From the present date no book is to be retained under pain of incurring a curse [for its alienation], and we declare all such curses to be of no effect[147].
In the same century many volumes were bequeathed to the Augustinian House of S. Victor, Paris, on the express condition that they should be so lent[148]. It is almost needless to add that one abbey was continually lending to another, either for reading or for copying[149].
Houses which lent liberally would probably be the first to relax discipline so far as to admit strangers to their libraries; and in the sixteenth and following centuries the libraries of the Benedictine House of S. Germain des Près, Paris, as well as the already mentioned House of S. Victor, were open to all comers on certain days in the week.
When we try to realise the feelings with which monastic communities regarded books, it must always be remembered that they had a paternal interest in them. In many cases they had been written in the very House in which they were afterwards read from generation to generation: and if not, they had probably been procured by the exchange of some work so written. In fact, if a book was not a son of the House, it was at least a nephew.
The conviction that books were a possession with which no convent could dispense, appears in many medieval writers. The whole matter is summed up in the phrase, written about 1170, "claustrum sine armario, castrum sine armamentario[150]," an epigram which I will not spoil by trying to translate it; and even more clearly in the passionate utterances of Thomas à Kempis on the desolate condition of priest and convent without books[151]. The "round of creation" is explored for similes to enforce this truth. A priest so situated is like a horse without bridle, a ship without oars, a writer without pens, a bird without wings, etc.; while the House is like a kitchen without stewpans, a table without food, a well without water, a river without fish—and many other things which I have no space to mention.
Evidence of the solicitude with which they protected their treasures is not wanting. The very mode of holding a manuscript was prescribed, if not by law, at least by general custom. "When the religious are engaged in reading in cloister or in church," says an Order of the General Benedictine Chapter, "they shall if possible hold the books in their left hands, wrapped in the sleeve of their tunics, and resting on their knees; their right hands shall be uncovered with which to hold and turn the leaves of the aforesaid books[152]." In a manuscript at Monte Cassino[153] is the practical injunction
Quisquis quem tetigerit
Sit illi lota manus;
and at the same House the possession of handkerchiefs—which were evidently regarded as effeminate inventions—is specially excused on the ground that they would be useful—among other things—"for wrapping round the manuscripts which brethren handle[154]." Of similar import is the distich at the end of a fine manuscript formerly in the library of S. Victor:
Qui servare libris preciosis nescit honorem
Illius a manibus sit procul iste liber[155].