In Marguerite’s shadow

Prizes and awards come with weight and responsibilities. I believe they should only be accepted in full recognition of this. I can’t say I have always had this opinion, but it has matured over the years.

When I was 19, I received  a prize named after Marguerite Bervoets. She was a member of the Belgian Resistance in the Second World War. She died decapitated by hatchet for a cause she felt just (and of course History weighed on her side, but I understand that sometimes we embrace causes that History dismisses). 

For a long time that is all I knew about Marguerite. There was nothing much to be found about her life online. But often I thought of her, her courage, and the role she played in my life (more on that below).

This year on Armistice Day, I decided to learn more. On that day, the passing of Leonard Cohen, one of the greatest lyricists of the twentieth century, was announced. I indulged in a little bit (OK – a lot) of melancholy music listening. One of Cohen’s song is The Partisan, which is a French Resistance song, translated into English by Hy Zaret. Cohen’s version is particularly moving because it combines the French and the English versions, and because the French is sung by Cohen and a female singer (whose name I do not know). In the French verses, the person who offers shelter to the partisans, and is killed as a result, is a woman – in the English it is a man. The gender changes remind us that the Resistance involved both men and women. Bravery is gender blind.

Marguerite Bervoets. Source: Wikipedia

Marguerite Bervoets. Source: Wikipedia

As I listened to The Partisan, I remembered Marguerite Bervoets, and did some more research on her life. She studied at my alma mater, the Free University of Brussels (ULB). She started a PhD on a Belgian symbolist poet, André Fontainas. She spent a year in Cambridge, where she learnt English. While studying for her PhD, she became a French teacher in Tournai. All this was interrupted by the war. Marguerite joined the Resistance. She was captured in August 1942, and was soon deported to the Nazi prison of Wolfenbüttel. She was decapitated on the 7th of August 1944.

Marguerite was a poet. Some poems from her Chromatisme collection can be found online. I judged them rather harshly at first: the alexandrins are rather clunky; the similes laboured; the language over-complicated. Then I realised Marguerite had written those poems when she was 16! I cannot write formal French verse – who am I to judge? Here is my laboured, clunky translation of Marguerite’s ‘nocturne romantique‘ into English free verse:

Tonight, the moon dreams in heaven, indolently
And on the lake, polished like a troubling mirror,
The night star, wan and curious, descends
And drags the dullness of her mournful eye.

A wind, fragrant with the scent of carnations,
Caresses my tresses with a quivering hand,
And its brushing breath, like a fluttering wing,
Softly closes my eyes with a discreet finger.

An exhilarating murmur fills my empty room,
An invisible zephyr has brushed the curtains,
made the tepid air vibrate in concentric rings,
Then, in my heart, descends a languid stupor.

Chromatisme 1930

When she was older, Marguerite abandoned French formal verse in favour of free verse. Unfortunately, I could not find any of her more mature poems, but I felt that a celebration of the moon was in order in a week that witnessed the Supermoon.

Marguerite is a relatively well-known figure of the Belgian Resistance. Her name survives as that of a Secondary School in Mons and as that of a ULB prize (that to which I referred at the beginning of the post). Several monuments in her honour exist. She has no doubt inspired many to be brave in their everyday lives.

She also deeply influenced my life in a coincidental way. After the award ceremony in which I received the eponymous prize, I suddenly became ill. Shivering, I sat an exam. I did very badly. I was not used to doing very badly at exams. That hurt. Eventually, it also meant that I was unable to do a PhD in my alma mater – I was not deemed good enough. I found a different path, an excellent one. That ‘failure’ also helped me to become a better teacher: one who understands that people have their bad days, that an excellent student can badly mess up a piece of assessment, that academic talent does not define people.

And of course, more directly, being awarded a Marguerite Bervoets prize made me conscious of the value of resistance – with a small ‘r’. The value of standing for a cause. The value of questioning received ideas. The value of being brave when I feel nothing but. I may not always be a worthy recipient of the Marguerite Bervoets prize, but I try – and I will continue to do so.

If you wish to learn more about Marguerite Bervoets, you can read her biography here (in French).

PS: an early version of this post was released by mistake (I was writing on my phone and must have clicked something by mistake). My apologies.

 

 

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Kiss me

In the last few weeks, I think I can be forgiven for almost forgetting that my job is to be a lecturer: to go to a class and interact with young people. I have been literally buried under piles of admin, occasionally coming out for air. This has been very detrimental to my health. That is not what I trained to be: I trained to be a researcher and a teacher. I love to teach. I would not presume to be a good teacher, but I try my hardest.

What makes a good lecture? It’s so hard to pinpoint. Sometimes I prepare so well, but the lecture does not come off. On other occasions, I just throw together a few slides and talk, and the students seem genuinely interested. It’s really like cooking. Sometimes, I follow a recipe to the letter and the result is mediocre. On other occasions, I just mix some ingredients in a pan, and it’s delicious.

Teaching let’s me think. It gives me ideas. Teaching helps me make links between things I had previously placed in separate compartments of my brain. And this happened to me again today. I was giving a broad one-hour introduction to Greek and Latin poetry to first year students in Ancient History: an almost impossible task if there is one. I simply tried to convey how much I love Greek and Latin poetry, especially those poems that are painfully beautiful in their simplicity. I chose one poem to read. Catullus’ fifth poem, the one about kisses – here in the perfectly fine Wikisource translation:

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
and let us value all the rumors of
more severe old men at only a penny!
Suns are able to set and return:
when once the short light has set for us
one perpetual night must be slept by us.
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,
then another thousand, then a second hundred,
then immediately a thousand then a hundred.
then, when we will have made many thousand kisses,
we will throw them into confusion,
or lest we know anyone bad be able to envy
when he knows there to be so many of kisses.

I read this rather badly. Rather badly because I struggle with reading English poetry aloud (I do not know why), but also because a thought was bubbling up in a corner of my brain. This poem I had read thousands of times in several languages (Latin, French, English) suddenly revealed itself to have striking similarities with one of my  very favourite poems: Jacques Prévert‘s Kiss Me. I couldn’t find a good English translation online, so here is my attempt:

‘Twas in a street of the City of Lights
Where ’tis always dark, where there’s no air
And winter like summer, there ’tis always winter.

She was on the stairs
Him next to her, her next to him
‘Twas night
And she told him:

Here ’tis dark
There’s no air
Winter like summer, ’tis always winter
God’s sun don’t shine our way
He’s got too much to do where the rich stay

Take me in your arms
Kiss me
Kiss me long
Kiss me
Later, ’twill be too late
Our life, ’tis now

Here we die of everything:
of heat, of cold
We freeze, we suffocate
There’s no air

If you stopped kissing me
I feel I’d die, suffocate
You’re 15, I’m 15
Put together, that’s 30
At 30, we ain’t kids

We’ve the right to work
We’ve that to kiss
Later, ’twill be too late
Our life, ’tis now
Kiss me.

Jacques Prévert, 1946

And as the links formed in my brain, I felt the stress of endless meetings washing away. I stopped feeling guilty for not managing to learn Managerese (the baffling language used in so many university memos). I knew what mattered. And the students listened.

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Pain à la grecque

In my last post, I told you that we moved, and that we now have a garden, which I am sure will feature regularly in this blog. Another lovely part of the house, which by the way is late Victorian (1898),  is the kitchen. It has been extended and modernised over the years, but it still retains some Victorian charm. For the first few weeks, we were so busy that we hardly cooked. But time has now come to make something nicer.

I felt it would be proper to make something Greekish-themed: the Brussels delicacy that is pain à la grecque. This sweet bread actually has nothing to do with Greece.  “Grecque” stands for the word “grecht“, which in the Brussels dialect means “canal”. This is canal bread, perhaps because it can be kept on board barges.

The pain baking in our fancy (but only partially working) oven - I am not entirely sold to it.

The pain baking in our fancy (but only partially working) oven – I am not entirely sold to it.

I had never made pain à la grecque, but I rarely let such small challenges stop me. I could have used a modern recipe found on the Web,  but instead I referred to an old recipe book, which I inherited from my Belgian grandmother. Her best friend Ninette gave it to her to celebrate her 24th birthday in 1945. The book contains recipes ‘tried and tested’ by the students at the School of Housekeeping at the Institute Marie-Thérèse in Liege.  Interestingly, the School still exists, but no longer is a finishing institute for young ladies.

Now my Bonne Maman was not particularly interested in cooking and baking. The pristine state of this recipe book might be a testament to that. There are no annotations here, but there is a lovely dried edelweiss and some rose petals.

Big boy T and Little Boy G helped me make the bread. It is still rather challenging to get G (aged 4) involved, and T did lose his patience a few times, but we got there in the end. Our sweet bread was really tasty. Here is the adapted recipe. Do let me know if you try it and if you have suggestions for improvement.

Some of our pain ὰ la grecque cooling down. They don't look particularly pretty, but they are very tasty!

Some of our pain à la grecque cooling down

Pain à la grecque, slightly adapted from Recettes de cuisine expérimentées au Cours Supérieur de Travaux du Ménage et à l’Ecole Normale Ménagère (8th edition, Liège, 1945)

Ingredients:

  • 500 g of plain flour + extra flour for rolling
  • 10 g of dried yeast (more if you use fresh yeast)
  • 250 g of unsalted butter at room temperature
  • 5 g of cinnamon (a teaspoon)
  • 5 g of baking powder (a teaspoon)
  • 300 g of crystallised sugar (the traditional recipe requires white sugar, but I couldn’t find any, and used brown sugar crystals instead – worked a treat)
  • approximately 250 ml of milk (full fat of course) at room temperature
  1. Mix the yeast with a little bit of milk. Make a well in the middle of the flour. Pour the yeast mixture in the well. Mix the yeast mixture with a little flour and cover it with flour.
  2. Leave to rest. When the flour has become cracked, it is ready to be kneaded. I used an electric mixer, but this should be feasible by hand.
  3. While mixing, add the milk little by little. Then add the butter little by little. Then add the cinnamon and the baking powder. If the mixture is too dry, add some milk. The dough should be firm.
  4. Leave to rise for at least two hours.
  5. Divide the dough into balls of 50 g each.
  6. For each ball, use a pinch of flour and a spoonful of crystallised sugar. Work the flour and the sugar into the ball. Roll the ball into a sausage of approximately 20 cm. Cut the sausage in two. Flatten it onto a non-stick cooking sheet.
  7. Cook the bread in a moderate oven (gas mark 7) for approximately 20 minutes. The bread is ready when it is golden.
  8. Leave to cool on a rack.
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Trimming hedges

It has been a very long time since I last wrote. In fact, this has been the longest interval since I started blogging. The last few months have been rather difficult, for various reasons. On the positive side, Little Boy G has started school and seems to be adapting very well. And we moved! After seven years in a lovely rented flat, we have moved to a house we bought.

This is the first time in my life I have a garden. I have always lived in flats (and once in a shared house with a courtyard). For a historian of botany, with a true passion for plants, I seriously lack gardening experience. Our garden is small, but it is a garden nevertheless. Unfortunately, it suffered some neglect for several years. We now have the task to transform it into something acceptable. A challenge I welcome! I started with a basic task: trimming the hedges.

Our hedges after an initial trim. Much work to be done!

Our hedges after an initial trim. Much work to be done!

Serendipity being what it is, as I was attacking the unruly bay tree, I came across a ‘delightful’ Greek passage on tree trimming. It is found in the pseudo-Hippocratic Letters. These are letters allegedly written to and by the great physician Hippocrates. They form a sort of novella, whose main story-line is the madness of the philosopher Democritus.

Democritus has lost his mind: he laughs at everything and anything. The people of his home city, Abdera, call upon Hippocrates to come and heal their great mind. After much preparation, Hippocrates sets on his way to Abdera, but not before having left his wife in the capable hands of his friend Denys. He assures him that his wife is usually well-behaved, but…

…a woman always needs someone who tempers her, for she has in herself, by nature, an unbridled character, which, unless it is lopped on a daily basis, runs all to wood, like trees. [Pseudo-Hippocrates, Letters 13].

So women are like trees: they need pruning on a regular basis. The most common Greek verb for pruning was kolouō, a word that is phonetically very close to the verb kolazō, to chastise,  to punish. The ancients played on the similarity between the two words, comparing tree pruning to some ‘beneficial’ punishment of family dependents: slaves, children, women. While the author of the Letter does not use the word kolouō, he is playing on the same set of assumptions.

Wonderful wild hedges!

Wonderful wild hedges!

Domesticated trees were usually considered to be female in the Greek world: like women, they carried fruits, but in order to do so, they needed constant care and constant chastisement. Pesky things…

With this Hippocratic passage in mind, I could not help but feel pain for the bay tree that I was hacking, especially since that tree is Laurus nobilis, my namesake. I found comfort in a new charity shop acquisition: a lovely tea-cup and saucers with wonderful scenes from Jill Barklem’s Brambly Hedge Autumn Story.

 

Posted in Ancient Greece, Ancient History, Gardening, Plants | Leave a comment

An ode to spring

The gods have treated us to this rare phenomenon: a sunny bank holiday. We decided to make the most of it and went To The Beach, to beautiful Rhossili Bay, on the Gower Peninsula. We actually live five minutes from a beach, but going to Penarth beach, with its uncomfortable pebbles and incomparable views of Cardiff industrial sites, does not count as a day out! For a real beach treat, we must brave Swansea’s idiosyncratic traffic light system, and head for the Gower Peninsula.

We had a lovely walk on the headland, with a long stop at the World War II radar station, which Big Boy T and Little Boy G re-invented as a lost golden city (we are currently watching the Mysterious Cities of Gold, that classic of 1980s television). Of course, I was on the look out for wild flowers. I was not disappointed. We saw carpets of late-blooming bluebells and beautiful yellow flags. But most spectacular were a couple of wild orchids, surrounded by blue bells and ferns (see here for a post on the alleged aphrodisiac properties of orchids).

What best to accompany my photos (which I admit fall far from professional standards) than a Greek poem celebrating flowers? I have chosen an epigram of Meleager (first century BCE), the original anthologist, the master flower (anthos) collector:

A wild orchid on a background of bluebells at Rhossili Bay

A wild orchid on a background of bluebells at Rhossili Bay

I will plait the white violet, I will plait with myrtles
The tender narcissus, I will plait the laughing lillies,
I will plait the sweet saffron-crocus. I will wreathe in the hyacinth,
Flushing red, I will plait the amorous roses,
So that, upon the temples of Heliodora of the sweet-scented curls,
The wreath may bestrew with flowers her fair tresses.
Meleager, Greek Anthology 5.147

 

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A bad hair day

I have had a bad hair month – quite literally. I have been suffering from an extremely itchy scalp, covered in hives. Fortunately this is now calming down, but I am left wondering what caused such a severe allergic reaction. I do not dye my hair, so I am left with shampoos and conditioners as possible offenders.

As I was scratching my head while doing research for a new article, I came across the following epigram by Nicarchus (first century CE).

A Roman wig made of moss found at Vindolanda.

A Roman wig made of moss found at Vindolanda.

By dyeing his head, a man destroyed the hair itself,
And from being exceedingly hairy, his head became entirely like an egg.
The dyer (bapheus) managed the result that no barber can any longer cut
His hair, be it white or dyed black.
Nicarchus, Greek Anthology 11.398

Now, the word bapheus (dyer) usually refers to someone who dyes fabrics, rather than someone who dyes hair. For instance, Dioscorides writes that dyers use woad in their trade (Materia Medica 2.184). Perhaps the joke in Nicarchus’s epigram is that the man approached the wrong professional to get his hair dyed. Still, it remains that hair products could be very dangerous in the ancient world. For instance, the physician Galen (second century CE) claims that he had to include ‘safe’ cosmetics in his writings, not because he approved of them – he certainly didn’t – but because the alternative was just too dangerous:

For I have often seen women not only put themselves in danger, but actually die, from over-cooling their heads with such drugs.
Galen, On the Composition of Medicines according to Places 1.3, 12.442 Kühn

Even allowing for some exaggeration, this still sounds like very nasty stuff. So what did the ancients use to dye their hair? Various recipes have come down to us, including a list in pseudo-Galen’s Remedies Easily Procured. Here is an extract:

Fresco of Venus, Casa di Venus, Pompeii. Unlike me, Venus is not having a bad hair day - I am very jealous. Credits: Wikipedia

Fresco of Venus, Casa di Venus, Pompeii. Unlike me, Venus is not having a bad hair day – I am very jealous. Credits: Wikipedia

Ointments for the hair, so that grey hair becomes black: boil iron dross and lead in vinegar until a third is left; anoint, avoiding to touch the hair with oil.
Another: crush the root of caper-plant with ass’ milk; boil until a third is left; and use. Be careful as this thoroughly blackens the hair.
Another: dissolve the bile of sea turtle in oil and anoint the hair.
Another: boil walnuts; mix with wet bitumen; and anoint.
Galen, Remedies Easily Procured 2.1, 14.390-391 Kühn

Beside relatively harmless herbal ingredients (walnuts, root of caper-plant), and exotic animal ingredients (bile of sea turtle), ancient hair dyes very often included bitumen and lead. It is very easy to snigger at the ignorance of the ancients, who slowly poisoned themselves through vanity. But do pause a minute and ask yourself what exactly are methylisothiazolinone and cocamidopropyl betaine, two common ingredients in ancient cosmetics (which, as it happens, are present in the shampoo that most likely caused my allergic reaction). While I know that modern compounds are safe, tried and tested in labs, I also know that I am now facing a long struggle to discover what exactly turned my scalp into an angry sore. What is in your shampoo?

 

Posted in Ancient History, Cosmetics, History of medicine | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Metamorphoses: changes are shifting outside the words

I have just come back from the Classical Association Conference, the biggest classics conference in the UK, which this year was held in Edinburgh. This was a very good ‘vintage’, with among other things, a wonderful panel on crime writing and the classics (including Ian Rankin and Lindsey Davis), Scottish dancing, a bagpipe performance by distinguished classics Professor Ewen Bowie, and – lest I forget – some great academic papers.

A beautiful vegetable 'eye', which I photographed near the site of the CA conference

A beautiful vegetable ‘eye’, which I photographed near the site of the CA conference

Ancient science and medicine was well represented this year, as we had a double panel on Ancient Botany: Text and Practice, with seven papers in total (see here for the Tweets generated by the panel). Theophrastus was surprisingly little mentioned, but we heard much about Pliny the Elder, Dioscorides – and Ovid. Now Ovid is not usually an author that historians of science study very much, although his cosmetic recipes do get mentioned now and again. His stories of plant metamorphoses, on the other hand, are usually examined for their literary value, and for the political/messages they convey – but not for their ‘science’. Yet, stories telling the metamorphoses of mythical characters into plants or animals do raise questions about what it means to be a human, an animal, or a plant – and that is perhaps one of the most important questions in ancient science.

In antiquity, some philosophers believed that the human embryo was like a plant or ‘lived the life of the plant’: it only possessed the lowest part of the soul, which is sometimes called the ‘vegetative part of the soul’. It acquired other faculties (the senses and the capacity to think) later in the pregnancy or after birth. Now, when a human is transformed into a plant s/he regresses almost to the embryological stage, losing first the capacity to sense in a human way, and then the capacity to speak. Ovid’s beautiful stories make us wonder whether the being that has been transformed into a plant can somehow still feel and cry within. For instance, the story of Myrrha, who was metamorphosed into a myrrh tree, ends as follows:

The birth of Adonis from Myrrha, painting by Marcantonio Franceschini , 1690. Credits: Wikipedia

The birth of Adonis from Myrrha, painting by Marcantonio Franceschini , 1690. Credits: Wikipedia

Though she has lost with her body her former senses,
She weeps still, and the lukewarm drops trickle from the tree.
There is honour also in her tears, and the myrrh that drops from her bark
Keeps the name of its mistress, about which no age will keep silent.
Ovid, Metamorphoses 10.499-502

It is with all these thoughts of metamorphoses that I embarked on my journey home. The train journey was to last seven hours! I was frankly too tired to do any work, or even to read a  novel. So I mostly dozed and listened to music. One of the albums I listened to is Annie Lennnox’s Medusa, which I really love. Now, there is no ‘Medusa’ song in this album. As the editors of the Medusa Reader (a collection of documents relating to the myth of Medusa across the centuries) note, the album title must refer to Lennox’s ability to manipulate ‘her  own arresting image’ (p. 7). Lennox is the Medusa who can transform us into stones.

I suspect there is much more, and the opening song of the album ‘No more I love you’s’ must be part of the answer. This is a song about slaying one’s demons (those of despair and desire), and yet no finding happiness. The chorus goes as follows:

Medusa as a beautiful maiden on a poster advertising an exhibition against Tuberculosis in Basel, 1913. Source: Wellcome Images

Medusa as a beautiful maiden on a poster advertising an exhibition against Tuberculosis in Basel, 1913. Source: Wellcome Images

No more “I love you’s”
The language is leaving me
No more “I love you’s”
The language is leaving me in silence
No more “I love you’s”
Changes are shifting outside the words

Now, Annie Lennox did not write those words. The song was first composed in 1985 by The Lover Speaks, a new wave duo. As I said, I had a long journey, so I did a bit of <cough>Wikipedia<cough> reading on the duo. They were clearly well-read, as they called themselves after Roland Barthes‘ book A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments (1977), a series of short essays on love.

Someone much more versed in cultural studies might explain to me how Barthes’ reflections inspired The Lover Speaks. I am more directly interested by Lennox’s rendition and what it may mean in the context of an album entitled Medusa. For Medusa is the monster who can turn people into stone through her stare. She is slain by Perseus, and in Ovid’s rendition of the myth, her bleeding head, deposited on seaweeds, gives birth to coral – the ‘plant’ (the ancient believed it was a plant) transformed into stone in contact with the air (see here for a post I wrote on the story).

In ‘No more I love you’s’, the narrator loses the ability to speak; changes are now ‘shifting outside the words’. This is a very arresting description of what would happen to someone who is metamorphosed, to someone who is turned into stone under the gaze of Medusa. But why would anyone ever say ‘I love you’ in the presence of the Gorgon? She is supposed to be an ugly monster. Well, not in all versions of the myth. In some she is described as beautiful. In Ovid’s version (at the very end of Book IV), she is a stunning maiden, before Miverva transforms her into a terrifying beast.

I could go further and refer to the feminist re-appropriation of Medusa, but language is leaving me in silence.

 

 

Posted in Ancient History, botany, History of Science, Plants, Travelling | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments