1. You may associate ancient wine with the toga-wearing set, but by the time Romans were quaffing it, the beverage was itself ancient: 7,000-year-old pottery from sites in Iran’s Zagros Mountains tested positive for residues speciic to grapes.

2. A couple of hundred miles north, archaeologists have found numerous artifacts near the Armenian village of Areni that point to organized wine production as early as 4000 B.C.

3. Winemaking may go back so far because it’s so easy: Smash some grapes and let the juice mix with yeasts naturally present on the skins for a few days. Voila! Paleowine.

4. A big difference between domesticated wine grapes and their wild ancestors is pollination. Wild grapes are dioecious; plants are male or female. Domesticated grapes are usually self-pollinating hermaphrodites, which improves trait consistency.

5. Lovers of today’s oaky chardonnays and bold cabernets would be surprised if they sipped a vintage 5000 B.C. A paper from 2008 suggests the earliest wines were prized for their sweetness.

6. Sweet or dry, while most dictionaries define wine as fermented fruit juice, others, as well as the European Union, limit the term to products derived only from grapes.

7. And the EU has some clout in the wine world: In 2015, more than 60 percent of wine produced globally was made in an EU-member state.

8. Grapes are the go-to wine fruit because they contain the right proportions of water, tannins, sugar and acids for yeast to multiply and for sugar to break down into alcohol and carbon dioxide.

9. Wines made from other fruits typically contain added sugar and other ingredients for lavor and to balance out the fermentation process.

10. The Vikings once called North America “Vinland” for the bounty of wild grapes they spotted, but varieties native to our shores aren’t the best for making wine due to a “foxy,” or earthy, taste.

11. Even Thomas Jefferson, a viticulture enthusiast, couldn’t bottle an American vintage from his vineyards. He didn’t fare much better at cultivating European grapes there either, given their susceptibility to black rot and the insect phylloxera, a relative of the aphid.

12. About phylloxera: It turns out those “foxy” American grapes were resistant to the destructive critters. In the mid-19th century, grafts of American grape species salvaged Europe’s vineyards during the Great Wine Blight, a devastating phylloxera outbreak centered in France that affected much of the continent.

13. Before you pop a cork to celebrate North America saving the day, note that phylloxera arrived in Europe via New World imports in the irst place. Oops.

14. Phylloxera is bad for wine, but wine is good for us, right? Not so fast. Headlines proclaiming a glass of red wine is as good for you as an hour at the gym were based on a 2012 study observing the effects of just one compound in red wine — resveratrol — on rats, not humans.

15. In fact, a 2013 study of men aged 60 and up found resveratrol seemed to diminish many of exercise’s positive effects. Participants working out and taking resveratrol supplements saw fewer improvements in blood pressure and oxygen uptake than those just working out.

16. While red wine gets most of the study spotlight, an analysis of more than 38,000 health professionals found it was no better than beer or spirits at reducing heart attack risk in moderate consumption.

17. Whether it’s good for us or not, wine may be in for rough times. In February, researchers sequencing the genomes of commercial yeast, used in most wine production, announced that inbreeding has created low genetic diversity. That makes it harder for a species to adapt to novel pathogens.

18. Climate change also poses a threat to wine. A 2006 study estimated that rising temperatures would shrink top-quality winegrowing regions in the U.S. up to 81 percent by 2100.

19. Even if vineyards relocate northward in search of cooler climes, increased precipitation in areas like the Paciic Northwest could make crops more susceptible to fungus and rot.

20. It’s not all bad news, though. Critics of the more pessimistic models note that there’s no accounting for adaptation. We’ve been making wine for thousands of years, adjusting to different terrains and climates. Our descendants will almost certainly be enjoying vino for millennia to come. And we’ll drink to that.

By Gemma Tarlach in "Discovery Magazine", USA, September 2016, vol.37, n.7, excerpt p.74. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

La presencia de los diversos pisos altitudinales de la cordillera de los Andes en el Perú y su cercanía al ecuador geográfico permite la existencia de una serie de microclimas y de especies, desde zonas de habituales nevadas hasta selvas tropicales, (con 84 de las 104 zonas climáticas del globo, es uno de los 12 países del mundo poseedores de mayor mega diversidad). Tiene condiciones adecuadas para el cultivo de frutas y verduras durante todo el año. Asimismo la corriente de Humboldt de aguas frías que corre por el Océano Pacífico frente a la costa peruana permite la existencia de una gran variedad de peces y mariscos (Perú es uno de los principales países pesqueros del mundo).

Los tiempos precolombinos (hasta 1532)

Los Andes centrales peruanos fueron el más grande centro de domesticación de plantas del mundo antiguo, con especies nativas como el maíz, tubérculos con cuatro mil variedades de papa, muchas de camote, yuca o mandioca, oca, maca; gramíneas (quinua, kiwicha o amaranto, cañihua; frutas como la chirimoya, lúcuma, pacae, tomate, calabaza, palta, tumbo, sauco, leguminosas tales como frijoles, pallares, maní y una infinidad de hierbas aromáticas.

Antes del arribo europeo, la geografía peruana albergaba una gran variedad de culturas, conquistadas todas por el Imperio Inca, cada una de las cuales tenía características gastronómicas particulares, aunque había algunas generalidades, de acuerdo con los cronistas de la conquista.

Por ejemplo, los principales condimentos eran hierbas aromáticas, cocha yuyo (un tipo de alga fluvial), sal y, sobre todo, el ají, llamado uchú en tiempos incas y considerado hoy un elemento fundamental de la cocina peruana. El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega en los Comentarios Reales de los Incas escribió al respecto: "Los de mi tierra son tan amigos del uchú, que no comerán sin él aunque no sea sino unas hierbas crudas". Era común la preparación de alimentos en forma deshidratada, para evitar su descomposición, destacando el «charqui», carne salada, y el «caui», que es la oca secada al sol.

Los antiguos peruanos además consumían inmensas cantidades de pescados y mariscos (el registro arqueológico de ello es abrumador) y complementaban su dieta con carne de pato , cuy (cavia porcelus) y camélidos domésticos (alpaca y llama principalmente). En las sociedades de la costa norte, además, se consumía la carne de ciertos lagartos y de venado. En las de la selva oriental se nutrían de la multitud de especies que proporcionaba la floresta amazónica.

Desde épocas milenarias, los antiguos peruanos preparaban chupes (sopas), guisaban (la carapulcra , por ejemplo, es considerado el tipo de guiso peruano más antiguo), elaboraban potajes con especies marinas crudas marinadas con ají, tumbo y hierbas, de donde se origina el ceviche que hace más de cinco siglos tenía otro nombre, en quechua. Tenían formas de procesar alimentos: Salaban pescado, tostaban el maíz (obteniendo cancha salada, que es hasta hoy el "piqueo" peruano más simple y popular) o pelaban sus granos y los secaban (obteniendo mote). Asimismo preparaban charqui - o carne de camélido disecada, salada y deshilachada -y diferentes tipos de chuño -tubérculos resecados y congelados a la intemperie). Cocinaban en ollas de barro y, en ocasiones, organizaban grandes banquetes de carne y vegetales a partir de hornos de tierra natural (pachamancas y huatias). Asimismo se bebían diferentes formas de cerveza de maíz (chicha) y de yuca (masato)

La historia precolombina identifica al Perú como un país gastronómico. Así en la leyenda sobre "Llampayeq" (Lambayeque) recopilada por Fray Miguel Cabello Valboa en 1532, menciona al cocinero del rey Naylamp llamado OcchoColo en el Reino Sicán del siglo IX. Luego en la leyenda de los hermanos Ayar menciona que salieron del cerro Tamputoco (Tampu, Tambu, lugar donde se guardan alimentos) y sus nombres fueron Ayar Cachi (Quinua con sal), Ayar Uchú (Quinua con ají), Ayar Auca (Quinua con frejol), Ayar Manco (El que cuida la quinua).

Los tiempos coloniales (1532-1821)

Desde el inicio de la presencia española, se incorporaron nuevos usos y costumbres culinarios con el comienzo del Virreinato del Perú. La fritura, el uso de los lácteos (incorporado a algunos "chupes" o sopas), además de la carne de res, cerdo, huevo de gallina y nuevas aves de corral; además llegaron algunos cultivos que resultarían esenciales para la nueva cocina como la cebolla y el ajo que combinados con el ají serían los principales ingredientes de muchos platos peruanos. El limón peruano (de origen árabe y uno de los componentes del milenario ceviche), la vid (de la que se origina el pisco) y los vinos llegan también al comienzo de este período.

En los primeros encuentros entre españoles y nativos, durante la conquista del Imperio Inca, intercambiaron los trozos de cerdo ibérico frito con las papas, camotes y el maíz autóctono. Francisco Pizarro, quien criaba cerdos en su infancia, era el principal aficionado a este plato llamado chicharrón durante los inicios de la presencia española en este territorio.

La dedicación de muchos conventos de monjas a la cocina en un entorno donde abundaban las plantaciones de azúcar (especie traída también por los españoles) e inmensas variedades de frutas nativas originó asimismo una larga tradición repostera.

Los esclavos africanos aportaron lo suyo en una serie de guisos, además del uso de las partes blandas de la carne desechadas por las élites, que condimentaban abundantemente para disminuir los fuertes sabores de la carne y cocinados a las brasas. De aquí salieron muchos de los más representativos platos de la actual comida criolla, como por ejemplo: los «anticuchos», la «sangrecita», el «camote con relleno», el «cau-cau», la «pancita», el «rachi», las «mollejitas», la «chanfainita», la «patita con maní», el «choncholí» y el «tacu-tacu».

El antropólogo peruano Humberto Rodríguez Pastor destaca el tipo de tamal tradicional peruano como un legado afro peruano en su obra “La Vida en el Entorno del Tamal Peruano”. La citada vianda es introducida en este territorio desde los primeros años de la presencia española que vino con sus esclavos africanos. La gran cantidad de ellos procedentes de la costa atlántica africana marcó demográficamente la Ciudad de los Reyes ya que en el siglo XVII, más del 60 por ciento de la población de la capital era de origen africano.

Los tiempos republicanos (Desde 1821)

Luego de la independencia se dieron una serie de migraciones de diversas procedencias que integraron sus propias tradiciones a la ya dinámica culinaria local. La migración de los chinos-cantoneses de mediados del siglo XIX popularizó el salteado a fuego fuerte y los sabores agridulces en las carnes además del uso de nuevas hierbas y de la salsa de soya (sillao). Pero su aporte más notorio fue el arroz. Si bien ya se consumía desde el siglo XVI, es luego de la migración china que el arroz se populariza y se convierte en la guarnición peruana por excelencia, en detrimento del pan. La forma de arroz favorita en el Perú es el arroz graneado no demasiado cocido, se hace con arroz de grano largo, sin embargo, se distanciaba de la preparación china en el uso del ajo y la sal.

Otra inmigración en la segunda mitad del siglo XIX no menos influyente es la italiana, que popularizó el uso de las pastas, el pastel de acelga, los dulces y postres como el panetón (panettone), que es obligado en las navidades a lo largo del país.

La migración japonesa de fines del siglo XIX, finalmente, impactó notablemente sobre la cocina marina peruana. Cortes y técnicas japonesas muy prolijas en la presentación de los platos, se unen a salsas y preparaciones peruanas y nace una nueva vertiente culinaria en el Perú. Así por ejemplo del "cruce" del sashimi japonés y del cebiche peruano nació el tiradito.

La cocina peruana en el mundo actual

En la última década del siglo XX, la cocina peruana empezó a popularizarse fuera de sus fronteras. En la Cuarta Cumbre Internacional de Gastronomía Madrid Fusión 2006, realizada del 17 al 19 de enero del 2006, la ciudad de Lima fue declarada capital gastronómica de América. La cocina de este país es un producto bandera del Perú.

Debido a esta rica variedad y a la armonía de su sabor y los alimentos empleados, la gastronomía peruana es constantemente premiada internacionalmente y sus chefs suelen obtener a menudo medallas internacionales que los distinguen.

Un elemento destacable es su constante apertura a las innovaciones y el continuo desarrollo de nuevos platos, incorporando a la gastronomía la búsqueda continúa de la experimentación y la vanguardia. Ejemplo de esto es la invención contemporánea de platos que ya son conocidos fuera de las fronteras peruanas, como el pollo a la brasa. Así como cada región conserva su riqueza culinaria, en la alta gastronomía destaca la mezcla de colores y de productos alimenticios, una muestra de ello es la llamada cocina novoandina.

3. Platos más populares en la actualidad

En la actualidad el ceviche, el pollo a la brasa y los platos de chifa constituyen los representantes más populares de la comida peruana, siendo masivo su consumo a lo largo de todo el territorio peruano y existiendo versiones para todas las clases sociales: desde preparados muy económicos que se consume "al paso" hasta preparados gourmet muy exclusivos.

Cebiche: El ceviche, cebiche, seviche o sebiche es un plato ampliamente difundido y declarado Patrimonio Cultural de la Nación por el gobierno peruano. La receta básica del seviche es la misma en todas las regiones: pescado en trozos, jugo de limón peruano, cebolla roja, ají y sal al gusto. Los pescados utilizados son muy diversos e incluyen especies tanto de agua dulce como de mar, asimismo se incluyen otros frutos de mar como mariscos y algas marinas e incluso vegetales. El plato se acompaña de productos locales como camote, zarandaja, yuca y hojas de lechuga.

Pollo a la brasa: El pollo a la brasa es uno de los platos de mayor consumo en el Perú. Consiste básicamente en un pollo eviscerado macerado, en una marinada que incluye diversos ingredientes, horneado a las brasas. Los orígenes de la receta de este plato se señalan en la ciudad de Lima (aunque sin consenso en el lugar) durante los años 1950. El plato se acompaña de crocantes papas fritas, ensalada fresca y diversas cremas (mayonesa, kétchup, salsa de aceituna, chimichurri y salsas de ají de toda clase); en la selva del Perú se suele reemplazar las papas fritas por plátano frito.

Chifa: El chifa es un término utilizado en el Perú para referirse a la cocina que surgió de la fusión entre la comida peruana y la de los inmigrantes chinos, principalmente de la zona de Cantón, llegada a mediados del siglo XIX e inicios del siglo XX, asimismo se usa este término para denominar a los restaurantes donde esta comida es servida. En la actualidad los restaurantes de cocina china, con fuerte influencia en muchos casos de la criolla, están entre los más comunes en Lima y muchas otras ciudades del Perú. Los principales platos son arroz chaufa, pollo TiPaKay, sopa wantán y el denominado "aeropuerto" que es una combinación de chaufa con tallarín saltado servido en un plato grande.

Texto de Óscar Gómez publicado en "Gastronomia del Perú", capitulo 1, pp. 7-13. Digitalizacion, adaptación y ilustración para publicación en ese sitio por Leopoldo Costa.

LAUGHING IN LATIN

The study of Roman laughter is in some ways an impossible project. That is partly what makes it so intriguing, so special, so enlightening, and so worthwhile. As I hope I have made clear already (perhaps too clear for the tastes of some readers), the laughter of the past is always likely to frustrate our most determined efforts to systematize and control it. Anyone who—with a straight face—claims to be able to offer a clear account of why or how or when Romans laughed is bound to be oversimplifying. But in the inevitable confusion (in the mess left in laughter’s wake), we still learn a lot about ancient Rome and about how laughter in the past might have operated differently. This is a subject (like many, to be honest, in ancient history) in which the process of trying to understand can be as important and illuminating as the end result.

But process isn’t everything, and we should not entirely accept defeat before we begin. Whatever the tricky problems that I have been enjoying so far, there are also some striking and relatively straightforward observations to be made about how laughter works in the Latin language and in Latin literature. In fact, to investigate Roman laughter is to engage with some of the most basic and familiar words in Latin (those that even the rawest beginner is likely to have encountered), as well as some rather more recondite vocabulary. It also involves exploring some of the less-trodden byways of Latin literature, as well as throwing fresh light on some of the most canonical Latin texts we have.

One of most important of these observations concerns the Latin vocabulary of laughter. It is only a slight exaggeration to say that there is just one word in Latin for “laughing.” In modern English, we are used to a range of subtly nuanced (even if elusive) terms for laugh: from chuckle and chortle through giggle, titter, and snigger to howl and guffaw—not to mention such related words as grin, beam, smile, and smirk. Ancient Greek too has a wide range of laughter vocabulary, from the standard gelan and its compounds through variants such as kanchazein (a more robust form) and sairein (e.g., Commodus’ grin; to the delightfully onomatopoeic kichlizein (not far from our giggle) or meidian (often translated as “smile”). In Latin we are dealing, for the most part, with just the word ridere, its compounds (adridere, deridere, irridere, and so on), and its various cognates as adjectives and nouns (risus, “laughter”; ridiculus, “laughable”). All of these signal some form of audible, physical reaction or gesture broadly and recognizably akin to laughter as we know it. Dictionary definitions and some modern critics try to calibrate these variants precisely, from deridere, for example, signaling derision to irridere ridicule or laughing at. Yet the terms are almost certainly much less fixed, referentially, than such definitions imply.1

The confidence with which it is often assumed, for example, that adridere always refers to supportive laughter or, pejoratively, flattery, is quite misplaced. True, sometimes it does: Ovid tells his learner lover to make a good impression by joining in the laughter (adride) whenever his would-be girlfriend laughs; the hallmark of comic toadies is “to offend no one and be a total yes-man” (adridere omnibus); and Horace uses the word in the context of sympathetic laughter.2 But it is certainly not always so supportive, as phrases such as “laughing savagely” (saevum adridens) make absolutely clear.3 In fact, in another passage of Terence’s Eunuch, Gnatho exploits the potential double entendre of the word when he reflects on his life as a scrounger and his relationship with the (rather dim) guys who are his meal tickets: “I don’t set out to make them laugh at me, but actually eis adrideo and compliment their wit at the same time.” The joke here turns on the possible slippage in the phrase eis adrideo between “I flatter them” and “I laugh at them.” Is Gnatho merely toeing the subservient line, or is he hinting to the audience that he has the upper hand in dealing with the likes of Thraso? Who, in other words, is laughing at whom? The ambivalence is half-seen and half-missed by one late antique commentator, who wrote simply that Terence had used “arrideo instead of irrideo.”4

Some modern critics have been even more confident than this in suggesting which Latin word should be used where, even inserting the “correct” term where necessary. One glaring case concerns the text of an epigram of Martial. The poem is a squib addressed to one Calliodorus, who fancies himself a great jester and so dinner party guest, and according to the manuscript tradition includes the phrase omnibus adrides. The most recent editor, with staggering self-confidence, has simply replaced this with omnis irrides. Why? Because, he explains, “adrides must mean either ‘you smile at approvingly’ . . . or ‘you please.’ . . . Neither fits Calliodorus. . . . The word for his activity can only be irrides.”5 Such rewriting is the price you have to pay if you want to preserve neat linguistic boundaries.

Beyond ridere and its linguistic family, there are few Latin alternatives. Occasionally, words such as renidere (shine out) do metaphorical duty for some shades of laughter or facial expression (renidere is, more or less, “to beam”).6 Rictus can refer (unflatteringly) to the open mouth or gaping jaws that are inevitably part of the laughing process, as well as to the bared teeth of an animal.7 Elsewhere, cachinnare or (more commonly) the noun cachinnus can be used for a particularly raucous form of laughter or for what we might call “(a) cackle.” As one late Roman grammarian, Nonius Marcellus, put it, it had been used to signify “not just laughter [risus] but a stronger sound.”8 The words have a catchy onomatopoeic ring but again are harder to pin down than dictionary definitions imply and prove resistant to the very precise classification that we might like to impose on them.

It is true that a contrast between cachinnare and (mere) ridere is sometimes more or less spelled out. Cicero, for example, at one point in his broadside against Verres, the infamous governor of Sicily, turns to attack Verres’ nasty sidekick Apronius, for humiliating a supposedly upstanding member of the Sicilian elite; Cicero pictures a banquet at which “his fellow guests laughed [ridere], Apronius himself cackled [cachinnare].”9 Likewise, in what was effectively his manifesto poem, the satirist Persius was clearly trying to outdo his predecessor Horace in describing his own reaction to the folly of the world as cachinnare, not Horace’s gentler ridere.10

However, the word is not always so loaded, so aggressive, or so loud. It is the pleasant sound of laughter (cachinni), along with wine, wit, and a pretty girl, that sums up the atmosphere of a friendly party at the poet Catullus’ house; it is the laughter of disbelief (cachinnasse) with which, in Suetonius’ biography, Vespasian’s grandmother reacts to the unlikely omen that her grandson will become emperor; and it is the furtive giggles of servant girls (furtim cachinnant) laughing at their mistress behind her back.11 What is more, metaphorical usage too reflects that range. Cachinnare and cachinni, both verb and noun, are used to evoke the sound of water—from the pounding of the ocean to the gentle rippling of Lake Garda.12 Cackles or giggles or ripples? We should always hesitate before assigning too rigid or precise a value to Latin terms for “laughing” or “laughter.”


LATIN SMILES?


So far I have not pointed to a word that corresponds to our own smile. I mean that curving of the lips that may, or may not, be a preliminary to a fully vocalized laugh—but is independently one of the most powerful signifying gestures in the modern Western world. From “Smile, please” to smiley faces, it underpins for us all kinds of human interaction, signaling warmth, greeting, wry amusement, disdain, affection, confidence, ambivalence, and much more. It is hard for us to imagine social life happening without it, yet it is hard to find a Latin equivalent.

In ancient Greek the position appears somewhat simpler. The word meidiaō may be much more distant from our smile than that standard translation implies. In Homer and other early writers, meidiaō can also be a sign of hostility, aggression, or superiority, and in general it seems to be treated as a gesture of the face as a whole rather than just the lips.13 But as Halliwell shows, it does overlap in part with our usage, notably because unlike laughter, and like our “smiling,” it makes no noise (or as he more carefully puts it, “It is impossible . . . to show that meid- terms ever imply vocalisation”).14 In Latin there is no specific term of that sort. When Virgil evoked the “smiling” gods of Homer, he often fell back on another compound of ridere, that is subridere, which technically means a “suppressed or muffled laugh,” even a “little laugh.”15

Renidere (to beam) can also, metaphorically, signal a silent facial expression that seems akin to a smile. This is how the poet Catullus has Egnatius famously reveal his urine-cleaned teeth: “Egnatius . . . renidet.” And Robert Kaster, in exploring the world and the text of Macrobius’ Saturnalia, has not only translated the word as “smile” but also suggested that these “smiles” play a particular role in articulating the learned discussion that is staged in the dialogue. Phrases such as “Praetextatus smiled” (Praetextatus renidens) tend to greet an ignorant, out-of-place comment by some (usually inferior) participant in the discussion, and they invariably herald a pronouncement by an expert “which admits no contradiction.” Kaster is an acute observer of the structure of this late antique debate and of the hierarchies within it. But it is far less clear than he suggests that this “beaming” is a close match for our own category of grandly supercilious smiling—those “gestures of magnificent condescension,” as he puts it.16

Other, more discursive, metaphorical uses of the word outside Macrobius—admittedly often centuries earlier than the Saturnalia—are varied but revealing. Catullus certainly likens the expression (renidet) to laughing, but Egnatius’ determined display of his white teeth is an absurd form of laughter (risus ineptus) and so is itself laughable. In Ovid, renidens is (twice) the expression of foolish optimism on the face of young Icarus, in Livy it is that of the boastful trickster, and Quintilian also uses it of a misplaced sign of pleasure (intempestive renidentis).17

Repeatedly, as with the Greek meidiaō, the emphasis is on the facial expression as a whole (hilaro vultu renidens, renidenti vultu, renidens vultu18), not specifically the lips—as is also once made explicit in Macrobius: vultu renidens.19 For the most part, the common defining feature of this gesture seems to be the facial “glow” (of confidence, whether well-placed or misplaced) rather than the oscular curve, or “smile” as we know it.20

So did the Romans smile? At the risk of falling into the trap of overconfident classification that I have been criticizing, my working hypothesis is “by and large, in our terms, no.” But that is not (simply) for linguistic reasons, and it needs to be argued rather carefully. The cultural significance of smiling may be reflected in, but is not wholly circumscribed by, language. Several modern European languages (English and Danish, for example—like ancient Greek) have separate word groups, from separate linguistic roots, that distinguish “smile” from “laugh.” Others (notably the Romance descendants of Latin) do not. Reflecting those Latin roots, modern French uses sourire for “smile,” just as Italian uses sorridere (both derived directly from subridere; respectively cognate with the French rire and the Italian ridere). Yet both of these modern cultures have an investment in the social significance of smiling, as distinct from laughter, no less intense than that of (for example) their modern Anglo-American counterparts.

Nonetheless, the linguistic patterns of Latin do seem to accord with other negative hints which suggest that smiling was not a major part (if a part at all) of Roman social semiotics. Only the most hard-line ethologists, neuroscientists, and their followers hold to the human universality of such facial gestures—whether in form, type, or meaning.21 Crucially important for me is that we find in Roman literature none of those distinctions between smiling and laughing drawn by the likes of Lord Chesterfield (for whom a silent smile was a sign of decorum, in contrast to “loud peals of laughter”),22 and—whatever is going on in Macrobius—we see no clear evidence that smiling as such was a significant player in Roman social interactions in general. “Keep smiling!” and the like were sentiments unheard of in Rome, so far as I can tell, and as Christopher Jones has shown, two Romans meeting in the street were likely to greet each other with a kiss, where we would smile.23

Of course, arguments from silence are always perilous, especially when the process of spotting the smile is necessarily an interpretative one. But it is hard to resist the suggestion of Jacques Le Goff that (in the Latin West at least) smiling as we understand it was an invention of the Middle Ages.24 This is not to say that the Romans never curled up the edges of their mouths in a formation that would look to us much like a smile; of course they did. But such curling did not mean very much in the range of significant social and cultural gestures at Rome. Conversely, other gestures, which would mean little to us, were much more heavily freighted with significance: Caesar scratching his head with one finger, which would now indicate no more than an annoying itch, could give Cicero the hint that Caesar posed no danger to the Roman Republic.25

There is an important lesson in this. It has become standard practice when translating not only subridere but also ridere itself and its other cognates into English to use the word smile where it seems more natural to us than laugh (even some famous lines of Virgil have been the victim of this tendency; see pp. 84–85). This has a doubly misleading effect. It tends to give smiling a much bigger presence in Roman cultural language than it deserves—or ever had. And in offering an apparently “better” translation, it tends to erode the potential foreignness of Roman patterns of laughter, to make them look increasingly like our own. To be sure, we cannot absolutely prove that there was no strong and meaningful Roman tradition of smiling that lurked underneath the general rubric of ridere. We need to remain alert to that possibility. But we should also resist the easy temptation to reconstruct the Romans in our own image. So even where laugh may seem awkward, I shall use it as the first option in translating ridere and its compounds and cognates: that is not to say that even the English word laugh captures exactly what the Romans meant by ridere, but it is certainly less misleading than smile. And that awkwardness is, after all, part of the historical point.


JOKES AND JESTS


We are not simply dealing with the poverty in the Latin vocabulary of laughter compared with the richness of (say) Greek, or with a simple lack of cultural discrimination in classifying laughter’s various forms. We are dealing with a different richness of vocabulary and perhaps with a significantly different set of cultural priorities. For however few the Latin terms for laughter may be, the terms for what may provoke it—in the forms of jokes and witticisms—are legion. To list just some: iocus, lepos, urbanitas, dicta, dicacitas, cavillatio, ridicula, sal, salsum, facetiae. We can no more define the precise difference between dicacitas and cavillatio than we can define how exactly chortle differs from chuckle. But the contrast with the Greek range of vocabulary—which is overwhelming dominated by two words for joke, geloion and skōmma—is striking.26 Whatever the origin and history of these terms, their range and variety point to a Roman cultural concern with the provocation of laughter and with the relationship between the laugher and whoever prompted the laughter (both joker and butt).

Interestingly, Roman popular sayings also seem to reflect these priorities. Proverbs and slogans about laughter are common in modern English-speaking culture: “He who laughs last laughs longest,” “Laugh and the world laughs with you” (or, to quote a Yiddish proverb, “What soap is to the body, laughter is to the soul”). Overwhelmingly, they treat laughter (and its effects) from the point of view of the person who laughs. Romans also sloganized laughter, but much more frequently these slogans stressed the role of the joker rather than the laugher (“It’s better to lose a friend than a jest,”27 “It’s easier for a wise man to stifle a flame within his burning mouth than keep his bona dicta [wit or quips] to himself”28) or focused on the relationship between the laugher and the object of their laughter or on questions of who or what was an appropriate target for a jest (“Don’t laugh at the unfortunate”29). To put this another way, where most modern theory, and popular interest, is firmly directed toward the laugher and to laughter’s internal coordinates, Roman discussions tended to look to the human beings who caused laughter, to the triangulation of joker, butt, and laugher—and (as we shall see in the next chapter) to the vulnerability of the joker, no less than of the person joked about.


LATIN LAUGHTER—OFF THE BEATEN TRACK


One of the pleasures of tracking down Roman laughter is that it leads to some extraordinary—surprising and even startling—works of Latin literature still somewhat off the beaten track, unfamiliar even to most professional classicists. We find all kinds of glimpses into Roman laughter in some unexpected places, and there is no shortage of them. They include long discussions that broach, directly or indirectly, the question of what makes people laugh, reflect on the protocols and ethics of laughing, or use laughter as a marker of other cultural values at Rome. No discussion of laughter is ever neutral.

So, for example, laughter features as one diagnostic of the emperor’s mad villainy or perverse extravagance in the biography of the third-century CE emperor Elagabalus—which belongs to that strange, partly fictional, partly fraudulent, but hugely revealing collection of imperial lives known as the Augustan History (or Historia Augusta—the history, that is “of the emperors,” Augusti).30 In what is almost a parody of a pattern that we shall see repeated in the lives of earlier emperors in less tendentious accounts (see chapter 6), Elagabalus outdid his subjects in laughter as much as in everything else. In fact, he sometimes laughed so loud in the theater that he drowned out the actors (“He alone could be heard”)—a nice indication of the social disruption caused by gelastic excess. He also used laughter to humiliate. “He had the habit too of inviting to dinner eight bald men, or else eight one-eyed ones, or eight men with gout, or eight deaf men, or eight with particularly dark skin, or eight tall men—or eight fat men, in their case to raise a laugh from everyone, as they could not fit on the same couch.” It was not so much the mad replication that caused the laughter but rather his slapstick exposure of the victims’ fatness. There was a similar comic style in his experiment with a Roman prototype of whoopee cushions: “Some of his less prestigious friends he would sit on airbags, not cushions, and he had these deflated while they were dining, so that the men were often suddenly found under the table in the middle of their meal.”31 This is a combination of power, dining, laughter, and practical jokes to which we shall return.

An even richer discussion that often goes unnoticed (or is merely pillaged for some of the individual jokes it contains) is found in the second book of Macrobius’ Saturnalia. Writing in the context of a highly learned, late antique subculture, Macrobius (through the scripted contributions of his various characters) offers the closest thing we have from the ancient world to an extended history not so much of laughter but of joking, and, indirectly at least, he reflects on different styles of jokes and on the nature and importance of “old jokes.”

The scene is simple. In keeping with the lighthearted atmosphere of the festival, the Saturnalia, that provides the dramatic context of the work, each of the discussants in turn picks a joke from the past to recount to the others (Hannibal and Cato the Elder are the earliest Roman “jokers” cited, though—true to type—the Greek character in the discussion, Eusebius, contributes a quip from Demosthenes, and the Egyptian Horus picks an epigram of Plato’s).32 This leads on to a rather more systematic anthologizing of the quips of three historical characters—Cicero, the emperor Augustus, and his daughter, Julia—and occasionally to wider reflections on laughter.33 In part, Macrobius’ account matches the standard historical template, with its emphasis on antiqua festivitas and the fearlessness, if not the rudeness, of the jokers of earlier times.34 But it also carefully shows what hangs on the choice of a favorite joke and how that choice may relate to character. Predictably, it is one of the uninvited guests, the oddball bully Evangelus, the man most concerned to undermine the atmosphere of literary high culture, who chooses the joke about sex; the buttoned-up grammarian Servius can hardly bear to tell a joke at all and in the end settles for a dry piece of wordplay.35

The final section of their discussion turns, significantly, to another key institution of Roman laughter: mime (in Latin, mimus). This particular form of dramatic display was not, as its name in English might suggest, a silent affair, dependent on gesture alone, but a performance with words, sometimes improvised, sometimes scripted, and both male and female actors. Its precise character and history are much less understood than modern textbook accounts sometimes suggest, as is its precise relationship to another ancient genre—pantomime. But two features are clear. First, mime could sometimes be very bawdy, and our genteel debaters of the Saturnalia are careful to stress that they will not actually bring the mimes into their banquet, only a selection of the jokes—so avoiding the bawdiness (lascivia) but reflecting the high spirit (celebritas) of the performances.36 Second, it was the one and only cultural form at Rome whose primary, perhaps even sole, purpose was to make you laugh. So Roman writers repeatedly stressed—and that was the message blazoned on the tombstones of some mime actors.37

I shall later argue that the hilarity so strongly associated with mime is one aspect of the more general importance of imitation and impersonation in the production of Roman laughter, from actors to apes. But Macrobius’ discussion already gestures in that direction with a series of stories about the competition between two pantomime actors, Pylades and Hylas, to present convincing imitations of mythical characters. In the cleverest of these, the audience is reported to have laughed at Pylades, who was playing the mad Hercules, because he was stumbling around “and wasn’t maintaining the manner of walking appropriate to an actor.” He took off his mask and berated them: “Idiots,” he said, “I’m playing the part of a madman.” In a nice twist, the audience turns out to have been laughing at a man for what they imagined was a bad piece of acting, when in fact it was a perfect example of (laughable) impersonation.38

Sometimes it is not a lengthy discussion, such as Macrobius’, but just a couple of unnoticed words in some little-read text that can shed unexpected light on the operations and significance of laughter in Roman culture. The collected volumes of Roman oratorical exercises that go under the general title of Declamations have recently attracted some keen scholarly attention, but even so they are still relatively underexploited. A combination of rhetorical training and after-dinner entertainment, these exercises usually started from a fictional (or at least fictionalized) legal case, on which the learner orators or celebrity after-dinner speakers would take different sides, for defense or prosecution. The collections gathered together some of these cases, along with excerpts from particularly notable speeches by famous rhetorical showmen; they represent, in a sense, both a manual of models to imitate and a compilation of oratorical “greatest hits.”39

One telling example, from the collection compiled by the elder Seneca in the early first century CE, concerns a (fictionalized) version of the case of Lucius Quinctius Flamininus, who was expelled from the Senate in 184 BCE for inappropriate conduct while holding office.40 Several shorter and slightly different variants survive elsewhere in Latin literature,41 but the declamation centers on the relationship between Flamininus and a prostitute, whom—in his infatuation—he had taken with him when he left Rome to govern his province. At dinner there one evening, she remarked that she had never seen a man’s head cut off, so to please her, Flamininus had a condemned criminal executed right in front of her in the dining room. Then, in the fictionalized world of the declamation, he was accused of maiestas (often translated as “treason” but better as “an offense against the Roman state”).42

The oratorical highlights focus not on the rights and wrongs of the execution of the criminal as such (the man had, after all, been condemned to death anyway) but on its context. The declamation is in fact a treasure-house of Roman clichés on the proper separation of the official business of state from the pleasures of ludic entertainment and the jocular world of the dinner party. Many of the quoted speakers found snappy ways of summing up this underlying issue. Taking “the forum into a feast” (forum in convivium) was no better than taking “a feast into the forum” (convivium in forum), quipped one. “Have you ever seen a praetor dining with his whore in front of the rostra?” asked another, referring to the raised platform in the Forum from which speakers traditionally addressed the Roman people.43

Held up for specific criticism is the fact that the executioner was drunk when he killed the man and that Flamininus was wearing slippers (soleae), both signs of private pleasure rather than official duty. But another marker of transgression lies in the “jokes” being made of the serious business of state. An execution has been turned into “a dinner table joke” (convivales ioci), Flamininus is himself accused of “joking” (ioci), and the woman is said to have been “making fun” (iocari) of the fasces, the symbols of Roman power. In fact, according to one of these rhetorical reenactments of the terrible scene, when the unfortunate victim was brought into the room, the prostitute laughed (arridet)—not, as the translation in the Loeb Classical Library has it, with very different implications, “smiled.”44 There is, I suspect, a sexual resonance here; laughter was often associated with ancient prostitutes, so it is exactly what you might expect this, or any, whore to do.45 But more than that, the single word arridet (emphatically at the end of the sentence) underlines the irruption of gelastic frivolity into the world of state business.46

What happened next, however, brings into focus a different role of laughter in the social interaction around this dinner table. The whole occasion is written up in decidedly melodramatic terms (we are asked to imagine at one point that the unfortunate criminal misreads the scene as the preliminary to a pardon and actually thanks Flamininus for his mercy). But what did the other guests do once the execution had been carried out? One man wept, one turned away, but another laughed (ridebat)—“to keep in with the prostitute” (quo gratior esset meretrici).47

This is laughter provoked by something quite different from the jokes of Macrobius. Jocular and (transgressively) ludic though the laughter of this whole scene may be, there are no verbal quips to prompt the outbursts. We see instead the laughter of (inappropriate) pleasure on the part of the woman and the laughter of flattery, or (to put it more politely) of social alignment, on the part of another dinner guest. This is another example of that nexus of signals implied by a laugh—from pleasure to approval to outright sycophancy—to which we shall return.


CLASSIC LITERARY LAUGHS: THE LESSONS OF VIRGIL’S BABY


The study of laughter does not merely reanimate some less-known works of Latin literature; it also encourages us to look again, through a different lens, at some of the most canonical. We have already glanced at Horace’s Satires and at Catullus. There are many more cases where laughter plays a role, sometimes disputed, in the most famous Latin classics to have survived from the Roman world: from Ovid’s Art of Love, with its parodic set of instructions to young women on how to laugh,48 through Virgil’s reference to Venus’ laugh, which enigmatically seals the discussion between her and Juno at the beginning of Aeneid 4 (and with it the fate of Dido),49 to the opening of Horace’s Art of Poetry, where he lists the kinds of representational incongruities that would, he claims, make anyone laugh (“If a painter wanted to put a horse’s head on a human neck . . . would you be able to keep your laughter in?”).50

The most famous, and controversial, of all such references to laughter, however, is the especially puzzling end to Virgil’s puzzling fourth Eclogue. This poem was written around 40 BCE, against the background of promising attempts—fruitless as they proved in the long term—to secure peace in the civil war between Octavian (the future emperor Augustus) and Mark Antony. It heralds the coming of a new golden age for Rome, embodied in or brought about by the birth, imminent or recent (the chronology is vague), of a baby boy. Virgil celebrates this baby in messianic terms (hence the title “Messianic Eclogue” often given to the whole poem)—“the boy under whom . . . a golden race shall rise up throughout the world” and so on. But who was the baby? This has been a major source of dispute for centuries, with suggestions ranging from the yet unborn child of either Octavian or Mark Antony (both of whom turned out, inconveniently, to be girls) through a purely symbolic figure for the return of peace to Jesus—whose birth, this idea goes, Virgil was unwittingly prophesying.51 But almost equally controversial has been the significance of the last four lines of the poem (60–63), which address the baby and focus on the “laughter” (risus) exchanged between him and his parent(s). What is this risus, and whose risus is it anyway?

Once more, the details of the argument focus on exactly what the Latin author wrote and how accurately the medieval manuscripts, on which we rely, reflect that. The main issue comes down to the origin and direction of the “laughter” and depends on the difference of just a few letters. The crux is this. In the poem’s final couplet, was Virgil thinking of the risus of the baby, directed either to his parenti (singular, dative case, presumably his mother52) or to his parentes (plural, accusative case, meaning mother and father)? Or did he mean that the risus of the parentes (here a nominative case) was directed at the baby? And what hangs on this? The argument is technical and ultimately, let me warn you, inconclusive—and it involves Latin words that to the innocent eye are identical (or almost so), even if they point to significantly different interpretations. But it is also very instructive and well worth pursuing in all its intricacy. For it puts laughter right back into the heart of a debate about one of the most classic of all classical texts while exposing the pitfalls of not reflecting carefully enough on the linguistic rules and cultural protocols of Roman laughter.

All the main surviving manuscripts run:


Literally, this means “Begin, little boy, to recognize your mother with risus (to your mother ten months [of pregnancy] have brought long distress); begin, little boy: he on whom his parents have not risere, no god thinks worthy of his dinner table, no goddess worthy of her bed.” The idea (frankly “enigmatic” as it is53) must be that the starry, divine future of the child depends on his parents’ warmth for him now, reflected in their risus toward him.

But most modern editors of the poem have thought this so enigmatic, not to say unconvincing, that they have chosen to adjust the text in order to change the nature of the interaction described. Instead of having the parents (parentes) direct their risus toward the baby (cui), they have the baby (qui substituted for cui) directing his risus toward his parent—that is, his mother (parenti). On this reading, the interaction of the final two lines runs as follows:

Or, “Begin, little boy: those who have not risere on their parent, no god thinks worthy of his dinner table, no goddess worthy of her bed.” In other words, it is what the baby himself does that paves the way for his future greatness.

There are some strong reasons for making these changes. In general, the revised text seems to make better sense. For one thing, the phrase “Begin, little boy” seems to demand some action on the part of the baby, not—as our manuscript reading would have it—on the part of the parents. For another, the idea that the entirely “natural” response (risus) of the parents to their child should be prophetic of his future seems hard to fathom. What is more, although there is no direct support for it in any of the manuscripts of Virgil, this does seem to be much closer to the text that Quintilian had in front of him just a century or so after Virgil wrote—as we know, because he refers to this particular passage in discussing a tricky point of Roman grammar.54

But whether these changes are correct or not (and I doubt that we shall ever firmly settle this), the questions here also turn the spotlight on to laughter—or more precisely, on to what difference thinking harder about laughter might make to our understanding of the text. For critics of these lines tend to fall back on a series of overconfident assumptions about the linguistic and social rules that governed Roman risus—and on all kinds of claims about what ridere and risus can (or must) mean. This is a place where we find many false certainties about Roman laughter on show.

So, for example, there is an alternative and less drastic emendation in line 62—which retains the idea that it is the risus of the baby but changes just one letter of the manuscript version. It replaces cui with qui but keeps the plural parentes found in the manuscripts, to read “qui non risere parentes.” Assuming that parentes is in the accusative case, this would mean “those who have not risere at their parents.” It is, at the very least, an economical solution, but it has often been rejected on the grounds that “rideo with the accusative can only mean ‘laugh at’ or ‘mock’” (and so would suggest, ludicrously, that the baby here was ridiculing his parents). In fact, that is simply false; as the most careful critics have conceded, there are numerous examples in Latin of ridere being used with an accusative object in an entirely favorable sense.55

From a different angle, many scholars have seized on Pliny’s statement that human children do not laugh until they are forty days old—except for Zoroaster, who laughed (risisse) from the moment he was born. In this way, they argue, through his hints at supernaturally precocious laughter, Virgil is claiming divine status for the child. Maybe. But the fact is, we have no idea how old Virgil’s baby is meant to be, we have no idea how widespread in the Roman world Pliny’s factoid about the chronology of laughter was, nor does the closest parallel passage (as we shall shortly see) provide any justification for that religious interpretation.56 There have also been firm (and conflicting) views expressed on whose risus is meant earlier, in line 60 (risu cognoscere matrem, or “to recognize your mother with risus”). Must this be the risus of the baby, in recognition of his mother? Or could it be her risus, which allows the baby to recognize her?57 The Latin is, of course, consistent with either (or indeed both simultaneously).

Perhaps more important, though, underlying almost all recent interpretations of these lines we can detect a decidedly sentimental tinge. Even one of the most hardheaded Latinists, Robin Nisbet, suggests that the scene’s “humanity” (whatever he means by that) is a good indication that “a real baby is meant” rather than some abstract symbol of peace and prosperity, and some critics, even when they are not arguing for a prophetically Christian reading of the text, evoke a scene that is frankly closer to an image of the adoring Virgin Mary and baby Jesus than to anything we know from pagan Rome.58 This sometimes chocolate-box tone is underpinned by what has become the standard translation of risus and ridere here, “smile” rather than “laugh”: “Begin, little boy, to recognize your mother with a smile.”59 It conjures up a picture of the loving smiles that bind mother and son and resonate powerfully in our understanding of babies and parenthood. How misleading is this?

So far I have avoided this issue, by keeping largely to the Latin terms. But not only should “smile” never be the translation of first resort for ridere; in this case there is also a clear suggestion in one of Virgil’s closest predecessors for this scene that a vocalized laugh is definitely meant. Virgil most likely drew and adapted this scene from Catullus, who in his wedding hymn for Manlius Torquatus imagines the future appearance of Torquatus junior, a baby sitting on his mother’s lap, stretching out his hands to his father, and “sweetly laughing to him with his little lips half open” (dulce rideat ad patrem / semihiante labello).60 This is not the curved lips of a silent smile; it is a laugh, and that is what we should think of in the Virgilian scene too.

It is perhaps easier for those not so embedded in the traditions of Virgilian scholarship to see the wider possibilities here, and their different perspectives can be instructive. For modern theorists of literature and psychoanalysis who have reflected on the role of laughter as a metaphor of communication, this passage has had a particular importance, even if it has rarely been discussed at length. Georges Bataille, for example, referenced Virgil’s words in a famous essay on the subject. “Laughter,” he wrote, “is reducible, in general, to the laugh of recognition in the child—which the following line from Virgil calls to mind.”61 Julia Kristeva, likewise, hinted at the scene described by Virgil when she theorized the crucial role of laughter in the relationship between mother and baby and in the baby’s growing sense of its own “self.”62 These ideas found an echo in the work of the cultural critic Marina Warner, who commented directly on the final lines of Eclogue 4 in the course of a more general discussion of (in her words) “funniness.” She had no difficulty in translating Virgil’s ridere as “laugh” and in seeing a point to that laughter: “‘Learn, little boy, to know your mother through laughter.’ Did he [Virgil] mean the child’s laughter? Or the mother’s? Or, by omitting the possessive, did he want his readers to understand that recognition and laughter happen together at the very start of understanding, identity, and life itself?”63

This is a radically different type of reading from those I have just reviewed. Many classicists would, I suspect, be reluctant to follow Warner, still less Bataille or Kristeva, and this is not the place for a lengthy discussion on the strengths and weaknesses of their arguments.64 But at the very least, in interpreting this contested passage so differently and in their conviction that we are dealing with vocal laughter, they offer a powerful reminder of how dangerous it is to assume that we know how Latin risus worked—let alone to impose some version of “baby’s first smile” on the culture of ancient Rome.


ROMAN LAUGHTER IN GREEK


Roman laughter was not, however, merely laughter in Latin. So far in this chapter I have focused on Latin literature, but already by the second century BCE, Rome had a bilingual literary culture, in which laughter could be debated and discussed in both Latin and Greek.

In fact, both incidents of Roman laughter that I chose to discuss in the first chapter of this book are classic examples of this kind of linguistic and literary bilingualism. The first describes an incident that took place in the Colosseum at Rome, in a fearful and funny standoff between the emperor Commodus and a group of the Roman political elite; it was taken from a history of Rome written in Greek by a Roman senator whose original home was in the Greek-speaking province of Bithynia, in what is now Turkey. The second (pp. 8–14) was taken from a Latin comedy originally performed in the second century BCE at (almost certainly) a religious festival in the city of Rome. But—in a form of literary syncretism long debated by scholars of Greco-Roman comedy—it was in fact a Romanized adaptation and conflation of two plays by the late fourth-century Athenian dramatist Menander. Neither of these survives beyond some fragmentary snatches recovered from Egyptian papyrus and excerpts quoted by later authors, but, from even the few passages we have, it is clear that some of the funny lines I discussed earlier go back, with adjustments, to one of Menander’s plays.

The question is not whether these two stories deserve their place in an exploration of Roman laughter. Of course they do: each in its different way unfolds within a Roman institutional framework, and each is told by a “Roman” writer (Dio a Roman senator, Terence probably an enfranchised ex-slave). But they raise the question of where we might want to draw the line. There is in particular a vast amount of surviving literature written in Greek in the period of the Roman Empire, when the Greek world was under Roman political and military control—from the satires of Lucian to the lectures of Dio Chrysostom and the boy-gets-girl novel (Leucippe and Cleitophon) by Achilles Tatius, not to mention the biographies and philosophy of Plutarch, the histories of Dio and Appian and Dionysius, or the wearisome hypochondria of Aelius Aristides and the interminable (fascinating to some) medical treatises of Galen. Does it all count as Roman? Does “Roman” laughter potentially include the laughter of the whole Roman Empire, from Spain to Syria? What is the difference between Greek and Roman laughter? I have already pointed to some mismatches in the vocabulary of laughing and jesting in the Latin and Greek languages. How far does that indicate significant cultural differences that we should be taking into account?

These reflections gesture toward a lively, wider debate among historians and archaeologists about the very nature of “Roman” culture. Complex as this debate has become, one simple question largely sums it up: what do we mean by that superficially unproblematic adjective Roman (whether “Roman laughter” or “literature,” “sculpture” or “spectacle,” “politics” or “pantomime”)? Which Romans are we talking about? The wealthy literate elite? Or the poor, the peasants, the slaves, or the women? And even more to the point, are we thinking of the term geographically, chronologically, or more integrally linked to political and civic status or to distinctive norms of behavior and culture? Can, for example, an intellectual treatise written in Greek by an Athenian aristocrat in the second century CE count as Roman because Athens was then part of the Roman Empire? Would it be more convincingly Roman if the Greek writer was (like Dio) simultaneously a Roman senator or if we knew that the work was read and debated by Latin speakers in Rome itself?

There are, of course, no right answers to these questions. The most influential recent studies have insisted on disaggregating any unitary notion of “Roman” culture while also arguing against any simple progressive model of cultural change across the ancient Mediterranean.65 No one would now think of the early city of Rome as a cultural vacuum that was gradually filled, in a process neatly labeled “Hellenization,” thanks to its contacts with the Greek world. (The Roman poet Horace would, I suspect, have been horrified to discover that his words “Captured Greece took captive its rough conqueror” would be dragged out of context and turned into a slogan for the simple inferiority of Roman versus Greek culture.66) Likewise, few historians would now characterize growing Roman influence in the West as a straightforward process of “Romanization”—or, alternatively, think in terms of a clear standoff between “Roman” cultural forms and those of the more or less resistant “natives.”

Instead they point to a shifting cross-cultural multiplicity of “Romannesses,” formed by an often unstable series of cultural interactions summed up in a range of sometimes illuminating, sometimes overseductive, sometimes (I fear) quite misleading metaphors, such as constellation, hybridity, creolization, bilingualism, or crossbreeding.67 In fact, in some of the most radical work, even the basic descriptive language of ancient cultural difference and ancient cultural change in the Roman Empire seems to have been turned inside out and upside down. So, for example, in Andrew Wallace-Hadrill’s wonderfully heady study Rome’s Cultural Revolution, the very opposition between Roman and Greek (Hellenic) culture is drastically subverted. That is to say, Wallace-Hadrill offers a series of powerful arguments for seeing Rome as a prime engine of “Hellenization,” “Hellenization” as one aspect of “Romanization,” and ultimately “Roman” influence as a driver behind the “re-Hellenization” of the Hellenic world itself!68

These vertiginous issues inevitably lurk in the background of any book such as this one. But my most pressing questions are rather narrower and more manageable. For a start, we have to face the fact that we have almost no access whatsoever to the culture of laughter among the nonelite anywhere in the Roman world. Whether the style of “peasant laughter” really was as different from that of the urban elite as we often imagine, who knows? (We shouldn’t forget that the supposed lustiness of the peasant can be as much an invention of the sophisticated city dweller as an accurate reflection of the gelastic life of simple peasant society.)69 In any case, to study “Roman laughter” is now necessarily to study laughter as it is (re)constructed and mediated in a range of elite literary texts. The question is: which ones, and particularly which ones of those produced in Greek or partly rooted in the Greek world? Is there a line to be drawn? Where? Does Plutarch—Greek essayist, priest at the sanctuary of Delphi, and avid student of “Roman” culture—belong in this book, in Stephen Halliwell’s Greek Laughter, or in both? Are we in danger of confusing “Greek” with “Roman” laughter? And how much does it matter?

There can be no hard-and-fast rules. Recent critical approaches to the Greek culture of the Roman Empire have stressed many different, sometimes contradictory, aspects: its emphatically Hellenic (even “anti-Roman”) coordinates, its active role in the reformulation of the very categories of “Greek” and “Roman” or in supporting the political and social hegemony of Rome over Greece, and so on.70 In practice, the modern dividing line between “Greek” and “Roman” has sometimes come down to little more than subject matter (if the work in question is about Rome, it tends to be treated as Roman; if about Greece, then it’s seen as Greek—despite the fact that the bifocal, Greco-Roman perspective of Plutarch and others makes nonsense of that procedure). Perhaps even more often, to be honest, it comes down to the territorial divisions of the modern academy. On the one hand, scholars of classical Greek literature tend to embrace and interpret this material as somehow an extension of their territory (it is, after all, written in “their” language and constructively engages with its classical Greek predecessors). Many Roman cultural historians, on the other hand, would claim it as part of their remit (it was written in “their” period and often gestures directly or indirectly to the power structures of the Roman empire). The truth is, there is no safe path to be trodden between seeing this literature in terms of (on the one hand) being Greek or (on the other) becoming Roman—to conscript the titles of two of the most influential modern contributions to this whole debate.71

I shall proceed with some very basic methodological guidelines in mind. First, that the “Greek” and “Roman” cultures of laughter in the period of the Roman Empire were simultaneously both foreign to each other and also so mutually implicated as to be impossible to separate. Simply by virtue of language, some sense of cultural difference could always be mobilized. We have to imagine, for example, that when Virgil had his text of Homer in front of him and was considering how he would reflect the Greek word meidiaō in his own epic, he necessarily pondered on the different senses of Greek and Latin words for laughter and what might hang on them. And we caught a glimpse of paraded ethnic preferences in joking among the elite diners at Macrobius’ Saturnalian dinner party: Greek, Egyptian, and Roman. We certainly need to keep alert for hints of cultural difference. But for the most part, there is little to be gained (and much to be lost) by attempting to prize apart the gelastic culture of imperial literature, still less by distributing these culturally multifaceted texts on one side or the other of some notional “Roman”/“Greek” divide (Plutarch’s Roman Questions in, Leucippe and Cleitophon out; Apuleius’ Latin version of the story of “Lucius the Ass” in, the parallel Greek version out). Elite Romans, wherever in the empire they lived, learned to “think laughter” in debate with both Greek and Latin texts. We are dealing, in large part at least, with a shared literary culture of laughter and “laughterhood,” a bilingual cultural conversation.

My second guideline serves to limit that very slightly. If we do imagine Roman imperial culture as a conversation (to add, I confess, yet another metaphor to those of hybridity, constellation, and the rest), I have chosen to concentrate on those literary works written in Greek where we can most confidently point to an explicitly Roman side in that script, rather than merely a generalized sociopolitical Roman background. That is sometimes through characters clearly labeled as Roman being featured in a dialogue (as we find, for example, in Plutarch’s Table Talk) or through specifically Roman subject matter and context (such as the names, currency, and events that form part of the background to the gags in the late antique “jokebook” the Philogelos, or “Laughter lover”).

What is striking is how powerful the Roman intervention in that conversation can be. In fact, as we shall now see, some of the traditions of laughter that may appear superficially to be more or less pure “Greek” turn out to be much more “Roman” than we usually assume. Sometimes we find that what we take as notable traditions of classical Greek laughter are very largely constructions of the Roman period. Occasionally we find that the Greek idiom of laughter adapts to ideas and expressions that are distinctively Latin. And when—conversely—Roman authors take over Greek jokes, we have evidence for the creative adaptation of the original material for a Roman audience. Here again, Terence’s Eunuch—with Gnatho the sponger, Thraso the soldier, and the joke about the young Rhodian—offers a nice glimpse of the “Romanization” of Greek laughter and the archaeology of a Roman joke while introducing some of the bigger issues of the final section of this chapter.


TERENCE’S GREEK JOKE


The comedies of Plautus and Terence have long provided revealing instances of the intricacy of Roman engagement with Greek culture—and the philological work of Eduard Fraenkel in the 1920s underpins many discussions of this.72 The plays are explicitly drawn from Greek models, but the dramatists actively reworked the “originals” into something significantly different, with a new resonance in the Roman context. For example, whatever its Greek source (which is still debated), Plautus’ Amphitruo closely engages with that most distinctive of all Roman celebrations: the triumphal procession, held in honor of military victory. Plautus in fact comes close to adapting whatever his (Greek) original was into a comic parody of the origins of the (Roman) triumph.73

In Terence’s Eunuch, this creative adjustment goes right down to the individual jokes, so adding a further twist to the scenes of laughter that I looked at in the first chapter—and an important coda to my treatment there. The prologue of the play states clearly that its models were two late fourth-century plays of Menander: The Eunuch and The Toady (Kolax), from which the characters of the soldier and the sponger/flatterer (or toady) were drawn. We have, from various papyrus scraps and quotations, more than a hundred lines of The Toady, and these confirm that the characters of Gnatho and Thraso went back to that source (even if they were known by different names in Menander’s play).74 In fact, a brief snatch of dialogue, quoted by Plutarch, seems likely to have been the inspiration for one of the exchanges between the two that I quoted in chapter 1—a classic example of a willfully misleading explanation for an outburst of laughter. This, as we saw, is Terence’s version:

And this, to judge from Plutarch (who is discussing the problems of dealing with flatterers), is the “original” passage in The Toady, which Terence took over. The sentiment is strikingly similar, and the words are attributed to the sponger/flatterer of the title:

Whether that explanation for laughter was as wickedly misleading in Menander’s play as in Terence’s, we do not have enough information to say (though Plutarch’s claim that the toady was “dancing in triumph” over the soldier with these words suggests that it was). But one thing seems certain: in each play there was some comic reference back to an earlier joke—yet the exact terms of that joke were different. In The Eunuch, it was a joke about the Rhodian boy (“chasing after delicacies”). In Menander, it is some (lost) gag about a “Cypriot”—perhaps, as some critics have proposed, connected with the old Greek saying about Cypriot bullocks eating dung (so all Cypriots are “shit eaters”).76

If so, we can only guess what lay behind Terence’s change. Perhaps the Cypriot bullock joke was simply not part of the Roman repertoire and was likely to fall flat in front of Terence’s first audience. Perhaps he entirely rewrote the joke to make a topical allusion to Roman political relations with Rhodes. But maybe Terence changed only the nationality of the quip’s antihero (the boy chasing the delicacies), from Cypriot to Rhodian; after all, in his Eunuch, the desired girl came from Rhodes, and maybe there was an intentional link. If so, that would give a deeper resonance, for the more learned members of the Roman audience, to the idea that it was an old joke (see p. 13). In fact, it was so old that it went back not just to Livius Andronicus but (plus or minus the Cypriot–Rhodian switch) to the age of Menander in the fourth century BCE. Here, in other words, the Greek inheritance was not merely adjusted to a different comic context; it was turned into an integral part of the Roman joke itself.


THE ROMAN SIDE OF GREEK LAUGHTER


Classicists have long tussled with the ways that Roman writers reinvigorate (or recycle) their Greek predecessors, pointing to a characteristic combination of similarity and difference found throughout Roman (re)-use of Greek cultural forms, right down to the laughs. But they more rarely look at the relationship from the other side. To conclude this chapter, and to think more about potential “Roman” aspects of “Greek” laughter, I am taking a cue from Andrew Wallace-Hadrill and from Tony Spawforth, who have both argued for a wide-ranging cultural impact of Rome on the Greek world (from the style of lamps made in Roman Athens to the “cultural comportment” of the imperial Greek elite).77 Some of the traditions often assumed to be those of classical Greece owe a lot in various ways to the cultural conversations of the (Greco-)Roman Empire.

One of the most memorable symbols of Greek laughter is the fifth-century BCE philosopher Democritus, from the northern Greek city of Abdera—who has gone down in history as “the laughing philosopher,” celebrated in that role not only in antiquity but also by modern artists and writers as diverse as Peter Paul Rubens and Samuel Beckett. Often paired with Heraclitus (his opposite—“the weeping philosopher”), Democritus crops us time and again in ancient writing in his iconic role as “the laugher” (or as the “laughter expert”).78 When, for example, Cicero is settling down in On the Orator to a discussion of the role of laughter in oratory and wants to brush aside the impossible question of what laughter actually is, he writes, “We can leave that to Democritus”;79 others tell how Democritus’ mockery of his fellow countrymen gave him the nickname Laughing Mouth or made him, as Stephen Halliwell has put it, the “patron saint” of satiric wit (“Democritus used to shake his sides in perpetual laughter,” wrote Juvenal, even though there was much less in his day to provoke ridicule—no flummery, no togas with purple stripes or sedan chairs).80

But by far the richest account of Democritus’ laughter is found in what is, in effect, an epistolary novella comprising a series of fictional letters written in Greek, exchanged between the citizens of Abdera and the legendary Greek doctor Hippocrates—now preserved among the writings associated with Hippocrates (spuriously, in the sense that almost certainly none are from his own hand).81 In this story, the Abderites (who have their own cameo part to play in the history of laughing and joking, as we shall see in chapter 8) are increasingly concerned about the sanity of their famous philosopher, for the simple reason that he was always laughing, and at the most inappropriate things. “Someone marries, a man goes on a trading venture, a man gives a public speech, another takes an office, goes on an embassy, votes, is ill, is wounded, dies. He laughs at every one of them,”82 they write in their exasperation to Hippocrates, asking him to come to Abdera to cure Democritus. The doctor agrees (and the novella includes some comic touches among the preparations—from transportation to arrangements for his wife during his absence). But as we learn from the letters, when he encounters the patient, he soon discovers that Democritus is not mad at all: he is rightly laughing at the folly of humanity (“You think there are two causes of my laughter—good things and bad things. But I laugh at one thing—mankind”83).

En route to this (happy) conclusion, there is plenty of opportunity for the various parties to offer their views of what laughter is for. In fact, the novella is one of the most extended philosophical treatments of laughter to survive from the ancient world. But what I want to underline here is that there is no evidence whatsoever for any particular association between Democritus and laughter before the Roman period. The earliest reference we have to this connection is that casual aside in Cicero, while the Hippocratic novella is almost certainly to be dated to the first century CE, several centuries after the deaths of both of its protagonists.84 Democritus’ own writing, so far as we can reconstruct it, was principally concerned with theories of atomism and a much more moderate ethical stance than the “absurdist” position that the novella implies. How or why he had been resymbolized by the first century CE in these very different terms, we can only conjecture.

We find a broadly similar pattern in another significant symbol of Greek laughter—that is, the tradition of distinctively “Spartan” laughter. Sparta is the only city in the ancient world, outside the realm of fiction (see pp. 181–83), where there was said to have been a statue, even a shrine and a religious cult, of Laughter; it was attributed to the mythical lawgiver Lycurgus.85 Moreover, the boot-camp atmosphere of classical Sparta is supposed to have included a prominent role for laughing and jesting. The young Spartiates were said to learn both to jest and to endure jesting in their “common messes” (sussitia), and the Spartan women were supposed to ridicule those young men who failed to meet the standards of the training system.86 The surviving references to Spartan quips and witticisms emphasize their down-to-earth frankness, even aggression (such as the retort of the lame Spartan fighter who was laughed at by his peers: “Idiots, you don’t need to run away when you fight the enemy”87). Tempting as it may be to use this evidence to fill in some of the many gaps in what we know of classical (fifth- and fourth-century BCE) Spartan culture,88 the fact is that it all comes from writers of Roman date—principally, but not only, Plutarch. It must in part reflect a nostalgic construction of Spartan “exceptionalism,” with these supposed “primitive” traditions of laughter being used, retrospectively, to mark out the oddity of the Spartan system.89

Of course, in both these cases we should be careful not to overclaim. We would get a very odd view of ancient history if we assumed that no traditions existed before the first surviving reference to them (“absence of evidence is not evidence of absence,” as the old inferential cliché goes). It would be implausible to imagine that, in his casual aside, Cicero invented Democritus’ connection with laughter; much more likely he was referring (with what degree of knowledge is not clear) to some preexisting commonplace. On the evidence we have, it is impossible to be certain exactly when the popular metamorphosis of Democritus—from atomist to laugher—took place.90 There is certainly a deeper prehistory to the traditions of Spartan laughter too: Plutarch, in fact, cites a third-century BCE source for the “shrine of Laughter,” and many of those anecdotal quips attributed to famous Spartans of the past may well have had an even earlier origin.91 Yet the fact remains that—selected, adjusted, and embellished as they must have been—the traditions about Democritus and the Spartans have come down to us in the literature of the Roman Empire. In a scholarly world in which historians have tried to push so many traditions back to the glory days of classical Greece, it is important to remember that many of the details, the interrelationships, the cultural nuances (even if not the entire traditions themselves) are the product of the Greco-Roman imperial world.

One final example gives us a nice glimpse of the two-way traffic in “laughter culture”—not only from Greece to Rome but also from Rome to Greece. One of the slogans of British eighteenth-century urbanity was “Attic salt”—the traditions of elegant wit particularly associated with ancient Athens. The same Lord Chesterfield who so disdained “audible laughter” was a tremendous advocate of this particular style of jest, as he wrote to his long-suffering son: “That same Attic salt seasoned almost all Greece, except Boeotia; and a great deal of it was exported afterward to Rome, where it was counterfeited by a composition called Urbanity, which in some time was brought to very near the perfection of the original Attic salt. The more you are powdered with these two kinds of salt, the better you will keep, and the more you will be relished.”92 Poor Lord Chesterfield could not have been more wrong in his chronology, or in suggesting the transmission of “Attic salt” from Greece to Rome. It is true that Roman writers admired Athenian wit: they saw it as a form to be imitated, and in their cultural geography of wit they put the Athenians in prize position, followed by the Sicilians and then the Rhodians.93 But so far as we can tell, the idea of wit as salt (sal) was originally a Roman idea, defined in Latin and part of a range of Roman cultural tropes that (as we shall see) linked jesting and laughing to the sphere of dining and the repertoire of cooking. “Attic salt” was not a Greek term, but it was the Romans’ way of describing their own construction of Athenian wit.

No Athenians, so far as we know, ever congratulated themselves on their “Attic salt.” In classical Greece, the word hals (salt) was not part of the terminology of jesting. Eventually, however, the idea did spread eastward. Some Greeks of the Roman period apparently adopted, incorporated, and maybe adjusted this characteristically “Roman” perspective on laughter. In the second century CE, we find Plutarch referring to the wit of Aristophanes and Menander as hales—their “little pinches of salt.”94 We should make sure not to underestimate the Roman aspects of that often inextricable mixture that is the Greco-Roman culture of laughter.


It is to various aspects of that inextricable mixture that we now turn. The issues that I have been discussing in these first four chapters underlie the explorations in the second part of this book of particular aspects of Roman laughter and of some of the distinctive characters who have a particular role to play in the “laughterhood” of Rome. We shall encounter laughing emperors, plenty of monkey business, and some passable jokes—but first the funniest man in the Roman world, Marcus Tullius Cicero, and some of his fellow orators. There have been several excellent studies of uses of wit and laughter in the Roman courtroom, but I shall focus on the dilemmas confronting the joking orator trying to raise a laugh from his audience in order to expose some of the ambiguities and anxieties of the culture of laughter in ancient Rome.

Notes

1. The OLD, for example, offers “to smile at, upon or in response to” for arridere/adridere and “to laugh at, mock, make fun of” for irridere; ridere with a dative suggests “to laugh as a sign of goodwill.” The etymology of ridere is obscure, despite occasional attempts to relate it to the Sanskrit for “to be shy” or to the Boeotian form κριδδέμεν (a variant of γελᾶν, “laugh”).
2. Ovid, Ars am. 2.201; Terence, Ad. 864; Horace, Ars P. 101.
3. Silius Italicus 1.398; another decidedly sinister use of arridere (Seneca, Controv. 9.2.6) is discussed on pp. 79–80. It most likely indicates mocking laughter at Cicero, De or. 2.262.
4. Eun. 249–50; Priscian in GLK 3.351.11 (= Inst. 18.274). Most modern translators and critics who have rightly focused on this passage (e.g., Damon 1997, 81; Fontaine 2010, 13–14) have also missed the full nuance, whichever way they choose to translate adridere.
5. Martial, Epigram. 6.44: “omnibus adrides, dicteria dicis in omnis: / sic te convivam posses placere putas” (ll. 3–4, as the manuscripts have it); the typical sting in the tail turns out to be the man’s fondness for oral sex. For the emendation, see Shackleton Bailey 1978 (quotation on 279, my emphasis—and he goes on: “Since that compound does not take a dative in classical Latin, omnibus must become omnis”); this reading is now incorporated in his Teubner edition of 1990 and repeated in the Loeb Classical Library edition of 1993. For critical discussion of the emendation and Shackleton Bailey’s interpretation of the poem, see Grewing 1997, 314; Nauta 2002, 176–77.
6. Catullus 39, passim; Tacitus, Ann. 4.60 (a more sinister context).
7. Ovid, Ars am. 3.283 (advising girls not to display immodici rictus while laughing); Lucretius 5.1064 (of dogs); see further p. 159.
8. Nonius Marcellus 742 (Lindsay): “non risu tantum sed et de sono vehementiore vetustas dici voluit.”
9. Verr. 2.3.62. That at least is Cicero’s highly colored presentation of the scene (he admits that Apronius’ uproar is only extrapolated from his laughter at the trial).
10. Persius 1.12; see 1.116–18 for an explicit comparison with Horace.
11. Catullus 13.5; Suetonius, Vesp. 5.2; Lucretius 4.1176.
12. Nonius Marcellus 742 (Lindsay) quoting Accius (= ROL2, Accius, Tragoediae 577) on the pounding of the ocean—the text is not entirely certain, and on another reading cachinnare could refer to the screeching of a seabird; Catullus 31.14 (of the ripples of Lake Garda), 64.273 (“leviter sonant plangore cachinni”). There is a curious set of relations here with aspects of the Greek laughter lexicon. Γελᾶν, in Greek, is commonly used for the behavior of the sea. Cachinnare matches (even if it is not directly derived from) the Greek καχάζειν, which does not appear to be used metaphorically for the sound of water, though the very similar Greek word καχλάζειν (with a lambda) is a regular term for “splashing.” It is tempting to think that this pairing lies somewhere behind Catullus’ play with cachinnare (or perhaps καχάζειν and καχλάζειν are not as separate as modern lexicography likes to make them).
13. M. Clarke 2005 is a useful recent review of relevant material stressing the unfamiliarity of the Greek semantics of “smiling”: see also Lateiner 1995, 193–95; Levine 1982; Levine 1984. For the stress on the face: Sappho 1.14; Hom. Hymn 10.2–3 (note that, very unusually, Homer, Il. 15.101–2, has Hera laughing “with her lips”).
14. Halliwell 2008, 524, part of a longer, careful discussion (520–29) of Greek laughter terminology and its physical referents, though apart from this appendix, μειδιῶ has hardly a mention in the book.
15. For example, Virgil, Aen. 1.254 (see also Homer, Il. 15.47); Servius Auct. (ad loc.) quotes a parallel passage from Ennius, which uses ridere rather than subridere: Ennius, Ann. 450–51 (ROL) = 457–58 (Vahlen).
16. Catullus 39. In Kaster 1980, 238–40, the key examples are Sat. 1.4.4, 1.11.2 (quoted), 3.10.5, 7.7.8, 7.9.10, and 7.14.5 (translated accordingly in his edition of Macrobius for the Loeb Classical Library), but note also 1.2.10 (involving the whole face) and 7.3.15 (accompanying an apparent insult), neither of which quite match. Kaster is, I suspect, too keen to find smiles in both Macrobius and the texts he uses for comparison. He refers, for example, to the smiles of Cicero’s dialogues “as an instrument of amused debate and rejoinder,” but the Ciceronian passages he cites refer explicitly to a variety of “laughing” (ridens, adridens, etc.). I am relieved that König 2012, 215–26, has (independently) similar reservations over details in Kaster’s argument on smiling, although for different reasons.
17. Catullus 39.16; Ovid, Ars am. 2.49; Ovid, Met. 8.197; Livy 35.49.7; Quintilian, Inst. 6.1.38 (renidentis a plausible emendation for the manuscript residentis).
18. Apuleius, Met. 3.12; Valerius Flaccus 4.359; Tacitus, Ann. 4.60.2.
19. 1.2.10.
20. This is obviously made more complicated by the fact that os, oris (occasionally used with renideo, as at Ovid, Met. 8.197) could refer to the face or the mouth.
21. I am thinking here of the work of such scholars as Paul Ekman (1992; 1999) and that discussed in ch. 3, n. 18. I hope that by this point in the book I do not need to explain why I do not follow such a universalist path.
22. Chesterfield 1890, 177–79 (letter of 12 December 1765, to his godson), reprinted in D. Roberts 1992, 342–43: “The vulgar often laugh but never smile; whereas, well-bred people often smile, but seldom laugh.” Similar sentiments are expressed in Chesterfield 1774, vol. 1, 328 (letter of 9 March 1748), reprinted in D. Roberts 1992, 72.
23. “Kissing,” Jones’s (as yet) unpublished paper given at Columbia University in 2002, also points to the ancients’ careful calibration of different styles of kissing.
24. Le Goff 1997, 48 (“I wonder whether smiling is not one of the creations of the Middle Ages”); see also Trumble 2004, 89.
25. Plutarch, Caes. 4; Edwards 1993, 63.
26. The survival of so much Roman writing on oratory—some of which is concerned with how or whether to make the listener laugh (on which see pp. 107–20, 123–26)—may exaggerate the apparent preponderance of joking terms over laughter terms, but there is no reason to imagine that the whole imbalance should be ascribed to this.
27. A piece of popular wisdom rejected by Quintilian: “Potius amicum quam dictum perdendi” (6.3.28). It is possibly echoed by Horace, Sat. 1.4.34–35 (but different versions of the text and its punctuation give a significantly different sense; see Gowers 2012, 161), and by Seneca, Controv. 2.4.13. There are some echoes in modern sloganizing too, but the point is always reversed: “It’s better to lose a jest than a friend.”
28. Cicero, De or. 2.222 (= Ennius, frag. 167 Jocelyn; ROL1, Ennius, unassigned fragments 405–6).
29. “Cato,” Disticha., prol.: “Miserum noli irridere” (likewise “Neminem riseris”).
30. Sonnabend 2002, 214–21, offers a brisk summary of scholarship on these lives; A. Cameron 2011, 743–82, is a fuller and more recent discussion (though underplaying, as most critics do, some of the work’s importance, whatever its fictionality: “trivial . . . product,” 781). The collection was probably produced in the late fourth century CE.
31. SHA, Heliog. 32.7, 29.3 (“ut de his omnibus risus citaret”), 25.2.
32. Sat. 2.1.15–2.2.16.
33. 2.3.1–2.5.9; on the style of these jokes and Macrobius’ possible sources, see pp. 104–5, 130–31, 202.
34. 2.2.16 (antiqua festivitas); 2.4.21 (Augustus’ “Fescennines”); see pp. 68–69.
35. 2.2.10, 2.2.12–13. On Evangelus and Servius, see Kaster 1980, 222–29.
36. Sat. 2.6.6–2.7.19 (avoidance of lascivia, 2.7.1); for mime’s bawdy character in general, see pp. 168–69, 170.
37. AP 7.155; PLM3, 245–46; see further above, p. 169.
38. 2.7.16 (on the blurring of mime and pantomime here, see pp. 168, 170).
39. For an overview, see Bonner 1949; Bloomer 2007; Gunderson 2003, 1–25 (a more theorized account). Spawforth 2012, 73–81, considers the interface between Greek and Roman traditions.
40. Controv. 9.2.
41. Principally, Livy 39.42–43; Valerius Maximus 2.9.3; Cicero, Sen. 42. Briscoe 2008, 358–59, reviews the variants.
42. On the law in this case, see Bonner 1949, 108–9.
43. 9.2.9, 9.2.11.
44. Drunkenness: 9.2.3; slippers: 9.2.25; ioci: 9.2.1; iocari: 9.2.9–10; laughter: 9.2.6.
45. For the erotics of laughter, see pp. 3, 157–59. Halliwell 2008, 491, collects a wide range of instances (in Greek) of sexualized laughter, from the classical to the early Christian period.
46. Another example of (sexualized) laughter as a transgressive irruption into the public official sphere is found in the trial of Maximus, the (likely fictionalized) Roman prefect of Egypt (P.Oxy. 471). The “transcription” of the prosecution speech focuses on Maximus’ relationship with a young boy, whom he included in his official business. One specific accusation is that the boy used to laugh in the midst of Maximus’ clients. See Vout 2007, 140–50 (but note that the text does not claim that the boy was laughing “in the face of his clients,” 148; the point is that he was laughing in the sphere of serious, official business).
47. Controv. 9.2.7.
48. Ars am. 3.279–90 (discussed on pp. 157–59).
49. Aeneid 4.128; discussed by Konstan 1986, careful to acknowledge the problem of reading this as a smile (“the smile, or perhaps it is a laugh,” 18). Though intended for high school students, Gildenhard 2012, 138–39, offers a concise paragraph summing up the main interpretative problems of Venus’ laugh.
50. Ars P. 1–5 (“Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam iungere si velit . . . risum teneatis?”). The passage is more puzzling than it seems, for the laughable incongruities are in fact standard themes in Roman painting; see Frischer 1991, 74–85; Oliensis 1998, 199–202.
51. Coleiro 1979, 222–29, reviews the main suggestions; more briefly, Coleman 1977, 150–52.
52. Du Quesnay 1977, 37, is unusual in arguing that the singular “parent” here is the father.
53. “Enigmatic” is the euphemism of Nisbet 1978, 70, for the final four lines of the Eclogue.
54. The text has been a matter of dispute since the Renaissance at least, with both Politian and Scaliger advocating what is now the standard reading against the manuscripts, largely on the basis of the parallel passage in Quintilian (Inst. 9.3.8). Just to add to the complexity, the manuscript versions of Quintilian do in fact include the same version of these lines as the Virgilian manuscripts, but Quintilian’s use of this passage as an example of a plural relative (qui) attached to a singular referent (hunc) makes it clear that he had in mind a different text, more or less as modern editors have it. The issues are reviewed by Coleman 1977, 148–49; Clausen 1994, 144 (from which I take the word natural). Note, however, some remaining support for the manuscript reading: for example, F. della Corte 1985, 80.
55. The quotation is from Clausen 1994, 144 (my emphasis); similarly R. D. Williams 1976, 119; Norden 1958, 63 (“Ridere c. acc. heisst überall sonst ‘jemanden auslachen’, nicht ‘ihm zulachen’”). Both Perret 1970, 55, and Nisbet 1978, 77n135, see that this is far too sweeping and cite many counterexamples, including Ovid, Ars am. 1.87.
56. Pliny NH, 7.2, 7.72 (see p. 25), with Norden 1958, 65–67; Nisbet 1978, 70. This modern tradition of seeing the baby’s risus as similar to that of Zoroaster goes back principally to Crusius 1896, 551–53.
57. See, for example, Perret 1970, 55 (“Il ne peut s’agir du sourire de la mère à l’enfant”); the different versions are briefly reviewed by R. D. Williams 1976, 120, and Coleman 1977, 148.
58. Nisbet 1978, 70; words such as tenderness and intimacy (Putnam, 1970, 162; Alpers 1979, 173) recur in these discussions.
59. Whatever the sentimentality, Nisbet is one of the very few translators to stick firmly to the word laugh rather than smile (translations in 2007 reprint of Nisbet 1978).
60. Catullus 61.209–13 (“Torquatus volo parvulus / matris e gremio suae / porrigens teneras manus / dulce rideat ad patrem / semihiante labello”). Modern critics are divided on whether this is merely a close epithalamic parallel (a vague back-reference for Virgil) or a direct source (e.g., Putnam 1970, 163: “borrowed”). Hardie 2012, 216–18, reviews the more general links between this Eclogue and Catullus 61 and 64. We should note that there is no hint of divinity in the laughter of Catullus 61 and that the divinity implied in Theocritus, Id. 17.121–34, a possible inspiration for the final line of the Eclogue, has nothing to do with any laughing baby.
61. Bataille 1997, 60. He continues, “All of a sudden, what controlled the child falls into its field. This isn’t an authorization but a fusion. It’s not a question of welcoming the triumph of man over deteriorated forms, but of intimacy communicated throughout. Essentially the laugh comes from communication” (italics in the original).
62. Parvulescu 2010, 161–62, rightly detects echoes of Virgil in Kristeva’s treatment of the laughter exchanged between mother and child (esp. Kristeva 1980, 271–94).
63. Warner 1998, 348.
64. It is striking that hardly any classical treatment of this text references its role in modern theory—nor, it must be admitted, vice versa. In fact, there is some sorry mangling of the Latin in the nonclassical discussions; for example, “Incipe, puer parvo” in the first printing of Warner 1992 (348; later corrected), introducing yet another ungrammatical scribal error into a complex text.
65. The bibliography on constructing identity and on cultural change in the Greco-Roman world is now immense. In addition to other works cited in the following notes, significant contributions include Millett 1990; Woolf 1994; Goldhill 2001; Dench 2005; Mattingly 2011.
66. Epist. 2.1.156 (“Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit”). As Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 24–25, points out, modern scholars rarely quote the very different view of Ovid, Fast. 3.101–2, whose language alludes to Horace.
67. For examples, see Van Dommelen 1997; Hill 2001, 14, (constellation); Webster 2001, 217–23 (hybridity and creolization); Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 27–28 (bilingualism); Le Roux 2004, 301 (crossbreeding, métissage). The influence (and terminology) of such theoretical and comparative studies as Bhabha 1994, esp. 112–16 (for “hybridity”), and Hannerz 1987 is clear.
68. Wallace-Hadrill 2008. The clearest summary of the arguments is at 17–27, which also offers a punchy critique of some of the currently favorite metaphors while opting instead for the model of bilingualism (and also for a model of Greco-Roman cultural interaction based on the diastolic and systolic phases in the operation of the human heart). Wallace-Hadrill 1998 offers a brisk earlier version of his linguistic (code-switching) analogy.
69. Some sensible reflections on the shared traditions of laughter between elite and nonelite are found in Horsfall 1996, 110–11 (though Horsfall is overall more confident than many about our ability to access Roman “popular culture”).
70. Again, there is a vast bibliography. Significant contributions among the new wave of studies of Greek literature and culture in the empire include Swain 1996 (reflecting on “how the Greek elite used language to constitute themselves as a culturally and politically superior group,” 409); Whitmarsh 2001 (the question is “how ‘the literary’ is employed to construct Greek identity in relationship to the Greek past and the Roman present,” 1–2); Spawforth 2012 (“Where Greek culture was concerned, an ‘imperial style of signalled incorporation’ made clear the ‘pure’ brand of Hellenism that the ruling power sought to uphold as morally acceptable to the Romans,” 271). Konstan and Saïd 2006 includes a particularly useful range of essays.
71. Goldhill 2001; Woolf 1994 (the phrase is also used as the title of Woolf 1998, which focuses on Gaul).
72. Fraenkel 1922 (the English translation, Fraenkel 2007, reviews the impact of the book, on xi–xxii). From a more strictly historical perspective, the work of Erich Gruen has been particularly influential here; see, for example, Gruen 1990, 124–57.
73. Christenson 2000, 45–55; Beard 2007, 253–56.
74. Terence, Eun. 1–45; with Barsby 1999, 13–19; Brothers 2000, 20–26. Terence’s Thraso derives from Menander’s Bias. But the matter is complicated by the fact that there is a character named Gnatho in Menander’s The Toady and another, Strouthias, who seems to be (from the fragments that remain) the inspiration for part of the portrayal of Terence’s Gnatho. Perhaps Terence conflated the two, keeping Gnatho’s name, or perhaps the same character went under two different names in Menander’s play. See further Brown 1992, 98–99; Pernerstorfer 2006, 45–50 (for the arguments that a single character was called by two different names). Pernerstorfer 2009 attempts a major reconstruction of the play, reprising the conclusions of the earlier article; for another, succinct, attempt to summarize the plot, see Gomme and Sandbach 1973, 420–22.
75. Menander, Kolax frag. 3 (= Plutarch, Mor. 57a = Quomodo adulator 13): γελῶ τὸ πρὸς τὸν Κύπριον ἐννοούμενος. Plutarch does not mention the title of the play but does name two of its characters. See Gomme and Sandbach 1973, 432; Pernerstorfer 2009, 112–13. Lefèvre 2003, 97–98, is almost alone (and unconvincing) in believing that these words “have nothing to do with Terence.”
76. Gomme and Sandbach 1973, 432; Brown 1992, 94; Pernerstorfer 2009, 113.
77. Wallace-Hadrill 2008 (lamps: 390–91); Spawforth 2012 (cultural comportment: 36–58).
78. Halliwell 2008, 343–46, 351–71 (with 332–34, clearly summarizes the evidence and impact—including Beckett 1938, 168). McGrath (1997, vol. 1, 101–6; vol. 2, 52–57, 58–61) offers useful discussions of several of Rubens’s versions of Democritus. For Heraclitus, see Halliwell 2008, 346–51.
79. De or. 2.235. He assumes Democritus’ expertise in laughter, not necessarily that Democritus is known as a laugher.
80. “Laughing Mouth” (Γελασῖνος) is Aelian’s term (VH 4.20); Halliwell 2008, 351, 369 (for “patron saint”); Juvenal 10.33–34; see also Horace, Epist. 2.1.194–96.
81. Hippocrates, [Ep.] 10–23 (with text and translation in W. D. Smith 1990). Hankinson 2000 and Halliwell 2008, 360–63, offer clear introductions.
82. [Ep.] 10.1 (ὁ δὲ πάντα γελᾷ).
83. [Ep.] 17.5 (ἐγὼ δὲ ἕνα γελῶ τὸν ἄνθρωπον).
84. The only reference to laughter in a (possibly) authentic surviving fragment of Democritus is 68B107a DK, which states that one should not laugh at the misfortune of others. The earliest explicit reference to Democritus being a renowned laugher himself (rather than an expert) is Horace, Epist. 2.1.194–96.
85. Plutarch, Lyc. 25 (statue); Agis and Cleom. 30 (shrine); Halliwell 2008, 44–49, offers a brief survey of the evidence for Spartan laughter.
86. Plutarch, Lyc. 12, 14.
87. Plutarch, Mor. 217c = Apophthegmata Lac., Androcleidas.
88. A temptation not resisted by David 1989.
89. The Roman-period reconstruction of (and investment in) primitive Sparta is a theme in Spawforth 2012 (e.g., on the traditions of the sussitia, 86–100). In part, this tradition was no doubt the Spartans’ own way of claiming a distinctive identity (happy to provide theme-park reenactments of primitive rituals); in part, it was a literary/discursive phenomenon, as writers of Roman date created a distinctive vision of the Spartan past.
90. Cordero 2000, 228, reviews the possibilities. They suggest that the tradition may go back to the third century, but “rien ne le prouve.”
91. Plutarch, Lyc. 25, cites the Hellenistic historian Sosibios (Jacoby, FGrHist 595F19).
92. Chesterfield 1774, vol. 1, 262–63 (letter of 3 April 1747).
93. Cicero, De or. 2.217, sums it up; Plautus, Pers. 392–95, is a comic version of the hierarchy.
94. Plutarch, Mor. 854c = Comp. Ar. & Men. 4. The cultural complexity is nicely signaled by the fact that Plutarch here not only Hellenizes a Roman term to talk about the Greek dramatist Menander but goes on to compare Menander’s “salt” to the salt of the sea from which Aphrodite was born. The reference at Plato, Symp. 177b, is almost certainly literally to salt rather to than wit.

By Mary Beard in "Laughter in Ancient Rome : On Joking, Tickling, and Cracking up", University of Calfornia Press, USA, 2014, Part One, chapter 4. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

Concrete is the most commonly used structural material in modern economies. In ancient times Assyrians and Babylonians used clay as the bonding substance or ‘cement’ in buildings, and the Egyptians used a lime and gypsum cement. However, the Romans from 300 BCE–476 CE pioneered the use of concrete across their empire. (Concrete is cement mixed with an aggregate such as small stones). Roman engineers used pozzolana cement (volcanic ash or powdered rock) from Pozzuoli, near Mt Vesuvius to build the Appian Way, Roman baths, the Coliseum and Pantheon, and also the Pont du Gard aqueduct in southern France.

Limestone was common in many parts of their empire, so Romans also used lime mortar to manufacture a concrete, with aggregates of broken bricks and small stones (caementa). This cement mixture slowly dissolved in water, but it became almost as strong as modern concrete when mixed with pozzolana. Pliny reported a mortar mixture of one part lime to four parts sand, and Vitruvius reported a two parts pozzolana to one part lime mix. Animal fat, milk and blood were used as ‘admixtures’, added to cement to increase its bonding properties.

The Romans did not invent concrete, but a combination of pozzolanic concrete and outer surfaces of excellent stone, or good brick made of fired clay, allowed them to erect the massive structures which survive to this day. The mixture was placed in wooden frames and left to dry and bond with a facing of brick or stone, a little like the casting of statues in bronze or other metals. When completely dry, the wooden forms were removed, leaving behind solid concrete of great strength, although rough in appearance. This was often then covered with stucco or marble facing. Concrete walls were much less costly to construct than walls built of imported Greek marble, or even of local Italian tufa and travertine. It was also possible to fashion shapes out of concrete that cannot be achieved by masonry construction, especially the huge vaulted and domed ceilings (made without internal supports) that the Romans preferred over the post-and-lintel structures of the Greeks and Etruscans. Roman architecture thus became architecture of space rather than of sheer mass.

THE FIRST CIVIL ENGINEER AND THE CONCRETE LIGHTHOUSE

JOHN SMEATON (1724–92) designed windmills and water wheels, and also improved the efficiency of the steam engine by 50 per cent. He was involved in many significant works of engineering, including the construction of canals, bridges, mills and harbours. He was the first person to describe himself as a ‘Civil Engineer’ (i.e. non-military). He formed the Society of Civil Engineers in 1771. Until then most engineering works of any kind had been undertaken by the military. The president of the Royal Society recommended Smeaton for the work of reconstructing the lighthouse on the Eddystone Rocks near Plymouth. Huge waves and fires had destroyed previous lighthouses there. The shape of Smeaton’s lighthouse was inspired by that of an oak tree, tapering upwards from a wide base to give it greater stability. The base was constructed of blocks of granite, which were dovetailed into each other and the rock itself. He had carried out research into various materials which might be used for an effective mortar which could withstand the sea, developing a form of quick-drying concrete known as hydraulic lime. This is generally regarded as the first use of modern concrete in engineering. Smeaton also devised a crane which could lift the building materials up to the height of the developing lighthouse. In 1759 the Eddystone Lighthouse became operational, and survived until 1877, when cracks in the rock on which it was standing began to threaten its stability. The lighthouse was dismantled and re-erected on Plymouth Hoe, where it still stands as a tourist attraction. The Eddystone lighthouse achieved fame worldwide, and became the standard design for lighthouses from then on. Smeaton did not patent any of his innovations, believing that the good of society came before personal financial reward.

After the fall of the Roman empire, the techniques and quality of cementing materials deteriorated. The practice of heating lime and volcanic rock was lost, but was reintroduced in the 1300s. The first real breakthrough came in 1756, when John Smeaton made the first modern concrete (hydraulic cement) by adding pebbles as a coarse aggregate, and mixing powered brick into the cement. In 1824, Joseph Aspdin (1778–1855) invented ‘Portland Cement’, a derivative of which is the dominant cement now used in concrete production. He created the first true artificial cement since Romans times by heating ground limestone and clay together and then pulverizing the mixture. The firing process changed the chemical properties of the materials, and Aspdin created stronger cement than by using plain crushed limestone. Aspdin called the product Portland cement because set mortar made from it resembled the best Portland stone, the most prestigious building stone in use in England at the time. Impervious to water, it actually becomes stronger if submerged after it has set. Samples of concrete taken 30 years after a concrete boat sank during the First World War showed that the concrete had doubled its compressive strength.

Reinforced concrete (ferroconcrete) was invented in 1849 by Joseph Monier (1823–1906), who received a patent in 1867. He was a Parisian gardener who made garden pots and tubs of concrete reinforced with an iron mesh. Monier also promoted reinforced concrete for use in railway ties, pipes, floors, arches and bridges. Reinforced concrete is today the most commonly used structural material. Combining the compressive strength of concrete and the tensile strength of steel, reinforced concrete can be poured into forms and given any shape suitable to the channelling of loads. It can be sculpted to the wishes of the architect rather than assembled in prefabricated shapes. La Corbière Lighthouse in Jersey was Britain’s first reinforced concrete lighthouse. It was completed in 1874 for £8000, including the causeway and lighthouse keepers’ cottages.

The other major part of concrete besides the cement is the aggregate. Aggregates include sand, crushed stone, gravel, slag, ashes, burned shale and burned clay. Fine aggregate (fine refers to the size of aggregate) is used in making concrete slabs and smooth surfaces. Coarse aggregate is used for massive structures or sections of cement. The strength of concrete depends on the ratio of water to cement, and of cement to sand and stone. Finer and harder aggregates (sand and stone) make stronger concrete; the greater the amount of water the weaker the concrete.

By Terry Breverton in "Breverton's Encyclopedia of Inventions", Quercus Publishing, London, 2012, excerpts chapter 2. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

Adam: (/Adam Rishon). Adam is the first human being and an archetype for all humanity. One Kabbalistic teaching reveals that the word ADaM is a mystical abbreviation for the essence of human nature: Adamah (earth), Dibur (speech), and Ma’aseh (action).

God placed him in the Garden of Eden. According to Alef-Bet of ben Sira, he was wed first to Lilith, whom God had made simultaneously with him. When they argued, she flew off to become the queen of demons. Only after that did God create Eve.

He also had numerous other dealings with Angels and demons. Gabriel and Michael were the witnesses at his Wedding to Eve. Not only was he later tricked by the serpent, but he was also seduced by succubae, generating demonic offspring (Eruv. 18b; Gen. R. 20:11; PdRE 20). Before his expulsion from Eden, Adam was clothed in divine glory. After the fall, God made miraculous garments for both Adam and Eve that never wore out. Adam also received from the angel Raziel the tzohar, a gemstone holding the primordial light of Creation. Along with Eve, he was laid to rest in the Cave of Machpelah in the middle of the Garden of Eden, where their bodies lie concealed from mortal sight in a state of luminescent and fragrant preservation. The Zohar teaches that at the hour of Death every person sees Adam (Num. R. 19:18; Gen. R. 17; B. Eruv. 18b; A.Z. 8a; Sot. 9b; Tanh. Bereshit; Zohar I:127a–b)


Eve: (/Chavah). “Living [thing].” The mother of all humanity (Gen. 2–3:20), who actually is never mentioned again in any other book of the Hebrew Canon. According to one interpretative tradition, she was not the first woman God created; Alef-Bet of ben Sira claims Lilith came before her. The bulk of Jewish tradition, however, does not ascribe to the Lilith tradition. Instead, it teaches that God created Eve by dividing the androgynous Adam in half, separating his masculine and feminine aspects (Ber. 61a; Eruv. 18a; Gen. R. 8:1; Sefer ha-Likkutim 5b). God erected ten bejeweled canopies to serve as her bridal chambers. Angels were the witnesses and musicians at her Wedding to Adam.

The demons Samael, in the form of a serpent, seduced her both mentally and physically while her guardian angels were away (Sot. 9b; Shab. 196a; AdRN 1:4). The corruption he ejaculated into her continued on down through the generations, adversely affecting humanity until the giving of the Torah, a myth that becomes prominent in Kabbalah (Zohar I:37a, 54a). Samael persuaded her to eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and to induce Adam to do the same. She bore Cain and Abel on the same day; Cain was the child of her demonic lover, while Abel was the child of Adam.

After the birth of Abel, she and Adam separated for 130 years. During that time, incubi had intercourse with her in her sleep and she bore them many demons (Gen. R. 20:11). Some traditions hold that her third son, Seth, was actually her first child by Adam (Gen. R. 22:2, 23:5; PdRE 13). She was buried with her husband in the Cave of Machpelah (PdRE 20).

In Hebrew amulet traditions, Eve’s name is frequently invoked in amulet incantations. Despite her besmirching by later interpretations, this tradition regards her to be a meritorious ancestor whose name offers protection.

By Geoffrey W. Dennis in "The Encyclopedia of Jewish Myth, Magic and Mysticism", second edition, Llewellyn Publications, USA, 2016. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

Kabbalah: “[Esoteric] Tradition.” “Kabbalah” (sometimes translated as “mysticism” or “occult knowledge”) is a part of Jewish tradition that is preoccupied with “inner” meaning. Whether it entails a text, an experience, or the way things work, Kabbalists believe that the world does not wear its heart on its sleeve, that God truly moves in mysterious ways. But true knowledge and understanding of that inner, mysterious process is obtainable, and through that knowledge, the greatest intimacy with God is attainable.

Technically, the term “Kabbalah” only applies to the form of Jewish occult gnosis that emerged in medieval Spain and Provence from the 12th century on. Jews outside the circle of academia, however, use the term “Kabbalah” as a catchall for Jewish esotericism in all its forms.

The distinctive perspective that Kabbalists bring to their intellectual enterprise, the one that makes it “mysticism,” which is the desire to experience intimacy with God, is the tendency to see the Creator and the Creation as on a continuum, rather than as discrete entities. This is especially true with regards to the powerful mystical sense of kinship between God and humanity. Within the soul of every individual is a hidden part of God that is waiting to be revealed. And even mystics who refuse to so boldly describe such a fusion of God and man nevertheless find the whole of Creation suffused in divinity, breaking down distinctions between God and the universe. Thus, the Kabbalist Moses Cordovero writes, “The essence of divinity is found in every single thing, nothing but It exists … It exists in each existent.”

There are three dimensions to almost all forms of Jewish esotericism: the investigative, the experiential, and the practical. The first dimension, that of investigative Kabbalah, involves the quest for gnosis, or special knowledge: plumbing the hidden reality of the universe (the nature of the Godhead), understanding the cosmogony (origins), and cosmology (organization) of the universe, and apprehending the divine economy of spiritual forces in the cosmos. This is, technically speaking, an esoteric discipline more than it is a mystical one, which is to say, its more about acquiring secret knowledge than it is experiencing God directly.

So how does the speculative Kabbalist come by his special insight into the inner workings of God and world? There are fundamentally three ways in which esoteric knowledge is obtained in Jewish tradition:
1. Through textual interpretation which uncovers nistar, or “hidden” meaning
2. Through the traditions transmitted orally by a Kabbalistic master
3. By means of some sort of direct revelation. Examples of this include visitation by an angel, or Elijah, by spirit possession, or other supra-rational experience.

Although it is primarily interested in metaphysics, things “beyond” the physical universe, it would be a grave mistake to say that investigative Kabbalah is anti-rational. All Jewish mystical/esoteric traditions adopt the language of, and expand upon, the philosophic and even scientific ideas of their time.

The second dimension is the experiential, which entails the actual quest for mystical experience: a direct, intuitive, unmediated encounter with a close but concealed deity. As Abraham Joshua Heschel puts it, mystics “want to taste the whole wheat of spirit before it is ground by the millstones of reason.” The mystic specifically seeks the ecstatic experience of God, not merely knowledge about God. In their quest to encounter God, Jewish mystics live spiritually disciplined lives. While Jewish mysticism gives no sanction to monasticism, either formal or informal, experiential Kabbalists tend to be ascetics. And though Judaism keeps its mystics grounded—they are expected to marry, raise a family, and fulfill all customary communal religious obligations—they willfully expand the sphere of their pietistic practice beyond what tradition requires. Many Kabbalists create hanganot (“personal daily devotional practices”). Thus, in his will, one Kabbalist recommended this regime to his sons: periods of morning, afternoon, evening, and midnight Prayer; two hours devoted to the Bible, four and a half to Talmud, two to ethical and mystical texts, and two to other Jewish texts; one and a half hours to daily care, time to make a living—and five hours to sleep !

The third dimension is the practical, theurgic, or pragmatic Kabbalah (Kabbalah Maasit or Kabbalah Shimmush); the application of mystical power to effect change in our world, and the celestial worlds beyond ours. Practical Kabbalah consists of rituals for gaining and exercising power. It involves activating theurgic potential by the way one performs the commandments, the summoning and controlling of angelic and demonic forces, and otherwise tapping into the supernatural energies present in Creation. The purpose of tapping into the practical Kabbalah is to further God’s intention in the world: to advance good, subdue evil, heal, and mend. The true master of this art fulfills the human potential to be a co-creator with God.

Historians of Judaism identify many schools of Jewish esotericism across time, each with its own unique interests and beliefs.

As I noted, Jewish mystics are not like monks or hermits. Kabbalists tend to be part of social circles rather than lone seekers. With few exceptions, such as the wandering mystic Abraham Abulafia, esoterically inclined Jews congregate in mystical brotherhoods and associations. It is not unusual for a single master to bring forth a new and innovative mystical school, which yields multiple generations of that particular mystical practice. While Kabbalah has been the practice of select Jewish “circles” up to this day, we know most of what we know from the many literary works that have been recognized as “mystical” or “esoteric.”

From these mystical works, scholars identify many distinctive mystical schools, including the Hechalot mystics, the German Pietist, the Zoharic Kabbalah, the ecstatic school of Abraham Abulafia, the teachings of Isaac Luria, and Chasidism. Scholars can break these groupings down even further based on individual masters and their disciples. Most mystical movements are deeply indebted to the writings of earlier schools, but as often as not, they add many innovative interpretations and new systems of thought to these existing teachings.

An important historical feature of Jewish esotericism is the tendency to compose mystical and esoteric works as pseudepigrapha—to portray a new revelation as the product of antiquity or of a particular worthy figure of the past. This is characteristic of many prominent mystical texts written before the dawn of the modern era, such as Hechalot texts, the Bahir, the Zohar, and of the writings of the Circle of the Unique Cherub. The practice of producing credited works only takes hold from the 15th to the 16th century onward.

By Geoffrey W. Dennis in "The Encyclopedia of Jewish Myth, Magic and Mysticism", second edition, Llewellyn Publications, USA, 2016. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

A História acusa Catarina de toda espécie de complôs. A gente a vê velha, com seu rosto duro, apoiada na cadeira real de Carlos IX lhe dando conselhos de traição e de ódio...

Mas há uma outra parte dela: alguns a acham uma mulher corajosa, cujo principal defeito foi ter sido mal educada; transportada à França ela se devotou à saúde do Estado e defendeu por todos meios a seu alcance o trono a seus filhos. Tentemos compreendê-la.

Ela nasceu em 13 de abril de 1519 em Florença, no Palácio da Via Larga, construído por Cosme, o Velho. Seu pai era Lourenço de Médicis, Duque d'Urbino; sua mãe Madalena de La Tour d'Auvergne. Desde o início há algo apontando seu destino. Seus pais logo morrem. Após uma pequena viagem a Roma, onde dois de seus tios - Leão X e Clemente VII - são papas quase sucessivamente, ela volta a Florença onde está havendo uma insurreição popular. Ela encontra asilo no convento das religiosas beneditinas das Murates; dali ela pode ouvir o clamor do povo que saqueia as igrejas e quebra estátuas.

Em 1529 enquanto uma armada de espanhóis e de mercenários alemães a soldo do papa sitia a cidade, ela é tratada como uma garantia. E arrancada de seu convento apesar do choro das religiosas que desejam protegê-la e Catarina é aprisionada em um convento bem menor; um exaltado propõe arrastá-la sobre as muralhas para assim expô-la aos choques inimigos. A cidade cede.

Em 1539 Catarina é levada a Roma, confiada a Maria Salviati, viúva de João de Médicis, o antigo chefe dos Bandos Negros, e à Duquesa de Camerino, damas respeitáveis para época. É uma menina de 11 ou 12 anos e Bronzino no-la descreve: cabelos pretos, a fronte arqueada, os olhos redondos à flor da pele, herança dos Médicis; sobrancelhas fortemente arqueadas, o nariz um pouco grosso... O conjunto está longe de ser bonito, mas ela tem graça e distinção. De caráter é amável, insinuante e sabe se fazer apreciar: no Murates as freiras a amam ternamente; em Roma ela agrada ao pessoal do papa e os embaixadores estrangeiros a acham muito gentil.

A Itália que ela vai logo deixar a marca bem. "O Príncipe" de Maquiavel foi dedicado a seu pai; o livro trata de política e de governo — ensina aos príncipes italianos os meios de conservarem e firmarem seu poder no interesse da Itália. Foi escrito em 1513.

É possível que ela o tenha lido mais de uma vez. Em Florença sua inteligência precoce deve se abrir bem às intrigas e compreender bem as coisas; em Roma ela está bem no centro da diplomacia a mais tortuosa e a mais sutil, como sempre.

Ela tem por professor seu tio, o papa Clemente VII. Então ela aprende a dissimular, se concentrar em si mesma. Mas a civilização romana papal e a arte da Renascença lhe inspiram uma preocupação de vida refinada e de um sentido de Beleza que ela nunca perderá. É assim que ela mantém um ar de dignidade, uma correção de conduta que será conservada durante toda sua carreira de esposa e mesmo de viúva. Muitos anos mais tarde, quando a injuriam com escritos nos muros do Louvre, Catarina pode dizer: "Graças a Deus é a coisa do mundo da qual eu sou a mais limpa e o agradeço a Deus".

Na questão de seu casamento, se ela fosse livre se teria casado com seu primo Hipólito de Médicis, filho natural de Juliano de Médicis. Mas o papa tinha outras intenções para ela - seria melhor um casamento político. Houve muitos pretendentes (apenas como curiosidade, o Rei da Escócia, futuro pai de Maria Stuart também estava nessa lista) e finalmente a escolha recaiu sobre o delfim da França, o futuro Henrique II que na ocasião usava o título de Henrique d'Orleans, segundo filho de Francisco I.

Em 23 de outubro de 1533 Catarina chegou a Marselha — ela tinha 14 anos... O Rei da França e seu noivo a esperavam. Apresentações solenes e, alguns dias mais tarde, foi celebrado o casamento. Segundo os muitos relatos da época há descrição da cerimônia, do cortejo de cardeais, dos pajens, das damas de honra, da magnificência das roupas...

Logicamente a mocinha era o centro de todos os olhares; ela vestia uma roupa de brocado e um corpinho de veludo violeta guarnecido de arminho. Seus cabelos estavam tão carregados de pedrarias que disse dela um contemporâneo: "ela vale um reino!"... Pode haver exagero, mas as pedras de seu enxoval eram belíssimas.

Quando as festas terminaram, o dote foi contado no tesouro geral da França e houve quem fizesse trejeito de quem não gostou.

Da Itália brilhante e refinada para a França, país de soldadesca dura, a diferença era grande. Esses tempos nos deixaram grandes belezas, mas isso era exceção; a maioria da população era impenetrada. A vida dos senhores assim como a vida dos burgueses era rude; também rudes eram seus modos de falar e suas maneiras. As penalidades eram terríveis: o ladrão era enforcado, o herético era queimado e o moedeiro falso era mergulhado em líquido fervente.

O espetáculo do suplício era muito procurado pela corte e a boa sociedade. Não havia respeito pela personalidade humana. Um tal Tavannes escreveu suas "Memórias"

dizendo que, se murmurando "padres-nossos" se enforcava, matava-se a tiros, se esquartejava, se queimava a cidade — "ponha-se fogo por todo o redor, um quarto de légua..."

Mas havia um lugar onde havia boas maneiras e boa linguagem — era a corte. Lá se agrupavam os funcionários do Estado e os "convidados da casa": oficiais, gentil homens, damas de honra, abades de todas as convicções, sem contar a massa de parasitas, literatos, inventores, pedinchões, etc., etc., todo um mundo de gente vivendo da generosidade do Rei. Cada soberano constituía "seus convidados" segundo seu gosto ao luxo ou à sociabilidade. Uma alegria franca e de bom quilate; alegria de gente cumulada de bens levando uma existência perfeita, sem receios do amanhã e cuja festança nada tinha de monótona, pois a corte peregrinava de castelo em castelo, acampava às vezes sob tendas, sempre enfeitada, e até mesmo luxuosa. Sem dúvida havia pessoas que se ocupavam de coisas sérias, mas a maioria, não. As conversações começavam desde as últimas horas da manhã até tarde da noite. À tarde um príncipe cantava canções napolitanas as quais as damas adoravam... A galanteria era a ocupação constante.

Alguém desse tempo comentou: "o mau é que na França as mulheres se metem em tudo; o Rei lhes devia fechar a boca; é daí que saem os mexericos, as calúnias". E Tavannes, citado acima:

"Nesta corte, portanto, as mulheres fazem tudo, mesmo os generais e os capitães".

A chegada de Catarina, menina de 14 anos passou quase despercebida. Mesmo quando da morte do filho mais velho da casa real, ela se tornando "A Senhora Delfina"—

seu papel foi dos mais apagados. Duas mulheres, as amantes do velho Rei e do futuro Rei influenciavam muito os mandatários: a Duquesa d'Étampes e Diana de Poitiers.

Esta Diana teve dos contemporâneos uma admiração sem limites; fizeram dela o tipo de beleza perfeita. Seus retratos nos dão uma outra impressão. É uma mulher vigorosa, de carnação rica, de traços mediocremente regulares, com um ar de beleza saudável. Viúva do Sr. de Saint-Vallier, casada em 1515, levava todos os dias flores ao túmulo do falecido Luís de Brézé. Mas tanto se empenhou em conquistar Henrique, que o conseguiu, apesar de ser 18 anos mais velha que ele. Em 1536 o laço entre eles estava bem estabelecido.

Para Catarina a luta era impossível. Ela pedia apenas ao esposo um pouco de amizade e se esforçava em criar simpatias entre as pessoas que cercavam o Rei. Ela conseguiu com Margarida d'Angoulême (irmã de Francisco I), Duquesa d'Étampes, e muitos outros personagens de posição. Mas com relação a Diana ela teve de recalcar seus sentimentos.

Se Catarina teve uma ferida secreta, nunca demonstrou, entretanto manteve com essa dama relações muito corteses; Diana tinha por ela "uma proteção um pouco altaneira"...

Úteis precauções! Catarina andava entre os partidos, desarmava inimizades e assegurava os devotamentos. Ligou-se ao Rei, cercou-o de lisonjas, montou a cavalo para lhe dar prazer e seguiu intrepidamente as caças até o final rude e sem piedade ao animal.

Com estes pequenos engenhos ela ganhou as boas graças dele e, de futuro, teve ocasião de apreciar o quanto isto lhe foi útil.

Durante 10 anos não teve filhos. Questão seríssima! O esposo a podia repudiar. Ela foi ao Francisco I, emocionada, chorando, lhe pedindo proteção. Ele, um homem que tão bem soube governar a França, lhe respondeu: "Minha filha, se Deus quis você como minha nora, eu não quero que isto seja doutra forma; talvez Deus queira se render aos seus e aos nossos desejos..."

As crianças foram numerosas — 7 chegaram a adultos. Logicamente sua posição foi fortificada. Os anos se passaram e ela se tornou Rainha. Uma manhã do desastre da Revolução de São Quentim ela foi encarregada da regência provisória do reino e revelou recursos políticos e uma energia que não se supunha ela tivesse. Mesmo com isso ela continuou permitindo o mando da Poitiers.

Seu 1° filho — Francisco, mais tarde se casa com a futura Rainha da Escócia; seu Carlos foi o Rei cujos feitos, alguns, aparecem nesta história; Henrique foi Rei da Polônia e depois, como Henrique III foi Rei da França por 15 anos. Elizabeth se casou com o Rei da Espanha. Seu "bandinho", como eram chamados, cresceu sob suas atenções maternais. Ela acha que suas crianças pertencem à França.

Ela tem afeto pelo marido e às vezes, em suas cartas, deixa perceber uma mágoa.

Talvez sinta que sua posição é falsa e humilhante. Ela escreve à Duquesa de Guise: "se a senhora vir o Rei, apresente-lhe minhas muito humildes recomendações; gostaria de ser Margarida para poder vê-lo... Penso que a senhora tenha ainda muito tempo para estar com seu marido; praza Deus eu pudesse estar com o meu!"

Mas, coisa estranha! Junto a este marido, meninão musculoso, egoísta e limitado, incapaz de uma decisão, destinado a ser dominado, ela tem uma inexplicável timidez, procura ficar em seu favor, sem querer disputá-lo a quem quer que seja. Um prodígio de recalque e de dissimulação numa mulher autoritária de natureza, ávida de mando!

E isto dura 23 anos!

Em 30 de junho de 1559 um acidente trágico interrompe bruscamente as festas que a corte e a cidade davam em honra do casamento de Elisabeth de Valois. Henrique II, num passe de armas, foi ferido por uma lança do Conde de Montgomery, um dos capitães de sua guarda. A ferida se envenenou e em 10 de julho o Rei morreu. Catarina cuidou dele convenientemente, vestiu luto, ficou um dia inteiro pasmada diante do leito de morte e respondeu com voz extremamente fraca quando o embaixador veneziano veio lhe apresentar condolências.

Depois ela cumpriu um ato de autoridade que devia lhe ter tirado um peso do coração: caçou Diana de Poitiers da corte. A favorita tinha 50 anos.

Outros atos vão chegar à natureza há longo tempo reprimida de agir livremente?

Não! O seu filho mais velho tem 15 anos, é maior, ama e respeita sua mãe. Casado, este Francisco II por 14 meses se torna Rei, É quando então ele tem uma infecção de ouvido e, apesar de Ambrósio Pare querer operá-lo, Catarina não permite e o rapazinho morre. Sua esposa, Maria Stuart vai para Escócia.

O povo diz ser esta morte uma fadiga de caça ou um resfriado pego diante da queima de um huguenote.

O novo Rei tem apenas 10 anos — é o nosso Carlos IX. Chegou a hora de Catarina, pois o 1° príncipe de sangue real que tem idade para ser Rei, Antônio de Bourbon, está incapaz de sustentar seus direitos; os Guise estão desacreditados para tal cargo e ela se torna regente, senhora do Estado.

Então ela estava com 41 anos. Estava engordando, mas permanecia ativa, boa cavalgadora. Tinha desenvolvido conhecimentos, falava duas ou três línguas, possuía algumas noções de ciência, e, sobretudo, ela tinha estudado os homens. Mas Catarina ainda estava sob as doutrinas políticas de Clemente VII e dos que o rodeavam. Ela possuía, como no passado o dom de bajular, de se insinuar, espionando amigos e adversários, fazendo complô contra os fortes — aqueles que se teme atacar de frente... todos meios legítimos quando se tratava do Estado. Era a maior mentirosa da França.

Brantôme, o memorialista, escreveu sobre isso: "Quando ela chama alguém de meu amigo, ou ela acha que ele é bobo, ou ela está com raiva..."

E a gente percebe que esta Rainha, que, em circunstâncias ordinárias, com conselheiros de médio talento teria podido verdadeiramente salvaguardar os interesses do reino, se achou em presença duma crise terrível, onde suas habilidades se revelaram impotentes, onde suas práticas se tornaram crimes.

Texto de J.W.Rochester/Wera Krijanowskaia  em "A Noite de São Bartolomeu", Boa Nova Editora, 1993. Digitalizado, adaptado e ilustrado para ser postado por Leopoldo Costa.

Mal D. Pedro II embarcou para o Brasil, a camaleoa mergulhou fundo na vida parisiense. Ela mesmo ria de sua situação: "Corro como um cachorro magro e nunca dou conta do que tenho a fazer." Os anos que passou cuidando de negócios, escrevendo cartas para os engenhos no Brasil ou para os banqueiros ingleses, tinham resultado numa situação financeira confortável. Sua renda sustentava seu cotidiano e lazer. Ela morava num endereço prestigioso, o bulevar Haussmann, e possuía recursos para cruzar o canal da Mancha ou percorrer a Itália sempre que ansiasse por cenários diferentes. Viajava com o filho como prêmio por boas notas no Liceu. Por ser uma viúva rica, o que inspirava respeito numa sociedade que tinha preconceitos contra mulheres solitárias e sem dinheiro, usaria vestidos escuros e papel tarjado de preto até o fim dos dias. Mas nem por isso estava isolada do mundo. Os contatos com os príncipes de Joinville lhe asseguravam uma agenda cheia. Seus méritos de fascinante contadora de histórias também garantiam-lhe lugar à mesa do príncipe de Aumale, no seu magnífico castelo em Chantilly. A vida teatral, as soirées, os chás, as atividades de benemerência misturavam-se aos cuidados com o filho que tomava lugar cada vez mais espaçoso em sua vida. "É meu corpo e minha alma", definiu certa vez para o ciumento imperador.

Na Paris daquela época, nada faltava e todos os gostos encontravam do que se fartar: o peixe mais fino, as ostras frescas, o faisão, o javali ou o abacaxi. As adegas transbordavam de champanhe e vinhos finos. Luísa oferecia jantares e brincava com D. Pedro que se ele estivesse presente teria servido canja. Mas para ela, foie gras!

Sua pupila Isabel desembarcou pela segunda vez na Europa. O roteiro era Viena, Paris e Itália. A princesa vinha sofrida. Tinha problemas para engravidar e garantir a sucessão do trono. Vinha, também, amarga.

Sua regência, na ausência do pai, foi um fiasco. Bem que pedira a Deus inspiração para lidar com um parlamento dividido. Bem que tentou imitar a rainha Vitória. Bem que aguentou os insultos da bancada oposicionista e assinou a Lei do Ventre Livre, mas nada a fazia querida dos súditos ou respeitada pelos políticos. Murmurava-se que não substituiria o pai. Não haveria "Terceiro Reinado". Luísa conhecia bem a maldição da esterilidade. Compreendia o quanto o problema de Isabel fragilizava a monarquia no Brasil. Sofreu durante anos, até engravidar de Dominique. Só então trouxe conforto ao pai e ao marido e deu continuação à família.

Isabel e o conde D'Eu chegaram em meio às discussões da família sobre a Restauração. Napoleão III morreu em 9 de janeiro de 1873 e Bourbons e Orléans se engalfinhavam para definir o que seria melhor para a França. A Assembléia Nacional discutia as possibilidades de restabelecer a monarquia. Nem uma nem outra. A solução foi o general Mac Mahon assumir a presidência por dez anos. Mas outros problemas atormentavam uma parte da família, mais ligada à geração de Isabel e do conde D'Eu.

Uma série de adultérios lhe manchava a honra. O primo de Isabel, o duque de Chartres, traía a apaixonada Chiquita com uma condessa italiana mais velha e ex-amante do tio, a Castiglioni — que aliás o chamava ternamente de "meu príncipe canalha". A cunhada, Sofia da Baviera, traía o duque de Alençon, com o médico ginecologista, de quem teve um filho bastardo. O duque de Penthièvre, que se recusou a casar com as princesas brasileiras, assumiu um caso com uma plebéia de quem teve dois filhos. Enfim, a família Orléans estava longe de dar o exemplo de perfeição conjugal.

Neste clima de pequenos escândalos, Luísa percorria as grandes igrejas em companhia da princesa Chicá (d. Francisca, irmã de D. Pedro II), para ouvir pregadores renomados e pedir perdão pelos pecados de todos. Isabel ia junto. Um clima de rigor moral que a Comuna acentuou só fazia crescer. A pupila acompanhava a mentora incorporando mais e mais o estilo piedoso de que Luísa lançava mão. As orações serviam também para pedir um herdeiro: "Deus, dai-me filhos!", implorava Isabel. Foram à gruta de Lourdes fazer promessa à Virgem Maria, tocaram a pedra onde Ela teria aparecido e compraram terços bentos.

O destino da mulher no século XIX era o de criar a prole. Não à toa, as famílias brasileiras tinham dez, 12 crianças. Nas famílias de elite, elas eram um instrumento para multiplicar as fortunas por meio de casamentos. Isabel teve vários abortos até que, em novembro de 1873, chegou a boa notícia: ela estava grávida. A alegria durou pouco. Uma menina nasceu morta oito meses depois. Para consolar a mãe, alugou-se uma casa em Petrópolis.

Em pouco tempo, Dominique, que entrou no serviço diplomático francês, partiu para o Rio de Janeiro em primeira missão. Luísa foi atrás do filho e de Isabel. Em agosto de 1875, anotava no diário: "De retorno do Rio a Petrópolis." Instalou-se numa casinha com flores, o chalé Miranda. "Só falta Dominique para ser totalmente feliz." D. Pedro ficava nas sombras. Estes eram outros tempos e, agora, havia o filho dela e a filha dele entre o casal. Os dois solicitando atenções. Logo, os cuidados eram redobrados. "Os dias se parecem e as noites são passadas no palácio."

Ainda assim, várias vezes, anotou enternecida no diário, "Excelente visita do Imperador".

Ele, por sua vez, confidenciava aos amigos: "A companhia da Senhora de Barral foi para nós uma grande consolação e durante a doença de minha filha pude ver a que ponto ela me é afeiçoada." A encantadora música que só Luísa sabia produzir voltou a seduzir. Anos mais tarde, D. Pedro escreveria incessantemente sobre o chalé Miranda: "Passei de tarde. Que saudades de você! Como atacaria o chalé Miranda, se você o defendesse [...] quantas saudades lhe mandei!" E totalmente romântico: "hoje, quando passei pelo chalé, colhi florzinhas para você."

Um amor de outono: ele, de barbas brancas e precocemente envelhecido; ela, pequena e envolta nos vestidos pretos da viuvez. Ambos detentores de um forte sentimento de respeito e carinho mútuo. E mais importante, Luísa e Pedro tinham conservado uma maneira de amar e de gozar a vida sem se deixarem contaminar pelos sofrimentos que ela lhes trouxera.

Enquanto o milagre do amor e da discrição se operava no chalé Miranda, a princesa Isabel, alheia às realidades políticas e econômicas do país, mergulhou na vida devota. Luísa ia junto com ela varrer as igrejas, adorar o Santo Sacramento, enfeitar os altares de Nossa Senhora. Isabel engravidou outra vez e a presença de Luísa a acalmava. No final da gestação, Luísa ficou encarregada de fazer as honras da casa à mulher do médico francês que veio fazer o parto da princesa.

O parto foi terrível. "Achei-a assustada, de cama [...] às 23h30 fui ao Paço avisar Suas Majestades que já dormiam e o Imperador me apareceu de ceroulas e camisa, muito engraçado! Às 5h30 fórceps, a criança já sofrendo e precipitando a deitar mecônio. A carinha para baixo tinha feitio de bicho. A princesa animada por minhas súplicas de força para salvar a criança, fez esforços grandes e, afinal, saiu um menino mas quase asfixiado, todo roxo e fazendo lástima. [...] O senhor Depaul e eu fomos para o outro quarto insuflar, beliscar, dar palmadas, fazer cócegas, dar banhos com aguardente, vinagre esfregado, panos quentes [...] mais de uma hora depois do nascimento, ele chorou." Luísa levou o menino aos braços da mãe. Tinham se passado 11 anos do casamento de Isabel. O parto custou 100 mil francos.

Nos meses seguintes, Luísa se dividiu entre os membros da família real.

Ela jantava com a princesa todas as noites, brigava com D. Pedro por este não reagir aos ataques dos políticos, defendia a pobre Teresa Cristina: "Que tirania! Não seria eu a me submeter a isto!" Dominique se entediava. A mãe evitava que ele se aproximasse muito da Corte para "evitar a gozação dos colegas". Murmúrios continuavam a correr sobre sua presença. Alguns jornais a chamavam de velha. Ela reagia. "Não acho graça." Certamente não se sentia inútil. Suas graças ainda incentivavam cenas de ciúmes de D. Pedro, como quando ela recebeu um conhecido amigo francês: "Cem anos que eu viva, sempre a mesma no físico, direi que o Imperador foi muito tolo nesse negócio. Se ele já tivesse viajado e saído de sua Corte de velhas corujas — ou seja, se tivesse abandonado seu provincianismo —, saberia que não há nada de mal entre um velho amigo e uma Senhora de meu respeito. Mas realmente eu creio que ele tinha ciúmes de mim." E, vaidosa, confessava, "deixa estar que eu tinha meu desvanecimento disso tudo".

Certa feita, Luísa acompanhou a cavalo o imperador numa visita a Friburgo. Foram visitar os banhos que o doutor Éboli instalou na cidade e que julgavam aconselhável para a esterilidade da princesa. Lá, o Hotel Leuenroth substituiu o chalé Miranda. Ele a visitou: "Eis o começo das tristes separações." Em fevereiro começaram as despedidas, pois ela voltaria para Paris. Com o coração partido, Luísa escondia as lágrimas:

"Chorei tanto que adormeci de um sono de chumbo.""Estive em São Cristóvão pa ra despedir-me do imperador. Quanta dor, estou rasgada por dentro. Adeus, Brasil!"

Os dois anos passados em Petrópolis voaram. Mais uma vez, ela voltou com louros: Dominique agora tinha um posto e licença para terminar em Paris o curso de Direito. Fez escalas na Bahia. Antes mesmo de tocar o chão de Salvador, recebeu carta do imperador com muitas saudades e assinando-se "sempre, sempre o seu P."! Andou alegremente de bonde pela Cidade Alta e Baixa, abraçou as primas que continuavam sua obra de caridade e foi rezar ao pé do mausoléu no Campo Santo, agradecendo ao "excelente velho" o exemplo que lhe deu. Ali, deixou enterrado mais um problema. O filho de Alexandre Borges, Dominguinhos, que na infância foi tratado de pequeno ogro: "pobre homem que encontrei tão mudado e envelhecido."

O tempo só passava para os outros... Apesar da cabeça branca e de sexagenária, Luísa ainda estava firme como uma rocha. Em Recife, ficou aguardando outro telegrama. Mas ele não veio. Luísa reclamou e teve a resposta seguinte: "Se sua amabilidade para comigo é amizade, como a que lhe consagro, e tantas saudades me causa, muito me aflige que a falta de telegrama meu, para a Bahia ou Pernambuco a entristecesse, fazendo-a supor que a minha afeição diminuíra." Mal desembarcou na Europa, registrou, vitoriosa, "o Imperador mandou um telegrama para saber de minha chegada!".

Por sua vez, ela enviou notícias à princesa Isabel. Não perdia o humor ao lhe contar que chegara a Paris, "magra como um xangô [peixinho baiano], toda desbarrigada e tão cheia de rugas e pelancas que comparo minha cara com o pau que chamam disponcho"! Mas confiante nos encantos restantes, prosseguia: "Ainda hoje, Vossa Alteza nem pode calcular e veja lá como sou vaidosa, que bonita figura ainda faço quando converso com algum homem de merecimento. Outro dia foi com o senhor Lesseps que fiz meus brilhos."

Lesseps era simplesmente um dos mais conhecidos empresários e diplomatas europeus, além de construtor do canal de Suez.

Ah! Sedutora camaleoa.

O ano de 1876 preparava muita agitação, tanto para Luísa quanto para Pedro. D. Teresa Cristina ia de mal a pior. Sentia-se exausta e tossia sem parar. D. Pedro escreveu a Luísa pedindo-lhe que agendasse encontro com um famoso neurologista, o doutor Charcot, em Bruxelas. Com a desculpa de tratar da saúde da mulher, D. Pedro iria para a Europa, via Estados Unidos. Aproveitava para visitar a Exposição Universal de Filadélfia e conhecer o telefone, recém-inventado. Convidou Luísa para acompanhá-los. Ela respondeu com pesar: não ia poder.

Aos 52 anos, D. Pedro contudo não esquecia a envolvente sexagenária. As cartas seguiam umas atrás das outras com "muitíssimas saudades" e notícias: "As festas da colocação da primeira pedra da igreja e abertu ra do hospital estiveram brilhantes em Petrópolis; porém que saudades!

Bem sabe de quem.""Tomara já o mês de julho", anunciando as viagens que fariam juntos pela Europa. "A 26, começo já a andar para lá, embora por caminho comprido demais para as saudades", anunciando a data da partida. E martelava, "creia que olho sempre com imensas saudades para os quartinhos do anexo do hotel Leuenroth". E antecipando o novo rompimento, "E depois de minha volta da Europa, que fará você? Então é que terei saudades, que nenhuma amabilidade disfarçará"!

Enquanto o imperador se afogava em ternura, preparando a viagem, uma nova fase se delineava na vida da camaleoa. O filho crescido atendia, mais e mais, aos compromissos sociais exigidos pela carreira. Luísa ficava só. Os anos também passavam para os amigos. Saía -se menos.

Luísa anotava as impressões de solidão em seu diário. D. Pedro seguia escrevendo e preenchendo o vazio da vida dela. Todos os dias seguia um bilhete contando amenidades e entre uma frase e outra, "Muitas saudades. [...] O luar tem aumentado as saudades. Tem você também saudade? Ninguém lhe quis ou quer mais do que o seu P. Nada de cartas de você; não lhe perdôo, as saudades são muitas por cá. Mando-lhe este retrato.

[...] Tomara já vê-la! Não me demore um instante e queira-me como lhe quero. [...] Felizmente seu amigo ainda está forte, e só lhe pede a companhia que tanta falta lhe faz". E assinava-se "sempre seu", "todo seu" ou "cada vez mais seu".

Apesar dos arrufos da primeira viagem e do sentimento de culpa que tinha em relação ao filho, Luísa se deixava tocar pela insistência do imperador. O paquete Rússia atracou na Inglaterra e ela foi a seu encontro em Bruxelas como ele insistentemente recomendara. Como membro da comitiva, participou ao almoço que o rei Leopoldo II ofereceu a D. Pedro II. O assunto? A beleza da rainha dos belgas em contraste com a "moléstia" de D. Teresa Cristina.

A imperatriz ficou sob os cuidados de Charcot e de Luísa. Enquanto o imperador seguia em frente, prometendo a Barral reencontrá-la em Constantinopla, Teresa Cristina registrava em seu diário: "O imperador partiu para sua longa viagem e eu fiquei aqui neste hotel." Resignava-se.

Quanto à idéia de revê-lo, Luísa resistia um pouco, alegando que a situação nos Bálcãs não era das melhores. D. Pedro desfazia seus receios.

Enquanto percorria a Escandinávia e a Rússia, ele lhe escrevia a cada dois dias, sempre insistindo: "Ainda bem que escreveu uma boa cartinha [...] por cá não cessam as saudades [...] não são menores as saudades. São como mato. Você não as sente como eu, seu P." D. Pedro lhe mandava conchas das praias de Odessa, comprava-lhe tapetes persas nos mercados, não a esquecia ao ver "monumentos, quadros ou auroras". As comunicações eram frenéticas. Ela não ficava atrás e cobrava notícias, obrigando-o a reagir, "Não posso estar mandando telegramas a todos os instantes".

A esgríma se estabelecia por meio da correspondência, enquanto um combate ia no coração de Luísa. Seus fantasmas pouco tinham a ver com o declínio do Império Otomano ou a emergência de um sultanato autoritário em Istambul, motivo de aparentes preocupações para não pisar na Grécia. Na verdade, Luísa temia ser abandonada, temia ficar velha e feia. Amar de longe, sem esperança e só para ela mesma não lhe parecia razoável. Atenas seria um momento de definição neste projeto que consistia em substituir a amante pela amiga. Amiga eterna, confidente privilegiada, mas sem beijos furtivos. Afinal, Luísa sentia que a diferença de idade começava a pesar. No diário acentuava a passa gem do tempo.

Ele pedindo emplastros para dores e ela assinalando, "saudades de votre coitada". Para espantar este declínio, ela investia ainda mais no que os franceses chamavam então um "amour de tête". Ou seja, um amor baseado em idéias ou nas afinidades do espírito.

Ela tinha razão em mudar de estratégia. Pois esta foi a vez dele, homem maduro e bem-apessoado, merecer os cuidados de suas suspirantes. A primeira foi uma senhorita passada dos 30 anos, Mademoiselle de Kantsow, bisneta de um diplomata sueco no Rio de Janeiro. Luísa a considerava "uma deliciosa jovem sueca", cicerone ideal para o roteiro escandinavo que foi de Dorttningholn a Moscou. Trocaram retratos e bilhetes plenos de confiança e amizade. Ao deixá-la, o Imperador a presenteou com um bracelete de ouro com versículos do Corão em esmalte.

Mais inquietante, contudo, foi a presença de Miss Caldwell, amiga de infância que a própria Luísa lhe tinha apresentado.

Em dupla, as senhoritas Caldwell e Kantsow acompanhavam o imperador aos museus e teatros, "que para elas estariam fechados", resmungava a ciumenta Luísa. E puxando-lhe a orelha: "Você pode imaginar a felicidade de Miss Caldwell que me escreveu uma carta entusiasmada sobre Vossa Majestade.""E um flerte um pouco inquietante. Mas, sinceramente, é preciso ser inglesa para isto. Ela estará de volta em Londres em seis semanas e tudo isto [ou seja, os suspiros pelo imperador] se diz e se faz com uma calma invejável", reclamava.

Mas ela reclamava um pouco sem razão, pois ele não parou de lhe escrever e reiterar seus sentimentos: "Muitas saudades. Muitíssimas tenho tido. Cheguei há pouco à Odessa; vou-me aproximando do encontro, mas ainda faltam dez dias." Parecia contar as horas. E dois dias depois:  "Quem me dera já o dia 2 de outubro." Era a data do sonhado encontro.

Atenas em 1876: o porto do Pireu e a cidade eram apenas pequenos povoamentos ao pé da Acrópole. Recém-independente do Império Otomano tornara-se, fazia bem pouco, a capital da Grécia. Contava uma população de pouco mais de 5 mil pessoas e, nessa época, tiveram início construções mais modernas e a ereção de prédios públicos como a Universidade, a Biblioteca Nacional e as salas de exposição de Zappelon.

D. Pedro II, Luísa e D. Teresa Cristina tinham se reunido em Constantinopla, atual Istambul: ele vindo de Odessa, e elas, das Caldas de Gastein, na Áustria. No diário, Luísa afirmava que iria servir ao casal de imperantes, não só a D. Pedro. E acrescentava que tinha enorme respeito pela imperatriz. Com ela, aliás, foi antes a Coburgo, visitar o túmulo da pupila morta, a princesa Leopoldina, e a caminho do sul ouviram juntas música de Strauss no palácio de Schoenbrunn, em Viena. Mas, no fundo, atendia exclusivamente a um pedido dele que não parava de lhe escrever: "Escreva-me, escreva-me como se conversássemos, iluminando-me: alegre-me a vida que levo aqui."

O que fizeram na Grécia? Leram juntos as páginas de Heródoto sobre as guerras da Antiguidade. Visitaram as ruínas da Acrópole e do Partenon e as salas dos museus arqueológicos. Admiraram o rochedo do Areópago e o azul do mar de Ulisses. Tiveram daquelas inúmeras "conversinhas" que ele adorava. D. Teresa Cristina, então, nova aliada e não mais antagonista, referia-se a Luísa como companheira de inúmeros passeios: a Russopolos, ao Templo de Teseu, ao Teatro de Baco. Luísa seguia seu amigo, ladeiras acima e abaixo, ambos se comportando como turistas animados. Riram maravilhosamente juntos: "Nunca vi o imperador rir tanto como esta noite, me fazendo a leitura. Um frouxo de riso tão comunicativo que cheguei a ter dores nas costelas de tanto rir", anotou.

Os sentimentos renasciam e ela se encantava com ele: "O imperador botou o boné grego que lhe caiu muito bem!""Ele me serviu de cicerone, me fazendo visitar o monumento da Lanterna de Diógenes." Passaram juntos sob o arco de Adriano e ela cheia de energia: "Caminhei rápido na frente de todo mundo para gozar, à minha maneira, desta incomparável Acrópole. Que beleza! Que beleza!" E quando ele se entusiasmava por alguma coisa bonita: "Encantada com o encantamento do imperador."

Depois de um mês, Luísa voltou para casa via Nápoles e Marselha.

"Alle 5 della mattina parti la condessa de Barral", anotou a imperatriz. "Alle 7 parti l'Imperatore" e ela ficou. D. Pedro seguiu para a Ásia menor, mas, insistia em lembrar a Luísa as "boas noites de Atenas... boas noites áticas". "Como me lembro de Atenas e você." E ela: "nosso mestre partiu de manhãzinha... Eis que começo a pensar na viagem e a ter o coração tão pesado." Em seu diário ela registrou sua exaustão física e satisfação:

"Voltei muito cansada. Mas há muito tempo não sofri tanto fisicamente e, ao mesmo tempo, fui tão feliz moralmente!" Eis o segredo. Luísa não queria mais o corpo de D. Pedro. Só seu espírito.

Depois, os imperantes também voltaram à França. E apesar das declarações de saudades a Luísa, D. Pedro deu prosseguimento ao rosário de pequenas traições começadas na viagem à Rússia. Em Paris, ele se enrabichou e, desta feita, por alguém que Luísa conhecia bem e que caracterizava como "charmante". Mas que era mais do que isso. Anne, condessa de Villeneuve, era uma das mais belas mulheres da capital. Alta, cabelos escuros, voz meiga, simplicidade tocante e muitos amores. Pois ela veio à casa de Luísa saudar os imperantes. O caso foi tórrido. Nada a ver com a discrição dos beijos roubados das "excelentes visitas" que ele fazia a Luísa.

Durou algum tempo e foi pontuado com encontros em que o erotismo falava alto: "Que loucuras cometemos na cama de dois travesseiros!" Ou, "Não consigo mais segurar a pena, ardo de desejo de te cobrir de carícias", escrevia D. Pedro em bilhetinhos enviados a Anne de Villeneuve.

Luísa parecia nada ver: "Soube estupefata que Madame de Villeneuve obtivera uma audiência particular ontem para indagar da frieza com que os tratava a ela e ao marido — filho do dono do "Jornal do Commercio"—, dizendo-lhe que gostaria de ir com os filhos ao Brasil, mas desistiriam se lhes persistisse o desprezo." Ela abafou os ciúmes. O diário não registrou as reações da mulher madura que via seu amante nos braços de outra, jovem e bela. Depois, era tão natural aceitar as traições masculinas que, sobre elas, Luísa nada teria a dizer. Sete anos depois, Anne de Villeneuve ainda mandava fotos a D. Pedro, que respondia: "Já faz bastante tempo que não recebo tuas lembranças e que falta me fazem! Conte-me o início de teu amor por mim e por que não me forçaste a gozar mais cedo da felicidade infinita de te amar."

Também pelas mãos de Luísa, outra suspírante lhe foi apresentada: a condessa Benoit D'Azy. Ela mantinha um salão onde circulavam jovens atores de teatro ou poetas. Luísa se entediava profundamente nestes encontros, mas ele achou graça na futilidade e nos diálogos com a condessa.

Por que ela não "lhe escreveria todos os dias", perguntava o imperador? Diante de uma correspondência inesperada, madame D'Azy preferiu algumas visitas galantes.

Apesar dos namoricos, no ano de 1879 o imperador parecia totalmente dominado pelas saudades de Luísa. Logo que voltou ao Brasil, chegou a se tornar enfadonho, evocando passeios românticos e cobrando: "Por que diz que Atenas foi o último lampejo? E a Suíça? E Portugal? O último não!", contestava. Numa carta atrás da outra insistia: "Você nunca me quis, nem quer, nem quererá como eu a você." Ela se machucou? Ele dizia querer consolar "a perninha estendida"! Ouvia ópera sonhando com ela quando o dueto gemia "Viens, viens"! Mas ela não vinha. E por isso, a melancolia crescia, "Fale-me de tudo lembrando-se do meu deserto em que só viceja o estudo no meio das urzes da saudade e de tantos dissabores".

Em meio ao peditório de notícias e manifestações de carinho, pingava uma referência a "alguém". "Fui com alguém a Niterói." Mas era raro.

Luísa continuava açodada pelo fantasma do dever e decidida a levar adiante a resolução de se tornar somente a melhor amiga de D. Pedro.

A sensação de culpa a mantinha longe dele. Moral, honra, virtude reprimiam os "baixos instintos", como era chamado o desejo físico, então. Mas ele insistia: "Você sabe quem foi que ocupou completamente meu coração."

Enquanto o homem morria de saudades, o político apanhava da situação do país. O partido liberal ia abrindo frentes. São Paulo, agora rasgada por ferrovias, florescia. A lavoura de café dava lucros e, na bacia de Campos, inauguravam-se modernas usinas de açúcar, em lugar das antiquadas moendas de cana. O Rio de Janeiro conhecia uma novidade: o "meeting", ou seja, um orador trovejante, rodeado do povo, atacava o governo. A inquietação se espraiava como mancha de óleo na água. Uma marcha popular foi até São Cristóvão, aos gritos, pedindo o fim do Imposto do Vintém, que era cobrado sobre o uso dos bondes. D. Pedro escrevia aos Joinville cheio de preocupações. Explicava à irmã e ao cunhado que lhe faltava paciência para enfrentar mudanças na forma de governo.

Dizia preferir ser presidente da República a imperador. Pela primeira vez, a imagem do monarca era vaiada em praça pública. Republicanismo e radicalismo avançavam. Os conservadores temiam por ele, que parecia decidir o futuro do Império no escuro.

Nessa época, Luísa se instalou em Roma para atender os compromissos profissionais do filho. Tinha amigos em toda parte e logo os reunia em ceias, eventos musicais e jogos de carta. Participavam de tais eventos diplomatas, a aristocracia romana e membros do clero, inclusive bispos e cardeais. A camaleoa tinha gosto inclusive para escolher endereços. Alugou um apartamento na Piazza di Spagna. À tarde, ela percorria os belos monumentos, visitando museus e orando nas igrejas. Verdadeira esteta, nada lhe escapava, nem os vendedores de antiguidades entre os quais se regalava comprando o que chamava de"bugigangas". Como seu pai fizera em Paris, ela também promovia o filho na cidade do papa.

Chegou mesmo a se avistar com o santo e venerável velhinho, que abençoou mãe e filho. Contava tudo a D. Pedro por meio do envio de cartas que seguiam de dois em dois dias. Ele, por sua vez, apesar de atolado em problemas políticos, adorava os relatos.

E batia sempre na mesma tecla: "Gostaria se eu lhe aparecesse aí?

Que faria? Por que havíamos de viver tão longe um do outro? Como seria bom, se estivéssemos juntos no seu quartinho em Roma. [...] Transpor-to-me até Roma nas asas da minha imaginação... Descreva-me o quarto onde mais pensa em seu amigo." E estimulado pelos vôos de balão que começavam a se tornar comuns, sonhava em ser transportado pelos ares do Brasil à Itália: "Ah, se eu caísse agora aí dentro de um balão!" O solene e respeitável imperador, bracejando entre crises ministeriais, tinha sonhos de adolescente. E sonhava acordado e sonhava dormindo: "Esta noite sonhei com você, vi-a. Conversei com você, brigamos e tornamos a fazer as pazes, quando bateram-me à porta para o banho de mar." Saberia que os sonhos apenas colocavam em cena os seus desejos?

Luísa lidava melhor com a realidade do que com a fantasia. Seu diário inchava com descrições de sua programação social. Mas também com sua preocupação com os mortos — mandava rezar missas pela alma da mãe, do pai e do marido — e os vivos. Sobretudo com o filho. Por várias vezes chamou Dominique, agora Encarregado de Negócios da Embaixada da França, para conversas sobre um assunto importante: o casamento. Além disto, preocupava-se com sua paixão pelas corridas de cavalo e certas ausências abruptas. Seus atrasos e falta de disciplina a deixavam louca. Mas a maternidade sempre foi cega. Quando ele parava junto a ela, registrava, encantada: "Meu filho ficou o dia todo. Que festa!"

No ano seguinte, correu a Paris, onde ajudou no terceiro parto da princesa Isabel.

Enquanto ela ia de um lado para outro, ele não a poupava. Cobria Luísa de manifestações de saudades de vários tipos: saudades que eram velhas, mas que estavam sempre rebentando; saudades em tropel; saudades que brotavam e rebrotavam; saudades pungentes; saudades imensas e saudades que ela não compreendia. Escreveu-lhe, também, nestes anos, belas cartas de amor: "Não imagina quanto você me faltou durante essa viagem! Se me quer muito, quanto mais lhe quero eu, como melhor consolo para a vida que levo! Felizmente achei suas duas cartas acabadas a 30 de abril e 4 de maio. Creia que a todas queimo e que preciso que você me diga tudo e tudo." Ou seja, ele queria ouvir coisas que Luísa estava deter minada a não repetir. Sobretudo, desejava recordar os prazeres passados: tudo!

Garantia-lhe que queimava tais lembranças de papel depois de lidas. E o imperador se explicava: "Sou o mesmo que lhe inspirou tamanha afeição, e de nada me esqueço tudo revive ndo em mim com o mesmo viço de uma afeição de trinta anos. Ah! Se lhe contasse tudo o que imaginei nas lindas noites dos campos do Paraná! A idade não tem podido contra um coração todo seu. [...] Ah! Se você estivesse aqui, ou eu em Roma!

Como apreciaríamos nossa afeição inabalável! Mais quisera dizer, porém prefiro que você adivinhe o que eu acrescentaria ao que já escrevi." Só a imaginação podia transportá-lo para os braços dela.

Queimavam-se as cartas e ainda ardiam os sentimentos. E se ela circulava entre Itália e França, enclausurado em São Cristóvão, ele lhe enviava notícias: "Estou no Palácio de Santa Cruz. Como me lembro de você." E colhia folhinhas na floresta da Tijuca que lhe enviava.

De vez em quando brigavam, para não perder o hábito, e logo faziam as pazes. "De que agravos posso eu lhe pedir perdão"? — perguntava Luísa? "Eu que tanto bem lhe quero, e que só tenho um desejo: o de o saber feliz."


Se o coração não envelhecia — como reiterava D. Pedro a Luísa — o tempo, contudo, passava e nem sempre era generoso. Os anos de 1882 e 1883 foram cruéis. Em março, um escândalo revelou segredos do imperador. Tudo começou com uma notícia que alarmou a Corte. Portas e armários do Palácio de São Cristóvão tinham sido arrombados. Pior: jóias da imperatriz e da princesa Isabel tinham desaparecido misteriosamente e seu valor era altíssimo: 400.000$000. Uma fortuna! Quatro dias depois que os jornais, nacionais e estrangeiros, trombetearam a notícia, já havia suspeitos presos. Depois, uma carta anônima apontava a localização das jóias. Encontrados os objetos roubados, se deu o caso por encerrado e foi solto o autor do crime. Tratava-se de Manuel Paiva, morador da Quinta da Boa Vista, ex-empregado do Paço e irmão de Pedro Paiva, criado do imperador. Os bens estavam em latas de biscoito enterradas em meio a um lamaçal, nos fundos da casa do suspeito.

A benevolência com que foi tratado o suposto assaltante gerou na imprensa toda sorte de acusações a D. Pedro, vindo à tona o nome que já circulava, há muito tempo, à boca pequena. O de Luísa de Barral.

O argumento de D. Pedro para a "anistia" era o de que ele não tinha cometido roubo oficialmente, entendido como subtração e violência. O crime era furto ou subtração sem violência. Se as jóias haviam sido achadas, não existia mais furto nem tampouco ladrões. Estranho raciocínio.

Na rua do Ouvidor, ria-se da história. A pergunta que não queria calar era: por que o monarca estaria protegendo um possível criminoso? D. Pedro desmentiu qualquer interferência na investigação, o delegado recebeu um prêmio e o ladrão continuou a morar, feliz, na Quinta de São Cristóvão. O caso foi abafado, mas a versão oficial não foi aceita. Na imprensa, além da gritaria dos republicanos acusando o regime de corrupto, folhetins criticavam o desfecho do roubo.

"Recebi os jornais e cartas que contam o achado das jóias. Li tudo com muita atenção e a impressão de nojo [grifo dela] que me ficou de tudo e nem sei me exprimir a Vossa Majestade." O tratamento cerimonioso contrastava com as intimidades de outras cartas que não eram lidas por terceiros. Nas circunstâncias, melhor tomar cuidado. "Longe de mim o pensamento de que Vossa Majestade exerceu a menor influência sobre a marcha da Polícia e da Justiça; mas, soltarem os acusados sobre os quais pesam suspeitas tão graves, pelo mero fato de se terem achado as jóias, é uma flagrante imoralidade; e eu digo, que na lama de onde se tiraram os brilhantes se enterrou a justiça."

E acrescentava: "Quem me dera poder conversar disso tudo com meu amigo e senhor para saber toda a verdade; mas essa ventura nunca terei." E, mais adiante: "Repito que fiquei com nojo de tudo isso [...] e o que mais admira é isso já não ter acontecido muitas vezes, com o desleixo que reina em tudo no paço de Vossa Majestade." O tom era bem diferente daquele empregado na carta em que Luísa pedia providências dele, para ajudar os familiares de Pedro Paiva. O alívio, contudo, vinha do fato de que nada se tinha provado contra "nosso bom amigo Rafael", antigo mensageiro na troca de cartas e recados com D. Pedro e colega de trabalho de Manuel e de Pedro Paiva e, portanto, também contra eles.

Na verdade, Luísa insistia no assunto, pois queria que D. Pedro o enterrasse: "Eu estou certa de que Vossa Majestade foi incapaz de intervir na marcha da Justiça, nem de defender seu criado — embora lhe fosse doloroso — se ele tinha cometido um crime; mas consentiu que ele continuasse a residir na Quinta, depois desse escândalo." Alegava que D. Pedro não deveria deixar o empregado nas imediações do palácio enquanto um processo não provasse sua inocência. "Mas deixar pairar suspeita sobre um caráter, é parecer fechar os olhos sobre coisas que nem são de sua competência nem julgar, nem perdoar. Isso não." E enfurecida, com medo de que alguma informação sobre sua relação com o imperador transpirasse, perguntava: "Quem será o bicho peçonhento que escreveu esses folhetins?"

As razões para a irritação vinham reveladas no enredo dos folhetins "As Jóias da Coroa", "Orgia no Olimpo" e "A Ponte do Catete". Todos escritos por jovens republicanos como Raul Pompéia, José do Patrocínio e Artur Azevedo. Todos tinham a intenção de desmoralizar o Imperador, expondo suas relações com um criado alcoviteiro, encarregado de disfarçar seus casos com uma jovem mestiça ou com certa "condessa Marieta". No caso, Marieta era mais um pseudônimo para Luísa.

Já o "nojo" e a "ânsia de saber toda a verdade" manifestados nas cartas de Luísa demonstravam que, em seu coração, crescia a suspeita e o ciúme. Estaria seu D. Pedro correndo atrás de outras, de meninotas mulatas, como se murmurava na Corte e caricaturavam as peças de teatro? No seu diário íntimo, anotou espumando de raiva: "Os folhetins do Rio fizeram uma onda. Não se tem idéia de desaforo semelhante e o que pesou é que agora eu mesma entro em cena. E dizer que não se mandou dar uma nuvem de bastonadas ao engraçadinho que se permite falar desta maneira [...] era preciso o bastão." E enfiando a carapuça: "Dou graças a Deus por Dominique não estar no Brasil, e, afinal, como conter estes animais venenosos?" Em outra carta ao Imperador, perguntava, apreen-siva: "E o que virá, ainda?" E criticava-o, duramente, pedindo-lhe para modificar seu modo de vida, "porque na mocidade desculpa-se muita coisa, mas na velhice, nada e Vossa Majestade deve dar o exemplo". Luísa tentava defender a honra dos dois.

Além da reputação de ambos, Luísa se preocupava com a fragilidade da monarquia. A realeza francesa tivera as cabeças cortadas depois do roubo do colar de Maria Antonieta! "E vai-me parecendo que breve teremos mais uma república na América do Sul. Sei que Vossa Majestade por si não se importaria mas é seu dever cuidar de sua dinastia e fazer respeitar a pessoa do soberano." E criticava: "A liberdade de imprensa de nossa terra não respeita ninguém." Esse era o triste resultado de vinte anos de amizade, mas ela confiava que ele se defenderia "contra essas abomináveis calúnias".

Enquanto isso, o pasquim Corsário, de Apulcro de Castro, insultava ambos com a quadrinha:
"Não é por certo
Boa moral
Trair a esposa
Com a Barral!"

Em Paris, a mana Chicá e o marido Joinville não perdoaram o silêncio do imperador, nem ver a Corte salpicada de lama. Era o outono do tempo que se abatia sobre D. Pedro e Luísa. E sobre a monarquia no Brasil.

Não se sabe se foi a pupila Isabel ou o próprio D. Pedro, mas, seguindo o costume, arranjos discretos se fizeram para que Dominique arranjasse uma mulher. Ele tinha deixado o serviço diplomático francês onde entrara graças aos contatos de Luísa e nele permaneceu até que decretos republicanos expulsaram da França certas congregações religiosas. Católico fervoroso, ele reagiu às decisões de um Estado que se queria laico pedindo demissão. Dominique se encontrava, na época, servindo na Embaixada Francesa junto à Santa Sé.

Doravante desempregado, Dominique, que usava então o título do pai, conde de Barral, veio ao Brasil procurar apoio do imperador. E o apoio veio também na forma de uma aliança. Em janeiro de 1882, Luísa recebeu um telegrama curto: "Caso Chiquinha Abril Venha." Chiquinha era a filha mais moça do visconde de Paranaguá, ministro da Fazenda e chefe do gabinete liberal que se encontrava no poder. Maria Francisca, a Chiquinha, era irmã de Amandinha Dória, uma das amigas mais íntimas da princesa Isabel. E quase certo que a pupila tenha interferido em favor do filho de sua querida aia e amiga, da mesma forma como Luísa a empurrou para o conde D'Eu.

Em seu diário, Luísa díz ter caído de joelhos, banhada em lágrimas, dando graças a Deus pela ventura de casar um filho "com essa bela menina, filha de meus amigos tão honrados e tão bons. Que posso desejar mais neste mundo?!". Depois do anúncio oficial do noivado no Rio, os presentes dos amigos franceses começaram a chegar na casa de Luísa em Paris. Ela se atolava em meio às caixas. Depois houve correria de costureiros e chapeleiros até que embarcou em Bordeaux. Ela chegou ao Rio no dia 13 de abril.

Subiu direto para Petrópolis. Os jornais não deixaram escapar: "Hóspede distinta — Acha-se nesta cidade, de regresso da Europa, a Excelentíssima Senhora Condessa de Barral. Suas Altezas Imperiais e os senhores Conde e Condessa D'Eu foram à Corte esperar a veneranda senhora."

Conta-se que alguém teria se admirado das marcas do tempo, exclamando: "Mas como está envelhecida a Condessa de Barral". Ao que D. Pedro retrucou, irritado: "Saiba que nunca envelhece uma mulher de espírito!" E foi quando do encontro deste ancião de barbas brancas e de uma envelhecida Luísa que o romance veio praticamente a público. Os tempos, contudo, eram outros.

A grande imprensa liberal jamais ousaria atacar a honra do imperador, que tudo fazia para manter sua imagem de probidade e sisudez. Mas nesta década crescia uma imprensa desabusada e irrevererente para quem nada era sagrado, nem a privacidade do monarca. Pasquins respondendo pelo nome de Carbonário, Corsário, O Diabrete comentavam a predileção de D. Pedro por Luísa. O objetivo dos redatores era pôr em letras de forma os escândalos comentados a meia-voz. Por tudo o que foi dito, Luísa deve ter se arrependido até a raiz dos cabelos da forma como conduziu, ou deixou conduzir, a cerimônia do matrimônio. Se fosse para pavimentar o futuro deste filho que ela adorava, o tiro saiu pela culatra.

No dia 5, anotou: "O dia mais feliz da minha vida! Às seis horas le-vantei-me e ajudei um bocadinho a arrumar as flores, e às dez horas estava, como manda o figurino, à espera de Vossas Majestades." Seguiu num cortejo de trinta carros, forrados de branco e puxados por cavalos da mesma cor, para a igreja. "Cerimônia recolhida e bela." Mas o que seria um simples casamento se tornou um escarcéu. Os jornais atacaram o imperador pela predileção que demonstrava por Luísa e por Dominique. A corte estava em polvorosa, dividida pela celeuma. E foi da Gazeta da Tarde que vieram os disparos mais odiosos. O jornal publicou na primeira página um artigo intitulado "É contra a etiqueta". Dizia que, à primeira vista, um fato banal se tornara chocante pela presença dos imperantes na capela do palácio da princesa Isabel. O que justificava ter membros da família reinante como testemunhas de uma cerimônia particular?

O jornalista punha o dedo na ferida. O imperador não podia ter atitudes diferentes das que tinha com outras pessoas. Não podia "aparentar mais dedicação aos seus amigos particulares do que aos amigos da nação, aos que haviam servido ao mesmo tempo à sua pessoa, às instituições vigentes e à pátria". Não tinha o direito de manifestar pela família da aia de seus filhos simpatias que não demonstrara a militares importantes como o duque de Caxias ou o general Osório, literatos como Gonçalves Dias ou José de Alencar, estadistas como Rio Branco etc. Por que D. Pedro não acompanhou o enterro de heróis da Guerra do Paraguai?

"Todos esses vultos salientes de nossa nacionalidade têm passado esquecidos pela consideração imperial e alguns mesmo espezinhados pela mais dolorosa ingratidão." O articulista ignorava deliberadamente o pai da noiva, ilustre homem de Estado com folha corrida de serviços prestados ao Império. E martelava sem piedade: "O imperador, sem mais nem menos, sem decreto legislativo, reveste duas famílias de um caráter princípesco." E maliciosamente explicava que já se vira fato semelhante, no primeiro reinado, mas tratava-se do reconhecimento dos filhos naturais do imperador. No caso atual, tratava-se simplesmente de uma amizade de portas adentro, mas com toda a ostentação de publicidade: "E uma predileção caseira que vem romper com a tradição da monarquia." E deixava no ar o cheiro de bastardia do pobre Dominique, que já tinha tirado as fraldas quando Luísa foi servir em São Cristóvão.

A explicação? D. Pedro estava diabético e suas reações não eram normais. "Nunca Sua Majestade foi mais ousado na ostentação de seu poder pessoal." Depois, a cerimônia foi uma tentativa de apoiar o gabinete Paranaguá, extremamente fragilizado e à beira da demissão. A cerimônia foi descrita em detalhes pela imprensa: rezada pelo arcebispo da Bahia, primaz do Império; a atuação dos padrinhos, princesa Isabel e conde D'Eu; os brindes e a festa; a partida de D. Pedro sob palmas e o hino nacional. Havia membros de ambas as casas do parlamento, oficiais de mar e terra, altos funcionários, magistrados, pessoas notáveis no comércio, artes e letras. O artigo censurava o imperador por ter infringido a etiqueta e por se colocar em segundo plano.

A polêmica prosseguiu por muitos dias. Alguns sugeriam que D. Pedro deveria ter comparecido como Pedro de Alcântara e não como imperador do Brasil. Que calçasse as luvas, vestisse a casaca, enfiasse o chapéu claque, acendesse um charuto e fosse à festa na casa da filha. Mas com aparato oficial e a cavalaria atrás?! Absurdo. A exceção era odiosa e não honrosa. Alguns repetiam a frase de Luís XIV, "O Estado sou eu", para justificar a arbitrariedade e apontar Luísa como uma Maintenon.

Para tristeza e raiva de Luísa, colocaram Dominique na linha de fogo. Um dos jornais o interpelava: por que estava vestido com a farda de diplomata francês se havia pedido demissão? Por mera fantasia? Era costume dos europeus se enfeitarem para impressionar os selvagens? O escândalo acabou enfraquecendo o imperador perante a Câmara dos Deputados e seu gabinete caiu dias depois.

E os problemas não pararam por aí. Logo depois do casamento, os pombinhos foram para Paquetá e de lá para Petrópolis, onde, para apresentar o casal, Luísa ofereceu ao corpo diplomático um baile no recém-inaugurado Hotel Orléans. As reclamações aumentaram. Afinal, D. Pedro demonstrava pela segunda vez sua preferência pelos Barral. "O Rei se diverte"— fustigava o Corsário — "Tudo vai bem e em sinal de profundo júbilo, o rei deixa o foco da febre amarela e vai a Petrópolis dançar e folgar na casa da senhora Condessa de Barral. [...] O senhor Paranaguá foi procurá-lo em Petrópolis para apresentar-lhe sua demissão do ministério e Sua Majestade deixou para resolver depois do baile da Sra. condessa de Barral".

Não satisfeito, o imperador ia visitar Luísa quase todos os dias. Corria à boca pequena que D. Pedro tinha deferido um pedido de Dominique: a exploração de lavras de minério. Já que tinha perdido o posto diplomático, Dominique queria lançar-se no mundo dos negócios. O favor era excessivo, reclamavam as revistas e jornais. A campanha se intensificou com a circulação de um panfleto, assinado por um diplomata anônimo, que apresentava Luísa como uma terrível manipuladora. Ela era citada nominalmente como um poder acima dos partidos, do governo e do próprio imperador. Sua vontade era lei. Pelo fato de ter educado a futura imperatriz do Brasil, nada lhe era negado. "Sendo recomendado pela condessa de Barral consegue no Brasil o que quiser: emprego, honras, considerações, dinheiro do contribuinte, concessão de empresas industriais e até maior intimidade na casa imperial", dizia o autor irreverente. A verdade é que ela mandava no imperador. Ou melhor, ela ainda mandava no coração do imperador.

De volta à França, Luísa fechou um círculo. Como seu pai fizera com ela, conseguiu encaminhar Dominique, tinha renda para manter suas propriedades e optou pela vida no campo. Era uma espécie de retiro voluntário entre a região da Sologne e a do Dauphiné, no interior.

O castelo de Voyron era uma magnífica propriedade que lhe coube no inventário do marido e a casa da Grande Garenne, sua paixão. Além do que, viver no campo era mais barato. O filho e a nora foram também.

Ela e "seu amigo" seguiram trocando correspondência. D. Pedro escrevia mergulhado num profundo sentimentalismo, acentuado pela decadência de sua saúde e da situação da monarquia no Brasil. Ao longe se ouviam as trovoadas de uma tempestade política que não chegava e , portanto, não exibia ainda seu perigo. Luísa não perdeu o espírito aguerrido e seguia estimulando o imperador: "Tenho lido com nojo certos jornais de nossa pobre terra e cada dia fico mais persuadida que mesmo nos jardins crescem cardos espinhosos que só comem os burros. Pregue por muitos anos a peça a esses bobos (seus opositores) de ir vivendo e conserve sua serenidade invejável que eu sempre admirei tanto!" Enfim ela não o deixava se abater. Quando o imperador sofreu um atentado, em julho de 1889, notícia que Luísa recebeu por telegrama, quase se desesperou. Monstruosidade: como podia Deus criar feras e cobras capazes de tal gesto?!

Ele, por seu lado, começava as cartas dizendo "Petrópolis — que saudades, 30/12/1884". "Que culpa tenho eu do que sinto?", perguntava; "De tudo me recordo, o mais só serve para atordoar". Para trás ficavam os "tempos felizes". "Pois vejo e sinto tudo e não tenho expressões para explicar-lhe completamente o que sofro na sua ausência." As juras de amizade eterna se repetiam. As informações vinham carregadas de nostalgia e de desejo, ainda, sem cansaço, de compreender o outro. Ela, sempre bem humorada, "Aceite minha dedicação, meu respeito, minha geografia, meu Museu de Versailles, enfim, tudo que quanto posto faça uma farofa de velha amizade". Olhar para o passado era, também, tempo de ajuste de contas com a consciência.

Luísa referia-se ao sentimento que lhe consagrou durante muito tempo, lembrando, contudo, que ela tinha se transformado. Passou de amante a amiga. Hoje, era outra. "Eu não dígo que não me afastasse da boa vereda.

Oh! Se me afastei dela! Mas sempre foi com a consciência do mal que eu fazia." E ele mais carente: "Quem me dera estar na Grande Garenne; mas você sabe bem por que. Cada vez me lembro mais de nossos bons tempos.

Ontem choveu quase todo o dia e estouraram sofríveis trovões. Quando caem, parece-me que se abre o portão de vidraça do saguão e você me aparece com seu ruge-ruge antes de vê-la. Você pensará em mim como eu em você. Adeus. Seu sempre." A nostalgia que lhes enchia o coração, os transformava em personagens românticos que eles reconheciam quando se examinavam nos próprios espelhos. Pálidos e, de certa forma, tristes.

Amor, amizade amorosa, o que quer que fosse o sentimento partilhado por este casal maduro, ele estava ainda bem vivo nas frases cifradas, nas saudades, nas pequenas gentilezas e nas evocações. Irrigada por este afeto sem idade e pela vida familiar que escolheu, Luísa enchia os dias, as semanas, as estações. Diferente de D. Pedro, que se deixava afogar por lembranças, Luísa nadava contra a corrente do tempo. A mesa estava sempre posta para convidados e a estação de caça atraía amigos de Paris. O pároco da aldeia era comensal costumeiro e os Joinville estavam sempre por perto. Com Chiquinha, animava as atividades filantrópicas da localidade de Neuvy-sur-Barangeon onde se situava a propriedade da Grande Garenne. Não perdia missas ou novenas e os netinhos —Jean Dominique e Maria Margarida — já lhe corriam por entre as pernas. Luísa estava sempre cercada de gente: "Estamos em felicidade quase familiar e só 18 pessoas à mesa." Volta e meia escrevia no diário: "o correio para o Brasil me ocupou muito." Nunca perdeu sua independência e coragem. Quando adoecia, se escondia. Limitava -se a anotar, "fiquei de cama sem dizer a ninguém". Também não temia o frio ou o mau tempo e gostava de dar grandes caminhadas mesmo com o termômetro abaixo de zero.

O imperador voltou à Europa, em junho de 1888, para tratar da doença que o debilitava. Retornaria definitivamente em novembro de 1889, deposto e exilado pelo golpe republicano de 15 de novembro. As notícias arrasaram Luísa. "Para mim não há mais pátria, perdi-lhe todo o amor que lhe tinha e cubro-me de vergonha quando me falam do Brasil."

Apesar do rigor do inverno, quis ir ao encontro dos soberanos. Queria ser a primeira a beijar a mão de D. Pedro em terras de exílio. Chiquinha e Dominique a impediram. Seu filho seguiu para Lisboa encarregado de dizer à imperatriz que sua dama de honra, mais do que nunca obediente e fiel, aguardava as suas ordens e perguntava onde e quando poderia retomar seus serviços. Teresa Cristina respondeu-lhe que em Cannes, no sul da França, para onde seguiam.

Mas poucas semanas após sua chegada ao continente, no dia 28 de dezembro de 1889, morreu o discreto "alguém" a quem D. Pedro passou a chamar de "minha santa". Luísa não se conformava de não estar ao lado de Teresa Cristina. "Vocês estavam errados impedindo-me de cumprir meu dever de ir a Lisboa e por isso fui castigada", gemia ela, culpada. E pedia que dissessem ao imperador que ela era "sempre a mesma e de todo o coração".

Teve início a melancólica peregrinação de D. Pedro por estações balneárias e casas de amigos. Em janeiro de 1890, ela correu para vê -lo,em Cannes, no sul da França. Aos olhos dele, os anos não passavam para Luísa: "Encontrei-a a mesma." No diário, D. Pedro marcava, diariamen-te, os encontros: "Vou à Condessa.""Volto do passeio com a Condessa."

"A Condessa não veio, vou dormir." Quando ela não estava, esperava pacientemente sentado do lado de fora do seu hotel. Nos jantares, só ficava na sala até ela se retirar. Depois se recolhia. Juntos, passeavam de carro pelo belo golfo de Juan Les Pins ou iam até Nice. Vez por outra, anotava que tinham brigado como adolescentes! Encontravam-se para as "conversinhas" que tanto apreciavam e para, num derradeiro gesto de carinho, Luísa massagear-lhe as mãos dormentes por efeito do diabetes de que sofria: "Que falta me tem feito sua visitinha das dez horas e a massagem de suas mãos que só beijo de longe." Foi então que sua disponibilidade e atenção lhe valeram a alcunha de "fadinha".

Depois que voltou para Voyron, Luísa acompanhava o roteiro do imperador pelo correio. As carrinhas procuravam animá-lo ou fazê-lo rir. Para economizar dinheiro, os Bragança passaram de julho a agosto de 1890 na propriedade de Luísa. Preocupada em oferecer a D. Pedro todas as comodidades, até duchas para ele providenciou. Houve recepções, piqueniques e passeios, como eles gostavam. A noite, música de piano.

Os dois passavam horas conversando ou lendo, lado a lado, à frente da lareira. Ele oferecia-lhe flores, quase todos os dias. Às vezes, colocava um ramalhete aos pés da porta de seu quarto. As despedidas, ele mesmo anotou quando partiu, foram "saudosas".

Deste período ao lado de Luísa, D. Pedro deixou uma poesia que dizia tudo. Dizia com que forças, no outono de suas vidas, ele ainda a amava:
"Voyron que tudo encanta com a floresta
Suas montanhas, seu rio a sussurrar
Em torno do castelo, que a habitar
Sua dama muito mais graça lhe empresta
Breve lhe estou ausente, mas me resta
A mim só com o regresso já sonhar
Pois o oceano não pode me apartar
Do que a distância mal contesta
Viveremos assim, mais com a amizade
Sentindo que ela assim nos avizinha
Do que é em tempo e gozo eternidade
E ao Éden recobrado encaminha
Sem ter de alcançar mais a ansiedade
Melhor possua, talvez, do que já tinha."

A dama no castelo, o oceano que não mais a separaria dele, o fim da ansiedade e o amor dando lugar à amizade. O testamento amoroso de D. Pedro II era a confirmação de uma vida apaixonada por Luísa. E o atestado de que o projeto dela, de viver com ele um "amour de tête", venceu.

Continuaram a trocar os diários, ele lendo o dela, e ela o dele. A comunicação entre os dois prosseguia. Ele, cada vez mais melancólico. Já, a incrível camaleoa, lúcida e dona de si, resumiu assim seu destino num dia de seu próprio aniversário:

"Meu Senhor
Consultando estrelas mil, Vossa Majestade descobriu quem nasceu a 13 de abril, mas a astronomia bromou este ano e a velhinha não recebeu seus parabéns pela 74ª primavera que ela completou hoje. O mundo é realmente uma bola e, para mim, ela tem dado tais voltas que não sei como não tenho virado maiores cambalhotas. Nasci em sábado de aleluia quando as negras apregoavam nas ruas pastéis quentes para desenfastiar da Quaresma. Cada ano foi festejado esse dia até meus parentes me trazerem para a Europa. Quando voltei para o Brasil principiaram outra vez os festejos nos meus engenhos, com foguetes, zabumba, batuques, peru por cabeça, boi no espeto, saúde dos lavradores descarregando na Senhora Dona [brindes à sua saúde] e tudo quanto há de mais hospitaleiro e de mais cordial. Voltei para a França e nunca mais soube o que era fazer anos. Tornei ao Brasil, tornei a fazer anos, mas sem foguetes, nem zabumbas, o Brasil se civilizava e as saúdes não descarregavam mais na Senhora Dona; eu não era mais a Yayá de todos, era Sá Condessa. [...]  Digo isso brincando, meu Senhor, pois que se esta bola me fez dar cambalhotas, o que não dirá Vossa Majestade?"

O fato é que a viagem que fez a Cannes para saudar seu amigo e rever a pupila abalou a saúde de Luísa, tão forte até então. Ela emagreceu e definhou. Em menos de um ano, envelheceu dez. Na verdade, o golpe republicano a atingiu em cheio. Apesar de defender idéias sobre a abolição e a educação feminina, consideradas liberais, Luísa era uma monarquista convicta. Viu cair reis em cuja mesa se sentava e desaparecer Cortes onde brilhou como as de Luís Felipe e Napoleão III. Mas desaparecer o Império do Brasil?! Foi demais. Só teve uma alegria: a de receber no castelo de Voyron, durante um mês, toda a família imperial. O teto da amizade dela abrigou a infelicidade dele. Em breve, Luísa não teria forças para mais cambalhotas pelo mundo.

Fins de janeiro de 1891. Voltando à Grande Garenne, desmaiou, tremendo de febre. Declarou-se uma pneumonia. Era inverno. Os domésticos acorriam esquentando botijas de água quente e mantendo o fogo da chaminé. Veio o médico e não soube mais o que fazer. Deitada, Luísa não reconheceu os netos a quem adorava, só o filho. Quando este entrou no quarto, abraçou-o e pediu que cantasse La Marjolaine: história do cavaleiro que quer uma dama para se casar e dar-lhe, alegre, alegre, seu coração. A história dela com D. Pedro II.

"E eu cantei para distraí-la. Deus sabe como: trêmula e tristíssima", registrou Chiquinha. Ela sorriu e disse "Como é bonito: merci". Quando o pároco ofereceu-lhe os últimos sacramentos, aceitou-os com alegria e orientou os preparativos do pequeno altar que foi improvisado em seu quarto. Quis
flores na sala e vasos perto da imagem da Virgem. "Acenda todas as velas", ordenou. Chamaram-se todos os criados da casa e as pessoas do castelo.

O filho e a nora se postaram na cabeceira. Depois recebeu a comunhão, a extrema-unção com um sorriso nos lábios e, quando tudo terminou, voltou-se para Dominique e disse-lhe com tranqüilidade: "Foi simples e decente."

Pouco depois ainda fez com a nora minuciosas recomendações práticas para a organização de sua vida, indicando a Chiquinha muitos detalhes sobre a manutenção do castelo de Voyron, como se ela partisse para uma simples viagem. Em nenhum momento sua voz traiu o menor temor. "Estou cansada", disse por fim. "Deixem-me dormir." E assim fez, sem mais acordar. "Do sono térreo, para o sono eterno", disse Chiquinha.

A última doença de Luísa foi a imagem de sua vida. Não se lhe abateu nem a vontade, nem a inteligência. Conservou até o último minuto toda a consciência e viu chegar a morte com profunda serenidade.

Fechou os olhos ao som de uma velha canção de amor e cercada pelos seus. Morreu como se morria no século XIX. Com a convicção de que a morte era pacificação. Ao contrário: ia-se com um sorriso nos lábios.

O último retrato de Luísa, segundo sua nora, foi o de uma mulher mais jovem, sem rugas e doce. Assim como seu coração. A terra que ela deixava era o abrigo de uma noite. A verdadeira pátria estava no céu. Sua alma partiu deixando aqui a outra, gêmea. Que lhe dedicou, arrasada, as seguintes linhas:

"2 horas 5'. Morreu a Condessa de Barral, minha amiga desde 1848, e de ver todos os dias quando educava minhas filhas, desde 1856. O mérito dela só o aquilatou quem a conheceu como eu."

Ele a seguiu menos de um ano depois.

Almas gêmeas

Luísa amou duas vezes: Eugênio e Pedro. O segundo foi, sobretudo, um amor sublime que procurou desprezar o desejo físico. Desejo, nestes tempos, lacrado nas profundezas e considerado desonroso. O código romântico conciliava pudor e tentação. Ela tentou segui-lo à risca. Mas é bem provável que a correspondência tantas vezes entregue ao fogo revelasse o outro lado subterrâneo. Aquele onde arderam todos os prazeres.

Ela tornou a vida num palco para suas "cambalhotas". Um espaço onde desenvolveu uma maneira, toda sua, de criar e de amar. Se os seus foram tempos em que a essência da individualidade feminina era a renúncia, Luísa ignorou essa regra a maior parte do tempo. Uma educação privilegiada e bicultural, um pai inspirador, múltiplas viagens, altos e baixos financeiros, ideais liberais e uma fidelidade aos princípios nos quais cresceu fizeram dela uma figura singular. Sua luta pelo fim da escravidão, herdada de D. Domingos , se consolidou na participação que teve em "sociedades para a emancipação" dos cativos, organizadas por abolicionistas. Ela as freqüentou ao voltar para o casamento de Dominique e, nessa mesma época, libertou os últimos e poucos escravos que ainda tinha nos engenhos.

Sua fidelidade à monarquia sobreviveu a todos os golpes. Ela jamais abandonou "seus príncipes e princesas", restos de uma época em declínio, cuja decadência ela se negava a reconhecer. E com razão. Numa França republicana, os Orléans se distinguiam como uma família real que parecia jamais ter descido os degraus do trono. Luísa não foi a única a zelar pelo bem-estar de seus senhores. Ela viveu, até o fim, num ambiente de simpatia e admiração pelos personagens imperiais. E como ela, uma parte considerável da população que resistia em desprezar seus monarcas.

Luísa enfrentou ainda o fato de viver só. Distante do marido, Eugênio de Barral, teve que inventar um papel social. Longe de seu amante, D. Pedro II, procurou construir todo tipo de ponte que diminuísse a dor da separação. Se ela tocou a solidão com os dedos, não foi para sofrer, mas para fazer-se mais criativa. Sua devoção aos amigos, centenas deles presentes em sua correspondência e diários, revela que mais do que um sentimento, a amizade era uma prática social, alimentada por cartas, convites, salões e favores. Luísa nunca deixou de fazer indicações para cargos fazendo jus ao ditado: "Aos amigos, tudo. Aos inimigos, a lei." Para Luísa, ser amiga não era só ter sentimentos sutis por alguém. Significava partilhar lugares de ajuda mútua e solidariedade.

Luísa viveu numa época de amor romântico. Só se falava de sentimento quando havia falta, obstáculo, distância e sofrimento. Palavras eram substituídas por um toque, rubores, silêncio ou um olhar. Tudo se resumia à doçura de um perfume no lenço, em mãos que se enlaçavam, na alegria de um encontro, como o dela com D. Pedro no dia de sua apresentação. Tudo era evocação na distância. Uma leve pressão no pé podia significar um orgasmo.

D. Pedro II morreu de pneumonia, em Paris, em dezembro de 1891.

Sua pupila, Isabel, junto com o marido, conde D'Eu, exilou -se entre o castelo D'Eu, na Normandia, e uma linda casa de campo, em Boulogne-sur-Seine. O pai de Gastão, o duque de Némours, ajudou e muito a instalação deste filho que apostou todas as cartas no império brasileiro e perdeu. Os D'Eu chegaram sem tostão à Europa.

Os amigos Joinville, a quem Luísa também serviu, tiveram uma vida discreta: Francisco dedicado à caça e Francisca voltada para os filhos e netos. Gradativamente, graças à surdez do marido, ela cortou relações com o mundo. Em 27 de março de 1898, a princesa Chicá apagou -se discretamente. A filha Chiquita cuidou do pai, penúltimo sobrevivente de sua geração. Ele morreu em junho de 1900. Até o fim, Luísa registrou suas idas e vindas ao lado dos Orléans e Bragança. Mesmo em sua velhice, não perdeu uma única ocasião de atendê-los.

Em especial a D. Pedro. Por mais de trinta anos, Luísa conduziu sua relação com ele como quis e acreditou que deveria fazê-lo. A sedução que exerceu sobre o monarca se confundiu com um indescritível apetite pela vida e com o prazer que resultava da partilha generosa de um espírito livre. Sobre ele exerceu um fascínio lúcido, inteligente, longe de qualquer avareza ou inibição. Sua fidelidade ao imperador se forjou de maneira a suportar a morte; não a real, mas a feita pelas feridas do tempo que passa. Foram almas gêmeas e unidas até o fim, cujos corações não envelheceram. Souberam modular a distância que os separava por meio de reencontros, conversas e carinhos numa aliança contra a falta que sentiam um do outro. Segundo os biógrafos do imperador, junto com os livros e o Brasil, Luísa de Barral foi a sua grande paixão.

Luísa ousou no amor e na vida. Viveu rebeliões e quedas de monarquias, surtos de doenças e levantes de escravos. Tudo enfrentou como se fosse parte do jogo. Boa filha e boa mãe, na velhice continuava jovem.

Texto de Mary Del Priore em "Condessa de Barral- A Paixão do Imperador", Editora Objetiva, Rio de Janeiro, 2006, excertos pp. 200-235. Digitalizado, adaptado e ilustrado para ser postado por Leopoldo Costa.


RESUMO DA BIOGRAFIA DA CONDESSA DE BARRAL

Luísa Margarida de Barros Portugal, mais tarde condessa de Barral e marquesa de Monferrato, foi uma nobre brasileira. Preceptora das princesas D. Isabel e D. Leopoldina, ela foi a grande paixão do imperador D. Pedro II do Brasil e uma das mais vivazes figuras da corte do rei Luís Filipe I da França.

Luísa era a única filha de Domingos Borges de Barros, o visconde de Pedra Branca, estadista do primeiro reinado, e de sua esposa Maria do Carmo Gouveia Portugal. Desde cedo, ela passou a viver com a família entre a França e o Brasil. Luísa então desposou Eugène de Barral, conde de Barral  e 4.° marquês de Montferrat. Eles tiveram um filho, Horace Dominique, o qual contrairia matrimônio com Maria Francisca de Paranaguá, filha do 2.° marquês de Paranaguá.

Com o seu casamento, ela se tornou amiga e dama de companhia de D. Francisca de Bragança, a princesa de Joinville, irmã de D. Pedro II. Quando a madrasta do imperador, D. Amélia de Leuchtenberg, recusou a tarefa de ser preceptora de suas duas filhas, D. Francisca indicou a Luísa Margarida de Barros Portugal ao imperador.

Após muita negociação e a certificação de seus poderes, Luísa aceitou o posto. Momentaneamente distanciada do marido, Eugène, e acompanhada de seu filho, transferiu-se para o Rio de Janeiro.

A condessa passou a residir em uma casa alugada, uma vez que, por ter uma família, não poderia se contentar com um apartamento no Palácio de São Cristóvão. Foi, também, nomeada dama de companhia de D. Teresa Cristina em setembro de 1855, apesar de que a verdadeira companheira da imperatriz fosse Josefina da Fonseca Costa.

Luísa Margarida tratou logo de estabelecer sua autoridade no palácio, um local em que o poder era muito disputado, e por isso causou a fúria de muitos dos funcionários mais interesseiros. Possuía personalidade exuberante, ar assertivo, inteligência e, ao mesmo tempo, contraditória mentalidade católica, além de beleza física. Dotada de cultura sólida e amiga de intelectuais e celebridades da época, como Franz Liszt e o conde de Gobineau, a condessa servia de intermediária entre o imperador e muitos intelectuais, com os quais D. Pedro II trocou vasta correspondência.

A condessa, assim, tornou-se amiga íntima do imperador e, segundo a maioria dos historiadores contemporâneos, sua amante. Imediatamente, criou-se um conflito entre a imperatriz D. Teresa Cristina e a condessa de Barral. No entanto, logo ficou claro que a condessa iria tentar rivalizar com a imperatriz e não há provas conclusivas de que tenha consumado seu caso com o imperador. As poucas correspondências remanescentes entre eles levam à dúvida se o relacionamento de ambos não foi puramente platônico.  

(Adaptação por LC de artigo publicado na Wikipedia)

The Nile River valley has produced a large number of legends that are held by the peoples living along its banks of as well as many others. Some legends were invented to explain things that were unknown, whereas others were invented to help build public support for imperial expansion. Ancient Egypt was a mystery before the second half of the 19th century, and this helped perpetuate legends. Because of the large number of legends about the Nile and the peoples and cultures found along its banks, this essay will begin in Egypt and proceed up the river to its sources.

Many early European Christian pilgrims traveling to the Holy Land also visited Egypt, and for them the pyramids of Giza were the grain silos of Joseph in the Old Testament. This was one among many legends that grew out of ancient Egypt. Others were that the pyramids and the major monuments were built by Hebrew slaves at the time of Moses. These legends are easy to understand but are not based on any investigation but on summary conclusions based on ignorance. In the early Islamic period, it was thought the pyramids of Giza were great storehouses of wealth. The ‘Abbasid Caliph Ma’amun (ruled 813–833 CE) had an entrance dug into the side of the Pyramid of Cheops because of the legend it harbored great treasure; none was found. In more recent times, the pyramids—in particular, the three on the Giza plateau—have been linked to belief in extraterrestrial life forms because the structures were built at a time when the Egyptians seemed not to have the technology to build them. Believers argue that the perfect alignment of the pyramids along the four principal directions, their neat lines, and their astronomical alignments meant no human from so early a period in time could have built them. This belief ignores the long history of royal tombs before the pyramid period and instead picks up the idea that elements of Egyptian cosmology and astronomy are events the human eye cannot see. In popular American culture, the film Stargate (1994) and the subsequent TV series of the same name (1997–2007) perpetuated the legend of ancient astronauts.

The need to “prove” the Bible caused the birth of biblical archaeology, but the archaeological proof of the Hebrew sojourn in Egypt has yet to be discovered. Nonetheless, Hollywood has played a role in keeping the legends alive. In 1954, the film The Valley of the Kings was released by MGM Studios. Filmed in Egypt, it starred popular Hollywood actors of the time, including Eleanor Parker and Robert Taylor, and Egyptian actors Samia Gamal and Rushdi Abaza. It told the story of an archaeologist’s daughter (Eleanor Parker) attempting to find the tomb of Joseph in Egypt with the help of another archaeologist (Robert Taylor). They placed Joseph in the 18th Dynasty (1550–1295 BCE). Hollywood has made several movies about Moses, including the animated The Prince of Egypt (1998) and the longtime favorite "The Ten Commandments" (1956). Still, as of today, no archaeological evidence has supported the biblical tale of Exodus. Believed by many Jews, Christians, and Muslims to be totally true, their only “proof” is divine scripture.

Perhaps the most enduring of the legends is that of a living mummy and the curse of the pharaoh. Both are supposedly deadly to archaeologists who disturb the dead. Tales of living mummies began in the New Kingdom period (1550–1070 BCE) when the story of “Santi-Khamose and the Magician” (also called “Khaemwaset and the Mummies”) was popular. In the story, Prince Santi-Khamose or Khaemwaset wants to find the Scroll of Thoth, which has been buried in the tomb of another prince, Neferkaptah. When Santi-Khamose discovers the tomb, he disturbs the mummies of Neferkaptah and his wife and children. He plays a series of board games with Neferkaptah and eventually wins all of the games and the scroll. However, once he has the scroll, the mummy of Neferkaptah warns him that it will only bring him disaster. Santi-Khamose returns to Memphis but becomes involved with a woman who demands his wealth and that of all of his family in return for sexual favors. To fulfill his needs, he kills his brother, nephews, and nieces but is discovered. He confesses all to the pharaoh, who tells him the scroll is the cause of his troubles and to return it to the tomb, which he does. As he exits the tomb, a severe sandstorm covers the entrance for all time. Such tales from ancient Egypt were partially preserved in the books of Herodotus and in "One Thousand and One Arabian Nights".

In the 19th century, fiction novels of travel and horror became popular, and Egypt’s mysterious ruins and strange artifacts produced many new twists on these old stories. Among the first was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who wrote "The Ring of Thoth" (1890) about a mummy that is brought to life. In the early 20th century, the West was struck with “Egyptomania,” especially after the tomb of Tutankhamun was discovered in 1922. Soon tales of a curse on the tomb began to circulate, fueled by the deaths over the next eight years of 11 people who were at the opening, including the expedition’s leader, Howard Carter, and the financer, Lord Carnarvon, both in 1923. Mummies also began to be portrayed in film, and in 1932 perhaps the best of the mummy movies was made, "The Mummy", starring Boris Karloff as the mummy of Imhotep. Boris Karloff’s Imhotep is a tragic figure, and audiences feel sympathy for him; however, in later mummy films, the mummy now called Kharis becomes a monster whose only purpose is to kill. In the 1999 remake of "The Mummy", Imhotep is returned but portrayed as generally evil instead of being a sympathetic figure. The plot concerns the death of the pharaoh, who is killed by his fiancé Ankh-Su-Namun, who is in love with the priest Imhotep. In the 1932 film, the female lead has the same name, Ankh Es-en-Amon. In both versions, the inspiration for the female character comes from the name of Tutankhamun’s wife, Ankh Es-en-Amen.

In the Byzantine and Christian period, stories of the holy family’s flight to Egypt were important for the Copts, and locations of places where they stopped to rest or live were identified. In Matariyyah, a neighborhood in Cairo’s Heliopolis, the Virgin’s Tree stands. According to the legend, the tree is where the holy family stopped to rest and the Virgin fed the infant Jesus. The tree is a sycamore, a tree sacred to several female goddesses in ancient Egypt. The tree afforded the holy family security from bandits by opening its bark to protect them. Since the fourth century CE, the site has attracted large numbers of pilgrims who chip off bits of bark and bring back pieces of the balsam that grows in the spring at the foot of the tree used to make holy oil to anoint priests. Cairo’s southern neighborhood of Ma‘adi has a site where the holy family first reached the Nile and stayed in a house, which is now a church. However, because Alexandria had a large Jewish community, it is thought the family went to live in Alexandria and did not stay in the Roman fort of Babylon (from the original Pi-Hapi-n-On or the home of the god Hapi, the god of the Nile). Little is said about their stay in Egypt in the New Testament, so it is not known where they went or lived. This has given Christians license to create legends about it. Another church in Coptic Cairo (inside the walls of the Roman fort) is identified as the place where they hid in a cave, the Church of Abu Sarga or St. Sergius. Even Muslim Egyptians are proud of their country’s role in saving the holy family, and many houses have written above the door the Koranic passage about the flight to Egypt, “Enter her [Egypt] twice safe.”

Tales of ancient Egyptian expeditions deep into Africa inspired both fiction writers and explorers. Legends of still existing Egyptian civilizations in a lost oasis or in a lost city in the jungle inspired British writer Henry Rider Haggard in the late 19th century to write two of the most widely read boys’ adventure books ever: "King Solomon’s Mines" (1885) and She (first published as a series between 1886 and 1887). Both books are among the highest-selling boys’ adventure books with more than 100 million copies sold in 44 languages. Films have also been made of both stories and the subsequent adventure called Ayesha was serialized in a journal between 1904 and 1905. The main character of "King Solomon’s Mines", Alan Quartermain, served as the model for Indiana Jones. In a subsequent novel called Alan Quartermain, the plot involves his expedition’s journey to the land of the white-skinned Zu-Vendi, who seem to be of Egyptian origin.

Nineteenth-century explorers and imperial agents found it impossible to believe that the Bantu Africans were capable of civilization without outside help. Arab influence along the coast and up the Nile were evident to them, but pre-Arab penetration into the heart of Africa could only be by the “advanced” Egyptians or Phoenicians in the pay of King Solomon, who was said to have owned mines in Africa. In Haggard’s book, the more advanced civilizations were the result of foreign colonies among the Bantu—Phoenician in "King Solomon’s Mines and Arab in She". The 1995 Hollywood film Congo also built on the legend that King Solomon owned a diamond mine in the Virunga region near the split in the drainage basins between the Nile and Congo Rivers. The Egyptian penetration of central Africa in ancient times was first presented for the origin of the Tutsi by John Hanning Speke. His supposition was backed up by the local tale that the Tutsis came from the north; using his power of observation, Speke noted Tutsis were taller and lighter skinned than the Bantu Hutu and therefore must have been of Caucasian (ancient Egyptian) origin. This legend, produced by a European, was carried by other European explorers and Christian missionaries and led to the eventual modern ethnic division of the Tutsi and Hutu into the states of Rwanda and Burundi. Everyone ignored the economic side of the division between Tutsi (cattle owner) and Hutu (farmer) and the fact it was possible to move from one “ethnicity”—in reality one economic class—to the other because economic circumstances and that Tutsi women married Hutu men and their children were Hutu. Tutsi and Hutu speak the same language as well, making the differences between them difficult to define.

Other African populations are seen as connected to ancient Egypt, some by their own tales of origin or by Europeans. The Dogon of Mali have a similar regard for the rise of Sirius or the Dog Star as the ancient Egyptians, and this has fueled speculation of a connection. The Dogon do not claim Egyptian or extraterrestrial origin, but certain other people in Africa such as the Yoruba of Nigeria do claim Arab or Egyptian origins with elaborate epic tales of the journey from Egypt to their current home.

Islam added important legends to the large corpus of tales about the Nile. One maintains that some of the ancient Egyptian practices from their festival of Opet are found in the Upper Egyptian city of Luxor. Opet celebrated the rebirth of the pharaoh, and at Thebes (modern Luxor) statues of the gods Amun, Mut, and Khonsu were taken in decorated barges from their precinct in Thebes to Karnak and back again. During the festival, people cross-dressed and behaved wantonly. Today, for a five-day period in Luxor culminating on the 15th of Sha‘aban (the month before Ramadan), people celebrate a mawlid (birthday) of the Muslim saint who converted Luxor to Islam: Shaykh Yusuf ibn Muhammad Abu Hajjaj al-Balawi. Abu Hajjaj lived from 1134 to 1207 CE, long after the area had converted to Islam, but nonetheless his legend says that when he arrived Luxor was ruled by a pagan queen. She was a fierce amazon-like figure, but Abu Hajjaj defeated her in battle; she then submitted to Islam and eventually married him. His mosque sits in the middle of the Luxor temple, and each year the local people cross-dress and carry a decorated boat around the temple to celebrate Islam’s paramount position. The symbolism has changed from pre-Islamic to Islamic; for example, the boat now represents one of the means of transportation that pilgrims to Mecca used to take from Red Sea ports, and supposedly Abu Hajjaj organized such fleets to take pilgrims to Mecca. Nonetheless the mawlid of Abu Hajjaj connects contemporary practice to ancient practice in Luxor. The celebration has become so well known that the ministry of tourism puts on a re-creation of it for tourists every November 4.

For the people of Luxor and surrounding villages, the ruins exercise a great deal of power, and stories have grown up around them. In ancient times, the Colossi of Memnon were so named because the northern statue of Amenotep III sang at sunrise. The sound of it reminded the Greeks of the song of greeting that Memnon sang for his mother, Eos, the goddess of the dawn. When visiting the site in 199 CE, Roman Emperor Septimus Severus repaired the statues and the singing stopped. Some of the ruins such as Madinat al-Habu are used in local practices of magic. It once had a small lake where children could be taken at night to complete the preparation of charms for them to wear and to protect them against the evil eye. The Temple of Mut has a statue of the goddess Sekhmet that had to be removed because local villagers thought it brought evil to them. They tried to damage it to keep it from being able to “work” its magic; because of that, the ministry in charge of the site removed it to prevent further damage.

Several legends grew up around General Charles Gordon and the Mahdi in Sudan. Because the Mahdi died only a few months after Gordon was killed, the fates of the two men were linked. The Mahdi had ordered Gordon to be taken alive, but in the heat of the battle Gordon was killed. For the Victorian British, his death had to be heroic. Gordon was pictured in the British press as stepping forward at the top of the stairs of the governor’s house in Khartoum armed only with a walking stick. As Gordon began to move forward, the legend says the Sudanese began to walk back down the steps until a warrior killed him with a spear. Gordon’s head was brought to the Mahdi, who was reportedly horrified by it and refused to look at it. Another such story says that Khalifah ‘Abdallah al-Ta‘aishi held his forces in Omdurman to attack the British at Kerreri Hills, where a dream foretold of a British defeat. Historians have speculated that had the Sudanese forces attacked in force much earlier while the British were farther down the river, the British may not have won.

Many of Ethiopia’s legends are related to the claim of Solomonic descent of Ethiopian kings (and the Coptic faith) through the child born of the Queen of Sheba, wealth she brought in spices, incense, and precious stones helped spark the legends of King Solomon’s mines somewhere in Central Africa. According to Ethiopians, Makada bore Solomon a son, Menelik I, who returned to Ethiopia with the original Ark of the Covenant, which had been stolen from the temple in Jerusalem. The ark was housed on an island in Lake Tana, the source of the Blue Nile, before being taken to the Church of Our Lady Mary of Zion in the city of Aksum, where it is believed to be today.

The site is so holy that the general public is not allowed to approach the building. Only anointed priests can approach and enter the building, and even fewer are allowed to actually see the ark. Christianity came early to Ethiopia, and the Ethiopian king converted the same year as Constantine, the first Roman emperor to accept Christianity, according to Ethiopian history. With the arrival of Islam, Christian kingdoms of Sudan and Ethiopia were cut off from the rest of the Christian world, but a vague knowledge of their existence began the legends of Prester John, the good Christian king in Africa or Asia. Prester John was seen to be a descendant of one of the magi who ruled over a Nestorian Christian land surrounded by Muslims and pagans. Thought to be in India, eventually, Western Christians came to see the Ethiopian king as Prester John, especially after the Portuguese were able to explore the Indian Ocean.

The last legends this essay addresses are those of cannibals in Africa. Several Bantu peoples in South Sudan had reputations for cannibalism such as the Mangubetu and the Azande, who were also called the Niam Niam by 19th-century explorers. Niam Niam (or Nyam Nyam) is the Dinka word for the Azande and is supposed to indicate the sound they make while eating human flesh. As with most 19th-century tales of African people, there is little hard evidence to support claims of cannibalism, although currently the Mangubetu believe their ancestors were cannibals. It seems that even if they ate human flesh on occasion, it was a rare occurrence and only in the aftermath of the Swahili slave raids in the 1880s that caused great disruption economically and politically. British explorer James Jameson, a member of one of Henry Morton Stanley’s expeditions, bought an 11-year-old girl and gave her to the Azande to watch how they dissected and cooked a human. He fully documented the event in a series of detailed drawings. Stanley was furious when told of this, but by the time he was informed Jameson had already died of a fever. Victorian accounts of African brutality were often to cover up their own brutal behavior and present to European readers the superiority of Europeans over non-European peoples.

Legends often are more enduring than reality. Legends that have grown up along the Nile remain current and continue to inspire writers and filmmakers. Authors such as Christian Jacq continue to find something new to say about ancient Egypt. Films about mummies are also still being made. Written in French, Jacq’s books have been translated into numerous languages and are often best-seller lists. Legends that purport Arab or Egyptian penetration into the African interior also inspire authors and film writers and still find an eager audience even when such legends have proven to be false. An example of the popularity of these stories is the 1995 film Congo based on the 1980 novel of the same name by Michael Crichton.

By John A. Shoup in "The Nile - An Encyclopedia of Geography, History, and Culture", ABC-CLIO, LLC, USA, 2017, excerpts pp. 28-33. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

Author: Martin Luther
Original date and place of publication: 1517, Switzerland
Literary form: Theological tract

SUMMARY

Martin Luther, a German monk of the Augustinian order, was the founder of the Protestant Reformation in Europe. He was a doctor of divinity and town preacher of Wittenberg, where he taught theology at the university. A visit to Rome had convinced him of the decadence and corruption of the Catholic pope and clergy. In 1516, he began to question the efficacy of indulgences in a series of sermons.

In 16th-century Roman Catholic doctrine, the pope could transfer superfl uous merit accumulated by Christ, the Virgin Mary, or the saints to an individual sinner in order to remit temporal penalties for sin later to be suffered in purgatory. Such transfers of indulgences could benefi t both the living and the dead. Luther’s evangelical emphasis on the complete forgiveness of sins and reconciliation with God through God’s grace alone led him to question the doctrine of indulgences and the pervasive ecclesiastical practice of selling them.

The following year, Johann Tetzel, a Dominican monk, hawked indulgences to pay a debt that Albert of Brandenburg had incurred to purchase the Bishopric of Mainz and to help pay for the new basilica of Saint Peter in Rome. Luther resolved to voice his pastoral concern about the spiritual dangers of indulgences as an obstacle to the preaching of true repentance and interior conversion.

On October 15, 1517, Luther challenged his academic colleagues to debate the subject. Luther issued his challenge in the traditional manner—by posting a placard written in Latin on the door of the castle church in Wittenberg. Luther’s notice contained his 95 theses on indulgences. To his surprise, the theses were circulated in Latin and German throughout  Germany and within a few weeks to much of Europe, unleashing a storm of controversy that was to lead to the Protestant Reformation.

In his Ninety-five Theses or"Disputation on the Power and Efficacy of Indulgences", Luther argued that the pope could remit only those penalties he had imposed himself and denied the pope’s authority to remit sin. Luther rejected the idea that the saints had superfl uous merits or that merit could be stored up for later use by others.

The pope has no control over the souls in purgatory, Luther asserted. “They preach only human doctrines who say that as soon as the money clinks into the money chest, the soul fl ies out of purgatory.” If the pope does have such power, Luther asked, “why does not the pope empty purgatory for the sake of the holy love and the dire need of all the souls that are there if he redeems an infinite number of souls for the sake of miserable money with which to build a church?”

He branded indulgences as harmful because they gave believers a false sense of security. By implying that the payment of money could appease the wrath of God, the sale of indulgences impeded salvation by diverting charity and inducing complacency. “Christians should be taught that he who gives to the poor is better than he who receives a pardon. He who spends his money for indulgences instead of relieving want receives not the indulgence of the pope but the indignation of God.” Those who believe that their salvation is assured because they have indulgence letters will face eternal damnation, “together with their teachers,” who preach unchristian doctrine.

Luther objected to the church’s intent to raise money for a basilica by sale of indulgences. “Why does not the pope, whose wealth is today greater than the wealth of the richest Crassus, build this one basilica of St. Peter with his own money rather than with the money of poor believers?” Luther asked. Luther believed that to repress by force the objections of the laity to the sale of indulgences, rather than resolving them reasonably, “is to expose the church and the pope to the ridicule of their enemies and to make Christians unhappy.”

Luther’s theses were directed toward church reform. He did not see them as an attack on the pope’s authority or as the beginnings of a schism. But the church’s response to Luther’s proposals pushed him toward a more radical stance that led ultimately to a break with Rome and the founding of a new church.

CENSORSHIP HISTORY

At first Pope Leo X did not take serious notice of Luther’s theses, viewing them instead as a refl ection of the rivalry between Luther’s Augustinian order and the Dominicans, who were Luther’s most vociferous critics. But the theses, rapidly distributed in Germany, found active support among the peasantry and civil authorities, who objected to Rome’s siphoning of local funds. The hierarchy became convinced that the abuses of indulgences should be corrected and Luther silenced.

In 1518, the pope asked Hieronymus, bishop of Ascoli, to investigate Luther’s case. Luther was summoned to Rome to answer charges of heresy and contumacy, or insubordination. Frederick III, elector of Saxony, stepped in to demand that Luther’s hearing be held on German soil. When the hearing before the papal legate was transferred to Augsburg, where the imperial diet (the legislative assembly) was unsympathetic to papal claims, Luther refused to retract any of his theses. In a debate in Leipzig in 1519 with the German professor Johannes Eck, Luther argued that because the authority of the pope was of human origin, rather than rooted in divine right, he could be resisted when his edicts contravened the Scriptures.

Johannes Froben of Basel had published the Ninety-fi ve Theses in an edition with Luther’s sermons. In February 1519, Froben reported that only 10 copies were left and that no book from his presses had ever sold out so quickly. Taking full advantage of the new potential of the printing press, the book had been distributed not only in Germany, but in France, Spain, Switzerland, Belgium, England, and even in Rome. The same year, the theological faculties of the Universities of Louvain and Cologne ordered copies of the theses to be burned for heresy.

The pope appointed commissions to study Luther’s writings. On June 15, 1520, the pope proclaimed in the papal bull “Exsurge Domine,” “Rise up O Lord and judge thy cause. A wild boar has invaded thy vineyard.” The bull pronounced 41 errors of Luther as “heretical, or scandalous, or false, or offensive to pious ears, or seductive of simple minds, or repugnant to Catholic truth, respectively.” In his preface the pope wrote, “Our pastoral offi ce can no longer tolerate the pestiferous virus of the following forty-one errors. . . . The books of Martin Luther which contain these errors are to be examined and burned. . . . Now therefore we give Martin sixty days in which to submit.” It was forbidden to print, distribute, read, possess, or quote any of Luther’s books, tracts, or sermons.

Then in August, October, and November of 1520, Luther published three revolutionary tracts that dramatically raised the stakes of his disagreement with the church: Address to the Christian Nobility of the German Nation, which attacked the claim of papal authority over secular rulers; The Babylonian Captivity of the Church, which rejected the priesthood and the sacraments; The Freedom of Christian Man, which reiterated his doctrine of justification by faith alone. The first edition of 4,000 copies of the Address sold out within a week. Riding the crest of a wave of public support, Luther in his sermons, debates, and writings proposed a radical alternative to the Catholic Church.

On October 10, the papal bull reached Luther in Germany. Luther wrote a stinging reply to the bull: Against the Execrable Bull of Antichrist. “They say that some articles are heretical, some erroneous, some scandalous, some offensive,” Luther wrote. “The implication is that those which are heretical are not erroneous, those which are erroneous are not scandalous, and those which are scandalous are not offensive.” Calling on the pope to “renounce your diabolical blasphemy and audacious impiety,” he concluded, “It is better that I should die a thousand times than that I should retract one syllable of the condemned articles.”

Luther’s books were burned in Louvain and Liège during October and the following month in Cologne and Mainz. On December 10, 1520, Luther and his followers publicly burned the papal bull at Wittenberg, along with copies of canon law and the papal constitutions. “Since they have burned my books, I burn theirs,” Luther said. In January 1521, the pope issued a new bull, “Decet Romanum Pontificum,” which affirmed the excommunication of Luther and his followers and the burning of his works.

Luther’s enormous popularity, bolstered by his appeal to German nationalist objections to Roman intervention in their affairs, saved him from the fate of other heretics. Elector Frederick III of Saxony, Luther’s temporal ruler, refused to give him over for trial to Rome. The only power in Europe capable of suppressing Luther was the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, a devout Catholic determined to root out the heresy.

On April 18, 1521, Luther was called before the Diet of Worms. Before the emperor and the assembled princes of the empire he refused to recant or disown his writings. “Should I recant at this point,” he said, “I would open the door to more tyranny and impiety, and it will be all the worse should it appear that I had done so at the instance of the Holy Roman Empire.” He continued, “Unless I am convicted by Scripture and plain reason—I do not accept the authority of popes and councils, for they have contradicted each other—my conscience is captive to the Word of God.”

On May 26, 1521, Charles V decreed in the Edict of Worms that Luther was “a limb cut off from the Church of God, an obstinate schismatic and manifest heretic. . . . [N]o one is to harbor him. His followers are also to be condemned. His books are to be eradicated from the memory of man.” The edict included a Law of Printing, which prohibited printing, sale, possession, reading, or copying Luther’s work or any future works he might produce.

Though the emperor had persuaded most of the princes of Germany to sign the condemnation, few strongly supported it. Though the edict called for Luther’s arrest, his friends were able to harbor him at the castle in Wartburg of Elector Frederick III of Saxony. There he translated the New Testament into German and began a 10-year project to translate the entire Bible. He returned to Wittenberg in March 1522 at considerable risk and spent the rest of his life spreading his new gospel.

Censorship of Luther’s writing was pervasive throughout Europe. His works and those of his disciples were destroyed and banned in England, France, Spain, and the Netherlands. In 1524, the Diet of Nürnberg declared that “each prince in his own territory should enforce the Edict of Worms in so far as he might be able.” As the edict implied, it could not be enforced in most of northern Germany. Cities in southern Germany and elsewhere in northern Europe joined the Lutheran reform. “Lutheran books are for sale in the marketplace immediately beneath the edicts of the Emperor and the Pope who declare them to be prohibited.” a contemporary commented.

In 1555, Charles V signed the Peace of Augsburg, giving up further attempts to impose Catholicism on the Protestant princes. The peace allowed each prince to choose the religion of his state and declared that people could not be prevented from migrating to another region to practice their own religion. Lutheranism had taken hold.

Luther’s works remained on the Vatican’s "Index of Forbidden Book" until 1930. They were still prohibited, however, according to the church’s canon law barring Catholics under penalty of mortal sin from reading books “which propound or defend heresy or schism.”

By Nicholas J. Karolides, Margaret Bald and Dawn B.Sova in "120 Banned Books", second edition, Checkmark Books, New York, 2011, excerpts pp. 277-281. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

Women in general appear to have been marginalised in many ancient Greek societies – though this has been exaggerated by many scholars – but even amongst women some groups were more marginalised than others. These include poor but free women, slave women, free but foreign women, and prostitutes, who could be poor and wealthy, free and slave, and were generally foreign, though occasionally citizen girls must have fallen into this profession. These prostitutes were arguably the most marginalised girls and women in classical Athens (hardly anything is known about prostitutes in other Greek cities, except for Corinth), being primarily non-Athenian and often slaves.

Prostitution was very much a fact of life in classical Athens. The prosecutor of Neaira says that hetairai are kept for pleasure, concubines (pallakai) ‘for the daily care of our bodies’, and wives for legitimate children.1 Both hetairai and pornai were considered to be normal adjuncts of Athenian society. There was no ‘moral stigma’ attached to a male citizen’s involvement with prostitutes – either hetairai or pornai – and there was no ‘moral’ significance to the status of prostitutes: they were not ritually impure, for example, because of the fact that they had sexual intercourse with numerous men. This is a significant point to bear in mind when looking at the religious activities of these girls and women. Two terms were usual for female prostitutes: pornai or hetairai. Hetairai were ‘high-class’ prostitutes with perhaps some education, wit or conversational skills, suitable as dinner-guests, while the less favoured pornai, prostitutes, were available to all comers and engaged in activities including fellatio and anal intercourse. There were also pallakai, concubines, who could easily lose pallake status if their lover became tired of them, and be sent to a brothel as a prostitute.2 Flute girls (auletrides) presumably also ended their entertainment at drinking parties by having sexual intercourse with the men present.

Hetairai could command high prices for their favours, and it is these prostitutes who are found in religious contexts, because so much of Greek religion was a monetary affair. A worshipper needed money to buy a cow to sacrifice or to purchase something made of precious metal to dedicate in a temple. So amongst prostitutes the religious life of the less well off is unknown (as is that generally of most poor women in Greece), except that in a general way they must have prayed, attended festivals, and perhaps made cheap dedications. Certainly they were not banned from festivals, sacrifices or temples because of their profession.

Several ancient authors wrote works specifically about prostitutes which are now lost. What survives are quotations, excerpts of these works, in Athenaeus, a Greek living in Naukratis, Egypt, in the late second and early third century AD. He describes a symposium – banquet – which lasted several days and which ranged widely over numerous topics, including prostitutes and prostitution. During the discourse, the speakers quote numerous works on prostitutes, such as those by Aristophanes of Byzantium, Apollodoros, Ammonios, Antiphanes, Gorgias of Athens, and Kallistratos. Athenaeus in a long section quotes or cites the evidence of these ancient authors, and provides some valuable material about prostitutes and religion, especially at Corinth. Machon in the third century BC wrote of Athenian prostitutes in his Chreiai (‘Bright Sayings’), large sections of which are also quoted by Athenaeus.3 In addition, there were other writers who dealt with prostitutes, who were clearly a popular stereotype in literature,4 and there were several plays with the titles of the names of prostitute characters.5

Prostitution was simply a fact of life in ancient Greece. At Athens, prostitutes were seen in fact as being a safeguard against adultery: what sexual lusts citizen men had, even if married, could be taken up by access to prostitutes or concubines, rather than with other citizens’ wives. The ready availability of female prostitutes was a hallmark of Athenian society. The fourth-century BC poet Philemon comically ascribed to Solon the Athenian reformer (archon at Athens in 594 BC) the establishment of state-owned brothels where a visit to the prostitutes cost just 1 obol – about one-sixth of a day’s wage, so extremely cheap – his aim being to prevent young men from becoming adulterers. The fourth-century BC poet Xenarchos made a clear connection, as had Philemon, between the availability of prostitutes and the way in which this should restrict the number of adulterous liaisons. Nikander of Kolophon, in fact, taking these comic notices too literally, imagined that Solon set up the cult of Aphrodite Pandemos at Athens, financing it from the profits of brothels.6

Timarchos, the impious male prostitute

Even in the early twenty-first century AD, the mention of prostitutes and prostitution will lead readers to think first of girls and women who engaged in this profession. But in classical Athens, there were male prostitutes called (amongst other terms) hetairoi and pornoi, the masculine form of the words hetairai and pornai, used for female prostitutes. Aeschines accuses Timarchos of being such a male prostitute in his speech Against Timarchos, the most detailed source for attitudes to male prostitution.7

At Athens, there was a great deal of aversion to a male citizen submitting to anal intercourse – sodomy – with another male citizen, or even worse, a foreigner, particularly if the act involved a transfer of financial favours, i.e. was prostitution. In Athens, pederastic relationships between an older, usually bearded man, and a young boy, just approaching or having experienced puberty, were socially acceptable. But intercourse was meant to be of an intercrural kind, in which the elder male had an orgasm while rubbing his erect penis between the legs of the boy. Touching of the youth’s genitals did occur, and is often shown on vases, and in many cases youths who reject unwelcome advances stop the hand of the courter as he reaches for their genitals.8

There were numerous laws to prevent boys being left alone in the company of older men in the dark, so that there was a clear fear that such pederastic relationships had the potential to involve sodomy.9 The cultural norm was phallic sexual penetration of social inferiors: women, prostitutes, slaves (boys, girls, men or women) and foreigners; one did not sexually penetrate one’s peers or those who would become one’s peers. Accordingly, pederastic relationships with young male citizens could occur but were meant to take place without anal penetration, which would detract from the boy’s maleness and social standing when he became an adult.

The younger man was expected to look up to and admire the older man. They were erastes and eromenos, lover and beloved. The lover gave sexual attentions, and the younger received but did not sexually reciprocate them. But there was also a tension here, that such relationships could also be viewed as prostitution, particularly when the giving of gifts, such as a rooster, knucklebones, or something more elaborate, occurred.10

Aeschines in his speech against Timarchos in 345 BC portrays him – a citizen – as a male prostitute, and mentions the law that prohibited male citizens who have prostituted themselves from serving as priests, holding political office, or being a herald or ambassador; nor were they allowed to speak in the political assembly or the council. Solon himself, Aeschines notes, was said to have laid down the law that male prostitutes could not speak in the assembly because if they sold their own bodies they would by extension sell the state. Aeschines objects that Timarchos, who had been pressed into prostitution as a boy – through no fault of his own, Aeschines says – chose to continue in this profession when he became an adult, and yet has been on embassies sent to other states.

As an ambassador Timarchos wore a garland (i.e. was wreathed), a symbol of sacrosanctity and associated with religious festivals. Male citizen prostitutes could not perform priestly functions, as they were considered to be impure of body and therefore not fit to serve the gods.11 Men and women priests had to be ‘holokleros’, free of blemish. Male prostitutes also could not enter temples.12 Timaios wrote that Demochares the Athenian was such a male prostitute that he wasn’t even fit to blow the sacrificial flame, in order to start the fire.13 But such pejorative connotations did not spill over into attitudes towards girls and women who were prostitutes, where citizenship was not an issue. These were attitudes to male citizen prostitutes which were based not on any ideology of normative heterosexuality but on the construction of citizenship at Athens, and male sexual dominance over those who were not males and/or citizens. Girl and women prostitutes and their religious activities were not affected by the considerations that ‘polluted’ Timarchos and Demochares.


Aspasia: an impious prostitute?

Wearing a saffron outer garment and her hair modestly veiled, Aspasia stands with Perikles and admires the Parthenon (west) frieze where Pheidias points out relevant details. So did Lawrence Alma-Tadema depict Aspasia in 1869 in his oil painting, Pheidias and the Frieze of the Parthenon.14 She is not depicted here as a hetaira but as Perikles’ mistress; she is a respectable woman (with veiled hair), except that perhaps the saffron dress – the colour of sexuality for the ancient Greeks – hints at her status. And she is not portrayed as out of place in what is – or will become – the temple of Athens’ virgin goddess, Athena herself. Whether this painting accurately reflects the historical situation or not remains to be seen.

Aspasia was from the Greek city of Miletos on the Asia Minor coast, probably coming to Athens in 451 BC or the following year. In the surviving ancient portrait of her, she is respectable, with her hair partly covered; it has been suggested that this herm is a copy of a funeral monument, which could account for her serious expression. She was said to have been involved in the philosophic discourses of her time,15 and Perikles’ admiration and attraction to her may well have been primarily (though not necessarily exclusively) intellectual rather than sexual.16 Routinely, modern historians describe her as a hetaira, but there are no real grounds for this description, as she is not once described by the ancient sources as such. She was a free non-Athenian woman, who lived with Perikles at Athens after he divorced his wife, by whom he had had two sons (Paralos and Xanthippos). By Aspasia, Perikles had Perikles (Junior), who was made a citizen by special decree in 430/29; his father’s citizenship law of 451/0 provided that only those with two Athenian parents could be citizens.17 It is highly probable, on the basis of a funerary inscription, that the elder Alkibiades was married to Aspasia’s sister, whom he may have met in Miletos during his period of ostracism from Athens.18

Antisthenes and Aischines (not the orator), pupils of Socrates who was sentenced to death in 399 BC, each wrote a Socratic dialogue entitled Aspasia.19 Antisthenes wrote that Perikles went in and out of Aspasia’s house twice a day to greet her, and wept more when speaking on Aspasia’s behalf in the courts when she was prosecuted for impiety (asebeia) than when his own life and property were in danger, and brought about her acquittal through his tears.20 Plutarch also gives the charge as that of impiety, with Hermippos the comic poet as the prosecutor, who further accused Aspasia of procuring free women for Perikles’ sexual gratification. This charge is reflected in the previous gossip that he had his way with the citizen women who came to the acropolis to admire the work of the artist Pheidias on the Parthenon.21

The motivation behind her trial for impiety was presumably political in nature, in line with the prosecutions of another two of Perikles’ associates – Pheidias for embezzlement, and Anaxagoras for impiety. Plutarch dates the trial of Aspasia to about the same time as the prosecution of Pheidias, c. 438–436 BC,22 and it probably occurred at approximately the same time as Diopeithes’ decree that those who didn’t believe in the gods or who taught scientific theories about the heavens were impious, which was obviously aimed at Anaxagoras.

Simply because Hermippos was a comic poet does not mean that there was an imaginary scene in a play in which Aspasia was prosecuted for impiety, and that later authors reading this play thought that there had been a real trial for impiety.23 The evidence for an impiety trial is quite contemporary: Antisthenes and Aischines. Her involvement in numerous philosophical discourses with the Socratic circle and the extremely strong tradition of her as a Socratic interlocutor make it probable that Aspasia was tried about her notions concerning divinity, whatever these might have been: perhaps they were similar to Anaxagoras’. That she was tried for impiety because she had entered the Parthenon is unlikely. In addition, the inscribed lists of dedications from the Parthenon list a woman named Aspasia as having dedicated a gold tiara; and this is probably (but not certainly) Perikles’ Aspasia.24

Thucydides, a great admirer of Perikles, does not mention her once, and the first literary reference to her is in a play (written c. 440–430 BC) by Kratinos, who refers to her as a ‘dog-eyed’ pallake (pallake kynopis), a concubine; as a metic and non-Athenian woman, her status as Perikles’ sexual partner could be nothing else.25

Aspasia was said to have influenced Perikles’ political decisions, such as Athens’ war against Samos, the enemy of Miletos, Aspasia’s hometown, this anecdote being first found in the writings of Duris of Samos.26 She was also (in Aristophanes’ Acharnians, produced 425 BC) the cause of the Peloponnesian War that convulsed the Greek world from 431 to 404 BC.27 Eupolis referred to her as Helen, a clear reference to Helen’s role in causing the Trojan War and Aspasia’s in the Peloponnesian.28 The Athenian ideal of the decorous wife, encapsulated by Perikles’ own advice in his Funeral Oration as recorded by Thucydides, meant that Aspasia could not have been popular in Athens.29 In Eupolis’ Demes, produced in 411 BC, Perikles asks, ‘Is my nothos (illegitimate son) alive?’ and is told, ‘Yes, and he would have been a man long ago, except for the evil of having a porne as a mother.’30 After Kratinos’ probably correct reference to her as a pallake, Eupolis, his younger contemporary, referred to her after her death as a porne. As we have seen, this was a pejorative term for a lowclass, cheap prostitute, and clearly was used posthumously to attack Aspasia’s reputation. Aspasia, in modern parlance, was Perikles’ ‘de facto wife’ but could never aspire to legitimate marriage. There is no reason to doubt that she made a dedication to the virgin goddess in the Parthenon; and her reputation (and/or Perikles’ position) led to an impiety trial, not because of her sexual status, but as an attack on her lover.


Aphrodite Hetaira

Philetairos in a play referred to there being a shrine (hieron) to ‘the Companion’ (Hetaira) everywhere, but that there was none to ‘the Wife’ (Gamete) in all of Hellas. This ‘Companion’ was Aphrodite Hetaira as she was called by the Athenians. But Apollodoros in his On the Gods argued that Aphrodite Hetaira referred to the less specific meaning of hetairoi and hetairai, as ‘friends’, and that Aphrodite Hetaira brought friends of both sexes together; Athenaeus adds that Sappho called her friends hetairai.31 Hesychius mentions a shrine at Athens where male and female hetairai, friends, went; Philetairos is limiting the meaning of hetaira in order to make a comic point, and this cult was not one concerned with prostitutes.

The Magnesians celebrated the Hetairideia festival, because Jason, when he had formed the band of Argonauts, sacrificed to Zeus Hetaireios (Zeus of the Companions); the Macedonian kings also celebrated the Hetairideia.32 Ephesos also had a temple dedicated to Aphrodite Hetaira.33 But Aphrodite Porne – Aphrodite the Whore – did have a shrine at Abydos: the legend was that a porne, common prostitute, had brought freedom to the city, and in gratitude the city founded the temple to the goddess.34


Prostitutes and temples

It is sometimes suggested that the charge against Aspasia was that she had visited temples, and that prostitutes were not allowed to do so; Derenne cites three passages to the effect that prostitutes could not enter holy places.35 But the evidence cited is unconvincing. Male prostitutes in Athens could not enter temples, or go on embassies requiring the wearing of wreaths, but girl and women prostitutes were not similarly debarred.

The speaker of [Demosthenes] 59 indicted Neaira, alleging that although she was a foreign woman who had been a prostitute at both Corinth and subsequently Athens, she was living with the citizen Stephanos as his wife, which was against the law, as only an Athenian woman born of two Athenian parents could be the wife of a citizen. Stephanos gave Neaira’s daughter, previously called Stybele but now Phano, as wife to Phrastor, an Athenian citizen, who soon ejected her from his house when he discovered that she was not Stephanos’ daughter but Neaira’s. Stephanos next gave Phano in marriage to Theogenes, a poor man, selected by lot to be the basileus archon, who had important religious rites to perform.

As the wife of the basileus archon, Phano offered the sacrifices ‘which cannot be spoken about’ on behalf of the city, saw what she should not have seen being a xene (foreigner), went where only the wife of the basileus archon should go, and administered the oath to the gerarai. She was even given in marriage to the god Dionysos himself, carrying out the ancestral rites on behalf of the city, which were sacred and unnameable. But he stops short of saying the daughter is a prostitute; in fact, while the speaker has a good case that Neaira the mother was a prostitute, he doesn’t make a case for the daughter being such. Rather, what he stresses here is that a woman who was a xene, a foreigner, performed these sacred rites and that Stephanos passed her off as his citizen daughter when she was not. The speaker pursues his theme further, noting the law that the wife of the basileus archon who performs these rites had to be an Athenian and a virgin at her marriage and that the Athenians showed piety towards the god by making this law (§§85–6). Another passage (§73) makes it clear that as a xene Neaira’s daughter should not have partaken in the rites conducted by the wife of the basileus archon.

In case his points that Phano was a xene and not an Athenian do not convince the jurors, the speaker offers another line of argument. Even if Phano is an Athenian, then she must be an adulteress, because her ‘father’ Stephanos has claimed that he found a man in the act of adultery with her. He then points out that adulterous women are debarred from public sacrifices, which a slave or a foreign woman (xene) could attend to watch and offer prayers (§§85–6).36

Barring adulterous women from shrines kept the holy places free of miasma and asebeia. It is only if prostitutes were classed as adulterous that they were debarred from temples at Athens under this particular prescription. This could not be the case as there was a law that sex with prostitutes was not adultery (§67). If Phano is a xene, she should not have been the wife of the basileus archon; if she is an Athenian then she is an adulterer, by her father’s own testimony, and therefore not allowed to attend – let alone perform – sacrifices. This part of the speech proves two things: that a foreign woman could not be the wife of the basileus archon, and that while adulterous Athenian women were barred from public sacrifices, foreign women could attend these.

In another section of this speech which is relevant (§§113–14), the speaker argues that if Neaira as a prostitute is allowed to pass herself off as a citizen, then no one will marry the freeborn poor women, who will have to become prostitutes in order to have a livelihood. The prostitutes themselves will have the rank of the freeborn women, and the poor freeborn women will give birth to children to whomsoever they please, and still join in the rites and ceremonies of the city. But the speaker is not saying that the involvement of prostitutes at sacrifices and prayers would be unusual. Rather he is stating that the poor free Athenian women will become adulterers – they will bear children to whoever they please – and nevertheless take part in the rites, even though they are adulterous and no longer respectable.

A speech by Isaeus indicates that slaves and prostitutes were debarred from entering a particular, unnamed, temple and seeing rites – which are not specified – that only Athenian citizen women were meant to see at that temple.37 This passage is sometimes cited as evidence that prostitutes could not attend the Thesmophoria, but while women-only rites at Athens were largely in honour of Demeter, there were several such rites – for example, the Stenia, Haloa and Skira – and so it is not necessarily the Thesmophoria which is being referred to here. In this case, the slave involved (who had been a prostitute) was passing herself off as a citizen’s legitimate wife, and her two bastard sons by two clients as the sons of her aged ‘husband’. Her crime is that of impersonating a citizen wife and of having taken part in rites that she should not, as a xene, have participated in.

Clearly, adulterous women could not attend sacrifices or visit temples, and non-Athenian women were barred from certain rites. But that is as far as the evidence goes. It would help if there were evidence for prostitutes at temples, but there is not, except for their presence at temples of Aphrodite. Prostitutes are described as leaving a temple of Aphrodite at Athens in a third-century BC work by Machon, and they prayed in her temple at Corinth in 480 BC. As this goddess relates to their occupation, it is not particularly persuasive evidence for the presence of prostitutes at temples. But prostitutes did make dedications in temples, and perhaps this is relevant.

Moreover, they were initiates in the Eleusinian Mysteries, which means that they entered the telesterion at Eleusis. In addition, Sinope, a hetaira, made a sacrifice at Eleusis in the fourth century BC. Moreover, when Stephanos and Phrynion (the latter had helped to contribute to the price of Neaira’s freedom) were arguing about who had sexual rights to Neaira, they met ‘in the temple’ with arbitrators and Neaira, with an agreement made that Stephanos and Phrynion would share her on alternate days.38 A man might also take his pallake, concubine, to a private sacrifice. Given that prostitutes and sexual intercourse with them were not generally considered polluting in classical Greek thought, it is not surprising that prostitutes were not debarred from temples. At Maionia they were specifically allowed into a shrine which required men who had recently had intercourse to purify themselves: the peculiarity of this last measure indicates how unusual it would have been for prostitutes not to enter temples.39

The whores of Demetrios Poliorketes

Demetrios Poliorketes in 307 BC liberated Athens from the regime of the pro-Macedonian Demetrios of Phaleron, and numerous honours were granted to him, such as the use of the opisthodomon (rear chamber) of the Parthenon as accommodation; there he had intercourse with free youths and free women to such an extent that when he introduced (women) prostitutes there he was thought to have purified the place in comparison. The comic poet Philippides referred to Demetrios in the following lines:

"He took over the acropolis as his inn,
and introduced his hetairai to the virgin goddess".

These hetairai (prostitutes) were obviously lodged in the opisthodomon of the Parthenon. This is not actually referred to as impiety by Philippides or Plutarch, but Plutarch writes that by his activities with youths and free women Demetrios did not behave as was fitting towards the goddess, and his treatment of the Parthenon is obviously included in the ‘shocking and lawless things’ that he did.40 Sexual intercourse in temples was always considered unlawful in Greek thought.

Prostitutes and looted temple treasures

The Phokian commanders Phayllos and Onomarchos were fond respectively of women and boys; when the Phokians plundered the treasures of Delphi to pay for their mercenaries in the Third Sacred War (356–346 BC), these two gave away to their lovers some of the dedications which had been made at Delphi. Phayllos gave to the flute girl (auletris) Bromias a silver drinking cup, dedicated by the Phokaians (of Asia Minor), and a golden ivy-wreath, dedicated by the Peparethians.

She would have played the flute at the Pythian festival at Delphi had she been allowed, but the crowd prevented her from doing so (because she was a prostitute): this was one line she was not allowed to cross, and so there were apparently some scruples about prostitutes and the divine. But her presence itself was permissible, as long as she did not act the flute girl. On another occasion, Philomelos, strategos autokrator (supreme general) of the Phokians in the fourth century, gave a gold laurel crown, dedicated by the city of Lampsakos, to Pharsalia, a dancing girl from Thessaly; later she travelled to Metapontion in Italy, where according to two different accounts, the manteis (soothsayers) tore her to pieces because of the god’s golden wreath, and in another, when she was near the temple of Apollo – the god of Delphi – in Metapontion, young men each trying to take the crown from her tore her to pieces. It was said that she was killed because the wreath belonged to the god. It is not her status as a prostitute which is the problem here: Pharsalia met the fate of temple-robbers which the ancients thought she deserved.41

Sacred laws dealing with prostitutes

Sacred laws occasionally mention prostitutes, and while there is only one from the classical period, they are relevant  nevertheless in that they indicate that the prostitute was presumably not unwelcome in shrines that did not have such rules, unless unrecorded social conventions prevented their entrance to these shrines. In a fourth-century BC purity inscription from Metropolis in Ionia, two days’ purity was required after sex with one’s wife, and three days after sex with a prostitute, before a worshipper could enter the shrine. Here the idea is presumably that sex was impure, and that sex outside marriage more so – by a day. But the contrast is much stronger at third-century AD Lindos on Rhodes (some 600 years or so later): sexual intercourse with a prostitute meant a wait of thirty days before entering the shrine, but intercourse with another woman simply required washing to obtain purification.42

But this is so long after the classical period that this regulation indicates by contrast that in the classical period such lengthy purification periods did not apply. As to prostitutes themselves, a cult in Maionia specified that a prostitute (hetaira) had to abstain from intercourse for two days before entering the shrine, and had to ‘purify herself all over’, probably by washing; a man was able if he had intercourse with a woman to enter the same shrine that day after washing.43 Clearly cults which saw intercourse as polluting included prostitution in this category, but this was clearly far from the general formulation of pollution in classical ritual practice. The presence of prostitutes at some panhellenic festivals was obviously normal: one brothel-keeper took his prostitutes to the Delphic amphictyonic gathering at Pyloi and other festivals.44 A spectator marking out a site for his tent at the Isthmian festival makes a lewd reference to sexual activity, and is probably hinting at the presence of prostitutes.45 The presence of prostitutes at festivals and their access to shrines need not be doubted.


Phryne, an impious prostitute

The state might choose to adopt a new divinity for worship, as it did in the case of the Thracian goddess Bendis.46 Or foreign merchants could apply for permission to build a shrine for their favourite deity, as in the case of the Egyptians for Isis and the Kitians for Kitian Aphrodite.47 But at Athens, the introduction of a new god by an individual could become the subject of an impiety trial: Socrates, in 399 BC, provides the best example.48 There were at least three other cases. Demades was fined for proposing a decree that Alexander (the Great) be worshipped as a god at Athens.49 The other two cases involved a prostitute (Phryne) and a woman priest (Nino).

Phryne, a prostitute originally from Thespiai, was prosecuted at Athens by Euthias for impiety (asebeia) in about the middle of the fourth century BC for introducing the worship of Isodaites (later equated with Dionysos);50 his case was that: ‘I have shown that Phryne is impious, she has celebrated shameful revels, she is the introducer of a new god, she has assembled illegal thiasoi of men and women.’ The unofficial character of some cults and their bands of devotees, thiasoi, at Athens is made clear by a deme decree from the Piraeus that forbade thiasoi to assemble in the deme Thesmophorion.51 There were bands of worshippers who came together of their own initiative; the city itself did not forbid this practice but could (and did) take action if individuals brought a lawsuit about it or related matters. Phryne, a prostitute and a woman, had organised bands of men and women to worship a new god. The comic poet Poseidippos in the third century BC mentions that Phryne was acquitted in her trial because of her tears, when she clasped each of the jurors by hand.52

According to Athenaeus, it was a capital charge and she was defended by the orator Hypereides. As he was not convincing the jurors of her innocence, he brought her out where all the jurors could see her, tearing off her chitoniskoi (short tunics) so that her breasts were exposed, and he broke out into
lamentations at the sight (of the breasts that were to be deprived of life). The jurors became superstitious of the ‘expounder and attendant’ of Aphrodite, and acquitted her, concerned that Aphrodite’s wrath might fall on them for executing a piece of her handiwork like Phryne.53 This story of the chitoniskoi appears first in Athenaeus, and, while it might be earlier, it is significant that Poseidippos does not mention it, and it might well be apocryphal.54

Phryne’s body was most beautiful in the ‘hidden parts’, such that at the festivals of the Eleusinia and Poseidonia55 in the presence of all the Greeks she took off only her cloak, let down her hair and walked into the sea: in fact, according to Athenaeus, she was the model for Apelles’ painting "Aphrodite Rising from the Sea and Praxiteles" sculpture, the Knidian Aphrodite (or the Knidia). Praxiteles’ Phryne as Aphrodite was the first three-dimensional nude statue of a woman to be created in the Greek world. It was eventually housed in a special building at Knidos in Asia Minor, and became a tourist attraction. There was a front and back entrance, and a woman was entrusted with the keys to the doors and opened them for those who wished to view the statue.56 While it is possible to argue that the connection between Praxiteles and Phryne is entirely fictitious,57 Praxiteles’ connection with her is a very strong element of the tradition, and some woman or women served as the model/s; a prostitute would in no way have been an inappropriate model for a goddess who was after all their especial patron.58

The reference to the Eleusinia might well be to the day of the EleusinianMysteries on which the mystai took their piglets down to the sea to purify them; ‘all of Greece’ was invited to participate in the Mysteries. Phryne apparently became an initiate of the Great Mysteries at Eleusis, along with other prostitutes, such as Metaneira, Lysias’ friend (see below). At Thespiai, her home, Phryne dedicated the statue of Eros which Praxiteles had carved for her. Her clients paid for Praxiteles to make a golden statue of her and set it up on a column of Pentelic marble at Delphi; it was inscribed with her name: ‘Phryne, daughter of Epikles, of Thespiai’. Athenaeus saw it there, centuries later, between the statues of Philip II of Macedon (Alexander the Great’s father), and Archidamos, the Spartan king.59 The Cynic Krates commented, however, that the statue was a monument to the akrasia (‘incontinence’) of the Greeks.60

In the case of Phryne, it was not necessarily her status as a prostitute which led her into what the Athenians regarded as impiety, but rather her status as a free foreign woman with more freedom than the average Athenian housewife. However, her status as a metic may have made her more vulnerable, and the Athenians less tolerant, than might otherwise have been the case, though Socrates, also tried for impiety, was both a male and a citizen.


Prostitutes as initiates in the Eleusinian Mysteries

Phryne was arguably an initiate at Eleusis, but other evidence is unequivocal. Lysias was the lover of Metaneira, one of seven girls purchased for prostitution by Nikarete who ran an establishment for this purpose at Corinth. At the time of the Mysteries at Athens, Lysias invited Nikarete to Athens and asked her to bring Metaneira as well, so that Metaneira could be initiated with him. They came and Metaneira was presumably initiated. The Mysteries were open to Athenian and non-Athenian, slave and free. Prostitutes, along with others, desired a blessed afterlife.61 And presumably Lysias wanted Metaneira in his happy afterlife with him. After this, Simos the Thessalian brought Neaira, with Nikarete, to Athens for the Great Panathenaia; she drank and dined with many men, as hetairai do, the speaker says. No mention of religious activity is made; she was there as part of the festivities to entertain the men. But there was nothing to prevent her from seeing the procession and sacrifices, if she chose to do so.62

In the fourth century the hetaira Sinope, brought a victim to be sacrificed at Eleusis, and the hierophant Archias duly offered it. Prostitutes, like everyone else, had specific religious needs. Sinope had enough money to purchase a sacrificial beast, and the hierophant himself, the chief priest of the Eleusinian Mysteries, carried out the sacrifice for her.63 Themistios the Athenian was punished with death because he treated a Rhodian lyre player (she is unnamed) violently at the Eleusinian festival: she was probably part of the entertainment at a symposium at the festival, and Themistios was punished with the extreme penalty for violating the sacrosanctity of the festival.64

The tombs of prostitutes

Tomb monuments for prostitutes are apparently not classical. Harpalos,Alexander the Great’s treasurer who embezzled funds and fled to Athens in 324 BC, fell in love with Pythionike, a prostitute at Corinth and then Athens, and when she died constructed a monument to her costing several talents on the Sacred Way between Athens and Eleusis at Hermos, which Pausanias describes as the tomb (mnema) most worthy of note of all the ancient tombs of Greece; there was another tomb monument for her in Babylon.65 In the satyr play Agen, there was a reference to ‘the famous temple (naos) of the prostitute (porne)’ built by Harpalos, in his satrapy on the Indus river, where some barbarian magoi (magicians) persuaded him that they could call up the spirit of Pythionike.66

There was a shrine and sanctuary, and Harpalos dedicated the temple and the altar to Pythionike Aphrodite; Pythionike was the embodiment of the divine Aphrodite.67 Such a cult could only come with the hellenistic period, and the weakening of the divide between mortals and immortals. On Pythionike’s death, Harpalos took up with the prostitute Glykera; summoned by Harpalos to Tarsos, she was honoured there as queen (basilissa), and people did obeisance to her; a bronze statue of her was set up at Rhossos.68 Stratonike, one of the prostitutes of Ptolemy II Philadelphos of Egypt, had a monument (mnema) near the sea at Eleusis; why is not stated, but perhaps she was an initiate of and devoted to the Eleusinian cult.69

Lais the prostitute claimed that Aphrodite Melainis (‘of the Dark’) would appear as an epiphany in a dream, and tell her of the coming of extremely wealthy lovers. Pausanias mentions Lais’ tomb at Corinth, near the shrine of Aphrodite Melainis. She had another monument in Thessaly: she fled there with her lover Hippostratos of Thessaly, from her numerous other lovers and ‘the great army of prostitutes’ in Corinth. In Thessaly the local women were jealous of her, and luring her into a temple of Aphrodite stoned her to death; the temple came to be called ‘Homicidal Aphrodite’. The epigram on her Corinthian tomb as quoted by Athenaeus does indicate that she was buried in Thessaly,70 and while the historicity of all this is perhaps questionable, it does indicate that in death prostitutes were the equal and sometimes more than so of their citizen women counterparts in being honoured by funerary monuments, given the resources of their patrons and the consequent tombs erected in their memory.

The dedications of prostitutes

Just as citizen men and women, and foreigners of both genders, made dedications to the gods, prostitutes also did so, and the main beneficiary of their dedications was Aphrodite, as might be expected.71 Prostitutes will have felt little need to call on Athena in her capacity as goddess of weaving (though note Kottina’s dedication to her discussed below),72 or Demeter, the goddess of agriculture, from whose agricultural rites the city of Athens seems to have debarred them. Prostitutes did have children, but any dedications which they might have made to Artemis or other deities associated with child-bearing have left no trace.

Doriche the prostitute from Naukratis dedicated the ‘much-talked-of obeliskoi’ (roasting spits) at Delphi, which were mentioned in a play by Kratinos. Athenaeus takes Herodotos to task for confusing Doriche with Rhodopis: Herodotos reports the story current amongst the Greeks in Egypt that one of the pyramids was built by the hetaira Rhodopis, who lived at Naukratis during King Amasis’ reign. She was born in Thrace and had been brought to Naukratis by a Samian; Sappho’s brother while in Egypt paid for her freedom. She continued her trade and spent a tenth of her money on as many iron roasting spits as this would buy, and sent them to Delphi. Herodotos writes that they could still be seen there in his day, behind the Chian altar.73 This prostitute was apparently known by both names; perhaps Rhodopis was her ‘professional’ name.

Delphi clearly did not refuse this or other offerings, such as that of Phryne, made by professional sex-workers. Prostitutes had no especial attachment to Delphi or the god Apollo but it was the most important panhellenic sanctuary and a dedication there was an especial mark of piety (and advertised the success of their careers). Perhaps more surprisingly, Polemon wrote about the hetaira Kottina of Sparta in his work Concerning the Dedications in Lakedaimon.

"There is a small statue of the hetaira Kottina, because of whose fame a brothel is called after her even today, very near Kolone, where the temple of Dionysos is; the brothel is easy to spot and known to many in the city. Her dedication, on the other side of the statue of Athena of the Bronze House, is of a small bronze cow and the small statue [of Kottina] just mentioned."74

Kottina dedicated the statue perhaps not because of any especial affinity with Athena (the deity could hardly have been her patroness) but rather because Athena was one of Sparta’s most important deities and the Bronze House one of its most prestigious shrines. While Plutarch could write that Sparta was
not visited by any ‘rhetoric teacher, vagabond seer, keeper of hetairai, or any craftsman of gold or silver ornaments, because there was no coinage’, clearly there were prostitutes active at Sparta, presumably slaves or drawn from the perioikoi, the people of the neighbouring cities.75

The hetairai from Athens who accompanied Perikles during the siege of the island of Samos in 440 BC dedicated the statue ‘Aphrodite in Samos’, which some called ‘in the reeds’, and others ‘in the marsh’, when they had earned enough money from their labours. Presumably it was housed in Aphrodite’s temple on Samos.76 The scene as the prostitutes embarked and disembarked from the boats that took them from the island, the discussions amongst the prostitutes about the dedications, and what sums were able to be contributed by individual prostitutes are all details that have to be left to the imagination of the historian, unless the story is subjected to unnecessary scepticism. The dedications of prostitutes, earned as they were through their profession, were not in any way ‘tainted’ or ‘impure’ and this is in accord with what is known about ancient attitudes towards sexuality and prostitutes. Women prostitutes were not in any way unclean or morally impure; Aphrodite, but also Athena and Apollo, received the rewards of the prostitutes’ labours.


Prostitutes and festivals

Prostitutes were also apparently regular participants at the Adonia, as well as the Eleusinian Mysteries and various panhellenic festivals. The Athenian comic poet Alexis in his Philouse (‘The Girl in Love’), referred to a festival of hetairai at Corinth, which was different from the one for ‘free-born women’; clearly the free-born women and the prostitutes celebrated separate and probably quite different festivals for Aphrodite, the goddess of the city. Alexis notes that at their festival it was the practice for the prostitutes to revel in the company of men.77

The third-century poet Machon had several short pieces on individual prostitutes, including one each on Gnathaina and her prostitute granddaughter Gnathainion. Gnathaina celebrated the Aphrodisios, a festival of Aphrodite (presumably similar to the festival of the Corinthian prostitutes) at Athens,
feasting in the company of clients; with her prostitute granddaughter Gnathainion she came out of the temple of Aphrodite (the Aphrodision), which happened to be the same day as the festival of Kronos, and Gnathainion then travelled down to the Piraeus for a festival (perhaps that of Kronos) in order to meet a client.78 Machon also has prostitutes swearing in jest an oath by Artemis, and by the two goddesses (Demeter and Persephone);79 what the goddesses would have thought about any such oath has to be left to the imagination.

Athenaeus mentions that Nemeas the prostitute at Athens in the fourth century BC had taken the name of a festival (i.e. the panhellenic Nemea in the Peloponnese, perhaps because she had done well there), but cites Polemon On the Acropolis to the effect that this was forbidden to prostitutes and slave women. However, prostitutes with the names Anthea, Isthmias and Pythionike are known.80

Women, often naked but sometimes clothed, are shown on some vases carrying huge phalloi. These were borne aloft in processions at the Country Dionysia and the City Dionysia, but it is unlikely that these representations are of citizen women acting as bearers of phalloi. In fact, men are known to have carried the giant phalloi in processions, and these vase representations must be male fantasies of prostitutes with giant dildos.81


The sacred prostitutes of Corinth

Herodotos provides details about prostitution at Babylon, where every woman before marriage had to prostitute herself once in the sanctuary of Mylitta (according to Herodotos, the Assyrian name for Aphrodite) at Babylon – clearly a rite of passage. Herodotos notes that this practice existed also in some parts of Cyprus,82 and that in Lydia girls earned their dowries through prostitution; but nothing sacred is mentioned about the transactions.83 According to Justin, the Cypriots sent their virgin daughters before marriage down to the seashore to prostitute themselves (presumably to sailors and other strangers), dedicating their earnings to Aphrodite to ensure that in marriage they would remain chaste to their husbands.84 At Byblos in Syria women who did not take part in the Adonia festival had to have sexual intercourse in the agora, once, with a stranger, by way of a fine, with the price paid for their services dedicated to Aphrodite.85 But such rites are absent from mainland Greece in the classical period.

Corinth was renowned for its prostitutes, both secular ones and those who belonged to Aphrodite, more so than any other Greek city. ‘Not for every man is the sea voyage to Corinth’ went the proverb: Corinth, on the Isthmus and between two seas, became a great trading city.86 The ship captains and sailors squandered their money on the Corinthian prostitutes, who had a reputation for their expensiveness, hence the proverb.87 The first indication of the practice of sacred prostitution in Greece comes from no less an authority than Pindar himself. In 464 BC, Xenophon of Corinth competed at Olympia and vowed that if he was victorious he would dedicate hetairai, prostitutes, to Aphrodite at Corinth, his hometown. Pindar wrote both an ode, Olympian 13, to commemorate Xenophon’s victory in the stade (180 metres) and pentathlon, and also a skolion (‘song’) which was sung at Corinth. Athenaeus, in dealing with Xenophon’s vow, notes that at Corinth individuals made such vows of hetairai to Aphrodite; that is, it was not uncommon practice.88

Pindar opened the skolion, sung at the sacrifice made to Aphrodite at which the hetairai were present, by addressing Xenophon’s hetairai themselves. Pindar calls them young girls (korai), servants of Peitho (Persuasion) in rich Corinth, burners of frankincense on the altars of Aphrodite Ourania (Heavenly Aphrodite), granted without reproach ‘to have the fruit of your soft bloom plucked in lovely beds’:89

"O mistress of Cyprus, here to your grove 
Xenophon has brought a hundred-bodied herd of grazing girls [korai] 
Rejoicing in his fulfilled vows".90

The meaning of the words usually translated as ‘one-hundred-limbed’ is uncertain. Does it denote twenty-five or fifty girls, as is usually suggested? A better translation is rather ‘hundred-bodied’; i.e. Xenophon vowed and dedicated 100 young girls. The mechanics of the vow are unknown: did Xenophon make a public declaration before going to Olympia, warning the temple of what he planned to dedicate? Or did he inform the temple after his victory? Presumably he went to the slave market at Corinth and purchased his 100 prostitutes, and clearly the temple would have had to make some provision for their accommodation, as well as other arrangements. Xenophon was from Corinth, and he would certainly have known about the temple and its prostitutes, as well as the relevant organisational details.

Strabo, writing many hundreds of years later, notes that there was a large number of hetairai sacred to Aphrodite in Corinth, with numerous merchants and soldiers coming to this city to spend their money on them, and that the shrine owned more than 1,000 hierodouloi (‘sacred slaves’) who had been dedicated by both men and women: because of these hierodouloi the city was crowded and wealthy.91 Presumably the money for their services – for Pindar makes it clear that they do not simply become temple functionaries but practise the art of sex – went directly to the goddess. In addition to the hierodouloi there were of course many other (i.e. ‘secular’) prostitutes in Corinth.

Chamaileon of Herakleia noted the ancient custom that when Corinth prayed to Aphrodite on important matters, as many prostitutes as possible were invited to join in the supplication; the prostitutes prayed to the goddess and were later present at the sacrifice to her.92 So when the Persians invaded Greece in 480 BC, the prostitutes entered Aphrodite’s shrine and prayed for the safety of the Greeks.93 Clearly both hierodouloi and non-sacred prostitutes are meant, joining the citizen wives. The Corinthians dedicated a pinax to the goddess, recording the names of the prostitutes who had made supplication and who later joined in the sacrifices.94 Simonides wrote an epigram to commemorate the prayers and the pinax:

"These women on behalf of the Greeks and their fair fighting fellow citizens Were set up to pray with heaven-sent power to Kypris For the goddess Aphrodite did not choose to hand over The acropolis of the Greeks [Corinth] to the bow-carrying Persians."95

Herodotos is criticised by Plutarch for not mentioning this prayer which the Corinthian women made to Aphrodite to inspire their men with passionate love (eros) for the fight against the barbarian.96 Plutarch writes that the praying women of this epigram were statues set up in the temple of Aphrodite, and it is easy to understand how he makes his mistake: in the epigram reference is made to ‘these women . . . were set up to pray’ and Plutarch obviously took this as a reference to a common type of dedication, statues. But in Athenaeus’ account, the writing of the epigram is linked to the dedication of the pinax on which the names of those who prayed were recorded, and so the pinax presumably had a painting showing women praying.97

The inscription of the epigram could be seen according to Theopompos on the left as one entered the temple.98 Whether the praying women were the Corinthian wives or the prostitutes or both is sometimes debated.99 Chamaileon as cited by Athenaeus makes them prostitutes, while Plutarch has the Corinthian women praying for their husbands and Simonides writing the epigram about the wives. The scholiast to the Pindar passage, like Plutarch, has the women as the wives of the citizens.100 Chamaileon is certainly to be followed here not simply as the earliest authority, but also because Chamaileon was commenting upon the role of the prostitutes in praying to the goddess in times of crisis. After all, it would be particularly appropriate for the prostitutes to invoke Aphrodite’s aid in consuming the warriors with lust (eros) to annihilate the enemy; that prostitutes had ‘heaven-sent power’ from Aphrodite, their especial goddess, which they use while praying, also makes sense.

Pausanias saw the temple of Aphrodite at Corinth, and the statue of armed Aphrodite (Aphrodite Hoplismene) within.101 Aphrodite is shown on Roman coins in her Acrocorinth temple with a shield.102 If Aphrodite is an eastern import, as is often argued, then she could easily have had martial characteristics, just as Ishtar, the Babylonian goddess of love and war. At Corinth she is not the Aphrodite of the Iliad, wounded and driven from the battlefield by the Greek hero Diomedes,103 but rather a warlike, powerful deity who can protect the city against a powerful foe.

There is also evidence from cities other than Corinth for sacred prostitutes. At Eryx in Sicily there was a temple of Aphrodite, which Strabo states in ‘ancient times’ was ‘full’ of sacred women slaves (hierodouloi gynaikai), dedicated in  fulfilment of prayers not only by people in Sicily but from elsewhere as well. No specific reference to prostitution is made,104 but this seems so like Corinth that the conclusion that these were prostitutes is plausible.

Strabo mentions at Akilisene in Armenia that men and women slaves were dedicated to Aphrodite. Prostitution of these is not mentioned, but he notes the local custom that the leading men dedicate their daughters for a long time to the goddess before marriage for the purposes of prostitution. But the parthenoi are choosy and take on men only of their own social standing. They were paid for their services, but as they were themselves wealthy the girls gave gifts (sometimes of greater value) in return. It would be difficult under these circumstances to accept that the temple slaves were also not engaging in prostitution.105 It is possible that here the male slaves who were dedicated also served as prostitutes.

At Komana, also in Armenia, there was a great number of women in the city ‘working their bodies’. Most of these women were sacred to Aphrodite (they were hierai, ‘sacred women’), so that the city was a ‘lesser Corinth’, and men from all around would come because of the prostitutes and enjoy themselves.106 At a very basic level, the slaves became the property of the goddess, but they had to earn their keep, ‘working their bodies’, as at Corinth. Aphrodite owned slave prostitutes, dedicated to her by men and women. Gods, after all, owned livestock, lands, olive trees, rivers and springs, all of which could be leased for the god’s benefit. Aphrodite hired out her sacred slaves, just as another god might lease land for the financial benefit of a sanctuary.

According to Justin, when Epizephyrian (western) Lokris in Italy was threatened in war by Leophron, tyrant of Rhegion in 477/6 BC, the Lokrians vowed to prostitute their virgin daughters to Aphrodite; they were saved but did not fulfil the vow. Pindar refers to the relief of the virgin in front of her house at Lokris, thanking Hieron for releasing her from the dangers of war: this is sometimes taken as a reference to the vow, but, having been saved, the virgin ought to have been prostituted. Pindar, therefore, could be referring to the relief of the young girl at not being sold into slavery or concubinage.107

Klearchos recorded that the Epizephyrian Lokrians, like the Lydians, Cypriots and various others, prostituted their daughters. The mention of Lokris is probably a reference to the vow of the Lokrians.108 But while Justin has the prostitution as something vowed as a one-off event (which in any case did not take place), Klearchos treats it as an ongoing practice; perhaps he has confused a single event and written sloppily as if it were a regular occurrence. Certainly nothing in the iconography of Lokris hints at prostitution of daughters: in fact, it is Persephone who seems to be the most important goddess here. About a century later, Dionysios II, according to the same passage in Justin, reminded the Lokrians – who were having little success against the Lucanians – that they had not fulfilled their vow, and the girls went to Aphrodite’s temple to supplicate the goddess, where Dionysios took the opportunity to lay claim to their jewellery, but the prostitution of the girls did not take place.109


Aphrodite and the Ludovisi throne

Aphrodite can be approached by women both of the citizen and of the prostitute class at Corinth, and the duality of her worshippers is seen best in the so-called Ludovisi Throne.110 Cut from a single piece of marble and hollowed out to give three sides and a base, this piece may have served as a windbreak at one end of an altar (the description ‘throne’ is inaccurate). The central panel shows two women attendants (probably nymphs) helping Aphrodite out of the sea and covering her. They stand on pebbles, and presumably Aphrodite is to be imagined as emerging from the sea, as in her birth myth. On either side of the marble piece there are two carvings of women worshipping the goddess. On the left side a naked young woman sits on a cushion and plays the double pipes; her curves are sensuous and the cushion is moulded around her buttocks and lower back; her right leg is crossed over the left at the knee; her breasts are exposed to view. Her nudity is relieved only by the cap which tightly binds her hair; a hole in her visible (left) ear was presumably intended for an earring.

On the right-hand panel is a contrasting woman, who is fully clothed with a cloak covering her head and arms, leaving only the face and hands exposed to view; her dress is long, revealing only her sandalled feet. In her left hand she holds a small object, probably an incense holder, and, while her right hand is damaged, she appears to be taking incense and placing it in a small incense-burner (thymiaterion) immediately before her. Her modesty complements the voluptuousness of the flute player. The contrast is surely that between the prostitute who worships Aphrodite with music, and the citizen wife who reverently burns incense for the goddess. Aphrodite is here not the goddess of adultery threatening to undermine marriages, but presents two roles: the goddess of sexuality as worshipped by the prostitute, and the deity who bringslove to the marriage bed. The dichotomy of her roles is encapsulated in the reverence of both these very different women, a paradigm of the situation on the Corinthian acropolis.

Epicurean hetairai as dedicators to Asklepios

The names of seven hetairai who were members of the philosophical school of Epicurus (341–270 BC) during his lifetime are known; while the Pythagorean school had strict notions about prostitution,111 this was apparently not the case with Epicurus. The names of four of the hetairai, Mammarion, Hedeia, Nikidion and Boidion, also appear in inscriptions of dedications made to the healing god Asklepios at Athens. These names may well represent the same women, and the inscriptions are contemporaneous with the school at Athens, founded by Epicurus in c. 307 BC. An inventory of dedications to Asklepios from the shrine on the south slope of the acropolis has the names Mammarion and Hedeia appearing within some fifteen lines of each other, which would seem too much of a coincidence for them not to be the Epicurean hetairai.112 Mammarion’s dedication is lost, but Hedeia’s was of 4 drachmas. Hedeia, Nikidion and Boidion are recorded – again in close proximity – in an inventory of dedications to Amphiaraos, another healing deity, at Oropos.113

Nikidion and Hedeia at Oropos each dedicated a typion (a small model of some part of the body), and Boidion a model of eyes, reflecting her particular medical need. But hetairai did not constitute a large proportion of the Asklepieion dedicators, as scholars in the past have assumed. Aleshire has studied the inventories and concluded that most of the women dedicators are in fact Athenian citizen women.114 But if prostitutes were cured of illnesses, then they, like everyone else, had to thank the gods when they were cured. If these women in the dedicatory lists were hetairai, it has to be imagined that they spent a night or more in the sacred healing building, the abaton, at the Asklepieion at the foot of the acropolis, and that they travelled to the Amphiaraion on the Athenian border with Thebes and spent some time there. The rule that men and women slept on different sides of the altar in the sleeping chamber of the Amphiaraion might have had to be more strictly enforced on such occasions.115

Women foreigners worshipping in Athens

There were large numbers of metics, foreigners or ‘aliens’, in Athens, and both men and women metics paid a special tax to the state.116 Metic participation in Athenian state cult was limited, and the metics must have had their own cults, some of which are known.117 Non-citizens were excluded from priesthoods; when the people of Plataea were made Athenian citizens after the destruction of their city in the Peloponnesian War, they were not to be eligible to be selected by lot for the nine archonships or for the priesthoods, but their descendants were to be eligible if born from citizen wives (i.e. Athenian women).118 Non-citizens would be automatically debarred from any rites to do with phratries and gene, and hereditary priesthoods, of course, would be closed to them. Metic women could not become women priests in Athenian cults. That resident foreigners in cities, generally known outside Athens as paroikoi rather than metics, could be involved in the religious life of cities other than Athens is clear,119 but metic women’s role in these cities is largely unascertainable.

A decree of the deme Skambonidai in giving details of sacrifices provides that metics were to share in the sacrificial meat; it is possible that the sacrifice in question is to the tribal hero, Leontis.120 At the Hephaistia festival at Athens, there were to be 100 beasts for the citizens in the sacrificial carve-up, and the

In the classical period, the daughters of metics carried hydriai and skiadia (urns of water and sunshades), the latter for the benefit of citizen daughters, in the annual Panathenaic procession.122 Stools were carried for the kanephoroi,123 and as the metic daughters carried the skiadia for the kanephoroi, it is possible that these diphrophoroi were also metic daughters. On the Parthenon frieze, four hydriaphoroi – bearers of hydriai – are shown: but they are male.124 This has led scholars to assume that this task at the time of the carving of the frieze was performed by citizen males but that it was at a later date transferred to the metic girls.125 However, it is difficult to accept that girls could have carried the rather large hydriai that the youths are carrying.126 Male metic youths in purple gowns carried skaphai, long rectangular metal troughs; the north Parthenon frieze depicts three such youths.127 The skiadaphoroi and diphrophoroi are absent from the Panathenaic east frieze, which shows a large num er of young girls, but all of them citizens; the two girls sometimes claimed as diphrophoroi are in fact arrephoroi, citizen girls. No metic daughters are depicted on the Parthenon frieze, and in a way, this is not surprising. Metics, then, at Athens had some clearly defined participation in Athenian religious life, but would largely have been excluded from the official religious life of the polis, and would have pursued their own religious practices, which in the case of many metics would have involved worshipping the same gods as the Athenians, sometimes at state festivals such as the Panathenaia, and presumably also at festivals celebrated only by metics, involving foreign deities, such as Isis in the case of the Egyptians.

It would not be surprising if metics – both men and women – made dedications in Athens, both to ‘Athenian’ and to ‘non-Athenian’ deities. In 333/2 BC, merchants from Kition in Cyprus were given permission to found a sanctuary of Aphrodite in Athens, on the precedent of the grant previously made to the Egyptians to establish a shrine of Isis. A dedication in the fourth century BC by a Kitian woman to Aphrodite Ourania should be connected with their new sanctuary.128

A mid-fourth-century BC relief inscribed, ‘The washers dedicated to the Nymphs and all the gods’, with a list of twelve names of the dedicators following, provides a possible example of a joint dedication by metics andcitizens. Pan, Acheloos and the Nymphs, the divine recipients of the votive, are carved on the relief. As the relief was discovered not far from the shrine of Pan, Acheloos and the Nymphs on the Ilissos stream, these ‘washers’ presumably worked nearby. Ten of the twelve dedicators are men, and of these only four give a patronymic, assigning them to the citizen class. The other six are presumably metics or perhaps slaves; their names include Manes, which also appears as the name of a dedicant of another votive (see below). The names of two women, Leuke and Myrrhine, without designations, are probably those of non-citizens as well.129 Occupation and a similar interest in the same deities allowed these citizens and non-citizens to cross both gender and ethnic boundaries in dedicating this thanksgiving offering. One fourth-century BC dedication was made by Manes and Mika at the Piraeus to the ‘Mother of the Gods’. Manes is a Phrygian name, and he is probably non-Athenian, which the absence of a patronymic strongly supports; Mika (presumably his wife) was probably also a metic.130

Little is known about slave women and the gods, but many prostitutes would have been slaves. Foreign women and slaves could, as seen above, attend public sacrifices, either to watch or to supplicate the gods. But that a slave woman attended secret rights intended only for citizen women was a scandal.131 With pre-pubescent girls, the distinction between slaves and free could apparently be slightly relaxed, and so the slave girl Habrotonon in Menander’s Epitrepontes played a small harp, but also joined in the fun with the free girls at the night festival of the Tauropolia.132

Obviously the Athenians of classical Athens and the rest of Greece did notattribute particular ‘moral’ (or ‘immoral’) qualities to prostitutes. Their routine sexual practices, even the sometimes hereditary nature of the occupation, did not exclude these women from religious rites. In fact, it is clear that Greek men placed value on women’s participation in religion: it was presumably considered that the gods expected women to worship them and that women were important mediators of the divine.

At Athens, no particular importance was attached to prostitutes’ worship, but at Corinth their collective religious activity was believed to be powerful enough to avert crisis and disaster from the state through the special affinity they had with Aphrodite, the protector deity of Corinth. Prostitutes visited temples, made dedications and worshipped in their own private groups; a prostitute like Phryne could in fact be seen as the handiwork of the goddess. Their religious activity could be collegial, involving their coming together with other prostitutes and their clients, to celebrate festivals and drink wine as well, though here religious piety and business were obviously mixed. There was no reason to circumscribe their religious activities; prostitutes were not offensive to the gods.

These women who lived by and through sexual intercourse with numerous men are the most visible of the non-Athenian women at Athens. In some ways they had more freedom than citizen wives, particularly the free hetairai, though the position of the slave porne and flute girl cannot have been enviable. Other foreign women leave a few traces but little is known of their religious activities.

The participation of metic girls in the Panathenaia, however, suggests that their involvement was welcomed and considered important for the state as a whole. The city could not overlook such a large body of girls; they had to be integrated into the community’s worship of the gods. Although excluded from the political community metics were nevertheless viewed as part of the overall body of worshippers, and were allowed some participation in state cults, while also having their own rites, brought from their home cities.

Impious prostitutes were no more numerous than impious women priests or impious citizens, on the evidence of surviving references to prosecutions of women for impiety. This could well indicate that they were not particular targets, despite their vulnerable nature, for prosecution. It might also indicate
that prostitutes did not have a great many opportunities to be impious, which suggests that the temples were open to them: i.e. if they were not allowed to enter temples it might be expected that there would be some firm evidence about this and instances of them being charged with this offence. Restricted in their religious activities by the fact that they were non-citizens, prostitutes nevertheless could participate in many religious activities, especially and naturally the rites in honour of Aphrodite. But primarily, it is important to note that it was their status as outsiders, foreigners, rather than any impurity brought upon them by the nature of their profession that excluded prostitutes from roles that, as seen in previous chapters, citizen girls and women performed. In general, citizen women and prostitutes must be seen – in some contexts – as worshipping the same deities side by side in Greek cities.

Notes

1 [Dem.] 59.122.
2 Hetairai: Athen. 583f; pallake and brothel: Antiphon 1.14 (Dillon and Garland 1994, 2000: doc. 13.49).
3 See the collection of Gow 1965; Athen. 567a, 583d, 586a–b, 591d, 596f, 591d.
4 See Henry 1995: 57–64.
5 Athen. 567c.
6 Philemon PCG vii F3 ((Dillon and Garland 2000: doc. 13.88); Xenarchos PCG vii F4 (Dillon and Garland 2000: doc. 13.91); Nikander of Kolophon FGH 271–2 F9; cf. Euboulos PCG v F67 (Athen. 568f–569).
7 Evidence for male prostitutes: Aesch. 1, Against Timarchos, passim, but note §§3, 7–14, 19–21, 29, 40–1, 52, 70, 72, 74–5, 79, 130, 155, 158–9, 165, 184, 188; Ar. Wealth 149–59 (Dillon and Garland 2000: doc. 13.92); Dem. 22.58, 61; [Dem.] Letter 4.11; Lys. 3; Xen. Mem. 1.6.13; Eupolis PCG v 99.26; Alexis PCG ii F158 (Arnott 1996: F244); Kratinos PCG iv F3; Ephippos 20; Timaios FGH 566 F35b, cf. F124b (Demochares; see below); DL 2.9.105. Note for pederasty  and homoeroticism: Pl. Symp. 181d–185b, 191c–192e. There was a tax on male and female prostitutes; the right to collect it was contracted out by the council (boule) to private individuals: Aesch. 1.119–20; Poll. 7.202. Select bibliography:Dover 1989: 19–42; Krenkel 1978: 49–55; Foucault 1984: 47–62; Reinsberg 1993: 201–12; Halperin 1989: 37–53; 1990: 88–104; Winkler 1990: 45–70; 1990a: 171–209, esp. 186–97; Cohen 1991: 171–202; Cantarella 1992: 48–53; Keuls 1993: 274–99; Kilmer 1993: 11–25; Thornton 1997: 110–20; Dillon and Garland 2000: docs 423–40; for pederasty, note Percy 1996; cf. Athen. 605d.
8 Solon F25 (West), cf. Aeschyl. Myrmidons TrGF 3 F135 (both Dillon and Garland 2000: docs 13.65–6); Ar. Birds 137–42; scenes of intercrural sex, genital fondling, and rejection: Dover 1989: pls B76, B250, 271, R59, R196a; Kilmer 1993: pls R142, R196, R371.
9 Aesch. 1.7–14.
10 Ar. Wealth 149–59.
11 Aesch. 1.3, 19–21, 29, 72, 188. Cowards also suffered restrictions on their religious activities: Aesch. 3.176.
12 Dem. 22.73.
13 Timaios FGH 566 F35b, cf. F124b (Polyb. 12.13.1, 12.15.4).
14 Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Pheidias and the Frieze of the Parthenon, 1869, Birmingham Museums and Art Gallery inv. 118.23 (Henry 1995: 103–4; Spivey 1997: fig. 248; Cartledge 1998: 278–9).
15 Note esp. Pl. Menex.; see Henry 1995: 29–56, for her appearance in Socratic discourses by Socrates’ disciples Antisthenes, Plato, Xenophon and Aischines.
16 Vatican Museums 272 (Richter 1965: i.154–5, pls 875–6; Ridgway 1970: 65–8; 1981: 240–1; Henry 1995: 17). Her name is engraved at the base of the herm (IG xiv 1143). Richter considers the herm to be a Roman copy of a fifth-century BC original (it was found in Italy), but Ridgway argues that it is a commissioned Roman piece.
17 Law: Ath. Pol. 26.3; citizenship grant: Plut. Per. 37.3.
18 IG ii2 7394; early fourth century BC; Bicknell 1982; accepted by Henry 1985: 10–11.
19 Antisthenes F142, Giannantoni 1990: 2.191 (= Athen. 220d); commentary on Antisthenes’ Aspasia: Giannantoni 4.323–5.
20 Antisthenes F143 (Giannantoni p. 191 (= Athen. 589e; cf. Plut. Per. 24.9 (greeting)); Antisthenes F144 (Giannantoni p. 192 = Athen. 533c–d); or consult F34 = Athen. 220d, F35 = Athen. 589e in Caizzi 1966: p. 34. 21 Trial: Plut. Per. 32.1, 5 (Plut. Per. 32.5 = Aischines F67, Giannantoni p. 614), cf. F59–72 (Giannantoni pp. 611–18). Aischines, like Antisthenes (Athen. 220b–d), wrote an Aspasia (F59 Giannantoni p. 611); Hermippos PCG v T2; cf. Plut. Per. 13.15 (Pheidias and women).
22 Motivation: Ostwald 1986: 192; date: Mansfeld 1980: 76–80.
23 Pace Dover 1975: 28, cf. 24; Gomme 1956: 187; Henry 1985: 17; cf. de Ste Croix 1972: 236; Ostwald 1986: 194; Stone 1988: 233–5. For Aspasia’s trial: Mansfeld 1980: 31–3, 76–7; Ostwald 192, 194–5; Bauman 1990: 38, 41; bibliography of those who accept or reject that she was tried: Mansfeld 32 n. 130; Baumann 181 n. 29; add: de Ste Croix 1972: 235.
24 IG ii2 1409.14 (395/4 BC); with Harris 1995: 191, v.421.
25 Kratinos PCG iv 259 (the Cheirones; produced c. 440–430 BC?).
26 Duris of Samos FGH 76 F65; 340–260 BC; Harp. sv Aspasia (citing Duris, Ar. Ach. 524–9, and Theophrastos Politics); Plut. Per. 24.2, 25.1.
27 Ar. Ach. 524–9; 425 BC: the theft of three of Aspasia’s prostitutes by Megarians caused the outbreak of the war; the tradition that she ran a brothel is also mentioned in Plut. Per. 24.5, but probably has no basis in reality, despite Aristophanes.
28 Eupolis PCG v F267. For women as causes of war, see especially the list in Athen. 560b–f, where Aspasia is not mentioned.
29 Thuc. 2.45.2 (Dillon and Garland 1994, 2000: doc. 13.27).
30 In Eupolis’ Demes, produced 411: PCG v F110.
31 Philetairos PCG vii F8 (Athen. 559a, 572d); Apollodoros FGH 244 F112; Sappho F142, 160 (Voigt); Hesych. sv hetairas hieron.
32 Hegesander FHG iv F25 (Athen. 572de).
33 Eualkes FGH 418 F2 (Athen. 573a).
34 Neanthes FGH 84 F9 (Athen. 572e–f).
35 Baumann 1990: 38; Ostwald 1986: 195; Mansfeld 1980: 32 n. 131; Derenne 1930: 9; [Dem.] 59.85–6, 113–14; Is. 6.50.
36 Aesch. 1.183: Solon’s law that adulterous women could not attend public sacrifices. 37 Is. 6.49–50.
38 [Dem.] 59.46; ‘in the temple’; unfortunately, the speaker is not more precise.
39 Pallake: Antiphon 1.16–17; Maionia: LSAM 18.13–15 (147/6 BC), see below.
40 Plut. Demet. 12.1–7, 23.5–24.2, 26.1–5; Philippides PCG vii F25 (Demet. 26.5).
41 Theopompos FGH 115 F248, cf. F247 (Athen. 604f–605d); Plut. Mor. 397f.
42 Metropolis: LSAM 29.4–8 (fourth century BC); Lindos: LSCG Suppl., 91.18, cf. 19: ‘unlawful’ (paranomon) sexual activities.
43 LSAM 18.13–15 (147/6 BC).
44 Dio Chrysostom 77/78.4, cf. 35.15; Dillon 1997: 189.
45 Ar. Peace 879–80, with Sommerstein 1985: 174–5.
46 Garland 1992: 111–14.
47 IG ii2 334.
48 See Dillon and Garland 1994: 278–86; 2000: 284–93.
49 Athen. 251b; Ael. VH 5.12.
50 Plut. Mor. 389a; cf. Versnel 1990: 119.
51 IG ii2 1177.3–4 (LSCG 36; middle of the fourth century BC).
52 Poseidippos PCG vii F13 (Athen. 591e–f).
53 Athen. 590d–e.
54 As Havelock 1995: 45 notes, the baring of breasts was not unusual, not only in funerary contexts, but also as a plea for compassion; later accretion: Cooper 1995: 312–16.
55 This was the well-known Poseidonia festival on Aegina, at the time of which Aristippos spent two months with the prostitute Lais on the island (Athen. 588e).
56 Luc. Amores 13–14; Pliny NH 36.4.20 (whose description differs and might refer to a previous building which housed the statue); Havelock 1995: 58–63; Spivey 1996: pl. 113. Aphrodite herself comes as a tourist, exclaiming in wonder, “Where did Praxiteles see me naked?”: Plato xxv (Page 1976).
57 Havelock 1995: 4.
58 She was also said to be the model for Praxiteles’ ‘Smiling Courtesan’: Pliny NH 34.70. Throughout Alexandria there were many images (eikones) of Ptolemy’s woman cupbearer Kleino (Polyb. 14.11.2; cf. Ptolemy of Megalopolis FGH 161 F3; Athen. 576f).
59 Trial: Athen. 590d–f, citing: Hyp. 60 F171–80 (Jensen pp. 143–5); Hermippos FHG iii F66 (see also F67); Diodoros Periegetes FHG ii F5; Aristogeiton Against Phryne F4 (Müller 1858: 2.436); Herodikos Komoidoumenoi (Athen. 591c); other information on her: Athen. 590f–591f. Spengel 1853: i.455.8–11 records the specific charges, and this appears to have been either the epilogue of Euthias’ charges or at least part of the speech. Cf. for Phryne, Athen. 558c; Timokles PCG vii F25; Amphis PCG ii F24 (Athen. 591d); Machon F18 (Gow 1965: 54 =Athen. 583c); Apollodoros FGH 244 F212 (Athen. 591c); Kallistratos On Hetairai (Athen. 591d); Propertius 2.5; Quintilian Instituto Oratoria 2.15.9 (that Phryne revealed herself, not Hypereides). See Versnel 1990: 118–19; Garland 1992: 150; Havelock 1995: 42–8; Cooper 1995; Parker 1996: 162–3, cf. 214–17. There was a tradition that there were two prostitutes called Phryne. 
60 Statue at Delphi: Alketas FGH 405 F1 (Athen. 591b–c); Plut. Mor. 401a; Ael. VH 9.32; Paus. 9.27.3 (cf. 1.20.1–2); DL 6.60; epigram of Praxiteles’ Knidian Aphrodite statue (modelled on Phryne) at Athens: Athen. 591a; Anth. Pal. 16.203–6. Praxiteles’ statue of Eros dedicated at Thespiai: Athen. 591b.
61 [Dem.] 59.21–2 (the word mystagogos is not used). Lysias is described as a sophist in [Dem.] 59.21 and is sometimes connected with Lysias the orator, an attractive but not necessary assumption.
62 [Dem.] 59.24.
63 [Dem.] 59.116; Athen. 594ab.
64 Dein. 1.23.
65 Athen. 586c; Poseidonios FGH 87 F14 (Athen. 594e–595c); Dikaiarchos FHG ii F72 (a tomb monument which none other approaches in size; the remains of the foundations: Travlos 1988: 177, 181); Theopompos FGH 115 F253 (cf. F254); Philemon PCG vii F15; Alexis PCG ii F143 (Arnott 1996: F216); Paus. 1.37.5; Plut. Phok. 22.1–2; Diod. 17.108.5; Osborne and Byrne 1994: 386; Flower 1997: 258–62.
66 TGF pp. 810–11; c. 325 or 324 BC (Athen. 595e–f).
67 Theopompos FGH 115 F253; cf. Athen. 603d.
68 Athen. 586c, 595d–e citing: Theopompos FGH 115 F254a–b, and Kleitarchos FGH 137 F30, TGF pp. 810–11; Flower 1997: 261.
69 Ptolemy Euergetes FGH 234 F4 (Athen. 576f).
70 Athen. 588c–589b (cf. 587c); Paus. 2.2.4; Plut. Mor. 767f–768a; see the same story at Polemon F44 (Preller 1838: 75), from Athen. 589a–b, who has ‘Anosia (Unholy) Aphrodite’ rather than ‘Androphonos’, homicidal; schol. Ar. Wealth 179; see also for Lais: Plut. Nik. 15.4; Hyp. F13 (Jensen p. 116); Strattis PCG vii F27; Nymphodoros FGH 572 F1; Timaios FGH 566 F24; Steph. Byz. sv Eukarpeia (Timaios FGH 566 F24b), sv Krastos (Neanthes FGH 84 F13). Note also the case of Ptolemy, son of King Ptolemy II Philadelphos and a concubine, when he took refuge in the temple of Artemis in Ephesos and was killed there; his hetaira Eirene who had fled to the temple with him hung onto the door knockers of the temple and her blood was spilled on the altars, until she too was killed (Athen. 593a–b).
71 A prostitute in Luc. Dial. Het. 7.1 says that she will offer a goat to Aphrodite Pandemos, a young steer to Aphrodite Ourania, and a wreath to ‘the giver of wealth’, i.e. Demeter, if she and her daughter find another rich lover. 
72 Anth. Pal. 6.283, 285.
73 Athen. 596c citing Kratinos, but the lines are missing from the manuscript; Hdt. 2.134–5. Herodotos notes that Sappho in her poetry abused her brother for his actions: see also Sappho F15.11, 252, 254 (Voigt). A stone base at Delphi can be restored to read: Rhod[opis] [dedicat]ed {this/these}: LSAG 102, 103 n. 7, pl. 12; SEG 13.364; Delphi Museum 7512.
74 Polemon F18 (Preller 1838: 48 = Athen. 574c–d).
75 Plut. Lyk. 9.5.
76 Alexis of Samos FGH 539 F1 (Athen. 572f).
77 Alexis PCG ii F255; methuein, to drink, was added into the text by Porson, probably unnecessarily (see app. crit. of PCG); ‘to revel’ presumably implies plenty of drinking.
78 Machon F16–17 (Gow 1965: 47–52; Athen. 579e, 581a, 582b–c).
79 Machon F16 (Gow 1965: 48–9; Athen. 580c, 580f).
80 Polemon FHG iii, F3 p. 116; she was mentioned by Hyp. F142 (Jensen p. 138); Harp. sv Nemeas; Athen. 587c; other festival names: Athen. 586c, e, 587e, 593f, 594e; 592a–b for Theoris; [Dem.] 59.19: Isthmias. Harp. also cites Polemon but makes the prohibition specific to the names of penteteric (four-yearly) festivals (such as the Olympia).
81 Semos of Delos FGH 396 F24; Ar. Ach. 241–79; phallophoria (phallos-bearing): Krentz 1993; Cole 1993.
82 Babylon and Cyprus: Hdt. 1.199; cf. the alleged prostitution of the daughter of King Khufu (Cheops), Egypt: Hdt. 2.126.
83 Hdt. 1.93.4. See also Klearchos F43a (Athen. 516a–b). In a Greek inscription of the Roman period from Lydia, a woman (with a Roman name) records that she became a pallake and ‘unwashed of feet’ like her ancestors in accordance with an oracle (BCH 7, 1893: 276); presumably this is a reference to temple prostitution. The woman may well have consulted an oracle about a particular personal problem and been told to take up again the service of her women ancestors.
84 Justin 18.5.4.
85 Luc. The Syrian Goddess 6.
86 Thuc. 1.13.5. For sacred prostitutes at Corinth, see MacLachlan 1992; Pembroke 1996; Kurke 1996; Beard and Henderson 1998. For a possible prostitute kanephoros on a Corinthian vase, see Amyx 1988: 554–5, 563.
87 The proverb is found in: Ar. PCG iii.2 F928, p. 416; Strabo 8.6.20, 12.3.36; Hesych., Suid., Phot. sv ou pantos andros es Korinthon esth ho plous; Apostolios 13.60 (CPG ii.591); Zenobios 5.37 (CPG i.135); Diogenianos 7.16 (CPG i.289); Aulus Gellius 1.8.4; Eustathios commentary on Il. 2.570; cf. schol. Ar. Wealth 149; see CPG i.135–6 n. 37; expense: Ar. Wealth 149–52. Cf. for sailors and prostitutes: Strabo 8.6.20; Aristagoras Mammakythos (Athen. 571b; not in PCG ii).
88 Individual vows: Athen. 573e; Pindar: F122 (Maehler); Athen. 573f–574a. For this ode, see esp. Kurke 1996, with discussion of previous bibliography. For sacred prostitution in Corinth and elsewhere in the Greek world, see Licht 1932: 388–95; Yamauchi 1973; Salmon 1984: 398–400; Williams 1986: 19, 20–1; Cantarella 1987: 50; Powell 1988: 367–9; Vanoyeke 1990: 27–31; MacLachlan 1992; Blundell 1995: 35–6; Kurke 1996. 
89 The translated phrase is that of Kurke 1996: 51.
90 Browsing: phorbadon; LSJ9 sv phorbadas suggests that this is metaphorical for women supporting themselves by prostitution; see esp. Kurke 1996: 57.
91 Strabo 8.6.20, 12.3.36. At 11.14.16 he discusses sacred prostitution in Armenia; see also 17.1.46. Pindar and Athenaeus do not mention the term hierodouloi in connection with Xenophon’s vow.
92 Chamaileon of Herakleia F34 (Steffen 1964: 25; Athen. 573c).
93 Theopompos FGH 115 F285a; Timaios FGH 566 F10 (both Athen. 573d); Suid., Phot. sv ou pantos andros es Korinthon esth ho plous; Apostolios 13.60 (CPG
ii.591).
94 Athen. 573d.
95 Simon. F104a–c (Diehl); Theopompos FGH 115 F285a (Athen. 573d–e), 285b (schol. Pind. Olym. 13.32b); Plut. Mor. 871b; Page 1981: 207–11, no. 14. The texts of the epigram in Athen., Plut., and schol. Pind. Olym. 13.32b all differ. The epigram need not necessarily be by Simonides (Plutarch alone makes this identification). The epigram is discussed by Page 1981: 207–11; Brown 1988; cf. Kurke 1996: 64–5. For daimoniai in line 2, see esp. Brown 1988, who argues that it is a special term for the hierodouloi of Corinth.
96 Plut. Mor. 871a; schol. Pind. Olym. 13.32b.
97 Athen. 573d; Plut. Mor. 871b; Page (1981: 209) preferred the idea that the women were painted on the pinax; Kurke 1996: 64–5.
98 Theopompos FGH 115 F285b.
99 See Page 1981: 209; Brown 1988: 8; cf. Kurke 1996: 64.
100 Schol. Pind. Olym. 13.32b (Theopompos FGH 115 F285b).
101 Paus. 2.5.1; cf. 3.15.10, 3.23.1.
102 Williams 1986: 15–17.
103 Kurke 1996: 64–5, suggests that the word prodomen means betray, rather than simply ‘hand over’, and that the Corinthians were praying that Aphrodite, with her eastern connotations at Corinth as ‘armed Aphrodite’ and being akin to Ishtar the eastern goddess of love and war, might betray the city to the eastern Persians. But it is unlikely that the Corinthians saw Aphrodite in this way (modern scholars are the ones making the connection with eastern Ishtar – nothing suggests that the Corinthians thought similarly).
104 Strabo 6.2.6; Diod. 4.83.6 (perhaps a reference to sexual activity with women at the temple); Cic. In Q. Caecilium Divinatio 55. A cult of Aphrodite was imported to Rome from Eryx in the third century BC, and Venus (Aphrodite) had a temple near the Colline gate which took its name from Eryx; Roman prostitutes had an annual festival here to worship Venus: Ovid Fasti 4.865–76.
105 Strabo 11.14.16.
106 Strabo 12.3.36. Pembroke 1996: 1263–4, attempts to play down this aspect of Greek religion, obviously uncomfortable with the phenomenon, unrealistically seeing the term ‘sacred’ as referring to ‘no more than manumission by fictive dedication of a kind . . . attested in a cult of Poseidon at Taenarum’. But this will not explain Xenophon’s vow.
107 Pind. Pyth. 2.18–20.
108 Justin 21.2.9–3.8; Klearchos F43a (Athen. 516a–b). See Sourvinou-Inwood 1974: 186–7, 195–6; MacLachlan 1995: 208–9, 219.
109 Unlike Justin 21.3.3–8, Klearchos F 47 (Athen. 541c–e) clearly followed by Ael. VH 9.8, and Strabo 6.1.8, record a tradition that Dionysios violated the
virgin daughters of the Lokrians, but not in connection with the vow or Aphrodite’s temple.
110 Ludovisi Throne, Rome: Museo Nazionale 8570; marble; fifth century BC; discovered in Rome (Boardman 1967: pl. 184; 1973: 140 fig. 143; Prückner 1968: 89–91; Simon 1959: 12 pl. 3; 1969: pls 236–8; Ridgway 1970: pl. 71; 1990: 236 pl. 119; Richter 1970a: figs 513–15; 1987: figs 124, 127; Sourvinou-Inwood 1974a: pl. 13b; Robertson 1975: 203–9, pl. 66c; 1981: pl. 83; Schefold 1981: 76–7, figs 91–2; LIMC ii Aphrodite 1170; Stewart 1990: pls 306–8; Carpenter 1991: 83 fig. 90; Keuls 1993: 217 pls 191–3; Carratelli 1996: 70, 392–3, 705 pl. 189). Robertson 205 notes other possible identifications for the figure assisted by the attendants (Hera, Eileithyia, or Persephone), but these are unconvincing.
111 See Chapter 5, pp. 153–4.
112 IG ii2 1534.27, 41 (301 BC). Castner 1982, has argued that these hetairai are the dedicators of the inscriptions, as all of the names are uncommon, and particularly because of the appearance of Mammarion and Hedeia together in IG ii2 1534.27, 41 (especially sceptical of Castner’s identifications is Aleshire 1989: 67; 1992: 89, 99). Castner 51, lists the literary evidence for the seven Epicurean hetairai; note also Athen. 588b.
113 SEG 16.300.6, 9, 12–13 (first half of the third century BC).
114 Girard 1881: 82–3, followed by many scholars, who argued that many of the dedicators were hetairai or slaves; Aleshire 1989: 67, 313, shows this not to have been the case.
115 LSCG 69.43–8.
116 For numbers, see: fourth century BC: Ktesikles FGH 245 F1 (Athen. 272c); fifth century BC: Thuc. 2.13.6–7; archaic Athens: Arist. Pol. 1275b 34–8; [Arist.]
Ath. Pol. 13.5, cf. 21.2; Plut. Sol. 24.4; see Whitehead 1977: 97–8, cf. 1986: 83–4; Duncan-Jones 1980; Dillon and Garland 1994: 330; 2000: 338–9.
117 For religion and the metics, see Gauthier 1972: 112–13; Whitehead 1977: 86–9.
118 [Dem.] 59.104–6, cf. 57.47–8.
119 Whitehead 1984: 58, for some examples.
120 IG i3 244c.8–9; c. 460 BC (LSCG 10; Dillon and Garland 1994, 2000: doc. 5.20); Whitehead 1986: 205; cf. Mikalson 1977: 428, 430.
121 IG i3 82.23; 421/0 BC (LSCG 13).
122 Demetrios FGH 228 F5 (Harp. sv skaphephoroi); Ael. VH 6.1; schol. Ar. Birds 1551. For the metics in the Panathenaic procession, see Whitehead 1977: 87; Rotroff 1977: 380–2; Simon 1983: 63, 65; Lefkowitz 1996: 80. The sources on the hydrophoroi, skiadephoroi, skaphephoroi and diphrophoroi are all lexicographical, but they mention as their own sources Deinarchos, Demetrios of Phaleron, Theophrastos, and the playwrights Hermippos, Nikophon and Menander, which give their statements some authority.
123 Schol. Ar. Birds 1551a (Hermippos PCG v F25, and Nikophon PCG vii F7); Hesych. sv diphrophoroi.
124 North frieze (three standing and one crouching): Robertson and Frantz 1975, North vi plate; Berger and Gisler-Huwiler 1996: Tafelband 42, 46–7.
125 Brommer 1977: 1.217.
126 Cf. Simon 1983: 64; Younger 1997: 151 n. 83.
127 Demetrios FGH 228 F5 (Harp. sv skaphephoroi); Poll. 3.55; Phot. sv skaphas; Phot. and Suid. sv systomoteron skaphes (see also the testimonia at Berger and Gisler-Huwiler 1996: Textband 195–6, nos 189–199). North frieze:  Robertson and Frantz 1975: at North ii; Berger and Gisler-Huwiler Tafelband 42, 45–6; he was followed by two other skaphephoroi.
128 Sanctuary: IG ii2 337; 333/2 BC (Tod GHI ii.189; LSCG 34), lines 43–5 for Isis; dedication: IG ii2 4636.
129 Berlin SK709; IG ii2 2934 (Blümel 1966: 77–8 no. 90, pls 123–4 (124 for th inscription); LIMC i Acheloos 202; Travlos 1971: 294 fig. 382; Neumann 1979: 74, pl. 47a; Kunze 1992: 130–1, no. 40; BCH 116, 1992: 156; Kron 1996: 163). 
130 IG ii2 4609; Ferguson 1944: 108 n. 52; Vermaseren CCCA 2, no. 267; Parker 1996: 192, with n. 145.
131 [Dem.] 59.85; Is. 6.48–9.
132 Men. Arbitrants 477–8, cf. 517 (parthenos).

By Matthew Dillon in "Girls and Women in Classical Greek Religion", Routledge, UK, 2002, excerpts chapter 6  pp. 183-208. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

A CASA

Buscando explorar algumas dimensões da vida familiar, tão valorizada, trato de abordá-la por meio da casa, lidando com tres fatores essenciais da convivência doméstica dos grupos imigrantes: a celebração religiosa, ou a festa que guarda conexão com as efemérides religiosas, a língua e a comida.

Convém lembrar que, ao me concentrar no mundo da casa, não o encaro como um universo desligado do mundo da rua; ao contrário, um dos aspectos mais significativos da vivência doméstica me parece ser aquele em que se dá a confluência dos dois mundos no interior do lar. Desse modo, o jornal, o rádio e, posteriormente, a televisão constituem veículos por meio dos quais mensagens de um amplo e variado universo penetram na esfera privada, impondo determinados hábitos e uma nova organização do espaço e do tempo. Lembro o exemplo de imigrantes, entre os quais figuravam não poucos analfabetos, que se reuniam para ouvir a leitura dos jornais de sua comunidade, sendo o caso mais expressivo o do Fanfulla, publicado em italiano, que chegou a ser um diário. Tais jornais, escritos na língua do imigrante, continham notícias do país de origem e principalmente matérias que diziam respeito à inserção do agrupamento étnico na vida da cidade. Eram, pois, um instrumento valioso no esforço da primeira geração para manter-se fiel às raízes e buscar transmiti-las a seus descendentes.

Por outro lado, devemos acentuar que os próprios elementos selecionados - religião, lingua e comida - não são veículos de um circuito doméstico fechado. Eles fazem parte da interação entre o mundo da casa e uma esfera de socialização mais ampla, incidindo com maior amplitude em um ou em outro, de acordo com sua natureza, as circunstâncias e o correr do tempo. Em regra, a religião constitui um fator que tende a demarcar fronteiras. enquanto a comida revela uma tendência oposta. Assim, nas regiões do Oeste paulista urbanizadas por imigrantes, em torno de núcleos como São José do Rio Preto e Catanduva, os chamados pratos e doces típicos representaram um elo de contato entre as famílias, graças à ação das mulheres. O hábito de oferecê-los às vizinhas possibilitou que o bacalhau, o quibe, a macarronada, bem como os pastéis de Santa Clara, os baklavas, os torrones, passassem a integrar, indiferentemente, a mesa de portugueses, sírios ou italianos.

A forma de organização da casa é, em si mesma, índice da concepção e da própria possibilidade de existência de uma vida privada. Philippe Aries descreve e analisa o longo processo pelo qual, no Ocidente da Europa, a "casa promíscua", em que os cômodos não constituíam espaços separados, deu lugar ao que ele chama de casa modema, propiciadora da discrição, da intimidade, do isolamento. É significativo observar como, no âmbito brasileiro, guardadas as diferenças, ocorreu processo semelhante. Nas palavras de Vainfas, rústicas ou requintadas, tudo parece indicar que as casas senhoriais de outrora ensejavam pouquíssimas condições de vivência privada. Se isso ocorria com as casas senhoriais, as dos pobres, pela precariedade das construções, impediam qualquer possibilidade de privatização.

A cidade de São Paulo, especificamente, caracterizou-se por um modo de vida marcado pela precariedade e rudeza até a chegada das primeiras levas de imigrantes, por volta da década iniciada em 1860. A pobreza da arquitetura paulista, no âmbito de um quadro de isolamento do planalto, foi realçada por Carlos Lemos, revelando condições que, se não impossibilitavam a constituição de uma vida privada, limitavam-na consideravelmente. Lemos lembra que essa arquitetura se repetiu à exaustão, desde o século XVI, chegando incólume ao período de ascenso do açúcar, em fins do século XVIII; depois, ataviada tardiamente à maneira pombalina, alcançou o café, na segunda metade do século seguinte. Ela se baseava na taipa de pilão, única técnica possível em uma região sem pedras e sem indústria de cal. Vale a pena reproduzir seus traços gerais, na descrição de Lemos.

"A vida cotidiana nas casas paulistanas logo anteriores à vinda dos imigrantes ainda apresentava o ranço colonial. Dentro das velhíssimas taipas, as familias circulavam na semi-obscuridade dos cómodos mal iluminados que a terra socada das paredes permitia, tendo como centro de confraternização geral a varanda. Essa varanda, quase sempre, era o cómodo mais arejado da casa, era onde todos ficavam, principalmente depois das refeições e muitas delas, em especial no interior, de clima quente, não passavam de um profundo alpendre todo aberto e contíguo à cozinha, olhando para o quintal, onde ficava a casinha ou secreta, onde se obrava em cima de um buraco que chamavam de sumidouro."

Por volta de 1860, ainda segundo Lemos, surgiram as primeiras novidades, inclusive nas construções e nos critérios de planejamento das casas. Imigrantes alemães foram pioneiros no uso de tijolos nas construções em geral, começando assim a superar a taipa de pilão.

Entretanto, a forma inicial de moradia do imigrante pobre, no período da imigração em massa, em cidades como o Rio de Janeiro e São Paulo, era extremamente precária. A pobreza não permitia outra coisa senão viver em cortiço  - essa senzala urbana, na feliz expressão de Lemos. O cortiço permitiu utilizar terrenos de pouco valor, geralmente situados nas várzeas, que ficavam inundadas durante as chuvas de verão; adensou também a população trabalhadora perto de seus locais de trabalho, e foi um bom negócio para os empreendedores capitalistas que começavam a se expandir.

A promiscuidade reinante no interior dos cortiços impedia que o imigrante pobre, recém-chegado, estabelecesse uma esfera de vida privada. Entre as descrições existentes, seleciono um minucioso relato de um dos informantes de Castaldi, em que despontam a precariedade das condições de vida em geral, a extrema pobreza de certas pessoas e, ao mesmo tempo, a proximidade estratégica de alguns negócios:

"O cortiço em que morávamos era na rua do Carmo, entre a Ladeira do Carmo de um lado e o palácio do Bispo do outro. Os fundos do cortiço davam para a rua 25 de março onde, naquele tempo, se encontrava o mercado de verduras, de miúdos e de peixe. Dos dois lados da entrada principal, havia três negócios: à esquerda de quem entrava, um carpinteiro; à direita, a barbearia de um tio meu e, pegado, a cantina de outro tio. Da entrada partia um corredor para o qual davam alguns quartos; em cada quarto morava uma familia; o quarto era muitas vezes dividido por uma cortina que separava os homens das mulheres da família. O corredor levava a um quarto, o maior da casa, em que cada qual tinha o seu fogareiro e onde havia um lavatório de uso comum, tanto para a limpeza pessoal como para a cozinha As mulheres cozinhavam nesse aposento, mas cada família comia no seu próprio quarto. As condições higiênicas eram péssimas, usavam-se vasos cujo conteúdo era despejado num gabinete sanitário construído no quintal. Tomar um banho era difícil, porque todos tinham de se arrumar para tomá-lo no quarto. Os meninos usavam o quintal onde havia um tanque para lavar a roupa e um forno. As mulheres combinavam o dia de acender o forno, de modo a aproveitá-lo para fazer pão todas juntas [ ... ] Chegavam [os imigrantes] com a roupa do corpo, pois não possuíam outra bagagem. Alguns dormiam no chão, sobre jornais, outros investiam o pouco dinheiro que tinham na compra de uma cama. Às vezes, alguns dormiam até no quintal, protegendo-se da chuva como podiam.

Se fosse ainda necessário sublinhar a descrição, lembro que os processos criminais da época expressam também a inexistência de privacidade nessas habitações. Neles não faltam referencias a discussões ameaças, gritos que vêm dos quartos vizinhos, através das precárias paredes, ou, nos crimes sexuais, alusões a resistências, sussurros, entregas.

A casa, com características de espaço privado, tem sido associada à ascensão da burguesia e à sedimentação de seus valores, ao longo do século XIX. A historiadora Mchelle Perrot chama-a de "domínio privado por excelência, fundamento material da família e pilar da ordem social". Entretanto, com base nesse anseio socialmente localizado, alcançar a casa própria tornou -se um objetivo generalizado nas camadas pobres.

No cenário brasileiro, por meio da compra, o imigrante almejava escapar a uma vida promíscua, combinando em seu esforço, além disso, uma estratégia de segurança e de ascensão social. O objetivo era a tal ponto essencial, na visão do recém-chegado, que preteri-lo, trocando-o pelo consumo de bens conspícuos, representava um indicador de "falta de juízo': cujas conseqüências danosas surgiriam cedo ou tarde. O viajante Raffard, que visitou São Paulo em 1890, relata que o operário imigrante, morador em cortiço ou cômodo alugado em velho casarão abandonado por família importante, comprava a prestações um lote situado em arruamento popular, em zona fabril. Depois de pago, esse terreno era hipotecado, e com o dinheiro assirn obtido era construída a casa, própria, de três ou quatro cômodos: quarto, sala, "varanda, (sala de jantar e de estar íntimo) e cozinha. Mais tarde, depois de serem pagas as prestações desse empréstimo, era a casa, por sua vez, hipotecada, e com o capital obtido o imigrante estabelecia-se por conta própria e assim iniciava sua ascensão social.

A gente de classe média ou os pobres que em alguma medida se acomodaram, ao buscar um certo grau de privacidade, não deixaram de valorizar o contato com a vizinhança, como fonte de ajuda mútua e de informações. Cena típica dos bairros populares onde, ao cair da tarde, sentadas nas cadeiras postas na calçada, fugindo ao aperto das casas, as mulheres tricotavam, falavam da vida alheia, do tempo, das doenças, dos remédios infalíveis, de tal sorte que a socialização com os vizinhos ampliava os limites das relações interpessoais. Os homens, como um grupo separado, também tinham o hábito desse gênero de encontros. Veja-se este depoimento de um brasileiro, filho de imigrantes italianos, nascido em 1904, colhido por Ecléa Bosi: "[Os carroceiros calabreses] se reuniam na frente de casa, punham cadeiras na calçada e vinha um compadre, vinha outro e conversavam. Imagine a chegada de mais um compadre quando os outros já estavam sentados. Esse mais um cumprimentava: "Buona sera!""Buona sera! Come va?" Ele trazia uma linguiça calabresa fininha na boca, dependurada, que ia mastigando, do outro lado um cachimbo de barro longo, com bambu. Tirava o cachimbo para responder: 'Bene!''Cosa hai fatto?''M'aggio fatto una vípeta d'acqua e sto benissímo.' Que quer dizer: tomei um copo d'água, quase 'aspirei, sorvi",.

Passando pelas construções de qualidade intermediária - a casa geminada, a iso]ada de ambos os lados, ostentando um jardim e um quintal nos fundos -, chegamos ao extremo oposto do cortiço, ou seja, o pa1acete mandado construir pelo imigrante enriquecido. Com freqüência, ele constitui um indicador de que o imigrante vitorioso, ao mesmo tempo que trata de imitar o estilo de vida da elite, não procura apagar sua condição de adventício, buscando, pelo contrário, recriar formas arquitetônicas que relembram sua origem.

Além de expressar o êxito económico de seu proprietário, o palacete combina a vida no interior do círculo familiar com outra dimensão, consistindo em um núcleo de prestigio e de proveitosos contatos com a elite. Caso tipico das mansões que as famílias sírias e libanesas mandaram construir junto a suas fábricas do bairro do Ipiranga. Entre elas, destaca-se o palacete de Basilio Jafet, edificado na década de 20, conhecido como Palacete do Cedro, alusão às árvores-símbolos do Líbano plantadas em um terreno de 7500 metros quadrados. Com seus 28 dormitórios, uma dúzia de banheiros de mármore italiano, salões decorados com lustres franceses, móveis do liceu de Artes e Ofícios e afrescos encomendados a artistas italianos, a mansão foi residência da família nuclear e centro de grandes recepções. lá estiveram, em 1954, o então governador de Minas Gerais, Juscelino Kubitschek, e o presidente do Líbano, Camille Chamoun. No dia 7 de setembro, as autoridades que participavam das celebrações do Dia da Independência costumavam comparecer a um almoço que a família lhes oferecia.

Se os Jafet ostentavam sua riqueza no velho bairro do Ipiranga, aproximando fábrica de palacete, os Matarazzo concentravam-se na Paulista, a avenida que constituía um dos maiores símbolos de prestígio e também de riqueza de São Paulo. Ficaram famosos os festejos comemorativos dos casamentos de duas filhas de Andrea Matarazzo, realizados na mesma data, em 1924, respectivamente com o sobrinho deste, Francisco Matarazzo II, e um príncipe italiano. A festa não se limitou a um recinto fechado, pois o cortejo nupcial desfilou ao longo da avenida. Vários anos mais tarde, em 1945, outro casamento realizado na família, dessa vez com um nacional da família Lage, foi festejado durante três dias e três noites, ostentando um luxo que deu origem a uma irônica reportagem do jornalista Joel Silveira 34

No palacete, nem tudo era ostentação. Nele, o imigrante que chegara pobre e enriquecera ia refinando a etiqueta, com os olhos postos no paulista de elite que, por seu turno, imitava o francês. A falta de "classe'' representava uma barreira, aliás logo superada, ao ingresso no mundo .dos chamados paulistas de quatrocentos anos. Descrevendo o palacete mandado construir pelo casal Moraes Barros e a vida requintada que se desenrolava no interior dele, a filha do casal pondera que as famílias imigrantes, mesmo as mais abastadas, não eram convidadas porque não saberiam como se portar. Os estrangeiros - diz ela - viviam restritos a suas «colônias"; ainda assim, lembra-se que brincava com as crianças das famílias Crespi, Matarazzo e Siciliano, as quais passaram a ter
'nunnies' como ela.

O emblemático dessa história é, mais do que qualquer outra coisa, o nome de quem dá o testemunho - a sra. Marina Moraes Barros Cosenza, ao que tudo indica casada com um 'meridionale', ou um descendente de 'meridionale', relacionado com a cidade calabresa de Cosenza.

FESTIVIDADES E RITUAIS RELIGIOSOS

Um aspecto importante da vida doméstica é representado pelos rituais e festas religiosas, ou alusivas à religião. Por causa da crença, estabelece-se, em alguns casos, um calendário que não segue o do país receptor. A diferenciação será tanto maior quanto a tradição religiosa do imigrante for diversa da majoritária no país, como ocorre com alemães protestantes, judeus, japoneses budistas ou xintoístas, sírios e libaneses ortodoxos, maronitas etc. Nos bairros étnicos, o ritmo de vida nem sempre acompanha o da cidade, caso típico dos sábados judaicos que esvaziam, ou melhor, esvaziavam as ruas comerciais do Bom Retiro.

Os rituais familiares associam-se também aos momentos decisivos da vida dos membros de uma família, conforme a etnia- o nascimento, a iniciação como integrante da comunidade, o casamento, a morte.

Tomando o exemplo dos judeus, devemos ressaltar que as festas judaicas ocorrem em dois planos: o da sinagoga - espaço de sociabilidade mais amplo - e o da casa, com uma forte ênfase no reforço dos laços familiares. Aliás, para os primeiros grupos de imigrantes judeus, que vieram ao Brasil em pequeno número- caso, por exemplo, dos sefaradis, provenientes da Turquia, que começaram a chegar a São Paulo nos anos 10 e 20 deste século  (século XX)-, a divisão de espaços só aconteceu em um segundo momento. Desse modo, para a celebração do shabat, poeticamente situado entre a primeira estrela da sexta-feira e a primeira do sábado, ou das festas do calendário israelita, os chamados "turquinos" reuniam-se na casa de um dos membros da comunidade, misto de vivência privada e de centro comunitário.

Sigamos os passos de alguns rituais judaicos mais associados à vida familiar, começando pela cerimônia de circuncisão, originalmente realizada em casa com a presença de um 'mohel' que é não só um especialista na pequena cirurgia como uma figura que faz as rezas pertinentes, à semelhança de um rabino. O ato ocorre em regra pela manhã, sendo marcado pelo afastamento da mãe- a quem o 'mohel' dirige previamente algumas palavras - e das outras mulheres. Terminada a circuncisão, o menino é entregue ao pai, ou a algum convidado de honra, procedendo o 'mohel'à bênção de uma taça de vinho e a uma segunda bênção louvando a Deus pela eleição do povo de Israel. Depois, na tradição asquenaze, serve-se um pesado café da manhã, composto de arenque, pão ázimo e vinho, entre outros pratos.

Outro ritual marcante, por simbolizar o ingresso na vida adulta e na comunidade, é o 'bar mitzva', reservado em princípio ao sexo masculino, quando os meninos chegam à idade de treze anos. Embora efetuado originalmente em uma sinagoga, caracteriza-se também por ser uma festa familiar, com muitos discursos, danças e abundante e variada comida. Na tradição asquenaze, surgem à mesa o 'gefilte fish', feito de carpa moída, os 'vareniques'- bolinhos de batata, cobertos com cebola queimada -, os 'blinis'- pãezinhos recheados de salmão ou caviar -, o peito de frango e, como bebida, a vodca. Na sobremesa, destacam-se os doces secos e as panquecas.

Entre as celebrações religiosas, destaquemos a de Pessach (Passagem), aproximadamente coincidente com a Semana Santa cristã, realizada para celebrar o Êxodo do Egito, rumo à Terra Prometida. Ela se desenrola, no âmbito doméstico, durante sete dias; seu ponto alto é o 'seder' (ordem), jantar que acontece na primeira noite de Pessach, reunindo a família e um ou mais de um membro avulso da comunidade, pois não se deve deixar uma pessoa só em uma noite dessas, como não se deve deixar um cristão solitário no Natal.

A toalha bordada da mesa do 'seder' passa de geração para geração, fazendo muitas vezes parte do "enxoval" que o imigrante judeu traz de sua terra de origem. Sobre ela, são colocados vários alimentos simbólicos: entre eles, doces feitos com uma base de 'matzá' - o pão ázimo que é de rigor na semana de Pessach; ovo cozido e um osso, lembrando o cordeiro pascal e os ofertórios da época em que existia o Templo de Jerusalém; uma vasilha contendo água salgada, para se mergulhar salsinha, alface ou rabanete, simbolizando as lágrimas dos judeus, derramadas durante o Êxodo; o 'haroset' (barro), um doce feito de pasta de amêndoas, maçãs e vinho, lembrando a argamassa que os judeus usavam nas construções do exílio, quando trabalhavam sob o chicote dos feitores. O 'seder'é permeado pelo propósito de levar ao conhecimento das crianças - futuras portadoras da tradição - o episódio da fuga dos judeus do Egito. Elas cantam hinos e canções, ao mesmo tempo que devem responder questões girando em tomo de um tema básico: "Por que esta noite é diferente das outras?"

Uma brincadeira envolve também a criança. Uma grande porção de pão ázimo é dividida em três pedaços, um deles representando a tribo sacerdotal dos Cohen, outra os Levy e uma terceira, o povo de Israel. O chefe da família senta-se sobre este último pedaço e as crianças tentam subtraí-lo; naturalmente, elas "conseguem, realizar a façanha e ganham prendas por sua habilidade".

Em paralelo com os judeus, familias japonesas - mesmo quando formalmente convertidas ao catolicismo- mantêm o culto doméstico dos antepassados, de acordo com a tradição xintoísta. Ele se materializa em um pequeno altar, formado de tabuletas de madeira, no qual são inscritos os nomes dos ascendentes da família. Em uma pequena cumbuca com areia, espeta-se o incenso, tão comum nas celebrações japonesas; em outro, coloca-se uma porção de arroz, a primeira colher retirada do arroz recém-preparado. Os antepassados não recebem apenas o arroz, mas os doces e as frutas mais bonitas, provocando a insatisfação das crianças que só podem comer os doces, já sem o mesmo sabor, no dia seguinte.

Também o cerimonial da morte tem um recorte familiar, realizando-se em casa, com a presença de um monge budista. Cada um dos presentes coloca incenso em uma cumbuca, não o indiano, a que o olfato ocidental está acostumado, mas um incenso de "cheiro forte': impregnando o ambiente. O morto recebe uma saudação especial das pessoas, que devem bater palmas por três vezes e fazer uma reverência diante do corpo. Após o enterro, uma lauta refeição encerra essa etapa do cerimonial fúnebre.

As famílias católicas costumam celebrar uma missa de sétimo dia, em contraste com a tradição budista. Segundo esta, o espírito vaga durante 48 dias, só se libertando da terra no 49º, ocasião em que se realiza um cerimonial doméstico, composto de longas rezas, a que se segue uma mesa farta.

Por outro lado, mesmo no caso de identidade religiosa em termos gerais, entre imigrantes e a população do país receptor, a veneração e a festa religiosa dos primeiros terá marcas próprias. Tomemos o exemplo do culto a são Vito, padroeiro dos imigrantes bareses oriundos de Polignano a Mare.

O culto tem profundas raízes na Itália meridional e na Sicília, tendo se iniciado em torno do ano 3 d. C. Em Polignano, o santo era celebrado com grandes festividades, em três datas dos meses de maio e junho. Como observa Castaldi, os longos séculos de intimidade que os polignaneses tinham com são Vito tornaram-no uma figura familiar em suas casas. Quando começaram a emigrar, muitos levaram consigo a imagem para que ela os defendesse das agruras da viagem, da desproteção na nova terra, das doenças e tantas outras aflições.

A veneração do santo em São Paulo, a partir dos primeiros decênios do século XX, narrada com riqueza de detalhes por Castaldi, é um belo exemplo do encontro de ritual doméstico com festa comunitária religiosa. Nos lares e nos cortiços, os polignaneses mantiveram o culto de são Vito, materializado em imagens simples ou mais refinadas, de acordo com a condição social de seus possuidores. O culto doméstico combinava-se com manifestações da comunidade, que aconteciam no mês de junho, por ocasião dos festejos em honra do santo, em que se expressavam também a relativa riqueza e o prestígio de certas famílias. Castaldi lembra o caso de uma família fundadora da companhia polignanesa de peixe, que armava um altar na sua casa da rua Tabatinguera, cantava os hinos a são Vito e, à noite, queimava fogos de artifício.

Mas, apesar dos esforços, a festa não se comparava com a organizada por outra família que dominava um cortiço da rua 25 de Março, sobre a qual há apenas essa alusão. Os mais pobres realizavam uma comemoração em um cortiço da rua Santa Rosa, esquina da rua do Gasómetro, que durante anos serviu de base aos recém-chegados: "No dia 15 de junho, improvisava-se um altar em que se colocava uma imagem de São Vito e ao qual os devotos levavam flores e velas. As mulheres preparavam as especialidades da sua aldeia, para oferecer às famílias que nessa ocasião lhes visitassem as casas. A tarde, formava-se uma procissão que percorria a rua Santa Rosa do começo ao fim; à noite, no cortiço iluminado por lanternas chinesas, queimavam-se fogos de artifício"

Com o correr dos anos, a festa se institucionalizou mediante a criação de comissões organizadoras; a Igreja do Brás converteu-se em ponto alto das comemorações e estas foram tomando cada vez mais caráter público, com o surgimento das missas em louvor a são Vito e a ênfase posta nas procissões e nas quermesses. É significativo ressaltar, porém, que ainda em torno de 1912-3 a imagem utilizada nas procissões não ficava permanentemente na Igreja do Brás. Objeto de culto doméstico de um membro da colônia, era emprestada à comunidade para as festas e, a seguir, devolvida a seu dono.

Mesmo uma festa cristã básica, como o Natal, pode conter, para o imigrante, notas típicas. Nos depoimentos develhos, obtidos por Ecléa Bosi, um filho de imigrantes italianos, nascido no bairro do Brás em 1906, acentua: "O dia que meus pais mais estimavam era o Natal, que se festejava à moda italiana. Era o dia em que na casa de italianos não faltava nada. A árvore de Natal e o presépio eram uma tradição de todos os anos. A ceia era na véspera e o almoço no dia. Ainda comemoramos, minha esposa, minha filha, meus netos, como quando eu era menino, no Natal de meus pais. Minha esposa faz os doces da tradição: a 'pezza dorci', ou peça doce, que é um panetone".

Uma festa familiar cara aos italianos era a Pascoela, espécie de suplemento da Páscoa, fe5tejada na segunda-feira, após o domingo pascal. Em regra, na São Paulo dos primeiros decênios do século, comemorava-se a Pascoela com um piquenique familiar na Cantareira, no Bosque da Saúde, espaços aprazíveis distantes do centro. Os retratos da época mostramas familias reunidas em torno da toalha branca, estendida sobre a grama ou sobre o mato ralo, na qual estão dispostos os pratos salgados, as garrafas de vinho e as sobremesas, destacando-se, entre elas, a 'pastiera di grano', que hoje pode ser adquirida nas confeitarias refinadas.

A LÍNGUA

A língua representou na vida do imigrante e de seus descendentes tanto um poderoso veículo de comunicação como um obstáculo aos contatos pessoais. A língua comum dos imigrantes portugueses em uma ponta, a dos árabes ou japoneses, em outra, facilitaram ou dificultaram enormemente o processo de integração no país receptor. Em suas memórias, o pintor e ensaísta Tomoo Handa refere-se às dificuldades dos japoneses de entender e falar português, a tal ponto que muitos tratavam de evitar penosos contatos com os brasileiros.

Há também - diga-se de passagem - todo um universo inexplorado de piadas engendradas nos tempos da imigração em massa, nas quais, ora são ridicularizados os problemas encontrados pelo imigrante no uso da língua, ora é ressaltada sua esperteza na utilização de uma aparente deficiência. Tais piadas são muitas vezes transposição do mundo real. É bastante conhecida, por exemplo, a frase dos feirantes japoneses ou mesmo nisseis, em resposta a freguesas que regateiam com maior insistência: ''No comprende".

A língua funciona também como forma consciente ou inconsciente de resistência à integração. É o caso, por exemplo, dos japoneses que se recusam a aprender o português admitidas todas as dificuldades de aprendizado e também de outras etnias, incluindo-se nesta referência até mesmo os italianos que chegaram ao Brasil nos últimos decênios do século XIX.

Como decorre dos romances escritos por japoneses e nisseis analisados por Célia Sakurai, o japonês- por imposição dos mais velhos - foi em regra a "língua oficial, no circulo doméstico. Para preservar a continuidade e a manutenção dos laços com o país de origem, os filhos começavam a estudar em casa, com o objetivo principal de dominar desde cedo a língua japonesa. Uma das personagens de um romance escrito por Hiroko Nakamura explica da seguinte forma as razões mais profundas da busca de conservação das raízes: "Os imigrantes japoneses tinham o compromisso de honra de só retornarem ao Japão como vencedores. Não podiam sequer pensar em levar seus filhos, nascidos aqui como gaijin. Era preciso que eles aprendessem a ler e a falar a língua japonesa. Esta era a maneira que eles encontravam de não terem seus filhos considerados como estrangeiros pelos japoneses, quando retomassem ao Japão".

É significativo observar, porém, que ao longo dos anos os japoneses foram reconhecendo a dificuldade, se não a impossibilidade, de retornar ao país de origem. Dessa percepção decorreu a tendência a "aculturar-se": por meio da conversão muitas vezes formal ao catolicismo, da escolha de nomes cristãos para os filhos, da preferência por padrinhos brasileiros. Convidados a participar da mesa dos japoneses, tais padrinhos talvez tenham sido os primeiros nacionais a provar e a estranhar os pratos da cozinha nipônica, e por fim a aderir a eles.

Por sua vez, os italianos, provenientes de uma Itália unificada em data relativamente recente (1870), falavam em regra o dialeto regional e conheciam muito pouco o idioma italiano. Na vinda para São Paulo, as marcas distintivas se desdobraram no falar o dialeto, falar italiano e falar português. A superação do dialeto pela língua do país unificado se fez no Brasil por meio da leitura da imprensa italiana local e do ensino ministrado pelas escolas que a comunidade fundou. Tal superação representou um indicador de ascenso social, mas provocou -sérios conflitos adaptativos, como sugere este testemunho obtido por Castaldi: "Em 1927, nosso pai alcançou o ápice da sua carreira de atacadista de cereais e nesse mesmo ano comprou um palacete perto da avenida Paulista. Na nova casa era proibido falar dialeto: 'todos: dizia meu pai, 'devem falar a língua de Dante'. Até seus velhos amigos que iam visitá-lo em casa deviam falar em italiano; no escritório, ao contrário, o dialeto era ainda permitido. Essa sua mania causou-lhe muitas inimizades e dentro de poucos anos encontrou-se isolado, tanto que, depois do casamento dos filhos (em geral com descendentes de italianos do norte, 'gente fina'), voltou a residir no Brás".

Notem-se, nesse depoimento, as marcas prestigiosas da mobilidade ascendente: a casa na avenida Paulista, o uso do italiano associado a uma grande figura literária, o casamento dos filhos de um bares com "gente fina': ou seja, os italianos do Norte. Ao mesmo tempo, há um indicio de "retorno às origens", por parte de um pai cujos filhos partiram do lar e que, em razão da língua e da ascensão social, se afastara de seu grupo. Regressar ao Brás significava retornar à referência básica, recusando o fausto e o isolamento que se impusera na avenida Paulista; significava também - é lícito sugerir- o retorno ao dialeto, agora revalorizado.

Do ponto de vista das relações entre língua e vida privada, é interessante observar alguns traços originais desse breve excerto. O esforço de ascensão social leva o pai do depoente a recusar, no interior do lar, o uso de sua língua íntima, utilizada entretanto em um espaço que denota outro tipo de intimidade: a intimidade dos amigos, transitando em um ambiente exclusivamente masculino, destinado aos negócios em primeiro lugar mas não só a eles, como é o caso do escritório.

No ambiente familiar, a língua constituiu uma fonte de estranheza entre as gerações ou, com outro sentido, de delimitação de fronteiras. O primeiro caso vincula-se à influência da instrução: ao aprender a norma culta do português, a segunda geração perceberá como seus pais e parentes falam mal a língua. Muitas vezes, diante de colegas e amigos, sentiam vergonha da fala mais ou menos estropiada de seus ascendentes, circunstância que geraria em muitos, anos mais tarde, um forte sentimento de culpa.

Para os pais, a língua de origem possibilitava a comunicação cifrada. Desse modo, ela servia de veículo para as conversas íntimas entre marido e mulher, longe do alcance de terceiros, especialmente das empregadas domésticas, no caso das famílias de classe média e alta, consistindo na língua do segredo, na feliz expressão de Castaldi. Ainda que os subalternos pudessem acender uma luz indicando anormalidade, tão logo a conversa estranha se iniciava, não podiam compreender o tema, versando sobre seus defeitos reais ou imaginários, sobre o orçamento doméstico, sobre negócios cujas cifras pareceriam assustadoras aos ouvidos de gente de poucos recursos.



A COMIDA

Em São Paulo, a cozinha étnica surgiu em contraste com um regime alimentar prévio pouco variado, por parte da população nacional; essa frugalidade compatibilizava-se, aliás, com a simplicidade da existência, como tratei de lembrar, falando da habitação. Como observa lemos, o passadio era simples, com cardápios de poucas variantes. Arroz, feijão, toda sorte de cozidos de carne herdados de Portugal e, principalmente, a paçoca e o cuscuz. A farinha de mandioca era fundamental, misturada no feijão, no prato ou já na panela de barro. Seria exagero atribuir apenas aos imigrantes a transformação dos itens dessa cozinha. A acumulação de riqueza, derivada essencialmente da expansão cafeeira, permitindo a multiplicação das viagens à Europa, a contratação de cozinheiros especializados, mudou os padrões alimentares da burguesia paulista, ela mesma em processo de constituição ao longo dessa mudança.

Os pratos italianos- as massas em particular -levaram algumas décadas para serem socializados, até transformar- se em itens triviais dos menus das casas de familia de qualquer etnia e dos restaurantes. É bem verdade que, já nos primeiros anos do século, as vendas de São Paulo ofereciam ingredientes da cozinha italiana, "montanhas de caixas de tomate siciliano e de massas napolitanas" como observou, em 1907, Gina Lombroso Ferrero. Na mesma época, hospedado em um hotel da cidade, o jornalista português Sousa Pinto notava: "Ao jantar, servem-nos minestra e risota - é a Itália, não há que ver, a Itália com arrol de açafrão e queijo ralado"

Mas, apesar dessas indicações, ainda na década de 40 era necessário ir a um bairro de imigrantes - o Brás ou a Mooca - para se comer um fusilli, um rigatoni, um cappelletti. Levou ainda mais tempo para se perceber que o que se chamava genericamente de "comida italiana' era na verdade comida meridional, muito diferente da do Norte da península. Também a comida síria e libanesa ficou confinada, por longos anos, nos restaurantes de aparência modesta e de lautos pratos da rua 25 de março e arredores, ou no interior das casas.

Nos lares dos imigrantes, outros pratos foram se integrando à cozinha étnica, por influência genérica do meio e das aptidões das cozinheiras em particular. Dou um exemplo extraído de minha história familiar. Os pratos de origem judaica sefaradi eram mesclados, em pequena escala, com arenques e pepinos acrescentados por meu pai, pertencente ao ramo asquenaze. Mas uns e outros não constituíam o trivial, composto de arroz, feijão, o prato de massa com tempero pesado de tomate e, algumas vezes, o torresmo e o tutu de feijão. A figura decisiva na combinação aparentemente inusitada desses pratos era a cozinheira de muitos anos, de ascendência ítalo-mineira.

De qualquer forma, a comida étnica representou, sobretudo nos primeiros tempos da imigração, uma ponte para a terra de origem, a manutenção de um paladar, assim como uma afirmação de identidade. ~1anter hábitos alimentares era relativamente fácil em uma cidade como São Paulo, mas o mesmo não acontecia no interior do estado. Handa faz um relato detalhado das dificuldades de seus patrícios, nas áreas de colonização, em que se mesclam aversões e tentativas de adaptação. Exemplificando, os japoneses começaram a participar, com muitas restrições, da matança de porcos, como forma de estreitar relações com gente de fora de seu círculo, porém na hora de comer ficavam enjoados, ao lembrar a matança do animal e o modo de limpá-lo. Por outro lado, como não encontravam peixe fresco, utilizavam bacalhau seco ao fogo, que achavam extremamente salgado, pois não o punham de molho. A minuciosa descrição de Handa refere-se também à dificuldade de lidar com os temperos da nova terra e à carência dos temperos apreciados pelos imigrantes; o shoyu -molho de soja hoje em dia corriqueiro em muitas casas paulistanas- era vendido apenas nas cidades e só começou a aparecer quando os japoneses foram se transferindo em maior número para os centros urbanos.

Um dos significados mais importantes da comida étnica é o de ser a materialização de um elo afetivo poderoso para as gerações de imigrantes, sobretudo ao ser perpetuada por mãos femininas. O caso mais conhecido é o da macarronada domingueira da 'mamma', reunindo a família dispersa, que, lamentavelmente, acabou sendo caricaturada pelos comerciais de televisão.

Apesar dessa e de outras incursões deformadoras, a comida será sempre lembrada pelos descendentes de imigrantes como um elo com o passado, com personagens queridos mortos - mães, avós, tias, que preparavam pratos especiais cujo segredo levaram consigo-, com um tempo sem retorno da infância na casa materna.

Até mesmo apreciações muito negativas da terra de origem podem ser surpreendentemente contraditadas pela via dos frutos e da comida. A mesma pessoa, antes citada, que afirma ter se sentido aliviada ao deixar a Polônia, por causa da discriminação contra os judeus, refere-se ao país de forma quase edênica, em outra passagem de seu depoimento: 'A gente se juntava, as famílias, no inverno. Fazia comida, a gente tinha vida. Não tinha doenças. Eu me lembro até hoje. Quando vinha o tempo do verão, as frutas. O tempo dos cogumelos, que cogumelos eu comia na Polônia. Outro dia minha filha trouxe cerejas. Experimentei uma. Eu ainda tenho o paladar na boca das cerejas da Polônia[ ... ] O pão de lá, que coisa louca! Pão preto, pão branco, pães doces e tortas. O que não se tinha lá! Sorvetes, quando vinha o verão. A gente tinha o paraíso ... ".

Na minha história pessoal, os pratos da comida sefaradi, servidos no dia-a-dia ou em momentos comemorativos excepcionais, foram sempre uma referência afetiva. De um lado, porque representavam uma atenção, uma prova de carinho para com os mais jovens da família, que os "velhos" tinham dificuldade em expressar de modo mais explícito; de outro, porque vinham cercados de uma referencia telúrica, da ''terra" de clima ameno e de mares calmos, que ficara encravada no âmago do Mediterrâneo.

Para propiciar o congraçamento nos domingos e reduzir as possibilidades de que este se convertesse em palco de atritos, minha família inaugurou ou reinaugurou, com grande êxito, um 'meze' - momento prévio à refeição principal. De pé, em torno da mesa do almoço, a família se servia de anchova, erva-doce, 'hummus', 'iaprak' (denominação em turco da folha de parreira enrolada, com recheio de carne), tudo deglutido com uns bons goles de sambuca.

Até que ponto setia possível recortar uma vida privada específica dos "velhos imigrantes" e seus descendentes, no tempo presente? Se os contornos do tema são imprecisos para um passado distante, essa imprecisão se transforma em uma quase-impossibilidade nos dias atuais. Os traços de uma vida privada específica foram sendo borrados, embora não eliminados de todo, pela integração das correntes imigratórias por diferentes vias que vão da ascensão social à socialização da comida e até mesmo dos rituais. Uma indicação menos óbvia desta última circunstância é a presença crescente de não-judeus em rituais do calendário hebraico, recebidos como amigos da casa, assim como a atração exercida por tais celebrações.

Devemos ainda levar em conta que, a partir dos anos 30, excetuando-se os primeiros anos da década com relação aos japoneses, a imigração para o Brasil perdeu muito de seu significado, não obstante a presença de novos contingentes de outras terras chegados principalmente a São Paulo, como os coreanos e gente de países limítrofes com o Brasil - caso dos bolivianos, paraguaios, argentinos etc. Mudou o eixo dos fluxos migratórios, concentrando-se o fenômeno nas migrações internas. Embora se trate de realidades diversas sob muitos aspectos, penso que os fluxos externos e os internos têm pontos comuns. Afinal de contas, cortes e continuidades, discriminação e preconceito, êxito, integração ou fracasso, integram a história de vida de muitos nordestinos que migraram para o Centro-Sul. Uma incursão no terreno comparativo não seria tentadora?

Texto de Boris Fausto/Emidio Luisi em "História da Vida Privada no Brasil",volume 4, "Contrastes da Intimidade Contemporânea", Companhia das Letras, São Paulo, 1998, excertos pp. 36-61. Digitalizado, adaptado e ilustrado para ser postado por Leopoldo Costa.

To undestand our nature, history and psychology, we must get inside the heads of our hunter-gatherer ancestors. For nearly the entire history of our species, Sapiens lived as foragers. The past 200 years, during which ever increasing numbers of Sapiens have obtained their daily bread as urban labourers and office workers, and the preceding 10,000 years, during which most Sapiens lived as farmers and herders, are the blink of an eye compared to the tens of thousands of years during which our ancestors hunted and gathered.

The flourishing field of evolutionary psychology argues that many of our present-day social and psychological characteristics were shaped during this long pre-agricultural era. Even today, scholars in this field claim, our brains and minds are adapted to a life of hunting and gathering. Our eating habits, our conflicts and our sexuality are all the result of the way our hunter-gatherer minds interact with our current post-industrial environment, with its mega-cities, aeroplanes, telephones and computers. This environment gives us more material resources and longer lives than those enjoyed by any previous generation, but it often makes us feel alienated, depressed and pressured. To understand why, evolutionary psychologists argue, we need to delve into the hunter-gatherer world that shaped us, the world that we subconsciously still inhabit.

Why, for example, do people gorge on high-calorie food that is doing little good to their bodies? Today’s affluent societies are in the throes of a plague of obesity, which is rapidly spreading to developing countries. It’s a puzzle why we binge on the sweetest and greasiest food we can find, until we consider the eating habits of our forager forebears. In the savannahs and forests they inhabited, high-calorie sweets were extremely rare and food in general was in short supply. A typical forager 30,000 years ago had access to only one type of sweet food – ripe fruit. If a Stone Age woman came across a tree groaning with figs, the most sensible thing to do was to eat as many of them as she could on the spot, before the local baboon band picked the tree bare. The instinct to gorge on high-calorie food was hard-wired into our genes. Today we may be living in high-rise apartments with over-stuffed refrigerators, but our DNA still thinks we are in the savannah. That’s what makes us spoon down an entire tub of Ben & Jerry’s when we find one in the freezer and wash it down with a jumbo Coke.

This ‘gorging gene’ theory is widely accepted. Other theories are far more contentious. For example, some evolutionary psychologists argue that ancient foraging bands were not composed of nuclear families centred on monogamous couples. Rather, foragers lived in communes devoid of private property, monogamous relationships and even fatherhood. In such a band, a woman could have sex and form intimate bonds with several men (and women) simultaneously, and all of the band’s adults cooperated in parenting its children. Since no man knew definitively which of the children were his, men showed equal concern for all youngsters.

Such a social structure is not an Aquarian utopia. It’s well documented among animals, notably our closest relatives, the chimpanzees and bonobos. There are even a number of present-day human cultures in which collective fatherhood is practised, as for example among the Barí Indians. According to the beliefs of such societies, a child is not born from the sperm of a single man, but from the accumulation of sperm in a woman’s womb. A good mother will make a point of having sex with several different men, especially when she is pregnant, so that her child will enjoy the qualities (and paternal care) not merely of the best hunter, but also of the best storyteller, the strongest warrior and the most considerate lover. If this sounds silly, bear in mind that before the development of modern embryological studies, people had no solid evidence that babies are always sired by a single father rather than by many.

The proponents of this ‘ancient commune’ theory argue that the frequent infidelities that characterise modern marriages, and the high rates of divorce, not to mention the cornucopia of psychological complexes from which both children and adults suffer, all result from forcing humans to live in nuclear families and monogamous relationships that are incompatible with our biological software.

Many scholars vehemently reject this theory, insisting that both monogamy and the forming of nuclear families are core human behaviours. Though ancient hunter-gatherer societies tended to be more communal and egalitarian than modern societies, these researchers argue, they were nevertheless comprised of separate cells, each containing a jealous couple and the children they held in common. This is why today monogamous relationships and nuclear families are the norm in the vast majority of cultures, why men and women tend to be very possessive of their partners and children, and why even in modern states such as North Korea and Syria political authority passes from father to son.

In order to resolve this controversy and understand our sexuality, society and politics, we need to learn something about the living conditions of our ancestors, to examine how Sapiens lived between the Cognitive Revolution of 70,000 years ago, and the start of the Agricultural Revolution about 12,000 years ago.

Unfortunately, there are few certainties regarding the lives of our forager ancestors. The debate between the ‘ancient commune’ and ‘eternal monogamy schools is based on flimsy evidence. We obviously have no written records from the age of foragers, and the archaeological evidence consists mainly of fossilised bones and stone tools. Artefacts made of more perishable materials – such as wood, bamboo or leather – survive only under unique conditions. The common impression that pre-agricultural humans lived in an age of stone is a misconception based on this archaeological bias. The Stone Age should more accurately be called the Wood Age, because most of the tools used by ancient hunter-gatherers were made of wood.

Any reconstruction of the lives of ancient hunter-gatherers from the surviving artefacts is extremely problematic. One of the most glaring differences between the ancient foragers and their agricultural and industrial descendants is that foragers had very few artefacts to begin with, and these played a comparatively modest role in their lives. Over the course of his or her life, a typical member of a modern affluent society will own several million artefacts – from cars and houses to disposable nappies and milk cartons. There’s hardly an activity, a belief, or even an emotion that is not mediated by objects of our own devising. Our eating habits are mediated by a mind-boggling collection of such items, from spoons and glasses to genetic engineering labs and gigantic ocean-going ships. In play, we use a plethora of toys, from plastic cards to 100,000-seater stadiums. Our romantic and sexual relations are accoutred by rings, beds, nice clothes, sexy underwear, condoms, fashionable restaurants, cheap motels, airport lounges, wedding halls and catering companies. Religions bring the sacred into our lives with Gothic churches, Muslim mosques, Hindu ashrams, Torah scrolls, Tibetan prayer wheels, priestly cassocks, candles, incense, Christmas trees, matzah balls, tombstones and icons.

We hardly notice how ubiquitous our stuff is until we have to move it to a new house. Foragers moved house every month, every week, and sometimes even every day, toting whatever they had on their backs. There were no moving companies, wagons, or even pack animals to share the burden. They consequently had to make do with only the most essential possessions. It’s reasonable to presume, then, that the greater part of their mental, religious and emotional lives was conducted without the help of artefacts. An archaeologist working 100,000 years from now could piece together a reasonable picture of Muslim belief and practice from the myriad objects he unearthed in a ruined mosque. But we are largely at a loss in trying to comprehend the beliefs and rituals of ancient hunter-gatherers. It’s much the same dilemma that a future historian would face if he had to depict the social world of twenty-first-century teenagers solely on the basis of their surviving snail mail – since no records will remain of their phone conversations, emails, blogs and text messages.

A reliance on artefacts will thus bias an account of ancient hunter-gatherer life. One way to remedy this is to look at modern forager societies. These can be studied directly, by anthropological observation. But there are good reasons to be very careful in extrapolating from modern forager societies to ancient ones.

Firstly, all forager societies that have survived into the modern era have been influenced by neighbouring agricultural and industrial societies. Consequently, it’s risky to assume that what is true of them was also true tens of thousands of years ago.

Secondly, modern forager societies have survived mainly in areas with difficult climatic conditions and inhospitable terrain, ill-suited for agriculture. Societies that have adapted to the extreme conditions of places such as the Kalahari Desert in southern Africa may well provide a very misleading model for understanding ancient societies in fertile areas such as the Yangtze River Valley. In particular, population density in an area like the Kalahari Desert is far lower than it was around the ancient Yangtze, and this has far-reaching implications for key questions about the size and structure of human bands and the relations between them.

Thirdly, the most notable characteristic of hunter-gatherer societies is how different they are one from the other. They differ not only from one part of the world to another but even in the same region. One good example is the huge variety the first European settlers found among the Aborigine peoples of Australia. Just before the British conquest, between 300,000 and 700,000 hunter-gatherers lived on the continent in 200–600 tribes, each of which was further divided into several bands.2 Each tribe had its own language, religion, norms and customs. Living around what is now Adelaide in southern Australia were several patrilineal clans that reckoned descent from the father’s side. These clans bonded together into tribes on a strictly territorial basis. In contrast, some tribes in northern Australia gave more importance to a person’s maternal ancestry, and a person’s tribal identity depended on his or her totem rather than his territory.

It stands to reason that the ethnic and cultural variety among ancient hunter-gatherers was equally impressive, and that the 5 million to 8 million foragers who populated the world on the eve of the Agricultural Revolution were divided into thousands of separate tribes with thousands of different languages and cultures.3 This, after all, was one of the main legacies of the Cognitive Revolution. Thanks to the appearance of fiction, even people with the same genetic make-up who lived under similar ecological conditions were able to create very different imagined realities, which manifested themselves in different norms and values.

For example, there’s every reason to believe that a forager band that lived 30,000 years ago on the spot where Oxford University now stands would have spoken a different language from one living where Cambridge is now situated. One band might have been belligerent and the other peaceful. Perhaps the Cambridge band was communal while the one at Oxford was based on nuclear families. The Cantabrigians might have spent long hours carving wooden statues of their guardian spirits, whereas the Oxonians may have worshipped through dance. The former perhaps believed in reincarnation, while the latter thought this was nonsense. In one society, homosexual relationships might have been accepted, while in the other they were taboo.

In other words, while anthropological observations of modern foragers can help us understand some of the possibilities available to ancient foragers, the ancient horizon of possibilities was much broader, and most of it is hidden from our view.* The heated debates about Homo sapiens’ ‘natural way of life’ miss the main point. Ever since the Cognitive Revolution, there hasn’t been a single natural way of life for Sapiens. There are only cultural choices, from among a bewildering palette of possibilities.

The Original Affluent Society

What generalisations can we make about life in the pre-agricultural world nevertheless? It seems safe to say that the vast majority of people lived in small bands numbering several dozen or at most several hundred individuals, and that all these individuals were humans. It is important to note this last point, because it is far from obvious. Most members of agricultural and industrial societies are domesticated animals. They are not equal to their masters, of course, but they are members all the same. Today, the society called New Zealand is composed of 4.5 million Sapiens and 50 million sheep.

There was just one exception to this general rule: the dog. The dog was the first animal domesticated by Homo sapiens, and this occurred before the Agricultural Revolution. Experts disagree about the exact date, but we have incontrovertible evidence of domesticated dogs from about 15,000 years ago. They may have joined the human pack thousands of years earlier.

Dogs were used for hunting and fighting, and as an alarm system against wild beasts and human intruders. With the passing of generations, the two species co-evolved to communicate well with each other. Dogs that were most attentive to the needs and feelings of their human companions got extra care and food, and were more likely to survive. Simultaneously, dogs learned to manipulate people for their own needs. A 15,000-year bond has yielded a much deeper understanding and affection between humans and dogs than between humans and any other animal.4 In some cases dead dogs were even buried ceremoniously, much like humans.

Members of a band knew each other very intimately, and were surrounded throughout their lives by friends and relatives. Loneliness and privacy were rare. Neighbouring bands probably competed for resources and even fought one another, but they also had friendly contacts. They exchanged members, hunted together, traded rare luxuries, cemented political alliances and celebrated religious festivals. Such cooperation was one of the important trademarks of Homo sapiens, and gave it a crucial edge over other human species. Sometimes relations with neighbouring bands were tight enough that together they constituted a single tribe, sharing a common language, common myths, and common norms and values.

Yet we should not overestimate the importance of such external relations. Even if in times of crisis neighbouring bands drew closer together, and even if they occasionally gathered to hunt or feast together, they still spent the vast majority of their time in complete isolation and independence. Trade was mostly limited to prestige items such as shells, amber and pigments. There is no evidence that people traded staple goods like fruits and meat, or that the existence of one band depended on the importing of goods from another. Sociopolitical relations, too, tended to be sporadic. The tribe did not serve as a permanent political framework, and even if it had seasonal meeting places, there were no permanent towns or institutions. The average person lived many months without seeing or hearing a human from outside of her own band, and she encountered throughout her life no more than a few hundred humans. The Sapiens population was thinly spread over vast territories. Before the Agricultural Revolution, the human population of the entire planet was smaller than that of today’s Cairo.

Most Sapiens bands lived on the road, roaming from place to place in search of food. Their movements were influenced by the changing seasons, the annual migrations of animals and the growth cycles of plants. They usually travelled back and forth across the same home territory, an area of between several dozen and many hundreds of square kilometres.

Occasionally, bands wandered outside their turf and explored new lands, whether due to natural calamities, violent conflicts, demographic pressures or the initiative of a charismatic leader. These wanderings were the engine of human worldwide expansion. If a forager band split once every forty years and its splinter group migrated to a new territory a hundred kilometres to the east, the distance from East Africa to China would have been covered in about 10,000 years.

In some exceptional cases, when food sources were particularly rich, bands settled down in seasonal and even permanent camps. Techniques for drying, smoking and freezing food also made it possible to stay put for longer periods. Most importantly, alongside seas and rivers rich in seafood and waterfowl, humans set up permanent fishing villages – the first permanent settlements in history, long predating the Agricultural Revolution. Fishing villages might have appeared on the coasts of Indonesian islands as early as 45,000 years ago. These may have been the base from which Homo sapiens launched its first transoceanic enterprise: the invasion of Australia.

In most habitats, Sapiens bands fed themselves in an elastic and opportunistic fashion. They scrounged for termites, picked berries, dug for roots, stalked rabbits and hunted bison and mammoth. Notwithstanding the popular image of ‘man the hunter’, gathering was Sapiens’ main activity, and it provided most of their calories, as well as raw materials such as flint, wood and bamboo.

Sapiens did not forage only for food and materials. They foraged for knowledge as well. To survive, they needed a detailed mental map of their territory. To maximise the efficiency of their daily search for food, they required information about the growth patterns of each plant and the habits of each animal. They needed to know which foods were nourishing, which made you sick, and how to use others as cures. They needed to know the progress of the seasons and what warning signs preceded a thunderstorm or a dry spell. They studied every stream, every walnut tree, every bear cave, and every flint-stone deposit in their vicinity. Each individual had to understand how to make a stone knife, how to mend a torn cloak, how to lay a rabbit trap, and how to face avalanches, snakebites or hungry lions. Mastery of each of these many skills required years of apprenticeship and practice. The average ancient forager could turn a flint stone into a spear point within minutes. When we try to imitate this feat, we usually fail miserably. Most of us lack expert knowledge of the flaking properties of flint and basalt and the fine motor skills needed to work them precisely.

In other words, the average forager had wider, deeper and more varied knowledge of her immediate surroundings than most of her modern descendants. Today, most people in industrial societies don’t need to know much about the natural world in order to survive. What do you really need to know in order to get by as a computer engineer, an insurance agent, a history teacher or a factory worker? You need to know a lot about your own tiny field of expertise, but for the vast majority of life’s necessities you rely blindly on the help of other experts, whose own knowledge is also limited to a tiny field of expertise. The human collective knows far more today than did the ancient bands. But at the individual level, ancient foragers were the most knowledgeable and skilful people in history.

There is some evidence that the size of the average Sapiens brain has actually decreased since the age of foraging.5 Survival in that era required superb mental abilities from everyone. When agriculture and industry came along people could increasingly rely on the skills of others for survival, and new ‘niches for imbeciles’ were opened up. You could survive and pass your unremarkable genes to the next generation by working as a water carrier or an assembly-line worker.

Foragers mastered not only the surrounding world of animals, plants and objects, but also the internal world of their own bodies and senses. They listened to the slightest movement in the grass to learn whether a snake might be lurking there. They carefully observed the foliage of trees in order to discover fruits, beehives and bird nests. They moved with a minimum of effort and noise, and knew how to sit, walk and run in the most agile and efficient manner. Varied and constant use of their bodies made them as fit as marathon runners. They had physical dexterity that people today are unable to achieve even after years of practising yoga or t’ai chi.

The hunter-gatherer way of life differed significantly from region to region and from season to season, but on the whole foragers seem to have enjoyed a more comfortable and rewarding lifestyle than most of the peasants, shepherds, labourers and office clerks who followed in their footsteps.

While people in today’s affluent societies work an average of forty to forty-five hours a week, and people in the developing world work sixty and even eighty hours a week, hunter-gatherers living today in the most inhospitable of habitats – such as the Kalahari Desert work on average for just thirty-five to forty-five hours a week. They hunt only one day out of three, and gathering takes up just three to six hours daily. In normal times, this is enough to feed the band. It may well be that ancient hunter-gatherers living in zones more fertile than the Kalahari spent even less time obtaining food and raw materials. On top of that, foragers enjoyed a lighter load of household chores. They had no dishes to wash, no carpets to vacuum, no floors to polish, no nappies to change and no bills to pay.

The forager economy provided most people with more interesting lives than agriculture or industry do. Today, a Chinese factory hand leaves home around seven in the morning, makes her way through polluted streets to a sweatshop, and there operates the same machine, in the same way, day in, day out, for ten long and mind-numbing hours, returning home around seven in the evening in order to wash dishes and do the laundry. Thirty thousand years ago, a Chinese forager might leave camp with her companions at, say, eight in the morning. They’d roam the nearby forests and meadows, gathering mushrooms, digging up edible roots, catching frogs and occasionally running away from tigers. By early afternoon, they were back at the camp to make lunch. That left them plenty of time to gossip, tell stories, play with the children and just hang out. Of course the tigers sometimes caught them, or a snake bit them, but on the other hand they didn’t have to deal with automobile accidents and industrial pollution.

In most places and at most times, foraging provided ideal nutrition. That is hardly surprising – this had been the human diet for hundreds of thousands of years, and the human body was well adapted to it. Evidence from fossilised skeletons indicates that ancient foragers were less likely to suffer from starvation or malnutrition, and were generally taller and healthier than their peasant descendants. Average life expectancy was apparently just thirty to forty years, but this was due largely to the high incidence of child mortality. Children who made it through the perilous first years had a good chance of reaching the age of sixty, and some even made it to their eighties. Among modern foragers, forty-five-year-old women can expect to live another twenty years, and about 5–8 per cent of the population is over sixty.

The foragers’ secret of success, which protected them from starvation and malnutrition, was their varied diet. Farmers tend to eat a very limited and unbalanced diet. Especially in premodern times, most of the calories feeding an agricultural population came from a single crop – such as wheat, potatoes or rice – that lacks some of the vitamins, minerals and other nutritional materials humans need. The typical peasant in traditional China ate rice for breakfast, rice for lunch, and rice for dinner. If she were lucky, she could expect to eat the same on the following day. By contrast, ancient foragers regularly ate dozens of different foodstuffs. The peasant’s ancient ancestor, the forager, may have eaten berries and mushrooms for breakfast; fruits, snails and turtle for lunch; and rabbit steak with wild onions for dinner. Tomorrows menu might have been completely different. This variety ensured that the ancient foragers received all the necessary nutrients.

Furthermore, by not being dependent on any single kind of food, they were less liable to suffer when one particular food source failed. Agricultural societies are ravaged by famine when drought, fire or earthquake devastates the annual rice or potato crop. Forager societies were hardly immune to natural disasters, and suffered from periods of want and hunger, but they were usually able to deal with such calamities more easily. If they lost some of their staple foodstuffs, they could gather or hunt other species, or move to a less affected area.

Ancient foragers also suffered less from infectious diseases. Most of the infectious diseases that have plagued agricultural and industrial societies (such as smallpox, measles and tuberculosis) originated in domesticated animals and were transferred to humans only after the Agricultural Revolution. Ancient foragers, who had domesticated only dogs, were free of these scourges. Moreover, most people in agricultural and industrial societies lived in dense, unhygienic permanent settlements – ideal hotbeds for disease. Foragers roamed the land in small bands that could not sustain epidemics.

The wholesome and varied diet, the relatively short working week, and the rarity of infectious diseases have led many experts to define pre-agricultural forager societies as ‘the original affluent societies’. It would be a mistake, however, to idealise the lives of these ancients. Though they lived better lives than most people in agricultural and industrial societies, their world could still be harsh and unforgiving. Periods of want and hardship were not uncommon, child mortality was high, and an accident which would be minor today could easily become a death sentence. Most people probably enjoyed the close intimacy of the roaming band, but those unfortunates who incurred the hostility or mockery of their fellow band members probably suffered terribly. Modern foragers occasionally abandon and even kill old or disabled people who cannot keep up with the band. Unwanted babies and children may be slain, and there are even cases of religiously inspired human sacrifice.

The Aché people, hunter-gatherers who lived in the jungles of Paraguay until the 1960s, offer a glimpse into the darker side of foraging. When a valued band member died, the Aché customarily killed a little girl and buried the two together. Anthropologists who interviewed the Aché recorded a case in which a band abandoned a middle-aged man who fell sick and was unable to keep up with the others. He was left under a tree. Vultures perched above him, expecting a hearty meal. But the man recuperated, and, walking briskly, he managed to rejoin the band. His body was covered with the birds’ faeces, so he was henceforth nicknamed ‘Vulture Droppings’.

When an old Aché woman became a burden to the rest of the band, one of the younger men would sneak behind her and kill her with an axe-blow to the head. An Aché man told the inquisitive anthropologists stories of his prime years in the jungle. ‘I customarily killed old women. I used to kill my aunts … The women were afraid of me … Now, here with the whites, I have become weak.’ Babies born without hair, who were considered underdeveloped, were killed immediately. One woman recalled that her first baby girl was killed because the men in the band did not want another girl. On another occasion a man killed a small boy because he was ‘in a bad mood and the child was crying’. Another child was buried alive because ‘it was funny-looking and the other children laughed at it’.

We should be careful, though, not to judge the Aché too quickly. Anthropologists who lived with them for years report that violence between adults was very rare. Both women and men were free to change partners at will. They smiled and laughed constantly, had no leadership hierarchy, and generally shunned domineering people. They were extremely generous with their few possessions, and were not obsessed with success or wealth. The things they valued most in life were good social interactions and high-quality friendships. They viewed the killing of children, sick people and the elderly as many people today view abortion and euthanasia. It should also be noted that the Aché were hunted and killed without mercy by Paraguayan farmers. The need to evade their enemies probably caused the Aché to adopt an exceptionally harsh attitude towards anyone who might become a liability to the band.

The truth is that Aché society, like every human society, was very complex. We should beware of demonising or idealising it on the basis of a superficial acquaintance. The Aché were neither angels nor fiends – they were humans. So, too, were the ancient hunter-gatherers.

By Yuval Noah Harari in " Sapiens - A Brief History of Humankind", McClelland & Stewart (a division of Random House of Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company), 2014, excerpts chapter 3. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

I. In general. 

One form of divination consisted of a reply, expressed in various ways and means, by a deity, or at least by a suprahuman interlocutor, to a query put by the believer on personal or communal questions. In some cases the oracle could be a spontaneous manifestation of the deity through a human mediator or prophet, who expresses a divine pronouncement without having been interrogated, as in the case of the Greco-Roman (later Jewish-Christian) Sibyl.

In this form the oracular phenomenon was more or less tangential to the prophetic function. In Greece, Dodona and Delphi were seats of famous oracles, dedicated respectively to Zeus and to Apollo. At Dodona, divination took place by observing the movement of the leaves of the sacred oak and the waters of a nearby spring, as well as through certain prophets, the Homeric Selloi, or the “Dove” prophetesses (peleia) mentioned by Herodotus.

Archaeology has also brought to light numerous small tablets containing written requests to the oracle. At Delphi the Pythia, inspired by the god, uttered enigmatic replies which the priests then interpreted. Christian polemic against astrology and its practices also applied to the oracular art, whose veracity was sometimes not wholly denied, but was attributed to the activity of demons. Thus, e.g., Tertullian claims that these, knowing some truths and borrowing others from biblical prophecies, deceive people through oracles so as to subject them to their power (Apol. 22). Tatian too recognizes in oracles a certain curative capacity inspired by evil spirits (Orat. 18).

Meanwhile the pagans objected to the use of oracular writings by the Christians themselves to confirm their own doctrines. Lactantius, in support of the doctrine of the immortality of the soul, appeals—besides to the Bible—to the “prophecies of the Sibyl” and the replies of Milesian Apollo. One document attesting to Jewish and then Christian use of the pagan oracular genre is the Sibylline Oracles. Augustine’s treatise "De Divinatione Daemonum", while repeating the polemical arguments against oracular practices worked out in earlier patristic tradition, confirms the persistence and strength of such practices, which penetrated widely even into the Christian population, despite imperial decrees against haruspices and diviners.



II. Chaldean Oracles. 

Attributed to an author named Julian, perhaps Julian the Theurge (2nd c.AD), and highly esteemed in Neoplatonist circles, this collection of brief theosophical and cosmosophical hexametrical compositions survives only partly and indirectly through the citations of pagan and Christian authors.

The first Christian to mention it is Arnobius; later, Marius Victorinus and Augustine. Among pagans, besides Porphyry, Iamblichus was particularly inspired by the theology of the Chaldean Oracles, to which he dedicated a (lost) commentary in 28 books. Some extracts of a similar exegetical work by Proclus are preserved by Michael Psellos (11th c.), who wrote a "Commentary on the Chaldean Oracles".

The doctrine expressed by the collection, Platonic in inspiration, contemplates the notion of a supreme transcendent God (the Father) from whom derive an Intellect with demiurgic function and a third principle (Hecate), intermediate between the two and identifiable with the anima mundi. Numerous angels and demons populate the higher world, exercising their action on humans positively or negatively. They play a fundamental role in the practice of theurgy, which consists of establishing contact with the gods through ritual acts of initiation. The Chaldean Oracles affirm a dualistic anthropology, with the notion of the soul fallen from the divine world, imprisoned in the body and subject to cosmic destiny. Salvation is possible through theurgic rites and rigorous abstention, aimed at dominion over the bodily passions.



III. Sibylline Oracles. 

1. The pagan Sibyl. 

Among the ancients, the Sibyl was a woman who went into ecstasy and prophesied, very often announcing catastrophes. Her words were considered oracles. Her origin should perhaps be sought in Persia, whence she spread esp. to the Greek colonies of Asia Minor. She was sometimes considered a demoniac, sometimes a deity (Thea Sibylla). Various places of worship were dedicated to her, so that her name ended up becoming a common name, the Sibyls, to whom a collection of oracles was attributed.

The Greeks knew the Sibyl of Marpessos; more important was that of Erythrai, who settled at Delphi, where she was considered sometimes the bride, sometimes the daughter of Apollo. Clement of Alexandria cites the beginnning of a Carmen Sibyllinum by Heraclius the Sophist (Strom. I, 108). Then the Sibyl came to Cumae, where she pronounced oracles in a grotto.

Virgil evokes her in Aeneid VI, 98ff. The collection of her oracles, preserved in the Capitol, was burned in the fire at the temple of Jupiter. The most famous oracle of Cumae was the announcement of the savior of the world, immortalized in Virgil’s 4th Eclogue, which Constantine in his Oratio ad sanctos applies entirely to Christ (19-21). There we read the acrostic of Christ (Or. Sib. VIII, 217-250). Augustine gives it in Latin translation (Civ. Dei 18,23).

2. The Sibylline Oracles. 

The Jews of Alexandria used the collection of Sibylline Oracles and their authority in the Greek world mostly for their own religious propaganda. To this end they adapted, transformed, interpolated and added new compositions. These oracles usually announced, in the spirit of the prophets, catastrophes and the end of the world, as does the medieval hymn Dies irae. The primitive Jewish nucleus is book III of the Sibylline Oracles, in the first version, written ca. AD 140. Books IV and V drip with hatred toward Rome at the time of Vespasian and Titus, who destroyed the temple. The Christians acted similarly to the Jews, exploiting the Jewish source, interpolating, esp. in books I-III, and rewriting specifically Christian parts, like books VI-VIII, probably in the 2nd c. "The Shepherd of Hermas" makes reference to them (Vis. II, 4). They rise in turn against Roman persecution in book VIII, announcing the fall of Rome and of the emperor Nero. The collection in eight books goes back to the 6th c.; in 1817 A. Mai discovered another four books (11-14); the eighth, because of its length, was divided into three.

3. Structure. 

Books I-II form a whole, a Jewish redaction (I, 1-223) with Christian interpolations (224-400) and later editing. In book II it is hard to distinguish what is Jewish from what is Christian. Book III announces various catastrophes; it seems to be entirely Jewish with no Christian interpolation.

Books VI-VIII are entirely Christian. Book VI contains only 28 verses, including a hymn to Christ and to the cross. Book VII shows gnostic conceptions from the late 2nd c., such as baptism of fire (VII, 84). Book VIII, of 500 verses, is much more important, since it refers to Christian life and liturgy (VIII, 402-411). Lactantius takes 30 citations from it. The first part could have been written by a Jew. It announces God’s chastisement and the fall of Rome. The second part is a triumphal hymn to Christ, as judge and Lord of the world. The third is a hymn to God the Creator and to the Logos, his incarnate son. The book concludes with norms for Christian life. There seems to be no gap between this book VIII and the four books discovered by A. Mai (XI-XIV, a numbering that follows the MS tradition of the family of codices [Ambrosianus E 64 sup., Vaticani 1120 and 743, Monacensis 312], which divides book VIII into three).

4. Survival of the collection. 

Already known to Hermas, the oracles are cited by Justin (1 Apol. 20,1; 44,12), Athenagoras, Theophilus (Ad Aut. 2,9), ps.- Melito, Tertullian, frequently by Clement of Alexandria (Strom. 6,5 cf. 1,21; 3,3; 6,5,43,453), Commodian, Lactantius, Eusebius, the Apostolic Constitutions, Gregory of Nazianzus, Sozomen and Augustine. Augustine knew a Latin translation of VIII, 217-243 (see also Kurfess’s edition, pp. 222-264). Celsus knew an interpolated version and reproved Christians for using it to their own advantage (Origen, C. Cel. 7,53). Its influence continued to be felt over the centuries: in the Dies irae, Dante, Calderón, Giotto, Michelangelo, Raphael and in painting. A Prophetia Sibillae magae exists in Latin, published by B. Bischoff (Mél. de Ghellinck, Gembloux 1951, pp. 121-147).

By G. Sfameni Gasparro in "Encyclopedia of Ancient Christianity", produced by the Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, general editor Angelo Di Berardino, Translated from the Italian "Nuovo Dizionario Patristico e di Antichità Cristiane, 3 volumes, 2006–2008 Casa Editrice Marietti, S.p.A., Genova-Milano. Published in the United States of America by InterVarsity Press, Downers Grove, Illinois, with permission from Casa Editrice Marietti.Principal translators: Joseph T. Papa, Erik A. Koenke and Eric E. Hewett, excerpts vol. 2 pp. 970-972. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

I. In the Fathers. 

The Greek term Eucharist, “thanksgiving,” for Christians came to designate the sacred meal (the Lord’s “Supper”), the consecratory blessing, the sacramental elements and finally the eucharistic action itself. The earliest Christian terms seem to have been fractio panis, a gesture which by metonymy designated the entire action (Lk 24:35; Acts 2:42, later taken up by Act. Pauli et Thec. 5; Serap., Eucol. 14,15), and “Lord’s supper” (1 Cor 11:19). Ignatius uses “Eucharist” as a technical term (Eph. 13,1; Phil. 4; Syrm. 8,1) to indicate both the celebration by which Christ is made really present and the mystery that reactualizes Christ’s redemptive incarnation and creates unity in the church. With this term Justin indicates both the eucharistic liturgy and the eucharistic food (1 Ap. 65-67); he also uses the term anamnēsis (Dial. 41,1; 70,4; 117,3), which sometimes recurs in John Chrysostom and in the liturgies (Der Balyzeh: Trad. Ap. 4,10; Lit. Johannis Chrys.). In the 4th c. Greeks often use the term mystērion, and esp. its plural, “mysteries, holy mysteries.” Also very frequent are the terms “to offer” and “offering”: in Greek prosphora (Latin oblatio), which for the Syrians became kurbons, gift. The term synaxis, which ordinarily indicates the holy assembly gathered to offer the Eucharist, can mean the celebration itself.

The Greek terms were transliterated into Latin: the common term eucharistia, a formal borrowing from the Greek; mystēria (Vita Ambr. 23; Ambrose, Comm. in Luc. 7,11; Innocent, Ep. 25 and the sacramentaries), a term also translated as sacramenta (Tertullian, De cor. 3; Cyprian, Ep. 74,4; also Hilary, Ambrose, Augustine). Cyprian also uses the term dominicum celebrare (Ep. 63,16; De opere 15; cf. Act. Saturn. 7). The expression sacrum or sacrum facere is general, analogous to actio/agere (see in Ambrose), which expresses the effectuation par excellence of sacred action. The term Missa, the dismissal at the end of a celebration, appears already in the 4th c. (Egeria, Itin. 25,10; Ambrose, Ep. 76 [20],4).

The fractio panis was the action that Jesus performed at the Last Supper and repeated after his resurrection. The first Eucharist was passed down as a complete Paschal event: Christ, the suffering servant, becomes the victorious Lord. This was part of the worship of the first Christians: it was dominated by the joy of remembering the resurrection and simultaneously a “proclamation of the Lord’s death until he comes” (1 Cor 11:26).

The "Didache" links the Eucharist to the fraternal agapē, which explains the ambivalence of the expressions in the prayers, which were modeled on Jewish prayers but changed and reworked with a Christian spirit and terminology (chs. 9-10). Every Sunday the faithful gathered to break the bread and give thanks (ch. 14). Both the prayers and the celebration make clear the Eucharist’s ecclesial and eschatological character. The Eucharist occupies a central place in the letters of Ignatius (Eph. 5,2; 13,1; 20,2; Magn. 7,1-2; Phil. 4; Smyrn. 7,1; 8,1-2). Presided over by the bishop or his designee, in the Eucharist Christ is really present; in a privileged way, it realizes and concretely manifests unity with Christ and with the church; it plays an essential role in identifying the authentic Christian community.

The Eucharist demands charity and faith in the “one bread that is the medicine of immortality, the antidote for death, so as to live forever in Jesus Christ” (Eph. 20,2). Ignatius considers martyrdom to be closely correlated with the Eucharist: it is like a liturgical offering, the martyr enacting in himself the profound meaning of the Eucharist, as a total and lifegiving gift.

Justin offers the first description of the Eucharist after the NT (1 Apol. 65 and 67), in relation to baptism and Sunday. He clearly distinguishes two parts: the liturgy of the word and the properly eucharistic part (as well as the liturgy extended into one’s life through charity, the ethical-social reflection of a religious celebration). The remembrances of the apostles and the writings of the prophets are read; the presider gives a homily of exhortation. All stand and lift up their prayers. Bread and wine are brought, with water. The presider recites the (consecratory) prayer of thanksgiving, to which all respond: “Amen.”

The eucharistic food is distributed, not forgetting those who are absent. At the end offerings are collected for the needy, realizing the fraternal charity the Eucharist requires. A pure oblation and a spiritual sacrifice (Dial. 41 and 117), the Eucharist is an anamnēsis of all of history, from the creation to the accomplishment of salvation; it must be expressed in “a life in conformity with the Lord’s precepts” (1 Ap. 66,1). Irenaeus (d. ca. 200) puts the Eucharist at the center of his vision of the world and of history: with all the dynamism of its mystery it opposes gnostic theses. The bread and wine are not only saved, but, becoming vehicles of grace—the body and blood of Christ—are saviors.

The Eucharist recapitulates and fulfills the long history of all earthly offerings and, in Christ in glory, anticipates the mystery of the whole harvest (Adv. Haer. IV,17-18). A particular assimilation to the Eucharist and its existential place recur in the Acts of the Martyrs, which celebrate the martyrs’ “thanksgiving” through the gift of their lives, dying to the world to rise again in God (Ignatius, Rom. 2,2; see also Polycarp, Martyrs of Lyons). Inscriptions and epitaphs (Abercius, Pektorios) express desire for the Eucharist, from which is drawn the hope of incorruptibility. Cyprian in Ep. 63 offers the first eucharistic treatise. He associates the Eucharist with Christ’s passion and resurrection, to which the faithful respond with their sacrifice. In addition to spiritual joy, he emphasizes, in the bond between Christ and the faithful, the unity symbolized by the grains combined in the one bread (already the Didache), a classical theme in the entire tradition up to the Middle Ages.

As for the organization of liturgies, while the structure of the assembly was fixed during the first centuries, the celebrant was free to improvise the prayers of thanksgiving and consecration based on a common tradition. The anaphora, to judge from later texts like the Apostolic Constitutions, followed the pattern of the baptismal creed, taking up its themes in the form of thanksgiving, in a trinitarian development.

Salvation history became thanksgiving and eschatological expectation. The Apostolic Tradition is presented less as a real liturgy of a specific church—not even Rome’s—than as a model on which others could also align themselves. The anaphora is a continuous text that develops without the interruption of the Sanctus. The structure is clearly christological and insists above all on the mystery of redemption. The theme of creation, so important in the Jewish liturgy and so clear in the Apos. Con., is almost avoided here. The prayer, which, like the Roman creed, centers on the work of Christ, introduces the account of institution, the thanksgiving in the form of anamnēsis, and finally the epiclesis to the Holy Spirit. This can be compared with the “Clementine liturgy” of the Apos. Con., whose Jewish inspiration and roots are evident, and which is an essential link between the archaic liturgies and the great liturgies of the 4th and 5th c. The attribution to Clement has a Jewish Christian feel.

The anaphora develops the history of salvation: praise of God, creation of the world, creation of humans, salvation history; all these prepare for the Sanctus. The account of institution is followed by an anamnesis, an epiclesis and intercession for the church. Hamman has demonstrated (in Kyriakon 835-843) the perfect symmetry between the anaphora and the baptismal catechesis (Apos. Con. VII,39,2-5). The prayer opens on the mystery of the Trinity, which is revealed in the economy, creation and history of salvation, up to its fulfillment. This solemn prayer begins with the Father, moves to the work of the Son, passes on to the ecclesial action of the Holy Spirit and closes with a doxology. Baptismal confession become consecratory thanksgiving, it is faith made into a sacramental mystery and a sacrament of the whole faith.

The golden age of patristics (4th-5th c.) was the era of the great liturgies, in both East and West. Different liturgical families arose during this period, developing autonomously at Antioch, Alexandria, in Cappadocia, and at Constantinople. The various churches gradually fixed their own liturgies: each had several formularies of anaphora. The East introduced the Sanctus in the 4th c. (Serapion, Eucol.; Apos. Con.). The Syriac liturgy (and the Byzantine, which derives from it) stressed the epiclesis to the Holy Spirit. The epiclesis and the prayers of intercession exchanged places according to liturgical families. The West tended to lose sight of the connection between the preface and the canon, which, as the word implies, was set once and for all.

Ambrose cites a fragment of it (De sacr. III,1,5); Gregory the Great gave it its definitive form. It seems to have been gradually imposed on the whole West during the Carolingian Empire. Catechesis more than controversy (which was virtually non-existent) informs us of the sacramental teaching of the Fathers, who insist on Christ’s real presence in the Eucharist, on the reality of his sacrifice, actualized in the church’s celebration, and on the unity of the faithful with Christ and among themselves in the Eucharist. They also recall the close connection between the word of God and the body of Christ: Caesarius of Arles, echoing St. Augustine, says that “the Word of Christ is not less than the Body of Christ” (Sermo 78,2); St. Ambrose had already proclaimed that one drinks of Christ from the chalice of the Scriptures as from the eucharistic chalice (En. Ps 1,33). We have exceptional evidence of the various Greek and Latin Fathers. The catechesis of the Mass was based on biblical figures and rites. The Hexateuch provided the principal types: Melchizedek (see Cyprian, Ambrose Augustine, Roman canon) and the manna, which St. John had already used. Methodius, like Ambrose, brings together three figures: Adam’s rib, the rock in the desert, Christ’s wound on the cross. To these is added the bread of the Presence (*Cyril of Jerusalem, Cat. 24,6).

To this common background were added the blessing of Judah (Cyprian), which Justin and Irenaeus apply to Christ’s passion; Noah’s drunkenness, which prefigures sobria ebrietas (Cyprian); the Passover lamb, which represents the passion more than the Eucharist (exceptions: Cyprian, Commodian, Gregory of Elvira). We should also mention the psalms, esp. Ps 53. Ps 42 is presented as a eucharistic catechesis (Gregory of Nyssa). The nuptial image drawn by Ambrose from the Song of Songs allowed the development of a theology of teleiōsis and ecstasy.

Maximus the Confessor develops a theology of the spiritual life, from Christian initiation to perfection. Besides biblical figures, the Fathers also explain the various rites of the Mass, from preparation to communion and thanksgiving (Cyril of Jerusalem, Cat. myst.). They emphasize the continuity between the liturgy of the word and the liturgy of the bread. For them, the Eucharist is the sacramentum redemptionis, the sacrament that contains and dispenses all of Christ’s redemptive and saving action, from his death to his resurrection. The Antiochenes, like Theodore of Mopsuestia, less sensitive to biblical typology, see in it above all “the figures of heavenly goods and delights”: the eschatological aspect, traditional since the Didache and Serapion’s Euchologion.

John Chrysostom and Augustine love to develop the ecclesial aspect: “It is your mystery that is placed on the Lord’s altar. It is your mystery that you receive. To that which you are, you reply: Amen” (Aug., Serm. 272). St. Gregory the Great, who read and commented on Sacred Scripture with passion and enthusiasm, says of himself that often, reading and re-reading a text, he was unable to grasp its meaning, but “putting it before the brothers, I understood it” (In Ez. lib. II, hom. II,1).

The term “mystical body,” which originally meant the terminus a quo, ended by designating the terminus ad quem, i.e., the church, as H. de Lubac has shown. Hilary prefers to dwell on incorporation into Christ through the Eucharist, sacrament of the symbiosis between two living things, which makes the member identical with its head. The Eucharist is the sacrament of divinization (Hilary, ps.-Dionysius). To explain it the Fathers use the analogies of fire and the body, the body and the members, the bridegroom and the bride. Finally, faithful to the initiatives of the first centuries, the Fathers, Augustine and esp. John Chrysostom, bring out the concrete and social consequences and irradiations of the Eucharist. “The altar is composed of Christ’s own members, and for you the Lord’s body is the rock of sacrifice” (John Chrys., In 2 Cor hom. 20,3; other texts in Hamman, Vie liturgique, 282-284). Fundamental here is the thought hinted at in the Didache (4,8) and taken up with great frequency in patristic preaching: how is it possible to partake together of heavenly goods, without being able to then share earthly goods with the brothers?

In conclusion, we can summarize that the patristic age took the following lines on the Eucharist: (1) The Lord’s Last Supper is called “Eucharist.” (2) In the Eucharist, there is a salutaris presence of Jesus Christ in real terms of body and blood. This reality becomes an argument for defending the reality of the incarnation of the Word. The liturgical evidence has no exception The Eucharist is understood as oratio prex of the eucharistic species, on the lines of the community’s sacrificium offerre. It is the one valid sacrifice that may be offered to God (anti-Jewish and antipagan polemical context) and is not divisible, as though it could be offered by divided and opposed Christian groups, erecting one altar against another (antiheretical and antischismatic context, esp. in Cyprian’s time and in the subsequent period of the Donatist controversy in Africa). It was in the context of the Eucharist, “the one sacrifice,” that the Eucharist-church unity relationship was developed. (4) Regarding the historical nature of the sources (e.g., K. Gamber’s Codices Liturgici Latini), we must bear in mind that, given the distinct and not always verifiable stratification of these documents, we use the term “historical evidence” with a particular meaning. (5) In the West, the codification of the eucharistic prayers had a mainly christological tone, related in detail to the meeting of the moment; in the East it followed a biblical-historical direction based on creation and on God’s love revealed in history.

II. Iconography. 

The Eucharist as a sacramental and liturgical event remained for a long time without a direct representation in early Christian art, on this point (Ambrose, De sacr. 4,14). (3) though this does not rule out the possibility of the eucharistic motif being included in other iconographical themes.


1. Banquet scenes. 

We must consider carefully the first depictions of banquets in the 3rd-4th c., long held to be eucharistic solemnities because of the presence of the fractio panis. Thus Wilpert interpreted the banquet scene in the Greek chapel of the catacomb of S. Priscilla: the bishop, as president of the liturgical celebration, does not lie on the stibadium like the other six guests, but occupies the place of honor in cornu dextro. He breaks the bread with a certain solemnity, to distribute it to the others, as he will do with the wine in a two-handled cup near his hand. The woman participating in the banquet has her head veiled, which was rigorously prescribed for eucharistic celebrations, whereas for ordinary banquets it was pointless and unusual. Seven baskets of bread and a plate with two fishes and loaves recall the biblical account of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes (Wilpert, Fractio panis, 5ff.; 8/17).

Against this eucharistic interpretation, others see early Christian banquet scenes as depicting funeral banquets, in close parallel with scenes of similar structure in secular art. Bread and fish are the customary food of the dead; the baskets of bread, which recur frequently, allude to the large number of guests, who were often given loaves as gifts. Heavy consumption of wine is suggested by the lively gestures with which the servers are invited to mix new wine, as we see in several parts of the banquet scene in the area of the Agapai in SS. Pietro and Marcellino (WK 133, 2; 157, 1ff.). The survival of the pagan tradition of the funeral banquet in the early Christian period is amply demonstrated (Dölger, ICQUS 5, 503/27; A. Stuiber, Refrigerium interim = Theophaneia 11 [Bonn 1957] 124-136).

Interestingly, in the banquet scenes in SS. Pietro and Marcellino the servers are usually called Agape and Irene (a recent discovery has revealed the name of a Sabina, RivAC 35 [1970] fig. 22). If these are not simply two very common Christian names, we can obviously see in the funeral banquet the expression of the hope of participation in the celestial feast of the blessed, where Love and Peace will prepare the meal. In any case, the banquet depicted in the hypogeum of Vibia as a realistic funeral banquet is clearly characterized by the captions as a banquet of the blessed: Vibia, introduced into the Elysium by the angelus bonus, takes part in the banquet amidst the bonorum iudicio iudicati (WK 132, 1).

Nor is the opinion that the many baskets (or vases) allude to the high number of guests always on target. In cubicle A of SS. Pietro and Marcellino, Christ distributing the wine at Cana is set in the framework of a banquet scene (WK 57). The motif of the multiplication of the bread and wine is set even more integrally in a banquet scene, with the caption TAS EULOGIAS CU ESQIONTES, on the frieze of the apse of the underground basilica of Karmuz at Alexandria (DACL 1, 1127ff. and fig. 279; RBK 1 [1966] 106).

The varied interpretation of proto-Christian banquet scenes marked out the route later followed by research on early Christian iconography. In contrast with the first apodeictic judgments, it is advisable not to determine the spiritual content of the earliest banquet scenes by archaeological means alone. To what extent the memory of the biblical multiplication of the loaves, the hope of participation in the eschatological banquet, and perhaps also the representation of the Eucharist were present in the minds of authors and spectators, remains an open question.

2. Biblical scenes and typological prefigurations of the Eucharist. 

Whether the OT scenes of Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac (WK 41; 78), the gathering of the manna (catacombs of Cyriaca [WK 242, 2]), the return of the spies with the cluster of grapes (DACL 8, 1161 and fig. 1157ff. 11ff.), Habakkuk bringing bread to Daniel in the lions’ den (Rep. 43-5), and finally the depiction of Abel and Melchizedek contain eucharistic symbolism is something that cannot as a rule be established with certainty, and is deduced more from patristic interpretations than from the depictions themselves.

For the sacrifice of Isaac, e.g., it seems that its interpretation as a type of Christ’s sacrifice on the cross and model of Abraham’s obedience in faith precedes the eucharistic interpretation, such that eucharistic content can be ruled out of the earliest iconographical repesentations. But the 6th-c. mosaics of the presbytery of S. Vitale in Ravenna, showing Abel and Melchizedek beside an altar, do express an undeniable eucharistic allegory, given that they are in the apse of the church (Timmers 689, fig. 1); this also goes for the adjacent scenes of Abraham offering hospitality to the three men at Mamre and hastening to sacrifice his son.


The two mosaics, with the scenes of Abel, Abraham and Melchizedek, recur in S. Apollinare in Classe as an illustration of the prayer Supra quae of the Roman canon. NT motifs should be considered in the same way. Representations of the multiplication of bread and wine on the oldest sarcophagus friezes are not necessarily derived from the salvific sepulchral symbolism of Jesus’ miracles; but they were later linked with the representation of the Last Supper, so that we can no longer rule out a eucharistic meaning (Salerno ivory relief, 11th c., Schiller, fig. 70). The oldest representation of the Last Supper is on the mosaics of the portico of S. Apollinare Nuovo in Ravenna (520–6) (Schiller fig. 67). Here, as in the codex Rossanensis (third quarter of 6th c.), Christ sits at table, in the place of honor in cornu dextro, surrounded by the apostles. In the codex Augustinus (ca. 600), he sits at the center of the table (Schiller fig. 73). In Byzantine art, the so-called communion of the apostles is a representation of the Last Supper transferred to the liturgical plane. From the 6th c. on, a number of representations have come down to us, variously structured, on the silver patenae of Riha (Dumbarton Oaks Collection) and Stuma near Antioch (Schiller fig. 56), in the Rossano codex, and in the codex of Rabbula at Florence (Schiller fig. 57ff.; 61).



3. Characterizing symbols and elements. 

In many medieval Christian symbols a eucharistic meaning must be acknowledged, esp. in depictions of bread, fish, vines, grape clusters and wine. The eucharistic symbolism of the fish is attested as early as the 2nd-3rd c. by the inscriptions of Abercius and Pektorios (Dölger 2, 486-515). Many see a symbolic representation of the Eucharist in the two figures of fish in the crypt of Lucina in S. Callisto and in the baskets of loaves next to what may be a chalice full of red wine (WK 28, 1ff.), but this remains undemonstrable (Dölger 5, 527-533). The same reservations apply to the lamb multiplying loaves in the new area of the catacomb of Commodilla (RivAC 34 [1958] 35) and on the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, whose side panels also show gleaning and grape-harvest scenes (Rep. 680, 1-3). Grape clusters and vines, which lend themselves to a vast range of symbolic representations, can refer with certainty to the Eucharist only when the context unequivocally suggests it, as, e.g., on the silver cup of Antioch (5th c.) (Age of Spirituality, 605-608).

By E. Dassmann in "Encyclopedia of Ancient Christianity", produced by the Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, general editor Angelo Di Berardino, Translated from the Italian "Nuovo Dizionario Patristico e di Antichità Cristiane, 3 volumes, 2006–2008 Casa Editrice Marietti, S.p.A., Genova-Milano. Published in the United States of America by InterVarsity Press, Downers Grove, Illinois, with permission from Casa Editrice Marietti.Principal translators: Joseph T. Papa, Erik A. Koenke and Eric E. Hewett, excerpts vol. 1 pp. 854-859. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

Intelectuais famosos nem sempre são geniais. Cometem besteiras em troca de dinheiro, adotam ideologias da moda que se revelam loucura e escrevem coisas de que depois se arrependem. Erram principalmente quando jovens, o que é de esperar. Mas alguns insistem no erro até a velhice, sustentando toda a sua obra em equívocos fundamentais. Quando entram para a história, passam por uma triagem que ao longo dos anos retira imperfeições, feitos medíocres e detalhes bizarros. Nas biografias e nos verbetes de enciclopédias, ficam somente os cachos vistosos do bom-mocismo.

É uma pena. As frutas podres contam boas histórias sobre a época e a personalidade dos artistas - além de serem bem divertidas.



1. MACHADO DE ASSIS, CENSOR DO IMPÉRIO

Machado de Assis é um tipo incomum de gênio - aquele que alcançou a fama muito antes de publicar suas grandes obras, antes mesmo de publicar os primeiros romances. Na década de 1860, quando tinha vinte e poucos anos, era um jornalista cultural respeitado e temido. José de Alencar, uma década mais velho e já escritor conceituado, chamava-o de ”o primeiro crítico brasileiro”. Contrário ao teatro francês romântico e exagerado, feito para divertir as madames dos bulevares franceses, Machado pregava que o teatro tinha ”uma missão nacional, uma missão social e uma missão humana”, e que por isso os palcos precisavam de histórias mais realistas. Sua fama como crítico feroz lhe rendeu o cargo hoje em dia odiado: agente da censura.

Machado foi censor do Conservatório Dramático, o órgão da corte do imperador dom Pedro Segundo encarregado de julgar as peças que poderiam ser levadas ao público. Entre 1862 e 1863, avaliou dezessete peças, proibindo três delas. "A Mulher Que o Mundo Respeita" não ganhou a licença porque o censor achou a comédia ”um episódio imoral, sem princípio nem fim”, ”uma baboseira”. O drama "As Conveniências" foi reprovado com uma justificativa curta que zelava os bons costumes:

Não posso dar o meu voto de aprovação ao drama "As Conveniências". Tais doutrinas se proclamam nele, tal exaltação se faz da paixão diante do dever, tal é o assunto, e tais as conclusões, que é um serviço à moral proibir a representação desta peça. E se o pudor da cena ganha com essa interdição, não menos ganha o bom gosto, que não terá de ver à ilharga de boas composições esta que é um feixe de incongruências, e nada mais.

No artigo ”Machado de Assis, leitor e crítico de teatro”, o professor João Roberto Faria, da Universidade de São Paulo, detalha as regras que Machado de Assis tinha que seguir em seu trabalho de censor. O conservatório pedia aos censores que barrassem as peças baseados em dois motivos. Primeiro, se a história tivesse assuntos e expressões que ferissem o decoro, pois era preciso garantir que ”pudesse a Imperial Família honrar com a Sua Presença o espetáculo”, como regia uma norma do conservatório.

Segundo, deveria barrar as peças contrárias à religião e às autoridades brasileiras. Para Machado, isso era pouco. Numa crônica de 1860, ele defende que os censores deveriam ter o poder de ser ”uma muralha de inteligências às irrupções intempestivas que o capricho quisesse fazer no mundo da arte, às bacanais indecentes e parvas que ofendessem a dignidade do tablado”.

Como não tinha esse direito, o escritor foi obrigado a aprovar várias peças em que não viu mérito literário algum. Claro que não fez isso sem esbravejar contra os autores. O estilo de alguns de seus pareceres mostra que, se pudesse, Machado censuraria mais.

O melhor exemplo é a avaliação de Clermont ou "A Mulher do Artista". O escritor teve que dar ok à história, que não pecava ”contra os preceitos da lei”, apesar de considerá-la ”uma dessas banalidades literárias que constituem por aí o repertório quase exclusivo dos nossos teatros”.

A censura que Machado de Assis gostaria de praticar era ainda mais cruel do que aquela que lhe era permitida, já que submeteria autores aos julgamentos particulares do censor. (Se bem que, com tanta peça ruim nos teatros hoje em dia, até que um censor como Machado de Assis não seria
nada mal.)



2. JOSÉ DE ALENCAR CONTRA A ABOLIÇÃO

Em 1867, José de Alencar publicou a série "Ao Imperador: Novas Cartas Políticas de Erasmo". São sete cartas abertas dirigidas a dom Pedro Segundo, das quais três tratam abertamente da defesa da escravidão negra no Brasil. O escritor era então deputado no Rio de Janeiro, eleito pelo Ceará, e tentava convencer dom Pedro Segundo a deixar de insistir na abolição dos escravos. O imperador fazia uma grande pressão pelo fim do comércio humano — ameaçava até desistir do trono se os parlamentares não votassem pelo fim dos cativeiros. Depois que a liberdade dos escravos se tornou uma conquista obviamente justa, a série de cartas de Alencar desapareceu. Não entrou na obra completa do escritor, publicada em 1959 pela editora Nova Aguilar. Até serem redescobertas em 2008, pelo historiador paulista Tâmis Parron, ficaram 140 anos adormecidas.

O curioso é que os motivos de Alencar contra a abolição parecem mais simpáticos aos negros que os argumentos em favor da liberdade. Nos discursos pró e contra a escravidão do século 19, os parlamentares se baseavam em razões que hoje parecem loucura. Nenhum negro gostaria de ouvir, por exemplo, o argumento abolicionista de que os africanos formavam uma raça inferior e por isso era necessário parar imediatamente de traze-los ao Brasil, para que não prejudicassem o futuro do país. Já os defensores da escravidão tinham razões politicamente corretas.

O mais conhecido deles, o senador Bernardo de Vasconcelos, dizia que a África civilizava o Brasil, portanto a imigração de negros africanos enriquecia a cultura brasileira. A argumentação de José de Alencar vai nessa linha. Ele não defende o sistema escravocrata por achar que os negros tinham um cérebro pior ou eram menos dotados por Deus, mas porque vê neles um grande potencial de crescimento e auxílio no progresso do país. Chega a citar negros ilustres da história brasileira, como Henrique Dias, herói da expulsão dos holandeses em Pernambuco. ”Sem a escravidão africana e o tráfico que a realizou, a América seria hoje um vasto deserto”, diz Alencar na segunda carta ao imperador. ”Três séculos durante, a África despejou sobre a América a exuberância de sua população vigorosa.”

De acordo com José de Alencar, toda nova civilização da história floresceu por meio da escravidão de civilização decadente. O trabalho forçado seria uma ”educação pelo cativeiro”, ou seja, um modo de tirar indivíduos da selva e dar-lhes a acesso a instrução. O escravo, durante anos de servidão, iria adquirir qualidades morais suficientes para ser um novo membro da sociedade. Como mostra desse fenômeno, Alencar cita o alto número de escravos alforriados no Brasil que compravam a liberdade ou a ganhavam de presente. Ele afirma:

Se a escravidão não fosse inventada, a marcha da humanidade seria impossível, a menos que a necessidade não suprisse esse vínculo por outro igualmente poderoso. Desde que o interesse próprio de possuir o vencido não coibisse a fúria do vencedor, ele havia de imolar a vítima. Significara, portanto, a vitória na Antigüidade uma hecatombe; a conquista de um país, o extermínio da população indígena.

Desde as origens do mundo, o país centro de uma esplêndida civilização é, no seu apogeu, um mercado, na sua decadência, um produtor de escravos. O Oriente abasteceu de cativos a Grécia. Nessa terra augusta da liberdade, nas ágoras de Atenas, se proveram desse traste os orgulhosos patrícios de Roma. Por sua vez, o cidadão rei, o civis romanus, foi escravo dos godos e hunos.

Modernamente, os povos caminham pela indústria. São os transbordamentos das grandes nações civilizadas que se escoam para as regiões incultas, imersas na primitiva ignorância. O escravo deve ser, então, o homem selvagem que se instrui pelo trabalho. Eu o considero nesse período como o neófito da civilização.

Muita gente considera importante preservar os costumes nacionais contra a influência estrangeira. Alencar e seus colegas do Partido Conservador usam esse argumento para defender a exploração dos negros. A escravidão, para eles, fazia parte da tradição brasileira - era importante para a identidade nacional. Por essa razão, o país não deveria ceder às pressões abolicionistas da França e da Inglaterra, as duas grandes potências da época. Alencar pede a dom Pedro Segundo que pare de se preocupar com a opinião internacional e valorize as instituições brasileiras. ”São muitos os cortejos que já fez a coroa imperial à opinião europeia e Americana. Reclama sério estudo cada um destes atos, verdadeiros golpes e bem profundos, na integridade da nação brasileira.” Dom Pedro Segundo deveria ter respondido assim: deixar o patriotismo de lado e aceitar a influência estrangeira pode salvar um país de costumes bárbaros.



3. AS TRÊS PAIXÕES DE JORGE AMADO

Quando tinha 28 anos, o baiano Jorge Amado conseguiu defender, ao mesmo tempo, dois dos maiores tiranos do século 20: Adolf Hitler e Josef Stálin. O escritor da baianidade, do cacau e da morena subindo no telhado era comunista de carteirinha desde que foi ao Rio de Janeiro estudar direito. Ele fez propaganda do nazismo em 1940, meses depois de a Alemanha e a União Soviética fecharem um pacto de não agressão. Naquela época, quem não era bobo sabia dos planos de Hitler - a Alemanha já tinha invadido a Polônia e aos poucos conquistava Bélgica, Holanda, Dinamarca, Noruega e França. Mesmo assim, Amado virou redator da página de cultura do Meio-Dia, então jornal de propaganda nazista no Brasil. Não que o escritor se identificasse com a doutrina de Hitler - a questão provavelmente era financeira. Jorge Amado devia escrever o que lhe pagassem, fosse comunista, nazista ou Americano. Durante o emprego no jornal dos alemães, tentou convencer colegas para que trabalhassem para Hitler. No livro "Os Dentes do Dragão", Oswald de Andrade conta:

Em 1940 Jorge convidou-me no Rio para almoçar na Brahma com um alemão altamente situado na embaixada e na agência Transocean, para que esse alemão me oferecesse escrever um livro em defesa da Alemanha. Jorge, depois me informou que esse livro iria render-me 30 contos. Recusei, e Jorge ficou surpreendido, pois aceitara várias encomendas do mesmo alemão.

O escritor baiano logo pulou fora do nazismo, mas manteve a paixão pelo sorriso de Stálin uma década mais. Em 1951, escreveu "O Mundo da Paz", um livro inteirinho para adular Stálin e os países socialistas.

Nessa época, quem não era bobo já tinha ouvido falar dos expurgos e das execuções em massa cometidas pelo líder soviético. Mesmo assim, o escritor baiano chamou um dos ditadores mais cruéis do século 20, cuja truculência resultou na morte e no martírio de milhões de pessoas, de ”sábio dirigente dos povos do mundo na luta pela felicidade do homem sobre a Terra”. Décadas depois, em suas memórias, admitiu que fez vista grossa para os problemas soviéticos quando criou "O Mundo da Paz":

Tarefa política, de volta da União Soviética e dos países de democracia popular do Leste Europeu, escrevo livro de viagens, o elogio sem vacilações do que vi, tudo ou quase tudo parece-me positivo, stalinista incondicional silenciei o negativo como convinha. Para falar da Albânia plagiei titulo de Hemingway: A Albânia é uma festa.

Famoso até no mundo soviético, onde suas obras comunistas tiveram mais de 10 milhões de cópias, Jorge Amado renegou, em 1956, a obra que adulou Stálin. Nesse ano, já estava difícil jogar os crimes do homem para baixo do tapete. Mas até o fim da vida insistiu no nacionalismo e no regionalismo. No livro "Navegação de Cabotagem", Jorge Amado mostra por que admirava o líder político baiano Antônio Carlos Magalhães:

No caso de Toninho, ele é a Bahia, cara e entranhas, ou seja, o sim e o não. No político e administrador duas coisas sobretudo me seduzem: a sua qualidade intrínseca de baiano. Toninho é baiano antes de tudo, e seu permanente interesse pela cultura, comprovado, verdadeiro.



4. O FRANGO DE GRACILIANO RAMOS

Bons colunistas de jornal costumam comentar tendências, avaliar episódios e fornecer aos leitores previsões coerentes sobre o futuro do país. O alagoano Graciliano Ramos não era hábil nessas tarefas. Numa crônica de 1921, o autor de Vidas Secas defendeu que o futebol era uma moda passageira que jamais pegaria no Brasil. Acreditava que o esporte combinava com a personalidade ”bronca” do brasileiro:

Mas por que o 'football'?

Não seria, porventura, melhor exercitar-se a mocidade em jogos nacionais, sem mescla de estrangeirismo, o murro, o cacete, a faca de ponta, por exemplo? Não é que me repugne a introdução de coisas exóticas entre nós. Mas gosto de indagar se elas serão assimiláveis ou não.

No caso afirmativo, seja muito bem vinda a instituição alheia, fecundemo-la, arranjemos nela um filho híbrido que possa viver cá em casa. De outro modo, resignemo-nos às broncas tradições dos sertanejos e dos matutos. Ora, parece-nos que o football não se adapta a estas boas paragens do cangaço. É roupa de empréstimo, que não nos serve.

Quando Graciliano escreveu a crônica, já havia diversos clubes de futebol no país, mas o esporte ainda demoraria alguns anos para ganhar popularidade. A imagem do Brasil como terra do futebol surgiria só a partir da Copa de 1950, quando a seleção perdeu a final, no Maracanã, para o Uruguai. Na década de 1920, porém, o futebol ainda era uma atividade estrangeira e elitista como o turfe.

Para que um costume intruso possa estabelecer-se definitivamente em um país, é necessário não só que se harmonize com a índole do povo que o vai receber, mas que o lugar a ocupar não esteja tomado por outro mais antigo, de cunho indígena.

É preciso, pois, que vá preencher uma lacuna, como diz o chavão. [...]

Estrangeirices não entram facilmente na terra do espinho. O football, o boxe, o turfe, nada pega.

Na mesma crônica, o escritor patriota ainda pediu aos jovens que esquecessem o esporte e resgatassem, em nome da cultura brasileira, atividades nacionais que andavam esquecidas, como a queda de braço e a rasteira. Isso mesmo, a rasteira. A sugestão de Graciliano produz involuntariamente um efeito irônico:

Reabilitem os esportes regionais que aí estão abandonados: o porrete, o cachação, a queda de braço, a corrida a pé, tão útil a um cidadão que se dedica ao arriscado ofício de furtar galinhas, a pega de bois, o salto, a cavalhada e, melhor que tudo, o cambapé, a rasteira.

A rasteira! Este, sim, é o esporte nacional por excelência!



5. GILBERTO FREYRE ADMIRAVA A KU KLUX KLAN

Quando publicou Casa-Grande e Senzala, em 1933, o escritor e antropólogo Gilberto Freyre provocou uma revolução: defendeu que os mestiços, até então considerados a causa dos problemas do país, eram na verdade uma agradável particularidade dos brasileiros. Foi uma reviravolta para ele próprio. Antes de publicar sua obra-prima, o pernambucano, assim como os colegas mais velhos, torcia pelo gradual embranquecimento dos brasileiros.

O antropólogo afirmou, por exemplo, que o Brasil deveria seguir a Argentina e clarear a população. ”Temos muito que aprender com os vizinhos do Sul”, escreveu ao resenhar o livro "Na Argentina", de Oliveira Viana, um dos grandes defensores da eugenia no Brasil. ”Parece que neste ponto a República do Prata leva decidida vantagem sobre os demais países americanos. Em futuro não remoto sua população será praticamente branca.” Ele também reclama, num artigo escrito para o "Diário de Pernambuco" em 1925, das regiões ”contaminadas pelo sangue negro”, onde ”o mata-borrão ariano dificilmente chupa, apenas atenua, o colorido das muitas manchas escuras”. E torce para que o sangue ”da raça superior” predomine no país.

Em "Vida Social no Brasil nos Meados do Século 19", sua dissertação de mestrado apresentada na Universidade Colúmbia, nos Estados Unidos, em 1922, há afirmações ainda mais comprometedoras. No trabalho acadêmico, o brasileiro elogiou o esforço dos ”cavalheiros da Ku Klux Klan Americana” — grupo que naquela época já executava negros -, chamando-os de ”uma espécie de maçonaria guerreira” criada pelos sulistas americanos contra a humilhação imposta pelo norte. Em 1964, quando a dissertação foi republicada, os trechos condescendentes à KKK foram retirados. Nessa ocasião, Freyre divulgou o estudo como o embrião de "Casa-Grande e Senzala".

O elogio à Ku Klux Klan não é, na verdade, tão incoerente com "Casa-Grande e Senzala". Gilberto Freyre tinha saudade do modo aristocrático de viver. Para a historiadora Maria Lúcia Pallares-Burke, autora de Gilberto Freyre, um "Vitoriano nos Trópicos", o elogio à Ku Klux Klan era mais uma defesa da cultura tradicional do Sul dos Estados Unidos.

O antropólogo lamentava a decadência dos hábitos sulistas, para ele uma ”coisa deliciosa”, onde ”havia lazer, havia fausto, havia escravos e havia maneiras gentis” antes de ser destruído pelo Norte industrial. Aqueles que defendiam a cultura tradicional, afirma a historiadora, ”se solidarizavam com instituições ou atitudes que se apresentavam como regeneradoras de um passado valioso, não questionando, muitas vezes, os métodos execráveis utilizados para essa regeneração”. Gilberto Freyre tinha uma melancolia similar quando pensava no desaparecimento das tradições de Pernambuco  - o que preocupa muitos pernambucanos ainda hoje. Achava que o estado vivia ”o triste fim de uma aristocracia” reinante numa época em que os negros eram ”fiéis”. A saudade dos velhos costumes foi fundamental para ele enxergar a escravidão brasileira como um regime mais ”adocicado” que o de outros países - o que teria feito do Brasil um lugar mais propenso à mestiçagem.



6. GREGÓRIO DE MATOS ERA UM DEDO-DURO

O poeta barroco Gregório de Matos e Guerra, o ”Boca do Inferno”, é conhecido pelos poemas satíricos com que esbravejava contra líderes e políticos da Bahia. Ele publicava folhas volantes, tipo de panfletos do século 17, repletas de ofensas e palavrões. Para o governador Antônio Luís, por exemplo, ele escreveu:

"Sal, cal, e alho
caiam no teu maldito caralho. Amém.
O fogo de Sodoma e de Gomorra
em cinza te reduzam essa porra. Amém.
Tudo em fogo arda,
Tu, e teus filhos, e o Capitão da Guarda".

Peças como essa renderam a Gregório de Matos a imagem de um artista libertino. A fama que ele tem hoje, sobretudo na Bahia, lembra a de um escritor beatnik, um revolucionário que transgrediu padrões morais da época e teve coragem de remexer nos segredos da elite baiana. Atribui-se a Gregório de Matos a defesa dos negros e pobres, o que fica muito perto de considerá-lo um herói nacional-popular, um ícone da ”baianidade”.

Ninguém sabe se as peças atribuídas a Gregório de Matos são mesmo de sua autoria. Nos anos seiscentos, o conceito de indivíduo criador não estava bem assentado. A arte barroca era um estilo coletivo: plágios eram comuns e aceitáveis, e os artistas ligavam pouco para assinar as obras. A autoria, assim como a inovação introduzida pelo artista, só ganharia importância mais de um século depois, com os poetas românticos. É provável que, quando seus textos foram compilados, no século 18, boa parte da sátira baiana tenha sido considerada obra sua.

De qualquer modo, os poemas satíricos atribuídos a Gregório de Matos têm muito pouco de libertino. Em 1989, o crítico literário João Adolfo Hansen, da Universidade de São Paulo, defendeu que essa fama do Boca do Inferno diz mais sobre a Bahia de hoje que a do século 17. No livro "A Sátira e o Engenho", o crítico mostra que o poeta odiava negros, pobres, índios e judeus - o que era esperado de um fidalgo do reino português daquela época. Escreveu o pesquisador:

Ao contrário do que algumas interpretações contemporâneas vêm propondo, a sátira barroca produzida na Bahia não é oposição aos poderes constituídos, ainda que ataque violentamente membros particulares desses poderes, muito menos transgressão libertadora de interditos morais e sexuais.

Entre os poemas atribuídos a Gregório de Matos, vários atacam judeus e negros. Em "Milagres do Brasil São", ele afirma que ser mulato é ”ter sangue de carrapato”. Em outra peça, diz que ”de mulata sai mula, como de mula mulata”. Um dos seus alvos preferidos são os falsos cristãos-novos. Trata-se dos judeus que por força da perseguição religiosa se converteram ao catolicismo só na aparência, seguindo com os costumes judaicos dentro de casa. Como neste trecho de ”O burgo”:

"Quantos com capa cristã
professam o judaísmo
mostrando hipocritamente
devoção às leis de Cristo".

Outro poema trata o "Galileu requerente" como um cão que merece levar pedradas:

"Latis, e cuidais, que eu morro
de ouvir o vosso latir,
e eu zombo de vê-lo ouvir,
porque quem late, é cachorro:
vós latis, e eu me desforro
dando-vos estas pedradas,
que quando um cão nas estradas
late ao manso caminheiro,
assentando-lhe o cacheiro
deixa as partes sossegadas."

O crítico João Adolfo Hansen comparou a sátira atribuída a Gregório de Matos às denúncias secretas à Inquisição, muito comuns naquela época. Desde 1591, a Bahia abrigou agentes do Santo Ofício, incumbidos de condenar bruxas, homossexuais, judeus e hereges em geral.

Na Europa, a condenação incluía ser queimado nas enormes fogueiras que marcaram o fim da Idade Média. Mesmo sem ordenar fogueiras humanas no Brasil, os padres inquisidores espalhavam o terror. Quando apareciam, os cidadãos corriam até eles para fazer denúncias contra hereges, na tentativa de parecer bons católicos e livrar a própria barra. Qualquer atitude incomum era motivo para delação, como usar azeite para fritar comida. Os católicos do século 16 também viam com maus olhos tomar banho na sexta-feira, cruzar as pernas na igreja e ler a Bíblia em espanhol - coisa dos luteranos, já que os católicos só tinham o livro sagrado em latim.

As delações à Inquisição eram anônimas, mas tinham uma contrapartida pública: os poemas satíricos. Assim como as denúncias religiosas, os textos ao estilo Gregório de Matos atacavam desvios de conduta, procuravam punir pecadores, conter vícios e proteger a tradição católica dos rituais pagãos. Uma mostra disso é que os autores denunciam também mulheres que consideram promíscuas. Um poema critica uma tal de Luzia por causa de seus desejos sexuais: a moça quer que um amigo lhe dê ”quatro investidas - duas de dia e duas de noite”. Outro fala de Brazia de Calvário, ”outra mulata meretriz” que foi pega fazendo sexo com um frade. Beatos muito fofoqueiros esses poetas que ganharam o nome de Gregório de Matos.

Texto de Leandro Narloch em "Guia Politicamente Incorreto da História do Brasil", Editora Leya, São Paulo, 2009, excertos pp. 70-86. Digitalizado, adaptado e ilustrado para ser postado por Leopoldo Costa.

When extra dry means “not all that dry”
All champagne is not Champagne
The lowdown on the champagne method
Marrying bubblies with food
Sparkling wines from $8 to $200+

In the universe of wine, sparkling wines are a solar system unto themselves. They’re produced in just about every country that makes wine, and they come in a wide range of tastes, quality levels, and prices. Champagne, the sparkling wine from the Champagne region of France, is the brightest star in the sky, but by no means the only one.

Sparkling wines are distinguished (and distinguishable) from other wines by the presence of bubbles — carbon dioxide — in the wine. In the eyes of most governments, these bubbles must be a natural by-product of fermentation in order for a wine to be officially considered a sparkling wine. In many wine regions, sparkling wines are just a sideline to complement the region’s table wine production, but in some places, sparkling wines are serious business. At the top of that list is France’s Champagne region (where sparkling wine was — if not invented — made famous). Italy’s Asti wine zone is another important region, as is France’s Loire Valley, northeastern Spain, and parts of California. Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa are also now making some interesting sparklers.



All That Glitters Is Not Champagne

Champagne, the sparkling wine of Champagne, France, is the gold standard of sparkling wines for a number of reasons:

1. Champagne is the most famous sparkling wine in the world; the name has immediate recognition with everyone, not just wine drinkers.

2. A particular technique for making sparkling wine was perfected in the Champagne region.

3. Champagne is not only the finest sparkling wine in the world, but also among the finest wines in the world of any type.

Within the European Union, only the wines of the Champagne region in France can use the name "Champagne". Elsewhere, because of Champagne’s fame, the name champagne appears on labels of all sorts of sparkling wines that don’t come from the Champagne region and that don’t taste like Champagne. Wineries call their bubbly wines “champagne” to make them more marketable, and despite tighter regulations regarding the use of the term, many wineries in the United States may still use “champagne” on their labels. Many wine drinkers also use the word “champagne” indiscriminately to refer to all wines that have bubbles.

Ironically, much of the sparkling wine sold in the United States that’s called “champagne” is not even made with the same techniques as true Champagne. Most imitation champagnes are made by a technique that takes only a few months from beginning to end (compared to a few years to make Champagne), is less costly, and works more effectively on an industrial scale.

Whenever we use the word Champagne, we are referring to true Champagne, from the region of the same name; we use the generic term sparkling wine to refer to bubbly wines collectively, and sparkling wines other than Champagne.

Sparkling Wine Styles

All sparkling wines have bubbles, and nearly all of them are either white or pink (which is far less common than white). That’s about as far as broad generalizations take us in describing sparkling wines.

Some sparkling wines are downright sweet, some are bone dry, and many fall somewhere in the middle, from medium-dry to medium-sweet. Some have toasty, nutty flavors and some are fruity; among those that are fruity, some are just nondescriptly grapey, while others have delicate nuances of lemons, apples, cherries, berries, peaches, and other fruits.

The sparkling wines of the world fall into two broad styles, according to how they’re made, and how they taste as a result:

1. Wines that express the character of their grapes; these wines tend to be fruity and straightforward, without layers of complexity.

2. Wines that express complexity and flavors (yeasty, biscuity, caramel-like, honeyed) that derive from winemaking and aging, rather than expressing
overt fruitiness.

How sweet is it?

Nearly all sparkling wines are not technically dry, because they contain measurable but small amounts of sugar, usually as the result of sweetening added at the last stage of production. But all sparkling wines don’t necessarily taste sweet. The perception of sweetness depends on two factors: the actual amount of sweetness in the wine (which varies according to the wine’s style) and the wine’s balance between acidity and sweetness. Here’s how the balance factor operates. Sparkling wines are usually very high in acidity, because the grapes, having grown in a cool climate, weren’t particularly ripe at harvest. The wine’s carbon dioxide also gives an acidic impression in the mouth. But the wine’s sweetness counterbalances its acidity and vice versa. Depending on the actual amount of sugar and the particular acid/sugar balance a sparkling wine strikes, the wine may taste dry, very slightly sweet, medium sweet, or quite sweet.

Champagne itself is made in a range of sweetness levels, the most common of which is a dry style called brut (see “Sweetness categories” later in this chapter). Sparkling wines made by the traditional method used in Champagne are made in the same range of styles as Champagne.

Inexpensive sparkling wines tend to be medium sweet in order to appeal to a mass market that enjoys sweetness. Wines labeled with the Italian word 'spumante' tend to be overtly sweet.

How good is it?

When you taste a sparkling wine, the most important consideration is whether you like it — just as for a still wine. If you want to evaluate a sparkling wine the way professionals do, however, you have to apply a few criteria that don’t apply to still wines (or are less critical in still wines than in sparkling wines). Some of those criteria are:

1. The appearance of the bubbles. In the best sparkling wines, the bubbles are tiny and float upward in a continuous stream from the bottom of your glass. If the bubbles are large and random, you have a clue that the wine is a lesser-quality sparkler. If you don’t see many bubbles at all, you could have a bad bottle, a poor or smudged glass, or a wine that may be too old.

2. Tiny variations in glassware can drastically affect the flow of bubbles. If the wine in your glass looks almost flat, but another glass of wine from the same bottle is lively with bubbles, blame the glass and not the wine. (In this case, you should be able to taste the bubbles, even if you can’t see many of them.)

3. The feel of the bubbles in your mouth. The finer the wine, the less aggressive the bubbles feel in your mouth. (If the bubbles remind you of a soft drink, we hope you didn’t pay more than $5 for the wine.)

4. The balance between sweetness and acidity. Even if a bubbly wine is too sweet or too dry for your taste, to evaluate its quality you should consider its sweetness/acid ratio and decide whether these two elements seem reasonably balanced.

5. The texture. Traditional-method sparkling wines should be somewhat creamy in texture as a result of their extended lees aging.

6. The finish. Any impression of bitterness on the finish of a sparkling wine is a sign of low quality.

How Sparkling Wine Happens

When yeasts convert sugar into alcohol, carbon dioxide is a natural by-product. If fermentation takes place in a closed container, that prevents this carbon dioxide from escaping into the air, the wine becomes sparkling. With nowhere else to go, the carbon dioxide (CO²) becomes trapped in the wine in the form of bubbles.

Most sparkling wines actually go through two fermentations: one to turn the grape juice into still wine without bubbles (that’s called a base wine) and a subsequent one to turn the base wine into bubbly wine (conveniently called the second fermentation). The winemaker has to instigate the second fermentation by adding yeasts and sugar to the base wine. The added yeasts convert the added sugar into alcohol and CO² bubbles.

Beginning with the second fermentation, the longer and slower the winemaking process, the more complex and expensive the sparkling wine will be. Some sparkling wines are ten years in the making; others are produced in only a few months. The slow-route wines can cost more than $100 a bottle, while bubblies at the opposite end of the spectrum can sell for as little as $4.

Although many variations exist, most sparkling wines are produced in one of two ways: through second fermentation in a tank, or through second fermentation in a bottle.



Tank fermentation: Economy of scale

The quickest, most efficient way of making a sparkling wine involves conducting the second fermentation in large, closed, pressurized tanks. This method is called the bulk method, tank method, cuve close (meaning closed tank in French), or charmat method (after a Frenchman named Eugene Charmat, who championed this process).

Sparkling wines made in the charmat (pronounced shar mah) method are usually the least expensive. That’s because they’re usually made in large quantities and they’re ready for sale soon after harvest. Also, the grapes used in making sparkling wine by the charmat method (Chenin Blanc, for example) are usually far less expensive than the Pinot Noir and Chardonnay typically used in the traditional or champagne method described in the next section.

The following occurs in the charmat method:

1. A base wine is seeded with sugar and yeast, and it ferments. The carbon dioxide created by the fermentation becomes trapped in the wine, thanks to the closed tank, pressure within the tank, and cold temperature.

2. The wine — now a dry sparkling wine with higher alcohol than the base wine had — is filtered (under pressure) to remove the solid deposits (the lees) from the second fermentation.

3. Before bottling, some sweetness is added to adjust the wine’s flavor, according to the desired style of the final wine.

The whole process can take just a few weeks. In some exceptional cases, it may be extended to a few months, allowing the wine to rest between the fermentation and the filtration.


Bottle fermentation: Small is beautiful

The charmat method is a fairly new way of producing sparkling wines, dating back barely 100 years. The more traditional method is to conduct the second fermentation in the individual bottles in which the wine is later sold.

Champagne has been made in this way for over 300 years and, according to French regulations, can be made in no other way. Many other French sparkling wines produced outside of the Champagne region use the same process but are allowed to use the term crémant in their names rather than champagne. The best sparkling wines from Spain, California, and elsewhere also use Champagne’s traditional method.

The technique of conducting the second fermentation in the bottle is called the classic or traditional method in Europe; in the United States, it’s called the champagne method or méthode champenoise.

Bottle fermentation (or, more correctly, second fermentation in the bottle) is an elaborate process in which every single bottle becomes an individual fermentation tank, so to speak. Including the aging time at the winery before the wine is sold, this process requires a minimum of fifteen months and usually takes three years or more. Invariably, bottle-fermented sparkling wines are more expensive than tank-fermented bubblies.

The elements of bottle fermentation are as follows:

1. Each bottle is filled with a mixture of base wine and a sugar-and-yeast solution, closed securely, and laid to rest in a cool, dark cellar.

2. The second fermentation slowly occurs inside each bottle, producing carbon dioxide and fermentation lees.

3. As the bottles lie in the cellar, the interaction of the lees and the wine gradually changes the wine’s texture and flavor.

4. Eventually — 12 months to several years after the second fermentation — the bottles undergo a process of shaking and turning so that the lees fall to the neck of each upside-down bottle.

5. The lees are flash-frozen in the neck of each bottle and expelled from the bottle as a frozen plug, leaving clear sparkling wine behind.

6. A sweetening solution (called a dosage) is added to each bottle to adjust the flavor of the wine, and the bottles are corked and labeled for sale.

Actually, the classic method as practiced in Champagne involves several processes that occur way before the second fermentation. For example, the pressing to extract the juice from the grapes must be gentle and meticulous to prevent the grapeskins’ bitter flavors — and their color, in the case of black grapes — from passing into the juice. Another step crucially important to the quality of the sparkling wine is blending various wines after the first fermentation to create the best composite base wine for the second fermentation.

After the first fermentation, each Champagne house has hundreds of different still wines, because the winemaker keeps the wines of different grape varieties and different vineyards separate. To create his base wine, or cuvée, he blends these wines in varying proportions, often adding some reserve wine (older wine purposely held back from previous vintages). More than 100 different wines can go into a single base wine, each bringing its own special character to the blend. What’s particularly tricky about blending the base wine — besides the sheer number of components in the blend — is that the winemaker has to see into the future and create a blend not for its flavor today but for how it will taste in several years, after it has been transformed into a sparkling wine. The men and women who blend sparkling wines are true artists of the wine world.

Taste: The proof of the pudding

Tank-fermented sparklers tend to be fruitier than traditional-method sparkling wines. This difference occurs because in tank fermentation, the route from grape to wine is shorter and more direct than in bottle fermentation. Some winemakers use the charmat, or tank, method because their goal is a fresh and fruity sparkling wine. Asti, Italy’s most famous sparkling wine, is a perfect example. You should drink charmat-method sparklers young, when their fruitiness is at its max.

Second fermentation in the bottle makes wines that tend to be less overtly fruity than charmat-method wines. Chemical changes that take place as the wine develops on its fermentation lees diminish the fruitiness of the wine and contribute aromas and flavors such as toastiness, nuttiness, caramel, and yeastiness. The texture of the wine can also change, becoming smooth and creamy. The bubbles themselves tend to be tinier, and they feel less aggressive in your mouth than the bubbles of tank-fermented wines.

Champagne and Its Magic Wines

Champagne. Does any other word convey such a sense of celebration? Think of it: Whenever people, in any part of the world, want to celebrate, you may hear them say, “This calls for Champagne!” (“This calls for iced tea!” just isn’t quite the same.)

Champagne, the real thing, comes only from the region of Champagne (sham pahn yah) in northeast France. Dom Pérignon, the famous monk who was cellar master at the Abbey of Hautvillers, didn’t invent Champagne, but he did achieve several breakthroughs that are key to the production of Champagne as we now know it. He perfected the method of making white wine from black grapes, for example, and, most importantly, he mastered the art of blending wines from different grapes and different villages to achieve a complex base wine. (See the previous section to find out what “base” wine is.)

Champagne is the most northerly vineyard area in France. Most of the important Champagne houses (as Champagne producers are called) are located in the cathedral city of Rheims (French spelling, Reims) — where 17-year-old Joan of Arc had Prince Charles crowned King of France in 1429 — and in the town of Epernay, south of Rheims. Around Rheims and Epernay are the main vineyard areas, where three permitted grape varieties for Champagne flourish. These areas are:

1. The Montagne de Reims (south of Rheims), where the best Pinot Noir grows

2. The Côte des Blancs (south of Epernay), home of the best Chardonnay

3. The Valleé de la Marne (west of Epernay), most favorable to Pinot Meunier (a black grape) although all three grape varieties grow there

Most Champagne is made from all three grape varieties — two black and one white. Pinot Noir contributes body, structure, and longevity to the blend; Pinot Meunier provides precocity, floral aromas, and fruitiness; and Chardonnay offers delicacy, freshness, and elegance.


What makes Champagne special

The cool climate in Champagne is marginal for grape growing, and the grapes struggle to ripen sufficiently in some years. Even in warmer years, the climate dictates that the grapes are high in acidity — a sorry state for table wine but perfect for sparkling wine. The cool climate and the region’s chalky, limestone soil are the leading factors contributing to Champagne’s excellence.

Three other elements help distinguish Champagne from all other sparkling wines:

1. The number and diversity of vineyards (over 300 crus, or individual vineyards), which provide a huge range of unique wines for blending

2. The cold, deep, chalky cellars — many built during Roman times — in which Champagnes age for many years

3. The 300 years of experience the Champenois (as the good citizens of Champagne are called) have in making sparkling wine

The result is an elegant sparkling wine with myriad tiny, gentle bubbles, complexity of flavors, and a lengthy finish. Voilá! Champagne!

Non-vintage Champagne

Non-vintage (NV) Champagne — any Champagne without a vintage year on the label — accounts for 85 percent of all Champagne. Its typical blend is two-thirds black grapes (Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier) and one-third white (Chardonnay). Wine from three or more harvests usually goes into the blend. And remember, the wines from 30 or 40 different villages (or more) from each year can also be part of the blend. The Champagne winemaker is by necessity a master blender.

Each Champagne house blends to suit its own house style for its non-vintage Champagne. (For example, one house may seek elegance and finesse in its wine, another may opt for fruitiness, and a third may value body, power, and longevity.) Maintaining a consistent house style is vital because wine drinkers get accustomed to their favorite Champagne’s taste and expect to find it year after year.

Most major Champagne houses age their non-vintage Champagne for two and a half to three years before selling it, even though the legal minimum for non-vintage is just 15 months. The extra aging prolongs the marrying time for the blend and enhances the wine’s flavor and complexity. If you have good storage conditions, aging your non-vintage Champagne for one to three years after you purchase it usually improves the flavor, in our opinion.

Most non-vintage Champagnes sell for $25 to $50 a bottle. Often, a large retailer buys huge quantities of a few major brands, obtaining a good discount that he passes on to his customers. Seeking out stores that do a large-volume business in Champagne is worth your while.



Vintage Champagne

Historically, only in about five of every ten years has the weather in Champagne been good enough to make a Vintage Champagne — that is, the grapes were ripe enough that some wine could be made entirely from the grapes of that year without being blended with reserve wines from previous years. Since 1995, the climate in Champagne (and throughout Europe) has been much warmer than normal, and Champagne producers have been able to make Vintage Champagne almost every year. (2001 was the one exception).

Even in the 1980s, Champagne had exceptionally good weather; many houses made Vintage Champagne every year from 1981 to 1990, with the exception of 1984 and 1987. The early ’90s were more typical; four years — 1991, 1992, 1993, and 1994 — were unremarkable, and few producers made vintage-dated Champagne.

The Champagne region has had a string of really fine vintages since 1995, especially the 1996 vintage. The three years that followed — 1997, 1998, and 1999 — all have been good. Both 2000 and 2003 were no more than average (too hot, especially 2003), but 2002 and 2004 are fine vintages (with 2002 the best since 1996), and 2005 is variable. Champagne lovers should seek out 1996 Vintage Champagnes; 1996 is exceptional, one of the best long-lived vintages ever!

Champagne houses decide for themselves each year whether to make a Vintage Champagne. Factors that might come into consideration — besides the quality of the vintage — include the need to save some wine instead to use as reserve wines for their non-vintage Champagnes (85 percent of their business, after all), and/or whether a particular vintage’s style suits the “house style.” For example, although 1989 was a rather good vintage, a few houses decided that Champagnes made from this vintage would be too soft (low in acidity) and/or too precocious (lacking longevity) for them, and did not choose to make a Vintage Champagne in 1989.

The minimum aging requirement for Vintage Champagne is three years, but many houses age their Vintage Champagnes four to six years in order to enhance the wines’ flavor and complexity. Vintage Champagnes fall into two categories:

1.Regular vintage, with a price range of $45 to $70 a bottle; these wines simply carry a vintage date in addition to the name of the house.

2. Premium vintage (also known as a prestige cuvée or tête de cuvée), such as Moët & Chandon’s Dom Pérignon, Roederer’s Cristal, or Veuve Clicquot’s La Grande Dame; the typical price for prestige cuvées ranges from $75 to $150 per bottle, with a few even more expensive.

Vintage Champagne is almost always superior to non-vintage for the following reasons:

1. The best grapes from the choicest vineyards are put into Vintage Champagne (this is especially so for prestige cuvées).

2. Usually, only the two finest varieties (Pinot Noir and Chardonnay) are used in Vintage Champagne. Pinot Meunier is saved mainly for non-vintage Champagne.

3. Most Champagne houses age Vintage Champagnes at least two years more than their non-vintage wines. The extra aging assures more complexity.

4. The grapes all come from a year that’s above average, at least — or superb, at best.

Vintage Champagne is more intense in flavor than non-vintage Champagne. It is typically fuller-bodied and more complex, and its flavors last longer in your mouth. Being fuller and richer, these Champagnes are best with food.

Non-vintage Champagnes — usually lighter, fresher, and less complicated —are suitable as apéritifs, and they are good values. Whether a Vintage Champagne is worth its extra cost or not is a judgment you have to make for yourself.

Blanc de blancs and blanc de noirs

A small number of Champagnes derive only from Chardonnay; that type of Champagne is called blanc de blancs — literally, “white (wine) from white (grapes).” A blanc de blancs can be a Vintage Champagne or a non-vintage. It usually costs a few dollars more than other Champagnes in its category. Because they are generally lighter and more delicate than other Champagnes, blanc de blancs make ideal apéritifs. Not every Champagne house makes a blanc de blancs. Four of the best all-Vintage Champagnes, are Taittinger Comte de Champagne, Billecart-Salmon Blanc de Blancs, Deutz Blanc de Blancs, and Pol Roger Blanc de Chardonnay.

Blanc de noirs Champagne (made entirely from black grapes, often just Pinot Noir) is rare but does exist. Bollinger’s Blanc de Noirs Vieilles Vignes Francaises (“old vines”) is absolutely the best, but it is very expensive ($400 to$450) and hard to find. The 1985 Bollinger Blanc de Noirs is one of the two best Champagnes we’ve ever had; the other is the 1928 Krug.



Rosé Champagne

Rosé Champagnes — pink Champagnes — can also be vintage or non-vintage. Usually, Pinot Noir and Chardonnay are the only grapes used, in proportions that vary from one house to the next.

Winemakers create a rosé Champagne usually by including some red Pinot Noir wine in the blend for the base wine. A few actually vinify some of their red grapes into pink wines, the way that you would make a rosé still wine, and use that as the base wine. Colors vary quite a lot, from pale onion-skin to salmon to rosy pink. (The lighter-colored ones are usually dryer.)

Rosés are fuller and rounder than other Champagnes and are best enjoyed with dinner. (Because they have become associated with romance, they’re popular choices for wedding anniversaries and Valentine’s Day.)

Like blanc de blancs Champagnes, rosés usually cost a few dollars more than regular Champagnes, and not every Champagne house makes one. Some of the best rosés are those of Roederer, Billecart-Salmon, Gosset, and Moët & Chandon (especially its Dom Pérignon Rosé).

For some people, rosé Champagne has a bad connotation because of the tons of sweet, insipid, cheap pink wines — sparkling and otherwise — on the market. But rosé Champagne is just as dry and has the same high quality as regular (white) Champagne.

Sweetness categories

Champagnes always carry an indication of their sweetness on the label, but the words used to indicate sweetness are cryptic: extra dry is not really dry, for example. In ascending order of sweetness, Champagnes are labeled

Extra brut, brut nature, or brut sauvage: Totally dry
Brut: Dry
Extra dry: Medium dry
Sec: Slightly sweet
Demi-sec: Fairly sweet
Doux: Sweet

The most popular style for Champagne and other serious bubblies is brut. However, the single best-selling Champagne in the United States, Moët & Chandon’s White Star, actually is an extra dry Champagne. Brut, extra dry, and demi-sec are the three types of Champagne you find almost exclusively nowadays.

By Ed McCarthy and Mary Ewing-Mulligan in "Wine for Dummies", Wiley Publishing, USA, 2006, excerpts pp. 265-277. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

"Saved during your tender youth from the seductions of men, taste the happiness of finding yourself in the bosom of your kind".
—Pidansat de Mairobert, Confession d’une jeune fille (1778)1

"This is what the Nation has had to face in our century: a woman beyond every restraint".
—Restif de la Bretonne, “La duchesse ou la femme-sylphide” (1783)2

In November 1775, the following item appeared in the influential underground journal Correspondance littéraire, philosophique et critique: “There exists, they say, a society known as the Lodge of Lesbos, but whose gatherings are more mysterious than those of the Freemasons have ever been, with initiations into all the secrets that Juvenal described so frankly and openly in his Sixth Satire. . . . One would have to be Juvenal to dare to say more.” The Correspondance identifi es the priestess of this loge as the renowned actress of the Comédie française, Mademoiselle de Raucourt (“our superb Galathea”), and the rites of Lesbos as “the only mysteries our century seems tempted to renew.”3 The passage makes the sapphic at once a closed realm and an open secret, a phenomenon that excludes men but about which men alone are authorized to speak, a modern concern that is also an antiquarian revival. The source of the Lodge’s existence is public rumor; its historical validation, the proper name of a well-known person; and its currency, a pointed reference to eighteenth-century Europe’s most powerful secret society. In a year of revolutionary ferment in North America and a recently crowned young king and queen at home, the Correspondance littéraire announces the relevance of the sapphic for contemporary politics.

Far from an isolated instance, this textual tidbit encapsulates both the constellation of concerns and the discursive practices that will dominate European representations of the sapphic for the last quarter of the eighteenth century, that Dickensian best and worst of times. Well before the upheavals of the French Revolution could have been foreseen, the sapphic begins to stand for a secretive realignment of power. The appeal to gossip as the best source of fact—“Il existe, dit on”—signals the mechanism by which the late ancien régime propels individual women onto the scene of history, rightly or falsely “outing” them in print at a time when the technologies of rumor—newspapers, journals, scandal sheets, secret histories—are among Europe’s most flourishing genres. Most importantly, the 1770s mark an intensification of interest not only in sapphic sex but in sapphic sects that underscores the political agency of same-sex alliances. Turning their focus to all-female groups and gatherings rather than primarily to individuals and couples, the representations I will examine in this chapter take up, often even more directly than the texts I examined in chapter 3, the potential intersections of the sapphic with the state. They configure same-sex alliances on a notion of similitude pulled to its ironic extreme, in a reverse discourse that appropriates the emergent popularity of sexual difference: if men and women are incommensurable by nature, then woman’s place may indeed be with her pareilles, her “kind,” forging alliances toward the potential reconstruction—or destruction—of the status quo. The metamorphic scenario all but disappears from this discourse: its primary preoccupation is at once with the resistance of the sapphic to heterosocial integration and the pliability of the sapphic to horizontalizing aims.

In this way, the sapphic becomes a potent force in the social imaginary of a geopolitically unstable environment, one in which elite women’s public-sphere participation, if nowhere formalized, is on the discursive agenda almost everywhere in Western Europe; when the influence of clubs and societies is growing; and when expanding notions of rights open questions about group identities and their influence. I traced, through the framework of Jacques Rancière, one strategy by which disenfranchised persons might forge a politics. During the late eighteenth century, the possibility emerges more strongly that new polities might become not simply a party but the party, gaining rulership as well as rights.

Bolstered by references to known women that stoked the fires of credibility, discourse about the sapphic dating from the 1770s already imagines that some women who are not under male control might indeed become that party, the sect that rules. In tandem with fears and fantasies about the potential for conspiracy of clubs in general and the Freemasons in particular, specters of sapphic sects gain new currency, signifying a closed space that those in power, or aspiring to power, were imagined to be unable to penetrate. The sapphic thus also stands for a partiality of interest, for faction in the Rousseauvian sense: parties formed “at the expense of the whole association”—but also parties that could also create a new social blueprint for that larger body politic. While we confront the most dystopic manifestation of this dynamic is the well-known virulence toward Marie-Antoinette and her female favorites, a scholarly emphasis on the queen has tended to obscure more complex and sometimes more sanguine uses of the sapphic particularly in the fifteen years before the fall of the Bastille. I thus read sapphic sects as leveling double agents both of revolution and of the Revolution. In ways that already began to brew by the 1770s, imaginary sapphic sects became imbricated with reformist and counterreformist politics both in and beyond France as newspapers, pamphlets, scurrilous poems, and secret histories grappled with the broader threat of groups and their social powers in a world of political turmoil and potentially radical change. On the one hand, the utopian potential of the sapphic intensifies; on the other, the sapphic fuels fears of female faction that help to justify the configuration of the man as citizen and the citizen as man and to hasten the demise, if not of club culture in general, of female association in particular. In short, a discourse of similitude, attached to intensifying conversations about rights, puts the sapphic at the heart of a politics of class, of concerns about conspiracy, and of hopes for collectivity.

In positing the possibility of sapphic sects, writings of the 1770s and 1780s work out hopes and fears for a different future, but by the1790s these representations turn dystopic through concerns not only for a bourgeois sexuality grounded in difference but for the imagined transparency of a panoptical politics. By the end of the century, explicitly sexual representations will be more or less foreclosed from polite discourse even as romanticized and more sanitized notions of the female couple become the elegaic site of pastoral family ideals, as I will explore in the next chapter. In this chapter, we will see an alteration between 1775 and 1800 of discursive fields as simple and as widely visible as the use of terminology, and especially in changing definitions of the word “tribade” that had ushered the sapphic into modernity two centuries earlier.

ACTS OF NAMING

If late-eighteenth-century writers are more likely to see the sapphic as an ancient practice widely renewed than as a new invention, images of vestal virgins, amazons, secret cults, and esoteric practices link the sapphic with the modern through the mysterious workings of power now attributed to the present-day “tribade.” Thus Mirabeau’s Erotika biblion (1783) reminds the public that in the ancient world tribades had “high privilege” and “limitless power.”4 The 1788 Choix de mémoires secrets claims that “tribaderie” has always been in vogue but “never flaunted as blatantly as today,” when “our most beautiful women give themselves to it, boasting about it, making it a badge of glory!”5 The Almanach des honnêtes femmes (1790) avers that women who prefer one another to men must be particularly happy since their numbers are now so numerous.6

Of course it is these very publications that are effectively creating and promoting the scandal they claim to lament. Rather like the burst of concern about the sapphic and the modern after 1560, this new discursive production is also making the sapphic a more prominent sign of the times. We see a dramatic increase in the explicit use of terms such as “tribade” (mostly in France, the only country routinely to include “tribade” in official dictionaries and in the new Encyclopédie), “sapphic” (mostly in England), and “lesbisch” (emerging in Germany) during this last quarter of the eighteenth century.7 In England, for example, “sapphic” appears in contexts as diverse as a discussion of “Sapphic passion” in the Genuine Memoirs of the Celebrated Miss Maria Brown (1766); the “Sapphic love” claimed by William Dalrymple to be commonplace in Spain and Portugal (1777); the “Sapphick Epistle” meant to discredit the sculptor Anne Damer (1778); the “Sapphic taste” mentioned in the Anecdotes Recorded by the Police of Paris (1794); the “Sapphic affection” “indulged” by the rather masculine women of Aleppo in W. G. Browne’s Travels in Africa, Egypt, and Syria (1799); and even the “Sapphic oppression” allegedly wrought on youthful breasts by stays that ward off the embraces of (male) lovers.8 A cross-national conversation of shifting terms is also a sign of the times: while it is not new that English and German discussions of the sapphic emphasize French connections—and “tribade” has become a French associated term despite its Greek origin—French sapphic texts now also often presume a connection with things English, not only claiming English imprints but setting sapphic scenes on English soil.

This increase in explicit naming is more than definitional; it accompanies both a proliferation of proper names and a preoccupation with clubs and collectives. In a practice that spans Western Europe but occurs most intensively in France, ephemeral and underground publications mark both individual women and classes of women—especially actresses, artists, and aristocrats—as sapphic. Marie-Antoinette, along with her friends the princesse de Lamballe and the duchesse de Polignac, is of course the best known of those accused in public discourse, but the canvas is far broader; it includes Marie-Antoinette’s sister Carolina, queen of Naples, and Carolina’s English friend Emma Hamilton, Louis XVI’s sister Elisabeth; Marie-Joséphine de Savoie, wife of the comte de Provence and her lady-in-waiting Marguerite de Gourbillon; the English actresses Eliza Ferren, Mary Ann Yates, and Kitty Clive; Madame Joly de Fleury, whose father and (to be divorced) husband were members of the Paris Parlement; the lesser known noblewomen Madame la Prieure and Madame la Vermeille, Madame Nicolet, and Mademoiselle Verneuille; Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire; Cecelia Tron, the Princess of Belmonte; the sculptor Anne Damer, Lady Harrington, and the writer Mary Berry.

No woman is as ubiquitously present as the French actress Raucourt, whom I mentioned in conjunction with the Lodge of Lesbos, and the women with whom she is connected—Sophie Arnauld, Madame Souck, Mademoiselle Contat—who are often mentioned as a group. Within the new ethic of exposure, to take a few examples, the 1778 Sapphick Epistle by “Jack Cavendish” fingers Damer and her putative lovers, especially Kitty Clive, with only the thinnest of typographical veils; the Fureurs utérines de Marie-Antoinette (1791) lists thirty-four persons of both sexes and a range of social classes with whom the French queen has allegedly had liaisons; and lesser-knowns from countesses to market women are named for a range of alleged proclivities in the Almanach des honnetes femmes (1790), which devotes the month of November to “Tribades.” The other “woman” named most frequently is actually a man: “Mademoiselle d’Eon,” the channel-crossing chevalier believed until her/his death in 1810 to be a woman passing as a man, but who was in fact that rarer person, a man passing as a woman. Acts of naming are also accompanied by threats to name; thus an anonymous poem, The Adultress (1773), boasts that “I know a thousand Tommies ’mongst the Sex” and warns that if they don’t “relinquish” their Crime,” the speaker will “give their Names to be the scoff of Time.”9

The late eighteenth century is not, of course, the first time that individuals are being named publicly as sapphic. We can think back two centuries to Brantôme’s suspicions about Laudomia Forteguerri and Margaret of Austria and to murmurs about sixteenth-century women rulers such as Catherine de Médicis and Elizabeth I or the seventeenth-century précieuses.10 And as I discussed in chapter 3, there were more than murmurs in 1708 when England’s Queen Anne appeared to throw over the Sarah Churchill in favor of Abigail Masham. Indeed, the use of sapphic representation for political ends during the English Exclusion Crisis and its Jacobite aftermath may have been a brewing ground for the later eruption, establishing the potency of the sapphic in relation to the state. But during these last decades of the century, as never before, a sizeable number of women are getting identified in print as sapphic, and repeatedly so, whether pruriently, vitriolically, or matter-of-factly, within a network of published gossip and scandal sheets rife with historiettes.11

This new ubiquity of naming individual women as tribades and providing gossipy details of their liaisons does more than compromise the reputations of the women in question; the practice serves equally as authentication, giving credence to the larger claims about sexual—but also more than sexual—behavior.

A wider, looser, and less controllable print culture is doubtless one major reason for this increase in scandalous gossip, but I argue that concerns about female faction are at least as significant. For not only are more women explicitly named as sapphic, they are most often named as members of sapphic groupings, coteries, and secret societies. A 1779 Mémoire secret, for example, lists six “famous tribades” who have collectively “infected the capital” (155); a 1799 British newspaper report identifies Raucourt as a “distinguished Member of the celebrated Vestal Club.”12 Johann Wilhelm von Archenholtz’s travel narrative, as Emma Donoghue records, likewise claims the existence in London of “small societies, known as Anandrinic Societies . . . of which Mrs Y———, formerly a famous London actress, was one of the presidents.”13 It is not implausible to suggest, therefore, that to be seen as a “tribade” in the late eighteenth century is in effect to be seen as a member of a club. Conversely, the idea of all-female clubs often implicated the sapphic; Emma Donoghue notes the sapphic innuendos about specific women in at least two English publications,

The Whig Club and Charles Pigott’s The Female Jockey Club (both 1794) along with references to “blue stockings” who refuse submission to “that odious monster man.”14 A 1776 issue of the London Morning Post acknowledges the “neological” term “Tribadarian,” which the writer claims to have read in the Post’s pages, but announces his own preference for “Tribadists,15 a suffix that emphasizes shared identity and a kind of party membership. Designating the tribade as the member of a sect lends a different valence to sapphic representation, turning the emphasis from sexual pairings toward collective interests that dovetail quite firmly with the social and political preoccupations of the period. Even when they sensationalize their subject with obscene words and lewd images, these writings are preoccupied with the ideological investments they attribute to women’s alliances.

It is this banding for purposes of sect rather than only for sex that seems in these texts to be the primary cause of concern. The tribade is not simply a woman who desires a woman; she is a loyal member of an imagined “lodge of Lesbos.” She thus evokes a concern not only about women beyond male control but about a larger phenomenon: the rise, and rise in fear of, exclusive clubs and private societies.

Notes

1. [Pidansat de Mairobert], Confession d’une jeune fille, 209: “échappée dès votre tendre jeunesse aux séductions des hommes, goûtez le bonheur de vous trouver réunie au sein de vos pareilles.”
2. Restif de la Bretonne, “La duchesse ou la femme-sylphide,” in Les contemporaines, 45. “Tel a-été le fénomène que la Nation a-eu sous les yeus dans notre siècle: Une Femme audessus de toutes les entraves.”
3. Correspondance littéraire, philosophique et critique, 11:159: “Il existe, dit-on, une société connue sous le nom de la Loge de Lesbos, mais dont les assemblées sont plus mystérieuses que ne l’ont jamais été celles des Franc-Maçons, ou l’on s’initie dans tous les secrets dont Juvenal fait une description si franche et si naïve dans la sixième satire. . . . Il faudrait être Juvenal pour oser en dire davantage.”
4. Honoré-Gabriel Riquetti, comte de Mirabeau, Erotika Biblion, 120: “prérogatives les plus honorables, crédit immense, pouvoir sans bornes.”
5. Choix de mémoires secrets, 261: “on n’a jamais affiché ces vices avec autant d’éclat & de scandale qu’aujourd’hui”; “nos plus jolies femmes y donnent-elles, s’en font-elles une gloire, un trophée!”
6. Maréchal, Almanach des honnêtes femmes pour l’année 1790, n.p.
7. For a fuller discussion of German definitions of the lesbian, see Steidele, “Als wenn Du mein Geliebter Wärest,” 46–47.
8. Genuine Memoirs of the Celebrated Miss Maria Brown (1766), 115 and 120; Dalrymple, Travels through Spain and Portugal, 152; Jack Cavendish, A Sapphick Epistle (London, 1778); Manuel, Anecdotes Recorded by the Police of Paris (1794), 27; W. G. Browne, Travels in Africa, Egypt, and Syria (1799), 386; Letters to the Ladies, on the Preservation of Health and Beauty, 67.
9. Quoted in Nussbaum, Torrid Zones, 145.
10. On the précieuses, see Wahl, Invisible Relations, ch. 5, and Stanton, “The Fiction of Préciosité.”
11. See the story of Raucourt and Contat, for example, in Choix des mémoires secrets, 2:257–58.
12. Oracle and Daily Advertiser, 21 January 1799, 4.
13. Donoghue, Passions Between Women, 242. “Mrs. Y———” is the actress Mary Ann Yates.
14. Donoghue, “‘Random Shafts of Malice?’” 140–41. See also the much reprinted Female Jockey Club attributed to Charles Pigott, 199 and 203.



By Susan S. Lancer in "The Sexuality of History - Modernity and the Sapphic, 1565–1830", The University of Chicago Press, USA, 2014, excerpts chapter 6, pp. 193-199 & 289-290. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

The sea-girt countries at the top of Europe—Norway, Sweden and Denmark—have developed a cuisine which, though rooted in Continental tradition, has flowered in a way uniquely its own. A robust style of cookery that makes lavish use of energizing foods, Scandinavian cuisine is also colorful, imaginative, and strikingly beautiful in appearance.

To Americans the most familiar aspect of Scandinavian dining traditions is the smorgasbord, far-famed buffet of appetizers, hospitable invitation to hearty sociability. If this has been your introduction to Scandinavian cooking you are already familiar with a fascinating array of hot and cold dishes, meats, cheeses and vegetables, and piquantly seasoned fish, especially herring.

But there is much more to Scandinavian tradition than this first course. There are sauces (richest in the world); dark and delicious breads; cookies, puddings and cakes; open-face sandwiches that are meals in themselves and a joy to behold. Above all, there is the Scandinavian sorcery with fish—bountiful harvest of the cold northern seas which the Scandinavians garner so industriously and cook and garnish so handsomely.

It may seem from the pages that follow that the northern countries' menu is a heroic one, and so it is. With fare like this the hardy ancestors of modern Scandinavia conquered uncharted seas in their open Viking ships and adventured boldly toward a new world.



SMÖRGASBORD

Best-known of all Scandinavian dining customs is the smörgasbord—usually the prelude to the feast, but on some occasions the whole feast itself. In Sweden, where the custom is believed to have originated in the festivities of country people, the smörgasbord is served as a first course. A small number of appetizers, which invariably include herring, are presented buffet-style to guests who relax and nibble, exchange toasts and conversation, and then assemble around the dining table with appetites pleasantly stimulated hut unimpaired. In other countries, and especially in America, the character and function of the smörgasbord have altered and it may comprise the principal part of a meal. A munificent variety of fish, meat, cheese, egg and vegetable dishes is arranged on a necessarily commodious buffet or table and guests visit it as often as they please. A dessert (by recommendation simple) and good strong coffee bring the feast to a close.

A time-tried ritual is prescribed for the proper enjoyment of either a small smörgasbord or the full-scale, panoramic affair. First, and always first if one is to observe the Scandinavian spirit of the occasion, the herring! Then one adventures (with clean plate in hand) through dishes in which fish is combined with other ingredients, then cold meats, the delicious hot dishes, the salads and aspics, and finally, for digestion's sake and to soothe a possibly jaded palate, a bit of cheese.

In Norway, the smörgasbord is also called koldt bord. It usually consists of a few appetizers—fish, meat and cheese—but on special occasions may be elaborate and bountiful, including roasts of meat and several kinds offish. Roast beef tenderloin, for example, and loin of pork served with prunes and apple slices; boiled lobster with mayonnaise, whole baked or boiled salmon with sour cream; and a whole cold ham. Include parsley potatoes in the more elaborate type of smörgasbord. Rum pudding usually rounds out these heroic collations.

A Swedish adaptation of the smörgasbord is the gracious supe—a late supper served after the theater or an evening of dancing. The supe too is governed to some extent by tradition. Hot dishes arc always served. They may be croustades with creamed filling, an omelet or souffle, new potatoes with fresh dill. Breads, especially the fragrant limpa, accompany the dishes. Fish and a relish, such as sliced tomatoes, are included as a matter of course. Amounts served are not lavish. The dishes are kept small, but always garnished with the flair for beauty that characterizes Scandinavian cuisine. Cookies are sometimes included in supe and coffee is always served. To precede a Swedish dinner, a plate of three (it must be three) canapes is placed before each individual. Canapes would not be served with a smörgasbord.

The smörgasbord recipes here have been selected with a deep bow to Scandinavian tradition and an understanding nod to some American food preferences. The fruit molds, cream-cheese aspics, macaroni and cole slaw salad would probably not be found on a smörgasbord table in Stockholm, except perhaps at the height of the tourist season.

The American homemaker can make a respectable gesture toward a smörgasbord with herring, sardines, anchovies or other small canned fish, a platter of ready-to-serve meats and cheese and a relish or two—all of which may also be included in a much more elaborate buffet.

A word about bread and cheeses: Custom dictates that only the dark breads belong to the smörgasbord and that knackebrod (hardtack in American parlance) should be among them. Cheese may be Swiss, Danish Bleu, Edam, goat cheeses or bond ost, butitis never proffered in slices. Guests cut it to individual preference.


1. Pickled Herring (Inlagd Sill)

The herring of Scandinavia are truly the harvest of the sea. As the season for them approaches, fishermen gather on the shores ready for action. When the clouds of gulls which announce the run are sighted, men and boats take to the sea for the hard toil of gathering one of the most important "crops" of Scandinavia. Pour into a large bowl

3 qts. cold water
Put into the water
2 sail herring, cleaned and cut into fillets
Set aside to soak 3 hrs.
Clean and thinly slice
1 large onion
Separate onion slices into rings.

Mix together
1 cup cider vinegar
1 cup water
1 tablespoon peppercorns
1 bay leaf

Drain herring and cut into 2-in. square pieces. Put a layer of herring into a shallow bowl and top with some of the onion rings. Repeat layers of herring and onion. Pour over the vinegar/water mixture. Chill thoroughly in refrigerator several hours or overnight to blend flavors.

When ready to serve, drain off liquid. Toss herring and onion lightly to mix and put into a serving bowl. Garfish with sprigs of parsley.
(10 to 12 servings)

2. Herring Salad (Sillsalat)

What beans are to Boston and ambrosia to the gods, herring is to many Scandinavians. It appears in a hundred different guises, and this salad is one of the finest.

Pour into a large bowl
2 qts. cold water
Put into the water
1 salt herring, cleaned and cut into fillets
Set aside to soak 3 hrs.

To Prepare Herring—With a sharp knife cut off and discard head. Slit along underside of the fish from head to tail. Remove entrails and scrape insides well. Cut off tail and fins. Rinse thoroughly in cold water. Cut off a strip about 1/2 in. wide along each of cut edges. Discard strips. Make a slit along backbone just to the bone. Using a sharp knife, carefully pull and scrape the blue skin from the flesh. Be careful not to tear fish. Then cut along backbone through bone and flesh to remove one side of fish. Repeat for the second side. Remove as many of the small bones as possible without tearing fish.

For Salad—Wipe with a clean, damp cloth and cut into 1/2 in. cubes
1/2 lb. veal
Put into a saucepan with
3 cups water
Cook over medium heat about 1 hr., or until meat is tender. Drain; chill in refrigerator.

Meanwhile, leaving on 1- to 2-in. stem and the root end, cut off leaves from
1 lb. (about 5) medium-size beets 

Scrub beets thoroughly. Cook 30 to 45 min., or until just tender. When beets are tender, drain. Plunge beets into running cold water; peel off and discard skin, stem and root end. Cut beets into slices 1/4 in. thick. Cut slices into strips 1/4 in. wide. Set in refrigerator to chill.

While beets cook, wash and scrub with a vegetable brush
2 small (about 1/2 lb.) potatoes

Cook about 20 min., or until the potatoes are tender when pierced with a fork. Drain potatoes. To dry potatoes, shake pan over low heat. Peel potatoes and dice. Chill in refrigerator.

Hard-cook
3 eggs
Cut 2 of the peeled eggs into halves length-wise. Finely chop the egg whites and egg yolks separately and set aside. Cut the remaining peeled egg into slices crosswise. Set aside.

Put a bowl and beater in refrigerator to chill.

Clean and finely chop 2 medium-size onions Drain the herring, dry on absorbent paper, and cut into 1/2 to 1/4 pieces. Put the herring, veal, potatoes, and onion into a large bowl with
1 large apple, rinsed and diced

Pour over ingredients in bowl a mixture of
1 1/2 tablespoons white vinegar
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
Few grains pepper

Toss lightly to coat evenly.

Using the chilled bowl and beater, beat until cream is of medium consistency (piles softly)
1 cup chilled whipping cream

Turn the whipped cream over the herring mixture and toss lightly until thoroughly combined. Add the beets and mix thoroughly, being careful not to break the strips. Turn into a serving bowl and chill thoroughly in refrigerator. If desired, turn Herring Salad into a 2-qt. mold. Pack lightly. Chill thoroughly.

When ready to serve, spoon the chopped egg white around the edge of the salad, the chopped egg yolk over center. Arrange the hard-cooked egg slices in a circle between the chopped egg white and egg yolks. Complete the garnish with sprigs of parsley. Place a cruet of white vinegar, colored with beet juice, and a cruet of cream on the table so that each person may sour the salad to his own taste.
(10 to 12 servings)

3. Fish Balls (Fiskekroketer)

Set out a deep saucepan or automatic deep-fryer  and heat fat to 350°F.
Heat over low heat in a saucepan
2 tablespoons butter
Blend in
1/4 cup sifted flour
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper

Heat until mixture bubbles. Add gradually, stirring constantly
1 cup cream
Cook rapidly, stirring constantly, until mixture thickens. Remove from heat; cool.

Meanwhile, flake finely enough cooked fish to yield
3 cups flaked cooked fish (cod, trout, fillet of sole, whiteflsh)

When sauce is cool, blend in the fish and
1 egg yolk, beaten

Shape mixture into balls 1 in. in diameter.
Dip balls into
2 eggs, slightly beaten
To coat evenly, roll balls in
1 cup fine, dry bread crumbs

Deep-fry Fish Balls in heated fat. Deep-fry only as many balls at one time as will float uncrowded one-layer deep in the fat. Turn balls often. Deep-fry 2 min., or until lightly browned. Drain; remove to absorbent paper. Keep Fish Balls warm for the smörgasbord.
(About 5 doz. Fish Balls)

By Staff Home Economists of Culinary Arts Institute (Director Melanie de Proft) in "The Scandinavian Cook Book", Culinary Arts Institute, (Book Production Industries),Chicago, USA, 1956. Digitized, adapted and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.

Turns out a small African tribe have the link between food choices and belly bacteria nailed. Discover easy ways to reap the benefits right here.

We’re always hungry for diet inspiration from around the globe. Now for the latest health-boosting addition to the list: the Hadza approach. Say what? The subject of research fresh out of Stanford University, it’s based on the eating habits of the Hadza people in Tanzania, one of the world’s few remaining traditional hunter-gatherer populations. After spending time studying them, a clever Stanford team discovered how diverse the gut ecosystem of the Hadza is compared with those in industrialised countries.

What that means for you? “The idea is to have as much variety in our microbiome as we possibly can, to establish a healthy gut profile. We consider that to have protective effects in the body,” explains Charlene Grosse, an accredited practising dietitian with Specialised Nutrition Care in Perth. “Dysbiosis, or an imbalance of the gut microbiota, has been associated with conditions like inflammatory bowel disease. Microbiota is also integral to immune function.” Ready to boost your bugs? Here’s how – no hunting required.

LOVE THE "F"WORD

The Hadza clock up about 100g of fibre daily via the likes of tubers and fruits. And while guidelines encourage us to aim for 25–30g, it’s thought only four in 10 Aussies get that much, according to the CSIRO. “Fibre creates a more diverse and healthy gut flora,” says Fiona Tuck, nutritional medicine practitioner and author of "The Forensic Nutritionis".

“So many people don’t have enough in their diets. We’re having so much processed food, [so] we’re losing valuable fibre and having more gut issues.” No one’s asking you to aim for 100g like the Hadza though. “We’d probably all be hospitalised with abdominal pain if we did that,” clarifies Grosse. “The microbiota profile of an average Western person is very different [from the Hadza] and we wouldn’t be able to digest and manage those amounts.” But we could all benefit from getting closer to that 25–30g target. Eating enough of the F stuff is “linked with [a reduced risk of] bowel disorders, as well as cardiovascular disease, type 2 diabetes and obesity”, adds Grosse. “It also helps to reduce the amount of toxins and inflammation in the bowel.” Go for fibre gold with the simple equation to the right.

¾ cup of wholegrain cereal
2 slices of wholegrain bread
2 fruits (leave the skin on that apple)
¼ cup baked beans
2 cups raw vegies or salad
(about 27.5g fibre)

REPEAT OFFENDER

Reality check before you knock back a second serve of toast: there’s more than one type of fibre. Score them all by keeping your plate varied. “There’s insoluble fibre in nuts, seeds, grains and the skins on fruit and vegetables,” says Grosse. “Meanwhile, soluble fibre is in oats, lentils, chickpeas, kidney beans and fruit flesh. Then there’s resistant starch in things such as just-ripe bananas and rice or potato that’s been cooked then cooled, like in a potato salad.” Tuck’s easy tip? Switch up at least one meal daily to bring some variety. If you love porridge, play around with toppings; or swap the vegies in your usual salad (you’re already over lettuce and tomato on repeat, right?).

She also highlights the value of prebiotic foods, which “act like a fertiliser for probiotics or good gut bacteria. Great sources are Jerusalem artichoke, leek, onion and fennel. You can also buy supplements of the [prebiotic fibre] inulin.” Win!

TAP A SUPERFRUIT

Introducing baobab – a Hadza staple and kick-arse fibre source. Sound familiar? Chances are you’ve spotted powdered versions of the African fruit in health food stores. “If you had 4.5g of the powder, that’d give you 2g of fibre, which is thought to be the prebiotic kind,” says Grosse. Baobab also packs heavyweights such as calcium, vitamin C, potassium, magnesium and zinc. Worth forking out for?

“It can be one way to boost your fibre intake, but we can quite easily get that through wholegrains, nuts, vegetables, legumes and more natural sources in our environment,” says Grosse. Still intrigued? Enjoy the powder in smoothies, breakfast or straight in a glass of water. Bottoms up.

EAT SEASONALLY

The Stanford lot saw the Hadza’s diet vary with the seasons – and, with that, corresponding changes in their gut microbiota. So, if we stick to what’s naturally around in summer, winter et al, would our bellies be as happy as our wallets? “There’s good validity in terms of eating seasonally,” says Grosse.

“Fruit and vegetables are in their prime, so you’re getting good quality rather than foods that have been stored for months in refrigerators or processing places. It’ll be easier on your digestion.” Not to mention that tweaking your diet every few months constantly introduces more food variety. Consider it a winner.

By Alex Davies in "Australian Women's Health", Australia, February 2018, excerpts pp. 34-35. Digitized, adapted an illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.