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

A yellow flag for peace

Today my native city – Brussels – was victim of horrific terrorist attacks. People on social media quickly showed their solidarity by using the Belgian flag (black – yellow – red). Less used – because far less known – was the flag of the Brussels-Capital Region: a yellow flag flower (Iris pseudacorus L.) on a blue background. It seems to me that flag is a perfect response to terrorist attacks: a symbol of spring to counteract acts of barbarity.

As readers of this blog know, I have a slight obsession for irises. My mother recently asked me whether this obsession had anything to do with the Brussels flag. Perhaps it does, although I do prefer species of blue or white irises (grouped under the common name ‘iris’) to the yellow flag. Both plants had a very important role to play in ancient medicine. Indeed, they are the first two plants listed by Dioscorides, the first-century CE author of Materia Medica, perhaps the most important pharmacological book written in Greek.

Here is what Dioscorides has to say about yellow flag:

Yellow flags photographed last spring at Cosmeston, near Cardiff

Yellow flags photographed last spring at Cosmeston, near Cardiff

The yellow flag (akoron) has leaves that are similar to those of the iris, but narrower, and it has roots that are not dissimilar to those of the iris, except that they are interwoven, and that they do not grow straight but sideways and at the surface [of the ground], and divided into joints, and they are whitish, and pungent to the taste, and not unpleasant to the smell. [Then comes a sentence that is corrupt, but whose meaning is that the best types of yellow flags have certain characteristics]. Such are the flag from Colchis and the one from Galatia which is called asplenon.
The root has a warming power. Its decoction, when drunk, is diuretic; it is suitable in cases of pains in the sides, chest, liver; colic; lesions; spasms; it reduces the spleens. It helps those afflicted by strangury, those bitten by wild animals; and in a sitz-bath, like iris, against gynaecological complaints. The juice of the root cleanses that which casts a shadow over the pupils of the eyes. The root is beneficially mixed with antidotes. 
[Dioscorides, Materia Medica 1.2]

Altogether then, yellow flag was a very useful plant: one that could be used for all matters of afflictions, ranging from gynaecological troubles to cases of poisoning. Interestingly, one of the names by which the yellow flag was known was choros aphrodisios, the dance/song of  Aphrodite, perhaps alluding to some aphrodisiac property of the plant.

Yellow flags photographed last spring in Cosmeston, near Cardiff,

Yellow flags photographed last spring in Cosmeston, near Cardiff,

How did the yellow flag become the symbol of Brussels? Wikipedia tells me the flag is an allusion to the marshy origins of Brussels; and recounts the story of an unnamed Duke of Brabant who kept to the shallow parts of the marshes where the flags grew, but let his enemy get bogged down in the deeper parts of the marshes. Who knows?

Whatever the origins of the yellow flag as a symbol for Brussels, it is perfectly appropriate in this time of crisis. An antidote against the bites of wild animals; a song to Aphrodite; a proud flower in marshy lands!

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

Sweet poison

It has been a while since I last posted. Instead of writing myself, I have been working with my ‘Greek and Roman Medicine’ Undergraduate students on a blogging assignment. This has been a steep learning curve for all those involved (that includes me). Once everything has been marked, double marked, and triple checked, I hope to share some of the students’ fabulous work. In the meantime, and since it is World Poetry Day 2016, here is one of Ausonius’ epigrams. You may remember my newly-found love for this fourth-century Latin poet from Bordeaux. Not only did Ausonius sing the beauty of roses, he was also a talented epigram composer. Here is his little pearl on a wife’s murderous intents:

An adulterous wife gave a poison to her jealous husband
And thought the amount insufficient to cause death.
She added a lethal amount of quicksilver,
So that the doubled strength might lead to a prompt end.
If one separates these ingredients, individually they are poisonous;
Whoever takes them combined, consumes an antidote!
Thus, while these harmful draughts fought against each other,
The deadly substance yielded to the salubrious one.
Onwards, they sought the empty recesses of the belly,
By the the well-known slippery path for digested food.
How benevolent is the care of the gods! A wife so cruel is a good,
And when the fates so desire, two poisons are of assistance.
[Ausonius, Epigrams 10]

Tel est pris qui croyait prendre, as they say on the other side of the Channel.

Posted in Ancient History, History of medicine, Latin literature | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Flower consumption

V0018141 Dioscorides describing the mandrake. Oil painting by Ernest Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images Dioscorides describing the mandrake. Oil painting by Ernest Board. By: Ernest BoardPublished: - Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons Attribution only licence CC BY 4.0

Detail of “Dioscorides describing the mandrake”. Oil painting by Ernest Board. Source: Wellcome Images

Last time I wrote, I presented to you some fabulous twentieth-century representations of classical medicine by Ernest Board. One of his paintings showed Athenian black-figure vases used as flower pots. Now, these vases would never have been put to that use in Classical Athens. In fact, it looks like the Greeks and Romans did not put flowers in vases (I had a discussion on  this topic with a colleague who came to the same conclusion). The ancients wore flowers as wreaths, crushed them to make perfume, put them in all sorts of decoctions, but apparently did not let them die in pretty vases.

Ceramic has been very much on my mind this week. Not that it is rarely out of my mind: I love china. I have an entirely childish collection of plates and cups with depictions of favourite characters from children’s books. A selection is on display on the same shelf as my Loeb Classical Library books. As these are among the books I consult the most in my academic work, I have ample opportunity to gaze at my collection. I should say, however, that I am not an obsessive collector. My purchases must come from charity shop – no ebaying here.

To get back to this week: on Monday I went on a bespoke visit of the National Museum Cardiff with a sizeable group of other Cardiff academics. We were offered a buffet of short tours, including visits of closed collections. I enjoyed them all, and I hope to return to visit the herbarium and botanical print collection more at length soon. However, it was during my last tour of the day (when my feet started to be very sore) that something really caught my eye.

Plate decorated by Thomas Pardoe at the beginning of the 19th century, National Museum of Wales.

Plate decorated by Thomas Pardoe at the beginning of the 19th century, National Museum of Wales. Photo taken in a rush (and without flash of course) on my lunch hour.

I was on a tour of the collections of Welsh ceramic. Unlike the other tours, this took place in the open galleries, which I ought to know better… The curator was showing us some fine examples of botanical and zoological depictions on Welsh ceramic. These were lovely, but from the corner of my eye, I saw something different: a plate with a depiction of a flower (nothing unusual you will say) with its roots. It suddenly occurred to me that I had not seen roots on china plates very often.

I was so intrigued that I had to go back the next day during my lunch hour and take some photos. The plate in question is the work of Thomas Pardoe (1770-1823), a painter from Derby who worked mostly in Swansea and Bristol. The plate in question dates to the first quarter of the nineteenth century, and Pardoe found his inspiration in Curtis’ Botanical Magazine, as several other porcelain painters did at the time.

So why exactly am I so obsessed by roots? We are all used to seeing beautiful, mostly accurate, botanical representations of flowers on china or ceramic plates, but roots are rarely depicted. That is because roots are unsightly – fair enough. Still, a flower without its roots is a dead flower. It simply won’t survive. A flower with its roots, on the other hand, may plausibly be replanted. It may then reproduce, and the circle of life may not be broken.

A beautiful iris on a Swansea plate, beginning of the nineteenth century. No roots in sight. National Museum of Wales.

A beautiful iris on a Swansea plate, beginning of the nineteenth century. No roots in sight. National Museum of Wales.

Cut flowers – flowers without roots – are the ultimate item of pointless consumption. They are beautiful, but let’s face it, they are utterly useless beyond their decorative function. We may not like to admit it to ourselves, but when we purchase cut flowers, we partake in conspicuous consumption. (I should confess here that I do sometimes purchase cut flowers). Now, people today – as they did in the past – purchase (or receive) fine porcelain, not to use it on a daily basis, but to show off at special events.  To me, it seems that cut flowers are the ideal companion of china plates: two beautiful, fragile, expensive, mostly useless items. When I see a flower with its roots on a porcelain plate, I perceive incongruity, dissonance. I find myself puzzled, and strangely enough, I like that plate even more.


Posted in botany, Food history, History, Plants, Wales | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Seeing with new eyes

Today, as friends have pointed out to me, is my blogiversary: Concocting History is three! I can’t quite believe it. How time flies. My baby is now entering the ‘ferocious threes’ (a phrase coined by Big Boy T) – the ‘terrible twos’ were not too hard on the exhausted mother.

What started more or less on whim, with no real strategy (error n. 1 in blogging!), has completely changed my approach to academic work. Through blogging, I have discovered new sources and I have met new people (some virtually, some in person). This blog is called ‘concocting history’ because I started by experimenting with ancient recipes. I may not have had time to do much of that recently (hopefully, as Little Boy G grows, I will be able to return to my blogging roots), but in another sense, the blog still aims at ‘concocting history’. Of course, I do not make things up, but I like to mix sources, disciplines and methods.

Now, wherever I go, I am on the lookout for inspiration. Blogging has given me an opportunity to discuss topics that fascinate me but on which I may never write full academic articles. In particular, I have indulged in my fascination for twentieth-century pictorial representations of ancient medicine (see here and here). I feel that on the day of my blogiversary, I may indulge some more.

Among the collections of the Wellcome Trust, there are numerous paintings by Ernest Board, an English painter of historical topics (1877-1934). These paintings were commissioned by Henry Wellcome himself. They range from the dawn of mankind (‘The healing art in pre-historic times’) to the advent of ‘modern’ medicine (‘Dr Jenner performing his first vaccination’).

I must have gone past Board’s paintings many times in the Wellcome buildings, but I never really looked at them – I never really saw them – until I attended a conference in October. Then I properly set my eyes on this little beauty: ‘Patients sleeping in the temple of Aesculapius at Epidaurus’. This is a representation of incubation, the process whereby patients sleeping in the sanctuaries of Asclepius were visited by the god, his attendants and snakes, in dreams. The dream itself would sometimes lead to healing; in other cases, it had to  be interpreted by priests who would suggest a treatment.

V0018154 Patients sleeping in the temple of Aesculapius at Epidaurus. Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images Patients sleeping in the temple of Aesculapius at Epidaurus. Oil painting by Ernest Board. By: Ernest BoardPublished: - Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons Attribution only licence CC BY 4.0

Patients sleeping in the temple of Aesculapius at Epidaurus, Ernest Board, Oil on Canvas. Source: Wellcome images

This scene looks  ‘classical’, but almost everything here is anachronistic. As I am not a purist, I will not list instances of anachronisms. What interests me more is the gendering of the scene. The three patients that can be seen properly are female. Not only are they female – they are attractive, young women, if rather emaciated. Like many others, Board was presenting an eroticised view of illness. This is not done in a particularly subtle manner: the eye is immediately drawn to the female naked breast and the snake that is set to lick/bite it.




Dioscorides describing the mandrake. Oil painting by Ernest Board. Source: Wellcome Images

Dioscorides describing the mandrake. Oil painting by Ernest Board. Source: Wellcome Images

‘Dioscorides describing the mandrake’ is another fabulous painting by Board that has Greek and Roman medicine as its topic. It represents a lady holding an anthropomorphic mandrake while the pharmacologist Dioscorides (first century CE) writes its description, and a painter depicts it. Note the adorably anachronistic Attic black-figure vases used as flower pots!

Euresis presents a mandrake to Dioscorides. Frontispiece of the so-called Vienna Dioscorides manuscript (512 CE).

Euresis presents a mandrake to Dioscorides. Frontispiece of the so-called Vienna Dioscorides manuscript (512 CE).

This painting is clearly inspired by two frontispieces of the famous ‘Vienna Dioscorides‘, a manuscript produced c. 512 CE, and which contains an alphabetized version of the text of Dioscorides. The first of these frontispices (fol. 4v) represents Dioscorides with Discovery (Euresis), who is holding a mandrake over a sick dog. The second (fol. 5v) represents Dioscorides writing while Intelligence (Epinoia) holds a mandrake for a painter to depict. Unfortunately, that second frontispiece is not preserved as well as the first.

I wonder how Board came across the frontispieces of the Vienna Dioscorides manuscript? In fact where did he find his inspiration for his history of medicine series? What books of the Wellcome collection did he use? Was he given access to artefacts as well as books?

As I said, my fascination for twentieth-century representations of classical medicine may never lead to ‘proper’ articles, but who knows what the next three years hold? If you share my interest, please do not hesitate to contact me!

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

Of mice and frogs

As British MPs debate whether or not to bomb Syria, insulting and bullying each other as they go along, I came across the most delightful critique of the idiocy of war. It is a short ‘epic’ Greek poem entitled Batrachomyomachia, the War between Frogs and Mice. This is a short parody of the Iliad. It involves, as the title makes it clear, mice and frogs. I came across the poem serendipitously while looking for an edition of the Homeric Hymns, a beautiful collections of Hymns dedicated to several of the Greek gods (I highly recommend the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, which has to be among my favourite Greek texts).

The war between the mice and frogs starts when a frog king swims across a lake with a mouse on his back. On their way, they encounter a dreadful water snake. The frog dives, forgetting about the mouse, who dies drowned. The scene is witnessed by another mouse, who calls his co-citizens to war. The mice and the frogs arm themselves.

Note the little mouse in the right corner of the 'messy floor' mosaic. Vatican Museum. Source: Wikipedia

Note the little mouse in the right corner of the ‘messy floor’ mosaic. Vatican Museum. Source: Wikipedia

From heaven, Zeus observes the rising tension and asks his daughter Athena whether she will defend the mice. The reasons Athena gives not to assist either side are priceless:

O father, never would I  the mice in distress
Consider helping: they have caused me many ills,
Damaging my wreaths and my lamps on account of the oil.
And this stung my heart particularly, this deed they did:
They nibbled at my robe, which, toiling hard, I wove
From a fine yarn, and I had spun a long thread for it,
And they made holes in it! And the needlewoman fell upon me,
Asking me for interest payments – such a miserable situation for immortals –
Because I borrowed for my spinning, and I couldn’t pay back.

Still, I shan’t be willing to help the frogs,
For they are not steadfast of character either.
Recently, as I came back from battle, exhausted,
In great need of sleep, they did not allow me to close my eyes,
Not even for a while, with their clatter; sleepless I lay there
My head aching, until the cock crowed.
So let’s forget, gods, about helping them,
Lest one of you should be wounded by a sharp missile:
They fight hand to hand, even if a god should come against them.
Let’s all enjoy watching the battle from heavens.
[Batrachomyomachia 178-196]

In the actual battle, the mice win. The frogs are at risk of being annihilated. Zeus decides he cannot let that happen and sends a troupe of crabs. Frightened, the mice scamper off. The war ends at sundown.

I would not want to replace the words ‘frogs’, ‘mice’, ‘Athena’ and ‘Zeus’ with those of current protagonists. Still, may our leaders understand that childish bickering high up ‘in heaven’ is unacceptable when the lives of people are at stake!


Posted in Ancient Greece, Ancient History | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

The birth of roses

Regular readers of this blog will know that my favourite flower is the iris. It stands so proud; its colours are changing; its perfume is subtle. Nothing can beat the iris in my eyes. For some strange reason that I cannot fathom, poets through the ages have not competed in singing the glory of that most beautiful flower. Instead, they have focused on roses. Now, I do like roses, but I am not sure why they occupy such a place in the poetic flower pantheon. Not that I do not appreciate rose poems – I do, and this post is devoted to an important rose poem: De Rosis Nascentibus (The Birth of Roses) by Ausonius, a fourth-century author from what is now Bordeaux.

Jasenki's edition and translation of Ausonius.

Jasenki’s edition and translation of Ausonius.

I can’t say I know much about Ausonius. He is not an author frequently read in schools and universities; and the fourth century is slightly out of my comfort zone. But my parents, who are visiting from Belgium, brought me an edition and French translation in two volumes of Ausonius’ works (ed. Jasinski, c. 1935). Clearly the previous owner(s) of those volumes were not interested in Ausonius: I had to cut open the pages myself, which is not something one does everyday!

Roses in the famous 'Vienna Dioscorides' manuscript (512 CE). Note the buds!

Roses in the famous ‘Vienna Dioscorides’ manuscript (512 CE). Note the buds!

Well, I like Ausonius. He is a bit of a jack-of-all-trades, writing in all sorts of genres. His epigrams are fun. Then, I came across his poem On the Birth of Roses. And I had this very strange sense of deja-vu. It sounded all very familiar. It did not take me very long to realise that these verses had been the inspiration for one of the most famous French poems:  ‘Mignonne, allons voir si la rose’ by Ronsard (sixteenth century). Both Ausonius’ and Ronsard’s poems sing the fragility of roses’ beauty: born and gone in the same day. The ‘roses’ are of course both vegetable and human. Every feminist fibre in me says that I should rebel against the moral of the story. But then again, she is a fool who cannot appreciate Ausonius’ elegant metaphors.

Perhaps Ausonius’ poem should have come to my attention earlier, but the simple truth is that it didn’t. Serendipity put the poem in my hands, and I felt I owed that goddess a little translation effort. So here it is, starting from verse 10.

I saw rose gardens that rejoice in Paestum-style cultivation,
Dewy at the new rising of the morning star.
Here and there, a pearl glimmered upon the hoary shrubs,
To perish at the first rays of the day.
You may wonder whether Aurora from the rose steals her blush;
Or whether it is day-rise who gives to flowers their dye.
One is the dew, one if the colour, and one is the dawn of both;
For the one mistress of stars and flowers is Venus.
Perhaps, also, one is their perfume; but high above, on the breeze,
That one flows; this one, close by, breathes out more strongly.
The Paphian, at the same time  goddess of stars and goddess of flowers,
Bids both display the same purple tint.
It was the moment when the flower buds,
as they are born, open in the same instant.
One is verdant, covered with a narrow cap of leaves;
Another marks her slender leaf with ruddy purple;
A third opens the high tip of her first bud,
Releasing the point of her crimson head.
Another was unfolding the cloak gathered on her brow,
Already planning to take count of herself with her petals.
Without further delay, she opens the treasure of her laughing calyx,
Showing off the compact seeds of imprisoned saffron.
Another, who just now, glowed with all the fire of here locks,
Pales, abandoned by her tumbling petals.
I marvelled at the at the swift plunder wrought by the fleeting season,
And that, as soon as they are born, they decay those roses:
See: the purple hair of the golden red flower flows away,
Even while I speak, and earth sparkles, covered with crimson.
How many forms, how many births, how many varied changes,
One day starts, and the same day ends.
We deplore, Nature, that such beauty is short-lived;
As soon as they are displayed to our eyes, you snatch away your gifts.
The time a day lasts, that is the life-span of the roses;
Their adolescence blends together with their short old age.
The rose whom, just born, the bright Morning star contemplated,
That one, when he returns with late evening, he sees as an old lady.
But never mind, for even if she must die within a few days,
Through her offspring, she prolongs her own life.
Gather, girl, the rose while the bloom is new and new your youth,
And remember that your life too hastens away.

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Strong as a mountain

Work-wise, the last few months have been hard. And ‘hard’ is the right word: none of the tasks I carried out have been particularly difficult, but they have been hard. The final stages of book writing are taxing – I take my off to those academics who appear to write a book almost every year. Formatting, proofreading, and indexing: not my favourite tasks. Fortunately, this time around, I had a great co-author to help and encourage me. And I had my boys to keep me away from The Book in the evenings and at weekends, thus preserving my sanity.

Walking the hills in the Lake District

Walking the hills in the Lake District

I like to compare book writing (or any hard task) to climbing hills, our family hobby. We have climbed quite a few this year, mostly under the leadership of Big Boy T (aged 8), who seems to be training to climb Mount Blanc – he’ll have to do that one without me! Hill walking is hard, especially when carrying Little Boy G (aged 3, 15 kg) on our backs. But then, we reach the top, and the view is breathtaking, and we feel on top of the world. Except that, in the British Isles, we often find ourselves at the top of a hill with a visibility of no more than 5 meters, rain soaked, and winging. But, it is still worth it because we feel you have achieved something, we have worked as a team (solitary hill walking is not for me), and we are that little bit stronger than when we started the walk. Also, physical activity does help me think. While I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and breathing, a small part of my brain seem to do its own thing and come up with ideas.

Centaury in the Vienna Dioscorides Manuscript, 512 CE

Centaury in the Vienna Dioscorides Manuscript, 512 CE

Yes mountains do make us stronger. They are also, of course, very important ecological habitats and host numerous plant species. The Greeks and the Romans often observed that the best pharmacological plants grew on mountains. Theophrastus, the so-called father of botany (fourth century BCE), wrote that:

It would seem that [pharmacological plants] require a type of air that is cold but also pure, and again the right amount of nourishment. Certainly, it appears that most drugs grow on mountains, and particularly on the highest and greatest. Theophrastus, Causes of Plant Phaenomena 6.13.5

Not all ancient pharmacological plants were gathered on wild mountains – some were grown in house gardens – but the ancients observed a strong link between drugs and mountains. They also knew, that trying to transplant a pharmacological plant from its native mountain to a garden would not work. In one of my favourite passages, Theophrastus describes the terrible consequences of submitting a wild pharmacological plant to cultivation:

Hence it is reasonable that cultivation should not be beneficial to certain plants, such as those that are dry, pungent and bitter, and put simply, those that are drug-like and useful to us in this manner. For they are made effeminate (ekthēlunetai) when their powers are removed and some do not even carry fruit at all, others [carry] fruits that are watery and inferior, and the plants themselves become more watery, as in the case of wormwood, centaury, and in general all plants with drug-like properties. Theophrastus, Causes of Plant Phaenomena 3.1.3-4

Woman spinning wool on an Attic vase, c. 490 BCE. Source Wikipedia

Woman spinning wool on an Attic vase, c. 490 BCE. Source Wikipedia

When removed from a the wild, a pharmacological plant becomes ‘effeminate’ – the female element in it is drawn out. Note that the main characteristic of effeminacy is to fill with water, to swell, which interestingly leads to barrenness. One is reminded of the Hippocratic physician who described women’s flesh as spongy (chaunos, On Glands 16). It is because the body of a woman is more spongy, more porous than that of a man, that it accumulates blood produced through food consumption. That blood must be evacuated regularly through menstruation or pregnancy, lest diseases manifest themselves.

Effeminate plants have almost no power, but the power of the masculine plant is not necessarily pleasant: it can be bitter and sometimes even poisonous. We are not talking in simple terms of ‘male: good/female: bad’. There is here an understanding that ‘power’ is complex and cannot be handled without consideration for its effects.

While I would not want to put in the same gendered terms as Theophrastus, it is true that being at the top of a hill – real or metaphorical – makes me feel stronger. It may sometimes be possible to take a cable-car to the top of a real mountain, but there is no such short-cuts for writing hills. Those just have to be climbed, in the hope that the view from the top will be clear. I am glad to say that on this occasion it is! Ancient Botany by Gavin Hardy and myself will be out on the twelfth of October.



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