For three years now, for every Christmas Studiolum has published in collaboration with the Cathedral Library of Kalocsa – one of the richest historical libraries in Hungary – an especially beautiful and important Medieval manuscript or Renaissance incunabula from the collections of the Library. At the end of the last year we have published the De Astronomica, that is, On the Stars by Gaius Iulius Hyginus, the librarian of Emperor Augustus.
The library preserves several editions of this book. The editio princeps was published in 1475 in Ferrara, but this came without illustrations. The woodcut images of the forty constellations and seven planets described by Hyginus were first represented ten years later in the Venice edition by Erhard Ratdolt. These pictures were also copied in the most beautiful 15th-century edition of the work by Thomas de Blavis, Venice 1488. We have chosen this latter version for publication. The DVD includes the complete facsimile of the book with the searchable transcription of the Latin text. We have also indicated all the differences of this early text version from the critical edition of 1983. In addition, we have also accompanied each illustration with their Renaissance counterparts in the 1535 Basel edition. These illustrations of the illustrations offer a peculiar time travel. It is clear that the two figures are the same, but it is also clear how much the world changed in the fifty years that passed between them.
We had already posted the DVDs intended as a Christmas gift when we came to know that the year of 2009 was announced by the UNESCO as the International Year of Astronomy. So our choice could not have even been more fortunate. At hearing the news the Library started to organize, after the Bible exhibition installed in the last year in honor of the Year of the Bible, an exhibition from their extremely rich astronomical collections to be opened, most appropriately, on the day of the spring aequinox, the 20th of March. And we have decided to prepare the very first Spanish and Hungarian translations of the De Astronomica, to be included, together with the English version, in the second edition of the DVD which will be distributed at the opening ceremony.
The Hispanian Hyginus, chief librarian of the imperial library mostly spent his time by compiling reference works in the most various topics for the citizens of Rome who, after the end of the civil wars and with the arrival of the Augustinian peace, felt the need again of obtaining some education. He made summaries on the origin of the cities of Italy, the families of Troy, the life of illustrious people, the memorable stories, the gods, and even on agriculture and apiculture which also belonged to the topics of educated literature of the age. Only two of his books have survived: the Fabulae, a compendium of Graeco-Roman mythology and the Astronomica which, besides the description of the stellar sky, was also primarily a summary of the myths connected with the constellations.
Nowadays, aided by so many mythological encyclopedias we do not even consider how little self-evident it is that Classical mythology has remained to us in such a detailed shape. For most other nations in that period, while their ancient religion was alive, regarded it superfluous to write it down exactly for this, and when they changed it for another – the Graeco-Roman or the Christian – religion, then for that reason. From the thousand years old Armenian mythology we only know as much as was mentioned for the sake of a deterrent example by 5th-century Movses Khorenatsi, their first Christian chronicler. And from ancient Hungarian religion not even that much.
The knowledge of Graeco-Roman mythology was preserved for us exactly by those few compilations which were made around that time, the age of Augustus. By these two books by Hyginus. By the Metamorphoses and Roman feasts of Ovid, the friend of Hyginus, which are practically poetic mythological summaries. By the collected notes of two anonym authors in the Vatican library. And that is all. All the other sources are fragmentary. But these few works are enough to set up a system in which the other sources can be inserted as well. These books were the inspiration and model to the great mythological handbooks of the Renaissance, beginning with the Genealogia Deorum of 1360 by Boccaccio.
These summaries were not only created for the purpose of popular literature. As Jean Seznec writes in his important The Survival of Pagan Gods (1953), the educated citizens of the Hellenistic empire exactly around this time started to give up their beliefs in the ancient gods as really existing beings, and began to reinterpret them either as personified natural phenomena or as outstanding historical figures who lived at the dawn of mankind. These tractates on the gods written around the age of Augustus – which also include the De natura deorum of Cicero – were already inspired by this new, demythifying view and the need of a new summary.
Hyginus dedicated the De Astronomica to a certain M. Fabius. According to Jérôme Carcopino (1963), he was most probably identical with the educated Roman aristocrat Paullus Fabius Maximus whose star was suddenly risen in 11 B.C. when he married into the imperial family, and who then in 3 B.C. fell into disfavor in a similarly abrupt way. If this is so, then Hyginus also had to write between 11 and 3 B.C. this summary, in which he, by demythifying the celestial constellations, said farewell to the gods behind them already regarded as mere symbols. He did so around the same time when three Oriental astrologers set off to look for a new star, not yet included in Hyginus.
The carillon in the tower of the town hall of Banská Štiavnica at each hour and two minutes exactly plays nasty Rococo melodies in mundane arrangement, lifting up the key of the final refrain by a half-tone in the style of the estrade orchestras. “Is there also turning something?” asks Kata by twisting her neck toward the clockwork which can be hardly seen from below. “Yes, Mozart in his grave,” replies Gyuri.
Facing the main square at the beginning of the Silver Street, the synagogue built in 1893 rises authoritatively. Our respect increases even more when we see from behind what a substructure was necessary so that the synagogue which, as a matter of fact, stands one street lower, is lifted up to the same level with the town hall and the Catherine Church.
The synagogue which at our last visit was rather ruinous has been nicely restored. “We-asu li mikdash we-shakhanti betokham,” reads Gyuri on the facade, “let them build a shrine for me and I will reside among them” (Ex 25:8), and with surprise he discovers that the first three and the last one letter of the text have been simply whitewashed in the course of the restoration. The complete inscription originally had to be like this:
ועשו לי מקדש ושכנתי בתוכם
The Partizánska street running along the lower side of the synagogue now bears the name of the 19th-century scholar Andrej Kmeť. As we descend toward the main street, only a few houses remind us as to what a heroic work had to be realized to restore the historical downtown since the the inclusion of the town on the list of the UNESCO World Heritage in 1993. This one above is the back front of the former Bristol Hotel.
The mystical Sion Club (“Club of the Good Will”) is followed by the partly Gothic, partly Renaissace style massive building of the Chamber House, the former centre of superintendence of the rich silver and gold mines in and around the town. Opposite to it opens the Böhm restaurant, our well-tried favorite lunch place, with a medieval vaulted room on the ground floor and another covered with wooden beams on the first floor. In the late summer and autumn hunting season they serve excellent game dishes, while now in winter time majestic cabbage soup and various dumplings with cottage cheese (bryndzové halušky). You are recommended to choose whatever is served with sausage because it is incomparably seasoned.
We are looking for the Art Café whose sympathetic site announces it as the first one among the seven wonders of Banská Štiavnica. However, it is closed, and it is not sure whether only for the winter of for ever. We climb up the tiny noname street starting at the café so that we could admire at least the view mentioned on the site as the second wonder. The view is still there.
We arrive to the end of the Dolná Ružová street at a hour and two minutes, and the waltz resounds from the tower of the town hall. “It was installed in ninety-six,” explains us a gentleman washing the car in front of the house, “and it plays mineworkers’ songs all year along. It only changes for Christmas songs in Advent. Well, not on the first, but on the second Sunday of Advent, this is the wonder of Banská Štiavnica.” Albeit the site of Art Café does not mention this among the seven ones.
The Divná Pani (Bizarre Lady) Café, as far as it can be decided from the borders of the ancient building plots, was established in the building of the former Jesuit and later Piarist college. Perhaps this prehistory inspired the classical Latin furniture, the couches, the antique niches. “Ut quemus, aiunt quando, ut volumus, non licet.” – “As they say: As we can, when it does not go as we would like,” announce the owners modestly, hiding behind a phrase from Terence. Although they only have one reason for modesty: the books used for decoration, the sad mass literature of the seventies and eighties. These few shelves could have really been filled up with something more beautiful or better or both.
“A real Bösendorfer”, says Gyuri with devotion.
The assortment is really rich, and the coffee is superb. Not for nothing is it praised by the Slovakian connoisseurs. And you pay for it less than for a simple espresso in Budapest.
a: town hall; b: synagogue; c: Reštaurácia u Böhma; d: Art Café; e: Café Divná Pani
Conrad Gesner published his History of the animals in the same year when Salamon, the elephant left Lisbon for Vienna.
This morning, just as if it were attracted by the previous elephant, a new elephant arrived with the post. And what is even more splendid, this elephant is a contemporary and colleague of the rhinoceros of Dürer – as if he warned me with a gentle push that it is time to write the next chapter of the Rhinocerology, dedicated to the rhinoceros and the elephant. El viaje del elefante del Nobel winner José Saramago was published only two months ago in Buenos Aires. It reconstructs with much humor and historical detail the adventurous voyage of that elephant called Salamon which was sent in 1551 by King John III of Portugal from Lisbon to Archduke Maximilian II to Vienna. Along the way, in Salzburg there is still standing the inn To the Elephant which gave the inspiration of the novel to Saramago.
It is interesting to see how much these Renaissance pachyderms roaming about Europe have come into fashion during the last years, like The Pope’s rhinoceros by Lawrence Norfolk or The Pope’s elephant by Silvio Bedini. I will report on the book as soon as I finish it. In the meantime, in order it should not feel alone, I include here another elephant that I received in comment to the previous post as an additional illustration of the friendship between elephant and man.
Since the bear cubs received their short story from Michal Ajvaz, I also include here the one he wrote about the elephant and its tender which is just as sad as the Japanese comics. We also have in stock from him stories with shellfish, cangaroo, varanus, leopard, beetle, dragon, spider, seahorse, but I do not intend any post about them in the foreseeable future. Unfortunately he wrote nothing about rhinoceroses.
Trunk
I have a little elephant. He joined me in the Royal garden, and since then he has been with me. He is not even one meter high. At the beginning I was worrying what I would do with him when he would grow adult, but it looks like he will not grow higher. He is affectionate and playful, but only when we are alone, he does not feel well in company, among people and animals he feels embarrassed, he is filled with distress, standing from one foot to the other and making broken, neurotic movements with his trunk. He is oversensitive and immeasurably suffers of everything. He is a veritable master of suffering – no, not of affected and hypochondriac suffering, he does not enlarge little things, but regards them as drips of the large ocean of distress whose depths are revealed in every calamity befalling him.
When we jog along the street together, people often laugh at us and shout after me, saying that I have a dog with a trunk on my side. They, poor ones, consider it laughable that someone keeps an animal with a trunk, even if he is charming and lovable, just because custom has it so that people keep dogs and not elephants. If the custom dictated it so that people keep elephants, they would die of laughter if I took a shepherd dog with me and they would shout after us by asking where it lost its trunk. People are often amazing and they are capable of incredible sacrifices, nevertheless they cannot have any understanding as far as trunk is concerned. While trunk is an excellent and practical thing. I am sad to see all that, and the elephant lives his existence as a being with a trunk as an indelible fault
He loves to come with me on excursion, I go ahead with a map in my hand on some path in the forest or the meadow, the elephant is stamping behind me, with backpacks on both of us. On the way to Karlštejn we stopped by at a restaurant. I ordered tripe soup for both of us. My elephant sat on the chair and started to eat in his usual way, first sniffing up a few soup from the plate with his trunk and then squirting it into his mouth. The sounds of sniffing could not be covered by any means, and the guests – local cottage owners with jiggling paunch swelling out of their sweatsuit – laughed at him, and they even tried to imitate the elephant’s sniffing. He stopped eating, although he was very hungry, and he just kept huddling above his soup with hanging trunk. I again discovered the feeling of indelible fault and the imploring for forgiveness in his look. I recommended him not to take care of anyone and to continue eating. It is not his fault of eating so loudly: if the other guests had trunks, they would not be able to eat without loud sniffing either. But the elephant kept sitting and suffering spiritlessly and in silence. What could have I done? I also wanted to stop eating out of solidarity, but then I realized that if he saw me going hungry because of him then he would feel even worse. So I finished eating my soup and we left. We walked along in silence, but he already did not run about me so happily as before, and he did not give me small pushes for fun as earlier. When finally there appeared the Karlštejn that he had desired to see so much, I discovered that he was simulating joy just for my sake. Tears sat in his eyes.
In that moment I wished I also had a trunk. Looking at the misery of the small elephant, it seemed an immense injustice that I calmly wander about in the world without a trunk. I also felt that the trunk created such a distance among us that could not be overcome. But as in the meantime the elephant really loved me, I also felt something that I formulated in a proverb: “The one with a trunk does not believe to the one who has no trunk.” My request, however, did not gain a hearing
The comments of Anna are unsurpassably laconic, but very inspiring. Like the one with which she urged us to compose the first tale of River Wang. Or the one she has recently sent to the Hungarian version of the bear & wine post: “A damigiana az demizson?” (The Italian damigiana is the same as the Hungarian demizson?”) It made me think upon.
To me the word demizson has recalled so much my grandfather, the thick glasses encased in wickerwork in which he had brought the wine from his vineyard in Mándok when he came to spend the winters in the city in his daughter’s home that I was unconsciously convinced that this was a Hungarian word, what is more, a word from my grandfather’s dialect of Szabolcs county. So when I as an interpreter heard for the first time the word damigiana on an Italian farm I had a strange feeling of déjà vu, similar to the one I felt when in the army I lived in a room with boys from the Upper Tisza region who spoke exactly like my grandfather did twenty years earlier.
This is a tricky word. I do not know whether I would correctly guess its origin if in a game show I should choose the only right one among four answers:
first:A traditional English liquid measure of French or Provençal origin, “half John,” about one gallon. second:A large bottle of Provençal origin called “Reine Jeanne” and then “Dame Jeanne” in honor of Queen Jane of Naples. third:A humorous term of French sailors: “dame-jeanne,” “Lady Jane” for the large wine bottles “clothed” in wickerwork and recalling the shape of a corpulent lady. fourth:A term of Persian origin, from the name of the city of Damaghan famous for its glass industry. It came via Arabic mediation to French and to other European languages.
I would probably accept the first answer as the most logical one. Demi means ‘half’ in French, and a traditional English measure called “John” is so plausible. The other answers include too many unknown factors. But it is also highly possible that one of the less probable versions is the correct one. If I were allowed to ask for help by phone, on the other side of the line they would probably read to me the relative entry of the Historical and etymological dictionary of the Hungarian language:
demizson 1904:„demijohn… (dömidson) gyékényfonásos nagy palaczk” (Radó: IdSz.); – demizson (Bp. Hirlap 1936. júl. 8. 9: NSz.); debizson, demijon, devizsonra gr., dëvizsony, dimizsával gr. (ÚMTsz.). J: 1904: ’nagy, öblös hasú, fonott burkolatú üveg; große Korbflasche, Demijohn’ (l. fent). Vándorszó; vö. ang. demijohn; ném. Demijohn; sp. damajuana; fr. dame-jeanne; ol. damigiana; cseh, szlk. demižón; arab dāmajānah: ’demizson’. A francia tengerésznyelvből terjedt el. Forrása valószínűleg a fr. R. dame Jeanne ’Janka asszony’ kifejezés; a névadás tréfás indítékon alapulhat; vö. m. N. vörös gyurkó ’korsó’, mihók ’ua.’ (l. mihók a.). – A magyar szó vagy az angolból, vagy a németből származik. A demijon alakváltozat j-je (németes vagy) magyaros betűolvasás eredménye. Nagy J. B.: MNy. 26: 313; Prohászka: Nyr. 80: 476; Tamás: UngElRum. 293. (Krueger: EigGatt. 15; Sainéan: ZRPh. 30: 308; Skeat: EtDict.4 162; Gamillscheg: ZRPh. 40: 518; Migliorini: NPr. 296; Dauzat: DictÉtFr.7 228; Corominas: DiccCrítEt. 2: 106; Partridge: Or. 146; Bloch-Wartburg DictÉtFr.4 177.)
that is: “An international loan word, cf. English demijohn, German Demijohn, Spanish damajuana, French dame-jeanne, Italian damigiana, Czech and Slovakian demižón, Arabic dāmajānah. It comes from the French sailor language. Its origin is probably the French term dame Jeanne “Lady Jane,” coined probably out of wit; cf. Hungarian vörös gyurkó (“red George”: jug), mihók (“Mike”: the same). ― The Hungarian word comes either from English or from German.
That’s it. It is as clear as noonday. Number three is the correct answer. How logic, if one thinks it well. And in top of all that, if a meticulous person is sitting on the other end of the line who even checks the origin of the Hungarian word in the most thorough A comprehensive etymological dictionary of the English language by Ernest Klein (1966), he will find the same explanation:
demijohn, n., a large bottle covered with wickerwork. – Alteration of F. dame-jeanne, for Dame Jeanne, ‘Lady Jane’, a name used humorously to denote a bottle; see dame and Jane. The alteration of F. dame to demi in English demijohn is due to a confusion with F. demi, ‘half’ (see demi-).
So I was confounded by a confusion. My intuition was a false etymology, for this word has nothing to do with demi (half). The etymology of Klein is also confirmed by the fact that Mexicans also derive the Spanish damajuana from a certain corpulent Dama Juana of Tijuana.
But what if the Etymological Dictionary is not at hands on the other end of the line? Then this person will quickly search for this word in the Wikipedia. The Hungarian version does not include it, but both the French and the Italian version have an entry for it, both writing exactly the same (I don’t know which one translated it from the other):
According to the legend, in 1347 [in the reality in 1348] Queen Jane fled Naples and went to her countship of Provence [as she, being an Angevin, was also the Countess of Provence.] On the way between Grasse and Draguignan they were surprised by a storm, and they took refuge in a small castle of the village of Saint Paul la Galline Grasse, whose lord also practised glass making. Having spent the night in the castle, the Queen wanted to see the lord of the house at work. As she unexpectedly entered the workshop, the lord, assisted by some servants, was engaged in glass-blowing. Surprised by the arrival of the Queen, he blew too strongly in the tube, thus producing an enormous glass of about ten liters in capacity, greatly acclaimed by those standing around. The lord immediately decided that he would produce more of this type, and wanted to call it “reine-Jeanne” after the Queen. However, the modest sovereign proposed him to call it only “dame-Jeanne.” This is where Italian damigiana also came from.
By this way even Hungarians have contributed to the birth of this word, for the modest sovereign, having killed her husband Prince Andreas of Hungary, fled Naples from the Hungarian troops of his elder brother Louis the Great, the Angevin King of Hungary. What is more, Hungary is also distantly connected with the name of this place, for until 1824 Saint-Paul belonged to the town of Fayence which gave origin to the word ‘faience,’ glazed earthenware, also adopted in Hungarian as fajansz. This story is also supported by the fact that glass industry has flourished in Saint-Paul since the Middle Ages, and according to various French web forums its inhabitants still boast of having made the first demijohns. No doubt: number two is the correct answer.
But if this person is just as meticulous as in the previous case, he will want to check the authentic origin of “dame-jeanne” in the French etymological dictionary as well. Unfortunately neither the great dictionary of Bloch and Wartburg, nor that of Dauzat is available at home. However, in the bibliography of the entry “dame-jeanne” of the Larousse dictionary his eyes are caught by the title of Les mots français dérivés de l’arabe (1890) by the great Islamist of Liban, the Jesuit Henri Lammens, which is also available on the net. In this we read:
That is, the French word comes from Arabic where it has been used in the form “damaghana” or “damanghana.” The غ ‘gh’ is a typical guttural of which Lammens proves with several examples to change into ‘j’ when taken over in French ― just like in this case. He also mentions that according to his Arabic sources this word comes ultimately from Persian.
The Persian origin of this word was developed by 19th-century English school. The English, entering with their Northern Indian conquests into the Persian cultural sphere, were enchanted by the refinement, the subtle literature and the widespread use of Persian, called “the French of the East” ― for this was the language of the courts, culture, literature and commerce from Istanbul to Delhi. Persian language was taught in English schools of diplomacy, Persian literature was extensively translated, and a veritable “Persian Renaissance” swept over Victorian England, leading among others to the “rediscovery” of Omar Khayyam. The results of the Persian dictionaries and grammars composed at this time and in use even today were soon built into the linguistic literature of the period. The widespread New Word-Analysis Or, School Etymology of English Derivative Words (1879) by William Swinton includes ‘demijohn’ among the words coming from Persian. And the excellent little The fortunes of words:Letters to a Lady (1887) by Federico Garlanda which popularized the science of etymology in the saloons also indicated its exact origin, explicitly sniffing at the explanation we have just accepted as the correct one:
Also a queer etymology was given of the word ‘demijohn.’ This kind of vessel is called in Italian ‘damigiana,’ and owes its name to the city of Damaghan, in Persia, once famous for its glassworks. In French it is called ‘dame-jeanne,’ which literally means ‘Lady Jane.’ Hence a mythical Lady Jane was invented to explain this little mythical and less poetical ‘demijohn.’
English dictionaries since the end of the 19th century have passed this definition hand from hand. Thus we read for example in the 1996 edition of Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary:
Demijohn, n. [F. dame-jeanne, i.e., Lady Jane, a corruption of Ar. damaj[=a]na, damj[=a]na, prob. fr. Damaghan a town in the Persian province of Khorassan, once famous for its glass works.] A glass vessel or bottle with a large body and small neck, inclosed in wickerwork.
Thus it is clear that number four is the correct answer. This word comes from Persian, from the name of the city of Damaghan, the famous glass-blowing center. This is also supported by the Arabic form in Lammens and his reference to the Persian origin, just like by the entry “Demijohn” in Meyers Konversationslexikon (Leipzig-Wien, 1885-1892) indicating this German word as of “Indian English” origin. And – I say – also by the fact that in Persian the verb “blow” sounds very similar: دمیدن damidan. Is it possible that this is the source of the name of the town?
There is a small problem, however. Namely that this city of Khorassan is not called Damaghan, but Damghan in Persian. The form ‘Damaghan’ exclusively occurs in Victorian dictionaries. And there is a bigger problem as well. Namely that Damghan has never been the center of glass industry, but rather that of pistachio producing.
Inscription at the bottom: “Damghan, Pistachio Square”
The name of the town is not even mentioned in the entry “Glass” of the Encyclopedia Iranica, and we have not read it either at the fascinatingly rich exhibition of the Glass and Ceramics Museum in Tehran. However, we have seen a lot of beautiful glasses from Nishapur, the town of Omar Khayyam and Attar. For this town was the center of glass industry of Khorassan and the whole Iran.
A green glass demijohn from Nishapur.
From the 10th century, just like the Mallorcan Arabic wine bottle of a similar shape.
In the 1943 January issue of Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin it figures as a “demijohn.”
The Persian origin is also contradicted by the fact that in Turkey, the country laying the closest to Persia, this word was borrowed twice. First in the French form “damacan” as it is used today, and earlier from Italian in the form “mancana,” but they know no “damaghan” version that would have conserved the Persian-Arabic guttural.
The above video illustrates bot the modern Turkish name and use of demijohn. The ‘c’ in the inscription of the shopboard is pronounced as ‘j’. The video’s final title “Bana bir şey olmaz deme, okey mi?” means: “Don’t assume you’ll be fine, okey?” [and it’s a condom advertisement]
Thus it is understandable if the modern Origins. A short etymological dictionary of modern English by Eric Partridge does not force the Persian origin. Instead of it – what a luck – it conveys the proposal of the French etymological dictionary by Alfred Dauzat which has been otherwise unaccessible to us:
demijohn: f/e for late EF-F dame-jeanne, dame Jeanne, Lady Jane: either a witticism in the same order as F dial Christine and Jacqueline (B & W) and perh as E jeroboam and rehoboam, or, in F, a jocular comparison of fat, wicker-dressed bottle to fat, overdressed lady (EW). Dauzat derives F damejeanne from Prov damajano, itself perh from Prov demeg, a half, reshaped by f/e; his is the most ingenious, perh the best, explanation.
So this word comes from Provençal demeg (half) and damajano (“a half one”), which adapted itself so much to the various languages that now each of them requires for itself the glory of its origin. Thus it looks like answer number one is the correct one.
Or not?
Why should it be rather than the other three?
It is not my duty to do justice in the dispute in which the linguistic authorities of a century could not come to terms. Nevertheless let me express my conjecture as well. Namely, that with the unconscious veracity of children and fools it is the Hungarian etymological dictionary which stands the closest to the truth, saying that the word “comes from French sailor language”.
For this “sailor language” is nothing else than the lingua franca.
This term is used today in the sense of “mixed language; pidgin.” We usually do not consider that once there existed a language called like this, and even for a considerable span of time. From the first millenary to the middle of the 19th century it was spoken from the Eastern to the Western end of the Mediterranean as the intermediary language of Levantine commerce, sailors and merchants’ colonies. In some regions, for example along the Northern African coast it was so deeply rooted that in 1830 a special dictionary of it had to be composed for the French army occupying Algeria. Its expressions infiltrated into high literature from the Middle Ages to Cervantes and Molière. Its words, just as if they had been polished by the sea and made easily fitting to every Mediterranean language, even today are felt by every people as their own, so much that since the Renaissance their etymologies are derived from their own languages. Such word is the Spanish ferreruelo, Italian ferraiuolo, Portuguese ferragoulo, Greek φεραρόλι, Northern African Arabic فریول feryûl, Mosarabic pallyûl meaning “mantle” in all languages, whose meandering way flanked by multiple transmissions, adaptations, contaminations and false etymologies was followed by John Corominas in his study of 1948 with the eloquent title: The importance of the study of the Lingua Franca for Romance etymology. And it seems that demijohn is such a word, too.
I intend to write more later about lingua franca, this hardly researched language. Now I only want to appetize you with a lingua franca loan text included into a highly succesfull play, Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme by Molière whose music was composed by Lully. This “play in the play” is the Turkish Ceremony during which Jourdain, the bourgeois gentleman finally obtains the rank so much desired by him – in the Turkish court. The ceremony itself is a caricature, but its language is really that lingua franca with strong Italian foundations and with Arabic, Turkish, French and Spanish enrichments which was used at that time in the diplomatic missions between France and Northern Africa. Although nowadays this play is seldom performed with the original music, its opening orchestral piece, the Turkish March will be certainly known from Jordi Savall’s Tous les matins du monde, where the mature Marais conducts it at the court of Versailles. In the two-parts caravaggiesque version below we see it in the 2004 performance of the Poème Harmonique, directed by Vincent Dumestre. The video is of no great quality, but the original recording is also available in an excellent quality here.
Les Turcs
Alla, Alla, Alla, Alla,
Alla, Alla, Alla, Alla,
Alla alègue vert.
Le Mufti
Se ti sabir,
Ti respondir ;
Se non sabir,
Tazir, tazir.
Mi star Mufti :
Ti qui star ti ?
Non intendir :
Tazir, tazir.
Dice mi, Turque, qui star quista.
Anabatista, anabatista ?
Les Turcs
Ioc.
Le Mufti Zuinglista ?
Les Turcs
Ioc.
Le Mufti Cofista ?
Les Turcs Ioc.
Le Mufti Ussista ? Morista ? Fromista ?
Les Turcs Ioc. Ioc. Ioc.
Le Mufti Ioc. Ioc. Ioc.
Star pagana ?
Les Turcs Ioc.
Le Mufti Luterana ?
Les Turcs Ioc.
Le Mufti Puritana ?
Les Turcs Ioc.
Le Mufti Bramina ? Moffina ? Zurina ?
Les Turcs Ioc. Ioc. Ioc.
Le Mufti Ioc. Ioc. Ioc.
Mahametana, Mahametana ?
Les Turcs Hei valla. Hei valla.
Le Mufti Como chiamara ? Como chiamara ?
Les Turcs Giourdina, Giourdina.
Le Mufti Giourdina ?
Les Turcs Giourdina.
Le Mufti Giourdina ? Giourdina ? Giourdina ?
Les Turcs Giourdina ! Giourdina ! Giourdina !
Le Mufti Mahametta per Giourdina
Mi pregar sera e matina :
Voler far un Paladina
De Giourdina, de Giourdina.
Dar turbanta, e dar scarcina
Con galera e brigantina
Per deffender Palestina.
Star bon Turca Giourdina ?
Les Turcs Hei valla. Hei valla.
Le Mufti
Hu la ba ba la chou, ba la ba ba la da.
Les Turcs Hu la ba ba la chou, ba la ba ba la da.
Turks
Allah, Allah, Allah, Allah,
Allah, Allah, Allah, Allah,
Allah be with us.
The Mufti
If you understand
You reply
If you understand not
You silent, silent
I be Mufti
You be who?
If you understand not
You silent, silent.
Tell me, Turk, who be this:
Anabaptist? Anabaptist?
The Turks
No.
The Mufti
Zwinglian?
The Turks
No.
The Mufti
Coptic?
The Turks
No.
The Mufti
Hussite? Moor? Pietist?
The Turks
No. No. No.
The Mufti
No. No. No.
Be pagan?
The Turks
No.
The Mufti
Lutheran?
The Turks
No.
The Mufti
Puritan?
The Turks
No.
The Mufti
Brahmin? Monophysite? Syriac?
The Turks
No. No. No.
The Mufti
No. No. No.
Mohamedan? Mohamedan?
The Turks
Oh yes. Oh yes.
The Mufti
How call he? How call he?
The Turks
Giurdina. Giurdina.
The Mufti
Giurdina?
The Turks
Giurdina.
The Mufti
Giurdina? Giurdina? Giurdina?
The Turks
Giurdina! Giurdina! Giurdina!
The Mufti
Mohamed to Giurdia
I call evening and morning:
I want make a count palatine
Of Giurdina, of Giurdina.
Give turban, give sabre
With galeon and brigantine
To defend Palestine.
When Hungary, on the first of January of 2004, joined the European Union, I was sure that now, with the suppression of customs frontiers, within some months the majestic Italian and Spanish wines will be available at us in a wide range. Not only because these full-bodied wines with an extremely sophisticated taste are among the best wines of the world. But also because they are among the least expensive ones as well. In the supermarkets of Barcelona or Florence you can buy already for a few euros so subtle wines that outrival a great number of Hungarian wines sold for fifteen-twenty euros. Not to mention the strong, rich, fruit-flavored vino sfuso infused for one or two euros into the large damigiane in the farms of Tuscany when we arrive there at the end of the year, after the vintage of grape and oil, to buy our supplies for all the year. To import so excellent wines for so low prices is a great business for any wholesaler, I thought. And I was looking forward to the arrival of the wines of Tuscany, Trentino, Navarra, Rioja, Catalonia, or the Ribera del Duero on the shelves of Hungarian supermarkets.
But they did not come.
There came, however, the category which a Mediterranean farmer would be ashamed to give away even for free. Mean wines from Puglia and Calabria, Andalucía and La Mancha, the cheapest imaginable quality on which the exporter can realize the greatest profit. Eight euros for a bottle of five litres, one point twenty for a pint. Because the wholesaler had got it for the tenth of it in their homeland. They filled up the shelves for a period, they were offered at various hot sales. And then they disappeared, as suddenly as they came. And I understand why. Whoever cared for the price only could also find cheaper ones, the plastic bottle category. And whoever cared for the taste could unambiguously feel how vile, sour, empty they were. They did a lot to ruin the reputation of Mediterranean wines in Hungary. Whenever I praise Italian or Spanish wine to my wine gourmand brothers and brothers-in-law, I see on their faces the lowest shelves of Auchan and Tesco appearing on the screen of their minds, and I feel that every word is in vain.
And I think that perhaps this was the purpose.
Hungary is the northernmost country where vine is grown. With much care, great investments and at a high cost even quite good wine is produced. But, obviously, there is far less sunshine as down there. Vine is the child of the Mediterranean, this can be clearly seen in the autumn on the vegetable markets where you can see side by side the big, sweet, desirable and inexpensive Italian import grape and the small, hard-skinned, somewhat harsh but expensive Hungarian one. Nevertheless, we have a nationwide structure for producing and selling wine which has firmly established itself since the beginning of the 90s, and what is more, it is inextricably intertwined with the political élite. Most Hungarian politicians have vineyards, winehouses or at least favorite and supported wine producers. Wine has become a question of prestige, just like the hegemony of Hungarian wine on Hungarian market (if we are not able to sell it abroad). Today in Hungary in the supermarkets, stores and special shops you can practically buy Hungarian wine only. If good Spanish wine could freely enter this market, it would break this hegemony in no minute with its excellent proportion of price and quality.
So let it not come.
When arriving at this point in the deduction, I decided to make a counter-proof. If it is really the intertwining of wine producers, wholesalers and politicians that prevents good and inexpensive Mediterranean wines from entering the Hungarian market, then in our northern neighborhood, where there is no significant wine production and respectively no political interest, they must be offered in a wide range.
And I entered the Billa of Banská Štiavnica.
It was a singular sight. At the end of 2004, hardly a year after the entrance to the European Union, in this little Slovakian town the great part of the wine shelves were filled with good quality Mediterranean wines: from Italy and Spain, but even from Croatia and Bulgaria. And all that for a much more buyer-friendly price than the Hungarian assortment of the same quality. Obviously there was a cheap low middle category as well, but even that was not the plonk which had been carefully used to make Hungarians customers loathe Southern wines.
Since then, whenever I go to the North, I always check the ever improving wine offer in the supermarkets. The last time in the Tesco of Brno, where eight large counters were full of the best assortment, from the reliable wines of the Mediterranean to the well known Southern African and Australian brands, and all that for a more than affordable price – just like in their respective homelands. It was enthralling. It demonstrated more tangibly than any political slogan the true meaning of freedom, open borders and Europe. Of course local Moravian wines also received, with full acknowledgment of their merits, three shelves in a counter, exactly as much as their deserved. Perhaps I have even seen a Hungarian bottle.
The above Bulgarian wine with the two Balkan bears was bought on my first exploration in Banská Štiavnica. We purchased ten different sorts for testing, known and unknown ones alike, from different countries and of different categories. Almost all of them stood the test, they were just what they had to be. This was the only extra bottle, one I have only bought for the label. I have not even expected much of it, and I have kept it reserved for an occasion when the wit makes pardonable the eventually low quality.
And the occasion has come. I have recently taken the two bears for the inaugural party of a newly purchased flat. And as I stopped in front of the row house built in the fifties in the style of the so-called “Stalin Baroque,” and I looked up on the facade in search of the house number, I immediately noticed that I brought them to the most appropriate place.
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