Documenti di Didattica
Documenti di Professioni
Documenti di Cultura
Ciphers in Magic
Techniques of Revelation and Concealment
B E N E D E K L Á N G
Budapest University of Technology and Economics
My research was supported by the OTKA K 101544 Grant. The English version
of the first half of the article was based on Teodóra Király’s translation of my originally
Hungarian text.
PAGE 125
................. 18819$ $CH1 11-02-15 07:44:19 PS
126 Magic, Ritual, and Witchcraft Winter 2015
1. William Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature: Books of Secrets in Medieval and
Early Modern Culture (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994).
2. Il Segreto / The Secret, ed. A. Paravacini Bagliani, Micrologus, vol. XIV (Florence:
SISMEL, 2006).
3. William Newman and Anthony Grafton, eds., Secrets of Nature: Astrology and
Alchemy in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press, 2001).
4. Pamela O. Long, Openness, Secrecy, Authorship: Technical Arts and the Culture of
Knowledge from Antiquity to the Renaissance (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University
Press, 2001).
5. Koen Vermeir, ‘‘Openness versus Secrecy? Historical and Historiographical
Remarks,’’ The British Journal for the History of Science 45 (2012): 165–88.
6. John Cohen, Homo Psychologicus (London: George Allen and Unwin Ltd, 1970),
133–38. I thank Csaba Pléh for calling my attention to Cohen’s book.
esoteric circles seem banal or empty once they are uncovered (secrecy with-
out a secret). The rhetoric of secrecy is a recurring feature of early modern
science—several kinds of knowledge had the exciting trademark of secrecy
that in effect could easily be obtained by any literate person. Similarly, advo-
cacy of the value of ‘‘publicity’’ in the seventeenth century did not mean
actual publicity—as it does not mean it today, either. Many writers, past and
present, have argued that open access to information is a value, when the
reality is that, because of the special customs of publication, or because of
intentional secrecy, these writers’ knowledge is not widely accessible at all.7
The contrasting concepts of secrecy and openness are much discussed in
historiography of science. Robert Merton’s four well-known scientific norms
—universalism, communalism, disinterestedness, and organized skepticism—
have had a long-lasting influence on how researchers approached the issue.8
One of the norms, communalism, is particularly relevant here. According to
this norm, scientific achievements should be made freely available to anyone,
since knowledge is the common intellectual property of society, not of the
individual. Merton, of course, was fully aware that his norms do not necessar-
ily describe the reality of scientific research. He looked at them as the ethos
of scientific research, a set of values that would guarantee the free and effec-
tive progress of science, and one that academic institutions of democratic
societies strive to achieve in an ideal world. In historiography, however, the
norms were taken up in a somewhat simplified way. Researchers simply
accepted the view that openness is a positive value that supports academic
research, and that secrecy, which is more characteristic of the history of tech-
nology, was fortunately abandoned by modern science. Science, in this
understanding, has become open, whereas technology has remained secre-
tive.9
This view was, of course, challenged in regard to both the past and the
present of scientific practice. John Ziman pointed out that Merton’s norms
are constantly being violated in the twentieth century, and these violations
7. Koen Vermeir, ‘‘Openess versus Secrecy,’’ and Pamela O. Long, ‘‘The Open-
ness of Knowledge: An Ideal and its Context in 16th-Century Writings on Mining
and Metallurgy,’’ Technology and Culture 32 (1991): 318–55.
8. Robert Merton, ‘‘Science and Technology in a Democratic Order,’’ Journal of
Legal and Political Sociology 1 (1942): 115–26.
9. David Hull, ‘‘Openness and Secrecy in Science: Their Origins and Limita-
tions,’’ Science, Technology and Human Values 10 (1985): 4–13; Ernan McMullin,
‘‘Openness and Secrecy in Science: Some Notes on Early History,’’ Science, Technology
and Human Values 10 (1985): 14–23.
magic, trying to discover how the act of sharing a secret becomes a tool of
group formation and group cohesion.15
Nevertheless, anagrams are not ciphers. They are not based on the substi-
tution of letters, but on their transposition. The most important difference is
that anagrams often have several solutions. This is why Kepler could solve
Galileo’s first anagram in a completely different way, making sense of it in
light of his own Mars-related theory. Anagrams cannot be broken as a cipher,
and they are not meant to be channels of secret communication. The goal of
these scientists was to document their own scientific hypotheses and the pri-
ority of their discovery in an age when the mechanisms of establishing prior-
ity were not yet established. There existed patent office–like institutions, and
publishing a discovery in a book or journal was also an available alternative,
but a particular scientist never knew where the system leaked—which editor,
patent specialist, or assessor of a contest would pass on crucial information.
We now know that the very idea of Galilei’s telescope was also the result of
such a leaking,19 so we are not surprised that Tycho Brahe felt the need to
have his own press operating on the island of Hven, the place of his astro-
nomical discoveries. The process of printing a discovery, which meant to
secure its priority, involved risking that very priority. The use of anagrams
did not aim at disguising, it was rather meant to provide protection from the
risks inherent in the process of recognition and publication. It was a defense
mechanism.20
The motivations of the astronomer Michael Van Langren might have been
similar to those of Tycho Brahe, when he published a small book in 1644 in
Spanish, with the title La verdadera Longitud por mar y tierra. The book puts
forward a solution to one of the most urgent scientific problems of the age,
the exact determination of longitude. This had become a burning issue in
navigation: based on the position of the Sun and the stars, it was relatively
easy to determine the latitude of the position of one’s ship in the open ocean,
but for exactly determining the longitude (and thus, answering questions
such as ‘‘How far is America from here?’’ or ‘‘Where do the continental
shelves begin under the water?’’), they would have needed more precise
chronometers than were available at the time. Sovereigns recognized the
importance of the problem, and founded grants to encourage scientists to
mology in Early Modern Europe, ed. Tamás Demeter, Kathryn Murphy, and Claus Zittel
(Leiden: Brill, 2014), 221–45.
19. Mario Biagioli, ‘‘Venetian Tech-Transfer: How Galileo Copied the Tele-
scope,’’ in The Origins of the Telescope, ed. Albert van Helden, Sven Dupré, Rob
van Gent and Huib Zuidervaart (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2011),
203–30.
20. Biagioli, ‘‘From Ciphers to Confidentiality.’’
solve it. Van Langren finally found the solution. However, we are not in the
position to assess whether or not he was right, because he enciphered his
proposition before he printed it, and this cipher text—not longer than a
paragraph—still resists code breakers. The first solution that we can actually
read was proposed a hundred years later, when, in the mid-eighteenth cen-
tury, John Harrison developed such precise clocks that the determination of
longitude on open sea finally became possible.21
Proper ciphers—that were not used to ensure priority, but rather con-
cealed a longer text and could be actually solved—were used only to a limited
extent in scientific and technological texts. A well-known case is that of
the Renaissance engineer Giovanni Fontana (ca. 1395?–1455). Fontana used
substitution ciphers in entire books, among them his Bellicorum Instrumentorum
Liber, describing his complex military machinery, and his Secretum de Thes-
auro, on mnemotechnic devices. He used simple, monoalphabetic substitu-
tion ciphers.22 What his motivations might have been we can only guess, but
we are probably not very far from the solution if we suppose that he wished
to add to the secrecy of the description of the technological devices as well
as demonstrating how his substitution cipher itself functioned. As cracking
Fontana’s code was not hard, one could more properly call this procedure
the rhetoric of secrecy than a real secretive technique.
The motivations of Robert Boyle were different. He relied more heavily
on proper cryptographic methods, such as name substitution, code words,
and monoalphabetic ciphers. (The latter procedure, monoalphabetic substitu-
tion, is the simplest method in cryptology; one specific character stands for
one specific letter, and thus, since this method is vulnerable to frequency
analysis, it is usually fairly easy to break.) Boyle applied these in his private
letters, not his published documents. The purpose of his secrecy was different
from that of Huygens, Hooke, and Newton. It was not to secure the priority
of a discovery; rather, he did not wish the results of his alchemical experi-
ments to be found out. No professional codebreakers would have been
21. Valero-Mora and Ibáñez Ulargui, ‘‘The First (Known Statistical Graph:
Michael Florent van Langren and the ‘Secret’ of Longitude,’’ 2010, http://www
.datavis.ca/papers/langren-TAS09154.pdf (accessed March 13, 2015).
22. Lynn Thorndike, History of Magic and Experimental Science (New York: Colum-
bia University Press, 1923–58), vol. 4, 150–82; Alexander Birkenmajer, ‘‘Zur
Lebensgeschichte und wissenschaftlichen Tätigkeit von Giovanni Fontana (1395?–
1455?),’’ Isis 17 (1932): 34–54. Bellicorum Instrumentorum Liber (München, Bayerische
Staatsbibiliothek, Cod. Icon. 242), Secretum de thesauro experimentorum ymaginationis
hominum (Paris, Bibliotheque Nationale, Cod. Lat. Nouv. Acq. 635). See also Horst
Kranz and Walter Oberschelp, eds., Mechanisches Memorieren und Chiffrieren um 1430:
Johannes Fontanas Tractatus de instrumentis artis memorie (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2009).
stopped by his encryption, however. His purpose was, instead, to exclude his
learned assistants from the communication of his secrets.23
In the old secrecy–openness dichotomy, alchemy certainly fell on the
secretive side, considered to rely on all kinds of methods that excluded unin-
vited readers from alchemical communications. In recent decades, however,
historians have increasingly noticed that secrecy in alchemy is a more com-
plex issue; in fact, it was not in all cases more secretive than other occupations
of the period.24 To be sure, metals were represented by special graphic sym-
bols, and many alchemic documents combine symbolic language-use with
chemistry. However, direct and intentional encryption, as seen in Boyle’s
letters, was rare; in any event only a few ciphers applied in alchemical texts
from before 1600 are known. One of them is from the Beinecke library,
the sixteenth-century Latin and German collection of alchemical (and partly
medical) recipes of a certain Martin Roesel of Rosenthal from around 1586,
in which some recipes are encrypted in a numeric monoalphabetical cipher.25
Another one is from the national library of Madrid, the Libro del Tesoro attrib-
uted to Alfonso the Wise, a twenty-page text, which is almost entirely
encrypted.26 Both manuscripts have been identified and researched by the
historian of alchemy Agnieszka Rec, who convincingly argues that the rela-
tive lack of cryptography in sixteenth century alchemy is due to the fact that
the kind of secrecy guaranteed by ciphers do not actually fit the special needs
of the alchemists. In fact, she writes:
[C]iphers represent an entirely different tool than that commonly wielded in the
service of alchemical secrecy. The other methods alchemists relied on to conceal their
and the geographical and political unities to be mentioned in the given politi-
cal context. This was the usual system followed in early modern diplomatic
correspondence: rulers, archbishops, politicians, and even everyday spies used
this strategy when communicating with their ambassadors, envoys, and col-
leagues.
Such a system resisted brute force frequency analysis efficiently. Nullities,
signs without meaning, were meant to confuse the code breaker, and
nomenclators—signs standing for often used names, territories, and notions—
had the function of avoiding words with easily recognizable structure. Even
though this method seems to be quite outdated in our post-Enigma period,
one has to admit that such homophonic systems, using special characters for
syllables (and sometimes several characters, that is, homophones, for the same
syllable), are not particularly easy to decrypt. Usually only a solid knowledge
of the historical background and a correct identification of the language of
the plain text will allow the codebreaker to succeed. Even though this kind
of cipher was used after 1400, and became well known and widely available
in sixteenth-century diplomacy, civil practitioners did not really use it until
the seventeenth century.
We find similar cryptography in magical texts, the scribes of which also satis-
fied themselves with the use of monoalphabetic ciphers. Magic, just like
alchemy, had been represented in the traditional literature as secretive in con-
trast to science, which was supposed to be open.29 However, as we have seen,
this simplifying opposition has, fortunately, been lately modified.30 Still, and
most interestingly, learned magic and cryptography seem to have had an
unusually close relationship in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. They
share their major authors, to start with. Works of Cornelius Agrippa and
John Dee contain secret alphabets, whereas Johannes Trithemius, Athanasius
Kircher, and Gerolamo Cardano were all authors noted in both the history
of magic and the history of cryptography.
In late medieval magical manuscripts, written or compiled by anonymous
authors, accessible and popular in circles of students and the low clergy,
cipher alphabets and shorter encrypted messages appear in considerable quan-
tity. Some of these alphabets and messages were the inventions of the scribes,
others appeared in such widespread and often copied texts as the Picatrix, the
29. Brian Vickers, ed., Occult and Scientific Mentalities in the Renaissance (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984).
30. Vermeir, ‘‘Openness versus Secrecy.’’
Book of Runes, and a number of short hermetic and Salomonic texts.31 In the
Book of Runes for example—a Latin talismanic text on manipulating planetary
spirits—the spirits’ names are to be engraved on metal plates in a runic alpha-
bet associating the sacred aspect of the runes with the celestial forces. This
was the most famous, but not the only, magical text featuring a runic script.
In a German manuscript from the late fifteenth century, for example,
runic characters were used for transcribing various names and notions of the
divinatory, prognostic, and occasionally demonic material of the book. In a
demonic invocation written in proper German, for example, the following
terms are spelled in runes: boes geist (malign spirit), diabolo diaboliczno, satana
sataniczno, and kum her zuo mir (come to me).32
Cipher alphabets in magical texts have two common traits. First, they all
stay on a relatively simple level, not stepping beyond the usual monoalphabe-
tic system, despite the fact that by this time, the turn of the fifteenth and the
sixteenth centuries, homophonic systems complemented with nomenclatures
were known. Furthermore, ciphers in magic manuscripts usually encrypt
short fragments of texts, and more often than not, these text fragments func-
tion as names of planetary spirits, as characters to be inscribed in a planetary
talisman used for benign and evil magical purposes, or simply as demonic
invocations.33
Proceeding in time, and looking at early modern manuscripts of magic,
the picture does not change substantially. The wide range of magic alphabets
collected in the comprehensive book by Gilles le Pape (Les écritures magiques)
are again without exception monoalphabetic, be they of Arabic, Hebraic,
Irish, or Western European origin. Cornelius Agrippa’s celestial alphabets,
the many anonymous talismanic ciphers, and even the famous Freemason
cipher belong to this simple category.34
Encrypting methods in these cases do not in the least seem to be used as
31. Benedek Láng, Unlocked Books, Manuscripts of Learned Magic in the Medieval
Libraries of Central Europe (University Park: Penn State University Press, 2008), chaps.
3 and 9. MS Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Pal. Lat. 1375, fol. 19r., about which see
also Láng, Unlocked Books, 132. MS BAV Pal. lat. 1375 fol. 270v, on which: Láng,
Unlocked Books, 117.
32. Hartmut Beckers, ‘‘Eine spätmittelalterliche deutsche Anleitung zur Teufels-
beschwörung mit Runenschriftverwendung,’’ Zeitschrift für deutsches Altertum und deut-
sche Literatur 113 (1984): 136–45.
33. Dresden, Sächsische Landesbibliothek N. 100, fol. 198r–200v; BAV, Pal. lat.
1439, fol. 346r–347v. Hartmut Beckers, ‘‘Eine spätmittelalterliche deutsche Anlei-
tung.’’
34. Gilles le Pape, Les écritures magiques (Milan: Arché, 2006).
means for hiding information. This is not only because these cipher alphabets
are easy to break, but also because the accompanying text, which is left open,
clearly reveals what the coded text is about. Ciphers make no content inac-
cessible. It seems very likely that the special characters used to denote or
conjure up the magical content of the spiritual world in effect worked to call
attention to the ritual of the text, rather than hide it. Their mysterious
appearance worked more like a strategy of exposure, an advertisement by
means of the rhetoric of secrecy. The purpose of using special letters was not
so much to satisfy cryptographic needs as to provide a channel of communi-
cation with the spiritual world.
It does not seem to be an over-interpretation of the phenomena to say that
scribes of magic ciphers took Saint Augustine’s famous argument seriously.35
In Augustine’s model, magic appears in the context of the theory of signs as
an act of communication with the demonic powers. All superstitious prac-
tices, including divinatory and astrological procedures, presuppose an implicit
or explicit agreement with demons. This is valid even in the case where the
operator—deceived by the demons—is not aware of the pact, because this
pact is secured by the magical language, signs, and rituals applied by him.
Secret characters in late medieval magical texts turn this semiotic argument
upside down. Authors and scribes use secret characters exactly with the pur-
pose of magical communication. Augustine warned that we might easily start
talking in the language of demons simply by following some seemingly inno-
cent magical methods, and thus, we might get involved in demonic magic.
But what was for him a major reason for rejection seems here to have become
a program to be followed. Codes and ciphers in magic texts often serve to
name planetary spirits, or as celestial alphabets to communicate with planetary
spirits (not necessarily with demons), and it is exactly through the application
of such signs that the user of magic might get closer to the spiritual realms.
In my view, this explanation applies well to most medieval and early mod-
ern cases of encrypted forms of magical knowledge. However, exceptions
may be found. One is the famous Copiale cipher, a whole book encrypted
with a homophonic method, broken fairly recently by a Swedish-American
35. His fullest account of magic is to be found in Book II of the De doctrina christi-
ana, and in the De civitate Dei VIII–X. See Robert Markus, ‘‘Augustine on Magic: A
Neglected Semiotic Theory,’’ Revue des Études Augustiniennes 40 (1994): 375–88;
Claire Fanger, ‘‘Magic,’’ in Karla Pollman, Willemien Otten, et al., The Oxford Guide
to the Historical Reception of Augustine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 860–
65, as well as Fanger’s dissertation chapter on Augustine’s sign theory, entitled
‘‘Inventing the Grand Dichotomy,’’ in Signs of Power and the Power of Signs (PhD
dissertation, University of Toronto, 1994).
research team (Kevin Knight, Beata Megyesi and Christiane Schaefer).36 The
second is less well known: an entirely enciphered manuscript from the small
Hungarian village of Nagybajom, recently broken by two Hungarian
researchers (Hanna Vámos and István Vadai).37 These books contain consider-
ably longer texts than the above examples of talismanic ciphers, more than
a hundred pages. Since one of them used a homophonic, and the other a
polyalphabetic method for encryption, they are not easy to break. Each con-
tains initiation rituals specific to a certain sect: respectively, the Copiale to
the Oculists and the Nagybajom manuscript to the Freemason community.
Ciphers in these two cases serve less than in the previous ones to call the
reader’s attention to the text; the rhetoric of secrecy has a different role here,
closer to what had been emphasized by Georg Simmel, Koen Vermeir, and
Tanya Luhrman, as described above. Relying on their analyses, I would claim
that encryption here is a social practice, expressing and regulating how far
certain information is shared, and how far one might belong to a specific
community. Secrecy indeed becomes an organizing tool of social hierarchy,
fundamentally influencing the mechanisms of exclusion-inclusion, and form-
ing a group of those who grasp the mystery. These late examples provide a
different pattern of ciphers and secrecy than the previous fifteenth- and
sixteenth-century examples.
36. For the Copiale, see Kevin Knight, Beáta Megyesi, and Christiane Schaefer,
‘‘The Copiale Cipher,’’ http://www.isi.edu/natural-language/people/copiale-11.pdf
(accessed March 13, 2015); idem, ‘‘The Secrets of the Copiale Cipher,’’ Journal for
Research into Freemasonry and Fraternalism 2 (2012): 314–24; and see also http://stp.ling
fil.uu.se/⬃bea/copiale/ (accessed March 13, 2015).
37. Hanna Vámos, ‘‘Leleplezett titok: Pálóczi Horváth Ádám titkos, szabadko-
muves dokumentuma’’ (Unveiled secret, the Freemason document of Ádám Pálóczi
Horváth), in Magyar Arión Tanulmányok Pálóczi Horváth Ádám muveirol (Hungarian
Arión, Studies on the works of Ádám Pálóczi Horváth), ed. István Csörsz Rumen
and Béla Hegedüs (Budapest: rec.iti, 2011), http://rec.iti.mta.hu/rec.iti (accessed
March 13, 2015).
38. Brief selection from the literature of dissimulation: Perez Zagorin, Ways of
Lying: Dissimulation, Persecution and Conformity in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990), 1–14; Jon R. Snyder, Dissimulation and the
Culture of Secrecy in Early Modern Europe (Berkeley: University of California Press,
2012); Carlo Ginzburg, Il Nicodemismo: Simulazione e dissimulazione nell’Europa del
’500 (Turin: Einaudi, 1970); Vı́gh Éva, Barocco etico-retorico nella letteratura italiana
(Szeged: JATE Press, 2001).
39. Snyder, Dissimulation, xiii.
40. The case is also quoted by Vermeir, ‘‘Openness versus Secrecy,’’ 174, to illus-
trate the gradual character and the simultaneous appearance of the parts of the
openness-secrecy dichotomy.
Trithemius had to fight against the charge of demonic magic in the last dec-
ades of his life; it is really not so surprising that many readers took the seem-
ingly demonic cover text seriously. The book was not printed until a hundred
years later, when the famous authority of cryptography, Gustavus Selenus,
proved, by decoding some of it, that the magical appearance of Trithemius’
book was just a cover for the steganographic content. (Gustavus Selenus was
in fact Duke Herzog August, prince of Braunschweig, who wrote his crypto-
graphic book under a pseudonym.)41 The abbot’s book was finally printed
(interestingly enough, by a protestant publisher).
But the Steganographia had three books, and Gustavus Selenus actually gave
a key to the seemingly magical content only of the first two. The third book,
by contrast, resisted decryption for a further five hundred years. Instead of
being seen as an innocent manual on ciphers and steganography, in the opin-
ion of many, it really was an occult text, containing planetary spirit names
and a long list of numbers serving for astrological computation. Clearly, it
was what it seemed to be: a text on astral magic. Even in the secondary
literature, authors generally agreed that the first two books of Trithemius
were a well-disguised cryptography, but the third book was demonic non-
sense.
But, in the 1990s, the very same thing ultimately happened to Trithemius’
third book as had happened to the first two in the seventeenth century. The
German scholar, Thomas Ernst—and simultaneously but independently, the
American Jim Reeds—pointed out that the spirit names and numbers were
not nonsense magical operations, but rather a code that could actually be
cracked.42 The third book was written to demonstrate the functioning of a
cryptographic system (a homophonic system, by the way). However, it was
also a case of steganography, that is, not only an enciphered but also a hidden
message, where angel names and astrological data turned out to be the non-
secret content manipulated to disguise the message. Trithemius was finally
cleared from the charge of demonic magic, and simultaneously he proved his