The Hebrew Book in Early Modern Italy 9780812205091

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The Hebrew Book in Early Modern Italy

JEWISH CULTURE AND CONTEXTS Published in association with the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies of the University of Pennsylvania David B. Ruderman, Series Editor Advisory Board Richard I. Cohen Moshe Idel Alan Mintz Deborah Dash Moore Ada Rapoport-Albert Michael D. Swartz A complete list of books in the series is available from the publisher.

The Hebrew Book in Early Modern Italy edited by

Joseph R. Hacker and Adam Shear

universit y of pennsylvania press phil adelphia

Publication of this volume was assisted by a grant from the Martin D. Gruss Endowment Fund of the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies of the University of Pennsylvania. Copyright 䉷 2011 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112 www.upenn.edu/pennpress Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The Hebrew book in early modern Italy / edited by Joseph R. Hacker and Adam Shear. p. cm.— (Jewish culture and contexts) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8122-4352-9 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Hebrew imprints—Italy—History. 2. Printing, Hebrew—Italy—History. 3. Italy—Imprints— History. I. Hacker, Joseph, 1940– II. Shear, Adam. III. Series: Jewish culture and contexts. Z228.H4H425 2011 070.50945—dc22 2011012383

CONTENTS

Introduction: Book History and the Hebrew Book in Italy A dam Sh e a r a n d J oseph R. Ha c k e r

1

Chapter 1. Can Colophons Be Trusted? Insights from Decorated Hebrew Manuscripts Produced for Women in Renaissance Italy E velyn M. Cohen

17

Chapter 2. Marchion in Hebrew Manuscripts: State Censorship in Florence, 1472 Nu r i t Pa s t e r n a k

26

Chapter 3. Daniel van Bombergen, a Bookman of Two Worlds B r u c e Nielsen

56

Chapter 4. The Rabbinic Bible in Its Sixteenth-Century Context D avid St e r n

76

Chapter 5. Sixteenth-Century Jewish Internal Censorship of Hebrew Books J oseph R. H ac ker

109

Chapter 6. Robert Bellarmine Reads Rashi: Rabbinic Bible Commentaries and the Burning of the Talmud P i e t v a n B oxel

121

Chapter 7. Dangerous Readings in Early Modern Modena: Negotiating Jewish Culture in an Italian Key F ederica F rancesconi

133

vi

Contents

Chapter 8. The Printing of Devotion in Seventeenth-Century Italy: Prayer Books Printed for the Shomrim la-Boker Confraternities Michela An d r e a t t a

156

Chapter 9. Hebrew Printing in Eighteenth-Century Livorno: From Government Control to a Free Market Fr a n c e s c a B r egol i

171

Notes

197

List of Contributors

309

Index

313

Acknowledgments

325

INTRODUCTION

Book History and the Hebrew Book in Italy Adam Shear and Joseph R. Hacker

The printing of books: began [lit. ‘‘was located’’] in the city of Mainz, by a Christian man named Johannes Gutenberg of Strasbourg, and this was in the first year of the pious emperor, Friedrich, in the year 5200, 1440 according to the Christians. Blessed is the one who grants knowledge and teaches wisdom to humanity. Blessed is the one who has strengthened us in his mercy in a great technology such as this, for the benefit of all inhabitants of the world; there is none like it. And nothing matches it in value among all the sciences and technologies since the day that God created man and set him in the world, including the divine sciences and the seven liberal arts, and the other ad hoc disciplines of arts, crafts, metalwork, construction, woodworking, stonework, and the like. Every day, the press reveals and publicizes useful things and many devices, through the vast numbers of books printed for workers in all fields. —David Gans, Sefer z.emah. David (1592)1

At the end of the sixteenth century, looking back not only at Jewish history but also at the ‘‘history of the world,’’ the Prague Jewish chronicler and scientist David Gans viewed the invention of printing in moveable type as the greatest of God’s gifts. Because printing could rapidly spread knowledge of all sciences, arts, and crafts, it surpassed all these in utility. Print was thus a kind of meta-art that made possible greater wisdom in all other fields. Gans’s praise may be hyperbolic, but his testimony echoes other praises of the new technology by Jews and non-Jews throughout the early modern period.2

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Introduction

The available evidence suggests that Jews adopted the new technology very quickly. According to surveys of fifteenth-century book production based on the holdings of major public libraries, at least twenty thousand— and perhaps as many as thirty thousand—editions (in all languages) were printed in the first sixty years of printing.3 Although Hebrew printed books were not a numerically significant factor in those numbers, they emerged early in the history of the new technology. The first Hebrew printed books appeared in the 1470s, and the latest research on Hebrew incunabula reveals approximately 140 certain editions of Hebrew works (and perhaps several more than that) printed between circa 1470 and 1501.4 The Hebrew printing industry expanded rapidly over the next fifty years, and between 1501 and 1550 more than 1,350 books were printed.5 Surveying a vast array of bibliographies and library catalogs, Anat Gueta counts some 5,630 editions of Hebrew books in the period from 1540 to 1639.6 This includes neither Yiddish works nor other works in vernaculars using Hebrew type nor the large number of Christian Hebraist works, mainly in Latin but containing some Hebrew type.7 The numbers increased even more dramatically in the later seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, so much so that Zeev Gries has argued that sixteenth-century Hebrew production should be viewed as a relatively minor activity.8 Regardless of absolute numbers, however, when we look at perceptions and behavior, it seems that during the second quarter of the sixteenth century Jews in Europe and the Ottoman Empire came to see print as the preferred method for publishing a book; at this time we can also identify the first major cultural effects of the print medium. However, the fact that print came to be seen as the major medium of publication did not mean—as has been pointed out repeatedly in the last several years—that manuscript production ceased or that manuscripts ceased to be an important part of Jewish cultural life. Manuscript production of certain texts used for liturgical purposes (especially the Torah scroll and the Five Scrolls) continued apace. And although printing opened up ownership of ritual and liturgical texts to a wider audience, Jews who came into possession of manuscript prayer books or Passover Haggadot tended to save them. Lavishly illustrated manuscripts of the Passover Haggadah became a new luxury item in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, especially in Northern Europe. Intellectuals continued to produce manuscripts of other scholars’ texts for their own use (this is done right up to the invention of the photocopier), and quite obviously committed their own thoughts to writing (right up to

Introduction

3

the invention of the typewriter). The absence of Hebrew printing presses in some of the major cultural centers of Sephardi and Mizrah.i Jewry until the nineteenth century was also a factor in the continuing production of manuscripts. North African Jews—as well as Iraqi, Persian, Egyptian, Palestinian, Syrian, and Yemenite Jews—were largely dependent on Italian and Ottoman Hebrew presses and their output. Presumably, however, these imports did not fully satisfy the demand for books, and scribal activity continued to flourish in these lands (especially in Yemen). In addition, some authors in these areas who managed to print their books in the Ottoman Empire or in Italy also produced manuscript copies of their work even after it was printed.9 Indeed, Collette Sirat points out that some thirty thousand of the seventy thousand Hebrew manuscripts now extant can be dated to the period after the invention of print.10 The fact that a high percentage of extant manuscripts are postmedieval may partly reflect the disappearance of many medieval manuscripts—either through use or destruction—but it does testify to the ongoing production of handwritten materials after the emergence of print. Despite the continuing production of manuscripts, the evidence tells us a story of print displacing manuscript production, even in the late fifteenth century. According to Mordechai Glatzer, ‘‘from the forty years prior to 1490 to those after 1490 there was a dramatic decline of almost 50 percent in the number of copied Hebrew manuscripts.’’11 Some of those manuscripts are now appearing as fragments in bookbindings and as wrappers for files in many European libraries and archives. This so-called ‘‘European genizah’’ is generating many new insights for medievalists, but research projects on this genizah are also yielding important information for book historians looking at the early modern period. By examining the dates that books were bound and investigating the materials wrapped with Hebrew manuscript folio sheets, Mauro Perani suggests that the middle of the sixteenth century saw a major wave of Italian Jews parting—or being parted— from their manuscripts.12 The change of attitude toward manuscripts and the turn to the printed book is also attested by the data accumulated from the libraries of Mantuan Jews in the late sixteenth century. The work of Shlomo Simonsohn and Shifra Baruchson on the household libraries of Mantuan Jews in the 1590s suggests that they kept very few manuscripts and that most of the printed books they owned were printed in the second half of the sixteenth century.13 A comparison of these inventories to earlier ones of books from the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries reveals a

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Introduction

major shift from manuscript to printed-book ownership during the sixteenth century.14 We also find virtually no objection to the new technology among rabbinic authorities, although there was some debate at the margins about what kinds of ritual and legal instruments could be printed and about the ritual status of printed material.15 Indeed, some rabbis interpreted biblical verses as providing evidence for the existence of printing in Jewish antiquity—offering the ultimate legitimization in the mindset of a traditional society.16 While rabbis proscribed the use of printed books for certain liturgical functions (the reading of the weekly Pentateuchal pericope in the Sabbath service, for example), they readily accepted and even praised the new technology as a vehicle for the dissemination of knowledge. Moreover, the acceptance and use of print by Jews occurred in both the Christian and Muslim worlds, although the Muslim embrace of print was limited to the Ottoman Empire for most of the early modern period. In contrast to the Christian world, where the majority culture also embraced print, printing in Arabic, Persian, and Turkish was prohibited for Muslims until the eighteenth century and in some cases until the nineteenth. Jews in the Ottoman Empire, however, printed many Hebrew books and apparently even printed in Latin characters (and probably even in Greek).17 The first dated Hebrew book was Rashi’s commentary on the Pentateuch (Reggio di Calabria, 1475), and the first book printed in the lifetime of its author was Judah Messer Leon’s handbook of rhetoric, Sefer nofet z.ufim (Mantua, ca. 1475–76).18 Despite the early appearance of Messer Leon’s book, however, almost all the known Hebrew incunabula are of classical and medieval—not contemporary—works.19 This is consistent with practices of the preprint era: the texts that were copied and circulated in European Jewish society in the late Middle Ages were relatively few and focused on halakhic, exegetical, and philosophical literature. In the sixteenth century, however, print became the favored medium of publication by living authors, and from the second half of the sixteenth century, the variety of texts available in the Jewish world—contemporary and noncontemporary—was greatly expanded. Although historians have seen the rise of printing as one of the most significant events in early modern Europe, recent scholarship has raised questions about both the quantitative and qualitative impact of printing in the earliest period.20 Nonetheless, printing did have major effects on culture

Introduction

5

and society in the early modern period, and the presence of this new technology—and its relatively rapid embrace among early modern Jews— certainly affected many aspects of Jewish culture. However, while the history of Hebrew-character printing and printers has been documented, relatively little scholarship exists on the broader impact of print on Jewish culture, particularly during the first century of printing.21 Indeed, despite the rapid development of the ‘‘history of the book’’ in the last three decades, the history of the book in Hebrew characters remains underdeveloped. The open questions are not only those of literary and intellectual history, but also of social, cultural, and religious history. The essays in this book present a composite portrait that allows us to think about the impact of print technologies on Jewish intellectual, cultural, and social life in the early modern period, and they represent a step toward a fuller understanding of ‘‘Jewish’’ book history.

Assessing the Impact of Print Scholarly debates over the impact of print have focused in recent years on questions of continuity and discontinuity: how much really changes in the material text and how quickly? A second major set of questions looks at cultural change: Did print create new audiences and new forms of literature for those audiences? Do readers react differently to texts in different formats? Boiled down, the key question is often ‘‘How much is really new?’’ To answer these questions, a focus on the history of printing narrowly defined is too limiting. Likewise, looking at the reading of books as a discrete activity is also insufficient; separating the making of books from their use can have the ironic effect of obscuring the ways that the production, circulation, and use of books are themselves aspects of social, economic, and political life. A broader set of questions allows us to use the history of the book as a window on a wide range of issues in cultural, social, and intellectual history; this broader view, which has been influential since the 1970s, was pioneered in the work of scholars such as Robert Darnton, Donald F. McKenzie, and Roger Chartier.22 While Darnton and others pointed to the emergence of the ‘‘history of the book’’ as a discrete and multidisciplinary subfield at the intersections of historical, bibliographical, and literary scholarship, some of the most productive work has emerged when

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Introduction

questions about the production and dissemination of books have been fully integrated with social and cultural history. Yet, at the same time, if we lose sight of the books—the artifacts—themselves, we also fall short of being able to see the wider picture, as a number of scholars have emphasized.23 When we turn our attention to Jewish culture in early modern Europe, we might look at a number of the issues addressed by book historians from the perspective of their impact on Jewish life; in each case we would ask whether the particularities of the Jewish situation made a difference and how a particular aspect of early modern print culture affected Jewish cultural and intellectual life. One major change that print seems to have brought to the Jewish communities of Christian Europe, particularly the Jews of Italy, was greater interaction between Jews and Christians in the production and dissemination of books. The economic circumstances of print production fostered intellectual and personal interaction between Jewish and Christian scholars and artisans in ways rarely found in manuscript production. Although there were codicological practices common to Jewish and non-Jewish scribes in every place where Jews copied manuscripts, and in some cases these were the products of direct collaboration, for the most part Jewish scribes worked individually to produce manuscript books.24 But starting from the early sixteenth century, the locus of production for Jewish books in many places in Italy was in Christian-owned print shops, with Jews and Christians collaborating on the editorial and technical processes of book production. The highly solitary nature of Hebrew manuscript production, including the high incidence of medieval Hebrew manuscripts produced by scribes for personal use, also stands in stark contrast to the collaborative nature of print production.25 As this Jewish-Christian collaboration almost always took place under conditions of control by Christians (for example, regulations, privileges, and requirements that Christian printers be employed by Jewish ‘‘publishers,’’ and also censorship), its study opens up an interesting set of questions about the role that Christians played in shaping Jewish culture. Such questions are frequently investigated under the rubrics of ‘‘acculturation’’ and ‘‘influence’’ in which Jewish responses to the majority and dominant culture have been studied.26 But the direct involvement of Christians in the printing, editing, and censorship of Hebrew books has not been fully explored.27 A focus on questions of canon allows us to examine the religious and cultural consequences of printing, for example, in the diffusion and

Introduction

7

popularization of Kabbalah. Indeed, in the Jewish case, print not only disseminated classical works but also, through the operations of editing and production in the print shop in some sense created those works—taking what had been corpora of various texts and redacting them into unitary ‘‘books,’’ the most famous example being the Book of the Zohar.28 The process of redaction and the (re-)presentation of medieval texts in new material forms by printers is one that bears further study. Changes in the public’s reading habits also allow us to examine relations between high and low culture. One result of print was the emergence of a new class of readers: alongside the intellectual elite and the higher echelons of society were people of moderate income and basic education who gained access to sources of knowledge.29 Likewise, a new class of authors, a secondary intelligentsia of itinerant preachers and young rabbis, had access to publication and new opportunities to disseminate their ideas.30 While various social and religious factors influenced these trends and changes, the possibilities of print technology—as well as the commercial pressures that came with it—were a significant cause and enabler of these changes. Many of these issues will sound familiar to European social and cultural historians who have absorbed the history of the book over the last several decades; and others will be familiar to Jewish historians who have focused on changes in Jewish intellectual or social life in the early modern period. Here we present research that addresses these questions and others, and in doing so, we hope to offer a synthesis between the history of the book and Jewish social and cultural history.

The Centrality of Italy We focus first on a series of case studies on book production and circulation in early modern Italy. The centrality of Italy and its importance for the printing revolution cannot be exaggerated. Cities in Italy—especially Venice—rapidly became the most important centers of the new industry already in the late fifteenth century. As Brian Richardson opens his book on print in Renaissance Italy: The introduction of the printing press to Italy in or shortly before 1465 had profound consequences for all users of the written word. Books now became available in much larger quantities than before,

8

Introduction

they cost much less, and texts could thus be disseminated more quickly and more widely. The sale of copies of a text could also be controlled, in principle, to the benefit of its author. Texts in printed books were presented differently in some respects from those in manuscripts, and new texts were produced with new sets of readers in mind.31 This description is also an accurate assessment of the Hebrew printing enterprise. Italy was the central focus for Hebrew book production from the late fifteenth century through the middle of the sixteenth century and remained one of the most important centers of Jewish printing in the later sixteenth, the seventeenth, and the eighteenth centuries.32 During the incunabula period, of 139 certain Hebrew editions produced by 40 different presses, more than 60 percent of those presses were in Italy.33 The dominance of Italy in the Hebrew printing industry is even clearer in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries even as the geographic scope of Hebrew printing expanded throughout Europe. Of the 5,630 editions of Hebrew books printed in the period 1539–1639 found by Gueta, nearly half—2,627—were produced in Italy. Poland constituted the next largest area of Hebrew book production at 911 editions in the same period, followed by the Ottoman Empire (499); Bohemia, that is, Prague (464); Switzerland (403); Germany (274); the Low Countries (195); and France (165).34 The share of Venice alone in sixteenth-century Hebrew printing was more than a third of the total production.35 And while a focus on quantitative measures establishes Italy’s dominance, we should also note an older generation of scholarship that focused as well on the quality of Hebrew printed books in Italy as compared to other places.36 The Hebrew printing industry in Italy exercised its influence over (what Richardson calls) ‘‘all users of the written word’’ in a Jewish context in early modern Europe and the Mediterranean. The quality, sophistication, and novelty of Venetian Hebrew printing considerably surpassed that of other centers, for example, the Ottoman Empire and Eastern Europe, a view widely held among early modern Jewish intellectuals and their readers. Rabbi Abraham ibn Migash, a sixteenthcentury Jewish physician and scholar from Istanbul, wrote that ‘‘it is well known in all the lands of exile that the printing coming from Venice is the most correct and accurate of all printing done today everywhere on earth. And be so good as to take a printed Pentateuch from Salonica and [you

Introduction

9

will] see errors everywhere, which one does not see in the Venetian printing.’’37 Ibn Migash’s view was echoed by Azariah Figo (1579–1647), a rabbi in Pisa and Venice, in the introduction to his commentary on a text that had previously been printed in Salonica: ‘‘because of this too, my heart quakes, for fear of another unintentional sin requiring expiation. And that is because this book was printed in Salonica, may God preserve it, and multiple mistakes and errors entered it, causing a loss of understanding and distancing the reader from the proper understanding.’’38 The importance of Italy as a center for Hebrew book production in the late Middle Ages and the early modern period has been reflected in the corpus of scholarship devoted to the history of Hebrew printing in Italy and the considerable number of extant Hebrew manuscripts of Italian origin in public collections in Italy and elsewhere (as well as manuscripts of nonItalian origin now housed in Italian libraries). This work has been conducted by historians, bibliographers, and codicologists in Europe, Israel, and North America. Likewise, the study of early modern Italian Jewish history—in its cultural, religious, and social aspects—has also been a rich one, and some historians of Italian Jewish culture have paid considerable attention to the ‘‘book culture’’ of their subjects.39 Despite this rich array of scholarship, sustained analysis of key issues has been rare, especially regarding the dynamics of interaction between print (as a new technology for book production) and cultural change. This is surprising perhaps in that printing established itself as central to Jewish culture earlier in Italy than in other communities and continued to be a central aspect of social and economic life in Italian Jewish communities up to the modern period. Not only was Italy central to book production in the early modern period, but the particular dynamics of the Hebrew book—its production, circulation, and consumption—in Italy allow us to get at many of these key questions. State control and regulation of the Hebrew book was an important feature of Italian Jewish cultural and social life from the fifteenth century to the end of the eighteenth century; and censorship and expurgation of the Hebrew book and of other books owned by Jews became an important phenomenon in Italian Jewish life very early—indeed, as the article by Nurit Pasternak in this volume shows, even before print. While we might not wish to dwell extensively on the aesthetic qualities of Hebrew books in Italy, it is important to note that Italy housed innovative printer-publishers like Gershom Soncino and Daniel Bomberg, who made major advances in the Hebrew book in both typography and format.

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Introduction

Of course, Italy’s importance in printing in general in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries plays a role as well: It is somewhat beside the point to ask whether Soncino and Bomberg were in Italy because Italy was an important center of book production or whether they made Italy an important center of book production.40 Centers of particular industries tend to attract talent and in turn produce more. The printing industry in Italy demanded talent—skilled editors, typesetters, proofreaders, and printers— and capital to produce books; Italy both attracted talent and capital and produced more of it. Italy’s importance was magnified by its geographic centrality in the Jewish world. The Jews of northern Italy traded with Jews throughout the early modern Jewish world, from Germany and Poland-Lithuania to the Ottoman Empire and North Africa, by way of ports in Venice and other cities and overland routes across the Alps. Books printed in Italy circulated to all these areas, and books printed in the farther reaches of Jewish settlement made their way to Italy.41 Moreover, northern Italy drew in Jews from a wide variety of Jewish communities—from Iberia, southern France, southern Italy, former Byzantine lands, Germany, and the Middle East—who brought with them their medieval traditions and manuscripts, leading to rich possibilities for textual production and publication. Italy continued to be an important print center into the later seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, although it was no longer dominant—the locus of Hebrew and Yiddish printing had shifted to Amsterdam and other areas in the Ashkenazi kulturbereich. But even in this period Italy’s geographic location at the center of the Jewish world maintained its importance in terms of the production, dissemination, and consumption of Hebrew books.

Case Studies from Early Modern Italy The essays in this volume comprise a series of monographic case studies, presenting new research and offering original contributions in several subfields that make up the ‘‘history of the book’’: manuscript studies and the histories of printing, censorship, and reading, to name a few. Taken together and read in the rough chronological order presented here, they trace the history of the Jewish book in many of its key ramifications from the fifteenth through the eighteenth centuries: the development of a

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Hebrew printing industry; changes in the reading habits of Jewish audiences; and the mechanisms of state and Church intervention in the publication and dissemination of Jewish literature. We begin the volume with two essays on different aspects of manuscript production in Italy at the end of the medieval period. Evelyn Cohen focuses our attention on the colophons of a small number of Hebrew manuscripts that were apparently written for women patrons. Cautioning us to read the colophon evidence carefully, Cohen raises a number of key methodological issues for anyone who works with medieval Hebrew manuscripts.42 At the same time, her work focuses our attention on the multiple arrangements and possibilities for the production, dissemination, and use of manuscript books in the early modern period. Nurit Pasternak describes the remarkable case of expurgation of Hebrew manuscripts in fifteenth-century Florence, undertaken well before the Counter-Reformation efforts at censorship and expurgation of Hebrew books in the second half of the sixteenth century. Her essay reminds us that aspects of state control of Jewish book publication and dissemination began even before print. Her work also suggests that at a very early stage in the history of censorship and expurgation Jews and Christians in Florence were cooperating to assure the safety and continued existence of Hebrew creativity. These two essays are not, however, mere tokens intended to assuage medievalists before getting to the main business of print. Given that manuscript production continued and coexisted with print production throughout the early modern period, the question is not about the replacement of manuscripts with print but rather about how to study both manuscripts and print as part of a culture’s overall relation to books.43 Moreover, both Cohen and Pasternak ask us to consider issues of continuity and discontinuity in Jewish book culture in the early modern period. Adrian Johns has recently argued that early modern readers did not take for granted the authority of printed books, and printers responded by emphasizing issues of authority and intended audience in title pages and other paratexts.44 Cohen’s essay reminds us that a reader of a manuscript—in the same era as early printed books and just before—might have been confronted with paratexts such as colophons or annotations that also suggested negotiation over authority and audience, sometimes quite directly. Pasternak’s work reminds us that censorship and expurgation can apply to any kind of book, manuscript or printed.

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Introduction

Nonetheless, the arrival of print did open the possibility for entrepreneurs and intellectuals to create something new out of older materials, whether through the editing, selection, and compilation of different texts or the creation of new formats—or both. Printing also created a new set of business and economic relationships around the production of Hebrew books: the printer-publishers had to be concerned with the marketplace in order to recoup their major capital investments in print, type, and labor— all expended before the book was sold.45 This public and commercial aspect to the creation and dissemination of Hebrew printed books represents a counterpoint to the kind of private and often noncommercial production of medieval Hebrew manuscripts by scholar-scribes writing mainly for themselves and sometimes for known patrons, described by Malachi BeitArie´,46 and the commercial but still private relationship between scribes and patrons that Evelyn Cohen treats here. These two new developments—the emergence of a new business of print and the creation of new and innovative ‘‘products’’—are both on display in the career of one of the most important sixteenth-century printers of Hebrew books, Daniel van Bombergen, better known as Daniel Bomberg. In their essays, Bruce Nielsen and David Stern focus our attention on both of these aspects of Bomberg’s activities and shed new light on his career and one of his key achievements as a printer of Hebrew books. Whereas the importance of printers, publishers, and booksellers was already recognized in the early phases of research in book history, in the case of early printed books, and especially Hebrew books, publisher, printer, and bookseller were roles that could be combined in one individual or divided among several, and the same person might fulfill different roles for different books. Nielsen places Bomberg’s career as a printer, publisher, and agent of culture in this context and shows us how print leads to new conceptions of the ‘‘bookman.’’ David Stern looks at two of Bomberg’s crowning achievements, the 1517 and 1525 Rabbinic Bibles and places these innovative works in the context of sixteenth-century Venice and in the larger context of what he calls ‘‘Jewish Bibles.’’ The 1525 Hebrew Bible published by Bomberg formed the basis for the study of Bible by Jewish readers as well as by Christian scholars interested in the study of the Old Testament in Hebrew with its rabbinic commentaries. This Bible offered a clear text of the Hebrew, punctuated with vowel points, including the full repertory of distinctions made by the Masoretes between spelling and pronunciation. The commentaries that were printed on both sides of the biblical text became the standard

Introduction

13

commentaries consulted by Jewish scholars and readers in future generations, and thus this enterprise shaped the Jewish canon of biblical commentary for centuries. In addition to Bomberg, another figure emerges as crucial to Stern’s study—Jacob ben H . ayyim ibn Adoniyahu, the editor of the 1525 Rabbinic Bible (and of other works published by Bomberg). The partnership between Ibn Adoniyahu, the Jew, and Bomberg, the Christian, is exemplary of some key aspects of Hebrew book production as a collaborative and commercial enterprise, detailed in Nielsen’s article. In Ibn Adoniyahu, Stern finds the exemplar of a new kind of what Nielsen calls the ‘‘bookman’’: the editor who emerged alongside the publisher-entrepreneur, the typesetter, and the author as a crucial figure in the production of printed books.47 The history of the book as social and cultural history has offered the insight that no text reaches readers unmediated by its material form, whether scroll or codex or Kindle, manuscript or print or electronic. In the copying of a manuscript, a scribe serves as a mediating figure between author and reader—although in many cases, the reader is the scribe and vice versa. But in the presentation of a printed book to a reader, many more people play a mediating role: publishers, editors, correctors, typesetters, and press operators. In this light, Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin has proposed that we also see censors and expurgators as mediating figures who shape material texts for readers and perform a function not unlike that of the editor.48 Piet van Boxel’s study of Robert Bellarmine and the Catholic Reformation project to collect (and then censor) all passages in medieval rabbinic Bible commentaries based on the Talmud similarly offers us a new perspective on Church projects to censor Hebrew books. Bellarmine and his colleagues and predecessors viewed rabbinic biblical exegesis as an important source for both Christian learning and for converting Jews. Although van Boxel suggests that the project was ultimately abortive and rabbinic Bible commentaries were hardly censored or expurgated, the work of these Church officials can be seen as a kind of editorial intervention that not only saved the texts but rendered them useful in new ways. Undoubtedly, however, van Boxel’s subjects, like Pasternak’s from a century before, also represent the power of Christian authorities, ecclesiastical or secular, to control the dissemination of Jewish books. Joseph R. Hacker’s article takes us in a different direction, focusing on the littleknown story of internal Jewish censorship in the sixteenth century in which

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Introduction

Jewish authorities attempted to control the content of Hebrew printed books. After a review of the available evidence, Hacker concludes that attempts at prepublication censorship were largely ineffective but that communal and rabbinic elites could bring pressure to bear after publication in the form of expurgation and modifications. These interventions caused extensive delays in the distribution of the printed books and generated economic losses to the authors and the publishers. Contrary to former assumptions of scholars, the censorship was not done in cases of halakhic deviance but rather in cases of opposition to particular doctrines and beliefs, such as supposedly heretical views or criticism of accepted religious authorities. This surprising finding may result from the particular dynamics in Italy, where rabbis may have had less influence on the inner workings of the print shop, a site of Jewish-Christian collaboration that was ultimately under the control of the Christian press owner. In her study of book culture among the Jews of early modern Modena, Federica Francesconi uses the censorship and inquisitorial control of Jewish books to open up a panoramic view of the cultural interests of a Jewish community in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, the period after the printed book had already gained full dominance over cultural life. Inquisitorial inventories of Jewish books in Mantua from this period have already been carefully studied and have yielded important quantitative data about the kinds of books owned by Jews.49 By examining similar material in a different community and correlating it with trial records, Francesconi suggests that the reading habits of Modenese Jews can be seen as an important index of acculturation as well as a reflection of internal Jewish religious and intellectual trends. Francesconi’s study shifts us from the production and transmission of books to their consumption by a Jewish audience. Her research also suggests the importance of a relatively new institution, the library, in the cultural life of Italian Jewish communities.50 In early seventeenth-century Modena, we see private libraries opening up to a limited and elite group as a shared cultural institution. We might consider this development an indirect consequence of the greater availability of books due to print: booksaturated societies seem to produce public or semipublic spaces for the reading and use of books.51 The impact of print—and the possibilities it creates for wider distribution of books—has been noted in connection with an important aspect of Jewish religious life, the realm of liturgy and ritual. Print certainly

Introduction

15

made possible a much wider ownership of prayer books (siddurim and mah.zorim); of books that functioned liturgically and as guides to rituals (Passover Haggadot and books of blessings such as the Grace after Meals); and of books of minhagim, descriptions of customs and rituals. But print not only created siddur-saturated synagogues: it also changed the nature of the synagogue service itself, contributing to the amalgamation of local rites and the consolidation of regional liturgies.52 While the main story of print and Jewish liturgy is, therefore, one of increasing standardization, Michela Andreatta’s article demonstrates that print could also allow for what she calls ‘‘customization’’ of the prayer book for specific audiences within the Jewish community. Her study of prayer books commissioned by mystically inclined devotional confraternities not only offers us an important case study in the popularization and spread of new kabbalistic pietistic practices in the seventeenth century, but also explores how a particular group, with specialized interests, could use the technology of print to promote its cause. As was true for Stern’s study of the Rabbinic Bibles, the role of the editor as a mediator between text and reader is crucial to Andreatta’s study. Here, however, the editor does not need to imagine an audience that might buy the printed product; rather, the market is ready made: the editor knows the readers, and he can tailor the work to their specific needs. Francesca Bregoli’s study of the Hebrew printing industry in eighteenthcentury Livorno returns us to some of the central questions raised above. Her printers contend with commercial forces and with the regulation of their industry by the Tuscan state, by the Church, and by the lay leaders of the Jewish community. But the gradual abolition of these controls, including the ending of a monopolistic privilege and the emergence of a ‘‘free market,’’ represents a new chapter in the history of the ‘‘Jewish’’ book and highlights the transitional nature of the eighteenth century. Explicitly or implicitly, the studies in this volume address themselves to the question of what the cultural, economic, and legal circumstances of bookmaking can tell us not only about the books themselves but also about the circumstances of Jewish life in a particular place and time. Taken individually and collectively, these studies also offer a picture of the interaction between people and books, whether modeled as a ‘‘communications circuit’’ (Darnton) or as a ‘‘socio-economic conjuncture’’ (Barker and Adams). And they certainly show us that ‘‘new readers made new texts,’’ as Roger Chartier has put it.

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A consistent theme in these essays is the interplay between governmental (state or Church) control of bookmaking and distribution and the cultural practices of the Jewish communities in question. But such control—whether in the form of censorship or regulation of the printing industry—can also be viewed on a continuum of interaction between Jews and Christians in the production, dissemination, and use of Hebrew books in this period. The studies by Stern, Nielsen, and Van Boxel not only elucidate Daniel Bomberg as a Christian producer of Jewish books but also Robert Bellarmine as a Christian reader of Jewish books. Some of the Modenese Jews studied by Francesconi, on the other hand, might be described as Jewish readers of Christian books. These studies also offer a relatively long-term view of Jewish culture over a nearly 300-year period in which books—and the circumstances of their production and use—represent evidence of continuity and change. In this regard, aspects of the history of the book among Italian Jews might be seen as indices of modernity—the move toward a free market in Livorno, or the reading of vernacular literature in Modena, to offer two examples. The studies here focus on northern Italy, an important Jewish culture in the early modern period, but certainly dwarfed demographically by the much larger worlds of Ashkenazi Jewry north of the Alps or Sephardi Jewry in the Ottoman Empire. Specialists who focus on those Jewish communities will have to decide the extent to which the conclusions drawn here apply outside Italy. Taken together, however, we hope these studies offer a roadmap of questions and approaches that will stimulate the larger fields of book history, Jewish history, and their fruitful intersection.

CHAPTER 1

Can Colophons Be Trusted? Insights from Decorated Hebrew Manuscripts Produced for Women in Renaissance Italy Evelyn M. Cohen

The scribe Moses ben H . ayyim Akris completed a Hebrew prayer book, which he referred to as a siddur and a mah.zor, on 26 Adar I [5]280 (⳱ 15 February 1520), by which time apparently some, though clearly not most, of the work had been illuminated.1 The codex subsequently was inherited by Jacob Norsa, who commissioned additional decoration. The ornamentation of the borders and the text illustrations reveal the hands of various artists working in different styles. The inclusion of the date ‘‘1569’’ within the adornment of folio 253r establishes that the manuscript’s embellishment continued in that year. The prayer book’s iconography is significant because women appear prominently in scenes of religious observance in some of the miniatures added after the codex was first decorated. In the illustration of the havdalah ceremony at the conclusion of the Sabbath (fol. 65r), a man holding the glass of wine over which the benediction is recited faces a group of male and female figures. At the head of this assembly stands a woman, who is the sole figure to hold an open book. A woman is also the principal figure—in terms of scale and placement—in a similar group in the depiction of the Torah being displayed prior to its reading in the synagogue on the last day of Passover (fol. 150r). The manuscript is, therefore, of arthistorical note both for recording interesting aspects of religious observance of the time as well as for displaying the evolving styles that reflect changes in artistic tastes of the sixteenth century.

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As a historical document, however, the prayer book is even more intriguing. Akris stated that he copied the work for Isaac ben Emanuel Norsa.2 An exceptionally wealthy Ferrarese banker, Isaac is well known from contemporary documents and from inscriptions in other manuscripts that he either commissioned or purchased.3 A remarkable feature in this prayer book of 1520 is that Isaac’s wife, Consiglia, noted at the beginning of the work that she had the mah.zor written for her and her offspring.4 She offered no further clarification of her apparent contradiction of Akris’s statement that Isaac had commissioned the work; furthermore, the three gender-specific morning benedictions formulated for recitation by a female are not included as they sometimes are in manuscripts intended for use by a woman.5 Jacob Norsa, the son of Consiglia and Isaac, had folio 4r embellished extravagantly with gold leaf. The lower section displays his family crest surmounted by a scroll inscribed with the abbreviation for ‘‘my help comes from God.’’6 Gold-leaf letters in the upper part of the page proclaim, ‘‘This is my name forever and this is my memorial from generation to generation7 Jacob of Norsa {may my Rock protect me}.’’8 Neither parent is mentioned on this elaborately adorned page. That Jacob inherited the manuscript is clear, but from whom? Are we to believe the scribe’s assertion that he copied it for Isaac, or Consiglia’s claim that she had it made for herself?

The Reliability of Colophons The colophons in medieval and Renaissance Hebrew manuscripts often supply valuable information. Although sections of these inscriptions sometimes merely repeat commonly employed verses and formulae, identification of the scribe and his patron as well as the place and date in which the work was carried out provides significant records that shed light on individuals’ actions and movements. It is uncertain, however, whether the scribe is to be believed in all cases and whether the meaning of his words is being interpreted correctly.9 At times even the reliability of the copyist to accurately identify the person who penned the manuscript must be called into question. A case in point is a colophon in a Hebrew miscellany that indicates that it was made for the above-mentioned Isaac Norsa.10 The inscription on folio 309r states that the work was completed on Wednesday, 19 Marh.eshvan, 28 October [5]284 (⳱ 1523) by Eliezer ben Joseph of Rimini for Isaac Norsa, the son of

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Emanuel Norsa.11 In truth, Eliezer copied only the last part of the codex, beginning in the middle of folio 287v, toward the end of the prayer book, which was the final text to be included in the manuscript.12 The codex, until that point, appears to have been copied by Isaac ben Ovadiah of Forlı`.13 The catchwords at the end of the quires that Isaac completed are placed centrally at the bottom of the page and decorated with motifs formed of small dots, a distinctive characteristic found in works he copied. Also typical of Isaac’s work is the limited use of graphic fillers at the end of lines of text. Another manuscript penned by Isaac, but bearing a colophon recording the name of someone else, is a volume containing the Torah, haftarot, and megillot.14 The inscription at the end of the book of Esther (fol. 246r) indicates that Abraham Farissol copied the manuscript for Emanuel Norsa in 1496.15 Others have already noted, however, that the scribal devices found in the Pentateuch (fols. 1r–171v) differ from those present in the remainder of the manuscript, with only the latter part being consistent with Farissol’s approach.16 The placement and decoration of the catchwords, and the limited use of line fillers, once again reveal the hand of Isaac.17 In fact, the decoration of many of the catchwords is identical to that found in Garrett Hebrew MS 6, folio 110v.18 Another manuscript in which Farissol’s name appears but which he did not write in its entirety is a prayer book he copied in Mantua in 1480.19 The wording of the three gender-specific benedictions in the morning prayer reflects that it was produced for a woman. In this example Farissol was the first scribe involved with the work. Undoubtedly when he wrote his colophon (fol. 313v) indicating that he had finished the entire siddur, he considered the manuscript to be complete.20 The text of the Haggadah that was later added on folio 318r is the work of an anonymous scribe, whose hand is apparent through the end of the manuscript (fol. 362v);21 afterward, the work was illuminated throughout. The name of the person who commissioned this manuscript was erased from the colophon by a later owner; the remaining words of the inscription confirm, however, that the patron was a woman.

Identifying Manuscripts Written for Women The colophons of several other manuscripts, all liturgical works, reveal that they were either commissioned by or made for the use of women.22 Inscriptions indicate that scribes have variously created manuscripts for a

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woman,23 for a husband and his wife,24 or for a father and his daughter;25 sometimes the copyist penned the work for his own bride26 or for his sister.27 A manuscript also could be commissioned by a woman for use by someone else, for example, a prayer book that was ordered by a woman for her sons.28 Sometimes manuscripts belonging to a woman who may not have been the original patron were sold by her.29 Beyond providing the names of patrons, colophons generally do not yield information about them. Aside from Isaac Norsa and his wife, Consiglia, and Elia da Vigevano and his daughter, Brunetta,30 almost nothing is known about the individuals the scribe refers to. Because much of the information noted in colophons is formulaic, little can be culled about the background or education of the women who were to receive these manuscripts. The patrons who hired noted scribes such as Akris and Farissol frequently paid for professional illuminators to decorate the texts. In addition to the prayer book Akris copied for the Norsa family, all three of the known women’s manuscripts copied by Farissol are illuminated.31 It is possible that these books were intended as lavish gifts, but there is no reason to assume that the recipients were not expected to read them as well. In the colophon of a prayer book intended for a woman, the noted scribe/artist Joel ben Simeon stated that he copied the tefillah for Rav Menah.em ben Samuel and for his daughter, ‘‘the honorable and wise virgin, the pleasant Lady Maraviglia, that she should pray with it, she and her offspring, and her offspring’s offspring, until the end [of time].’’32 The phrasing employed here was a frequently used convention found in many manuscripts of the period; the colophon, therefore, cannot serve as proof that the scribe believed Maraviglia actually would recite her prayers using this book. The illustrations, which appear to be by Joel, do, however, reinforce the likelihood that the prayer book was intended to be used by this woman. Included in the representations in the Haggadah and in other sections of the manuscript are images of a young woman actively participating in religious observances. In one scene she is shown, along with a young man, raising a seder basket. In other depictions she elevates a matzah, points to the benediction for the Counting of the Omer, recites a confessional prayer during the service of the Day of Atonement, and recites havdalah over a wine goblet at the conclusion of the Sabbath.33 As many manuscripts do not contain colophons, often it is impossible to determine if the book was destined for a female owner. In the case of prayer books, the wording of the three gender-specific blessings in the

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morning benedictions can sometimes provide evidence that the manuscript was created for a woman. A finely illuminated prayer book, probably decorated by the renowned Florentine illuminator Mariano del Buono, contains only the first half of the liturgy. In its current, incomplete state it does not bear a colophon.34 That the manuscript was intended for use by a woman is made clear by the wording of the three morning benedictions, in which the woman thanks God for making her as he wished, for making her a Jewess, and for not making her a shifh.ah (a female servant). Not all prayer books that were produced for women have these benedictions worded in the female form, however, so for many manuscripts there is no means to determine the gender of the person for whom they were intended. Colophons in manuscripts that were clearly created for women do not necessarily reveal the recipient’s identity. In one of the prayer books Farissol copied for use by a woman, for example, the colophon is difficult to read due both to a few poorly formed letters and to an intentional erasure. The manuscript dates to either 1471 or 1478.35 The name of the city where the work was penned was obliterated by a subsequent owner. Not surprisingly, the name of the patron was erased as well. What is striking, however, is that although the three gender-specific benedictions are formulated for recitation by a woman, Farissol specified only the name of her husband. His spouse is referred to solely as ‘‘his wife the bride.’’ Quite possibly the scribe did not know her identity; what was important to him was to indicate the person who remunerated him for his work; that is, the bridegroom. This colophon and others indicated only the parties involved in the business aspect of the manuscript’s production—the scribe who penned it and the patron who paid for it. The anticipated recipient was not significant. A notable example demonstrating the business function of the colophon appears in another prayer book of the Roman rite copied in an Italian semicursive script by Aryeh ben Eliezer H . alfan.36 The diminutive manuscript measures 117 x 85 mm, with the area of text occupying only 60 x 51 mm. The prayer book includes two elaborately illuminated pages. The scribe had allowed for additional adornment at various points within the text by leaving sufficient space around initial words to accommodate text illustrations, but none were added. The first illuminated leaf appears at the beginning of the text (fol. 4v). At its center is a decorated initial word panel painted with rich blue pigment, ornamented with white floral designs. Gold leaf embellishes the letters of the initial word, barukh, and the frame around the blue panel. In

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the outer margin, a vertical panel with a luxurious red ground highlighted with gold pen work is adorned with a gold stalk from which flowers of different colors emerge. Pink and blue foliate forms are painted on the gold-leaf panel at the top. A vertical bar formed of gold leaf embellishes the narrow inner margin, while a gold-leaf panel decorates the bottom border. This, the largest of the three panels, is adorned with stylized pink and blue buds growing on either side. In the center, on a red ground decorated with gold pen work within a blue wreath, is an unidentified family crest. On a deep blue background, facing to the left, stands a rooster with a red feather at the top of its head and at its neck. The second illuminated page is found at the beginning of the Haggadah section (fol. 132r). At the top of the page, the initial word ha is set within a decorative panel similar to that of the previous ornamented page. As before, gold leaf embellishes the initial word and the frame around the panel. A vase containing four flowers adorns the right-hand border, while a goldleaf bar decorates the narrow inner margin at the left. Unexpectedly, this page does not display any of the motifs that usually accompany the text of Italian Haggadot: a seder scene, a seder basket, or a matzah. Instead, the image within the gold-leaf frame in the bottom margin is enigmatic. Depicted within a landscape, an oversize canine with a leash and a collar around its neck rests on the ground. With its mouth open to reveal its pointed teeth, it turns its head and looks off to the right. The image is unconnected to the text above it, which contains the passage of ha lah.ma ‘anya and the first two of the Four Questions. The scribe included a colophon, written in a tapered, decorative pattern. He progressively narrowed the width of the last eight lines until the inscription terminated with an abbreviation comprising a single letter.37 In addition to providing his own name, Aryeh ben Eliezer H . alfan, and stating that he finished the work in Cremona on Friday, the twenty-third day of the month of Shevat, he specified that he had completed the work for Menah.em ben Yoav of Ascoli, in the hope that he and his descendents would pray with it until the end of time. It seems from the colophon, therefore, that this diminutive and finely decorated work was created for a man. Despite the scribe’s assertion that he had copied the work for Menah.em, the text reveals that the manuscript was produced for use by a woman. In the morning benedictions that appear on folio 5v, the three gender-specific blessings are phrased for recitation by a woman rather than a man. The worshiper thanks God for making her ‘‘as he wished,’’ for not making her

Figure 1.1. Prayer book, Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 1754, fol. 393r. By permission of the Ministero per i Beni e le Attivita` Culturali.

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a ‘‘gentile woman,’’ and for not making her a ‘‘female servant.’’ Accordingly, the small-formatted Parma prayer book presumably was made for Menah.em’s wife or daughter, whose identity the scribe may never have known. The scribe, in fact, distinguished between the text of the prayer book, which he penned in an elegant semicursive script, and the text of his colophon, written in square script, in which he specified that he had finished the work commissioned by Menah.em, his male patron. The statements made in colophons have until now been used as the primary source for determining if manuscripts were intended for use by women. A study of codices created for women reveals that there was no standard size, iconographic program, or preferred scribe. Although Farissol is known to have copied three prayer books for women, more than any other scribe, when one considers that his name appears in many more manuscripts than any other scrivener, the higher number is insignificant. As some works were copied by relatives of the women for whom they were intended, we cannot even assume that only the wealthiest women had books. Of the roughly twenty known decorated liturgical works made for women, no definitive patterns emerge. That in itself may be telling, suggesting a wide variety of arrangements for the production of manuscripts for women in late medieval Italy, which encompass a range of different social and economic relationships. Perhaps once the text of prayer book are surveyed to ascertain which contain morning benedictions formulated for women, more examples will come to light, and some patterns will appear. As this study has shown that the colophon functioned to indicate that the scribe completed his work for the employer who commissioned it, rather than the person intended to use it, the seemingly contradictory statements in the prayer book of 1520 no longer appear to be inconsistent. Akris specified that he had copied the manuscript for Isaac, the patron who had hired him and ultimately paid him, while Consiglia stated that she had the manuscript made for her use, presumably relying on her husband to remunerate the scribe. As critical as a colophon is in conveying otherwise unknown, and often otherwise unknowable, information concerning the production of a manuscript, it must be read with great care, because its true meaning is not always straightforward and obvious. Only when accompanied by a careful examination of the manuscript’s codicology and paleography and of the wording within the copied text, can the veracity of the scribe’s assertions be ascertained.

Figure 1.2. Prayer book, Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 1754, fol. 5v. By permission of the Ministero per i Beni e le Attivita` Culturali.

CHAPTER 2

Marchion in Hebrew Manuscripts: State Censorship in Florence, 1472 Nurit Pasternak

The signature of Marchion in small Latin humanistic characters appears in seventeen Hebrew manuscripts, all of which are related in one way or another to Florence.1 This peculiar signature is in fact a censor mark interspersed within the folios of each of the seventeen manuscripts: as a rule it appears on the side margins of the written text, adjacent to deleted words, lines, or passages that were regarded as blasphemous and disparaging to the Christian faith.2 In several cases it was placed in close proximity to an expression that called for apologetic explication, and that ultimately was left untouched.3 Followed by the sigla, or abbreviation mark, SS, Marchion’s signature must have acted as a formal stamp of validation.4 The humanistic script of Marchion’s signature betrays the fact that this intervention occurred sometime during the fifteenth century, certainly in Italy, and most probably in Tuscany, where this script prevailed.5 The investigation of Marchion’s signatures, their significance, and their historical context was set in motion after the deciphering of three Hebrew inscriptions in the lateral margins of the famous Ashkenazi Hebrew codex of the Talmud now kept in Florence.6 During the fifteenth century that manuscript had belonged to the prestigious San Miniato family of Jewish ‘‘bankers’’ residing in Florence.7 The three Hebrew inscriptions, all in minute, cursive Italian hand, with Marchion’s signature appended to them, are placed on the margins facing the expression umot ha’olam: they restrict the definition of this collective term to worshipers of idols, excluding the Christians from it.8 One of them reads as follows:9

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27

Figure 2.1. Marchion’s signature in the margins of an expurgated text, MS New York, Jewish Theological Seminary 4518, fol. 81r. Courtesy of the Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary.

We mean by this expression excepting the Christians and others who believe in the Creator and are therefore excluded from this term. . . . We carried out this revision (hagaha) by order of the Eight, August 1472 (Elul 5232), and their notary, ser Marchion, will sign his name upon it.10 A similar inscription, formulated almost identically though apparently inscribed by a different Hebrew hand, appears in a paper manuscript containing the Book of Precepts (Sefer miz.vot gadol).11 Two more apologetic notes in this vein are found in an undated mah.zor.12 From these inscriptions one may infer that at least two individuals were involved in revising and correcting the Hebrew text, as indicated above by the use of the first person plural: ‘‘we carried out’’;13 moreover, the Hebrew hands that wrote the margin inscriptions were undoubtedly those of Jews, who, so it seems, troubled to clarify that they were acting upon the authorities’ orders, indeed by orders of the ‘‘Eight.’’ Do we have here a team consisting of a censor (be he a Christian, a Jew, or a convert) accompanied by an appointed notary, on a joint mission of expurgating Hebrew manuscripts?14 Judging from the dissimilarity in Hebrew handwritings among the apologetic inscriptions in

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the three manuscripts, a different scenario comes to mind: perhaps the Florentine Jews who owned manuscripts would be summoned to the appointed functionary of the Eight (namely, their notary, Marchion) with their books;15 here we are faced with two options—these books would either be emended by each owner beforehand;16 or they would be emended by their owners (or possibly by their emissary17) in Marchion’s presence. As to the apologetic inscriptions clarifying that the offensive term excluded Christians, it seems reasonable that each of the book owners would be required to inscribe in their own hands a short declaration in this regard (namely, the marginal inscriptions), thus affirming their good faith—hence the different Hebrew handwriting.18 To complete the operation, as a professional notary would, Marchion appended his signature next to each inscription or erasure, confirming that he had witnessed the procedure and was satisfied that all was in order. One is tempted, already at this stage, to compare Marchion’s working procedure to that of sixteenth-century censors:19 whereas he placed his signature next to every rectification, as becomes a notary (or lawyer) dealing with formal documents, the censors who were active a century later in the framework of the Counter-Reformation signed only once, usually on the last folio or page, confirming that they had revised and corrected the entire codex.20 This slight but significant dissimilarity may have indeed originated in Marchion’s procedures as a notary; yet it could also indicate that, unlike Inquisition censors, it was not he who technically performed the erasures: by signing on the margins he may have merely authenticated and validated each correction. Another variant seems possible as well: Marchion would first indicate in the margin the unwanted passages which required expurgation; then the technical deletion would be performed, possibly by the manuscript’s owner. A crucial phrase, ‘‘by order of the Eight,’’ contained in the Florence Talmud inscription, designates Florence as the scene of events. Umberto Cassuto, in his seminal book on the Jews of Florence during the Renaissance, defines the Eight (Otto di guardia e balia) as the sole authority in the Florentine state vested with powers to deal with all aspects of civic life concerning the Jews.21 The material accumulated in their files (now kept in the Florentine State Archive) corroborates this.22 Accordingly, it was they who issued the condotte permitting Jews to reside and act in Florence; it was they who dealt with the Jews regarding their privileges and commitments; it was they who protected the Jews against aggressions of all kinds; and, when necessary, it was they who judged the Jews. In this respect it is crucial to

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remark that no authority but the Eight, not even the Inquisition tribunal, had jurisdiction over the Jews. When Jews were guilty of offenses against the Christian faith, these could not to be considered crimes of heresy but rather civil misdemeanors, and as such they were brought before the secular tribunal of the Eight.23 It is therefore only natural that the Eight would be the body authorized to impose and enact censorship on Hebrew manuscripts. The fact that the Eight was a civil authority is significant: for although we ignore the immediate causes that triggered it, whether initiated by the Church or by other elements, we have here a case of Hebrew book censorship imposed and controlled by secular officials, not the Church.24 Finally, the date of the censor marks in MSS Florence and Vienna, as it appears in the two nearly identical inscriptions, is August 1472.25 In Florence this coincided with young Lorenzo de’ Medici’s first years in power.26 We have no way of verifying whether this ‘‘expurgating operation’’ was a one-time action or one that reached over a span of time. Neither can we establish its scope—whether all Jews were subject to this procedure or only the permanent residents among them; whether it embraced all the Hebrew manuscripts present in Florence at that time or only those belonging to certain individuals; and—most relevant with respect to the motives and targets of this operation—whether all titles had been scanned or only those known to contain offensive texts. However, we can be fairly certain that Marchion’s Florentine censorship affected only Hebrew books, and, moreover, only Hebrew books owned by Jews. No Hebrew books owned by Florentine Christians, whether Hebraist scholars or others, are known to have undergone censorship in Florence.27 While investigating and documenting many hundreds of Hebrew manuscripts for the Hebrew Paleography Project’s database (SfarData),28 which includes a fairly minute examination of extant dated Hebrew manuscripts of all provenances until 1540, we came across no other instance of such explicit marking. Until now scholars have believed that the first dated censor mark was the Hebrew signature of a Jewish revisor bearing the dates May 1555 and June 1555 and placed on the first blank folio of an early printed book.29 A censor’s signature in Latin characters, that of Jacobus Geraldinus, made its first appearance in December of that year.30 More than eighty years had elapsed between the signatures of the hitherto unknown fifteenthcentury Florentine censorship and the first recorded manifestations of censorship of Hebrew books imposed by the Church. This said, the marking of a mah.zor for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is mentioned already

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in 1459, in a letter dispatched by Lorenzo da Pesaro, Francesco Sforza’s commissioner in Parma, reporting to the duke that he had obtained the book from a local Jew and had ‘‘marked’’ it as he had been ordered: ‘‘ho signato il libro come ho in comandamento della Vostra Illustrissima Signoria.’’31 Mentions of the marking of Hebrew manuscripts from the Duchy of Milan also occur more than once in the minutes of the 1488 Milan trials:32 the accused Jew would be interrogated on certain passages, mostly from the Talmud and the mah.zor, and asked to elucidate specific terms next to which, in the margin, appeared the signature of Bernardinus d’Arezzo, the official heading the tribunal.33 A close glance at these minutes reveals that Bernardinus had signed a good number of folios in the various codices, as did Marchion.34 Had Marchion signed his name, just as Bernardinus did sixteen years later, for the purpose of interrogating Florentine Jews about the contents of their books? Had the Florentine Jews undergone in 1472 a trial similar to the 1488 Milan trials, of which Marchion’s signatures are the only remnant? No documentation pointing to such a trial exists in the Florentine archives;35 as to the Milanese manuscripts, they had most probably all been burnt in the wake of the trial. Thus, our seventeen Florentine manuscripts bear the only physical evidence yet uncovered of Hebrew codices marked by censorship (that is, bearing the express signature of a censor) prior to the Counter-Reformation and to the era of massive purges of Hebrew texts that came in its wake.36 Even though we know of decrees ordering the examination and expurgation of Hebrew books already in the thirteenth century both in France and in Aragon,37 we know of no expurgated manuscript bearing a specific mark that would enable us to determine what, if anything, had been erased then.38 As previously remarked, the later inquisitorial censorship is characterized by a comprehensive censor mark placed as a rule at the end of the manuscript, confirming that it had been revised. There is no folio-by-folio marking of what had been removed by each revisor; on the other hand, the problematic expressions to be deleted or modified were enumerated in detailed indexes. In the Florentine censorship, however, Marchion’s censor marks serve as signposts: they literally mark, in a clear, visual manner, each spot that called for intervention, enabling us to compile an actual list (or index) of what had been considered offensive at the time he carried out his task.39 This virtual index preceded by several decades the various expurgation indexes compiled by order of the Church during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Juxtaposing it to those indexes,40 and at the same

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time examining it in light of what is known to us about the persecution of Hebrew books in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, should reveal the distinctive profile of Marchion’s censorship, if indeed it had one. It should enable us to evaluate what motivated the Florentine censorship and what guided it. A series of question marks obviously arise here concerning Marchion’s censorship and its circumstances: Was the Florentine case a harbinger, and can we be justified in viewing it as a presage of what was soon to come? Or should it be conceived as one episode in the long, centuries-old current of suspicion and animosity toward Hebrew texts that had been manifesting itself again and again in Western Europe throughout the Middle Ages, ever since the Paris burning of the Talmud in 1244, two and a half centuries earlier? Had this event indeed been unique, or was it part of a recurring pattern of similar events, possibly triggering one another, in the rather restricted scene of fifteenth-century Italy? Was its context in any way similar to that of the sixteenth-century Counter-Reformation censorship, attempting to fight a real, substantial menace and prevent the propagation of harmful texts? Was it, in a limited way, a manifestation of the measures imposed by the Church in view of the ever-growing number of Hebraists exposed to Jewish texts and their increasing literary production, calling, no doubt, for intervention and control?41 Or was it too early to be linked in any way to the new situation created by the first winds of the Reformation as well as by the advent of printing and the rapid dissemination of texts?42 In fact, the Florentine censorship had preceded, albeit by a short decade, the establishment of Hebrew studies among learned Christian circles in Florence; this, together with the emergence of new trends among Hebraists and the attempt to integrate Jewish theosophy into the Christian vision, had, for just cause, alerted the Church.43 Not so in 1472: at that time Hebrew studies were not a discipline en vogue; the one prominent Hebraist scholar in fifteenth-century Florence prior to 1472 had been Giannozzo Manetti. Manetti’s intensive efforts to achieve mastery of the Hebrew language are well documented.44 Yet, his intent was to acquire the philological tools that would enable him—in line with the old polemic tradition—to undermine the Jewish creed by exposing the falseness of the Jews’ understanding of the Holy Scriptures;45 by proving the veritas of the Christian interpretation, he had hoped to enlighten the Jews and induce them to convert.46 If so, was the censorship of the Eight a mere episode in the tradition of ‘‘cleansing’’ Hebrew books from blasphemies and offenses against

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Christians and Christianity? Surely, one is tempted to answer in the affirmative. For neither the impact of the cultural revolution brought about by printing, still in its cradle in those years, nor the first buds of the Reformation were being felt or seen as early as 1472. Moreover, it is doubtful whether the Eight, functioning as the authority in charge of law and order in Florence and as a civil tribunal, would have had considerations of that scope guiding their decisions and actions. It is more likely that they intervened when the law—or, for that matter, a decree or an agreement—had been breached or violated. And it seems that in 1472 their attention was brought to the fact that the Jews had indeed been disobeying a decree or violating an understanding. And yet, one must not overlook the fact that what occurred in Florence had not been an isolated event. Marchion’s censorship had not been a unique episode in fifteenth-century Italy concerning the books of the Jews. Already in February 1428, Pope Martin V had issued a bull favoring the Jews and permitting them to study books of Jewish science and philosophy ‘‘provided they did not read, hear, or study Hebrew or Latin works containing anything contrary to the Catholic faith.’’47 Moreover, three documented series of events that occurred soon after the Florentine censorship had been imposed indicate that Hebrew books were becoming a subject of scrutiny, and possibly a valid pretext for persecuting local Jews.48 Most of the documents in question date from the 1470s and 1480s. The first comprised a series of documents concerning the Jews of Sicily and the blasphemies contained in their books, among them a letter dated 12 June 1474 from Pope Sixtus IV to Salvo Cassetta, a Dominican inquisitor in Sicily, granting him a mandate to act in Sicily against Jews who offended against Christianity and corrupted Christians by means of their books.49 Then, in Mantua, in December 1480 and again in January 1481,50 following a petition presented to him by six prominent Jews (including the Finzis and the Norsas) who complained they were being persecuted for their sacred books, Marquis Federico Gonzaga granted them and other Mantuan Jews a charter protecting them from future charges, provided they remove from the state all books containing slanderous passages that sullied the Christian faith.51 And, as already mentioned, a complex series of incidents connected to Hebrew books also took place in the Duchy of Milan. These events, interspersed over some thirty years, culminated in 1488 with the trial of thirty-eight Lombard Jews accused by the convert Vincentius de Galia of owning books that vilified the Christian faith.52 Two years later (in April

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1490), as a consequence of the same trial, a ducal order was issued to burn one hundred and seventy-two books confiscated from the Jews, allegedly containing offensive passages ‘‘contra la giesa di Dio.’’53 All assets of the indicted Jews were to be confiscated by the state. No doubt the decree of December 1490 ordering the expulsion of the Jews from the duchy was connected with the same book affair.54 Moreover, in both 1474 and 1480 there had been defamations and trials in the same vein.55 And, preceding Marchion by thirteen years, in the Parma incident described above, a Hebrew mah.zor was confiscated from a local Jew, marked according to the duke’s orders, and sent to him by a special envoy.56 Some differences appear to exist in the outcomes of measures adopted by the Florentine, Mantuan, and Milanese rulers; while the Milanese ended up with the books being burnt and the Jews expelled (which had been the standard sequence in medieval Christian Europe),57 the Mantuan ruler ordered that their books be removed from his territory.58 What happened in Florence we know by now. Yet it seems that the expurgation procedure had been present in all three territories, though manifestly attested and dated only in Florence: in the manuscripts owned by Mantuan Jews in the late fifteenth century, possibly in the wake of the duke’s decree, we witness, in all likelihood, marks of self-censorship performed by the Jews themselves;59 as to Milan, the minutes of the 1488 trials indicate that Hebrew books had already been expurgated—probably by the Jews themselves, upon the orders of Duke Francesco Sforza—in 1459, and later in 1480–81, when Ludovico Moro came to power.60 With regard to the Florentine case, the core question still remains: what was it that triggered this state-imposed censorship in Florence in 1472? Can we detect a chain of events leading to the establishment of this apparatus for the expurgation of Hebrew manuscripts? Can we trace any indications of such an apparatus, be it even vague echoes, in written documents or testimonies? Unfortunately, as we said, the records of the Eight for the years 1472–74 are unavailable, and no document has come to light that is explicitly connected to the circumstances under which the decision to appoint a censor was taken. Yet some leads may throw light on the problematic circumstances of the Jews in Florence during those years. As to the circumstances of the Jews in Florence during the 1460s and the 1470s, two pivots around which their condition revolved reflect the innate ambivalence of their situation. On the one hand, their necessary existence in the midst of Christian society, where, in their understandable endeavor to

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cohabit safely and peacefully, they undergo a natural process of acculturation; on the other hand, being forever conscious of their own distinctiveness vis-a`-vis their surrounding environment and experiencing the reservations, animosity, and even rejection of the Christian majority. This animosity was directed at them both as moneylenders and, first and foremost, as enemies of the Christian faith.61 These sediments of hostile feelings were every now and then stirred up by the anti-Jewish sermons of friars in the mendicant orders, which had traditionally been the catalysts for popular feelings of enmity toward the Jews; they often provoked the imposition of restrictive measures upon the Jewish population that at times led to the persecution of their books and eventually to their expulsion. One of them, Bernardino of Siena, preached during the first half of the century against the lenient attitude in Florence toward socially outcast groups, Jews included, who must be kept at a distance.62 Such distancing was expressed in various degrees of labeling and branding ‘‘outcasts’’ of many kinds, among them the imposition of the yellow badge upon Jews in various parts of Italy, including Florence.63 During the late 1450s another friar, a member of the Visconti family, had incited the Florentine populace against the Jews, with grave repercussions.64 Against this background several occurrences shed light on the dynamics of the rapport that existed between the authorities and the Jews in Florence. To begin with, the special decree issued in August 1463 enforced some harsh measures upon the Jews, but at the same time stated that they were entitled to hold, read, study, and copy their own books at will, as long as these books were not of the kind for which the Jews of Cortona had been prosecuted and convicted and their contents were not adverse to the Christian faith.65 This statute indeed called for some degree of control (possibly even censorship) of Hebrew books.66 A few months later, on 26 April 1464, and for the first time in Florence, another significant restriction was put into effect: the converted Jew Giovanfrancesco Manetti was appointed to supervise and control the account books of the Jewish moneylenders.67 Furthermore, various archival sources attest that the capitoli (the contracts between the state and Jewish moneylenders) were not renewed in 1469, when renewal was due.68 The chain of events that followed this nonrenewal was triggered mainly by an attempt by the authorities to worsen the condition of Jewish moneylenders and increase their taxes. The pawnshops stayed closed for nearly two years, and no loans were given out. Only in September 1471 (less than a year before Marchion’s dated censor mark)

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were the capitoli renewed upon mutual consent.69 For at least two more years a strong current condemning and denouncing Jewish moneylending prevailed in Florence, and attempts were made by both Franciscans and Dominicans to institute a charitable loan society (monte di pieta`) and abolish Jewish moneylending activities.70 Although these endeavors failed at that stage, they resulted in further restrictive measures being taken against the Jews and eventually in the 1477 expulsion of those who were not authorized ‘‘bankers’’ or part of their households.71 It was right in the midst of those relatively turbulent years that Marchion inscribed his censor marks in at least seventeen Hebrew manuscripts in Florence.72 We know, moreover, of two documents referring to a certain event that had taken place in Florence during 1472 and may indeed have been connected directly to the enforcing of censorship on Hebrew books.73 They both attest that in 1471–7274 a Jewish convert defamed the Jewish Florentine population, putting them in danger of expulsion; the first document is a prayer (teh.ina) found in a Hebrew manuscript and composed by its scribe, Shemarya ben Avraham Yeh.iel, who resided at that time in the Florentine state:75 This supplication was composed upon the dismay of the Jewish community in Florence when an expulsion was imminent on account of a certain convert who made many deletions (halshanot) in the year 232 (⳱ 1471/72).76 Moreover, a letter addressed by Don Isaac Abravanel to Yeh.iel mi-Pisa dated to the spring of 1472 mentions this same traumatic event in fairly dramatic terms.77 The timing fits: both documents were written some time during the months preceding Marchion’s censor mark dated August 1472. The derogative Hebrew term malshin (informer) derives from the same root as halshana, the term used by Shemarya ben Avraham Yeh.iel, and was the term usually used to describe a converted Jew who denounced to the authorities the presence in Hebrew books of passages that were blasphemous or defiled Christianity. Expulsion of the Jews, the imminent danger that Shemarya feared, sometimes followed the persecution of their books.78 In all likelihood, an informer had reported to the Florentine authorities the presence of deprecatory and blasphemous passages in Hebrew manuscripts, which the 1463 decree had expressly banned; as a consequence, the Eight must have ordered an examination of the Hebrew manuscripts held

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in Florence and tasked their notary with their emendation in light of the convert’s report.79 As to the notary himself, he had indeed been an enigma in the early stages of this research. As it turned out, ser Marchion, son of Marchion, notarius, had in fact acted as notary in Florence in those years. In a letter to Lorenzo da Medici dated 26 August 1468,80 he explicitly thanked Lorenzo and friends, among them Antonio Paghanelli and Donato Acciaiuoli,81 for their efforts in ensuring for him the post of notary to the Eight to which he had just been appointed.82 His familiarity with Lorenzo’s entourage, attested by his greetings to Lorenzo’s brother Giuliano and to Lorenzo’s tutor, Gentile,83 points to a fairly close relationship with the Medicis. Indeed, as various sources testify, he had been of noble descent: his full name, Marchion ser Marchionis Ubertini Donati, as cited by the historian Demetrio Marzi, bears witness to this.84 Moreover, his signature at the bottom of the letter he dispatched to Lorenzo, reading: Marchion ser Marchionis, indicates that before him, his father too had been a notary.85 This same Marchion, born on 16 June 1418,86 emerges in the Florentine Catasto of 1469 as Marchion di Marchionne di Bertino Donati, residing in the neighborhood of Vaio in Florence. At that time he was 50, supported his wife and their three children, and owned a country house and several estates.87 As we find no entry bearing his name in the 1480 Catasto, it would be reasonable to assume he had died by then.88 From 1 September 146889 until the end of his career as notary of the Eight his handwriting fills the pages of their registers, recording their deliberations and decisions. On 3 September 1468, exactly eight days after his appointment, the Eight vested him with the power to grant Jews the permit to reside in Florence for more than five days, provided they pay the relevant tax.90 We next find his name in the margins of the expurgated Hebrew manuscripts, and a specific mention of him as notary of the Eight in the two apologetic inscriptions dated Elul 1472 contained in MSS Florence and Vienna.91 We know of no Marchion in the Hebraists’ circle and have no evidence of his having had any Hebrew training. We must therefore assume, as proposed above, that he carried out his role in the procedure of expurgating Hebrew manuscripts assisted by a Jew or by a convert acquainted with the language and the texts.92 If we assume that the Florentine case was similar to the event that had occurred in Lombardy and culminated in the 1488

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Milan trials, Marchion’s signatures in the Hebrew codices—like Bernardino’s in Milan—would have acted as signposts; they would have indicated the passages that, according to the accusations brought forth by the convert-informer, contained blasphemies against the Christian faith for which the Jews would have had to answer by facing the charges presented against them.93 Yet one would be just as well justified in opting for a different version, envisioning Marchion as the supervisor appointed by the authorities to see to the expurgation of certain Hebrew codices in view of the accusations put forth by a convert-informer: the owners of the manuscripts or their representatives would be summoned to perform the emendations in the presence of Marchion, and possibly the convert; or, as was apparently customary a century later, the owners would perform the necessary emendations in their books and then present them for approval.94 That would account, of course, for the fact that the marginal annotations in Hebrew were inscribed by disparate hands. If that were the case, Marchion’s part was probably limited to the validation or confirmation of the expurgation, as becomes a notary and as was explicitly stated in the margin notes.95 As for the seventeen manuscripts marked by Marchion’s signature, they were identified following a minute examination of the manuscripts suspected to have been connected in one way or another to Florence: first and most obvious, colophoned manuscripts either copied in Florence or commissioned by Jews residing or having resided in Florence (mainly members of the prominent families of Jewish bankers, such as the da Pisa with its da San Miniato branch, da Perugia, da Montalcino, da Camerino, da Terracina [or Prato], da Tivoli, da Fano, da Volterra, and others),96 or being next of kin to a Jew residing in Florence or in the Florentine state;97 second, manuscripts that had been purchased by Jews residing in Florence and the Florentine state or inherited by them98 (this kind of information is usually present in deeds of sale contained in the manuscript,99 in a plain ex libris found sometimes on the first or last folios or in various inscriptions— such as book lists—that hint to the owner);100 third, manuscripts bearing an extraneous sign or inscription connecting them to Florence;101 fourth, manuscripts copied by scribes who had had a Florentine connection;102 and finally, manuscripts kept nowadays in Florentine libraries. No doubt many more Marchion-marked manuscripts are still at large.103 The technique used by Marchion and his help, or possibly by the manuscript owners themselves, is remarkably neat: as a rule, the Hebrew

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manuscripts in question were of high quality, most of them prayer books inscribed on fine vellum. As if in consonance with their excellence, the erasures are on the whole elegant, being almost transparent. In many cases the technical process had been a careful discoloration of the ink, possibly by some chemical solvent, whereby the contours of the erased letters are easily deciphered while their main body is rendered transparent. Obviously great care was taken not to soil the page and or disturb its harmony. Nothing of this kind could be said of sixteenth-century censorship, which paid no heed to aesthetics and left blunt marks in the expurgated codices. Marchion would sign in the margins, before or after the targeted words had been deleted, at times adding a side parenthesis to enclose a longer passage. Some of the erased spots remain blank spaces to this day,104 whereas others have been covered either with graphic devices or with a new innocuous version inscribed on the blank space. It is hard to determine whether these filling operations were performed on the spot or in later years, either by another Jewish owner or in the course of another expurgation, for in many cases we do witness an additional layer of stricter expurgations on top of the ones executed in 1472: the Counter-Reformation censors (whose signatures appear on the last folios), apparently dissatisfied with Marchion’s ‘‘light’’ cleansing procedure, added in many spots their own smears of ink, in obvious disregard of Florentine aesthetic values.105 At times, instead of the relatively gentle deletions characteristic of Marchion, we encounter coarse scraping;106 this may have been the second stage, performed on top of the original insufficient or inefficient deletions of 1472. Figuring out the archaeology of the expurgation process is an intricate undertaking, and more probing is needed to determine the chronology of its various layers. The texts censored by Marchion are predominantly liturgical:107 fourteen out of the seventeen manuscripts are prayer books (mostly Roman rite mah.zorim),108 one is a manuscript of the Talmud (Berakhot), one of the Book of Precepts, and one a Rashi commentary on the Pentateuch.109 One hundred and fifty years earlier the inquisitor Bernard Gui had compiled a similar list in France: in addition to the Talmud, Jewish books containing blasphemies against Christianity included Rashi’s commentary on the Pentateuch (Salomon’s Glosa super textum Legis), Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah (Glosas Moysi de Egypto), and David Kimh.i’s commentary on Psalms (Glosa David hyspani), as well as prayer books.110 Moreover, as early as 1240, in the context of persecuting the Talmud and investigating its contents, the same commentary by Rashi had been reprobated.111

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Much later, in the minutes of the 1488 Milan trial, we find a similar variety,112 and some particular prayers, indicated by their opening words, are quoted and investigated there as well.113 Obviously, the titles are similar; yet compared to the list presented at the Milan trial, our Florentine inventory is meager.114 Marchion’s censorship was obviously assigned to deal with certain issues in Jewish literature that the Christian antagonist or interlocutor had found disturbing for many generations. The nature of these passages varies. In some the blasphemy is obvious, while in others it is less direct: according to the Christians, the sacrilege they contain is concealed in subtle wording with which only Jews are familiar. Yet the information gathered from Marchion’s interventions in the Florentine codices suggests that in essence little had changed in the condemnation of specific passages: the unvarying attitude that aimed at removing the polemic dimension from Jewish texts had existed in the two centuries preceding Marchion and persisted in the century that followed.115 The investigation of the Talmud and its burning in 1240–42 had been motivated by the very same spirit; and more titles appeared in Bernard Gui’s guide for inquisitors compiled in 1323–24. As expected, expressions and passages expunged by Marchion reappear on the bench of the accused in the Milan trials of 1488, and they are invariably present in the Counter-Reformation indexes, among them Domenico Hierosolymitano’s Sefer ha-zikuk. In the liturgical texts that constitute the bulk of our corpus, several prayers are invariably interfered with by the censor’s hand, and they all fit in the category of blasphemies against Christianity and Christians. Birkat ha-minim, the benediction directed against heretics, present in Jewish liturgy as one of the Eighteen Benedictions recited daily, had always been grounds for disputation and repercussions.116 Although this blessing was aimed against sectarians of all kinds, including the Jewish Christians,117 the evidence provided by several Church fathers—since the first century and up until Jerome—indicates that it had been a malediction directed specifically against Christians.118 It seems that originally its opening words had been ve-la-minim ve-la-meshumadim119 (may the heretics and the apostates); only later do we find the formula mentioning ‘‘heretics’’ and ‘‘informers’’ (ve-la-minim ve-la-malshinim),120 in which the two juxtaposed attributes surely referred to Christians.121 As time went by, and as a result of expurgations, the original opening ve-la-minim had disappeared;122 nonetheless, proof of its former presence exists in a number of prayer books expurgated

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by Marchion, where the first word shows through despite the censor’s intervention.123 In addition, Marchion’s expurgation regularly removes from this benediction the terms ‘‘wicked government’’ or ‘‘the rule of evil’’124 and ‘‘enemies of your people.’’125 In the Florence Talmud and in the Mah.zor ‘‘gadol’’ the word minim had been deleted in several spots by Marchion’s censorship and replaced, either on the spot or later, with malshinim.126 The morning benediction ‘‘Blessed be thou that hast not made me a goy [a gentile]’’127 is another that had been the eye of controversy for centuries.128 The word goy had invariably been removed, and Jewish scribes were quick to devise various formulae to replace it. In the few manuscripts that underwent Marchion’s intervention, we find variations such as ‘‘that hast not made me unspeaking [bilti medabber]’’129 or ‘‘that hast made me Yisrael.’’130 A few years later Avraham Farissol would devise a preventive version that, by adding the words oved avodah zarah (worshiper of idols), excluded the Christians from this expression.131 A different tactic is witnessed in a manuscript dated 1399, where the scribe substituted the term goy with kuti, transferring it far back to antiquity, thus neutralizing its relevance to Christians.132 Another prayer, ‘Aleynu leshabeah. (It is incumbent upon us to praise the Lord), had forever attracted Christian apprehension and antagonism.133 No doubt its blasphemous contents (‘‘for they prostrate themselves before the vain and the inane and pray to a god that cannot save’’134) were indeed directed against Christianity and as such had been subject to attacks and censorship.135 Indeed, Marchion’s censorship invariably deals with the term le-hevel va-rik (before the vain and the inane); in some cases we find the word elilim (idols) inscribed by later hands in the blank space of the deletion. Normally the phrase el el lo yoshi’a (to a god that cannot save) would be erased as well. A preventive procedure is present in a number of manuscripts that read she-hayu mitpallelim (who used to pray), using the past tense instead of the present and thus transferring the context to antiquity and distancing it from Christianity.136 In most cases the original blasphemous text would be erased, notwithstanding the change of tenses, and consequently Marchion’s revised manuscripts would read: ‘‘who used to pray to idols.’’137 A frequent censorship intervention concerns the term memshelet zadon (the evil government/the rule of evil) in the prayers for the High Holidays and Yom Kippur.138 As a rule, the offensive term—originally intended against Roman rule but later understood to be directed against the pope—is totally or partially erased; at times, an inventive version would cover the

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deleted word—for instance, ‘‘evil people,’’139 ‘‘their rule,’’140 or ‘‘the rule of foreigners’’141—devoid of objectionable meaning. A different device, observed in a number of Italian manuscripts but probably inserted by a later hand, restricts the scene to ‘‘our land’’ only, distancing it from the Christian nations.142 The word ‘‘evil’’ would either be deleted143 or left untouched. Among the selih.ot recited on the Day of Atonement and included in the Ashkenazi prayer book, the one starting with the words Ezon tah.an (Hearken to my prayer) has been considered one of the most injurious and sacrilegious: the worst imprecation hints at the dubious origins of Jesus and questions the chastity of his mother.144 Similarly, a curse is directed against Jesus’ followers and Christendom as a whole in the words ‘‘Let your wrath obliterate those who bow to the hanged one.’’145 This extreme passage is cited in the Milan trials as well as in Domenico’s Index.146 It may well be possible that this had been the unidentified cematha to which the inquisitor Bernard Gui alluded in the early thirteenth century as the malediction recited by the Jews on the Day of Atonement.147 In the manuscripts revised by Marchion we have two occurrences of this text: in one, the entire text was erased, while in the second only the injurious terms were deleted.148 Six prayer books revised by Marchion contain the lamentation recited on 9 Av commencing with the words Edom amra.149 This lengthy piyyut was regularly expurgated and the epithets of Edom considered to be offensive were erased.150 The name Edom had been synonymous with Rome through many centuries, and the biblical hatred toward Edom reflected the attitude of Jews in the Middle Ages toward Rome.151 The identification of the two had been asserted by commentators such as David Kimh.i and Nah.manides;152 therefore it would seem that the Edom verses had in fact been an invective directed against the Christian oppressor, and as such merited expurgation. The full unrevised version of this Kalliric lamentation is extant in MS Parma, Bibl. Palatina Parm. 2578,153 allowing a glimpse into the appellations considered abusive by Christian censors, and into those attributed to Zion as against its enemy. Marchion’s revision of the passage is indicated by a side parenthesis that marks the full length of the lamentation. In many cases later hands covered the blank spaces with emended versions. The Ne’ilah prayer Tekhale mimmennu, recited on the Day of Atonement, is extant in nine of the prayer books that underwent expurgation in Florence. The same procedure applied in this case as well: the long parenthesis with Marchion’s signature and the deletions, often covered by later

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scribal emendations.154 In most of the Florentine expurgated manuscripts identical ‘‘corrections’’ are present.155 An additional emendation worthwhile mentioning, though it appears in only one of the Marchion-revised mah.zorim, is the replacement—for obvious reasons—of shillush (trinity) with sheniyut or shiniyut (duality).156 It occurs twice in the same meditational prayer by Moses ben Judah Benjamin ha-Sefardi contained in that manuscript.157 More isolated interventions are present in the seventeen Florentine manuscripts, although none are of the scope of the ones described above. These are all detailed in the appendix at the end of the chapter. Whether this phenomenon of intervening with Hebrew texts, along with the measures taken against Jews in the last decades of fifteenth-century Italy, reflects a new trend in the attitude toward Jews158 is an issue that merits consideration and investigation. Marchion’s expurgations indeed seem to be in the mainstream of the Christian-Jewish polemic dialogue, stretching from the first decades of the thirteenth century and even before, and following a constant course for several centuries. Yet the appearance of censorship marks in Hebrew manuscripts in 1472 in the Florentine cultural and socioeconomic context may well be significant, even though the matters with which this imposed control was set to deal had not changed. And though the physical intervention in Hebrew codices had most probably not been an isolated phenomenon, Marchion’s signatures in seventeen Florentine codices are outstanding and meaningful in their uniqueness: they are the only extant material witnesses to the expurgation of Hebrew texts by Christian authorities prior to the Catholic reform. Therein lies their essential significance in the history of the relationship between Christians and Jews in Western Europe throughout the Middle Ages and up to the early modern era. Moreover, it is through them that the role of Hebrew books as a manifestation of this complex and charged interaction is made evident.

APPENDIX

{ ⬍ *

}: deletion ⬎: assumed original text before expurgation *: rewritten version over the deleted words, replacing original one

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No. 1: MS Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale Magl. II-1-7 (Micr. 18623, SfarData E16); Talmud (Tractate Berakhot) 1177, ⬍Ashkenaz⬎. Florentine connection: The codex had belonged to the Jewish San Miniato family, residents of Florence since 1437. Marchion: 6 signatures. Interventions: p. 41, col. a: one signature accompanied by a long parenthesis for two erasures; p. 41, col. b; p. 109: minim substituted by malshinin: a later hand added the correction over the erased words; pp. 121, 122, and 123: three signatures (with no erasures) adjacent to mentions of umot ha-’olam; Hebrew apologetic annotations in the margins, explicating and restricting this term. In one case (p. 123) the Hebrew scribe noted that ‘‘the revision was executed by order of the Eight of Florence on Elul [5]232 (⳱ 1472) and ser Marchion, their scribe, will hereupon sign his name.’’ Marchion’s signature is appended under the apologetic note. Bibliography: Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 224 and 224n4; 93–94: ownership of a Christian scholar probably saved it from the flames (based on margin and interlinear remarks in Latin); Beit-Arie´ et al., Codices hebraicis, 4: MS no. 79.

No. 2: MS Vienna, Nationalbibl. Cod. Hebr. 188 (Micr. 1452, SfarData YZ 81); Book of Precepts (Semag) ⬍1381–1437, Sicily⬎. Scribe: ⬍Sa’adia⬎. Florentine connection: 1. list of 15 books (fol. 1) ‘‘our books that came from Prato,’’ probably owned by Shelomo ben Yosef Kohen (mi-Prato/ Terracina), banker in Florence; 2. a note (in Hebrew characters): ‘‘Achille di Bartolom. rigattiere di Fiorenza’’ (fol. 342v). Marchion: 1 signature. Interventions: fol. 48r: Hebrew apologetic annotation in the margins, adjacent to umot ha-’olam, explicating and restricting this term. Marchion’s

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signature appended above the note. The phrasing of the note is identical to that found in no. 1 (above), p. 123.

No. 3: MS Hamburg, Cod. Hebr. 103 (micr. 937, SfarData G172); Rashi Commentary on the Pentateuch 1474 ⬍Tuscany⬎, completed by Ya’akov ben Nehemia Segre for Yiz.h.ak mi-Castello (colophon, 215v). Scribe: ⬍Moses] (fols. 1–88). Florentine connection: Yiz.h.ak of Castello, the patron, had been a banker in Florence in 1464. Marchion: 2 signatures, scraped (fols. 63v, 79r). Interventions: Deletion of words, blank spaces left. fol. 63v, line 10: haya rabbi {⬍Yishma’el omer kasher she-ba-goyim harog⬎}(completed from MS Parma, Bibl. Palatina, Parm. 2544); fol. 79r, lines 2–4: tashlikhun oto { } la-kelev o eyno ela’ kelev kemashma’o . . . she-ha-kelev mekhubbad { } ve-ha-terefa lakelev.

No. 4: MS London, formerly Montefiore Collection 217 (Micr. 5187); Mah.zor ‘‘Gadol’’ ca. 1300. Florentine connection: Substitution of goy with bilti medabber in the morning benediction, possibly indicating ownership by Yeh.iel mi-Pisa (see note 131 below). Marchion: 14 signatures, some of them cropped by the binder; in several folios only his characteristic parentheses remain, his signature apparently erased or cropped. Interventions: fol. 2v: morning benedictions: she-lo ‘asitani {⬍goy⬎} replaced with she-lo ‘asitani {*bilti medabber*}; fol. 16r, lines 13, 14, 45 (in the commentary): minim substituted by malshinim or malshinin (see no. 1); fols. 52r, 268v: signature and parenthesis along several lines of the piyyut Tekhale mimmennu ti{*nuf ma’asim ra’im*}; ra’ei

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{*adam*}. The original version before correction had been: ra’ei goyim and tinnuf mayim teme’im (as in MS Parma, Bibl. Palatina, Parm. 2735); fol. 61r: erasures in the commentary on ‘Al ha-asurim ve-hayoshevim ba-mah.zor; fol. 73v: several erasures in the commentary for ‘Aleynu leshabeah.; fols. 203v, 224r, 252r, 256r, 262r, 264v: ve-kol {⬍ha-rishe’a⬎} kulla ke’ashan tikhle ki ta’avir {⬍memshelet zadon⬎} min ha’arez.; fol. 296v: apologetic note similar to those in nos. 1 and 2, where umot ha-’olam are mentioned, yet with no reference to Marchion or to the date and place. Farther down a second note saying: ‘‘as explicated above.’’ Under both inscriptions, Marchion’s signature. Later censors: Luigi da Bologna, Camillo Jaghel. Bibliography: Sotheby’s: Important Hebrew Manuscripts (see note 159 below), lot no. 175: according to Halberstam, in REJ 4 (1882), Luzzatto called this MS ‘‘Great Mah.zor’’; Wieder, ‘‘ ‘Al ha-berakhot ‘goy-’eved-isha’, ‘behema’ . . .’’ (see note 2 below); Hirschfeld, Descriptive Catalogue, 69 (see note 2 below).

No. 5: MS London, BL Add. 18691 (Marg. 619), (Micr. 5056); Mah.zor ca. 1450, ⬍Italy⬎ (dating is based on the codicological features of the MS, particularly ink-ruling) Florentine connection: Substitution of goy with bilti medabber in the morning benediction, possibly indicating ownership by Yeh.iel mi-Pisa (cf. no. 4 above). Marchion: 9 signatures, many cropped by binders. Interventions: fol. 4r: morning benedictions (see no. 4 above): she-lo ‘asitani goy replaced with she-lo ‘asitani bilti medabber; correction possibly in the same hand as in no. 4 above; fol. 30r: Birkat ha-minim: long parenthesis and marking by Marchion in the margin (signature cropped); opening word before expurgation had been ‘ve-laminim’ (see note 121 below):

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{⬍ve-la-minim⬎} ve-la-malshinim bal tehi tiqva {⬍ve-khol haminim⬎} *ve*-kullam ke-rega yo’vedu {⬍ve-khol oyvei ‘amekha mehera yikkaretu⬎} {⬍u-malkhut zadon mehera te ’aqqer uteshabber⬎} ve-takhni’a otam bi-mehera be-yameynu; fol. 37v: in ‘Aleynu leshabeah.: she-hayu mishetah.avim {⬍le-hevel varik⬎} u-mitepalelim {⬍el el lo yishi’a⬎} (note hayu in the past tense as substitution for hem in the present tense), with two Marchion signatures in the margins: one in the space adjacent to the corrections; the other, just above it (‘‘Mar’’), was apparently inscribed in the wrong location and therefore left unfinished; fol. 194r: ve-’avlata tikpoz. piha ve-khol {⬍ha-rishe ’a⬎} kulla ke’ashan tikhle ki ta’avir {⬍memshelet zadon min ha ’arez.⬎}; fol. 212r: as on fol. 194r. The erasure of ⬍ ha-rishe ’a⬎ was performed by scraping, followed by Farissol’s graphic filler (see note 59 below); on top of the erased ⬍min ha ’arez.⬎ a Hebrew hand, probably Farissol’s, inscribed *me-arz.enu* (cf. no. 7 below); fols. 217v–218r: as on fol. 212r; fol. 265v: two Marchion signatures for the piyyut ‘‘Tekhale’’: as in no. 4, fol. 52r. Bibliography: Wieder, ‘‘ ‘Al ha-berakhot ‘goy-’eved-isha’, ‘behema’ . . .’’ (cf. no. 4 above).

No. 6: MS London, BL Add. 19944–5 (Marg. 626–27) (micr. 5013–14, SfarData C430); Mah.zor 1441, Florence (colophon, II, fol. 169v). Scribe: Yiz.h.ak ben Ovadia ben David mi-Forlı`. Florentine connection: 1. Copied in Florence; 2. Later owner: Yeh.iel mi-Pisa (bill of sale, 1461). Marchion: 10 signatures. Interventions: vol. 1, fols. 19r, 25v: {⬍ve-la-minim⬎} ve-la-malshinim bal tehi tikva {⬍ve-khol ha-minim⬎} *ve*-kullam ke-rega yo’vedu ve-khol oyvei*kha* {⬍ ‘amekha mehera]} yikkaretu {⬍u-malkhut zadon mehera te ’akker⬎} u-teshabber ve-takhni’a otam bi-mehera (some of the erased words covered by serpentine marks, cf. no. 9 below);

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fol. 19v: morning benedictions: she-lo ‘asitani goy replaced with shelo ‘asitani bilti medabber (correction possibly by the same hand as in nos. 4 and 5 above); fol. 21v: be-vatei teatraot {⬍shel goyim⬎}(Domenico Irosolimitano instructs same deletion in a Roman rite mah.zor, see Prebor, Sepher Ha-Ziqquq, 308, item 22). fol. 27v: in ‘Aleynu leshabeah.: she-{⬍hem⬎} mishetah.avim {⬍lehevel va-rik⬎} substituted by she-hayu mishetah.avim la-elilim; fols. 190v–191r: Lamentation for 9 Av (‘‘Edom amra’’): a number of erasures and corrections; long parentheses for the whole piyyut. vol. 2, fol. 10v: ‘Al ha-malshinim {⬍ha-minim⬎} ve-ha-masorot; fol. 12r: ‘Al ha-me’orerim ke-neged ha-talmud ve-hem {*hayehudim*} ha-z.edokim; fol. 13v: ‘Al ha-otot {*ha-raot ha-nigzarin le-’et z.ara*}; fol. 74v: in ‘Aleynu leshabeah.: she-hem mishetah.avim le-hevel va-rik substituted by she-hayu mishetah.avim la-elilim; fol. 103v: Yom Kippur selih.ot: the piyyut ‘‘Tekhale mimmennu’’: ra’ei {*adam*}; ti{*nnuf ma’asim ra’im*} (as in no. 4, fol. 52r). Many interventions unsigned by Marchion, apparently by later censors or by Jewish owners. Later censors: Fra Luigi da Bologna, Camillo Jaghel, Renato da Modena. Bibliography: Wieder, ‘‘ ‘Al ha-berakhot ‘goy-’eved-isha’, ‘behema’ . . .’’ (see no. 4 above).

No. 7: MS Vatican, BAV, Vat. ebr. 594 (Micr. 8668, SfarData ZE302); Mah.zor ⬍ca. 1450, Central or northern Italy⬎. Florentine connection: Da Pisa family emblem (white dove holding olive branch in its beak). Marchion: 2 signatures; on fol. 42v, under Marchion’s signature, Avraham Farissol’s initials: alef-fe-yod, in juxtaposition to corrections that seem to be in his own hand (see note 59 below). Interventions: fol. 2r: morning benedictions: she-lo ‘asitani kuti (apparently a ‘‘preventive’’ version);

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fol. 42v: birkat ha-minim: similar to interventions in no. 6, vol. 1, fols. 19r and 25v; here ⬍vekhol ha-minim⬎ is substituted by *vekhol ha-zedim*; fol. 56v: in ‘Aleynu leshabeah.: Marchion’s signature but no erasures; yet present tense (she-hem) was substituted by past tense (shehayu). In both cases the correction is made obvious by the different shade of the punctuation (Note: On fol. 258v: no deletion in the lines ve-’avlata tikpoz. piha ve-khol ha-rishe’a kulla ke’ashan tikhle ki ta’avir memshelet zadon me-arz.enu ; it appears that the original min ha-’aretz. [cf. no. 5, fol. 194r] had, at some stage, been substituted by me-art.enu, probably by Farissol, who added next to the correction his own characteristic graphic filler [dissimilar to that used by the scribe]).

No. 8: MS Parma, Bibl. Palatina Parm. 3008 (no. 890 in Richler and BeitArie´) (Micr. 13732, SfarData E489); Mah.zor 1400, Italy (colophon fol. 509v). Florentine connection: In 1421, the MS was presented to Yiz.h.ak ben Menah.em, undoubtedly the same Yiz.h.ak ben Menah.em mi-Rimini, later mi-Pisa, affluent banker and father of Yeh.iel mi-Pisa, resident of Florence (see entry on fol. 509v). Marchion: 7 signatures. Interventions: fol. 11r: Birkat ha-minim: opening word before expurgation had been ‘ve-laminim’: {⬍ve-la-minim⬎} ve-la-malshinim bal tehi tikva {⬍ve-khol ha-minim]} *ve-ha-zedim* kullam ke-rega yo’vedu vekhol oyvei*kha* {⬍ ‘amekha mehera yikkaretu⬎}(cf. no. 6, fol. 19r); fols. 216r–217r: Lamentation for 9 Av (‘‘Edom amra’’): a number of erasures and corrections; long parentheses for the whole piyyut (as in no. 6); fol. 258r: in ‘Aleynu leshabeah.: she-hem mishetah.avim le-hevel va-rik substituted by she-hayu mishetah.avim la-elilim; fol. 294r: piyyut ‘‘Tekhale mimmennu’’: as in no. 4, fol. 52r;

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fol. 387r: ‘Al ha-malshinim {⬍ha-minim⬎} ve-ha-masorot (see no. 6); fol. 389r: {*’Al ha-yehudim*} ha-me’orerim neged ha-talmud ve-hem {*ha-z.edokim*} (cf. no. 6); according to Alon, The Jews in their Land, 288n2, in what concerns Birkat ha-minim, late Talmud editions are likely to read ‘‘Sadducees’’ ($zedokim) instead of minim; indeed we are witnessing here too the same substitution. Note that in another mah.zor, MS Parma, Parm. 3515 (no. 1002 in Richler and Beit-Arie´), bearing no censor signatures, this line—after erasure and correction—reads: ‘Al ha-me’orerim keneged *tora she-be-’al-pe ke-gon ha-z.edokim ve-ha-baytosim*; the correction is in sixteenth-century semisquare characters. This part of the mah.zor was copied by Mordekhai ben Ovadia in midfifteenth-century Italy; fol. 391r: ‘Al ha-otot {⬍ve-simanim⬎} ha-nigzarin (see Hirschfeld, Descriptive Catalogue, 69).

No. 9: MS Parma, Bibl. Palatina Parm. 1919 (no. 978 in Richler and BeitArie´) (Micr. 13075, SfarData ZE118); Mah.zor ⬍1441–1468, Florence⬎. Scribe: ⬍Yiz.h.hak ben Ovadia ben David miForlı`⬎. Florentine connection: Through identification of the scribe, active in Florence in those years. Marchion: 3 signatures, accompanied by long parentheses; several signatures, as well as catchwords, deleted by some kind of staining. Interventions: fol. 3r: morning benedictions: she-lo ‘asani bur (apparently a ‘‘preventive’’ version); fol. 30v: Birkat ha-minim: opening word before expurgation had been ve-laminim: {⬍ve-la-minim]} ve-la-malshinim bal tehi tiqva {ve-khol ⬍ha-minim⬎} kullam ke-rega yo’vedu ve-khol {⬍ ⬎} oyvei*kha* {⬍ ‘amekha mehera⬎} yikkaretu {⬍u-malkhut zadon mehera te ’akker uteshabber ve-takhni ’a otam bi-mehera beyameinu⬎}; some erased text covered with serpentine marks (cf. no. 6);

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fols. 39v, 200r: in ‘Aleynu leshabeah.: she-hem mishetah.avim le-hevel va-rik substituted by she-hayu mishetah.avim la-elilim. Later censors: Jacobus Geraldini and Caesar Belliosus. Bibliography: N. Pasternak, ‘‘A Meeting Point of Hebrew and Latin Manuscript Production: A Fifteenth-Century Florentine Hebrew Scribe, Isaac ben Ovadia of Forlı`,’’ Scrittura e civilta` 25 (2001): 185–200.

No. 10: MS Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Conv. Soppr. 515 (Micr. 20363, SfarData E665); Mah.zor 1395, Forlı` (colophon fol. 427r). Scribe: Avraham ben Shelomo. Patron: Avraham ben Benyamin (⬍of Revere⬎). Florentine connection: Owner’s inscription by Mordekhai ben Yoav (fol. 1r), possibly the son of Yoav b. Mordekhai b. Avraham of S. Miniato who inherited the Florence Talmud (cf. no. 1 above). Marchion: 14 signatures. Interventions: fol. 203r: Lamentation for 9 Av (‘‘Edom amra’’): erasures of derogative designations of Edom; fol. 220r: in piyyut ‘‘Ezon tah.an’’ (in Rosh ha-Shanah selih.ot), derogative allusions to Jesus were erased; fol. 222r: piyyut ‘‘Tekhale mimmennu’’: as in no. 4, fol. 52r; fol. 226r: (selih.ot): Yehi raz.on mi-lefaneikha . . . she-yihye ha-kez. haze la-pesilim {⬍ - - - - - - -⬎}; fol. 245v: although Marchion signed in the margins, no deletion is apparent: ve-’avlata tikpoz. piha ve-khol ha-rishe’a kulla ke’ashan tikhle ki ta’avir memshelet zadon min ha-arez.; fol. 263v: as in fol. 245v, with ha-rishe’a and zadon erased; fol. 274r: as in fol. 245v ,with zadon erased; fol. 288r: as above; fols. 322r, 338v, 343r, 352r: as on fol. 263v.

No. 11: MS Parma, Bibl. Palatina Parm. 2069 (no. 928 in Richler and BeitArie´) (Micr. 13146, SfarData E618); Mah.zor

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1453 ⬍Tuscany?⬎ (colophon, fol. 333v). Scribe: Yeh.iel ben Avraham. Patron: Yeh.iel(?) ben Yiz.h.ak mi-Pisa (?) (erased). Florentine connection: Commissioned, most probably, by Yeh.iel miPisa. Marchion: 2 signatures. Interventions: fol. 26r: Birkat ha-minim: expurgation technically identical to that in no. 8, fol. 11r; fols. 33v, 240v, 241r: ‘Aleynu leshabeah.: as in no. 8, fol. 258r; fol. 78r: piyyut ‘‘Tekhale mimmennu’’: as in no. 4, fol. 52r. Later censors: Jacobus Geraldini, Caesar Belliosus, Fr. Hippolitus Ferrarensis.

No. 12: MS Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale Magl. III.41.7 (Micr. 11968, SfarData ZE367); Mah.zor ⬍1275–1350, Italy⬎ (bill of sale dated 1349–50). Scribe: Yeh.iel ben Shabbetai (fols. 1–82). Florentine connection: present location in Florence library. Marchion: 2 signatures. Interventions: fol. 33v (Yom Kippur, starting with piyyut ‘‘Ezon tah.an,’’ cf. no. 10): the whole piyyut, some 12 lines, erased; only the numbering pedalet is left in the margin; fols. 106v–107r: Lamentation for 9 Av (‘‘Edom amra’’): many erasures and corrections of derogative designations of Edom; long parentheses for the whole piyyut (cf. nos. 6, 8, and 10).

No. 13: MS Private Collection, formerly MS Jerusalem, Schocken Institute 13873; Mah.zor (no foliation) 1441, (⬍Florence?⬎) (colophon). Scribe: Moshe ben Avraham. Patron: Yosef ben Avraham mi-Tivoli.

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Florentine connection: Branch of the owner’s family resided in Florence (David ben Yoav mi-Tivoli). Marchion: 3 signatures. Interventions: 1. piyyut ‘‘Tekhale mimmennu’’: ti{⬍nuf ma ’asim ra ’im⬎} (see no. 4); 2. ‘Aleynu leshabeah.:.she-hem mishetah.avim {⬍le-hevel va-rik⬎} u-mitepallelim {⬍el el lo yoshi’a⬎}; 3. Lamentation for 9 Av (‘‘Edom amra’’): many erasures and corrections of derogative designations of Edom (see nos. 6, 8, 10, 12).

No. 14: MS New York, JTS MS 4518 (Micr. 25420 , SfarData D75); Mah.zor 1424, ⬍Mantua⬎. Scribe: Meshullam ben Yeh.iel of Velletri. Florentine connection: Owner: Shelomo Kohen ben Yosef Kohen (fols. 314v, 316v), Jewish ‘‘banker’’ and resident of Florence. Marchion: 2 signatures, as well as many interventions by ‘‘soft deletion’’ with no Marchion signatures. Interventions: fol. 26v: ‘Aleynu leshabeah.: {⬍she-hem mishetah.avim le-hevel va-rik u-mitepallelim el el lo yoshi’a⬎}; contours of the original writing and vocalization marks apparent in spite of deletion; fol. 81r: piyyut ‘‘Tekhale mimmennu’’:{⬍tinnuf mayim]} teme’im (cf. no. 4).

No. 15: MS London, formerly Montefiore Collection 214–15(Micr. 5184–85, SfarData YZ79); Mah.zor (3 vols., these being the first two) ⬍1427–1446, Italy⬎ (according to the cycle tables of the Jewish calendar in vol. 3, Montefiore 216). Scribe: identified as Moshe ben Avraham (copyist of no. 14). Florentine connection: Sold in 1458 to Immanuel mi-Camerino, prominent ‘‘banker’’ and resident of Florence (‘‘presently living in Florence’’) (MS Montefiore 215, fol. 1).

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Marchion: 8 signatures in vol. 1 (MS Montefiore 214); 4 in vol. 2 (MS Montefiore 215). Interventions: vol. 1 (214), fol. 36v: va-yitnu kevodekha le-ah.er u-tehilatekha lapesilim {⬍la-elilim la-mazalot ve-la-kokhavim]}; fol. 40v: sava’nu ‘aleyhem merorot petanim { } .me-h.aron apekha shuv; fol. 43v: what had apparently read shillush is twice substituted with shiniyut (a similar substitution is mentioned in Domenico Irosolimitano’s Index, see note 158 below); fol. 78r: morning benedictions: she-’asitani Yisra’el {⬍ve-lo goy⬎}; fol. 95r: Birkat ha-minim: {⬍ve-la-minim]} ve-la-malshinim bal tehi tikva {⬍ve-khol ha-minim⬎} *ve*-kullam ke-rega’ yove’du ve-khol {⬍oyvei ‘amekha⬎}*oyveykha* {⬍ ⬎} mehera yikkaretu {⬍ ⬎} u-teshabber ve-takhni’a otam; fol. 97v: in ‘Aleynu leshabeah.: shehayu mishtah.avim {*la-elilim*} u-mitepallelim {⬍el el lo yoshi’a⬎}; fol. 219r: benedictions following reading of Esther scroll: Arurim arurim kol {*ha-’amalekim*}; fol. 253v: Yoz.er for Pesah., piyyut ‘‘Berah. dodi’’: {*ke-’ovdei elil*} bekha kofrim. vol. 2 (215), fol. 49r: In ‘Aleynu leshabeah.: le-hevel va-rik substituted by la-elilim; fols. 121r–121v: piyyut ‘‘Tekhale’’: as in no. 4; fol. 161v: seder avodah: several instances in which a deleted word, apparently goy, had been substituted with zar or ger. Bibliography: Hirschfeld, Descriptive Catalogue, 66–68; Sotheby’s: Important Hebrew Manuscripts (see no. 4 above), lot no. 173–74

No. 16: MS Vatican, BAV Ross. 437 (Micr. 709, SfarData E189); Mah.zor 1448, Lucca (colophon, fol. 410r). Scribe: Shelomo ben Avraham miCamerino. Patron: Yiz.h.ak ben Shabbetai. Florentine connection: The same scribe copied MS Florence, Bibl. Mediceo- Laurenziana Acq. e doni 107 (Pisa, 1445); possibly the person Cassuto (Gli ebrei, 260) mentions as business manager of Yeh.iel mi-Pisa.

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Marchion: 12 signatures; expurgation mainly by scraping. Interventions: fol.1v: morning benedictions: she-’asitani yisrael ve-lo {⬍goy⬎}; fol. 16v: ‘Aleynu leshabeah.: she-{⬍hem]}*hayu* mishetah.avim {⬍le-hevel va-rik⬎}, etc. (the substitution is marked by three dots placed above the word hayu); fol. 193r: Lamentation for 9 Av (‘‘Edom amra’’): many erasures and corrections of derogative designations of Edom; long parentheses for the whole piyyut (cf. nos. 6, 8, and 10); fol. 226v: Amida, Rosh ha-Shanah: memshelet zadon substituted by memshelet zar; fol. 231r: memshelet {⬍zadon⬎}; fol. 231v: ‘Aleynu leshabeah.: she-{*hayu*} mishtahavim {*la-elilim*}; fol. 239r: Amida, Yom Kippur: as on fol. 226v; fol. 247r: as on fol. 226v; fol. 259v: memshelet zadon substituted by memshelet zara; fols. 277r, 292r: (with no Marchion signature: possibly cropped or erased); fol. 305r: as on fol. 259v (Note: In all instances of memshelet zara the original correction had been memshelet zar, later hypercorrected to produce this grammatical error); fol. 309r: piyyut ‘‘Tekhale’’: tekhale mimmennu *teruf ha-da’at* substituting the original wording tinnuf mayim teme’im (not tinnuf ma’asim ra’im found elsewhere); the original wording ra’ei goyim is here substituted with ra’ei Yehudim (not ra’ei adam found elsewhere); fol. 346v: {⬍va-yitnu kevodekha le-ah.er u-tehilatekha la-pesilim laelilim la-mazalot ve-la-kokhavim⬎} (cf. no. 15, fol. 36v). Later censors: Jacobus Geraldini, Caesar Belliosus, Gio. Domenico da Lodi neofito

No. 17: MS Jerusalem, National Library of Israel, Heb. 4o 6338 (Micr. 39358, SfarData YZ67); Mah.zor ⬍1396–1436/7, Central Italy⬎. Scribe: identified as ⬍Meir ben Shemuel of Sauves (Salves)⬎.

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Florentine connection: Two MSS by Meir ben Shemuel were commissioned by Yeh.iel ben Matatia min ha-Knesset, founder of the da Pisa family; in 1430, according to a bill of sale in MS Parma, Bibl. Palatina Parm. 2084, the same scribe sold 24 MSS to the banker Yiz.h.ak ben Menah.em mi-Rimini, father of Yeh.iel mi-Pisa (possibly including this MS). Marchion: 3 signatures. Interventions: fol. 146r: ‘Al ha-malshinim { } ve-ha-masorot; the final mem in ha-malshinim had been enlarged disproportionately to cover the deletion of the original word, possibly ha-minim (cf. no. 6, vol. 2, fol. 10v); fol. 149r: ‘Al ha-otot { } ha-nigzarin { } (cf. no. 8, fol. 391r); fol. 155r: kevodekha le-ah.er u-tehilatekha la-pesilim {⬍la-elilim lamazalot ve-la-kokhavim⬎} (cf. no. 15, fol. 36r).

CHAPTER 3

Daniel van Bombergen, a Bookman of Two Worlds Bruce Nielsen

We would like to dispel part of the commonly held but unsubstantiated romantic notion, common at least in Jewish studies, that views Daniel van Bombergen as a benevolent, good-hearted Christian1 willing to squander his family’s inheritance in order to print ‘‘our’’ books.2 We know he was a Christian and suspect he was benevolent and good hearted as well, but rather than squander he enhanced his family’s inheritance. He is known in Jewish studies nearly exclusively as the person responsible for printing the first complete edition of the Babylonian Talmud, the first three editions of the Rabbinic Bible, and some of the finest exemplars of Hebrew printing that are to this day unmatched in their beauty and production quality. But as we will demonstrate, a great deal is known about Van Bombergen to art historians, genealogists, and historians of the sixteenth-century European economy that has escaped notice in Jewish studies. The phrase in the title of this chapter, ‘‘bookman of two worlds,’’ does not refer exclusively to the Jewish and Christian worlds but is also meant to describe how Daniel van Bombergen, in true sixteenth-century Flemish entrepreneurial fashion, was at all times in two worlds, with one foot in the financial world and the other in either the intellectual, family, book, or art world.3 In Jewish studies we see him primarily in the book world, or more precisely, the printing side of the book, but not until Baruchson has anyone in the Jewish book world taken a serious look at the business of selling

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books—which after all is what drove Van Bombergen.4 He was not operating a printing press to produce one unicum after another—he intended to sell his books in quantity. And sell he did. A couple of nearly contemporary statements suffice to support the point that sales of his books generated high levels of income. Joseph Juste Scaliger (1540–1609) commented that if someone wished to purchase one copy of each imprint, ‘‘so many rabbinic texts have been edited at the house of Bomberg, printer in Venice, they could not all be purchased for 800 gold coins.’’5 Perhaps even earlier, in a possible autograph manuscript copy of Gedaliah ibn Yah.ya’s (1515–78) Shalshelet ha-Kabbalah, the author expanded a statement that appears in the printed editions;6 ‘‘Daniel Bomberghi, who is a highly important and honorable Christian, and printed in Venice the Talmud, and the RIF, and Maimonides and SMG and the Biblia Rabbinica and he brought from darkness to light many important works of our holy Torah, for which God . . . has (already) given him marvellous wealth’’ (the words in italics are in the manuscript but lacking in the printed editions).7 That is, both Ibn Yah.ya and Scaliger were well aware of the financial success of Van Bombergen’s press. However, he did not simply print books in order to compete in the same markets as so many other printers in Venice. Here, Van Bombergen stood in two worlds, one entrepreneurial and the other Hebrew, a subject reminiscent of his days in the Castle at the University of Louvain.8 Even before the opening of the Collegium Trilingue in 1517 and the initiation of the formal instruction of Hebrew, we know that Hebrew was taught at the university by John Wessel of Gro¨ningen in Westphalia (died 1489);9 by Guglielmo Raimondo de Moncada, known as Flavius Wilhelmus Raimundus Mithridates;10 and likely others;11 and we know that the first president of the Collegium, and therefore presumably a student of Hebrew himself, matriculated in the Castle in the same year as Van Bombergen.12 Thus, perhaps twenty years before Felix Pratensis claims ‘‘Daniel Bomberg of Antwerp, a lover of literature and a constant student of the liberal arts, has under our guidance devoted himself strenuously to the Hebrew language,’’13 it is entirely possible if not likely that he had been minimally exposed to the language, and at most, he may have begun its study. For the moment, however, we want to focus on the university. A quick look at his generation and that of his children shows that Daniel and his brothers, along with his wife’s brother, Philippe de Clercq, professor at Padua; and his brothers-in-law, Charles and Hieronymus de Renialme; fostered a

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worldview that depended on university training. In the children’s generation, Daniel’s three sons, Karel, Daniel, and Franc¸ois; Antoine’s son, Corneille; sister Lysbeth’s sons, Fernando and Jacob de Bernuy; sister Franc¸oise’s sons, Paul, Daniel, and Gaspard de Renialme; sister Marie’s sons, Arnold and Corneille Pruenen; and the husbands of Daniel’s daughter Lucre`ce, Johan Junius de Jonghe, his niece Cornelie de Bernuy, Franc¸ois van der Dilft, and his niece Agnes de Renialme, Don Diego d’Ayala; all attended university and many of them at multiple institutions.14 As comfortable as he was in the book world, Bomberg was equally at home in the world of art, especially paintings and tapestries. When Karel van Mander (1548–1606) in the second half of the sixteenth century wrote about the Flemish painter Jan van Scorel (1495–1560), including his travels through Europe to Italy and his stop in Venice sometime around 1520, he states that Van Scorel ‘‘got to know some Antwerp painters, namely a certain Daniel Bomberg, a lover of the art of painting.’’15 Van Mander singles out Daniel from among all the Flemish and northern European painters in Venice, Van Bombergen and no one else! To be sure, this may tell us more about Van Mander than Van Scorel, but in either case, Daniel van Bombergen is identified in Venice not as a printer but as a patron of the arts. While in Venice Van Scorel met a group of pilgrims traveling to Jerusalem, and he too apparently wished to go but lacked the resources to do so. We know that Van Bombergen funded others’ trips to the East, hoping always to acquire more ancient manuscripts in Hebrew, Arabic, Syriac, and other languages, so why not Van Scorel? Jacob ben H.ayyim ibn Adoniyahu, the editor of at least sixteen of Van Bombergen’s imprints,16 praises his zeal for the acquisition of manuscripts at whatever the cost in his introduction to the second edition of the Rabbinic Bible: ‘‘he did all in his power to send into all the countries in order to search out what may be found of the Massorah; and praised be the Lord, we obtained as many of the Massoretic books as could possibly be got. He was not backward, and his hand was not closed, nor did he draw back his right hand from producing gold out of his purse, to defray the expenses of the books, and of the messengers who were engaged to make search for them in the most remote corners, and in every place where they might be found.’’17 And Joseph ha-Kohen ben Joshua (1496–1578) wrote in 1554, ‘‘Constantly there went in and out of his house many learned men and he never withdrew his hand from giving unto all in accordance with his demands and to the extent of the means which God had endowed him.’’18 And Cornelio Adel Kind [sic], in

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his colophon at the end of the Talmud Masekhet Soferim marking the conclusion of the printing of the first full edition (1523), wrote that ‘‘our lord Daniel Bomberg . . . prepared to print the remaining holy books which he has sent to bring from all the lands where they are scattered.’’19 Finally, Guillaume Postel repeatedly thanked him for making possible his second trip to Palestine in 1549, for example, ‘‘in order to bring back sacred books in the earlier forms of the characters . . . to this end Daniel Bomberg asked me to seek them and paid me the expenses.’’20 So why not Van Scorel? About the time Van Bombergen met Jan van Scorel he was already acquainted with another lover of art in Venice, Cardinal Domenico Grimani (1461–1523), who was very likely a conduit of significant income for Van Bombergen. Recently Bernard Aikema has argued ‘‘that it was through Daniel van Bombergen that Grimani obtained most of his magnificent collection of Flemish tapestries and paintings, including the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch. My suggestion here is that Van Bombergen bought the latter pictures from the painter’s estate after Bosch’s death in 1516 and sold them, soon afterwards, to Domenico Grimani.’’21 Aikema even describes how it may have been Daniel himself who altered the two side panels in Bosch’s triptych with the Martyrdom of St. Wilgefortis.22 Three other sets of mercantile interactions make the possibility of Van Bombergen’s involvement in these art sales even more plausible. First, following their father, Corneille,23 as one of the most important merchants of Flemish tapestries,24 Daniel and his brother Antoine, together with Guillaume Dermoyen, sold three pieces of tapestry depicting the Actes des Apoˆtres to Francis I, King of France, through their agent in Paris.25 In this sale we see that not only did the Van Bombergens have the resources to deal in luxury items like tapestries, but they also had access to royalty and other well-placed individuals who could afford to purchase tapestries. The second set of mercantile interactions is uncovered by noting a slightly different aspect of patrimony, one that looks not at wealth per se but rather at cultural habits. Among Daniel’s extended family, he must have been a force that fostered a cultural milieu inculcated with an appreciation of the fine arts. A descendant of his sister Franc¸oise and her husband, Charles de Renialme,26 Jean de Renialme (ca. 1600–1657) is described by Michael Montias as ‘‘probably the most distinguished art dealer in Holland in the 1650’s’’ and ‘‘seems to have replaced Hendrik Uylenburgh as Rembrandt’s dealer from the 1640’s on.’’27 Renialme’s success is one more testament to Daniel

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van Bombergen’s protection of and contribution to the family’s patrimony and is far from squandering it. The third set of mercantile interactions that adds plausibility to Aikema’s claim that Grimani obtained many, if not most, of the Flemish tapestries and paintings in his collection through Van Bombergen is the relationship that Daniel and his brother Antoine had as commission agents for Domenico Grimani’s nephew Marc Antonio Grimani. That is, the groundwork for what turned out to be a financially lucrative arrangement in the fourth decade of the sixteenth century was laid in the late teens and early 20s. Based on ten business letters dated 29 June 1532 to 29 April 1543 we know that Antoine and Daniel handled international commerce for Marc Antonio (di Francesco) Grimani (ca. 1494–1566).28 This commerce included buying and selling commodities, handling international shipping, and transmitting monies of exchange. For this, the Van Bombergens earned a 2 percent commission on the value of all commodities shipped, which appartently was quite a bargain since we know that the Van der Molens and others regularly charged 3 percent.29 While these letters cover slightly less than an eleven-year period, we have no reason to think these business arrangements did not extend beyond that period, both earlier and later.30 Nor is it unreasonable to imagine that Daniel and Antoine had similar business contracts with other individuals in Italy; especially since the patrician Vendramin family and Bernardino de Belotti are explicitly mentioned in these letters.31 Individually, Daniel’s brothers were each successful business agents for other well-known European merchants. During the same period as the Grimani letters above, Antoine van Bombergen was a business agent for Lukas Rem of Frankfurt, head of Endries Rem & Company.32 As early as 1525, Franc¸ois van Bombergen was a commission merchant dealing in precious stones for Joachim Pru¨ner of Berlin.33 The potential for additional Italian business contacts is all the more likely given two other familial ties with Italy. First, from two independent sources we learn that at the time of Daniel’s birth (ca. 1483), his father was residing in Venice. Lorne Campbell has described a photograph of a portrait of an eighteen-year-old Frederick van der Molen. The frame is inscribed with the statement that at the time of painting, Frederick was residing in Venice with his cousin and Daniel’s father, Cornelis van Bombergen.34 Campbell also cites a corroborating archival citation from a brief Van der Molen family history written in 1545 by Frederick’s son Pieter (and updated by his son Jacob in 1602), which states that Frederick went to Venice in

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1481 to live with Van Bombergen, ‘‘his mother’s second cousin.’’35 Second, Cornelius, while administrator of Antwerp’s Maria Chapel, Onze Lieve Vrouwkerk, beginning in 1492, funded the printing in 1496 of a new Breviary by Johan Hamman Hertzog in Venice.36 This is the same Hertzog who at times printed with Hermann Liechtenstein37 and for his nephew and successor, Peter Liechtenstein.38 Most importantly with regard to Daniel, it was from Peter Liechtenstein’s printing house that he issued his first imprint, in Latin, Psalterium ex Hebraeo diligentissime ad verbum fere tralatum (5 September 1515).39 Not only did Daniel continue his father’s tapestry trade, but he clearly cultivated a relationship with his father’s printing contacts in Venice. Both of these facts accentuate the potential business interests that Daniel may have developed in Italy. From these business contacts financial gain came swiftly, for as early as 1520 Daniel appears among only nine named merchants who subscribed to a ‘‘gift’’ worth 700 ducats from the Venetian Council of Ten to an emissary from Bosnia. Inclusion in this list signified that these merchants were ‘‘honored’’ for their successes.40 One further business venture with an Italian twist in which Daniel was involved must be noted, and while the details are not quite as forthcoming as we might like, this venture is quite informative of his position among the Jews in Italy. In the early sixteenth century, the Spanish Jewish bankers Semah and Meir Benveniste and Franc¸isco (d. 1536) and Diego (d. 1543) Mendes opened a branch of their House of Mendes Bank in Antwerp. By 1525 they controlled the pepper and spice trade, buying directly from the only bulk importer, the King of Portugal.41 In 1532 this very same Diego Mendes was sending property from Antwerp that had belonged to Marranos to Daniel, in Venice, who reconsigned it to former owners in Italy.42 Even if Van Bombergen received a commission on the value of all reconsigned property, the fact remains that Mendes had found a trusted partner. On the seriousness with which the authorities were concerned about handling this property, note that in the year 1541 a group of Flemish merchants from Antwerp, including Daniel and Antoine van Bombergen, sent a plea to Queen Maria of Hungary that their goods were not arriving at the fairs due to detention at the Brenner Pass and elsewhere while her agents searched for property belonging to Marranos.43 Regarding Daniel’s relationship to the Jewish markets, it seems as though he had a deeply felt desire to help some Jews and some former Jews. While firmly establishing his position in the book and art worlds, Daniel concomitantly kept one foot in the world of commerce and finance. Daniel

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and Antoine not only were commission agents but were also heavily involved in direct import/export trade between Venice and Antwerp. A register of merchants subject to the 1 percent ad valorem tax collected on all merchandise exported from the Netherlands to Italy during the period 10 February 1543 to 22 September 1545 lists the 300 largest exporters to Italy.44 The two brothers, Antoine and Daniel, were the thirtieth largest overall and seventh largest Flemish exporters, primarily of fabrics, tapestries, and spices.45 In and of itself, that is impressive, but when we think of family ties that undoubtedly were formed for commercial strength, we must look at other names on this list: Jean and Corneille de Renialme, two sons of Franc¸oise van Bombergen and Charles de Renialme;46 Lancelot III de Robiano, sonin-law of Franc¸oise van Bombergen (Daniel and Antoine’s sister),47 with family agents in Antwerp, Ko¨ln, Venice, and Rome;48 Fernando de Bernuy, husband of Isabeau van Bombergen (Daniel and Antoine’s sister),49 though in a minor role, nonetheless was among the 300; and Geronimo Rovelasca, father-in-law of Antoine’s daughter Franc¸oise, had agents in Milan, Naples, Antwerp, and Lisbon.50 Finally, we must include the shipments by Jacques and Jan de Cordes,51 since Jacques de Cordes married Isabeau, daughter of Daniel’s sister Isabeau and Ferdinand de Bernuy;52 and his nephew Jan married Isabeau, daughter of Daniel’s sister Marie and Aert Pruenen,53 and all the more so since one of Jacques’ daughters, Anna, married Daniel’s son Charles; another of Jacques’ daughters, Marguerite, married Charles de Renialme, son of Daniel’s sister Franc¸oise; one of Jan’s daughters, Marie, married Lancelot de Renialme, grandson of Daniel’s sister Franc¸oise; and another of Jan’s daughters, Josyne, married Edouard van der Dilft, grandson of Daniel’s sister Lysbeth.54 Thus, the three brothers-in-law (Daniel, Antoine, and Ferdinand de Bernuy) and five sons, nephews, or husbands of nieces (Jean and Corneille de Renialme, Jan and Jacques de Cordes, and De Robiano) delivered or had an interest in delivering the second largest overall amount, and comprised the largest Flemish group. With all these strategic alliances with the De Renialme, De Cordes, De Robiano, De Bernuy, Rovelasca, and Snellinck families,55 the Van Bombergen family was clearly profiting from international trade and commerce on a grand scale. We must say a word about one family tie among those in Brulez’s list. Though it eludes expression in several sixteenth-century letters and has thus far not been uncovered by scholars who have studied those letters, it speaks directly to Daniel’s attention to patrimony and success, both attaining and protecting them. In letters that cover nearly twenty years, Andreas

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Masius, Guillaume Postel, Moses Marden, and Friedrich II Pfalzgraf repeatedly refer to Jean Renialme (Rignalmo, Remalmus, Remalinus, Rencalino, Romalinus, Reneaulme) as Daniel Bomberg’s curatore-negotiator ‘‘agent’’ in Venice with whom they have had contact. But no one makes the connection that this is Daniel’s nephew. Even Brulez, while referring to Rencalino and Romalinus as Bomberg’s agent in Venice, did not make the connection to the Jean and Corneille de Reneaulme on his list of exporters.56 While we would like to know why Daniel’s sons did not appear to be associated with the printing house or reside in Venice, it is a significant discovery that he brought into the enterprise at least one of Antoine’s sons. In today’s world we might even refer to this as succession planning. Many of the names in the list of exporters figure prominently in two other lists that further demonstrate the grand scale of the family’s success. First, they resided in and owned as investments for various lengths of time large town houses on or very near Grote Markt in the heart of the commercial and financial district of Antwerp.57 For example, Daniel’s grandfather and father owned ‘‘De Keersse’’ at 1 Gildekamersstraat (now the back side of the Stadhuis); ‘‘De Oude Bourse,’’ which consisted of three properties (‘‘De Wolsack,’’ ‘‘Den Schilt van Varnckkryck,’’ and ‘‘De Grenaetappel,’’ all at 27 Oude Bourse, with back walls in common with houses on Grote Markt); and ‘‘Duysborch’’ on Zirkstraat at the corner of Hofstraat (which runs into Grote Markt) two blocks north of Grote Markt as well as the adjoining ‘‘d’Ossenhooft’’; Cornelis (Daniel’s father) owned ‘‘St. Christoffel of de Eland’’ at 4 Oude Koornmarkt; Gilles Vrancx (Cornelis van Bombergen’s father-in-law) owned a house on the corner of Wolstraat and Koepoortstraat one block east of Grote Markt, and it passed to Daniel’s father, and for a time Daniel’s father-in-law owned ‘‘Blijdenborch,’’ 29 Grote Markt.58 Aert Pruenen, husband of Daniel’s sister Marie, owned five houses very near Grote Markt: following his death, in the division of property on 16 April 1549, Isabeau Pruenen, daughter of Daniel’s sister Marie and wife of the aforementioned Jan de Cordes, received three properties on Korte Nieuwstraat immediately around the corner from the east end of Grote Markt: ‘‘De Groeten Moelensteen,’’ ‘‘Den Roosenboom,’’ and ‘‘De Soeten Naem Jesus’’; Isabeau’s brother, Arnold, in the same division of property, received ‘‘De Cleyne Moelensteen.’’59 Corneille de Renialme owned ‘‘Den Gulden Cruys’’ on Eiermarkt (on the south side of the Onze Lieve Vrouwkerk), where only the church stood between it and Grote Markt.60 Ferdinand de Bernuy owned six contiguous houses, ‘‘Bont Calf,’’ ‘‘Bonte Coe,’’

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‘‘Lintworm,’’ ‘‘Walvisch,’’ ‘‘Halle van Nieuwkercken,’’ and ‘‘Eenhoren,’’ one block off Grote Markt on Hoogstraat, which runs into the south side of Grote Markt.61 Secondly, except for the De Renialmes they all were among the contributors to the 250,000-florin ‘‘subscribed loan’’ from the city of Antwerp to Charles V in 1552. There were 552 contributors to this loan, of which the top 10 percent (those giving 900 florins or more)—which included Daniel and Antoine (1,000 florins); Jan and Jacques de Cordes (1,000 florins each); Bernuy (3,000 florins); and Jan Haesdonck (1,000 florins), husband of Catharina Pruenen,62 daughter of Daniel’s sister Marie and Aert Pruenen—were responsible for 154,900 florins, or 61.96 percent of the total.63 Thus, by multiple measures, whether the value of trade, real estate, or taxes paid, Daniel’s and his siblings’ families were extraordinarily successful entrepreneurs. Notice in the preceding that with one foot in the world of international trade, Daniel squarely placed his other foot in the world of family. That is, multiple-sibling marriages in Daniel’s generation and the generation of his children were arranged with strategic care. In addition to multiple-sibling marriages, from the generation of his grandparents to the members of his immediate household and those of his siblings to the generation of his grandnieces and grandnephews, we have looked carefully at their claims to heraldic privilege. One important measure of an entrepreneurial family’s status in Renaissance and early modern Europe was the extent to which its members obtained titles and positions, which, in turn, was dependent on the ability to present a genealogy displaying noble quarterings (in French, quartiers de noblesse), that is, possessing the right to display armorial coats of arms.64 Just looking at two generations of Van Bombergens, six marriages in Daniel’s generation and fourteen in his children’s generation resulted in the display of quarters.65 Another significant measure of familial status was the extent to which members were given titles, positions at court, or appointments to high local positions. By noting such positions held by persons who Van Bombergens married, we gain some perspective on the place in society that they attained. A full survey of all titles and positions is not possible here, but we will point out those persons in Daniel’s generation and that of his children who had contact with the emperor’s circle. This does not necessarily mean direct personal access to the emperor or his immediate family, but having regular interactions with the emperor’s immediate staff is in itself a whole other level of society, approached by only a thin sliver of the population.

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1. Daniel’s father-in-law, Charles le Clerq, was Chambellan Charles V, Tre´sorior generale, domaines et finances les Pay Bas.66 2. Daniel’s sister Lysbeth married Fernando de Bernuy, scion of an incredibly wealthy family from Burgos in Spain who relocated to Antwerp and became the family agent there. His brother Diego remained in Burgos and married into another wealthy family. Diego’s brother-in-law, Don Pedro Ruiz de la Mota (died October 1522), bishop of Badajoz and then of Palencia, ‘‘became one of two great Spanish favorites at the Flemish court of young Charles and came with him to Castille in 1517,’’ and went with the imperial court to Flanders in 1520. A second brother-in-law, Garci Ruiz de la Mota (died 1544), ‘‘in January 1517 . . . left for court in Flanders ‘in the service of and by the command of our lord the king.’ ’’ It is not hard to imagine that when Charles V made his triumphal entry into Antwerp in 1520 that the De la Motas stayed with the in-laws of their sister, Fernando de Bernuy and Lysbeth van Bombergen.67 3. Daniel’s daughter Catherine’s husband, Roger Pathie, was pensionnaire de S. M. receveur de Charles V (Holy Roman Emperor, 1519–25 October 1555), valet de chambre (here, private secretary) and tre´sorior for Mary of Austria (1505–58), Queen of Hungary, 1522–26, and regent of the Netherlands for her brother Charles V. Godparents of Catherine and Pathie’s son were Mary and Antoine de Granvelle, cardinal and chancellor to Charles V.68 Pathie was rewarded by Philippe II with a pension of ‘‘300 livres . . . en faveur de ses le´aulx et loingtams services. . . .’’69 4. Daniel’s son Daniel was also the recipient of a pension from Queen Mary of Hungary and was secretary to the emperor for a short time.70 5. Daniel’s niece Isabeau Pruenen (daughter of Daniel’s sister Marie) married Jan de Cordes (patron of Cornelis Verdonck, who dedicated a collection of madrigals to him),71 whose paternal grandfather, Jean Teats, was conseiller de l’empereur Charles-Quint au baillage de Tournai.72 6. His niece Cornelie de Bernuy’s (daughter of his sister Lysbeth) husband, Franc¸ois van der Dilft, was ambassador to England for Charles V, November 1544–May/June 1550 (spanning the reigns of Henry VIII, 1509–47, and Edward VI, 1547–53).73 Francois delivered an oration in Barcelona before Charles V and was knighted as a

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7.

8.

9.

10.

reward,74 and several books and pieces of music were dedicated to him.75 At the baptism of Cornelie and Franc¸ois’ son Edouard, young King Edward VI of England stood at the font, and Edouard received a gift from Princess Mary.76 Daniel’s nephew Ferdinando de Bernuy married Anne, daughter of No¨el Caron, valet of Charles V (the couple, at one point, being honored with the striking of a coin).77 Due to Caron’s influence, Ferdinando received a pension from Charles for the life of his wife.78 Daniel’s niece Agnes de Renialme’s (daughter of his sister Franc¸oise) husband, Don Diego Ayala, was ambassador for Philip II, son of Charles V and King of Spain and the Spanish Netherlands (1555– 98), to Henry IV, King of France (1589–1610); commissionnaire des finances for Archduke of the Spanish Netherlands Albert (1595–1621) and Archduchess Isabelle (1599–1633), daughter of Philip II;79 and received a bequest from Queen Mary of Hungary.80 Daniel’s nephew Paul de Renialme, son of his sister Franc¸oise and Charles de Renialme, was personal physician to Henri de Bourbon, Prince de Conde´, first Prince of the Blood of France.81 Daniel’s niece Magdalena, daugther of his brother Antoine and Lysabeth de Renialme, married Lazarus Rentz,82 who held an enormous government annuity in Spain.83 This same Lazarus eventually took control of properties formerly belonging to Daniel’s son Charles and Daniel’s daughter Catherine.84

Both the intricate trading networks and the marriage alliances contributed to the securing of wealth and are, themselves, proofs that Daniel van Bombergen did not, in fact, squander his family’s patrimony. On the contrary, he and his siblings were clearly fashioning a family world in which wealth and social status were consolidated by design. The international trading enterprise was enhanced by the increase in market share gained through marriages that brought with them elevation of social status. As important as they may have been, commerce, marriage, and ownership of grand town houses are only three of eleven well-documented criteria used in judging successful movement toward, and eventual inclusion in, the power elite of sixteenth-century Flanders and adjacent lands.85 In addition to those three, we look for the attainment or acquistion of military titles, ennoblement, patrimonial lands, university education, public office, religious foundations, funerary inscriptions, and portraits. To all these

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markers we add one more catchall, cultural goods that comprise objects, documents, and other displays of public recognition that bear witness to one’s assumption of being noble, and as such, work to further reinforce the perception of nobility. For instance, having a piece of music, a book, or a play dedicated to oneself; having coins or medals struck or engraved with one’s name, image, or arms, receiving gifts or direct public acknowledgement from a member of a royal or imperial family. In the generation of Daniel and his siblings five of the males achieved recognition in five or more of these criteria, and in the generation of their children, eleven did so. The security afforded by all his commercial successes permitted Daniel to pursue passionately his love for the art of printing. It was no accident that the paper he used was far superior to that of his competitors, producing few if any blots or other imperfections, or that the ink was the finest he could purchase.86 The Hebrew types were of such quality that, following his death, others wanted them, especially Zuan di Gara and Christopher Plantin. Thus, credit is given on the title pages and in the colophons to many of the volumes printed by Di Gara in Venice, and as stipulated in the contract of the partnership between Charles and Cornelius van Bombergen (Daniel’s son and nephew, respectively) and Plantin, all Hebrew books were to be printed in the name of Van Bombergen.87 He was such an important figure and had such a lasting impact in Venice that more than ten years after his death,88 Di Gara still styled himself as ‘‘being among the heirs of Bomberg.’’89 Amazingly, even as late as 1765, Van Bombergen was being praised on the title page of a Sefer Tehillim printed in Amsterdam: ‘‘Daniel Bomberg whose name is known in the gates of justice, who was great among the Christians, producing gold from his purse in order to print from his printing press . . .’’90 Finally, the woodcut and copperplate ornamentation used on his title pages and surrounding incipits were used by printers through the first quarter of the seventeenth century from Bragadin and Di Gara in Venice to publishers as far distant as Constantinople, Prague, and Lublin. Each of these building blocks of quality was selected by Van Bombergen with the idea in mind of producing the most beautiful books possible and by doing so, to outperform any and all competition. If the highest standards of quality address the question of ‘‘how’’ his books were produced, why did he print Hebrew books and only Hebrew books, and what can be said about how Daniel chose the titles he would print? He made two decisions, the first one financial and the second philosophic. As to financial considerations, he had two profitable markets,

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Jewish and Christian, and in order to be successful, he had to be intentional in marketing differently to each of them.91 First a few bits of evidence that he was intentional in marketing to Christians. 1. We know that he entertained requests to print particular books in particular formats. For instance, Daniel, in a letter to Johannes Reuchlin dated 9 Oct 1521 that he printed at the end of his firstedition Tehillim,92 wrote: ‘‘You have asked me to send you a copy of the Tehillim, Mishle, and Qohelet in one handy volume, printed with accents. God knows I would gladly do this, did not the Talmud, a work involving the greatest labor and expense entrusted to me by the Pope, hinder me from complying with your wish, for as long as I have the Talmud in hand, I cannot meet your request without the greatest personal inconvenience. You are not the only one to whom I must write this. However, God willing, at some future time I shall be able to print all the more beautifully what I cannot do now.’’93 At the end of his first edition of Mishle, Shir ha-shirim, Kohelet94 Daniel published a second letter to Johannes Reuchlin, dated 11 Feb 1522, in which he wrote: ‘‘Although the printing of the Talmud and Alfasi hindered me for almost seven months from addressing your request. . . . Nevertheless, [the printing] was completed and . . . I could not but comply with your request for an edition of Mishle, Shir ha-Shirim, Kohelet to be prepared in a new way, with accents, all together in one small handy volume . . . nor am I ignorant that it would be both safe and profitable for me to make good on your request.’’95 2. In 1546 he reprinted a small work by Elia Levita, Harkabah, and on the title page included a phrase ‘‘with nekudot inserted by Cornelio Adel Kind in order to obtain favor from students.’’ While it is true that Jewish students could benefit from a vocalized text as well, Christian students were the ones who depended on it.96 3. Reuchlin in Tu¨bingen wrote to Michael Hummelberger, humanist and philologist (1487–1527) in Ravensburg in Swabia, 20 February 1522: ‘‘Our university has agreed to furnish to us, or actually lent its money, in order to bring 100 copies of the Jewish Bible in Hebrew from Venice for my students.’’97 4. Van Bombergen printed his first-edition Rabbinic Bible with a papal prohibition that would make it less attractive to the Jewish market

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but the absence of which would sink it in the Christian market.98 More than eighty years ago Moses Marx suggested that since there are copies without the papal prohibition it is at least possible that, in fact, it was deliberately left out of copies destined for the Jewish market.99 5. During the first third of the sixteenth century, Georg Spalatin, superintendant of the ducal library at Wittenberg, made annual trips to Venice to purchase recently published Greek, Latin, and Hebrew books for universities in German lands; and at that time, the only Venetian publisher of Hebrew books was Van Bombergen. Melancthon and others at Wittenberg, just as did Reuchlin previously at Tu¨bingen, were attempting to acquire his books. A letter from Burkard Schenk of Simau, lector of the Franciscan friars’ monastery in Venice, to Spalatin dated 9 January 1518, refers to the recently completed first-edition Rabbinic Bible: ‘‘Nevertheless, I understand that Daniel Bomberg has completed a Hebrew Bible and asks 4 ducats for it.’’100 Philip Melanchthon purchased a Van Bombergen first-edition Rabbinic Bible, as is evident from a letter he sent Spalatin in September 1518: ‘‘We have Hebrew Bibles which I had delivered from Leipzig. There are two volumes, one with commentaries at a price of fourteen aurei, and the other without commentary.’’101 Spalatin records in his yearly account of important events: ‘‘In this year [1519] Frederick, the Elector of Saxony, enlarged the library as with other excellent selections, also with the best works in Greek and Hebrew,’’102 and Spalatin records again in 1535 that the elector ‘‘began to enlarge the library, as in other ways, also in purchasing Greek and Hebrew books in Venice.’’103 Here are a couple of contemporary reports that acknowledged the attention he had garnered and the extent to which he was well known in various Jewish markets. 1. There is a curious little book, Ein Gesprech auff das Kurtzt, published by Johann Michael (Kremer) in Nu¨rnberg in the year 1524,104 in which one of the characters states that ‘‘I want to return to Venice as it is reported that in that very place a rich Christian and Jew have put together a considerable [sum] of money between them, as we heard, and [they are] printing now a new [edition] of the Hebrew Bible and

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Talmud of which I shall deliver some [copies] to the Jews around Prague.’’105 Within a few years of beginning his enterprise, news of the Van Bombergen press had reached northern Europe, and his books were being delivered over the Alps into Jewish markets of central and northern Europe. 2. Nicholas Cleynaerts (Cle´nard;1493/94?–1542), Belgian humanist from Flanders, grammarian, traveler, and professor of Latin at the University of Louvain, in a letter dated 12 July 1539 addressed to his old teacher Jacques Latomus on the theological faculty of the University of Lyons: ‘‘The Hebrew books which Bomberg prints in Venice are shipped by sea to Jews in all parts of the world, in Africa, Ethiopia, the Indies, Egypt and to other places where Jews live.’’106 3. More direct evidence that the Jewish market paid attention to Van Bombergen is uncovered on the title pages and in the colophons of his books, evidence that reveals the number of works Jewish communities or individuals brought to Venice, seeking his agreement to print them. That is, commissioned works, of which there are a minimum of fourteen examples, for which, by the way, if we are keeping track of business expenses, Daniel did not need to purchase the manuscripts. Representatives of distant and disparate Jewish communities came to Venice in order for Van Bombergen to print their prayer books. Thus, Jewish congregations in Aleppo, Syria;107 small pockets of Jewish communities in the Ottoman Empire;108 and the Crimean Karaites109 all had their mah.zorim printed by him. Additionally, he was commissioned by the Venetian rabbinate to print Pesakim;110 at the request and with the patronage of R. Solomon ben Yehudah Walid of Spain he printed Joseph Albo’s Sefer ikarim;111 with the patronage of Walid and H . ayyim ben Moses Alaton he printed Aaron ha-Levi Barcelloni’s Sefer ha-h.inukh;112 with the patronage of Alaton he printed Z.eror ha-mor;113 at the request of Abraham Yom Tov Yerushalmi he printed the haftarah according to the Romaniot rite found in some copies of the 1527 H . umash im perushim;114 with the patronage of Alaton he printed the first edition of the supercommentary on Perush Rashi al ha-Torah by Elijah ben Abraham Mizrah.i (1450–1526), chief rabbi of Constantinople;115 with the financial backing of the brothers Yoh.anan, Menah.em, and Moses, sons of Joseph, and Matatia ben Moses ben Matatia, brother of the author, he

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printed the Responsa of Benjamin Seeb b. Matatia of Arta;116 at the expense of the physician Elia Menah.em H.alfan ben Abba Mari, owner of the manuscript ‘‘who did everything in his power for the benefit of all and brought forth the Sheiltot me-Rabbi Ah.ai Gaon which he found in his collection,’’ he printed that work;117 and he printed Tobia ben Eliezer’s Pesikta zutarta, a commentary on Leviticus and Deuteronomy, ‘‘brought to our hands by the young man of clear learning Zerah.ia Casani son of the respected elder Malkiel from Kandia [Crete].’’118 Finally, in the colophon to his edition of Sifrei119 the editor tells us that the manuscripts of the Sifra and Sifrei were brought to him by R. Yaakov Mantino, personal physician to Cardinal Alexandre Farne`se and, from 13 October 1534, Pope Paul III.120 Further, we can give five brief bits of evidence that Daniel even paid attention to how a book was printed in such a way that it would be appealing to particular audiences. In 1523 Van Bombergen printed Mikne Avram/ Peculium Abrae, a Hebrew grammar written by Abraham de Balmes (ca. 1440–1523), physician to Domenico Grimani (1461–1523), and he printed it in two versions; one in Hebrew and one with facing Hebrew/Latin pages.121 A Hebrew/Latin grammar would not sell well among the Jews and without Latin would be useless to the Christian! Second, he similarly printed two versions of David Kimh.i’s grammar Sefer miklol in 8o; on one title page it is dated by the year of (5)305 for Jewish audiences, and on the other, ‘‘1544 since our redemption’’ for Christians, though the colophons of both are identical, ‘‘completed in the month of Elul in the year [5[305 (⳱ 20 August–17 September, 1544, in this case only, counting the first of the year from Nisan).’’122 Third, even though by the eighteenth century nobody remembered that in Daniel’s first imprint in 1515 Felix Pratensis had already alerted his master to the qere/ketiv issue in Psalm 22:17b, David Paul Drach (1791–1868), in his 1827–33 Latin/French edition of the Bible, records, ‘‘The story is told that one of the early rabbinic Bibles of the sixteenth century originally was to contain the reading ke-aro ‘they have pierced’ at Psalm 22:17, but that the Jew who was checking the proofs told the printer, the famous Daniel Bomberg, that if he did not restore ke-ari (‘like a lion’), no Jew would buy copies of his Hebrew Bible.’’123 That is, reading the verse as ‘‘the congregation of the wicked has encircled me, they have pierced my hands and my feet,’’ is a purely Christian foreshadowing of the crucifixion

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of Jesus, rather than the traditional Jewish understanding of ‘‘like a lion they [maul] my hands and feet.’’124 Fourth, note that he printed two versions of the H . umash, Megillot, Haftarot in 1527, one with the Romaniot rite and one with the Spanish rite, with the obvious intent to meet the needs of different Jewish communities.125 And fifth, the handy format of his mah.zorim, approximately 13 x 9 cm., in comparison to the folio-sized Soncino editions, was a great improvement, as were the detailed indices. Van Bombergen was well aware that the traditional method of locating a statement in the Talmud was to quote the name of the chapter, which for many Jews, and beyond a doubt for all Christians, made it difficult to find a quotation. He introduced two innovations that directly addressed this serious problem. First, in a departure from all previously printed Talmuds, including especially the Soncino, he foliated the Talmud, which meant that for his 1523 editions H . iddushei Berakhot, Gittin, and H . ullin126 of R. Solomon ben Abraham ibn Adret (1235–1310; Rashba) and H . iddushei Baba Batra of Moses ben Nah.man (1195–1270; Ramban), he could provide cross-references to folio and side of the Talmud, a fact that the editor praises on the title pages of each of the four volumes. Second, for stand-alone Talmud commentaries published by others (and, of course, preexisting manuscripts) that cited quotations by Talmud chapter titles only, Van Bombergen published in the front of his 1547 edition of Perush al ha-Torah of R. Levi ben Gershom (1288–1344; Ralbag) a complete list of all the chapter titles in the Babylonian Talmud.127 In the same manner, Van Bombergen, for the first time in a Hebrew Bible, added chapter divisions with Hebrew numbers in the margins based on the Latin Vulgate to his first Rabbinic Bible; in the second edition, Jacob ben H . ayyim ibn Adoniyahu divided and numbered the chapters based on the list found in Isaac ben Nathan Kalonymus’s biblical concordance, which Van Bombergen had recently printed, Meir nativ;128 and in his third-edition Rabbinic Bible every fifth versed was numbered.129 As we noted above with Talmud citations, these divisions made finding a quotation much easier even for Jews, but much more so for Christians. Having shown the care and respect with which he treated his Jewish markets, there are two ambivalences with regard to Van Bombergen and the Jews to which we hope to return elsewhere but can only mention here. In both, the success of the press itself, witnessed by all the evidence above, will suffice to demonstrate no harm was caused by either. First, many of the editors and proofreaders in his printing establishment were Jews, and

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many of them converted either while there or later. But the quality of the sources at their disposal (the manuscripts), the quality of their work (lack of errors in the texts coming off the presses) and the quality of the imprints (paper, ink, etc.) mitigated against a backlash.130 Second, there is one work, written by Gerard van Veltwyck, ambassador to Constantinople for Charles V, Shevile tohu, which is the only one he printed with anti-Jewish sentiments.131 Given the facts that Veltwyck was from Flanders, matriculated in Van Bombergen’s alma mater at Louvain in the same year as Antoine Perrenot de Granvelle (godfather to Daniel’s grandson),132 and attained high imperial diplomatic posts that placed him in circles frequented by the Van Bombergen family, it is even possible that by printing Veltwyck’s book Daniel was squaring some unspoken family debt.133 However, even Gershom (Hieronymus) Soncino printed Pietro Colonna Galatino’s virulent antiJewish work, Opus de arcanis catholicae veritatis contra obstinatissimam Iudaeorum nostrae tempestatis perfidiam (On the mysteries of Catholic truth against the most stubborn faithlessness of the Jews of our time) (Ortona a Mare, quindecimo kalendas martias ⳱ 13 February 1518). So it seems reasonable to suggest that Jewish religious scruples were not disturbed by a lone imprint with such sentiments.134 Finally, there is one more choice of title, actually a class of titles, that Van Bombergen decided not to print, which I believe was in response to the Jewish market, or at least out of respect for the Jewish market. This decision at the same time might also have been a direct rejection of a request from the Christian market that, if accepted, might have strained his relations with the Jewish market. At the end of his Latin introduction to the aforementioned Mikneh Avram, dated 14 December 1523, Daniel wrote, ‘‘I promise that before long I also will publish, if I am permitted, kabbalistic books [which are] most profound in theology and important for a Christian to obtain some, since there is much worthwhile you can absorb from them.’’135 Here then, Van Bombergen is explicit about his interests and his future plans, or at least what he would like to accomplish. Earlier in that year he had begun his program of printing kabbalistic texts, with two first-edition commentaries on the Torah. The first of these, Z.eror ha-mor, was written by Abraham Saba (1440–1508), a native of Castile who went to Lisbon on expulsion from Spain; it is a kabbalistic-philosophic commentary on the Pentateuch.136 The title page alerts the reader to what is in store: that the book ‘‘is established on the plain meaning of the Torah and also on the hidden meaning and the teachings of Sefer ha-Zohar and

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Kabbalah, and other teaching of our rabbis of blessed memory.’’ Who wrote this explanatory line? We must assume it was the editor or at the suggestion of the patron who, after all, was funding this imprint. That is, not only is the commentary itself kabbalistic but Adoniyahu and/or Alaton felt it necessary to advertise it and leave no doubt for the casual reader. The second commentary was Menah.em Recanati’s Perush ‘al ha-Torah ‘al derekh ha-emet.137 Even the title informs those ‘‘in the know’’ the kabbalistic nature of this work, for the phrase ‘al derekh ha-emet, ‘‘the way of the truth,’’ is code for the Zohar. So already, without a word of introduction or preface, the editor, Jacob ben H . ayyim, tells those who know the code words what to expect.138 Jacob ben H . ayyim, in the preface, refers to ‘‘the sect of believers . . . who entered the inner court of our Holy Kabbalah;’’139 and a bit further he tells the reader, ‘‘I am asking whoever studies to explain only what he understands, and not engage in explanations of passages which he does not understand, that he be careful not to reveal the secrets of our Torah to whomever this is not suitable.’’140 These two titles were printed in early 1523 and in December of that year Van Bombergen announced his plan . . . and then what? Nearly a quarter century after his announcement in Mikne Avram that kabablistic texts were important for Christians, how many first-edition kabbalistic texts had he printed beyond those two titles? None! The only one he did manage to print was the often printed Bah.ya ben Asher’s Be’ur al ha-Torah,141 but he did not break new ground with this title or print a text not previously available; he printed Bah.ya only because he wanted a piece of the market. But why had he not printed any of the great kabbalistic titles? In a letter to Andreas Maes (or Masius)142 dated 21 May 1547, Cornelio Adel Kind, Van Bombergen’s editor, writes, ‘‘I note that you want books of the Kabbalah which are easily found here. If you come here we will find them for you for copying without cost.’’143 And in another letter from Adel Kind to Masius dated 11 June 1547, he writes, ‘‘I saw your list of books of Kabbalah; by my faith, it is a good one and contains many fine things. The books [manuscripts] that we have are the following: Shaar ha-yih.ud, Shaar ha-yesod, Eser sefirot, Imre shefer, Meirat enayim, Ha-kanah, Sefer yez.irah, Sefer ha-bahir me’eser sefirot, Temunot ve-sitre Torah ve-gam sod razai, and furthermore there are others here among the Jews which can be borrowed for copying.’’144 Postel explicitly confirms Adel Kind’s claim that Bombergen possessed a manuscript of Sefer ha-bahir when he states that he collated his

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copy with one in Ferrara and with Bomberg’s.145 Furthermore, he strongly hints that it was from Bomberg that he obtained a manuscript of the Zohar: ‘‘. . . qua duce primo Zoharis liber, qui paulo ante vix ob ducatorum millia quinque venisset, pauperrimo homini venit in manum, tum quum Venetiis.’’146 Postel’s wording makes it difficult to accept Bouwsma’s suggestion that Postel obtained the manuscript in Rome, or Secret’s own earlier suggestion that perhaps Widmanstetter had obtained it for him.147 So it is clear that Van Bombergen was able to obtain the kinds of manuscripts that in 1523 he had stated were very important for Christians to read and absorb. Penkower has so clearly demonstrated that Jacob ben H.ayyim ibn Adoniyahu was pushing and pulling him toward embracing Kabbalah.148 And we could name a circle of friends, associates, workers, and correspondents of Daniel who by all counts were Kabbalists or students of Kabbalah, for example, Johannes Reuchlin, Egidio da Viterbo, Caspar Amman, Domenico Grimani, and three later giants of Christian cabala, Guillaume Postel, Andreas Masius, and Johann Albrecht Widmanstetter.149 So what happened, at a point when he had manuscripts that friends and associates wanted him to print, to prevent him from realizing his plans of 1523? Could Daniel van Bombergen have performed another marketing success with his kabbalistic titles? Perhaps among the Christians, but in doing so he ran the risk of alienating some of his Jewish customers who might have been offended that he had attempted to reveal these texts.150 Even so, he might have proceeded had he determined there was a sufficiently high demand for the books among his previously well-established Jewish markets. But from whomever he obtained his information, he knew there was extremely limited demand among the Jews for printed kabbalistic texts.151 Publication of such books would not be profitable in both markets, might upset some of his Jewish customers, and thus the correct business decision was . . . do not print them. This remarkable Renaissance man, consumate entrepreneur, connoisseur of art, and paterfamilias in the fullest sense was so much more than the finest printer of Hebrew books. The glimpses of Van Bombergen’s footprints in the worlds that we have presented here, sketchy though they may be, give us an opportunity not previously accessable in Jewish studies. With a richer, more nuanced portrait of the man and his worlds, we can inquire of the social and intellectual circles of individuals who shared those worlds with him, how they interacted, and what influences they brought to bear on each other.

CHAPTER 4

The Rabbinic Bible in Its Sixteenth-Century Context David Stern

Since the publication some thirty years ago of Elizabeth Eisenstein’s The Printing Press as an Agent of Change, the revolutionary impact of printing on Western culture has been the subject of scholarly debate.1 These debates have centered on the very nature of the transition from manuscript to print: over the question as to whether print was indeed a revolution in the true sense of the term; and whether its dramatic, near-universal impact lay in the technology of printing itself or in the changes wrought by its human agents and their consumers within local communities—printers, editors, booksellers, and readers. Whether print was revolutionary or not, however, there is no large disagreement over the fact that its invention and wide adoption at the very least intensified a vast array of effects. These range from the increased standardization, fixation, and preservation of texts to the exponential increase in their diffusion and circulation; the reorganization of knowledge that took place as a result of that diffusion and enlarged readership; and the disruption of social, religious, and intellectual hierarchies produced by the demystification of textual mastery and the new forms of access to knowledge that now became available to anyone able to acquire a printed book. Even in the manuscript age, book production had been a collaborative effort—between scribes, patrons, illustrators, binders, and so on. The new technology of print, however, created a new social institution, the print shop. The social space of the print shop brought together different professionals and figures from the world of the book—authors and printers,

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translators, typefounders, correctors, artists and engravers, and booksellers, censors, clients, and book buyers; and not infrequently, these figures were persons from entirely different cultural and religious worlds as well— Catholics and Protestants, Jews, apostate Jews, and emigrants from Byzantium following the Ottoman conquest. Because of the particular complications of printing technology, the cooperation of all these different artisans and professionals became an absolute necessity, and the degree of their collaboration ever more complex. The print shop became their meeting-place, their common social space.2 And within its walls a new type of figure also emerged, that of the editor; indeed, by the mid-sixteenth century, the editor had begun to eclipse the author as the central figure in book production.3 The rise of the editor was also accompanied by the invention of what were effectively unprecedented types of books that the new technology for the first time made possible. As Eisenstein and others have shown, this was certainly the case with the new scientific literature that emerged after print.4 It was also true of such genres as the polyglot Bible, most famously the Complutensian (1514–17).5 The eye-catching format of this book, with its columns of parallel texts in different scripts laid out next to each other across the full width of a page opening, may not have been literally impossible in a manuscript, but the massive editing and expert labor in multiple languages required to produce these pages was virtually inconceivable before the development of the new technology. For the Jewish book, the effects of print were manifested in all the ways just mentioned, but its impact—particularly after the year 1500—was even more radical in still another way: It changed the very nature of the Jewishness of the Jewish book. Before the sixteenth century—whether in the age of manuscripts or in the fifty-year incunable period of early Jewish printing—the Jewish book was essentially a text by a Jewish author written in Hebrew script (whether the language was Hebrew or one of the Jewish languages like Judeo-Arabic or Yiddish) and produced by a Jewish scribe or printer for a Jewish reader. Beginning in the sixteenth century, particularly in Italy, and specifically in Venice, which dominated the Jewish book market for the first half of the century, none of these verities could any longer be taken for granted. Gentiles regularly owned the printing houses; Christians (who were sometimes former Jews) wrote books in Hebrew; Christian Hebraists were avid readers of Jewish books; and not all Jewish readers (like conversos who had returned to Judaism) could be assumed to know Hebrew; with the result that books for Jews were now produced in

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languages other than Hebrew or one of the Jewish languages. The very character of the Jewish book thereby changed; indeed, the ‘‘Jewishness’’ of the Jewish book was itself called into question as a given, and now had to be asserted and demonstrated.6 And no book illustrates this radical shift in the Jewishness of the Jewish book more vividly than that most ‘‘Jewish’’ of Jewish books, the Biblia Rabbinica, or Rabbinic Bible (henceforth referred to as RB), eventually known in Jewish circles as the Mikraot Gedolot, which appeared in two formative editions in Venice, the first in 1517 (henceforth RB 1517), and the even more famous second one in 1524–25 (henceforth RB 1525).7 Both these editions, as well as later editions of the RB, have been treated extensively in past scholarship. Especially noteworthy among recent works are those by Jordan Penkower and B. Barry Levy.8 My intention in this article is to build upon and enrich this earlier scholarship by situating the production of these Bibles and their publication within the larger history of the Jewish Bible as a material object going back to the Middle Ages and within the changes that Jewish book culture underwent in the sixteenth century. I will begin by summarizing the contributions of past scholars and what they have revealed about the publication histories of the two RBs.9 Our story begins sometime before 1515, with the arrival in Venice of a scion of a wealthy family of merchants from Antwerp named Daniel Bomberg (born 1483). Bomberg was probably sent to Italy to represent his family’s export-import business, but shortly after arriving in Venice, he set up a publishing house with the intention of printing Hebrew books. Bomberg’s partner in publishing was an apostate Jew who had become an Augustinian monk, today known only by his Christian name, Fra Felice de Prato (Felix of Prato), or Felix Pratensis. Little is known about Pratensis except that he was both very learned in Hebrew and Jewish sources and truly gifted as a textual scholar.10 We do not know how Pratensis and Bomberg met. Pratensis had previously been the Hebrew teacher of the famous early Orientalist Cardinal Egidio da Viterbo in Rome, and that may have been the same way he met Bomberg, who was a devout Christian with Hebraist interests.11 The first book that Bomberg and Pratensis produced together—not in their own publishing house but in that of Peter (Pierro) Lichtenstein—was a Psalterium, a translation of the Psalms into Latin by Pratensis, which appeared in September 1515. The very next month, Bomberg, Pratensis, and Lichtenstein jointly applied to the Venetian Senate for a privilege, or exclusive right, to publish three additional Latin translations of Hebrew books—a grammar

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with dictionary and two kabbalistic treatises12 —as well as ‘‘a Hebrew Bible, in Hebrew letters, both with and without the Aramaic Targum, and with Hebrew commentaries.’’ As Penkower has shown, the latter request was for what eventually became the two editions of the Hebrew Bible that Bomberg and Pratensis published in Bomberg’s own publishing house in Venice in 1517.13 (Lichtenstein appears to have dropped out of their partnership.) The first of these Bibles, in folio size, and with the Targum and commentary, came to be known eventually as the first RB. The second was a Hebrew Bible, in quarto and without Targum or commentary, printed sheet by sheet on the press immediately after RB’s sheets and after the type had been rearranged for the smaller format. Before Bomberg and Pratensis applied for the Venetian privilege, Pratensis had already applied for and been granted a ten-year papal approbatio and a comparable privilegio by Pope Leo X in Rome, but he evidently wished to publish in Venice, probably because he felt that his rights would be better protected there. Shortly after receiving the Venetian privilege to publish the three Latin translations and the Hebrew Bible editions, Bomberg himself applied for an exclusive patent for the use of Hebrew cuneate type, which he argued he deserved because of the great expense he had incurred by having the Hebrew type cast specially for his press. When his petition was granted, Bomberg had effectively won for himself a monopoly on all Hebrew printing in Venice.14 Indeed, the right to publish Hebrew books in Venice was not something that could be taken for granted. Gershom Soncino, the greatest of all Jewish early printers of Hebrew books, had tried unsuccessfully to receive a privilege to publish in Venice; it is not known for certain whether his failure to receive the privilege was due to Christian suspicions about the contents of Jewish books and their threat to the Christian faith, or if his request was blocked by Aldus Manutius, the leading printer in Venice at the time, who also aspired to print Hebrew books (in addition to the Greek texts for which he became famous).15 In any case, there can be little question that Bomberg owed his success in gaining the privilege and patent to his being both a Christian and a wealthy businessman with capital to spend in Venice. Even more important, and especially so for marketing the book, he had the support and imprimatur of Pope Leo X, who had openly vouched for the value of the Hebrew works for the Christian religion.16 Yet even Bomberg’s own privileges were not guaranteed. In 1525, when his first privilegio expired, he applied to the Venetian Senate for a renewal, but his application was turned down four times—

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apparently out of fear of complications with Christian authorities who objected to the books’ Jewish subject matter.17 Bomberg finally received the renewal, but only after he agreed to pay five hundred ducats, a sufficiently weighty sum to overcome the Venetians’ religious scruples.18 The importance of Pope Leo X’s approbation for the success of Bomberg and Pratensis’s publishing project should not be underestimated, but its significance was more than merely financial. This Hebrew Bible actually came out in two separate ‘‘editions,’’ one intended for Christian readers, the other for Jews. The first volume of the ‘‘Jewish’’ edition, the Pentateuch volume, has an elaborate title page in an architectural frame—indeed, it is the first Hebrew book to use such a frame—with a lengthy description in Hebrew of its contents.19 The ‘‘Christian’’ edition, however, also contains, on the verso of the title page, a dedication in Latin to Leo X in which Pratensis wrote that, in addition to the Hebrew Biblical text, he had included the ‘‘Chaldee schola, to wit the common Targum and that of Jerusalem,’’ which ‘‘contain many obscure and recondite mysteries [ulta . . . arcana et recondita mysteria], not only useful, but necessary to the devout Christian.’’20 This last statement was not a mere aside. As I have already noted, before he came to Venice, Felix Pratensis had been Egidio da Viterbo’s Hebrew tutor. In addition to being a close compatriot of Leo X, Egidio was a Christian kabbalist; his major work, Libellus de litteris sanctis, is based upon the kabbalistic text Sefer ha-temunah (which Egidio translated, possibly with the help of Pratensis), and the cardinal believed, with other Catholic Hebraists and Orientalists of his time, that the letters of both Hebrew and Syriac (including Chaldean and Aramaic) contained mystical secrets in their very shapes.21 In 1505, Egidio commissioned the copying of the Aramaic Targum that is known today as Targum Neofiti, and marginal marks on the manuscript suggest that he may have searched the Aramaic text for kabbalistic secrets.22 Pratensis’s statement in his dedication to the Pope referred, in other words, to a very specific audience of Christian readers. This was also the likely reason why Pratensis emphasized to the Pope that his edition included (for the first time) not only the ‘‘common’’ Targum of Onkelos but also the Jerusalem Targum. Aside from the Latin dedication, the Christian edition was essentially identical to the Jewish one. They both contained the same biblical text as well as the same accompanying texts of the Targum and commentaries. Pratensis’s biblical text in particular was a major achievement in the history

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of the Bible. As Penkower has shown, it was the first genuine edition of the Hebrew text. Pratensis did not simply copy a single manuscript or previous edition of the Bible, but with Bomberg’s financial assistance collected manuscripts (mainly Sephardi, as Penkower has shown, but some Ashkenazi as well) and produced, in good humanist fashion, what he believed was the most accurate text of the Bible; indeed, in his Latin prologue he claimed to the Pope that all previous manuscripts in circulation have ‘‘almost as many errors as words in them’’ and that ‘‘no one has attempted [an edition comparable to his] before.’’23 For the first time in a printed Bible, he also noted variants in the margins (including plene-defective spellings) as well as the keri in the margins (while keeping the ketiv in the text), unlike earlier editions that had printed the ketiv with the pronunciation of the keri in the text itself. No less important, the 1517 Bible was the first complete edition of the Bible to contain an Aramaic Targum (with the exception of the books of Daniel, Ezra-Nehemiah, and Chronicles) and a medieval Jewish commentary on every book of the Bible (Rashi on the Pentateuch, David Kimh.i on the Prophets, and various others on the Hagiographa.)24 In apparent deference to Christian readers, however, several passages in Kimh.i’s commentary on Psalms that refuted Christological interpretations of certain verses were censored.25 (In some copies, a separate single folio containing the censored sections was inserted in the Hagiographa volume immediately after Psalms.26) In addition to the Jerusalem Targum to the Pentateuch, RB 1517 also included the Second Targum to Esther, Aaron ben Asher’s Sefer dikdukei ha-te’amim, and other Masoretic treatises, and the list of differences between the Ben Asher and Ben Naftali traditions of the Masorah in the Pentateuch and the Five Scrolls. RB 1517 was also the first Hebrew Bible to use chapter numbers, which were indirectly taken from Christian Bibles, as well as to divide the books of Samuel, Kings, and Chronicles into two books each, with marginal comments at the point of division such as ‘‘Here non-Jews [ha-lo’azim] begin the second book of Samuel, which is the second book of Kings to them.’’27 RB 1517, then, addressed itself to both Jewish and Christian markets, but in separate editions. We do not know how commercially successful these editions were. The average print run of an edition of a complicated foliosized book like RB 1517—in which Bomberg had invested considerable sums in gathering manuscripts, commissioning Hebrew type, and production work—was probably around 1,000 copies.28 If Jewish readers knew that its editor was an apostate Jew, that knowledge may have diminished its

Figure 4.1. Beginning of Ezekiel, from Bomberg Rabbinic Bible 1517, vol. 2. Courtesy of the Library at the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies, University of Pennsylvania.

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marketability among Jews (but increased it among Christians). What is known is that the 1517 quarto edition, which lacks any reference to Pratensis or papal dedication, and was probably intended primarily for a Christian audience unable to read the Hebrew commentaries, was so successful that Bomberg reprinted it in 1521.29 This was not the case with RB 1517. The question of its commercial success aside, barely eight years after publishing RB 1517, Bomberg did publish another edition of the RB, but this second edition, RB 1525, was a new book, and advertised itself as such. While (as I have noted) RB 1517 had been the first Hebrew book to use an architectural frame on its title page— the Hebrew sha’ar being the name for both a gate or entranceway and a title page—this second edition signaled its newness to the reader by having a panel in the tympanum of the sha’ar with the phrase Sha’ar Adonai heh.adash, ‘‘the new gate of the Lord.’’ And in nearly all respects, it was indeed a new gateway. In the first place, the edition had a new editor, Jacob ben H . ayyim ibn Adoniyahu, a known Jewish scholar with wide learning and expertise in the full range of classical Jewish literature from Bible and Rabbinics to Kabbalah; indeed, as Penkower has shown, Ibn Adoniyahu was a full-fledged kabbalist.30 Ibn Adoniyahu had come to Venice from Tunis, and prior to working on RB 1525, he had edited several other books for Bomberg, including two kabbalistic commentaries on the Bible and, most probably, Meir nativ, the biblical concordance of Isaac Nathan b. Kalonymus (Venice, 1523), a book that would prove indispensable, as he admitted, to his edition of RB.31 As an editor, Ibn Adoniyahu was more consistent than Pratensis. In his detailed comparative study of the 1517 and 1525 editions, Penkower has shown that Ibn Adoniyahu improved upon Pratensis’s text by relying almost exclusively on Sephardi manuscripts that were closest to the Tiberian tradition (in contrast to Pratensis, who had partly used Ashkenazi sources).32 In addition to the Targum (Onkelos on the Pentateuch, PseudoJonathan on the Prophets, and others on the Hagiographa) and Rashi (on the entirety of the Bible with the exception of Proverbs, Job, and Daniel), Ibn Adoniyahu also included a second commentary, that of Abraham ibn Ezra on the Pentateuch, Isaiah, Minor Prophets, Psalms, Daniel, and the Five Scrolls; and other commentators on other books of the Prophets (David Kimh.i and Gersonides on the Former Prophets, Kimh.i on Jeremiah and Ezekiel) and Hagiographa (Gersonides on Proverbs and Job, Saadia Gaon on Daniel, and Moshe Kimh.i on Proverbs and Ezra-Nehemiah).33

Figure 4.2. Beginning of Genesis, from Bomberg Rabbinic Bible 1525, vol. 1. Courtesy of the Library at the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies, University of Pennsylvania.

Figure 4.3. Title page, from Bomberg Rabbinic Bible 1525, vol. 1. Courtesy of the Library at the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies, University of Pennsylvania.

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Most important, Ibn Adoniyahu, for the first time, also edited the Masorah from manuscripts and, in a revised form, published it for the first time on the page with the Targum and the commentaries. Even more important, those sections of the expanded Masorah—a vast corpus including all the lists and annotations he discovered in different manuscripts— that he could not fit onto the biblical text page he placed at the end of the final volume in what has come to be known as the Masorah finalis, which Ibn Adoniyahu organized alphabetically so that a reader could easily search the latter for entries in the Masorah magna on the biblical page. As Penkower has noted, this Masorah finalis actually functioned as a kind of Masoretic lexicon/concordance.34 He also wrote a lengthy introduction that includes an autobiographical account and history of the book’s publication and a strong defense of the Masorah and its importance. This was indeed the first treatise on the Masorah to appear in print. The Bible was published in 1524–25 and was reprinted by Bomberg in 1546–48, and by various others in subsequent decades through the next three centuries. With its commentaries and supplementary texts, it quickly established itself for Jews as the model for most subsequent editions of the Bible, and Ibn Adoniyahu’s biblical text became the undisputed textus receptus for nearly all students of the Hebrew Bible, Jew and Christian alike, for nearly the next four hundred years.35 Why did Bomberg, barely eight years after publishing RB 1517 edited by Felix Pratensis, decide in 1525 to publish this new edition? It is possible that Bomberg wished to exploit his ten-year privilegio before it ran out, and because of legal strictures limiting a privilegio to new works alone, he felt that he could not simply reprint Pratensis’s RB 1517.36 Perhaps he believed that a new edition produced by a recognized Jewish scholar like Ibn Adoniyahu would be even more commercially successful than the earlier 1517 edition.37 The most plausible set of reasons for Bomberg’s decision have been offered by Penkower, who has proposed two major arguments that Ibn Adoniyahu made to Bomberg. First, Penkower proposes, Ibn Adoniyahu persuaded Bomberg that Pratensis’s 1517 edition had not, in fact, succeeded in its aim to restore the biblical text to its ‘‘true and genuine purity’’ (verus et nativus candor), as Pratensis had claimed; aside from the textual corruptions introduced by the Ashkenazi manuscripts and non-Tiberian manuscripts, there were deficiencies in the markings of unusual letters, in keri/ketiv annotations, and in accentuation and punctuation.38 Second, and possibly even more significantly in Penkower’s view, Ibn Adoniyahu

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persuaded Bomberg that the Hebrew Bible was incomplete without the full Masorah. Not only was the Masorah indispensable for establishing the accurate biblical text, but it also contained its own teachings—homilies (derashot), laws (halakhot), and most important, kabbalistic secrets (sodot), particularly in the keri/ketiv annotations.39 Ibn Adoniyahu knew that Bomberg was interested in Kabbalah. In fact, in his Latin introduction to the edition of R. Abraham de Balmes’s Mikneh Avram (1523), Bomberg had expressed his intention to publish kabbalistic works, if only because he knew there was a demand for such books from other Christian Hebraists.40 Penkower’s two suggested motivations—the improved edition and the value of the Masorah for kabbalistic study—are persuasive even if Ibn Adoniyahu never explicitly stated them. The general importance of the Masorah as the raison d’eˆtre for the new edition is, however, explicitly cited by Ibn Adoniyahu at the end of the introduction, where he describes how he persuaded Bomberg to undertake the new publication: And when I saw the great benefit41 which is to be derived from the Masorah magna, the Masorah parva, and the Masorah finalis, I informed Seignior Daniel Bomberg, may his Rock and Redeemer protect him, and showed him the benefit to be derived from [the Masorah]. Whereupon he did all in his power to send into all the countries in order to search after whatever may be found of the Masorah; and praised be the Lord, we obtained as many of the Masoretic books as could possibly be got. The previously mentioned Seignor [Bomberg] never proved indolent, his hand was not closed, nor did he draw back his right hand from producing gold out of his purse to pay the expenses of buying the books and the messengers who were engaged to search for them in the most remote corners (lit. ‘‘holes and cracks’’) and in every other place they might possibly be.42 As this passage clearly states, it was Ibn Adoniyahu who initiated the project and convinced Bomberg to publish it At the very beginning of his lengthy introduction, however, Ibn Adoniyahu relates a somewhat different, far more elaborate narrative to explain the project’s genesis. The introduction begins with a passage of standard florid praise of God for endowing mankind with language and his chosen nation, the Jews, with the holy language of the Torah ‘‘so that all the nations of the world may know that there is nothing like this holy language.’’ Even so, he continues, God gave the Torah to the Jews alone, and only they know

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its mysteries (sodeiha), its grammar, and its rules; and the Men of the Great Assembly (anshei hakenissiya [sic] ha-gedolah) ‘‘have set up marks, and built a wall around it, and made ditches between its walls and bars and gates to preserve the citadel in its splendor and brightness. . . . So that no other hand might touch it and desecrate it . . . And the spirit (ha-ruah.) rested upon them, and they were of those of whom it is written ‘and they prophesied but did not continue.’ ’’43 These last statements certainly refer to the Masoretes and their annotations; in rabbinic tradition, the Masorah was known as a ‘‘fence around the Torah’’ (masoret seyag la-torah).44 As we shall see, however, Ibn Adoniyahu’s suggestion that the Masoretic annotations were divinely inspired may not have been purely rhetorical. Immediately after concluding this opening section, Ibn Adoniyahu relates the following autobiographical account. Because of its importance, I will cite large sections of the passage (though not its entirety) The narrator relates (amar ha-magid): I was at ease at home, flourishing in my abode, diligently pursuing my studies in the province of Tunis, which is on the borders of ancient Carthage, when Time (ha-zeman) carried me off to the lands of the West, and did not take away its hand from consuming me, nor did it reconsider and relent, and it pushed me here to Venice, this chief and great city. And here I did nothing, for the hand of Time was still high and mighty; and its troubles and cares found me in the city, smote me, wounded and crushed me. And it was after about three months of suffering its blows that I left the furnace of my affliction for a short period, for I was in a thirsty land. I said to myself: Let’s get up, walk about the city, through the market and the streets. And as I went out in the city, marveling in silence, suddenly coming towards me—for God had summoned him before me—one of the righteous Christians (mi-h.asidei ha-noz.rim), a highly distinguished person, by the name of Seignor Daniel Bomberg, may his Rock and redeemer protect him. This came about through the efforts of a Jewish man (ish ‘ivri), who bestowed great kindness upon me, and whose name is R. H . ayyim Alaton, son of the distinguished R. Moses Alaton, may his Rock and Redeemer protect him.45 [Bomberg] brought me to his printing house, and showed me his entire house of treasures, and said, ‘‘Turn in, abide with me, for here you shall find rest for your soul, and balm for your wound, as

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I want you to correct (she-tagiha) the books which I print, remove the stumbling-blocks of error, purify and refine them in the furnace of examination, and weigh them on the scales of correctness, until they emerge fine as refined silver and pure as purified gold. Although I saw that his desire was greater than my ability, yet I thought to myself: One should not refuse a superior.46 Even so, I told him I didn’t know so much, not nearly as much, as we learn in the Talmud of Jerusalem . . . [Ibn Adoniyahu continues with a number of statements that contrast the modesty of his abilities with the importance of the work he has been asked to undertake, and the care he felt he must accordingly take in his work so as not to rely upon his judgment but always to inspect multiple books and evaluate them so as not to make emendations based upon conjecture.] And it came to pass, after I had remained there for some time, doing my work, the work of heaven, the Lord, may He be blessed, roused the spirit of the noble man (hei’ir ruah. ha-sar) for whom I worked, and encouraged his heart to publish the Twenty-Four [the Hebrew Bible]. He said to me, ‘‘Now gird your loins like a man, for it is my desire to publish the Twenty-Four, in such a way that they will be accompanied by the commentaries, the Targum, the Masorah Magna and the Masorah Parva, those [words] which are read as they are written and those which are written but are not read, and those that are plene and defective, and all the glosses of the scribes, and following all this, the Masorah Magna according to the alphabetical order of the Arukh, so that the reader can run through it to find what he wants.’’ Like a bear robbed [of her young], he did not delay his work, for he desired the daughter of Jacob. He summoned artisans expert in printing, and each one with his club in his hand47 [took] himself to work. And when I saw that the work was urgent, and [that it would be] a benefit and a glory for Israel to show the nations and princes the beauty and excellence of our holy Torah— for since the day it has been put in a book (sefer), it has not been done in its proper way (ke-matkonetah)—and since its excellence has grown in the eyes of the builders (ha-bonim), becoming the capstone, I made it my goal to fulfill his desire.48 Unlike the account discussed earlier that is found near the conclusion of the introduction, this passage at the introduction’s beginning clearly describes

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Bomberg as the one who initiated the project to publish the Bible with the Masorah. The reason, Jacob tells us, was that Bomberg ‘‘desired the daughter of Jacob’’—a quotation lifted from Genesis 34:18 referring to Shechem, who desired Dinah, and lost no time in circumcising himself in order to become an Israelite (an act that was already understood by the rabbis as part of the conversion process) so as to be able to marry her. To be sure, Bomberg does not act entirely on his own. Behind Bomberg there stands the figure of God, who sends Bomberg—‘‘May his Rock and Redeemer protect him!’’ (emphasis added)—to meet Ibn Adoniyahu as he wanders aimlessly around Venice. It is also God who ‘‘roused the spirit of the noble man (heicir ruah. ha-sar) . . . and encouraged his heart to publish the Twenty-Four books’’ of the Bible with its full array of accompanying texts. The phrase heicir ruah. ha-sar directly alludes to the beginning of the book of Ezra, where we are told that ‘‘the Lord roused the spirit of King Cyrus of Persia to issue a proclamation’’ that allows the Israelites to return to Jerusalem and rebuild their Temple.49 Just as Cyrus is God’s agent, so is the gentile Bomberg; further, both are God’s agents in parallel projects of restoration—the first to restore Israel to its homeland, the second to restore the Hebrew Bible to its original glory. In this construction, the Jew Ibn Adoniyahu is merely the Christian Bomberg’s servant who fulfills his master’s desire. (Perhaps we might say that Ibn Adoniyahu stands in the same relationship to Bomberg as did the scribe Ezra to Artaxerxes, Cyrus’s successor; both figures restored the Torah to Israel.) Indeed, only after seeing Bomberg’s printers immediately begin work, and after he realizes that the edition will redound to the glory of Israel, inasmuch as ‘‘it will show the nations and princes the beauty and excellence of our holy Torah,’’ does Jacob ben H . ayyim himself set to work on the Bible. The factual discrepancies between this account and the one found at the introduction’s end are not its only unusual features. For one thing, the biographical detail of the narrative is itself remarkable; while other early printed Hebrew books—both in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries— often contain autobiographical details and publishing histories on their title pages and in their colophons, it is rare to find so extensive an account as this one.50 The Hebrew text is also more exceptional than it appears in English translation. Like much medieval Hebrew prose and poetry, Ibn Adoniyahu’s text is dense with recondite biblical allusions and rare scriptural phraseologies.51 What the translation does not convey at all, however, is that large portions of the Hebrew text are written in rhymed prose, that

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is to say, virtually in the form of a maqama, the literary genre of rhymedprose narrative that was immensely popular among Spanish Hebrew poets in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and that was adapted in turn by Immanuel ben Solomon ben Yekutiel of Rome (1261–1328), the author of Mah.berot Immanuel, a collection of maqama narratives that was, arguably, the most celebrated medieval Hebrew literary composition written in Italy. Ibn Adoniyahu was certainly familiar with the Mah.berot, which was first published by Gershom Soncino in Brescia in 1491.52 Indeed, the resemblance to Immanuel’s work goes far beyond the rhymed prose alone. Jacob ben H . ayyim’s autobiography has many of the literary conventions of Immanuel’s narratives. In the first place, Ibn Adoniyahu casts himself—as was the custom of most authors of maqama—in the role of the rhymed-prose narrative’s protagonist, who is typically a fictional representation of the poet himself. Ibn Adoniyahu’s autobiographical narrative opens with the phrase, amar ha-magid, a formulaic expression used in maqama to punctuate the narrative; the phrase is probably best translated as ‘‘the narrator relates,’’ even if it is not always clear to what extent medieval authors distinguished between the historical author and the literary persona of the narrator.53 For example, Immanuel’s Mah.berot regularly begins amar Immanuel ha-meh.aber (Immanuel the author/compiler related). Even more significantly, the ‘‘plot’’ of Ibn Adoniyahu’s autobiographical account appears to be based on a model taken from Immanuel. As Ibn Adoniyahu tells his reader, his happy, comfortable existence is suddenly uprooted by ha-zeman, literally ‘‘Time’’ or ‘‘Fate’’ (though a better translation might be ‘‘Fickle Fortune’’), and then he is tossed to and fro in his wandering until suddenly, walking down the street, he is miraculously saved—in this case, by a stranger, the gentile Daniel Bomberg, who takes him home, employs him, and effectively gives him back his life. Immanuel’s first mah.beret begins in a strikingly similar way.54 Fate (ha-zeman) sends out a royal decree to upset the poet’s life; he is thrust into exile, wandering aimlessly, until he meets his savior, the sar, in whose eyes he finds favor, and who brings him to his home There is no indication in the first chapter of the Mah.berot as to whether the sar is Jewish or gentile, but the third mah.beret, which relates the story of how the sar introduces Immanuel to a nun, with whom he falls madly in love, raises the possibility that the sar too was a gentile.55 Ibn Adoniyahu’s explicit use of the conventions of maqama poetry in general, and those of Immanuel’s Mah.berot in particular, may also be a key

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to reconciling the factual discrepancies between this opening account of the history RB 1525’s inception and the second account at the end of the introduction. There can be little question that the latter is far closer to what actually must have transpired and that it was Ibn Adoniyahu who initiated the project and persuaded Bomberg to publish this new edition of the RB. Why, then, did Ibn Adoniyahu open his introduction with this narrative of salvation (for lack of a better term) in which Bomberg is cast as the project’s initiator? In part it may have been a rhetorical strategy for Ibn Adoniyahu to praise his patron. It may also have been partly a way of exonerating Bomberg in the eyes of Jewish readers so as to convince them that, far from having ulterior (conversionary) motives in publishing the Hebrew Bible (as his previous association with Pratensis might have suggested), he was, rather, truly like Shechem, in love with the ‘‘daughter of Jacob,’’ virtually willing to convert to Judaism. The literary form of the passage, however, was probably more than a mere rhetorical medium for an encomium to his patron. By casting this narrative in the shape of a fictional maqama or an Immanuelesque mah.beret, Ibn Adoniyahu may have been signaling to his reader that his account too was a fiction but that it also was—as David Malkiel has recently argued in regard to Immanuel’s Mah.berot and the poetics behind those compositions— a fiction with a didactic lesson.56 Precisely what lesson Ibn Adoniyahu wished his reader to derive from his narrative may be inferred from the paragraph that follows the narrative, a passage that rather abruptly shifts the argument of the treatise-like introduction away from the story of his life and the history of the RB’s inception: And when I saw that many of the masses, and among them even many groups of sages in our time, in our own generation, value in their hearts neither the Masorah nor any of the methods of the Masorah— as when they ask, What profit can be derived from it for themselves?— and that it [the Masorah] has been nearly forgotten and lost, I bestirred myself57—on account of it being ‘‘a time to act for the Lord’’ (Ps. 119:126)—to show the nations and the princes the value of the Masorah and that, without it, it is impossible to copy Biblical books correctly and properly, not to mention Torah scrolls.58 The masses of people and sages to whom Ibn Adoniyahu refers in this passage are all Jews, none of whom, he complains, value the Masorah as it

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should be appreciated. And it is precisely for this reason—so one must understand—that God chose the Christian Bomberg both to save Ibn Adoniyahu and to restore the Masorah to its rightful place in the Bible. The lesson of the narrative, in other words, is that, because of the Jews’ own failure to appreciate the Masorah properly, it could only fall to a Christian to print such a Bible with the Masorah correctly and properly. Indeed, God Himself must have arranged this fortuitous marriage between a Jew and a gentile in order to ‘‘save’’ the Torah. If nothing else, this remarkable narrative, in which a Christian printer rescues a Jewish scholar by enlisting him to restore the Jewish Bible to its full glory, points to the unusual historical circumstances in which RB 1525 was produced, and in particular to the complicated relationships between Jews and Christians in Venice in the early sixteenth century. The complications in these relationships were epitomized by the movement of figures from one world to the other. As we now know, Ibn Adoniyahu eventually— sometime after 1538—converted to Christianity.59 There is no indication whatsoever in his introduction to RB 1525 that thoughts of conversion were in his mind at the time, nor is there in the text so much as a hint that he had theological or religious sympathies toward Christianity at the time of his work on the edition. Nor was Ibn Adoniyahu the only one of Bomberg’s Jewish employees to praise the printer for his exceptional generosity and native piety, even though he was a Christian and, in the words of the historian Joseph Hakohen (1496–1578), did not have ‘‘a drop of Jewish seed’’ in him.60 Nonetheless, Ibn Adoniyahu’s narrative of salvation maps out the routes by which an intellectual figure could move from one religious culture to another. Ibn Adoniyahu was not the only one of Bomberg’s editors and printers to apostatize (nor was Bomberg the only gentile Venetian printer of Hebrew books to employ apostates), and there has been some scholarly speculation that Bomberg himself was motivated by missionary impulses to publish Hebrew books.61 While Ibn Adoniyahu’s introduction does not cast any direct light on these questions, the very fact that he could relate such a narrative of salvation in which a Jew is saved by a Christian, ‘‘may his [my italics] Rock and Redeemer protect him,’’ points to a new kind of Jewish self-perception and perception of Christians. However porous or fluid were the actual lines of communication between Jewish and Christian society in early sixteenth-century Venice, there is something unprecedented about a cultural environment in which a pious Jew could imagine a Christian as the divinely inspired initiator of a Hebrew Bible with the Masorah.62

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The exceptionality of Ibn Adoniyahu’s narrative is complemented by the singularity of RB 1525 as a book. This edition of the Bible is different in its contents and structure from any previous Bible manuscript produced by Jews in the Middle Ages or printed Bible during the incunable period in the fifteenth century. Does understanding the singularity of the cultural environment that produced this Bible help us appreciate the Bible’s own singular features? We can begin to answer this question by briefly reviewing the history of the Jewish Bible as a book before the sixteenth century.63 During the Middle Ages in Europe, there existed basically three different subgenres of Bibles, each of which had somewhat different shapes in Ashkenaz (Franco-Germany, with some more subtle differences between French and German books), Sepharad, and Italy. 1. Masoretic Bibles: This type tends to comprise a complete Tanakh or a part of the complete Tanakh—the Prophets alone, or the Hagiographa—with, as its name indicates, the Masorah. The format of these Bibles derives directly from that of the earliest Jewish codices produced in the Near East and in North Africa in the ninth through eleventh centuries. The biblical text is laid out in two or three columns, almost always written in large square letters, while between the columns are the abbreviated annotations of the Masorah parva (Mesorah ketanah), and on the top two lines and the bottom three are the lengthier notes of the Masorah magna (Mesorah gedolah), typically written in a semicursive hand in micrography, and often in various designs or figures—in Sepharad, the designs tend to be floral or geometric and reflect Islamic influence; in Ashkenaz, they are frequently in grotesque human or animal shapes that show Gothic influence. Depending on whether the codices were produced in Spain or in Ashkenaz, they are also generally marked by parashah and/or seder signs. In Spain, the Masoretic codices frequently contain at their beginning and end Masoretic lists and treatises like Aaron ben Asher’s Sefer dikdukei ha-te’amim. In Ashkenaz, the biblical text is sometimes ‘‘interversed’’ with the Aramaic Targum Onkelos, that is, each verse of Scripture is followed by the Targum, verse by verse. But aside from these two types of texts—the Masoretic treatises found at the codex’s beginning or end; and the interverse Targum—the Masoretic Bible lacks any other sort of text on its pages.

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These Bibles probably served multiple purposes for different owners (or even the same owner). Some copies were used as model books or tikkunim for scribes wishing to copy Torah scrolls. It is even possible that in some areas, in small towns or villages that did not own a Torah scroll, these codices were used for the liturgical reading of the Bible in the synagogue, at least in the early Middle Ages.64 In Spain, the Masoretic Bible was the most commonly produced type of Bible, and it was probably the type a Jew wishing to own his own Bible would have commissioned for himself. 2. Liturgical Pentateuchs: As its title indicates, the volumes in this subtype are not complete Hebrew Bibles but Pentateuchs accompanied by the haftarot (prophetic readings) and the Five Scrolls as well as other texts that were sometimes read communally, like the Book of Antiochus (recited on Hanukkah) or chapters from Jeremiah and Job (that were read on the fast day of Tisha be-Av). Because of their contents, these codices were clearly intended to accompany, in one way or another, the reading of the Pentateuch and related biblical texts in the synagogue as part of the liturgy, though exactly how they were used is still not certain. Some participants in the synagogue service undoubtedly used them to read along with and follow the public chanting of the weekly reading from a Torah scroll, and thus to fulfill the Talmudic injunction that ‘‘every person is obligated to complete the weekly lectionary readings (parashiyyotav) with the congregation [by reciting] Hebrew Scripture (mikra) twice and the Targum once’’ (BT Berakhot 8a–b). Whether this repeated reading constituted actual study of the Bible or a more ritualistic recitation of the text is a subject deserving more exploration than is possible here. In either case, many of these liturgical Pentateuchs contain the Aramaic Targum, which is sometimes written in the interverse fashion, and sometimes in a separate column. Some French liturgical Pentateuchs leave out the Targum and substitute the commentary of Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo bar Yiz.h.aki, 1040–1105) in its place, while others have both Rashi and the Targum; in Spain, the Aramaic Targum was copied far less frequently, and Rashi was sometimes substituted for it.65 Some liturgical Pentateuchs in turn have the Masorah while others do not. In either case, the Masorah is not the normative feature in the liturgical Pentateuch that it is in the Masoretic Bible.

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When it is found in a liturgical Pentateuch, however, it is written in the same traditional manner as in a Masoretic Bible—in micrography, often in decorative patterns or in figurative representations. 3. Study Bibles: Under this subtype, I group those biblical codices that appear to have been produced specifically for the purposes of study. As noted above, both some Masoretic codices and liturgical Pentateuchs were probably used for study, as the presence of Rashi and/or the Targum on their pages suggests. In the case of the study Bible, however, study appears to have been their paramount purpose inasmuch as either these codices contain multiple commentaries on the page or the commentary occupies so prominent a position on the page that it is fair to say that the codex was produced specifically with the commentary in mind as its main object of study, not the biblical text per se.66 Even so, this subtype overlaps with the other genres. One of its earliest examples, Leipzig MS Heb. 1, probably composed in France in the early thirteenth century, which contains both Masoretic notes of early Ashkenazi sages as well as Rashi’s commentary with comments and additions to his commentary made by later students, is also a liturgical Pentateuch.67 The dating of this volume has been the subject of considerable discussion, but it is worth noting that it uses a page format that is similar to the one later used for the Babylonian Talmud, with the separate components on the page—e.g., the biblical text, Rashi, and the Targum—recorded in what appear to be interlocking blocks. In fact, this page format goes back to the glossed Christian Bible format of the early Middle Ages, from which it was later adapted by Jewish scribes for Hebrew texts with commentaries.68 This last type of Bible format, however, is relatively uncommon. Most biblical commentaries in the Middle Ages were transmitted and preserved not on the pages of biblical codices themselves but in separate volumes called kuntrasim in which the commentary was written in a semicursive, so-called rabbinic script with only lemmata, short phrases from the Bible, intended to key the reader to the comment’s scriptural occasion.69 Exactly how these kuntrasim were studied is also unknown—did students use them with a biblical codex on the table next to them? Or was the Bible presumed to be known by heart? In any case, the utility and advantage of a page with both the biblical text and the commentary on it—and even more so, multiple commentaries—is obvious. On the other hand, the format is far more

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difficult to reproduce by hand in a manuscript than either a Masoretic or liturgical Bible, and as a result, the number of such Bibles is far smaller than either of the other two subgenres. All three subtypes that I have just described are found in Italy as well as in Ashkenaz and Sepharad, but, especially from the late thirteenth century on, Italian Bibles exhibit a few distinctive features that may be relevant for the early printed Hebrew Bible. First, the Hebrew Bible in Italy undergoes a certain process of paring down, for lack of a better term. For example, in contrast to both Ashkenaz and Sepharad, there is a recognizable disregard for the Masorah; even two-column Bibles that look as though they were written to be Masoretic Bibles lack the Masoretic annotations. Similarly, a significant number of liturgical Pentateuchs lack either the Targum or Rashi, and there is a discernible tendency among them to have either the Five Scrolls or the haftarot, but not both. From the later fourteenth century on, one also finds a growing number of codices in which the biblical text is written in a single page-wide column without either the Masorah or the Targum or commentaries on the page. These ‘‘plain’’ Bibles appear to reflect contemporary Italian humanist manuscripts, particularly of classical ancient texts, that emphasize the unadorned core text on the page.70 Finally, Italian Bibles increasingly become smaller in size and more portable, again a sign of the times and the growing popularity of books whose owners wished to use them as an article of daily life. These developments anticipate, to one degree or another, some of the changes that come to the Bible with the advent of print. Nonetheless, it is significant that the early printed Bibles of the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries (before 1517) essentially follow the basic subgenres of the medieval Bible with a few major qualifications.71 First, as Herbert Zafren noted, early Jewish printers most often printed biblical commentaries rather than Bibles themselves.72 Why this was so is not clear. It may have been that a sufficient number of Bibles in manuscript form were still in circulation and that there was simply less commercial demand for Bibles than for commentaries.73 It may also have been that printers hesitated to publish Bibles because of the technical difficulty they faced in setting the type for both the consonantal letters and the vowels in their correct positions.74 In either case, as Zafren has noted, among the approximately fifty editions of complete Bibles, Pentateuchs, Former and Later Prophets, and Hagiographa75 —many of the latter two types published separately—there are several Pentateuchs with Targum and Rashi (e.g.,

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Bologna 1482, Lisbon 1491) or with the haftarot and Five Scrolls (e.g., Hijar 1487–88; Brescia, 1492 and 149376). (There are a few editions that have the Five Scrolls, haftarot, and Targum or Rashi.77) These Bibles appear to reflect the subgenre of the liturgical Pentateuch. Beginning with the Bologna 1482 Pentateuch, these editions not infrequently use the ‘‘Talmudic page format’’ that, as I remarked earlier, goes back to the manuscript age. Print, however, made this format far more feasible to produce than it had been in the manuscript age; and, as a result, it became standard only with printing. In addition, beginning with Joshua Soncino’s 1488 editio princeps of the complete Bible, a number of later editions were published in two-column pages that copy the two-column format found in handwritten Masoretic Bibles, even though they lack the Masorah. The absence of the Masorah may have been due to the technical difficulties of printing in minuscule type that would resemble micrography, which is how the Masorah had always been written in Hebrew Bibles; equally so, it may have been a visible reflex of the general disregard for the Masorah about which Ibn Adoniyahu complained in his introduction, as we saw earlier. This may have been especially the case with the ‘‘pared-down’’ Italian editions. The second of the two editions of the complete Bible printed by Gershom Soncino in several volumes in Brescia, between 1492 and 1494, is in octavo, in a single column on the page, and, as Soncino himself writes in a colophon, was designed to be a portable Bible, clearly mirroring the contemporary Italian manuscript tradition that also regularly produced small, portable Bibles with a single, page-wide column and no other text on the page. While there are numerous editions of individual biblical books or sections like the Prophets or Hagiographa with a single commentary, there are only two editions with two commentaries, both of them printed by Don Samuel D’Ortas in Leiria, Portugal.78 Viewed, then, from the perspective of the medieval and early printed Bibles, RB 1517, with its Targum and single commentary on the entirety of the Bible (and two commentaries without Targum on one or two books), was unprecedented but not entirely a newly conceived book. Essentially, it took the basic structure of the liturgical Pentateuch with Targum and Rashi (or another commentary on the later sections of the Bible) and now provided these ancillaries to the biblical text for the entirety of the Bible (albeit stripped of the haftarot and the utility of having everything requisite for synagogue use present in a single volume).79 In contrast, RB 1525 was a truly new book inasmuch as it is virtually a composite of all three earlier subtypes—the Masoretic Bible (with the

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biblical text and Masorah); the liturgical Pentateuch (with the Targum and Rashi); and the study Bible (with the additional second commentary of Abraham Ibn Ezra on the Pentateuch and other commentators on other biblical books).80 In that sense, it was a kind of ‘‘compleat Bible’’ that attempted to do everything in one volume. It was, in short, a kind of anthology that brought together into a new composition all the previous components and subtypes of the Hebrew Bible, and thereby appealed to diverse Jewish audiences. That appeal is most visible in the decision to print two commentaries on each biblical book and in Ibn Adoniyahu’s specific choices for the second commentaries. By the early sixteenth century, Rashi’s commentary on the Pentateuch had become a kind of universal presence in a Jewish Bible; even if originally Rashi was principally an Ashkenazi authority, his commentaries had attained equally authoritative status in Sepharad as early as the fourteenth century.81 It is therefore no surprise that he is printed in Spanish and Portuguese imprints like Toledano’s 1491 Lisbon Pentateuch, not to mention Italian editions like the 1482 Bologna Pentateuch (and, of course) both editions of the RB. The addition, however, of the commentary of Ibn Ezra on the Pentateuch, and Ibn Ezra, David Kimh.i, and Gersonides—all of them classical commentators deriving from the Sephardi tradition in its larger sense (including, that is, figures from Provence, like David Kimh.i; or Languedoc, like Gersonides)—on books in the Prophets and Hagiographa would have directly appealed to a Sephardi audience of readers, either in Italy itself (including Sephardi refugees in Italy following the Spanish Expulsion in 1492) or, more likely perhaps, for export to the larger postExpulsion Sephardi communities in places like Salonica and Constantinople in the Ottoman Empire.82 This—along with the fact that Ibn Adoniyahu himself was descended from Sephardi Jews—may have been the reason that led him to add these specific commentators rather than their Ashkenazi counterparts like Rashbam or Joseph Kara or Joseph Bekhor Shor; or even more contemporary exegetes, most prominently, the Italian Obadiah Sforno (Bologna, c. 1475–1550).83 Exactly why Ibn Adoniyahu decided to substitute Ibn Ezra in a number of cases for Kimh.i (who had been the main commentator included in the 1517 edition for the Prophets and many of the books of the Hagiographa) is not clear; as I noted earlier, Kimh.i’s commentary on Psalms had been partially censored, and Ibn Adoniyahu may not have wanted to print it for that reason. In general, Ibn Adoniyahu appears to have wished to produce a classicizing edition, and Ibn Ezra was probably

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the most ‘‘classical’’ of all Sephardi commentaries. Yet the addition of Ibn Ezra (and the other Sephardi or Provenc¸al commentators) was attractive not only because it added a second commentary to the page; by including the Sephardi exegetes in RB 1525, Ibn Adoniyahu joined the Sephardi and Ashkenazi communities of readers into a single audience, and effectively produced a new ‘‘canon’’ of classical Jewish exegesis. Even if this was not Ibn Adoniyahu’s intention, his inclusion of the more grammatically and philosophically oriented Sephardi commentators had perceptible repercussions in contemporary Ashkenaz. Indeed, as Elhanan Reiner has suggested, the inclusion of the Sephardi exegetes in the RB seriously challenged the traditional Ashkenazi canon, and even aroused the ire and opposition of some Polish Ashkenazi rabbinic authorities who were not inclined to approve of these rationalist Spanish exegetes and admit them to their curriculum of permitted study.84 As we have already noted, RB 1517 appealed to both Jewish and Christian audiences, albeit (it seems) in slightly different editions. RB 1525 also appealed to both audiences, but now in a single edition. Indeed, it is possible that Ibn Adoniyahu included Ibn Ezra and the other Sephardi commentators with an eye to Christian readers. As one scholar has noted, between the years 500 and 1500 c.e., there may have been no more than a few dozen Christians who could read Hebrew, even the Hebrew text of the Bible, let alone postbiblical writings, with any real facility.85 In the first half of the sixteenth century, however, there appears to have been a dramatic increase in Hebraic literacy among Christians, largely due to the visible rise of Christian Hebraism in all its varieties; and even though most of these Hebraists before the seventeenth century had only a smattering of Hebrew, there were a select few—particularly those with an interest in biblical grammar and philology like Sanctes Pagninus (1470–1541), Conrad Pellican (1478–1556), and Sebastian Muenster (1488–1552)—who read Hebrew with enough facility to handle rabbinic biblical exegetes like Rashi, Kimh.i, and Ibn Ezra.86 In the Latin general introduction to his translation of the Pentateuch, Mikdash Adonai (Basel, 1534–35) Muenster not only cited the three Jewish commentators (and still others) as sources but even quoted verbatim (in the original Hebrew and in Latin translation) from Ibn Adoniyahu’s introduction to RB 1525 regarding the origins of the Masorah.87 In a very recent article, Stephen G. Burnett has documented a far wider use of both editions of the RB among Christian Hebraists in the sixteenth century.88 While it is important

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not to confuse the book’s eventual reception with the intention of its publisher, it is likely that Bomberg was fully cognizant of readers like Muenster and would have wished to target that audience, even if he knew that its principal readers were inevitably going to be Jewish. Among the surviving evidence to corroborate this point is the correspondence between Bomberg himself and the great Christian Hebraist and kabbalist Johannes Reuchlin that took place in the years between 1519 and 1521, and which began with a request by Reuchlin to Bomberg to send him a copy of his edition of Psalms, Proverbs, and Ecclesiastes.89 Historically, the presence of multiple commentaries on the page eventually became the distinguishing feature of the Rabbinic Bible.90 Indeed, the impact of this feature of the book on the history of Jewish reading—with its implicit invitation to comparative exegetical study—remains a subject yet to be explored in the depth it deserves. For Ibn Adoniyahu himself, however, it was less the presence of multiple commentaries on the page than that of the Masorah in its corrected, edited version that was his proudest achievement and what he saw as his edition’s most important element. As Penkower has demonstrated, Ibn Adoniyahu understood the Masorah’s importance on multiple levels—the homiletical, halakhic, and, most importantly, kabbalistic. But there was an additional feature that Ibn Adoniyahu attributed to the Masorah that went beyond its cognitive contributions to all these levels of knowledge—an intrinsic importance that was, arguably, unprecedented in the entire history of the Jewish Bible. Whether Ibn Adoniyahu himself fully appreciated the radical significance of this new feature is unclear, but it was, in many respects, among RB 1525’s most important legacies to the subsequent history of the Jewish Bible—that is, the Bible as claimed by Jews to be their own. The status of the Masorah—by this term, I am referring to the entire system of Masoretic annotations that go back to the early biblical codices of the ninth through eleventh centuries, including both the Masorah magna (Mesorah gedolah) and the Masorah parva (Mesorah ketanah)—during the Middle Ages was distinctly complicated, even ambiguous. On the one hand, as we have seen, the presence of the Masorah—whether written in straight lines or in decorative or figurative patterns—on the pages of biblical codices, particularly Masoretic codices, was a conventional, virtually necessary presence. Furthermore, such Masoretic codices, particularly model books (sefarim mugahim) or tikkunim were used by scribes to copy Torah scrolls

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for liturgical use.91 On the other hand, classical rabbinic literature—the Babylonian Talmud in particular—contains a number of quotations and citations of the biblical text that differ from the Masoretic one, and in their discourse about the biblical text rabbinic sages throughout the Middle Ages (and even into the modern period) evinced a distinct ambivalence toward the Masorah as the definitive authority for deciding upon the correct biblical text. In rabbinic discourse, this ambivalence extended toward the Masorah in general. Most articulations of this ambivalence are recorded either in collections of rabbinic responsa or in scribal manuals, largely because the question of the Masorah’s authority tended to come up less as a theoretical or ideological topic than as a matter of practical import every time a questionable detail of orthography or pronunciation or spacing was found in a Torah scroll and needed to be approved or corrected. The basic problem was as follows: according to rabbinic halakhah, a single mistaken or incorrectly written letter or orthographic detail invalidates a Torah scroll for liturgical use.92 On the other hand, there were different traditions of orthography, particularly in regard to plene and defective spellings in the consonantal text.93 To add to the complications in making a decision as to the correct form, there were competing sources of halakhic authority and differing procedures for arriving at a decision: (1) following the majority of existing Torah scrolls, a practice in line with the general rabbinic doctrine to follow the majority in cases of halakhic doubt (cf. Exodus 23:2);94 (2) following the readings found in model biblical codices (sefarim mugahim) and scribal exemplars (tikkunim) as well as Masoretic codices with the Masoretic annotations (sifrei masoret); (3) following stated attestations in the Babylonian Talmud to correct readings, particularly in cases where those readings involve the determination of halakhot (legal rulings); or (4) following midreshei aggadot (rabbinic homiletical interpretations that, in the Middle Ages, included those found in the Zohar, the great mystical treatise believed to be of classical rabbinic authorship) that were based on specific textual readings.95 In his comprehensive survey of the different medieval (and postmedieval) rabbinic views on the question of ‘‘fixing’’ the Torah text, B. Barry Levy has shown that while following the Masorah was not a neglected procedure, it was by no means privileged or even a primary source of authority in deciding upon the correct consonantal text. In fact, there existed a spectrum of varying attitudes toward its relative importance.96 For example,

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Abraham ibn Ezra (1098–1164), in the introduction to his Pentateuch commentary, announced that he would ignore the explanations (ta’ameihem) of the Masoretes (specifically towards plene and defective readings), and was even more dismissive about homilies based on such Masoretic distinctions, which, he wrote, ‘‘are good only for children.’’97 In contrast, Meir haLevi Abulafia (1165–1244, known as the Ramah), the author of Masoret seyag la-Torah (1227), one of the earliest systematic attempts to fix the definitive text of the Torah on the basis of corrected scrolls (or model books) (sefarim mugahim) and masorot, relied upon the Masorah when it was unambiguous but in cases of doubt followed the majority; it is not entirely clear if that was a majority of Torah scrolls or codices.98 Ramah’s attitude to the Masorah was one of the more positive ones. R. Shlomo ben Aderet (ca. 1235–1310, known as Rashba), the Spanish rabbinic authority whose responsum on the subject became the most widely circulated and frequently cited source, emphatically stated that, in all cases involving a halakhic decision, one followed the Babylonian Talmud; in all other cases, including those involving plene and defective spellings, one followed the majority of readings in scrolls.99 Similarly, the Provenc¸al sage Menahem Meiri (ca. 1249–1316) noted the uncertainty and unreliability both of scribal exemplars and of Masoretic treatises and midrashim, and followed Rashba in stating a strong preference for the Talmudic reading in all textual points used in making halakhic decisions.100 The position that the Masorah held in Jewish halakhic circles before the early sixteenth century was, then, far from unanimous, and certainly not the absolute, unquestioned one it ultimately came to assume.101 Ibn Adoniyahu’s opening statement in which he complained of the neglect and ambivalent status of the Masorah, quoted earlier in this article, was a realistic description of the state of Masoretic affairs at the time. Indeed, it is precisely in light of that state that we can appreciate the importance Ibn Adoniyahu attached to the Masorah. We can begin by noting the rhetorical strategy Ibn Adoniyahu adopted in introducing his position. He did not begin by reviewing the halakhic positions I have just reviewed (most of which centered around questions of the consonantal text). Instead, he approached the topic historically, by presenting and refuting the views of three scholars who, if not his contemporaries, lived ‘‘nearer our time’’ and who—either in their biblical commentaries or biblical grammatical treatises (but not in halakhic documents like that of responsa literature)—had proposed historicizing theories regarding the origins of the keri and ketiv

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pattern (which ibn Adoniyahu took as emblematic, pars pro toto, for the Masorah in its entirety). By the very act of couching his views within this historicizing if exegetical frame rather than a halakhic one, Ibn Adoniyahu was already making a significant departure from previous rabbinic reflection upon the Masorah. His decision also reflected the new humanistic, virtually historical approach that was beginning at that time to characterize the study of the Bible—even if, as we shall see, the solution he offered was a radically ahistoricizing one in other respects. The three scholars Ibn Adoniyahu challenged were David Kimh.i (1160– 1235), Profiat Duran (1350–1415), and Isaac Abravanel (1437–1508).102 Both Kimh.i and Duran had proposed, in slightly different versions, the idea that the keri/ketiv systems originated either during or shortly after the Babylonian exile (in the sixth century b.c.e.) ‘‘when the sacred books were lost and scattered about, and those wise men who were skilled in the Scriptures were dead, the men of the Great Synagogue [anshei keneset hagedolah] found different readings in the sacred books; and in every place where they met with a doubtful and perplexing case they wrote down a word in the text, but did not put the vowels to it, or wrote it in the margin and left it out in the text, not being sure as to what they found.’’103 In other words, the keri/ketiv annotations were evidence of a state of unresolvable confusion into which the biblical text had fallen due to historical catastrophe. Abravenal, in turn, had rejected the views of both Kimh.i and Duran on both logical and theological grounds and had offered his own solution. Ibn Adoniyahu essentially adapted Abravenal’s refutation of the two earlier scholars, but he argued that Abravanel’s own solution to the keri/ketiv problem was even more problematic. While Abravanel believed that the Torah text of Ezra was ‘‘perfect,’’ he had conceded that some of the ‘‘anomalous expressions,’’ including some instances of keri/ketiv, were the result of ‘‘carelessness on the part of the sacred speaker or writer.’’ Abravanel was referring here specifically to Jeremiah, who happens to have more instances of keri/ketiv than almost any other book in the Bible and who, in Abravanel’s view, had been imperfectly schooled in the details of Hebrew grammar. Abravanel’s willingness to consider the latter possibility was itself an indication of the new historical and human perspective that he brought to his reading of the Bible, if not also of humanistic influence upon his work.104 Nonetheless, for Ibn Adoniyahu, this idea—that a prophet could be either careless or grammatically deficient—was so unacceptable as to be

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virtually scandalous. In its place, Ibn Adoniyahu proposed a radically rehistoricizing view: the Masorah was not a ‘‘late’’ phenomenon in any way. It was Sinaitic in origin. The basis for his argument was an oft-cited Talmudic passage in BT Nedarim 37b in which, in the course of interpreting Nehemiah 8:8, R. Isaac stated that ‘‘the pronunciation of certain words according to the scribes [mikra sofrim], the removal of [the letter] vav by the Scribes [‘itur sofrim], the keri ve-lo ketiv [where a word is read even though it is not written] and the ketiv ve-lo keri [where a word is written but not read] are laws of Moses given from Mount Sinai [halakhah le-Mosheh miSinai].’’105 The latter is a special category used in early rabbinic literature— and increasingly so in the Babylonian Talmud—to legitimate various rabbinic enactments that appear to have little biblical corroboration.106 While the Nedarim passage mentions only four types of textual phenomena, Ibn Adoniyahu extrapolated from the four to all of the Masorah and extended Sinaitic authority to its entirety (citing, as support, a responsum of Rashba!). In this way, he not only defended the integrity of the Masorah. He made it the original, exclusive determinant of the biblical text, locating the Masorah’s origins in the same revelatory moment as that of the Bible itself.107 As Penkower has demonstrated in his meticulous study of Ibn Adoniyahu’s editorial techniques, Ibn Adoniyahu believed that there existed a single original text of the Torah as well as a single original text of the Masorah.108 He did not presume that he had direct access to the original biblical text, nor did he imagine that there survived a trustworthy copy of it, but he did believe he could reconstruct it on the basis of the ‘‘accurate manuscripts’’ that he was able to collect; the same belief and approach characterized his reconstruction of the original Masorah. Like other humanist scholars, the text he reconstructed was an eclectic one, but in contrast to most of his Christian contemporaries, Ibn Adoniyahu was an extremely responsible and conservative textual critic, particularly when it came to emendation; as a matter of principle, he refused to emend the text on the basis of conjecture (sevara) and sought sources in earlier manuscripts.109 According to Penkower’s analyses, it does not seem that Ibn Adoniyahu had a fixed or systematic method of emendation or of deciding between conflicting readings (whether between biblical manscripts, between a biblical manuscript and a Masoretic note, or between contradictory Masoretic notes), but it is remarkable how few instances there are in which Penkower cannot identify Ibn Adoniyahu’s ad hoc reasoning for each specific case.

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As Ibn Adoniyahu reconstructed it, the Masorah—in its three forms (Masorah magna, Masorah parva, and Masorah finalis), all of them represented in the RB—was both a critical apparatus to the biblical text and a lexicon and concordance. Yet by ascribing a Sinaitic origin to the Masorah, Ibn Adoniyahu also transformed the Masorah into a text in its own right, with a meaning of its own—as a source (like the Bible itself) for interpretations, homilies, and even legal deductions. As Ibn Adoniyahu argued in his introduction, the Masorah had already been used as a source for halakhic explanations by Mordechai b. Hillel (d. 1310) in his Sefer Mordechai and by the Maharam, Meir b. Baruch (1230–93), in his responsa.110 But Ibn Adoniyahu not only breathed new life into this idea; his Sinaitic ascription also provided a textual rationale for this use of the Masorah, which was also, of course, perfectly in accord with his belief in its kabbalistic significance. Every Masoretic enumeration was written, he wrote, ‘‘for some great purpose (le-z.orekh gadol), and not for nothing (le-h.inam), and this proves the sanctity of our sacred Torah, and that [these signs] were not designed for no reason (ve-lo nismenu le-h.inam).111 In the century following RB 1525’s publication, as Penkower shows, Ibn Adoniyahu’s claim was corroborated by a marked increase in the number of sermons and homilies delivered in synagogues and published in books specifically devoted to interpretations of the Masorah.112 Within those hundred years, Ibn Adoniyahu’s edition was itself republished twice, in 1546–48 and in 1568–69, a clear indication of its popularity and wide acceptance.113 By the early seventeenth century, Ibn Adoniyahu’s edition of the biblical text had clearly come to be accepted in the Jewish world as the universal standard.114 It is obvious, but nonetheless worth repeating, that only a printed book of this kind—namely, a single definitively edited text of a book like the Bible, which had previously circulated in so many, all of them slightly different, manuscript copies, and with an equally definitively edited apparatus like the Masorah that also had previously circulated with many variants—could ever have attained such standard acceptance and wide circulation to become the fixed text. Finally, as Penkower has also noted, by virtue of its authoritative printed status, RB 1525 also marked the triumph of the Sephardi text type of the Bible over the Ashkenazi text type, a victory of one biblical textual tradition over all its rivals that had never occurred in the centuries of handwritten transmission of the biblical text.115 The greatest impact of Ibn Adoniyahu’s edition upon the Jewish Bible—in particular, upon the Jewishness of the Jewish Bible—came,

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however, indirectly, through the RB’s impact upon Christian attitudes to the Hebrew Bible and the Jewish response that followed upon those Christian attitudes. The full story of this chapter in the history of the Bible is too lengthy and complicated to repeat in detail here, and it has been extensively traced by Moshe Goshen-Gottstein and, more recently, by others.116 In the early and late sixteenth century, Catholics and Protestants heatedly disputed the antiquity of what was essentially known as ‘‘the Masoretic Bible’’ and its relation to the Latin Vulgate (and the Septuagint) and their respective authenticity and originality.117 While the Council of Trent (1545–63) affirmed the absolute authority of the Vulgate, Protestants supported both the antiquity of the Hebraica Veritas (in its Masoretic form) and the sensus litteralis of the Hebrew Bible for which they found support and elucidation in classical and medieval Jewish commentaries. By the end of the seventeenth century, however, most sophisticated Christian biblical scholars, even in Protestant Germany, had become biblical ‘‘philologists’’ for whom the Masoretic text was essentially a veil to see through and to discover behind it the ‘‘original’’ biblical text, typically by means of comparative study with other versions, including the Samaritan Pentateuch (which had been first introduced in Europe in 1616). A major issue animating this new philology was the character of biblical vocalization and accentuation, a topic that took on special urgency as Christians realized that many of the differences between the traditional (or Masoretic) Hebrew text and the Latin or Greek versions could be understood as simple differences of vowelization. By vocalizing the Hebrew text differently, its meaning could also be radically emended and thereby brought into line either with the Vulgate or, more commonly, with more contemporary theological and ideological beliefs. These emendations, which proliferated exponentially as the scholarship grew, stood behind the new critical editions being produced by figures like the Benjamin Kennicott (1718–83) and J. G. Eichhorn (1752–1827) as well as the many new translations into modern European languages. It was against this background of theologically motivated Christian biblical scholarship and vernacular translation that the Masorah reemerged as a ‘‘Jewish issue’’ in eighteenth-century Germany and as one of the motivating concerns of the early Haskalah or Jewish Enlightenment. Appalled by what they saw as the capricious liberties that Christian scholars were taking with the traditional Hebrew text in both their critical-philological works and their sophisticated new translations, and equally embarrassed by the impoverished state of contemporary Jewish biblical scholarship (and well

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aware of the attractiveness of the new translations by Christians to theologically naı¨ve Jewish readers), Moses Mendelssohn (1729–86) and Solomon Dubno (1738–1813) undertook in 1778 a new edition of the Pentateuch that would include a German translation of the highest literary order as well as a Hebrew commentary and a separate set of notes concerning the Masoretic text. As scholars have shown, this new edition, eventually published under the title of Sefer netivot ha-shalom (1780–83), was intended to serve multiple purposes, but foremost among them was the intent to defend the precise lettering and vocalization of the traditional Jewish text as determined by the Masorah and explicated by rabbinic interpretation.118 Mendelssohn wrote: For us, the Torah is an inheritance. . . . Our Sages decreed for us the Masorah and erected a fence for the Torah and for the commandments. . . . We should not move from their straight path . . . [to follow] the conjectures and deliberations of a grammarian or editor drawn from his own mind. We do not live from the mouth [of such an emendator], but from that which our trustworthy masters of the Masorah transmitted to us.119 Mendelssohn’s statement brings us full circle from the historical moment that led to Ibn Adoniyahu’s edition of the accurate Hebrew biblical text according to the Masorah. Whatever may have been the Masorah’s ‘‘original’’ purpose or function when it was first compiled by the Masoretes in the seventh through tenth centuries, by the Middle Ages it had acquired an assured place as an integral part of the biblical page as inscribed by Jews in their various types of biblical codices. Ibn Adoniyahu, for the first time, made the Masorah the unconditional and absolute determinant of the biblical text’s accuracy and endowed it with an authority and significance that was borrowed from that of the Bible: namely, Sinaitic sanctity. If the Hebrew language and the Torah written in its words were together the visible sign of God’s love for the Jews, Ibn Adoniyahu saw it as his mission to repair (le-takein) the Masorah so that it remain (le-hash’irah) pure and bright and ‘‘show the nations and the princes her beauty, for she is fair in appearance.’’120 He could not have foreseen the consequences of his achievement. In an age when Jews and Christians would compete over ownership of the correct biblical text, the Masorah would indeed become the literal embodiment for Jews of the purity and brightness of the Jewish Bible, its beauty, and its Jewishness.

CHAPTER 5

Sixteenth-Century Jewish Internal Censorship of Hebrew Books Joseph R. Hacker

While Christian censorship of Hebrew books in the sixteenth century has received considerable scholarly attention, both after the opening of the Vatican archives in 18811 and, more recently, the opening of the Archive of the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith in 1998,2 Jewish censorship of Hebrew prints, exercised by Jewish rabbinic or lay authorities, has rarely received attention.3 Although researchers have explored the participation of Jewish scholars in the process of Christian expurgation,4 very little is known about Jewish censorship. The lack of archival documentation is the main cause for the state of knowledge in the field, but no one has attempted to check systematically the Hebrew prints for traces of Jewish censorship. This article will attempt to do so on the basis of the literary evidence and the examination of some Hebrew prints printed in the second part of the sixteenth century. The paper addresses four major questions: (1) Was there any Jewish censorship in Italy performed to force contemporary authors or entrepreneurs either to abide by certain rules or to conform to halakhic norms or a widely accepted theology? (2) Were the Jewish public and its leadership engaged in avoiding or erasing heretical views or improper issues from Hebrew prints? (3) Was there a mechanism of control operated or activated by rabbis or by community leaders to examine the prints, before or after print, from the Jewish point of view? (4) Could it be that the Christian

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printers and their Jewish editors and correctors interfered in the text, eliminated sentences, erased expressions, or even extracted sections to accommodate the text to certain Jewish demands or requirements, in the same manner as they acted to satisfy the Christian authorities by avoiding antiChristian positions?

Attempts to Curb the Hebrew Printing Industry by a Communal Control System Very few communal documents that address printing matters or policies of publication in Hebrew have survived. But we do possess at least four ordinances by separate sixteenth-century communities that address printing policy. One ordinance was even renewed, at least once. The first is an ordinance from Salonica, in the Ottoman Empire. In August 1529, the sages (marbiz.ei Torah) of the city, some of whom were officially appointed as rabbis in several of the city’s communities, convened; and, after lamenting the fact that improper material had been printed, decided: No Jew will be allowed to print henceforth any manuscript without the consent and the approval of the Rabbis of six communities of the city. The transgressor of this ordinance will be banned and if some people will not abide to this rule, the printers and the buyers will be excommunicated. Even if the printing process was already on its way, they will not be allowed to complete it, only by the consent of all the six Rabbis, who have to convene together at one place and approve their approbation by signature.5 This ordinance does not differentiate among the printing of new materials and books by contemporary authors, books and writings of former scholars, and books that were part of the accepted consensus. Books printed in Salonica after 1529 do not show traces of the implementation of this ordinance, and it was probably never executed. Nevertheless, the rabbis were probably aggravated by the print of ‘‘vanity’’ and popular literature in the vernacular, and their decision led to the departure of the famous printer Gershom Soncino from Salonica to Istanbul after 1529.6 It proves that the Jewish establishment was concerned with the religious, moral, and cultural

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consequences of an uncontrolled printing industry at the beginning of the sixteenth century. The Catholic Church was concerned with these issues much earlier, and already in 1478–79 acted to establish press censorship by authorizing the University of Cologne to oversee and to inspect the new industry. But the first known call for a book to be censored dates from 1470, and it was intended against incompetent editorship. Therefore, it is very unlikely that the Jewish establishment was unaware of the possible impact that the new industry of printing might have had on religious, moral, and political issues for the public, and for its leadership in particular. Although Hebrew printing started around 1470 in Italy (Rome?)7, we do not encounter any documentation on attempts to regulate and control the printing of Hebrew in Italy until 1554. Could the fact that during the first decades of Hebrew printing (up to 1500) only four of the approximately 140 Hebrew books first printed were products of contemporary authors have made the Jewish leadership less sensitive to the hazards that went along with the printing initiative?8 Or perhaps the communal organs did take measures to control Hebrew printing by the first Jewish printers of Hebrew books, but the lack of documentation is to blame for our notion of late interference. Be that as it may, Judah ben Yeh.iel Messer Leon of Naples tried to prohibit the study of Gersonides’ commentary on the Torah,9 shortly after its print in Mantua around 1474–75, by threatening excommunication.10 Therefore, it is clear that the risks of printing were publicly known and discussed by Jewish scholars in Italy in the first decade of Hebrew printing. A second ordinance dealing with printing Hebrew books was decreed on 21 June 1554 in Ferrara by some leading rabbinic figures and community leaders in several northern Italian communities. The decision reads as follows: Printers shall not be permitted to print any hitherto unpublished book except with permission of three duly ordained Rabbis, and the consent of the heads of one of the Communities nearest the place of printing, if the city in which the book is printed is a small one. If it is a large city, the agreement of the heads of that Community shall suffice provided the consent of three ordained Rabbis is obtained as said above. The names of the Rabbis and the heads of the Communities sponsoring the book shall be printed at the beginning of the volume. Otherwise no one shall be permitted to buy the book under

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penalty of a fine of twenty-five scuti. The fine shall be given to the charity fund of the city of the transgressor.11 Scholars have emphasized the proximity between the date of this decree and those of the confiscation and burning of the Talmud and Talmudic literature in Rome, Venice, and other Italian cities.12 Therefore they saw in this decree a response by the Jewish leadership to the burning of the Talmud and the confiscation of Hebrew books. The rabbis, according to this assumption, had to remove from the books blasphemies and attacks against Christianity. Nevertheless, others pointed out that this decree had nothing to do with expurgation or emendation of Talmudic materials from antiChristian passages or with censoring or curbing the publication of formerly published books. The ordinance does try to control, explicitly, only ‘‘hitherto unpublished books.’’13 Examination of later Hebrew prints in Italy proves that Christian printers and their Jewish collaborators, as well as contemporary authors, show no compliance with these demands. Very few books were printed with the consent of rabbis and community leaders, and hitherto unpublished books were printed without consultation with Jewish authorities.14 An attempt to renew these ordinances in 1587 was undertaken in Ferrara by several rabbis. They claimed that unworthy books were printed by contemporary authors.15 Meir Benayahu conjectured that the Ferrara ordinances were intended to expurgate books written by legal decisors (posekim), but those who initiated the 1587 renewal attempt argued that the criticized books contained vanity, heresy, and false views, not faulty or erroneous law. There is no textual basis for Benayahu’s assumption that the expression de-lo ke-hilkhata ninhu refers to halakhah; rather, it means: ‘‘they are not proper.’’ In a manuscript that contains the Ferrara ordinances there are critical notes on their content written by the contemporary Rabbi Moses Basola, who commented on this regulation: ‘‘it is a pity that they paid no attention to the books printed by Solomon Attia and the commentary on the Talmudic legends newly printed and other vanities, which deserve to be burned and prohibited to be read.’’16 Therefore, we may assume that their endeavor was directed against the genre of philosophical treatises, homilies, and biblical and aggadic exegesis. Although Jewish scholars served as censors to oversee Christian censorship of books, their activity was not due to the implementation of the Ferrara ordinances of 1554 or 1587. It is an accepted view of all scholars that these censors were involved only in the expurgation of Hebrew books from

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anti-Christian passages, to prevent further burning and confiscation of Hebrew books by the Christian authorities.17 Even though the attempts in Italy to restrain the printing endeavor by forcing authors and publishers to submit their manuscripts to control before print were a failure, these ordinances strongly influenced other Jewish communities. The Council of the Four Lands in Poland enacted a similar ordinance in 1594 (its wording based on the Ferrara regulation), which was embraced by several communities.18 The aim was to regulate, control content, avoid competition between printers and publishers, and protect writers’ privileges. Unlike in Italy, the leadership of the Polish and Lithuanian Jewry managed to control the printing industry. Their ordinance, which forced authors and publishers to get approbations from rabbis and community leaders before print, was followed in the seventeenth century.19 The fourth ordinance devoted to press control is from the synod of Frankfurt, which was convened in 1603. The decrees were in effect long before 1603 in some German communities and were adopted at the synod by the distinguished communities of the region (for example, Frankfurt, Worms, Mainz, Fulda, Friedberg, Co¨ln, and Koblenz).20 The ordinance pertaining to print reads as follows: No Jew in our provinces shall be permitted to publish any book, new or old, at Basel21 or any other city in Germany, without the permission of three rabbis from a city that has rabbinic courts; if anyone transgresses this law and publishes the books without permission, no man shall buy the books under the punishment of excommunication.22 Here again, as with the former ordinances in Salonica, Ferrara, and Poland, the leaders of Jewish communities in Germany were trying to control the Hebrew printing industry by forcing authors and publishers to submit their manuscripts to formally appointed rabbinic authorities in order to get the required permit or approbations before publication. Apparently, the Jewish communal leaders were trying to secure the ‘‘proper character’’ of a forthcoming publication; revoke any heretical, impious, spurious, or embarrassing elements; and avoid criticism of the Jewish establishment. As in Italy, they had no power to prevent a work from being printed. Their leverage was to ban the book and to excommunicate both those who were involved in the printing process and its readership after publication. We lack

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evidence for the implementation of this ordinance, but the occurrence of approbations in books printed in the seventeenth century is quite frequent, and some books include even a consent for printing. Following this data we may conclude that although it seems that the Ferrarese attempts to control Hebrew printing in the sixteenth century in Italy failed,23 they nonetheless had a strong impact on other Jewish communities outside of Italy in the late sixteenth century. This fact proves that the ordinances concerning printing were widely known and publicized and that they appealed to the Jewish leadership. What made them a failure in Italy and a success elsewhere? Probably the main reason for the ineffectiveness of efforts by the Italian Jewish leadership was that officially only gentile printers were allowed to print Hebrew books in mid-sixteenth-century Venice and most other locations in Italy.24 Since Jews could mostly function in this industry only as silent partners or employees of Christian publishers and printers, the Jewish establishment had very limited power to control print. It seems that therefore they penalized (in 1544 and in 1587) the customers, not the producers,25 while the Polish rabbis penalized the printers and all those involved in the production. Does this mean that there was no effective Jewish control or censorship of the contents of Hebrew books in Italy? Scrutiny of some sixteenth-century Hebrew books, which were expurgated after publication, might suggest a different picture.

Jewish Expurgation of Italian Prints in the Sixteenth Century Leh.em Yehudah, Sabbioneta, 1554 After the papal condemnation of the Talmud and Talmudic literature in August 1553, the Congregation of the Holy Office in Rome ordered the burning of the Talmud everywhere in the city states in Italy and in their colonies on September 12. On Saturday, 21 October 1553, thousands of Talmudic tractates, hundreds of Alfasi copies and other Hebrew books, were publicly burned in the Piazza San Marco in Venice.26 The entire edition of 1,500 copies of Judah Lerma’s book Leh.em Yehudah, a commentary on the Mishnah tractate Avot (The Sayings of the Fathers), which was still in the printer’s shop, was burned. According to the colophon of the only copy that survived the flames,27 its printing was concluded on 15 Elul (⳱ 27 August 1553) at the printing house of Alvise Bragadin in Venice. Shortly thereafter, a new edition of the book was printed in Sabbioneta, in the

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summer of 1554, by Cornelio Adel Kind in the printing house of the Jewish printer Tuviah Foa.28 Adel Kind, who formerly had been a central figure in the Hebrew printing enterprise in Venice, became very active in Foa’s enterprise for a period of two years. He was involved in the printing of the second impression of Leh.em Yehudah, which had been rewritten and substantially expanded by its author. The main change was the addition of several discourses on religious and ethical topics in each of its six chapters. The examination of the second edition shows that it was not expurgated, either from anti-Christian passages29 or by Jewish internal censorship, although its printing was done (started? finished?) in the month of Av, shortly after the legislation of the Ferrara ordinance, on 21 June. Perusal of several copies of the second edition30 has shown that the book was expurgated after print. The expurgation was performed on two of the new discourses in chapters 1 and 2. In the discourse on free will in chapter 1, some copies are missing folios 9a–16b, because they were either cut out or replaced by two newly printed folios: 9a–10b. Thus, in these copies the long discussion on predestination; free will; the dependence of men and their nature and destiny on the stars; and the influence of celestial motions and entities on nature, people, and historical events; was erased. In chapter 2, the discourse on the benefit of prayer on folios 33a–37a, was either cut out or newly printed on one folio (33b), thus omitting the whole discussion on the futility of prayer intended to alter the fate and fortune of the world and its creatures. According to the author, all deeds, even fulfilling commandments, are predestined and a person can only pray for God’s help to imbue him with the right concentration of thought (kavanah), but his deeds are not changeable. The author, unlike previous Jewish scholars (like Abraham bar H . iyya), attributes to the stars complete power to determine deeds and events, without giving God power to overcome these astral powers. Most of the examined copies were intact; some were either partially censored (one of the discourses)31 or partially vandalized (the folios cut off); and one copy was censored and replaced with new printed folios in both discourses. What caused these changes and alterations in the printed second edition? Besides Lerma’s belief in predestination; the impetus for the changes may have been his astrological beliefs (although they do not include magical or divinatory beliefs), which were not compatible with human free will to act and follow the commandments or with God’s omnipotence; and his belief in celestial influences, including his notion that

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heavenly bodies caused organic or natural events. In addition, his argumentation was often based on polemic and refutations of Maimonides’ writings and opinions. All these raise the possibility that his book was met with harsh antagonism from the rabbinic and lay establishment of Italian Jewry. It might not be a far-fetched assumption to assume that the Jewish leadership—which showed its sensitivity to the precarious conditions following the Pope’s attack on Hebrew books and the burning of books by lay authorities—was keen to ensure that nobody would break the fences from within. Therefore they forced the author to delete some of his radical views from the copies of the book that were still in the printer’s possession.32 Although belief in astrology and celestial influences was widespread in medieval and early modern societies,33 the sixteenth century saw growing criticism of astrology in Italy.34 Public practice and belief in astrology were widespread, but Judah Lerma tried to build a whole theology on the basis of astral influences that ran against Jewish doctrines. Maimonides, who was a harsh critic of astrology,35 was chosen by him as an adversary and disputant, but such a tactic was a miscalculation, since Maimonides was still adored in Italy and considered a great authority on issues of faith and Jewish law.36 Therefore, despite the fact that belief in celestial influences, and even in judicial astrology, was popular in Jewish scholarly circles and in public opinion in Spain, Provenc¸e, and Byzantium in the late Middle Ages,37 the reaction was harsh and swift. In Italy itself the belief in natural astrology was widespread in Jewish scholarly circles,38 although some of the scholars (like Azariah de Rossi) opposed it.39 Jewish astronomers and astrologers were hired by Italian rulers, noblemen, and popes, and some of them were widely known celebrities.40 Thus, even though the intellectual climate was in favor of such views, the extreme ideas of Lerma, expressed and printed in a delicate situation, brought about a harsh and immediate reaction from the Jewish leadership. Leh.em Yehudah was probably the first printed Hebrew book expurgated by Jewish censorship after the Ferrara synod in 1554. Azariah de’ Rossi’s Me’or einayim (The Light of the Eyes), Mantua, 1573–75 Unlike the expurgation of Leh.em Yehudah, which was overlooked by scholars and left no traces in historical documentation, the controversy

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generated by Me’or einayim earned vast publicity.41 The printing of Azariah’s erudite and innovative study of history and chronology, with its novel interpretation of the Talmudic and midrashic aggadot, was finished on 18 November 1573. The book caused an uproar in rabbinic and establishment circles in northern Italy.42 Some scholars read the book before publication and voiced their reservations, either regarding his claim that the sages (‘h.azal) erred in their chronology43 or his interpretation of some aggadic passages.44 Shortly after publication, on the initiative of Isaac Foa of Reggio, a group of rabbis in Venice took action and requested that no Jew should own or read the book unless he holds a written permit from the sages of his city. Rabbis and leaders of several communities in northern Italy joined this initiative, and some advised their flocks not to read the book. Judging from the fact that the book was criticized even before its publication, the reaction to it was not a surprise. Although Robert Bonfil claims that the rabbis of Venice who signed the circular letter, and those of other communities who joined the initiative of restrictions, were minor figures,45 Azariah felt forced to go to Venice to settle the issues. Azariah agreed to add to the book Moses Provenzali’s hassaga (animadversion) of his chronological thesis as well as his own response to it, printing both at the end of the book. To appease critics, he was also forced to replace three sections in the book with new text and insert them into the impression (fols. 52–53, 81–82, 87–88). These and other changes and additions (like two printed folios at the end of the book46 and his other addenda) caused a considerable delay in the book’s printing and distribution. The printing was concluded only on the eve of Passover 1575. Although Azariah managed to publish his book without major concessions, his tribulations and economic losses were abundant. Even if the signatories of the circular letter were not the most celebrated halakhic authorities of their age, the fact is that, even in the eighteenth century, people in Italy who wanted to study the book still needed written permits from their rabbis.47 Meanwhile the book was criticized and banned by some sages in Safed (including Rabbi Joseph Karo) and by Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel (the Maharal of Prague), thus hampering the prospects of selling the book. From 1575 until his death in 1577, Azariah’s economic condition deteriorated and poverty and sickness took over.48 The expenses incurred by the long process of production and the hardships of distribution ruined him economically.49

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Menachem de Lonzano’s Shtei yadot (Two Hands), Venice, 1618 Lonzano, a poet, linguist, homilist, and Lurianic kabbalist, published several of his own books and some midrashic texts in the Ottoman Empire and in Italy. In his book Shtei yadot he reprinted (inter alia) his book Derekh h.ayim (Way of Life), which had been printed earlier, separately, in Istanbul in 1575.50 Lonzano was widely known for his polemic style and his blunt remarks. In the first edition of Derekh h.ayim he included a long polemical section comprising argumentation against the study of philosophy and against some of the great Jewish philosophers of the Middle Ages.51 The scholars he attacked were Rabbi Samuel ben H.ofni, Maimonides, Levi ben Gershom (Ralbag), Abraham ibn Ezra, Joseph Albo, and Bah.ya ibn Paquda (and his book H . ovot ha-levavot [The Duties of the Heart]). Later on he criticized contemporary scholars too. The first half of this section was reprinted in Shtei yadot, the Venetian edition of the book, but the second half, which contained the attacks on the aforementioned scholars, was omitted (thus it can be found only in the first print).52 This fierce attack on famous and influential scholars from the past who enjoyed both prestige and authority among the Jewish people was deleted from Lonzano’s book either by the author or on the initiative of the publisher or the editor who worked in the Venetian printing house of Bragadin.53 It becomes evident, also from this example, that in Italy the public would not tolerate such a vehement attack on rabbinic authorities to be printed. As in the case of Azariah de Rossi, undermining the legitimacy and authority of the sages, ancient or medieval, was opposed by the Italian Jewish establishment and therefore removed from the Venetian edition of the book. There are apparent similarities in the three cases examined above, which suggest some conclusions: 1. Jewish authorities in Italy activated no compulsory or mandatory censorship before printing, even after 1554 (the Ferrara ordinance). Even wide and open criticism before print, in the case of Me’or einayim, caused no requisition to examination of the manuscript or the galleys before print. 2. The rabbinic establishment forced Lerma and de’Rossi to introduce changes in their texts—after they were printed. Sections of the books

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were erased and replaced by newly printed folios to satisfy the establishment’s demands. Since the books were already distributed, the changes were only partially implemented, and the copies we possess are sometimes only partially censored or expurgated. 3. In these cases disciplinary action was implemented against contemporary authors (see the Ferrara ordinance) and not against printers, publishers, or entrepreneurs who printed ancient texts (many of whom were Christians). 4. The authors complied to the pressure, at least partially, out of anxiety that potential readers would boycott their books. 5. In all three cases the justification and the excuse for the censorship was heresy, false and radical views, and undermining the authority of the sages and former scholars—and not halakhic or legal considerations per se.54

Alterations in Printed Responsa in Sixteenth-Century Italy Unlike the former examples, which dealt with ideological and religious censorship executed after print, there are a few examples of censorship in the responsa literature for private reasons. Thus, in the responsa of Benyamin ben Matityahu of Arta (Benyamin Ze’ev, Venice 1539, 368a), the author admits: ‘‘After printing was completed I deleted numbers 255 and 256 out of love of peace,’’ and indeed on the top of the next folio the printer wrote: ‘‘Per aviso el quaderno del 47 non glie altro che questo mezzo foglio,’’ and six folios were deleted.55 A similar case occurred in the responsa of Rabbi Meir of Lublin, posthumously printed by his son in Venice in 1618. In responsum number 13, which dealt with a conflict between two sages, one of them was accused by the author of slander. His descendents objected and asked to omit this section from the responsa. Judah Aryeh de Modena tells us that the folio was deleted on the initiative of the Venetian rabbis and replaced by a new folio.56 Similar cases are known also in the Ottoman Empire in the responsa of Elia Mizrachi and Samuel de Medina (for a different reason). In cases like this the rabbis and community leaders interfered to settle controversies, acting in the capacity of a court. To prevent damage to the reputation of families or to avoid slander and insult, they

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acted by erasing printed data and forced the authors to replace the printed text.

Conclusion We may conclude our investigation of the issue of Jewish censorship of Hebrew books in the sixteenth century with a positive answer: there was Jewish censorship in Italy, but it existed as a post-print expurgation. Attempts to create an institutionally binding censorship on manuscripts before print (or on galleys) failed in Italy, but had an impact on other Jewish communities. The rabbinic establishment and the lay leadership were especially sensitive to any deviation in theology or fundamental views and in issues of authority, and paid special attention to contemporary scholars. The mechanism of control was very loose, and it was activated only in the case of an uproar, or when a complaint was launched, after the book was already in print. The pressure for change was on the author or his agents, and the main weapon was the ban or the prohibition of purchase, which could cause a considerable economic loss.

CHAPTER 6

Robert Bellarmine Reads Rashi: Rabbinic Bible Commentaries and the Burning of the Talmud Piet van Boxel

In the historiography of the turbulent relationship between Christians and Jews in the early modern period, the fate of the Talmud features prominently. Historians are inclined to argue that the burning of the Talmud on the Campo de’ Fiori on 9 September 1553 was welcomed by all representatives of the Roman Church without exception.1 According to this view the action by order of the head of the Roman Inquisition, Cardinal Giampietro Caraffa, is understood as having been executed under direct authority of the pope.2 Caraffa’s appeal to all local leaders to follow the Roman example therefore is alleged to have had the blessing of the pope and thus was transmuted into a papal exhortation.3 Similarly the bull Cum sicut nuper issued by Pope Julius III (1550–55) eight months later, which introduced ecclesiastical censorship, is considered a mere reinforcement of the inquisitional order to burn the Talmud by the highest authority in the Church.4 Those who advocate a less severe interpretation of the pope’s censorial initiative regard Cum sicut nuper as an answer to Jewish pleas not to destroy all their books,5 a response due more to the compassionate temperament of Julius III than to a change of mind regarding the burning of the Talmud.6 This alleged unconditional papal support of the inquisitional action needs, however, some reconsideration. It will be argued here that the head of the Inquisition rather acted in an independent way and that the pope had a

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different view on the matter, both representing two conflicting groups within in the Church.7 In fact, Caraffa’s action against the Talmud was not tout court supported by all ranks in the Catholica; and the implementation of his missive, in which all local authorities were summoned to follow the example of Rome and to burn the Talmud, became a bone of contention. What was at stake in the heated discussion was the question of whether rabbinic commentaries on the Bible should undergo the same fate as the Talmud. A key role in the discussion was attributed to the architect of Counter-Reformation theology, Robert Bellarmine (1542–1621). His contribution to the debate is preserved in an undated autograph titled ‘‘Errors of Rabbi Salomon in the Five Books of Moses’’ with the subtitle ‘‘Places in Rabbi Salomon’s Commentary on Genesis Which Appear to Need Emendation.’’8 The manuscript gives us an insight into the way in which and the reason why Bellarmine occupied himself with Rashi’s commentary on the Pentateuch, which sheds light on the subject under discussion. The answer to the question as to whether the Church should take action against Jewish biblical commentaries takes its starting point in the aftermath of the tragic event on the Campo de’ Fiori and in the understanding that the bull Cum sicut nuper was a correction of the implementation of Caraffa’s missive regarding the Talmud, with important consequences for the availability and use of Hebrew books in the Catholic world. Three days after the burning of the Talmud, Caraffa expressed his sadness that the Jews had almost entirely closed and sealed the Sacred Scripture and studied only the Talmud.9 He therefore summoned all local authorities— Christian rulers, bishops, and inquisitors—to follow the Roman example and burn all copies they could lay their hands on.10 Within two months, on 21 October 1553, the Council of Ten in Venice ordered the burning of Giustiniani’s Talmud edition, which had been printed only two years before.11 Advised by Christian theologians, the council furthermore concluded that all abstracts and summaries from the Talmud—such as Alfasi’s compilation of halakhic material, Sefer ha-halakhot,12 and Jacob ibn Habib’s anthology of the aggadot in the Talmud, Ein Yaakov,13 and any of the works that derived their authority from the Talmud—were to be considered part of the Talmud and should therefore be added to the pyre.14 From Pesaro the inquisitor Girolamo Muzio conveyed to the Roman Inquisition that on 16 December 1553 the burning of the Talmud and other books that had been selected by an expert sent from Rome, a certain Raphaelle, had taken place

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in the city’s marketplace. The inquisitor furthermore reported the disagreement between Raphaelle and the Jews concerning the burning of certain books, which according to the Roman delegate contained large portions of the Talmud. Moreover he was of the opinion that many biblical commentaries were full of despicable passages. The Duke of Urbino, Muzio claimed, had even suggested allowing Jews only the Bible.15 Caraffa’s complaint that the Jews occupied themselves with the Talmud rather than with Scripture as well as the decision made by the Venetian authorities to broaden the definition of Talmud and the discussion in Pesaro about whether biblical commentaries also were to be burned clearly reflect a trend in the Church that wanted to expand the Inquisition’s destructive course of action. An authoritative spokesman for such a policy was Francisco Torres (1509–84), an influential theologian, who as a pontifical advisor had participated in the Council of Trent. Immediately after the burning of the Talmud Torres submitted a memorandum to the Roman Inquisition in which he recommended that Jewish Bible commentaries should be treated no differently from the Talmud; in other words they should be burned. In reaction to Torres’s recommendation two anonymous memoranda were presented to the Holy Office, in which it was argued that the biblical commentaries should not be destroyed but rather expurgated, so that they could be used in discussions with the Jews.16 From a register of decisions made by the Holy Office it appears that the Inquisition accepted Torres’s request, but that it was not implemented because of the opposition in the Curia.17 It is most likely that the bull Cum sicut nuper is not just a response to the pleas of the Jews not to destroy their books, but first and foremost the result of this curial opposition and is therefore to be understood as a pontifical intervention in the implementation of the inquisitional decree. By imposing on the Jews the obligation to erase from all Hebrew books passages in which the name of Jesus was mentioned in a blasphemous or contemptuous way and to present them to the Church authorities with the stipulation that after the inspection they should return them to their owners without bothering them any further, the pope prevented the destruction at random of Hebrew books.18 Thus the bull Cum sicut nuper came to the rescue of the many rabbinic Bible commentaries printed during the first half of the sixteenth century, which included the famous Rabbinic Bibles with commentaries by renowned Jewish scholars such as Rashi, Kimh.i, Ibn Ezra, Levi ben Gershom, Abravanel, and Jacob ben Asher, printed by the Christian Daniel Bomberg in Venice.19

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The papal intervention did not, however, bring the discussion to an end. In January 1555, almost a year after Julius III issued Cum sicut nuper, Torres published his pamphlet De sola lectione legis, in which he takes issue with his opponents.20 In a vicious attack on Jewish biblical exegesis he rejects their view that Rabbinic Bible commentaries are an effective way of showing the Jews their mistaken understanding of Scripture. On the contrary, since these commentaries do not announce the coming of Christ, they are an obstacle rather than a help in the conversion of the Jews and, derived as they are from the Talmud, they should systematically be destroyed.21 Crucial in the discussion is how to understand Thomas Aquinas’s question in his Summa Theologica as to whether the ceremonies of the unbelievers ought to be tolerated. Stating that rites that appear to be useful for the believers or bear some truth should be allowed, Thomas concludes that ‘‘since the ceremonies of the Jews foreshadow the truth of our faith and our faith is represented in them figuratively, so to speak, they should be tolerated.’’22 Torres takes issue with the Doctor angelicus and counteracts his conclusion by referring to the letter to the Hebrews, which attributes a figurative function to the sacrifices in the Temple as described in the Old Testament,23 but not to the Jewish ceremonies, that is, the synagogue service. However, since, as Thomas states, it has been recognized practice, authorized by Pope Gregory the Great (590–604), that ‘‘they should be allowed to observe all their feasts, just as hitherto they and their fathers have for ages observed them,’’ Torres is not in a position to plead for the abolition of the Jewish ceremonies altogether. But by asking for the suppression of the biblical commentaries, despite the fact that Scripture and its interpretation are an integral part of the synagogue service, he reduces the papal permission to celebrate Jewish festivals to a minimum.24 Torres’s reading of Aquinas with a reference to the New Testament is an answer to his opponents, who in their memoranda refer to Cajetan’s comment to the passage in the Summa Theologica. Cajetan considers books that defend the (Jewish) faith part of the cult, for which reason they should equally be tolerated. Since there are, however, books that are full of blasphemies against Christ, he distinguishes two categories: ‘‘Some books are wholly appropriate for the Jews, such as the books of the Old Testament and their explanations, which undoubtedly should be left to them. Some are edited in order to foster their faithlessness against the divinity of Jesus Christ so that the Jews would not convert to the faith of Jesus Christ, but obstinately persist in their faithlessness. These books should be burned by the Church,

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if it has the opportunity to do so.’’25 Since he himself relies on Jewish exegesis for his understanding of the Old Testament, Cajetan’s defense of rabbinic commentaries should not come as a surprise.26 Torres’s crusade against Jewish biblical commentaries apparently did not affect the policy initiated by Julius III, as a statement by Sisto da Sienna seems to confirm. Sisto was sent to Cremona in 1559 by the Inquisitor General Michele Ghislieri, a soul mate of Giampietro Caraffa, in order to implement the instruction of the Inquisition to burn all the copies of the Talmud. There he set about examining all the Jewish libraries and printing houses in the city.27 The biblical commentaries, which he found among the countless Hebrew books, he clearly did not count as Talmudic; and, instead of ordering them to be burned, he listed those that he earlier had seen mentioned by Christian exegetes in his Bibliotheca Sancta at the beginning of his catalogue of expositors of the Holy Scripture.28 Many commentaries mentioned in the list had been printed in one of Bomberg’s Rabbinic Bibles, which were produced for a Jewish as well as a Christian clientele.29 The finale of the dispute as to whether biblical commentaries were infected by the Talmud is preserved in four manuscripts in the Vatican Library that reflect a project carried out during the pontificate of Gregory XIII between 1578 and 1583.30 Launched under the auspices of the Magister Sacri Palatii, the personal theologian of the pope and then head of the Inquisition, Cardinal Giulio Santoro, the project intended to create a platform for exegetical discussion with Jews that hopefully would lead to their conversion.31 For this purpose passages were collected from the Rabbinic Bibles and other biblical commentaries, also mentioned in the Bibliotheca Sancta, which were controversial or offensive in the eyes of these authorities.32 These texts were translated into Latin and supplemented with critical comments (censurae) explaining the reason for their selection. The work was executed by seven censors, five of whom were cradle Christians and two Jewish converts. Of the five Christian theologians, three had a good knowledge of Hebrew: Adamantio Fiorentino, an Augustinian from Florence, was an orientalist versed in Greek, Arabic, Hebrew, and Aramaic; and Pope Gregory XIII had called him to Rome as ‘‘revisor and corrector of the Talmud.’’33 Diego Lopez was a member of the Congregation of the Index.34 From the manuscripts under discussion it appears that he was well acquainted with Hebrew. Equally prepared for the examination of rabbinic writings was Marco Marini da Brescia, who had supervised the censored Talmud edition that was published in Basel between 1578 and 1580 by

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Ambrosius Froben.35 Marco was called to Rome by Pope Gregory XIII ‘‘to correct the impieties of the rabbis regarding Christ and the Christians.’’36 The two other Christian censors were the Dominican Mattia Aquario, maestro di teologia at the Sapienza, the University of Rome,37 and Diego de Ahumada, member of the Congregation of the Index.38 They worked with the two converts, Giovanni Paulo Eustachio, scriptor of Hebrew books in the Vatican Library and lecturer at the Sapienza,39 and Marco Fabiano Fioghi de Monte Savino, lecturer in Hebrew at the Collegio dei Neofiti, the college erected by Gregory XIII where young men converted from the Jewish or Islamic faith were trained to become missionaries among their former coreligionists.40 The criteria applied by the experts for selecting disputable passages differed considerably from those formulated by Pope Julius III, who in the bull Cum sicut nuper had stipulated that the name of Jesus should not be mentioned in a blasphemous or otherwise contemptuous way. In the project under Pope Gregory XIII the biblical commentaries were to be examined for errors, false dogmas, insults, absurdities, or perversion of Scripture.41 Further analysis of what is called perversion of Scripture brings to light an even wider range of stipulations: Biblical commentaries should not contradict the literal meaning of the Old Testament or oppose the Latin rendering of the Hebrew Bible (the Vulgata42), nor should they oppose the New Testament or the communis opinio of the Church. These conditions, which Jewish exegesis had to comply with, far exceeded the practice of censorship and expurgation in those days. Drawn up by leading theologians and not by a censor, who presumably would have implemented completely different criteria, these conditions constitute the agenda for discussions with the Jews, which eventually would result in biblical commentaries suitable for Jews and Christians alike. The collections of excerpts may be considered a manual for such encounters.43 That the protagonists of the project under discussion had no intention to burn Jewish commentaries, of which they themselves made ample use, may be concluded from the fact that only twice was the suggestion made to burn a commentary because of its many errors. At the end of the collection of passages from Levi ben Gershom’s commentary on Job, the Magister Sacri Palatii Paulo Constabile noted that it would be better to burn the work.44 In his view Bah.ya’s commentary on the Pentateuch, ‘‘which was full of fables and errors,’’ should undergo the same fate.45 There is no proof that the two commentaries dismissed by the

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magister were in fact burned, and his verdict on Levi ben Gershom and Bah.ya was in any case unusual. His successor, Sisto Fabri, did not pass such a judgment on the collection of excerpts from Recanati’s commentary on the Pentateuch, which Sisto da Sienna had in fact burned in Cremona together with the Talmud copies.46 The theologians involved in the project, however, realized that, despite all the conditions imposed upon Jewish biblical commentaries, the fate of the pyre was hovering over them as long as Torres’s accusation that they were inspired by Satan and derived from the Talmud, ‘‘a sewer from which all possible iniquities issue forth,’’ was not addressed.47 In answer to this threat, and probably also convinced that the Talmud was not an acceptable resource for the interpretation of Scripture, they scrutinized the biblical commentaries on their use of this centerpiece of Jewish tradition and collected all the passages in which the Talmud was quoted. Rashi’s comment on Exodus 12:6 may serve as an illustration.48 The biblical text deals with the institution of the Passover sacrifice, of which it is said, ‘‘and the whole assembly of the congregation of Israel shall kill it in the evening.’’ Rashi considers the expression ‘‘the whole assembly of the congregation of Israel’’ to allude to three different gatherings and comments as follows: ‘‘The paschal-lambs of the congregation are to be slaughtered in three groups [the whole assembly, the congregation, and Israel], one after the other. The first group entered and the doors of the court were closed etc. as is to be found in Pesahim.’’49 The purpose of the Talmudic explanation, by means of the hermeneutical rule that every word in Scripture has a meaning, is to provide a scriptural justification for traditional practices.50 Such a conclusion does not contradict any Christian doctrine nor challenge Christian values. The censura to the passage, however, reveals the reason for the inclusion of the passage: ‘‘because it is a quotation from the Talmud.’’ The experts, undeniably knowledgeable in the matter, also included passages that contain Talmudic traditions, but which were not explicitly marked as such. The censurae often only consist of remarks such as ‘‘Talmudic,’’51 ‘‘from the Talmud,’’52 ‘‘from Talmudic traditions,’’53 ‘‘drawn from the unresponsive questions of the Talmudists,’’54 ‘‘taken from Talmudic disputations,’’55 and ‘‘I think this is a Talmudic tradition.’’56 Again Rashi’s commentary on Exodus may serve as an example.57 In Exodus 12:46 it is said of the paschal lamb, ‘‘The bone you should not break,’’ to which Rashi comments as follows: ‘‘the bone which is suitable

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to eat. For instance, if there is on a bone the amount of meat as big as an olive, the breaking of the bone is for you a transgression. If there is less meat than the size of an olive, there is no sin in breaking it.’’ Although Rashi does not refer explicitly to the Talmud, his interpretation is clearly derived from tractate Pesah.im: ‘‘If it contains the standard of eating, it is subject to the [prohibition of] breaking a bone. If it does not contain the standard of eating, it is not subject to the [prohibition of] breaking a bone.’’58 The law expressing this standard is specified elsewhere in the Talmud. According to Rabbi all legal measurements [for food] are the size of an olive.59 Rashi’s comment is correctly qualified as referring to Talmudic limitations, and it is for this reason that his interpretation of Exodus 12:46 is included in the collection. By selecting passages on the basis of either explicit or implicit Talmudic provenance, the censors counteracted Torres’s argument. The political decision on the part of the censors to include in their collections quotations from the Talmud as well as implicit use of Talmudic tradition—thus making a clear distinction between biblical commentaries and the Talmud— prevented rabbinic commentaries from being banned and burned. That such a fate was within the bounds of the possible is clearly articulated by the composer of passages from Rabbi Shimon’s commentary on Ezra, who stated that almost everything in Rabbi Shimon’s commentaries is literally derived from the Talmud and that it would be better therefore that they be condemned rather than being censured in any other way.60 It is here that we have to turn to Robert Bellarmine, who from 1572–76 lectured in theology at the Jesuit school in Louvain where—as he claims in his autobiography—he taught himself Hebrew when he was given the task to teach biblical exegesis as well.61 During his stay in Louvain, Bellarmine manifested himself as an advocate of the Hebrew Bible, which should be given precedence over all translations, including the Vulgata. To establish the literal meaning of the Hebrew text, he consulted Kimh.i’s dictionary Sefer ha-shorashim and the various Jewish biblical commentators such as Rashi, Levi ben Gershom, and Jacob ben Asher. They are all given serious consideration when differences in translation or interpretation are at stake.62 In 1576 Bellarmine left for Rome to become professor at the Collegio Romano, where he held the chair of controversy theology until 1586. The fruit of his teaching at the Collegio Romano was his magnum opus, De

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controversiis christianae fidei adversus huius temporis haereticos Disputationes. As a biblical scholar and highly respected theologian, Bellarmine participated in the project launched under Pope Gregory XIII and was entrusted with the revision of the collections of excerpts from the Rabbinic Bible commentaries made by the experts mentioned above. It is probably in this context that he undertook a systematic examination of Rashi’s commentary on the Torah. As the title of the manuscript, now in the Biblioteca Fabroniana in Pistoia, indicates, Bellarmine collected all the errors in Rashi’s Bible interpretation.63 The excerpts in Latin translation are not always a literal rendering but often a summary of Rashi’s comments. Occasionally, Bellarmine gives an explicit reason as to why a particular passage is considered an error. An obvious case is Rashi’s comment on Genesis 1:26: ‘‘God said, ‘Let us make man,’ ’’ where he states that the heretics claimed this text but in vain, since Scripture says, ‘‘and God created,’’ and not ‘‘Gods created.’’ This comment, Bellarmine concludes, clearly impugns the mystery of the Trinity and calls the Christians heretics.64 In the many cases that no reason is given, it is evident that Bellarmine applied the same criteria as used in the project he participated in, as the following selection shows.65 After the flood had covered the earth, it says in Genesis 8:1: ‘‘But God remembered Noah and all the beasts and all the cattle that were with him in the ark. God then made a wind blow over the earth and the waters subsided.’’ That God remembered not only the righteous Noah but also the beasts to whom in this context apparently merits are ascribed, which made God decide to end the flood, calls for an explanation, which Rashi finds in the fact that they had lived in abstinence for such a long time.66 In Genesis 8:7 it is told that in order to discover whether the waters of the flood had subsided ‘‘Noah sent forth a raven, which went out to and fro.’’ It should be noted that both the Septuagint and the Vulgate differ from the Hebrew in that they read: ‘‘it [the raven] went and did not come back until the waters were dried up from the earth,’’ whereas in the Hebrew text the raven went and did come back. Following the Hebrew reading, Bellarmine agrees with Rashi that the raven circled around the ark until the waters had dried up.67 But he certainly did not approve of Rashi’s portrayal that ‘‘it flew round and round the ark and did not go on its errand for it was suspicious concerning its mate as we learn in the aggadah H . elek.’’68 It is noteworthy that instead of translating Rashi’s rather enigmatic reason as

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to why the raven did not go on its errand, Bellarmine gives a Latin rendering of the Talmud passage Rashi is referring to, which recounts the raven’s worry that in its absence Noah would take the little crow as his wife; finally he notes that Rashi refers to the Talmud for this interpretation of the biblical text.69 When the earth was dry, Noah—following God’s instruction—left the ark. He then built an altar and offered burnt offerings. ‘‘When God smelt the pleasing odour, He said: Never again I will doom the earth because of man . . . nor will I ever again destroy every living being’’ (Gen. 8:21). The double negative ‘‘never again . . . nor’’ is understood by Rashi as an oath, and he refers for such understanding to the Talmud, where it says that ‘‘no’’ should be said twice to imply an oath.70 Having selected the passage, Bellarmine’s only comment is that Rashi again quotes from the Talmud.71 Bellarmine’s selection of passages from Genesis 8 ends with one more passage from Rashi’s comment on God’s oath in 8:22, ‘‘Day and night shall not cease.’’ Rashi comments as follows: ‘‘from this we may infer that day and night ceased during the period of the flood, for neither the sun nor the other planets moved in the time of the flood, so that there was no distinction between day and night.’’72 Rashi’s interpretation is included without any further comment. The passages quoted from Bellarmine’s collection of disputable explanations in Rashi’s commentary on Genesis give us some insight into his selection criteria, such as blasphemies (Gen. 1:26), obscenities (Gen. 8:1), and errors concerning the laws of nature (Gen. 8:22). Two passages, however, need further attention in the context of this paper: the raven flying around the ark (Gen. 8:7) and God’s oath (Gen. 8:21). Bellarmine took the trouble of spelling out the raven’s suspicion by quoting the Talmudic tradition on which Rashi had based his comment. He undoubtedly must have classified as obscene Rashi’s comment that the raven was worried lest, in its absence, Noah would take his mate as his wife. But this critique is not spelled out. What is explicitly mentioned is the fact that the tradition is taken from the Talmud. This concern comes even more to the fore in the passage on God’s oath. None of the criteria usually applied when selecting disputable passages can be referred to when claiming that ‘‘no’’ should be said twice to imply an oath. There is no other reason for Bellarmine to include the passage in his collection than the fact that Rashi refers to the Talmud. That this was one of the main concerns of Bellarmine—entrusted with revising the collections of excerpts from the rabbinic Bible commentaries, which were to be

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purged from any Talmudic quotation or allusion so as not to be condemned to the pyre—becomes clear from his systematic examination of Rashi’s commentary on the Torah. In the Fabroniana manuscript over fifty passages are included, not because of their blasphemous, offensive, or obscene character, but simply because they refer to the Talmud. Censorship under Gregory XIII had one major objective: the conversion of the Jews, which was to be achieved through a thorough discussion of their interpretation of Scripture. In the Vatican Library the records of this undertaking are preserved. They provide us with a complete overview of what had to be adjusted in Jewish commentaries so that they would comply with Christian exegesis. For this exercise—which, so it was hoped, would convince the Jews of the Christian truth—the Jewish commentaries, appreciated by many Christian exegetes, were indispensable. Therefore, in order to prevent them from undergoing the same fate as the Talmud, accusations that they were inspired by Satan and derived from the Talmud had to be addressed. Hence the theologians and Jewish experts in charge of the undertaking marked all references and allusions to the Talmud, from which the commentaries had to be purged. There are no reports about actual discussions with the Jews. But the success of this kind of encounter was clearly rather limited if we are to believe Benedictus Blancuccius. Discussing the rules of singular and plural nouns in Hebrew (in his Institutiones in linguam sanctam hebraicam), he reports how, in one of those regular meetings with the Jews that took place in 1605, he explained Joshua 20:19 as a veiled indication of the mystery of the Trinity, to the great amusement of the audience. He therefore advised using this rule with great care when looking for scriptural support of the Holy Trinity.73 One wonders whether Robert Bellarmine and his learned colleagues had a similar experience and that the Jews laughed at them when invited to abandon Rashi’s interpretation of Genesis 1:26 and to read the text as a confirmation of the doctrine of the Holy Trinity. What they did achieve was not a mass conversion of the Jews, but the safeguarding of rabbinic Bible commentaries. Representing the highest authority in the Church, they silenced the opposition led by Francisco Torres, who in his memorandum to the Roman Inquisition had recommended that Jewish Bible commentaries be treated like the Talmud and should similarly be burned. When in 1592 Pope Clement VIII gave instructions to produce an index, the compilation came under the direct supervision of Bellarmine. The Index

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was completed in 1593 and, after ample consultations, published in 1595. For the first time ‘‘the commentaries of Rabbi Salomon and Kimhi and the Jerusalemite rabbi and similar ones on the Old Testament’’ were included.74 From signatures of ecclesiastical censors during the first two decades of the seventeenth century, however, it appears that the rabbinic commentaries circulated freely without any trace of all the censorial work done with so much accuracy by converts and theologians under the direction of Bellarmine. From all this the conclusion seems to be justified that the Church at the end of the sixteenth century had abandoned the missionary offensive initiated under Gregory XIII and that the place of rabbinic Bible commentaries on the Index had become a formality.

CHAPTER 7

Dangerous Readings in Early Modern Modena: Negotiating Jewish Culture in an Italian Key Federica Francesconi

In the fall of 1614, two Jews, the banker Raffaele Modena of Sassuolo and the physician and philosopher Abraham ben Hananiah Yagel de Gallichi (1553–ca. 1623), paraded with the state troops in the streets of Modena, the capital city of the Este Duchy. This procession emphasized the authority of the Duke Cesare (1562–1628). The Jews were beneficiaries of his glory: because of his intervention, Abraham Yagel and Raffaele Modena had been released from some kidnappers.1 Three years later, in December 1617, a new procession went across the streets of Modena and arrived before the duke: representatives of all Modenese guilds asked for the seclusion of the Jews in a ghetto.2 They succeeded and the ghetto was ultimately established in 1638, after some delays due to economic and political agreements between the duchy and the Jewish community.3 We can easily recognize in this kind of ‘‘ritual’’ procession a way to emphasize the identity of the city, to protect its political body (which was always conceived as a transposition of the Corpus Christi), and to present ‘‘holy’’ rogations.4 Within this social order, Modenese Jews were accepted, even if only in a position of subjection, as in other Italian cities at that time. In the cultural and political framework of the so-called Counter-Reformation, however, after the devolution of Ferrara to the Papal State and the election of Modena as the capital city in 1598, it became increasingly difficult for them to maintain their previous social position.5 In November 1636, two years before the ghetto was established, another peculiar procession involved the Modenese Jews again: the most influential

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Jewish scholars and merchants, among them the famous kabbalist Aaron Berechiah Modena (1578–1639) and the banker Viviano Sanguinetti, were brought before the Holy Office of the Inquisition and accused of owning forbidden books. Significantly, this procession filed in front of the inquisitor (Giacomo Tinti da Lodi) shortly before the establishment of the ghetto: this accusation of owning forbidden books was the strongest attack of an inquisitorial campaign against the Modenese Jewish community that lasted for decades.6 This article will look at Jewish books as instrumental to internal cultural transformation and to the negotiations of Modenese Jews with the authorities from 1598 to 1638, after the political changes of the 1550s and the promulgation of the Index of Prohibited Books by Clement VIII in 1596.7 In my analysis, I look in particular at the books (mostly printed) and libraries of Modenese Jews as seen mainly through a corpus of unpublished inquisitorial sources; specifically, I analyze a few complete proceedings that are both representative of and complementary to these social and cultural dynamics.8 Following recent historiographical and methodological shifts, my study does not consider trial dossiers and lists of books in isolation, but rather it looks within the context of the available pertinent documentation, as proposed by early modern Italian scholars. Not only does this extra effort help place the trial in question in a proper judicial and historical context, but it prevents factual errors and historical misinterpretations.9 Moreover, this research allows for a reconsideration of the recent claim that Italian Jewish cultural activity was based almost exclusively in texts written in Hebrew and was unquestionably modeled on religious literature.10 Through the Modena case, the present article is aimed at contributing to a new evaluation of Italian Jewish culture, conceived as a milieu composed by both secular and sacred works, written in Hebrew and vernacular languages. Finally, this chapter addresses the increased level of literacy in the Jewish community, moving beyond the elite of scholars, by exploring the intellectual world of Jewish merchants, a group usually difficult to penetrate due to the lack of self-written works. During the first and third processions mentioned above, Jewish intellectuals and merchants were associated; in the latter case, this was because books brought them together. Addressing the question of how to define Jewish authors in early modern Europe, David Ruderman has recently distinguished five main elements of Jewish intellectual life: mobility, patronage, the centrality of the rabbi as the

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cultural producer, the mediating role of the Jewish magician/doctor, and the enrichment of print. In the early modern period, Jewish authors— whether they wrote in Hebrew, Italian, or Latin—assumed that Jewish culture was becoming an ‘‘open book’’ and no external sources were prohibited, regardless of their provenance.11 Their cultural formation was primarily based in disciplines such as Kabbalah, rhetoric and historiography, scholastic and Neoplatonic philosophy, magic, medicine and the sciences, and music.12 One of the protagonists of our first procession, the well-known scholar Abraham Yagel, read and copied Cornelius Agrippa. But what do we know about the reading of his neighbor, the banker Raffaele Modena? While scholars have investigated the culture of some well-known and outstanding Italian Jewish figures related to the Modenese Jewish community, the broader Jewish social and cultural context of books and reading in Modena is still an untapped topic.13 This essay will suggest that this idea of the ‘‘open book’’ within Jewish culture was shared not only by outstanding intellectuals, but by teachers, rabbis, merchants, bankers, and converts who worked as censors for the Holy Office. The ultimate goal of this article is to offer an in-depth view into the complexities of both early modern Italian Jewish culture and Jewish-Christian relations.

Traumatized Readers in Modena Starting in the early sixteenth century, a tremendous passion for reading was awakened in the history of Modena. This passion was to play a role in the Modenese Inquisition—part of the new Roman Inquisition—which ran from 1542 to the end of the century and was distinguished by a series of continuous accusations of heresy against nobles, scholars, priests, teachers, artisans, traders, and shopkeepers. These suspected heretics owned, exchanged, and read authors considered heterodox, such as Erasmus, Melanchthon, Bernardino Ochino, Celio Secondo Curione, and they freely studied the Bible and New Testament in Latin and the vernacular. Every dweller in the Modenese ‘‘land of Lutheran infection’’ or ‘‘diabolical synagogue’’ knew and freely discussed topics such as the devaluation of sacraments, free will, purgatory, the rejection of the ecclesiastical hierarchies, justification by faith alone (sola fide), and even the Eucharist.14 This religious dissent was rooted in a profound crisis of both civic and ecclesiastical

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structures that involved a large number of men and women from all social classes. Only the massive counteroffensive launched by the inquisitors over many decades appears to have succeeded in dissolving that heretical movement at the end of the sixteenth century. At that time, witchcraft and magic came under attack. Once again the whole town was kept under surveillance, with a number of men and women brought before the Holy Office because of magnets baptized, witches’ flights, and the reading of dangerous books such as the Clavicula Salomonis or various ‘‘libri de secreti.’’15 This inquisitorial counteroffensive was still under way in January 1598 when the Este court moved from Ferrara to Modena. Now that Modena was a capital city, it earned the honor of receiving an inquisitor general— Giovanni da Montefalcone—and the Inquisition was reinforced and brought to full inquisitional status. It was at the time that Modena’s Jewish population had increased from a few hundred in the sixteenth century to 750 in 1638, becoming slightly less than 6 percent of the entire population of the city.16 Inevitably, Modenese Jews found themselves caught between the peculiar situation of the Este Duchy and the general politics and dynamics of the Counter-Reformation. Policies of the papacy included the burning of the Talmud in 1553, the promulgation of the bull Cum nimis absurdum in 1555, and the establishment of ghettos in the Italian peninsula. The religious and cultural repression set up by the Modenese Inquisition coincided with the ducal program aimed at embellishing, restructuring, and reorganizing the new capital in the light of the words ‘‘security, sanitation, and decoration.’’17 By 1592, places devoted to gathering prostitutes, the poor, and the sick had been established;18 in September 1598, an edict (grida) was published against the presence of mendicants, vagabonds, and Jews in the city.19 In such circumstances, it became increasingly difficult for Jews to maintain relations as individuals with the authorities. Gradually, the most influential Jewish families such as the Modenas, Sanguinettis, and Usiglios, who at the beginning of the century were still characterized by a mainly individualistic strategy, formed and reinforced a shared leadership in both commercial and economic sectors. By playing important roles as book dealers, silversmiths, printers, and silk weavers, they prevented cultural and commercial stasis in the administrations of the city and the duchy, which themselves lacked any real intelligentsia and ruling class during the entire ancien re´gime.20 In early seventeenth-century Modena,

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inquisitors such as Giovanni da Montefalcone and Arcangelo Calbetti da Recanati intuited that these influential families were the key to the Jewish community, and gradually proceeded against them.21 The question of the Jews’ status was often a pretext for the duke to test his supremacy over the ecclesiastical and city authorities, interfering in favor of Jews against inquisitorial proceedings.22 With the promulgation of the Index in 1596, the definitive prohibition against the Talmud restricted Italian Jews from reading and studying it. Yet this did not prevent the elites of Italian Jewry from becoming familiar with the Talmud, as this prohibition also included an explicit permission to possess most other Hebrew books, including literature based on the Talmud.23 Therefore, the 1590 Index had explicitly prohibited specific other Hebrew books such as the biblical commentaries of Rashi, David Kimh.i, Jacob ben Asher, and the ‘‘Jerusalemite rabbis,’’ both in Hebrew and in their Latin translations, as well as the Zohar Bereshit. Similarly, the Latin translation of the Targum of Onkelos (the Aramaic translation of the Pentateuch) was also prohibited. Indeed, following a petition from delegates of the Jewish communities, the prohibition against the use of biblical commentaries in their Hebrew original was rescinded, on condition that certain passages be removed.24 This in fact did allow inquisitors to confiscate and correct Hebrew books owned by Jews, as did the inquisitor Giovanni da Montefalcone in November 1598 in Modena. In that year, a shocked Isaac Sanguinetti tried to prevent this kind of control, but these and other attempts failed.25 Jews were not singled out for such control of books. In Modena, both Jews and Christians experienced a strict surveillance of forbidden or suspicious non-Hebrew books, mostly in the vernacular. After 1596, only some decades after the burning of the Talmud, they saw more occasional book burnings lighting up the piazzas of Modena. Among those fed to the flames were vernacular Bibles (some of the books with which Italians were most closely familiar), ‘‘lascivious’’ books, lectionaries, and books by the transalpine reformers. The Index of 1596 caused a veritable trauma for both intellectuals and the common people, Christians and Jews alike,26 but Italian Jews seem to have been doubly traumatized. In Modena, after the strong persecution of the Reformation movements as well as the witch and sorcerer hunting, Jews and their books remained the more visible signs of impurity within the Modenese Corpus Christianum.

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The Open Library of Moise` Modena (1600) In February 1600, soon after the 1596 ban, Moise` Modena (1539–1630), an influential Modenese Jew, was tried by the inquisitor Giovanni da Montefalcone.27 A list of his books, presented some days before, contained not Hebrew books but forbidden or censored classics, including a folio Bible in Spanish, De Vanitate by Cornelius Agrippa ‘‘in lingua italica,’’ a book by Raymond Llull, a Lexicon Greco printed in Basel in 1548, and Boccaccio’s Decameron. Raymond Llull was considered a proponent of judicial astrology. De Vanitate by Cornelius Agrippa was deemed censorable because the author delivered a fierce polemic denouncing poetry as a deceitful and obscene art, and his dogmatic opinions were themselves considered to be lascivious. Lastly, the Decameron was allowed only if censored. The question of the Bible in the vernacular was fundamental in the struggle between the Congregation of the Index and the Holy Office; however, the ‘‘nude’’ or unannotated text of the Scripture remained strictly prohibited.28 Moise` Modena made a series of attempts to conceal the real list of his books, and he went back three times to the Holy Office with different lists, because the inquisitor da Montefalcone was not convinced of their truthfulness. Modena’s ultimate list of books is the only representative of a complete library among the many inquisitorial proceedings I retrieved. It consists of one hundred titles of Latin and Italian books and 145 titles of Hebrew books. These reveal some features of the background of one acculturated Italian Jew at the turn of the sixteenth century; and they range from the biblical commentaries of Rashi to Sefer ha-Kuzari and Me’or einayim (Mantua 1573–75), and from Petrarch to Marsilio Ficino.29 This library paralleled the cultural world of the Jewish Mantuan historian Azariah De’ Rossi (1511?–1577?), who used more than one hundred and fifty Jewish sources (excluding the Talmud and midrashic literature) and more than one hundred non-Jewish sources for his Me’or einayim.30 The library owner, Moise` Modena, cousin of the famous Leone Modena, was an influential banker and an important patron. The Modena family arrived in the fifteenth century from France (probably Provence) and Viterbo in southern Italy. In 1600, they were the oldest and most powerful Jewish family in Modena. The Modenas, along with the Sanguinettis, Dienas, Formigginis, and Usiglios, expanded their economic activities, and in the seventeenth century they became expert gold workers and silk producers. Moise` owned houses and held notes for loans, and pursued banking

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and commercial activities in many Italian cities. He was neither a rabbi nor a famous scholar or physician, but a wealthy and cultured man who successfully combined philanthropic and educational endeavors. His synagogue and his school, under the guidance of R. Leone Poggetti, were the centers of cultural and religious life for the city’s Italian Jews. In 1600, two of Moise`’s sons, Aaron Berechiah and Salomone (1585–?), were 22 and 15 years old, respectively; the former was already a rabbi and the second not yet. At that time Aaron Berechiah Modena together with Natanel Trabotti and Jedidiah Carmi started to enrich Modenese and Italian Jewish life through their intellectual activity and their production of rabbinic and kabbalistic literature. Cultural connections, a highly interconnected business network, and a high level of endogamy and homogamy in the group together formed the basis of the emerging Jewish elite.31 Given the importance of the instruction offered in the house, school, and synagogue of Moise` Modena, we shall analyze his library by taking into account the typical curriculum studiorum of an Italian Jew at the time.32 Along with various Hebrew Bibles and prayer books, we find not the Talmud (undoubtedly due to the prohibition) but rather Tosafot and the Code by Alfasi, as well as Mishnah and halakhic codes, for example, Mishnayot; Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah; Moses of Coucy’s Sefer miz.vot gadol (Semag; first published before 1480); the Arba’ah turim (Piove di Sacco, 1475) by Jacob ben Asher; and the Shulh.an arukh (Venice, 1565) and the Beit Yosef (Venice, 1564–65) by Joseph Caro. According to the curriculum for educating young men in the Torah and sciences elaborated in 1564 by Abraham and David Provenzali, the celebrated rabbis of Mantua, Bible study was to be combined with the study of the best of the old and the new commentators as well as the reading of the foremost Jewish philosophers ‘‘whose writings were considered in harmony with the teachings of the Torah and rabbinical authorities.’’33 The library of Moise` Modena also included more traditional commentaries on the Bible, such as the commentaries of Rashi and Jonah ben Abraham Gerondi, the philosophical commentaries of Gersonides, and Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed. Moreover, Moise`’s choices clearly demonstrate the importance of Hebrew grammar and the Masorah, linked with training in rhetoric and oratory and the reading of ‘‘the best of the poets’’ (as the Provenzalis framed it),34 through the presence of the classical works Masoret ha-masoret (Venice, 1538) by Eljiah Levita, Dikdukei Rashi, Sefer ha-shorashim (Venice,

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1542) by David Kimh.i, and the more sophisticated treatise on rhetoric Nofet z.ufim (Mantua, before 1480) by Judah Messer Leon. Moise`’s library included classic Jewish medieval works like Sefer ha-Kuzari by Judah haLevi, the late medieval book Or ammin by Obadiah Sforno (Bologna, 1537), Or Adonai (Ferrara, 1555) by H . asdai Crescas, and a group of ‘‘humanistic’’ books such as Minh.at kenaot by Yeh.iel Nissim da Pisa (1539) and Me’or einayim by Azariah de’ Rossi.35 This library mirrors the many different cultural tendencies that arose during this period in the reading, production, and printing of books. A corpus of midrashic literature, such as Midrash Tanh.uma and Midrash rabot, reflects the printing production of Venice in the 1530s and 1540s.36 In addition, the classical corpus of kabbalistic literature (Sefer yez.irah, Sefer ha-Zohar, Tikkune ha-Zohar, Or ne’erav by Moise` Cordovero) is found side by side with other texts important to Italian Jews, such as Perush al ha-Torah (Venice, 1523) by Menachem Recanati, and H . ai 37 ha-olamim and H . eshek Shelomo by Johanan Alemanno. If the corpus of Hebrew literature in Modena’s library represents a complete overview of major classical and recent works by Jewish authors, along with various editions of the Bible in the vernacular and Hebrew, what seems particularly interesting is the possibility of a concrete connection between Jewish culture, the medieval and Renaissance classics, and the general Italian culture of the time. Moise` Modena’s library included all the auctoritates upon whom these cultures were based: Omnia diuini Platonis opera tralatione Marsilii Ficini (Venice, 1556); Ethicorum ad Nicomachum libri decem [ . . . ] with the commentary of Acciaioli (Venice, 1535); S. Thomae Aquinatis In octo Physicorum Aristotelis libros commentaria (Venice, 1558); In un unico libro Themistius, Themisti peripatetici lucidissimi Paraphrasis in Aristotelis Posteriora, et Physica [ . . . ] (Venice, 1570); Aristotelis Metaphysicorum libri XIIII [. . .] Auerrois digressiones omnes (Venice, 1541); En accuratissime lector Expositio Jacobi Forliuiensis in primum Auicenne canonem with the commentary of Giacomo della Torre (Venice, 1518); and Tomo primo delle divine lettere di Marsilio Ficino, tradotte in toscano per M. Felice Figliucci (Venice, 1549).38 All of these texts were read also by contemporary Italian Jewish intellectuals such as the kabbalist, poet, and preacher Judah Moscato (ca. 1530–ca. 1593), who lived for many years in nearby Mantua. In addition to biblical and Talmudic sources, Moscato had in common with Moise` Modena the same biblical commentaries, philosophical works, and kabbalistic authors as well as Greek and Latin authors—Plato, Aristotle, Galen, Hippocrates, and Renaissance figures such as Ficino and Pico.39

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Moise` Modena read Greek authors in Latin translation; in fact, he owned the Lexicon sive dictionarium graecolatinum, banned only by the 1596 Index.40 Modena was not unique in his use of Latin and Italian translations of Greek texts. Azariah de’ Rossi was also not able to read classical Greek, and he therefore used Latin and Italian translations.41 Italian Jewish curricula often mentioned the importance of training in writing ‘‘essays in Hebrew and in good Italian and Latin, graced with the niceties and elegance of style that are characteristic of each language,’’42 but nothing is known regarding what texts were used or what level of proficiency was reached in these languages.43 Moreover, actual mechanisms of preaching and learning remain to be fully investigated as well, even if there is ample evidence that Italian Jewry was characterized by the cultivation of homilies as an honorable discipline in education and that preaching was actually taught in the schools.44 Moise`’s library contributes to filling this lacuna. In addition to the already mentioned works on Hebrew rhetoric and grammar, it included important sixteenth-century writing manuals, such as Giovanni Antonio Tagliente’s Il presente libro insegna la vera arte delo excellente scrivere (Venice, 1524) and Giovanni Palatino’s Libro [. . .] nel quale s’insegna a scrivere ogni sorte di lettere antica, et moderna (Rome, 1547). Both of them, due to the variety of their scripts, were directed not only to the usual audience of such works—the noble youth who made up the state diplomatic corps and its future merchants—but also to goldsmiths, jewelers, copyists, and sign writers.45 Moise` owned Il Petrarcha con l’espositione d’Alessandro Vellutello (Venice, 1525), Prose di Pietro Bembo (Venice, 1525), and Quattro lettere di monsignor Gasparo Contarino Cardinale (Florence, 1558). All of these authors served as an ideal humanistic model in Counter-Reformation Italy for their capacity to encompass both humaniores litterae and pietas. Bembo’s Prose, in adopting Petrarch’s works as the writing model, marked a clear division between written and spoken language in Italian literature; meanwhile, the commentaries on Petrarch’s poetry by Vellutello contributed to the birth of literary criticism as a scholarly discipline.46 Moise`’s library can expand our knowledge about both preaching instruction and the passage from Hebrew to Italian written sermons, in which Mordechai Dato (1525–after 1589), part of this network of Modenese contemporaries, played a leading role.47 Moise` owned other bestsellers of rhetoric such as Quattro orationi by Bartholomeus Spathaphora (Venice, 1554), Tabulae totius dialectices aliarum artium by Cornelio Valerio (Venice,

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1564), Dialectica Ioannis Antonii Delphini (Bologna, 1555), and Diverse orationi volgarmente scritte (Venice, 1561) by Francesco Sansovino. It is significant also that the library included Delle prediche quadragesimali by Cornelio Musso (Venice, 1586), described as a ‘‘modern Demosthenes’’ or the ‘‘Chrysostom of Italy,’’ who was known for his ability to fuse Franciscan values with humanistic rhetoric;48 and Applicamento de i precetti della inuentione, dispositione, et elocutione, che propriamente serue allo scrittore di epistole latine, et volgari by Oratio Toscanella (Venice, 1567), another masterpiece of rhetoric in Italian Catholic schools that included many elements of the ‘‘theater of memory.’’ That Jews utilized Italian preachers for their sermons has been demonstrated by Joanna Weinberg, who has shown that the sermons of Leone Modena were modeled on the work Modo di comporre una predica (1584) by Francesco Panigarola. They were characterized by a stylistic virtuosity similar to Musso’s and by a short tract on the art of memory as well.49 Through the art of memory we can find a link between the main interests of Moise` Modena—Kabbalah, scholastic and Neoplatonic philosophy, and rhetoric—and other disciplines such as medicine, magic, and the sciences. They show a clear connection to the world of Abraham ben Hananiah Yagel de Gallichi, the famous Jewish physician, kabbalist, magician, and naturalist who paraded in 1614 through the streets of Modena after his liberation. There is evidence of Yagel’s contact with Azariah da Fano, Aaron Berechiah, and Mordechai Dato.50 As we know from the studies by Ruderman, Yagel’s major sources were Alemanno’s anthology on magic and demonology as well as several major Christians works on magic, for example, Roger Bacon’s and Albertus Magnus’s books on natural magic, Cornelius Agrippa of Netsheim’s De Occulta Philosophia, Giulio Camillo’s Teatro, and Apollonius’ Vita.51 Moise` Modena shared with Yagel specific interests in medicine and in the ‘‘theater of memory.’’52 Moise` owned Giulio Camillo’s Opere (Venice, 1560), Cosimo Rosselli’s Thesaurus artificiosae memoriae (Venice, 1567), a book not specifically identified by Raymond Llull, Francesco Robortello’s Oratio in funere Imp. Caroli V Augusti (Bologna, 1559), and an edition of Aristotle’s De Arte Poetica (Florence, 1548). In addition, he owned works related to the literary production known in classical tradition as vitae, such as Le iscrittioni poste sotto le vere imagini de gli huomini famosi by Paolo Giovio (Florence, 1551) and Vita, et fatti dell’invittisimo Imperatore Carlo Quinto by Alfonso Ulloa (Venice, 1563). Through this genre, Italian scholars exalted the model of civic virtues by emphasizing the

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humaniores litterae and pietas as tools for shaping a new and renovated Church.53 Regarding medicine, Moise` Modena’s library included texts that emphasized the importance of the Hippocratic and Galenic systems that continued to dominate medical learning throughout the sixteenth century: Epistolarum medicinalium by Giovanni Manardi (Venice, 1542), Mesue cum expositione mondini super canones uniuersale with the commentary of Pietro d’Abano (Venice, 1527), In Hippocratis Prognostica commentarii, His accessit Theoricae latitudinum medicinae liber, ad Galeni scopum in arte medicinali by Benedetto Vittori (Bologna, 1505), Expectatissimae in primam et secundam partem Aphorismorum Hippocratis by Giovanni Da Monte (Padua, 1552), and De consultationibus medicis by Giovanni Argenterio (Florence, 1551).54 Moise`’s interest in medicine was characterized by the scientific trends of the time. A physician, the Catholic Scipione Mercurio (1540–1615), who lived between Modena and Mantua at that time, had similar interests: he owned and read Avicenna, Ficino, and Paracelsus, along with Juan Harte and Albertus Magnus, Boccaccio and Bembo.55 Finally, Modena included other scientific texts that confirm the importance of disciplines such as arithmetic, geometry, and geography in the Italian Jewish curriculum: Aritmetica prattica facilissima, composed by Gemma Reiner (Venice, 1567); Euclide [ . . . ] solo introduttore delle scientie mathematice, translated by Niccolo` Tartaglia (Venice, 1543); Quaesitorum, et responsorum mathematicae disciplinae of Francesco Bordini (Bologna, 1573); and Elementa geometriae ex Euclide singulari prudentia collecta [. . .] Cum prefacione Philippi Melanchtoni by Johannes Vogelin (Venice, 1539). Moreover, Moise` owned De coelestibus globis by Giovanni Antonio Delfini (Bologna, 1559), a famous treatise on astronomical geography. Clearly, the cultural formation of Moise` Modena was based on a wide range of disciplines, from literature and philosophy to medicine and the sciences; no external sources or Hebrew, Latin and Italian books were excluded.

An Enlarged Audience This fascinating library mirrored the eclectic personality of Moise` Modena, characterized by a combination of culture and commerce. This was certainly not a novelty for the intellectuals in the early modern age. Looking at the Modenese context, in his Ma’avar Yabbok (Mantua, 1626), Aaron

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Berechiah Modena himself wrote that often rabbis had to expand their economic activities beyond ‘‘the sacred pages’’ in order to survive.56 R. Joseph Jedidiah Carmi, the son-in-law of Moise` and one of the habitue´s of his library, was both a rabbi and a silversmith.57 But in this case, the sources allow us to enter the intellectual ‘‘open book’’ of a Jewish merchant who did not leave self-written works. In Modena, the combination between culture and commerce became the major factor of survival for the entire Jewish community, together with the growing size of the population, the expansion of loan activities to the crafts, and the consolidation of intragroup ties.58 Let us consider, for example, the next-door neighbors of the Modenas, the Ashkenazi Sanguinettis, and the relations between the two families. When the Sanguinettis arrived in Modena from Germany in 1560, the banking monopoly of the Modena family ended. Starting in 1565, the Modenas filed a long series of lawsuits against the Sanguinettis. However, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, the two families began to respect each other’s role and helped one another in dealing with the duke to avoid new competitors in their commercial activities.59 At the time, the Sanguinettis and Modenas were able to expand their economic activity from the bank to wider trade, thereby improving the living conditions and cultural life of the Modenese Jews. This cooperation between the most influential families of the city also involved the cultural and religious spheres: the Sanguinettis and their German fellows shared common spaces such as synagogues, schools, and libraries with the Modenas and other Italian Jewish families. Leone Poggetti and Aaron Rubiera served as rabbis and teachers for both families.60 Thus the literary choices of these families are a fundamental key to our understanding of the cultural interests and various literary choices of the entire Modenese Jewish community in the early modern age. The Sanguinettis owned two synagogues, a private school, and houses on a street, nicknamed ‘‘Contrada Sanguinetti,’’ in the city center. The Sanguinettis’ synagogues were the main cultural centers for Ashkenazi Jews in Modena: At the beginning of the century, at least twenty-two families belonged to the ‘‘public synagogue,’’ maintaining their minhagim and original prayer books with Yiddish translation.61 In addition, the Sanguinettis dealt with a strong series of attacks by the inquisitor Angelo Calbetti. In fact, the proceedings against Moise` Modena in 1600 were only the first attack against the Jewish community’s main representatives, who at the end

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of 1604 were among the major subsidizers of the new building of the Holy Office because of their fines to the Inquisition for various condemnations.62 In November 1602, for example, the Sanguinettis were fined the exorbitant sum of 1118 lira for owning a Tanakh and three mah.zorim of the German rite, all with translations in Yiddish and uncorrected.63 Significantly, like Moise` Modena, they owned biblical texts in a vernacular language. Initially established with private family duties, the library of Moise` Modena became one of the most visible cultural centers of this renewed, growing, and ‘‘under surveillance’’ Jewish community. Among its habitue´s were not only outstanding men such as Joseph Jedidiah Carmi and Natanel Trabotti, but also women, rabbis, schoolteachers, and students. Certainly the mother-in-law of Moise`, the well-known Fioretta Modena (1510–85), who lived in Modena’s house and was fluent in Bible, Mishnah, medieval decisors, and the Zohar, had been among them.64 Rabbis such as Isaac Alatrini, Moise` Brunetta, and David Della Rocca, who were Italian Jews, frequented Modena’s synagogue and library. R. Leone Poggetti, schoolteacher, private instructor, and author of unpublished commentaries, taught his pupils in Modena’s school, located in the same building that hosted the library.65 Finally, Aaron Berechiah would make use of his father’s library despite his dramatic fights with Moise, which are acknowledged in the introduction to Ma’avar Yabbok and other sources.66 Moreover, he inherited part of the library after Moise`’s death in 1630.67 In the early seventeenth century, until the establishment of the ghetto, one hundred or so Jewish families had been living in Modena. The majority of them, merchants and peddlers, belonged to the Modena synagogue and were given the opportunity to benefit from the connected library. The merchants Abram Modena, Leon Fiorantino, and Isaac Fano were regular visitors to Modena’s house.68 The library of Moise` Modena represented a sort of cultural ‘‘encyclopedia’’ for the Jewish community as a whole. Through Modena’s library, not only an intelligentsia but also the Jewish merchant class participated in the wider culture of Italian society at that time.

A Shared Cultural Patrimony under Control: Medicine and Magic Books (1614–23) In the years 1617–18, the requests of the guilds and preachers for the establishment of a ghetto in Modena and for the expulsion of the Jews increased.

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In August 1617, a group of converts hatched a plot against the influential Jews of the state, accusing them of various offenses, including profaning Christianity, persuading neophytes to return to Judaism, improperly employing Christian women as servants, and owning forbidden books.69 Among the defendants were the bankers and merchants Simone Sanguinetti from Modena, Gabriele Sora from Carpi, the Foa` family (famous bankers and philanthropists from Reggio Emilia, also related to Azariah Menah.em Fano), and Rafael Modena from Sassuolo. The latter was the patron of Abraham Yagel, with whom he had paraded on the streets of Modena only three years earlier. The protagonist of this plot was the neophyte Pietro Maria Novi, formerly Salomone Dato. Pietro was related to Mordechai Dato, who before his conversion to Christianity had been a rabbi and teacher in the Jewish school of Bozzolo, near Mantua.70 Among the various accusations he articulated was one against his cousin Diena, whom he accused of attempting to stop his wife (Diena’s sister) and children from following him to Christianity71 During his testimony, he was able to prepare the accusations and to attract the attention of the inquisitor by strategically citing ‘‘suspected’’ books. Answering the inquisitor’s questions, Novi declared: I do not know anything except that there was a chest of books most prohibited (prohibitissimi) in the house of Messer David [David Diena, cousin of Pietro Novi], masterpieces handwritten by a man relative of mine now dead called Angelo Dato the doctor, and because I was among the heirs two years after my conversion I tried to obtain money for my part of the books, for example for the book entitled in Hebrew Shemen Sasson.72 He added that he saw ‘‘some books on magical amulets, incredibly diabolic, which protect from wounds,’’ and he declared: I do not know other Jews who owned forbidden books in this jurisdiction, but one in Reggio Emilia of the Foa family and in Sassuolo a Messer Raffaele Modena [the patron of Abraham Yagel de Gallichi] . . . I remember at least four volumes of Psalms [ . . . ], En Israel, a number of books on Kabbalah and books forbidden like the Olivetano [the Olive´tan Bible] [. . .] all these books are full of offences against the Christian faith.73

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This complex trial was halted by the interference of Giovan Battista Laderchi, the state secretary, and Camillo Jaghel da Correggio (1554–before 1624, Modena), the famous censor of Hebrew books, named doctor hebreorum by the inquisitors.74 Camillo acted as an intermediary between the massari of the Jewish community—David Diena, Samuele Sanguinetti, Moise` Modena, and Giuseppe Fiorentino (or Usiglio)—and the Holy Office. Since he was aware of the danger for the entirety of ‘‘Judaism,’’ he denounced the plot, charging that it had been organized by a group of neophytes against the ‘‘wealthy of the community.’’75 Because the trial ended, it is difficult to understand if the defendants actually owned the books mentioned; relatives of Mordechai Dato likely owned his books, though these works were not prohibited by the Index.76 The mention of the Olive´tan Bible (the first French Protestant translation of the Scripture, published in 1535) is an important reflection of the Modenese cultural environment and its connection with the still-surviving Reformation movements.77 The emphasis of Pietro Novi on kabbalistic books points to the encounter between Jewish thought and the aspects of early modern science that the intellectual Jewish elite pursued through natural philosophy and medicine, and through the combination of Jewish mystical and magical traditions. For example, in Abraham Yagel’s written works—the encyclopedia Beit Ya’ar ha-Levanon, his medical works, Moshia h.osim, and Gei h.izzayon— magic is clearly part of his Kabbalah and comprehensive culture.78 We can see more clearly the connection between science and medicine in the Modenese book-collecting context by looking at the libraries of two neophytes, the already mentioned Camillo Jaghel da Correggio and his son Ciro (1596–before 1636). Camillo, a physician and one of the most celebrated censors, ultimately converted to Christianity although he maintained an ongoing relationship with the Jews. Despite his indefatigable activity as corrector and censor of Hebrew books, he ended up before the tribunal of the Inquisition twice, in 1614 and 1620, asked to present his own lists of books.79 In 1614, he had presented a list of 197 titles (and more copies) that was copied in the records of the 1620–21 trial without any other documentation, but this list represented only a portion of his books. In addition, many of his books are categorized as ‘‘libri in lingua arabica et hebrea,’’ as was typical for notaries, librarians, and inquisitors to do at that time.80 Jaghel’s library is extraordinarily rich and very similar to the library of Moise` Modena: while the list concentrated on history, classical Latin and Greek literature, medieval Jewish commentators, and Italian poetry and

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literature, it was dedicated primarily to scholarly medicine and included the most important works of Avicenna, Almansor, Hippocrates, Galen, Paracelsus, Albertus Magnus, and Levinus Lemnius. Furthermore, Jaghel owned the most recent works on surgery, anatomy, and healing, such as Anatomicarum Gabrielis Falloppii by Andrea Vesalio (Venice, 1564); I libri di Gio. Mesue with the commentary of Pietro d’Abano (Venice, 1589); De venenis, et antidotis prolegomena by Andrea Bacci (Rome, 1586); In Antidotarium Joannis filii Mesue by Bartolomeo da Orvieto (Venice, 1543); Delle cose che vengono portate dall’Indie occidentali by Nicola Monardes (Venice, 1575); Medicina practica by Giovanni Capodivacca (Venice, 1597); Fascis de peste by Andrea Gallo (Brescia, 1565); Chirurgiae by Giovanni Andrea Croce (Venice, 1573); and Epistolarum Medicinalium (Venice, 1557) by Giovanni Mainardi.81 The trial, which took place in 1620–21, saw Christians suspected of Protestantism, converts (Camillo and his son Ciro da Correggio), and Jews all accused of owning, reading, and taking part in trade of forbidden books. Among them were booksellers, clerks, and peddlers. Ciro was a physician and astrologer, a neophyte, and, at the end of his life, a Capuchin friar. He converted during his youth, probably with his father, and earned his degree in philosophy and medicine in 1618 from the University of Ferrara. He was an ardent Christian and worked for many years as censor of Hebrew books for the Modenese Inquisition.82 Ciro was accused by the Inquisition because of an attempt to sell some of his books on magic and astrology to a Christian, which was forbidden. He did not deny the accusation, but he claimed his bona fides, and at the end they believed in his truthfulness. From the inquisitorial documents, it is not clear which books Ciro really wanted to sell and which he wanted to keep, nor do we have a description of his whole library—even if his house and studio were visited by the inquisitor and at least twenty-three uncorrected books were confiscated.83 From this corpus of forbidden books we know that Ciro’s cultural interests leaned primarily toward medicine, astrology, and magic as well as devotional literature. In addition to the main works of Levinus Lemnius, Paracelsus, and Cardano, Ciro owned the Clavicula de Salomone, De Secretis by Albertus Magnus; De Secretis Naturae by Raymond Llull; various other ‘‘Libri de’ Secreti’’; De Geomantia by D’Abano; De Occulta Philosophia by Cornelius Agrippa; ‘‘diversi libri di geomanzia, chiromantia, negromantia’’; the famous magic-kabbalistic treatise Sefer Raziel in Hebrew; and two Mars amulets. Moreover, Ciro’s interests in astrology are clearly represented by

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works such as Speculum Astrologiae by Francesco Giuntini, Astrologiae Methodus by Jean Gaercaeus, and a number of horoscopes he himself created.84 Ciro was not alone in his interest in magic, which was shared by a number of Jews and Christians as well, as the inquisitorial archive shows. For example, in 1623 the Marquise Baldassarre Rangoni, a member of one of the most influential noble families in Modena that was involved in the Reformation movement during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, was accused of owning forbidden books. Among others, he owned Clavicula de Salomone; De vanitate scientiarun; De Occulta Philosophia; Apologia adversus calumnias by Cornelio Agrippa; a ‘‘libretto de secreti’’; Liber Sapientiae Salomonis; Profezie by Joachim of Fiore; Della Fisionomia dell’uomo by Giovan Battista Della Porta; Genealogia degli Dei by Boccaccio; La macaronea by Teofilo Folengo; and some autograph memoires.85 The documentation regarding four bundles of books that arrived in the Modenese market from Venice in 1620 shows that the following were still available in Modena: Bibles, Psalms, and New Testaments in the vernacular; books on magic—such as La Geomantia by Bartholomeus Cocle (Venice, 1550) and Della geomantia by Pietro d’Abano, translated from Latin to Italian (Venice, 1550); books on medicine such as Degli occulti miracoli by Levinus Lemnius; classics of Latin literature such as Flores by Seneca; and masterpieces of Italian literature—Labirinto d’Amore by Boccaccio, Il Cortegiano by Baldassarre Castiglione (Lion, 1556), Sette libri di satire di autori dell’opera Lodouico Ariosto (Venice, 1585); and classics of the Italian Reformation—Trattato Utilissimo di Gesu` Christo, Trattato del vero cristiano by Calisto da Piacenza (Florence, 1550), and Profezie by Joachim of Fiore.86 After decades of a continuous campaign of inquisitorial surveillance over the city, Modenese Catholics, reformers, and Jews—even if often divided by social and religious conflicts—were influenced by common cultural trends around medicine and magic. Reformation movements and Jewish culture both remained alive and vibrant, despite the attempts by local and central Church authorities to disrupt the former and isolate the latter.

Understanding Jewish Culture Through Confiscated and Listed Books (1630–38) The ducal decision to establish the ghetto was definitive, and in the years that followed the Jews faced the plague of 1630 as well as the confiscation

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of personal properties of those Jews who perished in it—organized at this critical juncture by the new Duke Francesco I (1610–59).87 The 1630s were intense years wherein the leaders of the Jewish community tried twice to oppose the erection of the ghetto and later to improve conditions for it, for example, by requesting that its location be in the center of the city and not in a peripheral area as proposed by the municipal authorities.88 In 1636, the Counter-Reformation political climate was strongly reflected in the action of the local Inquisition against the Jews and the attempts to push the Jews not only into a material ghetto but also into a cultural one. On 25 November, while work on the ghetto was proceeding, the accusation by another neophyte (Alfredo Maria Giacinti) led the inquisitor Giacomo Tinti to accuse the lay leaders (massari) Salomone Usiglio, Pellegrino and Isach Sanguinetti, Michele Modena, the rabbis Aaron and Salomon Modena, and Leone Poggetti of owning ‘‘prohibited’’ books. It was at that time that the previously mentioned Aaron Berechiah and Natanel Trabotti, the leading rabbinical authority of Modena and censor of Hebrew books for the Inquisition, were arrested and jailed. They were accused of owning uncorrected or forbidden books such as a Bible in Latin and Ludovico Domenichi’s Italian translation of the De Vanitate scientiarum by Cornelio Agrippa.89 Inquisitor Giacomo da Lodi created a list of Hebrew book titles to be confiscated, which included, among others, Midrash rabbah, the Code by Alfasi, Mishnayot, Mishneh Torah by Maimonides, Sefer miz.vot gadol, Sefer ha-Zohar, Arba’ah turim, Pirke avot, Sefer ha-Kuzari, Z.eror ha-mor, Shulh.an arukh, and Me’or einayim, ‘‘all the comments on the Torah,’’ and ‘‘mah.zorim in all the languages.’’90 Never had the Modenese Inquisition enacted a similar attack against the entire Jewish community, and hundreds of volumes were confiscated from Jewish hands, as even Tinti reported in his letter to the cardinal of Santa Severina in Rome.91 The affair was fundamentally about exerting inquisitorial authority over the Jews as a way to press them into a cultural ghetto. In fact the majority of books confiscated had already been erased and corrected twice, by Luigi da Bologna and Camillo Jaghel da Correggio. The reaction of the chiefs of the Jewish community was strong and assertive: Salomone Usiglio, Pellegrino Sanguinetti, and Michele Modena petitioned the return of the confiscated books and the release of the jailed exponents, by agreeing to submit their books to a new correction. These requests were actually met.92

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This trial allows for a reconsideration of the validity of the lists submitted by the Jews to the inquisitors. The list of books belonging to the kabbalist Aaron Berechiah da Modena registered in the Inquisitional Tribunal, for example, contained fifty Hebrew books, which largely comprised a number of copies of the Shulh.an arukh, Midrash rabbah, Sefer ha-halakhot by Alfasi, Arba’ah turim, Mishneh Torah by Maimonides, Me’or einayim, Kenaf renanim by Joseph Jedidiah Carmi, mishnayot, and various handwritten books.93 This list contained not a single book of Kabbalah and not even a copy of Aaron’s own books. This seems unlikely.94 These books were confiscated by the Inquisitor on the pretext of the Index of Clemente VIII ‘‘in the studio in domo suae’’ (in the midrash of Aaron) only and not in his home. Italian Jews were perfectly conscious of the dynamics of the Inquisition, as Berechiah Modena declared in a proud talk delivered during the trial, on 3 December: Never would I have believed that these books were forbidden and that it is not possible to own them, because for hundreds of years we have owned them, as have many of the Inquisitors throughout many Inquisitions; and never have we seen their confiscation. The same books are in Rome; and there are Christians and Neophytes who know Hebrew very well, and we never heard of such prohibitions as these in Rome or that these books were considered evil, not just books that contain Talmudic teachings, but the majority of books, for example Rav Alfasi, Turim, Rabot, Mishnayot, Maimonides, Kimh.i and Rabbi Salomone Attias, widespread in the world before the burning of Talmud. And a week later he added: I do not have anything else to say, but because the Holy Inquisition tolerates us in its States, consequently we are also allowed to own these books, which deal with our ceremonies, because it is impossible for us to live in these countries if we do not have books that teach us the principles of our faith, and although Vostra Signoria told us that Clemente VIII promulgated the bull that banned a number of books from the Jews, to my knowledge this bull has never been enforced, neither were the books confiscated from the Jews. Furthermore, even [Christian] preachers sometimes cite the

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Shulchan Aruch, Rav Alfassi, or similar books to convince the Jews [to convert] and they could not do this if we would be prohibited to read or to own these books.95 Berechiah’s words reveal both a self-conscious and articulate attempt at negotiation and the perception of a certain ambiguity in censorship and Inquisition politics, which resulted in conflicts between the central and local heads of the Inquisition in the application of the Index.96 In analyzing lists of books presented to the inquisitors, it is always important to consider both the role of the inquisitor and the role of the defendant and, specifically in our cases, which kinds of books the inquisitor was looking for and which kinds of books the accused was requested to present or even tried to hide. Italian and Latin authors were often prohibited, while Hebrew books, if controlled and erased, were not. For example, in 1600, Moise` Modena, with the exception of the ‘‘dangerous’’ books for which he was tried, did not show any other forbidden books by his Italian and Latin ‘‘suspected’’ authors.97 In 1605, Moise` Ariani, a simple clerk of the bank in Carpi, was accused of owning forbidden books—a manuscript on surgery and a Venetian edition of the Epistulae of Cicero—but these books were not listed in the first document Ariani submitted to the inquisitor.98 In November 1636, inquisitor Giacomo da Lodi found in the home of Leone Poggetti the same kinds of books that he had found in the studio of Aaron Berechiah, among them ‘‘Misnayot, Orech Khaim, En Israel, Maimonides.’’ However, he found a number of non-Hebrew books in the closet of Leone Poggetti’s wife, Allegra: Boccaccio’s Genealogia degli Dei, Isabella Andreini’s ‘‘La chanzione’’ (probably the Pastorale), Ovid‘s Metamorphoses, and Dante’s Divina Commedia.99 Lists of books presented to the Inquisition reflect the roles of both the inquisitor and the defendant. The lists were shaped by the requests of the inquisitor on the one hand and the need for cooperation by the accused on the other. Remarkably, this approach can contribute to a discussion of our perception of the reading habits of the Jewish population in early modern Italy compared to the way scholars have treated this in the past.100 For example, of the 430 inventories prepared in 1595 on the request of the bishop of Mantua, who acted on instruction from Rome, it appears that only 2.4 percent of the books possessed by the Jews at this time were not written in Hebrew.101 Scholars have therefore argued that almost all Jewish cultural activity was based on texts in Hebrew and that the privileged topics were

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the various areas of religious literature.102 This assumption has been challenged by recent contributions showing that by the sixteenth century Hebrew and Latin were both literary languages, whereas Italian was the language Jews used in addressing Christians and in speaking to each other.103 Following from this, it makes little sense to assume that Jews spoke in Italian, but read only in Hebrew. Rather, the Modenese case suggests that through reading Jews negotiated a space in the larger society that allowed them both to assert their identity and to engage in cultural interchange with Christians. So too studies by Italian scholars have shown that submitted lists of books can be misleading; for example, in the past scholars have erroneously seen the inventories of books in the libraries of Italian monasteries and convents submitted to the Congregation of the Index after 1596 as a ‘‘survey’’ of library stocks rather than as lists from which banned or suspended books were to be removed or already had been.104 The discovery of Boccaccio, Andreini, Ovid, and Dante’s books in Allegra Poggetti’s closet allows for a broader understanding of Jewish readership, by including ‘‘long since silenced’’ women.105 The reading choices of Allegra Poggetti were not an isolated phenomenon in early modern Italy, but are confirmed by other documentation as well. Only a few years earlier, in 1614, Yaakov ben Elhanan Heilprun, the translator of R. Binyamin Aharon Slonik’s Sefer miz.vot nashim (printed in Padua in 1625), wrote in his introduction: ‘‘And so your daughters, even if they are not betrothed and are not yet brides, should read it, [ . . . ] And it is less harmful to read his book than Ariosto, the Hundred Novellas [Decameron], Amadis di Gaula and other such profane literature that is forbidden to read on the Shabbat as Moses our teacher stated, since one can only learn obscenity and vanity from them.’’106 The curriculum studiorum for women points to other similarities: for example, an account from 1523 by a certain Emanuele, son of Rafael from Salonica, describes daughters of wealthy Italian Jewish families, probably in Parma, a city near Modena, as trained in rhetoric and in ‘‘Boethius, Terentius, Ovid, Tullius [Cicero], Petrarch, Dante and many other similar books together with works on history from the time of Carthage and Troy, and some that can be read in the idiomatic language and Studia Humanitatis [sic].’’107

Surveillance versus Negotiation The last and most significant daily procession of Jews that went through the streets of Modena took place in December 1638, when a few hundred

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people moved from their former houses to the area of the ghetto, located in the historical center and well connected to the main squares of the city, the ducal palace, and the Duomo, where the majority of Jews had already been living.108 Jews, like prostitutes, mendicants, and the sick, got their own ‘‘proper’’ place in the order of the city (the Corpus Christianum). Yet, as Kenneth Stow makes clear, the notion of the ghetto fits well into the overall policy of the new Counter-Reformation. Through enclosure and segregation, the Catholic community could be shielded more effectively from Jewish contamination.109 The independent Este Duchy struggled to impose its own power on the other civic bodies and in particular to maintain a certain autonomy from the Catholic Church. Furthermore, the tight organization and successful commercial endeavors of the Modenese Jewish merchants, before and during the ghetto era, conferred upon the Jewish community great flexibility in negotiations with the local authorities. Modenese Jews lost the struggle against the ghetto’s creation, but they succeeded in imposing favorable conditions such as a central location for the ghetto.110 In 1636 their leaders were humiliated before the Holy Office, but the Modenese Jewish community was able to contest the legality of these proceedings. In early modern Modena, Jewish books and libraries were instrumental to Counter-Reformation politics (whether cultural and/or economic ghettoization) and to the shaping of a collective Jewish identity. Jews as well as Christians were kept under surveillance by the Catholic Church and the Inquisition. In Modena, characterized by a strong presence of both Jews and reformers, the Church pursued particularly intensive policies to turn the consciences of ‘‘a child people’’ (un popolo fanciullo) into proper ‘‘open books,’’ that is, fully accessible to the scrutiny of their ‘‘spiritual fathers.’’111 Under such circumstances, Jews negotiated their culture as they negotiated their position within the broader society. Beside dramatic social conflicts that divided Jews and Christians at the time, the ‘‘heretical’’ surrounding society was beneficial to shaping the cultural world of the Jews. For example, the Jews shared a passion for reading biblical texts in vernacular languages (whether Italian, Latin, or even Yiddish) with both reformers and Catholics. This kind of cultural exchanges contributed to the shaping of an actual ‘‘open book’’—based on Kabbalah, rhetoric, historiography, scholastic and Neoplatonic philosophy, magic, medicine, the sciences, and sacred and profane literature—that became accessible to a Jewish audience that went beyond the intelligentsia.

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Despite different emphases and at times dissimilar conclusions, recent scholarship has delineated a crucial framework for the shaping of Italian Jewish identity in the years after 1550 and the degree of proximity between Jewish and Christian culture, considering especially the practices, spaces, and tensions of Jewish-Christian relations.112 Hence the Modenese case can be considered paradigmatic of the whole Italian Jewish society in the early modern age: its cultural production, social and political dynamics, and the composition of its population are elements easily identifiable in other Italian cities such as Reggio Emilia, Mantua, and Venice. Recently attempts have been made to go beyond categorizations such as Renaissance and Baroque and to rethink our perception of Italian Jewish culture and history in the wider cultural perspective of the early modern era.113 Events such as the burning of the Talmud in 1553, the promulgation of both the Cum nimis absurdum bull in 1555 and the Index in 1596, and the establishment of ghettos throughout the Italian peninsula reflect increasing tensions between Jewish and Christian communities. Nevertheless, Jewish participation in the general culture did continue and, as such, an assessment of the book culture of the Jews also offers an assessment of their political and social relations. The common book culture of Modena suggests that in the early seventeenth century even if Jews and Christians despised each other, they were still influencing each other. Considering the new Jewish centers that had begun to emerge at that time—after the various Jewish settlements and resettlements in Western and Eastern Europe—the complex cultural negotiation between the Jews and Christians of Italy can be a fruitful key for our understanding of the early modern age as a whole.

CHAPTER 8

The Printing of Devotion in Seventeenth-Century Italy: Prayer Books Printed for the Shomrim la-Boker Confraternities Michela Andreatta

Starting in the second half of the sixteenth century and with a dramatic increase during the seventeenth, Jewish devotional confraternities came to play a major role in the religious, social, and cultural life of Italian communities. Departing from both traditional pious confraternities for the care of the sick and the dead, and the newly established mutual aid societies, like those for ransoming slaves and prisoners or for dowering maidens, devotional confraternities tended to have a more strictly religious character and to circumscribe their main field of activity to deeds of ritual piety. In the overall atmosphere of an age in which religious zeal was implemented by external acts of devotion and a more pietistic lifestyle, these groups provided the Jewish community with an arena for practices that were to become more and more relevant in the religious life of the time, such as prayer in special ritual contexts like vigils; the study of texts, especially of halakhah but also of mysticism; and fasting.1 These practices and the special ceremonies attached to them were endowed with profound penitential and redemptive significance and were established as ancillary to the official liturgy. The spread of confraternities of this kind in every sizable community and their proliferation under different names although with similar aims, stemmed from contemporary spirituality as well as the need for a suitable

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framework for expressing sociability within the ghetto. Other factors contributing to the propagation of these new forms of confraternal piety among the Jews included the cultural influence exerted by refugees from the Iberian Peninsula, bearers of a long tradition of paraliturgical devotions; the spread of Kabbalah among wider levels of the population with its parallel penetration into the liturgy, particularly under the influence of customs introduced from the land of Israel; the widespread messianic and apocalyptic expectations powerfully conveyed by mysticism through ritual; and, last but not least, the model offered by Christian confraternities and the central role played by devotional groups and rituality in the surrounding culture of the age of Counter-Reformation, which also accounted for the diffusion of the new rituals and the consequent establishment of societies meant for their observation. Association with one of these groups provided members with an alternative and more exclusive context in which to express religious piety, at the same time ensuring them important spiritual benefits, such as mutual prayer in case of sickness or death as well as fraternal participation in joyous occasions. Another source of sociability inside the confraternity was through special events organized alongside the specific rite observed, the most common being the procession or the banquet held on the occasion of the confraternity foundation’s anniversary. The special significance attached by these groups to such celebrations and the recognition they were granted by communal institutions is documented by vocal and instrumental music—commissioned to either Jewish or Christian artists to be publicly performed on the occasion—whose scores have been fortuitously preserved from the offense of time, thus providing us with rare insight into one of the most fascinating aspects of Jewish culture of the period.2 But of far greater significance to the cultural activity of the confraternities, at least in terms of quantity of material produced, was the compilation and printing of special prayer books to be used as a material support and guide to prayer during the gatherings of the various groups.3 Among the first devotional societies to establish their own seder tefillah, compile it into a prayer book, and have it printed, were the groups devoted to the so-called ashmoret ha-boker, the predawn prayer vigil. This ritual, which made its first Italian appearance in the Venetian ghetto in the second half of the sixteenth century, possibly stemmed from similar ceremonies spread among the kabbalistic centers in the land of Israel, where prayer and study vigils were widely practiced.4 The predawn vigil was instituted as a

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penitential ritual, mourning over the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple, lamenting the sufferings of the exile, and above all imploring the forgiveness of sins, these last being regarded as the principal obstacle to the advent of the Messiah. As did other penitential rituals that had started to enrich the religious life of Jewish communities, the vigil fit well with the ideology of an era dominated by concern with salvation and redemption.5 The groups of watchers, generally known as Shomrim la-Boker (Morning Sentinels),6 used to gather daily—at the beginning only on weekdays, but soon after also on the Sabbath and holidays—about one hour before dawn to recite prayers, Psalms, and penitential hymns (selih.ot). For their devotional activities these societies initially used existing collections of selih.ot but later began compiling and publishing their own special prayer books, which generally followed the minhag and the seder established by each group and contained the selection of Psalms, prayers, and hymns in use within each confraternity. From the end of the sixteenth century to the first half of the eighteenth century, the Shomrim la-Boker societies of Venice, Mantua, Modena, and Ancona compiled and published about a dozen breviaries, some for the vigil itself and some collecting prayers and hymns to be recited as a supplement to the watch or on other occasions.7 Most of these prayer books were reprinted and circulated throughout the eighteenth century. A few of them, as testified by the notes of possession extant on many of the preserved copies, were still used by their owners in the first half of the nineteenth century.

The Prayer Books of the Shomrim la-Boker Societies In Venice, where the Jewish population was divided into ‘‘nations’’ between the end of the sixteenth and the first half of the seventeenth century three different societies of watchers were instituted, all of them bearing the name Shomrim la-Boker, but each with a distinctive minhag.8 The first Shomrim la-Boker society was founded in Venice during the late 1570s in association with the synagogue of the Italian rite. At the time the kabbalist Menah.em Azariah of Fano (whose familiarity with trends emanating from Safed is well known) was serving the Italian community in the capacity of rabbi and might have had a role in introducing the predawn vigil in that community.9 The Italian Shomrim la-Boker of Venice was the oldest group of its kind in Italy. The minute book of the society, spanning the years ca. 1606–50, has

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been preserved and provides a valuable glimpse of confraternal life, of the relationship between the society and its associated synagogue, and of the social origin of its members.10 Early on, the members of the confraternity probably used the collection Seder tah.anunim u-selih.ot le-lele ashmorot for the Italian ritual, printed in Venice by Giovanni di Gara in 1587.11 Although not specifically meant for the predawn vigil, this prayer book included five hymns by the Paduan grammarian and poet Samuel Archivolti (ca. 1530–1611), among them a selih.ah accompanied by the following annotation: ‘‘For the vigil, meant for the members of the Shomrim la-Boker confraternity of Venice’’ (fol. 75v). It would take almost forty years until the group sponsored the publication of a specific prayer book at the press of Giovanni Calleoni. The collection, titled Seder selih.ot piyyutim ve-kinot ve-vidduim, was based mostly upon the one already in use, with additional material drawn from other prayer books for the predawn vigil that had appeared in the meantime.12 Besides the predawn vigil, the Italian-rite Shomrim la-Boker also conducted penitential ceremonies connected with Yom Kippur Katan, a new kabbalistic observance of the Eve of the New Moon that this group was apparently among the first to promote. In 1614, a special compilation meant for the afternoon prayer on this observance was printed on the initiative of the confraternity. Among the hymns and prayers included was ‘‘a newly composed petition’’ (bakkashah h.adashah) by Leon Modena, later to be inserted in other prayer books too.13 In 1596 a second confraternity bearing the same name of Shomrim laBoker was established in the neighboring Ashkenazi synagogue. Its members commissioned the printing of two prayer books within a few years of each other. The first was the Seder tah.anunim u-fiyyutim u-fizmonim vekinot, printed by Giovanni di Gara in 1597, which represents the oldest preserved compilation for the predawn vigil. Besides sedarim for the weekdays, it also comprises hymns for the days in which statutory liturgy does not include penitential prayers as well as special prayers to recite on the occasion of a circumcision, for the dead, and for the sick. In this prayer book there is no seder for the Sabbath, which proves that at this stage the predawn vigil still took place solely on weekdays. An introductory note appended to the verso of the title page sheds light on the purpose of this publication and the goals of its promoters: Noble men among us gathered in order to restore the fallen crown to its splendor, and pray in the Great Synagogue [i.e., the Scola

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Grande Tedesca] before the dawn as it has been customary since ancient times, and they called this holy confraternity Shomrim laBoker of the Ashkenazi rite. And with the approbation of the leaders of the community and its scholars they clustered and ordered the penitential hymns [they used to recite] into this prayer book. For each day there are to be found in it Psalms on the destruction of the Temple, [prayers based on] passages from the Scriptures and penitential hymns . . . in order to observe what is written: ‘‘Arise, cry out in the night, oh daughter of Zion!’’ (Lamentations 2: 19). And do they join her in singing all those who mourn, in order to follow in the steps of the holy community in Safed and all the other ones . . . so that their reward will be perfect (fol. [1]v).14 In 1600 the Ashkenazi watchers commissioned the same Giovanni di Gara to print a second prayer book, titled Selih.ot ‘im perushim yafim, which, from the perspective of size and layout, represents the most monumental among all the prayer books printed for the Shomrim la-Boker. Besides the weekly seder for the predawn vigil, the bulk of the collection consists of sections devoted to the overall penitential observances of the year, including the fasts.15 The compilation opens with a confessional (viddui) to recite ‘‘in proximity to the rite of fustigation (Seder Malkot)’’ (fol. 2v) by Barukh ibn Barukh, a scholar from Salonica renowned for his competence in the fields of philosophy and Kabbalah, who was active in several cities of northern Italy from the end of the sixteenth through the beginning of the seventeenth century.16 Some twenty years later, a third Shomrim la-Boker society was active in the Venetian ghetto, this one associated with the synagogue of the Levantine community. This confraternity sponsored the publication of two prayer books for the vigil, both in 1622. The first was published by Giovanni Calleoni on behalf of the Bragadin brothers and bore the title Seder Shomrim laBoker. Although exhibiting its own organization of the included materials, it drew from previous collections of selih.ot for Sephardic use, with the addition of a few piyyutim by the poet Israel Najara (1555?–1625?).17 The second, titled Sefer h.adashim la-bekarim, was printed in Mantua in the print shop managed by the Da Perugia family. It was compiled by a rabbi from Salonica who had moved to Venice, Shemaiah de Medina, who also included his own hymns in the collection.18 In Mantua, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, the Jews of Italian stock represented the majority of the town’s Jewish population, and

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communal life was centered around the Great Synagogue (Sinagoga Maggiore) of the Italian rite. In this same synagogue the members of the Shomrim la-Boker confraternity—one of the first such prayer groups operating in Mantua—used to gather daily to observe the ceremony of the predawn vigil. On behalf of the confraternity, whose founding he also promoted, the Mantuan rabbi Mordekhai Reuben Yare` compiled a prayer book and then expedited its publication at the local print shop run by Eliezer Italia, which had recently been renovated. The collection, titled Ayyelet ha-shah.ar (The Morning Star),19 included Psalms, eulogies, prayers, and penitential hymns of different kinds, interspersed with readings from the Bible and the Talmud, organized along the model of the ma‘amadot20 —this in itself being an innovation in comparison to prayer books printed so far for the predawn vigil. Besides ancient and medieval piyyutim, the editor also inserted about forty hymns of various kinds by contemporary authors connected with the local community, including more then twenty compositions by H . ananiah Eliakim Rieti (1561–1623), the scion of the well-known family of bankers from Bologna, at the time serving as a rabbi and cantor in and around Mantua. In one of the notes appended to the volume, the editor recounts how he addressed Rieti, urging him to put his compositions at the disposal of the confraternity, thus providing the reader with some vivid details concerning the editorial work and the making of the compilation: In order that everything that follows would purify those who adhere to it, I urged H . ananiah Eliakim Rieti with these words: ‘‘Come on, show me your value, since your poems have already been recited in the vigil and I know you have the gift of song and supplication.’’ And indeed he showed it to me, and after reading a few initial lines, he told me: ‘‘Choose and suggest you yourself, since it is my intention to be of advantage for the many.’’ As a result I have chosen appropriately these selih.ot which are based upon the columns of purest gold of Scriptures and Gemara. (fol. 1v, in the appendix) Both for its reception and circulation and for the influence it exerted on later collections compiled and printed for Shomrim la-Boker confraternities, Ayyelet ha-shah.ar represents one of the most relevant and innovative among the books commissioned for these groups and illustrates the intertwining of mysticism, devotion, aesthetic, and literary ambitions, social

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needs, and local concerns that characterized the activity of the Mantuan watchers.21 For some of the poets associated with the Shomrim la-Boker, participation in the confraternal activities and life meant not just a source of inspiration, but also the opportunity to have their literary work read and performed. Promoters and members of the societies, for their part, could enjoy new texts, sometimes specially composed, which successfully conveyed the special significance of the rites and also conformed to the intellectual horizons and literary tastes of the time. Sacred poems by H . ananiah Eliakim Rieti, already conspicuously attested in Ayyelet ha-shah.ar, continued to enjoy wide popularity among the Mantuan watchers, who later sponsored the publication of two other collections of Rieti’s compositions meant for predawn vigils on the occasion of special holidays.22 In 1724, while the Shomrim la-Boker society of Mantua was being reorganized, Ayyelet ha-shah.ar was reprinted at the Mantuan press managed by Rafael H . ayyim Italia, whose great-grandfather, Eliezer Italia, had printed the first edition of the prayer book. New materials were added to the original sedarim, including several hymns by Binyamin ha-Kohen Vitale (1651– 1730), at the time a rabbi in Reggio Emilia, from his collection ‘Et ha-zamir (The Season of the Song), originally printed in Venice in 1707. This operation, probably aimed at adapting the breviary to the spiritual needs and literary taste of the renewed readership, was in itself not uncommon in this period. Because copyright had not yet been recognized, piyyutim had a life of their own, often quite independent of the books they were originally included in or the manuscripts of their authors. In Mantua, in the second half of the seventeenth century, a second confraternity performed its devotions at the Great Synagogue. The society, named Me‘ire Shah.ar, observed the Ashkenazi rite, and although it probably initially established itself on the example of the Italian watchers, it later circumscribed its activity to ceremonies pertaining to the Eve of the New Moon and the fast days of Shovavim Tat.23 Its members sponsored the printing of a special prayer book, partly based on materials that had appeared in some of the previous collections for the predawn vigil. The prayer book, titled Seder nakhon mi-selih.ot u-fiyyutim, was published in Mantua in 1672 at the print shop run by Yehoshua of Perugia’s sons.24 In Modena, a community closely tied to Mantua, the history of the groups of watchers is linked with the well-known litigation that saw the kabbalist Aaron Berechiah Modena (d. 1639) and his brother-in-law Yosef

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Yedidiah Carmi (ca. 1590–?) opposed to each other. In 1624 Modena had compiled a special prayer book titled Ashmoret ha-boker and published it at the Mantua print shop managed by Yehoshua of Perugia. The prayer book was meant for the group of watchers he himself had founded, the Me‘ire Shah.ar of Italian rite, who used to gather in the oratory established by Modena’s father, Moise`. The collection, to which the editor added lengthy notes and explanations, implemented the predawn vigil along with several other sedarim of kabbalistic inspiration, among them the ceremony of the midnight vigil, a ritual not yet widespread among Italian communities. Modena nourished the fervid enthusiasm for everything emanating from the circles of the land of Israel, and in addition to compositions of Italian authors he also included in his collection several hymns by Israel Najara, Menah.em Lonzano, Isaac Luria, and Josef Ganso; the result was a compilation that strongly reflected recent poetic and mystical trends from the Palestinian centers. A year later, Yosef Yedidiah Carmi, who at the time was serving as a cantor at the synagogue established by the Usiglio family in Modena, compiled and expedited his own collection of prayers and hymns, titled Sefer kenaf renanim (The Wing of the Songs), into print. The book, entirely made up of Carmi’s own compositions, was meant for a second confraternity of watchers operating in the city, bearing the name Shomrim la-Boker. When the book was about to be published at the Venetian printing press of the Bragadin brothers, Aaron Berechiah Modena denounced its contents to the local rabbinical authorities, due apparently to some of the mystical conceptions expressed in Carmi’s poems. The issue was brought before the rabbinical court of Mantua, headed by Nethanel Trabotto, and the work was finally printed in 1626, after several rabbis from Modena, Mantua, and Venice had been asked for their opinions.25 The vicissitudes that surrounded this publication (and in which poetry, Kabbalah, and social primacy within the community were involved) are illustrative of the complex fabric of relations and the conflicts that animated the confraternal world in Jewish Modena. Although it did not have a wide circulation, Carmi’s collection stands out for the literary quality of the compositions included and the elegance of its layout.26 In Ancona a confraternity bearing the name Shomrim la-Boker was established during the 1660s.27 In 1709 the society was still operating and commissioned the printing of a prayer book at the Stamperia Bragadina in Venice. The collection, titled Or boker (Morning Light), included prayers and hymns for the Eve of the New Moon, the fast days of Shovavim, the

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Ten Days of Repentance, the Eve of the New Year, and the Day of Atonement. Among the compositions by contemporary poets it comprised were a few penitential hymns by Yosef Fiammetta (d. ca. 1721), a rabbi in Ancona at the time: an elegy for the death of the kabbalist and poet Moses Zacuto (ca. 1620–97), ‘‘the establisher of the Seder Shovavim,28 whom the members of the confraternity used to commemorate with the prayer for the dead’’ (fol. 24v); and ‘‘a poem in music’’ (shir be-musikah) composed on the occasion of the Jewish community’s lucky escape from the earthquake that had struck the city in 1690 (fol. 49r).29

The Prayer Books and Popular Religiosity The prayer books printed for the Shomrim la-Boker belong to a vast devotional literature—which included liturgical works, manuals for prayer, and lists of moral and religious precepts (hanhagot)—that began to develop with the spread of mystical tendencies from Palestine and flourished throughout the seventeenth century. In particular, they are among the first examples of tikkunim (or sifre tikkunim), the name by which the newly established rituals themselves were generally known.30 For their content and formal characteristics, as well as for their devotional function, they may be investigated as a consistent bibliographic corpus. As historical documents they represent evidence for the spread and acceptance of new kabbalistic practices and beliefs, a process in which the Shomrim la-Boker rituals played a major role. They also provide firsthand information on the societies of watchers and the range of their activities, as well as details useful in tracing the development of the predawn vigil ritual in different local contexts. On the basis of the prayer books, we see that the predawn vigil entailed the recitation of selih.ot, kinot, and piyyutim of various kinds as well as prayers, eulogies, and penitential psalms. The vigil ceremony was sung, and, as shown by the musical indications interspersed in the books, both medieval and modern hymns were generally based on traditional melodies for the synagogue. Among some of these groups, the vigil for the weekdays also included readings from the Bible and the Talmud, as in the case of the Mantuan circles. The materials were organized into sedarim, at the beginning only for weekdays, but subsequently expanded to cover festival and semifestive days as

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well. In some cases, such an expansion, first attested in the collection Ayyelet ha-shah.ar, gave rise to the insertion of nonpenitential hymns too, among them compositions by contemporary authors. Special sections for specific occasions, like circumcisions, were also included, as well as prayers for the dead and the sick. Particularly, the insertion of such sedarim reflects the use of praying for members of the confraternity (or the community) who were ill or departed. It also can be related to the deep concern displayed at the time by both Jews and Christians for deeds of piety connected to illness and death. As a matter of fact, in some local contexts the Shomrim la-Boker also performed the service of spiritual assistance at the bed of the sick and the dying (bikkur h.olim), a practice widespread at the time among Christians too and similarly performed by special devotional confraternities.31 The prayer books printed for the watchers also bear witness to the increasing importance ascribed at the time to the recitation of formulas for the confession of sins, independently of the traditional penitential occasions of the liturgical year. In fact, all the collections commissioned by the watchers contain one or more confessionals, among them a few composed by contemporary authors, for example, one by H . ananiah Eliakim Rieti in Ayyelet ha-Shah.ar, which the editor defined in the introductory note as ‘‘suitable and recommended for any occasion and time.’’32 Through their contribution to the spread at a popular level of practices inspired by mystical beliefs, the Shomrim la-Boker circles became one of the primary agents in the process that saw the Kabbalah claiming halakhic authority and remodeling liturgy, customs, and prayer. The transmission of the ideas, uses, and beliefs that were affecting Italian Judaism at this time clearly emerges from the prayer books printed for these groups. Although almost all the prayer books appeal to the holiness and ‘‘antiquity’’ of the vigil and its conformity to analogous practices observed in the land of Israel, the first compilations printed for the Venetian watchers were still largely dependent on previous collections of selih.ot and marked by only tenuous mystical afflatus. But in the books printed for the confraternities operating in Mantua and especially Modena, elements connected with the performance of the tikkun were already becoming preeminent; these included kabbalistic inspiration for hymns by contemporary authors, extensive kavanot inserted to assist prayer, and space allocated for newly established ceremonies like the midnight vigil. The notes appended to these collections confirm that the ‘‘theology’’ sustaining the activity of the groups of watchers was by this time well defined: the predawn vigil is meant not

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only for mourning the destruction of the Temple and the loss of political independence but also for trying to repair these losses (tikkun) by reviving the glorious rites of the ancient sanctuary, thus reconciling God with his people.33 A comparison between the first editions of some of these collections and their subsequent reprints clearly demonstrates the progressive rooting of penitential rites in religious practice. Over time the ceremonies pertaining to the Eve of the New Moon and the fast days of Shovavim became more and more significant, with the consequent inclusion of specific sedarim as well as the creation of collections devoted entirely to such feasts. The latter are particularly significant since they offer evidence of the watchers’ expanding ritual activity or, as in Mantua, of further specialization in their ritual practices.

Customization The prayer books printed for the Shomrim la-Boker represent a special case in the commissioning and printing of prayer books. Each confraternity, although inspired by common conceptions and devoted to similar ritual practices, tended to personalize the performance of the ceremony according to the use established by its own group, beginning with the selection of prayers and hymns to recite and their organization into a special seder. In this regard, the printing of the prayer books was motivated both by the distinctiveness of the ceremony performed and by the consequent desire of its promoters to preserve the local use, especially given the proliferation of groups practicing similar kinds of devotions. Very soon, the intellectual tendencies and the literary taste of the compilers further differentiated these collections. Printing played a decisive role in providing an outlet for this aspiration to originality and individuality; it allowed these groups to have their own use fixed and properly represented through the modern device of the press, at the same time challenging the standardization in the shaping of liturgical books consequent to the introduction of printing and the completion of the Italian canon of synagogue poetry.34 The printing of the prayer books also helped reinforce the tie between modern sacred poetry and Jewish devotional confraternities. Most of the authors who contributed to the revival of Hebrew sacred and mystical poetry in Italy between the end of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth century had their piyyutim included in one or more collections

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printed for the Shomrim la-Boker, and they were sometimes actively involved in these confraternities.35 The fact that their ceremonies were ancillary to statutory synagogue services as well as the freedom that traditionally marked the field of penitential poetry—at the level of both composition and performance36 —facilitated the production and consumption of newly composed piyyutim within these circles. The societies represented a privileged context for what the late Dan Pagis defined as ‘‘the later Hebrew sacred poetry written in Italy,’’37 as reflected in the prayer books they commissioned for the press. The first collections compiled and printed in Venice in the late sixteenth century for the local groups of watchers already included both modern sacred verse by Italian and Palestinian authors along with prayers and hymns drawn from ancient and medieval piyyutim. Starting with the prayer books compiled and published in the first half of the seventeenth century, the presence of modern compositions—especially by Italian authors—became preponderant, showing that at that time in some local contexts the confraternities were a primary venue for the enjoyment and practice of religious and mystical poetry. Thus, the innovative character of the ceremonies observed by the Shomrim la-Boker, of which the promoters of the societies were clearly aware, found its appropriate counterpart in the use of new piyyutim during the groups’ gatherings. Accordingly, their rituals also acted as a frame for the enjoyment and circulation of modern sacred verse, its devotional purpose notwithstanding. Because these collections reflected the use in a particular society and the Italian authors whose poems were included were usually connected with either the society itself or the local community, some of the prayer books had a strong local imprint and flavor. At the same time, the printing of the sedarim gave contemporary poets an opportunity to have their own compositions collected and circulated even outside the narrow groups of watchers, an eventuality of which the editors of the collections and the promoters of their publication must have been aware. In fact, although the prayer books were principally meant for use within the confraternities, the press contributed to the circulation of these compilations outside the societies and hence to a wider diffusion of the modern poetry they contained as well. The inclusion of modern compositions in these prayer books and their use for special rituals ancillary to the official communal liturgy probably accounted as well for some of their bibliographic and typographic peculiarities, mostly evident in those collections with a significant contribution of modern sacred verse. Such peculiarities, some of them already outlined by

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Pagis,38 include elements and features like the following: (a) the claim of individual-personal editorship in contradistinction to the collectiveanonymous style characteristic of traditional liturgical literature; (b) the preponderance of poems by a few authors or by one single author, which de facto turns these collections into, respectively, collective and individual anthologies of modern sacred verse; (c) the use of a proper main title instead of a general one, usually a biblical quotation referring to the contents and purposes of the vigil but always marked with a clearly aesthetic connotation; (d) the insertion of prefaces, introductions, dedications, and postscripts by the editor or by other people involved in the work of editing and printing; (e) the presence of extensive rubrics, especially for the modern compositions, stating the authorship of the hymns and explaining their content and intention or the circumstances of their composition; (f) the insertion of dedicatory and laudatory poems and hymns, generally compositions in praise of the collection and its editor or of the society itself; and (g) the insertion of poetic compositions that refer to local events and personalities (for example, hymns commemorating either a communal escape from earthquakes, floods, or plagues, or the deaths of individuals). Besides displaying a new attitude towards intellectual responsibility—by recognizing either editorship or authorship—these peculiarities emphasize the individuality of the single collections. Affecting the shaping of both the text and the paratext,39 they denote an innovation in the traditional way of designing and printing liturgical books. In particular, the presence of poems and hymns by contemporary authors represents both the result of such a novel approach as well as the primary instrument through which novelty expresses itself. The laudatory and dedicatory poems and the extensive notes inserted by individuals involved in the publication, which are meant to present the work to the reader and justify its printing, represent a loan from nonliturgical books and are widely attested in contemporary collections of sermons, prayer commentaries, poetry collections. and ethical works. They exemplify the tendency, characteristic of baroque sensibility and taste, to blur the boundaries between sacred and profane, particularly by transferring and adapting secular forms and conventions, be it poetry, music, or the shaping of the printed book, to the religious domain. The first prayer book commissioned by a Shomrim la-Boker group to display all the above features was Ayyelet ha-shah.ar. Edited by Mordekhai Reuben Yare` for the Mantuan watchers of the Italian rite, its compilation and printing were driven by literary and aesthetic concerns that clearly went beyond

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the devotional needs of the vigil. Such concerns set a trend among the societies devoted to the predawn vigil, largely influencing the compilation and printing of some later collections and reaching its apex with the prayer book Sefer kenaf renanim, by Yosef Yedidiah Carmi. This collection entirely comprised compositions by the editor himself, and its reissue, after the trial, even included a poem celebrating the judicial victory that finally sanctioned the work.40 Content and formal peculiarities of the kind discussed above entail aesthetic and literary concerns on the part of the people promoting the compilation and the printing, which in many ways allows us to see some of the prayer books printed for the Shomrim la-Boker as similar to collections of modern sacred verse. When the groups of watchers started compiling and printing their special sedarim between the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, the first Hebrew collections of poems of contemporary authors were being published in Venice. The compilation Yefe nof by Yehudah Zarko, printed ca. 1575 at the press of Giovanni di Gara, included a few bakashot and zemirot by Isaac Luria, in addition to letters, ritual laws, and prayers.41 The third edition of the book Zemirot Israel, collecting the hymns of Israel Najara, appeared in 1599–60. The author was the first poet in the Hebrew language to see his own compositions published as an individual collection. In these compilations, as in those previously printed in the Ottoman Empire,42 sacred and mystical poetry for devotional use was definitely recognized as a genre of its own and entitled to typographical features enhancing its specificity, beginning with dedicatory poems and appended notes by the editors. These publications and the modern poetry inserted in them served as a model and source of inspiration for Italian authors cultivating Hebrew religious poetry and for compilers of religious works as well. Although this effort in the field of Hebrew devotional printing was on a relatively minor scale, it paralleled a larger one among Christian publications, in which, from the second half of the sixteenth century through the period of the Counter-Reformation, the market was literally flooded with devotional books as a result of the Church’s increased commitment to the Christianization of the believers. Venetian printers were particularly attentive to the renewed demands of the Counter-Reformation Church, and many publishers operating in the city on the lagoon made their fortune with the printing of devotional literature. Whether in the form of poems, eulogies, sacred plays, or, more frequently, hymns meant for prayer, works of spiritual, moral, and sacred verse constituted a significant portion of

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these devotional books.43 The tendency to adjust these publications to the standards of secular literature found expression in the creation of several anthologies of sacred verse, usually organized either thematically (that is, devoted to theological motives, episodes, or characters drawn from the Gospels or hagiographic literature) or according to the occasion (as in collections of hymns organized along the liturgical calendar that included poems for the different festivals of the year). These anthologies often drew from preexisting individual collections, and the selection of the texts conformed to the intellectual interests and taste of the editor. Although the main purpose of these compilations was to edify the reader, they also aimed at offering the public texts of appreciable poetic quality.44 At a more popular level, religious hymns and songs circulated widely thanks to the numerous books and leaflets used during ceremonies and processions organized by devotional confraternities, as well as publications meant to teach Christian doctrine to laypeople or simply to nourish individual piety.45 In the climate of revived religiosity and more intense piety characteristic of Counter-Reformation Italy, both Christians and Jews rediscovered a spirituality strongly informed by rituals and devotions. The renewed role that sacred verse played at a devotional level and its adaptation to new forms of piety and rituality found an instrument and ally in the printing press. The prayer books commissioned by the various Shomrim la-Boker groups were primarily meant for internal circulation, and yet the editorial and typographical effort entailed by their printing gives evidence to the enthusiasm animating the groups and also betrays the literary and aesthetic ambitions of compilers and promoters. The formal and content peculiarities displayed by some of these books are particularly significant in that they denote a ‘‘profane’’ attitude toward liturgical verse, in consequence of which the ritual turns into a frame for conveying poetic discourse of a secular nature. Similarly, the insertion of newly composed piyyutim of mystical inspiration reflects not just the search for materials fitting the aims of the gatherings and the intellectual horizons of promoters and participants, but also the renewed importance of mysticism in literary expression,46 in view of its ability to convey concepts, motifs, and symbols suitable to the religious sensibility and taste of the time. In this respect, the groups of watchers were among the first to voice the new spirituality, by stimulating the composition and enjoyment of sacred verse by contemporary authors, and thus conveying, in their publications, an aesthetic of the sacred informed by novel and modern values.

CHAPTER 9

Hebrew Printing in Eighteenth-Century Livorno: From Government Control to a Free Market Francesca Bregoli

In the past twenty years, scholars have widely explored the importance of the printing business in the port of Livorno in connection to the history of the Italian Enlightenment and to the circulation of reformist ideas. Between the middle of the 1740s and the rise of Napoleon, the period that roughly corresponded to the phase of state reforms initiated by the Lorraine house in Tuscany, Livorno was a center of production and distribution of enlightened ideas in Italy and beyond, thanks to the open support, or silent approval, of the ruling dynasty. It was in Livorno that Cesare Beccaria was able to publish his groundbreaking legal essay Dei delitti e delle pene (On Crimes and Punishments) in 1764, and the port city was home to the second Italian edition of Diderot and D’Alembert’s Encyclope´die (1770–78).1 In comparison, the history of Hebrew printing in Livorno is underresearched. The only broad survey on the subject still available today is a volume by the Livornese historian Guido Sonnino published almost a century ago.2 While Sonnino’s monograph is still an excellent starting point, we need a new history of Livornese Hebrew printing in order to create a dialogue with the latest developments in Jewish historiography and in the history of the book, Jewish and non-Jewish, and to interpret the data provided by the comprehensive bibliographic databases available to researchers today.3

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The relative lack of research on the Livornese Hebrew press is curious. By the mid-eighteenth century, Livorno hosted the second largest Jewish community in Western Europe (after the community of Amsterdam), a minority that numbered approximately 4,000 souls. Livornese Jewry, also known as the Nazione Ebrea, had enjoyed exceptional liberties and privileges since 1591, when the Grand Duke of Tuscany Ferdinand de Medici issued a charter as part of a broader plan to create a maritime trade center on the Tyrrhenian coast. These laws were aimed at ‘‘merchants of any nation,’’ although the privileges they granted to Jews and conversos (that is, Jews who had been baptized in the Iberian Peninsula and their descendants) show that the grand duke intended to attract in particular this population, reputed to be astute merchants and endowed with abundant capital. Thanks to this charter, reissued with slight variations in 1593 and later known as the Livornina, Livornese Jews were considered subjects of the Tuscan state. There was no ghetto, and the Jewish community held a high degree of administrative and jurisdictional autonomy.4 Based on Sonnino’s data, the Tuscan port is often depicted as one of the main centers of production of Hebrew printed texts starting in 1650, when the Jewish printer Yedidiah Gabbay established the first Hebrew print shop in town. According to a generally accepted view, the supposedly concomitant presence of multiple Hebrew presses in town guaranteed an uninterrupted flow of Hebrew books throughout the eighteenth century.5 It is possible that the global, pervasive reach of nineteenth-century Livornese Hebrew imprints, to be found as far away as the remote Sephardi community in Cochin, has been projected back onto an imaginary golden age of Hebrew printing. In reality, it is necessary to reassess the production of Livornese Hebrew editions in the eighteenth century. After the closure of the Gabbay press in 1657, Hebrew printing reemerged in Livorno only in 1740.6 Its development, furthermore, was initially slower and more complex than previously believed. A strict monopoly policy was in place until 1767, which made it impossible for more than one Hebrew publisher to be active at the same time.7 What were the consequences of this monopoly policy, and how was Hebrew printing affected when the Grand Duke Peter Leopold of Habsburg-Lorraine abolished it? Moreover, Livornese Hebrew printing offers a privileged vantage point for investigating the relationship between this Jewish community and enlightened absolutism, particularly in relation to government control of printing. On 28 March 1743, the Lorraine house ruling over Tuscany ended

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ecclesiastical control over the printing press and granted printing licenses to lay authorities only.8 The Church relinquished its old prerogatives with great difficulty, and only after many years. What was the situation like for the Jewish community? To what extent were the lay Jewish authorities (massari) or the Livornese rabbis able to discipline Hebrew printing, and what strategies were available to Jewish printers to protect and increase their production?

Beginnings of Hebrew Printing in Tuscany Hebrew printing has been singled out as a latecomer to the Tuscan port. However, this reflected a more general trend, for printing in all languages was slower to take off in Livorno and in the rest of the Tuscan state during the last phases of the Medici rule than in other Italian cities. The limits imposed by the Inquisition on the publication and sale of literary and scientific texts and the high production costs, mostly resulting from the hefty price of paper, export taxes, and transportation expenses, resulted in the poor condition of the printing craft in Tuscany up to the last decades of the seventeenth century.9 The beginnings of printing activity in Livorno seem to reflect the development of the city in the seventeenth century. The first imprints appeared in 1643, less than two generations after the promulgation of the Livornina that triggered the expansion of the port of Livorno from a peripheral harbor to a major player in the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Mediterranean economy.10 As soon as a publishing enterprise began its activity in Livorno, Hebrew printing followed, conforming to a well-known trend in the history of Italian Hebrew publications.11 The presence of multiple print shops in Livorno, including Hebrew and Armenian ones, appears as a sign of vitality, in contrast to the cultural stagnation that characterized Tuscany at the end of the Medici rule.12 The beginnings and development of Hebrew publishing in Tuscany are inextricably connected with the monopoly system that regulated the printing press for most of the early modern period and with its ultimate dismantling by the administration of Peter Leopold. Privileges regulated the printing activity as they did for any other business activity in Old Regime societies. In early modern Europe, the sovereign usually granted rights to a printer-bookseller to issue a given title or a given genre of works. Most

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commonly printing privileges were issued by the state to printers according to a jus excludendi alios (the right to exclude other people), which supplemented any jus utendi et fruendi (the right to use an asset and enjoy its benefits), already enjoyed by the entrepreneur. This right enforced a print monopoly over a title or groups of works for a number of years (usually, from five to twenty), to the exclusion of all other printers, ensuring a certain lack of competition so that the heavy expenses incurred by the printer could be leveled out.13 In Tuscany, piecemeal privileges had been routinely requested and granted until the middle of the eighteenth century, when the Lorraine rulers turned their reformist spirit to the printing business.14 Yedidiah, son of Isaac ben Solomon Gabbay, opened the first Hebrew print shop in Livorno thanks to the support of the Grand Duke of Tuscany Ferdinand II and his ministers, who favored him over a competitor, the Levantine Jew Moses ben Judah Cassuto.15 The Tuscan authorities considered very carefully the opportunity to back a Hebrew printing business managed by a Jewish owner as opposed to the Christian entrepreneurs who directed Hebrew presses in Venice or Rome. The grand duke decided in favor of Gabbay’s activity for utilitarian reasons. Hebrew printing was unknown in Tuscany until that point, and the limited number of Hebrew print shops in the whole of the Italian peninsula led him to believe that the entire Nazione Ebrea of Livorno, and hence the economy of the Tuscan state, would benefit from it, thanks to the community’s close relations with fellow Jews in the Ottoman Levant and North Africa.16 On 16 January 1645, after paying the hefty sum of 25 ducati, Yedidiah Gabbay secured a fifteen-year monopoly over the printing and selling of ‘‘all Hebrew books, as well as Latin and vernacular [texts] pertaining to Judaism’’ (tutti i libri ebraici o anche latini et volgari appartenenti all’Ebraismo), under the condition that they were not prohibited and did not contain anything forbidden.17 It took another five years before Gabbay was able to print his first book. The press elicited hostility from ecclesiastical authorities and the Roman Inquisition, both wary of the potential risks that a Jewish-run printing activity might represent. Discrepancies between the printer and the Jewish community’s massari also slowed down the business.18 Though the establishment of a Hebrew print shop in Livorno counters the generalized decline of Tuscan printing in the second half of the seventeenth century, this enterprise encountered a number of difficulties from the start and was short lived. The Gabbay press ceased its activity in 1657,

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three years before the original privilege granted by Ferdinand II would expire. While scholars have speculated about the reasons that led to the shop’s closure,19 it is clear that after Gabbay’s departure the Hebrew printing activity in the Tuscan port practically ceased for 83 years.20 As no other centers of Hebrew printing were established in Tuscany after 1657, local Jews had to rely on imports: we need to conclude therefore that they acquired Hebrew books from outside of Tuscany for almost a century.

Tuscan Hebrew Printing in the Eighteenth Century: The Early Stages The renaissance of the Hebrew printing press in eighteenth-century Tuscany did not start in Livorno, but in Florence. The dynamics of tension and interaction between Florence and Livorno, capital and periphery of the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, find a parallel in the history of the Hebrew presses in these cities, at least for the first decades of renewed Hebrew publishing activity in Tuscany.21 It is only by paying attention to the relationship between Florentine and Livornese businessmen and printers, and to the central and provincial governmental institutions involved in disciplining the printing business, that we can fully appreciate the history of Hebrew printing in the age of the reforms initiated by the Lorraine dynasty. It was the Florence-based printer Francesco Mou¨cke (1700–1758) who resumed Hebrew publishing in Tuscany with three liturgical works that appeared between 1734 and 1736.22 The coincidence between Livornese and Florentine interests is evident from the Hebrew printing society that Mou¨cke set up in 1733, and from the three Hebrew works he published. The enterprise was financed by the Florentine Giovan Agostino Ricci and by the Livornese merchants Gabbay Villareale.23 Mou¨cke’s entire Hebrew activity was liturgical. The approbations to the editions and internal evidence emphasize that the intended audience for the books was not only Sephardi, but specifically Livornese.24 Mou¨cke was primarily a publisher of poetic, antiquarian, and devotional works.25 His as-yet unexplored exploits as the first eighteenth-century Hebrew printer in Tuscany highlight his willingness to embark on a novel and expensive printing venture. Responding favorably to the printer’s supplication, the Tuscan Ministro delle Riformagioni Carlo Ginori granted Mou¨cke a privativa (exclusive privilege) to print Hebrew books on 1

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December 1734, on behalf of the Grand Duke Gian Gastone de’ Medici.26 ‘‘The introduction of a new industry’’ (l’introduzione di un opera [sic] nuova), previously unknown to the city of Florence, led the minister to concede the privilege.27 The monopoly, which was extended to Mou¨cke’s legal heirs and dependents, included the reprint of works already issued by Mou¨cke, as well as future first editions and reprints of books published elsewhere. Additionally, it concerned the sale of Hebrew books printed by foreign presses. Three distinct elements defined this last clause: the importation of books; the keeping of books in one’s shop; and the selling of books, both bound and unbound. The privilege fixed a pecuniary fee for those who contravened the law, which amounted to 50 scudi for each transgression and each book.28 Unlike most privative, which covered a given title or genre (for example, governmental edicts or devotional books),29 the privilege granted to Francesco Mou¨cke concerned a general body of works, regardless of their actual content. The differences between the monopoly that the Florentine printer was able to secure and Gabbay’s privilege are worth considering. Gabbay’s exclusive right concerned ‘‘all Hebrew books, as well as Latin and vernacular [texts] pertaining to Judaism,’’ while Mou¨cke’s privilege was defined formally, not according to the books’ content, and covered ‘‘libr[i] Hebraic[i] et Rascenses’’ and ‘‘Opere in carattere Ebraico e Rascı`’’ (works in Hebrew and Rashi types). Officially, the discriminating factor was the nature of the types used in Mou¨cke’s editions, which were particularly expensive and difficult to acquire. Not surprisingly, his privilege mentioned explicitly the heavy costs he would bear as printer, and the economic detriment that he might incur because of other printers’ competition. From Mou¨cke on, the employment of square Hebrew or ‘‘Rashi’’ types legally defined the Hebrew printing business in Tuscany. Mou¨cke and his partners dissolved the Florence Hebrew printing society soon after 1736.30 Around the same time, Hebrew printing shifted its center from the Tuscan capital to Livorno, where it was initially connected to the business of paper production and sale. The manufacture and trade of paper, crucial aspects of the book industry, were farmed out to private entrepreneurs, who paid the state a hefty fee in order to enjoy its exclusive right.31 Since the beginning of the 1720s the appalto della carta also functioned as a publishing house in and of itself.32 The Genoese entrepreneur Clemente Ricci, appaltatore della carta (lit. ‘‘paper farmer’’) in Tuscany since 1732, had a few years of experience financing publications when he

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began his Hebrew printing activity in Livorno.33 As Ricci presumably did not have any Hebraic expertise, he made Livornese Jewish entrepreneur Abraham Meldola (1705–55) a partner in his printing business. Abraham’s father was the famous rabbi Raphael Meldola, head of the Bayonne community and author of the responsa collection Mayim rabim (Amsterdam, 1737), and his brother David was a printer in Amsterdam by 1740. By the middle of the 1730s, Abraham Meldola was an established businessman in Livorno: he may have initially turned to printing as a way to invest or divert capital acquired through different commercial enterprises.34 During his partnership with Ricci, he was also involved in the sale of paper.35 The third key figure in the Livorno Hebrew press during its first years was Isaac de Pas, later a printer in Florence and Livorno, who served as the main compositor and editor for Ricci’s works. Due to heavy debts incurred with the management of the appalto and limited success with the model paper factory Ricci had established near Prato, the entrepreneurial experiments attempted by the Genoese businessman in Tuscany turned into a financial disaster.36 Prolonged legal disputes between Ricci and his associates ensued,37 and Ricci broke off his partnership with Meldola in 1742, probably because of the large financial losses he had incurred around the end of his ten-year mandate as appaltatore della carta.38 Undeterred by the end of the joint publishing enterprise with Ricci or by the debts he had accumulated, Meldola continued his printing activity alone between 1742 and 1748, publishing at least twenty fine imprints.39 The main editor and compositor at this stage was one of his brothers, Moses Meldola (1725–91).

Control and Protection of the Hebrew Press before 1743 In his preface to the law on printing of 28 March 1743, the Grand Duke of Tuscany Francis Stephen of Lorraine declared that his main goal was to plan for liberty of the press within the state, as well as for liberty of trade in foreign-printed editions, in order to ‘‘multiply information, spread knowledge, and sustain one part of the [Tuscan] People.’’ Yet, lest books contrary to religion and decorum be printed, the new law also introduced a censorship system that was more efficient and practical than the previous ones had been, because of their confusing norms.40 The permission to print any work was now to be granted by the Consiglio di Reggenza in Florence,

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or by the local authorities and governors outside the capital. Government authorities relied primarily on a lay censor, and only called upon ecclesiastical ministers to check the religious integrity of the work. Ultimately, the lay authorities gave the permit to print, so that, in effect, ecclesiastical censorship and control became secondary to governmental approval. Even after the law on printing was issued, however, the struggle over laicizing the press continued in Tuscany. The law was one of the most important steps in a difficult and long process of laicization of the control over printing, but it was by no means the end point. Ecclesiastical authorities continued to maintain a strong grip over Catholic printers until the end of the century.41 How did policies toward the Jews compare? Prior to 1743, the Tuscan ecclesiastical authorities seemed minimally involved in censoring and controlling Hebrew printing. The seventeenth clause of the Livornina allowed Livornese Jews to keep printed and handwritten books ‘‘in Hebrew and any other language,’’ as long as they were ‘‘checked by the Inquisitor or other [authorities] in charge of this.’’42 Aharon H . ayyim Volterra’s Bakashah h.adashah, one of the first Hebrew books to be issued in Livorno in 1740 by Ricci and Meldola, provides an apt example of ecclesiastical censorship. Together with a license in Portuguese signed by the lay leaders of the community and a rabbinic approbation signed by three Livornese rabbis, a printed note composed by a Catholic censor appeared on the last page of the edition. Ferdinando Ottavio Ximenes, a neophyte previously called ‘‘David di Abram di Joseph Sulema,’’ concluded after reading the work ‘‘over and over’’ that it did not contain anything opposed to the Catholic faith.43 The imprimatur was signed by both ecclesiastical and secular Tuscan authorities.44 In general, nonetheless, it was the Livornese Jewish lay leadership (the massari) rather than the secular or ecclesiastical Tuscan authorities, or the community’s rabbis, that attempted to regulate and discipline Hebrew printing. Meldola’s edition of the Sefer ha-Rashbash (1742) includes one of the first examples of the procedure followed by the Livornese Jewish authorities to grant permission for publication.45 First, the massari ordered the rabbinic bet din to check the text and see if they deemed it publishable. Second, the rabbis sent back their reply to the lay leaders of the community, agreeing to write a haskamah (approbation) to the text. Finally, the massari approved the rabbis’ decision, simultaneously giving permission to the printer to publish the work and to the Livornese rabbis to write their haskamah. In the case of the Sefer ha-Rashbash, this entire procedure took six days (31 August 1741–5 September 1741). It seems that the rabbinic court’s

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control over Hebrew printing was thus a formality in the port of Livorno, as it was the lay leadership that decided what was fit to print, not the religious authorities. Because rabbinic approval was only secondary to the sanction of the lay leaders in the Livornese Jewish community, it is possible to suggest that the process of laicization of print control began in the Livornese Nazione Ebrea independently from, and with a slight chronological advance over, Lorraine Tuscany. For their part, Livornese Jewish printers showed a particular eagerness in seeking out the protection of the Tuscan state against the interference of the Jewish community itself. The state’s protection was principally invoked as a defense against interference by Jewish officials when a printer established a Hebrew press for the first time. Pier Cesare Ioly Zorattini studied a case of 7 May 1646 in which Yedidiah Gabbay requested that his activity be officially placed under the jurisdiction of the governor of Livorno, outside of the authority of the massari, noting that he had become involved in a fistfight with them. In another letter dated 15 June 1646 Gabbay referred to these Jewish lay leaders as ‘‘evil.’’46 About a century later, Abraham Meldola too submitted a petition to the grand duke when he started publishing alone in 1742. He asked for guarantees against the interference of Jewish authorities, explaining how in the past few years, [ . . . ] [he] has printed and prints in this city of Livorno Hebrew books, through the explicit permission of the proposto of the vicario of the Holy Office and the auditore of this government, as it is customary with the other printers. Since the massari of his Hebrew Nation additionally demand to give him permission to print, to the effect that without their approval he may not do so—and this would be an unheard before novelty, and one of great damage to the petitioner, who would have to wait for months before obtaining the permission of the massari, who are five and rarely get together, and for other worthy reasons. Therefore, he petitions the grand duke to command the massari to give up their pretension.47 While in 1646 the Tuscan authorities apparently ignored Gabbay’s pleas, Meldola’s request was approved by the governor on 28 June 1742. Later editions of Livornese printers include printed copies of the massari’s license, but these licenses do not undercut the import of governmental

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protection or the fact that it was granted. The fact remains that Abraham Meldola felt entitled to ask the Tuscan authorities to interfere in the jurisdictional autonomy of the lay leadership of the Nazione Ebrea, for commercial reasons.48 With the invocation of commercial, utilitarian reasons, Meldola hoped ultimately to obtain a political goal: to avoid Jewish communal control over the printing process. Individual entrepreneurship, established through a direct connection with the ruler and through the non-Jewish court, prevailed over allegiance to the Jewish authorities. The mercantilist and protectionist view of the economy common up to the middle of the eighteenth century found expression in the establishment and development of printers’ guilds to safeguard the financial security of printing press workers all over Europe. In the Italian peninsula, where single states regulated printing activity in widely different ways,49 printers’ guilds could be instrumental in safeguarding workers’ interests, both vis-a`vis the central government and against potential competitors looking to start up new businesses in the field.50 Unlike other Italian centers, Livorno lacked a printers’ guild. Moreover, the city was traditionally protective of the unique commercial privileges that distinguished it from the rest of the Tuscan territories and consequently resistant to governmental attempts to regulate its dynamic economic life.51 Even in the absence of a guild, however, production difficulties and the workers’ inability to break free from a protectionist mindset led them routinely to ask for support from the central government, both for protection against the competition of other printers and for relief from taxes and tolls.52 The history of Hebrew printing in the Tuscan port corroborates such a view.

The Meldola-De Pas Affair After two years of collaboration with Ricci and Meldola, Isaac de Pas moved to Florence, where in 1744 he edited three Hebrew works for a Christian printer, Giovan Battista Stecchi.53 The books published in the Tuscan capital up to that point had been liturgical imprints conceived for the immediate use of the communities of Livorno or Florence. The printing effort was locally driven and circumscribed. The coinciding Florentine and Livornese interests evident in these Hebrew works were similar to those discerned in the publications by Francesco Mou¨cke earlier in the century.54

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With Meldola and de Pas printing at the same time, the question arose as to whether two Hebrew print shops could be active simultaneously in Tuscany, one in the capital and the other in the port city. A court case between Meldola and de Pas, the two former coworkers, opens a window onto some of the larger forces at play when Hebrew printing was reborn in the mid-eighteenth century in Tuscany. Their legal altercation was not simply an example of business animosity, but sheds light on the protectionist concerns of workers involved in the Hebrew book industry and on their desire for governmental backing and support. At the same time, it presages an emerging conflict between the interests of printers and the intentions of the Tuscan authorities. On 12 August 1748, Eliau de Pas appeared in the Livorno court of law on behalf of his brother Isaac, who was active in Florence as a printer, and Isaac’s (non-Jewish) business partner, Giovan Battista Stecchi. The target of Eliau’s complaints was the Livornese Jewish printer and Isaac de Pas’s former colleague, Abraham Meldola.55 Eliau claimed that Stecchi and his brother Isaac held a privativa over the printing of ‘‘works in Hebrew and Rashi types’’ (Opere in carattere ebraico e Rascı`) in the entire state of Tuscany,56 and that Meldola’s business was infringing on their exclusive right.57 Eliau produced documentary evidence to prove that the monopoly over Hebrew printing in Tuscany held by his brother Isaac and by Stecchi had been granted by the central government in Florence, and was for all purposes similar to the monopoly granted Francesco Mou¨cke by the grand duke in 1734.58 Eliau de Pas therefore requested that the judges take action against the Livornese printer and prevent him from publishing any Hebrew works.59 A few weeks later Meldola appeared in front of the same court with an elaborate legal strategy and with his own set of permits issued by the local government of Livorno. The privativa trumpeted by de Pas, he claimed, was based on misrepresentation, since it had been asked for and obtained when his Livornese print shop, having received all the necessary permits, was already in business. Since Stecchi must surely have been aware of Meldola’s successful enterprise, he must have deliberately failed to mention its existence to the Tuscan authorities. If the Florentine printer had let the grand duke know that somebody else was printing Hebrew works in Livorno, the argument went on, the ruler would never have granted him the monopoly over Hebrew printing. Rather, he would have granted the privativa to Meldola himself, as he was ‘‘the first to return the art of printing in Hebrew and Rashi types to these most happy States after many and many years.’’60

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In fact, both Stecchi and Meldola were well aware of each other’s businesses. Unlike his competitors, Abraham Meldola seemed more open to the simultaneous output of Hebrew works in Florence and Livorno and to a suitable accommodation with Stecchi and de Pas. Meldola himself had alerted the Reggenza after Stecchi’s privativa was granted. Initially, the ruler had ‘‘ordered Sig. Stecchi to either find a [monetary] solution with the defendant or to allow him to keep printing as well.’’61 By 1748, however, the situation had changed. Meldola became the victim of competition and lack of proper communication between center and periphery in the Tuscan administration. In July 1749, the Consiglio della Pratica Segreta (Council of the Secret Commission) in Florence, to which Isaac de Pas had appealed, pronounced a sentence in favor of de Pas and Stecchi.62 As was customary for all Livornese printers, Meldola had obtained his original permissions from the main Livornese ecclesiastical and lay authorities (the proposto del vicario of the Holy Office and the auditore of the government of Livorno).63 However, when compared to the printing privilege granted by the grand duke to Giovan Battista Stecchi, Meldola’s Livornese permits seemed insufficient to the Florentine judges. Even the claim that he had rightfully acquired the privilege over Hebrew editions issued by the grand duke from ‘‘Mou¨cke and Ricci’’ did not help Meldola’s fortune, most likely because he was unable to back it with more substantial, official papers.64 This reference may even have weakened his case, for the awareness of Mou¨cke’s Hebrew imprints undermined his claim to have been ‘‘the first to return the art of printing in Hebrew and Rashi types to these most happy States after many and many years.’’ The judges of the Pratica Segreta ruled that the privativa held by the Florentine printers Stecchi and de Pas was valid, and they ordered Abraham Meldola to shut his shop, to stop selling works printed by his rival, and to pay him 246 lire to cover damages and legal expenses.65 By the end of the month, Meldola had made the necessary payment and closed down his business.66 As a result, Hebrew printing stopped again in Livorno for five years. Taking full advantage of his exclusive privilege, both in Florence and in the Tuscan port, Isaac de Pas resumed his activity in the Tuscan capital in 1748, no longer as an editor, but as a full-fledged printer. A steady flow of mostly liturgical works came out of his presses until 1760. From 1753 to 1758, de Pas also brought out Hebrew editions in Livorno for the publishing

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house of the Christian Antonio Santini; in 1753, for Giovanni Paolo Fantechi; and in 1768–69, for Carlo Giorgi. De Pas was clearly the chief worker responsible for the Livornese Hebrew editions of the 1750s. In 1753, de Pas remarked that he had acquired ‘‘brand new types,’’67 and referred to himself as ‘‘printer’’ (ba‘al defus).68 His printing selections incorporated Ladino and bilingual publications for Sephardi Jews and ex-conversos who were more familiar with Ladino, Spanish, and Portuguese than with Hebrew; this included educational literature for children and religious works for women. As a teacher in the Livornese Talmud Torah (Jewish public school), de Pas must have been particularly interested in publishing editions for the use of students.

The Production of Livornese Editions in Hebrew Types, 1740–89 The Meldola-de Pas affair illustrates how crucial governmental backing was to Hebrew printing in the Tuscan state. Perhaps Hebrew printing was, at the outset, a delicate ‘‘niche’’ market that particularly needed protection and governmental intervention against potential competitors, so as to guarantee workers in the industry some financial security. The impression of the fragility of this enterprise in its early years is partially corroborated by a quantitative analysis of Livornese Hebrew imprints between 1740 and 1789.69 A comparison with equivalent data relative to Livornese Latin editions, however, shows that during the 1740s Meldola’s printing press produced more books than all the Latin print shops combined. On the one hand, a bibliometric analysis of Hebrew printing, described in the appendix to this chapter, demonstrates that the production of Hebrew books in Livorno was slower and more discontinuous in its first forty years than previously thought. Based on my calculations, the Livornese printers put out approximately 222 editions between 1740 and 1789, although we should allow for a small margin of error. Between 1780 and 1789, the print shops of partners Castello and Saadun and that of Giovan Vincenzo Falorni put out almost as many editions as their colleagues had in the previous four decades. A comparison of Livorno’s 222 editions with contemporary production in other centers may also yield interesting results. Between 1740 and 1789, 449 editions appeared in Amsterdam, 278 in Venice, 149 in Mantua, 124 in

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LIVORNESE EDITIONS, 1740–1789 (BHB and Vinograd) 100 Ricci and Meldola; Abraham Meldola Isaac de Pas (Fantechi and Santini)

90 80 70 60

Moses Attias Carlo Giorgi for Santini Giorgi and Gio. Vincenzo Falorni (simultaneously)

50 40 30 20

Falorni and Castello-Saadun (simultaneously)

10 9 78

9 17

80

–1

–1

77

3 74 17

17

68

–1

–1 17

60

–1 49 17

77

76

2 76

8 74 –1 40 17

7

0

Figure 9.1. Livornese editions according to BHB and Vinograd, 1740–89, by printer.

Salonica, and 110 in Istanbul.70 Only in the 1780s did the Livornese production clearly surpass the Venetian one. Before this bump in Livornese production, print shops in other Italian centers like Mantua and other Sephardi centers like Amsterdam, Istanbul, and Salonica surpassed Livornese output. What kind of texts did the Livornese Hebrew presses issue between 1740 and 1789, at the time when Livorno established itself as a center of Italian Enlightenment and radical printing? While neat categorizations are not always possible, as we are often dealing with miscellaneous texts, Livornese Hebrew printing was mostly ‘‘technical’’ and designed to serve the religious needs of the Nazione Ebrea. The majority of the texts are legal and liturgical (halakhah makes up one third of the total imprints), followed by occasional literature (poems for weddings, eulogies, etc.), and sermons.71 On the other hand, a comparison of the yearly production of Hebrew editions in Livorno to works in Latin characters yields additional important results.72 While Hebrew printing was initially slower in Livorno than in other contemporaneous centers of production, in the context of local printing the production of Hebrew works surpassed that of vernacular and Latin works in several years (1740; 1742–46; 1748; 1790, and 1793–94). The data for

185

Livorno

HEBREW EDITIONS, 1740–1789 (BHB) 500 450 400 350 300 250 200 150 100 50 0 Amsterdam

Istanbul

Livorno

Mantua

Salonica

Venice

Figure 9.2. Hebrew editions according to BHB, 1740–89, by city.

the initial decade of the renaissance of Hebrew printing are especially striking; a year-by-year comparison shows that Abraham Meldola put more Hebrew works on the market in the 1740s than did all the other Latincharacter printing businesses combined.73 General printing took off in Livorno in 1752, after which the Livornese presses usually put out no less than ten books in Latin characters per year, reaching a peak of 27 books in 1766. Up to 1783, the Hebrew production varied greatly depending on which year we consider; during certain years, the ratio of Hebrew to Latin editions ranges between 20 percent to more than 50 percent. From 1780, and more markedly from 1783 on, the output of Hebrew texts increased to levels similar to those of the mid-century production of vernacular editions, between 10 and 17 prints per year, with a peak of 25 editions in 1790. While the bibliometric analysis shows an initial discontinuity in the production of Hebrew books in Livorno, these difficulties may have been tempered by expectations of high profits from exporting Hebrew editions throughout the Mediterranean and among Sephardi communities.74 Livornese Jews were not subject to custom duties, an element that must have aided this business, and the port turned into a primary hub for the

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HEBREW EDITIONS, 1740–1799 (BHB) 160 140 120 100 Venice Livorno

80 60 40 20 0 1740–1749 1750–1759 1760–1769 1770–1779 1780–1789 1790–1799

Figure 9.3. Hebrew editions in Venice and Livorno according to BHB, 1740–99, by decade.

diffusion of Jewish culture in the Mediterranean, especially in the Maghreb region.75 In fact, there is evidence of antagonism between Livornese Jewish booksellers who vied for the attractive North African markets.76 Indeed, if Livorno became a center for the production of Hebrew books only relatively late in the eighteenth century, the port played a major role in the distribution of Hebrew texts among other Jewish communities as early as Meldola’s time.77 The possibility of enjoying a potentially lucrative market alone may have thus compelled Isaac de Pas to sue his competitor in 1748.

The Abolition of the Monopoly The bibliometric analysis shows that it took about forty years for Livornese Hebrew printing to become a full-fledged business, one that operated under a moderately competitive system. Although eight publishers issued Hebrew books between 1740 and 1789, they could not operate simultaneously until 1767, when the recently appointed Grand Duke Peter Leopold of the Habsburg-Lorraine House (1747–92; grand duke of Tuscany, 1765–90)

HEBREW EDITIONS, 1740–1780 (BHB) 450 400 350 300 250 200 150 100 50 0 Amsterdam

Istanbul

Livorno

Mantua

Salonica

Venice

Figure 9.4. Hebrew editions according to BHB, 1740–80, by city.

LIVORNESE EDITIONS IN HEBREW AND LATIN TYPES, 1740–1799 30 25 20 Hebrew types Latin types

15 10 5

1740 1743 1746 1749 1752 1755 1758 1761 1764 1767 1770 1773 1776 1779 1782 1785 1788 1791 1794 1797

0

Figure 9.5. Livornese editions in Hebrew and Latin types, 1740–99, by year.

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officially abolished the monopoly system over texts in Hebrew and Rashi types in Livorno. We will explore the reason for the abolition of this printing monopoly as well as its repercussions. Peter Leopold, the third son of Empress Maria Theresa of Austria and Grand Duke Francis Stephen of Lorraine, arrived in Florence in 1765, reinstating the grand ducal court in the Tuscan capital.78 The new grand duke began a comprehensive work of reorganization and rationalization of the Tuscan state according to Enlightenment-infused, eudemonistic principles,79 with the help of members of the Tuscan intelligentsia, such as Pompeo Neri, former secretary of the Consiglio di Reggenza during Francis Stephen’s rule;80 Francesco Maria Gianni; and Angelo Tavanti; as well as of collaborators trained in the Austrian administration like Count Franz Orsini Rosenberg (1723–96). The successful (yet not without difficulties) synergy and cross-fertilization between different government traditions and experiences turned the grand duchy into one of the most interesting experiments in enlightened-absolutist government in eighteenth-century Europe. The Tuscan state emerged as a model of enlightened politics for many European thinkers, one that led Mirabeau, who dedicated his Les E´conomiques (Amsterdam, 1769) to Peter Leopold, to dub the sovereign ‘‘Salomon du Midi,’’ a ‘‘prince-shepherd who considers his State as his patrimony, and his subjects as a family assigned to his care.’’ The determination to reduce traditional corporate interests for the sake of rational and just administration, together with a renewed, physiocratic interest in agricultural reforms, informed the principles of the HapsburgLorraine rule over Tuscany.81 One of the first steps taken by the new government was therefore to curb, and finally abolish, all professional associations and guilds (arti), depicted as a leftover from an antiquated, declining economic regime condemned by modern production systems,82 with two edicts issued on February 1 and 3, 1770.83 Already before the promulgation of the new set of regulations, the Hapsburg-Lorraine ruler had turned his attention to the arti and the monopoly system, with an official inquiry ordered in 1766. Throughout the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth century, historians of liberal leanings, often animated by a strong polemical vein, unanimously embraced the Hapsburg-Lorraine claims that privileges curbed liberty and economic development and that only abolition of the guilds and corporations in Tuscany would remove unnecessary barriers to the forces of capitalism. Today’s more nuanced historiography reveals the problematic and complex relationship between

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production and market forces and recognizes that the abolition of the arti and the corporate order did not supply immediate relief to the deep-seated causes of the decline of Tuscan manufacture.84 Peter Leopold’s administration, however, assumed that the elimination of corporative restrictions, coupled with the free market system and technological innovation, would naturally promote productive growth.85 A plea submitted by a Livornese paper seller, Giuseppe Corsani, prompted the decision to abolish the exclusive printing right over works in Hebrew and Rashi types. Sometime in August 1766, Corsani asked permission to open a Hebrew press in the port of Livorno together with a Jewish partner, Isaac Achris.86 At that time, another Hebrew printer, the Livornese Jew Moses Attias, was active in Livorno, enjoying the privativa acquired a few years earlier from Isaac de Pas.87 When the question arose as to whether two Hebrew printers could operate in the same place, the Tuscan government provided a very different answer than that offered twenty years earlier on the occasion of the Meldola-de Pas case. The grand duke accepted Corsani’s request, and he informed his officials that a form of accommodation should be found so that both Attias’s and Corsani’s Hebrew print shops could coexist in Livorno.88 Ultimately, the governor of Livorno, Filippo Bourbon del Monte, suggested that the grand duke declare null Attias’s privativa in the port, while still maintaining its validity in the rest of Tuscany. Peter Leopold obliged.89 On 31 August 1767, Bourbon del Monte recapped the situation concerning general and Hebrew printing in an eloquent letter.90 This document underscores the free-market spirit that animated Bourbon del Monte’s decisions and his belief in the importance of competition for the development of the Livornese printing presses, including those that employed Hebrew types. Bourbon del Monte harshly criticized the custom, followed by previous governors, of conceding exclusive privileges over certain manufactures or commercial enterprises, including printing. As he put it, the natural liberty pertaining to everybody, to pursue any profession or craft they like, which some civil governments restrict because of political aims [ . . . ], is always valid in this Free Port, whose constitution does not admit limitations as to the pursuit of crafts and professions. The privileges of 1591 declared [ . . . ] that in Livorno anyone may pursue whatever profession they like, without any limitation, or subjection, and without paying taxes or matriculations to

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any guild. Therefore, [ . . . ] strictures and monopolies are not compatible with the system of the Free Port of Livorno. No less than in other crafts, this is true for the printing press.91 The governor thus greeted favorably the decision of the grand duke to do away with the printing restrictions and monopolies in the port, ‘‘to favor liberty, and coherently with the system of Livorno.’’ Indeed, he could not understand ‘‘why printing, which is a branch of commerce like any other, should be restricted in a Free Port. Even though it may not influence much the general traffics of this port, if things were pursued in a certain way one would obtain considerable profits from it, as it happens in Venice and Lucca.’’92 It is significant that the governor put Hebrew printing on par with nonHebrew printing and that the letter’s language was couched in purely economic terms. Free commerce and distribution of knowledge were justified as market forces. Peter Leopold’s decision of 1767 formally recognized the link between printing activity, financial gain, and national betterment suggested by Bourbon del Monte. Even if Hebrew printing represented a relatively tiny portion of Livornese trade, the government understood that the production and commerce of Jewish culture would benefit the state. In fact, Bourbon del Monte’s letter of 1767 betrays an idealistic and polemical interpretation of the Livornina. Although the charter allowed Livornese citizens to pursue whichever activity they desired without restriction, manufactures and enterprises were subject to monopolies and the concession of privileges, as was customary in Old Regime societies. Bourbon del Monte brought the reformist spirit that characterized Peter Leopold’s rule to bear in his appreciation of the Livornese system and its history. Protectionist requests, the governor maintained, were contrary to the good economic rules of a state, according to which it is desirable to multiply manufacturers and craftsmen of any kind, as this is the way to expand traffics and industries. If craftsmen in any other profession requested to prevent any similar shops to open up, [the government] would not heed them, at least in Livorno, where everybody is promised a boundless liberty.93 Yet such ‘‘boundless liberty’’ and competitive fervor, as promised to Livornese citizens by the statutes of the free port, were not always as welcome as Bourbon del Monte believed. In 1777, the governor received

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another request for an exclusive privilege over Hebrew printing,94 but once again he confirmed his antiprotectionist stance.95 Such a monopoly could no longer be accepted. Rather, ‘‘if the person who submitted the plea believes that he can indeed set up a much better print shop than the others, he will reap a greater profit, as it is usual when one does a better job, without depriving the Public of those benefits that the concurrent activity of numerous competitors produce, who strive to provide it with a better service in order to gain its favor.’’96 Despite the governor’s best intention, the abolition of a monopoly over Hebrew printing does not seem to have brought the immediate, hoped-for benefits.97 True, two printers, Carlo Giorgi and Giovan Vincenzo Falorni (both non-Jewish), were able to operate in the Hebrew printing business simultaneously from 1774 on. However, the bibliometric data surveyed here show that the actual production did not increase significantly for another decade: only after 1783 did the production of Hebrew works considerably surpass the numbers published in the years of the monopoly. This increase in the Livornese Hebrew printing activity did not occur until approximately fifteen years after the grand duke’s elimination of protectionist restrictions over printing, and Livorno became a primary center for the production of Hebrew books in the Mediterranean only in the last decade of the eighteenth and more fully during the nineteenth century. In conclusion, whether the presence of a privativa over works in Hebrew and Rashi characters proved advantageous or detrimental to Hebrew publishing, and whether it hindered competition or rather safeguarded production in times of generalized economic crisis, remains an open question. Future research should focus on the 1780s, in order to understand the dynamics and contexts that allowed for the boom in Hebrew printing in the port after forty years of slow development. At this stage, our data significantly correct the older historiography concerning the expansion of Hebrew printing in the port and greatly emphasize the importance of government intervention in its development.

APPENDIX: BIBLIOMETRIC DATA

I have primarily relied on the Bibliography of the Hebrew Book, supplemented by the Vinograd Index.98 The Bibliography of the Hebrew Book (BHB) is a comprehensive, online database of approximately 90 percent of

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books printed in the Hebrew language between 1470 and 1960. It is based on the actual examination of extant copies; hence, it does not include lost copies or bibliographical variants. The Vinograd Index is a ‘‘bibliography of bibliographies,’’ based on classic nineteenth-century catalogues and modern library holdings: it provides higher estimates than the BHB and contains a small margin of error, acknowledged by its author. Like the BHB, it does not include bibliographical variants, although it does account for copies no longer extant, as well as dubious imprints. This approach requires a number of methodological explanations and caveats. The list includes works in Ladino, as they were also printed with Hebrew and Rashi types; it includes books and, when they were listed, broadsides. It is likely that many more imprints were produced than are recorded in the databases available to us: fragile imprints such as broadsides, printed letters, and approbations as well as calendars must be greatly underrepresented, but there is no way to estimate the extent of what was lost. While this quantitative research cannot provide data as comprehensive as one might wish, it is nonetheless as accurate a description as possible based on our records.99 Furthermore, this research focused on the ‘‘manifestations’’ of a work and the number of projects completed by single printers. Accordingly, I decided to count titles, and not volumes. I have counted as a single bibliographic unit some editions that included multiple volumes. This method has limitations that need to be emphasized. Counting by titles provides a description of the reading materials offered to the readers. But however legitimate this system, it nonetheless fails to indicate correctly the actual activity of the presses since each item, whether it is a broadside or a multivolume collection, is counted as a single unit of equivalent meaning. Also, this method cannot provide precise data on the scale of the Livornese printers’ business, as we do not know the edition sizes for each item (that is, how many copies were printed) or how much paper was used for each imprint. The only way to break this impasse caused by the differences of format and number of volumes, and to supply information on the actual production of each printer would be a sheet count: however, counting by sheets of paper was impracticable for the purpose of my research.100

1650–57: 13, Gabbay [privilege] {BHB: 11/Vinograd: 13 [2 titles not in BHB]};

193

Livorno

1701–3: 2 [?] {BHB: 1/Vinograd: 2 [1 title not in BHB]} 1740–48: 32, Meldola [holds an exclusive privilege]: {BHB: 27 [7, Ricci-Meldola, of which 1 not in Vinograd; 20, Meldola]/ Vinograd: 30 [7, Ricci-Meldola, of which 1 not in BHB; 24, Meldola, of which 4 not in BHB]} 1749–51: 3 [?]: {BHB: 1/Vinograd: 2} 1753–62: 22, Fantechi and Santini [Isaac de Pas holds an exclusive privilege] {BHB: 20 [1 not in Vinograd; 3 for Fantechi, 17 for Santini]/Vinograd: 21 [2 not in BHB]} 1760–67: 19, Moses Attias [holds an exclusive privilege]: {BHB: 15 [1 not in Vinograd]/Vinograd: 18 [4 not in BHB]} 1768–73: 16, Carlo Giorgi per Santini: {BHB: 14/Vinograd: 16 [2 not in BHB]} 1774–79: 27, Carlo Giorgi and Giovan Vincezo Falorni are active simultaneously: {BHB: 24/Vinograd: 25 [3 not in BHB]} 1780–89: 103, Falorni and Castello-Saadun are active simultaneously: {BHB: Falorni, 10 [2 not in Vinograd]; 14 unsigned [7 not in Vinograd]; Castello-Saadun, 69 [4 not in Vinograd] ⳱ 93/Vinograd: 91 [10 not in BHB]} Summing estimated results from BHB and Vinograd for period 1740–89: 222:{BHB: 194//Vinograd: 203} Table 9.1 Livornese Imprints in Hebrew Types and Latin Types, 1740–89

1740 1741 1742 1743 1744 1745 1746 1747 1748 1749

Hebrew types

Latin types

6 1 6 4 3 3 2 0 2 1

1 1 5 2 2 0 1 3 1 0

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Table 9.1 (Continued)

1750 1751 1752 1753 1754 1755 1756 1757 1758 1759 1760 1761 1762 1763 1764 1765 1766 1767 1768 1769 1770 1771 1772 1773 1774 1775 1776 1777 1778 1779 1780 1781 1782 1783 1784 1785 1786 1787 1788 1789 1790

Hebrew types

Latin types

0 0 0 7 0 0 1 0 4 3 4 2 4 1 1 4 2 2 1 2 3 4 1 3 4 2 6 5 4 3 7 4 7 11 9 10 12 13 11 10 25

1 7 10 12 12 18 17 20 7 11 14 15 7 17 19 19 27 20 7 10 10 8 12 10 21 15 9 12 13 16 21 21 13 11 13 12 21 21 26 15 17

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Table 9.1 (Continued)

1791 1792 1793 1794 1795 1796 1797 1798 1799

Hebrew types

Latin types

21 16 22 17 17 9 14 5 5

12 18 16 16 20 15 14 15 27

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NOTES

Introduction 1. Sefer z.emah. David, ed. M. Breuer (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1983), 369. 2. See, e.g., the comment by the eighteenth-century Polish rabbi Joseph Teomim, ‘‘Without the press, the law would have been forgotten,’’ quoted by David Amram, The Makers of Hebrew Books in Italy (Philadelphia: J. H. Greenstone, 1909; repr. London: Holland Press, 1963), 10–11. For other examples, see The Hebrew Book: An Historical Survey, ed. R. Posner and I. Ta-Shma (Jerusalem: Keter, 1975), 85; Mordechai Glatzer, ‘‘Early Hebrew Printing,’’ in A Sign and a Witness, ed. L. Singer Gold (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 80, 91. There were apparently a few dissenters, at least early on, as indicated by a colophon of the early Naples printer Joseph ben Jacob Gunzenhauser, cited by Israel Mehlman, ‘‘The First Fruits of Hebrew Printing,’’ in Thesaurus Typographiae Hebraicae Saeculi XV, ed. A. Freiman and M. Marx, repr. ed. (Jerusalem: Universitas-Booksellers, 1967–69), first unnumbered page at n. 5. The sense that printing was an epic event on par with God’s creation of the world was enunciated by contemporary Christians as well; see Lotte Hellinga, ‘‘The Codex in the Fifteenth Century,’’ in A Potencie of Life: Books in Society, ed. N. Barker (London: British Library, 1993), 63. For an extensive survey of contemporary praise for printing as well as critical responses, see also Brian Richardson, ‘‘The Debates on Printing in Renaissance Italy,’’ La Bibliofilia 100, nos. 2–3 (1998): 135–55. 3. The British Library has the largest collection of incunabula and has, since 1980, spearheaded the ‘‘Incunabula Short Title Catalogue,’’ available at http://www.bl.uk/ catalogues/istc/. As of the beginning of 2010, the project lists some 28,000 separate editions in all languages (mainly based on extant books in public collections), although they acknowledge that some of these should be dated to the sixteenth century. Reliable figures on early modern print runs and numbers of editions are difficult to come by, however, and there are also difficulties in defining an edition. For these caveats, see Joseph Dane, The Myth of Print Culture (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1993). 4. The figure of 140 comes from A. K. Offenberg, A Choice of Corals: Facets of Fifteenth-Century Hebrew Printing (Nieuwkoop, Netherlands: De Graaf, 1992), 52; and see the studies cited there. The listing of Hebrew incunabula in the Encyclopedia Judaica (Jerusalem: Keter, 1971, s.v. ‘‘Incunabula’’; reprinted in Posner and Ta-Shma,

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Notes to Pages 2–3

Hebrew Book, 86–93) includes 175 entries, but some of these cannot be conclusively dated to the fifteenth century. 5. The figure of 1,350 books is based on Yeshayahu Vinograd, Thesaurus of the Hebrew Book (Jerusalem: Institute of Computerized Bibliography, 1995); and see also Vinograd, ‘‘Hebrew Printing in the Years of ‘Shin’ 1540–1640’’ (in Hebrew), Alei Sefer 15 (1989): 129–32. The shin years in the title refer to the Hebrew years that begin with the letter shin when using the short form of writing the Hebrew year, i.e., 300 (1539– 40) to 399 (1638–39). 6. Anat Gueta, ‘‘The Hebrew Imprints of the ‘Shin’ Years as a Resource for the Study of Jewish Society’s Spiritual Life’’ (in Hebrew with English abstract) (Ph.D. diss., Bar Ilan University, 2002). Gueta has done some interesting statistical work on the shifting geography of Hebrew printing in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. 7. See Stephen Burnett, ‘‘Christian Hebrew Printing in the Sixteenth Century: Printers, Humanism and the Impact of the Reformation,’’ Helma´ntica 154 (2000): 13–42; on the relations between ‘‘Jewish’’ Hebrew printing and ‘‘Christian’’ Hebrew printing, see Burnett, ‘‘German Jewish Printing in the Reformation Era (1530–1633),’’ in Jews, Judaism, and the Reformation in Sixteenth-Century Germany, ed. S. Burnett and D. Bell (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 503–27. 8. See Zeev Gries, The Book in the Jewish World, 1700–1900 (Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2007), 6–7. Gries gives the number of editions for the eighteenth-century ‘‘Jewish book market’’ (33–34) as 9,060, but he is ambiguous about whether he is considering both Hebrew and Yiddish editions. 9. See, e.g., the case of Issachar ibn Susan and his Sefer ibur shanim, in Joseph R. Hacker, ‘‘Issachar ibn Susan and the Calling of Kohanim to the Torah at a Simh.at H.atanim’’ (in Hebrew), in Minh.a le-Menah.em: Kovets ma’amarim li-khvod ha-rav Menah.em ha-Kohen, ed. H. Amit et al. (Tel Aviv: Ha-Kibuts ha-Meuh.ad, 2008), 81–82. 10. Colette Sirat, Hebrew Manuscripts of the Middle Ages, trans. N. de Lange (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 8. It should be noted that she does not include fragments from the Cairo Genizah in this accounting. 11. Glatzer, ‘‘Early Hebrew Printing,’’ 80. The decline in Hebrew manuscripts echoes the trend in Latin manuscripts. (See Hellinga, ‘‘Codex in the Fifteenth Century,’’ 66.) 12. On the European genizah, see Mauro Perani and Cesarino Ruini, eds., Fragmenta ne pereant: Recupero e studio dei frammenti di manoscritti medievali e rinascimentali riutilizzati in legature (Ravenna: Longo Editore, 2002). While it seems that many of these manuscripts were confiscated, Perani suggests that Jews may also have sold manuscripts to Christian bookbinders, either under pressure during periods of expulsion or because the existence of printed editions for standard works made the manuscripts less valuable as text and more valuable as paper. On this conjecture, see Perani, ‘‘Morte e rinascita dei manoscritti ebraici: Il loro riuso come legature e la loro recente riscoperta,’’ in Studi di storia del Cristianesimo per Alba Maria Orselli, ed. L. Canetti

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(Ravenna: Longo Editore, 2008), 313–36. We thank Prof. Perani for providing us with a revised English version of his paper. See also Mauro Perani and Enrica Sagradini, Talmudic and Midrashic Fragments from the Italian Geniza (Firenze: Giuntina, 2004), 12. 13. Shlomo Simonsohn, ‘‘Books and Libraries of the Jews of Mantua, 1595’’ (in Hebrew), Kiryat sefer 37 (1961–62): 103–22; Shifra Baruchson, Sefarim ve-korim: Tarbut ha-keriah shel yehude Italya be-shilhe ha-Renesans (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1993); the second part of Baruchson’s book is available in French translation, La culture livresque des juifs d’Italie a` la fin de la Renaissance (Paris: CNRS Editions, 2001). In 438 libraries inventoried by the Inquisition, Baruchson found 20,644 printed editions in Hebrew; 444 printed books in the vernacular; and 1,787 manuscripts. 14. For surveys of those earlier book lists and the conclusions to be drawn, see Robert Bonfil, Rabbis and Jewish Communities in Renaissance Italy (London: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 1993), 272–80, and the list of book lists included in the appendix to the Hebrew edition of that book, Ha-rabanut be-Italyah be-tekufat haRenesans (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1979), 295–99; Jean-Pierre Rothschild, ‘‘Quelques listes de livres he´breux dans les manuscrits de la Bibliothe`que Nationale de Paris,’’ Revue d’histoire des textes 17 (1987): 291–346; Rothschild, ‘‘Les listes de livres, reflet de la culture des juifs en Italie du Nord au XVe et au XVIe sie`cle?’’ in Manoscritti, frammenti e libri ebraici nell’Italia dei secoli xv–xvi, ed. G. Tamani and V. Vivian (Rome: Carucci, 1991), 163–93; Menahem Schmelzer, ‘‘A Fifteenth Century Hebrew Book List,’’ Studies in Bibliography and Booklore 20 (1998): 89–97. 15. On the relative lack of protest against the new technology among Jews, see Amram, Makers of Hebrew Books, 35–37. For halakhic discussion, see Mark Hurvitz, ‘‘The Rabbinic Perception of Printing as Depicted in Haskamot and Responsa’’ (Rabbinic thesis, Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, Cincinnati, 1978), esp. sec. 2; Vivian B. Mann and Daniel D. Chazin, ‘‘Printing, Patronage and Prayer: Art Historical Issues in Three Responsa,’’ Images: A Journal of Jewish Art and Visual Culture 1 (2007): 91–94. 16. See Michael Pollack, ‘‘The Invention of Printing in Hebrew Lore,’’ GutenbergJahrbuch (1977): 22–28. 17. On printing in Arabic characters, see Geoffrey Roper, ‘‘The History of the Book in the Muslim World,’’ in The Oxford Companion to the Book, ed. M. F. Suarez, S. J. and H. R. Woudhuysen (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 1: 330–39 (and bibliography). On Hebrew printing in Istanbul, see Joseph R. Hacker, introduction to The Alphabet of Ben Sira: Facsimile of the Constantinople 1519 Edition (London: Valmadonna Trust Library, 1997), 17–37. On Salonican printing, see Marvin J. Heller, The Sixteenth Century Hebrew Book: An Abridged Thesaurus (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 1: xliii– xlix. See also Joseph R. Hacker, ‘‘Hebrew Authors, Printers, and Readers in the Sixteenth-Century Ottoman Empire,’’ in The Myron M. Weinstein Memorial Lectures on the Hebraic Book, ed. P. Pearlstein (Washington, D.C.: Library of Congress, forthcoming).

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18. The dating of Nofet z.ufim to 1475–76 is by Isaac Rabinowitz in his edition and translation, The Book of the Honeycomb’s Flow (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1983); for comment, see Offenberg, Choice of Corals, 38, and Hacker’s essay in this volume, at notes 9–10. 19. See Offenberg, Choice of Corals, 56–58. 20. The most extensive discussion of the ‘‘impact of print’’ in Western culture remains that of Elizabeth Eisenstein, The Printing Press as an Agent of Change (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), although her assumptions and conclusions have recently been challenged: see Adrian Johns, The Nature of the Book (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998). The recent debate between Eisenstein and Johns reveals the difficulties of making claims about the qualitative impact of the new technology on culture. See Anthony Grafton, Elizabeth Eisenstein, and Adrian Johns, ‘‘AHR Forum: How Revolutionary Was the Print Revolution,’’ American Historical Review 107 (2002): 84–128. For a recent collection of studies assessing Eisenstein’s work and the impact of print, see Sabrina Alcorn Baron et al., eds., Agent of Change: Print Culture Studies after Elizabeth L. Eisenstein (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2007). Regarding quantitative matters, see Joseph Dane, The Myth of Print Culture, cited above, for skepticism about the oft-heard claim of 20,000 (or more) incunable editions and about the notion of a ‘‘print culture.’’ ¨ ber den Einfluss des ersten 21. See the preliminary survey of Avraham Berliner; ‘‘U hebra¨ischen Buch-drucks auf den Cultus und die Cultur der Juden,’’ in Jahres-Bericht des Rabbiner-Seminars zu Berlin (1893–94), republished in Hebrew translation in Berliner, Ketavim nivh.arim (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1969), 2:112–43; and more recently, see Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin’s entry, ‘‘Print and Jewish Cultural Development,’’ in Encyclopedia of the Renaissance, ed. P. Grendler et al. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1999), 3:344–46; Robert Bonfil, ‘‘Reading in the Jewish Communities of Western Europe in the Middle Ages,’’ in A History of Reading in the West, ed. G. Cavallo and R. Chartier (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1999), 149–77, 404–13; and David Ruderman, Early Modern Jewry: A New Cultural History (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2010), esp. 99–110. Zeev Gries offers a survey in his The Book in the Jewish World, cited above, but focuses on the later period, 1700–1900. An area worthy of more study is the selection by early Hebrew printers of older works to be printed; on this, see Offenberg, Choice of Corals, 57–58, and the three studies he cites there: Alexander Marx, ‘‘The Choice of Books by the Printers of Hebrew Incunabula,’’ in To Doctor R. (Philadelphia, 1946), 154–73; Mehlman, ‘‘First Fruits of Hebrew Printing,’’ cited above, note 2; and Herbert C. Zafren, ‘‘Bible Editions, Bible Study and the Early History of Hebrew Printing,’’ Eretz-Israel 16 (1982), English sec., 240–51. See also Hacker’s article in this volume, n. 8, for references on Hebrew incunabula. 22. For a sampling of the key works, see Robert Darnton’s classic and frequently reprinted article, ‘‘What Is the History of Books?’’ Deadalus 111 (Summer 1982): 65–83, and his ‘‘First Steps toward a History of Reading,’’ Australian Journal of French Studies

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23, no. 1 (1986): 5–30; D. F. McKenzie, Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts (Panizzi Lectures, 1985) (London: British Library, 1986); Roger Chartier, ‘‘Texts, Printings, Readings,’’ in The New Cultural History, ed. L. Hunt (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1989), 154–75; Chartier, ‘‘Labourers and Voyagers: From the Text to the Reader,’’ Diacritics 22, no. 2 (1992): 49–61; Chartier, Forms and Meanings: Texts, Performances, and Audiences from Codex to Computer (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995). For surveys of questions that book historians have asked, particularly about early modern Europe, see Jonathan Rose, ‘‘The History of Books: Revised and Enlarged,’’ in The Darnton Debate: Books and Revolution in the Eighteenth Century, ed. H. T. Mason (Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, 1998), 83–104; and Cyndia Susan Clegg, ‘‘History of the Book: An Undisciplined Discipline?’’ Renaissance Quarterly 54 (2001): 221–45. For a summary of the development of a discrete field of book history, see Leslie Howsam, Old Books and New Histories: An Orientation to Studies in Book and Print Culture (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006). 23. This is the thrust of Thomas R. Adams and Nicolas Barker, ‘‘A New Model for the Study of the Book,’’ in A Potencie of Life: Books in Society, ed. N. Barker (London: British Library, 1993), 5–43. See G. Thomas Tanselle, Bibliographical Analysis: A Historical Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), which outlines the orientations of modern bibliographical analysis, including the manufacturing process and ‘‘the recovering of historical meaning embedded in the design features of books.’’ 24. On common practices and collaboration, see Malachi Beit-Arie´, Hebrew Manuscripts of East and West: Towards a Comparative Codicology (London: British Library, 1993); Beit-Arie´, ‘‘Production and Shaping of Hebrew Books in Latin Italy: From Cultural Resistance to Acculturation,’’ in L’interculturalita` dell’ebraismo, ed. M. Perani (Ravenna: Longo Editore, 2004), 139–46; and Nurit Pasternak, ‘‘Hebrew HandWritten Books as Testimonies to Christian-Jewish Contacts in Quattrocento Florence,’’ in Perani, L’interculturalita`, 161–71. 25. See Malachi Beit-Arie´, ‘‘Publication and Reproduction of Literary Texts in Medieval Jewish Civilization: Jewish Scribality and Its Impact on the Texts Transmitted,’’ in Transmitting Jewish Traditions: Orality, Textuality, and Cultural Diffusion, ed. Y. Elman and I. Gershoni (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 225–47. For the parallel case in (Latin) Christian culture, see Eric Reiter, ‘‘The Reader as Author of the User-Produced Manuscript: Reading and Rewriting Popular Latin Theology in the Late Middle Ages,’’ Viator 27 (1996): 151–70. 26. For commentary on some aspects of this discussion in Jewish historiography, see Moshe Rosman, How Jewish Is Jewish History? (Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2007), esp. 87–110. 27. A notable recent exception is Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin’s argument that Counter-Reformation censorship was a ‘‘constitutive factor’’ in modern Jewish culture (The Censor, the Editor, and the Text: The Catholic Church and the Shaping of the Jewish Canon in the Sixteenth Century, trans. Jackie Feldman [Philadelphia: University of

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Pennsylvania Press, 2005]; the phrase appears on p. 3.) Although several reservations about the causal connections in his argument have been voiced by critics (see, e.g., K. Stow in AJS Review 33, no. 1 [2009]: 181–85; and A. Shear in Renaissance Quarterly 61, no. 3 [2008]: 905–7), more studies of this kind are needed. 28. For recent discussions from differing perspectives, see Daniel Abrams, ‘‘The Invention of the ‘Zohar’ as a Book: On the Assumptions and Expectations of the Kabbalists and Modern Scholars,’’ Kabbalah 19 (2009): 7–142; and Boaz Huss, Ke-zohar ha-rakia: Perakim be-toldot hitkablut ha-Zohar uve-havnayat erko ha-simli (Jerusalem: Makhon Ben-Zvi and Mosad Bialik, 2009). 29. On the expansion of reading in early modern Europe, see Roger Chartier, ‘‘Reading Matter and ‘Popular’ Reading,’’ in Cavallo and Chartier, History of Reading in the West, 213–83; and Rose, ‘‘History of Books,’’ 100–101, and the sources cited there. Most of the work on the expansion of literacy and reading among Jews has focused on early modern Ashkenazi culture: see Edward Fram, My Dear Daughter: Benjamin Skolnik and the Education of Jewish Women in Sixteenth-Century Poland (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 2007); Jean Baumgarten, Introduction to Old Yiddish Literature, ed. and trans. J. C. Frakes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), esp. 38–81; Moshe Rosman, ‘‘Innovative Tradition: Jewish Culture of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth,’’ in Cultures of the Jews, ed. D. Biale (New York: Schocken Books, 2002), esp. 530–47. For general views, see Bonfil, ‘‘Reading in the Jewish Communities,’’ and Ruderman, Early Modern Jewry. 30. See Fram, My Dear Daughter; Rosman, ‘‘Innovative Tradition,’’ 532–33; David Darshan, Shir ha-ma’alot le-David (Song of the Steps) and Ketav hitnazzelut l’darshanim (In Defense of Preachers), trans. and ed. H. Perelmuter (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1984); Jacob Elbaum, Petih.ut ve-histagrut: Ha-yez.irah ha-ruh.anit hasifrutit be-Polin uve-arz.ot Ashkenaz be-shilhe ha-meah ha-shesh-esre (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1990); H. H. Ben-Sasson, Hagut ve-hanhaga (Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1959); and especially the work of Elchanan Reiner,‘‘A Biography of an Agent of Culture: Eliezer Altschul of Prague and His Literary Activity,’’ in Scho¨pferische Momente des europa¨ischen Judentums in der fru¨hen Neuzeit, ed. M. Graetz (Heidelberg: C. Winter, 2000), 229–47; Reiner, ‘‘Beyond the Realm of the Haskalah: Changing Learning Patterns in Jewish Traditional Society,’’ Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 6 (2007): 123–33; Reiner, ‘‘The Ashkenazi E´lite at the Beginning of the Modern Era: Manuscript versus Printed Book,’’ Polin 10 (1997): 85–98. 31. Brian Richardson, Printing, Writers and Readers in Renaissance Italy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), ix. 32. For a survey of the history of Hebrew printing in Italy, see Amram’s classic study, The Makers of Hebrew Books in Italy. C. B. Friedberg’s Toldot ha-defus ha-Ivri be-medinot Italyah, Espamya-Portugalia, ve-Togarmah (Tel Aviv: Bar-Juda, 1956) should be supplemented and corrected using studies of the output of particular cities or printers by a number of bibliographers and historians, in particular, Aron Freimann, Moses Marx, Joshua Bloch, Avraham Yaari, Meir Benayahu, A. M. Habermann,

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and Yitzhak Yudlov. Moses Marx’s ‘‘Annalen des hebraeischen Buchdruckes in Italien: 1501–1600’’ (typescript, Hebrew Union College Library, Cincinnati, 1927–31) regrettably has not been published but is available in facsimile in some major Judaica collections. For a more recent concise survey, see Heller, Sixteenth Century Hebrew Book, 1:xiii– xxx; and 2:987–97, Heller’s bibliography, which offers a relatively complete listing of the monographic studies. 33. See Offenberg, Choice of Corals, 52. 34. See Gueta, ‘‘Hebrew Imprints of the ‘Shin’ Years.’’ 35. The size and scope of Venetian Hebrew printing may be seen in Giuliano Tamani, ‘‘Edizioni ebraiche veneziane dei secoli xvi–xvii,’’ in La civilta` del libro e la stampa a Venezia, ed. S. Pelusi (Padua: Il Poligrafo, 2000), 29–36; or in the earlier study by Joshua Bloch, ‘‘Venetian Printers of Hebrew Books,’’ Bulletin of the New York Public Library 36 (1932), reprinted in Hebrew Printing and Bibliography, ed. Charles Berlin (New York: New York Public Library, 1976), 63–88. 36. See, e.g,. Amram, Makers of Hebrew Books, 8. 37. Ibn Migash, in R. Joseph Karo, She’elot u-teshuvot avkat rokhel (Leipzig, 1858– 59), no. 26, p. 34r. 38. Sefer gidule terumah (Venice, 1643), second unnumbered page in ‘‘Hakdamat ha-mefaresh.’’ This is a commentary on Sefer ha-terumot by Samuel ben Isaac Sardi, which had previously been printed in Salonica, in 1596 and again in 1628. 39. On growth in the field of Italian Jewish history, particularly intellectual and cultural history, see David Ruderman’s comments in his introduction to Cultural Intermediaries: Jewish Intellectuals in Early Modern Italy, ed. Ruderman and G. Veltri (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 2–3. 40. On the importance of Italy in book production in general, see Brian Richardson, Printing, Writers and Readers; and Angela Nuovo and Ennio Sandal, Il libro nell’ Italia del rinascimento (Brescia: Grafo, 1998). 41. See, e.g., the inventory of Daniel Bomberg’s bookstore, published by Aron Freimann, ‘‘Daniel Bomberg’s Bu¨cher-Verzeichnis,’’ Zeitschrift fu¨r Hebra¨ische Bibliographie 10 (1902): 38–42; and see also Shifra/Ziporah Baruchson, ‘‘Findings about the Hebrew Book Trade between Italy and the Ottoman Empire in the Sixteenth Century’’ (in Hebrew), Mi-mizrah. ume-maarav 5 (1985–86): 63–66. For Hebrew books printed in Poland, Germany, Prague, Basel, and other European centers, in presses owned by Italian Jews, see Simonsohn and Baruchson, cited above, note 13. 42. In doing so, she adds to the issues raised by Michael Riegler, ‘‘Colophons of Medieval Hebrew Manuscripts as Historical Sources’’ (in Hebrew with English abstract) (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1995). 43. On the need to incorporate the study of manuscripts into the history of the book, see most recently, Jessica Brantley, ‘‘The Prehistory of the Book,’’ Publications of the Modern Language Association 124, no. 2 (2009): 632–39; and more broadly the studies collected in Julia Crick and Alexander Walsham, eds., The Uses of Script and Print, 1300–1700 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). For comment on the

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ways that manuscript studies have been incorporated into the history of the early modern book, see Rose, ‘‘History of Books,’’ 95; and Roger Chartier, ‘‘Crossing Borders in Early Modern Europe: Sociology of Texts and Literature,’’ Book History 8 (2005): 38. Rose and Chartier both point to the important contribution of Armando Petrucci, who argued for a transformation of manuscript studies into the same type of historical study as the ‘‘history of the book.’’ See his Public Lettering: Script, Power, and Culture, trans. L. Lappin (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). Research on the direct affinities between handwritten Hebrew books and the early printed books is still a desiderata. See mainly Malachi Beit-Arie´, ‘‘The Relationship between Early Hebrew Printing and Handwritten Books: Attachment or Detachment,’’ in Beit-Arie´, The Makings of the Medieval Hebrew Book: Studies in Paleography and Codicology (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1993), 251–76. 44. This is the central thrust of much of his work in The Nature of the Book. 45. The development of the idea of an unseen market for printed books occurs early. See I. Yudlow, ‘‘A Document Regarding the Sale of Incunabulum in Naples in the Fifteenth Century,’’ (in Hebrew), Asufot 10 (1995): 71–108. In general, see Hellinga, ‘‘Codex in the Fifteenth Century,’’ 81–84 46. See references cited above, note 25. 47. The importance of the editor has been pointed out by Brian Richardson in his study, Print Culture in Renaissance Italy: The Editor and the Vernacular Text (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), cited by Stern in his essay in this volume (note 3). Some scholarly work has been done on the figure of the Jewish editor in the early modern period but much more remains to be done. For a brief introduction available in English, see Yaacob Dweck, ‘‘Editing Safed: The Career of Isaac Gershon,’’ Jewish Studies Quarterly 17 (2010): 44–55, and the references cited there. 48. See Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor. 49. See Baruchson, Sefarim ve-korim. 50. While Malachi Beit-Arie´ has strenuously argued that no Jewish public libraries existed in the Middle Ages, this thesis has been challenged by Joseph R. Hacker, who proved that Jewish public or semipublic libraries existed in Christian Spain in the late Middle Ages (at least in the fifteenth century but probably already at the beginning of the fourteenth century) and developed in the sixteenth century into full-fledged public libraries in the Ottoman Empire and Italian cities. See Malachi Beit-Arie´, ‘‘Did Jewish ‘Public’ Libraries Exist in the Middle Ages? The Private Nature of the Hebrew Medieval Book Production and Consumption’’ (in Hebrew), Z.ion 65 (2000): 441–51, reprinted in Sifriyot ve-osfei sefarim, ed. M. Sluhovsky and Y. Kaplan (Jerusalem: Merkaz Zalman Shazar, 2006), 91–103; Joseph R. Hacker, ‘‘The Sephardic ‘Midrash’: A Jewish Public Library’’ (in Hebrew), in Rishonim ve-ah.ronim: Meh.karim be-toldot Yisrael mugashim le-Avraham Grossman, ed. J. R. Hacker, B. Z. Kedar, and Y. Kaplan (Jerusalem: Merkaz Zalman Shazar, 2010), 263–92. 51. Cf. Rose, ‘‘History of Books,’’ 89.

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52. On this complex process, see Stefan Reif, Judaism and Hebrew Prayer: New Perspectives on Jewish Liturgical History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), esp. 207–55. Chapter 1 I am grateful to the Hadassah-Brandeis Institute for awarding me a grant to pursue my studies on illuminated Hebrew manuscripts produced for women in Renaissance Italy. I would like to thank Malachi Beit-Arie´, Tamar Leiter, Menahem Schmelzer, and Don Skemer for aiding me in my research; I am especially indebted to David Wachtel for his assistance in the translation of the colophons under discussion. 1. Paris, Bibliothe`que nationale de France, Fondation Smith-Lesoue¨f, MS 250, Hebrew prayer book dated 1520. See Colette Sirat, Malachi Beit-Arie´, and Mordechai Glatzer, Manuscrits me´die´vaux en caracte`res he´braı¨ques portent des indications de date jusqu’a` 1540, vol. 3, Notices. Bibliothe`ques de France et d’Israe¨l: Manuscrits de petit format de 1471 a` 1540 et supplement au tome I: Manuscrits de grand format (Jerusalem: Acade´mie Nationale des Sciences et des Lettres d’Israe¨l; Paris: Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1986), no. 69; Michel Garel, D’une main forte: Manuscrits he´breux enlumine´s des collections franc¸aises (Paris: Bibliothe`que Nationale, 1991), 190 (no. 143); Mendel Metzger, ‘‘An Illuminated Jewish Prayer Book of the 16th Century: The Ms. Smith-Lesoue¨f 250 in the Bibliothe`que Nationale (Paris),’’ Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenla¨ndischen Gesellschaft. Supplementa 9 (1992): 39–54; and Gabrielle SedRajna, Les manuscripts he´breux enlumine´s des bibliothe`ques de France (Louvain and Paris: Peeters, 1994), 284–88 (no. 116). Although the scribe’s name is commonly transliterated as Akrish or Aqrish, Mordechai Glatzer pointed out to me that the scribe’s colophons indicate that the last letter of his name was a sin, not a shin; his name therefore should be transliterated as Akris or Aqris. In five of the seven colophons in which his name appears (London, British Library, MS Add. 15251, Bible dated 1497–98; Parma Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 2516, Bible dated 1499; Paris, Muse´e national du Moyen Aˆge [Muse´e de Cluny], MS 13995, siddur according to the Roman rite dated 1512, currently housed in the Muse´e d’art et d’histoire du Judaı¨sme, Paris; Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, MS Ross. 328, siddur according to the Roman rite from 1512; New York, Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary, MS 4095, mah.zor according to the Roman rite with prayers for Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot, dated 1517; the prayer book according to the Roman rite that is under discussion, Paris, dated 1520; and Copenhagen, Det Kongelige Bibliotek, Cod. Heb. 39, Sha’arei orah, dated 1527), he pointed out his Sephardi origin. In the two manuscripts copied in 1512, Akris indicated he was in Ferrara; he must have cultivated a wealthy clientele there because several of his manuscripts display lavish illumination characteristic of that region. Three manuscripts that do not contain colophons have been attributed to Akris: Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parma 1832, Bible from 1495–96; and two prayer books from Philadelphia, Free Library, Lewis 141 and 142. Aside from the dates of Akris’s activity, his exile from Spain,

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and his presence in Ferrara in 1512 indicated in the colophons, nothing further is known about this scribe. 2. The Hebrew colophon on fol. 372v states: ‘‘I Moses {son of our honored teacher Rabbi} H.ayyim {of blessed memory} Akris, a Sephardi from the exiles of Jerusalem that were in Spain, copied this siddur and mah.zor {for Rabbi} Isaac {may his Rock protect him} {son of our honored teacher Rabbi} Emanuel {may he see offspring and have long life [Isa. 53:10], Amen} of Norsa and I completed it on the twenty-sixth day of the month of Adar I in the year [5]280 {of the minor reckoning} (⳱ 15 February 1520) and I received from him payment of my wages. [May] God make him worthy to delve in it, he and his sons, and all of his descendants. Amen.’’ Curly brackets indicate phrases that appear as abbreviations in the original Hebrew. 3. For information on Isaac’s life and career, see Paolo Norsa, Una famiglia di banchieri I Norsa (1350–1950), pt. 2, Secolo XVI (Naples: Banco di Napoli, 1959), 14–18. Sed-Rajna, Les manuscripts he´breux, 288, repeated Cecil Roth’s assertion in ‘‘The De Bry Psalter and the Norsa Family,’’ Revue des ´etudes juives 125 (1966): 404n2, that Isaac possessed a Bible written in Toledo in 1277, now in Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 2668. The manuscript actually belonged to Isaac ben Daniel Norsa, not Isaac ben Emanuel Norsa. 4. This notation has been commented upon previously. In addition to the citations in note 2, see Elliot Horowitz, ‘‘Families and Their Fortunes: The Jews of Early Modern Italy,’’ in Cultures of the Jews: A New History, ed. D. Biale (New York: Schocken Books, 2002), 594. The inscription, written in Hebrew in square Italian script on fol. 2r, states: ‘‘I Consiglia {most blessed of women in the tent} [Judg. 5:24] wife of the esteemed {his honor, our teacher Rabbi} Isaac {may he see offspring and have long life, [Isa. 53:10] Amen} of Norsa, in the year [5]280 {according to the minor reckoning} (⳱1520), had this mah.zor written to make me rejoice when I come to prostrate myself, before he who dwells in Heaven, on holidays and festivals and all the days of the year.’’ An additional Hebrew inscription written in semicursive Italian script states: ‘‘God {may he be blessed} make me worthy to delve in it, myself and my descendants, in his graciousness, let my prayers and exultation be set before God as incense. [paraphrase of Ps. 141:2.] Amen.’’ 5. For a discussion of some of the manuscripts in which these blessings were reformulated, see Evelyn M. Cohen, ‘‘Women’s Illuminated Hebrew Prayer Books in Renaissance Italy,’’ in Donne nella storia degli ebrei d’Italia: Atti del IX Convegno internazionale ‘‘Italia Judaica’’ Lucca, 6–9 Giugno 2005, ed. M. Luzzati and C. Galasso (Florence: Giuntina, 2007), 305–12. 6. Ps. 121:2. 7. Exod. 3:15. 8. When the De Bry Psalter that had been owned by Isaac Norsa came into his son’s possession, Jacob had a full-page decoration inserted using the same family badge and text. See Gabrielle Sed-Rajna, ‘‘Le psautier De Bry manuscript he´breu enlumine´ (Espagne, XVe sie`cle—Florence, 1489),’’ Revue des ´etudes juives 124 (1965): 375–88,

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and Roth ‘‘The De Bry Psalter,’’ 402–4, with his correct reading of the Norsa family name. Both Roth, 404, and Metzger, ‘‘An Illuminated Jewish Prayer Book,’’ 43, observed that the commonly employed verse from Psalms was used as a family motto. In Hebrew the three letters of the verse’s abbreviation, ‘ayin, mem, and yod, are also the initials of Isaac Emanuel Norsa (mi-Norsa in Hebrew). Metzger realized that within the prayer book, the miniature Norsa family badge that appears within the decoration in the outer margins of fols. 230v and 235v include three Latin letters, A, M, and D, which is an abbreviation of the Latin translation (auxilium meum a Domino) of ‘‘my help comes from God’’ (Ps 121:2). 9. Although the pronoun ‘‘he’’ is being used throughout this article, and the scribes whose works are discussed were male, as were most medieval scribes, some Hebrew manuscripts were copied by women. 10. Princeton, Princeton University Library, Garrett Hebrew MS 6. For a description of this work, see Evelyn M. Cohen, ‘‘Isaac Norsa’s Hebrew Miscellany of 1523,’’ Princeton University Library Chronicle 64, no. 1 (2002): 87–106. 11. The Hebrew inscription reads: ‘‘Completed on the fourth day [Wednesday] the nineteenth of Marh.eshvan, 28 October [5] 284 (⳱ 1523), [in the week of the Torah portion] and God blessed Isaac [Gen. 25:11]. {May it be [God’s] will} A[men]. [Centered, and written in large square script beneath this section of the colophon.] For your Glory O God Behold my family is the most humble and I the least among them [paraphrase of Judg. 6:15] Eliezer {son of my father and teacher [Rabbi]} Joseph Raphael {may he see offspring and have long life [Isa. 53:10], Amen} of Rimini, with my own hands I filled in and completed this holy endeavor for the exalted and sublime {our honored teacher Rabbi} Isaac of Norsa {may he see offspring and have long life [Isa. 53:10], Amen} my master {son of our honored teacher [Rabbi]} Emanuel of Norsa {may he be remembered for life in the next world} God make him worthy to delve in it, he and his offspring and his offspring’s offspring {until the end of all the generations} {Amen, may it be [God’s] will} {I await your salvation, O Lord} [Gen. 49:18].’’ Malachi Beit-Arie´, The Makings of the Medieval Hebrew Book: Studies in Palaeography and Codicology (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1993), 246, noted that the expression ‘‘For your Glory O God’’ is found solely in manuscripts produced in Italy. 12. Eliezer implied this distinction by employing two different expressions meaning ‘‘completed,’’ one immediately after the other, to clarify his role in the manuscript’s production. To indicate that he had filled in work left incomplete by another, he used the uncommon word mileiti; to indicate that he had finished the work, he used the more standard term gamarti. 13. See Nurit Pasternak, ‘‘Together and Apart: Hebrew Manuscripts as Testimonies to Encounters of Jews and Christians in Fifteenth-Century Florence: The Makings, the Clients, Censorship’’ (in Hebrew) (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 2009), 259–60. 14. New York, Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary, MS L85. See Alexander Marx, Studies in Jewish History and Booklore (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1944), 108–9; Aaron Freimann, ‘‘Jewish Scribes in Medieval Italy,’’ in Alexander Marx

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Jubilee Volume, ed. S. Lieberman (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1950), English section, 246, no. 33s; T. L. Freudenheim et al., Illuminated Hebrew Manuscripts from the Library of The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, exhibition catalogue (New York: The Jewish Museum 1965), no. 7; David B. Ruderman, The World of a Renaissance Jew: The Life and Thought of Abraham ben Mordecai Farissol (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1981), 28, 159 no. 28, and 184n42; and in typescript, the catalogue of Bible manuscripts of the Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary compiled by Morris Lutzki (1984), 1:70 (held in same library). Lutzki noted that a second colophon appears on fol. 252v, after a listing of the order of the holiday Torah and haftarah readings on holidays. Possibly by Farissol, the inscription, which is difficult to discern due to its poor condition, refers to Abraham Farissol in Ferrara. In a handwritten comment in Lutzki’s catalogue, Mordechai Glatzer noted the date as 28 Av [5]256 (⳱ 7 August 1496) in Ferrara. 15. The Hebrew colophon on fol. 246r states: ‘‘I, Abraham Farissol, {may my Rock protect me}, completed this book for the esteemed Rabbi Emanuel {may his Rock protect him} {son of our honored teacher [Rabbi]} Noah Raphael of Norsa {may his rest be [in the Garden of] Eden} {on Rosh Hodesh} Elul [5]256 (⳱ 10 August 1496) {according to the minor reckoning} here, Ferrara.’’ For information on Emanuel, the father of Isaac Norsa, see Norsa, Una famiglia di Banchieri, 5–12. 16. Ruderman, World of a Renaissance Jew, 159 no. 28; Glatzer, in his handwritten note to Lutzki’s catalogue; and especially Edna Engel, ‘‘Abraham ben Mordecai Farissol: Sephardi Tradition of Book Making in Northern Italy of the Renaissance Period,’’ Jewish Art 18 (1992): 164–65. 17. See Pasternak, ‘‘Together and Apart,’’ 251–52, and Pasternak, ‘‘A Meeting Point of Hebrew and Latin Manuscript Production: A Fifteenth Century Florentine Hebrew Scribe, Isaac ben Ovadia of Florlı`,’’ Scrittura e Civilta` 25 (2001): 190 n.22, 200, and app., no. 24. I am grateful to Tamar Leiter for confirming that she had arrived at the same conclusion concerning the identification of the scribe in her 1995 unpublished study of Isaac. 18. The fact that two manuscripts begun by the Florentine scribe Isaac ben Ovadiah, who is not recorded as working beyond the third quarter of the fifteenth century, were completed for members of a Ferrarese family in 1496 and 1523, is worthy of further examination. 19. Jerusalem, National Library of Israel, MS Heb 80 5492. See S. Kirschstein, Die Judaica-Sammlung S. Kirschstein Berlin: Kulturgera¨te fu¨r Haus und Synagoge, Manuskripte, Gema¨lde, Miniaturen, Graphik, Urkunden, Bu¨cher: Versteigerung in der Galerie Hugo Helbing, Mu¨nchen (Munich: Hugo Helbin, 1932), 13 no. 215 (Kirschtein read the chronogram as 1485); Ruderman, World of a Renaissance Jew, 158 no. 15; and R. Weiser and R. Plesser, eds., Treasures Revealed from the Collections of the Jewish National and University Library in Honor of the 75th Anniversary of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem 1925–2000 (Jerusalem: Jewish National and University Library, 2000), 98–101.

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20. The partially erased Hebrew colophon on fol. 313v states: ‘‘I Abraham Farissol {may my Rock protect me} of Avignon copied and finished this complete siddur for the entire year for the honored among women the most praiseworthy Lady [ . . . ] and I finished it on the first of Sivan High though the Lord is, He sees the lowly [Ps. 138:6] in Mantua. B[lessed is He who] gives strength to the weary, fresh vigor to the spent [Isa. 40:29]. Completed {praise to the Lord Amen, Amen}.’’ The first word of this verse, ram (high), is employed as a chronogram, whose numerical equivalent is 240. The second word, signifying God, is written as the letter he, which has the numerical value of five, and may be intended as a reference to the sixth millennium. The year, therefore, is usually read as 5240, and the complete date 10 May 1480. Kirschstein (n. 19), on the other hand, assumed the five was intended as part of the year, yielding the date 15 May 1485. 21. The Haggadah text was not always included in siddurim. For example, another woman’s prayer book copied by Farissol, Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary, MS 8255, which will be discussed below, does not contain this text. 22. For a recent study of many of these manuscripts, see Michael Riegler and Judith R. Baskin, ‘‘May the Writer Be Strong’’: Medieval Hebrew Manuscripts Copied by and for Women,’’ Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies and Gender Issues 16 (2008): 9–28. Their work deals with literacy among medieval Jewish women in Europe; female scribes in Italy, Ashkenaz, and Yemen; and manuscripts commissioned for women. The authors used information gleaned from colophons to formulate conclusions about Jewish women and their role in medieval culture, religion, and society. Difficulties and ambiguities in the phrasing of the colophons of the manuscripts they cited were not discussed. 23. New York, Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary, MS 4424, dated 1391–92; Jerusalem, National Library of Israel, MS Heb. 805492, dated 1480, discussed above; Florence, Biblioteca Laurenziana, Or. 475, dated 1485; New York, Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary, MS 4804, dated 1508; Paris, Bibliothe`que nationale de France, Fondation Smith-Lesoue¨f, MS 250, dated 1520, treated earlier; Copenhagen, Det Kongelige Bibliotek, Cod. Sim. Hebr. 70, dated 1531; and Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 2234, dated 1534. SfarData includes a reference to a Haggadah in the Old Jewish Museum of Frankfurt am Main that was copied in Mestre in 1470. The current location of this manuscript is not known. In addition to these Hebrew manuscripts, London, British Library, Or. 2443, dated 1483; and Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 1989, dated 1484; are Italian translations of the siddur written in Hebrew characters; and London, British Library, MS Add. 18695, dated 1504, is a Judeo-German translation of sections of an Ashkenazi mah.zor written in Hebrew characters. 24. Turin, Biblioteca Nazionale, A III 14, copied by Joel ben Simeon in 1452–53; New York, Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary, MS 8255, which will be discussed below; and Cincinnati, Hebrew Union College, MS 337 dated 1486. In the last two examples the scribe indicates that he copied the work for the husband to give to his wife.

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25. London, British Library, MS Add. 26957, copied by Joel ben Simeon, dated 1469; Modena, Biblioteca Estense, MS aJ9.21, dated 1490. 26. Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 1916, dated 1491–92; Cincinnati, Hebrew Union College, MS 1099, dated 1500. 27. London, British Library, MS Add. 27029, dated 1501, a siddur; and Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 2147, Italian translation of the Roman rite siddur, written in Hebrew characters, dated 1498–99. 28. Jerusalem, National Library of Israel, MS Heb 80986, copied in 1478. 29. Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parm. 2104, commentary on the Mishna Avot, e.g., was sold by Bellafiora, the wife of Isaac, in 1469. 30. The prayer book that was copied for Brunetta (Modena, Biblioteca Estense, MS aJ9.21) was ordered by her father, Elia da Vigevano, a wealthy Florentine banker who also commissioned the luxurious Rothschild Mah.zor, New York, Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary, MS 8892. For more information on the patron and these two manuscripts, see Evelyn M. Cohen, ‘‘Elia da Vigevano’s Prayer Books of 1490,’’ in Omnia in Eo: Studies on Jewish Books and Libraries in Honour of Adri Offenberg ⳱Studia Rosenthaliana 38–39 (2005–6): 169–77. 31. New York, Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary, MS 8255; Jerusalem, National Library of Israel, MS Heb. 805492; and Florence, Biblioteca Laurenziana, Or. 475. 32. London, British Library, MS Add. 26957. See Bezalel Narkiss, ‘‘The Art of the Washington Haggadah,’’ in The Washington Haggadah. A Facsimile Edition of an Illuminated Fifteenth-Century Hebrew Manuscript at The Library of Congress Signed by Joel ben Simeon, ed. Myron M. Weinstein (Washington, D.C.: Library of Congress, 1991), 36–37; and Cohen, ‘‘Women’s Illuminated Hebrew Prayer Books,’’ 306–8. Joel ben Simeon also copied a mah.zor that was written for a husband and his wife, Turin, Biblioteca Nazionale, A III 14, in 1452–53. 33. These images are found on fols. 39r, 45r, 55v, 74v, and 31r, respectively. 34. New York, Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary, MS 8641. See Evelyn M. Cohen, ‘‘A Woman’s Hebrew Prayer Book and the Art of Mariano del Buono,’’ in Between Judaism and Christianity: Art Historical Essays in Honor of Elisheva (Elisabeth) Revel-Neher, ed. K. Kogman-Appel and M. Meyer (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2009), 371–78. 35. New York, The Library of The Jewish Theological Seminary, MS 8255. See Freimann, ‘‘Jewish Scribes,’’ 244, no. 33ca (as 1471); Ruderman, World of a Renaissance Jew, 158, no. 13 (as 1478). The Hebrew colophon on fol. 145r states: ‘‘I Abraham Farissol {may my Rock protect me} {son of Rabbi} Mordecai Farissol {may his Rock protect him} copied this complete siddur for the sublime and honorable [ . . . ] {of blessed memory } for his wife the bride, and I copied it here [ . . . ] in the year (231 or 278) (⳱ 1471 or 1478) of the sixth millennium and I completed it on the twentieth [the character indicating the number of the day can also be read as ‘‘second’’] of the month

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of Tamuz {may it be for a blessing, Amen} B[lessed is he who] gives strength to the weary, fresh vigor to the spent [Isa. 40:29].’’ 36. Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS Parma 1754. For more information on this manuscript, see Giuliano Tamani, Elenco dei manoscritti ebraici minitai e decorate della ‘‘Palatina’’ di Parma(Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1968), 110–11 (no. 185), and B. Richler, ed., Hebrew Manuscripts in the Biblioteca Palatina in Parma (Jerusalem: Jewish National and University Library, 2001), 227 (no. 935). Some of the scribe’s manuscripts are listed in Freimann, ‘‘Jewish Scribes,’’ 247–48 (no. 44). SfarData lists thirteen manuscripts by Aryeh that contain colophons, which bear dates ranging from 1477 to 1495; it also includes six more manuscripts that are attributed to him. 37. The Hebrew colophon on fol. 393r states: ‘‘And the holy endeavor was completed, which I copied—I, Aryeh, the son of {the honored, my father and teacher Rabbi} Eliezer H . alfan, {may he be remembered for life in the world to come} for the noble {his honor, our teacher Rabbi} Menah.em {may his Rock protect him} son of {his honor our teacher Rabbi} Yoav, {may he be remembered for life in the world to come} of Ascoli and I completed it here in the city of Cremona on the sixth day of the week [Friday] the twenty-third day of the month of Shevat in the year [5]239 {according to the minor reckoning} (⳱ 15 January 1479). [May] the Lord make him worthy to pray with it, he and his offspring and his offspring’s offspring until the end of all generations. And [may] the [words of] scripture be fulfilled in him as is written And he shall be like a tree planted by streams of water, that brings forth its fruit in season, and its leaves shall not wither, and whatever he does shall prosper [Ps. 1:3]. Amen, Amen Selah. [Written on either side at the bottom] Be strong—Aryeh.’’ The scribe already had indicated his name twice within the body of the text. Applying little dots, he created the form of a leaf next to the name Aryeh on fol. 273v. Even more emphatically, he used dots to create a vine motif bracketing the word ‘‘Aryeh’’ on fol. 373r, which flows into the outer left-hand margin. Chapter 2 1. These seventeen manuscripts are listed and described in the appendix at the end of this chapter. Presumably there are more manuscripts bearing Marchion’s signatures that have not yet been traced. 2. Two scholars had earlier spotted Marchion’s censor mark: H. Hirschfeld, Descriptive Catalogue of the Hebrew Manuscripts of the Montefiore Library (London: Macmillan and Co., 1904), mentions a censor by the name of Marchion in three manuscript descriptions: (1) ‘‘Censor: Marchion (fols. 78, 95, 97v), who signed his name opposite the erasures on the margin’’ (ibid., 66–68); (2) description of MSS Montefiore 214 and 215: ‘‘Mah.zor, Roman rite in two parts’’ (see Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 15); and (3) yet another mah.zor, MS 217 (ibid., 69): ‘‘Marchion, who erased many passages, writing his name against them on the margin (fols. 162, 296v, &c.). The erasures have been rewritten by a later hand.’’ Marchion’s censor marks in MS London, formerly Montefiore Collection 214, have also been mentioned by Naftali Wieder,

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‘‘On the blessings, ‘goy-’eved-isha,’ ‘behema’ and ‘bur’ ’’ (in Hebrew), in Hitgabshut nosah. ha-tefilla ba-Mizrah. uva-Ma’arav (Jerusalem: Makhon Ben-Zvi and Yad BenZvi, 1988), 208 and 208n45, yet he elaborated no further on the significance of their presence (my thanks to Dr. Mordechai Glatzer of the Hebrew University for referring me to this information). 3. As in MS Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale II-I-7 (see Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 1), pp. 121, 122, 123; in MS Vienna, National Library, Cod. Hebr. 188 (Schwartz 64) (Appendix, no. 2), fol. 48r; and twice on fol. 296v in MS London, formerly Jews’ College, Montefiore Collection 217 (Appendix, no. 4). 4. The sigla SS following Marchion’s name stands for subscribo and is in fact an endorsement of the signature, as ‘‘confirmed by the underwritten.’’ 5. Prof. Armando Petrucci corroborated this assumption already in the first stages of this research. 6. See above, note 3, and Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 1. For a detailed description of this manuscript, see M. Beit-Arie´ et al., Codices hebraicis litteris exarati quo tempore scripti fuerint exhibentes, tome 4: de 1044 a` 1200 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), MS 79. Cassuto remarks that this impressive codex must have escaped the fate of other volumes of the Talmud burnt in 1554, because it was owned at that time by a Christian scholar. He bases this assumption on the presence of many marginal and interlinear notes in Latin (see: U. Cassuto, Gli ebrei a Firenze nell’eta` del Rinascimento [Florence: Tipografia Galletti e Cocci, 1918], 93–94). Yet, could we perhaps assume that this important manuscript was spared because Marchion’s interventions, with which this paper deals, had already taken care of its problematic blasphemous passages? 7. On the books owned by the S. Miniato family, see Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 224–25. 8. This intervention dates more than a hundred years prior to Domenico Hierosolymitano’s Sefer ha-zikuk (Index Expurgatius) of 1595–96, which ordains the same procedure: that each mention of the term umot ha-olam be accompanied by a note specifying that it designated worshipers of idols as opposed to Christians (cf. Domenico’s Index, MS Vatican, BAV Vat. ebr. 273, fol. 23v [Hebrew]). For detailed research on this text, see Gila Prebor. ‘‘Sepher Ha-Ziquq by Domenico Yerushalmi (1555–1621) and Its Influences on Hebrew Printing’’ (in Hebrew) (Ph.D. diss., Bar-Ilan University, 2003). 9. MS Florence (Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 1), p. 123. 10. Normally, the Hebrew word sofer, assigned here to designate Marchion, would refer to a scribe, not a notary; accordingly, in a contract signed in Mantua in 1419, we witness the use of a different Hebrew word, kattav, for designating a notary (in that case too, a Christian one): ‘‘done by the notary [kattav] ser Ioanni de messer Geronimo’’ (fol. 263v in MS Bibl. Palatina Parm. 2884, B. Richler and M. Beit-Arie´, Hebrew Manuscripts in the Biblioteca Palatina in Parma, Catalogue [Jerusalem: Jewish National and University Library, 2001], no. 909). For the medieval Latin usage of ‘‘notarius,’’ see S. Rizzo, Il lessico filologico degli umanisti (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura,

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1984), 204–5. Marchion was, in fact, a notary, obviously Christian, indeed the notary of the ‘‘Eight.’’ 11. The Book of Precepts served to some extent as a substitute for the Talmud. This inscription, spotted in MS Vienna (see note 3 above), fol. 48r, has been partly cropped on one side, presumably in the rebinding of the manuscript. Some of the text found in the Florence Talmud is therefore missing there; yet it was this inscription that corroborated the reading of the former one, whose tiny characters were partly undecipherable. Marchion’s signature is inscribed here above the Hebrew apologetic text. 12. Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 4 (see above, note 3). 13. ‘Asinu. In this context Isaiah Sonne’s remark about the hidden figure of some Jewish assistant ‘‘behind the man whose signature was put on the censored books’’ comes to mind (Expurgation of Hebrew Books: The Work of Jewish Scholars [New York: New York Public Library, 1943], 3). Sonne further adds: ‘‘Most of these assistants never dared to leave any trace which could lead to their identification, and the veil of their anonymity will probably never be lifted.’’ Though he was referring to sixteenthcentury censors and censorship, could this apply also to ‘‘the man behind Marchion’’? 14. The procedure by which a notary was present at the expurgation operation appears to have been common later, in the sixteenth century: we then witness the joint work of the appointed revisor, Jacobus Geraldinus, alias Joseph of Arles, and the notary Caesar Belliosus in the correction and listing of Hebrew books in the years 1555–56 (see A. Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, the Editor, and the Text: The Catholic Church and the Shaping of the Jewish Canon in the Sixteenth Century, trans. J. Feldman [Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007], 86n35); in effect, we find their joint signatures in the last folios of a good number of Hebrew manuscripts. Moreover, Fra Luigi da Bologna’s letter (dated 1601) to the inquisitor of Modena mentions that he had been sent to Jews’ houses in the company of the Inquisition notary: ‘‘havendomi in oltre dato l’ordine ch’io andassi alle case loro in compagnia del vostro Notaro’’ (ASMo, Inquisitione, Processi, b.12, fasc. 2, as quoted by M. Perani, ‘‘Confisca e censura di libri ebraici a Modena fra Cinque e Seicento,’’ in L’Inquisitione e gli Ebrei in Italia, ed. M. Luzzati [Rome: Laterza, 1994], 292). 15. Theoretically the only Jews permitted to reside in Florence were the Jewish moneylenders (‘‘bankers’’) named in the capitoli that were issued by the authorities, together with their households and immediate entourage (see Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 32– 36). Book lists and inventories usually inscribed on blank folios inside Hebrew manuscripts attest to the size of the private libraries of Italian Jews, among them the Florentine bankers, who no doubt were all owners of a considerable number of manuscripts: as an illustration, see the list of books on the first folio of MS Vienna (Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 2), headed ‘‘these are our books that came from Prato,’’ apparently owned by Shelomo Kohen mi-Prato (or Terracina); an additional list of Hebrew manuscripts sold in Florence by David ben Shelomo mi-Perugia to Yeh.iel (Vitale) mi-Pisa was published by J. P. Rothschild, ‘‘Une liste de manuscrits he´breux

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vendus a` Florence en 1449,’’ Revue d’Histoire des Textes 14–15 (1984–85): 377–82. The prominent Jewish families residing in Florence were listed by Cassuto (Gli ebrei, 72). 16. A similar phenomenon had taken place more than two centuries earlier, in 1263, in Aragon (see note 37). In the era of the Catholic reform, Jews would participate in the expurgation of their own books by deleting controversial and injurious passages, either by their own hand or by a person they had appointed to do it (see Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 92–93); on tasking the Jews with the correction of their books, see Fausto Parente, ‘‘The Index, the Holy Office, the Condemnation of the Talmud and Publication of Clement VIII’s Index,’’ in Church, Censorship and Culture in Early Modern Italy, ed. G. Fragnito (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 167–69. 17. Probably a business associate, e.g., a shop manager, or fattore, the Hebrew term for subordinate associates being either manhig h.anut (as in the colophon of MS Oxford, Bodleian Library Or. Can. 22, copied in Florence and dated 1468, mentioning a certain ‘‘Yehosu’a, manhig h.anut in Castello’’ [fol. 125r]); or h.aver (as in shetar leqiyyum h.averim ba-h.anut, a prototype form for signing a bond between a banker and his shop manager, found in the last folios [unnumbered] of a mah.zor dated 1441 [Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 13]). Well known is the Jewish business manager, Menah.em ben Meshullam mi-Terracina, who was in the service of the da Pisa family residing in Florence and Pisa. 18. What further supports this possibility are the clusters of two or three manuscripts marked by Marchion that contain identical corrections or interventions: for instance, the benediction she-lo ‘asitani goy (that hast not made me a gentile) was corrected to she-lo ‘asitani bilti medabber (that hast not made me unspeaking [namely, a nonhuman creature]) by the same hand in three mah.zorim (see Appendix to Chapter 2, nos. 4–6). 19. Prebor (‘‘Sepher Ha-Ziquq,’’ 16) observes that the person appointed by the Church to cleanse Hebrew books was not nominated ‘‘censor’’ but revisore or expurgatore. 20. They would normally cite their name and full title, along with the date, as in MS Rovigo, Accademia dei Concordi, Silvestriana 220, fol. 176v: ‘‘Revisto e corretto per mi fra Luigi da Bologna 1598’’ (for more examples, see W. Popper, The Censorship of Hebrew Books, republished with a new introduction by ed. M. Carmilly-Weinberger [New York: Ktav Publishing House, 1969], plate 4). Similarly, we sometimes find a comprehensive apologetic remark inscribed at the end of manuscripts and books, as for instance in the Rovigo codex cited above, fol. 167v: ‘‘These are meant to condemn the Pagans and do not refer to the Christians.’’ Underneath this inscription we should find a revisor’s signature, that of Girolamo da Durazzano, who regularly signed his name under that same apologetic remark (see M. Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut bedefusei Venez.ia [Jerusalem: Makhon Ben-Zvi and Mosad Harav Kook, 1971], 193). 21. Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 196–204 (for the Gighismondi Law of 1478 that defined the Eight’s authority and legal powers, see ibid., 197n1).

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A different body (the Ufficiali del Monte [Lat., Officiales Montis communis Florentie]) was appointed to deal with the capitoli, i.e., the contracts and their stipulations by which the state authorized Jewish moneylenders to establish and conduct their businesses in Florence and in the Florentine territory (see, e.g., ibid., app., doc. 49, p. 404). 22. The functions of the Otto di Guardia e Balia in what concerns the Jewish bankers were enumerated already in the first condotta granted to the Jews in 1437 (see ibid., 121–23). 23. See ibid., 197n5. Cassuto moreover indicates that in 1557 the inquisitors had indeed attempted to stretch their jurisdiction over the Jews as well by approaching the Florentine ruler, Duke Cosimo I, who requested that his council (Magistratura di Pratica segreta) study the question. The opinion submitted in response had been that in crimes of heresy, the competent tribunal was unmistakably that of the Inquisition; yet regarding other offenses, such as offenses against cult and religion and blasphemies against God and the saints, sacrileges, etc., the only competent authority remained the secular one; consequently, the Inquisition could have no jurisdiction over Jews, for Jews—by definition—were unable to commit crimes of heresy. The same opinion was expressed by Lelio Torelli (Cosimo’s first auditor) in his letter of 29 November 1557, namely, that Jews, as such, could not be accused of heresy, but only of calumny and blasphemy, and of these the secular tribunal was in charge (Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 96–97). For Torelli’s original letter, see the appendix of Cassuto’s Ha-Yehudim be-Firenze bitekufat ha-Renesans, trans. M. Hartom (Jerusalem: Makhon Ben-Zvi/The Hebrew University, 1967), 364, doc. 102. Prof. Gigliola Fragnito, to whom I am indebted for kindly reading my manuscript and lending me her learned advice, remarked that until the centralized Inquisition tried (after 1542)—in most cases successfully—to achieve competence over blasphemy, this crime belonged to civil authorities because it concerned the maintenance of social order; thus the Eight had jurisdiction over blasphemy not only on the part of Jews but on the part of all, Jews and Christians alike. 24. This case was not unique: sixteen years later we encounter in the Duchy of Milan a process against thirty-eight Jews who owned ‘‘blasphemous’’ books; the process was initiated and conducted by a secular tribunal headed by a high official of the administration, Bernardino d’Arezzo (ducalibus vicariis generalibus), appointed by the duke (see A. Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo contra gli ebrei nella Milano del 1488 [Bologna: Cappelli, 1985], 13 and app. A, p. 172). For the 1488 Milan trials see below, especially notes 33–34, 39, 52. An altogether different state-appointed authority charged with controlling the contents of books had been operating some thirty years later in Venice: there the imprimatur (printing authorization) was being granted by a civil body, the Council of the Ten, which appointed a censor and, according to his recommendation, provided the said authorization to local printers (see Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 155). 25. Elul 232.

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26. This fact may be significant: as years went by, Lorenzo supported more overtly the cause of the Jews (see Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 51–56). It is possible that at that early stage (1472) he had not been aware of steps being taken against the Jews by his administration (a similar case is mentioned by Cassuto, ibid., 56n1, remarking that the expulsion of the Jews in 1477 had probably been undertaken by magistrates from Lorenzo’s administration without his knowledge). 27. None of the twelve Hebrew manuscripts owned by the Florentine Hebraist Giannozzo Manetti (1396–1459) and presently kept at the Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana had undergone expurgation, though they may well have been present in Florence at the time of Marchion’s activities. On Giannozzo’s Hebrew library see U. Cassuto, I manoscritti palatini ebraici della Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana e la loro storia (Citta` del Vaticano, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1935), 44–47; C. Droege, ‘‘Giannozzo Manetti als Denker und Hebraist,’’ Judentum und Umwelt 20 (1987): 28–33. Droege remarks there was no Talmudic, halakhic, or mystical-esoteric literature among Manetti’s books. His collection consisted of biblical texts and commentaries (Ibn Ezra, Rashi, and David Kimh.i) as well as Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed, a copy of the chronicle of Yosippon, and lexical texts (e.g., Sefer ha-shorashim) essential for the study and research of the Hebrew language and literature. We cannot conjecture how the authorities would have acted had Giannozzo kept within his Hebrew collection a Talmudic text or a Hebrew prayer book. 28. Sponsored by the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities; see M. BeitArie´, ‘‘SfarData: The Henri Schiller Codicological Database of the Hebrew Palaeography Project, Jerusalem,’’ Gazette du Livre Me´die´val 25 (1994): 24–29. 29. In Sefer ha-’ikkarim, Soncino 1485 edition: ‘‘expurgated [mezukkak], 30 May 1555’’ and ‘‘reviewed [me’uyyan], 30 June 1555’’ (see Sonne, Expurgation of Hebrew Books, 5). Sonne moreover identified the hand of this ‘‘earliest censor mark’’— according to him, ‘‘so far the only one known to us’’—as that of Abraham Provenc¸al or his father, David Provenc¸al (ibid., 9). Such a revisor would probably be hired by owners to expurgate their books as a preventive measure (see below, note 59, on selfcensorship practiced by Jews). 30. Geraldinus, alias Joseph of Arles, was a convert appointed by the Church as apostolic commissioner in charge of the examination of Hebrew codices (see RazKrakotzkin, The Censor, 86–87). 31. Archivio di Stato di Milano, Missive, register n. 43, pp. 401–2, Parma, undated but placed among documents dating June-July 1459 (see A. Antoniazzi Villa, ‘‘Appunti sulla polemica antiebraica nel ducato Sforzesco,’’ in Studi di storia medioevale e di diplomatica 7 (1983): 125, and S. Simonsohn, ed., The Jews in the Duchy of Milan [Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1982], 1:276, doc. 597). 32. See above, note 24; and below, note 52. 33. On Bernardinus, see C. Merchavia, ‘‘Bernardinus le-veit Busti neged haYehudim ve-ha-Talmud (Milano, Sof ha-mea ha-h.amesh-esreh),’’ Michael 1 (1973): 223–53.

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34. As for instance: ‘‘interrogatus quod debeat exprimere in lingua nostra verba sibi ostensa, scriba in quodam libro . . . , in folio tertio, et in margine prope dicta verba est scriptum Bernardinus . . . ,’’ etc. (Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, 136). 35. Yet one should bear in mind the absence of Otto di guardia e balia records for the years 1472–74. 36. Lorenzo da Pesaro’s ‘‘mark’’ or signature in the Parma manuscript in 1459 can hardly be considered a censor mark, for we find no mention of expurgation in his letter to Duke Francesco; yet Antoniazzi Villa maintains that a similar penal procedure had been undertaken in 1459 (during Francesco’s reign), including expurgation (Appunti, 119–20)—based on the testimony of Samuel of Broni, one of the Jews convicted in the 1488 Milan trials, who refers to the order issued by the same duke and asserts that consequently a certain prayer had been crossed out from the mah.zor by means of black ink. We therefore may have here the first case of an appointed official marking by his signature (probably with the aid of an informer) the offensive passage before expurgation (the informer involved in the 1459 episode had been, according to Antoniazzi Villa, a Jew of French origin. See Un processo, 30). 37. A decree was issued in August 1263 in Aragon by King James, by which all Jews were to submit their books for examination after they had purged them of blasphemies against the Christian faith. Twenty or thirty venerable Jews were appointed to carry out the above order. Books that had not undergone this ‘‘cleansing’’ were to be burned (see Y. Baer, A History of the Jews in Christian Spain, trans. L. Schoffman [Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1961], 1:155). Prior to that, in 1240, by order of the pope and following Donin’s delation on the contents of the Talmud, all books owned by Jews in France were to be confiscated for investigation by the Dominicans and Franciscans. In 1247 the Talmud manuscripts that escaped burning were returned to the Jews after blasphemies against Christianity and Christians had been removed from them (see Popper, Censorship of Hebrew Books, 6–17). As to the royal decree requiring Jews to bring forth their books and have them inventoried by Christian notaries in Aragon in 1415, following the Tortosa disputation, see E. Gurwirth and M. A. Motis Dolader, ‘‘Twenty-six Jewish Libraries from 15th-Century Spain,’’ The Library 18, no. 1 (1996): 27–53. 38. Even if some extant manuscripts contained early erasure marks, as we do not have the tools to determine when exactly the physical procedure of erasing took place, they could not be linked to early censorship. Only explicit indications (such as censor marks) pointing directly or indirectly to the time and place of the expurgation could achieve that. 39. Indeed we are faced with the opposite situation in the episode of the 1488 Milan trials: no traces of Bernardinus’s signatures are extant (see above, note 36 as the condemned codices had probably been burnt following the trial; what we do have in Milan is a documented, most precise index (unlike Marchion’s ‘‘virtual’’ one) of some twenty-six passages contained in the Hebrew texts, known to be offensive to the Christian faith, that were brought up and fully cited in the course of the interrogations.

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They are all faithfully listed in the tribunal’s protocol (Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, app. A, 120–22 and 178–80; and see below, note 52. And, as noted above, no traces remain of a Florentine legal procedure, if there ever was one. 40. On the expurgation indexes of Hebrew books compiled in the sixteenth century upon orders of the Church, see Prebor, ‘‘Sepher Ha-Ziquq,’’ 19–24; Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 57–73 and 120–32. 41. In fact, as observed by Raz-Krakotzkin (The Censor, 23–26), by then the censorship narrative was becoming inseparable from the Hebraistic one. 42. In E. L. Eisenstein’s terminology, ‘‘the communications revolution’’ (see The Printing Press as an Agent of Change [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979], 44). In fact, the Church had been dismayed by the advent of print as early as 1487, when the papal bull Inter multiplices gave the bishops the responsibility for preventive and prohibitive censorship. Yet this had not been put into effect at that time for lack of efficient tools (see G. Fragnito, ‘‘Central and Peripheral Organization of Censorship,’’ in Church, Censorship and Culture in Early Modern Italy, 15). 43. Pico had started his Hebrew studies during the summer of 1486 (see C. Wirszubski, Pico della Mirandola’s Encounter with Jewish Mysticism [Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1989], 5). As to his attempts to implant Jewish Kabbala into ‘‘the very heart of the humanistic vision of the world’’ and to establish the new field of Christian Kabbala ‘‘[aiming] to harmonize Jewish mysticism and Christian revelation,’’ see The Great Parchment: Flavius Mithridates’ Latin Translation, the Hebrew Text, and an English Version, ed. G. Busi et al. (Turin: Nino Aragno Editore, 2004), 16–20. Pico himself was subsequently charged with spreading heretical doctrines. 44. On Giannozzo’s Hebrew studies, see Vespasiano da Bisticci, Commentario de la vita di Giannozzo Manetti, ed. Pietro Fanfani (Turin: Unione tipografico-editrice, 1862), 10–11; moreover, a number of extant manuscripts are testimonies to the practical aspect of these studies: MS Vatican, BAV Pal. lat. 18, a Latin Bible (Vulgate), in whose margins the Hebrew original is copied in a fairly competent hand, probably Giannozzo’s or his son’s (see N. Pasternak, ‘‘Hebrew Hand-Written Books as Testimonies to Christian-Jewish Contacts in Quattrocento Florence,’’ in L’interculturalita` dell’ebraismo, ed. M. Perani [Ravenna: Longo Editore, 2003], 161–71), as well as several Hebrew manuscripts that Giannozzo owned and in which he left his annotations (e.g., MSS Vatican, BAV Vat. ebr. 8 [Hebrew Bible]; Vat. ebr. 28 [Psalms]; and Vat. ebr. 38, 75, and 82 [Ibn Ezra’s commentaries to the Bible]). 45. On the disputatio Giannozzo held in 1447 with the Jews in Rimini and on his anti-Jewish controversist arguments using their ‘‘own arms’’ against them, see Vespasiano da Bisticci, Vite di uomini illustri del secolo XV, ed. L. Frati (Bologna: RomagnoliDall’Acqua, 1893), 2:126, and G. Fioravanti, ‘‘Polemiche antigiudaiche nell’Italia del Quattrocento: Un tentativo di interpretazione globale,’’ Quaderni Storici 64 (1987): 28. On his role in Hebraistic studies in Renaissance Florence, see Christoph Droege, ‘‘ ‘Quia Morem Hieronymi in Transferendo Cognovi . . . ’—Les De´buts des E´tudes

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He´braı¨ques chez les Humanistes Italiens,’’ in L’He´breu au temps de la Renaissance, ed. I. Zinguer (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 71–79. For a list of Giannozzo’s Hebrew books, see above, note 27. 46. He had succeeded in converting the Jewish scribe who had been his Hebrew teacher and baptized him as Giovanfrancesco Manetti (see da Bisticci, Vite di uomini illustri, 3:202). 47. M. Mortara, ‘‘Un curiosissimo incidente storico, Sefer ha-ziqquq ms.,’’ L’educatore israelita 10 (1862): 161–62. 48. For the notion of an occasion or pretext used by cities to be rid of their Jews in the mid-sixteenth century, see K. R. Stow, ‘‘The Jew as Alien and the Diffusion of Restriction: An Expulsion Text from Udine, 1556,’’ in Jews in Italy, ed. H. Beinart (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1988), 62–64. 49. ‘‘ipsorum Iudeorum palliandis erroribus, exquisitis mediis astruere et dogmatizare, ac libellos quosdam suos, continentes errores, blasfemias et contumelias plurimas in Deum et sanctos suos, qui ad conspectum usque nostrum delati sunt, conscribere presumpserunt’’ (Shlomo Simonsohn et al., The Jews in Sicily, vol. 6, 1458–77 [Leiden: Brill, 2002], p. 3598, doc. 4040). For related letters and decrees, see ibid., docs. 4037, 4049, 4053, 4106, and 4139. 50. Some four or five years after the establishment of the Mantua Hebrew printing press by Avraham Conat. 51. S. Simonsohn, History of the Jews in the Duchy of Mantua (Jerusalem: Kiryath Sepher, 1977), 685 and 685n373, in which he names the Jews who were granted this protection. 52. For documents regarding this event, see Simonsohn, Duchy of Milan, 2:894– 97, docs. 2163–65; for the details of the thirty-eight Jews, see Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, 61–65. The minutes of the trial (ibid., app. A) include the titles of the Hebrew books in question (171–72) and the names of the convicted Jews (176–77), and finally they enumerate in full detail the abominations and blasphemies and their exact references in the Hebrew texts (120–22, 178–80). 53. Simonsohn, Duchy of Milan, 2:901, doc. 2174. 54. The expulsion of the Jews from the territories under Sforzesque dominion is indirectly present in Simonsohn, Duchy of Milan, 2: 912–13, doc. 2206, and 935, doc. 2268. Simonsohn dates Ludovico il Moro’s edict of expulsion to 1489; ‘‘magister Vincentius de Galia, alias hebreus et nunc christianus’’ (Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, app. A, 82) is mentioned repeatedly in the minutes of the interrogation and deliberations as the convert whose delation led to the trial and condemnation of the Jews (see his own deposition, Un processo, 137–39). 55. Namely, the 1474 incident, involving defamation by a convert, led to a penal procedure that ordered the burning of a certain Hebrew book. Eventually the Jews were pardoned and the informer jailed (see Simonsohn, Duchy of Milan, 2:650, doc. 1579). According to Antoniazzi Villa, Appunti, 121–23, a similar allegation had been made against the Lombard Jews around 1480, ending, as in 1474, with a ducal acquittal

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and pardon after they had paid a large fine to the duke’s treasury (Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, 54–55); in fact, several of the defendants in the 1488 process alluded in their evidence to an event that had taken place around 1481, in the course of which some had been detained and certain books expurgated (cf. Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, app. A, 95–96). 56. See above, note 36. 57. See Popper, Censorship of Hebrew Books, 15. 58. Obviously having the Jews understand they could keep their books only if the alleged blasphemies were removed or emended. 59. Several prayer books owned by Mantuan Jews show some occurrences of selfcensorship that may have been related to the duke’s decree. These interventions had apparently been performed by Abraham Farissol: in one of these mah.zorim, MS Parma, Bibl. Palatina Parm. 2074, no. 984 in Richler and Beit-Arie´’s Catalogue (undated, copied by one of Farissol’s fellow copyists, the first folio being in Farissol’s own hand), we find his typical graphic fillers used for covering up some text that had been erased, no doubt by him, as a preventive measure (fol. 32v); a similar instance is present in fol. 39r of MS Parma, Bibl. Palatina Parm. 1776, no. 938 in Richler and BeitArie´’s Catalogue, copied by Moses and completed by Farissol in 1487 (the emendations are found in the first part of the manuscript, which may have been copied earlier); the same phenomenon occurred in MS London, BL Add. 27072 (ff 25r, 213v, and 226v) copied by Farissol near Mantua in 1481 and ‘‘revised,’’ obviously a short time later (the copying had been commissioned by Shemuel mi-Pola, one of the Mantuan bankers who petitioned to the duke and were granted his protection as long as their books were ‘‘clean’’). Moreover, his own initials, aleph-fe-yod, are appended underneath Marchion’s censor mark in a mah.zor that apparently made its way from Florence to Mantua (see Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 7, fol. 42v); Farissol’s graphic filler was inscribed there on top of an erasure of the original text and next to its emendation (fol. 266v). Was this indeed the first signature of a Jewish ‘‘corrector’’ of manuscripts? Since Farissol was himself a Hebrew scribe, it is more than likely that the texts he copied after the Mantuan episode would contain, as a safety measure, emended versions of the problematic passages; in printed books a similar phenomenon is witnessed as early as 1490 (Lisbon) and 1492 (Naples) when printers omitted blatant words and passages on their own initiative (see Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 158n5 and 159n2); on self-censorship of Hebrew books, see Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 117–19. Farissol’s activities in expurgating Hebrew manuscripts no doubt merit a separate research effort. 60. For the 1459 Parma episode and the testimony that books had been expurgated then, see above, note 36. Moreover, four more defendants in the Milan trials recalled earlier cases of expurgation of their books in the Duchy of Milan (see Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, app. A, 84–85, 88–89, 90–91, 96). One of them mentioned the imprisonment of Jews on account of their books some six or seven years earlier (96); another recounted that his own father had erased in black ink some passages in a

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codex he owned, because some Jews had been detained for their books then and certain parts in the books were consequently erased (88–89). We also have a historian’s affirmation (mentioned in M. Steinschneider’s Hebraeische Bibliographie, no. 31, VI, 1863, p. 68) that Hebrew books had undergone censorship during the reign of Ludovico (1480–99): ‘‘During the time of Ludovico Sforza named ‘il moro,’ the inquisitors [ha-h.okerim] in his realm of Milan libeled the books of the Jews and they were forced to expurgate them [le-zakkekam] and I saw some of those expurgated [ha-zekkukim ha-hem]’’ (Gedaliah ibn Yah.ya, Shalshelet ha-Kabbalah [Venice, 1537], 115v). 61. The literature on this ‘‘condition’’ of Jewish life in medieval and Renaissance Italy is vast. See R. Bonfil, Jewish Life in Renaissance Italy, trans. A. Oldcorn (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1994); and R. Bonfil, ‘‘Societa` cristiana e societa` ebraica nell’Italia medievale e rinascimentale: Riflessioni sul significato e sui limiti di una convergenza,’’ in Associazione Italiana per lo Studio del Giudaismo: Atti del VI Congresso, novembre 1986: ‘‘Ebrei e cristiani nell’Italia medievale e moderna,’’ ed. M. Luzzati et al. (Rome: Carucci, 1988), 231–60. 62. See N. Ben-Aryeh Debby, Renaissance Florence in the Rhetoric of Two Popular Preachers (Turnhout: Brepols, 2001), 183, 214–15. 63. Cassuto, Gli ebrei, app., p. 372, doc. 13—an act issued on 27 August 1463. 64. Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 42–45. 65. Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 47–48, 207, and 372–76, doc. 13. There is no doubt that by determining what Hebrew books must not contain, this decree had in fact approved and authorized all Hebrew texts, as long as they were free of offenses against Christianity. This kind of ‘‘positive’’ approach to censorship, which considers the rejection of some parts of the whole as an acceptance of the whole, is elaborated on by RazKrakotzkin (The Censor, especially chap. 3), referring to sixteenth-century Church censorship. According to him, the consequence of the Jews’ submitting their printed books (and no doubt manuscripts as well) to expurgation indeed granted them the license to hold them: this had been a supervising apparatus that formally allowed the use of Hebrew texts as well as an unequivocal recognition of the Jews’ right to exist as part of society (92–93). Raz-Krakotzkin moreover observes that in certain cases Jews applied to the Church authorities to have their books censored, so as to acquire the formal right to keep them (89–90). As reflected by the document brought forth by Cassuto (Gli ebrei, 372–76, doc. 13), this situation had indeed existed prior to the sixteenth century. 66. One could surmise that the Cortona incident had been similar and perhaps contemporaneous with the event that occurred in the Duchy of Milan in 1459 (see above, p. 30). Yet no records have been traced with regard to the Cortona codices and their owners, the measures taken by the authorities, or the outcome of the whole episode. 67. See Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 141 and 141n4. This new measure was undoubtedly a severe one, being a breach of one of the basic provisions included in the agreements with Jewish bankers, which stipulated that moneylenders’ account books must be fully

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trusted. The first condotta granted to Avraham mi-San Miniato in 1437 read in part: ‘‘I libri e le scritture contabili dei banchi di prestito avranno’ piena fede e il loro contenuto dovra senz’altro esser ritenuto conforme a verita`’’ (quoted in Cassuto, ibid., 122). For details of the document see Cassuto, ibid., 120–123. 68. See Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 50–56. 69. Ibid., 140–44; R. Fubini, ‘‘Prestito ebraico e Monte di Pieta` a Firenze (1471– 1473),’’ in La cultura ebraica all’epoca di Lorenzo il Magnifico, ed. D. Liscia Bemporad and I. Zatelli (Florence: Leo S. Olschki Editore, 1998), 101–55; M. Ciardini, I banchieri ebrei in Firenze nel secolo XV (Borgo S. Lorenzo, Tipografia Mazzocchi, 1907), 59–60. 70. Cassuto mentions two Franciscan friars who preached on Easter 1473; they presumably sowed the seeds for the restrictions set upon the Jews in the following years, ending in 1477 with their partial expulsion (Gli ebrei, 51–53). On the dire events that followed the preachings of the Franciscan Bernardino da Feltre in 1488, see ibid., 56–61. 71. Ibid., 53–54. In this same context, the 1488 Milan trials had demanded the reenactment of various restrictions and prohibitions imposed on Jews in the past, which had not been put into effect at the time of the trial (Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, 67). 72. Worth noting is Cassuto’s remark according to which Passerini, a nineteenthcentury scholar, reported that Bernardino da Feltre had preached just before Easter 1472 (quaresima) in Santa Croce, condemning the Jews and supporting the establishment of a monte di pieta`. This project had failed, says Passerini, because the Jews had bribed the magistrates and Lorenzo. Cassuto rejects the date of 1472 on several grounds, adding that other historians had relied on Passerini’s erroneous information and quoted that same date. Yet, if the redoubtable friar had indeed been preaching in Florence in 1472, this in itself could have been the trigger for initiating a campaign against the Jews and their books (Gli ebrei, 52 and 52n 3). 73. Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 49–51. 74. Probably in the spring of 1472 (see the discussion of Abravanel’s letter below), sometime before the imposition of censorship. 75. For the whereabouts of Shemarya in 1471–72, see Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 188–89 (the years 1571 and 1572 on p. 189 should read 1471 and 1472). 76. MS Frankfurt, SUB Hebr. 8o12, fol. 6r. 77. Published in Oz.ar neh.mad 2 (1857): 65–70. 78. As shown above, some previous cases of mass expulsion of Jews in Europe were indeed connected with the presence of blasphemous passages in their literature, ensuing in this kind of collective punishment (see Popper, Censorship of Hebrew Books, 19, and see above on the verdict of expulsion pronounced against the Jews in the Duchy of Milan). Some of the known cases in which such informers were involved were: Nicolas Donin, who allegedly brought about the burning of the Talmud in Paris in 1240; Paul Christian of Montpellier, whose activities in Barcelona resulted in the decree of 1263 authorizing the expurgation of Hebrew books (see ibid., 8–11, 13–15); the

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apostate Alfonso de Valladolid (alias Abner de Burgos), who informed King Alfonso IX of Castille in 1336 of the blasphemies contained in Birkat ha-minim (see Y. H. Yerushalmi, ‘‘The Inquisition and the Jews of France in the Time of Bernard Gui,’’ Harvard Theological Review 63 [1970]: 359); Vincenzo de Galia in the 1488 Milan trials and other informers in the various Milan events preceding it (1459, 1474, 1480); and the converts who were believed to have libeled the Talmud and consequently brought about its burning in Rome in 1553 (see Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 43). Indeed, the dangers of defamation by converts were constantly present, as evidenced by a peculiar provision introduced in 1441 by a Lombard Jew, Isaac son of Solomon, in the charter granted him by the authorities, namely that they should not trust the accusations made by converts against the Jewish religion: ‘‘che non se dia fede a Judeo babtizato de cossa che accusasse contra la leze Judayca o ebrea’’ (Simonsohn, Duchy of Milan, 1:24, doc. 31). 79. Cassuto (Gli ebrei, 49–50) insinuates that the Florentine populace was incited by the defamations aimed at Jewish moneylenders. He assumed that the halshana (or libel) was related to some negative incident concerning Jewish moneylending activities; being unacquainted with Marchion’s censorship and with the marginal notes mentioning the Eight, he was not aware of the possibility that the incident had been connected to the Jews’ committing a sin of blasphemy. 80. ASFI, MAP (Mediceo avanti Principato) 21, 83, traced through a Web search of the digitized files of the Florence State Archive. I greatly appreciate Dr. Mario Vicario’s generous help in deciphering the document. 81. On Donato Acciaiuoli and his close relations with the Hebraist Giannozzo Manetti, see M. A. Ganz, ‘‘A Florentine Friendship: Donato Acciaiuoli and Vespasiano da Bisticci,’’ Renaissance Quarterly 43 (1990): 372–83. 82. The signature at the bottom of his letter is identical to the one inscribed exactly four years later in seventeen Hebrew manuscripts. 83. Giuseppe M. Cagni, Vespasiano da Bisticci e il suo epistolario (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1969), 139n 3: ‘‘Gentile Bechi, pedagogo di Lorenzo e poi vescovo di Arezzo,’’ mentioned in Vespasiano’s letter to Piero di Cosimo dated 19 April 1458. 84. See D. Marzi, La cancelleria della Repubblica Fiorentina (Florence: Rocca S. Casciano, 1910), 501. For the noble lineage of the Donati, see N. Rubinstein et al., Lorenzo de’ Medici: Lettere (Florence: Giunti-Barbera, 1977–2004), 7:194n1 (letter 614): ‘‘The Donati, of patrician descent, were one of the families which Piero Guicciardini [the historian] had defined in 1484 as ‘the extreme nobility’ of Florentine society.’’ The kin relationship of the Donati and the Medici is mentioned in letter 607, Rubinstein, Lettere, 169n1. 85. The signature reads: ‘‘Marchion son of ser Marchion’’ (ser being the title for notaries). His own father had apparently held the position of notary of the Signoria in 1404. He is cited in Marzi’s list as Marchion Bertini Donati (La cancelleria, 495). 86. ASFI, Tratte 80.

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87. ASFI, Catasto 929, c. 620. In the previous catasto, that of 1457, he was still included in the ‘‘statement of account’’ of his mother, mona Lisa (see ASFI, Catasto 832, c. 394); at that time he was 39, newly married to Lena, 19, who was then expecting his child, and living in rented quarters in Via Larga (most probably property of the Medici). Moreover he had been supporting two-year-old Nannina, his illegitimate daughter born of a bondwoman. I would like to thank Dr. Vanna Arrighi of the Florentine State Archive, as well as the staff of librarians, especially Mr. Riccardo Rossi, for their sagacious advice, exceptional patience, and goodwill in assisting me throughout my searches in the archive. 88. Alamanno di ser Marchionne Donati, Marchion’s eldest son, 23, handled his own declaration for the 1480 catasto, which indicates he was no longer dependent on his father (see ASFI, Catasto 1023, c. 106). 89. ASFI, Otto di Guardia e Balia della Repubblica, 22, c. 1a: ‘‘. . . per me Marchionem ser Marchionis Bertinii Donati civem Florentiae, primus die septembris 1468.’’ 90. ASFI, ibid., c. 3. 91. On 4 November 1478 Marchion was dismissed from his position with the Eight, and it seems he was then appointed to the private chancellery of Lorenzo the Magnificent (I owe this information to Dr. Arrighi of the Florence State Archive); in 1479 he was dealing with the deciphering of diplomatic letters destined to Lorenzo (see Rubinstein, Lettere, letter 365, 3:361–62, and letter 366, 3:369). 92. Similarly, in the 1488 Milan trials the head of the tribunal himself had no knowledge of the Hebrew language; the only participant, other than the accused, versed with Hebrew was the convert Vincenzo (see Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, 66). 93. A handful of apparently enigmatic cases in which Marchion’s signature is appended where no emendation has been carried out (e.g., Appendix to Chapter 2, nos. 7 and 10) perhaps corroborate this interpretation of Marchion’s role: the assumption would be that following some kind of inquest or even penal procedure in the course of which the Jews were shown incriminating material and interrogated about it, they would be ordered to cleanse their books and remove the text marked by the signatures; no doubt a certain number of markings could have been overlooked, or intentionally skipped, which would explain the said enigmatic cases. 94. See Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 91–92 and 92n58. 95. In this context Marchion’s signature should be viewed as an approval mark, confirming that the required emendation had been carried out and that the text was thereby granted the authorization to be read and studied. 96. See Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 72. 97. E.g., a mah.zor ( see Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 13) copied for Joseph ben Avraham mi-Tivoli, probably a cousin of David ben Yoav mi-Tivoli, a banker in the Florentine territory. 98. The Florence Talmud (Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 1) had been inherited by members of the San Miniato family (for details on this transaction and the persons concerned, see Beit-Arie´ et al., Codices hebraicis, cited in note 6 above). They had also

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inherited (in 1500) MSS Montefiore 214–16 (see Appendix, no. 15), which had previously belonged to Immanuel mi-Camerino, himself a prestigious Florentine banker and scholar (see Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 222–24, 260–63). 99. E.g., the London Mah.zor (Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 6), which contains both a colophon stating the location (Florence) and the date (1441), and a deed of sale by which the prominent Florentine banker Yeh.iel mi-Pisa purchased it in 1461. 100. Like the Book of Precepts (Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 2), which contains a list of books with the heading ‘‘Our books which came from Prato’’ (fol. 1v), linking this manuscript to Florence. 101. On the first folio of the same manuscript mentioned above (Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 2): ‘‘Achille di Bartolomeo rigattiere di Fiorenza.’’ 102. For instance, scribes who are known to have copied another manuscript in Florence or for a Florentine client, or for a client having a kinship relation with Florentine Jews, or scribes who had been known to have resided in the Florentine state or had been kin to Florentine Jews. 103. The entries for the seventeen manuscripts enumerated in the appendix to this chapter mention their link to Florence. 104. As to printers leaving blank spaces on their own initiative, see Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 140–41 and 140n38; and Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 158–59, who indicates that as early as 1492 the press of Naples omitted certain passages, leaving the paper blank; surprisingly, this same phenomenon is witnessed in manuscripts as well: in 1499 the scribe David ben Menah.em of Arli left blank spaces in a siddur he had copied for his sister in Judeo-Italian (MS Parma, Bibl. Palatina Parm. 2147, no. 1132 in Richler and Beit-Arie´’s Catalogue). 105. E.g., MS Parma (Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 9). Indeed, at a later stage, more precisely December 1624, and in view of the criticism that former expurgations had been performed carelessly and spuriously, the Inquisitor of Modena ordained the Jews to correct their books anew so that the deleted passages would be impossible to decipher: ‘‘in modo tale che non si possano leggere ne luoghi cancellati’’ (ASMo, Inquisitione, b. 270, as cited by M. Perani, Confisca e censura, 299 and 299n54). 106. E.g., MS New York (Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 14) has both layers: on fols. 26v, 78v, 81r one still sees the contours of the erased words; on fols. 54r, 65v, 246v we have coarse scraping of the parchment, whereas in fols. 99v and 142r a variation of the coarser method is used: the scraping is topped with brown stains. 107. As were the books mentioned in the 1488 Milan trials. 108. Appendix to Chapter 2, nos. 4–17. 109. Appendix to Chapter 2, nos. 1–3. 110. For the prosecution of rabbinic literature and for the books included in Bernard Gui’s guide for the inquisitor (1323–24), together with his comments on the condemned books and the blasphemies they contain, see his Practica inquisitionis heretice pravitatis, Part 5 (Paris: C. Douais, 1886), as cited by Yerushalmi, ‘‘Inquisition and

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the Jews of France,’’ 352–54; and its French version: Bernard Gui, Manuel de l’inquisiteur, ed. and trans. G. Mollat (Paris: Librairie ancienne Honore´ Champion, 1928), 2, 13–19. 111. See Yerushalmi, ‘‘Inquisition and the Jews of France,’’ 353n82, referring to the Latin manuscript of the Extractiones de Talmud and its section entitled De Glosis Salomonis Trecensis, for which he cites I. Loeb, in REJ 1 (1880): 260. 112. Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, app. A, esp. 171–72, which contain a list of the condemned books: several Talmud tractates (Senedrin, Ghitim, Ydolatrarum [⳱ Avodah Zara], Liber de Benedictione [⳱ Berakhot], Liber Penitentie [⳱ Ta’anit (or Mo’ed)]), as well as Glose Salamonis (⳱ in this case Rashi’s commentary on Avodah Zara and Sanhedrin), Liber Turrim, Maymon (⳱ probably Mishneh Torah), Sepheramis Vos (⳱ the Book of Precepts), one Liber Lamentationum, and a good number of prayer books (Liber Mazor). 113. Defined as oratio, letanie, and antifona (Antoniazzi Villa, ibid., 138–39). 114. The Florentine codices that have been traced may be only part of a larger group; a thorough search should hopefully produce more Marchion-marked manuscripts. 115. See, e.g., Yerushalmi, ‘‘Inquisition and the Jews of France,’’ 350–63, and RazKrakotzkin, The Censor, 148–59, on censorship originating and ingrained in the theological Jewish-Christian disputation. 116. We find reference to Birkat ha-minim as early as 1240: it is quoted in its Latin translation together with details on its origins in Bernard Gui’s Extractiones de Talmud, Article 30, published by I. Loeb (‘‘La controverse de 1240,’’ REJ 3 [1881]: 51ff, as cited by Yerushalmi, ‘‘Inquisition and the Jews of France,’’ 358). In this regard see also C. Merchavia, ‘‘The Manuscript ‘Extractiones de Talmud’ as a Source of Dispute against Judaism’’ (in Hebrew) (Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1965). Bernard Gui commented that this text, recited in Hebrew, was directed against the Christian people (although not explicitly naming them) and against their depraved kingdom, and referred to Christians as heretics (minim), nonbelievers, enemies, and persecutors, praying for their destruction (Gui, Manuel de l’inquisiteur, 15 [see above, note 111]). In a decree dated 3 September 1380, King Juan I of Castille outlawed its recitation (naming it oracion de los erejes, namely, ‘‘of the heretics’’) and ordered its total cancellation from Jewish books (see F. [Yiz.h.ak] Baer, Die Juden im Christlichen Spanien [Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1936], 2:221n227, cited by Yerushalmi, ‘‘Inquisition and the Jews of France,’’ 359n100). The minutes of the Milan 1488 trials included the Italian translation of this benediction by one of the accused Jews, Eliutius de Pisis, in the course of his interrogation (see Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, app. A, 137); subsequently its contents were put forth in the list of the condemned texts, this time worded according to the Christian interpretation. Similarly, one of the basic directives introducing Domenico Hierosolymitano’s Index calls for the absolute deletion of any mention of the word min/minim and the expurgation of Birkat ha-malshinim); see Prebor, ‘‘Sepher Ha-Ziquq,’’ 309.

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117. BT Berakhot, 28b: G. Alon, The Jews in Their Land in the Talmudic Age, trans. and ed. G. Levi (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1980), 1:288–307; I. Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy: A Comprehensive History, trans. R. P. Scheindlin (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1991), 31–33. 118. See Alon, Jews in Their Land, 289 and 289n 7. On the ritual of malediction and on the literature concerning Birkat ha-minim, and more specifically on that linking it to Rome, see I. J. Yuval, Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, trans. B. Harshav and J. Chipman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 115–16 and 115n73. 119. Alon asserts that the original version of this benediction contained no mention of malshinim (Jews in Their Land, 307n52). See also Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy, 47. 120. As had been the original text prior to emendations in Nos. 5, 6, and 9 (see Appendix to Chapter 2). For a short review of the various versions, see Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy, 45–46. 121. Alon, Jews in Their Land, 288–90; Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy, 32. 122. See Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 169–72, affirming that the opening of the original version in Ashkenazi liturgy had been ve-la-meshumadim (the apostates) while that of the Sephardi prayer book had been ve-la-malshinim (i.e., the informers); and Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 163–64, enumerating the variations of this benediction in printed mah.zorim. Yet, the variation with ve-la-meshumadim is absent in the manuscripts marked by Marchion, appearing neither in the original version before expurgation nor in the emended texts. 123. Another evidence to the existence of ve-la-minim turns up from an unexpected quarter: some prayer books produced in the last decades of the fifteenth century in Judeo-Italian seem to have escaped expurgation; indeed, in two of them (MSS London, BL Or. 9626, copied by Shemarya ben Avraham, who resided mainly in Florence and its vicinity, and BL Or. 74, possibly copied in Bologna; see N. Pasternak, ‘‘The Judeo-Italian Translation of the Song of Songs and Ya’aqov da Corinaldo,’’ Italia Judaica 10, no. 2 [2005]: 266–82), for the first part of this benediction, which reads ‘‘alli minim e li malshinim non sia esperanza.’’ 124. Memshelet zadon and oyvei ‘amekha, directed against the government of Rome (see Alon, The Jews in Their Land, 289–90). 125. This said, inconsistencies in the scope of intervention in expurgated codices are obvious, and the deletions could encompass larger or smaller groups of words; e.g., in fol. 17v of MS Parma, Bibl. Palatina Parm. 1989, no. 1133 in Richler and BeitArie´’s Catalogue (a Judeo-Italian translation of the mah.zor) dated 1484, Birkat haminim had been deleted in its entirety. 126. See Appendix to Chapter 2, nos. 1 and 4. 127. Barukh ata . . . she-lo ‘asitani goy. 128. See Yerushalmi, Inquisition and the Jews of France, 357, on Bernard Gui’s interpretation of the word goy: ‘‘qui non fecisti me christianum vel gentilem.’’ As to the expurgation of the mah.zor during the Counter-Reformation, Domenico explicitly

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instructs its deletion (see Prebor, ‘‘Sepher Ha-Ziquq,’’ 312, item 9). Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 164–65, remarks that it remained untouched in most of the mah.zorim printed at the close of the fifteenth century and during the sixteenth century that had undergone an examination (bedika). Contrary to this affirmation, we find Marchion’s signature appended next to the erasure or emendation of this benediction wherever it appears in prayer books revised by him (see Appendix to Chapter 2, nos. 4–7 and 15); yet a similar, practically synonymous benediction, she-’asitani mal ve-lo ‘arel (that hast made me circumcised and not uncircumcised) was left intact (Appendix, no. 15, vol. 1, fol. 78r). 129. The only three known cases of this uncommon formula she-lo ‘asitani bilti medabber are found in three Marchion manuscripts: MS (formerly) Montefiore 217, MS London, BL Add. 19944, and MS BL Add. 18691 (Appendix to Chapter 2, nos. 4–6). They could therefore have been owned by the same patron in Florence, possibly Yeh.iel mi-Pisa. 130. As in Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 15. While Raz-Krakotzkin asserts that this version reflects a move from a negative to a positive definition (The Censor, 164–65), it is clear that in our case, where the full text read before its revision ‘‘. . . that hath made me Yisrael and not a goy,’’ the deletion of ve-lo goy proved to be the simplest way of emending the text and was probably not the result of a new, more positive attitude. Possibly the first appearance of the unaltered formula ‘‘Blessed be thou that hast made me Yisrael’’ was the one found in a mah.zor dated 1492, copied by Farissol for Emmanuel mi-Camerino, resident of Florence and owner of no. 15 in the Appendix. Knowing that Farissol had been acquainted with manuscripts earlier revised by Marchion and had himself intervened in at least one of them (see Appendix, no. 7), one could surmise that he may have chosen to adopt this convenient, harmless wording by following the example of another of Emmanuel mi-Camerino’s manuscripts, namely Appendix, no. 15. 131. She-lo ‘asitani goy ‘oved ‘avoda zara; fol. 4r. in MS Bibl. Palatina Parm. 1776, no. 938 in Richler and Beit-Arie´’s Catalogue. See Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 193– 94, on restricting the scope of the term goy by adding ‘oved ‘avoda zara. 132. MS Paris, BnF he´br. 604 (possibly in Farissol’s hand). The same substitution is found elsewhere, e.g., in no. 7 (Appendix to Chapter 2), as well as in MS Hamburg, SUB Cod. Levy 26 dated 1462; in both cases it had been inscribed—apparently by a later hand—over the deleted goy. 133. See Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 173–74, concerning the emended printed versions of this prayer. Yuval, while defining this prayer as an anti-Christian credo from the twelfth century, mentions the presence of most injurious deprecations against the Christians in one version found in a siddur copied in England before 1190 (see Yuval, Two Nations, 119). He further discusses an anti-Christian addition to the ‘Aleynu leshabeah. prayer in its twelfth-century French version, where both Jesus and his mother Mary were exposed in the crudest terms (ibid., 193–94). For further literature on this prayer, see ibid., 200n147.

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134. ‘‘Ki hem mishtah.avim le-hevel va-rik u-mitpallelim el el lo yoshi’a.’’ 135. See Yerushalmi, Inquisition and the Jews of France, 359, quoting Bernard Gui’s translation of the prayer and his explanation that although this text does not explicitly name the Christians, ‘‘in the circumlocutions they employ, the Christian people is expressly intended and comprehended.’’ Domenico Hierosolymitano’s Index mentions this prayer, e.g., Prebor, ‘‘Sepher Ha-Ziquq,’’ 309 item 10 (Mah.zor italiano). 136. See Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 7. On the practice of interchanging tenses in the revision procedure, see Prebor, ‘‘Sepher Ha-Ziquq,’’ 89. 137. ‘‘She-hayu mitpallelim la-elilim,’’ as for instance in nos. 5, 6, 8, etc., in Appendix to Chapter 2. This said, in no. 14 the whole line was deleted. 138. See Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 175–76. On the persisting inconsistencies, see Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 165n102. Domenico’s Index instructs its readers to delete memshelet zadon in all its occurrences in the Ashkenazi mah.zor (Prebor, ‘‘Sepher Ha-Ziquq,’’ 315–16). 139. Anshei zadon, as in Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 9. 140. Memshaltam, as in Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 8. 141. Memshelet zar, as in Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 16. 142. Substitution of min ha-arez. with me-arz.enu, as in Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 7. 143. Rishe’a, as in Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 5. 144. Nez.er naa’fuf, in the prayer Ezon tah.an; see D. Goldschmidt, Mah.zor laYamim ha-Noraim, vol. 2, Yom Kippur (New York: Leo Baeck Institute, 1970), 632, line 16. 145. ‘‘Z.ammet be-kiz.pekha shoh.ah.ei la-talui’’ (ibid., 632, line 18). According to Yuval (Two Nations, 117) medieval Jews insisted on referring to Jesus by this term. 146. During the trial, the accused Eleutius de Pisis of Parma was interrogated as to the exact meaning of this passage starting with Esoy thaan: his reply was more than eloquent (Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, 135–36). Domenico’s Index, referring to this prayer in an Ashkenazi mah.zor, instructs his readers to delete the lines commencing with the letters koph, pe, ’ayin, or dalet; elsewhere he instructs them to erase the lines commencing with the letters shin, resh, koph, pe, or ’ayin (see Prebor, ‘‘Sepher HaZiquq,’’ 313, item 27, and 315, item 29). 147. Yerushalmi (Inquisition and the Jews of France, 360) cites a passage translated from fol. 16v in Gui’s Manuel (see above, note 111), concerning a Yom Kippur cematha, ‘‘that is to say anathema, . . . or malediction,’’ recited by the Jews with their prayers: ‘‘By certain circumlocutions they make the Christ an illegitimate son of a prostitute, of Mary a woman of voluptuousness and luxury, and they curse both of them together with the Roman faith and its adherents.’’ The minutes of the 1488 Milan trials report the full texts of similar maledictions. 148. Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 12, fol. 33v, and no. 10, fol. 220r. On the sixteenthcentury ‘‘reform’’ in the Ashkenazi mah.zor in Italy and the emendations introduced

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in its anti-Christian liturgy in view of a more comprehensive cultural change, see RazKrakotzkin, The Censor, 67–68. 149. Edom amra, Appendix to Chapter 2, nos. 6, 8, 10, 12, 13, and 16. 150. In the minutes of the 1488 Milan trials (see Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo, app. A, 122) there is direct reference to that lamentation, exposing the calumniations it contains, as understood by the Christian tribunal: ‘‘Edom dixe non ce fine et cetera, qualiter nos christiani adoramus hominem mortuum, natum ex fornicatione, intelligendo de Iesu Nazareno’’ (that we Christians adore a dead man born of fornication, meaning Jesus of Nazareth). 151. According to Yuval, Two Nations, 10–11, it was Rabbi Akiva who first identified Edom with Rome. He goes on to explain that from the fourth century Edom was identified with either the Roman Church itself or with the Roman Empire and, as such, remained forever Israel’s ‘‘mythological enemy.’’ 152. See J. Rosenthal, Studies and Texts in Jewish History, Literature and Religion (in Hebrew) (Chicago-Jerusalem: Ha-midrasha le-limudey ha-yahadut, in collaboration with R. Mass, 1966), 284–90, asserting that the prevalent opinion among Jews throughout the Middle Ages identified Edom with Rome, quoting David Kimh.i (284) and Nah.manides (285). On the identification of Edom as Esau, and on the rejection by the Sephardi Diaspora (and more particularly by Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra) of its identification with Rome, see G. D. Cohen (‘‘Esau as Symbol in Early Medieval Thought,’’ in Studies in the Variety of Rabbinic Cultures [Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1991], 243–70). For further literature, see Yuval, Two Nations, 110n61. 153. No. 905 in Richler and Beit-Arie´’s Catalogue. See also MS New York, Jewish Theological Seminary 4073, copied in 1468 by Leon ben Yehoshua in Cesena, where the same lamentation remained untouched (fols. 148–49). 154. The full unrevised version of this piyyut is found in MS Parma, Bibl. Palatina Parm. 2735 (no. 991 in Richler and Beit-Arie´’s Catalogue). 155. Tinnuf ma’asim ra’im substituting for the erased tinnuf mayim teme’im; and ra’ei adam for ra’ei goyim. In one manuscript the new version differs: teruf ha-da’at in the first instance, and ra’ei yehudim in the second (Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 16). 156. Domenico’s Index instructs his readers to erase ha-shillush (see Prebor, ‘‘Sepher Ha-Ziquq,’’ 311, item 28). In addition, in his comparative listing of unrevised and revised editions of Sefer ha-’ikkarim, we witness a similar substitution of ha-shiniyut for ha-shillush (ibid., 136). 157. Appendix to Chapter 2, no. 15, fol. 29. See lot 173–74 in Sotheby’s: Important Hebrew Manuscripts from the Montefiore Endowment, New York, 27–28 October 2004. 158. An attitude expressed by a number of scholars and perhaps witnessed in the ‘‘Sermo de passione domini’’ dated 20 April 1481 by convert Raimondo Guglielmo de Moncada (alias Flavius Mithridates). Chapter 3 I wish to express my deep gratitude to Dr. Menahem Schmelzer and Rabbi Jerry Schwarzbard for encouraging me to pursue my research on Daniel van Bombergen

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and for their comments on a draft of this chapter, comments that have greatly improved my work. An earlier version of this chapter was delivered as a lecture at the conference ‘‘The Jewish Book in a Christian World, 25–27 June 2008,’’ in Antwerp, cosponsored by the Institute of Jewish Studies at the University of Antwerp; the University Centre Saint-Ignatius Antwerp; and the Center for Advanced Judaic Studies, University of Pennsylvania. Throughout this chapter I adhere to the proper family name Van Bombergen, and use the abbreviated Bomberg only in quotations and when referring to his title pages, which used only Bombergi. Likewise, when converting Hebrew dates, I give them according to the Julian calendar since the Gregorian calendar was not yet observed. 1. In a recent book Christopher L. C. E. Witcombe even states, ‘‘Daniel Bomberg [was] the Jewish merchant-publisher.’’ Copyright in the Renaissance: Prints and the Privilegio in Sixteenth-Century Venice and Rome (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 44. 2. This idea first appeared in Isaac Vossius, Isaaci Vossii Variarum observationum liber (London: Robert Scott, 1685), 212: ‘‘Daniel Bombergus litem istam immenso diremisset pretio, conductis aliquot Judaeorum centuriis, in quibus alendis totum suum dilapidavit patrimonium.’’ (Daniel Bomberg would have parted with an immense amount of money when he hired a number of Jews, for which supporting of them he squandered his entire inheritance.) Vossius was relying on undocumented statements by Joseph Juste Scaliger recorded in Scaligerana, ou Bon mots, recontres agreables, et remarques judicieuses & sc¸avantes de J. Scaliger, ed. Tannegui Le Fevre and Paul Colomie`s (Cologne: Chez les Huguetans, 1695), 62 and 207; and in Pierre Desmaizeaux (1673?–1745), Scaligerana, Thuana, Perroniana, Pithoeana et Colomesiana . . . (known as Scaligerana secunda) (Amsterdam: Covens and Mortier, 1740), 2:238 and 393. Vossius and Scaliger were picked up by Johann Christian Wolf, Bibliotheca Hebraea (Hamburg: Christiani Liebezeit, 1715–33) [hereafter, Wolf BH]), 2: 895, and rehearsed many, many times without a shred of evidence. 3. Abbreviations: Hebrew bibliographic descriptions: A ⳱ Herbert M. Adams, Catalogue of Books Printed on the Continent of Europe, 1501–1600 in Cambridge Libraries, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967). C ⳱ Arthur Ernst Cowley, A Concise Catalogue of the Hebrew Printed Books in the Bodleian Library (1971; repr., Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1929). CB ⳱ Moritz Steinschneider, Catalogus Librorum Hebraeorum in Bibliotheca Bodleiana (Berlin: A.D. Friedlaender, 1852–60). D&M ⳱ Thomas H. Darlow and Horace F. Moule, Historical Catalogue of the Printed Editions of Holy Scripture in the Library of the British and Foreign Bible Society, 2 vols. in 4 (London: British and Foreign Bible Society, 1903–11). F ⳱ Aron Freiman, ‘‘Daniel Bomberg u. seine hebra¨ische Druckerei in Venedig,’’ Zeitschrift fu¨r hebraeische Bibliographie [hereafter, ZhB] 10 (1906): 81–83. G ⳱ Conrad Gesner, Bibliotheca universalis (1545–55), vol. 2, Pandectarum sive Partionum universalium, libri XXI (Tiguri: C. Froschoverus, 1548) 41b-43b; seen at The

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Burke Library, UTS signature: AB G39 1545; there were two later revised editions under the name Bibliotheca instituta et collecta, primum a Conrad Gesnero, Josias Simler (Tiguri: C. Froschoverus, 1574) and Jacob Fries (Tiguri: C. Froschoverus, 1583). The ‘‘catalogue’’ was republished by A. Freiman, ‘‘Daniel Bombergs Bu¨cher-Verzeichnis,’’ Zeitschrift fu¨r hebra¨ische Bibliographie 10 (1906): 38–42. For a brief discussion of this catalogue, see Shifra Z. Baruchson-Arbib, ‘‘The Prices of Printed Hebrew Books in Cinquecento Italy,’’ La Bibliofilia 97, no. 2 (1995): 154–56. H ⳱ Avraham Meir Haberman, Ha-madpis Dani’el Bombergi ve-reshimat sifrei veit-defuso (Safed: Museum of Printing Art, 1978). M ⳱ Moses Marx, Geschichte und Annalen des hebraeischen Buchdruckes in Italien im Venedig. Pt. 1. Die Anfaenge—Bomberg (Cincinnati, 1927–31; in typescript, while the biography is paginated, the bibliography is unpaginated). Me ⳱ Abraham Merzbacher, Ohel Avraham: Reshimat sefarim asher asaf ve-kibetz. Avraham Merz.bakher (Munich: A. Huber, 1888). R ⳱ Meijer Marcus Roest, Catalog der Hebraica und Judaica aus der L. Rosenthal’schen Bibliothek (1966; repr., Amsterdam: J. Clausen, 1875). V ⳱ Yeshayahu Vinograd, Thesaurus of the Hebrew Book: History of Books Printed in Hebrew Letters Since the Beginning of Hebrew Printing circa 1469 through 1863 (Jerusalem: Institute for Computerized Bibliography, 1993–95). W ⳱ Samuel Wiener, Qohelet Mosheh: Bibliotheca Friedlandiana. Catalogus librorum impressorum Hebraeorum in Museo Asiatico Imperialis Academiae scientiarum Petropolitanae asservatorum (St. Petersburg, 1893–1918); aleph to kaf. A volume with the letter lamed was published by Joseph Bender (Leningrad, 1935). Z ⳱ Joseph Zedner, Catalogue of the Hebrew Books in the Library of the British Museum (London: British Museum, 1867). 4. Shifra Z. Baruchson, ‘‘The Private Libraries of North Italian Jews at the Close of the Renaissance’’ (Ph.D. diss., Bar-Ilan University, 1985; in Hebrew), 58–67, on economic factors in Van Bombergen’s enterprise; and 135–43, for book prices in a 1543 catalogue; reedited in, Books and Readers: The Reading Interests of Italian Jews at the Close of the Renaissance [in Hebrew] (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1993), 31–33 and 217–20, respectively. For a brief discussion of this catalogue, see Shifra BaruchsonArbib, ‘‘The Prices of Printed Hebrew Books in Cinquecento Italy,’’ Bibliofilia 97, no. 2 (1995): 154–56. 5. ‘‘Rabbinorum tanta copia est apud typographum Bombergam Venetiis editorum, ut non octingentis nummis aureis omnes comparari queant,’’ in Lefebvre and Colomie`s, Scaligerana, ou bons mots, 332. 6. 1st ed. (Venice: Di Gara, 1587). 7. Fol. 116b, MS Guenzburg 652, Moscow, Russian State Library (from a microfilm copy at the Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary [hereafter, JTSL]). First noticed in Avraham Rosenthal, ‘‘Daniel Bomberg and His Talmud Editions,’’ in Gli ebrei e Venezia secoli XIV-XVIII, ed. G. Cozzi (Milan: Edizioni Communita`, 1987), 379n30,

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who states that Jacob Sussman reported having seen a photocopy of the manuscript at JTSL. Lucia Raspe, Ju¨dische Hagiographie im mittelalterlichen Aschkenas (Tu¨bingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 87, citing Moritz Steinschneider, Die Geschichtsliteratur der Juden in Druckwerken und Handschriften (Frankfurt a M: J. Kaufmann, 1905), 178, who followed Samuel Wiener, Sefer da’at kedoshim (St. Petersburg, 1897–98), 46–48, cautions that this may not be an autograph but is surely from a hand that compares well to those of the 1560s. 8. He matriculated in Louvain on 27 February 1495 with his two brothers; Matricule de l’Universite de Louvain, ed. A. Schillings et al. (Louvain: Kiessling, 1835–1902; P. Imbrechts, 1902–69) [hereafter, Schillings], 3:117. 9. Wilhelm Friedrich Hetzel, Geschichte der hebra¨ischen Sprache und Literatur (Halle: Carl Hermann Hemmerde, 1776), 135. 10. Rudolph Agricola (1443–85), in a letter of introduction dated 13 April 1485 addressed to his friend and bookseller in Strassburg, Adolf Rusch, reported having listened to Mithridates lecture, in Karl Hartfelder, ‘‘Unedierte Briefe von Rudolf Agricola: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des Humanismus,’’ in Festschrift der Badischen Gymnasien: Gewidmet der Universita¨t Heidelberg zur feier 500 ja¨hrigen Jubila¨ums (Karlsruhe: G. Braunsche, 1886), 32. Mithridates also taught Hebrew to other Christians, e.g., Konrad Summenhart (died 1502) in Tu¨bingen (see Summenhart, Tractatulus bipartitus in quo q[uod] deus homo fieri voluerit (Tu¨bingen: Johann Otmar, ca. 1498; Hain-Copinger 15181*, Goff S867) sig. K IIab. He also taught Giovanni Pico della Mirandola during a stay in Florence, 1486–89; Umberto Cassuto, Gli ebrei a Firenze nell’eta` del Rinascimento (Florence: Galletti e Cocci, 1918), 299–300. 11. Since there were no Christians sufficiently proficient to teach the language, private tutors for the earliest Christian Hebraists were likely Jews or converts, e.g., the cases of Elia del Medigo tutoring Pico (Cassuto, Gli ebrei, 282–99) and Jakob ben Jehiel Loans with Reuchlin (De Rudimentis Hebraicis [Pforzheim: Thomas Anselm, 1506; Proctor 11754], 249, 287, 387, 415, 450, 619), both in the late 1480s; Jacob Gabbai with Agathius Guidacerius in the first decade of the sixteenth century (Grammatica Hebraicae Linguae [Rome: Jacob Mazzochius, 1514?], prefatory letter to Leo X, 1–2; and Peculium Agathii [Paris: Christian Wechel, 1537], sig. e 6a); Johannes Bo¨schenstein, who held the chair in Hebrew at Ingoldstadt University from 1505–13, names Rabbi Moses Mo¨lin of Weissberg as his first teacher (Gustav Bauch, ‘‘Die Einfu¨hrung des Hebra¨ischen in Wittenberg,’’ Monatschrift fu¨r Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judenthums, n.s., 48, no. 12 [1904]: 156); and Sante Pagnini (1470–1541) was taught in Florence by Clemente Abraham (Santiago Garcia-Jalon de la Lama, La grama´tica hebrea en Europa en el siglo XVI: Guı´a de lectura de las obras impresas [Salamanca: Publicaciones Universidad Pontifica, 1998], 115). 12. Johannes Sterck de Meerbeke matriculated on 31 August 1495; Henri de Vocht, ‘‘Excerpts from the Register of Louvain University from 1485 to 1527,’’ English Historical Review 37 (1922): 91n4.

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13. ‘‘Daniel enim Bombergus Antwerpiensis, qui iam inde ab ineunte aetate litterarum amore captus et in studiis bonarum artium semper versatus, nostro ductu hebraicis litteris operam enixe navavit,’’ in his dedication to Leo X, verso of the title page, 1st ed. Rabbinic Bible (27 Kislev [⳱ 5278; 11 December 1517]), see below, note 98. 14. Matriculation: Philippe de Clercq: Mireille Jean, La Chambre des comptes de Lille (1477–1667): L’institution et les hommes (Paris: Ecole des Chartes, 1992), 318; Charles de Renialme: Staatsarchiv Hamburg Deutsches Geschlecterbuch, Genealogisches Handbuch bu¨rgerlicher Familien (Go¨rlitz: C. A. Starke, 1889–), Bd. 127.9 Hamburger Geschlecterbu¨cher (1961) [hereafter SAH, Geschl. Buch 127], 9: 377; Hieronymus de Renialme: Schillings, 3:514; Karel: Schillings, 4:238; at Heidelberg, Gustav Toepke, Die Matrikel der Universita¨t Heidelberg von 1386 bis 1662, Teil 2, von 1554 bis 1662 (Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1886), 48, 126; at Padua: Jan den Tex, ‘‘Nederlandse studenten in de rechten te Padua, 1545–1700,’’ Mededelingen van het Nederlands Historisch Instituut te Rome, 3e reeks, deel 10 (1959): 52; Daniel: Schillings, 4: 601, Tex 72; Franc¸ois: Schillings, 4:523; Toepke, Die Matrikel, 44; Corneille: Schillings, 4:238; Toepke, Die Matrikel, 56; Fernando and Jacob: at Orle´ans: Cornelia M. Ridderikhoff and Christiaan Heesakkers, Deuxie`me Livre des Procurateurs de la Nation Germanique de l’ancienne universite´ d’Orleans 1547–1567: Premie`re partie: Texte des rapports des procurateurs (Leiden: Brill, 1989), 514, 534; at Basel: Hans Georg Wackernagel, Die Matrikel der Universtita¨t Basel (Basel: Universita¨tsbibliothek, 1951–80), 2:179, nos. 43 and 44; and Jacob: at Heidelberg, Toepke, Die Matrikel, 64; Paul de Renialme: Franc¸ois-Alexandre Aubert de la ChesnayeDesbois, Dictionnaire de la Noblesse (Paris: Antoine Boudet, 1778), 12:59–60; Daniel de Renialme: Schillings, 4:205; Gaspard: Tex 53; Arnold and Corneille Pruenen: Schillings, 4:282 and 381, respectively; De Jonghe: Toepke, Die Matrikel, 49; Van der Dilft: Schillings, 618, at Basel: Wackernagel, Die Matrikel, 1:357; Ayala: Schillings, 4: 226. 15. Carel van Mander, Het Schilder Boek (Haerlem: P. van Wesbuch, 1604), fols. 234r–236v, at fol. 235r; in the edition by Hessel Miedema, The Lives of the Illustrious Netherlandish and German painters, from the First Edition of the Schilder-Boek 1603– 1604 (Doornspijk: Davaco, 1994–99), Dutch/English, 1:197–98, commentary, 3:277 note 69 on fol. 235r, line 19. On Scorel’s travels in Italy, see Wolfgang Wegner, ‘‘Bemerkungen zum Wanderweg Jan van Scorels nach Italien,’’ Carinthia: Zeitschrift fu¨r geschichtliche Landeskunde von Ka¨rnten 163 (1973): 207–11. 16. See Jordan S. Penkower, ‘‘Jacob ben H.ayyim Adoniyahu,’’ in Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation, ed. John Hayes (Nashville, Tenn.: Abingdon, 1999), 1:558–59. 17. H93, F79, M88, CB 52, Z96, D&M 5085, not in A, V99, G no. 62 for 10 ducats; 2nd ed. (5285) 234ff., 275ff., 212ff., 232ff. in 2o; vol. 1, fol. 3b, col. a, ll. 10–15: translation from Christian David Ginsburg, Jacob ben Chajim ibn Adonijah’s Introduction to the Rabbinic Bible (London: Longmans, Green, Reader and Dyer, 1867), 77–78. 18. See his Divrei ha-yamim le-malkhei z.arfat u-veit otoman ha-togar (Sabbioneta: Tobia Foa, 1554), fol. 137b. 19. Fol. 47b.

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20. ‘‘Secundo, ut reducti in priscas formas characterum libri sacri, . . . , in quam rem illos quae fuit Daniel Bombergus, mihique ad iter impensas fecit, . . . ’’ De Foenicum literis (Paris: Iuuenis [Gaultherot?], 1552; Adams P 2013) in 8o, sig. Diijv (not foliated, but fol. 47v), seen at Columbia University, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, shelfmark B893.31P846. Or, see Antonio Rotondo`, ‘‘Dall’apologia premessa all’interpretazione del Bahir (Venice, 1549),’’ Studi e Richerche di storia ereticale italiana del Cinquecento (Turin: Giappichelli, 1974), 482 (from Basle MS A IX 99) ‘‘Sategimus suis facultatibus iuvante Daniel Bombergo (fol. 33v)’’ (We have busied ourselves being supported by Daniel Bomberg’s resources). Postel makes similar acknowledgments in at least five other pieces of correspondence and prefaces, and gives an additional half a dozen encomia of Bomberg. 21. Bernard Aikema, ‘‘Hieronymus Bosch and Italy?’’ in Hieronymus Bosch: New Insights into His Life and Work, ed. J. Koldeweij et al. (Rotterdam: Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen; Ghent: Ludion, 2001), 29 22. Ibid., 29nn26–29. 23. Pierre Marie Nicolas Jean Ge´nard, Inscriptions Fune´raires et Monumentales de la province d’Anvers: Arrondissement d’Anvers ⳱ Verzameling der grafen gedenkschriften van de provincie Antwerpen. 9 deel (Anvers: Buschmann, 1856–71) [hereafter Ge´nard], 1:131, Antwerp OLV ‘‘Cathedral, Koperen plaet met twee figuren.’’ Hier leet begraven 兩 Cornelis van Bomberch Danielssone 兩 sterf A.o mdxxvi. xxi Meert 兩 en* Agnes Vranx Gielis dochter 兩 van Mechelen syn huysvrouwe 兩 sterf A.o mdxxi. xii Augusti 兩 Requiescant in sancta pace. Amen. 兩 Hier leet begraven 兩 Anthonis van Bomberch out synde lxx jaer 兩 sterf A.o mdliii de* xv Meert. 兩 En* Joncvrouwe Lysbeth de Renialme 兩 syne huysvrouwe 兩 sterf A.o mdxlviii de* xxiii October 兩 Bidt voor de sielen. 兩 En* Anna van Bomberch der voors. dochter 兩 sterf A.o mdxlvii de* xxiiii Februarij. 兩 Hier leet begraven 兩 Magdalena dochter van Anthonk van Bomberch 兩 de huysvrouwe was van Lazarus Rens 兩 sy sterf A.o mdlxxiii de* II Junij 兩 Godt heb de siele. 兩 En* Larazus Rentz van Ulm 兩 sterf A.o mdlxxv de* xxii November. 兩 Hier leet begraven 兩 den eersamen Joannes van Bombergen 兩 sterft den 10 Juny 1684. 兩 Bidt voor de sielen. 24. Heinrich Go¨bel, Wandteppiche (Leipzig: Klinkhardt & Bierman, 1923–), I/1:258, 326, 449. Fernand Donnet, ‘‘Documents pour servir a l’histoire des ateliers de tapisserie de Bruxelles, Audenarde, Anvers, etc. jusqu’a` la fin du XVIIe sie`cle,’’ Annales de la Socie´te´ d’Arche´ologie de Bruxelles 11 (1897): 63. For Corneille’s involvement, together with his brother Lothin, in other commercial trade, see the study of the Antwerp Certificatieboeken and Schepenbrieven between the years 1490 and 1514 by Rene´e Doehaerd, E´tudes anversoises: Documents sur le commerce international a` Anvers, 1488–1514 (Paris: S.E.V.P.E.N., 1963), vol. 2, docs. 259, 309, 403, 443, and 450. 25. Le´on marquis de Laborde, Les comptes des batiments du roi (1528–1571): Suivants de documents ine´dits sur les chateaux royaux et les beaux-arts au XVIe sie`cle (Paris: J. Baur, 1877–80; Nogent-le-roi: Jacques Laget, 1999), 2:372: ‘‘J. 961, 8, no 149 (1534). A Corneille de Rameline, facteur de Daniel et Antoine de Bomberg et de Guillaume

236

Notes to Pages 59–60

d’Armoyen, pour le paiement de trois pie`ces de tapisseries des Actes de Apoˆtres, contenant 73 aulnes quart et demy, que ledict seigneur a luy-mesme achacte´es au pris de 50 escuz d’or soleil l’aulne, a` prandre comme dessus 3,668 escuz et trois quarts d’escu soleil, vallent 8254 l. 13s 9d.’’ Could this be a misspelling of De Renialme, Daniel and Antoine’s nephew? See below, notes 46 and 56. 26. Antoine Sanderus, Le grand theatre sacre´ du duche´ de Brabant, two vols. in four pts. (The Hague: G. Block, 1734) [hereafter Sanderus], 2/1:44–45, ‘‘Cathedral of Notre Dame, Antwerp, in front of the altar of the Brotherhood of St. George on a large blue-marble sepulchral stone on which were cut two portraits and the following inscription in Gothic characters: Hier leet begraeven Mr. Charles de 兩 Renialme, sterft 1535. den lesten No 兩 vember 兩 Ende Jouffrouw Francyne van 兩 Bombergen syne huysvrouwe, sterft 兩 1529. den 19 November 兩 Ende Cornelis de Renialme 兩 Charles sone, sterft den 10 May 1583 兩 Ende Maria de Renialme 兩 Cornelis dochter, Weduwe Jacques 兩 Tasse. . . .’’ See a reproduction of this stone, with portraits, in Ge´nard, 1:442. 27. John Michael Montias, ‘‘A Secret Transaction in Seventeenth-Century Amsterdam,’’ Simiolus: Netherlands Quarterly for the History of Art 24 (1996): 9. For this last claim, of which Montias is not fully convinced, he cites from Gary D. Schwartz, Rembrandt: His Life, His Paintings (New York, Viking, 1985), 193. The inventory of De Renialme’s collection comprising some 565 paintings fetched the staggering sum of 36,512 guilders in a posthumous auction. On the total value: John Loughman, ‘‘Salomon Koninck’s ‘St. Mark the Evangelist,’ ’’ Burlington Magazine 139, no. 1135 (1997): 694. 28. Wilfrid Brulez, ‘‘Lettres commerciales de Daniel et Antoine van Bombergen a` Antonio Grimani (1532–1543),’’ Bulletin de l’Institut historique belge de Rome 31 (1958) [hereafter, Brulez]: 169–205. Though Brulez does not identify which Grimani this was, the letters read M. Antonio Grimani. This must have been Marc Antonio who was elected to the Consiglio dei Deici four times and served as Procuratore di San Marco from 1 February 1565 until his death on 27 February 1566; Paul F. Grendler, ‘‘The Leaders of the Venetian State, 1540–1609: A Prosopographical Analysis,’’ Studi Veneziani 19 (1990): 64. 29. 2 percent, see Brulez: 200–201 (in Italian); 202–3 (in French). For the standard 3 percent, see Florence Edler, ‘‘The Van der Molen, Commission Merchants of Antwerp, 1538–1544: Trade with Italy,’’ in Medieval and Historiographical Essays in Honor of James Westfall Thompson, ed. James Lea Cate and Eugene Newton Andersen (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1937), 109–10. 30. Brulez: 178. 31. Vendramin in letter no. 2 dated 10 August 1532, 189; and Belotti in letter no. 10 dated 29 April 1543, 198. Given our discussion above of Daniel as a patron of art, it is not difficult to imagine that Van Bombergen sold items to the Vendramins as well. Gabriel Vendramin (died 1552) assembled a collection of coins, paintings, and antiquities that may have surpassed that of Grimani; there is an extensive bibiliography on

Notes to Pages 60–61

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this collection, but one may begin with Jaynie Anderson, ‘‘A Further Inventory of Gabriel Vendramin’s Collection,’’ Burlington Magazine 121, no. 919 (1979): 639–48. 32. On at least six separate occasions between February 1542 and June 1545, he is cited in notarial documents as Rem’s agent in Venice; see Jacob Strieder, ‘‘Aus Antwerpener notariatsarchiven; quellen zur deutschen wirtschaftsgeschichte des 16. jahrhunderts,’’ Deutsche Handelsakten des Mittelalters und der Neuzeit 4 (1930): 129–30, no.166; 144–45, no. 193; 168, no. 244; 175, no. 258; 182, no. 281. A decade earlier, on 1 September 1532, Antoine’s name appears in Rem’s daybook, referred to as handling Rem’s business; see Bruno Greiff, Tagebuch des Lucas Rem aus den Jahren 1494–1541, Sechsundzwanzigter Jahresbericht des Historischen Kreisvereins im Regierungsbezirk Schwaben u. Neuberg fu¨r des Jahr 1860 (Augsburg: J. N. Hartmann, 1861), 27. And on Antoine’s part in the trade of lead (necessary for extraction of silver from argentiferous copper), he was one of six Antwerpeners who gave evidence 9–15 February 1532 in an official inquiry concerning customs paid by the British; see Homme Jakob Smit, Bronnen tot de geschiedenis van den handel met Engeland, Schotland en Ierland, vol. 2, pt. 1, 1485– 1558, Rijks geschiedkundige publicatie¨n, Groote ser., 86 (‘s Gravenhage: M. Nijhoff, 1942), 413–14, citing Archives Ge´ne´rales du Royaume, Bruxelles (AGR), Papiers de l’Etat en Audience, Busta 368, fol. 53, no. 534 ‘‘Anthoine de Bomberch.’’ 33. Strieder, notarial docs. nos. 21, 31–33. 34. Lorne Campbell, ‘‘A Portrait of a Hollander Painted in Venice in 1488,’’ in Von Kunst und Temperament: Festschrift fu¨r Eberhard Ko¨nig, Ars Nova XIII, ed. Caroline Zo¨hl, Eberhard Ko¨nig, and Marion Kaminski (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), 67. Campbell suggests Gentile Bellini as the artist. 35. Campbell, nn. 9 and 15; cited by Wimersma Greidanus (see below, note 57) as well. 36. Breviarij secundum morem ecclesie sanctae Marie Antverpiensis (Venice: Johann Hamman Hertzog, for Cornelius van Bombergen, 1496); Polain, 1:542–45 no. 869; David Crawford and James Borders, RELICS Project (Renaissance Liturgical Imprints: A Census), http://quod.lib.umich.edu/r/relics. On Hamman, see David Rogers, ‘‘Johann Hamman at Venice: A Survey of His Career, with a Note on the Sarum ‘Horae’ of 1494,’’ in Essays in Honour of V. Scholderer, ed. Dennis E. Rhodes (Mainz: Karl Pressler, 1970), 351. 37. E.g., Thomas Aquinas, Catena aurea super quattuor evengelistas (Venice: Hermannus Lichtenstein and Johannnes Hamman, 4 September 1482), 392ff. in 2o, Goff T230, Hain Coppinger (Add) 1334* ⳱ Hain 1333(?), Proctor 4784. 38. E.g., Johannes Balbus, Catholicon (Venice: Johannes Hamman, for Peter Liechtenstein, 28 February 1497/98), 312ff. in 2o, Goff B34, Hain 2266, Proctor 5199. See their joint effort also in Missale romanum: Sumptibus et iussu Nicolai de Franchfordia (Venice: Petri Liechtensteyn Coloniensis et Johannis Hertzog de Landaw, 1501. Sexto Kalendas Novembris) [30] Ⳮ 266ff. [error for 270] Ⳮ [17] in 8o. 39. Papal privilege on 2v is dated 10 October 1515. H1, M s.n., Frank Isaac, An Index to the Early Printed Books in the British Museum, pt. 2, MDI–MDXX, Sect. 2, Italy

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(London: British Museum, 1938), no. 13,007; Georg Wolfgang Franz Panzer, Annales Typographici ab anno MDI ad annum MDXXXVI (Norimbergae: J. E. Zeh, 1798–1803), 8:428 no. 755; 1st ed., 46 lines of text in center column flanked on each side with a column of comments, 63ff. in 4o. 2nd ed. (Hagenau: Thomas Anshelm, 1522). 40. Rinaldo Fulin, I Diarii di Marino Sanuto, 58 vols. (Venice: F. Visentini, 1879– 1902; repr. Bologna: Forni, 1969–79), vol. 28, cols. 675–76. 41. Antwerpsch archievenblad: Bulletin des archives d’Anvers [hereafter AA] 7 (1870): 215–17. 42. ‘‘Articulen deffensionale voer Diego Mendis, verweerdere, teghen de Procurator-General, aenleggere,’’ AA 7 (1870): 230. 43. Aron Di Leone Leoni, ‘‘Alcuni esempi di quotidiana imprenditorialita` tra Ferrara, Ancona e Venezia nel XVI secolo,’’ Zakhor. Rivista di Storia degli ebrei d’Italia 4 (2000): 108, doc. 3, AGR, Papiers de l’Etat en Audience, Busta 560, 4 June 1541 (repr. in Leoni, The Hebrew Portuguese Nations in Antwerp and London at the Time of Charles V and Henry VIII: New Documents and Interpretations (Jersey City, N.J.: Ktav, 2005), 174–75, doc. 25). We find a similar complaint that in the ‘‘spring of 1541 bales of goods being shipped to Daniel van der Molen in Venice and to merchants in Ferrara were arrested in Trent by Joan della Foglia, who was searching for goods belonging to marranos,’’ Edler, ‘‘Van der Molen,’’ 140n252, Municipal Archives, Antwerp; Insolvente Boedelskamer, No. 2030: Pieter van der Molen, Brievenkopij, 1538–44 (MS) fols. 211r–v and 214r. 44. Among whom were 185 Italians, 56 Flemish, 35 Spanish or Portugese; AGR, Brussel, Chambre de Comptes, no. 23357–64, analyzed by Wilfrid Brulez, ‘‘L’exportation des Pays-Bas vers l’Italie par voie de terre, au milieu du XVIe sie`cle,’’ Annales, ´economies, socie´te´s, civilisations 14 (1959): 461–91. 45. Ibid., 472–73 and 489. 46. For Corneille, see above, note 26. In 1544 Jean (1512–91) married Claire de Jonghe, with whom he had four children in Venice; Henri van Bomberghen and Alphons Goovaerts, Ge´ne´alogie de la famille van Bomberghen (Brussels: Havermas, 1914), 17–18. Colin Clair, ‘‘Christopher Plantin’s Trade-Connexions with England and Scotland,’’ The Library 5th ser., 14 (1959): 34, points to ‘‘entries in Plantin’s books of goods sent to ‘Jan de Renialme, cousin de Cornelius Bomberghe.’ ’’ Jean died before 20 February 1575; John Michael Montias, Art at Auction in 17th Century Amsterdam (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2002), 284n405: ‘‘Charles de Renialme and the widow of Jean de Renialme appeared as witnesses to a baptism on 20 February 1575. There is a splendid portrait of Johannes de Renialme (I) attributed to Tintoretto in the San Francisco De Jong Museum.’’ 47. Seigneur d’Hovel de Vegiano, Suite du Supple´ment au Nobiliaire de Pays-Bas, et du comte´ de Bourgogne (Malines: P. J. Hanicq, 1779), 4 (1661–86): 39, and vol. 5 (1686–1762): 259; Charles Poplimont, La Belgique He´raldique (Brussels: G. Adriaens, 1867), 9:230–32.

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48. Hermann Thimme, ‘‘Der Handel Ko¨lns am Ende des 16. Jahrhunderts und die internationale Zusammensetzung der Ko¨lner Kaufmannschaft,’’ Westdeutsche Zeithscrhift fu¨r geschichte und kunst 31 (1912): 433–34. 49. Kronijk van het historisch Genootschap gevestigd te Utrecht, 2e serie, 8 (1852), 41: Joost de Chanteraine dict Broucqsault, kapitein in dienst van den staat ter repartitie van Zeeland, gehuwd met Marie-Emilie de Bernuy, dochter van [Ferdinand] de Bernuy Ferdinandsz. en Isabeau de Bomberge en van [Anna] Caron [dochter van ——— ] en [ ——— ] de Lange dict Papegay. Hij stierf den 27 Julij 1604 en werd te Vlissingen in de Groote of St. Jacobskerk begraven; quarters De Bernuy, Bomberge, Caron, De Lange alias Papegay. Quarters: De Bernuy, Caron, De Bomberge, De Lange alias Papegay. 50. Johann Georg Gross, Urbis Basil. Epitaphia et Inscriptiones Omnium Templorum, Curiae, Academ. & Aliar. Aedium Public.: Lat & German; Quibus Reliquarum Orbis Vrbium Monumenta et Inscriptiones . . . accesserunt . . . (Basel: Genathius, 1626), 157: ‘‘In den middenbeuk van de kerk van Sinte-Lenaert:’’ Anno M.D.LXIV. 26 April. starb die Edel Fraw Francina von Bomberg bey Antorff, Herren Balthasar Ravalasci von Meyland, Burgers zu Basel, Ghegemahel. 51. We should be forgiven if there is a great deal of confusion concerning, and occasional misassignment of, the activities, properties, wives, and children of Jean and Jacques (Jan and Jacob; Giovanni and Jacomo) de Cordes. For beginning in the first decades of the sixteenth century and over the course of that century three successive generations each had a pair of brothers Jean and Jacques (though the middle pair, sons of Jean IV, who died in 1536, were actually only half brothers; Jean’s mother was Jossine de Groesdonck and Jacque’s mother was Margue´rite de Gottegnies). Further complicating the picture is the fact that Jacques (we’ll call him generation 1) married Isabeau de Bernuy, and his nephew Jean (generation 2; died 1579) married Isabeau Pruenen; the two Isabeaus (both from generation 2) were first cousins to each other and nieces of Daniel II van Bombergen. The sons of Jean and Isabeau Pruenen, Jean VI (1549–1616) and Jacques (1551–1601), continued the family commercial interests until the end of the century. 52. Nicolas Jean van der Heyden, Notices historiques et ge´ne´alogiques sur les nobles et tre`s anciennes Maisons . . . (Antwerp: L. J. de Cort, 1847), 62–64. 53. Sanderus 2/1:51 (Ge´nard, 1:372; Aernout van Buchel [1565–1641], De Inscriptiones monumentaque in templis et monasteriis Belgicis inventa, p. 280, Utrecht Univ. Lib. Hs. 1648, http://www.hetutrechtsarchief.nl/buchel.asp), read the following inscription ‘‘near the Chapel of Notre Dame on a marble sepulchral stone: Pietati & Posteritati 兩 Duos fratres hoc monumentum haber 兩 Arnoldum & Jacobum de Cordes 兩 nobili Stirpe e` Nerviis oriundos 兩 sed in hac Urbe ortos 兩 Patre Joanne de Cordes, matre 兩 Isabella Pruenen 兩 Ille vivere desiit XVI. Kal. Jun. ▫ I.C I. 兩 annos natus LI. 兩 Iste XVIII. Kal. Decembr. ejusdem saeculi 兩 annos natus L. 兩 Maestissimus Frater Joannes de Cordes 兩 Sepulchro Avi Arnoldi Pruenen intulit 兩 virtuti & studiis operati, 兩 moribus & ingenio suaves, 兩 ut nunc caelites 兩 Vove mecum bone lector. 兩’’

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‘‘Funerary inscription in the Church of St John the Baptist in Aachen:’’ Maria Bombergue, Cornelii Antverpiae natae, mirae honestatis ac pietatis matronae, Arnoldus, Cornelius, Maria et Cath(arina) superstites ex Arnold Pruenen eius conjuge liberi et nepotes ex Elisabetha filia parenti opt(ime) me f(ieri) c(uraverunt). Vixit annos 69, obiit ipsis calen(dis) mart(ii) 1568; Helga Giersiepen, Die Inschriften der Stadt Aachen, Die Deutschen Inschriften, 32. Bd. Du¨sseldorfer Reihe, 2. Bd. (Wiesbaden: L. Reichert, 1993), 45 no. 73. 54. Anna, AA 9:411n2, and Van der Heyden, Notices historiques, 63; Marguerite: Van der Heyden, Notices historiques, 62; Marie: Vegiano, Suite du Supple´ment, 4:39; Josyne: see below, note 73. 55. While Andreas Snellinck, married to Francina de Renialme, granddaughter of Charles de Renialme and Franc¸oise van Bombergen (Daniel’s sister) (SAH, Geschl. Buch 127, 369 and 371), is not among this list of names, the Snellinck brothers resided in and furthered the family’s commercial interests in Antwerp, Ko¨ln, Hamburg, Amsterdam, Seville, and Venice; see W. Brulez, ‘‘De Diaspora der Antwerpse Kooplui op het Einde van de 16e Eeuw,’’ Bijdragen en mededelingen betreffende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 75, no. 4 (1960): 292; and Hermann Thimme, ‘‘Der Ha¨ndel Ko¨lns am Ende des 16. Jahrhunderts u. die international Zusammensetzung der Ko¨lner Kaufmannschaft,’’ Westdeutsche zeitschrift fu¨r geschichte und kunst 31 (1912): 434nn110–11, citing Historisches Archiv der Stadt Ko¨ln, Briefbuch 113 fol. 161’, Briefausgang 1 August 1590, Briefbuch 111, fol. 124’, and 451n161, citing Briefausgang 30 September 1597. 56. Wilfrid Brulez, De firma della Faille en de internationale handel van Vlaamse firma’s in de 16e. eeuw, Koninklijke Vlaamse Academie voor Wetenschappen, Letteren en Schone Kunsten van Belgie¨. Klasse der Letteren. Verhandelingen; nr. 35 (Brussels: Paleis der Academie¨n, 1959), 479, 482, 487. 57. Archival citations can be found in three sources: Gustaaf Asaert, Honderd huizen aan of Grote Markt van Antwerpen: Vijf eeuwen bewoningsgeschiedenis (Zwolle: Waanders Uitgevers; Antwerp: Stadsarchief, 2005); Gerhardus Jacobus Johannes van Wimersma Greidanus, Kwartieren Greidanus-Jaeger in stamreeksen (’s Gravenhage: Koninlijk Nederlandsch Genootschap voor Geslacht- en Wapenkunde, 1994–2000); and the online database of Ivan Derycke, ‘‘Antwerpse straatkelders: historische gegevens,’’ http://home.scarlet.be/genootschap/straatkelders.htm. For the significance of the Grote Markt as a status-bearing location, see Donald J. Harreld, ‘‘Trading Places: The Public and Private Spaces of Merchants in Sixteenth-Century Antwerp,’’ Journal of Urban History 29 (2003): 657–69, especially 663 and 666–67; and Dan Ewing, ‘‘Marketing Art in Antwerp, 1460–1560: Our Lady’s Pand,’’ Art Bulletin 72, no. 4 (1990): 558–84. 58. Keerse: Asaert, Honderd huizen, 248–51; Wimersma Greidanus, Kwartieren, 2:1051–52; De Oude Bourse: Leopold Mu¨ller and Jan de Schuyter, Oude Antwerpsche poortjes (Antwerp: Boekuil en Karveel-Uitgaven, 1943), 12; Duysborch and Ossenhooft: Wimersma Greidanus, Kwartieren, 2:1051–52; St. Christoffel: http://users.skynet.be/antwerpiensia/bouwblokHOR.htm; Wolstraat/Koepoortstraat: Wimersma Greidanus,

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Kwartieren, 1:232–33, 2: 1052; Blijdenborch: Asaert, Honderd huizen, 378–82. On Den Wolsack, see also Edmond Geudens, ‘‘Plaatsbeschrijving der Straten van Antwerpen en Omtrek,’’ Bijdragen tot de Geschiedenis bizonderlijk van het aloude Hertogdom Brabant 4 (1905): 309–10. 59. For dates and archival citations for the Pruenen line, see John V. L. Pruyn, ‘‘Geslacht Pruyn in Amerika en in de Nederlanden,’’ De Nederlandsche Leeuw: Maandblad van het Genealogisch-Heraldick Genootschap 18, no. 6 (1900): cols. 143–58 and 185–93; Isabeau, col. 158, and Arnold, col. 187. 60. Derycke, s.v. Eiermarkt, Gulden Cruys. 61. Full archival citations in: Hugo Soly, Urbanisme en kapitalisme te Antwerpen in de 16de eeuw: De stedebouwkundige en industrie¨le ondernemingen van Gilbert van Schoonbeke (Brussels: Gemeentekrediet van Belgie¨, 1977), 111n21; and online at http:// users.skynet.be/antwerpiensia/bouwblokHOR.htm. Bernuy was among the largest property owners in and around Antwerp. 62. SAH, Geschl. Buch 127, 374. 63. Daniel van Papenbroeck, ‘‘Colligitur Caesari gratuitum CC.L millium florenorum cum DCCC.L expressis nominibus,’’ Annales Antverpienses ab urbe condita ad annum MDCC 2 (1845): 384b. In addition to those who contributed in the top tier were many other members of the extended family who contributed at lower levels. Many members of the extended family who remained in Antwerp after 1567 (i.e., were not banished due to Calvinist, Lutheran, or heretical leanings) were among the largest contributors to the ‘‘subscriptions’’ of 29 April 1574 (AA 22: 217–88), 5 and 9 June 1578 (AA 15: 87 and 97), and 22 August 1580 (AA 17: 398–414). 64. Prior to displaying a coat of arms, such families employed merchants’ marks such as ‘‘the mark of Corneille Van Bombergen of Antwerp [ca. 1494]’’; Donnet, ‘‘Documents pour servir,’’ Annales 10 (1896): 327. For precisely the milieu in which these families were moving, there is no better place to start than Martha Howell’s The Marriage Exchange: Property, Social Place, and Gender in the Cities of the Low Countries 1300–1500 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998). 65. In fact, a few generations later several descendants each of his sisters, Marie, Lysbeth, and Franc¸oise, attained the titles of baron, count, or marquis. 66. Sanderus, 1/1: 58 (Ge´nard, 8:429), ‘‘in front of the great altar of the parish Church of St. John in Mechelen:’’ Cy gist noble homme Messire Char 兩 les de Clerck, Chevalier, Seigneur 兩 de Bouvenkercke ⬍et de Barlaere⬎, Conseiller et Chambellan 兩 de l’Empereur Charles V. Pre´sident de ⬍la Chambre⬎ des Com 兩 ptes a` Lille, Commissaire & Gnal ⬍de l’Empereur⬎ au Royau 兩 me de Naples, ⬍tre´sorier ge´ne´ral des Domaines et Finances de tous les Pays-Bas⬎ 兩 qui trespassa le XII december 兩 A.o XV.c XXXVII. 兩 Aussy Reverendt Pere en Dieu 兩 Jean Archevesque d’Ourstan 兩 et St. Juste en Sardingue 兩 qui trespassa le XIe d’Aoust 兩 A.o XV.c LXIII. 兩 et Dame Margerite Dame 兩 de Blienberge qui trespassa 兩 le VIIe de Fevrier A.o XV.c LXIII 兩 leur progenie et Messire Charles le Clercq 兩 Esquier fils de Messire 兩 Guilliam le Clercq 兩 S.r de Boevekerke et Lochem en son temps Bourgonre de Malines 兩 trespasse le 5 de Mai 1602. 兩. Quartiers:

242

Notes to Pages 65–66

De Clerck, Brouxfaulx, Le Fevre, De Fercourt, Annock, Bocxwilre, Colissone, Cleveskerke. Also transcribed in The´odore Leuridan, ed., Memoires de la Socie´te´ d’E´tudes de la Province de Cambrai, tome 9, E´pigraphie ou Recueil des Inscriptions du De´partment du Nord ou du Dioce`se de Cambrai (Lille: Lefebvre-Ducrocq, 1904), 2:596–57. 67. John Frederick Schwaller and Constance Mathers, ‘‘A Trans-Atlantic Hispanic Family: The Mota Clan of Burgos and Mexico City,’’ Sixteenth Century Journal 21 (1990): 414–17. 68. Quinze anne´es d’acquisition, de la pose de la premie`re pierre a` l’inauguration officielle de la Bibliothe`que (1954–1968). Catalogues des expositions organise´es a` la Bibliothe`que Albert Ier a` Bruxelles, catalogue no. 34 (Brussels: Bibliothe`que royale de Belgique, Bibliothe`que royale Albert Ier, 1969), 153. 69. Correspondance franc¸aise de Marguerite d’Autriche, duchesse de Parme, avec Philippe II, ed. Johan Samuel Theissen and Reiner Cornelius Bakhuizen van den Brink (Utrecht: Kemink en zoon, 1925–42), 2:72–72, letter dated 11 May 1565. 70. Jacqueline Kerkhoff, Maria van Hongarije en haar hof (1505–1558): Tot plichtsbetrachting uitverkoren (Hilversum: Verloren, 2008), ‘‘Bilage 12. Clausules testament en codicil 1559,’’ 318: ‘‘Daniel de Bombergue Secretaro de su maga tresorero por quatorze mill y seiscientos mrs se le dan de a quatorze siete mill y treztos. Daniel van Bombergen, secretaris van Hare Majesteit, schatmeester, met 14.600 mrs ontvangt a` 3,5%, 7.300.’’ 71. Kristine K. Forney, ‘‘Antwerp’s Role in the Reception and Dissemination of the Madrigal in the North,’’ Atti del XIV congresso della Societa` internazionale di musicologia (Turin: EDT, 1990), 248. 72. Pruyn, ‘‘Geslacht Pruyn,’’ De Nederlandsche Leeuw, 158 col. b. 73. Sanderus, 2/1:125 (and Ge´nard, 6:187): ‘‘in the Monastery of Friars Minor in Antwerp, an epitaph on a sepulchral monument contre la muraille dans la petite Chapelle du St.-Nam de Je´sus ou de Ste. Apolline:’’ 1588 兩 Hier leet begraeven Heer Jan Vander 兩 Dilft, Riddere, in synen tyt Borgemeester 兩 deser Stadt, sterft int jaer ons Heeren M.D. 兩 VII.XII. Dagen in January. 兩 Ende Vrouwe Joanne Oudaert, 兩 Erffvogdinne van Heyst, syne huysvrouwe, 兩 sterft 25. September M.IVc.XCIX. stich- 兩 tende dese Capelle ter Eeren vanden Soeten 兩 Naem Jesus M.IVc.XCIX. 兩 En hun beyder Zone Heer Franc¸ois 兩 Vander Dilft, Riddere, Borgemeester 兩 deser Stadt, daer naer Ambassadeur Ordina- 兩 ris van syne Keyserlycke Majesteyt int Ko- 兩 ninckryck van Engelant, sterft M.D.L. 兩 den XV. January. 兩 Ende Vrouwe Cornelia de Ber- 兩 nuy syne huysvrouwe, sterft M.D.LVI. 兩 den 10. Avril. 兩 En Heer Edoard Vander Dilft, 兩 Riddere, Borgemeester deser Stadt Franc¸ois 兩 zone voorschreven, Heere van Dorne, Le- 兩 vergem &c. sterft M.DC.III 兩 Ende Vrouwe Jozyne de Cordes 兩 syne III huysvrouwe, sterft M.DC.XIX. 兩 den XXVII January. 兩 Quartiers: Vander Dilft, Wyckhuys, Halmaele, Bacheler, Oudaert, Roisnel, s’Blonden, Colen. 74. The oration was subsequently published in the same year, Oratio Gratulatoria ad Carolum V profligato e Pannoniis Solymanno Turcharum Tyranno (Louvain: Servatius Zassenus, 1533).

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75. Erasmus dedicated to Van der Dilft his translation from Plutarch, De vitiosa verecundia (Basel: Froben, 1526; repr. Antwerp: Michael Hillen, April 1526), printed with Erasmus’s own Lingua. Judocus Velareus dedicated his Plutarchi Chaeronei Libelli Tres, nunc primum latinitate donati (Antwerp: J. Steels, 1540). John Servilius dedicated his Lexicon Graeco latinum (13 Feb 1539, Antwerp, Martin de Keyser’s widow for John Gymnicus). Hadrianus Junius (1511–75) dedicated his edition of Plutarchi Symposiaca problemata (Paris: Jac. Gazellum, 1547) to Van der Dilft. 76. Vegiano, Suite du Supple´ment, 1 (1555–1614): 76. Frederick Madden, Privy Purse Expenses of the Princess Mary, Daughter of King Henry the Eigth, afterwards Queen Mary (London: William Pickering, 1831), 198 (fol. 148 of the MS), in an inventory of her jewels, ‘‘Itm* an other Lace of goldesmytheworke set wt xxx. Litle Diamonds and Rubies and xxxij meane perles.’’ In margin, ‘‘gyven to themperours embassadours sonne.’’ Note that (1) in honor of his election as burgemeester of Antwerp in 1586, a coin was struck with Edouard’s portrait, M. L. de Coster, Description du Cabinet de Jetons Historiques d’Or et d’Argent frappe´s dans les Pays-Bas, a` partir du milieu du XVe sie`cle, jusqu’a` nos jours (Brussels: F. J. Olivier, 1883), 45, no. 198; (2) Abraham Ortelius dedicated a map to him, Abraham Ortelius, Galliae Veteris Typus: Ex conatibus geographicis (Antwerp: Ch. Plantin, 1594); and (3) Jean Stradan dedicated pieces of music to him, Jean-Baptiste Weckerlin, Bibliothe`que du Conservatoire national de musique et de de´clamation: Catalogue bibliographique (Paris: Firmin-Didot et Cie, 1885), 264. 77. Rijkmuseum Amsterdam, no. NG-VG-3–685, found on-line at http://www .rijksmuseum.nl/collectie/zoeken/asset.jsp?id⳱NG-VG-3 –685&lang⳱en. Described in G. van Orden, Handleiding voor Verzamelaars van Nederlandsche Historiepenningen (Leiden: Herdingh en Zoon, 1825), 248 no. 941. 78. Herman Arend Enno van Gelder, Gegevens betreffende roerend en onroerend bezit in de Nederlanden in de 16e eeuw, Rijks geschiedkundige publicatie¨n. Grote serie 141 (’s Gravenhage: M. Nijhoff, 1972–73), 2:393. 79. Sanderus, 1/1:77, ‘‘on a marble table in the Church of the Cloitre des Religieuses de Bleyenburg in Malines’’: 1617 兩 Nobilis Dominus Philippus de 兩 Ayala, Eques, virtute, vitaeque inte- 兩 gritate conspicuus, prudentia in rebus agendis 兩 eximus, diversarum Linguarum scientia di-兩 sertus. Legatione apud Henricum IV. Galliae 兩 Regem sex annorum spatio cum laude defun- 兩 ctus, Divi Philippi II. Hispan: Regis SS. Ar- 兩 chiducum Alberti & Isabellae Finantiarum Æ- 兩 rari Comissarius. 兩 Et D. Agnes de Ayala, hujus 兩 Monasterii per XXIX. annos Moderatrix, & 兩 Instauratrix 兩 D. Jacobi de Ayala, Domini de Voorde- 兩 stein, & D. Agnetis de Renialme conjugum & 兩 frater & sorror hic recubant. 兩 Decessit haec magno suo relicto desiderio 兩 XXV. Aprilis an: Sal: CIɔ Iɔ C. XVI. aetat. 兩 LXX. 兩 Ille XXVI. Maii CIɔ Iɔ C. XIX. aetat. 兩 LXIII. 兩 Requiescant in Pace. 兩 Quartiers: Ayala, de Falecia, Pesquera, Valdivils, Renialme, Botelle, Bomberge, Vrancx. 80. Kerkhoff, Maria van Hongarije, 325, ‘‘A Diego de Ayala diez y ochomill y setecientos y cinquenta mrs. Aan Diego de Ayala, 18,750 mrs.’’

244

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81. Franc¸ois-Alexandre Aubert de la Chesnaye-Desbois, Dictionnaire de la Noblesse (Paris: Antoine Boudet, 1778), 12:59–60. 82. Jos Van den Nieuwenhuizen, De Wijdingsregisters van het bisdom Antwerpen 1570–1611 (Antwerp, 2008; online only), 157, ‘‘fol. 1 vo, 20 Junii 1604, Lazarus Rentz, Antverpiensis, filius legitimus Lazari et Magdalenae van Bomberghen, annorum circiter 43.’’ 83. Hans Pohl, Die Portugiesen in Antwerpen: Zur Geschichte einer Minderheit (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1977), 298, Stadsarchief Antwerpen, Notarie¨le Protocollen no. 3569, fol. 336, and no. 3570, fol. 19v. 84. For Charles, see Pierre Ge´nard, ‘‘De goeden van Burgemeester Antoon van Stralen,’’ AA 2 (1865): 276; and for Catherine, see Charles van den Borren, Les origines de la musique de clavier dans les Pays-Bas (Nord et Sud) jusque vers 1630 (Hildesheim, New York, Olms, Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Ha¨rtel, 1977), 24–25. 85. Walter Prevenier, ‘‘Culture et groupes sociaux dans les villes des anciens PaysBas au Moyen Age,’’ Les Pays-Bas bourguignons, Histoire et Institutions: Me´langes Andre´ Uyttebrouck, ed. J. M. Duvosquel and J. Nazet (Brussels: Archives et Bibliothe`ques de Belgique, 1996), 349–59; Jan Dumolyn, ‘‘Nobles, Patricians and Officers: The Making of a Regional Political Elite in Late Medieval Flanders,’’ Journal of Social History 40 (2006): 431–52; Wim De Clercq, Jan Dumolyn, and Jelle Haemers, ‘‘ ‘Vivre Noblement’: Material Culture and Elite Identity in Late Medieval Flanders,’’ Journal of Interdisciplinary History 38, no. 1 (2007): 1–31. See also Arnout Mertens, ‘‘Noble Independence, Monarchial Power and Early Modern State Building,’’ in Nobles into Belgians: The Brabant Pedigreed Nobility between the Ancient Re´gime and the NationState, 1750–1850 (Ph.D. diss., European University Institute/Universita¨t Trier, 2007; available online); and Karel Degryse and Paul Janssens, ‘‘The Economic Role of the Belgian Aristocracy in the 17th and 18th Centuries,’’ in European Aristocracies and Colonial Elites: Patrimonial Management Strategies and Economic Development, 15th– 18th Centuries, ed. Paul Janssens and Bartolome´ Yun-Casalilla (Aldershot, Hants, England; Burlington, Vt.: Ashgate, 2005), 57–82. 86. Many scholars have commented that the stringent new laws enacted by the Venetian Senate on 4 June 1537, which included stiff fines and penalties based on the number of blotted pages, had no effect on Van Bombergen since his paper and ink were far superior to most. The text of this law (Archivio di Stato di Venezia, Senato, Terra. Ro 29) is printed in Horatio Brown, The Venetian Printing Press (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons; London: J. C. Nimmo, 1891), 209–10. 87. E.g., from Di Gara’s first imprint, Tur, Even ha-Ezer (1565), to as late as his 1601 printing of Torat Moshe. Plantin’s agreement: ‘‘Item, seront imprimez tous les livres, en toutes langues, eccette´ l’e´brieu, au nom dudit Plantin, mais les livres he´brieux s’imprimesent au nom de Bomberghes sous contrediction quelconque.’’ A copy of the full agreement is published in Max Rooses, Christophe Plantin, imprimeur anversois (Antwerp: J. Maes, 1896), 385–88, doc. no. 6.

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88. ‘‘Comptes des OLV-kerk, Antwerp, buried 21 December 1553, displaying eight quartiers,’’ Van Bomberghen and Goovaerts, Ge´ne´alogie, 12–13n. 89. Colophon, Seder Maamadot (1564). 90. Printed by Isaac ben Eliahu H.izkiah Cohen Belinfante, seen at the JTSL Rare Books and Manuscripts Collection, BS1429.x2K53 1765. On the printer, see Hyman G. Enelow, ‘‘Isaac Belinfante, an Eighteenth Century Bibliophile,’’ in Studies in Jewish Bibliography and Related Subjects in Memory of A. S. Freidus (1867–1923) (New York: Alexander Kohut Memorial Foundation, 1929; repr. Farnborough, England: Gregg International, 1969), 5–30. Notice the echoes of Ibn Yah.ya and Adoniyahu, notes 7 and 17 above. 91. We acknowledge that on this one point we are in disagreement with our esteemed colleague Stephen G. Burnett, ‘‘Christian Hebrew Printing in the Sixteenth Century: Printers, Humanism and the Importance of the Reformation,’’ Helmantica 51 (2000): 26, who writes, ‘‘Only Ambrosius Froben and Conrad Waldkirch, both of Basel, sought out both Jewish and Christian clients . . . other better known Jewish presses such as Bomberg and Di Gara of Venice would occasionally print a Hebrew book for a Christian client, but such works formed a tiny fraction of their overall output.’’ 92. H70, F24, M26, CB 9/40, Z125, V73; Bomberg’s 2nd ed., 3 Adar 5282 (⳱ 31 January 1522), 13 lines of text in one column, 162ff. in 16o. Bomberg’s 1st ed. is H11, F5, M5, CB 8/33 (colophon: Friday, 3 Tishri 5279 [⳱ 8 September 1518]), 18 lines of text in one column, 96ff. in 16o. Bomberg printed it two more times, in 5284 (H92) and 5297 (H149a). 93. ‘‘Petiisti a me ut uno volumine Psalmistam cum Salomonis Proverbiis & Ecclesiaste in enchiridii forma cum accentibus impressum ad te mitterem, quod medius fedius libenter effecissem, nisi me Talmud, opus certe magni & laboris & impensae, mihique a Summo Pontifice demandatum, tuis vetuisset desideriis satisfacere, quoniam non sine meo magno incommodo (dum Talmud est in manibus) quod rogasti posset expedire; hoc tamen non somum ad te mittiture; reliqua vero alias, Deo dante, commodius excudentur.’’ Printed also in Ludwig Geiger, Johann Reuchlins Briefwechsel (Tu¨bingen: L. Fr. Fues, 1875), 330–31, letter no. 301, dated 23 September 1521. 94. H73a, F47, M49, CB 10/43, Z125, V 67; Bomberg’s 1st ed. (5282), 13 lines of text in one column, 88ff. in 16o. Bombergen printed this trio of biblical books three more times, in 5284 (H88), 5298 (H152), and 5304 (H171). 95. ‘‘Etsi Talmud et Rab Alphes impressione præpeditus, nedum hinc ad septem menses, me sperabam tuis posse desideriis respondere, . . . Vicit tamen, . . . hacque coactus non potui, quin tuis jussis obtemperans gravis licet obstaret Talmud et Rab Alphes et opera et impensa Salomonis proverbia, Canticum Canticorum et Ecclesiasten in enchiridion simul, ut jussisti, noviter cum accentibus excudendum curarem. . . . nec clam me est, quam mihi sit et tutum et utile, tuis justissimis petitionibus satisfacere.’’ Reprinted in Geiger, Johann Reuchlins Briefwechsel, 335–36, letter no. 304, dated 22 January 1522.

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96. H190, M166a, CB 4960.1, Z226, R331, Me 808, W 385/3251, A E-129, V267; 2nd ed. (21 Adar 5306 [⳱ 23 February 1546]) 26 lines of text in one column, 47ff. numbered in Hebrew 2–47, in 16o; printed together with Pirkei Eliyahu, CB 4960.38, Z 226, R331, Me 2672, W 385/3251, V290; (21 Nisan 5306 [⳱ 24 March 1546]) 26 lines of text in one column, 36ff. numbered in Hebrew 48–83, in 16o. The 1st ed. of Harkavah (Rome: Giov. Giac. Facciotti, 1518); 1st ed. of Pirkei Eliyahu (Pesaro: G. Soncino, 1520); 2nd ed. of Pirkei Eliyahu (Basel: Jo. Froben, 1527). 97. ‘‘Comparauit Uniuersitas nostra commodato seu ueritus mutuo auro suo auditoribus meis in lingua hebraica centum biblia Judaeorum ad nos e Venetiis allata.’’ K. Christ, Die Bibliothek Reuchlins in Pforzheim (Leipzig: Harrassowitz, 1924), 39n 2; Adalbert Horawitz, ‘‘Zur Biographie und Correspondenz Johannes Reuchlin’s,’’ Ja¨nnerhefte des Jahrganges 1877 der Sitzungsberichte der phil.-hist. Classe der kais. Akademie der Wissenschaften (Bd. LXXXV, S. 117) 4–76 (Vienna: Adolf Holzhausen, 1877), 73, letter no. 44, Cod. lat. Monac. 4007, fol. 135b; not in Geiger, Johann Reuchlins Briefwechsel. 98. H8, F3, M4, CB 6/28, Z96, R193 (cf. 198), D&M 5083, A B-1216, V6; (27 Kislev 5278 [⳱ 11 December 1517]) 157ff., 119ff., 179ff., 186ff. in 2o. Bomberg printed two more editions, in 5285 (H93) and 5307/8 (H192). 99. Marx, Annalen., loc. cit. 100. ‘‘Hoc tamen intellexi, quod Daniel Bamberg complevit bibliam hebraicam et petit quatuor ducatos [⳱ ca. 51/2gulden]’’; Christian Wilhelm Schneider, Bibliothek der Kirchengeschichte (Weimar: Hoffmann, 1781), 2:22–23. 101. Melanchthons Briefwechsel. Bd. T1 Texte 1–254 (1514–1522), ed. Richard Wetzel (Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog, 1991), 75, letter no. 24, from Wittenberg dated 24 September 1518. Previously published in Philippi Melanthonis, Opera quae supersunt omnia, ed. Carl Gottlieb Bretschneider, Corpus Reformatorum (Leipzig: Heinsius,1834), col. 43, ‘‘Epistolarum Lib. II. 1518. 噛19, Sept. 1518. G. Spalatino. Habemus hebraica biblia, quae feci ex Lipsia afferri. Libri duo sunt, alter cum commentariis aureorum xiiij precio aestimatus, alter sine commentario.’’ 102. ‘‘Hoc anno Fridericus Elector Sax. ut aliis praelectionibus optimis, ita graecis et hebraicis bibliothecam auxit.’’ Georg Berbig, Spalatiniana, Quellen und Darstellungen aus der Geschichte des Reformationsjahrhunderts V (Leipzig: Heinsius, 1908), 56. 103. ‘‘MDXXXV Eo enim anno coepit augere bibliothecam libris ut aliis et alibi, ita graecis et hebraeis apud Venetos emptis.’’ Ibid., 21. 104. Erfurt/Jena: M. Buchfu¨rer, 1524. 15 leaves in 4o signed A-D4. Seen at JTSL, shelfmark RB 428:2. Refs.: E. Weller, Repertorium Typographicum. Supplement I (No¨rdingen: C. H. Beck, 1874), 34 no. 292; Arnold Kuczy’nski, Thesaurus libellorum historiam reformationis illustrantium (Nieuwkoop: B. de Graf, 1960), 909; Otto Clemen, Flugschriften aus den ersten Jahren der Reformation (Leipzig, New York: R. Haupt, 1907–11), I:385; VD 16 G 1864 [Verzeichnis der im deutschen Sprachbereich erschienenen Drucke des XVI Jahrhunderts]; Martin von Hase, Johann Michael, genannt Michel Buchfu¨rer, alias Michael Kremer: seine Ta¨tigkeit als Buchfu¨hrer und Buchdrucker

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in Erfurt und Jena (Strassburg: J. H. E. Heitz, 1928), 126 no. 40; Georg Wolfgang Panzer, M. Georg Wolfgang Panzers Annalen der a¨ltern deutschen litteratur (Nu¨rnberg: E. C. Grattenaur, 1788–1805), 1:339 no. 2567. For the possibility that this work was published in octavo as well, see Clemen, Flugschriften, 385. 105. ‘‘Wil mich auff Venedig zu [zuru¨ck] keren [kehren] do selbst sollen sein ein reicher Christ unnd jude die selbigen haben ein mercklich [merklich] gelt tzu¨samen [zusammen] gelegt wie wyr geho¨rt und drucken itzunt [jetzt] auff ein newes [neues] die Bibel und den Talmundt hebreisch der soll ich ettliche [etliche] den juden hinnein gegen Prag bestellen.’’ 106. ‘‘Libri isti Hebraici, quos Venetiis imprimit Bombergus, in omnes orbis partes ad Hebraeos nauigant, in Africam, in Aetheopiam, in Indiam, Aegyptum, et caetera Iudaeorum domicilia;’’ Alphonse Roersch, Correspondance de Nicolas Cle´nard (Brussels: Palais des Acade´mies, 1940–41), 1:158, letter no. 47, line 297ff. in Latin; 3:102, French translation. 107. H101, F184, M100, V119; Aleppo Mah.zor, 1st ed. (Tammuz 5287 [31 May–28 June 1527]), 20 lines of text in one column, 824ff. in 8o. The patron is acknowledged in the colophon at the end of the second part, sig. 1038b: ‘‘printed . . . on the instructions of the distinguished R. Abraham ben Ahaaron Benveniste,’’ 2nd ed. (Venice: Giovanni Grypho, 1560). 108. H74, F23a, M205, CB 398/2587, V84, G no. 4 for 9 libris; Romaniote (Greek) Mah.zor, 2nd ed. (5283), 40 lines of text in two columns, 470ff. in 4o, on the title page ‘‘printed . . . on the instructions of the very learned benefactor of the community, R. Abraham son of the honored and respected Yom Tov Yerushalmi,’’ 1st ed. (Constantinople: Elia ha Levi ben Benjamin, 1510). 109. H145, F105, M118, CB 400/2595, Z475, V135; Karaite Mah.zor redacted by Aaron ben Joseph of Constantinople (ca. 1260–ca. 1320), 1st ed. in five parts (5288–89), 29 lines of text in one column, 110ff. Ⳮ 60ff., appendix, 166ff., 214ff. (parts 3 & 4), 224ff. in 4o; 2nd ed. (Kale in the Crimea: Afdah and Shabbetai Yeraka, 1734). The colophon of the first part on sig. 276a ⳱ fol. 110a, gives the date as Adar 2 [5]288 (⳱ 21 February –20 March 1528); following part one is a sixty-leaf appendix with a separate colophon on sig. 83b ⳱ fol. 59b which gives the year as 289. The colophon to the last part on sig. 564a ⳱ fol. 224, gives the date Iyar [5]288 (⳱ 20 April–18 May 1528) and acknowledges the patron R. Joseph ben Moses Rabiz.i (Constantinople) ‘‘printed . . . on the instructions of the very distinguished master.’’ 110. H11a, F12a, M14, CB 632/4006, V11; (5279) 41 lines of text in one column, 36ff. in 4o. On this case, see Alexander Marx, ‘‘A Jewish Cause Ce´le`bre in Sixteenth Century Italy (The Pesakim of 1591),’’ in his Studies in Jewish History and Booklore (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1944), 107–54, and on the extreme rarity of this book, see especially 107n 3 and 242n14. 111. H68, M27, CB 1444/5882.3, Z353, Me 2496, V52, G no. 29 for 4 solidi; 3rd ed. (5281), 40 lines of text in two columns, 142ff. in 4o; 1st ed. (Soncino: Joshua Salomo ben Israel Natan Soncino, 22 H.eshvan–21 Tevet 5246 [⳱ 31 October–29 December

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1485]), Hain Copinger 606, Proctor 7300, Goff Heb. 64 ; 2nd ed. (Salonica: Moses Soncino, 1520); 4th ed. (Rimini: Gershom Soncino, 1522). Colophon, sig. 355b: ‘‘Don Solomon ben Yehudah Walid, Spaniard, who did everything in his power and brought forth and paid to print this second edition of Sefer ikarim and his honored name is known in the gates of justice.’’ 112. H82, F73, M73, CB 4365.3, C4, Z4, W 514/4246, A A-1, V78, G no. 13 for 4 libris; 1st ed. (13 Tammuz 5283 [⳱ 26 June 1523]), 42 lines of text in two columns, 180ff. in 4o; 2nd ed. (Venice: Guistiniani, 1601). Title page: ‘‘printed . . . on the instructions of the distinguished R. Solomon Walid and the honored R. H.ayyim ben Moses Alaton.’’ 113. H83, F65, M78, CB 4301.1, Z33, Me 2760, V86, A A-30 Perush al ha-torah, G no.17 for 9 libris; 1st ed. (title page: Kislev 5283, colophon 20 Shevat 5283 [⳱ 5 February 1523]), 51 lines of text in two columns, 172ff. in 2o; 2nd ed. (Venice: Giustiniani, 1546); 3rd ed. (Venice: Giorgio di Cavalli, 1567). Colophon, sig. 223b: ‘‘to be engaged in the endeavor to print this distinguished crown the honored R. H.ayyim ben Moses Alaton z’’l, and thus to bring from far countries the rest of the holy books.’’ 114. H100, M97, CB 56b, V117, G no. 69 for 1 1/2 libris (5287), 27 lines of text in one column, 270ff. in 12o. Part of the edition had the Romaniot rite and part had the Spanish rite. Colophon of that according to Romaniot: ‘‘. . . printed on the instructions of the distinguished R. Abraham Yerushalmi son of the distinguished respected elder Yom Tov Yerushalmi,’’ as given in Bibliotheca Hebraica et Judaica: Katalog 20 (Berlin: M. Poppelauer, 1910), no. 7, cited by Marx, Annalen, s.v. ‘‘Bomberg,’’ 97; and Louis Finkelstein, The Commentary of David Kimhi on Isaiah (New York: Columbia University Press, 1926), LII. Alexander Marx, ZhB 10 (1906): 189, describes a copy in JTSL in which the haftarot are according to the Spanish rite. 115. H103a, F89, M101, CB 4965.4, Z225, A E-134, V114; 1st ed. (colophon: Friday, 22 Elul 5287 [⳱ 19 August 1527]), 53 lines of text in two columns, 340ff. in 2o. Colophon, sig. 435b: ‘‘to be engaged in the effort to print . . . H . ayyim bar Moses Alaton.’’ 2nd ed., H175, F148, M162, CB 4965.5, Z 225, R 330, Me 1722, A E-133 & M-1517, V 235 (5305), 56 lines of text in two columns, 320ff. in 2o. 3rd ed. (Venice: Bragadin, 1574). 116. H161, F137, M143, CB 791/4561.1, Z86, R152, Me 3047, V167, not in A, G no. 46 for 6 libris 4 solidi; 1st and only ed. (title page: Thursday, 11 Tishri; and colophon: Thursday, 25 Adar 5299 [⳱ 5 September 1538–13 February 1539]), 37 lines of text in one column, 570ff. in 4o. Colophon, fol. 613b: ‘‘to open their collections and their treasuries in order to print this composition.’’ 117. H181, F159, M170, CB 713/4330.1, Z35, R 49, Me 3583, A A-104, V 294; 1st ed. (5306), 53 lines of text in two columns, 62ff. in 2o; 2nd ed. (Dyhrenfurth: Michel Mai, 1786). Quotation is from the colophon. 118. H187, M169, CB2675/7304.1, Z758, R1124, Me2631, A T-766, V269; 1st ed. (14 Nisan 5306 [⳱ 17 March 1546]), 53 lines of text in two columns, 93ff. in 2o; 2nd ed. (Vilna: Rom, 1884). Quotation is from the colophon. 119. Sifrei: H179, F153, M161, CB 3984, Z700, R1065, Me 2337, A S-1090, V285; 1st ed. (18 Kislev 5306 [⳱ 23 November 1545]), 53 lines of text in two columns, 64ff. in 2o;

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2nd ed. (Venice, 1753) with a Latin translation in Biagio Ugolini, Thesaurus antiquitatum sacrarum of 34 vols. (Venice: J.G. Herthz, 1744–1769), vol. 14 based on the 1545 edition. Sifra: H178, F152, M160, CB 3979, Z699, R1064, Me 2330, A S-1089, V 251 (Tishri 5306 [⳱ 7 September–6 October 1545]), 53 lines of text in two columns, 60ff. in 2o. 1st ed. (Constantinople, ca. 1523); according to Louis Finkelstein, Sifra on Leviticus (Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1991), 1:13, this edition was never completed and only the greater part of parashat Vayikra was issued; M. Marx, Annalen, loc. cit., records this as a fragmentary, 46 fols Assigned by Abraham Yaari, Ha-defus ha-Ivri beKushta (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1967), to the printer Solomon ben Mazal Tov; but it does not appear among the fifteen titles assigned to Mazal Tov by Isaac Dov Markon, ‘‘R. Shlomo ben Mazal Tov’’ (in Hebrew) in Alexander Marx Jubilee Volume, ed. Saul Lieberman (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1950), Hebrew section: 321–49, 3rd ed. (Venice: Zuan di Gara, 1609–11). 120. Colophon at end, on sig. 87b: ‘‘The books of Sifra and Sifrei were extremely rare, and their memory was about to be extinguished, if it had not been for the prince of medical doctors, R. Yaakov Mantino, the Spaniard who did everything in his power for the benefit of the public to publish the books that were hidden in his treasure.’’ 121. H75, F74, M75, CB 667/4188.1, C10, Z23, R34, A A-40, V82; 1st ed. (5283), 29 lines of Hebrew text in one column, 158ff. in 4o. For Christians, printed with a different title page, Peculium Abrae Gammatica Hebraea una cum Latino H76, M76, CB 667/ 4188.2, C10, Z 23 (14 kalends Decembris [⳱ 18 November 1523]), R34, Me 2056, A A-42, V81, G no. 70 for 3 libris; 35–39 lines of Latin text numbered as 29 in three columns, 316ff. in 4o, printed with facing Latin pages and Latin dedicatory poems by Franciscus and Petrus Rosetus on the back of the title page (reprinted in Michael Maittaire, Annales Typographici ab anno M.D. ad annum MDXXXVI continuati (Hagae-Comitum: Fratres Vaillant and Nicolaum Prevost, 1722), II/1:141. The author translated up to page 458 where, between the first two lines, we read, ‘‘Hoc obit rabi Abraham de Balmis; hac usque est eius traductio.’’ (At this place R. Abraham de Balmes died; up to here the translation is his.). 2nd ed. (Hagenau: Guilelmus Antonius, 1594), A A-41; Steinschneider 4188.2, on the basis of Wolf BH, 1:§108: 70, doubted the existence of the Hagenau edition, but see copies held in at least six libraries: Bibliothe`que Nationale et Universitaire de Strasbourg; Bibloteca communal Augusta, Perugia; Lutherstadt Wittenberg, Evangelisches Predigerseminar Bibliothek; Wolfenbu¨ttel, ¨ sterreichische Nationalbibliothek; Jewish Herzog-August Bibliothek; Vienna, O National & University Library. 122. H172/173, M159, CB 4821.41, C150, Z199, R297, Me1816, A K-50/51, V246; 6th ed., 25 lines of Hebrew text in one column, 271 ff in 8o. Among the bibiliographers, only Habermann, Marx, and Adams recognize the two dating formulas; along with the Jewish Theological Seminary and the copies seen by Adams at Cambridge, the Valmadonna Trust Library has a copy of each. 123. David Paul Drach, Sainte Bible de Vence, en latin et en franc¸ais, avec des notes . . . (Paris: Me´quignon-Harvard, 1827–33), 9:464.

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124. See Rashi on Isa. 38:13. 125. See above, note 114. 126. The three tractates Berakhot, Gittin, and H.ullin: H77–79, F70–71, M70–72, CB 6891.6–8, Z713, W 463/3811, 464/3822.2, 465/3825.2, V75–77, not in A, G no. 71 for 4 libris (26 Adar 5283 [⳱ 13 March 1523]), 42 lines of text in two columns, 47ff., 133ff., and 134ff., respectively, in 4o. On the appearance of H . iddushei Baba Batra, H80, F69, M69, CB 6532.35, Z591, W 462/3795, V74, not in A, G no. 71 for 4 libris (12 Adar 5283 [⳱ 27 February 1523]), 116ff., see Marx, Annalen, loc. cit., ‘‘the four volumes appeared as one book; they are treated thus by De Rossi and Steinschneider, and the copy of David Provenzal ben Abraham, rabbi of Cassale at the end of the sixteenth–beginning of the seventeenth century in the Hebrew University College Library, contains the four parts in a single contemporary Venetian binding.’’ 127. H196, F163, M175, CB 6138.4, Z431, R671, Me 2574, A L-603, V327; 2nd ed. (20 Adar 5307 [⳱ 10 February 1547]), 56 lines of text in two columns, 248ff. in 2o. The 1st ed. of Ralbag (Abraham Conat and Abraham Jedidiah ha-Ezrahi, Mantua, before 1480), Proctor 6906 and Hain 10060. 128. H89, F68, M74, CB 5399.1, Z105, R177, A B-1951, V91, G no. 66 for 9 libris; 1st ed. (26 Tishri 5284 [⳱ 5 October 1523]), 65 lines of text in four columns, 406ff. in 2o; 2nd ed. (Venice: Meir ben Jacob Parenzo for Alvise Bragadin, 1564), 3rd ed. (Basel: Israel Sifroni for Ambrosius Froben, 1580). 129. Jordan S. Penkower, ‘‘The Chapter Divisions in the 1525 Rabbinic Bible,’’ Vetus Testamentum 48 (1998): 351–60, 362–73; Penkower, ‘‘Verse Divisions in the Hebrew Bible,’’ Vetus Testamentum 50 (2000): 383–84. 130. See Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, the Editor, and the Text: The Catholic Church and the Shaping of the Jewish Canon in the Sixteenth Century, trans. J. Feldman (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), 102–9, in general and, with particular regard to Bomberg, 101–3 and 108n57. 131. H162, F135, M144, CB 7347.1, Z769, A V-370, V172 (1539), 25–27 lines of text in one or two columns, 64ff. in 8o. It is instructive to read Alexander Marx, Register of the Jewish Theological Seminary (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1928–29), 149: ‘‘From the author’s note about misprints at the end of the volume and their unusual number . . . one gains the impression that the ordinary Jewish proof readers would not have anything to do with the book.’’ 132. Both matriculated at the Castle in 1528, Henri de Vocht, History of the Foundation and the Rise of the Collegium Trinlingue Lovaniense, 1517–1550 (Louvain: Universitaires de Louvain, 1951–55), 3:355–58 and 258–61, respectively. 133. Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 103n30, ‘‘There is no question as to the missionary aim of this book, but it is not written in virulent or offensive language. I should mention that Bomberg also printed far more virulent Jewish polemical writings against Christianity, and I find no mention of any protest against this.’’ 134. Ibid., 99–101.

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135. ‘‘Polliceor quoque . . . propediem editurum . . . ac si demum licitum fuerit, Cabalistices profundissimae Theologiae libros homine quide´[m] christiano dignos me aliquot exaraturum, ex quibus quantum suauitatis hausturus sis.’’ For comments on ‘‘the increasing importance of mystical speculations (Kabbalah) in the entourage of Daniel Bomberg and, also, in De Balmes’ concerns,’’ see Saverio Campanini, ‘‘Peculium Abrae. La grammatica ebraico-latina di Avraham de Balmes,’’ Annali di Ca’ Foscari 36, no. 3 (1997): 5–49, quotation from the English abstract. 136. See above note 113. 137. H84, F67, M77, CB 1736/6363.3, Z526, R788, A M-1243, V85, G no. 9 for 4 libris; 1st printed ed. (colophon, 35 Omer 5283 [⳱ 5 May 1523]), 42 lines of text in two columns, 156ff. in 4o; 2nd ed. (Guistiniani, 1545). 138. See how R. Isaac of Acre (thirteenth/fourteenth centuries) uses this scheme in discussing the four ways of NiSAN, an acronym of nistar (hidden), sod (secret), emet (truth), and emet nekhona (correct truth), in Oz.ar h.ayyim fols. 122a-123a. See also Eitan P. Fisbane, ‘‘Authority, Tradition, and the Creation of Meaning in Medieval Kabbalah: Isaac of Acre’s Illumination of the Eyes,’’ Journal of the American Academy of Religion 72 (2004): 59–95. 139. Fol. 1b, line 6. 140. Fol. 1b, lines 19–20. 141. H186, F158, M164, CB 779/4525.7, Z72, R130, Me 375, A B-13, V264; 8th ed. (20 Elul 5306 [⳱18 August 1546]), 56 lines of text in two columns, 230ff. in 2o. The 1st ed. of Bah.ya (Spain or Portugal: Shem-Tov Ibn H.alaz and son Judah, 17 H.eshvan 5252 [21 October 1491]), Goff heb. 5; the 2nd ed. (Naples: Azriel ben Joseph ben Jacob Ashkenazi Gunzenhauser, 8 Tammuz 5252 [⳱ 3 July 1492]), Goff heb. 6, Hain 514, Proctor 6737, CB 4525.1; the 3rd ed. (Pesaro: G. Soncino, 1507); 4th ed. (Pesaro: G. Soncino, 1514); 5th ed. (Pesaro: G. Soncino, 1517); 6th ed. (Rimini: G. Soncino, 1526); 7th ed. (Venice: Farri, 1544). 142. Flemish Christian Hebraist (1514–73), from the village of Lennick, south of Brussels; secretary to Johann van Wese, administrator of Waldsassen Abbey, 1537–48; then councillor of Duke William IV of Cleves, 1548–. 143. ‘‘Io so che seti desideroso de libri de Cabbalah, qui sene trova ben parte, si venerite quili troveremo per copiar senza spesa.’’ Joseph Perles, Beitra¨ge zur Geschichte der hebra¨ischen und arama¨ischen Studien (Munich: Theodor Ackermann, 1884), 209 no. 8, citing Codex latinus Monacensis 23736, item no. 204. 144. ‘‘Jo ho visto la vostra poliza deli libri de Kabbalah, per mia fe che stati bene e areti de belle cose. Li libri che noi avemo sono questi, Shaar Hayihud, Shaar Hayesod, Eser Sefirot, Imre Shefer, Meirat Enayim, HaKanah, Sefer Yetzirah, Sefer haBahir me’eser Sefirot, Temunot vesitre Torah vegam Sod Razai e poi qui sene trova altro fra ebrei che se poderia aver per imprestido per copiar’’ Ibid., 210 no. 9, citing Codex latinus Monacensis 23736, item no.156. 145. Franc¸ois Secret, ed., Postelliana Bibliotheca humanistica et reformator (Nieuwkoop: B. de Graf, 1981), Universita¨t Bibliothek, Basel, ms. A. IX. 99, fols. 36r–98v; fol.

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69v (Secret, 71): ‘‘Sic sicut nomina quae quod sunt in Bombergiano exemplari, licet non essent in meo Ferrariae ad vetustissimos codices examinato’’ (Thus, just as the name which is found in Bomberg’s copy, although not in mine nor the very old copy in Ferrara); fol. 70v (Secret, 72): ‘‘quoniam exemplar Ferrariense non habet, nec meum licet sint in Bombergiano seu Veneto’’ (since it is not in the Ferrara copy nor in my own copy, I might be permitted to make use of the one belonging to Bomberg in Venice.) 146. ‘‘when in Venice, the first book of Zohar which only a little earlier had been sold for 5000 ducats, comes into the hands of the poorest man.’’ Franc¸ois Secret, ‘‘L’hermeneutique de Guillaume Postel,’’ Unamesimo e ermeneutica: Archivio di filosofia 3 (1963): 130, quoting the preface to Postel’s second translation of the Zohar found in Go¨ttingen MS Theol. 264m fol. 25 (alluded to in Secret, Postelliana, 9; and Franc¸ois Secret, ‘‘L’illuminisme de Guillaume Postel,’’ Evidences 15 [1963]: 38). Marion Leathers Kuntz, ‘‘ ‘Venezia Portava el Fuocho in Seno’: Guillaume Postel before the Council of Ten in 1548: Priest Turned Prophet,’’ Studi Veneziani 33 (1997): 104, claims Postel obtained ‘‘the Zohar with the help of Venetian blood’’; repeated in a review by Kuntz of Saverio Campanini, The Book of Bahir: Flavius Mithridates’ Latin Translation, the Hebrew Text, and an English Variation, The Kabbalistic Library of Giovanni Pico della Mirandola 2 (Turin: Nino Aragno Editore, 2005), in Renaisance Quarterly 60, no. 1 (2007): 141–42. Vale´rie Neveu, ‘‘De Guillaume Postel a` Richard Simon: Zohar et Autres Sources Hebraı¨ques de Guillaume Postel dans les Collections de la Bibliothe`que Municipale de Rouen,’’ REJ 155 (1996): 104n 86. 147. William J. Bouwsma, Concordia Mundi: The Career and Thought of Guillaume Postel, 1510–1581 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1957), 85; Secret, ‘‘L’Emithologie de Guillaume Postel,’’ Unamesimo e ermeneutica: Archivio di Filosofia 1 (1960): 385. 148. See note 16 above. 149. We hope to have the opportunity elsewhere to lay out the arguments in support of the notion that it was Daniel van Bombergen who held this circle together. 150. E.g., Moshe Idel, ‘‘Encounters between Spanish and Italian Kabbalists,’’ in Crisis and Creativity in the Sephardic World 1391–1648, ed. B. Gampel (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), 217–19; or Idel, ‘‘Major Currents in Italian Kabbalah between 1560–1660,’’ Italia Judaica (1986): 260–61. 151. Idel, ‘‘Encounters,’’ 209–11. Chapter 4 I want to express my deep gratitude to a number of colleagues who thoughtfully read and commented on earlier drafts of this chapter: Edward Breuer, Stephen Burnett, Arthur Kiron, B. Barry Levy, Raymond Scheindlin, and Piet van Boxel. I especially want to thank Jordan Penkower for carefully reading an earlier draft and for sharing with me his detailed corrections, suggestions for revisions, and reservations. 1. Elizabeth Eisenstein, The Printing Press as an Agent of Change, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979); the full debate was ignited by Adrian Johns

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in The Nature of the Book: Print and Knowledge in the Making (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), and continued with the exchange between Eisenstein and Johns in American Historical Review 107 (2002): 87–121. For a vivid description of the differences in reading practice caused by print, see Anthony Grafton, ‘‘The Humanist as Reader,’’ in A History of Reading in the West, ed. G. Cavallo and R. Chartrier, trans. L. G. Cochrane (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2003), 179–212; and in the same volume, 22–33, for the important methodological (and cautionary) remarks by the editors on the use of the term ‘‘revolution’’ to apply to the invention of print. 2. The most famous description of the social scene in the print house is found in Aldus Manutius’s dedication of his edition of Rhetorica ad Herrenium, cited and translated in Martin Lowry, The World of Aldus Manutius (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1979), 165–66, but more pertinent for our concerns is Henri Estienne’s colorful picture of his father Robert’s publishing house quoted and translated in Anthony Grafton, Bring Out Your Dead: The Past as Revelation (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2001), 142–43, and Grafton’s analysis, 141–47; for a secondhand, and somewhat overvividly imagined but charming picture of the multicultural scene in Daniel Bomberg’s printing house, see David Werner Amram, The Makers of Hebrew Books in Italy: Being Chapters in the History of the Hebrew Printing Press (Philadelphia: J.H. Greenstone, 1909; London: Holland Press, 1963), 175–77. Cf. Eisenstein, Printing Press, 75–76, 250–54; and Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, the Editor, and the Text: The Catholic Church and the Shaping of the Jewish Canon in the Sixteenth Century, trans. Jackie Feldman (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), 101–9. 3. Brian Richardson, Print Culture in Renaissance Italy: The Editor and the Vernacular Text, 1470–1600 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), esp. 1–18. On correctors and their emergence during this period, see Grafton’s article cited in the previous note. 4. See Eisenstein, Printing Press, esp. ‘‘Part Three: The Book of Nature Transformed,’’ 520–74. 5. Origen’s Hexapla (in six columns) and the Tetrapla (four columns), which survive only in small fragments, are the single cases of works in manuscript that antedate and anticipate the layout and goal of the Complutensian, but even the Hexapla had at most two languages, Greek (primarily) and Hebrew. On the publication of the Complutensian Bible, see Julian Martin Abad, ‘‘The Printing Press at Alcala de Henares: The Complutensian Polyglot Bible,’’ in The Bible as Book: The First Printed Editions, ed. Paul Saenger and Kimberly Van Kampen (London: British Library, 1999), 101–15; Rosa Helena Chinchilla, ‘‘The Complutensian Polyglot Bible (1520) and the Political Ramifications of Biblical Translation, in La Traduccio´en Espan˜a ss. XIV–XVI,’’ ed. Roxana Recio (Leon: Universidad de Leon, 1995), 169–90; and (though focusing more on the New Testament volume), Jerry H. Bentley, Humanists and Holy Writ: New Testament Scholarship in the Renaissance (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1983), 70–111. The publication of the Complutensian was matched, it should be

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noted, by the near-simultaneous publication of the Polyglot Psalter (Genoa, 1516), which included the Arabic translation as well. 6. This is not to suggest that it is—or was—in any way impossible to distinguish between Hebrew books produced primarily for Jews and those produced primarily for Christians; on the latter, see Stephen G. Burnett, ‘‘Christian Hebrew Printing in the Sixteenth Century: Printers, Humanism, and the Impact of the Reformation,’’ Helmantica 11 (2000): 13–42. My point is only that the once clear-cut category had become decidedly blurred. 7. The original title of the 1517 edition on its title page is Arba’ah ve-esrim, namely, ‘‘the Twenty-Four’’ books of the Hebrew Bible. The title page of the 1524–25 edition has as its heading, Sha’ar Adonai he-h.adash (The New Gate of the Lord), and then simply lists its contents as H . umash (Pentateuch) . . . Nevi’im rishonim . . . Nevi’im ah.aronim . . . U-ketuvim. As Jordan Penkower has shown, the earliest sign of the later title, Mikra’ot gedolot, is in the 1548 Venice edition, where its title appears as Esrim vearba gadol, namely, the ‘‘large’’ (i.e., folio-sized) ‘‘Twenty Four’’ books, and beginning from that period, the edition was sometimes referred to as the Mikra gedola, (The Large [⳱ folio-sized] Scripture). See Penkower, ‘‘Jacob Ben H.ayyim and the Rise of the Biblia Hebraica’’ (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1982) (hereafter, Penkower, ‘‘JBH’’), 1. In an article published shortly after, ‘‘The First Edition of the Hebrew Bible That Bomberg Published and the Beginning of His Publishing House’’ (in Hebrew), Kiryat sefer 58 (1983): 586–604, specifically 601–2n68, Penkower also cites two occurrences of the plural form Mikra’ot gedolot in the 1595 Mantua censorship list where the phrase means ‘‘copies of the Mikra Gedolah.’’ The earliest appearance of the phrase as the title of the Bible in its entirety is to be found in the Lemberg (?) 1808 edition; for an illustration of the page, see Encyclopaedia Judaica (New York: Macmillan, 1972), 2:783. The term ‘‘Rabbinic Bible,’’ Biblia Rabbinica, appears to be a Christian Hebraist name; it is not clear when it first came into usage. 8. The definitive work written to date on the first two RBs is Jordan Penkower’s comprehensive doctoral dissertation (Penkower, ‘‘JBH’’); unfortunately, Penkower’s dissertation is not yet published but pro tem, see Penkower’s summary of his findings in the entry on ‘‘RB,’’ in The Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation (hereafter, DBI), ed. John H. Hayes (Nashville, Tenn.: Abingdon Press, 1999), 2:361b–364a. In addition, see his valuable article ‘‘The First Edition of the Hebrew Bible,’’ cited in the previous note, and his many other articles cited in later notes. Penkower’s work is complemented by B. Barry Levy, ‘‘Rabbinic Bibles, Mikra’ot Gedolot, and Other Great Books,’’ Tradition 25 (1991): 65–81, which is the initial part of a work-in-progress on the history of the RB in its entirety; I wish to express my gratitude to Professor Levy for allowing me to read his unpublished manuscript. See as well his earlier book, Fixing God’s Torah: The Accuracy of the Hebrew Bible Text in Jewish Law (New York: Oxford, 2001), which contains important material on the RB, to which I will return later in this article. Earlier works that remain valuable are Christian D. Ginsburg, Jacob Ben Chajim Ibn Adonijah’s Introduction to the Rabbinic Bible (1867; repr. New York: Ktav, 1968), which

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includes both a Hebrew text of Jacob ben H . ayyim’s introduction and an English translation as well as a long introductory essay; Ginsburg, Introduction to the MassoreticoCritical Edition of the Hebrew Bible (1897; repr. New York: Ktav, 1966), 922–76, with full descriptions of all the early printings; and Moshe Goshen-Gottstein, introduction to Biblia Rabbinica (Jerusalem: Makor, 1972), 3–20. Additional comments on the RB are also found in many of the works on sixteenth-century Hebrew printing in Venice cited in the next note. 9. In addition to the works cited in the previous note, see the recent works of Bertram Eugene Schwarzbach, ‘‘Les editions de la Bible he´braı¨que au xvie sie`cle et la cre´ation du texte massore´tique,’’ in La Bible imprime´e dans l’Europe moderne, sous las direction de B. E. Schwarzbach (Paris: Bibliothe`que nationale de France, 1999), 16–67; and Giuliano Tamani, ‘‘Le Prime Edizioni Della Bibbia Ebraica,’’ in Bibel in ju¨discher und christlicher Tradition (Frankfurt a.M.: Anton Hain, 1993), 259–74; and in earlier scholarship, A. M. Habermann, The Printer Daniel Bomberg and the List of Books Published by His Press (in Hebrew) (Safed: Museum of Printing Art, 1978); Yisrael Mehlmann, ‘‘The Printing House of Daniel Bomberg in Venice’’ (in Hebrew), in Genuzot sefarim (Jerusalem: Jewish National and University Library, 1976), 13–42; Lazarus Goldschmidt, The Earliest Editions of the Hebrew Bible: With a Treatise on the Oldest Manuscripts of the Bible by Paul Kahle (New York: Aldus Book Comp., 1950); A. Berliner, ‘‘The Hebrew Publishing House of Daniel Bomberg’’ (Hebrew translation from the German [1904]), in Selected Writings (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1969), 163–75; Moses Marx, ‘‘Gershom (Hieronymus) Soncino’s Wanderyears in Italy, 1492–1527: Exemplar Judaicae Vitae,’’ HUCA 11 (1936): 427–501, esp. 442–45; Joshua Bloch, Venetian Printers of Hebrew Books (New York: New York Public Library, 1932); and Amram, Makers of Hebrew Books, 146–224. 10. The little known about Pratensis is best summed up in Paul Kahle, ‘‘Felix Pratensis—a Prato Felix, Der Bearbeiter der ersten Rabbinerbibel, Venedig, 1516–17,’’ in Die Welt des Orients 1 (1947): 32–36; and summarized in Kahle, The Cairo Genizah (Oxford: Blackwell, 1959), 69n3; and Kahle, ‘‘The Hebrew Text of the Complutensian Polyglot,’’Homenaje a Millas-Vallicrosa (Barcelona: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientificas, 1954), 742–44. 11. On Pratensis and Egidio da Viterbo, see Gi Signorelli, Il Cardinale Egidio da Viterbo, Agostiniano, Umaniste e Reiformatore 1469–1532 (Firenze: Libreria Editrice Fiorentina, 1929), 203n8, cited in Robert J. Wilkinson, Orientalism, Aramaic and Kabbalah in the Catholic Reformation: The First Printing of the Syriac New Testament (Leiden and Boston: 2007), 45. 12. The two kabbalistic works were Abraham Abulafia’s Imrei shefer and Sefer hatemunah, a kabbalistic interpretation of the Hebrew alphabet. Both translations were apparently Pratensis’s. See Penkower, ‘‘First Edition,’’ 597n51. 13. Penkower, ‘‘First Edition,’’ 598–99. 14. On the difference between privileges and patents, see Christopher L. C. E. Witcomb, Copyright in the Renaissance: Prints and the Privilegio in Sixteenth-Century Venice and Rome (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 21–22; and for Pratensis and Bomberg, 43–44.

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15. See Marx, ‘‘Gershom Soncino’s Wanderyears,’’ 441–42 and 445–56. On Aldus’s Hebrew ambitions, see Martin Davies, Aldus Manutius: Printer and Publisher of Renaissance Venice (Tempe: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 1999), 50–55. 16. Marx, ‘‘Wanderyears,’’ 443. Bomberg’s success is further confirmed by his successful application for permission for four Jews to live in Venice so as to assist him in the work, and for their release from the obligation of wearing the yellow hat; on the latter, see Horace Brown, The Venetian Printing Press (1891; repr. Amsterdam: Ge’rard Th. van Heusden, 1969), 105; and Penkower, ‘‘First Edition,’’ 598–99, and 599n58 for the original Latin request and further bibliography. 17. See the statement of Marino Sanuto quoted in Witcombe, Copyright, 44. 18. Ibid., 44–45. 19. On the frame, see Marvin Heller, The Sixteenth Century Hebrew Book: An Abridged Thesaurus (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2004), 95. For other differences between the two editions, see my discussion below. 20. The English translation and original Latin are taken from Ginsburg, MassoreticoCritical Edition, 945–46. 21. On Egidio and his kabbalistic interests, see Wilkinson, Orientalism, Aramaic and Kabbalah, 29–54, esp. 42–46. 22. Ibid., 45. 23. Ginsburg, Rabbinic Bible, 945–46. This last claim has been the subject of much debate. Ginsburg vehemently criticizes it as misleadingly hyperbolic (945–47), but see Kahle’s explanation in Cairo Genizah, 123; and Penkower’s explanation of Pratensis’s statement in ‘‘JBH,’’ 187–88, and now, his post on 11 January 2009, on Tradition Seforim Blog (http://seforim.traditiononline.org/index.cfm/2009/1/11/A-Note-on-theLatin-Dedication-in-the-Rabbinic-Bible-of-Venice-15). See as well the comments of Alberdina Houtman, ‘‘Targum Isaiah According to Felix Pratensis,’’ in Journal for the Aramaic Bible 1 (1999): 191–202, esp. 201–2, in regard to his text of the Targum. 24. Two books in the Hagiographa have the Targum and two commentaries— Proverbs (Kimh.i and the commentary ‘‘Kav-venaki’’ by David ibn Yah.ya ben Solomon [1455–1528]); Job (Nah.manides [1194–1270] and Abraham Farissol [1451–1525?]). The Five Scrolls have the Targum and Rashi. Daniel has the commentary of Gersonides (1288–1344), and both Ezra-Nehemiah and Chronicles have the commentaries of Rashi and an abridgment of the late midrashic anthology Yalkut Shimoni, probably compiled in the late thirteenth century. 25. Schwarzbach, ‘‘Le Bible He´braı¨que,’’ 38–39 and 54; cf. the brief history of the text in A. Darom’s edition of R. David Kimh.i, Ha-perush ha-shalem ‘al Tehilim (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1979), 5–6. The specific verses in Psalms are 2:12, 19:10, 21:1, 22:32, 45:18, 72:20, 110:7. 26. The history of this single folio page is not entirely clear. Habermann, The Printer, 29, writes that the page was taken out of most copies. Schwarzbach (‘‘Les

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e´ditions,’’ 39–40) has proposed that the page Habermann saw was taken from a separate, unrelated edition of Kimh.i’s work and inserted into copies of RB 1517, but his proposal remains to be confirmed. For a complete text of the folio page in translation, see http://www.glaird.com/kim-comm.htm. It is worth noting that the folio also contains Kimh.i’s interpretations of Ps. 87:7. which do not appear in Darom’s edition of Kimh.i’s commentary. 27. Jordan Penkower, ‘‘The Chapter Divisions in RB 1525,’’ Vetus Testamentum 48 (1998): 350–74, esp. 353–60, where he studies the variants in the divisions as based on the Vulgate, as established (if not introduced) by Stephen Langton in the thirteenth century. Verse divisions, also based on Christian enumerations, were not introduced into a Jewish Bible until the 1548 reprinting of the RB in which every fifth verse is marked in the text. See Penkower, ‘‘Verse Divisions in the Hebrew Bible,’’ Vetus Testamentum 50 (2000): 279–393. As Jacob ben H.ayyim ibn Adoniyahu states near the end of his introduction (translation in Ginsburg, Rabbinic Bible, 80–81), he adapted the chapter and verse numberings from R. Isaac Nathan’s biblical concordance, Meir Nativ (written in 1437–45, first published by Bomberg, with Adoniyahu’s editing, in 1523), which in turn adapted the chapter and verse numberings from Arlotti’s Latin concordance (ca. 1290); Isaac Nathan compiled his work in order to assist Jews in rebutting Christian polemical attacks. See, however, Penkower, ‘‘Chapter Divisions,’’ 362–65, where he shows that Ibn Adoniyahu actually took the numerations from the chapter list at the beginning of the concordance. 28. This estimated number is primarily based upon the figures and reasoning in Zipora Baruchson, ‘‘Money and Culture: Financing Sources and Methods in the Hebrew Printing Shops in Cinquecento Italy,’’ La Bibliofilia 92 (1990): 23–39, esp. 28 and 28n9 there with additional bibliography on print runs in contemporary Christian printing houses; see as well her complementary article, published under Shifra Z. Baruchson-Arbib, ‘‘The Prices of Hebrew Printed Books in Cinquecento Italy,’’ La Bibliofilia 97 (1995): 149–61. In an older study, A. M. Habermann, Toledot ha-sefer ha–Ivri (Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1945), 79, gives a range of 800–1,500 for the output of sixteenth-century Hebrew presses; in his later work, ‘‘The Printer Daniel Bomberg,’’ 21, he proposes a range of 500–1,000 copies. Cf. Marvin J. Heller, Printing the Talmud: A History of the Earliest Printed Editions (Brooklyn: Im Hasefer, 1992), 159, and especially 191 for some important economic considerations determining the size of print runs. For print runs of non-Jewish Hebrew books in early sixteenth-century Italy, the most extensive discussion remains Rudolph Hirsch, Printing, Selling, and Reading: 1450–1550 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1967), 61–68, who concludes his discussion with a quote from F. Kapp (Geschichte des deutschen Buchhandels): ‘‘Up to the middle of the XVIth century no rule can be established for the size of editions. Available data are too incomplete.’’ See as well Brian Richardson, Printing, Writers and Readers in Renaissance Italy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 21, where he estimates the norm to have been about 1,000 copies. A serious study of print output in sixteenthcentury Hebrew publishing is an important desideratum.

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Notes to Pages 83–86

29. On the 1521 edition, see Heller, Sixteenth-Century Hebrew Book, 1:143. 30. See the material collected and analyzed by Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 8–12, and in his appendices on 396–99. 31. The two kabbalistic commentaries are the Z.ror ha-mor by Abraham Saba (Venice, 1522–23) and the Commentary on the Torah by Menah.em Recanati (Venice, 1523). For the most complete list of the books Ibn Adoniyahu worked on, see Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 7, which supercedes the listings in Habermann, The Printer. On Meir Nativ, see Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 389–91. 32. For a detailed investigation, see Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ chap. 4 in its entirety, 148–90; and for a summary, 177–78; 33. See the table with references in Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 284n25. 34. Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 52–53; as Penkower notes, Ibn Adoniyahu did not, strictly speaking, invent the Masorah finalis (Mesorah sofit). The term had been used throughout the Middle Ages to describe the Masoretic material, e.g., lists of differences, treatises, etc., that were copied at the back of Masoretic codices. What he did ‘‘invent’’ was a new use for the term and a new form for it. 35. For a single indication of the importance attributed to Ibn Adoniyahu’s text, see the statement in 1897 by Ginsburg in Massoretico-Critical Edition, 963–64, that Ibn Adoniyahu’s text ‘‘is the only Massoretic recension. No textual redactor of modern days who professes to edit the Hebrew text according to the Masorah can deviate from it without giving conclusive justification for so doing.’’ Ginsburg himself, in his own edition of the Hebrew Bible, had exactly reproduced the 1524–25 text, and in this light it is hardly surprising that the first two editions of Rudolph Kittel’s Biblia Hebraica (1906, 1913) also essentially reproduced Jacob Ben H.ayyim’s text from RB 1525. It was only the third edition (1929–37) that for the first time deviated from the four-hundredyear-old convention and, at the urging of Paul Kahle, replaced RB 1525 with the text of the famous Leningrad Codex (B 19a). For a somewhat partisan account of the history behind this third edition, see Paul E. Kahle, The Cairo Geniza (Schweich Lectures of the British Academy, 1941) (London: for the British Academy by Oxford University Press, 1947), 72–78. 36. As noted earlier, Bomberg received his privilegio in 1515. In August 1517, the Venetian Senate declared that privileges would only be granted for new works and to works that had not been printed before. After the revocation, Bomberg had his privilegio reconfirmed in 1518, but he may have anticipated the problems he faced in 1525, detailed earlier in this article. Possibly he hoped to convince the senate that RB 1525 was indeed a new book and therefore did not fall under the strictures of the 1517 revocation. On this background, see Witcombe, Copyright, 41–45. 37. For a discussion of the question as to whether Jewish complaints against the 1517 edition on account of Pratensis’s editorship motivated Bomberg to publish the second RB, see Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 410–12.

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38. Translation and Latin text cited in Ginsburg, Massoretico-Critical Edition, 945– 46. For the deficiencies Ibn Adoniyahu may have seen in Pratensis’s edition, see Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 15–24 for a summary, and the entirety of chap. 4, 148–90; and Penkower, DBI, 362. 39. Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 8–14; and DBI, 362. Penkower’s primary explicit evidence for Ibn Adoniyahu’s belief in the kabbalistic significance of the Masorah is his note on Exod. 10:5 in which he used kabbalistic (Zoharic) notions to determine whether the word lir’ot is written plene or defectively (with or without a vav). 40. On Bomberg’s introduction, see Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 13–14. The classic study of Christian Kabbalah remains F. Secret, Les Kabbalistes Chre´tiens de la Renaissance (Paris: Dunod, 1964). 41. Hebrew: ha-to’elet hagadol. He is explicitly referring here not to kabbalistic secrets but to halakhic laws and homiletical lessons, as described on pp. 76–77, where he cites the Mordechai and the Maharam of Rothenberg as previous authorities who used the Masorah as the basis for legal decisions. 42. As translated by Ginsburg, Rabbinic Bible, 77–78, with slight stylistic revisions. 43. Ibid, 37. The last phrases are taken from Num. 11:25–26, with reference to the charismatic prophets Eldad and Meidad. Ginsburg translates: ‘‘and as if by prophecy they wrote down their labours in books, to which nothing is to be added.’’ 44. For the phrase, see M. Avot 3:13 and David Stern, ‘‘The First Jewish Codices and the Early History of Jewish Reading,’’ Jewish Quarterly Review 98 (2008): 163–202, esp. 189–90. 45. Alaton was a wealthy Venetian Jew who is mentioned in several of Bomberg’s colophons and title pages as having been instrumental in helping to gather and acquire manuscripts. See Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 285–86n28.4. 46. At this point and for the remainder of the paragraph, Ibn Adoniyahu’s language switches from the Hebrew rhymed narrative prose to a Talmudic idiom of Aramaic mixed with Hebrew phrases. 47. Hebrew: kli mapatso (Ezek. 9:2). 48. The meaning of this last sentence is unclear. The phrase about ‘‘the builders’’ alludes to Ps. 118:22; the word bonim (builders) may allude to those who ‘‘understand’’ (bun), namely, the wise. Cf. the midrash recorded in B. Berakhot 64a and Isa. 54:17 and H.anoch Yallon, Pirkei lashon (Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1971), 123–55. 49. See as well Ezra 1:5 and Isa. 41:2, mi hei’ir mimizrah. z.edek, which is probably the source for the use of the phrase in Ezra. 50. Cf., e.g., the introduction of Abraham ben Meir de Balmes to his Mikneh Avram (Venice: Daniel Bomberg, 1523) in which he too describes his personal troubles as well as how he was rescued by Bomberg (whom he praises in terms similar to those Ibn Adoniyahu uses), but far more vaguely. 51. The density of allusion here is in fact close to the kind of shibuz. so typical of medieval Hebrew poetry; my notes cite only some of the most obvious cases, but virtually every one of Ibn Adoniyahu’s sentences contains an allusion.

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Notes to Pages 91–94

52. A second edition, printed by Gershom’s son Eliezer, appeared in Constantinople in 1535. 53. On this narratological ambiguity and the use of the phrase, see Matti Huss, ‘‘The ‘Maggid’ in the Classical Maqama’’ (in Hebrew), Tarbiz. 65 (1996): 129–72. 54. For the edition and text, see Mah.berot Immanuel Haromi, ed. Dov Jarden, 2nd ed. (Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1984), 1:9–10. I want to thank Raymond Scheindlin for drawing my attention to Immanuel’s poems and their similarity to Ibn Adoniyahu’s narrative. 55. On this chapter, see David Malkiel, ‘‘Eros as Medium: Rereading Immanuel of Rome’s Scroll of Desire,’’ in Associazione Italiana per lo Studio del Giudaismo: Atti del Convegno 9 (2007): 35–59; Malkiel touches upon the question of the identity of the sar, though mainly in terms of ascertaining his historicity. 56. Ibid., 46–50. 57. Literally, ‘‘shook out the bosom of my garment’’; cf. Neh. 5:13 58. Ginsburg, Rabbinic Bible, 41. 59. On Ibn Adoniyahu’s conversion, see Ginsburg, Rabbinic Bible, 11–14; the main evidence for his conversion is Elijah Levita’s famous slur in his poetic introduction to Massoreth Ha-Massoret (ed. Christian D. Ginsburg [1867; repr. New York: Ktav, 1968], 94), where he refers to Ibn Adoniyahu as one ‘‘whose name was formerly Jacob, let his soul be bound up in a bag with holes.’’ See also Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 412–14n12. 60. Joseph Hakohen, Divrei ha-yamim le-malkhei Z.arfat u-vet Otoman ha-Tugar (Sabionetta, 1554), 137b, quoted in Habermann, The Printer, 12. For a collection of other encomia paid to Bomberg by his Jewish correctors, editors, and printers, see Habermann, 16–17. 61. The main scholar to raise this speculation is Mehlmann, ‘‘Printing House,’’ 18–19; but see as well Meir Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut bi-defuse: Venez.ia (Jerusalem: Makhon Ben-Zvi and Mosad Harav Kook, 1971), 17 and note 4 ad loc.; and Heller, Printing the Talmud, 138–39, for an overview of the positions. 62. I need to emphasize that I am not making a historical claim here, but solely addressing Ibn Adoniyahu’s self-perception and representation of himself vis-a`-vis a specific Christian, Daniel Bomberg. For the historical ‘‘reality,’’ and the complications in speaking about it, see Robert Bonfil, Jewish Life in Renaissance Italy, trans. Anthony Oldcorn (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), esp. 101–24. 63. The description that follows is based upon a typology set forth in an article, ‘‘The Hebrew Bible in Europe in the Middle Ages: A Preliminary Typology,’’ to be published in Jewish Studies, an Internet Journal (http://www.biu.ac.il/JS/JSIJ/). As its subtitle indicates, the typology does not claim to be comprehensive; it is restricted to Europe; does not include Bibles written in either the Orient or Yemen; and is based on an inspection of Bibles described in catalogues of many of the major collections of Jewish books, not on direct inspection of the manuscripts themselves. As a preliminary typology, it aims to set out the general parameters of the history of the medieval European Hebrew Bible as a book, not its specifics; I have therefore refrained from

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offering specific numbers or percentages of each subtype or feature and have limited my comments to deliberately vague adjectives like ‘‘most’’ or ‘‘many’’ or ‘‘a few.’’ It is my hope that future research will both fill in these details and correct the inaccuracies my preliminary typology almost certainly contains. 64. On the halakhic permissibility of liturgical reading from a codex rather than from a Torah scroll, see Israel Ta-Shma, Early Franco-German Ritual and Custom (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1994), 171–81. 65. Two Spanish liturgical Pentateuchs have Ibn Ezra’s commentary—Parma [176] Pal. 2 (Spain, fifteenth century), in addition to Rashi, Onkelos, Masorah magna and parva, and Patshegen, a commentary on the Targum; and Bodleian 2327 (Opp. Add. 37, Spain or Provence, fourteenth century), in addition to Onkelos. Jewish Theological Seminary of America, Lutzki 191, assigned to fourteenth-century Spain, has Onkelos and Saadiah’s Judeo-Arabic tafsir, and then Rashi, all written interverse in graded script sizes. 66. See, for a splendid example, Jewish Theological Seminary of America, Lutzki 206, a luxurious mid-fifteenth-century Italian Pentateuch with Nahmanides’ commentary. 67. This manuscript and its importance, particularly for Rashi studies, has been hotly debated over the past twenty years. See in particular Abraham Grossman, H . akhmei Z.arfat ha-rishonim (The Early Sages of France) (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1996), 184–93; and Elazar Touitou, ‘‘Does Ms. Leipzig 1 Reflect the Original Text of Rashi’s Commentary to the Torah’’ (in Hebrew), Tarbiz. 61 (1992): 315. See also Jordan Penkower, ‘‘Rashi’s Corrections to His Commentary on the Pentateuch,’’ Jewish Studies, an Internet Journal (www.biu.ac.il/JS/JIJ) 6 (2007): 141–86. 68. On the development of the format, see Christopher de Hamel, Glossed Books of the Bible and the Origins of the Paris Booktrade (Woodbridge, Suffolk: D. S. Brewer, 1984); Collete Sirat, ‘‘Le livre hebreu: Recontre de las tradition juive et de l’esthetique francaise,’’ in Rashi et la culture juive en France du Nord au moyen Age, ed. G. Nahon and C. Touati (Paris-Louvain: Peeters, 1997), 242–59. 69. The question of their transmission and preservation is separate from the question of how they were initially composed. Both Geonic and Sephardi commentaries appear to have been composed as h.ibburim, compositions in their own right. The genesis of Ashkenazi commentaries, like those of Rashi and his tosafistic successors, is less clear; scholars disagree as to whether these commentaries were even initially composed as full commentaries or whether they originated instead as marginal glosses in response to comments of earlier commentators. 70. On the development of the humanist text, see the excellent article by Martin Davies, ‘‘Humanism in Script and Print,’’ in The Cambridge Companion to Renaissance Humanism, ed. Jill Kraye (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 47–62, esp. 49–51. 71. For early printed Hebrew Bibles between 1477 and 1528, Ginsburg’s survey in Massoretico-Critical Edition remains the most extensive discussion, but must be

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Notes to Pages 97–99

supplemented by Herbert C. Zafren, ‘‘Bible Editions, Bible Study and the Early History of Hebrew Printing,’’ Eretz-Israel 16 (1982): *241–*51; the various entries in David Sandler Berkowitz, In Remembrance of Creation: Evolution of Art and Scholarship in the Medieval and Renaissance Bible (Waltham, Mass.: Brandeis University Press, 1968), esp. items 121–49 and 165–71; and the excellent survey by Adrian Schenker, ‘‘From the First Printed Hebrew, Greek, and Latin Bibles to the First Polyglot Bible, the Complutensian Polyglot: 1477–1517,’’ in Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of its Interpretation, vol. 2, From the Renaissance to the Enlightenment, ed. Magne Saebo (Goettingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008), 276–294. See as well the still useful and shorter survey by Richard Gottheil in ‘‘Bible Editions,’’ The Jewish Encyclopaedia (New York and London: Funk & Wagnalls, 1903), 3:154–62 (with a useful chart diagramming a stemma of influences). 72. Zafren, ‘‘Bible Editions,’’ *240–41. Among the earliest dated Hebrew books printed in both Italy and Spain were commentaries on the Bible by Rashi. 73. See ibid. and Alexander Marx, ‘‘The Choice of Books by the Printers of Hebrew Incunabula,’’ in To Doctor R.: Essays Here Collected and Published in Honor of the Seventieth Birthday of Dr. A. S. W. Rosenbach, July 22, 1946 (Philadelphia: n.p., 1946), 155–57. 74. Lazarus Goldschmidt, Earliest Editions, 12–13. 75. I have excluded from my survey books of Psalms alone and other individual books. 76. Zafren also lists two other editions of the Pentateuch with haftarot and the Five Scrolls: no. 63, Spain or Portugal, no date; and no. 64, Hijar, no date. 77. See, however, Zafren, ‘‘Biblical Editions,’’ 243*, no. 34, a Pentateuch with Targum, haftarot, and Five Scrolls from Italy 1480–90 (see Thesaurus B 40); and no. 37, a Pentateuch with Rashi, haftarot, and the Five Scrolls, Naples 1491 (Thesaurus B 20). 78. These are Proverbs with Gersonides and Menahem Meiri (1492), and Former Prophets with Gersonides and David Kimh.i (1494). 79. This point would seem to be borne out as well by Penkower’s reconstruction of the early publication history of Bomberg’s various editions of the Bible between 1515 and 1517, in Penkower, ‘‘First Edition,’’ esp. 595–96. 80. Like the 1517 edition, the only thing it lacked was the convenience of the haftarot in the Pentateuch volume, but see Penkower, ‘‘First Edition,’’ esp. 591–92, where he argues convincingly that RB 1517 began as a folio-sized liturgical Pentateuch, with the haftarot, Five Scrolls, Targum, and Rashi, which was then expanded into the full RB on the Bible; the only complete copy of this edition that Penkower was able to locate is preserved today in two separate volumes in the Bodleian, Opp. fol. 23 and Opp. fol. 41. 81. On Rashi in Sepharad, see Abraham Gross, ‘‘Rashi and the Tradition of Study of Written Torah in Sepharad,’’ in Rashi Studies, ed. Z. A. Steinfeld (Ramat Gan: BarIlan University Press, 1993), 27–55; and Jordan Penkower, ‘‘The Process of Canonization of Rashi’s Commentary to the Torah,’’ in Study and Knowledge in Jewish Thought,

Notes to Pages 99–101

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ed. Howard Kreisel (Beer-Sheva: Ben Gurion University of the Negev Press, 2006), 2:123–46. 82. On Sephardim in Italy, see Bonfil, Jewish Life, 59–62. 83. See B. Barry Levy on RB, unpublished ms. Again, I want to thank Professor Levy for his willingness to share his important work in progress with me. 84. Elhanan Reiner, ‘‘Liturgy versus Text: A Dispute over the Printed Hebrew Bible in 16th C. Ashkenaz,’’ to appear shortly in a memorial volume for the late Israel Ta-Shma. I wish to thank Professor Reiner for allowing me to read and cite his important article before publication. 85. Jerome Friedman, The Most Ancient Testimony: Sixteenth-Century ChristianHebraica in the Age of Renaissance Nostalgia (Athens: Ohio University Press, 1983), 13–14. For a balanced survey of Christian knowledge of Hebrew and of Christian Hebraist biblical study from Nicholas de Lyra on, see Saebo, Hebrew Bible/Old Testament (note 71 above), specifically the chapters by Lesley Smith on ‘‘Nicholas de Lyra,’’ 49–63; Arjo Vanderjagt on ‘‘Early Humanism,’’ 154–89; Sophie Kessler Mesguich on ‘‘Early Christian Hebraism,’’ 254–75; and Stephen G. Burnett on ‘‘Later Christian Hebraism,’’ 785–826; cf. Alastair Hamilton, ‘‘Humanists and the Bible,’’ in Kraye, Cambridge Companion to Renaissance Humanism (note 70 above), 100–17. 86. For a cautionary statement about overestimating Hebraic literacy among Christian Hebraists, see Burnett’s chapter as cited in the previous note and his article, ‘‘Christian Hebrew Printing.’’ 87. On Muenster, see E. I. J. Rosenthal, ‘‘Sebastian Muenster’s Knowledge and Use of Jewish Exegesis,’’ in Essays in Honor of the Very Reverend J. H. Hertz, ed. I. Epstein et al. (London: Goldston, 1943), 351–69. Note too that Muenster was not alone. According to Mesguich in her article in Hebrew Bible/Old Testament, 267n59, Pellican translated into Latin both Ibn Ezra’s commentary on the Pentateuch and Rashi on Genesis and Exodus, although the translations were never published; and the Hebraist Wolfgang Fabricius Caputo (1478–1541) was familiar with Ibn Ezra’s biblical commentary and used him in his work (268). 88. Stephen G. Burnett, ‘‘The Strange Career of the Biblia Rabbinica among Christian Hebraists, 1517–1620,’’ in Shaping the Bible in the Reformation: Books, Scholars and Readers in the Sixteenth Century, ed. Matthew McLean and Bruce Gordon (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming). I wish to thank Professor Burnett for allowing me to read this article before its publication. 89. For the correspondence and generous translations into English of the Latin texts, see Amram, Makers of Hebrew Books, 164–67; and for additional correspondence, Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 298n90. I wish to thank Professor Jordan Penkower for reminding me of this correspondence. 90. The history of the various editions and their multiple commentaries is treated in B. Barry Levy’s work in progress on the Rabbinic Bible/Mikra’ot Gedolot as well as the question of the definition of the genre.

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Notes to Page 102

91. Precisely how scribes in the Middle Ages copied Torah scrolls—whether from another scroll or from special codices, like a tikkun, and/or whether there was a preference for using scrolls or codices—is a topic still to be explored. Most sources suggest, somewhat paradoxically, that codices were used but, in cases of doubt about particular readings or orthography, scrolls were consulted (and decisions were made by following the majority of scrolls). Menahem Meiri in Kiryat sefer, ed. M. Hirschler (Jerusalem, 1996), 48, describes a scroll written by the Spaniard Meir Abulafia that was then used as a model for a specially commissioned tikkun from which to copy Torah scrolls in Germany. R. Isaac Alfasi (1013–1103) (cited by Menah.em Recanati [Italy, late thirteenth–early fourteenth century] in Piskei Halakhot [Bologna, 1538], unnumbered page, section no. 43; Asher ben Yehiel (b. Germany 1250–59; d. Spain 1328) in Shut Rosh (Constantinople, 1517), 3:6; and Moshe ben David Chalawah (Spain, 1290–1370) in Shut Maharam Chalawah, ed. B. Herschler (Jerusalem, 1987), no. 144; all allude in passing to copying scrolls from codices. Recanati’s citation of Alfasi suggests that the practice of not using scrolls as models for copying arose out of the fear that the Torah would be left open disrespectfully if it were regularly used in this way. I wish to thank Rabbi Menah.em Slae for assisting me in finding the latter sources. 92. M. Menah.ot 3:7; B. Menah.ot 29a on koz.o shel yod (regarding a mezuzah), and 34a (regarding tefillin), from both of which the halakhah about a Torah scroll is extrapolated; Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Sefer Torah 10:1; cf. Hilkhot tefillah u-mezuzah ve-sefer Torah 1:19 and 2:2,3; Tur, Yoreh de’ah 275:6 (near end of passage); Shulh.an ‘arukh, Yoreh de’ah 275:6; Orah. h.ayyim 32:4. For the most extensive discussion of the halakhic conflicts between rabbinic statements and the Masoretic text, see Sid Z. Leiman, ‘‘Masorah and Halakhah: A Study in Conflict,’’ in Tehillah le-Moshe: Biblical and Judaic Studies in Honor of Moshe Greenberg, ed. M. Cogan et al. (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 291–306, esp. 292–94. 93. As is well known, there are many differences in the various codices; on differences in Torah scrolls, see Jordan Penkower, ‘‘A Sheet of Parchment from a 10th or 11th Century Torah Scroll: Determining Its Type among Four Traditions (Oriental, Sefardi, Ashkenazi, and Yemenite),’’ Textus 21 (2002): 235–64. 94. See as well Soferim 6:4 for the account of the three Torah scrolls kept in the Temple court, where soferim corrected anomalous readings in each scroll according to the text found in the other two. 95. The most extensive discussion of these competing authorities for deciding the correct form and reading is B. Barry Levy, Fixing God’s Torah, in his detailed analysis of the various responsa of Rabbi David Ben Solomon ibn Abi Zimra (aka Radbaz, 1479–1573). For the authority of the Masorah, see Fixing God’s Torah, 67–88 as well as Leiman, ‘‘Masorah and Halakhah,’’ in regard to conflicts between the Masorah and the Babylonian Talmud. In a recent article, Jordan Penkower has revisited the responsa literature in regard to the problem of biblical variants and the types of solutions offered in the responsa to the problem; he also notes that the few examples always cited appear to be derived from Rashi’s citations in his biblical commentaries: see J. S.

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Penkower, ‘‘The Bible Text Used by Rashi as Reflected in His Commentaries on the Bible’’ (in Hebrew), in Rashi: The Man and His Work, ed. A. Grossman and S. Japhet (Jerusalem: Merkaz Zalman Shazar, 2009), 1:99–122, esp. 99–104. 96. Levy, Fixing God’s Torah, 102–55. 97. Abraham Ibn Ezra, introduction to his commentary on the Torah, ‘‘Ha-derekh ha-h.amishit,’’ in Torat h.ayim (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1986), 10, cited and translated in Levy, Fixing God’s Torah, 21. 98. Meir ben Todros ha-Levi Abulafia, introduction to Masoret seyag la-Torah (Florence, 1754; repr. Israel: n.p, 1969). On Abulafia, see Bernard Septimus, HispanoJewish Culture in Transition: The Career and Controversies of Ramah (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982), 35–38; and on the complicated reception history of the book, Israel Ta-Shma, ‘‘The Literary Oeuvre of R. Meir Halevi Abulafia,’’ Kiryat sefer 45 (1969–70): 119–26. Note as well Abulafia’s Torah scroll described in n. 91 above. 99. The responsum is published in She’elot u-teshuvot ha-Rashba hameyuh.asot leha-Ramban (Warsaw: I. Goldman, 1883; Tel Aviv: Defus Eshel, 1958), no. 232. The text as printed, however, is corrupt; for the corrected text, see Leiman, ‘‘Masorah and Halakhah,’’ 299; Jordan Penkower, ‘‘Maimonides and the Aleppo Codex,’’ Textus 19 (1982): 403; and for a lengthy, comprehensive discussion of the entire responsum, its different versions, and its subsequent influence, see Levy, Fixing God’s Torah, 103–30. As Levy notes (109–10), Rashba did not rule out the Masorah’s value in determining other paratextual matters, like majuscular and miniscular letters, open and closed spacings, etc. His main reason for dismissing the Masorah’s authority in deciding questions of consonantal spelling was its corruption and the many disagreements within it. Jordan Penkower has also called to my attention the fact that Rashba’s opinion had little effect on Sephardi scribes who, even in their codices, continued to copy the text as it was handed down in their tradition. On this phenomenon in general, see Leiman, ‘‘Masorah and Halakhah,’’ 302–5. 100. Meiri’s formulations are to be found in both his commentary on the Talmud, Beit ha-beh.irah ‘al masekhet Kidushin, ed. A. Schreiber (Jerusalem: Kedem, 1971), 30a; and in the introduction to his scribal manual, in Hirschler, Kiryat sefer, esp. 14–15. For a discussion of the two texts, see Levy, Fixing God’s Torah, 122–30, who notes that in Kiryat sefer Meiri granted greater authority to the Masorah than he did in his Talmudic commentary, where it has virtually none. As with the Rashba, Meiri seemed to discount the Masorah’s authority largely because of its corruptions and inconsistencies (Beit ha-beh.irah ‘al masekhet Kidushin, 15), not because he doubted the Masorah’s ultimate worth. As Jordan Penkower has noted to me, Meiri did not invalidate Torah scrolls except where he could decide that the source (upon which the disputed case was based) was clearly in error; Kiryat sefer is devoted to determining which spellings are correct and which sections are open and closed. 101. Note Levy’s concluding statement in Fixing God’s Torah, 132, ‘‘it remains to be demonstrated that, other than in fairly limited circles, until the sixteenth century

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Notes to Pages 104–105

the Masorah ever really totally controlled undisputed spellings of all works in Torah scrolls the way it did control most peripheral, non-orthographic details.’’ The last statement must refer primarily to vocalization and accentuation. 102. It is worth noting in passing that, whatever his view of the origins of the keri/ ketiv system, Kimh.i’s attitude towards the Masorah and its importance was extremely positive; on his attitude, see Frank Talmage, David Kimhi: The Man and the Commentaries (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1975), 83–94. 103. Ginsburg, Rabbinic Bible, 42. 104. On the ‘‘humanistic’’ dimensions of Abravanel’s exegesis, see the excellent treatment of the Spanish commentator by Eric Lawee, in Saebo, Hebrew Bible/Old Testament, 208–14, and esp. 208–10 on this particular example. 105. Ginsburg, Rabbinic Bible, 48–49. Note that in the Nedarim passage R. Isaac’s statement follows an alternative interpretation of the last part of the Nehemiah verse, which understands it as referring not to ‘‘verse ending’’ but to masorot. Whether or not the Talmud’s editor associated R. Isaac’s statement with that last opinion, perhaps Ibn Adoniyahu understood it that way. 106. For the phrase, see the discussion of S. Safrai in Literature of the Sages (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1987), 182–83; Martin Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 80–83, and 188–189n55 for additional bibliography; and N. Danzig, ‘‘The Ruling of Sacred Books: The Origins of the Halakhah and Its Repercussions’’ (in Hebrew), in Atara L’Haim: Studies in the Talmud and Medieval Rabbinic Literature in Honor of Professor Haim Zalman Dimitrovsky, ed. Daniel Boyarin et al. (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2000), 283–359 and 283n1. It is worth noting that one can trace virtually the entire history of the material text of the Torah from the early rabbinic through the amoraic and later periods by following the successive assignment of the status of halakhah le-Moshe mi-Sinai to each of its material features, from its script and parchment to its glue, etc. The assignment of this status to the Masorah by Ibn Adoniyahu in the early sixteenth century appears to be the very last stage in this history. 107. For further analysis of Ibn Adoniyahu’s logic in extending the Sinaitic status to all of the Masorah, see Levy, Fixing God’s Torah, 144–47. 108. This is a point that Penkower makes throughout chap. 3 of his dissertation, 51–147; see, for example, 60–61. 109. Again, this is a point that Penkower emphasizes throughout his chapter, and it is one that Ibn Adoniyahu himself made in Introduction to the Rabbinic Bible (Ginsburg, 39). The editorial policy that Ibn Adoniyahu followed in not relying on speculation but rather on written sources was his normative one, not limited to biblical texts, as is shown by the colophon he wrote for the edition of Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah (1524), in which Ibn Adoniyahu stated the same position, ‘‘I do not rely upon my judgment because it is weak [de-klisha].’’ For the text of the colophon and discussion, see Yaakov Shmuel Spiegel, Chapters in the History of the Jewish Book: Scholars and Their Annotations (in Hebrew) (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1996), 213–14

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and 219. On this, see as well Penkower (‘‘JBH,’’ 290–91n38b), who had earlier made the same connection between Ibn Adoniyahu’s statement in the introduction to the RB and in the Mishneh Torah colophon, in both of which he also cited as precedents for himself both Nah.manides (Spain, ca. 1195–ca. 1270) and Rashba; the identity of the latter is not entirely clear, but as Penkower notes there, Ginsburg misnamed Rashba in his English translation as Rashbam, Rashi’s famous grandson. For the difference in attitude toward classical Greek and Latin texts and the excessive use of conjecture by editors in contemporary Italy, see Richardson, Print Culture, 21–23. 110. Ginsburg, Rabbinic Bible, 76–77. 111. Ibid, 77. 112. Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 45–50. 113. As an indication of the impact of Ibn Adoniyahu’s view of the homiletic and kabbalistic significance of the Masorah, it is worth noting that, in the 1548 edition, the so-called ‘‘shorter’’ commentary of the Ba’al ha-turim (Jacob ben Asher [1269–1343]), a homiletic and mystical commentary based on the Masorah, was first printed and has subsequently been reprinted in virtually every edition of the RB. 114. Part of this was due to the expert testimony to its excellence by other scholars of the Masorah like Elia Levita (1469–1549), particularly in his laudatory poem appended to the last volume of the 1524–25 RB; and still later by Menah.em di Lonzano (1550–before 1624), author of Or ha-Torah, and Yedidyah Norzi (1560–1626), author of the Minh.at shai. Even if the latter figures sought to ‘‘improve’’ Ibn Adoniyahu’s text, they nonetheless accepted it as the standard. See as well Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ 44–45, for discussion of a responsum written by R. Jacob b. Israel Levi in Venice in 1614. 115. This fact—important especially from a modern scholarly perspective—is one of the major implicit themes in Penkower’s definitive study of the text types in his dissertation, but I want to thank him for explicitly calling my attention to it in a personal communication. The triumph of the Sephardi text type over the Ashkenazi in the case of Bomberg’s RB is also worth comparing to the near-opposite case that occurred with Bomberg’s edition of the Babylonian Talmud (1521–23). That edition was based on the previous, ‘‘Ashkenazi’’ editions of the Talmud printed by Joshua and Gershom Soncino, with their particular choice of the Tosafot in addition to the commentary of Rashi; once Bomberg’s edition became the definitive, virtually universal one, it effectively spelled the demise of the Talmud as printed in Spain that sometimes contained Sephardi commentators like Nah.manides as well as, on occasion, different page layouts. 116. Moshe Goshen-Gottstein, ‘‘Foundations of Biblical Philology in the Seventeenth Century: Christian and Jewish Dimensions,’’ in Jewish Thought in the Seventeenth Century, ed. I. Twersky and B. Septimus (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Center for Jewish Studies, 1987), 77–94; Goshen-Gottstein, introduction to Biblia Rabbinica, 9–13. More recent studies include Edward Breuer, The Limits of Enlightenment: Jews, Germans, and the Eighteenth Century Study of the Bible (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Center for Jewish Studies, 1996), esp. 77–107; the essays by Mesguich

268

Notes to Pages 107–109

and Burnett in Saebo, Hebrew Bible/Old Testament ; and Schwarzbach, ‘‘Les editions,’’ esp. 54–67. 117. For a summary, see Penkower, ‘‘JBH,’’ app. 14 and 15 (415–18). As GoshenGottstein perceptively argued (‘‘Foundations of Biblical Philology,’’ 83), the concept of a ‘‘Masoretic Bible’’ or ‘‘text,’’ was Christian, not Jewish; for Ibn Adoniyahu, the text he edited was the traditional biblical text ‘‘exact according to the Masorah,’’ not one created by the Masoretes, as the term ‘‘Masoretic Bible’’ suggests. 118. On the Haskalah project, see the definitive study of Breuer, Limits of Enlightenment, 109–75; and his summary in Saebo, Hebrew Bible/Old Testament, 1006–21. For a minor but fascinating English footnote to Breuer’s underacknowledged work, see David Ruderman’s account of the Anglo-Jewish reaction to Kennicott in Jewish Enlightenment in an English Key (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000), 23–56. 119. Moses Mendelssohn, Gesammelte Schriften (Stuttgart: Friedrich Frommann, 1971–2000), vol. 15, part 1 (1990), 39–40, cited and translated in Breuer, Limits of Enlightenment, 161; see also Breuer’s chapter in Saebo, Hebrew Bible/Old Testament, 1016. 120. Esther 1:11. Given the context of the verse’s original reference, there is something decidedly playful about Ibn Adoniyahu’s citation of it here. Chapter 5 1. See, e.g., Abraham Berliner, Censur und Confiscation hebra¨ischer Bu¨cher im Kirchenstaate (Berlin: H. Itzkowski, 1891); William Popper, The Censorship of Hebrew Books (New York, 1899; repr. New York: Ktav, 1969); Paul F. Grendler, The Roman Inquisition and the Venetian Press, 1540–1605 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1977); Grendler, ‘‘The Destruction of Hebrew Books in Venice, 1568,’’ Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 45 (1978): 103–30 (repr. in Grendler, Culture and Censorship in Late Renaissance Italy and France [London: Variorum Reprints, 1981], chap. 12); Kenneth R. Stow, ‘‘The Burning of the Talmud in 1553, in Light of Sixteenth-Century Catholic Attitudes toward the Talmud,’’ Bibliothe´que d’humanisme et renaissance 34 (1972): 435–59 (repr. in Essential Papers on Judaism and Christianity in Conflict: From Late Antiquity to the Reformation, ed. J. Cohen [New York: New York University Press, 1991], 401–28). See also Isaiah Sonne, ‘‘Expurgation of Hebrew Books: The Work of Jewish Scholars,’’ Bulletin of the New York Public Library 46, no. 12 (1942): 975–1015. For a detailed list, see Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, the Editor and the Text: The Catholic Church and the Shaping of the Jewish Canon in the Sixteenth Century, trans. J. Feldman (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007). 2. See, e.g., S. Wendehorst et al., ‘‘The Roman Inquisition, the Index and the Jews: Sources and Perspectives for Research,’’ Jewish History 17 (2003): 55–76; The Roman Inquisition, the Index and the Jews, ed. S. Wendehorst (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 155–76, 201–14 (articles by C. Arnold, A. Bra¨cker, S. Wendehorst); Fausto Parente, ‘‘The Index,

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the Holy Office, the Condemnation of the Talmud and Publication of Clement VIII’s Index,’’ in Church, Censorship, and Culture in Early Modern Italy, ed. G. Fragnito (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 163–93; Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor. 3. See Sonne, ‘‘Expurgation of Hebrew Books,’’ 975–1015; M. Carmilly-Weinberger, Censorship and Freedom of Expression in Jewish History (New York: Sepher-Hermon Press, 1977), chaps. 3–4; Meir Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut bi-defusei Venez.ia (Jerusalem: Makhon Ben-Zvi, 1971), 80–99. 4. See Sonne, ‘‘Expurgation of Hebrew Books’’; M. A. Shulvass, ‘‘Books and Libraries of Italian Jews in the Renaissance Period’’ (in Hebrew), Talpiot 4, nos. 3–4 (1950): 599 (nos. 30–31), 605 (no. 60); Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 105–17. 5. Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 72–73. 6. See my forthcoming article, ‘‘Gershom (Hieronymus) Soncino, the Renaissance Printer, and the Rabbis of Salonica’’ (in Hebrew), in the Festschrift for Menahem Schmelzer (in press). 7. On the Hebrew incunabula literature, see A. K. Offenberg, Hebrew Incunabula in Public Collections: A First International Census (Nieuwkoop: De Graaf, 1990); Offenberg, ‘‘The Spread of Hebrew Printing,’’ in The Image of the Word: Jewish Tradition in Manuscripts and Printed Books, ed. S. R. de Melker et al. (Leuven: Peeters, 1990), 23–32; Mordechai Glatzer, ‘‘Early Hebrew Printing,’’ in A Sign and a Witness, ed. L. Singer Gold (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 80–91; Moses Marx, ‘‘On the Date of Appearance of the First Printed Hebrew Books,’’ in Alexander Marx Jubilee Volume, ed. S. Lieberman (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1950), 481–501; Alexander Marx, ‘‘The Choice of Books by the Printers of Hebrew Incunabula,’’ in To Doctor R. (Philadelphia: s.n., 1946), 154–73. 8. The books include Judah Messer Leon, Nofet z.ufim (rhetoric); Mordechai Finzi, Luh.ot (astronomy); David ibn Yah.ya, Kav ve-naki (commentary on Proverbs); Jacob Landau, Divre agur (halakhah code). Some scholars also include Jeshua ha-Levi, Halikhot olam (Talmudic methodology) (see Marx, ‘‘Choice of Books,’’ 169), but he belongs to a former generation. 9. Messer Leon of course was well aware of the possibilities of the printing press: his book Nofet z.ufim (Honeycomb’s Flow) was printed in Mantua, ca. 1475, the first Hebrew book printed in the lifetime of its author. 10. See S. Assaf, Mekorot u-meh.karim be-toldot Yisrael (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1946), 221–25; M. Steinschneider, ‘‘Hebra¨ische Handsschriften in Parma,’’ Hebra¨ische Bibliographie 8 (1865): 65 (David Messer Leon). On Judah Messer Leon, see D. Carpi, ‘‘Notes on the Life of Rabbi Judah Messer Leon’’ (in Hebrew), in Be-tarbut ha Renesans u-bein h.omot ha-getto (Tel Aviv: Mif’alim universit.a’iyim, 1989), 57–84; R. Bonfil, introduction to the facsimile edition of Sefer nofet z.ufim (Jerusalem: Jewish National and University Library, 1981), 9–69. 11. As translated by L. Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government in the Middle Ages (New York: Philipp Feldheim, 1964), 304.

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Notes to Pages 112–113

12. See, inter alia, Salo Baron, The Jewish Community (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1942), 1:321; Cecil Roth, The Jews in the Renaissance (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1959), 187–88; Shlomo Simonsohn, History of the Jews in the Duchy of Mantua (Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1977), 415, 686; Avraham Yaari, Meh.kerei sefer (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1958), 200; Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 81–82; Martin J. Heller, Printing the Talmud (Brooklyn: Im Hasefer, 1992), 227–28; Azariah de’ Rossi, The Light of the Eyes, trans. and ed. J. Weinberg (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2001), xvin32; Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 117 and 252n85. 13. See, e.g., Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 80–92; Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 117–19. 14. See Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 89–92; Robert Bonfil, ‘‘Some Reflections on the Place of Azaryah de Rossi’s Meor Einayim in the Cultural Milieu of Italian Renaissance Jewry,’’ in Jewish Thought in the Sixteenth Century, ed. B. D. Cooperman (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Center for Jewish Studies, 1983), 25–26; Meir Benayahu, ‘‘The Controversy over the Book Me’or einayim of Azariah de’ Rossi’’ (in Hebrew), Asufot 5 (1991): 228–29. Rabbi Meir Katzenelenbogen of Padova, the leading authority on halakhic issues in Italy during that period, and a signatory on the Ferrara ordinances, issued a ban in 1557 on printing kabbalistic books, which includes the following paragraph: ‘‘Nobody is permitted to print a kabbalistic book, unless he has a permit from 3 ordained rabbis from 3 distinct lands (territories) who are leaders of communities.’’ (See Isaiah Tishby, ‘‘The Controversy on the Zohar in Sixteenth-Century Italy’’ [in Hebrew], Perakim 1 [1967]: 163–64.) Here too the demand was not met by the printers. 15. See Shulvass, ‘‘Books and Libraries,’’ 599n33 (⳱ Shulvass, The Jews in the World of the Renaissance [Leiden: Brill, 1973], 263–64n4); Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 92–99. 16. See Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut, 83–88, 97–99; Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 117–19 and esp. n. 86 favors this thesis, at least partially. For Basola, see Y. B. Halevi and S. Z. Halbershtam, Takanot h.akhamim (Brody, 1879), 14. The books that Basola refers to were already identified by Isaiah Sonne, Mi Paulo ha-revii ad Pius ha-h.amishi (Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1954), 124. It is clear that his criticism is directed against the philosophical and the homiletic genres and the outlook expressed therein, and not against halakhic literature. Raz-Krakotzkin (The Censor, 159–63, 262–63) admits that there was only ‘‘very limited censorship [by Christians—J. H.] of the literature of codification in this period’’ (p. 159). 17. See Sonne, Expurgation of Hebrew Books; Kenneth R. Stow, The Jews in Rome (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 2:695–6, document no. 1607; Weinberg, in Light of the Eyes, xvi; Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, 89–94, 109–19. Stow and Raz-Krakotzkin (107) paid no attention to the fact that Rabbi Yehudah, son of Sabbetai who represented the Community of Rome in the synod of Ferrara in June 1554, was also nominated by his community as one of the five rabbis to oversee the censorship of books (zikuk me-hasefarim) in September 1554. Could it be that these five rabbis in Rome were in charge

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of Jewish internal censorship and not just involved in expurgating books from offenses against Christianity? 18. See I. Halperin, Pinkas vaad arba araz.ot ed. I. Bartal (Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1990), 1: 7, document nos. 16–17. 19. See I. Halperin, Yehudim ve-yahadut be-mizrah. Eropa (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1968), 78–81. Unlike in Ferrara, the Polish establishment threatened the printers as well as the workers involved in printing and distributing books with excommunication, and not the readership. Was this change in tactics a result of the different conditions in Poland, due to the fact that the Jews were not officially barred from the printing industry? (See below, note 24). 20. See M. Horovitz, Frankfurter Rabbinen (Frankfurt a. M., 1882), 36–39 (see 39n1 and the Hebrew translation of the book [Rabbanei Frankfurt (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1972), 30–31, 197] for the Hebrew version of the ordinances, based on an article published by Horovitz in 1897. 21. On the Hebrew prints of Basel, and Basel’s important role in Hebrew printing in the late sixteenth century, see J. Prijs, Die Basler Hebra¨ischen Drucke (1492–1866) (Olten und Freiburg i. Br.: Urs-Graf, 1964), 175–328. 22. The English translation is based on Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government, 263. I added the passage ‘‘rabbis from a city that has rabbinic,’’ courts, based on the Hebrew original (see note 20 above). 23. This is based on the fact that printed books in sixteenth-century Italy after 1554 only rarely included approbations of rabbis (haskamot) or consent to print. The lack of other kinds of documentation prevents us from a more detailed examination of the implementation of the Ferrara ordinances. 24. See, e.g., Benjamin Ravid, ‘‘The Prohibition against Jewish Printing and Publishing in Venice and the Difficulties of Leone Modena,’’ in Studies in Medieval Jewish History and Literature, ed. I. Twersky (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Center for Jewish Studies, 1979), 1:135–53; D. W. Amram, The Makers of Hebrew Books in Italy (Philadelphia: J. H. Greenstone, 1909), 250; Joshua Bloch, ‘‘Hebrew Printing in Riva di Trento,’’ in Hebrew Printing and Bibliography, ed. C. Berlin (New York: New York Public Library, 1976), 93–110; Shlomo Simonsohn, ‘‘A Contract to Print Hebrew Books in Cremona’’ (in Hebrew), in Scritti in memoria di Umberto Nahon, ed. R. Bonfil et al. (Jerusalem: Mosad Shlomo Meir, 1978), 143–50. 25. In Germany they followed the Italian example. 26. See Grendler, Roman Inquisition, 89–93; Grendler, ‘‘Destruction of Hebrew Books’’; Parente, ‘‘The Index’’; Yaari, Meh.kerei sefer, 198–234. 27. See A. E. Cowley, A Concise Catalogue of Hebrew Printed Books in the Bodleian Library (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1929), 363: Opp. 4.231(4). My study on the author, his views, and his book (in both versions) is forthcoming. 28. On the printing activities of Tuviah Foa in Sabbioneta, see Yaari, Meh.kerei sefer, 323–67 (esp. 345–49, 354–61); Meir Benayahu, Ha-defus ha-ivri be-Cremona (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook and Makhon Ben-Zvi, 1971).

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Notes to Pages 115–116

29. See, e.g., an expurgated copy of the second printed edition at the National Library in Jerusalem (R 8o 35 V 3588), censored by Luigi de Bologna in 1598, Camillo Yagel in 1603, and others, which has extensive blotting outs on fols. 41b, 66a–67b. 30. I checked twelve copies in public libraries and in private collections. 31. See, e.g., N. Ben-Menachem, ‘‘Two Unknown Books’’ (in Hebrew), Kiryat Sefer 46 (1971): 170–74, a copy that is censored in chap. 1. (He misunderstood the phenomenon and stipulated that this was an early print of the book.) 32. Interestingly, there are other discourses in the book (like the discussion on Providence [42a–51a] or the theodicy [91b–95b]) that include similar views but were not censored. (See my study, note 27 above). 33. See, e.g., P. Curry, ed., Astrology, Science and Society: Historical Essays (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell Press, 1987), 1–18 (J. D. North), 57–74 (R. Lemay); S. J. Tester, A History of Western Astrology (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell Press, 1987), 204–43; Eugenio Garin, Astrology in the Renaissance: The Zodiac of Life (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1983); Ernst Cassirer, The Individual and the Cosmos in Renaissance Philosophy (Mineola, N.Y.: Dover Publications, 2000), 98–122; Keith Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic (London: Penguin, 1991), 335–460; Robert S. Westman, ‘‘The Astronomer’s Role in the Sixteenth Century: A Preliminary Study,’’ History of Science 18 (1980): 105–47; J. D. North, Horoscopes and History (London: Warburg Institute, 1986), 71 sq., 158 sq.; W. R. Newman and A. Grafton, eds., Secrets of Nature: Astrology and Alchemy in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2006). 34. See, e.g., V. Baldini, ‘‘The Roman Inquisition’s Condemnation of Astrology: Antecedents, Reasons and Consequences,’’ in Church, Censorship and Culture in Early Modern Italy, ed. G. Fragnito (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 79–110; Garin, Astrology in the Renaissance, 83–112. On attitudes toward astrology in Jewish circles see below, notes 35, 37–38. 35. See Y. T. Langermann, ‘‘Maimonides’ Repudiation of Astrology,’’ in Maimonidean Studies, ed. A. Hyman (New York: Yeshiva University Press, 1991), 2:123–58; Gad Freudenthal, ‘‘Maimonides’ Stance on Astrology in Context: Cosmology, Physics, Medicine and Providence,’’ in Moses Maimonides: Physician, Scientist, and Philosopher, ed. F. Rosner and S. Kottek (Northvale, N.J.: Jason Aronson, 1993), 77–90, 244–49; Ralph Lerner, ‘‘Maimonides’ Letter on Astrology,’’ History of Religions 8, no. 1 (1968): 143–58. 36. On the eminence of Maimonides and his Mishneh Torah in Italian Jewish culture in the medieval period and during the Renaissance, even after its decline, see Robert Bonfil, Rabbis and Jewish Communities in Renaissance Italy (London: Littman Library, 1993), 251–69; Israel Ta-Shma, ‘‘The Acceptance of Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah in Italy,’’ Italia 13–15 (2001): 79–90. See, e.g., E. D. Pines, ed., She’elot u-teshuvot piskei Maharik ha-h.adashim (Jerusalem: Makhon or ha-mizrah., 1990), no. 49, p. 240: ‘‘On every issue that the Italians [Loazim] address they consult Maimonides.’’ On the attitude toward Maimonides in Christian circles in those years, see, e.g., the letter of the Venetian booksellers to the Santo Uffizio, M. Jacoviello, ‘‘Proteste di editori e librai

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veneziani contro l’introduzione della censura sulla stampa a Venezia (1543–1555),’’ Archivio Storico Italiano 151, no. 1 (1993): 35. 37. See, e.g., Dov Schwartz, Studies in Astral Magic in Medieval Jewish Thought (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 124–228; R. Barkai, ‘‘L’astrologie juive me´die´vale: Aspects the´oriques et pratiques,’’ Le Moyen Age 93 (1987): 331–48; David B. Ruderman, Jewish Thought and Scientific Discovery in Early Modern Europe (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1995), 23–44 (a survey of medieval attitudes). 38. See, e.g., Shaul Regev, ‘‘Messianism and Astrology in the Thought of Rabbi Isaac Abravanel’’ (in Hebrew), Asufot 1 (1987): 169–87; Hava Tirosh-Rothschild, Between Worlds: The Life and Thought of Rabbi David Messer Leon (Albany, N.Y.: SUNY Press, 1991), 37, 47, 224, 229, 258n26, 341; Giuseppe Veltri, Renaissance Philosophy in Jewish Garb (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 1, 7, 62–63, 71 (Leone Ebreo); Shulvass, Jews in the World, 198–200, 328–30; Isaac E. Barzilay, Between Reason and Faith: Anti-Rationalism in Italian Jewish Thought, 1250–1650 (The Hague: Mouton, 1967), 86–87, 120–25, 154–56, 172, 198–99; David B. Ruderman, The World of a Renaissance Jew: The Life and Thought of Abraham ben Mordechai Farissol (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1981), 69– 70, 124–30, 146–47; Ruderman, Kabbalah, Magic and Science (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988), 5, 40–41, 78, 85, 116–20, 170–71, 191; Ruderman, ed. and trans., A Valley of Vision (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1990), 170–75; I. Reggio, ed., Examen Traditionis . . . Leonis Mutinensis (Goritiae, 1852), ix–x, 218–19; Talya Fishman, Shaking the Pillars of Exile (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1997) s.v. index ‘‘Astrology’’; Mark R. Cohen, ed., The Autobiography of a SeventeenthCentury Venetian Rabbi: Leon Modena’s Life of Judah (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1988), 7, 40nn143–44, 61, 110–11. 39. On criticism of astrology in the late medieval period and in the sixteenth century, see J. Guttman, introduction to Abraham bar H.iyya, Sefer megilat ha-megalle (Berlin: Mekize Nirdamim, 1924), xxvi–xxvii; Weinberg, Light of the Eyes, xv, 549–53. 40. Like Abraham Zacuto, Bonetto de Lattes, Mordechai Finzi. See, e.g., on Maestro Calo Kalonymos, T. Bı´ro´, ‘‘A Renaissance Astrological Manuscript from the Kaufmann Collection,’’ in David Kaufmann Memorial Volume, ed. E´. Apor (Budapest: MTAK, 2002), 41–59. On astrological prognostications in Italy and their influences on Jewish society, see David B. Ruderman, ‘‘Hope against Hope: Jewish and Christian Messianic Expectations in the Late Middle Ages,’’ in Exile and Diaspora: Studies in the History of the Jewish People Presented to Professor Haim Beinart, ed. A. Mirsky et al. (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 1991), 188–92. 41. See Bonfil, ‘‘Some Reflections,’’ 23–48; Bonfil, ed., Kitvei Azariah min ha-Adumim (Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1991), 11–168 (and the works cited on 131–33); M. Benayahu, ‘‘The Controversy,’’ 213–65; Weinberg, Light of the Eyes, xiii–xliv, and the works cited in the bibliography, 743–55. 42. On the details of the controversy, see Weinberg, Light of the Eyes, xlii–xliv; Bonfil, Kitvei Azariah, 96–119; Benayahu, ‘‘The Controversy,’’ 223–65.

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43. Weinberg, Light of the Eyes, xxvii–xxviii, xlii; Bonfil, ‘‘Some Reflections,’’ 25–26 [R. Moses Provenzali]; Weinberg, ibid., chap. 42, 526–42: ‘‘Discussions between the author and his friend regarding the person who casts doubt on our anno mundi computation’’ (Judah Moscato?: see ibid., 526n1). See also his comments on poetry, ibid., 714: ‘‘I therefore discussed this study of mine with the sagacious and third of the Provenzali brothers, who are the luminaries of Mantua, my land. I am referring to Rabbi Judah. . . . I read to him the text that I had written from the beginning of the chapter [60] until this juncture. . . . As he said . . . my method is correct and useful.’’ On the explosive impact of historical chronology, see Anthony Grafton, ‘‘Dating History: The Renaissance and the Reformation of Chronology,’’ Daedalus 132, no. 2 (2003): 74–85 (p. 80: ‘‘From the late sixteenth century onward, in fact, religious dissidents regularly cited chronological evidence when they challenged the authority of the Bible.’’). 44. See Weinberg, Light of the Eyes, 303: ‘‘Now I shall not refrain from informing you, dear reader, that when some learned members of our people come to hear what I had written about Titus’s gnat they spoke out against me claiming that I had, as it were, impaired the holy words of our sages’’; 395: ‘‘When rumor of this research of mine came to the notice of certain people in office, who are taking positions to oppose me, smoke signals began to rise, and without testing or reading my words . . . they proceeded to use the mouth before having first used their eyes. And they complained vociferously against me and claimed that any . . . dispute . . . with . . . our rabbis . . . constituted undermining of the religion and heresy.’’ 45. See Bonfil, ‘‘Some Reflections,’’ 26–29; Bonfil, Kitvei Azariah, 109–12, but see Weinberg’s remark (ibid., xliiin158): ‘‘However Yeh.iel Nissim da Pisa . . . was an important communal leader and erudite scholar.’’ 46. Survived only in the Mehlman copy. See I. Yudlov, Sefer ginzei Yisrael (⳱ The Israel Mehlman Collection in the Jewish National and University Library) (Jerusalem: Jewish National and University Library, 1984), no. 1327, pp. 211–12. 47. See Weinberg, Light of the Eyes, xliv; Benayahu, ‘‘The Controversy,’’ 232, 254, 257–59. 48. See Weinberg, Light of the Eyes, xvii–xviii. 49. Interestingly, Judah Lerma makes similar complaints about his economic losses as a result of his ordeal in the printing process of the editions of his book. 50. On the date and printing of this edition, see Joseph R. Hacker, ‘‘Agitation against Philosophy in Istanbul in the Sixteenth Century’’ (in Hebrew), in Meh.karim be-kabalah, be-filosofyah yehudit uve-sifrut ha-musar veha-hagut: Mugashim le-Yeshayah Tishbi, ed. J. Dan and J. Hacker (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1986), 533–36. 51. Menachem de Lonzano, Derekh h.ayim (Constantinople, [1575]), fols. 17a–24a, (fols. 21a–24a were reprinted in Hacker, ‘‘Agitation against Philosophy,’’ 524–32). 52. The nature of the attack, its background, and the argumentations are discussed in Hacker, ‘‘Agitation against Philosophy,’’ 508–23.

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53. There are no sources or references in the book that document or comment on the changes that were made in this edition. But Lonzano was involved in the printing process, since there are other personal attacks on contemporary scholars in the book, which were either added to some copies by the author or omitted from most copies by the printers. It is highly probable that Lonzano himself omitted these attacks as a result of outside pressure. On the additions to some copies, see Yudlov, Sefer ginzei Yisrael, no. 664, p.113. Lonzano travelled to Italy to print his book and most likely read its proofs. See Yedidya Norzi’s testimony in Zvi Betser, ed. Ha-nosafot le-minh.at shai (Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1997), 80–81: ‘‘and he showed me his hagahot on the Pentateuch before he brought them to the printer and he called the book Or Torah [i.e., the first part of Shtei yadot].’’ 54. See above, note 17. 55. Both numbers deal with his quarrel with his opponents. See S. Assaf, ‘‘The Responsa of Rabbi Azriel Diena’’ (in Hebrew), Kiryat Sefer 15 (1938): 113–19; J. Boksenboim, ed., She’elot u-teshuvot R. Azriel b’’r Shlomo Diena (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1979), 2:23, no. 181 on pp. 143–48; M. Benayahu, Mavo le-sefer Binyamin Zeev (Jerusalem: Yad ha-Rav Nisim, 1989), 99–155. 56. See Leone Modena, She’elot u-teshuvot Ziknei Yehudah, ed. Sh. Simonsohn (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1956), no. 28 on pp. 44–45; Y. Rivkind, ‘‘Dikdukei sefarim,’’ in Alexander Marx Jubilee Volume, ed. S. Lieberman (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1950), Hebrew part: 427–28 (no. 35). Chapter 6 1. On the burning of the Talmud see Karl Hoffmann, Ursprung und Anfangsta¨tigkeit des ersten pa¨pstlichen Missionsinstituts: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der katholischen Juden- und Mohammedanermission im sechzehnten Jahrhundert (Mu¨nster in Westfalen: Verlag der Aschendorffschen Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1923), 48–50; Kenneth Stow, ‘‘The Burning of the Talmud in 1553 in the Light of Sixteenth Century Catholic Attitudes towards the Talmud,’’ Bibliothe`que d’humanisme et renaissance 34 (1972): 435–59. 2. Paul Grendler, ‘‘The Destruction of Hebrew Books in Venice, 1568,’’ Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 45 (1978): 103–30, esp. 106. Stow speaks of papal involvement in the burning of the Talmud and calls the Roman Inquisition a direct arm of the papacy; see Stow, ‘‘Burning of the Talmud,’’ 437. Cecil Roth claims that the decision to burn the Talmud was an initiative of Pope Julius III himself (Venice [Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1930], 257, 259). By referring to the pope as the one ‘‘who ordered our glorious books to be burned,’’ in his Emek ha-bakha, Joseph ha-Kohen follows the usual pattern of Jewish complaints against the Church. The complaint is not meant to give detailed historical information as Stow seems to suggest; see Stow, 439–40. 3. Grendler, ‘‘Destruction of Hebrew Books,’’ 107. 4. Kenneth Stow, Catholic Thought and Papal Jewry Policy, 1555–1593 (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1977), 56–58. Stow, on the other hand, does note the

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pope’s compromise in that he reaffirmed the ban but approved the use of other rabbinic works; see Stow, ‘‘Burning of the Talmud,’’ 438. 5. Grendler, ‘‘Destruction of Hebrew Books,’’ 108. 6. On the severe position against the Talmud within the Congregation of the Inquisition and the indecisiveness of Julius III, see Paul Grendler, The Roman Inquisition and the Venetian Press, 1540–1605 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1977), 96. On the pope’s mild attitude towards heresies, see further Ludwig von Pastor, Geschichte der Pa¨pste seit dem Ausgang des Mittelalters. . . . Sechster Band: Geschichte der Pa¨pste im Zeitalter der katholischen Reformation und Restauration: Julius III., Marcellus II. und Paul IV. (1550–1559) (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1957), 160–61; Saverio Ricci, Il sommo inquisitore: Giulio Antonio Santori tra autobiografia e storia (1532–1602) (Rome: Salerno editrice, 2002), 61–63. And see Fausto Parente, ‘‘The Index, The Holy Office, the Condemnation of the Talmud and the Publication of Clement VIII’s Index,’’ in Church, Censorship, and Culture in Early Modern Europe, ed. G. Fragnito (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 163–93. 7. See Fausto Parente, ‘‘Contrasti tra Curia e Sant’Uffizio all’indomani del rogo di Campo de’ Fiori del 1553. Il De sola lectione legis di Francisco Torres e la Novella 146 di Giustiniano,’’ in Italia Judaica: Gli ebrei nello Stato Pontificio fino al Ghetto (1555) (Rome: Ministero per i beni culturali e ambientali, 1998), 158–86, esp. 159. 8. Biblioteca Fabroniana, Pistoia, Bellarmino, MS 15. 9. ‘‘Quare cum ad nostram notitiam non sine ingenti animi dolore pervenisset, male sui studiosam ac obstinatam hanc Hebraeorum gentem iam paene clausis et obsignatis sacrorum Bibliorum libris solis codicibus quibusdam, quos Thalmud appellant, studere ac eos, ut aiunt, diurna nocturnaque manu versare suosque filios a teneris unguiculis hac virulenta doctrina praecipue imbuere.’’ Moritz Stern, Urkundliche Beitra¨ge u¨ber die Stellung der Pa¨pste zu den Juden: Mit Benutzung des pa¨pstlichen Geheimarchivs zu Rom (Kiel: H. Fiencke, 1893–95), 99–100. For the correct dating of the document, see 98–99. 10. ‘‘omnes et singulos principes Christianos et rerum publicarum rectores nec non ordinarios locorum et haereticae pravitatis inquisitores hortamur et monemus . . . omnes huiusmodi libros Thalmud per domos et sinagogas Haebreorum in eorum civitatibus et terris habitantium diligenter perquiri et inventos publice comburi affiant’’ (ibid., 101). 11. See Marvin J. Heller, Printing the Talmud: A History of the Earliest Printed Editions of the Talmud (Brooklyn: Im Hasefer, 1992), 183–90; Grendler, Roman Inquisition, 91–93; and D. Kaufmann in Jewish Quarterly Review 13 (1901): 533–58. 12. Printed with various commentaries in Venice, in 1521–22 by Bomberg and in 1552 by Bragadini. 13. Printed in Venice in 1552 by Marco Antonio Giustiniani. 14. Stern, Urkundliche Beitra¨ge, 106–8. 15. Ibid., 113. 16. Parente, ‘‘Contrasti,’’ 158–62.

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17. Ibid., 163. Parente rejects Hoffmann’s reading of Ott Lat. 2532 that the Inquisition actually allowed the Jews to possess only the Bible, as requested by Torres; see Hoffmann. Ursprung, 59. Stow follows Hoffmann; see ‘‘Burning of the Talmud,’’ 441. The course of events under the pontificate of Gregory XIII, which will be discussed later, is proof that Torres’s request was not honoured by the Inquisition. 18. Fausto Parente, ‘‘La Chiesa e il Talmud,’’ in Storia d’Italia, Annali, vol. 11 (⳱ Gli ebrei in Italia, vol. 1, Dall’alto Medioevo all’ eta dei ghetti, ed. C. Vivanti [Torino: Giulio Einaudi, 1996], 521–643, esp. 593); and see Parente, ‘‘The Index.’’ See also Abraham Berliner, Censur und Confiscation hebra¨ischer Bu¨cher im Kirchenstaate (Frankfurt a. M.: J. Kauffmann, 1891), 4. For the beginning of censorship in the preparation of new editions, see I. Sonne, ‘‘Expurgation of Hebrew Books—The Work of Jewish Scholars: A Contribution to the History of the Censorship of Hebrew Books in Italy in the 16th Century,’’ Bulletin of the New York Public Library 46, no. 12 (December 1942): 975–1015, esp. 976. See also Shlomo Simonsohn, History of the Jews in the Duchy of Mantua (Jerusalem: Kiryath Sepher, 1977), 685–86. And now see also the contribution of N. Pasternak in this volume. Earlier attempts to implement censorship were made by the Nuncio in Venice Giovanni della Casa in 1548, who had orders from Rome to arrange for the censorship of Hebrew books in the republic. In 1550 Cardinal Verallo complained to the Venetian ambassador in Rome about Hebrew books printed in Venice that were pernicious to Christianity. His protest, however, did not prevent Giustiniani from completing his Talmud edition in 1551. Only after its publication did the Venetian Collegio order the Esecutori contro la bestemmia to examine the Talmud and to arrange for Christian experts to record blasphemies and other offensive passages. The results of this examination certainly contributed to the decision of the Roman Inquisition in 1553 to burn the Talmud; see Grendler, ‘‘Destruction of Hebrew Books,’’ 105–6. 19. The first Rabbinic Bible containing the Hebrew text of the Bible, its Aramaic rendering, and several rabbinic commentaries was edited by Felice da Prato and published by Daniel Bomberg in 1516–17. A second edition with different commentaries and the Masorah was edited by Jacob b. Chayim Ibn Adonijah and appeared in 1524– 25. A third edition, which apart from minor changes in the commentaries and the addition of Targum Yerushalmi, was a reprint of the second Rabbinic Bible; it appeared in 1547–48. For a full description of the first and second edition, see C. D. Ginsburg, Introduction to the Massoretico-Critical Edition of the Hebrew Bible (London: Trinitarian Bible Society, 1897), 925–48 and 956–74. See further, for all three editions, Historical Catalogue of the Printed Editions of Holy Scripture in the Library of the British and Foreign Bible Society, compiled by T. H. Darlow and H. F. Moule (n.p.: British and Foreign Bible Society, 1903–11), 2:5083, 5085, and 5093. 20. Francisci Torrensis de sola lectione legis & prophetarum Iudaeis cum Mosaico ritu, & cultu permittenda: et de Iesu in Synagogis eorum ex lege, ac prophetis ostendendo,& annunciando (Rome, 1555).

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21. Ch. Dejob, Documents tire´s des papiers du cardinal Sirleto et de quelques autres manuscrits de la Vaticane sur les Juifs des ´etats pontificaux (Versailles: Cerf, 1884), 88–90; Parente, ‘‘Contrasti,’’ 165. For Torres, see also Stow, Catholic Thought, 212–17; and Parente, ‘‘Contrasti,’’ 159n4. For the various attitudes vis-a`-vis the Talmud in view of conversion in the second half of the sixteenth century, see Stow, ‘‘Burning of the Talmud,’’ 442–59. 22. ‘‘Utrum infidelium ritus sint tolerandi,’’ IIa IIae, quaest. X, art.XI,3. For the Jewish plea with reference to Thomas Aquinas to save their commentaries, see Dejob, Documents, 89–90. 23. See, e.g., Heb., chap. 10 24. Parente, ‘‘Contrasti,’’ 166–68. 25. Quoted in ibid., 172. 26. See J. Wicks, Cajetan Responds: A Reader in Reformation Controversy (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1978), 34–38. 27. The unanimous view that Sisto was a Jewish convert has been questioned by Fausto Parente, ‘‘Alcune osservazioni preliminary per una biografia di Sisto Senense: Fu realmente Sisto un ebreo convertito?’’ in Italia Judaica. ‘‘Gli ebrei in Italia tra Rinascimento ed Eta` barocca’’. Atti del II Convegno internazionale, Genova 10–15 giugno 1984 (Rome: Ufficio centrale per i beni archivisti, 1986), 211–31. On Sisto’s deeds in Cremona, see also Meir Benayahu, Ha-defus ha-ivri be-Kremona (Jerusalem: Makhon Ben-Zvi and Mosad Harav Kook, 1977), 89–104. 28. Bibliotheca Sancta a F. Sixto Senensi, ordinis Praedicatorum, ex praecipuis catholicae ecclesiae autoribus collecta, et in octo libros digesta; quorum inscriptiones sequens pagina indicabit (Venice: apud Franciscum Franciscium Senensem, 1566), 485–87. 29. Christian Hebraists like Johannes Reuchlin, Martin Bucer, Sebastian Mu¨nster, Konrad Pellican, Johannes Pappus, and Joseph Scaliger possessed a Rabbinic Bible. See Stephen Burnett, ‘‘Christian Aramaism: The Birth and Growth of Aramaic Scholarship in the Sixteenth Century,’’ in Seeking Out the Wisdom of the Ancients: Essays Offered to Honor Michael V. Fox on the Occasion of His Sixty-Fifth Birthday, ed. R. L. Troxel et al. (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 421–36, esp. 434–36. The Bibliotheca Sancta mentions Rashi’s commentaries (published in all three editions of the Bomberg Rabbinic Bible); David Kimh.i’s commentaries on Psalms and Prophets (1st ed.); David ben Solomon ibn Yah.ya’s commentary on Proverbs, Kav ve-naki (1st ed.); Abraham Farissol’s and Nah.manides’ commentaries on Job (1st ed.); Ibn Ezra’s commentary on the Pentateuch and the Prophets with reference to an edition printed by Bomberg in Venice (2nd ed.), Levi ben Gershom’s commentaries on Joshua, Judges, Samuel, Kings, Proverbs and Job (3rd ed.); and Saadia Gaon’s commentary on Daniel (3rd ed.). 30. Vat. lat. 14628, 14629, 14630, Borg. lat. 149. 31. Gustavo Sacerdote in his description of Vat. lat. 14628 (formerly catalogued as Neofiti 39) erroneously claims that the collections were meant to produce an Index expurgatorius, see ‘‘Deux index expurgatoires de livres he´breux,’’ Revue des etudes juives 30 (1895): 257–83, esp. 269. This assumption has been widely accepted and

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recently repeated; see, e.g., Berliner, Censur und Confiscation hebra¨ischer Bu¨cher im Kirchenstaate (Frankfurt a. M.: J. Kauffmann, 1891), 6; William Popper, Censorship of Hebrew Books (New York: Knickerbocker, 1899), 62–64; Hoffmann, Ursprung, 137–38; Stow, ‘‘Burning of the Talmud,’’ 406; Parente, ‘‘La Chiesa e il Talmud,’’ 606; P. Godman, The Saint as Censor: Robert Bellarmine between Inquisition and Index (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 59. I discuss the matter in my forthcoming book, Conversion and Censorship under Pope Gregory XIII. 32. Abraham Saba’s commentary on the Pentateuch, Fasciculus myrrhae (Zeror ha-mor) and Bahya ben Asher ben Halawa’s commentary on the Pentateuch. 33. Giulio Negri, Istoria degli scrittori Fiorentini (Farnborough: Gregg, 1969), 2. 34. See Vat. Lat. 6207, 93. C. G. Imbonati erroneously identifies him with the Jesuit Didacus Lopez de Mesa, who left in 1572 for Mexico, where he died on 31 October 1615; see C. G. Imbonati, Bibliotheca Latino-Hebraica sive de scriptoribus latinis, qui ex diversis nationibus contra Judaeos, vel de re Hebraica utcumque scripsere etc. (Romae: Ex typographia Sacræ Congregationis de Propaganda Fide, 1694), 35. For Didacus Lopez de Mesa see Fe´lix Zubillaga, Monumenta mexicana I (Rome: Monumenta Historica Soc. Iesu, 1956), 537 and Aloys. De Backer, Bibliothe`que de la Compagnie de Je´sus IV, 1960–61. 35. Parente, ‘‘La chiesa e il Talmud,’’ 604n177. 36. Marci Marini Brixiani . . . Annotationes literales in Psalmos nova versione ab ipsomet illustratos nunc primum editæ opera et studio D. Joannis Aloysii Mingarelli . . . qui etiam auctoris vitam, Scriptorumque de ipso testimonia, & Hebræorum Canticorum exzplicationem addidit (Bononiae: Apud Thomam Colli, 1748), 1:xvii. 37. Dizionario biografico degli Italiani (Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia italiana, 1961), 3:654–56. 38. See Ottob. lat. 2452, 10v. 39. Before his conversion his name was Menahem de Nola; see G. Bartolocci, Bibliotheca magna Rabbinica de scriptoribus & scriptis Hebraicis, ordine alphabetico Hebraice & Latine digestis. Cum indice rerum, nominum & locorum sacræ scripturæ locupletissimo (Rome : Ex typographia Sacræ Congregationis de Propaganda Fide, 1675–94), 4: 33–35; H. Vogelstein and P. Rieger, Geschichte der Juden in Rom (Berlin: Mayer & Mu¨ller, 1895–96), 2:283–84; Hoffmann, Ursprung, 207–8. 40. G. Bartolocci, Bibliotheca magna rabbinica, 4:337; Vogelstein and Rieger, Geschichte, 2:285; Roger Le De´aut, ‘‘Jalons pour une histoire d’un manuscript du Targum palestinien (Neofiti I),’’ Biblica 48 (1967): 509–33, esp. 516. 41. The heading for an index of unacceptable interpretations of Scripture by Rashi and Bah.ya ben Asher ben Halawa reads: ‘‘Errores, falsa dogmata, blasphemiae, contumeliae, deliramenta, perversiones scripturae’’ (Vat. Lat. 14629, 4). 42. From the Middle Ages onwards the Vulgate was the generally accepted Bible text of the Church and had been given a unique position by the Council of Trent, when declaring in the decree Insuper ‘‘that this old and common (vulgata) edition, which has been approved by the long use of so many centuries in the Church, should

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be considered authentic in public reading, disputations, sermons and explanations’’ (see Bruce M. Metzger, The Early Versions of the New Testament: Their Origin, Transmission and Limitations [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977], 330–62). 43. Confirming that this was the purpose of the undertaking are three other manuscripts in the Vatican Library—Vat. ebr. 512, 513, and 514—which constitute a first draft of a ‘‘Jewish Encyclopaedia’’ (512 and 513) and a compendium of the Talmud (514), undoubtedly meant to instruct Christians about the Jewish religion. For more on these manuscripts, see my forthcoming book Conversion and Censorship under Pope Gregory XIII. Under Gregory XIII representatives of the Jewish community were forced to attend a weekly sermon on Shabbat. On this, see Gregory Martin, Roma Sancta (1581), ed. George Bruner Parks (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1969), 77–83; and Hoffmann, Ursprung, 201n1. 44. Vat. Lat. 14628, 246v. 45. Vat. Lat. 14629, 143 46. ‘‘Manahem a` Rechanate edidit commentarios in Pentateuchum, ZIONI praenotatos: quorum cum mille fere exemplaria, innumeris Thalmudistarum impietatibus referta, ad nos fuissent perlata, mandante Sacro Romanae Inquisitionis Senatu, una cum aliis decem millibus Thalmudicorum Scriptorum volumnibus exusta fuerunt’’ (Bibliotheca Sancta, 486). 47. Parente, ‘‘Contrasti,’’ 165. For the collection see Vat. Lat. 14628, 177, 190, 396– 406. 48. Vat. Lat. 14628, 7v. 49. Babylonian Talmud, Tractate (hereafter, BT) Pesah.im 64a. 50. M. Mielziner, Introduction to the Talmud (New York: Bloch, 1925), 120–27. 51. ‘‘Thalmudicum,’’ see Vat. Lat. 14628, 21 (Rashi on Num. 32:20); 27v (Rashi on Deut. 12); 56 (Rashi on Judg. 5:23); 64 (Rashi on 2 Kings 22:8). 52. ‘‘Ex Thalmud,’’ see Vat. Lat. 14628, 56 (Rashi on Judg. 6:19); 58v (1 Sam. 9:24) 53. ‘‘De traditionibus thalmudicis,’’ see Vat. Lat. 14628, 30v (Rashi on Lev. 10:1). 54. ‘‘Ex frigidis Thalmudistarum quaestionibus haustumi,’’ see Vat. Lat. 14628, 60 (Rashi on 1 Sam. 17:53). 55. ‘‘Sumptum ex disputationibus Thalmudicis,’’ see Vat. Lat. 1468, 65v (Rashi on 1 Kings 4:16). 56. ‘‘Traditio, credo, thalmudica,’’ see Vat. Lat. 14628, 185 (Rashi on 1 Kings 22:7). 57. Vat. Lat. 14628, 7v. 58. BT Pesah.im 84b. 59. BT Yoma 80a; cf. BT Pesah.im 84b–85a. 60. Vat. Lat. 14628, 369v (possibly Yalkut Shimoni, mentioned by Sisto da Sienna). 61. For his knowledge of Hebrew, see Piet van Boxel, ‘‘Robert Bellarmine, Christian Hebraist and Censor,’’ in History of Scholarship: A Selection of Papers from the Seminar on the History of Scholarship Held Annually at the Warburg Institute, ed. C. R. Ligota and J.-L. Quantin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 251–75, esp. 254–58. 62. Ibid., 258–73.

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63. ‘‘Errores R. Salomonis in quinque libros Mosis’’ (Fabroniana, Bellarmine, MS 15). In his assessment of Rashi’s commentary Bellarmine applies the same exegetical criteria as those he used in his exegesis of Genesis when teaching in Louvain, which already reveal his cautious and critical use of the rabbinic commentaries; see Van Boxel, ‘‘Robert Bellarmine,’’ 272. 64. ‘‘Faciamus hominem: vult R. Salomon Deum angelis dixisse, faciamus hominem et addit haereticos hunc locum pro se arripere, sed frustra, cum scriptum sit, creavit Deus, non creaverunt Dii. Quibus verbis satis aperte Trinitatis mysterium oppugnat, et christianos haereticos vocat’’ (Fabroniana, Bellarmine, MS 15, a.l). 65. For a detailed description of the criteria of censorship applied by Bellarmine, see X. M. Le Bachelet, Auctarium Bellarminianum: Supple´ment aux Oeuvres du Cardinal Bellarmin (Paris: Gabriel Beauchesne, 1913), 658–60. 66. CAP. 8. ‘‘Recordatus autem Deus Noe. cunctorumque animantium [v.1]: meruerunt, inquit R. Salomon, animantia, ut Deus ipsorum recordaretur, quoniam tanto tempore se a concubitu abstinuerunt.’’ 67. See Van Boxel, ‘‘Robert Bellarmine,’’ 259–60. 68. BT Sanhedrin 108b. 69. ‘‘Monet R. Salomon, corvum timuisse ne se absente Noe corniculam suam in uxorem acciperet, et propterea non fuisse ausum longius ab arca recedere. Ad quod etiam confirmandum testimonium producit ex Talmud’’ (Fabroniana, Bellarmine, MS 15, a.l). 70. BT Shevuot 36a. 71. ‘‘Nequaquam ultra maledicam, etc [v.21]: iterum citatur Talmud’’ (Fabroniana, Bellarmine, MS 15, a.l). 72. ‘‘Nox et dies non requiescent [v.22]: Nam tempore diluvii, inquit R. Salomon, nec sol caeterique planetae movebantur, nec dies ac nox dignoscebantur.’’ 73. ‘‘Numerus Singularis pro Plurali, & e` contra.’’ Nota, in Scripturis pluralem pro singulari frequenter poni, & e` converso. Verum non semper ea uti debes, haec enim regula multa occuparet mysteria in Sacris Litteris obumbrata, & Hebraeis ansam ridendi praeberet nimis latam, omnibusque viribus evitandam, ut Deo dante in libro nostro de sensibus Sacrae Scripturae contra Hebraeos, satis apparebit. Unum pro multis narasse sufficiat Ios ult. Vers 20. [Josh. 20:19]. Quem versum explicavimus in sacro Templo et Oratorio Vener. Archiconfraternitatis sanctissimae Trinitatis convalescentium et peregrinorum die 10 Septem. 1605 ad isposmet Hebraeos Concionem de more habentes, si quis autem adstruat talem regulam, singularem pro plurali vel e contra sanctissimae Trinitatis misterium ibi signatum (licet sub velamine) negatur quo audito Hebraei cachinant. Haec ergo regula in scripturis explicandis contra Hebraeos praesertim satis caute uterem’’ (Institutiones in linguam sanctam hebraicam authore Benedicto Blancuccio Romano [Rome: apud Bartholomaeum Zennettum, 1608], 40). 74. ‘‘Commentaria Rabbi Salomonis et Chimi et Rabbini Hierosolimytani et similium super Vetus Testamentum, tam scripta hebraice quam latine, translata per conradum et Paulum Fagium haereticos’’; in Index de Rome 1590, 1593, 1596: Avec ´etude des

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index de Parme 1580 et Munich 1582, ed. J. M. De Bujanda et al. (Sherbrooke, Que´bec: Centre d’e´tudes de la Renaissance, Editions de l’Universite´ de Sherbrooke, 1994), 494. Chapter 7 The research for this article was mainly done while I was a Primo Levi and an Albert J. Wood Fellow at the University of Pennsylvania’s Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies in 2005–6. My stay there was made possible by the generosity of Professor David Ruderman, Dr. Andrew Viterbi, Mrs. Ele Wood, and Mr. Albert Wood z’’l, to whom I am very grateful. I wish to thank all of the other fellows and the staff of the center for having inspired my studies, shared insights, and made me feel at home. Finally, I thank Dr. Francesca Bregoli and Professor Magda Teter for their important remarks on the first version of this essay. 1. On this episode, see David Ruderman, Kabbalah, Magic, and Science: The Cultural Universe of a Sixteenth-Century Jewish Physician (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988), 16–17. 2. Archivio Storico Comunale di Modena (hereafter, ASCMO), Atti della Municipalita`, 1617 s.d. and 14 May 1618, quoted by Albano Biondi, ‘‘Gli ebrei e l’Inquisizione negli Stati estensi,’’ in L’Inquisizione e gli ebrei in Italia, ed. M. Luzzati (Rome: Laterza, 1994), 274. 3. On these vicissitudes, see my ‘‘Jewish Families in Modena from the Renaissance to the Napoleonic Emancipation (1600–1810)’’ (Ph.D. diss., University of Haifa, 2007), 118–30. 4. Specifically for the Italian context, see Edward Muir, Civic Ritual in Renaissance Venice (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1981), 185–210; Guido Ruggiero, ‘‘Constructing Civic Morality, Deconstructing the Body: Civic Rituals of Punishment in Renaissance Venice,’’ in Riti e rituali nelle societa` medievali, ed. J. Chiffoleau, L. Martines, and A. Paravicini Bagliani (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo, 1994), 174–90; Kenneth Stow, ‘‘Medieval Jews on Christianity,’’ Rivista di storia del Cristianesimo 4, no. 1 (2007): 73–100. 5. Francesconi, ‘‘Jewish Families,’’ 52–130. For a contextualization, see Stow, Catholic Thought and Papal Jewry Policy, 1555–1593 (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary), 1977. 6. Archivio di Stato di Modena (hereafter, ASMO), Archivio per Materie, Inquisizione, Causae Hebreorum, busta no. 247, fascicolo no. 3, 25 November 1636. On the vicissitudes of Jews in Modena and the Inquisition, see Biondi, ‘‘Gli ebrei e l’Inquisizione’’; Katherine Aron-Beller, ‘‘Jews before the Modenese Inquisition (1600–1610)’’ (Ph.D. diss., University of Haifa, 2003); and Francesconi, ‘‘Jewish Families,’’ 52–130. On Modenese Jews and their books before the Inquisition, see Mauro Perani, ‘‘Confisca e censura di libri ebraici a Modena fra Cinque e Seicento,’’ in L’Inquisizione e gli ebrei, ed. Luzzati, 287–320. 7. For a definition of ‘‘negotiation’’ in this context, see D. Ruderman, ‘‘Cecil Roth as Historian of Italian Jewry: A Reassessment,’’ in The Jewish Past Revisited: Reflections

Notes to Pages 134–135

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on Modern Jewish Historians, ed. D. Myers and D. Ruderman (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1998), 128–42, esp. 139. 8. The number of trials dealing with Jewish possession of both illicit and uncensored titles from 1598 to1638 is 40 cases out of 1,400 from the comprehensive collections of the Fondo Causae Hebreorum and the Fondo Processi, located in the Modenese Inquisition archives (73 are proceedings against Christians, accused of forbidden books). My analysis is based on a database I created of virtually all inquisitorial records that involved Jews in the Inquisition Archives of Modena for the period 1598–1650. Unless otherwise noted, all information and citations came from folders of unpaginated documents; a few trials from the Inquisition Archive in Modena are only partially paginated. 9. For this methodological approach, although with different emphases and sometimes conclusions, see John Tedeschi, The Prosecution of Heresy: Collected Studies on the Inquisition in Early Modern Italy (Binghamton, N.Y.: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1991), 47–88; Andrea Del Col, ‘‘I processi dell’Inquisizione come fonte: Considerazioni diplomatiche e storiche,’’ Annuario dell’Istituto storico italiano per l’eta` moderna e contemporanea 35–36 (1983–84): 29–49; Carlo Ginzburg, ‘‘Stregoneria e pieta` popolare: Note a proposito di un processo modenese del 1519,’’ in Ginzburg, Miti emblemi spie: Morfologia e storia (Turin: Einaudi, 1982), 3–28. 10. Lists of books presented by Mantuan Jews to the local Inquisition at the turn of the sixteenth century show mostly Hebrew books, while the case of Modena can be used to shed light on the broader situation. On the Mantuan lists, see Shlomo Simonsohn, ‘‘Books and Libraries of Mantuan Jews, 1595’’ (in Hebrew), Kiryat Sefer 37 (1962): 103–22; Shifra Baruchson, Sefarim ve-korim: tarbut ha-keriah shel yehude Italyah beshilhe ha-renesans (Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 1993). See some observations by Robert Bonfil, Jewish Life in Renaissance Italy (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1994), 146–49. 11. D. Ruderman, introduction to Cultural Intermediaries: Jewish Intellectuals in Early Modern Italy, ed. Ruderman and G. Veltri (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 1–23, esp. 8–9. 12. Ruderman, introduction to Cultural Intermediaries, 4; and Adam Shear, ‘‘Judah Moscato’s Scholarly Self-Image and the Question of Jewish Humanism,’’ in Cultural Intermediaries, ed. Ruderman and Veltri, 149–77, esp. 157–60. See also Ruderman, ‘‘Why Periodization Matters: On Early Modern Jewish Culture and Haskalah,’’ Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 6 (2007): 23–32. 13. On Abraham Hananiah de Gallichi (1553–ca. 1623), Mordecai Dato (1525– 1600), and Menah.em Azariah da Fano (1548–1620), see D. Ruderman, ed., Essential Papers on Jewish Culture in Renaissance and Baroque Italy (New York: New York University Press, 1992), and the sources cited below. 14. See, among others, Antonio Rotondo`, ‘‘I movimenti ereticali nell’Europa del Cinquecento,’’ Rivista storica italiana 78 (1961): 103–39; Susanna Peyronel Rambaldi, Speranze e crisi nel Cinquecento modenese: Tensioni religiose e vita cittadina ai tempi di

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Giovanni Morone (Milan: Franco Angeli, 1979); Massimo Firpo, Inquisizione romana e controriforma: Studi sul cardinale Giovanni Morone e il suo processo d’eresia (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1992). 15. A. Biondi, ‘‘Lunga durata e microarticolazione nel territorio di un Ufficio dell’Inquisizione: Il Sacro Tribunale a Modena (1292–1785),’’ Annali dell’Istituto Storico Italo-germanico in Trento 8 (1982): 73–90. 16. ASMO, Archivio per Materie, Ebrei, busta no. 15, fascicolo no. 4, fols. 91–93 and ivi ‘‘Nota delle famiglie che sono fuori del loco preposto per il ghetto,’’ fols. 66–67. On the history of Jews in Modena, see Andrea Balletti, Gli Ebrei e gli Estensi (Reggio Emilia, Aedes Muratoriana 1913); Attilio Milano, Storia degli ebrei in Italia (Turin, Einaudi 1963), 301–3, 343–45; Franco Bonilauri and Vincenza Maugeri, eds., Le Comunita` ebraiche di Modena e Carpi (Florence: Giuntina, 1999); Francesconi, ‘‘Jewish Families,’’ and Francesconi, ‘‘Jewish Women in Eighteenth-Century Modena: Individual, Household and Collective Properties,’’ in Across the Religious Divide: Women’s Properties in the Wider Mediterranean (ca. 1300–1800), ed. Jutta Sperling and Shona Wray (New York: Routledge, 2010), 191–207. 17. See A. Biondi, ‘‘La ‘Nuova Inquisizione’ a Modena: Tre Inquisitori (1589– 1697),’’ in Citta` italiane del ‘500 tra Riforma e Controriforma: Atti del Convegno internazionale di studi, Lucca, 13–15 ottobre 1983 (Lucca: Maria Pacini Fazzi, 1988), 61–76. The quotation is from Marco Folin, Rinascimento estense: Politica, cultura, istituzioni di un antico Stato Italiano (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2001), 372. 18. Folin, Rinascimento estense, 363–91. For a recent, in-depth analysis of similar Church conceptions and attitudes toward Jews and prostitutes in early modern Italy, see Lance Gabriel Lazar, Working in the Vineyard of the Lord: Jesuit Confraternities in Early Modern Italy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005), 126–52. 19. Giovan Battista Spaccini, Cronaca di Modena: Anni 1588–1602, ed. A. Biondi et al. (Modena: Franco Cosimo Panini, 1993), 126–27. 20. On the Este Duchy, see Lino Marini, Lo Stato Estense, in I ducati padani, Trento e Trieste, Storia d’Italia, ed. Lino Maini, Giovanni Tocci, and Aldo Stella (Turin: Utet, 1979), 17:3–211, reprinted in Lo Stato Estense (Turin: Utet Libreria, 987); and Folin, Rinascimento estense. 21. Spaccini, Cronaca di Modena, 73–82, 107–18; and Biondi, ‘‘Gli ebrei e l’Inquisizione negli Stati estensi,’’ in L’Inquisizione e gli ebrei in Italia, ed. M. Luzzati (Rome: Laterza, 1994), 265–85. 22. Francesconi, ‘‘Jewish Families,’’ 52–130. 23. See Stow, ‘‘The Burning of the Talmud in 1553, in the Light of Sixteenth Century Catholic Attitudes toward the Talmud,’’ Bibliothe`que d’Humanisme et Renaissance 34 (1972): 435–59; Fausto Parente, ‘‘The Index, the Holy Office, the Condemnation of the Talmud and Publication of Clement VIII’s Index,’’ in Church, Censorship and Culture in Early Modern Italy, ed. G. Fragnito (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 163–93.

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24. See Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor, the Editor, and the Text: The Catholic Church and the Shaping of the Jewish Canon in the Sixteenth Century, trans. Jackie Feldman (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), esp. 73–78. 25. A. Biondi, ‘‘Inquisizione ed ebrei a Modena nel Seicento,’’ in Vita e cultura ebraica nello stato estense, ed. E. Fregni and M. Perani (Bologna: Fattoadarte, 1993), 259–73, esp. 269. On the dynamics of ecclesiastical censorship of Hebrew books in sixteenth-century Italy, see Piet van Boxel, Censorship and Conversion of the Jews under Pope Gregory XIII, forthcoming (as well as his contribution in this volume); and for an interpretation of this phenomenon in the Counter-Reformation context, see RazKrakotzkin, The Censor. 26. This aspect is usually neglected by Jewish historians; see Gigliola Fragnito, La Bibbia al rogo: La censura ecclesiastica e il volgarizzamento della scrittura, 1471–1605 (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1997); and A. Rotondo`, ‘‘La Censura Ecclesiastica e la cultura,’’ in Storia d’Italia V, I Documenti (Turin: Einaudi, 1973), 1399–1492; Rotondo`, ‘‘Nuovi documenti per la storia dell’Indice dei Libri proibiti (1572–1638),’’ Rinascimento 2, no. 3 (1963): 145–211. 27. The documentation regarding the library of Moise` Modena is preserved in ASMO, Inquisizione, busta no. 12, fascicolo no. 9, 13 February 1600. 28. See Gigliola Fragnito, ‘‘The Central and Peripheral Organization of Censorship,’’ in Church, Censorship, 8–40; Fragnito, Proibito capire: La chiesa e il volgare nella prima eta` moderna (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2005). 29. For sixteenth-century books and those printed in Italy, I have indicated the ‘‘editio princeps’’ in brackets. 30. Joanna Weinberg, translator’s introduction in Azariah de’ Rossi, The Light of the Eyes (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2001), xiii–xlv, esp. xxxii. 31. Regarding the Modena family, see The Autobiography of a Seventeenth-Century Venetian Rabbi: Leon Modena’s Life of Judah, trans. and ed. M. R. Cohen (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1988), 76–77, 185–186; for an analysis of the vicissitudes of Moise` Modena’s family and the Jewish community of Modena at the time, see Francesconi, ‘‘Jewish Families,’’ esp. 46–124. 32. For a contextualization, see Bonfil, Jewish Life, 125–44; Bonfil, ‘‘Reading in the Jewish Communities of Western Europe in the Middle Ages,’’ in A History of Reading in the West, ed. R. Chartier and G. Cavallo (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1999), 149–78; and the texts cited in the following footnote. 33. Simh.a Assaf, Mekorot le-toledot ha-h.inukh be-Yisrael (Tel Aviv: Hotsa’at Devir, 1930), 2:115–20; I have utilized the translation by Jacob Marcus, The Jew in the Medieval World: A Source Book 315–1791, rev. ed. with intro. and updated bibliog. by Marc Saperstein (Cincinnati: Union of American Hebrew Congregations, 1999), 438–45, quotation from 441. For a recent discussion, see Gianfranco Miletto, ‘‘The Teaching Program of David ben Abraham and His Son Abraham Provenzali in the Historical-Cultural Context of the Time,’’ in Cultural Intermediaries, ed. Ruderman and Veltri, 127–48. For a

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Notes to Pages 139–141

comparison with the Christian world, see Paul Grendler, Schooling in Renaissance Italy: Literacy and Learning 1300–1600 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989). 34. Marcus, Jew in the Medieval World, 442. 35. About the importance of this group of texts for the Italian Jews, see R. Bonfil, Rabbis and Jewish Communities in Renaissance Italy (London: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 1993), 135–37; and on Da Pisa, see Alessandro Guetta, ‘‘Religious Life and Jewish Erudition in Pisa: Yehiel Nissim da Pisa and the Crisis of Aristotelianism,’’ in Cultural Intermediaries, ed. Ruderman and Veltri, 86–108. 36. Bonfil, Rabbis and Jewish Communities, 140–41. 37. On the importance of these texts for Italian Jews, see above, note 35. Interestingly in 1601, only a year after this proceeding, Aaron Berechiah, the son of Moise`, was engaged in preparing the compendia of Cordovero’s works; see Isaiah Tishby, ‘‘The Confrontation between Lurianic and Cordoverian Kabbalah in the Writings and Life of R. Aharon Berechiah of Modena’’ (in Hebrew), Z.ion 39 (1974): 25–81; Moshe Idel, ‘‘Major Currents in Italian Kabbalah between 1560–1660,’’ in Essential Papers, ed. Ruderman, 345–68. 38. For the context, see Eugenio Garin, Il rinascimento italiano (Milan: ISP, 1941); Anthony Grafton, Defenders of the Text: The Traditions of Scholarship in an Age of Science (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1991). 39. Shear, ‘‘Judah Moscato’s,’’ 159–60. 40. See ad vocem, J. Martinez de Bujanda, ed., Index Librorum Prohibitorum, vol. 10, Thesaurus de la lite´rature interdit au XVIe sie`cle (Sherbrooke, Quebec: Centre d’e´tudes de la Renaissance, 1996). 41. Weinberg, translator’s introduction, xxxvi. 42. Marcus, Jew in the Medieval World, 442. 43. On this point, see D. Ruderman, ‘‘An Exemplary Sermon from the Classroom of a Jewish Teacher in Renaissance Italy,’’ Italia 1, no. 2 (1978): 7–38, esp. 7–13. 44. Marc Saperstein, ‘‘Italian Jewish Preaching: An Overview,’’ in Preachers of the Italian Ghetto, ed. D. Ruderman (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1992), 22–40, esp. 28–29. For a comparison with the Catholic context, see Grendler, Schooling in Renaissance Italy, 203–34, 275–32. Provenzali’s curriculum emphasized that ‘‘at fixed periods, the students will engage in debates in the presence of the teacher, deliberating on matters of Jewish law and the sciences in order to sharpen their minds. . . . Also they will gradually be taught to speak in public and to preach before congregations.’’ Quotation from Marcus, The Jew in the Medieval World, 443. 45. A. S. Osley, Scribes and Sources: Handbook of the Chancery Hand in the Sixteenth Century (Boston: Godine, 1980), 57–59. 46. The bibliography is quite numerous, but see G. Fragnito, In museo e in villa (Venice: Arsenale, 1988); Lina Bolzoni, La stanza della memoria: Modelli letterari e iconografici nell’eta` della stampa (Turin: Einaudi, 1995). 47. R. Bonfil, ‘‘One of the Italian Sermons of R. Mordechai Dato’’ (in Hebrew), Italia 1, no. 1 (1976): 1–32; Marc Saperstein, Jewish Preaching 1200–1800: An Anthology (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1989), 41.

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48. On Cornelio Musso, see Corrie Norman, Humanist Taste and Franciscan Values: Cornelio Musso and Catholic Preaching in Sixteenth-Century Italy (New York: P. Lang, 1998). 49. J. Weinberg, ‘‘Preaching in the Venetian Ghetto: The Sermons of Leon Modena,’’ in Preachers of the Italian Ghetto, ed. Ruderman, 105–28, esp. 110. 50. Ruderman, A Valley of Vision: The Heavenly Journey of Abraham Ben Hananiah Yagel (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1990), esp. 5–11. 51. Ruderman, Kabbalah, Magic, and Science, esp. 29, 47, 59–73, 113–14. 52. See the classic treatments of Paolo Rossi, Clavis universalis: Arti della memoria e logica combinatoria da Lullo a Leibniz (Milan: Ricciardi, 1960); Frances Yates, Giordano Bruno and the Hermetic Tradition (London: Routledge and K. Paul, 1964); and Yates, The Art of Memory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966). And more recently, see the new and expanded ed. of Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008); and Lina Bolzoni, Il teatro della memoria: Studi su Giulio Camillo (Padua: Liviana Editrice, 1984). 53. Fragnito, In museo e in villa, 11–64. 54. For a contextualization, see A. Grafton, Cardano’s Cosmos: The Worlds and Works of a Renaissance Astrologer (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999); and, specifically on the Jewish milieu, see Ruderman, Kabbalah, Magic, and Science. 55. See Claudia Pancino, ‘‘Scipione Mercurio: Il pensiero e la carriera di un medico nella prima eta` moderna,’’ Quaderni di discipline storiche 12 (1998): 247–70. 56. Aaron Berechiah Modena, Ma’avar Yabbok, ‘‘Minh.at ‘Aharon,’’ part 4, chapter 4. 57. Elliott Horowitz, ‘‘I Carmi di Cremona: Una famiglia di banchieri nella prima eta` moderna,’’ Zakhor 3 (1999): 155–70, esp. 169–70. 58. Francesconi, ‘‘Jewish Families,’’ 52–130. 59. ASMO, Archivio per Materie, Ebrei, busta no. 6, fol. 48 (21 January 1565), fol. 49 (9 May 1565), fol. 68 (28 April 1572). 60. Francesconi, ‘‘Jewish Families,’’ 52–130. 61. On the history of the Sanguinettis, see ibid., esp. 52–130. 62. See Biondi, ‘‘La ‘Nuova Inquisizione,’ ’’ 61–76. The complete documentation is preserved in ASMO, Archivio Inquisizione, Fabbrica Santo Uffizio, unnumbered pages, 1601–2. 63. ASMO, Inquisizione, Fondo Processi, busta no. 15, fascicolo no. 3, 3 November 1602. On the censorship of Ashkenazi mah.zorim, see Meir Benayahu, Haskamah vereshut (Jerusalem: Makhon Ben-Zvi and Mosad Harav Kook, 1971). On Yiddish literature and culture in Italy during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, see Chone Shmeruk, ‘‘Yiddish Printing in Italy,’’ Italia 3, no.1–2 (1982): 92–175; and Chava Turniansky and Erika Timm, Yiddish in Italia (Milan: Associazione Amici dell’Universita` di Gerusalemme, 2003). 64. Da Modena, Autobiography, 79; and Modena, Ma’avar Yabbok, fol. 7a.

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65. On Leone Poggetti, see Francesconi, ‘‘Jewish Families,’’ 52–130; documentation is preserved also in ASMO, Causae Hebreorum, busta no. 247, fascicolo no. 25; and ibid., busta no. 119, fascicolo no. 25. 66. See introduction to Modena, Ma’avar Yabbok, ‘a–b. See Avriel Bar-Levav, ‘‘Rabbi Aaron Berakhiah of Modena and Rabbi Naftali Hakohen Katz: Founding Fathers of Books for the Sick and the Dying’’ (in Hebrew), Asufot 9 (1995): 189–233, esp. 189–226. Other documentation is preserved in ASMO, Inquisizione, busta no. 77, fascicolo no. 14, 24 March 1625 (I thank Dr. Katherine Aron-Beller for bringing this trial to my attention). 67. ASMO, Archivio per Materie, Inquisizione, Causae Hebreorum, busta no. 247, fascicolo no. 3, 25 November 1636. 68. On these figures, see Francesconi, ‘‘Jewish Families,’’ 52–130. 69. ASMO, Inquisizione, Causae Hebreorum, busta no. 244, fascicolo no. 18, 9 August 1617; and ibid., fascicolo np. 19, 17 August 1617 (trials partially paginated). 70. On Dato, see Bonfil, Rabbis and Jewish Communities, 295–96; and Bonfil, ‘‘One of the Italian Sermons.’’ 71. ASMO, Inquisizione, busta no. 244, fascicolo no.19, testimony of 17 August 1617, fols. 2r–7v. 72. Ibid., fol. 6r. 73. Ibid., fol. 7r. 74. In the past a few scholars have hypothesized that Camillo Jaghel was identical with Abraham Yagel (already mentioned); David Ruderman proved that this assumption and the evidence supporting it are at best inconclusive. While I address the study of Camillo Jaghel in a forthcoming work (‘‘This Passage Can Be Read Differently . . . ’’: Jewish-Christian Confrontation in Early Modern Modena,’’ forthcoming in Festschrift in Honor of Professor Kenneth R. Stow, ed. J. Berkovitz and J. H. Chajes; and F. Francesconi, Jewish History, special issue, forthcoming 2011), my evidence has confirmed Ruderman’s position (see his Kabbalah, Magic, and Science, 165–68). 75. ASMO, Inquisizione, Causae Hebreorum, busta no. 244, fascicolo no. 18, testimony of 10 September 1617, fols. 5v–7r, quotation from 7r. See also a contemporary chronicle of these facts in Spaccini, Cronaca di Modena, 342; and ASMO, Inquisizione, Miscellanea, busta no. 295, fascicolo no. 1, Lettere dei Padri Inquisitori alla Sacra Congregazione dal 1598, 1599, 1600 usque ad annum 1624, letters of 16 September, 21 September, and 7 October 1617. 76. See ad vocem, de Bujanda Index Librorum Prohibitorum. 77. Tedeschi, Prosecution of Heresy, 35–37. 78. Ruderman, Kabbalah, Magic, and Science, esp. 102–20. 79. ASMO, Inquisizione, Processi, busta no. 56, fascicoli no. 2, Cause contro diversi, 15 May 1620 and no. 3, trial against Ciro da Correggio, 28 May 1620 (both these proceedings finished only at the end of the following year; both are partially paginated). According to the proceedings, the inquisitor in 1620 examined Camillo’s list of books that had been presented in 1614. In 1620s Camillo gave evidence for his son Ciro

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three times: on 29 November 1620 (fols. 220r–220v), and on 25 January (fols. 223v– 224r) and 23 April (fol. 228v) in 1621. The circumstances of the 1614 list are not reported by the existing documentation. For other data on Camillo and Ciro da Correggio, see William Popper, The Censorship of Hebrew Books (New York, 1899; New York, 1969), index; and Francesconi, ‘‘Jewish Families,’’ 107–17. 80. On this aspect, see Angela Novo, Il commercio librario nell’Italia del Rinascimento (Milan: Franco Angeli, 1997), 160–74. The list dated 1614 is preserved in ASMO, Inquisizione, Processi, busta no. 56, fascicolo no. 3, 28 May 1620. 81. ASMO, Inquisizione, Processi, busta no. 56, fascicolo no. 3, 28 May 1620. I have indicated the ‘‘editio princeps’’ in parentheses. 82. Other sources on Ciro da Correggio are located in ASMO, Inquisizione, Causae Hebreorum, busta no. 244, fascicolo no. 18; and ibid., busta no. 245, fascicolo no. 55. 83. ASMO, Inquisizione, Processi, busta no. 56, fascicolo no. 2, testimonies of Ciro, 10 June (fols. 58v–62r), 21 June (fols. 169r–174r), 17 September (fols. 214r–217r); and ibid., fascicolo no. 3. ASMO, Inquisizione, Miscellanea, busta no. 295, fascicolo no. 1, Lettere dei Padri Inquisitori alla Sacra Congregazione dal 1598, 1599, 1600 usque ad annum 1624, 21 March 1621. 84. ASMO, Inquisizione, Processi, busta no. 56, fascicolo no. 2, testimonies of Ciro, 10 June (fols. 58v–62r), 21 June (fols. 169r–174r), 17 September (fols. 214r–217r); and ibid., fascicolo n. 3. 85. ASMO, Inquisizione, Processi, busta no. 69, fascicolo no. 10, 29 November 1623; the list of books was reported on 21 October 1624. 86. ASMO, Inquisizione, Processi, busta no. 56, fascicoli no. 2, fols. 20v–22r, testimony of Antonio Speranzani, 14 June 1620; in that case, editions are indicated in the sources. Other documentation is preserved also in ASMO, Inquisizione, Miscellanea, busta no. 295, fascicolo no. 1, Lettere dei Padri Inquisitori alla Sacra Congregazione dal 1598, 1599, 1600 usque ad annum 1624, letters of 16 September, 21 September, and 7 October 1617. 87. Alfonso III abdicated in 1629, and his son, Francesco, succeeded to the title. 88. Donatella Calabi, ‘‘Dal quartiere ebraico alla costituzione del ghetto in Italia: Il caso di Modena,’’ in Bonilauri and Maugeri, Le Comunita` ebraiche, 87–93; F. Francesconi, ‘‘Fra ‘sacro’ e ‘profano’: Spazi urbani e vita ebraica a Modena dal Rinascimento all’eta` moderna,’’ Studi della Deputazione di Storia Patria Modenese 52 (2004): 119–45. 89. ASMO, Inquisizione, Causae Hebreorum, busta no. 247, fascicolo no. 25; ibid., Miscellanea, busta no. 295, fascicolo no. 2, Lettere de’ Padri Inquistori alla Sacra Congregazione del 1631 usque ad 1643, letters of 6 and 10 December 1636. 90. Ibid., Causae Hebreorum, busta no. 247, fascicolo no. 25, ‘‘Nota de libri Hebraichi che sono prohibiti.’’ 91. ASMO, Inquisizione, Miscellanea, busta no. 295, fascicolo no. 2, Lettere de’ Padri Inquistori alla Sacra Congregazione del 1631 usque ad 1643, letters of 6 and 10 December 1636; and 28 January and 4 February 1637.

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92. ASMO, Inquisizione, Causae Hebreorum, busta no. 247, fascicolo no. 25; ibid. 93. Ibid., Causae Hebreorum, busta no. 247, fascicolo no. 25, 5 December 1636, ‘‘Nota de libri Hebraichi che sono prohibiti.’’ 94. Ibid. Mauro Perani, who has analyzed part of this trial without individuating Modena’s identity and the dynamics between the inquisitors and the defendants does not question the representativeness of Modena’s and others’ lists; see Perani, ‘‘Confisca e censura di libri,’’ 309. 95. ASMO, Inquisizione, Causae Hebreorum, busta n. 247, fascicolo n. 25, testimonies of 3 and 10 December 1636. The two declarations are reported also in Perani, ‘‘Confisca e censura di libri,’’ 307, 309. 96. On the Index and the consequences of its application, see the contributions in Fragnito, Church, Censorship. 97. Apparently, he owned only the nonproblematic books of many ‘‘suspected’’ authors: for example, he did not own the banned Cento Novelle by Sansovino, but did own his Diverse orationi; nor did he own the forbidden De Geomantia by Pietro D’Abano, but did own his I libri di Gio. Mesue. For this check I have consulted ad vocem de Bujanda, Index Librorum Prohibitorum, vol. 9, Index de Rome 1590, 1593, 1596 avec ´etude des index de Parme 1580 et Munich 1582; vol. 10, Thesaurus de la lite´rature interdit au XVIe sie`cle; and vol. 11, Index des livres interdit 1600–1966. 98. ASMO, Inquisizione, busta no. 26, fascicolo no. 17, 2 July 1605. 99. ASMO, Inquisizione, Causae Hebreorum, busta no. 247, fascicolo no. 25, 9 December 1636. 100. For this point, I am very grateful to some conversations with Professor Joanna Weinberg and Dr. Piet van Boxel. 101. Baruchson, Sefarim ve-kor’im, 107. 102. See above, note 10; for a broader approach to the analysis of the Mantuan lists, see Elliott Horowitz, ‘‘Families and Their Fortunes: The Jews of Early Modern Italy,’’ in Cultures of the Jews: A New History, ed. D. Biale (New York: Schocken Books, 2002), 573–637, esp. 601–3. 103. See Joshua Blau, The Renaissance of Modern Hebrew and Modern Standard Arabic: Parallels and Differences in the Revival of Two Semitic Languages (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1981), 1–6, on Hebrew as a nonspoken language during the Renaissance; specifically in Italy, see Kenneth Stow, ‘‘Writing in Hebrew, Thinking in Italian,’’ in Stow, Jewish Life in Early Modern Rome: Challenge, Conversion, and Private Life (Ashgate: Variorum, 2007), 1–15, and the bibliography therein. 104. See Ugo Rozzo, Linee per una storia dell’editoria religiosa in Italia (1465–1600) (Udine: Arti grafiche friulane 1993), 7–20, and the bibliography therein. 105. I have borrowed this formulation from J. H. Chajes, ‘‘He Said and She Said: Hearing the Voices of Pneumatic Early Modern Jewish Women,’’ Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies and Gender Issues 10 (2005): 99–125, esp. 118.

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106. Shmeruk, ‘‘Yiddish Printing in Italy,’’ 132. The book has recently been beautifully translated and published as Edward Fram, My Dear Daughter: Rabbi Benjamin Slonik and the Education of Jewish Women in Sixteenth-Century Poland (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College, 2007); but this edition does not report the mentioned introduction to the Paduan edition. 107. Benjamin Richler, ‘‘On the Education of Daughters of Wealthy Jews in Renaissance Italy’’ (in Hebrew), Kiryat Sefer 68, supplement (1998): 275–79, quotation from 276. 108. ASMO, Archivio per Materie, Ebrei, busta no. 15, fascicolo no. 4, ‘‘Nota delle famiglie che sono fuori del loco preposto per il ghetto.’’ 109. Kenneth Stow, ‘‘Sisto V, the Jews, and their Ghet,’’ in Essential Papers, ed. Ruderman, 386–400. 110. ASMO, Archivio per Materie, Ebrei, busta no. 15, fascicolo no. 4, fols. 91–93. 111. On this point, see Adriano Prosperi, Tribunali della coscienza: Inquisitori, confessori, missionari (Turin: Einaudi, 1996). 112. See R. Bonfil, ‘‘Change in Cultural Patterns of Jewish Society in Crisis: The Case of Italian Jewry at the Close of the Sixteenth Century,’’ in Essential Papers, ed. Ruderman, 401–25; Kenneth Stow, Theater of Acculturation: The Roman Ghetto in the Sixteenth Century (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2000); David Ruderman, Jewish Thought and Scientific Discovery in Early Modern Europe (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1995); Horowitz, ‘‘Families and Their Fortunes’’; Raz-Krakotzkin, The Censor. For a recent consideration, see Francesca Bregoli, ‘‘Jewish Modernity in Eighteenth-Century Italy: A Historiographical Survey,’’ Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 6 (2007): 67–78. 113. Jonathan Israel, European Jewry in the Age of Mercantilism, 1550–1750 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985); Ruderman, ‘‘Why Periodization Matters.’’ Chapter 8 1. On confraternities in Italy in the age of the ghetto, see Bracha Rivlin, ‘Arevim zeh la-zeh ba-geto ha-Italki: H . evrot gemilut h.asadim, 1516–1789 (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1991). Specifically on devotional confraternities, see ibid., 87–157; A. Farine, ‘‘Charity and Study Societies in Europe of the Sixteenth–Eighteenth Centuries,’’ Jewish Quarterly Review 64 (1973–74): 16–47, 164–75; Elliott S. Horowitz, ‘‘Jewish Confraternities in Seventeenth-Century Verona: A Study in the Social History of Piety’’ (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1982); Horowitz, ‘‘Jewish Confraternal Piety in Sixteenth-Century Ferrara: Continuity and Change,’’ in The Politics of Ritual Kinship: Confraternities and Social Order in Early Modern Italy, ed. N. Terpstra (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 150–71; Horowitz, ‘‘La confraternita dei Solerti—H.evrat Nizharim: Religiosita` ebraica delle confraternite nella Bologna del XVI secolo,’’ in La cultura ebraica a Bologna tra Medioevo e Rinascimento: Atti del Convegno internazionale (Bologna, 9 aprile 2000), ed. M. Perani (Firenze: Giuntina, 2000), 175–87; Horowitz, ‘‘Processions, Piety, and Jewish Confraternities,’’ in The Jews of Early Modern Venice, ed. R. C. Davis and B. Ravid (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 231–48.

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2. On the role of music within Jewish confraternities in Renaissance and early modern Italy, see Israel Adler, La pratique musicale savante dans quelques communaute´s juives en Europe aux XVIIe et XVIIIe sie`cles (Paris and La Haye: Mouton, 1966). Particularly noteworthy are the Cantata ebraica in dialogo by Carlo Grossi (Vicenza?, seventeenth century), commissioned for the celebration of the anniversary of a Shomrim la-Boker confraternity in Mantua or Venice sometime before 1681, and the ‘‘Cantataquasi-oratorio’’ titled Dio, Clemenza e Rigore (God, Mercy and Severity) commissioned by the Zerizim confraternity in Casale Monferrato in 1732–33, both edited and published by Israel Adler. 3. For some of these, see Moritz Steinschneider, Catalogus librorum Hebraeorum in Bibliotheca Bodleiana (Berlin: A. Friedlaender, 1852–60), nos. 2937–77. 4. The custom of waking in the last part of the night to recite Psalms and penitential hymns was already practiced by Italian Jews, although limited to specific observances like fast days, the month of Elul, and the ten days between the New Year and the Day of Atonement. On the contrary, the institution of the daily vigil was to be observed even on days in which penitential prayers were not included; it may possibly be ascribed, on the one hand, to the influence of Sephardi uses and, on the other, to the spread of the rite of nocturnal vigils to mourn the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple and the exile of the Shekhinah, instituted originally among the Safedian kabbalists. Although there is no unequivocal documentation on the issue, possibly in Safed the Sephardi custom of waking daily to recite selih.ot combined with the tradition of the study-and-prayer wake in commemoration of the Temple’s destruction and for the end of the Shekhinah’s exile to create two different versions of the penitential vigil: the first consisted in the recitation of selih.ot before the morning prayer and the second combined the recitation of kinot and text study. From Safed these two rites may have spread among Diaspora communities thanks to the activity of Palestinian emissaries to Italy, notably Gedaliah Cordovero and Israel Sarug, who visited some northern Italian communities in the last decade of the sixteenth century. Among the Italian Jews the daily penitential vigil imposed itself along the morning variant as a predawn vigil, which, through the seventeenth century, prevailed over the midnight vigil (Tikkun h.az.ot). On this, see Elliott S. Horowitz, ‘‘Coffee, Coffee Houses, and the Nocturnal Rituals of Early Modern Jewry,’’ AJS Review 14 (1989): 17–46. 5. On this, see R. Elior, ‘‘Messianic Expectations and Spiritualization of Religious Life in the Sixteenth Century,’’ in Essential Papers on Jewish Culture in Renaissance and Baroque Italy, ed. David Ruderman (New York: New York University Press, 1992), 283–98; Yoram Jacobson, Bi-netive galuyyot u-geulah: Torat ha-geulah shel r’ Mordekai Dato (Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1996); Ronit Meroz, ‘‘Redemption in the Lurianic Teaching’’ (in Hebrew) (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1988); M. Benayahu, ‘‘R’ Ezra of Fano: Kabbalistic Scholar and Leader’’ (in Hebrew), in Jubilee Volume in Honor of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1984), 2:786– 855; Moshe Idel, Messianic Mystics (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1998), 126–82.

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6. Literally, ‘‘Watchers until the Morning,’’ after Ps. 130:6. Given the specialization of devotional confraternities, the ritual observed usually also gave the group its name, which was generally drawn from a biblical verse and suitable to successfully, and often quite picturesquely, conveying the aims of the society and its sphere of activity. Thus, other groups of watchers devoted to rituals similar to those pursued by the Shomrim la-Boker could be known under different names. This was the case, for example, for the confraternity Me‘ire shah.ar, ‘‘Those who awake the dawn,’’ the group of watchers initiated by the kabbalist Aaron Berekhiah Modena in the town of Modena, whose name alluded to the symbolism of salvation connected with the dawn and to the power attributed to prayer to ‘‘awaken’’ the redemption and hasten it (on this group, see below). An expression variously recurrent in the breviaries printed for the Shomrim la-Boker, h.adashim la-bekarim (or ‘‘daily renovation,’’ following Lam. 3:23 and with reference to both the vigil and the recitation of different hymns every single day), was also used to indicate groups devoted to the predawn vigil. Later this expression became the name of the confraternity founded in Mantua by Moses Zacuto for the performing of midnight devotions. 7. On the Shomrim la-Boker phenomenon, see Moses A. Shulvass, The Jews in the World of the Renaissance, trans. Elvin I. Kose (Leiden: Brill, 1973), 212–13; Horowitz, ‘‘Jewish Confraternities in Seventeenth-Century Verona,’’ esp. chap. 4; Rivlin, ‘Arevim zeh la-zeh, 152–55; Meir Benayahu, ‘‘Prayer Books for the Shomrim la-Boker Printed in Italy on the Initiative of Salonika Scholars’’ (in Hebrew), Asufot 11 (1998): 87–99; Benayahu, ‘‘The Confraternity Shomrim la-Boker’’ (in Hebrew), Asufot 11 (1998): 101–26; Michela Andreatta, ‘‘Libri di preghiera della confraternita ‘Le sentinelle del mattino,’ ’’ Annali di Ca’ Foscari 44 (2005): 5–45. 8. An uncommon description of the rite of the vigil as practiced by Venetian Jews, probably of Levantine rite, around the mid-seventeenth century is included in the well-known apologetic work Via della fede mostrata a’gli ebrei (The Path of Faith Illustrated to the Jews), by the Jewish convert Giulio Morosini, published in Rome in 1683. Before converting to Christianity in 1649 at the age of 37 and entering a clerical career, the author had lived in the ghetto under the Jewish name of Samuel Nahmias: ‘‘Avanti al tempo dell’oratione d’obligatione per tutti, s’apre la Sinagoga per quei, che vogliono mostrar d’esser piu` devoti, e questi si possono distinguer in piu` classi. La prima de i sommamente divoti, l’altra de i meno divoti. Quei sono della prima, che vanno in Sinagoga una, o` due ore avanti il giorno; et entrati all’oscuro, non vi essendo, che la lampada tmd [in Hebrew letters] Tamı`d, che sempre arde avanti all’Hecha`l, si sedono in terra scalzi, e con voce mesta, e piangente cantano alcuni versi, e composizioni sopra la destruttione del Tempio, e di Gierusalemme, che chiamano knt [in Hebrew letters] Kinno`th Lamentationi, e si trovano stampate ne i loro Officij in quella parte, che tratta de i quattro Digiuni, e tra le altre dicono ordinariamente quella, che incomincia: . . . Per il Tempio mio piangero` giorno, e notte, e la bellezza di Sion Citta` glorificata. Ma` di cio` se ne discorrera` parlando del digiuno delli 9. del Mese Ab. Questa e` funzione di devotione, ma` non di obbligo. Vengono poi i divoti della seconda Classe, per i quali

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vi e` una compagnia detta h.vrt swmrim lbker [in Hebrew letters] Chavra` Sciomerı`m labbo`ker Compagnia de’ custodienti alla mattina, e mantiene un shmsh [in Hebrew letters] Sciamma`sc, ch’e` Servente, o` Ministro, il quale va` con un martello, o` bastone battendo alle porte, e gridando piu` volte swmrim lbker swmrim lbker [in Hebrew letters] Sciomerı`m labbo`ker, Sciomerı`m labbo`ker Custodienti alla mattina, Custodienti alla mattina. Et e` causato dal versetto del Sal. 130. ch’e` il De profundis . . . L’anima mia al Signore da quei che custodiscono alla mattina, custodiscono alla mattina. E quelli della detta Compagnia, secondo che si alzano pur prima dell’Alba, vanno facendo tal’ufficio di svegliare, e battere. Mantiene questa stessa Compagnia tra l’altre cose candele per accendere, quando quei, che son di tal Classe, arrivano alla Sinagoga per dirvi le orationi. Aspettano, che finiscano i gemiti di quei della prima Classe, e d’apoi essi con voce alquanto piu` allegra, overo meno mesta dicono alcune slh. [in Hebrew letters] Seelicho`th, cioe` Preghiere per ottenere il perdono de’ lor peccati, e wydwym [in Hebrew letters] Viduı`m, cioe` Confessioni a` Dio per l’istesso fine. Si trovano nel rituale, dove si tratta dell’Espiatione, e del Capo d’anno, e del Mese Illu`l, dove sono raccolte tutte le Schelicho`th, e Confessioni. Tra` queste sono quelle poche, ordinarie che sono stampate nella prima parte del sdwr [in Hebrew letters] Siddu`r Ordinatione, o` Rituale quotidiano tra le Orationi dette bkshwt [in Hebrew letters] Bakascio`th. Questo esercitio similmente e` di divotione, e non d’obbligo’’ (Via della fede, 1:245–46). 9. On Fano, see Robert Bonfil, ‘‘Halakha, Kabbalah, and Society: Some Insights into Rabbi Menahem Azariah da Fano’s Inner World,’’ in Jewish Thought in the Seventeenth Century, ed. I. Twersky and B. Septimus (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1987), 39–61, and Robert Bonfil, ‘‘Cultura e mistica a Venezia nel Cinquecento,’’ in Gli ebrei e Venezia: Secoli XVI–XVIII, ed. G. Cozzi (Milan: Edizioni comunita`, 1987), 469–506. The tradition according to which Menah.em Azariah of Fano initiated the predawn vigil rite among Italian Jews is reported by Fano’s student, Aaron Berekhiah of Modena, in the prayer book he himself prepared for use by his own confraternity, the collection Ashmoret ha-boker, published in Mantua in 1624 (fol. 264v), on which see below. However, the actual founder of the first Shomrim la-Boker confraternity in Venice was Isaac Treves. On this, see Elliott S. Horowitz, ‘‘R. Isaac ben Gershom Treves in Venice’’ (in Hebrew), Kiryat Sefer 59 (1984): 252–57. 10. See Elliott S. Horowitz, ‘‘Jewish Confraternal Piety in the Veneto in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,’’ 301–13. 11. For a full description of this edition, see Andreatta, ‘‘Libri di preghiera della confraternita,’’ no. 1. 12. For a full description of this edition, see ibid., no. 9. 13. On this edition, see Moses Hallamish, Ha-kabbalah ba-tefillah, ba-halakhah u-va-minhag (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2000), 542, 547. On the poem by Leon Modena, see The Divan of Leo de Modena, ed. S. Bernstein (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1932), 199, no. 197. An English translation of the poem is available in The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse, trans. and ed. T. Carmi (New York: Penguin,

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1981), 491–92. Later on, Leon Modena was to serve the society in the capacity of secretary for five years. See Horowitz, ‘‘Processions, Piety, and Jewish Confraternities,’’ 300n60. 14. For a full description of this edition, see Andreatta, ‘‘Libri di preghiera della confraternita,’’ no. 2. 15. For a full description of this edition, see ibid., no. 3. 16. On Barukh ibn Barukh, see Meir Benayahu, Ha-yah.asim she-ben yehude Yavan li-yehude Italyah (Tel Aviv: Diaspora Research Institute, 1980), 189–93. 17. For a full description of this edition, see Andreatta, ‘‘Libri di preghiera della confraternita,’’ no. 6. 18. For a full description of this edition, see ibid., no. 7. On Shemeiah De Medina, see Benayahu, Ha-yah.asim, esp. 116–21 and 197–204. 19. The title quotes the opening title of Psalm 22, in itself a musical annotation suggesting the melody on which the text was to be intoned. Rabbinic and kabbalistic literature interpreted the passage as a reference to the morning star and, metaphorically, as a symbol of salvation and redemption in the messianic perspective. Cf. Midrash Tehillim 22:5 and Sefer ha-Zohar 2:10r–v. 20. Part of the liturgy in which excerpts from the Bible, organized along a daily seder, are read. The origins of such a ritual are to be found in the mishmarot (turns) held in the Jerusalem Temple, during the sacrifices, when groups of priest used to read portions of the Creation story corresponding to the particular day of the week. After the destruction of the Temple, the ritual was maintained and expanded with further biblical sections as well as readings from the Talmud. In medieval prayer books the seder of the ma‘amadot was usually inserted after the morning prayer; starting from the age of the print, it started to circulate also as an independent compilation. On this, see E. E. Urbach, ‘‘Mishmarot and ma‘amadot’’ (in Hebrew), Tarbiz. 42 (1973): 304–27. 21. On the prayer book Ayyelet ha-shah.ar and the modern piyyutim included in it, see Michela Andreatta, Poesia religiosa ebraica di eta` barocca: L’innario della confraternita Shomerim la-boqer: Mantova 1612 (Venice: Studio Editoriale Gordini, 2007). 22. Respectively, the collection Mekiz.e redumim (Those Who Arouse the Dormant) printed in Mantua in 1648 at the press run by Moses and Samuel de Medina, and meant for Hoshana Rabba, and Piyyut le-Purim Katan, printed in Mantua sometime around 1740 by Yehoshua of Perugia. For a full description of these editions, see Andreatta, ‘‘Libri di preghiera della confraternita,’’ nos. 11 and 13. 23. On this, see Shelomo Simonsohn, History of the Jews in the Duchy of Mantua (Jerusalem: Kiryath Sepher, 1977), 555, 557. Literally, the name Shovavim Tat is an acrostic composed of the names of the first eight weekly Torah portions of the book of Exodus, which are read in the winter between Hanukkah and Purim. In the Ashkenazi and the Italian communities it became customary to recite penitential prayers (selih.ot) on Thursdays of the weeks in which these portions were read in order to avert the epidemics and diseases prevalent in the winter season. Later on, Safedian Kabbalah attributed mystical significance to the observance of the Shovavim Tat in connection

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Notes to Pages 162–165

with the sexual sphere. On Shovavim Tat and the rituals connected to it, see Gershom Scholem, On the Kabbalah and Its Symbolism, trans. R. Manheim (New York: Schocken Books, 1965), 153–57; Hallamish, Ha-kabbalah, 567–94. 24. See Andreatta, ‘‘Libri di preghiera della confraternita,’’ nos. 25, 23. 25. On the vicissitudes of this publication, see Isaiah Tishby, ‘‘The Confrontation Between Lurianic Kabbalah and Cordoverian Kabbalah in the Writings and Life of Rabbi Aaron Berechiah of Modena’’ (in Hebrew), Z.ion 39, nos. 1–2 (1974): 8–85; Meir Benayahu, Haskamah u-reshut bi-defuse Venez.yah (Jerusalem: Makhon Ben-Zvi, 1971), 103–5, 278; Ariel Rathaus, ‘‘Poesia, preghiera, midrash: Il verdetto di R. Netanel Trabotto sul piyut contemporaneo,’’ Rassegna Mensile di Israel 67, nos. 1–2 (2001): 129–50. 26. For a full description of this edition, see Andreatta, ‘‘Libri di preghiera della confraternita,’’ no. 10. 27. See Simon Bernstein, ‘‘The Letters of Rabbi Mahalalel Haleluiah of Ancona: A Chapter of the Cultural History of Italian Jewry in the Seventeenth Century,’’ Hebrew Union College Annual 7 (1930): 497–536. 28. The reference is to the collection Tikkun shovavim, published in Venice in 1697. The compilation was actually edited by Samuel David Ottolenghi and included prayers and hymns by Moses Zacuto. Cf. Yaakov Lattes, ‘‘Rabbi Moses Zacuto’s Printed Works’’ (in Hebrew), Pe‘amim 96 (2003): 21–33. 29. For a full description of this edition, see Andreatta, ‘‘Libri di preghiera della confraternita,’’ no. 12. 30. Cf. Hallamish, Ha-kabbalah, 326, 544. The term tikkun has many meanings, not all marked by mystical connotations. In the sense of ‘‘disposition’’ or ‘‘preparation’’ it is used as equivalent to seder, and particularly for prayer books in which prayers, hymns, and readings alternate, the term means ‘‘compilation.’’ In the technical language pertaining the field of poetry it has the meaning of ‘‘composition.’’ 31. These practices and the institution of special confraternities charged with their performance are evidence of the deep spiritual significance ascribed to death during this period, and the consequent attention for the last moments in life. Two works from this time, stemming from the same confraternal circles, intended to assist believers in the rituals connected to death: The first was the collection of prayers, readings, and ritual uses concerning illness, agony, burial, and mourning, titled Ma‘avar Yabbok, by the aforementioned Aaron Berekhiah Modena, printed in Mantua in 1626 by Judah Samuel of Perugia. The second was the prayer book Z.ori la-nefesh, compiled by Leon Modena at the request of the confraternity Gemilut H.asadim of the Ashkenazi rite of Venice, published in the city on the lagoon in 1619. On this last compilation, see Sylvie-Anne Goldberg, Crossing the Jabbok: Illness and Death in Ashkenazi Judaism in Sixteenth- through Nineteenth-Century Prague, trans. C. Cosman (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1996), 101ff.; Avriel Bar-Levav, ‘‘Leon Modena and the Invention of Jewish Death Tradition,’’ in The Lion Shall Roar: Leon Modena and His World, ed. R. Bonfil and D. Malkiel (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2003), 85–101.

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On death rituals among Christian confraternities, see Christopher Black, Italian Confraternities in the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 184–200, 231–33; John Henderson, Piety and Charity in Late Medieval Florence (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994; repr., Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 155ff.; Francesca Ortalli, ‘‘Per salute delle anime e delli corpi’’: Scuole Piccole a Venezia nel tardo medioevo (Venice: Marsilio, 2001), 50, 86–90. 32. Ayyelet ha-shah.ar, fol. 8v (of the appendix). In this period, under the influence of Sephardi uses and in accordance with the instructions incorporated into contemporary ethical works, the recitation of a formula of the viddui became daily and was endowed with the highest spiritual value, turning it into one of the most popular acts of devotion at both an individual and a collective level. On this, see E. D. Goldschmidt, Meh.kare tefillah u-fiyyut (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1980), 369–70; Horowitz, ‘‘Jewish Confraternities in Seventeenth-Century Verona,’’ 58ff.; Rivlin, ‘Arevim zeh la-zeh, 97–100. 33. See, e.g., Ayyelet ha-shah.ar, fol. 168a. 34. See Samuel David Luzzatto, Mavo le-mah.azor bene Roma (Livorno, 1856; Tel Aviv: Devir, 1966), 39–41. 35. On this, see Gershom Scholem, ‘‘Lyrik der Kabbalah?,’’ Der Jude 6 (1921): 55–69; Scholem, Kabbalah (Jerusalem: Keter, 1974), 77; Dan Pagis, H . iddush u-masoret be-shirat ha-h.ol ha-‘ivrit: Sefarad ve-Italyah (Jerusalem: Keter, 1976), 283. Actually, apart from a few isolated studies and editions of texts, the field of religious and mystical poetry written in Italy in the age of the ghetto still awaits thorough investigation. 36. On this, see Ismar Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy: A Comprehensive History, trans. R. Scheindlin (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1993), 182. 37. Dan Pagis, ‘‘Liturgical Poetry in Seventeenth-Century Italy: A Hebrew Manuscript’’ (in Hebrew), Kiryat Sefer 50 (1975): 289. 38. Pagis, H . iddush u-masoret, 282–85; Pagis, ‘‘Liturgical Poetry in SeventeenthCentury Italy,’’ 288–90. 39. On the ‘‘paratext,’’ namely, all the elements adjoined to the text but secondary to it, like prefaces, dedications, introductions, etc., see L’Ecrivain face a` son public en France et en Italie a` la Renaissance, ed. C. A. Fiorato and J.-C. Margolin (Paris: J. Vrin, 1989), esp. pt. 1. 40. The poem was written by Moses Israel Foa and inserted in fol. 12v after the long introduction by Carmi and the opinions of the rabbis who expressed themselves on the case. 41. On the editions of liturgical and ethical works including religious hymns by Luria, see Steinschneider, Catalogus librorum Hebraeorum, no. 5386/21–29; Israel Davidson, Thesaurus of Mediaeval Hebrew Poetry (New York, 1924–33), 4:422. In particular on the work Yefe nof, see Meir Benayahu, ‘‘The Sefer Yefe Nof and the First Printed Tikkun Soferim’’ (in Hebrew), Asufot 7 (1993): 29–68. Zarko also authored the work Sefer leh.em Yehudah (Constantinople, 1570), a poetic compilation written in the mah.beret style but susceptible of allegorical interpretations of theological significance. On this work, see the introduction by A. M. Haberman to the reprint (Jerusalem: Ben Uri, 1970).

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Notes to Pages 169–170

42. Prior to the Venetian edition, the collection Zemirot Israel was published in Safed in 1592 and subsequently in Salonica in 1598. In 1545, in Constantinople, Eliezer Soncino printed the compilation Shirim u-zemirot ve-tishbah.ot u-fiyyutim ve-bakkashot, an anthology of religious poetry by authors of medieval Spain, to which the editor, Salomon ben Mazal Tov, added a few hymns of his own for various occasions. On this edition, see Abraham Yaari, Ha-defus ha-‘ivri be-Kusht.a (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1967), no. 142; on Salomon ben Mazal Tov, see Isaac Markon, ‘‘Salomon b. Mazal Tov,’’ in Alexander Marx Jubilee Volume, ed. S. Lieberman (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1950), 321–49 (Hebrew section); and T. Be’eri, ‘‘Shelomo Mazal Tov and the Beginning of Turkish Influence on Hebrew Poetry’’ (in Hebrew), Pe‘amim 59 (1994): 65–76. One of the first compilations comprising medieval and modern compositions for various festive occasions organized according to the calendar, was the collection H . izzunim ke-Minhag ha-Ma‘araviyim, edited by Yosef Yabez (Constantinople, 1585), on which, see Yaari, Ha-defus ha-‘ivri be-Kusht.a, no. 221; and M. H. Schmelzer, ‘‘An Unknown Mah.zor and Sefer sifte renannot’’ (in Hebrew), in Studies in Jewish Bibliography and Medieval Hebrew Manuscripts: Collected Essays (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 2006), 128–33. Also published in Constantinople in 1642 was the collection of hymns by Josef Ganso, titled Pizmonim u-vakkashot u-teh.innot ve-tokhah.ah u-tehillot, on which, see Yaari, Ha-Defus ha-‘ivri be-Kusht.a, no. 246; and Y. Yahalom, ‘‘Hebrew Mystical Poetry and Its Turkish Background’’ (in Hebrew), Tarbiz. 60, no. 4 (1991): 625–48, esp. 633–34, 646–47. 43. On the printing of Christian devotional literature in Italy, see Amedeo Quondam, ‘‘La letteratura in tipografia,’’ in Letteratura italiana (Turin: Giulio Einaudi Editore, 1983), 2:594–96. 44. On religious poetry in Italy in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, see Giovanni Fallani, La letteratura religiosa in Italia (Naples: Libreria Scientifica Editrice, 1973), 63ff.; Salvatore Ussia, Il Sacro Parnaso, il Lauro e la Croce (Catanzaro: Pullano Editori, 1993); Ussia, Le Muse sacre: Poesia religiosa dei secoli XVI e XVII (Borgomanero: Fondazione Achille Marazza, 1999), 90–110; Federico Nomi, Santuario. Poesie sacre. Un calendario liturgico in versi di fine ‘600, ed. G. Bianchini (Rome: Bulzoni Editore, 1996); Amedeo Quondam, Il naso di Laura. Lingua e poesia lirica nella tradizione del Classicismo (Modena: Franco Cosimo Panini, 1991), 283–89. 45. On this, see La lauda spirituale tra Cinque e Seicento: Poesie e canti devozionali nell’Italia della Controriforma, ed. G. Filippi et al. (Rome: Ibimus, 2001). 46. Previous examples of kabbalistic images and motifs used in Hebrew poetry are to be found in piyyutim from Christian Spain. On this, see E. Fleischer, ‘‘The Gerona School of Hebrew Poetry,’’ in Rabbi Moses Nah.manides (Ramban): Explorations in His Religious and Literary Virtuosity, ed. I. Twersky (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Center for Jewish Studies, 1983), 35–49; A. Sa´enz-Badillos, ‘‘The Poetry of Spanish Kabbalists,’’ in Jewish Studies in a New Europe: Proceedings of the Fifth

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Congress of Jewish Studies in Copenhagen 1994 under the Auspices of the European Association for Jewish Studies, ed. U. Haxen et al. (Copenhagen: C. A. Reitzel and Det Kongelige Bibliotek, 1998), 770–77. Chapter 9 I am grateful to the participants in the seminar year on ‘‘The Jewish Book: Material Texts and Comparative Contexts’’ at the Center for Advanced Judaic Studies of the University of Pennsylvania for their support and helpful observations on this research project. I would also like to thank Roger Chartier, Marco Di Giovanni, and Arthur Kiron for their assistance and precious methodological suggestions. A slightly modified version of this essay appeared in Italian as ‘‘Privilegi di stampa e acculturazione: editoria ebraica nella Livorno del settecento,’’ in Livorno 1606–1806: Luogo di incontro tra popoli e culture, ed. A. Prosperi (Turin: Allemandi, 2009), 129–45. 1. Among the many relevant studies, see Susanna Corrieri, Il torchio fra ‘‘Palco’’ e ‘‘Tromba’’: Uomini e libri a Livorno del Settecento (Modena: Mucchi, 2000); Adriana Lay, ‘‘Un editore illuminista: Giuseppe Aubert nel carteggio con Beccaria e Verri,’’ Memorie dell’Accademia delle Scienze di Torino 27 (1973); Carlo Mangio, ‘‘Censura granducale, potere ecclesiastico ed editoria in Toscana: L’edizione Livornese dell’Encyclope´die,’’ Studi settecenteschi 16 (1996): 191–219, and Mangio, ‘‘Le autorita` ecclesiastiche e l’edizione Livornese dell’Encyclope´die,’’ in L’Europa tra Illuminismo e Restaurazione: Studi in onore di Furio Diaz, ed. P. Alatri (Rome: Bulzoni, 1993), 103–14; Maria Augusta Morelli Timpanaro, A Livorno nel Settecento: Medici, mercanti, abati, stampatori: Giovanni Gentili (1704–1784) ed il suo ambiente (Livorno: Belforte, 1997), esp. 85–99; Renato Pasta, ‘‘L’editoria e la circolazione del pensiero a Livorno nel Settecento,’’ Nuovi Studi Livornesi 10 (2002–3): 15–30; Catalogo della mostra bibliograficadocumentaria sull’editoria e le riforme a Pisa, Livorno, e Lucca nel ‘700 (Lucca: Maria Pacini Fazzi, 1979); Mostra dell’editoria Livornese (1643–1900) (Livorno: Comune di Livorno, 1964); and the classic work by Guido Chiappini, L’arte della stampa in Livorno (Livorno: Belforte & C., 1904). 2. Guido Sonnino, Storia della tipografia ebraica in Livorno (Turin: Vessillo Israelitico, 1912). 3. These are the Bibliography of the Hebrew Book (hereafter, BHB) of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, accessible electronically at http://www.hebrew-bibliography .com; and the index prepared by Yeshayahu Vinograd, Oz.ar ha-sefer ha-‘Ivri: Reshimat ha-sefarim she-nidpesu be-ot ‘Ivrit me-reshit ha-defus ha-‘Ivri bi-shenat 229 (1469) ‘ad shenat 623 (1863), 2 vols. (Jerusalem: Institute for Computerized Hebrew Bibliography, 1993). According to the BHB, at least 194 works (including books and broadsheets) were printed in Livorno from 1740 to 1789. According to the Vinograd Index, at least 203 works were printed in Livorno between 1740 and 1789. See appendix to this chapter for a discussion of these data.

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4. There is a rich literature on the Jewish community of Livorno. For a first overview, see Renzo Toaff, La Nazione Ebrea a Livorno e a Pisa (1591–1700) (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1990); and Jean Pierre Filippini, Il porto di Livorno e la Toscana (1676–1814) (Naples: Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane, 1998). 5. Jean Pierre Filippini, ‘‘La nazione ebrea di Livorno,’’ in Storia d’Italia. Annali 11. Gli ebrei in Italia, vol. 2, Dall’emancipazione a oggi, ed. C. Vivanti (Turin: Einaudi, 1997), 1047–66: e1053. 6. See pp. 174–175 for a discussion of the Gabbay press. 7. Elena Gremigni, ‘‘Tra liberta` e censura: La diffusione e la pubblicazione di opere a stampa a Livorno nell’eta` di Pietro Leopoldo’’ (Ph.D. diss., University of Florence, 1992–93), 19–21. 8. On the background and outcomes of this law, see Sandro Landi, ‘‘Libri, norme, lettori: La formazione della legge sulle stampe in Toscana (1737–1743),’’ in Il Granducato di Toscana e i Lorena nel secolo XVIII: Incontro internazionale di studio, Firenze, 22–24 settembre 1994, ed. A. Contini and M. G. Parri (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1999), 143–83; Landi, Il governo delle opinioni: Censura e formazione del consenso nella Toscana del Settecento (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2000); Maria Augusta Morelli Timpanaro, ‘‘Legge sulla stampa e attivita` editoriale a Firenze nel secondo Settecento,’’ Rassegna degli Archivi di Stato 29 (1969): 613–700; Niccolo` Rodolico, Stato e Chiesa in Toscana durante la reggenza lorenese (1737–1765) (Florence: Successori Le Monnier, 1910), 211–24. The complete text of the law can be found in Landi, Il governo delle opinioni, 345–50. 9. Berta Maracchi Biagiarelli, ‘‘Il privilegio di stampatore ducale nella Firenze medicea,’’ Archivio Storico Italiano 123 (1965), 304–70: e330. 10. The first two imprints were a governmental announcement in Latin characters and a psalter in Armenian. See Chiappini, Arte della stampa, 20–22, 155–59. The hagiographic Life of Saint Verdiana of Castel Fiorentino was issued in 1644 by Giovanni Vincenzo Bonfigli ‘‘for the heirs of Domenico Minaschi,’’ and has been traditionally considered the first book in Latin types to be printed in the port. In reality, Minaschi himself published a devotional book by Pellegrino Carpi, Rose vermiglie. In soccorso agli agonizzanti e refrigerio dell’anime del purgatorio, e loro stato, in 1643. This, and not The Life of Saint Verdiana, should therefore be recorded as the first book ever printed in Livorno. In addition to Chiappini’s inventory, I based my list of imprints on the CEDL (Censimento delle edizioni livornesi) database, a catalogue that identifies Livornese editions printed between 1641 and 1830, produced by the Biblioteca Labronica ‘‘F. G. Guerrazzi’’: http://opacprov.comune.livorno.it/easyweb/cedl/ricerche.html. 11. The first Hebrew book was published in Livorno in 1650 by Yedidiah Gabbay as discussed here. By the date that the Gabbay press was established in Livorno, Hebrew printing houses had been flourishing in Italy for almost two centuries. The best general introduction to the subject is still the classic work by David W. Amram, The Makers of Hebrew Books in Italy (Philadelphia: J. H. Greenstone, 1909). 12. Furio Diaz, Il Granducato di Toscana: I Medici (Turin: UTET, 1976), 465–545.

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13. The history of printing privileges in the Italian states has been customarily studied by jurists, in relation to modern authors’ copyrights and patents: Nicola Stolfi, La proprieta` intellettuale (Turin: UTET, 1915), 1:1–90; Remo Franceschelli, ‘‘Le origini e lo svolgimento del diritto industriale nei primi secoli della stampa,’’ Rivista di diritto industriale 1 (1952): 151–95. 14. The first section of the general law on the printing press issued by Grand Duke Francis Stephen in March 1743 ruled that anybody who desired to print in the capital should obtain written permission from the Florentine Consiglio di Reggenza or, if working in the rest of the Tuscan state, from local governments. 15. On Gabbay, see Sonnino, Storia della tipografia ebraica, 23–27; Marvin J. Heller, ‘‘Jedidiah ben Isaac Gabbai and the First Decade of Hebrew Printing in Livorno,’’ Los Muestros 33 (1998): 40–41 and 34 (1999): 28–30; Pier Cesare Ioly Zorattini, ‘‘La tipografia del ‘Kaf nachat’ di Iedidia Salomon Gabai a Livorno,’’ in La formazione storica dell’alterita`: Studi di storia della tolleranza nell’eta` moderna offerti a Antonio Rotondo`, ed. H. Me´choulan et al. (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 2001), 2:495–516. 16. Ioly Zorattini, ‘‘La tipografia del ‘Kaf nachat,’ ’’ 500–502. 17. Ibid., 502. The provisions also stated that Gabbay should obtain the required written licenses from the appropriate government’s officials, like any printer. 18. Ibid., 504–6. 19. Contrary to the view of Meir Benayahu, Bernard Cooperman maintains that Hebrew printing was never banned from the port. Cooperman discovered that in 1657 the grand duke established two distinct monopolies, one on printing and the other on selling paper. Apparently before that date the two activities had been subsumed under a single monopoly, presumably held by Bonfigli. It seems thus that the new legislation affected the original privilege obtained by Gabbay. While a Jewish entrepreneur acquired the paper license, a Christian managed to secure for himself the lucrative printing license, which was especially advantageous as it granted the exclusive printing of governmental edicts and announcements (bandi). This activity, and not the occasional printing of books, constituted the most profitable aspect of the publishing business. The outcome of this decision was that only the holder of the printing monopoly was allowed to publish. According to Cooperman, Gabbay left for Smyrna because he could not print for himself anymore, notwithstanding the fact that his original privilege did not expire until 1660. I am grateful to Bernard Cooperman for sharing his discovery with me in an e-mail exchange on 8 September 2006. 20. Possibly one or two texts were published in Livorno between 1657 and 1740: a Ladino work of dubious attribution printed in 1703 and a liturgical work allegedly printed in 1701 (this book is listed by Vinograd, but not in the BHB, and is no longer extant). 21. Pisa, which counted a sizable Jewish community tightly connected to that of Livorno, did not produce Hebrew works until the 1770s and thus relied on imports, as did all other Tuscan communities without a local printer.

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22. We also know of a broadside, published by Mou¨cke in 1735, containing prayers for the sick composed in the Jewish community of Reggio. 23. Archivio di Stato di Firenze (ASFi), Auditore poi Segretario delle Riformagioni, filza 89, no. 225, 99r–v. 24. The first book Mou¨cke put out was a reprint of a Livornese collection of prayers for the end of Shabbat, previously issued by Gabbay. This Seder ha-mizmorim (1734) was intended for ‘‘the synagogues . . . of Sephardim in the Levantine congregations of Livorno and Florence.’’ In 1735 a mah.zor for the High Holidays appeared, also according to the Sephardi rite. This latter edition was endorsed in Portuguese by the parnasim of the Jewish community of Livorno and contained two official approbations, signed by the most illustrious rabbinic figures in the Livorno congregation and by the Florentine rabbi Judah of Monselice. The last prayer book printed by Mou¨cke, in 1736, was yet another siddur according to the Sephardi rite (which included a collection of poems for the Jewish festivals and prayers for troubled times), Seder zemanim, composed by David Meldola, shaliah. z.ibbur of the Livorno community. Like the 1735 mah.zor, the siddur included approbations by the Livornese rabbis and by Judah of Monselice. 25. On Francesco Mou¨cke, see Alessandro Tosi, ‘‘Stampatori e cultura scientifica a Firenze durante la Reggenza lorenese (1747–1765): Francesco Mou¨cke e Andrea Bonducci,’’ La Bibliofilia 86 (1984): 245–70; Maria Augusta Morelli Timpanaro, ‘‘Francesco di Giovacchino Mou¨cke, stampatore a Firenze, tra Medici e Lorena, ed i suoi rapporti con il dottor Antonio Cocchi,’’ in Contini and Parri, Il Granducato di Toscana e i Lorena, 455–576. 26. ASFi, Riformagioni, filza 82, 163r–168v. The privilege also appears in Mah.zor Sefardim (Florence, 1735), 3v; Seder tefillot (Florence, 1736), 352v–352r. 27. ASFi, Riformagioni, filza 82, 165v. The exclusive privilege cost Mou¨cke one golden fiorino, ibid., 166v. 28. A note issued by the Tuscan government to the Livorno massari to publicize Mou¨cke’s exclusive privilege was finally registered in the Jewish community of Livorno in 1736: Archivio della Comunita` Israelitica di Livorno (ACIL), Rescritos, filza 3 (1734– 44), no. 39, 424r. 29. For instance, Bomberg received an exclusive privilege from Pope Leo X protecting his edition of the Rabbinic Bible (Venice, 1516–17). Leo X forbade ‘‘anyone under penalty of excommunication [ . . . ] to print or cause to be printed these books with the Targum or without the Targum and the Hebrew Commentaries of the Bible for the space of ten years from 1515.’’ I am grateful to Piet van Boxel for bringing this privilege to my attention. 30. ASFi, Riformagioni, filza 89, no. 255, 99v. 31. Jewish entrepreneurs of Livorno enjoyed the paper monopoly, established in 1650 as an experiment limited to the port, until 1681. The monopoly did not, in the end, prove economically profitable and in fact turned out to be a source of heavy debts

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for the parties involved. See Renzo Sabbatini, Di bianco lin candida prole: La manifattura della carta in eta` moderna e il caso toscano (Milan: Franco Angeli, 1990), 161–64; Michele Cassandro, Aspetti della storia economica e sociale degli ebrei di Livorno nel Seicento (Milan: Giuffre`, 1983), 90. 32. Chiappini, Arte della stampa, 38–39. 33. Sabbatini, Di bianco lin, 239–81; Sabbatini, ‘‘La manifattura cartaria in eta` moderna: Imprenditorialita`, rapporti di produzione e occupazione,’’ in Produzione e commercio della carta e del libro, secc. XIII–XVIII, ed. S. Cavaciocchi (Florence: Le Monnier, 1992), 92–144. 34. Archivio di Stato di Livorno (ASLi), Governatore e Auditore, filza 822, inc. 174. 35. Ibid., filza 820, inc. 47. 36. Sabbatini, Di bianco lin, 258–74. 37. Ibid., 270–74. The appalto was eventually assigned to a Tuscan entrepreneur, Pietro Serrati, and ultimately abolished on 1 December 1750 as a consequence of the reformist endeavors of Grand Duke Francis Stephen of Lorraine. 38. ASLi, Governatore e Auditore, filza 820, inc. 47. 39. For an overview of Meldola’s early printed editions, see Marvin J. Heller, ‘‘Abraham ben Raphael Meldola and the Resumption of Printing in Livorno,’’ International Sephardic Journal 2 (2005): 83–94. His print shop was located on the fourth floor of a house in Via del Casone alle Quattro Cantonate: ASLi, Auditore e Governatore, filza 900, fascicolo 881, 1748, no. 10 (pages not numbered). 40. Landi, Il governo delle opinioni, 345. 41. Rodolico, Stato e Chiesa in Toscana, 211–24; Morelli Timpanaro, ‘‘Legge sulla stampa e attivita` editoriale a Firenze,’’ 613–700; Landi, ‘‘Libri, norme, lettori,’’ 143–83. 42. Toaff, La Nazione Ebrea, 425. 43. Aharon H.ayyim Volterra, Bakashah h.adashah (Ricci and Meldola, 1740), 24. 44. They were Alfonso Maria Alamanni, proposto and vicario of Livorno; Francesco Giovanni Mariani, vicario generale of the Holy Office in Livorno; and Girolamo Bonfini, auditore. 45. Similar printed licenses found in later Livornese editions confirm this practice. On Meldola’s edition of the Sefer ha-Rashbash, see also Heller, ‘‘Abraham ben Raphael Meldola,’’ 92–93. 46. Ioly Zorattini, ‘‘La tipografia del ‘Kaf nachat,’ ’’ 504–5. On 15 June 1646, Gabbay also observed that the massari threatened to excommunicate him if he did not show them the exclusive printing privilege he had obtained from the grand duke, which he refused to do. 47. ASFi, Riformagioni, filza 90, 98r–v. 48. It appears that Meldola misrepresented the frequency of the meetings of the Jewish governo (communal council) in Livorno to his advantage. The massari usually met every two or three weeks, but could also meet more frequently. 49. Maria Iolanda Palazzolo, ‘‘Il commercio della cultura nel Settecento,’’ Studi storici 40 (1999): 315–28.

304

Notes to Pages 180–183

50. Unlike Venice and Rome, two Italian capitals with a long printing tradition, Florence lacked a guild or professional organization gathering together the diverse figures active in the business to protect their economic interests; Renato Pasta, ‘‘Editoria e stampa nella Firenze del Settecento,’’ Roma moderna e contemporanea 2 (1994): 379–418. While Venetian printers united in the Arte della Stampa, a strong organization that forcefully fought potential competition from nonmembers, rather weak professional associations represented only booksellers, not printers, in both Genoa and Rome (see Palazzolo, ‘‘Il commercio della cultura,’’ 316). 51. Samuel Fettah, ‘‘Livourne: Cite´ du Prince, cite´ marchande (XVIe–XIXe sie`cle), in Florence et la Toscane, XIVe–XIXe sie`cles: Les dynamiques d’un E´tat italien, ed. J. Boutier et al. (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2004), 179–95, esp. 182–86. 52. Palazzolo, ‘‘Il commercio della cultura,’’ 317. 53. On Giovan Battista Stecchi and the later joint Stecchi-Pagani printing enterprise, see Maria Augusta Morelli Timpanaro, ‘‘Per una storia della stamperia Stecchi e Pagani (Firenze, 1766–98),’’ Archivio Storico Italiano 151 (1993): 87–219. 54. The editions were the Seder z.iduk ha-din, a collection of prayers for the dead designed specifically for the Livornese community; a calendar; and a book of prayers for the end of Shabbat. 55. ASLi, Auditore e Governatore, filza 900, inc. 881, 1748, no. 1. 56. Ibid., no. 2. 57. Ibid., no. 3. 58. The original documents are in ASFi, Riformagioni, filza 89, no. 255, 99r–101v; filza 90, no. 286, 33 1/2; filza 91, no. 513, 361–62; Consiglio di Reggenza, filza 129, 370r; and filza 131, 126r. 59. ASLi, Auditore e Governatore, filza 900, inc. 881, 1748, no. 4. 60. Ibid., no. 8. 61. Ibid. 62. Ibid., no. 13. 63. Ibid., no. 10. 64. Ibid., no. 9. Mou¨cke had ceded his privativa unofficially to Giovan Agostino Ricci soon after 1736. It is unclear whether the Ricci mentioned by Meldola was Giovan Agostino or his former printing partner Clemente Ricci. 65. Ibid., filza 913, inc. 414, no. 2. 66. Ibid., no. 4 and 5. 67. The frontispiece of the Seder tefillat kol peh (Santini, 1753) mentions that it was printed with Isaac de Pas’s new letters (‘‘be-otiyot h.adashot shel Yiz.h.ak de Mose de Pas’’); we find similar claims in two other texts printed by de Pas for Santini in the same year: the Sefer eshet h.ayil (‘‘hevi’u el ha-defus . . . R. Yiz.h.ak de Mose de Pas, beotiyot shelo’’) and the Sefer lev tahor (‘‘nidpas al yad ba‘al ha-defus be-otiyot shelo . . . Yiz.h.ak de Mose de Pas’’). 68. Isaac de Pas called himself ‘‘ba‘al defus’’ in the two texts he printed for Fantechi in 1753, both of which he also composed: the Sefer hadrat zekenim, an abridged

Notes to Pages 183–188

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version of the Concordantia Hebraica, or Meir netiv (Venice, 1523), arranged alphabetically (‘‘Yiz.h.ak de Mose de Pas . . . ba‘al ha-defus’’); and the Sefer meirat einayim, an index to the Sefer ha-miz.vot by Maimonides (‘‘mimmenni Yiz.h.ak de Mose de Pas z’’l ba‘al ha-defus’’). 69. I framed this study between the rebirth of Hebrew printing in the Tuscan port and the death of one of its protagonists, Abraham Isaac Castello, a partner in the important Castello-Saadun publishing firm. It seemed doubly appropriate to select 1789 as the end date, since Castello died a few months before the election of Grand Duke Peter Leopold as emperor of the Hapsburg Empire and his move from Tuscany to Vienna in 1790, which deeply affected the Tuscan political scenario as well as its Jewish society. 70. This comparative analysis, based entirely on the BHB, should be taken as a general impression subject to a margin of error. 71. Less than ten kabbalistic works were printed during the period in question; most of them came out after 1780. 72. The Hebrew data are culled entirely from the BHB database, while the vernacular and Latin editions are based on the CEDL inventory (see above, note 10). 73. Based on CEDL data, between 1740 and 1749 the following seven publishers were active in Livorno: Appalto della Carta, Fantechi, Fortini, Giorgi, Masi, Piattoli, and Zecchini. 74. The study of the commerce in Livornese Hebrew imprints and the economic factors that made the Tuscan port central in the distribution of Hebrew texts go beyond the scope of this essay: more research on the distribution patterns of Livornese editions is needed before we can reach any conclusion on the subject, and caution is in order. 75. On the status of Livorno as a free port, see the classic work by Paul Masson, Ports francs d’autrefois et d’aujourd’hui (Paris: Librairie Hachette & C.ie, 1904), 160–83; on Jewish merchants and the exemption from custom duties, see Lucia Frattarelli Fischer, ‘‘Reti toscane e reti internazionali degli ebrei di Livorno nel Seicento,’’ Zakhor 6 (2003): 93–116. 76. Francesca Bregoli, ‘‘Hebrew Printing and Communication Networks between Livorno and North Africa, 1740–1789,’’ Report of the Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies (2007–8), 51–59. 77. On Livornese Jewish merchants in North Africa, see Jean-Pierre Filippini, ‘‘Les juifs d’Afrique du Nord et la communaute´ de Livourne au XVIIIe sie`cle,’’ in Les relations intercommunautaires juives en Me´diterrane´e occidentale, XIIIe–XXe sie`cles, ed. J. L. Miege (Paris: CNRS, 1984), 60–69; and Filippini, ‘‘Gli ebrei e le attivita` economiche nell’area nord africana (XVII–XVIII secolo),’’ Nuovi Studi Livornesi 7 (1999): 131–49. 78. Francis Stephen ruled the Tuscan state from Vienna (1737–65); see Luigi Mascilli Migliorini, ‘‘L’eta` delle riforme,’’ in F. Diaz, L. Mascilli Migliorini, and C. Mangio, Il Granducato di Toscana: I Lorena dalla Reggenza agli anni rivoluzionari (Turin: UTET,

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Notes to Pages 188–191

1997), 249–421; Mascilli Migliorini, ‘‘Pietro Leopoldo,’’ in Storia della civilta` toscana, vol. 4, L’eta` dei Lumi, ed. F. Diaz (Florence: Le Monnier, 1999), 51–81. 79. In the case of enlightened absolutism, eudemonism guided reforms meant to ensure the happiness of the state’s subjects. 80. On Pompeo Neri (1706–76) and his administrative and reformist career in Tuscany and Lombardy, see Franco Venturi, Settecento riformatore: Da Muratori a Beccaria (Turin: Einaudi, 1969), 321–27, 432–42, 473–81; Furio Diaz, ‘‘La Reggenza,’’ in Il Granducato di Toscana, 37–245; Marcello Verga, ‘‘La Reggenza,’’ in Diaz, L’eta` dei Lumi, 27–50, esp. 41–44. 81. Physiocracy is a theory of economics that originated in France and was popular during the second half of the eighteenth century. Its proponents posited that the wealth of nations was solely derived from agriculture. Physiocratic thought informed many economic policies of the Tuscan state during Peter Leopold’s rule. On physiocracy, see Elizabeth Fox-Genovese, The Origins of Physiocracy: Economic Revolution and Social Order in Eighteenth-Century France (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1976). 82. Governo della Toscana sotto il regno di sua Maesta` il re Leopoldo II (Florence, 1790), 29. 83. Mascilli Migliorini, ‘‘L’eta` delle riforme,’’ 295–303; Corine Maitte, ‘‘Le re´formisme e´claire´ et les corporations: l’abolition des Arts en Toscane,’’ Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine 49 (2002): 56–88. 84. Mascilli Migliorini, ‘‘L’eta` delle riforme,’’ 296 and 296n3. 85. It has been noted that Peter Leopold’s decision was not simply dictated by economic concerns, but by political interests as well: by eliminating the arti he was able to scale down dramatically the political relevance of the Florentine mercantile and administrative elite in favor of a direct, centralized government; see ibid., 301–3. 86. ASLi, Governo, filza 2, 675r. 87. ASFi, Riformagioni, filza 94, 82r, 92v–93r; filza 99, 372r–373r. 88. ASLi, Governo, filza 2, 805r; filza 3, 82r. 89. Ibid., filza 963, 168r; filza 3, 104. Around the same time, the governor of Livorno received a request from the three Latin printers then active in the port, Giorgi, Strambi, and Coltellini, who asked that the grand duke prevent any other entrepreneur from opening additional print shops in Livorno. In line with his antiprotectionist policy, the request was denied. 90. Ibid., filza 963, 257r–v, 258r. 91. Ibid., 256v. 92. Ibid. 93. Ibid. 94. Ibid., filza 17, 319r. 95. Ibid., filza 969, 193r–v. 96. Ibid., 193v. 97. Mascilli Migliorini, ‘‘L’eta` delle riforme,’’ 295–303.

Notes to Pages 191–192

307

98. See above, note 3. 99. Needless to say, this quantitative study does not illuminate the trade and distribution of Livornese imprints. 100. Hugh Amory, ‘‘A Note on Statistics, or, What Do Our Imprint Bibliographies Mean by ‘Book’?’’ in Amory, Bibliography and the Book Trades: Studies in the Print Culture of Early New England, ed. D. Hall (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005), 163–70.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Michela Andreatta teaches at the University of Rochester. She received her Ph.D. from Turin University (Italy) with a dissertation on the Latin translation of Gersonides’ Commentary to Song of Songs by Flavius Mithridates on behalf of the humanist Pico della Mirandola (published by Olschki in 2009). She has been an adjunct fellow at the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies and a fellow at the Center for Jewish Studies of Harvard University, at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and at the Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies. Currently, her main field of research is Hebrew literature written in Italy, especially poetry from the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries. To this subject she has devoted a few articles and a book, published in 2007, in which she has explored Hebrew poetry produced and enjoyed within Jewish devotional confraternities. In 2010–11, Dr. Andreatta was the Diane and Guilford Glazer and Lea and Allen Orwitz Teaching Fellow in Modern Hebrew at the University of Tennessee. Francesca Bregoli teaches Jewish history at Queens College of the City University of New York. She received a Ph.D. from the University of Pennsylvania and an M.A. from the Jewish Theological Seminary. Her work concentrates on Italian and Sephardi Jewish history in the early modern period, with a particular interest in Enlightenment culture and the history of the book. She is currently revising a manuscript on Jewish integration in the eighteenth-century port city of Livorno, dealing with the themes of acculturation, privilege, and social segregation. Evelyn M. Cohen is an art historian who specializes in illuminated Hebrew manuscripts. A former Samuel H. Kress Fellow and Coleman Fellow at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, she has served on the faculty of Columbia University, Brooklyn College, and the Jewish Theological Seminary, where she was also the first curator of Jewish art. A widely published author,

310

Contributors

she has received the Henry Allen Moe Prize and the National Jewish Book Award. Federica Francesconi is a visiting assistant professor in the Harold Schnitzer Family Program in Judaic Studies at the University of Oregon. Educated in Italy, Israel, and United States, she received her Ph.D. in Jewish history from the University of Haifa. Her studies and articles concentrate primarily on the social and cultural history of Jews in early modern Europe, with a specific eye to Italian communities. She is working on a book, The Wealth of Silver: The Journey of the Modenese Jews from the Renaissance to Emancipation (1598–1814), dealing with lay leadership, ghettoization, acculturation, and emancipation in the city of Modena. Joseph R. Hacker is professor emeritus of medieval and early modern Jewish history at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He has published numerous articles and books on the social and intellectual history of Hispanic and Oriental Jews in the late Middle Ages and early modern period in Spain, Italy, and the Ottoman Empire. He is an editor of Tarbiz. and Shalem and former editor of Zion. He is working on a monograph, Social and Cultural Contacts between Ottoman Jews and European and English Academics and Churchmen in the Seventeenth Century. Bruce Nielsen served as assistant dean of the graduate school at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York for fourteen years and is now Judaic public services librarian and archivist at the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies, University of Pennsylvania. He holds M.A. degrees in biblical studies, Talmud, and Rabbinics, and a Ph.D. in ancient Judaism. His research on Van Bombergen began several years ago, leading to several lectures and contributions to academic publications on Van Bombergen and on early printing in general. His academic interests extend beyond Judaic studies, primarily to Greek papyrology, where he has published several Roman-period documents. Nurit Pasternak has been participating since 1995 in several research projects in Hebrew codicology and Judeo-Italian manuscripts at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, where she completed her Ph.D. dissertation on contacts between Jews and Christians in fifteenth-century Florence, as

Contributors

311

reflected in the production, consumption, and control of Hebrew manuscripts. She is currently engaged in a Hebrew University research project in comparative codicology of Hebrew and Latin medieval manuscripts, funded by the Israel Science Foundation. Adam Shear is associate professor of religious studies and history and director of the Program in Jewish Studies at the University of Pittsburgh. He is the author of The Kuzari and the Shaping of Jewish Identity, 1167–1900 (2008) and several articles on early modern Jewish intellectual and cultural history. In 2009, he was the founding convener of the Lillian Goldman Scholars Working Group on the Jewish Book at the Center for Jewish History in New York. David Stern is Moritz and Josephine Berg Professor of Classical Hebrew Literature in the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations at the University of Pennsylvania. He has published several books and many articles on midrash and rabbinic and medieval Hebrew literature as well as on the history of the Jewish book from antiquity to the modern period. Piet van Boxel is Hebraica and Judaica curator of the Bodleian Library (Oxford) and fellow librarian at the Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies. His field of research is sixteenth-century Italy, with particular interest in the censorship of Hebrew books. A monograph on the subject is in preparation.

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INDEX

Page numbers in italics indicate illustrations and tables. Abravanel, Isaac, 35, 104–5 Abulafia, Meir ha-Levi (Ramah), 103, 264n91 Achris, Isaac, 189 Adams, Thomas R., 15 Adel Kind (Adelkind), Cornelio, 58–59, 68, 74–75, 115 Agrippa, Cornelius, 135, 138, 142, 148, 149, 150 Ahumada, Diego de, 126 Aikema, Bernard, 59, 60 Akris, Moses ben H . ayyim, 17–18, 20, 24, 205n1, 206n2 Alaton, H . ayyim ben Moses, 70, 74, 88, 259n45 Albo, Joseph, 70, 118 Alemanno, Johanan, 140, 142 Alfasi, Isaac, 264n91 Amman, Caspar, 75 Andreatta, Michela, 15, 156–70, 309 Aquario, Mattia, 126 Aquinas, Thomas, 124–25 Aramaic Targum, 79, 80, 81, 91, 95 Archivolti, Samuel, 159 Argenterio, Giovanni, 143 Ariani, Moise`, 152 Aryeh ben Eliezer H . alfan, 21–24, 211n37 astrology, 115–16, 145–49 Attias, Moses, 189 Ayyelet ha-shah.ar (The Morning Star), 161– 62, 168–69, 295nn19–20 Babylonian Talmud: Bomberg’s, 56, 72, 267n115; and Masorah during the Middle Ages, 102, 264n95 Bah.ya ben Asher, 74, 126–27 Barker, Nicolas, 15 Baruchson, Shifra, 3, 56 Basola, Moses, 112, 270n16

Beccaria, Cesare, 171 Beit-Arie´, Malachi, 12 Bellarmine, Robert, 13, 121–32; as advocate of Hebrew Bible at University of Louvain, 128; as chair of controversy theology at the Collegio Romano, 128–29; and CounterReformation debate over burning of rabbinic commentaries, 13, 122, 128–32; examination of disputable passages in Rashi’s commentary on Genesis, 122, 129–32, 281n63; and Pope Clement VIII’s Index of Prohibited Books, 131–32; and Pope Gregory XIII’s project, 129–32 Benayahu, Meir, 112 Benveniste, Semah and Meir, 61 Benyamin ben Matityahu, 119 Bernardino of Siena, 34 Bernardinus d’Arezzo, 30, 217n39 Blancuccius, Benedictus, 131 Boccaccio’s Decameron, 138 Bomberg (van Bombergen), Daniel, 9–10, 12–13, 56–75; commerce and international finance, 61–64; entrepreneurial printing, 9–10, 12–13, 56–75; family’s children’s generation and university training, 57–58; and 1517 Rabbinic Bible, 12–13, 68–69, 78–83; and 1525 Rabbinic Bible, 12–13, 58, 75, 87; financial considerations, 67–69; financial success, 57; Hebrew studies, 57–58; and Ibn Adoniyahu, 13, 58, 75, 87; Jewish audiences/ market, 69–75; Jewish employees, 231n2, 256n16; keri/ketiv issue, 71–72; marketing to Christians, 68–69; paper/ink quality and production standards, 67, 244n86; partnership with Pratensis, 78–83; printing Babylonian Talmud, 56, 72, 267n115; printing

314

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Bomberg (van Bombergen) (continued ) innovations, 72; printing of kabbalistic works, 73–75, 78–79, 255n12; printing of work containing anti-Jewish sentiments, 73, 250n131, 250n133; Psalterium ex Hebraeo (first imprint), 61, 78; reasons for printing Hebrew books, 67–71; ten-year privilegio and the Rabbinic Bibles, 79–80, 86, 258n36, 302n29; Venice art patronage and mercantile interactions, 58–61; world of Van Bombergen family, 57–58, 59–67 Bombergen, Antoine van, 59, 60, 61–64, 237n32 Bombergen, Corneille (Cornelius/Cornelis) van, 59, 60–61, 63 Bombergen, Franc¸oise van, 58, 62 Bombergen, Franc¸ois van, 58, 60 Bonfil, Robert, 117 Bordini, Francesco, 143 Bosch, Hieronymus, 59 Bourbon del Monte, Filippo, 189–91 Bouwsma, William J., 75 Bregoli, Francesca, 15, 171–95, 309 Brulez, Wilfrid, 62–63 Burnett, Stephen G., 100 burning of the Talmud (1553), 112, 114–15, 121– 22, 136, 155, 277n18. See also Rabbinic Bible commentaries Calbetti da Recanati, 137, 144 Calleoni, Giovanni, 159, 160 Camillo, Giulio, 142 Campbell, Lorne, 60–61 Caraffa, Giampietro, 121–23 Carmi, Joseph Jedidiah (Yosef Yedidiah), 139, 144, 145, 151, 162–63, 169 Caro, Joseph, 139 Cassuto, Moses ben Judah, 174 Cassuto, Umberto, 28, 212n6, 215n23, 222n70, 222n72, 223n79 Castello, Abraham Isaac, 305n69 Catholic Church: disputes over Masoretic Bible and Vulgate, 107; press censorship at University of Cologne, 111; and the printing revolution, 31, 218n42 censorship of Hebrew books in the sixteenth century, 13–14, 109–20; and burning of the Talmud, 112, 114–15; communal ordinances addressing Hebrew printing industry, 110–14; Council of the Four Lands in

Poland (1594 ordinance), 113, 271n19; Azariah de’ Rossi’s Me’or einayim, 116–17, 118– 19, 274nn43–44; disciplinary action against authors (not printers and publishers), 119; expurgation of anti-Christian passages, 112–13, 270n17; expurgation of philosophical and homiletic genres, 112, 270n16; Ferrara ordinances (1554 and 1587), 111–14, 270n14, 270n17, 271n23; German synod of Frankfurt (1603 ordinance), 113–14; implementation and compliance, 112, 114, 119; Jewish establishment’s concern with moral and cultural consequences of printing, 110–14, 116, 120; Jewish expurgation/censorship of Italian prints, 114–19; Jewish writers’ alterations in printed responsa, 119–20; kabbalistic books, 270n14; lack of scholarship on, 109; Lerma’s Leh.em Yehudah, 114–16, 118–19, 274n49; Lonzano’s Shtei yadot, 118–19, 275n53; in Mantua, 116–17; in Ottoman Empire, 110–11, 119–20; post-print expurgations, 115–16, 118–19, 120; in Sabbioneta, 114–16; in Salonica (1529 ordinance), 110–11; in Venice, 118–19 censorship of Hebrew manuscripts in fifteenth-century Florence, 11, 26–55; Christian Hebraists and Hebrew studies, 31; the Church’s response to printing revolution, 31, 218n42; contrasted to Inquisitorial censors, 28–31, 38, 214n20, 215n23, 225n105; dynamics between authorities and Jewish moneylenders, 34–35, 221n67; Jewish convert-informers, 35–36, 37, 222n78; Jews’ emendation of books in Marchion’s presence, 28, 214n16; Jews’ self-censorship, 33, 220n59; jurisdiction by the ‘‘Eight,’’ 27–29, 31–33, 35–36, 215nn23–24; manuscripts of Jewish moneylenders (‘‘bankers’’), 26–27, 213n15; Marchion’s assistants, 27, 36–37, 213n13; Marchion’s censor marks and signature in margins, 26–31, 27, 37–42, 213n11, 224n93, 224n95; Marchion’s expurgation process/working procedure, 27–29, 36–42; and Milan trials (1488), 30, 32–33, 36–37, 39, 41, 215n24, 217n36, 217n39, 220n60, 221n71, 224n92, 226n116, 229n146, 230n150; nature of the expurgated passages, 39; the Ne’ilah prayer Tekhale mimmennu, 41–42; notaries and the expurgation procedures, 27, 36, 212n10, 213n14; opening words of

Index the Birkat ha-minim, 39–40, 226n116, 227n122; other erasure marks on codices prior to the Counter-Reformation, 30, 217n36, 217n38; other events indicating that Hebrew books were subject to scrutiny, 32–33, 219nn54–55, 220nn59–60; prayer ‘Aleynu leshabeah., 40, 228n133, 229n135; prayers blaspheming against Christianity, 39–40; prayers starting with the words Edom amra, 41, 230nn150–51; prayers starting with the words Ezon tahan, 41, 229nn146–47; and problematic circumstances of Jews, 33–34; remaining blank spaces, 38, 225n104; the replacement of shillush (trinity) with sheniyut or shiniyut (duality), 42; scope/time span of Marchion’s expurgating operation, 29–30; series of events leading to, 33–36, 222nn70–72; the seventeen Marchion-marked manuscripts, 30, 37–55; the term memshelet zadon, 40–41; the word goy in the morning benediction, 40, 227n128, 228n130; the word minim, 40 Charles V, 65–66, 73 Chartier, Roger, 5, 15 Christians: collaborative Jewish-Christian print production, 6; and Counter-Reformation Modena, 137, 154–55; and early Rabbinic Bibles, 68–69, 80–83, 93, 100–101; Hebraists, 31, 57–58, 77–78, 100–101, 278n29 Clement VIII, Pope, 131–32, 134, 151 Cleynaerts, Nicholas, 70 Cohen, Evelyn M., 11, 17–25, 309–10 Collegio Romano, 128–29 colophons. See decorated Hebrew manuscripts commentaries. See Rabbinic Bible commentaries Complutensian Bible (1514–17), 77, 253n5 Constabile, Paulo, 126 Cooperman, Bernard, 301n19 Cordovero, Moise`, 140 Corsani, Giuseppe, 189 Council of the Four Lands in Poland (1594 ordinance), 113, 271n19 Council of Trent, 107 Counter-Reformation: Bellarmine and debate over burning rabbinic commentaries, 13, 122, 128–32; devotional printing and climate of religiosity and piety, 169–70;

315

Inquisitorial censors, 28–31, 38, 214n20, 215n23, 225n105; Modenese Jewish culture and accusations of heretical reading and religious dissent, 135–37, 150, 152–53. See also Inquisition; libraries and book culture; Rabbinic Bible commentaries Crescas, Hasdai, 140 Cum nimis absurdum (1555), 136, 155 Cum sicut nuper (1554), 121–22, 123, 126 d’Abano, Pietro, 143 Da Correggio, Camillo Jaghel. See Jaghel, Camillo (da Correggio) Da Corregio, Ciro 147–48, 288n79 Da Fano, Menah.em Azariah, 142, 158, 294n9 Da Lodi, Giacomo, 134, 150, 152 Da Monte, Giovanni, 143 Da Pesaro, Lorenzo, 30, 217n36 Da Pisa, Yeh.iel Nissim, 140 Darnton, Robert, 5, 15 Dato, Mordechai, 141, 142, 146–47 Da Viterbo, Egidio 75, 78, 80 De Balmes, Abraham, 71, 75, 87 decorated Hebrew manuscripts produced for women, 11, 17–25; Akris’s illuminated prayer book, 17–18, 20, 24, 205n1, 206n2; business function of the colophon, 21–24; catchwords, 19; colophon information, 18– 19, 20, 21; colophons that do not reveal recipient’s identity, 21; family crests, 18, 22, 206–7n8; Farissol’s manuscripts, 19, 20, 21, 24, 207–8n14, 208n15, 209n20, 210n35; graphic fillers at the end of lines, 19, 220n59; iconography/images of women in religious observance, 17, 20; Isaac Norsa and his wife, Consiglia, 18, 20, 24, 206n2, 206n4; Parma prayer book by Aryeh ben Eliezer H . alfan, 21–24, 23, 25, 211n37; prayer books containing gender-specific morning benedictions, 19, 20–24; reliability of the copyist to identify the person who penned the manuscript, 18–19, 207nn11–12, 208n15, 208n18, 209n20 De Cordes, Jacques and Jan, 62, 63, 64, 239n51 Del Buono, Mariano, 21 Delfini, Giovanni Antonio, 143 De Lonzano, Menachem, 118–19, 267n114; polemical style and attacks on medieval and contemporary scholars, 118, 275n53; Shtei yadot (Two Hands), 118–19

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De Pas, Isaac, 177, 180–83 Dermoyen, Guillaume, 59 De’ Rossi, Azariah: chronological thesis, 117, 274nn43–44; Me’or einayim (The Light of the Eyes), 116–19, 138, 140; reading Greek authors in Latin translation, 141 devotional confraternities. See Shomrim laBoker confraternities Di Gara, Giovanni (Zuan), 67, 159–60, 169 Domenico Hierosolymitano’s Index (Sefer ha-zizuk), 39, 41, 226n116, 227n128, 229n146 Drach, David Paul, 71 Dubno, Solomon, 108 Duran, Profiat, 104 Eichhorn, J. G., 107 eighteenth-century Hebrew printing. See Livorno’s Hebrew printing industry Eisenstein, Elizabeth, 76, 77, 200n20 Eliezer ben Joseph of Rimini, 18–19, 207nn11–12 enlightened absolutism, 172–73, 188–90, 306n79, 306n81 ‘‘European genizah,’’ 3 Eustachio, Giovanni Paulo, 126 Falorni, Giovan Vincenzo, 191 Farissol, Abraham: decorated manuscripts produced for women, 19, 20, 21, 24, 207– 8n14, 208n15, 209n20, 210n35; self-censorship and emendations of prayer books, 40, 220n59, 228n130 Ferrara ordinances, 111–14; apparent failure of implementation/compliance, 112, 114, 271n23; the 1554 ordinance, 111–12, 270n14, 270n17; the 1587 ordinance, 112–13, 270n16 Fiammetta, Yosef, 164 fifteenth-century Hebrew manuscripts. See censorship of Hebrew manuscripts in fifteenth-century Florence Figo, Azariah, 9 Fioghi, Marco Fabiano, 126 Fiorentino, Adamantio, 125 Florence: the ‘‘Eight’’ (civil authority), 27–29, 31–33, 35–36, 215nn23–24; Mou¨cke’s eighteenth-century liturgical printing, 175–76, 181, 182, 302n24; problematic circumstances of Jews during the 1460s and 1470s, 33–34; relationship between Florentine and Livornese printers, 175. See also censorship

of Hebrew manuscripts in fifteenth-century Florence Foa, Isaac, 117 Foa, Tuviah, 115 Fragnito, Gigliola, 215n23 Francesconi, Federica, 14, 133–55, 310 Francis Stephen of Lorraine, Grand Duke of Tuscany, 177–78, 188 Friedrich II Pfalzgraf, 63 Gabbay, Yedidiah: and beginnings of Hebrew printing in Tuscany, 172, 174–75, 179, 300n11, 301n19; monopoly/privilege in Livorno, 174, 176, 301n19 Galatino, Pietro Colonna, 73 Gans, David, 1 German synod of Frankfurt (1603 ordinance), 113–14 Gerondi, Jonah ben Abraham, 139 Gersonides, 72, 83, 99, 111, 118, 126–27, 139 Ghislieri, Michele, 125 Ginsburg, Christian David, 258n35 Giorgi, Carlo, 191 Giovio, Paolo, 142 Glatzer, Mordechai, 3, 205n1 Goshen-Gottstein, Moshe, 107 Gregory the Great, Pope, 124 Gregory XIII, Pope, 125–32 Gries, Zeev, 2, 198n8 Grimani, Domenico, 59, 60, 71, 75 Grimani, Marc Antonio, 60 Gueta, Anat, 2, 198n6 Gui, Bernard, 38, 39, 41, 226n116, 227n128, 229n135, 229n147 Habsburg-Lorraine: end of monopoly policy, 172–73, 186–91; Peter Leopold’s reorganization of state according to Enlightenment principles, 172–73, 188–90, 306n79, 306n81, 306n85, 306n89 Hacker, Joseph R., 1–16, 109–20, 204n50, 310 Hakohen, Joseph, 58, 93, 275n2 Haskalah (Jewish Enlightenment), 107–8 Hebraists, Christian, 31, 57–58, 77–78, 100– 101, 278n29 Hebrew Paleography Project’s database (SfarData), 29, 43–55 Heilprun, Yaakov ben Elhanan, 153 Hertzog, Johan Hamman, 61 Hummelberger, Michael, 68

Index Ibn Adoniyahu, Jacob ben H . ayyim, 13, 83– 108; argument for Sinaitic origins of the Masorah, 105–6, 108, 266n106; and Bomberg’s acquisition of ancient manuscripts, 58; and Bomberg’s printing of kabbalistic works, 75; conversion to Christianity, 93; editorial techniques and method of emendation, 86, 105–6, 266n109; expansion of the Masorah from manuscripts, 85–86, 106, 258n34; historical and humanistic approach to the Masorah, 103–5; introduction to the Masorah, 58, 86, 87–93, 103–4; and Jewishness of the Jewish Bible, 106–8; and kabbalistic significance of the Masorah, 87, 101, 259n39; and keri/ketiv annotations, 86–87, 103–5; and the Masorah text, 58, 86, 87–93, 101–6, 258nn34–35, 266n109. See also Rabbinic Bible of 1525 Ibn Ezra, Abraham, 83, 99–100, 103, 118 Ibn Migash, Abraham, 8–9 Ibn Paquda, Bah.ya, 118 Ibn Yah.ya, Gedaliah, 57 Immanuel ben Solomon ben Yekutiel, 91–92 Index of Prohibited Books (1596), 131–32, 134, 137, 151 Inquisition: accusations of heretical reading and forbidden books in Modena, 134, 135– 37, 144–55, 283n8; the bull Cum nimis absurdum, 136, 155; burning of the Talmud and Rabbinic Bible commentaries, 112, 114–15, 121–28, 136, 155, 275n2, 277n18; burning of vernacular Bibles, 137; Caraffa’s missive, 121–23; censors, 28–31, 38, 214n20, 215n23, 225n105; establishment of ghettos in the Italian peninsula, 136, 155; Index of Prohibited Books, 131–32, 134, 137, 151; Torres’s pamphlet attacking Jewish biblical exegesis, 124–25. See also Counter-Reformation; libraries and book culture; Rabbinic Bible commentaries Isaac ben Ovadiah of Forlı`, 19, 208n18 Italia, Eliezer, 161, 162 Italia, Rafael H . ayyim, 162 Italian Hebrew Bibles, 97, 98 Italy and the printing revolution, 7–10; cities, 7–10; innovations in typography and format, 9–10; quality/quantity of Hebrew books, 8–9 Jacob ben Asher, 123, 128, 137, 139, 267n113 Jaghel, Camillo (da Correggio), 147–48, 150, 288n74, 288n79

317

Jerusalem Targum, 80, 81 Johns, Adrian, 11 Julius III, Pope, 121–26, 275n2 kabbalistic books: Bomberg’s printing decisions, 73–75, 78–79, 255n12; diffusion and popularization, 7; and Hebrew studies among Florentine Christians, 218n43; Ibn Adoniyahu’s value of Masorah for kabbalistic study, 87, 101, 259n39; internal censorship of, 270n14; popular religiosity and prayer books of Shomrim la-Boker confraternities, 164, 165–66 Kalonymus, Isaac Nathan ben, 72, 83 Katzenelenbogen, Meir, 270n14 Kennicott, Benjamin, 107 keri/ketiv annotations, 71–72, 81, 86–87, 103–5 Kimh.i, David: attitude toward the Masorah, 266n102; Bomberg’s printing of Sefer miklol, 71; and Bomberg’s Rabbinic Bibles, 81, 83, 99, 256n26; commentaries in Moise`s Modena’s library, 140; commentaries prohibited by 1590 Index, 137; commentary on Psalms, 38, 81, 99, 256n26; identification of Edom with Rome, 41; and keri/ketiv system, 104 Kimh.i, Moshe, 83 Kremer, Johann Michael, 69–70 kuntrasim, 96–97 Latin Vulgate: Bomberg’s Rabbinic Bible’s chapter divisions based on, 72; and criteria for systematic examination of commentaries under pontificate of Gregory XIII, 126, 279n42; history of Catholic/Protestant disputes about antiquity of Masoretic Bible and, 107 Leh.em Yehudah, 1554 second edition (Judah Lerma), 114–16, 118–19, 274n49 Leopold, Peter, Grand Duke of HabsburgLorraine: abolition of monopoly policy, 172–73, 186–88; and printers’ guilds, 188– 89, 306n85; reorganization of the state according to Enlightenment principles, 172–73, 188–90, 306n79, 306n81, 306n85, 306n89 Leo X, Pope, 79–80, 302n29 Lerma, Judah, 114–16, 118–19, 274n49 Levi ben Gershom. See Gersonides Levita, Elia, 68, 75, 267n114

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Levy, B. Barry, 78, 102–3, 265n99, 265n101 libraries and book culture in early modern Modena, 3–4, 14, 133–55; Bible study curricula, 139; book lists submitted to inquisitors, 138, 151–53; books on civic virtue, 142–43; books on rhetoric of preaching/ sermons, 141–42; books on the art of memory, 142; classical works, 139–41; combination of culture and commerce, 136–37, 143–45; confiscated and listed books, 149–53; converts’ accusations against influential Jews, 145–49; Counter-Reformation political climate and cultural ghetto, 150; establishment of ghetto, 133, 136, 149–50, 153–54, 155; families accused of owning forbidden books, 134, 136–37, 144– 45, 283n8; Hebrew rhetoric and grammar, 139–41; humanistic writings and literary criticism, 141; Index of 1596 and reading prohibitions, 137, 151; Jewish-Christian relations, 154–55; Jewish commentaries, 139; kabbalistic literature, 140, 142, 146–47, 286n37; library of Camillo Jaghel da Corregio and his son, Ciro, 147–48, 288n79; library of Moise` Modena, 138–43, 144–45, 152; literacy and intellectual life, 134–35; medical texts, 143, 147–49; midrashic literature, 140; Modena family, 134, 138–43, 144; negotiations with local authorities, 154–55; the ‘‘open book’’ of Jewish culture, 135, 144, 154; policies of the papacy and Inquisition, 136, 154–55; reading Greek authors in Latin translation, 141; reading habits, 135– 37, 152–53; Sanguinetti family, 134, 137, 144–45; scholastic and Neoplatonic philosophy, 142; scientific texts, 143; synagogue and school curricula, 139–43, 286n44; women’s reading, 153; writing manuals, 141 libraries of the late Middle Ages, 204n50 Liechtenstein, Hermann, 61 Liechtenstein (Lichtenstein), Peter, 61, 78–79 liturgical Pentateuchs, 95–96, 98–99 liturgy, Jewish. See prayer books Livorno’s Hebrew printing industry (eighteenth century), 15, 171–95; beginnings of Hebrew printing in Tuscany, 173–75, 301n19; comparing production to other printing centers, 183–84, 184, 185, 186; de Pas, 177; early control and protection of the press, 177–80; exports throughout the

Mediterranean region, 185–86; Francis Stephen’s printing law and censorship system, 177–78; Gabbay’s seventeenth-century print shop, 172, 174–75, 179, 300n11, 301n19; Meldola, 177–83, 185; Meldola-De Pas affair over competing print shops, 180–83; monopoly system and printing privileges, 172–76, 181, 186–91, 301n14; monopoly system’s end, 172–73, 186–91; and Mou¨cke’s liturgical printing in Florence, 175–76, 181, 182, 302n24; paper manufacturing and trade, 176–77, 302n31; Peter Leopold’s enlightened absolutism and state reorganization, 172–73, 188–90, 306n79, 306n81, 306n85, 306n89; printers’ guilds, 180, 188– 89, 304n50, 306n85; production of Livornese editions in Hebrew styles, 183–86, 184–87; reasons for studying, 171–73; regulation by Jewish lay leadership (the massari), 178–80, 303n46, 303n48; relationship between Florentine and Livornese printers, 175; the renaissance of Tuscan Hebrew printing, 175–77; works in Hebrew or Rashi types, 176, 182, 189–91 Llull, Raymond, 138, 142 Lonzano, Menachem de. See De Lonzano, Menachem Lopez, Diego, 125 Lorenzo da Pesaro. See Da Pesaro, Lorenzo Ludovico Moro, 33, 220–21n60 Luria, Isaac, 163, 169 Magnus, Albertus, 142, 143, 148 Mah.berot Immanuel, 91–92 Maimonides: commentaries in Modenese Jews’ libraries, 139, 150, 151; criticism of astrological beliefs, 116; and Judah Lerma’s Leh.em Yehudah, 116; Lonzano’s attacks on, 118; Mishneh Torah, 38, 139, 150, 151, 266n109, 272n36 Malkiel, David, 92 Manardi, Giovanni, 143 Manetti, Giannozzo, 31, 216n27 Manetti, Giovanfrancesco, 34, 219n46 Mantuan Jews: fifteenth-century charter concerning books of, 32, 33, 220n59; household libraries showing shift from manuscript to printed-book ownership, 3–4; internal censorship of Azariah de’

Index Rossi’s Me’or einayim, 116–17; Shomrim laBoker confraternities and prayer books, 160–63 manuscripts: Hebrew manuscript production, 2–4, 6, 11, 198n12; shift from manuscript to printed-book ownership, 3–4, 11–12, 198n12. See also censorship of Hebrew manuscripts in fifteenth-century Florence; decorated Hebrew manuscripts Manutius, Aldus, 79, 253n2 maqama, 90–91 Maraviglia, Lady (daughter of Rav Menah.em ben Samuel), 20 Marchion ser Marchionis Ubertini Donati, 36, 224n87; censor marks and signature in manuscript margins, 26–31, 27, 37–42, 213n11, 224n93, 224n95; expurgation process/working procedure, 27–29, 36–42; and the Medicis, 36, 224n91. See also censorship of Hebrew manuscripts in fifteenth-century Florence Marden, Moses, 63 Marini da Brescia, Marco 125–26 Martin V, Pope, 32 Marx, Moses, 69 Marzi, Demetrio, 36 Masius, Andreas, 62–63, 74 Masorah: Ibn Adoniyahu and the 1525 Rabbinic Bible, 58, 86–93, 101–8, 258nn34–35, 259n39, 266n109; Ibn Adoniyahu’s editing and expansion from manuscripts, 85–86, 106, 258n34; Ibn Adoniyahu’s introduction, 58, 86–93, 103–4; Ibn Adoniyahu’s Sinaitic ascription, 105–6, 108, 266n106; kabbalistic significance, 87, 101, 259n39; rabbinic ambivalence regarding halakhic authority during the Middle Ages, 101–4, 264n95, 265nn99–101; and three medieval Bible subgenres, 94–97. See also Rabbinic Bible of 1525), keri/ketiv annotations Masoretic Bibles: Christian disputes about antiquity of, 107–8; codices and copying of Torah scrolls during the Middle Ages, 101–2, 264n91; medieval, 94–95, 98–99, 101–2, 107 McKenzie, Donald F., 5 medical texts in libraries of Modenese Jews, 147–49 Medici, Ferdinand de (Ferdinand II, the Grand Duke of Tuscany), 172, 174–75

319

Medici, Lorenzo de’, 29, 36, 216n26, 224n91 medieval Bibles, 94–99. See also Rabbinic Bible publication histories Meir ben Baruch (Maharam), 106 Me‘ire Shah.ar confraternity, 162–63, 293n6, 294n9 Meiri, Menahem, 103, 264n91, 265n100 Meir of Lublin, 119 Melanchthon, Philip, 69, 135 Meldola, Abraham, 177, 178, 179–83, 185 Meldola, Moses, 177 Meldola, Raphael, 177 Mendelssohn, Moses, 108 Mendes, Diego, 61 Mendes, Franc¸isco, 61 Me’or einayim (The Light of the Eyes) (Azariah de’ Rossi), 116–17, 118–19; Azariah’s chronological thesis, 117, 274nn43–44; in library of Modenese Jew Moise` Modena, 138, 140; rabbis’ circular letter criticizing, 117 Mercurio, Scipione, 143 Messer Leon, Judah ben Yeh.iel: attempt to prohibit Gersonides’ commentary on the Torah, 111; handbook of rhetoric, Sefer nofet zufim, 4, 140, 269n9 Metzger, Mendel, 206–7n8 Milan trials (1488) and censorship of Hebrew manuscripts, 30, 32–33, 36–37, 39, 41, 215n24, 217n36, 217n39, 220n60, 221n71, 224n92, 226n116, 229n146, 230n150 Mirabeau, 188 Mishneh Torah (Maimonides), 38, 139, 150, 151, 266n109, 272n36 Mithridates, Flavius (Guglielmo Raimondo de Moncada), 57, 233n10 Mizrah.i, Elijah ben Abraham, 70 Modena, 14, 133–55; becoming capital city of the Este Duchy, 136, 154; Counter-Reformation political climate and cultural ghetto, 150; establishment of ghetto, 133, 136, 149–50, 153–54, 155; Jewish-Christian relations, 154–55; literacy and intellectual life, 134–35; ritual processions of Jews, 133– 34, 153–54. See also libraries and book culture Modena, Aaron Berechiah: and Inquisition censorship, 150, 151–52; and kabbalistic literature, 139, 286n37; literary and cultural life of early modern Modena, 139, 142, 143–

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Index

Modena, Aaron Berechiah (continued ) 45, 150–52; and the Me‘ire Shah.ar confraternity, 162–63, 293n6, 294n9 Modena, Fioretta, 145 Modena, Leone (Judah Aryeh), 119, 138, 142, 159 Modena, Michele, 150 Modena, Moise`, 138–45, 152, 163; attempts to conceal the list of his books, 138; curriculum of his synagogue and school, 139–43, 286n44; Inquisition trial, 138; library in Counter-Reformation Modena, 138–45, 152 Modena, Raffaele, 133, 135, 146 Modena, Salomone, 139 monopoly system and printing privileges: Bomberg’s Rabbinic Bibles, 79–80, 86, 258n36, 302n29; eighteenth-century Livorno, 172–76, 181, 182, 186–91, 301n14; Gabbay in seventeenth-century Livorno, 174, 176, 301n19; and Meldola-De Pas affair, 181; Mou¨cke in eighteenth-century Florence, 175–76, 181, 182; Peter Leopold’s end of, 172–73, 186–91 Montefalcone, Giovanni da, 137, 138 Montias, Michael, 59 Mordechai ben Hillel, 106 Moscato, Judah, 140 Moses ben Judah Benjamin ha-Sefardi, 42 Moses of Coucy, 139 Mou¨cke, Francesco, 175–76, 181, 182, 302n24 Muenster, Sebastian, 100–101 Musso, Cornelio, 142 Muzio, Girolamo, 122–23 Nah.manides, 41, 72 Najara, Israel, 160, 169 Nielsen, Bruce, 12, 56–75, 310 Norsa, Consiglia, 18, 20, 24, 206n4 Norsa, Emanuel, 19, 208n15 Norsa, Isaac ben Emanuel, 18–19, 20, 24, 206n8, 207n11 Norsa, Jacob, 17, 18, 206n8 Norzi, Yedidyah, 267n114 Novi, Pietro Maria, 146–47 Olive´tan Bible, 146, 147 Ottoman Empire, Jews of, 4, 110–11, 119–20 Pagis, Dan, 167, 168 Pagninus, Sanctes, 100

Palatino, Giovanni, 141 Panigarola, Francesco, 142 Pasternak, Nurit, 9, 11, 26–55, 310–11 Pellican, Conrad, 100 Penkower, Jordan: and Bomberg’s Rabbinic Bibles, 75, 78, 79, 81, 83, 86, 101, 105–6, 254nn7–8, 258n34, 266n109, 267n115; and Ibn Adoniyahu’s Masorah, 86, 101, 105–6, 258n34, 266n109; and rabbinic ambivalence toward authority of the Masorah during the Middle Ages, 264n95, 265n99 Perani, Mauro, 3, 198n12 Petrarch, 141 Pico della Mirandola, 140, 218n43 Plantin, Christopher, 67, 244n87 Poggetti, Allegra, 152, 153 Poggetti, Leone, 139, 144, 145, 150, 152 Postel, Guillaume, 59, 63, 74–75 Pratensis, Felix, 57, 71; and 1517 Rabbinic Bible, 80–81, 86; Venice publishing house with Bomberg, 78–83 prayer books and seventeenth-century Shomrim la-Boker confraternities, 15, 156–70; Aaron Berechia Modena and the Modena confraternity, 162–63, 293n6, 294n9; Ancona confraternity, 163–64; Ashkenazi synagogue confraternity, 159–60; confessionals/formulas for the confession of sins, 165; confraternities and the predawn prayer vigil, 157–58, 164–65, 292n4, 293n6, 293n8; and Counter-Reformation climate of religiosity and piety, 169–70; first examples of tikkunim, 164–66, 296n30; first Venice confraternity, 158–59, 294n9; kabbalistic practices and beliefs, 164, 165–66; Levantine community in Venetian ghetto, 160; Mantuan Jews, 160–63; Me‘ire Shah.ar confraternity, 162–63, 293n6, 294n9; modern sacred poetry (piyyutim), 162, 166–69, 170; peculiarities (bibliographic and typographical), 167–68, 170; popular religiosity, 164–66; prayer book Ayyelet ha-shah.ar, 161–62, 168–69, 295nn19–20; prayer book Shovavim Tat, 162, 295n23; prayers for the sick and dying, 165, 296n31; printing and customization, 15, 166–70 printers’ guilds in eighteenth-century Livorno, 180, 188–89, 304n50, 306n85 printing revolution and book history, 1–16; aesthetics and innovations in typography

Index and format, 9–10; assessing impact on Jewish culture, 5–7, 9–10, 12, 16, 77–78, 106–8; book historians and ‘‘history of the book,’’ 5–6; changes in reading habits, 7, 135–37, 152–53; the Church’s response, 31, 218n42; collaborative Jewish-Christian production, 6; displacement of manuscript production, 2–4, 6, 11–12, 198n12; early praise for printing in moveable type, 1, 197n2; emergence of the editor, 15, 77, 204n47; the first Hebrew books, 2, 4, 7–10, 197n3, 198n8; impact on Western culture, 4–5, 76–77, 200n20; Italy’s print revolution, 7–10; Jewishness of the Jewish book in sixteenthcentury Venice, 77–78, 106–8; Jews’ adoption of printing technology, 2–4, 7–10; new book-genres, 77; new social space of the print shop, 76–77; redaction and (re-)presentation of medieval texts, 4, 7; Renaissance Italian cities, 7–10 printing technology, Jews’ adoption of, 2–4, 7–10; assessing impact on Jewish culture, 5–7, 9–10, 12, 16, 77–78, 106–8; changes in reading habits, 7, 135–37; Christian-owned print shops and collaborative production, 6; in Christian world/Muslim world, 4; first Hebrew books, 2, 4, 7–10, 197n3, 198n8; and Hebrew manuscript production, 2–4, 6, 11–12, 198n12; incunabula period, 8; Italian cities, 7–10; quantity of Hebrew books, 2, 8, 197n3, 198n8; rabbinic authorities and, 4; redaction and (re-)presentation of medieval texts, 4, 7; religious and cultural consequences, 6–7 privileges, printing. See monopoly system and printing privileges Provenzali, Abraham and David, 139, 286n44 Provenzali, Moses, 117, 286n44 Pruenen, Marie and Aert, 62, 63, 64 Rabbinic Bible commentaries and the Counter-Reformation, 13, 121–32; Bellarmine and, 13, 122, 128–32; Bomberg’s Rabbinic Bibles with commentaries, 81, 83, 97–101, 123, 125, 278n29; the 1553 burning of the Talmud, 112, 114–15, 121–22, 136, 155, 277n18; Gregory XIII’s project for systematic examination of manuscripts, 125–32, 279n41, 280n43; inquisitor Caraffa’s missive ordering burning, 121–23; inquisitor

321

Sisto’s list of commentaries (Bibliotheca Sancta), 125, 278n29; inquisitor Torres’s pamphlet attacking Jewish biblical exegesis, 124–25; inquisitor Torres’s recommendation to burn, 123–25, 131; Julius III and papal policy, 121–26, 275n2; papal bull Cum sicut nuper, 121–22, 123, 126; passages of Talmudic provenance, 127–28, 130–31; question of papal support, 121–28, 275n2; Rashi’s commentaries on Genesis, 122, 127–32, 281n63 Rabbinic Bible of 1517 (RB 1517), 12–13, 78–83, 82, 98, 277n19; accuracy, 81; Bomberg and Pratensis’s Venice publishing house, 78–83; Bomberg’s printing with a papal prohibition, 68–69; Bomberg’s ten-year privilegio, 79–80, 86, 258n36, 302n29; as first edition to contain an Aramaic Targum and commentaries, 81, 256n24; first use of chapter numbers, 72, 81, 257n27; ‘‘Jewish’’ edition/‘‘Christian’’ edition, 80– 83, 100; and keri/ketiv, 81; Kimh.i’s commentary on Psalms, 81, 256n26; and medieval styles, 98; noting variants in margins, 81; original title (Arba’ah ve-esrim), 254n7; Pratensis’s text, 80–81, 86; print runs and commercial success, 81–83 Rabbinic Bible of 1525 (RB 1525), 12–13, 83– 108, 84, 85, 277n19; and Bomberg’s renewed privilegio, 86, 258n36; Christian audiences, 100–101; commentaries, 83, 99–100, 101; and complicated status of the Masorah during Middle Ages, 101–4, 264n91, 264n95, 265nn99–101; as composite of three earlier subtypes, 98–99; the editor, Ibn Adoniyahu, 13, 58, 72, 83–108; and disputes about antiquity of Masoretic Bible and Vulgate, 107; Ibn Adoniyahu and the Masorah text, 58, 86–93, 101–8, 258nn34– 35, 259n39, 266n109; Ibn Adoniyahu’s allusions, 90–91, 259n51; Ibn Adoniyahu’s ascription of Sinaitic origin to Masorah, 105–6, 108, 266n106; Ibn Adoniyahu’s casting Bomberg as the project’s initiator, 89– 90, 92–93; Ibn Adoniyahu’s editorial techniques and method of emendation, 86, 105–6, 266n109; Ibn Adoniyahu’s expansion from manuscripts, 86, 105–6, 258n34; Ibn Adoniyahu’s historical and humanistic approach, 103–5; Ibn Adoniyahu’s introduction to the Masorah, 58, 86–93, 103–4;

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Index

Rabbinic Bible of 1525 (RB 1525) (continued ) Ibn Adoniyahu’s rhymed prose, 90–91; impact on the Jewishness of the Jewish Bible, 106–8; Jewish audiences, 99–102; and Jewish-Christian relationships, 93; keri/ketiv annotations, 86–87, 103–5; publication history and popularity/acceptance, 106, 267nn113–15; title page, 83, 85; and triumph of Sephardi over Ashkenazi text type, 106, 267n115 Rabbinic Bible publication histories in sixteenth-century context, 12–13, 76–108, 277n19; Bomberg’s ten-year privilegio, 79– 80, 86, 258n36, 302n29; and Christian Hebraists, 77–78, 100–101, 278n29; complicated Jewish-Christian relationships, 93; Christian disputes about antiquity of Masoretic Bible and Vulgate, 107–8; Jewish audiences, 99–102; and Jewishness of the Jewish Bible, 77–78, 106–8; printing of commentaries, 81, 83, 97–101, 123, 125, 256n24, 278n29; Rabbinic Bible of 1517, 78– 83, 82, 98, 277n19; Rabbinic Bible of 1525, 83–108, 84, 85, 277n19; and three medieval subgenres of Jewish Bible, 94–99 Ralbag. See Gersonides Rangoni, Marquise Baldassarre, 149 Rashba (Solomon ben Abraham ibn Adret/ Shlomo ben Aderet), 72, 103, 265n99, 266– 67n109 Rashi: Bellarmine and, 122, 129–32, 281n63; commentaries in Moise`s Modena’s library, 139; commentaries on Exodus, 127–28; commentaries on Genesis, 122, 129–32, 281n63; commentaries prohibited by 1590 Index, 137; commentary on the Pentateuch, 4, 38, 99, 137; and pontifical project for systematic examination of commentaries, 122, 127–28, 129–32 Raz-Krakotzkin, Amnon, 13, 227–28n128, 228n130, 250n133, 270nn16–17 Recanati, Menah.em, 74, 127, 140, 264n91 Reiner, Elhanan, 100 Rem, Lukas, 60, 237n32 Renialme, Charles de, 57–58, 59–60, 62 Renialme, Corneille de, 62, 63 Renialme, Hieronymus de, 57–58 Renialme, Jean de, 59–60, 62–63 Reuchlin, Johannes, 68, 69, 75, 101 Ricci, Clemente, 176–77

Richardson, Brian, 7–8 Rieti, H . ananiah Eliakim, 161, 162, 165 Robortello, Francesco, 142 Rosenberg, Franz Orsini, 188 Rosselli, Cosimo, 142 Roth, Cecil, 275n2 Rubiera, Aaron, 144 Ruderman, David, 134, 142, 288n74 Saadia Gaon, 83 Saba, Abraham, 73–74 Sabbioneta, Jewish internal censorship in, 114–16 Salonica ordinance (1529), 110–11 Samuel ben H . ofni, 118 Sanguinetti, Pellegrino, 150 Sanguinetti family (Modena), 134, 137, 144–45 Sansovino, Francesco, 142 Santoro, Giulio, 125 Scaliger, Joseph Juste, 57 Secret, Franc¸ois, 75 Sefer netivot ha-shalom (1780–83), 108 seventeenth-century Hebrew printing. See libraries and book culture; prayer books SfarData. See Hebrew Paleography Project’s database Sforno, Obadiah, 99, 140 Sforza, Francesco, 30, 33 Shear, Adam, 1–16, 311 Shemarya ben Abraham Yeh.iel, 35–36 Shomrim la-Boker confraternities, 156–70, 293n6; Aaron Berechia Modena and, 162– 63, 293n6, 294n9; Ancona, 163–64; Ashkenazi synagogue, 159–60; cultural activities of, 157; devotion to predawn prayer vigil, 157–58, 164–65, 292n4, 293n6, 293n8; factors contributing to spread of, 156–58; first prayer books, 158–64; how the confraternities and their prayer books came to differ, 166; Levantine community in Venetian ghetto, 160; Mantuan Jews, 160–63; Me‘ire Shah.ar, 162–63, 293n6; penitential ceremonies, 159; Venice (the first), 158–59, 294n9. See also prayer books Shtei yadot (Two Hands) (Menachem de Lonzano), 118–19, 275n53 Simonsohn, Shlomo, 3 Sirat, Collette, 3 Sisto da Sienna, 125, 127

Index sixteenth-century Hebrew printing. See Bomberg (van Bombergen), Daniel; censorship of Hebrew books in the sixteenth century; Rabbinic Bible publication histories Sixtus IV, Pope, 32 Slonik, Binyamin Aharon, 153 Soncino, Gershom, 9–10, 73, 79, 98, 110, 267n115 Soncino, Joshua, 98, 267n115 Sonne, Isaac, 213n13, 216n29 Sonnino, Guido, 171 Spalatin, Georg, 69 Spathaphora, Bartolomeus, 141 Stecchi, Giovan Battista, 180–82 Stern, David, 12, 13, 76–108, 311 Stow, Kenneth R., 154, 270n17, 275n2 study Bibles, 96, 99 Summa Theologica (Aquinas), 124–25 Tagliante, Giovanni Antonio, 141 Targum Neofiti, 80 Targum of Onkelos, 80, 94, 137 Tartaglia, Niccolo`, 143 Tinti, Giacomo, 134, 150 Torres, Francisco, 123–25, 131 Toscanella, Oratio, 142 Trabotti, Natanel, 139, 145, 150, 163 Tuscany, eighteenth-century: Grand Duke Ferdinand II (Medici), 172, 174–75; Hebrew printing, 173–79, 301n19; Peter Leopold’s reorganization according to Enlightenment principles, 172–73, 188–90, 306n79, 306n81, 306n85, 306n89; the renaissance of Hebrew printing, 175–77. See also Livorno’s Hebrew printing industry Ullola, Alfonso, 142 University of Cologne, 111 University of Louvain, 57–58, 128 Usiglio, Salomone, 150 Valerio, Cornelio, 141–42 Van Boxel, Piet, 13, 121–32, 311

323

Van der Molen, Frederick, 60–61 Van Mander, Karel, 58 Van Scorel, Jan, 58, 59 Van Veltwyck, Gerard, 73 Vendramin family, 60, 236n31 Venice: Bomberg and art patronage, 58–61; Bomberg’s application for privilege to publish Hebrew books, 79–80, 302n29; Bomberg’s import/export trade with Antwerp, 61–62; internal censorship of Lonzano’s Shtei yadot, 118–19; the printing revolution, 7–10; publishing house of Bomberg and Pratensis, 78–83; Rabbinic Bibles and the Jewishness of the Jewish book in, 77–78, 106–8 Vigevano, Elia da, 20, 210n30 Villa, Antoniazzi, 217n36, 219n55 Vitale, Binyamin ha-Kohen, 162 Vittori, Benedetto, 143 Volerra, Aharon H . ayyim, 178 Vossius, Isaac, 231n2 Weinberg, Joanna, 142 Wessel, John, 57 Widmanstetter, Johann Albrecht, 75 women: Elia da Vigevano’s daughter, Brunetta, 20, 210n30; Isaac Norsa’s wife, Consiglia, 18, 20, 24, 206n2, 206n4; Lady Maraviglia (daughter of Rav Menah.em ben Samuel), 20; reading habits in Counter-Reformation Modena, 153. See also decorated Hebrew manuscripts Yagel, Abraham, 133, 135, 142, 147 Yare`, Mordekhai Reuben, 161, 168–69 Yeh.iel Nissim da Pisa. See Da Pisa, Yeh.iel Nissim Yuval, I. J., 228n133, 230n151 Zacuto, Moses, 164, 293n6 Zafren, Herbert, 97 Zarko, Yehudah, 169 Zemirot Israel, 169, 298n42 Z.eror ha-mor, 73–74

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The initial impetus for this volume was the gathering of scholars working on different aspects of the history of Jewish material texts at the Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies of the University of Pennsylvania during the 2005–6 academic year. All the contributors to this volume except one were part of that group as fellows or adjunct fellows, and most of the essays herein emerged out of seminar or conference presentations at the center. While the case studies here are representative of many of the issues raised in the course of scholarly conversation that year, the research group included scholars working on projects in different periods or focused on different geographic areas. In order to give this volume focus, a number of important contributions could not be included. We are grateful to all of our colleagues in the research group, however, for their contributions, direct and indirect, to this project. In the long process that led to this volume, we had the help of many people. We are especially grateful to David Ruderman, director of the Katz Center and editor of the Jewish Culture and Contexts series at the University of Pennsylvania Press, and Natalie Dohrmann, director of publications at the center, for their advice, assistance, and necessary prodding when the pace of the project slowed. We are grateful for the careful stewardship of Jerry Singerman, Caroline Winschel, Michele Alperin, and Erica Ginsburg as the project made its way through the press. We would also like to thank Holly Knowles, who carefully compiled the index, and John Hubbard, who designed the cover. In the course of the 2005–6 academic year and after, Arthur Kiron, Judith Leifer, Josef Gulka, and other staff of the University of Pennsylvania library’s Judaica collections and Sheila Allen, Sam Cardillo, and Etti Lassman of the Katz Center staff offered invaluable assistance. We are deeply grateful to all of them, without whom the scholarly activity at the center could not proceed. Some material in the volume’s introduction was presented by Adam Shear for discussion at the University of Southern California–Huntington

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Acknowledgments

Library Early Modern Studies Institute, Global Print Workshop 噛3, ‘‘Printing Globalized, 1776–1941,’’ 6 November 2009. We are grateful to the participants in that workshop for their feedback. We are also grateful to the anonymous reader for the University of Pennsylvania Press, who made valuable suggestions at the last stage of the project. Finally, in addition to the Katz Center, several other institutions provided support to the editors during the preparation of the volume, including the Department of Religious Studies of the University of Pittsburgh and the Center for Jewish History in New York (Shear), and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem Department of Jewish History and the Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Judaic Studies (Hacker). The two images from MS Parma-Biblioteca Palatina 1754, cc. 5v and 393r, in Evelyn Cohen’s article, are published by permission of the Ministero per i Beni e le Attivita` Culturali of Italy. MS New York, Jewish Theological Seminary 4518, fol. 81r, in Nurit Pasternak’s article, appears courtesy of the Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary, New York. The three images from the 1517 and 1525 Rabbinic Bibles in David Stern’s article and the image from the 1602 edition of ‘Arugat ha-Bosem on the jacket appear courtesy of the library at the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies, University of Pennsylvania. We are grateful to the libraries that furnished these illustrations and are happy to acknowledge their contributions here.