literature
The Salt castle and the septuplets
Not far from the castle of the last Avar queen, Opal’s Salt Crystal, stood a magnificent stone castle, probably named Salt Castle because of its proximity to the salt mine. Its ruins lie on a high hilltop among the oaks, for there are hardly any stones left now, the winds and many battles having long since blown them away. Only one wonderful story of its inhabitants has survived.
Once upon a time there lived a mighty lord of the castle. King Andrew, the Hungarian king’s main man, was called lord Micz. This famous warrior fought everywhere in the king’s army, even going as far as the Holy Land, so he spent little time at home. So his young wife was bored alone in the castle halls, or wandered in the castle gardens, always wondering why she had no children, why she could not bear her husband an heir. As she walked through the woods one fine autumn day, she met a young beggar woman who said the next:
Give me some change, lady, my two little children are hungry! It turned out that the woman had twin children, which in the old days was considered a disgrace, because women who had twins were called unfaithful, deceitful women, who were told that to have two children at once you had to sleep with two men. In any case, it meant a misfortune for the beggar woman to have twins, so the lady was frightened and cried out:
‘Away from me, shameless creature!’
The beggar woman then cursed the Lady Micz for her stinginess, saying: God bless thee with seven children, proud woman, if thou hast two!
Then she disappeared among the bushes. Soon the lord of the castle came home. His wife wept and told him of the beggar woman’s curse.
“Even if it’s seven, don’t be sorry!” the lord of the castle consoled his wife. The king called her to war again in the spring, and she was alone again, but in a blessed state. And the beggar woman’s curse was fulfilled, for when the time came for her to give birth, she had not one but seven twin children. The woman wept and wept and wept, wondering what people would say.
My good news is over, I shall be dishonourable in my husband’s eyes, to be so cursed!- she tormented herself, day after day.
She looked at the seven little sleepers, not with joy, but with sorrow, and did not know what to do. Then the midwife said to her what to do.
One boy was kept, the other six the midwife put in a huge basin and put them in the Tarca river. The basin floated with the babies, the water carried them along, bobbing them dangerously to and fro. The babies cried because they were hungry. A fisherman heard them crying and caught the fish. He was amazed when he saw the 6 little chubby babies in it. They were lying on a soft pillow, with the coat of arms of lord Micz sewn into the pillow. The fisherman didn’t tell anyone about it, except his wife of course, and raised the six little boys quietly.
Years went by, many waters flowed down the Tarca and the Hernád, and the one son of lord Micz’s became a handsome 16-year-old boy, raised to be a brave by his proud father. They were celebrating his birthday, when suddenly six handsome lads in same uniforms and lutes in their hands came in. They asked the master of the house for permission to sing a song for the young lord’s birthday. The lord of Salt Castle had grown old, and the lady of the house had more grey hair than brown. The young lute players were allowed to sing a song. They lined up and struck the strings. They sang songs about King Attila the Hun, St. Stephen, King Lazarus, and finally a heartless mother.
Warrior Micz didn’t understand why his wife was starting to tear up, only as he stared at them her eyes grew wider and wider, for he noticed that all six boys looked alike, and what surprised him was that he couldn’t tell them apart from her own son, the young lord of Salt castle! And then the six lute’s player boys began to sing about a cruel mother, and Mrs. Micz cried out!
Don’t go on, you are all my children! My precious kids! A sound of astonishment and consternation broke out from the celebrating crowd. The seven children and lord Micz were looked at in confusion by all the guests.
We are not your children, madam, but the children of a fisherman, and we are on our way to Buda to join the king’s army!” said the six boys.
You won’t go until I embrace you!- their mother ran to them, sobbing. She didn’t know which one to start the embrace with, which one to kiss first. The six lads stood frozen, staring at lord Micz, no one could understand. Then the fisherman stepped out from behind the door, his moustache now curled in grey, and told the story of the six children. How he fished them out of the river and brought them up with honour.
‘Forgive me, my lord,’ she fell at the feet of her lord and husband, ‘I did not know what I was doing when I gave birth, but I suffered cruelly for it. I was cursed by that beggar woman, I thought, and I was afraid, for I did not want to be disgraced.
“This shame has become your glory, wife!” said the magistrate, who was also present at the ceremony, “I beg you, Micz, forgive your wife, she has done enough penance.
I forgive you!” said lord Micz, smiling, “for the curse has turned for good. And he looked with delight at his sons.
And now hear my sentence, my first son will stay here in Salt Castle, and the others will be lords of Eszeny, Rátka, Purustyán, Zemplén, Szerdahely and Kövesd. Divide among yourselves who wants which town, and all I ask is that you love each other!
Thus ended the birthday celebrations in Salt Castle. From them descend the Csapy, Bocskai, Szirtes, Ráskai, Eszényi, Kövesdy families, and from the first son the Soós family.
The wild violets jam and the village of the Moss’s elves
This story was inspired by a German folk tale which says that 12 elves move into tidy houses 12 days before Christmas and light the Christmas tree until Dec 24, then they return to the forest
One day I was picking wild violets in the woods when I heard a strange noise, accompanied by a cough. Some little bird must be looking for worms in the leaves left over from last year, I thought. But wait! I blinked for a moment, -a bird doesn’t really cough, but I didn’t think about it any more. I went on with what I had begun, arranging my white violets in a bunch, when I felt a little rustle on the back of my hand, and then I could not believe my eyes, for a tiny little man came striding up to me, sassy and cheeky, with a whip in his hand. He must have been about 25-30 centimetres tall. As far as I knew, I hadn’t eaten any poisonous mushroom, and after pinching myself and feeling a pain, I made sure I wasn’t dreaming, because there was indeed a tiny little man standing in front of me.
“You’re wondering, aren’t you?” he said, much to my surprise. “I’m Milan Moss. The forest commissioner and local historian in one!” Hm, that’s something! A forest commissioner! I’ve never met a forest commissioner before, only a forester.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Lulla, from St Martin village.” “I know that forest well”, replied Milan Moss with a knowing expression. “And what is the purpose of the wild violet bouquets, may I ask?”- “Well, my mother, Ixi, is giving a lecture at the ‘Get out Witches’ Club about Empress Sissi, who was a violet addict.” “What do you mean by addicted? I haven’t come across that word in the Moss’s Elves’s dictionary.” Well, that she ate violet ice cream every day, and sucked on violet candy, and used violet-scented cologne… “Mm-hmm, I see, but you’d better pick that violet, because we need it in our syrup factory. “So that’s why I got the fingernails bang, right?” But by the time I looked up, Milan Moss had already gone…
The next time I saw the moss elves was in the Seven Lakes region. By then, I had learned a lot about them, because I had made friends with Milan Moss after I had been to the Violet Land. At my request, he told me that the moss elves had visited many small villages, but always returned to St Martin. They liked to live here because many special berries and forest fruits, such as blackberries and cranberries, were grown only in this area, and they also liked the friendly and hard-working neighbourhood. For half the year they lived in caves under the roots of the trees, but in the spring the first warm sunshine drew them out of their hiding places. So it was in March that life above ground began in Moss village. The moss children were trained in the forest school by moss elves teachers to become foresters, soldiers, hunters, and the best of them became forest rangers. The adults either worked in the local garment factory, where they sewed uniforms for the Woodpecker army from moss, pine branches, berries, cones and dried flowers, or worked in the food industry and trade. The Moss village cannery, for example, produced the finest jams and fruit juices. The village was kept in order by the forest elves, whose main task was to keep the forest clean. Their leader, the fiercely handsome Woodpecker, at the head of his army, was always ready to strike at forest-destroying hooligans. They remained friendly with hikers, as long as they did not commit any mischief, and what is more, those who did not harm the plants and animals were smuggled gold leaves in their rucksacks, but those who littered the forest were not, or carved their names in the trees, stamped on snails, tapped them on the head with their maces made of pine cones and acorns, or at the most unexpected moments, whacked them on the leg with a rose hip twig, a thorny branch or a bundle of nettles.
I learned many other interesting things from Maurice Moss, the village historian. For example, that the library of the Mosses contained, among other things, the chronicles written on the wings of the May beetle. The most interesting item in the library was a work by an unknown author, written 1250 years before, which revealed that the Moss people became invisible when a count leased the forest. The constant presence of the woodcutters and the felling of the trees filled the elves with such fear that they decided to make their own living space under the roots of the giant trees and in the hollows of the trunks. From then on they only appeared when they saw fit. And a moss farmer recently found a recipe book written on a hornbill’s wing while walking in the woods, and I was intrigued to learn its contents. I was then delighted to receive from Milan Moss an annual calendar in which he had marked in special green ink the festivities in Moss elves village. After browsing through it, I realised that the elves actually have a festival every time a new plant or animal is born, but the most eagerly awaited of them all starts on 12 December. Well, for this celebration I received an invitation from Milan Moss.
Of course I wanted to be part of it. I left for St Martin on the evening of 11 December. I had rented a room in an inn, because according to Milan Moss’s letter, the ceremony would begin at dawn. The snow was falling in tiny flakes, but the elves, with their lanterns in their hands, were already at dawn, dressed up in their best, rushing to the house of the oldest Moss elf’s, because it had been the custom in Moss village for more than 200 years that the elves moved from the cold, inhospitable forests to the houses of the people for the Christmas holidays. In return for their hospitality, they would light their lanterns for twelve days and nights. But who would go to which family was decided by the spirit of the Swamp (who had nothing to do with the evil Swamp Witch). Every year on this day, he and his messenger, the Slouch, would send the list.
So, on the day the Moss people arrived at Father Moss’s house, they lined up in a polite line and their mayor, Medard Moss, knocked on the door. Mother Moss, with a specially decorated mushroom cap on her head, opened the door, and after greeting the elves properly, handed them each a delicious honey cake to take with them, Father Moss, who also made a very fancy impression in his pine cone hat, handed out addresses of who could move in with which family for 12 days. But good, Ella will be glad to finally meet a real moss elf, because when I told her about Milan Moss, I could see in her eyes that she didn’t really believe they existed. I just wondered who was going to move in with us for 12 days. I asked Milan, but he said he didn’t know. By this time the snow was falling in larger flakes, so I quickly headed home, all the more so because if guests were coming to stay I would have to tidy up our house quickly, as moss elves are very critical and Milan said they only fall once on a broken toy car, they won’t set foot in that house again.
Fortunately, as we later found out, it was only at dusk that the moss elves set off for their designated houses. So I had time to clean up our apartment beautifully, even baked a delicious apple pie with Ella-Luna, and it was getting dark, so all I missed were the moss elves, especially Ella, who was kneeling on the windowsill watching them. When at last she saw the wavering light of the tiny lanterns, she laughed with delight.
-“Mamma!” she said, in a little French accent, “open the door quickly, for the moss elves are here!”-But she did not wait for her mother, and ran down in her little slippers to be the first to greet the moss children. When she opened the door, I saw that Mirtill Moss, Medard Moss and their 10 children had arrived. But before they entered, the elves waved goodbye to the others. “Until we meet again in two weeks!” they called after their moss elves brothers and sisters, by then shivering with cold. The sky was beautifully starry, the candles in the windows of the surrounding houses tinted the snowy landscape red, yellow and blue. Come on in!” we greeted the family.
-“You’ll be lighting the Christmas tree in the dining room this year, won’t you?”-asked Ella from Ménroth Moss, who was the eldest Moss child.
-“Mhm, if you like, no problem!” replied Ménroth agreeably.
-“Then follow me!” waved Ella happily and led the elves into the living room. This time, however, she was disappointed, for instead of playing hide and seek with them and playing Lego, the moss elves, which were lit up all night, were always sleepily pooping during the day, so Ella didn’t take much pleasure in them!
-“Let’s ask for a different moss family next year, Lulli, OK?” said Ella-Luna on 24th December after the moss elves had left.
-“Okay, sweetie, we’ll write a letter to the spirit of the Swamp 2 months before Christmas!” And Ella accepted this!
Homing pigeons against hackers
In the summer heat, after dinner, we sat in the garden on the big, light grey sofa and waited for the evening doves.
“What will they tell us today?” I asked Vincent and Theo.
“Well, I don’t know,” Theo shrugged his shoulders.
But, Lulli, do you really understand what they are saying?- he wondered.
Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
I think we need a pigeon language translation program,” Vincus said wisely.
Shh, shh!-I waved to the children. The evening doves arrived. Let’s listen to them!
And the pigeons began with a mostly humming voice and then a husky, rough “hoo-hoo”. Their “song” consisted of a five-part, distinctively rhythmic hooting. I quickly took out a piece of paper and tried to write it down.
What are you doing Lulli?- asked Theo.
I’m noting down their song!
The second note is accented, with a slightly longer pause before the fourth: “Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo”. And the pigeons usually repeated this three to five times, and then finished their sentences with a separate “Hoo!”.
And did you find out what they were singing? The children asked curiously.
Well, that pigeon, on the branch nearest to us, is complaining that he is very tired because he has worked so hard today. His feathers are a bit ruffled, don’t you think?
“But really, it’s so untidy.” the children said.
If I understood correctly, it must be some kind of chief, because he said he was checking the pigeons in the squares and pavements who were picking up the city’s rubbish. Did you know that ten thousand pigeon slaves clean up after people every day?
No!
Well, that’s what Colombo said. And then that he also keeps order among the brawling pigeons, who are disliked by the people because of their pathetic running, lazy sitting, miserable appearance and cowering. They are the scourge of the cities, because they are not eagles, not swans, not even storks, just dirty birds that snatch leftover bread and cakes from the homeless.
But Colombo can’t control the band of clinging, rag-soaked pigeons that shit even the most beautiful statues. They make dirty the crowns of saints and kings. They smear the walls of houses with their droppings, they scrape the binder from the conical tiles of rooftops. Right now Colombo is raging angrily that they cannot simply be swept away, removed, destroyed.
Today, when some passers-by threw crumbs at them, the assembled gang immediately started bickering for food, but mostly they were met with contempt instead of leftover pastries. The children stomped on them with great hooting and hollering.
And now he says: people don’t know that normal pigeons only stay on the ground as long as they have to. They’re just picking and pecking, and then whoosh, they fly over the city. If they have to, they’ll dive down to the asphalt level a hundred times a day and then take to the skies again and again.
That’s as far as I got in my interpretation when the pigeons suddenly flew over to the tallest tree in our backyard. They were scared of the crows.
Let’s go up to the roof, I suggested to the children. We can see and hear them better from up there!
Let’s study this other pigeon society that hasn’t forgotten to fly, not just limp along the tarmac, I thought to myself as I ran after the children.
Let’s look at the pigeons that live their lives up there! So we looked out of the small attic window, which was almost same level with the top of the tree where the pigeons had moved. Much to the delight of the children, the rooftop was bustling with life, giving us a glimpse of a very different and intricate network of the city through the pigeons.
Look up there, the pigeons are flying! -I pointed to the sky. And while our evening pigeons continued their peaceful hooting and hovering on the garden tree tops, those pigeons were hurrying away, flying high, sometimes low, in pairs, in small or large flocks, from secret places to invisible destinations, and until dusk, the flow of pigeons over the city never stopped. Grayish, lead-poisoned pigeons they were when they took off, but then they began to rise steeply, then crossed the eaves, darted over the attics, and finally split skyward like a bow and arrow when fired, buzzing lightly. And the pigeons above the rooftops, a hundred metres high, when they emerged from the shadows of the tallest buildings, glowed triumphantly! Their feathers flattened against their bodies, their paddles fluttered; their breasts were filled with fresh air; they were blown along by the north wind, and then enclosed by the blue sky like a giant bubble; their bodies bathed in the rays of the sun’s direct rays, which never reach the tarmac from the lower atmosphere.
Lulli, do you know that the Sun cannot be my friend because it cannot come down to play with me?” said Theo, looking at the sunset with great pleasure.
I didn’t know, but I’m glad you said that!-I replied, kissed on the cheek of the little guy, shocked at the same time, because this sentence was coming from a five-year-old child.
So who can you make friends with?” teased Vincent his little brother.
Well, the golden eagle, and Lulli’s fox and the pigeons.
Only if we catch them and put them in a cage. Don’t you think so?- continued his brother.
Listen to me, boys! I put an end to their bickering: I think the ancestors of this main pigeon lived a thousand metres above the ground, with nests so high they scrubbed the clouds. Even the eagles flew beneath them, nesting beneath them, secretly somewhere in the thicket of trees. And their grandmothers nested on rocks and ruins, never in tree holes like the blue doves of the forest. But when they moved into the cities -because they were running out of food- people began to fear them, saying they must spread contagious diseases. They declared outright war on pigeons, even though they used to be highly respected, especially homing pigeons!
Homing pigeons?
Yes, although I think they’re more commonly called sport pigeons now. But look! The pigeons have gone quiet. They want to sleep, because it’s getting late! Everyone must go to bed, and tomorrow we’ll go out into the garden again and listen to the pigeons for the latest news…
The next evening, the children went out to the garden in order to watch the pigeons right after dinner… And we didn’t have to wait long, a few minutes later the pigeons arrived, but this time not only our pigeons, but some new ones joined them for the evening session…
For example, a beautiful, large pigeon with a rounded chest and a powerful shape, with a narrow and small tail. Its eyes were dark and its eyelids were light. Then a rather large-headed, snow-white pigeon with a graceful shape and a medium-length beak flew by. Its long, strong legs were completely lacking feathers. It looked hardly naked. And its eyes were orange-red.
Then there was a pigeon with yellow-green feathers, and what was striking about it was the white ring around its eyes. The bright orange eye colour went well with its long beak.
And they were joined by another snow-white naked pigeon, but this one had the most beautiful appearance, with a long neck, large eyes and a small, strong beak.
Where did they come from?-we wondered.
Maybe they escaped from a zoo?-
And then the big white pigeon started to coo nervously. His “speech” seemed to be trying to convince our evening pigeons of something.
Lulli, do you understand what he is saying?- the boys asked excitedly.
Well, I think, or rather I see, that the big white pigeon is actually a homing pigeon trying to convince our pigeons to join them.
You mean the newly arrived pigeons?
Yes. Because as I understand it, they’re all sport pigeons, but they all have different missions. And then we noticed that the pigeons had something attached to their feet. Maybe they were carrying a message or a secret letter or a pen drive?
Maybe they have a mini camera and are recording us! added Vincent.
Well, maybe. They’re like photojournalists with wings.
And how do they find their way to the recipient?- Theo asked thoughtfully.
By instinct, and homing pigeons return to where they were born, or where their mate was left. They use the sun or other celestial bodies as a guide, and it seems to be an ability they were born with.” explained Grandpa, who joined us after he too had noticed the special pigeons.
And the white dove continued to explain to the other doves.
As far as I understood, the white pigeon is called Dolce Vita and is the fastest pigeon used to transfer blood samples from hospitals to laboratories. As they don’t always get there in time due to traffic jams on the roads, they can save lives!
And the dragon green pigeon says he’s been in the military for 15 years, his name is Sher Ami. He was once shot in the chest and wounded in the leg sending a message about a missing battalion in Iraq, saving 200 people from death. The bird was awarded a gold medal and a French military cross. You can see it hanging from his neck.
And the one with the orange eyes, what’s he doing?
He delivers newspapers, and he has an American accent because he’s on duty in New York, he’s the fastest way to get the news from Europe to America. The reporters receive the information from the ships and put the messages in capsules attached to the legs of the carrier pigeon. He then flies to New York where he delivers the message.
And the other naked white pigeon?
He’s Winston the champion and he’s only 11 months old!
A champion? Now that really piqued the interest of the ever-winning wanted Vincent!
Yes, because he’s taking on the country’s largest internet service provider, Telekom’s ADSL service. And he won! Digital cybernetic world versus pigeon post!
How?
By giving Winston a 4 gigabyte memory card, whose data he managed to transfer 80 kilometres in one hour and eight minutes. In total, the data transfer took two hours, six minutes and fifty-seven seconds – the same time it took the computer engineers to transfer only 4% of the data over the ADSL.
Then these pigeons are real heroes!” the children enthused.
So next time I won’t chase them away!-told me the children
And when I grow up, I’m going to be a sport pigeon breeder,” said Vincent. And through them I’ll send a message to everyone!
The story of Devana’s the Hungarian goddess of love
Only few people have heard of Devana, the Hungarian goddess of Love but legend has it that long ago, when the gods walked the earth in human form, the temple of Devana, stood on the highest hill above the Danube and Morava rivers. Devana was the daughter of Tengrí, the god of Thunder, and Mother Earth, the protector of women. All this can be seen from an inscription on a tombstone in the former settlement of Herculia, now known as Gorzium in the village of Tác in Hungary near Budapest. So Devana was an independent spirit from birth, and later, like the Greek goddess Diana, she was a constant hunter riding a mare, taming the wolves and foxes in the forest, which never left her side. All this made it difficult for her father to control her, and that’s where the trouble began.
Devana’s unbridled love of freedom, her unladylike behaviour, was unacceptable to powerful male leaders like Tengu and Mithras, the latter was the god of the rising sun, wisdom, truth and faith. Her father, along with the chief god, believed that her deviant behaviour, -which included constant hunting and wearing her hair loose (unmarried women had to braid their hair) so that she would refuse to marry anyone, angered them.
Regardless of who each tribe considered to be the chief god, her father Tengu or Mithras, Devana believed that she should rule over the three realms of the gods, the living and the dead: the sky, the real world and the underworld, the realm of the dead. When the gods learned of this plan, her father had had enough of his daughter. One day he followed her into the forest, and she howled so loudly that Devana’s wolf and fox allies were forced to flee, leaving her to fight her father without her helpers. The girl attacked her father first with arrows and later with spears, but he was too strong.
Like most goddesses, Devana was a shapeshifter, so she suddenly transformed herself into a lion in the hope of defeating her father. But she failed, because her father turned into an even more powerful lion, and Devana continued to fight as a kestrel. Her father then turned into an eagle and took her in his claws. With one last effort, Devana turned into a fish and slipped from his grasp. As her father watched his daughter fall, he called to his wife, Mother Earth, to catch his daughter with a fishing net. She obeyed, and Devana’s rebellion was over.
Devana was then given the castle of Devin for peace, where she became a popular and beloved goddess, and the lovers turned to her in joy and sorrow, for Devana comforted them, helped them, and made them happy. They did not turn to her in vain. Her temple, built for her by her devotees, was always full of fragrant flowers, and her altar was filled with sweet-smelling smoke. The petitions rang from morning till night:
Please, Goddess Devana, give us to each other!
Devana has abandoned my beloved, return her to me!
Devana, help me not to let the third come between us, and so on…
And Devana helped, she listened to everyone, she turned everything to good, even if the requests came from beyond the mountains or from far away… she heard every sigh, she kept every thank you.
Once, however, a youth warrior arrived to her temple on the waters of the Danube:
I love you, goddess Devana, leave your temple, let us escape together! He didn’t even wait to hear her reply, the very minute he took her by the arm and tried to embrace her.
Go away dark knight, I cannot belong to one, for I belong to all! -cried Devana. But the knight would not budge, and as the worshippers around him rushed to Devana’s aid, the knight drew his sword and swung it twice. Devana put both arms protectively in front of her face, and her rosy skin was wounded, a drop of blood falling from the sword cut. At that moment, the temple collapsed, the goddess fainted. She sighed one last sigh and said in a dying voice:
Love cannot be claimed with blood, it was written that at the first stroke of the sword the temple would dissolve into nothingness and I myself would become a cloud. Mark well, men, that wrath and love, these two cannot go together. With that, she breathed her last, and only her name Devana remained.
But what mortal men no longer knew was that Devana had been rescued by her father and then forced to marry his rival Verbascum, the god of the Underworld, protector of cattle, magic and the Lowlands. Devina had never wanted to marry, and resisted for a while to stay single, but eventually Verbascum turned into a basil flower and calmed her down. Although they were not in love, they stayed together. And Devana’s power has not disappeared, for she has helped pure-hearted lovers many times over the centuries. For example, in Hungary, which was torn into three parts during the Turkish era for 150 years from 1541-, she helped to the beautiful Juliet and Captain George Dévényi, the story goes like this:
On one occasion, when the Turks were marching on Vienna, the high castle of Dévény was besieged on the way. For months they cannonaded, shot and stormed the walls, but they could not take it, because it was valiantly defended by Captain George Dévényi, a young married man with his wife, who nursed the wounded in the castle. The Turks, like so many times before, wanted to take the castle by trickery. They sent envoys in fancy dress to the gate and shouted it:
You are valiant warriors, may Allah make you rich! And to make you even richer, tomorrow we will march from under the castle. All we ask of the captain, the gallant George Dévényi, is that he come to us at dusk for supper, so that we may bid each other farewell.
I’ll be there!- said George Dévényi, who knew the Turks well, of course, and knew that this was a trap, so he said to his lieutenant. Even if I order it in writing, because it is a forged letter. If you are captured, taken prisoner, do not open the gates. The captain bade his beautiful young wife a most bitter farewell. Tears were shed by his wife, but there was nothing to be done for the castle. He took his two good men with him and rode to the Turkish’s camp. He was given a good dinner, pilaf, lamb, beer and black coffee, Jaffa oranges and Arab dates, but when George Dévényi was about to leave, Prince Ahmed ordered him to:
Give me the castle!
I would rather die, -said George Dévényi, I will not give up. And if you force me to write this down, up in the castle, they will not believe you. Thou hast made thyself ugly, and thou art a vile man. Is this hospitality?
The Prophet has commanded from heaven that I should have the castle, and this command is stronger than hospitality,’ said the Turkish leader and beckoning to his servants, they bound Dévényi and his two loyal men and took them prisoners. The next day they stormed the walls again, but were unsuccessful. Finally, they retreated back to Istanbul, but they took George Dévényi with them, in chains. They locked him in the infamous Yedikula the Seven Tower. The news was brought to Mrs Julia by a Hungarian soldier who had escaped from the Turks. The woman, accompanied by a rich gift, twice asked to be interrogated by the Prince Ahmed, but he refused.
Weeks later, the woman, Juliet, decided to go to Istanbul and try to find a way to get in to see Prince Ahmed. And then, in a dream, the goddess Devana appeared to her in the night, and suggested that she take her harp with her, and when the muezzin’s singing died away on the balcony of the minarets, she should go to the Sultan’s palace and sing a beautiful song to him, accompanied by her harp. At the same time he gave her a wonderful voice. And the next day Juliet did so. Her voice sounded like a bird’s, her fingers made silvery notes on the harp, for Devana had helped her, and though her lamentations were sad, they still spelled the Sultan’s doom.
Who is the young woman who sings like a nightingale under the window of my palace?” he asked his servant.
A Hungarian woman from far away,- came the reply.
Bring her up to my palace, let me hear her in here! A few minutes later, Juliet was standing in front of the huge padishah.
Your voice is beautiful, your music sounds like paradise, play for us, Hungarian woman!
Sing for the women of my harem!
Juliet bowed to the bright-faced padishah and began to sing again. But this time she plucked happy songs on her strings. The women and men liked them so much that they listened until dawn. Three nights she had to repeat her playing, then the Sultan said:
Teach my first wife Fatima how to play the harp and I will reward you handsomely. After three more days, Fatime learned the songs. She had a beautiful voice, so the Sultan listened to Juliet and Fatime’s duo with rapt attention.
Like a lark and a nightingale! The Sultan rejoiced and raised his ring fingers and said: Ask for anything, Hungarian woman, and you shall have it!
I ask for my greatest treasure, George Dévényi, the prison captain!
Bring him out!- the Sultan clapped three times with his hand. The servants found George Dévényi with great difficulty in the depths of the Seven Towers. With a horrible face, gaunt and in tattered clothes, he was ushered into the hall. A man’s eyes were closed in the bright light, for he was used to the bright light. But when he recognised his wife he could not believe his eyes.
Juliet!- he gasped.
My sweet husband!- said Julia and fell into his arms. I have come for you.
Unchain him!- said the Sultan, -for this woman is not only a treasure because of her voice, not only of her silver throat, but she herself, with her whole heart, her love, her loyalty to you, is worth more than the treasure of worlds.
Then the Sultan gave them two horses, two servants, and two packed travelling bags, and so they arrived home to the castle of Dévény on Christmas Day.
Seven boys and the Blueberry witch
According to an old legend from the Lowlands, about 700 years ago there lived a young man called Gaspar, who decided to go blueberry picking in the nearby forest one fine late summer day. Six of his friends went with him. Unfortunately, the beautiful purple blueberries were all gone because of the harsh winter and late frosts, and the young men couldn’t find a single berry. In their search, they didn’t even realise it was getting dark, so they decided to head home. As they approached their village they met a strange woman, none other than Augustine, a witch of dubious reputation. Much to their amazement, she was carrying a huge basket full of blueberries. And of course, being a witch, she knew how much the disappointed young men would crave the beautiful ripe fruit, so she didn’t have to tell them twice to come and taste the blueberries in her house.
-“Come on, have a glass of Blueberry wine and eat ‘tchacha’, fresh, crushed blueberries,” she told them graciously. The ravenous young men, of course, entered her house and stuffed their bellies full of delicious, sweet blueberries. But they didn’t know that Augustine had cast a spell on the berries, so as soon as Gaspar and his friends had finished their feast, they were transformed into goat-headed creatures with human bodies. When they started home from the tchacha, feeling dizzy, an earthquake suddenly shook the valley, and in that moment the young men felt a tingling in their feet that made them want to dance. The seven enchanted boys came down to the village dancing and leaping, and the people, hearing the noise, the shrieking and the stamping of feet, rushed out into the streets and looked at them, stunned, thinking they were mad.
They soon realized that the transformation of the youths could only be the work of the witch Blueberry. But what could they do about the evil. The village wise man, the judge, suggested that perhaps the magic could be countered by the use of blueberry nectar, which is made from fresh, crushed blueberries. But only Augustine knew how to make it, she had the secret recipe. They tried to get the youngsters drunk on other potions, but they couldn’t stop them, they were so drunk on the barn door potion. Unfortunately, the ‘blueberry deprivation’ didn’t work. The whole village was awake. One of the rich peasants then suggested that a black ram be brought in to see if the sight of it would calm the youngsters down. He dragged his favourite black ram out of the stable, but the witch cursed it too, for now it was the devil himself, spewing fire from its mouth in all directions, and it was to be feared that it would set fire to everything near by it. Then the priest was called and advised to list the offences of the year and then to choose the “sinners” and go before the witch Blueberry to ask her forgiveness. And so they did. They found ten or so people who had committed some misdemeanour during the year. And they marched them to the house of Augustina, who knew, of course, to what she owed the visit of the villagers. She came out when called and then warned the people to be quiet. She then blew her whistle, which was so loud that it echoed from the hills surrounding the village.
With the whistle, the Blueberry Witch woke the fairies and elves from hibernation, and with them the evil spirits and demons. And what’s more, a handsome young man appeared at her call, he was the Panflute King. At the sight of this beautiful young man, the villagers thought they had been visited by the Forest God himself. Meanwhile, Blueberry Witch beckoned to the black ram, which obediently lay at her feet. Augustina then began to murmur something in the language of the black magicians, only the priest understood what it was, who then, scratching his head in great fervour, passed it on to the people. But he did not understand everything, for the Blueberry Witch used not only words, but also, with the help of King of Panflute, sound vibrations, waves and the music of the forest lakes, plants and animals. After a little while, Augustine, recovering from her dreadful state, turned to the still twitching young Gaspar, took his hand, and he suddenly calmed down. Angel drink was given to him, a drink of ale. And Augistine sipped some ale as well and behold, the witch had turned into a beautiful young girl, only her mouth was still purple with blueberries, reminding her that she had just been the Blueberry Witch. She then cured the six other men of their twitching and they too regained their human form, and the now beautiful Augustine, with the music of King Panflute, managed to send the evil spirits back to whence they came. The villagers ran home in great joy and baked a giant omelette in the main square, using a huge quantity of eggs, and when they had finished, they invited Augustine to join them. I would say that the whole village was well fed. And Gaspar asked the beautiful Augustine to marry him!
That’s the end of it, run away from him!
The „Little Outlaw’s riding school’s” villains and Hollywood stars
Slepp, named after Odin, the horse of the Norse god Odin, because he looked so much like him, with his grey fur, like the thunderclouds in the sky, and a power that was unmatched. He was the best of all horses, for he could out gallop, kick, jump, and whinny all other horses.
The other daredevil of the stables, was called Ox-Head. It is said that the owner bred the colt and his noble qualities on his own property, with a head like an ox’s head growing out of his shoulders. The name was apt because he was a real monster. He was considered wild and unmanageable, impossible to ride because anyone who dared to come near him would kick or bite him. After that, it was spread around that he was an untameable man-eater!
But for all his faults, the wild horse looked magnificent, with his raven-black, shiny mane, black streamlined body and white star on his forehead. Eventually, a 12-year-old boy managed to tame him and after much study, realised that the horse was so wild because he was afraid of his own shadow. First he began to talk to it in a soothing voice, then slowly turned his head so that the horse could not see its own shadow, which always frightened and drove it wild. And when he sat on it, he turned the horse’s head towards the sun and the miracle happened. From then on they were inseparable. The little boy even managed to persuade Ox Head to join the therapeutic programme at the riding school.
That day, however, Ox Head returned to his stable in a state of agitation.
“How was the kids’ camp?” asked his good friend Slepp.
“Shut up!” replied the beat-up horse, adorned with rainbow-coloured ribbons, irritably. I’m sick of all the screaming kids. The little skunks even braided my mane, but when they tried to varnish my hooves, I was fed up. For me, the macho horse!
“Calm down my friend, I know you’re just swearing because you’re angry! But remember that camp is over and I hear that next week the casting for the film company production starts. And then we’re going to piss off the brats and the riding stables, because we’re going to have Hollywood careers!”
“Who are you most afraid of?” asked Oxhead.
“Well, I’d say it’s Thunderbolt for speed and Stella for her beauty!”
“We’ve got to find a way to get into the foreign team’s stable! There we could study closely which of our competitors has what weaknesses!”
“That’s an excellent idea!” said Oxhead, munching oats.
I haven’t mentioned that Ella and Milo used to go riding at this very same Little Outlaw’s riding school. Milo trained on Thunderbolt and Ella on Stella. That day, the children noticed that both horses were so tired that they were shuffling around the manege in a daze. They later learned from the stable manager that it was because they had been training for two days for a Hollywood movie shoot. So Ella and Milo’s riding lesson was over earlier. As the children were thoroughly famished, they ordered a vegan burger and fries from the riding school’s buffet. They ate their fill, drank their fruit juices and were just about to leave to say goodbye to Thunderbolt and Stella when the expert panel of the fight scene arrived at the riding arena to select the horses that would be the future cast of the American-European co-production.
When the trainer spotted Ella and Milo still loitering around the stables, he asked them to help lead Thunderbolt and Stella out. The children, of course, were happy to oblige. And the muster began, with the following horses taking part: the black and tan Hungarian foal, Nonius, and the brown and gorgeous Hungarian Pepita, the Mexican Pedro, the Belgian Artois, a circus horse, Marengo, the English thoroughbred Wellington, the Romanian horse Vampiria, and the Italian Espresso. When the children heard his name, they laughed at each other and, quoting the well-known George Clooney commercial, “Espresso, What else?” And they had a good laugh. They were followed by the Andalusian Extrémene, the German Swan Neck, the Russian Nikolai, the Turkish Tulip and finally Hunnu the Mongolian Wild Horse. Martial artists and horse experts were pleased with the line-up,
On Saturday, the qualifying round, open to the public, began.
First, the jury clarified the rules of the competition, stating that the winner of the dressage competition would be the horse that first touched the finish line with its nose and then crossed it with its entire length. If two horses do this simultaneously, they win in a tie. Only the first 3 horses to finish in first place will star in the film Napoleon.
After that, the riders had only four minutes to take their starting places, and if someone exceeded the time limit, the starter could decide to disqualify the horse. And the horses started to move into the starting box.
But what happened? The audience burst out laughing at the sight of the horses, who appeared in strange masks. It had to be the two machine ghouls, Slepp and Oxhead. Nonius arrived in a sausage necklace and smelled of garlic so strong that you could smell it for metres around.
Pepita, in a turquoise tutu and the light tulle skirt of a ballet dancer, entered the line of battle.
Pedro, the Mexican horse, had a moustache and stood in a sombrero hat, munching on taco chips.
The French horse, Ariége, wore a beret cap on her head, smelled strongly of perfume, her mane glistened with hair gel and she comically scraped her hooves after each stride to keep them from getting dirty.
The Belgian horse, Artois, smelt of beer and fries falling from under his saddle, galloped into the arena in a zigzag pattern.
The circus horse, Marengo, in a Napoleon hat with a black, grey and blue body, looked like wet asphalt.
The English colt Wellington’s boot-clad legs also looked quirky.
Vampiria, the Romanian horse, whinnied loudly, showing her vampire teeth, her pale skin smeared with phosphorescent paint to make her look even more ghostly.
The Italian Espresso drank a bucket of coffee before the race, which made him so nervous that he kicked left and right, but as the coffee was considered doping, he was immediately disqualified.
Extrémene, the Andalusian horse, came out of the pen with flamenco dance moves. His winning baroque appearance was disfigured by a large spanish collar.
The German horse, SwansNeck, was singing an aria and occasionally whistled.
The Russian horse, Nikolai, had a bearskin on his back.
Tulip, the Turkish horse, once the epitome of beauty and elegance, now had a small, dry hock with a broad neck and forehead. Sitting outside, his big eyes looked as if he were constantly squinting left and right.
Only the two Hungarian horses, Stella and Thunderbolt, looked “normal”, or even more magnificent. They were big, strong-boned specimens, known to be the most valuable because there are fewer of them in the world. They walked elegantly side by side. Their movements were pleasing and dynamic. Their wide foreheads, large eyes, broad shoulders protruding from their neatly arched necks, strong legs, thick, silky, wavy manes and tail coats glistened in the sunlight. One horse was brown and the other black. You could tell they were intelligent animals.
The Mongolian Hunnu also showed up with a perfect appearance. He had a light brown coat, an erect mane, a white belly, a light nose and a prominent chin and muzzle. Like Stella and Thunderbolt, he was not approached by the evil horses because his owner told Ella and Milo that there is a Mongolian saying that only the wind and rain can touch the back of a Mongolian wild horse. Because wild horses are rambunctious and decidedly stubborn, Slepp and Oxhead were unable to approach them.
Only two horses were missing from the race to take their places in the starting box, specifically the two geldings, Slepp and Oxhead. And Slepp, when his name was announced into the microphone, entered the arena in his Viking warrior armour, while Oxhead seemed to have grown wings attached to either side of his saddle, the Ravazdi horse’s way of increasing speed. The jury were initially at a loss as to what to do about the strange team, but eventually decided to keep the race. At the same time the pit doors opened and the race began. A beat of footsteps, a bump, and then a flat cut followed. The French horse Ariége stopped the race after stepping in a puddle and getting his hoof dirty. He was followed by the Belgian Artois, who also gave up early after falling asleep on the side of the track from too much beer.
Pedro was left behind, the circus horse Marengo was also knocked out, and when Vampiria got next to the sausage-smelling Nonius, he fainted from the strong smell of garlic. Swan-neck and Nicholas went head to head for a while, but when Swan-neck started to sing the valkyrie song, Nicholas couldn’t take it any longer and went wild and ran off the track. Unfortunately Stella limped off, leaving Hunnu, Tulip, Thunderbolt, Slepp and Oxhead to make the final lap. And then more unexpected things happened. Slepp lost his victory because a dog from the spectators’ area suddenly came up to him and started barking at him. Hunnu and Tulip were selected without a win because of their looks, leaving only two horses in the race, Thunderbolt and Oxhead, and one of the two capitular stallions was to suffer a fatal defeat. The excitement reached its climax when Thunderbolt’s rider held back his horse to prevent it from toppling over in an unexpected obstacle. Meanwhile, Oxhead had gained a considerable lead, but his wings came off as he was trotting, and Thunderbolt won the 3200m race by a clear margin. He galloped confidently to the finish, leaving his rival behind. The filmmaking gang was ecstatic as they rushed to the winning thoroughbred’s keeper to take home a few mane hairs as a souvenir. Everyone at the Little Outlaw’s Riding School was celebrating Thunderbolt that day, and the good news was that Stella was finally cast in the film as well, because of her beauty.
Butter week, the Russian carnival
Butter or pancake week alias Maslenitsa also known as Butter Lady, Butter Week, Crepe week, or Cheesefare Week is an Eastern Slavic religious and folk holiday, which has retained a number of elements of Slavic mythology in its ritual, celebrated during the last week before Great Lent, that is, the eighth week before Eastern Orthodox Pascha.
The date of Maslenitsa changes every year, depending on the date of the celebration of Easter. It corresponds to the Western Christian Carnival, except that Orthodox Lent begins on a Monday instead of a Wednesday and the Orthodox date of Easter can differ greatly from the Western Christian date.
The traditional attributes of the Maslenitsa celebration are the Maslenitsa effigy, sleigh rides, festivities. Russians bake bliny and flatbread, while Belarusians and Ukrainians cook pierogi and syrniki.
Traditions
During the week of Maslenitsa, meat is already forbidden to Orthodox Christians, and it is the last week during which eggs, milk, cheese and other dairy products are permitted, leading to its name of “Cheese-fare week” or “Crepe week”. The most characteristic food of Maslenitsa is bliny – thin pancakes or crêpes, made from the rich foods still allowed by the Orthodox tradition that week: butter, eggs and milk.
Since Lent excludes parties, secular music, dancing and other distractions from spiritual life, Maslenitsa represents the last chance to take part in social activities that are not appropriate during the more prayerful, sober and introspective Lenten season.
In some regions, each day of Maslenitsa had its traditional activity. Monday may be the welcoming of “Lady Maslenitsa”. The community builds the Maslenitsa effigy out of straw (из соломы), decorated with pieces of rags, and fixed to a pole formerly known as Kostroma. It is paraded around, and the first pancakes may be made and offered to the poor. On Tuesday, young men might search for a fiancée to marry after Lent. On Wednesday, sons-in-law may visit their mother-in-law, who has prepared pancakes and invited other guests for a party. Thursday may be devoted to outdoor activities. People may take off work and spend the day sledding, ice skating, snowball fights and with sleigh rides. On Friday, sons-in-law may invite their mothers-in-law for dinner. Saturday may be a gathering of a young wife with her sisters-in-law to work on a good relationship.
Sunday of Forgiveness
The last day of Cheesefare Week is called “Forgiveness Sunday”. Relatives and friends ask each other for forgiveness and might offer them small presents. As the culmination of the celebration, people gather to “strip Lady Maslenitsa of her finery” and burn her in a bonfire. Left-over pancakes may also be thrown into the fire, and Lady Maslenitsa’s ashes are buried in the snow to “fertilize the crops”
At Vesoers on Sunday evening, people may make a poklon (bow) before one another and ask forgiveness. Another name for Forgiveness Sunday is “Cheesefare Sunday”, because for devout Orthodox Christians it is the last day on which dairy products may be consumed until Easter. Fish, wine and olive oil will also be forbidden on most days of Great Lent. The day following Cheesefare Sunday is called Clean Monday because people have confessed their sins, asked forgiveness, and begun Great Lent with a clean slate.
Modern times
During Soviet times, Maslenitsa, like other religious holidays, was not celebrated officially. However, it was widely observed in families without its religious significance, as an opportunity to prepare crêpes with all sorts of fillings and coverings and to eat and share them with friends. After the start of perestroika, the outdoor celebrations resumed, although they were seen by some as an artificial restoration of a dead tradition. Since the dissolution of the Soviet Union, many Russians have returned to practicing Christianity, the tradition is still being revived
With increasing secularization, many Russians do not abstain from meat and Maslenitsa celebrations can be accompanied by shashlik vendors. Nevertheless, “meat still does not play a major role in the festivities”.
Many countries with a significant number of Russian immigrants consider Maslenitsa a suitable occasion to celebrate Russian culture, although the celebrations are usually reduced to one day and may not coincide with the date of the religious celebrations.
On 20 March 2017, the British tabloid newspaper, the Daily Mirror described the Maslenitsa as a Hooligan training ground however one of the centuries-old traditions in this folk festival is “wall-on-wall” (‘stenka na stenku’, Russian), which involves sparring between men dressed in traditional folk clothes!
Émile Zola, Yves Montand and the time of the cherries
Émile Zola, the well-known practitioner of the literary school of naturalizm, and an important contributor to the development of theatrical naturalizm. He was a major figure in the political liberalization of France and in the exoneration of the falsely accused and convicted army officer Alfred Dreyfus which is encapsulated in his renowned newspaper opinion headlined “J’Accuse” Zola was nominated for the first and second Nobel prize in literature in 1901 and 1902, was almost certainly assassinated for his writings in response to the famous Dreyfus trial. The trial, which sparked mass hysteria and anti-Semitic pogroms, caused the greatest political crisis of the 19th century in France, dividing society into two camps for a decade.
Dreyfus, a traitor to his country
On 15 October 1894, Alfred Dreyfus, a French military officer of Jewish origin, was arrested on charges of treason. On 5th January 1895, he was humiliated and stripped of his military rank, and on 15 January he was sentenced to life imprisonment on Devil’s Island (Cayene, French Guiana). His innocence was later proven because a conman, Ferdinand Walsin-Esterhazy, posing as Count Esterhazy, sold French military plans and secrets to the German military leadership for money in exchange for debts. In 1894, after Alfred Dreyfus was tried and convicted of espionage, Lieutenant Colonel Georges Picquart, head of the French army’s counter-espionage department, became suspicious because he recognised Esterhazy’s handwriting on documents attributed to Dreyfus.
Anti-Semitism
According to some legal experts, anti-Semitism was clearly a factor in Dreyfus’ conviction. For example, Picquart, who wanted to clear Dreyfus, was tried by some people to discourage him with arguments that he should not be embarrassed because a Jew had been convicted. Some of the accusations also highlighted Dreyfus’s Jewish origins, which had been cited as a kind of obvious ‘motive’ to explain the betrayal. After Dreyfus was indicted, anti-Semitic pogroms broke out in several regions of France, and several anti-Semitic newspapers covered the case closely, some even contributing to the fabrication of false evidence, thus further fuelling the anger.
In response, Émile Zola published an open letter entitled J’accuse (I accuse), addressed to the President of the Republic, Félix Faure. In a letter on the front page of the French newspaper L’Aurore, Zola accused the judges of having acquitted Esterhazy on the orders of the War Ministry. Zola was tried and convicted for libel, from which the writer fled to England. From then on, however, France was divided, with one side defending the army, which did not rule out Dreyfus’s innocence, and the other strongly in favour of Dreyfus’s guilt, and Jew-hating sentiment was rekindled. In 1898, Colonel Henry, who had been found to have fabricated the evidence against Dreyfus, committed suicide and Esterhazy fled to England.
By this time, however, ‘l’Affaire’, as the French press and historiography of the time have since referred to the Dreyfus trial, had become a central political issue dividing the society. Thus the Dreyfus affair became a point of conflict between the royalist, nationalist right (the ‘anti-Dreyfusards’) and the pro-Republican, socialist, anti-clerical left (the ‘Dreyfusards’), and ultimately led to the strengthening of the Republic and the political left, and the weakening of the influence of the army and the Catholic Church in France. Among those who opposed Dreyfus were Édouard Drumont, Paul Dérouléde, Maurice Barrés and Charles Maurras. He was backed by George Clemenceau, Jean Jaurés and the writer Anatole France, among others. In the following years, it became clear that this was not a miscarriage of justice but a legal scandal, as evidence was falsified to cover the real culprit
The murder
Zola had just finished his novel about the Dreyfus trial, ‘Vérité’ (Truth), and had planned a sequel, ‘Justice’, but on 29 September 1902, because of the unexpected cold Zola was freezing in his Paris apartment (Rue de Bruxelles) and asked to heat up. He died of carbon monoxide poisoning during the night. An investigation was launched into the suspicion of murder, but was unsuccessful.
Zola’s death was blamed on his enemies, who had tried to kill him several times before because of his conduct in the Dreyfus trial, but were unable to prove it because of the inadequacy of police investigation. For a week from the day of the funeral, the foyer of Zola’s house was packed with prominent writers, academics, artists and politicians, all eager to pay their respects to the great writer. But Zola’s enemies used the occasion for a malicious celebration. In the newspaper L’Intransigeant, Henri Rochefort claimed that Zola had committed suicide after discovering Dreyfus’ guilt..
Zola was then buried in the Cimetière de Montmartre in Paris. He was eulogised by Anatole France, who called the writer “the conscience of humanity” and was sang the famous chanson “The Time of Cherries”, a song from 1866 with lyrics by Jean-Baptiste Clément and music by Antoine Renard. The chanson later became the revolutionary song of the Paris Commune, with incendiary verses added to the lyrics. After Zola’s funeral, “The Time of the Cherries” became a metaphor for what life would be like when the revolution changed social and economic conditions. It is believed that Clément dedicated it to a nurse who fought during the Semaine Sanglante (“Bloody Week”), when French government troops overthrew the Commune. Since then, there have been many versions of the original lyrics in French-speaking countries, but in my opinion the version popularised by Yves Montand (1921-1991) is the most beautiful one (The clock in the town hall in the Paris suburb of Saint-Denis alternates every hour between two different tunes, ‘Le roi Dagobert a mis sa culotte à l’envers’ and ‘Le temps des cerises- The time of the cherries’. This song inspired the Communist Party of Bohemia and Moravia to adopt two cherries as part of its logo and the French Communist Party to adopt a new logo in 2018).
And that was not the end of the story of Zola’s, because on 4 June 1908, just five years and nine months after Zola’s death, another scandal broke when the writer’s remains were moved to the Panthéon, where they were placed in a crypt shared with Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas. The ceremony was disrupted by a journalist named Louis Grégori and the anti-Semitic writer Edouard Drumont, who came to kill Dreyfus, who was attending the ceremony as a guest of honour. Grégori, who had not made a name for himself in the Dreyfus trial, remained relatively moderate in his comments during the discussions of the so-called “Affaire”, but it turned out that he did not agree with Dreyfus’ acquittal. He knew that among the guests of honour was Alfred Dreyfus, who had been fully rehabilitated by the French Court of Cassation in 1906, and then awarded the Legion of Honour and promoted to the rank of Major, with a military parade in his honour. So, on 4 th of June, Grégori arrived armed with a press pass authorising him to take the steps of the Panthéon and an 8mm revolver loaded with five bullets. He fired two shots at Major Dreyfus, wounding him in the arm and forearm. Grégori was immediately detained by the crowd and arrested, charged with attempted premeditated murder. Later on Grégori was eventually acquitted by a Paris court, which accepted his defence that he had not intended to kill Dreyfus, but merely to warn him. The Jew-hating far right outright welcomed Grégori’s “very French” gesture.
But to return to Zola: an investigation by the journalist Jean Bedel in 1953, published in the newspaper Libération under the title “Was Zola murdered?”, raised the idea that Zola’s death was not an accident but a murder. The investigation was based on the discovery by the Normandy pharmacist Pierre Hacquin, who was told by the chimney sweep Henri Buronfosse that he had deliberately blocked the chimney in Zola’s Paris apartment. According to literary historian Alain Pagès, this was probably true, and Zola’s great-grandchildren Brigitte Émile-Zola and Martine Le Blond-Zola confirmed this explanation of Zola’s carbon monoxide poisoning. According to a report in the newspaper L’Orient-Le Jour, Brigitte Émile-Zola said that her grandfather, Jacques Émile-Zola, son of Émile Zola, told her when she was eight years old that a man had come to her house in 1952 to give her information about her father’s death. The man was with a friend who was dying and who confessed that he had received money to plug Émile Zola’s chimney!
Prince Pückler invites you to his table
Dedicated to pleasure
I have just returned from a week’s adventure in Germany and, as always, I came back with a wealth of experiences. This year’s new discovery was the Branitz Castle (region Brandenburg) and its Duke Hermann von Pückler Muskau! This colourful character’s book “Zu Gast bei Fürst Pückler” was worth every penny. It gave me a glimpse into the 19th century gastronomy. The exquisite taste of the so called “Green prince” (he was a landscape architect as well) is evident not only in the preparation of the food but also in the presentation, the setting, in the attention to all our senses!
Hermann von Pückler Muskau (1785-1871) was a shining personality. He was a German nobleman, renowned as an accomplished artist in landscape gardening, as well as the author of a number of books mainly centering around his travels in Europe and Northern Africa, published under the pen name of “Semilasso”….no wonder why he is remembered above all for the ice cream named after him! But a look at Pückler’s books reveals many more discoveries.” If you go on a trip, you should always have a bottle of ketchup with you.” This is Prince Pückler’s urgent recommendation, which many a modern gourmet will turn up his nose at.
However, a glance at the list of ingredients is reassuring. Mushrooms, anchovies, walnuts and tomatoes enriched the seasoning paste in the 19th century, which enjoyed a much better reputation then than today. Pückler apparently brought back from England not only the latest garden ideas that made him known as the Green Prince, but also various sauces, a frying machine and a fondness for luncheons – a second breakfast. He even set up his own salon in Branitz Palace for this purpose: with violet silk upholstery, black wood panelling and furniture. -“My main characteristic is a taste that seeks to achieve perfection in everything,”- he said of himself. He referred quite immodestly to the culinary disciplines and in particular to the culinary disciplines. This is evident from many letters that were published in anthologies during his lifetime. They brought the prince the necessary money, which he gladly spent on his extravagances.
The importance he attached to refined dining culture is also shown by the Branitzer Tafelbücher (table’s book). Between 1854 and 1871, Pückler’s court marshal documented the complete gift-giving at the princely table, who was invited to dinner and when, what dishes were served and what wines went with them. Beef with anchovy sauce, Gottbuss crayfish and pineapple pralines were often served – and ice cream only once. If a menu offered a choice of two soups, the guest could be sure that he was paying for an extremely exclusive round. Especially if “pudding a lá Nesselrode” was then served for dessert. The name alluded to an important politician of the time. For the dishes were also meant to stimulate conversation. If the prince’s gardener friends were visiting, rare vegetables such as ice cabbage or chervil would appear on the plate.
They formed the basis for one or the other shop talk and were preferably from the castle nursery. Pückler liked to refer to the philosopher Seneca, who praised country life with produce from one’s own field. Regional was the seal of quality: with cucumbers and asparagus from the neighbourhood or pike slices in Spreewald sauce. Parsley soup is mentioned more than 200 times in the table books and the prince himself created a recipe for potatoes a lá Semilasso-as he called himself (a remoulade made from egg yolk and vinegar is the simple secret!) “If you please me with your visit, I promise you good dinners, where the culinary art only helps nature!”-he wrote in an invitation. Every ingredient should remain unaltered and all the good edible things should taste like themselves.
Pückler’s refined homecooking
He kept records of his dining pleasures. A total of five volumes with gold edging and bound in leather provide information about 3500 menus. At Branitz Palace, ladies and gentlemen received a feudal welcome in the 19th century. Serving a refined dinner with at least six courses demonstrated the host’s style and willingness to create. But the prince gave special honour to the potato, to that very common vegetable in numerous variations -he learned about its preparation as a salad with egg and vinegar during a journey through the Pyrénées and wrote it down.
At 1 o’clock luncheon in the breakfast room
Pückler liked the custom from England so much that he wanted to celebrate it at home as well: At a distinguished visit in the intimate atmosphere of a salon in gold and violet.
A lá francaise
The Prince wanted the furnishing of the breakfast room to be in Louis XIV style. He sent the carpenter pictures from a Parisian magazine after which he was to make the buffet and set it in black and gold.
Carp á lá Chambord
From his own breeding he paid to the Branitzer spezialiteiten. In 1864 it was presented to Queen Augusta, whose visit Pückler had long longed for. Days before, he had the menu rehearsed to perfection.
Sweet aftermath
“If we were also poor, Lucie would cook me pancakes!”- the prince noted. But even without need, he loved simple regional dishes, like Lusatian pancakes. A sauce made from fine port wine and egg yolk gives them that certain something.
May you come with a good hunger
The menu card of 1846 for a Berlin gentlemen’s party announces no less than 15 courses. Alexander von Humboldt was one of the most important guests each evening.
Eis-cream
Layered in red, white and brown is a bestseller today. Here is the recipe:
Neapolitan Ice Cream or Fürst Pückler Eis
Pückler ice cream was created by a confectioner from Brandenburg and named after the count Hermann von Pückler-Muskau. The ice cream consists of three layers – chocolate, strawberry and vanilla, and is commonly called Neapolitan ice cream or Harlequin ice cream. His elaborate presentation was: a piano made of ice cream
Ingredients
- 1 oz dark chocolate
- 2 tbsp whipping cream
- 7-8 strawberries hulled
- 6 cups vanilla ice cream softened
- whipped cream optional
Instructions
- Melt the chocolate with the cream, stirring until smooth. Mix two cups of the ice cream with the chocolate until well blended. Pour into the bottom of a 9×5 pan, smooth with a spatula, and freeze for about 2 hours.
- Layer 2 cups softened vanilla ice cream over the chocolate layer and smooth with a spatula. Freeze for one hour or, if it is firm enough, add the strawberry layer right away.
- Blend strawberries into a puree. (There should be about 1/4 cup.) Mix puree with the remaining vanilla ice cream. Pour over hardened vanilla layer, cover, and freeze for another hour before serving.
- To serve, turn over and remove from pan onto plate. Cut into slices and serve with sweetened whipped cream, if desired.
If you’re interested in the recipes of Prince Pückler’s you can order the book: Zu Gast bei Fürst Pückler (Guest at Prince Pückler’s): 65 historic recipes reinterpreted by Tim Sillack the chef in the Cabalier House next to the castle!
Summer soltice, breads, donkey and Priapos the God of fertilty
Back in the 1970s, a bakery from an oven line was excavated in Hungary, in the so called Aquincum village, located in Old-Buda (near Budapest) which probably served to supply the soldiers of the Roman legion. The ancient bakery included a mill, a bakery and a bread shop. In the old days, as we know, grinding grain was hard work – flour was made on millstones that rotated on a number of wheels – and these mills were turned by hand or animal power. To make the tedious work of kneading easier, stone and wooden kneading machines and centrifugal kneading machines were made. The excavations also revealed that they already knew how to make leaven, which was usually made from older, fermented dough. Baking in these workshops was done in ovens with chemicals similar to those used in wheat ovens. While bakers in Italy baked only wheat bread, in Pannonia other cereals were also used. The breads were then varied according to the spices mixed into the raw dough. White bread was called panis candidus or panis mundus and was made from the finest flour. The second-rate bread was panis secundarius (a favourite of the Emperor Augustus). The third-order bread was made from coarsely sifted, bran flour, and was the black bread, panis plebeius or acerosus, as the name suggests, the bread of the poor. In the city of Aquincum, bread was baked specially for the soldiers, although excavations have revealed that in the barracks and watchtowers the crew themselves provided the bread. They would grind the grain they received as rations on a hand grinder and make either porridge or bread.
In Roman times, Pliny (the senior, was a historian), who lived in Roman times, listed nine types of bread made with the addition of milk and eggs, and we can only guess what kind of bread they baked, unlike in Sicily, where in the National Museum of Naples we can see charred examples of bread from the last baking of the Pompeii bakery, and interestingly, they are exactly like a modern pizza, only thicker, because the loaves were divided into small pieces so that they could be torn more easily. One thing is for sure, the consumption of bread was probably as important in Aquincum as it is today and some bakers must have made a fortune from their craft! In Rome, for example, the tomb of a master baker called Eurysaces illustrates that in ancient times a bread baker was as famous as a celebrity today. In addition, millers and bakers had their own special feast day, Vestialia, which was celebrated from 7 to 15 June.
Feat of Vesta, the donkey, the bread and Priapus with the huge penis
Vesta is known to have been the goddess of the hearth and the burning continuer of the Roman sacred fire. In her honour, the feast of the goddess of the house and the spirits of the chamber – Vesta and the Penates – was celebrated on Vestialia, the feast of the house and family life in general. On the first day of the feast, on 7th June, the sanctuary of the temple of Vesta, was opened once a year, for the women to make offerings. While the curtain was drawn, mothers could come barefoot and dishevelled to leave offerings to the goddess in return for blessings for themselves and their families.
The animal dedicated to Vesta, the donkey, was crowned with garlands of flowers and pieces of bread on 9 June. According to Ovid, the donkeys were adorned with a necklace made of pieces of bread to commemorate the myth in which Vesta was almost desecrated by Priapus, the fertility god with the great phallus. In this myth, the untimely braying of a donkey frightens Priapus away from the sexual act, forcing him to flee.
The “great phallused” Priapus was the son of Aphrodite and Dionysus. His father went to India when he was conceived. While away, Aphrodite cheated on the god of wine and intoxication. Hera, outraged, arranged for the goddess of love to give birth to a deformed child. The body of Priapus was accentuated by a disproportionately large penis. Although her mother got rid of it and dumped it in the forest, the inhabitants of Lampsacus found it, raised it and spread her divine cult. Thus Priapus became the patron saint of vineyards and orchards, where it was customary to erect his small statue (which was often nothing more than a large, mounding phallus). In ancient Greece, the statue of Priapus became a symbol of fertility. In some Pompeii frescoes, he wore an apron full of fruit and held a pruning knife and a cornucopia in his hands.
According to another legend, Priapus wanted to embrace not Vesta but a nymph called Lotus. The beauty of Lothis aroused immense desire in the god, but he refused her advances, so Priapos decided to make the sleeping woman his wife one night, but while he was doing this, the nearby donkey of Silenus brayed. The inhabitants, awakened by the donkey’s voice, then let out a loud gasp of laughter. In his rage, the god struck the donkey to death and turned Lothis into a lotus tree (the collection of Latin poems in pig’s ear that was dedicated to him was called Priapeia). Now, the Lotus incident is the reason bakers sacrifice donkeys to the god on 9th of June, but they were celebrated for the first time in a long time, in gratitude for their services in bakeries.
On June 15, the last day of the Feast of the Last Days, was the day of the “legal removal of dung”. On this day, the Penus Vestae was solemnly closed, the Flaminica Dialis held a funeral service, and the church was subjected to a purification called stercoratio: the dirt was swept out of the church and carried along the road called the Clivus Capitolinus and then thrown into the Tiber. Work in the bakeries was suspended for 3 days during the feast.
The main food of the festive season, for instance the porridge, remained an important and indispensable food for the population for a long time, as we know from Cato (an ancient historian and statesman), who recorded several of its recipes: for example, punic porridge, wheat porridge and the scones that were served on festive occasions!
“Make a sacrificial cake like this: Crumble 2 pounds of cottage cheese in a mortar. When well crumbled, add 1 pound of wheat flour, or if you want something finer, half a pound of fine flour. Mix well with the cottage cheese. Beat in 1 egg and mix well. Form into loaves, put bay leaves underneath, and bake slowly over a hot fire under a pot lid!
According to Roman myths, the Etruscan goddess Anna Perenna, usually represented as an old hag, also fed her worshippers with this bread. Legend has it that Anna, who lived in Bovillae near Rome, fed the plebeians who had gone to the Holy Mountain with a home-baked flatbread for three days as a sign of her protest. After the reconciliation of the plebeians and the patricians, the name perenna, or Eternal, was attached to her name (mentioned by Ovid in his Fasti).
Cato also mentions plaited cakes, perhaps similar to our modern plaited loaf. It was made of flaky dough and was woven into strips like a rope.
But what’s exciting is that Cato also has a recipe for a cake called Scriblita, which was also a favourite treat at the summer equinox. Scribilita (also known as Scriblita or Scriplita ) was a thin cake in ancient Rome, a kind of cheesecake. It was eaten hot and consisted of flour and cheese with honey poured over it. According to another source, the original scribilitae was made from semolina. It was made with sheep’s cheese, honey, eggs, pine nuts and salt; the mixture was then put on a pastry made of wheat flour, eggs, butter and salt and baked. The recipe is described in the book Catos De agri cultura.
‘To make a cake: for 9 and a half kilos: take 2 pounds of common wheat flour, make the bottom dough base, for the sheets take 4 pounds of flour, 2 pounds of spelt flour. Pour the meal into water. When it swells, pour it into a clean mortar and dry it well. When smooth, slowly add 4 pounds of flour. Shape it into two sheets of dough, put them in a basket to dry well. When dry, assemble them neatly. When you have formed each sheet, after kneading it, smooth it with a cloth dampened with oil, rub it around and coat it. Once the layers are ready, preheat the oven. Then sprinkle with 2 pounds of flour and knead. Use this to make a thin bottom sheet. Put 14 lbs. of fresh, unleavened sheep’s curd in water, soak it, changing the water three times. Take it out, then knead it in your hands until thin. Then pass the curds through a sieve. Add 4 and a half quarts of honey, mix well with the cottage cheese. Then place the “belt” on a foot wide board, put a bay leaf underneath, and start shaping the tart. First place the layers one at a time across the width of the bottom layer then use the mortar to coat them, one layer at a time, and coat until all the honey curd is gone. Top with a few sheets, then “button” the bottom layer, decorate the tart, seal the stove, turn the heat to moderate, place the tart on top, cover with a warm earthenware lid, put coals (from the coals) on and around the lid! Be sure to cook slowly, without haste. Check the dough two or three times, lift the lid and check. When cooked, remove and brush with honey. The semi-modern tart is ready.
The same recipe was also used to make the so-called squint-eyed pie, erneum, for the Feast of the Lose, only baked in a clay POT -amphora. The pitcher was placed in a copper pot filled with boiling water and the dough inside was baked over a slow fire. Once the dough was cooked, the jug was rolled off!
spajzgirl 