy, Revolution, and Human Rights 1750–1790. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Israel, Jonathan I. Enlightenment Contested: Philosophy, Modernity, and the Emancipation of Man, 1650–1752. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Israel, Jonathan I. Radical Enlightenment: Philosophy and the Making of Modernity, 1650–1750. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Jacob, Margaret Candee. The Radical Enlightenment: Pantheists, Freemasons and Republicans. London: Allen & Unwin, 1981. Landucci, Sergio. “Il punto sul ‘De tribus impostoribus’.” Rivista storica italiana 112, no. 3 (2000): 1036–1071. Levillain, Philippe, and John W O’Malley, eds. The Papacy: An Encyclopedia. London: Routledge, 2001, 3 vols. Originally published as Dictionnaire historique de la papauté, edited by Philippe Levillain (Paris: Fayard, 1994, 2 vols). L’Inquisizione e gli storici: un cantiere aperto. Rome: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, 2000. Luzzi, Serena. “Il processo a Carlo Antonio Pilati (1768–1769), ovvero della censura di Stato nell’Austria di Maria Teresa.” Rivista storica italiana 117, no. 3 (2005): 687–740. Macé, Laurence. “Les lettres persanes devant l’Index: une censure ‘posthume’.” In Montesquieu en 2005, edited by Catherine Volpilhac-Auger, 48–59. Monographic issue. Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century 5 (2005). Macé, Laurence. “Les Lumières françaises au tribunal de l’Index et du Saint-Office’.” In Christianisme et Lumières, edited by Sylviane Albertan-Coppola and Antony McKenna, 13–25. Monographic issue. Dix-huitième siècle, 34 (2002).

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Prosperi, Adriano, ed. Dizionario storico dell’Inquisizione. In collaboration with John Tedeschi and Vincenzo Lavenia. Pisa: Edizioni della Normale, 2010, 4 vols. Prosperi, Adriano. “L’arsenale degli inquisitori.” In Prosperi, L’inquisizione romana, 311–324. Prosperi, Adriano. L’Inquisizione romana. Letture e ricerche. Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 2003. Prosperi, Adriano. Tribunali della coscienza. Inquisitori, confessori, missionari. Turin: Einaudi, 1996 (new edn 2009). Rao, Anna Maria, ed. Editoria e cultura a Napoli nel XVIII secolo. Naples: Liguori, 1998. Ravanelli, Cesare. “Un interdetto per una polemica. Contributo per una storia di Girolamo Tartarotti e i suoi tempi.” Tridentum 5, nos. 7–8 (1902): 290–330. Rebellato, Elisa. La fabbrica dei divieti. Gli indici dei libri proibiti da Clemente VIII a Benedetto XIV. Milan: Sylvestre Bonnard, 2008. Ricuperati, Giuseppe. “Francesco Bianchini e l’idea di storia universale ‘figurata’.” Rivista storica italiana 117, no. 3 (2006): 872–973. Ricuperati, Giuseppe. Frontiere e limiti della ragione. Dalla crisi della coscienza europea all’Illuminismo. Turin: Utet Libreria, 2006. Ricuperati, Giuseppe, ed. Historiographie et usages des Lumières. Berlin: Arno Spitz, 2002. Roldán Pérez, Antonio. “Censura civil y censura inquisitorial en el teatro del siglo XVIII.” Revista de la Inquisicioñ no. 7 (1998): 119–136. Rosa, Mario. “Benedetto XIV.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 8 (1966), 393–408, then in Enciclopedia dei papi, vol. 3, 446–461. Rome: Istituto dell’Enciclopedia Italiana, 2000, 3 vols. Rosa, Mario. “Cattolicesimo e ‘Lumi’: la condanna dell’’Esprit des lois’.” In Rosa, Riformatori e ribelli, 87–118. Rosa, Mario. “Encyclopédie, ‘Lumières’ et tradition au 18e siècle en Italie.” Dixhuitième siècle no. 4 (1972): 109–168. Rosa, Mario. “Pope Benedict XIV (1740–1758): The Ambivalent Enlightener.” In Enlightenment and Catholicism in Europe: A Transnational History, edited by Jeffrey D. Burson and Ulriche Lehner, 41–60. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2014. Rosa, Mario. Riformatori e ribelli nel ’700 religioso in Italia. Bari: Dedalo Libri, 1969. Roscioni, Gian Carlo. Sulle tracce dell’esploratore turco. Letteratura e spionaggio nella cultura libertina del Seicento. Milan: Rizzoli, 1992. Rosso, Claudio. “Inventing ‘Illuminismo’ (and ‘Enlightenment’): The Emergence of a Word and of a Concept.” In Ricuperati, Historiographie, 123–132. Rotondò, Antonio. “La censura ecclesiastica e la cultura.” In Storia d’Italia, vol. 5, t. 2, I documenti, edited by Ruggiero Romano and Corrado Vivanti. Turin: Einaudi, 1973, 1397–1492. Rotta, Salvatore. “Bianchini, Francesco.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 10 (1968), 187–194. Rotta, Salvatore. Montesquieu e Voltaire in Italia. Due studi, edited by Franco Arato with a preface by Rolando Minuti. Modena: STEM Mucchi, 2016. Rotta, Salvatore. “Montesquieu nel Settecento italiano: note e ricerche.” In Rotta, Montesquieu e Voltaire, 21–178. Originally published in Materiali per una storia della cultura giuridica, vol. 1 (1971): 55–209. Rotta, Salvatore. “Voltaire in Italia. Note sulle traduzioni settecentesche delle opere voltairiane.” In Rotta, Montesquieu e Voltaire, 179–271. Originally published in Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa series II, 39, nos. 3–4 (1970): 387–444. Rozzo, Ugo, ed. La censura libraria nell’Europa del secolo XVI. Udine: Forum, 1997.

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Rozzo, Ugo. “Il rogo dei libri: appunti per una iconologia.” Libri e documenti 12 (1986): 7–32. Rozzo, Ugo “Italian Literature on the Index.” In Fragnito, Church, 194–222. Rozzo, Ugo. “L’espurgazione dei testi letterari nell’Italia del secondo Cinquecento.” In La censura libraria, 219–271. Rozzo, Ugo. “Quando si bruciano i libri . . .” In Il linguaggio della biblioteca. Scritti in onore di Diego Maltese, edited by Mario Guerrini, 546–574. Milan: Editrice Bibliografica, 1996. Sabato, Milena. Poteri censori. Disciplina e circolazione libraria nel Regno di Napoli fra ’700 e ’800. Galatina: Congedo Editore, 2007. Sallmann, Jean-Michel. Naples et ses saints à l’âge baroque (1540–1750). Paris: PUF, 1994. Santovetti, Francesca. Nella città di Arcadia. Cultura fluviale ed extra-territorialità nella poesia d’occasione di Paolo Rolli. Pisa: Edizioni ETS, 1997. Schluter, Gisela. “Exporting Heresiology: Translations and Revisions of Pluquet’s Dictionnaire des héresies.” In Heresy in Transition: Transforming Ideas of Heresy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, edited by Ian Hunter, John Christian Laursen and Cary J. Nederman, 169–179. Aldershot, Hants, England; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2005. Schmidt, Bernward. “Critica legittima ed efficace. Benedetto XIV, Sollicita ac provida e i significati della censura.” Cristianesimo nella storia 33, no. 1 (2012): 13–43. Schwedt, Herman H. “Die römischen Kongregationen der Inquisition und des Index: Die Personen (16–20 Jh).” In Inquisition, Index, Zensur. Wissenskulturen der Neuzeit im Widerstreit, edited by Hubert Wolf, 89–101. Paderborn: Schöningh, 2003 (1st edn 2001). Seidel Menchi, Silvana. “Prelati e professori. Il processo criminale contro Carlo Antonio Pilati (Trento 1767–1769).” In Ferrari and Romagnani, Carlo Antonio Pilati, 57–71. Smith, Dadid Warne. Helvétius: A Study in Persecution. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1965. Stango, Cristina, ed. Censura ecclesiastica e cultura politica in Italia tra Cinquecento e Seicento. Florence: Olschki, 2001. Tarabuzzi, Gianfranco. “Le traduzioni italiane settecentesche delle opere di William Robertson.” Rivista storica italiana 91, nos. 2–3 (1979): 486–509. Torcellan, Gianfranco. “Cesare Beccaria a Venezia” (1964). In Settecento veneto e altri scritti storici, 203–234. Turin: Giappichelli, 1969. Tortarolo, Edoardo. “Censura e censori: tra antichi Stati italiani e antichi Stati tedeschi. Questioni storiografiche dei primi anni Novanta” (1999). In La ragione interpretata. La mediazione culturale tra Italia e Germania nell’età dell’Illuminismo, 176–191. Rome: Carrocci, 2003. Tortarolo, Edoardo. The Invention of Free Press: Writers and Censorship in Eighteenth Century Europe. Dordrecht: Springer, 2016. Originally published as L’invenzione della libertà di stampa. Censura e scrittori nel Settecento (Rome: Carocci, 2011). Tortarolo, Edoardo. “Zensur als Institution und Praxis im Europa der Frühen Neuzeit. Ein Überblick.” In Die Praktiken der Gelehrsamkeit in der Frühen Neuzeit, edited by Helmut Zedelmaier and Martin Mulsow, 277–294. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2001. Totaro, Pina. “Documenti su Spinoza nell’Archivio del Sant’Ufficio dell’Inquisizione.” Nouvelles de la république des lettres 1 (2000): 95–128. Trampus, Antonio, ed. Diritti e costituzione. L’opera di Gaetano Filangieri e la sua fortuna europea. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2005. Trampus, Antonio. I gesuiti e l’Illuminismo. Politica e religione in Austria e nell’Europa centrale (1773–1798). Florence: Olschki, 2000.

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Valeri, Stefania. Libri nuovi scendon l’Alpi. Venti anni di relazioni franco-italiane negli archivi della Société typographique de Neuchâtel (1769–1789). Macerata: Eum, 2006. Venturi, Franco. L’antichità svelata e l’idea del progresso in N.-A. Boulanger, 1722– 1759. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1947. Venturi, Franco. Le origini dell’Enciclopedia. Turin: Einaudi, 1977 (1st edn 1946). Venturi, Franco. Settecento riformatore, vol. I, Da Muratori a Beccaria. Turin: Einaudi, 1969. Venturi, Franco. Settecento riformatore, vol. II, La Chiesa e la Repubblica dentro i loro limiti (1758–1774). Turin: Einaudi, 1976. Vismara, Paola. “Muratori ‘immoderato’. Le censure romane al ‘De ingeniorum moderatione’ in religionis negotio.” Nuova rivista storica 83, no. 2 (1999): 315–344. Walter, Éric. “L’affaire La Barre et le concept d’opinion publique.” In Le journalisme d’Ancien Régime, edited by Pierre Rétat, 361–392. Lyon: Presses Universitaires de Lyon, 1982. Wolf, Hubert. Index. Der Vatikan und die verbotenen Bücher. Munich: Beck Verlag, 2006. Wolf, Hubert, ed. Römische Inquisition und Indexkongregation, Grundlagenforschung, Bruno Boute, Cecilia Cristellon, and Volker Dinkels, eds. Systematisches Repertorium zur Buchzensur 1701–1813, vol. 1, Inquisition. Paderbon-MunichVienna-Zurich: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2009; Andreea Badea, Jan Dirk Busemann, and Volker Dinkels, eds. Systematisches Repertorium zur Buchzensur 1701–1813, vol. 2, Indexkongregation, Paderbon-Munich-Vienna-Zurich: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2009. Wolf, Hubert, Herman H. Schwedt, Jyri Hasecker, Dominik Höink, and Judith Schepers, eds. Prosopographie von Römischer Inquisition und Indexkongregation 1701–1813. 1: A–L; 2: M–Z. Paderborn: Schöningh, 2010, 2 vols. Zapperi, Roberto. Una vita in incognito. Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 2000.

3

Hunting for Books

I think that all hell has been unleashed against the Church, and against religion: books have come to plague Italy that are so infamous and so impious that I believe the Antichrist could not do worse. People read them brazenly since they are not yet prohibited, even though they should be banned by the law of nature itself . . . If these books take hold in Italy, we will quickly find ourselves with a change of religion.1

With these words, uttered in 1765, Cardinal Nicolò Perelli articulated the feeling of besiegement that was widespread among the Catholic Church hierarchy. At a time in which the circulation of prohibited books was being transformed, in the ecclesiastical imaginary, from a plague to a flood capable of breaching any dam, the Index did not seem in itself an effective deterrent. In fact, the new metaphor, widely used in the eighteenth century alongside that of the plague, even by members of the Inquisition, serves to throw light on the essential weakness of a world arranged on defensive lines. Compared to the past, the changes taking place were of immense political importance. Several Italian states of the peninsula were slowly organising secular censorship apparatuses that eroded the traditional role played by the peripheral inquisitorial seats, which the two Roman congregations depended on for the execution of their directives. The gradual loss of their functions, and their later dismantling, were unequivocal signs of a crisis of procedures established in the age of the Counter-Reformation, even though the sequence of the crisis, determined by circumstances, naturally varied from place to place.2 Evidence of the changing times was seen in the way that some states not only opposed, but sometimes even banned, texts promoted by the Holy See.3 Moreover, men of letters loyal to the papacy, such as de’ Liguori, were placed under a lot of strain when waiting for their works to be approved by assessors of the civil authorities (revisori),4 and some even toned down their defence of curial principles in order to obtain publication permits.5

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In that period, however, the situation was particularly serious because the ecclesiastical censorship did not work even in Christian heartlands. It seemed to the Master of the Sacred Palace that the spread of banned works was unstoppable: the warnings he gave to the postmaster-generals’ offices, of “the grave sin that they commit,” went unheeded.6 In the 1760s and 1770s, stringent measures were taken in a futile attempt to prevent the entry of prohibited or suspect works both in Rome and in the ecclesiastical state, and repeated warnings about dangerous books were sent to clergy operating in other Italian states. This was a huge undertaking that involved the Master of the Sacred Palace, the Holy Office, papal authority and, in addition, many bishops, parish priests and preachers of the peninsula. And the outcome was a shift towards greater repression in Rome and the Papal State. By contrast, in places where the civil authorities blocked the moves of the Inquisition with political manœuvres based on robust jurisdictionalist principles, the Church pleaded in vain for the princes to use a heavy hand. Thus, it hit back by resorting, through the bishops, to threats of spiritual punishment in the hope of stirring the conscience of the individual believer.

1.

Circular Letters from the Holy Office in Rome

The first thing for us to note is the proliferation of edicts issued by the Master of the Sacred Palace, from the 1760s onwards.7 In 1761, for example, Ricchini reminded the people of Rome of the penalties for holders of books published without the necessary ecclesiastical approval, and he rescinded all licences granted to booksellers. While the criteria used to identify potential offenders (from carriers to mountebanks [saltimbanchi], the latter falling under suspicion due to their itinerant lifestyle) and possible types of prohibited books became more painstaking and meticulous, numerous raids on the city’s bookshops were carried out.8 First in line to defend the Church’s hegemony on the control of reading was, however, the Holy Office, whose actions extended far beyond the walls of the Vatican and the boundaries of the Papal State. That, at least, was the intention, the reality was something else. Indeed, although in the past and still at the start of the century, the Inquisition had been able to obstruct, on the peninsula, the publication of books that had not been reviewed or been given the imprimatur by the local inquisitor or bishop,9 now that the political powers established new rules on book publishing, it found itself being ousted by degrees. Naturally, the Holy Office did not hesitate to legislate on the matter, promptly issuing edicts in response to the laws on printing enacted in various Italian states. The first of these was promulgated by the Grand Duchy of Tuscany in 1743.10 Reconstructing the strategies employed by the Roman centre, however, involves retracing the stages of the Inquisition system’s steady decline, a decline which the inquisitors of the Papal State very soon

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became aware of. The difficult task of preventing the publication of texts printed with tacit permission under false foreign places of publication, and all in various ways encouraged by civil authorities mindful of the positive economic effects guaranteed by the development of the book trade, ultimately proved impossible. The most that could be done, if anything, was to obstruct their movement both inside and outside the Papal State. On 9 January 1762, a circular letter relating to the import of books from the Venetian Republic was sent to the inquisitors and vicars of the ecclesiastical state and to those “in foreign domains.”12 It required them to “watch with open eyes, examine the bundles, compare the books with the extrahatur . . . primarily those from Venice,” and to inform the Roman tribunal if irregularities were uncovered. There were few illusions about the effectiveness of the dispatch, but the aim was nevertheless to use “those means that might obliquely create a barrier against such disorder and complicate trade.” Whereas there were no problems in imposing rigorous inspections on the courts of the papal domains “in which there is full freedom of action,” elsewhere great care was needed to avoid direct confrontation with the political powers.13 All the inquisitors declared their willingness to execute the orders and some, in the papal lands, went further in their zeal14 and proceeded to seize books.15 However, the replies received in Rome reveal great differences in the practices adopted by the various tribunals of the peninsula. The inquisitor of Modena confirmed that the volumes brought into the city were “inspected diligently by the head of the customs, a person of renowned good conscience, and licensed by the holy court.” His counterpart in Bologna instead reported that the presence of the extrahatur had always been verified, but that the bundles of books had never been opened.16 If in the Modena jurisdiction the circulation of books appeared under control, the situation seemed very different elsewhere, where the clergy were fully aware of their helplessness. The inquisitor of Pisa made his difficulties known: he had never inspected the bundles of books, and there was no “reason to hope that the secular authority would grant the inquisitors a new right to intervene in this matter.”17 The vice inquisitor of Mondovì, admitting that in his area there were texts clandestinely “scattered in some houses . . . introduced by traders, either from France or from Geneva,” gave vent to his discouragement: “The trouble is that here we cannot publish edicts, and without appealing to Turin we cannot exercise any jurisdiction.”18 The vicar of Vercelli was even more pessimistic: the customs officers did not provide him with information about books. They were instead obliged to send the books to the prefect of the royal schools, and the inspector—he commented—“inexperienced about the Index, takes a look as best as he can.” He had notified the minister of state “of the commonly practised fraud” and had asked him to order the Vercelli and Ivrea customs officers to advise the vicars of the Holy Office of the arrival of printed works so that they could carry out inspections. A waste of time: the reply was that

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“since gentlemen prefects are in charge of such tasks, we do not doubt their attentiveness.”19 The crisis of the Inquisition system in some parts of the peninsula was therefore clear and, furthermore, even in papal dominions the control of books went in every direction. By releasing dispositions in order to oppose the censorship measures issued in other Italian states, the Holy Office sought to create greater uniformity within the papal lands. The Venetian jurisdictionalist regulation of 3 August 1765 was thus countered by the circular letter sent on 31 August to the inquisitors of the ecclesiastical state. This emphasised more clearly the urgent need to track down not only texts placed on the Index, but also those without the requisite ecclesiastical approval. Moreover, the letter called for the sequestration of books, which were not to be returned without the permission of the Roman tribunal: due caution always had to be exercised.20 But while on the one hand the dispatch bears witness to the adoption of severer strategies, on the other it infers that previous measures had mostly failed. Moreover, it was not easy for the inquisitors to distinguish between books published with the ecclesiastical imprimatur and texts printed without the required permissions, with false publication details (alla macchia) or simply written in a foreign language. In the last case, those who knew only their own tongue had to transcribe the titles, have them translated by those who could “read the English language in which they are printed,” and then ask Rome for guidance.21 However, the many prolonged efforts that were made, through the mediation of bishops, inquisitors, nuncios and secretaries of state, to impede the organisation of a secular censorship in the Duchy of Milan were to no avail.22 The greater repression deployed by the Roman Holy Office at this time can also be linked to these failures outside of the Papal State. The underground trafficking of banned books continued, but the stringent instructions were not to be deemed dead letters. In those years, the authorities of the Papal State increased their investigations of booksellers, and the inquisitors went about their work with fury and passion, especially during the book fairs of Senigallia, Recanati and Fermo. In August 1767, the inquisitor of Fermo, Carlo Giacinto Angeli, inspected cases of books sent to the local fair from Senigallia by the Venetian booksellers Antonio Zatta and Giovanni Francesco Garbo. Of the books “checked one by one,” he confiscated a number that were either banned or suspect, and these evidence the climate of obsessive fear of the written word that was symptomatic of the time. For the requisitioned works comprised not only books on the Index— including Pufendorf’s De iure naturae et gentium, Algarotti’s Il newtonianesimo per le dame, Forteguerri’s Ricciardetto and Heinecke’s Elementa iuris naturae—and books as yet unapproved by the Church, such as Pietro Verri’s Meditazioni sulla felicità and Giannone’s Vita, but also the Note e osservazioni sul libro intitolato “Dei delitti e delle pene” (Venice, 1765), that is, the rebuttal of Beccaria’s treatise by the friar Ferdinando Facchinei.23 On 28 August 1767, at the Ancona fair, the Florentine bookseller Tempesti

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had various volumes sequestrated, from Sacchetti’s Novelle to Verri’s Meditazioni sulla felicità.24 Then, on 6 September 1767, it was the turn of Ancona, where the inquisitor seized banned and dubious books addressed to Francesco Maria Raffaelli of Cingoli.25 Yet, regardless of all the energy expended, the effort was profitless. The vicar of Senigallia, reprimanded for not having prevented illegal trading at the town’s fair, insisted that he had acted in full compliance with existing rules.26 And the response to that and other repeated failures was, once again, the imposition of more stringent measures. The Lettera circolare agl’inquisitori dello Stato ecclesiastico sull’affare dei libri, sent out with the pope’s approval on 10 October 1767, reaffirmed the need to use every “care and attention” against the entry of books on the Index, of volumes prohibited by the general rules of the Index and of those published without ecclesiastical approval, “though good and holy, like missals, breviaries, or other holy books from any country, and especially from Italy.” Above all, the letter required checks for the presence of not only the extrahatur, but in particular the introducatur, which was granted not “only after the presentation of the extrahatur,” but after a rigorous inspection of all the bundles and boxes of books. In addition, the sequestration of unapproved books was also applicable to those that held reading licences, and the sequestered works were not to be returned without an explicit order of the Roman Inquisition.27 The 10 October 1767 missive, which gave rise among other things to questions regarding its implementation,28 was followed by new repressive measures. Several letters told of subsequent book requisitions. On 9 November 1767, the inquisitor of Rimini stated that he had taken possession of volumes from the booksellers Angiolo Broccoli and Giuseppe Lanfranconi.29 On the same day, the vicar of Pesaro said that he had confiscated—from among books, including some in transit, inspected at the customs to grant the extrahatur—texts of the merchant Antonio Marzetti printed in Venice without a licence, and also Venetian books, prohibited and suspect, belonging to the Pesaro printer Nicola Gavelli.30 The inquisitor of Ancona found yet others, addressed to Valentiniano Costa, “a lay Jesuit.”31 In the congregation of 11 November 1767, the Holy Office gave a blunt answer to the repeated questions concerning the fate of requisitioned books, announcing that those seized after the letter of 10 October 1767 would not be returned.32 In the following months, the inquisitors acted with particular alacrity. In December 1767, the inquisitor of Ancona sequestered no fewer than forty-five volumes from a box of books sent from Venice to the superintendent of the post: these ranged from Milton’s Paradiso perduto to Antonio Cocchi’s Del matrimonio di un filosofo mugellano, placed on the Index in 1763, from Alexander Pope’s poem Il riccio rapito to the Ricciardetto.33 And, as decreed, books were also taken from those with reading licences.34 The claims that the crackdown had an effect on the world of publishers, as it had in Spain,35 is given substance by the petition presented to the Holy

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Office in July 1770 by the booksellers of the Marca. They said that the rules of the Inquisition were unduly harsh, so much so that they were in danger of “being ruined by the loss of their capital and the destruction of their business.” Stressing the importance of the book trade for the state, they claimed that the recent measures had provoked an increase in outlay thereby undermining their investments, so that every bookseller now has to go in search of someone in the city willing to act as a forwarding agent, since nobody wants to put up with all that trouble, given that, apart from the endless expenses that they incur, they are forced to lose countless days in order to serve their correspondents. The boxes of books unloaded in the port of Ancona were first transported to the customs, then the forwarding agent sent them to the inquisitor to obtain the transferatur. After the Inquisition’s inspection, the boxes “disordered, and put together badly by the porters” were taken to the bishop’s reviser for further inspection, before eventually being sent back to the customs. The booksellers complained about the waste made of books when they are unpacked, and put back by people unfamiliar to the trade; the loss of many books that always occurs in transit since most are not given the best place; the doubling of charges for forwarding, taking back and transportation; the delays owing to the double inspection by the father inquisitor and the canonical reviser, who are always busy; the compensation demanded by the senders for time lost by all this trouble; the expenses that more often than not are higher than the value of the merchandise itself. But their request that the inspections should at least be carried out at the customs in Ancona36 received a negative reply from the Holy Office. The inspections could not be conducted in such a cramped space full of goods, and anyway, the inquisitors and the episcopal revisers were too busy to go to the customs. It is also to be noted that the inquisitors and bishops had always kept an eye on the book trade, and so the practices in use were not introduced by the more recent edicts, as the booksellers insinuated: “It is true,” the respondent admitted, “that after the said orders we have used greater circumspection and diligence,” since in fact it was important to fight strongly against the “introduction of so many pestilential books, that unfortunately have come to flood even these parts.”37

2.

Inquisitorial Edicts

Although the regulations of the Holy Office were successful in interrupting the legal activities of the book trade in the Papal State, they had little effect on the clandestine trade. To use the words of the inquisitor of Faenza:

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No books of any kind now pass through customs. Because of all of this wickedness has opened other ways, and they are introduced via private shipment by secret and indirect roads, of which there are many in that province, or by sea to unguarded landing places, or by land with the help of muleteers, who stick to the mountain paths and deposit the books outside town in some agreed place, where the owners go to get them.38 In Rome, Alessandro Verri, despite a thousand difficulties, continued to receive the banned works his brother Pietro sent from Milan, hidden in small packages.39 And in the 1770s, a large network of readers of materialist works was discovered right in the papal lands. Among the leading protagonists in this affair were Angelo Valzania of Cesena and the abbot Giovanni Battista Pinzi, a resident of Ravenna and brother of the poet Giuseppe Antonio Pinzi. In 1772, the two men were tried by the Holy Office of Ravenna for atheism and for disseminating “a large quantity of pernicious French books.”40 While the investigations still under way urged a group of disobedient readers to appear voluntarily before the local Inquisition (according to sources, there were as many as five hundred) in order to be spared retribution, as faithful penitents. But the solemn punishment inflicted on Pinzi illustrates clearly shows how the Roman ecclesiastical hierarchy, aware of its impotence, dealt with this by intensifying penalties. Pinzi was judged to be unrepentant, and a severe sentence was imposed: for the purpose of “expunging, if possible, the source of so much disorder, which comes entirely from the spreading of perverse books,” by order of Clement XIV, he was forced to make a public recantation in Ravenna and was then given a life sentence. He died in prison years later. Accused of having “atheist and heretical ideas, which he had taken from evil books and with reckless bravado had passed on to others,”41 Pinzi had been brought to trial for having spread atheist principles, and not simply for having read books extolling atheism. Nevertheless, the matter of reading should not be underestimated: albeit not the main issue, it was nonetheless one of the charges. As pointed out at the trial, Pinzi had imbued atheism by reading books of the “corrupt century,”42 and the exemplary sentence handed down was meant to serve as a warning to all the inhabitants of the Papal State. As for Valzania, who managed to escape from prison,43 he had helped spread the image of the ecclesiastical state as a “horrid continent.” Writing to Isidoro Bianchi years later, he urged him to avoid “ending up there for any reason. The deadly arrow is already on the nock.”44 An admonitory punishment, then. In effect, up to that point the trials for reading prohibited books that were held on the peninsula—which were not particularly numerous either before or after the Pinzi affair45— were generally quite different. They were usually held to examine the selfdenunciations of the faithful—goaded in fact by their confessors—46 and the ensuing investigations seldom led to the arrest of possible accomplices

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or those who had commended or directly provided the prohibited works.47 And yet, although the number of court cases adjudicating claims of possessing or reading books on the Index without actually distributing them appears to have decreased sharply during the eighteenth century, it should not be forgotten that the accusation of heresy and atheism was often associated with the possession of banned texts.48 The case of the Bergamo abbot Antonio Castelletti, accused of atheism by the Venetian Inquisition in 1771, is instructive in this respect. The shopkeeper who laid the charges described Castelletti as an “impious” man who read “I don’t know how many times, or where Rousseau or Voltaire, and this reading had similar consequences for his principles.” He “was seduced, or confirmed in his total disbelief” by those very works.49 Showing leniency to such people—as sometimes happened—did not mean that the system had no provision for various types of penalties. These in fact ranged from prayer to private recantation, undersigned by the good Catholics of the Inquisition tribunals. In the eighteenth century, the congregation used specific forms to be filled in with the offender’s name, the sin committed and the sentence given. In most cases, the transgressor was required to “recite cinque pater, ave, e gloria”—usually before the altar of the town church—and “for the next three years to recite a third of the most holy rosary each week.”50 Abjuration was envisaged for readers of heretical books and other texts: for example, for those enthralled by works of magic, witchcraft and superstition.51 There was no escape for anyone who confessed to having read Erasmus’s Dialogues, “some works by Marino, and Tibullo, and Properzio unexpurgated, and perhaps some others I can’t remember”;52 and, again, for the man “in grave mortal danger” who admitted to having immersed himself “over the many years,” in all sorts of forbidden books, “especially those like Émile, Du contrat social, La pucelle d’Orléans, Il dispotismo, Calvin, Luther, Machiavelli, the Spirito delle leggi.”53 But the bureaucratisation of the control of souls in the last phase of the early modern age should not lead us to downplay the weight and potency of ecclesiastical interventions. In such instances, the faithful had to relinquish the prohibited books, promise that they would never read the like again and recognise the authority of the Church in those matters. And while there were not many trials, those that took place served as deterrents for the entire community. Moreover, an idea of the common view of readers of materialist and deist books can be gleaned from what Giambattista Biffi wrote in his diary in September 1779. He recorded the suicide of a twentyyear-old from Cremona, who had been declared “damned in death because they found works of Helvétius, Mirabeau, Système de la nature, Voltaire and Rousseau” in his possession.54 Still, it should equally be noted that those who voluntarily presented themselves for confession often did not merely express contrition, but also recited formulaic beliefs about reading and sin, which they ostensibly shared with the inquisitors. Since the latter associated bad reading with immoral

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55

behaviour, the penitents gave accounts of the road to sin that were never neutral, but imbued with a mentality and language adapted to the climate of prohibition. A twenty-two-year-old, who, in 1777, appeared spontaneously before the inquisitor of Modena for having read and kept some prohibited books, admitted that “curiosity led me to procure them: when reading them I saw for myself that they were pernicious books.”56 And a much older man, who denounced himself in the same year and place for having read, transcribed and translated several books from French (Traité des trois imposteurs, L’evangile du jour and “monsieur d’Argens”) and for having “copied the verses of Dante,” revealed—perhaps in an attempt to lighten his position—that he had done so “to flaunt my cleverness and parade my knowledge.” And to make clear that only a moment of confusion could have prompted such a folly, he told how years before he and a friend, both drunk, had decided to “philosophise a little” and had talked “about the existence of the supreme being, the immortality of the soul and the universal flood.” They had never denied the existence of God and the immortality of the soul, but had wondered if the deluge had really been global.57 The repentant faithful, sharing the inquisitorial way of thinking, or at least giving the appearance of doing so, seemed to have believed that a reader could not possibly exercise a firm, critical control over the effects of reading on his own. One penitent recalled how La pucelle d’Orléans, Di una riforma d’Italia, “some parts of Rousseau,” De l’esprit and “some of Voltaire’s pamphlets” had influenced him so greatly that sometimes I even doubted the existence of God, the immortality of the soul, the truth of sacred history, the most holy sacraments and particularly the need for auricular confession, the real presence of Jesus Christ in the consecrated host, the authority of the Church to prohibit the eating of meat on certain days. In short, generally speaking, I opined that some form of religion was necessary for a good political system, and I thus stopped believing that the Catholic Christian religion was the true one.58 But, on account of his impenitence, the trial against Pinzi had been something else entirely. The case even brought about new inquisitorial measures and provided a justification for the Inquisition’s edict about the circulation of books, published in 1773 and born of a specific conviction: Irreligion, and immorality, which have expanded so much in our times, draw their main life-source from the reading of impious books, which ruins the intellect, and corrupts the heart of those wretched people who, either incautiously or with evil intent, drink their eternal damnation from these muddy springs of iniquity.59 The measures had a long gestation. Firstly, the assessor Antonelli of the Holy Office called for a full consideration about “whether these orders,

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which have been given in secret through circular letters should be made public and promulgated with an edict.”60 Then, during the preparation stage of the text, the inquisitors and vicars—and, as we shall see, also the archbishops and bishops—were invited to offer advice on how best to “stem the torrent of . . . books that . . . has burst the banks that with great care were built up by this sacred congregation.” The individual inquisitors, moreover, were asked for a copy of the local edicts which they posted in the entrances to their courts.61 Zealous in their replies, they went on to tell, among other things, of various sequestrations (in Bologna, a large part of Voltaire’s works were seized).62 And, in the end, there was no lack of advice: the bishop and inquisitor of Faenza pronounced themselves in favour of a new edict on prohibited books, the inquisitor going further and pushing for much harder sanctions. The sticking point, to his mind, was the lack of effective procedures to use against transgressors. Ages had passed since it was possible to publish edicts like that—proposed as a template—issued by the Milan Inquisition in 1664, which envisaged severe punishments like “rowing for three years in the galleys, and the forfeiture of all belongings.”63 Be that as it may, the assessor of the Holy Office Antonelli, who summarised the advice received, doubted the wisdom of that way of thinking. For times had changed and discipline should be seen as a means to an end, not an end in itself. Compared to the past, the current situation seemed much more complicated: there were those who, like “the foreign carriers and brokers,” mostly Tuscan and Venetian, claimed immunity from all inquisitorial scrutiny. It was difficult, then, to eliminate the smuggling networks composed of boatmen and muleteers. Without “ministers to uncover the frauds” and “authority to punish the fraudsters,” how could the Inquisition act in a century in which everyone wanted to “read the fashionable books” and used “trickery and energy to satisfy their depraved intellects, and to import books covertly, with no respect for their superiors?” In order to eradicate “this plague, which is the sole source of modern unbelief and corruption of morals,” there was a need for “a more useful and powerful weapon” and “measures more suitable than the old, and more proportional to the deceit . . . and new stratagems.”64 The 1773 edict issued by the Holy Office, but drafted “by special commission received from our happily reigning Lord,” was the end result an in-depth analysis of the individual local edicts, each different to the other,65 that had been sent to the Holy Office in Rome at the request of Antonelli. Printed between April and May in all the inquisitorial tribunals of the Papal State, it at least met the objective of establishing uniform rules. The nature of the fears linked to the spread of books was made clear in the incipit: the point at issue was the impiety transmitted by the writings, which was capable of overthrowing Christianity and distorting social morality.66 Inspired by passages from the edict of 1664,67 but focusing primarily on the world of the readers, the new edict stipulated that, within a month of publication, those who possessed texts on the Index or banned by the Inquisition’s

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general rules had to hand them over to the local inquisitor, “without anyone on their own authority either depositing them with those licensed to hold them, or tearing them up, or burning them” (nor should they be corrected by “private authority”). The edict then reiterated the that reserved excommunication awaited readers of heretical works, and readers of other forbidden texts were notified that they were “in continuous mortal sin” which warranted severe punishment “in keeping with sacred canons, and with edicts promulgated at other times.” The holders of reading licences were reminded not to abuse them by reading other banned texts, “but rather to keep them safe under lock and key” (the penalty, in this case, would be the non-renewal of the licence and confiscation of the books), and printers were instructed to keep works lacking ecclesiastical approval within their workshops. The booksellers, as well as their eventual successors, had to present a list of books in their shops and homes to the Holy Office for approval and, as to books being brought into or sent from the Papal State, the list—detailing all the titles with names of authors, translators, printers, and year and place of publication—had to be submitted to the Inquisition; once having verified the accuracy of the list, the Inquisition would grant an introducatur and extrahatur. In this regard, the postmasters, stagecoach drivers and carriers were recommended to make regular checks: even mountebanks, charlatans (ciarlatani) “or other similar people,” and “retailers” would not be able to sell books without first having furnished the Holy Office with a list of them. Printers and booksellers should, within a fortnight, proceed to the requisite oath before the Inquisition. Finally, it was ordered that booksellers, excisemen, tax collectors, gatekeepers, postmasters, carriers, innkeepers, and hostelry and hotel landlords had to display a copy of the edict or be fined twenty-five scudi. In general, “the punishments expressed in the sacred canons, decrees, measures of the pope and the Roman Index, and a fine of one hundred scudi to be paid to holy places, and others determined by us” were provided for all offenders; traders of any kind would in addition have their books seized. But of course, the edict could not possibly rectify the situation, given that in the main it merely recycled surveillance practices of the past. In comparison to the proposals debated during the preparatory phase, it even appeared moderate. The possibility of a drastic reduction of reading licences had in fact been considered. It was a course of action—Antonelli wrote—mooted several times within the Holy Office in recent years, and there was an extreme precedent for the idea, for in 1631, Urban VIII had revoked them all. The Congregation, however, was no longer in a position to contemplate such a thing.68 The rules suggested by the Circolare agl’inquisitori dello Stato ecclesiastico, which was sent out with a copy of the edict in May 1773, were far more rigorous than the edict. After directing that the edict be printed quickly in loco, it asked the recipients to move against all transgressors “without distinction and irremediably.” The circular also advocated the

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frequent inspection of booksellers and, most notably, widened the area of control in order to cover the domestic space: To check whether impious books and especially those by modern authors who are more unbelieving, are being read in individual houses, especially by women and other idiotic people, with the intention of removing them from their hands, acting in concert with the bishops and taking all appropriate measures to keep this contagious plague far away from the souls of the faithful.69 With good reason, the replies once again did not hold out much hope for a constructive application of such rules: it would be difficult, a writer from Ravenna said, “to uncover what each individual likes to keep hidden away at home.”70 Nevertheless, many declared themselves ready to campaign against books. At Ferrara, for example, the vicar general immediately sent a circular letter to the parish priests inviting them to join the fight: they not only had to circulate the edict, but also to “make clear to their people during the sermon, in the catechism . . . the great evil that is being committed.”71 The difficulties of implementing the edict and circular as well as the determination to intercept infringements were salient features of those years. The innkeepers of the city and countryside of Perugia complained, on 9 July 1773, of being subjected to the “unfair enforcement” of verifying that the edict was put on display in their hostelries, and they demanded that the “money spent” in doing so be reimbursed. In the past, they had never been obliged to display such things, and, as for the future, they suggested that the inquisitor be advised “to sell the aforementioned decrees at a more reasonable price, since this printer [Costantini] . . . dares to sell them for half a groat each.” Moreover, they said, the edicts posted “in the street corners of this city tend to be torn by the next day,” making them impossible to read especially because most landlords and innkeepers cannot read, and so have never believed that an edict concerning the keeping, banning and selling of books ought to be kept in their respective inns and hostelries, seeing as the purpose of it has never been explained to them by a single person.72 The inquisitor of Pisa had apparently faced up to the difficulties of implementation, for he was praised for his attentiveness by the Holy Office in Rome, which also suggested imposing minimum penalties, considering the condition of the people involved.73 The fines, however, were not sparing, as is shown, for instance, by the heavy punishment inflicted on the postmaster of Assisi for not having put the edict on show.74 The stringency of the plan of action taken by the Inquisition in 1773 is clearly evident, especially with regard to the inspections within private

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houses. While it is true that the measures did not go as far as rescinding all reading licences, nonetheless, during the 1760s and 1770s, the denial of licences increased, and there were many complaints from the peninsula’s men of letters about their limited duration.75 Although the new procedures did little to curb illegal trafficking, in terms of regulation the Papal State underwent a repressive shift that had a negative impact on the official channels of the book trade. And this shift was supported by the weapons available to the Inquisition, a fact that must be duly noted in order to grasp the fact that the Holy Office was far from inactive during the eighteenth century.76 It is true, certainly, that its role had changed. The Inquisition, in fact, now aimed to reach the conscience of individual believers by means of persuasion as well as by the essential role of the bishops.

3.

Spiritual Weapons for the Peninsula: The Appeal to Bishops

The relaunch of the role of the episcopate appears to have been the Church’s main response to the crisis of the Inquisition system. To this end, the Roman Holy Office made direct contact with the bishops: in early 1768, in fact, the circular letters of 9 January 1762, 31 August 1765 and 10 October 1767, which had already been received by many inquisitors, were sent to all the bishops of the ecclesiastical state.77 A degree of pessimism was evident in the bishops’ answers in consequence of the tactics of book smugglers, which—in the words of the bishop of Pesaro—“can sometimes frustrate our efforts.”78 Even so, the expressions of solidarity with the initiatives of the Roman Inquisition seem to have been just as unanimous as the commitment to collaboration was earnest. Giovanni Rondinelli, Bishop of Comacchio, said he was ready to do his utmost “until the purity of the religion and the morals of the faithful are no longer contaminated by the pestiferous use of pernicious books.”79 Pietro Paolo Leonardi, Bishop of Ascoli, promised that he would use “all vigilance” and would order his ministers “to be sure to comply exactly with the instructions sent to them.”80 The bishops’ active involvement had in fact already been requested and manifested during the Pinzi affair. On that occasion, they had been asked to propose a modus operandi for the control of books and reading, and to that end had been provided with a copy of the edict of 1773 and the supplementary Circolare agl’inquisitori dello Stato ecclesiastico. The call was explicit: every bishop had to instruct all the parish priests of his diocese to highlight in their catechisms and sermons the serious damage done to the soul by the reading of prohibited books; the evil committed by holding them and lending them to others; the Apostolic See’s threatening censures of those who read and keep them; and finally the temporal punishments inflicted for such wrongdoing.81

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Even in this case, conscious doubts about the effectiveness of the measures were accompanied by a declaration of a firm commitment. The Archbishop of Ravenna, Antonio Cantoni, for example, immediately expressed his intention to draft a pastoral letter “to be read and explained at certain times of the year by all the priests, preachers and missionaries” to remind everyone of the serious offence of which they are guilty, the ecclesiastical penalties and censures incurred by those who read without the necessary licence or have in their possession such books, but also those who have them kept by others or take them from place to place and ask others to read them aloud, or who in any other way contravenes the prohibition, so as to remove various faults that spread in such matters.82 Bishop Radicati of Pesaro likewise gave an assurance of his support: I will also ensure that my parish priests and preachers make known to their audience from the altar and the pulpit the great damage caused by the reading of prohibited books, the evil that is committed in keeping them, lending them to others, and finally the spiritual and temporal punishments incurred by this wrongdoing.83 Thus, while in the papal domains there was no hesitation in using both the repressive methods of the Holy Office and the persuasive strategies of the bishops, in the Italian states, where the Inquisition was losing its oversight of the world of books to the ministers of the state, it concentrated exclusively on the latter: pastoral persuasion. This is not to say that all the bishops of the peninsula needed any inducement to act in that way. Some were well aware of the essential role that they could still play, despite the profound ongoing political changes, in maintaining control over the souls of the faithful. Urged by a papal letter to take steps to contact the minister Karl von Firmian so that, as per the censorship measures of 1766, he did not infringe the rights of the Church in Lombardy, Carlo Francesco Durini, Bishop of Pavia, responded to “such monstrosities” as follows: Where exhortations do not work I will use spiritual weapons against the printers of this city, who have dared to print books without prior approval, or licences from the bishop and the father inquisitor.84 Nonetheless, the mobilisation of all the bishops of the peninsula—and no longer only those active in the ecclesiastical state—was promoted by the pontiffs in the 1760s and given solemn expression in encyclicals. It should be noted that in the first half of the eighteenth century, the popes seldom intervened directly in disputes about prohibited books. Suffice it to recall that the bull Unigenitus (1713), which conclusively condemned Jansenism, had drawn attention to the circulation of books that represented

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a danger to Catholic unity, but this did not give rise to a flawless linear strategy. Not surprisingly, then, the provincial Roman synod of 1725 promoted by Benedict XIII and regarded as an ecumenical council for the broad involvement of dioceses and bishops not only of Rome, did not deal specifically with the problem of reading.86 Indeed, the documents used in preparing for the event show that it was actually held to address other questions concerning clerical procedures, which is to say internal church matters.87 Nevertheless, as if to confirm that the centre and the periphery did not always follow the same course, the council did end up calling for the organisation of local synods, whose processes had a rigour far greater than the spirit which prevailed in the Roman council. The diocesan synod convened by the Archbishop of Naples, Francesco Pignatelli, in June 1726 dedicated its fifth section (De editione usuque librorum) specifically to books, restating the traditional punishment of excommunication for those guilty of reading heretical texts.88 The use of encyclicals to try to deal with the uncontrolled circulation of books had a different value and meaning. And we must pause to consider this use, since it denoted a change of strategy in the ecclesiastical hierarchy’s efforts to maintain hegemony. Encyclicals—papal letters addressed to the bishops—are an expression of the pontiff’s will and authority, and although not containing ex cathedra impositions, they centre the bishops’ attention on the problems of the Church, indicating the direction that the Catholic world must take. The part played by the encyclical is also important because it does more than serve as a channel for in-house exchanges, but reaches out far beyond the Church to communicate with the wider world.89 Benedict XIV made ample use of them—albeit not in connection with books90—to revivify the supervisory role which the bishops exercised over the faithful through preaching and pastoral visits: he published twenty-six encyclicals during the seventeen years of his pontificate.91 As mentioned, an early encyclical “against the books of the libertines and the impious,” proposed by Foggini with reference to De l’esprit, had been drafted in 1759. The document was actually published under the title Quantopere Dominus Iesus,92 but only a handful of copies were made owing to disagreement within the Inquisition and, specifically, to the position taken by Cardinal Passionei. He insisted that issuing the encyclical was an unwise political move that would make it harder to maintain good relations with France. The decision not to disseminate it—which was followed by the papal brief of September 1759 against the Encyclopédie—can be explained by the fact that it seemed unfit for purpose: irrespective of his sincere belief, Passionei called it “superfluous,” for being “an antidote and vaccine too weak to counter the poison of impious books.”93 The decision made in the 1760s and 1770s, when a peninsula-wide offensive against prohibited publishing was launched by popes who brought the encyclical into service, was a different matter. This was a sign of the terminal decline of repressive instruments, as well of the ecclesiastical hierarchy’s

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awareness of it. If on the one hand the encyclicals were evidence of a firm resolve not to surrender control over the reading of the faithful, on the other they showed that the Church, deprived of its inquisitorial operations and secular branch, urgently needed rearmament. Communicating via the encyclical meant mobilising not only the episcopacy, but also those—clerical or lay—who were willing to answer the call to arms in defence of Catholic principles. The Holy Office, therefore, in its war against prohibited texts, found useful allies in certain popes who in those decades had to confront the profound social and cultural changes then under way. In fact, Clement XIII used the encyclical to call for the faithful, especially those “with a more naive and simple intellect,” to be vigilant and wary of “false doctrines” contrary to the Roman catechism.94 And more importantly, on 25 November 1766, he sent out an encyclical with the compelling title, Christianae reipublicae. De novis noxiis libris, which addressed the specific problem of the dissemination of deist and materialist works. On that occasion, the pope enjoined all priests to join forces “so that the insolent and shameful debauchery of books, which have emerged from murky hiding places to cause ruin and devastation, does not become more dangerous the more it spreads, propagating itself day by day.” Quoting the Apostle Paul (2 Timothy 4: 3–5), he wrote: Debauched men . . . who have turned to fables and who cannot stand sound doctrine . . . through the pestilential contagion of books, by which we are almost overwhelmed, vomit from their bosoms snakelike poisons to the ruin of Christian people . . . and they break up the foundations of religion.95 What caused this outrage was the spread of blasphemous texts that announced the death of God or proposed new forms of natural religiosity: some denied the existence of the Creator; others depicted him as “inactive”; still others proclaimed the mortality of the soul; others, finally, dared to investigate “faith’s hidden mysteries.” The danger, however, was the same in all cases, being the pretension of seeking “the proof of everything” in “human reason.” With words, but also with “actions,” since the two appeared inseparable, many authors were corrupting “resolute and modest morals” and presented a picture of “execrable debauchery to the minds of the unwary.” Using a pleasant and attractive style designed to penetrate minds with ease, they sowed “venom in the imprudent who, blinded by the sweetness of the discourse,” failed to recognise the “poison” that was killing them. This was a “deadly scourge,” and it was impossible to eliminate “the opportunity for error, if the wicked seeds of evil, burned in the fire, are not destroyed.” The bishops, thanked for the zeal with which they had carried out the work of ensuring that the “simple” did not “sleep with snakes,” were now invited to keep the flock well away from those “poisoned pastures.” Reading seemed an absolute danger, much more so than

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bad conversation and company: books “remain forever, and are always with us, travel with us, and slip into the rooms that would be inaccessible to a wicked and beguiling author.” Now was the time to “sound the trumpets” and plead the “ancestral piety of Catholic principles” so that the spread of texts contrary to the faith, religion and good morals might be suppressed.96 As for Clement XIV, after the encyclical Cum summis (1769), which urged the faithful to beware of opinions aimed at “doing away with religion,” noting that “crowds are seduced by novelty,”97 he endorsed the Inquisition edict of 1773. It was then the turn of the encyclical Inscrutabile divinae sapientiae, issued by Pius VI on 25 December 1775. These were—the pope reflected, revisiting themes that Clement XIII had focused on—the times, prophesied by the Apostle Paul, in which proud men cursed God, denied his existence or else pictured him, in the manner of the deists, as “work-shy.” It was a philosophy replete with deception, which attracted “the unwary” and “the crowds,” boasting that man was free and “subject to none,” and it was devastating religion and undermining respect for social hierarchies. This “pestilential disease” had infiltrated “the public academies, the houses of the wealthy, the palaces of kings and . . . even the sanctuary.” Worst all, it created doubts in the minds of inexperienced readers, who “clever swindlers” deceived with words and expressions so flattering that the weak, who are the majority, take the bait, being duped in a kindly manner, and then they either completely reject the faith or let it be almost completely debilitated. The risk, in the face of what appeared to be the myopia of principles, concerned the “stability of the government” and the “failing health of the people.” The bishops therefore needed to apply the necessary cure, removing “the poisoned books from the eyes of the flock” and isolating “promptly and rigorously the infected, so that they did not harm others.” The call was clear: “Entreat, reprove, admonish, censure.”98 Whereas previously the Church had acted covertly by dint of circular letters which the Holy Office of Rome sent in some instances to the inquisitors of the peninsula, now, given the progressive decline of the Inquisition system, it met the same challenges by requesting the help of the bishops in all Italian states. And many responded to the appeal.

4.

From Bishops to Priests

The rules put in force by the Holy Office of Rome and the suggestions transmitted via papal encyclicals made a vital contribution to the guiding of pastoral activity and to determining a certain uniform approach to books and reading. This is not to imply, of course, that there was total accord between the centre and the periphery, as the Roman directives, in general,

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could be adapted to the requirements and circumstances of individual dioceses.99 Furthermore, reflecting the fact that from the 1750s the clergy of the peninsula had been sounding the alarm against the exponential growth of the reading public, it may be remembered that in his pastoral instructions, the Archbishop of Genoa, Giuseppe Saporiti, had urged the confessors to obligate the faithful to denounce without delay “those who read, or keep heretical or prohibited books without licence.” In one city, which was a “marketplace and seaport,” one had to tread with greater care that elsewhere, both for the strong possibility of meeting “non-Catholic people” and “for the ease of obtaining several books, which, although small in size, are extremely dangerous: a terrible incitement to depraved behaviour.”100 Saporiti had spelt out the ways of sin, recommending that preachers should admonish female chit-chat and “lewd discussions, gestures, and double meanings,” and, in addition, remind their flocks that reading heretical books was a sin punishable by papal excommunication.101 Books of heresy, quite so. Instead, the clergy were later invited to concentrate their efforts on other texts: those which, although long part of the heterodox mainstream, nevertheless came to be seen as formidable channels that could spread deism and atheism. It is true that the bishops of the peninsula did not all view things from the same standpoint during the time of jurisdictionalist reformism of the late eighteenth century.102 The Church was badly wounded internally by the Jansenist movement, and had to beware not only of the “masters of impiety,” but also of those who, while claiming to be Catholics, “attack the incontestable rights of the supreme hierarch . . . and spread an ungodly uncertainty among the people, which leads to irreligion.”103 And yet, despite the tensions between pro-papists and Jansenists, and despite the reformist petitions of enlightened sectors of the clergy, on the whole the episcopacy appeared united in nurturing among the faithful a traditional mistrust of books and reading. Not a few bishops followed the path delineated by the Roman centre and were active members of the peninsula-wide campaign against the written word from the 1760s onwards. If we analyse the pastoral ministry of the ecclesiastics belonging to the two camps by focusing on their approach to books and reading, we find that the differences between them were small ones. The common intentions of encyclicals and inquisitorial rules on the one hand, and pastoral instructions on the other, point to a certain similarity of purpose, which contemporaries did not fail to notice.104 At stake was not the question of greater or lesser toleration of the freedom of reading, but instead that of which authority had the power to issue prohibitions and which groups those bans applied to. On such matters, the two currents of Catholicism expressed themselves in different ways, defending either the priority of Church law or the prevalence of natural law. From 1762 to 1775, de’ Liguori, Bishop of Sant’Agata dei Goti in Campania, was in the vanguard of the Holy See’s campaign, giving precise

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instructions to the clergy of his diocese and, more directly, to the faithful, in particular family heads. In 1767, he advised parents to “eradicate from your houses . . . books, which speak of obscene matters, or of profane love, like novels, Ariosto, Il pastor fido, and such like: these books are the ruination of our unfortunate youth.” His insistence seems particularly significant given the repeated call to prevent their children from reading novels, which could instil “in the poor young certain malign affections, which slacken their devotion and cause them to yield to sin.”105 Thus, offering his pastors ideas for their preaching, in 1774, he indirectly exhorted “the heads of family to remove bad books from their homes, especially novels,” which corrupted young minds. They should aim at teaching through repetition “because the wooden minds of these uncouth people easily forget things they have heard preached.”106 Confession played a crucial role in the crusade, in that it was an occasion that allowed the priest to work on individual penitents, inducing them to denounce others and themselves.107 Confessors were offered detailed instructions, which made plain, for example, that manuscripts were to be regarded as real books “since they were already called books before the invention of the printing press.”108 As for the right of prohibition, de’ Liguori had no doubt that this was the prerogative of the pontiff. Ecclesiastical law was also fundamental, because—the future saint said, quoting Cardinal Sforza Pallavicino—“innumerable people who obey and keep away from these books remain free from the harm that they could unexpectedly cause them.” It was not enough to “leave this to the conscience of each person.” The danger might be recognised “later, when guilt was proved.” And apart from that the prohibition of evil books brings two other salutary and considerable effects: one is that the fear of this authentic note keeps many from writing or distributing them; the other is that the difficulty of selling them stops printers from printing them, and booksellers from buying them; so for the lack of farmers the unhealthy crop gradually thins and dies; and the pens, presses and workshops are impelled by the lure of advantage to work only on profitable works.109 We now move to Sicily to examine a pastoral activity marked by Jansenist rigour: that of the Archbishop of Palermo, Serafino Filangieri. On 23 October 1770, he issued a special Istruzione pastorale intorno alla lettura de’ libri pericolosi, in which he wrote that an “absolutely deplorable age” was under way because “a torrent of pernicious books from ultramontane regions has come to engulf us.” They were the optimum vehicles for a “general conspiracy against the entire system of religion.” Many writers “deceive the hearts of our simple brothers”: From one day to the next in this city of ours, and in the rest of the diocese, we see the appearance, sale and purchase of wicked and scandalous

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Reading books, selling them, or helping in some part to spread them was without doubt a mortal sin and the guilty at the point of death would find themselves “cursing the books that they enjoyed in life.” They had to be absolutely convinced “that it was the church which had the innate power to inhibit the reading of dangerous books”: this was not at all “a usurpation that tyrannised consciences,” but rather “a wise measure” that prevented the disruption of social harmony. Nonetheless, in order to show that the Church was one thing, and the pope another, Filangieri called the latter the “moderator of the Church” and counted on “the vigilant eye of the pastors” to control the reading of their flocks.111 In the main, appealing to the law of nature, the Jansenists, casting a critical eye on reading licences, were severer in underlining that the ban had to apply to everyone, since natural and divine law—as some contemporaries pointed out—“is not subject to indulgences, nor exceptions.”112 However, in those years, the battle against forbidden readings involved many bishops both inside and outside the ecclesiastical state. In the Papal State, as has been said, they answered as one the call to arms. In accordance with the edict of 1773, the Archbishop of Fermo, Urbano Paracciani, who for some years had limited the number of reading licences granted in his parish,113 immediately wrote a Lettera circolare alli vicari foranei, e curati della città, e diocesi di Fermo su l’abbuso del leggere, stampare, vendere, e ritenere libri proibiti, in which he enjoined the recipients to raise “their voice from the pulpits and the altars against this pestiferous abuse.” It was clear to him that books were the absolute danger of the day: But how many evils can a book more easily be responsible for than a discussion? If a single word, which vanishes and dies as soon as it is uttered, can still mortally wound the ear of the incautious listener, how much damage can an impious and perverse book that is preserved as a perpetual source of malignity do? And if Saint Basilio, with a beautiful metaphor, called the holy books food of the soul equal to the divine word, because from them the soul derives sweetness and robust nourishment,

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then it was equally possible to call perverse books poisonous, since the more a man is inclined to vice than virtue, the more easily he welcomes death sweetly. The outcome was without doubt the spiritual debilitation of the soul, and therefore reading dangerous books should not be considered a minor lapse: “We believe the opposite, and we believe it to the core, that reading or keeping prohibited goods is always a mortal sin, at least when the subject matter is not insignificant.” The parish priests were then informed of the various penalties, starting with papal excommunication for readers, owners and vendors of heretical books. They were also given clarification regarding the oral use of prohibited books: the penalties that applied to readers applied equally to anyone who “does not read with his own eyes, but with his ears listens to another person who, with the due licence, reads any such book.” Furthermore, a similar fate awaited those who, despite holding a reading licence, by reading “knows that he is exposing himself to a real danger of spiritual ruin.” In this case, the reader “will be immune from condemnation, but not from sin.” As had been established, the owners of prohibited books had to give them over to the archbishop or the inquisitor (the order to denounce disobedient readers was also emphatic) within two months.114 When the deadline had passed, sequestrations would be initiated, proceeding then to whatever “pecuniary and afflictive punishments are deemed necessary.”115 But the crusade against prohibited readings also had to do with the spaces in which relations between church and state had been resolved in a jurisdictionalist perspective and where, moreover, papal encyclicals were regularly printed. The Kingdom of Savoy was a case in point. At Mondovì the pro-Jansenist bishop, Michele Casati, from the 1770s turned his attention to the circulation of books.116 In his pastoral letter of 4 March 1776, he published in detail the Inscrutable divinae sapientiae (1775) of Pius VI, underscoring the need to monitor the readings of the faithful, given that faith and revelation were under attack, and to not absolve disobedient parishioners too readily.117 And in his pastoral letter of 1777, the bishop of Saluzzo, Giuseppe Filippo Porporato, noted that “so many books and many impious and sacrilegious notions are spread around the Christian world” and, about the same time, in his circular letters to the vicars forane he often suggested that they should check whether these “unworthy books” were in circulation.118 In short, it appears that many bishops in the peninsula were fully convinced that religion was threatened by prohibited works capable of broadcasting harmful seeds. The examples are in fact innumerable and reach well beyond the 1760s.119 However, writing along the same lines on common issues was made easier by the fact that the pastoral instructions could serve a model of reference beyond the bounds of individual dioceses.120 In addition to the faithful— and we must pay heed to this—the bishops were also concerned about the

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clergy. For they had to remind the confessors that they, too, must uncompromisingly obey the rules concerning books on the Index and be satisfied with reading only spiritual works.121 While the pastoral letters rallied the priests, confessors and preachers of individual dioceses, the plan to discipline reading made use of instructions provided by catechisms. This was literary warfare—books against books— and the fact that the genre of catechisms had acquired new vitality during the eighteenth century was noticed by contemporaries: catechisms grew in number whenever there was something to combat, and during the century—as the former Jesuit Francisco Gustá noted in his essay Sui catechismi moderni (1788)—they had multiplied to the point that they could fill an entire library. On the other hand, it was clear that the catechism per se could be, and historically had been, an ambiguous tool used by the orthodox and the novatori alike as a “military stratagem” to “make idiots and the unwary stumble into the nets of perverse doctrines.”122 It was not by chance, then, that in his encyclical of 7 February 1742 Benedict XIV had summoned the bishops to oppose their proliferation. Pro-Jansenist catechisms had been the subject of severe measures, such as the brief that Clement XIII had issued against the work of François-Philippe Mésenguy. And in the encyclical sent out on the same day (14 June 1761), the pope, after ordering the reprinting of the Roman catechism, had pressed for its use in order to impose the uniformity of Tridentine orthodoxy.123 Even so, the catechism was adapted to the challenges of the time. While the orthodox Catholic doctrine was to remain the same from a theological point of view, the exigencies of the present were changing: it was right, therefore, to give prominence and attention to some issues more than others. As an effective means of orienting the work of parish priests and simultaneously the thinking of the faithful, the catechism was an exceptional instrument. On the one hand, it taught theological principles and moral standards, while on the other, it was far-reaching, in both its written and oral forms. “The daily bread of the people” reached everyone in the city and the countryside, including illiterates.124 The fact that the rules about reading prescribed by the Roman ecclesiastical hierarchy were passed down through the catechisms illustrates well how the clergy’s fears influenced their perception of the lower classes. Let us pause to consider, for example, Ildefonso da Bressanvido’s Istruzioni morali sopra la dottrina cristiana, published in 1771 and reprinted many times during the century: these instructions were “extended,” not “scarce and brief,” in order to meet the needs of “all states of people.”125 It is impossible not to detect the extraordinary importance given to the problem of the circulation of books in this text, which was produced, as the author put it, “at the urging of my generals superior.”126 Through an analysis of the commandments, the author thundered against “foul and obscene speech,” and against parties, dances, music and the theatre.127 But he placed exceptionally great emphasis on reading bans. In his reflections on the fourth

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commandment, he pointed out how a poor education had a detrimental effect on faith and morality, adding: “But one can never find the words to explain properly the very serious damage and ruin that the Christians themselves bring about by reading obscene, impious and wicked books,” from which there was a risk of assimilating “malice, libertinage and even heresy and atheism.” Bressanvido also used new metaphors that reflected the reversal of priorities between orality and writing: “The mouth, language and lips of parents are like many books that the young study and learn from.”128 When considering the sixth commandment, he made the usual association between reading and “unrestraint,” and he also gave specific instructions about “obscene books and dishonest paintings.” And “obscene” books—Ildefonso da Bressanvido added—were not only those that were openly licentious, but also “novels, in which strange happenings and fabulous adventures are recounted,” these being nothing more than a clever “ploy” used by the devil to seduce “certain well-mannered young men, and certain honest young women.”129 The author did not deny that, as was sometimes claimed, certain books could be read “for the probity of speech,” but this could only be done by “professors and teachers, who for their age and wisdom wellgrounded in piety and virtue, can find gold in the dross, and flowers among the thorns.”130 To make an in-depth analysis of the methods with which catechetical instructions were imparted, it is worth re-examining the abbot Campastri’s Il buon pastore (1778). In writing that work, the author demonstrated complete awareness of this process, claiming that “the Christian doctrine [was] unchangeable, although expressible in various ways,”131 and he presented his text as a theological and also moral work composed for the “particular needs of our times.” Campastri attacked what he held to be present-day vices, including the excesses of female hairstyles and of conversation. He had, however, clearly grasped the essence of the century: when discussing—not at random—the first commandment, he recalled that “future ages will look on our century with pity, comparing it with past ones, for having been ruined and murdered by scandalous books” capable of “discrediting the old religious practices of Christianity.” Among the works that should absolutely not be read were Beccaria’s Dei delitti e delle pene and Pilati’s Di una riforma d’Italia, whose author was called the “Italian monkey.”132 The “fatal danger” had to be remedied by the clergy, “particularly in catechisms, where the persuasive simplicity of sweet speech . . . opens the way to rebutting the irreligious maxims that today are in fashion, and dishonour Italy.”133 Campastri also devoted a part of his instructions to the question “of foreign books with false data,” in which he not only reproduced the content of Clement XIII’s encyclical Christianae reipublicae, but also spoke directly to the faithful, railing against the “unrestrained license to hawk books without the due approvals . . . and without the proper names of the author or publisher.”134

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If the catechism genre was deemed to be the ideal instrument for reaching, directly or indirectly, “idiotic” and “simple” people,135 then the extent to which the clergy feared the spread of dangerous texts among all classes of the peninsula’s inhabitants is most clearly shown by the history of preaching.

5.

Sermons to Believers

The paths from the Roman centre in fact snaked along streets populated by preachers and through piazzas and churches of the peninsula where the voices of parish priests rang out in condemnation of the most common vices. Such men toiled with great fervour throughout the century that has rightly been called “the century of popular preaching”136 and which was, moreover, distinguished by a close relationship between ordinary diocesans and famous preachers.137 What is more, many people sensed that they were living in a period that had special need to hear the word of God, because, leaving aside the rhetoric of the good old days, it seemed to be one in which people sinned more than in times past: “Since the number of enemies of religion and good morals is multiplying,” a contemporary reflected, “we must multiply the spiritual weapons we use to fire at them and to turn them back, if possible, to the right way.”138 There were many sermons, therefore, but it is instructive to note how from the 1760s onwards, the dangers of reading became a key sermon topic during the period of Lent and mortification. But considering the suggestions that came from Rome, this is not really surprising.139 The sermon, in fact, is a literary genre that contains few traces of authorship, and should be understood as a product of guided reflection: “collective, and little open to individual inspiration.”140 Even in the eighteenth century, many of the printed collections of sermons did not result from the initiative of individual authors, and, unsurprisingly, they were often published posthumously. According to their prefaces, many had been requested by either leaders of the various orders or by bishops and popes, to whom the texts were often dedicated.141 Presenting one’s work as a product of pressure by friends or superiors became a way of obviating possible criticism.142 Nevertheless, as we will see later, we should not disregard or underrate the effect of prompting from above. The aim of such works was, after all, to provide concrete examples that met the educational needs of the clergy,143 and the extent to which they proved useful to parish priests and preachers as a whole is demonstrated by their use over the years. As said, sermons show few signs of originality. Oral preaching, delivered with the help of an outline or from memory of a written script, was in fact rigidly structured into parts (an exordium, exposition, confirmation or illustration, final appeal or epilogue) and composed around a theme, namely a biblical verse. It was also conditioned by the written rules of the genre, which dealt with topics and methods, language and style, as

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well as the preacher’s gestures. Having said that, uniformity of preaching in this era145 was really more ostensible than real. And an attempt to identify the differences in the topoi reveals useful clues that indicate the direction taken in the governing of souls. Of prime importance in this regard were the titles of sermons published in the eighteenth century, since these referred directly to the problem of the circulation of books. But also significant was the emphasis placed on the dangers of reading in many themes and commandments, and in quotations and new interpretations of passages from the Holy Scripture and the Church fathers. There was also a great deal of advice given to parents about controlling the books recommended to their children by their tutors, cultural mediators par excellence: such people could “sow seeds of atheism or pass on ultramontane books.”146 But the most striking topos of all was the general distrust of the written word, expressed by preachers in the strongest of terms in order to intimidate the faithful. The sermon delivered in the late 1760s by Ermenegildo Meazza “on the reading of the books of the unbelievers” is a representative case. With reference to Clement XIII’s encyclical, the Dominican declared that this was a time when “men corrupted by fables and intolerant of holy doctrine, invade the fortress of Zion from all parts.” Therefore, to save the Christian republic, it was vital to combat “the shameful and brazen licence of immoral books,” which were “proliferating day by day.” Of the many facets of this production, Meazza called attention to the slick marketing that enticed the unwary to imbibe poison “from a golden cup”: hence “the paper of the book is white and crisp, the words are printed with great care, the margins are wide . . . in short it all has an air of a literary amiability.” But these were “daggers” that the Church had to “tear” from the hands of its young people. And the punishment awaiting disobedient readers was terrible: “either you burn these books in the fire, or you yourselves will burn in it for all time, having damned yourself for them.”147 It was common knowledge that preachers had, in effect, been given a new mandate: “Those of old had only to convert sinners, ours today have to fight unbelievers; and, since . . . a multitude of ungodly books enables impiety to snake in from every side,” the word from the pulpits had to “prove with solid arguments how wicked and dangerous the reading of such perfidious books is, mixing satirical portraits of some head of modern philosophy, and persuading the audience to unite against the pitfalls and follies of it all.”148 The assumed deterioration of social morality, underscored by the preachers of the period, appeared to have a precise origin, pinpointed long before 1789, when men like the Discalced Carmelite Pier Luigi Grossi had spelt it out in their sermons: the “deadly mainspring” of moral corruption was “the persistent reading of certain frivolous and indecent books” and the “torrent . . . overflowing with novels infected by every type of foreign ungodliness” that had swept over the Alps to “flood the moral and cultured

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lands of Italy.” And still the only way to defend oneself was to cast “into the fire the domestic libraries of ultramontane impiety”: Make it your concern, listeners . . . to throw them all in a bundle, as they come into your hands, into this fire to reduce to ashes these execrable productions, as this will save you from the eternal flames, which are awaiting not only those who write, but indeed also those who read the perverse doctrines of free thinkers.149 Dangerous reading was, in short, destined to overthrow “the court of conscience,” as the Capuchin Turchi, Bishop of Parma, noted for his struggle against the century of the Enlightenment, stated on a sermon.150 His 1791 homily, Sopra la lettura dei libri, however, appears not to show that the French Revolution had given rise to unprecedented concern about the written word, but rather it confirmed what had long been feared. The aftermath of the Revolution exhibited more clearly the now irreversible mistakes of the political powers: by granting the book trade greater freedom, they had assisted the destruction of the Church’s “higher” authority over reading, ensuring the circulation of infamous books hostile to the Church, and to the state, and thus had brought about the spiritual ruin of the peninsula.151 The lengthy and determined discussion about books and reading in a genre like the sermon, which straddled the border between orality and writing and which addressed a large audience of listeners—and not, therefore, only the readers of conduct manuals initially intended for the scions of the aristocracy—was in itself a significant change associated with, or arising from, the feared expansion of the reading public.152 It should, however, be stressed that the crusade against prohibited readings conducted through popular texts (sermons and, as already seen, catechetical instruction) was initially aimed at the urban lower classes, in particular domestic employees resident in the houses of their elite employers.153 In the rural world, for a long time much was said in both sermons and catechetical instruction about the pitfalls of an oral transmission of prohibited content.154 Returning once more to Campastri, it was he who, in 1778, when addressing domestics of the countryside, suggested they should “close their ears” to the contents of books read by the householders: You yourselves, the part least attached to this poison, recognise the great evils that are read in books of this type, yet which you listen to when your masters bring them from the city, where they are spread by idleness and fashion and the taste of the century gives them credit; as I said, you recognise a certain coolness towards matters of pity . . . some nausea when hearing doctrines and sermons, and certain frequent doubts around matters previously deemed certain. This languor is not yet mortal, but will lead you to that extreme if you do not see the danger.155

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The fears about the channels of orality, referring to the circular process of the relationship between the written and the oral, thus allow us to understand why the opinions of the preachers, with their contention that the reading public was growing at an alarming rate, seem to conflict with the findings of the history of literacy, which is that the people who the clergy believed to be emerging readers were in fact barely literate.156 The clergy’s shift of attention, with regard to reading, away from the city to the countryside—a notable feature of the history of preaching in the eighteenth century157— seems to have accelerated after 1789. It is possible that echoes of the peasant revolts during the French Revolution had refocused their fears in that direction.158 In consequence, then, the training of rural parish priests also changed. While early in the century they were not required to be particularly erudite,159 now, in the mid-1790s, a “mediocre” education was no longer considered sufficient.160 While the words of the bishops, parish priests and preachers, do not denote an upward spike of the literacy curve, but instead reflect their dread of such a happening, it is nonetheless clear that those concerns were not without consequence. Their sermons, in fact, are not merely documents useful to a history of mentality able to bear historical witness to widespread fears among the clergy in the century of the Enlightenment. Thanks to their persuasiveness, expressed in direct exhortation and the like, the preachers showed the faithful the safest path to follow, one which would not lead them astray from the Catholic flock. And thus, they bring back to light the great effort undertaken by the eighteenth-century Catholic Church to regulate reading and, hence, also to safeguard consciences and conduct. It is obvious that listening to sermons was not in itself a definite sign of submission to ecclesiastical authority, since it was at the same time a religious-worldly ritual.161 Nevertheless, the value of preaching as a means of education and control of public opinion in the late stages of the early modern era should not be underestimated.162 On the contrary, it is worth remembering that there is no lack of evidence of huge congregations throughout the various Italian states.163 And the emotional participation of the congregation members, who sometimes interrupted the sermons with cheers and clapping164 and were at times even moved to tears,165 was clearly strong. In Naples, after the death of the Dominican Gregorio Rocco in 1782, the faithful tore his burial cloths to shreds to secure themselves a relic.166 Finally, it should be noted that homilies were also circulated through the periodicals of the time, provoking debates and even lively arguments.167 Moreover, the publishing success of these collections of sermons should not be overlooked: suffice it to think that while a novel as successful as Pietro Chiari’s La filosofessa italiana (1753) was published in twelve editions and reprints during the eighteenth century,168 Paolo Segneri’s Quaresimale reached at least twenty. Much of this success was long term: many collections published in the eighteenth centuries were reprinted and re-edited, with additions and amendments, over the decades and beyond.169

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The history of the reception of the sermon clearly shows that we ought not to overlook the ambiguous use made of the genre. The preachers sought to oppose the evils of their time by making explicit rebuttals of principles held to be unwholesome, but, by doing so, they risked turning the sermon into a tool for the dissemination of new ideologies. During the eighteenth century, some men of the clergy were aware of this, and in fact instigated a debate on the problem.170 Nevertheless, it is clear that preaching was not aimed at raising the cultural level of the faithful. Rather, it was an attempt to maintain control of reading which involved both clergy and laity, and which, in intention at least, would reach indirectly also the ears of absentees.171 The history of preaching reveals that in the late part of the early modern age, the methods used by the Church in order to maintain authoritative influence over the consciences of the faithful shifted steadily more from the sphere of orality to that of the written word. Indeed, the eighteenth century was not only the century of oral preaching, but also that of written—and published—sermons.172 This phenomenon fuelled the production of devotional literature, whose abundance was proportionally linked to the success of secular publishing. And so we must now turn our attention to this extraordinary story of how the press was used to win the hearts and minds of the faithful.

Notes 1. Copy of the letter sent to the assessor of the Holy Office [Benedetto Veterani] by Cardinal Perelli (Rome, 18 June 1765), ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1766, fasc. 1. References here included the Dictionnaire philosophique by Voltaire and the Lettres de la montaigne by Rousseau, described as “horrid.” 2. On the closure of Inquisition courts in the Italian states (in Parma in 1765– 1768, in Tuscany in 1781–1782, in Milan in 1782 and in Modena in 1784, for example), see Romeo, L’Inquisizione, 95–119, accompanied by Brambilla, “I poteri giudiziari,” who underlines that a general abolition can be dated back only to the triennio repubblicano. On inquisitorial activity during the eighteenth century, see Brambilla, La giustizia, 219 et seq. and Del Col, L’Inquisizione, 699 et seq. 3. In the Kingdom of Naples, for instance, both the anti-jurisdictionalist work by Giovanni Antonio Bianchi, Della potestà e della politia della Chiesa written against Giannone (see Ricuperati, “Bianchi, Giovanni Antonio,” 117) and Parere, 1752, by Innocenzo Molinari against the Prince of Sansevero’s Lettera apologetica, 1750 (see inf., 165) were censored. 4. Letter by de’ Liguori to Giambattista Remondini, sant’Agata de’ Goti, 15 March 1765, BABG, Epistolario Remondini, no. 3451. See also the letters of 15 April 1765, ibid., no. 3452; of 19 March 1766, ivi, no. 3464; of 11 April 1768, ibid., no. 3471. 5. Letter by de’ Liguori to Remondini, Arienzo, 17 April 1768, ibid., no. 3472. 6. Pro memoria del Maestro del Sagro Palazzo [Ricchini] sopra l’introduzione, spaccio, ed estrazione de libri proibiti, ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1766, fasc. 1 (from now on Ricchini, Pro memoria). 7. Among the edicts preserved in the ASR, Bandi, vol. 318, six date back to the seventeenth century, and twenty-two to the eighteenth century, mainly to the last

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8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13. 14. 15.

16.

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forty years. To reconstruct the cultural climate of that period, see also Tarzia, Libri e rivoluzioni, 38–51. Editto del Maestro del Sacro Palazzo Ricchini, 7 February 1761 (ASR, Bandi, vol. 318). On the edicts and requisitions of that period, see Ricchini, Pro memoria. Every bookseller was ordered to present a note of all available books, and “the forbidden ones were withdrawn by the Master of the Sacred Palace, who did not allow them to be sold except by people who showed appropriate licences.” The penalties were seizure of volumes, a fine of three hundred scudi “and other arbitrary corporal punishments.” A similar example is the edict issued by Tommaso Schiara on 1 August 1779, published in Palazzolo, Editoria, Appendice, no. 6. For example, through the mediation of the archbishop of Milan, it was agreed that Rerum italicarum scriptores by Muratori (published in Milan starting from 1723) could be printed with the required ecclesiastical licence. See the statement by the then Archbishop Benedetto Erba Odescalchi (Milan, 15 September 1723). ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—e, fasc. 2, f. 49. The measure was issued in Florence on 28 March 1743. The inquisitorial edict, dating back to April of the same year, emphasised that the measure was a “serious prejudice” to the Holy Office authority and jurisdiction. Any “book, writings or paper that will be printed or reprinted in that city and its state without approbation and licence of the archbishop, bishop and of the Holy Office will be prohibited.” Any volume introduced in the ecclesiastical state without the inquisitors’ extrahatur had to be seized. Transgressors were punished with excommunication, confiscation of books and “other pecuniary and corporal punishments” (Diario ordinario, no. 4017, 17 April 1743, 10–11). On this decree, see Canosa, “L’Inquisizione a Firenze,” 186. On the Tuscan law, see Landi, Il governo, 75 et seq. From the Inquisition in Bologna, answering the edict against the Tuscan measure, it was communicated that controls at the customs were regular, but books entered through other ways, and that at the gates of the city, the “abuse of letting all the people pass without examining their luggage” had become common. Risposta alla nova premura della sacra Congregazione sopra la introduzione delle stampe e libri dalla Toscana, 6 July 1743, in BCAB, MSS. B 1876, Registro delle lettere alla sacra Congregazione [del Sant’Ufficio] dall’anno 1734, lì 16 gennaio al 13 dicembre 1776, n.p. (from now on Registro delle lettere alla sacra Congregazione). The circular letter was sent to many Italian cities (Ferrara, Bologna, Faenza, Rimini, Ancona, Fermo, Spoleto, Perugia, Gubbio and Civitavecchia, then Milan, Como, Cremona, Mantua, Modena, Novara, Parma, Piacenza, Pavia, Reggio, Tortona, Florence, Pisa, Siena and Genoa) and to the vicariates of Turin, Casale, Alessandria, Saluzzo, Mondovì, Asti and Vercelli, in the Savoyard State (Acta pro impedienda introductione librorum noxiorum impressorum Venetiis in Statu ecclesiastico, et in aliis dominiis, in quibus viget Sanctum Ufficium, ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—i, ff. 10r–12v). Ibid., f. 11v. The inquisitor of Gubbio, Pier Antonio Bossio, was particularly zealous on that occasion (ibid., f. 20r: see his letter of 15 January 1762). Many seizures are testified at the Inquisition of Bologna: anti-Jesuit works and catechisms addressed to the printer Lelio dalla Volpe were intercepted in February 1762. Notizia alla suprema sacra Congregazione d’una balla di stampe, fermata in questo Sant’Ufficio, perché il contenuto non corrispondente all’extrahatur del Sant’Ufficio di Reggio, 20 February 1762, BCAB, MSS. B 1876 Registro delle lettere alla sacra Congregazione. ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—i, ff. 17r e 26r/v (letters of 26 and 27 January 1762). The inquisitor of Modena was Filippo Boccadora and that of Bologna Tommaso Maria Angelis.

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17. The inquisitor of Pisa, Salvatore Dini, had in any case ordered his vicar in Livorno to fight the dangerous trade in books. Ibid, ff. 16r/v (letter of 15 February 1762). 18. Ibid., f. 23 (letter of 24 January 1762). The vice inquisitor was then Giuseppe Enrico Cordero. 19. Ibid., f. 30 (letter of 20 [April?] 1762). Also, the vicar of Alessandria, Giovanni Antonio Buisson, warned that he was not able to clash with “secular authority, which does not fail to watch over books introduced in these states” (ibid., f. 28, letter of 4 February 1762). On the characteristics of the Inquisition in the Savoyard monarchy (it was gradually submitted to state control), see Canosa, “Torino,” 11–128; 73–128 and, on the eighteenth century, Silvestrini, La politica. 20. See the copies of the circular letters written in those years in ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2i, ff. 191–195 (see in particular the letter of 31 August 1765, ff. 192r–193r). On the rules introduced in Venice in 1765 for the revision of books, see Infelise, L’editoria, 99–122. For religious matters, the rule stated that the inquisitor was to be supported by a reviser appointed by the state. 21. So did the inquisitor of Bologna in 1766 after a seizure of a box of books sent to Germano Azzoguidi, Si spedisce il catalogo de’ libri arrestati in Bologna provenienti da Londra, 26 April 1766, BCAB, MSS. B 1876, Registro delle lettere alla sacra Congregazione. Azzoguidi is to be identified with the physician and man of letters mentioned in Guerci, La discussione, 139–140. 22. On the documents referring to 1755–1772, see Acta Mediolani in controversiis pro impressione librorum ab anno 1620 ad 1763, pars prima, in ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—e, ff. 76–90 and ibid., St. St. O 2—f. The episode involved the minister Karl von Firmian, the archbishop of Milan (Pozzobonelli), the inquisitor of Milan (Gianfranco Cremona), the bishop of Pavia (Carlo Francesco Durini), the nuncio of Vienna and the secretary of state (Luigi Maria Torrigiani). The changes towards a jurisdictionalist direction in Milan in the 1760s—from the creation of the Deputazione per gli studi (24 November 1765), to which censorship was assigned, and until the regulation of 20 December 1768—are analysed by Tarchetti, “Censura e censori.” 23. ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—i, f. 64 (letter by the inquisitor of Fermo, Carlo Giacinto Angeli, 14 August 1767); ff. 66–67 (list of books seized to the two booksellers); f. 70 (letter by Angeli, 17 August 1767). The books mentioned were seized from Garbo. The following works, among others, were confiscated from Zatta, De statu Ecclesiae by Febronius, “Lucretius”; L’esprit des lois; Ricciardetto; Dei delitti e delle pene; Satire by Ariosto; Elementa iuris naturae by Heinecke, De iure belli ac pacis by Grotius and L’esistenza della legge naturale by Pilati. After the initial severity (ibid., f. 77v) following the protests by booksellers who declared that they had obtained permission from the inquisitor of Fermo, the Holy Office decided to return the works (ibid., ff. 90–103). However, it ordered the booksellers not to introduce them in the ecclesiastical state (ibid, ff. 128r–129r). 24. Ibid., ff. 78–79. 25. Ibid., ff. 86–87. In this case the works, including several anti-Jesuit texts, were not returned (ivi, f. 128). 26. Ibid., f. 111. 27. Ibid., ff. 191–195 (the 10 October 1767 missive is ibid., ff. 193r–195r). 28. See the congregation report of 9 December 1767 (ibid., ff. 185r–189v). There were several doubts regarding the treatment to be reserved to people who had licences to read prohibited books and regarding the fate of books. 29. Among the works were Vita del padre Paolo [Sarpi] by Fulgenzio Micanzio and Zingana by Pietro Chiari, a text which was not on the Index (ibid., ff. 138–139). The inquisitor at that time was Domenico Lorenzo Bottino.

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30. The vicar Tommaso Gagliardi seized, among others, many anti-Jesuit works, La rete di Vulcano by Ferrante Pallavicino, and Dizionario dell’eresie by Pluquet (ibid., ff. 147r–148v), which was certainly not dangerous. 31. Ibid., f. 149 (letter of 15 November 1767). Among others, the inquisitor Tommaso Matteucci seized works by Isaac Berruyer. It can be assumed that these included the Histoire du peuple, published starting from 1728 and listed on the Index on 27 May 1732 and censored in Italian translation (Venice: Remondini, 1756). 32. Ibid., f. 156v. 33. Ibid., ff. 160–162. 34. This was the case, for instance, of the noble Giacomo Filippucci from Macerata, prior of the Order of Saints Maurice and Lazarus, who protested in vain against the measure of the inquisitor of Ancona (ibid., f. 164). A similar complaint was presented against the same inquisitor by the bookseller Antonio Cortesi in Volterra (ibid., f. 170). And the same inquisitor of Ancona on 3 June 1768 announced the seizure of books from bookseller Luigi Pavini in Venice and addressed to Michelangelo Santuzzi in Macerata: among these, De statu Ecclesiae by Febronius, La dottrina della Chiesa gallicana by Cesar Chesneau Du Marsais and many anti-Jesuit works (ibid., ff. 250–251). 35. On the simultaneous “proceso a la prensa” pursued by the Spanish Inquisition and intended to persecute publishers rather than authors, see Marquez, Literatura, 59–75; 60. See also Torres Aguilar, “Control ideológico,” 301–307. 36. The petition was addressed to the Inquisition on 17 July 1770 and was signed by many booksellers from Macerata, Foligno, Camerino, Jesi, Ascoli, Fermo, Loreto and Osimo (ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—i, ff. 303–304). 37. The request was rejected by the inquisitor of Ancona and soon afterwards by the Roman Holy Office in the meeting of 25 July 1770 (ibid., ff. 305–308v). 38. The text is in the report by Antonelli, assessor of the Inquisition (25 June 1772), in Bologna e Ravenna. Provvedimenti presi per impedire l’introduzione de libri proibiti nelle legazioni di Bologna e Romagna, ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—l, ff. 1–13v; f. 6 (from now on Antonelli, Relazione). See also the similar reflection by the bishop of Faenza, Vitale Giuseppe de’ Buoi (ibid., f. 55, letter of 24 April 1772). 39. Tarzia, Libri e rivoluzioni, 44–45: in five years, starting in 1767, Alessandro Verri received about eighty-two books, many of which were prohibited. 40. The trial of Pinzi is referred in ibid., 19 and in Montanari, La Libreria di Classe, 129–131. Both Pinzi and Valzania were connected to the ecclesiastical world. 41. The reconstruction of Pinzi’s episode is based on Antonelli, Relazione, ff. 1–2v. 42. ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—l, f. 43r (the missive dating April 1772 and addressed to the inquisitor of Faenza is ibid., ff. 42–44v). 43. Valzania had been compelled to abjure in the convent of Saint Domenico in Ravenna, where Dominicans managed the inquisitorial court, which was subject to the one in Faenza (Montanari, La Libreria di Classe, 131). 44. Letter by Valzania to Isidoro Bianchi, Florence, 14 August 1779, preserved at the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, quoted in Variara, “Felicità pubblica,” 170. The case of Pablo de Olavide, politician, lawyer and writer, dating back to 1770s, should also be recalled. He was charged by the Spanish Inquisition for reading prohibited books and expressing a dislike of religious ceremonies. His inquisitorial trial ended with an auto-da-fé. See, among others, Rawlings, The Spanish Inquisition, 137. 45. Among the trials, held in 1775 in various inquisitorial courts, both ongoing or concluded, those relating to possession or reading prohibited books were not many. See Carta delle cause spedite, e pendenti dell’Inquisizione di fuori 1776, ACDF, S.O., St. St. II 2—b, fasc. 5–119. For instance, at the Genoa Inquisition, out of forty-five trials, only one dealt with reading prohibited works, in

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46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54. 55. 56.

57. 58.

59. 60.

61. 62. 63. 64. 65.

Hunting for Books particular heretical books; the trial was concluded with a formal abjuration before the court (fasc. 9). See also data on trials concerning prohibited books in the peripheral inquisitorial courts in Monter and Tedeschi, “Towards a Statistical Profile.” On the false spontaneity of self-denunciations, see Brambilla, La giustizia, 76, who underlines how spiritual and legal threats by confessors pushed the faithful to appear in court. Infelise, “La censure dans les pays méditerranéens.” See for example the case of the noble Fabrizio Fagnani of Rimini, who was absolved in 1719 (ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—m, ff. 8–10v). Del Col, “L’inventariazione,” 112–114. Other similar cases can be found in ASVe, Sant’Ufficio, Processi, Busta 149. On the reduction of inquisitorial activity in the Republic of Venice, however, see Peruzza, “L’Inquisizione.” ASMo, Tribunale dell’Inquisizione di Modena, Processi, b. 241, III, fasc. 43, 1778, Giuseppe Zuccardi (the young man had read works by Lucretius without licence). ASMo, Tribunale dell’Inquisizione di Modena, Processi, b. 236, I, fasc. 1, Modena, 1759, Carlo Franchini (a priest). It is worth recalling the case of the soldier Francesco Savani, who appeared spontaneously before the inquisitor of Modena in 1762, which ended with a private abjuration and the recommendation of some prayers. ASMo, Tribunale dell’Inquisizione di Modena, Processi, b. 235, V, fasc. 53, 1762, Francesco Savani. Ivi, Processi, b. 241, II, fasc. 22, 1777, Charles-René cav. De Risacourt. In any case, the invitation was to keep people who had been prosecuted under control. Biffi, Diario, 65–66 (28 September 1779). See the considerations by the Bologna inquisitor on the above-mentioned Germano Azzoguidi. BCAB, MSS. B 1876, Registro delle lettere alla sacra Congregazione, 4 August 1766. ASMo, Tribunale dell’Inquisizione di Modena, Processi, b. 241, II, fasc. 28, Modena, 1777, Giuseppe Malagoli. He confessed to have read the poem by Lucretius in the Italian language, as well as Adone, La pucelle d’Orléans, Ricciardetto and Il paradiso perduto. ASMo, Tribunale dell’Inquisizione di Modena, Processi, b. 241, I, fasc. 10, Modena, 1777, Lodovico Ronchivecchi (a fifty-five-year-old dragoon). The trial ended with a private abjuration for alleged heresy and with spiritual punishments. ASMo, Tribunale dell’Inquisizione di Modena, Processi, b. 240, IV, fasc. 47, 1775, Antonio Cavazzuti. Cavazutti, an officer of the court appeared voluntarily in 1775 as he had read some prohibited works without licence. Besides formal abjuration, he was required to recite some prayers. Piano per nuovo editto sull’introduzione de’ libri comandato nella feria del 25 giugno 1772, ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—l, ff. 31–33v; f. 31. Relazione degl’editti degl’inquisitori sulla materia de libri, e riflessi per formarne uno nuovo generale dell’assessore Antonelli, ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—l, ff. 91–100v, f. 99 v (from now on Relazione degl’editti degl’inquisitori sulla materia de libri). Antonelli, Relazione, ff. 3–13v. Ivi, f. 5r. Suggestions by the Italian inquisitors were summarised by Antonelli, Relazione, ff. 4 et seq. On the contents of the edict, see ibid., ff. 10–13v. Ibid., f. 13v. In some cases such edicts were not found, and it was discovered that they had never been published. See, for instance, the reflection by the vicar of Civitavecchia (ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—l, f. 64, letter of 20 July 1772). See also

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66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85.

86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92.

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Relazione degl’editti degl’inquisitori sulla materia de libri, where the differences are pointed out. These relate to expected punishments or rules concerning the release of licences to read prohibited books. The copy of the edict published in Faenza is in ACDF S.O., St. St. O 2—l, f. 202. For the other copies, published in the ecclesiastical state, see ibid., ff. 182–227, passim. For example, in the repression of vagrancy, that is in the part concerning “mountebanks, charlatans and other similar people.” The decree by Urban VIII, was published on 2 April 1631 and eliminated licences to read and to hold prohibited books, except the ones given through Apostolic letter. It can be found in Bullarum . . . editio, 217–218. ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—l, f. 108. Replies are ibid., ff. 115 et seq.; f. 117r/v (letter by the bishop dating 1 May 1773). Ibid., ff. 132r/v (letter dating 15 Mai 1773). The vicar was Giuseppe Paglierini. Ibid., ff. 158 r/v and 163 r/v. Ibid., f. 164 v (meeting of 13 July 1773). Ibid., f. 187 (the postmaster was Filippo Carpinelli). Letter by the abbot Lodovico Preti to Giuseppe Colpani, Rome, 25 July 1764, BABG, Epistolario Bartolomeo Gamba, no. 127. On this point, see Brambilla, La giustizia, 228 et seq. and Del Col, L’Inquisizione, 700 et seq. Death penalties were imposed at least until the 1720s. See Del Col and Milani, “Senza effusione di sangue.” ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—i, ff. 191–195; f. 191. Ibid., f. 211 (letter dating 21 January 178). The bishop was Umberto Luigi Radicati. Ibid., f. 229 (letter dating 9 March 1768). Ibid., f. 232 (letter dating 20 March 1768). A similar answer was that of the bishop of Imola, Giovanni Carlo Bandi (ibid., f. 238, letter dating 23 March 1768). Ibid., ff. 109r/v. ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—l, f. 6. Ibid., ff. 131r/v (letter dating 13 May 1773). ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—e, ff. 128r/v (letter by the pope dating 20 May 1766). On that occasion, the local inquisitors, for their part, had issued edicts intended to push readers, booksellers and printers to hand over suspect books to the Holy Office. So did, for instance, the inquisitor of Florence, Vincenzo Conti. Alimento, “I libri,” 165. On this synod, see Fiorani, Il concilio, 35–36. The only reference to reading is in the part concerning hermitages (ibid., 281). The point was specifically the ignorance of priests and the lack of morality in bishops and archbishops. See ibid., 56–57 and the anonymous note La riforma della prelatura romana, ibid., Appendice di documenti, ibid., 223–225; 223. On the synod and the contrasts concerning the publication of its acts, see De Maio, Società, 220. See also Fiorani, Il concilio, 161–162. On the significance of the encyclical, see Enchiridion; Presentazione, V–XIII; V–IX; Mangenot, Encycliques (on the role played by Benedict XIV see col 14). See also Levillain, Encyclical. Donati, “Vescovi e diocesi,” 373; Enchiridion; Presentazione, V–XIII; VI. On the revival of pastoral activity during the age of Benedict XIV, see Rosa, “Introduzione all’“‘Aufklärung’;” Donati, “Dalla ‘regolata devozione’;” Rosa, Settecento religioso. The encyclical, whose first draft was outlined by Michelangelo Giacomelli, is in Savio, Devozione, 45–56. Giacomelli had been one of the promoters of Giornale dei letterati in 1745. See Asor Rosa, “Giacomelli, Michelangelo.”

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93. The opinion by Passionei on the encyclical Quantopere Dominus Iesus is in Savio, Devozione, 56–58; 62–63, note 3. See also Rosa, “Encyclopédie,” 145, according to whom Passionei did not agree on the severe condemnation of freedom of thought implicit in the encyclical. 94. In domino agro. De fidelium instructione in catholica fide, 14 June 1761, in Enchiridion, 934–945; 937 and 939. 95. Christianae reipublicae. De novis noxiis libris, 25 November 1766, ibid., 946– 955; 947. 96. Ibid., 953. It is worth mentioning that at the beginning of the nineteenth century, Pius VII would recall this reflection in his encyclical. ‘Diu satis videmur’. Occasione data electionis suae, 15 May 1800, ibid., 1125–1143; 1137. See Cajani and Foa, “Clemente XIII.” On these encyclicals, see Donati, “Vescovi e diocesi,” 379 et seq. 97. Cum summis. De pontificatus initi ratione et de universali iubilaeo, 12 December 1769, in Enchiridion, 1048–1063; 1053. See Rosa, “Clemente XIV.” 98. Inscrutabile divinae sapientiae. In pontificatus assumptione, 25 December 1775, Enchiridion, 1072–1089. See Caffiero, “Pio VI.” 99. Campanelli, Centralismo, 29 and passim. 100. Saporiti, Istruzioni pastorali, see in particular chapter XII Dell’obbligo della denuncia in altri casi, e materie, 132–139; 134–139. 101. Saporiti, Raccolta di alcune notificazioni; see Notificazione XXIX Instruzione per i predicatori della Quaresima, vol. I, 268–305, in particular 276; 282–283 and 303. The Bishop Karl von Attems, head of the new diocese of Gorizia from 1750, invited parsons to control carefully the readings of their faithful in 1756. Kralj and Tavano, Atti delle visite, 497–499. On Attems (1711–1774) and on his opposition to the jurisdictionalist policy implemented by empress Maria Theresa of Austria, see ibid., Introduzione, XI–XXX; XVIII–XIX. 102. On the two approaches, the pro-papist and the pro-Jansenist, see Donati, “Vescovi e diocesi,” 382 et seq. 103. Turchi, “Lettera pastorale” (4 April 1789), 179. 104. Zaccaria, Storia, 193 highlighted the fact that Clement XIII, after publishing the encyclical in 1766, “had some consolation in finding that the bishops supported his concerns.” 105. De’ Liguori, Istruzione al popolo; Regolamento per un buon padre di famiglia, 128. 106. De’ Liguori, Sermoni compendiati; Avvertimenti necessari a premettersi, 4. 107. On the fundamental role of confession, see Prosperi, Tribunali; Rusconi, L’ordine; de Boer, The Conquest. The extraordinary abundance of handbooks for confessors in the early modern age is underlined in Turrini, La coscienza. 108. De’ Liguori, Istruzione e pratica, vol. II, chap. Delle scomuniche riservate al papa nella Bolla Coenae, 469–475; 472–473. This work was published initially with the title Istruzione, e pratica per un confessore, Naples: Alessio Pellecchia, 1757, and it has been republished many times through the centuries. 109. De’ Liguori, Dissertatio, 75. We find a similar position in Saporiti, Istruzioni pastorali, 138, according to whom prohibited books should not be burned “with private authority,” but handed to the local bishop or inquisitor. 110. Filangieri, Istruzione, 6–12. 111. Ibid., 6; 10, 12, 15–16 and 24. 112. As the Dominican Meazza wrote in the late 1760s in his “Predica sulla lettura”, 204–205, on which we will return. 113. See his statement dating back to 15 January 1768 (ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—i, ff. 208 and 217). See also the letter sent to the secretary of the Congregation of the Index Schiara by the bishop of Rimini, Francesco Castellini (ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1767–1770, fasc. 47).

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114. On the psychology of delation, see Di Simplicio, Peccato, 195–202 and Brambilla, La giustizia, passim. 115. On Lettera circolare alli vicari foranei, sent to Rome on 9 May 1773, see ACDF, S.O., St. St. O 2—l, ff. 167–174r. 116. See Casati, Raccolta. On Casati, bishop of Mondovì, Cuneo (Savoyard State), from 1753, see Stella, “Casati Michele”; Rosa, “L’Aufklärung cattolica,” 149–184; 157 et seq.; Rosa, “Tra cristianesimo e Lumi,” 185–223; 203 et seq.; Donati, “Vescovi e diocesi,” 379 et seq. In previous years, Casati had disseminated the encyclicals by Benedict XIV and Clement XIII (Casati, Raccolta, 25–39; 72–75). 117. Lettera XXXVII per la pubblicazione del giubileo universale dell’anno santo, 4 March 1776, ivi, 300–305; 302. See also Casati, II sinodale, 11 September 1777, ibid., 339–340). Further examples are provided by other bishops. See the pastoral letter by the bishop of Ivrea, Francesco Luserna-Rorengo di Rorà per grazia di Dio (3 March 1768) and by the bishop of Vercelli, Costa d’Arignano, Lettera pastorale (25 February 1776). 118. Porporato, Lettera pastorale diretta a tutto il clero (1777), 5–10. 119. See for example the discourse by Marco Aurelio Balbis Bertone, bishop of Novara, in 1784 (Balbis, Discorso, 21). 120. This is what the Genoese publisher Salomoni claimed. Saporiti, Raccolta di alcune notificazioni; Al legitore, signed by Salomoni, vol. I, V. 121. See, for instance, Porporato (bishop of Saluzzo), Lettera pastorale (1773), 30 and Mangini, Somma raccolta, vol. I, 74. 122. Gustá, Sui catechismi moderni; Introduzione, 1–18; 3–5. 123. On the extraordinary success of the genre in the eighteenth century, see Savio, Devozione, 7–30. See also De Maio, Società, 256. 124. Vismara Chiappa, Il ‘buon cristiano’, 3. On addressing the catechism to parsons, seen as oral mediators par excellence between the clergy and the faithful, see Allegra, “Il parroco.” 125. Ildefonso da Bressanvido, Istruzioni; Al lettore, n.p. The work was published in Milan (1771), then was reprinted in Genoa in 1773–1775 and 1778, in Bassano in 1780 and 1783, in Turin in 1791–1792 and 1795, in Naples in 1792–1793 and, again, in Bassano in 1818. 126. Letter to Remondini by Ildefonso da Bressanvido, Padua, 30 April 1768, BABG, Epistolario Remondini, no. 1298. 127. Ildefonso da Bressanvido, Istruzioni; Istruzione che le commedie scorrette, e altre simili teatrali rappresentazioni si oppongono allo spirito del cristianesimo e alla professione battesimale, vol. II, 277–285. 128. Ibid., Istruzione XXVII Sopra il terzo dovere de’ genitori inverso dei figlioli, 166–172; 166. 129. Ibid., Istruzione XXXVIII Si espone quanto sieno validi incentivi d’incontinenza i libri osceni, 243. 130. Ibid, 242. 131. Campastri, Il buon pastore, 356. 132. Ibid., 202; 196. 133. Ibid., L’Autore a’ leggitori, n.p. 134. Ibid., 132; 202. On Campastri, see Vismara Chiappa, Il ‘buon cristiano’, 62–65. 135. Cuniliati, Il catechista; Lo scrittore a chi legge, n.p. 136. Prandi, Religiosità, VII. 137. Donati, “Vescovi e diocesi,” 375. For the Kingdom of Naples, with reference to the collaboration between the archbishop Giuseppe Spinelli and preachers and missionaries such as de’ Liguori and Gennaro Maria Sarnelli, see Novi Chavarria, “Gennario Maria Sarnelli,” 305 et seq. On the other hand, preachers

150

138. 139.

140. 141.

142. 143. 144.

145. 146.

147.

148. 149. 150.

151. 152.

Hunting for Books did not escape the control of bishops. See, for example, Martini (who was the archbishop of Florence), Lettera XVII sopra la predicazione (5 May 1789), 232–233. Arignani, Discorsi morali (1778); Ai leggitori, III–IV; III. The measures of the Roman Holy Office, including the decrees of condemnation to the Index, were read out in convents and parishes. See, for instance, Fedi attestanti l’avvenuta lettura nelle chiese e nei conventi della giurisdizione di Bologna dei decreti riguardanti il Sant’Ufficio (1654–1784), BCAB, MSS. B. 1917. Lefebvre, Les pouvoirs; Avant-propos, 7–8. Just to mention two exemplary cases: the Jesuit Bellati published his Opere (1745) urged by the “archpriest and doctor” Girolamo Baruffaldi, to whom he dedicated the work (Bellati, Opere; see the dedication, n.p.) and the sermons by Bassani were printed in 1752 by his friend Domenico Fabri, according to whom the author “had been obliged” to publish them (Bassani, Prediche; see the dedication, n.p.). On Bassani (1686–1747), see Tommaseo, “Bassani, Jacopo Antonio.” See Turrini, La coscienza, 36. For the Kingdom of Naples, see Novi Chavarria, I libri (1998). More generally on the education of preachers, see Moran and Andrés-Gallego, “The preacher.” These rules, which by the eighteenth century had already had a long tradition, were prescribed both in handbooks and in the prefaces to sermon collections. See, for the early modern age, Giombi, “Precettistica;” Giombi, “Processi di disciplinamento;” Giombi, Libri e pulpiti. On this topic, see Cavazza, Predicazione. Valsecchi, Prediche quaresimali; sermon XXV Della educazione de’ figliuoli, 304–317; 310. On the erudite peculiarities of Dominican preaching, see Santini, L’eloquenza, 194–196. On Valsecchi and the preaching against Enlightenment, see Petruzzi, La predicazione; for France, see Masseau, Les ennemis, 181–188. See also Novi Chavarria, “I libri,” 328 et seq., who underlines the new attention paid to “unbelievers” and “the dangerous freedom of speaking and thinking” in the 1750s and 1760s. Meazza, “Predica sulla lettura.” The work of the Milanese Meazza (1739– 1818), a preacher in Venice, Rome and Naples, was published posthumously by members of the Dominican Order. Its date can be deduced by internal references (ibid., 118). Another example is offered by Bartolomeo Scardua, who preached in Bologna in 1770 (see Baviera, Aspetti della pastorale, 238, note 5). See also the sermons by Martini, archbishop of Florence, Martini, Omelia fatta la notte del Santo Natale (1783) and Omelia fatta la mattina dell’Epifania (1787). See the anonymous review of Sermons pour les principales fêtes de l’année par M. de Marolles, Paris 1787, 2 vols, in Giornale ecclesiastico, XIX, 8 November 1788, 69–70; 70. Grossi, “Dei libri moderni.” The fire does not seem metaphorical if we read the invitation carefully (my italics). Turchi, “Omelia recitata il giorno dell’ingresso alla cattedrale di Parma” (5 November 1788), 150. Against the freedom of the press, see also Turchi, Omelia nel giorno della Pentecoste dell’anno 1789 and, against the freedom of thinking, speaking and writing, Turchi, Omelia nel giorno di Pentescoste l’anno 1790, 91–93. Turchi, Omelia sopra la lettura dei libri, in particular 159. For the Turin diocese, see also, Costa d’Arignano, Omelia (1790). This change was clearly recognised by contemporaries who talked about a genuine fashion. See, for instance, the anonymous review of Prediche quaresimali

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153.

154. 155. 156.

157. 158. 159. 160. 161. 162. 163.

164. 165. 166. 167. 168. 169. 170.

171.

172.

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dell’abate Ignazio Venini, Milan: Marelli, 1780, in Efemeridi letterarie di Roma, 326. On the “catechesis of the masses” through preaching, see Prosperi, Tribunali, 634–635; with respect to servants, see Sarti, “Obbedienti.” Fears were not unfounded as some servants had not escaped trials caused by prohibited readings in the mid-seventeenth century (Kermol, La rete di Vulcano, 149–150). For many indications of familiarity with the written words among Parisian domestic servants, see Roche, The people, 204–241. Biblioteca per li parrochi, t. X, 239 (the first edition was published in 1752). Campastri, Il buon pastore, 135; 203 (my italics). From reports of the pastoral visits the problem of illiteracy clearly emerges both in the north and, even more so, in the south. On the visits by Carlo Rezzonico, bishop of Padua, see Principe, “Diocesi”; Bellinati, Attività pastorale; as for Angelo Anzani, bishop of Campagna and Satriano from 1736 to 1770, see De Rosa, Problemi religiosi, 81 et seq. Rusconi, “Predicatori,” 1011 et seq.; Novi Chavarria, “I libri,” 325. See, among others, Ferrario, Riflessioni, vol. II, 168. See, for instance, Galluzzi, Istruzioni a pastori, 8; 14; Mangini, Somma raccolta (1779–1784), vol. II, 8. Ferrario, Riflessioni ed avvertimenti (1795), vol. I, 43. As pointed out by a preacher of the time: Zanotto, Storia della predicazione, 322. On this topic, see Claydon, “The Sermon.” The Capuchin Turchi, for example, was a preacher in many Italian cities: from Arezzo to Florence, from Parma to Pisa, from Lucca to Rome, from Genoa to Naples and Bologna. See Stanislao da Campagnola O.F.M. cap., Adeodato Turchi, 27. On the high participation in sermons in the eighteenth century, see Zanotto, Storia della predicazione, 320 et seq. and 346 et seq.; Donati, “Vescovi e diocesi,” 375. Grossi, Quaresimale; Brevi notizie del padre Pier Luigi Grossi carmelitano scalzo socio di varie accademie scritte dal giureconsulto signor Francesco Treccani, ibid., n.p. Novi Chavarria, “Francesco De Geronimo,” 289. Turchi’s sermons, for instance, were attacked by Giovanni Lami, who in his periodical Novelle letterarie accused him of being a Jansenist. See Santini, L’eloquenza, 205–206. Clerici, “Best-seller,” 86. Sermoni by de’ Liguori, for instance, was published in Naples in 1771 and reprinted in several Italian cities until 1934. Preaching too explicitly against the esprits forts was dangerous because—as a journalist pointed out—some doubts could be insinuated “in simple and non-literate people.” See the anonymous review of the Prediche quaresimali dell’abate Ignazio Venini, Milan: Marelli, 1780, in Efemeridi letterarie di Roma, 327. We will return to this point (see inf., 164). Suffice it to recall that de’ Liguori, Sermoni (1767), “Intento dell’opera,” 6, recommended preachers to urge “hearers to tell the others, relatives and friends, what they had heard during the sermon, because in this way the sermon can be useful also to people who have not heard it.” As for the Kingdom of Naples, Novi Chavarria, “I libri,” 316 calculated that 50 per cent of the production of religious literature in the eighteenth century was made up of sermons.

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Bibliographical References Primary Sources Algarotti, Francesco. Newtonianesimo per le dame. Naples [but Milan]: Giambattista Pasquali, 1737. Arignani, Giovanni Battista. Discorsi morali per tutte le domeniche, e feste dell’anno composti ad uso dei parrochi e ogni sorta di persona sì ecclesiastiche che secolari. Turin: a spese di Mairesse, Eredi Avondo, Giuseppe Rameletti, 1778, 2 vols. Ariosto, Ludovico. Satire. Venice: Francesco Sansovino, 1560. Balbis Bertone, Marco Aurelio. “Discorso recitato nell’Epifania del 1784.” In Discorsi pastorali, 4–22. Vercelli: Tipografia Patria, 1784. Bassani, Jacopo Antonio. Prediche dedicate alla santità di nostro signore papa Benedetto XIV. Bologna: Lelio dalla Volpe, 1752. Beccaria, Cesare. Dei delitti e delle pene. Livorno: Marco Coltellini, 1764. In Opere, edited by Gianni Francioni, vol. 1. Milan: Mediobanca, 1984. Bellati, Antonfrancesco. Opere. Venice: Giuseppe Bettinelli, 1745, 2 vols. Berruyer, Isaac Joseph. Storia del popolo di Dio. Venice: Remondini, 1756, 7 vols (French or. edn 1728). Bianchi, Giovanni Antonio. Della potestà e politia della Chiesa trattati due contro le nuove opinioni di Pietro Giannone dedicati al principe degli apostoli. Rome: nella stamperia di Pallade appresso Niccolò e Marco Pagliarini, 1745–1751, 6 vols. Biblioteca per li parrochi, e cappellani di campagna, opera non solo utile, e necessaria ai medesimi, ma ancora a qualunque altra religiosa persona. Venice: Pietro Valvasense, 1767, 4 vols (1st edn 1752). Biffi, Giambattista, Diario (1777–1781), edited by Giampaolo Dossena. Milan: Bompiani, 1976. Bullarum diplomatum et privilegiorum sanctorum romanorum pontificum, taurinensis editio locupletior facta, . . . cura et studio Aloysii Tomassetti, . . . vol. 14, Ab Urbano VIII (an. 1628 ad ann. 1639). Turin: A. Vecco, Sebastiani Franco e figli, 1868. Campastri, Tommaso. Il buon pastore che difende il suo gregge dagli errori del secolo massimamente il decimottavo. Opera distribuita in forma di catechismo. Varallo: Carlo Francesco Gilardoni e figlio, 1778. Carteromaco, Nicolao see Forteguerri, Niccolò. Casati, Michele. Raccolta di lettere pastorali. Turin: Briolo e Destefanis, 1778. Chiari, Pietro. La filosofessa italiana. Venice: Angelo Pasinelli, 1753. Chiari, Pietro. La zingana. Parma: Filippo Carmignani, 1762, 2 vols. Cocchi, Antonio. Del matrimonio . . . London: s.n., 1762. Costa d’Arignano, Vittorio Gaetano. “Lettera pastorale in occasione del giubileo dell’anno santo nella propria diocesi” (25 February 1776). In Raccolta delle lettere pastorali scritte in Vercelli, 171–194. Turin: Destefanis, 1796. Costa d’Arignano, Vittorio Gaetano. “Omelia recitata nella solennità d’ognissanti sopra la beatitudine de’ santi e sopra il modo di conseguirla dell’anno 1790.” In Raccolta delle omelie, lettere, ed indulti, 94–117. Turin: Ignazio Soffietti, 1793. Cuniliati, Fulgenzio. Il catechista in pulpito, il qual spiega al popolo fedele i propri detti. Opera utilissima ad ogni fedele, e massimamente ad ogni ministro delle anime. Venice: Bettinelli, 1775. De’ Liguori, Alfonso Maria de’. Dissertatio de justa prohibitione et abolitione librorum nocuae lectionis, brevi calamo plura continens, quae diffuse ab auctoribus tradita sunt. Naples: Di Domenico, 1759.

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De’ Liguori, Alfonso Maria de’. Istruzione al popolo sovra i precetti del decalogo per bene osservarli, e sovra i sagramenti per ben riceverli, data alla luce per uso de’ parrochi e missionari, e di tutti gli ecclesiastici. Bassano: Remondini, 1768 (1st edn 1767). De’ Liguori, Alfonso Maria de’. Istruzione e pratica per li confessori. Venezia: Remondini, 1761, 3 vols (1st edn 1759). De’ Liguori, Alfonso Maria de’. Sermoni compendiati per tutte le domeniche dell’anno. Opera utile per gli parochi, e predicatori annuali. Naples: Gaetano Castellano, 1774 (1st edn 1771). Diario ordinario. Rome: Chracas, 1718–1800. Du Marsais, Cesar Chesneau. La dottrina della chiesa gallicana. Venice: Antonio Graziosi, 1766 (French original edn 1757). Efemeridi letterarie di Roma. Rome: Zempel, 13 October 1781, t. X, XLI, 326–327. Enchiridion delle Encicliche, 1, 1740–1830. Bologna: Edizioni dehoniane, 1994. Facchinei, Ferdinando. Note ed osservazioni sul libro intitolato Dei delitti, e delle pene. S.l. [but Venice]: s.n. [but Antonio Zatta], 1765. Febronius, Justinus see Hontheim, Johann Nikolaus von. Ferrario, Antonio. Riflessioni ed avvertimenti sopra lo stato ed i doveri d’un pastore di anime. Milan: Motta, 1795, 2 vols. Filangieri, Serafino. Istruzione pastorale intorno alla lettura de’ libri pericolosi. Palermo: Gaetano Maria Bentivenga stampatore camerale, 1770. Forteguerri, Niccolò. Ricciardetto. Paris [but Venice]: Francesco Pitteri, 1738. Galluzzi, Francesco Maria. Istruzioni a pastori di anime per adempire il loro ministero indirizzate specialmente a’ curati di ville. Rome: san Michele a Ripa Grande, 1723. Giannone, Pietro. “Vita scritta da lui medesimo.” posthumus. In Opere, edited by Sergio Bertelli and Giuseppe Ricuperati, 1–346. Milan-Naples: Ricciardi, 1971. Giornale ecclesiastico di Roma. Rome: Giovanni Zempel, 1785–1798. Grossi, Pier Luigi. “Dei libri moderni.” In Quaresimale e panegirici, vol. 1, 171– 187. Brescia: Bendiscioli, 1820, 2 vols, posthumus. Grotius, Hugo (Huig van Groot). De iure belli ac pacis libri tres. Paris: Nicolas Buon, 1625. Gustá, Francesco. Sui catechismi moderni. Saggio critico-teologico. Fuligno: Giovanni Tomassini, 1793 (1st edn 1788). Heinecke, Johann Gottlieb. Elementa iuris naturae. Halle: aux dépens d’Orphanotropheus, 1738. Hontheim, Johann Nikolaus von. De statu Ecclesiae. Frankfurt: Guillelmus Evrardus, 1765 (1st edn 1763). Ildefonso, da Bressanvido. Istruzioni morali sopra la dottrina cristiana. Genoa: Agostino Olzati, 1778, 3 vols. (1st edn 1771). Kralj, Franc, and Luigi Tavano, eds. Atti delle visite pastorali negli arcidiaconati di Gorizia, Tolmino e Duino dell’arcidiocesi di Gorizia 1750–1759. Gorizia: Istituto di storia sociale e religioso, 1994. Luserna (or Lucerna)-Rorengo di Rorà, Francesco. Francesco Lucerna-Rorengo di Rorà per grazia di Dio, e della Santa Sede apostolica vescovo d’Ivrea (3 March 1768). Turin: Avondo, 1768. Mangini, Francesco. Somma raccolta da vari autori per direttorio manuale di un novello sacerdote utile per lo governo di se stesso, e per fare la guida degli altri nel ministero di confessore. Naples: Gennaro Verriento, 1779–1784, 6 vols. Marino, Giambattista. Adone. Paris: Olivier de Varennes, 1623. Martini, Antonio. “Lettera XVII sopra la predicazione (5 maggio 1789).” In Raccolta, vol. 2, 232–233. Martini, Antonio. “Omelia fatta nella metropolitana la mattina dell’Epifania dell’anno 1787.” In Raccolta, vol. 2, 108–116.

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Martini, Antonio. “Omelia fatta nella metropolitana la notte del Santo Natale dell’anno 1783.” In Raccolta, vol. 1, 168–177. Martini, Antonio. Raccolta di omelie di lettere pastorali e di sacri discorsi. Turin: Francesco Prato, 1790–1791, 2 vols. Meazza, Ermenegildo. “Predica sulla lettura de’ libri dei miscredenti.” In Prediche quaresimali, vol. 1, 93–124. Venice: Tipografia Gaspari, 1846, 2 vols, posthumous. Micanzio, Fulgenzio. Vita del padre Paolo [Sarpi]. Leiden: s.n., 1646. Milton, John. Il paradiso perduto, translated by Paolo Rolli. Verona: A. Tumermani, 1730. Molinari, Innocenzo. Parere intorno alla VERA IDEA contenuta nella Lettera apologetica composta dal signor’accademico esercitato per rispetto alla supposizione de’ Quipu &c. dell’abate *** inviato ad un suo amico in Napoli. S.l. [but Naples]: s.n., s.a. [but 1752]. Montesquieu, Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron of. De l’esprit des lois. Geneva: Jacques Barillot et fils, 1748, 2 vols. Muratori, Lodovico Antonio. Rerum italicarum scriptores. Milan: Società palatina, 1723–1751. Pallavicino, Ferrante. La rete di Vulcano. Venice: s.n., 1641. Pilati, Carlo Antonio. Di una riforma d’Italia. Villafranca [but Venice]: s.n., 1767. Pilati, Carlo Antonio. L’esistenza della legge naturale. Venice: Zatta, 1764. Pluquet, François-André-Adrien. Dizionario dell’eresie, degli errori e de’ scismi, o sia memorie per servire all’istoria degli sviamenti dello spirito umano. Venice: Gian Francesco Garbo e Vincenzo Radici, 1767–1772, 3 vols (French or. edn 1762). Pope, Alexander. Il riccio rapito. Florence: s.n., 1750. Porporato, Giuseppe Filippo. Lettera pastorale diretta a tutto il clero, e popolo fedele della sua diocesi. Turin: Mairesse, 1777. Porporato, Giuseppe Filippo. Lettera pastorale in cui si contengono alcuni particolari avvertimenti diretti a’ confessori della sua diocesi. Turin: Mairesse, 1773. Pufendorf, Samuel. De iure naturae et gentium. Lund: A. Junghans, 1672. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. Du contrat social. Amsterdam: Marc-Michel Rey, 1762. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. Émile ou de l’éducation. Amsterdam: Jean Néaulme, 1762. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. Lettres écrites de la montagne. Amsterdam: Marc Michel Rey, 1764. Sacchetti, Franco. Novelle. Florence: s.n., 1724. Sansevero, Raimondo di Sangro, prince of. Lettera apologetica . . . contenente la difesa del libro intitolato Lettere d’una peruana, per rispetto alla supposizione de’ Quippu. Naples: Gennaro Morelli, 1750. Saporiti, Giuseppe Maria. Istruzioni pastorali proposte a’ confessori della città e diocesi. Genoa: Stamperia lerziana, 1750. Saporiti, Giuseppe Maria. Raccolta di alcune notificazioni editti ed instruzioni pastorali per il buon regolamento della sua diocesi. Rome: Generoso Salomoni, 1754, 2 vols. Scardua, Bartolomeo. Prediche sopra diversi argomenti di religione, e di morale cristiana dette in Bologna nell’anno 1770. Ferrara: Bianchi, e Negri, 1806, 2 vols. Segneri, Paolo. Quaresimale. Venice: Paolo Baglioni, 1685 (1st edn 1679). Traité des trois imposteurs. Verdon: de l’Imprimerie du professeur de Felice, 1768 (censored edn). Turchi, Adeodato. “Lettera pastorale al clero e popolo (4 April 1789).” In Omelie orazioni, t. I, 175–198. Turchi, Adeodato. “Omelia nel giorno della Pentecoste dell’anno 1789.” In Omelie orazioni, t. II, 9–22. Turchi, Adeodato. “Omelia nel giorno di Pentescoste l’anno 1790 confronto della filosofia del Vangelo con quella del secolo.” In Omelie orazioni, t. II, 79–93.

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Turchi, Adeodato. “Omelia recitata il giorno dell’ingresso alla cattedrale di Parma” (5 November 1788). In Omelie orazioni, t. I, 143–153. Turchi, Adeodato. Omelia recitata nel giorno di Pentecoste l’anno 1791. Sopra la lettura dei libri. Parma: Stamperia vescovile di Marco Rossi, e Andrea Ubaldi, 1791. Then in Omelie orazioni, t. II, 147–164. Page references are to the 1798 edition. Turchi, Adeodato. Omelie orazioni funebri lettere pastorali editti ed indulti. Venice: Silvestro Gnoato, 1798, 2 tt. in one vol. Valsecchi, Antonino. Prediche quaresimali. Venice: Giuseppe Rossi, 1792, posthumus. Verri, Pietro. Meditazioni sulla felicità. London [but Livorno]: s.n., 1763. Voltaire. Dictionnaire philosophique. London [but Geneva]: Cramer, 1764. Voltaire. La pucelle d’Orléans. Paris: s.n., 1755. Voltaire. L’evangile du jour. London [but Amsterdam]: s.n., 1769–1770, 7 vols. Zaccaria, Francescantonio. Storia polemica delle proibizioni de’ libri scritta e consecrata alla santità di nostro signore papa Pio sesto felicemente regnante. Rome: Generoso Salomoni, 1777.

Secondary Literature Alimento, Antonella. “I libri e i lettori.” In Storia della civiltà toscana, edited by Furio Diaz, 165–196. Florence: Le Monnier, 1999. Allegra, Luciano. “Il parroco: un mediatore fra alta e bassa cultura.” In Storia d’Italia, Annali, vol. 4, Intellettuali e potere, edited by Corrado Vivanti, 895– 947. Turin: Einaudi, 1981. Asor Rosa, Laura. “Giacomelli Michelangelo.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 54 (2000), 140–141. Baviera, Salvatore. “Aspetti della pastorale a Bologna nel Settecento.” In Benedetto XIV (Prospero Lambertini), edited by Marco Cecchelli, vol. 1, 236–273. Cento (Ferrara): Centro Studi Girolamo Baruffaldi, 1981–1982, 2 vols. Bellinati, Claudio. Attività pastorale del cardinale Carlo Rezzonico vescovo di Padova (1743–1758). Padua: Tipografia Antoniana, 1969. Biondi, Albano, ed. Seminario sulla modernità. Bologna: Clueb, 1998. Boer, Wietse de. The Conquest of the Soul: Confession, Discipline, and Public Order in Counter Reformation Milan. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Bots, Hans, and Françoise Waquet, eds. Commercium Litterarium. La communication dans la République des lettres 1600–1750. Amsterdam-Maarsen: ApaHolland University Press, 1994. Brambilla, Elena. “I poteri giudiziari dei tribunali ecclesiastici nell’Italia centrosettentrionale e la loro secolarizzazione.” In Le secolarizzazioni nel Sacro romano impero e negli antichi Stati italiani: premesse, confronti, conseguenze, edited by Claudio Donati and Helmut Flachenecker, 99–112. Bologna-Berlin: Il MulinoDuncker & Humblot, 2005. Brambilla, Elena. La giustizia intollerante. Inquisizione e tribunali confessionali in Europa (secoli IV–XVIII). Rome: Carocci, 2006. Caffiero, Marina. “Pio VI.” In Enciclopedia dei papi, vol. 3, 492–509. Cajani, Luigi, and Anna Foa. “Clemente XIII.” In Enciclopedia dei papi, vol. 3, 461–475. Campanelli, Marcella. Centralismo romano e ‘policentrismo’ periferico. Chiesa e religiosità nella diocesi di sant’Alfonso Maria de’ Liguori. Milan: Franco Angeli, 2003. Canosa, Romano. “L’Inquisizione a Firenze sotto la reggenza.” In Storia dell’Inquisizione, vol. 4, Milano e Firenze, 179–191.

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Canosa, Romano. “‘Quietisti’ ed ‘ateisti’ a Modena all’inizio del Settecento.” In Canosa, Storia dell’Inquisizione, vol. 1, Modena, 87–106. Canosa, Romano. Storia dell’Inquisizione in Italia. Dalla metà del Cinquecento alla fine del Settecento. Rome: Sapere, 2000, 5 vols. Canosa, Romano. “Torino.” In Canosa, Storia dell’Inquisizione, vol. 3, Torino e Genova, 9–128. Cavazza, Silvano. “Predicazione e propaganda religiosa.” In Manuale di letteratura italiana, vol. 2, Dal Cinquecento alla metà del Settecento, edited by Franco Brioschi and Costanzo Di Girolamo, 735–748. Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 1994. Chiosi, Elvira. Lo spirito del secolo. Politica e religione a Napoli nell’età dell’Illuminismo. Naples: Giannini, 1992. Claydon, Tony. “The Sermon, the ‘Public Sphere’ and the Political Culture of Late Seventeenth-Century England.” In The English Sermon Revised: Religion, Literature and History, 1600–1750, edited by Lori Anne Ferrell and Peter McCullough, 208–234. Manchester-New York: Manchester University Press, 2000. Clerici, Luca. “Best-seller del Settecento: i romanzi di Pietro Chiari.” ACME. Annali della Facoltà di Lettere e Filosofia dell’Università degli Studi di Milano 48, no. 2 (1995): 73–101. Del Col, Andrea. L’Inquisizione in Italia dal XII al XXI secolo. Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 2006. Del Col, Andrea. “L’inventariazione degli atti processuali dell’Inquisizione romana.” In Del Col and Paolini, L’Inquisizione romana, 87–116. Del Col, Andrea, and Giovanna Paolini, eds. L’Inquisizione romana in Italia nell’età moderna. Archivi, problemi di metodo e nuove ricerche. Rome: Ministero per i beni culturali e ambientali, 1991. Del Col, Andrea, and Marisa Milani. “Senza effusione di sangue e senza pericolo di morte. Intorno ad alcune condanne capitali delle Inquisizioni di Venezia e di Verona nel Settecento e a quelle veneziane del Cinquecento.” In Rosa, Eretici, esuli, 141–196. De Maio, Romeo. Società e vita religiosa a Napoli nell’età moderna (1656–1799). Naples: Edizioni scientifiche italiane, 1971. De Rosa, Gabriele. “Problemi religiosi della società meridionale nel Settecento attraverso le visite pastorali di Angelo Anzani.” In Vescovi, popolo e magia nel Sud: ricerche di storia socio-religiosa dal XVII al XIX secolo, 5–92. Naples: Guida, 1971. Di Simplicio, Oscar. Peccato penitenza perdono Siena 1575–1800. La formazione della coscienza nell’Italia moderna. Milan: Franco Angeli, 1994. Donati, Claudio. “Dalla ‘regolata devozione’ al ‘giuseppinismo’ nell’Italia del Settecento.” In Rosa, Cattolicesimo e Lumi, 77–98. Donati, Claudio. “Vescovi e diocesi d’Italia dall’età post-tridentina alla caduta dell’Antico Regime.” In Rosa, Clero e società, 320–389. Enciclopedia dei papi. Rome: Istituto dell’Enciclopedia Italiana, 2000, 3 vols. Fiorani, Luigi. Il concilio romano del 1725. Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1977. Giombi, Samuele. Libri e pulpiti. Letteratura, sapienza e storia religiosa nel Rinascimento. Rome: Carocci, 2001. Giombi, Samuele. “Precettistica e trattatistica sulla retorica sacra in età tridentina. Lineamenti storiografici e ipotesi di ricerca.”Rivista di storia e letteratura religiosa 34, no. 3 (1998): 581–612. Giombi, Samuele. “Processi di disciplinamento.” In Biondi, Seminario sulla modernità, 165–196. Guerci, Luciano. La discussione sulla donna nell’Italia del Settecento. Aspetti e problem. Turin: Tirrenia stampatori, 1987.

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Henningsen, Gustave, and John Tedeschi, eds. The Inquisition in Early Modern Europe: Studies on Sources and Methods. DeKalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press, 1986. Infelise, Mario. “La censure dans les pays méditerranéens (1600–1750).” In Commercium Litterarium. La communication dans la la République des lettres, edited by Hans Bots and Françoise Waquet, 261–279. Amsterdam: APA-Holland University Press, 1994. Infelise, Mario. L’editoria veneziana nel ’700. Milan: Franco Angeli, 1991, 2nd edn (1st edn 1989; updated edn 1999). Kermol, Enzo. La rete di Vulcano. Inquisizione, libri proibiti e libertini nel Friuli del Seicento. Trieste: Università degli Studi di Trieste, 1990. Landi, Sandro. Il governo delle opinioni. Censura e formazione del consenso nella Toscana del Settecento. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2000. Lefebvre, Philippe. Les pouvoirs de la parole. L’Église et Rousseau, 1762–1848. Paris: Cerf, 1992. Levillain, Philippe. “Encyclical.” In The Papacy: An Encyclopedia, edited by Philippe Levillain and John W. O’Malley, vol. 1, 524–527. London: Routledge, 2001, 3 vols. Originally published as P. Levillain, ed. Dictionnaire historique de la papauté. Paris: Fayard, 1994, 2 vols. Mangenot, Eugène. “Encycliques.” In Dictionnaire de théologie catholique, edited by Alfred Vacant and Eugène Mangenot, vol. 5 (1913), cc 14–16. Paris: Librairie Letouzey et ané, 1909–1950, 15 vols. Marquez, Antonio, Literatura y Inquisicion en España (1478–1834), Madrid: Taurus, 1980. Martina, Giacomo S. J., and Ugo Dovere, eds. La predicazione in Italia dopo il Concilio di Trento tra Cinquecento e Settecento. Rome: Edizioni dehoniane, 1996. Masseau, Didier. Les ennemis des philosophes. L’antiphilosophie au temps des Lumières. Paris: Michel Albin, 2000. Montanari, Giovanni. “La Libreria di Classe e il suo orientamento dottrinale (1707– 1797).” In La cultura e la vita civile a Ravenna (secoli XVI–XX), edited by Donatino Donatini, 117–160. Bologna: University Press, 1981. Monter, E. William, and John Tedeschi. “Towards a Statistical Profile of the Italian Inquisitions, Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries.” In Henningsen and Tedeschi, The Inquisition, 130–157. Moran, Manuel, and José Andrés, Gallego. “The preacher.” In Villari, Baroque personae, 126–159. Napoli, Maria Consiglia. “Editoria clandestina e censura ecclesiastica a Napoli all’inizio del Settecento.” In Rao, Editoria e cultura, 333–351. Novi Chavarria, Elisa. “Francesco De Geronimo e Gregorio Rocco” (1994). In Novi Chavarria, Il governo delle anime, 269–290. Novi Chavarria, Elisa. “Gennario Maria Sarnelli” (1996). In Novi Chavarria, Il governo delle anime, 291–311. Novi Chavarria, Elisa. Il governo delle anime. Azione pastorale, predicazioni e missioni nel Mezzogiorno d’Italia (secoli XVI–XVIII). Naples: Editoriale scientifica, 2001. Novi Chavarria, Elisa. “I libri di metodologia pastorale” (1998). In Novi Chavarria, Il governo delle anime, 313–333. Palazzolo, Maria Iolanda. Editoria e istituzioni a Roma tra Settecento e Ottocento. Saggi e documenti. Rome: Archivio Guido Izzi, 1994. Peruzza, Morena. “L’Inquisizione nel periodo delle riforme settecentesche: il caso veneziano.” Ricerche di storia sociale e religiosa 23, no. 46 (1994): 139–186. Petruzzi, Paolo. “La predicazione quaresimale di Antonino Valsecchi O.P. (1708–1791).” In Martina and Dovere, La predicazione, 391–419.

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Prandi, Alfonso. Religiosità e cultura nel ’700 italiano. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1966. Principe, Quirino. “Diocesi di Padova. Pratica religiosa (1744–1753).” Sociologia religiosa nos. 3–4 (1959): 151–166. Prosperi, Adriano. Tribunali della coscienza. Inquisitori, confessori, missionari. Turin: Einaudi, 1996 (new edn 2009). Rao, Anna Maria, ed. Editoria e cultura a Napoli nel XVIII secolo. Naples: De’ Liguori, 1998. Rawlings, Helen. The Spanish Inquisition. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006. Ricuperati, Giuseppe. “Bianchi Giovanni Antonio.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 10 (1968), 114–117. Roche, Daniel. The People of Paris: An Essay in Popular Culture in the Eighteenth Century. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987. Translated by Marie Evans in association with Gwynne Lewis. Originally published as Le peuple de Paris. Essai sur la culture populaire au 18e siècle (Paris: Aubier Montaigne, 1981). Romeo, Giovanni. L’Inquisizione nell’Italia moderna. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2002. Rosa, Mario, ed. Cattolicesimo e Lumi nel Settecento italiano. Rome: Herder Editrice e Libreria, 1981. Rosa, Mario. “Clemente XIV.” In Enciclopedia dei papi, vol. 3, 475–492. Rosa, Mario, ed. Clero e società nell’Italia moderna. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1995 (1st edn 1992). Rosa, Mario. “Encyclopédie, ‘Lumières’ et tradition au 18e siècle en Italie.” Dixhuitième siècle no. 4 (1972): 109–168. Rosa, Mario, ed. Eretici, esuli e indemoniati nell’età moderna. Florence: Olschki, 1998. Rosa, Mario. “Introduzione all’ ‘Aufklärung’ cattolica in Italia.” In Rosa, Cattolicesimo e Lumi, 1–47. Rosa, Mario. “L’Aufklärung cattolica.” In Rosa, Settecento religioso, 149–184. Rosa, Mario. Settecento religioso. Politica della ragione e religione del cuore. Venice: Marsilio, 1999. Rosa, Mario. “Tra cristianesimo e lumi.” In Rosa, Settecento religioso, 185–223. Rusconi, Roberto. L’ordine dei peccati. La confessione tra Medioevo ed età moderna. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2002. Rusconi, Roberto. “Predicatori e predicazione (secoli IX–XVIII).” In Storia d’Italia, Annali, vol. 4, Intellettuali e potere, edited by Corrado Vivanti, 949–1035. Turin: Einaudi, 1981. Santini, Emilio. L’eloquenza italiana dal concilio tridentino ai nostri giorni, vol. 1, Gli oratori sacri. Palermo: Remo Sandron, 1923, 133–210. Sarti, Raffaella. “Obbedienti e fedeli. Note sull’istruzione morale e religiosa di servi e serve tra Cinque e Settecento.” Annali dell’Istituto storico italo-germanico in Trento 17 (1991): 91–120. Savio, Pietro. Devozione di Mgr. Adeodato Turchi alla Santa Sede. Testo e DCLXXVII documenti sul giansenismo italiano ed estero. Rome: L’Italia francescana, 1938. Silvestrini, Maria Teresa. La politica della religione. Il governo ecclesiastico nello Stato sabaudo del XVIII secolo. Florence: Olschki, 1997. Stanislao da Campagnola, O.F.M. cap. Adeodato Turchi. Uomo-oratore-vescovo (1724–1803). Rome: Istituto storico Ordine frati minori cappuccini, 1961. Stella, Pietro. “Casati Michele.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 21 (1978), 262–265. Tarchetti, Alceste. “Censura e censori di sua maestà imperiale nella Lombardia austriaca: 1740–1780.” In Economia, istituzioni, cultura in Lombardia nell’età di Maria Teresa, edited by Aldo De Maddalena, Ettore Rotelli and Gennaro Barbarisi, vol. 2, 741–792. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1982, 3 vols. Tarzia, Fabio. Libri e rivoluzioni. Figure e mentalità nella Roma di fine Ancien Régime (1770–1800). Milan: Franco Angeli, 2000.

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Tommaseo, Niccolò. “Bassani Jacopo Antonio.” In Biografia degli italiani illustri, edited by Emilio De Tipaldo, vol. 8 (1841), 22–24. Venice: Tipografia di Alvisopoli, 1834–1845, 10 vols. Torres Aguilar, Manuel. “Control ideológico, control de prensa e Inquisición a fines del Antiguo Régimen . . .” In Inquisición y censura. El acoso a la inteligencia en España, edited by Enrique Gacto Fernández, 301–327. Madrid: Dykinson, 2006. Turrini, Miriam. La coscienza e le leggi. Morale e diritto nei testi per la confessione della prima età moderna. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1991. Variara, Simona. “Felicità pubblica, filosofia morale e diritto costituzionale: il pensiero politico e civile di Isidoro Bianchi.” PhD. diss., University of Turin, 2005. Villari, Rosario, ed. Baroque personae. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995. Translated by Lydia G. Cochrane. Originally published as L’uomo barocco. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1995. Vismara Chiappa, Paola. Il ‘buon cristiano’. Dibattiti e contese sul catechismo nella Lombardia di fine Settecento. Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1984. Zanotto, Francesco. Storia della predicazione nei secoli della letteratura italiana. Rome: Tipografia pontificia ed arcivescovile dell’Immacolata Concezione, 1899.

4

In Pursuit of Public Opinion

The use of the press ad maiorem Dei gloriam and, most importantly, the outbreak of a veritable war of books featuring the publication of confutations of texts on the Index, constituted hugely important ventures undertaken by the Church to maintain intellectual hegemony in eighteenth-century Italy. They were not of course innovative strategies, given that in the postTridentine era, the Church had played a primary role in promoting sacred works, from catechisms to the lives of the saints, as a means of combatting Protestantism.1 Furthermore, it has been revealed how the technique of dispute had been refined over time to respond to a large-scale movement that could not be overcome by sheer force.2 The period of the Counter-Reformation also provided examples of a strong connection between the Index censorship and works written in defence of the patrimonium fidei. Suffice it to recall the work carried out by the Roman hierarchy to arrange critiques of banned authors such as Jean Bodin.3 Resorting to the antidote of the printing press thus meant, in some ways, reverting to old Counter-Reformation remedies. On the other hand, this backwards move—well attested by the reprinting of Antoniano’s textbook Della educazione cristiana, “adapted to new nonbelievers,” as its foreword said4—was legitimised by the conviction that there were notable links between the heresies of the early modern period and disbelief, with which the diverse culture of the Enlightenment tended to be associated.5 Nevertheless, certain changes must be pointed out in order to make clear the peculiarity of the eighteenth century in terms of ecclesiastical control of reading. To understand the growing importance of the printing press, particularly from the 1760s, one must first take note of the Church’s growing and, in the end, conclusive awareness of the impossibility of curbing the flow of prohibited books with the coercive methods of the CounterReformation.6 The eighteenth-century metaphor, with its two variants of inundation and flood, offers a significant indication of the difficulty of constructing solid and effective bulwarks against a torrent that by now had become almost overpowering.

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This realisation7 resulted from the crisis of the Inquisition, in turn closely linked to the rise of state censorship apparatuses that opened windows onto the market of Index books. Moreover, in the course of the eighteenth century, the greater resources offered by publishers were able to support the Church’s effort to stimulate a production that, as we shall see, became ever more systematic. And, again, in a century that discovered the enormous potential of transforming people through education, the attempt to reach all social groups was strengthened, providing each with solutions appropriate to their different lifestyles. And not to be overlooked, finally, was the role played by laymen loyal to the papacy, who collaborated in the revival of a pedagogy for good reading. Recognising the crisis of the repressive system that originated in the sixteenth century, during the Enlightenment age, should not prevent us from grasping the fact that the reading tribunals continued to fulfil a vital function. Indeed, an analysis of the extremely close relationship between the world of the censors and the editorial production promoted in ecclesiastical circles arguably gives substance to the hypothesis that the hegemonic role exercised by the Church in the eighteenth century—or at least the efforts it made in that direction—had declined substantially, and shows if anything how, in doing so, it changed markedly, mutating from one of repression to one of persuasion. It was now necessary to react openly to avid readers, moving towards the conquest of the written word by engaging the enemy on its own ground. Thus, there was a gradual transition from secret censorship which, decreed during meetings of the Index and the Inquisition, sought to ban reading, towards public censorship, which used the press to refute and correct: in other words, a censorship which oriented the reading public by offering antidotes, preventative and curative, against dangerous books. The control of reading became based less and less on a clear distinction between what was prohibited and what was not, and slowly gave way to more complex ways of governing ideas. What emerges, then, is a multi-linked relationship between ecclesiastical censorship and the emergent public opinion of eighteenth-century Italy. And it must be duly noted that these relational links were a by-product of censorship practices set in motion during that period by political authorities in both Italy and elsewhere in Europe.8 However, during the crisis of the ancien régime, from the 1780s especially, the proliferation of centres of censorship in the public sphere often saw the leading role being played not by Tridentine tribunals, but rather by such means as periodicals, tied in some way to the Holy See. These were mechanisms that would be typical in the nineteenth century, when the freedom of the press, which states like the Kingdom of Sardinia had approved, would strike at the roots of the Roman prohibitions, and the silences of the Index would be filled by Jesuit refutations published in the journal Civiltà cattolica, the “real tribunal of orthodoxy.”9 But, in truth, these mechanisms had their roots in the century of the Enlightenment.

The New Book War

1.

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While not abandoning the traditional paths of oral preaching, but certainly with new impetus, in the eighteenth century, the Church confronted its opponents on the common battleground of the printed page. The fact that this was a programmatic objective, as well as one widely supported, is borne out by contemporary reflections. In the 1740s, for the purpose of preserving the faith, educational projects based on orality were still proposed. The idea that good books, the Bible included, could be dangerous for being “wrongly understood [because] there is no knowledgeable person to explain their meaning” was generally agreed. This was precisely why God had established “that the mysteries and the dogmas that he revealed would be learned not by way of the eyes, through reading, but by the ears, through listening.”10 This was the long-term outcome of the critical moment of the fifteenth century that had broken the dynamic relationship between listening to sermons and reading the Holy Scriptures.11 However, something began to change in the 1750s, when it could be argued that both were valid means to salvation, but that the preached word passes so quickly that listeners cannot reduce its speed in order to understand all its meanings comfortably, and all its force; while on every page of a pious book they who read it can, by going over their reading several times, make longer, wiser and more salutary reflections.12 In the 1770s the relationship was even reversed: at that time, it seemed that the most effective weapon to use against bad reading was good reading. The former Jesuit Nikolas Albert von Diessbach wrote that during the century reading had spread to “too many souls” the “fatal poison that extinguished their faith.” Those who fought the war of the Lord could no longer sleep soundly. And the fact that there was a war—a “war more ruthless than ever”—he clearly did not doubt at all, since he invited his readers to fortify themselves: “All courageous lovers and defenders of truth should rush to arms.” One must “avenge God” with the “pen” and not only with the “voice.” Reading seemed to him to be a better antidote than listening chiefly because the audience it could reach was potentially much greater, given that everyone could always have “some pious and choice book, the reading of which . . . is capable of leading us to God.” Moreover, reading appeared capable of encouraging “the meditation itself of divine truth,” which, in the absence of daily contact with the written word, risked “languishing.”13 The reflection of the former Jesuit Alfonso Muzzarelli was also explicit in this regard: Unbelief has not stepped on to the field with only one volume. It has deployed against us a flattering army of small books, short and sweet.

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In Pursuit of Public Opinion We must therefore contend on equal terms; we must repulse books with books.14

Members of the dissolved army of the Society of Jesus participated with exceptional zeal in the publishing battles—which may be explained as a search for approval in the public space following the suppression of their order—but they were by no means alone. In fact, two years later a Dominican, Valsecchi, called for a new “fight,”15 and there was no lack of priests who, in order to counter the “frenzied impatience to print,” proposed the correction of books. With the right deletions and additions, they suggested, some prohibited texts, from the Esprit des lois to Émile, could have a very different, wholesome effect on the minds of their readers.16 Another sign of the gradual shift towards the written word was the aforementioned debate that arose in the Catholic world, in the 1780s, about the ambiguous role of preaching. This was an exchange of views that once more saw the former Jesuits take a leading role, insisting that sermons, delivered to a large audience and too often “studded with objections taken from Montesquieu, Rousseau, Voltaire, Helvétius and Mandeville,” did nothing but inform “the inexperienced that one can doubt those things about which they had never suspected there could be the slightest doubt.” It was better for them not to know “even the name” of such thinkers.17 In addition to this programmatic dimension, the actual relaunch of the war on books is evidenced primarily by the general development of hagiographic and devotional publishing, which found its natural focal point in the print shops of the seminaries, reflecting a new vision of pastoral care.18 From the north to the south of the peninsula, the production of religious works—catechisms, instructions, manuals for confessors, collections of prayers—reached significant heights in the 1760s and 1770s, when works were published compared to which the instructions for confessors written by Carlo Borromeo and François de Sales seemed like mere “spelling books.”19 But it is noteworthy that in and around Venice, the works of de’ Liguori helped to boost the success of publishers like Remondini.20 And later Serafino Filangieri, a bishop who was little inclined to defer to the primacy of Saint Peter, promoted in the Kingdom of Naples the spread of antiphilosophique works published in France on the initiative of the episcopacy and parliament.21 That said, if one wishes to fully appreciate the Church’s efforts to formulate strategies for the control of reading, one must analyse the sphere of the written word in juxtaposition with the Index librorum prohibitorum, which continued to dictate clearly the lines of ecclesiastical editorial policy. The typographical war, practically a chapter in the crusade against the spread of the Enlightenment, was in the main a series of clashes involving the confutation of texts included on the Index. It reached its peak in the 1760s, according to a periodisation suggested by contemporaries themselves, who were also conscious of the part played in this battle by the querelle on the

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fate of the Society of Jesus, and whose number included men of letters who could not be suspected of using the dispute to spread forbidden knowledge. Another point to take account of, however, is that this book war was waged not on the Italian Peninsula alone, but rather throughout Catholic Europe, where it coincided with the rising curve of the Enlightenment movement, which in the end hastened a general revival of the tradition of apologetics.23 A key aspect of this happening can be seen in the progressive tightening of the link between censorship and the use of the book market by the Church hierarchy in Rome and the outlying areas. The reduction of the time lag between the institutional condemnation of a book and its public rebuttal through the printed word bears witness to this tightening. In effect, the consolidation of the Enlightenment into a movement, which brought back fears of a siege of the city of God first felt two centuries earlier during the Protestant Reformation, seems to have urged speedier responses. For instance, the rebuttal of the Lettera apologetica (1750) by the Prince of Sansevero was expeditious: the work was banned in Rome in 1752 and in the same year, Innocenzo Molinari, a Salernitan priest, railed against its pantheism in a confutation that was later consigned to the flames by the civil authorities of the Kingdom of Naples.24 Just as rapid was the response to Émile: just a year after its banning in 1762 it was countered by the Barnabite Gerdil with anti-Émile.25 And, again, to steal a glance at the religious production, Justinus Febronius’s De statu Ecclesiae (1763), placed on the Index in 1764 for its Episcopalianism, was attacked in print three years later by the Jesuit Zaccaria.26 In those decades, public confutations of prohibited texts were published with a remarkable, systematic regularity, testifying to the increasing weight being borne by printing in the war on heresy. Meslier’s Testament (1762), proscribed in 1765, had been skilfully opposed by the Neapolitan priest Bernardo Della Torre—a collaborator of Serafino Filangieri in his resistance to the Enlightenment27—who wrote a dialogue that offered “pleasant entertainments” made against “the libertines used to reading witty books full of bon mots and charm.”28 The Scolopian Bruno Bruni, in a work dedicated to Pius VI that defended revealed religion against the “modern free-thinkers,” provided a particular “censure” (as he called it) of Fréret’s Examen critique,29 while Muzzarelli, a former Jesuit from Ferrara, presented further negations of Émile in his Emilio disingannato.30 For his part, Nicola Spedalieri made a powerful rebuttal of the same book (1778)31 and then occupied himself, in 1784, with the work of Gibbon, which had been banned in September of the previous year.32 Works like the anti-Voltaire Dissertazioni by Emanuele da Domodossola, a Capuchin friar and consultor of the Congregation of the Indulgences, first published in Varallo (1780), found an excellent printer in Rome in Paolo Giunchi, who published an expanded edition with a dedication to Pius VI.33 In actual fact, the art of confutation did not simply target individual texts or authors but, rather, was trained on an entire system of thought, and it

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had its most mature results in books belonging to the antiphilosophique genre.34 Quite unlike the scholarly works designed for the student world, such as those written in the 1740s by the Dominican Moniglia, they were polemical booklets directed at a non-academic public and capable of striking specific objectives in the context of contemporary knowledge. It was de’ Liguori’s Breve dissertazione contra gli errori de’ moderni increduli (1756) that gave birth to them. In this work, the author theorised meticulously the need to transform confutation into a literary genre with a wider readership, the aim of which was to expound the “principal” and “convincing” arguments against materialists and deists to those who “do not have the opportunity to read the great works” and to teach them “in brief” the dangers of certain books and the “reasoning by which to rebut them.”35 This new category included Valsecchi’s La religione vincitrice (published by the press of the seminary of Padova in 1776), which confronted numerous volumes included on the Index, from Voltaire’s Henriade to his Mahomet, and from Rousseau’s Émile to d’Holbach’s Système de la nature.36 Other works in the genre were Alderano Allegrini’s La tolleranza di ogni religione abbattuta,37 published in Rome by Salomoni; De’ caratteri degl’increduli (1779) by the priest Della Torre;38 the Dissertazioni by the aforementioned Emanuele da Domodossola, a book addressed to “poorly educated readers,” to those, that is, who “have no other knowledge of the Catholic religion they profess, other than what they have been able to learn from the ministers of the Church, and from the catechism”;39 and, finally, La verità della Chiesa (1787), published by the press of the seminary of Padova, in which Valsecchi warned against “troubled and licentious minds” like Voltaire and Rousseau.40 While some Italian authors made a contribution to the European antiEnlightenment movement with works that were distributed and translated outside of Italy,41 a crucial battle in the war of books was waged on home soil through the translation of confutations from abroad. The promotion of these books had the side effect of allowing the Holy See to take full part in the international antiphilosophique effort.42 France, especially, provided many valuable countermeasures, so the anti-Enlightenment crusade conducted by the French clergy was given great heed. At the first sign of a revival of ancient paganism the presses of various print shops produced works like Anti-Lucrezio, a translation by the Benedictine abbot Francesco Maria Ricci of a text by the archbishop Melchior de Polignac.43 The bishop Jean-George a Le Franc de Pompignan achieved great influence in Italy among a reading public who came to know, for example, his Instruction pastorale sur la prétendue philosophie des incrédules modernes (1763), a book that attacked the entire culture of the Enlightenment.44 Confutations of texts on the Index and of antiphilosophique works were translated systematically, hence the following eloquent titles have been picked out, in chronological order, from a long list: the Esame critico delle opere del Bayle (1760) by the Jesuit Jacques Le Febvre;45 Il deismo confutato

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(1769), an anti-Rousseauan work by the abbot Nicolas-Sylvestre Bergier widely diffused in the ecclesiastical libraries of the time;46 La certezza della pruove del cristianesimo (1769), in which Bergier rebutted Fréret;47 and Il filosofo moderno o sia l’incredulo condannato (1769) by Daniel Le Masson des Granges.48 The 1770s saw the publication of the Confutazione del libro intitolato Sistema della natura (1771)49 and Gli errori di Voltaire (1773) by the Jesuit Claude François Nonnotte, to which were added a number of Lettere critiche by Gauchat,50 as well as new translations of Bergier adapted to a domestic readership by the inclusion of references to Italian authors.51 Of particular interest for its intent to set the faithful precise standards with regard to books is the Italian version (1777) of Voltaire parmi les ombres (1775) by the Dominican Charles-Louis Richard, published in Rome by Paolo Giunchi. In an imaginary journey in the afterlife, Voltaire encounters many writers who shared the paths of sin and repentance: from Marcus Aurelius to Bayle, from Aristophanes to Molière and from Rabelais to Spinoza, who admits that he had been led to atheism by a “false philosophy” for which the philosophe was due a solemn censure. Indeed, at the end of the path Voltaire witnesses the proscription of his entire work. Convicted of deism—construed here as an indication of indifference to religion—he could do no other than repent and “be converted” to Catholicism. Meanwhile, the Avvertimenti del clero di Francia, an attachment, pointed to numerous books “written in a language familiar to all . . . and distributed with admirable speed,” capable of dispersing “in the kingdom torrents of the poisonous infection, of which they are full.”52 This was a twofold strategy that aimed to prevent the reading of certain books and to proffer solutions for those who had already been exposed to forbidden writings. In the words of Pope Clement XIII’s eulogy of Nonnotte, his text was useful for as long as all those who have not yet read them [Voltaire’s works], refrain from doing so; and those who have read them come to understand that they have let themselves be seduced and fooled by the darkness and beauty of his style.53 While in the 1760s the instructions of the French clergy concerning unbelief and impious books were translated several times,54 the following decade began with Bergier’s Trattato storico55 and continued with the translation of the nineteen volumes of Gauchat’s Lettres critiques as part of a publishing project entitled Gli apologisti della religione cristiana ossia raccolta di opere contro gl’increduli. Published first in Rome by Paolo Giunchi,56 and then in Venice from 1784 to 1790 by Carlo Palese, the work was sponsored by Pius VI57 to “confuse the mob of modern thinkers.”58 It was published in several periodicals of the time, and reached a large and varied audience. Among the 200 or so people who subscribed after the first volume of the Venetian edition there were members of the clergy and laity: from the canon

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of Venice Giovanni Battista Gaspari to the bishop of Bergamo Paolo Dolfin; from Pier Antonio Zorzi, rector of the academy of nobles to various professors, students, embassy secretaries and senators like the Bolognese marquis Albergati Capacelli. Also significant is the nationality of the readership: not all were from Venice, but hailed from such places as Padova, Rovigo, Treviso, Verona, Bergamo, Brescia, Crema, Mantova, Piacenza, Ancona, Bologna, Cesena, Ferrara, Recanati, Modena, Reggio, Parma, Florence, Siena, Naples and even Munich.59 This, then, was a striking production which, although it had been printed in Rome by the brothers Marco and Niccolò Pagliarini, and by Paolo Giunchi,60 went on to involve a much wider publishing network throughout the peninsula, from Turin to Parma, from Venice to Naples, where the same works were printed and reprinted repeatedly.

2.

Ecclesiastical Patronage: Writing and Censoring

Although institutional censorship and the confutation programme, which the leaders of the Church promoted or supported, did not always move in the same direction—as we will see further on—the connection between them was in fact extremely close. Far from being a private activity, the task of confutation was often undertaken in response to requests from above. However, the fact that Catholic writers received encouragement and benefaction from the ecclesiastical hierarchy is hardly surprising, seeing that patronage and commissioning constituted a vital function of the publishing process, influencing and sponsoring the difficult work of all men of letters.61 Even so, to confirm the fact that, during the eighteenth century, it was still the world of the Index that gave direction to religious publishing, it is necessary to shed more light on the characteristics of those who placed their pen at the disposal of the Catholic faith. A leading role in ecclesiastical book production was played by the theologians of the Casanatense Library and the secretaries of the Index, whose contiguous relations have already been noted.62 In accordance with longterm strategies, these men generated a literary output aimed at combatting the evils of their time, which, not coincidentally, in the course of the century gradually changed its polemical targets as the old heresies gave way to new ones. Both censorship and writing were in fact integral parts of their profession, and the link between the books on the Index—which, in some cases, they had personally helped to condemn—and their own works are worth highlighting by giving some examples. Following a chronological approach, it may be remembered that at the start of the century Gregorio Selleri had served the anti-Jansenist cause.63 A few decades later, Orsi, who first worked as a Casanatense theologian and then as secretary of the Index (1738–1749), was one of the foremost defenders of the Roman orthodoxy.64 In 1733, he penned an attack on the Protestant Jacques Basnage, whose opera omnia had been proscribed in

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1728 after its earlier partial bans; the following year, he targeted the Jesuit Jean-Baptiste Philippoteau Duchesne, whose Histoire du baianisme ou de l’hérésie de Michel Baius (1731) had been condemned in 1733. He then took a stand against the Gallican doctrine by writing a defence of papal authority, which grew into the Storia ecclesiastica, planned in a meeting with the cardinals Neri Corsini and Passionei and printed in Rome in 1747 by Pagliarini.65 Men like Ricchini then followed Orsi’s lead by writing unhesitatingly in defence of the faith, while others, like Schiara, were fully involved in the debates of the time as authors of works on natural religion and moral philosophy.66 For his part, Mamachi, active in the Casanatense Library in the 1740s and a consultor of the Index (from 1753) before becoming secretary (1779– 1781),67 in 1769 rebutted a work by Antonio Montegnacco against the mortmain (1766), which was added to the Index in the same year.68 Prompted by Pius VI, he then denounced Febronius.69 Mamachi also provided responses to the novatores in texts like La pretesa filosofia de’ moderni increduli (1767), a kind of plagiarism of a pastoral instruction by Pompignan,70 which seems to have led to his appointment, in February 1770, as censor responsible for the Œuvres philosophiques of de La Mettrie, which was banned by the Republic of Venice for its defence of clerical privileges.71 It was also he who, on 28 November 1786, passed judgment on Was ist der Papst? (1782), a violent anti-papal attack by Joseph-Valentin Eybel, translated into Italian from 1782 to 1783, and who refuted, along with many others, the same volume when it appeared in a treatise shortly after.72 The fact that his work was by no means self-determined was confirmed by Mamachi himself, who even mentioned his vain attempts to decline specific requests: In the year 1760, I was asked to write the life of B. Gregorio Barbarigo, and I refused; Mr. Chiavarini, advocate of the cause, told me that it was the intention of the Holy Father Clement XIII that I should write it, so I submitted to the will of his Holiness, wrote the life and presented it to his Blessedness who expressed enjoyment of it. . . . In the years 1763, 1764, 1765, I gave myself completely to confuting the newfangled ideas of a notary, appellant and re-apellant of the Unigenitus constitution. . . . In the years 1768, 1769, 1770 I wrote and had printed by order of the dearly remembered Holy Father Clement XIV the five volumes against the reasoning about temporal goods published in Venice in 1766, and against various other books on the same subject.73 Also of the Casanatense Library, Soldati prepared the way for his rise to the position of secretary of the Index by translating works that challenged to deism and materialism74 and by writing texts attacking books on the Index such as the Discorso istorico-politico by Giuseppe Capecelatro, the Episcopalianist and regalist archbishop of Taranto who represented a reformist ecclesiastical orientation destined for defeat.75

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Of course, it comes as no surprise that the Casanatense Library, with its links to the reading tribunals, was an environment in which would-be defenders of orthodoxy abounded. But it should be made clear that the use of printing to support Catholicism also involved, by tradition, the world of the censors. Suffice it to recall here that the Minor Observant Bianchi was a consultor of the Holy Office when he wrote Della potestà della politia della Chiesa in opposition to works critical of the divine rights of the Church, and, in particular, Giannone’s Istoria civile.76 But the large group of men who had a hand in the war of books extended well beyond the Roman tribunals, being also recruited from the Italian dioceses. Among these combatants were bishops like de’ Liguori, mentioned many times already, whose propensity for dedicating his works to the pope reveals an unavoidable dependence on the Roman powers.77 As for the priests, there was Molinari, who by attacking the work of Sansevero placed himself at the service of the anti-pantheist cause;78 he also denounced Genovesi to the Inquisition, thereby precluding the scholar from obtaining a professorship in theology.79 Sometimes, as said, it was the popes who encouraged the writing of texts against books on the Index. The Anti-Febbronio by the Jesuit Zaccaria, promoted by Clement XIII and written in defence of his “divine rights,” was dedicated to him;80 Clement XIV, on the other hand, solicited the translation of the works of Bergier, while Pius VI focused on Gauchat’s Lettres critiques. In short, pressure from on high, like that which drove the Minor Reformed Friar Idelfonso da Bressanvido to publish his Istruzioni morali,81 was undoubtedly prevalent. Spurred on by the ecclesiastical hierarchy, the art of confutation also did not escape the eagle eye of preventive censorship. This is well illustrated by the journey from writing to publication of the antiphilosophique book by the Jesuit Giambattista Noghera, Riflessioni su la filosofia del bello spirito, published anonymously by the Remondini in 1767.82 According to a claim made by the author in a letter to the publishers, to whom he presented his work “on the philosophy that nowadays makes a lot of noise, contrary to all humanity and religion, both natural and Christian,” the Riflessioni had long been subject to examination by “various knowledgeable people,” including the Commissioner of the Holy Office.83 The dedication to the pope, a sign of loyalty to orthodoxy, appeared to give assurances of a wide circulation. Ildefonso da Bressanvido, for example, wrote that: By being dedicated to the pope [a text] can circulate in Rome and in the Papal State: and among the bishops of our state, and among those where I preached, among my superior generals, and among my patrons and friends will do everything possible for it to be received.84 To fully appreciate the part played by the hierarchy in promoting editorial production in defence of Catholicism, we must recognise that the close

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relations between members of the Roman congregations and the rest of the clergy were also important. For example, the Dominican Valsecchi turned to the consultor of the Holy Office Bernardo Maria de Rubeis to exchange views on the latest books: he confided in “his wise opinion” when challenging works of Voltaire and Rousseau that Cardinal Delle Lanze had received.85 These connections were similarly instrumental in the reprinting of books in various parts of the peninsula.86 As part of the interrelationship of patronage, the art of confutation offered a way up the pecking order of the Church hierarchy.87 Naturally, not everyone realised his career ambitions, and there were those, like Giacinto Cerutti, who either strove in vain or failed to demonstrate total reliability. Cerutti’s extensive apologetic activity, which concentrated on the translation of antiphilosophique texts and was aimed at obtaining a lucrative position in the Curia, did not prevent him from dying without enough money to pay for his burial.88 Nonetheless, the ability to write in the service of the faith clearly did prove beneficial to many careers. Illustrative of this fact is the professional path of one of the men of letters most involved in the mission to safeguard Roman Catholicism, namely the Barnabite Gerdil. Born in Savoy in 1718, Gerdil studied in Bologna in the 1730s and there became a close collaborator of the then bishop Lambertini before transferring to the Barnabite college in Macerata and later securing a professorship in Piedmont. His way had been paved by two works against Locke, published ten years after the English philosopher had been placed on the Index (1734–1737), at a time when the Church was closed ranks in the face of the radicalisation of the cultural debate. Those works were followed by publications such as the Introduzione allo studio della religione (1755) dedicated to Benedict XIV. Marked by the publication of confutations of texts on the Index, his cursus honorum moved between the State of Savoy and the Church to end, finally, in the ecclesiastical hierarchy: starting as a censor, he was appointed cardinal in pectore in 1773, and then a regular cardinal under Pius VI, and in 1777 became prefect of the Index and theological advisor to Pius VI.89 Without wishing to bring into the open overly mechanical relationships between the defence of the patrimonium fidei and social ascent, it has to be acknowledged that the list of those who gained an advantage by writing in favour of the Church appears long. It includes men like the priest Della Torre, who, after having written a confutation of Meslier, became a bishop,90 and the abbot Roberti, who for his good offices obtained a pension from Clement XIV.91 The work against Fréret written by the Scolopian Bruni with the backing of Pius VI, to whom it was dedicated, led to his move to Rome as an examiner of bishops.92 The Piano per dar regolato sistema al moderno spirito filosofico (1776) earned the priest Zaguri the bishopric of Ceneda (1778), and—his biographers write—Pius VI trusted him so much that he did not require him to be duly examined for the post, believing his book, whose fifth edition was dedicated to his holy self, to

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be more than adequate for the purpose.93 The former Jesuit Zaccaria was appointed professor of ecclesiastical history in the Sapienza of Rome, by the same Pius VI, who confirmed the annual pension granted to him by Clement XIII for his campaign against Febronius.94 By the same token, thanks to his activities in support of Catholicism, the priest Spedalieri in 1784 was made a beneficiary of the Vatican Basilica by Pius VI.95 As for the missionary and preacher Andrea Marini, it was through his book Degli errori di Guglielmo Tommaso Raynal (Brescia, 1788) that he obtained a collegiate church in Brescia.96 Finally, Muzzarelli was rewarded by Pius VI with the post of theologian of the Apostolic Penitentiary.97

3.

The Index and the Printing Press

The public confutation strategy which used the press as a channel did not, however, replicate institutional ecclesiastical censorship. On the contrary, far from adhering completely to Roman directives, it sometimes showed by its actions how much it disagreed with them. For example, in the case of Scipione Maffei’s Dell’impiego del danaro (1744), which was moderately favourable to usury,98 the book was never placed on the Index, but instead Benedict XIV’s 1745 encyclical Vix pervenit was devoted to the issue, and was subsequently inserted in a new edition of Maffei’s work, published in Rome by the Stamperia vaticana the same year.99 The encyclical, which was open to a number of interpretations, naturally incentivised different positions within the Church. Men like the Veronese priest Pietro Ballarini and the Dominican Concina (who had served on the 1745 commission that investigated the problem of usury) quickly intervened with strong criticism by propounding a rigorist reading of the encyclical, but this was given no support by the pope.100 This manœuvre, which bypassed the Index, conformed to the policy launched by Benedict XIV towards Catholic men of letters: to promote self-correction rather than pursue repressive objectives. But, in some other cases the silence of the Index was indicative of a cautious handling of people who enjoyed a level of protection. Thus, Fleury’s Histoire ecclésiastique (1691) was never included in the Index librorum prohibitorum owing to pressure from France, although it did become the polemical target of the aforementioned Storia ecclesiastica by Orsi.101 In addition, there existed a public censorship—parallel to that of the Index—that adopted stances much more conservative than those of the reading tribunals, which were by no means indulgent. For instance, the edition of Verri’s Meditazioni sulla felicità (1763), published with critical annotations by the friar Facchinei, lambasted a text that hitherto had escaped institutional proscription.102 And Gerdil wrote an argument against Rousseau’s Discours, which likewise had been spared official condemnation.103 On the other hand, some rebuttals catered to the needs of political power. There was in fact no lack of lay critics in the service of the states. One thinks of the Osservazioni sopra il libro del signor Elvezio intitolato Lo Spirito,

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written by the jurist Giambattista Almici in 1766 and dedicated to Angelo Contarini, Venetian procurator and reformer of the University of Padova. Almici called his work a true “confutation” of a text deemed to be among the most dangerous for “insinuating false, dangerous, and detestable precepts in a veiled way.”104 It should also be said, in passing, that works of confutation, which adopted the traditional controversial style, were not the only form used in censorship. Of fundamental importance were the translations aimed at defusing the radical aspects of texts by a skilful mix of cuts and additions. An illustration of this is the Italian edition (1757–1759) of De iure annotated by Almici, an “expurgated” treatise whose aim was precisely this kind of “rectification.” Almici declared that: I have set out to fight it, and to confuse it in every place where I have found it to dissent from Roman Catholic precepts, countering it by establishing the solid, healthy judgments that our Church supports and defends.105 In practical terms, to review the changes that occurred in the ecclesiastical control of reading during the eighteenth century, one must evaluate not only the systematic way in which the hierarchy used the printing press to discredit texts on the Index, enhancing a time-honoured strategy. Rather, the first thing to consider is the different relationship that was established step by step between the Roman institutional censorship and the activity of public confutations taking place within the Italian and European publishing market. The relationship was so tightly woven that it is not always easy to unravel the threads. Nevertheless, the trend that emerges, and not as a single line, is the fact that, while in the early century official condemnations were usually expressed first, the link between censorship and writing later became circular and slowly turned to the advantage of the publishing market in the late century, when, among other things, as proof of ongoing modifications, the number of texts being added to the Index decreased substantially.106 The study of the circulation of judgments and censorship decrees, and of the mutual influence that different types of texts had on each other, allows us to deepen the analysis of the ecclesiastical control mechanisms and to apprehend important changes. The censorship judgments did not remain closed within the fortresses of the Index and Inquisition, but affected other literary genres, in the sense that they influenced each other. Before the condemned works were inserted in the Index librorum prohibitorum, through annual listings or regular updates, the decrees were circulated in the peninsula, being posted in churches so that the faithful were directly informed. Such decrees—as we have seen—in some cases summarised the censors’ decisions and offered directions for reading, which were taken up in the works of confutation and other texts, such as reviews published in periodicals and conduct manuals, as we shall see.

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The fact that the decrees of the Index continued to impact on the affairs of a section of eighteenth-century publishing is beyond doubt. The Jesuits in particular were exponents of it, forming close relations with the Remondini of Bassano del Grappa with the aim of using the press as a weapon in the defence of orthodoxy. Those who sought to steer editorial decisions were battle-hardened men who had resisted the entry of prohibited texts into Italy. First among many was abbot Roberti,107 who came from Bassano and had from the 1750s introduced a large number of Jesuit authors, including Zaccaria, to the Bassanese publishers. He not only obtained catalogues from the Remondini in order to take a note of texts for his periodical Storia letteraria d’Italia,108 but also acted as mediator with the Spanish and French booksellers who were proposing translations109 and reprints.110 Apart from refusing to agree to the publication of books like those by the Dominican Concina,111 he strongly discouraged other translations: “As for the philosophy of Wolff”—he said, for example—it would be better to abandon “the planned translation; it is a book that should from every point of view be left in the language it was written in, and should not be spread to Italy.”112 Between the 1750s and 1780s, many prominent people of the publishing world, such as the aforementioned Noghera113 and Antonio Calogerà, were in contact with the Remondini. The latter, in 1754, strongly advised against the translation of Montesquieu’s Esprit des lois: “I’ve been told,” he said, “that you wish to have the Spirito delle leggi translated; do not do it. It has been denied to others, it is impious, and you’ll never be given a licence for it.”114 However, at the same time the slow but steady retreat of the Index should not be overlooked. More and more censorship judgments were implementing the conservative demands of the Italian and European literary world: institutional censorship, in other words, was now subject to external pressures and, in the interplay of mutual conditioning, the publishing market offered incentives to upgrade the Index prohibitorum against modern errors. Some examples illustrate this transition well. The institutional condemnation of Montesquieu’s treatise was encouraged by the strong attack of the Dominican Concina in the sixth volume of his Theologia christiana dogmatico-moralis (1750); and the judgment of Tommaso Emaldi seems to have been influenced by the criticism of the abbot Joseph de La Porte.115 In writing their reports, the censors explicitly used not only confutations of the books they were examining,116 but also parliamentary arrêts117 and public retractions, as well as devastating reviews taken from contemporary periodicals.118 A good example of this is the case of Dei delitti e delle pene (July 1764): well before the formal condemnation of the treatise by the Index (1766), the sale of the work had been prohibited since August of the same year by the inquisitors of the Venetian Republic. And it was in Venice that the Note e osservazioni by Facchinei had been published in 1765, and the ideas of the author, who described Beccaria as an esprit fort,119 were used by the Jesuit Lazzeri in his censorial recommendation.120 Index censorship,

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therefore, was renewed by using the channels of the book market in a context that saw a progressive expansion of the places and forms of censorship in the public space. This change suggests the hypothesis that the origin of certain phenomena considered typical of nineteenth-century history can in fact be traced back to the eighteenth century. Bruno Neveu has made a fine reconstruction of the transformations that took place between the eighteenth and nineteenth century in the way in which the Church developed and made public its dogmatic apparatus. Heedful of official documents—that is, of the sources wholly internal to the ecclesiastical institution—Neveu has emphasised in particular the transition from the use of censorship to that of the encyclical, identifying the turning point as the Auctorem fidei of 1794 against the Acts of the Synod of Pistoia.121 In reality, the aforementioned Vix pervenit of 1745 on usury should be seen as but one precedent of it. But the most noteworthy factor is that, in order to broadcast its doctrinal position, the Church turned to the lay instruments of modern publishing. This was a fundamental change of course, which to be fully grasped now requires us to focus attention on the periodical press, whose relations with the Index of Prohibited Books gradually altered over the years of the ancien régime crisis.

4.

Uses of the Periodical Press

Although the growth of journalistic enterprises in eighteenth-century Italy precludes a systematic examination of the relationship between ecclesiastical censorship and the periodical press, some observations can and should be made. First and foremost, it is noteworthy that it was members of the Roman Curia who founded the first Italian periodical, the Giornale de’ letterati (1668).122 This journal relied heavily on the ecclesiastical authorities, as is shown by the collaborators’ commitment to self-censorship.123 Nonetheless, contrary to what might be expected, the whole venture was a complicated affair. The Giornale vacillated between loyalty to orthodoxy and openness to modern knowledge, and gave voice to some of the Church’s internal divisions, so much so that some collaborators broke away to create another journal with the same name a few years later.124 When, in 1742, more than eighty years later, Benedict XIV prompted the launch of a new Giornale de’ letterati (1742–1759), it was the first periodical (excluding the gazettes) published in Rome in the eighteenth century, and moreover it was certainly an important shift in the cultural strategy of the papacy. The use of periodicals—as also the shrewd management of local academies by prominent figures in the Roman censorship apparatus, such as the then secretary of the Index, Orsi—helped to advance Lamberti’s policy of managing the intellectual elites.125 Among the journal’s most active editors were men who inhabited the censorship world, such as Michelangelo Giacomelli, who had written the first version of the encyclical against the

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Enlightenment,126 and the Domenican Mamachi, a Casanatense theologian. Yet, despite its direct links with the practice of censorship,127 it would be a mistake to perceive in this monthly—still addressed to a highbrow readership and concealing Jansenist sympathies—the long arm of the Congregation of the Index. In the mid-eighteenth century, it was the periodicals linked to the Jesuits that displayed the greatest consistency and corporate spirit, and they played a vital role in transforming the periodical press—initially seen as a possible space for the free exercise of libertas philosophandi (bringing to mind the Caffè experience)—into an instrument at the service of orthodoxy. Evidence of how the periodicals reflected the internal tensions of the Church can be seen in the part played in this regard by the Storia letteraria d’Italia (1748–1755), a critical review of the latest books published annually by the Jesuit Zaccaria in Venice and, later, Modena,128 and which continued under the name Annali letterari d’Italia (1762–1764). Zaccaria waged war, for example, against Muratori, whose works, despite being examined in Rome, had not been prohibited.129 The objective was clear: the author hoped for the spread “of some hitherto unknown disease to eat away at the paper used for destructive useless and wicked writings”;130 and—as a clear sign of ties with the world of the Inquisition—published Giannone’s abjuration,131 as well as arguing against the Encyclopédie model.132 Unsurprisingly, it was Zaccaria who made the proposal addressed to Pius VI in 1776–1777 to focus on the periodical press as a reliable tool in the service of confutation: There are some bad books that do not merit any further confutation than that of a good article in a journal; there are those that need separate books in response; but these books are not made in an instant, and in the meantime the bad books circulate and do damage. But what advantage would not be offered by an article, which would warn the reading public against such works, in order for them not to be seduced recklessly? Having settled on a response the journal should voice it, and by putting it in its true light a new and very strong attack against the impugned book would be made and would benefit the many who, either for laziness or for ignorance, or for other serious occupations, are not in a state to read certain masterly works.133 In 1784, another former Jesuit had seen in this passage the keystone essential to the maintenance of intellectual hegemony. Criticising, among other things, the “scholastic pedantries” of the preachers, he defined journalists as the “Rhadamanthuses of literature”: it was up to their judgment to “confine and curb the torrent” of infamous books, “in order that their full turbid flood does not submerge the scarce advances of good literature.”134 It was mainly through the rapid pace of periodicals that at the end of the eighteenth century, there transpired a headlong rush towards the art of

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printing and away from the slow and cumbersome censorship procedures of the Index and the Inquisition. While confutations were an instrument useful for reaching undisciplined readers, they could be even more effective when they were able to strike against dangerous books promptly. Thus, the war of books found its greatest expression in the genre of the review aimed at providing precise information about books. The Efemeridi letterarie, which was published from January 1772 and quickly became a communication channel for the politics of Pius VI, reveals how the Roman hierarchy used the periodical press to defend the patrimonium fidei.135 The journal had a reformist heart concerned with the development of the sciences and the economy, and was linked in particular to Cristofano Amaduzzi, but that did not prevent it from affirming the rights of papal primacy and doctrinal orthodoxy136 (a review, in the launch issue, of Orsi’s Storia ecclesiastica continued by Filippo Angelico Becchetti was eloquent in this regard).137 As a weekly that could keep up to date with the book trade, the Efemeridi was directed towards a broad readership: the “lovers of serious things, and equally of slight and erudite ones.”138 It also provided for the clergy by, for example, reviewing collections of sermons.139 As regards the laity, it made provision not only for the scholarly, but also for inexperienced readers who seemed in particular danger.140 Right from the start, the line followed by the journal was clearly identifiable: it matched the then policies of the Index, namely, defence of the primacy of Saint Peter and strong opposition to the Italian and European culture of the Enlightenment. In 1772, for instance, it announced texts designed to crush the “evil book by Febronius,”141 antiphilosophique volumes that picked apart materialist and deist trends,142 works that warned against novels,143 and rebuttals of banned authors such as Pilati and Beccaria.144 The relationship with the prohibitions of the Index was amply confirmed. Thus, the hopeful wait for the release of the Riflessioni politiche by the Enlightenment thinker Gaetano Filangieri went unrewarded.145 Following the prohibition of the Scienza della legislazione (1784), the late Filangieri had in fact been listed among those who had unwisely manifested a “mania for furiously attacking Vatican legislation,” expressing “no slight insults against the Roman pontiffs.”146 The same authors then declared that before seeing the light of the great Rome our writings pass under the gaze of authoritative judges, no less authoritative than learned and clear-sighted. By giving commands they sometimes also give literary light that, like clever touches in paintings, make interesting even shadows and uncertainties of thought.147 Furthermore, in the 1770s one of the collaborators—the abbot Cerutti— opined in private that the Efemeridi would be better “if we were not cruelly enslaved and tied up.”148

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In effect, the Efemeridi letterarie was used as a countermeasure against prohibited books by promoting the public confutations of them printed in Italy and Europe. Worthy of special note is the fact that it also advertised original-language editions of books in addition to their Italian translations. To cite just a few examples: the journal lavished praise on the French version of Bergier’s Examen du materialisme (Paris, 1771) before the Italian translation of 1772–1773 came on the scene,149 and Voltaire parmi les ombres (1775) by the Dominican Richard was quickly reviewed in its French edition of 1776.150 Contemporary books aimed at combatting philosophie were recommended with exemplary promptness. In 1773, the journal advertised, among many others, Della Torre’s Il Teopompo (1773); in 1775 the Opere del sig. Bergier contro gl’increduli moderni, published in Rome from 1770; in 1777 the Ragionamento sull’irreligione del barone Haller (1777), translated by Soldati; in 1778 the Analisi dell’esame critico del signor Nicola Fréret sulle prove del cristianesimo (1778) by Spedalieri. And, again, in 1783 it endorsed Muzzarelli’s Emilio disingannato (1782–1783) and, in 1785, the translation, printed in Rome by Desideri a year earlier, of the Avvertimento dell’assemblea generale del clero di Francia tenuta nel 1775 against “devious disbelief.”151The periodical, moreover, helped to promote Gli apologisti della religione cristiana ossia raccolta di opere contro gl’increduli, working with Giunchi and Settari to collect subscriptions in August 1783 and sending a clear message to its readers: in times when “impious [books], so full of the greatest crimes . . . are read, and are relished by even the most simple and idiotic people” it was necessary to make more available the writings of those skilled reasoners, who with their wholesome argumentation have analysed the works of our times, convicted them of falsehood and error, and make clear the truths that they had endeavoured to obscure.152 It was the editors who took care of announcing all the volumes of the “lavish arsenal of weapons”153 made ready by Pius VI: this meant “associating in some way with the merit of this most useful enterprise, by helping . . . more and more to make it known, and propagating it.”154 Furthermore, the journal occasionally anticipated the public condemnation of the Roman censorship institutions. This happened to Gorani’s Il vero dispotismo (1770), a work identified in June 1772 as “deserving to lie buried in oblivion,”155 but only placed on the Index on 26 August 1773; similarly, Helvétius’s De l’homme (1773) was harshly criticised in the periodical in March 1774,156 but not officially banned until the following August. But for all that, the birth of an organ that was the Vatican’s very own marked a turning point in the relations between the Index and the periodical press. The Giornale ecclesiastico di Roma, inspired by Pius VI and published from 1785 to 1798 by the printer Giovanni Zempel, thanks to the efforts of some former employees of the Efemeridi letterarie, was the

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first official mouthpiece of the Roman Curia (the editors received an annual pension from the Holy See).157 Directed by Luigi Cuccagni, the Giornale made use of men like Gerdil, prefect of the Congregation of the Index, and Mamachi, then the Master of the Sacred Palace, and of authors like Giovanni Marchetti, who was a translator of works favourable to papal primacy in addition to being a preacher.158 The influence of Cardinal Giuseppe Garampi, a protagonist of the Catholic fightback in defence of the faith and the pope’s power in Catholic Europe, was considerable.159 Scrolling through the pages of this journal discloses in full the strategies deployed by the Church with respect to books and reading during the twilight of the ancien régime. Its objective was clear-cut: To shut the mouth of those enemies of the Holy See, and of those libertines of the century, who by confusing freedom with the abuse of it, pretend that in Rome there is no freedom of thought and writing, and that men of genius are kept imprisoned by language. The link with the hierarchy was apparent to all, given the commitment, which never wavered, to publish official documents: papal briefs and bulls, decrees of the Roman congregations, and pastoral instructions. The title, with its reference to the capital of Catholicism and the ecclesiastical cosmos, should not mislead us. The journal aspired to universality, aiming to select books published throughout the Catholic world in order to spread them among all good Christians. And the intent to make known the best works published in Europe “relating to the Church” was interpreted broadly, in view of the journal’s strong interest in secular culture. The target readership appears to have also been broad, being defined as “all kinds of people, and especially priests of one clergy or another, parish priests and bishops,” but, more generally, the journal hoped to satisfy the “curiosity of learned people.”160 Whereas it commended certain pastoral instructions and sermons about books and reading to the ecclesiastics,161 to the laity—directly or indirectly through cultural mediators—it recommended educational manuals such as Antoniano’s Della educazione cristiana,162 as well as antiphilosophique novels, from the Comte de Valmont (1774) by Philippe-Louis Gérard to Helviennes (1781–1784) by the former Jesuit Augustin Barruel, which aimed to “unmask the philosophisers (filosofanti) of the century.”163 The policy of the Giornale, which was published weekly and offered brief and succinct reviews, had three strands: prohibition, confutation and recuperation by means of wholesome reading. It published the decrees of the Index and the Inquisition, usually a few months or at most a year after their issuance.164 Confutations took the form of critical reviews of prohibited works. For example, during 1787 four anti-Jansenist reviews were published to discredit Pietro Tamburini’s Praelectiones, published that year, which supported the authority of the bishops on the subject of book censorship.165 The advertisement of pro-papist and antiphilosophique works contributed

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to the spread of good texts. In defence of the rights of the pontiff, the journal cited the works of Mamachi, in particular his rebuttal of the book by Eybel166 and other anti-Jansenist texts.167 In an anti-Enlightenment perspective, it vouched for Gauchat’s Catechismo del libro Dell’Esprit (1784) and Marini’s Degli errori di Guglielmo Tommaso Raynal (1788).168 Advice was given about theological works adapted to corroborate the official faith, such as those of Gerdil and Valsecchi,169 and also anti-deism guidebooks, such as L’incredulo guidato alla religion rivelata (1783).170 The link with the Index was complex. Sometimes attacks were made on works prohibited only recently and at other times on books banned for much longer. To give an example, the Italian translation of Montaigne’s Saggi, condemned in French in 1676, was considered harmful because it had made “accessible the deadly poison even to those who could not drink it from the source.”171 But in other cases, the issuing of the Index’s institutional censures was actually anticipated.172 What is more, the Giornale, which thus served the purpose of speeding up the announcement of decrees ensuing from institutional censorship, did not limit itself to a mere passive reception of official directives. Rather, it played a proactive part in rallying the academics, inviting them to write in favour of Catholic doctrine. By destroying De la philosophie de la nature, for example, it aimed at the same time to offer sufficient antidote to anyone capable of reading it, and [to] stimulate the zeal of some Christian philosopher from Rome especially, or from Italy, so that they would carry out a more complete confutation, which the world currently seems to be without.173

5.

Antidotes Against the “Itch to Philosophise”

Making use of the editorial sphere therefore not only involved attending to religious literary categories (catechisms, manuals for confessors, sermons), but also attempting to tame, through a process of spiritualisation, secular genres that had sprung up or developed as means of criticising the religious and political institutions of the ancien régime. As had happened during the Counter-Reformation, when widely disseminated works had been returned to the fold of Christian morality (one thinks of Ariosto’s poem),174 during the eighteenth century, attention turned to texts used by the philosophique culture in order to facilitate a greater flow of ideas: from the dictionary to the novel, products not only oriented towards a wider public, but also filled with strongly political and therefore much more dangerous contents. How the encyclopaedia model spread throughout the peninsula—sometimes meeting resistance and sometimes undergoing reorientation—is known to some degree. Italy was the only European context in which the French Encyclopédie was re-edited in an operation aimed at dulcifying its contents and defusing its most subversive elements.175 In this regard, it is

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worth remembering the hostility aroused by similar publications, such as the Enciclopedia italiana by the Venetian former Jesuit Alessandro Zorzi, which had in the fact been with an apologetic intent.176 On the other hand, the translations of Ephraim Chambers’s Cyclopaedia, which is considered “a Catholic counterbalance” to the encyclopaedia of the Enlightenment,177 or else a “reassuring and orthodox version capable of overcoming the possible resistance aroused by the controversy surrounding encyclopaedias,”178 show how the genre had made progress in the peninsula once it had been changed in relation to its original intentions, that is, after being adapted for use by Catholic readers. Nor was there a lack of translations of European dictionaries, mainly French ones, written to defend Catholicism in defiance of the Enlightenment; these included the Dizionario filosofo-teologico by the Jesuit Aimé-Henri Paulian,179 the Dizionario filosofico della religione by Nonnotte,180 and the Dizionario di teologia by Bergier.181 The Catholic culture of Italy responded to the contemporary mutation in the forms of cultural communication by using the same strategies of its adversaries, as is clearly confirmed by tracing the origins of the antiphilosophique novel, a genre whose objective was to oppose the principles of the Enlightenment and which should be considered in the wider context of Europe. Attention has already been drawn to the part played in the book war by the Jesuits, who, after initially waging war against novels in the first half of the century,182 started to work on turning them into instruments ad maiorem Dei gloriam. France saw the publication of works like L’aventurier chinois, published anonymously in 1773 by the Jesuit Jean-Louis Coster, and Le libertin devenu vertueux, published, again anonymously, by a former confrere, Louis Domairon in 1777.183 The prime example was the aforementioned epistolary novel Les Helviennes, ou lettres provinciales philosophiques (1781–1784), an account of the misadventures of a baroness who came into contact with Enlightenment works. This, too, was printed anonymously, by the Jesuit Barruel.184 In Spain the genre found expression in texts like Eusebio (1786), by the former Jesuit Pedro Montengón.185 In reality, the Jesuits—occupied with the educational process in line with the Society’s traditions, predisposed to the moral use of literature,186 and physicians rather than judges of the human heart187—employed strategies that seem to have involved, more generally, the clergy and the Catholic world. Among those who tried their hand at writing novels were men like the abbot Gérard, canon of Saint-Louis du Louvre and author of the aforementioned Comte de Valmont ou les égarements de la raison, a runaway publishing success that told the story of a conversion from philosophie to Catholicism.188 Originating in France, the antiphilosophique novel initially spread through the Italian Peninsula in its original language, and then also through homegrown works. In retracing its roots in Italy, it should be borne in mind that reflections on the educational use of literature and the novel (a lowly genre within literary tradition) were not entirely unknown in the Catholic

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culture of the early eighteenth century. Defining novels as “silent tutors,” Huet, in his Traité de l’origine des romans (Paris, 1670), translated into Italian in Venice in 1740, had accurately defined their moral function.189 And this was the role that authors like Muratori attributed to literature: “didactic and instructive books,” in his eyes, did nothing but bore the young; their education would be better served by comedies and novels capable of correcting vice and extolling virtue.190 Nevertheless, the formulation of a scheme similar to that which—again mainly thanks to the labours of the Jesuits—had skilfully transformed the theatre into a Catholic reconquest tool,191 was applied to novels at a time when the Italian Enlightenment began to contemplate its educational role in the founding of a new social morality. During the 1780s, books such as Giuseppe Maria Galanti’s Osservazioni intorno a’ romanzi192 appeared, as did, most importantly, the fourth volume of Gaetano Finalgieri’s Science of legislation, in which the reading of novels was recommended for children as well as adults.193 The response of the Catholic world came in the form of stories quite different from the standard spiritually uplifting novel, such as Father Giuseppe Orsini’s Racconto di Boldrino Paneri (1700) or Sebastiano Rovida’s Storia della pastorella Valsesiana (1765).194 The 1760s saw the start of the publication of translations of European spiritual novels written from an anti-Enlightenment perspective, such as father Michel-Ange Marin’s Il Baron Van-Esden ovvera la repubblica degl’increduli (1765).195 But it was in the following decades that exponents of the antiphilosophique culture, like count Benvenuto Robbio di San Raffaele, after having railed against the romance genre, changed their approach by becoming storytellers. A definitive example is the episode described in Emirena: after reading and rereading the classics of the Enlightenment—Helvétius, Voltaire and other “enemies of religion”—the protagonist begins her descent into ruin by going to parties and banquets, as well as by carrying dress and makeup to extremes, with the result that she drives away her husband and son and endangers her health. Reading philosophique texts—this was the moral of the story for the female readership—leads to loss of faith, and thus to immoral behaviour dictated by mere selfishness. Only a reconversion to the Catholic faith eventually brings the woman back to the family fold, even if this does not save her from the punishment of illness and death. An appendix to the work, the Avvisi dell’autore sui libri empi, then informs readers of books to avoid.196 The intended goal was the radical overturning of the contents of philosophique novels, as is shown by the title of the anonymous work L’AntiCandido, o sia l’amico della verità (1781), written, the preface stated, “since we are in a season in which morality is in peril.” Published under the anagrammatic pseudonym “ELRI-VTAO,” the book attacked Voltaire and in particular his idea of tolerance.197 While the philosophique novel not only spread the values of the Enlightenment, but also sought to transform

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the reader himself into a philosophe able to fight against the principle of authority,198 the antiphilosophique novel instead taught respect for that principle. Moreover, the novel served as the battleground for the struggle between the morality of the Catholic Church and the secular morality of the Enlightenment. The ongoing changes, of which the Italian translation of Barruel’s Helviennes (1786)—a text for “everyone”199—was a sign, emerge with clarity in the reflection of the former Jesuit Juan Andrés, who carried out a rigorous selection of novels and provided specific reading guidelines. Not all contemporary novels were to be recommended, and definitely to be avoided were the “inchoate and monstrous works . . . that came out of the defective fantasies of the young Crebillon, of Diderot, and of certain other French authors.” Nothing good came from reading Candide, Zadig and Micromégas, in part because of their many “incongruous satirical passages.” But good “moral” novels did exist, such as Marin’s religious ones and Fénelon’s Télémaque, which Andrés thought offered “lessons in the most simple and pure morality.” The Nouvelle Héloïse was not excluded from his list of “praiseworthy” tales: although Rousseau appeared to be affected by the “itch to philosophise,” the novel nonetheless depicted an example of sacrifice through marriage. The epitome, however, was Richardson’s Clarisse, which was capable of stirring up contempt for “the odious race of libertines” through its representation of the “wicked and infamous” Lovelace. The effects of reading moral novels seemed without doubt beneficial, because it could “penetrate into the most secret corners of the heart” and move readers “without [the heart] being able to resist” so that the principles of religion and morality are instilled in a way that is easy and touching, which make them agreeable even to less mature readers; vices are painted in colours most likely to inspire horror; and virtue is presented in a good light, so that it is loved all the more even by the most dissolute libertines.200 That novels were exceptional educational tools was an opinion shared widely by the men of letters of the period, notwithstanding their different ideological orientations. It was no wonder, then, that the Catholic world made use of them to confront the much-feared changes under way in the realm of morality. It is in fact worth looking more deeply into the issue of the origins of Catholic narrative in the Italian Peninsula, as well as its success among the public, and to evaluate how the novel was not only opposed, but later also monopolised, by the Church with the result that it marked at length the history of the genre. Catholic fiction had in fact been practised long before, in the 1820s to 1840s, when the Trentino Jesuit Antonio Bresciani wrote his novels about good behaviour, including Lo zuavo pontificio.201 It is no coincidence that the works of one of the most celebrated novelists of eighteenth-century Italy, namely Pietro

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Chiari (another former Jesuit), manifest socially and politically conservative principles.202 Leaving aside an issue that would lead us too far away from our main focus, it is worth pausing to consider the anonymity of many of the Italian and European antiphilosophique novels mentioned above. Anonymity was a basic characteristic decided upon as an intelligent response on the part of the Catholic world to contemporary commercialisation of knowledge. The rejection of authorship in the name of the public good of Christian society was a deliberate ideological choice. One of the many to theorise this in Italy was Count Robbio di San Raffaele, who wrote Condotta de’ letterati, a guide for “young scholars to standards of proper conduct.”203 Outlining the “mission” of the Catholic man of letters, he underlined the absolute necessity of renouncing personal glory—which the Republic of Letters had to offer—in order to devote oneself instead to the spiritual care of the reader. The man of letters was not to act for “the vile motives of pride” or for “sordid gain”: in other words, he should not become one of the “pompous and greedy writers of smoke and wind,” but one of those who “helping others with their [own] understanding, expect no reward other than the inviolable silence of doing good.” Robbio participated fully in the contemporary debate on the social role of men of letters and his reflections contrasted sharply with the position of d’Alembert, whom he accused of reducing “literature to vile profiteering.”204 During the years when the medical profession helped to draw attention to the physical health of lettered men, who were subject to specific illnesses,205 the Catholic world addressed the question of their soul and reopened a debate that had its roots in the post-Tridentine era. After the great works of the past (the model par excellence was Bartoli’s Uomo di lettere, 1645), clear rules were again needed for authors, thus creating a “morality of the scholars.” The Catholic author was expected to be “religious, respectable, moderate and prudent.”206 Directly involved in a disciplinary process of writing, he ought to “be disgusted by everything that could stir up phantoms.” Acting as a mediator between the literature of his own time and that of the past, especially the classical legacy, he had to “mark with a stroke of the pen those lewd passages so that who sees them so indicated will leave them out forever.” Hence the expurgated editions of the ancients, who deemed it good to eliminate the “filth” with “some cuts of the scythe here and there.”207 Moreover, the Catholic author ought not to “put the senses in turmoil and fire the imagination with flattering studies” and “not spread crooked and pernicious principles,” especially when writing not in Latin, but “in living languages and the vernacular, of things not beyond the average intelligence of men.”208 In short, he had to exercise self-control and self-censorship: this was a road taken in the past and also indicated clearly by Roberti when, “talk[ing] chiefly to men of letters,” he had urged those who knew they had a “tainted” pen to follow the example of those writers who, having repented, had “made a fire” of their unwholesome works.209

Protecting the Eyes to Protect the Soul

6.

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The effort to promote the formation of good Catholic men of letters who could help protect orthodoxy, was closely associated with the development of real pedagogic training with regard to reading. Apart from the catechisms and sermons—to which we must return—conduct manuals had an important part to play. This was a genre that enjoyed an extraordinary flowering in the eighteenth century, partly because of a new interest in pedagogy and partly due to the need to make a comprehensive response to the educational and political system proposed by Rousseau in Émile. Many of these manuals, which named the books to avoid and those to read and reread, were the work of the clergy, a fact which highlights the close link between catechetical instruction and pedagogical literature. This link is not surprising given that within the feared attack on religion the danger of a general subversion of ethics and social morality had been perceived. However, the size of the relevant public raised a point of the upmost importance: while religious texts referred to the disciplining of both the faithful and the clergy and, therefore, touched on internal management problems of the Church, the manuals were instead aimed directly at the laity and thus suggested a plan for the education of civil society as a whole, not only for the intellectual, elite but also for the broader audience of presumed readers. It is impossible to work out a single chronology for the emergence of manuals aimed specifically at controlling behaviour in the matter of books, for timescales were determined by the particular audience to which the texts were addressed. As regards the nobility, rules about reading correlated with those about etiquette, although obviously over the years, they were adapted in reaction to new dangers contained in books. We have already seen that some texts aimed at young aristocrats resolutely affirmed the dangers of reading, emphasising that “discussions pass, but books remain in our hands: we have time to think about them, to swallow the poison in them.”210 The care given to the scions of noble families continued over time, and in that respect it is enough to note the example of the Barnabite Gerdil, who, as tutor to the future Savoyard king Charles Emmanuel IV, in the 1770s taught his pupil to observe the bans of Rome, not allowing him to read Marmontel’s Bélisaire and La Fontaine’s Favole, since both were listed on the Index.211 Among the laymen faithful to the Church, was the exemplary count Robbio di San Raffaele, who, in the 1780s, was royal reviser of books in the Kingdom of Savoy and an anti-Enlightenment crusader. As such, he urged young nobles to get a “lasting divorce from those many little books of passion or filth.”212 In Del gran mondo, on the basis of personal experience, he enumerated the contemporary books that should be banned.213 This normative literature did not exclude “gentlewomen,” who by tradition were given advice about books; thus, in the middle of the century, the abbot Zucchino Stefani counselled them in seven lectures on the wise use of time, one discourse attacking “obscene novels.”214

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Educational texts designed to offer rules about reading to a wider public began to appear in the 1760s, when the genre of moral warnings became a tool used to teach all social groups about the written word. The efforts aimed at reaching fragile readers increased to the point that in the 1790s such people were the main focus of attention: Not all men are learned, not all are illuminated by the light of science, so as to be able to draw general principles from specific rules. Women, young people, and the uneducated need particular, precise rules.215 It is no coincidence that Gerdil, in his confutation of Émile (1763), chose as his ideal student not a rich child, such as that imagined by Rousseau, but a poor one, as the Barnabite himself liked to point out. The humble were those who most needed to “be instructed in truths that should regulate their conduct.” One could therefore warn them that “using for reading the time that they should devote to business is a pleasant idleness if one wants it, but it is idleness nonetheless.”216 Addressing openly “all types of people” in another anti-Rousseauian educational manual, Francesco Alberti opined that children should not be allowed to read Ovid’s Metamorfosi, “let alone novels.”217 And, while in 1766 the Capuchin Giuseppe Maria da Crescentino published a work in which the reading of devotional books emerged as an important aspect of the upbringing of children of the nobility,218 a year later he sent to press a manual that was meant to reach “the hands of the less learned and literate.”219 Following “the apostolic . . . plan” of Clement XIII’s encyclical De novis noxiis libris (1766)—an encyclical often disseminated in these works220—he wrote the following to parents: Take care that in your home there are no even slightly mischievous novels. The character of youth unfortunately is attracted to the lessons of these, more than to reading devout books: you should certainly consign them to the fire.221 Specific instructions were also given about the moral education of girls of the lower classes. They should not be condemned to illiteracy, since writing was useful for “domestic” purposes and reading for the understanding of the sacraments. Nevertheless, a girl who has learned to read a little easily thinks she has . . . become a theologian, and sometimes argues with her confessor; whereas when she remains illiterate, she happily remains humble, and does not pretend to know more than others.222 Furno wrote to the faithful in his Il pregio della cristiana mondezza (1775), a text destined for longevity, still being given as a present in 1876.223

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The author drew attention to “flirtations,” “vulgar talk,” dancing and immoral paintings, but shared thoughts specifically on the subject of reading. Every faithful person had to abstain from reading novels, licentious poems, and all books in which there is something contrary to honesty and morality, if they do not want to be contaminated or lose their purity of heart, as well as commit the sin of grave disobedience towards the Church, which prohibits such books and furthermore requires those who own them to be denounced, so that they do not read them: and this is relevant even more to those who write them, or emboss them or print them, due to the infinite evils to which they fall prey, and the crimes they cause.224 While the “catechesis of the masses” had in the past mainly been given through an indoctrination independent from the paths of individual reading and made use rather of oral preaching,225 in the eighteenth century, the conservative use of the printing press increasingly targeted inexperienced readers: those who, though able to read, had little familiarity with the written text and a scarce, even error-prone, personal interpretation ability. The attention paid to the readings of servants was significant, since they were the most literate among the lower classes. At the turn of the seventeenth century, there had been no lack of effort to reach these groups through books and instructions, although at the time, “the written word to be read in person was a timid match for the spoken word or the word read by mediators.” When writing his manuals aimed at servants at the beginning of the eighteenth century, the Jesuit Fulvio Fontana had expressed concern that they would not be able to read them, and had not ruled out oral use.226 And so it was in the course of the century, when the production of texts dealing with the sins to which specific occupations and social classes were susceptible exploded,227 that this literature intensified, heralding the exponential growth of publishing in the nineteenth century.228 In 1783, the Italian translation of the conduct manuals for domestic servants by Claude Fleury appeared, providing detailed guidance about reading.229 A few years later, the translation of a work by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont warned servants of certain vices such as “rude words, improper songs” and “obscene books.”230 Further evidence of the breadth of the public to which this educational project was aimed can be seen in the involvement of the diverse world of tutors, who received detailed suggestions about books to recommend to their charges.231 However, in order to fully grasp the continuities and changes in the Church’s strategy for the governance of reading, one must identify the salient characteristics of a pedagogy carried forward in both religious and educational texts. Evidence of the Church’s lack of open-mindedness over the years can be found above all in a long-term difference of class and gender. And there did in fact continue to be a barrier between those who were

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permitted to read and those who could not. To handle prohibited books—a contemporary preacher noted—one needed a mind not only trained in what is called the science of religion, but more than that, one that questions the right logic that distinguishes the boundaries that divide the lie from the truth. Such qualities were hard to find in the “majority of readers.” The “beardless youth” and “women who perhaps have no other knowledge than that . . . of leading a dance gracefully” were archetypal victims “of the subtle deception and deep poison” of texts capable of penetrating deep into the heart.232 In the eighteenth century, the pedagogy of reading was still characterised by the repeated invitation to treat the printed word with a distrust inherited from the past and legitimised by invoking the Church fathers.233 As for the Bible, this does not really abound in precepts against reading. In contrast to the Ancient Greek tradition, in which knowledge corresponds to sight, the Hebrew tradition believed that the essence of man’s relationship with God and the world lay in listening.234 The Apostle Paul’s warnings against evil talk were thus somehow made to fit the purposes of book censorship.235 And it was the lust of the eyes, which the Apostle John emphasised (1 John 2:15–17) when urging rejection of the world, that enabled a construction of the sin of reading and underpinned a specific pedagogy of the body and the disciplining of the senses,236 which was also an important distinctive of the century of the Enlightenment. Indeed, in relation to the supposed proliferation of the reading public, the attempt to develop education strategies was unquestionably considerable, for it was a frequent theme of sermons.237 One of the tasks of a good priest was precisely—to use the words of Canon Francesco Mangini (1784)—that of “removing curiosity from eyes.”238 At a time when the decline of repressive censorship instruments seemed absolute, the approach taken was principally that of inducing the faithful to examine their conscience in order to arrive at the practice of self-censorship. The recognition of the ineffectiveness of this repressive approach resulted in the attempt to work on individual readers to create a sort of society of the Index. The members of this, having once internalised its rules, would then be able to self-regulate individual contact with the written word. Selfcensorship—this, at least—was given legitimisation by the Holy Scripture, which recounts how the Ephesians spontaneously gave up forbidden texts (magic scrolls) and burned them “in the presence of everyone” (Acts 19:19): this Bible verse constituted an authentic topos in terms of prohibited readings,239 being openly used in the theories of numerous Catholic men of letters who fuelled the debate on censorship in eighteenth-century Italy. This was the central theme of the reflection that the former Jesuit Zaccaria set out in his Storia polemica (1777), dedicated to Pius VI and recognised in the ecclesiastical imprimatur as a text “well suited to the present times, in which the sowing of perverse books is multiplied to excess.”240

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Zaccaria was fully aware of the complexity of the concept of censorship: there was a private form, belonging “to every learned person,” and a public one, entrusted to officials “by order of the legitimate authority.” If the latter was not to be despised, it was up to the Church alone, and the pope first of all, to exercise the “public and legitimate power of prohibiting books,” religious and secular too, whenever the latter touched on religious issues of a general kind.241 Good Catholics, in other words, were bound to obey only ecclesiastical censorship. The “positive law,” or rather ecclesiastical censure, demanded the obedience of all members of Christian society, and was indispensable, seeing as “unfortunately there are those who believe themselves strong enough to resist the seduction of books.”242 The prohibition on reading, keeping and distributing banned books signified “a constraining power even in conscience.” Above all, it should be clearly noted that this applied not only to the public sphere—as, according to Zaccaria, the Protestants claimed—but also to the private arena, where reading seemed “capable of greater and more dangerous reflections”: We others [Catholics] believe that there is some power on Earth, which by banning books obligates the conscience not only to refrain from using them publicly, but also to desist from keeping them and, even worse, reading them privately—yes, in that way—since who does so without the necessary licences, becomes guilty of sin before God.243 As might be expected, the education of readers included teaching on the proper use of reading licences, which were absolutely necessary—so it was argued—to certain categories of persons (the learned clergy, primarily) for the purpose of confutation.244 Limited to specific categories of books, they did not allow complete freedom of reading. Indeed, if a reader, with or without a licence, felt “some internal movement of doubt in the faith,” he simply had to stop reading, since this was a “moment of danger and of guilt.”245 Thus, when reading books, even those who possessed the requisite permissions were at risk of “plunging unhappily into hell.”246

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The reading of good books was a medicine of immense benefit to the soul’s salvation. Yet seen through the eyes of today’s historian and in a long-term analysis, even this strategy does not appear to have been an eighteenth-century innovation, for it had already been theorised in CounterReformation pedagogy. The role played by men like the Jesuit Antonio Possevino in areas of the Catholic reconquest in the post-Tridentine era is well known, and the subsequent period had no lack of plans designed to spread the faith through the printing press.247 Nevertheless, the strategy did seem novel to those who relaunched it in the eighteenth century. Their number included the former Jesuit Nikolas Albert von Diessbach, who in the

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mid-1770s played a prominent role by founding the Amicizia Cristiana in Turin,248 an association which during the suppression of the Society of Jesus revived the methods of the lay Jesuit congregations, combining the teachings of Ignatius of Loyola and of de’ Liguori with the then forms of academic sociability.249 It went on to continue its activities during the Restoration under the name of Amicizia cattolica. Open to lay people, including women, the association played a vital role in disseminating good books through the Pia Associazione per la stampa, a publishing centre of Turin and Freiburg. The men of letters who joined could—and in fact had to—read the texts prohibited by the Church, albeit “in an uninterrupted manner,” for the purpose of understanding their contents in order to rebut them and “write in favour of religion.” The other members undertook in a formal vote not to read works on the Index (those who had reading licences were not to use them) and to dedicate themselves exclusively to spiritual readings.250 The plan was set out in the Chrétien catholique, published in Turin in 1771,251 in which Diessbach described the passion for reading as a peculiarity of the eighteenth century: “In our century, we generally like reading. Few people, in truth, undertake studies . . . but we want to read a little and to learn.” The author underlined the importance and consequences of individual contact with the written word, accentuating the fact that “the thoughts that one draws from reading are usually those which then set the tone for one’s adopted way of thinking.” Most importantly, he gave a straightforward résumé of the composition of the cultural changes under way, seeing reading as their principal channel: when, through the circulation of books among a wide public, new ideas were spread, they became general opinions and were thus capable of causing crises, overturning the thought systems that had previously been commonly accepted.252 And so to halt this “overflowing torrent,” it was imperative to “try to make this source of irreligion and libertinage dry up and make the sources of religion and morality flow from all sides.” The task was to create “a library that is truly Catholic and polemical and edifying” and to distribute free of charge, “with gentle and prudent zeal,” wholesome books so as to reach all social groups—as was illustrated by the frontispiece—but primarily the needy: young people, those still weak in virtue, and “unstable Christians.”253 The plan was to publish a certain number of works each year—original texts, reprints, translations— in defence of religion. The involvement of laymen seemed to be essential: men of letters were to write, while “a large number of souls” were to take care of circulating the written word.254 The association’s manifesto, distributed in the mid-1770s, reached around thirty Italian cities, but the Amicizia cristiana was based on relations at European level—France, Austria and perhaps elsewhere255—if we give credence to the correspondence between Roberti and Count Robbio, who promoted the former Jesuit’s works in the Savoyard State.256 Their letters referred to the nourishment of the soul—the “coffee” of the Americas, “Spanish sponge cake,” “Savoyard biscuits,” Bolognese “chocolate,”

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Venetian “breads,” “wine from the Reno”—in a code that told of the distribution in Europe and beyond of books against “the sect called the philosophes.”257 The Amicizia cristiana was but one of several associations active in the Italian Peninsula. As has been shown, in the Kingdom of Naples, where an agency linked to the Amicizia seems to have been opened in 1779 by the printer and bookseller Domenico Terres, the spread of the Enlightenment quickly moved conservative sectors of Italian culture that acted jointly to bring about a “‘Christian literary republic,’ champion of the holy faith,” to adopt forms of communication similar to those of the philosophes.258 A similar project had earlier been instituted in Salerno by the lawyer Vincenzo Ambrogio Galdi, who in 1759 founded the Accademia degli immaturi, which had anti-Masonic objectives and converged with the Arcadia Reale in 1794. Galdi’s initiatives continued in Naples in 1761, then in Rome from 1767 to 1776, and involved illustrious figures in the Roman Curia, including two future popes, Clement XIV and Pius VI.259 While one of the goals of these circles was also to persuade authors to write apologias for Catholicism,260 the main objective was to circulate good literature with the purpose of influencing public opinion. It is therefore worth establishing what was meant by good reading. First of all, in a period of ostensible rampant incredulity, the goal was to revive the tradition of spiritual reading, the purpose of which is to establish dialogue with God.261 It was in this context that the aforementioned Traité de la lecture chrétienne (1774) was translated in Italian, first in Venice in 1784 and then in Foligno the following year, at the initiative of Cardinal Vitaliano Borromei.262 The original work sought to describe the ideal library for the Catholic reader, and the translation adapted it to the Italian reading public by adding notes. The aim was clear: Chiefly in these times when we are flooded by these most evil books there is a need for someone to instruct the faithful on the quality of works that they should read, and to inspire them to avoid the many that are being disseminated to introduce onto the ruins of religion the most debauched licentiousness.263 Addressing an average public (“the ordinary Christians”), but writing “for various states of society,”264 the author gave detailed advice on the creation of domestic libraries. Among the books that helped keep the faith and high moral standards, Jamin first of all named the Bible, the classics of the Church fathers, religious works (theology, Christian ethics and piety) and Church history texts. But he did not exclude secular works, recommending books on history, science and even entertainment, to be used in moderation. He observed two essential rules: remember that you are a Christian, and keep in mind your personal social status. “Thus a particular library,” he wrote, “varies according to the condition of the person.”265 Propounding

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a sort of “culture of wit”—to use Antonio Possevino’s words—of the eighteenth century, he was mindful that the books of a “working man” were one thing, and those of a scholar something else. Each should therefore keep to books “that can bring you knowledge that is useful and necessary to your state.”266 In particular, the average reader should not read too many scientific texts and, as for religion, the catechism was enough. The suggestions that Diessbach gave the faithful around the same time were similar, though he ruled out secular books. Among his works, let us consider Il zelo meditativo (1774) and the Disinganni, o sia il solitario cristiano cattolico (1778), which was an autobiographical story of existential torment brought about by bad reading and of redemption through good reading, and concluded with a list of excellent authors.267 The lesson of “chosen books of spirit” was the therapy prescribed for a “weak” or “languishing” faith.268 Readers had to restrict themselves to texts containing “the true spirit of our holy religion”: orthodox texts written by orthodox authors. It was therefore best to steer clear of heretical authors not included in the Index nominatim. Among the recommended texts were the Holy Scriptures, the classics of the Church fathers, works of Church history, lives of saints, and sermons and holy discourses.269 The Bible, therefore, was not excluded from Catholic libraries. Even so, the fact that Benedict XIV had opened the way to direct access to the word of God, albeit with ecclesiastical approval, did not at all translate as an appeal to draw near to the holy book by those working for a revival of the lectio divina. The general diffidence in this regard—which for centuries had clashed with Biblical precepts themselves270—emerges also if we examine how Bible reading was represented in the late eighteenth-century literature of other Catholic countries.271 For Jamin, the Holy Scriptures were certainly “a public benefit that all Christians are entitled to,” but the Church fathers had taught the faithful not to neglect the “rightful subordination that they always owe in this matter to their pastor.”272 However, the Italian translation of Jamin’s Traité offered by Zaccaria was very different: in fact, the former Jesuit added important annotations in defence of the Roman hierarchy. According to him, one should first read preparatory texts before turning to the Bible itself and, in any case, the faithful’s right to read was conditional on the approval of “ecclesiastical superiors, who [could] in some circumstances be suspended from using their authority”; and the supreme authority in this matter was the pope.273 This point was also made by Diessbach, who suggested that readers should approach the sacred text with the help of “excellent” interpretations, since the Church did not authorise “any inexperienced helmsman to sink at whim.”274 This caveat applied to the entire Bible, but the greatest concerns related to books containing “some softness.” As the Jesuit Rosignoli had recalled, at the beginning of the century, reading “Genesis, Song of Songs, Ezekiel”—which contain “amorous affections and women with little modesty”—in the first centuries of Christianity had been allowed only to

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priests who had turned thirty. In short, reading the Holy Scriptures still seemed to cause no small harm to a public with little education. And the Bible constituted a reference point not because the faithful were invited to make direct contact with the divine word, but if anything for the rejection of profane knowledge that it advocated. If we shift attention from the normative level to the actual distribution of free texts carried out with alacrity by the Amicizia cristiana, there comes to light a large-scale educational project based pragmatically on affordable small-format editions. The association promoted the publication of antiphilosophique works, such as those of its members Robbio di San Raffaele (Della falsa filosofia, 1777; Emirena, 1778) and Gian Domenico Giulio (La moda ossia la filosofia del decimottavo secolo, 1781).276 Among the theological, philosophical, spiritual, historical and literary works—disseminated in thousands of copies among all social classes, based on the principle of “each according to his needs”—were books of the apologetic tradition, but with a predominance of catechisms, manuals and compendiums rather than classical treatises. The series of books battling against incredulity, from Polignac’s Anti-Lucretius to the works of Gauchat was substantial, as was that of antiphilosophique pamphlets, well represented by authors like Nonnotte and Bergier. The Italian apologists included Gerdil, de’ Liguori, Muzzarelli and Valsecchi, while books written in defence of the primacy of Peter included the treatise Della potestà by Bianchi and the Diritto libero della Chiesa by Mamachi. There were also a considerable number of spiritual novels by Michel-Ange Marin and antiphilosophique ones like Gérard’s Le comte de Valmont.277 Rules concerning spiritual reading also involved the modalities of reading. To derive real benefit from devotional books precise norms had to be followed when using them. There was nothing much to be gained otherwise. As Jamin put it, “there is little worth in having good books, the main point is to read them well.”278 These directions seem to be strong signs of continuity with the past, at least at a theoretical level, since they were in sharp contrast to the rapid, indiscriminate consumption of texts that, in the opinion of some scholars, characterised the new relationship with the printed page which emerged during the eighteenth century.279 The attempt to revive spiritual reading, and the actual effects it had had on the public, can indeed be interpreted as a response to the changes taking place in reading practices. According to Diessbach, the aim was to read frequently and repeatedly (the ideal was daily), so that “the mind soaks up the lessons unconsciously, the imagination is filled with them, and perforce any heart that is drawn to them will eventually give in.”280 Next, the aim was to read with great concentration: the simile of “a gentle rain . . . slow and not precipitous” was quite apt. And, finally, one had to read with devotion, beginning and ending with a prayer to God. It was better for this “frequent, attentive and devoted exercise” to be practised individually and in solitude.281 Moreover, the objective was of prime importance, for if reading metaphysical books represented a

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“labour,” then reading novels constituted a ruinous “amusement.”282 One should not try to find—to cite a sermon by Turchi—“amenity, entertainment, pleasure,” that “sentiment of plaisir”283 that Jaucourt had written about in his entry in the Encyclopédie.284 It was necessary to strike at the root of this forbidden goal, which to many seemed a grave sin: one ought not to read to satisfy curiosity or, worse, for enjoyment, but instead to learn to live according to the teachings of the Church.

Notes 1. Biondi, “Aspetti.” On the use of the good press in missions in the seventeenth century, see Rusconi, Gli Ordini religiosi, 247 et seq. On France, see Pallier, Les réponses catholiques. 2. Motta, Bellarmino, 197–243. See also Fragnito, Proibito, 177–190, who underlines the subsequent transition from the controversial practice of dispute to that of indoctrination as the former was deemed too dangerous since it provided occasion for debate and critical reflection. 3. Baldini, “Jean Bodin.” 4. Antoniano, Della educazione; Al lettore, III–XI; IV. On this classical text of post-Tridentine pedagogy, see sup., 32, note 4 . 5. As an example, see the reflection by the former Jesuit von Diessbach, Il zelo, 29. 6. On Catholic literature in the age of the Enlightenment, see Rosa, “Le contraddizioni.” 7. Clement XIII, for instance, debated specifically the “total inaction” of the inquisitorial power. Rodolico, Stato e Chiesa, 262–263. 8. Regarding the Italian Peninsula, see Landi, Il governo. On France, see Minois, Censure and Birn, Royal Censorship. On the German context, see Tortarolo, “La censure à Berlin”; Tortarolo, “Censorship and the Conception”; Tortarolo, “Censura e censori”; Tortarolo, The Invention. 9. Palazzolo, “Scrivendo in paese libero.” 10. Gaetano Maria da Bergamo, La morale evangelica; sermon IV Sopra la dottrina cristiana, 44–57; 49. 11. Fragnito, La bibbia, 66 et seq. 12. Biblioteca predicabile (1754); Discorso vigesimo quinto sulla lettura dei libri di pietà, 359. 13. Diessbach, Il zelo, 29–36; 49. 14. Muzzarelli, L’Emilio; vol. I, Prefazione, 1–14; 3. 15. Valsecchi, La religione (1776); A chi legge, III. 16. Zaguri, Piano; III Correzione dei libri, 90–123. The work was published anonymously and had numerous editions. On Zaguri (1738–1810), then bishop of Vicenza (1785–1810), see Baseggio, “Zaguri, Pietro Marco”; Reato, “Un vescovo.” 17. These were the words used by the former Jesuit Arteaga, Del gusto, 121 (he promoted the publication of the work by Matteo Borsa, a professor in Mantua, when answering a question raised by the Academy of Mantua). See also Bettinelli, Dell’eloquenza sacra, 165. 18. On this point, see Donati, “Vescovi e diocesi” and Julia, “Reading.” On the activity of the Episcopal seminary of Ferrara in the eighteenth century see, for instance, Turrini, Penitenza, 157–162. 19. Allegra, Ricerche, 78 (on the Savoyard State). On the South of Italy, see Chiosi, Chiesa, 316 et seq.; Campanelli, “Agiografia”; Novi Chavarria, “I libri,” 326. For a publishing history of the Italian novel, see Mangione, “Uno strano insuccesso.”

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20. Infelise, “Gli scambi,” 248–249. See also Signorotto, “La devozione.” 21. Chiosi, “Filangieri, Serafino.” 22. See Cernitori, Biblioteca, 1. On Cernitori (1749–1821), who collaborated with Zaccaria, see Pignatelli, “Cernitori, Giuseppe.” 23. On the “war of pamphlets and libels” in France, see Masseau, Les ennemis, 209–210, as well as Monod, De Pascal. On Spain, see Menéndez Pelayo, Historia and Herrero, Los orígines, 27–53. On Italy, see Delpiano, “Libri e letture.” 24. Molinari, Parere. On this work see, among others, Ferrone, I profeti, 226; 230– 231 and inf., 165. 25. Gerdil, Réflexions. 26. Zaccaria, Anti-Febbronio. 27. Chiosi, “Filangieri, Serafino,” 601. 28. Della Torre, Il Teopompo; Prefazione, V–XVI; VII. 29. Bruni, Difesa; Dedica, III–XIV; VII; Discorso proemiale, XV–CXXXV; XVII. Fréret’s work had been on the Index since 1770. On Bruni, see Pignatelli, “Bruni, Bruno.” 30. Muzzarelli, L’Emilio. On this work, see Guerci, La sposa, 238 and 255. 31. Spedalieri, Analisi. On Spedalieri’s work, see Prandi, Cristianesimo, 349–380. 32. Spedalieri, Confutazione. 33. Emanuele da Domodossola, Dissertazioni. On the author, nee Carlo Prinsecco, a Capuchin who died in around 1802, see Ghinato, “Emanuele da Domodossola.” 34. On the antiphilosophique cultural output in France, see Masseau, Les ennemis, 273 et seq. 35. De’ Liguori, Breve dissertazione; Introduzione, 5–8. 36. Valsecchi, La religione, 54 et seq. 37. Allegrini, La tolleranza was published in Rome in 1777 (the first edition was written in Latin and dates back to 1770). 38. Della Torre, De’ caratteri degl’increduli. 39. Emanuele da Domodossola, Dissertazioni; Al cortese leggitore, XIII–XVIII; XIV and XVI. 40. Valsecchi, La verità, VIII. 41. The work by Valsecchi, Dei fondamenti, for instance, was translated into Spanish in 1777 (De los fundamentos). Herrero, Los orígines, 45–46. 42. On the international dimension of the antiphilosophique movement, especially with a Catholic background, see McMahon, Enemies; Garrard, Counter-Enlightenment; Israel, Democratic Enlightenment, 140–171. On Italian translations of the French confutations, see Delpiano, “Censure et guerre des livres.” 43. Polignac, Anti-Lucrezio was published in Verona in 1751. “The Maecenas” of this work was Angelo Maria Querini, bishop of Brescia (dedication, VII–XVI; IX). The work by Polignac was published in Latin in 1747 and dedicated to Benedict XIV. It was then translated into French in 1749. 44. Mamachi, La pretesa filosofia. This work is actually a paraphrase of the abovementioned instruction (see inf., 169). 45. Le Febvre, Esame critico. 46. Bergier, Il deismo confutato. On the presence of this work written as a defence of revealed religion in the Italian ecclesiastical libraries, see Viglio, Le biblioteche, 130–131. On Bergier, see Langlois, “Démographie céleste”; Albertan-Coppola, L’abbé Nicolas-Sylvestre Bergier and Burson, “Nicolas-Sylvestre Bergier,” who underlines his relationship with the Enlightenment culture. 47. Bergier, La certezza. 48. Le Masson des Granges, Il filosofo. A later edition was published in Rome in 1771. 49. Séguier, Confutazione. This is the translation of Réquisitoire by Séguier dating back to 18 August 1770 and published by the royal printing press in the same

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50.

51.

52.

53. 54.

55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61.

62. 63. 64. 65.

In Pursuit of Public Opinion year. This parliamentary arrêt condemned many works to be burned, including Examen critique des apologistes de la religion chrétienne, Christianisme dévoilé and Système de la nature. Nonnotte, Gli errori (the work was published in Florence in 1773, and it was dedicated to Cardinal Luigi Maria Torrigiani). The second extended Italian edition was published in Venice in 1774 and in 1778. On Nonnotte’s (1711–1793), Les erreurs, Avignon: Fez, 1762, see Masseau, Les ennemis, 246. Bergier, Esame; Bergier, Opere (the translator was the Roman priest Nicola Conti). Among the substantial additions, it is worth mentioning the confutation of Pilati’s Di una riforma d’Italia. In the first tomes (1770) Il deismo confutato was republished; in the third and fourth (1772) La certezza delle prove del cristianesimo; in the fifth and sixth (1774) Apologia della religione cristiana contro l’autore del Cristianesimo svelato; e contro alcuni altri critici; in the last one (1777) Continuazione dell’Apologia della religione cristiana contro l’autore del Dizionario filosofico. Richard, Voltaire parmi les ombres. The Italian translations (Voltaire fra l’ombre) were numerous: Rome: Paolo Giunchi, 1777; Genoa: Felice Repetto, 1777; Venice: Pietro Savioni, 1777; ivi 1779. Avvertimenti del clero di Francia are ibid., 347–440; 350. On the Dominican Richard (1711–1794), see Ingold, “Richard, Charles-Louis.” Nonnotte, Gli errori di Voltaire. This sentence is included in the brief by Clement XIII to the abbot (7 April 1768) and quoted ibid., vol. I, III–V. See, for instance, Cerutti, Opuscoli, where both Istruzione del clero di Francia adunato in Parigi diretta ai fedeli del Regno sopra i danni, e i pericoli dell’incredulità, vol. I, 169–265 and Memoria del clero gallicano alla maestà del re cristianissimo sopra la pubblicazione de’ libri empi presentata nel 1770, ibid., 348–361 were published. Bergier, Trattato. Gauchat, Lettere critiche. The title Gli apologisti della religione ossia raccolta di opere contro gl’increduli appears on the frontispiece of the Roman edition. See the subscription’s manifesto, which was published in Rome on 12 May 1784 and reproduced in its Venice edition, Gli apologisti della religione, vol. IV, part one (1784), at the end of the volume, n.p. Gli apologisti della religione, vol. I (Venice: 1784); dedication, n.p. Catalogo dei signori associati, in Gli apologisti della religione, vol. I (Venice, 1784), 254–260. On printers in Rome, see Romani, Tipografia. On Niccolò Pagliarini, who was in the service of Portugal and spread anti-Jesuit pamphlets, see Venturi, Settecento riformatore, vol. II, La Chiesa, 27–29; Guasti, “Niccolò Pagliarini.” On authorship in the ancien régime, see Viala, Naissance de l’écrivain; Chartier, “The Man of Letters.” On royal patronage in France, see Masseau, L’invention, 87–102; on Italy, see Paoli, L’appannato specchio and, on the first half of the nineteenth century, see Albergoni, I mestieri, who discusses Berengo, Intellettuali. See sup., 168–169. Selleri, Propositiones. On Selleri (1653–1729), see Moroni, “Selleri, Gregorio.” The list of the secretaries of the Index in the eighteenth century is sup., 96, note 146. See in particular Orsi, Adversus quartam propositionem; Orsi, Della infallibilità. On Orsi (1692–1761), Master of the Sacred Palace since 1749, see Malena, “Orsi, Giuseppe Agostino.” On the origins of this work, see Prandi, “La ‘Istoria ecclesiastica’.”

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66. On Ricchini (1695–1762), see Gorce, “Ricchini, Tommaso Agostino.” Schiara (1691–1781) had been a censor since 1733 and a secretary of the Index since 1759. As a librarian at the Casanatense Library, he intervened in the debate on stoicism that arose with regard to Essai de philosophie morale (1749) by Maupertuis. See Venturi, Settecento riformatore, vol. I, Da Muratori, 390–403. 67. On Mamachi, born on the island of Chios (1703) but educated in Italy and summoned to Rome by Benedict XIV in 1740, see Preti, “Mamachi, Tommaso Maria.” 68. Montegnacco, Ragionamento (the author was a legal consultor for the Republic of Venice). The confutation by Mamachi, published anonymously, is Del diritto libero. On Montegnacco and Mamachi, see Venturi, Settecento riformatore, vol. II, La Chiesa, ad indicem. 69. Mamachi, De ratione. 70. La pretesa filosofia, was published anonymously but with references to “p[adre] father m[aestro] master D[omenico] M[amachi].” It has been deemed by various scholars as an original work but in fact it is a paraphrase of Le Franc Pompignan, Instruction pastorale (1763). 71. On this point, see Venturi, Settecento riformatore, vol. II, La Chiesa, 189–190. 72. Mamachi, Ad auctorem (1787). See also the Italian translation All’autore (1790). His censorship judgment on the work can be found in ACDF, S.O., C.L., 1786–1789, fasc. 3. 73. Papillon, Opera omnia Th. M. Mamachi; Appendix, 257–260; 258 and 260 (the life of Barbarigo remained unpublished). 74. See, for instance, Metodo breve (1774) and Ragionamento su l’irreligione (Ragionamento against La Mettrie had been translated from French into German in 1760). 75. Soldati, Confutazione. Discorso istorico-politico by Capecelatro was published anonymously and condemned by decree of the Index on 29 January 1789. See Stella, “Capecelatro, Giuseppe.” 76. The work was pushed by the French translation of Istoria civile, published in Geneva in 1742. See Ricuperati, “Bianchi, Giovanni Antonio” and Ricuperati, La città, 75. 77. See, for instance, the letter by de’ Liguori to Remondini, sant’Agata dei Goti, 19 February 1765, BABG, Epistolario Remondini, no. 3450. 78. On Molinari, and on the denunciations sent to Rome by the nunciature in Naples, see Sposato, Documenti, 9–19. 79. On this episode, dating back to 1748, see Perna, “Genovesi, Antonio.” 80. Zaccaria, Anti-Febbronio; dedication, vol. I, n.p. See also the letter by Zaccaria to Angelo Bottari, Brescia, 7 April 1768, BABG, Epistolario Bartolomeo Gamba, no. 34. 81. See sup., 136. 82. Noghera, Riflessioni. On Noghera, born in 1719, see Bonnard, “Noghera, Giambattista.” 83. Letter by Noghera to Giambattista Remondini, Milan, 9 June 1767, BABG, Epistolario Remondini, no. 4435. Another example is Ildefonso da Bressanvido’s Istruzioni morali, on which the Inquisition intervened. Letter by Ildefonso da Bressanvido to Remondini, Padua, 30 April 1768, BABG, Epistolario Remondini, no. 1298. 84. Ibid. 85. Letter by Antonino Valsecchi to Bernardo Maria de Rubeis, Padua, 31 July 1765, BABG, Epistolario Bartolomeo Gamba, no. 31. Carlo Vittorio Amedeo Ignazio Delle Lanze was cardinal, high almoner to the king since 1747 and court chaplain in Turin.

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86. See, for instance, the letter by Ambrogio Doria Carlo to Antonino Valsecchi, Genoa, 7 July 1770, BABG, Epistolario Bartolomeo Gamba (the letter is not registered, but it is placed between no. 33 and no. 34). Doria promoted the reprint of Valsecchi’s works defending Catholicism. 87. See Reinhard, “Kirche als Mobilitätskanal.” 88. On Cerutti, in Rome since 1760, see Pignatelli, “Cerutti, Giacinto.” 89. Gerdil, L’immaterialité; Gerdil, Défense; Gerdil, Introduzione. On Gerdil, who was also the preceptor of King Charles Emmanuel IV and member of the Academy of Sciences of Turin, see Stella, “Gerdil, Giacinto Sigismondo”; Valabrega, Un anti-illuminista. For a different perspective cf. Vanysacker. “Giacinto Sigismondo Cardinal Gerdil,” who places this man of letters within the Enlightenment culture. 90. Tallarico, “Della Torre, Bernardo.” 91. Tommaseo, “Giambattista Roberti,” 322. 92. On Bruni, see sup., 165 and 171. 93. On Zaguri, see sup., 194, note 16. The fifth edition of Piano was published in Naples in 1786. 94. Leturia S.I., Il concetto di nazione, 233, note 8. See also Tacchi-Venturi, “Zaccaria, Francescantonio,” col. 1760. 95. Mario, “Spedalieri, Nicola.” 96. Gussago, Memorie. 97. Bozoli, “Muzzarelli, Alfonso.” 98. Maffei, Dell’impiego (1744). 99. Maffei, Dell’impiego (1745). Another edition was published in Rome in 1746. 100. On this episode, see Vismara, Oltre l’usura, 297 et seq., as well as Venturi, Settecento riformatore, vol. I, Da Muratori, 120–136, who nevertheless emphasises the significant ambiguity of Benedict XIV. 101. On this issue, see Gorce, “Orsi, Giuseppe Agostino.” 102. Meditazioni (1765 and 1766). See Preto, “Facchinei, Ferdinando.” 103. Gerdil, Discours philosophiques. 104. Almici, Osservazioni: see dedication, n.p.; Avviso al lettore, 3–4 and Proemio, 1–2. 105. Almici, Il diritto, vol. I (1757), Prefazione, I–XXII; I. Pufendorf’s, De iure had been placed on the Index (in its French translation) in 1711. On this work, see Bazzoli, “Giambattista Almici.” 106. It went from more than 200 in the 1750s to 135 in the 1760s and 89 in the 1770s. The trend is confirmed in the 1780s–1790s. This approximate calculation is based on the chronological list provided by Hilgers, Der Index, 418–475. 107. The letters by Roberti can be found in BABG, Epistolario Remondini, nos. 5393–5419. See, for instance, the letter by Roberti to Giuseppe Remondini, Bologna, 3 July 1774, no. 5408; Carteggio raccolto da Francesco Trivellini, nn. 6558–6687. On the role played by Roberti in recommending the publication of several works, see Sandonà, Ragione. 108. BABG, Epistolario Remondini, letters nos. 7034–7144. See in particular the letter by Zaccaria to Giambattista Remondini, Florence, 5 August 1752, no. 7040. 109. See the letter by Zaccaria to Giambattista Remondini, Mantua, 18 March 1756, ibid., no. 7072 (regarding Spain) and the letter written from Turin, 26 February 1757, no. 7099 (regarding France). 110. See the letter by Zaccaria to Giuseppe Remondini, Florence, 18 August 1753, ibid., no. 7045 and letters sent from Florence, 1 June 1754, BABG, Epistolario Remondini, no. 7053 and from Milan, 15 June 1756, no. 7074.

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111. Letter by Zaccaria to Remondini, Modena, 10 May 1757, ibid., no. 7101. 112. Letter by Zaccaria to Giambattista Remondini, Naples, 20 March 1759, ibid., no. 7102. 113. Letters by Noghera to Remondini are preserved in ibid., nos. 4421–4515. 114. On the links between the Remondini and the Jesuits, see Luigi Zellini, L’arte della stampa in Bassano, 2 vols MSS., in BABG, vol. I, 60 et seq.; 63. The Paduan Camaldolese monk Calogerà was the author of Raccolta di opuscoli scientifici e filologici, a periodical published in Venice from 1728. On the catalogues of the Remondini, see Tavoni, I cataloghi, 266–267: in 1778, it included 327 titles, 33 per cent of which were literary works, 28 per cent concerned religion and theology, 17 per cent the sciences and the arts and 13 per cent history and geography. 115. Rosa, Cattolicesimo e lumi, 90–91; 99 and 103–104. La Porte’s work is Observations sur l’Esprit des loix (1750). 116. When censoring the Encyclopédie, for instance, the Somascan Bettoni took into account the work by the Jansenist Chaumeix, Préjugés (1758). ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1757–1759, fasc. 30, ff. 203–205v. 117. The censor in charge of evaluating Émile referred partially to the parliament arrêt which had called for its burning (9 June 1762). The arrêt was sent to Rome enclosed in the dossier. See sup., 64–65 and 93, note 74. 118. In condemning De l’esprit (1759), the censor used an article published in the Jansenist periodical Nouvelles ecclésiastiques (12 November 1758, 181–188), which was critical of this work, as well as some retractions Helvétius was forced to make and, again, the censorship judgment of the faculty of the theology of Paris and the State Council arrêt of August 1758. ACDF, S.O., C.L. 1757 and 1758, fasc. 7. In this way the above-mentioned Giovanni Luigi Mingarelli, another censor of the Encyclopédie, in evaluating the entry “Aius locutius” recalled the confutation published in the Mémoires de Trévoux (Novembre 1751, 2447–2448). ACDF, Index, Protocolli 1757–1759, fasc. 20, ff. 180 r/183r. 119. Beccaria’s treatise was published in July 1764. The Inquisitors of Venice forbade its sale on 27 August 1764. Facchinei’s work, Note ed osservazioni, was published anonymous in January 1765. See Torcellan, Cesare Beccaria. 120. ACDF, Index, Diarii, vol. XVIII (1764–1807), minutes of the meeting of 3 February, ff. 20–23; f. 22. 121. Neveu, L’erreur et son juge, 9. 122. See Ricuperati, “Giornali,” 70–372; 76–82; Gardair, Le ‘Giornale de’ letterati; Caffiero and Monsagrati, Dall’erudizione alla politica; Introduzione, 7–15; 7. 123. See Romano, “I problemi scientifici,” who highlights their efforts to bring scientific culture to apologetics and to strengthen the technical aspects of research. 124. Ricuperati, “Giornali,” 84. After the 1676 crisis, two periodicals were published and both went out of print at the beginning of the 1680s: one was directed by Francesco Nazari and the other by Giovanni Giustino Ciampini. 125. Donato, Accademie, 86 et seq.; Donato, “Gli ‘strumenti’,” 39–61. 126. Savio, Devozione, 56–62. 127. Suffice it to recall the critical review of De l’esprit des lois, written or promoted by Bottari, one of the censors of the work, and published in Giornale de’ letterati per l’anno 1750, 21–28. The review is mentioned in Pignatelli and Petrucci, “Bottari, Giovanni Gaetano.” 128. Leonard Ximenes and Lazzeri, among other Jesuits, contributed to it. On the use of periodicals by French Jesuits, see Bianchini, Un mondo al plurale,

200

129.

130. 131.

132. 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141.

142. 143. 144.

145.

In Pursuit of Public Opinion 58–71. On the role played in this sense by Jesuits who had been expelled from Spain, see Guasti, “I gesuiti spagnoli,” 37–38; Guasti, L’esilio, 211 et seq. On ecclesiastical periodicals in the eighteenth century, see Ricuperati, “Politica, cultura.” See, for instance, the review of Gianfrancesco Soli Muratori, Vita del preposto Lodovico Antonio Muratori (Venice: Pasquali, 1756), Annali letterari d’Italia, vol. I (1762), 370–373. On Muratori and the Index, see Vismara, “Muratori ‘immoderato’.” Zaccaria, Storia letteraria d’Italia, vol. I (1750), VI. The abjuration was published in the review of Giannone’s, Storia civile (Aja: a spese di Enrico Alberto Gosse, e comp., 1753, 2 vols), Storia letteraria d’Italia, vol. VIII (1755), 141–155. On Giannone’s abjuration, of which different manipulated versions exist, see Ricuperati, La città, 50 et seq. and Del Col, L’Inquisizione in Italia, 694–698. Roggerone, L’edizione, 717. But see also Dooley, “La ‘Storia letteraria d’Italia’,” who highlights the important contribution of this periodical to the contemporary scientific culture. See Zaccaria, Progetto per favorire il commercio librario di Roma, quoted in Pignatelli, Aspetti; Appendice, 317–329; 328. Arteaga, Del gusto, 147–148. On this periodical, see Caffiero, “Le ‘Effemeridi letterarie’.” Ricuperati, Giornali, 312–317. On the role played by Amaduzzi, especially during the first phase of the periodical, see Caffiero, “Le ‘Effemeridi letterarie’,” 83–90. Efemeridi, 4 January 1772, 2–3. Ibid., Prefazione, n.p. See, for instance, the above-mentioned review of Ignazio Venini, Prediche quaresimali (Milan: Marelli, 1780), Efemeridi, XLI, 13 October 1781, 326. See, for instance, the review of Ildefonso da Bressanvido, Istruzioni morali (Rome: Paolo Giunchi, 1783), Efemeridi, IV, 24 January 1784, 25–26. See the review of Carlo Maria Traversari, Ennodii faventini de romani pontificis primatu adversus Justinum Febronium theologico-historico-critica dissertatio titolo (Faventiae: ex Typographia Archiana, 1771), Efemeridi, II, 11 January 1772, 11–12. See also the praise for the work against Febronius, Fr. Thomae Mariae Mamachii . . . Epistolarum ad Justinum Febronium . . . de ratione (Romae: ex Typographia Salvioni, 1776–1778, 3nd edn), Efemeridi, XXI, 25 May 1776, 161–162. See the review of Giovanni Maria Masnata, La sola ragione naturale intorno alla religion cattolica appostolica romana (Genoa: Casamara dalle cinque Lampadi, 1771), Efemeridi, XIX, 9 May 1772, 148–149. See the review of Giambattista Roberti, Del leggere libri di metafisica e divertimento (Milan: Marelli, 1770), Efemeridi, XIII, 28 March 1772, 101–104. See the review of Pierre Desforges, Della necessità ed utilità del matrimonio degli ecclesiastici (s.l.: s.n., 1770), Efemeridi, XLII, 17 October 1772, 334–336 and the reviews of Antonio Silla, Diritto di punire, o sia risposta al trattato Dei delitti e delle pene (Naples: Raimondiana, 1772), Efemeridi, VII, 13 February 1772, 52–53 and of Francescantonio Pescatore, Saggio intorno diverse opinioni di alcuni moderni politici sopra I delitti e le pene (Turin: Giammichele Briolo, 1780), Efemeridi, XXX, 22 July 1780, 236–238. See the announcement of Gaetano Filangieri, Riflessioni politiche su l’ultima legge del sovrano, che riguarda la riforma dell’amministrazione della giustizia (Naples: Michele Morelli, 1774), Efemeridi, XVIII, 6 May 1775, 139–140.

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146. See the review of the anonymous Osservazioni sull’attuale giurisprudenza criminale di Roma (Rome: Salvioni, s.a.), Efemeridi, L, 12 December 1789, 393–395. 147. Efemeridi, 1774, I, Prefazione, n.p. 148. See Pignatelli, “Cerutti, Giacinto,” 69 (this reference is in a letter sent to Giuseppe Vernazza). 149. Efemeridi, IV, 25 January 1772, 26–30; V, 1 February 1772, 38–40; XI, 14 March 1772, 85–87. 150. Efemeridi, XL, 5 October 1776, 320; XVII, 24 April 1777, 129 (for the review of the Italian translation). 151. Efemeridi, XVII, 24 April 1773, 131–132 and XVIII, 1 May, 141–143; III, 21 January 1775, 17–18; XXXIII, 16 August 1777, 257–259; XLIII, 24 October 1778, 337–340; XV, 12 November 1783, 118–119; 118 and XLIV, 1 November 1783, 348–349; VII, 12 February 1785, 49. 152. The subscription was announced in Efemeridi, XXXI, 2 August 1783, 241– 245 and XXXII, 9 August 1783, 249–250. 153. Efemeridi, XLII, 18 October 1783, 329–330. 154. Efemeridi, LII, 27 December 1783, 409–410. 155. Efemeridi, XXIII, 6 June 1772, 183–184 and XXIV, 13 June 1772, 191–192; 183. 156. Efemeridi, XIII, 26 March 1774, 103–104. 157. On the Giornale, see Pignatelli, Aspetti, especially 9, 49 and 50–51 (for a list of contributors, with the abbreviations used in the signature on the articles). See also Pelletier, Rome et la Révolution, 244–252. On the intellectual circles in Rome at the end of the ancien régime as an “integrated system” of periodicals and academies functional to the reinforcement of papal policy, see Caffiero, “Accademie e autorappresentazione,” 277. 158. On Marchetti, see Leoni, L’integralismo cattolico, 139–141; Verzella, ‘Nella rivoluzione’, passim. 159. On Garampi, see Vanysacker, Cardinal Giuseppe Garampi; Caffiero, “Garampi, Giuseppe.” 160. Giornale, I, Prefazione, V–VIII. 161. See, for instance, the review of Claude-François-Xavier de Marolles, Sermon sur la lecture des livres contraires à la religion (Paris: s.n., 1786), Giornale, XXXIX, 24 March 1787, 155. 162. Giornale, XXII, 26 November 1785, 85–86; 86 (review by E.F., that is Clemente Biagi). 163. The seventh edition of Le comte de Valmont was announced in 1785: Giornale, IX, 27 August 1785, 33–34. Les helviennes ou lettres philosophiques was first reviewed in the three-volume edition from Amsterdam et se trouve à Paris: Moutard, 1785, ibid., XXXII, 3 February 1786, 129. The author of both reviews was I.K., that is Bartolomeo Cuccagni, brother of Luigi. A later review was devoted to the edition of Paris: Briand, 1788, 5 vols, ibid., XX, 15 November 1788, 74–75; 74 (for the quotation). 164. Giornale, XLVI, 17 May 1788, 286–287; XLVI, 17 May 1788, 186–187; XXXVIII, 25 September 1790, 152. 165. See the anonymous review of Pietro Tamburini, Praelectiones . . . (Ticini: ex tipographeo Petri Galeatii, 1787), Giornale, XVIII, 3 November 1787, 73–75; XX, 17 November 1787, 82–84; XXV, 22 December 1787, 101–102; XXVI, 29 December 1787, 105–107. 166. See the review of Tommaso Maria Mamachi, Pisti Alethini Epistolarum ad auctorem anonymum opusculi inscripti Quid est papa? (s.l.: s.n., 1787), Giornale, II, 14 July 1787, 9–11 (review by C.D., not identified). The Italian translation of this work is Le lettere di Pisto Aletino all’autore anonimo

202

167.

168.

169.

170. 171. 172.

173.

174. 175. 176. 177. 178. 179. 180. 181. 182. 183. 184. 185.

In Pursuit of Public Opinion dell’opuscolo intitolato Quid est Papa? tradotte ad util comune dalla lingua latina (S.l.: s.n., 1790). See the anonymous review of Gian Vincenzo Bolgeni, Risposta al quesito Cosa è un appellante? Ossia osservazioni teologico-critiche di sopra due libri stampati in Piacenza 1784 e intitolati Cosa è un appellante? (Macerata: Antonio Cortesi e Bartolomeo, Capitani, 1787), Giornale, II, 12 July 1788, 2–4. See the anonymous review of Gabriel Gauchat, Catechismo del libro Dell’esprit, o elementi della filosofia dell’esprit messi alla portata di tutti (Rome: Paolo Giunchi, 1784), Giornale, XVI, 15 October 1785, 63. The review of Andrea Marini, Degli errori di Guglielmo Tommaso Raynal (Brescia: Pietro Vescovi, 1788) is ibid., XXI, 22 November 1788, 78–79; LXIII, 12 September 1789, 251–253. See the reviews of Sigismondo Gerdil, Breve esposizione de’ caratteri della vera religione (Rome: Michelangelo Barbiellini, 1785), Giornale, VI, 6 August 1785, 21–23 (review by R.S., that is Giulio Maria Alvisini) and of Antonino Valsecchi, La verità della Chiesa (Padua: Tipografia del Seminario, Niccolò Bettinelli, 1787), XXXIV, 23 February 1788, 238–239; XXXV, 1 March 1788, 241–243 (anonymous review). See the review of Antonio Landi, L’incredulo guidato alla religion rivelata e ’l fedele corroboratovi dalla ragione (Turin: Avondo, 1783), Giornale, XL, 31 March 1787, 160–162 (review by Y.V., unidentified initials). The reference is in the review of Montaigne, I saggi (Amsterdam [but Florence], 1785), Giornale, XXXIX, 25 March 1786, 155–157 (review signed by D.E., that is Giovanni Marchetti). For instance, the above-mentioned Discorso istorico-politico by Bishop Capecelatro (Filadelfia [but Naples]: s.n., s.a. [but 1788]), placed on the Index by decree of 29 January 1789, had already been critically reviewed on 10 January 1789. Giornale, XXVIII, 10 January 1789, 405–406 (review by G.H., that is Luigi Cuccagni). The review of the De la philosophie de la nature, ou traité de morale pour le genre humain, tiré de la philosophie et fondé sur la nature, 6 vols (s.l.: s.n., s.a.) was written by Luigi Cuccagni, Giornale, XXIII, 3 December 1785, 90–92. Cuccagli was inclined to attribute it to Helvétius, according to the opinion of that time, but the author was Jean-Baptiste-Claude Delisle de Sales. Fragnito, Proibito, 159 et seq. Rosa, “Encyclopédie, ‘Lumières’,” 165. On the initiative of Zorzi, which dates back to 1779, see Spallanzani, “La Nuova enciclopedia”; Luzzatto, “La buona compagnia.” Roggerone, L’edizione, 728. Farinella, “Le traduzioni,” 138. Paulian, Dizionario filosofo-teologico, 1774. Nonnotte, Dizionario filosofico, 1774. Other editions were published in Florence in 1773–1776 and in Naples in 1777. Bergier, Dizionario di teologia, 1793–1794. On Bergier as editor of the theology section of Encyclopédie méthodique published by Charles-Joseph Panckoucke, see Masseau, Les ennemis, 352–368; Masseau, “Un apologiste.” Labrosse, Les Mémoires de Trévoux. On French antiphilosophe novels, see Masseau, Les ennemis, 298–312; Bianchini, Un mondo al plurale, 71–73. On Helviennes, see Bianchini, “Augustin Barruel.” Montengón, Eusebio. The novel was translated into Italian in 1804. The original Spanish edition (Eusebio, Madrid: A. de Sancha, 1786) was censored and expurgated. See Domergue, La censure, 219 et seq.

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186. Northeast, The Parisian Jesuits, 23–28. 187. Pavone, I gesuiti, 28. 188. On this novel (1774), of which thirteen editions were published until 1823, see Masseau, Les ennemis, 308–309; 334–336. 189. Huet, Trattato, 68. 190. Muratori, La filosofia morale, 344 et seq.; Muratori, Della forza della fantasia, 196. 191. On this topic, see Fumaroli, Les jésuites. 192. Galanti, Osservazioni. See Costa, Modelli, 287 et seq. 193. Filangieri, La scienza, vol. V, book IV, Leggi che riguardano l’educazione, i costumi e l’istruzione pubblica (1785), 83–85; 148–150. 194. Portinari, Romanzieri; Introduzione, 7–97; 68. 195. Marin, Il Baron Van-Esden. On Marin (1697–1767), member of the Order of Minims, see Darricau, “Marin, Michel-Ange.” 196. Robbio di san Raffaele, Emirena (1778) was published in Operette relative alla religione e sopra gli errori correnti (1778) in the context of the activities of Amicizia Cristiana (see inf., 190–191). Robbio published two further novels: Boezio (1787) and Le disgrazie (1793). See Delpiano, Liberi, ad indicem. 197. L’Anti-Candido; Lo stampatore a chi legge, vol. I, V–VI. 198. Séité, “Romanzo.” 199. Barruel, L’Elviennesi; Prefazione del traduttore (anonymous), III–XIV; III and IX. The first complete Italian translation was published in 1801. 200. Andrés, Dell’origine, vol. II (1785), chap. VII, De’ romanzi, 475–507. 201. Del Corno, Paridi, 52. On France, see Artiaga, Des torrents, 69–165. 202. See Clerici, Il romanzo, 176; Delpiano, “Sulla riscoperta.” 203. Robbio di san Raffaele, Della condotta; Indice de’ capi, III–XI; III. For an analysis of his reflection on authors and authorship, see Ricuperati, I volti, 214–215; Braida, Il commercio, 323–328; Delpiano, Liberi, 136–141. On the idea of cultural consumption, see Bermingham and Brewer, The Consumption and Brewer, The Pleasures. 204. Robbio di san Raffaele, Della condotta, 58–59 et seq. The reference was to Essai sur la société des gens de lettres by d’Alembert (1753). 205. On the diseases of men of letters, see Chartier, The Man of Letters, 176–178. Famous is the treatise by Tissot, De la santé des gens de lettres (1768; the original Latin edition dates back to 1766), of which an Italian translation was published (Saggio) in 1770. 206. Robbio di san Raffaele, Della condotta, 6–7. 207. Ibid., 39–41. 208. Ibid., 44; 156 and 159. 209. Roberti, Del leggere, 240–242. On educating authors towards self-censorhip in the first early modern age see, among others, Longo, “La letteratura,” 967 et seq.; Prosperi, I tribunali, passim; Delpiano, Liberi di scrivere, 133–141. 210. Gobinet, Istruzione della gioventù nella pietà cristiana; chap. XVII Avvertimenti contro i cattivi libri, 134–136; 134. On the Avvisi salutari alla gioventù (1702) by the Jesuit Rosignoli, see sup., 12–13. 211. Gerdil, Plan des études, 193–194. 212. Robbio di san Raffaele, Della educazione, t. I, 159–160. 213. Robbio di san Raffaele, Del gran mondo (1792), 19 et seq. 214. Stefani, Lo specchio del disinganno (1754 2nd edn), 233–272. On this work, see Guerci, La discussione, 108–110. 215. Cantini, Lettere (1791), Prefazione, 166. 216. Gerdil, Réflexions, 145; 169–171 (for reading recommendations, see 145 et seq.).

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217. Alberti, Dell’educazione fisica; vol. I, 7 and vol. II, 379. On the author, see Asor Rosa, “Alberti Di Villanova, Francesco.” 218. Giuseppe Maria da Crescentino, Il nobile, XI. See also Giuseppe Maria da Crescentino, Contese, 31 et seq. 219. Giuseppe Maria da Crescentino, L’educazione; A’ leggitori, n.p. 220. Roberti published it in full in Del leggere, 73–82. 221. Giuseppe Maria da Crescentino, L’educazione, 151. 222. Ibid., 252. On the lively debate concerning female readings in eighteenth-century Italy, see Guerci, La sposa, 231–258. 223. Furno, Il pregio. See the note about the gift dated 14 August 1876 on the frontispiece. 224. Ibid., discourse VIII Di quanto scapito sieno alla cristiana mondezza il cicisbeato, i balli, le commedie, le parole equivoche, e le maliziose, i consigli depravati, la lettura de’ romanzi, e di certi libri, ed altre libertà mondane, 229–260; particularly 246–249; 249. 225. See sup., 140 and 151, note 153. 226. Sarti, “Obbedienti.” 227. Allegra, Ricerche, 77 et seq. 228. Casalini, “Pedagogia.” 229. Fleury, Doveri dei padroni. I owe this information to my friendship with Raffaella Sarti. 230. Leprince de Beaumont, Dialoghi, vol. I, dialogo X, 101–109; 102. The French original edition is Magasin des pauvres, Lyon: P. Bruyset-Ponthus, 1768. 231. See, for instance, Robbio di San Raffaele, Apparecchio. On tutors as the mediators par excellence with regards to reading, and on their dangerous presence in the domestic space, see Delpiano, “Précepteurs.” 232. Meazza, “Predica sulla lettura,” 108–109. 233. Coco, L’atto del leggere. 234. On these two different traditions, see Curi, La forza; Introduzione, 9–19. 235. See sup., 15–16. 236. On the issue of sight, see Pozzi, Occhi bassi and Ong, Orality, 115–127. On body control with respect to reading, see Plebani, Il ‘genere’ dei libri; Plebani, “Tra disciplina e diletto.” 237. See Novi Chavarria, Giustizia, 263. See, for instance, Cuniliati, Il catechista; reasoning LXIII Del discacciare i pensieri, 431, from which the title of this paragraph is taken: you need to “protect the eyes” if you want “to protect the soul.” 238. Mangini, Somma raccolta, vol. VI (1784), 506. 239. See for example, Roberti, Del leggere, 238–239 and from a philo-Jansenist perspective, Filangieri, Istruzione, 25. 240. Zaccaria, Storia, 11. 241. Ibid. See, in particular, Dissertazione II, Della podestà, a cui appartiene la proibizione de’ libri, ibid., 271–314; 277–280. 242. Ibid., 239. 243. Ibid., 271. On the issue of binding positive law in the sphere of conscience, due to the crisis of the Inquisition, see Prodi, Una storia, 320–321. 244. Filangieri, Istruzione, 15–16. 245. Saporiti, Istruzioni pastorali, 137. 246. Ildefonso da Bressanvido, Istruzioni morali; Si espone quanto sieno validi incentivi d’incontinenza i libri osceni, 242. 247. On the activity of Possevino, author of Bibliotheca selecta (1593), whose preamble was Coltura degl’ingegni (the Italian translation was published in 1598), see Biondi, “Aspetti,” 296–302; Povero, Missioni.

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248. On the Protestant von Diessbach (1732–1798) converted to Catholicism in around 1754, see Stella, “Diessbach, Nikolas Albert von.” On this associazione, see Bona, Le ‘Amicizie’ and De Mattei, Idealità. On the role of the Associazione in orienting public opinion against the Enlightement culture, see Trampus, I gesuiti, 282–285. 249. On this point, see Jappelli, “Alfonso Maria de’ Liguori.” 250. Les loix de l’Amitié chrétienne is published in Bona, Le ‘Amicizie’, Appendice, 477–488; 478, note a. 251. Diessbach, Le chrétien. On this work, see Bona, Le ‘Amicizie’, 31 et seq.; Menozzi, La Chiesa, 18–22. 252. Diessbach, Le chrétien, vol. III, 370–371. 253. Ibid., 372; 385 and 292–393. 254. Diessbach, Disinganni, vol. II, 5. 255. Bona, Le ‘Amicizie’, 38–39. 256. Sandonà, Ragione, 19. 257. The exchange of letters was published in Roberti, Raccolta, vol. VII (1787), I–XXVII. 258. Chiosi, Lo spirito; Prefazione, 9. 259. Ibid., 233–264. On Galdi and the Accademia reale, see also Sannino, L’altro 1799, 19–38. 260. Chiosi, Lo spirito, 243; Bona, Le ‘Amicizie’, 64. 261. On this topic, see Rousse, “La lectio divina”; Sieben, “De la lectio divina”; Boland, “La lecture spirituelle.” See also Coco, La lettura. 262. Jamin, Trattato (1785). On Jamin’s, Traité; see Varry, Le Traité and Delpiano, “Educare alla lettura antiphilosophique.” 263. Jamin, Trattato; Avviso dell’editore, VIII–X; VIII–IX. 264. Ibid., 18; Prefazione, XI–XXIII; XIV. 265. Ibid., 33. 266. Ibid., respectively 33; 31. 267. Diessbach, Disinganni, 3. 268. Diessbach, Il zelo, 27. 269. Ibid., 42 et seq. See particularly chap. VI Degli argomenti delle pie letture, 46–61 and chap. VII Continuazione dello stesso soggetto, 62–98. 270. See Certeau, The Mystic Fable. 271. Ferrand, Livre et lecture, 195 et seq. 272. Jamin, Trattato, 182; 187. 273. Ibid., 187. 274. Diessbach, Il zelo, 47. 275. Rosignoli, Avvisi salutari (1702), 26–27. See also Ildefonso da Bressanvido, Istruzioni morali; Si espone quanto sieno validi incentivi d’incontinenza i libri osceni, 241–242. 276. Robbio di san Raffaele, Della falsa filosofia. The work by Giulio is La moda, which was published anonymously. 277. See De Mattei, La biblioteca. 278. Jamin, Trattato, Prefazione, XIII. 279. On the so-called reading revolution, since Rolf Engelsing’s Der Bürger als Leser, see in particular Wittmann, Was there a Reading Revolution? and critical reflections by Darnton, “First steps”; Darnton, The Forbidden Best-Sellers; Bödeker, D’une histoire littéraire; Chartier, “Commerce.” 280. Diessbach, Il zelo, 28. 281. Ibid. See in particular chap. VIII Metodo di leggere con frutto, 99–110. 282. Roberti, Del leggere, 250. 283. Turchi, Omelia sopra la lettura dei libri, 151. 284. De Jaucourt, “Lecture,” 336.

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Papillon, Antonino O.P. “Opera omnia Th. M. Mamachi O.P.” Archivum Fratrum Praedicatorum 5 (1935): 241–260. Pavone, Sabina. I gesuiti dalle origini alla soppressione, 1540–1773. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2004 et seq. Pelletier, Gérard. Rome et la Révolution française. La théologie et la politique du Saint—Siège devant la Révolution française (1789–1799). Rome: École française de Rome, 2004. Perna, Maria Luisa. “Genovesi Antonio.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 53 (1999), 148–153. Pignatelli, Giuseppe. Aspetti della propaganda cattolica a Roma da Pio VI a Leone XII. Rome: Istituto per la storia del Risorgimento, 1974. Pignatelli, Giuseppe. “Bruni, Bruno.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 14 (1972), 604–605. Pignatelli, Giuseppe. “Cernitori Giuseppe.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 23 (1979), 778–779. Pignatelli, Giuseppe. “Cerutti Giacinto.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 24 (1980), 66–71. Pignatelli, Giuseppe, and Armando Petrucci. “Bottari, Giovanni Gaetano.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 13 (1971), 409–418. Plebani, Tiziana. Il ‘genere’ dei libri. Storie e rappresentazioni della lettura al femminile e al maschile tra Medioevo e età moderna. Milan: Franco Angeli, 2001. Plebani, Tiziana. “Tra disciplina e diletto: corpi di lettori, corpi di lettrici.” In Corpi e storia. Donne e uomini dal mondo antico all’età contemporanea, edited by Nadia Maria Filippini, Tiziana Plebani, and Anna Scattigno, 359–372. Rome: Viella, 2002. Portinari, Folco, ed. Romanzieri del Settecento. Turin: UTET, 1988. Povero, Chiara. Missioni in terra di frontiera. La Controriforma nelle valli del Pinerolese (secoli XVI–XVIII). Rome: Istituto storico dei cappuccini, 2006. Pozzi, Giovanni. “Occhi bassi.” In Thematologie des Kleinen. Petits thèmes littéraires, edited by Edgar Marsch and Giovanni Pozzi, 161–211. Fribourg, Suisse: Éditions Universitaires, 1986. Prandi, Alfonso. Cristianesimo offeso e difeso. Deismo e apologetica cristiana nel secondo Settecento. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1975. Prandi, Alfonso. “La ‘Istoria ecclesiastica’ di P. Giuseppe Orsi e la sua genesi.” Rivista di storia della Chiesa in Italia 34, no. 2 (1980): 430–450. Preti, Cesare. “Mamachi, Tommaso Maria.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 68 (2007), 367–370. Preto, Paolo. “Facchinei, Ferdinando.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 44 (1994), 29–31. Prodi, Paolo. Una storia della giustizia. Dal pluralismo dei fori al moderno dualismo tra coscienza e diritto. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2000. Prosperi, Adriano. Tribunali della coscienza. Inquisitori, confessori, missionari. Turin: Einaudi, 1996 (new edn 2009). Rao, Anna Maria, ed. Editoria e cultura a Napoli nel XVIII secolo. Naples: Liguori, 1998. Reato, Ermenegildo. “Un vescovo di Vicenza tra riforme e rivoluzioni: Pietro Marco Zaguri.” Ricerche di storia sociale e religiosa 20, no. 39 (1991): 55–88. Reinhard, Wolfgang. “Kirche als Mobilitätskanal der frühneuzeitlichen Gesellschaft.” In Ständische Gesellschaft und soziale Mobilität, edited by Winfried Schulze, 333–351. Munich: Oldenbourg, 1982. Ricuperati, Giuseppe. “Bianchi Giovanni Antonio.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 10 (1968), 114–117 Ricuperati, Giuseppe. “Giornali e società nell’Italia dell’Ancien Régime (1668– 1789).” In La stampa italiana dal Cinquecento all’Ottocento, edited by Valerio

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Castronovo, Giuseppe Ricuperati, and Carlo Capra, vol. 1, 70–372. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1999 (1st edn 1976). Ricuperati, Giuseppe. I volti della pubblica felicità. Storiografia e politica nel Piemonte settecentesco. Turin: Albert Meynier, 1989. Ricuperati, Giuseppe. La città terrena di Pietro Giannone. Un itinerario tra crisi della coscienza europea e Illuminismo radicale. Florence: Olschki, 2001. Ricuperati, Giuseppe. “Politica, cultura e religione.” In Rosa, Cattolicesimo e Lumi, 49–76. Rodolico, Niccolò. Stato e Chiesa in Toscana durante la Reggenza lorenese (1737– 1765). Florence: Le Monnier, 1972. Roggerone, Giuseppe Agostino. “L’edizione genovese del ‘Dizionario’ di Chambers (1770–1775).” In Studi politici in onore di Luigi Firpo, vol. 2, Ricerche sui secoli XVII–XVIII, edited by Silvia Rota Ghibaudi and Franco Barcia, 713–728. Milan: Franco Angeli, 1990. Romani, Valentino. “Tipografia e commercio librario nel Settecento romano: note intorno al pontificato di Benedetto XIV.” In Cecchelli, Benedetto XIV, 1179–1196. Romano, Antonella. “I problemi scientifici nel ‘Giornale de’ letterati’ (1668–1681).” In Caffiero and Monsagrati, Dall’erudizione alla politica, 17–37. Rosa, Mario, ed. Cattolicesimo e Lumi nel Settecento italiano. Rome: Herder Editrice e Libreria, 1981. Rosa, Mario, ed. Clero e società nell’Italia moderna. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1995, 2nd edn (1st edn 1992). Rosa, Mario, “Encyclopédie, ‘Lumières’ et tradition au 18e siècle en Italie.” Dixhuitième siècle 4 (1972): 109–168. Rosa, Mario. “Le contraddizioni della modernità. Apologetica cattolica e Lumi nel Settecento.” Rivista di storia e letteratura religiosa 44 (2008): 73–114. Rousse, Jacques. “La lectio divina.” In Dictionnaire de spiritualité, vol. 9 (1976), cols 470–487. Rusconi, Roberto. “Gli Ordini religiosi maschili dalla Controriforma alle soppressioni settecentesche. Cultura, predicazione, missioni.” In M. Rosa, Clero e società, 207–274. Sandonà, Giovanni Battista. Ragione e carità. Per un ritratto di Giambattista Roberti, 1719–1786. Venice: Istituto veneto di scienze, lettere ed arti, 2002. Sannino, Anna Lisa. L’altro 1799. Cultura antidemocratica e pratica politica controrivoluzionaria nel tardo Settecento napoletano. Naples: Edizioni scientifiche italiane, 2002. Sarti, Raffaella. “Obbedienti e fedeli. Note sull’istruzione morale e religiosa di servi e serve tra Cinque e Settecento.” Annali dell’Istituto storico italo-germanico in Trento 17 (1991): 91–120. Savio, Pietro. Devozione di Mgr. Adeodato Turchi alla Santa Sede. Testo e DCLXXVII documenti sul giansenismo italiano ed estero. Rome: L’Italia francescana, 1938. Séité, Yannick. “Romanzo.” In L’Illuminismo. Dizionario storico, edited by Vincenzo Ferrone and Daniel Roche, 301–315. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1997. Sieben, Hermann Joseph. “De la lectio divina à la lecture spirituelle.” In Dictionnaire de spiritualité, vol. 9 (1976), cols 487–496. Signorotto, Gianvittorio. “La devozione settecentesca. Tradizione e mutamento.” In Infelise and Marini, L’editoria del ’700, 183–195. Spallanzani, Mariafranca. “La Nuova enciclopedia italiana del 1779.” In Gianfrancesco Malfatti nella cultura del suo tempo. Ferrara: Università degli Studi di Ferrara, 1982, 115–146. Sposato, Pasquale. Documenti vaticani per la storia della massoneria nel Regno di Napoli al tempo di Carlo III di Borbone. Tivoli: Aldo Chicca, 1959. Stella, Pietro. “Capecelatro, Giuseppe.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 18 (1975), 445–452.

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Stella, Pietro. “Diessbach, Nikolas Albert von.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 39 (1991), 791–194. Stella, Pietro. “Gerdil, Giacinto Sigismondo.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 53 (1999), 391–397. Tacchi-Venturi, Pietro. “Zaccaria, Francescantonio.” In Enciclopedia cattolica, vol. 12 (1954), cols 1757–1760. Tallarico, Maria Aurora. “Della Torre, Bernardo.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 37 (1989), 518–521. Tavoni, Maria Gioia. “I cataloghi di Giuseppe Remondini (1778–1785) e la circolazione del libro in lingua francese nella seconda metà del Settecento.” In Infelise and Marini, L’editoria del ’700, 261–288. Tommaseo, Niccolò. “Giambattista Roberti, le lettere e i gesuiti nel secolo decimottavo.” In Storia civile nella letteraria. Studii, 317–364. Rome-Turin-Florence: Loescher, 1872. Torcellan, Gianfranco. “Cesare Beccaria a Venezia” (1964). In Settecento veneto e altri scritti storici, 203–234. Turin: Giappichelli, 1969. Tortarolo, Edoardo. “Censorship and the Conception of the Public in Late-Eighteenth Century Germany: Or, Are Censorship and Public Opinion Mutually Excluding Entities?” In Shifting the Boundaries: Transformation of the Languages of Public and Private in the Eighteenth Century, edited by Dario Castiglione and Lesley Sharpe, 131–150. Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1995. Tortarolo, Edoardo. “Censura e censori: tra antichi Stati italiani e antichi Stati tedeschi. Questioni storiografiche dei primi anni Novanta” (1999). In La ragione interpretata, 176–191. Tortarolo, Edoardo. The Invention of Free Press: Writers and Censorship in Eighteenth Century Europe. Dordrecht: Springer, 2016. Originally published as L’invenzione della libertà di stampa. Censura e scrittori nel Settecento (Rome: Carocci, 2011). Tortarolo, Edoardo. “La censure à Berlin au XVIIIe siècle.” La lettre clandestine 6 (1997): 253–262. Tortarolo, Edoardo. La ragione interpretata. La mediazione culturale tra Italia e Germania nell’età dell’Illuminismo. Rome: Carocci, 2003. Trampus, Antonio. I gesuiti e l’Illuminismo. Politica e religione in Austria e nell’Europa centrale (1773–1798). Florence: Olschki, 2000. Turrini, Miriam. Penitenza e devozione. L’episcopato del cardinale Marcello Crescenzi a Ferrara (1746–1768). Brescia: Paideia, 1989. Valabrega, Roberto. Un anti-illuminista dalla cattedra alla porpora. Giacinto Sigismondo Gerdil professore, precettore a corte e cardinale. Turin: Deputazione subalpina di storia patria, 2004. Vanysacker, Dries. Cardinal Giuseppe Garampi an Enlightened Ultramontane. Brussels-Rome: Institut historique belge de Rome, 1995. Vanysacker, Dries. “Giacinto Sigismondo Cardinal Gerdil (1718–1802): Enlightenment as Cultural and Religious Achievement.” In Burson and Lehner, Enlightenment and Catholicism, 89–106. Varry, Domenique. “Le Traité de la lecture chrétienne de Dom Nicolas Jamin.” In Sacralités, culture et dévotion. Bouquet offert à Marie-Hélène FroeschléChopard, edited by Marc Venard and Dominique Julia, 299–308. Marseille: La Thune, 2005. Venturi, Franco. Settecento riformatore. vol. I, Da Muratori a Beccaria. Turin: Einaudi, 1969. Venturi, Franco. Settecento riformatore, vol. II, La Chiesa e la Repubblica dentro i loro limiti (1758–1774). Turin: Einaudi, 1976. Verzella, Emanuela. ‘Nella rivoluzione delle cose politiche e degli umani cervelli’. Il dibattito sulle Lettere teologico-politiche di Pietro Tamburini. Florence: Le Lettere, 1998.

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Viala, Alain. Naissance de l’écrivain. Sociologie de la littérature à l’âge classique. Paris: Éditions de Minuit, 2003 (1st edn 1985). Viglio, Patrizia. “Le biblioteche del clero.” In Anelli, Maffini and Viglio, Leggere in provincia, 117–182. Vismara, Paola. “Muratori ‘immoderato’. Le censure romane al De ingeniorum moderatione in religionis negotio.” Nuova rivista storica 83, no. 2 (1999): 315–344. Vismara, Paola. Oltre l’usura. La Chiesa moderna e il prestito a interesse. Soveria Mannelli: Rubbettino, 2004. Vovelle, Michel, ed. Enlightenment portraits. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997. Translated by Lydia G. Cochrane. Originally published as L’uomo dell’Illuminismo (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1992). Wittmann, Reinhard. “Was There a Reading Revolution at the End of the Eighteenth Century?” In Cavallo and Chartier, A History of Reading, 284–312.

Conclusion

At the end of a journey undertaken to illustrate the efforts made by popes, censors, inquisitors, bishops, parish priests and preachers to govern books and culture, it is necessary to ask questions about the overall outcome of the process. Without doubt, those efforts constituted a frantic and in some ways desperate counteroffensive against the push towards secularisation made by the political powers and by some sectors of civil society. And, while the energies expended were considerable, the results did not match expectations, at least not in the short term. Instead, there was a strong and clearcut dichotomy between an apparatus with serious intentions and the actual practice of prohibited readings, which was widespread in the peninsula and so well documented that it has been possible to theorise a substantial weakening of ecclesiastical censorship.1 Several factors combine to validate this interpretation, which is in fact corroborated by the cited studies on the circulation of books in eighteenthcentury Italy. It is true, first of all, that the libraries of the men of letters who lived in the years of the crisis of the ancien régime abounded in books included on the Index, often kept on special shelves.2 Works such as Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Montesquieu’s Esprit des lois, the Encyclopédie, Helvétius’s De l’homme, Beccaria’s Dei delitti e delle pene, and Raynal’s Histoire philosophique were all classics to be found in the homes of men of culture.3 Moreover, reading practices were often not limited to the works permitted by the appropriate ecclesiastical licences.4 Those who had obtained licences to read and keep “books on the Index by Catholic authors of philosophy, theology, ethics, history, mathematics, grammar, poetry, rhetoric,” at their deaths could bequeath books for which they had no kind of authorisation whatsoever.5 A closer look reveals that many of the men of letters of the time were educated by prohibited books read with or without ecclesiastical permission and acquired by tortuous means and under a cloak of secrecy.6 Cesare Beccaria’s “conversion” to philosophy, for example, was marked by his dazzling encounter with the Lettres persanes.7 Giambattista Biffi, for his part, went so far as to translate Helvétius’s Dell’esprit, a work he then kept well-hidden and which was destined to remain in manuscript.8

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Even in a kingdom like the Savoy, where state censorship had become entwined with that of the Church, giving birth to a solid alliance between throne and altar,9 the masterpieces of philosophie were widely diffused among the educated class.10 Texts on the Index were not beyond the reach of abbots and future canons, who were voracious readers of Voltaire’s Henriade, Lettres philosophiques and Pucelle d’Orléans.11 What is more, the practice of forbidden reading appears to have crossed ideological lines everywhere. Shared by the elite, both Enlightened and reactionary, the difference lay in the use they made of it, with conservatives of the calibre of Luigi Malabaila seeing Bayle’s Dictionnaire as a useful “dictionary of errors.”12 Another difference was the reaction provoked by such readings: whereas they aroused the disdain of the veteres,13 the novatores came to have a free and unprejudiced relationship with the printed page, entirely unrelated to an internalisation of the Index norms. While fathers had sought to impose a morality still based on obedience to the Church, many of their children no longer acknowledged the values of the past. In particular, the link between prohibited reading and a sense of guilt appears to have disappeared among the generation of the Enlightenment, which had been emancipated through disobedience to family impositions in order to publicly demand freedom of thought.14 Confirmation of these significant generational differences, fully grasped by moralists of the time,15 comes from instructions to children. Naturally, when giving their offspring advice on reading, more than a few warned against philosophique works,16 and some manuals in circulation in the late eighteenth century explicitly urged avoidance of books on the Index.17 However, the number of fathers who laid down very different rules had grown. Even allowing for all the limitations relating to doubts about feminine knowledge, the totally secular attitude adopted by the Enlightenment thinker Pietro Verri with regard to his daughter, Teresa, is exemplary: not only did he teach her that books were “the dearest and most instructive companions,” but he also encouraged her to cultivate reading to the extent of turning it into a “need”; he encouraged her to read comedies, tragedies, novels “written with decency,” excluding only “overly libertine” ones, while treating the existence of an Index librorum prohibitorum in Italian lands as an utter irrelevance.18 The ongoing process of secularisation also provides the backdrop for the lively debate around the censorship of books, which in the 1760s became bound up with jurisdictional reforms aimed at stripping the Church of its power over the world of reading. Many men of letters—from Camillo Manetti to Pilati and Amidei—lined up against the upholders of ecclesiastical prerogatives, defending instead the rights of the state.19 And those who, in the 1780s, strove to support the freedom of the press went well beyond the clash between religious and political power.20 If the huge effort made by the Church to govern reading thus appeared doomed to failure as far as the educated classes were concerned, it is necessary to make a more detailed study of the outcome relating to the

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individuals categorised, in the perception of the time, as infirmitas. They included young people, women and the “simple,” which is to say all those who were able to read, but were unfamiliar with the world of paper and approached it timidly. In fact, although the number of readers appears to have steadily increased during the eighteenth century, especially in urban areas and despite the fears expressed by moralists, the ecclesiastical governance of reading continued to have a significant influence. Indeed, this factor should be borne in mind when trying to understand why scholars, when they go in search of the Italian reading public of the late period of the early modern age, come across an aristocratic or upper middle class audience that expands only slightly towards the middle classes and, in general, excludes the lower classes.21 Not that there lacked, of course, examples of infringements of the rules of the Index by this latter group,22 but it is no coincidence that their relationship with books, prohibited or not, can be glimpsed only through rare fragments of documentary evidence and, especially, by bringing to light multiple forms of appropriation (from collective reading to oral mediation).23 It is not surprising, moreover, that the majority of the inhabitants of the peninsula seemed heavily conditioned by the presence of the clergy, at least in the eyes of the many European travellers who perpetuated the stereotype of Italy as a country characterised “by heat, by the Holy Office, and by bandits.”24 More generally, it would be misleading to ignore signs that encourage a critical discussion of the theory that the strategies deployed by the ecclesiastical hierarchy during the eighteenth century were a total failure. In this sense, recent historiographical trends, prone to interpreting censorship as a normal means of communication and undervaluing its repressive dimension, risk leading to revisionist interpretations, at least as concerns countries with an inquisitorial tradition, such as Italy.25 This is all the more true at a time when the concept of the “Catholic Enlightenment” is emerging or reemerging, offering a conciliatory view of a relationship between the Catholic Church and the culture of the Enlightenment that is free of conflict.26 For one thing, while the coercive apparatus assembled during the years of the catholic reconquest was no longer the preferred solution, it should not be forgotten that the Index librorum prohibitorum, heavily influencing ecclesiastical publishing, continued to play an important role. What is more, it was not a neutral instrument, in the sense that its decrees were never indifferent: they could coerce the devout not to read, or, conversely, could stimulate reading. This was an ambivalence that had repercussions for the relationship between Italians and books, one fully shared by contemporaries. Alongside those who held that banning a text had become a form of free publicity,27 there were those who, denouncing from a jurisdictional perspective the practice of posting prohibition notices in churches, emphasised how the widely spread ways of the Index reached the faithful masses directly: the postings were not “mere formalities” but served “to provide support for prejudiced opinions,” and were able to impact on the mental habits of the people.28 And this is without mentioning the consequences of

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self-censorship, a practice which influenced deeply the intellectual activity of men of letters operating in eighteenth-century Italy.29 In any event, the effects of the Church’s censorship and propaganda activities during the eighteenth century should not only be assessed in the short term. In that period, it succeeded in defending itself: before 1789, albeit sometimes with substantial delays, it condemned to the Index the texts that endangered orthodoxy along with all belonging to the Enlightenment tradition. Yet at the same time it gave valuable guidance for the future. It established a compact theoretical apparatus, created mainly in opposition to the world of the Enlightenment and based on the central role of Catholicism (construed as the only legitimate form of religion) in public life, on the alliance between throne and altar, and on the defence of duties as opposed to the demand for rights.30 Accordingly, it was able to offer this apparatus to the secular branch when, at the outbreak of the French Revolution, the rulers halted the cautious renewal process of jurisdictional and anticlerical institutions that had been started in the area of book censorship, as elsewhere. Thus, it smoothed the way to the union of state and church that would be formalised during the Restoration, revitalising the Index librorum prohibitorum and reinvigorating ecclesiastical censorship.31 When weighing the long-term results of the prohibitions on the reading practices of Italians and good Catholics, one should note that most of the volumes condemned to the Index remained on the list until its abolition in the 1960s, after the watershed of the Second Vatican Council. In this sense, the Church’s resistance to the Enlightenment went far beyond the eighteenth century, surviving the decline of the Enlightenment (historically understood as a movement of limited duration). While at the beginning of the nineteenth century, when the sparks of revolution in the Italian Peninsula had been put out, numerous philosophique texts—from Diderot’s Jacques le fataliste to Rousseau’s Nouvelle Héloïse—were placed on the Index,32 in the age of the Restoration various Enlightenment works—from Genovesi’s Lezioni di commercio33 to d’Holbach’s Buon senso, proscribed in 1817,34 up to Gaetano Filangieri’s Scienza della legislazione, censored in 182635—were banned ex novo or else were subject to second decrees based on new editions.36 In the eyes of the conservative clergy, the Revolution, which through the Déclaration des droits de l’homme et du citoyen officially recognised the principle of the freedom of the press (article 11), was the realisation of fears they had harboured for a long time. Indeed, it seemed to be rooted in the free flow of prohibited books, harbingers of disbelief and freedom of conscience.37 Furthermore, there was a widespread belief that the states had had a specific responsibility in that process because they had called into question the authority of the Church in the matter of book control. In doing so, they had destroyed a fundamental power—that over consciences—ultimately depriving censorship of much of its force.38 In effect, although 1789 went far beyond the de facto areas granted to the circulation of texts on the Index by some Italian governments during the

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eighteenth century, the drives towards secularisation implicit in the organisation of state censorship apparatuses should not be overlooked. It is, of course, necessary to consider the different state approaches and also to take account of how the continual overlapping of rules established by the different authorities helped create a highly varied picture in the peninsula, well known to booksellers who were aware that in a country a magistrate allows everything for six months and for the next six months he forbids everything, in another one a bishop bans everything, in yet another everything is permitted, in that place there is an extremely strict inquisitor, in this place there is another who is very accommodating.39 Nonetheless, it is true that, while in the Savoyard State (as mentioned) the birth of state censorship resulted in reinforcing the repressive dimension,40 elsewhere, such as in Venice, it seems instead to have guaranteed, under false places of imprint, a broad degree of freedom for the spread of prohibited books.41 This is not to say that the states were motivated by questions of principle, for their objective was to foster the commercial trade of books in their territories. Nor, of course, was it the case that they promoted the dissemination of radical principles of the Enlightenment. If anything, the aim in some contexts was to allow a muted infiltration of some Enlightenment ideas in view of a harmonious conciliation between the anticlerical struggle, the defence of constituted political power and economic interests. This instrumental use of philosophique books led the Venetian Republic to block the circulation of the Du contrat social, of La Mettrie’s Œuvres philosophiques and Helvétius’s De l’esprit, but to authorise, in return, the works of Montesquieu and a number of texts by Voltaire.42 Openness to new ideas was evident in the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, which broke with the Church in accordance with a plan oriented towards simultaneously controlling and “enlightening” opinions.43 This resulted in initiatives such as the Italian translation of Raynal’s Histoire philosophique (Siena, Bindi, 1776–1778), published with the backing of the state secretariat: a work subjected to profound manipulation, in which the expunging of the radical political and religious aspects present in the original did not, however, prejudice the safeguarding of principles such as civil tolerance and the idea of a close working relationship between subjects and sovereign.44 It should certainly be pointed out that in Europe, at a time in which men like Voltaire said: “Let us read, and let us dance—these two amusements will never do any harm to the world,”45 there was no lack of book burnings decreed by the civil powers of the peninsula,46 nor of harsh and severe judgments handed down by censors in the service of civil authorities.47 Still, it is reasonable to wonder if some states, tolerating the reality of the circulation of books on the Index—that is, choosing to do no more than issue rules— did not end up playing a modernising role or, at least, one less marked by

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the resistance that instead characterised the ecclesiastical powers. In this sense, it seems that we might agree with the reflections of Elena Brambilla, according to whom modernity can be found “not in the expansion of the state but in its contraction, not in an increased efficiency of repression but in the renunciation of repression.”48 On the other hand, even when they endorsed decrees issued by the Congregation of the Index, state censors still represented centres of power other than that long exercised by the ecclesiastical hierarchy. And it was the disputing of the hegemony of the clergy that led to the fragmentation of control, which ultimately facilitated the rise of the prohibited press. In actual fact, the Revolution was unable to avoid interrupting the process of cautious and slow secularisation started in the peninsula through the promotion of state censorship. The shift was felt everywhere, beginning with Venice, where in 1790 the censorship apparatus of the Republic became much more rigorous in curbing the entry of French works.49 Then, in 1792, almost all the Italian governments signed a written agreement, pledging to use all means necessary to “keep at bay all dangerous people and all seditious books of France, aimed at destroying the legitimate authority of the sovereigns and at disturbing the public peace.”50 Later, during the triennio repubblicano, when the peninsula first experienced legal forms of press freedom,51 the “errors” committed by the civil powers were immediately pilloried by men of the clergy. At the first hint of revolution in Modena, the chief minister in charge asked the bishop how to handle the situation, and the bishop, reminding him of the reckless folly of having abolished the Inquisition’s control over books, as well as the local Inquisition itself, proposed a holy alliance between throne and altar.52 That alliance held through the long years of the Restoration, when the state and the church would again unite in the fight against the bad press. Most telling is the account by William Hazlitt, an Englishman subjected to a customs control at the border of Haute-Savoie in 1826: I had two trunks. One contained books. When it was unlocked, it was as if the lid of Pandora’s box flew open. There could not have been a more sudden start or expression of surprise, had it been filled with cartridgepaper or gunpowder. Books were the corrosive sublimate that eat out despotism and priestcraft—the artillery that battered down castle and dungeon-walls— . . . the lynx-eyed guardians that tore off disguises. . . . A box full of them was a contempt of the constituted authorities.53

Notes 1. Di Rienzo and Formica, “Tra Napoli e Roma”; Formica, Sudditi, 43–45. 2. Avolì, “Monaldo,” 245. 3. For instance, these books are among the texts owned by the Veronese scientist Anton Maria Lorgna (1735–1796). See Piva, Anton Maria Lorgna, 23–24; 36–131. As for the spread of Enlightenment culture, especially the French one,

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4.

5.

6.

7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13.

14.

15. 16. 17.

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in the area of Veneto, see Piva, “La cultura,” who identifies, among the readers of the Enlightenment prohibited books, members of the nobility, the clergy, the liberal professions, as well as the rich merchant Carlo Todaro (ibid., 68). On the presence of philosophes’ works among the educated classes in Piacenza area—just to give another example—see Viglio, “I libri e i lettori.” The same faithful who demanded licences to read prohibited books to the Roman congregations sometime lied about their own age or profession, for example, in order to get the required permission. On this topic, see Delpiano, “Per una storia,” 518–530. This is the case of Leonardo Ximenes, for example, who died in 1786 and who, on 11 May 1745, obtained a limited licence to read forbidden books but kept texts such as De rerum natura by Lucretius, Dictionnaire historique et critique by Bayle, all the volumes of the Lucca edition of the Encyclopédie, besides works of Machiavelli and Giambattista Marino. See Barsanti and Rombai, Leonardo Ximenes, 34, note 23 (for the list of his books, see Appendice 1, 201–225). Machiavelli and Bayle, as well as Adone by Marino, were absolutely prohibited, even to people possessing licences. Delpiano, “Per una storia,” 525. Giuseppe Compagnoni, for instance, born in Romagna in 1754, while studying at the faculty of law had read Grotius, Pufendorf, Barbeyrac, Montesquieu and Beccaria. Compagnoni, Memorie, 15 (he wrote this work in the 1820s). Similar is the story of the noble Luigi de’ Medici, a student in Turin in 1770s, who read on his own a copy of Rousseau’s, Du contrat social. De’ Medici, Memorie, 43. See furthermore the testimony of the young Vittorio Alfieri (Vita, 89). Venturi, “Beccaria,” 459 (the episode dates back to 1761, when the Enlightenment thinker was twenty three years old). On the noble Biffi, born in 1736, see Dossena, “Biffi, Giambattista,” 379 (his translation dates back to the 1770s). See also Delpiano, “Prassi scientifica,” 266–269. See sup., 6, note 2. Carlo Stefano Giulio’s (1757–1804) library serves as a model. He was a physician and man of letters: in his catalogue there are works by Montesquieu, Voltaire, Rousseau, Beccaria and Gaetano Filangieri. BPT, Archivio della famiglia Giulio, folder 19, no. 8 (Nota di tutti li mobili . . . con inventario della biblioteca ed altro elenco dei suoi libri). This is the case of the man of letters Ignazio De Giovanni, who became canon in Casale Monferrato (Savoyard State) a few years later. The list of books purchased in 1760–1761 is analysed in Braida, Il commercio, 181–219. Ruata, Luigi Malabaila, 96. He was count and ambassador of Savoy (1704–1773). Malabaila was outraged by reading, in the 1750s, Madame de Graffigny’s, Lettres d’une péruvienne (Ruata, Luigi Malabaila, 84), but even a devout Catholic like Filippo Durazzo burned some libertine and obscene works sent to him from Paris. Petrucciani, Gli incunaboli, 67. Antonio Genovesi, for example, who had been distracted from the study of philosophy by reading chilvary romance and some “Spanish bad novels (romanzacci),” was to no avail forbidden by his father to approach those books. Genovesi, “Vita,” 49–50. On Turchi’s reflection, see sup., 28. On the new relationship between parents and sons in Venice, see Plebani, Un secolo. A production which seemed able to “poison public life.” Lasne d’Aiguebelle, Testamento, 319. Giannelli, Educazione, 86. The author of this conduct manual, written at the beginning of the eighteenth century and edited posthumously by a descendant, is the lawyer and poet Basilio Giannelli from Benevento. He was involved in the

230

18. 19. 20. 21.

22.

23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

30.

31.

32. 33. 34.

Conclusion trial against the Neapolitan atheists at the end of the seventeenth century, and had escaped public abjuration thanks to pressure from some influential persons. The text was the result of his reconciliation with the Church. Giorgio, Basilio Giannelli, 51. Verri, “Ricordi,” 181–182. Manetti, Avvertimenti; Pilati, Di una riforma, 43–45; Amidei, La Chiesa, 244– 248. Among supporters of ecclesiastical power, see Zaccaria, Storia (1777). Filangieri, Scienza, 359–365. On this debate, see Delpiano, Liberi di scrivere, 94–132. For a reflection in this direction, mainly concerning journals, see Infelise, “L’utile,” 125. See also Pasta, “Appunti.” For an overview of research in Italy, see Braida, “Quelques considerations”; Pasta, “Towards a Social History”; Braida, “Gli studi italiani.” Francesco Bal (1766–1836), an apprentice, certainly knew Montesquieu’s, Lettres persanes and other works by Voltaire and Rousseau, although none of these appear in his library. Lamberti, Splendori, 26–32. Angela Veronese (1779–1847) was given by her father, a gardener, the poem Ricciardetto written by Forteguerri, which was on the Index. Roggero, “L’alphabétisation,” 923. See Roggero, Le carte, who traces the hypothesis of an Italian access to the world of books and reading characterised by the weakness of direct contact with written words and by the survival of the collective use of texts through listening to other people reading. Brilli, Quando viaggiare, 37. These observations lived throughout the age of Enlightenment, beginning with Montesquieu, in Italy in 1728–1729. See, among other examples, Saint-Non, Voyage. See also De Seta, “Cosmopolitismo.” On the “new censorship,” see, among others, Rosenfeld, “Writing the History”; Bunn, “Reimagining Repression.” See Lehner and Printy, A Companion; Lehner, The Catholic Enlightenment, 6, who stressed “the genuine compatibility of faith and reason”; Lehner and Burson, Enlightenment and Catholicism. Grimaldi, Memorie di un anticurialista, 71. Amidei, La Chiesa e la Repubblica, 245–247. On this point, see Delpiano, Liberi, 94–141. Ecclesiastical censorship also influenced the translators who adapted their activity in order to appease the Holy See. On the case of Milton’s, Paradise Lost in Italian language, see Brera, “‘Non istà bene’.” On the values of the antiphilosophie, interpreted as a category well before the French Revolution, see McMahon, Enemies; Delpiano, Liberi, 60–93; 142– 177. For a long-term perspective, see Garrard, Counter-Enlightenments. See also Berlin, “The Counter-Enlightenment.” On the continuity between antiphilosophie and Counter-Revolution, see Guerci, Uno spettacolo (on Voltaire, for instance, see 61–62). On censorship in the age of Restoration, see Palazzolo, I libri; Gabriele, Modelli, 250–256 (on the Kingdom of Sardinia in the first half of nineteenth century). The situation in France was similar (see Granata, La ‘monarchia impossibile’), but very different in Tuscany (see Bruni, Con regolata indifferenza, 32–44). See sup., 78. The decree dates back to 17 March 1817. See Iovine, “Tre inedite censure.” The edition censored was the one published in 1808, as pointed out by Guerci, “Incredulità,” 93. The first Italian edition was published in Milan in 1797– 1798 and reprinted in 1801 (ibid., 92–93).

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35. The work was censored on the basis of the Roman edition, published in 1798 by the printer Poggioli on the initiative of the republican government. Motta, “Le condanne.” On the second censorship (1822) of Mercier’s An 2440, see sup., 78. On the Catholic Church’s difficult relationship with the Enlightenment see, also with regard to the contemporary debate, Ferrone and Roche, L’Illuminismo, 92–120; Ferrone, Lo strano Illuminismo. 36. When additional sections or images were added a new condemnation was issued. See Delpiano, “Per una storia,” 506. 37. We can take as a model Turchi, Omelia sopra la lettura dei libri, 160, according to whom eagerness to read originated from the “spirit of independence and pride” and was a “crime of rebellion,” mistaken by impertinent people for an “act of freedom.” See also Gemini, La cabala, 119 et seq. 38. This reflection can be found in many authors. See, for instance, Spedalieri, De’ diritti, 435–437. 39. Letter by Francesca Guarinoni Rondi to the Société typographique de Neuchâtel, Bergamo, 12 April 1779, quoted in Pasta, Editoria, 278–283; 282. The author concluded that, “despite all these appearances, there is no country in the world where one is free to do anything one wants as in Italy,” provided however that “one is prudent, clear-sighted, and one adapts to the rules of states and ranks, and above all never appears to be an enemy of priests and monks.” 40. It is also worth recalling the severity of the Savoyard Foreign Secretary, the Marquis Giuseppe Maria Carron d’Aigueblanche, who prevented the introduction of Voltaire’s works in the French embassy in Turin. On this episode, which dates back to 1776, see Ricuperati, “Il Settecento,” 616. 41. See Infelise, L’editoria, 62–131, who highlights the role played by Venetian publishers in spreading texts placed on the Index, published with the support of the government under false places of imprint. 42. Concerning the entrance of French works, Piva, Censura, 203, assumes a “liberality of censorship.” 43. On the Grand Duchy of Tuscany see, besides Landi, Il governo, in particular 245, Mangio, “Censura.” 44. Landi, “Editoria”; Landi, “Scrivere,” 137–147. The translation was planned by Luigi and Benedetto Bindi, two printers from Siena, and got the support of the secretary through the mediation of Dominico Stratico, who acted as a guarantor of the operation, which was in keeping with the anti-curial policy of the Grand Duchy. See also, as for the circulation of Voltaire’s works, Macé, “L’édition.” On the relationship between state and church in the Neapolitan context, characterised by both open conflicts and compromises, see Rao, Editoria. 45. Voltaire, “De la liberté,” 376. 46. In the Kingdom of Naples, for instance, the Parere by Molinari was burned, as we have seen (see sup. 165). In Venice, La raison par alphabet by Voltaire, Dictionnaire by Bayle were burned in August 1769. Piva, Censura, 50. 47. Suffice it to mention the anticlerical tones used by Biffi when recounting his experiences as a censor in Cremona (1769–1790): he told of “a pig of a monk named Calderoni, Carmelite lector in San Bartolomeo,” whose thesis on the usefulness of monks he rejected. Biffi, Diario, 89 (on 26 July 1778). 48. Brambilla, La giustizia, 237. On the role played by royal censors in ensuring freedom of expression and therefore promoting the emergence of a public opinion in eighteenth-century France, see Birn, Royal Censorship; Darnton, Censors. 49. Piva, Censura, 51 (graphic 1). 50. De Felice, I giornali, Introduzione, IX–LVII; XIX.

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51. On the triennio as a turning point for the freedom of the press in the Italian Peninsula, see Guerci, Istruire, Introduzione, 7–17; 8. On the Republic of Venice see, in the same direction, Infelise, “Gazzette.” 52. Montecchi, “La censura,” 48. The incident, which dates back to 11 October 1794, involved the minister Giambattista Murini and the bishop Tiburzio Cortese. 53. Hazlitt, Notes, 190–191.

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Piva, Franco. Censura francese e censura a Venezia nel secondo Settecento. Ricerche storico-bibliografiche. Venice: Istituto veneto di scienze lettere ed arti, 1973. Piva, Franco. “La cultura francese nelle biblioteche venete del Settecento.” Archivio veneto 115 (1980): 33–83. Plebani, Tiziana. Un secolo di sentimenti. Amori e conflitti generazionali nella Venezia del Settecento. Venice: Istituto veneto di scienze lettere ed arti, 2012. Rao, Anna Maria, ed. Editoria e cultura a Napoli nel XVIII secolo. Naples: Liguori, 1998. Ricuperati, Giuseppe. “Il Settecento.” In Il Piemonte sabaudo. Stato e territori in età moderna, edited by Pierpaolo Merlin, Claudio Rosso, Geoffrey Symcox, and Giuseppe Ricuperati, 441–834. Turin: UTET, 1994. Roggero, Marina. “L’alphabétisation en Italie: une conquête féminine?” Annales. Histoire, Sciences Sociales 56, nos. 4–5 (2001): 903–925. Roggero, Marina. Le carte piene di sogni. Testi e lettori in età moderna. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2006. Rosenfeld, Sophia. “Writing the History of Censorship in the Age of Enlightenment.” In Postmodernism and the Enlightenment: New Perspectives in Eighteenth-Century French Intellectual History, edited by Daniel Gordon, 117–145. London-New York: Routledge, 2001. Ruata, Ada. Luigi Malabaila di Canale. Riflessi della cultura illuministica in un diplomatico piemontese. Turin: Deputazione subalpina di storia patria, 1968. Venturi, Franco, “Beccaria, Cesare.” In Dizionario biografico, vol. 7 (1965), 458–469. Viglio, Patrizia, “I libri e i lettori.” In Leggere in provincia. Un censimento delle biblioteche private a Piacenza nel Settecento, edited by Vittorio Anelli, Luigi Maffini and Patrizia Viglio, 53–116. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1986.

Index

abjuration 55, 90n13, 122, 145–146n45, 176, 200n31, 229–230n17 Agnelli, Giuseppe 10, 32n11 Albergati Capacelli, Francesco 30, 40n175, 168 Albergoni, Gianluca 196n61 Albertan-Coppola, Sylviane 195n46 Alberti Di Villanova, Francesco 186, 204n217 Albini, Filippo, bishop 33n22 Alcorn Baron, Sabrina 32n1 Alembert, Jean-Baptiste Le Rond d’ 27, 61, 184, 203n204 Alfonso Maria de’ Liguori, saint 15, 17, 19, 22, 26, 29, 34n42, 34, 43, 35n57, 35n69, 35n70, 37n102, 37n105, 38n125, 38n145, 40n171, 64, 93n70, 115, 132, 133, 142n4, 142n5, 148n105, 148n106, 148n107, 148n108, 148n109, 149n137, 151n169, 152n171, 164, 166, 170, 190, 193, 195n35, 197n77 Algarotti, Francesco, 55, 118 Alimento, Antonella 147n85 Allegra, Luciano 36n82, 149n124, 194n19, 204n227 Allegrini, Alderano 166, 195n37 Almici, Giambattista 173, 198n104 Althann, Michael Friedrich von, viceroy of Naples 91n32 Álvarez Cora, Enrique 94n99 Alvisini, Giulio Maria 202n169 Amadieu, Jean-Baptiste 96n140 Amaduzzi, Cristofano 177, 200n136 Amidei, Cosimo 68, 81, 224, 230n19, 230n28 Andrà, Giovanni Giacinto 41n189 Andrés, Juan 6n3, 183, 203n200

Andrés-Gallego, José 150n143 Angeli, Carlo Giacinto, inquisitor 118, 144n33 Antonelli, Leonardo, assessor of the Inquisition 145n38, 145n41, 146n60, 146n61, 146n63 Antoniano, Silvio 32n4, 35n72, 39n161, 161, 179, 194n4 Anzani, Angelo, bishop 151n156 archbishop(s) 64, 89, 99n201, 128, 129, 132–135, 143n9, 144n22, 147n87, 150n137, 166, 169 Argens, Jean-Baptiste de Boyer d’ 56, 58, 84, 123 Arici, Francesco Antonio 20, 36n86 Arignani, Giovanni Battista 21, 36n95, 150n138 Ariosto, Ludovico 23, 25, 38n122, 73, 95n111, 133, 144n33, 180 Aristophanes 167 Armstrong, Nancy 39n154 Arnaud de Baculard, François-Thomas Marie d’ 87, 100n221 Arteaga, Esteban de 194n17, 200n134 Artiaga, Loïc 96n140, 203n201 Aselmeyer, Norman 39n156 Asor Rosa, Alberto 204n217 Asor Rosa, Laura 148n92 Astruc, Jean 29, 40n168 Atanasio da Pogno 75, 78 atheism 3, 17, 20, 21, 54, 56, 60, 63, 69–70, 77, 121–122, 132, 137, 139, 167 Attems Karl Michael von 148n101 Avolì, Alessandro 228n2 Azzoguidi, Germano 144n21, 146n55 Bacon, Francis 59 Bal, Francesco 230n22

238

Index

Balbis Bertone, Marco Aurelio, bishop 149n119 Baldacci, Valentino 93n61 Baldini, Artemio Enzo 194n3 Baldini, Francesco 55, 82, 90n8, 90n9, 98n179 Baldini, Ugo 92n45, 98n182 Baldoriotti, Benedetto 60, 71, 75, 77, 80, 81 Ballarini, Pietro 172 Balzac, Honoré de 78 Bandi, Giovanni Carlo, bishop 147n80 Barbarigo, Gregorio, bishop 10, 12, 32n14, 33n21, 169, 197n73 Barbeyrac, Jean 100n215, 229n6 Barbierato, Federico 36n85, 90n11 Bargeton, Daniel 67 Barruel, Augustin 179, 181, 183, 203n199 Barsanti, Danilo 229n5 Bartoli, Daniello 10, 32n10, 184 Baruffaldi, Girolamo 150n141 Baseggio, Giambattista 194n16 Basnage, Jacques 168 Bassani, Jacopo Antonio 16, 34n51, 150n141 Baviera, Salvatore 150n147 Bayle, Pierre 17, 25, 26, 36n90, 54, 58, 59, 62, 69, 89n4, 166, 167, 224, 229n5, 231n46 Bazzoli, Maurizio 198n105 Beaumont, Christophe de, archbishop 66, 105 Beccaria, Cesare 65, 71, 94n99, 99n213, 118, 137, 174, 177, 199n119, 223, 229n6 Becchetti, Filippo Angelico, secretary of the Index 96n146, 177 Bellarmino, Roberto, cardinal 30, 40n178 Bellati, Antonfrancesco 19, 21, 23, 36n76, 38n123, 150n141 Bellinati, Claudio 151n156 Benedict XIII (Vincenzo Maria Orsini), pope 129 Benedict XIV (Prospero Lambertini), pope 4, 17, 55–58, 60, 80, 83, 87, 91n28, 92n40, 92n50, 97n164, 97n167, 97n172, 129, 136, 147n89, 147n91, 149n116, 171, 172, 175, 192, 195n43, 197n67, 198n100; and Enlightenment 87 Benvenuti, Carlo 61, 82, 92n57, 92n59, 98n182, 99n211

Benvenuti, Sergio 99n211 Berengo, Marino 196n61 Bergier, Nicolas-Sylvestre 167, 170, 178, 181, 193, 195n46, 196n51, 202n181 Berkeley, George 56, 90n16 Berlin, Isaiah 230n30 Bermingham, Ann 203n203 Berruyer, Isaac Joseph 145n31 Berti, Silvia 95n106 Bertolotti, Leone 74 Bertoni, Clotilde 37n100 Besozzi, Gioacchino Raimondo 62, 82, 98n181 Bethencourt, Francisco 99n192 Bettinelli, Saverio 194n17 Bettoni, Giuseppe 92–93n59, 199n116 Biagi, Clemente 201n162 Bianchi, Giovanni Antonio 59, 75, 81, 82, 92n51, 142n3, 170, 193 Bianchi, Giulio Maria, secretary of the Index 96n146 Bianchi, Isidoro 121, 145n44 Bianchini, Francesco 82, 97n178 Bianchini, Paolo 199n128, 202n183, 202n184 Bienville J.D.-T de 40n168 Biffi, Giambattista 122, 146n54, 229n8, 223, 231n47 Bindi, Benedetto, printer 231n44 Bindi, Luigi, printer 231n44 Biondi, Albano 194n1, 204n207 Birn, Raymond 194n8, 231n48 bishop(s) 2, 4, 5, 11, 12, 13, 57, 85, 88, 98n190, 116, 118, 120, 124, 126–132, 134, 135, 136, 138, 141, 147n87, 148n104, 149n117, 150n137, 170, 179, 223; competition with inquisitors 98n190; appeal to 4, 127–131 Bizzocchi, Roberto 36n82 Black, Christopher F. 89n1 Boccaccio, Giovanni 22, 38n122, 54, 73, 95n111 Boccadora, Filippo, inquisitor 143n16 Bödeker, Hans Erich 205n269 Bodin, Jean 161 Boer, Wietse de 148n107 Boland, André 205n261 Bolgeni, Gian Vincenzo 202n167 Bolzoni, Lina 33n17 Bona, Candido 205n248, 205n250, 205n251, 205n255, 205n260 Bonamici, Filippo Maria 62

Index Bonfigli, Giacinto, secretary of the Index 79, 96n146 Bonnard, Fourier 197n82 Bonucci, Antonio Maria 74, 82, 97n177, 100n223 book burning(s) 1, 4, 27, 55, 56, 60, 64, 68, 71, 72–73, 75, 79, 83–89, 90n12, 92n54, 93n73, 95n104, 99n194, 99n198, 99n201, 99n205, 99n206, 125, 139, 148n109, 188, 195–196n49, 199n117, 227, 229n13, 231n46; (book) trade 1, 73, 117, 120, 127, 140, 177, 227 books: good (books) 189–194; war of 136, 161, 163–168 Borchi, Nicola 91n27, 93n74 Borromei, Vitaliano, cardinal 191 Borromeo, Agostino 90n120 Borromeo, Carlo bishop 27, 164 Borsa, Matteo 194n17 Boschi, Giovanni Carlo 70 Boscovich, Ruggero 82, 98n182 Bossio, Pier Antonio, inquisitor 143n14 Bossuet, Jacques-Bénigne, bishop 19, 22, 23, 35n73, 36n79, 36n80, 37n110, 37n113, 37n117 Bottari, Angelo 197n80 Bottari, Giovanni Gaetano 54, 57, 73, 74, 83, 91n26, 98n187, 199n127 Bottino, Domenico Lorenzo, inquisitor 144n29 Boucher d’Argis, Antoine-Gaspard 61 Boulanger, Nicolas-Antoine 65, 93n75 Bourdaloue, Louis 22, 37n109 Boyle, Robert 37n112 Bozoli, Giuseppe M. 198n97 Braida, Lodovica xi, 6n2, 40n180, 203n203, 229n11, 230n21 Brambilla, Elena xi, 6n10, 54n176, 146n46, 142n2, 147n74, 228, 231n48 Brera, Matteo 230n29 Bresciani, Antonio 183 Brewer, John 203n203 Brilli, Attilio 230n24 Briquet, Pierre 40n177 Broccoli, Angiolo, bookseller 119 Bruni, Bruno 195n29, 165, 171, 195n29, 198n92 Bruni, Domenico Maria 230n31 Bruno, Giordano 32n9 Buisson, Giovanni Antonio, vicar of the Inquisition 144n19

239

Bujanda, Jesús Martinez de, 89n4, 92n47, 95n112 Bunn, Matthew 230n25 Buoi, Vitale Giuseppe de’, bishop 145n38 Burrows, Simon 6n9 Burson, Jeffrey D. 195n46 Busolini, Dario 97n176 Caesar, Ann Hallamore 38n126 Caffiero, Marina 6n15, 90n15, 97n162, 97n171, 98n190, 148n98, 199n122, 200n135, 200n136, 201n157, 201n159 Cajani, Luigi 148n96 Calabrese, Stefano 39n150 Calderoni, Carmelite lector 231n47 Callisen, Georg 92n42 Calogerà, Antonio 174, 199n114 Calvin, Jean 22, 58, 66, 122 Calvinism, Calvinists 64, 73 Campanelli, Marcella 33n22, 148n99, 156, 194n19, 214 Campastri, Tommaso 21, 28, 36n94, 36n96, 39n159, 41n184, 137, 140, 149n131, 149n134, 151n155 Cancellieri, Francesco 97n162 Canosa, Romano 95n115, 143n10, 144n19 Cantini, Lorenzo 203n215 Cantoni, Antonio, archbishop 128 Capecelatro, Giuseppe, archbishop 169, 197n75, 202n172 Cappello, Sergio 38n122 Capretti, Domenico 97n172 Caravale, Giorgio 6n1 Caravelli, Giovanni Francesco 77, 81, 91n37 catechism(s) 2, 26, 28, 36n93, 126, 130, 150, 152, 143n15, 149n122, 161, 164, 166, 180, 185, 192, 193, 202n168 Charles Emmanuel IV of Savoy, King of Sardinia 185, 198n89 Charles of Bourbon 59, King of Naples Carpinelli, Filippo 147n74 Carron d’Aigueblanche, Giuseppe Maria 231n40 Casalini, Maria 204n228 Casati, Michele, bishop 135, 149n116 Casini, Paolo 98n182 Castagnino, Alessia 95n105 Castelletti, Antonio 122 Castelli, Giuseppe Maria 70

240

Index

Castellini, Francesco, bishop 148n113 Cavalcanti, Francesco Antonio 33n19 Cavalli, Jacobo 81 Cavarra, Angela Adriana 96n147 Cavarzere, Marco 89n4, 90–91n23, 98n189 Cavazza, Silvano 150n145 Cenacchi, Giuseppe 90n15 censorship, debate on 188, 224; of Enlightenment 4, 60–67, 81; of jurisdictionalism 4, 67–72, 84; state (censorship) 1, 4, 23, 162, 224 censors 78–83 Cernitori, Giuseppe 195n22 Certeau, Michel de 205n270 Cerutti, Giacinto 171, 177, 196n54, 198n88 Challe, Robert 94n98 Chambers, Ephraim 93n66, 181 Charcot, Jean-Martin 40n177 Chartier, Roger 32n8, 37n114, 39n153, 40n169, 196n61, 203n205, 205n279 Chaumeix, Abraham Joseph de 60–61, 199n116 Chiari, Pietro 141, 144n29, 184 Chiarugi, Vincenzo 38n135 Chiavarini 169 children, danger of reading see reading Chiosi, Elvira xi, 6n14, 94n100, 195n21, 205n258, 205n260 Chracas, printers 84, 109 Ciampini, Giovanni Giustino 199n124 Cimarosa, Domenico 25 clandestine circulation of books 4, 10, 70, 117, 120 Clarke, Samuel 56, 105 Claydon, Tony 151n162 Clemente di Gesù Maria Brunetti 80 Clement XI (Gianfrancesco Albani), pope 80, 97n160 Clement XII (Lorenzo Corsini), pope 54, 55, 98n187 Clement XIII (Carlo Rezzonico), pope 60, 61, 63, 130, 131, 136, 137, 139, 148n104, 149n116, 167, 169, 170, 172, 186, 194n7, 196n53 Clement XIV (Lorenzo Ganganelli), pope 58, 68, 80, 121, 131, 169, 170, 191 Clerici, Luca 37n100, 151n168, 203n202 Cocchi, Antonio 119

Coco, Lucio 204n233, 205n26 Collins, Anthony 89n6 Colonna Pamphili, Pietro, papal nuncio 78 Colpani, Giuseppe 147n75 comedies 20, 32n12, 72, 74, 182, 224 Compagnoni, Giuseppe 229n6 Concina, Daniello 12, 17, 31, 33n22, 33n23, 35n55, 35n56, 37n117, 41n183, 82, 172, 174 Condillac, Étienne Bonnot de 88, 100n222, 101 conduct manuals 2, 5, 140, 173, 185, 187 confessors 11, 12, 121, 132, 133, 136, 164, 180, 186 confutation(s) 60, 64, 75, 161, 165, 166, 168, 170–174, 176–180, 186, 189 Contarini, Angelo 173 Conti, Nicola 196n51 Conti, Vincenzo, inquisitor 147n85 Contin, Tommaso Antonio 93n71 Cordero, Giuseppe Enrico, vice inquisitor 144n18 Corsini, Neri Maria, cardinal 63, 169 Cortese, Tiburzio, bishop 232n52 Cortesi, Antonio, bookseller 145n34 Costa d’Arignano, Vittorio Gaetano, bishop 149n117, 150n151 Costa, Gustavo 90n7, 92n48, 203n192 Costa, Valentiniano 119 Costantini, printer 126 Costanzi, Giovanni Antonio 81, 97n171 Coster, Jean-Louis 181 Cottret, Monique 35n59 Counter-Reformation 2, 9, 10, 19, 28, 30, 115, 161, 180 Crebillon, Claude Prosper Jolyot de 183 Cremona, Gianfranco, inquisitor 144n22 Creytens, Raymond 96n148 Crispino, Giuseppe, bishop 33n16 Christianae reipublicae. De novis noxiis libris, encyclical 130, 137, 148n95 Crivelli, Tatiana 37n100 Crudeli, Tommaso 55, 90n10 Cuccagni, Bartolomeo 201n163 Cuccagni, Luigi 179, 201n163, 202n172 Cum summis, encyclical 131, 148n97

Index Cuniliati, Fulgenzio 14, 34n33, 35n68, 36n92, 38n144, 149n135, 204n237 Curi, Umberto 204n237 Curran Mark 6n9 D’Amato, Alfonso 97n175 D’Elci, Rainero, archbishop 33n22 Da Cittadella, Giancrisostomo 33n29 Dall’Occhio, Antonio, inquisitor 11 Darnton, Robert 6n9, 37n118, 39n153, 92n55, 205n279, 214, 231n48 Darricau, Raymond 203n195 De Angelis, Tommaso Maria, inquisitor 143n16 De Blasi, Nicola 36n76 De Dominis, Marcantonio 68 De Felice, Renzo 231n50 De Giovanni, Ignazio 229n11 De Gregorio, Vincenzo 96n147 De Maio, Romeo 34n42, 147n88, 149n123 De Mattei, Roberto 205n248, 205n277 De Negroni, Barbara 100n218 De Risacourt, Charles-René 146n53 De Rosa, Gabriele 151n, 156 De Sales François, saint 164 De Seta, Cesare 230n24 De Soria, Giovanni Alberto 55 Defoe, Daniel 56, 84 Defourneaux, Marcelin 99n210, 100n220 deism, deist(s) 17, 21, 26, 56, 60–65, 67–72, 75, 77, 122, 130, 131, 132, 166, 167, 169, 177, 180 Del Col, Andrea 6n10, 32n15, 142n2, 146n48, 147n76, 200n131 Del Corno, Nicola 39n156, 203n201 delation 149n114 Delisle de Sales, Jean-Baptiste-Claude Isoard 202n173 Della Torre, Bernardo 165, 166, 171, 178, 195n28, 195n38 Delle Lanze, Carlo Vittorio Amedeo Ignazio, cardinal 171, 197n85 Delpiano, Patrizia 35n59, 89n1, 89n2, 90n15, 92n56, 93n74, 94n83, 195n23, 195n42, 203n196, 203n202, 203n203, 203n209, 204n231, 205n262, 229n4, 229n5, 229n8, 230n20, 230n29, 230n30, 231n36 deluge, metaphor of 31, 123 Delumeau, Jean 35n72 Desforges, Pierre 200n144

241

Desideri, printer 178 Di Carlo, Carla 90n15 Di Pietro, Michele 72 Di Rienzo, Eugenio 89n1, 228n1 Di Sangro, Raimondo see Sansevero, Raimondo di Sangro, prince of Di Simplicio, Oscar 149n114 Diario ordinario 84, 85, 99n201, 99n203, 99n207, 99n208, 143n10 Diaz, Furio 35n59, 36n84 dictionaries 5, 21, 64, 181 Diderot, Denis 20, 61, 78, 88, 183, 226 Diessbach, Nikolas Albert von 163, 189, 190, 192, 193, 194n5, 194n13, 205n248, 205n251, 205n252, 205n254, 205n267, 205n268, 205n274, 205n280 Dini, Salvatore, inquisitor 144n17 Diodati, Ottaviano 61 disbelief 17, 18–21, 69, 71, 72, 75, 122, 161, 178, 226 Dolera, Pantaleone 11, 33n17, 34n50 Dolfin, Delfino, bishop 33n22 Dolfin, Paolo, bishop 168 Domairon, Louis 181 Domergue, Lucienne 99n210, 202n185 Donati, Claudio 32n14, 34n31, 147n90, 147n91, 148n96, 148n102, 149n116, 149n137, 151n164, 194n18 Donato, Maria Pia 199n125 Dooley, Brendan 200n132 Doria, Ambrogio 198n86 Doria, Paolo Mattia 99n201 Dossena, Giampaolo 229n8, Du Marsais, Cesar Chesneau 145n34 Du Tillot, Guillaume 100n222 Duchesne, Jean-Baptiste Philippoteau 169 Ducreux, Marie-Elisabeth 35n64 Dugnani, Francesco 68, 94n98, 97n155 Durazzo, Filippo 229n13 Durini, Carlo Francesco, bishop 128, 144n22 ecclesiastical fears 3, 11, 17, 18, 20, 21, 28, 30, 55, 67, 69, 73, 74, 76, 78, 124, 136, 138, 140, 141, 165, 185, 226 ecclesiastical state see Papal State Efemeridi letterarie di Roma 150– 151n152, 151n170, 177–178, 200n137, 200n139, 200n140, 200n141, 200n142, 200n143,

242

Index

200n144, 200n145, 201n146, 201n147, 201n149, 201n150, 201n151, 201n152, 201n153, 201n154, 201n155, 201n156 Eisenstein, Elizabeth L. 32n1 Elbecque, Norbert d’ 82, 97n175 Emaldi, Tommaso Antonio 91n26, 174 Emanuele da Domodossola 165, 166, 195n33, 195n39, 207, 216 Encyclopédie ou dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers 18, 57, 58, 60–63, 82, 84, 87, 99n213, 129, 176, 180, 194, 199n116, 199n118, 223, 229n5 Engelsing, Rolf 205n279 encyclicals 2, 4, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 135, 148n96, 149n116 Enlightenment i, 1, 3–5, 15–17, 20, 28, 53–72, 75–76, 79, 85, 87, 161, 165, 224–226 ; Anti-Enlightenment 5, 27, 82, 164, 166, 170–171, 177, 179–185, 191, 193, 226; Catholic Enlightenment 225; see censorship of Enlightened Catholicism 3, 13, 54, 132 Epicurus 70 Erasmus, Desiderius 26, 122 Erba, Ambrogio Maria 66, 69, 77, 79, 81 Esquirol, Jean-Étienne Dominique 30, 40n177 Eybel, Joseph-Valentin 169, 180 Fabene, Katia 97n176 Fabi, Carlo Niccolò 81 Fabri, Angelo 66, 76, 81 Fabri, Domenico 150n141 Facchinei, Ferdinando 118, 172, 174, 199n119 Fagnani, Fabrizio 146n47 Farinella, Calogero 202n178 Fassati, Pio Bonifacio, secretary of the Index 96n146 Febronius, Justinus see Hontheim, Johann Nikolaus von 99n208, 144n23, 145n34, 165, 169, 172, 177, 200n141 Feci, Simona 40n171 Fénelon, François de Salignac de La Mothe 183 Ferdinando da Verona 68, 81, Ferdinand of Bourbon, duke of Parma and Piacenza 86, 88

Ferrand, Nathalie 34n39, 205n271 Ferrario, Antonio 151n158 Ferraris, Lucio 14, 34n34, 35n67 Ferrer Benimeli, José Antonio 90n10 Ferreri, Pietro Maria 36n93 Ferretti, Francesco Maria 81 Ferrone, Vincenzo xi, xiii, 6n15, 39n152, 39n154, 89n5, 90n13, 91n32, 92n51, 97n178, 99n201, 195n24, 231n35 Feyens, Thomas 37n115 Fielding, Henry 87, 100n221 Filangieri, Gaetano 72, 177, 200n145, 203n193, 226, 229n10, 230n20 Filangieri, Serafino, archbishop 133–134, 148n110, 164, 165, 204n239 Filippini, Orietta 98n184 Filippo da Carbognano 91n34 Filippucci, Giacomo 145n34 Fiorani, Luigi 147n86, 147n88 Firmian, Karl Joseph von 128, 144n22 Firpo, Luigi 93n77 Flaubert, Gustave 78 Fleury, Claude 172, 187, 204n229 flood, flooding, metaphor of 31, 41n189, 115, 120, 139, 161, 176, 191 Foa, Anna 148n96 Foggini, Pier Francesco 63, 129 Folkes, Martin 55, 84 Fontana, Fulvio 187, Formica, Marina 89n1, 99n200, 228n1 Forteguerri, Niccolò, cardinal 40n179, 74, 118, 230n22 Foscarini, Bartolomeo 82, 93n68 Fragnito, Gigliola xi, 1, 6n1, 32n3, 32n7, 39–40n166, 90n23, 92n43, 95n109, 95n110, 98n190, 194n2, 194n11, 202n174 Frajese, Vittorio 32n3, 89n1, 90n23, 98n190 Franchini, Carlo 146n51 Francovich, Carlo 90n10, 90n12, 92n51 French Revolution 27, 28, 39n153, 72, 78, 93n69, 140, 141, 226, 228, 230n30 Fréret, Nicolas 27, 69, 77, 165, 167, 171, 178, 195n29 Fumaroli, Marc 95n116, 203n191 Furno, Anastasio 27, 38n148, 186, 204n223

Index Gabriele, Nicola 230n31 Gabrielli, Carlo Maria 12, 33n19 Gabriello, Maria da Brescia 12, 16, 33n18, 34n50 Gabrini, Tommaso 77, 80 Gaetano Maria da Bergamo 14, 19, 34n32, 35n66 Gagliardi, Giuseppe 36n90 Gagliardi, Giuseppe, bookseller 86 Gagliardi, Tommaso, vicar of Inquisition 145n30 Galanti, Giuseppe Maria 70, 182, 203n192 Galdi, Vincenzo Ambrogio 191, 205n259 Galiani, Celestino 13, 33n27, 54 Galilei, Galileo 54, 59, 83, 89n5 Galindo, Francesco 97n167 Galli, Antonio Andrea, prefect of the Index 61 Galluzzi, Francesco Maria 151n159 Garampi, Giuseppe 179, 201n159 Garaudy, Roger 38n126 Garbo, Giovanni Francesco, bookseller 118, 144n23 García Hurtado, Manuel-Reyes 37n112 Gardair, Jean-Michel 199n122 Garin, Eugenio 32n9 Garrard, Graeme 195n42, 230n30 Gaspari, Giovanni Battista 168 Gauchat, Gabriel 15, 17, 20, 22, 26, 31, 34n41, 35n58, 36n83, 37n104, 37n106, 38n121, 38n141, 38n143, 38n146, 41n182, 167, 170, 180, 193, 196n56, 202n168 Gavelli, Nicola, printer 119 Gay, Bartolomeo 81 Gay, Gaetano 81 Gay, Laura 81 Gemini, Giambattista 231n37 Gennari, Teodoro, bishop 12, 33n20 Genoa, Republic of 78 Genovesi, Antonio 57, 70, 170, 226, 229n14 Gentili, Alberico 92n42 Gérard, Philippe-Louis 179, 181, 193 Gerdil, Giacinto Sigismondo, cardinal, then prefect of the Index 82, 93n73, 165, 171, 172, 179, 180, 185, 186, 193, 195n25, 198n89, 198n103, 202n169, 203n211, 203n216 Ghidetti, Enrico 40n177 Ghinato, Alberto 195n33

243

Giacomelli, Michelangelo 147n92, 175 Giacomo Maria da Tarsia 80, 90n19, 91n33, 97n164 Giannantonio, Pompeo 34n42 Giannelli, Basilio 229n17, 230n17 Giannone, Pietro 56, 59–60, 75, 82, 85, 89n6, 90n21, 92n51, 118, 142n3, 170, 176, 200n131 Giarrizzo, Giuseppe 90n10 Gibbon, Edward 86, 79, 165 Gigli, Girolamo 73, 82 Gilmont, Jean-François 38n8 Ginesi, Carlo 72 Ginzburg, Carlo 35n72 Giombi, Samuele 150n144 Giornale ecclesiastico di Roma 178–180, 201n157, 201n160, 201n161, 201n162, 201n163, 201n164, 201n165, 201n166, 201–202n167, 202n168, 202n169, 202n170, 202n171, 202n172, 202n173 Giornale enciclopedico di Liegi 93n66 Giovanni da Fano 11 Giulio, Carlo Stefano 229n10 Giulio, Gian Domenico 193, 205n276 Giunchi, Paolo, printer 165, 167, 168, 178 Giuseppe Maria da Crescentino 186, 204n218, 204n219, 204n221 Gobetti, Piero 6n13 Gobinet, Charles 36n98, 203n210 Godman, Peter 96n145 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 88 Goldoni, Carlo 13 Goodman, Dena 39n163 Goody, Jack 18, 35n63 Gorani, Giuseppe 70–71, 85, 178 Gorce, Matthieu-M. 197n66, 198n101 Gotti, Lodovico 73, 82, 97n176 Goudar, Ange 77, 96n129 Goulemot, Jean-Marie 38n126, 40n174 Graffigny, Françoise d’Issembourg d’Happoncourt, madame de 76, 229n13 Granata, Veronica 230n31 Granelli, Giovanni 12, 33n25 Gravina, Gian Vincenzo 74, 82, 100n223 Graziosi, Marina 40n170 Grignani, Diego 97, 151 Grimaldi, Costantino 56, 58, 59, 90n22, 91n32, 230n27

244

Index

Grossi, Pier Luigi 27, 39n152, 139, 150n149, 151n165 Grotius, Hugo see Huig van Groot Gualtieri, Luigi Gualtiero, papal nuncio 60, 87 Guarinoni Rondi, Francesca 231n39 Guasti, Niccolò 196n60, 199–200n128 Gudin de La Brenellerie, Paul-Philippe 75 Guerci, Luciano 6n12, 34n45, 39n162, 96n134, 100n222, 144n21, 195n30, 203n214, 204n222, 230n30, 230n34, 232n51 Gussago, Jacopo Germano 198n96 Gustá, Francisco 136, 149n122 Hasecker, Jyri 96n141 Hauc, Jean-Claude 96n129 Hazard, Paul 89n3 Hazlitt, William 228, 232n53 Heinecke, Johann Gottlieb 59, 118, 144n23 Heinzmann, Johann Georg 39n153 Helvétius, Claude-Adrien 20, 60, 63, 84, 122, 164, 178, 182, 199n118, 202n173, 223n 227 Henningsen, Gustav 32n15 heresy 3, 10, 17, 18, 19, 21, 54, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 68, 73, 83, 95n110, 122, 132, 137, 165 Herrero, Javier 195n23 Hilgers, Joseph 198n106 Hiribarren, Vincent 6n9 Hobbes, Thomas 70 Hoffmann, Paul 39n163 Höink, Dominik 96n141 Holbach, Paul-Henri Thiry d’ 6n9, 20, 36n84, 65, 69–70, 71, 85, 94n97, 95n103, 166, 226 Holy Office see Inquisition Homer 23 Houle, Martha M. 40n176 Huet, Pierre-Daniel 24, 38n130, 182, 203n189 Hufton, Olwen 40n168 Hugo, Victor 78 Hume, David 82n, 93n68 Hunt, Lynn 39n154, 40n172 Ife, Barry W. 38n122 Ignatius of Loyola, saint 190 Ildefonso da Bressanvido 16, 19, 34n45, 35n65, 35n71, 36n78, 38n125, 136–137, 149n125, 170,

197n83, 200n140, 204n246, 205n275 illiteracy 12, 39n166, 136, 151n156, 186 Imbruglia, Girolamo 93n80, 94n99 imprisonment 121 Index, Congregation of 2, 5, 9, 20, 53, 54, 57, 68, 69, 70, 75, 79–82, 83, 84, 86, 89, 91n26, 115, 176, 179, 228; conflict with Inquisition 3, 61–62 Index Librorum Prohibitorum, Index of Prohibited Books 1–5, 9, 11, 12, 14, 17, 20, 26, 28, 30, 53–66, 68–70, 72–73, 75–84, 86–89, 115, 117, 118, 119, 122, 124, 125, 136, 161, 162, 164, 165, 166, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172–180, 185, 188, 190, 192, 223–226, 227, 228 Infelise, Mario 6n2, 32n3, 40n180, 146n47, 195n20, 230n21, 231n41, 232n51 Ingold, Augustin 37n109, 196n52 Inquisition 2, 4, 9, 19, 20, 53, 54, 55, 58, 61, 62, 63, 65, 67, 68, 69, 71, 74, 79, 80, 83, 85–88, 115, 116, 118–125, 126–127, 129, 131, 162, 170, 173, 176, 177, 179, 228; crisis of 116–118, 127–128, 131, 162 inquisitorial edicts 4, 116, 117, 120–127, 131, 134, 142n7, 143n8, 143n10, 146n63, 147n65 Inscrutabile divinae sapientiae, encyclical 131, 148n98 intolerance 17, 60 inundation, metaphor of 161 Iovine, Raffaele 92n51, 94n100, 230n33 Israel, Jonathan I. 89n2, 89n6, 92n55, 195n42 Jacob, Margaret C. 89n6 Jacquier, François 82 Jacquin, Armand-Pierre 24–25, 26, 38n128, 38n129, 38n131, 38n132, 38n133, 38n134, 38n146 Jamin, Nicolas 16, 27, 34n46, 34n48, 39n151, 191, 192, 193, 205n262, 205n263, 205n264, 205n265, 205n266, 205n272, 205n273, 205n278 Jappelli, Filippo 205n249 Jaucourt, Louis de 18, 35n61, 194, 205n284

Index Jerome, saint 34n47 John, apostle 188 Johns, Adrian 37n112 Jurisdictionalism, jurisdictionalist 1, 5, 58, 67–72, 84, 116, 118, 132, 135, 144n22; see censorship of Julia, Dominique 32n8, 194n18 Kattau, Sarah 6n9 Kermol, Enzo 32n15, 151n153 Kirsop, Wallace 37n99 Kralj, Franc 148n101 Krauss, Werner 38n126 La Barre, Jean-François de 86 La Fontaine, Jean de 82, 86, 95n111, 185 La Mettrie, Julien Offroy de 69, 85, 86, 169, 197n74, 227 Labrosse, Claude 37n119, 38n142, 202n182 La Calprenède, Gautier de Costes de 25 Laderchi, Giacomo 13, 33n27 Lami, Giovanni 151n167 Landi, Antonio 202n170 Landi, Sandro 6n2, 6n11, 143n10, 194n8, 231n43 Landucci, Sergio 95n106 Lanfranconi, Giuseppe, bookseller 119 Lanfredini, Giacomo, bishop 33n22, 33n24 Langlois, Claude 195n46 Laqueur, Thomas 40n172 Launoy, Jean de 99n195 Lazzari, Giovanni 68, 97n155 Lazzeri, Pietro 59, 64, 65, 66, 70, 71, 81, 82, 83, 91n37, 92n45, 98n183, 174, 199n128 Le Febvre, Jacques 150n140, 166, 195n45 Le Franc de Pompignan, Jean-George, bishop 166, 197n70 Le Masson des Granges, Daniel 167 Le militaire philosophe 70, 72 Le Vot, Valérie 34n39 Leclerc, Jean 59 Lefebvre, Philippe 150n140 Lehner, Ulrich L. 230n26 Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm 56 Lenglet du Fresnoy, Nicolas 57 Leonardi, Pietro Paolo, bishop 127 Leonardo da Porto Maurizio 20, 36n81, 39n164 Leoni, Francesco 201n158

245

Leprince de Beaumont, Jeanne-Marie 187, 204n230 Leseur, Thomas 74, 80, 81, 82, 98n180 Leti, Gregorio 73 Leturia, Pedro de S.J. 198n194 Levillain, Philippe 147n89 Liguori, Alfonso de see Alfonso Maria de’ Liguori Lindquist, Eric N. 32n1 literacy 22, 141 Lobelli, Carlo 34n49 Locke, John 17, 54, 58, 85, 171, 223 Longo, Nicola 203n209 Lorgna, Anton Maria 228n3 lower classes, danger of reading see reading Lucretius Carus, Titus 17, 70, 75, 76, 144n23, 146n50, 193, 229n5 Luserna Rorengo di Rorà, Francesco, bishop 149n117 Luther, Martin 11, 22, 58, 122 Luzzatto, Sergio 202n176 Luzzi, Serena 94n88, 99n211 Maccarinelli, Serafino, general commissioner of the Inquisition 94n89, 99n205 Macé, Laurence 89n2, 94n84, 95n104, 95n118, 96n125, 231n44 Machiavelli, Niccolò 66, 73, 74, 95n111, 122, 229n5 Madrignani, Carlo A. 37n100, 38n128 Maffei, Scipione 172, 198n98, 198n199 Maillet, Benoît de 69 Maire, Catherine 91n26, 92n56, 94n84 Malabaila, Luigi 224, 229n12, 229n13 Malagoli, Giuseppe 146n56 Malebranche, Nicolas 59 Malena, Adelisa 196n64 Mamachi, Tommaso Maria, secretary of the Index 65, 69, 94n94, 96n146, 169, 176, 179, 180, 193, 197n67, 197n68, 197n69, 197n72 Manca, Sergio 93n75 Mancini Mazarini, Louis-Jules, duke of Nivernais 57 Mandeville, Bernard de 56, 90n18, 104, 164 Manetti, Camillo 224, 230n19, 233 Mangenot, Eugène 147n89 Mangini, Francesco 149n121, 151n159, 188, 204n238 Mangio, Carlo 231n43 Mangione, Daniela 194n19

246

Index

Manzoni, Giuseppe 27, 39n150 Marana, Giovanni Paolo 73, 95n113 Marchesini, Daniele 37n101 Marchetti, Francesco 76 Marchetti, Giovanni 179, 201n158, 202n171 Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, emperor of Rome 167 Marefoschi, Mario 70 Marenchi, Giuseppe 67 Mariani, Francesco Antonio 64, 80 Marin, Michel-Ange 182, 193, 203n195 Marini, Andrea 172, 180, 202n168 Marino, Giambattista 122, 229n5 Mario, Valerio 198n95 Marivaux, Pierre de 25, 38n136, 38n139 Marmontel, Jean-François 75, 185 Marolles, Claude-François-Xavier de 150n148, 201n161 Marquez, Antonio 145n35 Martinelli, Giuseppe 67, 91n29 Martini, Antonio, archbishop 150n137 Marzetti, Antonio 119 Masnata, Giovanni Maria 200n142 Mason, Haydn T. 39n153 Masseau, Didier 35n59, 36n84, 37n114, 37n119, 38n125, 150n146, 195n23, 195n34, 196n50, 196n61, 202n181, 202n183, 203n188 Matteucci, Tommaso, inquisitor 145n31 Mattioda, Enrico 40n173 Maupertuis, Pierre Louis Moreau de 197n66 May, Georges 38n126 Mayaud, Pierre-Noël 92n46 McMahon, Darrin M. 195n42, 230n30 Meazza, Ermenegildo 139, 148n112, 150n147, 204n232 Medici, Luigi de’ 229n6 Menander, of Athens 16 Menéndez Pelayo, Marcelino 195n23 Menozzi, Daniele 6n15, 205n251 Mercier, Sébastien 77, 78, 96n133, 231n35 Merivale, Henry 6n9 Mésenguy, François-Philippe 98n187, 136 Meslier, Jean 65, 165, 171 Metodio da Nembro 34n32

Milan, Duchy of 78, 118, 121, 142n2, 144n22 Milani, Marisa 147n76 Milton, John 25, 73, 83, 119, 230n29 Mingarelli, Ferdinando 62, 81 Mingarelli, Giovanni Luigi 61, 70, 82, 92n57, 94n100, 199n118 Minois, Georges 89n2, 95n106, 194n8 Modena, 117, 123, 142n2, 146n52, 176, 228 Molière (Jean-Baptiste Poquelin) 73, 167 Molinari, Innocenzo 142n3, 165, 170, 195n24, 197n78, 231n46 Molinos, Miguel de 95n115 Moniglia, Tommaso Vincenzo 17, 35n54, 166 Monod, Albert 195n23 Monsagrati, Giuseppe 199n122 Monsagrati, Michele Angelo 88 Montaigne, Michel Eyquem de 180, 202n171 Montanari, Giovanni 145n40, 145n43 Montecchi, Giorgio 232n52 Montegnacco, Antonio 169, 197n68 Montengón, Pedro 181, 202n185 Monter, E. William 32n15, 145–146n45 Montesquieu, Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron de 25, 57, 61, 62, 65, 72, 164, 227, 229n6, 229n10, 230n24 Moran, Manuel 150n143 Moreau, Jacob-Nicolas 17, 35n59 Morelli Timpanaro, Maria Augusta 90n11 Morelly 63, 86 Moretti, Luigi 98n179 Mornet, Daniel 38n142 Moroni, Gaetano 97n161, 196n63 Mortier, Roland 94n98 Motta, Franco xi, 95n108, 231n35 Muratori, Lodovico Antonio 19, 22, 23, 24, 26, 36n77, 37n108, 37n115, 38n124, 38n140, 40n169, 57, 82, 91n28, 143n9, 176, 182, 200n129, 203n190 Murini, Giambattista 232n52 Muzani, Cristoforo 35n60 Muzzarelli, Alfonso 163, 165, 172, 178, 193, 194n14, 195n30 Naigeon, Jacques-André 94n98 Naples, Kingdom of, 15, 17, 25, 34n42, 141, 142n3, 150n137, 152n172, 164, 165, 168, 191

Index Napoli, Maria Consiglia 91n38 Nazari, Francesco 199n124 Nerini, Felice 69–70, 93n66 Neveu, Bruno 90n20, 93n67, 93n79, 98n192, 175, 199n121 Newton, Isaac 54–55, 56, 82, 97n178; Newtonianism 47, 55, 118 Niccoli, Ottavia 32n3 Nicola, Domenico 72 Noghera, Giambattista 170, 174, 197n82, 197n83, 199n113 Nonnotte, Claude-François 167, 181, 193, 196n50, 202n180 Northeast, Catherine Mary 203n186 novels 3, 5, 14, 16, 20, 21–27, 30, 39n153, 40n177, 64, 70, 72–78, 88, 96n140, 133, 137, 139, 141, 177, 179, 180, 181–184, 185, 186, 187, 189, 193, 194, 224 Novi Chavarria, Elisa 33n17, 39n161, 149n137, 150n143, 150n146, 151n157, 151n166, 152n172, 194n19, 204n237 Odescalchi, Benedetto Erba, archbishop (then pope as Innocenzo XI) 143n9 Ong, Walter J. 35n63, 204n236 Origlia Paolino, Giovanni Giuseppe 92n51 Orsi, Giuseppe Agostino, secretary of the Index 62, 96n146, 168, 175, 196n64 Orsini, Domenico, cardinal 80 orality see spoken word Orsini, Giuseppe 182 Orsini, Giustiniano 78 Ovid (Ovidius Naso, Publius) 186 Pagliarini, printers 168, 169, 196n60 Paglierini, Giuseppe 147n71 Palazzolo, Maria Iolanda 143n8, 194n9, 230n31 Palese, Carlo 167 Pallavicino, Ferrante 145n30 Pallavicino, Sforza 133 Pallier, Denis 194n1 Palmer, Robert Roswell 35n59 Pamphili, Pietro see Colonna Pamphili, Pietro 64 Panckoucke, Charles-Joseph 202n181 Parma, Duchy of 86, 88, 93n71, 100n222, 142n2

247

Papal State 4, 116, 117, 118, 120, 121, 124, 125, 127, 128, 134, 170 Paul of Tarsus, apostle, saint 15–16, 19, 20, 28, 130, 131 Paul III (Alessandro Farnese), pope 40n181 Papillon, Antonino O.P. 197n73 Paracciani, Urbano, archbishop 134 Passionei, Domenico, cardinal 57, 60, 129, 148n93, 169 Pasta, Renato 6n9, 40n180, 230n21, 231n39 pastoral instructions 2, 4, 12, 33n22, 127, 132, 133, 135, 136, 137, 179 Pastore, Alessandro 40n181 Pastore, Raffaele 75 Pateman, Carole 39n163 patronage, ecclesiastical 5, 168–172 Paulian, Aimé-Henri 181, 202n179 Pavini, Luigi, bookseller 145n34 Pavone, Sabina 203n187 Pavoni, Vincenzo Lodovico 79 Pelizzari, Maria Rosaria 37n101 Pelletier, Gérard 201n157 Perelli, Nicolò, cardinal 115, 142n1 Perez, Domenico, secretary of the Index 96n146 Pergolini, Giuseppe 80 periodicals, periodical press 5, 60, 98n179, 141, 151n167, 162, 167, 174, 175–180, 199n114, 199n118, 199n124, 199–200n128, 200n132, 200n135, 200n136, 201n157 Perna, Maria Luisa 91n27, 91n32, 197n79 Perugini, Carlo Maria 90n19 Peruzza, Morena 90n11, 146n49 Pescatore, Francescantonio 200n144 Petrucci, Armando 98n187, 199n127 Petrucciani, Alberto 229n13 Petruzzi, Paolo 150n146 Pettorelli Lalatta, Francesco, bishop 88 Pietro Maria da Lucca 78, 96n141 Pignatelli, Francesco 129 Pignatelli, Giuseppe 97n177, 98n181, 195n22, 195n29, 198n88, 199n127, 200n133, 201n148, 201n157 Pilati, Carlo Antonio 67, 68, 100n215, 144n23, 177, 224, 230 Pinto Crespo, Virgilio 36n74 Pinzi, Giovanni Battista 121, 123, 127 Pinzi, Giuseppe Antonio 121

248

Index

Pius IV (Giovanni Angelo de’ Medici), pope 27 Pius VI (Giovanni Angelo Braschi), pope 71, 131, 135, 165, 169, 170, 171–172, 176, 177, 178, 188 Pius VII (Gregorio Luigi Barnaba Chiaramonti), pope 148n96 Pipia, Agostino, secretary of the Index 80, 96n146 Piva, Franco 228–229n3, 231n42 Pizzamiglio, Gilberto 37n100 plague, metaphor of, 11, 17, 30, 40n181, 65, 66, 115, 124, 126 Plebani, Tiziana 39n166, 204n236, 229n15 Pluquet, François-André-Adrien 93n71, 145n30 Poggioli, Vincenzo 231n35 Polignac, Melchior de, archbishop 166, 193, 195n43 poem(s), poetry 14, 20, 22, 23, 30, 72–78, 83, 119, 180, 187, 223 Pomeau, René 38n126 Pomme, Pierre 30, 40n173 Ponsart, Jean 72, 79 Pope, Alexander 119 Porée, Charles 24, 38n127 Porporato, Giuseppe Filippo, bishop 135, 149n118, 149n121 Porter, Roy 37n112, 40n174 Portinari, Folco 203n194 Possevino, Antonio 95n110, 189, 192, 204n247 Povero, Chiara 204n247 Pozzi, Giovanni 204n236 Pozzobonelli, Giuseppe, archbishop 89, 144n22 Prades, Jean-Martin de 58, 85 Prandi, Alfonso 34n30, 35n56, 35n60, 36n87, 39n152, 39n157, 149n136, 195n31, 196n65 preacher(s) 2, 12, 14, 17, 22, 27, 29, 77, 79, 116, 128, 132, 136, 138–142, 150n137, 150n143, 152n171, 172, 176, 188, 223 preaching 6n1, 12, 35n56, 39n161, 129, 133, 138, 141–142, 150n146, 163, 164 Prencipe Di Donna, Carmen 40n179 Preti, Cesare 197n67 Preti, Lodovico 147n75 Preto, Paolo 198n102 priests 2, 10, 11, 33n16, 77, 116, 126, 127, 128, 130, 131–138, 141, 147n87, 164, 170, 179, 193, 223

Principe, Quirino 151n156 Printy, Michael 230n26 Prodi, Paolo 36n74, 204n243 Properzio (Propertius, Sextus) 122 Prosperi, Adriano 32n2, 32n5, 33n16, 33n28, 35n72, 36n74, 40n170, 40n181, 95n109, 96n147, 97n169, 100n223, 148n107, 151n153, 203n209 Protestantism 3, 9, 10, 17, 18, 161; censorship of 10, 59, 73, 75, 165, 168, 189 Proville, Giovanni Giacomo 92n57 public opinion 2, 6n11, 17, 141, 161–162, 191, 204–205 Pufendorf, Samuel von 59, 118, 198n105, 229n6 Quantopere Dominus Iesus, encyclical 63, 129, 148n93 Quercini, Adeodato 13 Querini, Angelo Maria, bishop 33n22, 195n43 Rabelais, François 25, 38n122, 167 Radicati, Umberto Luigi, bishop 128, 147n78 Raffaelli, Francesco Maria 119 Rao, Anna Maria 231n44 Rather, Lelland J. 37n115 Ravanelli, Cesare 99n211 Rawlings, Helen 145n44 Raynal, Guillaume-Thomas-François 70, 80, 95n103, 172, 180, 202n168, 223, 227 Reato, Ermenegildo 194n16 readers 3, 4, 5, 10, 16, 21, 25, 27-31, 57, 61, 67, 69, 71, 76, 84, 121, 122, 124, 125, 131, 135, 139, 140, 141, 162, 163, 166, 177, 178, 181–189, 192, 224, 225 reading, effects of: on children and young 12, 13, 19, 21, 29, 30, 32n4, 66, 133, 137, 139, 182, 184, 185, 186, 190, 224, 225; on lower classes 28, 29, 33n24, 136, 140, 186, 187, 225; on women 24, 26, 28, 29, 30, 37n101, 39n166, 55, 67, 71, 75, 76, 76, 126, 134, 137, 185, 186, 188, 190, 192, 225 reading, rules about 136, 185, 186, 188, 193, 224 Rebellato, Elisa 6n6, 90n20 Recueil de diverses pièces 56, 90n16

Index Reinhard, Wolfgang 6n15, 198n87 Remondini, printers 34n38, 64, 92n44, 93n70, 142n4, 142n5, 149n126, 164, 170, 174, 197n77, 197n83, 198n107, 198n108, 198n109, 198n110, 199n111, 199n112, 199n113, 199n114 Rey-Mermet, Théodule 34n42 Ricchini, Tommaso Agostino, secretary of the Index 57, 58, 59, 61, 91n25, 91n37, 92n41, 92n47, 96n146, 116, 142n6, 143n8, 169, 197n66 Ricci, Saverio 6n1 Ricci, Francesco Maria 166 Richard, Charles-Louis 167, 178, 196n52 Richardson, Samuel 77, 96n128, 183 Richer, Edmond 68 Ricuperati, Giuseppe xi, 89n3, 97n178, 142n3, 197n76, 199n122, 199n124, 199–200n128, 200n131, 200n136, 203n203, 231n40 Ridolfi, Nicolò, secretary of the Index 58, 79, 80, 96n146 Robbio di san Raffaele, Benvenuto 92n50, 182, 184, 185, 190, 193, 203n196, 203n203, 203n204, 203n206, 203n212, 203n213, 204n231, 205n276 Roberti, Giambattista 14, 22, 23, 26, 34n35, 34n36, 34n38, 35n69, 37n103, 37n109, 37n111, 37n116, 38n121, 38n146, 41n186, 171, 174, 184, 190, 198n107, 200n143, 203n209, 204n220, 204n239, 205n257, 205n282 Robertson, William 71 Rocco, Gregorio 141 Roche, Daniel 151n153, 231n35 Rodolico, Niccolò 194n7 Roggero, Marina xi, 32n5, 32n8, 37n101, 230n22, 230n23 Roggerone, Giuseppe Agostino 200n132, 202n177 Roldán Pérez, Antonio 90–91n23 Rolli, Paolo 73, 95n114 Romani, Valentino 196n60 Romano, Antonella 199n123 Romeo, Giovanni 142n2 Ronchivecchi, Lodovico 146n57 Rondinelli, Giovanni, bishop 127 Rosa, Mario 6n7, 6n15, 87, 90n14, 90n15, 91n26, 92n53, 92n56, 93n61, 93n65, 95n118, 100n219, 147n91, 147n92, 148n93, 148n97,

249

149n116, 194n6, 199n115, 202n175 Roscioni, Gian Carlo 95n113 Roscioni, Lisa 38n137, 38n138 Rosenfeld, Sophia 230n25 Rosignoli, Carlo Gregorio 12, 33n26, 35n65, 192, 203n210, 205n275 Rosso, Claudio 93n72 Rotondò, Antonio 32n6, 40n178, 89n1 Rotta, Salvatore 96n124, 96n135, 97n178 Rousse, Jacques 205n261 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 14, 26, 27, 64, 65, 66, 67, 72, 75, 76, 78, 86, 93n74, 94n83, 99n193, 100n215, 122, 123, 142n1, 164, 166, 167, 171, 172, 183, 185, 186, 226, 229n6, 229n10, 230n22 Rousseau, Pierre 63 Rovida, Sebastiano 182 Rozzo, Ugo 6n1, 38n122, 95n109, 99n194 Ruata, Ada 229n12, 229n13 Rubeis, Bernardo Maria de 171, 197n85 Rusconi, Roberto 33n17, 148n107, 151n157, 194n1 Sabato, Milena 6n2, 89n1 Sacchetti, Franco 78, 83, 119 Saint-Non, Jean-Claude Richard de 230n24 Sallmann, Jean-Michel 92n40 Salomoni, Generoso 149n120, 166 Sandonà, Giovanni Battista 198n107, 205n256 Sannino, Anna Lisa 205n259 Sansevero, Raimondo di Sangro, prince of 59, 142n3, 165, 170 Santini, Emilio 33n17, 151n167 Santovetti, Francesca 95n114 Santuzzi, Michelangelo 145n34 Saporiti, Giuseppe, archbishop 132, 148n100, 148n101, 148n109, 149n120, 204n245 Sardinia, Kingdom of 162, 230n31 Sarnelli, Gennaro Maria 149n137 Sarpi, Paolo 144n29 Sarti, Mauro 62 Sarti, Raffaella xi, 32n14, 151n153, 204n226, 204n229 Sauli, Alessandro Pio, general commissioner of the Inquisition 62 Savani, Francesco 146n52

250

Index

Savio, Pietro 148n92, 148n93, 149n123, 199n126 Savoyard State 135, 144n19, 149n116, 171, 185, 190, 224, 227 Scardua, Bartolomeo 150n147 Schepers, Judith 96n141 Schiara, Pio Tommaso, secretary of the Index 70, 96n146, 143n8, 149n113, 169, 197n66 Schluter, Gisela 93n71 Schmidt, Bernward 90n20 Schwedt, Herman H. 96n141, 96n150 Scudéry, Madeleine de 25 secularisation 5, 27, 223, 224, 227, 228 Segneri, Paolo 10, 32n12, 32n13, 141 Séguier, Antoine-Louis 195n49 Seidel Menchi, Silvana 94n88 Séité, Yannick 38n126, 39n155, 203n198 self-censorship 4, 5, 55–60, 175, 184, 188, 226 self-denunciations 123, 133 Selleri, Gregorio, secretary of the Index 96n146, 168, 196n63 sermons 2, 4, 10, 11, 12, 14, 16, 127, 138–142, 150n141, 150n147, 150n148, 151n164, 151n167, 152n171, 152n172, 163, 164, 177, 179, 180, 185, 188, 192 Settari, Gregorio, printer 178 Shevlin, Eleanor F. 32n1 Sieben, Hermann Josef 205n261 Signorotto, Gianvittorio 195n20 Silvestrini, Maria Teresa 144n19 Simon, Richard 54 Simonetti, Raniero, Neapolitan nuncio 91n38 Sisto, Giuseppe 76, 79, 81 Siti, Walter 38n122 Smith, David Warner 92n52 Soldati, Tommaso Maria, secretary of the Index 96n136, 169, 178, 197n75 Soli Muratori, Gian Francesco 200n129 Sollicita ac provvida 56, 67, 79, 98n190 Spallanzani, Mariafranca 202n176 Spedalieri, Nicola 165, 172, 178, 195n31, 195n32, 231n38 Spinelli, Giuseppe, archbishop 147n37 Spinoza, Baruch 54, 70, 89n4, 167

spoken word 11, 13, 15, 16, 28, 137, 140, 141, 142, 163, 187 Sposato, Pasquale 197n78 Stanislao da Campagnola O.F.M. 151n163 Stefani, Stefano Zucchino 37n107, 185, 203n214 Stella, Pietro 149n116, 197n75, 198n89, 204n248 Stendhal (Henri Beyle) 78 Stone, Lawrence 39n154 Straudo, Arnoux 34n41 Swift, Jonathan 55, 82 Symcox, Geoffrey Tacchi Venturi, Pietro 198n94 Tallarico, Maria Aurora 198n90 Tamburini, Pietro 179, 201n165 Tarabuzzi, Gianfranco 95n105 Tarchetti, Alceste 144n22 Tartarotti, Girolamo 85, 99n211 Tarzia, Fabio 6n9, 142–143n7, 145n39 Tasso, Torquato 23, 95n109 Tassoni, Alessandro 38n145 Tavano, Luigi 148n101 Tavoni, Maria Gioia 199n114 Tempesti, bookseller 118 Terres, Domenico, printer and bookseller 191 Terzi, Giacinto 71 Tibullo (Tibullus, Albius) 122 Tippelskirch, Xenia von 39–40n166 Tissot, Simon André 30, 40n174, 203n205 Todaro, Carlo 228–229n3 Toland, John 55, 59, 77, 89n6 tolerance 26, 53, 55, 56, 58, 61, 62, 66; censorship of principle of, 65, 68, 71, 76, 182 Tommaseo, Niccolò 150n141, 198n91 Thomas Aquinas, saint 16 Torcellan, Gianfranco 93n77, 199n119 Torres Aguilar, Manuel 145n35 Torrigiani, Luigi Maria, secretary of state 144n22, 196n50 Tortarolo, Edoardo 98n189, 194n8 Totaro, Pina 89n4 Toussaint, François-Vincent 61 Traité des trois imposteurs 72, 86, 88, 123 Trampus, Antonio xi, 93n69, 204–205n248 Trasforini, Maria Antonietta 40n174

Index Traversari, Carlo Maria 200n141 Turchi, Adeodato 28, 29, 31, 39n157, 39n165, 41n188, 41n189, 140, 148n103, 150n150, 150n151, 151n163, 151n167, 194, 205n283, 229n15, 231n37 Turrini, Miriam 148n107, 150n142, 194n18 Tuscany, Grand Duchy of, 5, 6n11, 116, 142n2, 227, 230, 231n43 Urban VIII (Maffeo Barberini), pope 125, 147n68 Valabrega, Roberto 198n89 Valentini, Giovanni Antonio 61, 92n57 Valeri, Stefania 6n5, 6n9, 37n100, 94n97, 100n222 Valsecchi, Antonino 13, 16, 20, 34n30, 35n52, 36n87, 36n88, 36n89, 36n97, 39n158, 39n165, 41n185, 150n146, 164, 166, 171, 180, 193, 194n15, 195n36, 195n40, 195n41, 197n85, 198n86, 202n169 Valzania, Angelo 121, 145n40, 145n43, 145n44 Vanysacker, Dries 198n89, 201n159 Variara, Simona 145n44 Vasco, Giuseppe 80 Venice, Republic of 22, 36n85, 65, 67, 117, 119, 144n20, 146n49, 164, 167, 169, 174, 176, 182, 191, 227, 228, 231n46 Venini, Ignazio 151n152, 151n170, 200n139 Venturi, Franco 6n4, 92n55, 93n71, 93n75, 196n60, 197n66, 197n68, 197n71, 198n100, 229n7, Vernazza, Giuseppe 201n148 Veronese, Angela 230n22 Verri, Alessandro 121, 145n39 Verri, Pietro 118, 119, 172, 224, 230n18 Verzella, Emanuela xi, 201n158 Veterani, Benedetto, assessor of the Holy Office, then prefect of the Index 70, 142n1 Viala, Alain 196n61 Viganego, Carlo Emanuele 41n185 Viglio, Patrizia 195n46, 228–229n3

251

Virgil (Vergilius Maro, Publius) 23 Vismara Chiappa, Paola 91n28, 149n124, 149n134, 198n100, 200n129 Volpe, Lelio dalla 143n15 Voltaire, François-Marie Arouet de 15, 25, 27, 34n40, 58, 70, 71, 75, 77, 78, 96n124, 96n134, 98n191, 122, 142n1, 164, 165, 166, 167, 171, 178, 182, 196n52, 227, 230n22, 231n45 Walter, Éric 99n212 Walther, George Conrad 58 Waquet, Françoise 6n5 Weil, Françoise 38n120 Wittmann, Reinhard 37n99, 39n153, 205n279 Wolf, Hubert 89n1, 96n141 Wolff, Christian 174 women, danger of reading see reading Ximenes, Leonardo 199n128, 229n5 youth, danger of reading see reading Yvon, Claude 61 Zaccaria, Francescantonio 31, 38n149, 41n187, 59, 92n50, 148n104, 165, 170, 172, 174, 176, 188, 189, 192, 195n22, 195n26, 197n80, 198n108, 198n109, 198n110, 199n111, 199n112, 200n130, 200n133, 204n240, 230n19 Zaguri, Pietro Marco, bishop 171, 194n16, 198n93 Zanotto, Francesco 33n17, 151n161, 151n164 Zapperi, Roberto 100n225 Zarri, Gabriella 39n161 Zatta, Antonio, bookseller 118, 144n23 Zelada, Francesco Saverio de, cardinal 82 Zellini, Luigi 92n44, 199n114 Zempel, Giovanni, printer 178 Zola, Émile 78 Zorzi, Alessandro 181, 202n176 Zorzi, Bortolo 90n11 Zorzi, Pier Antonio 168 Zuanelli, Gaetano, bishop 12, 33n24 Zuccardi, Giuseppe 146n50