Tag: history

Quarantine

Eavan Boland. She has a merciless definition of “best”.

In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking — they were both walking — north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.

Михайлик и Кедрин

Mikhailik’s Expedition series is my current favorite poetry reading. Kedrin was my favorite poet as a kid.

Alena of Arzamass was a Cossack or peasant girl married forcibly to an older man. Once widowed Alena entered a nunnery where she became a healer, and, some claim, a magician who could (or attempted to) turn bullets and arrows away by spells. In 1699 she gathered an army of 400 people and joined Stepan Razin’s uprising against the tsar. In the next year her army grew to over 2,000 people, but in 1670 they were beaten by the tsar’s army, Alena was captured (some say by the townspeople, others say by the soldiers) and, after torture, sentenced to be burned alive in a log house.

Иоганн Фриш:

Когда часть его войск была разбита Долгоруковым, она, будучи их предводителем, укрылась в церкви и продолжала там так упорно сопротивляться, что сперва расстреляла все свои стрелы, убив при этом ещё семерых или восьмерых, а после того, как увидела, что дальнейшее сопротивление невозможно, отвязала саблю, отшвырнула её и с распростёртыми руками бросилась навзничь к алтарю… Её мужество проявилось также во время казни, когда она спокойно взошла на край хижины, сооружённой по московскому обычаю из дерева, соломы и других горючих вещей, и, перекрестившись и свершив другие обряды, смело прыгнула в неё, захлопнула за собой крышку и, когда всё было охвачено пламенем, не издала ни звука.

This first poem is not actually about her.

Елена Михайлик

Бронзовая женщина, одетая не по погоде –

холодновато в Симбирске для греческих нарядов –

стоит на рыжем камне, чуть склонив голову,

в одной руке книга, в другой – труба,

смотрит туда, где должны лежать стылая чешуйчатая Волга,

Императорский мост.

– Рассказывают, гуляща жёнка была,

вот в этом виде и шлёндала –

все сплошь видать –

за то и окаменела, то есть, убронзовела,

а на столб её уже власти поставили,

в назидание…

Не пилить же на цветмет.

Назидание получается сомнительное:

женщина прекрасна пропорциональной красотой человека,

отдавшего дань легкой атлетике.

Тонкая ткань туники

оставляет мало простора воображению.

Смущает только выражение лица.

– Да она не в том смысле гуляла,

ты на глаза-то посмотри,

какая ж это гулящая?

Она разбойница была, по Волге струги водила,

ну а потом раскаялась, ушла в монастырь,

за что и поставлен ей памятник.

– В этом виде?

– Ну а в каком? В чем гуляла, в том и поставили.

Ткань-то дорогая, до сих пор видно.

Информанты, они как голуби –

стоит задать вопрос кому-то одному,

и ты уже в толпе,

и площадь заполнена шорохом сизых крыльев.

Третья старушка, в отличие от первых двух,

не в берете, а в очень теплой шапке-ушанке,

и без вязания, но почему-то с ножницами.

– И не в монастырь, а из монастыря,

и не ушла, а как раз сбежала.

К Разину, как Алёна-старица.

Только Алёна на суше воевала,

а эта на воде.

– А памятник почему?

– Так памятник-то не ей, а Карамзину.

Вот же надпись. И портрет.

Он же отсюда родом, симбирской.

Про нее первый и написал,

считай, с нее и сочинил

историю государства Российского.

Вот и поставили.

Как-никак муза.

А одежда такая, потому что делали

при государе Николае Первом,

а у них тогда принято было

всех рядить в греки и римляне,

чтобы единообразно

и как в настоящей империи.

Вот на постаменте горельеф –

Александр I «Историю» слушает,

так он в тоге и с голым торсом,

а чтение-то было зимой в Твери.

Сколько лет жизни у Александра памятник отнял…

Ну мало ли что мертвый,

что у вас задним числом за свет не вычитали? Или за воду?

Много, в общем. И у Николая.

То есть, Карамзин тоже простудился и умер –

но его-то она пожалела,

в 25-м, в декабре, слег

и не увидел, что было дальше.

А Николая – нет…

Не любит она Романовых. –

заключает женщина в шапке, –

Всех не любит, но Романовых – особенно.

– А куда она потом подалась?

– В каком смысле?

– Ну разбойница, если не в монастырь ушла,

а, наоборот, на Волгу сбежала.

Так Разина как раз здесь и разбили –

а она куда делась?

– Никуда не делась. – хором отвечают все трое,

и почему-то вдруг кажется,

что бронзовые книга и труба,

официальные атрибуты Клио, музы истории,

в этом случае означают что-то другое,

что-то совсем, совсем другое. –

Они ж у нее сына-трехлетку повесили. –

(Ни одна из трех не поясняет, кто такие «они» –

да и зачем?

Много кто может убить ребенка.

Но вот именно повесить и ждать, пока умрет –

только одна инстанция,

у того же Разина на такие вещи

просто не хватало терпения.)

Куда она после этого отсюда денется?

Вот и стоит.

И пишет.

И не только.

И если вы ее слышите

(конечно, слышит – это вовсе не шорох крыльев,

это шорох страниц,

где записано слишком много),

будьте осторожны.

Плохо, если она вас не любит.

Хуже только, если вы ей понравитесь.

Как вы думаете, кто подсказал Ульянову

бросить адвокатуру?

Дмитрий Кедрин, Песня Про Алену-Старицу

                      Что не пройдет -
                       Останется,
                       А что пройдет -
                       Забудется...
                       Сидит Алена-Старица
                       В Москве, на Вшивой улице.

                       Зипун, простоволосая,
                       На голову набросила,
                       А ноги в кровь изрезаны
                       Тяжелыми железами.

                       Бегут ребята - дразнятся,
                       Кипит в застенке варево...
                       Покажут ноне разинцам
                       Острастку судьи царевы!

                       Распросят, в землю метлами
                       Брады уставя долгие,
                       Как соколы залетные
                       Гуляли Доном-Волгою,
                       Как под Азовом ладили
                       Челны с высоким застругом,
                       Как шарили да грабили
                       Торговый город Астрахань!

                       Палач-собака скалится,
                       Лиса-приказный хмурится.
                       Сидит Алена-Старица
                       В Москве, на Вшивой улице.
                       Судья в кафтане до полу
                       В лицо ей светит свечечкой:
                       "Немало, ведьма, попила
                       Ты крови человеческой,
                       Покуда плахе-матушке
                       Челом ты не ударила!"
                       Пытают в раз остаточный
                       Бояре государевы:
                       "Обедню черту правила ль,
                       Сквозь сито землю сеяла ль
                       В погибель роду цареву,
                       Здоровью Алексееву?"

                       "Смолой приправлен жидкою,
                       Мне солон царский хлебушек!
                       А ты, боярин, пыткою
                       Стращал бы красных девушек!
                       Хотите - жгите заживо,
                       А я царя не сглазила.
                       Мне жребий выпал - важивать
                       Полки Степана Разина.
                       В моих ушах без умолка
                       Поет стрела татарская...
                       Те два полка,
                       Что два волка,
                       Дружину грызли царскую!
                       Нам, смердам, двери заперты
                       Повсюду, кроме паперти.
                       На паперти слепцы поют,
                       Попросишь - грош купцы дают.

                       Судьба меня возвысила!
                       Я бар, как семя, щелкала,
                       Ходила в кике бисерной,
                       В зеленой кофте шелковой.

                       На Волге - что оконницы -
                       Пруды с зеленой ряскою,
                       В них раки нынче кормятся
                       Свежинкою дворянскою.

                       Боярский суд не жаловал
                       Ни старого, ни малого,
                       Так вас любить,
                       Так вас жалеть -
                       Себя губить,
                       Душе болеть!..

                       Горят огни-пожарища,
                       Дымы кругом постелены.
                       Мои друзья-товарищи
                       Порубаны, постреляны,
                       Им глазыньки до донышка
                       Ночной стервятник выклевал,
                       Их греет волчье солнышко,
                       Они к нему привыкнули.
                       И мне топор, знать, выточен
                       У ката в башне пыточной,
                       Да помни, дьяк,
                       Не ровен час:
                       Сегодня - нас,
                       А завтра - вас!
                       Мне б после смерти галкой стать,
                       Летать под низкой тучею,
                       Ночей не спать, --
                       Царя пугать
                       Бедою неминучею!.."

                       Смола в застенке варится,
                       Опарой всходит сдобною,
                       Ведут Алену-Старицу
                       Стрельцы на место Лобное.
                       В Зарядье над осокою
                       Блестит зарница дальняя.
                       Горит звезда высокая...
                       Терпи, многострадальная!

                       А тучи, словно лошади,
                       Бегут над Красной площадью.

                       Все звери спят.
                       Все птицы спят,
                       Одни дьяки
                       Людей казнят.

Interesting links

  1. Germany has cool parental retreats
  2. History is, as usual, worse than I knew, but at least Things are being Done.
  3. Fire situation in California is, as usual, even worse than I knew but at least there are People thinking of Things to Do.
  4. Epigenetics ftw, mice fathers who do a lot of exercise pass down the benefits to their offspring
  5. There may finally be an antidote for carbon monoxide poisoning
  6. Mattel continues to be progressive (good, because they’re a mine canary for social movements)

Cornelia, mother of the Cracchi

TIL that Cornelia is seen by the state of Ohio as Ohio’s personification. I find it adorable, but can’t quite explain why. In any case, it makes me like Ohio more.

The statue refers to her saying that her children are her jewels when asked why she doesn’t dress as nice as the other rich Roman matrons. Her sons, Tiberius and Gaius, were killed for, as far as I understand, trying to give land to the peasants. No word on whether they wanted to give factories to workers.

TIL

  1. About queen Urraca The Reckless of Spain (Leon, Castille, and Galicia, but she claimed all Spain) born in 1081ish. She was married at the age of 8 to 13 to Raymond of Burgundy and at 28ish to Alfonso I of Aragon and Navarre who was a brute. She divorced him, and ruled alone as Europe’s first definitely not fictional and well-documented queen regnant. Given a nasty invasive ex, a scheming half-sister and a rebellious son she did quite well.
  2. That Duchy of Burgundy and County of Burgundy are two neighboring locations
  3. About Philetus, rendered immobile by his teacher the wizard Hermogenes but freed by St. James
  4. About Queen Lupa who lived in a cave with a dragon for a neighbor, fattened pigs as if by magic, and did not wish St. James to be buried in her neighborhood
  5. That the horrible not-down-to-the floor toilet doors were invented in 1904 by Frank Lloyd Wright for the Larkin Building in Buffalo, NY to make cleaning easier.
  6. That after WWII the historic center of Poland was restored according to the detailed paintings of Canaletto’s nephew Bernardo Bellotto https://notesfrompoland.com/2022/09/21/bellotto-the-18th-century-artist-who-helped-warsaw-rise-from-the-ashes-of-wwii/
  7. That Canaletto-style cityscapes are called “vedute”
  8. About a very tragic fate of a taxi driver (from Harper’s Bazaar article by Tanya Gold), who loves his native town. It’s a beautiful town. It has a castle, and a waterfall, and a children’s amusement park, and a good ice hockey team. And he wants to show all of this to people and to have them appreciate his home town for the lovely town it is. But the tourists just go from the train station to the extermination camp and no one stops to look at the waterfall. It’s hard being a patriot of Oświęcim. “No one calls me Albert the bridge-builder” /s https://harpers.org/archive/2024/09/my-auschwitz-vacation-tanya-gold-tourism/

TIL :(

In Poland “some 6 percent of Jews who paid to be hidden survived the war, as opposed to nearly half of those who were hidden out of altruism.”

Mikanowski, Jacob. Goodbye, Eastern Europe: An Intimate History of a Divided Land (p. 232)

Unfortunately being likeable is a survival trait

Sic transit fabulae :(

One of my favorite childhood legends is the story of Jews who wanted to make the world feel the pain of Holocaust viscerally, and so planned to poison a small German town, but gave up this plan because they would not become murderers of children.

Turns out it’s not true. Nakam (Vengeance) did exist, but their goal was not education, and they did plan to poison the water of Nuremberg which is not quite a small town, and most importantly they were stopped by the British, and some of them kept working towards revenge for years afterward, which, of course, is not quite a lofty ethical decision to restrain from murder.

It’s bitterly ironic that the best poem I can think of today on the subject is by Taha Muhammad Ali. And no, I’m not setting up an equivalence of acts, but assuming a similarity of feeling.

Ravenna

Ravenna is, at first glance, very similar to other Italian towns. There are the houses in every shade of yellow from cream to orange. There are the leaning towers and the churches with scroll-top facades. There are the narrow cobblestone streets, the random gates where walls used to be, the statue of Garibaldi, the stone wells in courtyards, the loggias.

But there are a few nuances. The first, of course, is mosaics. Just as everyone I’ve read on the subject promised they are magnificent and impossible to describe or adequately photograph.

Here are a few photographs of Roman and Medieval mosaics. Note also the stone windows. The colored mosaics are mainly walls and ceilings, while the black-white-red ones are floors, and tend to be older.

And here are a few of the modern ones from the MAR museum

The beige rectangle below is a great example of why it’s pointless to photograph mosaics. It’s called Motion. It looks exactly like a field of dry grass in the wind – very alive and fascinating. One can spend a lot of time standing in front of it, but the photo is just a beige rectangle. I think part of the reason is that our eyes constantly move, and mosaics, especially deep ones like this one, change with the angle of view without the viewer consciously noticing the change except as a suggestion of life and movement.

And, of course, the street signs are also mosaics. And there are mosaic flowers all over to assure me that Ravenna is a friendly city for women.

Besides the mosaics there are less striking differences. Ravenna thinks of itself as a green city, and while it would not be considered particularly (or at all) green in North California it is more green than any other Italian city I saw. There are little “parks” everywhere – just squares with a few trees or bushes, but they do gladden the eye. And lawns, and trees. And there are at least three large parks, one of them in an old Venetian tower.

Another difference is the cult of Dante. Dante lived here after his exile, finished Paradise, and was repeatedly buried here.

There is not one, but two Dante museums and a learning center, and multiple statues of Dante. Note the two statues sharing a lawn, and two portraits of Dante sharing a wall. At first I thought that people wandering the streets wearing laurel wreaths and carrying bouquets were cosplaying Dante or on their way to offer him homage, but no – that’s part of the college graduation here. It was, however, a very natural mistake. Every day, at sunset chosen citizens come to Dante’s tomb to read a canto from the Divine Comedy. This started on the 700th anniversary of his death in 2021, and was supposed to only last one year, but they enjoyed it so much they plan to keep doing it forever.

In fact, Dante was not merely buried here once in 1321, near the cloister of St. Francis’ monastery. Dante burials are like Dante statues – why stop at just one? They do something with his bones every century.

In the 15th century they moved his sarcophagus into the cloister. In the 16th century the Florentines realized how wrong they’d been and started asking for Dante’s bones. This request was supported by the Medici popes (Florentine) and Michelangelo (employed by the Medici popes) and finally succeeded in 1519, but the Franciscan monks hid Dante’s bones in the wall. In 1677 they took the bones out and put them in a box. In 1781 the bones were put back into the sarcophagus and the whole thing moved into a brand new tomb outside of the cloister. To show how sorry they are Florence supplies the olive oil for the ever-burning lamp inside the tomb. In 1810 Napoleon came around and the monks hid Dante’s bones again. Florentines, meanwhile, sneakily bult another tomb for Dante in 1829 and waited. In 1865 the bones were found and put on display in a glass coffin, then re-buried again, disappointing the Florentines. In 1944 they were taken back out and hidden and re-buried in 1945, perhaps forever, but I bet Florentines are still hoping.

Below you can see the tomb, the glass coffin, the box, the place Dante’s bones were buried during WWII and the laurel leaves in jute bags designed by Gabriele d’Annunzio that were brought from Rome and scattered over Dante’s grave by four very brave pilots in 1921 on the 600th anniversary of his death.

But the coolest thing in that neighborhood is actually the crypt of St. Francis, where Dante’s funeral was held. St. Francis is a simple church, almost undecorated except for some fairly typical baroque frescoes, an elaborate animated nativity scene, and a lovely coffered ceiling. But their crypt is beautiful. It’s flooded (Ravenna sits on a marsh), covered with mosaics (of course), and populated by goldfish. Supposedly it contains the remains of bishop Neon who finished the construction of the city’s oldest standing monument, the Neonian baptistery (there’s also an Aryan baptistery built by the Ostrogoths half a century later). I am particularly glad to have seen it, because I’m unlikely to see the Istanbul cisterns and I have long wanted to. Of course, this isn’t the same – but columns, and water, and arches…

Yet another special thing about Ravenna is its history. It was the capital of Western Rome Empire in the 5th century, then the capital Odoacer, and then of the Ostorgothic kingdom (also 5th century) under Theodoric. Theodoric originally agreed to rule jointly with Odoacer, and they even held a banquet to celebrate this, but during the banquet Odoacer was somehow killed. Accidents happen. This is why so much of the architecture here is different – Ravenna’s important period came earlier than those of the surrounding cities.

In the 6th century it was taken over by Byzantines who proceeded to put mosaics everywhere the Ostorgoths missed. Having done that Byzantines were overwhelmed by the Lombars in the 8th century. Lombards were promptly overwhelmed by Franks led by Pepin the Short (first Carolingian king), who handed Ravenna to the popes. The popes showed their gratitude by encouraging Charlemagne (Pepin’s son, the important Carolingian king, first post-Rome emperor in the West) to take anything he liked from Ravenna to his capital in Aachen. He took a lot and Aachen definitely moved much higher on my list of places to visit after I saw what he left.

In the 13th century they had a lot of wars that ended up with the pope on top, but in the 15th century, just like everyone else around here, Ravenna was conquered by Venetians. Venetians built the awesome castle that is now a public park, and then the popes took over again and continued ruling all the way until unification of Italy in 1861, with a brief interruption for Napoleon.

All this means that they were relatively poor at the time when their neighbors were tearing down Romanesque churches and building Renaissance ones and couldn’t afford to destroy all the mosaics. In fact, Ravenna seems relatively poor even now. I haven’t seen churches with peeling ceilings and ivy climbing in through the windows in any other city. It also means that unlike their neighbors they had three kinds of Christianity – Aryan, Byzantine Orthodox, and Catholic, which makes the iconography refreshingly diverse.

The last different thing about Ravenna is that it is so quiet (and I say so despite the one loud restaurant they have that’s right under my window). There are few people on the streets, no lines anywhere, and in the MAR museum I was one of maybe a score people on the first floor (modern mosaics) and the only one on the second (everything else). Having empty museum rooms light up before me was interesting, but at the same time I felt oddly responsible to the artworks and probably looked at each of them more carefully than I would have otherwise.

Btw, did you know that the place where the Goths held on the longest was Crimea? Apparently there were some Gothic villages there as late as the 1940s. The Goth capital was Mangup, near Sevastopol. Their kingdom eventually was overwhelmed by the Huns in 5th century, but they kinda sorta held on as a Byzantine client state until the Khans came around in 15th century. It’s really amazing how much I don’t know about Ukrainian history.