The European costume

One of the world’s best language books is The Little Prince. It has been translated into even the smallest languages, and almost all have an audio book version. Its structure, as if it had been really intended as a language book, moves from the simple towards the complex. In the army to kill the dragging time, I learned French from it, and I still know the first few chapters by heart. Later I used it to learn Chinese, to practice Persian, in the beautiful translation and recitation of the great modern poet Ahmad Shamlou, and to teach Italian. I have it in several translations, including Viennese dialect, Basque, Roman slang and an Assyrian version. But in Turkish I somehow have not yet seen it. Not that it would be difficult to obtain. At the end of last year the copyright on the works of Saint-Exupéry, who died in 1944, expired, and in the first days of January, thirty Turkish editors published the book in new translations, in more than 130 thousand copies, the cheapest edition being sold for 1 lira, less than half a euro.


If anyone needs a Turkish-language Küçük Prens, should buy it now. And not just because of the price, but also because – as Kaya Genç points it out in his blog – this is the first edition that finally fixes a translation error ingrained for seventy years. The error is, accidentally, in the very chapter where the author mentions the Turks, as follows:


“I have serious reason to believe that the planet from which the little prince came is the asteroid known as B-612. This asteroid has only once been seen through the telescope. That was by a Turkish astronomer, in 1909.

On making his discovery, the astronomer had presented it to the International Astronomical Congress, in a great demonstration. But he was in Turkish costume, and so nobody would believe what he said. Grown-ups are like that…

Fortunately, however, for the reputation of Asteroid B-612, a Turkish dictator made a law that his subjects, under pain of death, should change to European costume. So in 1920 the astronomer gave his demonstration all over again, dressed with impressive style and elegance. And this time everybody accepted his report.”


The “Turkish dictator” is of course Kemal Atatürk, the creator of the Turkish secular state, who in his “Hat Law” of 1925 prohibited the wearing of the fez, the veil and other traditional garments. However, dictators have the strange habit of not liking being called dictators. In Turkey there still exists a law which punishes insulting Atatürk with up to three years in prison. It is understandable, therefore, if the translators have so far avoided this term.

Ahmet Muhip Dıranas, the Turkish translator of Baudelaire, who in 1953 first translated The Little Prince for the Çocuk ve Yuva (Child and Home) magazine, set up to support the orphaned children of WWI soldiers, tried to prevent the displeasure of the orphans who at that time were already over forty:

“Fortunately, Turks had started dressing like Europeans afterwards, with help from a great leader…”

The next translation, prepared by Tomris Uyar and Cemal Süreya in 1995, is slightly differently worded:

“A peremptory Turkish leader had issued a law one day: from now on all would be dressed as Europeans, and others sentenced to death.”

The translation of 2015, writes Kaya Genç, already renders accurately the original French sentence. “No complaints have yet been filed”, he ends his post. However, in reality, this is not exactly so.


An official protest has been made against the book, and not from the clearly secular-minded army, or from some committed Atatürk fan club. The site of the Turkish education and scientific workers’ labor union published the claim to remove the book, which contains the banned word, from the list of books recommended for the school by the Ministry of Education.

Dictators have long arms, and they try to prevent even from a distance naming things as they are. This is exactly how they are revealed as what they are.

Cartoon by Selçuk Erdem

Continuation…

All that is important

A common feature of the hitherto presented war phrasebooks is that sixty or seventy years later these volumes were rare guests on the shelves of second-hand book stores – and those published in the Soviet Union were even quickly destroyed. Would you have believed that there is at least one, which has been in use for generations to learn language, right up until today?


The Polish phrasebook by István Varsányi is well known to Hungarian students of Polish. If you leaf through it until the list of sources on the last page, the first book and its year of publication will immediately strike your eye.

Wladysław Szabliński: Wszystko co ważne. Minden ami fontos (“All that is important”). Debrecen, Városi nyomda, 1940

My friend József Mudrák, who works at the University of Debrecen, shared with me accurate and interesting information on the author. Wladysław Szabliński vel Krawczyk was the Polish lector of the Tisza István University in Debrecen from the thirties. He was born in Warsaw on 7 December 1912. On 1 September 1935 he was already teaching at the university, and took an active part in the work of the summer university, too. He had an excellent command of Hungarian, many people only knew him as “Szablinski László”, and he had a Hungarian wife, Ágnes Juhász. The example sentences of his phrasebook make you understand why the Nazi cultural attaché demanded his dismissal in the summer of 1941. Of course, Szabliński was not fired by the university, he was allowed to stay, although in a different position, as a librarian, from February 1942.

RADIO / we listen to the radio / let us look for London / let us listen to what Budapest broadcasts

In February 1944 Professor Adorján Divéky (the former Hungarian lector of the Warsaw University and former director of the Hungarian Institute in Warsaw) proposed his renewed appointment as a lector, because “the Hungarian government for its own part still considers valid the Hungarian-Polish cultural convention”. However, one month later, after the German occupation of Hungary, this could not take place, and Szabliński coul dnot have written example sentences like the ones above without retaliation.

“Attention! The unauthorized possession or operation of any radio station – even VHF – is a crime, which will be judged by the summary court.”

“In terms of the decree of the government, listening to hostile or foreign radio stations is forbidden and severely punished”. Villám, 15 June 1944

Szabliński fulfilled his task as librarian until 17 June 1944.

After the above, you will not be surprised by the currency of the topics that he gave to his students.

WAR / the British government sent an ultimatum to the German government / the German government rejected the ultimatum / England declared war on Germany / the Germans invaded Poland without ultimatum / the technical superiority was on the German side / defense reports / our army is rapidly advancing

our troops repulsed the hostile attack / there is tranquility on the front / the enemy was lured into a trap / the French troops went on counterattack / the soldiers dug trenches and forced the taken positions / the German troops retreated to the previously chosen positions / the hostile troops fled in disorder / we have won the battle! / the enemy’s defeat is unavoidable / the Siegfried Line was broken through / an air attack was ordered against Warsaw / the anti-aircraft artillery shot down two planes / they dropped twenty bombs / the public buildings were bombed / the civilians suffered the most / they bombed the Red Cross hospital / we had ten casualties and forty-three wounded / the losses of the enemy are unknown / the troops encamped / the siege of Warsaw lasted nearly a month / the fort garison surrendered

A glorious alternative history unfolds from the example sentences of the book. Britain and France did not let down their ally in a shameful way, as they did in reality, but, as they previously agreed, they immediately attacked the German aggressor. Thus, Poland came out of the war as a winner.

Britain successfully continues his anti-submarine campaign / the resources of the enemy are exhausted / they signed an armistice / peace talks began / they made peace / the defeated enemy had to sign the peace treaty

The Hungarians also shed blood for their independence / now the fourth division of Poland took place / now the Poles took over the Hungarian watchword: no, no, never! / We won’t let ourselves!

One thing is sure: Wladysław Szabliński was a courageous person. Professor István Varsányi, whose life was also adventurous and would make a good movie, had a good reason to refer to this booklet as his source in the last page of his book. He was a courageous person, too: in May 1957, just a few months after the suppressed revolution of 1956, to explicitly refer to this volume as a source, which included, among others, the following two pages, meant no little risk. Perhaps he only wanted to commemorate Szabliński, but it is also possible, that, like Szabliński, he wanted to recall the disaster of downtrodden Hungary, and to remind readers that Poland could rise up from a much more difficult situation, and rebuild itself. Here is, therefore, an example showing that anything can succeed, nothing is impossible.

And this is all that is important.

Map of interwar Poland (maked in dots and, subsequently, in red, the Ribbentrop-Molotov line of 1939 dividing the country between the Nazis and the Soviets), and the borders of Hungary between the recapture of Subcarpathia (15 March 1939) and the Second Vienna Award (30 August 1940) – that is, in the period, when the little guide leads Sándor Török to the common Hungarian-Polish border.

The Anthem of Poland / “Poland is not yet lost, as long as we live!” / “Long live Poland!”

The four letters of God

God’s name in vain… Frehling Santino, 1700

An instructive article appeared yesterday at the Nyelv és Tudomány (Science and Language) portal, from the keyboard of László Fejes. The article entitled Honnan jött az isten? (“Where did god come from?”) tries to unravel the origin of the Hungarian word isten, ʻgod’, and the lesson is that only God knows. The TESz, that is, the etymological dictionary of the Hungarian language, as we have already pointed out a couple of times here at río Wang, now shoots wide of the mark again, when it relates the first element is- with the word ős, ʻancient, forefather’, which phonetically sounds unlikely. The historian András Róna-Tas suggests that it might come from the name of the Hittite sun god Ištanu, but the gap of 1800 years between the Hittite origin and the assumed reception excludes it. And Károly Rédei in his article “Isten szavunk eredete” (“The origin of our word Isten, ʻGod’”, Magyar Nyelv XCV (1999) 1, 40-45) regards it an Iranian loan word, and derives it from the Middle Iranian *ištān, ʻhonored’ (plural).

I also want to contribute to the small shop of etymologies with an attractive piece of merchandise, which may not be the most convincing, but is definitely the oldest. It comes from the eleven-language dictionary of Calepinus, published in 1590 in Basle, which I happen to have here on my bookshelf. ;) I found this bulky folio volume some thirty year ago in a waste paper recycling shop, and purchased it at the price of scrap paper, for about one euro in today’s currency.

The Augustinian monk Ambrosius Calepinus (1440-1510) published in Reggio in 1502 his great Latin dictionary, which, next to the definition of the words, quoted several examples of their use from classical authors. The dictionary immediately became very popular, with dozens of editions throughout the centuries, which also included equivalents to the Latin words for increasingly ancient and modern languages. The 1590 Basle edition was the one which first included the Hungarian and English equivalents, thus it can be regarded as the first Hungarian dictionary. The Hungarian words, as Kálmán Szily pointed out (“Ki volt Calepinus magyar tolmácsa?” – “Who was Calepinus’ Hungarian interpreter?” Értekezések a Nyelv- és Széptudományok köréből, XIII (1886) 8), were added by the Transylvanian Jesuite Stephanus Arator, that is, István Szántó in Rome. And the same person complemented the considerations on the four letters of God’s name with a Hungarian supplement, thereby also offering an etymology of the Hungarian Isten.


“Dĕŭs, singular, masculine [in Hebrew אלוח eloah, Greek Θεός, French Dieu, Italian Dio, Idio, German Gott, Flemish Godt, Spanish Dios, Polish Bood, Hungarian Isten or Ιϛε * , English God].

Its origin is explained in several ways. According to some, it comes ἀπὸ τοῦ δέους, from fear, because they considered, that (if we are allowed at all to quote such an ungodly phrase) the first gods were invented by fear. Papinius seems to be of this view, when he says: The first gods were created by fear in the world. Cicero, On the responses of the haruspices: «Who is so foolish, that at least when he looks up to the sky, would not feel the existence of the gods?» Idem, in book 1 of The laws: «No nation is so uncouth or savage, that even if they do not know which god they have, at least they know that they have one.»

Others derive it a dando, from ʻgiving’, because everything comes from God, the source of all good things, and He gives to everything the existence and survival. Others from the Greek δαίω, ʻto know’, because God knows everything, and everything is naked before His eyes. Again others from the name Θεός, replacing the unvoiced sound with a voiced one, and the o with u, and this is why we say Deus in Latin. Again others from the Hebrew name די Dai, ʻmighty, sufficient’, from which also the term Saddai comes, meaning the omnipotent or self-sufficient God, as it is well known that He is enough for Himself, He does not need anyone, but He alone pours out abundance to everyone.

It is not unworthy to consider, that almost every people and language writes the name of God in four letters. In fact, the Hebrews call Him יהוה Yehova, with four letters, the Chaldeans also with four letters, אלוח Eloha, the Syriacs also אלוח Eloha; at the Aethiopians He is אמלו Amlau, at the Assyrians אדעד Adad, at the Greeks Θεός, at the Egyptians Θωύθ, at the Persians Σύρη, at the Latins Deus, at the Italians Idio, at the Spanish Dios, at the French Dieu, at the Germans, Flemish and English Gott or Godt, at the [Persian] Magi Orsi, at the Poles Boog, from bog, that is, ʻfear’, at the Dalmatians and Illyrians Boga or Boog, at the older Muslims, whom we also call Saracens, Abgd, at the Turks following Mohamed Alla, at the peoples discovered in the world called “new” Zimi, at the Vlachs Zëul, at the Gypsies Odel.

At the Hungarians, if we look at its origin, the name of God has also four letters. They call him with great respect Isten, which, although seems to have five letters, if we consider its origin, has only four. In fact, the Hungarian term comes from the second aorist of the Greek verb ʻto be’ ἴστημι, which sounds ἐϛὶν [ἐστὶν]: ʻI exist, I am by way of myself’, which second aorist is written with four letters. The s and t, written with two letters in the Hungarian word, are both encompassed in the single Greek letter ϛ sigmatau. Thus, by virtue of its origin, the Hungarian name also has to be written with four letters, so: Ἴϛεν [Ἴστεν]. In this way, the name of God is a τετραγράμματον [four-letter name] for every people, and we think He is called so, because His essence is one, but within His one essence He is three actually existing and different persons.”

László Fejes is probably of the same opinion, for in his article – merely as a hilarious illustration – transcribes the Hungarian word Isten with four Hebrew letters. ;)


Ultimately, this is not very different from the solution of István Szántó, who, having transcribed the word in Greek letters, discovered in it the meaning of the other Hebrew tetragrammaton, יהוה YHWH, ʻthe Existing, the One who Is’. But why should we marvel at this? In his century it was widely known that all languages, but especially Hungarian, came from Hebrew.

The tetragrammaton (here transcribed as IEVE instead of YHWH) as the foundation of the Holy Trinity. Illustration of Dialogue against the Hebrews (1109) by Petrus Alphonsus (before his conversion, Moses Sepharadi), St. John’s College MS E. 4 f. 153v

Las cuatro letras de Dios

El nombre de Dios en vano… Frehling Santino, 1700

Un instructivo artículo apareció el último día de julio pasado en el portal de Nyelv és Tudomany (Ciencia y Lenguaje), salido del teclado de László Fejes. El artículo titulado «Honnan jött az isten?» –¿De dónde vino Dios?–. Trata de averiguar el origen de la palabra húngara Isten, ‘dios’, y la conclusión es que sólo Dios lo sabe. El TESz, es decir, el diccionario etimológico de la lengua húngara, como ya hemos señalado en otras ocasiones, marra también aquí lejos del blanco al relacionar el primer elemento is- con la palabra ős, ‘antiguo, antepasado’, cosa que suena poco probable fonéticamente. El historiador András Róna-Tas sugiere que podría provenir del nombre del dios solar hitita Ištanu, pero la brecha de 1800 años entre el origen hitita y su presunta recepción excluye la hipótesis. Y Károly Rédei en su artículo «Isten szavunk eredete» –El origen de nuestra palabra Isten, ‘Dios’– (Magyar Nyelv, XCV.1 (1999), 40-45) considera que es un préstamo iraní y lo deriva del iraní medio *ištān, ‘honrado’ (en plural).

Queremos contribuir a este pequeño zoco etimológico con una ligera pero atractiva mercancía que si bien puede no ser la más convincente, es sin duda la más antigua. Viene del diccionario de once lenguas de Calepino, publicado en 1590 en Basilea, que tenemos en nuestra estantería ;) Encontramos el voluminoso in-folio hará casi treinta años en un taller de papel reciclado, y lo compramos a peso por algo así como 1€ al cambio actual.

El monje agustino Ambrosius Calepinus (1440-1510) publicó en Reggio en 1502 su gran diccionario de latín donde junto a la definición de las palabras citaba ejemplos de su uso en autores clásicos. El diccionario de inmediato se hizo muy popular, con decenas de ediciones en los siglos siguientes que fueron incorporando cada vez más equivalentes de las palabras latinas en otras lenguas antiguas y modernas. La edición de 1590 de Basilea fue la que por primera vez incluyó traducciones húngaras e inglesas, por lo que puede ser considerada como el primer diccionario húngaro. Las palabras húngaras, como Kálmán Szily señaló («Ki volt Calepinus magyar tolmácsa?» –¿Quién fue el intérprete húngaro de Calepinus?– Értekezések a Nyelv- és Széptudományok köréből, XIII.8 (1886)), fueron añadidas por el jesuita transilvano Stephanus Arator, es decir, István Szántó en Roma. Y fue este mismo erudito quien amplió las consideraciones sobre las cuatro letras del nombre de Dios con un suplemento húngaro, con lo que también dio una etimología del Isten húngaro.


“Dĕŭs, singular, masculino [en hebreo אלוח eloah, griego Θεός, francés Dieu, italiano Dio, Idio, alemán Gott, flamenco Godt, español Dios, polaco Bood, húngaro Isten o Ιςε * , inglés God].

Su origen se explica de varias maneras. Según algunos se trata de ἀπὸ τοῦ δέους, de 'miedo', porque consideraban (si se nos permite citar una frase tan impía) que los primeros dioses fueron inventados por el miedo. Papinius parece ser de esta opinión cuando dice: «Los primeros dioses fueron creados por el miedo en el mundo». Cicerón, Sobre las respuestas de los arúspices: «¿Quién es tan loco, que por lo menos cuando mira hacia el cielo, no sienta la existencia de los dioses?» Ídem, en el libro 1 de Las leyes: «Ninguna nación es tan zafia o salvaje, que incluso si no saben qué dios tienen, al menos saben que tienen uno».

Otros lo derivan de a dando, de ‘dar', porque todo viene de Dios, fuente de todos los bienes, y Él da a todo su existencia y subsistencia. Otros del griego δαίω, ‘saber’, porque Dios lo sabe todo y todo está desnudo ante sus ojos. Aún otros del nombre Θεός, sustituyendo el sonido sordo con uno sonoro y la o por u, y es por eso que decimos Deus en latín. Y todavía otros del nombre hebreo די Dai, ‘poderoso, suficiente’, de donde también viene el término Saddai, es decir, el Dios omnipotente o autosuficiente, ya que es bien sabido que Él es suficiente por Sí mismo, no necesita a nadie sino que el solo derrama abundancia para todos.

No es ocioso tener en cuenta que casi todos los pueblos y lenguas escriben el nombre de Dios con cuatro letras. De hecho, los hebreos Le llaman יהוה Yehova, con cuatro letras, los caldeos también con cuatro letras, אלוח Eloha, los sirios también אלוח Eloha; para los etíopes es אמלו Amlau, para los asirios אדעד Adad, para los griegos Θεός, para los egipcios Θωύθ, para los persas Σύρη, para los latinos Deus, para los italianos Idio, para los españoles Dios, para los franceses Dieu, para alemanes, flamencos e Ingleses Gott o Godt, para los [persas] magos Orsi, para los polacos Boog, de bog que significa ‘miedo’, para los dálmatas e ilirios Boga o Boog, para los los musulmanes más antiguos, a los que también llamamos sarracenos, Abgd, para los turcos que siguen a Mahoma, Alla, para los pueblos descubiertos en el mundo que llaman «nuevo», Zimi, para los valacos Zeul, para los gitanos Odel.

Para los húngaros, si nos fijamos en su origen, el nombre de Dios tiene también cuatro letras. Ellos le llaman con gran respeto Isten, que aunque parece tener cinco letras, si tenemos en cuenta su origen tiene sólo cuatro. De hecho, el término húngaro proviene del segundo aoristo del verbo griego «ser» ἴστημι, que suena ἐςὶν [ἐστὶν]: ‘Existo, soy por mí mismo', cuyo segundo aoristo se escribe con cuatro letras. La s y la t, escritas con dos letras en la palabra húngara, se engloban ambas en la única letra griega ς sigmatau. Por tanto, en virtud de su origen, el nombre húngaro también tiene que escribirse con cuatro letras, así: Ἴςεν [Ἴστεν]. De esta manera, el nombre de Dios es un τετραγράμματον [nombre de cuatro letras] para todos los pueblos, y creemos que Él es llamado así porque su esencia es una, pero dentro de su única esencia Él es tres personas realmente existentes y distintas».

[En otra ocasión hablaremos de la utilización peculiar que hace nuestro Sebastián de Covarrubias en su Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española (1611) del Calepino y cómo en el caso de esta palabra remite al interesante repertorio del padre jesuita Juan Fernández, Divinarum Scripturarum iuxta sanctorum Patrum Sententias Locupletissimus Thesaurus (1594). Sobre el hebreo de Covarrubias es ya obligatorio consultar los artículos de György Sajó en los núms 307 y 308 (2013) del BRAE.]

László Fejes es probablemente de la misma opinión, pues en su artículo —sólo como ejemplo chusco– transcribe la palabra húngara Isten con cuatro letras hebreas. ;)


En definitiva, esto no es muy diferente de la solución de István Szántó, quien habiendo transcrito la palabra en letras griegas, descubrió en ella el sentido del otro tetragrámaton (o tetragrama) hebreo, יהוה YHWH, 'el existente, el que es'. Pero por qué íbamos a maravillarnos de tal cosa. En aquel siglo era un lugar común ampliamente aceptado que todas las lenguas, pero sobre todo la húngara, venían del hebreo.

El tetragrama (aquí transcrito como IEVE en lugar de YHWH) como fundamento de la Santísima Trinidad. Ilustración del Diálogo contra los Hebreos (1109) por Pedro Alfonso (antes de su conversión, Moisés Sefaradí), Colegio de San Juan MS E. 4, f. 153v

Pocket guide

With the escalation of the Katsap-Khokhol conflict, it is very timely to keep expanding our vocabulary with the informal naming (национальные прозвища) of a few other peoples. The links in the pop-up windows lead over to the Russian meme encyclopedia Lurkomor to the deepening of the respective national stereotypes.


And how are called the dear neighbors and friendly peoples in your language?

The joys of Polish

We have already seen, that Leo Rosten’s The Joys of Yiddish pays special attention to the interjections – aha! oyoyoy! feh! hoo-ha! nu! –, distinguishing up to fifteen or eighteen shades of meaning of them, and illustrating each with a fitting joke. For example, the word aha:

Mr. Sokoloff has had dinner for twenty years in the same restaurant on the Second Avenue. This evening, as always, he orders bouillon. The waiter brings it, and wants to go back, but Mr. Sokoloff addresses him: “Waiter!” – “Yes, please?” – “Be so kind to taste this soup.” – “But Mr. Sokoloff, you have come here for twenty years and you have never complained.” – “Please”, repeats Mr. Sokoloff obstinately, “taste this soup.” – “But what is the matter, Mr. Sokoloff?” – “Please taste it.” – “All right”, the waiter says. “But… a moment. Where is the spoon?” – “Aha!”, says Mr. Sokoloff.

In the same post we have also seen that The Joys of Yiddish, this magical little book is able to inspire authors even without reading it, such as Tamás Raj, the chief rabbi of Budapest, to write his 100+1 Yiddish words. Now we can see another example of this from the Polish grammar of the Assimil publisher, written by Barbara Kuszmider:

1. Proszę pana. Może pan pozwolić na chwilę? 2. Słucham, czym mogę służyć? 3. Czy może pan spróbować tej zupy? 4. A co, niedobra? Może podać inną? 5. Po prostu, proszę jej spróbować. 6. Nie smakuje panu? 7. Niech pan sam spróbuje. 8. Mamy inne dania. Zaraz podam kartę. 9. Nie, dziękuję. Nie chcę nic innego. 10. Polecam panu doskonały bigos. 11. Prosze tylko, żeby pan spróbował tej zupy. 12. No dobrze, skoro pan nalega… Ale jak mam spróbować, przecież nie ma łyżki!

1. Waiter, may I disturb you for a moment? 2. Of course. What can I do for you? 3. Would you please taste this soup? 4. Oh, is it not good? May I bring you another one? 5. No, simply taste it. 6. Don’t you like it, sir? 7. Just taste it, please. 8. We also have other dishes. I bring you the menu. 9. No, thanks. I do not want anything else. 10. May I suggest you a perfect pasta? 11. No, just be so kind to finally taste it. 12. Well, sir, if you insist so much… But how could I taste it, since there is no spoon!

It is just the punch line, the aha! perfectly closing the original dialogue, which is missing here. Although emotion words are not lacking in Polish either.


(The start-up photo represents the elegant Odessite Café Fanconi, a favorite restaurant of the Jewish businessmen at the turn of the century. The enlarged photo covers today one wall of the Jewish museum in Odessa. The spoon hanging on it is the only piece remaining from the original tableware, sent to the museum by the heirs of one of the café’s regulars from America; all the rest got lost during the revolution of 1917.)

The most difficult language of the world

Thanks to the readers of Río Wang, we already know which is the most entertaining language of the world. But which is the most difficult one? Since yesterday we also know the answer to this question, thanks to Julia who has sent and to Languagehat who has published the following link, a video, in which Juan Andrés and Nicolás Ospina tell in a song, in an artificial English accent, why it is impossible to learn their own native language, Spanish. In the song every region gets what it deserves, from Argentina to Andalusia, in the proper pronunciation and musical style. Under the video we also add the original text for those who – with a good reason, as we already know – have no command of the most difficult language of the world, accompanied by our own attempt of translation, whose pitfalls also illustrate, how difficult this language in fact is.

If at times we are asked which language promises the greatest success in the shortest time, we usually point at Spanish. As of today, however, we will have to think it twice, if it is considered the most difficult by the native speakers. Although the native speaker’s perspective is often very different from that of the foreigners. After all, most Hungarians would consider the Hungarian language anything else but the most entertaining one.

Yo viajé por distintos países, conocí las más lindas mujeres, yo probé deliciosa comida, yo bailé ritmos muy diferentes. Desde México fui a Patagonia, y en España unos años viví, me esforcé por hablar el idioma, pero yo nunca lo conseguí… Qué difícil es hablar el español, porque todo lo que dices tiene otra definición. ¡Qué difícil entender el español, si lo aprendes, no te muevas de región! Qué difícil es hablar el español, porque todo lo que dices tiene otra definición. Qué difícil es hablar el español, Yo ya me doy por vencido “para mi país me voy.” Yo estudiaba el castellano cuando hacia la secundaria, de viaje de estudios nos fuimos para las Islas Canarias. En el viaje comprendí que de español no sabía nada, y decidí estudiar filología hispánica en Salamanca. Terminada la carrera yo viajé a Ciudad de México, sentía que necesitaba enriquecer mi léxico. Muy pronto vi que con el español tenía una tara, y decidí estudiar otros tres años en Guadalajara. Cuatro meses en Bolivia, un postgrado en Costa Rica, y unos cursos de lectura con un profesor de Cuba. Tanto estudio y tanto esfuerzo, y al final tú ya lo ves: ESTE IDIOMA NO SE ENTIENDE NI AL DERECHO NI AL REVÉS! Qué difícil es hablar el español, porque todo lo que dices tiene otra definición. Qué difícil es hablar el español, yo ya me doy por vencido “para mi país me voy.” En Venezuela compré con mi plata una camisa de pana, Y mis amigos me decían “Ese es mi pana, ese es mi pana!” Y en Colombia el porro es un ritmo alegre que se canta, pero todos me miran mal cuando yo digo que me encanta. Los chilenos dicen cuando hay algo lejos “que está a la chucha”, y en Colombia el mal olor de las axilas “es la chucha”, mientras tanto en Uruguay a ese olor le dicen "chivo", y el diccionario define al chivo como a una "cabra con barbuchas". Y cambiando una vocal la palabra queda “chucho”, y “chucho” es un perrito en Salvador y Guatemala. Y en Honduras es tacaño, y a Jesús le dicen Chucho, con tantas definiciones, ¿¡cómo se usa esa puta palabra!? Chucho es frío en Argentina, Chucho en Chile es una cárcel, Chucho en México si hay alguien, con el don de ser muy hábil. El chucho de Chucho es un chucho ladrando, y por chucho a Chucho lo echaron al chucho, el Chucho era frío y lo agarró un chucho “Qué chucho”– decía, “extraño a mi chucho”. Qué difícil es hablar el español, porque todo lo que dices tiene otra definición. Qué difícil entender el español, yo ya me doy por vencido “para mi país me voy.” Comencé por aprender los nombres de los alimentos, pero fríjol es "poroto" y "habichuela" al mismo tiempo. Y aunque estaba confundido con lo que comía en la mesa, de algo yo estaba seguro, que ‘strawberry‘ es una fresa. Y qué sorpresa cuando en México a mí me dijeron "fresa" por tener ropa de Armani y pedir un buen vino en la mesa. Con la misma ropa me dijeron "cheto" en Argentina. “Cheto es fresa yo pensé”–, y pregunté en el mercado en la esquina: “¿Aquí están buenas las chetas?”–, y la cajera se enojó. “¡Andate a la re (peep) que te remil parió!” Y –“Fresas, parce”– me dijo un colombiano mientras vio que yo mareado me sentaba en una silla. “Hermanito no sea bruto, y apúntese en la mano: En Buenos Aires a la fresa le dicen frutilla”. Ya yo me cansé de pasar por idiota digo lo que a mí me enseñan y nadie entiende ni jota y si “ni jota” no se entiende pues pregunte en Bogotá. Yo me rindo, me abro, ¡me voy pa’ Canadá! Un "pastel" es un "ponqué", y un "ponqué" es una "torta", ¡y una "torta" el puñetazo que me dio una española en la boca! Ella se veía muy linda caminando por la playa Yo quería decirle algún piropo para conquistarla. Me acerqué y le dije lo primero que se me ocurrió. ¡Se volteó, me gritó, me escupió y me cacheteó! “Capullo”– yo le dije, porque estaba muy bonita. y si capullo es un insulto, ¿quién me explica la maldita cancioncita? (lindo capullo de alelí, si tú supieras mi dolor, correspondieras a mi amor, y calmaras mi sufri fri fri fri) Sufrimiento es lo que yo tengo, y por más que yo me esfuerzo yo a ti nunca te comprendo. Ya no sé lo que hay que hacer, para hacerse entender, y la plata de mis clases no quisieron devolver. Qué difícil es hablar el español, porque todo lo que dices tiene otra definición. Qué difícil entender el español, Yo ya me doy por vencido “para mi planeta me voy.” En España al líquido que suelta la carne la gente le dice "jugo", Por otro lado en España al jugo de frutas la gente le dice "zumo". Me dijeron también que el sumo pontífice manda en la religión, y yo siempre creí que un sumo era en gordo en tanga peleando en Japón. Conocí a una andaluza, se llamaba Concepción Su marido le decía “Concha de mi corazón”. “Vámonos para Argentina, le dije en una ocasión”. “Yo lo siento pero si me dices ‘concha’ creo que allá mejor no voy.” “Pero Concha, qué te pasa, si es un muy lindo país, hay incluso el que compara Buenos Aires con París.” “De mi apodo allá se burlan de la forma más mugrienta y siempre hay cada pervertido que de paso se calienta”. Y con tantos anglicismos todo es más complicado si traduces textualmente no tienen significado: “I will call you back”–, te diría cualquier gringo, “¡Yo te llamo pa trá”-, te dicen en Puelto Lico! Y "ojos" es "eyes", "ice" es "hielo", ¡"yellow" el color de la yema del huevo! "Oso" es "bear", y "ver" es "see", "Si" es una nota que en inglés es "B"… Y aparte "B" es una "abeja" y también es "ser", y "Sir" Michael le decía a mi profe de inglés. Y el que cuida tu edificio es un "guachimán", y con los chicos de tu barrio sales a "hanguear". Y la glorieta es un "romboy", y te vistes con ‘overol’. ¿¡¿¿Por qué tiene que ser tan difícil saber cómo diablos hablar español!?!? No es que no quiera, perdí la paciencia, ¡la ciencia de este idioma no me entra en la consciencia! yo creía que cargando un diccionario en mi mochila, y anotando en un diario todas las palabras que durante el día aprendía, y leyendo, viajando, charlando, estudiando y haciendo amigos en cada esquina y probando todo tipo de comida y comprando enciclopedias y antologías, ¡¡¡¡YO PENSÉ QUE APRENDERÍA Y QUE CON FE LO LOGRARÍA MIS ESFUERZOS FUERON EN VANO!!!! Yo creía que hablaría el castellano pero YA NO (no no no no)… Qué difícil es hablar el español, porque todo lo que dices tiene otra definición “En Chile "polla" es una apuesta colectiva, en cambio en España es el pene. Alguna gente en México al pene le dice "pitillo", y "pitillo" en España es un cigarrillo y en Venezuela un cilindro de plástico para tomar las bebidas. El mismo cilindro en Bolivia se conoce como "pajita", pero "pajita" en algunos países significa masturbacioncita, y masturbación en México puede decirse "chaqueta", que a la vez es una especie de abrigo en Colombia, país en el que a propósito una gorra con visera es una "cachucha", y "cachucha" en Argentina es una vagina, pero allá a la vagina también le dicen "concha", y "conchudo" en Colombia es alguien descarado o alguien fresco, ¡y un fresco en Cuba es un irrespetuoso! ¡YA ESTOY MAMADO!” -“Pero ‘mamado’ ¿de qué? ¿Mamado de borracho? ¿Mamado de chupeteado? ¿Mamado de harto? …This is exhausting…” Yo ya me doy por vencido, ¡¡¡Para mi país me voy!!!

I traveled through various countries I met the most beautiful women I tried delicious food I danced to very different rhythms From Mexico I went to Patagonia and I lived a few years in Spain I endeavored to speak the language but I never managed to speak it… How difficult it is to speak Spanish, because everything you say has another definition.- How difficult it is to understand Spanish, once you learn it, do not move from the region! How difficult it is to speak Spanish, because everything you say has another definition.- How difficult it is to speak Spanish, I already give up, and I go back to my country. I studied Spanish in the high school and we went for a semester-end tour to the Canary Islands. During the trip I understood that I do not understand anything and I decided to study Spanish philology in Salamanca. After the course I went to Mexico City as I felt I needed to enrich my vocabulary. Soon I saw that my Spanish had great defects and I decided to study another three years in Guadalajara. Four months in Bolivia postgrad work in Costa Rica, and some reading courses with a professor from Cuba. So much study and so much effort, and finally you see: THIS LANGUAGE CANNOT BE UNDERSTOOD EITHER HEAD OR REVERSE! How difficult it is to speak Spanish, because everything you say has another definition.- How difficult it is to speak Spanish, I already give up, and I go back to my country. In Venezuela I bought on my money a velvet (pana) shirt and all my friends told to me: “This is my pana (buddy)!” In Colombia porro is a song with a lively rhythm but everyone looks at me in a shock when I say I love porro (ʻjoint’). Chileans say about something far that “it is at the chucha (ʻcunt’)”, while in Colombia chucha is the smell of armpit which in Uruguay is called chivo, defined by the dictionary as “a goat with long beard”. And by changing a vowel, the word becomes chucho which means ʻdoggy’ in Salvador and Guatemala while it is ʻstingy’ in Honduras, and Chucho is a nickname for Jesús! with so many meanings, how do you use this bastard word? Chucho is ʻcold’ in Argentina Chucho is the prison in Chile, Chucho in Mexico somebody who has the gift of being very astute The doggy (chucho) of Jesús (Chucho) is a barking dog and for being too astute (chucho), Jesús was put in prison (chucho), where Jesús was cold (chucho), and got constipated (chucho) “How cold (chucho)”, he told, “and I also [miss] my doggy (chucho)”. How difficult it is to speak Spanish, because everything you say has another definition. How difficult it is to speak Spanish, I already give up, and I go back to my country. I began to learn the names of food, but fríjol (bean) is also poroto and habichuela at the same time And although I was confused about what I had on the table, one thing was sure, that ʻstrawberry’ is fresa. And what a surprise when in Mexico I was called fresa (a fagot) for having Armani clothes and asking for quality wine. With the same clothes I was called cheto in Argentina “So cheto is fresa”, I thought, and I asked on the market: “Are chetos good here?”, but the seller got angry: “Go to the f(xxx) which has born you into this world!” And “Fresas, friend” (you’re effeminate), a Colombian told me when saw me falling dizzy on a chair. “My brother, don’t be rude, and mark it on your hand: In Buenos Aires fresa is called frutilla.” As I got tired of being considered an idiot for telling what I have learned, and nobody understands a jota and if you do not understand ni jota ask it in Bogotá. I give it up, I pack, I go to Canada! A pastel (cake) is a ponqué, and a ponqué is a torta, and a torta is a punch a Spanish woman gave me on the face! She looked so cute walking down the beach I wanted to tell her a compliment to conquer her I went closer and told the first thing that occurred to me She turned, she cried at me, spat on me and slapped me! Capullo (ʻdickhead’) I told her, as she was so nice but if capullo is an insult, who explains me this damn little song? (“cute capullo de alhelí, (wallflower bud), if you knew my pain, you would return my love and you would calm down my suffe… suffe… suffe…) Suffering, this is what I have and the more I strive, the less I understand you I do not know what to do to be understood and nobody will pay me back the fee of my language classes. How difficult it is to speak Spanish, because everything you say has another definition. How difficult it is to speak Spanish, I already give up, and I go back to my planet. In Spain the meat looses a liquid which people call jugo (ʻjuice’) while the jugo of fruits is called zumo. I was also told that the sumo pontífice (the Pope) rules the religion, while I have always thought that a sumo is a fat Japanese warrior in thongs. I met an Andalusian woman called Concepción who was called by her husband as “Concha of my heart” “Let’s go to Argentina”, he told her once “I’m sorry, but if you call me Concha, it’s better for me not to go there.” “But Concha, what’s wrong with it, it is a beautiful country, some even compare Buenos Aires to Paris.” “They would make fun of my nickname (concha=ʻcunt’) in the filthiest way and always there is some pervert who gets hot at hearing it”. And with so many anglicisms everything gets even more complicated and if you translate literally, it has no sense: “I will call you back”, will tell you any gringo “Yo te llamo pa trá” this you can only hear in Puelto Lico! And ojos is ʻeyes’, but ʻice’ is hielo, while ʻyellow’ is the color of egg yolks! Oso is ʻbear,’ but ver is ʻsee’, and si is a musical note called in English ʻB’… and ʻB’ is both abeja (bee) and ser (to be) but ʻSir’ Michael I called my English teacher. And the keeper of your block is a guachimán (from ʻwatchman’) and the kids in your neighborhood go out to “hanguear” (from ʻhanging out’), and the gazebo is a ʻromboy’ and you dress in ʻoverol.’ Why must it be so difficult to know how the hell to speak in Spanish? Not that I did not want, I just lost patience: the science of this language is alien to my conscience I thought that by loading a dictionary in my backpack and taking notes of all the words I learned during the day, and reading, traveling, chatting, studying and making friends in every corner and testing all kinds of food and buying encyclopedias and anthologies, I THOUGHT I WOULD LEARN AND THAT WITH FAITH I COULD DO IT BUT MY EFFORTS WERE IN VAIN! I thought I would speak Spanish, but not any more (no no no no)… How difficult it is to speak Spanish because everything you say has another definition “In Chile polla is a collective [bet], while in Spain it is the ʻpenis.’ Some people in Mexico call the penis pitillo which in Spain is a cigarette and in Venezuela a plastic cylinder to [drink]. The same cylinder is known in Bolivia as pajita, but pajita in some pays means ʻmasturbation’, which in Mexico is sometimes called chaqueta, which is a sort of a shelter in Colombia, where by the way a baseball cap is called cachucha which in Argentina means ʻvagina’, but there ʻvagina’ is also called concha, while conchudo in Colombia is someone cheeky or scoundrel (fresco), but fresco in Cuba is someone disrespectful! I’M ALREADY SUCKED” “But sucked (mamado) of what? ʻMamado’, that is, drunken? ʻMamado’, that is, [licked] ʻMamado’, that is, sick? …This is exhausting…” I give up! I go back to my country!!!

Francisco Goya: Duel until being beaten to death. Prado, ca. 1820-23

Google Translator, versión beta, 1940

Ya hemos dicho algo de los glosarios o libros de frases durante la Guerra, pero nada de uno tan curioso como este. Esta máquina de traducir Stummer Dolmetsch, o «Intérprete silencioso», de 13 × 18 cm, no lleva fecha, pero según la tarjeta del catálogo de la casa de antigüedades Fünkchen —vendida aunque rescatada de la caché— fue impresa en 1940; es decir, al menos medio año antes de que pudiera empezar a cumplir su misión prevista en el Frente Oriental.

Las dos ilustraciones son del excelente blog de Sprachfuehrer: Военный разговорник и переводчик до 1945 г. (Diccionarios e intérpretes de guerra antes de 1945), sobre el cual vamos a escribir más, y donde también se pueden comprar estas máquinas; los datos provienen del Übersetzerportal

“Man zeige dem Russen die Übersetzung des Wunsches, Befehls usw., gegebenenfalls zur Ergänzung auch das passende Bild. Auf diese Art kann man nach kurzer Orientierung Hunderte von Wünschen und Befehlen ohne Sprachkenntnisse ausdrücken.”

«Mostrar al ruso la traducción de los deseos, órdenes, etc., en ocasiones complementada con una imagen apropiada. De este modo, después de una breve orientación se pueden expresar cientos de deseos y órdenes sin ningún tipo de destrezas lingüísticas».

«Cientos de órdenes» suena excesivo, o debe entenderse incluidas las combinaciones con las imágenes. De hecho, los dos lados de la máquina muestran sólo veinte-veinte Befehle, Fragen, Verhör, Erkundung y Quartier, o sea, orden, pregunta, examen, recopilación de información e instrucciones sobre el acuartelamiento. El usuario gira la parte superior visible del disco interior hasta el número correspondiente a la orden requerida, y su equivalente en ruso aparece en el troquelado, enmarcada en rojo. Un fallo de la máquina es que uno eventualmente tenía que señalar con el dedo la imagen suplementaria, pero estamos seguros de que en caso de un uso prolongado el espíritu teutón también habría dado con la correcta automatización de esto.


El ingenio de la máquina impresiona. Pero, ¿qué clase de plus (Gebrauchsmehrwert) añade a los simples glosarios alemán-ruso que ya hemos visto? Quizá que el usuario no tuviera que enfrentarse al mar ignoto de la lengua extranjera, sino que —aparte de la pequeña zona de peligro, bien delimitada en rojo— se sintiera siempre, en ambos lados de la hoja, en su propio medio lingüístico. Quizá la sensación infantil de girar la rueda, la seguridad habitual ante una máquina que responde o que, por así decir, industrializa la producción de términos extranjeros. Esto tenía que fascinar también al compañero de interacción, en cuya lengua no existía aún un equivalente apropiado para «eficiencia». Ay, quién sabe cuánto más adelantada estaría hoy en día la informática si la guerra hubiera durado un poco más.

Google Translator, beta version, 1940

We have already written about a number of wartime phrasebooks, but never about any more peculiar than this one. The 13×18 cm sized Stummer Dolmetsch, that is, “Silent Interpreter” translating machine bears no date, but according to the – since then sold, but from cache still saved – catalog card of Fünkchen Antiques it was printed in 1940, that is at least half a year before it could begin its intended service on the Eastern Front.

The two illustrations are from Sprachfuehrer’s excellent Военный разговорник и переводчик до 1945 г. (Wartime phrasebooks and interpreters before 1945) blog, on which we will soon write more, and where the above copy can be also purchased; the data from the Übersetzerportal

“Man zeige dem Russen die Übersetzung des Wunsches, Befehls usw., gegebenenfalls zur Ergänzung auch das passende Bild. Auf diese Art kann man nach kurzer Orientierung Hunderte von Wünschen und Befehlen ohne Sprachkenntnisse ausdrücken.”

“Show to the Russian the translation of the wish, command etc., eventually supplementing it with the appropriate picture. In this way, after a short orientation you can express hundreds of wishes and commands without any language skill.”

The “hundreds of commands” seems excessive, or to be understood including the combinations made with the pictures. In fact, the two sides of the machine show only twenty-twenty Befehle, Fragen, Verhör, Erkundung and Quartier, that is command, question, examination, information gathering, and instructions concerning quartering. The user turns the upper visible part of the inner disc to the number of the required command, and the equivalent of it appears in the opening framed red for the Russian. A flaw of the machine is that one probably had to poke by hand on the eventual supplementary picture, but we are sure that in case of an extended use the precise Teutonic spirit would have solved the automation of this as well.


The ingenuity of the machine is stunning. But what kind of surplus use value (Gebrauchsmehrwert) may it have offered in comparison with the hitherto seen simple German-Russian glossaries? That the user did not have to face the sea of the foreign language, but – apart from the small danger zone well limited in red – he could feel in his own language medium on both sides? The childlike joy of turning, the habitual safety of machine using? That it, so to say, industrializes the production of the foreign terms? That it enthralled the interaction partner, in whose language there was even no proper equivalent for “efficiency”? Who knows how much cybernetics would be ahead today if this war takes a while longer.

Requisition

Nineteen-forty-two, as we have seen, brought a boom in Russian phrasebook business, and Hungary did not miss the international trend. Having declared, on German pressure, war on the Soviet Union on 26 June 1941, in 1942 they published a Hungarian-Russian phrasebook for the troops on the Eastern front. We have found only one page of it on the Russian net. The booklet gives the Russian equivalents of the Hungarian terms in Roman characters and according to Hungarian pronunciation, including some errors. Below we transcribe them in Cyrillic together with their English translation for an easier evaluation.

We’ll give you a receipt, on which you will receive the money later. Requisition Give us all what we need as soon as possible. You don’t have to be afraid, we are Hungarian soldiers, nobody will harm you. We will pay for all what you give us. We know that in the village there is a large supply of food. You must bake bread still today. Bring us food, carts, horses and cows pig, bacon, cheese wheat, oats, corn barley, potatoes, milk eggs, meat rye wine, beer, vodka bread, tobacco peas, bean, rice How many workers can you get in the village? Collect 50 workers. They shall take tools with themselves axes, picks, shovels scythes, rakes

Мы дадим тебе расписку, по которой вы после получите деньги. Реквизиция Дайте нам как можно скорее чего мы потребуем. Вам ничего нас бояться, мы венгерские солдаты, никто вас не тронет. За все, что вы нам дадите, мы вас вознаградим. Мы знаем, что в деревне большой запас продовольствия. Надо ещё сегодня печь хлеб. Доставьте нам продовольствие, подводы, лошадей, коров. свини, сало, сыр пшеницу, овес, кукурузу ячмен, картофель, молоко яйцо, мясо рожь вино, пиво, водки хлеба, табаку гороха, бобы, рису Сколько рабочих можете собрать в деревне? Собери пятьдесят рабочих. Пусть возьмут с собою инструменты топоры, кирки, лопаты косы, грабли

The language of stamps

Raimundo de Madrazo y Garreta (1841-1920): Untitled

“Everyone knows that there is a language of the stamps,
which is related to the language of the flowers as the Morse-code to the written alphabet.”
Walter Benjamin: Einbahnstrasse (1928)

The weeks before Christmas used to be the time of postcards. But who writes Christmas postcards any more in the age of e-mail? They disappeared from the post offices, where formerly you could choose and pick between them from the end of November. Gradually disappear the stamps too, which we used to stick on the postcards, and about which Walter Benjamin foretold with a particular insight that they would not survive the twentieth century. And along with them disappear the customs once connected with them, including a most peculiar one: the language of the stamps, one of the several languages disappeared in the past century.


On philatelic and auction sites you sometimes find postcards which illustrate with small pictures, similar to naval flag signals, what it means if the stamp was stuck in this or that position on the card. The custom is probably as old as the greeting card itself, which started its world conquering tour from the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy in 1869. I’ve found the oldest mention of it in the 13 July 1890 edition of the Hungarian provincial weekly Szarvas és vidéke, which indicates that it had to flourish long before that date:

The secrets of the language of stamps. For all those who are in the situation of Hero and Leander, and similarly to them can only exchange secret signs about the feelings of their hearts, here we publish the secrets of the language of stamps. If the stamp stands upright in the upper right corner of the card or envelope, it means: I wish your friendship. Top right, across: Do you love me? Top right, upside down: Don’t write me any more. Top right, thwart: Write me immediately. Top right, upright [once more again???]: Your love makes me happy. Top left, across: My heart belongs to someone else. Top left, upright: I love you. Bottom left, across: Leave me alone in my grief. In line with the name: Accept my love. Same place, across: I wish to see you. Same place, upside down: I love someone else. – We hope that besides the inventor of the “new language” there would be other persons too who would eventually use it.

The hopes of the journalist were not in vain. The new fashion spread rapidly, and after the turn of the century the rules of the language of stamps received their particular chapter in the etiquette books along with the languages of flowers, handkerchiefs and fans. Moreover, in many countries the acquisition of this language was assisted by particular manuals, such as George Bury’s Cupid’s code for the transmission of secret messages by means of the language of postage stamps (Ashford, Middlesex, 1899), of which the Tower Projects Blog published a few pages.




At the same time appeared the greeting cards as well, which on their picture side offered a short introduction into the grammar of the new language.





A short introduction, I say, because there were not many postcards such as the above British, Czech, Finnish and Russian ones, which also interpreted the place of the stamp on the card, either with illustrated examples or sorted in a table. The majority of the postcards contented with adding a short explanation on the position of the stamp. In the simplest version, the various positions of the stamp indicated, as the pointer of an erotometer, the temperature of love, such as in the following French, Belgian and Bulgarian cards (the last of which, for curiosity, was sent with a Hungarian greeting: Many kisses from the far away distance.).




Other cards, on the contrary, informed the unwanted suitors about the reasons for rejection through the position of the stamp.




The majority, however, conveyed more subtle messages, from hesitation through desire to rejection, and even specific instructions such as “tomorrow at the usual place!” or “he has discovered everything!” We find this kind of messages on the following French, Polish of Lemberg/Lwów and Swedish cards (the English translation of the labels of the latter can be read here).





One specialty of the cards of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy was that they deciphered the numbered stamp positions not on the picture side but on the reverse. And the other was that whatever language of the multiethnic empire they used, the lovers preferred to send their messages to each other by means of Franz Joseph’s head.

Unfortunately, the only Hungarian postcard I found on a Danish philatelic site, has been sold in the meantime, and its original picture deleted. I could only dig up this small one from Google cache. However, after the publication of this post, Natasa from A Nagy Háború blog sent me the following version (for which we hereby say thanks):

Sometimes the language became more articulated, and expressed the shades of emotions not by turning one stamp, but through the relations of two stamps, such as in the following English and German cards.





In the simplest version, which related to the “real” language of stamps in the same way as a blank to a handwritten letter, one could underline the convenient message attached to the stamps of the same position, or stick on the postcard the suitable color stamp from the three options shown on the picture side.




The language of stamps, like any language, naturally had its own dialects. They were sometimes linked to a multi-language publisher, as the Austro-Hungarian ones above, or as it is illustrated by the following Finno-Russian and Pan-European examples.









Sometimes the postcard, just like word-teaching cards, contained only one element of the language, perhaps for a didactic purpose, and probably also to encourage the fans to collect the entire series.











The Muses were not silent in the war either, but by supporting Mars with the power of Venus, they stood at the service of the victory.


The custom of the language of stamps reached different ages in different countries. In Russia, where it was a great fashion, no such postcard was published after the revolution, just as in the socialist countries after 1945. On the one hand, etiquette itself was considered a bourgeois left-over, and on the other hand the power did not tolerate any encoded message either. In western European countries, however, we find its instances as long as the end of the sixties.





Today it is not easy to determine how much the language of stamps was used in real correspondence. Perhaps one could dig up relevant quotes from high society magazines or novels of the period. A telling reference are the stamps actually used on the postcards illustrating the language of stamps in the philatelic sites. However few of this kind of postcards we find, a surprisingly great number of them bear a stamp stuck on them in the way as shown on their picture side. This fact also highlights the real function of these cards. Whoever did not learn by heart the relevant chapter of the etiquette books, could easily select the desired meaning, and the recipient decode the sweet message encrypted by means of the stamp.

Picture side and reverse of the same postcards

However, when finding a postcard or envelope which offers no code to the interpretation of the position of the stamp, we can only guess what dialect or which etiquette book was used by the sender, and whether the recipient could understand the appropriate shade. Who could tell whether the stamps of the following missives conveyed a secret message, and if yes, what it was?