Super moon

yesterday evening, at the point of its orbit nearest to the Earth, above Banská Štiavnica.

Petőfi in Banská Štiavnica

The once famous Lyceum on the Trinity Square in Selmecbánya, where the poet Sándor Petőfi studied in 1838-1839. Today Banská Štiavnica, Slovakia.

Lapsus linguae

In Slovakia, a member state of the European Union which propagates the free movement of persons, goods and ideas, the government has submitted to the parliament and the parliament has accepted the law ordaining that in the official communication and in the public health and social institutions the staff can speak in Hungarian – the language of the ethnic minority which amounts to 20% of the country’s population – to the Hungarian clients only in those settlements where at least 20% of the population is Hungarian. Thus for example in many towns a Hungarian doctor or nurse is obliged to speak in Slovak to an old Hungarian patient or inhabitant of a retirement home even if this latter does not really understand anything other than her or his own mother tongue – just because out in the town there live more Slovaks than a certain number, although they are absolutely not interested in the affair between the doctor and the patient. Furthermore, in public – that is, for example in the Hungarian newspapers – only the Slovak version of geographical names can be used, although all of them has their Hungarian name which has been in use for a thousand years among Hungarians. (For English speakers: imagine that from tomorrow you can only say and write “Moskva” instead of “Moscow”, or “Österreich” instead of “Austria”.) The inscriptions of all monuments have to be translated into Slovak. Those disobeying the law or incorrectly using the Slovak language are penalized 5000 – five thousand – euros.

I could not pick out from the law whether it only limits the use of Hungarian language. If yes, then this is a linguistic discrimination that is unparalleled in the EU (as if for example in Madrid clerk and client were allowed to use any language in which they understand each other, except for Catalan). If no, then the case is that in Slovakia a post-office employee or a ticket agent can be legally fined five thousand euros for having given information in English to a Western European tourist.

Some apparent protestation can be perceived on the Hungarian side, but this is all the same. Either the law will remain, or it will be revised by the European Union – for example on the basis of the European Charter for Regional and Minority Languages, also accepted in 2001 by the Slovakian parlament –, the present nationalistic Slovakian government has attained its object anyway: they have confirmed the sympathy of their nationalist voters for the approaching elections.


If you cross the Slovakian border at Ipolyság and go ahead on the Korpona-Zólyom-Besztercebánya main road, after thirty kilometers, at Hontnémeti you have to turn to the left in the direction of Selmecbánya.

The road meanders in the romantic valley of the Selmec stream, passing through Berencsfalu and Szentantal in whose Baroque Koháry Castle the Bulgarian tsar (grandson of the King of Portugal and great-great-grandchild of the last Koháry) lived till 1918, until it finally arrives to the captivating medieval town of Selmecbánya, built in a deep valley basin, above – and from the opulence of – the richest gold and silver mines of medieval Europe.

The beautiful road passes among high mountains, closely following the stream, flanked here and there by a cross or a stone. I remember when, passing here for the first time by bicycle as a teenager, night fell on us after Berencsfalu, and in the dark we looked for a place to stay on the other side of the stream. We set up the tent among large stones. Only in the morning we discovered that we had slept among Jewish tombstones. Since then I wish to find that place again.


In Berencsfalu and Szentantal the roadside monuments multiply: John of Nepomuk, Florian, Mary, Rochus, Trinity, most of them due to the piety of the Koháry family. From 1629 the Kohárys were the landlords of this region and its protectors against the Turks. The most illustrious member of the family, István Koháry (1649-1731) even suffered prison as he refused to render the castle of Fülek to the Turk. In the solitude of his three years of imprisonment he became a poet, and a good one at that.


The first statue we encounter as we arrive to Berencsfalu represents the well known scene of the official legend of Saint Stephen, first King of Hungary and founder of the Hungarian state, when the old King after the death of his only son offered his crown and country to the Holy Virgin, who is sitting here enthroned above the Hungarian coat of arms and trampling the Turkish half moon under her feet. This scene that had been represented since the 12th century gained great popularity from the 17th century onwards and was the theme of several altarpieces and literary works. As a free-standing sculpture, however, it is absolutely unique. According to Ernő P. Szabó, the Berencsfalu statue was also the copy of an altarpiece, that of the Koháry chapel in the neighboring Szentantal.


The inscription of the monument is: “In honor of the God-bearing Virgin and of Saint Stephen, first king of Hungary, 1821”. The Deipara, that might sound unusual to the readers accustomed to Classical Latin, is a loan translation of Greek Θεοτόκος, “God-bearing”, which is not only an epitheton ornans, but the Virgin’s “official title” since the Council of Ephesus in 431 in opposition to the Nestorian standpoint, according to which Mary was only the mother of Christ’s human nature. And the attribute Divus, “divine” of Stephen was a favorite synonyme for Sanctus in the humanist Latin of the Renaissance and Baroque period.

On the pedestal of the statue, like a preparation for the new law on language use, they have also fixed a Slovak translation of the inscription. This, however markedly differs from its original not only in the quality of its material and making, but also in its text.


In fact, the Slovak text sounds like this: “In glory of the God-bearing Virgin, out of honor. Stephen, the first Hungarian king, 1821.” However short this text may be, the translator succeeded in committing four errors in it, an achievement that already deserves credit.

The first error is that he rendered the word “honor” (honos) with two synonyms (česť, úcta), although this was syntactically absolutely not necessary: it is obvious that this “out of honor” is a mere complement added to end of the phrase. The probable reason is that while in Latin the construction “in honor of” is always in plural by convention (honoribus), the translator, ignorant of the reason, tried to render the plural with a duplication of the Slovak equivalent.

The second error is that while the two Latin genitives make it unambiguous that the statue was set up in honor of the Virgin and Saint Stephen, according to the Slovak text it was erected only to the Virgin, and namely by none else than King Stephen (997-1038) himself – in 1821!

The third error is that the adjective “Saint” falls off before the name of Stephen. Either because the translator did not understand the humanist divus, or because he did not consider Stephen, King of Hungary worthy of this qualification.

The fourth error is that in the Latin Stephen is “King of Hungary”, while in the Slovak “Hungarian king”. This difference is much greater in Slovak than in English. Pre-1918 Hungaria was a multinational state, whose various ethnic groups before the rise of 19th-century nationalisms declared themselves, for example in the registers of foreign universities, for hungarus, at best adding their mother tongue: sclavus. The Czech and Slovak languages use a special term for this historical country and identity: Uhorsko and uhorský, and they call only post-1918 Hungary and people of Hungarian mother tongue Maďarsko and maďarský. Calling Saint Stephen a maďarský kráľ instead of the correct uhorský kráľ (as it is used in every Slovak historical texts, for example here) is just as much an anachronism as the statement that the statue was erected by him – in 1821.

The trend of the translation errors is clear. As the leader of the Slovak nationalist party Ján Slota styled a “clown on horseback” Saint Stephen, who is also revered by the Slovaks as their first saintly king as it is attested by hundreds of Slovakian altarpieces and prayer books, so the translator would like to kick him out of the nine hundred years old common Slovak-Hungarian history. Let him not be uhorský, only maďarský, let him not be holy, and chiefly let there be no statue erected in his honor in Slovakian land.

On top of it all, the Slovak translation even includes two errors of orthography. The one is bohorodičke panne written in minuscule, and the other is “z úcti” instead of the correct “z úcty”: a typical error of the uneducated which was later emended by scratching. All included, the exact Slovak translation of the Latin inscription would sound like this:

Na česť Bohorodičke Panne a prvého uhorského kráľa svätého Štefana, 1821.

There is only one question left. Given that Latin was the official language of both the Roman empire and the Hungarian kingdom (Uhorsko), should the commissioner of the Slovak inscription pay the fine of 5000 for the incorrect use of language in sestertii or in florins of gold?

Banská Štiavnica

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

Argonauts

and the ship Argo


Steampunk in the Slovakian style. Or rather Czech. The charmingly clumsy irony of Czech illustrations, the brutality of the Czech absurd.



In Banská Štiavnica, in front of Hotel Grand Matej.

Catuli ursae, or To the Two Bears

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.


And to cap it all, the wine was good as well.