Curio Cabinets of Doom

At the same time I began looking into portable apothecary kits (and, it goes without saying, how to go about making one of my own), I stumbled on another marvel of creative, and portable, potistry. One which, in fact, resembled an earlier project of my own, but was considerably more, well . . . sinister.

This is a miniature poisoner's cabinet of sorts, complete with small drawers for various toxic substances, many of them from herb sources, and a bottle for holding liquid of whatever variety (solvent? Wine?). What makes this little kit all the cooler is how it's disguised: as an old book.

The trick of hiding potions or other illicit goods inside a thick book is time-honored and appealing. For the double-layer potions kit I made, resembling a book, I drew inspiration from Roahd Dahl's The Witches, where we find the bottles of the dread Formula 86 hidden inside a book: Our heroic boy-turned-mouse nicks a bottle, drags it with his tail over to the kitchen, and drops it in the witches' bubbling dinner stewpot, much to their angst. (I love the scene where one witch finds the broken bottle of Formula 86 in her bowl!)

In my own kit, meanwhile, I put a mixture of herbal remedies, poisons, and magic potions, plus some tools.

What's the story of these fearful antique poisoners' kits? Several have appeared at auctions for hefty sums, and rumors have circulated that they were anything from genuine artifacts from the 17th century, to well-made replicas, to illusions of computer-generated imagery.

The truth, as usual, is a bit more complicated. These "poison cabinets" as described by auction houses are real curios, but while they are made from 17th century books and materials, the assemblages themselves are more modern. The phrase on the listing site, to be exact, is "poison cabinet disguised as a book, a historicism in a 17th century style," where a historicism, or Historismus comprises art pieces that draw inspiration from recreating historical works or imitating the styles of historical artisans. The books may be from the 17th century, but they were hollowed out and crafted into art pieces later on.

The term "Giftschrank", found in the original German auction listings, is also telling. In a wonderful irony, "Gift" can mean "poison" in German -- I once saw an antique blue glass bottle with that very word and a skull-and-crossbones in raised glass, for sale at Shadowhouse for a pretty $100 -- but "Giftschrank" means a locked apothecary cabinet of the sort found in a hospital, school, pharmacy or laboratory. This may or may not indicate poison, but merely controlled substances, dangerous ingredients or components.

Similarly, I found a German version of my favorite comic online in which Magica de Spell panics and cries, in English: "No! My magic books! My potions! You're wrecking everything!" The term she uses here is, "Mein gifte!", which suggests potions, albeit shady ones, in general, rather than simply, "My poisons!"

Thus, the auction term for these books of doom is less sinister than its English translation -- and their real history may be less sinister than it appears, as well. There's a good chance none of these were ever used to poison anyone! While they seem impressive, a real assassin or poisoner might find one of these kits to be cumbersome, not to mention seriously incriminating.

If I were going to poison someone -- just hypothetically speaking, of course -- I'd be more discreet; I would pack fewer bottles, in a less obvious place: in the lining of my hat, for example, or inside shoe platforms. Even if I did make use of a book like these, say I planted it within a room until I needed it, I would either leave the phials unlabeled or use a set of symbols known only to myself. No sense in broadcasting "Belladonna" to whomever opens that thing, if you're a real poisoner being grilled by the law and people are seeking the tools of your trade as evidence!

The clearly labeled phials, not to mention the spooky etched illustrations drawn from old works of literature -- in this case, of a skeleton posed in what appears to be a contorted agony -- suggests that these poison cabinets were meant less for active use than as artworks: Conversation pieces extraordinaire, perhaps made for a wealthy client who fancied himself a scientist or natural philosopher. Essentially, it's a more morbid version of the popular Victorian Cabinet of Curiosities.

Did a real historical version of these cabinets, used by a professional poisoner or assassin, ever exist? It's impossible to say, really. What is indisputable is one of the main reasons for buying -- or in my case, making -- such a prop, like so many others I've bought or made: Because it looks cool.

Although, in a pinch, I know where to get most of those nice little components. . . .
Making such a kit can't be that hard. All you really need is thin wood, glue, a saw, maybe some velvet, a nice clasp or two, a few knobs, and one horrendously fat book. (I can think of several thick-spined books that contain such drivelling garbage, I'd be happy to butcher them.) Some crafty, upcycling folks in recent times -- as opposed to antique upcyclers! -- have gotten very creative with this principle:

Fortunately, thick books appear now and then. I found an old hardbound book at Scrap that contains nothing but names of medical experts . . . circa 1940. Bit obsolete and useless now, eh? But it's easily five inches thick: How many items could fit inside!

It's safe to assume that Severus, who likely knew a lot about toxins thanks to avidly studying them since boyhood and, indeed, poking his hooked nose into anything that remotely smelled of the Dark Arts, would be highly disappointed in me if I never learned even the basics of toxicology . . . whether I used that knowledge or not.